False Gods (6 page)

‘Not what, but who.’

‘Very well. Who do you want me to listen to?’

‘Someone I don’t trust,’ said Loken.

THREE

A sheet of glass

A man of fine character

Hidden words

O
N
THE
DAY
before making planetfall to the surface of Davin, Loken sought out Kyril Sindermann in Archive Chamber Three to return the book he had borrowed from him. He made his way through the dusty stacks and piles of yellowed papers, lethargic globes of weak light bobbing just above head height, his heavy footsteps echoing loudly in the solemn hush. Here and there, a lone scholar clicked through the gloom in a tall stilt chair, but none was his old mentor.

Loken travelled through yet another dizzyingly tall lane of manuscripts and leather bound tomes with names like
Canticles of the Omniastran Dogma
,
Meditations on the Elegiac Hero
and
Thoughts and Memories of Old Night
. None of them was familiar, and he began to despair of ever finding Sindermann amidst this labyrinth of the arcane, when he saw the iterator’s familiar, stooped form hunched over a long table and surrounded by collections of loose parchment bound with leather cords, and piles of books.

Sindermann had his back to him and was so absorbed in his reading that, unbelievably, he didn’t appear to have heard Loken’s approach.

‘More bad poetry?’ asked Loken from a respectful distance.

Sindermann jumped and looked over his shoulder with an expression of surprise and the same furtiveness he had displayed when Loken had first met him here.

‘Garviel,’ said Sindermann, and Loken detected a note of relief in his tone.

‘Were you expecting someone else?’

‘No. No, not at all. I seldom encounter others in this part of the archive. The subject matter is a little lurid for most of the serious scholars.’

Loken moved around the table and scanned the papers spread before Sindermann – tightly curled, unintelligible script, sepia woodcuts depicting snarling monsters and men swathed in flames. His eyes flicked to Sindermann, who chewed his bottom lip nervously at Loken’s scrutiny.

‘I must confess to have taken a liking to the old texts,’ explained Sindermann. ‘Like
The Chronicles of Ursh
I loaned you, it’s bold, bloody stuff. Naive and overly hyperbolic, but stirring nonetheless.’

‘I have finished reading it, Kyril,’ said Loken, placing the book before Sindermann.

‘And?’

‘As you say, it’s bloody, garish and sometimes given to flights of fantasy…’

‘But?’

‘But I can’t help thinking that you had an ulterior motive in giving me this book.’

‘Ulterior motive? No, Garviel, I assure you there was no such subterfuge,’ said Sindermann, though Loken could not be sure that he believed him.

‘Are you sure? There are passages in there that I think have more than a hint of truth to them.’

‘Come now, Garviel, surely you can’t believe that,’ scoffed Sindermann.

‘The murengon,’ stated Loken. ‘Anult Keyser’s final battle against the Nordafrik conclaves.’

Sindermann hesitated. ‘What about it?’

‘I can see from your eyes that you already know what I’m going to say.’

‘No, Garviel, I don’t. I know the passage you speak of and, while it’s certainly an exciting read, I hardly think you can take its prose too literally.’

‘I agree,’ nodded Loken. ‘All the talk of the sky splitting like silk and the mountains toppling is clearly nonsense, but it talks of men becoming daemons and turning on their fellows.’

‘Ah… now I see. You think that this is another clue as to what happened to Xavyer Jubal?’

‘Don’t you?’ asked Loken, turning one of the yellowed parchments around to point at a fanged daemon figure clothed in fur with curling ram’s horns and a bloody, skull-stamped axe.

‘Jubal turned into a daemon and tried to kill me! Just as happened to Anult Keyser himself. One of his generals, a man called Wilhym Mardol, became a daemon and killed him. Doesn’t that sound familiar?’

Sindermann leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Loken saw how tired he looked, his skin the colour of the parchments he perused and his clothes hanging from his body as though draped across his bare bones.

Loken realised that the venerable iterator was exhausted.

‘I’m sorry, Kyril,’ he said, also sitting back. ‘I didn’t come here to pick a fight with you.’

Sindermann smiled, reminding Loken of how much he had come to rely on his wise counsel. Though not a tutor as such, Sindermann had filled the role of Loken’s mentor and instructor for some time, and it had come as a great shock to discover that Sindermann did not have all the answers.

