A Thousand Sons

by Graham McNeill

  “Oh,” said Kallista, looking away with a guilty flush. She looked at Lemuel. “Can you really do that?”

  “Yes, I can,” he said. “Right now you’re embarrassed and wishing Camille wouldn’t refer to her sexuality in front of you. You believe me, and you’re relieved that you’re not the only one with a secret.”

  “You don’t need special powers to see that, Lemuel,” said Camille. “Even I can see that.”

  “Yes, but you believe me as well, and you have a power too, don’t you?”

  Camille’s smile froze.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

  “Now that’s a lie,” said Lemuel, rising from his chair and fetching himself a drink. “You touch things and you know where they’ve come from, who owned them and everything about their history going all the way back to when they were made. That’s why you always wear those gloves and why you never borrow anything from other people. I don’t blame you. It must be hard learning all of a person’s secrets like that.”

  Camille looked away, her eyes downcast, and Lemuel smiled, trying to put her at ease.

  “I watched you touch that object buried in the ruins of the Aghoru house the other day,” he said. “You knew what it was the moment you laid your hand on it, didn’t you?”

  Camille kept her eyes on the floor and said, “I did, yes. I haven’t always been able to do it. I was about thirteen when it started.”

  “Don’t worry, my dear,” said Lemuel gently. “We all have something special about us. And I don’t think it’s an accident we’re here.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Think about it. What are the chances that the three of us, people with talents beyond the understanding of most ordinary people, would find ourselves together like this? I’m no mathematician, but I suspect the odds are pretty much against it.”

  “So what are you saying, that we’re here deliberately? Why?”

  Lemuel sat down again, sweating and breathless thanks to the heat.

  “I think our hosts may have something to do with it,” he said. “Look around. How few remembrancers are there with the XV Legion? Forty-two spread throughout the Fellowships. A number like that makes me think there was a great deal more to our selection than our talents as remembrancers.”

  “So you’re saying we were all selected by the Thousand Sons because we have these abilities?”

  “Almost certainly,” said Lemuel.

  “Why?” asked Kallista.

  “That, I don’t know,” confessed Lemuel, “but if there’s one thing I’ve come to know about the Thousand Sons, it’s that they don’t do anything without good reason.”

  THE INSIDE OF the Mountain was alive with sound and colour. Not any sound the Space Wolves could hear, despite their legendarily heightened senses, nor any colour they could name, for these were hues of the aether, rippling like smoke and radiating from the smooth walls of the cave like bioluminescence.

  The armour worn by the Astartes was equipped with sensors that could penetrate darkness, but to those without aether-sight, the view would be a sea-green monochrome, a poor rendition of the true light saturating the rock.

  A hundred warriors delved the innards of the Mountain, all that could be spared from the business of harvesting the gene-seed of the fallen.

  Magnus led the way down, following a twisting path only he could see. Lord Skarssen and Ohthere Wyrdmake marched with him, and Ahriman took a moment to study the Wolf Lord. Skarssen’s aura was a keen blade, a focussed edge of single-minded determination. Here was a warrior who never let up, never stopped to question, and would never, ever, falter in his duty.

  Such surety of purpose reminded Ahriman of the golem legends written in the ancient Qabalah. The golem was a creature shaped from clay, raised by an ancient priest to defend his people from persecution. It was a powerful, unstoppable force, a creature that obeyed its master’s instructions absolutely literally, never deviating from its task, no matter what.

  It was a perfect representation for the Space Wolves, for Ahriman had read accounts of the war they made. The sons of Russ were weapons, a consummate force for destruction that absolutely would not stop until the job was done.

  Of course, the legends of the golem were also cautionary tales of hubris, with later tales depicting golems that had to be undone through trickery, whereupon they more often than not turned on their creators. The Golem of Ingolstadt was one such beast, a monster that wreaked havoc on its creator and all he loved before destroying itself upon a polar funeral pyre.

