Torghun knew that. He had made his choice a long time ago, years back when the first stirrings of the lodges had come to his ears. It was the chance to mould the Legion into what it should have been – a shock-attack force to rival the vaunted Speartip of the Sons of Horus, only shackled to a greater, more generous mind than that of the flighty Khan.
Only now, as the final stages of the long game drew to their conclusion, had his resolve cracked a little. The way Shiban had looked at him after the final session – disappointed, even disbelieving. It should not have mattered, but somehow it did.
‘This is the destiny of the Legion,’ Hibou went on. ‘The Khagan knows it, deep down. All we are doing is helping the process along.’
Ahead of them yawned the hangar’s vast void-entrance, glowing with marker lights and open to the starfield beyond. Warriors dispersed to their Stormbirds, breaking into squads and marching up the ramps.
‘You know your orders,’ said Hibou, turning to Torghun before making his way to his own gunship.
Torghun nodded. Before a mission he had always felt good, his body responding quickly to the stimms and battle-hormones. But it was difficult to feel the same euphoria now, no matter how hard he worked to summon it.
‘For the Imperium, brother,’ said Torghun, making the sign of the aquila.
Hibou returned the gesture. ‘For the–’
He broke off. Torghun’s helm-system suddenly fed him a relayed augur-reading from the Swordstorm. Every lodge member, he knew, would be seeing the same thing. Watching the runes glow against his retinal feed gave him an odd sensation – a twist in the stomach, like anticipation.
Hibou looked at him and laughed. He clapped his gauntlet against Torghun’s shoulder-guard.
‘Rejoice, brother,’ he said, his voice resonant with excitement. ‘We have called, and he has answered.’
Torghun looked at the signals, still on the edge of the system but already moving in close – three of them, then four. He could sense Hibou’s elation, and wondered why he struggled to match it with his own.
‘I see it,’ Torghun said, working to keep his voice light. He remembered the wolf-moon icon, streaked with rain, a lifetime ago and a galaxy’s-span away. ‘He’s here, then. He’s here at last.’
Shiban strode to the balcony overlooking the Kaljian’s main crew assembly chamber. His armour shone from the overhead lumens. The tech-priests and armoury servitors had restored it to perfection after Phemus, and it no longer bore any of the marks of that cursed world. His glaive felt light in his hand.
‘Brothers!’ he said, addressing the near-five hundred warriors arranged before him. They stood in their squads, each one arrayed in ivory battleplate, each one silently expectant. ‘You have all heard the rumours running around the Legion. You have all heard that we are now adrift, that the Emperor has turned tyrant, that Horus is a traitor and that all allegiances are now suspect. Some of you will have made your own minds up. You may have fought over it, or you may have kept your counsel to yourself.’
Shiban scanned the ranks of warriors. As he did so, he felt a quiet surge of pride. Chogorian runes, engraved starkly upon the bone-white plate, gazed back at him, each one a masterpiece of calligraphy. Above them hung the battle standards of the brotherhood – the lightning sigil of the khans, the storm-motif, the long lists of past engagements.
‘Everything we thought we knew has been shown to be false. Brother now fights against brother. You can see through the viewports where this has taken us – Prospero is a burned wasteland, and there can be no going back from that.’
Jochi stood at his shoulder, dependable as granite. Shiban was glad of his presence – Jochi had never queried anything, never questioned an order. He was the epitome of loyalty.
‘There will be vengeance for this,’ he said, ‘and we will be a part of it. But until the Khagan rules, there can be no fresh hunt. All of you, when you ascended, when you gave yourself the scar that marks you, accepted this. We are not fighters, ripe to murder when the whim take us – we are legionaries. We are warriors of the ordu of Jaghatai.’
The assembly chamber rang with his vox-amplified words. Polished walls of marble and jet glimmered dully, reflecting the armour within. From far below came the clunk and whine of hangar lifters preparing the brotherhood’s speeders.
‘Not all of our battle-brothers feel this way,’ Shiban went on. ‘Some are seeking to pre-empt the order. They have been working for a long time, fed by information from beyond the Legion, encouraged to believe the word of outsiders who have no understanding of our ways or our culture.’
