Текст книги "A Thousand Sons"

Автор книги: Грэм Макнилл

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 31 страниц)

Malcador crossed the gleaming floor of the amphitheatre and stood before the three primarchs. The Sigillite’s white hair pooled around his shoulders like snowfall and his skin was the texture of old parchment. He was just a man, yet had lived out the spans of many men. Some put this down to the finest and most subtle augmetics or a rigorous regime of juvenat treatment, but Ahriman knew of no means that could sustain a mortal life for so long.

Malcador had the wisdom of aeons in his dark, deep-set eyes, wisdom won over the passage of centuries spent at the side of the greatest practitioner of the arts in the galaxy. Thatwas how Malcador endured, not through cheap tricks or the artifice of technological trinkets, but by the Emperor’s design.

He held the staff up before Magnus, Fulgrim and Sanguinius, and Ahriman saw that his hands were thin, bony and frail. How easy it would be to break them.

“Fulgrim, Magnus, Sanguinius,” said Malcador with what Ahriman felt was woefully misplaced familiarity. “I’d like you all to place your right hand upon the staff, if you please.”

All three primarchs did so, sinking to their knees so their heads were level with Malcador’s. The venerable sage smiled before continuing.

“Do you all swear that you shall do honour to your father? In sight of those assembled here on Nikaea, will you solemnly swear that you will speak the truth as it is known to you? Will you do glory to your Legions and to your brothers by accepting the judgement this august body shall reach? Do you swear this upon the staff of the father who sired you, schooled you and watches over you in this hour of upheaval and change?”

Ahriman listened to the core of the Sigillite’s words, seeing past the fine homilies and noble ideals to the truth beneath. This was no simple Oath of the Moment; this was an oath sworn by a defendant on trial for his life.

“Upon this staff I swear it,” intoned Fulgrim.

“By the blood in my veins I swear it,” said Sanguinius.

“I swear to uphold all that has been said upon this staff,” said Magnus.

“Let it be so recorded,” replied Malcador with a stiff formality that went against his normally affable demeanour. His acolytes stepped in towards the kneeling primarchs, the first unrolling a slender parchment with the words Malcador had said written upon them. He held it pressed flat to Magnus’ vambrace while the second ladled a blob of hot wax from his brazier and poured it onto the parchment. This was then embossed with an iron stamp bearing the eagle and crossed lightning bolts seal of the Emperor. The servitors repeated this with Fulgrim and Sanguinius, and when they were done they retreated behind Malcador.

“There,” said the Sigillite. “Now we can begin.”

HOODED ADEPTS LED the Thousand Sons to the box on the lower tiers of the amphitheatre above where they had entered. Magnus and his warriors took their places within the box as Fulgrim and Sanguinius were led to their seats. Excited conversation began once more.

Ahriman found himself drawn inexorably to the Emperor. High in the Enumerations, he was freed from the impact of emotion, and found he could see the Master of Mankind clearly, reading the reluctance etched into his regal features.

“He doesn’t want this,” said Ahriman.

“No,” agreed Magnus. “Others have clamoured for this, and the Emperor has no choice but to appease his supporters.”

“Clamoured for what?” asked Ahriman. “Do you know what is going on?”

“Not entirely,” hedged Magnus. “As soon as I heard Fulgrim’s voice, I knew something was amiss, but the heart of it eludes me.”

As he spoke, Magnus tapped his thigh, making a series of apparently innocuous movements with his fingers, as though he were loosening stiff joints. Ahriman recognised them as the somatic gestures of the Symbol of Thothmes, the means by which a sanctum could be made secure from observation. It was also a symbol for silence in the presence of the enemy.

Beside the primarch, Mahavastu Kallimakus faithfully recorded their words, his eyes fixed ahead without really seeing what was going on. Only a man completely under the sway of another could be so unaffected by the grand company assembled beneath the stars.

“In any case,” said Magnus, “I believe we are about to learn the nature of this gathering.”

Ahriman looked back to the floor of the amphitheatre, seeing Malcador standing at the plinth with a sheaf of notes spread on the lectern before him. He cleared his throat, the acoustics of the volcano’s crater amplifying the sound until even those ensconced at the back of the amphitheatre could hear him clearly.

“My friends, we gather here on the birthing rock of Nikaea to speak on a subject that has vexed the Imperium since its inception. Many of you here today have come not knowing the substance of this conclave or the nature of this debate. Others know it all too well. For that I apologise.”

