The Path of Heaven

by Chris Wraight

  Torghun was the most senior of those who had assembled. Several darga had survived, but no khans of old brotherhoods. That in itself was a source of doubt – in every sidelong glance he found himself suspecting that they resented that. He should have been first in the line of fire, just as their khans no doubt had been. To be alive at all was a kind of failure, one that even they themselves felt and amplified.

  ‘So you were right,’ said Sanyasa to him, two days into the first warp-stage.

  They sat together in the mess hall, now scattered with sparse groups of occupants. From down below the clang and echo of the old engines could be heard, labouring hard to keep up with the main convoy.

  ‘Right about what?’ replied Torghun, chewing on a dried husk of meat-equivalent.

  ‘We should not have come back. Just kept fighting. Waited until the numbers got too great.’

  ‘You would have died unmarked.’

  ‘It would have been better.’

  But Torghun no longer agreed. The shame of meeting Shiban again had not yet burned itself out, but was giving way to anger. The scarred khan had surely been right – it was more than coincidence. They had dogged one another since Chondax, their paths criss-crossing over and over. That was fate, not chance.

  ‘Fighting will come,’ Torghun said. ‘I have spoken to the others, the ones who arrived before us. They say the numbers are against us. The enemy has closed the Legion off.’ He rolled the meat-stick around in his mouth. ‘We will all be fighting soon, some way or another.’

  ‘I do not believe he knows,’ said Sanyasa, poking at his own ration.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Khagan. I do not believe he sanctioned this. Even those who took the death-oath were treated honourably. He would not have recalled us for this.’

  Torghun smiled dryly. ‘Maybe he does, maybe he does not. Do you think that every kill team in the ordu attracts his attention?’

  ‘He would not have allowed it.’

  ‘You seem sure.’

  ‘I am sure,’ said Sanyasa, slamming a closed fist down on the table­top. He leaned in closer, his voice falling. ‘We might petition him. If Tachseer is his adviser, then there can be no redemption for us, but if he sees us–’

  Torghun laughed, shaking his head. ‘Did you not notice it, brother? We are at war now, the Legion united. There is no time for this, even if it could be done.’

  ‘It was done before,’ said Sanyasa, warily. ‘So I was told.’

  So it had been. The Kaljian had made it in close to the flagship, aided by the Swordstorm’s bridge crew, right at the height of the Legion’s confusion. Torghun remembered the flurry of orders beforehand, most from Hasik, bringing the Starspear alongside and forcing the confrontation that, once again, could not just have been chance.

  ‘That was then,’ Torghun said.

  ‘It can be done again. Or is Tachseer greater than you in all things?’

  For an instant, the barb stung. Then Torghun reached for another meat-stick. ‘Do not attempt to sway me that way, brother.’

  Sanyasa shook his head, smiling ruefully. ‘Others here feel the same,’ he said. ‘The Khagan would never have sanctioned it.’

  ‘You will not have the chance to put it to the test.’

  Sanyasa reached for his own rations.

  ‘Perhaps not,’ he said, ripping a strand of synth-meat from the block.

  Mortarion waited a long time. The system was searched from end to end, and nothing was found but wreckage – some older ships, scuttled before the V Legion had made for the warp. Augur-sweepers were sent out further afield, travelling as far as their sub-warp engines would allow before being recalled.

  They found nothing – the Khan was gone.

  That was neither unexpected nor something to be regretted. The fates had remained silent on the prospects of an encounter, and the esoteric tarot in his possession had similarly given him nothing. It was enough, for the moment, to know that his quarry had been at Aerelion, perhaps only hours before his own arrival. The subsequent presence of Eidolon only made the prospect of an eventual resolution more certain.

  And so he waited, first in his private cells, where he consulted the arcana and returned to the grimoires. Then he studied the tactical data streamed to him by his bridge crew, and noted every morsel of it. Then he returned to the transcript testimony of the captured legionary, Algu, looking for anything in it beyond Aerelion. He did not expect to find much, but the steps had to be taken, in order, as steadily and thoroughly as he did everything.

