Horus Rising (5 page)

The god was a true giant, as large again to any Astartes warrior as an Astartes was to a normal man. His armour was white gold, like the sunlight at dawn, the work of master artificers. Many symbols covered its surfaces, the chief of which was the motif of a single, staring eye fashioned across the breastplate. Robes of white cloth fluttered out behind the terrible, haloed figure.

Above the breastplate, the face was bare, grimacing, perfect in every dimension and detail, suffused in radiance. So beautiful. So very beautiful.

For a moment, the god stood there, unflinching, beset by the gale of force, but unmoving, facing it down. Then he raised the storm bolter in his right hand and fired into the tumult.

One shot.

The echo of the detonation rolled around the tower. There was a choking scream, half lost in the uproar, and then the uproar itself stilled abruptly.

The wall of force died away. The hurricane faded. Splinters of glass tinkled as they rained back down onto the platform.

No longer impelled, Ekaddon crashed back down against the blown-out sill of the window frame. His grip was secure. He clawed his way back inside and got to his feet.

‘My lord!’ he exclaimed, and dropped to one knee, his head bowed.

With the pressure lapsed, Loken found he could no longer support himself. Hands grappling, he began to slide back over the lip where he had been hanging. He couldn’t get any purchase on the gleaming onyx.

He slipped off the edge. A strong hand grabbed him around the wrist and hauled him up onto the platform.

Loken rolled over, shaking. He looked back across the ring at the golden throne. It was a smoking ruin, its secret mechanisms exploded from within. Amidst the twisted, ruptured plates and broken workings, a smouldering corpse sat upright, teeth grinning from a blackened skull, charred, skeletal arms still braced along the throne’s coiled rests.

‘So will I deal with all tyrants and deceivers,’ rumbled a deep voice.

Loken looked up at the god standing over him. ‘Lupercal…’ he murmured.

The god smiled. ‘Not so formal, please, captain,’ whispered Horus.

‘M
AY
I
ASK
you a question?’ Mersadie Oliton said.

Loken had taken a robe down from a wall peg and was putting it on. ‘Of course.’

‘Could we not have just left them alone?’

‘No. Ask a better question.’

‘Very well. What is he like?’

‘What is who like, lady?’ he asked.

‘Horus.’

‘If you have to ask, you’ve not met him,’ he said.

‘No, I haven’t yet, captain. I’ve been waiting for an audience. Still, I would like to know what you think of Horus—’

‘I think he is Warmaster,’ Loken said. His tone was stone hard. ‘I think he is the master of the Luna Wolves and the chosen proxy of the Emperor, praise be his name, in all our undertakings. He is the first and foremost of all primarchs. And I think I take offence when a mortal voices his name without respect or title.’

‘Oh!’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, captain, I meant no—’

‘I’m sure you didn’t, but he is
Warmaster
Horus. You’re a remembrancer. Remember that.’

THREE

Replevin

Amongst the remembrancers

Raised to the four

T
HREE MONTHS AFTER
the battle for the High City, the first of the remembrancers had joined the expedition fleet, brought directly from Terra by mass conveyance. Various chroniclers and recorders had, of course, been accompanying Imperial forces since the commencement of the Great Crusade, two hundred sidereal years earlier. But they had been individuals, mostly volunteers or accidental witnesses, gathered up like road dust on the advancing wheels of the crusader hosts, and the records they had made had been piecemeal and irregular. They had commemorated events by happenstance, sometimes inspired by their own artistic appetites, sometimes encouraged by the patronage of a particular primarch or lord commander, who thought it fit to have his deeds immortalised in verse or text or image or composition.

Returning to Terra after the victory of Ullanor, the Emperor had decided it was time a more formal and authoritative celebration of mankind’s reunification be undertaken. The fledgling Council of Terra evidently agreed wholeheartedly, for the bill inaugurating the foundation and sponsorship of the remembrancer order had been countersigned by no less a person than Malcador the Sigillite, First Lord of the Council. Recruited from all levels of Terran society – and from the societies of other key Imperial worlds – simply on the merit of their creative gifts, the remembrancers were quickly accredited and assigned, and despatched to join all the key expedition fleets active in the expanding Imperium.

