They built a highway and allowed only one structure to stand proud of the great platform – an ornamental pavilion of black marble and heavy granite that had been built piecemeal on Terra and then shipped across the void by special envoy. Marker posts decorated with the skulls of ork commanders paced out the length of the road, and behind them great bowls of smokeless promethium burned brightly, endlessly lighting the highway with their blue-white fire.
When the Mechanicum were finished, the honoured came to pay homage to the battle won, the Crusade’s ideal and the one who was father to them all. The Imperial Army and the Titan Legions bracketed the gathering. Human troops were ranked in uncountable numbers, their host so wide they became a sea of battle armour and dress uniforms. Every common man and woman who stood on Ullanor’s soil that day had been selected for their valour and conduct, and until the day they died each would have the singular honour of wearing the onyx-and-gold Triumph Bar upon their uniforms. The award was forged from bolt shells recovered from the field and melted down. Ranged around them, the great war machines of the Collegia Titanica towered towards a sky cut to ribbons by the contrails of a thousand aerospace fighters; and above those, high over the thin white cirrus clouds of Ullanor’s day, warships moved as slow as they dared through the upper atmosphere, washes of interface heat rolling off their void shields as they showed their flanks in a gesture of renewed fealty.
Then the legionaries. Of all the Emperor’s genhanced brigades, a full fourteen of the Legions stood represented at Ullanor, and with them came nine beings of inimit-able power and majesty.
Nine gods and angels made flesh, the primarchs of the greatest armies ever created by human hands. Mortarion, the reaper of men and master of the Death Guard, cowled and lethal in aspect, matched by the warrior-guardians of his Deathshroud. The Phoenician, Fulgrim, resplendent in his finery and handsome in aspect, lit by the reflection of gold and platinum. Magnus the Red, the Crimson King, the lord of the unknown, his soul as much a mystery to the common world as the workings of the warp and the ghosts within it. Lorgar Aurelian, the quiet and brooding zealot who burned with such intensity and buried it all deep in his heart, saying little and standing watchful. His polar opposite was Angron, the gladiator-lord and son of grief, never able to settle or moderate his seething, endless fury, always on the verge of outburst and violence. Dorn, the stalwart man of stone, the Imperial Fist with his unswerving manner and unbreakable focus, the one who would always obey, always ready for duty. The Khan, his fur-trimmed robes and ornate armour detailed with a thousand narratives of the White Scars Legion, his every step across the land a challenge to the galaxy. Then Sanguinius of the Blood Angels, flanked by the gold-armoured honour detail of the Sanguinary Guard, his mighty wings folded back across his battle plate, his face turned to the sky to welcome the impossible, majestic sight before them.
Horus Lupercal, of course. Horus of the Luna Wolves, the Hero of Ullanor, liberator and first among equals. Horus, who was to be given the new honour of a title above and beyond any that had been bestowed before; a title, it could be said, that would forever carry the echo of his name.
There was no memory of the self beyond the command, the deed and the completion of the action. If memory had once existed, then it had been excised by deft application of scalpel blades and laser cutting beams. Slivers of brain matter sliced out or burned away to render down a self into nothing.
Or something more than nothing, perhaps, if one were generous. Was a tool a worthy thing? Was a lifetime locked into servility commendable? Perhaps, but only if such service was selfless. When shackled to it, made slave and helot in the name of service, then it was another matter entirely.
Unit Eight-Eight-Kappa-Two’s work tables for the day started and ended in this place, a commander’s lavish tent erected on the southern face of the Great Triumph’s stage. A light wind ripped the shallow peak of the pavilion overhead, but the servitor only registered the atmospheric effect in the most vague way. Perhaps if the weather changed it would be required to modify its operating parameters to reflect the circumstances, but so far there was no sign of such a thing. It did not possess the self-awareness to act upon data such as that; if a change was to be made, a fresh directive meme would be broadcast into the implant module that took up a full quarter of Unit Eight-Eight-Kappa-Two’s skull. The module’s outer skin was made of brass polished to a brilliant amber lustre, and it matched the buttons on the servitor’s brocaded coat, the buckles on its boots, the multiplicity of additional fingers at the end of its long arms.
