[Horus Heresy 12] - A Thousand Sons

by Graham McNeill - (ebook by Undead)

  “I am the Magister Templi of the Pyrae,” he hissed between clenched teeth. “The Inferno is my servant, for I am the Lord of Hellfire and I will teach you to burn.”

  Sioda swept down and enveloped his body. Khalophis felt his consciousness torn from his flesh to fill another body, one of iron and steel, of crystal and rage. No longer were his muscles fashioned from meat and tendons, but from enormous pistons and fibre-bundle hydraulics newly lined with psychically resonant crystals. The bolter was no longer his weapon, but vast guns capable of obliterating entire armies and fists that could tear down buildings.

  Khalophis surveyed the battlefield with the eyes of a god, a towering avatar of battle roused to fight once more. His limbs felt stiff and new, his senses taking a moment to adjust to their enormous dimensions and ponderous weight. He flexed his new body. The metallic grinding of long dormant gears and the shriek of rekindled pneumatics cut through the clamour of battle.

  Sioda’s fire flowed along the incredibly complex mechanisms of his body, filling them with new life. He took a thunderous step forward and let loose an atavistic roar, his voice that of a braying war horn.

  Like a mighty dragon woken from centuries of slumber, Canis Vertex marched into battle one more.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The Line is Holding / They Will Turn On You Too / Understand the Foe

  The jetbikes were golden, with curved prows shaped in the form of eagles’ beaks, their flanks carved to resemble swept-back wings. Phosis T’kar counted seven of them, swooping in low on an attack run towards his position at the end of the Raptora plaza. The warriors riding them were also golden, their red helmet plumes streaming behind them like pennants. Rapid-firing cannons blazed from underslung gun pods, ripping up the flagstone road leading from the Mylas agora.

  Geysers of rock burst from every impact, but Phosis T’kar wasn’t worried. He braced his weight on his right leg and snatched his hands through the air, as though sweeping a curtain open. Four of the jetbikes were plucked from the air as if they had reached the end of an unbreakable tether. Phosis T’kar slammed them against the high walls of the Timoran Library, shattering the statues of its first custodians.

  The last three exploded as Hathor Maat sent a cataclysmic electrical surge through their engines. The burning wrecks smashed into the ground and tumbled end over end towards the Thousand Sons position, skidding to a halt less than a metre from Phosis T’kar.

  “Custodes,” he grunted. “They’re not so tough.”

  The northern reaches of Tizca were aflame. The port was a mass of reeking pillars of smoke, the stink of promethium mingling with the acrid reek of burning tar, rubber and metal. Thick clouds hung low over the city and ash fell like black rain. Men and women in their hundreds streamed past his position, heading towards the Pyramid of Photep laden with books and arms full of scrolls. The streets were littered with fallen tomes and fragments of statuary. Carved heroes of the Raptora had once looked down on the plaza, but shelling from enemy artillery had toppled all save a handful. Expressionless faces and outstretched hands lay strewn across the flagstones.

  Mixed among the civilians were bloodied remnants of the Palatine Guard, shell-shocked men drenched in blood who staggered from the port in shock. These terrified survivors were all that remained of the soldiers tasked with containing the initial enemy landings.

  “I’ve had word from the Athanaeans,” said Hathor Maat, jogging over from his position to Phosis T’kar’s left.

  “What is it?”

  “The Wolf King is coming,” said Hathor Maat gleefully. “They say he was first to land at the port and is fighting his way towards us.”

  “Fighting?” said Phosis T’kar. “I don’t think there’s much fighting going on. The Wolves are cutting through the Spireguard with ease.”

  “You didn’t really expect them to hold, did you?” said Hathor Maat. “They’re only mortals, and this is an Astartes fight.”

  “Not just Astartes,” said Phosis T’kar, gesturing towards the wrecked jetbikes. “Custodes want our heads on spikes too.”

  “They all die just the same,” said Hathor Maat.

  “Any word other than the location of the Wolf King?”

  “Ahriman’s got the northern perimeter sealed. He’s holding the upper slopes of Old Tizca from the Acropolis to the eastern flank of Corvidae pyramid.”

  “Leaving us with the western front from the Pavoni pyramid to the port.”

