Luc had suffered casualties: seven of his men were dead and his perpetual grin was replaced by a vengeful expression that reminded Loken of a defiant young boy's. Black, stinking residue coated the walls, and Sedirae had a haunted look to him that Loken did not like at all. It reminded him of Euphrati Keeler in the moments after the warp thing that had taken Jubal almost killed her.
With Sedirae and his warriors in tow, the Mournival pressed on with Loken leading the way, finding signs of battle scattered throughout the ship, bolter impacts and sword cuts that led inexorably towards the ship's bridge.
'Loken,' whispered Aximand. 'I fear what we may find ahead. You should prepare yourself.'
'No,' said Loken. 'I know what you are suggesting, but I won't think of that. I can't.'
'We have to be prepared for the worst.'
'No,' said Loken, louder than he had intended. 'We would know if—'
'If what?' asked Torgaddon.
'If the Warmaster was dead,' said Loken finally.
Thick silence enveloped them as they struggled to come to terms with such a hideous idea.
'Loken's right,' said Abaddon. 'We would know if the Warmaster was dead. You know we would. You of all of us would feel it, Little Horus.'
'I hope you're right, Ezekyle.'
'Enough of this damned misery,' said Torgaddon. 'All this talk of death and we haven't found hide nor hair of the Warmaster yet. Save your gloomy thoughts for the dead that we already know about. Besides, we all know that if the Warmaster was dead, the sky would have fallen, eh?'
That lightened their mood a little and they pressed on, making their way along the central spine of the ship, passing through juddering bulkheads and along corridors with flickering lights, until they reached the blast doors that led to the bridge.
Loken and Abaddon led the way, with Aximand, Torgaddon and Sedirae bringing up the rear.
Inside it was almost dark, only a soft light from raptured consoles providing any illumination.
The Warmaster sat with his back to them, his glorious plate armour dented and filthy, cradling something vast and bloated in his lap.
Loken drew level with the Warmaster, grimacing as he saw a grotesquely swollen human head in his commander's lap. A great puncture wound pierced the Warmaster's breastplate and a bloody stab wound on his shoulder leaked blood down the armour of his arm.
'Sir?' said Loken. 'Are you alright?'
The Warmaster didn't answer, instead cradling the head of what Loken could only assume was Eugan Temba. His bulk was immense, and Loken wondered how such a monstrously fat creature could possibly have moved under his own strength.
The Mournival joined Loken, shocked and horrified at the Warmaster's appearance, and at this terrible place. They looked at one another with a growing unease, none quite knowing what to make of this bizarre scene.
'Sir?' said Aximand, kneeling before the weeping Warmaster.
'I failed him,' said Horus. 'I failed them all. I should have listened, but I didn't and now they're all dead. It's too much.'
'Sir, we're going to get you out of here. The dead things have stopped attacking. We don't know how long that's going to last, so we need to get out of this place and regroup.'
Horus shook his head slowly. 'They won't be attacking again. Temba's dead and I cut the vox signal. I don't know how exactly, but I think it was part of what was animating those poor souls.'
Abaddon pulled Loken aside and hissed, 'We need to get him out of here, and we can't let anyone see the state he's in.'
Loken knew that Abaddon was right. To see the Warmaster like this would break the spirit of every Astartes who saw him. The Warmaster was an invincible god of war, a towering figure of legend that could never be brought low.
To see him humbled so would be a blow to morale that the 63rd Expedition might never recover from.
Gently, they prised Eugan Temba's massive body away from the Warmaster and lifted their commander to his feet. Loken slung the Warmaster's arm over his shoulder, feeling a warm wetness against his face from the blood that still dripped from Horus's arm.
Between them, he and Abaddon walked the Warmaster from the bridge.
'Walk,' said the Warmaster, his voice weak and low. 'I'll walk out of this place on my own.'
Reluctantly, they let him go, and though he swayed a little, the Warmaster kept his feet, despite the ashen pallor of his face and the obvious pain he was in.
The Warmaster spared a last look at Eugan Temba and said, 'Gather up Verulam and let's get out of here, my sons.'
