Ahriman felt the insistent pressure of their Great Ocean breaking against his barriers of self-control. There was power here, rising up from somewhere far below. Yet what he felt was a fraction of what lay beneath, the trickle that becomes the stream that becomes the torrent. A dam had cracked, and inexorable pressure would soon break it wide open.
He ached to taste that power, to feel it flowing through his body, but he kept it shut out as Magnus had ordered, forcing his gaze away from the great statues.
“What’s happening to them?” he asked.
Magnus looked down at him.
“Something evil, Ahzek,” he said, “something I fear my presence on this world may have hastened. A balance has been upset, and I must restore it.”
Yatiri and his tribal elders, men who had managed to keep pace with the Astartes despite their advanced years, finally reached the edge of the valley.
“Daiesthai!” he cried, holding his falarica in a tight, white-knuckled, grip. “They return!”
“What in the name of the Wolfs Eye is he talking about?” demanded Skarssen, marching over with Ohthere Wyrdmake. “What are these things?”
Magnus glared at the Wolf Lord, and Ahriman saw his primarch’s frustration at having a brother Legion’s warriors present. What needed to be done here was best done hidden from inquisitive eyes.
Yatiri turned to Magnus and said, “They crave the dead. We must give them what they desire.”
“No,” said Magnus. “That is the last thing you should do.”
Yatiri shook his head, and Ahriman saw his anger.
“This is our world,” he said, “and we will save it from the Daiesthai, not you.”
The mirror-masked elder turned from the primarch and led his tribesmen into the valley, making his way towards the altar before the cave mouth.
“Lord Magnus,” pressed Skarssen, “what does he mean?”
“Superstition, Lord Skarssen,” said Magnus, “nothing more.”
“That looks like a damn sight more than superstition,” said Skarssen, gripping his bolter tight to his chest. “Speak true now, Magnus of the Thousand Sons, what is going on here?”
“Hel,” said Ohthere Wyrdmake, staring at the titanic constructs with a mixture of horror and fascination, “the Father Kraken of the deep, the keeper of the dead!”
“This is what keeps you from the Wolf King’s side?” cried Skarssen. “Consorting with sorcerers!”
Magnus rounded on the Space Wolf.
“Did you not learn your lesson before, whelp?” he said.
Skarssen recoiled at Magnus’ anger, and Ahriman felt the wash of his fury as it spread like the Shockwaves of an explosion. Deeper in the valley, Yatiri and his tribesmen surrounded the altar, chanting a mantra of supplication to non-existent gods. They stood in pairs, facing one another. Ahriman watched Yatiri lift his falarica, and knew what would happen the instant before it was too late to prevent it.
“No!” cried Magnus, seeing what Ahriman saw. “Stop!”
Yatiri turned to the tribesman next to him and rammed his falarica through his chest. His fellow elders stepped together; one man the victim, the other his killer. Spears flashed, blades bit flesh and bone. Blood was spilled.
Ahriman would never know for sure whether it was the death of the tribesmen, the blood splashing the altar or some unknown catalyst, but no sooner had the dead men fallen than the power building in the valley surged like a tidal flood.
The dam holding it back had no chance of stopping it.
With a titanic rumble of cracking stone, the guardians of the valley began to move.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Slayer of Giants
The giants were moving. The fact was as undeniable as it was inconceivable. The ground shook with the force of it. The cliff face cracked and broke, vast boulders falling like dust from the side of the Mountain. Straining with the effort of breaking the shackles of their ancient bindings, the behemoths tore free of the rock.
Ahriman felt the howling shriek of something primal roar from the mouth of the cave with insensate hunger, a force of mindless destruction given free rein after uncounted aeons trapped in the darkness. Rank winds roared from the depths of the Mountain.
He dropped to his knees, hands pressed to his helmet as the Great Ocean tried to force its way inside his skull. He remembered his primarch’s warning and fought to keep it out.
Even in the desolation of Prospero, amid the rained cities depopulated by the psychneuein, there was not this ferocity of psychic assault. Through tear-blurred eyes, he saw Astartes scatter, those without a connection to the aether spared the worst of the keening knife blade that gouged at his mind.
