[Horus Heresy 12] - A Thousand Sons

by Graham McNeill - (ebook by Undead)

  The abominable stench of the charnel house rose in an overpowering wave, a potent cocktail of rotting organic matter and escaping corpse gasses. Magnus felt his gaze drawn to a forsaken world, a world once verdant and fecund, but which had fallen to disease and corruption. He saw it had not gone without a fight, its landscape bearing the scars of the war waged to subdue it. The battle had been fought on the microscopic level, the armies of bacteria and virus numbering in their trillions.

  Every living thing on this world was now a factory for disease, where aggressive microbes bent their mindless wills towards reproduction and spreading their infection further.

  The planet’s ending had never been in doubt, but it could no more surrender to its fate than the corruption could stop its destructive assault. It had become a world of stagnation, its marshes and forests turgid oceans of filth and oozing pestilence.

  Magnus saw a rearing mass of metal in the heart of a swamp, the rusted hulk of a starship that rose like an iron cliff or an ocean-going vessel sinking to its doom. Putrescent things made their homes in its rusted superstructure, and something monstrous made its lair in its dead heart. Magnus had no clue what that might be, but saw the glitter sheen of metal and knew that the nemesis blade of the alien craftsman had found its way here.

  The thought filled Magnus with panic as he heard the roar of gunfire and saw a host of marching warriors in the livery of the Luna Wolves fighting towards the crashed starship. He shouted and screamed at them, seeing his brother at the forefront of his warriors. Horus Lupercal was oblivious to him, for this was not reality, merely a fleeting glimpse of a future that might never come to pass.

  The chronology of events fractured, like individual frames of a picter stitched together at random: a friend cast aside and now a bitter foe; a throne room or a command bridge; a beloved son cut down by a traitor’s sword, and the steeldust shimmer of a blade that would strike the blow to change the universe; a beloved father cut down by a rebellious son.

  He saw a towering temple, a giant octagonal building with eight fire-topped towers surrounding the dome at its centre. Multitudes gathered before this house of false gods, and warriors in the ceramite plates of Astartes gathered before a mighty bronze gateway. A wide pool glistened like oil and two warriors argued at its side as the crescent reflection of the new moon wavered in the water.

  Booming laughter broke the scene apart, and Magnus saw Horus Lupercal once more, a titanic figure of awesome potency. Yet this was not his brother, this was a monster, a primal force of destruction that sought to put the great works of his father to the flame. With every sweep of Horus’ clawed hand worlds died, consumed in the flames of war that spread across the face of the galaxy like a rapacious infection. An insane conductor weaving a symphony of destruction, Horus systematically reduced the Imperium to cinders, turning brother upon brother as they bled in the carnage.

  Magnus peered into the thing that wore Horus’ face, but saw nothing of his brother’s nobility or regal bearing, only hatred, spite and regret. The thing’s gaze met the twin orbs of Magnus with malicious glee, and Magnus saw that Horus’ eyes were amber pits of fire.

  “How does it feel, brother?” asked Horus. “To look upon the world as you once did?”

  “As it always does, Horus,” replied Magnus. “Here I am as I will myself to be.”

  “Ah, vanity,” said Horus, “the simplest temptation to set.”

  “What are you?” demanded Magnus. “You are not my brother!”

  “Not yet, but soon,” answered the monster with a maddening grin. “The new moon waits on Khenty-irty to begin his transformation into Mekhenty-er-irty.”

  “More riddles?” said Magnus. “You are nothing more than a void predator, a collection of base impulses and desire given form. And I have heard that name before.”

  “But you don’t know what it means.”

  “I will,” said Magnus. “No knowledge is hidden from me.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “Yes. My brother would never unleash this madness!”

  “Then you don’t know him, for it is happening right now. The pawns of the Primordial Annihilator are already in motion, setting the traps of pride, vanity and anger to ensnare the egos of the knights required to topple the king.”

  “You lie!”

