Pharos

by Guy Haley

‘Get me full casualty reports, legionary numbers first,’ he said. He meant nothing callous by it, he simply had an invasion to execute. Primary assets must be accounted for. ‘Cartography, give me a positional.’

  ‘There are no landmarks, my lord. This will take some time.’

  ‘I am aware. Give me your best extrapolation.’

  ‘Incoming transmission from the Watcher. Activate hololith,’ said Matheris.

  A life-size image of Company Master Alcuis of the Dark Angels appeared in the air, the commander of the small detachment of the I Legion attached to Corvo’s command. Surprisingly the image of Alcuis’ face was crystal clear, granted an illusion of solidity Corvo had not seen in the hololith since the storms began.

  ‘Corvo, what by the deeps is going on?’

  ‘The Pharos is out.’

  ‘Then it has fallen, and our task is fruitless.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not. We must proceed as before,’ said Corvo. ‘Nothing has changed. We must find a way into the mountain, and take it back if possible. If not, we must occupy the enemy for as long as possible until Lord Guilliman arrives. We cannot allow the Pharos to be utilised by the enemy, and it cannot be destroyed unless as an act of last resort.’

  ‘We have lost a ship. We are sorely weakened, kinsman,’ said Alcuis.

  ‘That is irrelevant. We have lost numbers, but our momentum is largely retained. In void war, speed is everything. We shall continue as planned.’

  ‘Captain Corvo!’ called out his cartography officer. ‘I have our position. At current speed, we are nine hours out from Sotha.’

  ‘That is good news,’ said Alcuis.

  ‘It is, my lords, and it is not,’ said the officer.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘We have to slow down,’ explained Corvo, ‘or we shall overshoot, and then we will be in no position to do anything. Contact my brother captains. Inform them we shall conduct a strategic review in twenty-five minutes in the strategium by lithocast. Matheris, you are shipmaster now.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Reunion

  Fate versus will

  Prophecies

  Five feet of bright steel shone in the gloom, glowing with the inner light of an active disruption field. Curze shaded his dark eyes, playfully grimacing as if he were engaged in mock battle with a child.

  ‘Do put that away, brother dear, there is no need.’

  ‘You are no brother of mine, not any longer,’ said Sanguinius. He paced slowly around the transept, circling the throne. He shifted the grip on his hilt, ready for Curze to strike. Curze was fully armoured in filthy blue battleplate. Around its neck seal his skin was grimy. The lines of the metal were thickly brown with old blood, but not his claws. Hooks on each wrist protruded far past his hands and gleamed with recent polishing.

  Sanguinius’ wings twitched. He doubted he would survive this encounter; Curze had taxed both the Lion and Guilliman when they had fought him together. But then, as he thought on it, flashes of the future burst in his mind, presenting him with a succession of strikes and counter-strikes. Curze leaping from the throne, a flurry of blades. Sanguinius gutted. Sanguinius leaping into the air, Curze struck down. Curze waiting until Sanguinius was close, then striking his head from his shoulders. Sanguinius anticipating this, and burying his sword in Curze’s sternum.

  He shook his head, dazed. Rapidly unwinding possibilities inundated his consciousness in blood. He attempted to shake them away, but they would not go.

  Curze watched him with a species of malevolent curiosity. He idly tapped his long foot on Azkaellon’s breastplate. The fallen legionary’s perfect, noble face had the deathless beauty of a sculpture. Sanguinius listened hard to hear if his son still breathed. The soundscape of the hall was his to parse as he would through his post-human senses. Every draught and echo rolled drum-loud. The working of Curze’s metabolism was the growling of a volcano close to eruption. Sanguinius’ own body threatened to smother the sounds he wished to hear. For an anxious second he detected nothing, then he heard the whisper of air passing the fallen Sanguinary Guard’s lips, the soft thud of twin hearts. Hope leapt in his breast.

  ‘Azkaellon lives?’

  Curze’s lips parted a little to reveal the black stubs of his teeth. Sanguinius baulked at the reek of his breath. Curze rubbed a dirty finger and thumb together, a merchant’s gesture. ‘Insurance, nothing more. If you’re nice, I’ll let you have him back.’

  ‘You have come to kill me, as you tried to kill the Lion and Roboute.’

  ‘I have not.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me, Konrad. Why go to the effort? We both know how this will end.’

