by Dan Abnett
‘The Warmaster has faith in his abilities,’ said Mortarion cautiously.
‘So do I, brother, so do I,’ said Magnus. ‘No finer exponent of siegecraft.’
‘So, we are obliged.’
‘It seems so,’ said Mortarion.
Magnus nodded. ‘So, Colossi?’
‘Colossi.’
‘Your mighty strengths and my… qualities,’ said Magnus.
‘I have no need of your qualities,’ said the Pale King. ‘I can crush this by myself.’
‘No doubt at all,’ said the Crimson King with a smile. ‘But I go where I am sent. You seem so wary, brother. Surely our old disagreements are behind us?’
‘You bring that up?’
‘I read it in your face.’
‘And I have always read yours, Crimson King,’ said Mortarion. ‘Of your qualities… deceit has always been the uppermost.’
‘There is no deceit today, brother,’ said Magnus. ‘That is why I came in person, to assure you. We are as one. We stand together. The Lord of Iron has charged us with a task. We must be undivided. So let us take this moment to unburden ourselves of tiresome histories, and reconcile. Things have changed. You. Me. I say this, all of this, so that may know I forgive you.’
‘You… forgive me?’ Mortarion snarled.
‘We are both now what you hated. It’s unbearable, I know. The pain-‘
‘The pain is nothing.’ The Pale King’s voice was an empty husk. Magnus stepped closer to face him.
‘The idea is not,’ he said. He looked Mortarion in the eyes. ‘Your suffering gives you power. The sort I promised from the start. Your submission was not weakness. There is no shame. I bear you no ill will. I understand.’
It took the Pale King a moment to find a reply.
‘I hate this,’ he whispered.
‘I know,’ replied Magnus softly. ‘It should ease your torment to know I harbour no resentment towards you. Not now.’
Magnus placed his hand gently on Mortarion’s shoulder. The Pale King flinched slightly, wary.
‘What are you doing?’ he growled.
‘I have had my gifts for a lot longer than you have,’ said Magnus calmly. ‘Let me show you how they may be harnessed.’
A golden light seeped from Magnus’ fingers, and suffused Mortarion’s ragged plate. Mortarion blinked, straightened slightly, and took a breath. He seemed taller, less bowed by pain and wrack. His eyes had become fierce and unclouded.
‘You are kind to me…’ he murmured, puzzled.
‘There is only one enemy now,’ said Magnus. ‘The Lie-Father. We face Him side by side.’
The Pale King nodded. He clutched his fellow king’s hand for a second then turned away, took up his scythe and stepped over the ragged battlement.
They watched his giant figure bounding effortlessly from block to block, descending the slope of rubble and calling for his captains
‘Compassion?’ asked Ahriman.
‘A temporary respite,’ Magnus replied. ‘He is made to endure, more than any of us, but pain dulls his abilities. He must learn to love what he is, or he will be of no use. And he and his Legion are fine blunt instruments.’
‘To crack the walls?’
‘To crack the walls. To open the way. To let me reach the place I need to be.’
‘If he realises you are using him,’ Ahriman began, ‘if any of them do-‘
Magnus looked at the Corvidae captain sharply. Not out loud, he willed.
Very well. If, for a moment, they appreciate that your true concern is not the united effort to topple your father’s throne, but something more personal…+
‘They won’t,’ said the Crimson King.
SIX
* * *
Dialogues and arrivals
Garviel.+
‘I am occupied, lord.’ Evade. Sidestep. Swing, left blade. Decapitation.
So I witness, warrior. What is your tally today?+
‘Eighteen.’ Turn. Adjust. Block. Block again. Right blade, under the guard. Impale. ‘Nineteen.’ Adjust again. Back step. Re-address.
Four more, coming from the right. Heavy storm troops, battle-armoured, intending to mob and overwhelm.
A slow day for you, then?+
‘It’s s barely begun.’ Adjust grips. Low address.
Does spinning your blades like that, one in each hand… Does it help? Or is it merely a flourish?+
‘It’s cleans off the blood, so they bite better.’ Block two. Kick the third back. Snap that blade. Thrust. Kill. ‘It also shows them my intent.’
