Horus Heresy: A Thousand Sons Part 3

Phosis T'kar moved alongside him, and Ahriman recognised the urge for violence that filled his fellow captain. In his detached state, Ahriman wondered why he always called Phosis T'kar his "fellow" and never his "friend".

"What are our orders?" asked Hathor Maat, tense and on edge.

"No violence unless I order it," said Ahriman, opening the vox to the Sekhmet. "This is a march of investigation, not of war."

"But be ready for it to become a war," added Phosis T'kar with relish.

"Sekhmet, align your humours," ordered Ahriman, using his mastery of the Enumerations to alter his body's internal alchemy. "Temper the choleric with the phlegmatic, and bring the sanguine to the fore."

Ahriman heard Hathor Maat muttering under his breath. Normally a Pavoni could balance his humours with a thought, but without access to the aether, Hathor Maat had to do it like the rest of them: with discipline, concentration and self-will.

The valley widened, and Ahriman saw a host of figures standing at the crest of the slope, like the legendary warriors of Leonidas who fought and died at Thermopylae. Ahriman felt nothing for them, no hatred and no fear. In the lower Enumerations he was beyond such considerations.

With their sunset-coloured robes, baked leather breastplates and long falarica, the Aghoru warriors were the very image of the barbarian tribes of ancient Terra. The warriors were not facing down the valley to repel invaders, but were instead focussed on something deeper in the valley and beyond his sight.

Ahriman's fingers flexed on the hide grip of his bolter. The warriors above turned at the sound of the Sekhmet's advance, and Ahriman saw they were all wearing masks of polished gla.s.s. Expressionless and without life, they resembled the gold leaf corpse masks placed upon the faces of ancient Mycenaean kings to conceal the decay of their features.

At the most recent conclave of the Rehahti, Magnus had had invited Yatiri, the leader of the Aghoru tribes gathered at the Mountain, to speak with them. The proud chieftain stood in the centre of Magnus' austere pavilion, clad in saffron robes and wearing the ceremonial mirrormask of his people. Yatiri carried a black-bladed falarica and a heqa staff, not unlike those carried by the captains of the Thousand Sons. Though centuries of isolation had separated his people from the Imperium, the regal Yatiri spoke with clarity and fluency as he requested they refrain from entering the valley, explaining that it was a holy place to his people.

Holy. That was the word he had used.

Such a provocative word would have raised the hackles of many Astartes Legions, but the Thousand Sons understood the original meaning of the term a uninjured, sound, healthy a and rose above its connotations of divinity to recognise it for what it truly meant: a place free of imperfection. Yatiri's request had roused some suspicion among the Legion, but Magnus had given his oath that the Thousand Sons would respect his wishes.

That request had been honoured until this moment.

The Aghoru parted as the Sekhmet approached the crest of the valley, the sharpened blades of their falarica glittering in firelight. Ahriman had no fear of such weapons, but he had no wish to start a fight he didn't need to.

Ahriman marched towards the Aghoru, keeping his pace steady, and his gaze was lifted upwards in awed amazement as the t.i.tanic guardians of the valley were revealed to his sight.

ON PROSPERO, THE cult temple of the Pyrae was a vast pyramid of silvered gla.s.s with an eternally burning finial at its peak. Where the other cult temples of Tizca raised golden idols of their cult symbols before their gates, the Pyrae boasted a battle-engine of the t.i.tan legions.

Supplicants to the pyromancers approached along a brazier-lit processional of red marble towards a mighty warlord t.i.tan. Bearing the proud name Canis Vertex, the engine had once walked beneath the banners of Legio Astorum, its carapace emblazoned with a faded black disc haloed by a flaming blue corona.

Its princeps was killed and its moderati crushed when the engine fell during the b.l.o.o.d.y campaigns of extermination waged in the middle years of the Great Crusade against the barbaric greenskin of the Kamenka Troika. The Emperor had issued the writs of war, commanding the Thousand Sons, Legio Astorum and a Lifehost of PanPac Eugenians to drive that savage race of xenos from the three satellite planets of Kamenka Ulizarna, a world claimed by the Mechanic.u.m of Mars.

