Loken bowed before the swordsman and said, ‘That’s one each, Lucius.’
‘Care for a decider?’ smirked Lucius, dancing back and forth on the balls of his feet and slicing his swords through the air.
‘Not this time,’ said Loken. ‘Next time we meet, we’ll put something serious on the outcome, eh?’
‘Any time, Loken,’ said Lucius, ‘but I’ll win. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Your skill is great, Lucius, but just remember that there’s someone out there who can beat you.’
‘Not this lifetime,’ said Lucius.
THE QUIET ORDER met once again in the armoury, though this was a more select group than normally gathered with Lodge Master Serghar Targost presiding over an assemblage of the Legion’s senior officers.
Aximand felt a pang of regret and loss as he saw that, of the Legion’s captains, only Loken, Torgaddon, Iacton Qruze and Tybalt Marr were absent.
Candles lit the armoury and each captain had dispensed with his hooded robes. This was a gathering for debate, not theatrics.
‘Brothers,’ said Targost, ‘this is a time for decisions: hard decisions. We face dissent from within, and now Fulgrim arrives out of the blue to spy on us.’
‘Spy?’ said Aximand. ‘Surely you don’t think that Fulgrim would betray his brother? The Warmaster is closer to Fulgrim than he is to Sanguinius.’
‘What else would you call him?’ asked Abaddon. ‘Fulgrim said as much when he arrived.’
‘Fulgrim is as frustrated by the situation back on Terra as we are,’ said Maloghurst. ‘He knows that those who desire the outcome of war do not desire to see the blood of its waging. His Legion seeks perfection in all things, especially war, and we have all seen how the Emperor’s Children fight: with unremitting ruthlessness and efficiency. They may fight differently from us, but they achieve the same result.’
‘When Fulgrim’s warriors see how the war is fought on Aureus they will know that there is no honour in it,’ added Luc Sedirae. ‘The World Eaters shock even me. I make no secret of the fact that I live for battle and revel in my ability to kill, but the Sons of Angron are… uncivilised. They do not fight, they butcher.’
‘They get the job done, Luc,’ said Abaddon. ‘That’s all that matters. Once the Titans of the Mechanicum break open the walls of the Iron Citadel, you’ll be glad to have them by your side when it comes time to storm the breaches.’
Sedirae nodded and said, ‘There is truth in that. The Warmaster wields them like a weapon, but will Fulgrim see that?’
‘Leave Fulgrim to me, Luc,’ said a powerful voice from the shadows, and the warriors of the quiet order turned in surprise as a trio of figures emerged from the darkness.
The lead figure was armoured in ceremonially adorned armour, the white plate shimmering in the candlelight, and the red eye on his chest plate glowing with reflected fire.
Aximand and his fellow captains dropped to their knees as Horus entered their circle, his gaze sweeping around his assembled captains.
‘So this is where you’ve been gathering in secret?’
‘My lord—’ began Targost, but Horus held up his hand to silence him.
‘Hush, Serghar,’ said Horus. ‘There’s no need for explanations. I have heard your deliberations and come to shed some light upon them, and to bring some new blood to your quiet order.’
As he spoke, Horus gestured the two figures that had accompanied him to come forward. Aximand saw that one was an Astartes, Tybalt Marr, while the other was a mortal clad in gold armour, the warrior who had fought to protect the Warmaster’s documentarist on Davin.
‘Tybalt you already know,’ continued the Warmaster. ‘Since the terrible death of Verulam, he has struggled to come to terms with the loss. I believe he will find the support he needs within our order. The other is a mortal, and though not Astartes, he is a warrior of courage and strength.’
Serghar Targost raised his head and said, ‘A mortal within the order? The order is for Astartes only.’
‘Is it, Serghar? I was led to believe that this was a place where men were free to meet and converse, and confide outside the strictures of rank and martial order.’
‘The Warmaster is right,’ said Aximand, rising to his feet. ‘There is only one qualification a man needs to be a part of our quiet order. He must be a warrior.’
Targost nodded, though he was clearly unhappy with the decision.
‘Very well, let them come forward and show the sign,’ he said.
