Horus Rising (21 page)

It was eerily quiet. Groups of Luna Wolves were trudging back to the stormbirds from the fastness, and army troops had secured the plateau itself. The remembrancers had been told that a solid victory had been achieved, but there was no sign of jubilation.

‘Oh, it’s a mechanical thing,’ Sindermann said when Euphrati questioned him. ‘This is just a routine exercise for the Legion. A low-key action, as I said before we set out. I’m sorry if you’re disappointed.’

‘I’m not,’ she said, but in truth there was a sense of anticlimax about it all. She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting, but the rush of the drop, and the strange circumstance at Kasheri had begun to thrill her. Now everything was done, and she’d seen nothing.

‘Carnis wants to interview some of the returning warriors,’ Siman Sark said, ‘and he’s asked me to pict them while he does. Would that be permissible?’

‘I should think so,’ Sindermann sighed. He called out for an army officer to guide Carnis and Sark to the Astartes.

‘I think,’ said Tolemew Van Krasten aloud, ‘that a tone poem would be most appropriate. Full symphonic composition would overwhelm the atmosphere, I feel.’

Euphrati nodded, not really understanding.

‘A minor key, I think. E, or A perhaps. I’m taken with the title “The Spirits of the Whisperheads”, or perhaps, “The Voice of Samus”. What do you think?’

She stared at him.

‘I’m joking,’ he said with a sad smile. ‘I have no idea what I am supposed to respond to here, or how. It all seems so dour.’

Euphrati Keeler had supposed Van Krasten to be a pompous type, but now she warmed to him. As he turned away and gazed mournfully up at the smoking peak, she was seized by a thought and raised her picter.

‘Did you just take my likeness?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘Do you mind? You looking at the peak like that seemed to sum up how we all feel.’

‘But I’m a remembrancer,’ he said. ‘Should I be in your record?’

‘We’re all in this. Witnesses or not, we’re all here,’ she replied. ‘I take what I see. Who knows? Maybe you can return the favour? A little refrain of flutes in your next overture that represents Euphrati Keeler?’

They both laughed.

A Luna Wolf was approaching the huddle of them.

‘Nero Vipus,’ he said, making the sign of the aquila. ‘Captain Loken presents his respects and wishes the attention of Master Sindermann at once.’

‘I’m Sindermann,’ the elderly man replied. ‘Is there some problem, sir?’

‘I’ve been asked to conduct you to the captain,’ Vipus replied. ‘This way, please.’

The pair of them moved away, Sindermann scurrying to keep up with Vipus’s great strides.

‘What is going on?’ Van Krasten asked, his voice hushed.

‘I don’t know. Let’s find out,’ Keeler replied.

‘Follow them? Oh, I don’t think so.’

‘I’m game,’ said Borodin Flora. ‘We haven’t actually been told to stay here.’

They looked round. Twell had sat himself down beside the prow landing strut of a stormbird and was beginning to sketch with charcoal sticks on a small pad. Carnis and Sark were busy elsewhere.

‘Come on,’ said Euphrati Keeler.

V
IPUS LED
S
INDERMANN
up into the ruined fastness. The wind moaned and whistled through the grim tunnels and chambers. Army troopers were clearing the dead from the entry halls and casting them into the gorge, but still Vipus had to steer the iterator past many crumpled, exploded corpses. He kept saying such things as, ‘I’m sorry you had to see that, sir,’ and, ‘Look away to spare your sensibilities.’

Sindermann could not look away. He had iterated loyally for many years, but this was the first time he had walked across a fresh battlefield. The sights appalled him and burned themselves into his memory. The stench of blood and ordure assailed him. He saw human forms burst and brutalised, and burned beyond any measure he had imagined possible. He saw walls sticky with blood and brain-matter, fragments of exploded bone weeping marrow, body parts littering the blood-soaked floors.

‘Terra,’ he breathed, over and again. This was what the Astartes did. This was the reality of the Emperor’s crusade. Mortal hurt on a scale that passed belief.

‘Terra,’ he whispered to himself. By the time he was brought to Loken, who awaited him in one of the fortress’s upper chambers, the word had become ‘terror’ without him realising it.

Loken was standing in a wide, dark chamber beside some sort of pool. Water gurgled down one of the black-wet walls and the air smelled of damp and oxides.

A dozen solemn Luna Wolves attended Loken, including one giant fellow in glowering Terminator armour, but Loken himself was bareheaded. His face was smudged with bruises. He’d removed his left shoulder guard, which lay beside him on the ground, stuck through with a short sword.

