A Thousand Sons

  Lemuel looked up in horror.

  “Sweet Inkosazana, Lady of Heaven save me,” he said.

  Ahriman forgave the heathen imprecation as Lemuel took several deep breaths and wiped his mouth clean. He spat and said, “That’s… horrible, I mean to say, incredible… How… how did he know those soldiers were going to move at that moment?”

  “Because across the street is an Athanaean captain named Uthizzar,” said Ahriman, indicating a warrior crouched in the cover of another fallen column. “He read the thoughts of their commander and told Hastar when they were going to move.”

  “Incredible,” repeated Lemuel. “Simply incredible.”

  Ahriman smiled, pleased that his Neophyte had so quickly accepted the fundamental powers of the Thousand Sons. The new Imperium’s unseemly rush to embrace secularism and reason had encouraged many of its subjects to abandon their sense of wonder. The new creed denied knowledge of the esoteric, condemning those who pursued such science as unclean sorcerers instead of embracing their work as simply a new form of understanding.

  “You are a fast study, Lemuel,” said Ahriman, standing and rallying his warriors with a raised fist. “Now read the auras and tell me what you feel.”

  Three hundred warriors, primarily Ahriman’s Sekhmet Terminators and veterans of the Scarab Occult, formed up alongside Uthizzar’s plate-armoured warriors.

  “Pride,” said Lemuel, closing his eyes, “fierce pride in their abilities.”

  “You can do better than that,” said Ahriman. “A child could tell me that of warriors. Reach out further.”

  Lemuel’s breathing deepened, and Ahriman read the change in his aura as he forced himself into the lowest of the Enumerations. It was clumsily done and awkward, but it was more than most mortals could do.

  How easy it was to forget that Ahriman had once not known how to rise through his states of consciousness. Teaching someone a task he found as natural as breathing made it easy to forget where the difficulties lay.

  “Let it come naturally,” said Ahriman. “Be borne upon its waves and it will guide you to what you seek.”

  Lemuel’s face eased as he caught the city’s emotional pulse, the fearful black of its populace, the angry crimson of its soldiers and the underlying golden pride that beat in every heart.

  Ahriman sensed the violent spike of psychic energy a second before it hit.

  It swept over them, a sudden, shocking blast of psychic noise that overwhelmed the senses with its sheer violence. Uthizzar cried out and dropped his weapon. Lemuel doubled over in pain, convulsing in spastic fits.

  “What in the name of the Great Ocean was that?” cried Sobek. “A weapon?”

  “A psychic shockwave,” gasped Uthizzar. “One of immense proportions.”

  Ahriman forced the pain away and knelt beside Lemuel. The remembrancer’s face was a mask of blood. It wept from his eyes and poured in a steady stream from his nose.

  “So strong?” asked Ahriman, still blinking away hazy afterimages. “Are you sure?”

  Uthizzar nodded.

  “I am,” he said. “It is a howl of pure rage, cold, jagged and merciless.”

  Ahriman trusted Uthizzar’s judgement, tasting icy metal and feeling the rage of a hunter’s fury denied.

  “Such a force of psychic might is too powerful for any normal mind,” said Uthizzar, reliving a painful memory. “I have felt this before.”

  Ahriman read Uthizzar’s aura and knew.

  “Leman Russ,” he said.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Library/Flesh Change/The Peacemaker

  THEY PUSHED HIGHER into the Phoenix Crag. Ahriman’s First Fellowship linked with Hathor Maat’s 3rd in a gorge of artisans’ workshops, and scout elements of the Prospero Spireguard joined them in a region of hollowed out silo peaks. Drop-troops of the Ouranti Draks, with their scale cloaks and reptilian helmets, had seized the districts above Ahriman’s position, and parted to allow the purposeful Astartes past.

  Reports of the fighting came in a haphazard jumble: a close range firefight in the south-western subsids, a swirling melee involving six thousand soldiers across the lower slopes of a manufacturing region in the mountain’s rumpled skirts, artillery duels on the northern residential flanks, dizzying aerial jousts fought between the disc-skimmers of the Thousand Sons and the last of the shrike-riders.

  The reports intersected and cut across each other in blurted outbursts. Ahriman was barely able to sift meaning from the chaos. Through all the reports of impending victory and the destruction of enemy forces, two facts were abundantly clear.

