“And what of you?” asked Lemuel. “Why did you not become a cult leader?”
“Because I became the Magus,” said the primarch, “Master of all the cults.”
“Magus? That’s the highest rank isn’t it?” asked Lemuel.
“No,” said Magnus, “there is one rank above it, that of Ipsissimus, a being free from limitations, who lives in balance with the corporeal and incorporeal universe; for all intents and purposes, a perfect being.”
Lemuel heard Magnus’ pride and knew there could be only one man in creation that could match such a description, one man who Magnus looked up to above all others.
“The Emperor, beloved by all,” said Lemuel.
Magnus smiled and nodded, folding his arms across his wide chest.
“Indeed, Lemuel,” he said, “the Emperor. And it is with news of my father I come to the Library of Ahriman.”
Lemuel was instantly alert. Any scrap of information about the Emperor, the architect of humanity’s fate, and the powerhouse behind the monumental undertaking of the Great Crusade, was eagerly seized upon by the remembrancers. To hear such news first-hand from one of the primarchs would be an honour indeed.
“Now that the last elements of the Legion have rendezvoused, we are summoned to my father’s side once more.”
“Are we returning to Terra?” asked Ahriman. “Is it time?”
Magnus hesitated, deliberately teasing the moment out.
“It is not for Terra that we set our course, but the Emperor promises the most serious of conclaves, the most momentous of gatherings, where the greatest questions of the age are to be debated.”
Lemuel gasped. Such news was grand indeed, but there was more to this singular piece of information than Magnus was letting on.
He smiled, buoyed up with sudden confidence.
“There’s more isn’t there, my lord?” he asked.
“He is perceptive, this one,” said Magnus with a nod to Ahriman. “I think you are right, my friend; a stint with Uthizzar will hone his abilities nicely.”
Magnus turned to Lemuel once more and said, “This conclave will be the crux of our Legion’s existence, my friend. This will be our defining moment, where the Emperor at last acknowledges our worth.”
“You have seen this, my lord?” asked Ahriman.
“I have seen many things,” said Magnus. “Great events are in motion, the wheel of history is on the turn and the Thousand Sons will be at the forefront of the new universal order.”
“Where will this gathering take place?” asked Ahriman.
“Far from here,” said Magnus, “on a world named Nikaea.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Nikaea/Thrown to the Wolves/The Emperor’s Right Hand
CATARACT CLOUDS OBSCURED the surface, a striated covering shot through with pyroclastic sparks and umber lightning. Nikaea was a new world, its geology unfinished and its final form not yet set. Tectonic movement and kilometres-deep pressure waves rippled below the crust, sending shockwaves through the mantle, and ripping some continents apart while slamming others together.
Two Stormbirds and a Stormhawk knifed through the clouds like swooping birds of prey, their crimson hulls painted with corrosive rain as they descended through the volatile atmosphere. Nikaea was a world in flux, its character in the throes of violent birth.
Space around the planet was a choppy soup of electromagnetic static, the approaches lousy with spatial debris caught in the whirling, inconstant gravity waves that rendered geomagnetic guidance systems inoperative.
Only by following a constant beacon of incandescent light that speared into the heavens from the world below could any craft hope to navigate the Nikaea system. To attempt to find Nikaea, let alone a fixed point on its surface without the aid of this signal would have been impossible for any but the luckiest pilots in the galaxy. It had taken an entire year for the 28th Expedition to travel from Hexium Minora to this remote corner of the galaxy.
Ahriman sat up front in Scarab Prime, the consoles before the pilots alive with flickering lights, vector diagrams and tri-dimensional contour maps of the jagged terrain. Pulsing cables connected the pilots to the avionics package, allowing them to fly purely on instruments, which was just as well, as the juddering canopy of the cockpit was smeared with ash and smoke.
Though the thought was faintly blasphemous, Ahriman hoped the Machine-God was watching over them. To lose control above such a hostile world was as sure a death sentence as could be envisaged.
Not that the pilots were actually guiding the Stormbird; that duty fell to Jeter Innovence, the Navigator strapped to the converted gravity harness where Ahriman normally performed his close-protection duties when flying into harm’s way. Innovence had protested at being forced to leave his hermetic dome aboard the Photep, but had recanted his objections when told who he would be guiding and whose light he would be following.
