"The Horus Heresy: Horus Rising" - читать интересную книгу автора (Abnett Dan)

SIX

Counsel

A question well answered

Two gods in one room

TORGADDON WAS WAITING for him in the towering ante-hall behind the strategium.

There you are,' he grinned.

'Here I am.’ Loken agreed.

There will be a question.’ Torgaddon remarked, keeping his voice low. 'It will seem a minor thing, and will not be obviously directed to you but be ready to catch it.’

'Me?'

'No, I was talking to myself. Yes, you, Garviel! Consider it a baptismal test. Come on.’

Loken didn't like the sound of Torgaddon's words, but he appreciated the warning. He followed Torgaddon down the length of the ante-hall. It was a perilously tall, narrow place, with embossed columns of wood set into the walls that soared up and branched like carved trees to support a glass roof two hundred metres above them, through which the stars could be seen. Darkwood panels cased the walls between the columns, and they were

covered with millions of lines of hand-painted names and numbers, all rendered in exquisite gilt lettering. They were the names of the dead: all those of the Legions, the army, the fleet and the Divisio Militaris who had fallen since the start of the Great Crusade in actions where this flagship vessel had been present. The names of immortal heroes were limned here on the walls, grouped in columns below header legends that proclaimed the world-sites of famous actions and hallowed conquests. From this display, the ante-hall earned its particular name: the Avenue of Glory and Lament.

The walls of fully two-thirds of the ante-hall were filled up with golden names. As the two striding captains in their glossy white plate drew closer to the strategium end, the wall boards became bare, unoccupied. They passed a group of hooded necrologists huddled by the last, half-filled panel, who were carefully stencilling new names onto the dark wood with gold-dipped brushes.

The latest dead. The roll call from the High City battle.

The necrologists stopped work and bowed their heads as the two captains went by. Torgaddon didn't spare them a second glance, but Loken turned to read the half-writ names. Some of them were brothers from Locasta he would never see again.

He could smell the tangy oil suspension of the gold-leaf the necrologists were using.

'Keep up,' Torgaddon grunted.

High doors, lacquered gold and crimson, stood closed at the end of the Avenue Hall. Before them, Aximand and Abaddon were waiting. They were likewise fully armoured, their heads bare, their brush-crested helms held under their left arms. Abaddon's great white shoulder plates were draped with a black wolf-pelt.

'Garviel,' he smiled.

'It doesn't do to keep him waiting,' Aximand grumbled. Loken wasn't sure if Little Horas meant Abaddon or the commander. 'What were you two gabbing about? Like fish-wives, the pair of you.'

'I was just asking him if he'd settled Vipus in.’ Torgaddon said simply.

Aximand glanced at Loken, his wide-set eyes languidly half-hooded by his lids.

'And I was reassuring Tarik that I had.’ Loken added. Evidently, Torgaddon's quiet heads-up had been for his ears only.

'Let's enter.’ Abaddon said. He raised his gloved hand and pushed the gold and crimson doors wide.

A short processional lay before them, a twenty-metre colonnade of ebon stone chased with a fretwork of silver wire. It was lined by forty Guardsmen of the Imperial army, members of Varvaras's own Byzant Janizars, twenty against each wall. They were splendidly appointed in full dress uniforms: long cream greatcoats with gold frogging, high-crowned chrome helms with basket visors and scarlet cockades, and matching sashes. As the Mournival came through the doors, the Janizars brandished their ornate power lances, beginning with the pair directly inside the doorway. The polished blades of the weapons whirled up into place in series, like chasing dominoes along the processional, each facing pair of weapons locking into position just before the marching captains caught up with the ripple.

The final pair came to salute, eyes-front, in perfect discipline, and the Mournival stepped past them onto the deck of the strategium.

The strategium was a great, semi-circular platform that projected like a lip out above the tiered theatre of the flagship's bridge. Far below lay the principal command level, thronging with hundreds of uniformed

personnel and burnished aide servitors, tiny as ants. To either side, the bee-hive sub-decks of the secondary platforms, dressed in gold and black ironwork, rose up, past the level of the projecting strategium, up into the roof itself, each storey busy with Navy staff, operators, cogitation officers and astropaths. The front section of the bridge chamber was a great, strutted window, through which the constellations and the ink of space could be witnessed. The standards of the Luna Wolves and the Imperial Fists hung from the arching roof, either side of the staring eye banner of the Warmaster himself. That great banner was marked, in golden thread, with the decree: 'I am the Emperor's Vigilance and the Eye of Terra.’

Loken remembered the award of that august symbol with pride during the great triumph after Ullanor was done.

In all his decades of service, Loken had only been on the bridge of the Vengeful Spirit twice before: once to formally accept his promotion to captain, and then again to mark his elevation to the captaincy of the Tenth. The scale of the place took his breath away, as it had done both times before. .

The strategium deck itself was an ironwork platform which supported, at its centre, a circular dais of plain, unfinished ouslite, one metre deep and ten in diameter. The commander had always eschewed any form of throne or seat. The ironwork walk space around the dais was half-shadowed by the overhang of tiered galleries that climbed the slopes of the chamber behind it. Glancing up, Loken saw huddles of senior iterators, tacticians, ship captains of the expedition fleet and other notables gathering to view the proceedings. He looked for Sindermann, but couldn't find his face.