  The Word Bearers were advancing slowly, much slower than he would have expected.

  The same could not be said of the Space Wolves.

  Leman Russ and his First Great Company had dropped directly onto the silver mountain’s highest peak, extinguishing its eternal flame and toppling the symbols of rulership. The hearthguard of the Phoenix Court valiantly opposed the surging, unstoppable force of the Space Wolves, but they had been torn to scraps and hurled from the mountaintop.

  The defeated kings offered terms of surrender, but Leman Russ was deaf to such pleas. He had sworn words of doom upon the Grand Annulus, and the Wolf King would never break an oath for something as trivial as mercy. The Space Wolves tore down through the mountain, an unstoppable force of nature, their blades and bolts gutting the defenders’ ranks like a butcher with a fresh carcass.

  Nothing was left in their wake, the mountain city a work of art vandalised by thoughtless brutality and wanton savagery. Behind the warriors of Russ was only death, and before them was their next target for destruction: the Great Library of the Phoenix Crag, where Magnus the Red and Phosis T’kar’s 2nd Fellowship stood in ordered ranks.

  Finally, the Space Wolves rampage was halted.

  AHRIMAN LED HIS warriors across a yawning chasm on a slender causeway that arched up towards a wide plaza before an enormous glittering pyramid of glass and silver. Many of its gilded panes had been shattered in the battle, but it was still a magnificent structure, like the pyramid temples of Prospero, albeit on a much smaller scale.

  “Russ’ warriors made a holy mess of this place,” said Hathor Maat, surveying the damage done to Phoenix Crag. “I’m inclined to agree with you, Ahzek.”

  “About what?”

  “That maybe all this was a waste of lives,” said Hathor Maat, surprising Ahriman with the sincerity he heard.

  This far up the mountain, Ahriman could see its summit, a sagging silver peak that belched smoke instead of symbolic fire. Fires burned across the mountain’s heights, and from his vantage point on the causeway he saw that the lower reaches fared no better.

  Ahead of him, kneeling Astartes in the livery of the 2nd Fellowship defended the end of the causeway. The Astartes had their bolters levelled, and he saw the shimmer of kine shields distorting the air before them.

  Lemuel Gaumon caught up with Ahriman. The man’s complexion was ruddy, and smears of blood coated his cheeks.

  “What’s going on?” asked Lemuel, between greedy heaves of thin air. “Can you see the Wolf King? Are his warriors in trouble?”

  “Something like that,” agreed Ahriman. “They are in trouble. I just do not yet know of whose making.”

  Ahriman shared a glance with Uthizzar, but his fellow captain shrugged in bewilderment. That wasn’t good. If a telepath couldn’t fathom what was going on, then he had little chance.

  “Come on,” he said, “let’s find out what’s at the heart of this.”

  The warriors at the end of the causeway lowered their bolters at his approach, and Ahriman saw wide gouges torn in their shoulder guards. These were not the neat slices of shrike claws, they were the maim-wounds of chainswords.

  The grandeur of the Great Library reared above him in a shimmering vitreous slope of polarised glass. A vast golden gateway led inside, and Ahriman took a moment to relish the thought of exploring its farthest depths to unlock this world’s secrets.

  Bands
of Thousand Sons warriors defended the ends of a number of other causeways, each one leading back to the bulk of the mountain. Magnus the Red stood at the edge of the plaza, his armour a blaze of gold and crimson. His curved sword was bared and his entire body crackled with aetheric fire. Behind Magnus stood his ancient scribe, and Ahriman was amazed that the old man had survived the fury of this fight.

  Phosis T’kar ran over to Ahriman, his heqa staff alive with hissing lines of energy.

  “Ahzek, Hathor, you took your time,” said Phosis T’kar.

  “We got here as soon as we could,” snapped Hathor Maat.

  “You’re both here now, that’s what matters I suppose. Any sign of Khalophis?”

  “No,” said Ahriman. “He is crystal-joined with his robots. It is hard to pinpoint his location when his consciousness is so dispersed.”

  Phosis T’kar shrugged.

  “Fine,” he said. “We’ll need to deal with this situation without him.”

  “T’kar,” said Ahriman. “Tell me what is happening! We heard a psychic shout more powerful than anything I’ve ever known.”

