"False Gods" - читать интересную книгу автора (McNeill Graham)

NINE Silver towers A bloody return The veil grows thin

From here, he could see the pyramid roof of the Amenaeum, die low evening sun reflecting on its gold panels as if it were ablaze, and even though Magnus knew he used but a colourful metaphor, the very idea gave him a pang of loss. To imagine that vast repository of knowledge lost in the flames was abhorrent and he turned his Cyclopean gaze from the pyramid of crystal glass and gold.

Tizca, the so-called City of Light, stretched out before him, its marble colonnades and wide boulevards tree-lined and peaceful. Soaring towers of silver and gold reared above a city of gilded libraries, arched museums and sprawling seats of learning. The bulk of the city was constructed of white marble and gold-veined ouslite, shining like a bejewelled crown in the sun. Its architecture spoke of a time long passed, its buildings shaped by craftsmen who had honed their trades for centuries under the tutelage of the Thousand Sons.

From his balcony on the Pyramid of Photep, Magnus the Red, Primarch of the Thousand Sons, contemplated the future of Prospero. His head still hurt from the ferocity of the nightmare and his eye throbbed painfully in its enlarged socket. He gripped the marble balustrade of the balcony, trying to wish away the visions that assailed him in the night and now chased him into the daylight. Mysteries of the night were revealed in the light of day, but these visions of darkness could not be dragged out so easily.

For as long as Magnus could remember, he had been cursed and blessed with a measure of foresight, and his allegorical interpretation of the Athanaeum ablaze troubled him more than he liked to admit.

He poured himself some wine from a silver pitcher, rubbing a copper-skinned hand through his mane of fiery red hair. The wine helped dull the ache in his heart as well as his head, but he knew it was only a temporary solution. Events were now in motion that he had the power to shape and though much of what he had seen was madness and turmoil, and made no sense, he could make out enough to know that he had to make a decision soon - before events spiralled out of control.

Magnus turned from the view over Tizca and made his way back inside the pyramid, pausing as he caught sight of his reflection in the gleaming silver panels. Huge and red-skinned, Magnus was a towering giant with a lustrous mane of red hair. His patrician features were noble and just, his single eye golden and flecked with crimson. Where his other eye would have sat was blank and empty, though a thin scar ran from the bridge of his nose to the edge of his cheekbone.

Cyclopean Magnus they called him, or worse. Since their inception, the Thousand Sons had been viewed with suspicion for embracing powers that others were afraid of. Powers that, because they were not understood, were rejected as being somehow unclean: rejected ever since the Council of Nikaea.

Magnus threw down his goblet, angry at the memory of his humbling at the feet of the Emperor, when he had been forced to renounce the study of all things sorcerous for fear of what he might learn. Such a notion was surely ridiculous, for was his father's realm not founded on the pursuit of knowledge and reason? What harm could study and learning do?

Though he had retreated to Prospero and sworn to renounce such pursuits, the Planet of the Sorcerers had one vital attribute that made it the perfect place for such studies - it was far from the prying eyes of those who said he dabbled with powers beyond his control.

Magnus smiled at the thought, wishing he could show his persecutors the things he had seen, the wonders and the beauty of what lived beyond the veil of reality. Notions of good and evil fell by the wayside next to such power as dwelled in the warp, for they were the antiquated concepts of a religious society, long cast aside.

He stooped to retrieve his goblet and filled it once more before returning to his chambers and taking a seat at his desk. Inside it was cool and the scent of various inks and parchments made him smile. The wide chamber was walled with bookshelves and glass cabinets, filled with curios and remnants of lost knowledge gleaned from conquered worlds. Magnus himself had penned many of the texts in this room, though others had contributed to this most personal of libraries - Phosis T'kar, Ahriman and Uthizzar to name but a few.

Knowledge had always been a refuge for Magnus, the intoxicating thrill of rendering the unknown down to its constituent parts and, by doing so, rendering it knowable. Ignorance of the universe's workings had created false gods in man's ancient past, and the understanding of them was calculated to destroy them. Such was Magnus's lofty goal.

His father denied such things, kept his people ignorant of the true powers that existed in the galaxy, and though he promulgated a doctrine of science and reason, it was naught but a lie, a comforting blanket thrown over humanity to shield them from the truth.

