Текст книги "A Thousand Sons"

Автор книги: Грэм Макнилл

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The Emperor’s sword was drawn, and his gaze locked with that of Magnus, as though they engaged in silent communion unheard by any others. Ahriman tore his gaze from the Emperor and saw that Magnus was pinned to his seat, his body rigid and his skin pale. His eye was tightly closed, and Ahriman saw an almost imperceptible tremor in his flesh, as though powerful currents of electricity were tearing through him.

“If I am guilty of anything, it is the pursuit of knowledge,” hissed Magnus through clenched teeth. “I am its master, I swear it.”

Ahriman could hear no more, for Magnus suddenly drew a gasping breath, like a drowning man upon finding the surface of an ocean.

“Hear now the words of my ruling,” said the Emperor, and the amphitheatre filled with the sound of scratching quills. “I am not blind to the needs of the Imperium, but nor am I blind to the realities of the hearts of men. I hear men speak of knowledge and power as though they are abstract concepts to be employed as simply as a sword or gun. They are not. Power is a living force, and the danger with power is obsession. A man who attains a measure of power will find it comes to dominate his life until all he can think of is the acquisition of more. Nearly all men can stand adversity, but few can stand the ultimate test of character, that of wielding power without succumbing to its darker temptations.”

As much as the Emperor was addressing the entire amphitheatre, Ahriman had the powerful sense that his words were intended solely for Magnus.

“Peering into the darkness to gain knowledge of the warp is fraught with peril, for it is an inconstant place of shifting reality, capricious lies and untruths. The seeker after truth must have a care he is not deceived, for false knowledge is far more dangerous than ignorance. All men wish to possess knowledge, but few are willing to pay the price. Always men will seek to take the short cut, the quick route to power, and it is a man’s own mind, not his enemy or foe, that will lure him to evil ways. True knowledge is gained only after the acquisition of wisdom. Without wisdom, a powerful person does not become more powerful, he becomes reckless. His power will turn on him and eventually destroy all he has built.

“I have walked paths no man can know and faced the unnameable creatures of the warp. I understand all too well the secrets and dangers that lurk in its hidden darkness. Such things are not for lesser minds to know; no matter how powerful or knowledgeable they believe themselves to be. The secrets I have shared serve as warnings, not enticements to explore further. Only death and damnation await those who pry too deeply into secrets not meant for mortals.”

Ahriman blanched at the Emperor’s words, feeling their awful finality. The promise of extinction was woven into every word.

“I see now I have allowed my sons to delve too profoundly into matters I should never have permitted them to know even existed. Let it be known that no one shall suffer censure, for this conclave is to serve Unity, not discord. But no more shall the threat of sorcery be allowed to taint the warriors of the Astartes. Henceforth, it is my will that no Legion will maintain a Librarius department. All its warriors and instructors must be returned to the battle companies and never again employ any psychic powers.”

Gasps of astonishment spread through the amphitheatre, and Ahriman felt his skin chill at the absolute nature of the Emperor’s pronouncement. After everything that had been said, he couldn’t believe the judgement had gone against them.

The Emperor wasn’t finished, and thunder rolled in his voice.

“Woe betide he who ignores my warning or breaks faith with me. He shall be my enemy, and I will visit such destruction upon him and all his followers that, until the end of all things, he shall rue the day he turned from my light.”

BOOK THREE

PROSPERO’S LAMENT

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Something of my Own/Paradise/Treachery Revealed

LEMUEL FOUND MAHAVASTU Kallimakus on the edge of the great walls of Tizca. The old man was asleep in a padded chair with a sketchpad open across his lap. Lemuel kept his footsteps light, not wishing to wake his friend if he didn’t need to. The five months on Prospero had been good for Mahavastu, the fresh sea air and temperate climate restoring his ravaged physique and putting fresh meat on his bones.

Prospero had been good for them all. Lemuel had shed much of his extra weight and now carried himself with a confidence born of knowing that he was looking better than he had in decades. Whether that was down to the agreeable lifestyle on Prospero or his growing skills in aetheric manipulation, he couldn’t say.

Lemuel cast his eyes out over the view, alternating with glances down at the charcoal lines on Mahavastu’s sketchpad. The view was one of rugged splendour, high mountains, sweeping forests and a deep blue sky of incredible width. In the far distance, a jagged series of spires indicated the ruins of one of Prospero’s lost cities of the ancients. Mahavastu’s rendition of the view was less than impressive.

“I told you I was no artist,” said Mahavastu, without opening his eyes.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Lemuel. “It has some rustic charm to it.”

