“I… Know… You,” hissed Skarssen, fighting for every word. “All… Of… You.”
“I told you to stop this!” cried Ahriman, rounding on Hathor Maat.
“And so I did,” protested Hathor Maat. “I swear.”
Ahriman felt a ferocious surge of power beside him and saw Hastar shaking as hard as Amlodhi Skarssen. Ahriman reached into his aura and felt a hot pulse of terror mixed with aberrant energies.
With a sickening sense of horrified recognition, he understood what was happening.
Hathor Maat saw it at the same time, and they barrelled into Hastar, knocking him to the ground as he began thrashing in the grip of a violent seizure.
“Hold him down!” shouted Ahriman, tearing at the pressure seals of Hastar’s gorget.
“Please, no,” begged Hathor Maat. “Hold on, Hastar! Fight it!”
Ahriman tore off the warrior’s helmet and threw it aside, looking down at something he had hoped and thought never to see again.
Hastar’s flesh seethed with ambition, writhing and twisting in unnatural ways, the meat and bone of his skull bulging with fluid growth. The warrior’s eyes were terrified, uncomprehending orbs filled with red light, like coals from a smouldering forge.
“Help me,” gasped Hastar.
“Flesh-change!” shouted Ahriman.
He fought to hold Hastar’s body down, but the changes wracking his body were as apocalyptic as they were catastrophic. His armour buckled as the body beneath it expanded so furiously and violently that the breastplate cracked down its centreline, the flesh beneath alive with change. Energised veins of electricity threaded his pallid flesh, sheened with glittering hoar-light sweating from the agonised warrior’s suddenly malleable flesh.
Hastar screamed, and Ahriman’s grip slackened as the horror of Ohrmuzd’s death surged from the locked room of his memory. Hastar threw them off, his expanding body swollen with grotesquely misshapen musculature, encrusted growths, mutant appendages and slithering ropes of wet matter.
With the gurgle of wet meat and the crack of malformed bones, Hastar’s body was suddenly upright, though any semblance of limbs was impossible to pick out in his erupting flesh. Swelling bulk and crackling energy patterns writhed across his flesh, and his screams turned to bubbling gibbers of maniacal laughter.
“Kill it!” shouted a voice, but Ahriman couldn’t tell whose.
“No!” he shouted, though he knew it was futile. “It’s still Hastar. He’s one of us!”
The Thousand Sons scattered from Hastar’s terrible new form, horrified and terrified in equal measure. This was their greatest fear returned to haunt them, a horror from their past long thought buried.
Unchained energies whipped from Hastar’s appendages, his torso and legs fused in a rippling trunk of glowing, protean flesh. Frills of half-formed membranes flapped in unseen winds, and a hateful laughter bubbled up from vestigial mouths that erupted all across his flesh. Hundreds of distended eyes, compound like an insect’s, slitted like a reptile’s or milky with multiple pupils boiled to life and popped with wet slurps every second. No part of the creature’s anatomy was fixed for more than a moment.
A dreadful, wracking sickness seized Ahriman, as though his innards were rebelling against their fixed shapes, his entire body trembling with desire for a new form.
“No!” cried Ahriman through gritted teeth. “Not again… I will not… succumb! I am Astartes, a loyal servant of the Supreme Master of Mankind. I will not fall.”
All around him, the Thousand Sons were on their knees or backs, fighting the virulent power of transformation as it spread from Hastar with the speed of the Life-Eater virus. Unless this power was dispelled, they would all fall prey to the spontaneous mutations that had once nearly ended their Legion.
“I survived before,” snarled Ahriman, clenching his fists. “I will survive again.”
Determination gave him strength, and he flexed his mind into the Enumerations, distancing himself from the pain and his trembling flesh. With every sphere he attained, his mastery of his corporeal form increased until he could open his eyes once more.
His every muscle ached, but he was still Ahzek Ahriman, of sound mind and body. He glanced over his shoulder, seeing the Space Wolves coming to their senses on the causeway. Either they were beyond the reach of these transformative energies or they were immune to its effects. The damage the Pavoni had wreaked upon their nervous systems was coming undone, and Amlodhi Skarssen took faltering steps towards the Thousand Sons, his axe unsheathed.