  “Looks that way,” agreed Hathor Maat. “The Athanaeans are taking up position in Occullum Square, they’re going to feed us intel on the enemy plans as they get it. What’s left of the Spireguard is taking up position with the Legion, but we can’t count on them.”

  “What about Khalophis?”

  “No word yet.”

  Explosions burst nearby as streaking missiles corkscrewed out of the sky and detonated overhead. Razored shrapnel scythed downwards, tearing a dozen civilians to bloody rags.

  “Here they come!” shouted Hathor Maat, running back to his position.

  A trio of boxy shapes moved through the smoke, the roar of their engines like the cry of living beasts. Trailing clouds of plaster-dust and fire, three enormous Land Raiders in the livery of the Space Wolves burst into the plaza. Behind them came the warriors of Leman Russ, hundreds of armoured fighters advancing in a howling tide of blades and bolts.

  Among the warriors of Fenris were warriors in gold and red. They carried long spears with ebony hafts and shimmering blades. Phosis T’kar grinned at the thought of matching his strength against such warriors.

  Packs of slavering wolves bounded across the plaza, their bared fangs flecked with scraps of uniform and flesh. The Thousand Sons opened fire, and the plaza erupted in a storm of gunfire. The din of shooting was eclipsed by the howls of the wolves. Phosis T’kar snapped his fingers and broke the alpha male of the pack in two. Bolter fire smacked armour plates and spun Space Wolves around, but the warriors of Russ were masters of charging from cover to cover and few were falling.

  Heavy lasbolts flickered overhead, fizzing spears of impossibly bright energy. Explosions burst all along the Thousand Sons’ lines as thudding bangs of bolter fire pummelled their positions. Pounding concussions ripped across the plaza, but the kine shields of the Raptora were proof against such attacks.

  He concentrated on the lead Land Raider, reaching out and closing his fist. He wrenched his hand back, and the left sponson tore free of the vehicle in a blazing plume of white light. The heavy tank skidded around and slammed into the vehicle next to it, crushing the warriors advancing between them.

  Phosis T’kar grinned.

  “You didn’t realise what you were getting into here, did you?” he said.

  Another angry retort died in his mouth as sudden, cramping pain knotted in his belly, like someone had taken a fistful of his intestines and wrenched them upwards. He tasted bile and felt a sickly lather of sweat prickle on his skin.

  Another vehicle exploded, its hull a writhing spider-web of coruscating lightning. The last vehicle erupted in flames as Auramagma’s warriors hurled fireballs at its frontal glacis. It kept coming, shooting as it crushed priceless tomes and beautiful sculpture to shards beneath its treads. Auramagma himself stood atop a fallen master of the Raptora and wove sheets of white fire like a conductor before his orchestra.

  “Too arrogant, that one,” said Phosis T’kar, recognising Auramagma’s flaw while ignoring his own. A missile streaked out and slammed into the Land Raider’s topside, skidding off its armour and exploding further behind it.

  Phosis T’kar battered a handful of Space Wolves back with a flick of his wrist, hurling them beneath the tracks of the blazing Land Raider. Their armour broke open with satisfyingly wet cracks. No sooner had the vehicle crushed his victims than fire spewed from its insides. Its escape hatches slammed open as the blazing crew fought to escape the furnace of their vehicle. Auramagma let them burn.

  Lightning danced through the Space Wolves, e
xploding their bodies within the armoured casing of their battle-plate. Hissing sheets of fire turned the ground molten, while the kine shields soaked up the weight of return fire. Phosis T’kar laughed to see his Legion unleashed, with no constraints to its full potential and no faint-hearts complaining because they could kill the enemies of the Imperium better than anyone else.

  A sudden cold shiver made him start, the whisper of a ghostly touch at the back of his mind. He had felt it once before, but before he could recall where, a wolf leapt at him through the flames. Its fur was ablaze, and he reached up to flick it away with a gesture.

  Nothing happened.

  The wolf slammed into him and barrelled him to the ground. Its jaws snapped down, the fangs gouging deep furrows in his visor. Yellowed talons tore into his side, and he grunted as he felt them pierce his flesh. The wolf bit him in a frenzy, and Phosis T’kar fought to keep it from his throat.

