The Horus Heresy
It is a time of legend.
The galaxy is in flames. The Emperor’s glorious vision for humanity is in ruins. His favoured son, Horus, has turned from his father’s light and embraced Chaos.
His armies, the mighty and redoubtable Space Marines, are locked in a brutal civil war. Once, these ultimate warriors fought side by side as brothers, protecting the galaxy and bringing mankind back into the Emperor’s light. Now they are divided.
Some remain loyal to the Emperor, whilst others have sided with the Warmaster. Pre-eminent amongst them, the leaders of their thousands-strong Legions are the primarchs. Magnificent, superhuman beings, they are the crowning achievement of the Emperor’s genetic science. Thrust into battle against one another, victory is uncertain for either side.
Worlds are burning. At Isstvan V, Horus dealt a vicious blow and three loyal Legions were all but destroyed. War was begun, a conflict that will engulf all mankind in fire. Treachery and betrayal have usurped honour and nobility. Assassins lurk in every shadow. Armies are gathering. All must choose a side or die.
Horus musters his armada, Terra itself the object of his wrath. Seated upon the Golden Throne, the Emperor waits for his wayward son to return. But his true enemy is Chaos, a primordial force that seeks to enslave mankind to its capricious whims.
The screams of the innocent, the pleas of the righteous resound to the cruel laughter of Dark Gods. Suffering and damnation await all should the Emperor fail and the war be lost.
The age of knowledge and enlightenment has ended. The Age of Darkness has begun.
~ DRAMATIS PERSONAE ~
The Primarchs
Warmaster Horus Lupercal, Primarch of the Sons of Horus
Angron, Primarch of the World Eaters
Lorgar Aurelian, Primarch of the Word Bearers
Magnus the Red, Primarch of the Thousand Sons
Roboute Guilliman, Primarch of the Ultramarines
The XII Legion ‘World Eaters’
Vorias, Lectio Primus, Librarius Division
Esca, Codicier, Librarius Division
Khârn, Captain, Eighth Company, and Equerry to Angron
Kargos, ‘Bloodspitter’, Apothecary, Eighth Company
Jeddek, Standard bearer, Eighth Company
Skane, Sergeant, Skane Destroyer squad, Eighth Company
Gharte, Sergeant, Marakan Tactical squad, Eighth Company
Delvarus, Centurion, Delvarus Triarii squad, 44th Company
Lhorke, ‘The First’; Dreadnought, Contemptor-pattern
Neras, Dreadnought
The XVII Legion ‘Word Bearers’
Argel Tal, Gal Vorbak, Commander of the Vakrah Jal
Erebus, First Chaplain, Dark Apostle of the Word
Eshramar, Vakrah Jal, Sergeant, Eshramar Immolation squad
The XIII Legion ‘Ultramarines’
Orfeo Cassandar, Legatus of Armatura
Fleet Personnel
Lotara Sarrin, Flag-Captain of the XII Legion warship Conqueror
Ivar Tobin, First Officer of the XII Legion warship Conqueror
Feyd Hallerthan, Officer of the XII Legion warship Conqueror
Lehralla, Scrymistress of the XII Legion warship Conqueror
Kejic, Vox-master of the XII Legion warship Conqueror
The Blessed Lady, Confessor of the Word
The Martian Mechanicum
Vel-Kheredar, Archmagos Veneratus, representative of Kelbor-Hal
The Legio Audax ‘Ember Wolves’
Venric Solostine, Princeps Ultima, and Princeps of the Command Titan Syrgalah
Toth Kol, Moderati Primus, Command Titan Syrgalah
Keeda Bly, Moderati Secundus, Command Titan Syrgalah
The Ninth, Mechanicum Adept, Command Titan Syrgalah
Audun Lyrac, Princeps Penultima
The Legio Lysanda ‘Sentinels of the Edge’
Maxamillien Delantyr, Princeps, Titan Ardentor
Ellas Hyle, Moderati Primus, Titan Ardentor
Kei Adaras, Moderati Secundus, Titan Ardentor
Non-Imperial Personae
Tybaral Thal’kr, Praxuary, Imperial Magnate of Nuceria
Oshamay Evrel’Korshay, General of the Thal’kr Kin-Guard
Damon Prytanis, Perpetual
‘Because we couldn’t be trusted. The Emperor needed a weapon that would never obey its own desires before those of the Imperium. He needed a weapon that would never bite the hand that feeds. The World Eaters were not that weapon. We’ve all drawn blades purely for the sake of shedding blood, and we’ve all felt the exultation of winning a war that never even needed to happen. We are not the tame, reliable pets that the Emperor wanted. The Wolves obey, when we would not. The Wolves can be trusted, when we never could. They have a discipline we lack, because their passions are not aflame with the Butcher’s Nails buzzing in the back of their skulls.