At that time, according to War Council logs, there were four thousand two hundred and eighty-seven primary expedition fleets engaged upon the business of the crusade, as well as sixty thousand odd secondary deployment groups involved in compliance or occupation endeavours, with a further three hundred and seventy-two primary expeditions in regroup and refit, or resupplying as they awaited new tasking orders. Almost four point three million remembrancers were sent abroad in the first months following the ratification of the bill. ‘Arm the bastards,’ Primarch Russ had been reported as saying, ‘and they might win a few bloody worlds for us in between verses.’

Russ’s sour attitude reflected well the demeanour of the martial class. From primarch down to common army soldier, there was a general unease about the Emperor’s decision to quit the crusade campaign and retire to the solitude of his palace on Terra. No one had questioned the choice of First Primarch Horus as Warmaster to act in his stead. They simply questioned the need for a proxy at all.

The formation of the Council of Terra had come as more unpleasant news. Since the inception of the Great Crusade, the War Council, formed principally of the Emperor and the primarchs, had been the epicentre of Imperial authority. Now, this new body supplanted it, taking up the reins of Imperial governance, a body composed of civilians instead of warriors. The War Council, left under Horus’s leadership, effectively became relegated to a satellite status, its responsibilities focused on the campaign and the campaign alone.

For no crime of their own, the remembrancers, most of them eager and excited at the prospect of the work ahead, found themselves the focus of that discontent everywhere they went. They were not welcomed, and they found their commission hard to fulfil. Only later, when the aexector tributi administrators began to visit expedition fleets, did the discontent find a better, truer target to exercise itself upon.

So, three months after the battle of the High City, the remembrancers arrived to a cold welcome. None of them had known what to expect. Most had never been off-world before. They were virgin and innocent, over-eager and gauche. It didn’t take long for them to become hardened and cynical at their reception.

When they arrived, the fleet of the 63rd Expedition still encircled the capital world. The process of replevin had begun, as the Imperial forces sectioned the ‘Imperium’, dismantled its mechanisms, and bestowed its various properties upon the Imperial commanders chosen to oversee its dispersal.

Aid ships were flocking down from the fleet to the surface, and hosts of the Imperial army had been deployed to effect police actions. Central resistance had collapsed almost overnight following the ‘Emperor’s’ death, but fighting continued to spasm amongst some of the western cities, as well as on three of the other worlds in the system. Lord Commander Varvarus, an honourable, ‘old school’ veteran, was the commander of the army forces attached to the expedition fleet, and not for the first time he found himself organising an effort to pick up the pieces behind an Astartes speartip. ‘A body often twitches as it dies,’ he remarked philosophically to the Master of the Fleet. ‘We’re just making sure it’s dead.’

The Warmaster had agreed to a state funeral for the ‘Emperor’. He declared it only right and proper, and sympathetic to the desires of a people they wished to bring to compliance rather than crush wholesale. Voices were raised in objection, particularly as the ceremonial interment of Hastur Sejanus had only just taken place, along with the formal burials of the battle-brothers lost at the High City. Several Legion officers, including Abaddon himself, refused point blank to allow his forces to attend any funeral rites for the killer of Sejanus. The Warmaster understood this, but fortunately there were other Astartes amongst the expedition who could take their place.

Primarch Dorn, escorted by two companies of his Imperial Fists, the VII Legion, had been travelling with the 63rd Expedition for eight months, while Dorn conducted talks with the Warmaster about future War Council policies.

Because the Imperial Fists had taken no part in the annexation of the planet, Rogal Dorn agreed to have his companies stand tribute at the ‘Emperor’s’ funeral. He did this so that the Luna Wolves would not have to tarnish their honour. Gleaming in their yellow plate, the Imperial Fists silently lined the route of the ‘Emperor’s’ cortege as it wound its way through the battered avenues of the High City to the necropolis.

By order of the Warmaster, bending to the will of the chief captains and, most especially, the Mournival, no remembrancers were permitted to attend.

I
GNACE
K
ARKASY WANDERED
into the retiring room and sniffed at a decanter of wine. He made a face.

‘It’s fresh opened,’ Keeler told him sourly.

