False Gods (33 page)

‘What’s going on?’ he asked, as the sirens grew louder.

‘Justice,’ said Sejanus.

The reflective surfaces of the tanks lit up as an actinic blue light appeared above them, and Horus looked up to see a blob of dirty light swirling into existence just below the ceiling. Like a miniature galaxy, it hung suspended above the silver incubation tanks, growing larger with every passing second. A powerful wind tugged at Horus and he hung onto the railing as a shrieking howl issued from the spreading vortex above him.

‘What is that?’ he shouted, working his way along the railing towards the stairs. ‘You know what it is, Horus,’ said Sejanus.

‘We have to get out of here.’

‘It’s too late for that,’ said Sejanus, taking his arm in an iron grip.

‘Take your hand off me, Sejanus,’ warned Horus, ‘or whatever your name is. I know you’re not Sejanus, so you might as well stop pretending.’

Even as he spoke, he saw a group of armoured warriors rushing through the chamber’s doorway towards them. There were six of them, each with the build of an Astartes, but without a suit of battle plate, they were less bulked out and gigantic. They wore fabulously ornate gold breastplates decorated with eagles and lightning bolts, and each wore a tall, peaked helm of bronze with a red, horsehair plume. Scarlet cloaks billowed behind them in the cyclone that swept through the chamber. Long spears with boltguns slung beneath long, crackling blades were aimed at him, and he instantly recognised the warriors for what they were – the Custodian Guard, the Praetorians of the Emperor himself.

‘Halt, fiends and face thy judgement!’ shouted the lead warrior, aiming his guardian spear at Horus’s heart. Though the warrior wore an enclosing helm, Horus would have recognised his eyes and that voice anywhere.

‘Valdor!’ cried Horus. ‘Constantin Valdor. It’s me, it’s Horus.’

‘Be silent!’ shouted Valdor. ‘End this foul conjuration now!’

Horus looked up at the ceiling, feeling the power contained within that swirling maelstrom tugging at him like the call of a long lost friend. He forced its siren song from his mind, dropped to the floor of the chamber and took a step forward.

Popping blasts of light erupted from the Custodians’ spears, and Horus was forced to his knees by the hammering impacts of their shells. The howling gale swallowed the noise of the shots, and Horus cried out, not with pain, but with the knowledge that fellow warriors of the Imperium had fired upon him.

More blasts struck him, tearing great chunks from his armour, but none was able to defeat its protection. The Custodians advanced in disciplined ranks, pouring their fire into him and keeping him pinned beneath its weight. Sejanus ducked behind the stairs, sparks and smoking chunks ripping from the metal as the explosive bolts tore through it.

Horus roared in anger and surged to his feet, all thoughts of restraint forgotten as he found himself at the centre of the deafening storm. A bolt clipped his gorget and almost spun him around, but it was not enough to stop him. He ripped the guardian spear from the nearest Custodian and smashed his skull to splinters with a single blow from his fist.

He reversed his grip on the spear and slashed the next Custodian from collarbone to groin, the two shorn halves swept up by the howling winds and vanishing into the crackling vortex. Another Custodian died as Horus rammed the spear through his chest and split him in two.

A blade lanced for his head, but he shattered it with a swipe of his fist and ripped the arm from his attacker with casual ease. Another Custodian died as Horus tore his head off in his mighty fist, blood gushing from the neck, as if from a geyser, as he tossed the severed head aside.

Only Valdor remained, and Horus snarled as he rounded on the Chief Custodian. A blaze of light erupted from the barrel of Valdor’s guardian spear. Horus grunted at the impacts and raised his fist to strike Valdor down, hearing metal squeal and tear as the force of the hurricane reaching from the vortex above finally achieved its goal.

Horus paused in his attack, suddenly terrified for the fate of those inside the tanks. He turned and saw one tank spewing gasses and screams as it was ripped from the ground, following others as they were torn from their moorings and swept upwards.

Then time stopped and a blinding light filled the chamber.

Horus felt warm honey flow through him, and he turned towards the source of the light: a shimmering golden giant of unimaginable majesty and beauty.

Horus dropped to his knees in rapture at the sight. Who would not strive to worship so perfect a being? Power and certainty flowed from the figure, the secret mystery of creation at his fingertips, the answers to any question that could be asked there for the knowing, and the wisdom to know how to use them.