Ahriman remembered well the savagery of that war, the slaughter and relentless, grinding attrition that left tens of thousands dead in its wake. Imperial forces had been victorious after two years of fighting and earned a score of honours for the war banners.

Victory had been won, but the cost had been high. Eight hundred and seventy-three warriors of the Thousand Sons had died, forcing Magnus so reduce his Legion from ten fellowships to the Pesedjet, the nine fellowships of antiquity.

Of greater sorrow to Ahriman was the death of Apophis, Captain of the 5th Fellowship and his oldest friend. Only now that Apophis was dead, was Ahriman able to use that word.

Canis Vertex had been brought down on the killing fields of Coriovallum in the last days of the war by a gargantuan war machine of the greenskin, crudely built in the image of their warlike G.o.ds. Defeat seemed inevitable until Magnus stood before the enemy colossus, wielding the power of the aether like an ancient G.o.d of war.

Two giants, one mechanical, one a flesh and blood progeny of the Emperor, they had faced each other across the burning ruins, and it seemed the battle's conclusion could not have been more foregone.

But Magnus raised his arms, his feathered cloak billowed by unseen storms, and the full fury of the aether unmade the enemy war-engine in a hurricane of immaterial fire that tore the flesh of reality asunder and shook the world to its very foundations.

All those who saw the giant primarch that day would take the sight of his battle with that bloated, hateful, war machine to their graves, his power and majesty indelibly etched on their memories like a scar. Ten thousand warriors bowed their heads to their saviour as he returned to them across a field of the dead.

The Legio Astorum contingent had been destroyed, and Khalophis of the 6th Fellowship had "honoured" their sacrifice by transporting Canis Vertex back to Prospero and setting it as a silent guardian to the temple of the Pyrae. The raising of such a colossal sentinel was typical Pyrae showmanship, but there was no doubting the impart made by the sight of the dead engine sheened in the orange firelight of the temple.

Ahriman was no stranger to the impossible scale of the Mechanic.u.m war engines, but he had never seen anything to compare with the guardians of the valley.

TALLER THAN CANIS Vertex, the identical colossi that stood at the end of the valley were, like the mountain they inhabited, enormous beyond imagining. Soaring, graceful and threatening, they were mighty bipedal constructions that resembled an impossibly slender humanoid form. Crafted from something that resembled porcelain or ceramic the colour of bone, they were manufactured as though moulded from one enormous block.

Their heads were like sinuous helmets studded with glittering gems, and graceful spines flared from their shoulders like angelic wings. These guardians were prepared for war. One arm ended in a mighty fist, the other in an elongated, lance-like weapon, its slim barrel gracefully fluted and hung with faded banners.

"Sweet Mother of the Abyss," said Phosis T'kar at the sight of them.

Ahriman felt the calm he had established within him crumble when confronted by such powerful icons of war. Like G.o.ds of battle, the towering creations rendered everything in the valley inconsequential. He saw the same grace and aesthetic in these guardians as he had seen in the valley's formation. Whoever had willed this mountain into existence had also crafted these guardians to watch over it.

"What are they?" asked Hathor Maat.

"I don't know," said Ahriman.

"Xenos t.i.tans?"

"They have the look of eldar about them," said Phosis T'kar.

Ahriman agreed. Two decades ago, the Thousand Sons had detected a fleet of eldar vessels on the edge of the Perdus Anomaly. The encounter had been cordial, both forces pa.s.sing on their way without violence, but Ahriman had never forgotten the elegance of the eldar ships and the ease with which they navigated the stars.

"They must be war engines," said Hathor Maat. "Khalophis would kill to see this."

That was certainly true. Khalophis was Pyrae, and a warmongering student of conflict in all its most brutal forms. If an enemy was to be wiped from the battlefield with overwhelming firepower, it was to Khalophis the Thousand Sons turned.

