Prospero Burns

by Dan Abnett

  He gazed down at his lord and whispered, ‘I recognise my failing and will be sure to correct it.’

  ‘I know,’ said Ogvai. ‘Until next winter.’

  Ogvai drew his bolt pistol, pressed the muzzle up under Eada’s chin, and vaporised his head with a single mass-reactive round.

  ‘So you liked the account?’ Hawser asked. ‘It amused you? It distracted you?’

  ‘It was amusing enough,’ said Longfang. ‘It wasn’t your best.’

  ‘I can assure you it was,’ said Hawser.

  Longfang shook his head. Droplets of blood flecked from his beard.

  ‘No, you’ll learn better ones,’ he said. ‘Far better ones. And even now, it’s not the best you know.’

  ‘It’s the most unnerving thing that happened to me in my old life,’ said Hawser with some defiance. ‘It has the most… maleficarum.’

  ‘You know that’s not true,’ said Longfang. ‘In your heart, you know better. You’re denying yourself.’

  Hawser woke with a start.

  Godsmote was shaking him.

  ‘Wake up,’ the warrior said.

  ‘What?’ Hawser murmured, his head still murky with sleep. He was in his quarters aboard Nidhoggur. Godsmote had interrupted his repeating dream pattern and, somehow, that was more distressing and confusing than following it to its usual frustrating conclusion.

  ‘Get up,’ said Godsmote.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Hawser asked.

  ‘Someone’s calling for you,’ said Godsmote.

  A pinnace carried Hawser and his escort from Tra’s cruiser to the Wolf King’s massive warship. The anchored fleet components looked like monolithic blocks of dark grey stone suspended over the disk of Thardia. Everything had the hard-edged shadow of light in a vacuum.

  Hawser peered out. The scale of the vessel was incredible. Even the smaller escorts and fleet tenders were blunt-nosed slabs like slices of mountain cliff. The principal warships were shockingly vast. The surface detail of their flanks took forever to flash past the ports as the pinnace flitted between them.

  The most massive ship of all was a slate-grey monster with a ploughshare prow. This was the apex predator, the alpha male of the fleet.

  ‘The Hrafnkel,’ said Godsmote. ‘Flagship of the Wolf King.’

  The deck spaces of the flagship, vast as cityscapes, were heaving with activity. Hundreds of thousands of ratings, thralls and servitors worked to status-sweep the colossal ship from its last translation and prep it for the next immaterial transfer. Deck plates and interior struts were being examined and reinforced. Powerlines were being tested. In some stretches of companionway, inspection plates had been lifted in forty- or fifty- metre long trenches. In the lofty arming chambers, cathedrals of war, automated hoists raised payloads of void munitions from the armoured magazines to delivery points where gunnery trains coiled like sea-orms, waiting to thread the service arteries of the ship and deliver the titanic warheads to the Hrafnkel’s batteries. Regiments of men, dwarfed by the arched vaults, unpacked weapons and laid them out in rows along the deck to be stripped and hand-checked before distribution to the troop contingents.

  The moaning shiver of the ship’s vast engines rose and fell, swelling and dying away, making the intensity of the deck lights rise and fall. The drive was being tested. It was like a warrior limbering his shoulders and flexing his sword arm.

  ‘War,’ said Hawser as they strode along.

  ‘Always,’ said Bear.

  ‘This isn’t normal readiness,’ said Hawser. ‘This is something particular. It’s—’

  ‘It’s only war,’ said Helwintr. ‘Whatever else it is, it’s only ever war.’

  Leman Russ dominated the command bridge, even though the command bridge was a multi-levelled vault that reminded Hawser of a palace throne room. Officers and servitors attended control positions wrought from brass and gold which encircled the great dome of the bridge and plugged into the bulkhead walls with fat braids of gilded cables, circuits and tubes. These extending fans of tubework made the consoles resemble giant pipe organs. To reinforce the mental image, most control positions had triple or quadruple sets of keyboards. The keys were made of bone, inlaid with instructional marks. Use and age had yellowed some. They looked like the grin of old teeth.

  They looked like the keys of a battered clavier.

