Ruinstorm

by David Annandale

  His sacrifice was for nothing.

  This is the choice. Fall to Horus, and the light falls with you.

  The Imperial Palace crumbled like sand. Sky-piercing spires toppled. Walls disintegrated. The wailing and the flames reached higher and higher. Domes and vaults collapsed into ruin.

  The rampart cracked beneath Sanguinius’ feet. He tried to fly, but the weight of his failure was too great. Stone turned to dust, and he fell. The world faded into darkness. Soon there was only screaming and fire. Then even that was consumed by the dark.

  Sanguinius did not know when he spread his wings, but he had. His feathers rippled with the currents of the dark.

  This is the choice, said the voice, and when the dark receded, this time it was to show him the full torment of his father’s dream. Sanguinius flew through star systems, skimmed the surface of planets, and shot into the intergalactic void, where he looked down on the spiral arms of the galaxy. The Ruinstorm exulted in its infinite power. It had become a maelstrom that turned the stars themselves. The galaxy writhed in its grip. Sanguinius saw planets carved into the idols of worship. He saw daemonic fortresses rise up to eclipse suns. The walls towered above the galactic plain. He saw tangles of architecture that devoured stars. The blood of planets ran down the lengths of great arches. Worlds convulsed with the riots of daemons. Billions of mortals suffered and died in nights of fire and days of blood. He saw citadels of brass and cities of plague. He saw rivers of bodies fused in the paroxysms of excess. And everywhere was change, everywhere was flux, every­where the triumph of Chaos.

  He did see mortal battlements. From them flew the banners of the traitor Legions. He saw signs of what he thought might be Horus’ dark empire. But the hints were few. The signs were scant. It was as if the possibility was not truly considered, or the fact not important enough to register more strongly in the mosaic of insanity.

  Reality was dead. Its corpse lay open to the devouring jaws of the warp. The blood of the materium flowed in the form of a million shrieking worlds.

  This is the choice, said the voice, if you refuse my aid.

  I will not choose this, Sanguinius thought. I will not allow it. He turned his eyes from the great ruin. He turned into the great dark, and he struck into it with the Blade Encarmine. He stabbed it as he had stabbed Horus in that one future where there was light.

  He tore the dark and the light rushed out, enveloping him, restoring him. He welcomed the blindness that came with it. It pulled back to the sound of a great fanfare.

  He saw the triumph of the Imperium.

  The loyalist forces turned back the tide of the traitors. Terra was triumphant. In orbit, its master dead, the Vengeful Spirit was a gutted shell. On the Avenue of Reason’s Victory, Sanguinius stood over Lorgar’s body. He had impaled the primarch of the Word Bearers through the chest with the Spear of Telesto. Behind Lorgar, the wreckage of Land Raiders and Rhinos of the XVII Legion formed hills of twisted, smoking metal. The corpses of Word Bearers were uncountable.

  Perturabo kneeled before Sanguinius. His armour was shattered. Within and without, the iron had been smashed.

  In the distance, Sanguinius saw Guilliman and the Lion leading more of their fallen brothers in chains, bringing them to the site of their surrender.

  Loyalist forces freed world after world. The fleets were even larger than during the Great Crusade, so massive was the Imperium’s response to the traitors, so decisive its retaliation. Ships of crimson and of gold, of blue and of white, of black and of grey, of all the colours of fealty, all of them shining with the light of justice, stormed through the void. In their collective might, they were a sword. They were his sword, striking across the entire galaxy. His blow rescued his father’s dream and burned away the desolation of Horus. The ascendancy of the dream was assured now. Eternity was subject to the rule of the Imperium.

  This is the choice. Follow me to triumph.

