Horus Heresy: Scars

by Chris Wraight

  The brotherhood followed him in, dropping to the deck as they swooped under the docking bay roof. The riders killed their engines, leaping from the saddle before the last of the roaring had died down, and their mounts coasted to a steaming standstill.

  Shiban kicked his bike away and sped for the doors at the far end, drawing his glaive from his back as he ran. The energy field spat into life.

  ‘To me!’ he roared, noting how many life sign runes were streaming through the hangar. More than two hundred had already broken through; many more were coming in.

  Jochi reached him, sprinting hard, bolt pistol in one hand and tulwar in the other. ‘Command bridge lock,’ he voxed to the rest of his brethren. ‘Nineteen levels up.’

  Shiban nodded, reaching the exit ramp and powering up it towards a huge pair of half-open blast-doors.

  ‘We’ll be there in no time,’ he grinned.

  The last of the psychneuein disappeared into the ruins, leaving nothing but ghostly trails of witch-light over burned-out buildings. The Khan watched them go. His blade ran with luminous ichor, dripping in teardrop clumps to the dust. Dozens of carcasses littered the earth around him, some still twitching in jerky displays of insect agony.

  Killing them had been straightforward enough. It was a matter of belief, as much as anything: attuning himself to the potential that existed within him, just as it did in all of his brothers. They were, every one of them, creatures of the warp, whatever Malcador told the masses and whatever Russ or Angron might like to believe about themselves.

  It runs in our minds like blood in a vein.

  Qin Xa and the surviving keshig warriors gathered around him. As he turned to acknowledge them, the Khan noticed more silver flashes running along the horizon. The rumble of thunder had grown louder during his absence. The clouds were racing now, jostling like herds of aduun on the stampede.

  Qin Xa bowed. ‘Khagan, are you–’

  ‘Do you have a fix on the Swordstorm?’ the Khan asked, glancing back up at the unquiet skies. He could sense the static in them, laced with strands of vivid aether-essence.

  ‘Not yet.’

  The Khan turned back, and caught sight of the Thousand Sons legionary among the others. For a terrible moment he thought that it was Ahriman – he wore the same crimson armour and bore the same arcane sigils.

  ‘You,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’

  The sorcerer bowed. ‘Revuel Arvida, lord. Fourth Fellowship.’

  The Khan regarded him. He could see the vigour of the psychic soul glowing inside him like a candle-flame – weakened by privation, but still vivid.

  ‘You are the last?’

  ‘As far as I know,’ said Arvida. ‘Unless–’

  ‘There is nothing down there,’ the Khan said. ‘Not any more.’

  ‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ asked Qin Xa.

  The Khan thought on that. It was hard to know what to say. He had never known what he was looking for, in truth. He had hoped, as had always happened in the past, that the quarry would fall into view before him, leaping away on the edge of sight, poised for him to run down. Now that he had ended the chase, though, it was hard to decide what kind of thing had been encountered.

  ‘I know more than I did,’ he said.

  ‘Then who is the traitor?’

  The Khan smiled bleakly. ‘Everything we were told was the truth. This world bears the kill-mark of Russ, just as we were told, but Magnus had already fallen, just as we were told. Behind them all stands Horus, the Lord of Primarchs.’ He looked up into the skies. ‘They were all to blame. There is no one traitor – there is only a web, stretching back in time, clutching at us all. And now it comes for us.’

  Above the column, the clouds began to glow. A vibrant shard of light speared down from the smog, crackling as it hit the stone below.

  The Terminators turned to face it, powering up their weapons. Qin Xa stepped in front of the Khan. Only Arvida remained unmoved.

  ‘I have felt him following us for a long time,’ murmured the Khan, watching the energy lash and snake. Plumes of dust blew up, snarling in electric arcs and making the air hum with static. ‘He has been on my heels since Ullanor. He has finally caught up.’

  The keshig moved into a loose semicircle, poised to strike. None of them would move before the order was given, though; they were the extension of the Khan’s will.

  ‘Do not try to prevent him,’ said the Khan calmly, watching dark shapes solidify within the raging wall of light. ‘He is beyond all of you. How could he not be? He is my brother.’

