Galaxy in Flames (5 page)

She needs you.

Someone was sending him a message.

The saint was in danger.

C
OORDINATING A
L
EGION
’
S
assets – its Astartes, its spacecraft, staff and accompanying Imperial Army units – was a truly Herculean task. Managing to coordinate the arrival of four Legions in the same place at the same time was an impossible task: impossible for anyone but the Warmaster.

The
Vengeful Spirit
, its long flat prow like the tip of a spear, slid from the warp in a kaleidoscopic display of pyrotechnics, lightning raking along its sides as the powerful warp-integrity fields took the full force of re-entry. In the interstellar distance, the closest star of the Isstvan system glinted, cold and hard against the blackness. The Eye of Horus glared from the top of the ship’s prow, the entire vessel having been refitted following the victory against the Technocracy, the bone-white of the Luna Wolves replaced by the metallic grey-green of the Sons of Horus.

Within moments, another ship broke through, tearing its way into real space with the brutal functionality of its Legion. Where the
Vengeful Spirit
had a deadly grace to it, the newcomer was brutish and ugly, its hull a drab gunmetal-grey, its only decoration, a single brazen skull on its prow. The vessel was the
Endurance
, capital ship of the Death Guard fleet accompanying the Warmaster, and a flotilla of smaller cruisers and escorts flew in its wake. All were the same unembellished gunmetal, for nothing in Mortarion’s Legion bore any more adornment than was necessary.

Several hours later the powerful, stabbing form of the
Conqueror
broke through to join the Warmaster. Shimmering with the white and blue colours of the World Eaters, the
Conqueror
was Angron’s flagship, and its blunt muscular form echoed the legendary ferocity of the World Eaters’ primarch.

Finally, the
Andronius
, at the head of the Emperor’s Children fleet, joined the growing Isstvan strike force. The vessel itself was resplendent in purple and gold, more like a flying palace than a ship of war. Its appearance was deceptive however, for the gun decks bristled with weapons manned by well-drilled menials who lived and died to serve Fulgrim’s Legion. The
Andronius
, for all its decorative folly, was a compact, lethal weapon of war.

The Great Crusade had rarely seen a fleet of such power assembled in one place.

Until now, only the Emperor had commanded such a force, but his place was on distant Terra, and these Legions answered only to the Warmaster.

So it was that four Legions gathered and turned their eyes towards the Isstvan system.

T
HE KLAXONS ANNOUNCING
the
Vengeful Spirit
’s translation back to real space were the spur to action that Kyril Sindermann had been waiting for. Mopping his brow with an already moist handkerchief, he pushed himself to his feet and made his way to the shutter of his quarters.

He took a deep, calming breath as the shutter rose and he was confronted by the hostile stares of two army soldiers, their starched uniforms insignia free and anonymous.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ asked a tall man with a cold, unhelpful expression.

‘Yes,’ said Sindermann, his voice perfectly modulated to convey his non-threatening affability. ‘I need to travel to the medicae deck.’

‘You don’t look sick,’ said the second guard. Sindermann chuckled, reaching out to touch the man’s arm like a kindly grandfather. ‘No, it’s not me, my boy, it’s a friend of mine. She’s rather ill and I promised that I would look in on her.’

‘Sorry,’ said the first guard, in a tone that suggested he was anything but. ‘We’ve got orders from the Astartes not to let anyone off this deck.’

‘I see, I see,’ sighed Sindermann, letting a tear trickle from the corner of his eye. ‘I don’t want to be an inconvenience, my boys, but my friend, well, she’s like a daughter to me, you see. She is very dear to me and you would be doing an old man a very real favour if you could just let me see her.’

‘I don’t think so, sir,’ said the guard, but Sindermann could already detect a softening in his tone and pushed a little harder.

‘She has… she has… not long left to her, and I was told by Maloghurst himself that I would be allowed to see her before… before the end.’

Using Maloghurst’s name was a gamble, but it was a calculated gamble. These men were unlikely to have any formal channel to contact the Warmaster’s equerry, but if they decided to check, he would be unmasked.

Sindermann kept his voice low and soft as he played the grandfatherly role, utilizing every trick he had learned as an iterator – the precise timbre of his voice, the frailty of his posture, keeping eye contact and empathy with his audience.

‘Do you have children, my boy?’ asked Sindermann, reaching out clasp the guard’s arm.

‘Yes, sir, I do.’

