False Gods (39 page)

‘No, Tarik,’ said Abaddon, moving to stand next to him and placing a hand on his wrist. ‘The negotiations with the interex failed because they were meant to. The interex consorted with xenos breeds. They integrated with them. We could never have made peace with such people.’

‘Ezekyle speaks the truth,’ said Erebus.

‘Shut your mouth,’ snapped Torgaddon.

‘Torgaddon, put the knife down,’ said Horus Aximand. ‘Please.’

Reluctantly, Torgaddon lowered his arm, the pleading tone of his Mournival brother making him realize the enormity of what he was doing in holding a knife to the throat of another Astartes, even one as untrustworthy as Erebus.

‘We are not finished,’ warned Torgaddon, pointing the blade at Erebus.

‘I will be ready,’ promised the Word Bearer.

‘Both of you be silent,’ said Targost. ‘We have urgent matters to discuss that require you to listen. These last few months of war have been hard on everyone and no one fails to see the great tragedy inherent in fighting brother humans who look so very like us. Tensions are high, but we must remember that our purpose among the stars is to kill those who will not join with us.’

Torgaddon frowned at such a blunt mission statement, but said nothing as Targost continued his speech. ‘We are Astartes and we were created to kill and conquer the galaxy. We have done all that has been asked of us and more, fighting for over two centuries to forge the new Imperium from the ashes of Old Night. We have destroyed planets, torn down cultures and wiped out entire species all because we were so ordered. We are killers, pure and simple, and we take pride in being the best at what we do!’

Cheering broke out at Targost’s pronouncements, fists punching the air and hammering bulkheads, but Torgaddon had seen the iterators in action enough times to recognize cued applause. This speech was for his benefit and his alone, of that he was now certain.

‘Now, as the Great Crusade draws to a close, we are lambasted for our ability to kill. Malcontents and agitators stir up trouble in our wake with bleating cries that we are too brutal, too savage and too violent. Our very own Lord Commander of the Army, Hektor Varvarus, demands blood for the actions of our grief-stricken brothers who returned the Warmaster to us while he lay dying. The traitor Varvarus demands that we be called to account for these regrettable deaths, and that we be punished for trying to save the Warmaster.’

Torgaddon flinched at the word ‘traitor’, shocked that Targost would openly use such an incendiary word to describe an officer as respected as Varvarus. But, as Torgaddon looked at the faces of the warriors around him, he saw only agreement with Targost’s sentiment.

‘Even civilians now feel they have the right to call us to account,’ said Horus Aximand, taking up where Targost had left off and holding up a handful of parchments. ‘Dissenters and conspirators amongst the remembrancers spread lies and propaganda that paint us as little better than barbarians.’

Aximand circled amongst the gathering, passing out the pamphlets as he spoke, ‘This one is called
The Truth is all We Have
and it calls us murderers and savages. This turbulent poet mocks us in verse, brothers! These lies circulate amongst the fleet every day.’

Torgaddon took a pamphlet from Aximand and quickly scanned the paper, already knowing who had written it. Its contents were scathing, but hardly amounted to sedition.

‘And this one!’ cried Aximand. ‘The
Lectitio Divinitatus
speaks of the Emperor as a god. A god! Can you imagine anything so ridiculous? These lies fill the heads of those we are fighting for. We fight and die for them and this is our reward: vilification and hate. I tell you this, my brothers, if we do not act now, the ship of the Imperium, which has weathered all storms, will sink through the mutiny of those onboard.’

Shouts of anger and calls for action echoed from the armoury walls, and Torgaddon did not like the ugly desire for reciprocity that he saw on the faces of his fellow warriors.

‘Nice speech,’ said Torgaddon when the roars of anger had diminished, ‘but why don’t you get to the point? I have a company to make ready for a combat drop.’

‘Always the straight talker, eh, Tarik?’ said Aximand. ‘That is why you are respected and valued. That is why we need you with us, brother.’

‘With you? What are you talking about?’

‘Have you not heard a word that was said?’ asked Maloghurst, limping over to where Torgaddon stood. ‘We are under threat from within our own ranks. The enemy within, Tarik, it is the most insidious foe we have yet faced.’

‘You’ll need to speak plainly, Mal,’ said Abaddon. ‘Tarik needs it spelled out for him.’

‘Up yours, Ezekyle,’ said Torgaddon.

