Shouts of anger and calls for action echoed from the armoury walls, and Torgaddon did not like the ugly desire for reciprocity that he saw on the faces of his fellow warriors.
'Nice speech,' said Torgaddon when the roars of anger had diminished, 'but why don't you get to the point? I have a company to make ready for a combat drop.'
'Always the straight talker, eh, Tarik?' said Aximand. 'That is why you are respected and valued. That is why we need you with us, brother.'
'With you? What are you talking about?'
'Have you not heard a word that was said?' asked Maloghurst, limping over to where Torgaddon stood. 'We are under threat from within our own ranks. The enemy within, Tarik, it is the most insidious foe we have yet faced.'
'You'll need to speak plainly, Mal,' said Abaddon. 'Tarik needs it spelled out for him.'
'Up yours, Ezekyle,' said Torgaddon.
'I have learned that the remembrancer who writes these treasonous missives is called Ignace Karkasy,' said Maloghurst. 'He must be silenced.'
'Silenced? What do you mean by that?' asked Torgaddon. 'Given a slap on the wrist? Told not to be such a naughty boy? Something like that?'
'You know what I mean, Tarik,' stated Maloghurst.
'I do, but I want to hear you say it.'
'Very well, if you wish me to be direct, then I will be. Karkasy must die.'
'You're crazy, Mal, do you know that? You're talking about murder,' said Torgaddon.
'It's not murder when you kill your enemy, Tarik,' said Abaddon. 'It's war.'
'You want to make war on a poet?' laughed Torgaddon. 'Oh, they'll tell tales of that for centuries, Ezekyle. Can't you hear what you're saying? Anyway, the remembrancer is under Garviel's protection. You touch Karkasy and he'll hand your head to the Warmaster himself.'
A guilty silence enveloped the group at the mention of Loken's name, and the lodge members in front of Torgaddon shared an uneasy look.
Finally, Maloghurst said, 'I had hoped it would not come to this, but you leave us no choice, Tarik.'
Torgaddon gripped the hilt of his combat knife tightly, wondering if he would need to fight his way clear of his brothers.
'Put up your knife, we're not about to attack you,' snapped Maloghurst, seeing the tension in his eyes.
'Go on,' said Torgaddon, keeping a grip on the knife anyway. 'What did you hope it would not come to?'
'Hektor Varvarus claims to have spoken with the Council of Terra about events surrounding the Warmaster's injury, and it is certain that if he has not yet informed Malcador the Sigillite of the deaths on the embarkation deck, he soon will. He petitions the Warmaster daily with demands that there be justice.'
'And what has the Warmaster told him? I was there too. So was Ezekyle. You too Little Horus.'
'And so was Loken,' finished Erebus, joining the others. 'He led you onto the embarkation deck and he led the way through the crowd.'
Torgaddon took a step towards Erebus. 'I told you to be quiet!'
He turned from Erebus, and despair filled him as he saw acquiescent looks on his brothers' faces. They had already accepted the idea of throwing Garviel Loken to the wolves.
'You can't seriously be considering this, Mal,' protested Torgaddon. 'Ezekyle? Horus? You would betray your sworn Mournival brother?'
'He already betrays us by allowing this remembrancer to spread lies,' said Aximand.
'No, I won't do it,' swore Torgaddon.
'You must,' said Aximand. 'Only if you, Ezekyle and I swear oaths that it was Loken who orchestrated the massacre will Varvarus accept him as guilty.'
'So, that's what this is all about, is it?' asked Torgaddon. 'Two birds with one stone? Make Garviel your scapegoat, and you're free to murder Karkasy. How can you even consider this? The Warmaster will never agree to it.'
'Bluntly put, but you are mistaken if you think the Warmaster will not agree,' said Targost. 'This was his suggestion.'
'No!' cried Torgaddon. 'He wouldn't…'
'It can be no other way, Tarik,' said Maloghurst. 'The survival of the Legion is at stake.'
Torgaddon felt something inside him die at the thought of betraying his friend. His heart broke at making a choice between Loken and the Sons of Horus, but no sooner had the thought surfaced than he knew what he had to do.