A surging wave of power erupted behind Ahriman and he rolled onto his side in time to see Magnus the Red step towards the hideously transformed Hastar. Unchecked energy had destroyed the warrior of the Pavoni, but it empowered Magnus. The creature Hastar had become reached out to Magnus, as though to embrace him, and the primarch opened his arms to receive him with forgiveness and mercy.
A thunderous bang sounded and Hastar’s body exploded as a single, explosive round detonated within his chest. Silence descended, and Ahriman distinctly heard the heavy tink of a monstrous brass casing striking the ground.
Ahriman followed the trajectory the shell had taken, tracing a smoking line back to a giant pistol gripped in the fist of a towering giant clad in grey ceramite and thick wolf pelts.
The Wolf King had come.
A faded poem, last read in a dusty archive in the Merican dustbowl, leapt unbidden to Ahriman’s mind. Supposedly transcribed from a commemorative monument, it marked the beginning of an ancient and awesomely destructive war:
By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled;
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard ’round the world.
SURROUNDED BY A pack of fur- and armour-clad warriors, bearing great axes and bloodied harpoon-like spears, Leman Russ approached the Great Library of Phoenix Crag. Though Ahriman had seen the Wolf King before, Leman Russ at war was an entirely different proposition to Leman Russ at peace. One was brutally fearsome and intimidating, and the other utterly terrifying, an avatar of destruction as monstrous as the bloodiest culture’s renditions of their gods of murder, war and death combined.
A living engine of destruction, Ahriman saw Russ clearly for what he was: pure force and will alloyed into a living weapon that could be aimed and loosed, but never called back.
The Wolf King reached the end of the causeway, and Ahriman saw Ohthere Wyrdmake at his side, the Rune Priest’s expression impossible to read. Together with his enormous wolves, Leman Russ marched towards the Thousand Sons. Ahriman expected the Wolf King to charge wildly towards them, to confirm every negative caricature his detractors painted, but he came slowly, with infinite patience and infinite fury.
His packwarriors awaited his return, aching to do harm.
All Ahriman could hear was the footsteps of Russ as he marched across the causeway. His stride was sure and measured, his expression set in stone. His frost-shimmer blade leapt to his hand, a weapon to cleave mountains. Magnus went to meet him, his curved golden sword bound with the power of the sun: Two war gods marching to battle, the souls of their Legions carried with them.
Ahriman wanted to say something, to halt this inexorable confrontation, but the sight of the two primarchs drawing together with murder in their hearts robbed him of speech.
Before either one could speak, a blistering sheet of light flashed into existence between them, a coruscating fire that shimmered with the light of the brightest star. Impossible images were thrown out by the light, faraway places and the bitter tang of incense, burned plastic and reeking generators that thrummed with power.
A hard bang of displaced air boomed from the mountainside, and the light was gone.
A broad-shouldered giant in battle armour of granite grey with skin of gleaming gold stood in its place.
“The Urizen,” whispered Ahriman.
“THIS ENDS NOW,” said the golden-skinned warrior.
>
He stood between Magnus and Russ like the arbiter of a fistfight. Ahriman’s previous impression of Lorgar was utterly dispelled as he looked upon the soulful features of the Word Bearers’ Primarch. His eyes were kohl-rimmed and filled with infinite sadness, as though he bore the burden of a sorrowful secret that he could never, ever, share.
Lorgar’s armour was dark, the colour of stone that has lain beneath the ocean for aeons, its every perfectly-nuanced plate worked with cuneiform inscriptions taken from the ancient books of Colchis. One shoulder-guard bore a heavy tome, its pages yellowed with age, fluttering in the disturbed air of his teleportation.
A cloak of deepest burgundy hung from his shoulders, and though he appeared unarmed, a primarch was never really without weapons.
Ahriman heard every word that passed between the three primarchs, each indelibly carved on his mind for all time. Their import would haunt him for the rest of his span.