  Sanguinius followed the golden road of this future. There was an end to the war. There was an end to the Crusade. And now he was on Terra again. He walked with the Emperor in a cloister adjacent to the throne room. It was a small space, reached by a door unnoticeable in the grandeur and colossal scale of the chamber. Sanguinius had no memory of being here before. The colonnade enclosed a garden of fountains. Each sculpture was a bronze and gold orrery of the star systems of the Emperor’s loyal sons. Streams of water leapt from the centre of one orrery to another, forming a web of connections. In the gaps where the fountains of the traitor primarchs had been, there now stood silver trees. Their trunks were engraved with the names of the decisive battles of the war. Their branches linked overhead, creating another web. The garden was the strength of the Imperium. It was resilience and the bonds of loyalty.

  It was also peace.

  ‘I have tarried long enough,’ the Emperor said.

  ‘I understand,’ Sanguinius said. ‘Your great work cannot be left unfinished.’

  ‘Not if the Imperium’s future is to be considered. The Crusade is complete. Now, our vigilance to preserve what it accomplished must be eternal. We have prevailed against the forces that would have destroyed it, but we have not destroyed them. Their jealousy is great. They will always be outside the gates.’

  ‘They came very close to breaching them.’

  The Emperor bent His head, acknowledging the justice of the mild rebuke. ‘I thought I could raise walls of psychic defence so high they would shut out Chaos forever. I knew that awareness of the daemonic was dangerous in and of itself. I hid that know­ledge from all of you, thinking I was protecting you and all we had accomplished together. I was wrong. My hubris has had a terrible cost. At least you know, now, why I cannot remain amongst you.’

  ‘I do, Father.’ The admission was difficult. He did not want to admit that the joy of being at the Emperor’s side again was to be short-lived. He did understand, though. And there was comfort in knowing that the purpose of the Legiones Astartes was assured. They would always be needed. They would be the eternal guardians on the material and psychic ramparts of the Imperium.

  ‘Then I think you know what I am going to ask of you.’

  Sanguinius caught his breath. He stopped walking in a corner of the colonnade. The Emperor walked on another few steps, His great stride taking Him almost halfway down the shorter end of the quadrangle. He paused and looked back at the Angel. His smile was kind. His eyes were solemn.

  Sanguinius forced his legs into motion. He caught up to the Emperor. ‘Father,’ he said, ‘we cannot repeat history.’

  Water leapt from fountain to fountain. The sound was the murmur of duty.

  ‘We are not making the same mistakes,’ said the Emperor. They began walking again. ‘You are not Horus. And I am not asking you to be Warmaster. The time for that role has passed.’

  ‘What are you asking?’ Sanguinius asked. He knew, yet he did not believe.

  ‘I am asking you take up a mantle you have already borne. You must be Imperator Regis.’

  Sanguinius shook his head. ‘The Imperium Secundus was a mistake. It was a sin against you.’

  ‘You acted in error, but you acted correctly. What would have happened had you refused Guilliman’s plea? By accepting, by being my regent, you forged the unity between the three Legions that led to the victory over Horus. The Imperium would be lucky to experience more such errors.’

  ‘Why me, Father?’

  ‘Because you have already proven yourself worthy. You took up rule reluctantly, and set it aside with gratitude.’

  Sanguinius sighed. ‘I am still reluctant.’

  ‘Good. But it is not merely that you are not a usurper, Sanguinius. You are also the leader the Imperium will need. You have the strength. You have the power. You defeated Lorgar. It was to you that they bent the knee in surrender.’

  ‘You were fighting elsewhere.’

  ‘That is my point. Ev
en they recognised who stood in my stead. Your destiny is to be my regent.’

  This is the choice. This the path you must accept. I will guide your hand at the crucial moment.

  Sanguinius recognised the voice in his head now. It was the Emperor’s.­ It had been all along. Even now, he heard no sound, but he recognised the authority, the wisdom, the knowledge and the power behind the words.

  The Emperor had stopped walking. The water murmured. A breeze disturbed the Master of Mankind’s raven hair. He looked at the Angel expectantly.