Maggard slumped against the steel bulkhead of the Glory of Terra, his sword covered in black fluids from the dead things. Petronella fought to hold back tears at the thought of how close they had all come to death on this bleak, Emperor forsaken moon.
Sheltered behind the bulkhead where Maggard had thrust her, she had heard rather than seen the desperate conflict that raged outside - the war cries, the sound of motorised blades tearing into wet meat, the percussive booms and explosive flashes of light from the Titans' weapons.
Her imagination filled in the blanks and though a gut-loosening terror filled her from head to toe, she pictured glorious combats and heroic duels between the towering Astartes giants and the corrupt foes that sought their destruction.
Her breathing came in short, convulsive gasps as she realised she had just survived her first battle, but with that realisation came a strange calm: her limbs stopped shaking and she wanted to smile and laugh. She wiped her hand across her eyes, smearing the kohl that lined them across her cheeks like tribal war paint.
Petronella looked over at Maggard, seeing him now for the great warrior he truly was, barbaric and bloody, and magnificent. She pushed herself to her feet and leaned out beyond her sheltering bulkhead to look at the battlefield below.
It was like a scene from one of Keland Roget's landscapes, and the sublime vision took her breath away. The fog and mist had lifted and the sun was already breaking through to bathe the landscape in its ruddy red glow. The pools of swamp water glittered like shards of broken glass spread across the landscape. The three magnificent Titans of the Legio Mortis watched over squads of Astartes, armed with flamers, putting the corpses of the dead things to the torch, and pyres of the fallen monsters burned with a blue green light.
She was already forming the metaphors and imagery she would use: the Emperor's warriors taking his light into the dark places of the galaxy, or perhaps that the Astartes were his Angels of Death bringing his retribution to the unrighteous.
The words had the right epic tone, but she sensed that such imagery still lacked some fundamental truth, sounding more like propaganda slogans than anything else.
This was what the Great Crusade was all about and the fear of the last few hours was washed away in a swelling wave of admiration for the Astartes and the men and women of the 63rd Expedition.
She turned as she heard heavy footfalls. The officers of the Mournival were marching towards her, a plate armoured body borne upon their shoulders, and the levity she had witnessed in them earlier now utterly absent. Each one's face, even the joker Torgaddon's, was serious and grim.
The cloaked figure of the Warmaster himself followed behind them, and she was shocked rigid at his beaten appearance. His armour was torn and gashed with foulness, and blood spatters matted his face and arm.
'What happened?' she asked as Captain Loken passed her. 'Whose body is that?'
'Be silent,' he snapped, 'and be gone.'
'No,' said the Warmaster. 'She is my documentarist and if that is to mean anything then she must see us at our worst as well as our best'
'Sir—' began Abaddon, but Horus cut him off. 'I'll not be argued with on this, Ezekyle. She comes with us.'
Petronella felt her heart leap at this inclusion and fell into step with the Warmaster's party as they began their descent to the ground.
'The body is that of Verulam Moy, captain of my 19th Company,' said Horus, his voice weary and filled with pain. '
He fell in the line of duty and will be honoured as such.'
'You have my deepest sorrows, my lord,' said Petronella, her heart aching to see the Warmaster in such pain.
'Was it Eugan Temba?' she asked, fishing out her data-slate and mnemo-quill. 'Did he kill Captain Moy?'
Horus nodded, too weary even to answer her.
'And Temba is dead? You killed him?'
'Eugan Temba is dead,' answered Horus. 'I think he died a long time ago. I don't know exactly what I killed in there, but it wasn't him.'
'I don't understand.'
'I'm not sure I do either,' said Horus, stumbling as he reached the bottom of the slope of debris. She reached out a hand to steady him, before realising what a ridiculous idea that was. Her hand came away bloody and wet, and she saw that the Warmaster still bled from a wound in his shoulder.
'I ended the life of Eugan Temba, but damn me if I didn't weep for him afterwards.'
'But wasn't he an enemy?'