“Get out of the way, Lorgar,” snarled Leman Russ, his veneer of apparent calm slipping for a moment. “This does not concern you.”
“Two of my brothers about to draw each other’s blood?” said Lorgar. “That concerns me.”
“Get out of my way,” repeated Russ, his fingers flexing on the hide-wound grip of his sword. “Or so help me—”
“What? You will cut me down too?”
Russ hesitated, and Lorgar stepped towards him.
“Please, brother, think of what you are doing,” he said. “Think of all the bonds of love and friendship that will be lost if you continue down this path to bloodshed.”
“The Cyclops has gone too far, Lorgar. He has spilled our blood and must pay.”
“BLOOD SPILLED THROUGH misunderstanding,” said Lorgar. “You must calm your fury, brother. Anger is no one’s friend when hard choices must be made. Let it cloud your mind and all you will have when it is gone are regrets. Remember Dulan?”
“Aye,” said Russ, and his thunderous expression mellowed. “The war with the Lion.”
“You brawled with Jonson in the throne room of the fallen Tyrant, and yet now you are oath-sworn brothers-in-arms. This is no different.”
Magnus was saying nothing, and Ahriman held his breath. Two such mighty beings facing one another with their aggression simmering so close to the surface was the most dangerous thing he had ever seen.
“Should we do something?” hissed Phosis T’kar, looking to Ahriman for guidance.
“Not if you want to live,” said Ahriman.
Titanic energies were bound within the immortal flesh of these warriors, and the tension crackling between them was razor-taut. Ahriman could feel their awesome psychic presences pressing against the lid of his skull, but dared not open his senses.
“You would stand with the Cyclops, Lorgar?” said Russ. “A wielder of unclean magicks? Look at the corpse of that… thing over there, the one with my bullet in its heart. Look at that and tell me I’m wrong.”
“An instability of gene-seed is no reason for two brothers to go to war,” cautioned Lorgar.
“That is more than just unstable gene-seed, it is sorcery. You know it as well as I. We all knew Magnus was mired in the black arts, but we turned a blind eye to it because he was our brother. Well, no more, Lorgar, no more. Every warrior of that Legion is tainted, wielders of spellcraft and necromancy.”
“Necromancy?” scoffed Magnus. “You know nothing.”
“I know enough,” spat Russ. “You have gone too far, Magnus. This is where it ends.”
Lorgar placed a golden hand upon his breastplate and said, “All the Legions wield such power, brother. Are your Rune Priests so different?”
Russ threw back his head and laughed, a booming roar of great mirth and riotous amusement.
“You would compare the Sons of the Storm with these warlocks?” he asked. “Our power is born in the thunder of Fenris and tempered in the heart of the world forge. It comes from the strength of the natural world and is shaped by the courage of our warrior souls. It is untainted by the corruption that befouls the Thousand Sons.”
Now it was Magnus’ turn to laugh.
“If you believe that, then you are a fool!” he said.
“Magnus! Enough!” barked Lorgar. “This is not the rime for such debate. Two of my dearest brothers are at each other’s throats, and it grieves me to know how this shall disappoint our father. Is this what he created us for? Is this why he scoured the heavens looking for us? So we could descend into petty bickering like mortals? We have greater destinies before us, and must be above such lesser concerns. We are our father’s avatars of conquest, fiery comets of righteousness set loose to illuminate the cosmos with his glory. We are his emissaries sent out into the galaxy to bear word of his coming. We must be bright, shining examples of all that is good and pure in the Imperium.”
Lorgar’s words reached out to all who heard them, the fundamental truth they contained like a soothing balm. Ahriman was ashamed they had allowed things to spin so violently out of control, seeing the true horror of this situation.
Brother against brother. Could there be anything worse?
The golden primarch seemed to shine with inner light, his skin radiant and beatific as he spoke. Hearts once raging were now calmed. The Space Wolves lowered their blades a fraction, and the Thousand Sons’ defensive posture relaxed in response.
“I will not stand by and let him destroy this world,” said Magnus, lowering his khopesh.