  Hololithic screens, many projected from overhead or under-deck emitters, turned the central part of the command area into a flickering picture gallery. The crew moved among the images, surrounding some for study, adjusting the data flow of others with finger touches of their reactive gloves. Some images were large, others small, or arranged in stacked series that could be flipped through with a deft gesture. As Helwintr, Bear and Godsmote brought him in, Hawser saw one ensign slide a luminous rectangular map of fleet dispersal through the air for his superior’s attention. Some of the slightly incandescent images showed topographical maps, contour overlays, positional guides or course computations. Others scrolled with constant feeds of written data, or showed, in small frames, real-time pict-links to the talking heads of other ship commanders as they reported in.

  The air was filled by the mechanical chatter of machinery, the brittle stenographic clack of keys, the crackle of voxed voice messages or Mechanicum vocalisers, the drone of background chatter. Command officers with cuffs and high collars stiff with gold braid rasped orders into vox-mics that were attached to the consoles by flex leads. They held the mics up to their mouths, and the small acoustic side-baffles of the microphone heads obscured the lower parts of their faces like half-masks. Just eyes, without noses or mouths, which reminded Hawser of something.

  Cherubs, giggling at private jokes, buzzed through the bridge hustle, carrying messages and communiqué pouches. Insectoid remotes, as perfect and intricate as dragonflies, kept obedient station in the air at the shoulders of their Mechanicum masters, their wings droning in hover-mode at a disturbingly low vibrational threshold.

  In the centre of the command bridge was a massive brass and silver armature, an instrument designed for complex celestial display and calculation. It resembled an orrery with its skeletal metal hemispheres and its surrounding discs and measuring orbits, but it was ten metres in diameter and grew out of the desk grille on a stand as thick as a tree trunk. Attendants manned small lectern consoles around it, tapping out small adjustments that caused the main frame of it to turn, realign and spin in subtle measures.

  The hemispheric theatre of the planetarium was currently used to display a large-scale hololithic image of a planet. The glowing topographical light map, three dimensional and rotating in an authentic orbital spin showed day and night side and was contained inside the moving, spherical cage of the brass instrument. Smaller side projections hung in the air, enlarging particular surface details, and various declinations, aspectarians, and astronomical ephemerides.

  The planet under scrutiny was as beautiful as a star sapphire. The hololithic resolution imaged its greens and blues, its ribbons of cloud and mountain range, its traceries of river basins, its sheened oceans, its turquoise aura of atmosphere. As he got closer, Hawser saw that the vast image was actually a mosaic compiled from thousands of separate detailed pict scans, a work composition that suggested a vast effort of careful and systematic intelligence gathering.

  Despite the size and majesty of the planetarium display, Russ was still the most compelling thing in the chamber. As soon as he saw Hawser and his escort arrive, he pushed aside the huddle of Navigators clutching their dossiers of sidereal times and zodiacal interlocks.

  ‘Bring him!’ he growled, and pointed to the shipmaster’s reclusiam.

  Helwintr, Bear and Godsmote led Hawser into the reclusiam space behind the Wolf King. The shipmaster, a stern giant with a long, wirewool beard of grey and an extravagantly peaked cap, saluted and withdrew to give the primarch privacy. Command officers scurried after their immaculately uniformed master, clutching armfuls of data-slates and dockets.


  Russ waved a jewelled sceptre and raised falsehood screens around the reclusiam space. The ambient noise of the bridge chatter dropped away. It was suddenly as quiet as a monastic chapel.

  The Wolf King idly tossed the sceptre away. It bounced into the seat of the shipmaster’s red-leather throne. He turned to face Hawser. His presence was almost intolerable. A dynamic, lethal energy pulsed within him. He was hunched, his arms clamped around his body, as though he was trying to prevent himself from exploding. If the explosion happened, Hawser had no doubt it would take the entire flagship with it.

  ‘Do you hear me, brother?’ he asked Hawser.

  ‘What?’ Hawser replied, trembling. ‘Lord, what are you asking me?’

  ‘I know you can hear me, brother,’ Russ said. ‘I know you can.’

  ‘Lord, please,’ said Hawser. ‘Explain to me what you’re saying.’

  The Wolf King ignored his words. He continued to stare into Hawser’s eyes, as though they were murky pools out of which something might suddenly surface.

