by Dan Abnett
Ezekyle Abaddon, first captain of the Legion, was a towering brute. Somewhere between Loken’s height and Torgaddon’s, he seemed greater than both due to the cresting top-knot adorning his otherwise shaved scalp. When his helm was off, Abaddon bound his mane of black hair up in a silver sleeve that made it stand proud like a palm tree or a fetish switch on his crown. He, like Torgaddon, had been in the Mournival from its inception. He, like Torgaddon and Aximand both, shared the same aspect of straight nose and wide-spaced eyes so reminiscent of the Warmaster, though only in Aximand were the features an actual likeness. They might have been brothers, actual womb brothers, if they had been sired in the old way. As it was, they were brothers in terms of gene-source and martial fraternity.
Now Loken was to be their brother too.
There was a curious incidence in the Luna Wolves Legion of Astartes bearing a facial resemblance to their primarch. This had been put down to conformities in the gene-seed, but still, those who echoed Horus in their features were considered especially lucky, and were known by all the men as ‘the Sons of Horus’. It was a mark of honour, and it often seemed the case that ‘Sons’ rose faster and found better favour than the rest. Certainly, Loken knew for a fact, all the previous members of the Mournival had been ‘Sons of Horus’. In this respect, he was unique. Loken owed his looks to an inheritance of the pale, craggy bloodline of Cthonia. He was the first non-’Son’ to be elected to this elite inner circle.
Though he knew it couldn’t be the case, he felt as if he had achieved this eminence through simple merit, rather than the atavistic whim of physiognomy.
‘This is a simple act,’ Abaddon said, regarding Loken. ‘You have been vouched for here, and proposed by great men before that. Our lord, and the Lord Dorn have both put your name forward.’ ‘As have you, sir, so I understand,’ Loken said. Abaddon smiled. ‘Few match you in soldiering, Garviel. I’ve had my eye on you, and you proved my interest when you took the palace ahead of me.’
‘Luck.’
‘There’s no such thing,’ said Aximand gruffly.
‘He only says that because he never has any,’ Torgaddon grinned.
‘I only say that because there’s no such thing,’ Aximand objected. ‘Science has shown us this. There is no luck. There is only success or the lack of it.’
‘Luck,’ said Abaddon. ‘Isn’t that just a word for modesty? Garviel is too modest to say “Yes, Ezekyle, I bested you, I won the palace, and triumphed where you did not,” for he feels that would not become him. And I admire modesty in a man, but the truth is, Garviel, you are here because you are a warrior of superlative talent. We welcome you.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Loken said.
‘A first lesson, then,’ Abaddon said. ‘In the Mournival, we are equals. There is no rank. Before the men, you may refer to me as “sir” or “first captain”, but between us, there is no ceremony. I am Ezekyle.’
‘Horus,’ said Aximand.
‘Tarik,’ said Torgaddon.
‘I understand,’ Loken answered, ‘Ezekyle.’
‘The rules of our confratern are simple,’ Aximand said, ‘and we will get to them, but there is no structure to the duties expected of you. You should prepare yourself to spend more time with the command staff, and function at the Warmaster’s side. Have you a proxy in mind to oversee the Tenth in your absence?’
‘Yes, Horus,’ Loken said.
‘Vipus?’ Torgaddon smiled.
‘I would,’ Loken said, ‘but the honour should be Jubal’s. Seniority and rank.’
Aximand shook his head. ‘Second lesson. Go with your heart. If you trust Vipus, make it Vipus. Never compromise. Jubal’s a big boy. He’ll get over it.’
‘There will be other duties and obligations, special duties…’ Abaddon said. ‘Escorts, ceremonies, embassies, planning meetings. Are you sanguine about that? Your life will change.’
‘I am sanguine,’ Loken nodded.
‘Then we should mark you in,’ Abaddon said. He stepped past Loken and waded forward into the shallow lake, away from the light of the lamps. Aximand followed him. Torgaddon touched Loken on the arm and ushered him along as well.
They strode out into the black water and formed a ring. Abaddon bade them stand stock-still until the water ceased to lap and ripple. It became mirror-smooth. The bright reflection of the rising moon wavered on the water between them.