Magnus the Red sat behind the Navigator, resplendent in a gloriously embroidered tunic of red and gold, shawled with a weave of golden mail hung with feathers and precious stones. In honour of the occasion, each of Magnus’ forearms was sheathed in an eagle-stamped vambrace, and he wore an entwined lightning bolt girdle around his torso.
His hair was loose, glossy and mirror sheened, the colour of arterial blood.
No finer warrior scholar existed in the galaxy.
The slight form of Mahavastu Kallimakus sat beside Magnus, the heavy robes he wore unable to mask his gaunt frame. Kallimakus was venerable, as Lemuel had described, but Ahriman had not realised how much the primarch’s control over him was costing the remembrancer. A heavy satchel of blank books rested against the fuselage, fresh pages for the scrivener to fill with Magnus’ words and deeds.
Ahriman caught the primarch’s eye, today an excited eclipse of pale blue and hazel flecks.
“We are close, Ahzek,” said Magnus, “in every sense.”
“Yes, my lord. We land in less than ten minutes.”
“So long? I could have guided us in half the time!” cried Magnus, glaring at the recumbent form of the Navigator. His anger was false, and he laughed.
Magnus slapped a luminescent hand upon the Navigator’s shoulder, causing him to flinch.
“Ah, don’t mind me, Innovence,” said Magnus. “I’m simply impatient to see my father once more. You are doing a grand job, my friend!”
Ahriman smiled. The melancholy that wreathed Magnus’ soul after Ullanor had dispelled when word came of the conclave on Nikaea. The year spent traversing the immaterium from Hexium Minora had seen a frenzy of research and study aboard the Photep as Magnus handed out theoretical proofs, philosophical arguments and convoluted logic conundrums for his sons to solve in order to sharpen their minds. Nikaea promised to be the vindication of the Thousand Sons, and neither Magnus nor his Legion would be found wanting.
Ahriman turned back to the cockpit. According to the unwinding telemetry, they were practically on top of their destination, but the cloud cover was still impenetrable.
“Taking us down,” intoned the pilot. “Beginning approach. Ground landing protocols exchanged and verified. Tether signal accepted and control relinquished.”
The pilots sat back as control of the aircraft was surrendered to Custodes ground controllers. The aircraft dipped its nose and went into a steep, looping descent. Ahriman had a brief, sinking sensation in his gut before his enhanced physiology compensated. The clouds streaked past the canopy. The glass slithered with moisture and streaks of grey, muddy ash.
Then they were below it, and the landscape of Nikaea was laid out before them.
It was black and geometric, a profusion of angular debris strewn upon the ground like the primordial shapes that lay at the heart of everything, and which had yet to be cloaked with the lie of individuality. Perfect spheres rose from the basalt ground, rippled with the liquid lines of their formation. Vast cubes sat side by side upon stepped volcanic plains, arranged in convoluted patterns that seemed a little too random to b
e random at all.
Magnus appeared at his side, like an excited Probationer about to take the Liber Throa and become a Neophyte. The primarch peered through the canopy and took in the geometric precision of the landscape.
“Incredible,” he whispered. “The genesis of a world. The order of the universe described in mathematics, perfect shapes and geometry. How like my father to choose this place. He knew it would speak to me. It is the shards of my youth on a planetary scale.”
The Stormhawk dipped lower, banking its wings on its final approach, and a vast, conical landmass slid into view. It was a gigantic stratovolcano, steep-sided and rugged with hardened lava, tephra and blackened ash.
It pierced the clouds, and Ahriman knew with utter certainty that a great amphitheatre was carved within its heart. A column of purest light soared from the summit crater, invisible to mortal eyes, but a blazing spear piercing the heavens to those with aether-sight. A gathering thundercloud, shot through with golden lightning, filled the sky above the volcano.
Ahriman had felt the light’s presence as soon as the ships of the 28th Expedition had translated into the Nikaea system, but to actually see it ahead of him was like waking from a coma into a brightly lit room.
