False Gods

EIGHTEEN Brothers Assassination This turbulent poet

Silver trails of molten metal had solidified on the breastplate and Mersadie Oliton had learned enough in her time with the Expedition fleet to know that it would require the aid of Legion artificers to repair it properly. Loken sat before her in the training halls, while other officers of the Sons of Horus were scattered throughout it, repairing armour and cleaning bolters or chainswords. Loken was melancholic, and she was quick to notice his sombre mood.

'Is the war not going well?' she asked as he removed the firing chamber from his bolter and pulled a cleaning rag through it. He looked up and she was struck by how much he had aged in the last ten months, thinking that she would need to revise her chapter on the immortality of the Astartes.

Since opening hostilities against the Auretian Technocracy, the Astartes had seen some of the hardest fighting since the Great Crusade had begun, and it was beginning to tell on many of them. There had been few opportunities to spend time with Loken during the war, and it was only now that she truly appreciated how much he had changed.

'It's not that,' said Loken. 'The Brotherhood is virtually destroyed and the warriors of Angron will soon storm the Iron Citadel. The war will be over within the week.'

'Then why so gloomy?'

Loken glanced around to see who else was in the training halls and leaned in close to her.

'Because this is a war we should not be fighting.'

Upon Horus's recovery on Davin, the fleet of the 63rd Expedition had paused just long enough to recover its personnel from the planet's surface and install a new Imperial commander from the ranks of the Army. Like Rakris before him, the new Lord Governor Elect, Tomaz Vesalias, had begged not to be left behind, but with Davin once again compliant, Imperial rule had to be maintained.

Before the fighting on Davin, the Warmaster's fleet had been en route to Sardis and a rendezvous with the 203rd Fleet. The plan was to undertake a campaign of compliance in the Caiades Cluster, but instead of keeping that rendezvous, the Warmaster had sent his compliments and ordered the 203rd's Master of Ships to muster with the 63rd Expedition in a binary cluster designated Drakonis Three Eleven.

The Warmaster told no one why he chose this locale, and none of the stellar cartographers could find reports from any previous expedition as to why the place might be of interest.

Sixteen weeks of warp travel had seen them translate into a system alive with electronic chatter. Two planets and their shared moon in the second system were discovered to be inhabited, glinting communications satellites ringing each one, and interplanetary craft flitting between them.

More thrilling still, communications with orbital monitors revealed this civilisation to be human, another lost branch of the old race - isolated these past centuries. The arrival of the Crusade fleet had been greeted with understandable surprise, and then joy as the planet's inhabitants realised that their lonely existence was finally at an end.

Formal, face-to-face contact was not established for three days, in which time the 203rd Expedition under the command of Angron of the XII Legion, the World Eaters, translated in-system.

The first shots were fired six hours later.

The ninth month of the war.

Bolter shells stitched a path towards Loken from the blazing muzzle of the bunker's gun. He ducked behind a shell-pocked cement column, feeling the impacts hammering through it and knowing that he didn't have much time until the gunfire chewed its way through.

'Garvi!' shouted Torgaddon, rolling from behind cover and shouldering his bolter. 'Go left, I've got you!'

Loken nodded and dived from behind the cover as Torgaddon opened up, his Astartes strength keeping the barrel level despite the bolter's fearsome recoil. Shells exploded in grey puffs of rockcrete at the bunker's firing slit and Loken heard screams of pain from within. Locasta moved up behind him and he heard the whoosh of flame units as warriors poured fire into the bunker.

More screams and the stink of flesh burned by chemical flame filled the air.

'Everyone back!' shouted Loken, getting to his feet and knowing what would come next.

Sure enough, the bunker mushroomed upwards with a thudding boom, its internal magazine cooking off as its internal sensors registered that its occupants were dead.

Heavy gunfire ripped through their position, a collapsed structure at the edge of the central precinct of the planet's towering city of steel and glass. Loken had marvelled at the city's elegance, and Peeter Egon Momus had declared it perfect when he had first seen the aerial scans. It didn't look perfect now.

Puffs of flickering detonations tore a line through the Astartes, and Loken dropped as the warrior with the flame unit disappeared in a column of fire. His armour kept him alive for a few seconds, but soon he was a burning statue, the armour joints fused, and Loken rolled onto his back to see a pair of speeding aircraft rolling around for another strafing run.

'Take those ships out!' yelled Loken as the craft, sleeker, more elegant Thunderhawk variants, turned their guns towards them once again.

The Astartes spread out as the under-slung gun pods erupted in fire, and a torrent shells tore through their position, ripping thick columns in two and sending up blinding clouds of grey dust. Two warriors ducked out from behind a fallen wall, one aiming a long missile tube in the rough direction of the flier while the other sighted on it with a designator.

The missile launched in a streaming cloud of bright propellant, leaping into the sky arid speeding after the closest flier. The pilot saw it and tried to evade, but he was too close to the ground and the missile flew straight into his intake, blowing the craft apart from the inside.

Its blazing remains plummeted towards the ground as Vipus shouted, 'Incoming!'

Loken turned to rebuke him for stating the obvious when he saw that his friend wasn't talking about the remaining flier. Three tracked vehicles smashed over a low ceramic brick wall behind them, their thick armoured forward sections emblazoned with a pair of crossed lightning bolts.

Too late, Loken realised the fliers had been keeping them pinned in place while the armoured transports circled around to flank them. Through the smoking wreckage of the burning bunker, he could see blurred forms moving towards them, darting from cover to cover as they advanced. Locasta was caught between two enemy forces and the noose was closing in.

Loken chopped his hand at the approaching vehicles and the missile team turned to engage their new targets. Within seconds, one was a smoking wreck as a missile punched through its armour and its plasma core exploded inside.

'Tarik!' he shouted over the din of gunfire from nearby. 'Keep our front secure.'

Torgaddon nodded, moving forwards with five warriors. Leaving him to it, Loken turned back towards the armoured vehicles as they crunched to a halt, pintle-mounted bolters hammering them with shots. Two men fell, their armour cracked open by the heavy shells.

'Close on them!' ordered Loken as the frontal assault ramps lowered and the Brotherhood warriors within charged out. The first few times Loken had fought the Brotherhood, he'd felt a treacherous hesitation seize his limbs, but nine months of gruelling campaigning had pretty much cured him of that.

Each warrior was armoured in fully enclosed plate, silver like the knights of old, with red and black heraldry upon their shoulder guards. Their form and function was horribly similar to that of the Sons of Horus, and though the enemy warriors were smaller than the Astartes, they were nevertheless a distorted mirror of them.

Loken and the warriors of Locasta were upon them, the lead Brotherhood warriors raising their weapons in response to the wild charge. The blade of Loken's chainsword hacked through the nearest warrior's gun and cleaved into his breastplate. The Brotherhood scattered, but Loken didn't give them a chance to recover from their surprise, cutting them down in quick, brutal strokes.

These warriors might look like Astartes, but, up close, they were no match for even one of them.

He heard gunfire from behind, and heard Torgaddon issuing orders to the men under his command. Stuttering impacts on Loken's leg armour drove him to his knees and he swept his sword low, hacking the legs from the enemy warrior behind him. Blood jetted from the stumps of his legs as he fell, spraying Loken's armour red.

The vehicle began reversing, but Loken threw a pair of grenades inside, moving on as the dull crump of the detonations halted it in its tracks. Shadows loomed over them and he felt the booming footfalls of the Titans of the Legio Mortis as they marched past, crushing whole swathes of the city as they went. Buildings were smashed from their path, and though missiles and lasers reached up to them, the flare of their powerful void shields were proof against such attacks.

More gunfire and screams filled the battlefield, the enemy falling back from the fury of the Astartes counterattack. They were courageous, these warriors of the Brotherhood, but they were hopelessly optimistic if they thought that simply wearing a suit of power armour made a man the equal of an Astartes.

'Area secure,' came Torgaddon's voice over the suit vox. 'Where to now?'

'Nowhere,' replied Loken as the last enemy warrior was slain. 'This is our object point. We wait until the World Eaters get here. Once we hand off to them, we can move on. Pass the word.'

'Understood,' said Torgaddon.

Loken savoured the sudden quiet of the battlefield, the sounds of battle muted and distant as other companies fought their way through the city. He assigned Vipus to secure their perimeter and crouched beside the warrior whose legs he had cut off.

The man still lived, and Loken reached down to remove his helmet, a helmet so very similar to his own. He knew where the release catches were and slid the helm clear.

His enemy's face was pale from shock and blood loss, his eyes full of pain and hate, but there were no monstrously alien features beneath the helmet, simply ones as human as any member of the 63rd Expedition.

Loken could think of nothing to say to the man, and simply took off his own helmet and pulled the water-dispensing pipe from his gorget. He poured some clear, cold water over the man's face.

'I want nothing from you,' hissed the dying man.

'Don't speak,' said Loken. 'It will be over quickly.'

But the man was already dead.

'Why shouldn't we be fighting this war?' asked Mersadie Oliton. 'You were there when they tried to assassinate the Warmaster.'

'I was there,' said Loken, putting down the cleaned firing chamber. 'I don't think I'll ever forget that moment.'

'Tell me about it.'

'It's not pretty,' warned Loken. 'You will think less of us when I tell you the truth of it.'

'You think so? A good documentarist remains objective at all times''

'We'll see.'

The ambassadors of the planet, which Loken had learned was named Aureus, had been greeted with all the usual pomp and ceremony accorded to a potentially friendly culture. Their vessels had glided onto the embarkation deck to surprised gasps as every warrior present recognised their uncanny similarity to Stormbirds.

The Warmaster was clad in his most regal armour, gold fluted and decorated with the Emperor's devices of lightning bolts and eagles. Unusually for an occasion such as this, he was armed with a sword and pistol, and Loken could feel the force of authority the Warmaster projected.

