[Horus Heresy 12] - A Thousand Sons

by Graham McNeill - (ebook by Undead)

  “This world may be young, but this volcano is old,” noted Ahriman, seeing the glances passing between Fulgrim’s lord commanders as he spoke. He couldn’t read their auras, and nor could he establish a link to his Tutelary. The glare of the Emperor’s light was too powerful, overshadowing everything with its intensity.

  Ahriman wondered if Magnus was similarly blinded by it.

  He watched Magnus and his brothers as they spoke in low tones, relishing the sight of his primarch in the company of peers who harboured no ill-will towards him. Yet despite the bonhomie, their discourse was superficial. The more Ahriman studied the ebb and flow of their conversation and body language, the more he saw the supple flex of linguistic sparring.

  The primarchs spoke of past campaigns, old glories and shared experiences, treading only on the comfortable ground of memory. Any hint that the subject of their meandering words might turn to matters of the future or the nature of the conclave were subtly deflected by Fulgrim, turned around and steered to safer ground.

  He’s hiding something, thought Ahriman, something he doesn’t want us to know about this gathering.

  Magnus must also be aware of it, but his primarch gave no sign that he was anything other than a willing actor in this unfolding drama. Ahriman looked at the Emperor’s Children behind and before them, now seeing them as a prisoner escort instead of an honour guard.

  He wanted to warn Magnus, but nothing he might say could change their course. Whatever awaited them in the great amphitheatre he knew lay at the heart of this volcano, they had no choice but to face it. This was one destiny where the future was immutable and changeless.

  The coiling passage wound ever upwards, and Ahriman knew they were close the summit.

  The glow of the walls grew brighter, and Ahriman saw the extra light was coming from a vaulted antechamber of mirror-smooth basalt and glass. Servitors awaited their arrival with refreshments, and padded couches lined the walls.

  “These will be your private chambers during recesses in the conclave,” said Sanguinius.

  “They are quite sufficient,” replied Magnus.

  Ahriman wanted to scream at the stilted formality of it all. Couldn’t Magnus see that something was terribly wrong here? Sweat beaded on Ahriman’s face and neck. He had the overwhelming urge to retreat to the waiting Stormhawk, fire up its engines and fly back to the Photep, never to return to Nikaea.

  A pair of bronze doors led into the heart of the mountain, and the future pressed in from the other side.

  “Is there anything else you require, friend Ahzek?” asked Lord Commander Eidolon.

  Ahriman shook his head, the effort of keeping his expression neutral almost beyond him.

  “No,” he managed, “though I thank you for your concern.”

  “Of course, brother,” said Eidolon, and Ahriman caught the inflexion on the last word.

  Sanguinius turned and nodded to Raldoron and Thoros, who took up position on either side of their master and threw the bronze doors open.

  It was all Ahriman could do not to scream a warning at Magnus. The Primarch of the Blood Angels marched through the great portal into the golden light with Fulgrim at his side. They beckoned Magnus to follow them.

  Magnus turned to face Ahriman, and he saw the hurt of impending betrayal in his eye.

  “I know, Ahzek. I know,” said Magnus wearily. “I see now why we are here.”

  Magnus turned and followed his brothers into the light.

  Ahriman followed Magnus through the doors, entering a grand amphitheatre hewn from the sharp-sided inner slopes of the volcano’s crater. Thousands of figures filled its carved black benches, looking down into the amphitheatre. Most were robed adepts of high rank, though Ahriman saw groupings of Astartes scattered throughout the tiers. The stone floor of the amphitheatre was polished black marble, inlaid with a vast eagle of gold.

  Sanguinius and Fulgrim led them to the centre of the arena, and Ahriman was struck by the appropriateness of the term, reminded of old Romanii legends that described how captured members of an underground sect had been thrown to the wolves and eaten alive for the perverse enjoyment of the crowd.

  Though the world around them was raging in its birthing pangs, the air within the volcano was utterly still, the tempests beyond its tapered peak kept at bay by the hidden workings of the Mechanicum.