  “It was Leman Russ,” said Uthizzar. “Wasn’t it?”

  Phosis T’kar nodded, turning and indicating that they should follow him.

  “Most probably,” he spat. “Killed almost every Athanaean in my Fellowship, and most of the ones that aren’t dead are reduced to drooling lackwits.”

  “Dead?” cried Uthizzar. These warriors were not of his Fellowship, but as Magister Templi of the Athanaeans, they were as much Uthizzar’s as they were Phosis T’kar’s.

  “Dead,” snapped Phosis T’kar. “That’s what I said. Now stop wasting time. The primarch calls you to his side.”

  Ahriman put aside his anger at Phosis T’kar’s brusqueness and followed him to where Magnus stood at the end of the widest causeway.

  “Where is the Wolf King?” asked Lemuel.

  Phosis T’kar looked down at the man with disdain.

  “Answer him,” said Ahriman.

  “We don’t know for sure,” said Phosis T’kar, “but he is on his way, that we do know.”

  Magnus turned at their approach, and Ahriman felt the force of the primarch’s anger. His flesh seethed with life, pulsing red just beneath the skin, and his eye was a similarly belligerent hue. Magnus’ stature had always been one of variable proportions, but his rage had made him huge.

  Ahriman felt Lemuel’s fear, but was surprised not to feel any from Mahavastu Kallimakus before realising that the man’s will was suppressed by a mental connection to the primarch.

  “Who would have thought it would come to this?” said Magnus, and Ahriman put thoughts of the primarch’s scribe from his mind.

  “Come to what?” asked Magnus. “What is going on?”

  “That,” said Phosis T’kar, pointing down the length of the causeway.

  A wedge of Space Wolves massed at the end of the causeway, led by a warrior in a leather mask whose eyes were chips of cold, merciless flint. Their blades were bared, and a pack of slavering wolves hauled on thick chains, desperate to rend and tear.

  “Amlodhi Skarssen?” said Ahriman. “I don’t understand. Are they attacking us? Why?”

  “No time to explain,” said Phosis T’kar. “Here they come!”

  THE CHARGE OF the Space Wolves was a thing of great and terrible beauty.

  They advanced in a great wave of clashing armoured plates, beating shields and waxed beards. They did not run, but came on in a loping jog, their feral grins, exposed fangs and lack of haste speaking of brutal confidence in their abilities.

  These warriors didn’t need speed to break through their enemies.

  Their skill at arms would be enough.

  Ahriman’s horror mounted with every stride the Space Wolves took towards the Thousand Sons. How had these warriors, so recently their allies, become their enemies? The chains holding the snarling wolves were let slip and the monstrous beasts sprinted along the causeway.

  Phosis T’kar took up position in the centre of the Thousand Sons line. His fellow warriors of the Raptora cult knelt to either side of him.

  “Kine shields,” ordered Phosis T’kar, extending his hands before him. The air before them hazed as the force shields rippled to life.

  “Give those wolves something to think about,” said Hathor Maat, as his Pavoni conjured writhing electrical storms in the path of the bounding wolves. Hastar took up position beside Hathor Maat, his gauntlets crackling with potent lightning.

  “There is to be no killing, my sons,” said Magnus. “We will have no blood on our hands from a fight that is not of our making.”

  The crackling webs of lightning paled as Hathor Maat diminished their power, though Ahriman felt his reluctance.

  “My lord?” begged Ahriman. “Why is this happening?”

  “I secured the Great Library with the Scarab Occult,” said Magnus, “but Skarssen’s Great Company arrived right on our heels. They sought to destroy the library. I stopped them.”

  Ahriman had the sickening feeling of events spiralling beyond control. Pride, ego and the primal urge for war had collided, and such blinding drives almost always had to run their devastating course before they could be halted.

  The charge of the Space Wolves was an unstoppable, elemental power.

  The Thousand Sons were an implacable and immovable bulwark.

  What force in the galaxy could yoke these unleashed forces?

  THE BOUNDING WOLVES were the first to feel the fury of the Thousand Sons. They bounded into the flickering web of lightning and their fur instantly caught alight. Howls of agony echoed from the mountainside as fur was seared from their backs. The wolves snapped and rolled in their frenzy to douse the flames. Two fell from the causeway, fiery comets streaking to their deaths far below. Others fled, while a hardy few pushed onwards.

