The Talon of Horus

by Aaron Dembski-Bowden

  The desperate panic in his eyes, as his quivering limbs begin to collapse beneath him. The pleading within that panic, as the brain’s final functions scream that no, no, this cannot be, this is not fair, this cannot be happening. The limp, pathetic fury as he realises it is, and he is helpless to change it.

  It is done. He is dead. All that remains is for him to die.

  This was the death I offered to Sargon. It is what ran through my thoughts as I threatened to slice through his already-ruined throat. How fine it would feel to end his life in that strangled song of helpless gargles. For his part, he stood still, utterly stunned.

  Even Lheor flinched at my reaction, his face spasming in reaction to the Nails’ sudden bite. Telemachon watched in masked silence, though his surprise was palpable in the air between us. Abaddon lifted a hand slowly, his golden eyes wider, his body language still exuding control. I’d shocked him, but he refused to let it get the better of him.

  ‘Where is she?’ I asked through clenched teeth.

  ‘Khayon,’ Abaddon started.

  WHERE IS SHE, I pulsed, sharp as a spear through the skull. Sargon showed no reaction at all, severed as he was from my thoughts, but Abaddon and Telemachon staggered back, clutching their heads. Lheor went down as if axed, his nose running with blood.

  ‘Khayon...’ Abaddon tried again, blinking away the pain in his sinuses from my savage telepathy. ‘I underestimated your loyalty to the daemon. I apologise for that. But release the oracle and we will find your wolf. You know I mean you no harm. Not to you, your brothers, or your familiar.’

  It shames me now that I did not release Sargon at once, but trust no longer came easily to any warrior of the Nine Legions. I held the blade against the Word Bearer’s flesh for another few heartbeats before finally releasing him with a low, wet growl that would have done Gyre proud.

  ‘Such a temper.’ Abaddon forced a smile.

  I moved to help Lheor to his feet. As we gripped each other’s hands, I hauled him up again. He wore the War God’s sigil cast in brass on the back of his gauntlet – for ‘good luck’, he always claimed, despite carrying little in the way of faith. I felt it radiating heat through his hand, even through my armour. The twitch in the left side of his face was as bad as I had ever seen it. Instead of human thought process, his brain produced nothing but weary pain. He was fighting the Nails for control of his own flesh.

  ‘Nnnh,’ he said. Spit marked his lips. ‘Nnkh.’

  ‘Forgive me, brother.’

  ‘Nnh.’ Awareness filtered back into his black eyes. He cursed in Nagrakali, and said no more.

  I rounded on Sargon. ‘Where is my wolf?’

  The Word Bearer took me to her without resistance. The silence prevailing between all of us was the first real awkwardness since our arrival. Questions flowed through me, questions I ached to ask. How well did Abaddon truly know this oracle? What other abilities did Sargon possess? I was still certain I could overwhelm him if necessary, but whatever sealed him away from telepathy spoke of psychic manipulation on a level I would struggle to undo. What had Lheor and Telemachon seen when they walked within their own memories? I would have given much to see the insides of their minds as Abaddon had done with mine.

  I never let any of these questions reach my tongue. For all of his gentility and compliance, Sargon unnerved me. He felt like a weapon held against the back of my neck. More than once I caught him casting similar glances to me and I knew he harboured similar tensions. Walking next to him was like standing near a distorted reflection. Though I had discipline and training in wielding the Art, my greatest asset had always been my unrestrained power. Sargon, conversely, appeared to be a precise and exacting practitioner, relying on absolute control in substitution for whatever he lacked in raw force.

  And Abaddon watched us both, something like amusement in his inhuman eyes. The rigid atmosphere between the oracle and me seemed not to trouble him at all.

  When we reached Gyre, I went down to one knee before her. Sargon had her bound near to his meditation cell, slumbering in a corridor. That unnerved me more than if she had been banished, for daemons need no sleep to sustain them. Never in all our years together had I seen her sleep as a true wolf would.

  Around her, carved into the deck, were jagged Colchisian runes that made my eyes ache. They were hasty things, blade-cut into the dark iron to contain the wolf and keep her at bay.