  Sanguinius’ consciousness divided. He stood before the Emperor in the Imperial Palace, and a part of him looked on from within the radiant limbo of the portal, conscious that this moment had not happened yet, that this was the future he must bring about. He had to break the bonds of fate, to make this possibility a reality. He had to strike the blow, through the knot of destiny and through Horus’ skull. To reach that moment, he understood now, he had to accept the guidance of the voice. And why wouldn’t he listen to his father?

  The Emperor read the determination on his face. He smiled with pride. ‘You are surprised to have reached this juncture, Sanguinius. That is to your credit. It is to my shame that I did not realise from the start what had to be done.’ He shook His head sadly. ‘I was blind when I named Horus the Warmaster. It should have been you. It should always have been you.’ His eyes looked off into the vague distance, pained by the vision of the billions of lives lost in the war, and then back at Sanguinius. They grew bright with joy. ‘You are the Angel,’ he said. ‘You have the wings of divinity. Long may the Imperium soar with you.’

  ‘I will serve…’ Sanguinius began. He stopped. The Emperor’s last words rang false. He had never heard his father use the word divinity in that fashion. It had always been a term of contempt, a reminder of the ignorance that was humanity’s lot before the Imperium shone the light of reason across the galaxy.

  Joy stuttered. Hope wavered. The visions of the triumphant future fractured. A flaw ran through them. On Terra, when the traitors surrendered, why had he been the one receiving their capitulation?

  The loyalist fleets retaking the fallen worlds and completing the work of the Great Crusade, how had they grown so large in so short a time? As he examined the memory, Sanguinius saw what he had not taken in before, or perhaps had expected too easily. The fleets of the IX Legion were the greatest of all.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ the Emperor asked.

  The light of the future radiated from Sanguinius. His actions brought victory. His blow shaped the Imperium. Traitors and Emperor alike recognised him as the ruler of the order to come. Every triumph flattered his pride.

  Sanguinius looked around the cloister. He was sure he had never seen it before. That did not mean the cloister did not exist. But the lack of memory disturbed him. The colonnade and the garden of fountains were too perfectly suited to this conversation.

  A conversation where the Emperor was too deferential to Sanguinius, too quick to blame Himself for the tragedy of the war. His majesty was lacking. Sanguinius had felt so much joy to be in his father’s presence again that he had not questioned the presence. And again, his pride had blinded him.

  A cold trickle of dread ran through his blood.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ the Emperor asked again.

  ‘Everything,’ said Sanguinius. ‘This is not real.’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ the Emperor agreed. ‘Not yet. It falls to you to make it real.’

  ‘You are not my father.’

  The breeze over the garden grew cooler, stronger. Sanguinius’ wings rustled.

  The Emperor nodded. ‘This is not real. We do not stand here. I am not your father. All of this is promise to come. Its possibility is fragile. It comes from you, and it is up to you. If you wish me to live, if you wish this reality to be, and for the Emperor to stand as I stand, and speak to you as I do, then you must decide. Yours is the hand that must change your destiny.’ The Emperor looked solemn. ‘It would be easy to let time unfold as you have long believed it would. So many events pull us to your death and mine. The resistance is difficult. You must push against currents that serve gods.’

  ‘No,’ Sanguinius said, though he was uncertain. ‘There is too much here that flatters my pride. ’

  ‘You cannot divorce yourself from your perception of reality, or of many realities. You are your own filter. I am as you see me because this is how you see me.’

  Sanguinius took a step backwards. He brushed against a column. The contact of shoulder against marble was reassuring. He wanted to believe what the Emperor was saying.

  It is because you want to believe it that you must not.

  This is the choice. The whisper in his mind was urgent. This time, he did not know if the voice came from without, or if he was speaking to himself. The voice was telling the truth. What might be a lie was the way the choice was presented.

  ‘You are the salvation of the Imperium,’ the Emperor said. ‘Your pride and the truth are not opposed. Embrace what must be done.’

  ‘I am not its salvation.’

