by Guy Haley
‘And this will result in the extinction of mankind?’
‘Sadly, but certainly.’
‘So if I act on your behalf, I will die,’ she said.
‘If you choose not to, you will die in the next few minutes. If you join us, you will die eventually, but I promise you will not die in vain. Nobody that serves us does.’
‘Are you rebels?’ she asked, incredulously.
‘No,’ he said plainly. ‘I wish there was another way. Either humanity dies now, and the universe is saved, or it dies later, and every living, breathing, thinking thing that exists in this reality will perish in torment.’
‘Then why would you do this?’ she asked, genuinely curious; although her death might have been seconds away, it was worth knowing, just for a moment.
‘There are other powers in the world besides these gods. They are not exactly benevolent, but they are not evil.’
‘That’s not an answer,’ she said. ‘Why do you do it?’
‘For the Emperor,’ he said simply.
That conversation was the most she had ever heard any one of them say.
She lifted her gaze from the octed carved into the gunstock. Above the clouds, night was falling; under them darkness was kept at bay by the bombardment. The world was orange from the shelling of the breached outwork sector. The aegis shone a lurid purple. Hugging the shadows, she made her way to her destination at the very edge of the zone being fired on by the walls.
There was a turret half a kilometre on, a small version of the outwork bastions that were themselves small versions of the Palace towers. Dorn’s fortifications had a fractal nature, each part a smaller reproduction of the greater parts, all interlocking, covering and supporting each other. From this simplicity of design arose complexity of defence.
There were four dead officers in the turret command centre. Their suite of rugged equipment was functioning, but offline, the screens for the cogitators blue fuzzes. Myzmadra was skilled with such devices, and soon had them dancing to her tune. She was sifting through the dataloom when a noise outside had her facing the door, a looted laspistol in her hand.
‘I thought I’d find you here,’ said Ashul. He stepped through the door, his gun cradled in the crook of his arm. He carried it as if he’d always had it, as if it were a child. ‘Did you find anything useful?’
She nodded, keyed the cogitator off then put several shots through it. ‘I’ve found tunnels under the bastions. They present opportunities.’
‘Opportunities worth dying over? You were lucky. Chances were that you’d be shelled by Dorn before you got here.’
‘We have to seize what resources we have. It’s worth a little risk.’ She shook her head. ‘All this care and attention the primarch Dorn goes to, and these fools have all the data I need copied onto their unit cogitator.’ She went through the bodies, checking jewellery and pockets for cypher keys and signum identifiers. ‘Anyone could have found it.’
‘Anyone did,’ said Ashul. ‘I thought we were done with this,’ he added after a pause. ‘After Pluto. When they sent us back. I thought, what more could they possibly want from us?’
‘You’re never done, Ashul,’ she said. She pocketed an ornate ring and a data wand. ‘Not with them.’
‘The name’s Doromek currently, better use it,’ Ashul said absently. He looked out the door. ‘There will be men here soon. They’re regarrisoning this section now the enemy have been forced back. You need to leave. It’ll raise awkward questions if you’re found here, and you’ll be executed if they find those keys on you.’
‘Let me worry about that,’ she said. ‘It’s you that should leave.’
He shook his head. ‘I’m supposed to be here. I’m acting lieutenant. I volunteered to scout ahead, on account of my proven skill set.’ He smiled humourlessly. ‘It is my sworn mission to retake this turret. I count it accomplished.’
She scowled at his joking. ‘You’re making too much of a show of yourself, and you’re too close to that trooper.’
‘Katsuhiro? He’s harmless. We might need him, and others. You said it, we have to make use of the resources we have, and we don’t have very many right now.’
She gave him a black look. ‘When you’ve finished playing hail fellow well met, why don’t we see about doing what we’re supposed to be doing?’
‘I get a bit tired of hanging back all the time,’ said Ashul. ‘And it’s working. I’m in now. We’ll find life a lot easier if I’ve got influence. Jainan listens to me. He needs me.’
‘You should stop it. You’re losing focus. You’re drawing attention to yourself.’
Ashul shrugged. ‘Attention sometimes works.’
‘Be careful.’
‘We’re going to die,’ he said.
Myzmadra gave him a tight nod.
‘But not in vain,’ she said.