Alongside the Warmaster stood Maloghurst, robed in white, Regulus - his gold and steel augmetic body polished to a brilliant sheen - and First Captain Abbadon, who stood proudly with a detachment of hulking Justaerin Terminators.

It was a gesture to show strength and backing it up, three hundred Sons of Hours stood at parade rest behind the group, noble and regal in their bearing - the very image of the Great Crusade - and Loken had never been prouder of his illustrious heritage.

The doors of the craft opened with the hiss of decompression and Loken had his first glimpse of the Brotherhood.

A ripple of astonishment passed through the embarkation deck as twenty warriors in gleaming silver plate armour, the very image of the assembled Astartes, marched from the landing craft's interior in perfect formation, though Loken detected a stammer of surprise in them too. They carried weapons that looked very much like a standardissue boltgun, though in deference to their hosts, none had magazines fitted.

'Do you see that?' whispered Loken.

'No, Garvi, I've suddenly been struck blind,' replied Torgaddon. 'Of course I see them.'

'They look like Astartesi.'

'There's a resemblance, I'll give you that, but they're far too short.'

'They're wearing power armour… How is that possible?'

'If you keep quiet we might find out,' said Torgaddon.

The warriors wheeled and formed up around a tall man wearing long red robes, whose features were half-flesh, half machine and whose eye was a blinking emerald gem. Walking with the aid of a golden cog-topped staff, he stepped onto the deck with the pleased expression of one who finds his expectations more than met.

The Auretian delegation made its way towards Horus, and Loken could sense the weight of history pressing in on this moment. This meeting was the very embodiment of what the Great Crusade represented: lost brothers from across the galaxy once again meeting in the spirit of companionship.

The red robed man bowed before the Warmaster and said, 'Do I have the honour of addressing the Warmaster Horus?'

'You do, sir, but please do not bow,' replied Horus. 'The honour is mine.'

The man smiled, pleased at the courtesy. 'Then if you will permit me, I will introduce myself. I am Emory Salignac, Fabricator Consul to the Auretian Technocracy. On behalf of my people, may I be the first to welcome you to our worlds.'

Loken had seen Regulus's excitement at the sight of Salignac's augmetics, but upon hearing the full title of this new empire, his enthusiasm overcame the protocol of the moment.

'Consul,' said Regulus, his voice blaring and unnatural. 'Do I understand that your society is founded on the knowledge of technical data?'

Horus turned to the adept of the Mechanicum and whispered something that Loken didn't hear, but Regulus nodded and took a step back.

'I apologise for the adept's forthright questions, but I hope you might forgive his outburst, given that our warriors appear to share certain… similarities in their wargear.'

'These are the warriors of the Brotherhood,' explained Salignac. 'They are our protectors and our most elite soldiers. It honours me to have them as my guardians here.'

'How is it they are armoured so similarly to my own warriors?'

Salignac appeared to be confused by the question and said, 'You expected something different, my lord Warmaster? The construct machines our ancestors brought with them from Terra are at the heart of our society and provide us with the boon of technology. Though advanced, they do tend towards a certain uniformity of creation.'

The silence that greeted the consul's words was brittle and fragile, and Horus held up his hand to still the inevitable outburst from Regulus.

'Construct machines?' asked Horus, a cold edge of steel in his voice. 'STC machines?'

'I believe that was their original designation, yes,' agreed Salignac, lowering his staff and holding it towards the Warmaster. 'You have—'

Emory Salignac never got to finish his sentence as Horus took a step backward and drew his pistol. Loken saw the muzzle flash and watched Emory Salignac's head explode as the bolt blew out the back of his skull.

'Yes,' said Mersadie Oliton. 'The staff was some kind of energy weapon that could have penetrated the Warmaster's armour. 'We've been told this.'

Loken shook his head. 'No, there was no weapon.'

'Of course there was,' insisted Oliton, 'and when the consul's assassination attempt failed, his Brotherhood warriors attacked the Warmaster.'

Loken put down his bolter and said, 'Mersadie, forget what you have been told. There was no weapon, and after the Warmaster killed the consul, the Brotherhood only tried to escape. Their weapons were not loaded and they could not have fought us with any hope of success.'

'They were unarmed?'

'Yes.'

'So what did you do?'

'We killed them,' said Loken. 'They were unarmed, but we were not. Abaddon's Justaerin cut half a dozen of them down before they even knew what had happened. I led Locasta forward and we gunned them down as they tried to board their ship.'

'But why?' asked Oliton, horrified at his casual description of such slaughter.

'Because the Warmaster ordered it.'

'No, I mean why would the Warmaster shoot the consul if he wasn't armed? It doesn't make any sense.'

'No, it doesn't,' agreed Loken. 'I watched him kill the consul and I saw his face after we had killed the Brotherhood warriors.'

'What did you see?'

Loken hesitated, as though not sure he should answer. At last he said, 'I saw him smile.'

'Smile?'

'Yes,' said Loken, 'as if the killings had been part of his plan all along. I don't know why, but Horus wants this war.'

Torgaddon followed the hooded warrior down the darkened companionway towards the empty reserve armoury chamber. Serghar Targost had called a lodge meeting and Torgaddon was apprehensive, not liking the sensation one bit. He had attended only a single meeting since Davin, the quiet order no longer a place of relaxation for him. Though the Warmaster had been returned to them, the lodge's actions had smacked of subterfuge and such behaviour sat ill with Tarik Torgaddon.

The robed figure he followed was unknown to him, young and clearly in awe of the legendary Mournival officer, which suited Torgaddon fine. The warrior had clearly only achieved full Astartes status recently, but Torgaddon knew that he would already be an experienced fighter. There was no room for inexperience among the Sons of Horus, the months of war on Aureus making veterans or corpses of those raised from the novitiate and scout auxiliaries. The Brotherhood might not have the abilities of the Astartes, but the Technocracy could call on millions of them, and they fought with courage and honour.

It only made killing them all the harder. Fighting the megarachnids of Murder had been easy, their alien physiognomy repulsive to look upon and therefore easy to destroy.

The Brotherhood, though… they were so like the Sons of Horus that it was as though two Legions fought each other in some brutal civil war. Not one amongst the Legion had failed to experience a moment of pause at such a terrible image.

Torgaddon was saddened as he knew that, like the interex before them, the Brotherhood and the Auretian Technocracy would be destroyed.

A voice from the darkness ahead shook him from his sombre thoughts.

'Who approaches?'

'Two souls,' replied the young warrior.

'What are your names?' the figure asked, but Torgaddon did not recognise the voice.

'I can't say,' said Torgaddon.

'Pass, friends.'

Torgaddon and the warrior passed the guardian of the portal and entered the reserve armoury. The vaulted chamber was much larger than the aft hold where meetings had commonly been held, and when he stepped into the flickering candlelit space, he could see why Targost had chosen it.

Hundreds of warriors filled the armoury, each one hooded and holding a flickering candle. Serghar Targost, Ezekyle Abaddon, Horus Aximand and Maloghurst stood at the centre of the gathering, to one side of them stood First Chaplain Erebus.

Torgaddon looked around at the assembled Astartes and couldn't escape the feeling that this meeting had been called for his benefit.

'You've been busy, Serghar,' he said. 'Been on a recruiting drive?'

'Since the Warmaster's recovery on Davin our stock has risen somewhat,' agreed Targost. 'So I see. Must be tricky keeping it secret now.'

'Amongst the Legion we no longer operate under a veil of secrecy'

'Then why the same pantomime to enter?'

'Targost smiled apologetically. 'Tradition, you understand?'

Torgaddon shrugged and crossed the chamber to stand before Erebus. He stared with undisguised hostility towards the first chaplain and said, 'You have been keeping a low profile since Davin. Captain Loken wants to speak with you.'

'I'm sure he does,' replied Erebus, 'but I am not under his command. I do not answer to him.'

'Then you'll answer to me, you bastard!' snapped Torgaddon, drawing his combat knife from beneath his robes and holding it to Erebus's neck. Cries of alarm sounded at the sight of die knife, and Torgaddon saw the line of an old scar running across Erebus's neck.

'Looks like someone's already tried to cut your throat,' hissed Torgaddon. 'They didn't do a very good job of it, but don't worry, I won't make the same mistake.'

'Tarik!' cried Serghar Targost. 'You brought a weapon? You know they are forbidden.'

'Erebus owes us all an explanation,' said Torgaddon, pressing the knife against Erebus's jaw. 'This snake stole a kinebrach weapon from the Hall of Devices on Xenobia. He's the reason the negotiations with the interex failed. He's the reason the Warmaster was injured.'

'No, Tarik,' said Abaddon, moving to stand next to him and placing a hand on his wrist. 'The negotiations with the interex failed because they were meant to. The interex consorted with xenos breeds. They integrated with them. We could never have made peace with such people.'

'Ezekyle speaks the truth,' said Erebus.

'Shut your mouth,' snapped Torgaddon.

'Torgaddon, put the knife down,' said Horus Aximand. 'Please.'

Reluctantly, Torgaddon lowered his arm, the pleading tone of his Mournival brother making him realise the enormity of what he was doing in holding a knife to the throat of another Astartes, even one as untrustworthy as Erebus.

'We are not finished,' warned Torgaddon, pointing the blade at Erebus.

'I will be ready,' promised the Word Bearer.

'Both of you be silent,' said Targost. 'We have urgent matters to discuss that require you to listen. These last few months of war have been hard on everyone and no one fails to see the great tragedy inherent in fighting brother humans who look so very like us. Tensions are high, but we must remember that our purpose among the stars is to kill those who will not join with us.'

Torgaddon frowned at such a blunt mission statement, but said nothing as Targost continued his speech. 'We are Astartes and we were created to kill and conquer the galaxy. We have done all that has been asked of us and more, fighting for over two centuries to forge the new Imperium from the ashes of Old Night. We have destroyed planets, torn down cultures and wiped out entire species all because we were so ordered. We are killers, pure and simple, and we take pride in being the best at what we do!'

