by Ben Counter
We have made war in the stars for two centuries, yet there are so many lessons we have never learned. The dead should be our teachers, for they are the true witnesses. Only they know the horror and the ever repeating failure that is war; the sickВness we return to generation after generation because we fail to hear the testament of those who were sacrificed to martial pride, greed or twisted ideology.'
Thunderous applause spread from the people directly in front of Sindermann, spreading rapidly through the chamber and he wondered if such scenes were being repeated on any of the other ships of the fleet that could hear his words.
Tears sprang to his eyes as he spoke, his hands gripping the lectern tightly as his voice trembled with emotion. 'Let the battlefield dead take our hands in theirs and illuminate us with the most precious truth we can ever learn, that there must be peace instead of war!'
Lucius skidded то the floor of what appeared to be some kind of throne room. Inlaid with impossibly intricate mosaic designs, the floor was covered in scrollwork so tightly wound that it seemed to ripple with movement. Bolter fire stitched through the room, showering him with broken pieces of mosaic as he rolled into the cover of an enormous harpsiВchord.
Music from the dawn of creation boomed around him, filling the central spire of the Precentor's Palace. Crystal chandeliers hung from the petals at the centre of the great granite flower, shimmering and vibrating in time with the cacophony of battle far below. Instruments filled the room, each one played by a servitor refitted to play the holy music of the Warsingers. Huge organs with pipes that reached up through the shafts of milky morning light stood next to banks of gilded bells and rank upon rank of bronze cages held shaven-headed choristers who sang with blind adulation.
Harp strings snapped and twanged in time with the gunfire and discordant notes boomed as bolter shots ripped through the side of the organ. Storms of weapons' fire flew, filling the air with hot metal
and death, the battle and the music competing to make the loudest din.
Lucius felt his limbs become energised just listenВing to the crashing volume of the noise, each blaring note and booming shot filling his senses with the desire to do violence.
He glanced round the side of the harpsichord, exhausted and elated to have reached so far, so quickly. They had fought their way through the palace, killing thousands of the black– and silver-armoured guards, before finally reaching the throne room.
From his position of cover, Lucius saw that he was in the second ring of instruments, beyond which lay the Precentor's Dais. A mighty throne with its back to him sat upon the dais, a confecВtion of gold and emerald set in a ring of lecterns that each held a massive volume of musical notaВtions.
Gunfire blew one book apart and a blizzard of sheet music fluttered around the throne.
The palace guard massed on the opposite side of the throne room, surrounding a tall figure in gold armour with a collection of tubes and what looked like loudspeakers fanning out from his back. A storm of silver fire flew and Lucius saw yet more guards charging in from the other entrances, a feroВcious struggle erupting as these new arrivals charged the Emperor's Children.
They have courage, I'll give them that,’ he mutВtered to himself.
Chainblades and bolt pistols rang from armour and storms of silver fire ripped between the patches of cover offered by the gilded instruments. Each volley tore up the hardwood frames and sawed through servitors as they sat at the ornate keyВboards or plucked at strings with metal fingers.
And still the music played.
Lucius glanced behind him. One of Nasicae fell as he ran to join Lucius, silver filaments punched through his skull. The body clattered to the floor beside Lucius. Only three of Nasicae remained, and they were cut off from their leader.
'Ancient Rylanor, engage!' yelled Lucius into the vox. 'Get me cover! Tactical squads, converge on the throne and draw the palace guard in! Purity and death!'
'Purity and Death!' echoed the Emperor's ChilВdren, and with exemplary co-ordination they surged forward. A silver-armoured guard was shredВded by bolter fire and flopped, broken, to the ground. Glass-armoured bodies lay shattered and bloody over bullet-scarred instruments. Servitors moved jerkily, still trying to play even though their hands were smoking ruins of bone and wire.
The Emperor's Children moved squad by squad, volley by volley, advancing through the fire as only the most perfect of Legions could.
Lucius broke cover and ran into the whirlwind of fire. Silver shards shattered against him.
