False Gods (23 page)

Petronella glanced away at Apothecary Vaddon, but he simply watched impassively as she took down Horus’s words. She wondered briefly if he was as upset as she was at the Warmaster’s anger.

As shocked as she was, her ambitious core realized that she had the makings of the most sensational remembrance imaginable, one that would dispel forever the myth of the Crusade as a united band of brothers forging their destiny among the stars. Horus’s words painted a picture of mistrust and disunion that no one had ever dreamed of.

Seeing her expression, Horus reached up with a shaking hand and touched her arm.

‘I am sorry, Miss Vivar. My thoughts are not as clear as they ought to be.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I think they’re clearer than ever now.’

‘I can tell I’m shocking you. I’m sorry if I have shattered your illusions.’

‘I admit I am… surprised by much of what you’re saying, sir.’

‘But you like it, yes? It’s what you came here for?’

She tried to deny it, but the sight of the dying primarch gave her pause and she nodded.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s what I came here for. Will you tell me everything?’

He looked up and met her stare.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I will.’

ELEVEN

Answers

A devil’s bargain

Anathame

T
HE
T
HUNDERHAWK
’
S
ARMOURED
flanks were not as sleek as those of a Stormbird, but it was functional and would take them back to Davin’s moon more swiftly than the bigger craft. Tech servitors and Mechanicum flight crew prepped it for launch and Loken willed them to hurry. Each passing second brought the Warmaster closer to death and he wasn’t going to allow that to happen.

Several hours had passed since they had brought the Warmaster aboard, but he hadn’t cleaned his armour or weapons, preferring to go back the way he’d come out, though he had replenished his ammunition supply. The deck was still slick with the blood of those they had battered from their path and only now, with time to reflect on what they had done, did Loken feel ashamed.

He couldn’t remember any of the faces, but he remembered the crack of skulls and the cries of pain. All the noble ideals of the Astartes… What did they mean when they could be so easily cast off? Kyril Sindermann was right, common decency and civil behavior were just a thin veneer over the animal core that lurked in the hearts of all men… even Astartes.

If the mores of civilized behavior could so easily be forgotten, what else might be betrayed with impunity in difficult circumstances?

Looking around the deck, Loken could sense a barely perceptible difference. Though hammers still beat, hatches still banged and gurneys laden with ordnance curled through the deck spaces, there was a subdued atmosphere to the embarkation deck, as though the memory of what had happened still lingered on the air.

The blast doors of the deck were shut tight, but Loken could still hear the muffled chants and songs of the crowds gathered outside.

Hundreds of people maintained a candlelit vigil in the wide corridors surrounding the embarkation deck, and filled the observation bays. Perhaps three score watched him from the windowed gantry above. They carried offerings and votive papers inscribed with pleas for the Warmaster’s survival, random scribbles and outpourings of feelings.

Quite who these entreaties were directed at was a mystery, but it seemed to give people a purpose, and Loken could appreciate the value of purpose in these dark hours.

The men of Locasta were already onboard, though their journey to the embarkation deck had nearly sparked a stampede of terrified people – the memory of the last time the Astartes had marched through them still fresh and bloody.

Torgaddon and Vipus performed the last pre-launch checks on their men, and all that remained for him to do was to give the word.

He heard footsteps behind him and turned to see the armoured figure of Tybalt Marr, Captain of the 18th Company, approaching him. Sometimes known as ‘the Either’ due to his uncanny resemblance to Verulam Moy – who had been known as ‘the Or’ – he was cast so firmly in the image of the Warmaster that Loken’s breath caught in his throat. He bowed as his fellow captain approached.

‘Captain Loken,’ said Marr, returning the bow. ‘Might I have a word?’

‘Of course, Tybalt,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry about Verulam. He was brave man.’

Marr nodded curtly and Loken could only imagine the pain he must be going through.

Loken had grieved for fallen brothers before, but Moy and Marr had been inseparable, enjoying a symbiotic relationship not unlike identical twins. As friends and brothers, they had fought best as a pair, but once again, Moy had been lucky enough to gain a place in the speartip, and Marr had not.

This time Moy had paid for that luck with his life.

‘Thank you, Captain Loken. I appreciate the sentiment,’ replied Marr.

‘Was there something you wanted, Tybalt?’

