‘Haven’t you heard?’ wept the soldier. ‘It’s all over the ship.’
‘What is?’ demanded Mersadie.
‘The Warmaster…’
‘What about him? Is he alright?’
The man shook his head. ‘Emperor save us, but the Warmaster is dead!’
THE BOTTLE SLIPPED from Karkasy’s hands, shattering on the floor, and he was instantly sober. The Warmaster dead? Surely, there had to be some kind of mistake. Surely, Horus was beyond such concerns as mortality. He faced Mersadie and could see exactly the same thoughts running through her head. The soldier he’d stopped shrugged off his grip and ran down the corridor, leaving the two of them standing there, aghast at such a horrific prospect. ‘It can’t be true,’ whispered Mersadie. ‘It just can’t be.’
‘I know. There must be some mistake.’
‘What if there isn’t?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Karkasy, ‘but we have to find out more.’
Mersadie nodded and waited for him to collect the Bondsman before they joined the hurrying throng as it made its mob-like way towards the embarkation decks. Neither of them spoke during the journey, too busy trying to process the impact of the Warmaster’s death. Karkasy felt the muse stir within him at such weighty subject matter, and tried not to despise the fact that it came at such a terrible time.
He spotted the corridor leading to the observation deck adjacent to the launch port from where Stormbirds could be seen deploying, or returning. She resisted his pull until he explained his plan.
‘There’s no way they’re going to let us in,’ said Karkasy, out of breath from his exertions. ‘We can watch the Stormbirds arrive from here and there’s an observation gantry that overlooks the deck itself.’
They darted from the human river making its way to the embarkation deck and followed the arched corridor that led to the observation deck. Inside the long chamber, the wide armoured glass wall showed smudges of starlight and the glinting hulls of distant bulk cruisers belonging to the Army and the Mechanicum. Below them was the chasm-like opening of the embarkation deck, its blinking locator lights flashing an angry red.
Mersadie dimmed the lighting, and the details beyond the glass became clearer.
The yellow brown swell of Davin’s moon curved away from them, its surface grimy and smeared with clouds. A fiery corona of sickly light haloed the moon and, from here, it looked peaceful.
‘I don’t see anything,’ said Mersadie.
Karkasy pressed himself against the glass to eliminate reflections and tried to see something other than himself and Mersadie. Then he saw it. Like a glimmering firefly, a distant speck of fire was rising out of the moon’s corona and heading towards the Vengeful Spirit.
‘There!’ he said, pointing towards the approaching light.
‘Where? Oh, wait, I see it!’ said Mersadie, blink-clicking the image of the approaching craft.
Karkasy watched as the light drew nearer, resolving itself into the shape of a speeding Stormbird as it angled its approach to the embarkation deck. Even though Karkasy was no pilot, he could tell that its approach was recklessly rapid, the craft’s wings folding in at the last moment as it aimed for the yawning, red-lit hatch.
‘Come on!’ he said, taking Mersadie’s hand and leading the way up the steps to the observation gantry. The steps were steep and narrow, and Karkasy had to stop to get his breath back before he reached the top. By the time they reached the gantry, the Stormbird had already been recovered and its assault ramp was descending.
A host of Astartes gathered around the craft as the Bell of Return began ringing and four warriors emerged, the plates of their armour dented and bloodstained. Between them, they carried a body draped in a Legion banner. Karkasy’s breath caught in his throat and he felt his heart turn to stone at the sight.
‘The Mournival,’ said Mersadie. ‘Oh no…’
The four warriors were quickly followed by an enormous gurney upon which lay a partially armoured warrior of magnificent stature.
Even from here, Karkasy could tell that the figure upon the gurney was the Warmaster and though tears leapt unbidden to his eyes at the sight of such a superlative warrior laid low, he rejoiced that the shrouded corpse was not the Warmaster. He heard Mersadie blink clicking the images even though he knew there would be no point; her eyes were similarly misted with tears. Behind the gurney came the remembrancer woman, Vivar, her dress torn and bloody, the fine fabric mud stained and ragged, but Karkasy pushed her from his mind as he saw more warriors rush towards the gurney. Armoured in white plate, they surrounded the Warmaster as he was wheeled through the embarkation deck with great haste, and Karkasy’s heart leapt as he recognized them as Legion apothecaries.
