A Thousand Sons

by Graham McNeill

  He glanced over the white-hot rocks he and the Space Wolves sheltered behind. The searing fire of the Titan’s weapons had vitrified them, the solid stone now smooth and translucent. Razor-edged discs the width of a man were embedded in the glass, caught by the molten rock before it hardened and singing with the vibration of their impacts.

  Blinking away bright afterimages, Ahriman looked down the valley. The elongated head sections of the war machines were burned black, their previously impervious armour cracked and their bejewelled heads split open. Ahriman smelled the burnt metal taste of an incredibly powerful aetheric discharge. Whips of wild lightning lashed from the broken armour, and he watched with fierce pride as Magnus the Red stalked through the storm of fire and death towards the towering machines with twin fists of fire.

  Ghostly light rippled across the Titans. Explosions bit chunks out of their ceramic skin, and viscous black liquid, like boiling oil, slithered from the wounds.

  “You see!” roared Skarssen. “They bleed!”

  “It won’t be nearly enough,” returned Ahriman, “no matter how many harpoons you bring to bear!”

  “Just watch,” promised Skarssen, throwing himself flat as a shrieking wall of light broke against their cover. Superheated air hissed and greedily sucked oxygen from the air with a thunderclap.

  “The Storm breaks!” roared Wyrdmake. “The Tempest gives its sign!”

  Magnus faced the giant machines alone, his feathered cloak spread behind him like an eagle’s wings. His flesh swelled with power, and for a brief moment it seemed that he matched the Titan in stature. His unbound hair was a stiffened mane of red, and his limbs ran with electric light. The Primarch of the Thousand Sons drew back his arm and loosed a stream of blue fire that struck the nearest Titan square in the chest.

  The alien engine was an artfully designed war machine from an age long-forgotten, the ancient craft of its makers wondrous to behold, but it could not resist such incredible, awe-inspiring power. Its torso exploded, vast ribs of unknown manufacture shattering like brittle china and falling in fire-blackened splinters. The pendulous head toppled from its neck and crashed to the rocks far below.

  The war machine fell with infinite majesty, slamming down in pieces upon the rocky ground over which it had stood sentinel for longer than humans could comprehend. Blinding clouds of dust swept out from its fall, obscuring the fate of the second Titan.

  A strange silence fell over the battlefield, as though no one could really believe they had seen the incredible war machine die. The silence was uncanny, but it did not last long.

  A triumphant howl erupted from the throats of the Wolves, an ululating victory roar, but Ahriman took no pleasure at such destruction.

  “A terrible thing to see something so magnificent brought low,” said Ahriman.

  “You pity it?” asked Wyrdmake. “Does not the hunter feel the joy at the moment of the kill?”

  “I feel nothing but sorrow,” said Ahriman.

  Wyrdmake looked at him with genuine confusion, affronted that Ahriman sought to sour this moment of great victory. “The beast killed entire packs of your warriors. Vengeance demanded its death. It is right to honour your foe, but to mourn its death is pointless.”

  “Maybe so, but what secrets and knowledge have been lost in its destruction?”

  “What secrets worth knowing does such a beast keep?” said Skarssen. “Better it dies and its secrets are lost than to ken such alien witchery.”

  The smoke of the mighty construct’s death parted, and a keening roar built from within the depths of the ashen clouds, a wail of sorrow and anger entwined. A mighty shadow moved in the depths of the billowing dust, and the surviving Titan emerged. It was wounded and bled black rivers of glistening liquid, but like a cornered animal it was still horribly dangerous.

  Its lance arm slid around, the barrel aimed squarely at Magnus, and Ahriman saw that the enormous power the primarch had wielded had cost him dearly. Magnus’ skin was pale, the fiery copper lustre dimmed to a faded brass. He was down on one knee, as though offering servitude to a bellicose god of war.

  The ground shook as the giant moved forward. It lowered its head to study the insignificant creature ranged against it. The remnants of its ruined arm spat flames and smoke. Its sweeping shoulder wings were aflame, sagging and useless at its shoulders, like a broken angel of destruction come to rid Aghoru of all life.

  Killing light built along the length of its weapon, and a shriek of violated air built as it drew breath.