The ground shook as the first of the great machines took a ponderous step, its foot slamming down with seismic force. Lord Skarssen shouted at his warriors, but the words were lost to Ahriman. Ohthere Wyrdmake sagged against his staff, its haft swirling with coruscating arcs of black lightning. Beside him, Phosis T’kar and Hathor Maat fought against the corrupt power Magnus had warned them against. He couldn’t see Uthizzar or Khalophis.
Another shockwave shook the valley as the second giant tore free, the thunderous crashing of hundreds of tonnes of rock slamming down a forceful reminder of the physical world. Slabs of roaring red metal ground past Ahriman, churning the dusty ground with their passage; Land Raiders, their hull-mounted guns crackling with furious energies as they swept towards the Titans.
Ahriman felt a presence beside him and looked up to see Khalophis bellowing at his warriors. Astartes bearing the symbol of the scarlet phoenix moved to obey his orders, rushing to optimum firing positions and bringing their weapons to bear.
Ahriman wanted to laugh. What use would their weapons be against such war machines?
He tried to stand, but the pressure battering down his mind’s defences held him like a moth pinned to a slide. His resistance was locking his limbs together, fusing his joints with a stubborn refusal of the power that could be his were he only to let it in.
Ahriman recognised these temptation as the insidious whisperings that lured void travellers to their doom, as corpse lights had once ensnared those lost in ancient marshes.
That recognition alone was not enough to keep him from wanting to heed their siren song.
All he had to do was let it in and his powers would be restored: the power to smite these war machines, the power to read the currents of the future. The last of his will began to erode.
No, brother… Hold to my voice.
The words were an anchor in the madness, a lodestar back to self-control. He latched onto them as a drowning man holds fast to a rescuer’s hand.
Ahriman felt someone touch his shoulder guard, and saw Uthizzar standing above him like a priest offering benediction. The Athanaean pulled him around so that they were face to face. They gripped each other’s arms tightly, as though locked in a test of strength.
Rebuild your barriers, brother. I can protect you for a time, but only for a time.
Ahriman heard Uthizzar’s voice in his mind, the telepath’s measured tones stark against the raging torrents that threatened to overwhelm him. He felt a blessed quiet in his psyche as Uthizzar shouldered his burden.
Rise through the ranks, brother. Remember your first principles.
One by one, Ahriman repeated the mantras that allowed a Neophyte to control the powers of his being, easing into the energy-building meditations of the Zealator. Then came the control of the mind of the Practicus, the achievement of the perfectly equanimous perspective of the Philosophus. With every advance, the barriers protecting his mind were restored, and the furious howling of the aether abated.
Hurry, brother. I cannot shield you much longer.
“No need,” said Ahriman, as the world snapped back into focus. “I have control.”
Uthizzar sagged and released his hold on him.
“Good,” he said. “I could not have kept that up.”
Ahriman pushed himself upright, the world arou
nd him chaotic as the Astartes aligned themselves to face the gigantic war machines. Both were free of the cliff, the black tendrils enveloping them pulsating like newly filled arteries pumping strength around their bodies.
His situational awareness was complete. The Space Wolves had found cover in the huge piles of debris at the side of the valley. Ahriman was impressed. The Sons of Russ had a reputation for wild recklessness, but that didn’t make them stupid. To charge headlong into this battle would see them all dead, and Skarssen knew it.
The Thousand Sons had assumed the formation of the Nine Bows, an aggressive configuration of three warrior groupings named for the ancient Gyptus kings’ representation of all their enemies.
“He has gathered them all into his fist, and his mace has crashed upon their heads,” said Ahriman in recognition. Khalophis stood at the centre of the first block, Phosis T’kar commanded the second, Hathor Maat the third.
Geysers of fire spiralled around Khalophis, pillars of white flame enveloping him with searing light. Ahriman felt the enormous power surrounding the captain of the 6th Fellowship, its incredible potential bleeding into the warriors who followed him.
“Trust Khalophis not to take heed,” said Uthizzar, his voice scornful.