  Curze rolled his eyes. ‘How many times must I tell you people that I have left that name behind? Night Haunter, Night Haunter! It’s not so hard to remember.’ He shook his head. Curtains of greasy hair brushed his war-plate. ‘Ah, ah! Not too close now, Angel.’ He rocked Azkaellon with his foot as one might rub the belly of a pet. ‘I can end the life of this one in a trice.’ His ruined smile widened. ‘But I won’t. Promise. I am here to talk.’

  ‘I have nothing to say to you.’

  ‘In that case I shall go then, so many profound apologies, dear brother,’ snapped Curze. ‘I have something to say to you, Angel, or does what I want not matter to the glorious emperor of mankind?

  ‘You always were querulous, Curze.’

  ‘Night Haunter!’ said Curze with feigned hurt. He slumped back in the throne. Azkaellon’s armour creaked under his foot as he pressed on it, and he sniggered. ‘The absolute factual nature of it, my brother, is that I am not sure I could kill you if I wished to.’ He flicked dried blood from under a dirty nail. ‘You and Guilliman speak so often of logic, so let us consider the evidence. In skill at arms, I outmatch you. I always have. I outmatch most of you. I am armoured, you are not. Your blade is of simple steel and energy, I have my claws.’ He tapped the back of one set on the eagle armrests of the throne.

  ‘Try then,’ said Sanguinius. ‘Attack. Let us put our relative skills to the test.’

  ‘Ahh, but there is more to the issue than simple war-craft,’ Curze chuckled. ‘Both you and I share something. A vision for the future. And that is a great equaliser. When one can guess what the other intends, what would be the point?’

  ‘This is the damn point!’ said Sanguinius, and angled the tip of his sword at his brother. He leapt at Curze on swift wings, bursting their chains as they snapped open. Curze moved so quickly Sanguinius barely saw him leave the throne. His brother became one with the shadows, his cloak whirling around him. Any other creature would have been undone, but Sanguinius was not. The flashes of foresight grew more intrusive, banging into his visual cortex as harsh as nails. He saw where Curze would be a moment before he was there, and attacked into the future. His sword was met by a claw. Curze’s return blow he expected, parrying it with his sword. And the next, and the next. He saw an opening. Curze closed it. Curze moved to gut him, Sanguinius was elsewhere. This went beyond anticipation. He saw.

  They fought around the throne hall, the Angel and the Night Haunter. At speeds the normal human eye would struggle to follow, they matched each other blow for blow. Both saw their foe’s next movement before it occurred, and countered appropriately. Sanguinius’ visions, ordinarily so infrequent, poured through his head in a maddening torrent.

  For long minutes they clashed, neither able to gain the advantage.

  By unspoken agreement, the two of them parted. Curze’s stink was much increased by his exertion, Sanguinius’ flawless skin was sheened with perspiration. They panted lightly.

  ‘You see? Not quite the same for you, I think, but you have a little insight into what my life is,’ said Curze. He somersaulted backward, landing lightly on his feet by Azkaellon. ‘And that is boringly predictable.’

  ‘I am nothing like you!’ said Sanguinius.

  ‘No,’ sa
id Curze. ‘All light and honour and hope and glory,’ he spat bitterly. ‘Whereas I must suffer a life bereft of surprise, each moment previewed before it occurs. Pity poor me!’

  ‘Why are you here, Curze?’ said Sanguinius. ‘Are you to keep me talking until some guileful trap is revealed? I will not be gulled like our brothers.’

  ‘No tricks. I speak truthfully. I come to speak. The truth.’ He smiled widely and bowed.

  There was a grace to Curze’s movements that seemed obscene when performed by his gangrel figure. His presence was freighted with foreboding. He moved suddenly, almost too quickly to follow. Dark things in dark legends moved so.

  He stooped and grabbed Azkaellon’s ankle. ‘I know!’ he said with childish enthusiasm. ‘Your next pronouncement is so “I will call my guard, my sons in gold! They and I will slay you, you cannot stop us all!”’ Curze mimicked Sanguinius’ voice cruelly, imbuing it with a vanity and vapidity Sanguinius feared accurate. ‘Well, they won’t, and I can. You saw what I did to the Lion’s sons, and to those of the Avenging Beancounter. I will do it again, and gladly. If that is not sufficient to dissuade you, then the death of this one, so dear to you, so beloved, will be.’