Cheering broke out at Targost's pronouncements, fists punching the air and hammering bulkheads, but Torgaddon had seen the iterators in action enough times to recognise cued applause. This speech was for his benefit and his alone, of that he was now certain.

'Now, as the Great Crusade draws to a close, we are lambasted for our ability to kill. Malcontents and agitators stir up trouble in our wake with bleating cries that we are too brutal, too savage and too violent. Our very own Lord Commander of the Army, Hektor Varvarus, demands blood for the actions of our grief-stricken brothers who returned the Warmaster to us while he lay dying. The traitor Varvarus demands that we be called to account for these regrettable deaths, and that we be punished for trying to save the Warmaster.'

Torgaddon flinched at the word ''traitor'', shocked that Targost would openly use such an incendiary word to describe an officer as respected as Varvarus. But, as Torgaddon looked at the faces of the warriors around him, he saw only agreement with Targost's sentiment.

'Even civilians now feel they have the right to call us to account,' said Horus Aximand, taking up where Targost had left off and holding up a handful of parchments. 'Dissenters and conspirators amongst the remembrancers spread lies and propaganda that paint us as little better than barbarians.'

Aximand circled amongst die gathering, passing out the pamphlets as he spoke, This One is called The Truth is all We Have and it calls us murderers and savages. This turbulent poet mocks us in verse, brothers! These lies circulate amongst the fleet every day.'

Torgaddon took a pamphlet from Aximand and quickly scanned the paper, already knowing who had written it. Its contents were scathing, but hardly amounted to sedition.

'And this one!' cried Aximand. 'The Lectitio Divinitatus speaks of the Emperor as a god. A god! Can you imagine anything so ridiculous? These lies fill the heads of those we are fighting for. We fight and die for them and this is our reward: vilification and hate. I tell you this, my brothers, if we do not act now, the ship of me Imperium, which has weathered all storms, will sink through the mutiny of those onboard.'

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 of 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.

Fulgrim had been one of the Warmaster's staunchest supporters since his elevation to Warmaster, easing the concerns of Angron, Perturabo and Curze when they raged against the honour done to Horus and not them. Fulgrim's voice had been the breath of calm that had stilled bellicose hearts and soothed raffled pride.

Without Fulgrim's wisdom, Loken knew that it was unlikely that the Warmaster would ever have been able to command the loyalty of the Legions so completely.

He heard metallic scrapes from beyond the pressure door.

Loken had seen Fulgrim once before at the Great Triumph on Ullanor, and even though it had been from a distance as he had marched past with tens of thousands of other Astartes warriors, Loken's impression of the primarch had never faded from his mind.

It was a palpable honour to stand once again in the presence of two such godlike beings as the primarchs.

The eagle-stamped pressure door slid open and the Primarch of the Emperor's Children stepped onto the Vengeful Spirit.

Loken's first impression was of the great golden eagle's wing that swept up over Fulgrim's left shoulder. The primarch's armour was brilliant purple, edged in bright gold and inlaid with the most exquisite carvings. Hooded bearers carried his long, scaled cloak, and trailing parchments hung from his shoulder guards.

A high collar of deepest purple framed a face that was pale to the point of albinism, the eyes so dark as to be almost entirely pupil. The hint of a smile played around his lips and his hair was a shimmering white.

Loken had once called Hastur Sejanus a beautiful man, adored by all, but seeing the Primarch of the Emperor's Children up close for the first time, he knew that his paltry vocabulary was insufficient for the perfection he saw in Fulgrim.

Fulgrim opened his arms and the two primarchs embraced like long-lost brothers.

'It has been too long, Horus,' said Fulgrim.

'It has, my brother, it has,' agreed Horus. 'My heart sings to see you, but why are you here? You were prosecuting a campaign throughout the Perdus Anomaly. Is the region compliant already?'

'What worlds we found there are now compliant, yes,' nodded Fulgrim as four warriors stepped through the pressure door behind him. Loken smiled to see Saul Tarvitz, his patrician features unable to contain his relish at being reunited with his brothers of the Sons of Horus.

Lord Commander Eidolon came next, looking as unrepentantly viperous as Torgaddon had described him. Lucius the swordsman came next, still with the same sardonic expression of superiority that he remembered, though his face was now heavily scarred. Behind him came a warrior Loken did not recognise, a sallow skinned Astartes in the armour of an apothecary, with gaunt cheeks and a long mane of hair as white as that of his primarch.

Fulgrim turned from Horus and said, 'I believe you are already familiar with some of my brothers, Tarvitz, Lucius and Lord Commander Eidolon, but I do not believe you have met my Chief Apothecary Fabius.'

'It is an honour to meet you, Lord Horus,' said Fabius, bowing low.

Horus acknowledged the gesture of respect and said, 'Come now, Fulgrim, you know better than to try to stall me. What's so important that you turn up here unannounced and give half of my crew heart attacks?'

The smile fell from Fulgrim's pale lips and he said, 'There have been reports, Horus.'

'Reports? What does that mean?'

'Reports that things are not as they should be,' replied Fulgrim, 'that you and your warriors should be called to account for the brutality of this campaign. Is Angron up to his usual tricks?'

'Angron is as he has always been.'

'That bad?'

'No, I keep him on a short leash, and his equerry, Kharn, seems to curb the worst of our brother's excesses.'

'Then I have arrived just in time.'

'I see,' said Horus. 'Are you here to relieve me then?'

Fulgrim could keep a straight face no longer and laughed, his dark eyes sparkling with mirth. 'Relieve you? No, my brother, I am here so that I can return and tell those fops and scribes on Terra that Horus fights war the way it is meant to be fought: hard, fast and cruel.'

'War is cruelty. There is no use trying to reform it. The crueller it is, the sooner it is over.'

Fulgrim said, 'Indeed, my brother. Come, there is much for us to talk about, for these are strange times we live in. It seems our brother Magnus has once again done something to upset the Emperor, and the Wolf of Fenris has been unleashed to escort him back to Terra.'

'Magnus?' asked Horus, suddenly serious. 'What has he done?'

'Let us talk of it in private,' said Fulgrim. 'Anyway, I have a feeling my subordinates would welcome the chance to reacquaint themselves with your… what do you call it? Mournival?'

'Yes,' smiled Horus, 'memories of Murder no doubt.'

Loken felt a chill travel down his spine as he recognised the smile on Horus's face, the same one he had worn right after he had blown out the Auretian consul's brains on the embarkation deck.

With Horus and Fulgrim gone, Abaddon and Aximand, together with Eidolon, followed the two primarchs, while Loken and Torgaddon exchanged greetings with the Emperor's Children. The Sons of Horus welcomed their brothers with laughter and crashing bear hugs, the Emperor's Children with decorum and reserve.

For Torgaddon and Tarvitz it was a reunion of comrades, with a mutual respect forged in the heat of battle, their easy friendship clear for all to see.

The apothecary, Fabius, requested directions to the medicae deck and excused himself with a bow upon receiving them.

Lucius remained with the two members of the Mournival, and Torgaddon couldn't resist baiting him just a little. 'So, Lucius, you fancy another round in the training cages with Garviel? From the look of your face you could do with the practice.'

The swordsman had the good grace to smile, the many scars twisting on his flesh, and said, 'No thank you. I fear I may have grown beyond Captain Loken's last lesson. I would not want to humble him this time.'

'Come on, just one bout?' asked Loken. 'I promise I'll be gentle.'

'Yes, come on, Lucius,' said Tarvitz. 'The honour of the Emperor's Children is at stake.'

Lucius smiled. 'Very well, then.'

Loken could not remember much of the bout, it had been over so quickly. Evidently, Lucius had indeed learned his lesson well. No sooner had the practice cage shut than the swordsman attacked. Loken had been ready for such a move, but even so, was almost overwhelmed in the first seconds of the fight.

The two warriors fought back and forth, Torgaddon and Saul Tarvitz cheering from outside the practice cages.

The bout had attracted quite a crowd, and Loken wished Torgaddon had kept word of it to himself.

Loken fought with all the skill he could muster, while Lucius sparred with a casual playfulness. Within moments, Loken's sword was stuck in the ceiling of the practice cage, and Lucius had a blade at his throat.

The swordsman had barely broken sweat, and Loken knew that he was hopelessly outclassed by Lucius. To fight Lucius with life and death resting on the blades would be to die, and he suspected that there was no one in the Sons of Horus who could best him.

Loken bowed before the swordsman and said, 'That's one each, Lucius.'

'Care for a decider?' smirked Lucius, dancing back and forth on the balls of his feet and slicing his swords through the air.

'Not this time,' said Loken. 'Next time we meet, we'll put something serious on the outcome, eh?'

'Any time, Loken,' said Lucius, 'but I'll win. You know that, don't you?'

'Your skill is great, Lucius, but just remember that there's someone out there who can beat you.'

'Not this lifetime,' said Lucius.

The quiet order met once again in the armoury, though this was a more select group than normally gathered with Lodge Master Serghar Targost presiding over an assemblage of the Legion's senior officers.

Aximand felt a pang of regret and loss as he saw that, of the Legion's captains, only Loken, Torgaddon, Iacton Qraze and Tybalt Marr were absent.

Candles lit the armoury and each captain had dispensed with his hooded robes. This was a gathering for debate, not theatrics.

'Brothers,' said Targost, 'this is a time for decisions: hard decisions. We face dissent from within, and now Fulgrim arrives out of the blue to spy on us.'

'Spy?' said Aximand. 'Surely you don't think that Fulgrim would betray his brother? The Warmaster is closer to Fulgrim than he is to Sanguinius.'

'What else would you call him?' asked Abaddon. 'Fulgrim said as much when he arrived.'

'Fulgrim is as frustrated by the situation back on Terra as we are,' said Maloghurst. 'He knows that those who desire the outcome of war do not desire to see the blood of its waging. His Legion seeks perfection in all things, especially war, and we have all seen how the Emperor's Children fight: with unremitting ruthlessness and efficiency. They may fight differently from us, but they achieve the same result.'