‘Then you understand why I have to see her,’ pressed Sindermann, risking the more direct approach and hoping that he had judged these men correctly.

‘You’re just going to the medicae deck?’ asked the guard.

‘No further,’ promised Sindermann. ‘I just need some time to say my goodbyes to her. That’s all. Please?’

The guards exchanged glances and Sindermann fought to keep the smile from his face as he knew he had them. The first soldier nodded and they moved aside to let him past.

‘Just the medicae deck, old man,’ said the guard, scrawling on a chit that would allow him passage through the ship to the medicae deck and back. ‘If you’re not back in your quarters in a couple of hours, I’ll be dragging you back here myself.’

Sindermann nodded, taking the proffered chit and shaking both men warmly by the hand.

‘You’re good soldiers, boys,’ he said, his voice dripping with gratitude. ‘Good soldiers. I’ll be sure to tell Maloghurst of your compassion for an old man.’

He turned quickly so that they didn’t see the relief on his face and hurried away down the corridor towards the Medicae deck. The companionways echoed with their emptiness as he made his way through the twisting maze of the ship, an idiot smile plastered across his puffing features. Entire worlds had fallen under the spell of his oratory and here he was smiling about duping two simple-minded guards to let him out of his room. How the mighty had fallen.

‘I
S THERE ANY
more news on Varvarus?’ asked Loken as he and Torgaddon walked through the Museum of Conquest on their way to the Lupercal’s Court.

Torgaddon shook his head. ‘The shells were too fragmented. Apothecary Vaddon wouldn’t be able to make a match even if we found the weapon that fired the shot. It was one of ours, but that’s all we know.’

The museum was brimming with artifacts won from the Legion’s many victories, for the Luna Wolves had brought a score of worlds into compliance. A grand statue dominating one wall recalled the days when the Emperor and Horus had fought side by side in the first campaigns of the Great Crusade. The Emperor, sword in hand, fought off slender, masked aliens while Horus, back to back with his father, blazed away with a boltgun.

Beyond the statue, Loken recognized a display of bladed insectoid limbs, a blend of metallic and biological flesh wrested from the megarachnids on Murder. Only a few of these trophies had been won after Horus’s investiture as Warmaster, the majority having been taken before the Luna Wolves had been renamed the Sons of Horus in honour of the Warmaster’s accomplishments.

‘The remembrancers are next,’ said Loken. ‘They are asking too many questions. Some of them may already have been murdered.’

‘Who?’

‘Ignace and Petronella Vivar.’

‘Karkasy,’ said Torgaddon. ‘Damn, I’d heard he killed himself, but I should have known they’d find a way to do it. The warrior lodge was talking about silencing him, Abaddon in particular. They didn’t call it murder, although Abaddon seemed to think it was the same as killing an enemy in war. That’s when I broke with the lodge.’

‘Did they say how it was to be done?’

Torgaddon shook his head. ‘No, just that it needed to be done.’

‘It won’t be long before all this is out in the open,’ promised Loken. ‘The lodge doesn’t move under a veil of secrecy any more and soon there will be a reckoning.’

‘Then what do we do?’

Loken looked away from his friend, at the high arch that led from the museum and into the Lupercal’s Court.

‘I don’t know,’ he said, waving Torgaddon to silence as he caught sight of a figure moving behind one of the furthest cabinets.

‘What’s up?’ asked Torgaddon.

‘I’m not sure,’ said Loken, moving between display cabinets of gleaming swords captured from an ancient feudal kingdom and strange alien weapons taken from the many species the Legion had destroyed. The figure he had seen was another Astartes, and Loken recognized the colours of the World Eaters upon his armour.

Loken and Torgaddon rounded the corner of a tall, walnut-framed cabinet, seeing a scarred Astartes warrior peering intently at an immense battle-glaive that had been wrested from the hands of a xenos praetorian by the Warmaster himself.

‘Welcome to the
Vengeful Spirit
,’ said Loken.

The World Eater looked up from the weapon and turned to face them. His face was deeply bronzed, long and noble, contrasting with the bone white and blue of his Legion’s colours.

‘Greetings,’ he said, bringing his forearm across his armoured chest in a martial salute.

‘Kharn, Eighth Assault Company of the World Eaters.’

‘Loken of the Tenth,’ replied Loken. ‘Torgaddon of the Second,’ nodded Torgaddon. ‘Impressive, this,’ said Kharn, looking around him.