“Would you hang it on your wall?”

“A Kallimakus original?” asked Lemuel, taking a seat. “Of course. I’d be mad not to.”

Mahavastu chuckled dryly.

“You always were a terrible liar, Lemuel,” he said.

“It’s what makes me such a good friend. I’ll always tell the truth, because you’ll always know if I don’t.”

“A good friend anda great remembrance,” said Mahavastu, taking Lemuel’s hand. The old man’s fingers were like twigs and without strength. “Stay awhile if you have the time.”

“I’m meeting Kallista and Camille for lunch later, but I always have time for you, old friend. So, leaving aside your obvious talent, what’s brought the artistic urge out in you?”

Mahavastu looked down at the sketchpad and smiled ruefully. He flipped it closed, and Lemuel saw a look of aching sadness on the old man’s face.

“I wanted something for myself,” he said, with a furtive glance over his shoulder. “Something I knew Ihad done. Do you understand?”

“I think so,” said Lemuel guardedly, remembering the panicked words they had exchanged on Aghoru before the Thousand Sons’ dreadful battle with the Syrbotae giants in the Mountain.

“I remember leaving Prospero with the restored Legion so long ago,” said Mahavastu. “It was a glorious day, Lemuel. You would have wept to see it. Thousands upon thousands of warriors marching through the marbled processionals with rose petals falling from an empty sky and the cheers of the populace ringing in our ears. Magnus honoured me with a place in the triumphal march, and I have never felt such pride as I did that day. I could not believe that I, Mahavastu Kallimakus, was to chronicle the annals of Magnus the Red. There could be no greater honour.”

“I wish I could have seen it, but I doubt I was even born then.”

“Most likely not,” agreed Mahavastu, with tears in his eyes. “A Legion on the verge of destruction had been reunited with its lost primarch. He had saved them from the abyss. I treasure that memory, but the time since then feels like another has lived my life. I remember fragments, but none of it feels real. I have filled a library’s worth of books, but they are not my words. I cannot even read them.”

“That’s what I came to tell you, my friend,” said Lemuel. “I think I may be able to help you with that. Remember I said I had a partial copy of the Liber Loagaethin my library back on Terra, but how I’d never been able to source the Cloves Angelicae, its twin book with the letter tables?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“I have found a copy.”

“You have? Where?”

“In the library of the Corvidae,” said Lemuel. “Ever since we returned to Prospero, Ahriman has stepped up my training. He’s had me practically chained to a desk under the tutelage of Ankhu Anen, who is a scholar quite beyond anything I’ve ever experienced. I have to admit, I didn’t care for him when I first met him, but he’s been of immense help in my studies. I asked him about the book and he had a library servitor fetch it as though it was nothing at all.”

“Then you intend to translate what I have been writing?”

“In time, yes,” said Lemuel. “It’s a difficult language to crack, even with the letter keys. There are whole word groups that don’t look like real language at all. I’m going to see if Camille can use her psychometry to help me with it.”

Mahavastu sighed and said, “I wish you wouldn’t.” Lemuel was taken aback.

“You don’t want to know what you’ve been writing all this time?” he asked.

“I think I am afraid to know.”

“Afraid of what?”

“I am a scribe, Lemuel. I am an exceptionalscribe, and I do not make mistakes. You of all people know that. So why appoint me as a scribe only to prevent me from knowing what it is I write. I believe the words I have written are not meant for mortal eyes to see.”

Lemuel took a deep breath, shocked at the fear he heard in Mahavastu’s voice.

“I am an old man, Lemuel, and I am tired of living like this. I want to leave the crusade and return to my homeland. I want to see Uttarpatha before I die.”

“The records of the crusade will be poorer for your absence, my friend.”

“Come with me, Lemuel,” urged Mahavastu, keeping his voice low. “There is a curse upon this world, you must know that.”

“A curse? What are you talking about?”

“This world was destroyed once before through the arrogance of its people, and all human history tells us that men do not learn from their mistakes, even those as advanced as the Thousand Sons.”

“The people back then didn’t understand their abilities,” said Lemuel. “The Thousand Sons have mastered their powers.”

“Do not be so sure, Lemuel,” warned Mahavastu. “If they had truly mastered their powers, why would the Emperor forbid them to wield them? Why would he have ordered them back to Prospero except to more fully dismantle their Librarius?”

“I don’t know,” said Lemuel, “but how galling must it be to be told that all the great things they’ve done and all the knowledge they’ve accumulated is worthless and forbidden?”

