by Guy Haley
‘I prefer stairs,’ he said. ‘Less opportunity for assassination through mechanical interference.’
Aximand said nothing, but worked the controls, sending them down towards the base of the command spire.
At the bottom, he led Perturabo down a long corridor whose portside windows showed a fine view of the fleet and whose starboard side gibbered nonsense from thousands of chattering mouths. Presently they came to an ornate doorway carved of black, faintly luminous stone with a bestiary’s worth of leering faces. Perturabo had seen such stone before, in the Cursus on Tallarn. Recognising the door as an artefact of the warp, he greedily set the devices of his armour to analyse it. As always, the stone showed only as a blank space to his equipment.
‘The Iron Circle must remain outside,’ said Aximand, interrupting his evaluation.
‘My machines pose no threat to Horus,’ he said, still playing his instruments over the black stone.
‘So you say,’ said Little Horus. ‘How can I be sure?’
Perturabo’s furious grey eyes stared at him, but he held up his fist and clenched it, and the Iron Circle took a simultaneous step backwards. Their hammers thudded onto the floor, their shields they brought across their bodies, and they deactivated as one, sinking into themselves with a hiss of released pressure.
‘Satisfied?’ said the Lord of Iron.
Little Horus bowed his head; again there was an air of mockery to his show of respect.
‘You may enter, my lord,’ he said.
The doors opened.
Perturabo stared at Little Horus long enough for his disgust to be known before passing through the portal.
The doors closed behind him, sealing him in a chamber that should not have been there.
Perturabo took in the silent Unspeaking standing guard in alcoves; the raised walkway; the black oil, strangely alive-looking, in the channels cut into the floor; the windows that looked upon an alien cosmos.
Horus sat upon a throne at the far end of the walkway, which was fashioned of the same black, lustrous stone as the doors. He sprawled carelessly, armoured legs thrust out in front of him, his hands on the screaming daemon heads worked into the armrests. A penetrating sense of unease had Perturabo in its grip; the warp was close here, its otherworldly tides practically lapping at his feet. The lights were dim, but they shone with painful wavelengths not found in the material realm, and Perturabo squinted against them to see his brother.
Horus was armoured, his hands encased in the huge machinery of his power claws, his great maul leaning against the throne. He stirred and sat upright. The machineries of his battleplate were loud in the sepulchral quiet.
‘Brother,’ said the Warmaster. ‘It is good to see you.’
Perturabo hesitated. He should go to his brother. Caution held him back.
So much of the scene was wrong. The many Word Bearers vastly outnumbered the two Justaerin standing sentry at the entrance, whose presence was the only acknowledgement that this was a Sons of Horus ship.
‘Brother,’ said Horus again. ‘It is unlike you to dither. Come to me and greet me. You have performed well. I wish to thank you. We have a great deal to discuss.’
The Lord of Iron advanced steadily to mask his worries. Perturabo felt no fear, but he was paranoid to the core, and the voice that whispered treachery and death into the hidden folds of his mind was screaming at him to get out.
‘My brother,’ he said. He believed he hid his internal conflict, but Horus watched him sharply, so that he feared he had betrayed himself.
With difficulty, for his famed battleplate, the Logos, was a massive construction, Perturabo knelt at his brother’s feet.
‘My Warmaster,’ he said.
‘Rise, Lord of Iron,’ Horus said.
Perturabo had no choice. He had to obey. Horus’ gift was his ability to command men. Long ago he had done so artfully, through argument and persuasion as much as force of will. His charisma had been such he convinced others to follow him gladly. Now his presence demanded obedience. There was such power in him, yet he was also lesser than he had been, to the extent that Perturabo barely recognised his brother. Imperiousness replaced nobility. The easy smile had become a knowing leer. His thoughtful countenance had become slightly wild, suggesting wisdom too terrible to hold. Yet there was a glimpse of the old Horus when he stood from his throne and looked upon Perturabo fondly, causing the Lord of Iron to doubt himself.
‘We shall talk awhile, you and I,’ said Horus.
A febrile heat rose off the Warmaster. The sourceless light shining up from his gorget stained his skin a lurid magenta. So much power was invested in Horus. Perturabo recognised authority when he saw it, and though he shied away from others who would dominate him, to Horus he grudgingly submitted.
