Horus Heresy: Scars

by Chris Wraight

  They entered a wider corridor, lit red at floor level. The space reeked of blood, and daubed sigils ran glossily down the steel panels. More crew emerged – some accidently, some drawn by the noise. Xa’ven dispatched two with shots from his bolt pistol. Yesugei silenced four more.

  ‘Only because is not fully known,’ the Stormseer replied. ‘Just what really takes place on Medusa?’

  They passed an intersection, and Henricos paused to loose a volley of bolter-rounds down a connecting access-way, plastering it with blood and tattered robes.

  ‘It’s not the same,’ he growled, swivelling around to finish off a couple of stragglers. By now warning clarions had broken out. ‘I hid our signals with machines. Just devices. You tap into proscribed powers.’

  ‘Not proscribed to me.’

  As they worked their way closer to the bridge, mortal troops in heavier armour began to arrive, dropping into defensive formations at corridor junctions and laying down waves of projectile fire.

  Xa’ven pressed ahead, his armour deflecting the incoming rounds in a whirl of sparks. ‘Brothers, this isn’t really the time,’ he said, lumbering into hammer-range.

  Henricos pushed to join him, taking glancing blows to his battleplate. ‘You might be right,’ he grunted, working his bolter methodically.

  Yesugei came along in their wake, covered by the steady presence of the Salamanders around him. The corridors echoed with bolter-fire. The Word Bearers human troops were stubborn and committed, but no match for power-armoured opponents. They died in their dozens, clogging the walkways.

  None of them ran. None screamed for mercy. They fought on, hopelessly. They were just like their masters had been.

  They truly believe in this, thought Yesugei, watching more of them thrown clear by Xa’ven’s expert blows. This is now their cause.

  One of the mortals broke through Henricos’s assault then and ran at the White Scars legionary. He carried a lasgun and his face was fixed rigid with determination.

  Yesugei regarded him for a moment before swatting him aside, barely watching as the man’s body slammed into the wall and his weapon clanged to the deck. It was depressing to witness such fervour.

  ‘Take ship swiftly,’ he voxed to the rest of the makeshift squad. ‘Go fast. No honour in this fight.’

  Torghun made his way steadily through the Starspear’s lower reaches. The ambient grind of the warp engines thrummed around him. The ship was travelling fast – wherever the Khagan was taking the Legion, it was with his habitual speed.

  Torghun passed a few menials on the way down. They bowed and hurried on, barely looking at him.

  He reached the designated location and drew up to the slide-door.

  He paused for a moment. As he lifted his finger to the entry-rune, a faint chill passed through him, momentarily, like a fever-shiver.

  He depressed the rune with a soft click.

  ‘State nature of business,’ came Nozan’s voice.

  ‘I can’t say,’ said Torghun.

  He heard the faint whirr of a vox-detector confirming his identity, and the door slid back.

  Nozan wore his cowl. Behind him the chamber was dark and flickering, as though lit by candles.

  ‘It has been a while,’ said Nozan.

  ‘And always a pleasure,’ said Torghun, pushing past him.

  The chamber beyond was fuller than usual. More than forty figures stood in a loose circle, each wearing a cowl and long robes. The light was low, almost theatrically so.

  Torghun took his place. Something shimmered at the centre of the circle, like air displaced by a thruster afterburn. He couldn’t focus on it. Every time he tried, his eyes slid away from it. None of the others seemed to be making the attempt, so he gave up.

  ‘Brothers,’ came a voice from the far side of the circle. Torghun recognised Hibou’s accent. ‘The lodge is expanded. Members from across the fleet have joined us. For those new to this, welcome. The circle will keep expanding, faster now that matters are in motion.’

  Torghun listened carefully. He still didn’t know what this was about. Lodge gatherings were normally small affairs, confined to a single ship. Perhaps this demonstrated that things were finally coming to a head.

  Secrecy, secrecy. Surely the need for it would dissipate soon.

  ‘It is difficult to do this while in the warp,’ Hibou went on. ‘Though not as difficult as on Chondax, and we can all be glad to be rid of that world.’

  A few gruff chuckles. Torghun had to work not to peek under the shadow of the cowls around him. Why were they all still concealed?

