But circumstance had suddenly made him popular. Beloved almost. Believed dead, he had been found alive, and in the light of Sejanus’s death, this had been taken as some compensation. The work of the remembrancer Euphrati Keeler had cemented his new role as the noble, wounded hero as the picts of his unexpected rescue had flashed around the fleet. Now the assembly welcomed him back rapturously, cheering his fortitude and resolve. He had been reinvented through misfortune into an adored hero.
Loken was quite sure Maloghurst was aware of this ironic turn, and fully prepared to make the most of it.
Maloghurst came out into the open. His injuries had been so severe that he was not yet able to clothe himself in the armour of the Legion, and wore instead a white robe with the wolf’s head emblem embroidered on the back. A gold signet in the shape of the Warmaster’s icon, the staring eye, formed the cloak’s clasp under his throat. He limped, and walked with the aid of a metal staff. His back bulged with a kyphotic misalignment. His face, drawn thin and pale since last it had been seen, was lined with effort, and waddings of synthetic skin-gel covered gashes upon his throat and the left side of his head.
Loken was shocked to see that he was now truly twisted. The old, mocking nickname suddenly seemed crass and indelicate.
Horus got down off the dais and threw his arms around his equerry. Varvarus and Abaddon both went over to greet him with warm embraces. Maloghurst smiled, and nodded to them, then nodded and waved up to the galleries around to acknowledge the welcome. As the applause abated, Maloghurst leaned heavily against the side of the dais, and placed his staff upon it in the ceremonial manner. Instead of returning to his place, the Warmaster stood back, away from the circle, giving his equerry centre stage.
‘I have enjoyed,’ Maloghurst began, his voice hard, but brittle with effort, ‘a certain luxury of relaxation in these last few days.’ Laughter rattled out from all sides, and the clapping resumed for a moment.
‘Bed rest,’ Maloghurst went on, ‘that bane of a warrior’s life, has suited me well, for it has given me ample opportunity to review the intelligence gathered in these last few months by our advance scouts. However, bed rest, as a thing to be enjoyed, has its limits. I insisted that I be allowed to present this evidence to you today for, Emperor bless me, never in my dreams did I imagine I would die of inaction.’
More approving laughter. Loken smiled. Maloghurst really was making the best use of his new status amongst them. He was almost… likable.
‘To review,’ Maloghurst said, taking out a control wand and gesturing with it briefly. ‘Three key areas are of interest to us at this juncture.’ His gestures activated the underdeck hololithic projectors, and shapes of solid light came into being above the strategium, projected so that all in the galleries could see them. The first was a rotating image of the world they orbited, surrounded by graphic indicators of elliptical alignment and precession. The spinning world shrank rapidly until it became part of a system arrangement, similarly draped in schematic overlays, a turning, three-dimensional orrery suspended in the air. Then that too shrank and became a small, highlighted component in a mosaic of stars.
‘First,’ Maloghurst said, ‘this area here, itemised eight fifty-eight one-seven, the cluster adjacent to our current locale.’ A particular stellar neighbourhood on the light map glowed. ‘Our most obvious and accessible next port of call. Scout ships report eighteen systems of interest, twelve of which promise fundamental worth in terms of elemental resource, but no signs of life or habitation. The searches are not yet conclusive, but at this early juncture might I be so bold as to suggest that this region need not concern the expedition. Subject to certification, these systems should be added to the manifest of the colonial pioneers who follow in our footsteps.’
He waved the wand again, and a different group of stars lit up. ‘This second region, estimated as… Master?’
Boas Comnenus cleared his throat and obligingly said, ‘Nine weeks, standard travel time to spinward of us, equerry.’
‘Nine weeks to spinward, thank you,’ Maloghurst replied. ‘We have barely begun to scout this district, but there are early indications that some significant culture or cultures, of interstellar capability, exist within its bounds.’
‘Currently functioning?’ Abaddon asked. Too often, Imperial expeditions came upon the dry traces of long perished societies in the desert of stars.
‘Too early to tell, first captain,’ Maloghurst said. ‘Though the scouts report some discovered relics bear similarities to those we found on seven ninety-three one-five half a decade ago.’
‘So, not human?’ Adept Regulus asked.
‘Too early to tell, sir,’ Maloghurst repeated. ‘The region has an itemisation code, but I believe you’ll all be interested to hear that it bears an Old Terran name. Sagittarius.’