He wore armour that gleamed a perfect gold, his features impossible to know, and his glory and power unmatched by any being in creation.

The golden warrior moved as though in slow motion, raising his hand to halt the madness of the vortex with a gesture. The maelstrom was silenced, the tumbling incubation tanks suspended in mid air.

The golden figure turned a puzzled gaze upon Horus.

‘I know you?’ he said, and Horus wept to hear such a perfect symphony of sound.

‘Yes,’ said Horus, unable to raise his voice above a whisper.

The giant cocked his head to one side and said, ‘You would destroy my great works, but you will not succeed. I beg you, turn from this path or all will be lost.’

Horus reached out towards the golden warrior as he turned his sad gaze to the incubation tanks held motionless above him, weighing the consequences of future events in the blink of an eye.

Horus could see the decision in the figure’s wondrous eyes and shouted, ‘No!’

The figure turned from him and time snapped back into its prescribed stream.

The deafening howl of the warp-spawned wind returned with the force of a hurricane and Horus heard the screams of his brothers amid the metallic clanging of their incubation tanks.

‘Father, no!’ he yelled. ‘You can’t let this happen!’

The golden giant was walking away, leaving the carnage in his wake, uncaring of the lives he had wrought. Horus felt his hate swell bright and strong within his breast.

The power of the wind seized him in its grip and he let it take him, spinning him up into the air and Horus opened his arms as he was reunited once again with his brothers.

The abyss of the warp vortex yawned above him like a great eye of terror and madness.

He surrendered to its power and let it take him into its embrace.

SIXTEEN

The truth is all we have

Arch prophet

Home

F
OR
ONCE
L
OKEN
was inclined to agree with Iacton Qruze when he said, ‘Not like it used to be, boy. Not like it used to be.’

They stood on the strategium deck, looking out over the ghostly glow of Davin as it hung in space like a faded jewel. ‘I remember the first time we came here, seems like yesterday.’

‘More like a lifetime,’ said Loken.

‘Nonsense, young man,’ said Qruze. ‘When you’ve been around as long as I have you learn a thing or two. Live to my age and we’ll see how you perceive the passage of years.’

Loken sighed, not in the mood for another of Qruze’s rambling, faintly patronising stories of ‘the good old days’.

‘Yes, Iacton, we’ll see.’

‘Don’t dismiss me, boy,’ said Qruze. ‘I may be old, but I’m not stupid.’

‘I never meant to say you were,’ said Loken.

‘Then take heed of me now, Garviel,’ said Qruze, leaning in close. ‘You think I don’t know, but I do.’

‘Don’t know about what?’

‘About the “half-heard” thing,’ hissed Qruze, quietly so that none of the deck crew could hear. ‘I know fine well why you call me that, and it’s not because I speak softly, it’s because no one pays a blind bit of notice to what I say.’

Loken looked into Qruze’s long, tanned face, his skin deeply lined with creases and folds. His eyes, normally hooded and half-closed were now intense and penetrating.

‘Iacton—’ began Loken, but Qruze cut him off.

‘Don’t apologise, it doesn’t become you.’

‘I don’t know what to say,’ said Loken.

‘Ach… don’t say anything. What do I have to say that anyone would want to listen to anyway?’ sighed Qruze. ‘I know what I am, boy, a relic of a time long passed for our beloved Legion. You know that I remember when we fought without the Warmaster, can you imagine such a thing?’

‘We may not have to soon, Iacton. It’s nearly time for the Delphos to open and there’s been no word. Apothecary Vaddon is no nearer to finding out what happened to the Warmaster, even with the anathame.’

‘The what?’

‘The weapon that wounded the Warmaster,’ said Loken, wishing he hadn’t mentioned the kinebrach weapon in front of Qruze.

‘Oh, must be a powerful weapon that,’ said Qruze sagely.

‘I wanted to go back down to Davin with Torgaddon,’ said Loken, changing the subject, ‘but I was afraid of what I might do if I saw Little Horus or Ezekyle.’

‘They are your brothers, boy,’ said Qruze. ‘Whatever happens, never forget that. We break such bonds at our peril. When we turn from one brother, we turn from them all.’

‘Even when they have made a terrible mistake?’

‘Even then,’ agreed Qruze. ‘We all make mistakes, lad. We need to appreciate them for what they are – lessons that can only be learned the hard way. Unless it’s a fatal mistake, of course, but at least someone else can learn from
that
.’

