by Various
‘Is this prophecy? If I fight Guilliman, I am destined to win, yet I will lose all I sought to achieve?’
The daemon’s first head hawked and spat bloody saliva in a thick string. As it coughed, the second head spoke. ‘It is prophecy. You will not always be the lost one, Lorgar – the weakest of your brothers. You will find your strength in this faith. You will find fire and passion, and become the soul you were born to be. That is why Guilliman will die at your feet, if you choose to make it so. Fight him at Calth, and you will finish the battle with his blood on your face. You crave that temporal triumph, and it could be yours.’
The first head twitched with sudden movement, regarding him with its beady bird’s eyes. ‘But the cost is high. To bring about this future, you will be at Calth, instead of standing in the place your species most needs you to be in that ordained hour. If you face your brother Guilliman, and choose human honour over the destiny of your species, you will kill him. Yet in doing so, you will fail in your hopes of setting humanity free from ignorance.’
‘I say again, that is no choice at all.’
Both heads laughed. ‘Is that so? You are human, whether you choose to confess to it or not. You are a slave to mortal emotions. The primarchs are far from a perfection of the human recipe, despite their individual might.’
‘There will come a time,’ the first head said, smiling with beak-creaking amusement, ‘when your pride and passion will demand that you destroy the Warrior-King of Ultramar.’
The second nodded in accord. ‘But weigh the balance, Emperor’s son. A moment of personal glory, proving to your brothers that you are ascendant among them… Or paving the way for the future of your species. All prophets make sacrifices, do they not? This will become one of yours.’
‘If,’ the first finished, ‘you live long enough to make it.’
Lorgar said nothing for some time. He listened to the wind toying with his tattered cloak, and the withered feathers on the daemon’s wings.
‘Show me,’ he said in a soft voice.
The ship burned.
On the deck around him lay a hundred dead mortals and slain Ultramarines. The walls of the strategium shuddered, venting air pressure and feeding the flames sweeping across the entire bridge deck. Thrones stood in flames. The fire was already cremating those that had fallen in the last few minutes.
Lorgar saw himself at the heart of the flames, his crozius in his gauntlets. The image wore red armour, in mirror of the Word Bearers he had seen at the Eternity Gate, and cast its maul aside with an angry flourish. Whatever battle it had been fighting had taken its toll; the image of himself stood in cracked armour, with its face blackened by burn scarring.
‘For Monarchia,’ the image of Lorgar raged through bleeding gums and split lips. ‘For watching me kneel in the dust of my many failures.’
At first, Lorgar couldn’t make out who his image was addressing. Then, with grim and wounded majesty, Guilliman staggered from the flames. Silently defiant even as his armour blackened into a burning ruin, the Lord of Macragge drew a gladius. His helm was gone, baring a face that remained stoic despite a crushed skull. One arm was gone, ending at the elbow. Blood ran in viscous rivulets from the joints of his armour. His white cloak was aflame.
Lorgar’s image threw his hand forward. Psychic energy, so intensely golden it aborted direct sight, haloed and crowned his head with three aetheric horns. A wave of unseen force pounded into the Ultramarine liege, hurling him back through the fire and against the wall beyond.
Guilliman crashed to the deck, a twitching, ragged marionette with severed strings. And then, with his remaining hand, he reached for the fallen gladius again.
Lorgar crushed the hand beneath a crimson boot.
‘This, my brother, is for every life lost in the name of a lie.’ Lorgar hauled the Lord of Macragge up by the throat, smashing him back against the wall even as he strangled him. ‘Your fleet burns. Your astral kingdom dies next.’
Guilliman managed to smile.
Lorgar faced the twin-headed daemon again.
‘I must see more.’
‘You have seen all you need to see,’ both heads chorused.
‘I do not understand. At the last, he seemed amused.’ The primarch winced at the pain of his heart thudding against broken ribs. ‘How can that be?’
