Horus Heresy: Scars

by Chris Wraight

Now, if he was to believe what he was being told, one was dead and one was missing.

  And what of Horus?

  Which story was the truth? That he was the defender of those wrongly slain by the Wolves, or that he threatened to level the Imperium to its foundations? The Khan had never much cared for the Imperium, but truth – that was important. As was loyalty.

  That is the difference between the warrior and the butcher. Which one are you, brother? I know which I am.

  ‘Khagan.’

  He turned to see his Mistress of Astropaths looking up at him, her sightless eyes like milky orbs of glass in her withered face. ‘More from Dorn?’ he asked.

  ‘From Russ,’ she replied. ‘Distress calls from the Alaxxes Nebula, demanding immediate assistance. The Wolves are under attack from the Alpha Legion. He asks his brother to remember the bonds of fealty between primarchs and come to his assistance with all the speed you are renowned for. He ends with his thanks.’

  The Khan turned to his retinue, smiling coldly. ‘Did you hear that?’ he asked. ‘The Wolf King complimenting us. He must be desperate.’

  Qin Xa looked at him steadily. ‘Will we go?’ he asked. ‘And if we do, who shall we fight for?’

  Jemulan Noyan-Khan, whose presence was a glittering hololith projection from the Starspear, shook his head. ‘The Space Wolves have always been renegades. Either we leave them alone, or we do what we have been asked and destroy them.’

  ‘They’re fighting the Alpha Legion,’ said Hasik Noyan-Khan, also a projection. ‘Refresh my memory – were we not just fighting them ourselves?’

  The Khan crossed his arms, his hawk-like face still playing with the remnants of wintry amusement. ‘Who knows what the Alpha Legion were up to,’ he said. ‘Perhaps they too have their renegades.’

  ‘Then what is your order, Khagan?’ pressed Qin Xa, ever eager to be given licence to cut loose. ‘The fleet is armed and ready.’

  The Khan rested his chin on the gold-limned magnificence of his gorget. The atmosphere in the bridge seemed to thicken, curdling with anticipation. All faces remained fixed upon him.

  ‘Send this message to Russ,’ he said finally, lifting his heavy eyes towards the Mistress of Astropaths. ‘Tell him that we have received commands from Dorn to return to the Throneworld. Tell him that we cannot ignore them, much as we might like to.’ He closed his eyes, shaking his head, changing his mind. ‘No, no lies. Tell him that we could ignore Dorn’s order, but we will not. The truth is not obvious to us. We need time to uncover it.’

  The Khan uncrossed his arms and rested his right hand on the hilt of his dao. ‘Tell him that we have received disturbing news concerning Prospero, which we hope is false. Finally, tell him that, when the full picture is drawn, we hope we will fight beside one another again as brothers, as we were meant to. Then wish him a safe winter, or whatever it is they wish one another when they have finished speaking.’

  The Mistress of Astropaths bowed and hastened away to begin the sending. Once she had gone, Qin Xa was first to speak.

  ‘Then we are heading to Terra?’ he asked, disappointment evident in his voice.

  ‘That is the question,’ said the Khan, turning away from the retinue and gazing back up at the starfield. ‘Summon the Navigator. I have course instructions to give him.’

  Russ took the news in silence, gripping the thick fur of the two Fenrisian wolves that prowled at his feet. Bjorn watched him, noting how the primarch’s ice-blue eyes glistened with suppressed emotion.

  The viewports of the Hrafnkel’s bridge were almost opaque with rust-red dust. The entire fleet hung in the depths of the nebula, sunk amidst the shifting clouds like fish in a reef. The aftermath of Prospero had given them time to learn every nook and shaft of the immense stellar nursery – its gravitic variances, its sensor-defying baffles. Now their warships skulked in its depths again, recovering, re-arming, and waiting.

  Somewhere far above them, the Alpha Legion still probed and patrolled, sending void-charges spinning blindly at them, prowling across the cloud margins like circling jackals. They would discover the fleet’s precise location soon enough, but the respite had staved off destruction until then.

  It had been a ruinous, terrible retreat. Only Russ’s presence had prevented it from becoming a rout; he had held things together seemingly by sheer force of will, orchestrating lightning counter-thrusts, flanking moves, sudden fall-backs, all with the aim of getting as many ships into the heart of the nebula as possible before devastation overtook them.

