The Lost and the Damned

by Guy Haley

  The High Lords looked uncomfortably at one another.

  ‘Yes, well.’ Pentasian said. ‘We shall see what transpires.’ He cleared his throat and massaged the bridge of his nose, then poured himself some more wine. ‘That leaves the question of the rest of Terra.’

  ‘With the bulk of the Legions at the Palace, the enemy is having an easier time of it elsewhere,’ said Sanguinius. ‘Over the last three days, since the Death Guard began their landing, we have received reports of four major population centres falling to the Warmaster, including Lundun, Noy Zaylant Hive, Neork and Brasyla. Millions are dying. The diseases outside the Palace are already killing. They are far more virulent than the ones we see here.’

  ‘The Emperor shields us from such witchcraft,’ said the Khan. ‘I experienced the effect myself. As soon as I passed within the walls, the sickness left me, and the knife used to infect me disintegrated.’

  ‘The Emperor protects,’ Ossian said clearly, then hurriedly added as Lord Dorn gave him a sharp look, ‘so they say.’

  ‘You will still not commit your forces to actions outside the walls?’ said Pentasian.

  ‘We must stand firm,’ said Dorn.

  ‘Your firmness is commendable, but will ensure no Terra is left!’ said Ossian.

  ‘There will be no Terra if there is no Emperor,’ said Dorn.

  The Khan gave Dorn a sidelong glance. They disagreed on this matter.

  ‘Guilliman will come. If he is delayed, then we must guarantee the Palace and the Emperor until he does,’ said Dorn. ‘The Legions cannot leave the Palace without jeopardising the Emperor. If the Emperor dies, we have lost, and so the Legions do not leave.’

  ‘My lords,’ said Adreen, ‘let us not bicker. The primarchs favour us to give us this news. They do not have to. We have no authority over them, and the Praetorian is right. We cannot weaken the Palace defences, even if it costs billions of lives.’

  ‘It will cost billions of lives,’ said Pentasian.

  ‘Then what are we to do?’ said Ossian.

  ‘We fight! The Imperial Army fights on,’ said Adreen. ‘We have plentiful support from Lord Kane’s armies. The enemy’s strength is concentrated here, at the Palace. While that remains the case, my armies shall do what they can elsewhere. It is appalling, I agree, but the legionaries and Custodians are needed here. We must resist as best we can.’

  ‘That is all any of us can do,’ said Dorn. ‘Resist. We tell you these things that you might prepare, and save as many of our people as you can. That is your role in this, while we wage war on behalf of the Emperor. See to the civilians. Free us from this task, and I swear on my honour, it shall be enough. We will not allow the Imperium to fall.’

  ‘What were you thinking?’ said Dorn to his brothers, though primarily he addressed the Khan.

  The Khan kept his silence. The three primarchs were in an unfinished side chamber off the Senatorum Imperialis. The building had been under construction for centuries, and still the outer chambers were yet to be completed. The one they occupied had bare rockcrete walls and was lit dimly by a single lumenglobe. It was freezing and damp; nevertheless there were bedrolls and other signs of civilian occupation all around the walls. ‘Why were you on the same section of the wall?’ Dorn demanded.

  Again, the Khan said nothing, but stared at his brother with calm eyes.

  ‘Providence,’ said Sanguinius.

  ‘You could both have been killed,’ said Dorn.

  The Khan chose to speak then. ‘We all die eventually, brother. There is nothing more true than that. Even for us.’

  Dorn clenched his fists. ‘Why will you not obey my orders? Why will you not put the safety of our father above your own impulses?’

  ‘We are different, you and I,’ said the Khan. ‘In the eyes of the actor, the action is justifiable. We know what the Dark Mechanicum are building. We would not if I remained here. Intelligence in war is the mightiest weapon.’

  ‘I had already accurately deduced what was there,’ said Dorn irritably.

  ‘Then I have removed uncertainty from your calculations.’ The Khan gave his brother a wide smile. ‘I thought you would appreciate that.’

  Dorn placed his fists upon a workbench. The bench was a crude thing, plasteel sheets bolted to scaffold-pole legs. The surface was neatly arrayed with tools. He stared at them in silence. They were covered with the dust of neglect, and left perfect outlines where curious refugees had moved them.