  None survived to reach the Thousand Sons.

  The Space Wolves jogged through the wall of aetheric fire, their armour hissing and blackening, but keeping them safe from harm. Wolf-painted shields locked together, and swords the colour of ice slid between them. The cries of the beasts had died, replaced with a furious, ululating howl torn from the throats of Amlodhi Skarssen’s warriors.

  Ten metres separated the two forces.

  “Push them back!” ordered Magnus.

  Phosis T’kar nodded, and the warriors of the 2nd Fellowship marched onto the causeway, kine shields matched against physical ones.

  “We have to stop this!” cried Ahriman. “This is madness.”

  Magnus turned his gaze upon him, and his primarch’s towering fury coalesced around him, a crushing rage as primal as anything felt by a Space Wolf.

  “We did not start this fight, Ahzek,” said Magnus, “but if need be we will finish it.”

  “Please, my lord!” begged Ahriman. “If we take arms against the Wolf King’s warriors, he will never forgive us.”

  “I do not need his forgiveness,” snapped Magnus, “but I will have his damned respect!”

  “This is not the way to get it, my lord. We both know it. The Wolf King never forgets and never forgives. Kill even one of his warriors and he will forever hold you accountable.”

  “It is too late, Ahzek,” said Magnus, his voice haunted by some nameless fear. “It has already begun.”

  The shields of the Thousand Sons clashed with those of Amlodhi Skarssen’s Space Wolves with a discordant squealing, scraping sound of invisible force meeting ice-forged steel. Space Wolves and Thousand Sons bent their backs to push one another back, a battle of strength against will.

  No guns were drawn, as though both forces realised that this struggle needed to be settled with each warrior looking his foe squarely in the eye. They locked together, unmoving and as rigid as carved Astartes in a triumphal battle fresco, but it was a deadlock that couldn’t last.

  Slowly, metre by metre, the Thousand Sons were being forced back.

  “Hathor Maat!” ordered Magnus. “Take them down!”

/>   The captain of the 3rd Fellowship hammered a fist into his chest and directed his ferocious will to aiding his battle-brothers. Hastar stood next to him as his fellow warriors of the Pavoni unleashed the full force of their bio-manipulation.

  Unseen currents of aetheric energy sliced into the Space Wolves, blocking neural transmitters, redirecting electrical impulses in the brain and rapidly deoxygenating the blood flowing from their lungs. The effect was instantaneous.

  The Space Wolves’ push faltered as their bodies rebelled. Limbs spasmed, heart muscles fibrillated and warriors lost all physical autonomy, jerking like the maddened dolls of a demented puppeteer. Ahriman watched as Amlodhi Skarssen dropped to one knee, his shield falling from nerveless fingers as his body refused to answer his demands.

  The Wolf Lord’s teeth gnashed together, bloody foam spilling from the mouthpiece of his mask. Space Wolves thrashed in bone-cracking agony as their nervous systems were flooded with conflicting neural impulses. Ahriman despaired of the relish Hathor Maat took in this wanton display of power. The Pavoni had a reputation for venality and spite, but this was sickening.

  “Stop this!” cried Ahriman, unable to contain his wrath. He ran forward and gripped Hathor Maat’s arm, twisting him around to face him. “Enough! You are killing them!”

  Ahriman sent a blast of white noise into Hathor Maat’s aura, and the captain of the 3rd Fellowship flinched.

  “What are you doing?” demanded Hathor Maat.

  “Stopping this,” said Ahriman. “Release them.”

  Hathor Maat stared at him, and then glanced at Magnus. Ahriman leaned in and gripped him by the edge of his pauldrons.

  “Do it!” shouted Ahriman. “Stop it now!”

  “It’s done,” snapped Hathor Maat, pushing Ahriman away.

  Ahriman turned back to the Space Wolves, letting out a shuddering breath as the energies of the Pavoni diminished. The grey-armoured warriors lay on the causeway, their charge broken, their impetus lost. Amlodhi Skarssen struggled to his feet, battling against rogue impulses tearing through his body. Skarssen’s eyes were filled with blood, and his entire body shook with the effort of standing before his enemies.