by Guy Haley
Valdor, who until that moment had kept his own counsel, looked sharply at the Regent.
A sly look crept across Malcador’s face.
‘Vulkan lives,’ he said.
The shock visible on Sanguinius, Dorn and the Khan’s faces gratified the Sigillite, and he smiled like a conjuror pleased with the effects of a trick.
‘I’m sorry?’ said Dorn.
‘What do you mean, Malcador?’ said Sanguinius. ‘I saw him dead upon Macragge. I witnessed his corpse borne away by his sons myself!’
‘Vulkan’s corpse is not like other corpses. The Salamanders took him back to Nocturne, where they were successful in restoring him to life. Vulkan has… certain abilities, as you all do,’ said Malcador. ‘You have your wings and your foresight, Sanguinius. The Khan has his questioning nature and his keen mind. Dorn has rectitude, his genius for voidcraft and his talent for building.’
‘Vulkan was a smith,’ said the Khan.
‘His other gift is to be particularly durable,’ said Malcador.
‘He is not dead?’ said Sanguinius, displaying neither the angelic expression of his earlier years nor the persistent woe he carried with him now, but instead a look of perfect surprise.
The Khan laughed. ‘Outstanding!’
‘Then where is he?’ demanded Dorn. ‘Is he coming here?’
Valdor and Malcador glanced at one another.
‘He is already here,’ said Valdor, slowly at first. ‘He emerged through the webway before Lord Sanguinius returned. He stands guard over it now.’
‘What?’ said Dorn. The colour drained from his face.
‘That was months ago,’ said Sanguinius. ‘And you tell us now?’
‘What?’ said Dorn again.
‘He has been there since then. He is alive,’ said Valdor.
‘Why has he not shown himself?’ asked the Khan, who alone of the three brothers seemed amused rather than angry at Malcador’s secrecy.
‘Like you, he has his role.’ Malcador wrapped his hands around the black iron shaft of his staff. Its wreath of psychic flames flickered. Some of the age faded from his face. The man lived for intrigue. ‘Tell me,’ he asked the three, ‘how much do you know of your father’s project in the Imperial Dungeon?’
Eager to show he knew at least something, Dorn spoke first. His desire to reclaim some of his honour, if only in his own eyes, made the Khan grin more deeply.
‘Our father left the Great Crusade to come here.’ Dorn not so much spoke as recited the information. ‘His intention was to create a bridge from Terra into the webway, the network constructed by the ancient eldar. Being neither of the materium or the immaterium, the webway is therefore free of the effects of both. Having entrusted the end of the Great Crusade to Horus, our father returned here to complete His work. Success would free the Imperium from reliance on the warp for travel and communication.’ He paused. ‘When He first told me this, so that I might guard Him while He worked, I thought it was a matter of improved efficiency. With what I now know…’ He looked at his brothers.
‘It would have shielded us from the powers that now attack us,’ said Sanguinius. ‘I knew little of this.’
‘And I less,’ said the Khan. They both looked at Dorn.
Dorn stared straight ahead. ‘I am the Emperor’s Praetorian. I must be aware of all threats, in order to protect our father.’
‘Bravo, Rogal,’ said Malcador. ‘You were listening to Him. Though in point of fact, the webway is far older than the aeldari. They were merely the last to occupy it, before their own downfall. A fate we are coming dangerously close to repeating.’
‘Why can I not see Vulkan?’ said Sanguinius. ‘I should have felt something, or seen something.’
‘Your father shields his presence.’
The Great Angel pressed. ‘Then why were we not told any of this?’
‘Genuinely? The fewer who knew the better.’ Malcador raised a hand to ward off Sanguinius’ protest. ‘It didn’t matter who you were. Trust is not the issue. The enemy have unnumbered ways to discover what they need. At first, we had to keep the project secret to protect it from our foes, and latterly, because of the threat it represented.’
‘What do you mean?’ Sanguinius asked.
‘Father failed,’ said Dorn.
Valdor took up the tale. ‘Disaster struck when He was close to completion. Your brother Magnus, my lords, was loyal, but arrogant. In his hubris, he used sorcery to warn the Emperor of Horus’ treachery. The sorcery he employed, that he had been forbidden from, destroyed the wards around the bridge, and all the foes of men came rushing in.’