  The comparison made Ahriman uneasy, and he put the thought from his mind as the tunnel sloped ever downwards. Normally he could retrace any route, no matter how complex, but within moments of entering the Mountain he was utterly lost. Only the primarch seemed to know where he was going, but how he knew which passage to take and which junction to follow was a mystery to Ahriman.

  Of the captains of Fellowship, only Uthizzar had come into the Mountain. Phosis T’kar was too weak, and Hathor Maat was restoring him with the healing arts of the Pavoni. Khalophis too had remained on the surface to secure the battlefield. The alien Titans were no more, but who knew what other horrors might yet lurk in hidden valleys and caves?

  As a result, the Thousand Sons beneath the Mountain were a mix of Astartes from different Fellowships, and Ahriman saw ghostly flickers of power rising from each of them, subtly different, revealing their cult affiliations by the tempers of their auras.

  He noted that most of them were Pyrae.

  “I know,” said Uthizzar. “Together with the Space Wolves, there will be no room for subtlety here.”

  Ahriman was about to nod, when he realised he hadn’t spoken the thought aloud.

  “Did you just read me?” he asked.

  “It is hard not to at the moment,” replied Uthizzar. “Everyone’s thoughts are so heightened, with the level of aetheric energy here. It is as if you are all shouting. I find it quite uncomfortable.”

  Ahriman bristled at the idea of his thoughts being read.

  “Be careful,” he warned. “That could get you into trouble some day. People do not like their innermost secrets revealed.”

  “My power is no different from yours,” said Uthizzar.

  “How do you reach that conclusion?” said Ahriman. “The powers of the Corvidae and the Athanaeans are nothing alike.”

  “I read what people are thinking now. You read what they are going to be doing in the future. All that is different is the timing.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it in that way,” conceded Ahriman. “Perhaps this can form a debate for another day? This is probably not the best time.”

  “No,” said Uthizzar with an amused chuckle.

  They marched in silence for a while longer, following the crooked path deeper and deeper into the darkness. To feel the touch of the aether in the Mountain, after its chronic absence, was both exhilarating and worrying. Nothing happed without reason, and only something of great magnitude could force the state of a thing to change with such extreme polarity.

  What lurked in the depths of the Mountain that could effect such change?

  THE GROUP LAPSED into silence, each person pondering the implications of their shared abilities. Kallista and Camille were relieved to share their burdens with others, yet wary of discarding a lifetime of secrecy in so short a time.

  It had bonded them. Whatever else might happen, whatever other journeys they might take, this shared secret had forged a link between them. For now it was a fragile thing, but with careful nurturing, it might prove to be enduring.

  “So what do we do with this then?” asked Camille at last.

  “What do you mean?” asked Lemuel.

  “I mean, what do we do?” said Camille, throwing her hands up as though he were being obtuse. “If you’re saying that we’re part of the 28th Expedition because of our abilities, are we supposed to know that’s why we were selected? Can we use our abilities openly?”


  Lemuel considered the question before saying, “I would caution against that, my dear. Powers like ours are still considered witchery in some circles.”

  “Do you think we are in danger?” asked Kallista, picking at a fold in her jellabiya. “Is that why they’ve gathered us together? To get rid of us?”

  “No, I don’t believe so,” said Lemuel hurriedly. He stood and went over to her chair, taking her hand and looking her straight in the eye. “I don’t believe the Thousand Sons would go to such lengths just to have us burned at the stake.”

  “Then why do they want us?”

  “I confess I do not know for sure,” he said. “Lord Ahriman says he wants to teach me how best to use my powers. I think we are here to learn.”

  “Why would the Thousand Sons care about teaching us anything?” asked Camille.

  “Lord Ahriman said that by using our powers we make ourselves vulnerable,” said Lemuel, grasping for concepts he didn’t know how to articulate. “I don’t understand it really, but I got the impression that we’re all part of something larger, and that we’re on the cusp of something wonderful. We could be the first of a new breed of people, people who can use their abilities safely and teach other to do the same.”

  Kallista snatched her hand back, and Lemuel was shocked at the fear he saw in her face. Her aura shifted hue, turning from a soft yellow to an angry red.