Behind him, Rylanor's dreadnought body smashed through a titanic bank of drums and bells,
the noise of its destruction appalling as Rylanor opened fire on the enemy. Acrobatic guards, clad in armour wound with long streamers of silk, darted and leapt away from chainblades and bolts like dancers, slashing limbs with monofilament wire-blades.
Glass-armoured guards charged forward in solid ranks, stabbing with their halberds, yet none of the foes was a match for the disciplined counterВcharges of the Emperor's Children. The slick perfection of their pattern-perfect warfare kept its edge even amid the storm of fire and death that filled the throne room.
Lucius ducked and wove through the fire towards the gold armoured figure, shrapnel flashing against the energised edge of his sword blade.
The man's armour was ancient, yet gloriously ornate, the equal in finery of a lord commander of the Emperor's Children. He carried a long spear, its shaft terminated at both ends by a howling ripple of lethal harmonies. Lucius ducked under a swipe of the weapon, stepping nimbly to the side and bringing his sword up towards his opponent's midriff.
Faster than he would have believed possible, the spear reversed and a tremendous blast of noise batВtered his sword away before it struck. Lucius danced back as a killing wave of sound blared from the tubes and speakers mounted on the golden warВrior's back, a whole section of the mosaic floor ploughed in a torn gouge by the sound.
One of the palace guards fell at Lucius's feet, his chest blown open by Rylanor's fire, and another toppled as one of Nasicae sliced off his leg.
The Emperor's Children surged forwards to help him, but he waved them back – this was to be his kill. He leapt onto the throne pedestal, the golden warrior silhouetted in the light streaming from the distant ceiling.
The screaming spear came down and Lucius ducked to avoid it, pushing himself forwards. He stabbed with his sword, but a pitch perfect note sent his sword plunging towards the floor of the dais instead of its intended target. Lucius hauled his sword clear as the spear stabbed for him again, the musical edge shearВing past him and blistering the purple and gilt of his armour. The battle raged ferociously around him, but it was an irrelevance, for Lucius knew that he must surely be fighting the leader of this rebellion.
Only Vardus Praal would surround himself with such fearsome bodyguards.
Lucius pivoted away from another strike, spinВning around behind Praal and shearing his sword through the speaker tubes and loudspeakers upon his back. He felt a glorious surge of satisfaction as the glowing edge cut through the metal with ease. A terrific, booming noise blared from the severed pipes and Lucius was hurled from the dais by the force of the blast.
His armour cracked with the force, and the music leapt in clarity as he felt its power surge around his body in a glorious wash of pure, unadulterated
sensation. The music sang in his blood, promising yet more glories, and the unfettered excess of music, light and hedonistic indulgence.
Lucius felt the music in his soul and knew that he wanted it, wanted it more than he had wanted anyВthing in his life.
He looked up as the golden warrior leapt lightly from the throne, seeing the music as swirling lines of power and promise that flowed like water in the air.
'Now you die,’ said Lucius as the song of death took hold of him.
In later moments they would name it Death's Tomb, and Loken had never felt such disgust
at the sights he saw within it. Even Davin's moon, where the swamps had vomited up the living dead to attack the Sons of Horus, had not been this bad.
The sound of battle was a hellish music of screaming, rising in terrible crescendos, and the sight was horrendous. Death's Tomb was brimming with corpses, festering in charnel heaps and bubВbling with corruption.
The tomb-spire Loken and the Sons of Horus fought within was larger inside than out, the floor sunken into a pit where the dead had been thrown. The tomb was that of Death itself. A mausoleum of bloodstained black iron carved into swirls and scrollwork dominated the pit, topped with a sculpВture of Father Isstvan himself, a massive bearded sky-god who took away the souls of the faithful and
cast the rest into the sky to languish with his Lost Children.
A Warsinger perched on Father Isstvan's black shoulder, screaming a song of death that jarred at Loken's nerves and sent jangling pain along his limbs. Hundreds of Isstvanian soldiers surrounded the pit, firing from the hip as they ran towards the Astartes, driven forward by the shrieking death
song.
