Medicae servitors lurked around the circumference of the room, set into niches around the wall, and a gurgling machine suspended above the Warmaster fed fluid and blood into his body.
Her eyes misted to see the Warmaster brought so low, and tears came at this violation of the natural order of things. A giant Astartes warrior in hooded surgical robes approached her and said, 'My name is Apothecary Vaddon, Miss Vivar.'
She brushed her hands across her eyes, conscious of how she must look - her dress torn and caked with mud, her eyes blackened with smudged make-up. She started to hold her hand out for a kiss, but realised how foolish that would be and simply nodded.
'I am Petronella Vivar,' she managed. 'I am the Warmaster's documentarist'
'I know,' said Vaddon.
'He asked for you by name.' Sudden hope flared in her breast. 'He's awake?'
Vaddon nodded. 'He is. If it was up to me, you would not be here now, but I do not disobey the word of the commander, and he desires to speak with you'
'How is he?' she asked.
The apothecary shook his head. 'He fades in and out of lucidity, so do not expect too much of him. If I decide it is time for you to leave, then you leave. Do you understand me?'
'I do,' she said, 'but please, may I speak with him now?'
Vaddon seemed reluctant to let her near the Warmaster, but moved aside and let her pass. She nodded her thanks and took a faltering step towards the operating slab, eager to see the Warmaster, but afraid of what she might find.
Petronella's hand leapt to her mouth to stifle an involuntary gasp at the sight of him. The Warmaster's cheeks were sunken and hollow, his eyes dull and listless. Grey flesh hung from his skull, wrinkled and ancient looking, and his lips were the blue of a corpse.
'Do I look that bad?' asked Horus, his voice rasping and distant.
'No,' she stammered. 'Not at all, I…'
'Don't lie to me, Miss Vivar. If you're to hear my valediction then there must be no deceit between us.'
'Valediction? No! I won't. You have to live.'
'Believe me, there's nothing I'd like more,' he wheezed, 'but Vaddon tells me there's not much chance of that, and I don't intend to leave this life without a proper legacy: a record that says die things that must be said before the end.'
'Sir, your deeds alone stand as an eternal legacy, please don't ask this of me.'
Horus coughed a froth of blood onto his chest, gathering his strength before speaking once more, and his voice was the strong and powerful one she remembered. You told me that it was your vocation to immortalise me, to record the glory of Horus for future generations, did you not?'
'I did,' she sobbed.
'Then do this last thing for me, Miss Vivar,' he said.
She swallowed hard and then fished out the data-slate and mnemo-quill from her reticule, before sitting on the high stool next to the operating slab.
'Very well,' she said at last. 'Let's start at the beginning.'
'It was too much,' began Horus. 'I promised my father I would make no mistakes, and now we have come to this.'
'Mistakes?' asked Petronella, though she suspected she knew the Warmaster's meaning.
'Temba, giving him lordship over Davin,' said Horus. 'He begged me not to leave him behind, claimed it was too much for him. I should have listened, but I was too eager to be away on some fresh conquest.'
'Temba's weakness is not your fault, sir,' she said.
'It is good of you to say that, Miss Vivar, but I appointed him,' said Horus. 'The responsibility lies with me. Throne! Guilliman will laugh when he hears of this: him and the Lion both. They will say that I was not fit to be Warmaster since I could not read the hearts of men.'
'Never!' cried Petronella. 'They wouldn't dare.'
'Oh, they will, girl, believe me. We are brothers, yes, but like all brothers we squabble and seek to outdo one another.'
Petronella could think of nothing to say, the idea of the superhuman primarchs squabbling quite beyond her.
'They were jealous, all of them,' continued Horus. 'When the Emperor named me Warmaster, it was all some of them could do to congratulate me. Angron especially, he was a wild one, and even now I can barely keep him in check. Guilliman wasn't much better. I could tell he thought it should have been him.'
'They were jealous of you?' asked Petronella, unable to believe what the Warmaster was telling her, the mnemo-quill scratching across the data-slate in response to her thoughts.