‘Thank you,’ said Loken. ‘The Warmaster always believed we should remember our enemies. If we forget them, we shall never learn.’

He pointed at the weapon Kharn had been admiring. ‘We have the preserved corpse of the creature that carried this weapon somewhere around here. It’s the size of a tank.’

‘Angron has his share of trophies too,’ said Kharn, ‘but only from foes that deserve to be remembered.’

‘Should we not remember them all?’

‘No,’ said Kharn firmly. ‘There is nothing to gain from knowing your enemy. The only thing that matters is that they are to be destroyed. Everything else is just a distraction.’

‘Spoken like a true World Eater,’ said Torgaddon.

Kharn looked up from the weapon with an amused sneer. ‘You seek to provoke me, Captain Torgaddon, but I already know what other Legions think of the World Eaters.’

‘We were on Aureus,’ said Loken. ‘You are butchers.’

Kharn smiled. ‘Hah! Honesty is rare these days, Captain Loken. Yes, we are and we are proud because we are good at it. My primarch is not ashamed of what he does best, so neither am I.’

‘I trust you’re here for the conclave?’ asked Loken, wishing to change the subject.

‘Yes. I serve as my primarch’s equerry.’

Torgaddon raised an eyebrow. ‘Tough job.’

‘Sometimes,’ admitted Kharn. ‘Angron cares little for diplomacy.’

‘The Warmaster believes it is important.’

‘So I see, but all Legions do things differently,’ laughed Kharn, clapping Loken on his shoulder guard. ‘As one honest man to another, your own Legion has as many detractors as admirers. Too damn superior, the lot of you.’

‘The Warmaster has high standards,’ said Loken.

‘So does Angron, I assure you,’ said Kharn, and Loken was surprised to hear a note of weariness in Kharn’s voice. ‘The Emperor knew that sometimes the best course of action is to let the World Eaters do what we do best. The Warmaster knows it too; otherwise we would not be here. It may be distasteful to you, captain, but if it were not for warriors like mine, the Great Crusade would have foundered long ago.’

‘There we must agree to disagree,’ said Loken. ‘I could not do what you do.’

Kharn shook his head. ‘You’re a warrior of the Astartes, captain. If you had to kill every living thing in a city to ensure victory, you would do it. We must always be prepared to go further than our enemy. All the Legions know it; the World Eaters just preach it openly,’

‘Let us hope it never comes to that,’

‘Do not pin too much on that hope. I hear tell that Isstvan III will be difficult to break.’

‘What do you know of it?’ asked Torgaddon. Kharn shrugged. ‘Nothing specific, just rumors really; something religious, they say, witches and warlocks, skies turning red and monsters from the warp, all the usual hyperbole. Not that the Sons of Horus would believe such things.’

‘The galaxy is a complicated place,’ replied Loken carefully. ‘We don’t know the half of what goes on in it.’

‘I’m beginning to wonder myself,’ agreed Kharn. ‘It’s changing,’ continued Loken, ‘the galaxy, and the Crusade with it.’

‘Yes,’ said Kharn with relish. ‘It is.’

Loken was about to ask Kharn what he meant when the doors to the Lupercal’s Court swung open.

‘Evidently the Warmaster’s conclave will begin soon,’ said Kharn, bowing before them both. ‘It is time for me to rejoin my primarch.’

‘And we must join the Warmaster,’ said Loken. ‘Perhaps we will see you on Isstvan III?’

‘Perhaps,’ nodded Kharn, walking off between the spoils of a hundred wars. ‘If there’s anything left of Isstvan III when the World Eaters finish with it.’

THREE

Horus enthroned

The saint is in danger

Isstvan III

L
UPERCAL
’
S
C
OURT WAS
a new addition to the
Vengeful Spirit
. Previously the Warmaster had held briefings and planning sessions on the strategium, but it had been decided that he needed somewhere grander to hold court. Designed by Peeter Egon Momus, it had been artfully constructed to place the Warmaster in a setting more suited to his position as the leader of the Great Crusade and present him as the first among equals to his fellow commanders.

Vast banners hung from the sides of the room, most belonging to the Legion’s battle companies, though there were a few that Loken didn’t recognize. He saw one with a throne of skulls set against a tower of brass rising from a blood-red sea and another with an eight-pointed black star shining in a white sky. The meaning of such obscure symbols confounded Loken, but he assumed that they represented the warrior lodge that had become integral to the Legion.