‘Are you returning to the moon?’ asked Marr, and Loken knew exactly why Marr was here. He nodded. ‘We are. There may be something there that will help the Warmaster. If there is, we will find it.’

‘Is it in the place where Verulam died?’

‘Yes,’ said Loken. ‘I think so.’

‘Could you use another sword arm? I want to see where… where it happened.’

Loken saw the aching grief in Marr’s eyes and said. ‘Of course we could.’

Marr nodded his thanks and they marched up the assault ramp as the Thunderhawk’s engines powered up with the shrieking of a banshee’s wail.

A
XIMAND
WATCHED
A
BADDON
punch the sparring servitor’s shoulder, tearing off its sword limb before closing to deliver a series of rapid hammer blows to its torso. Flesh caved beneath the assault, bone and steel broke, and the construct collapsed in a splintered mess of meat and metal.

It was the third servitor Abaddon had destroyed in the last thirty minutes. Ezekyle had always worked through his angst with his fists and this time was no different. Violence and killing was what the first captain had been bred for, but it had become such a way of life to him that it was the only way he knew how to express his frustrations.

Aximand himself had dismantled and reassembled his bolter six times, slowly and methodically laying each part on an oiled cloth before cleaning it meticulously. Where Abaddon unleashed his pain through violence, Aximand preferred to detach his mind through familiar routines. Powerless to do anything constructive to help the commander, they had both retreated to the things they knew best.

‘The Master of Armouries will have your head for destroying his servitors like that,’ said Aximand, looking up as Abaddon pummeled what was left of the servitor to destruction.

Sweating and breathing hard, Abaddon stepped from the training cage, sweat lathering his body in gleaming sheets and his silver-wrapped topknot slick with sweat. Even for an Astartes, he was huge, muscular and solid as stone. Torgaddon often teased Abaddon joking that he left leadership of the Justaerin to Falkus Kibre because he was too big to fit in a suit of Terminator armour.

‘It’s what they’re for,’ snapped Abaddon.

‘I’m not sure you’re meant to be that hard on them.’

Abaddon shrugged, lifted a towel from his arming chamber and hung it around his shoulders. ‘How can you be calm at a time like this?’

‘Trust me, I’m not calm, Ezekyle.’

‘You look calm.’

‘Just because I’m not smashing things with my fists doesn’t mean I’m not choleric.’

Abaddon picked up a piece of his armour, and began polishing it, before hurling it aside with an angry snarl.

‘Centre your humours, Ezekyle,’ advised Aximand. ‘It’s not good to go too far out of balance, you might not come back.’

‘I know,’ sighed Abaddon. ‘But I’m all over the place: choleric, melancholic, saturnine; all of them at the same time. I can’t sit still for a second. What if he doesn’t make it, Little Horus? What if he dies?’

The first captain stood and paced the arming chambers, wringing his hands, and Aximand could see the blood rising in his cheeks as his anger and frustration grew once more.

‘It’s not fair,’ growled Abaddon. ‘It shouldn’t be like this. The Emperor wouldn’t let this happen. He shouldn’t let this happen.’

‘The Emperor hasn’t been here for a long time, Ezekyle.’

‘Does he even know what’s happened? Does he even care anymore?’

‘I don’t know what to tell you, my friend,’ said Aximand, picking up his bolter once more and pressing the catch that released the magazine, seeing that Abaddon had a new target for his impotent rage.

‘It’s not been the same since he left us after Ullanor,’ raged Abaddon. ‘He left us to clean up what he couldn’t be bothered to finish, and for what? Some damn project on Terra that’s more important than us?’

‘Careful, Ezekyle,’ warned Aximand. ‘You’re in dangerous territory.’

‘It’s true though isn’t it? Don’t tell me you don’t feel the same, I know you do.’

‘It’s… different now, yes,’ conceded Aximand.

‘We’re out here fighting and dying to conquer the galaxy for him and he won’t even stand with us out on the frontier. Where is his honour? Where is his pride?’

‘Ezekyle!’ said Aximand, throwing down his bolter and rising to his feet. ‘Enough. If you were anyone else, I would strike you down for those words. The Emperor is our lord and master. We are sworn to obey him.’

‘We are pledged to the commander. Don’t you remember your Mournival oath?’

‘I remember it well enough, Ezekyle,’ retorted Aximand, ‘better than you it seems, for we also pledged to the Emperor above all primarchs.’

