False Gods

by Graham McNeill

  All she had were the Warmaster’s words, there was no framework to hang them upon and without that, everything was meaningless. Finally realising what was amiss, she sought out Astartes warriors at every opportunity, but hit her first real obstacle in this regard.

  No one was speaking to her.

  As soon as any of her subjects knew what Petronella wanted, or who she was, they would clam up and refuse to speak another word, excusing themselves from her presence with polite abruptness.

  Everywhere she had turned, she ran into walls of silence, and despite repeated entreaties to the office of the Warmaster to intervene, she was getting nowhere. Every one of her requests for an audience with the Warmaster was declined, and she soon began to despair of ever finding a means of telling her tale.

  Inspiration as to how to break this deadlock had come yesterday after yet another afternoon of abject failure. As always, Maggard escorted her, clad in his golden battle armour and armed with his Kirlian rapier and pistol. After the fighting on Davin, Maggard had made a speedy recovery, and Petronella had noticed a more cocksure swagger to his step. She also noticed that he was treated with more respect around the ship than she was. Of course, such a state of affairs was intolerable, despite the fact that it made his vigour as her concubine that much more forceful and pleasurable.

  An Astartes warrior had nodded in respect as Petronella despondently travelled along the upper decks of the ship towards her stateroom. She had made to nod back, before realising that the Astartes had been paying his respects to Maggard, not her.

  A scroll upon the Astartes’s shoulder guard bore a green crescent moon, marking him out as a veteran of the Davin campaign and thus no doubt aware of Maggard’s fighting prowess.

  Indignation surged to the surface, but before Petronella said anything, an idea began to form and she hurried back to the stateroom.

  Petronella had stood Maggard in the centre of the room and said, ‘It’s so obvious to me now, shame on me for not thinking of this sooner.’

  Maggard looked puzzled, and she moved closer to him, stroking her hand down his moulded breastplate. He seemed uncomfortable with this, but she pressed on, knowing that he would do anything for her in fear of reprisal should he refuse.

  ‘It’s because I am a woman,’ she said. ‘I’m not part of their little club.’

  She moved behind him and stood on her tiptoes, placing her hands on his shoulders. ‘I’m not a warrior. I’ve never killed anyone, well, not myself, and that’s what they respect: killing. You’ve killed men, haven’t you Maggard?’

  He nodded curtly.

  ‘Lots?’

  Maggard nodded again and she laughed. ‘I’m sure they know that too. You can’t speak to boast of your prowess, but I’m sure the Astartes know it. Even the ones that weren’t on Davin will be able to see that you’re a killer.’

  Maggard licked his lips, keeping his golden eyes averted from her.

  ‘I want you to go amongst them,’ she ordered. ‘Let them see you. Inveigle yourself into their daily rituals. Find out all you can about them and each day we will use the mnemo-quill to transcribe what you’ve discovered. You’re mute, so they’ll think you simple. Let them. They will be less guarded if they think they humour a dolt.’

  She could see that Maggard was unhappy with this task, but his happiness was of no consequence to her and she had sent him out the very next morning.

  She had spent the rest of the day writing, sending Babeth out for food and water when she realised she was hungry, and trying different stylistic approaches to the introduction of her manuscript.

  The door to her stateroom opened and Petronella looked up from her work. The chronometer set into the escritoire told her that it was late afternoon, ship time.

  She swivelled in her chair to see Maggard enter her room and smiled, reaching over to pull her data-slate close and then lifting the mnemo-quill from the Lethe-well.

  ‘You spent time with the Astartes?’ she asked.

  Maggard nodded.

  ‘Good,’ said Petronella, sitting the reactive nib on the slate and clearing her mind of her own thoughts.

  ‘Tell me everything,’ she commanded, as the quill began to scratch out his thoughts.

  THE WARMASTER’S SANCTUM was silent save for the occasional hissing, mechanical hum from the exo-armature of Regulus’s body, and the rustle of fabric as Maloghurst shifted position. Both stood behind the Warmaster, who sat in his chair at the end of the long table, his hands steepled before him and his expression thunderous.

  ‘The Brotherhood should be carrion food by now,’ he said. ‘Why have the World Eaters not yet stormed the walls of the Iron Citadel?’