  ‘Now that the Khagan has taken us into the void, opportunities arise – ones we have been waiting for for a long time. Try to look at the light. For those new to it, trust me, it does become easier.’

  Torghun’s eyes flicked back to the circle’s centre. He narrowed his gaze, concentrating hard.

  For a moment, all he saw was a faint tremor of movement – trembles, vibrations. Then something clarified: a column, less than a metre tall, hazy at the edges. It was translucent, almost transparent, but definitely there, like a pillar of glass, or maybe water, held rigid before them.

  It remained hard to look at. Torghun felt his eyes sting and blinked away tears. A dim sense of nausea stirred in his stomach, accompanied by the awareness, somehow, of tremendous power boiling away close by.

  ‘What is this, brother?’ came a voice from halfway around the ring of bodies. Torghun didn’t recognise the speaker, but the tone was much as his would have been, had he spoken himself: uneasy, suspicious.

  ‘Calm yourself,’ said Hibou. ‘The nausea is normal. It fades. This is no different to the art of the zadyin arga.’

  Torghun kept watching. Once he had started, it was hard to pull his eyes away.

  Slowly, shapes emerged at the heart of the glass pillar. He caught a glimpse of something long and sinuous, curling around an invisible axis like a flame.

  Then, more clearly, words emerged: Khorchin script, glowing a dull silver, hanging in the body of the pillar and refracted as though underwater. Torghun traced the meaning as the letters flickered in and out of existence.

  Your course is known. Your destination is known. A meeting will be possible. Until then, work as you have been doing. Do not force matters. The Warmaster is aware. He approves.

  Torghun felt his hearts beating fast. At the mention of the Warmaster, the pulse picked up a little more.

  Hibou stepped into the circle, his face mostly hidden by his cowl. ‘What of the Alpha Legion? We were not warned of that.’

  For a while, the pillar remained empty. Then, slowly, more words emerged.

  It is difficult. We do not have that information. Alpharius is…

  There was a pause.

  …unpredictable.

  ‘Any instructions, then?’

  You have them. Your course is known. Your destination is known. The meeting will take place. Until then, stay faithful. The truth will become apparent.

  ‘Is it not already apparent?’ asked another cowled figure. Torghun didn’t recognise that voice either. It was hard, clipped, heavily Chogorian. ‘Things are finally revealed. We could reveal ourselves too. There is nothing to be ashamed of. I have nothing to be ashamed of.’

  Again, a long pause. Then the glass pillar glowed with movement again.

  I understand. No, you have everything to be proud of. But the Warmaster arranges this for a reason. Treachery is in all places. No Legion is free of it, not even his. The Imperium’s fate depends on it. Your Legion’s fate depends on it.

  What was producing the words? It almost had the character of cogitator spiel, churning out platitudes, though some of the phrases were clearly answers to questions. Torghun watched the lines of text as they spiralled and danced in the pillar, his eyes stinging a little less the more he read.

  Trust to this – your Khan is as noble as he is powerful. He will see the cause for what it is. He will be shown the truths of Nikaea and the truths of Davin. W
e have every confidence. We have every confidence because of you all. Stay true.

  The glass pillar began to ripple out of existence. The air around it closed in, swamping the fragile silver script. Torghun narrowed his eyes, trying to make out what remained.

  For enlightenment. Freedom from tyranny. Fraternity. The last words were almost illegible. For the Imperium of Man.

  Then it flickered out. Torghun breathed in deeply, suddenly aware of how hard he had been concentrating. His skin prickled; a line of sweat ran down the small of his back.

  No one spoke for a while. Then the lights rose in intensity. When Torghun blinked, he saw reverse-colour impressions of the pillar on his retinas.

  ‘What was that?’ asked one of the gathering.

  Hibou pushed his cowl back. ‘That is the nature of them, brother. Cryptic. Unfortunate, but necessary.’

  Others, following Hibou’s lead, removed their cowls. One of the speakers, the one with the hard Chogorian accent, kept his on.

  ‘If we were to try less opaque forms of communication, we would be discovered,’ said Hibou. ‘The star-speakers rely on riddles themselves. Why should this be any different?’

  ‘What is it, then?’ asked one of the brothers. Torghun knew him – Xo Hutan, of the Brotherhood of the Hunter’s Star.