  Bjorn studied him carefully. Something of the ebullience the primarch normally displayed seemed to have been kicked out of him. He looked bruised, almost resentfully so, as if his faithful duty had been rewarded with nothing more than a face full of ashes.

  ‘Until next winter?’ Russ asked. ‘He really said that?’

  The star-speaker nodded. ‘An attempt at politeness, I think.’

  Russ snorted.

  Bjorn moved a little closer, ignoring the thrumming growl of the primarch’s wolves. ‘So we’re on our own,’ he ventured.

  Russ nodded, not looking at him, his face tight with preoccupation. ‘We are.’

  ‘They have always been unreliable.’

  ‘They have.’

  Bjorn felt awkward. It was hard to witness a primarch’s self-doubt. Russ seemed to sense it, and stirred himself.

  ‘You know why I wanted you close to me, One-Hand?’ he asked.

  Bjorn shook his head.

  ‘You’re young. We can all see times are changing.’ Russ fixed him with those penetrating, frosty eyes. ‘Let’s be honest – we knew that something was wrong before Prospero. We’re used to spectres on Fenris. We never believed the myths my Father tried to tell us. Now that it’s come at last, we can’t feign surprise.’

  One of the wolves nuzzled against Russ’s thigh, pushing its blunt, fanged head along the ridged ceramite as if to comfort its master.

  ‘I never asked him what he had in mind for us once the Crusade was over,’ Russ went on. ‘I never asked him if we would be needed. Hardly matters now – if this madness can’t be stopped there will never be a time when we are not needed.’ Russ chortled emptily. ‘The irony of it. Horus has given us the purpose we were beginning to lack. He’s made us useful again.’

  Bjorn said nothing.

  ‘You will inherit this,’ Russ said. ‘Look what a mess we have made of things – me and my beloved brothers. You will have to pick up the pieces.’

  ‘Horus caused it,’ objected Bjorn.

  ‘And why did he turn?’ asked Russ sadly. ‘Do we know? Has that story been told?’ He shook his shaggy blond head. ‘Remember how this happened, One-Hand. Remember it all. The Legion will need you to keep the knowledge alive.’

  ‘You will not leave us,’ said Bjorn, almost as if by asserting it he could be sure it were true.

  ‘I will one day,’ said Russ bleakly. ‘You, I am not so sure. Your wyrd is unclear to me.’

  Then he moved himself, rolling his shoulders as if to throw off a cloak of lethargy. ‘But enough of this. We have work to do.’

  He glanced up at the nearest viewscreen. The vast profile of the Fenrysavar crawled across the view-field, its back scorched and half broken. The Hrafnkel itself would not look much better.

  ‘The Khan be damned,’ said Russ. ‘He’s always gone his own way, and we can manage without his swordplay. We’ve never needed help before – it was a mistake to ask for it.’

  He grinned. Something of the old bravado was returning.

  ‘We’ll be back,’ he said, grabbing the nape of the nuzzling wolf and ruffling it affectionately. ‘This is the lowest point. We’ll sharpen our claws and blades.’

  The feral smile intensified.

  ‘Trust me,’ he growled. ‘They haven’t seen the last of us.’

  Shiban waited outside Hasik Noyan-Khan’s chamber, absently turning the medal over in his hand. He’d come over to the Tchin-Zar on a fleet transport during one of the brief drops o
ut of the warp. On the trip across he had watched the emblem of the Horde of the Stone – a blunt mountain-outline, ringed by fire – grow steadily larger as he had neared the docking levels.

  The Horde was Hasik’s Legion division, comprising over twenty brotherhoods. The Tchin-Zar itself was a fine ship – a long, lithe, spare-jowled predator. One day, if the fates allowed, Shiban could see himself commanding a similar vessel. Rising to the position of khan had been an honour. To ascend to noyan-khan would gild that further.

  Maybe in the future. He would need many more kill-marks on his ritual sash first, and the scars that went with them.

  A chime sounded on the console and the doors slid open. Hasik was standing on the far side, out of armour, his sun-wrinkled face smiling.

  ‘Shiban,’ he said. ‘Back with us again. How are you?’

  Shiban bowed. ‘Well, noyan-khan. And you?’

  ‘The better for leaving Chondax.’