  Captain Kharn, equerry to Angron himself, stood firm before the Warmaster’s hostile stare, the dim light of the sanctum reflecting from the blue and white of his plate armour.

  ‘My lord, its walls are designed to resist almost every weapon we have available, but I assure you the fortress will be ours within days,’ said Kharn.

  ‘You mean mine,’ growled the Warmaster.

  ‘Of course, Lord Warmaster,’ replied Kharn.

  ‘And tell my brother Angron to get up here. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him in months. I’ll not have him sulking in some muddy trench avoiding me just because he can’t deliver on his promises.’

  ‘If I may be so bold, my primarch told you that this battle would take time,’ explained Kharn. ‘The citadel was built with the old technology and needs siege experts like the Iron Warriors to break it open.’

  ‘And if I could contact Perturabo, I would have him here,’ said the Warmaster.

  Regulus spoke from behind the Warmaster. ‘The STC machines will be able to counter much of the Mechanicum’s arsenal. If the Dark Age texts are correct, they will adapt and react to changing circumstances, creating ever more cunning means of defence.’

  ‘The citadel may be able to adapt,’ said Captain Kharn, angrily gripping the haft of his axe, ‘but it will not be able to stand before the fury of the XII Legion. The sons of Angron will tear the beating heart from that fortress for you, Warmaster. Have no doubt of that.’

  ‘Fine words, Captain Kharn,’ said Horus. ‘Now storm that citadel for me. Kill everyone you find within.’

  The World Eater bowed and turned on his heel, marching from the sanctum.

  Once the doors slid shut behind Kharn, Horus said, ‘That ought to light a fire under Angron’s backside. This war is taking too damn long. There is other business to be upon.’

  Regulus and Maloghurst came around from behind the Warmaster, the equerry taking a seat to ease his aching body.

  ‘We must have those STC machines,’ said Regulus.

  ‘Yes, thank you, adept, I had quite forgotten that,’ said Horus. ‘I know very well what those machines represent, even if the fools who control them do not.’

  ‘My order will compensate you handsomely for them, my lord,’ said Regulus.

  Horus smiled and said, ‘At last we come to it, adept.’

  ‘Come to what, my lord?’

  ‘Do not think me a simpleton, Regulus,’ cautioned Horus. ‘I know of the Mechanicum’s quest for the ancient knowledge. Fully functional construct machines would be quite a prize, would they not?’

  ‘Beyond imagining,’ admitted Regulus. ‘To rediscover the thinking engines that drove humanity into the stars and allowed the colonisation of the galaxy is a prize worth any price.’

  ‘Any price?’ asked Horus.

  ‘These machines will allow us to achieve the unimaginable, to reach into the halo stars and perhaps even other galaxies,’ said Regulus. ‘So yes, any price is worth paying.’

  ‘Then you shall have them,’ said Horus.

  Regulus seemed taken aback by such a monumentally grand offer and said, ‘I thank you, Warmaster. You cannot imagine the boon you grant the Mechanicum.’

  Horus stood and circled behind Regulus, staring unabashedly at the remnants of flesh that clung to his metallic components.
Shimmering fields contained the adept’s organs, and a brass musculature gave him a measure of mobility.

  ‘There is little of you that can still be called human, isn’t there?’ asked Horus. ‘In that regard you are not so different from myself or Maloghurst.’

  ‘My lord?’ replied Regulus. ‘I aspire to the perfection of the machine state, but would not presume to compare myself with the Astartes.’

  ‘As well you should not,’ said Horus, continuing to pace around the sanctum. ‘I will give you these construct machines, but as we have established, there will be a price.’

  ‘Name it, my lord. The Mechanicum will pay it.’

  ‘The Great Crusade is almost at an end, Regulus, but our efforts to secure the galaxy are only just beginning,’ said Horus, leaning over the table and planting his hands on its black surface. ‘I am poised to embark on the greatest endeavour imaginable, but I need allies, or all will come to naught. Can I count on you and the Mechanicum?’

  ‘What is this great endeavour?’ asked Regulus.

  Horus waved his hand and came around the table to stand next to the adept of the Mechanicum once more, placing a reassuring hand on his brass armature.

  ‘No need to go into the details just now,’ he said. ‘Just tell me that you and your brethren will support me when the time comes and the construct machines are yours.’

