by Guy Haley
Then he would move on to the next, and begin his learning anew.
Cawl was smart enough to know this had been noticed. Some tech-priests took their time in choosing a cult to follow, so such behaviour was not out of the ordinary. Unless, of course, it had been going on for years. Cawl fit into the latter category. For the time being, it did not matter he had been detected. A certain capability for schemes was a requirement for a talented adept. Besides, the data logging his movement tended to get lost when he went on to his next posting. He had nothing to do with that. Organisational inefficiency was to blame. The data would exist forever, but sanction would only fall on him at the Heptaligon if someone went looking for it, and were successful in finding it.
He had pressing problems to solve before he must embrace the Mechanicum's abstruse power games.
All the data he accumulated required storage. If knowledge gave the man the power of a king, storage was his kingdom. Cawl wanted to be a powerful king, therefore, he required a large kingdom.
It was for that reason that Cawl had his intelligence core out of the socket in his head, and in pieces on the table in front of him.
He had the device divided neatly into two. Cogitation unit on the left, memcore processor on the right Delicate mechadendrites flicked out of burrows on Cawl's wrist manipulating tiny components he amid not trust his fingers with.
The main feature of his desk was the massive magnification unit mounted on an armature clamped to the side. Status screed ticked up the display integrated with the glass. In the centre a complex arrangement of diagrammatical graphics guided his actions.
Without mental aid, indeed, with a headache owing to his removal of his enhancements, Cawl undertook work so complex no higher adept would dream of entrusting him with it. At risk was the precise recollection machines afforded a man. One slip could obliterate years of hard-won skill.
Sometimes he thought it would be better to have two brains rather than keep doing this.
The hole in his head was cold. The aseptic gels that filled it and kept it free of disease chilled his brain with evaporation. He did not dare cover his head over. His hood might dislodge the sterile plastek patch closing the opening. Really, really this kind of operation should only be undertaken in one of the genetors' surgical theatres.
Cawl enjoyed a challenge.
He smiled at his own audacity. Only slightly; the smallest of movements could disturb his delicate work.
Before mid-watch bell, Cawl had performed fourteen illegal procedures on his own mind. When mid-watch plus one bell sounded, signifying the start of his shift, he was rebuilding the augment.
He glanced at his chronograph as the last panel clicked into place and his mechanical tendrils whipped back into the holes in his wrists.
Cawl lifted his hands and shook them out before gingerly picking up his intelligence core. It was important they be steady. It always surprised Cawl how heavy the intelligence core was. He thrust the hand holding the core up to the wrist into a pot of biocide he kept on his desk, leaving it in the cold liquid long enough to kill every living thing on it, but removing it before his skin started to dissolve.
Next, he leaned forwards so that the mirrors he had arranged over his desk reflected the socket in his skull clearly. Ever so carefully, he peeled away the plastek patch with his left hand.
He pushed the intelligence core home with a quick, robust movement. It was important it be done firmly. An electric jag fizzed through his mind. The click as it slid into place echoed in the bone behind his nose.
'Now,' he said. 'The moment of truth.'
With the edge of a fingernail, he depressed the reset switch concealed beneath the black-and-white machina opus adorning the top of the core. Either he would be rewarded with a greater capacity for knowledge, or his brain would be cooked from the inside out.
Red diode lumens lit up around the rim of the core. When they had formed a circle, they blinked and turned green.
Cawl relaxed; he had tensed without realising it. He smiled brightly as the machine interfaced again with his brain, imposing useful readouts over his vision. Storage capacity read at twenty-five per cent full.
'Threefold increase, Tez-Lar!' he said happily. Then frowned.
He had not time to tidy away his tools. He had to trust no curious adept would glance into his room as he left it.
Cawl hurried out of his quarters, Tez-Lar stamping behind him.
He was already late.
He left his other important work forgotten at the edge of his desk, a silver sphere with a power that would rival the domina's, when it was finished.
The sphere had to wait. He had duties to attend to.
