A Thousand Sons

by Graham McNeill

  From his position on the spiral, he could see each of his fellow captains. Phosis T’kar’s brow was knotted in fury, his fists bunched in rage. Beside him, Phael Toron ground his teeth, and black mosaic chips wobbled in their mortar beds as their anger manifested around them.

  Hathor Maat affected an air of calm, but his anguish was clear to see in the radiant aether light pulsing behind his features. Khalophis and Auramagma glowed with the power of their shock, sparks of flame bursting to life at their fingertips.

  Uthizzar looked dreadful, his ashen face crumpled by the weight of unimaginable treachery yet to come as he felt the primarch’s sense of betrayed grief as his own, Ahriman had known something unthinkable was coming. He had felt it for months, knowing that Magnus was keeping a monstrous secret from his captains while he worked feverishly and alone in his private library and the vaults beneath Tizca. Amon and Ankhu Anen had shared Ahriman’s knowledge that something was wrong, but even their combined power was unable to pierce the veils of the future to see what so concerned their primarch.

  “This cannot be,” said Hathor Maat, for once articulating the feelings of his brothers with perfect understanding. “You must be wrong.”

  No captain of the Thousand Sons would normally dream of uttering such a thing to Magnus, yet this was a matter of such outrageous impossibility that the words had been on the verge of spilling from Ahriman’s lips.

  “He is not,” said Uthizzar, unashamed tears spilling down his face. “It will come to pass.”

  “But Horus,” said Phosis T’kar. “He couldn’t… He won’t. How could he?”

  Phosis T’kar could barely say the words. To voice them would give them solidity and make them real.

  “How can you be sure?” asked Khalophis.

  “I saw it,” said Magnus, “beneath the amphitheatre of Nikaea. I saw the face of the monster, and though I wish it were not so, I saw the truth of its words. Since our return from Nikaea, I have travelled the Great Ocean and followed the paths of the future and the past. A billion threads of destiny from long ago have woven this one crucial filament upon which the fate of the galaxy hangs. Either we save Horus or we will be dragged into a war more terrible than any of us can imagine. I travelled the distant lands of the past, pushing the limits of my power to unlock the truth, and this has been coming for a very long time.”

  Magnus opened his great grimoire and traced his finger down the latest pages filled with his writings.

  “An ancient prophecy of the Aegyptos speaks of a time in the far future when all is war and the god of the sky, Heru, is initially set to protect his people from chaos,” he read. “Much of that prophecy has been lost, but Heru turns on another god named Sutekh, a dazzling golden god, for dominion over all. In this form Heru was known as Kemwer, which means the Great Black One in the old tongue.”

  “What do ancient legends have to do with Horus Lupercal?” demanded Phosis T’kar.

  “Heru is but one of the names of an even older god, whose name can be translated as Horus,” said Magnus. “The clues have been there all along, if only we had the wit to see them. Alas for so much has been lost. Even as we expand our knowledge, we forget so much.”

  “Does the prophecy say any more?” asked Uthizzar. Magnus nodded.

  “It tells that neither side will be victorious, but says that many of Horus’ brother gods sided with him in the struggle,” he said. “If Horus wins, he will become known as Heru-Ur, which means Horus the Great. Should Sutekh lose, his land will become barren and desolate for all time.

  “The early tales of the god Horus say that during a new moon, he would be blinded and was named Mekhenty-er-irty, which translates as He who has no Eyes. This was a very dangerous time, for until the moon rose again, Horus was a tremendously dangerous figure, oft-times attacking those who loved him after mistaking them for hated foes.”

  “Why would Horus Lupercal do such a thing?” asked Amon. “What possible reason could there be?”

  “An insult to his pride?” suggested Auramagma. “Ambition? Jealousy?”

  “No,” said Ahriman, recognising emotions that would cause Auramagma to strike a brother. “Such things drive mortals to war, not primarchs. Something else is at the root of this.”

  “Then what?” demanded Hathor Maat. “What madness could possibly make Horus Lupercal turn traitor?”

  There. It had been said out loud, and only now did Ahriman dare look at Magnus. The primarch was dressed like a mortuary priest, and his shoulders were slumped in the manner of a man awaiting the executioner’s axe. Clad in a simple robe of crimson, and cloaked in a white shroud, Magnus waited for his sons to work through their emotions to a place of rationality.

