Eye of Terra

by Various

  ‘Get out of my way, Angel,’ he spits. ‘I will not ask you again.’

  I step close to him, keeping my voice low. ‘You would allow yourself to become the catalyst for our undoing, kinsman?’

  ‘What? Speak your mind, Azkaellon.’

  I gesture to the cordon of Sanguinary Guard spanning the breadth of the chamber. ‘Look around you, sir.’

  The thin line of golden armour ripples and shifts as my warriors struggle to hold back the press of other legionaries clamouring for an audience with the Emperor Sanguinius.

  ‘We stand on a knife-edge. Uncertainty, frustration and mistrust are foes we are ill-equipped to defeat. What Lord Guilliman has built here is a fragile kingdom. A single brick knocked from its foundations by your anger is all it would take to topple it.’

  The Iron Hand begins to see what I see – a new war in the making.

  I place a hand upon his shoulder. ‘Would you really give Horus the satisfaction of that?’

  He steps back, shame lowering his eyes. His outrage is all but forgotten. ‘We have stood here a day without audience. Lord Sanguinius cannot ignore the Tenth Legion.’

  ‘He will not,’ I assure him. ‘You will be heard. But not now.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I will see to–’

  A commanding voice rings through the din of the chamber, and my words are cut short. ‘Tell my brother Sanguinius that I would speak with him.’

  I recognise the speaker at once. The soft menace in his tone is one that I am well acquainted with. I steel myself, and turn to face the Lion. The primarch of the Dark Angels is fully armoured – one hand cradles his helm, the other rests upon the pommel of his sword. Around him, ten of his veteran warriors are clad in hulking Terminator armour.

  I speak with as much authority as seems appropriate when addressing the lord of another Legion. ‘Other matters demand the Emperor Sanguinius’ attention. When he is available I–’

  ‘Now, commander.’

  The Lion towers head and shoulders over me. Like all primarchs, he is a warrior god by any definition. And still, I have to fight the urge to draw my blade. His rash display of force endangers us all.

  In the end, it is duty and not fear that keeps my temper in check. ‘With the greatest respect, lord, you know the rules. One cohort may enter the throne room at a time except under direct instruction from Lord Sanguinius. I have received no such instruction.’

  The primarch’s seething rage is an almost primal thing. ‘You will not defy me.’

  For the first time in weeks, there is silence. I know without looking that all eyes are now upon us. I must choose my next move carefully – if I back down then all semblance of order here will be lost.

  If I defy the Lion, I risk fragmenting this alliance further.

  ‘I cannot disobey my father. Wait here, lord, and I will petition him to receive you.’

  ‘Do not dally...’ he sneers.

  I turn from the Lion and make for the vaulted doors behind me, opening a vox-channel to the Sanguinary Guard as the first murmuring of the crowd builds once more. ‘Hold them here. No one passes the line. No one.’

  I exit the receiving hall into an antechamber. It is only a few dozen strides across and tall, clear-glass windows run the length of the walls on either side of me. The centre of the space is dominated by a marble statue of the Emperor – the original Emperor. It is not the finest rendition of the Master of Mankind that I have seen, but then it is more than a mere ornament.

  Fused within the marble, fine beads of explosive await detonation. I look again at the windows, imagining the panes of glass shattering as the statue explodes at some unseen trigger. I picture the lethal shards shooting through the air to sever limbs and end the lives of any intruders. I feel a shiver run down my spine.

  ‘The Blood keep us from such desperate measures...’ I whisper to the shadows.

  This room, like all in the Fortress of Hera, is at its core like Guilliman. Cold. Calculating. Functional. Wreathed in just enough finery to lower the guard of its guests. I allow myself to be fooled for a moment, to enjoy brief solace before walking through the heavier doors ahead of me and into the throne room beyond.

  I address my father as I enter, bowing as I cross the threshold.

  ‘Lord Sanguinius.’

