A bright shape descended from the mountaintop, a wavering and indistinct form wreathed in the light of stars and the power of infinite possibility. Brilliant wings of shimmering aetheric fire unfolded from the figure’s back, and the Thousand Sons fell to their knees as their father’s light spread over them.
Magnus landed softly before his sons and they stared in amazement as his light illuminated the bleak darkness of the world. This was no corporeal shell of a subtle body as worn by the primarch when he had walked among them. This was a body of light that could exist beyond the confines of the Great Ocean. Magnus had sacrificed the flesh that had contained his essence, and in so doing had ascended to a more evolved form, one free from the constraints of mortality and the limits of reality.
“My sons,” said Magnus with weary resignation, “welcome to the Planet of the Sorcerers.”
Time has passed.
Centuries or days, who can know?
It may be both and neither at the same time.
I cannot say how long has passed since we first came here, for I have come to appreciate that such concepts are an irrelevance here. All I know is that things have become immeasurably worse since the Obsidian Tower first reared its ugly immensity from the earth. Some say we could not have guessed that this world would have worked its evil upon us. I say: How could we not have known?
Hathor Maat fears it the worst, but I confess I too suffer the nightmarish dread that one day I will become less than nothing, a devolved creature with nothing left of the man I once was. Some even embrace their new forms, believing them to be marks of favour.
Fools.
It has become ever more rife amongst our number, and seventy-two warriors have succumbed to the flesh change since Magnus first spirited us away from Prospero.
Spirited… An old word, but an apt one perhaps, for we did not arrive on this desolate world by accident. This planet was waiting for us, prepared aeons ago by an intelligence greater than anyone, primarch or mortal, can possibly comprehend.
Magnus broods in his black tower, peering into the depths of the Great Ocean for validation, a sign that he was right to act as he did.
He will find nothing, for there is nothing to find.
His actions were never his own, for he forgot the first rule of the mysteries.
He let his ambition and hubris blind him to his flaws and the knowledge that there is always someone stronger and more powerful out there.
I will not make that mistake.
But we are still creatures of flesh and inclined to repeat our past mistakes, so I have been careful to surround myself with naysmiths to rein in my arrogance.
The bloodline of the Thousand Sons was born from the power that thrives all around us. We were given the chance to gather and pass on the knowledge of a hidden world, but we failed in that most golden of opportunities.
There are those among the remains of the Legion who do not believe the power of the Great Ocean can ever be mastered, that our accursed fate is clear evidence of that stark fact.
They are wrong.
This world is full of potential, but it is dangerous. Once I set foot on the path I believe will free us from our slow slide into degeneration there will be no leaving it. The Great Work I have begun will be the first step in proving how right we were, how loyal we were and how loyal we might yet be.
I promised to restore all that was lost when Prospero fell, and I intend to make good on that vow. This cabal will be the opening move in restoring the Thousand Sons to glory in the eyes of the Emperor.
I can feel them drawing near, the captains I must convince if I am to succeed.
Hathor Maat, I already know will join me, for he fears the ruin of his flesh more keenly than any. Sobek will follow my lead, as he has always done, but Amon?
Amon will resist, for he has served Magnus for longer than any of us can know.
He will be the key.
Win him over and this will work.
The Book of Magnus lies open before me, its pages filled with forbidden lore and knowledge from ancient, forgotten days. It holds the key to our salvation. In the labyrinthine collections of formulae, incantations and rites, I have found what I believe will be the beginnings of a mighty spell to undo all that has befallen us.
I call it the Rubric.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Hailing from Scotland, Graham McNeill worked for over six years as a Games Developer in Games Workshop’s Design Studio before taking the plunge to become a full-time writer. In addition to sixteen previous novels, Graham’s written a host of SF and Fantasy stories and comics, as well as a number of side projects that keep him busy and (mostly) out of trouble. Graham lives and works in Nottingham and you can keep up to date with where he’ll be and what he’s working on by visiting his website.
Join the ranks of the Fourth Company at www.graham-mcneill.com
Scanning and basic
proofing by Red Dwarf,
formatting and additional
proofing by Undead.
[Horus Heresy 12] - A Thousand Sons Page 50