'I have no trouble with my enemies, Miss Vivar,' said Horus. 'I can take care of my enemies in a fight. But my so-called allies, my damned allies, they're the ones who keep me walking the floors at night.'
Legion apothecaries made their way towards the Warmaster as she tried to make sense of what he was saying. She allowed the mnemo-quill to inscribe his words anyway. She saw the looks she was getting from the Mournival, but ignored them.
'Did you speak to him before you slew him? What did he say?'
'He said… that only I had the power… to stop the future…' said the Warmaster, his voice suddenly faint and echoing as though coming from the other end of a long tunnel.
Puzzled, she looked up in time to see the Warmaster's eyes roll back in their sockets and his legs buckle beneath him. She screamed, reaching out with her hand towards him, knowing that she was powerless to help him, but needing to try to prevent his fall.
Like a slow moving avalanche or a mountain toppling, the Warmaster collapsed.
The mnemo-quill scratched at the data-slate and she wept as she read the words there.
I was there the day that Horus fell.
NINE
Silver towers
A bloody return
The veil grows thin
From here, he could see the pyramid roof of the Amenaeum, die low evening sun reflecting on its gold panels as if it were ablaze, and even though Magnus knew he used but a colourful metaphor, the very idea gave him a pang of loss. To imagine that vast repository of knowledge lost in the flames was abhorrent and he turned his Cyclopean gaze from the pyramid of crystal glass and gold.
Tizca, the so-called City of Light, stretched out before him, its marble colonnades and wide boulevards tree-lined and peaceful. Soaring towers of silver and gold reared above a city of gilded libraries, arched museums and sprawling seats of learning. The bulk of the city was constructed of white marble and gold-veined ouslite, shining like a bejewelled crown in the sun. Its architecture spoke of a time long passed, its buildings shaped by craftsmen who had honed their trades for centuries under the tutelage of the Thousand Sons.
From his balcony on the Pyramid of Photep, Magnus the Red, Primarch of the Thousand Sons, contemplated the future of Prospero. His head still hurt from the ferocity of the nightmare and his eye throbbed painfully in its enlarged socket. He gripped the marble balustrade of the balcony, trying to wish away the visions that assailed him in the night and now chased him into the daylight. Mysteries of the night were revealed in the light of day, but these visions of darkness could not be dragged out so easily.
For as long as Magnus could remember, he had been cursed and blessed with a measure of foresight, and his allegorical interpretation of the Athanaeum ablaze troubled him more than he liked to admit.
He poured himself some wine from a silver pitcher, rubbing a copper-skinned hand through his mane of fiery red hair. The wine helped dull the ache in his heart as well as his head, but he knew it was only a temporary solution. Events were now in motion that he had the power to shape and though much of what he had seen was madness and turmoil, and made no sense, he could make out enough to know that he had to make a decision soon - before events spiralled out of control.
Magnus turned from the view over Tizca and made his way back inside the pyramid, pausing as he caught sight of his reflection in the gleaming silver panels. Huge and red-skinned, Magnus was a towering giant with a lustrous mane of red hair. His patrician features were noble and just, his single eye golden and flecked with crimson. Where his other eye would have sat was blank and empty, though a thin scar ran from the bridge of his nose to the edge of his cheekbone.
Cyclopean Magnus they called him, or worse. Since their inception, the Thousand Sons had been viewed with suspicion for embracing powers that others were afraid of. Powers that, because they were not understood, were rejected as being somehow unclean: rejected ever since the Council of Nikaea.
Magnus threw down his goblet, angry at the memory of his humbling at the feet of the Emperor, when he had been forced to renounce the study of all things sorcerous for fear of what he might learn. Such a notion was surely ridiculous, for was his father's realm not founded on the pursuit of knowledge and reason? What harm could study and learning do?
Though he had retreated to Prospero and sworn to renounce such pursuits, the Planet of the Sorcerers had one vital attribute that made it the perfect place for such studies - it was far from the prying eyes of those who said he dabbled with powers beyond his control.