Several attendant figures stood quiedy around the edges of the dais. Lord Commander Hektor Varvaras,

marshal of the expedition's army, a tall, precise aristocrat in red robes, stood discussing the content of a data-slate with two formally uniformed army aides. Boas Comnenus, Master of the Fleet, waited, dramming steel fingers on the edge of the ouslite plinth. He was a squat bear of a man, his ancient, flaccid body encased in a superb silver-and-steel exoskeleton, further draped in robes of deep, rich, selpic blue. Neady machined ocular lenses whirred and exchanged in the augmetic frame that supplanted his long-dead eyes.

Ing Mae Sing, the expedition's Mistress of Astropathy, stood to the master's left, a gaunt, blind spectre in a hooded white gown, and, round from her, in order, the High Senior of the Navis Nobilite, Navigator Chorogus, the Master Companion of Vox, the Master Companion of Lucidation, the senior tacticae, the senior heraldists, and various gubernatorial legates.

Each one, Loken noticed, had placed a single personal item on the edge of the dais where they stood: a glove, a cap, a wand-stave.

'We stay in the shadows.’ Torgaddon told him, bringing Loken up short under the edge of the shade cast by the balcony above. This is the Mournival's place, apart, yet present.’

Loken nodded, and remained with Torgaddon and Aximand in the symbolic shadow of the overhang. Abaddon stepped forward into the light, and took his place at the edge of the dais between Varvaras, who nodded pleasantly to him, and Comnenus, who didn't. Abaddon placed his helm upon the edge of the ouslite disc.

'An item placed on the dais registers a desire to be heard and noted.’ Torgaddon told Loken. 'Ezekyle has a place by dint of his status as first captain. For now, he will speak as first captain, not as the Mournival.’

'Will I get the hang of this ever?' Loken asked.

'No, not at all.’ Torgaddon said. Then he grinned. "Yes, you will. Of course, you will!'

Loken noticed another figure, removed from the main assembly. The man, if it were a man, lurked at the rail of the strategium deck, gazing out across the chasm of the bridge. He was a machine, it seemed, much more a machine than a man. Vague relics of flesh and muscle remained in the skeletal fabric of his mechanical body, a fabulously wrought armature of gold and steel.

'Who is that?' Loken whispered.

'Regulus.’ Aximand replied curtly. 'Adept of the Mechanicum.’

So that was what a Mechanicum adept looked like, Loken thought. That was the sort of being who could command the invincible Titans into war.

'Hush now.’ Torgaddon said, tapping Loken on the arm.

Plated glass doors on the other side of the platform slid open, and laughter boomed out. A huge figure came out onto the strategium, talking and laughing animatedly, along with a diminutive presence who scuttled to keep up.

Everybody dropped in a bow. Loken, going down on one knee, could hear the rustle of others bowing in the steep balconies above him. Boas Comnenus did so slowly, because his exoskeleton was ancient. Adept Regulus did so slowly, not because his machine body was stiff, but rather because he was clearly reluctant.

Warmaster Horus looked around, smiled, and then leapt up onto the dais in a single bound. He stood at the centre of the ouslite disc, and turned slowly.

'My friends.’ he said. 'Honour's done. Up you get.’

Slowly, they rose and beheld him.

He was as magnificent as ever, Loken thought. Massive and limber, a demi-god manifest, wrapped in white-gold armour and pelts of fur. His head was bare.

Shaven, sculptural, his face was noble, deeply tanned by multiple sunlights, his wide-spaced eyes bright, his teeth gleaming. He smiled and nodded to each and every one of them.

He had such vitality, like a force of nature - a tornado, a tempest, an avalanche - trapped in humanoid form and distilled, the potential locked in. He rotated slowly on the dais, grinning, nodding to some, pointing out certain friends with a familiar laugh.

The primarch looked at Loken, back in the shadows of the overhang and his smile seemed to broaden for a second.

Loken felt a shudder of fear. It was pleasant and vigorous. Only the Warmaster could make an Astartes feel that.

'Friends.’ Horus said. His voice was like honey, like steel, like a whisper, like all of those things mixed as one. 'My dear friends and comrades of the 63rd Expedition, is it really that time again?'

Laughter rippled around the deck, and from the galleries above.

'Briefing time.’ Horus chuckled, 'and I salute you all for coming here to bear the tedium of yet another session. I promise I'll keep you no longer than is necessary. First though...'

Horus jumped back down off the dais and stooped to place a sheltering arm around the tiny shoulders of the man who had accompanied him out of the inner chamber, like a father showing off a small child to his brothers. So embraced, the man fixed a stiff, sickly grin upon his face, more a desperate grimace than a show of pleasure.

'Before we begin.’ Horus said, 'I want to talk about my good friend Peeter Egon Momus here. How I deserved... pardon me, how humanity deserved an architect as fine and gifted as this, I don't know. Peeter has been telling

me about his designs for the new High City here, and they are wonderful. Wonderful, wonderful.’

'Really, I don't know, my lord...' Momus har-rumphed, his rictus trembling. The architect designate was beginning to shake, enduring direct exposure to such supreme attention.

'Our lord the Emperor himself sent Peeter to us,' Horus told them. 'He knew his worth. You see, I don't want to conquer. Conquest of itself is so messy, isn't it Ezekyle?'

