by Dan Abnett
'I do only what my Warmaster instructs me.’ Torgaddon replied.
Sanguinius looked over at Horus. 'Is that right?'
Tarik had some latitude.’ Horus smiled. He stepped forwards and embraced Sanguinius to his breast. No two primarchs were as close as the Warmaster and the Angel. They had barely been out of each other's company since Sanguinius's arrival.
The majestic Lord of the Blood Angels, the IX Legion Astartes, stepped back, and looked out across the forlorn landscape. Around the base of the ragged hill, hundreds of armoured figures waited in silence. The vast majority wore either the hard white of the Luna Wolves or the arterial red of the Angels, save for the remnants of the detachment of Emperor's Children, a small knot of purple and gold. Behind the Astartes, the war machines waited in the rain, silent and black, ringing the gathering like spectral mourners. Beyond them, the hosts of the Imperial army stood in observance, banners flapping sluggishly in the cold breeze. Their armoured vehicles and troop carriers were drawn up in echelon, and many of the soldiers had clambered up to stand on the hulls to get a better view of the proceedings.
Torgaddon's speartip had razed a large sector of the landscape, demolishing stone trees wherever they could be found, and thus taming the formidable weather in this part of Murder. The sky had faded to a mottled powder-grey, ran through with thin white bars of cloud, and rain fell softly and persistently, reducing visibility in the distances to a foggy blur. At the Warmaster's command, the main force of the assembled Imperial ships had made planetfall in the comparative safely of the storm-free zone.
'In the old philosophies of Terra.’ Sanguinius said, 'so I have read, vengeance was seen as a weak motive and a flaw of the spirit. It is hard for me to feel so noble today. I would cleanse this rock in the memory of my lost brothers, and their kin who died trying to save them.’
The Angel looked at his primarch brother. 'But that is not necessary. Vengeance is not necessary. There is xenos here, implacable alien menace that rejects any civilised intercourse with mankind, and has greeted us with murder and murder alone. That suffices. As the Emperor, beloved by all, has taught us, since the start of our crusade, what is anathema to mankind must be dealt with directly to ensure the continued survival of the Imperium. Will you stand with me?'
We will murder Murder together.’ Horas replied.
ONCE THOSE WORDS were spoken, the Astartes went to war for six months. Supported by the army and the devices of the Mechanicum, they assaulted the bleak, shivering latitudes of the world called Murder, and laid waste the megarachnid.
It was a glorious war, in many ways, and not an easy one. No matter how many of them were slaughtered, the megarachnid did not cower or turn in retreat. It seemed as if they had no will, nor any spirit, to be broken. They came on and on, issuing forth from cracks and crevasses
in the ruddy land, day after day, set for further dispute. At times, it felt as if there was an endless reserve of them, as if unimaginably vast nests of them infested the mantle of the planet, or as if ceaseless subterranean factories manufactured more and yet more of them every day to replace the losses delivered by the Imperial forces. For their own part, no matter how many of them they slaughtered, the warriors of the Imperium did not come to underestimate the megarachnid. They were lethal and tough, and so numerous as to put a man out of countenance. The fiftieth beast I killed.’ Little Horns remarked at one stage, 'was as hard to overcome as the first.'
Loken, like many of the Luna Wolves present, personally rejoiced in the circumstances of the conflict, for it was the first time since his election as Warmaster that the commander had led them on the field. Early on, in the command habitent one rainy evening, the Mourni-val had gently tried to dissuade Horas from field operations. Abaddon had attempted, deftly, to portray the Warmaster's role and importance as a thing of a much higher consequence than martial engagement.
Am I not fit for it?' Horas had scowled, the rain dramming on the canopy overhead.
'I mean you are too precious for it, lord.’ Abaddon had countered. This is one world, one field of war. The Emperor has charged you with the concerns of all worlds and all fields. Your scope is-'
'Ezekyle...' The Warmaster's tone had betrayed a warning note, and he had switched to Cthonic, a clear sign his mind was on war and nothing else, '...do not presume to instruct me on my duties.’
'Lord, I would not!' Abaddon exclaimed immediately, with a respectful bow.
