False Gods (38 page)

Each warrior was armoured in fully enclosed plate, silver like the knights of old, with red and black heraldry upon their shoulder guards. Their form and function was horribly similar to that of the Sons of Horus, and though the enemy warriors were smaller than the Astartes, they were nevertheless a distorted mirror of them.

Loken and the warriors of Locasta were upon them, the lead Brotherhood warriors raising their weapons in response to the wild charge. The blade of Loken’s chainsword hacked through the nearest warrior’s gun and cleaved into his breastplate. The Brotherhood scattered, but Loken didn’t give them a chance to recover from their surprise, cutting them down in quick, brutal strokes.

These warriors might look like Astartes, but, up close, they were no match for even one of them.

He heard gunfire from behind, and heard Torgaddon issuing orders to the men under his command. Stuttering impacts on Loken’s leg armour drove him to his knees and he swept his sword low, hacking the legs from the enemy warrior behind him. Blood jetted from the stumps of his legs as he fell, spraying Loken’s armour red.

The vehicle began reversing, but Loken threw a pair of grenades inside, moving on as the dull crump of the detonations halted it in its tracks. Shadows loomed over them and he felt the booming footfalls of the Titans of the Legio Mortis as they marched past, crushing whole swathes of the city as they went. Buildings were smashed from their path, and though missiles and lasers reached up to them, the flare of their powerful void shields were proof against such attacks.

More gunfire and screams filled the battlefield, the enemy falling back from the fury of the Astartes counterattack. They were courageous, these warriors of the Brotherhood, but they were hopelessly optimistic if they thought that simply wearing a suit of power armour made a man the equal of an Astartes.

‘Area secure,’ came Torgaddon’s voice over the suit vox. ‘Where to now?’

‘Nowhere,’ replied Loken as the last enemy warrior was slain. ‘This is our object point. We wait until the World Eaters get here. Once we hand off to them, we can move on. Pass the word.’

‘Understood,’ said Torgaddon.

Loken savored the sudden quiet of the battlefield, the sounds of battle muted and distant as other companies fought their way through the city. He assigned Vipus to secure their perimeter and crouched beside the warrior whose legs he had cut off.

The man still lived, and Loken reached down to remove his helmet, a helmet so very similar to his own. He knew where the release catches were and slid the helm clear.

His enemy’s face was pale from shock and blood loss, his eyes full of pain and hate, but there were no monstrously alien features beneath the helmet, simply ones as human as any member of the 63rd Expedition.

Loken could think of nothing to say to the man, and simply took off his own helmet and pulled the water-dispensing pipe from his gorget. He poured some clear, cold water over the man’s face.

‘I want nothing from you,’ hissed the dying man.

‘Don’t speak,’ said Loken. ‘It will be over quickly.’

But the man was already dead.

‘W
HY
SHOULDN
’
T
WE
be fighting this war?’ asked Mersadie Oliton. ‘You were there when they tried to assassinate the Warmaster.’

‘I was there,’ said Loken, putting down the cleaned firing chamber. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever forget that moment.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘It’s not pretty,’ warned Loken. ‘You will think less of us when I tell you the truth of it.’

‘You think so? A good documentarist remains objective at all times.’

‘We’ll see.’

T
HE
AMBASSADORS
OF
the planet, which Loken had learned was named Aureus, had been greeted with all the usual pomp and ceremony accorded to a potentially friendly culture. Their vessels had glided onto the embarkation deck to surprised gasps as every warrior present recognized their uncanny similarity to Stormbirds.

The Warmaster was clad in his most regal armour, gold fluted and decorated with the Emperor’s devices of lightning bolts and eagles. Unusually for an occasion such as this, he was armed with a sword and pistol, and Loken could feel the force of authority the Warmaster projected.

Alongside the Warmaster stood Maloghurst, robed in white, Regulus – his gold and steel augmetic body polished to a brilliant sheen – and First Captain Abaddon, who stood proudly with a detachment of hulking Justaerin Terminators.

It was a gesture to show strength and backing it up, three hundred Sons of Hours stood at parade rest behind the group, noble and regal in their bearing – the very image of the Great Crusade – and Loken had never been prouder of his illustrious heritage.

The doors of the craft opened with the hiss of decompression and Loken had his first glimpse of the Brotherhood.