Magnus had looked deep into the warp, however, and knew different.

He closed his eye, seeing again the darkness of the corrupt chamber, the glitter sheen of the sword, and the blow that would change the fate of the galaxy. He saw death and betrayal, heroes and monsters. He saw loyalty tested, and found wanting and standing firm in equal measure. Terrible fates awaited his brothers and, worst of all, he knew that his father was utterly ignorant of the doom that threatened the galaxy.

A soft knocking came at his door and the red-armoured figure of Ahriman entered, holding before him a long staff topped with a single eye.

'Have you decided yet, my lord?' asked his chief librarian, without preamble. 'I have, my friend,' said Magnus.

'Then shall I gather the coven?'

'Yes,' sighed Magnus, 'in the catacombs beneath the city. Order the thralls to assemble the conjunction and I shall be with you presently.'

'As you wish, my lord,' said Ahriman.

'Something troubles you?' asked Magnus, detecting an edge of reticence in his old friend's tone.

'No, my lord, it is not my place to say'

'Nonsense. If you have a concern then I give you leave to voice it'

'Then may I speak freely?'

'Of course,' nodded Magnus.

'What troubles you?'

Ahriman hesitated before answering. 'This spell you propose is dangerous, very dangerous. None of us truly understand its subtleties and there may be consequences we do not yet foresee.'

Magnus laughed. 'I've not known you shirk from the power of a spell before, Ahriman. When manipulating power of this magnitude there will always be unknowns, but only by wielding it can we bring it to heel. Never forget that we are the masters of the warp, my friend. It is strong, yes, and great power lives within it, but we have the knowledge and means to bend it to our will do we not?'

'We do, my lord,' agreed Ahriman. 'Why then do we use it to warn the Emperor of what is to come when he has forbidden us to pursue such matters?'

Magnus rose from his seat, his copper skin darkening in anger. 'Because when my father sees that it is our sorcery that has saved his realm, he will not be able to deny that what we do here is important, nay, vital to the Imperium's survival!'

Ahriman nodded, fearful of his primarch's rage, and Magnus softened his tone. 'There is no other way, my friend. The Emperor's palace is warded against the power of the warp and only a conjuration of such power will breach those wards.'

'Then I will gather the coven immediately,' said Ahriman.

'Yes, gather them, but await my arrival before beginning. Horus may yet surprise us.'

Panic, fear, indecision: three emotions previously unknown to Loken seized him as Horus fell. The Warmaster crashed to the ground in slow motion, splashing into the mud as his body went completely limp. Shouts of alarm went up, but a paralysis of inaction held those closest to the Warmaster tightly in its grip, as though time itself had slowed.

Loken stared at the Warmaster lying on the ground before him, inert and corpse-like, unable to believe what he was seeing. The rest of the Mournival stood similarly immobile, rooted to the spot in disbelief. He felt as though the air had become thick and cloying, the cries of fear that spread outwards echoing and distant as though from a holo-picter running too slow.

Only Petronella Vivar seemed unaffected by the inaction that held Loken and his brothers firm. Down on her knees in the mud next to the Warmaster, she was weeping and wailing at him to get back up again.

The knowledge that his commander was down and a mortal woman had reacted before any of the Sons of Horus shamed Loken into action and he dropped to one knee alongside the fallen Horus.

'Apothecary!' shouted Loken, and time snapped back with a crash of shouts and cries.

The Mournival dropped to the ground beside him.

'What's wrong?' demanded Abaddon.

'Commander!' shouted Torgaddon.

'Lupercal!' cried Aximand.

Loken ignored them and forced himself to focus.

This is a battlefield injury and I will treat it as such, he thought.

He scanned the Warmaster's body as the others put their hands on him, pushing the remembrancer out of the way as each struggled to wake their lord and master. Too many hands were interfering, and Loken yelled, 'Stop. Get back!'

The Warmaster's armour was beaten and torn, but Loken could see no other obvious breaches in the armoured plates save where the shoulder guard had been torn away, and where the gaping puncture wound oozed in his chest.

'Help me get his armour off!' he shouted.

The Mournival, bound together as brothers, nodded and, grateful to have a focus for their efforts, instantly obeyed Loken's command. Within moments, they had removed Horus's breastplate and pauldrons and were unstrapping his remaining shoulder guard.