'Oh yes,' nodded Horus bitterly. 'Only a few of my brothers were gracious enough to bow their heads and mean it. Lorgar, Mortarion, Sanguinius, Fulgrim and Dorn - they are true brothers. I remember watching the Emperor's Stormbird leaving Ullanor and weeping to see him go, but most of all I remember the knives I felt in my back as he went. I could hear their thoughts as clearly as though they spoke them aloud: why should I, Horus, be named Warmaster when there were others more worthy of the honour?'
'You were made Warmaster because you were the most worthy, sir,' said Petronella.
'No,' said Horus. 'I was not. I was simply the one who most embodied the Emperor's need at that time. You see, for the first three decades of the Great Crusade I fought alongside the Emperor, and I alone felt the full weight of his ambition to rale the galaxy. He passed that vision to me and I carried it with me in my heart as we forged our path across the stars. It was a grand adventure we were on, system after system reunited with the Master of Mankind. You cannot imagine what it was like to live in such times, Miss Vivar.'
'It sounds magnificent.'
'It was,' said Horus. 'It was, but it couldn't last. Soon we were being drawn to other worlds where we discovered my brother primarchs. We had been scattered throughout the galaxy not long after our birth and, one by one, the Emperor recovered us all.'
'It must have been strange to be reunited with brothers you had never known.'
'Not as strange as you might think. As soon as I met each one, I had an immediate kinship with him, a bond that not even time or distance had broken. I won't deny that some were harder to like than others. If you ever meet Night Haunter you'll understand what I mean. Moody bastard, but handy in a tight spot when you need some alien empire shitting in its breeches before you attack.
'Angron's not much better, mind, he's got a temper on him like you've never seen. You think you know anger, I tell you now that you don't know anything until you've seen Angron lose his temper. And don't get me started on the Lion.'
'Of the Dark Angels? His is the First Legion is it not?'
'It is,' replied Horus, 'and doesn't he just love to remind everyone of that. I could see in his eyes that he thought he should have been Warmaster because his Legion was the first. Did you know he'd grown up living like an animal in the wilds, little better than a feral savage? I ask you, is that the sort of man you want as your Warmaster?'
'No it's not,' said Horus, answering his own question.
'Then who would you have picked to be Warmaster if not you?' asked Petronella.
Horus appeared to be momentarily perturbed by her question, but said, 'Sanguinius. It should have been him. He has the vision and strength to carry us to victory, and the wisdom to rule once that victory is won. For all his aloof coolness, he alone has the Emperor's soul in his blood. Each of us carries part of our father within us, whether it is his hunger for battle, his psychic talent or his determination to succeed. Sanguinius holds it all. It should have been his…'
'And what part of the Emperor do you carry, sir?'
'Me? I carry his ambition to rule. While the conquest of the galaxy lay before us that was enough, but now we are nearing the end. There is a Kretan proverb that says that peace is always "over there", but that is no longer true: it is within our grasp. The job is almost done and what is left for a man of ambition when the work is over?'
'You are the Emperor's right hand, sir,' protested Petronella. 'His favoured son.'
'No more,' said Horus sadly. 'Petty functionaries and administrators have s
upplanted me. The War Council is no more and I receive my orders from the Council of Terra now. Once everything in the Imperium was geared for war and conquest, but now we are burdened with eaxectors, scribes and scriveners who demand to know the cost of everything. The Imperium is changing and I'm not sure I know how to change with it.'
'In what way is the Imperium changing?'
'Bureaucracy and officialdom are taking over, Miss Vivar. Red tape, administrators and clerks are replacing the heroes of the age and unless we change our ways and our direction, our greatness as an empire will soon be a footnote in the history books. Everything I have achieved will be a distant memory of former glory, lost in the mists of time like the civilisations of ancient Terra, remembered kindly for their noble past.'
'But surely the Crusade was but the first step towards creating a new Imperium for mankind to rule the galaxy. In such a galaxy we will need administrators, laws and scribes.'