  Ahriman’s stride faltered as he saw the pyramid-stepped dais at the opposite side of the amphitheatre and the being that awaited them. This was the epicentre of the light and the beacon that had guided them through the maelstrom of spatial interference around Nikaea. So bright that he was almost obscured by his own brilliance, the Emperor of Mankind sat upon a carved throne of soaring eagle’s wings and grasping claws coloured with blood red rubies. A golden sword lay across his lap, and he bore an eagle-topped orb in his left hand.

  Flags of black silk and gold embroidery rippled above the Emperor, borne aloft by silver chembs with glittering clarions that filled the air with a tuneless fanfare. At once, Ahriman was reminded of the Visconti-Sforza card that Lemuel had asked him catch.

  “Judgement,” he whispered, wondering how he could have missed so obvious a portent.

  Custodes warriors flanked their master and formed an armoured wall before the dais. Ahriman’s doubts fled in the face of so wondrous an individual, for what could trouble a mind so blessed with this vision of perfection before it? He could not see the Emperor’s face, merely impressions. A thunderous brow and stem, patrician features cast in a mould of dashed hope.

  “Clarity, Ahzek,” said Magnus. “Stand with me, and rise into the Enumerations. Retain your keenness of thought.”

  Ahriman tore his gaze from the Emperor with effort and stepped alongside Magnus. He whispered the names of the first masters of Tizca over and over until he achieved the peace of the lowest sphere. Reaching that made advancing to the higher spheres easier, and Ahriman’s thoughts returned to something approaching equilibrium with every step he took.

  Freed from the clutter of emotion, he turned his attention to studying their surroundings as thoroughly as he might peruse any grimoire. He saw that the Emperor was not alone on the dais. The praetorian beside the Emperor was a warrior Ahriman had met once before on Terra, Constantin Valdor.

  From the look of the curling script that snaked all around his armour, Valdor had prospered in the ranks of the Custodes, his proximity to the Emperor surely marking him as its most senior member.

  A man in the plain dark robes of an administrator stood next to Valdor, an unassuming man rendered fragile and insignificant next to the giant Custodes warrior. This man too, Ahriman recognised, his long mane of white hair and all too human frailties marking him out as Malcador the Sigillite, the Emperor’s trusted right hand and most valued counsellor.

  To have earned a place in such rarefied company marked Malcador out as exceptional, even among a gathering of the most brilliant minds in the galaxy. He had not risen to such prominence by any virtue of eugenics, but by the simple brilliance of his mortal wisdom.

  A red-robed fusion of machine parts and organics was surely Kelbor-Hal, the Fabricator General of Mars, but the others on the dais were unknown to him except by reputation: the green-robed Choirmaster of Astropaths, the Master of Navigators and the Lord Militant of the Imperial Army.

  The lowest tier of the amphitheatre was punctuated by cantilevered boxes, like those in a playhouse reserved for kings. A short flight of steps led from each box to the floor of the amphitheatre. Figures were sitting in the boxes, but Ahriman couldn’t focus on them or discern any traits of height, bulk or appearance. Instead of defining forms, he saw shadows and reflections, each box filled with bent creases of light. Though there were unmistakably people within each box, technological artifice concealed them from sight.

  Falsehoods.

  Whoever occupied the boxes retained their anonymity by virtue of chameleonic cloaks that shielded them from the casual sight of observers. But Ahriman was no casual observer,
and not even the overwhelming light of the Emperor could completely obscure the titanic forces lurking beneath the falsehoods.

  Ahriman turned his attention from the hidden viewers as Sanguinius and Fulgrim reached a raised plinth before the dais. Its only furniture was a simple wooden lectern such as a conductor of an orchestra might use to rest his sheet music upon. Magnus and Ahriman halted before the plinth, and the nine warriors of the Sekhmet stood sentinel with their masters.

  The Blood Angels and Emperor’s Children dropped to their knees before the Emperor, and the Thousand Sons followed suit. Ahriman saw the dread of this moment in his dark eyes reflected in the polished black floor.

  “All hail the supreme Master of Mankind,” said Sanguinius, his soft voice filling the amphitheatre with its quiet strength. “I present before you, Magnus the Red, Primarch of the Thousand Sons and Lord of Prospero.”