Loken tore off his helmet and cast it aside, pressing his ear to the Warmaster's chest. He could hear the Warmaster's hearts, pounding in a deathly slow double beat.

'He's still alive!' he cried.

'Get out of the way!' shouted a voice behind him, and he turned to rebuke this newcomer before seeing the double helix caduceus symbol on his armour plates. Another apothecary joined the first and the Mournival was unceremoniously pushed aside as they went to work, hissing Narthecium stabbing into the Warmaster's flesh.

Loken stood watching them, impotent and helpless as they fought to stabilise the Warmaster. His eyes filled with tears and he looked around in vain for something to do, something to make him feel he was helping. There was nothing, and he felt like crying out to the heavens for making him so powerful and yet so useless.

Abaddon wept openly, and to see the first captain so unmanned made Loken's fear for the Warmaster all the more terrible. Aximand watched the apothecaries work with a grim stoicism, while Torgaddon chewed his bottom lip and prevented the remembrancer from getting in the way.

The Warmaster's skin was ashen, his lips blue and his limbs rigid, and Loken knew that they must destroy whatever power had felled Horus. He turned and began marching back towards the Glory of Terra, determined that he would take the stricken craft apart, piece by piece if need be.

'Captain!' called one of the apothecaries, a warrior Loken knew as Vaddon. 'Get a Stormbird here now! We need to get him to the Vengeful Spirit.'

Loken stood immobile, torn between his desire for vengeance and his duty to the Warmaster.

'Now, captain!' yelled the apothecary, and the spell was broken.

He nodded dumbly and opened a channel to the captains of the Stormbirds, grateful to have a purpose in this maelstrom of confusion. Within moments, one of the medical craft was inbound and Loken watched, mesmerised, as the apothecaries fought to save the Warmaster.

He could see from the frantic nature of their ministrations that they were fighting an uphill battle, their Narthecium whirring miniature centrifuges of blood and dispensing patches of syn-skin to treat his wounds. Their conversations passed over him, but he caught the odd familiar word here and there. 'Larraman cells ineffective…'

'Hypoxic poisoning…'

Aximand appeared at his side and placed his hand on Loken's shoulder. 'Don't say it, Little Horus,' warned Loken. 'I wasn't going to, Garviel,' said Aximand. 'He'll be alright. There's nothing this place could throw at the Warmaster that'll keep him down for long.'

'How do you know?' asked Loken, his voice close to breaking. 'I just do. I have faith.'

'Faith?'

'Yes,' answered Aximand. 'Faith that the Warmaster is too strong and too stubborn to be brought low by something like this. Before you know it we'll be his war dogs once again.'

Loken nodded as the howling downdraught of a Stormbird snatched his breath away.

The screaming craft hovered overhead, throwing up sheets of water as it circled on its descent. Landing skids deployed and the craft came down amid a spray of muddy water.

Before it had touched down, the Mournival and apothecaries had lifted Horus between them. Even as the assault ramp came down, they were rushing inside, placing the Warmaster on one of the gurneys as the Stormbird's jets fired to lift it from Davin's moon.

The assault ramp clanged shut behind them, and Loken felt the aircraft lurch as the pilot aimed it for the skies. The apothecaries hooked the Warmaster up to medicae machines, jamming needles and hissing tubes into his arms, and placing a feed line of oxygen over his mouth and nose.

Suddenly superfluous, Loken slumped into one of the armoured bucket seats against the fuselage of the aircraft and held his head in his hands.

Across from him, the Mournival did the same.

To say that Ignace Karkasy was not a happy man was an understatement. His lunch was cold, Mersadie Oliton was late and the wine he was drinking wasn't fit to lubricate the gears of an engine. To top it all off, his pen tapped on the thick paper of the Bondsman number 7 without any inspiration flowing. He'd taken to avoiding the Retreat, partly for fear of running into Wenduin again, but mostly because it just depressed him too much. The vandalism done to the bar lent it an incredibly sad and gloomy aspect and, while some of the remembrancers needed the squalor to inspire their work, Karkasy wasn't one of them.

