Horus Rising

by Dan Abnett

  Shehn shook his head. ‘What right do we have to make another species extinct? In most cases, an understanding can be reached. The megarachnid were an extreme example, where exile was the only humane option.’

  ‘The approach you describe is a fascinating one,’ Horus said quickly, seeing that Abaddon was about to speak again. ‘I believe it is time for that apology, abbrocarius. We misunderstood your methods and purpose on Urisarach. We violated your reservation. The Imperium apologises for its transgression.’

  TWO

  Envoys and delegations

  Xenobia

  Hall of Devices

  ABADDON WAS FURIOUS. Once the interex envoys had returned to their vessels, he withdrew with the others of the Mournival and vented his feelings.

  ‘Six months! Six months warring on Murder! How many great deeds, how many brothers lost? And now he apologises? As if it was an error? A mistake? These xenos-loving bastards even admit themselves the spiders were so dangerous they had to lock them away!’

  ‘It’s a difficult situation,’ Loken said.

  ‘It’s an insult to the honour of our Legion! And to the Angels too!’

  ‘It takes a wise and strong man to know when to apologise,’ remarked Aximand.

  ‘And only a fool appeases aliens!’ Abaddon snarled. ‘What has this crusade taught us?’

  ‘That we’re very good at killing things that disagree with us?’ suggested Torgaddon.

  Abaddon glared at him. ‘We know how brutal this cosmos is. How cruel. We must fight for our place in it. Name one species we have met that would not rejoice to see mankind vanished in a blink.’

  None of them could answer that.

  ‘Only a fool appeases aliens,’ Abaddon repeated, ‘or appeases those who seek such appeasement.’

  ‘Are you calling the Warmaster a fool?’ Loken asked.

  Abaddon hesitated. ‘No. No, I’m not. Of course. I serve at his will.’

  ‘We have one duty,’ Aximand said, ‘as the Mournival, we must speak with one mind when we advise him.’

  Torgaddon nodded.

  ‘No,’ said Loken. ‘That’s not why he values us. We must tell him what we think, each one of us, even if we disagree. And let him decide. That is our duty.’

  MEETINGS WITH THE various interex envoys continued over a period of days. Sometimes the interex ships sent a mission to the Vengeful Spirit, sometimes an Imperial embassy crossed to their command ship and was entertained in glittering chambers of silver and glass where the aria filled the air.

  The envoys were hard to read. Their behaviour often seemed superior or condescending, as if they regarded the Imperials as crude and unsophisticated. But still, clearly, they were fascinated. The legends of old Terra and the human bloodline had long been a central tenet of their myths and histories. However disappointing the reality, they could not bear to break off contact with their treasured ancestral past.

  Eventually, a summit was proposed, whereby the Warmaster and his entourage would travel to the nearest interex outpost world, and conduct more detailed negotiations with higher representatives than the envoys.

  The Warmaster took advice from all quarters, though Loken was sure he had already made up his mind. Some, like Abaddon, counselled that links should be broken, and the interex held at abeyance until sufficient forces could be assembled to annex their territories. There were other matters at hand that urgently demanded the Warmaster’s attention, matters that had been postponed for too long while he indulged in the six-month spider-war on Murder. Petitions and salutations were being received on a daily basis. Five primarchs had requested his personal audience on matters of general crusade strategy or for councils of war. One, the Lion, had never made such an approach before, and it was a sign of a welcome thawing in relations, one that Horus could not afford to overlook. Thirty-six expedition fleets had sent signals asking for advice, tactical determination or outright martial assistance. Matters of state also mounted. There was now a vast body of bureaucratic material relayed from the Council of Terra that required the Warmaster’s direct attention. He had been putting it off for too long, blaming the demands of the crusade.

  Accompanying the Warmaster on most of his daily duties, Loken began to see plainly what a burden the Emperor had placed on Horus’s broad shoulders. He was expected to be all things: a commander of armies, a mastermind of compliance, a judge, a decider, a tactician, and the most delicate of diplomats.