  ‘Will you doom the Imperium, then? Will you compound the sin of the Imperium Secundus by turning away from your duty? Will you not answer my call?’

  The wind grew stronger. The light in the garden dimmed, staining with grey. Sanguinius wrestled with confusion, and he gripped the column. It cracked. ‘You said Imperium Secundus was not a sin.’

  ‘You are the source of the contradictions,’ the Emperor said. ‘I cannot speak except as you think I would.’

  The column cracked again. Dust drifted to the ground. The breeze became a wind. Spray blew from the fountains. Their streams became erratic, splashing against the sides of the basins. Grinding came from the clockwork mechanisms. The planets shuddered in their revolutions. The reality of the cloister was eroding. It was turning to sand beneath Sanguinius’ fingers, eaten away by his disbelief.

  ‘You are a lie,’ he said to the Emperor. Uttering those words felt like falling on his sword.

  The figure before him was his father in every detail. He remained solid even as the cloister’s reality softened. Fragments of stone fell from the ceiling, onto the Emperor’s shoulders. He brushed them away. He looked up at the spreading cracks, then down at Sanguinius. The face of nobility became one of profound sadness. ‘Is that your belief?’ the Emperor asked.

  ‘It is.’

  The ground trembled. The world swayed in the wind.

  ‘If you believe I am a lie,’ the Emperor said, ‘then it is clear what you must do.’ He took a step towards Sanguinius. He spread His arms, hands open. He lifted His head, exposing His throat.

  Sanguinius gripped the hilt of the Blade Encarmine. He did not draw it yet.

  This is the choice. This is the choice. This is the choice.

  Will you kill the Emperor?

  ‘You must act on the truth,’ the Emperor said. ‘You cannot permit a lie to stand. Here I am. If I am a lie, strike me down. Do not hesitate.’

  Sanguinius hesitated. The enormity of the act was too great. In the garden, the fountain of Baal toppled. The pillars were crumbling now. Sharp chunks of marble dropped from the arches, shattering against flagstones. The wind keened with grief.

  The Emperor did not blur. His reality was strong. If anything, it became stronger as the cloister fell apart. How, Sanguinius wondered, could he be an illusion? The presence was not as he remembered his father, but it was a presence, more definite than any he had encountered since entering the portal. The bloody realities of Horus, so absolute when Sanguinius lived his death and his triumph, now seemed like pale simulacra. Perhaps it was Sanguinius’ memory of the Emperor that was faulty, blinding him to the truth in front of him.

  The Emperor nodded. He lowered His arms. ‘Yes,’ He said. ‘We have all been blinded. Horus was. I was. You were, but are no longer.’ He smiled. ‘Yo
u do not strike the blow because you can see at last. You are making the choice, and it is the right one.’

  There was a moment of gratitude. A moment of hope. A moment when the disintegration of the cloister stopped. Then Sanguinius tightened his grip on the Blade Encarmine. He drew the sword. The Emperor did not move. Sanguinius raised the Blade Encarmine high.

  ‘Will you kill me?’ the Emperor asked.

  Sanguinius howled. He charged at the thing that could not be the Emperor. The presence was real, but the image was not. That was what he had to see. That was what he must believe, but all he knew as he screamed was that he aimed his blow at the neck of his father. The evidence of his eyes declared him the greatest of traitors. He, not Horus, struck at the Emperor. He attacked with desperate faith that he had made the choice at last, and that it was the loyal one. He attacked what could not be his father. But he could not see past the appearance. His soul cried out at the crime he saw himself commit.

  Father, forgive me, for I know not what I do.

  The Emperor did not move until the sword began its descent. Then He moved suddenly to block it, and He changed.

  Everything changed.

  The cloister melted. Columns and fountains bent and flowed. A web of fissures split the fountains and colonnade. It split the water and the air. Ferocious, roaring light of violet and red and green erupted through the fissures. All form vanished, and the cloister became a maelstrom of dark and light. The wind shrieked, a hurricane blowing reason and matter into madness.