  His eyes met those of the beast, and he saw into its heart, the alien core of the being beneath the mask of the wolf. His eyes widened in recognition, but it was too late to do anything except fight.

  The beast’s jaw fastened on his neck, but before it could bite down Phosis T’kar slammed his fist into the wolfs belly. He pistoned his arm through its ribcage, crushing through ribs and vital organs to shatter its spine. The light went out of its eyes, and Phosis T’kar threw its body away in disgust. He climbed to his feet, looking at his hands in horror. He willed power to flow through them, but he felt nothing, no connection to the Great Ocean nor any hint of its fire.

  A slender shape in form-fitting golden armour danced into view, a long-bladed sword lancing for his belly. He batted the blade away with his heqa staff and took stock of his attacker. It was a woman, but no ordinary woman. The lower portion of her face was obscured by a silver muzzle-mask and her dark eyes were tattooed with tears.

  Now Phosis T’kar knew why his powers had failed. He heard screams of pain as the kine shields failed and more of the Silent Sisterhood made their presence felt. She came at him with a lancing thrust of her sword. He blocked it with his staff once more, sliding the hook down to the hilt of her blade and twisting.

  She read the move and drew her blade back, spinning around and going low with a slender dagger aimed at his groin. Phosis T’kar stepped in to meet her and her dagger shattered on the plates of his thigh. He brought his knee up into her face and crushed the mask hiding her jaw. Blood and teeth flew from the impact, but the woman rolled out of reach.

  All along the edge of the plaza, hundreds of armoured warriors came together in a battering clash of plate. No longer was this a battle to be fought with one side having the advantage; this was now a brutal, sweating, throat-tearing fight at close quarters.

  Phosis T’kar unsheathed his combat blade and dropped into a fighting crouch before the armoured woman. He held his staff out before him with his knife high at his shoulder.

  “Very well, null-maiden,” he snarled. “I’ll just kill you the old-fashioned way!”

  Though his body lay recumbent on a crystal throne of golden fire, Khalophis marched through the ruins of Tizca with the strides of a mighty giant. Structures were children’s building blocks, the fires flickering embers. People were specks to be crashed beneath his thunderous steps.

  He marched past the Kretis gallery towards the Skelmis Tholus with the wide expanse of ocean at his right shoulder. The streets of Old Tizca were too narrow for a titanic battle engine such as Canis Vertex, and ancient buildings exploded as he smashed through them like some destructive colossus from ancient legends.

  Gunfire lashed up, but none of it could harm him. He felt the heat of Sioda gather in his right arm, and unleashed a torrent of fire that bathed six streets in billowing clouds of sticky flames. He couldn’t hear the screams, but he saw his howling victims falling to their knees and begging for salvation.

  The guns of Canis Vertex were functional, but with his Tutelary’s connection to the Great Ocean, his pyrokinetic abilities were boosted a hundredfold and he had no need of them. The mighty fists of the Titan were wreathed in flames, and with every gesture, tank-sized fireballs slammed into the enemy. Khalophis laughed as he spat tongues of flame from both arms, burning the invaders back to their ships.

  The attacking forces had cut a deep wound into Tizca, but Khalophis saw how far the invaders had extended themselves in their urgent need to break the defenders in two. Canis Vertex could cut them off from their reserves, and the Thousand Sons’ lines would drive them back to the ocean.

  The Athanaeans dispersed word of the enemy movements, and the Corvidae met and countered any surprise attacks planned on a whim. The battle was by no means won by either force, but from his god’s-eye view Khalophis could see the battle was turning in favour of the Thousand Sons.

  “You bit off more than even you could chew,” roared Khalophis, the words coming out in the real world as a deafening blurt of eardrum-busting static from the engine’s war horn.

  Gunships and speeders slashed forwards, guns blazing and missiles arcing towards his armoured hide. Without voids, he would have been vulnerable, but a shield of flame turned shells to molten droplets of lead and detonated missiles before they could impact. He felt his Tutelary’s savage joy, its power jostling for control, and he clamped down his authority.

  It shrieked in jealous spite and Khalophis spasmed with a soul-deep sensation of nausea.

  Canis Vertex halted its rampage and explosions erupted across its armoured chest as its aetheric armour vanished. Scenting blood, the Jetbikes, speeders and gunships closed in to deliver the deathblow.