The unit had been a gift from the commander of the Second Mounted Xiphos Regiment, his personal servile bequeathed to the Luna Wolves Legion after his invaliding from the field of battle on Brocktorian; before then, it had come to the Xiphos from the Mechanicum, approximately forty-two years earlier. Before that, Unit Eight-Eight-Kappa-Two had been Toin Sepsoe, a rapist and killer of women in the hives of Hollonan, but like the rest of his sordid and unpleasant pre-life, that had all been taken away and disposed of. Captured by the city guard, convicted and sentenced to perpetual servitude all that Sepsoe had been the adepts chemically smothered or surgically removed. Like the cancer that it was, his noxious personality was excised and what remained of his flesh repurposed for a greater good.
Unit Eight-Eight-Kappa-Two cooked and cleaned, it performed laundry duties, it would fetch and carry, and if one did not look directly at it, one might think it was still a man. This was untrue, of course; beneath the military uniform it wore, the meat and skeleton that had once been Sepsoe was retrofitted with more durable ceramite brackets and numerous bio-organic implants that allowed it to live longer than a human being, to go without the need for sleep and to sustain nourishment through ingestion of a bulk nutrient porridge, similar to that fed to grox or riding beasts.
It had no understanding of the meaning of the place where it worked, it could not have differentiated between the barracks of the lowest ranked Imperial Army soldier or the halls of the Imperial Palace. All Unit Eight-Eight-Kappa-Two had was the works tables implanted in its memory core, the temporary files that told it who was in charge and what level of service it was to provide to them.
One of the subjects on that table now entered the tents, moving with purpose and a manner that could have been read as annoyance. A giant to the servitor, clad in power armour that hummed with every heavy bootstep, incapable of merely walking, only striding.
A subroutine activated, causing Unit Eight-Eight-Kappa-Two to bow low and utter a pre-programmed greeting. ‘M’lord Horus. I await your instructions.’ The words were wet and breathy.
Horus ignored the servitor and stepped to the far side of the tent, where a flexible panel in the weatherproof material allowed him to see out. Night was falling across Ullanor and still the Great Triumph was rolling on. Ships in the sky glittered like radiant jewels, and the fires muttered a steady chorus over which the sounds of a victorious army washed back and forth, like ocean surf. Out there, humans and post-humans alike were celebrating and sorrowful in equal order. They cheered on the Emperor and his newly-appointed commander of all the Imperium’s forces, but they were saddened by the announcement that the Master of Mankind would be leaving the Great Crusade to follow his works on Terra.
Horus shrugged off the wolf pelt about his shoulders, tossing the mantle to one side with scarcely a glance to where it fell. Dutifully, the servitor walked to the heaped fur and gathered it up.
After a pre-determined interval, Unit Eight-Eight-Kappa-Two’s program pushed it to speak once again, a reminder interrupt. ‘What is your will, Warmaster?’
‘Warmaster,’ echoed Horus, rolling the word around his mouth, tasting it. His mood did not appear to lighten. He turned away. ‘Bring me wine.’
‘I exist to serve.’ The servitor ambled to a table and recovered a bulbous oenochoe jug covered with a mosaic of running wolves under gibbous moons. It poured a generous measure into a bronze cup and brought it to Horus’s open hand. The goblet, larg
e in the servitor’s grip, was delicate in the Warmaster’s fingers.
Unit Eight-Eight-Kappa-Two returned to a waiting mode, head slightly bowed, observing without really observing. It did not register the way Horus allowed a scowl to cross his powerful features before he chased it away with a sip from the cup.
Just then, the motion of the tent’s door flap caused the servitor’s head to snap up and focus on another arrival. A second priority personage entered, this one not as high upon the duty tables as Horus but still greatly elevated. Unit Eight-Eight-Kappa-Two monitored the figure for a few seconds, tracking the shape of it. He was another giant like the Warmaster, but his mass was strangely displaced in white forms folded tight across his shoulders. Wings.
