She smiled and pushed herself further up the bed. Lemuel poured some water, and she gratefully drank the entire glass.
“Thank you, Lemuel. You are a good friend.”
“I do my best, dearheart,” he said, before adding. “Do you remember anything about what you saw? I only ask because Ankhu Anen seemed to think it might be important.”
Kallista bit her bottom lip, and he saw an echo of the fearful look he’d seen at Voisanne’s.
“Some of it,” she said. “I saw Tizca, but not like we know it. There was no sunshine and the only light was from the fires.”
“Fires?”
“Yes, the city was burning,” said Kallista. “It was being destroyed.”
“By whom?”
“I don’t know, but I saw the shadow of a stalking beast in the thunderclouds, and I could hear howling from somewhere far away,” said Kallista, tears gathering in her eyes and spilling down her cheeks. “Everything was burning and glass was falling like rain. All the shards were like broken mirrors and every one of them had the image of a single staring eye looking back at me.”
“That’s quite a vision,” said Lemuel, taking her hand and stroking her upper arm.
“It was horrible, and it’s not the first time I’ve had one like it. I didn’t recognise Tizca the first time I saw it but, now that I’m here, I’m sure it was the same one.”
A sudden thought occurred and she said, “Lemuel, did I write anything this time?”
He nodded.
“Yes,” he said, “but it didn’t make any sense. Ankhu Anen is trying to decipher it now.”
Kallista closed her eyes and wiped away her tears. She took a shuddering breath, and then smiled as someone opened the door behind him. Lemuel turned and saw a tall, broad-shouldered man in the uniform of a captain in the Prospero Spireguard. He was ludicrously handsome, with dark features and as chiselled a jaw as any heroic image of Hektor or Achilles.
Lemuel disliked him almost immediately on principle.
The man’s crimson uniform jacket was immaculately pressed, decorated with brass buttons, gold frogging and numerous polished medals. He carried a silver helmet in the crook of his arm, and a long curved sabre was belted at his hip next to a gleaming laspistol.
“Sokhem,” said Kallista with a grateful smile.
The soldier gave Lemuel a quick nod of acknowledgement. He held out his hand and said, “Captain Sokhem Vithara, sir. 15th Prosperine Assault Infantry.”
Lemuel took the proffered hand and winced at the strength of Vithara’s grip.
“Lemuel Gaumon, remembrancer, 28th Expedition.”
“A pleasure,” said Vithara. “Kalli’s told me of your friendship, and I thank you for that, sir.”
Lemuel felt his dislike melt away in the face of Vithara’s winning smile and natural charm. He forced himself to smile, knowing he was no longer needed.
“Nice to meet you too, Captain Vithara,” he said, rising and scooping up his coat. “I’ll leave you two alone now.”
He gently lifted Kallista’s hand and planted a kiss and said, “I’ll come and see you later, my dear.”
She gripped his shoulder and pulled him close, whispering urgently in his ear.
“I want to leave Prospero,” she said. “I can’t stay here. None of us can.”
“What? No, my dear, you’re in no state to go anywhere.”
“You don’t understand, Lemuel. This world is doomed, I’ve seen its death throes.”
“You don’t know for sure what you saw,” said Lemuel, pulling himself upright.
“Yes I do,” she said. “I know all too well what it was.”
“I can’t leave,” said Lemuel. “There’s so much I’ve yet to learn from the Thousand Sons.”
“You can’t learn if you’re dead,” said Kallista.
LEMUEL LEFT KALLISTA and Captain Vithara together and made his way from the neuro-wing. Though he had no desire for Kallista beyond friendship, he had to admit to a pang of jealousy at the sight of her handsome suitor.
He smiled at the thought, recognising how foolish it was.
“You are a hopeless romantic, Lemuel Gaumon,” he said. “It will be the death of you.”
As he made his way to the exit, a door slid open ahead of him, and his good mood evaporated in an instant as he saw an Astartes warrior who looked like he’d just returned from a war zone. His armour was scorched black in places, and numerous barbs jutted from his shoulder-guards and thighs. He recognised Khalophis, but it wasn’t his appearance that halted Lemuel in his tracks.
