by Guy Haley
Gendor Skraivok did not wish to die.
‘Daemon,’ he whispered. ‘Daemon!’
He patted the ground to his left and his right. Amazingly, his hand touched the familiar hilt of his warp blade. Gripping it cost him greatly in pain, but he managed to bring the weapon onto his chest, where it clanked against his armour.
‘Daemon, can you hear me?’ He spat again. Blood was running down his throat.
The sword trembled.
‘You are here with me!’ he croaked in relief.
Skraivok’s smile became an expression of dismay as the metal’s trembling turned to shaking so pronounced it clattered on his armour. The blade began to fizz, boiling off into black smoke that fled upwards towards the flaring sky.
‘No!’ he said. ‘No! Daemon, wait! Do not desert me!’
The rattling died away as the weapon evaporated into nothing. Skraivok stared at his empty hand.
‘I don’t want to die!’ he said, weakly. He felt intensely sorry for himself. ‘I’m not ready! Daemon! Daemon…’
‘I have not deserted you, Gendor Skraivok. Not yet.’
Dragging footsteps approached. Skraivok turned his head. Relief turned to horror at what he saw.
The daemon came fully formed, solid as a man of flesh and blood. It was a scrawny thing with skin covered in tumorous lumps. Its head had something of the equine to it, being long, with eyes set far back and to the side of its face. The teeth were predatory, however: sharp along the front, large incisors lying neatly together, like the scissor-blade tusks of Terran boars. The head carried four short growths that were more nobbles than horns. Its ears, Skraivok noted, were very small and delicate.
It came closer.
‘Get away from me!’ Skraivok gasped, suddenly afraid.
A famine-swollen belly dangled from an emaciated ribcage. Its legs were knock-kneed. It limped. Its arms were overly long, held awkwardly across its body, with grasping, twitching fingers covered in warts. Dragging misshapen feet, it approached Skraivok slowly, as if bashful, unsure of how to greet a potential mate, but Skraivok could see even from his limited view how triumphant it felt.
‘Do not be afraid. I am your sword. I am your daemon. We spoke before, on Sotha, you and I. We are important to one another.’
‘I do not know you!’
‘I have many forms, and many names. You know me well, and always have, as you shall soon see. The walls between our spheres are breached. I can be here now, thanks to my connection with you. Others of my kind will come soon enough, but not for you. I am the first, and you are mine.’ It came to a halt at Skraivok’s side and looked up at the continuing battle. ‘Soon the Anathema will fall, and this sphere of being will be like ours.’
It stared down at Skraivok with huge brown eyes that might have been beautiful in another creature, but in its lumpen face were abhorrent. Thick, clear fluid wept from them, dribbling down its long snout and coating its teeth.
‘Now what do we do with you, I wonder?’
The Neverborn knelt over him, and rested a knotted hand upon Skraivok’s broken armour. Its fingers dabbled in his blood.
‘Why did you leave me on the wall?’ said Skraivok.
‘Because I could,’ it said. Its voice was wet and laboured. ‘Because you needed a lesson. I made you strong, Skraivok, and you assumed that strength was your own. You are a traitor and a murderer. Ruthlessness and a little cunning are your only gifts, but you mistook my talents for yours.’ It snickered. ‘Can you imagine, the Painted Count thought himself the equal of the First Captain of the Blood Angels? A priceless error.’
‘I slew Lord Shang,’ croaked Skraivok.
‘I slew Lord Shang,’ countered the daemon, ‘not you. Truly you are gloriously arrogant,’ it said with satisfaction. ‘A fitting bondsoul for me. We shall have such times, you and I.’
‘I am a captain of the Night Lords.’
‘You are, you are,’ the daemon said, patting him. ‘But you cheated your way to your command. You never had the patience or the discipline to properly master the gifts the Anathema bestowed upon your mortal body. You are no warrior, Skraivok. You never were. You are a parasite. You are a gutter politician. You are devious, and false. Nothing more.’