  ‘Magnus, Magnus, Crimson King, brother of mine,’ he said. ‘I know you can hear me. You planted this instrument, this poor unwilling fellow, Ibn Rustah, you planted him among us so you could learn our secrets. Guess what? We’re as smart as you. Smarter, perhaps. We saw your spy for what he was, and we made no effort to remove him. We kept him with us so we could look back at you, Magnus. So we could learn your secrets. An eye can look out and it can look in. You should know that, you who look deeper than most.’

  The Wolf King turned and walked a few paces away. He picked up the sceptre again, and sat down in the throne. He rested the sceptre in his lap, leaned his head on one fist and gazed back at Hawser.

  ‘I’ve got nothing to hide from you, Magnus. Nothing. You know how I work. My enemies should know what’s coming to greet them. It fixes them in the right mental place to be annihilated. I don’t like to hide my strengths or my approach. I’d rather my foe knows the full, unimaginable fury that is about to descend upon him.’

  The Wolf King paused. He swallowed. He seemed to be considering his next words.

  ‘That’s not why I’m talking to you now. I’m talking to you because I hope you’ll listen. I’m talking to you as the personal courtesy extended from one brother to another. What is about to happen should not be happening. You know I do not want this. You know it tears my heart to commit against you, and it breaks the very soul of our father to place his sons in opposition. But you have done this. You have brought this. You have brought this action.’

  Russ swallowed again. He looked down at the deck, though he was still directing his words at Hawser.

  Hawser stood numb, shaking, rooted to the spot.

  ‘We gave you every chance, Magnus. We indulged your learning, we gave you room to explore. When we became fearful of where those explorations were leading you, and how they might endanger everything we value, we told you of our concerns. The Council at Nikaea, that was supposed to be a moment of reconciliation. You swore you would renounce the cunning arts. You swore! You swore you would abide by our father’s ruling!’

  His voice dropped to a whisper.

  ‘You did not. You have proved your intent to ignore the Ruling of Nikaea beyond all doubt. So this is on you. You must have known our father’s hands would be tied. He would have no other option than to turn to me to issue sanction.’

  Russ looked up into Hawser’s eyes.

  ‘This is a courtesy, then. From brother to brother. A grace period I would extend to no other enemy. Settle your affairs. Evacuate the civilians from your cities. Deactivate your defence systems. Bring yourself and your Thousand Sons out into the open, and prepare to surrender to me upon my arrival. Please, Magnus. The Wolves of Fenris have been unleashed upon you. Only you have the power to make the consequences bloodless.’

  He rose to his feet.

  ‘Please, Magnus. Please.’

  The Wolf King looked away. He turned his back on Hawser.

  ‘Does he answer?’ he asked, distractedly.

  ‘I cannot feel an answer,’ Hawser replied, his voice wobbling. ‘But then, I’ve never really known how I work as a conduit.’

  Russ grunted.

  ‘Or if I do,’ Hawser added. He was painfully aware that the other Wolves, especially Helwintr, were glaring at him.

  ‘I’ve never been totally convinced of that either,’ he said.

  The Wolf King made no comment.

  ‘My lord,’ said Hawser. ‘What… what did your brother do?’

  ‘He performed an act of maleficarum that drove his sorcery right to the heart of Terra and into the presence of the Emperor,’ said Helwintr.

  ‘But… why?’ asked Hawser.

  ‘It was an alleged attempt to communicate a warning,’ said Russ without turning. His voice was a soft grumble, like thunder grinding in the far distance.

  ‘A warning, my lord?’

  ‘One of such terrible importance, Magnus felt it was worth exposing his own treachery to reveal it,’ Russ murmured.

  ‘Forgive me,’ said Hawser, ‘but does that not speak to some loyalty in your brother? Has the warning been examined? Has it been taken seriously?’

  Russ turned back to face him.

  ‘Why would it? My brother is a madman. A dabbling warlock.’

  ‘Lord,’ said Hawser, ‘he was prepared to admit he was ignoring the edicts of Nikaea, and risk the censure that he knew must result from that admission, to relay a warning. Why would he do that unless the warning was valid?’