  “Do I?” laughed Horus. “Why would I attempt to deceive you, brother? You are Magnus of the Thousand Sons. There are no truths unknown to you, no knowledge hidden from you. Isn’t that what you said? You can see the truth of this, I know you can. Horus Lupercal will betray you all. He will set the Imperium ablaze in his quest for power. Nothing will survive; all will become a nuclear cauldron of Chaos, from the super-massive heart of the galaxy to the guttering stars in its halo.”

  “Where will this miraculous transformation take place?” asked Magnus, fighting to keep the growing horror from his voice.

  “On a little moon,” giggled the monster, “in the Davin system.”

  “Even if I believe you, why tell me?”

  “Because it has already begun, because I enjoy your torment, and because it is too late to stop this,” said Horus.

  “We’ll see about that,” promised Magnus.

  He opened his eye, and the Horus monster was gone.

  Ahriman and the Sekhmet surrounded him, their faces filled with dread.

  “My lord?” cried Ahriman. “What happened?”

  His hand flashed to his face, where the sacrifice he had made so long ago had once sat. The skin was smooth and unblemished with no lingering trace of the completeness his body of light enjoyed in the Great Ocean.

  Magnus shrugged off the Sekhmets’ help and climbed to his feet. He could already feel the sands of time moving across the face of the galaxy, and had a brief flash of a chiming bronze timepiece with a cracked glass face and mother of pearl hands.

  “We need to go,” he said, reacquainting himself with his surroundings by focusing on the trails of spilled water.

  “Go?” asked Ahriman. “Go where?”

  “We must return to Prospero. There is much to do and precious little time.”

  “My lord, we cannot,” said Ahriman.

  “Cannot?” thundered Magnus. “Not a word you should use in reference to me, Ahzek. I am Magnus the Red. Nothing is beyond my powers.”

  Ahriman shook his head and said, “That is not what I mean, my lord. We are summoned back to the amphitheatre. We are called to judgement.”

  The stars had moved on, though sulphurous clouds obscured many of them. Ahriman had the powerful sense of their shame, as though they wished to turn their faces from events below. Ever since Magnus had fallen, Ahriman had sought to recover the memory that lurked just on the edge of his consciousness.

  Try as he might, it would not come, and though he knew trying to force it would only cause it to recede, his need to know was greater than his capacity for reasoned thought. Whatever Magnus had done involved his twin brother, but the truth was locked in the deepest well of buried memory.

  A sombre mood had fallen upon the thousands gathered within the crater of the volcano, in stark contrast to the ebullience that had filled it as Magnus had spoken.

  “Why do I feel like I have already been condemned?” asked Magnus, looking over at the dais at the opposite end of the amphitheatre, where Malcador conversed with the Emperor.

  “Maybe we have,” answered Ahriman, seeing Mortarion’s look of triumphant vindication. Sanguinius had ashen tears painted on his cheeks, and Fulgrim could not look at them, his sculpted features tormented with guilt.

  “I care not anymore,” hissed Magnus. “Let us be done with this and begone.”

  The atmosphere hung on a knife edge, like a bubble stretched to the point where its surface tension could no longer maintain its integrity. Not a single voice could be heard, only the rustle of hessian robes and bated breath.

  That silence was broken when Malcador stood and moved to the front of the Emperor’s dais, rapping his st
aff three times upon the marble.

  “Friends, this council is almost at an end,” he began. “We have heard learned discourse from both sides of the divide, but the time has come to pronounce judgement and restore our harmony. With great solemnity has this matter been weighed, for it is an issue that could tear us asunder if we are not united. I ask now, would any here gathered add their voices to what we have already heard? Speak now or forever keep your counsel.”

  Ahriman scanned the crowd, hoping either Sanguinius or Fulgrim or some as yet unrevealed ally might emerge from beneath a falsehood to stand with them. No one moved, and he had all but given up hope of salvation when he saw a power-armoured individual bearing a long, skull-topped staff rise from his seat in the high tiers.

  “I, Targutai Yesugei, of the Borjigin Qongqotan clan would speak,” said the warrior, his voice gruff and heavily accented with the distinctive final obstruent devoicing and vowel shortening of a native Chogorian.