“He was not the only one,” said Ahriman, seeing blooms of aetheric energy centered on Phosis T’kar and Hathor Maat.
“Fools,” snapped Uthizzar, his stoic manner faltering in the face of such power. “They were warned!”
In the midst of the chaos, Ahriman saw Yatiri standing on the basalt altar, its gleaming surface splashed with the blood of his fellow elders. He held his falarica above his head and he was screaming. The winds from the cave mouth howled around him in a hurricane of corrupt matter, a blizzard of unnatural energy revelling in its freedom. At the centre of the hurricane stood Magnus the Red.
Magnificent and proud, the Primarch of the Thousand Sons was the eye of the storm, a quantum moment of utter stillness. Though a giant amongst men, the soaring Titans dwarfed him, their towering forms still trailing thick tarry ropes of glistening black.
The first Titan inclined its enormous head towards Magnus, its alien mind picking out the primarch like a golden treasure in a junkyard. Its body shook with what might have been disgust, regarding him as a man might view a loathsome insect. It took a step towards Magnus, its stride unsteady and hesitant, as though it were unused to controlling its limbs after so long inert. The Mountain shook with the reverberative weight of its tread, yet still Magnus did not move. His cloak of feathers billowed about his body, the violence of the Titans’ awakening seeming not to concern him at all.
The machine’s enormous fist flexed and its arm swung down, the movement so unlike the monstrous, clanking machine noise of Imperial engines. A haze of electromagnetic fire vented along the length of its smooth gauntlet.
Then it fired.
A blizzard of slicing projectiles shredded the space between its fist and Magnus, a thunderous storm of razor-edged death. Magnus didn’t move, but the storm broke above him, shunted aside by an invisible barrier to shred the ground and fill the air with whistling, spinning fragments of rock and metal.
The enormous, lance-like weapon in its other arm swung around, and Ahriman was again struck by the fluid, living grace of the Titan. It moved as if its every molecule was part of its essence, a living whole as opposed to a distant mind imperfectly meshed to a mechanical body with invasive mind impulse units and haptic receptors.
Before it could unleash the destructive fire of the weapon, a storm of energy blistered its limbs. The Thousand Sons Land Raiders stabbed it with bright spears of laserfire, like ancient hunters surrounding a towering prey-beast.
The Astartes of the 6th Fellowship let fly with explosive warheads and storms of gunfire. Ceramic plates cracked and spalled. Fires rippled across the surface of the Titan’s armour. Imperial engines marched to war protected by shimmer-shields of ablative energy—not so this behemoth. Whatever protection it had relied on in life was denied it in this incarnation.
Magnus stood firm before the Titan, a child before a towering monster. He lifted his arm, palm upward, as though to offer the giant some morsel to sate its appetite. Ahriman saw a thin smile play around his primarch’s face as he drew his fingers back to make a fist.
The enormous gauntlet that had spat such venom upon Magnus was crashed utterly as an invisible force compressed it. Fire bloomed from the shattered hand, black tendrils like dead veins hanging from the rain of its shoulder as Magnus coolly crashed the entire length of its arm. The giant war machine shook, the movement unnatural and hideous in its imitation of pain. Land Raiders swept in to press the advantage, furious, rippling bolts of laser energy smacking the Titan’s legs and torso.
The second machine rotated its lance, and the air grew thin, as though the Mountain had sucked in a great breath. An impossibly bright pinpoint of light grew at the end of the weapon before a pulsing storm erupted in a blaze of streaming fire.
Three Land Raiders exploded, instantly vaporised in the blast, and a fireball of burnt metal mushroomed skyward. The surging beam of liquid light swept on, carving a glassy trench across the valley and immolating everything in its path. A group of Hathor Maat’s warriors on the periphery of the seething fire burst into flames, their armour running like melted rubber. Ahriman could hear their screams. The heat wash of their death was a rancid flesh stink that threatened to break his concentration.
