Horus Rising (15 page)

Rogal Dorn possessed perhaps the finest military mind of all the primarchs. It was as ordered and disciplined as Roboute Guilliman’s, as courageous as the Lion’s, yet still supple enough to allow for the flash of inspiration, the flash of battle zeal that had won the likes of Leman Russ and the Khan so many victory wreaths. Dorn’s record in the crusade was second only to Horus’s, but he was resolute where Horus was flamboyant, reserved where Horus was charismatic, and that was why Horus had been the obvious choice for Warmaster. In keeping with his patient, stony character, Dorn’s Legion had become renowned for siegecraft and defensive strategies. The Warmaster had once joked that where he could storm a fortress like no other, Rogal Dorn could hold it. ‘If I ever laid assault to a bastion possessed by you,’ Horus had quipped at a recent banquet, ‘then the war would last for all eternity, the best in attack matched by the best in defence.’ The Imperial Fists were an immovable object to the Luna Wolves’ unstoppable force.

Dorn had been a quiet, observing presence in his months with the 63rd Expedition. He had spent hours in close conference with the Warmaster, but Loken had seen him from time to time, watching drills and studying preparations for war. Loken had not yet spoken to him, or met him directly. This was the smallest place they had both been in at the same time.

He regarded him now, in calm discussion with the Warmaster; two mythical beings manifest in one room. Loken felt it an honour just to be in their presence, to see them talk, like men, in unguarded fashion. Maloghurst seemed a tiny form beside them.

Primarch Dorn wore a case of armour that was burnished and ornate like a tomb chest, dark red and copper-gold compared to Horus’s white dazzle. Unfurled eagle wings, fashioned in metal, haloed his head and decorated his chest and shoulder plate, and aquilas and graven laurels embossed the armour sections of his limbs. A mantle of red velvet hung around his broad shoulders, trimmed in golden weave. His lean face was stern and unsmiling, even when the Warmaster raised a joke, and his hair was a shock of white, bleached like dead bones.

The two Astartes who had escorted him down from the gallery came over to wait with the Mournival. They were well known to Abaddon, Torgaddon and Aximand, but Loken had only yet seen them indirectly about the flagship. Abaddon introduced them as Sigismund, First Captain of the Imperial Fists, resplendent in black and white heraldry, and Efried, Captain of the Third Company. The Astartes made the sign of the aquila to one another in formal greeting.

‘I approve of your direction,’ Sigismund told Loken at once.

‘I’m gratified. You were watching from the galleries?’

Sigismund nodded. ‘Prosecute the foe. Get it over with. Get on. There is still so much to be done, we cannot afford delays or time wasting.’

‘There are so many worlds still to be brought to compliance,’ Loken agreed. ‘One day, we will rest at last.’

‘No,’ Sigismund replied bluntly. ‘The crusade will never end. Don’t you know that?’

Loken shook his head, ‘I wouldn’t—’

‘Not ever,’ said Sigismund emphatically. ‘The more we spread, the more we find. World after world. New worlds to conquer. Space is limitless, and so is our appetite to master it.’

‘I disagree,’ Loken said. ‘War will end, one day. A rule of peace will be established. That is the very purpose of our efforts.’

Sigismund grinned. ‘Is it? Perhaps. I believe that we have set ourselves an unending task. The nature of mankind makes it so. There will always be another goal, another prospect.’

‘Surely, brother, you can conceive of a time when all worlds have been brought into one unity of Imperial rule. Isn’t that the dream we strive to realise?’

Sigismund stared into Loken’s face. ‘Brother Loken, I have heard much about you, all of it good. I had not imagined I would discover such naivety in you. We will spend our lives fighting to secure this Imperium, and then I fear we will spend the rest of our days fighting to keep it intact. There is such involving darkness amongst the stars. Even when the Imperium is complete, there will be no peace. We will be obliged to fight on to preserve what we have fought to establish. Peace is a vain wish. Our crusade may one day adopt another name, but it will never truly end. In the far future, there will be only war.’

‘I think you’re wrong,’ Loken said.

‘How innocent you are,’ Sigismund mocked, ‘and I thought the Luna Wolves were supposed to be the most aggressive of us all. That’s how you like the other Legions to think of you, isn’t it? The most feared of mankind’s warrior classes?’

‘Our reputation speaks for itself, sir,’ said Loken.