At them!' yelled Loken, and before he could draw breath again the enemy was upon them. The Astartes of the spearhead streamed through the many archways leading into the tomb-spire, guns blazing as soon as they saw the enemy swarming towards them. Loken fired a fusillade of shots before the two sides clashed.
More than two thousand Sons of Horus charged into battle and Death's Tomb became a vast amphitheatre for a great and terrible slaughter, like the arenas of the ancient Romanii.
'Stay close! Back to back, and advance!' cried Loken, but he could only hope that his fellow warВriors could hear him over the vox. The screaming was deafening, every Isstvanian soldier's mouth jammed open and howling in the shrieking cadences of the Warsinger's music.
Loken cut a gory crescent through the bodies pressing in on him, Vipus matching him stroke for stroke with his long chainsword. Strategy and weapons meant nothing now. The battle was simВply a brutal close quarters fight to the death.
Such a contest could have only one outcome. Loathing filled Loken. Not at the blood and death around him, he had seen much worse before, but at the sheer waste of this war. The people he was killing… their lives could have meant something. They could have accepted the Imperial Truth and helped forge a galaxy where the human race was united and the wisdom of the Emperor ushered them towards a future filled with wonders. Instead they had been betrayed and turned into fanatical killers by a corrupt leader, destined to die for a cause that was a lie.
Good lives wasted. Nothing could be further from the purpose of the Imperium.
Torgaddon! Bring the line forwards. Force them back and give the guns some room,’
'Easier said than done, Garvi!' replied Torgaddon, his voice punctuated with the sharp crack of breakВing bones.
Loken glanced around, saw one of Lachost's squad dragged down by the mass of enemy warriors and tried to bring his bolter to bear. Bloodied, mined hands forced his aim down and the battle-brother was lost. He dropped his shoulder and barged forwards, bodies breaking beneath him, but others were on top of him, blades and bullets beating at his armour.
With a roar of anger, Loken ripped his chainsword through an armoured warrior before him, forcing the enemy back for the split second he needed to open up with his bolter. A full-throated
volley sent a magazine's worth of shells into the mass, blasting them apart in a red ruin of shattered faces and broken armour.
He rapidly swapped in a new bolter magazine and fired among the warriors trying to swamp his fellow Sons of Horus. The Astartes used the openВings to forge onwards or open up spaces to bring their own weapons up. Others lent their gunfire to the battle-brothers fighting behind them.
The tone of the Warsinger's screaming changed and Loken felt as though rusty nails were being torn up his spine. He staggered and the enemy were upon him.
'Torgaddon!' he shouted over the din. 'Get the Warsinger!'
'My apologies, Warmaster,’ began Maloghurst, nervous at interrupting the Warmaster's concentraВtion on the battle below. 'There has been a development.' 'In the city?' asked Horus without looking up. 'On the ship,’ replied Maloghurst. Horus looked up in irritation. 'Explain yourself.' 'The Prime Iterator, Kyril Sindermann…' 'Old Kyril?' said Horus. "What of him.' 'It appears we have misjudged the man's characВter, my lord,’
'In what way, Mai?' asked Horus. 'He's just an old man,’
'That he is, but he may be a greater threat than anything we have yet faced, my lord,’ said
Maloghurst. 'He is a leader now, an apostle they call him– He-' 'A leader?' interrupted Horus, 'of whom?' 'Of the people of the fleet, civilians, ships' crew, and the Lectitio Divinitatus. He has just finished a speech to the fleet calling on them to resist the Legion, saying that we are warmongers and seek to betray the Emperor. We are trying to trace where the signal came from, but it is likely he will be long gone before we find him,’
'I see,’ said Horus. 'This problem should have been dealt with before Isstvan,’
'And we have failed you in this,’ said Maloghurst. The iterator mixed calls for peace with a potent brew of religion and faith,’
This should not surprise us,’ said Horus. 'SinderВmann was selected for duty with my fleet precisely because he could convince even the most fractious rabble to do anything. Mix that skill with religious fervour and he is indeed a dangerous man,’ –They believe the Emperor is divine,’ said MalВoghurst, 'and that we commit blasphemy,’
'It must be an intoxicating faith,’ mused Horus, 'and faith can be a very powerful weapon. It appears, Maloghurst, that we have underestimated the potential that even a civilian possesses so long as he has genuine faith in something,’ 'What would you have me do, my lord?' 'We did not deal with this threat properly,’ said Horus. 'It should have ceased to exist when Var-y arus and those troublesome remembrancers were
illuminated. Now it takes my attention when our plan is at its most sensitive stage. The bombardВment is imminent.'