‘He’s still alive…’ he said.
‘What? How do you know?’
‘The apothecaries are still working on him,’ laughed Karkasy, the relief tasting like the sweetest wine. They threw themselves into each other’s arms, embracing with the sheer relief of the Warmaster’s survival.
‘He’s alive,’ sobbed Mersadie. ‘I knew he had to be. He couldn’t be dead.’
‘No,’ agreed Karkasy. ‘He couldn’t.’
They broke apart and sagged against the railings as the Astartes escorted the fallen Warmaster across the deck. As the huge blast doors rumbled open, the masses of people gathered outside surged through in a great wave, their cries of loss and pain audible even through the armoured glass of the observation gantry.
‘No,’ whispered Karkasy. ‘No, no, no.’
The Astartes were in no mood to be slowed by this mass of people, and brutally clubbed them aside as they forced a path through the crowd. The Mournival led the gurney through the crowds, mercilessly clearing a bloody path through the people before them. Karkasy saw men and women cast down, trampled underfoot, and their screams were pitiful to hear.
Mersadie held his arm as they watched the Astartes bludgeon their way from the embarkation deck. They vanished through the blast door and were lost to sight as they rushed towards the medical deck.
‘Those poor people…’ cried Mersadie, sinking to her knees and looking down on a scene like the aftermath of a battle: wounded soldiers, remembrancers and civilians lay where they had fallen, bleeding and broken, simply because they were unlucky enough to be in the path of the Astartes.
‘They didn’t care,’ said Karkasy, still unable to believe the bloody scenes that he’d just witnessed. ‘They’ve killed those people. It was like they didn’t care.’
Still in shock at the casual ease with which the Astartes had punched through the crowd, Karkasy gripped the railings, his knuckles white and his jaw clenched with outrage.
‘How dare they?’ he hissed. ‘How dare they?’
His anger at the scenes below still seethed close to the surface; however, he noticed a robed figure making her way through the carnage below, reaching out to the injured and stunned.
His eyes narrowed, but he recognized the shapely form of Euphrati Keeler.
She was handing out Lectitio Divinitatus pamphlets, and she wasn’t alone.
MALOGHURST WATCHED THE recording from the embarkation deck with a grim expression, watching his fellow Sons of Horus batter their way through the crowds that swarmed around the Warmaster’s wracked body. The pict replayed again on the viewer set into the table in the Warmaster’s sanctum, and each time he watched it, he willed it to be different, but each time the flickering images remained resolutely the same.
‘How many dead?’ asked Hektor Varvarus, standing at Maloghurst’s shoulder.
‘I don’t have the final figures yet, but at least twenty-one are dead, and many more are badly injured or won’t wake from the comas they’re in.’
He cursed Loken and the others for their heavy handedness as the image played again, but supposed he couldn’t blame them for their ardour. The Warmaster was in a critical condition and no one knew if he would live, so their desperation to reach the medical decks was forgivable, even if m
any might say that their actions were not.
‘A bad business, Maloghurst,’ said Varvarus needlessly. ‘The Astartes will not come out of this well.’
Maloghurst sighed, and said, ‘They thought the Warmaster was dying and acted accordingly.’
‘Acted accordingly?’ repeated Varvarus. ‘I do not think many people will accept mat, my friend. Once word of this gets out, it will be a crippling blow to morale.’
‘It will not get out,’ assured Maloghurst. ‘I am rounding up everyone who was on that deck and have shut down all non-command vox traffic from the ship.’
Tall and precise, Hektor Varvarus was rake-thin and angular, and his every movement was calculated – traits he carried over into his role as Lord Commander of the Army forces of the 63rd Expedition.
‘Trust me, Maloghurst, this will get out. One way or another, it will get out. Nothing remains secret forever. Such things have a habit of wanting to be told and this will be no different.’
‘Then what do you suggest, lord commander?’ asked Maloghurst.
‘Are you genuinely asking me, Mal, or are you just observing a courtesy because I am here?’