Instead, he relaxed in the sub-deck where most of the remembrancers gathered for their meals, but which was empty for the better part of the day. The solitude was helping him to deal with all that had happened since he'd challenged Euphrati Keeler about her distributing the Lectitio Divinitatus pamphlets - though it certainly wasn't helping him compose any poetry.

She'd been unrepentant when he'd confronted her, urging him to join her in prayer to the God-Emperor, before some kind of makeshift shrine.

'I can't,' he had said. 'It's ridiculous, Euphrati, can't you see that?'

'What's so ridiculous about it, Ig?' she'd asked. 'Think about it, we've embarked upon the greatest crusade known to man. A crusade: a war motivated by religious beliefs!'

'No, no,' he protested, 'it's not that at all. We've moved beyond the need for the crutch of religion, Euphrati and we didn't set out from Terra to take a step backwards into such outmoded concepts of belief. It's only by dispelling the clouds and superstitions of religion that we discover truth, reason and morality.'

'It's not superstition to believe in a god, Ignace,' said Euphrati, holding out another of the Lectitio Divinitatus pamphlets. 'Look, read this and then make up your mind.'

'I don't need to read it,' he snapped, throwing the pamphlet to the deck. 'I know what it will say and I'm not interested.'

'But you have no idea, Ignace. It's all so clear to me now. Ever since that thing attacked me, I've been hiding. In my billet and in my head, but I realise now that all I had to do was allow the light of the Emperor into my heart and I would be healed.'

'Didn't Mersadie and I have anything to do with that?' sneered Karkasy. 'All those hours we spent with you weeping on our shoulders?'

'Of course you did,' smiled Euphrati, coming forward and placing her hands on his cheeks. 'That's why I wanted to give you the message and tell you what I'd realised. It's very simple, Ignace. We create our own gods and the blessed Emperor is the Master of Mankind.'

'Create our own gods?' said Karkasy, pulling away from her. 'No, my dear, ignorance and fear create the gods, enthusiasm and deceit adorn them, and human weakness worships them. It's been the same throughout history. When men destroy their old gods they find new ones to take their place. What makes you think this is any different?'

'Because I feel the Emperor's light within me.'

'Oh, well, I can't argue with that, can I?'

'Spare me your sarcasm, Ignace,' said Euphrati, suddenly hostile. 'I thought you might be open to hearing the good word, but I can see you're just a close-minded fool. Get out, Ignace, I don't want to see you again.'

Thus dismissed, he'd found himself outside in the companionway alone, bereft of a friend he'd only just managed to make. That had been the last time she'd spoken to him. He'd seen her only once since then, and she had ignored his greeting.

'Lost in thought, Ignace?' asked Mersadie Oliton, and he looked up in surprise, shaken from his miserable reverie by her sudden appearance.

'Sorry, my dear,' he said. 'I didn't hear you approach. I was miles away, composing another verse for Captain Loken to misunderstand and Sindermann to discard.'

She smiled, instantly lifting his spirits. It was impossible to be too maudlin around Mersadie, she had a way of making a man realise that it was good to be alive.

'Solitude suits you, Ignace, you're far less susceptible to temptation.'

'Oh I don't know,' he said, holding up the bottle of wine. 'There's always room in my life for temptation. I count it a bad day if I'm not tempted by something or other.'

'You're incorrigible, Ignace,' she laughed, 'but enough of that, what's so important that you drag me away from my transcripts to meet here? I want to be up to date by the time the speartip gets back from the moon.'

Flustered by her directness, Karkasy wasn't sure where to begin and thus opted for the softly-softly approach. 'Have you seen Euphrati around recently?'

'I saw her yesterday evening, just before the Storm-birds launched. Why?'

'Did she seem herself?'

'Yes, I think so. I was a little surprised by the change in her appearance, but she's an imagist. I suppose it's what they do every now and again.'

'Did she try to give you anything?'

'Give me anything? No. Look, what's this all about?'

Karkasy slipped a battered pamphlet across the table towards Mersadie, watching her expression change as she read it and recognised it for what it was.

'Where did you get this?' she asked when she'd finished reading it.

'Euphrati gave it to me,' he replied. 'Apparently she wants to spread the word of the God-Emperor to us first because we helped her when she needed support.'

'God-Emperor? Has she taken leave of her senses?'