‘You have waited too long to summon me,’ Perturabo said sourly. ‘Why did you not allow me down with the Mechanicum landing parties? I have examined their work. It is pedestrian at best. Their contravallation is full of weaknesses. Had Dorn half the wits he ascribes himself, he would have overrun the siege camps a dozen times already. Lucky it is for us that he is arrogant, and afraid, choosing to skulk behind his fortifications. Let me at the Mechanicum to show how feeble Dorn’s efforts are. Let me down to Terra, my lord, and I shall win this war for you. You promise me honour and respect, then leave me to languish in the outer system digging ditches. We delay when we should strike, we–’
‘Perturabo,’ said Horus, silencing him.
Perturabo’s stolid face showed surprise as his words jammed in his throat and would not come out.
‘Do not complain. Not until you have heard me out.’ Horus stepped down from the throne dais to come to his brother’s side.
‘My lord,’ Perturabo gasped, able to speak again.
‘Dear brother,’ Horus said. He rested his massive claw on Perturabo’s shoulder. Perturabo’s teeth and bones ached at the otherworldly power emanating from the Warmaster. ‘Always looking for the poison in the meat and never at the feast. I did not summon you until now for good reason, and I assure you it is the exact opposite of the suspicions churning around in that mind of yours. You see deviousness when truthfully I set you to work as I do because you are the only one of our brothers I trust. Be aware of this. You are blind to the affection I have for you. It offends me.’
‘My lord…’ said Perturabo haltingly.
‘Fulgrim is flighty,’ said Horus. ‘Angron is consumed with rage. Mortarion has fallen on the sword of his pride. Magnus cannot be trusted, for he serves only himself. But you are here, Perturabo, you are still strong. You have not cravenly begged for the mercies of the Four. You see in me what the true power of the warp can grant.’ He held up his other hand. ‘I am the master of the Pantheon, not their servant. The others are diminished creatures, slaves to darkness. The lost, and the damned.’ Horus smiled regretfully. ‘They were not strong enough. They give themselves to one small aspect of the warp. But you, Perturabo, you are too wise for that. Too clever. You preserve your individuality when the others have lost theirs without realising it has gone.’
‘I broke with the Emperor to be free, not to enslave myself to worse masters,’ Perturabo admitted.
Horus chuckled, a leonine growl somewhere at the back of it. ‘The Four hear you. Your arrogance delights them. They respect you. The others…’ He shook his head. ‘They are tools. They are not respected. Not like you, Lord of Iron.’
Horus walked a few steps from the throne to look out at the vivid displays through the viewports.
‘You are too important to waste. Your sons too – they are valuable! Why would I send you down to bleed with the dregs? I have greater things in mind for you.’
‘Mortarion’s sons are on-world,’ Perturabo said peevishly. ‘We are as indomitable, more indomitable, than the Death Guard. They are ill-suited to this battle. I should be there, fighting
now.’
Horus dismissed his concerns with a gesture. ‘They have a different role to play to the one I have for you. Mortarion’s sons will die in their multitudes performing their task. I am saving you and your sons, my brother, for the real work.’
Perturabo’s frown broke into a hundred different wrinkles around the input cables embedded in his scalp. ‘When have you ever had a care for the lives of my sons, or for my talents?’
Horus looked at him pityingly. ‘When have I not? You are the best of them, brother! This is a siege. It is the siege, Perturabo. There will never be another battle like this. You are the finest engineer in the galaxy. I protect my best assets. I preserve them for the right moment. You do not toss your advantage away.’
‘Then… then you finally acknowledge my worth?’ said Perturabo stiffly.
‘Finally? I have always acknowledged your worth!’ said Horus. ‘That is why I speak with you alone. The rest of our siblings must be dealt with together, like children, but not you, bold, brave Perturabo. We can talk as men. You and I, we are more alike than the rest. Equals, almost, in the scale of our intellects and the scope of our ambitions.’
Perturabo bristled. He regarded his intelligence as superior to all others’, even Horus’.