Yes, lord.’ Abaddon murmured.

'How can we draw the lost outposts of man back into one harmonious whole if all we bring them is conquest? We are duty-bound to leave them better than we found them, enlightened by the communication of the Imperial Truth and dazzlingly made over as august provinces of our wide estate. This expedition - and all expeditions - must look to the future and be mindful that what we leave in our wake must stand as an enduring statement of our intent, especially upon worlds, as here, where we have been forced to inflict damage in the promulgation of our message. We must leave legacies behind us. Imperial cities, monuments to the new age, and fitting memorials to those who have fallen in the struggle to establish it. Peeter, my friend Peeter here, understands this. I urge you all to take the time to visit his workshops and review his marvellous schemes. And I look forward to seeing the genius of his vision gracing all the new cities we build in the course of our crusade.’

Applause broke out.

'A-all the new cities...' Momus coughed.

'Peeter is the man for the job.’ Horus cried, ignoring the architect's muted gasp. 'I am at one with the way he perceives architecture as celebration. He understands, like no other, I believe, how the spirit of the crusade may be realised in steel and glass and stone. What we

raise up is far more important than what we strike down. What we leave behind us, men must admire for eternity, and say "This was well done indeed. This is what the Imperium means, and without it we would be shadows". For that, Peeter's our man. Let's laud him now!'

A huge explosion of applause rang out across the vast chamber. Many officers in the command tiers below joined in. Peeter Egon Momus looked slightly glazed as he was led off the strategium by an aide.

Horus leapt back onto the dais. 'Let's begin... my worthy adept?'

Regulus stepped towards the edge of the dais and put a polished machine-cog down delicately on the lip of the ouslite. When he spoke, his voice was augmented and inhuman, like an electric wind brushing through the boughs of steel trees. 'My lord Warmaster, the Mechanicum is satisfied with this rock. We continue to study, with great interest, the technologies captured here. The gravitic and phasic weapons are being reverse-engineered in our forges. At last report, three standard template construct patterns, previously unknown to us, have been recovered.’

Horus clapped his hands together. 'Glory to our brothers of the tireless Mechanicum! Slowly, we piece together the missing parts of humanity's knowledge. The Emperor will be delighted, as will, I'm sure, your Martian lords.’

Regulus nodded, lifting up the cog and stepping back from the dais.

Horus looked around. 'Rakris? My dear Rakris?'

Lord Governor Elect Rakris, a portly man in dove-grey robes, had already placed his sceptre-wand on the edge of the dais to mark his participation. Now he fiddled with it as he made his report. Horus heard him out patiently, nodding encouragingly from time to time.

Rakris droned on, at unnecessary length. Loken felt sorry for him. One of Lord Commander Varvaras's generals, Rakris had been selected to remain at Sixty-Three Nineteen as governor overseer, marshalling the occupation forces as the world transmuted into a full Imperial state. Rakris was a career soldier, and it was clear that, though he took his election as a signal honour, he was quite aghast at the prospect of being left behind. He looked pale and ill, brooding on the time, not long away, when the expedition fleet left him to manage the work alone. Rakris was Terran born, and Loken knew that once the fleet sailed on and left him to his job, Rakris would feel as abandoned as if he had been marooned. A governorship was intended to be the ultimate reward for a war-hero's service, but it seemed to Loken a quietly terrible fate: to be monarch of a world, and then cast away upon it.

Forever.

The crusade would not be back to visit conquered worlds in a hurry.

'.. .in truth, my commander.’ Rakris was saying, 'it may be many decades until this world achieves a state of equity with the Imperium. There is great opposition.’

'How far are we from compliance?' Horus asked, looking around.

Varvaras replied. 'True compliance, lord? Decades, as my good friend Rakris says. Functional compliance? Well, that is different. There is a seed of dissidence in the southern hemisphere that we cannot quench. Until that is brought into line, this world cannot be certified.’

Horus nodded. 'So we stay here, if we must, until the job is done. We must hold over our plans to advance. Such a shame...' The primarch's smile faded for a second as he pondered. 'Unless there is another suggestion?'

He looked at Abaddon and let the words hang. Abaddon seemed to hesitate, and glanced quickly back into the shadows behind him.

Loken realised that this was the question. This was a moment of counsel when the primarch looked outside the official hierarchy of the expedition's command echelon for the informal advice of his chosen inner circle.

Torgaddon nudged Loken, but the nudge was unnecessary. Loken had already stepped forward into the light behind Abaddon.

'My lord Warmaster.’ Loken said, almost startled by the sound of his own voice.

'Captain Loken.’ Horus said with a delighted flash of his eyes. The thoughts of the Moumival are always welcome at my counsel.’

Several present, including Varvaras, made approving sounds.

'My lord, the initial phase of the war here was undertaken quickly and cleanly.’ Loken said. 'A surgical strike by the speartip against the enemy's head to minimise the loss and hardship that both sides would suffer in a longer, full-scale offensive. A guerilla war against insurgents would inevitably be an arduous, drawn out, costly affair. It could last for years without resolution, eroding Lord Commander Varvaras's precious army resources and blighting any good beginning of the Lord Governor Elect's rale. Sixty-Three Nineteen cannot afford it, and neither can the expedition. I say, and if I speak out of turn, forgive me, I say that if the speartip was meant to conquer this world in one, clean blow, it has failed. The work is not yet done. Order the Legion to finish the job.’

