The Lost and the Damned (The Horus Heresy Siege of Terra Book 2)

by Guy Haley

  ‘Do you live up to your name?’

  ‘We do, my lord,’ said Thane proudly. ‘There are no better builders in my Legion than our Chapter, and my company is among the best.’

  ‘Propitious. You have some work to do here.’

  Sanguinius strode past the captains towards an embrasure looking down the southern reach of the wall. He was tall enough not to need the secondary walkway running around the inside of the crenellations, but climbed it anyway to look. Some kilometres away, past the first tower after the Helios Gate, scaffolding surrounded a scar in the wall.

  ‘We are working night and day, my lord, to plug the breach made by the collapse of the Dawn Tower,’ said Thane.

  ‘The repairs are nearly complete?’

  ‘They are. The finish is rough, but the wall will hold. We cannot, regrettably, replace the tower.’

  ‘There was a flaw in the void generators under that section,’ said Raldoron. ‘We are unlikely to lose another bastion soon.’

  ‘This is known to me,’ said Sanguinius. ‘Flaw or not, the loss of that tower is only the first we shall suffer. The bombardment continues. The shields of the Palace cannot last forever.’

  ‘What the enemy tears down, we shall rebuild, my lord.’ Thane clashed his fist against his chest-plate.

  Sanguinius turned to look over the outer defences. Besides extending the city’s walls, Dorn had supplemented the fortifications with miles of outworks. Trenches and ramparts extended over the artificial plains in three parallel lines. Whatever had been there before had been bulldozed. Bastions, deliberately isolated from the lines, stood behind the outermost ramparts like pieces laid out for regicide. Though much smaller than the towers of the wall itself, they were still enormous at a hundred metres tall. Sanguinius followed the lines of radial trenches emanating from the wall proper, past the third and final line where they stopped, and on towards the point where the horizon, foreshortened by the drop in elevation down to the plains of Ind, cut the earth from the sky.

  Past that point, the world was burning.

  He saw, with a primarch’s acuity, young forests aflame, and palls of dust cast skywards by the relentless pounding of the enemy’s guns. There was enough firepower in orbit to tear Terra to pieces, but that was not the Warmaster’s aim. It was as if instead he wished to wipe away every good thing the Emperor had done. Sanguinius recalled his glimpse of the sprawling mega-hive, and the grey, dead world around it. This was the birth of that grim future. He needed to distract himself from that realisation.

  ‘The outer defences are fully manned?’

  ‘As well as they can be, my lord,’ said Raldoron. ‘Mostly conscripts, with a stiffening of what’s left of the Old Hundred – not many though. We have stationed only the most severely under-strength formations in the outworks. Veteran companies of Imperial Army over fifty per cent manned stand beside us here on the wall. As Lord Dorn ordered, no legionaries are stationed without.’

  On impulse, Sanguinius unclasped his golden helm and lifted it from his face. His shining hair unwound and flew like a banner. The cold wind should have been refreshing, but it carried the smell of burning, and deprivation. He faced into the breeze and breathed deeply, his enhanced senses capturing a thousand scents that together told only of despair.

  ‘My lord…’

  Raldoron gestured hesitantly to his genefather’s face. Sanguinius reached up and touched his cheek. As he brought his fingers away, he saw that they glistened with tears. He had not realised he was crying.

  ‘Why do you weep, my lord?’ asked Raldoron.

  ‘I cry for the price of victory, my son,’ said Sanguinius, and wept no more. He stopped the tears with an act of will, and his face chilled as they were dried by the wind.

  Daylight Wall, Helios section, 24th of Secundus

  Sanguinius spent the rest of the day on the Daylight Wall. There were extensive guard chambers beneath the Helios Gate’s tower tops, but most of the rest was solid mass with few internal voids. Only the very centre housed further chambers, and these were small and hot, packed full of machines, men and servitors. Thane was keen to show the primarch the command centre, though it was obvious to Sanguinius he simultaneously wished his exalted visitor gone, for his presence distracted his men. Raldoron had little to report.

  Sanguinius excused them both and walked a little way through the firing galleries of the Daylight Wall. These were occupied in the main by Space Marines, with a heavy presence of ordinatus tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus autokrator, manning the many medium and smaller guns mounted within the walls. The baseline, unmodified humans in the galleries were all veterans of the Imperial Army, principally of the Old Hundred as Raldoron had said. Those at that part of Daylight were drawn from the well-armoured Anatol Evocatii, but he saw uniforms from a dozen others.

