Age of Darkness

by Christian Dunn

  Weapon bays opened along the length of the Dedicated Wrath revealing banks of macro-cannons, plasma drivers and missile bays, like a savage hound baring its teeth. Along the dorsal superstructure, bombardment turrets swivelled, their cannons extending from armoured towers. Retro-thrusters fired along the battle-barge’s length as it reduced speed for the attack, its course curving gracefully to starboard so that its massive broadside would be brought to bear.

  On the bridge, Delerax stood behind his command throne, his fingers gripping its back. The display was alive with signals showing the position of the Raven Guard vessels and their returning drop-craft. The World Eater had calculated his angle of attack to bring him between the enemy battle-barge and the returning flotilla of landing craft.

  He heard the growl of the bridge doors opening and turned to see Horus’s representative enter. The Space Marine wore his helmet, as he had done in every meeting since coming aboard. His armour was painted in blue livery, but was otherwise devoid of any organisational markings.

  ‘Cease your attack, lieutenant-commander.’ The order came in a calm, clipped tone from the Space Marine’s external address system, and had the ring of artificial modulation to disguise it.

  Delerax laughed and turned back to the main screen.

  ‘Corax and his Legion are doomed,’ he said. ‘See for yourself. In less than ten minutes, we will open fire and destroy them forever.’

  ‘I speak with the authority of the Warmaster,’ said the Space Marine. ‘Cease your attack immediately.’

  ‘That authority counts for nothing here,’ said Delerax. He turned and squared off against the other. ‘If you want your orders to be obeyed, return to the Alpha Legion where you belong.’

  ‘It is has been decided that Corax has still a part to play,’ said the Alpha Legionnaire. ‘It has been decided that for the moment he will be allowed to live.’

  ‘Decided by you?’ Delerax’s question was harsh with scorn. ‘Who are you to make such a decision?’

  ‘I am Alpharius,’ said the Legionnaire.

  ‘Remove yourself from my bridge, or I will have your corpse removed.’

  Delerax glimpsed Kordassis to his left, pulling a bolt pistol from its holster. The World Eater smiled at the Alpha Legionnaire. His smile faded as he felt the cold touch of a muzzle against his cheek. He turned his head a fraction to see Kordassis holding his pistol to Delerax’s head.

  ‘What is this?’ the lieutenant-commander hissed. ‘What are you doing, Kordassis?’

  ‘I am not Kordassis,’ said the Space Marine holding the bolt pistol. ‘I am Alpharius.’

  Delerax twisted and made a lunge for the traitor’s gun. Muzzle flash blinded the World Eater and an instant later he felt the side of his skull exploding.

  Branne stood in the docking bay watching the drop-ships landing. The first were already disembarking their passengers. With weary steps, the survivors of the Raven Guard filed down the ramps onto the deck.

  They were a terrible sight. Most showed signs of injury. Their armour was a patchwork of colours; here the silver of an Iron Warrior shoulder pad; there the grey breastplate of a Word Bearer. Their armour was cracked and broken, bloodied and stained, and every face Branne looked upon was etched with fatigue. Glassy-eyed, the last survivors of the dropsite massacre trudged across the loading bay, welcomed by smiles and cheers from Branne’s warriors.

  The last of the shuttles touched down. Branne approached it as the docking ramp lowered. The first Space Marine out was a bizarre sight, his armour a mess of colours and bare ceramite. Only his shoulder pad bearing the Legion’s badge remained from his original suit. He took off his helmet and tossed it the floor.

  ‘Agapito!’ Branne laughed. He slapped a hand to his true brother’s chest. ‘I knew you would be alive. Too stubborn to let something like this kill you.’

  Branne looked closely at his brother, amazed by his outlandish appearance. A new scar ran from his right cheek to his throat, but beyond that it was the same face Branne had known for his whole life. Agapito returned the smile wearily. His deep brown eyes regarded Branne warmly. He reached a hand behind Branne’s head and pulled him closer. The two touched foreheads in a sign of respect and comradeship.

  ‘I see you have not managed to stay out of trouble, Branne.’

