[Horus Heresy 10] - Tales of Heresy

by Nick Kyme

  Bulveye gave his lieutenant a hard look, which Jurgen bore without remark. Finally the Wolf Lord sighed and turned back to the hololith. “Since when was our duty ever simple?” he growled underneath his breath.

  * * *

  The Stormbird entered the planet’s atmosphere on a plume of fire and descended in a long arc over the world’s equator. Within an hour the drop-ship was swooping low over cloud-wreathed mountains and green, forested hills as they approached the sprawling city of Oneiros. The low, white structures clustered against the hills like colonies of toadstools, surrounding a concentrated metropolitan area more in keeping with a modern Imperial city. Bulveye reckoned that the tall buildings and stately amphitheatres were made for public use, given that Oneiros was also the seat of the planetary government. The Wolf Lord also noted terraced vineyards skirting a number of the smaller hills, and other lands set aside for growing crops or grazing livestock. Bulveye could see that most of the herds were small and relatively young, and that the fields were swarming with farmhands hurriedly taking in the harvest.

  They had to circle the city twice to find any traces of the former starport. The huge landing fields that once serviced massive cargo shuttles or smaller tramp freighters were now grassy meadows, their precise, man-made edges still visible from the air. A white flock of beasts that could have been goats or sheep bolted for a nearby stand of trees as the huge ship passed overhead and came in for a vertical landing on the sward. The heat from the transport’s thrusters set alight broad swathes of the field’s greenish-blue grass as it touched down.

  By the time the drop-ship’s assault ramp had lowered to the smouldering ground there were close to a score of the dome-shaped local vehicles approaching the Stormbird from the edge of the landing field. They stopped at a discreet distance and a number of men and women climbed out just as the first of Bulveye’s Wolf Guard rushed out into the sunlight and established a security cordon around the ship.

  Bulveye reached the bottom of the ramp in enough time to witness the reaction of the locals at the sight of the towering Astartes. Fear and surprise were etched clearly on their youthful faces; the young men goggled at the size and power of the Astartes, while the women stared worriedly at the massive boltguns in the warriors’ hands.

  The Wolf Lord surveyed the broad field slowly, somewhat bemused at the lack of spectators. Even on Kernunnos, a world that thought itself superior to ancient Terra and hostile to the servants of the Imperium, the starport and the roads leading to the palace had been jammed with people, all eager to see the “barbarians” from beyond the stars. Had their visit to Oneiros been kept secret from the populace?

  “Stand down, brothers,” he subvocalised over his vox-bead, and his bodyguards lowered their weapons at once. With Jurgen and Halvdan in tow, he approached the welcoming party and quickly took their measure. Not one of them had to be older than twenty-one, he thought. They dressed expensively, favouring gold ornaments on their leather doublets and jewelled beading on their flared trousers. None of them bore a weapon, but they carried themselves with confidence and a kind of supple grace that came from physical conditioning and hard training.

  Without thinking, Bulveye sized them up from a predator’s standpoint, identifying who led the pack and who followed. Like all Space Wolves, Bulveye’s senses were superhumanly keen. He could smell the fear emanating from each person in the group, but also the acrid tang of challenge as well. The Wolf Lord turned to a young man in the forefront of the group and nodded his head respectfully. “I am Bulveye, Lord of the Thirteenth Great Company and sword-brother to Leman Russ, Primarch of the VI Legion.”

  The young man was startled at being addressed so directly. He was tall and lithe for a normal human, with dark hair and a sombre, bearded face. “I am Andras Santanno. My father, Javren, is the Speaker of the Planetary Senate.” Santanno’s leather doublet creaked as he sketched a deep bow. “Welcome to Antimon, lord.”

  Bulveye studied the young man carefully. “Your voice is familiar,” he said. “Were you the person I spoke to when we tried to contact your Senate?”

  This time Andras attempted to conceal his surprise. “I—yes, that’s correct,” he stammered. “My father—that is, the Speaker of the Senate—has been informed of your arrival. Fortunately, they’re currently in session, discussing—” he paused, suddenly wary, “important business. They’ve agreed to see you, though,” the young man added quickly. “I relayed to them everything that you told me, and they would like to hear more. I’ve come to take you to the Senate chambers.”