  Ahriman wished Magnus had not told them of his vision, for there was solace in ignorance. For the first time in his life, Ahriman wished to un-know something.

  Horus Lupercal was going to betray them all.

  Even thinking the words seemed like a betrayal of the Warmaster’s honour and nobility.

  “Well?” demanded Hathor Maat. “What could it be?”

  “Something will take root in his soul,” said Ahriman, feeling the words come without conscious thought, as though he knew the answers, but didn’t have the right words to articulate them. “Something primordial and yet corrupt.”

  “What does that even mean?” snapped Phosis T’kar. “You think a simple void-predator can violate the flesh of a primarch? Ludicrous!”

  “Not violate, but I… I don’t know,” said Ahriman, looking directly at Magnus. “I don’t know, but on some level it is true. I am right, am I not?”

  “You are, my son,” agreed Magnus sadly. “There is much I do not yet understand of what is happening to my brother, but time is running out to stop it. The Luna Wolves will soon be making war on a moon of Davin, and the fates are conspiring to fell Horus with a weapon of dreadful sentience. In his weakened and blinded state, the enemies of all life will make their move to ensnare his warrior heart. Without our intervention, they will succeed and split the galaxy asunder.”

  “We have to warn the Emperor,” said Hathor Maat. “He has to know of this!”

  “What would you have me tell him?” roared Magnus. “That his best and brightest son will betray him? Without proof, he would never believe it. He would send his war dogs to bring us to heel for employing the very means that have allowed us to know of this betrayal! No, there is only one option open to us. We must save Horus ourselves. Only if we fail do we take word to the Emperor.”

  “What can we do to stop this?” asked Uthizzar. “Ask and we obey.”

  “The works I have had you researching since Nikaea hold the key to Horus Lupercal’s salvation,” said Magnus. “With your help, I will project myself across the warp and shield my brother from his enemies.”

  “My lord,” protested Amon. “That evocation will require power of undreamed magnitude. I am not even certain such a thing can be done. Nothing we have found is conclusive in how effective such a ritual could be.”

  “It must be done, Amon. Begin assembling the thralls,” ordered Magnus. “Bind their power to mine and they will fuel my ascent.”

  “Many will not survive such a ritual,” said Ahriman, horrified at the casual disregard in which Magnus held their lives. “To burn out so many thralls will cost us greatly.”

  “How much greater the cost if we do nothing, Ahzek?” said Magnus. “I have made my decision. Assemble the coven in the Reflecting Caves in three days.”

  THE BILL ARRIVED without them asking for it, and Lemuel signed the credit slip. He had a pleasant buzz from the wine and saw that Kallista and Camille were just as mellow. The food had been exquisite and the service attentive. Once again Voisanne’s had lived up to its reputation, and the afternoon had passed in a wonderfully convivial manner.

  “Thank you, Lemuel,” said Kallista. “Very kind of you.”

  “Not at all. Two such lovely ladies should never have to pay a bill.”

  “Sounds goo
d to me,” said Camille with a nod.

  They pushed their chairs back and stood as the staff cleared their plates and glasses.

  “So where are you off to now?” asked Camille.

  “I think a stroll around the market before I head back to my quarters,” said Lemuel. “I have some passages of Rosenkreutz’s Varna Fraternitatis to read before my instructions with Ahriman tomorrow, and after two bottles of wine, it may take a few readings to sink in.”

  “What kind of book is it?” asked Kallista.

  “Its about a monk who told of supernatural beings that move unknown among us, and have done since the earliest days of civilisation, healing the sick and studying the laws of nature for the betterment of mankind.”

  “Riveting stuff,” said Camille, gathering her belongings.

  “It is actually,” said Lemuel, warming to the subject. “It appeals to the very best in human nature. After all, what could be nobler than the idea of helping one’s fellow man without thought for reward or material gain? Wouldn’t you agree, Kallista? Kallista?”

  Kallista Eris stood beside the table, her fingers clutching the back of her chair, her knuckles white with the effort. Her skin was flushed and tendons pulled taut in her neck. Her eyes rolled back and a trickle of bloody saliva ran from the corner of her mouth.