“That is exactly what I mean,” said Mahavastu. “They have been forbidden to pursue their esoteric leanings, yet they do so regardless. Your continued instruction is in defiance of the Emperor’s edicts! Had you thought of that?”

A hot flush settled in Lemuel’s belly at the thought of defying the word of the Emperor. He hadn’tthought of it like that at all, for he saw no harm in the skills he was acquiring. The long journey back to the Thousand Sons home world had been a time of rest for the remembrancers, but upon arrival on Prospero their training had been, if anything, more intensive than ever.

“This Legion is doomed,” said Mahavastu, taking Lemuel’s hand once more and surprising him with its strength. “If they continue down this path, it will not be long until their defiance comes to light, and when that day comes…”

“What?”

“Be anywhere in the galaxy, but do not be on Prospero,” said Mahavastu.

THE MEETING WITH Mahavastu had unsettled Lemuel, and his thoughts were troubled as he made his way through the city towards his rendezvous with Camille and Kallista. Tall buildings of white and gold lined wide boulevards of pollarded trees. Luscious green fronds hung low over the streetscape, heavy with fruits of yellow and red.

As usual, the sun was warm, and balmy ocean-scented winds sighed through streets busy with people. The inhabitants of Tizca were tall and uniformly attractive. They had welcomed the return of the Thousand Sons elements of the 28th Expedition, and the remembrancers that came with them. Lemuel had found much to like on Prospero, not least its people.

Tizca was a wondrous city of glorious architecture, open spaces, lively theatres and beautiful parklands. The White Mountains and Acropolis Magna provided a stunning backdrop to the city, and the great pyramids and silver towers of the Thousand Sons cults towered over everything. In any other city, such dominating architecture would have been oppressive, but such was the harmony with which the pyramids were constructed that they seemed as natural a part of the landscape as the mountains themselves. Even the pyramid of the Pyrae, with its titanic guardian and burning finial blended with the city’s aesthetic.

The months he had spent on Prospero had given Lemuel a good grounding in the city’s geography, and such was the intuitive design of its layout that it was possible to navigate its many streets after only a short time.

Currently, he was heading east towards the Street of A Thousand Lions and Voisanne’s. Tucked away in one of Occullum Square’s radial streets, Lemuel had discovered Voisanne’s on one of his morning walks, a modest bakery-cum-restaurant that did the most incredible confectionaries. Though he had kept off most of the weight he had lost since Aghoru, he still liked to treat himself to something sweet when he felt in need of comfort.

Today was one of those days.

Mahavastu had picked a scab Lemuel hadn’t even realised was there. Like everyone within the Imperium, he had learned of the Edicts of Nikaea and the ramifications they would have. Though these edicts had come directly from the Emperor, dissenting voices already wondered how many of the Astartes Legions would actually obey the ruling.

That was a problem for someone else to deal with, and Lemuel hadn’t been surprised when Ahriman continued his training on the voyage back to Prospero.

Lemuel had simply taken the fact that the Thousand Sons were continuing their education of the remembrancers to mean that they were utterly certain of their abilities. Now he wondered if that were true. Were they meddling with powers that ought to be abhorred?

Lemuel had heard the story of Prospero’s fall, but he hadn’t really given any thought as to whyit had fallen. Ahriman spoke of Old Night as an unavoidable catastrophe, but was that really true? Might those millennia of horror been avoided had humanity left well alone the powers that he used with such familiar ease?

He looked towards the water-locked Pyramid of Photep, the glittering spire immense and shimmering with heat haze reflecting from its mirrored skin. Primarch Magnus dwelt within this mighty structure, its gold and silver embellishments shining as though afire in the noonday sun.

Lemuel entered a street lined with statues of rearing silver lions. Each was subtly different in pose and size from the others, as though a vast pack had been gilded then brought to Tizca and placed upon tall plinths of polished marble. He touched the leftmost lion for good luck, smiling at the notion that one particular lion could be luckier than another.

Two particularly regal beasts framed the entrance to a small area of parkland, and Lemuel paused to watch a group of Tizcan citizens practicing taijiquan under the watchful eye of a warrior of the Thousand Sons. He found calm in the slow, precise movements, letting the soothing repetitions and graceful unity ease his troubled mind.

Lemuel took in deep breaths as the class breathed, finding his hands moving in unconscious imitation. He smiled and his grim mood vanished. Lemuel moved on down the street and emerged into a vast square, though such a term was misleading for the open space was perfectly circular.