‘You have done such a thing,’ Sindermann said, his voice small. ‘I don’t think I’d quite understood what you Astartes were capable of, but now I—’

‘Quiet,’ Loken said bluntly. He looked at the Luna Wolves around him and dismissed them with a nod. They filed out past Sindermann, ignoring him.

‘Stay close, Nero,’ Loken called. Stepping out through the chamber door, Vipus nodded.

Now the room was almost empty, Sindermann could see that a body lay beside the pool. It was the body of a Luna Wolf, limp and dead, his helm off, his white armour mottled with blood. His arms had been lashed to his trunk with climbing cable.

‘I don’t…’ Sindermann began. ‘I don’t understand, captain. I was told there had been no losses.’

Loken nodded slowly. ‘That’s what we’re going to say. That will be the official line. The Tenth took this fortress in a clean strike, with no losses, and that’s true enough. None of the insurgents scored any kills. Not even a wounding. We took a thousand of them to their deaths.’

‘But this man…?’

Loken looked at Sindermann. His face was troubled, more troubled than the iterator had ever seen before. ‘What is it, Garviel?’ he asked.

‘Something has happened,’ Loken said. ‘Something so… so unthinkable that I…’

He paused, and looked at Jubal’s bound corpse. ‘I have to make a report, but I don’t know what to say. I have no frame of reference. I’m glad you are here, Kyril, you of all people. You have steered me well over the years.’

‘I like to think that…’

‘I need your counsel now.’

Sindermann stepped forward and placed his hand on the giant warrior’s arm. ‘You may trust me with any matter, Garviel. I’m here to serve.’

Loken looked down at him. ‘This is confidential. Utterly confidential.’

‘I understand.’

‘There have been deaths today. Six brothers of Brakespur squad, including Udon. Another barely clinging to life. And Hellebore… Hellebore has vanished, and I fear they are dead too.’

‘This can’t be. The insurgents couldn’t have—’

‘They did nothing. This is Xavyer Jubal.’ Loken said, pointing towards the body on the floor. ‘He killed the men,’ he said simply.

Sindermann rocked back as if slapped. He blinked. ‘He what? I’m sorry, Garviel, I thought for a moment you said he—’

‘He killed the men. Jubal killed the men. He took his bolter and his fists and he killed six of Brakespur right in front of my eyes, and he would have killed me too, if I hadn’t run him through.’

Sindermann felt his legs tremble. He found a nearby rock and sat down abruptly. ‘Terra,’ he gasped.

‘Terror is right. Astartes do not fight Astartes. Astartes do not kill their own. It is against all the rules of nature and man. It is counter to the very gene-code the Emperor fused into us when he wrought us.’

‘There must be some mistake,’ Sindermann said.

‘No mistake. I saw him do it. He was a madman. He was possessed.’

‘What? Steady, now. You look to old terms, Garviel. Possession is a spiritualist word that—’

‘He was possessed. He claimed he was Samus.’

‘Oh.’

‘You’ve heard the name, then?’

‘I’ve heard the whisper. That was just enemy propaganda, wasn’t it? We were told to dismiss it as scare tactics.’

Loken touched the bruises on his face, feeling the ache of them. ‘So I thought. Iterator, I’m going to ask you this once. Are spirits real?’

‘No, sir. Absolutely not.’

‘So we are taught and thus we are liberated, but could they exist? This world is lousy with superstition and temple-fanes. Could they exist here?’

‘No,’ Sindermann replied more firmly. ‘There are no spirits, no daemons, no ghosts in the dark edges of the cosmos. Truth has shown us this.’

‘I’ve studied the archive, Kyril,’ Loken replied. ‘Samus was the name the people of this world gave to their archfiend. He was imprisoned in these mountains, so their legends say.’

‘Legends, Garviel. Only legends. Myths. We have learned much during our time amongst the stars, and the most pertinent of those things is that there is always a rational explanation, even for the most mysterious events.’

‘An Astartes draws his weapon and kills his own, whilst claiming to be a daemon from hell? Rationalise
that,
sir.’

Sindermann rose. ‘Calm yourself, Garviel, and I will.’

Loken didn’t reply. Sindermann walked over to Jubal’s body and stared at it. Jubal’s open, staring eyes were rolled back in his skull and utterly bloodshot. The flesh of his face was drawn and shrivelled, as if he had aged ten thousand years. Strange patterns, like clusters of blemishes or moles, were visible on the painfully stretched skin.