  Bulveye nodded as if he expected no less, though his mind was working furiously, considering the implications of everything Andras had told him. “Let us go then,” he said carefully. “I have a great deal to discuss with your father and his colleagues, and I fear that time is short.”

  Andras frowned slightly at Bulveye’s answer, but quickly regained his composure. He turned, gesturing towards the waiting vehicles. “Follow me,” he said.

  Bulveye was dubious that the flimsy-looking Antimonan vehicles could hold a fully armoured Astartes, much less carry one at any decent speed, but the ground cars’ interiors could be almost entirely rearranged to suit any occasion, and were made of sterner stuff than they appeared. Soon the Wolf Lord and his men were being transported along a bewildering array of narrow, curving roads that wound among the city’s tall hills. They passed dozens of low-slung, rounded stone buildings; up close, Bulveye could not help but notice the thickness of the walls and the sturdiness of their construction; in many ways they were more like bunkers than homes. People were coming and going from each house in a steady procession, carrying in bags of supplies and leaving empty-handed. The Antimonans paid little attention to the ground cars as they sped quietly past; when they did notice, it was with furtive, almost forbidding stares.

  Andras sat in the car’s front compartment, alongside the driver; Bulveye expected a stream of questions from the Antimonans, but they sat quietly for nearly the entire trip. When they spoke at all it was to one another, in a dialect of accented High Gothic that the Wolf Lord found difficult to follow.

  Bulveye did not mistake the tense sound of their voices, however, or the hunched, apprehensive set of their shoulders. As they rode deeper into the city, the Wolf Lord kept himself composed and outwardly calm, but his sense of unease steadily grew.

  The Antimonans were preparing for something dire. That much was clear. Had the Ironwolf’s arrival in orbit caused this? Until he knew more, Bulveye resolved to keep his observations to himself. He knew that his men were doubtless forming their own impressions of the city and its inhabitants. Later, when the opportunity arose, he would take his lieutenants aside and see if their thoughts matched his. For the first time, he began to doubt the wisdom of this journey. Jurgen was right: he’d been too impetuous, haring off to an unknown world in the hope of a joyful welcome and a triumphal end to years of brutal, merciless warfare. He had been too eager to scrub the cruelties of the Lammas Campaign from his soul.

  It took more than an hour for the long line of vehicles to reach the city centre, and the transition from the low structures in the hills to the towers of the city proper was jarring. Though made from the same white stone, the style of the tall structures was entirely different, built more for aesthetics and function than security. Bulveye had little doubt that the towers dated back to the earliest days of the colony.

  The Senate building was a curious, spiral-like affair, with a wide, conical base and grand terraces connected by spiral ramps that climbed the outside of the structure. There were few people about, and those that were seemed to be busy with official duties; Bulveye noted that a number of the bureaucrats carried hololith slates and portable vox-units that were smaller and more sophisticated than anything available in the Imperium, which he knew would interest the Iron Priests aboard the Ironwolf. It appeared that Antimon had managed to retain at least some of the technological capabilities that existed prior to the Age of Strife. Like Andras
and his fellows, the bureaucrats were startled by the size and demeanour of the Astartes—in one case, an older man took one look at Halvdan and went white as a sheet before quickly turning about and dashing into the building from where he came. The bearded lieutenant seemed not to notice, but the Wolf Lord knew better. From the surreptitious looks passing between the members of the Wolf Guard, it was clear that everyone was well aware of the strange reception and the mood of the Antimonans in general.

  Andras alone led the Wolf Lord and his men inside the Senate building, through a wide, open entranceway and into an echoing foyer decorated in elegant green marble. Niches surrounding the circular chamber contained hand-chiselled statuary of remarkable quality: the first example of art or culture he’d seen anywhere in the city, Bulveye realised. The pieces were ancient, possibly made during the Age of Strife or even earlier. The figures were clothed in archaic styles of dress similar to what Andras and his fellows wore, and seemed to depict Antimonans from many walks of life: artists, scholars, scientists, statesmen and entertainers. Two figures near the entrance were particularly noteworthy: one was clearly a spacer, clad in a shipboard utility suit. The other caught the Wolf Lord’s eye because of the long-sleeved hauberk he wore, and the long, slim sword held at his side. Two sleek, almost frail-looking pistols were tucked in the warrior’s wide belt, and the man’s face was concealed by a veil-like covering made of fine mail.