‘What do you want of me?’ Skraivok said. His life was ebbing away. Not long now. He almost welcomed it.
‘You have a choice to make,’ it said with relish. ‘You can die here, now, and your soul will flee into the warp where it will be torn to pieces by my kin who dwell there.’
‘The alternative?’ His eyes were heavy. Blood dribbled into his lungs.
The Neverborn leaned closer, and whispered with rank breath into his ear.
‘You can offer yourself to me, wholeheartedly, with no reservation or doubt, and I will take you into myself. You will become a part of me and I will become a part of you. Together, we shall live forever, and freely tread the materium and immaterium both. We shall bring such pain upon this sphere of being that it will wound the very light of the stars.’
‘I will die otherwise?’ he said.
‘You will do more than die. You will cease to be.’
‘Then yes,’ said Skraivok. ‘Yes! Anything but death.’
‘Anything?’ crooned the daemon.
‘Yes!’ said Skraivok. Fear sent a last jolt of energy into him. He lifted his head. ‘Anything.’
‘Then say the words,’ growled the Neverborn. Its thin lips were close enough to kiss. The fluid from its eyes dripped onto Skraivok’s face.
‘I pledge myself to you! I shall become yours! You will be me and I will be you! Is that right? Is that right? Please, do not let me die!’
The daemon chuckled. ‘I chose you so well. Yes, those words will suffice. This is your first lesson – the form of the words do not matter, only their sincerity, and I see that for the first time in your life, Gendor Skraivok, you are sincere.’
‘I am! I am!’
A long, reeking tongue slipped between the daemon’s lips, furred green and ulcerous, and pushed roughly into Skraivok’s mouth. It slithered into his throat, growing longer and thicker, plunging down, down inside him, blocking off his air, choking him. The daemon’s mouth parted wider, and wider. The tongue grew thicker while the rest of the being deflated, pouring itself through the serpent of its tongue into the Night Lord. Skraivok goggled and choked, his eyes wide with terror.
Did I mention, said the daemon into his mind, for the mind was its now too, that for you to deliver pain correctly, you must learn what pain is. I will take you now, into the warp, where for six times six hundred and sixty-six years you will learn the depths of agony. This is a great gift. No living being could survive the torments that await you, my friend, my soul bond, my Painted Count, but you will… You will become expert in pain.
Skraivok’s eyes bulged. The daemon slithered inside him, pulling its empty skin after it. Skraivok’s flesh glowed lurid purple, too bright to look at.
When the light went out, his armour was empty, but the daemon was good to its word.
The Painted Count was not dead.
In the depths of the warp, Gendor Skraivok began to scream.
The warp
Horus coalesced from shreds of smoke and blood fume, striding from one existence to the next as if he walked from one room to another.
He stopped to take in his surroundings.
There was a place his father had taken him soon after his arrival on Terra. A rotunda tower in the young Palace, whose colonnaded sides were protected from the freezing winds of Himalazia by shimmering atmospheric shields. The room at the top was of simple luxury. Nothing ostentatious, but everything fashioned to the highest standard, and of the finest materials. The floor was chequered with black and white marble fitted to the room’s circular shape, the flagstones rhomboids with curved edges that grew more slender until they reached the middle of the room, where they became tesserae locked into a geometric prison. At the very centre was an ancient symbol, a circle divided
into two tailed shapes of black and white by a curved line, a small dot of black within the white and vice versa. The Emperor had told him that this symbol represented equilibrium.
Where he was now was an echo of that chamber. He saw it as it had been, and he saw it as it would become, its energy shields out, curtains shredded, floor cracked. The rotunda offered a view of the whole Palace, and it showed now a vista of fire. Hot breezes laden with embers wafted between the pillars. Horus looked on approvingly.
‘Why did you bring me here, father?’ he said. The Emperor did not show Himself. Horus felt His presence all around him, but no contact came. He remained hidden.