I wouldn’t know. I need to speak to you, Garviel.+
‘You’re speaking.’ Block to the face. Down-cut. Kill. Step out. Evade. Side-cut. Kill. Slash to block. Lock and hold. Cross-guard thrust. Kill.
Face to face.+
Loken stepped back, and lowered his blades. The chainsword continued to purr. In his hands, Rubio’s sword was just an inert metal blade, but a fine one. He looked around. The balustrade section, now littered with dead, was clear. Below him, on the sub-wall line, Excertus repel-squads had torn down the last of the siege ladders. The fighting now raged ten metres below him.
‘I won’t leave my post, Lord Sigillite,’ said Loken. ‘They’ve been assaulting this section since dawn.’
A mere harrying action, Garviel. Marmax West is not a priority objective for them.+
‘Tell that to the men with me. Tell that to the dead.’
Loken, your efforts on the wall have been tireless. I commend you. Especially your efforts to rally and coordinate the common army units.+
‘I have no Legion to stand with, Sigillite. What you call the common army are my brothers now.’
Loken, I have a particular service I need you to perform.+
‘I’m not your hand any more, lord.’
I know. Though a place was set aside for you.+
‘And I refused it. You know why.’
I don’t.+
‘To be one of your chosen, to walk in the grey, I would need to have my mind woken. Those were the terms, the requirements of membership. You said so. I’ve never had a trace of that talent in me, but you say it’s there. Latent. Well, perhaps it is. It can stay that way. I have no wish to become that. I have seen too much of what it costs.’
Loken walked to the parapet, Rubio’s blade rested across his shoulder, the chainsword growling low at his side. He looked over. The light was thickening. Traitor squads had broken in across the lower redoubts, and the repel-squads were being slowly forced back into a choke point along the edge of the earthworks.
It is nothing to fear, Garviel.+
‘You’re speaking to me, in my head, in the middle of a battle, from hundreds of leagues away. Only a fool wouldn’t fear that. I’ve given you my answer. I serve the Emperor. I have one cause.’
Vengeance.+
‘Don’t say it as if it’s a weakness. It’s all I have left.’
And it’s why I’ve turned to you. The service I require is specific, It speaks directly to your cause, and it comes directly from the Praetorian. This is, you must understand, a great confidence. He needs men like you, but you especially. One who knows and understands a very particular foe.+
‘Explain.’
I don’t need to. I feel your heart rate elevate. I sense you already understand my meaning. Dorn’s needs match yours entirely. Garviel, this is what you want.+
Step up on the parapet. Judge distance and depth. Multiple targets below, unaware.
Blades out. Leap.
‘I’m listening.’
* * *
The Mournival entered the war camp down a long avenue of cowled and kneeling adepts. Binharic chants formed versions of the warrior’s
names, and crooned them to whatever dark aspect of the Omnissiah Mechanicum they adored. Behind them, the sheer and gargantuan cliffs of the Katabatic Slopes dropped away to dark plains far below, and violet lightning storms boiled and fractu
red through the roof of the world. Before them, visible beyond the structures and siege-machines of the Mechanicum’s war camp, rose the southern aspects of the Imperial Palace, Adamant, the Ultimate Wall, far away but still staggering in their magnitude.
The place was known as Epta. It was one of the circumvallation strongholds, a war-steading raised by the menial hosts and Martian levies in preparation for the siege, part of the traitor host’s great, encircling investment. Abaddon liked the Mechanicum as little as he liked the Neverborn, but they were a useful tool. They had the engines and devices he needed, and the surplus manpower. This visit was a necessary compact, a sufficient display of respect to secure the efforts of the traitor host’s most capricious and inscrutable allies.
‘My lord captain,’ said a senior adept, moving forward to meet him. She was entirely blind, her organic eyes removed. Sensory acquisition nodes bulged out of her augmeticised forehead, an ugly enhancement that she kept mercifully hidden, until she swept back the cowl of her black robes and stood, long-necked and proud, before him, as if seeking his admiration. Her mouth and larynx were still human unmodified. Abaddon suspected this was why she had been chosen as interlocutor.
‘Epta welcomes you,’ she said.