‘The Dreadful Sagittary,’ Horus whispered, with a delighted grin.
‘Quite so, my lord. The region certainly requires further examination.’ The crippled equerry moved the wand again, and brought up a third coil of suns. ‘Our third option, further to spinward.’
‘Eighteen weeks, standard,’ Boas Comnenus supplied before he had to be asked.
‘Thank you, Master. Our scouts have yet to examine it, but we have received word from the 140th Expedition, commanded by Khitas Frame of the Blood Angels, that opposition to Imperial advance has been encountered there. Reports are patchy, but war has broken out.’
‘Human resistance?’ Varvarus asked. ‘Are we talking about lost colonies?’
‘Xenos, sir,’ Maloghurst said, succinctly. ‘Alien foes, of some capacity. I have sent a missive to the One Hundred and Fortieth asking if they require our support at this time. It is significantly smaller than ours. No reply has yet been received. We may consider it a priority to venture forward to this region to reinforce the Imperial presence there.’
For the first time since the briefing began, the smile had left the Warmaster’s face. ‘I will speak with my brother Sanguinius on this matter,’ he said. ‘I would not see his men perish, unsupported.’ He looked at Maloghurst. ‘Thank you for this, equerry. We appreciate your efforts, and the brevity of your summation.’
There was a ripple of applause.
‘One last thing, my lord,’ Maloghurst said. ‘A personal matter I wish to clear up. I have become known, so I understand, as Maloghurst the Twisted, for reasons of… character that I know are not lost on any present. I have always rejoiced in the title, though some of you might think that odd. I relish the arts politic, and make no effort to hide that. Some of my aides, as I have learned, have made efforts to have the soubriquet quashed, believing it offends my altered state. They worry that I might find it cruel. A slur. I want all here assembled to know that I do not. My body is broken, but my mind is not. I would take offence if the name was to be dropped out of politeness. I don’t value sympathy much, and I don’t want pity. I am twisted in body now, but I am still complex in mind. Don’t think you are somehow sparing my feelings. I wish to be known as I always was.’
‘Well said,’ Abaddon cried, and smacked his palms together. The assembly rose in a tumult as brisk as the one that had ushered Maloghurst on to the stage.
The equerry picked up his staff from the dais and, leaning upon it, turned to the Warmaster. Horus raised both hands to restore quiet.
‘Our thanks to Maloghurst for presenting these options to us. There is much to consider. I dissolve this briefing now, but I request policy suggestions and remarks to my attention in the next day, ship-time. I urge you to study all possibilities and present your assessments. We will reconvene the day after tomorrow at this time. That is all.’
The meeting broke up. As the upper galleries emptied, buzzing with chatter, the parties on the strategium deck gathered in informal conference. The Warmaster stood in quiet conversation with Maloghurst and the Mechanicum Adept.
‘Nicely done,’ Torgaddon whispered to Loken.
Loken breathed out. He hadn’t realised what a weig
ht of tension had built up in him since his summons to the briefing had arrived.
‘Yes, finely put,’ said Aximand. ‘I approve your commentary, Garviel.’
‘I just said what I felt. I made it up as I went along,’ Loken admitted.
Aximand frowned at him as if not sure whether he was joking or not.
‘Are you not cowed by these circumstances, Horus?’ Loken asked.
‘At first, I suppose I must have been,’ Aximand replied in an off-hand way. ‘You get used to it, once you’ve been through one or two. I found it was helpful to look at his feet.’
‘His feet?’
‘The Warmaster’s feet. Catch his eye and you’ll quite forget what you were going to say.’ Aximand smiled slightly. It was the first hint of any softening towards Loken that Little Horus had shown.
‘Thanks. I’ll remember that.’
Abaddon joined them under the shadow of the overhang. ‘I knew we’d picked right,’ he said, clasping Loken’s hand in his own. ‘Cut to the quick, that’s what the Warmaster wants of us. A clean appraisal. Good job, Garviel. Now just make sure it’s a good job.’
‘I will.’
‘Need any help? I can lend you the Justaerin if you need them.’
‘Thank you, but Tenth can do this.’
Abaddon nodded. ‘I’ll tell Falkus his Widowmakers are superfluous to requirements.’
‘Please don’t do that,’ Loken snapped, alarmed at the prospect of insulting Falkus Kibre, Captain of First Company’s Terminator elite. The other three quarters of the Mournival laughed out loud. ‘Your face,’ said Torgaddon. ‘Ezekyle goads you so easily,’ chuckled Aximand. ‘Ezekyle knows he will develop a tough skin, soon enough,’ Abaddon remarked.