‘The one fixture that has always witnessed an induction,’ Abaddon said. ‘The moon. Symbolic of our Legion name. No one has ever entered the Mournival, except by the light of a moon.’
Loken nodded.
‘This seems a poor, false one,’ Aximand muttered, looking up at the sky, ‘but it will do. The image of the moon must also always be reflected. In the first days of the Mournival, close on two hundred years ago, it was favoured to have the chosen moon’s image captured in a scrying dish or polished mirror. We make do now. Water suffices.’
Loken nodded again. His feeling of being unnerved had returned, sharp and unwelcome. This was a ritual, and it smacked dangerously of the practices of corpse-whisperers and spiritualists. The entire process seemed shot through with superstition and arcane worship, the sort of spiritual unreason Sindermann had taught him to rail against.
He felt he had to say something before it was too late. ‘I am a man of faith,’ he said softly, ‘and that faith is the truth of the Imperium. I will not bow to any fane or acknowledge any spirit. I own only the empirical clarity of Imperial Truth.’
The other three looked at him.
‘I told you he was straight up and down,’ Torgaddon said.
Abaddon and Aximand laughed.
‘There are no spirits here, Garviel,’ Abaddon said, resting a hand reassuringly against Loken’s arm.
‘We’re not trying to ensorcel you,’ Aximand chuckled.
‘This is just an old habit, a practice. The way it has always been done,’ Torgaddon said. ‘We keep it up for no other reason than it seems to make it matter. It’s… pantomime, I suppose.’
‘Yes, pantomime,’ agreed Abaddon.
‘We want this moment to be special to you, Garviel,’ Aximand said. ‘We want you to remember it. We believe it’s important to mark an induction with a sense of ceremony and occasion, so we use the old ways. Perhaps that’s just theatrical of us, but we find it reassuring.’
‘I understand,’ Loken said.
‘Do you?’ Abaddon asked. ‘You’re going to make a pledge to us. An oath as firm as any oath of moment you have ever undertaken. Man to man. Cold and clear and very, very secular. An oath of brothership, not some occult pact. We stand together in the light of a moon, and swear a bond that only death will break.’
‘I understand,’ Loken repeated. He felt foolish. ‘I want to take the oath.’
Abaddon nodded. ‘Let’s mark you, then. Say the names of the others.’
Torgaddon bowed his head and recited nine names. Since the foundation of the Mournival, only twelve men had held the unofficial rank, and three of those were present. Loken would be the thirteenth.
‘Keyshen. Minos. Berabaddon. Litus. Syrakul. Deradaeddon. Karaddon. Janipur. Sejanus.’
‘Lost in glory,’ Aximand and Abaddon said as one voice. ‘Mourned by the Mournival. Only in death does duty end.’
A bond that only death will break. Loken thought about Abaddon’s words. Death was the single expectation of each and every Astartes. Violent death. It was not an if, it was a when. In the service of the Imperium, each of them would eventually sacrifice his life. They were phlegmatic about it. It would happen, it was that simple. One day, tomorrow, next year. It would happen.
There was an irony, of course. To all intents and purposes, and by every measurement known to the gene-scientists and gerontologists, the Astartes, like the primarchs, were immortals. Age would not wither them, nor bring them down. They would live forever… five thousand years, ten thousand, beyond even that into some unimaginable millennium. Except for the scythe of war.
Immortal, but not invulnerable. Immortality was a by-product of their Astartes strengths. Yes, they might live forever, but they would never get the chance. Immortality was a by-product of their Astartes strengths, but those strengths had been gene-built for combat. They had been born immortal only to die in war. That was the way of it. Brief, bright lives. Like Hastur Sejanus, the warrior Loken was replacing. Only the beloved Emperor, who had left the warring behind, would truly live forever.
Loken tried to imagine the future, but the image would not form. Death would wipe them all from history. Not even the great First Captain Ezekyle Abaddon would survive forever. There would be a time when Abaddon no longer waged bloody war across the territories of humanity.