‘Brother,’ said Sanguinius, with a smile. ‘Ah, forgive me. Warmaster.’ He bowed slightly. ‘The title does have such gravitas, don’t you think?’
Horus managed a smile in return, but it was brittle and it did not reach his eyes. ‘Shall I grow to fit it?’
The Angel seemed not to notice. ‘It will grow to fit you. And you’ll wear it well.’
The moment stretched into a pause before Horus spoke again. ‘How do you manage that?’
‘Manage what?’
‘To find the right words at the right moment, every time. I see you when you speak to the others, to the rank and file. Even to those outside the Legion.’
Sanguinius spread his hands. ‘We all have some of father’s oratorial gift in us.’
‘Aye,’ he agreed. ‘But when I seek words to express my intent I have to dig for them, measure them first and cut to size. You are effortless with it.’
‘You’re wrong,’ said the Angel, summoning the servitor with a curl of his slender fingers. ‘I’m just better at making it look effortless.’
Unit Eight-Eight-Kappa-Two performed the function expected of it, bringing a new goblet and fresh wine to both the primarchs. Neither of them acknowledged it as it worked, then backed away once more.
‘I saw the royal barge landing.’ Horus nodded in the direction of the ship fields. ‘The Custodian Guard are preparing for the journey.’
‘The voyage back to Terra is a long one,’ said the Blood Angels primarch. His tone was curiously neutral. ‘The Imperator Somnium has shifted out to far orbit. The Emperor will lead the departure, it is only right. He will return to the Segmentum Solar and we… we will return to our Crusade.’
The signifier Imperator Somnium registered briefly in the servitor’s memory core: an interstellar craft of unique classification, it was beyond the security clearance of the lowly machine-slave to even set foot aboard one of its shuttle-barges. A goliath among starships, the Emperor’s command carrier matched in size the great orbital plates such as Riga and Skye, which floated over the surface of distant Terra like windborne island continents. When it had first entered orbit of Ullanor the planet’s sun had been partially eclipsed, and the Emperor’s helmsmen were forced to administer the ship’s course with an iron hand, to prevent the mass of the vessel exerting a tidal effect on the local weather system.
‘Our Crusade,’ echoed the Warmaster. ‘It truly is ours now, brother. Father’s decision to return to the Imperial Palace places it squarely in our hands.’
They fell silent for a moment. ‘You were as surprised as the rest of us,’ said Sanguinius, at length. ‘I had thought he would have told you of his intent.’
‘To lead, one must have a solid grasp of theatre,’ Horus replied distantly. ‘And this is such a stage we have built here.’ He trailed off, glancing back towards the window.
Sanguinius spoke again before Horus could say more. ‘I think I have intruded. You wish a moment alone.’ He turned back towards the door flap, placing his goblet on a table, the contents untouched. ‘I’ll keep the others occupied.’
‘What will you say?’ Horus asked the question to his back, and the Angel halted. ‘That you found me brooding?’
‘Are you?’ Sanguinius asked lightly. ‘We’re leaving that to Angron this night, I thought.’
‘He’s not happy.’
That gained Horus a nod. ‘He never is. It’s his lot in life.’ Sanguinius turned. ‘He’s furious. More furious than usual, I mean.’
Something shimmered, momentarily drawing the eye of the waiting servitor. The Warmaster was fingering the chain of platinum links hanging about his neck, upon them a sapphire cut into the shape of the Eye of Terra. The medallion was a sigil of rank and status, bestowed upon Horus only hours before at the dedication ceremony.
‘Angron won’t be the only one. There will be others who become embittered by the distinction father gave me this day. When Perturabo hears of it…’ He let the sentence trail off.
A shadow passed over his brother’s face. ‘It will not be to his liking, that is so. He will think it should have been him. And Curze, well…’ Sanguinius hesitated before he said the next words. ‘They’ll hate you for it. At least at first.’
Horus scowled and let the medallion drop from his fingers. ‘I never asked for this. But I won’t be sorry for it.’
‘Nor should you!’ Sanguinius went back to the goblet and took it up again. ‘Brother, the mantle of Warmaster is yours and it is right to be so.’ He grinned. ‘I am proud and pleased beyond my ability to express.’