‘I have learned that the remembrancer who writes these treasonous missives is called Ignace Karkasy,’ said Maloghurst. ‘He must be silenced.’

‘Silenced? What do you mean by that?’ asked Torgaddon. ‘Given a slap on the wrist? Told not to be such a naughty boy? Something like that?’

‘You know what I mean, Tarik,’ stated Maloghurst.

‘I do, but I want to hear you say it.’

‘Very well, if you wish me to be direct, then I will be. Karkasy must die.’

‘You’re crazy, Mal, do you know that? You’re talking about murder,’ said Torgaddon.

‘It’s not murder when you kill your enemy, Tarik,’ said Abaddon. ‘It’s war.’

‘You want to make war on a poet?’ laughed Torgaddon. ‘Oh, they’ll tell tales of that for centuries, Ezekyle. Can’t you hear what you’re saying? Anyway, the remembrancer is under Garviel’s protection. You touch Karkasy and he’ll hand your head to the Warmaster himself.’

A guilty silence enveloped the group at the mention of Loken’s name, and the lodge members in front of Torgaddon shared an uneasy look.

Finally, Maloghurst said, ‘I had hoped it would not come to this, but you leave us no choice, Tarik.’

Torgaddon gripped the hilt of his combat knife tightly, wondering if he would need to fight his way clear of his brothers.

‘Put up your knife, we’re not about to attack you,’ snapped Maloghurst, seeing the tension in his eyes.

‘Go on,’ said Torgaddon, keeping a grip on the knife anyway. ‘What did you hope it would not come to?’

‘Hektor Varvarus claims to have spoken with the Council of Terra about events surrounding the Warmaster’s injury, and it is certain that if he has not yet informed Malcador the Sigillite of the deaths on the embarkation deck, he soon will. He petitions the Warmaster daily with demands that there be justice.’

‘And what has the Warmaster told him? I was there too. So was Ezekyle. You too Little Horus.’

‘And so was Loken,’ finished Erebus, joining the others. ‘He led you onto the embarkation deck and he led the way through the crowd.’

Torgaddon took a step towards Erebus. ‘I told you to be quiet!’

He turned from Erebus, and despair filled him as he saw acquiescent looks on his brothers’ faces. They had already accepted the idea of throwing Garviel Loken to the wolves.

‘You can’t seriously be considering this, Mal,’ protested Torgaddon. ‘Ezekyle? Horus? You would betray your sworn Mournival brother?’

‘He already betrays us by allowing this remembrancer to spread lies,’ said Aximand.

‘No, I won’t do it,’ swore Torgaddon.

‘You must,’ said Aximand. ‘Only if you, Ezekyle and I swear oaths that it was Loken who orchestrated the massacre will Varvarus accept him as guilty.’

‘So, that’s what this is all about, is it?’ asked Torgaddon. ‘Two birds with one stone? Make Garviel your scapegoat, and you’re free to murder Karkasy. How can you even consider this? The Warmaster will never agree to it.’

‘Bluntly put, but you are mistaken if you think the Warmaster will not agree,’ said Targost. ‘This was his suggestion.’

‘No!’ cried Torgaddon. ‘He wouldn’t…’

‘It can be no other way, Tarik,’ said Maloghurst. ‘The survival of the Legion is at stake.’

Torgaddon felt something inside him die at the thought of betraying his friend. His heart broke at making a choice between Loken and the Sons of Horus, but no sooner had the thought surfaced than he knew what he had to do.

He sheathed his combat knife and said, ‘If betrayal and murder is needed to save the Legion then perhaps it does not deserve to survive! Garviel Loken is our brother and you would betray his honour like this? I spit on you for even thinking it.’

A horrified gasp spread through the chamber and angry mutterings closed in on Torgaddon.

‘Think carefully, Tarik,’ warned Maloghurst. ‘You are either with us or against us.’

Torgaddon reached into his robes and tossed something silver and gleaning at Maloghurst’s feet. The lodge medal glinted in the candlelight.

‘Then I am against you,’ said Torgaddon.

NINETEEN

Isolated

Allies

Eagle’s wing

P
ETRONELLA
SAT
AT
her escritoire, filling page after page with her cramped handwriting, the spidery script tight and intense. Her dark hair was unbound and fell around her shoulders in untidy ringlets. Her complexion had the sallow appearance of one who has not stepped outside her room for many months, let alone seen daylight.