‘It’s alright, Garviel, it’s good that you have questions, it shows you are learning that there is often more to the truth than what we see at first. I’m sure the Warmaster values that aspect of you. How is the commander?’

‘Tired,’ admitted Loken. ‘The demands of those crying for his attention grow more strident every day. Communiqués from every expedition in the Crusade seek to pull him in all directions, and insulting directives from the Council of Terra seek to turn him into a damned administrator instead of the Warmaster. He carries a huge burden, Kyril; but don’t think you can change the subject that easily.’

Sindermann laughed. ‘You are becoming too quick for me, Garviel. Very well, what is it you want to know?’

‘The men in the book who were said to use sorcerous powers, were they warlocks?’

‘I don’t know,’ admitted Sindermann. ‘It’s certainly possible. The powers they used certainly do not sound natural.’

‘But how could their leaders have sanctioned the use of such powers? Surely they must have seen how dangerous it was?’

‘Perhaps, but think on this: we know so little on the subject and we have the light of the Emperor’s wisdom and science to guide us. How much less must they have known?’

‘Even a barbarian must know that such things are dangerous,’ said Loken.

‘Barbarian?’ said Sindermann. ‘A pejorative term indeed, my friend. Do not be so quick to judge, we are not so different from the tribes of Old Earth as you might think.’

‘Surely you’re not serious,’ asked Loken. ‘We are as different from them as a star from a planet.’

‘Are you so sure, Garviel? You believe that the wall separating civilisation from barbarism is as solid as steel, but it is not. I tell you the division is a thread, a sheet of glass. A touch here, a push there, and you bring back the reign of pagan superstition, fear of the dark and the worship of fell beings in echoing fanes.’

‘You exaggerate.’

‘Do I?’ asked Sindermann, leaning forward. ‘Imagine a newly compliant world that experiences a shortage of some vital resource, such as fuel, water or food; how long would it take before civilised behaviour broke down and barbaric behaviour took over? Would human selfishness cause some to fight to get that resource at all costs, even if it meant harm to others and trafficking with evil? Would they deprive others of this resource, or even destroy them in an effort to keep it for themselves? Common decency and civil behaviour are just a thin veneer over the animal at the core of mankind that gets out whenever it has the chance.’

‘You make it sound like there’s no hope for us.’

‘Far from it Garviel,’ said Sindermann, shaking his head. ‘Mankind continually stands bewildered in the presence of its own creation, but, thanks to the great works of the Emperor, I firmly believe that the time will come when we will rise to mastery of all before us. The time that has passed since civilisation began is but a fragment of the duration of our existence, and but a fragment of the ages yet to come. The rule of the Emperor, brotherhood in society, equality in rights and privileges, and universal education foreshadow the higher plane of society to which our experience, intelligence and knowledge are steadily tending. It will be a revival, in a higher form, of the liberty, equality and fraternity of the ancient tribes of Man before the rise of warlords like Kalagann or Narthan Dume.’

Loken smiled, ‘And to think I thought you were in despair.’

Sindermann returned Loken’s smile and said, ‘No, Garviel, far from it. I admit I was shaken after the Whisperheads, but the more I read, the more I see how far we have come and how close we are to achieving everything we ever dreamed of. Each day, I am thankful that we have the light of the Emperor to guide us into this golden future. I dread to think what might become of us were he to be taken from us.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Loken. ‘That will never happen.’

A
XIMAND
LOOKED
THROUGH
a gap in the netting and said, ‘Erebus is here.’

Horus nodded and turned to face the four members of the Mournival. ‘You all know what to do?’

‘No,’ said Torgaddon. ‘We’ve completely forgotten. Why don’t you remind us?’

Horus’s eyes darkened at Tarik’s levity and he said, ‘Enough, Tarik. There is a time for jokes, and this isn’t it, so keep your mouth shut.’

Torgaddon looked shocked at the Warmaster’s outburst, and shot a hurt glance at his fellows. Loken was less shocked, having witnessed the commander raging at subordinates many times in the weeks since they had departed the marches of the interex. Horus had known no peace since the terrible bloodshed amid the House of Devices on Xenobia, and the deaths and the missed opportunity of unification with the interex haunted him still.