“Throne, it’s glorious,” said Magnus. “That is true power, a mind that can reach across the galaxy and bind an empire together in the dream of Unity. It humbles me to know we serve so magnificent a master.”
Ahriman didn’t answer. His mouth was dry and his heart thundered in his chest.
The light was magnificent. It was glorious and incredible in its potency and purity.
Yet all he felt was a mounting sense of dismay.
“I have seen this before,” he said.
“When?”
“On Aghoru,” breathed Ahriman, “when I swam the Great Ocean hunting the threads of the future. When I met Ohthere Wyrdmake, I saw this: the volcano, the golden light.”
“And yet you said nothing? Why did you keep it to yourself?” asked Magnus.
“It made no sense,” said Ahriman, unable to keep the dread from his voice. “The visions were fragmentary, disjointed. It was impossible to tell what it meant.”
“No matter,” said Magnus.
“No,” said Ahriman, “I believe it matters. I believe it matters very much.”
LANDING LIGHTS WINKED in an ever-decreasing cruciform pattern as the Custodes’ remote pilots reeled the Stormhawk in. The other two craft remained in their holding pattern, and would not descend until the first bird was clear. The Stormhawk slammed down in a hammer blow of burnt metal and gritty sulphurous backwash. As soon as it landed, a strip of white light extended onto the platform as a blast-shielded door lifted open.
Elongated shadows stretched from the detachment of warriors in armour of blood red and amethyst that marched from the side of the mountain. Massively wrought and precise, the honour guards of Astartes took up their position before the Stormhawk’s assault ramp. Some carried gold-bladed rhomphaia while others drew enormous silver-bladed swords, which they reversed and set on the platform with their gauntlets resting on the pommels.
The Stormhawk’s ramp lowered with a whine of pneumatics, and Magnus the Red descended to the surface. Followed by Ahriman and the shuffling form of Kallimakus, the primarch stepped from the ramp and took a deep breath of the hot, burnt air of Nikaea.
Kallimakus let out a soft gasp, and sweat gathered on Ahriman’s forehead, though he said nothing. A detachment of nine Sekhmet warriors formed up behind Magnus, subtly matching themselves before the warriors on the platform.
These were no ordinary Astartes; these were the elite of two Legions. The sword-armed warriors were no less a force than the Sanguinary Host, the elite protectorate of the Lord of the Blood Angels. The Phoenix Guard of Lord Fulgrim stood with them, their long-bladed rhomphaia held ramrod-straight at their sides, perfectly poised and immaculately presented.
Their presence could mean only one thing.
Two giant figures emerged from the volcano, walking side by side like old friends. Ahriman’s heartbeat spiked at the sight of them, the first a gloriously caparisoned warrior in armour of gold and purple, with flaring shoulder-guards and a billowing cape of scarlet and gold. His hair was brilliant white, bound at his temples by a band of silver, and his face was one of perfect symmetry, like divinely-proportioned Euclidian geometry.
The second figure wore armour of deepest crimson, the colour vital and urgent. Wings of dappled black and white rustled at his back, the feathers hung with fine loops of silver wire and mother of pearl. Hair of deepest black framed a face that was pale and classically shaped, like one of the thousands of marble likenesses that garrisoned the Imperial Palace of Terra. Yet this was no lifeless rendering of a long-dead luminary; this was a living, breathing angel made flesh, whose countenance was the most beauteous in existence.
“Lord Sanguinius,” said Ahriman in wonder.
“And Brother Fulgrim,” completed Magnus. “Firmitas, utilitas, venustas.”
It seemed they heard him, for they smiled in genuine pleasure, though the words must surely have been lost in the feral growl of the Stormhawk’s cooling engines.
The primarchs were illuminated in the reflected glow of the volcano, their smooth features open and welcoming. They wore the faces of eager siblings pleased to see their brother, though they had seen one another only recently at Ullanor.