  By the time Eidolon finally signalled his passage to the Endurance, all preparations had been completed. The Lord of Death watched the glittering III Legion Stormbird make the short journey between flagships, accompanied by a wing of gunships and tracked throughout by the Proudheart’s gunnery teams.

  Even now, so little trust, the primarch thought. This may be our gift from Horus for eternity.

  He received Eidolon in the dusty Chamber of Records, set deep in the flagship’s forward carcass. It was a sombre space, hung with burned battle-standards and the long lists of the fallen, carved into black stone and embellished with Barbarusian glyphs. Lamps burned softly in the alcoves – pale green, luminous as marsh gas. Webs of black mould crept across the pockmarked stone.

  The Lord Commander Primus entered alone, followed only by two of the Deathshroud, both of whom took up positions on either side of the chamber’s great obsidian doors.

  Mortarion took a moment to gauge his opposite number. He had known of Eidolon and had witnessed him on many prior occasions. He had been elegant in the past, lean, with armour that had been gilded and master-crafted but had not strayed into gaudiness. Some of that old poise remained, but much else was gone. His throat bulged obscenely, accommodated by new armour that swelled and curved like water. His heavy cloak was burnished with veins of gold and silver, woven into impossibly complex patterns that reflected and caught the lantern-light like prisms.

  When he reached the primarch, Eidolon bowed clumsily, his movements halting and awkward. Pain was evident in every gesture, drawn across flesh that had once been pristine.

  ‘For a moment back there, lord commander, I thought you might attack us,’ the primarch said, his dry voice crackling through the rebreather. ‘You noticed the sigils late.’

  Eidolon gave a shrug. ‘My troops are enthusiastic. We blooded the Scars at Kalium – you heard about that? They are a beaten force, and we looked forward to doing it again.’

  ‘My brother would have been with them.’

  Eidolon sniffed. ‘So he would.’

  Mortarion allowed himself a brief flicker of amusement at that. If this creature truly thought he was the equal of the Warhawk, perhaps the mental acumen of the Emperor’s Children had indeed been damaged beyond repair.

  ‘Lord commander,’ Mortarion said, gesturing ahead, ‘walk with me.’

  The two of them passed deeper into the chamber. Graven images looked down on them from the shadows above – passionless statues carved of dark granite, their faces blank. The two sets of boots sent dull echoes ringing through the aisles, all drear, all empty.

  ‘I have not spoken with your master for a long time,’ said Mortarion.

  ‘Nor I.’

  ‘If you knew where he was, what his purpose is, you would not tell me.’

  ‘No, I believe I would.’ Eidolon showed little interest in the sepulchral surroundings. ‘I thought for a while he was waiting for the Lord of Iron’s wrath to wane. As for now, who knows? He does not choose to make his intentions known, but we trust that he has the interests of the war at heart.’

  ‘But he will be at Terra, by the end.’

  ‘One way or another, I suppose we all will.’

  ‘Not the Khan.’ Mortarion paused before one of the greatest statues – a twisted, many-headed beast that reared up into the d
ark like an ogre of his home world’s past. ‘He must not be on the walls of the Palace when the siege is set.’

  ‘Be at peace on that score,’ said Eidolon, casually. ‘Every major transit and conduit is blocked or watched. The Warmaster’s host has the measure of Dorn’s outer sentinels. All we are doing here is chasing him further out into the void, along with Guilliman and those two damned Angels.’

  ‘That is not enough. When I return to the Warmaster’s side, I will bring his head back with me.’

  Eidolon looked at him slyly. ‘For Horus, or for you?’

  ‘Our purposes are aligned in this.’ Mortarion started walking again. From beyond the chamber walls, the many noises of a warship filtered through the stone – hums, snarls, clangs. ‘But here the trail goes cold, unless you have spoor that I do not.’

  ‘You would know these things if you made use of that which has been given to you.’

  ‘I am unwilling to pay the price.’