  “Rise, my sons,” said a voice that could only be the Emperor’s. Ahriman had not seen him speak, but a reverent silence filled the amphitheatre, an utter absence of sound that seemed impossible with so many thousands gathered here.

  Ahriman rose to his feet as Malcador the Sigillite descended the steps of the dais, bearing an eagle-topped sceptre that Ahriman recognised as belonging to the Emperor. It dwarfed the man, but Malcador appeared not to notice its bulk. Instead, he carried it as lightly as a walking cane. A pair of acolytes followed the Sigillite, one bearing rolled parchments, the other a smoking brazier in blackened iron tongs.

  Malcador crossed the gleaming floor of the amphitheatre and stood before the three primarchs. The Sigillite’s white hair pooled around his shoulders like snowfall and his skin was the texture of old parchment. He was just a man, yet had lived out the spans of many men. Some put this down to the finest and most subtle augmetics or a rigorous regime of juvenat treatment, but Ahriman knew of no means that could sustain a mortal life for so long.

  Malcador had the wisdom of aeons in his dark, deep-set eyes, wisdom won over the passage of centuries spent at the side of the greatest practitioner of the arts in the galaxy. That was how Malcador endured, not through cheap tricks or the artifice of technological trinkets, but by the Emperor’s design.

  He held the staff up before Magnus, Fulgrim and Sanguinius, and Ahriman saw that his hands were thin, bony and frail. How easy it would be to break them.

  “Fulgrim, Magnus, Sanguinius,” said Malcador with what Ahriman felt was woefully misplaced familiarity. “I’d like you all to place your right hand upon the staff, if you please.”

  All three primarchs did so, sinking to their knees so their heads were level with Malcador’s. The venerable sage smiled before continuing.

  “Do you all swear that you shall do honour to your father? In sight of those assembled here on Nikaea, will you solemnly swear that you will speak the truth as it is known to you? Will you do glory to your Legions and to your brothers by accepting the judgement this august body shall reach? Do you swear this upon the staff of the father who sired you, schooled you and watches over you in this hour of upheaval and change?”

  Ahriman listened to the core of the Sigillite’s words, seeing past the fine homilies and noble ideals to the truth beneath. This was no simple Oath of the Moment; this was an oath sworn by a defendant on trial for his life.

  “Upon this staff I swear it,” intoned Fulgrim.

  “By the blood in my veins I swear it,” said Sanguinius.

  “I swear to uphold all that has been said upon this staff,” said Magnus.

  “Let it be so recorded,” replied Malcador with a stiff formality that went against his normally affable demeanour. His acolytes stepped in towards the kneeling primarchs, the first unrolling a slender parchment with the words Malcador had said written upon them. He held it pressed flat to Magnus’ vambrace while the second ladled a blob of hot wax from his brazier and poured it onto the parchment. This was then embossed with an iron stamp bearing the eagle and crossed lightning bolts seal of the Emperor. The servitors repeated this with Fulgrim and Sanguinius, and when they were done they retreated behind Malcador.

  “There,” said the Sigillite. “Now we can begin.”

  Hooded adepts led the Thousand Sons to the box on the lower tiers of the amphitheatre above where they had entered. Magnus and his warriors took their places within the box as Fulgrim and Sanguinius were led to their seats. Excited conversation began once more.

  Ahriman found himself drawn inexorably to the Emperor. High in the Enumerations, he was freed from the impact of emotion, and found he could see the Master of Mankind clearly, reading the reluctance etched into his regal features.

  “He doesn’t want this,” said Ahriman.

  “No,” agreed Magnus. “Others have clamoured for this, and the Emperor has no choice but to appease his supporters.”

  “Clamoured for what?” asked Ahriman. “Do you know what is going on?”

  “Not entirely,” hedged Magnus. “As soon as I heard Fulgrim’s voice, I knew something was amiss, but the heart of it eludes me.”

  As he spoke, Magnus tapped his thigh, making a series of apparently innocuous movements with his fingers, as though he were loosening stiff joints. Ahriman recognised them as the somatic gestures of the Symbol of Thothmes, the means by which a sanctum could be made secure from observation. It was also a symbol for silence in the presence of the enemy.