Rage and decay
First Captain
Sword arm
The Vengeful Spirit, Lunar orbit, 8th of Tertius
‘Dorn defies us! The walls should be broken, the streets red with blood. Attack, attack, we must attack!’ Angron’s growls rang across Lupercal’s court. Drool ran from his snarl, vanishing into nothing as it fell outside the imaging field.
‘Walls cannot be shouted down,’ Perturabo said, his voice the ringing of a leaden bell. ‘You have lost your patience with your sanity.’
‘He’s not insane,’ said Fulgrim sweetly. ‘Are you, dear brother?’
‘Do not allow this snake to address me!’ roared Angron.
‘Cease your yapping, hound,’ said Perturabo. ‘This is a gathering of intellect, not animals.’
‘Speak with me in person and we shall see who is silenced first!’ roared Angron.
‘I bested you before, and will do so again,’ said Perturabo levelly.
Angron let out a howl of outrage that shook the air.
Abaddon glanced at his genefather’s empty throne. Horus was late to the meeting.
‘For the Warmaster’s sake, Ezekyle,’ hissed Kibre. ‘Do something.’
‘Someone has to,’ said Aximand, as the primarchs goaded each other. He made to step forward.
Abaddon grabbed his brother by the arm. He shook his head, his face a warning. Aximand shrugged and stepped back.
‘I’ll do it.’
‘Suit yourself,’ Aximand said.
Abaddon stepped forward, but did not speak. He stood in the midst of the primarchs and disdainfully watched their bickering.
‘Oh, Angron, my dear brother, your howling grows tiresome,’ said Fulgrim. ‘Where is Horus?’ He appealed to the room. ‘If anyone can get Angron to quieten, it is he.’
Angron sneered. ‘Nothing is more important than–’
‘Do be quiet, Angron,’ said Fulgrim. ‘There’s a good fellow.’
For a moment Angron stared, wide-eyed with affront, then his face swelled with apoplexy, and he screamed in anger. ‘I will not be quiet! I am the chosen of Khorne! You will heed me. You will–’
‘I have heard enough. Cut Lord Angron’s audio-feed,’ Abaddon said. Adepts of the True Mechanicum working in the background complied. The Red Angel was left a silent, raging ghost.
‘Look at how weak you have become,’ Abaddon said in disgust. ‘Lord Perturabo, you sit at the edge of the system pronouncing your genius and implying no one heeds you. This behaviour is not worthy of you.’
‘Do not provoke me, First Captain.’
‘Be quiet a minute, or you will find yourself further goaded,’ Abaddon snarled. ‘You, Fulgrim, and you, Angron, have whored yourselves out to the gods in the warp.’
Angron raged in silence. Fulgrim tittered girlishly. Abaddon glared at him. Fulgrim pulled a lewd face.
‘Where is your majesty, where is your purpose? We stand at the threshold of victory, and you threaten everything with your bickering,’ said Abaddon. ‘You posture, you rage, you question your Warmaster’s orders. It is he who has brought you here. It is he who has ensured your power gr
ows. It is he who made all of this possible. I have seen the brats of decadent nobles behave with more decorum and sensibility.’
Fulgrim clapped all four of his hands slowly. ‘So brave, so noble,’ he mocked. ‘So bold. The son grows while the father fades. How proud of you he must be.’ Fulgrim leaned closer to the lens capturing his image. ‘But careful now, little Ezekyle,’ he purred dangerously. ‘You are mighty, but you play in the court of the gods. You cannot murder us as you did your birth father. You do not have the stakes to wager in this game. Back away, small man, and we might let you live.’
‘Do you think Horus would allow you to kill me?’ Abaddon said, pacing around the circle of hololithic phantoms. ‘He could obliterate you all, any one of you, utterly. You are slaves to your passions where you are not slaves to your gods. Horus is above you, and he is above the entities you worship.’
‘Our brother would not put the life of his son before that of his brothers,’ said Perturabo. ‘You go too far.’
‘Tell that to Lord Lorgar,’ said Abaddon. ‘Banished, lucky that Horus did not tear him limb from limb. Be careful that you do not further test my father’s patience – it is not inexhaustible.’
‘Well said,’ Aximand muttered under his breath.
‘Abaddon. Never speak to me in that way again,’ warned Perturabo. ‘I am not as indulgent as my brother.’
‘And nor am I,’ said Fulgrim.