  ‘You are repugnant,’ said Sanguinius.

  ‘So pretty, so stupid, Father’s favoured cockerel, preening in the hen coop! Is monstrousness not rather the point of me?’ Curze replied bitterly. ‘Tell me brother, I am curious. Are you one of the ones who believe our scattering was chance, or one of the ones who do not? I think Guilliman is in the latter camp. I can see the thought ticking round that tedious track of a mind he has, like a rodent in a maze, desperate to find a different way out but knowing there is only one exit and a feline waits without. Tick, tick, tick,’ he cackled, raking his talons slowly through the air. ‘Claws on the walls.’

  ‘You came to ask me this? You are insane.’

  ‘I came,’ Curze shrugged. ‘I am asking it. Does my purpose matter? Come, Angel. Do you really think it was chance? I want to know. Each one of us was cast away upon a world that turned out to suit our characters perfectly, characters our father engineered. Furthermore, the characters of many of our Legions’ Terran sons were also matched with those of the worlds we were found upon. And, oh yes, we can both see the future. I rather suspect therefore that Father can read it like a periodical. Can you stand there and tell me that it was chance? No? No reply?’

  ‘No,’ said Sanguinius quietly.

  ‘No reply, or no as in no, you don’t believe it,’ goaded Curze.

  Sanguinius’ sword lowered a fraction. Why he confided in Curze, he could not discern, but the words would out and he could not have stopped them even had that been his desire.

  ‘No, I do not believe our losing was chance.’

  ‘Yes, yes! You see?’ Curze became excited by Sanguinius’ agreement. ‘A man who plans so long and so hard, to be taken in so at the moment of triumph? Nonsense. Congratulations, you are half the way to seeing the truth.’

  ‘That our father was a liar?’

  ‘Was…?’ said Curze with a smile, his brow furrowing for just a fraction of a second. ‘Indeed. A liar, and more – for I am a monster because that is all I can be, and you are an angel likewise.’

  ‘You had a choice, Curze. Father only made us, He did not shape us.’

  Curze’s eagerness turned into a snarl.

  ‘I was made to be thus! Nothing could change it. I know, because I tried! I did!’ Curze’s eyes gleamed with tears. ‘For what, so that He might see me suffer as I failed? That He might tick off His observations upon His laboratorium chart? What kind of father makes a child to be one way, then castigates him for being so? You think me cruel? He is crueller! I was to be sanctioned for doing what I was made to do.’ He clashed his teeth, suddenly vicious. ‘How is that fair? How can I follow the man who did this to me?’ As quickly as a wave is spent, his ire subsided, and his brittle, agreeable manner returned. ‘So you see. He deserved betrayal.’

  ‘That I do not believe, Konrad. Fathers lie to their sons to protect them, to save them. Our father hid Himself for untold millennia among mankind, revealing Himself only when He deemed the time right. The story of our scattering was a necessary lie, if indeed it is a lie. The difference between you and me is that you see sinister purpose behind His actions. I do not. His secrecy hurt me, Konrad, as much as it hurts you. And the conclusion you have reached hurts me also. But I will not cast myself into despair. That is the true difference between you and me. I will not abandon our father’s dream. His plan is for the good of mankind.’

  Curze sniffed. When not threatening violence there was something pathetic about him.

  ‘Good given to a species singularly lacking in goodness. Did you know that here at the heart of Guilliman’s perfect little paradise, there are those that are not cared for? I have been hiding in the Illyrian quarters. Roboute’s vaunted civil codes wrap themselves around the edges of such places tight as walls, but do not penetrate its wards.’

  Night Haunter approached his brother. Sanguinius matched him step for step, keeping the distance between them. Curze dragged Azkaellon around like a morose child might carelessly drag a toy, unaware of the damage being inflicted to the things it cared for as it fulminated on some meaningless slight.

  ‘I have been there, among the outsiders, the unvalued. They speak of me in whispers. They have learned to fear the dark. But has our brother found me? Has the Lion thought to look there, or anywhere on Macragge? No. Idiocy. I practically shouted to them to come for me! If you would look at this world and see the hope of the future, go to the poor quarters. There you will see the despair of the present. And you know as well as I, hope for the future is a lie. Everything goes back to the beginning, and our beginning is so very dark.’