  ‘A conduit,’ said Hibou. ‘A way of speaking to those we will join.’

  ‘They are already calling the Warmaster a traitor.’

  ‘And you know, Hutan, that this cannot be.’ Hibou turned to the others. ‘Horus is the only one who ever treated the Khagan with the respect he is due. If we are forced to choose between a tyrant and a liberator, what would a true son of Chogoris do?’

  Low mutters of approval ran around the gathering.

  ‘The Warhawk will see it,’ Hibou went on. ‘He will see the truth, just as we have done, when the time is right, and we are charged to deliver it.’

  Nozan nodded enthusiastically. ‘The time is right.’

  ‘For what?’ asked Torghun. His growing sense of unease had not abated. He looked around the chamber at forty pairs of eyes. ‘For whispering around weather-magic?’ He glared at Hibou. ‘We do nothing but talk.’

  Hibou smiled. ‘For now. The Legion is not yet ready for more, brother.’ He turned to the rest. ‘I know you chafe at this, but believe me, words are more important than you know. Keep speaking to those who can be made to understand. Speak quietly, go carefully, so that our number will spread. Some will never be persuaded – we have been warned of this. If the other khans order their brotherhoods to silence us I wish for a hundred of their warriors to already be our allies. Harmony will prevail. That is the outcome we should aim for. The Legion will be set on its course, and the Khagan will see that we have taken the honourable path.’

  Hibou glanced back at Torghun, warning in his eyes. ‘In the end, he must choose. All we are doing is easing his decision.’

  ‘I did not Ascend in order to talk,’ said Torghun, disliking Hibou’s sanctimony. ‘I joined to fight.’

  ‘Do you really think you will not?’

  For a moment the two of them held one another’s gaze. Eventually, Torghun lowered his. He didn’t even know why he was arguing. Something about the ritual bothered him, and made him irritable. His skin still prickled, as though static rippled across it.

  ‘So, that is all,’ said Hibou, addressing the rest. ‘We will convene whenever we may before we reach our destination. Until then, stay in communion. Keep the fire burning.’

  He bowed, and the assembled lodge bowed in turn. One by one, talking amongst themselves, they broke away from the circle. Platters of food emerged from somewhere – slivers of grilled meats and cha-tazen pickles. The lodge meeting took on its more usual character and a hum of earnest conversation broke out.

  Torghun saw Nozan heading towards him and slipped away, hoping to avoid talking to either him or Hibou. As he made his way towards a pitcher of something smelling alcoholic, a figure blocked his path. It was the Chogorian, the one who had kept his cowl up.

  ‘You don’t have to stay hidden here, brother,’ said Torghun. ‘Not if you don’t wish to.’

  ‘You are Torghun.’

  Torghun raised an eyebrow. ‘And you are direct.’

  The Chogorian pulled back the cowl. When he saw who it was, Torghun could not hide the faintest twitch of shock.

  ‘I am told you know Shiban, of the Brotherhood of the Storm,’ said Hasik Noyan-Khan. His tanned, scarred face looked like weather-hardened leather.

  Torghun nodded, swallowing his surprise. ‘We fought together on Chondax.’

  ‘He gave me this.’ Hasik handed him a lodge medal.

  Torghun held it up to the light. It looked very much like the one he had been given, years ago. ‘He’s a member?’

  ‘Not at all. He found it on Phemus.’

  Torghun looked up into Hasik’s steady gaze. ‘Forgive me–’

  ‘You want to know, what does this have to do with you?’ asked Hasik, placing a hand on Torghun’s shoulder and guiding him to the wine pitchers. ‘I like Shiban, he is one of the best in my ordu. But things are moving fast now and he has already made some noise, and I would like to stop that.’

  Torghun eyed him uncertainly. ‘What happened on Phemus?’

  ‘Nothing of our doing, to my knowledge. The Snakes, perhaps? But here is the important thing.’ Hasik leaned closer, and Torghun saw how deep his scar had been cut. ‘I do not wish to see him harmed. Perhaps he can be talked to. Like Hibou recommends. When the choice is made, I wish to see him on the right side of the argument.’