‘As does the reputation of the Imperial Fists,’ Sigismund replied. ‘Are we going to scrap about it now? Argue which Legion is toughest?’

‘The answer, always, is the Wolves of Fenris,’ Torgaddon put in, ‘because they are clinically insane.’ He grinned broadly, sensing the tension, and wishing to dispel it. ‘If you’re comparing sane Legions, of course, the question becomes more complex. Primarch Roboute’s Ultramarines make a good show, but then there are so bloody many of them. The Word Bearers, the White Scars, the Imperial Fists, oh, all have fine records. But the Luna Wolves, ah me, the Luna Wolves. Sigismund, in a straight fight? Do you really think you’d have a hope? Honestly? Your yellow ragamuffins against the best of the best?’

Sigismund laughed. ‘Whatever helps you sleep, Tarik. Terra bless us all it is a paradigm that will never be tested.’

‘What brother Sigismund isn’t telling you, Garviel,’ Torgaddon said, ‘is that his Legion is going to miss all the glory. It’s to be withdrawn. He’s quite miffed about it.’

‘Tarik is being selective with the truth,’ Sigismund snorted. ‘The Imperial Fists have been commanded by the Emperor to return to Terra and establish a guard around him there. We are chosen as his Praetorians. Now who’s miffed, Luna Wolf?’

‘Not I,’ said Torgaddon. ‘I’ll be winning laurels in war while you grow fat and lazy minding the home fires.’

‘You’re quitting the crusade?’ Loken asked. ‘I had heard something of this.’

‘The Emperor wishes us to fortify the Palace of Terra and guard its bulwarks. This was his word at the Ullanor Triumph. We have been the best part of two years tying up our business so we might comply with his desires. Yes, we’re going home to Terra. Yes, we will sit out the rest of the crusade. Except that I believe there will be plenty of crusade left once we have been given leave to quit Earth, our duty done. You won’t finish this, Luna Wolves. The stars will have long forgotten your name when the Imperial Fists war abroad again.’

Torgaddon placed his hand on the hilt of his chainsword, playfully. ‘Are you so keen to be slapped down by me for your insolence, Sigismund?’

‘I don’t know. Is he?’

Rogal Dorn suddenly towered behind them. ‘Does Sigismund deserve a slap, Captain Torgaddon? Probably. In the spirit of comradeship, let him be. He bruises easily.’

All of them laughed at the primarch’s words. The barest hint of a smile flickered across Rogal Dorn’s lips. ‘Loken,’ he said, gesturing. Loken followed the massive primarch to the far corner of the chamber. Behind them, Sigismund and Efried continued to sport with the others of the Mournival, and elsewhere Horus sat in intense conference with Maloghurst.

‘We are charged to return to the homeworld,’ Dorn said, conversationally. His voice was low and astonishingly soft, like the lap of water on a distant beach, but there was a strength running through it, like the tension of a steel cable. ‘The Emperor has asked us to fortify the Imperial stronghold, and who am I to question the Emperor’s needs? I am glad he recognises the particular talents of the VII Legion.’ Dorn looked down at Loken. ‘You’re not used to the likes of me, are you, Loken?’ ‘No, lord.’

‘I like that about you. Ezekyle and Tarik, men like them have been so long in the company of your lord, they think nothing of it. You, however, understand that a primarch is not like a man, or even an Astartes. I’m not talking about strength. I’m talking about the weight of responsibility.’ ‘Yes, lord.’

Dorn sighed. ‘The Emperor has no like, Loken. There are no gods in this hollow universe to keep him company. So he made us, demigods, to stand beside him. I have never quite come to terms with my status. Does that surprise you? I see what I am capable of, and what is expected of me, and I shudder. The mere fact of me frightens me sometimes. Do you think your lord Horus ever feels that way?’

‘I do not, lord,’ Loken said. ‘Self-confidence is one of his keenest qualities.’

‘I think so too, and I am glad of it. There could be no better Warmaster than Horus, but a man, even a primarch, is only as good as the counsel he receives, especially if he is utterly self-confident. He must be tempered and guided by those close to him.’

‘You speak of the Mournival, sir.’

Rogal Dorn nodded. He gazed out through the armoured glass wall at the scintillating expanse of the starfield. ‘You know that I’ve had my eye on you? That I spoke in support of your election?’

‘I have been told so, lord. It baffles and flatters me.’