'I don't know, maybe,' he said, pouring himself a drink. Mersadie pushed over a glass and he filled that too. 'I don't think she was over her experience in the Whisperheads, even if she made out that she was.'

'This is insane,' said Mersadie. 'She'll have her certification revoked. Did you tell her that?'

'Sort of,' said Karkasy. 'I tried to reason with her, but you know how it is with those religious types, never any room for a dissenting opinion.'

'And?'

'And nothing, she threw me out of her billet after that'

'So you handled it with your usual tact then?'

'Perhaps I could have been more delicate,' agreed Karkasy, 'but I was shaken to know that a woman of intelligence could be taken in by such nonsense'

'So what do we do about it?'

'You tell me. I don't have a clue. Do you think we should tell someone about Euphrati?'

Mersadie took a long drink of the wine and said, 'I think we have to.'

'Any ideas who?'

'Sindermann maybe?'

Karkasy sighed. 'I had a feeling you were going to suggest him. I don't like that man, but he's probably the best bet these days. If anyone can talk Euphrati around it's an iterator.'

Mersadie sighed and poured another couple of drinks. 'Want to get drunk?'

'Now you're talking my language,' said Karkasy.

They swapped stories and memories of less complicated times for an hour, finishing the bottle of wine and sending a servitor to fetch more when it ran out. By the time they'd drained half the second one, they were already planning a great symphonic work of her documentarist findings embellished with his verse.

They laughed and studiously avoided any talk of Euphrati Keeler and the betrayal they were soon to visit upon her.

Their thoughts were immediately dispelled as chiming alarm bells rang out, and the corridor beyond began to fill with hurrying people. At first, they ignored the noise, but as the number of people grew, they decided to find out what was going on. Picking up the bottle and glasses, Karkasy and Mersadie unsteadily made their way to the hatchway where they saw a scene of utter bedlam.

Soldiers and civilians, remembrancers and ship's crew, were heading for the embarkation decks in a hurry. They saw faces streaked with tears, and huddled weeping figures consoling one another in their shared misery.

'What's going on?' shouted Karkasy, grabbing a passing soldier.

The man rounded on him angrily. 'Get off me, you old fool.'

'I just want to know what's happening,' said Karkasy, shocked at the man's venom.

'Haven't you heard?' wept the soldier. 'It's all over the ship.'

'What is?' demanded Mersadie.

'The Warmaster…'

'What about him? Is he alright?'

The man shook his head. 'Emperor save us, but the Warmaster is dead!'

The bottle slipped from Karkasy's hands, shattering on the floor, and he was instantly sober. The Warmaster dead? Surely, there had to be some kind of mistake. Surely, Horus was beyond such concerns as mortality. He faced Mersadie and could see exactly the same thoughts running through her head. The soldier he'd stopped shrugged off his grip and ran down the corridor, leaving the two of them standing there, aghast at such a horrific prospect. 'It can't be true,' whispered Mersadie. 'It just can't be.'

'I know. There must be some mistake.'

'What if there isn't?'

'I don't know,' said Karkasy, 'but we have to find out more.'

Mersadie nodded and waited for him to collect the Bondsman before they joined the hurrying throng as it made its mob-like way towards the embarkation decks. Neither of them spoke during the journey, too busy trying to process the impact of the Warmaster's death. Karkasy felt the muse stir within him at such weighty subject matter, and tried not to despise the fact that it came at such a terrible time.

He spotted the corridor leading to the observation deck adjacent to the launch port from where Stormbirds could be seen deploying, or returning. She resisted his pull until he explained his plan.

'There's no way they're going to let us in,' said Karkasy, out of breath from his exertions. 'We can watch the Stormbirds arrive from here and there's an observation gantry that overlooks the deck itself.'

They darted from the human river making its way to the embarkation deck and followed the arched corridor that led to the observation deck. Inside the long chamber, the wide armoured glass wall showed smudges of starlight and the glinting hulls of distant bulk cruisers belonging to the Army and the Mechanicum. Below them was the chasm-like opening of the embarkation deck, its blinking locator lights flashing an angry red.

Mersadie dimmed the lighting, and the details beyond the glass became clearer.