  ‘No more risks,’ he said. ‘Either of you. Can you imagine the blow to morale alone if one of you died?’

  ‘I am sorry, my brother, but I am going to disappoint you again,’ said the Khan.

  Dorn turned round so quickly the tools rocked.

  ‘Do not take your Legion away,’ said Dorn. ‘I forbid it.’

  The Khan held his eye. ‘You heard the High Lords. The people of Terra are dying. You are sacrificing the population of this world,’ he said. ‘It is pragmatism, I know. You present a cold face to the world, brother, but your heart does not match it. You know this is not right. If we cannot protect the men and women of mankind’s cradle, how can we claim the best interests of humanity are at the centre of what we do?’

  ‘You have known of my strategy since you returned to the Throneworld, brother,’ said Dorn. The shocking white of his hair accentuated the paleness of his face. In the dimly lit room, it seemed age had finally got its talons into him. ‘Your objections are noted, but at this late stage, meaningless.’

  ‘You shackle me to the Palace with too short a chain,’ said the Khan. ‘We fought the Great Crusade to free humanity, not to sacrifice it.’

  Dorn nodded once, though not in agreement. He rested his hand on his sword hilt.

  ‘Jaghatai, I understand. I feel your anguish that mortal men and women suffer to ensure our father survives. But war is a calculation, this one more than all the others. Life cannot be measured in absolute terms any longer. Every death must be set against one consequence alone – how much time it can buy us. Time is the currency of this battle. We must hoard seconds like misers. Lives we have in abundance. They can and must be spent freely, regrettable as that is.’

  Neither of the others spoke.

  ‘Do not be hasty, brother,’ said Dorn, more gently. ‘Horus continues his bombardment of the surface. He is still testing us, still probing the defences of the world. He is saving his best troops. He knows we cannot spare our own legionaries anywhere but here. The creatures assailing the hives of Terra are scum, dregs, opportunists and fanatics. While here our outwork forces arrayed against them are more than enough to keep them back. These attacks of the Death Guard are intended to draw us out. Their presence shows our strategy is working. Leave, and you shall be playing into Horus’ hands.’

  ‘The situation is fluid,’ said the Khan. He spoke without rancour, but his objections were clear. ‘Horus will land all his Legions soon. I prefer to act now, while I am still free to do so.’

  ‘If you do, you will provoke his attack!’ said Dorn.

  ‘Making the enemy change his plans is strength. Force your enemy to react to you. A general who waits for the enemy to act is already defeated, I learned this as a child.’

  ‘Your wars were different to mine,’ said Dorn.

  ‘Then perhaps you should listen to me,’ said the Khan. ‘The ordu are better served in swift battle. On the walls they are worth ten men – if we ride, twenty or more. I will not stand by while billions die.’

  ‘Jaghatai!’ said Dorn in exasperation.

  ‘Brothers,’ said Sanguinius. ‘Arguing over eventualities that have not yet come to pass serves nothing.’

  ‘Every strategic sense I possess tells me that Horus will direct his forces to reave the planet to exploit our concern for humanity,’ said Dorn. ‘He does this expressly to divide our efforts. When we are split, and our warriors spread, t
hat is when the Warmaster will fall on us and seize victory. We must stand united.’

  ‘Then you do not disagree with me,’ said the Khan. ‘The population is at risk.’

  ‘I anticipated slaughter long ago,’ said Dorn, ‘and I regret that this chain of events came to pass, but we cannot respond to whatever provocation Horus presents to us. We cannot let ourselves be lured out. We cannot follow his plan. We will make ourselves weak, then all is lost.’

  ‘Since when was saving mankind from the darkness a sign of weakness?’ said the Khan. ‘Sanguinius, my brother and comrade, what do you see? Lend me your foresight.’

  Sanguinius shut his eyes. Like that, he appeared drawn and tired, a funerary monument to himself. Dorn suppressed a shudder.

  ‘My sight is not so clear as father’s,’ said Sanguinius. ‘The future is ever in flux. Only some events…’ He paused, finding the words hard to say. ‘Only some events are certain.’