Maloghurst bowed his head. 'Warmaster, Sinder-mann and his kind will be destroyed,’
The next I hear of this will be that they are all dead,’ ordered Horus.
'It will be done,’ promised Maloghurst.
'Fool!' spat Praal, his voice a disgusted rasp. 'Have you not seen this world? The wonders you would destroy? This is a city of the gods!'
Lucius rolled to his feet, still stunned from the sonic Shockwave that had hurled him from the throne dais, but knowing that the song of death was being sung for him and him alone. He lunged, but Praal batted aside his attack, bringing his spear up in a neat guard.
This is the city of my enemies,’ laughed Lucius. 'That is all that matters to me,’
'You are deaf to the music of the galaxy. I have heard far more than you,’ said Praal. 'Perhaps you are to be pitied, for I have listened to the sound of the gods. I have heard their song and they damn this galaxy in their wisdom!'
Lucius laughed in Praal's face. 'You think I care? All I want to do is kill you,’
The gods have sung what your Imperial Truth will bring to the galaxy,’ shrieked Praal, his musical voice heavy with disdain. 'It is a future of fear and hatred. I was deaf to the music before they opened
me to their song of oblivion. It is my duty to end your Crusade!'
'You can try,’ said Lucius, 'but even if you kill us a ll, more will come: a hundred thousand more, a million, until this planet is dust. Your little rebelВlion is over; you just don't know it yet,’
'No, Astartes,' replied Praal. 'I have fulfilled my duty and brought you here, to this cauldron of fates. My work is done! All that remains is to blood myself in the name of Father Isstvan,’
Lucius danced away as Praal attacked once more with the razor-sharp feints of a master warrior, but the swordsman had faced
better opponents than this and prevailed. The song of death rippled behind his eyes and he could see every move Praal made before he made it, the song speaking to him on a level he didn't understand, but instinctively knew was power beyond anything he had touched before.
He launched a flurry of blows at Praal, driving him back with each attack and no matter how skilВfully Praal parried his strikes, each one came that little bit closer to wounding him.
The flicker of fear he saw in Praal's eyes filled him with brutal triumph. The shrieking, musical spear blared one last atonal scream before it finally shatВtered under the energised edge of Lucius's sword.
The swordsman pivoted smoothly on his heel and drove his blade, two-handed, into Praal's golden chest, the sword burning through his armour, ribs and internal organs.
Praal dropped to his knees, still alive, his mouth working dumbly as blood sprayed from the massive wound. Lucius twisted the blade, relishing the cracks as Praal's ribs snapped.
He put a foot on Praal's body and pulled the sword clear, standing triumphant over the body of his fallen enemy.
Around him, the Emperor's Children slew the remaining palace guards, but with Praal dead, the song in his blood diminished and his interest in the fight faded. Lucius turned to the throne itself, already aching for the music to surge through his body once again.
The throne's back was to him and he couldn't see who was seated there. A control panel worked furiВously before it, like a monstrously complicated clockwork keyboard.
Lucius stepped around the throne and looked into the glassy eyes of a servitor.
Its head was mounted on a skinny body of metal armatures, the complex innards stripped out and replaced with brass clockwork. Chattering metal tines reached from the chest cavity to read the music printed in the books mounted around the throne and the servitor's hands, elaborate, twenty-fingered constructions of metal and wire, flickered over the control panel.