‘Captain Loken?’ Lord Governor Elect Rakris was approaching them. Abaddon, Aximand and Torgaddon stood aside to let him through. ‘Captain Loken,’ Rakris said, ‘I just wanted to say, sir, I just wanted to say how grateful I was. To take this matter upon yourself and your company. To speak out so very directly. Lord Varvarus’s soldiers are trying their best, but they are just men. The regime here is doomed unless firm action is taken.’
‘Tenth Company will deal with the problem, lord governor,’ Loken said. ‘You have my word as an Astartes.’
‘Because the army can’t hack it?’ They looked around and found that the tall, princely figure of Lord Commander Varvarus had joined them too. ‘I-I didn’t mean to suggest…’ Rakris blithered. ‘No offence was intended, lord commander,’ said Loken.
‘And none taken,’ Varvarus said, extending a hand towards Loken. ‘An old custom of Terra, Captain Loken…’
Loken took his hand and shook it. ‘One I have been reminded of lately,’ he said.
Varvarus smiled. ‘I wanted to welcome you into our inner circle, captain. And to assure you that you did not speak out of turn today. In the south, my men are being slaughtered. Day in, day out. I have, I believe, the finest army in all of the expeditions, but I know full well it is composed of men, and just men. I understand when a fighting man is needed and when an Astartes is needed. This is the latter time. Come to my war cabinet, at your convenience, and I’ll be happy to brief you fully.’
‘Thank you, lord commander. I will attend you this afternoon.’
Varvarus nodded.
‘Excuse me, lord commander,’ Torgaddon said. The Mournival is needed. The Warmaster is withdrawing and he has called for us.’
THE MOURNIVAL FOLLOWED the Warmaster through the plated glass doors into his private sanctum, a wide, well-appointed chamber built below the well of the audience galleries on the port side of the flagship. One wall was glass, open to the stars. Maloghurst and the Warmaster bustled in ahead of them, and the Mournival drew back into the shadows, waiting to be called upon.
Loken stiffened as three figures descended the ironwork screw stair into the room from the gallery above. The first two were Astartes of the Imperial Fists, almost glowing in their yellow plate. The third was much larger. Another god.
Rogal Dorn, primarch of the Imperial Fists, brother to Horus.
Dorn greeted the Warmaster warmly, and went to sit with him and Maloghurst upon the black leather couches facing the glass wall. Servitors brought them refreshments.
Rogal Dorn was a being as great in all measure as Horus. He, and his entourage of Imperial Fists, had been travelling with the expedition for some months, though they were expected to take their leave soon. Other duties and expeditions called. Loken had been told that Primarch Dorn had come to them at Horus’s behest, so that the two of them might discuss in detail the obligations and remit of the role of Warmaster. Horus had solicited the opinions and advice of all his brother primarchs on the subject since the honour had been bestowed upon him. Being named Warmaster set him abruptly apart from them, and raised him up above his brothers, and there had been some stifled objections and discontent, especially from those primarchs who felt the title should have been theirs. The primarchs were as prone to sibling rivalry and petty competition as any group of brothers.
Guided, it was likely, by Maloghurst’s shrewd hand, Horus had courted his brothers, stilling fears, calming doubts, reaffirming pacts and generally securing their cooperation. He wanted none to feel slighted, or overlooked. He wanted none to think they were no longer listened to. Some, like Sanguineous, Lorgar and Fulgrim, had acclaimed Horus’s election from the outset. Others, like Angron and Perturabo, had raged biliously at the new order, and it had taken masterful diplomacy on the Warmaster’s part to placate their choler and jealousy. A few, like Russ and the Lion, had been cynically resolved, unsurprised by the turn of events.
But others, like Guilliman, Khan and Dorn had simply taken it in their stride, accepting the Emperor’s decree as the right and obvious choice. Horus had ever been the brightest, the first and the favourite. They did not doubt his fitness for the role, for none of the primarchs had ever matched Horus’s achievements, nor the intimacy of his bond with the Emperor. It was to these solid, resolved brothers that Horus turned in particular for counsel. Dorn and Guilliman both embodied the staunchest and most dedicated Imperial qualities, commanding their Legion expeditions with peerless devotion and military genius. Horus desired their approval as a young man might seek the quiescence of older, more accomplished brothers.
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?’