False Gods (11 page)

‘The what?’

Horus smiled. ‘I’ll show you.’

‘A
NOTHER
DAMNED
REMEMBRANCER
,’ sneered Abaddon, shaking his head as he saw Horus and a woman in a green and red dress enter the embarkation deck. ‘It’s bad enough you’ve got a gaggle of them hanging round you, Loken, but the Warmaster? It’s disgraceful.’

‘Why don’t you tell him that yourself?’ asked Loken.

‘I will, don’t worry,’ said Abaddon.

Aximand and Torgaddon said nothing, knowing when to leave the first captain to his choler and when to back off. Loken, however, was still relatively new to regular contact with Abaddon, and his anger with him over his defence of Erebus was still raw.

‘You don’t feel the remembrancer program has any merit at all?’

‘Pah, it’s a waste of our time to babysit them. Didn’t Leman Russ say something about giving them all a gun? That sounds a damn sight more sensible to me than having them write stupid poems or paint pictures.’

‘It’s not about poems and pictures, Ezekyle, it’s about capturing the spirit of the age. It’s about history that we are writing.’

‘We’re not here to write history,’ answered Abaddon. ‘We’re here to make it.’

‘Exactly. And they will tell it.’

‘Well what use is that to us?’

‘Perhaps it’s not for us,’ said Loken. ‘Did you ever think of that?’

‘Then who’s it for?’ demanded Abaddon.

‘It’s for the generations who come after us,’ said Loken. ‘For the Imperium yet to be. You can’t imagine the wealth of information the remembrancers are gathering: libraries worth of achievements chronicled, galleries worth of artistry and countless cities raised for the glory of the Imperium. Thousands of years from now, people will look back at these times and they will know us and understand the nobility of what we set out to do. Ours will be an age of enlightenment that men will weep to know they were not a part of it. All that we have achieved will be celebrated and people will remember the Sons of Horus as the founders of a new age of illumination and progress. Think of that, Ezekyle, the next time you dismiss the remembrancers so quickly.’

He locked eyes with Abaddon, daring him to contradict him.

The first captain met his gaze then laughed. ‘Maybe I should get one too. Wouldn’t want anyone to forget my name in the future, eh?’

Torgaddon clapped both of them on the shoulders and said, ‘No, who’d want to know about you, Ezekyle? It’s me they’ll remember, the hero of Spiderland who saved the Emperor’s Children from certain death at the hands of the megarachnids. That’s a tale worth telling twice, eh, Garvi?’

Loken smiled, glad of Tarik’s intervention. ‘It’s a grand tale right enough, Tarik.’

‘I wish it was only twice we had to hear it,’ put in Aximand. ‘I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve heard you tell that tale. It’s getting to be as bad as that joke you tell about the bear.’

‘Don’t,’ warned Loken, seeing Torgaddon about to launch into a rendition of the joke.

‘There was this bear, the biggest bear you can imagine,’ started Torgaddon. ‘And a hunter…’

The others didn’t give him a chance to continue, bundling him with shouts and whoops of laughter.

‘This is the Mournival,’ said a powerful voice and their play fighting ceased immediately.

Loken released Torgaddon from a headlock and straightened before the sound of the Warmaster’s voice. The remainder of the Mournival did likewise, guiltily standing to attention before the commander. The dark complexioned woman with the black hair and fanciful dress stood at his side, and though she was tall for a mortal, she still only just reached the lower edges of his chest plate. She stared at them in confusion, no doubt wondering what she had just seen.

‘Are your companies ready for battle?’ demanded Horus. ‘Yes, sir,’ they chorused.

Horus turned to the woman and said, ‘This is Petronella Vivar of House Carpinus. She is to be my documentarist and I, unwisely it seems now, decided it was time for her to meet the Mournival.’

The woman took a step towards them and gave an elaborate and uncomfortable looking curtsey, Horus waiting a little behind her. Loken caught the amused glint concealed behind his brusqueness and said, ‘Well are you going to introduce us, sir? She can’t very well chronicle you without us can she?’

‘No, Garviel,’ smiled Horus. ‘I wouldn’t want the chronicles of Horus to exclude you, would I? Very well, this insolent young pup is Garviel Loken, recently elevated to the lofty position of the Mournival. Next to him is Tarik Torgaddon, a man who tries to turn everything into a joke, but mostly fails. Aximand is next. “Little Horus” we call him, since he is lucky enough to share some of my most handsome features. And finally, we come to Ezekyle Abaddon, Captain of my First Company.’

