A Thousand Sons

by Graham McNeill

  The desolation of Prospero was warning enough of the consequences of reaching too far and too heedlessly.

  Only when the Emperor had brought the survivors of his Legion to Prospero had Magnus known he would have to disregard the warnings and delve further into the mysteries. His gene-sons were dying, their bodies mutating and turning against them as uncontrolled tides wrought ever more hideous changes in their flesh. Nor were such horrific transformations limited to their bodies. Their minds were like pulsing flares in the Great Ocean, drawing predators, hunters and malign creatures that sought to cross into the material universe.

  Unchecked, his Legion would be dead within a generation.

  The power to save them was there, just waiting to be used, and he had given long thought and contemplation to breaking his father’s first command. He had not done so heedlessly, but only after much introspection and an honest appraisal of his abilities. Magnus knew he was a superlative manipulator of the aether, but was he strong enough?

  He knew the answer to that now, for he had saved his warriors. He had seized control of their destinies from the talons of a malevolent shadow in the Great Ocean that held their fates in its grasp. The Emperor knew of such creatures, and had bargained with them in ages past, but he had never dared face one. Magnus’ victory was not won without cost, and he reached up to touch the smooth skin where his right eye had once been, feeling the pain and vindication of that sacrifice once more.

  This power was a pale echo of that, a degenerate pool of trapped energy that had stagnated in this backwater region of space. He could sense the billionfold pathways that spread out from this place, the infinite possibilities of space linked together by a web-like network of conceptual conduits burrowed through the angles between worlds. This region was corrupt, but there were regions of glittering gold in the ocean that threaded the galaxy, binding it as roads of stone had once bound the empires of the Romanii Emperors together.

  To memorise the entire labyrinthine network was beyond even one as gifted as him, but in a moment of connection beyond the darkness, he imprinted a million paths, conduits and access points in his mind. He might not know the entire network, but he would remember enough to find other ways in and other paths. His father would be pleased to learn of this network, pleased enough to overlook Magnus’ transgression at least.

  It still amazed him that he had not known of these pathways, for he and his father had flown the farthest reaches of the Great Ocean and seen sights that would have reduced any other minds to gibbering madness. They had explored the forsaken reefs of entropy, and flown across the depthless chasms of fire that burned with light of every colour. They had fought the nameless, formless predators of the deep, and felt the gelid shadows of entities so vast as to be beyond comprehension.

  He realised he had not seen these paths because they were not there to be seen. Only this break in the network on Aghoru had allowed him to see it.

  Concerns of the material world intruded on his introspective plunge, and Magnus looked out on a world of shadows and deceit. He had passed from the realm of flesh to the realm of spirit without even thinking of it, and floated in a place without form and dimensions save any he desired to impose upon it. This was the entrance to the network, the nexus point that led into the labyrinth. This was what he had come to Aghoru to find.

  He stood upon a broken landscape of upthrust crags and tormented geometry, a world of madness and desolation. Multi-coloured storms lashed the ground with black rain, and blistering lightning scored the heavens with burning zigzag lines. A golden line filled the horizon, a flame that encircled him and seethed with wounded power.

  Jagged mountains reared up in the distance, only to be overturned within moments of their creation. Oceans surged with new tides, drying up in a heartbeat to become ashen deserts of dust and memory. Everywhere, the land was in flux, an inconstant whirl of creation and destruction without end and without beginning. Ash and despair billowed from cracks in the rock, and it was as perfect a vision of hell, as Magnus had seen.

  “Is this the best you can do?” he said, the words dripping with scorn. “The mindless void-predators can conjure this much.”

  The darkness before Magnus coalesced, wrapping itself in black spirals until a glistening snake with scales of obsidian coiled before him, weightless and disembodied from any notions of gravity. Its eyes were whirlpools of pink and blue, and a pair of brightly coloured wings ripped from its back. Its jaw peeled back, revealing fangs that dripped with venom.

  Its forked tongue glittered, and its maw was an abyss of infinite possibility.