  The commander stepped back from Agapito to see Corax descending the ramp. The primarch towered over his Legiones Astartes, his black armour showing as much wear and tear as that of those under his command.

  ‘I was monitoring your transmissions,’ said Corax. ‘Why did the enemy abort their attack?’

  ‘I have no idea, Lord Corax,’ said Branne. ‘Perhaps they thought better of the idea, taking on three vessels at once.’

  ‘Where are they now?’ asked the primarch.

  ‘They’ve withdrawn to a hundred thousand kilometres,’ Branne replied. ‘They don’t look as if they’ll try to attack again.’

  ‘Odd,’ said Corax. He shook his head as if dismissing a thought. ‘Signal the other ships to make course for Deliverance.’

  ‘Yes, Lord Corax,’ Branne said, holding his fist to his chest. ‘And where are we to head?’

  ‘Terra,’ replied the primarch. ‘I must have an audience with the Emperor.’

  Blood and brains leaked from the side of Delerax’s skull. The World Eaters lieutenant-commander could feel his life leaking away with it. He could not move his legs and arms, and could feel nothing below his neck. It was an effort just to breathe.

  He swivelled his eyes up to Kordassis, wondering who it was he looked at.

  ‘Why?’ he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

  The Alpha Legionnaire loomed into view, stooping over Delerax. The World Eater could see his ravaged face reflected in the dark eye lenses of the Alpha Legionnaire’s helmet. That blank mask betrayed nothing of the Space Marine’s thoughts or mood. His metal-edged voice seemed distant as Delerax drew a last, rattling breath.

  ‘In times such as these, even the most trusted face can conceal an enemy.’

  Little Horus

  Dan Abnett

  ‘Look like the innocent flower,

  but be the serpent under it.’

  – Litus, Remarks.

  Let us speak of Little Horus, Little Horus Aximand. His aspect was the half moon, and his disposition, according to the humours, was inclining towards melancholia. This explained, many thought, his prevailing mood of sorrow and inner trouble, though he frequently denied it. ‘The melancholic humour is misunderstood,’ he said. ‘You think too literally. It has, in fact, the quality of autumn. It is the spirit of contemplative change, the accelerator of death, the enabler of ends and beginnings. Autumn clears away the world so that a new one may rise. This is my purpose. I am not sad.’

  Of course, once they reattached his face, all he ever really looked was angry.

  Dwell lay in their path, and illumination was required. The Dwellers were not Old Way ignorant. The shadows of the Long Night had been previously banished from their shores, and they had been compliant since their recovery thirty-two years earlier. The Dwellers had supplied eighty fine, loyal regiments to the Crusade armies.

  Isstvan was fresh in the memory, however, and blood-stained rumours of the infamy were spreading. A ferocious series of repercussive combats had flared through the Momed, Instar and Oqueth sectors. The instigator was a leader of the Iron Tenth, a flesh-spare warleader of the Sorrgol Clan named Shadrak Meduson, and it was he who marshalled the loyalists against the approaching fleet of the Warmaster’s 63rd Expedition. Meduson and his formations had come too late to stand with their Iron-handed master at Isstvan V. Rage, and calculated vengeance, smoked in his alloy heart. He had gathered fifty-eight full battalions of the Imperial Army about him, war hosts from the Momed voidhives, along with a flotilla of siege hulks from Nahan Instar, a half-broken cadre of Salamanders, some Mechan
icum claves, and a White Scars raid-force rerouted from a return voyage to the Chondax war front.

  Dwell, with its fortified cities, orbital batteries, ship schools, and eight million pinnacle-grade fighting men, would be the cornerstone of Meduson’s line. And any fool could see the Elders of Dwell would never side against the Throne.

  It was a matter of priority that their ignorance be illuminated swiftly, before they fell in step with the determined son of Medusa.

  Aximand’s face had earned him his name, though he was not the only member of the Sixteenth Legion who resembled the primarch. For a good many, including the First Captain, elective genetics had guaranteed it. They were sons, true sons, amongst the Sons.

  Aximand was the most alike of them all. It was not only the face; there was something in the manner of him.

  Of course, he was Horus too, a common Cthonic name made popular because of the primarch. They were all sons of Horus in the end.