‘Of course your Legion will perform better than the Ordo Reductor and Sota-Nul’s lackeys,’ Horus continued, smiling indulgently at Perturabo’s pride. ‘Of course you would already be forcing the walls. Was it not you who uncovered the vulnerabilities of the aegis? Was it not you who proposed the nature of the aerial assault? I rely on you, brother. This is a dangerous time. My attention is… elsewhere. We must be circumspect, not rush in where angels fear to tread.’ His grin became impossibly wide at his use of the ancient aphorism. ‘An egg is a strong vessel for the life it hides…’ He held up his clawed hand. ‘Pressure, pressure, pressure, the egg remains whole, until the pressure is too great, and the egg cracks.’ His claws scissored together with a noise like striking swords. ‘A small breach, a lone assault, these little violations can be overcome by the defender. The Palace must be forced wide on every front at once. So hard and so widespread our attack must be that it cannot possibly be countered.’
Horus’ smile had no humanity to it. It was the sneer of a gargoyle on a pagan fane.
‘You will go to the surface. You will direct your Legion to encircle the walls of the Palace with unbreakable siege lines. Yes, improve the contravallation. Yes, have your Stor Bezahsk show the others how to conduct a barrage. But this is not all I wish you to accomplish. Very soon the Emperor’s grip on the warp around Terra will be prised loose. Mortarion, Angron and Fulgrim will then descend, and the Neverborn allies our patrons promise will be able to manifest soon afterwards. You will–’ Horus broke off suddenly and looked up, hearkening to a call Perturabo couldn’t hear. The Warmaster’s gaze slid along the lines of motionless Word Bearers. He stared into nothingness for a while, then regarded his brother again.
‘So there is nothing for me to do other than dig more ditches while false gods steal my victory?’ said Perturabo.
‘No, my dear brother. All the daemons spawned since time began will not win us victory. Nor will the Legiones Astartes. We require a greater power.’
‘Titans,’ said Perturabo decisively. ‘Landing our Titans without their destruction is the key. Too far from the Palace, they are at risk of counter-attack. Too near, and their landing craft will be targeted and brought down.’
Horus nodded. A pointed tongue slid along teeth that appeared momentarily sharp.
‘You will have your victory, and all the triumphs due you. When you accomplish the task I set you, every creature in the galaxy will know your name, all shall fear you. None shall doubt your brilliance.’
Perturabo listened, rapt.
‘Only you can do this.’ Horus gripped Perturabo’s pauldrons in both hands and stared into his eyes. Heat from the Warmaster’s body warmed his armour. ‘You will find me a way to get Titans past the wall, Perturabo,’ said Horus, ‘and directly into the Imperial Palace.’
Seven plagues
Nightmares return
The enemy speaks
Palace outworks, Daylight Wall section 16, 15th of Quartus
Katsuhiro was still alive. He did not know how. Sometimes, he thought he had died and been tossed into some punishing afterlife. He was so ill and tired. When the third line was abandoned, Katsuhiro was ashamed to retreat from it, but it had lost all use as a defensive position. Where clean lines of plascrete ramparts had crossed the land, now there were only heaps of splintered rock sculpted into hillocks and dells by endless bombs, all reeking with the corpses trapped in the ruin. Bastion 16 still stood, but now it was in front of Katsuhiro’s position. He felt safer when it was behind him, as if it had his back. Now it was in front he watched it deteriorate, its guns fall silent, its surface pit and crack. Like the slow death of a valued friend, it filled him with despair.
But still Bastion 16 held. Others did not. Their remains lined the battlefield, ugly, rotting teeth in gums brown with decay.
A month limped by. If time could get sick, then it did, leaking putrid fluid from every day. One after another, seven plagues swept over the outworks, ravaging the defenders stationed there. First came the running boils, the trench pox and fungal rot: novel diseases that baffled the medicae sent to treat the troops. Red blindness, foaming madness, a plague of insectoid parasites that ate men from the inside, and finally, the humiliating, agonising death of the Bloody Flux. Jainan died. So many people died. The few people Katsuhiro knew were gone, save Doromek, who never sickened, and the woman Myz. He stopped talking to other people, saving his words for tearful monologues to himself that he mumbled into holes in the ground.