  “I don’t want to be a new breed of anything,” she said, pushing her chair back and rising to her feet. “I don’t want this ability. If I could get rid of it I would!”

  Lemuel stood and raised his hands in a placating gesture.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to push you.”

  “It hurts so much,” she said, haltingly, pressing her hands to her temples and holding back tears with an effort of will. “Every time the fire comes, it burns part of me away with it. Unless I stop it, I’m afraid it’s going to burn me away entirely one day.”

  Camille pushed herself from her chair and took Kallista in her arms.

  “Don’t be silly,” she said. “We’ll look out for you, won’t we, Lemuel?”

  “Of course,” he said, “without question. People like us need to stick together.”

  “People like what?” said a voice behind them.

  Lemuel jumped as though struck, and turned to see a frail old man in the beige robe of a remembrancer with a long mane of frizzy white hair, only reluctantly contained in a wiry ponytail. Thin and stooped, he carried a slim, leatherbound book under his arm, and his walnut coloured skin was ancient and deeply creased with great age.

  “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” asked Mahavastu Kallimakus, Scrivener Extraordinary to Magnus the Red.

  Lemuel was first to recover. “Mahavastu! No, no, you’re always welcome. Come in, won’t you? I rarely see you these days. Magnus got you so busy writing his memoirs you don’t have time for your old friend?”

  Kallimakus looked uncomfortable, and Lemuel read the unease permeating his aura.

  “Is something the matter, my friend?” asked Lemuel, steering Kallimakus into the tent.

  “I rather fear it might be,” said Mahavastu.

  “What is it?” asked Camille, getting up and allowing the old man to take her seat.

  “It is the primarch,” said Mahavastu, placing the leatherbound book in his lap with a guilty shudder. “I fear he and his warriors are in great danger.”

  “What kind of danger?” asked Kallista.

  “The gravest danger,” said Mahavastu. “The gravest danger imaginable.”

  THEY CAME AT last to a great chasm in the heart of the Mountain, a perfectly circular sinkhole, hundreds of metres in diameter. The roof above the enormous pit was a crystalline temple dome, formed from the same substance as the Titans. The dome was pale cream, threaded with veins of crimson like the finest marble. And, like the Titans, its substance had been invaded with the black ropes of corruption.

  Thousands of glistening, pulsing black pillars rose from the pit like the roots of some unnatural weed. They pulsed with liquid motion, obscene mockeries of life-giving veins that fed on life instead of sustaining it.

  “Great bones of Fenris,” hissed Skarssen. “What manner of beast is this?”

  No one had an answer for him, their horror at the sight too visceral to put into words.

  Ahriman moved through the stunned Astartes to the edge of the pit. A ledge ran around the circumference of the chasm, easily wide enough to drive a pair of Land Raiders abreast. Gold and silver symbols were worked into the bones of the rock, as the though they had always existed and the Mountain had simply grown up around them.

  Magnus stood at the edge of the chasm, looking in wonder at the impenetrable forest of oozing black tentacles rising from the pit. The lustre had returned to his skin, as though he were refreshed by the journey closer to the source of the power beneath the Mountain. Ohthere Wyrdmake and Lord Skarssen followed Ahriman, joining the primarch at the edge.

  “What are they?” asked Skarssen, kneeling beside the nearest symbol, a gold serpent entwined with a silver eye.

  “Warding symbols?” suggested Wyrdmake, “Like the wolf talismans we bear.”

  Skarssen touched the wolf pelt at his shoulder, and Ahriman watched as all the Space Wolves superstitiously reached for various fetishes hanging from their armour. Those closest to Wyrdmake touched the eagle-topped staff he carried, and Ahriman smiled.

  “Superstition?” he said. “The Emperor would not approve.”

  “An Astartes of the Thousand Sons telling us what the Emperor would not approve of?” laughed Wyrdmake. “Ironic, wouldn’t you say?”

  “No, I just find the gestures quaint,” smiled Ahriman, “almost primitive. I mean no offence of course.”

  “None taken,” replied Wyrdmake. “But you too reached for a talismanic device.”