'When Fulgrim's warriors see how the war is fought on Aureus they will know that there is no honour in it,' added Luc Sedirae. 'The World Eaters shock even me. I make no secret of the fact that I live for battle and revel in my ability to kill, but the Sons of Angron are… uncivilised. They do not fight, they butcher.'

'They get the job done, Luc,' said Abaddon. 'That's all that matters. Once the Titans of the Mechanicum break open the walls of the Iron Citadel, you'll be glad to have them by your side when it comes time to storm the breaches.'

Sedirae nodded and said, 'There is truth in that. The Warmaster wields them like a weapon, but will Fulgrim see that?'

'Leave Fulgrim to me, Luc,' said a powerful voice from the shadows, and the warriors of the quiet order turned in surprise as a trio of figures emerged from the darkness.

The lead figure was armoured in ceremonially adorned armour, the white plate shimmering in the candlelight, and the red eye on his chest plate glowing with reflected fire.

Aximand and his fellow captains dropped to their knees as Horus entered their circle, his gaze sweeping around his assembled captains.

'So this is where you've been gathering in secret?'

'My lord—' began Targost, but Horus held up his hand to silence him.

'Hush, Serghar,' said Horus. 'There's no need for explanations. I have heard your deliberations and come to shed some light upon them, and to bring some new blood to your quiet order.'

As he spoke, Horus gestured the two figures that had accompanied him to come forward. Aximand saw that one was an Astartes, Tybalt Marr, while the other was a mortal clad in gold armour, the warrior who had fought to protect the Warmaster's documentarist on Davin.

'Tybalt you already know,' continued the Warmaster. 'Since the terrible death of Verulam, he has struggled to come to terms with the loss. I believe he will find the support he needs within our order. The other is a mortal, and though not Astartes, he is a warrior of courage and strength.'

Serghar Targost raised his head and said, 'A mortal within the order? The order is for Astartes only.'

'Is it, Serghar? I was led to believe that this was a place where men were free to meet and converse, and confide outside the strictures of rank and martial order.'

'The Warmaster is right,' said Aximand, rising to his feet. 'There is only one qualification a man needs to be a part of our quiet order. He must be a warrior.'

Targost nodded, though he was clearly unhappy with the decision.

'Very well, let them come forward and show the sign,' he said.

Both Marr and the gold-armoured warrior stepped forward and held out their hands. In each palm, a silver lodge medal glinted.

'Let them speak their names,' said Targost.

'Tybalt Marr,' said the Captain of the 18th Company.

The mortal said nothing, looking helplessly at Horus. The lodge members waited for him to announce himself, but no name was forthcoming.

'Why does he not identify himself?' asked Aximand.

'He can't say,' replied Horus with a smile. 'Sorry, I couldn't resist, Serghar. This is Maggard, and he is mute. It has come to my attention that he wishes to learn more of our Legion, and I thought this might be a way of showing him our true faces.'

'He will be made welcome,' assured Aximand, 'but you didn't come here just to bring us two new members, did you?'

'Always thinking, Little Horus,' laughed Horus. 'I've always said you were the wise one.'

'Then why are you here?' asked Aximand.

'Aximand!' hissed Targost. 'This is the Warmaster, he goes where he wills.'

Horus held up his hand and said, 'It's alright, Serghar, Little Horus has a right to ask. I've kept out of your affairs for long enough, so it's only fair I explain this sudden visit.'

Horus walked between them, smiling and bathing them in the force of his personality. He stood before Aximand and the effect was intoxicating. Horus had always been a being of supreme majesty, whose beauty and charisma could bewitch even the most stoic hearts.

As he met the Warmaster's gaze, Aximand saw that his power to seduce was beyond anything he had experienced before, and he felt shamed that he had questioned this luminous being. What right did he have to ask anything of the Warmaster?

Horus winked, and the spell was broken.

The Warmaster moved into the centre of the group and said. 'You are right to gather and debate the coming days, my sons, for they will be hard indeed. Times are upon us when we must make difficult decisions, and there will be those who will not understand why we do what we do, because they were not here beside us.'

Horus stopped before each of the captains in turn, and Aximand could see the effect his words were having on them. Each warrior's face lit up as though the sun shone upon it.

'I am set upon a course that will affect every man under my command, and the burden of my decision is a heavy weight upon my shoulders, my sons.'

'Share it with us!' cried Abaddon. 'We are ready to serve.'

Horus smiled and said, 'I know you are, Ezekyle, and it gives me strength to know that I have warriors with me who are as steadfast and true as you.'

'We are yours to command,' promised Serghar Targost. 'Our first loyalty is to you.'

'I am proud of you all,' said Horus, his voice emotional, 'but I have one last thing to ask of you.'

'Ask us,' said Abaddon.

Horus placed his hand gratefully on Abaddon's shoulder guard and said, 'Before you answer, consider what I am about to say carefully. If you choose to follow me on this grand adventure, there will be no turning back once we have embarked upon it. For good or ill, we go forward, never back.'

'You always were one for theatrics,' noted Aximand. 'Are you going to get to the point?'

Horus nodded and said, 'Yes, of course, Little Horus, but you'll indulge my sense for the dramatic I hope?'

'It wouldn't be you otherwise.'

'Agreed,' said Horus, 'but yes, to get to the point. I am about to take us down the most dangerous path, and not all of us will survive. There will be those of the Imperium who will call us traitors and rebels for our actions, but you must ignore their bleatings and trust that I am certain of our course. The days ahead will be hard and painful, but we must see them through to the end.'

'What would you have us do?' asked Abaddon.

'In good time, Ezekyle, in good time,' said Horus. 'I just need to know that you are with me, my sons. Are you with me?'

'We are with you!' shouted the warriors as one.

'Thank you,' said Horus, gratefully, 'but before we act, we must set our own house in order. Hektor Varvarus and this remembrancer, Karkasy: they must be silenced while we gamer our strength. They draw unwelcome attention to us and that is unacceptable.'

'Varvarus is not a man to change his mind, my lord,' warned Aximand, 'and the remembrancer is under Garviel's protection.'

'I will take care of Varvarus,' said the Warmaster, 'and the remembrancer… Well, I'm sure that with the correct persuasion he will do the right thing.'

'What do you intend, my lord?' asked Aximand.

'That they be illuminated as to the error of their ways,' said Horus.

TWENTY The breach A midday clear Plans

The visit of the Emperor's Children was painfully brief, the two primarchs sequestering themselves behind closed doors for its entirety, while their warriors sparred, drank and talked of war. Whatever passed between the Warmaster and Fulgrim appeared to satisfy the Primarch of the Emperor's Children that all was well, and three days later, an honour guard formed up at the upper transit dock as the Emperor's Children bade their farewells to the Sons of Horus.

Saul Tarvitz and Torgaddon said heartfelt goodbyes, while Lucius and Loken exchanged wry handshakes, each anticipating the next time they would cross blades. Eidolon nodded curtly to Torgaddon and Loken, as Apothecary Fabius made his exit without a word.

Fulgrim and Horus shared a brotherly embrace, whispering words only they could hear to one another. The wondrously perfect Primarch of the Emperor's Children turned with a flourish towards the pressure door and stepped from the Vengeful Spirit, his long, scale cloak billowing behind him.

Something glinted beneath the cloak, and Loken did a double take as he caught a fleeting glimpse of a horribly familiar golden sword belted at Fulgrim's waist.

Loken saw that the Iron Citadel was aptly named, its gleaming walls rearing from the rock like jagged metal teeth. The mid-morning light reflected from its shimmering walls, the air rippling in the haze of energy fields, and clouds of metal shavings raining down from self-repairing ramparts. The outer precincts of the fortress were in ruins, the result of a four-month siege waged by the warriors of Angron and the war machines of the Mechanicum.

The Dies Irae and her sister Titans bombarded the walls daily, hurling high explosive shells and crackling energy beams at the citadel, slowly but surely pushing the Brotherhood back to this, their last bastion.

The citadel itself was a colossal half moon in plan, set against the rock of a range of white mountains, its approach guarded by scores of horn-works and redoubts. Most of these fortifications were little more than smouldering rubble, the Mechanicum's Legio Reductor corps having expended a fearsome amount of ordnance to flatten them in preparation for the storm of the Iron Citadel.

After months of constant shelling, the walls of the citadel had finally been broken open and a half-kilometre wide breach had been torn in its shining walls. The citadel was ready to fall, but the Brotherhood would fight for it to the bitter end, and Loken knew that most of the warriors who were to climb that breach would die.

He waited for the order of battle with trepidation, knowing that an escalade was the surest way for a warrior to meet his end. Statistically, a man was almost certain to die when assaulting the walls of a well-defended fortress, and it was therefore beholden to him to make that death worthwhile.

'Will it be soon, do you think, Garvi?' asked Vipus, checking the action of his chainsword for the umpteenth time.

'I think so,' said Loken, 'but I imagine that the World Eaters will be first into the breach.'

'They're welcome to the honour,' grunted Torgaddon, and Loken was surprised at his comrade's sentiment. Torgaddon was normally the first to request a place in the speartip of any battle, though he had been withdrawn and sullen for some time now. He would not be drawn on the reasons why, but Loken knew it had to do with Aximand and Abaddon.

Their fellow Mournival members had barely spoken to them over the course of this war, except where operational necessity had demanded it. Neither had the four of them met with the Warmaster since Davin. For all intents and purposes, the Mournival was no more.

The Warmaster kept his own council, and Loken found himself in agreement with Iacton Qruze's sentiments that the Legion had lost its way. The words of the ''half-heard'' carried no real weight in the Sons of Horus, and the aged veteran's complaints were largely ignored.

Loken's growing suspicions had been fed by what Apothecary Vaddon had told him when he had rushed to the medicae deck after the departure of the Emperor's Children.

He had found the apothecary in the midst of surgery, ministering to the Legion's wounded, the tiled floor slick with Congealed blood.