  Hasik ushered him into a large room with roughly plastered walls. It was decorated with Chogorian hunting talismans, and Qo ceremonial spears hung in racks. Six viewports along the left-hand side of the room were shuttered against the aether.

  Hasik strolled across a hide runner towards two low-slung wooden seats, slatted and bound in the old plains manner. He sat in one and gestured to the other.

  ‘You reached the fleet just in time,’ he said. ‘Any later and you’d have been fighting through them to get to us.’

  Shiban sat, the medal still clutched in one hand. ‘Why were they even there?’

  Hasik shrugged. ‘We don’t know. This isn’t like the old wars.’

  ‘Evidently.’

  Hasik regarded him. ‘Being khan suits you, Shiban. Yesugei always spoke well of you.’

  ‘He is generous.’

  ‘Not always. How was the work on Phemus Four?’

  ‘Foul.’ There was little point in hiding the truth. ‘For a long time I wondered why it had taken so long to purge. Once I got there, I stopped wondering.’

  Hasik chuckled. ‘The task is always completed, though.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘Why did you wish to see me?’

  ‘About Phemus. There were things that concerned me.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I was told the delay in compliance was down to the hain,’ said Shiban. ‘They did fight hard, but it felt wrong. The whole planet felt wrong.’

  ‘It was a difficult campaign.’

  ‘No more so than many others. I asked my brotherhood to look harder.’

  ‘And what did they find?’

  ‘Bodies,’ said Shiban. ‘Buried, with legionary blade wounds and no sign of greenskins around them.’

  ‘Legionary blades? You are sure?’

  ‘My Apothecary made a careful study. He is sure. I was going to ask you if you had received any similar reports.’

  Hasik placed his hands together. ‘None at all.’

  Shiban nodded slowly. ‘That is a shame. I had hoped to find some explanation.’

  ‘Other than the one you have. Tell me what that is.’

  ‘No, I do not have one. There were no other deployments on Phemus. We were alone with the greenskins.’

  Hasik thought for a moment. ‘But you think there were others.’

  ‘No.’ Shiban shook his head, still caught between several half-worked theories. ‘I don’t know. My first thought was strife between brotherhoods. Then the Alpha Legion arrived at Chondax – it crossed my mind that… But why would they?’

  ‘That Legion’s actions are never obvious,’ Hasik sighed. ‘Perhaps even to them. Have you consulted others?’

  ‘Outside my brotherhood, no.’

  Hasik nodded. ‘I authorised all deployments to Phemus. I can look again at the casualty figures – szu-Ilya keeps complete records these days. But you came here for more than that.’

  Shiban opened his fist. ‘It may be nothing. We found this on one of the bodies. I have never seen it before.’

  He handed Hasik the medal. The noyan-khan held it up to the light, turning it slowly.

  ‘This is a Chogorian mark,’ Hasik said, noting the hawk’s head. ‘Silver? Not pure, surely. Did you analyse it?’

  ‘We did not have time.’

  Hasik handled the medal carefully, as if something about it made him uneasy. Shiban understood that – he’d felt the same way.

  ‘Leave this with me,’ said Hasik. ‘The zadyin arga may wish to see it. And, please, remain on the Tchin-Zar.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘A battle-token? Perhaps. In any case, you were right to bring it to me.’

  Shiban felt relief. It had been hard to decide whether to raise the issue at all.

  ‘One thing,’ added Hasik thoughtfully. ‘Do you have Terrans in your brotherhood?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘But you fought with them.’

  ‘On Chondax. The Brotherhood of the Moon, under Torghun Khan.’

  Hasik nodded. ‘I see.’

  ‘If I may ask–’

  ‘I do not know. It might be helpful, it might not. I will make inquiries.’

  Shiban saw that it was time to leave. He rose to his feet and bowed. ‘Thank you, noyan-khan. Please tell me if there is anything more to be done.’

  ‘There will be, I am sure.’ Hasik didn’t rise. He toyed with the medal, turning it in his hand just as Shiban had done. ‘I will contact you before the next warp translation.’

  Shiban hesitated. He was pushing his luck. ‘I do not suppose–’

  ‘I know where we are going? Of course I do, though the Khagan has kept that knowledge close. You will find out soon enough.’

  Shiban nodded. More secrecy.