  ‘Yet you will allow us to,’ said Eidolon, ‘to give you what you need.’

  ‘You embrace these things like children running after sweetmeats. There is no hardship for you in this.’

  Eidolon chuckled, nodding. ‘How well you know us. Or most of us, anyway. Give me time, and it shall be done.’ Then he lost his smile. ‘But you cannot defer the gods forever, my lord. You may build walls and you may issue laws, but I heard the reports from Molech – you cannot put back what has been taken out.’

  ‘That has always been your philosophy.’

  ‘Not just ours. They will come to collect, sooner or later.’

  Mortarion kept walking. He had heard the threats breathed in the night for too long to be troubled by the same warning from a mutilated legionary’s lips. ‘Let them come. I fear neither them nor the one who made me.’

  They reached the end of the chamber. A granite altarpiece soared up before them, crowned with chain-hung lanterns. A great skull carved from ivory rested on the top of it, its eyes empty and gaping. Once an Imperial aquila had been suspended there too, but it had been cast down and now lay in thick, dusty pieces.

  ‘I suppose we are not natural allies, you and I,’ said Mortarion, looking up at the mingled icons. ‘But I am no tyrant. I do not command your allegiance, and do not attempt to wrest it from you. When this is done I will hold you in honour. Only one thing do I demand – that it is I who lands the killing blow. In all else, you may do as you wish.’

  Eidolon stared at him for a moment, his expression difficult to read. Perhaps there was even something like admiration there, but that would be hard to countenance. In any event, it didn’t last long – the Lord Commander Primus bowed again, as haltingly as before, and when his sutured face rose it carried the habitual air of disinterested amusement.

  ‘I have no appetite for taking skulls, my lord,’ Eidolon said, sounding sincere enough. ‘It brings back painful memories. So, believe me, when the final blow is struck, no matter what else is done, his head can be yours to claim.’

  Eidolon, Lord Commander Primus of the Emperor’s Children

  Sixteen

  The journey to the Catullus Rift was not long – three warp-stages, maintained in spite of the heavy contrary buffeting that the universe always sent against them. Two ships were lost, one of them a veteran destroyer with three dozen warriors of the Legion on board, and many other Navigators were wounded or slain on the crossing, their fatigue or mental exhaustion finally getting the better of them. Through it all, the fleet limped on, amalgamating crews and drafting in the last of the reserves to keep the void craft battling along their tortuous course.

  At the end of the final stage, the fleet vanguard emerged into real space and powered towards the coordinates revealed in Arvida’s mind-scry. As the warp shutters came down and the real-viewers were opened up, every soul on every vessel felt the same instant unease. The void was not black, peppered with stars – it was a dull, throbbing blue, shifting like dye thrown into water. More of the Navigators, even those in the big battleship cadres, suffered. Some drooled and clutched at their warp-eye; others simply slumped into their nutrient baths, blood leaking from their ears.

  The Swordstorm quickly assumed the spear-tip. The flagship powered its way ahead, carving a straight path through the seething matter. Despite its vast displacement and powerful plasma drives, it was still rocked on its axis, shaken as if by seismic charges.

  The Khan sat enthroned on the command bridge, watching the journey unfold through the great forward viewports. Yesugei, Jubal, Shiban and Veil stood close by, together with the flagship’s own master of Navigators, the crone Avelina Hjelvos. Ilya and Arvida had taken position a little further off, and on the edge of the throne dais others of the Legion command assumed their stations: khans, Stormseers, fleet strategos.

  Hjelvos leaned heavily on her staff, curling long brown fingers around the length of rune-carved steel. Her breathing came fitfully from under a heavily embroidered cowl. ‘The void is polluted, lord,’ she whispered, adjusting the fit of her bandana.

  Veil looked both fascinated and appalled. Though he might not have shared Hjelvos’ acute warp-sense, he clearly recognised the broad shape of what lay ahead.

  ‘Lham harmonics,’ he muttered, peering through the viewers intensely. ‘Radiating widely. This is from a warp rift.’ He looked up at the primarch. ‘I urge caution, my lord.’