  And a blazing lance of sunfire stabbed out, searing Magnus from the face of the world.

  THE THOUSAND SONS screamed.

  The heat of a million stars wreathed their primarch, and no matter that he was one of twenty towering pinnacles of gene-wrought superhuman warriors, even he could not survive such an attack. A surge tide of liquid fire swept out, turning the rock of the Mountain to glass.

  Ahriman’s grip on the Enumerations collapsed in the face of such visceral horror; grief, anger and hatred jammed a twisting knife in his guts. The Titan poured its deadly fire upon Magnus, and Ahriman knew he would never live to see so hideous a sight.

  Beside him, Uthizzar clutched his head in agony. Even in the midst of his grief, Ahriman pitied Uthizzar. How terrible must it be for a telepath to feel the death of his father?

  Moments passed in utter silence, as though the world itself could not quite believe what had happened. One of the Emperor’s favoured sons had been struck down. It was inconceivable. What force could end the life of a primarch? The stubborn reality of it could not yet penetrate their legends, could not break the unassailable fact of their immortality.

  That fact was fiction, and Ahriman felt his world crumble.

  The Thousand Sons screamed.

  The Space Wolves howled.

  The vox exploded with it, an atavistic declaration of fury.

  “With me!” shouted Skarssen.

  And the Wolves were unleashed.

  They poured from the rocks, bolters spitting fire and missiles launched on the run as they swept towards the Titan. The Terminators led the charge, a wall of armoured fury that would eviscerate any normal foe, but which would be next to useless against this enemy. Ahriman and Uthizzar went with them, knowing it was madness for infantry to move in the presence of so powerful and terrible a war machine. The Titan was king of the battlefield, a towering killing machine that crashed foot-soldiers without even registering their presence.

  Yet there was an undeniable thrill in risking everything like this, a noble heroism and vitality he normally never felt in combat. The Enumerations gave a warrior focus, prevented his emotions from overwhelming him, and kept his mind free of distractions that could get him killed. The business of war was more deadly than it had ever been in any of the violent ages of Man, the surety of death or injury a warrior’s constant companion. The Enumerations helped the Thousand Sons face such thoughts objectively, and allowed them to fight on regardless.

  To do otherwise was inconceivable, and Ahriman was always amazed that mortals ever dared to step onto a battlefield. Yet here he was, raw grief and the vicarious energy of the Space Wolves carrying him forward without the protection of emotional detachment.

  As the Space Wolves came, so too did the Thousand Sons.

  The last surviving Land Raiders, both black and belching smoke, darted like pack predators as they fired on the Titan. Desperate to avenge their primarch, the red-armoured warriors of Magnus charged with the same boundless energy as the Space Wolves, their cool detachment cast aside in this one, headlong charge.

  It was reckless and futile, but also brave and heroic.

  The seething fire began to fade, and Ahriman’s charge faltered at the sight before him. A vitrified bowl of a crater spread out at the mighty war engine’s clawed feet, yet at its centre was a sight that lifted his heart and filled him with awe.

  A shimmering dome of golden-hued energy rippled in the heat haze, and within it, two armoured figures. Atop
a crooked pillar of rock at the heart of the crater, all that had survived the Titan’s fire, were Phosis T’kar and Magnus the Red. The captain of the 2nd Fellowship was bent almost double, his arms raised to his shoulders like Atlas Telamon of Old Earth, the rebellious titan doomed to bear the celestial sphere upon his shoulders for all eternity.

  “A kine shield,” breathed Uthizzar. “Who knew T’kar was so strong?”

  Ahriman laughed in desperate relief. Magnus was alive! He was on his knees, weakened and all but exhausted by his destruction of the first Titan, but he was alive, and that simple fact pulsed through every warrior of the Thousand Sons in a connected instant of joy and wonder.

  In that moment of relief, the Astartes of both Legions let fly their anger and hurt pride.