  This is the second of Hera’s great throne rooms. It is a long slit of a chamber, the ceiling held aloft by serried rows of granite columns, and cut down the centre by a length of crimson carpet. The principal throne room remains Guilliman’s, for he is Master of Ultramar. Even as the new Emperor, my father would not disrespect him by claiming it.

  No, there is more to it than simple respect. This position sits uneasily with Sanguinius. Remaining here is his protest, a silent objection against a role he had little choice but to accept.

  My father sits at the far end of the chamber, ensconced upon his throne. His wings are pulled tightly back behind him, tucked into a recess in the chair. ‘I have told you before Azkaellon – there is no need for you to bow here.’

  I straighten. ‘I shall try to temper my disobedience, lord.’

  Sanguinius rises and descends the marbled steps to meet me. His battleplate is gleaming gold, his wings spread out behind him like a cloak of virgin snow. I cast my eyes low, humbled by his majesty. Were hope a tangible thing, he would surely be the manifestation of it.

  ‘What trouble do you bring me this time?’ he asks. His face is unreadable, yet I know enough of him to sense the weariness in his tone.

  ‘The Legions gathered here grow restless,’ I report. ‘Sardon Karaashison of the Iron Hands demands an audience. As does Sergeant Raln of the Seventh Legion, and the sons of the Khan, as well as many more of Lord Guilliman’s own Ultramarines and officials. Yet I cannot in good conscience let any of them into your presence. Any one of them could be working to carry out some foul threat that we cannot yet perceive.’

  He sighs. ‘But I cannot rule from behind a wall of mistrust.’

  ‘Then let us simply be cautious. Let the Sanguinary Guard shoulder the risk in your stead. Let us act as your heralds.’

  Sanguinius considers this for a long moment.

  ‘Very well.’

  I nod, and make to turn.

  ‘Wait,’ he calls out. ‘There is something else, Azkaellon. Speak your mind.’

  I wish to Baal that I had worn my helm – that my face had not betrayed me. ‘The Lion...’

  I pause, choosing my words with care.

  ‘Curze’s escape... It claws at him.’ I swallow hard and force the rest of the words from my mouth. ‘His fingers stray close to his blade...’

  Sanguinius’ face darkens. ‘My brother’s loyalty is not in doubt. He is Master of the First Legion. He is beyond reproach.’

  ‘I do not doubt his intent, lord. But what of his judgement?’

  ‘Leave this alone, Azkaellon.’

  Sanguinius leaps into the air, a single, powerful beat of his wings carrying him high up into the darkness of the chamber’s balcony. In his absence, I bring my fist to my breastplate and salute the throne.

  It is only then that I notice the long blade, which had rested there when I entered, is missing.

  ‘This honour should be yours, Azkaellon. It is only fitting that you–’

  ‘No, Aratron,’ I say firmly, shaking my head. ‘I cannot be herald and safeguard our father. You ten are the greatest of the Sanguinary Guard. Exemplars of Baal’s heritage, first among the Legion of Sanguinius. This honour falls to one of you.’

  I let my eyes move across the ten Blood Angels standing in the chamber with me. I have fought beside each of them. We have shed blood and faced horrors unimaginable. They are my brothers and my friends, and I would send them into harm’s way without a second thought.

  Yet what I ask of them now weighs upon my soul like
an armoured boot on my throat.

  Hakael nods with a grim resignation. ‘Then let us decide this.’

  He is first to step forwards, an act typical of him. His eyes meet mine, but we say nothing as he pulls a length of bound parchment from the bunch held in my hand. Unrolling it, he holds it up for his brothers to see. It is stained with a single blood-drop.

  One by one the others follow, until Aratron draws the other marked lot. He nods in silence and takes his place next to Hakael.

  I take the lengths of parchment from them and move to the lectern. Upon it sits a small metal inkwell, a slender quill and a golden chalice. The quill is magnificent, a single feather of purest white, plucked from the wings of Sanguinius himself.

  ‘By our father’s body is the truth written,’ I intone. ‘By his blood will it be remembered.’