‘I was genuinely asking,’ said Maloghurst, smiling as he realized that he meant it. Varvarus was a canny soldier who understood the hearts and minds of mortal men.
‘Then you have to tell people what happened. Be honest.’
‘Heads will need to roll,’ cautioned Maloghurst. ‘People will demand blood for this.’
‘Then give it to them. If that’s what it takes, give it to them. Someone has to be seen to pay for this atrocity,’
‘Atrocity? Is that what we’re calling it now?’
‘What else would you call it? Astartes warriors have committed murder.’
The enormity of what Varvarus was suggesting staggered Maloghurst, and he lowered himself slowly into one of the chairs at the Warmaster’s table.
‘You would have me give up an Astartes warrior for this? I cannot do it.’
Varvarus leaned over the table, the decorations and medals of his dress uniform reflecting like gold suns in its black surface.
‘Innocent blood has been spilled, and while I can understand the reasons behind the actions of your men, it changes nothing.’
‘I can’t do it, Hektor,’ said Maloghurst, shaking his head.
Varvarus moved to stand next to him. ‘You and I both swore the oath of loyalty to the Imperium, did we not?’
‘We did, but what has that to do with anything?’
The old general locked eyes with Maloghurst and said, ‘We swore that we would uphold the ideals of nobility and justice that the Imperium stands for, yes?’
‘Yes, but this is different. There were extenuating circumstances…’
‘Irrelevant,’ snapped Varvarus. ‘The Imperium must stand for something, or it stands for nothing. If you turn away from this, then you betray that oath of loyalty. Are you willing to do that, Maloghurst?’
Before he could answer, there was a soft knocking on the glass of the sanctum and Maloghurst turned to see who disturbed them.
Ing Mae Sing, Mistress of Astropathy, stood before them like a skeletal ghost in a hooded white robe, the upper portions of her face shrouded in shadows.
‘Mistress Sing,’ said Varvarus, bowing deeply towards the telepath.
‘Lord Varvarus,’ she replied, her voice soft and feather-light. She returned the lord commander’s bow and despite her blindness, inclined her head in precisely the right direction – a talent that never failed to unnerve Maloghurst.
‘What is it, Mistress Sing?’ he asked, though in truth, he was glad of the interruption.
‘I bring tidings that must concern you, Sire Maloghurst,’ she said, turning her blind gaze upon him. ‘The astropathic choirs are unsettled. They sense a powerful surge in the currents of the warp: powerful and growing.’
‘What does that mean?’ he asked.
‘That the veil between worlds grows thin,’ said Ing Mae Sing.
TEN
Apothecarion
Prayers
Confession
STRIPPED OUT OF his armour and wearing bloody surgical robes, Vaddon was as close to desperate as he had ever been in his long experience as an apothecary of the Sons of Horus. The Warmaster lay before him on the gurney, his flesh exposed to his knives and to the probes of the medicae machines. Oxygen was fed to the Warmaster through a mask, and saline drips pumped fluids into his body in an attempt to normalize his blood pressure. Medicae servitors brought fresh blood for immediate transfusions and the entire theatre fizzed with tension and frantic activity.
‘We’re losing him!’ shouted Apothecary Logaan, watching the heart monitors. ‘Blood pressure is dropping rapidly, heart rate spiking. He’s going to arrest!’
‘Damn it,’ cursed Vaddon. ‘Get me more Larraman serum, his blood won’t clot, and fix up another fluid line.’
A whirring surgical narthecium swung down from the ceiling, multiple limbs clattering as they obeyed Vaddon’s shouted commands. Fresh Larraman cells were pumped directly into Horus’s shoulder and the bleeding slowed, though Vaddon could see it still wasn’t stopping completely. Thick needles jabbed into the Warmaster’s arms, filling him with super-oxygenated blood, but their supply was dwindling faster than he would have believed possible.
‘Stabilizing,’ breathed Logaan. ‘Heart rate slowing and blood pressure is up.’
‘Good,’ said Vaddon. ‘We’ve got some breathing room then.’
‘He can’t take much more of this,’ said Logaan. ‘We’re running out of things we can do for him.’