Murmuring sprang up all around. You'd have me unleash the Luna Wolves again, captain?' Horus asked.

Loken shook his head. 'Not the Legion as a whole, sir. Tenth Company. We were first in, and for that we have

been praised, but the praise was not deserved, for the job is not done.’

Horns nodded, as if quite taken with this. Varvaras?'

The army always welcomes the support of the noble Legion. The insurgent factions might plague my men for months, as the captain rightly points out, and make a great tally of killing before they are done with. A company of Luna Wolves could crush them utterly and end their mutiny.’

'Rakris?'

'An expedient solution would be a weight off my back, sir.’ Rakris said. He smiled. 'It would be a hammer to crash a nut, perhaps, but it would be emphatic. The work would be done, and quickly.’

'First captain?'

The Mournival speaks with one voice, lord.’ Abaddon said. 'I urge for a swift conclusion to our business here, so that Sixty-Three Nineteen can get on with its life, and we can get on with the crusade.’

'So it shall be.’ Horus said, smiling broadly again. 'So I make a command of it. Captain, have Tenth Company drawn ready and oathed to the moment. We will anticipate news of your success eagerly. Thank you for speaking your mind plainly, and for cutting to the quick of this thorny problem.’

There was a firm flutter of approving applause.

Then possibilities open for us after all.’ Horus said. 'We can begin to prepare for the next phase. When I signal him...' Horus looked at the blind Mistress of Astropaths, who nodded silently '...our beloved Emperor will be delighted to learn that our portion of the crusade is about to advance again. We should now discuss the options open to us. I thought to brief you on our findings concerning these myself, but there is another who positively insists he is fit to do it.’

Everyone present turned to look as the plate glass doors slid open for a second time. The primarch began to clap, and the applause gathered and swept around the galleries, as Maloghurst limped out onto the stage of the strategium. It was the equerry's first formal appearance since his recovery from the surface.

Maloghurst was a veteran Luna Wolf, and a 'Son of Horus' to boot. He had been in his time a company captain, and might even have risen to the first captaincy had he not been promoted to the office of equerry. A shrewd and experienced soul, Maloghurst's talents for intrigue and intelligence ideally served him in that role, and had long since earned him the title 'twisted'. He took no shame in this. The Legion might protect the Warmaster physically, but he protected him politically, guiding and advising, blocking and out-playing, aware and perfectly sensitive to every nuance and current in the expedition's hierarchy. He had never been well-liked, for he was a hard man to get close to, even by the intimidating standards of the Astartes, and he had never made any particular effort to be liked. Most thought of him as a neutral power, a facilitator, loyal only to Horus himself. No one was ever foolish enough to underestimate him.

But circumstance had suddenly made him popular. Beloved almost. Believed dead, he had been found alive, and in the light of Sejanus's death, this had been taken as some compensation. The work of the remembrancer Euphrati Keeler had cemented his new role as the noble, wounded hero as the picts of his unexpected rescue had flashed around the fleet. Now the assembly welcomed him back rapturously, cheering his fortitude and resolve. He had been reinvented through misfortune into an adored hero.

Loken was quite sure Maloghurst was aware of this ironic turn, and fully prepared to make the most of it.

Maloghurst came out into the open. His injuries had been so severe that he was not yet able to clothe himself in the armour of the Legion, and wore instead a white robe with the wolfs head emblem embroidered on the back. A gold signet in the shape of the Warmaster's icon, the staring eye, formed the cloak's clasp under his throat. He limped, and walked with the aid of a metal staff. His back bulged with a kyphotic misalignment. His face, drawn thin and pale since last it had been seen, was lined with effort, and waddings of synthetic skin-gel covered gashes upon his throat and the left side of his head.

Loken was shocked to see that he was now truly twisted. The old, mocking nickname suddenly seemed crass and indelicate.

Horus got down off the dais and threw his arms around his equerry. Varvaras and Abaddon both went over to greet him with warm embraces. Maloghurst smiled, and nodded to them, then nodded and waved up to the galleries around to acknowledge the welcome. As the applause abated, Maloghurst leaned heavily against the side of the dais, and placed his staff upon it in the ceremonial manner. Instead of returning to his place, the Warmaster stood back, away from the circle, giving his equerry centre stage.

'I have enjoyed.’ Maloghurst began, his voice hard, but brittle with effort, 'a certain luxury of relaxation in these last few days.’ Laughter rattled out from all sides, and the clapping resumed for a moment.

'Bed rest.’ Maloghurst went on, 'that bane of a warrior's life, has suited me well, for it has given me ample opportunity to review the intelligence gathered in these last few months by our advance scouts. However, bed rest, as a thing to be enjoyed, has its limits. I insisted that I be allowed to present this evidence to you today for, Emperor bless me, never in my dreams did I imagine I would die of inaction.’

More approving laughter. Loken smiled. Maloghurst really was making the best use of his new status amongst them. He was almost... likable.