Loken had known better than to disturb Vaddon's labours and only when the apothecary had finished did Loken speak to him.

'The anathame?' demanded Loken. 'Where is it?'

Vaddon looked up from washing his hands of blood. 'Captain Loken. The anathame? I don't have it any more. I thought you knew.'

'No,' said Loken. 'I didn't. What happened to it? I told you to tell no one that it was in your possession.'

'And nor did I,' said Vaddon angrily. 'He already knew I had it.'

'He?' asked Loken. 'Who are you talking about?'

'The apothecary of the Emperor's Children, Fabius,' said Vaddon. 'He came to the medicae deck a few hours ago and told me he had been authorised to remove it.'

A cold chill seized Loken as he asked, 'Authorised by whom?'

'By the Warmaster,' said Vaddon.

'And you just gave him it?' asked Loken. 'Just like that?'

'What was I supposed to do?' snarled Vaddon. 'This Fabius had the Warmaster's seal. I had to give it to him.'

Loken took a deep calming breath, knowing that the apothecary would have had no choice when presented with the seal of Horus. The months of research Vaddon had performed on the weapon had, thus far, yielded no results, and with its removal from the Vengeful Spirit, any chance of uncovering its secrets was lost forever.

A crackling voice in Loken's helmet shook him from his sour memory of the second theft of the anathame, and he focused on the order of battle streaming through his headset. Sure enough, the World Eaters were going in first, a full assault company led by Angron himself and supported by two companies of the Sons of Horus, the Tenth and the Second: Loken and Torgaddon's companies.

Torgaddon and Loken shared an uneasy glance. To be given the honour of going into the breach seemed at odds with their current status within the Legion, but the order was given and there was no changing it now. Army regiments would follow to secure the ground the Astartes won, and Hektor Varvarus himself would lead these detachments.

Loken shook hands with Torgaddon and said, 'See you on the inside, Tarik.'

'Try not to get yourself killed, Garvi,' said Torgaddon.

'Thanks for the reminder,' said Loken, 'and here was me thinking that was the point.'

'Don't joke, Garvi,' said Torgaddon. 'I'm serious. I think we're going to need each other's support before this campaign is over.'

'What do you mean?'

'Never mind,' said Torgaddon. 'We'll talk more once this citadel is ours, eh?'

'Yes, we'll share a bottle of victory wine in the rains of the Brotherhood's citadel.'

Torgaddon nodded and said, 'You're buying though.'

They shook hands once more and Torgaddon jogged away to rejoin his warriors and ready them for the bloody assault. Loken watched him go, wondering if he would see his friend alive again to share that drink. He pushed such defeatism aside as he made his way through his own company to pass out orders and offer words of encouragement.

He turned as a huge cheer erupted from further down the mountains, seeing a column of warriors clad in the blue and white armour of the World Eaters, marching towards the approaches to the breach. The assaulters of the World Eaters were hulking warriors equipped with mighty chain axes and heavy jump packs. They were brutality distilled and concentrated violence moulded them into the most fearsome close combat fighters Loken had ever seen. Leading them was the Primarch Angron.

Angron, the Bloody One: the Red Angel.

Loken had heard all these names and more for Angron, but none of them did justice to the sheer brutal physicality of the Primarch of the World Eaters. Clad in an ancient suit of gladiatorial armour, Angron was like a warrior from some lost heroic age. A glinting mesh cape of chain mail hung from his high gorget and pauldrons, with skulls worked into its weave like barbaric trophies.

He was armed to the teeth with short, stabbing swords, and daggers the length of an Astartes chain-blade. An ornate pistol of antique design was holstered on each thigh, and he carried a monstrous chain-glaive, its terrifying size beyond anything Loken could believe.

'Throne alive…' breathed Nero Vipus as Angron approached. 'I wouldn't have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes.'

'I know what you mean,' answered Loken, the mighty primarch's savage and tribal appearance putting him in mind of the bloody tales he had read in the Chronicles of Ursh.

Angron's face was murder itself, his thick features scarred and bloody. Dark iron glinted on his scalp where cerebral cortex implants punctured his skull to amplify his already fearsome aggression. The implants had been grafted to Angron's brain when he had been a slave, centuries before, and though the technology to remove them was available, he had never wanted them removed.

The bloody primarch marched past, glancing over at the men of 10th Company as he led his warriors towards the bloodletting. Loken shivered at the sight of him, seeing only death in his heavy-lidded eyes, and he wondered what terrible thoughts must fill Angron's violated skull.

No sooner had the Primarch of the World Eaters passed than the bombardment began, the guns of the Legio Mortis launching rippling salvoes of rockets and shells into the breach.

Loken watched as Angron delivered his assault orders with curt chops of his glaive, and felt a momentary pity for the Brotherhood warriors within the citadel. Though they were his sworn enemies, he did not envy them the prospect of fighting such a living avatar of blood and death.

A terrifying war cry sounded from the World Eaters, and Loken watched as Angron led his company in a crude ritual of scarification. The warriors removed their left gauntlets and slashed their axes across their palms, smearing the blood across the faceplates of their helmets as they chanted canticles of death and bloodshed.

'I almost feel sorry for the poor bastards in the citadel,' said Vipus, echoing Loken's earlier thoughts.

'Pass the word to stand ready,' he ordered. 'We move out when the World Eaters reach the crest of the breach.'

He held out his hand to Nero Vipus and said, 'Kill for the living, Nero.'

'Kill for die dead,' answered Vipus.

The assault began in a flurry of smoke as the World Eaters surged up the lower slopes of the breach with roaring blasts of their jump packs. The wall head and die breach itself were wreathed in explosions from the Titans' bombardment, and the idea that somediing could live through such a storm of shot and shell seemed impossible to Loken.

As the World Eaters powered up the slopes of rubble, Loken and his warriors clambered over the twisted, blackened spars of iron that had been blasted from die walls above. They moved and fired, adding tiieir own volleys of gunfire into the breach before the assaulters reached their targets.

The slope was steep, but eminently climbable, and they were making steady progress. Occasional shots and las blasts ricocheted from die rocks or their armour, but at this range, nothing could wound them.

Five hundred metres to his left, Loken saw Torgaddon leading Second Company up the slopes in the wake of the World Eaters, both forces of the Sons of Horus protecting the vulnerable flanks of the assaulters and ready with heavier weapons to secure the breach.

Behind the Astartes, the soldiers of Hektor Varvarus's Byzant Janizars - wearing long cream greatcoats with gold frogging - followed in disciplined ranks. To march into battle in ceremonial dress uniforms seemed ridiculous to Loken, but Varvaras had declared that he and his men were not going to enter the citadel looking less than their best.

Loken turned from the splendid sight of the marching soldiers as he heard a deep, bass rumbling that seemed to come from the ground itself. Powdered rubble and rocks danced as the vibrations grew stronger still and Loken knew that something was terribly wrong. Ahead, he could see Angron and the World Eaters reaching the crest of the breach. Blazing columns of smoke surrounded Angron, and Loken heard the mighty primarch's bellowing cry of triumph even over the thunderous explosions of battle.

The rumbling grew louder and more violent, and Loken had to grip onto a rusted spar of rebar to hold himself in place as the ground continued to shake as though in the grip of a mighty earthquake. Great cracks split the ground and plumes of fire shot from them.

'What's happening?' he shouted over the noise.

No one answered and Loken fell as the top of the breach suddenly exploded in a sheet of flame that reached hundreds of metres into the air. Rocks and metal were hurled skywards as the top of the wall vanished in a massive seismic detonation.

Like the bunkers in the cities, the Brotherhood destroyed what they could not hold, and Loken's reactive senses shut down briefly with the overload of light and noise. Twisted rubble and wreckage slammed down around them, and Loken heard screams of pain and the crack of splintering armour as scores of his men were pulverised by the storm of boulders.

Dust and matter filled the air, and when Loken felt safe enough to move, he saw in horror that the entire crest of the breach had been destroyed.

Angron and the World Eaters were gone, buried beneath the wreckage of a mountain.

Torgaddon saw the same thing, and picked himself up from the ground. He shouted at his warriors to get to their feet and charged towards the ruin of the breach. Filthy, dust-covered warriors clambered from the wreckage and followed their captain as he led them onwards and upwards to what might be their deaths. Torgaddon knew that such a course of action was probably suicidal, but he had seen Angron buried beneath the mountain, and retreating was not an option.

He activated the blade of his chainsword and scrambled up the slopes with the feral cry of the Sons of Horus bursting from his lips.

'Lupercal! Lupercal!' he screamed as he charged.

Loken watched his brother rise from the aftermath of the explosion like a true hero, and began his own charge towards the breach. He knew that there was every chance a second seismic mine was buried in the breach, but the sight of a primarch brought low by the Brotherhood obliterated all thoughts of any tactical response, except charging.

'Warriors of the Tenth!' he roared. 'With me! Lupercal!'

Loken's surviving warriors pulled themselves from the rubble and followed Loken with the Warmaster's name echoing from the mountains. Loken sprang from rock to rock, clambering uphill faster than he would have believed possible, his anger hot and bright. He was ready to wreak vengeance upon the Brotherhood for what they had done in the name of spite, and nothing was going to stop him.

Loken knew that he had to reach the breach before the Brotherhood realised that its strategy had not killed all the attackers, and he kept moving upwards at a fast pace, using all the increased muscle power his armour afforded him. A storm of gunfire flashed from above: las shots and solid rounds spanging from the rocks and metal rabble. A heavy shell clipped his shoulder guard, spinning him around, but Loken shrugged off the impact and charged on.

The roaring tide of Astartes warriors climbed the breach, the last rays of the morning's sun glinting from the brilliant green of their armour. To see so many warriors in battle was magnificent, an unstoppable wave of death that would sweep away all resistance in a storm of gunfire and blades.