The yellow brown swell of Davin's moon curved away from them, its surface grimy and smeared with clouds. A bary corona of sickly light haloed the moon and, from here, it looked peaceful.

'I don't see anything,' said Mersadie.

Karkasy pressed himself against the glass to eliminate reflections and tried to see something other than himself and Mersadie. Then he saw it. Like a glimmering firefly, a distant speck of fire was rising out of the moon's corona and heading towards the Vengeful Spirit.

'There!' he said, pointing towards the approaching light.

'Where? Oh, wait, I see it!' said Mersadie, blink-clicking the image of the approaching craft.

Karkasy watched as the light drew nearer, resolving itself into the shape of a speeding Stormbird as it angled its approach to the embarkation deck. Even though Karkasy was no pilot, he could tell that its approach was recklessly rapid, the craft's wings folding in at the last moment as it aimed for the yawning, red-lit hatch.

'Come on!' he said, taking Mersadie's hand and leading the way up the steps to the observation gantry. The steps were steep and narrow, and Karkasy had to stop to get his breath back before he reached the top. By the time they reached the gantry, the Stormbird had already been recovered and its assault ramp was descending.

A host of Astartes gathered around the craft as the Bell of Return began ringing and four warriors emerged, the plates of their armour dented and bloodstained. Between them, they carried a body draped in a Legion banner. Karkasy's breath caught in his throat and he felt his heart turn to stone at the sight.

'The Mournival,' said Mersadie. 'Oh no…'

The four warriors were quickly followed by an enormous gurney upon which lay a partially armoured warrior of magnificent stature.

Even from here, Karkasy could tell that the figure upon the gurney was the Warmaster and though tears leapt unbidden to his eyes at the sight of such a superlative warrior laid low, he rejoiced that the shrouded corpse was not the Warmaster. He heard Mersadie blink clicking the images even though he knew there would be no point, her eyes were similarly misted with tears. Behind the gurney came the remembrancer woman, Vivar, her dress torn and bloody, the fine fabric mud stained and ragged, but Karkasy pushed her from his mind as he saw more warriors rush towards the gurney. Armoured in white plate, they surrounded the Warmaster as he was wheeled through the embarkation deck with great haste, and Karkasy's heart leapt as he recognised them as Legion apothecaries.

'He's still alive…' he said.

'What? How do you know?'

'The apothecaries are still working on him,' laughed Karkasy, the relief tasting like the sweetest wine. They threw themselves into each other's arms, embracing with the sheer relief of the Warmaster's survival.

'He's alive,' sobbed Mersadie. 'I knew he had to be. He couldn't be dead.'

'No,' agreed Karkasy. 'He couldn't.'

They broke apart and sagged against the railings as the Astartes escorted the fallen Warmaster across the deck. As the huge blast doors rumbled open, the masses of people gathered outside surged through in a great wave, their cries of loss and pain audible even through the armoured glass of the observation gantry.

'No,' whispered Karkasy. 'No, no, no.'

The Astartes were in no mood to be slowed by this mass of people, and brutally clubbed them aside as they forced a path through the crowd. The Mournival led the gurney through the crowds, mercilessly clearing a bloody path through the people before them. Karkasy saw men and women cast down, trampled underfoot, and their screams were pitiful to hear.

Mersadie held his arm as they watched the Astartes bludgeon their way from the embarkation deck. They vanished through the blast door and were lost to sight as they rushed towards the medical deck.

'Those poor people…' cried Mersadie, sinking to her knees and looking down on a scene like the aftermath of a battle: wounded soldiers, remembrancers and civilians lay where they had fallen, bleeding and broken, simply because they were unlucky enough to be in the path of the Astartes.

'They didn't care,' said Karkasy, still unable to believe the bloody scenes that he'd just witnessed. 'They've killed those people. It was like they didn't care.'

Still in shock at the casual ease with which the Astartes had punched through the crowd, Karkasy gripped the railings, his knuckles white and his jaw clenched with outrage.

'How dare they?' he hissed. 'How dare they?'

His anger at the scenes below still seethed close to the surface, however, he noticed a robed figure making her way through the carnage below, reaching out to the injured and stunned.

His eyes narrowed, but he recognised the shapely form of Euphrati Keeler.

She was handing out Lectitio Divinitatus pamphlets, and she wasn't alone.