‘The same Abaddon from the tower at Ullanor?’ asked Petronella, and Abaddon beamed at her recognition.

‘Yes, the very same,’ answered Horus, ‘though you wouldn’t think it to look at him now.’

‘And this is the Mournival?’

‘They are, and for all their damned horseplay, they are invaluable to me. They are a voice of reason in my ear when all around me is confusion. They are as dear to me as my brother primarchs and I value their counsel above all others. In them are the humours of choler, phlegm, melancholia and sanguinity mixed in exactly the right amount I need to keep me on the side of the angels.’

‘So they are advisors?’

‘Such a term is too bland for the place they have in my heart. Learn this, Petronella Vivar, and your time with me will not have been in vain: without the Mournival, the office of Warmaster would be a poor thing indeed.’

Horus stepped forward and pulled something from his belt, something with a long strip of parchment drooping from it.

‘My sons,’ said Horus, dropping to one knee and holding the waxen token towards the Mournival. ‘Would you hear my oath of moment?’

Stunned by the magnanimity of such an act, none of the Mournival dared move. The other Astartes on the embarkation deck saw what was happening and a hush spread throughout the chamber. Even the background noise of the deck seemed to diminish at the incredible sight of the Warmaster kneeling before his chosen sons.

Eventually, Loken reached out a trembling gauntlet and took the seal from the Warmaster’s hand. He glanced over at Torgaddon and Aximand either side of him, quite dumbfounded by the Warmaster’s humility.

Aximand nodded and said, ‘We will hear your oath, Warmaster.’

‘And we will witness it,’ added Abaddon, unsheathing his sword and holding it out before the Warmaster.

Loken raised the oath paper and read the words the commander had written.

‘Do you, Horus, accept your role in this? Will you take your vengeance to those who defy you and turn from the glory of all you have helped create? Do you swear that you shall leave none alive who stand against the future of humanity and do you pledge to do honour to the XVI Legion?’

Horus looked up into Loken’s eyes and removed his gauntlet, clenching his bare fist around the blade Abaddon held out.

‘On this matter and by this weapon, I swear,’ said Horus, dragging his hand along the sword blade and opening the flesh of his palm. Loken nodded and handed the wax seal to the Warmaster as he rose to his feet.

Blood welled briefly from the cut and Horus dipped the oath paper in the clotting red fluid before affixing the oath paper to his breastplate and grinning broadly at them all.

‘Thank you, my sons,’ he said, coming forward to embrace them all one by one.

Loken felt his admiration for the Warmaster fill his heart, all the hurt at their exclusion from his deliberations on the way here forgotten as he held each of them close.

How could they ever have doubted him?

‘Now, we have a war to wage, my sons,’ shouted Horus. ‘What say you?’

‘Lupercal!’ yelled Loken, punching the air.

The others joined in and the chant spread until the embarkation deck reverberated with the deafening roars of the Sons of Horus.

‘Lupercal! Lupercal! Lupercal! Lupercal!’

T
HE
S
TORMBIRDS
LAUNCHED
in sequence, the Warmaster’s bird streaking from its launch rails like a predator unleashed. At intervals of seven seconds, each Stormbird fired until all six were launched. The pilots kept them close to the
Vengeful Spirit
, waiting for the remaining assault craft to launch from the other embarkation decks. So far, there had been no sign of the
Glory of Terra
, Eugan Temba’s flagship, or any of the other vessels left behind, but no one was taking any chances that there might be wolf pack squadrons of cruisers or fighters lurking nearby. Presently, another twelve Stormbirds of the Sons of Horus took up position with the Warmaster’s squadron as well as two belonging to the Word Bearers. The formation complete, the Astartes craft banked sharply, altering course to take them to the surface of Davin’s moon. The mighty, cliff-like flanks of the Warmaster’s flagship receded and, like swarms of bright insects, hundreds of Army drop ships detached from their bulk transporters – each one carrying a hundred armed men.

But greatest of all were the lander vessels of the Mechanicum.

Vast, monolithic structures as big as city blocks, they resembled snub-nosed tubes fitted with a wealth of heat resistant technologies and recessed deceleration burners. Inertial dampening fields held their cargoes secure and explosive bolts on internal anti-motion scaffolding were primed to release on impact.