  A whirring mechanical arm wrapped in gold mesh swung over the table and placed a polished machine-cog gently on its surface.

  ‘As much of the Mechanicum as I command is yours Warmaster,’ promised Regulus, ‘and as much strength as I can muster from those I do not.’

  Horus smiled and said, ‘Thank you, adept. That’s all I wanted to hear.’

  ON THE SIXTH day of the tenth month of the war against the Auretian Technocracy, the 63rd Expedition was thrown into panic when a group of vessels translated in-system behind it, in perfect attack formation.

  Boas Comnenus attempted to turn his ships to face the new arrivals, but even as the manoeuvres began, he knew it would be too late. Only when the mysterious ships reached, and then passed, optimal firing range, did those aboard the Vengeful Spirit understand that the vessels had no hostile intent.

  Relieved hails were sent from the Warmaster’s flagship to be met with an amused voice that spoke with the cultured accent of Old Terra.

  ‘Horus, my brother,’ said the voice. ‘It seems I still have a thing or two to teach you.’

  On the bridge of the Vengeful Spirit, Horus said, ‘Fulgrim.’

  DESPITE THE HARDSHIPS of the war, Loken was excited at the prospect of meeting the warriors of the Emperor’s Children once again. He had spent as much time as his duties allowed in repairing his armour, though he knew it was still in a sorry state. He and the Mournival stood behind the Warmaster as he waited proudly on the upper transit dock of the Vengeful Spirit, ready to receive the primarch of the III Legion.

  Fulgrim had been one of the Warmaster’s staunchest supporters since his elevation to Warmaster, easing the concerns of Angron, Perturabo and Corax when they raged against the honour done to Horus and not them. Fulgrim’s voice had been the breath of calm that had stilled bellicose hearts and soothed raffled pride.

  Without Fulgrim’s wisdom, Loken knew that it was unlikely that the Warmaster would ever have been able to command the loyalty of the Legions so completely.

  He heard metallic scrapes from beyond the pressure door.

  Loken had seen Fulgrim once before at the Great Triumph on Ullanor, and even though it had been from a distance as he had marched past with tens of thousands of other Astartes warriors, Loken’s impression of the primarch had never faded from his mind.

  It was a palpable honour to stand once again in the presence of two such godlike beings as the primarchs.

  The eagle-stamped pressure door slid open and the Primarch of the Emperor’s Children stepped onto the Vengeful Spirit.

  Loken’s first impression was of the great golden eagle’s wing that swept up over Fulgrim’s left shoulder. The primarch’s armour was brilliant purple, edged in bright gold and inlaid with the most exquisite carvings. Hooded bearers carried his long, scaled cloak, and trailing parchments hung from his shoulder guards.

  A high collar of deepest purple framed a face that was pale to the point of albinism, the eyes so dark as to be almost entirely pupil. The hint of a smile played around his lips and his hair was a shimmering white.

  Loken had once called Hastur Sejanus a beautiful man, adored by all, but seeing the Primarch of the Emperor’s Children up close for the first time, he knew that his paltry vocabulary was insufficient for the perfection he saw in Fulgrim.

  Fulgrim opened his arms and the two primarchs embraced like long-lost brothers.

  ‘It has been too long, Horus,’ said Fulgrim.

  ‘It has, my brother, it has,’ agreed Horus. ‘My heart sings to see you, but why are you here? You were prosecuting a campaign throughout the Perdus Anomaly. Is the region compliant already?’

  ‘What worlds we found there are now compliant, yes,’ nodded Fulgrim as four warriors stepped through the pressure door behind him. Loken smiled to see Saul Tarvitz, his patrician features unable to contain his relish at being reunited with his brothers of the Sons of Horus.

  Lord Commander Eidolon came next, looking as unrepentantly viperous as Torgaddon had described him. Lucius the swordsman came next, still with the same sardonic expression of superiority that he remembered, though his face was now heavily scarred. Behind him came a warrior Loken did not recognise, a sallow-skinned Astartes in the armour of an apothecary, with gaunt cheeks and a long mane of hair as white as that of his primarch.