  Privately, Sanguinius had misgivings about the conscripts outside the wall. They had been handed a death sentence. As a man, he lamented their sacrifice; as a commander and a primarch, he appreciated Dorn’s decision as ruthless pragmatism. When Horus’ forces landed, it would be insane to throw away their better troops slowing his attack on the Palace defences, when pressed civilians would serve as well to tie up the initial landings. Everyone outside would perish. He could imagine the destruction to come only too easily. Better their elites were kept back for the real fight.

  You care too much. Curze had said that to him once, before he had gone completely insane. It was a fair assessment.

  Sanguinius passed through the Weeping Tower between the gate and the fallen Dawn Tower, amazing those working inside. Nobody expected to see a primarch within the Outer Walls. He apologised for disrupting their watch, and passed on. Most were Blood Angels, but Raldoron’s Chapter was not much in evidence. As veteran Space Marines, the Protectors were held back further within the Palace. Besides a company from his own Chapter, Raldoron commanded a network of fifteen subordinate officers, and the Blood Angels Sanguinius met with were drawn from everywhere within his Legion. It saddened him that he did not know many faces. So many were young, new recruits speed-inducted by the Lunar genomancer Andromeda-17, Terrans in the main who had never seen Baal.

  He reached the downed tower. The inner walkway stopped abruptly. Fresh rockcrete walled the passage off, and although Thane would doubtless bore fresh ways through, for the moment it was a stark reminder of what the walls would have to endure.

  Sanguinius ran his fingers over the freshly cast false stone, and turned about.

  His vox-beads popped into life. A priority channel, no override possible.

  ‘Rogal,’ he said.

  Dorn’s voice was clear in spite of enemy interference and the energies spilling off the void shields. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I am on the walls, at the fallen Dawn Tower, south of the Helios Gate.’

  Dorn made a noise of annoyance. ‘What are you doing all the way out there?’

  ‘The Dawn Tower is not the most easterly,’ Sanguinius said, ignoring his brother’s irritation. ‘The name should go to the tower at the easternmost point of Daylight, surely?’

  ‘What relevance does that have to anything?’ Dorn said.

  ‘I teach my sons that nothing is worth doing, if not done right.’

  ‘I had not factored pedantry into father’s gifts to you,’ said Dorn, a little humour creeping into his voice.

  ‘There is nothing else to occupy myself with,’ said Sanguinius. ‘I tell these warriors that I have come to oversee them, but there is little to oversee. Your Captain Thane has done an exemplary job.’

  ‘Of the Twenty-Second? He is a good man,’ said Dorn. He spoke to someone else, a terse order to redirect supplies. Dorn’s life was fashioned from such details, delivered by silent messengers, absorbed, appraised, responses sent out in brief bursts of speech. He returned to their conversation. ‘You should not put yourself at risk, brother. Stay off the wall.’

  ‘I am perfectly safe. We cannot hide in the Bhab Bastion until Horus drags u
s out.’ He paused. Receiving no reply, he asked, ‘What do you want, Rogal?’

  ‘The Fabricator General wishes to speak with me. He says it is urgent, and it is not something that he is willing to discuss remotely. He insists on a meeting in person.’

  ‘You wish me to speak with him in your place then?’

  ‘If you would. I am somewhat occupied at the moment, and I think Jaghatai’s manner would annoy him.’

  Sanguinius laughed at Dorn’s dryness. ‘Very well. I will serve as your ambassador. Our men are in place. There is nothing to do but wait. I could do with the diversion.’

  ‘That is the nature of sieges, my brother,’ said Rogal Dorn dourly. ‘Inside or outside the walls. There will be desperate escalade, but not yet. Waiting, waiting, and then a few hours of fury. Either they succeed, and we die, or they lose, and the process begins again. The passage of war for mortal men is measured in boredom punctuated by terror. Nowhere is this more true than in sieges.’

  ‘Your wars, perhaps.’

