Interlude 20: Banquet (II)

"You made the wrong move." Roboute Guilliman spoke each word distinctly, his expression stiff and stern, like an old teacher lecturing a student.

"What? How could that be?" His student, a dark-skinned giant with crimson eyes, asked in bewilderment. "Where did I go wrong? Didn't that move already win the game?"

The far-traveled smith sat before the board with his brows tightly furrowed, looking unusually tense. It had nothing to do with who his opponent was; it was simply because the loser of this game had to drink half a barrel of Leman Russ's private brew in one go.

Even for the Lord of Drakes, that was no easy task. Naturally, his opponent did not wish to lose either, but this was not something he could change through will alone.

The one-armed man sighed, undid the button at his overly tight collar, then leaned back and shook his head with a smile.

"I concede, brother." Angron nodded crisply, though he did not forget to add, "And don't listen to that damned scribe's nonsense. He just wants you to taste Russ's liquor too, like he did."

Vulkan raised an eyebrow, looked at him, then turned back to Guilliman standing beside him. Seeing the wooden cup in the latter's hand, he actually smiled as well.

He slowly rose to his feet and walked over to the dark brown barrels that occupied an entire wall of the vast banquet hall. Bending down, he hoisted one up and carried it back to the board.

As the loser, Angron showed no resistance. Instead, he approached the smith with something close to anticipation and lifted the tightly sealed lid with one hand.

An intensely pungent, powerful smell burst forth, making the Lord of the Five Hundred Worlds—who still held a half-full wooden cup—instinctively take a step