  “No,” she hissed.

  “Oh, Throne, Kalli!” cried Camille, reaching for her. “Lemuel, catch her!”

  Lemuel reacted too slowly to catch Kallista as her legs gave way. She loosed a screeching wail of agony and spun around, crashing down onto their table, sending empty glasses and bottles flying. The table overturned and she landed in the debris, thrashing like a lunatic. The crystal bottle of oil shattered along with the glasses, and the sharp scent of berries and melon filled the air.

  Camille was by her side in an instant.

  “Lemuel! Get her sakau, it’s in her bag!” she cried.

  Lemuel dropped to his knees, all traces of intoxication purged from his system as adrenaline pumped into his body. Kallista’s bag lay beneath the overturned table, and he scrambled over to it, emptying its contents onto the cobbled ground.

  A notebook, pencils, a portable vox-recorder and assorted items a gentleman wasn’t supposed to see fell out.

  “Hurry!”

  “Where is it?” he cried. “I don’t see it!”

  “It’s a green glass bottle. Cloudy, like spoiled milk.”

  “It’s not here!”

  “It must be. Look harder.”

  A crowd of concerned onlookers had gathered, but thankfully kept their distance. Kallista howled, the sound shot through with such agony that it seemed unthinkable a human throat could produce it. Amid the detritus of her bag and the broken glass from their table, Lemuel saw the bottle Camille had described and lunged for it. He scrambled over to Camille, who was desperately trying to hold Kallista down. The pretty remembrancer was stronger than she looked, and even with the help of a man in the red-trimmed robes of a physician she was able to throw them off.

  “Here, I’ve got it!” he shouted, holding the bottle out.

  Kallista sat bolt upright and stared directly at Lemuel. Petechial haemorrhaging filled her eyes with blood, and thick streamers of it poured from her nose and mouth. It wasn’t Kallista looking at him; it was a monster with snarling fangs and predator’s eyes. It was older than time, stalking the angles between worlds with immeasurable patience and cunning.

  “Too late for that,” she said, slapping the bottle from Lemuel’s hand. It broke on the cobbles, the viscous liquid mingling with the spilled dregs of wine.

  “The wolves will betray you and his war dogs will gnaw the flesh from your bones!” cried Kallista, and Lemuel lurched back as she lunged towards him, clawing at his eyes. She landed on him, her legs clamped around his waist and her hands locked around his throat.

  He couldn’t breathe, but before she could crush his windpipe, she screeched and her back arched with a terrible crack. The killing light went out of her, and she flopped back, her hands scrabbling for her notebook.

  Lemuel saw the awful pleading in her eyes.

  “Get her some paper!” yelled Camille.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The Thousand Sons/Into the Desolation

  THREE DAYS AFTER Kallista’s attack, Ahriman finally spoke of the origins of the Thousand Sons. Lemuel wasn’t in the mood for remembrances, having spent a couple of sleepless nights with Camille at Kallista’s bedside. She lay in a medicae unit in the Pyramid of Apothecaries, hooked up to a plethora of machines, the purpose of which Lemuel didn’t know. Some appeared to be specialised devices of the Corvidae, but Ankhu Anen refused to say what they were doing for her.

  The attack had leeched the strength and vitality from her, as though she shrank within herself before their eyes. Every time Lemuel tried to rest, he saw her blood-red eyes, and sleep eluded him. Seeing Kallista like that had terrified him more than he liked to admit.

  Malika had suffered seizures like Kallista’s in the months before she…

  No, don’t think like that.

  No sooner had Lemuel thrust the pen and notebook into Kallista’s hands than she had filled page after page with nonsensical doggerel.

  Ankhu Anen was examining it even now, hoping to divine some truth from it, and Lemuel hoped he would find something. At least it would make Kallista’s pain meaningful.

  “Do you wish to hear this?” asked Ahriman, and Lemuel focussed on his words.