Malcador consulted his notes once more, squinting as though having trouble reading his own handwriting.

“And now to the heart of the matter,” said Malcador. “This gathering will address the question of sorcery in the Imperium. Yes, gentlemen, we are here to resolve the Librarian Crisis.”

A gasp of astonishment rippled from the tiers of the amphitheatre, though Ahriman had guessed what the substance of Malcador’s words would be as soon as he mounted the plinth.

“This is an issue that has divided us for many years, but here we will end that division. Some will maintain that sorcery is the greatest threat facing our dominion of the galaxy, while others will rail against what is said here, believing that fear and ignorance drives their accusers’ hands.

“Let me assure you all that there is no greater crisis facing the Imperium, and the heroic undertaking upon which we are all embarked is too vital to risk with discord.”

Malcador drew himself up to his full height and said. “That being said, who among you shall speak first?”

A gruff voice cut through the chatter from the tiers. “I shall speak,” it said.

Undulant light in the box opposite the Thousand Sons rippled as a powerful figure threw off his falsehood. The warrior’s beard was waxed, and he wore a snarling wolf’s head across his shaved scalp. The skin of its forelegs was draped over his barrel chest and its pelt formed a ragged cloak.

Armoured in stormcloud grey and bearing his eagle-headed staff across one shoulder, Ohthere Wyrdmake, Rune Priest of the Space Wolves, stepped down into the amphitheatre.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Witch Hunters/The Heart of a Primarch/Magnus Speaks

THE LIBRARIAN CRISIS: like a guilty secret, it lurked behind the veneer of Unity, a dull ache that the body of the Imperium had tried to forget, like a frightened man ignoring a pain in his belly for fear of what might come to light under the glare of examination. Librarians had first been introduced to the Legions when Magnus, Sanguinius and Jaghatai Khan had proposed a regime of psychic training and development that went hand in hand with the already rigorous creation process of an Astartes warrior.

The Emperor had sanctioned these first experiments as a means of directing and controlling the power of emerging psykers within the Astartes, and Librarius departments were formed within the Thousand Sons, Blood Angels and White Scars to train them. The Librarians they had crafted had proven to be loyal warriors and potent weapons in the Legion’s arsenal. Such was the success of these early experiments that Magnus pushed for his program to be expanded, allowing other Legions to benefit from his research.

With the success of the early experiments, many primarchs came to see the usefulness of Librarians, and allowed warrior-scholars from the Thousand Sons to form Librarius departments within their ranks. Not all the primarchs saw this as a good thing, and from the earliest days of its inception, the Librarian program was beset by controversy.

Psychic powers came with dark heritage, for the Great Crusade was rebuilding the lost empire of humanity from the wreckage left after Old Night, a cataclysm brought about, it was claimed, by the uncontrolled emergence of psykers all across the galaxy. As much as Magnus and his compatriots vouchsafed the integrity of the Librarians, they would always bear the stigma of those who had brought humanity to the edge of extinction.

Though there had been squabbles and division over the employment of Librarians, those divisions had been manageable and without real weight. The Thousand Sons heard the accusations levelled at them and stoically ignored them, content that they acted with the Emperor’s blessing.

Like an untreated wound, those divisions had festered and spread, threatening to become a rift that would never be sealed. And so, with Horus Lupercal anointed the Warmaster and his retreat to Terra imminent, the Emperor chose this moment to heal that rift and bring his sons together as one.

History would recall this assembly as the Council of Nikaea.

Others would know it as the trial of Magnus the Red.

OHTHERE WYRDMAKE CROSSED the amphitheatre and stepped onto the plinth before the Emperor’s dais. Ahriman willed Wyrdmake to see him, to feel the full weight of his treachery.

“I trusted him,” said Ahriman, bunching his fists. “He was just using me to betray us. All along, it was a lie.”

His anger fled as another thought intruded.

“Oh Throne!” he exclaimed. “The things I told him. Our ways and our powers. This is all my fault.”

“Calm yourself, Ahzek,” cautioned Magnus. “Do nothing to prove him right. In any case, it was I who urged you to place your trust in Wyrdmake. If this travesty of a conclave is anyone’s fault it is mine for not giving credence to the strength of my doubters.”

Ahriman forced himself back into the higher spheres, focusing on those that enhanced clarity and speed of thought. He kept away from those of empathy and strength.