“Ahzek!” cried a voice, almost lost amid the shriek of the Titans’ weapons fire. His anger fled, the rigid mental discipline of the Enumerations reasserting itself. He turned to the source of the cry, seeing Ohthere Wyrdmake frantically beckoning him from behind the cover of a spit of red rock. Gunfire streamed from the Space Wolves position.
Logic took hold, the measured calm of mental acuity honed over a century of study.
“Uthizzar,” he said, “let’s go.”
Uthizzar nodded and together they ran through the deafening, blazing crescendo of weapons fire that filled the valley. Firepower to end entire regiments surged back and forth: heatwash, ricochets and shrieking intakes of breath from guns capable of mass murder. The shape of the battle was fluid and its tempo was increasing.
The Astartes were fighting back, filling the valley with disciplined volleys, but save for the augmented fire of Khalophis’ warriors, it was having little effect. There were too many targets for the Titans to effectively engage them all, but that wouldn’t last long. Fifty more Astartes died as the second Titan’s fist spat a shrieking hail of death, the impacts sounding like a thousand mirrors shattering at once.
Ahriman ducked into cover with Uthizzar, feeling strange at taking refuge with warriors in midnight-grey armour instead of crimson and ivory. A shaggy wolf snapped its jaws at him, thick saliva drooling between its fangs.
“What were you doing out there?” shouted Wyrdmake over the din of gunfire.
“Nothing,” replied Ahriman, unwilling to speak of the mental ordeal he and Uthizzar had endured, “just picking our moment to run for cover.”
“What I would not give for a Mechanicum engine right now,” hissed Wyrdmake as a rolling wall of boiling air washed over their position. The Rune Priest’s staff crackled with miniature lightning bolts. The power filling the valley had almost overwhelmed Ahriman with the urge to wield it, but Wyrdmake appeared oblivious to its temptations.
Space Wolves shouldered missile launchers, sighting on the undamaged Titan. Skarssen shouted an order, lost in the din, pointing towards the Titan’s head. Spiralling contrails zoomed upwards, detonating against the surface of the giant’s head, rocking it back, but doing little obvious damage.
“Again!” shouted Skarssen.
“That won’t bring it down!” cried Ahriman over the booming cough of missile fire.
“Never hunted a Fenrisian Kraken, have you?” cried Skarssen.
“How perceptive,” snapped Ahriman, ducking down as the rocks around him exploded in pinging fragme
nts. A Space Wolf went down, but picked himself back up again. “What has that got do with anything?”
“A single wolfship will be smashed to kindling and its crew devoured,” said the Wolf Lord, as though enjoying this fight immensely, “but put a dozen in the water and then it becomes a hunt worth undertaking. Shield scales buckle, flesh tears and blood flows, the beast weakens and then it dies. Every harpoon matters, from the first to the last.”
Then all thought was obliterated as a world-shaking scream of ancient loss and pain ripped through the mind of every warrior.
It was the sound of worlds ending. It was the birth shout of a vile and terrible god, and the death scream of glory that died when the race of Man was young. Ahriman collapsed as pain like nothing he had ever known wracked his body with a torturer’s skill, finding the secret parts of him and driving itself home without mercy. His fragile control crumbled in the face of it, his mind ablaze with images of a civilisation overturned, worlds consumed and an empire that had spanned the stars brought low by its own weakness.
No one was spared the scream’s violence, not the Space Wolves and certainly not the Thousand Sons, who suffered worst of all. The pain drove Ahriman to the edge of sanity in the blink of an eye.
Then it was over. The echoes of the scream retreated, its power like a breaker upon a seawall, forceful and spectacular, but quick to fade. Ahriman blinked away tears of pain, surprised to find he was lying flat on his back.
“What in the name of the Great Wolf was that?” demanded Skarssen, towering over him as though nothing had happened. Once again, Ahriman was impressed by the Space Wolves.
“I’m not sure,” he gasped, blinding spots of light sparkling behind his eyes from burst blood vessels, “a psychic scream of some sort.”
“Can you block it?” asked Skarssen, holding his hand out to Ahriman.
“No, it’s too powerful.”
[Horus Heresy 12] - A Thousand Sons Page 12