The door to the court opened and Horus strode in, more alive and vibrant than he had seemed the last time, Abaddon thought.
‘Captain Abaddon is correct,’ said Horus. ‘You disgrace yourselves.’ The court trembled at his words. ‘Listen to my chosen son as you would to me.’ He walked to the centre of the room and rested one of his great talons on Abaddon’s shoulder. ‘He is my sword arm.’
‘What kept you, brother?’ asked Fulgrim. ‘Why do you call us here and keep us waiting?’
‘I commune with the powers who guide my hand, and strive to ensure our victory in their realm as in this. They say this, that Abaddon is right! You gather power to yourselves and become pathetic for its excesses. Cease your arguments, or face the punishment of your patrons.’
Fulgrim’s never-still form flickered. For an instant his perfect, monstrous face was transformed into a mask of terror, then the image blinked, and his mocking smile returned.
Horus paced up to his throne, the Mournival making way for him. His huge bulk shook the court, and he sat. ‘Angron,’ he said to his brother’s image. ‘Can you hold your peace for a few moments?’
Angron snarled silently, but nodded.
‘Return his voice to him,’ Horus commanded. ‘You may speak, favoured of Khorne.’
‘Brother,’ said Angron, remaining calm only by dint of the most immense effort. ‘Why do we not attack?’
‘Events proceed as planned,’ said Horus. ‘I am in control of our strategy. Do you not trust me?’
Horus’ unnatural charisma reached across the void, dominating his brother. Angron looked aside in furious shame.
‘Yes, my Warmaster.’
Horus swept his gaze around his siblings’ images. ‘The time has come to enact the second phase of the invasion. Ambassadress Sota-Nul, attend us.’
A hololith unlike the others manifested beneath the apex of the dome. Technology blended with warp magic rendered Sota-Nul in perfect verisimilitude that exceeded even the projections of Magnus. Around her was a constellation of eight smaller images, subsidiary to hers, though each also perfect, and presenting the full gamut of Mechanicum insanity. Every one of these nine tech-adepts had begun life as human beings; now few of them remotely resembled their original form. They had eyes of glass, tentacles, grossly enhanced bodies, multiple arms with tools for hands, exposed innards of glowing glass tubes, all swathed in the black of the New Mechanicum.
Thin lines of silver light linked them into an emblem akin to a compass rose: the octed of Chaos.
‘We are the nine,’ they intoned, their mixed voices of warbles, twittering databursts and synthesised humanity a jarring electronic chorus. ‘Nul, Protos, Duos, Tre, Tessera, Pent, Ex, Epta and Oct.’
‘No Fabricator General, brother?’ Perturabo asked, a sly tone entering his doleful voice.
‘Kelbor-Hal is a loyal and trusted ally,’ said Horus. ‘But Sota-Nul served me well while the Lord of the Mechanicum was penned on Mars. Her acolytes have delivered many marvels to me. Sota-Nul heralded my armies and successfully enjoined several forge worlds to side with us against the slave master of Terra. Her warp tech eases our communications, and reduced our reliance on the cursed Erebus’ warp flasks. Ardim Protos found a way to bind the souls of daemons to our Titans. Axmar Tre uncovered the archeotech hoard of Periminus. Each one of them has exceeded my demands. Each one of them is a magos of rare talent. Kelbor-Hal shall oversee the ground operations of the forces of Mars, as is his right, but it is to Sota-Nul we turn now to ensure the next phase of the invasion is successful. The Nine Disciples will ensure our victory is swifter and sweeter than it could otherwise be.
‘The aegis is sufficiently weakened to permit a larger assault to begin,’ Horus continued, addressing the whole room. ‘Our attack craft destroy more of their defensive batteries with each sortie. The numbers of their own defence squadrons dwindle with the hour. The efficacy of the Palace outworks is broken. All over Terra, our loyal armies conquer and burn. Now we must take the fight to the walls, and open the way for our allies from the empyrean. Then, Angron.’ Horus extended a claw at his brother. ‘Then you may set foot on the soil of Terra, as may you, Fulgrim. Sota-Nul’s acolytes will land their arks upon the surface as eight points of the octed. We shall begin the work of besieging the Palace in earnest. Siege camps shall be established, the arks will be fortresses to oppose the walls. Under their protection, the siege masters of the Mechanicum will establish defences and deploy their engines to break the fortifications.’