‘These marks,’ said Sindermann. ‘These vile signs of wasting. Could they be the traces of disease or infection?’

‘What?’ Loken asked.

‘A virus, perhaps? A reaction to toxicity? A plague?’

‘Astartes are resistant,’ Loken said.

‘To most things, but not to everything. I think this could be some contagion. Something so virulent that it destroyed Jubal’s mind along with his body. Plagues can drive men insane, and corrupt their flesh.’

‘Then why only him?’ asked Loken.

Sindermann shrugged. ‘Perhaps some tiny flaw in his gene-code?’

‘But he behaved as if possessed,’ Loken said, repeating the word with brutal emphasis.

‘We’ve all been exposed to the enemy’s propaganda. If Jubal’s mind was deranged by fever, he might simply have been repeating the words he’d heard.’

Loken thought for a moment. ‘You speak a lot of sense, Kyril,’ he said.

‘Always.’

‘A plague,’ Loken nodded. ‘It’s a sound explanation.’

‘You’ve suffered a tragedy today, Garviel, but spirits and daemons played no part in it. Now get to work. You need to lock down this area in quarantine and get a medicae taskforce here. There may yet be further outbreaks. Non-Astartes, such as myself, might be less resistant, and poor Jubal’s corpse may yet be a vector for disease.’

Sindermann looked back down at the body. ‘Great Terra,’ he said. ‘He has been so ravaged. I weep to see this waste.’

With a creak of dried sinew, Jubal raised his head and stared up at Sindermann with blood-red eyes.

‘Look out,’ he wheezed.

E
UPHRATI
K
EELER HAD
stopped taking picts. She stowed away her picter. The things they were seeing in the narrow tunnels of the fortress went beyond all decency to record. She had never imagined that human forms could be dismantled so grievously, so totally. The stench of blood in the close, cold air made her gag, despite her rebreather.

‘I want to go back now,’ Van Krasten said. He was shaking and upset. ‘There is no music here. I am sick to my stomach.’

Euphrati was inclined to agree.

‘No,’ said Borodin Flora in a muffled, steely voice. ‘We must see it all. We are chosen remembrancers. This is our duty.’

Euphrati was quite sure Flora was making an effort not to throw up, but she warmed to the sentiment. This was their duty. This was the very reason they had been summoned. To record and commemorate the Crusade of Man. Whatever it looked like.

She tugged her picter back out of its carry-bag and took a few, tentative shots. Not of the dead, for that would be indecent, but of the blood on the walls, the smoke fuming in the wind along the narrow tunnels, the piles of scattered, spent shell cases littering the black-flecked ground.

Teams of army troopers moved past them, lugging bodies away for disposal. Some looked at the three of them curiously.

‘Are you lost?’ one asked.

‘Not at all. We’re allowed to be here,’ Flora said.

‘Why would you want to be?’ the man wondered.

Euphrati took a series of long shots of troopers, almost in silhouette, gathering up body parts at a tunnel junction. It chilled her to see it, and she hoped her picts would have the same effect on her audience.

‘I want to go back,’ Van Krasten said again.

‘Don’t stray, or you’ll get lost,’ Euphrati warned.

‘I think I might be sick,’ Van Krasten admitted.

He was about to retch when a shrill, harrowing scream echoed down the tunnels.

‘What the hell was that?’ Euphrati whispered.

J
UBAL ROSE
. T
HE
ropes binding him sheared and split, releasing his arms. He screamed, and then screamed again. His frantic wails soared and echoed around the chamber.

Sindermann stumbled backwards in total panic. Loken ran forward and tried to restrain the reanimating madman.

Jubal struck out with one thrashing fist and caught Loken in the chest. Loken flew backwards into the pool with a crash of water.

Jubal turned, hunched. Saliva dangled from his slack mouth, and his bloodshot eyes spun like compasses at true north.

‘Please, oh please…’ Sindermann gabbled, backing away.

‘Look. Out.’ The words crawled sluggishly out of Jubal’s drooling mouth. He lumbered forward. Something was happening to him, something malign and catastrophic. He was bulging, expanding so furiously that his armour began to crack and shatter. Sections of broken plate split and fell away from him, exposing thick arms swollen with gangrene and fibrous growths. His taut flesh was pallid and blue. His face was distorted, puffy and livid, and his tongue flopped out of his rotting mouth, long and serpentine.

He raised his meaty, distended hands triumphantly, exposing fingernails grown into dark hooks and psoriatic claws.