Both Marr and the gold-armoured warrior stepped forward and held out their hands. In each palm, a silver lodge medal glinted.
‘Let them speak their names,’ said Targost.
‘Tybalt Marr,’ said the Captain of the 18th Company.
The mortal said nothing, looking helplessly at Horus. The lodge members waited for him to announce himself, but no name was forthcoming.
‘Why does he not identify himself?’ asked Aximand.
‘He can’t say,’ replied Horus with a smile. ‘Sorry, I couldn’t resist, Serghar. This is Maggard, and he is mute. It has come to my attention that he wishes to learn more of our Legion, and I thought this might be a way of showing him our true faces.’
‘He will be made welcome,’ assured Aximand, ‘but you didn’t come here just to bring us two new members, did you?’
‘Always thinking, Little Horus,’ laughed Horus. ‘I’ve always said you were the wise one.’
‘Then why are you here?’ asked Aximand.
‘Aximand!’ hissed Targost. ‘This is the Warmaster, he goes where he wills.’
Horus held up his hand and said, ‘It’s alright, Serghar, Little Horus has a right to ask. I’ve kept out of your affairs for long enough, so it’s only fair I explain this sudden visit.’
Horus walked between them, smiling and bathing them in the force of his personality. He stood before Aximand and the effect was intoxicating. Horus had always been a being of supreme majesty, whose beauty and charisma could bewitch even the most stoic hearts.
As he met the Warmaster’s gaze, Aximand saw that his power to seduce was beyond anything he had experienced before, and he felt shamed that he had questioned this luminous being. What right did he have to ask anything of the Warmaster?
Horus winked, and the spell was broken.
The Warmaster moved into the centre of the group and said. ‘You are right to gather and debate the coming days, my sons, for they will be hard indeed. Times are upon us when we must make difficult decisions, and there will be those who will not understand why we do what we do, because they were not here beside us.’
Horus stopped before each of the captains in turn, and Aximand could see the effect his words were having on them. Each warrior’s face lit up as though the sun shone upon it.
‘I am set upon a course that will affect every man under my command, and the burden of my decision is a heavy weight upon my shoulders, my sons.’
‘Share it with us!’ cried Abaddon. ‘We are ready to serve.’
Horus smiled and said, ‘I know you are, Ezekyle, and it gives me strength to know that I have warriors with me who are as steadfast and true as you.’
‘We are yours to command,’ promised Serghar Targost. ‘Our first loyalty is to you.’
‘I am proud of you all,’ said Horus, his voice emotional, ‘but I have one last thing to ask of you.’
‘Ask us,’ said Abaddon.
Horus placed his hand gratefully on Abaddon’s shoulder guard and said, ‘Before you answer, consider what I am about to say carefully. If you choose to follow me on this grand adventure, there will be no turning back once we have embarked upon it. For good or ill, we go forward, never back.’
‘You always were one for theatrics,’ noted Aximand. ‘Are you going to get to the point?’
Horus nodded and said, ‘Yes, of course, Little Horus, but you’ll indulge my sense for the dramatic I hope?’
‘It wouldn’t be you otherwise.’
‘Agree
d,’ said Horus, ‘but yes, to get to the point. I am about to take us down the most dangerous path, and not all of us will survive. There will be those of the Imperium who will call us traitors and rebels for our actions, but you must ignore their bleatings and trust that I am certain of our course. The days ahead will be hard and painful, but we must see them through to the end.’
‘What would you have us do?’ asked Abaddon.
‘In good time, Ezekyle, in good time,’ said Horus. ‘I just need to know that you are with me, my sons. Are you with me?’
‘We are with you!’ shouted the warriors as one.
‘Thank you,’ said Horus, gratefully, ‘but before we act, we must set our own house in order. Hektor Varvarus and this remembrancer, Karkasy: they must be silenced while we gather our strength. They draw unwelcome attention to us and that is unacceptable.’
‘Varvarus is not a man to change his mind, my lord,’ warned Aximand, ‘and the remembrancer is under Garviel’s protection.’
‘I will take care of Varvarus,’ said the Warmaster, ‘and the remembrancer… Well, I’m sure that with the correct persuasion he will do the right thing.’