All tactics were moot now, the sight of Angron's fall robbing each and every warrior of any sense of restraint. Loken could see the gleaming silver armour of Brotherhood warriors as they climbed to what was left of the breach, dragging bipod-mounted heavy weapons with them.

'Bolters!' he shouted. 'Open fire!'

The crest of the breach vanished as a spray of bolter rounds impacted. Sparks and chunks of flesh flew as Astartes rounds found homes in flesh, and though many were firing from the hip, most were deadly accurate.

The noise was incredible, hundreds of bolter rounds ripping enemy warriors to shreds and skirling wolf howls ringing in his ears as the Astartes swept over the breach and reverted once again to the persona of the Luna Wolves. Loken threw aside his bolter, the magazine empty, and drew his chainsword, thumbing the activation stud as he vaulted the smoking rocks that had crushed Angron and the World Eaters.

Beyond the walls of the Iron Citadel was a wide esplanade, its surface strewn with gun positions and coils of razor wire. A shell-battered keep was built into the mountainside, but its gates were in pieces and black smoke poured from its gun ports. Brotherhood warriors were streaming back from the rain of the walls towards these prepared positions, but they had horribly misjudged the timing of their fallback.

The Sons of Horus were already amongst them, hacking them down with brutal arcs of chainblades or gunning them down as they fled. Loken tore his way through a knot of Brotherhood warriors who turned to fight, killing three of them in as many strokes of his sword, and backhanding his elbow into the last opponent's head, smashing his skull to splinters.

All was pandemonium as the Sons of Horus ran amok within the precincts of the Iron Citadel, its defenders slaughtered in frantic moments of unimaginable violence. Loken killed and killed, revelling in the shedding of enemy blood and realising that, with this victory, the war would be over.

With that thought, the cold reality of what was happening penetrated the red fog of his rage. They had won, and already he could see the victory turning into a massacre.

'Garviel!' a desperate voice called over the suit-vox. 'Garviel, can you hear me?'

'Loud and dear, Tarik!' answered Loken.

'We have to stop this!' cried Torgaddon. 'We've won, it's over. Get a hold of your company.'

'Understood,' said Loken, pleased that Torgaddon had realised the same thing as he had.

Soon the inter-suit vox network was alive with barked orders to halt the attack that quickly passed down the chain of command.

By the time the echoes of battle were finally stilled, Loken could see that the Astartes had just barely managed to hold themselves from plunging into an abyss of barbarity, out of which they might never have climbed. Blood, bodies and the stink of battle filled the day, and as Loken looked up into the beautifully clear sky, he could see that the sun was almost at its zenith.

The final storm of the Iron Citadel had taken less than an hour, yet had cost the lives of a primarch, hundreds of the World Eaters, thousands of the Brotherhood, and the Emperor alone knew how many Sons of Horus.

The mass slaughter seemed such a terrible waste of life for what was a paltry prize: ruined cities, a battered and hostile populace, and a world that was sure to rebel as soon as it had the chance.

Was this world's compliance worth such bloodshed?

The majority of the Brotherhood warriors had died in those last enraged minutes, but many more were prisoners of the Sons of Horus, rather than their victims.

Loken removed his helmet and gulped in a lungful of the clear air, its crispness tasting like the sweetest wine after the recycled air of his armour. He made his way through the wreckage of battle, the torn remnants of enemy warriors strewn like offal throughout the esplanade.

He found Torgaddon on his knees, also with his helmet off and breathing deeply. His friend looked up as Loken approached and smiled weakly. 'Well… we did it.'

'Yes,' agreed Loken sadly, looking around at the crimson spoils of victory. 'We did, didn't we?'

Loken had killed thousands of enemies before, and he would kill thousands more in wars yet to be fought, but something in the savagery of this battle had soured his notion of triumph.

The two captains turned as they heard the tramp of booted feet behind them, seeing the lead battalions of the Byzant Janizars finally climbing into the citadel. Loken could see the horror on the soldiers' faces and knew that the glory of the Astartes would be tarnished for every man who set foot inside.

'Varvarus is here,' said Loken.

'Just in time, eh?' said Torgaddon. 'This'll sweeten his mood towards us.'

Loken nodded and simply watched as the richly appointed command units of the Byzant Janizars entered the citadel, their tall blue banners snapping in the wind, and brilliantly decorated officers scanning the battlefield.

Hektor Varvarus stood at the crest of the breach and surveyed the scene of carnage, his horrified expression easy to read even from a distance. Loken felt his resentment towards Varvarus swell as he thought, this is what we were created for, what else did you expect!

'Looks like their leaders are here to surrender to Varvarus,' said Torgaddon, pointing to a long column of beaten men and women marching from the smoking rains of the inner keep, red and silver banners carried before them. A hundred warriors in battered plate armour marched with them, their long barrelled weapons shouldered and pointed at the ground.

Robed magos and helmeted officers led the column, their faces downcast and resigned to their capitulation. With the storm of the esplanade, the citadel was lost and the leaders of the Brotherhood knew it.

'Come on,' said Loken. 'This is history. Since there are no remembrancers here, we might as well be part of this.'

'Yes,' agreed Torgaddon, pushing himself to his feet. The two captains drew parallel with the column of beaten Brotherhood warriors, and soon every one of the Sons of Horus who had survived the escalade surrounded them.

Loken watched Varvarus climb down the rearward slope of the breach and make his way towards the leaders of the Auretian Technocracy. He bowed formally and said, 'My name is Lord Commander Hektor Varvarus, commander of the Emperor's armies in the 63rd Expedition. To whom do I have the honour of addressing?'

An elderly warrior in gold plate armour stepped from the ranks of men, his black and silver heraldry carried on a personal banner pole by a young lad of no more than sixteen years.

'I am Ephraim Guardia,' he said, 'Senior Preceptor of the Brotherhood Chapter Command and Castellan of the Iron Citadel.'

Loken could see the tension on Guardia's face, and knew that it was taking the commander all his self-control to remain calm in the face of the massacre he had just witnessed.

'Tell me,' said Guardia. 'Is this how all wars are waged in your Imperium?'

'War is a harsh master, senior preceptor,' answered Varvarus. 'Blood is spilled and lives are lost. I feel the sorrow of your losses, but excess of grief for the dead is madness. It is an injury to the living, and the dead know it not.'

'Spoken like a tyrant and a killer,' snarled Guardia, and Varvarus bristled with anger at his defeated foe's lack of etiquette.

'Given time, you will see that war is not what the Imperium stands for,' promised Varvarus. 'The Emperor's Great Crusade is designed to bring reason and illumination to the lost strands of mankind. I promise you that this… unpleasantness will soon be forgotten as we go forward into a new age of peace.'

Guardia shook his head and reached into a pouch at his side. 'I think you are wrong, but you have beaten us and my opinion means nothing any more.'

He unrolled a sheet of parchment and said, 'I shall read our declaration to you, Varvarus. All my officers have signed it and it will stand as a testament to our attempts to defy you.'

Clearing his throat, Guardia began to read.

'We fought your treacherous Warmaster to preserve our way of life and to resist the yoke of Imperial rule. It was, in truth, not for glory, nor riches, nor for honour that we fought, but for freedom, which no honest man could ever wish to give up. However, the greatest of our warriors cannot stand before the savagery of your war, and rather than see our culture exterminated, we surrender this citadel and our worlds to you. May you rale in peace more kindly than you make war.'

Before Varvarus could react to the senior preceptor's declaration, the rubble behind him shifted and groaned, cracks splitting the rock and metal as something vast and terrible heaved upwards from beneath the ground.

At first Loken thought that it was the second seismic charge he had feared, but then he saw that these tremors were far more localised. Janizars scattered, and men shouted in alarm as more debris clattered from the breach. Loken gripped the hilt of his sword as he saw many of the Brotherhood warriors reach for their weapons.

Then the breach exploded with a grinding crack of ruptured stone, and something immense and red erupted from the ground with a bestial roar of hate and bloodlust. Soldiers fell away from the red giant, hurled aside by the violence of his sudden appearance.

Angron towered over them, bloody and enraged, and Loken marvelled that he could still be alive after thousands of tonnes of rock had engulfed him. But Angron was a primarch and what - save for an anathame - could lay one such as him low?

'Blood for Horus!' shouted Angron and leapt from the breach.

The primarch landed with a thunderous impact that split the stone beneath him, his chain-glaive sweeping out and cleaving the entire front rank of Brotherhood warriors to bloody rain. Ephraim Guardia died in the first seconds of Angron's attack, his body cloven through the chest with a single blow.

Angron howled in battle lust as he hacked his way through the Brotherhood with great, disembowelling sweeps of his monstrous, roaring weapon. The madness of his slaughter was terrifying, but the warriors of the Brotherhood were not about to die without a fight.

Loken shouted, 'No! Stop!' but it was already too late. The remainder of the Brotherhood shouldered their weapons and began firing on the Sons of Horus and the rampaging primarch.

'Open fire!' shouted Loken, knowing he had no choice.

Gunfire tore through the ranks of the Brotherhood, the point-blank firefight a lethal firestorm of explosive bolter rounds. The noise was deafening and horrifyingly brief as the Brotherhood were mercilessly gunned down by the Astartes or hacked apart by Angron.

Within seconds, it was over and the last remnants of the Brotherhood were no more.

Desperate cries for medics sounded from the command units of the Janizars, and Loken saw a group of bloody soldiers on their knees around a fallen officer, his cream greatcoat drenched in blood. The gold of his medals gleamed in the cold midday light and as one of the kneeling soldiers shifted position, Loken realised the identity of the fallen man.

Hektor Varvarus lay in a spreading pool of blood, and even from a distance, Loken could see that there would be no saving him. The man's body had been ripped open from the inside, the gleaming ends of splintered ribs jutting from his chest where it was clear a bolter round had detonated within him.

Loken wept to see this fragile peace broken, and dropped his sword in disgust at what had happened and at what he had been forced to do. With Angron's senseless attack, the lives of his warriors had been threatened, and he'd had no other choice but to order the attack.