‘You are,’ said Horus, as if it were a suddenly a certainty for him.
‘And Lorgar and Fulgrim?’ his brother continued. ‘Did you not hear them cheer with me when father said the words, when he named you supreme commander? The others were an echo behind, but they feel the same. I’m sure if Rogal were not so stiff he would have done so as well.’
‘Dorn did shake my hand.’
‘From the Imperial Fist, that’s practically an outburst of joy.’ Briefly, the Angel’s smile spread to his sibling and Horus gave a shallow nod. Sanguinius went on. ‘Do you know why he picked you? It wasn’t favouritism, it wasn’t politics or expedience. It’s not a reward, do you understand? It’s what you deserve. Because you have always been the best of us, Horus. You are the closest in soul to the people we are sworn to defend, you are your father’s son… and, let’s not overlook the fact that you are a fairly good general.’
The servitor watched the Angel walk to the Warmaster’s side and clap a hand upon the pauldron of his power armour. The easy camaraderie between them was a very human thing for two beings of such a starkly post-human nature. But still, there remained a reluctance in the master of the Luna Wolves that seemed at odds with his manner.
Horus eyed his brother. ‘Some will think it should have been you.’
Sanguinius blinked, the declaration momentarily taking him unawares. Then he shook his head. ‘No. Do you believe that?’
‘Does it matter?’
The Angel’s jaw stiffened. ‘Anyone who thinks I should stand where you do now, anyone who speaks those words does not see either of us clearly.’ Despite the fact that the conversation contained no commands for it, Unit Eight-Eight-Kappa-Two’s attention remained drawn to the two primarchs, as if even the mechanical parts of its mind were fascinated by their exchange. ‘No, not I. I am… Too far away.’ His wings drew in towards his back, the slight motion ringing the small ornaments of silver and pearl hanging from the pinions as they moved. ‘A Warmaster can only walk the field of battle, never soar above it.’ Then the smile and the laughter returned. ‘This honour could only be yours. Our brothers will all come around in the end. Let some of them grimace and secretly claim they are the better choice, and as they do, you will prove to them why they are not with words and deeds. You will validate father’s decision, Horus. You already have. Angron and the rest… They just need to see it. Just as you need me now to tell you what you already know.’
‘Perhaps so,’ Horus admitted. ‘You have always been my conscience, Sanguinius. Never forget how much I value that.’
The Angel came to stiff attention, with a snap of ceramite so gunshot-loud that it made the servitor twitch and stutter. He saluted with the
goblet. ‘You will lead us to a final, glorious victory in father’s stead, to the ends of the Great Crusade. I believe this with every fibre of my being.’ Sanguinius drained the goblet with ritual formality. ‘And I will do all I can to help you with this, however long it takes.’
With a nod, the Angel tossed the cup into the air and the servitor smoothly stepped forwards, its eight-fingered hand splaying open to catch the thrown goblet without effort. Unit Eight-Eight-Kappa-Two returned the drinking vessel to a serving trolley, cleaning it as it went.
Sanguinius began to walk away. ‘I’ll leave you to your thoughts, brother. And make the most of this moment of quiet, because I doubt you’ll have many more with your new office.’
‘Wait,’ Horus called out. ‘I have a question for you, that only now comes to me.’
‘I’ll answer if I can.’
The Warmaster did not turn to look at his brother as he spoke. ‘I’ve never asked you about your gifts, Sanguinius.’ The servitor sensed the other primarch stiffen at the words. ‘I have never asked about your sense for… future events.’
‘Nothing so grand,’ the other primarch demurred. ‘An inkling, no more. A greater sense of instinct that sometimes reveals itself to me in dreams.’
‘Indeed,’ Horus replied. ‘So tell me, in your dreams, did you ever see this day unfolding? Our father, taking leave of the Crusade for reasons he does not fully share with his sons, and this new laurel about my head?’ At last he turned to look his brother in the eyes. ‘Did you foresee any of this?’
The warmth faded from Sanguinius’s face. ‘No.’
Horus nodded once more.
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