  “This?” said the serpent, its voice dry as the desert. “This is not of my making. You brought this with you. This is Mekhenty-er-irty’s doing.”

  Magnus laughed at such a blatant lie, though the name was unknown to him. The sound was a glittering rain. The very air was saturated with potential. With a thought, Magnus conjured a cage of fire for the serpent.

  “This ends now,” said Magnus. “Your falsehoods are wasted on me.”

  “I know,” hissed the serpent. “That is why I do not need any. I told you this was no invention of mine. It is simply a re-creation of a future that waits on you like a patient hunter.”

  The cage of fire vanished, and the serpent slithered through the air towards Magnus, its wings shimmering through a spectrum of a million colours in the time it took to notice.

  “I am here to end this,” said Magnus. “This portal was sealed once and I will seal it again.”

  “Craft older than your master’s tried and failed. What makes you think you will do better?”

  “No one has a craft better than mine,” laughed Magnus. “I have looked into the abyss and wrestled with its darkest powers. I overcame them, and I know the secrets of this world better than you.”

  “Such arrogant certainty,” said the serpent with relish. “How pleasing that is to me. All the very worst sins are accomplished with such certainty: gluttony, wrath, lust… pride. No force in existence can compete with mortals in the grip of certainty.”

  “What are you? Do you have a name?” asked Magnus.

  “If I did, what makes you think I would be foolish enough to tell it to you?”

  “Pride,” said Magnus. “If I am guilty of sin, then I am not the only one. You want me to know who you are. Why else manifest like this?”

  “If you will forgive the cliché, I have many names,” said the serpent, with a dry laugh. “To you, I shall be Choronzon, Dweller in the Abyss and the Daemon of Dispersion.”

  “Daemon is a meaningless word, a name to give power to fear.”

  “I know, isn’t it wonderful?” smiled the serpent, coiling around Magnus’ legs and slithering up his body. Magnus did not fear the serpent. He could destroy it without effort.

  The serpent lifted its head until they were face to face, the length of its glossy body still coiled around his torso. Magnus felt the pressure as it tightened, but simply expanded his own form to match it. As its form enlarged, so too did his until they were two titans towering over the landscape of discord.

  “You cannot intimidate me,” he told the serpent. “In this place I am more powerful than you. You exist only because I have not yet destroyed you.”

  “And why is that? Your warriors are dying above. Do you not care for the lives of mortals, you who are so removed from mortality?”

  “Time has no meaning here, and when I return it will be as if I was gone for mere moments,” said Magnus. “Besides, much can be learned from a talkative foe.”

  “Indeed.”

  “I grow weary of these games,” said Magnus, returning to his mortal size once more. The rearing mountains took on a glassy, silvery hue, and he was struck by a momentary flash of sickening recognition. “This ends now.”

  “Truly?” asked the snake, its vast bulk shrinking until it was only a little longer than Magnus’ arm. “I have not even tempted you yet. Don’t you want to hear what I can offer you?”

  �
�You have nothing I want,” Magnus promised the snake.

  “Are you so sure? I can give you great power, greater than you wield already.”

  “I have power,” said Magnus. “I do not need yours.”

  The snake hissed in amusement, and its fanged maw parted with a serpentine approximation of a smile.

  “You have already supped from a poisoned chalice, Magnus of Terra,” it said. “Yours is a borrowed power, nothing more. You are a puppet given life and animation by an unseen master. Even now you dance a merry jig to another’s tune.”

  “And I should believe you?”

  “I have no reason to lie,” said the snake.

  “You have every reason to lie.”

  “True, but not here, not now,” said the snake, slithering free of Magnus and turning lazy circles in the air. “There is no need. No lie can match the horror of the truth that awaits you. You have bargained with powers far greater and more terrible than you can possibly imagine. You are their pawn now, a plaything to be used and discarded.”

  Magnus shook his head.

  “Spare me your theatrics. I bested powers greater than you, with your tawdry vision of hell,” said Magnus with contempt. “I travelled the farthest reaches of the Great Ocean to save my Legion, unwound the strands of fate that bound them to their destruction and wove them anew. What makes you think your paltry blandishments will appeal to one such as I?”