  Fulgrim turned from Horus and said, ‘I believe you are already familiar with some of my brothers, Tarvitz, Lucius and Lord Commander Eidolon, but I do not believe you have met my Chief Apothecary Fabius.’

  ‘It is an honour to meet you, Lord Horus,’ said Fabius, bowing low.

  Horus acknowledged the gesture of respect and said, ‘Come now, Fulgrim, you know better than to try to stall me. What’s so important that you turn up here unannounced and give half of my crew heart attacks?’

  The smile fell from Fulgrim’s pale lips and he said, ‘There have been reports, Horus.’

  ‘Reports? What does that mean?’

  ‘Reports that things are not as they should be,’ replied Fulgrim, ‘that you and your warriors should be called to account for the brutality of this campaign. Is Angron up to his usual tricks?’

  ‘Angron is as he has always been.’

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘No, I keep him on a short leash, and his equerry, Kharn, seems to curb the worst of our brother’s excesses.’

  ‘Then I have arrived just in time.’

  ‘I see,’ said Horus. ‘Are you here to relieve me then?’

  Fulgrim could keep a straight face no longer and laughed, his dark eyes sparkling with mirth. ‘Relieve you? No, my brother, I am here so that I can return and tell those fops and scribes on Terra that Horus fights war the way it is meant to be fought: hard, fast and cruel.’

  ‘War is cruelty. There is no use trying to reform it. The crueller it is, the sooner it is over.’

  Fulgrim said, ‘Indeed, my brother. Come, there is much for us to talk about, for these are strange times we live in. It seems our brother Magnus has once again done something to upset the Emperor, and the Wolf of Fenris has been unleashed to escort him back to Terra.’

  ‘Magnus?’ asked Horus, suddenly serious. ‘What has he done?’

  ‘Let us talk of it in private,’ said Fulgrim. ‘Anyway, I have a feeling my subordinates would welcome the chance to reacquaint themselves with your… what do you call it? Mournival?’

  ‘Yes,’ smiled Horus, ‘memories of Murder no doubt.’

  Loken felt a chill travel down his spine as he recognised the smile on Horus’s face, the same one he had worn right after he had blown out the Auretian consul’s brains on the embarkation deck.

>   WITH HORUS AND Fulgrim gone, Abaddon and Aximand, together with Eidolon, followed the two primarchs, while Loken and Torgaddon exchanged greetings with the Emperor’s Children. The Sons of Horus welcomed their brothers with laughter and crushing bear hugs, the Emperor’s Children with decorum and reserve.

  For Torgaddon and Tarvitz it was a reunion of comrades, with a mutual respect forged in the heat of battle, their easy friendship clear for all to see.

  The apothecary, Fabius, requested directions to the medicae deck and excused himself with a bow upon receiving them.

  Lucius remained with the two members of the Mournival, and Torgaddon couldn’t resist baiting him just a little. ‘So, Lucius, you fancy another round in the training cages with Garviel? From the look of your face you could do with the practice.’

  The swordsman had the good grace to smile, the many scars twisting on his flesh, and said, ‘No thank you. I fear I may have grown beyond Captain Loken’s last lesson. I would not want to humble him this time.’

  ‘Come on, just one bout?’ asked Loken. ‘I promise I’ll be gentle.’

  ‘Yes, come on, Lucius,’ said Tarvitz. ‘The honour of the Emperor’s Children is at stake.’

  Lucius smiled. ‘Very well, then.’

  LOKEN COULD NOT remember much of the bout; it had been over so quickly. Evidently, Lucius had indeed learned his lesson well. No sooner had the practice cage shut than the swordsman attacked. Loken had been ready for such a move, but even so, was almost overwhelmed in the first seconds of the fight.

  The two warriors fought back and forth, Torgaddon and Saul Tarvitz cheering from outside the practice cages.

  The bout had attracted quite a crowd, and Loken wished Torgaddon had kept word of it to himself.

  Loken fought with all the skill he could muster, while Lucius sparred with a casual playfulness. Within moments, Loken’s sword was stuck in the ceiling of the practice cage, and Lucius had a blade at his throat.

  The swordsman had barely broken sweat, and Loken knew that he was hopelessly outclassed by Lucius. To fight Lucius with life and death resting on the blades would be to die, and he suspected that there was no one in the Sons of Horus who could best him.