  ‘Do you see me? What will be the consequences of inaction?’

  ‘I see fire, and blood, and a world laid waste if you do not act.’

  ‘If I act?’ said the Khan.

  Sanguinius opened his eyes to look at him.

  ‘There is grave risk to you. A confrontation unlooked for, and if you survive, a flight from one danger into greater peril.’

  ‘Who will I face?’

  ‘I cannot divine.’

  ‘Will I save lives?’

  Sanguinius nodded. ‘Many.’

  ‘That is what I was made for,’ said the Khan. ‘I will ride out.’

  ‘We will save lives by holding the Palace,’ said Dorn. ‘So long as the Emperor lives, Horus cannot be victorious.’

  ‘You hold the Palace,’ said the Khan, turning his hard brown eyes back on Dorn. ‘I will not leave the ordinary citizenry of Terra defenceless.’

  ‘Jaghatai, I insist…’

  ‘Half my Legion remains here, at all times.’ The Khan spoke across him. ‘This is my word, but I ride with the rest of the ordu. I will say no more other than to swear that I will return when I am needed. I will be here when the time comes. Do not try to stop me. I will not be dictated to, not even by you. If the Emperor Himself were to tell me I should not go, I would not listen.’

  The Khan left the room.

  Dorn let him go. Sanguinius rested a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

  ‘Trust to fate, brother. There are kinder powers at work who favour us.’

  ‘I do not believe in such things,’ said Dorn with a troubled sigh. ‘But I shall ask them to watch over the Khan anyway.’

  The Lord of Iron

  Iron circle

  Superior intelligence

  The Vengeful Spirit, Terran high anchor, 9th of Quartus

  Perturabo arrived aboard the Vengeful Spirit in a foul temper.

  His Stormbird put in to a small hangar high on the command spines of the vessel, where Sons of Horus in gleaming armour waited for him with all the pageantry of inter-Legion diplomacy. Were it not for the polished skulls hanging from armour upon cords and the bright red banners bearing Horus’ baleful eye, the greeting could have taken place during the Great Crusade.

  Those days were done. Perturabo saw through the display. There was nothing of the old glory nor anything of honour. He was insulted his brother did not greet him personally and saw only threat in the welcoming party, a feeling that intensified when Horus Aximand stepped forwards to greet him.

  ‘My Lord Perturabo,’ said Aximand. ‘Welcome to the Vengeful Spirit. It has been far too long since you graced us with your presence.’

  Perturabo had never warmed to Little Horus. He was a preening man, full of borrowed confidence. His resemblance to the War­master made him think himself better than others, when all he had been was an image of Horus reflected on dirty water. Now his face was ruined, he was not even that.

  ‘Get on with it and take me to Horus,’ grumbled Perturabo. ‘There is no time for this pantomime. I must speak with my brother immediately.’

  The side hatches of the Stormbird slammed down. The booming tread of iron feet on metal echoed from the belly of the ship. The Iron Circle, Perturabo’s bodyguard of six towering battle robots, marched out, formed a crescent around their master and slammed their hazard-striped shields together to make a wall behind him.

  ‘I see you have company,’ said Aximand. His attempt to raise an eyebrow succeeded only in pulling at the scarred wreck of his face and making him even uglier.

  ‘The Iron Circle goes where I go,’ he said.

  ‘You have more forces with you? Why don’t you call them out?’

  ‘There are always more,’ said Perturabo.

  Ten Iron Warriors in modified Cataphractii plate stepped onto the deck and took up position beside the battle automata. They aimed their weapons pointedly at their hosts.

  ‘Is that Captain Forrix I see there?’ said Aximand mildly, ignoring their show of strength.

  ‘Him?’ Perturabo said with complete disinterest. ‘Yes. It is Forrix.’

  ‘I shall see to it that they are refreshed,’ said Aximand.

  ‘They will remain here. They are staying to guard my ship,’ said Perturabo. ‘Refreshments are not required.’

  Aximand looked over the Terminator-armoured Space Marines and the automata, and gave a little sigh. ‘Your caution is a credit to your genius, but you should trust your brother, my lord,’ said Little Horus. ‘You are held in high esteem here. You have nothing to fear.’