‘That is where Valdor’s men were for so long when you returned, my brothers,’ Dorn said to Jaghatai and Sanguinius.
Valdor’s handsome face rarely expressed anything as human as emotion, but he appeared apologetic. ‘The Emperor ordered me personally to keep this to myself.’
‘So Russ was sent to punish Magnus without reason,’ said Sanguinius.
‘Not without reason,’ said Malcador. ‘But the chastisement was never meant to be so harsh. We determined to despatch the Wolf King to bring Magnus back to Terra for censure for defying the judgement of the Council of Nikaea. Horus manipulated the order.’
‘Another secret that spawned disaster,’ said Sanguinius.
‘The Emperor has His reasons for keeping His plans His own,’ said Malcador. ‘Only in this case, I agree. Leman’s temper got the better of him, worsening the catastrophe, and so two Legions that were loyal to Terra were taken from us, one forced into the arms of the enemy, the other depleted in strength, and so enraged Russ could not ignore honour’s call and went to fight Horus alone.’
‘Many, many died holding back the daemon tide. But the war in the webway is over, for now,’ said Valdor. He looked to Malcador for permission before continuing. The Regent shook his head.
‘Let me explain, Constantin,’ Malcador said. He paused to gather his thoughts before he went on. ‘What none of you know is that your father is trapped upon the device He created to keep the bridge to the webway open. It was intended to be a temporary measure, until the Mechanicum could stabilise the conduit. But all their work was destroyed. If He leaves the Throne now, the doors into the warp will open, and Terra will drown under a tide of Neverborn and all their infinite malice.’
‘I thought Him at work to remedy the damage… The situation is far worse than I knew,’ said Dorn.
‘It is worse still, Rogal,’ said Malcador. ‘The Emperor is powerful, but His ability has limits. Vulkan waits before the gate as sentinel, in case the Emperor should fail.’
‘Is this likely?’ said Dorn.
‘It is possible,’ admitted Malcador.
‘Does Vulkan have his sons at his side?’ asked Sanguinius, still bewildered. ‘Are the Legio Custodes with him, captain-general?’
‘Vulkan stands alone,’ said Valdor quietly. ‘My warriors wait in the Inner Palace. The Ten Thousand lost too many in the webway.’
‘What good can one primarch do against all the evil of the warp?’ asked Sanguinius.
Malcador shrugged. ‘What indeed? You have a point there, so I say that we had better win.’
The Khan leaned down to peer closely at Malcador. ‘You are old, but you are cunning, for all your signs of frailty, Sigillite,’ he said. ‘Tell me now that you have something resembling a plan, that your agents in grey work for our victory, that your many wheels within wheels spin still to your design.’
‘My Knights Errant are gone,’ said Malcador. ‘Their purpose and mission are elsewhere. You are the plan, you three. As of this moment, you know everything there is to know. Your father fights a war on a higher plane of existence, one that should have been mankind’s to call his own, but which now seethes with the enemy. The battle here falls to you. The game is set. No more subterfuge is possible. Y
our role is here, just as Vulkan’s is to stand against the full force of Chaos should the Dungeon be breached. And Roboute’s is to get here before we’re all dead. You must hold these walls of stone as your father holds walls of spirit. Fight with your guns, and your sons, and all the many, many gifts your father gave you. Use them wisely, sons of the Emperor.’ He looked seriously at them all. ‘Use them to buy your brother and your father time.’
The magnitude of the task weighed on them all. Outside, the thunder of Horus’ guns boomed endlessly on.
‘Thank you, Malcador, for bringing our objectives into such sharp focus,’ said Dorn. He manipulated the hololith via the neural linkages of his warsuit, bringing up a detailed map of the Palace and its many defences. ‘It is time to discuss the practicalities of our survival.’
Grand Borealis Strategium, 13th of Secundus
Thuria Amund swept her tired gaze across her instruments for what felt like the millionth time.
The tinkling of a brass bell, one of three dozen suspended from the top of the ether-scope, broke her trance. She glanced up at it in time to see more start pealing. A rapid chime struck up from behind the bank of lights, then a more urgent alarm from the wall of screens.