But he knew. At least, he could guess. He had seen that look in Guilliman’s cold warlord’s eyes before. Not anger. Not wrath. Disappointment, bordering on disbelief. What have you done wrong this time? The accusation came in Guilliman’s arch, solemn voice, as if proclaimed by their father himself. What have you ruined now? What lives have been lost because of your foolishness?
Lorgar’s lip curled. ‘He knew something. Even as he died, he knew something.’
‘He hates you,’ said the daemon’s first head. ‘He was amused to learn he was right about you. That you were, as he always suspected, a traitor in waiting.’
The second head shook in dismissal. ‘No. He has never loathed you, Lorgar. You have always imagined his hatred. He does not respect you, for you are too different to find common ground, but your imagination has always been the source of the feud between you.’
The primarch cursed. ‘Which one of you is telling the truth?’
‘I am,’ they both said at once.
Lorgar swore again. ‘Enough. Tell me then, if I am not at Calth, where should I be? What path must I walk to enlighten my species?’
‘I am not your seer, Emperor’s son,’ the first head rasped. ‘I have given you the choice. You will make it in time.’
‘If,’ the second added, matching its tone completely, ‘you live that long.’
The creature spread its wings.
‘Wait, please.’
It didn’t wait. ‘All will be decided in Ultima Segmentum, Lorgar. Vengeance, or vision. Glory, or truth.’
The primarch raised his hand to plead for more time, but the daemon was gone in the time it had taken to blink.
He found his prey coiled upon itself, curled in some grotesque foetal parody of reptilian gestation.
But all rage had bled from him. He couldn’t help but see the young maiden shaman that had whored her life away to become this thing. Not for glory or gain, but for faith. He doubted she existed as more than an echo in the creature’s mind, but the idea itself was enough to bleed the anger from his body.
‘Ingethel,’ he said. ‘Do you live?’
Its fingers twitched, several of them, on all four of its hands. The sky was darkening now. With the night came the cold. Lorgar replaced his cracked helm, breathing deep of his internal air supply.
‘Ingethel,’ he said again.
The daemon’s bones creaked as it slowly rose. ‘I live. Not for much longer. But for now, I live.’ It turned its monstrous face to his. Cataracts milked its abominable eyes. ‘All is done. You have witnessed all that had to be seen.’
‘How much was true?’ demanded Lorgar.
‘All of it,’ replied the daemon. ‘Or none. Or perhaps something in between.’
Lorgar nodded. ‘What if there was more I wished to see? You have shown me what the gods demanded I bear witness to. Now show me what I wish to see.’
The daemon curled its twiggish arms close against its broad, speckled chest. ‘This is permitted. What would you have me show you, Emperor’s son?’
He paused for a moment, seeking the right words. ‘I’ve seen what I must do to ensure victory. I’ve seen the fate of the galaxy if the Emperor’s lies are not challenged. Now, I wish to walk other worlds in this Great Eye. If this is the gateway to the heaven and hell of human myth, show me more of it. Show me the possibilities in these mutable worlds. Show me what the warp can offer humanity, if we concede to this merging of flesh and spirit.’
‘I can do all of this, Lorgar. As you wish.’
The primarch hesitated. ‘And before I return to the Imperium, there is one thing I must see above any other.’
‘Name it.’
Lorgar smiled behind the emotionless faceplate. ‘Show me what happens if we lose.’
Part Five
CRUSADE’S END
ELEVEN
COUNCIL
The Fidelitas Lex
Four days after Isstvan V
Magnus was silent for a long time. Lorgar continued his writing, pausing only to tap the quill into one of the nearby inkpots. The traditionalist in him adored Colchisian rusticism; he couldn’t shake the lingering notion that Holy Scripture should not be written upon a data-slate, unless no other implements presented themselves. In truth, he enjoyed the expression of recording his thoughts and prayers through flowing cursive lettering. There was more beauty in such creation, and it gave his apostles something to copy in its entirety.
‘Brother,’ Magnus said at last. ‘I remember banishing that vision of you from my tower. It was mere days ago for me. Strange to think of the games time plays with us, is it not?’