  ‘You are fighting my kind of war now,’ said Dorn. ‘I shall tell the Fabricator General you are coming. Perhaps then he will leave me alone. Zagreus Kane is loyal to the Imperium, committed to the alliance of Terra and Mars, and a valued asset of our father. I am sure he is a genius in his own field of expertise, but he is no general.’

  Dorn sent a tight-beam datacast to Sanguinius’ armour apprising him of Kane’s whereabouts. ‘Take a guard appropriate to your status,’ Dorn advised. ‘Kane is proud, but fragile. He will require a display.’ With that, he bid Sanguinius good day, and cut the line.

  ‘My brother,’ said Sanguinius to himself, ‘is growing curt.’

  He remained in the passageway a few minutes longer, staring at the fresh rockcrete, his mind wandering, then sent word to Raldoron to arrange a small squad to meet him at the base of the wall along with transportation. He would not listen to his brother. Sanguinius had had his fill of pomp on Macragge. If he must arrive escorted, then he would do so minimally.

  The conclave of traitors

  Risks and benefits

  For the glory of the gods

  The Vengeful Spirit, Lunar orbit, 24th of Secundus

  ‘You are displeased, First Captain.’

  Abaddon scowled blackly at Layak. They walked dark corridors towards Lupercal’s court.

  ‘I told you to keep out of my head.’

  Layak chuckled wetly. ‘I am not in your mind, cousin. I do not need to be. You do nothing to hide your emotions. Your expression says everything your voice will not. You are unhappy. I say you would fare badly in a game of wagers.’

  ‘This isn’t a game, Layak,’ growled Abaddon.

  ‘Is it not? You think like a gamesman. Formulating moves, and countermoves.’

  ‘This is war,’ said Abaddon irritably.

  ‘I am not talking about the war out there. I am talking about the struggle in here.’ He tapped his free hand to his primary heart.

  Abaddon turned on his heel, fist clenched, bringing the small group of captain, blade slaves and Apostle to an abrupt halt at a junction in the corridor. Again the blade slaves objected to his attitude to their lord, and cracks in the armour flared, and their hands went to the hilts of their swords.

  ‘Go on,’ said Abaddon. ‘Try.’

  The blade slaves remained ready to fight. Warp light shone from their helm lenses. Ash drifted around them like snow.

  Chuckling, Layak raised his hand, fingers upright. He let the gesture hang in clear threat, then shook his ornate staff.

  The blade slaves removed their hands from their swords.

  ‘I told you,’ said Abaddon. ‘Stay out of my head.’

  ‘Having a little trouble with your priest, Ezekyle?’

  Horus Aximand approached the group from the transverse way, joining them at the junction.

  ‘Lord Horus himself is my patron, Horus Aximand,’ said Layak. ‘It is your brother here who is having trouble with his faith.’

  Aximand’s ruined face sat badly on his skull, stretching his once handsome features into an angry leer. They still called him Little Horus, though he barely resembled their genesire any longer. The hilt of his famed sword, Mourn-it-All, protruded above the top of his power plant.

  ‘I grant they’re annoying,’ said Aximand. ‘But we have these Word Bearers to thank for the return of our father to health.’

  ‘Do we?’ said Abaddon. He resumed walking. ‘Where are the others?’

  ‘Kibre hangs around the Warmaster like a bad smell, as is his habit. He will not leave Horus’ side without being dismissed. His brain has gone soft since Beta-Garmon and Horus’ return.’

  Abaddon did not disagree. Horus’ fall had shaken Kibre to a pathetic degree. ‘Tormageddon?’

  ‘He does as he pleases.’ Aximand’s expression became more horrible as he frowned. ‘But he will be at the court for this.’

  ‘Then you are blessed,’ said Layak, ‘The Neverborn show you favour.’

  ‘I’d rather he showed his favour somewhere I wasn’t,’ said Aximand.

  ‘You should embrace it,’ said Layak. ‘You are champions of the Pantheon. The might of the warp can be yours, if you but reach out to take it.’