  Jurgen took a few steps towards the statue of the swordsman and studied it for a long moment. “It would appear you Antimonans knew a thing or two about warfare, once upon a time,” he said lightly. “How fortunate you were able to leave such barbaric pursuits behind.”

  An edge in the Space Wolf’s tone made the offhand comment sound like an accusation. Andras, who had been about to lead the delegation through the ornate doors at the opposite end of the foyer, froze in mid-step. After a moment, he replied in a cold voice. “The armigers were the young sons and daughters of Antimon’s noble houses, an honourable tradition that kept our planet safe for millennia. Were it not for the will of the Senate, those customs would still be practised today.”

  “Ah, I see,” the lieutenant said, as casually as before. “Forgive me then, if I spoke out of turn. I didn’t realise you were a member of Antimon’s noble class.”

  Andras glanced back over his shoulder at Jurgen and nodded stiffly. “No apologies are necessary,” he replied. “The law—” Suddenly, the young man paused, clamping his mouth shut against the rest of his response. “Please, come with me,” he said quietly, and continued across the room. When the young Antimonan’s back was turned, Bulveye glanced over at Jurgen and caught the speculative look in the warrior’s dark eyes.

  The young noble paused a moment before the entrance to regain his composure, then placed his hands against the ornate wooden doors and pushed them open. At once, a flood of raucous noise washed over Bulveye and his men. Judging by the sound, the entire Senate was engaged in a furious debate.

  Halvdan stepped close to his lord. “Should I have the men ready their weapons?” he said quietly. The warrior’s tone was half-jesting, half-hopeful. Bulveye shook his head, squared his shoulders and followed Andras into the chamber.

  The interior of the Senate building was breathtaking—an immense, open space that rose for twelve storeys on graceful, vaulted arches of super-tensile steel. Glowing shafts of sunlight penetrated the lofty space through the spiral of terraces that wound around the outside of the building, allowing those on the ground floor to observe a series of historical murals laser-etched into the curved ceiling. The great space was humbling even to the Astartes in its cathedral-like grandeur. The effect was marred only by the shouted curses echoing back and forth just above their heads.

  The Senate conducted its business from a semicircular balcony suspended half a storey above the floor of the chamber, accessed by a central staircase that climbed to the feet of the Speaker’s tall, wooden chair. Each senator had his own throne-like chair, carved from a rich, honey-coloured wood, but at the moment the men and women were on their feet, shaking their fists and shouting over one another as they tried to bully their opposition into surrender. Their High Gothic was even more accented and technical than what Bulveye had heard previously: he caught the words “lottery” and “quota”, but little else before the Speaker noticed the arrival of the delegation and began shouting for silence. As soon as the senators were aware of the armoured figures in their midst, the chamber fell silent at once. Many of the older statesmen sank back into their chairs with shocked expressions and faint murmurs of surprise. Others eyed the Astartes with an equal mix of shock, distrust and outright hostility.

  Bulveye had seen such expressions before, back on Kernunnos. A feeling of dread settled into his gut.

  Javren Santanno, Speaker of the Senate, directed his hostile stares more towards his own peers than the wary Astartes. He was a tall, bent-shouldered man well into old age, with a beak-like nose and loose, wattle-like flesh around his scrawny neck. Like the other senators, he wore a green velvet robe over his richly appointed doublet, and a wide chain of gold links dimpled the thick fabric over his chest. A soft felt hat slouched over his bald head, emphasising the Speaker’s large, hairy ears. With a final, warning scowl aimed at his peers, the Speaker glared down at Bulveye and his warriors.