Maloghurst watched the recording from the embarkation deck with a grim expression, watching his fellow Sons of Horus batter their way through the crowds that swarmed around the Warmaster's wracked body. The pict replayed again on the viewer set into the table in the Warmaster's sanctum, and each time he watched it, he willed it to be different, but each time the flickering images remained resolutely the same.

'How many dead?' asked Hektor Varvarus, standing at Maloghurst's shoulder.

'I don't have the final figures yet, but at least twenty one are dead, and many more are badly injured or won't wake from the comas they're in.'

He cursed Loken and the others for their heavy handedness as the image played again, but supposed he couldn't blame them for their ardour. The Warmaster was in a critical condition and no one knew if he would live, so their desperation to reach the medical decks was forgivable, even if many might say that their actions were not.

'A bad business, Maloghurst,' said Varvarus needlessly. 'The Astartes will not come out of this well.'

Maloghurst sighed, and said, 'They thought the Warmaster was dying and acted accordingly.'

'Acted accordingly?' repeated Varvarus. 'I do not think many people will accept that, my friend, once word of this gets out, it will be a crippling blow to morale.'

'It will not get out,' assured Maloghurst. 'I am rounding up everyone who was on that deck and have shut down all non-command vox traffic from the ship.'

Tall and precise, Hektor Varvarus was rake-thin and angular, and his every movement was calculated - traits he carried over into his role as Lord Commander of the Army forces of the 63rd Expedition.

'Trust me, Maloghurst, this will get out. One way or another, it will get out. Nothing remains secret forever. Such things have a habit of wanting to be told and this will be no different.'

'Then what do you suggest, lord commander?' asked Maloghurst.

'Are you genuinely asking me, Mal, or are you just observing a courtesy because I am here?'

'I was genuinely asking,' said Maloghurst, smiling as he realised that he meant it. Varvarus was a canny soldier who understood the hearts and minds of mortal men.

'Then you have to tell people what happened. Be honest.'

'Heads will need to roll,' cautioned Maloghurst. 'People will demand blood for this.'

'Then give it to them. If that's what it takes, give it to them. Someone has to be seen to pay for this atrocity.'

'Atrocity? Is that what we're calling it now?'

'What else would you call it? Astartes warriors have committed murder.'

The enormity of what Varvarus was suggesting staggered Maloghurst, and he lowered himself slowly into one of the chairs at the Warmaster's table.

'You would have me give up an Astartes warrior for this? I cannot do it.'

Varvarus leaned over the table, the decorations and medals of his dress uniform reflecting like gold suns in its black surface.

'Innocent blood has been spilled, and while I can understand the reasons behind the actions of your men, it changes nothing.'

'I can't do it, Hektor,' said Maloghurst, shaking his head.

Varvarus moved to stand next to him. 'You and I both swore the oath of loyalty to the Imperium did we not?'

'We did, but what has that to do with anything?'

The old general locked eyes with Maloghurst and said, 'We swore that we would uphold the ideals of nobility and justice that the Imperium stands for, yes?'

'Yes, but this is different. There were extenuating circumstances…'

'Irrelevant,' snapped Varvarus. 'The Imperium must stand for something, or it stands for nothing. If you turn away from this, then you betray that oath of loyalty. Axe you willing to do that, Maloghurst?'

Before he could answer, there was a soft knocking on the glass of the sanctum and Maloghurst turned to see who disturbed them.

Ing Mae Sing, Mistress of Astropathy, stood before them like a skeletal ghost in a hooded white robe, the upper portions of her face shrouded in shadows.

'Mistress Sing,' said Varvarus, bowing deeply towards the telepath.

'Lord Varvarus,' she replied, her voice soft and feather-light. She returned the lord commander's bow and despite her blindness, inclined her head in precisely the right direction - a talent that never failed to unnerve Maloghurst.

'What is it, Mistress Sing?' he asked, though in truth, he was glad of the interruption.

'I bring tidings that must concern you, Sire Maloghurst,' she said, turning her blind gaze upon him. 'The astropathic choirs are unsettled. They sense a powerful surge in the currents of the warp: powerful and growing.'

'What does that mean?' he asked.

'That the veil between worlds grows thin,' said Ing Mae Sing.