To review.’ Maloghurst said, taking out a control wand and gesturing with it briefly. Three key areas are of interest to us at this juncture.’ His gestures activated the underdeck hololithic projectors, and shapes of solid light came into being above the strategium, projected so that all in the galleries could see them. The first was a rotating image of the world they orbited, surrounded by graphic indicators of elliptical alignment and precession. The spinning world shrank rapidly until it became part of a system arrangement, similarly draped in schematic overlays, a turning, three-dimensional orrery suspended in the air. Then that too shrank and became a small, highlighted component in a mosaic of stars.

'First.’ Maloghurst said, 'this area here, itemised eight fifty-eight one-seven, the cluster adjacent to our current locale.’ A particular stellar neighbourhood on the light map glowed. 'Our most obvious and accessible next port of call. Scout ships report eighteen systems of interest, twelve of which promise fundamental worth in terms of elemental resource, but no signs of life or habitation. The searches are not yet conclusive, but at this early juncture might I be so bold as to suggest that this region need not concern the expedition. Subject to certification, these systems should be added to the manifest of the colonial pioneers who follow in our footsteps.’

He waved the wand again, and a different group of stars lit up. This second region, estimated as... Master?'

Boas Comnenus cleared his throat and obligingly said, 'Nine weeks, standard travel time to spinward of us, equerry.’

'Nine weeks to spinward, thank you.’ Maloghurst replied. 'We have barely begun to scout this district, but

there are early indications that some significant culture or cultures, of interstellar capability, exist within its bounds.'

'Currently functioning?' Abaddon asked. Too often, Imperial expeditions came upon the dry traces of long perished societies in the desert of stars.

Too early to tell, first captain.’ Maloghurst said. Though the scouts report some discovered relics bear similarities to those we found on seven ninety-three one-five half a decade ago.'

'So, not human?' Adept Regulus asked.

Too early to tell, sir.’ Maloghurst repeated. The region has an itemisation code, but I believe you'll all be interested to hear that it bears an Old Terran name. Sagittarius.’

The Dreadful Sagittary.’ Horus whispered, with a delighted grin.

'Quite so, my lord. The region certainly requires further examination.’ The crippled equerry moved the wand again, and brought up a third coil of suns. 'Our third option, further to spinward.’

'Eighteen weeks, standard.’ Boas Comnenus supplied before he had to be asked.

Thank you, Master. Our scouts have yet to examine it, but we have received word from the 140th Expedition, commanded by Khitas Frame of the Blood Angels, that opposition to Imperial advance has been encountered there. Reports are patchy, but war has broken out.’

'Human resistance?' Varvaras asked. Are we talking about lost colonies?'

'Xenos, sir.’ Maloghurst said, succincdy. Alien foes, of some capacity. I have sent a missive to the One Hundred and Fortieth asking if they require our support at this time. It is signifkandy smaller than ours. No reply has yet been received. We may consider it a priority to venture forward to this region to reinforce the Imperial presence there.’

For the first time since the briefing began, the smile had left the Warmaster's face. 'I will speak with my brother Sanguinius on this matter.’ he said. 'I would not see his men perish, unsupported.’ He looked at Maloghurst. Thank you for this, equerry. We appreciate your efforts, and the brevity of your summation.’

There was a ripple of applause.

'One last thing, my lord.’ Maloghurst said. A personal matter I wish to clear up. I have become known, so I understand, as Maloghurst the Twisted, for reasons of... character mat I know are not lost on any present. I have always rejoiced in the title, though some of you might think that odd. I relish the arts politic, and make no effort to hide that. Some of my aides, as I have learned, have made efforts to have the soubriquet quashed, believing it offends my altered state. They worry that I might find it cruel. A slur. I want all here assembled to know that I do not. My body is broken, but my mind is not. I would take offence if the name was to be dropped out of politeness. I don't value sympathy much, and I don't want pity. I am twisted in body now, but I am still complex in mind. Don't think you are somehow sparing my feelings. I wish to be known as I always was.’

Well said.’ Abaddon cried, and smacked his palms together. The assembly rose in a tumult as brisk as the one that had ushered Maloghurst on to the stage.

The equerry picked up his staff from the dais and, leaning upon it, turned to the Warmaster. Horus raised both hands to restore quiet.

'Our thanks to Maloghurst for presenting these options to us. There is much to consider. I dissolve this briefing now, but I request policy suggestions and remarks to my attention in the next day, ship-time. I urge you to study all possibilities and present your assessments. We will reconvene the day after tomorrow at this time. That is all.’

The meeting broke up. As the upper galleries emptied, buzzing with chatter, the parties on the strategium deck gathered in informal conference. The Warmaster stood in quiet conversation with Maloghurst and the Mechan-icum Adept.

'Nicely done.’ Torgaddon whispered to Loken.

Loken breathed out. He hadn't realised what a weight of tension had built up in him since his summons to the briefing had arrived.

Yes, finely put.’ said Aximand. 'I approve your commentary, Garviel.’

'I just said what I felt. I made it up as I went along,' Loken admitted.

Aximand frowned at him as if not sure whether he was joking or not.

'Are you not cowed by these circumstances, Horns?' Loken asked.

At first, I suppose I must have been.’ Aximand replied in an off-hand way. "You get used to it, once you've been through one or two. I found it was helpful to look at his feet.’

'His feet?'

The Warmaster's feet. Catch his eye and you'll quite forget what you were going to say.’ Aximand smiled slightly. It was the first hint of any softening towards Loken that Little Horns had shown.