  The Space Wolves unleashed the fangs of their every weapon, bolts, missiles and armour-cracking shells seeking out the Titan’s wounds and tearing them wider. In the midst of the Sons of Russ, Ahriman and Uthizzar did likewise, unloading magazine after magazine of explosive rounds at the object of their hatred. Skarssen exhorted his warriors with bellowed howls without meaning, but with a power all their own. Ohthere Wyrdmake prowled the length of the Space Wolf advance, surrounded by pack wolves as a frozen wind and the echo of a distant winter storm swirled around him.

  The Wolves of Fenris attacked with all their weapons, and so too did the scions of Prospero fight with all of theirs.

  Hundreds of waving streams of fire licked up at the Titan, but this was no ordinary barrage. Warriors bearing the phoenix symbol of the Pyrae were firing on the move, hurling aetheric flames from their gauntlets. In the midst of the 6th Fellowship, Khalophis threw his fists like a pugilist, each jab sending a stream of coruscating fire against the enormous Titan. Where it struck, it burned away the Titan’s armour, exposing its crystalline structure and unmaking the bone-like material of its construction.

  “Merciful fates!” cried Uthizzar at the sight of Khalophis. “What is he doing?”

  “Rescuing our primarch!” yelled Ahriman. “As we should!”

  The strength of the Pyrae was ascendant, but this was incredible. Within the cult temples of Prospero, such art could be wielded without fear, but to do so with outsiders present was reckless beyond imagining.

  Nor were Khalophis and Phosis T’kar alone in their brazen displays.

  Hathor Maat whipped his hands back and forth, each time casting traceries of purple lightning towards the towering machine. Explosions and dancing balls of fire crackled like electric chains around its body, burning its armour open. Arcs of lightning flashed between the warriors of the Pavoni as their captain drank deep of their energies and channelled it through his flesh.

  Uthizzar grabbed his arm, and Ahriman read the fear in his aura.

  “They have to stop!” hissed Uthizzar. “All of them! To tap into the Great Ocean is intoxicating, you know that all too well, but only the most disciplined and powerful dare wield power such as this!”

  “Our brother-captains are powerful and disciplined practitioners of the hidden arts,” said Ahriman, shrugging off Uthizzar’s hold.

  “But are they disciplined enough? That is the real question.”

  Ahriman had no answer for him and returned his attention to killing the Titan.

  The Titan was dying, but it didn’t die easily. Its limbs thrashed in its death throes, spitting incandescent pulses of energy that tore down the valley walls and obliterated dozens of Astartes with every fiery sweep.

  Its defiance was finally ended when Khalophis and Hathor Maat combined a hurricane of fire and a spear of lightning that struck the war machine’s head with a killing blow. The curved skull exploded and the towering machine collapsed, plummeting straight down like dead wood hewn by a woodsman’s axe.

  The noise was deafening: breaking plates, shattering glass and snapping bone all in one. It fell hard, breaking into a billion pieces, none larger than the size of a man’s fist, and a glittering rain of splintered ceramic fell upon the victorious Astartes like musical notes. The Astartes lowered their weapons, and took a collective breath as the dust and smoke of battle began to settle.

  The golden dome shielding Phosis T’kar and the primarch collapsed with a squalling shriek. Phosis T’kar fell, utterly drained by the act of protecting his primarch, as Magnus the Red rose to his feet once more. Though the toll taken upon him was great, he remained as magnificent as ever. Magnus lifted the stricken body of Phosis T’kar, and stepped from the pillar of rock.

  He did not fall. Instead, Magnus floated across the crater like a battle-weary angel, borne aloft by his incredible power through a billowing mist of shimmering crystal.

  The Thousand Sons were there to greet him, ecstatic beyond words that their primarch had survived. Ahriman and Uthizzar pushed through the scrum of Astartes, their warriors only reluctantly parting to allow them through. Ahriman reached the edge of the crater as Magnus set foot on the glassy floor of the valley and gently laid Phosis T’kar before him.

  “Hathor Maat,” said Magnus, his voice weary and thin. “See to him. Bend all the power of the Pavoni to his survival. You will not allow him to die.”

  The captain of the 3rd Fellowship nodded. He knelt beside Phosis T’kar and swiftly removed his helmet. T’kar’s face was deathly pale. Hathor Maat placed his hands on either side of his neck, and almost instantaneously colour returned to his face.