‘The Wolves will always come to heel when called. In that regard, it is a mystery why they name themselves wolves. They are tame, collared by the Emperor, obeying his every whim. But a wolf doesn’t behave that way. Only a dog does.
‘That is why we are the Eaters of Worlds, and the War Hounds no longer.’
– Eighth Captain Khârn,
from his unpublished treatise The Eighteen Legions
PROLOGUE
Isstvan III
Skane was the one to find the body. He stood knee-deep in the dead, next to the wrecked hull of a Land Raider battle tank, his armour stained black by the sin of the weapons he wielded.
‘Kargos,’ he voxed. His voice was tinny, laden with static. One of the enemy had caught him in the throat during the battle, and it had jarred his augmetic vocal cords. They’d need retuning once he returned to the Conqueror.
‘Kargos,’ he said again, across the tomb-quiet vox-channel.
‘What?’ His brother’s reply was also flawed by static, but from more traditional vox-corruption rather than a bionic trachea.
‘Track my locator rune,’ said Skane. ‘Get over here.’
‘I’m busy. Look around you, sergeant. You think you’re the only one that needs my help at the moment?’
Skane didn’t bother looking. He knew where he was and what he’d see – he was at the heart of it all, and the dead numbered in the thousands. Most here wore armour the green of shallow oceans, cracked and shattered by the treachery of their former kindred. These were Horus’s former Sons, betrayed by their brethren and slain for their disloyalty. Among their number, armour of bloodstained white stood out like pearls amongst seaweed. Too many World Eaters had fallen here, though victory was undeniable. The city was dead in every direction, reduced to ash and rubble.
A shadow fell across Skane, blocking out the weak sun as a Legio Audax Warhound passed with its rattle-clank stride, shaking the tortured ground. He lifted a hand to the war machine, receiving no acknowledgement beyond dull sunlight glinting on the Titan’s ursus claw spear. It stalked onwards, splayed feet grinding ceramite and bone and twisted iron into the earth, its wolfish cockpit lowered as it hunted for life signs and scanner-scents among the dead and the dying.
Skane turned back to the ruined tank, kneeling by its front end where the minesweeper plough was decorated in scratches and gore. A body impaled on the dozer blade’s spikes twitched in uneasy repose, its fingers still scraping in futility across the metal. Skane wasn’t sure how the pinned warrior still lived, and doubted the trembling, bleeding figure would survive being pulled from the blade. Nevertheless, he spoke again.
‘Kargos,’ he said for the third time. It took the Apothecary several secon
ds to answer.
‘I told you I’m busy. Fix your own damn throat, or shut up and wait until we’re back aboard the ship.’
Skane disengaged the seals at the dying warrior’s neck, lifting the helm free with a hiss of released air pressure. The revealed face was pale, bloodstained from the lips down, the eyes open and blind while the mouth worked in silent, wordless pain.
‘I’ve found Khârn,’ Skane voxed.
This time, there was no delay in Kargos’s reply. ‘I’m on my way.’
I
Last Words
‘Any who hear these words, I implore you to carry them across the Imperium. I am Vice Admiral Tion Konor Gallus of the Andarion Fleet, stationed in the Quintus Spread of Ultramar. My personnel clearance numericals are: three-three-Via-nine-one-K-O-L-five-one. We have come under intentional and malign attack by a fleet flying the colours of the Twelfth World Eaters Legion. Our escorts are already dead. Our remaining capital ships are suffering boarding actions. Most were destroyed outright. The Fulgentius Shipyards are lost to treachery. Get word t–
‘Variano, they’re still strangling this signal. I don’t care how you do it, break through this jamming or I’ll shoot you myself–
‘This is Admiral Gallus of the Andarion Fleet. Get word to the muster at Calth. Get word to Lord Guilliman. We are betrayed. We are betrayed.’