Lorgar finally laid the quill to rest. When he turned to Magnus, it was with amusement in his eyes, and something more. It took his brother several moments to really see it, to truly understand what was different.
Few things in the galaxy could unnerve Magnus the Red, but the sight of absolute conviction burning in the embers of Lorgar’s eyes was suddenly revealed to be one of them. He’d seen that look before, in the eyes of madmen, prophets and fanatics of alien races and other human worlds. Above all, he had seen it in the eyes of his father, the Emperor, where it warred with a patient affection. But he had never seen it in the eyes of a brother – never in the eyes of a being who commanded enough power to reshape the galaxy against the codes of the Imperium.
‘The Great Crusade is over,’ Lorgar smiled. ‘The true holy war begins now.’
‘Will you face Guilliman?’
Lorgar’s smile didn’t fade, though it took on a kinder warmth, rather than the full and unhealthy heat of fervour. ‘My Legion leaves for the Calth system as soon as Horus’ council concludes.’
Magnus’ image wavered, affected by his own unease. ‘That does not answer my question.’
‘The Ultramarines must be crippled at Calth. Their backs need to be broken, lest they race ahead to Terra and bolster our father’s defences.’
Magnus struggled to equate the purred assurances of military tactics with his most scholarly brother’s soft voice. It all seemed somehow incongruous, yet Lorgar had never looked so bizarrely complete. Gone were the furtive, soulful glances and the hesitations before speaking.
The duel with Corax had done more than grant him scars upon his face and throat.
‘That does not answer my question, either,’ Magnus pointed out.
‘My fleet will divide. We will storm Ultima Segmentum, for there is more to attack than Guilliman’s little empire.’
‘Where? Why?’
Lorgar’s chuckle sent distortions rippling through Magnus’ image. ‘You may know our plans when you join us fully.’
A chime sounded, followed by a stern, careful voice over the vox.
‘The Warmaster requests your presence, lord.’
Lorgar rose to his feet, not bothering to take his weapon this time. ‘Thank you, Erebus. Inform the Vengeful Spirit that I am coming aboard immediately.’
This time, the council chamber was almost empty. Lorgar dismissed his warrior escorts, letting Kor Phaeron lead them away. He walked to the central table alone, not concealing his bemusement at the lack of presences in the room.
‘Brothers,’ he greeted Horus and Angron.
The Warmaster’s expression was a sour indication of how he’d cast the atmosphere of indulgent fraternity aside. Angron’s distracted scowl showed he’d never paid heed to such a notion, anyway.
‘Lorgar,’ Horus fairly seethed the name through an insincere smile. Gone was the charismatic demigod so adored by his followers. In his place stood the truth offered by privacy: a brother among kin, and on the edge of black temper.
‘I came as requested,’ said the Word Bearer. ‘I see you have no desire to discuss Fulgrim.’
‘You have spoken your piece on our beloved brother. For now, you will have to trust me that all is in hand.’
Lorgar snorted. ‘I have seen horrors and truths you are only now beginning to imagine, Horus. It is you who should be trusting me.’
The Warmaster’s features were taut and blue-veined. He scarcely looked himself these nights.
‘I have trusted you, Lorgar. Look at what we brought about in this system. Now it is time for you to repay my trust with some of your own.’
‘Very well. But where is “Fulgrim”?’
‘He walks the surface of Isstvan Five once more, attending to the withdrawal of his Legion’s final forces. Now, enough of such talk. We have a great deal to plan.’
Lorgar shook his head. ‘No. Enough planning. We have spent months, years, speaking of plans. There is no more to discuss. I am taking my Legion into the galactic east. If all goes well, I will rejoin you on the crusade to Terra. If the battles go badly, then I will still rejoin you, though with significantly fewer warriors.’ He ended his assurances with a smile.
Angron stared into the middle distance, distracted by the stabbing thoughts of his neural implants. The occasional tic pulled his facial muscles tight, but he seemed to pay no attention to the conversation.