‘What do you intend, my lord?’ asked Aximand.
‘That they be illuminated as to the error of their ways,’ said Horus.
TWENTY
The breach
A midday clear
Plans
THE VISIT OF the Emperor’s Children was painfully brief, the two primarchs sequestering themselves behind closed doors for its entirety, while their warriors sparred, drank and talked of war. Whatever passed between the Warmaster and Fulgrim appeared to satisfy the Primarch of the Emperor’s Children that all was well, and three days later, an honour guard formed up at the upper transit dock as the Emperor’s Children bade their farewells to the Sons of Horus.
Saul Tarvitz and Torgaddon said heartfelt goodbyes, while Lucius and Loken exchanged wry handshakes, each anticipating the next time they would cross blades. Eidolon nodded curtly to Torgaddon and Loken, as Apothecary Fabius made his exit without a word.
Fulgrim and Horus shared a brotherly embrace, whispering words only they could hear to one another. The wondrously perfect Primarch of the Emperor’s Children turned with a flourish towards the pressure door and stepped from the Vengeful Spirit, his long, scale cloak billowing behind him.
Something glinted beneath the cloak, and Loken did a double take as he caught a fleeting glimpse of a horribly familiar golden sword belted at Fulgrim’s waist.
LOKEN SAW THAT the Iron Citadel was aptly named, its gleaming walls rearing from the rock like jagged metal teeth. The mid-morning light reflected from its shimmering walls, the air rippling in the haze of energy fields, and clouds of metal shavings raining down from self-repairing ramparts. The outer precincts of the fortress were in ruins, the result of a four-month siege waged by the warriors of Angron and the war machines of the Mechanicum.
The Dies Irae and her sister Titans bombarded the walls daily, hurling high explosive shells and crackling energy beams at the citadel, slowly but surely pushing the Brotherhood back to this, their last bastion.
The citadel itself was a colossal half moon in plan, set against the rock of a range of white mountains, its approach guarded by scores of horn-works and redoubts. Most of these fortifications were little more than smouldering rubble, the Mechanicum’s Legio Reductor corps having expended a fearsome amount of ordnance to flatten them in preparation for the storm of the Iron Citadel.
After months of constant shelling, the walls of the citadel had finally been broken open and a half-kilometre wide breach had been torn in its shining walls. The citadel was ready to fall, but the Brotherhood would fight for it to the bitter end, and Loken knew that most of the warriors who were to climb that breach would die.
He waited for the order of battle with trepidation, knowing that an escalade was the surest way for a warrior to meet his end. Statistically, a man was almost certain to die when assaulting the walls of a well-defended fortress, and it was therefore beholden to him to make that death worthwhile.
‘Will it be soon, do you think, Garvi?’ asked Vipus, checking the action of his chainsword for the umpteenth time.
‘I think so,’ said Loken, ‘but I imagine that the World Eaters will be first into the breach.’
‘They’re welcome to the honour,’ grunted Torgaddon, and Loken was surprised at his comrade’s sentiment. Torgaddon was normally the first to request a place in the speartip of any battle, though he had been withdrawn and sullen for some time now. He would not be drawn on the reasons why, but Loken knew it had to do with Aximand and Abaddon.
Their fellow Mournival members had barely spoken to them over the course of this war, except where operational necessity had demanded it. Neither had the four of them met with the Warmaster since Davin. For all intents and purposes, the Mournival was no more.
The Warmaster kept his own council, and Loken found himself in agreement with Iacton Qruze’s sentiments that the Legion had lost its way. The words of the ‘half-heard’ carried no real weight in the Sons of Horus, and the aged veteran’s complaints were largely ignored.
Loken’s growing suspicions had been fed by what Apothecary Vaddon had told him when he had rushed to the medicae deck after the departure of the Emperor’s Children.
He had found the apothecary in the midst of surgery, ministering to the Legion’s wounded, the tiled floor slick with congealed blood.
Loken had knotwn better than to disturb Vaddon’s labours and only when the apothecary had finished did Loken speak to him.
‘The anathame?’ demanded Loken. ‘Where is it?’
Vaddon looked up from washing his hands of blood. ‘Captain Loken. The anathame? I don’t have it any more. I thought you knew.’