  Torghun thought on that. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘We didn’t see eye to eye on everything. He’s Chogorian, and I’m–’

  ‘You are a White Scars legionary. You are a warrior of Jaghatai. This is all that matters.’ Hasik fixed him with his penetrating stare. It was hard not to be overawed by his manner. He was one of the few who had been there from the start, who had fought with the Khagan centuries ago. ‘Do this for me, Torghun. I will arrange it. Speak to him. I think he will listen. Those who fight together – they share a bond.’

  ‘And if he cannot be persuaded?’

  ‘He will be open to reason. I was.’

  Hasik poured a glass of wine from the pitcher and handed it to him. Then he poured one for himself.

  ‘A long time ago, the Khagan told me the only enemy we had to fear was decadence. Each time he slit an emperor’s throat on Chogoris I saw him whisper the lesson to himself. Never rest. Never grow fat. Never sit on a throne, for it will become your coffin. When he told me that, I saw it was true, and I loved him more than ever, for I saw how ardently he believed it.’

  He took a sip, then smiled at Torghun.

  ‘We do this for our souls,’ he said, and not a shred of doubt existed in his warrior’s face. ‘When the time comes, you will make him understand.’

  ‘You know what they talk of, all across the Crusade?’ Sanguinius had asked.

  Ullanor’s steel-grey atmosphere had hung behind the Angel, making his rubescent armour shine all the more strongly. The primarch lived up to his moniker, and his flawless face had glowed with honest amusement.

  It was not long after Horus’s investiture and the parade grounds still swarmed with listless warriors. It would take weeks just to arrange the landers to convey them all to the fleet in orbit above.

  In the terrace overlooking the main processional, silken awnings sheltered four primarchs from the worst of the kicked-up engine grime. There you could forget, if you tried, about the billions of soldiers all trying to find their way off-world at the same time. The Khan, sitting with his brothers, wondered idly who had been given the thankless task of orchestrating it.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Mortarion, though the Khan could see that he was not really interested. The Death Lord had cut an isolated figure during the celebrations, uneasy in all but his own company. In that respect, the Khan had some sympathy with him.

  Sanguinius leane
d back in his throne, dangling a golden goblet casually in one hand. ‘They place wagers on which one of us would win in single combat. There are odds. I have seen them.’

  Mortarion snorted. Fulgrim, the fourth of the gathering, laughed.

  ‘That has been settled, has it not? Our brother Horus wins them all.’

  Fulgrim and the Angel looked similar in some ways. They had the same sculptural faces, the same flamboyant armour. Where Sanguinius looked as though he had been born wearing gold-rimmed pauldrons, though, the Khan had always thought Fulgrim looked to be trying a little too hard. In the end, he guessed that Sanguinius would have been happy to cast off his trappings; Fulgrim gave the impression that he would rather die.

  ‘That would seem to be our father’s view,’ said Sanguinius. ‘It won’t stop the common man making wagers.’

  Mortarion shook his pale head, and the tubes running from his archaic rebreather jangled against one another. ‘Stupid.’

  Fulgrim gave him an amused look. ‘Oh? Why is that?’

  ‘Because we were made for different fights,’ growled the Death Lord. His filtered voice never seemed to shift from a sullen register. ‘Come to Barbarus, peacock, and see how long your feathers last in the smog.’

  Fulgrim’s silver eyebrows rose. ‘Perhaps I might, brother.’

  ‘I would not recommend it,’ said Sanguinius. ‘I have seen those chem-clouds. I suspect he would stand them longer than you, Fulgrim.’

  ‘Some of us had it easier than others,’ Mortarion muttered.

  Fulgrim looked archly at Sanguinius. An awkward silence fell.

  ‘You should not regret that,’ said the Khan. The other three turned, as if surprised that he had a voice. ‘The hardship.’

  Mortarion glared at him sourly. His pallid flesh almost matched Ullanor’s overcast, humid skies. ‘I don’t regret it,’ he said. ‘I could regret that only some of us gained our father’s favour, though. I could regret that.’

  Sanguinius took a sip of wine from his glass, serenely unconcerned. ‘Brother, you should be pleased for Horus.’

  ‘Why?’ Mortarion’s expression was pinched. ‘Because he was found first? Had the longest to work with his Legion? If it had been you on Cthonia, if it had been me, we might have been in his place, now.’