– Admiral Tion Konor Gallus,
Aboard the Ultramarines battleship Legate, stationed at Latona
‘Theodos to all remaining forces, maintain defensive formation above the arctic circle. Deny them bombardment until the astropathic cry is sent. Any unengaged support frigates in the seventeenth grid allocation, target the Word Bearers vessel identification: Deadsong. Kill it before it brings its lances to bear on the arctic bastion.
‘All Aequitas crew without sacrificial oaths, to the escape pods.
‘Theodos to the fleet: we’re crippled and aflame, all non-essential crew abandoning ship. Disengage from any attempts to defend us. Repeat: disengage from any attempts to defend us. Use your guns elsewhere.
‘How is this not working? Why are the astropaths silent?
‘Put me through to the Deadsong. I don’t care if they answer.
‘I know you hear me, Seventeenth. We are your brothers. What madness has taken you? What mad–’
– Fleetmaster Gaius Theodos,
Aboard the Ultramarines warship Aequitas, stationed at Ulixis
‘Still no word from the Calth muster. The signal may not even be reaching them.
‘One of us has to get out of here alive…
‘This is the flagship to the Azureus: break free by any means necessary. The Tears of Kyanos and the Immortal Patriarch are to move in support, executing a Seven Rises Manoeuvre to take any and all punishment inbound for the Azureus. All escort squadrons, form up around the Azureus in a Deniquo interception pattern. Igitur, break off your attack and bring your guns to bear in the third grid to support the Azureus. I want you to peel that Twelfth ship off her tail. We’ll only have one shot at this.
‘Azureus, in the name of the Emperor and the Five Hundred Worlds, run and do not stop. Run to Armatura, and give my regards to Orfeo.’
– Commander Krios Cassan
Captain of the Ultramarines warship Vinculum Unitatis,
stationed at Espandor
ONE
The Archpriest and the Sorcerer
Armatura
Warpsong
The Peregrinus Basilica was an armoured fortress jutting from the flagship’s spinal battlements, commanding a view of the warp above the entire spread of the warship Fidelitas Lex below. The cathedral itself would be a palace on any world, the size of a city sector in its own right, built in relative humility as a modest echo of the Imperial Palace on Terra.
Lorgar Aurelian was in the domed observatory atop the central spire. He stood calmly, this Lord of the Word Bearers, armoured but unarmed while his sons prepared for war on the hundreds of decks beneath his feet. The ship was alive with chanting and shrieking, yet Lorgar was at peace, watching the mists of madness crashing against the dome.
‘Brother,’ came a voice from behind.
Lorgar’s features – pale, godlike and inked with golden scripture – dawned into a warm smile. Breaking the serenity of his heavenward vigil, he turned, his boots echoing on the mosaic deck as he did so. An image of his brother Magnus greeted him.
If Lorgar’s skin was gold-inscribed marble, Magnus was an effigy of burnt copper. Both primarchs were reflections of their father, each of them made in the Emperor’s image, but where Lorgar was like an aesthetically pleasing statue, etched with intricate runes and swirling mandalas, Magnus was more akin to a red-skinned heathen idol – a Sun God’s avatar of the sort worshipped by primitive cultures in less-enlightened ages. His skin was the red of flayed muscles; his armour a suit of golden scales edged in ivory, and with a bronze helm crested with a lion’s mane of bristling scarlet hair. A fist-sized gem of volcanic glass, carved as a black scarab, held his cloak over one shoulder. Lorgar couldn’t be certain where his brother was in truth, but the projected essence standing before him was perfect in every detail.
‘Magnus,’ he said, still smiling. ‘Tell me you’ve made your decision.’
As ever, Lorgar wore his emotions as openly as a soul could, and his genuine gratitude at his brother’s arrival shone from his eyes. Even so, Magnus ignored his brother’s words.