  Targutai Yesugei’s armour was winter white and trimmed with crimson, the shoulder-guard bearing the golden lightning bolt of the White Scars. His staff marked him out as a one of the Khan’s Librarians. His scalp was shaven, save for a long scalp lock worn like a topknot, and a crystalline hood rose from the shoulders of his armour, framing a tanned, weather-beaten face crisscrossed with ritual scars.

  At a nod from Malcador, Yesugei made his way to the floor of the amphitheatre, walking with the calm dignity of the noble savage.

  Nor was he alone.

  From scattered positions all around the amphitheatre, robed Astartes Librarians made their way to join the White Scar warrior, and Ahriman’s heart leapt as he saw the heraldry of the Dark Angels, the Night Lords, Ultramarines and Salamanders.

  The twelve Librarians congregated before the Emperor’s dais, and Ahriman instantly knew that none of these warriors had ever met, just as he knew that their choosing to speak at this moment had not been planned.

  “Twelve of them standing before their king,” said Magnus with a soft smile. “How apt. As all the ancient gods were attended by twelve knights, so too are we.”

  The Librarians knelt before the Emperor, their heads bowed, and Ahriman studied the symbols stitched on their surplices.

  “Elikas, Zharost, Promus, Umojen,” said Ahriman, “these men are the chief Librarians of their Legions.”

  “And they side with us,” said Magnus in wonder.

  Targutai Yesugei rose to his feet, and the Emperor gave a brief nod that spoke volumes.

  The warrior of the White Scars mounted the plinth, and Ahriman was impressed by the solemnity he saw in Yesugei’s eyes, a profound wisdom won through centuries of study and hard-fought battles.

  “I am White Scar, Stormseer of Jaghatai Khan,” he said, “and I speak with truth as my guide. This I swear on honour of my clan, may my brothers cut out my heart if I lie. I listen to words said by honourable men, but I not see as they see. They look with eyes blind to world around them. They understand with minds not willing to see truth of this galaxy.

  “The warrior chosen by Stormseers is not evil, and nor is power he wields. He is weapon, like Land Raider and bolt gun. What fool casts aside weapon before battle? Like all weapons, it is dangerous without much training, and all here know danger of rogue psyker; Lord Mortarion tell us of it. But what is more danger, a trained warrior who understand his powers or a warrior with power who knows nothing of its use? Like all things, power must be yoked to its true purpose before it can be unleashed. The psyker must be moulded by men of great skill as a sword is crafted by forger of steel. He must be taught way of the Stormseer and must prove his worth many times before he may bear the skull staff of the warrior-seer.”

  Yesugei lifted his staff and aimed it towards the green-robed Choirmaster of Astropaths and black-suited Master of Navigators, sweeping it across the width of the dais. The gesture was subtle, for it also included the Emperor.

  “To damn psykers as one evil is to forget how Imperium depend on them. Without mind-singers each world is adrift and alone, without star-seekers there is no travel between them. Men who speak against Primarch Magnus speak with the blurred vision of ancients. They do not see consequences of what they seek. What they ask for will doom us all. My truth, I pledge on this oath-sworn staff. If any doubt me, I stand ready to cross blades with them.”

  Targutai Yesugei bowed once more and stepped from the podium, returning to the ranks of his brother Librarians. Ahriman looked over at Magnus. Like him, his primarch was moved by Yesugei’s words, captivated by their simple honesty and by the recognition of the hypocrisy inherent in the accusations levelled against the Thousand Sons.

  “Surely the council cannot find against us now,” said Ahriman.

  “We will see,” replied Magnus as the Emperor rose from his throne.

  Thus far, the Emperor of Mankind had viewed the conclave’s proceedings from afar, an observer who hears all and deliberates without giving any clue to his thoughts. Now he moved to the edge of the dais, his armour shimmering in the light as the stars shone brightly once again. Ahriman tried to shift his consciousness into the Enumerations to keep his perceptions clear, but the power of the Emperor was too great and too magnificent to ever truly allow clarity of thought.