  Aximand snorted through his misshapen nose. ‘I’ll pass. The blessings of your gods have been decidedly mixed of late. Guilliman breathes down our neck. The Warmaster makes no move on the prize. Is a blessed warlord forced to keep his generals apart for the harm they will do each other? This edification is to be conducted by hololith. Gathering his brothers in one place has become too much of a risk for the Warmaster,’ Aximand continued. ‘Angron, who by your estimation is probably very blessed indeed, rages at everything when he has control of himself, which is never, and when he does not, he has the unfortunate habit of butchering everyone around him.’ He continued, the voice of reason emanating from his devil-mask of a face. ‘Then there’s Lord Fulgrim, who especially annoys Lord Angron. True to his nature, Fulgrim revels in Angron’s ire, and goads the Red Angel for his own amusement, which puts us all in danger. That’s not to mention the fumes around the Phoenician that choke the mortals who breathe them.’ Aximand shook his head ruefully. ‘Perturabo sulks on the fringes of the system. Mortarion approaches but refuses to answer any hails. Horus’ grand army is riven by divisions at every level.’

  ‘Indiscipline is our enemy now as much as time,’ said Abaddon. ‘This is what your gods bring us, Layak. Chaos,’ he said sourly.

  ‘Things were going so well,’ said Aximand. ‘Until you failed to catch the Fenrisian, Ezekyle. The Wolf, the Consul and the Raven at our backs. Time grows short.’

  ‘So good then that you and Kibre kept everything working smoothly while I was about my supposed failure,’ said Abaddon sharply. ‘Horus cannot arbitrate every disagreement. The war will be won soon enough.’

  ‘What if it isn’t?’ countered Aximand. ‘Horus could allow you or I to do something about these divisions. But he won’t – worse, he forbids any activity on our part. Something has changed. Horus has not been the same since Maloghurst brought him back.’

  ‘Says the man who fought to prevent it, yet who wept tears of blood when our father returned from the dead a second time. Hypocrisy does not become you, brother.’

  Aximand looked at his brother sternly. ‘Mock me all you like, Ezekyle, I know you agree with me.’

  Abaddon grunted. He did not disagree, but he would not add to his father’s burdens by feeding Aximand’s fears.

  Lupercal’s court was dark and forbidding. It was hard to remember how it was before Davin. A place of glory, where honourable men met to decide the fate of a galaxy; Abaddon assumed it had been so, rather than truly recalled it. The Vengeful Spirit stank of the warp’s influence, and it cheated men’s minds.

  On the surface, not much had altered. The banners had changed along with their allegiance, but the same decisions were made there, the same tables and chairs furnished the room, and many of the same warriors attended. The
real transformation was less obvious. It lingered out of sight, an unmistakeable taint that hung over the hall, and a coy scent that refused definition forever on the edge of sensing: hints of incense, burnt sugar and powdered bone.

  The source of the unease was centred on Horus. Abaddon stared at his father. Again he was disturbed by what he saw. The Warmaster sat rigid on his throne, looking off into hidden worlds, not blinking, smiling knowingly, dull eyes oblivious to all that went on around him. The cracked skull of Ferrus Manus sitting on the throne’s armrest had more presence than the Warmaster at the moment, staring with empty-eyed defiance over the gathering.

  Kibre stood at Horus’ left side at stiff attention. He and Abaddon had hardly exchanged words in the last few weeks. Tormageddon, the daemon wearing its third stolen body, attended at Horus’ right. It wore a smirk that echoed Horus’ distant smile. Elements of Grael Noctua remained in Tormageddon’s warped features, but it was a dangerous illusion. Tormageddon’s being was wholly alien. It was at best a temporary ally. Tormageddon was another threat, another warp foulness that poisoned Abaddon’s father, twisting him away from what he had been, remaking him in the gods’ image and robbing him of his will.

  ‘Ezekyle, Little Horus,’ Tormageddon greeted them. Kibre was slow to acknowledge their presence, looking between the members of the party before speaking.

  ‘Brothers,’ he said eventually. ‘The Mournival is gathered.’

  Aximand looked suspiciously at Tormageddon. Both he and Abaddon had a hard time accepting the daemon as one of their own, but as Horus decreed it, so it must be.

  ‘For the final moves in this long war,’ said Abaddon. He clasped arms with Kibre, then did the same with the daemon, doing his best to mask his distaste. Aximand greeted Kibre, but pointedly ignored the Neverborn.

  A change came over the Warmaster as he returned from that other place his spirit so often went. His smile smoothed away, he grew in stature. Unease was replaced by calm. As Horus looked over them all and blessed them with his attention, Abaddon caught a glimpse of the man he had known.