  ‘My thanks, noyan-khan,’ he said, bowing.

  The Word Bearers deep-void frigate Vorkaudar dropped out of the warp, slipping from the aether as smoothly as a dagger into flesh. The sub-warp engines keyed into a steady pattern, propelling it from the jump-point and towards Miirl’s distant green orb.

  Kal Zedej, sergeant of the Yesa Takdar embedded cadre and commander of the Vorkaudar, strolled to the railing of the bridge-balcony, watching the planet grow in size. It had a pleasing hue – cool, he thought, beyond the ragged swathe of tumbling rocks that orbited it.

  ‘Signal the outpost,’ he ordered, clasping the rail with his gauntlets.

  ‘They are silent, lord,’ came the reply from one of the serfs in the communications pit.

  Kal’s eyes narrowed. ‘All channels?’

  ‘Nothing yet. I will keep trying.’

  The Vorkaudar kept going, powering steadily closer.

  ‘Raise the voids,’ commanded Kal. ‘Slow approach. Run a full augur sweep.’

  His crew worked silently and swiftly. He watched their bald and tattooed heads bowed low over cogitator stations, strained faces lit green and orange by the glow from the pict-feeds. Long gone were the bridge uniforms they had once worn; now they were in the flowing robes of the faith, lovingly stitched by acolytes in the lower decks, covered in the tiny gold-picked writing that warded them and concentrated their minds.

  Kal remembered a time when he would have risked censure for a display like that. It was preferable now – allegiances had been flushed out and the long years of secrecy were coming to an end.

  It was good to know who the enemy was, to fight him openly and use his weakness against him. The pantheon smiled upon those who bore the truth with pride.

  ‘Anything?’ he asked.

  ‘Silence. Nothing over the augurs.’

  ‘Bring us in over it. Carefully.’

  The Vorkaudar thrust closer, skirting the cartographed belt of drifting asteroids, scanning incessantly. A blip recorded on one of the sensorium feeds, followed by a crackle of static.

  ‘Relay Nine Eighty-Nine,’ came the voice of an augur-reader.

  ‘Are they hailing us?’ asked Kal.

  ‘Standard low-beam transmission. Recorded. No sign of activity.’

  Kal blinked the feed from the sen
sors to his helm display. He saw the asteroid designated ‘78976-764’ rolling slowly in the void, one face riddled with dark metal scaffolds. A communications spire was visible in the centre, spiked and entwined like a minaret of lost Monarchia. There was no sign of damage, but no lights either.

  He ran his filed teeth over one another. This would hold things up. It would keep him from greater things. There was no glory in this.

  ‘Is the station shielded?’

  ‘Negative.’

  ‘Then I will investigate. Remain in position. Notify me if anything changes.’

  Kal signalled the others. Ledak had been in devotions and was irritated to be disturbed. Rovel had been doing something secretive in the bilges with mortals, one of those things that stained his gauntlets red and made him morose afterwards. It was probably a good thing that he was being called away.

  They joined him in the teleportation chamber – an octagonal room clad in iron. The floor was sticky and coppery, and there were scratch-marks on the lower walls.

  ‘Is this necessary?’ asked Ledak, his voice surly.

  ‘Essential,’ said Kal. Rovel was muttering to himself and fingering his chainblade’s hilt.

  Kal silently sent the command to activate the chamber. He could remember when teleportation had always been a clumsy matter of battleplate locators and pseudo-science. So much easier now that some superstitions had been cast off.

  ‘By your will,’ he ordered, scanning the outpost floor plans.

  The chamber filled with a dense crackle, hot even through his power armour. For a few seconds he felt the familiar rush – the balmy sensation of weightlessness, the roaring in his ears. There were times when he envied those who had delved deeper into the mysteries and stared directly into the abyss.

  Then it was over, and the aether ripped away into tattered slivers around him.

  ‘Dead,’ said Rovel.

  Kal looked around warily, and agreed. The outpost’s command chamber was empty – no lumens, no bodies. A few screens still fuzzed with static, throwing a flickering light across the otherwise pitch-dark space.

  He drew his bolter. ‘Check for targets,’ he voxed, gently expanding the range of his proximity detectors.

  Ledak moved towards the centre of the circular chamber. An empty throne swivelled loosely on a short plinth. Rovel stomped down to the perimeter pits.