False Gods

by Graham McNeill

  Still, he regretted it.

  The Brotherhood had been honourable foes and the Sons of Horus had butchered them like cattle. Angron stood in the midst of the carnage, his glaive spraying the warriors nearest him with spatters of blood from the roaring chainblade.

  The Sons of Horus cheered in praise of the World Eaters’ primarch, but Loken felt soul sick at such a barbaric sight.

  ‘That was no way for warriors to die,’ said Torgaddon. ‘Their deaths shame us all.’

  Loken didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Illumination

  WITH THE FALL of the Iron Citadel, the war on Aureus was over. The Brotherhood was destroyed as a fighting force and though there were still pockets of resistance to be mopped up, the fighting was as good as over. Casualties on both sides had been high, most especially in the Army units of the Expedition. Hektor Varvarus was brought back to the fleet with due reverence and his body returned to space in a ceremony attended by the highest-ranking officers of the Expeditions.

  The Warmaster himself spoke the lord commander’s eulogy, the passion and depths of his sorrow plain to see.

  ‘Heroism is not only in the man, but in the occasion,’ the Warmaster had said of Lord Commander Varvarus. ‘It is only when we look now and see his success that men will say that it was good fortune. It was not. We lost thousands of our best warriors that day and I feel the loss of every one. Hektor Varvarus was a leader who knew that to march with the gods, one must wait until he hears their footsteps sounding through events, and then leap up and grasp the hem of their robes.

  ‘Varvarus is gone from us, but he would not want us to pause in mourning, for history is a relentless master. It has no present, only the past rushing into the future. To try to hold fast to it is to be swept aside and that, my friends, will never happen. Not while I am Warmaster. Those men who fought and bled with Varvarus shall have this world to stand sentinel over, so that his sacrifice will never be forgotten.’

  Other speakers had said their farewells to the lord commander, but none with the Warmaster’s eloquence. True to his word, Horus ensured that Army units that had been loyal to Varvarus were appointed to minister the worlds he had died to make compliant.

  A new Imperial commander was installed, and the martial power of the fleet began the time-consuming process of regrouping in preparation for the next stage of the Crusade.

  KARKASY’S BILLET STANK of ink and printing fumes, the crude, mechanical bulk printer working overtime to print enough copies of the latest edition of The Truth is All We Have. Though his output had been less prolific of late, the Bondsman number 7 box was nearly empty. Ignace Karkasy remembered wondering, a lifetime ago it seemed, whether or not the lifespan of his creativity could be measured in the quantity of paper he had left to fill. Such thoughts seemed meaningless, given the powerful desire to write that was upon him these days.

  He sat on the edge of his cot bed, the last remaining place for him to sit, penning the latest scurrilous piece of verse for his pamphlet and humming contentedly to himself. Papers filled the billet, strewn across the floor, tacked upon the walls or piled on any surface flat enough to hold them. Scribbled notes, abandoned odes and half-finished poems filled the space, but such was the fecundity of his muse that he didn’t expect to exhaust it any time soon.

  He’d heard that the war with the Auretians was over, the final citadel having fallen to the Sons of Horus a couple of days ago in what the ship scuttlebutt was already calling the White Mountains Massacre. He didn’t yet know the full story, but several sources he’d cultivated over the ten months of the war would surely garner him some juicy titbits.

  He heard a curt knock on his door-shutter and shouted, ‘Come in!’

  Karkasy kept on writing as the shutter opened, too focused on his words to waste a single second of his time.

  ‘Yes?’ he said, ‘What can I do for you?’

  No answer was forthcoming, so Karkasy looked up in irritation to see an armoured warrior standing mutely before him. At first, Karkasy felt a thrill of panic, seeing the man’s longsword and the hard, metallic gleam of a bolstered pistol, but he relaxed as he saw that the man was Petronella Vivar’s bodyguard – Maggard, or something like that.

  ‘Well?’ he asked again. ‘Was there something you wanted?’

  Maggard said nothing and Karkasy remembered that the man was mute, thinking it foolish that anyone would send someone who couldn’t speak as a messenger.