Numerous streets, eighty-one to be precise, radiated from Occullum Square, and the centre was taken up by a tall column in the Doric fashion with a flaming urn at its summit. A great relief carved on its square plinth depicted a personification of Prospero grieving for her lost civilisation, while an armoured figure with one eye lifted her up. Some said the tower was all that remained of a device once used by the ancients of Prospero to communicate with Terra in the days before Old Night, but no one had been able to make it work again.

It was market day, and the square was packed with stalls, traders and good-natured bartering as the people of Tizca haggled for silks, produce and handmade ornaments. It reminded Lemuel of home, and he had a sudden pang of nostalgia for the heaving, bustling, sweating markets of the Sangha commercia-subsid.

He threaded the crowds, politely declining offers of food and drink while stopping to purchase two crystal vials of scented oil. Lemuel headed south, taking Gordian Avenue until it cut east into a narrow street overhung with trellis and hanging fruit.

Voisanne’s was at the end of the street, and he saw Camille and Kallista waiting for him. He smiled and waved at them. They waved back, and he bent to plant chaste kisses on both womens’ cheeks.

“You’re late,” said Camille.

“My apologies, ladies,” said Lemuel. “I was purchasing gifts for you from the market, and it took longer than usual to haggle the merchant down from his ruinous prices.”

“Gifts?” asked Kallista, brightly. “Then you’re forgiven. What do you have for us?”

Lemuel placed a crystal vial before each woman and said, “Fragrant Boronia oil. I have no doubt your quarters are equipped with oil burners, so two droplets in water will fill your rooms with sweet floral undertones and a light, fruity scent that will refresh you and revitalise your creative energy. At least that’s what the merchant assured me would happen.”

“Thank you, Lemuel,” said Camille, unstoppering the vial and sniffing its contents. “Chaiya will love it. She loves our rooms to smell pretty.”

“Very nice,” added Kallista.

“It’s nothing, ladies,” said Lemuel, “just a trifle to apologise for my lateness.”

“I thought you were late becauseyou bought us these?” said Camille.

“Actually it was Mahavastu that made me late,” said Lemuel with enforced levity. “You know how the old man likes to tell an endless, rambling story.”

Camille looked askance, but Kallista nodded, and Lemuel was about to turn and ask for a menu when a waitress arrived bearing a tray of food. She placed a bowl of fruit before Kallista, a crème-filled pastry in front of Camille and frosted confections of spun sugar, sweet pastry and fruit for Lemuel.

The waitress went back inside, and Camille took a bite of her pastry.

She sighed with pleasure.

“Wonderful,” she said, “but I don’t think I’ll ever get used to them knowing what I’m going to order before I even ask for it.”

“I know,” said Lemuel. “I’d be worried if it wasn’t for the fact they bring what I absolutely want every time.”

“True,” agreed Camille. “I’ll let them off then. So, how was he?”

“Who?”

“Mahavastu, you said you saw him earlier.”

“Oh, he’s, well, he’s fine, if a little homesick, I think. He was talking about wanting to go home, to Terra, I mean.”

“Why?” asked Kallista. “Why would anyone want to leave Prospero? It’s paradise.”

“He’s getting old, I suppose. He wants to go home before it’s too late.”

“I’ll miss the old man,” said Camille. “He has interesting tales.”

“Yes,” agreed Lemuel, uncomfortable with keeping the conversation on Kallimakus, as though it revived an old itch. “Still, how are you two fine ladies getting on?”

“Good,” said Camille, taking another bite of her pastry. “I’ve catalogued most of the ruins around Tizca, and Khalophis is taking me further out into the Desolation soon. He’s taking me to one of the older cities. One of the first to be lost when Prospero fell, so he says.”

“Should be fascinating, my dear,” said Lemuel, “but please be careful.”

“Yes, father,” smiled Camille.

“I’m serious,” said Lemuel. “You don’t know what might be out there.”

“Okay, okay, I will.”

“Good. And you, my dear Kallista? What progress have you made recently? Is Ankhu Anen still working you hard in the Athenaeum?”

Kallista nodded enthusiastically. She had blossomed since coming to Tizca, and even in a city of handsome people, Kallista Eris still stood out. Rumour had it she was being courted by a rakishly handsome captain of the Prospero Spireguard. Not that Lemuel was short of offers of companionship, but he had his own reasons for maintaining his solitary lifestyle.

Since Nikaea, the frequency of Kallista’s nocturnal seizures had steadily lessened to the point they dared hope they had ceased altogether. She still carried her bottle of sakau, but had not needed it for months.