  I felt myself scowling at Sargon even as I reluctantly admired his rushed handiwork. He could have destroyed her. Instead he had taken care to neutralise her without causing lasting harm. I was under no illusions that he had done it through any act of mercy; it was simple good sense. If I had felt her die I would have torn him apart, no matter whether he was Abaddon’s tamed oracle or not.

  I did not ask him to release her. I stood on top of one of the carved runes, covering it with my boot. Gyre opened her white eyes the moment I broke the ritual circle. Her transfixion had more to do with stasis than sleep, for she did not rise with sluggish thoughts or tired limbs. The moment she woke, she flashed her teeth at Sargon.

  To me, I sent.

  She rose and obeyed, padding closer, her eyes never leaving the Word Bearer.

  I want his blood.

  You should have known better than to attack another sorcerer, Gyre.

  I barely attacked him! Her thought was acidic and insistent. He stole my voice, breaking my bond to you. Only then did I turn claws and fangs upon him.

  I looked over at Sargon in the darkness of the crew corridor. Abaddon, Lheor and Telemachon stood with him.

  ‘Is all well?’ Abaddon asked. His metallic eyes reflected the dim light with a threatening gleam. I decided I would deal with Sargon, one way or another, in my own time and on my own terms. I did not need to raise my grievance with the former First Captain. I was not a child-apprentice, running to his mentor.

  ‘All is well,’ I replied.

  ‘Good. If you are willing, I’d ask a favour of you, Khayon.’

  All of us turned to him at those unexpected words. ‘Ask.’

  He gave a rueful smile, one of a jest shared between brothers. ‘Take me back to the Tlaloc with you. It’s been too long since I spoke with Falkus.’

  Three of us were set to return: Abaddon, Gyre and myself. Telemachon and Lheor elected to remain with Sargon aboard the Vengeful Spirit, exploring the ship.

  ‘Beware Sargon,’ I warned them both. ‘I like him little and trust him less.’

  Lheor merely shrugged, but Telemachon’s wordless displeasure radiated at me. ‘What has he done to earn your dislike?’ the swordsman asked.

  ‘His stain is all over what befell Falkus and the others. He is responsible in some way.’

  ‘That’s a safe guess,’ Lheor allowed. The World Eater offered once more to come back with me in case Falkus and his possessed brethren needed a more violent hand.

  ‘No, Abaddon and I will go alone. The fewer soulfires burning there, the better. The Secondborn are still likely to be unstable. And hungry.’

  ‘Good luck, brother.’

  It was the first time Lheor called me brother – a fact I did not mention to him there and then. I would remind him centuries later, when his blood was running into the Tuva River on the world of Mackan.

  ‘Thank you for staying with us, Lheor. You, Ugrivian and the others.’

  I thought he might smile, but it turned out to be nothing more than a twitch brought on by facial tics and flawed muscles.

  ‘Away with you, sentimental fool.’ He banged his fist against the Imperialis on his chestplate in the amused echo of a salute. ‘Go find Falkus.’

  And so I did. With Abaddon and my wolf at my side, I returned to the Tlaloc to find the warrior who had been my friend.

  Our arrival generated a certain degree of excitement. As we disembarked down the Thunderhawk’s gang-ramp, Nefertari was w
aiting for us – as was Ashur-Kai, Ugrivian and his warriors, and three dozen Rubricae in orderly ranks.

  All eyes locked on to Abaddon. He bore the scrutiny with ease, even offering a flourishing bow to the horde of staring faces and faceplates.

  I don’t believe it, Ashur-Kai sent to me.

  If you find his presence difficult to believe, you should see what has become of the Vengeful Spirit. It is a monument to madness.

  I must see it, he pulsed with no small urgency.

  You will. This is far from over, Ashur-Kai. Abaddon has plans of his own.

  Plans beyond laying siege to the Canticle City?

  Far beyond it.

  Intriguing. We will speak later, he assured me.

  We will. One matter of note, however – Sargon lives. The oracle fled the disaster that afflicted Falkus and the Duraga kal Esmejhak.

  His eagerness to board the Vengeful Spirit became a literal hunger. To speak with the oracle and share prophetic visions... That hunger was all the more keen in the wake of the Solar Priest’s destruction.