He remembered Torghun’s enthusiasm, his trust. Not for the first time, Shiban wondered why the Terran had taken the risk of inviting him in – he must have known the likelihood of rejection. Was it arrogance? Or had he been searching, somehow, for confirmation?
‘They may be right, brothers. They may be right when they claim that the Warmaster has been betrayed and now demands our fealty. They may speak the truth when they proclaim the Emperor’s hand in the holocaust on the world below us. I do not know. And that is the core of it – none of us do. Only one in this Legion has the authority to order us to war. He remains silent, and so we must wait.’
Shiban felt his pulse pick up. He was coming to the turning point.
‘Time has now run out. The lodges have called the Warmaster, and he has answered. The fleet is already half pledged to his cause. Many others are ignorant, knowledge is guarded by the few.’
Shiban’s voice remained quiet as he spoke – the soft, subtle tones he had learned as an aspirant in Khum Karta – but he infused them with solidity. They would need to believe in him. They would need to follow him, just as they had on Chondax, on Phemus, on Ullanor, and this time it would not be easy.
‘It is left to us, brothers. The time for arguments has passed – they have made their move, so we are compelled to make ours. We are hemmed in, and our space is diminishing. We must act. We must defy our orders to ensure that the Legion remains free.’
He took a long breath. Now it came.
‘Brothers, Hasik Noyan-Khan has control of the Swordstorm. From there he controls the Legion in the Khagan’s absence. He must not be allowed to make the decision for us. That is why I have called you here. It means assuming the mantle of renegades, at least in the eyes of those who now seek to subvert us. It means taking up arms against our own brothers. You do not need me to tell you that no such rebellion has ever occurred inside the White Scars. We risk our honour, and may pay for it with our lives.’
Shiban clutched the hilt of his glaive tightly.
‘I cannot demand this of you. We will not be fighting xenos – these are our own people. All I can do is ask you to trust me. I have led you across the arc of the galaxy in the cause of the Great Crusade. We have brought compliance to hundreds of worlds and given honour to the name “White Scar”. You followed me then. Brothers, you have heard what I judge to be true.’
He paused for a heartbeat.
‘Will you follow me now?’
There was no hesitation. There were no sidelong glances or mutterings of discontent. As one, the Brotherhood of the Storm raised their blades. Five hundred glaives, tulwars and power mauls rose into the air. With a crackle, disruptor fields snapped into blue-edged life.
‘Khagan!’ they roared in unison, and the sound of it resounded from the high, vaulted ceiling of the chamber.
Shiban raised his own weapon in salute, his hearts beating hard. The moment had come, the choice had been made. There could be no going back now.
‘Khagan!’ the warriors roared again, brandishing their weapons in ritual tribute. Shiban stood before them, his glaive angled over them, relishing their unshakeable loyalty.
‘So there you have it, khan,’ said Jochi over the vox, sounding both impressed and wary. ‘You have started your war.’
‘We did not start it,’ replied Shiban grimly. ‘But we will make it ours yet.’
XI
; The earth rumbled under the Khan’s feet. Ever since he had arrived in the Reflecting Caves the tremors had been getting worse. Cracks snaked up the vast walls of the cavern, showering more dust onto an already choked floor. Tunnel mouths dotted the perimeter; some of them still adorned with their old ceremonial archways, some dissolved into rubble.
So there are ways back up, he thought.
He paced, first away from the seated Magnus, then back towards him. A blend of emotions battled away within him – anger, mostly, but also guilt.
‘I should have gone with you to Nikaea,’ he said.
Magnus looked equivocal. ‘Perhaps. That was the beginning of our censure. But I don’t know if you’d have helped, Jaghatai. How many of our brothers trust you more than me?’
‘Horus ordered me away,’ said the Khan.
‘Did he?’
‘There are no accidents here. I was kept away. I am sure of it.’ He felt like breaking something. ‘It should have been the three of us – the Angel, you and me.’