  During the six-month war, more ships had arrived at high anchor above Murder, gathering around the flagship like supplicants. The rest of the 63rd Expedition had translated, under Varvarus’s charge, Sixty-Three Nineteen having at last been left in the lonely hands of poor Rakris. Fourteen vessels of the 88th Expedition had also appeared, under the command of Trajus Boniface of the Alpha Legion. Boniface claimed they had come in response to the 140th’s plight, and hoped to support the war action on Murder, but it rapidly emerged he hoped to use the opportunity to convince Horus to lend the 63rd’s strengths to a proposed offensive into ork-held territories in the Kayvas Belt. This was a scheme his primarch, Alpharius, had long cherished and, like the Lion’s advances, was a sign that Alpharius sought the approval and comradeship of the new Warmaster.

  Horus studied the plans in private. The Kayvas Belt offensive was a projected five-year operation, and required ten times the manpower the Warmaster could currently muster.

  ‘Alpharius is dreaming,’ he muttered, showing the scheme to Loken and Torgaddon. ‘I cannot commit myself to this.’

  One of Varvarus’s ships had brought with it a delegation of aexector tributi administrators from Terra. This was perhaps the most galling of all the voices baying for the Warmaster’s attention. On the instruction of Malcador the Sigillite, and counter-signed by the Council of Terra, the eaxectors had been sent throughout the spreading territories of the Imperium, in a programme of general dispersal that made the mass deployment of the remembrancers look like a modest operation.

  The delegation was led by a high administratrix called Aenid Rathbone. She was a tall, slender, handsome woman with red hair and pale, high-boned features, and her manner was exacting. The Council of Terra had decreed that all expedition and crusade forces, all primarchs, all commanders, and all governors of compliant world-systems should begin raising and collecting taxes from their subject planets in order to bolster the increasing fiscal demands of the expanding Imperium. All she insisted on talking about was the collection of tithes.

  ‘One world cannot support and maintain such a gigantic undertaking singlehanded,’ she explained to the Warmaster in slightly over-shrill tones. ‘Terra cannot shoulder this burden alone. We are masters of a thousand worlds now, a thousand thousand. The Imperium must begin to support itself.’

  ‘Many worlds are barely in compliance, lady,’ Horus said gently. ‘They are recovering from the damage of war, rebuilding, reforming. Taxation is a blight they do not need.’

  ‘The Emperor has insisted this be so.’

  ‘Has he?’

  ‘Malcador the Sigillite, beloved by all, has impressed this upon me and all of my rank. Tribute must be collected, and mechanisms established so that such tribute is routinely and automatically gathered.’

  ‘The world governors we have put in place will find this too thankless a task,’ Maloghurst said. ‘They are still legitimising their rule and authority. This is premature.’

  ‘The Emperor has insisted this be so,’ she repeated.

  ‘That’s the Emperor, beloved by all?’ Loken asked. His comment made Horus smile broadly. Rathbone sniffed. ‘I’m not sure what you’re implying, captain,’ she said. ‘This is my duty, and this is what I must do.’

  When she had retired from the room with her staff, Horus sat back, alone amongst his inner circle. ‘I have often thought,’ he remarked, ‘that it might be the eldar who unseat us. Though fading, they are the most ingenious creatures, and if any could over-master mankind and break our Imperium apart, it would likely be them. At
other times, I have fancied that it would be the green-skins. No end of numbers and no end of brute strength, but now, friends, I am certain it will be our own tax collectors who will do us in.’

  There was general laughter. Loken thought of the poem in his pocket. Most of Karkasy’s output he handed on to Sindermann for appraisal, but at their last meeting, Karkasy had introduced ‘something of the doggerel’. Loken had read it. It had been a scurrilous and mordant stanza about tax collectors that even Loken could appreciate. He thought about bringing it out for general amusement, but Horus’s face had darkened.

  ‘I only half joke,’ Horus said. ‘Through the eaxectors, the Council places a burden on the fledgling worlds that is so great it might break us. It is too soon, too comprehensive, too stringent. Worlds will revolt. Uprisings will occur. Tell a conquered man he has a new master, and he’ll shrug. Tell him his new master wants a fifth of his annual income, and he’ll go and find his pitchfork. Aenid Rathbone, and administrators like her, will be the undoing of all we have achieved.’

  More laughter echoed round the room.

  ‘But it is the Emperor’s will,’ Torgaddon remarked.