Thanks. I'll remember that.’

Abaddon joined them under the shadow of the overhang. 'I knew we'd picked right.’ he said, clasping Loken's hand in his own. 'Cut to the quick, that's what the Warmaster wants of us. A clean appraisal. Good job, Garviel. Now just make sure it's a good job.’

'I will.’

'Need any help? I can lend you the Justaerin if you need them.’

Thank you, but Tenth can do this.’

Abaddon nodded. 'I'll tell Falkus his widowmakers are superfluous to requirements.’

'Please don't do that.’ Loken snapped, alarmed at the prospect of insulting Falkus Kibre, Captain of First Company's Terminator elite. The other three quarters of the Mournival laughed out loud. Your face.’ said Torgaddon. 'Ezekyle goads you so easily.’ chuckled Aximand. 'Ezekyle knows he will develop a tough skin, soon enough.’ Abaddon remarked.

'Captain Loken?' Lord Governor Elect Rakris was approaching them. Abaddon, Aximand and Torgaddon stood aside to let him through. 'Captain Loken.’ Rakris said, 'I just wanted to say, sir, I just wanted to say how grateful I was. To take this matter upon yourself and your company. To speak out so very directly. Lord Var-varas's soldiers are trying their best, but they are just men. The regime here is doomed unless firm action is taken.’

Tenth Company will deal with the problem, lord governor.’ Loken said. You have my word as an Astartes.’

'Because the army can't hack it?' They looked around and found that the tall, princely figure of Lord Commander Varvaras had joined them too. 'I-I didn't mean to suggest...' Rakris blithered. 'No offence was intended, lord commander.’ said Loken.

'And none taken.’ Varvaras said, extending a hand towards Loken. 'An old custom of Terra, Captain Loken...'

Loken took his hand and shook it. 'One I have been reminded of lately.’ he said.

Varvaras smiled. 'I wanted to welcome you into our inner circle, captain. And to assure you that you did not speak out of turn today. In the south, my men are being slaughtered. Day in, day out. I have, I believe, the finest

army in all of the expeditions, but I know full well it is composed of men, and just men. I understand when a fighting man is needed and when an Astartes is needed. This is the latter time. Come to my war cabinet, at your convenience, and I'll be happy to brief you fully.'

Thank you, lord commander. I will attend you this afternoon.’

Varvaras nodded.

'Excuse me, lord commander.’ Torgaddon said. The Mournival is needed. The Warmaster is withdrawing and he has called for us.’

THE MOURNIVAL FOLLOWED the Warmaster through the plated glass doors into his private sanctum, a wide, well-appointed chamber built below the well of the audience galleries on the port side of the flagship. One wall was glass, open to the stars. Maloghurst and the Warmaster bustled in ahead of them, and the Mournival drew back into the shadows, waiting to be called upon.

Loken stiffened as three figures descended the ironwork screw stair into the room from the gallery above. The first two were Astartes of the Imperial Fists, almost glowing in their yellow plate. The third was much larger. Another god.

Rogal Dorn, primarch of the Imperial Fists, brother to Horus.

Dorn greeted the Warmaster warmly, and went to sit with him and Maloghurst upon the black leather couches facing the glass wall. Servitors brought them refreshments.

Rogal Dorn was a being as great in all measure as Horus. He, and his entourage of Imperial Fists, had been travelling with the expedition for some months, though they were expected to take their leave soon. Other duties and expeditions called. Loken had been

told that Primarch Dorn had come to them at Horus's behest, so that the two of them might discuss in detail the obligations and remit of the role of Warmaster. Horus had solicited the opinions and advice of all his brother primarchs on the subject since the honour had been bestowed upon him. Being named Warmaster set him abruptly apart from them, and raised him up above his brothers, and there had been some stifled objections and discontent, especially from those primarchs who felt the title should have been theirs. The primarchs were as prone to sibling rivalry and petty competition as any group of brothers.

Guided, it was likely, by Maloghurst's shrewd hand, Horus had courted his brothers, stilling fears, calming doubts, reaffirming pacts and generally securing their cooperation. He wanted none to feel slighted, or overlooked. He wanted none to think they were no longer listened to. Some, like Sanguineus, Lorgar and Fulgrim, had acclaimed Horus's election from the outset. Others, like Angron and Perturabo, had raged biliously at the new order, and it had taken masterful diplomacy on the Warmaster's part to placate their choler and jealousy. A few, like Russ and the Lion, had been cynically resolved, unsurprised by the turn of events.

But others, like Guilliman, Khan and Dorn had simply taken it in their stride, accepting the Emperor's decree as the right and obvious choice. Horus had ever been the brightest, the first and the favourite. They did not doubt his fitness for the role, for none of the primarchs had ever matched Horus's achievements, nor the intimacy of his bond with the Emperor. It was to these solid, resolved brothers that Horus turned in particular for counsel. Dorn and Guilliman both embodied the staunchest and most dedicated Imperial qualities, commanding their Legion expeditions with peerless devotion and military genius. Horus desired their approval as a young man

might seek the quiescence of older, more accomplished brothers.