Wyrdmake lifted his wolf-helmed head to face the glares of the Thousand Sons, his lined face pulled into a scowl of primal loathing. Such was its venom, Ahriman wondered how he could not have seen so brutal and violent a core to the Rune Priest. He had always known the Space Wolves were a butcher’s blade of a Legion, powerful and unsubtle, but to see that so clearly defined on one man’s face was still a shock.

“I will not waste time with fancy words,” said Wyrdmake. “I am called Ohthere Wyrdmake of the Space Wolves, and I fought in the murder-make with the Thousand Sons on Shrike. I stood alongside its warriors on the baked salt flats of Aghoru, and I name them a coven of warlocks, every one of them a star-cunning sorcerer and conjurer of unclean magic. That is all I have to say, and I swear its truth upon my oath as a warrior of Leman Russ.”

Ahriman was astonished at the archaic wording of the accusation. Was this the forgotten ages, when men were ruled by superstition and fear of the dark? He cast around the amphitheatre, horrified at the sagely nodding heads and expressions of outrage directed their way.

Malcador stood at the edge of the dais and rapped his staff on its marble floor. All eyes turned upon him.

“You level a terrible accusation upon your brother Legion, Ohthere Wyrdmake,” said Malcador. “Are there any who substantiate your claims?”

“Aye, Sigillite, there are,” replied Wyrdmake.

“Who stands with this accusation?” called Malcador.

“I do,” said Mortarion, emerging from beneath a falsehood and revealing his identity to the onlookers. As Ohthere Wyrdmake returned to his seat, Mortarion walked to the centre of the amphitheatre. Whether by coincidence or design, the Death Lord took exactly twenty-eight paces from the podium, and Ahriman again saw the recurrence of the number seven. Mortarion was clad exactly as he had been on Ullanor, as though he had been waiting for this moment since then.

Before Mortarion could speak, Magnus rose to his feet and slammed his hand down on the obsidian coping before him.

“Is this what passes for due process?” demanded Magnus. “Am I to be tried by faceless observers who hide behind their falsehoods. If any man dares accuse me, let him speak to my face.”

Malcador rapped his staff once more and said, “The Emperor has commanded it, Magnus. No man’s testimony is to be corrupted by fear of whose eyes are upon him.”

“It is all too easy to hide behind cloaks of anonymity and cast your venom. Far harder to look the object of your wrath in the eye while you do it.”

“You will have your chance to speak, Magnus. No decision will be made until all those who wish to speak have done so. I promise you,” said Malcador, adding. “Your father promises you.”

Magnus shook his head as he returned to his seat, his anger still simmering.

Mortarion had not moved during Magnus’ outburst, as though his brother primarch’s outrage was an inconsequential thing, something to be endured for the brief annoyance it caused. Ahriman dearly wished he could summon Aaetpio, but sensed the ensuing conflagration would be akin to letting a Pyrae Zealator loose in a promethium-soaked warehouse.

Mortarion bowed curtly to the Emperor and began his oration.

“Brother Malcador claims that his issue has vexed the Imperium,” said Mortarion, his rustle-soft tones like the dry hiss of wind over aeons old sand dunes, “but he is wrong to believe there is anything complex about the issue. I have seen the devastation that unchecked sorcery leaves in its wake, worlds burned to cinders, populations enslaved and monsters unleashed. Sorcery brought these worlds to ruin, sorcery wielded by men who peered too deeply into dark places they should have known to leave well alone.

“We all know of the horror of Old Night, but I ask you this simple question: what brought about that galactic holocaust? Psykers. Uncontrolled psykers. The threat of these people is horribly real, and you all know the danger they represent. Some of you may even have seen it first-hand. The psy-engines and occullum of Terra search out the latent witch-genes among humanity and the Black Ships of the Silent Sisterhood trawl the stars for these dangerous individuals. Did the Emperor, beloved by all, build these machines for no reason? No, they were built to protect us from these dangerous mutants, using their powers in service of their selfish ends.

“ Thatis the difference. Where an astrotelepath or Navigator uses his powers for the good of others, allowing distant worlds to communicate or guiding the Expeditionary Fleets of the Imperium across the stars, the sorcerer uses his power for personal gain, for earthly power and dominance.

“Yes, the Imperium needs certain empowered individuals, but only those sanctioned and rigidly controlled. We know where power unchecked inevitably leads. You have all heard the stories of Old Night, but who among you has really seen what that means?”