“It is not yours to save,” snapped Russ. “My Legion discovered this world. It is mine to do with as I see fit. Its people had a choice: join us and live, fight us and die. They chose to die.”
“Not everything is so black and white, Russ,” retorted Magnus. “If we destroy everything we encounter, what is the point of this crusade?”
“The point is to win it. Once it is over, we will deal with what is left.”
Magnus shook his head, saying, “What is left will be in ruins.”
Leman Russ lowered the ice-limned blade of his sword, his killing fury stilled for now.
“I can live with that,” he said, and without another word, marched from the causeway.
When he reached its end, he turned to face Magnus once more.
“This is not over,” he promised. “Blood of Fenris is on your hands, and there will be a reckoning between us, Magnus. This I swear upon the blade of Mjalnar.”
The Wolf King slashed the blade across his palm, letting brilliant scarlet droplets of blood spill out onto the cracked ground. He threw back his head and howled, and his warriors added their voices to their master’s cry until it seemed the whole mountain was howling.
The mournful cry rose to its tallest spires and echoed in its deepest valleys, a lament for the dead and a grim warning of things to come.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Compliance
WITH THE FALL of Phoenix Crag, the war on Shrike was as good as over, though, as with any conquest of such scale, isolated pockets of fighters remained. The mountains were rife with hidden aeries that not even the divinations of the Corvidae could uncover, and it was certain more blood would be spilled before compliance became complete.
While the Ouranti Draks garrisoned the city, Khalophis led the Prospero Spireguard and Lacunan Lifewatch in the task of hunting down the rogue aeries. The maniples of crystal-joined robots of the 6th proved invaluable in the work, climbing into the highest crags without fear, exhaustion or complaint. The warriors of the 6th Fellowship employed their Tutelaries to channel the fire of the Pyrae into the heart of the mountains, burning out their enemies and setting the peaks ablaze.
Less than ten hours after the Victory Confirmation, Leman Russ led his warriors from Shrike. Russ’ flagship, the Hrafnkel, led the Space Wolf Expeditionary fleet from the Ark Reach Cluster without fanfare or promises of brotherly camaraderie. Nothing more had been said of the confrontation before the Great Library, but the matter was far from settled. Magnus dismissed it as irrelevant, but those closest to him saw that the en
counter had shaken him, as though it had confirmed some long-held fear.
Civilians were afforded the opportunity to descend to the surface, and an army of iterators from the 47th Expedition began the long process of inculcating the populace with the enlightened philosophies of the Imperium. The Word Bearers participated in this process with the zeal of missionaries, shipping whole swathes of the populace to vast re-education camps constructed in the long valleys by follow-on teams of Mechanicum Pioneers.
Over the course of the three months since the death of the Phoenix Court, the entire repository of the Great Library was copied via pict scanners or transcribed by thousands of quill-servitors under the supervision of Ankhu Anen. The Primarch of the Thousand Sons devoured each text, digesting every morsel in the library faster than even the most advanced data-savant could process it.
Camille Shivani spent almost every waking minute in the library, poring over the histories of Heliosa and the earliest legends regarding the mythical birth rock of Terra. Immersed in the wealth of information, she studied the texts as any scholar might, but also freely indulged her talent for reading the imprints of past owners. Many of the histories were written by men with no connection to the events they described or by those who had won the wars they wrote about, and were thus of little value beyond subjective descriptions.
Tucked away in a neglected chamber near the top of the pyramid structure, however, Camille found a flaking, ochre-stained book that changed everything. Many of its pages were illegible thanks to moisture damage, but no sooner had she touched it than she knew she wouldn’t need to read the words to unlock its secrets.
This was history written by someone who had lived through it, an authentic account of an alien world as it passed through a turbulent period of change. In an instant, she knew the writer, a young man from the south by the name of Kaleb. She felt his hopes and dreams, his passions and his vices. Through his eyes, Camille lived a lifetime of joys and regrets, learning of his time, nearly two thousand years ago, when the tribal city-states of Heliosa had united under the belief in an ancient thunder god from their earliest days to defeat a marauding race from the stars.