  Soon, I promised him. Soon.

  Abaddon greeted each of our warriors in turn, by name. Here was another glimpse at the skilled commander that hid beneath the careless pilgrim. Each hour I spent in his presence, I felt him coming back to himself in a way I had not believed possible. More and more his behaviour reinforced the idea that he had been waiting for this – waiting for us.

  Every fighter, be they a tribal warrior or a professional soldier, feels a sliver of honour at being personally named and marked out by a commander. Abaddon not only named Ugrivian and his men, he recounted several of their battle company’s deeds during the Great Crusade and – to my lessening surprise – in the years inside the Eye when they had served as part of the Fifteen Fangs.

  This is no pilgrim, sent Ashur-Kai. This is a warlord. A leader of men. Already he earns the kinship of Lheor’s warriors.

  Ashur-Kai was not wrong. The easy bonds of the warrior-born had them all chuckling together and embracing in glad greeting, wrist to wrist. So seamless was Abaddon’s bonding with these men, not through manipulation or deception but simple, honest charm. I think if he had needed to resort to manipulation, I would have thought him cheap and brazen. Instead, I was reassured.

  I also thought of how Abaddon had said he needed me, how he had watched me and chosen me, how he wanted me at his side through the promise of new brotherhood. I reflected then how he had already earned the kinship of more than just Lheor’s warriors.

  Even I was incredulous as Abaddon then greeted every one of my Rubricae by name. Ashur-Kai was less prepared, and showed his shock plain across his albino features. Each Rubricae’s name was emblazoned across their shoulder-guard or breastplate, but Abaddon took his time with each, noting honours the now-lost warriors had earned during the Great Crusade, or battles they had fought in the Eye after the Siege of Terra.

  We of the Legiones Astartes possess eidetic memories and pictographic recall. That the First Captain of the most illustrious Legion would have access to personnel archives of the other primarch’s forces was not too difficult to countenance, but the fact he had added to that lore during the years of his pilgrimage across the Great Eye was nothing less than a revelation.

  Nor was it the only revelation. With all souls but myself and Ashur-Kai, our Rubricae stood in impassive silence, not even acknowledging any other living being’s existence. Not so with Abaddon. When he addressed them they turned their helmeted heads to him in slow grinds, and I felt the faintest thread of awareness cobwebbing between them.

  Ashur-Kai’s voice was suddenly icy with threat. He is a danger to us. How can the ashen dead react to him?

  I do not know, brother.

  What if he... Do you believe he can command them?

  I do not think so. This feels more like recognition, somehow. Not rulership as you or I hold over them.

  Are you willing to say that with certainty, Khayon?

  I did not answer him. There was far too much about Abaddon I could not discern or predict.

  Everything he does shivers with significance.

  I did not answer that either. Ashur-Kai’s fascination with destiny and prophecy tended to taint him with the touch of melodrama from time to time. I could feel his awe, though I did not share it.

  Abaddon had reached Nefertari, who stood apart from the ordered ranks of Legiones Astartes warriors. A sudden surge of crude disgust rose from his guarded thoughts, the strongest emotion I had sensed from him yet. Her very inhumanity repulsed him, as it did so many of us, though he kept that revulsion from showing.

  The winged eldar endured his scrutiny with emotionless, alien composure.

  ‘The Maiden of Commorragh,’ he greeted her.

  ‘You make that sound like a title,’ she replied. The bioluminescent talons of crystal that served as her gauntlet’s fingertips clicked and clacked together as she shifted her stance.

  ‘Many among the Legions know of Khayon’s eldar, hiding from her people in the heart of her enemy’s kingdom. Don’t you hunger, Nefertari? Doesn’t the soul-thirst tear at you night after night?’

  The words were petty baiting, but somehow his tone was not. The way he spoke robbed any tease from the venomous questions. She graced him with the shadow of a smile, and walked towards me.

  ‘Forgive my Gothic,’ Abaddon called after her, ‘despite killing hundreds of your brothers and sisters, I never learned the tongues spoken by your kind.’

  Nefertari’s smirk was edged. She herself was a knife with a smile. ‘I like him,’ she said beneath her breath.

  Abaddon turned to me after his greetings were done. ‘What of Telemachon’s men?’