Since the debacle with the interex, the Warmaster had withdrawn into a sullen melancholy, remaining more and more within his inner sanctum, with only Erebus to counsel him. The Mournival had barely seen their commander since returning to Imperial space and they all keenly felt their exclusion from his presence.

Where once they had offered the Warmaster their guidance, now, only Erebus whispered in his ear.

Thus, it was with some relief that the Mournival heard that Erebus would take his leave of the Expedition and journey ahead with his own Legion to Davin.

Even while en route to the Davin system, the Warmaster had not had a moment’s peace. Repeated requests for aid or tactical assistance came to him from all across the galaxy, from brother primarchs, Army commanders and, most loathed of all, the army of civil administrators who followed in the wake of their conquests.

The eaxectors from Terra, led by a high administratrix called Aenid Rathbone, plagued the Warmaster daily for assistance in their dispersal throughout the compliant territories to begin the collection of the Emperor’s Tithe. Everyone with an ounce of common sense knew that such a measure was premature, and Horus had done all he could to stall Rathbone and her eaxectors, but there was only so long they could be kept at bay.

‘If I had my choice,’ Horus had told Loken one evening as they had discussed fresh ways of delaying the taxation of compliant worlds, ‘I would kill every aexector in the Imperium, but I’m sure we would be getting tax bills from hell before breakfast.’

Loken had laughed, but the laughter had died in his throat when he realised that Horus was serious.

They had reached Davin, and there were more important matters to deal with.

‘Remember,’ said Horus. ‘This plays out exactly as I have told you.’

A
REVERED
HUSH
fell on the assemblage and every person present dropped to one knee as the Emperor’s chosen proxy made his entrance. Karkasy felt faint at the sight of the living god, arrayed as he was in a magnificent suit of plate armour the colour of a distant ocean and a cloak of deepest purple. The Eye of Terra shone on his breast, and Karkasy was overcome by the magisterial beauty of the Warmaster.

To have spent so long in the 63rd Expedition and only now to lay eyes upon the Warmaster seemed the grossest waste of his time, and Karkasy resolved to tear out the pages he’d written in the Bondsman number 7 this week and compose an epic soliloquy on the nobility of the commander.

The Mournival followed him, together with a tall, statuesque woman in a crimson velveteen gown with high collars and puffed sleeves, her long hair worn in an impractical looking coiffure. He felt his indignation rise as he realised this must be Vivar, the remembrancer from Terra that they had heard about.

Horus raised his arms and said, ‘Friends, I keep telling you that no one need kneel in my presence. Only the Emperor is deserving of such an honour.’

Slowly, as though reluctant to cease their veneration of this living god, the crowd rose to its feet as Horus passed amongst those closest to him, shaking hands and dazzling them with his easy charm and spontaneous wit. Karkasy watched the faces of those the Warmaster spoke to, feeling intense jealousy swell within his breast at the thought of not being so favoured.

Without thinking, he began pushing his way through the crowd towards the front, receiving hostile glares and the odd elbow to the gut for his troubles. He felt a tug on the collar of his robe and craned his neck to rebuke whoever had thought to handle his expensive garments so roughly. He saw Euphrati Keeler behind him and, at first, thought she was attempting to pull him back, but then he saw her face and smiled as he realised that she was coming with him, using his bulk like a plough.

He managed to get within six or seven people of the front, when he remembered why he had been allowed within this august body in the first place. He tore his eyes from the Warmaster to watch Erebus of the Word Bearers.

Karkasy knew little of the XVII Legion, save that its primarch, Lorgar, was a close and trusted brother of Horus. Both Legions had fought and shed their blood together many times for the glory of the Imperium. The members of the Mournival came forward and, one by one, embraced Erebus as a long lost brother. They laughed and slapped each other’s armour in welcome, though Karkasy saw a measure of reticence in the embrace between Loken and Erebus.

‘Focus, Ignace, focus…’ he whispered to himself as he found his gaze straying once again to the glory of the Warmaster. He tore his eyes from Horus in time to see Abaddon and Erebus shake hands one last time and saw a gleam of silver pass between their palms. He couldn’t be sure, it had happened so fast, but it had looked like a coin or medal of some sort.