  Hasik watched the augur readings with a growing sense of unease.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he demanded, swinging around to face Taban. ‘Can there be no mistake?’

  ‘I do not think so, noyan-khan,’ replied the sensorium master, peering intently at the lenses clustered around him. ‘I am as surprised as you. But I will check, to eliminate the possibility of error.’

  Hasik turned to Goghal, commander of his keshig.

  ‘What of the fleet?’

  ‘The Qo-Fian is moving to engage them. I cannot make contact with the bridge. Hibou is not responding from the Tchin-Zar. I have reports of disorder on many vessels now.’

  Hasik exhaled irritably. ‘We do not have time for this.’

  Goghal looked over his shoulder briefly. Far away, back down in the depths of the lower bridge, the Terran woman was still working hard at her station.

  ‘The Kaljian has landed boarders. Even here, my lord, we are not–’

  ‘Shiban’s ship?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘Open a vox-link to the incoming flotilla,’ ordered Hasik. ‘Prevent any of our vessels from opening fire on them. This is the moment – we hold here, we wait here.’

  He turned to the dozens of White Scars around him. They were khans, captains, senior ship-officers and mortal commanders – just a few of those who had been persuaded and who were now working to free the Legion from the hand of tyranny. Some, like Taban, were members of the flagship’s crew; others had come with him from the Tchin-Zar. They remained resolute. They had no choice.

  ‘Incoming vessels are not responding,’ replied Goghal quietly.

  Hasik cursed. ‘Why not?’

  ‘I have run repeat scans,’ interjected Taban. ‘There was no mistake. Teleportation was detected. Locus fixed on Tizca.’ He looked up at Hasik. ‘They appear to have gone direct to the source.’

  Hasik felt his frustration rising. This was not what had been arranged. ‘Can we get a fix? Can we send down–’

  Klaxons suddenly burst out across the bridge, echoing in the high vaults. White Scars warriors all around the key stations locked their bolters and began to move towards the many entrances.

  ‘Boarding party approaching, noyan-khan,’ reported Goghal, drawing his own weapon from its holster. His voice was almost reproachful. ‘Orders to repel?’

  Hasik cast his eye over the command bridge. For all its size, it was stuffed with throngs of bodies – menials, station operators, Space Marine squads, tech-priests. Hundreds of them, all at his command. At the heart of it was his own keshig, the unbreakable retinue of Terminator-clad veterans. Just like the Khagan.

  A lone brotherhood posed no real risk – they had run the calculations. But still, he had hoped to avoid full-scale combat in persuading others to the honourable course. Perhaps that had always been a foolish hope.

  ‘We are secure here,’ said Hasik coldly. ‘Tell them to hold the enemy at the entry points.’

  Goghal bowed. ‘And what of… them?’

  Hasik turned back to the arch of the massive observation portal. He could see them with his own eyes now – four grand warships, each clustered with escorts, burning towards them out of the glare of Prospero’s sun. They were moving slowly but purposefully, a far cry from the disruption sweeping across the White Scars fleet.

  ‘They are not Sixteenth Legion, noyan-khan,’ said Goghal.

  ‘I can see that.’


  Why did they not make contact? Why the silence?

  ‘This is the test, brothers,’ Hasik announced, turning back to the warriors around him. Even as he did so, he heard the first hard bangs of bolter-fire echoing in the levels below. ‘This is what we have been working towards.’

  He drew his own blade, the Chogorian tulwar that he had borne into battle since the first days of the Crusade.

  ‘It cannot be halted now,’ he said. ‘For the sake of the Imperium, no backward step.’

  Shiban burst into the corridor, running hard. A dozen of his warriors flanked him, and they raced along together, followed closely by the rest of the brotherhood.

  Menials pressed against the walls to let them pass, wide-eyed with shock. Warning klaxons rang tinnily, followed by ship-wide emergency warnings. Many of the ship’s crew were armed with las-weapons, but had nothing that could stop several hundred primed and armoured White Scars on the rampage. The brotherhood pushed up, deck after deck, not encountering any resistance that they could not sweep aside with unconscious ease.