  The smile froze on Ahriman’s lips as he realised the Rune Priest was right. Without even being aware of it, he had pressed his fingers to the silver oakleaf cluster on his shoulder guard, the icon that had once belonged to Ohrmuzd.

  “Perhaps we are not so different after all,” said Wyrdmake.

  “Perhaps not,” allowed Ahriman, turning his attention back to the thick ropes of black matter rising from the pit.

  Magnus stood immobile, as though in silent communion, and Ahriman stood next to him.

  “My lord?” he asked. “What is it?”

  “It’s incredible, Ahzek,” said Magnus. “It’s raw matter, the very stuff of the Primordial Creator given form.”

  “It’s rank is what it is,” hissed Skarssen. “Any fool can see that.”

  “It’s alive,” hissed Uthizzar, walking to the edge of the pit with sleepwalker’s strides.

  “Oh, it is alive, all right,” nodded Magnus. “I have never felt anything quite so alive, not for a long time. Not for a very long time indeed.”

  Ahriman felt a thrill of warning along the length of his spine. Previously, the primarch had labelled this power stagnant and dead.

  “It’s calling us,” said Uthizzar, and Ahriman heard the dream-like quality of his voice. “I need to go to it.”

  “What’s calling to you?” said Ahriman, but no sooner had he spoken than he heard it, a soft whisper, like a distant friend calling from afar. It was not an unwelcome sound. It was gentle, a beguiling whisper redolent with the promise of raptures beyond measure.

  Magnus turned to his captains and shook his head. Ahriman saw that Magnus’ eye was deep black, the pupil massively enlarged and swollen, as though filled with the same dark substance as the glistening pillars.

  “My sons,” said Magnus, and Ahriman felt the barely constrained power laden in every syllable. “Concentrate. Rise to the tenth Enumeration and shut out the voices. You are not strong enough to resist them. I have dealt with power like this before. I mastered it then, and I will master it now.”

  Uthizzar nodded, and Ahriman felt his consciousness rise into the uppermost Enumeration
, a place of inner solitude where a warrior could find peace, untroubled by the concerns of the world around them. It was an effort to reach such a state of mind, especially here, but Uthizzar was master of his own psyche. Ahriman rose alongside him, and the voices ceased, shut off as surely as a vox-caster with the power cell removed.

  With the clarity imparted by the tenth sphere, Ahriman saw movement within the heart of the mass of tentacles, a flash of saffron and a glitter of something reflective.

  “No,” he whispered, his grip on the tenth sphere slipping as a flash of recognition surfaced. “Please don’t let it be so.”

  As though in response to his words, the tentacles shivered, and a repulsive slithering sound, as of a thousand greasy limbs moving together, filled the chamber. The Space Wolves were instantly alert, their guns snapping upright, though there were no obvious targets for their wrath beyond the black tentacles.

  “What is going on?” demanded Skarssen.

  Wyrdmake’s staff crackled with power, but the Rune Priest regarded it with horror, as though it had transformed into a poisonous snake.

  “Spread out,” ordered Magnus, “and stay away from the edge.”

  The gelatinous mass of plant-like growths rippled, and a number of thick stems detached themselves from the domed roof of the chamber. Like disease-ridden fronds in a polluted pool, the nearest tentacles sagged and spread as something moved through them, on a course angled towards the Thousand Sons.

  A black veil parted, and Ahriman’s control of the spheres collapsed completely as he saw a wretched figure drift through the tar-black tentacles.

  Scraps of orange fabric clung to its naked body, which hung limp with its head down like a puppet bereft of a puppeteer. The figure was borne aloft by a host of slender tentacles, one a gleaming noose around his neck, another around his temple like a crown of obsidian.

  These tentacles were not like the others. Their vile substance was alive with gaping mouths and seething eyes that bubbled into existence before dissolving into nothingness.

  The figure drew nearer, and he lifted his head. His eyes were oil-dark and reflective, and fine black lines threaded his skin as though the black tentacles had filled him with their corrupt substance. A cracked mirrormask hung at his throat.