A ripple of astonishment passed through the embarkation deck as twenty warriors in gleaming silver plate armour, the very image of the assembled Astartes, marched from the landing craft’s interior in perfect formation, though Loken detected a stammer of surprise in them too. They carried weapons that looked very much like a standard-issue boltgun, though in deference to their hosts, none had magazines fitted.

‘Do you see that?’ whispered Loken.

‘No, Garvi, I’ve suddenly been struck blind,’ replied Torgaddon. ‘Of course I see them.’

‘They look like Astartes!’

‘There’s a resemblance, I’ll give you that, but they’re far too short.’

‘They’re wearing power armour… How is that possible?’

‘If you keep quiet we might find out,’ said Torgaddon.

The warriors wheeled and formed up around a tall man wearing long red robes, whose features were half-flesh, half machine and whose eye was a blinking emerald gem. Walking with the aid of a golden cog-topped staff, he stepped onto the deck with the pleased expression of one who finds his expectations more than met.

The Auretian delegation made its way towards Horus, and Loken could sense the weight of history pressing in on this moment. This meeting was the very embodiment of what the Great Crusade represented: lost brothers from across the galaxy once again meeting in the spirit of companionship.

The red robed man bowed before the Warmaster and said, ‘Do I have the honour of addressing the Warmaster Horus?’

‘You do, sir, but please do not bow,’ replied Horus. ‘The honour is mine.’

The man smiled, pleased at the courtesy. ‘Then if you will permit me, I will introduce myself. I am Emory Salignac, Fabricator Consul to the Auretian Technocracy. On behalf of my people, may I be the first to welcome you to our worlds.’

Loken had seen Regulus’s excitement at the sight of Salignac’s augmetics, but upon hearing the full title of this new empire, his enthusiasm overcame the protocol of the moment.

‘Consul,’ said Regulus, his voice blaring and unnatural. ‘Do I understand that your society is founded on the knowledge of technical data?’

Horus turned to the adept of the Mechanicum and whispered something that Loken didn’t hear, but Regulus nodded and took a step back.

‘I apologize for the adept’s forthright questions, but I hope you might forgive his outburst, given that our warriors appear to share certain… similarities in their wargear.’

‘These are the warriors of the Brotherhood,’ explained Salignac. ‘They are our protectors and our most elite soldiers. It honours me to have them as my guardians here.’

‘How is it they are armoured so similarly to my own warriors?’

Salignac appeared to be confused by the question and said, ‘You expected something different, my lord Warmaster? The construct machines our ancestors brought with them from Terra are at the heart of our society and provide us with the boon of technology. Though advanced, they do tend towards a certain uniformity of creation.’

The silence that greeted the consul’s words was brittle and fragile, and Horus held up his hand to still the inevitable outburst from Regulus.

‘Construct machines?’ asked Horus, a cold edge of steel in his voice. ‘STC machines?’

‘I believe that was their original designation, yes,’ agreed Salignac, lowering his staff and holding it towards the Warmaster. ‘You have—’

Emory Salignac never got to finish his sentence as Horus took a step backward and drew his pistol. Loken saw the muzzle flash and watched Emory Salignac’s head explode as the bolt blew out the back of his skull.

‘Y
ES
,’
SAID
M
ERSADIE
Oliton. ‘The staff was some kind of energy weapon that could have penetrated the Warmaster’s armour. We’ve been told this.’

Loken shook his head. ‘No, there was no weapon.’

‘Of course there was,’ insisted Oliton, ‘and when the consul’s assassination attempt failed, his Brotherhood warriors attacked the Warmaster.’

Loken put down his bolter and said, ‘Mersadie, forget what you have been told. There was no weapon, and after the Warmaster killed the consul, the Brotherhood only tried to escape. Their weapons were not loaded and they could not have fought us with any hope of success.’

‘They were unarmed?’

‘Yes.’

‘So what did you do?’

‘We killed them,’ said Loken. ‘They were unarmed, but we were not. Abaddon’s Justaerin cut half a dozen of them down before they even knew what had happened. I led Locasta forward and we gunned them down as they tried to board their ship.’

‘But why?’ asked Oliton, horrified at his casual description of such slaughter.

‘Because the Warmaster ordered it.’

‘No, I mean why would the Warmaster shoot the consul if he wasn’t armed? It doesn’t make any sense.’