The enemy kept coming. Often the attackers were the undisciplined rabble they had faced before, but increasingly the merciless, nigh-on unkillable legionaries of the Death Guard came against them. The sole time the loyal Space Marines had come out faded from memory. When the Death Guard were driven back it was by dint of the wall guns, meaningless, short-lived triumphs that came at a terrible cost to the human defenders of the outworks.
The aegis continued to weaken, allowing more of the enemy’s ordnance to fall through. Artillery emplacements in the fortifications encircling the Palace pounded them incessantly. Poisons and disease fell as often as fire. Toxic environment gear became the defenders’ skin, gas masks took the place of faces.
Katsuhiro’s company was merged three times with others, until they were a mongrel formation, stripped of the thin pretence they had of being members of the Kushtun Naganda. They were as motley and filthy as the wretches that attacked them. Only the direction they were facing told who was on which side, and that was not enough. Men from both forces broke in the middle of battles, going berserk and attacking anyone around them. Mistakes were common.
The nightmares that assaulted Terra in the months before the invasion, gone from Katsuhiro when he reached the Palace, crept back into his few hours of sleep. Horrible things, full of mutilations and blood, they were far more real and disturbing than even the traumas of war.
One rest period – it might have been the night or the day, the clouds of ash and fire long having removed differentiation from the two – Katsuhiro dreamed such a dream, of endless tunnels of black glass curved like a beast’s intestines that he ran through in a panic, something clawed and silent gaining on him. He fell from the tunnel without warning into a sea of violent colours, where toothed hallucinations took on solidity for the sole purpose of tearing him apart, then tumbled through a door made of eyes onto the ruin of the Katabatic Plains. A bloody rain poured, and then, from the sky, a giant fell, huge and monstrous. Roaring in pain and rage, it came for him, a clawed hand reaching down to snuff out his life.
Katsuhiro woke screaming. No one came to his aid. Everyone had their own daemons to wrestle with. When he calmed himself from shrieks
to moans and then to sobs, he feared for a moment he might be deaf. He heard nothing but his own, sickly breath rattling in the hood of his gas mask.
He stood on feeble legs. Hundreds of other soldiers were doing the same, looking across the grey wasteland of the Katabatic Plains in fear.
The bombardment had stopped. The heat of the constant explosions, which rose on occasion to heights painful to bear, was carried off by the spring winds and the temperature dropped rapidly. Poison gas and clouds of viral spores blew away. Katsuhiro felt the breeze’s caress through the rubber of his tox-suit. The wind called to him.
For the first time in what seemed forever, he tore off the hood of his gas mask, not caring if he died, and stood gasping like a landed fish. He closed his eyes to enjoy the simple bliss of sweat drying on his skin.
Thunder boomed, then roared again – no bomb this time but a shout, a voice, a presence so large it filled the heavens from horizon to horizon.
The sky flashed, and all on the defences looked upwards, and there beheld a terrifying vision.
The Crimson Apostle
An offer of surrender
Blood rain
Daylight Wall, Helios Gate, 15th of Quartus
There were six hundred merlons on the parapets of each tower of the Helios Gate, huge tombstone blocks four metres deep, three wide and three high. Each one had its own firing step. Each firing step hosted a figure in blood-red armour. They faced out in every direction, silent sentinels, waiting for the petty battles of air and outworks to be done and the first true hammer blow to fall. They were men of the First Chapter of the Blood Angels, its men and their captains under Raldoron’s command.
Another commander might have remained inside the tower command centre, but Raldoron still preferred to walk the walls. He paced around the circumference of the tower. The space between the central gun turret and the battlement was wide, but then everything about the gate was scaled for gods and not for men. The macro cannon fired every ten seconds, hurling its destructive payloads no longer upwards at the fleet, but across the plain towards the contravallation. The barrel was at its lowest elevation, close enough for Raldoron to reach up and touch as he passed underneath it. When it fired, the gate convulsed upon its foundations. Even to him, a veteran of a hundred wars, the effect was alarming, but he put his faith in the primarchs, and trusted that Lord Dorn had allowed for these violent forces when he designed the defences.