  Horus shook his head. ‘It is not, for all she says. I know him as a son knows his father. He would not agree to this. Not now, not this early. He must be too bound up in his work to know of it. The Council is making decisions in his absence. The Emperor understands how fragile things are. Throne, this is what happens when an empire forged by warriors devolves executive power to civilians and clerics.’

  They all looked at him.

  ‘I’m serious,’ he said. ‘This could trigger civil war in certain regions. At the very least, it could undermine the continued work of our expeditions. The eaxectors need to be… sidelined for the moment. They should be given terrific weights of material to pore through to determine precise tribute levels, world by world, and bombarded with copious additional intelligence concerning each world’s status.’

  ‘It won’t slow them down forever, lord,’ Maloghurst said. ‘The Administration of Terra has already determined systems and measures by which tribute should be calculated, pro rata, world by world.’

  ‘Do your best, Mal,’ Horus said. ‘Delay that woman at least. Give me breathing space.’

  ‘I’ll get to it,’ Maloghurst said. He rose and limped from the chamber.

  Horus turned to the assembled circle and sighed. ‘So…’ he said. ‘The Lion calls for me. Alpharius too.’

  ‘And other brothers and numerous expeditions,’ Sanguinius remarked.

  ‘And it seems my wisest option is to return to Terra and confront the Council on the issue of taxation.’

  Sanguinius sniggered.

  ‘I was not wrought to do that,’ Horus said.

  ‘Then we should consider the interex, lord,’ said Erebus.

  EREBUS, OF THE Word Bearers Legion, the XVII, had joined them a fortnight earlier as part of the contingent brought by Varvarus. In his stone-grey Mark IV plate, inscribed with bas-relief legacies of his deeds, Erebus was a sombre, serious figure. His rank in the XVII was first chaplain, roughly equivalent to that of Abaddon or Eidolon. He was a senior commander of that Legion, close to Kor Phaeron and the primarch, Lorgar, himself. His quiet manner and soft, composed voice commanded instant respect from all who met him, but the Luna Wolves had embraced him anyway. The Wolves had historically enjoyed a relationship with the Bearers as close as the one they had formed with the Emperor’s Children. It was no coincidence that Horus counted Lorgar amongst his most intimate brothers, alongside Fulgrim and Sanguinius.

  Erebus, who time had fashioned as much into a statesman as a warrior, both of which duties he performed with superlative skill, had come to find the Warmaster at the behest of his Legion. Evidently, he had a favour to crave, a request to make. One did not send Erebus except to broker terms.

  However, on his arrival, Erebus had understood immediately the pressure laid at Horus’s door, the countless voices screaming for attention. He had shelved his reason for coming, wishing to add nothing to the Warmaster’s already immense burden, and had instead acted as a solid counsel and advisor with no agenda of his own.

  For this, the Mournival had admired him greatly, and welcomed him, like Raldoron, into the circle. Abaddon and Aximand had served alongside Erebus in numerous theatres. Torgaddon knew him of old. All three spoke in nothing but the highest terms of First Chaplain Erebus.

  Loken had needed little convincing. From the outset, Erebus had made a particular effort to establish good terms with Loken. Erebus’s record and heritage were such that he seemed to Loken to carry the weight of a primarch with him. He was, after all, Lorgar’s chosen mouthpiece.

  Erebus had dined with them, counselled with them, sat easy after hours and drunk with them, and, on occasions, had entered the practice cages and sparred with them. In one afternoon, he had bested Torgaddon and Aximand in quick bouts, then tallied long with Saul Tarvitz before dumping him on the mat. Tarvitz and his comrade Lucius had been brought along at Torgaddon’s invitation.

  Loken had wanted to test his hand against Erebus, but Lucius had insisted he was next. The Mournival had grown to like Tarvitz, their impression of him favourably influenced by Torgaddon’s good opinions, but Lucius remained a separate entity, too much like Lord Eidolon for them to warm to him. He always appeared plaintive and demanding, like a spoilt child. ‘You go, then,’ Loken had waved, ‘if it matters so much.’ It was clear that Lucius strained to restore the honour of his Legion, an honour lost, as he saw it, the moment Erebus had dropped Tarvitz with a skilful slam of his sword.