  “Arrogance too,” hissed the snake, “matched with your towering conceit and certainty… Such a sweet prize you will make.”

  Magnus had heard enough, content that the alien intelligence behind this vision was no more than a petty dynast of the Great Ocean, a malevolent entity with nothing to offer him but empty boasts and false promises. With a gesture, he drew the snake to him and took its straggling, whipping form in an unbreakable grip—

  It squirmed, but he held it fast with no more effort than he might hold a lifeless rope. Magnus squeezed and the scales peeled from its body, the coloured feathers of its wings becoming lustreless and dull. Its eyes dimmed and its fangs melted from its jaws. The landscape began to break apart, its cohesion faltering in the face of the serpent’s unmaking.

  “You bested nothing,” said the snake as Magnus broke its neck.

  AHRIMAN SWEPT HIS heqa staff in a wide arc, clearing a space in which he and Wyrdmake could fight. It was a hopeless task. No sooner was one mass of writhing tentacles severed, than hundreds more would slither from the pit to take their places. His control of the Enumerations was lost, his concentration broken in the face of the primarch’s disappearance into the pit. Ahriman would normally fight divorced from the concerns of emotion that compromised his clarity of combat, but his mind was swamped with the competing fires of anger and hate.

  With control stripped from his mind, Ahriman knew fear once more.

  Only when he had watched Ohrmuzd die had he felt such a void in his soul.

  He had vowed never to feel that way again, but this was even worse.

  Ahriman fought to reconnect with his higher states, but his primarch’s fate was too near to be salved with the Enumerations. Instead, he focussed on the fight for survival, letting his consciousness stretch no further than the next enemy to be slain. Such a state of being was unfamiliar, but cathartic.

  The air was thick with foes, making it impossible to tell in which direction the exit lay. The dark power that energised the tentacles bloated the chamber, a seething corruption that pressed on the surface of his mind like a lead weight.

  He could no longer see Uthizzar, and did not know whether the warrior still lived. The Thousand Sons and Space Wolves fought in isolation, small groups cut off from one another in the midst of the black morass. Diametric opposites, they were united as one force as they battled not for victory, but for survival.

  Ahriman’s pistol had long since run dry, and he swung his staff in a two-handed grip, laying about himself with crushing strokes. His every movement was leaden, his thoughts dull and slow. The Great Ocean was a potent force in combat, but the toll it took upon a warrior was equally potent.

  Ahriman’s mastery of his battle powers was second to none, but even he had nothing left to give, his spirit exhausted and his body pushed to the very limits of endurance. He fought as a mortal must fight, with courage, heart and brute strength, but he already knew that alone would not be enough. He needed power, but all he could feel was the energy boiling from the chasm that had taken the primarch. Even in despair, he knew that would be the first step on a road that had but one destination.

  He would face what was left of this fight without the aether.

  That made it an alien fight to make, and he was reminded of his words to Hathor Maat when he had glibly told him he might one day need to go to war without his powers. How prophetic those words now seemed, though he had said them without any expectation of facing such a situation himself.

  Ahriman’s concentration slipped, and a whipping mass of tentacles enfolded his arm, dragging his heqa staff aside. He struggled against its strength, but it was too late, and his other arm was entangled. His legs and torso were enveloped, and he was lifted from the ground, the joints of his armour creaking at the abominable pressure.

  Wyrdmake tried to pull him down, but even the Rune Priest’s strength could not equal the alien power matched against him. Over the hideous slithering of the deathly tentacles, he could hear the sounds of warriors dying, the shouted oaths of the Space Wolves, and the bitter curses of the Thousand Sons.

  Then the pressure eased and the tentacles around his body began crumbling and flaking to nothingness. Even in his exhausted state, he felt the rampant energies of the pit suddenly vanish, as surely as if a spigot had been shut off.