He carried Camille in his arms, and she looked dreadful.
Blood matted her hair and clothes. Her skin was a painful red, and she held a hand pressed to the side of her chest, stifling pained gasps with every step Khalophis took.
“Camille!” cried Lemuel, running over to her. “What in the world happened?”
“Lem,” she wept. “We were attacked.”
“What?” asked Lemuel, looking up at the hulking form of Khalophis. “By whom?”
“Get out of my way, mortal,” said Khalophis, moving past Lemuel.
He turned and jogged to match the warrior’s pace.
“Tell me what happened,” he said.
“She was exploring the ancient ruins, even after I told her it was dangerous, and we disturbed a nest of psychneuein.”
Lemuel’s blood chilled at the mention of Prospero’s indigenous psy-predators.
“Throne, no!” he said, standing directly in front of Khalophis. The Astartes glared down at him, and Lemuel thought he was going to walk straight through him.
“Camille, listen to me,” said Lemuel, lifting her eyelids. Her pupils were dilated and almost entirely black. He didn’t know if that was good or bad. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I’ve been ran over by a Land Raider,” she snapped. “Any more stupid questions?”
“How is your head?” he asked, speaking slowly and clearly. “Do you have a headache?”
“Of course I do. Thanks to Khalophis, I think I breathed in a lifetime’s worth of smoke.”
“No, I mean… Do you feel any different?” asked Lemuel, struggling for the right words. “Is your head painful in a way that feels, I don’t know, strange?”
“I’m not sure,” she said, catching the edge of his panic. “Why? What’s wrong with me?”
Lemuel ignored her question and spoke directly to Khalophis, “Get Camille to a bay right now, and send for Lord Ahriman. Hurry! We don’t have much time!”
THE REFLECTING CAVE was filled with light, myriad pinpricks of soul-light that flickered form precisely shaped crystals held by the thousand Thralls standing at the intersection points of the cavern’s energy lines. Located almost a full mile beneath the city of Tizca, the crystal cave was enormous, fully three kilometres across at its widest point, and its stalactite-hung roof chimed with the sound of soft bells.
Fireflies danced within the walls, throwing back the lights carried by the Thralls and illuminating the figures and apparatus at the centre of the enormous cave.
An elongated bronze device, like a gigantic telescope, descended from the central point of the roof. Its surface was graven with unknown symbols and studded with vanes of silver, while a polished green crystal fully three metres across terminated the base of the bronze mechanism.
Magnus the Red stood directly below the device, looking up through the crystal into the night sky directly above the centre of Occullum Square. He was naked but for a loincloth, his flesh bare to the elements and gleaming with oil.
Ahriman watched as Amon massaged a mixture of sandalwood, jasmine and benzoin oil into Magnus’ flesh. Uthizzar scraped the excess oil from the primarch’s body with a bone-bladed knife as Auramagma held a smoking censer that filled the air with the fragrance of cinquefoil. Phael Toron stood next to Ahriman, his body language stiff and awkward.
Phael Toron’s 7th Fellowship had spent the majority of the Great Crusade on Prospero, missing much of the
great learning undertaken by the Legion since Magnus had led them from their adoptive home world. His warriors had quickly accepted the new teachings, but it was going to take time for them to fully adjust.
“Is this all necessary?” asked Toron, indicating the strange paraphernalia arranged beneath the bronze mechanism. A rectangular white slab like an altar was hung with a heavy chain of magnetised iron. At each of the cardinal points around the slab were four concave mirrors that focussed the light from the crystals carried by the Thralls. Five concentric circles enclosed the altar, and within the circuits of the four outermost circles were unknown words that left a bad taste in Ahriman’s mouth when he had tried to read them.
“The primarch tells us so,” said Ahriman. “He has looked long and hard into the necessary rituals to hurl his body of light halfway across the galaxy.”
“This smacks of unclean spirit worship to me,” said Toron.
“It is not,” Ahriman reassured him. “We have learned much since leaving Prospero, Toron, but there are things you have yet to fully understand. This is absolutely necessary if we are to save Horus.”