  ‘I can’t help you unless you can tell me why you’re here,’ said Karkasy, speaking slowly to ensure that the man understood.

  In response, Maggard removed a folded piece of paper from his belt and held it out with his left hand. The warrior made no attempt to move closer to him, so with a resigned sigh, Karkasy put aside the Bondsman and pushed his bulky frame from the bed.

  Karkasy picked his way through the piles of notebooks and took the proffered paper. It was a sepia coloured papyrus, as was produced in the Gyptian spires, with crosshatched patterning throughout. A little gaudy for his tastes, but obviously expensive.

  ‘So who might this be from?’ asked Karkasy, before again remembering that this messenger couldn’t speak. He shook his head with an indulgent smile, unfolded the papyrus and cast his eyes over the note’s contents.

  He frowned as he recognised the words as lines from his own poetry, dark imagery and potent symbolism, but they were all out of sequence, plucked from a dozen different works.

  Karkasy reached the end of the note and his bladder emptied in terror as he realised the import of the message, and its bearer’s purpose.

  PETRONELLA PACED THE confines of her stateroom, impatient to begin transcribing the latest thoughts of her bodyguard. The time Maggard had spent with the Astartes had been most fruitful, and she had already learned much that would otherwise have been hidden from her.

  Now a structure suggested itself, a tragic tale told in reverse order that opened on the primarch’s deathbed, with a triumphal coda that spoke of his survival and of the glories yet to come. After all, she didn’t want to confine herself to only one book.

  She even had a prospective tide, one that she felt conveyed the correct gravitas of her subject matter, yet also included her in its meaning.

  Petronella would call this masterpiece, In The Footsteps of Gods, and had already taken its first line – that most important part of the tale where her reader was either hooked or left cold – from her own terrified thoughts at the moment of the Warmaster’s collapse.

  I was there the day that Horus fell.

  It had all the right tonal qualities, leaving the reader in no doubt that they were about to read something profound, yet keeping the end of the story a jealously guarded secret.

  Everything was coming together, but Maggard was late in returning from his latest foray into the world of the Astartes and her patience was wearing thin. She had already reduced Babeth to tears in her impatient frustration, and had banished her maidservant to the tiny chamber that served as her sleeping quarters.

  She heard the sound of the door to her stateroom opening in the receiving room, and marched straight through to reprimand Maggard for his tardiness.

  ‘What time do you call…’ she began, but the words trailed off as she saw that the figure standing before her wasn’t Maggard.

  It was the Warmaster.

  He was dressed in simple robes and looked more magnificent than she could ever remember seeing him. A fierce anima surrounded him, and she found herself unable to speak as he looked up, the full force of his personality striking her.

  Standing at the door behind him was the hulking form of First Captain Abaddon. Horus looked up as she entered and nodded to Abaddon, who closed the door at his back.

  ‘Miss Vivar,’ said the Warmaster. It took an effort of will on Petronella’s part for her to find her voice.

  ‘Yes… my lord,’ she stammered, horrified at the mess of her stateroom and that the Warmaster should see it s
o untidy. She must remember to punish Babeth for neglecting her duties. ‘I… that is, I wasn’t expecting…’

  Horus held up his hand to soothe her concerns and she fell silent.

  ‘I know I have been neglectful of you,’ said the Warmaster. ‘You have been privy to my innermost thoughts and I allowed the concerns of the war against the Technocracy to command my attention.’

  ‘My lord, I never dreamed you gave me such consideration,’ said Petronella.

  ‘You would be surprised,’ smiled Horus. ‘Your writing goes well?’

  ‘Very well, my lord,’ said Petronella. ‘I have been prolific since last we met.’

  ‘May I see?’ asked Horus.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, thrilled that he should take an interest in her work. She had to force herself to walk, not run, into her writing room, indicating the papers stacked on her escritoire.

  ‘It’s all a bit of jumble, but everything I’ve written is here,’ beamed Petronella. ‘I would be honoured if you would critique my work. After all, who is more qualified?’