  “Get back,” he hissed. “This is mine!”

  Sioda screeched and angrily returned to the body of Canis Vertex.

  A billowing flare of heat erupted from the Titan, and a dozen aircraft were swatted from the sky by the intense burst, their engines fused and pilots seared to charred bones.

  Khalophis spat onto the floor of the Pyrae temple, the blood hissing as it boiled in the intense heat. His armour was smoking, and dark light built behind his eyes as he wept tears of fire that cut blackened scars down his cheeks.

  * * *

  The library of the Corvidae, normally a place of quiet sanctuary and solitude was now a site of frantic activity. Ankhu Anen directed the labours of hundreds of scribes and servitors as they emptied the shelves and datacores of the library. The vast chamber contained hundreds of thousands of texts, too many ever to be evacuated in so short a time, but Ahriman’s orders had been explicit.

  Everything that could be saved was to be transferred to the Pyramid of Photep.

  The light of fires filtered through the crystal walls, and danced over the steel and glass shelves of the library. Massively overladen bulk servitors carried panniers of books, and terrified scribes swept even more onto protesting load lifters.

  He had tried to impose some kind of order on the evacuation of the library, but soon found that impossible. The panic of being so close to the fighting was a plague spreading through his minions, and his carefully ordered plans had fallen apart within moments.

  “Ensure the Pnakotic manuscripts are kept separate from the Prophecies!” he shouted, seeing a tearful scribe bundling books from different eras together in a servitor’s overflowing pannier. Scrolls and torn pages fluttered to the terrazzo floor. Dust fell from the high ceilings as something exploded nearby, and the library echoed with terrified screams.

  Bodies flowed past him, their arms filled with heavy books and rolled-up maps and parchments. The Corvidae had collected so much in their researches into the future, so much that had yet to be studied and properly interpreted. How much knowledge of things to come would be lost in this senseless attack?

  A wave of dizziness swamped him and he reached out to steady himself. His hand closed on the cold steel of a shelf and he glanced over at the book nearest his fingers. It was a tattered, worn, leather copy of Liber Draconi, incongruously sitting next to the Book of Atum and twine-bound pages of the Volu
spd.

  He snatched his hand away as though burned.

  “The dragon of fate,” he whispered.

  Since his earliest days in the ranks of the Thousand Sons, Ankhu Anen had been haunted by dreams of a hissing dragon born of ice and fire. Its breath was the death of stars and its eyes the light of creation. Long had he sought the meaning of his dream, but the symbolism of dragons was manifold.

  To some, the dragon represented intellectually superior man overcoming the untamed natural world, or creatures of primal chaos that could only be destroyed through disciplined marshalling of mental and physical prowess. To others, it was a symbol of wisdom, adopted by primitive emperors to enhance their perceived power. To Ankhu Anen it was a symbol of impending doom.

  He backed away from the bookshelf, and looked up as a sudden premonition of danger flashed into his mind. A flaming mass was hurtling towards the temple, its form blurred and indistinct through the crystal panes.

  Ankhu Anen turned and ran back towards the entrance of the library as a tremendous blast rocked the temple. Glass panes and adamantium columns shattered as a blazing, golden-skinned Thunderhawk gunship smashed into the temple. The wreck spun as its remaining wing caught one of the enormous structural members and it slammed into the ceiling before dropping to the floor of the library with a thunderous explosion.

  Razor-sharp fragments and blazing sheets of jet fuel sprayed out from the wreckage, and the dry pages contained within the library eagerly caught light. Ankhu Anen was hurled through the air by the force of the blast, slamming into a high shelf and crashing through it to land on an overturned load lifter and its spilled cargo of books. The shelf buckled and crashed down on top of him in a rain of twisted metal and glass.

  Ankhu Anen tried to extricate himself from the remains of the shelving unit, but fell back as searing pain flared in his leg and chest. Taking a deep breath, he took stock of his wounds. His leg was pinned beneath a fallen column, and a jutting spar of steel protruded from his chest. The fall had torn the wound gapingly wide, and blood pumped from his ruptured heart. Not even his secondary organ would be able to keep up with so rapid a loss.