Loken sighed. That would be a sad day indeed. Men would cry out for Abaddon’s return, but he would never come.
He tried to picture the manner of his own death. Fabled, imaginary combats flashed through his mind. He imagined himself at the Emperor’s side, fighting some great, last stand against an unknown foe. Primarch Horus would be there, of course. He had to be. It wouldn’t be the same without him. Loken would battle, and die, and perhaps even Horus would die, to save the Emperor at the last.
Glory. Glory, like he’d never known. Such an hour would become so ingrained in the minds of men that it would be the cornerstone of all that came after. A great battle, upon which human culture would be based.
Then, briefly, he imagined another death. Alone, far away from his comrades and his Legion, dying from cruel wounds on some nameless rock, his passing as memorable as smoke.
Loken swallowed hard. Either way, his service was to the Emperor, and his service would be true to the end.
‘The names are said,’ Abaddon intoned, ‘and of them, we hail Sejanus, latest to fall.’
‘Hail, Sejanus!’ Torgaddon and Aximand cried.
‘Garviel Loken,’ Abaddon said, looking at Loken. ‘We ask you to take Sejanus’s place. How say you?’
‘I will do this thing gladly.’
‘Will you swear an oath to uphold the confratern of the Mournival?’
‘I will,’ said Loken.
‘Will you accept our brothership and give it back as a brother?’
‘I will.’
‘Will you be true to the Mournival to the end of your life?’
‘I will.’
‘Will you serve the Luna Wolves for as long as they bear that proud name?’
‘I will,’ said Loken.
‘Do you pledge to the commander, who is primarch over us all?’ asked Aximand.
‘I so pledge.’
‘And to the Emperor above all primarchs, everlasting?’
‘I so pledge.’
‘Do you swear to uphold the truth of the Imperium of Mankind, no matter what evil may assail it?’ Torgaddon asked.
‘I swear,’ said Loken.
‘Do you swear to stand firm against all enemies, alien and domestic?’
‘This I swear.’
‘And in war, kill for the living and kill for the dead?’
‘Kill for the living! Kill for the dead!’ Abaddon and Aximand echoed.
‘I swear.’
‘As the moon lights us,’ Abaddon said, ‘will you be a true brother to your brother Astartes?’
‘I will.’
‘No matter the cost?’
‘No matter the cost.’
‘Your oath is taken, Garviel. Welcome into the Mournival. Tarik? Illuminate us.’
Torgaddon pulled a vapour flare from his belt and fired it off into the night sky. It burst in a bright umbrella of light, white and harsh.
As the sparks of it rained slowly down onto the waters, the four warriors hugged and whooped, clasping hands and slapping backs. Torgaddon, Aximand and Abaddon took turns to embrace Loken.
‘You’re one of us now,’ Torgaddon whispered as he drew Loken close. ‘I am,’ said Loken.
LATER, ON THE islet, by the light of the lanterns, they branded Loken’s helm above the right eye with the crescent mark of the new moon. This was his badge of office. Aximand’s helm bore the brand of the half moon, Torgaddon’s the gibbous, and Abaddon’s the full. The four stage cycle of a moon was shared between their wargear. So the Mournival was denoted.
They sat on the islet, talking and joking, until the sun rose again.
THEY WERE PLAYING cards on the lawn by the light of chemical lanterns. The simple game Mersadie had proposed had long been eclipsed by a punitive betting game suggested by one of the soldiers. Then the iterator, Memed, had joined them, and taken great pains to teach them an old version of cups.
Memed shuffled and dealt the cards with marvellous dexterity. One of the soldiers whistled mockingly. ‘A real card hand we have here,’ the officer remarked.
‘This is an old game,’ Memed said, ‘which I’m sure you will enjoy. It dates back a long way, its origins lost in the very beginnings of Old Night. I have researched it, and I understand it was popular amongst the peoples of Ancient Merica, and also the tribes of the Franc.’
He let them play a few dummy hands until they had the way of it, but Mersadie found it hard to remember what spread won over what. In the seventh turn, believing she had the game’s measure at last, she discarded a hand which she believed inferior to the cards Memed was holding.