He sheathed his combat knife and said, 'If betrayal and murder is needed to save the Legion then perhaps it does not deserve to survive! Garviel Loken is our brother and you would betray his honour like this? I spit on you for even thinking it.'
A horrified gasp spread through the chamber and angry mutterings closed in on Torgaddon.
'Think carefully, Tarik,' warned Maloghurst. 'You are either with us or against us.'
Torgaddon reached into his robes and tossed something silver and gleaning at Maloghurst's feet. The lodge medal glinted in the candlelight.
'Then I am against you,' said Torgaddon.
NINETEEN
Isolated
Allies
Eagle's wing
Petronella sat at her escritoire, filling page after page with her cramped handwriting, the spidery script tight and intense. Her dark hair was unbound and fell around her shoulders in untidy ringlets. Her complexion had the sallow appearance of one who has not stepped outside her room for many months, let alone seen daylight.
A pile of papers beside her was testament to the months she had spent in her luxurious cabin, though its luxury was a far cry from what it had been when she had first arrived on the Vengeful Spirit. The bed was unmade and her clothes lay strewn where she had discarded them before bed.
Her maidservant, Babeth, had done what she could to encourage her mistress to pause in her labours, but Petronella would have none of it. The words of the Warmaster's valediction had to be transcribed and interpreted in the most minute detail if she was to do his confession any justice. Even though his words had turned out not to be his last, she knew they deserved to be recorded, for she had tapped into the Warmaster's innermost thoughts. She had teased out information no one had contemplated before, secrets of the primarchs that had not seen the light of day since the Great Crusade had begun and truths that would rock the Imperium to its very core.
That such things should perhaps remain buried had occurred to her only once in her lonely sojourn, but she was the Palatina Majoria of House Carpinus and such questions had no meaning. Knowledge and truth were all that mattered and it would be for future generations to judge whether she had acted correctly.
She had a dim memory of speaking of these incredible truths to some poet or other in a dingy bar many months ago while very drunk, but she had no idea what had passed between them. He had not tried to contact her afterwards, so she could only assume that he hadn't tried to seduce her, or that she hadn't in fact been seduced. It was immaterial; she had locked herself away since the beginning of the war with the Technocracy, trawling every fragment of her mnemonic implants for the words and turns of phrase that the Warmaster had used.
She was writing too much, she knew, but damn the word count, her tale was too important to be constrained by the bindings of a mere book. She would tell the tale for as long as it took in the telling… but there was something missing.
As the weeks and months had passed, the gnawing sensation that something wasn't gelling grew from a suspicion to a certainty, and it had taken her until recently to realise what that was: context.
All she had were the Warmaster's words, there was no framework to hang them upon and without that, everything was meaningless. Finally realising what was a miss, she sought out Astartes warriors at every opportunity, but hit her first real obstacle in this regard.
No one was speaking to her.
As soon as any of her subjects knew what Petronella wanted, or who she was, they would clam up and refuse to speak another word, excusing themselves from her presence with polite abruptness.
Everywhere she had turned, she ran into walls of silence, and despite repeated entreaties to the office o
f the Warmaster to intervene, she was getting nowhere. Every one of her requests for an audience with the War-master was declined, and she soon began to despair of ever finding a means of telling her tale.
Inspiration as to how to break this deadlock had come yesterday after yet another afternoon of abject failure. As always, Maggard escorted her, clad in his golden battle armour and armed with his Kirlian rapier and pistol. After the fighting on Davin, Maggard had made a speedy recovery, and Petronella had noticed a more cocksure swagger to his step. She also noticed that he was treated with more respect around the ship than she was. Of course, such a state of affairs was intolerable, despite the fact that it made his vigour as her concubine that much more forceful and pleasurable.
An Astartes warrior had nodded in respect as Petronella despondently travelled along the upper decks of the ship towards her stateroom. She had made to nod back, before realising that the Astartes had been paying his respects to Maggard, not her.