Mortarion swung his manreaper, the deathly haft finally coming to rest upon his shoulder.

“The Death Guard have seen,” said Mortarion, and Ahriman wanted to laugh at his absurd theatrics. Though Mortarion played the role of the outraged righteous man, he was relishing his part in what he saw as the downfall of the Thousand Sons.

“On Kajor my Legion encountered a warrior race of humans that had fallen to barbarism. Extensive orbital surveys detected no trace of advanced technology, yet it took my Legion nearly six months to bring Kajor to submission. Why? They were savages, armed with little more than blades and crude flintlock carbines. How could such a feral race of savages hold the Death Guard at bay for so long?”

Mortarion paced as he spoke, the haft of the man-reaper marking time to his steps with a solid tunkevery step he took. “They held us at bay because they had fell powers and unseen allies. Every night, creatures of witchery hunted in the shadows and killed for the joy of killing. Blood red hounds stalked the darkness of the forests with savage instinct, and juggernauts of thunder broke our lines with every charge.”

The Death Lord paused a moment to let that last fact sink in. That anything could sunder a Death Guard formation was nothing short of a miracle. Though his desert wheeze was faint, no word of his narration escaped the attention of those gathered in the amphitheatre.

“My warriors have fought xenos species of every stripe and defeated them, but these were not creatures of flesh and blood. These were summoned into life by Kajori warlocks. These magi conjured lightning from their flesh, set fires with their thoughts and cracked the very earth with their shouted oaths! No power comes without a price, and with every victory we won, we discovered what that truly meant. At the heart of every city we captured, my warriors found vast structures we came to know as Blood Fanes. Each one was a charnel house of bones and death. We destroyed every one, and with each one lost, the strength of our foes waned. In the end, we ground down every ragamuffin force they sent against us. Surrender was not in their blood and they died to a man, destroyed by a ruling caste of warlocks who could not bear to relinquish their power. I still think of Kajor and shudder.”

Mortarion finished his tale in front of the Thousand Sons, the last syllable leaving his lips as he looked up at Magnus.

“Now I do not accuse my brother of such barbarism, but no evil begins with such monstrous acts. If it did, no sane man would ever consider it. No, it begins slowly, a small step here, a small step there. By such acts is a man’s heart turned black and rotten. A man may begin with noble intentions, believing that such small trespasses are minor things compared to the good he will do at the end of his course, but every act matters, from the smallest to the greatest.

“Tales of the Thousand Sons’ victories are legion, but so too are the whispers of their sorceries. In the past I have led my warriors into battle alongside those of Magnus and am well aware of what his Legion can do, so I can vouch for the truth of what Ohthere Wyrdmake says. It is sorcery. I have seen it with my own eyes. Like the magi of Kajor, the cult warriors of Magnus conjure lightning and fire to smite their foes, while their brethren crush their enemies with invisible force. I do not lie when I say that I knew fear that day, the fear that I had broken one army of warlocks only to find myself with another at my side.”

“You all know I distrust the institution of Librarians within the ranks of the Astartes, fearing for what the Thousand Sons are trying to seed within our Legions. No Librarians sully the ranks of the Death Guard, and nor will they while I draw breath. I have held my tongue until now, confident that others wiser than I knew best, but I can keep silent no longer. When Brother Russ and Brother Lorgar spoke of the battles fought to subdue the Ark Reach Cluster, I found myself compelled to break my bonds of silence, though it tears my heart to name my own brother a warlock. I cannot stand by and watch his obsessions drive him and his Legion into the abyss of damnation. Know that I speak not out of hatred, but out of the love I have for Magnus. This is all I have to say.”

Mortarion turned and bowed once more to the Emperor before returning to the box he shared with other warriors of his Legion.

Ahriman turned to Magnus, as he heard the high, sharp crack of glass. The heat of Magnus’ anger was radiating from his body. The primarch’s fists were balled on the obsidian coping, and Ahriman saw the volcanic stone had softened and run like the wax of an invocation candle. Blobs of what had once been glassy rock dropped to the floor where they shattered as their customary atomic structure reasserted its reality.

“My lord?” hissed Ahriman, all thought of Enumerations forgotten as a hot rush of imparted fury passed between them with a flash of psychic osmosis. He reached out to Magnus, his fingertips lightly brushing his primarch’s arm.