‘No, it doesn’t,’ agreed Loken. ‘I watched him kill the consul and I saw his face after we had killed the Brotherhood warriors.’

‘What did you see?’

Loken hesitated, as though not sure he should answer. At last he said, ‘I saw him smile.’

‘Smile?’

‘Yes,’ said Loken, ‘as if the killings had been part of his plan all along. I don’t know why, but Horus
wants
this war.’

T
ORGADDON
FOLLOWED
THE
hooded warrior down the darkened companionway towards the empty reserve armoury chamber. Serghar Targost had called a lodge meeting and Torgaddon was apprehensive, not liking the sensation one bit. He had attended only a single meeting since Davin, the quiet order no longer a place of relaxation for him. Though the Warmaster had been returned to them, the lodge’s actions had smacked of subterfuge and such behaviour sat ill with Tarik Torgaddon.

The robed figure he followed was unknown to him, young and clearly in awe of the legendary Mournival officer, which suited Torgaddon fine. The warrior had clearly only achieved full Astartes status recently, but Torgaddon knew that he would already be an experienced fighter. There was no room for inexperience among the Sons of Horus, the months of war on Aureus making veterans or corpses of those raised from the novitiate and scout auxiliaries. The Brotherhood might not have the abilities of the Astartes, but the Technocracy could call on millions of them, and they fought with courage and honour.

It only made killing them all the harder. Fighting the megarachnids of Murder had been easy, their alien physiognomy repulsive to look upon and therefore easy to destroy.

The Brotherhood, though… they were so like the Sons of Horus that it was as though two Legions fought each other in some brutal civil war. Not one amongst the Legion had failed to experience a moment of pause at such a terrible image.

Torgaddon was saddened as he knew that, like the interex before them, the Brotherhood and the Auretian Technocracy would be destroyed.

A voice from the darkness ahead shook him from his somber thoughts.

‘Who approaches?’

‘Two souls,’ replied the young warrior.

‘What are your names?’ the figure asked, but Torgaddon did not recognize the voice.

‘I can’t say,’ said Torgaddon.

‘Pass, friends.’

Torgaddon and the warrior passed the guardian of the portal and entered the reserve armoury. The vaulted chamber was much larger than the aft hold where meetings had commonly been held, and when he stepped into the flickering candlelit space, he could see why Targost had chosen it.

Hundreds of warriors filled the armoury, each one hooded and holding a flickering candle. Serghar Targost, Ezekyle Abaddon, Horus Aximand and Maloghurst stood at the centre of the gathering; to one side of them stood First Chaplain Erebus.

Torgaddon looked around at the assembled Astartes and couldn’t escape the feeling that this meeting had been called for his benefit.

‘You’ve been busy, Serghar,’ he said. ‘Been on a recruiting drive?’

‘Since the Warmaster’s recovery on Davin our stock has risen somewhat,’ agreed Targost.

‘So I see. Must be tricky keeping it secret now.’

‘Amongst the Legion we no longer operate under a veil of secrecy.’

‘Then why the same pantomime to enter?’

Targost smiled apologetically. ‘Tradition, you understand?’

Torgaddon shrugged and crossed the chamber to stand before Erebus. He stared with undisguised hostility towards the first chaplain and said, ‘You have been keeping a low profile since Davin. Captain Loken wants to speak with you.’

‘I’m sure he does,’ replied Erebus, ‘but I am not under his command. I do not answer to him.’

‘Then you’ll answer to me, you bastard!’ snapped Torgaddon, drawing his combat knife from beneath his robes and holding it to Erebus’s neck. Cries of alarm sounded at the sight of the knife, and Torgaddon saw the line of an old scar running across Erebus’s neck.

‘Looks like someone’s already tried to cut your throat,’ hissed Torgaddon. ‘They didn’t do a very good job of it, but don’t worry, I won’t make the same mistake.’

‘Tarik!’ cried Serghar Targost. ‘You brought a weapon? You know they are forbidden.’

‘Erebus owes us all an explanation,’ said Torgaddon, pressing the knife against Erebus’s jaw. ‘This snake stole a kinebrach weapon from the Hall of Devices on Xenobia. He’s the reason the negotiations with the interex failed. He’s the reason the Warmaster was injured.’