Still, he regretted it.

The Brotherhood had been honourable foes and the Sons of Horus had butchered them like cattle. Angron stood in the midst of the carnage, his glaive spraying the warriors nearest him with spatters of blood from the roaring chainblade.

The Sons of Horus cheered in praise of the World Eaters' primarch, but Loken felt soul sick at such a barbaric sight.

'That was no way for warriors to die,' said Torgaddon. 'Their deaths shame us all.'

Loken didn't answer. He couldn't.

TWENTY-ONE Illumination

With the fall of the Iron Citadel, the war on Aureus was over. The Brotherhood was destroyed as a fighting force and though there were still pockets of resistance to be mopped up, the fighting was as good as over. Casualties on both sides had been high, most especially in the Army units of the Expedition. Hektor Varvams was brought back to the fleet with due reverence and his body returned to space in a ceremony attended by the highest-ranking officers of the Expeditions.

The Warmaster himself spoke the lord commander's eulogy, the passion and depths of his sorrow plain to see.

'Heroism is not only in the man, but in the occasion,' the Warmaster had said of Lord Commander Varvarus. 'It is only when we look now and see his success that men will say that it was good fortune. It was not. We lost thousands of our best warriors that day and I feel the loss of every one. Hektor Varvarus was a leader who knew that to march with the gods, one must wait until he hears their footsteps sounding through events, and then leap up and grasp the hem of their robes.

Varvarus is gone from us, but he would not want us to pause in mourning, for history is a relentless master. It has no present, only the past rushing into the future. To try to hold fast to it is to be swept aside and that, my friends, will never happen. Not while I am Warmaster. Those men who fought and bled with Varvarus shall have this world to stand sentinel over, so that his sacrifice will never be forgotten.'

Other speakers had said their farewells to the lord commander, but none with the Warmaster's eloquence. True to his word, Horus ensured that Army units that had been loyal to Varvarus were appointed to minister the worlds he had died to make compliant.

A new Imperial commander was installed, and the martial power of the fleet began the time-consuming process of regrouping in preparation for the next stage of the Crusade.

Karkasy's billet stank of ink and printing fumes, the crude, mechanical bulk printer working overtime to print enough copies of the latest edition of The Truth is All We Have. Though his output had been less prolific of late, the Bondsman number 7 box was nearly empty. Ignace Karkasy remembered wondering, a lifetime ago it seemed, whether or not the lifespan of his creativity could be measured in the quantity of paper he had left to fill. Such thoughts seemed meaningless, given the powerful desire to write that was upon him these days.

He sat on the edge of his cot bed, the last remaining place for him to sit, penning the latest scurrilous piece of verse for his pamphlet and humming contentedly to himself. Papers filled the billet, strewn across the floor, tacked upon the walls or piled on any surface flat enough to hold them. Scribbled notes, abandoned odes and half-finished poems filled the space, but such was the fecundity of his muse that he didn't expect to exhaust it any time soon.

He'd heard that the war with the Auretians was over, the final citadel having fallen to the Sons of Horus a couple of days ago in what the ship scuttlebutt was already calling the White Mountains Massacre. He didn't yet know the full story, but several sources he'd cultivated over the ten months of the war would surely garner him some juicy titbits.

He heard a curt knock on his door-shutter and shouted, 'Come in!'

Karkasy kept on writing as the shutter opened, too focused on his words to waste a single second of his time.

'Yes?' he said, 'What can I do for you?'

No answer was forthcoming, so Karkasy looked up in irritation to see an armoured warrior standing mutely before him. At first, Karkasy felt a thrill of panic, seeing the man's longsword and the hard, metallic gleam of a bolstered pistol, but he relaxed as he saw that the man was Petronella Vivar's bodyguard - Maggard, or something like that.

'Well?' he asked again. 'Was there something you wanted?'

Maggard said nothing and Karkasy remembered that the man was mute, thinking it foolish that anyone would send someone who couldn't speak as a messenger.

'I can't help you unless you can tell me why you're here,' said Karkasy, speaking slowly to ensure that the man understood.

In response, Maggard removed a folded piece of paper from his belt and held it out with his left hand. The warrior made no attempt to move closer to him, so with a resigned sigh, Karkasy put aside the Bondsman and pushed his bulky frame from the bed.

Karkasy picked his way through the piles of notebooks and took die proffered paper. It was a sepia coloured papyrus, as was produced in the Gyptian spires, with crosshatched patterning throughout. A little gaudy for his tastes, but obviously expensive.

'So who might this be from?' asked Karkasy, before again remembering that this messenger couldn't speak. He shook his head with an indulgent smile, unfolded the papyrus and cast his eyes over the note's contents.

He frowned as he recognised the words as lines from his own poetry, dark imagery and potent symbolism, but they were all out of sequence, plucked from a dozen different works.

Karkasy reached the end of the note and his bladder emptied in terror as he realised the import of the message, and its bearer's purpose.

Petronella paced the confines of her stateroom, impatient to begin transcribing the latest thoughts of her bodyguard. The time Maggard had spent with the Astartes had been most fruitful, and she had already learned much that would otherwise have been hidden from her.

Now a structure suggested itself, a tragic tale told in reverse order that opened on the primarch's deathbed, with a triumphal coda that spoke of his survival and of the glories yet to come. After all, she didn't want to confine herself to only one book.

She even had a prospective title, one that she felt conveyed the correct gravitas of her subject matter, yet also included her in its meaning.

Petronella would call this masterpiece, In The Footsteps of Gods, and had already taken its first line - that most important part of the tale where her reader was either hooked or left cold - from her own terrified thoughts at the moment of the Warmaster's collapse.

I was there the day that Horus fell.

It had all the right tonal qualities, leaving the reader in no doubt that they were about to read something profound, yet keeping the end of the story a jealously guarded secret.

Everything was coming together, but Maggard was late in returning from his latest foray into the world of the Astartes and her patience was wearing thin. She had already reduced Babeth to tears in her impatient frustration, and had banished her maidservant to the tiny chamber that served as her sleeping quarters.

She heard the sound of the door to her stateroom opening in the receiving room, and marched straight through to reprimand Maggard for his tardiness.

'What time do you call…' she began, but the words trailed off as she saw that the figure standing before her wasn't Maggard.

It was the Warmaster.

He was dressed in simple robes and looked more magnificent than she could ever remember seeing him. A fierce anima surrounded him, and she found herself unable to speak as he looked up, the full force of his personality striking her.

Standing at the door behind him was the hulking form of First Captain Abaddon. Horus looked up as she entered and nodded to Abaddon, who closed the door at his back.

'Miss Vivar,' said the Warmaster. It took an effort of will on Petronella's part for her to find her voice.

'Yes… my lord,' she stammered, horrified at the mess of her stateroom and that the Warmaster should see it so untidy. She must remember to punish Babeth for neglecting her duties. 'I… that is, I wasn't expecting. '

Horus held up his hand to soothe her concerns and she fell silent.

'I know I have been neglectful of you,' said the Warmaster.

'You have been privy to my innermost thoughts and I allowed the concerns of the war against the Technocracy to command my attention.'

'My lord, I never dreamed you gave me such consideration,' said Petronella.

'You would be surprised,' smiled Horus. 'Your writing goes well?'

'Very well, my lord,' said Petronella. 'I have been prolific since last we met.'

'May I see?' asked Horus.

'Of course,' she said, thrilled that he should take an interest in her work. She had to force herself to walk, not run, into her writing room, indicating the papers stacked on her escritoire.

'It's all a bit of jumble, but everything I've written is here,' beamed Petronella. 'I would be honoured if you would critique my work. After all, who is more qualified?'

'Quite,' agreed Horus, following her to the escritoire and taking up her most recent output. His eyes scanned the pages, reading and digesting the contents quicker than any mortal man ever could.

She searched his face for any reaction to her words, but he was as unreadable as a statue, and she began to worry that he disapproved.

Eventually, he placed the papers back on the escritoire and said, 'It is very good. You are a talented documentarist.'

'Thank you, my lord,' she gushed, the power of his praise like a tonic in her veins.

'Yes,' said Horus, his voice cold. 'It's almost a shame that no one will ever read it.'

Maggard reached up and grabbed the front of Karkasy's robe, spinning him around, and hooking his arm around the poet's neck. Karkasy struggled in the powerful grip, helpless against Maggard's superior strength.

'Please!' he gasped, his terror making his voice shrill. 'No, please don't!'

Maggard said nothing, and Karkasy heard the snap of leather as the warrior's free hand popped the stud on his holster. Karkasy fought, but he could do nothing, the crushing force of Maggard's arm around his neck robbing him of breath and blurring his vision.

Karkasy wept bitter tears as time slowed. He heard the slow rasp of the pistol sliding from its holster and the harsh click as the hammer was drawn back.

He bit his tongue. Bloody foam gathered in the corners of his mouth. Snot and tears mingled on his face. His legs scrabbled on the floor. Papers flew in all directions.

Cold steel pressed into his neck, the barrel of Maggard's pistol jammed tight under his jaw.

Karkasy smelled the gun oil.

He wished…

The hard bang of the pistol shot echoed deafeningly in the cramped billet.

At first, Petronella wasn't sure she'd understood what the Warmaster meant. Why wouldn't people be able to read her work? Then she saw the cold, merciless light in Horus's eyes.

'My lord, I'm not sure I understand you,' she said, haltingly.

'Yes you do.'

'No…' she whispered, backing away from him.

The Warmaster followed her, his steps slow and measured. 'When we spoke in the apothecarion I let you look inside Pandora's Box, Miss Vivar, and for that I am truly sorry. Only one person has a need to know the things in my head, and that person is me. The things I have seen and done, the things I am going to do…'

'Please, my lord,' said Petronella, backing out of her writing room and into the receiving room. 'If you are unhappy with what I've written, it can be revised, edited. I would give you approval on everything, of course.'

Horus shook his head, drawing closer to her with every step.