  Little Horus. That’s what he was called, in tones simultaneously affectionate and mocking: Little Horus Aximand.

  There was nothing little about him. Captain of the Fifth. One quarter of the Mournival.

  ‘He who serves as a captain here would be as a primarch in the company of others,’ said Abaddon, and he was talking of Aximand when he said it.

  The reattachment left a scar. It set the character of the face differently, altered the seating of the muscles. Somehow, the wrongness, the imperfection, made him more like Horus, not less.

  Steel forged on Medusa has such a fine edge.

  He had a dream he never shared with anyone. First Captain Abaddon had indeed proclaimed that dreams were a weakness to be eschewed by all the Adeptus Astartes. The dreamless Luna Wolves were surely the purest of all.

  But times changed. The Luna Wolves had become the Sons of Horus. Kin had become unkind. The all-father of man had become the enemy. And, since Isstvan, Little Horus Aximand had begun to dream.

  Every dream was essentially the same. Aximand would dream about the events of the day. The dream would match, in all particulars, his experiences, except that someone else was present. Someone else had come to join him, an intruder who remained just out of sight or in distant shadows, in the next room, or the corner of his eye. Aximand could not see the intruder’s face, but he knew he was there.

  Aximand could feel him watching. He could hear him breathing.

  Little Horus was afraid of the dreams at first. He was afraid to have started dreaming, afraid of what Abaddon might say if he found out, afraid of the faceless intruder watching him whenever he slept.

  But he was not afraid of change. Change was, he insisted, part of his ruling character.

  ‘The melancholic humour is protean,’ he said. ‘It possesses the quality of autumn. It is transformative, the accelerator of death, the enabler of ends and beginnings. Autumn clears away the world ready for renewal. This is my purpose. I am not afraid.’

  Then again, after they reattached his face, all he ever really looked was unlike himself.

  Another change, forced on them by the circumstances of Isstvan, was the loss of the Mournival. Changing the name of the Sixteenth, changing the colour of their armour, those transformations had been embraced willingly as positive reinforcements of their resolve. They had never changed their allegiance: they still followed Horus and the Imperium.

  The Mournival, though, the Mournival was a painful loss. That small clique of sons, of peers, of brothers, selected to counsel the Warmaster had always been vital, organic.

  Little Horus still wore the mark of the half-moon on his helm, above the right eye-piece.

  As the fleet translated into the Dwell system, he spoke to Abaddon on the subject.

  ‘It is an antiquated concept,’ said the First Captain. ‘See how poorly it served us at Isstvan?’

  ‘People served us poorly,’ Aximand replied, ‘not the Mournival. The Mournival was always intended to provide even-tempered advice. It was supposed to provoke discussion and dissent, so that we could properly debate each issue and be sure of arriving at balanced reasoning.’

  Abaddon looked at him, uncertain.

  Aximand smiled back.

  ‘It is true to say,’ he added, ‘that the decisions we had to make at Davin and Isstvan were so extreme, the natural dissent was...’

  ‘Was what?’ asked Abaddon.

  ‘Intense. Those who lost the argument could not be permitted to live. It is the way of things. When the matter is so great, those who speak against it become our enemies. They had to say no, for in their no our yes was consecrated.’

  They. Abaddon and Aximand never spoke the names any more. Previous members of the Mournival, perhaps: Berabaddon, Syrakul, Janipur and dear Sejanus. All of them were spoken of, as one would speak of beloved ancestors. But the last two to come and go, their names were never uttered. They were memories too painful for even a transhuman to bear.

  ‘The mechanism always worked,’ Aximand pressed, dropping his soft voice to a leaf-rustle whisper, making Abaddon bend closer to hear. Below them, the vast bridge bustled with activity.

  ‘The mechanism always worked, even when we had to kill our dissenters. The method was valid and valuable. The Mournival provides balance, and guarantees the right decisions.’

  ‘So you would reinstate it?’ asked Abaddon.

  ‘Do we not need balance now, more than ever?’

  ‘You would reinstate it?’ Abaddon repeated.