  They sat in one of the high terraced balconies of the Corvidae temple, an arboretum with an angled glass roof overlooking the city far below, though the temperature was precisely modulated to mimic the sensation of being outdoors. The terrace was positioned at the southern corner, allowing Lemuel to see the pyramid of the Pyrae cult and the Titan battle-engine guarding its entrance. He’d heard it was a prize of battle, taken by Khalophis on the field of Coriovallum, and that it had once belonged to the Legio Astoram. It seemed in somewhat bad taste to have an Imperial war machine taken as a trophy, but from what he knew of Khalophis, that seemed about right.

  “Sorry, I was just thinking of Kallista,” said Lemuel.

  “I know, but she is in good hands,” promised Ahriman. “If anyone can decipher Mistress Eris’ writings, it will be Ankhu Anen. And our medicae facilities are second to none, for we practise ancient as well as modern branches of medicine.”

  “I know, but I can’t help but worry, you understand?”

  “I do,” replied Ahriman. “More than you might think.”

  “Of course,” nodded Lemuel. “It must be hard to lose comrades in battle.”

  “It is, but that is not what I meant. I was referring to those who die not in battle.”

  “Oh? I was led to believe the Astartes were more or less immortal?”

  “Barring battlefield injury, we may well be. It is too soon to tell.”

  “Then how could you possibly know how I feel?”

  “Because I too have lost someone I loved,” said Ahriman.

  The surprise of such words coming from an Astartes shook Lemuel from his bitter reverie, and he narrowed his eyes. Ahriman was once again unconsciously touching the silver oakleaf cluster on his shoulder-guard.

  “What is that?” asked Lemuel.

  “It was a talisman,” said Ahriman with a rueful smile. “A charm, if you will. My mother gave one each to my twin brother and I when we were selected as student aspirants to the Thousand Sons.”

  “You have a twin?”

  “I had a twin,” corrected Ahriman.

  “What happened to him?”

  “He died, a long time ago.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Lemuel, finding the notion that Astartes warriors had lives before their transformation into super-engineered post-humans something he hadn’t considered. Such were the enormous divergences from the human norm that it was easier to assume the Astartes sprang full-grown from some secret laboratory. It put a human face on an inhuman creati
on to know that Ahriman had once had a brother, a relationship that most mortals took for granted.

  “What was his name?”

  “He was called Ohrmuzd, which means ‘sacrifice’ in the ancient tongue of the Avesta.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because it will be useful,” said Ahriman. “For both of us, I think. The doom of Ohrmuzd is also the story of how the Thousand Sons came to be. Do you wish to hear of it?”

  “I do,” said Lemuel.

  “FROM THE VERY beginning, we were a troubled Legion,” said Ahriman. “The primarch tells me our gene-stock was harvested at an inauspicious time, a time of great cosmic upheaval. The warp storms that had all but isolated Terra in the lightless age of strife were resurgent once more and the effects were felt all across the world: madness, suicide and senseless violence. The last of the pan-continental despots had been toppled and the world was only just lifting its head from the ashes of that global conflict. It seemed like these were the last, dying paroxysms of the wars, which was true to an extent, but there was more to it than that.”

  “You were there?” asked Lemuel. “To see all that?”

  “No, but I was a quick learner. I was one of the lucky ones, conceived and born among the wealthy tribes of the Achaemenid Empire. Our kings had allied with Earth’s new master more than a century before, and we were spared the horrors of atomic war or the invasion of the Thunder-armoured warriors.”

  “The proto-Astartes.”

  Ahriman nodded, saying, “Brutal and unsubtle creations, but sufficient for the job of conquest. They were ordinary men, the fiercest warriors of the Emperor, within whose bodies he had implanted full-grown biological hardware and mechanical augmentations to boost their strength, endurance and speed. They were monstrous things, and most were eventually driven insane by the demands their enhanced physiques made upon them.”

  Lemuel noticed the inflexion Ahriman put on the word enhanced, reading his thinly-veiled criticism of the Emperor’s first creations.

  “With the end of the wars, the Emperor tightened his grip on Terra and turned his gaze to the heavens, knowing that he had achieved only the first step on the road to Unity. He knew the Thunder Warriors would never be able to join him on his quest to unite the disparate threads of humanity and bind them together once again. He would need another army, an army as superior to the Thunder Warriors as they were superior to mortal men. But first he would need generals, mighty soldiers who could lead them in battle.”