'And what of the warriors who conquered it for you?' snarled Horus. 'What becomes of us? Are we to become gaolers and peacekeepers? We were bred for war and we were bred to kill. That is what we were created for, but we have become so much more than that, I am more than that.'
'Progress is hard, my lord, and people must always adapt to changing times,' said Petronella, uneasy at this change of temper in the Warmaster.
'It is not strange to mistake change for progress, Miss Vivar,' said Horus. 'I was bred with wondrous powers encoded into my very flesh, but I did not dream myself into the man I am today, I hammered and forged myself upon the anvil of battle and conquest. All that I have achieved in the last two centuries will be given away to weak men and women who were not here to shed their blood with us in the dark places of the galaxy. Where is the justice in that? Lesser men will rule what I have conquered, but what will be my reward once the fighting is done?'
Petronella glanced away at Apothecary Vaddon, but he simply watched impassively as she took down Horus's words. She wondered briefly if he was as upset as she was at the Warmaster's anger.
As shocked as she was, her ambitious core realised that she had the makings of the most sensational remembrance imaginable, one that would dispel forever the myth of the Crusade as a united band of brothers forging their destiny among the stars. Horus's words painted a picture of mistrust and disunion that no one had ever dreamed of.
Seeing her expression, Horus reached up with a shaking hand and touched her arm.
'I am sorry, Miss Vivar. My thoughts are not as clear as they ought to be.'
'No,' she said. 'I think they're clearer than ever now.'
'I can tell I'm shocking you. I'm sorry if I have shattered your illusions.'
'I admit I am… surprised by much of what you're saying, sir.'
'But you like it, yes? It's what you came here for?'
She tried to deny it, but the sight of the dying primarch gave her pause and she nodded.
'Yes,' she said. 'It's what I came here for. Will you tell me everything?'
He looked up and met her stare.
'Yes,' he said. 'I will.'
ELEVEN
Answers
A devil's bargain
Anathame
The Thunderhawk's armoured flanks were not as sleek as those of a Stormbird, but it was functional and would take them back to Davin's moon more swiftly than the bigger craft. Tech servitors and Mechanicum flight crew prepped it for launch and Loken willed them to hurry. Each passing second brought the Warmaster closer to death and he wasn't going to allow that to happen.
Several hours had passed since they had brought the Warmaster aboard, but he hadn't cleaned his armour or weapons, preferring to go back the way he'd come out, though he had replenished his ammunition supply. The deck was still slick with the blood of those they had battered from their path and only now, with time to reflect on what they had done, did Loken feel ashamed.
He couldn't remember any of the faces, but he remembered the crack of skulls and the cries of pain. All the noble ideals of the Astartes… What did they mean when they could be so easily cast off? Kyril Sindermann was right, common decency and civil behaviour were just a thin veneer over the animal core that lurked in the hearts of all men… even Astartes.
If the mores of civilised behaviour could so easily be forgotten, what else might be betrayed with impunity in difficult circumstances?
Looking around the deck, Loken could sense a barely perceptible difference. Though hammers still beat, hatches still banged and gumeys laden with ordnance curled through the deck spaces, there was a subdued atmosphere to the embarkation deck, as though the memory of what had happened still lingered on the air.
The blast doors of the deck were shut tight, but Loken could still hear the muffled chants and songs of the crowds gathered outside.
Hundreds of people maintained a candlelit vigil in the wide corridors surrounding the embarkation deck, and filled the observation bays. Perhaps three score watched him from the windowed gantry above. They carried offerings and votive papers inscribed with pleas for the Warmaster's survival, random scribbles and outpourings of feelings.
Quite who these entreaties were directed at was a mystery, but it seemed to give people a purpose, and Loken could appreciate the value of purpose in these dark hours.
The men of Locasta were already onboard, though their journey to the embarkation deck had nearly sparked a stampede of terrified people - the memory of the last time the Astartes had marched through them still fresh and bloody.