  ‘Quite,’ agreed Horus, following her to the escritoire and taking up her most recent output. His eyes scanned the pages, reading and digesting the contents quicker than any mortal man ever could.

  She searched his face for any reaction to her words, but he was as unreadable as a statue, and she began to worry that he disapproved.

  Eventually, he placed the papers back on the escritoire and said, ‘It is very good. You are a talented documentarist.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord,’ she gushed, the power of his praise like a tonic in her veins.

  ‘Yes,’ said Horus, his voice cold. ‘It’s almost a shame that no one will ever read it.’

  MAGGARD REACHED UP and grabbed the front of Karkasy’s robe, spinning him around, and hooking his arm around the poet’s neck. Karkasy struggled in the powerful grip, helpless against Maggard’s superior strength.

  ‘Please!’ he gasped, his terror making his voice shrill. ‘No, please don’t!’

  Maggard said nothing, and Karkasy heard the snap of leather as the warrior’s free hand popped the stud on his holster. Karkasy fought, but he could do nothing, the crushing force of Maggard’s arm around his neck robbing him of breath and blurring his vision.

  Karkasy wept bitter tears as time slowed. He heard the slow rasp of the pistol sliding from its holster and the harsh click as the hammer was drawn back.

  He bit his tongue. Bloody foam gathered in the corners of his mouth. Snot and tears mingled on his face. His legs scrabbled on the floor. Papers flew in all directions.

  Cold steel pressed into his neck, the barrel of Maggard’s pistol jammed tight under his jaw.

  Karkasy smelled the gun oil.

  He wished…

  The hard bang of the pistol shot echoed deafeningly in the cramped billet.

  AT FIRST, PETRONELLA wasn’t sure she’d understood what the Warmaster meant. Why wouldn’t people be able to read her work? Then she saw the cold, merciless light in Horus’s eyes.

  ‘My lord, I’m not sure I understand you,’ she said, haltingly.

  ‘Yes you do.’

  ‘No…’ she whispered, backing away from him.

  The Warmaster followed her, his steps slow and measured. ‘When we spoke in the apothecarion I let you look inside Pandora’s Box, Miss Vivar, and for that I am truly sorry. Only one person has a need to know the things in my head, and that person is me. The things I have seen and done, the things I am going to do…’

  ‘Please, my lord,’ said Petronella, backing out of her writing room and into the receiving room. ‘If you are unhappy with what I’ve written, it can be revised, edited. I would give you approval on everything, of course.’

  Horus shook his head, drawing closer to her with every step.

  Petronella felt her eyes fill with tears and she knew that this couldn’t be happening. The Warmaster would not be trying to scare her. They must be playing some cruel joke on her. The idea of the Astartes making a fool of her stung Petronella’s wounded pride and the part of her that had snapped angrily at the Warmaster upon their first meeting rose to the surface.

  ‘I am the Palatina Majoria of House Carpinus and I demand that you respect that!’ she cried, standing firm before the Warmaster. ‘You can’t scare me like this.’

  ‘I’m not trying to scare you,’ said Horus, reaching out to hold her by the shoulders.

  ‘You’re not?’ asked Petronella, his words filling her with relief. She’d known that this couldn’t be right, that there had to be some mistake.

  ‘No,’ said Horus, his hands sliding towards her neck. ‘I am illuminating you.’

  Her neck broke with one swift snap of his wrist.

  THE MEDICAE CELL was cramped, but clean and well maintained. Mersadie Oliton sat by the bed and wept softly to herself, tears running freely down her coal dark skin. Kyril Sindermann sat with her and he too shed tears as he held the hand of the bed’s occupant.

  Euphrati Keeler lay, unmoving, her skin pale and smooth, with a sheen to it that made it look like polished ceramic. Since she had faced the horror in Archive Chamber Three, she had lain unmoving and unresponsive in this medicae bay.

  Sindermann had told Mersadie what had happened and she found herself torn between wanting to believe him and calling him delusional. His talk of a daemon and of Euphrati standing before it with the power of the Emperor pouring through her was too fantastical to be true… wasn’t it? She wondered if he’d told anyone else of it.