Magnus sighed. ‘It’s done, brother. Leave it. All that matters now is the future.’
‘There is no future!’ the Khan snapped, half raising his blade.
Magnus looked at the dao’s edge with a strange expression. ‘We were working for something better than... this.’
‘Were we? Guilliman, perhaps. Lorgar too, in his own warped way. But you weren’t – you were there for the hunt.’
‘It kept us pure.’
‘It kept you away.’ Magnus smiled. ‘You were so easy to keep out of the conversation. I was there the whole time – I just didn’t hear the words being whispered.’
The Khan stared hard at him, feeling an edge of sickness in the pit of his stomach. ‘Where are you, Magnus?’ he asked. ‘This isn’t you.’
Just as he had done before, Magnus paused. He looked around him, as if seeing something different to what the Khan was seeing.
‘I am not whole,’ Magnus breathed. ‘I am no longer bound in place. I am… distributed.’
‘We used to talk of daemons. Yaksha. You told me they were just dreams, and not to worry, for human ingenuity was the cure for all ills.’
Magnus shook his head, looking troubled. ‘Did I say that?’
‘Are you become a yaksha, brother?’
Magnus’s eye snapped up to his. ‘Maybe I have. Or something like one. There is a price, you see, for bargains. They do not let you forget.’ His forehead wrinkled as he concentrated. ‘I see a mirror world to this one. I see coal-black rock. I see a sky lit with sorcerous fire. I am there, I think. That is where my self resides. All that remains here, on the world that raised me, is an echo.’ His countenance hollowed in distress. ‘How many echoes are there, on other worlds, in other places?’
The Khan started to move, to circle slowly, keeping the blade’s tip between him and the apparition. ‘Yesugei told me you were too enamoured of the warp,’ he said, trying not to let his sense of revulsion get the better of him. ‘You let it make you sick. It was a tool, Magnus. It can be used, but only carefully. Limit yourself, I said.’
Magnus nodded miserably. ‘I remember.’
‘Take the modest amount. Sip at the cup but leave the dregs – this is the lore of Chogoris. You, even you, laughed at that.’
Magnus’s mouth curled in a half-sneer. ‘Chogoris,’ he muttered. ‘So proud of your home world. Nothing on Mundus Planus but emptiness.’
‘It made us, just as Prospero made you. Cthonia made Horus, and Caliban made the Lion. We are not just the sons of the Emperor – we were the sons of twenty worlds, each as different as jewels.’
‘You know, of course, that Nostramo is already ashes. Olympia lies in ruins, and the Lion’s home world is headed the same way. You can see what happened to mine. What, do you suppose, will stop Chogoris being consumed in the fire?’
‘All things pass.’
Magnus looked scornful. His face seemed to be distorting, as if locked underwater. ‘Change. That is the only constant. Change, change, change.’
He got to his feet, shakily, reaching to the carcass of his great telescope to steady himself.
‘I’m glad you came to see me, Jaghatai. We always saw eye-to-eye, you and me. You were brittle, but at least you spoke the truth. Unlike that bastard Russ. Do youknow what he is, underneath? Do you have any idea what Leman Russ really hides inside those furs and totems? Here’s a clue – his Space Wolves have to cover their every axe blade with runes, lest they scream their nightmares into the void. Is that natural?’
The Khan held his ground, tensing. ‘Enough, brother.’
Magnus laughed. ‘You don’t want to know? That’s always been your weakness. I know it all, now. I could tell you the Emperor’s name, and it would surprise you. I could tell you that the fates decreed Fulgrim to be sent to Chogoris and you to Chemos, and I could tell you which arcane force in the universe prevented it.’ He took a step, then another, towards the Khan. ‘Do you wish to know where you will die, Khagan? Do you wish to know on what world, and in which dimension, your soul will find its ending?’
‘These things are not known.’
‘All is known.’
The Khan looked at him warily. ‘You told me I had a choice. My fate – all fate – is still to be written.’
Magnus grinned. His eye seemed to be weeping, though it was hard to tell whether it was with tears or blood. ‘Stories may meander, but the endings never change. Believe me, I have witnessed the authors.’ He shuddered. ‘They are terrible,’ he whispered.