Petronella felt her eyes fill with tears and she knew that this couldn't be happening. The Warmaster would not be trying to scare her. They must be playing some cruel joke on her. The idea of the Astartes making a fool of her stung Petronella's wounded pride and the part of her that had snapped angrily at the Warmaster upon their first meeting rose to the surface.

'I am the Palatina Majoria of House Carpinus and I demand that you respect that!' she cried, standing firm before the Warmaster. 'You can't scare me like this.'

'I'm not trying to scare you,' said Horus, reaching out to hold her by the shoulders.

'You're not?' asked Petronella, his words filling her with relief. She'd known that this couldn't be right, that there had to be some mistake.

'No,' said Horus, his hands sliding towards her neck. 'I am illuminating you.'

Her neck broke with one swift snap of his wrist.

The medicae cell was cramped, but clean and well maintained. Mersadie Oliton sat by the bed and wept softly to herself, tears running freely down her coal dark skin. Kyril Sindermann sat with her and he too shed tears as he held the hand of the bed's occupant.

Euphrati Keeler lay, unmoving, her skin pale and smooth, with a sheen to it that made it look like polished ceramic. Since she had faced the horror in Archive Chamber Three, she had lain unmoving and unresponsive in this medicae bay.

Sindermann had told Mersadie what had happened and she found herself torn between wanting to believe him and calling him delusional. His talk of a daemon and of Euphrati standing before it with the power of the Emperor pouring through her was too fantastical to be true… wasn't it? She wondered if he'd told anyone else of it.

The apothecaries and medics could find nothing physically wrong with Euphrati Keeler, save for the eagle shaped bum on her hand that refused to fade. Her vital signs were stable and her brain wave activity registered normal: no one could explain it and no one had any idea how to wake her from this coma-like state.

Mersadie came to visit Euphrati as often as she could, but she knew that Sindermann came every day, spending several hours at a time with her. Sometimes they would sit together, talking to Euphrati, telling her of the events happening on the planets below, the battles that had been fought, or simply passing on ship gossip.

Nothing seemed to reach the imagist, and Mersadie sometimes wondered if it might not be a kindness to let her die. What could be worse for a person like Euphrati than being trapped by her own flesh, with no ability to reason, to communicate or express herself.

She and Sindermann had arrived together today and each instantly knew that the other had been crying. The news of Ignace Karkasy's suicide had hit them all hard and Mersadie still couldn't believe how he could have done such a thing.

A suicide note had been found in his billet, which was said to have been composed in verse. It spoke volumes of Ignace's enormous conceit that he made his last goodbye in his own poetry.

They had wept for another lost soul, and then they sat on either side of Euphrati's bed, holding each other's and Keeler's hands as they spoke of better times.

Both turned as they heard a soft knock behind them.

A thin faced man wearing the uniform of the Legio Mortis and an earnest face stood framed in the doorway.

Behind him, Mersadie could see that the corridor was filled with people.

'Is it alright if I come in?' he asked.

Mersadie Oliton said, 'Who are you?'

'My name's Titus Cassar, Moderati Primus of the Dies Irae. I've come to see the saint.'

They met in the observation deck, the lighting kept low and the darkness of space leavened only by me reflected glare of the planets they had just conquered. Loken stood with his palm against the armoured viewing bay, believing that something fundamental had happened to the Sons of Horus on Aureus, but not knowing what.

Torgaddon joined him moments later and Loken welcomed him with a brotherly embrace, grateful to have so loyal a comrade.

They stood in silence for some time, each lost in thought as they watched the defeated planets turn in space below them. The preparations for departure were virtually complete and the fleet was ready to move on, though neither warrior had any idea of where they were going.

Eventually Torgaddon broke the silence, 'So what do we do?'

'I don't know, Tarik,' replied Loken. 'I really don't.'

'I thought not,' said Torgaddon, holding up a glass test tube with something in it that reflected soft light with a golden gleam. 'This won't help then.'

'What is it?' asked Loken.

'These,' said Torgaddon, 'are the bolt round fragments removed from Hektor Varvarus.'

'Bolt round fragments? Why do you have them?'

'Because they're ours.'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean they're ours,' repeated Torgaddon. 'The bolt that killed the lord commander came from an Astartes bolter, not from one of the Brotherhood's guns.'

Loken shook his head. 'No, there must be some mistake.'

'There's no mistake. Apothecary Vaddon tested the fragments himself. They're ours, no question.'

'You think Varvarus caught a stray round?'

Torgaddon shook his head. 'The wound was dead centre, Garviel. It was an aimed shot.'

Loken and Torgaddon both understood the implications, and Loken felt his melancholy rise at the thought of Varvarus having been murdered by one of their own.

Neither spoke for a long moment. Then Loken said, 'In the wake of such deceit and destruction shall we despair, or is faith and honour the spur to action?'

'What's that?' asked Torgaddon.

'It's part of a speech I read in a book that Kyril Sindermann gave me,' said Loken. 'It seemed appropriate given where we find ourselves now.'

'That's true enough,' agreed Torgaddon.

'What are we becoming, Tarik?' asked Loken. 'I don't recognise our Legion any more. When did it change?'

'The moment we encountered the Technocracy.'

'No,' said Loken. 'I think it was on Davin. Nothing's been the same since then. Something happened to the Sons of Horus there, something vile and dark and evil.'

'Do you realise what you're saying?'

'I do,' replied Loken. 'I'm saying that we have to uphold the truth of the Imperium of Mankind, no matter what evil may assail it.'

Torgaddon nodded. 'The Mournival oath.'

'Evil has found its way into our Legion, Tarik, and it's up to us to cut it out. Are you with me?' asked Loken.

'Always,' said Torgaddon, and the two warriors shook hands in the old Terran way.

The Warmaster's sanctum was dimly lit, the cold glow of the bridge instruments the only source of illumination. The room was full, the core of the Warmaster's officers and commanders gathered around the table. The Warmaster sat at his customary place at the head of the table while Aximand and Abaddon stood behind him, their presence a potent reminder of his authority. Maloghurst, Regulus, Erebus, Princeps Turnet of the Legio Mortis, and various other, hand picked, Army commanders filled out the rest of the gathering.

Satisfied that everyone who needed to be there had arrived, Horus leaned forwards and began to speak.

'My friends, we begin the next phase of our campaign among the stars soon and I know that you're all curious as to where we travel next. I will tell you, but before I do, I need every one of you to be aware of the magnitude of the task before us.'

He could see he had everyone's attention, and continued. 'I am going to topple the Emperor from his Throne on Terra and take his place as the Master of Mankind.'

The enormity of his words was not lost on the assembled warriors and he gave them a few minutes to savour their weight, enjoying the look of alarm that crossed each man's face.

'Be not afraid, you are amongst friends,' chuckled Horus. 'I have spoken to you all individually over the course of the war with the Technocracy, but this is the first time you have been gathered and I have openly spoken of our destiny. You shall be my war council, those to whom I entrust the furthering of my plan.'

Horus rose from his seat, continuing to speak as he circled the table.

'Take a moment and look at the face of the man sitting next to you. In the coming fight, he will be your brother, for all others will turn from us when we make our intentions plain. Brother will fight brother and the fate of the galaxy will be the ultimate prize. We will face accusations of heresy and cries of treason, but they will fall from us because we are right. Make no mistake about that. We are right and the Emperor is wrong. He has sorely misjudged me if he thinks I will stand by while he abandons his realm in his quest for godhood, and leaves us amid the destruction of his rampant ambition. '

'The Emperor commands the loyalty of millions of soldiers and hundreds of thousands of Astartes warriors. His battle fleets reach across the stars from one side of the galaxy to the other. The 63rd Expedition cannot hope to match such numbers or resources. You all know this to be the case, but even so, we have the advantage.'

'What advantage is that?' asked Maloghurst, exactly on cue.

'We have the advantage of surprise. No one yet suspects us of having learned the Emperor's true plan, and in that lies our greatest weapon. '

'But what of Magnus?' asked Maloghurst urgently, 'What happens when Leman Russ returns him to Terra?'

Horus smiled. 'Calm yourself, Mai. I have already contacted my brother Russ and illuminated him with the full breadth of Magnus's treacherous use of daemonic spells and conjurations. He was… suitably angry, and I believe I have convinced him that to return Magnus to Terra would be a waste of time and effort.'

Maloghurst returned Horus's smile. 'Magnus will not leave Prospero alive.'

'No,' agreed Horus. 'He will not.'

'What of the other Legions?' asked Regulus. 'They will not sit idly by while we make war upon the Emperor. How do you propose to negate them?'

'A worthy question, adept,' said Horus, circling the table to stand at his shoulder. 'We are not without allies ourselves. Fulgrim is with us, and he now goes to win Ferrus Manus of the Iron Hands over to our cause. Lorgar too understands the necessity of what must be done, and both bring the full might of their Legions to my banner.'

'That still leaves many others,' pointed out Erebus.

'Indeed it does, chaplain, but with your help, others may join us. Under the guise of the Chaplain Edict, we will send emissaries to each of the Legions to promulgate the formation of warrior lodges within them. From small beginnings we may win many to our cause.'

'That will take time,' said Erebus.

Horus nodded. 'It will, yes, but it will be worth it in the long term. In the meantime, I have despatched mobilisation orders to those Legions I do not believe we can sway. The Ultramarines will muster at Calth to be attacked by Kor Phaeron of the Word Bearers, and the Blood Angels have been sent to the Signus Cluster, where Sanguinius shall be mired in blood. Then we make a swift, decisive stroke on Terra.'

'That still leaves other Legions,' said Regulus.

'I know,' answered Horus, 'but I have a plan that will remove them as a threat to us once and for all. I will lure them into a trap from which none will escape. I will set the Emperor's Imperium ablaze and from the ashes will arise a new Master of Mankind!'

'And where will you set this trap?' asked Maloghurst.

'A place not far from here,' said Horus. 'The Istvaan system.'