  The well is warm, the blood within heated to prevent it from drying. I remove my gauntlet, take up the quill and dip it into the well. With long strokes, I write Aratron and Hakael’s names onto the pieces of parchment.

  ‘And by our blood will it be honoured.’

  I place the pieces of parchment into the chalice, and draw a knife across my palm. Clenching my fist, I squeeze a thick drop of blood into the cup.

  The eight Sanguinary Guard who will leave the chamber do the same, adding their blood to mine. I wait until they are done before dropping a small, lit taper into the chalice. It ignites with a blue flicker, burning the paper to ash. I use my fingers to scoop the ash-blood mix into my mouth, tightening my lips at the acrid taste. It is not wholly unpalatable.

  The thought strengthens me.

  It is well that I can bear the taste of sorrow.

  I swallow hard, using my tongue to drag the mixture back towards my throat.

  ‘It is done,’ I say. ‘May our Lord Sanguinius grant us the strength to endure.’

  ‘Glory to Baal,’ the rest of them call out in unison.

  The eight Sanguinary Guard salute and exit the chamber, leaving me alone with Aratron and Hakael.

  I stand there a moment, unmoving, anchored by questions. How is it that I have come here to strike down two of my own? Are my actions born of necessity or paranoia? Will the blood that I am about to spill be justified? I look inside myself for answers, and find only the hollow stab of doubt.

  Perhaps, I muse, when I am dead and gone, my blood and bones naught but dust in the wind, history will ask these questions again. Should that be the case, then I hope that there comes an answer.

  I hold out my hand, proffering two lengths of kindling to Aratron and Hakael.

  ‘May the Blood guide you.’

  The Lion rounds on me, his eyes narrow. ‘What is this deception?’ he demands, thrusting a finger at the golden-armoured figure sat upon the throne. ‘That is not Sanguinius.’

  Beside him, his Deathwing honour guard tighten their grip on their weapons. I hold up my open palms in appeasement, speaking calmly and clearly.

  ‘You are correct. We have not sought to conceal ourselves with lies. His likeness to our father is born only out of respect.’

  The Lion thumps his gauntleted palm in frustration. ‘Where… is… my... brother?’ he demands.

  ‘With respect, if the Emperor Sanguinius wanted you to know, he would have told you.’

  ‘You will tell me.’

  His eyes are like blazing brands. I hold his gaze. ‘I will not.’

  He steps close to me as his temper frays. ‘There is steel in your heart, Angel,’ His is an intimate anger, his threat personal. ‘But my blade will pierce it as surely as it has a thousand others.’

  Nestled amongst the anger lines creasing his face, a slit of raw flesh draws my attention. The wound is slight, a hairline laceration. It is–

  No. I feel my eyes widen as I realise that it is not simply a wound.

  It is an insult, an indignity made with the very tip of a blade. No mere legionary could have marked the Lion in such a way.

  I pause politely, taking a measured breath. ‘I do not fear death, lord – by your hand, or any other. Duty demands I do far worse than hurl myself at oblivion.’

  He regards me coldly for what feels like the longest moment of my life. Then he nods, with what seems to be a grudging respect.

  ‘Were it only that my brother understood duty so clearly…’

  He brushes past me, stepping to the foot of the throne.

  ‘And how should I greet this... herald?’

  I hide a smile.

  ‘If it pleases you, my lord, you may address him as the Sanguinor.’

  Afterword

  Did you get the reference? It’d be understandable if you maybe missed it.

  This is definitely one for the readers who’ve been following the series since the first novel, Horus Rising. Cast your minds back to Garviel Loken’s ascension to the Mournival, and his observations in the strategium of the Vengeful Spirit:

  The standards of the Luna Wolves and the Imperial Fists hung from the arching roof, either side of the staring eye banner of the Warmaster himself. That great banner was marked, in golden thread, with the decree:

  ‘I am the Emperor’s Vigilance and the Eye of Terra.’

  Loken remembered the award of that august symbol with pride during the great triumph after Ullanor was done...