Abaddon turned away and gripped the wire mesh of the training cage, his muscles bulging and his head bowed. With a cry of animal rage, he tore the mesh panel from the cage and hurled it across the training halls, where it landed at the armoured feet of Erebus, who stood silhouetted in the doorway.

‘Erebus,’ said Aximand in surprise. ‘How long have you been standing there?’

‘Long enough, Little Horus, long enough.’

Aximand felt a dagger of unease settle in his heart and said, ‘Ezekyle was just angry and upset. His humours are out of balance. Don’t—’

Erebus waved his hand to brush off Aximand’s words, the dim light reflecting from the brushed steel plates of his armour. ‘Fear not, my friend, you know how it is between us. We are all lodge members here. If anyone were to ask me what I heard here today, you know what I would tell them, don’t you?’ ‘I can’t say.’

‘Exactly,’ smiled Erebus, but far from being reassured, Aximand suddenly felt beholden to the First Chaplain of the Word Bearers, as though his silence were some kind of bargaining chip.

‘Did you come for anything, Erebus?’ demanded Abaddon, his choler still to the fore.

‘I did,’ nodded Erebus, holding out his palm to reveal his silver lodge medal. ‘The Warmaster’s condition is deteriorating and Targost has called a meeting.’

‘Now?’ asked Aximand. ‘Why?’

Erebus shrugged. ‘I can’t say.’

T
HEY
GATHERED
ONCE
more in the aft hold of the flagship, traveling the lonely service stairwells to the deep decks of the
Vengeful Spirit
. Tapers again lit the way and Aximand found himself desperate to get this over with. The Warmaster was dying and they were holding a meeting?

‘Who approaches?’ asked a hooded figure from the darkness.

‘Three souls,’ Erebus replied.

‘What are your names?’ the figure asked.

‘Do we need to bother with this now?’ snapped Aximand. ‘You know it’s us, Sedirae.’

‘What are your names?’ repeated the figure.

‘I can’t say,’ said Erebus.

‘Pass, friends.’

They entered the aft hold, Aximand shooting a venomous glance at the hooded Luc Sedirae, who simply shrugged and followed them in. Candles lit the vast, scaffold-framed area as usual, but instead of the lively banter of warriors, a subdued, solemn atmosphere shrouded the hold. All the usual suspects were there: Serghar Targost, Luc Sedirae, Kalus Ekaddon, Falkus Kibre and many more officers and file troopers he knew or recognized… and Maloghurst the Twisted.

Erebus led the way into the hold, moving to stand in the centre of the group as Aximand nodded towards the Warmaster’s equerry.

‘It’s been some time since I’ve seen you at a meeting,’ said Aximand.

‘It has indeed,’ agreed Maloghurst. ‘I have neglected my duties as a lodge member, but there are matters before us that demand my attendance.’

‘Brothers,’ said Targost, beginning the meeting. ‘We live in grim times.’

‘Get to the point, Serghar,’ snarled Abaddon. ‘We don’t have time for this.’

The lodge master glared at Abaddon, but saw the first captain’s lurking temper and nodded rather than confront him. Instead, he gestured towards Erebus and addressed the lodge as a whole. ‘Our brother of the XVII Legion would speak to us. Shall we hear him?’

‘We shall,’ intoned the Sons of Horus.

Erebus bowed and said, ‘Brother Ezekyle is right, we do not have time to stand on ceremony so I will be blunt. The Warmaster is dying and the fate of the Crusade stands on a knife-edge. We alone have the power to save it.’

‘What does that mean, Erebus?’ asked Aximand.

Erebus paced around the circumference of the circle as he spoke. ‘The apothecaries can do nothing for the Warmaster. For all their dedication, they cannot cure him of this sickness. All they can do is keep him alive, and they cannot do that for much longer. If we do not act now, it will be too late.’

‘What do you propose, Erebus?’ asked Targost.

‘The tribes on Davin,’ said Erebus.

‘What of them?’ asked the lodge master.

‘They are a feral people, controlled by warrior castes, but then we all know this. Our own quiet order bears the hallmarks of their warrior lodges in its structure and practices. Each of their lodges venerates one of the autochthonic predators of their lands, and this is where our order differs. In my time on Davin during its compliance, I studied the lodges and their ways in search of corruption or religious profanity. I found nothing of that, but in one lodge I found what I believe might be our only hope of saving the Warmaster.’