Dante and the company captains returned to the council chamber, where they conferred while resting. Even the Iron Hands and their data artisans had been summoned. Reports of success came in by the minute; the Sons of Angels were reclaiming the fortress's perimeter. Though the road to fully wresting Baal from the Tyranids was long, the current progress filled everyone with renewed hope.
The captains congratulated each other, but when Fores was addressed by a nearby commander, he merely nodded with a perfunctory smile. Dante observed him, then turned to Mephiston, whose voice resonated in Dante's mind.
"Fores' thoughts are on Infernis III... It's not that he undervalues Baal, but he is bound by his memories of his true homeworld," Mephiston noted.
Dante gave a quiet nod in acknowledgment.
After the brief moment of celebration, they got to business.
"We encountered a Tyrant of considerable size within a crashed ship," Mephiston explained. "It seemed unique. I don't fully understand its role in the swarm, but eliminating it could shift the tide."
As Mephiston recounted the vision of Bellona's apprentice, all present listened attentively—even Thermageddon, who soon drifted into memories of a similar sight. In the battles of Infernis, the Iron Hands had encountered a giant Tyrant of nearly identical form—indeed, nearly impossible to distinguish from Mephiston's description. It was, as their data revealed, something beyond a mere Tyrant synaptic creature.
The Master of the Swarm.
The battles in the Infernis System had not been won by attrition alone; it was Thermageddon's two assassinations of the Masters of the Swarm that had severed Tyranid control over entire worlds. His gaze now fell upon his data artisan, an image projected by an invisible drone—one of its many disguises.
"Master of the Swarm." The cold electronic voice echoed through the hall. All eyes turned toward the once-silent data artisan.
"And what is this Master of the Swarm, sage?" Dante inquired.
The data artisan, though far from a true sage, showed no reaction to the flattering title. Its mechanical visage shimmered, light flickering across its mouthpiece as it spoke again. "The Master of the Swarm is akin to a great synaptic creature. Its influence, though unquantified, is such that killing it drives countless swarms into disarray."
Hearing this, Mephiston's brow furrowed with suspicion. The data artisan's phrasing was unusual; members of the Mechanicum rarely used vague terms like "countless." Any numerical uncertainty would normally be framed within precise ranges. Mephiston's mistrust grew. Their very presence in Baal was unexpected enough; the Mechanicum was notoriously sparing with its resources unless its Forge Worlds themselves were under siege. Yet he said nothing, recognizing them as allies for the time being.
Dante tilted his head back, a weariness washing over him. A Tyrant, a Master of the Swarm—what next? Would they face a Hive Sovereign, or some even greater synaptic beast? When would it all end?
"We must kill it, swiftly and decisively," Mephiston urged.
Dante nodded, and the other captains voiced their agreement. The vote to execute the assassination plan was unanimous, and Dante and Mephiston began arranging the specific details.
Night descended.
Beneath the solemn visage of Sanguinius' grand statue, Dante and Mephiston continued their discussions. Using his powers, Mephiston conjured images of the terrain around the crashed ship and the scenes witnessed by Bellona's apprentice, then shared his thoughts. He spoke at length, while Dante sat quietly at the statue's base, listening.
Noticing Dante's state, Mephiston halted his briefing. He took a seat beside him, and together they looked up at their Primarch's noble face.
"Thank you," Dante said suddenly.
Since the beginning of the war for Baal, Mephiston had tempered his nature, displaying a gentleness that belied his fearsome reputation. For the sake of their alliance, he had presented himself as a serene and wise librarian, setting aside the darker rumors surrounding him. Though he seldom voiced his appreciation, Dante's gratitude was deeply felt.
"For the blood of Sanguinius," Mephiston murmured, "I would give everything."
Dante nodded, then shifted to battle matters. "I intend to deploy those consumed by the Black Rage for this mission."
Mephiston nodded in agreement, though Dante's tone grew hesitant. "Are they truly beyond saving? Is there no hope for those lost to the Rage?"
Throughout the history of the Angels and their successors, Black Rage had always been a final sentence. Yet Dante could not ignore the fact that Mephiston had, on more than one occasion, conquered the Rage within himself.
"They cannot be saved," Mephiston replied. "My experience was singular; if it could be replicated, Apothecary Corbulo and I would already have found a way."
Dante nodded again, though doubt lingered. Corbulo, the High Priest of Blood and their most devoted apothecary, had poured his life's work into curing Black Rage and the Thirst, but to no avail.
Mephiston had answered Dante's questions about Black Rage many times, more frequently of late. Clearly, something weighed heavily on Dante's heart—a fatigue, perhaps born of age, or simply of the unyielding trials of war. He had not always been so pensive.
"Let's finalize the plan quickly," Dante declared, rising to his feet. "I shall lead the charge myself."
"But your injuries…" Mephiston began, only to fall silent at the resolve in Dante's eyes.