Perturabo growled with outrage. ‘That is my purpose! You said that I would be given the honour of breaking Dorn’s fortress. You do not listen to me, brother. You dismiss my ideas. You do not let me attack the sun of Sol itself to bring this to a speedy conclusion, or to break Terra into rubble. You wave away my plans of planetary Exterminatus. You keep me at arm’s length, and now this insult? Dorn’s humbling is mine to accomplish!’ His famed temper boiled quickly once provoked, and before he had finished he was shouting.
‘I did,’ said the Warmaster evenly. ‘I meant what I said. You will have your turn, Lord of Iron. The Mechanicum will prepare the ground for your Legion, so that your genius may be set to work with minimal distraction. Your task on the system fringe is done. Return now. Begin your plans for the contravallation of the Palace.’
Perturabo calmed, reassuming his dour manner like iron plunged into a quenching barrel.
‘I have my plans prepared already,’ said Perturabo pettishly. ‘Dorn cannot stand before me.’
‘When will the Legions land?’ said Angron.
‘My orders remain as they were. No Space Marine is to set foot on Terra yet,’ said Horus.
‘A legionary attack will draw out the defenders,’ wheedled Fulgrim. ‘Let my children out to play, most lordly brother. We can destroy at will, and weaken the Palace defences. I am bored!’
‘I have a role for you. One you will enjoy. Like all the greatest pleasures, it must be deferred a while. Until then, the bombardment continues,’ said Horus. ‘If we feed our legionaries into the fire piecemeal, we will all burn. The attacks on the walls must be complete, total and overwhelming.’
‘What of my Neverborn legions?’ said Angron. ‘What of this witch’s hex that keeps me from battle?’
Zardu Layak stepped forwards.
‘Not him! Hold your tongue, priest. Where is Lord Magnus?’ Angron bellowed.
‘Yes, Magnus. We would take his word on this subject, not that of this… groveller,’ said Perturabo dismissively.
‘Let Layak speak,’ Horus commanded.
The primarchs fell to grudging quiet.
‘The Emperor shields Terra,’ said Layak. ‘But He cannot do so forever. Blood flows in such torrents upon the Throneworld that it calls across the barrier between the warp and the material realm. Souls flee their bodies in crowds, every one wearing at the fabric of space and time.’ He rubbed his fingers together. ‘Each death sees the servants of the Pantheon push harder on the veil. When the weight of slaughter is great enough, then they will be called through in their multitudes. By my god-granted vision I see vast legions of the Neverborn ready to take to the field. The door is creaking. The latch rattles. We lack but a key.’
Perturabo was the first to grasp the strategy, and nodded in understanding. ‘If father’s dogs attack the siege camps, they will spill more blood, and aid the coming of your allies. If they do not, then the Mechanicum may raise engines by the dozen to break the walls. Dorn will see this, but he will have no choice.’ A rare smile broke across Perturabo’s features. ‘He will have to fight it either way, and give you victory whatever his choice is. A bridgehead of blood!’ To his brothers’ amazement, he began to laugh.
‘Then I shall land first!’ said Angron enthusiastically. ‘I shall come at them, and cleave their bodies!’
‘You will not,’ said another. A familiar voice, a quiet, rasping, sullen growl, but changed, thickened with phlegm. ‘I claimed the task. My Legion will be first to attack the walls, as I pledged to the Warmaster months ago.’
Mortarion, primarch of the Death Guard, entered through the grand doors of Lupercal’s court. This was not Mortarion as his brothers remembered him. He was changed, like Angron, Fulgrim and Magnus, lifted by the Pantheon and given new form. Always among the tallest of the primarchs, he had grown further, his famine-spare frame pushed to great height. Tattered moth’s wings furled on his back. The scythe Silence had grown with its master, become as long as a vox-transmission pole. Mortarion appeared sickly, his face scarred by disease and his eyes milky with cataracts. Fluid wept from craters in his dirty armour, while all around him swirled a dense, stinking fog.
Where he passed the door guard, Abaddon’s Justaerin fell heavily. Black fluid leaked from perished seals and bloody phlegm coughed from their breathing grilles. The sounds of armour closing itself against the environment filled the room, but it did no good. The Terminators suffered in the grip of sickness. Mortarion continued forwards, felling Horus’ elite by his very presence.