'Precious is the word.’ Aximand had put in quickly, coming to Abaddon's aid. If you were to be wounded, to fall even, it would-'
Horns rose, glaring. 'Now you deride my abilities as a warrior, little one? Have you grown soft since my ascendance?'
'No, my lord, no...'
Only Torgaddon, it seemed, had noticed the glimmer of amusement behind the Warmaster's pantomime of anger.
'We're only afraid you won't leave any glory for us,' he said.
Horus began to laugh. Realising he had been playing with them, the members of the Mournival began to laugh too. Horus cuffed Abaddon across the shoulder and pinched Aximand's cheek.
"We'll war this together, my sons,' he said. That is how 1 was made. If I had suspected, back at Ullanor, that the rank of Warmaster would require me to relinquish the glories of the field forever, I would not have accepted it. Someone else could have taken the honour. Guilleman or the Lion, perhaps. They ache for it, after all.'
More loud amusement followed. The laughter of Cthonians is dark and hard, but the laughter of Luna Wolves is a harder thing altogether.
Afterwards, Loken wondered if the Warmaster had not been using his sly political skills yet again. He had avoided the central issue entirely, and deflected their concerns with good humour and an appeal to their code as warriors. It was his way of telling them that, for all their good counsel, there were some matters on which his mind would not be swayed. Loken was sure that Sanguinius was the reason. Horus could not bring himself to stand by and watch his dearest brother go to war. Horus could not resist the temptation of fighting shoulder to shoulder with Sanguinius, as they had done in the old days.
Horus would not let himself be outshone, even by the one he loved most dearly.
To see them together on the battlefield was a heart-stopping thing. Two gods of war, raging at the head of a tide of red and white. Dozens of times, they accomplished victories in partnership on Murder that should, had what followed been any different, become deeds as lauded and immortal as Ullanor or any other great triumph.
Indeed the war as a whole produced many extraordinary feats that posterity ought to have celebrated, especially now the remembrancers were amongst them.
Like all her kind, Mersadie Oliton was not permitted to descend to the surface with the fighting echelons, but she absorbed every detail transmitted back from the surface, the daily ebb and flow of the brutal warfare, the losses and the gains. When, periodically, Loken returned with his company to the flagship to rest, repair and re-arm, she quizzed him furiously, and made him describe all he had seen. Horus and Sanguinius, side by side, was what interested her the most, but she was captivated by all his accounts.
Many battles had been vast, pitched affairs, where thousands of Astartes led tens of thousands of army troopers against endless files of the megarachnid. Loken struggled to find the language to describe it, and sometimes felt himself, foolishly, borrowing lurid turns of phrase he had picked up from The Chronicles of Ursh. He told her of the great things he had witnessed, the particular moments. How Luc Sedirae had led his company against a formation of megarachnid twenty-five deep and one hundred across, and splintered it in under half an hour. How Sacrus Carminus, Captain of the Blood Angels Third Company, had held the line against a buzzing host of winged clades through one long, hideous afternoon. How Iacton Qruze, despite his stubborn, tiresome ways, had broken the back of a surprise megarachnid assault, and proved there was mettle in
him still. How Tybalt Marr, 'the Either', had taken the low mountains in two days and elevate
d himself at last into the ranks of the exceptional. How the megarachnid had revealed more, and yet more nightmarish biological variations, including massive dades that strode forwards like armoured war machines, and how the Titans of the Mechanicum, led at the van by the Dies lrae of the Legio Mortis, smote them apart and trampled their blackened wing cases underfoot. How Saul Tarvitz, fighting at Torgaddon's side rather than in the cohort of his arrogant lord Eidolon, renewed the Luna Wolves' respect for the Emperor's Children through several feats of arms.
Tarvitz and Torgaddon had achieved a brotherhood during the war and eased the discontent between the two Legions. Loken had heard rumours that Eidolon was initially displeased with Tarvitz's deportment, until he recognised how simple brotherhood and effort was redeeming his mistake. Eidolon, though he would never admit it, realised full well he was out of favour with the Warmaster, but as time passed, he found he was at least tolerated within the bounds of the commander's war-tent, and consulted along with the other officers.