  ‘Ashur-Kai took several prisoners when they boarded us during the storm,’ I began.

  ‘They are gone.’ Nefertari broke in, still wearing her smile. ‘Their bodies hang in my Aerie if you wish to introduce yourself to them the way you have to others.’

  Abaddon snorted in amused resignation. ‘What a wretched little darling you are, alien. And what of Falkus? Where is he, Khayon?’

  ‘I shall take you to him.’

  Nefertari made to follow us until I lifted a hand to stop her. She acquiesced to my order, though not without a long, considering stare, weighing up whether or not to argue. Her feathered wings opened and stretched in a sure sign of irritation, before folding back against her body. The look in her eyes was a warning, one I acknowledged with a nod.

  CONVERGENCE

  As we ventured to the district I had allotted to Falkus and his tormented brothers, Abaddon remarked on much of what he saw. The appearances of Sortiarius’s beast-blooded mutants drew his curiosity, leading to a lengthy discussion of their tendencies and demeanours. The fact they made ideal crew did not escape him, nor did what he called their ‘other uses’.

  ‘Bolter fodder,’ he explained. I did not smile at the term, though in truth neither did he. He spoke of it as a reality of war, not a torture he enjoyed inflicting.

  Many warbands used human rabble and mutant packs as an inexpensive horde of sacrificial flesh, spending their lives to waste the foe’s ammunition and clog the enemy’s chainblades with meat. The beast-mutants of Sortiarius’s herd-clans were more valuable stock than most, but I confirmed that, yes, I knew of several Thousand Sons warbands that used even their prized slaves in such a way.

  At all times, a cold sincerity underlay his idle conversation, making his questions seem more like study or research than curiosity. The bronze faces of the Anamnesis interested him as well. We passed hundreds of them, staring out at us from the walls at irregular intervals. He received no answer when he addressed them, yet proceeded unperturbed.

  We were drawing closer to Falkus’s deck when Abaddon turned to me, speaking words that forced my teeth to clench together.

  ‘Nefertari,’ he watched me as he sa
id her name. ‘How long ago did she die?’

  There have been a handful of times in my life where a companion – even a brother – has come close to death for the crime of speaking a single sentence. That was one of them. I suddenly wanted to close my fingers around his throat and strangle the life from his golden eyes.

  ‘She is not dead,’ I managed to reply, which was neither entirely true nor entirely false.

  ‘Don’t lie to me, Khayon.’

  ‘She is not dead,’ I repeated, firmer this time.

  ‘I’m not judging you, my brother.’ Was that pity I heard in his voice? Was it sympathy or nothing more than sincerity? I could not be sure. ‘She’s not quite dead, yet not quite alive. How long have you kept her like this?’

  ‘A long while.’ How strange it felt to speak the secret known to myself, my wolf, and no other. Not even Ashur-Kai knew the truth. Not even Nefertari herself. ‘How could you tell?’

  ‘I saw it.’ He tapped his temple, near his Light-stained eyes. ‘Life moves through her, her blood still runs, her heart still beats... But only because you command it to. You play her body like an instrument, forcing it to continue its song long past the final note. She should be dead, yet you won’t let her die. Who killed her?’

  ‘Zarakynel.’ Even the name tasted foul. ‘A daughter of the Youngest God.’

  I saw recognition flare in his eyes. Zarakynel, the Angel of Despair, the Bringer of Torments, and a thousand other sneering, self-righteous titles. The daemon had towered above all of us, this she-thing of scaled, oceanic talons, milk-white flesh, thrashing tendrils and lush femininity. When she fought, she sang the song that had echoed across the galaxy with the birth of the Youngest God and the death of the eldar race. A melody of genocide. The harmony of extinction.

  It had been one of her talons that had killed Nefertari. A talon-tip thrust through the eldar’s heart, in and out before my bloodward could even react.

  I cradled Nefertari as she slipped into death, stealing the pain from reaching her mind, pulsing psychic force through her dying form to keep her blood flowing in place of the heart she no longer had. The infinity of miniscule life within her was already breaking apart, cell by cell, atom by atom, the moment her heart burst. I fought against it, making her body believe it still lived.