  The apothecaries and medics could find nothing physically wrong with Euphrati Keeler, save for the eagle shaped burn on her hand that refused to fade. Her vital signs were stable and her brain wave activity registered normal: no one could explain it and no one had any idea how to wake her from this coma-like state.

  Mersadie came to visit Euphrati as often as she could, but she knew that Sindermann came every day, spending several hours at a time with her. Sometimes they would sit together, talking to Euphrati, telling her of the events happening on the planets below, the battles that had been fought, or simply passing on ship gossip.

  Nothing seemed to reach the imagist, and Mersadie sometimes wondered if it might not be a kindness to let her die. What could be worse for a person like Euphrati than being trapped by her own flesh, with no ability to reason, to communicate or express herself.

  She and Sindermann had arrived together today and each instantly knew that the other had been crying. The news of Ignace Karkasy’s suicide had hit them all hard and Mersadie still couldn’t believe how he could have done such a thing.

  A suicide note had been found in his billet, which was said to have been composed in verse. It spoke volumes of Ignace’s enormous conceit that he made his last goodbye in his own poetry.

  They had wept for another lost soul, and then they sat on either side of Euphrati’s bed, holding each other’s and Keeler’s hands as they spoke of better times.

  Both turned as they heard a soft knock behind them.

  A thin faced man wearing the uniform of the Legio Mortis and an earnest face stood framed in the doorway.

  Behind him, Mersadie could see that the corridor was filled with people.

  ‘Is it alright if I come in?’ he asked.

  Mersadie Oliton said, ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name’s Titus Cassar, Moderati Primus of the Dies Irae. I’ve come to see the saint.’

  THEY MET IN the observation deck, the lighting kept low and the darkness of space leavened only by me reflected glare of the planets they had just conquered. Loken stood with his palm against the armoured viewing bay, believing that something fundamental had happened to the Sons of Horus on Aureus, but not knowing what.

  Torgaddon joined him moments later and Loken welcomed him with a brotherly embrace, grateful to have so loyal a comrade.

  They stood in silence for some time, each lost in thought as they watched the defeated planets turn in space below them. The preparations for departure were virtually
complete and the fleet was ready to move on, though neither warrior had any idea of where they were going.

  Eventually Torgaddon broke the silence, ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘I don’t know, Tarik,’ replied Loken. ‘I really don’t.’

  ‘I thought not,’ said Torgaddon, holding up a glass test tube with something in it that reflected soft light with a golden gleam. ‘This won’t help then.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Loken.

  ‘These,’ said Torgaddon, ‘are the bolt round fragments removed from Hektor Varvarus.’

  ‘Bolt round fragments? Why do you have them?’

  ‘Because they’re ours.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean they’re ours,’ repeated Torgaddon. ‘The bolt that killed the lord commander came from an Astartes bolter, not from one of the Brotherhood’s guns.’

  Loken shook his head. ‘No, there must be some mistake.’

  ‘There’s no mistake. Apothecary Vaddon tested the fragments himself. They’re ours, no question.’

  ‘You think Varvarus caught a stray round?’

  Torgaddon shook his head. ‘The wound was dead centre, Garviel. It was an aimed shot.’

  Loken and Torgaddon both understood the implications, and Loken felt his melancholy rise at the thought of Varvarus having been murdered by one of their own.

  Neither spoke for a long moment. Then Loken said, ‘In the wake of such deceit and destruction shall we despair, or is faith and honour the spur to action?’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Torgaddon.

  ‘It’s part of a speech I read in a book that Kyril Sindermann gave me,’ said Loken. ‘It seemed appropriate given where we find ourselves now.’

  ‘That’s true enough,’ agreed Torgaddon.

  ‘What are we becoming, Tarik?’ asked Loken. ‘I don’t recognise our Legion any more. When did it change?’

  ‘The moment we encountered the Technocracy.’

  ‘No,’ said Loken. ‘I think it was on Davin. Nothing’s been the same since then. Something happened to the Sons of Horus there, something vile and dark and evil.’