  ‘Is that what you believe, brother, that all this was inevitable?’

  ‘I believe Horus’ turning was part of our father’s intended path.’

  ‘I do not think so.’

  Curze threw up his arms, as if he would embrace his brother. Azkaellon’s boot clanked on the floor as he dropped it. ‘See! What a marvellous heart to heart we are having. Why should we not? Our brothers have close relationships. Fulgrim regarded Ferrus very highly, before he killed him. And then Ferrus was also close to Vulkan. So easy to dislike, Ferrus, but so much loved by others. Perhaps there is some hope for me?’

  ‘There is hope for us all, Konrad.’

  Curze smirked. ‘No, there isn’t. I am hated. You have always hated me.’

  ‘You were not hated. You–’

  ‘I am hated!’ he shouted. ‘As much as Ferrus was loved. But what of love? It is he that is dead and I that live. My death will not come upon me unawares, unlike his, struck down by one who professed to love him. With such relationships between our siblings, why should you and I not be close? I will not be so presumptuous to say we are the same, that would be a desperate nonsense. But similar, yes. Yes, I think you can see that, can’t you? An angel of light, and an angel of darkness!’ He clapped his hands and clasped them together, but his expression changed from one of joy to one of puzzlement. ‘I wonder, if our positions had been reversed, would I be there in golden glory, and you stood here in filth? I do not think so, I think that you would be dead,’ he said softly.

  ‘Then by your own admission, we are not alike.’

  ‘We are brothers! You and I are alike.’

  ‘You cannot have it both ways.’

  Curze sneered. ‘Why not? Father did. We, we, we’re both rageful. You know rage. I can taste it on you, it clings to you like the stink on a week-old corpse.’

  ‘We are Promethean beings. All of us are troubled by temper. It does not distress me,’ said Sanguinius.

  ‘I know better. You think yourself the master of anger, because you have faced it and you have fought it and you have won. Maybe you are, brother, maybe you have conquered the mons
ter in us all. Guilliman has never faced it, not truly. Guilliman’s dear old Euten was there to hold his hand when he was scared. He buried his passions under a sheet of ice and calculations while mother smoothed his hair. Who was there for the Night Haunter as he shivered in the dark? I was sent away, alone, to a dark hell.’ His voice thickened with emotion. ‘I have known privation that would destroy you. I saw the weak bedevilled by the strong. Raped, mutilated, consumed. And I raged and I raged against it, and I tried, Sanguinius.’ He held out his hand. ‘I tried so hard to make it right.’ His hand clenched into a fist. ‘Until I saw that I was fighting the true order of the universe. I understood that I cannot fight suffering, I came to realise that I had been made to perfect it. We are born, we suffer, and then we die. Nothing we do can prevent that, nothing we are is ours to choose. It is all set, right at the beginning, it was all set long ago. Why can you not see this one simple truth?’

  An image – the image – flickered into Sanguinius’ mind. Himself dead upon the floor, Horus’ face, bloated by unimaginable evil, leering over his corpse. Konrad nodded encouragingly, as if he saw it too.

  ‘We live in a universe where our thoughts and fears give birth to things that greatly desire to devour us. They seem stronger than we, these neverborn, but they are not. Without us, they are nothing. Without them, we are hollow vessels of clay, hurrying to be dust again. The same coin, different sides, and we strive to annihilate each other. There is no point, Sanguinius, no reason to any of it, do you not see?’ Curze became wheedling, desperate to convince. ‘Father is the worst of all. He is troubled by the vice of hope, Angel. He sees more clearly than any of us. He knew everything. He lied to protect Himself. The warp, the powers there. It is a sign of His weakness that He could not trust us with that knowledge! I have seen so much. There are gods, and they hunger. Nothing can triumph over them! There is only suffering, and death is no release.’ He spoke quickly, the words tumbling out of him in a rush of despair. Acid spittle leapt out with them, poisoning the flagstones. ‘Hope is the cloth that blinds us. Rip it from your eyes and you shall see what I see. Brother!’ he said in a hush. ‘I see the vision that haunts you. You will fall at the hand of Horus. I know! I know as surely as I know I will die at the will of our father, that that is and always was the culmination of His plan.’ He scowled. ‘Perhaps we shall not be friends. Family is so overrated.’