‘No, no,’ he smiled. ‘You win.’
‘But you have four of a kind again.’
He laid out her cards. ‘Even so, you see?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s all too confusing.’
‘The suits correspond,’ he said, as if beginning a lecture, ‘to the layers of society back then. Swords stand for the warrior aristocracy; cups, or chalices, for the ancient priesthood; diamonds, or coins, for the merchant classes; and baton clubs for the worker caste…’
Some of the soldiers grumbled.
‘Stop iterating to us,’ Mersadie said.
‘Sorry,’ Memed grinned. ‘Anyway, you win. I have four alike, but you have ace, monarch, empress and knave. A mournival.’
‘What did you just say?’ Mersadie Oliton asked, sitting up.
‘Mournival,’ Memed replied, reshuffling the old, square-cut cards. ‘It’s the old Franc word for the four royal cards. A winning hand.’
Behind them, away beyond a high wall of hedge invisible in the still night, a flare suddenly banged off and lit the sky white.
‘A winning hand,’ Mersadie murmured. Coincidence, and something she privately believed in, called fate, had just opened the future up to her.
It looked very inviting indeed.
FIVE
Peeter Egon Momus
Lectio Divinitatus
Malcontent
PEETER EGON MOMUS was doing them a great honour. Peeter Egon Momus was deigning to share with them his visions for the new High City. Peeter Egon Momus, architect designate for the 63rd Expedition, was unveiling his preparatory ideas for the transformation of the conquered city into a permanent memorial to glory and compliance.
The trouble was, Peeter Egon Momus was just a figure in the distance and largely inaudible. In the gathered audience, in the dusty heat, Ignace Karkasy shifted impatiently and craned his neck to see.
The assembly had been gathered in a city square north of the palace. It was just after midday, and the sun was at its zenith, scorching the bare basalt towers and yards of the city. Though the high walls around the square offered some shade, the air was oven dry and stiflingly hot. There was a breeze, but even that was heated like exhaust vapour, and it did nothing but stir up fine grit in the air. Powder dust, the particulate residue of the great battle, was everywhere, hazing the bright air like smoke. Karkasy’s throat was as arid as a river bed in drought. Around him, people in the crowd coughed and sneezed.
The crowd, five hundred strong, had been carefully vetted. Three-quarters of them were local dignitaries; grandees, nobles, merchants, members of the overthrown government, representatives of that part of Sixty-Three Nineteen’s ruling classes who had pled
ged compliance to the new order. They had been summoned by invitation so that they might participate, however superficially, in the renewal of their society.
The rest were remembrancers. Many of them, like Karkasy, had been granted their first transit permit to the surface, at long last, so they could attend. If this was what he had been waiting for, Karkasy thought, they could keep it. Standing in a crowded kiln while some old fart made incoherent noises in the background.
The crowd seemed to share his mood. They were hot and despondent. Karkasy saw no smiles on the faces of the invited locals, just hard, drawn looks of forbearance. The choice between compliance or death didn’t make compliance any more pleasurable. They were defeated, deprived of their culture and their way of life, facing a future determined by alien minds. They were simply, wearily enduring the indignity of this period of transition into the Imperium of Man. From time to time, they clapped in a desultory manner, but only when stirred up by the iterators carefully planted in their midst.
The crowd had drawn up around the aprons of a metal stage erected for the event. Upon it were arranged hololithic screens and relief models of the city to be, as well as many of the extravagantly complex brass and steel surveying instruments Momus utilised in his work. Geared, spoked and meticulous, the instruments suggested to Karkasy’s mind devices of torture.
Torture was right.
Momus, when he could be seen between the heads of the crowd, was a small, trim man with over-dainty mannerisms. As he explained his plans, the staff of iterators on stage with him aimed live picters close up at relevant areas of the relief models, the images transferring directly to the screens, along with graphic schematics. But the sunlight was too glaring for decent hololithic projection, and the images were milked-out and hard to comprehend. Something was wrong with the vox mic Momus was using too, and what little of his speech came through served only to demonstrate the man had no gift whatsoever for public speaking.