  Every soul in the amphitheatre stared in wonder at this paragon of all that was good in humanity, the apotheosis of mankind’s dreams and hopes. His every word was seized upon and written in a thousand places, like the words once transcribed as the faithful recitation of a god from the forgotten ages. The scrivener harness of Mahavastu Kallimakus clattered to life in anticipation.

  Thoughts of Kallimakus were forgotten as a warm sensation of approbation washed over him. Ahriman recognised this feeling for what it was, the influencing of another person by instilling a measure of your psyche into their aura. Ahriman could perform a similar feat, though on a handful of people at most. To reach out to so many thousands at once spoke of power beyond measure.

  The Emperor’s sword was drawn, and his gaze locked with that of Magnus, as though they engaged in silent communion unheard by any others. Ahriman tore his gaze from the Emperor and saw that Magnus was pinned to his seat, his body rigid and his skin pale. His eye was tightly closed, and Ahriman saw an almost imperceptible tremor in his flesh, as though powerful currents of electricity were tearing through him.

  “If I am guilty of anything, it is the pursuit of knowledge,” hissed Magnus through clenched teeth. “I am its master, I swear it.”

  Ahriman could hear no more, for Magnus suddenly drew a gasping breath, like a drowning man upon finding the surface of an ocean.

  “Hear now the words of my ruling,” said the Emperor, and the amphitheatre filled with the sound of scratching quills. “I am not blind to the needs of the Imperium, but nor am I blind to the realities of the hearts of men. I hear men speak of knowledge and power as though they are abstract concepts to be employed as simply as a sword or gun. They are not. Power is a living force, and the danger with power is obsession. A man who attains a measure of power will find it comes to dominate his life until all he can think of is the acquisition of more. Nearly all men can stand adversity, but few can stand the ultimate test of character, that of wielding power without succumbing to its darker temptations.”

  As much as the Emperor was addressing the entire amphitheatre, Ahriman had the powerful sense that his words were intended solely for Magnus.

  “Peering into the darkness to gain knowledge of the warp is fraught with peril, for it is an inconstant place of shifting reality, capricious lies and untruths. The seeker after truth must have a care he is not deceived, for false knowledge is far more dangerous than ignorance. All men wish to possess knowledge, but few are willing to pay the price. Always men will seek to take the short cut, the quick route to power, and it is a man’s own mind, not his enemy or foe, that will lure him to evil ways. True knowledge is gained only after the acquisition of wisdom. Without wisdom, a powerful person does not become more powerful, h
e becomes reckless. His power will turn on him and eventually destroy all he has built.

  “I have walked paths no man can know and faced the unnameable creatures of the warp. I understand all too well the secrets and dangers that lurk in its hidden darkness. Such things are not for lesser minds to know; no matter how powerful or knowledgeable they believe themselves to be. The secrets I have shared serve as warnings, not enticements to explore further. Only death and damnation await those who pry too deeply into secrets not meant for mortals.”

  Ahriman blanched at the Emperor’s words, feeling their awful finality. The promise of extinction was woven into every word.

  “I see now I have allowed my sons to delve too profoundly into matters I should never have permitted them to know even existed. Let it be known that no one shall suffer censure, for this conclave is to serve Unity, not discord. But no more shall the threat of sorcery be allowed to taint the warriors of the Astartes. Henceforth, it is my will that no Legion will maintain a Librarius department. All its warriors and instructors must be returned to the battle companies and never again employ any psychic powers.”

  Gasps of astonishment spread through the amphitheatre, and Ahriman felt his skin chill at the absolute nature of the Emperor’s pronouncement. After everything that had been said, he couldn’t believe the judgement had gone against them.

  The Emperor wasn’t finished, and thunder rolled in his voice.

  “Woe betide he who ignores my warning or breaks faith with me. He shall be my enemy, and I will visit such destruction upon him and all his followers that, until the end of all things, he shall rue the day he turned from my light.”