‘No,’ said Loken. ‘I didn’t. What happened to it? I told you to tell no one that it was in your possession.’
‘And nor did I,’ said Vaddon angrily. ‘He already knew I had it.’
‘He?’ asked Loken. ‘Who are you talking about?’
‘The apothecary of the Emperor’s Children, Fabius,’ said Vaddon. ‘He came to the medicae deck a few hours ago and told me he had been authorised to remove it.’
A cold chill seized Loken as he asked, ‘Authorised by whom?’
‘By the Warmaster,’ said Vaddon.
‘And you just gave him it?’ asked Loken. ‘Just like that?’
‘What was I supposed to do?’ snarled Vaddon. ‘This Fabius had the Warmaster’s seal. I had to give it to him.’
Loken took a deep calming breath, knowing that the apothecary would have had no choice when presented with the seal of Horus. The months of research Vaddon had performed on the weapon had, thus far, yielded no results, and with its removal from the Vengeful Spirit, any chance of uncovering its secrets was lost forever.
A crackling voice in Loken’s helmet shook him from his sour memory of the second theft of the anathame, and he focused on the order of battle streaming through his headset. Sure enough, the World Eaters were going in first, a full assault company led by Angron himself and supported by two companies of the Sons of Horus, the Tenth and the Second: Loken and Torgaddon’s companies.
Torgaddon and Loken shared an uneasy glance. To be given the honour of going into the breach seemed at odds with their current status within the Legion, but the order was given and there was no changing it now. Army regiments would follow to secure the ground the Astartes won, and Hektor Varvarus himself would lead these detachments.
Loken shook hands with Torgaddon and said, ‘See you on the inside, Tarik.’
‘Try not to get yourself killed, Garvi,’ said Torgaddon.
‘Thanks for the reminder,’ said Loken, ‘and here was me thinking that was the point.’
‘Don’t joke, Garvi,’ said Torgaddon. ‘I’m serious. I think we’re going to need each other’s support before this campaign is over.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Never mind
,’ said Torgaddon. ‘We’ll talk more once this citadel is ours, eh?’
‘Yes, we’ll share a bottle of victory wine in the ruins of the Brotherhood’s citadel.’
Torgaddon nodded and said, ‘You’re buying though.’
They shook hands once more and Torgaddon jogged away to rejoin his warriors and ready them for the bloody assault. Loken watched him go, wondering if he would see his friend alive again to share that drink. He pushed such defeatism aside as he made his way through his own company to pass out orders and offer words of encouragement.
He turned as a huge cheer erupted from further down the mountains, seeing a column of warriors clad in the blue and white armour of the World Eaters, marching towards the approaches to the breach. The assaulters of the World Eaters were hulking warriors equipped with mighty chain axes and heavy jump packs. They were brutality distilled and concentrated violence moulded them into the most fearsome close combat fighters Loken had ever seen. Leading them was the Primarch Angron.
ANGRON, THE BLOODY One: the Red Angel.
Loken had heard all these names and more for Angron, but none of them did justice to the sheer brutal physicality of the Primarch of the World Eaters. Clad in an ancient suit of gladiatorial armour, Angron was like a warrior from some lost heroic age. A glinting mesh cape of chain mail hung from his high gorget and pauldrons, with skulls worked into its weave like barbaric trophies.
He was armed to the teeth with short, stabbing swords, and daggers the length of an Astartes chain-blade. An ornate pistol of antique design was holstered on each thigh, and he carried a monstrous chain-glaive, its terrifying size beyond anything Loken could believe.
‘Throne alive…’ breathed Nero Vipus as Angron approached. ‘I wouldn’t have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes.’
‘I know what you mean,’ answered Loken, the mighty primarch’s savage and tribal appearance putting him in mind of the bloody tales he had read in the Chronicles of Ursh.
Angron’s face was murder itself, his thick features scarred and bloody. Dark iron glinted on his scalp where cerebral cortex implants punctured his skull to amplify his already fearsome aggression. The implants had been grafted to Angron’s brain when he had been a slave, centuries before, and though the technology to remove them was available, he had never wanted them removed.
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