  “My lord,” said Ahriman, his voice almost too choked with emotion to speak. “We thought… We thought you lost to us.”

  Magnus smiled weakly, dabbing at a trickle of blood that ran from the corner of his mouth. His eye shone a bruised violet and red. Never had Ahriman seen his beloved leader so battered.

  “I will live,” said Magnus. “But this is not over yet. These guardians were perverted by the corruption imprisoned beneath this peak. It has lain dormant for an age, but it has awoken. Unless we stop it, everything we have learned here will be lost.”

  “What would you have us do, lord?” demanded Khalophis.

  Magnus turned to the cave mouth. It was thick with growths, like blackened roots from some parasitic weed burrowed into the meat of the Mountain.

  “Walk with me into the depths, my sons,” said Magnus. “We will finish this together.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Abilities/Beneath the Mountain/The Language of Angels

  THE SUN WAS at its zenith, and the idea of moving from beneath the canopy of his tent didn’t appeal to Lemuel one bit. Camille wanted to travel the secret path through the Mountain again, eager to know what had drawn the Thousand Sons and Space Wolves into its high valley with such speed. The climb had almost ended Lemuel in the cool of sunset. He didn’t want to think what it would do to him at noon.

  “Aren’t you in the least bit curious?” asked Camille, reclining on a canvas chair and drinking water from a battered leather canteen. “I mean, what’s got them all riled up that they needed to take battle tanks? Land Raiders no less. Did you see?”

  “I saw,” said Lemuel, dabbing his brow with his bandanna. “They were impressive.”

  “Impressive?” said Camille, incredulously. “They were more than impressive, they were amazing.”

  “Okay, they were amazing, but no, I’m not that curious as to what’s happening in the Mountain. I’m sure whatever is going on, we’ll find out in due course.”

  “Easy for you to say,” noted Camille. “You have a direct line to the Thousand Sons now.”

  “It’s not like that,” said Lemuel.

  “Then what is it like?” asked Kallista.

  The three of them had taken to meeting each night since the arrival of the Space Wolves, their shared discussions of what Kallista had written bonding them like conspirators with a dark secret. The more time Lemuel spent with Kallista and Camille, the more he began to realise they shared more than one.

  “Lord Ahriman sees potential in me,” he said, knowing his words were wholly insufficient to explain why the Chief Librarian of the Thousan
d Sons had sent for him.

  “What sort of potential?” asked Kallista.

  Lemuel shrugged and said, “I’m not really sure yet.”

  “Come on, that’s no answer,” pressed Camille.

  Lemuel’s fear when Ahriman had told him he knew of his ability, had quickly faded, replaced with a simmering pride in his powers. He had long suspected that his ability to read people marked him out as special, and now he knew that was true. After spending time with Camille and Kallista, he realised he wasn’t the only one. He hesitated before answering, knowing he could be wrong, but wanting to be sure.

  “After the other night, we know Kallista has a talent for, what would the word be? Channeling, I suppose. Channeling a power that allows her to write things that haven’t happened yet.”

  “Talent’s hardly the word I’d use,” said Kallista bitterly.

  “No, I suppose you wouldn’t,” agreed Lemuel, “not if it’s as painful as you say, but the physical manifestation of your ability aside, you can do things most people cannot, yes?”

  “Yes,” said Kallista, nodding, and he could read how uncomfortable talk of her power made her.

  “Well, I also have an ability,” he said.

  “What kind of ability?” asked Camille.

  “An ability to see things that other people cannot.”

  Kallista leaned forward, her aura revealing her interest.

  “What sort of things?” she asked.

  “Auras, I suppose you’d call them. It’s like a glowing haze surrounding a person. I can see when someone’s lying, read their feelings and moods. That sort of thing.”

  “So what am I feeling right now?” asked Camille. Lemuel smiled.

  “You are overcome with feelings of unbridled lust for me, my dear,” he said. “You want to leap on me and ravish me to within an inch of my life. Were it not for the presence of Mistress Eris, you would be astride me right now.”

  Camille laughed.

  “Okay, I’m convinced,” she said.

  “Seriously?” asked Kallista.

  “No!” squealed Camille. “I’m fond of Lemuel, but I prefer partners of a different flavour.”