A scroll upon the Astartes's shoulder guard bore a green crescent moon, marking him out as a veteran of the Davin campaign and thus no doubt aware of Maggard's fighting prowess.
Indignation surged to the surface, but before Petronella said anything, an idea began to form and she hurried back to the stateroom.
Petronella had stood Maggard in the centre of the room and said, 'It's so obvious to me now, shame on me for not thinking of this sooner.'
Maggard looked puzzled, and she moved closer to him, stroking her hand down his moulded breastplate. He seemed uncomfortable with this, but she pressed on, knowing that he would do anything for her in fear of reprisal should he refuse.
'It's because I am a woman,' she said. 'I'm not part of their little club.'
She moved behind him and stood on her tiptoes, placing her hands on his shoulders. 'I'm not a warrior. I've never killed anyone, well, not myself, and that's what they respect: killing. You've killed men, haven't you Maggard?'
He nodded curtly.
'Lots?'
Maggard nodded again and she laughed. 'I'm sure they know that too. You can't speak to boast of your prowess, but I'm sure the Astartes know it. Even the ones that weren't on Davin will be able to see that you're a killer.'
Maggard licked his lips, keeping his golden eyes averted from her.
'I want you to go amongst them,' she ordered. 'Let them see you. Inveigle yourself into their daily rituals. Find out all you can about them and each day we will use the mnemo-quill to transcribe what you've discovered. You're mute, so they'll think you simple. Let them. They will be less guarded if they think they humour a dolt.'
She could see that Maggard was unhappy with this task, but his happiness was of no consequence to her and she had sent him out the very next morning.
She had spent the rest of the day writing, sending Babeth out for food and water when she realised she was hungry, and trying different stylistic approaches to the introduction of her manuscript.
The door to her stateroom opened and Petronella looked up from her work. The chronometer set into the escritoire told her that it was late afternoon, ship time.
She swivelled in her chair to see Maggard enter her room and smiled, reaching over to pull her data-slate close and then lifting the mnemo-quill from the Lethe-well.
'You spent time with the Astartes?' she asked.
Maggard nodded.
'Good,' said Petronella, sitting the reactive nib on the slate and clearing her mind of her own thoughts.
'Tell me everything,' she commanded, as the quill began to scratch out his thoughts.
The Warmaster's sanctum was silent save for the occasional hissing, mechanical hum from the exo-armature of Regulus's body, and the rusde of fabric as Maloghurst shifted position. Both stood behind the Warmaster, who sat in his chair at the end of the long table, his hands steepled before him and his expression thunderous.
'The Brotherhood should be carrion food by now,' he said. 'Why have the World Eaters not yet stormed the walls of the Iron Citadel?'
Captain Kharn, equerry to Angron himself, stood firm before the Warmaster's hostile stare, the dim light of the sanctum reflecting from the blue and white of his plate armour.
'My lord, its walls are designed to resist almost every weapon we have available, but I assure you the fortress will be ours within days,' said Kharn.
'You mean mine,' growled the Warmaster.
'Of course, Lord Warmaster,' replied Kharn.
'And tell my brother Angron to get up here. I haven't seen hide nor hair of him in months. I'll not have him sulking in some muddy trench avoiding me just because he can't deliver on his promises.'
'If I may be so bold, my primarch told you that this batde would take time,' explained Kharn. 'The citadel was built with the old technology and needs siege experts like the Iron Warriors to break it open.'
'And if I could contact Perturabo, I would have him here,' said the Warmaster.
Regulus spoke from behind the Warmaster. 'The STC machines will be able to counter much of the Mechanicum's arsenal. If the Dark Age texts are correct, they will adapt and react to changing circumstances, creating ever more cunning means of defence.'
'The citadel may be able to adapt,' said Captain Kharn, angrily gripping the haft of his axe, 'but it will not be able to stand before the fury of the XII Legion. The sons of Angron will tear the beating heart from that fortress for you, Warmaster. Have no doubt of that.'
'Fine words, Captain Kharn,' said Horus. 'Now storm that citadel for me. Kill everyone you find within.'