‘Sir!’ she called to her supervising officer. In the profusion of lords, generals and aristocrats, all of whom held different ranks and required different modes of address, ‘sir’ was the safest option.
Alerted by the chiming, the man was already on his way. He frowned as he took in the warnings singing from Thuria’s desk.
He summoned someone else. ‘Contact Lord Dorn,’ he said. He kept his eyes on Thuria’s work station. ‘Tell him I have direct confirmation that a new fleet has arrived. Possible identity, Fourteenth Legion. The Death Guard.’
The loyalist generals plot the defence of the Palace.
No slave
Arrival on Terra
The coming of death
The Vengeful Spirit, Lunar orbit, 14th of Secundus
‘This place you have made here, Layak, I do not like it,’ growled Abaddon.
The temple existed in no plan of the Vengeful Spirit, but it was but one of many changes the ship had undergone. As Horus’ power grew, the Warmaster’s flagship left behind the constraints of the materium, twisting itself away from its original form to please new shipwrights whose concerns were not those of human beings. Under their direction it became as mutable as potter’s clay. Sections vanished. Huge parts of the structure heaved with pseudo-organic life. Areas resounded to screams that came from no human mouth. Adornments of spikes and grimacing statues grew overnight, then vanished the next day. Inconstant doorways opened into strange mirror-worlds where men were lost forever.
If logic were followed, the great black doors that led into the temple should have opened directly onto the void, but it was clear that logic had no place there, and that the temple was not on the ship. It lay in some place beyond the void and the universe that contained it, where the laws of physics did not hold true. An interstice between dimensions, perhaps, or a pocket of the warp, Abaddon guessed. The air was frigid, though the metal radiated a dangerous heat that bit at his flesh through his Terminator plate. High windows let in sickly light that gave no hint of the vast armada shoaling around the flagship, or of Luna beneath its keel, or of the stars, but showed an endless, curdled swirl of colours that hurt the eye and the mind to see.
Members of Layak’s Unspeaking lurked in guard alcoves, all of them wearing armour as bizarrely decorated as their master’s. Abaddon did not like the fact that Layak’s men guarded it instead of his own. When Horus had ordered it be so, an ugly look had come over him, as if he tested his son, though to what end Abaddon could not discern. Like the vessel that carried him, the Warmaster was no longer what he had once been.
The chamber’s air reeked of incense that was sweet at first breath, harsh with bitterness and iron scents on the second, foul on the third. A pool of viscous liquid so still it looked solid filled channels beneath the path. Shadows whispered between the warriors of the Unspeaking. They called to Abaddon, offering him power, wealth and glory as they probed his soul for weakness. Lesser men would succumb, but Ezekyle Abaddon had no weaknesses, and he scorned the voices’ feeble promises as he did all the temptations of the warp. Contempt armoured him. His will was a sword against the dark.
‘It is a throne room fit for the lord of the Primordial Truth,’ said Layak.
‘It is a prison,’ said Abaddon. He looked upon his father. Horus’ face was swollen with power, its beauty lost beneath stretched skin. When awake, Horus still possessed the legendary charisma that made all men love him. When entranced like this, he was diminished, a hero past his best. It angered Abaddon to see him so, and tainted his love with pity.
‘If Horus had not forbidden me from harming you, you would already be dead,’ Abaddon said. ‘I will hold to his word only so far, priest. Be careful what poisons you pour into my lord’s ear. No order will prevent me taking your head if I deem the provocation sufficient.’
‘The truth poisons no one,’ said Layak mildly. He appeared as ordinary as he possibly could at that moment. When he worked his sorcery, hoar frost cloaked him, strange scents rose from him, blood oozed from his vox-grille. But though he was currently bereft of the aura of dark magic, corruption left its mark. The bladed design of his helm and the six eye-lenses arranged down its faceplate cheeks could have been a bizarre aesthetic conceit. Abaddon guessed they were not. He wondered what he would see when he finally slew Layak, and tore the misshapen helmet from his head.