Rogal Dorn possessed perhaps the finest military mind of all the primarchs. It was as ordered and disciplined as Roboute Guilliman's, as courageous as the Lion's, yet still supple enough to allow for the flex of inspiration, the flash of battle zeal that had won the likes of Leman Russ and the Khan so many victory wreaths. Dorn's record in the crusade was second only to Horus's, but he was resolute where Horns was flamboyant, reserved where Horus was charismatic, and that was why Horus had been the obvious choice for War-master. In keeping with his patient, stony character, Dorn's Legion had become renowned for siegecraft and defensive strategies. The Warmaster had once joked that where he could storm a fortress like no other, Rogal Dorn could hold it. 'If I ever laid assault to a bastion possessed by you.’ Horus had quipped at a recent banquet, 'then the war would last for all eternity, the best in attack matched by the best in defence.’ The Imperial Fists were an immovable object to the Luna Wolves' unstoppable force.

Dorn had been a quiet, observing presence in his months with the 63rd Expedition. He had spent hours in close conference with the Warmaster, but Loken had seen him from time to time, watching drills and studying preparations for war. Loken had not yet spoken to him, or met him directly. This was the smallest place they had both been in at the same time.

He regarded him now, in calm discussion widi the Warmaster; two mythical beings manifest in one room. Loken felt it an honour just to be in their presence, to see them talk, like men, in unguarded fashion. Mal-oghurst seemed a tiny form beside them.

Primarch Dorn wore a case of armour that was burnished and ornate like a tomb chest, dark red and

copper-gold compared to Horus's white dazzle. Unfurled eagle wings, fashioned in metal, haloed his head and decorated his chest and shoulder plate, and aquilas and graven laurels embossed the armour sections of his limbs. A mantle of red velvet hung around his broad shoulders, trimmed in golden weave. His lean face was stern and unsmiling, even when the Warmaster raised a joke, and his hair was a shock of white, bleached like dead bones.

The two Astartes who had escorted him down from the gallery came over to wait with the Mournival. They were well known to Abaddon, Torgaddon and Axi-mand, but Loken had only yet seen them indirectly about the flagship. Abaddon introduced them as Sigis-mund, First Captain of the Imperial Fists, resplendent in black and white heraldry, and Efried, Captain of the Third Company. The Astartes made the sign of the aquila to one another in formal greeting.

'I approve of your direction.’ Sigismund told Loken at once.

'I'm gratified. You were watching from the galleries?'

Sigismind nodded. 'Prosecute the foe. Get it over with. Get on. There is still so much to be done, we cannot afford delays or time wasting.’

There are so many worlds still to be brought to compliance.’ Loken agreed. 'One day, we will rest at last.’

'No.’ Sigismund replied bluntly. The crusade will never end. Don't you know that?'

Loken shook his head, 'I wouldn't-'

'Not ever.’ said Sigismund emphatically. The more we spread, the more we find. World after world. New worlds to conquer. Space is limidess, and so is our appetite to master it.’

'I disagree.’ Loken said. 'War will end, one day. A rule of peace will be established. That is the very purpose of our efforts.’

Sigismund grinned. 'Is it? Perhaps. I believe that we have set ourselves an unending task. The nature of mankind makes it so. There will always be another goal, another prospect.’

'Surely, brother, you can conceive of a time when all worlds have been brought into one unity of Imperial rule. Isn't that the dream we strive to realise?'

Sigismund stared into Loken's face. 'Brother Loken, I have heard much about you, all of it good. I had not imagined I would discover such naivety in you. We will spend our lives fighting to secure this Imperium, and then I fear we will spend the rest of our days fighting to keep it intact. There is such involving darkness amongst the stars. Even when the Imperium is complete, there will be no peace. We will be obliged to fight on to preserve what we have fought to establish. Peace is a vain wish. Our crusade may one day adopt another name, but it will never truly end. In the far future, there will be only war.’

'I think you're wrong.’ Loken said.

'How innocent you are.’ Sigismund mocked, 'and I thought the Luna Wolves were supposed to be the most aggressive of us all. That's how you like the other Legions to think of you, isn't it? The most feared of mankind's warrior classes?'

'Our reputation speaks for itself, sir.’ said Loken.

'As does the reputation of the Imperial Fists.’ Sigismund replied. 'Are we going to scrap about it now? Argue which Legion is toughest?'

'The answer, always, is the Wolves of Fenris.’ Torgad-don put in, 'because they are clinically insane.’ He grinned broadly, sensing the tension, and wishing to dispel it. 'If you're comparing sane Legions, of course, the question becomes more complex. Primarch Roboute's Ultramarines make a good show, but then there are so bloody many of them. The Word Bearers,

the White Scars, the Imperial Fists, oh, all have fine records. But the Luna Wolves, ah me, the Luna Wolves. Sigismund, in a straight fight? Do you really think you'd have a hope? Honestly? Your yellow ragamuffins against the best of the best?'

Sigismund laughed. 'Whatever helps you sleep, Tarik. Terra bless us all it is a paradigm that will never be tested.’

'What brother Sigismund isn't telling you, Garviel.’ Torgaddon said, 'is that his Legion is going to miss all the glory. It's to be withdrawn. He's quite miffed about

it.’

Tarik is being selective with the truth.’ Sigismund snorted. 'The Imperial Fists have been commanded by the Emperor to return to Terra and establish a guard around him there. We are chosen as his Praetorians. Now who's miffed, Luna Wolf?'