“But why here, hidden from sight in a cave?”
“Look to your history,” said Ahriman. “The first mystical rites were conducted in caves. We are the initiates of Magnus, and when we are finished, we will emerge into the light of the stars, reborn and renewed in our purpose. Do you understand?”
Toron gave a curt bow, cowed by the aetheric flare in Ahriman’s aura. “Of course, Lord Ahriman. This is all very new to me.”
“Of course, forgive my choler,” said Ahriman. “Come, it is time.”
They stepped forward, and their Thrall attendants moved in to drape white chasubles over their armour, tying them at the waist with narrow gold chains.
Ahriman received a crown of vervain leaves threaded with a silver cord, and Toron was handed a glittering athame with a silver blade and obsidian handle.
Together, they walked to Magnus as Uthizzar stepped away and retrieved an iron lantern from his Thrall. Amon cleaned his hands of oil with a silk cloth, and robed Magnus in white before lifting a charcoal brazier that smoked with the aroma of alder and laurel wood.
“Your flesh is anointed, my lord,” said Amon. “You are untainted.”
Magnus nodded and turned to Ahriman.
“The Crimson King requests his crown,” he said.
Ahriman approached Magnus, feeling the heat of his master’s skin and the meditative power churning within him. Magnus lowered his head, and Ahriman placed the crown of vervain leaves upon his brow, letting the silver cord settle around his ears.
“Thank you, my son,” said Magnus, his eye glittering with violet fire and hazel flecks.
“My lord,” said Ahriman with a bow. He retreated from Magnus, and turned to receive a heavy book bound in faded leather and stitched with gold. An iron pendant, worked in the form of a snarling wolf’s head against a crescent moon, lay along the valley at the meeting point of its pages.
This was the Book of Magnus, its contents the distilled wisdom of all that Mahavastu Kallimakus had written in his long years of unthinking service to the Thousand Sons. To look upon it was an honour, but to hold it and be expected to read from its pages was the culmination of a lifelong dream for Ahriman.
Yet, for all that he had rebuked Phael Toron, Ahriman couldn’t help but wonder if the man’s unease was justified. The ritual Magnus had them performing was uncannily similar to many they had destroyed during the glory days of the Great Crusade.
“Are we of one mind?” asked Magnus. “We can go no further without complete accord. The harmony of our assembly is all, for it bears that most precious cargo: the human soul.”
“We are in accord,” said the captains with one voice.
“Our work starts in the darkness, but comes into the light,” continued Magnus. “My form must be reduced to the chaos of its component parts, and the whole will be greater than the sum of its parts. This great work we are upon is our most determined effort to lay claim to mastery of our fate. By such works we show that we are not content to simply be pawns in the Great Game, but will play upon our own account. Man the dabbler becomes man the decider. Too few have the courage to take arms against an uncaring galaxy, but we are the Thousand Sons; there is nothing we dare not do!”
Magnus nodded to Auramagma, who turned to the white slab as the thousand Thralls began chanting in monotonous, meaningless syllables. The light from the Thralls’ crystals pulsed, as though with the heartbeat of the cave itself.
Auramagma turned right as he reached the slab, circling around it with the brazier forming a ring of aromatic smoke. Ahriman followed him, reciting angelic words from the Book of Magnus, the power of them a fulsome texture on his lips.
Phael Toron came after him, bearing the athame upon his outstretched palms, and following him came Uthizzar with the unlit lantern. Lastly came Amon, who bore the heated brazier in his armoured gauntlets. The five sons of Magnus processed around the white slab nine times before halting as Magnus took his place in the centre.
The Primarch of the Thousand Sons lay down upon the altar, his white robes spilling over its edges. Ahriman kept reading from the Book of Magnus as Uthizzar lit the lantern with a taper from Amon’s brazier. Auramagma held the censer aloft as Phael Toron stepped towards the recumbent form of Magnus.
Ahriman saw a ripple of light converging from all around them as streamers of aether drifted down from the crystals carried by the thousand Thralls. Within moments, the entire floor of the cave was awash with smoky light, the combined essence of the Thralls seeking an outlet for their energy. The light gathered in the mirrors, focusing its magnified illumination upon Magnus’ body, imparting a ghostly aura to his still form.