Four
Four Brothers
Five days after his meeting with Loken, Russ was in his lair poring over blueprint flimsies of the Vengeful Spirit. He had them laid out all over the floor, and he squatted in the middle, one hand curled around his chin. The flimsies covered the fur rugs. They butted against the furniture. They waved in the heat draught of the firebowls. Their edges were weighted with bones and empty wooden bowls still dirty with past meals. Data-slates bearing information regarding the Vengeful Spirit's capabilities and past actions glowed on the floor. A miniature light sculpture of Horus' ship spun slowly over the projection lens of a portable hololith. On a bronze table sat a metre-long scale model of the ship, several of the segments removed to show the internal layout. Over its carefully machined components of brass, steel and bone Russ had daubed red runes, marking out the damaged sections described to him by Bror. Luminous strips of sticky paper showed the path of the Knights Errant, and denoted important targets. The damage runes were prolific. The war was wearing on. The Vengeful Spirit had had as little time as the Hrafnkel to refit. That was a small equalising factor in his favour.
Freki and Geri's breathing thrummed the air with restful infrasound, aiding the primarch's concentration. Their presence comforted him. The smell of a Fenrisian wolf was the smell of home: hot, animal, primal. They were fragments of the home world's savagery let loose among the stars. A childhood on Fenris robbed the galaxy of wonder. There was no other place so well provisioned with monsters; it was a dream world that straddled the boundaries of myth. Everywhere else was dull by comparison.
Russ enjoyed the challenge before him. The complexities of attacking an enemy flagship protected by a large fleet took his mind from the probable result of his mission. Horus was more than likely to kill him. Even if the attack were successful, his Legion would be shattered.
Neither of these probabilities dissuaded him. Horus had failed in his role as Emperor's Warmaster. Russ would not shirk from his duty as executioner.
The clear note of a carynx rang out from the door to his chambers. Russ stood, and arched his back, stretching out his muscles. He had spent too long in one position.
'Enter!' he called.
The door rolled aside. Grimnr Blackblood stood in the entrance. He slammed his fist against his chest in salute.
'My jarl,' he said. 'I have an urgent message from the far-talkers.' Grimnr held out a sealed message tube.
'Bring it here,' said Russ.
Grimnr picked his way through the plans covering the primarch's chamber, no mean feat in full power armour. Geri looked up lazily. His head thumped back to the floor when he saw who had come. Within two breaths he was snoring again.
Russ took the tube and tore off the crimped lead seals. He tipped out the rolled paper inside. He made a noise in his throat as he read.
'Good tidings or bad?'
'Good,' said Russ. 'My brother Sanguinius has entered the Solar System. There is to be a welcome, and then a council.' He rolled up the paper and tapped it back into the tube with the palm of his hand. 'They're not going to like what I have to tell them.'
'You've made it clear since the beginning you intended to go after Horus.'
'Dorn assumes I have changed my mind. He is dogged that way. He won't accept I haven't.'
'Perh
aps you should send a message ahead, outlining your plans. Take the sting out of our leaving?'
Russ laughed sadly. 'And spoil my chance for a little drama? You must think more boldly, my son. Consider how the sagas will remember you. I shall make the skjald's task easier by adding a little tension to the story of my thread. Inform my blademakers and armourers.'
'You will go armoured?'
Russ nodded. 'My panoply should look its best. Appearances matter in circumstances like these.'
'At once, my jarl.'
Russ sniffed, and looked over his shoulder to where the Emperor's Spear leaned in a weapon's rack.
'I'd better take that bloody thing with me,' he said. 'Find someone willing to polish it. I would not wish to disappoint my father, if He decides to show His face.'
The ships of the Blood Angels sailed in to Terran high orbit escorted by craft of the Imperial Fists. From their broadsides Dorn's fleet cast out an endless stream of pyrotechnics, showering the red ships of the IX Legion in bursts of light. The celebratory display did little to hide the realities of war. Sanguinius' flotilla was storm-wracked and battleworn. Many of his craft had not made it to Terra. Very few of those that had were intact. Black scoring marred their livery. The burned-out cavities of voided decks riddled their skins. In this they were like the ships of Sanguinius' brothers. They were all living on borrowed time.