A pile of papers beside her was testament to the months she had spent in her luxurious cabin, though its luxury was a far cry from what it had been when she had first arrived on the
Vengeful Spirit
. The bed was unmade and her clothes lay strewn where she had discarded them before bed.

Her maidservant, Babeth, had done what she could to encourage her mistress to pause in her labours, but Petronella would have none of it. The words of the Warmaster’s valediction had to be transcribed and interpreted in the most minute detail if she was to do his confession any justice. Even though his words had turned out not to be his last, she knew they deserved to be recorded, for she had tapped into the Warmaster’s innermost thoughts. She had teased out information no one had contemplated before, secrets of the primarchs that had not seen the light of day since the Great Crusade had begun and truths that would rock the Imperium to its very core.

That such things should perhaps remain buried had occurred to her only once in her lonely sojourn, but she was the Palatina Majoria of House Carpinus and such questions had no meaning. Knowledge and truth were all that mattered and it would be for future generations to judge whether she had acted correctly.

She had a dim memory of speaking of these incredible truths to some poet or other in a dingy bar many months ago while very drunk, but she had no idea what had passed between them. He had not tried to contact her afterwards, so she could only assume that he hadn’t tried to seduce her, or that she hadn’t in fact been seduced. It was immaterial; she had locked herself away since the beginning of the war with the Technocracy, trawling every fragment of her mnemonic implants for the words and turns of phrase that the Warmaster had used.

She was writing too much, she knew, but damn the word count, her tale was too important to be constrained by the bindings of a mere book. She would tell the tale for as long as it took in the telling… but there was something missing.

As the weeks and months had passed, the gnawing sensation that something wasn’t gelling grew from a suspicion to a certainty, and it had taken her until recently to realise what that was: context.

All she had were the Warmaster’s words, there was no framework to hang them upon and without that, everything was meaningless. Finally realising what was amiss, she sought out Astartes warriors at every opportunity, but hit her first real obstacle in this regard.

No one was speaking to her.

As soon as any of her subjects knew what Petronella wanted, or who she was, they would clam up and refuse to speak another word, excusing themselves from her presence with polite abruptness.

Everywhere she had turned, she ran into walls of silence, and despite repeated entreaties to the office of the Warmaster to intervene, she was getting nowhere. Every one of her requests for an audience with the Warmaster was declined, and she soon began to despair of ever finding a means of telling her tale.

Inspiration as to how to break this deadlock had come yesterday after yet another afternoon of abject failure. As always, Maggard escorted her, clad in his golden battle armour and armed with his Kirlian rapier and pistol. After the fighting on Davin, Maggard had made a speedy recovery, and Petronella had noticed a more cocksure swagger to his step. She also noticed that he was treated with more respect around the ship than she was. Of course, such a state of affairs was intolerable, despite the fact that it made his vigour as her concubine that much more forceful and pleasurable.

An Astartes warrior had nodded in respect as Petronella despondently travelled along the upper decks of the ship towards her stateroom. She had made to nod back, before realising that the Astartes had been paying his respects to Maggard, not her.

A scroll upon the Astartes’s shoulder guard bore a green crescent moon, marking him out as a veteran of the Davin campaign and thus no doubt aware of Maggard’s fighting prowess.

Indignation surged to the surface, but before Petronella said anything, an idea began to form and she hurried back to the stateroom.

Petronella had stood Maggard in the centre of the room and said, ‘It’s so obvious to me now, shame on me for not thinking of this sooner.’

Maggard looked puzzled, and she moved closer to him, stroking her hand down his moulded breastplate. He seemed uncomfortable with this, but she pressed on, knowing that he would do anything for her in fear of reprisal should he refuse.

‘It’s because I am a woman,’ she said. ‘I’m not part of their little club.’

She moved behind him and stood on her tiptoes, placing her hands on his shoulders. ‘I’m not a warrior. I’ve never killed anyone, well, not myself, and that’s what they respect: killing. You’ve killed men, haven’t you Maggard?’

He nodded curtly.

‘Lots?’

Maggard nodded again and she laughed. ‘I’m sure they know that too. You can’t speak to boast of your prowess, but I’m sure the Astartes know it. Even the ones that weren’t on Davin will be able to see that you’re a killer.’