Sanguinius had also smoothed the way. He knew his brother Horus was keen to rebuke Fulgrim for the highhanded qualities his Astartes had lately displayed. Horus and Fulgrim were close, almost as close as Sanguinius and the Warmaster. It dismayed the Lord of Angels to see a potential rift in the making.
'You cannot afford dissent.’ Sanguinius had said. 'As Warmaster, you must have the undivided respect of the primarchs, just as the Emperor had. Moreover, you and Fulgrim are too long bound as brothers for you to fall to bickering.'
The conversation had taken place during a brief hiatus in the fighting, during the sixth week, when
Raldoron and Sedirae were leading the main force west into a series of valleys and narrow defiles along the foothills of a great bank of mountains. The two primarchs had rested for a day in a command camp some leagues behind the advance. Loken remembered it well. He and the others of the Mournival had been present in the main wartent when Sanguinius brought the matter up.
'I don't bicker.’ Horus said, as his armourers removed his heavy, mud-flecked wargear and bathed his limbs. The Emperor's Children have always been proud, but that pride is becoming insolence. Brother or not, Fulgrim must know his place. I have trouble enough with Angron's bloody rages and Perturabo's damn petulence. I'll not brook disrespect from such a close ally.’
Was it Fulgrim's error, or his man Eidolon's?' Sanguinius asked.
'Fulgrim made Eidolon lord commander. He favours his merits, and evidently trusts him, and approves of his manner. If Eidolon embodies the character of the III Legion, then I have issue with it. Not just here. I need to know I can rely upon the Emperor's Children.’
'And why do you think you can't?'
Horus paused while an attendant washed his face, then spat sidelong into a bowl held ready by another. 'Because they're too damn proud of themselves.’
'Are not all Astartes proud of their own cohort?' Sanguinius took a sip of wine. He looked over at the Mournival. 'Are you not proud, Ezekyle?'
To the ends of creation, my lord.’ Abaddon replied.
'If I may, sir.’ said Torgaddon, 'there is a difference. There is a man's natural pride and loyalty to his own Legion. That may be a boastful pride, and the source of rivalry between Astartes. But the Emperor's Children seem particularly haughty, as if above the likes of us. Not all of them, I hasten to add.’
Listening, Loken knew Torgaddon was referring to Tarvitz and the other friends he had made amongst Tarvitz's unit.
Sanguinius nodded. 'It is their mindset. It has always been so. They seek perfection, to be the best they can, to echo the perfection of the Emperor himself. It is not superiority. Fulgrim has explained this to me himself.’
'And Fulgrim may believe so.’ Horus said, 'but superiority is how it manifests amongst some of his men. There was once mutual respect, but now they sneer and condescend. I fear it is my new rank that they resent. I'll not have it.’
They don't resent you.’ Sanguinius said.
'Maybe, but they resent the role my rank invests upon my Legion. The Luna Wolves have always been seen as rude barbarians. The flint of Cthonia is in their hearts, and the smudge of its dirt upon their skins. The Children regard the Luna Wolves as peers only by dint of my Legion's record in war. The Wolves sport no finery or elegant manners. We are cheerfully raw where they are regal.’
Then maybe it is time to consider doing what the Emperor suggested.’ Sanguinius said.
Horus shook his head emphatically. 'I refused that on Ullanor, honour though it was. I'll not contemplate it again.’
Things change. You are Warmaster now. All the Legions Astartes must recognise the preeminence of the XVI Legion. Perhaps some need to be reminded.’
Horus snorted. 'I don't see Russ trying to clean up his berserk horde and rebrand them to court respect.’
'Leman Russ is not Warmaster.’ said Sanguinius. 'Your title changed, brother, at the Emperor's command, so that all the rest of us would be in no mistake as to the power you wield and the trust the Emperor placed in you. Perhaps the same thing must happen to your Legion.’
Later, as they trudged west through the drizzle, following the plodding Titans across red mudflats and skeins of surface water, Loken asked Abaddon what the Lord of Angels had meant.
At Ullanor.’ the first captain answered, 'the beloved Emperor advised our commander to rename the XVI Legion, so there might be no mistake as to the power of our authority.’
What name did he wish us to take?' Loken asked.
The Sons of Horus.’ Abaddon replied.