“It is time,” said Magnus, “Ahzek, give me the Moon Wolf.”
Ahriman nodded and lifted the iron pendant from the book. The moon glittered silver in the cavern’s light, and the fangs of the wolf shone like icicles. He lowered the pendant into Magnus’ flattened palm, looping the chain over his outstretched fingers.
“This was given to me by Horus Lupercal on Bakheng,” said Magnus. “It was part of his armour, but a lucky shot broke it from his pauldron. He gave it to me as a keepsake of that war, and joked that it would guide me in times of darkness. He was egotistical even then.”
“Now we’ll see if he was right,” said Ahriman.
“Yes we will,” said Magnus, closing his eye and making a fist around the pendant. His breathing slowed, becoming shallower as he concentrated on the love he bore for his brother. Within moments, a swelling bloodstain appeared on Magnus’ shoulder and he groaned in pain.
“What in the name of the Great Ocean is that?” cried Phael Toron.
“A sympathetic wound,” said Amon. “A repercussion, a stigmata, call it what you will. We have little time; the Warmaster has already been wounded.”
“Toron,” hissed Ahriman, “you know your role. Fulfil your duty to your primarch.”
The athame twitched on Phael Toron’s palms, lifting up and twisting in the air until it hung directly over the primarch’s heart. The silver cord within the vervain crown unwound of its own accord and slithered over the edge of the altar to bind itself to the magnetised chain.
“I will travel the Great Ocean for nine days,” said Magnus through gritted teeth, and Ahriman was astonished. To travel for so long was unheard of. “No matter what occurs, do not break my connection to the aether.”
The five warriors surrounding Magnus shared a look of concern, but said nothing.
“You must not falter,” said Magnus. “Continue, or all this will be for nothing.”
Ahriman lowered his gaze and continued to read, not understanding the words or how he knew their pronunciation, but speaking them aloud just the same. His voice grew in volume, moving in counterpoint to the chanting of the Thralls.
“Now, Toron!” cried Magnus, and the athame plunged down, stabbing into the primarch’s chest. A r
ed bloom of glittering, iridescent blood spilled from the wound. Instantaneously, the swirling light found its outlet, and searing white beams erupted from the mirrors and surged into the hilt of the athame.
Magnus arched his back with a terrible roar. His eye snapped open, its substance without pupil or iris, but awash with all manner of incredible colours.
“Horus, my brother!” cried Magnus, his voice laden with the echoes of the thousand souls fuelling his ascent. “I am coming to you!”
And a terrifying, angelic form shot up from Magnus’ body in a blazing column of light.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
She was my World/Whatever the Cost/The Price
LEMUEL WAS FRANTIC with worry. He couldn’t find Ahriman, and Camille was running out of time. A week that had started out so well had turned to one of the worst in the space of a couple of days. Two of his dearest friends were gravely ill, and a third was suffering at the hands of a master who used him without care for his wellbeing.
Events were spiralling out of control, all his grand ideas for what he had hoped to learn from the Thousand Sons as insubstantial as mist. He had learned a great deal, but what use was power when those you loved could slip away from you without warning?
He had shed too many tears for lost loved ones. He wasn’t going to shed any more.
Camille lay in a bed not dissimilar to Kallista’s, though without the variety of equipment hooked up to her cranium. Cuts and grazes had been dressed, and her lungs had been flushed of carbon, ash and trace elements of metal oxides. The wound in her side had been treated and dressed, and she had been declared physically fit and prescribed strong pain balms and three days of bed rest.
After what Ahriman had told him, Lemuel worried that Camille didn’t have three days.
He had begged Khalophis to find Ahriman, only to be told that Ahriman was “with the primarch” and could not be disturbed. Though Lemuel’s body clock was turned upside down, he guessed it was early morning. Looking at a chrono above the nurse’s station he saw that ten hours had passed since Khalophis had brought Camille in.
Still, Ahriman had not come or even acknowledged Lemuel’s calls for aid.