Sights of damage were kept from the populace at large. Where the ships were subject to pict documentary, they were shot from flattering angles and their wounds touched up by vidcast painters. Sanguinius' fleet put into anchor, the most heavily damaged towed by void tug to the few free dry docks. With many of the Jovian shipyards destroyed by Kelbor-Hal, and Mars' Ring of Iron inaccessible on the other side of the blockade, Terra's more modest facilities were over-subscribed.
Picters captured Sanguinius' descent from the heavens and broadcast it around the system. Flights of red-liveried gunships roared down through the layered smogs of humanity's birthplace, flying in formation over dry seabeds and the hives of worn-out continents. War-weary men and women looked skywards, and felt their hearts lift as the Lord of Angels cut across the yellow sky. That was all they saw of the Emperor's most perfect son. Like a true angel, Sanguinius soared high over the lives of mortals without once noticing them. His feet never touched Terra's common soil. He flew directly for Himalazia and the Imperial Palace at the top of the world.
The Blood Angels approached the Palace in perfect formation. Four Thunderhawks and a Stormbird touched down upon a landing platform extending from the inside of a tower near the Heavenward Gate. The remainder peeled away and made for the landing fields of the Lion's Gate spaceport. The streets were thronged by the menials of a thousand Palace organisations. Bells rang in acclamation. Floating servo-skulls and other less honoured drones buzzed overhead. The cheers of a million people were a constant noise. Flights of atmospheric craft screamed across the sky, dropping bombs of coloured smoke. Hololiths filled the air with celebratory images. Fireworks boomed and crackled over the domes and spires of the Palace.
The Blood Angels' lead craft set down in a fan, the Stormbird at the centre, their noses pointing towards the group who had come to greet the primarch.
By a large open, armoured gate, Rogal Dorn, Leman Russ, Jaghatai Khan, Malcador the Sigillite and the assembled leaders of the Imperial defence forces waited for the returned Lord of Angels. Heavily modified magi from the newly formed Adeptus Mechanicus waited with decorated generals of the Solar Auxilia, Titan princeps and a myriad others. The lords of the councils of Terra attended, if their duties allowed. The few absent had sent high-ranked deputies in their place, and primed them with elaborate apologies.
Doors opened in the gunships. From them Blood Angels leapt and ran onto the platform.
Warriors in gold and red formed an honour guard for their lord. As soon as they were arrayed, the Stormbird dropped its ramp and Sanguinius walked out. He made straight for his brothers, his pace hurried. The winds of the covered mountains ruffled the feathers of his wings.
Rogal Dorn reached out and clasped the arm of the Blood Angels' primarch.
'We are most pleased to greet you, our brother.'
Once, Sanguinius had had a radiant smile whose beauty pierced the heart. It carried only sorrow now. His eye sockets were purpled, his gaze haunted. 'My journey has been too long and fraught with unimaginable horror. I am glad to be here at last.' Sanguinius glanced over the crowd. 'Father is not here. Where is He? I could not sense Him.'
'Your father wishes you to know He is overjoyed at your return,' said Malcador.
'Where is the Emperor?' asked Sanguinius. Of all the primarchs, he was the most beautiful. Mortal men wept to look upon his image. A live feed of his arrival was shown all over the Palace. Cheers turned to moans of adulation.
'It is a long story,' said the Khan.
'One without a resolution,' said Russ archly. 'Though some might know more than others.' He looked meaningfully at Dorn and Malcador.
'He is unavailable, and labours in the Imperial Dungeon,' said Malcador. 'But know that He works as strenuously as the rest of us to bring Horus' rebellion to an end.'
Sensing something amiss, Sanguinius did not press the matter. Dorn nodded behind him, and the assembly of dignitaries dispersed, leaving the primarchs with the regent on the landing pad.
'There are refreshments for your legionaries,' said Malcador. 'But we must talk now. I apologise you shall have no time to rest.' Sanguinius nodded.