“Yes, Lemuel, he is. The Athenaeum is filled with texts said to pre-date Old Night, but they’re written in ancient Prosperine, which no one speaks anymore. I can help with the translation by linking back to the minds of the writers. It’s slow work, but it’s shedding a lot of light on what society was like before it collapsed. You should pay us a visit, I’m sure you’d find it fascinating to see how the planet’s developed since then.”

“I’ll do that, my dear,” promised Lemuel. “Ahriman has me very busy, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind me calling on you.”

“I’d like that,” said Kallista, finishing her fruit and taking a sip of water.

They chatted of inconsequential things for the rest of the afternoon, enjoying the warm sunshine and conversing as friends do. Some wine was brought, a crystal-white blend that Lemuel laughed to see was the vintage developed by Ahriman. As Lemuel poured the last of their second bottle, Camille brought the subject around to their hosts.

“So, how much longer do you think we have before the Thousand Sons redeploy?” she asked.

It was a question lightly asked, but Lemuel saw the undercurrent of anxiety behind it. Normally, he did not use his ability to read auras around his friends, understanding their need for privacy, but there was no mistaking Camille’s desire to stay on Prospero.

“I don’t know,” said Lemuel honestly. “Ahriman hasn’t said anything, but with the other Legions earning glory in battle, I know they’re eager for a tasking order. The Emperor’s Children on Laeran, the Luna Wolves on One Forty Twenty, the Ultramarines at Mescalor; it’s been over two years since Ark Reach and yet the Thousand Sons are idle while their brothers make war.”

“Do you think it has anything to do with Nikaea?” asked Kallista.

“I think it must,” said Lemuel. “From what I hear, the Crimson King couldn’t leave Nikaea fast enough. According to Ahriman, the primarch has had all his warriors buried in their cult’s libraries since they got back.”

“I heard that too,” said Kallista with a conspiratorial smile. “I even overheard Ankhu Anen talking to Amon about it.”

“Did you hear what they were looking for?”

“I think so, but I didn’t really understand what they said. It sounded like they were looking for ways to project a body of light farther than ever, whatever that means.”

“What do you suppose that’s in aid of?” asked Camille.

“I have no idea,” said Lemuel.

HORROR. SHOCK. DISBELIEF. Anger.

All these emotions surged through Ahriman’s body as he listened to his primarch’s words. Together with the other eight captains of the Pesedjet, he stood upon the labyrinth spiral of Magnus’ inner sanctum within the Pyramid of Photep. Slatted shafts of late afternoon sunlight cut the gloom, yet he could feel only oppressive darkness pressing in on him. He couldn’t bring himself to believe what he had just heard. Had anyone other than Magnus said these treacherous words, he would have killed them.

From his position on the spiral, he could see each of his fellow captains. Phosis T’kar’s brow was knotted in fury, his fists bunched in rage. Beside him, Phael Toron ground his teeth, and black mosaic chips wobbled in their mortar beds as their anger manifested around them.

Hathor Maat affected an air of calm, but his anguish was clear to see in the radiant aether light pulsing behind his features. Khalophis and Auramagma glowed with the power of their shock, sparks of flame bursting to life at their fingertips.

Uthizzar looked dreadful, his ashen face crumpled by the weight of unimaginable treachery yet to come as he felt the primarch’s sense of betrayed grief as his own, Ahriman had known something unthinkable was coming. He had felt it for months, knowing that Magnus was keeping a monstrous secret from his captains while he worked feverishly and alone in his private library and the vaults beneath Tizca. Amon and Ankhu Anen had shared Ahriman’s knowledge that something was wrong, but even their combined power was unable to pierce the veils of the future to see what so concerned their primarch.

“This cannot be,” said Hathor Maat, for once articulating the feelings of his brothers with perfect understanding. “You must be wrong.”

No captain of the Thousand Sons would normally dream of uttering such a thing to Magnus, yet this was a matter of such outrageous impossibility that the words had been on the verge of spilling from Ahriman’s lips.

“He is not,” said Uthizzar, unashamed tears spilling down his face. “It will come to pass.”

“But Horus,” said Phosis T’kar. “He couldn’t… He won’t. How could he?”

Phosis T’kar could barely say the words. To voice them would give them solidity and make them real.

“How can you be sure?” asked Khalophis.