  Near the end, Shiban broke into one of the halls below the bridge level: a vast space with curving marble walls and banks of glowing sensor lenses. Hundreds of tech-priests and mortal officers scattered ahead of him, breaking like herds of prey before a hunters’ arrowhead formation. He did not even see their faces – they passed him in a blur. Ranks of cogitator logic engines swept by, as tall as Warhounds and steaming from superheated valves and transistor-columns.

  As he sprinted clear of the last of them, the first hammering salvo of bolter-fire cracked into the walls around him.

  He skidded to a halt, dropping low and scanning for the source of the incoming shots. A wide staircase ran away from him, less than twenty metres ahead, ascending steeply to the far end of the hall. Terraces radiated along the walls on either side of it, all stuffed with servitor-stations.

  Halfway up the staircase, on a colonnaded landing area, a line of White Scars waited. They were well-established, already crouched in fire-positions and able to shelter behind the curve of the pillars around them. Beyond them lay the approaches to the strategium and bridge.

  Their commander did not make any attempt to stay in cover. He strode to the forefront, bolter in one hand, power sword in the other.

  ‘Go no further, brothers!’ he shouted, and his vox-amplified voice echoed around the hall. ‘That is enough. We will fire if you force us.’

  Shiban looked up at him, and his heart sank.

  It was Torghun.

  The Terran had come with at least the majority of his brotherhood – two hundred detectable, surely many more remaining out of sight.

  ‘This cannot go on,’ replied Shiban, holding position. Behind him, his forces advanced slowly under the cover of the logic engines. ‘You are not the master of this Legion, Torghun.’

  ‘Nor are you, brother,’ Torghun replied, gazing down at him from his vantage. ‘The bridge is sealed.’

  ‘What of the Khagan?’

  ‘Hasik speaks for the Khagan.’

  Shiban felt his blood run hot. No one, not even the Emperor himself, spoke for the Great Khan.

  ‘It is not just me,’ Shiban voxed. ‘Others will resist, all across the fleet. The Legion will not take Hasik’s lead.’

  ‘They will come around,’ said Torghun, though he sounded almost as if he were working to convince himself. ‘They will see it, just as the Khagan will when he returns.’

  Shiban examined the stairway approach. It would be difficult – the defenders had the height advantage, and the cover advantage.

  But did they truly believe in this? Would they hold the line for Hasik in the way that they would for the Khagan?

  ‘You can still withdraw,’ voxed Shiban. ‘I know you, brother – this is not why you joined them. You never intended it. Lower your blades. This is no longer about loyalty. It is over.’

  Torghun only hesitated for a fraction of a second, just a mere fragment of a chrono-slice, hardly detectable. Still, he hesitated.

  ‘I have my orders, Shiban,’ he said defiantly. ‘Come no further. We will fire on you.’

  Shiban nodded grimly. He transmitted a silent command to his brotherhood, over the comm.

  Go swiftly. Go surely. We do this for the Khagan.

  ‘Then I am sorry, brother,’ Shiban voxed, clutching his glaive two-handed and tensing for the charge. ‘Believe me, I am.’

  Now.

  With a deafening roar, the Brotherhood of the Storm burst out of cover and surged up the stairway, charging into the incoming torrent of bolter-shells as the hall exploded with light, sound and fury.

  The Khan watched the last of the warp energies tear away. He watched the ash settle and the residual snags of aether-burn ripple into nothing. Then he watched seven figures within the maelstrom emerge.

  Six of them were legionaries. They were clad in pale, thick-slabbed Terminator armour and carried huge reaper-scythes. Their pauldrons were olive-green and the links between the plates were cold iron. They were massive, heavier-set than Qin Xa’s retinue, hunched at the shoulder and leaking pale green vapour from the last of the teleportation beams.

  The seventh occupied a different order of power. He towered over them, clad in plate of bare brass and corpse-white ceramite. A long cloak of dark green hung down from high-rimmed shoulder guards. Skulls dangled from chains about his belt, some human, some xenos. A long pistol nestled among them – drum-barrelled and studded with bronze kill-markers.

  His eyes were amber, glinting from under the deep shadow of a tattered cowl. An ornate rebreather covered the lower half of his face. Coils of oily gas spilled from the lining of his battleplate, dribbling down the skull-painted surfaces and hissing on contact with Prospero’s death-dry soil.