‘I don’t know what to do,’ said Loken, leaning on the strategium rail. ‘I don’t know what’s happening with the Warmaster and there’s nothing I can do about it.’

‘Aye, it’s a thorny one, my boy,’ agreed Qruze. ‘Still, as we used to say back in my day, “When there’s nothing you can do about it, don’t worry about it”.’

‘Things must have been simpler back in your day, Iacton,’ said Loken.

‘They were, boy, that’s for sure,’ replied Qruze, missing Loken’s sarcasm. ‘There was none of this quiet order nonsense, and do you think we’d have that upstart Varvarus baying for blood back in the day? Or that we’d have had remembrancers on our own bloody ship, writing treasonous poetry about us and claiming that it’s the unvarnished truth? I ask you, where’s the damn respect the Astartes used to be held in? Changed days, young man, changed days.’

Loken’s eyes narrowed as Qruze spoke. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘I said it’s changed days since—’

‘No,’ said Loken, ‘about Varvarus and the remembrancers.’

‘Haven’t you heard? No, I suppose you haven’t,’ said Qruze. ‘Well, it seems Varvarus wasn’t too pleased about you and the Mournival’s return to the
Vengeful Spirit
with the Warmaster. The fool thinks heads should roll for the deaths you caused. He’s been on the vox daily to Maloghurst demanding we tell the fleet what happened, make reparations to the families of the dead, and then punish you all.’

‘Punish us?’

‘That’s what he’s saying,’ nodded Qruze. ‘Claims he’s already had Ing Mae Sing despatch communiqués back to the Council of Terra about the mess you caused. Bloody nuisance if you ask me. We didn’t have to put up with this when we first set out, you fought and bled, and if people got in the way then that was their tough luck.’

Loken was aghast at Qruze’s words, once again feeling the shame of his actions on the embarkation deck. The innocent deaths he’d been part of would remain with him until his dying day, but what was done was done and he wouldn’t waste time on regret. For mere mortals to decree the death of an Astartes was unthinkable, however unfortunate the events had been.

As troublesome a problem as Varvarus was, he was a problem for Maloghurst to deal with, but something in Qruze’s words struck a familiar chord.

‘You said something about remembrancers?’

‘Yes, as if we didn’t have enough to worry about.’

‘Iacton, don’t draw this out. Tell me what’s going on.’

‘Very well, though I don’t know what your hurry is,’ replied Qruze. ‘It seems there’s some anonymous remembrancer going about the ship, dishing out anti-Astartes propaganda, poetry or some such drivel. Crewmen have been finding pamphlets all over the ship. Called the “truth is all we have” or something pretentious like that.’

‘The truth is all we have,’ repeated Loken.

‘Yes, I think so.’

Loken spun on his heel and made his way from the strategium without another word.

‘Not like it was, back in my day,’ sighed Qruze after Loken’s departing back.

I
T
WAS
LATE
and he was tired, but Ignace Karkasy was pleased with the last week’s work. Each time he’d made a clandestine journey through the ship distributing his radical poetry, he’d returned hours later to find every copy gone. Though the ship’s crew was no doubt confiscating some, he knew that others must have found their way into the hands of those who needed to hear what he had to say.

The companionway was quiet, but then it always was these days. Most of those who held vigils for the fallen Warmaster did so either on Davin or in the larger spaces of the ship. An air of neglect hung over the
Vengeful Spirit
, as though even the servitors who cleaned and maintained it had paused in their duties to await the outcome of events on the planet below.

As he walked back to his billet, Karkasy saw the symbol of the
Lectitio Divinitatus
scratched into bulkheads and passageways time and time again, and he had the distinct impression that if he were to follow them, they would lead him to a group of the faithful.

The faithful: it still sounded strange to think of such a term in these enlightened times. He remembered standing in the fane on Sixty-Three Nineteen and wondering if belief in the divine was some immutable flaw in the character of mankind. Did man need to believe in something to fill some terrible emptiness within him?

A wise man of Old Earth had once claimed that science would destroy mankind, not through its weapons of mass destruction, but through finally proving that there was no god. Such knowledge, he claimed, would sear the mind of man and leave him gibbering and insane with the realisation that he was utterly alone in an uncaring universe.