False Gods (19 page)

‘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 memo-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 memo-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

F
ROM
HERE
,
HE
could see the pyramid roof of the Athenaeum, the 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.’

P
ANIC
,
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.

Only Petronella Vivar seemed unaffected by the inaction that held Loken and his brothers firm. Down on her knees in the mud next to the Warmaster, she was weeping and wailing at him to get back up again.

The knowledge that his commander was down and a mortal woman had reacted before any of the Sons of Horus shamed Loken into action and he dropped to one knee alongside the fallen Horus.

‘Apothecary!’ shouted Loken, and time snapped back with a crash of shouts and cries.

The Mournival dropped to the ground beside him.

‘What’s wrong?’ demanded Abaddon.

‘Commander!’ shouted Torgaddon.

‘Lupercal!’ cried Aximand.

Loken ignored them and forced himself to focus.

This is a battlefield injury and I will treat it as such,
he thought.

He scanned the Warmaster’s body as the others put their hands on him, pushing the remembrancer out of the way as each struggled to wake their lord and master. Too many hands were interfering, and Loken yelled, ‘Stop. Get back!’

The Warmaster’s armour was beaten and torn, but Loken could see no other obvious breaches in the armoured plates save where the shoulder guard had been torn away, and where the gaping puncture wound oozed in his chest.

‘Help me get his armour off!’ he shouted.

The Mournival, bound together as brothers, nodded and, grateful to have a focus for their efforts, instantly obeyed Loken’s command. Within moments, they had removed Horus’s breastplate and pauldrons and were unstrapping his remaining shoulder guard.

Loken tore off his helmet and cast it aside, pressing his ear to the Warmaster’s chest. He could hear the Warmaster’s hearts, pounding in a deathly slow double beat.

‘He’s still alive!’ he cried.

‘Get out of the way!’ shouted a voice behind him, and he turned to rebuke this newcomer before seeing the double helix caduceus symbol on his armour plates. Another apothecary joined the first and the Mournival was unceremoniously pushed aside as they went to work, hissing narthecium stabbing into the Warmaster’s flesh.

Loken stood watching them, impotent and helpless as they fought to stabilise the Warmaster. His eyes filled with tears and he looked around in vain for something to do, something to make him feel he was helping. There was nothing, and he felt like crying out to the heavens for making him so powerful and yet so useless.

Abaddon wept openly, and to see the first captain so unmanned made Loken’s fear for the Warmaster all the more terrible. Aximand watched the apothecaries work with a grim stoicism, while Torgaddon chewed his bottom lip and prevented the remembrancer from getting in the way.

The Warmaster’s skin was ashen, his lips blue and his limbs rigid, and Loken knew that they must destroy whatever power had felled Horus. He turned and began marching back towards the
Glory of Terra
, determined that he would take the stricken craft apart, piece by piece if need be.

‘Captain!’ called one of the apothecaries, a warrior Loken knew as Vaddon. ‘Get a Stormbird here now! We need to get him to the
Vengeful Spirit
.’

Loken stood immobile, torn between his desire for vengeance and his duty to the Warmaster.

‘Now, captain!’ yelled the apothecary, and the spell was broken.

He nodded dumbly and opened a channel to the captains of the Stormbirds, grateful to have a purpose in this maelstrom of confusion. Within moments, one of the medical craft was inbound and Loken watched, mesmerised, as the apothecaries fought to save the Warmaster.

He could see from the frantic nature of their ministrations that they were fighting an uphill battle, their narthecium whirring miniature centrifuges of blood and dispensing patches of syn-skin to treat his wounds. Their conversations passed over him, but he caught the odd familiar word here and there. ‘Larraman cells ineffective…’ ‘Hypoxic poisoning…’

Aximand appeared at his side and placed his hand on Loken’s shoulder. ‘Don’t say it, Little Horus,’ warned Loken. ‘I wasn’t going to, Garviel,’ said Aximand. ‘He’ll be alright. There’s nothing this place could throw at the Warmaster that’ll keep him down for long.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Loken, his voice close to breaking. ‘I just do. I have faith.’ ‘Faith?’