‘The ceremony is unnecessary,’ he replied. ‘This is a simple formality.’
‘The Lord of Iron has supplied you with a list of requirements.’
‘It is received,’ she said. ‘A long list. Specialised. Our resources are great, but not unlimited. The reserves of this steading and the others are drawn upon every hour to furnish the siege effort.’
‘I’m sure my Lord of Iron made it clear this was a special favour to him.’
‘He did so, through subtle use of hard cipher and nuanced encryption. He speaks our languages well.’
‘And the confidence of this matter?’ asked Kibre.
‘Assured, Lord Kibre,’ she replied. ‘We do not fall to the whims of human weakness. We do not gossip or whisper. But to fulfil these needs, to deploy the assets, we require details of the undertaking specifics.’
‘And I’m here to give them to you,’ said Abaddon. ‘Do you have a name?’
‘In flesh? Eyet-One-Tag. It is short for-‘
The adepts around her chorused a long sequence of binary code-forms.
Abaddon nodded. ‘Can we converse in private?’
She spread her hands. ‘We are all a linked unity, Lord Abaddon. All that is Epta is private.’
Aximand touched Abaddon’s arm, and inclined his head. Abaddon saw what he was looking at.
‘Eyet-One-Tag, perhaps you could review the specifications of our request with… Lord Kibre and Lord Tormageddon in your control station. Out in the open seems so vulnerable to un-linked beings like us. I have to step away for a moment.’
The adepts led Kibre and Tormageddon towards the nearby modular out-build. Little Horus followed Abaddon past the ring of crackling watchfires to the perimeter beside the steading’s landing pads.
‘What does he want?’ Aximand asked.
‘I suggest we ask him,’ said Abaddon.
Argonis, equerry to the Warmaster, was uncoupling the over-segments of his flight armour. His Xiphon-pattern Interceptor, its sleek lines dressed in the colours and insignia of the XVI, stood on the dock behind him, vapour fuming from its cooling hull.
‘I’m surprised he’s let you out on your own,’ said Abaddon.
‘I’ve duties to perform, First Captain,’ replied Argonis.
He removed his helm and stared at them.
‘What are you doing, Ezekyle?’ he asked.
‘What do you think I’m doing, Kinor?’ Abaddon replied.
Agronis sighed. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that you’re organising an unsanctioned operation that is contrary to the Warmaster’s wishes.’
‘Untrue, on both counts,’ said Abaddon. ‘It’s sanctioned. A formal component of the Lord of Iron’s strategy. Check, if you like. You know how Perturabo likes to help people out with trivial questions. And it is in exact accordance with the Warmaster’s wishes.’
‘Then why is it confidential?’ asked Argonis.
‘To ensure maximum effect,’ said Abaddon.
‘Why, what do you know?’ asked Aximand.
‘Nothing, except that First Company, including both the Justaerin and the Catulan, along with Goshen’s Twenty-Fifth and Marr’s Eighteenth, have been rotated out of the active line, without explanation.’
‘What does he know?’ asked Aximand.
Argonis glowered at Little Horus. ‘He knows you can’t be trusted,’ he replied. ‘Other than that, he knows nothing. Yet. Serving as the Great Lupercal’s equerry is an honour. But it is thankless. I won’t suffer his rage until I know who to blame.’
‘That’s fair,’ said Abaddon. He didn’t envy the equerry’s testing role, but he admired Argonis Unscarred: a true, Cthonian Son of Horus, brutally effective and maliciously loyal. He also knew that, as Chieftain of the Isidis Flight, Argonis had been oath-bound to First Company for many years. He was the finest pilot Abaddon knew of, and the fact that Argonis still wore a burnished crest of feathers across his sea-green chestplate showed he remained proud of his former post and his former loyalties. ‘How long can you keep it that way, Kinor?’
Argonis mouthed a soft, Cthonic curse. ‘What is this, Ezekyle?
‘I asked how long?’
‘As long as I have to. But it’s better I know what I’m protecting. For your sake, at least.’
‘An opportunity has arisen,’ said Abaddon. ‘Swift and complete compliance. Perturabo likes it very much, and so do I. But it will stall and fail if word gets around. If… people get involved’
‘People?’ said Argonis. ‘You mean him?’