  The sound of gunfire and chopping blades was replaced by heaving breaths and sudden silence. Ahriman tore himself free of the desiccating tentacles that bound him, bracing himself as he fell back to the ground. He landed lightly, and looked up into the towering mass of writhing blackness as its substance unravelled before his eyes. What had been dark and glossy was now ashen and bleached of colour. The liquid solidity of the tentacles was now as insubstantial as mist, and they fell in a powdered rain.

  Floating in the haze of their ending was a blood-red figure, a blazing giant in dusty armour, who descended with his arms outstretched, his single eye shimmering with a golden light. His hair was matted and wild, like an ancient war god come to earth to scour the unbelievers with his divine fire.

  “My lord!” cried Ahriman, dropping to one knee.

  The Thousand Sons followed his example, as did many of the Space Wolves. Fewer than twenty had survived the battle, but the bodies of the fallen were nowhere to be seen.

  Magnus set foot on the ground, and the gold and silver symbols worked into the rock at the edge of the chasm shone with renewed vigour, as though freshly energised. Ahriman felt the deadening effect immediately, a force like that which had once filled the deadstones, but cleaner, fresher and stronger.

  “My sons,” said Magnus, his flesh invigorated and vital. “The danger is passed. I have destroyed the evil at the heart of this world.”

  Ahriman drew in a cleansing breath, closing his eyes and rising into the first of the Enumerations. His thoughts cleared and his emotional peaks were planed smooth. He heard footsteps behind him and opened his eyes. Lord Skarssen of the Space Wolves’ 5th Company and Ohthere Wyrdmake stood beside him. The Rune Priest gave him a weary nod of respect.

  “The battle is won?” asked Skarssen.

  “It is,” confirmed Magnus, and Ahriman heard fierce pride in his voice. “The wound in the world is no more. I have sealed it for all time. Not even its makers could undo my wards.”

  “Then you are done with this world,” said Skarssen, and Ahriman could not tell whether it was a question or a statement.

  “Yes,” said Magnus. “There is nothing more to learn here.”

  “You owe the Wolf King your presence.”

  “Indeed I do,” said M
agnus, and Ahriman caught a wry grin at the very corner of his primarch’s mouth, as though he were privy to a jest that eluded the rest of them.

  “I will inform Lord Russ of our departure,” said Skarssen. The Wolf Lord turned away, gathering his warriors in readiness for the march to the surface.

  “Direct, without fuss or unnecessary formality,” said Uthizzar, appearing at Ahriman’s side, “that is the Space Wolf way. Maddening at times.”

  “Agreed, though there is much to admire in its simplicity,” said Ahriman, pleased that Uthizzar had survived the battle. The telepath was on the verge of collapse. Ahriman was impressed by his fortitude.

  “It is not simplicity, Ahzek,” said Magnus as the surviving Thousand Sons gathered around him. “It is clarity of purpose.”

  “Is there a difference?”

  “Time will tell,” said Magnus.

  “Then we are truly finished here?” asked Uthizzar.

  “We are,” confirmed Magnus. “What drew us here is no more, but I have uncovered the existence of a prize beyond measure.”

  “What manner of prize?” asked Ahriman.

  “All in good time, Ahzek,” said Magnus with a knowing smile. “All in good time.”

  BOOK TWO

  MUTATIS MUTANDIS

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Shrike/A Good War/The Wolf King

  DAWN WAS ONLY a few hours old and the battle for Raven’s Aerie 93 was won. The slender, feather-cloaked bodies of its defenders lay strewn around its craggy ramparts. Thanks to the foresight of the Corvidae, the battle to take the hidden crag had been a massacre.

  Six months of flying the Great Ocean on the hunt for strands of the future and constant war had drained those warriors of the Thousand Sons Magnus had led to answer Russ’ summons. They had been bled white matching the war pace of the Space Wolves.

  The air in the southern polar mountains was thin and lung-bitingly cold, but it was a welcome change from the heat of Aghoru. Ahriman did not feel the cold, but the soldiers of the Prospero Spireguard were not so fortunate. To survive the sub-zero temperatures, they wore thick crimson greatcoats, heavy boots and silver shakoes, lined with fur cut from the wings of the snow-shrikes used by the Avenians as brutally effective line-breakers.