Magnus felt his touch and turned his gaze upon him. Ahriman recoiled from the depthless pit of his eye, the entire structure of it a wheeling lattice of unknown colours, as though every facet of emotion fought for dominance. Ahriman’s heart lurched at the anger and need for vindication he saw there, a furious battle between raging instinct and higher intellect. He saw Magnus’ desire to lash out at his attackers, the animal heart that cursed his brother for his limited understanding. Holding that back was the towering intellect that held court over his base emotions, a mind that had looked deep into the warp and seen it looking back at him.

In that moment of connection, Ahriman looked into the core of his primarch’s incandescent form, the incredible fusion of genius and chained aether bound in the creation of his incredible mind and body. To see the white-hot furnace of so mighty a being’s innermost construction was to stare into the heart of a newly-birthed star.

Ahriman cried out as he saw Magnus’ life unfold in the space of what could have been an instant or could have been a span of aeons. He saw discourses between luminous minds in a cavern far beneath the earth, and a wondrous figure descending to Prospero atop a golden mountain range. All this and more poured into Ahriman without heed that his mind was vastly incapable of absorbing such enormous quantities of memory and knowledge.

He comprehended only a fraction of what he saw, but it was enough to press him back into his seat. Breath laboured in his chest and the awful rush of information pouring into him threatened to unseat his reason.

“Stop,” begged Ahriman as more knowledge than had been won by entire civilisations thundered into his mind, squeezing his genhanced faculties to the limits of their endurance. His vision greyed, and blood vessels haemorrhaged in his eyes. His hands trembled, and he felt the onset of a violent grand mal seizure, one that would almost certainly kill him.

Magnus closed his eye, and the raging torrent ceased.

Ahriman gasped as the flood abated, and a drawn out moan escaped his lips. Dread knowledge and buried secrets surged within him, each one a lethally volatile revelation.

He fell from the bench as his overloaded consciousness shut down in an attempt to rebuild the shattered architecture of his mind.

WHEN HE OPENED his eyes, he was lying on one of the padded couches in the vaulted antechamber beneath the amphitheatre. The pain had diminished, but his head felt as though it was encased in an ever-shrinking helmet of invisible steel. Light made his head hurt, and he raised a hand to shield his face. His mouth was dry and a bewildering series of images danced on the periphery of his vision, like a million memories crowding for attention.

“Enter the sixth Enumeration,” said a mellifluous voice that calmed and soothed him. “It will help you restore your thoughts.”

“What happened?” he managed, trying to focus on the owner of the voice. He knew he recognised the speaker, but so many names and faces crowded his mind that he could not sort through them. “I don’t remember.”

“It’s my fault, my son,” said the voice, and Ahriman was finally able to perceive the figure kneeling beside him. “And I am truly sorry.”

“My lord Magnus?” he asked.

“In the flesh, my son,” said Magnus, helping him sit up.

Bright lights pounded behind his eyes and he groaned, feeling like his brain was trying to press its way out of his skull. The Sekhmet were assembled in the chamber, some drinking from silver goblets, others guarding the doors.

“You had quite a shock to the system,” said Magnus. “I allowed my anger to get the better of me and let the walls enclosing my essence fall. No one mortal, not even an Astartes, should drink from that well. You’ll have a monstrously sore head, but you will live.”

“I do not understand,” said Ahriman, pressing his palms to his temples.

“Knowledge is like strong liquor, my son,” said Magnus with a smile. “To imbibe too much, too fast, will get you drunk.”

“I have never been drunk. I don’t think it’s possible for me.”

“It’s not, not really,” said Magnus, handing him a goblet of cool water, “at least not on alcohol. How much do you remember about what happened?”

“Not much,” admitted Ahriman, draining the goblet in a single swallow.

“That’s probably for the best,” said Magnus, and Ahriman was not so far removed from his senses that he didn’t catch the relief in his primarch’s voice.

“I remember the Death Lord,” said Ahriman, “chastising us and twisting facts to suit his accusations, but after that, nothing.”

A sudden thought occurred, and he asked, “How long have I been unconscious?”

“Just over three hours, which was probably a blessing.”

“How so?”

“You were spared the tedious parade of close-minded bigots, superstitious fools and throwbacks naming us heretics, sorcerers, blood-mages and sacrificers of virgins. Wyrdmake and Mortarion have assembled quite a coven of witch hunters to condemn us.”