Magnus stepped towards Fulgrim, and the master of the Emperor’s Children opened his arms to receive his brother’s embrace. They spoke words of greeting, but they were private, and Ahriman allowed himself to look away from the majesty of the Phoenician’s countenance. Next, Magnus turned to Sanguinius, and the Primarch of the Blood Angels kissed his brother’s cheeks, his greeting heartfelt but reserved. Only now did Ahriman notice the warriors accompanying each primarch. Sanguinius had two attendants, one a slender ascetic with a killer’s eyes and another with such pale skin that the veins of his face were clearly visible beneath.
Ahriman took his place beside Magnus as he and Sanguinius parted. Magnus turned to him and said, “Brother Sanguinius, allow me to introduce my Chief Librarian, Ahzek Ahriman.”
The Lord of the Angels turned his attention upon him, and Ahriman felt the full force of his appraisal. Like Russ before him, Sanguinius evaluated Ahriman swiftly, but where Russ sought out weakness to exploit, Sanguinius looked for strength to harness.
“I have heard much of you, Ahzek Ahriman,” said Sanguinius, his voice surprisingly gentle. For all its apparent softness, there was violent strength concealed within it, like a riptide beneath a placid seascape. “You are thought highly of by many beyond your Legion.”
Ahriman smiled, pleased to hear such praise from the lips of a primarch.
“My lord,” he said. “I serve the Emperor and my Legion to the best of my ability.”
“And what abilities they are,” said Sanguinius with a knowing smile. The primarch turned to introduce the warriors at his side. “Magnus, this is Raldoron, Chapter Master of my protectors,” said Sanguinius, placing an elegantly sculpted hand on the shoulder of the warrior with the lethal eyes. Next he turned his attention to the warrior with the pale skin. “And this is Captain Thoros, one of our most vaunted captains of battle.”
Both warriors gave deep bows, and Ahriman had a sudden flash within his mind, like a single, incongruous pict frame slipped within the passage of one moment to the next: A screaming, multi-limbed arachnid beast, all fangs and blade-limbs. So swift was it, Ahriman wasn’t even sure he’d seen it, but it lingered like a harbinger when he looked at Thoros.
He shook off the image as Fulgrim turned to his warriors. Both were proud and haughty with an air of casual superiority that immediately made Ahriman wary. As flawlessly presented as their primarch, they were perfect in every way, but had none of the humility of Sanguinius’ praetorians.
“Magnus, allow me to present my Lord Commanders, Eidolon and Vespasian.”
“A very real pleasure
to meet you all,” said Magnus, bowing to his brother primarchs’ warriors, honouring them as he honoured their masters.
“Well,” said Fulgrim, “this promises to be a momentous day, brother, so shall we get on?”
“Of course,” said Magnus. “I am eager to begin.”
“As are we all,” promised the Phoenician.
SANGUINIUS AND FULGRIM led them into the heart of the volcano, the tunnels within glassy and smooth, indicating they had been formed with industrial-scale meltas. They cut through the heart of the volcano, wide enough for the three primarchs to walk abreast, spiralling upwards through the solidified lava. The tunnels were lit with fiery luminescence, as though the molten heat of the magma at the volcano’s heart was seeping up from below.
Ahriman removed his helmet to better appreciate the startling geology of the volcano, seeing shifting bands of crystalline layers through the translucent rock, like the sedimentary bands of an exposed rock face.
“This world may be young, but this volcano is old,” noted Ahriman, seeing the glances passing between Fulgrim’s lord commanders as he spoke. He couldn’t read their auras, and nor could he establish a link to his Tutelary. The glare of the Emperor’s light was too powerful, overshadowing everything with its intensity.
Ahriman wondered if Magnus was similarly blinded by it.
He watched Magnus and his brothers as they spoke in low tones, relishing the sight of his primarch in the company of peers who harboured no ill-will towards him. Yet despite the bonhomie, their discourse was superficial. The more Ahriman studied the ebb and flow of their conversation and body language, the more he saw the supple flex of linguistic sparring.
The primarchs spoke of past campaigns, old glories and shared experiences, treading only on the comfortable ground of memory. Any hint that the subject of their meandering words might turn to matters of the future or the nature of the conclave were subtly deflected by Fulgrim, turned around and steered to safer ground.
He’s hiding something, thought Ahriman, something he doesn’t want us to know about this gathering.
A Thousand Sons Page 27