  Tubes running from the rebreather mask gurgled with fluids. His breath came in clogged wheezes.

  ‘Jaghatai,’ said the primarch Mortarion, planting the heel of his enormous scythe into the dust.

  The Khan looked up at the blade. It was known as Silence, the greatest of the XIV Legion’s infamous manreapers.

  ‘Mortarion,’ the Khan replied, nodding in acknowledgement. ‘This is not your world.’

  ‘Nor yours. And yet here we both are.’

  Mortarion’s honour guard – the Deathshroud – spread out silently across the ash. Qin Xa’s warriors fell into a mirror formation. The two forces faced one another, just a few metres apart. Above them, the lightning rippled and the thunder growled.

  The Khan felt his muscles tense. ‘If you came for Magnus, he is no longer here.’

  ‘I came to find you, brother. Things have changed.’

  ‘You noticed.’

  Mortarion smiled behind his mask, making his mottled cheeks crease. ‘I have plenty to tell you, Jaghatai. There are opportunities here. The cost of error has never been higher – the rewards, beyond imagination.’

  The Khan observed him guardedly. Mortarion had always been hard to read.

  ‘You are here to persuade me, then?’ he asked. ‘You think, after all this, there are any more arguments to be made?’

  Mortarion reached up with his left hand and pushed his cowl back. A pallid grey scalp was revealed, though it still bore the noble countenance of the gene-brotherhood. Deep bags nested under his sharp eyes, and wisps of gas rose up from the collar about his neck.

  ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Just listen. You might learn something. Even you, my proud brother, can still be tutored.’

  The Khan left his blade unsheathed, holding it loosely by his side.

  Mortarion’s power seemed to have grown. Something burned in him, dark like old embers. His flesh was somehow bleaker, his stance a little more crabbed, and yet the aura of intimidation around him had been augmented. Back on Ullanor, even at the height of triumph, he had not had quite the same heft.

  The Khan recalled his brother’s words.

  What would be the wager on us, brother? What would you pay, if we fought?

  ‘Say
what you came to say,’ said the Khan.

  Mortarion bowed, half mockingly.

  ‘I have travelled a long way to find you,’ he rasped. ‘And now, look around – we have all the time in the universe. All we have left to disturb us are the dead, and they do not stir.’

  He smiled again, as mirthless and dry as before.

  ‘Yet.’

  Shiban shouldered into a brother-legionary, sending him staggering back up the wide marble steps. He spun his glaive, sweeping it through the air crossways and cracking the bolter free of the stricken defender’s gauntlets. Then he plunged it down, punching the blade-tip through his victim’s armour cabling and severing the oxygen feed.

  Torghun’s warrior gagged, tearing at his throat, and rolled across the steps into the path of Shiban’s charging brotherhood.

  The volume of fire was horrific: even running at speed, darting and ducking as they came, dozens had been cut down. The bolt-shells cracked hard into ceramite plate, ripping it apart and sending legionaries flying backwards.

  Right up until the order to charge had been given, Shiban had not been sure they would really open fire. Torghun had been as good as his threat, though, and his warriors had done their duty.

  The Brotherhood of the Storm surged up against the hammering deluge, sprinting in loose formation. For every one of them knocked back, ten more gained ground. Soon they were up amidst the colonnades and the fighting switched to close range. Brother locked blades with brother, and the echoing din of bolter-fire was joined by the acrid snarl of energy weapons.

  Shiban turned to face another defender, given away by the moon icon upon his pauldron but otherwise almost indistinguishable from any other warrior in the melee. They locked blades in a flurry of vicious strokes – Shiban whirled his guan dao, blurring the disruptor trail, before jabbing it straight ahead, impaling the warrior under the breastplate. He wrenched the blade deep, twisting it into the flesh beneath before yanking it clear.

  If the enemy had been a greenskin, he would have kept going – carving into the organs, making sure – but these were his brothers. He had no wish to kill if it could be avoided – he immobilised, shattered bones, throttled and bludgeoned, then moved on, sprinting further up through the throng of warriors towards the summit.