‘Yes, but local vintage,’ Karkasy replied. ‘This petty little empire. No wonder it fell so easily. Any culture founded upon a wine so tragic shouldn’t survive long.’

‘It lasted five thousand years, through the limits of Old Night,’ Keeler said. ‘I doubt the quality of its wine influenced its survival.’

Karkasy poured himself a glass, sipped it and frowned. ‘All I can say is that Old Night must have seemed much longer here than it actually was.’

Euphrati Keeler shook her head and turned back to her work, cleaning and refitting a hand-held picter unit of very high quality.

‘And then there’s the matter of sweat,’ Karkasy said. He sat down on a lounger and put his feet up, settling the glass on his wide chest. He sipped again, grimacing, and rested his head back. Karkasy was a tall man, generously upholstered in flesh. His garments were expensive and well-tailored to suit his bulk. His round face was framed by a shock of black hair.

Keeler sighed and looked up from her work. ‘The what?’

‘The sweat, dear Euphrati, the sweat! I have been observing the Astartes. Very big, aren’t they? I mean to say, very big in every measurement by which one might quantify a man.’ ‘They’re Astartes, Ignace. What did you expect?’ ‘Not sweat, that’s what. Not such a rank, pervasive reek. They are our immortal champions, after all. I expected them to smell rather better. Fragrant, like young gods.’ ‘Ignace, I have no clue how you got certified.’ Karkasy grinned. ‘Because of the beauty of my lyric, my dear, because of my mastery of words. Although that might be found wanting here. How may I begin…?

‘The Astartes save us from the brink, the brink,

But oh my life how they stink, they stink.’

Karkasy sniggered, pleased with himself. He waited for a response, but Keeler was too occupied with her work.

‘Dammit!’ Keeler complained, throwing down her delicate tools. ‘Servitor? Come here.’

One of the waiting servitors stalked up to her on thin, piston legs. She held out her picter. ‘This mechanism is jammed. Take it for repair. And fetch me my spare units.’

‘Yes, mistress,’ the servitor croaked, taking the device. It plodded away. Keeler poured herself a glass of wine from the decanter and went to lean at the rail. Below, on the sub-deck, most of the expedition’s other remembrancers were assembling for luncheon. Three hundred and fifty men and women gathered around formally laid tables, servitors moving amongst them, offering drinks. A gong was sounding.

‘Is that lunch already?’ Karkasy asked from the lounger.

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘And is it going to be one of the damned iterators hosting again?’ he queried.

‘Yes. Sindermann yet again. The topic is promulgation of the living truth.’

Karkasy settled back and tapped his glass. ‘I think I’ll take luncheon here,’ he said.

‘You’re a bad man, Ignace,’ Keeler laughed. ‘But I think I’ll join you.’

Keeler sat down on the chaise facing him, and settled back. She was tall, lean-limbed and blonde, her face pale and slender. She wore chunky army boots and fatigue breeches, with a black combat jacket open to show a white vest, like a cadet officer, but the very masculinity of her chosen garb made her feminine beauty all the more apparent.

‘I could write a whole epic about you,’ Karkasy said, gazing.

Keeler snorted. It had become a daily routine for him to make a pass at her.

‘I’ve told you, I’m not interested in your wretched, pawing approaches.’

‘Don’t you like men?’ he asked, tilting his reclined head on one side.

‘Why?’

‘You dress like one.’

‘So do you. Do you like men?’

Karkasy made a pained expression and sat back again, fiddling with the glass on his chest. He stared up at the heroic figures painted on the roof of the mezzanine. He had no idea what they were supposed to represent. Some great act of triumph that clearly had involved a great deal of standing on the bodies of the slain with arms thrust into the sky whilst shouting.

‘Is this how you expected it to be?’ he asked quietly.

‘What?’

‘When you were selected,’ he said. ‘When they contacted me, I felt so…’

‘So what?’

‘So… proud, I suppose. I imagined so much. I thought I would set foot amongst the stars and become a part of mankind’s finest moment. I thought I would be uplifted, and thus produce my finest works.’

‘And you’re not?’ Keeler asked.

‘The beloved warriors we’ve been sent here to glorify couldn’t be less helpful if they tried.’