‘Your truth is subjective,’ Abaddon growled. ‘Horus rose to free us from one tyrant, not submit us to four. He fights with them. He will not be beholden to your masters. Your certainty is your weakness.’
‘The Warmaster is not a slave,’ said Layak, making no effort to hide his condescension. ‘He is the champion of the Four. The power of the Eightfold Path is his to command.’
‘I do not trust you, Apostle. I do not trust your words, or your faith, or your intentions.’ Abaddon looked sideways at the Word Bearer over the neck ring of his Terminator plate. ‘Know that the Warmaster does not trust you either, no matter what favour you currently have. You are a useful thing. When things no longer have their uses, they are discarded.’
Still infuriatingly mild, Layak replied, ‘You have no idea, First Captain, what your father thinks or feels. You never will, until you allow yourself to worship as he does, and open yourself to the Pantheon.’
Abaddon grunted and continued down the walkway. His feet rang loudly from the metal and stone. Layak’s footsteps dogged his own. Four others followed them: Layak’s mute blade slaves, and behind them two of Abaddon’s Terminator-armoured Justaerin, their weight shuddering the deck with every step. Layak’s tread was the most grating, ever-present, following the First Captain everywhere he went. Layak would not let him be. Horus more than tolerated his parasitic presence; he hearkened closely to what Layak said. Once, the religion Lorgar preached was resisted by Horus. Since Lorgar’s attempted coup and subsequent banishment, principles Horus had found distasteful before seemed acceptable from Layak’s lying mouth.
It angered Abaddon that it was so. He did not like the faint streams of red, blue, pink and green energies that, now he drew closer, he could see racing around his unconscious genefather. He liked none of it at all. Horus was changing. He had fallen without warning, bleeding from the cut the dog Russ had given him. When Maloghurst the Twisted had brought the Warmaster back to them, it seemed to Abaddon that not all of Horus had returned.
More magic. More trickery. More weakness.
They halted before Horus. Infernal light bathed the Warmaster’s face. Unconscious, he looked sickly, his face twisted by the powers of the warp, his handsomeness deformed, become lumpen and rough as the features of any narcotics addict or drunkard. His eyes twitched under swollen lids. His once full lips thinned to b
loodless lines. A thread of drool snaked down from teeth that had become sharp. He was twisted, warp-touched – a bloated, swollen shadow of greatness enthroned. He seemed vast, like an extrusion of a hidden, awful truth greater than a man; but he was less than a man, when once he had been so much more.
Abaddon was reminded of the time Horus lay close to death on Davin, wounded by the anathame, before he returned to his sons with new vigour, and declared that the Emperor must fall. Then, Abaddon had felt a lifetime’s anguish. But now…
Each time Horus fell, he came back. Each time he came back, he was diminished. Horus still believed himself master of his own destiny. To Abaddon it was clear he no longer was. By running to the lodges and heeding Erebus, Abaddon bore some responsibility for that, and the thought pricked him.
Layak hissed his quiet laugh. ‘Oh, Abaddon. Does your love for your father waver? Do you see him vulnerable, and feel your regard curdle into disgust? He is not weakening, I assure you.’
Abaddon turned so that he fully faced the Apostle. ‘Speak so of the Warmaster again and I shall kill you here.’
Servos whined as Abaddon’s Terminators presented their guns to fire. Bolts racked into chambers. In answer, heat rose from Layak’s blade slaves as they began their transformation in preparation for combat.
Layak laughed again. ‘You speak words of loyalty, but your reactions betray you. I voice only your thoughts. He is the vessel of Chaos, the most high, the most exalted.’ Layak knelt and bent his head. ‘The champion of the Pantheon, but you think he is weak.’
‘He is the greatest being in this galaxy,’ said Abaddon, ‘not the prophet of your so-called gods.’ He stared proudly at the Warmaster, ignoring the worms of doubt in his mind. He wanted to act, now – to strike down the priest and remove his taint.
That moment would come.
‘Is that so?’ Layak’s sextuple lenses flared defiantly. Abaddon’s fingers twitched towards the massive combi-bolter mag-locked to his hip. His warriors tensed. Like their leader, the Justaerin would have happily seen Layak dead. They wanted the Unspeaking and all the Word Bearers away from their general.