  Perturabo glowered. ‘I fear nothing, but I trust no one,’ he said. His cape of blades clanked behind him as he strode past Little Horus. ‘Not even my brother.’

  The Iron Circle came noisily alive, and stamped after their master.

  Aximand looked at Forrix. The Iron Warrior acknowledged him with a tiny dip of his helmet, no more than that. Aximand smiled a crooked smile and followed Perturabo from the hangar, leaving the sons of two primarchs staring at each other over their guns.

  Perturabo walked swiftly through the Vengeful Spirit, his Iron Circle clanking behind tirelessly. The ship shuddered in time to the firing of its guns. Having skulked behind Luna for several weeks, it had come out and joined the bombardment of the Throneworld. Horus was putting on a show of leadership from the front. A screen of destroyers and frigates protected the flagship from defence batteries that Perturabo would have destroyed many times over had his brother not kept him at the edge of the system. The story was the same as it ever was; Perturabo was exiled, ignored, called upon only as a weapon of last resort.

  He would not let that stand. Already a master of the material sciences, he coveted the power of the warp. He saw possibilities beyond anything his genius could accomplish were it to remain shackled to the materium. But he was wary. His investigations were thorough. He would not follow his brothers into damnation and throw himself blindly upon the mercies of the gods, but circumvent them altogether and become a god himself.

  As he proceeded through the vessel, his armour’s auto-senses recorded everything for later examination.

  The Vengeful Spirit was a living textbook on how not to grasp the warp’s might. In every way, it had changed for the worse. The taint of mutation lay on all things. Perturabo deeply disapproved. The warp was chaos. If approached carelessly, it was uncontrollable. He prized order. He would impose order upon chaos where his brothers had not. In securing his own apotheosis Fulgrim had tricked Perturabo but ultimately, like Angron, he had become a puppet of his passions. Magnus had chosen the esoteric path and fallen from it. Mortarion had been humbled. Lorgar was abandoned by the creatures he had unleashed.

  These things would not happen to him, for he was Perturabo. He was logical when the others were impulsive. Methodical when they were rash. Passionless when they were indulgent. He was the Lord of Iron, and he was better than them all.

  If the Vengeful Spi
rit were his ship, he would have burned the rot out. Horus didn’t even bother to hide it. Corruption was in plentiful evidence. The smell of spoiled meat blasted from atmospheric cyclers. Crew and legionaries bore the marks of flesh change. When he ascended a huge staircase leading up towards the command deck he encountered an entire wall subsumed by a mat of throbbing flesh, a tapestry of skin that presented a madness of rolling eyes and dribbling orifices. As the automata passed it, each chimed out a warning and powered its weapons. It was a supreme effort to order them to stand down, and not send them to cut away the canker.

  Perturabo saw things other men did not. His psychic abilities were nothing compared to some, but he was nevertheless a pri­march, and had an affinity for the warp. He had always been able to see the weeping sore in reality he had dubbed the Ocularis Terribus. Being on the Vengeful Spirit was like looking into the depths of the Ocularis and being unable to look away. There was a shifting of reality there. Nothing was real. Falsehood had stolen in behind every atom.

  He wanted to be off the Vengeful Spirit. It reeked of slavery, and Perturabo was no one’s slave.

  He made good distance from the hangar without the irritation of Aximand, but the dog caught up with him to nip at his heels.

  ‘My lord,’ said Aximand, jogging to keep up with Perturabo.

  ‘What do you want, Aximand?’ said Perturabo.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Lupercal’s court. I know the way, you need not follow me like a lost child. Begone, I am here to speak with the Warmaster, not a spoiled facsimile.’

  ‘Horus is not in Lupercal’s court,’ said Aximand.

  Perturabo stopped. The instant he did, so did the Iron Circle.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In his temple. It is a new location on the ship. I must take you there.’

  ‘Must you,’ said Perturabo.

  Aximand turned them about and led the party back down the stair and off towards a large lifter platform. Perturabo stared at it suspiciously before he and his robotic guardians clambered aboard.