  Drawing his blade, Lucius had entered the practice cage facing Erebus. The iron hemispheres closed around them. Lucius took up a straddled stance, his broadsword held high and close. Erebus kept his own blade extended low. They circled. Both Astartes were stripped to the waist, the musculature of their upper bodies rippling. This was play, but a wrong move could maim. Or kill.

  The bout lasted sixteen minutes. That in itself would have made it one of the longest sparring sessions any of them had ever known. What made it more remarkable was the fact that in that time, there was no pause, no hesitation, no cessation. Erebus and Lucius flew at one another, and rang blows off one another’s blades at a rate of three or four a second. It was relentless, extraordinary, a dizzying blur of dancing bodies and gleaming swords that rang on and on like a dream.

  Abaddon, Tarvitz, Torgaddon, Loken and Aximand closed around the cage in fascination, beginning to clap and yell in thorough approval of the amazing skill on display.

  ‘He’ll kill him!’ Tarvitz gasped. ‘At that speed, unprotected. He’ll kill him!’

  ‘Who will?’ asked Loken.

  ‘I don’t know, Garvi. Either one!’ Tarvitz exclaimed.

  ‘Too much, too much!’ Aximand laughed.

  ‘Loken fights the winner,’ Torgaddon cried.

  ‘I don’t think so!’ Loken rejoined. ‘I’ve seen winner and loser!’

  Still they duelled on. Erebus’s style was defensive, low, repeating and changing each parry like a mechanism. Lucius’s style was full of attack, furious, brilliant, dextrous. The play of them was hard to follow.

  ‘If you think I’m taking on either of them after this,’ Loken began.

  ‘What? Can’t you do it?’ Torgaddon mocked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You go in next,’ chuckled Abaddon, clapping his hands. ‘We’ll give you a bolter to even it up.’

  ‘How very humorous, Ezekyle.’

  At the fifty-ninth second of the sixteenth minute, according to the practice cage chron, Lucius scored his winning blow. He hooked his broadsword under Erebus’s guard and wrenched the Word Bearer’s blade out of his grip. Erebus fell back against the bars of the practice cage, and found Lucius’s blade edge at his throat.

  ‘Whoa! Whoa now, Lucius!’ Aximand cried, triggering the cage open.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Lucius, not sorry at all. He withdrew his broadsword and saluted Erebus,
sweat beading his bare shoulders

  ‘A good match. Thank you, sir.’

  ‘My thanks to you,’ Erebus smiled, breathing hard. He bent to pick up his blade. ‘Your skill with a sword is second to none, Captain Lucius.’

  ‘Out you come, Erebus,’ Torgaddon called. ‘It’s Garvi’s turn.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Loken said.

  ‘You’re the best of us with a blade,’ Little Horus insisted. ‘Show him how the Luna Wolves do it.’

  ‘Skill with a blade isn’t everything,’ Loken protested.

  ‘Just get in there and stop shaming us,’ Aximand hissed. He looked over at Lucius, who was wiping his torso down with a cloth. ‘You ready for another, Lucius?’

  ‘Bring it on.’

  ‘He’s mad,’ Loken whispered.

  ‘Legion honour,’ Abaddon muttered back, pushing Loken forward.

  ‘That’s right,’ crowed Lucius. ‘Anyway you want me. Show me how a Luna Wolf fights, Loken. Show me how you win.’

  ‘It’s not just about the blade,’ Loken said.

  ‘However you want it,’ Lucius snorted.

  Erebus stood up from the corner of the platform and tossed his blade to Loken. ‘It sounds like it’s your turn, Garviel,’ he said.

  Loken caught the sword, and tested it through the air, back and forth. He stepped up into the cage and nodded. The hemispheres of bars closed around him and Lucius.

  Lucius spat and shook out his shoulders. He turned his sword and began to dance around Loken.

  ‘I’m no swordsman,’ Loken said.

  ‘Then this will be over quickly.’

  ‘If we spar, it won’t be just about the blade.’

  ‘Whatever, whatever,’ Lucius called, jumping back and forth. ‘Just get on and fight me.’

  Loken sighed. ‘I’ve been watching you, of course, the attacking strokes. I can read you.’

  ‘You wish.’

  ‘I can read you. Come for me.’

  Lucius lunged at Loken. Loken side-stepped, blade down, and punched Lucius in the face. Lucius fell on his back, hard.