'We must. Much has occurred. Much that is troubling.'
'More troubling than Horus' rebellion?' said Russ.
Sanguinius gave Russ a cold stare. The stare of a dead man.
'You have no idea, Leman,' said Sanguinius. He blinked, and the dread his words conveyed blew away on the wind. 'Is the Emperor well?' asked Sanguinius. 'Tell me that at least. We thought Him dead, Guilliman, the Lion and I, until the storm parted and we saw that the Astronomican still burned. I expected to see Him here.'
'He is alive,' said Dorn. 'You will have to take that on faith, brother.' Sanguinius looked out over the city-sized Palace, where the celebration of his arrival continued.
'Is it not dangerous, this level of joy? We mislead the people. We I are a long way from victory.'
Malcador leaned on his staff, his white, leonine mane streaming behind him. 'Your return to us is a source of genuine happiness,' he said.
'Brother primarchs unite on Terra as Sanguinius returns. It is hollow theatre. I have had enough of pomp,' said the Great Angel. He appeared exhausted, looking on all he saw from a distant place.
'Theatre is necessary,' said Malcador. 'The hearts of men must be fired with joy to burn away despair.'
'Despair will only be overthrown by victory,' said Sanguinius.
'Indeed,' said Malcador. He let go of his staff with one hand and gestured through the gate. 'Then let us speak.'
The five most powerful men on Terra passed inside the tower. Adamantium gates closed soundlessly, sealing out the jubilation of the crowds.
They retired to private chambers warded by every technological and arcane art known to man. Silent Adeptus Custodes set a guard on the outside. Within, Sanguinius told his tale. He did not tell them everything. He could not. How could an angel put into words the temptations of Chaos? Twice he had been enticed to betray his father. Twice it had been intimated to him that it was he, not Horus, who was the favoured vessel for Chaos' power. In the eyes of others he was an angel; in his own mind his wings were the surest sign of Chaos' touch.
But he would not fall.
So he glossed over the temptations of Ka'Bandha and Kyriss at Signus Prime, and the attempts of Madail at Davin to make him into something more terrible than the Warmaster. The existence of Imperium Secundus he kept to himself. Guilliman's motives in establishing the second realm were pure, but they could so easily be read as treachery, and his own role of Emperor of that short-lived empire he wished to forget. He had too many secrets,
and though he would have gladly unburdened himself to his father, he was not willing to take the same risk with his brothers and Malcador, He felt the old psyker's powerful mind probing at his own as he spoke, scratching at the veracity of his words to see if falsehood lay beneath. Sanguinius had enough psychic might of his own to deflect the regent, though resistance alone would be more than enough to rouse the old man's suspicion.
He told them everything else. In a quiet voice he revealed to them the true might of the Neverborn and the sorceries they deployed. He spoke of rains of blood and planets caged in bone. He disbelieved half of what he said, though he had seen it all with his own eyes.
'Such things they can do,' he said, 'as make Magnus' mightiest works seem parlour tricks.'
He told them of the Shadow Crusade, where Lorgar and the transformed Angron had laid waste to dozens of worlds, of Konrad Curze's reign of terror on Macragge, of his own conversations with their tormented brother. He let his sympathy show for the Night Haunter, for that was genuine. He told them of the assault on the Pharos, of the mission to Davin and the hellish transformation wrought upon that world. And finally of how he, the Lion and Guilliman had destroyed the site of Horus' corruption, and how in doing so they had brought about the calming of the Ruinstorm, and the horrors that travelling through the warp presented in this strange new age. To all but Malcador, Sanguinius looked distracted, as if he had larger matters to ponder. Only the Imperial Regent could fathom how large the secrets were that he kept, and his shrewd eyes stayed fixed on the primarch's face the entire time that he spoke.
By the time Sanguinius had finished relating his tale and his brothers had asked him their questions, it was late evening. High levels of atmospheric pollution rendered the sunsets of Terra gloriously colourful. The tower room where they talked was saturated in deep orange light.