Magnus smiled at the thought, wishing he could show his persecutors the things he had seen, the wonders and the beauty of what lived beyond the veil of reality. Notions of good and evil fell by the wayside next to such power as dwelled in the warp, for they were the antiquated concepts of a religious society, long cast aside.
He stooped to retrieve his goblet and filled it once more before returning to his chambers and taking a seat at his desk. Inside it was cool and the scent of various inks and parchments made him smile. The wide chamber was walled with bookshelves and glass cabinets, filled with curios and remnants of lost knowledge gleaned from conquered worlds. Magnus himself had penned many of the texts in this room, though others had contributed to this most personal of libraries - Phosis T'kar, Ahriman and Uthizzar to name but a few.
Knowledge had always been a refuge for Magnus, the intoxicating thrill of rendering the unknown down to its constituent parts and, by doing so, rendering it knowable. Ignorance of the universe's workings had created false gods in man's ancient past, and the understanding of them was calculated to destroy them. Such was Magnus's lofty goal.
His father denied such things, kept his people ignorant of the true powers that existed in the galaxy, and though he promulgated a doctrine of science and reason, it was naught but a lie, a comforting blanket thrown over humanity to shield them from the truth.
Magnus had looked deep into the warp, however, and knew different.
He closed his eye, seeing again the darkness of the corrupt chamber, the glitter sheen of the sword, and the blow that would change the fate of the galaxy. He saw death and betrayal, heroes and monsters. He saw loyalty tested, and found wanting and standing firm in equal measure. Terrible fates awaited his brothers and, worst of all, he knew that his father was utterly ignorant of the doom that threatened the galaxy.
A soft knocking came at his door and the red-armoured figure of Ahriman entered, holding before him a long staff topped with a single eye.
'Have you decided yet, my lord?' asked his chief librarian, without preamble. 'I have, my friend,' said Magnus.
'Then shall I gather the coven?'
'Yes,' sighed Magnus, 'in the catacombs beneath the city. Order the thralls to assemble the conjunction and I shall be with you presently.'
'As you wish, my lord,' said Ahriman.
'Something troubles you?' asked Magnus, detecting an edge of reticence in his old friend's tone.
'No, my lord, it is not my place to say'
'Nonsense. If you
have a concern then I give you leave to voice it'
'Then may I speak freely?'
'Of course,' nodded Magnus.
'What troubles you?'
Ahriman hesitated before answering. 'This spell you propose is dangerous, very dangerous. None of us truly understand its subtleties and there may be consequences we do not yet foresee.'
Magnus laughed. 'I've not known you shirk from the power of a spell before, Ahriman. When manipulating power of this magnitude there will always be unknowns, but only by wielding it can we bring it to heel. Never forget that we are the masters of the warp, my friend. It is strong, yes, and great power lives within it, but we have the knowledge and means to bend it to our will do we not?'
'We do, my lord,' agreed Ahriman. 'Why then do we use it to warn the Emperor of what is to come when he has forbidden us to pursue such matters?'
Magnus rose from his seat, his copper skin darkening in anger. 'Because when my father sees that it is our sorcery that has saved his realm, he will not be able to deny that what we do here is important, nay, vital to the Imperium's survival!'
Ahriman nodded, fearful of his primarch's rage, and Magnus softened his tone. 'There is no other way, my friend. The Emperor's palace is warded against the power of the warp and only a conjuration of such power will breach those wards.'
'Then I will gather the coven immediately,' said Ahriman.
'Yes, gather them, but await my arrival before beginning. Horus may yet surprise us.'
Panic, fear, indecision: three emotions previously unknown to Loken seized him as Horus fell. The Warmaster crashed to the ground in slow motion, splashing into the mud as his body went completely limp. Shouts of alarm went up, but a paralysis of inaction held those closest to the Warmaster tightly in its grip, as though time itself had slowed.
Loken stared at the Warmaster lying on the ground before him, inert and corpse-like, unable to believe what he was seeing. The rest of the Mournival stood similarly immobile, rooted to the spot in disbelief. He felt as though the air had become thick and cloying, the cries of fear that spread outwards echoing and distant as though from a holo-picter running too slow.
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