‘He has a way of dominating situations,’ said Abaddon. ‘Of making them his own. This will please him, but if he learns about it too early he will get involved. Stamp his mark. Make… improvements. Potentially kill it before it can fly.’
‘Oh, quite probably,’ said Argonis. ‘I’m surprised he’s leaving the Lord of Iron alone to run his schemes. Perhaps he understands that Perturabo will not perform optimally if he’s interfered with. In all honesty, I’m amazed he hasn’t dropped yet to join the brawl and lead the way. It’s not like him.’
‘He’s still on the Spirit?’
‘He is’. Aigonis nodded. ‘Almost in seclusion. Withdrawn. Ah, I don’t know what to make of it.’
‘Perhaps he wants to use his brothers, and all of us, as cannon fodder to topple the walls,’ said Little Horus. Then just, you know, stroll in across our corpses and take the prize.’
‘These days, said Argonis, ‘I wouldn’t put anything past him. He’s not himself. I… I don’t know what he’s becoming or where his mind is. He…’
The equerry trailed off.
‘What?’ asked Abaddon. ‘Kinor, if there’s a problem, I need to know it more than anyone.’
Argjnis sat down on a wheel-arch of a munition trolley. He took off his right gauntlet and flexed his fingers. His flesh showed the old, white flecks of knife-fight cuts. His nickname was an ironic reference to the fact that only his face had remained unscarred through his long career.
‘He sits alone,’ he said quietly. ‘He studies plans, and Perturabo’s reports. He reads. Books and manuscripts. I don’t know where they come from, or who gives them to him.’
‘The Crimson King?’ Abaddon suggested.
‘I doubt it. That friend hasn’t been near him. I’d venture that little shit Erebus, or even Lorgar, except neither of them have dared to show their faces here. The books, papers, they’re just there. I don’t know what language they are written in. I don’t even know if they’re made of paper.’
He swallowed. Abaddon crouched down in front of him, and peered into his face. He knew that Kinor Argonis, like him, took little pleasure in the manifestations of the warp. Aximand remained standing, looking on with creeping concern
.
Argonis glanced at Abaddon. His face was drawn, tired, tight with anxiety.
‘I love him, Ezekyle,’ he said.
‘We all love him.’
‘He’s Lupercal. The Lupercal. Our genefather, the greatest man, the finest warrior that…’
He shook his head.
‘I cannot bear to see him this way,’ said Argonis. ‘Withdrawing, alone. He… he calls for things, just little things, like a cup of wine, or a stylus, or some object from his chambers, and then, when I bring them, he doesn’t remember asking me for them. Or he… holds them. The objects, usually trophies of old victories I’ve had to fetch from his shelves, he holds them, and stares at them for hours at a time. He talks to himself. At least, I hope it’s to himself. And sometimes, he-‘
‘He what?’
‘He calls me Maloghurst. At first, I laughed and gently corrected him. But he still does it. I don’t think it’s a mistake. I think he thinks I’m Maloghurst, or at least… that’s who he sees when he looks at me.’
Argonis got up sharply, cleared his throat, and began to lock his gauntlet back into place.
‘When I heard these rumours,’ he said, These… deployment discrepancies, I came to find you. Only the Mournival could have authorised them. I didn’t want anything to come out that would unsettle him. Not now.’
‘Kinor,’ said Abaddon, slowly straightening up. ‘I need you to keep this confidential. Keep it away from his eyes until we’re done. What He doesn’t know can’t trouble him.’
‘But if he finds out I’ve been screening things from him,’ said Argonis, ‘or worse, if he finds out you have… I fear the consequences of that.’
‘What we’re doing will save him,’ said Little Horus.
‘What?’
‘Aximand is right,’ said Abaddon. ‘Once executed, this operation will win the war, outright. And early, long in advance of even the most optimistic estimates. He will rejoice. It will lift his spirits and restore him. It will bring back to us the Lupercal we adore.’
‘How certain are you?’ asked Argonis.
‘Certain,’ said Abaddon. ‘I’m doing this for him.’