Horus released a slow breath. ‘We have argued over this many times, and I was a fool to let your enthusiasm run as wild as your imagination for this long. You do not have enough warriors to achieve what you plan.’
‘And I have told you, brother, my apostles are prepared to sail into Ultramar. We have made pacts with divine forces you still struggle to comprehend. Daemons, Horus – true daemons, born of the warp, will answer our summons. Our cargo holds heave with the bodies of faithful mortals, taken from the worlds we have conquered. The Seventeenth Legion has not been idle these last years.’
‘You need legionaries.’ Horus leaned on the stellar cartography table, his fists eclipsing the galaxy’s outermost stars. ‘If you divide the Word Bearers fleet according to your desire, you will need more legionaries.’
Lorgar threw his hands up in surrender. ‘Fine. Give them to me. Give me a few of your companies, and I will take them with me into the east.’
‘I will give you more than that.’ Horus gestured to the other brother in the chamber. ‘I will give you another Legion.’
Angron turned his scarred features upon Lorgar. His smile was the ugliest thing the prophet had ever seen.
TWELVE
COUNTERMEASURES
The world still smelled of betrayal. The smoky reek of it, thick and piquant, hung heavy in the air.
But then, that was no surprise. The civil war to divide the Imperium had begun there only four nights before. Many of the Legions loyal to Horus were still engaged in the arduous process of withdrawing their forces back into orbit. The pyre marking the final resting place of the tens of thousands of slain warriors was more than an ashen burial ground – it was a beacon of cinders, proclaiming the overthrowing of humanity’s stagnant oppressor. The blackened earth and scorched, empty suits of armour from over two hundred thousand legionaries lay at the heart of a tank graveyard. Those war machines suitable for plunder were already claimed by the victorious Legions. The wrecks too far gone to repair sat where they’d died, consigned to rust and corrode when the rebels moved on.
Captain Axalian of 29th Company watched his warriors’ progress from atop the burned-out hull of a Raven Guard Land Raider. The palatine aquila still stood out upon his breastplate, as was his right as one of the Emperor’s Children Legion. Many of his brothers were already defiling the Imperial symbol as they al
tered their armour with little but their own blades and ingenuity, but he kept his wargear as pristine as possible. The emblem could be removed by the tech-adepts once his planet-side duties were complete. Until then, he would tolerate no damage to the ceramite he’d miraculously managed to keep unbroken through the insane battle earlier that week.
He had no need to raise his voice. His men, and the servitors working alongside them, operated fluidly and efficiently with only a little spoken direction. His role was one of organiser, not an overseer, and he took pride in the smooth operation taking place in his allotted section of the field. Axalian watched another of the black-hulled battle tanks being connected to the lifter claws of an Emperor’s Children transporter gunship. The servitors backed away, and a warrior nearby raised his hand. The captain nodded in reply.
‘This is Axalian,’ he spoke into the vox. ‘Sector Thirty, requesting clearance.’
‘Request acknowledged, Captain Axalian. Please hold.’
Another gunship, this one in the sea-green of the Sons of Horus, rattled overhead, pregnant with stolen Rhino troop carriers. About a minute after it, an Iron Warriors lander shook the ground as it lifted off on guttural engines.
‘Captain Axalian,’ came the reply from the Techmarine overseer at Reclamation Command, to the east. ‘You are clear, with five minutes to make your assigned launch window. If you fail to meet this requirement, you will surrender the launch window to the next vessel in line. Do you understand?’
Of course he understood. He’d been doing this for four days. He’d heard that same refrain, from the same Sons of Horus Techmarine, at least two hundred times.
‘I understand.’
‘Your launch window has commenced.’
He switched vox-channels. ‘Thunderhawk transporter Redeemer, you are clear for orbital return.’
‘Order received, captain. Launching now.’
The flyer’s thrusters started cycling up. Axalian watched it rise, shuddering with the weight of its plunder.