By now he was only inches away from the sword.
‘I have what I came for, brother,’ said the Khan. ‘You can only give me one piece of knowledge that I truly desire.’
Magnus inclined his head. ‘And what is that?’
‘How to restore you.’
Magnus started. For a moment he looked truly bewildered, as if he had expected mockery and received sincerity, or perhaps the other way around. He looked down at his hands, then around at the devastation of his kingdom. Misery mingled with confusion.
‘I am corrupted,’ he whispered, as if realising it all over again. ‘Restore me, and I shall become a lord again. I shall be the Crimson King, free to rule over a world of spells and vengeance. The galaxy may live to rue that.’
‘You were my friend,’ said the Khan, quietly.
Magnus looked at him, and for a moment, just a moment, the old dignity was there, etched upon a ravaged face and glimmering in the dark.
‘Then,’ he said, ‘I judge you know what to do.’
The Khan nodded, and pulled his sword round for the strike. Slivers of witch-light skittered along the rune-wound steel.
‘Until we meet under starlight,’ he promised.
‘Sooner than you might think,’ said Magnus, making no effort to evade the blow.
The Khan swung, and the dao glittered through the air, whispering as it came. When it hit Magnus’s outline, the ghostly shell shattered, spilling into a thousand pieces like broken glass. A wild crack rang out, a steely snap, followed by a shriek like a child’s cry. The dust around him billowed up in a cloud, swirling and writhing. The Khan was momentarily blinded, and staggered back.
The ground trembled, a low rumbling broke out from deep within the earth. What remained of the brass instruments danced and shivered, and the broken lens-pieces skittered across the bare rock.
Then, slowly, the tumult subsided. The phantasmal light faded away, followed by the howl of unnatural wind. After that, all that remained were the broken things of Magnus’s creation, now sunk into real shadow, forlorn and battered by the maelstrom.
The Khan stayed where he was for a moment, breathing heavily. The hollowness still plagued him – the numb feeling of having discovered the full extent of treachery.
There is only one unforgivable lie.
His hearts beat sluggishly. His blade felt leaden in his fist.
That is the lie that says, this is the end, you are the conqueror, you have achieved it
and now all that remains is to build walls higher and shelter behind them. Now, the lie says, the world is safe.
The Khan bowed his head.
All emperors are liars.
He remained still, as gaunt and lean as a hunting hound, his cloak hanging stiffly about him. He did not move. He felt as though moving, even by a fraction, might break what remained. Around him, the Reflecting Caves sighed with emptiness, their majesty in tatters.
At least, amidst all the numbness, the truth was now known. The choice could be made, for the traitor had been unmasked.
Duty could now be done, the call to war could be given.
But, for all that, still he did not stir.
The dream had died.
Ilya glanced up towards Hasik’s position, and nothing she saw gave her any reassurance.
She looked around at the bridge, as if for the first time, watching the multitudes at work, trying to see if any of them were as unnerved as she was. The Swordstorm’s command nexus was a truly colossal space, big enough to accommodate the hundreds of crew responsible for monitoring and guiding the battleship into combat. Its ridged walls soared away on either side of a cavernous interior, each one studded with terraces glowing brightly from the light of picter-screens. Lumen-banded pillars five metres in diameter thrust up from the marble floor, terminating in the far distance of the vaulted ceiling. A whole series of platforms ran away from her vantage, each one housing a different cluster of White Scars officer-serfs or Mechanicum tech-priests.
The entire space was dominated by the enormous arch over the far observation deck. Prospero’s horizon-curve was visible through the armourglass, dark as smoke and angry with snarled cloud cover. Lightning ran across the upper atmosphere, like dancing tongues of silver.
Ilya swept her gaze back to Hasik. He was busy at a sensor-pillar under the arch, surrounded by glimmering hololiths and gesturing incessantly. Servitors and mortal crew scurried to comply with whatever orders he was giving them – dozens came and went, bowing and proffering data-slates.
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