  This anthology, then, harkens back to those glorious days that would unfortunately transpire to be the very last of the Great Crusade, and the beginning of the end for the Imperium itself. Eye of Terra refers to everything that has gone before, yet viewed through the lens of our knowledge of what was (and is) still to come, in the galaxy-spanning tragedy of the Horus Heresy.

  As the selection of tales contained within these pages demonstrate, it’s often a very effective storytelling technique to return to the beginning, or even earlier, in order to cast new light upon events later on. For example, we’ve known about the aforementioned triumph at Ullanor from the very start, and how the Emperor retired from the Crusade to focus on other matters. But now, with Graham McNeill’s story ‘The Wolf of Ash and Fire’, we get to step back a little further and witness firsthand the sort of legendary battles that so many characters recall in later years. The Emperor remains on Terra, doing whatever-it-is-he’s-doing down there in the catacombs, for most of the civil war – so this is one of the few chances we will get to see the reluctant demigod himself in action, before the Warmaster’s forces reach the walls of the Imperial Palace. That’s got to be worth putting on the front cover, right?

  This anthology, looking back and yet still ever forwards, also felt like the perfect place to include the classic novella Aurelian by Aaron Dembski-Bowden. The original working title was ‘What Lorgar Saw When He Looked Into the Warp’, referring to that specific part of Aaron’s previous novel The First Heretic. This is another instance where our enjoyment of an already excellent story has been heightened by adding to it afterwards.

  In fact, isn’t that what the Horus Heresy is all about?

  These plotlines are a fundamental part of the wider setting of Warhammer 40,000, and have been around for more than twenty years in one form or another. We’re just adding more and more exciting detail with each new Horus Heresy novel, short story and gaming supplement, and giving readers the opportunity to delve as deeply as they’d like into it.

  When putting this collection together, I was reminded once more that there’s a whole part of the Black Library range that some people are still missing out on – the lavishly produced audio dramas. Half of the titles in this book have been released as audio at some point, but it gave me pause to think again about the differences between those versions and the printed prose.

  Back in the afterword for Legacies of Betrayal I mentioned about the little tweaks and changes that are often made to short stories in order to turn them into scripts. When the editors started working on the first
ever Black Library audio dramas, they only had the already-commissioned short stories that were eventually redrafted for the actors to read. Now, we have our authors write with the audio production process very much in mind, and give more editorial attention to ‘converting them back’ into prose afterwards.

  It can – and does – work both ways, but the stories do tend to feel more cinematic (and visual, ironically!) if they are written for audio first.

  There are some interesting and unexpected results from this process, though. Take ‘Master of the First’ and ‘The Long Night’ – they’re both really exciting tales, with lots of scope for dramatic performance and effects. However, when the rough mixes came back from the sound designer, they ran much longer than we could fit onto a single CD. We’re talking about seven or eight minutes, not thirty seconds.

  So, in this case, I had to go back to the script with a red pen, and talk to Gav Thorpe and Aaron about cutting anything that wasn’t absolutely vital to the structure of each scene.

  Take a look at the scripts from the bonus CD, if you have them – the lines were written, recorded, and then deleted for time.

  However, these extra minutes of narration and dialogue, while not strictly required for the audio drama medium, are wonderfully evocative pieces of writing. Restoring them for the prose versions in this anthology elevates them to a new level, and once again shows that we can add to our enjoyment of that which we thought we already knew. There are also a few other little Easter Eggs in there, for anyone who’s keeping track of such things...

  Finally – and I’m sure that hardly anyone will have missed this! – as a book title Eye of Terra is also one of the slightly knowing puns and foreshadowing references for which the series is so celebrated. How fitting is it that the loyal Warmaster was named as such, only for his defeated, traitorous sons to later retreat across the galaxy to the hellish warp rift now known as the Eye of Terror? That was one of many neat little nods that Dan Abnett tells me came out of the earliest Horus Heresy author meetings, well over a decade ago.