THE SIXTH MONTH of the campaign was drawing to a close when the strangers arrived.
Over the period of a few days, the vessels of the expedition, high in orbit, became aware of curious signals and etheric displacements that suggested the activity of starships nearby, and various attempts were made to locate the source. Advised of the situation, the Warmaster presumed that other reinforcements were on the verge of arrival, perhaps even additional units from the Emperor's Children. Patrolling scout ships, sent out by Master Comnenus, and cruisers on picket control, could find no concrete trace of any vessels, but many reported spectral readings, like the precursor field elevations that announced an imminent translation. The expedition fleet left high anchor and took station on a battle-ready grid, with the Vengeful Spirit and the Proudheart in the vanguard, and the Misericord and the Red Tear, San-guinius's flagship, on the trailing flank.
When the strangers finally appeared, they came in rapidly and confidently, gunning in from a translation point at the system edges: three massive capital ships, of a build pattern and drive signature unknown to Imperial records.
As they came closer, they began to broadcast what seemed to be challenge signals. The nature of these signals
was remarkably similar to the repeat of the outstation beacons, untranslatable and, according to the Warmaster, akin to music.
The ships were big. Visual relay showed them to be bright, sleek and silver-white, shaped like royal sceptres, with heavy prows, long, lean hulls and splayed drive sections. The largest of them was twice the keel length of the Vengeful Spirit.
General alert was sounded throughout the fleet, shields raised and weapons unshrouded. The Warmaster made immediate preparations to quit the surface and return to his flagship. Engagements with the megarachnid were hastily broken off, and the ground forces recalled into a single host. Horus ordered Com-nenus to make hail, and hold fire unless fired upon. There seemed a high probability that these vessels belonged to the megarachnid, come from other worlds in support of the nests on Murder.
The ships did not respond directly to the hails, but continued to broadcast their own, curious signals. They prowled in close, and halted within firing distance of the expedition formation.
Then mey spoke. Not with one voice, but with a chorus of voices, uttering the same words, overlaid with more of the curious musical transmissions. The message was received cleanly by the Imperial vox, and also by the astrotelepaths, conveyed with such
force and authority, Ing Mae Sing and her adepts winced.
They spoke in the language of mankind. 'Did you not see the warnings we left?' they said. 'What have you done here?'
PART THREE. THE DREADFUL SAGITTARY
ONE
Make no mistakes
Cousins far removed
Other ways
As AN UNEXPECTED sequel to the war on Murder, they became the guests of the interex, and right from the start of their sojourn, voices had begun to call for war.
Eidolon was one, and a vociferous one at that, but Eidolon was out of favour and easy to dismiss. Mal-oghurst was another, and so too were Sedirae and Targost, and Goshen, and Raldoron of the Blood Angels. Such men were not so easy to ignore.
Sanguinius kept his counsel, waiting for the Warmas-ter's decision, understanding that Horns needed his brother primarch's unequivocal support.
The argument, best summarised by Maloghurst, ran as follows: the people of the interex are of our blood and we descend from common ancestry, so they are lost kin. But they differ from us in fundamental ways, and these are so profound, so inescapable, that they are cause for legitimate war. They contradict absolutely the essential tenets of Imperial culture as expressed by the Emperor, and such contradictions cannot be tolerated.
For the while, Horus tolerated them well enough. Loken could understand why. The warriors of the interex were easy to admire, easy to like. They were gracious and noble, and once the misunderstanding had been explained, utterly without hostility.
It took a strange incident for Loken to learn the truth behind the Warmaster's thinking. It took place during the voyage, the nine-week voyage from Murder to the nearest outpost world of the interex, the mingled ships of the expedition and its hangers-on trailing the sleek vessels of the interex flotilla.
The Mournival had come to Horus's private staterooms, and a bitter row had erupted. Abaddon had been swayed by the arguments for war. Both Mal-oghurst and Sedirae had been whispering in his ear. He was convinced enough to face the Warmaster and not back down. Voices had been raised. Loken had watched in growing amazement as Abaddon and the Warmaster bellowed at each other. Loken had seen Abaddon wrathful before, in the heat of combat, but he had never seen the commander so ill-tempered. Horus's fury startled him a little, almost scared him.