  ‘It was never gone,’ said Aximand. ‘There are simply vacancies.’

  ‘Who would you approach?’ asked Abaddon.

  ‘Who would you?’

  Abaddon sniffed.

  ‘Targost.’

  Aximand shrugged.

  ‘A sound suggestion. Serghar Targost is heartwood like us, but he is also lodge-master. The lodge needs him clear-minded, not compromised by Mournival duties.’

  Abaddon nodded, seeing the sense of this.

  ‘Falkus Kibre,’ said Abaddon.

  ‘Hmmm.’ Aximand smiled again. Widowmaker Kibre was a true son, but he was also Captain of the Justaerin, and thus Abaddon’s number two. Too much weight in one corner of the Legion.

  ‘Kibre’s an excellent man,’ he began.

  ‘Kalus Ekaddon,’ said Abaddon, before Aximand could finish.

  Ekaddon. Captain of the Catulan Reaver squad. Another of Abaddon’s company. Aximand wondered if Abaddon properly understood the concept of balance.

  ‘You make a suggestion, then,’ said Abaddon.

  ‘Tybalt Marr.’

  ‘The Either? He’s a good man, but he hasn’t got the stomach for the job, not even now he’s shaken off Moy’s shadow. Kibre is a good–’

  ‘Jerrod,’ said Aximand.

  ‘He’s got his hands full taking the reins of the Thirteenth now Sedirae’s gone,’ Abaddon replied.

  ‘He’s more than able.’

  ‘He is, but he has new responsibilities,’ said Abaddon.

  ‘Grael Noctua,’ said Aximand.

  The First Captain paused.

  ‘Of the Twenty-Fifth Warlocked?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s just a squad commander.’

  Aximand shrugged. He took up a silver cup from the side table and sipped.

  ‘There is no rule that members of the Mournival be seniors or captains. In fact, if it were just composed of senior men, where would its point be? The Mournival is about balance and perspective. Wouldn’t a good squad leader’s insight complement the judgement of a first captain?’

  ‘Noctua is a fine soldier,’ Abaddon mused.

  ‘A captain in the making.’

  ‘He’s young.’

  ‘We were all young once, Ezekyle.’

  Abaddon took up a cup of his own, not to drink, just to have something to toy with while he considered
.

  ‘There is precedence, of course,’ said Aximand. ‘To remind you, Syrakul was a squad leader when Litus proposed him. He was ascendant. He was young, but Litus saw his qualities. You’ve said yourself, Syrakul would have been first captain if he’d lived.’

  ‘The same could be said for many,’ Abaddon replied. ‘We should consult Lupercal and–’

  ‘Why would we?’ asked Aximand. ‘The Mournival has always been an autonomous body. Lupercal likes it that way.’

  Abaddon frowned.

  ‘I suppose. So, Kibre and Noctua?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You will approach Noctua, if I make the overture to Falkus?’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Put him in the line with you at Dwell,’ said Abaddon. ‘Measure him one last time to be sure. You know the old saying? Measure twice, cut once.’

  The Mausolytic Precinct was regarded as one of the top three objectives, along with the primary port and the city of the Elders. The Precinct was sited on a high plateau overlooking Tyjun and the Sea of Enna. In its great, stone structures lay the dead of Dwell, each previous generation interred in ritual cybernation so that their collective thoughts, memories and accumulated knowledge could be accessed and consulted, like books in a library.

  The Mausolytic Precinct was Aximand’s responsibility. First Company would lead the attack on the city of Elders. Lithonan, the acting Lord Commander of the Army, would take responsibility for the port, with Jerrod and the Thirteenth as their spearhead.

  ‘I would be disappointed if we were forced to lose a resource like the Mausolytic Precinct,’ the Warmaster told Little Horus. ‘But I would be more disappointed if we lost this fight. Burn it only if the alternative is losing.’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ said Aximand.

  ‘I would be disappointed if we were forced to lose a resource like the Mausolytic Precinct,’ the Warmaster told Little Horus. The only light in the chamber came from the fire crackling in the great stone bowl.

  ‘But I would be more disappointed if we lost this fight. Burn it only if the alternative is... Aximand?’