  The Khan remained impassive. ‘Proceed at cruising speed,’ he ordered. ‘Keep the fleet in cohesion. All void shields to full coverage.’

  The Swordstorm ploughed on, its massive prow slicing through the thickening clouds. Slivers of light flickered and danced within the plumes, like gas flames caught within crystal vials. Soon the real-viewers clouded over, clogged with inky tendrils and stained with a filmy blue smear.

  ‘Release augur-probes,’ ordered the Khan.

  A brace of spinning steel orbs shot out from the Swordstorm’s prow, tumbling away into the murk beyond. Screeds of data began to pour through the pict-feeds – topographical surveys, channel-widths, echoes of more solid material far up ahead.

  The deck began to judder. Warning runes glowed into life, one by one, across crystal viewscreens. The deep rhythm of the plasma drives picked up in volume, as if the engines were struggling against a strong headwind.

  ‘Slow to half-speed.’

  The change in velocity improved things for a while, but as they made further progress the vibrations returned. Electric flickers broke out within the clouds ahead, scampering across a churning voidscape.

  ‘This will damage us,’ warned Hjelvos, twitching at each sudden sway of the deck.

  Yesugei took a step towards the dais railing, his golden eyes locked on the light show outside the hull. ‘What are we seeing here?’ he asked, intrigued.

  By then Veil was almost as agitated as Hjelvos. ‘Something has punctured the impedimentum realitas. Something profound, up ahead. This must be done with caution, lord. Your ships do not have their Geller fields raised.’

  ‘Quarter-speed,’ ordered the Khan, and once more the onward procession slowed. Violent streaks of sharp white slathered across the vacuum. They were strangely suggestive, those flickers. For fractions of a second it seemed that they displayed images – faces, or reaching limbs, or some other mortal aspect – but never for long enough to truly resolve.

  ‘Probes report solid matter ahead, bearing five-six-one,’ reported Taban, the sensorium master. ‘Adjust course?’

  The Khan nodded. ‘Adjust, then maintain. Signal all ships to follow our lead.’

  Ilya looked over at Arvida. Like the Navigator, he was breathing heavily through his vox-grille. ‘Are you well, my lord?’ she asked.

  Arvida made no reply, but gripped the iron railing hard. Above them, suspensor lumens began to sway.

  ‘There will be a centre to this,’ said Veil, addressing Hjelvos, Yesugei and the primarch as he
spoke, unsure who best to direct his commentary to. ‘A source. You cannot take these ships into it.’

  The Khan barely seemed to register. His gaze was now focused on the swirling clouds ahead, as if in recognition of something. ‘We will not turn back.’

  The vibrations continued to ramp up. Muffled, rhythmic bangs rose up from the lower levels, and the engines began to stutter. Damage reports from the lesser ships started to register on the fleet ledgers. In the vacuum ahead, the cobalt glow built further, strobing uncomfortably, spilling through every open real-view portal and making the interior of the bridge shimmer.

  ‘My lord,’ said Hjelvos, wheezing now and clamping one hand to her right temple. ‘I counsel you, listen to the ecumene. The warp drives–’

  ‘Are dormant,’ replied the Khan, as quietly and firmly as ever. ‘We proceed.’

  The bangs grew in volume. A hair-line crack snaked its way across the ceiling-brace above them, worming through pure adamantium, slowly but surely.

  Hjelvos looked like she was considering another protest, but said nothing. The engine pitch became strangled, and the bridge decking drummed. A low, booming thunder began to build, sounding – impossibly – like it was coming from the exterior. Soon the clamour resolved into deep, repeated clangs, like an iron fist banging on a brass door.

  Even Jubal shifted a little then, just moving his weight from one leg to the other, the warrior’s preparation for sudden action. The mortal crew in the pits below stole furtive glances up at the command dais, hampered now by the strangely occluding light that crawled and slid across every surface, blurring the controls and the pict-feeds. The breaking of glass rang out from higher up in the bridge galleries.