In the wake of the militant arm of the launch came the logistics of an invasion, ammunition carriers, food and water tankers, fuel haulers and a myriad other support vessels essential for the maintenance of offensive operations.

Such was the proliferation of craft heading for the surface that no one could keep track of them all, not even the bridge crew under Boas Comnenus, and thus the gold-skinned landing skiff that launched from the civilian bay of the
Vengeful Spirit
went unnoticed.

The invasion fleet mustered in low orbit, orbital winds clutching at streamers of atmospheric gases and spinning them in lazy coils beneath the vessels.

As always, it was the Astartes who led the invasion.

T
HE
WAY
IN
was rough. Atmospheric disturbances and storms wracked the skies and the Astartes Stormbirds were tossed like leaves in a hurricane. Loken felt the craft vibrate wildly around him, grateful for the restraint harness that held him fast to his cage seat. His bolter was stowed above him and there was nothing to do but wait until the Stormbird touched down and the attack began.

He slowed his breathing and cleared his mind of all distractions, feeling a hot energy suffuse his limbs as his armour prepared his metabolism for imminent battle.

The warriors of Nero Vipus’s Locasta squad and Brakespur squad surrounded him, immobile, yet representing the peak of humanity’s martial prowess. He loved them all dearly and knew that they wouldn’t let him down. Their conduct on Murder and Xenobia had been exemplary and many of the newly elevated novitiates had been blooded on those desperate battlefields.

His company was battle tested and sure.

‘Garviel,’ said Vipus over the inter-armour link. ‘There’s something you should hear.’

‘What is it?’ asked Loken, detecting a tone of warning in his friend’s voice.

‘Switch to channel 7,’ said Vipus. ‘I’ve isolated it from the men, but I think you ought to hear this.’

Loken switched internal channels, hearing nothing but a wash of grainy static, warbling and constant. Pops and crackles punctuated the hiss, but he could hear nothing else.

‘I don’t hear anything.’

‘Wait. You will,’ promised Vipus.

Loken concentrated, listening for whatever Nero was hearing.

And then he heard it.

Faint, as though coming from somewhere impossibly far away was a voice, a gargling, wet voice.

‘…the ways of man. Folly… seek… doom of all things. In death and rebirth shall mankind live forever…’

Though he was not built to feel fear, Loken was suddenly and horribly reminded of the approach to the Whisperheads when the air had been thick with the taunting hiss of the thing called Samus.

‘Oh no…’ whispered Loken as the watery, rasping voice came again. ‘Thus do I renounce the ways of the Emperor and his lackey the Warmaster of my own free will. If he dares come here, he will die. And in death shall he live forever. Blessed be the hand of Nurghleth. Blessed be. Blessed be…’

Loken hammered his fist against the release bolt on his cage seat and rose to his feet, swaying slightly as he felt a strange nausea cramp his belly. His genhanced body allowed him to compensate for the wild motion of the Stormbird, and he made his way swiftly along the ribbed decking towards the pilots’ compartment, determined that they wouldn’t walk blind into the same horror as had been waiting for them on Sixty-Three Nineteen.

He pulled open the hatch where the flight officers and hardwired pilots fought to bring them in through the swirling yellow storm clouds. He could hear the same, repeating phrase coming over the internal speakers here.

‘Where’s it coming from?’ he demanded.

The nearest flight officer turned and said, ‘It’s a vox, plain and simple, but…’

‘But?’

‘It’s coming from a ship vox,’ said the man, pointing at a wavering green waveform on the waterfall display before him. ‘From the patterning it’s one of ours. And it’s a powerful one, a transmitter designed for inter-ship communication between fleets,’

‘It’s an actual vox transmission?’ said Loken, relieved it wasn’t ghost chatter like the hateful voice of Samus.

‘Seems to be, but a ship’s vox unit that size shouldn’t be anywhere near the surface of a planet. Ships that big don’t come this far down into the atmosphere. Leastways if they want to keep flying they don’t.’

‘Can you jam it?’

‘We can try, but like I said, it’s a powerful signal, it could burn through our jamming pretty quickly.’

‘Can you trace where it’s coming from?’

The flight officer nodded. ‘Yes, that won’t be a problem. A signal that powerful we could have traced from orbit.’