  Beside the primarch, Mahavastu Kallimakus faithfully recorded their words, his eyes fixed ahead without really seeing what was going on. Only a man completely under the sway of another could be so unaffected by the grand company assembled beneath the stars.

  “In any case,” said Magnus, “I believe we are about to learn the nature of this gathering.”

  Ahriman looked back to the floor of the amphitheatre, seeing Malcador standing at the plinth with a sheaf of notes spread on the lectern before him. He cleared his throat, the acoustics of the volcano’s crater amplifying the sound until even those ensconced at the back of the amphitheatre could hear him clearly.

  “My friends, we gather here on the birthing rock of Nikaea to speak on a subject that has vexed the Imperium since its inception. Many of you here today have come not knowing the substance of this conclave or the nature of this debate. Others know it all too well. For that I apologise.”

  Malcador consulted his notes once more, squinting as though having trouble reading his own handwriting.

  “And now to the heart of the matter,” said Malcador. “This gathering will address the question of sorcery in the Imperium. Yes, gentlemen, we are here to resolve the Librarian Crisis.”

  A gasp of astonishment rippled from the tiers of the amphitheatre, though Ahriman had guessed what the substance of Malcador’s words would be as soon as he mounted the plinth.

  “This is an issue that has divided us for many years, but here we will end that division. Some will maintain that sorcery is the greatest threat facing our dominion of the galaxy, while others will rail against what is said here, believing that fear and ignorance drives their accusers’ hands.

  “Let me assure you all that there is no greater crisis facing the Imperium, and the heroic undertaking upon which we are all embarked is too vital to risk with discord.”

  Malcador drew himself up to his full height and said. “That being said, who among you shall speak first?”

  A gruff voice cut through the chatter from the tiers. “I shall speak,” it said.

  Undulant light in the box opposite the Thousand Sons rippled as a powerful figure threw off his falsehood. The warrior’s beard was waxed, and he wore a snarling wolf’s head across his shaved scalp. The skin of its forelegs was draped over his barrel chest and its pelt formed a ragged cloak.

  Armoured in stormcloud grey and bearing his eagle-headed staff across one shoulder, Ohthere Wyrdmake, Rune Priest of the Space Wolves, stepped down into the amphitheatre.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Witch Hunters / The Heart of a Primarch / Magnus Speaks

  The Librarian Cri
sis: like a guilty secret, it lurked behind the veneer of Unity, a dull ache that the body of the Imperium had tried to forget, like a frightened man ignoring a pain in his belly for fear of what might come to light under the glare of examination. Librarians had first been introduced to the Legions when Magnus, Sanguinius and Jaghatai Khan had proposed a regime of psychic training and development that went hand in hand with the already rigorous creation process of an Astartes warrior.

  The Emperor had sanctioned these first experiments as a means of directing and controlling the power of emerging psykers within the Astartes, and Librarius departments were formed within the Thousand Sons, Blood Angels and White Scars to train them. The Librarians they had crafted had proven to be loyal warriors and potent weapons in the Legion’s arsenal. Such was the success of these early experiments that Magnus pushed for his program to be expanded, allowing other Legions to benefit from his research.

  With the success of the early experiments, many primarchs came to see the usefulness of Librarians, and allowed warrior-scholars from the Thousand Sons to form Librarius departments within their ranks. Not all the primarchs saw this as a good thing, and from the earliest days of its inception, the Librarian program was beset by controversy.

  Psychic powers came with dark heritage, for the Great Crusade was rebuilding the lost empire of humanity from the wreckage left after Old Night, a cataclysm brought about, it was claimed, by the uncontrolled emergence of psykers all across the galaxy. As much as Magnus and his compatriots vouchsafed the integrity of the Librarians, they would always bear the stigma of those who had brought humanity to the edge of extinction.

  Though there had been squabbles and division over the employment of Librarians, those divisions had been manageable and without real weight. The Thousand Sons heard the accusations levelled at them and stoically ignored them, content that they acted with the Emperor’s blessing.

  Like an untreated wound, those divisions had festered and spread, threatening to become a rift that would never be sealed. And so, with Horus Lupercal anointed the Warmaster and his retreat to Terra imminent, the Emperor chose this moment to heal that rift and bring his sons together as one.