'Not I.’ said Torgaddon. 'I'll be winning laurels in war while you grow fat and lazy minding the home fires.’

'You're quitting the crusade?' Loken asked. 'I had heard something of this.’

The Emperor wishes us to fortify the Palace of Terra and guard its bulwarks. This was his word at the Ullanor Triumph. We have been the best part of two years tying up our business so we might comply with his desires. Yes, we're going home to Terra. Yes, we will sit out the rest of the crusade. Except that I believe there will be plenty of crusade left once we have been given leave to quit Earth, our duty done. You won't finish this, Luna Wolves. The stars will have long forgotten your name when the Imperial Fists war abroad again.’

Torgaddon placed his hand on the hilt of his chainsword, playfully. 'Are you so keen to be slapped down by me for your insolence, Sigismund?'

'I don't know. Is he?'

Rogal Dorn suddenly towered behind them. 'Does Sigismund deserve a slap, Captain Torgaddon? Probably. In the spirit of comradeship, let him be. He bruises easily.’

All of them laughed at the primarch's words. The barest hint of a smile flickered across Rogal Dorn's lips. 'Loken.’ he said, gesturing. Loken followed the massive primarch to the far corner of the chamber. Behind them, Sigismund and Efried continued to sport with the others of the Mournival, and elsewhere Horus sat in intense conference with Maloghurst.

'We are charged to return to the homeworld.’ Dorn said, conversationally. His voice was low and astonishingly soft, like the lap of water on a distant beach, but there was a strength running through it, like the tension of a steel cable. The Emperor has asked us to fortify the Imperial stronghold, and who am I to question the Emperor's needs? I am glad he recognises the particular talents of the VII Legion.'

Dorn looked down at Loken. "You're not used to the likes of me, are you, Loken?' 'No, lord.’

'I like that about you. Ezekyle and Tank, men like them have been so long in the company of your lord, they think nothing of it. You, however, understand that a primarch is not like a man, or even an Astartes. I'm not talking about strength. I'm talking about the weight of responsibilty.’ Yes, lord.’

Dorn sighed. The Emperor has no like, Loken. There are no gods in this hollow universe to keep him company. So he made us, demi-gods, to stand beside him. I have never quite come to terms with my status. Does that surprise you? I see what I am capable of, and what is expected of me, and I shudder. The mere fact of me

frightens me sometimes. Do you think your lord Horus ever feels that way?'

'I do not, lord.’ Loken said. 'Self-confidence is one of his keenest qualities.’

'I think so too, and I am glad of it. There could be no better Warmaster than Horus, but a man, even a primarch, is only as good as the counsel he receives, especially if he is utterly self-confident. He must be tempered and guided by those close to him.’

You speak of the Mournival, sir.’

Rogal Dorn nodded. He gazed out through the armoured glass wall at the scintillating expanse of the starfield. You know that I've had my eye on you? That I spoke in support of your election?'

'I have been told so, lord. It baffles and flatters me.’

'My brother Horus needs an honest voice in his ear. A voice that appreciates the scale and import of our undertaking. A voice that is not blase in the company of demi-gods. Sigismund and Efried do this for me. They keep me honest. You should do the same for your lord.'

'I will endeavour to-' Loken began.

They wanted Luc Sedirae or Iacton Qruze. Did you know that? Both names were considered. Sedirae is a battle-hungry killer, so much like Abaddon. He would say yes to anything, if it meant war-glory. Qruze - you call him the "half-heard" I'm told?'

'We do, lord.’

'Qruze is a sycophant. He would say yes to anything if it meant he stayed in favour. The Mournival needs a proper, dissenting opinion.’

'A naysmith.’ Loken said.

Dorn flashed a real smile. Yes, just so, like the old dynasts did! A naysmith. Your schooling's good. My brother Horus needs a voice of reason in his ear, if he is to rein in his eagerness and act in the Emperor's stead. Our other brothers, some of them quite demented by

the choice of Horus, need to see he is firmly in control. So I vouched for you, Garviel Loken. I examined your record and your character, and thought you would be the right mix in the alloy of the Mournival. Don't be insulted, but there is something very human about you, Loken, for an Astartes.’

'I fear, my lord, that my helm will no longer fit me, you have swelled my head so with your compliments.’

Dorn nodded. 'My apologies.’

'You spoke of responsibility. I feel that weight suddenly, terribly.’

'You're strong, Loken. Astartes-built. Endure it.’

'I will, lord.’

Dorn turned from the armoured port and looked down at Loken. He placed his great hands gently on Loken's shoulders. 'Be yourself. Just be yourself. Speak your mind plainly, for you have been granted the rare opportunity to do so. I can return to Terra confident that the crusade is in safe hands.’

'I wonder if your faith in me is too much, lord.’ Loken said. 'As fervent as Sedirae, I have just proposed a war-'

'I heard you speak. You made the case well. That is all part of your role now. Sometimes you must advise. Sometimes you must allow the Warmaster to use you.’

'Use me?'

'You understand what Horus had you do this morning?'

'Lord?'

'He had primed the Mournival to back him, Loken. He is cultivating the air of a peacemaker, for that plays well across the worlds of the Imperium. This morning, he wanted someone other than himself to suggest unleashing the Legions for war.’