“I saw it,” said Magnus, “beneath the amphitheatre of Nikaea. I saw the face of the monster, and though I wish it were not so, I saw the truth of its words. Since our return from Nikaea, I have travelled the Great Ocean and followed the paths of the future and the past. A billion threads of destiny from long ago have woven this one crucial filament upon which the fate of the galaxy hangs. Either we save Horus or we will be dragged into a war more terrible than any of us can imagine. I travelled the distant lands of the past, pushing the limits of my power to unlock the truth, and this has been coming for a very long time.”

Magnus opened his great grimoire and traced his finger down the latest pages filled with his writings.

“An ancient prophecy of the Aegyptos speaks of a time in the far future when all is war and the god of the sky, Heru, is initially set to protect his people from chaos,” he read. “Much of that prophecy has been lost, but Heru turns on another god named Sutekh, a dazzling golden god, for dominion over all. In this form Heru was known as Kemwer, which means the Great Black One in the old tongue.”

“What do ancient legends have to do with Horus Lupercal?” demanded Phosis T’kar.

“Heru is but one of the names of an even older god, whose name can be translated as Horus,” said Magnus. “The clues have been there all along, if only we had the wit to see them. Alas for so much has been lost. Even as we expand our knowledge, we forget so much.”

“Does the prophecy say any more?” asked Uthizzar. Magnus nodded.

“It tells that neither side will be victorious, but says that many of Horus’ brother gods sided with him in the struggle,” he said. “If Horus wins, he will become known as Heru-Ur, which means Horus the Great. Should Sutekh lose, his land will become barren and desolate for all time.

“The early tales of the god Horus say that during a new moon, he would be blinded and was named Mekhenty-er-irty, which translates as He who has no Eyes. This was a very dangerous time, for until the moon rose again, Horus was a tremendously dangerous figure, oft-times attacking those who loved him after mistaking them for hated foes.”

“Why would Horus Lupercal do such a thing?” asked Amon. “What possible reason could there be?”

“An insult to his pride?” suggested Auramagma. “Ambition? Jealousy?”

“No,” said Ahriman, recognising emotions that would cause Auramagma to strike a brother. “Such things drive mortals to war, not primarchs. Something else is at the root of this.”

“Then what?” demanded Hathor Maat. “What madness could possibly make Horus Lupercal turn traitor?”

There. It had been said out loud, and only now did Ahriman dare look at Magnus. The primarch was dressed like a mortuary priest, and his shoulders were slumped in the manner of a man awaiting the executioner’s axe. Clad in a simple robe of crimson, and cloaked in a white shroud, Magnus waited for his sons to work through their emotions to a place of rationality.

Ahriman wished Magnus had not told them of his vision, for there was solace in ignorance. For the first time in his life, Ahriman wished to un-knowsomething.

Horus Lupercal was going to betray them all.

Even thinking the words seemed like a betrayal of the Warmaster’s honour and nobility.

“Well?” demanded Hathor Maat. “What could it be?”

“Something will take root in his soul,” said Ahriman, feeling the words come without conscious thought, as though he knew the answers, but didn’t have the right words to articulate them. “Something primordial and yet corrupt.”

“What does that even mean?” snapped Phosis T’kar. “You think a simple void-predator can violate the flesh of a primarch? Ludicrous!”

“Not violate, but I… I don’t know,” said Ahriman, looking directly at Magnus. “I don’t know, but on some level it is true. I am right, am I not?”

“You are, my son,” agreed Magnus sadly. “There is much I do not yet understand of what is happening to my brother, but time is running out to stop it. The Luna Wolves will soon be making war on a moon of Davin, and the fates are conspiring to fell Horus with a weapon of dreadful sentience. In his weakened and blinded state, the enemies of all life will make their move to ensnare his warrior heart. Without our intervention, they will succeed and split the galaxy asunder.”

“We have to warn the Emperor,” said Hathor Maat. “He has to know of this!”

“What would you have me tell him?” roared Magnus. “That his best and brightest son will betray him? Without proof, he would never believe it. He would send his war dogs to bring us to heel for employing the very means that have allowed us to know of this betrayal! No, there is only one option open to us. We must save Horus ourselves. Only if we fail do we take word to the Emperor.”

“What can we do to stop this?” asked Uthizzar. “Ask and we obey.”

“The works I have had you researching since Nikaea hold the key to Horus Lupercal’s salvation,” said Magnus. “With your help, I will project myself across the warp and shield my brother from his enemies.”

“My lord,” protested Amon. “That evocation will require power of undreamed magnitude. I am not even certain such a thing can be done. Nothing we have found is conclusive in how effective such a ritual could be.”