‘My brother Horus needs an honest voice in his ear. A voice that appreciates the scale and import of our undertaking. A voice that is not blasé in the company of demigods. Sigismund and Efried do this for me. They keep me honest. You should do the same for your lord.’

‘I will endeavour to—’ Loken began.

‘They wanted Luc Sedirae or Iacton Qruze. Did you know that? Both names were considered. Sedirae is a battle-hungry killer, so much like Abaddon. He would say yes to anything, if it meant war-glory. Qruze – you call him the “half-heard” I’m told?’

‘We do, lord.’

‘Qruze is a sycophant. He would say yes to anything if it meant he stayed in favour. The Mournival needs a proper, dissenting opinion.’

‘A naysmith,’ Loken said.

Dorn flashed a real smile. ‘Yes, just so, like the old dynasts did! A naysmith. Your schooling’s good. My brother Horus needs a voice of reason in his ear, if he is to rein in his eagerness and act in the Emperor’s stead. Our other brothers, some of them quite demented by the choice of Horus, need to see he is firmly in control. So I vouched for you, Garviel Loken. I examined your record and your character, and thought you would be the right mix in the alloy of the Mournival. Don’t be insulted, but there is something very human about you, Loken, for an Astartes.’

‘I fear, my lord, that my helm will no longer fit me, you have swelled my head so with your compliments.’

Dorn nodded. ‘My apologies.’

‘You spoke of responsibility. I feel that weight suddenly, terribly.’

‘You’re strong, Loken. Astartes-built. Endure it.’

‘I will, lord.’

Dorn turned from the armoured port and looked down at Loken. He placed his great hands gently on Loken’s shoulders. ‘Be yourself. Just be yourself. Speak your mind plainly, for you have been granted the rare opportunity to do so. I can return to Terra confident that the crusade is in safe hands.’

‘I wonder if your faith in me is too much, lord,’ Loken said. ‘As fervent as Sedirae, I have just proposed a war—’

‘I heard you speak. You made the case well. That is all part of your role now. Sometimes you must advise. Sometimes you must allow the Warmaster to use you.’

‘Use me?’

‘You understand what Horus had you do this morning?’

‘Lord?’

‘He had primed the Mournival to back him, Loken. He is cultivating the air of a peacemaker, for that plays well across the worlds of the Imperium. This morning, he wanted someone other than himself to suggest unleashing the Legions for war.’

SEVEN

Oaths of moment

Keeler takes a pict

Scare tactics

‘S
TAY CLOSE, PLEASE
,’ the iterator said. ‘No one wander away from the group, and no one make any record beyond written notes without prior permission. Is that clear?’

They all answered yes.

‘We have been granted ten minutes, and that limit will be strictly observed. This is a real privilege.’

The iterator, a sallow man in his thirties called Emont, who despite his appearance possessed what Euphrati Keeler thought was a most beautiful speaking voice, paused and offered one last piece of advice to the group. ‘This is also a hazardous place. A place of war. Watch your step, and be aware of where you are.’

He turned and led them down the concourse to the massive blast hatch. The rattle of machine tools echoed out to them. This was an area of the ship the remembrancers had never previously been allowed to visit. Most of the martial areas were off limits except by strict permission, but the embarkation deck was utterly forbidden at all times.

There were six of them in the group. Keeler, another imagist called Siman Sark, a painter called Fransisko Twell, a composer of symphonic patterns called Tolemew Van Krasten, and two documentarists called Avrius Carnis and Borodin Flora. Carnis and Flora were already bickering quietly about ‘themes and approaches’.

All of the remembrancers wore durable clothing appropriate for bad weather, and all carried kit bags. Keeler was fairly sure they’d all prepared in vain. The permission they hoped for would not be issued. They were lucky to get this far.

She looped her own kit back over her shoulder, and settled her favourite picter unit around her neck on its strap. At the head of the party, Emont came to a halt before the two fully armoured Luna Wolves standing watch at the hatch, and showed them the group’s credentials.

‘Approved by the equerry,’ she heard him say. In his beige robes, Emont was a fragile figure compared to the two armoured giants. He had to lift his head to look up at them. The Astartes studied the paperwork, made comments to one another in brief clicks of inter-suit vox, and then nodded them through.

The embarkation deck – and Keeler had to remind herself that this was just
one
embarkation deck, for the flagship possessed six – was an immense space, a long, echoing tunnel dominated by the launch ramps and delivery trackways running its length. At the far end, half a kilometre away, open space was visible through the shimmer of integrity fields.