The World Eater bowed and turned on his heel, marching from the sanctum.
Once the doors slid shut behind Kharn, Horus said, 'That ought to light a fire under Angron's backside. This war is taking too damn long. There is other business to be upon.'
Regulus and Maloghurst came around from behind the Warmaster, the equerry taking a seat to ease his aching body.
'We must have those STC machines,' said Regulus.
'Yes, thank you, adept, I had quite forgotten that,' said Horus. 'I know very well what those machines represent, even if the fools who control them do not.'
'My order will compensate you handsomely for them, my lord,' said Regulus.
Horus smiled and said, 'At last we come to it, adept.'
'Come to what, my lord?'
'Do not think me a simpleton, Regulus,' cautioned Horus. 'I know of the Mechanicum's quest for the ancient knowledge. Fully functional construct machines would be quite a prize, would they not?'
'Beyond imagining,' admitted Regulus. 'To rediscover the thinking engines that drove humanity into the stars and allowed the colonisation of the galaxy is a prize worth any price.'
'Any price?' asked Horus.
'These machines will allow us to achieve the unimaginable, to reach into the halo stars and perhaps even other galaxies,' said Regulus. 'So yes, any price is worth paying.'
'Then you shall have them,' said Horus.
Regulus seemed taken aback by such a monumentally grand offer and said, 'I thank you, Warmaster. You cannot imagine the boon you grant the Mechanicum.'
Horus stood and circled behind Regulus, staring unabashedly at the remnants of flesh that clung to his metallic components. Shimmering fields contained the adept's organs, and a brass musculature gave him a measure of mobility.
'There is little of you that can still be called human, isn't there?' asked Horus. 'In that regard you are not so different from myself or Maloghurst.'
'My lord?' replied Regulus. 'I aspire to the perfection of the machine state, but would not presume to compare myself with the Astartes.'
'As well you should not,' said Horus, continuing to pace around the sanctum. 'I will give you these construct machines, but as we have established, there will be a price.'
'Name it, my lord. The Mechanicum will pay it.'
'The Great Crusade is almost at an end, Regulus, but our efforts to secure the galaxy are only just beginning,' said Horus, leaning over the table and planting his hands on its
black surface. 'I am poised to embark on the greatest endeavour imaginable, but I need allies, or all will come to naught. Can I count on you and the Mechanicum?'
'What is this great endeavour?' asked Regulus.
Horus waved his hand and came around the table to stand next to the adept of the Mechanicum once more, placing a reassuring hand on his brass armature.
'No need to go into the details just now,' he said. 'Just tell me that you and your brethren will support me when the time comes and the construct machines are yours.'
A whirring mechanical arm wrapped in gold mesh swung over the table and placed a polished machine-cog gently on its surface.
'As much of the Mechanicum as I command is yours Warmaster,' promised Regulus, 'and as much strength as I can muster from those I do not.'
Horus smiled and said, 'Thank you, adept. That's all I wanted to hear.'
On the sixth day of the tenth month of the war against the Auretian Technocracy, the 63rd Expedition was thrown into panic when a group of vessels translated in-system behind it, in perfect attack formation.
Boas Comnenus attempted to turn his ships to face the new arrivals, but even as the manoeuvres began, he knew it would be too late. Only when the mysterious ships reached, and then passed, optimal firing range, did those aboard the Vengeful Spirit understand that the vessels had no hostile intent.
Relieved hails were sent from the Warmaster's flagship to be met with an amused voice that spoke with the cultured accent of Old Terra.
'Horus, my brother,' said the voice. 'It seems I still have a thing or two to teach you.'
On the bridge of the Vengeful Spirit, Horus said, 'Fulgrim.'
Despite the hardships of the war, Loken was excited at the prospect of meeting the warriors of the Emperor's Children once again. He had spent as much time as his duties allowed in repairing his armour, though he knew it was still in a sorry state. He and the Mournival stood behind the Warmaster as he waited proudly on the upper transit dock of the Vengeful Spirit, ready to receive the primarch of the III Legion.
False Gods whh-2 Page 30