Torgaddon and Vipus performed the last pre-launch checks on their men, and all that remained for him to do was to give the word.
He heard footsteps behind him and turned to see the armoured figure of Tybalt Marr, Captain of the 18th Company, approaching him. Sometimes known as ''the Either'' due to his uncanny resemblance to Verulam Moy - who had been known as ''the Or'' - he was cast so firmly in the image of the Warmaster that Loken's breath caught in his throat. He bowed as his fellow captain approached.
'Captain Loken,' said Marr, returning the bow. 'Might I have a word?'
'Of course, Tybalt,' he said. 'I'm sorry about Verulam. He was brave man.'
Marr nodded curtly and Loken could only imagine the pain he must be going through.
Loken had grieved for fallen brothers before, but Moy and Marr had been inseparable, enjoying a symbiotic relationship not unlike identical twins. As friends and brothers, they had fought best as a pair, but once again, Moy had been lucky enough to gain a place in the speartip, and Marr had not.
This time Moy had paid for that luck with his life.
'Thank you, Captain Loken. I appreciate the sentiment,' replied Marr.
'Was there something you wanted, Tybalt?'
'Are you returning to the moon?' asked Marr, and Loken knew exactly why Marr was here. He nodded. 'We are. There may be something there that will help the Warmaster. If there is, we will find it.'
'Is it in the place where Verulam died?'
'Yes,' said Loken. 'I think so.'
'Could you use another sword arm? I want to see where… where it happened.'
Loken saw the aching grief in Marr's eyes and said. 'Of course we could.'
Marr nodded his thanks and they marched up the assault ramp as the Thunderhawk's engines powered up with the shrieking of a banshee's wail.
Aximand watched Abaddon punch the sparring servitor's shoulder, tearing off its sword limb before closing to deliver a series of rapid hammer blows to its torso. Flesh caved beneath the assault, bone and steel broke, and the construct collapsed in a splintered mess of meat and metal.
It was the third servitor Abaddon had destroyed in the last thirty minutes. Ezekyle had always worked through his angst with his fists and this time was no different. Violence and killing was what the first captain had been bred for, but it had become such a way of life to him that it was the only way he knew how to express his frustrations.
Aximand himself had dismantled and reassembled his bolter six times, slowly and methodic
ally laying each part on an oiled cloth before cleaning it meticulously. Where Abaddon unleashed his pain through violence, Aximand preferred to detach his mind through familiar routines. Powerless to do anything constructive to help the commander, they had both retreated to the things they knew best.
'The Master of Armouries will have your head for destroying his servitors like that,' said Aximand, looking up as Abaddon pummelled what was left of the servitor to destruction.
Sweating and breathing hard, Abaddon stepped from the training cage, sweat lathering his body in gleaming sheets and his silver-wrapped topknot slick with sweat. Even for an Astartes, he was huge, muscular and solid as stone. Torgaddon often teased Abaddon joking that he left leadership of the Justaerin to Falkus Kibre because he was too big to fit in a suit of Terminator armour.
'It's what they're for,' snapped Abaddon.
'I'm not sure you're meant to be that hard on them.'
Abaddon shrugged, lifted a towel from his arming chamber and hung it around his shoulders. 'How can you be calm at a time like this?'
'Trust me, I'm not calm, Ezekyle.'
'You look calm.'
'Just because I'm not smashing things with my fists doesn't mean I'm not choleric.'
Abaddon picked up a piece of his armour, and began polishing it, before hurling it aside with an angry snarl.
'Centre your humours, Ezekyle,' advised Aximand. 'It's not good to go too far out of balance, you might not come back.'
'I know,' sighed Abaddon. 'But I'm all over the place: choleric, melancholic, saturnine, all of them at the same time. I can't sit still for a second. What if he doesn't make it, Little Horus? What if he dies?'
The first captain stood and paced the arming chambers, wringing his hands, and Aximand could see the blood rising in his cheeks as his anger and frustration grew once more.
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