The Warmaster raised his eyebrows at this display. He felt the consternation of the Four, but he was not unduly concerned. His father had never liked to give a straight answer. His gaze wandered over the chamber, touching on a pile of cushions where he and the Emperor had talked long into that first night, then over the table where they dined together when time allowed. The Emperor was always occupied with His great work – His great lie, Horus thought – but at the beginning of it all He had had more time for Horus than He had for any of the others that followed.
That had been important to him, once. In truth it was so meaningless. Days full of lies to feed a tyrant’s vanity. It saddened him. Such a waste.
At one side of the room was a regicide table of ancient origin. Upon a single curled leg a round board sat, its surface inset with wooden squares to make the playing surface. The wood was so old the whites had darkened and the blacks mellowed, until they were nearly the same shades of brown. A game halfway through was set on the board. Ivory pieces aged to a mellow cream were on the defensive, half their pieces off the playing surface already. A nearly full set of ebony was arrayed against them. Over the heads of their servants the black king and the white king looked directly at one another. Horus ducked down to get a better view. The attack was deeply flawed. The defence had many holes. Grains of dust and debris littered the board. Ash drifted onto it from the fires outside. It was when one of these grey smuts settled next to the black king that he saw that the piece rested in a puddle of blood.
He shook his head at the symbolism. Unsubtle.
He stood up, picked up a thrall piece on a whim and moved it to block a white keep.
The base clicked onto the ancient wood with a soft finality.
‘I have tested your walls, father. My armies stand ready to begin their attack. Why do you still resist? You can see the end, I know you can. Your resistance is pointless. You damn humanity. Release them. Let me save them.’
There came no reply.
Horus stood back from the game.
‘Your move, father,’ he said quietly.
The Vengeful Spirit, Terran near orbit, 15th of Quartus
The air was foul in Horus’ nameless sanctum where Abaddon watched over his father.
As always, Layak and his tongueless servants had followed him there, giving him no moment of peace.
‘He spends too much time in his meditations,’ said the First Captain.
Horus’ eyes were wide open, staring at nothing. His mouth gaped. He looked an imbecile, or dead. Abaddon was glad few others saw the Warmaster like this. He wished he did not see it himself, but he could not stop looking.
‘How do you think that Angron walks on Terra?’ said Layak mildly. ‘He will not be the first child of the warp to do so. The Emperor’s might dwindles because Horus confronts Him in the warp. Without these attacks your father makes upon the Terran despot, our allies would never break through.’
‘Erebus would have claimed those triumphs for himself,’ said Abaddon.
‘I am not Erebus,’ said Layak. ‘The First Apostle served himself first and the gods second. That is why the Warmaster banished him. He and Lorgar were faithless in the end.’
‘What about you, Layak? Do you keep faith?’ he said dismissively.
A burst of angry heat radiated from the Apostle. ‘I serve only the gods,’ said Layak, ‘for what use is mortal power in the face of eternity?’
Abaddon stared at the Warmaster.
‘The price of this is too high. We can bring the Emperor down without the Neverborn. I do not like what these sorcerous journeys are doing to my father, and I hold you responsible.’
‘Kill me, and it will make no difference. It is too late to change the Warmaster’s path,’ said Layak. ‘The deal has been struck. The daemonic legions wait to add their might to yours. There is no going back on that.’
‘We could have obliterated this world.’
‘Then you would have lost. The Emperor is no ordinary foe,’ said Layak. ‘Slay His body, and He will persist. He must be destroyed, face to face, in body and in spirit.’
‘Then we should have tried it on our own,’ Abaddon said. ‘If Horus continues with this harassment of the False Emperor, he risks himself. Do not underestimate the power of the Emperor, Layak. I do not. Do your masters?’
Layak did not answer Abaddon’s question. ‘There are pressures upon our labours,’ he said instead. ‘They must be completed quickly, or the war will be lost.’
Abaddon looked at the masked priest. ‘Such as? Guilliman is nothing. I will break him. I will break them all, these loyal sons. These primarchs. They are weak.’