Ahriman rose to his feet, his legs unsteady beneath him as the room spun around him. His enhanced physiology fought to compensate, but it was a losing battle. He would have fallen but for Magnus’ steadying hand. He forced the dizziness down and took a cleansing breath.

Ahriman shook his head. “I feel like I have been stepped on by Canis Vertex.”

“You would,” said Magnus, “but you’ll want to recover your wits quickly, my son.”

“Why, what is happening?”

“Our accusers have said their piece,” said Magnus with relish, “and now it’s my turn.”

EXPECTANT SILENCE FILLED the amphitheatre as Magnus strode towards the plinth. He walked with his head held high and his feathered cloak trailing behind him, looking straight at the Emperor’s dais. This was no walk of the accused, but the stride of the righteous man fighting against unjust accusers.

Ahriman had never been prouder to be one of his Thousand Sons.

Magnus bowed to the Emperor and Malcador then turned to give Fulgrim and Sanguinius bows of comradeship. In a move that spoke of grace in the face of adversity, he also gave Mortarion and Ohthere Wyrdmake courteous acknowledgements. Magnus was every inch the gentleman polymath who never forgot himself, even as his enemies united against him. He mounted the plinth and rested his hands on the wooden lectern.

He paused, sweeping his gaze around the assembled men and women, favouring them all with his attention.

“The fearful and unbelieving, the abominable and the murderers, the whoremongers and sorcerers, idolaters and all liars, shall have their part in the lake which burning with fire and brimstone,” said Magnus, as though reading from a text. “Those words are from a book written thousands of years ago in the forgotten ages, ironically from a passage named Revelations. This is what people thought in those barbaric times. It shows what savagery we came from, and how easy it is for our species to turn upon one another. These words of fear sent thousands to their death over the millennia, and for what? To salve the fears of ignorant men who had not the wit to embrace the power of new ideas.”

Magnus stepped from the plinth, circling the amphitheatre like a lecturing iterator. Where Mortarion had hectored the assembly with venom, Magnus spoke as though every member of the assembly, from the lowliest adept to the Emperor himself, were old friends gathered for a good-natured debate.

“If one of us were to walk among the people of those times, they would kill us for the technology we possess, thinking it witchcraft or unclean devilment. For example, before the writings of Aristarchus of Samos, men believed that Old Earth was flat, an unbroken plain where the oceans simply fell from the edges. Can you imagine anything more ridiculous? Now we take the sphericity of planets for granted. Much later, priestly scholars taught that Terra was the centre of the cosmos, and that the sun and planets revolved around it. The man who challenged this geocentric foolishness was tried for heresy, and forced to recant his beliefs. Now we know our place in the galaxy.”

Magnus paused before Mortarion, meeting the hostile glare of the Death Lord with one of quiet amusement.

“From the deepest desire often comes the deadliest hatred,” he said, “and false words are not only evil in themselves, but they infect the hearts of all who hear them with evil. Imagine what we will know in a thousand years and think, really think, what we are doing here.”

Magnus turned from Mortarion and walked to the centre of the amphitheatre, lifting his hands out to his sides and slowly turning on the spot as he spoke.

“Imagine the Imperium of the future, a golden Utopia of enlightenment and progress, where the scientist and the philosopher are equal partners with the warrior in crafting a bounteous future. Now imagine the people of that glorious age looking back through the mists of time to this moment. Think what they will know and what they would make of this travesty. They would weep to know how close the flame of enlightenment had come to being snuffed out. The art and science of questioning everything is the source of all knowledge, and to abandon that will doom us to slow decay, an Imperium of darkness and ignorance, where those who dare to pursue knowledge, whatever the cost to themselves, are regarded with suspicion. That is not the Imperium I believe in. That is not the Imperium I wish to be part of.

“Knowledge is the food of the soul, and no knowledge can be thought of as wrong, so long as each seeker after truth is master of what he learns. Nothing worth knowing can be taught, it must be learned with the blood and sweat of experience, and there are no greater scholars of that ilk than the Thousand Sons. Even as we fight in the forefront of the Emperor’s Crusade we study the things others ignore, questing for knowledge in the places others fear to tread. There are no truths unknown, no secrets too hidden and no paths too labyrinthine for us to follow, for they lead us upwards to enlightenment.

“Hard-won knowledge is of no value unless it is put into practice. Knowing is not enough; we must apply. Willing is not enough; we must do!”

Magnus smiled, and Ahriman saw he had won over great swathes watching him.