‘I can hear your sons making ready for war,’ he said instead.
Lorgar’s smile didn’t fade. ‘A sound to chill the blood, isn’t it? They’ve changed so much since Isstvan.’
‘As have you,’ said Magnus.
The Word Bearer’s smile faltered at last and he looked back to the turbulent heavens. ‘Strange. From Angron those same words come as a compliment, or as close to one as our brother could ever manage. From you, though, they seem more of a curse.’
Magnus shrugged.
‘I wouldn’t trust Angron if he swore to me that water was wet. Our brother is blind. Blind and lost.’
‘You underestimate him,’ said the Word Bearer. ‘He too is changing. We all are. Ah, Magnus, you will see how my Word Bearers make war now. Even a handful of years ago, I’d never have imagined it…’ Lorgar smiled once more, then shook his head. ‘But you came to tell me of your decision, did you not? Please, brother. Speak it.’
The sorcerer gave a slight shake of his head. ‘First tell me of Calth. The Great Ocean’s tides crash at the edges of the Calth System, Lorgar, and death emanates from the place in sickening waves.’
‘Regrettable, but necessary.’
Magnus snorted, though Lorgar wasn’t sure whether it was with amusement or derision. He turned to gaze back out to the roiling chaos of the warp, staring unblinkingly into its poisoned depths of manifest emotion.
‘I’m glad you came,’ he said at last. ‘I’ve missed you.’
Magnus gave a low, rumbling chuckle. ‘Am I to assume Angron does not offer the brotherly companionship you’d hoped for?’
Lorgar’s radiant smile dawned for a third time, but he didn’t reply.
Magnus came to stand next to his brother. The Crimson King’s image gave off no scent, though his psychic projection made Lorgar’s skin itch. No matter how strong the Word Bearer grew, merely standing close to Magnus was enough to set his teeth on edge. His taller sibling exuded a palpable force against the meat of his mind. Nothing physical. Nothing so unsubtle. This was the raw power of a soul, felt in the moment when psychic minds met.
‘Where are we?’ Magnus asked.
‘Close to where we need to be,’ Lorgar replied.
‘So it is a secret?’
‘A surprise, not a secret. There’s a difference.’
Magnus hesitated. ‘And where is Kor Phaeron? Where is Erebus?’
The Word Bearer tilte
d his head to regard his brother again. ‘All that death you sensed at Calth? That is their work.’
Magnus grunted, noncommittal.
‘The Legions are at war,’ Lorgar pressed gently, ‘and the galaxy burns. Accept it. End your seclusion in the Great Eye. Get back into the fight. You’ll be part of Horus’s plans, and won’t need to ask me what’s happening, or where, or why. You’ll know where the playing pieces stand on the board. You’ll be moving them yourself.’
This time Magnus was the one to break contact with his brother’s sun-flecked eyes; eyes as divine as his smile.
‘You’ve still not decided, have you?’ Lorgar asked.
‘I will. Before the end comes, at least.’
Lorgar did not press him further. Instead they just stood there, listening to the warp screaming against the observatory’s warded glass and the Word Bearers continued chanting in the decks far below.
‘Tell me something,’ said Lorgar at last. ‘Do you feel shame that Russ broke your back over his knee?’
‘Aurelian.’ Magnus used the name as a warning.
Lorgar waved a pacifying hand and changed the subject.
‘You once warned me not to rely so heavily on Erebus and Kor Phaeron.’
‘You’re not gifted at following advice,’ Magnus pointed out.
Lorgar laughed – a gentle exhalation through a smile. ‘True, but you were right.’
‘Of course,’ said Magnus, then: ‘Tell me of Argel Tal.’ He made no attempt to hide the intensity of his interest.
‘He is aboard the Conqueror as we speak, with his Vakrah Jal elite. Of my three closest sons, he alone remains devoted to my vision. And yet, brother, he is broken. As for the other two… I love them for their pride and ambition, yet the warp curdles around them, ripe with the sickness of their souls. They play their own games now. Erebus plays them at the behest of the gods. He is a slave, believing himself king. Kor Phaeron plays them for his own reasons.’
He paused, almost reticent to continue.
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