Layak’s six eyes flared. ‘Do you believe that Guilliman’s advance is the only limit on our time?’
‘Layak, I have no liking for you. You are useful, and Horus has decreed that you are not to be harmed, but I would require little excuse to overlook both these protections you enjoy.’
‘I will say what needs to be said, threats or not. I serve the gods. My life means nothing.’
Abaddon’s fists flexed. ‘Then if you are so faithful, I dare you to speak, and we will see what affection the gods hold you in.’
‘You have seen it,’ Layak said steadily. ‘You can sense it. Horus is failing. He is too strong to defeat, but it may be that he is too weak to claim victory. The Pantheon gift him with great ability, but the favour of the gods carries a steep price.’
‘Speak clearly,’ Abaddon said.
‘Horus’ soul is bright with divine might, but it burns. Mighty as his being is, it is finite. He is not invincible in this world or the other. If we delay too long, he will be devoured by the power he commands.’
Abaddon did not want to recognise it. He could not, but he knew, looking at his father’s blank face, that what Layak said was true.
‘How long does he have?’
‘Long enough, perhaps,’ said Layak. ‘His will is strong.’
‘But if it is not strong enough? If he fails now, if his soul burns out before the task is done, what will happen?’
‘Then, my lord, what happens will be what has always happened before.’ Layak looked at Abaddon. ‘There shall come another champion of Chaos.’
The birth of a book always starts with a question.
Here we are at the moment the traitors set foot upon the soil of our blighted future Earth, where, with malice aforethought, they bring down all the works of the Emperor, and doom humanity to a slow decline.
Events do not come much more momentous than this.
But how does it happen?
I’m going to talk a bit about how writers use questions to shape the novels they write.
Writing a book like this is rife with technical challenges: it’s the second in a series; it has to conform to the story as it already exists; it has to fit the part of the story assigned to this particular novel; the events depicted are immense in scale; there are multitudes of characters to choose from; and never forgetting, of course, it has to function as a story, with a beginning, middle and an end in its own right.
The list might seem restrictive, but an author always has the freedom to choose which parts are accentuated. To make these choices, we must interrogate our subject. I regard the Heresy as future history. It has happened already. I, as a future historian, must try to uncover why. Like any good historian, I do s
o by asking a lot of questions.
Questions and answers
There is a timeline. There has to be a timeline. Without it, writers of a multipart series like this are lost. The story of the Siege was set long ago in publications that are so old they’re becoming mythical themselves. You all know the story. We have to make sure we deliver it.
A lot of meetings went into the Siege of Terra. In the very first of those meetings, the timeline was scrutinised. The number of books was decided upon, and what parts of the timeline would be covered in each novel, all by asking questions.
Big questions begin the process. Their answers beget more questions. I was assigned to book two. Thereafter, the questions I asked were mainly directed to that part of the Siege. Here’s the bit of the timeline that was given over to what became The Lost and the Damned. The three-digit numbers are from the Imperial thousandths dating system:
120 Apocalypse Rains Down
On ‘the thirteenth of Secundus’, bombardment of Terra begins (Battle of Britain in close orbit)
Defenders are shielded, but most of the continent is blasted into a wasteland
? The Righteous Heed the Call
Imperial Army reinforcements arrive at the Palace ready to repel the invasion forces
243?
Two months of bombing? Traitor Legions spear-tip, drop pod deployment across the region (500 miles?)
The first line of the book obviously had to be the evocative, ‘On the thirteenth day of Secundus’. No questions there. First lines are hard. I was glad to be handed this one.
Thereafter we go from something very specific to three amorphous events. At first glance, there doesn’t seem to be much to base a novel on; on the other hand, there don’t seem to be many restrictions, either. But on both counts this is deceptive, because into those loosely defined entries could fit the experiences of dozens of characters, all of whom are converging on a fixed point in space and time, and some of whom absolutely must feature.