  “Let me begin this farce by stating for the record that my son, Andras, is a fool,” Javren said in a querulous voice. “He’s barely twenty years and five, and despite all that he has seen of beasts such as yourselves, he is still stubbornly ignorant of the ways of the universe.” The Speaker levelled a gnarled finger at Andras. “He had no authority to respond to your broadcasts, much less invite you to meet with us in this august chamber.”

  Javren scanned the assembled Marines coldly, his lip curling in distaste as he took in their fur cloaks, and the gilded skulls hanging from their belts. “The only reason I agreed to this meeting was to make it absolutely clear that while this child may be credulous, we are most certainly not.” The Speaker addressed Bulveye directly. “Judging by the weight of the baubles hanging from your chest, I assume you’re the leader of this pack of wolves. Who are you, then?”

  The contempt in Javren’s voice left Bulveye speechless. For a moment the Wolf Lord was left struggling to maintain his composure. On Fenris, such sneering talk would have led to spilled wine and bared blades at the very least. Clans had fought bloody feuds for generations over lesser slights. Bulveye could sense the tension rising in his warriors as the silence stretched, and he knew that if he didn’t speak soon, Jurgen or Halvdan would take matters into their own hands.

  Forcing himself to relax, Bulveye inclined his head respectfully. “I am Bulveye, Lord of the Thirteenth Great Company of the Imperium’s Sixth Legion—”

  Javren cut the Wolf Lord off with a wave of his hand. “We do not need a recitation of your petty titles,” he said. “Make your demands, Bulveye, and then get out.”

  “Now listen,” Halvdan growled, taking a step towards the Speaker. The warrior’s hand drifted towards the sword at his hip.

  “If there is a misapprehension here, I believe it is on your part, honoured Speaker, not ours,” Bulveye said quickly. There was an iron tone of command in his voice that brought Halvdan up short. The bearded lieutenant glanced back at his lord, and the look on Bulveye’s face brought the man back to the Wolf Lord’s side.

  “We are not here to make demands of you or your people,” Bulveye said calmly. “Nor are we the beasts you imagine us to be. We are Astartes, servants of the Allfather, Lord of Terra and Emperor of Mankind.” At the mention of the Allfather, Bulveye felt his resolve surging like the tide, and he raised his head and addressed the Senate as a whole. “We have journeyed across the stars to bring you glad tidings: the storms that divided us have subsided at last, and Terra reaches out once more to embrace all her lost children. That which was broken will soon be re-forged, and a new civilisation will arise to reclaim our rightful place as masters of the
galaxy.”

  Bulveye was no skald, but his voice was clear and strong, and the words were as familiar to him as the weapons at his side. Consternation warred with mistrust on the faces of the assembled senators, while Andras’ face was lit with joy. As though in battle, Bulveye sensed the tide against him start to shift; he pressed ahead without pause.

  “No doubt your oldest legends speak of the days when our people crossed the stars and found new homes upon foreign stars,” the Wolf Lord said. “Much has changed since those days; I’m no storyteller, but let me share the news of all that has passed since Antimon was lost to us.”

  And so he began to tell the tale, of the rise of Old Night and the collapse of galactic civilisation, of the wrack and ruin of worlds. He told the story as best he could, begging his audience’s forgiveness when the tale grew muddled and confused; so much time had passed, so much knowledge lost or distorted, that no man would ever know the truth of all that had transpired over the last few millennia.

  None of the listeners chose to interrupt Bulveye, much less gainsay his story. Long was the telling of it: the Wolf Lord spoke nearly without ceasing as the afternoon progressed to evening, and one by one the shafts of light arcing above the Senate chamber went from yellow to mellow gold, from gold to dusky orange, and then went out altogether. Globes of pale light winked into being from metal sconces that ringed the senators’ balcony, plunging the statesmen into shadow.

  Finally, Bulveye told the tale of the Allfather’s conquest of Terra, and the creation of the first Astartes to fill the ranks of his armies. From there he recounted the beginnings of the Great Crusade, and the reunion of the Allfather with his children, the primarchs. Bulveye concluded his epic with the first meeting between Leman Russ and the Allfather on Fenris, a tale he knew very well.