  ‘You’re not a warrior, skjald,’ said the Wolf King in an almost kindly tone. ‘Strategy is not your strong suit. Consider the reverse of your proposition. Magnus wants the ruling of Nikaea overturned. He wants permission and approval to continue with his arcane tinkerings and his foul magics. So he manufactures a threat, something he can warn us about that is so astonishing we would have to forgive him, and set aside our objections. Something so unthinkable, we would have to thank him and tell him he had been right all along. All along. This is his ploy.’

  ‘Do you know what was so unthinkable? asked Hawser.

  ‘Magnus claimed that great Horus was about to turn against the Imperium,’ said Russ. ‘From the look on your face, Ahmad Ibn Rustah, I see you recognise how ridiculous that sounds.’

  Hawser switched his gaze to Helwintr. The priest’s masked face was unreadable.

  ‘Wolf King, great lord,’ Hawser began, ‘that’s not the first time that warnings concerning the Warmaster have been voiced. Please, lord—’

  ‘Our skjald refers to the incident involving Eada Haelfwulf, lord,’ said Helwintr.

  ‘I know of it,’ said Russ. ‘It seems corroborative, I grant you. But once again, consider the strategy. It involved maleficarum turning and twisting one of our own gothi, in the immediate vicinity of you, an identified conduit for the enemy’s power. Of course poor Haelfwulf would gabble out the same damned lie with his dying breath. It’s supposed to make Magnus’s story sound more credible by coming from a secondary source.’

  Russ looked down into Hawser’s eyes.

  ‘Truth is, it’s the proof I need that Magnus is desperately trying to coordinate a campaign of disinformation to support his ruse. He doesn’t need to answer through you, skjald. He’s answered already.’

  The Wolf King turned to Helwintr and the escort.

  ‘Take him away, but keep him with us, right to the advance. I want that channel to my brother left open. My poor brother. I want him to see us coming. I want him to know it’ll never be too late for him to beg for mercy.’

  ‘My lord,’ said Hawser. ‘What happens now?’

  ‘Now?’ Leman Russ replied. ‘Now, Prospero falls.’

  PART THREE

  ACCOUNT

  Thirteen

  The Sanction of the Sixth

  I name myself Ahmad Ibn Rustah, skjald of Tra, and I bring to this hearth the account of the Vlka Fenryka’s raid upon Prospero, as is my calling.

  Many voices
can be heard in mine, many memories, for as skjald of Tra I have done my duty, the duty given to me by Ogvai Ogvai Helmschrot, Jarl of Tra and, before him, Gedrath Gedrathsa, Jarl of Tra, to gather all the stories the men of Tra have, and make memories out of them so that they can be retold, over and again, until wyrd decides when my thread must be cut.

  You who gather here at the hearthside, you who listen to me by the firelight, and sip your mjod, and wait for your part of the account to be recited, you will need to forgive me. This is my story too, and I am inside it, my voice and my memories, and I cannot be taken out. For I name myself also, Kasper Hawser, visitor to Fenris, comrade of the Sixth, pawn of the Fifteenth, witness, outsider.

  The account of Prospero is several things. We all know that. Foremost, it is a testament to the courage and loyalty of the Sixth Astartes. It is the story of a duty performed without hesitation or equivocation. The Allfather told the Rout what task he needed them to do, and it was done. No one will ever hear this account and question the devotion of the Vlka Fenryka.

  It is also a lament. This was a sad necessity regretted by all. It gave no pleasure to perform it, not even the reward of glory. The prosecution of a fellow Legion, even when it is done so successfully, is no easy thing to square in a man’s mind. This has ever been the burden of the Wolves of the Sixth Astartes that their calling as the Allfather’s chosen hunters places a solemn burden of responsibility on their shoulders greater than any endured by other Legions. There is no shame in admitting this is an account of sorrow, a mournful thing. It is an account we could happily wash away from our memories and wish undone.

  Prospero burned. The Wolves of Fenris fell upon it, and it blazed up brightly, and died into the darkness. Though strong in many arts of war and lorefare, the brotherhood of Tizca could not withstand the murder-make. Bloody was the fighting, savage and unholy. Only one result was ever likely. No one survives the coming of the Wolves, not even the Crimson King and his Thousand Sons.