‘I’ll not hear that in my theatre, Logaan,’ snapped Vaddon. ‘We’re not going to lose him.’
The Warmaster’s chest hiked as he clung to life, his breathing coming in short, hyperventilating gasps, more blood pumping from the wound in his shoulder.
Of the two wounds the Warmaster had suffered, it seemed the least severe, but Vaddon knew it was the one that was killing him. The puncture wound in his chest had practically healed already, ultra sonograms showing that his lung had sealed itself off from the pulmonary system while it repaired itself. The Warmaster’s secondary lungs were sustaining him for now.
The Mournival hovered like expectant fathers as the apothecaries worked harder than they had ever worked before. Vaddon had never expected to have the Warmaster for a patient. The primarch’s biology was as far beyond that of a normal Astartes warrior as his own was from a mortal man, and Vaddon knew that he was out of his depth. Only the Emperor himself had the knowledge to delve into the body of a primarch with confidence, and the enormity of what was occurring was not lost on him. A green light winked into life on the narthecium machine and he lifted the data-slate from the port in its silver steel surface. Numbers and text scrolled across its glossy surface and though much of it made no sense to him, he felt his spirits fall as what he could comprehend sank in.
Seeing that the Warmaster was stable, he circled the operating slab and joined the Mournival, wishing he had better news for them.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ demanded Abaddon. ‘Why is he still lying there?’
‘Honestly, first captain, I don’t know.’
‘What do you mean, “You don’t know”?’ shouted Abaddon, grabbing Vaddon and slamming him against the theatre wall. Silver trays laden with scalpels, saws and forceps clattered to the tiled floor. ‘Why don’t you know?’
Loken and Aximand grappled with the first captain as Vaddon felt Abaddon’s enormous strength slowly crushing his neck.
‘Let go of him, Ezekyle!’ cried Loken. ‘This isn’t helping!’
‘You won’t let him die!’ snarled Abaddon, and Vaddon was amazed to see a terrible fear in the first captain’s eyes. ‘He is the Warmaster!’
‘You think I don’t know that?’ gasped Vaddon as the others pried Abaddon’s grip from his neck. He slid down the wall, already able to feel the swelling in his bruised throat.
‘Emperor dam
n you if you let him die,’ hissed Abaddon, stalking the theatre with predatory strides. ‘If he dies, I will kill you.’
Aximand led the first captain away from him, speaking soothing words as Loken and Torgaddon helped him to his feet.
‘The man’s a maniac,’ hissed Vaddon. ‘Get him out of my theatre, now!’
‘He’s not himself, apothecary,’ explained Loken. ‘None of us are.’
‘Just keep him away from my team, captain,’ warned Vaddon. ‘He’s not in control of himself, and that makes him dangerous.’
‘We will,’ Torgaddon promised him. ‘Now what can you tell us? Will he survive?’
Vaddon took a moment to compose himself before answering, picking up his fallen data-slate. ‘As I said before, I just don’t know. We’re like children trying to repair a logic engine that’s been dropped from orbit. We don’t understand even a fraction of what his body is capable of or how it works. I can’t even begin to guess what kind of damage it’s suffered to have caused this.’
‘What’s actually happening to him?’ asked Loken.
‘It’s the wound in his shoulder; it won’t clot. It’s bleeding out and we can’t stop it. We found some degraded genetic residue in the wound that might be some kind of poison, but I can’t be sure.’
‘Might it be a bacteriological or a viral infection?’ asked Torgaddon. ‘The water on Davin’s moon was thick with contaminants. I ought to know, I swallowed a flagon’s worth of it.’
‘No,’ said Vaddon. ‘The Warmaster’s body is, for all intents and purposes, immune to such things.’
‘Then what is it?’
‘This is a guess, but it looks like this particular poison induces a form of anemic hypoxia. Once it enters the bloodstream, it’s absorbed exponentially by the red blood cells, in preference to oxygen. With the Warmaster’s accelerated metabolism, the toxin was carried efficiently around his system, damaging his tissue cells as it went, so they were unable to make proper use of the reduced oxygen content.’
‘So where did it come from?’ asked Loken. ‘I thought you said the Warmaster was immune to such things.’
False Gods Page 16