"I'm sure he would," said Ahriman, dragging his eyes from the t.i.tanic war machines. The valley was filled with Aghoru tribesmen, all bearing burning brands or battering their palms b.l.o.o.d.y on tribal drums.

Phosis T'kar held his bolt pistol at his side, but Ahriman could see his urge to use it was strong. Hathor Maat held his heqa staff at the ready. Warriors who had faced the Dominus Liminus and achieved the rank of adept could release devastating bursts of aetheric energy through their staffs, but here it was no more than a symbol of rank.

"Hold to the Enumerations," he whispered. "There is to be no killing unless I give the word."

Perhaps a thousand men and women in hooded robes and reflective masks filled the valley, surrounding a great altar of basalt that stood before a yawning cave mouth set in the cliff between the towering guardians.

Ahriman immediately saw that this cave was no deliberately crafted entrance to the mountain. An earthquake had ripped it open and the blackness of it seemed darker than the depths of s.p.a.ce.

"What's going on here?" demanded Phosis T'kar.

"I do not know," said Ahriman, advancing cautiously through the Aghoru, seeing the crimson plates of the Sekhmet's armour reflected in their masks. The chanting ceased and the drumming diminished until the valley was utterly silent.

"Why are they watching?" hissed Hathor Maat. "Why don't they move?"

"They're waiting to see what we do," replied Ahriman.

It was impossible to read the Aghoru behind their masks, but he didn't think there was any hostile intent. The mirror-masked tribesmen simply watched as Ahriman led the Sekhmet through the crowds towards the basalt altar. Its smooth black surface gleamed in the last of the day's light, like the still waters of a motionless black pool.

Tokens lay strewn across the altar's surface, bracelets, earrings, dolls of woven reeds and bead necklaces; the personal effects of scores of people. Ahriman saw footprints in the dust leading from the altar to the black tear in the mountainside. Whoever had made them had gone back and forth many times.

He knelt beside the tracks as Phosis T'kar and Hathor Maat approached the altar.

"What are these?" wondered Phosis T'kar.

"Offerings?" ventured Hathor Maat, lifting a neck torque of copper and onyx, and examining the workmanship with disdain.

"To what?" asked Phosis T'kar "I didn't read of any practices of the Aghoru like this."

"Nor I, but how else do you explain it?"

"Yatiri told us the Mountain is a place of the dead," said Ahriman, tracing the outline of a print clearly made by someone of far greater stature than any mortal or Astartes.

"Perhaps this is a rite of memorial," said Phosis T'kar.

"You could be right," conceded Hathor Maat, "but then where are the dead?"

"They're in the Mountain," said Ahriman, backing away from the cave as the drums began once again. He rejoined his warriors, planting his staff in the dusty ground.

As one, the Aghoru turned their mirrored masks towards the end of the valley, chanting in unison and moving forwards with short, shuffling steps, the b.u.t.ts of their falarica thumping on the ground in time with every beat of the drums.

"Mandala," ordered Ahriman, and the Sekhmet formed a circle around the altar. Auto-loaders clattered and power fists crackled as energy fields engaged.

"Permission to open fire?" requested Hathor Maat, aiming his bolt pistol at the mask of the nearest Aghoru tribesman.

"No," said Ahriman, turning to face the darkness of the cave mouth as wind-blown ash gusted from the depths of the mountain. "This isn't for us."

Bleak despair tainted the wind, the dust and memory of a billion corpses decayed to powder and forgotten in the lightless depths of the world.

A shape emerged from the cave, wreathed in swirling ash: hulking, crimson and gold and monstrous.

CHAPTER THREE.

Magnus/The Sanctum/You Must Teach Him HE COULDN'T FOCUS on it. Impressions were all Lemuel could make out: skin that shone as though fire flowed in its veins, mighty wings of feathers and golden plates. A mane of copper hair, ash-stained and wild, billowed around the being's head, its face appearing as an inconstant swirl of liquid light and flesh, as though no bone formed the basis for its foundations, but something altogether more dynamic and vital.

Lemuel felt sick to his stomach at the sight, yet was unable to tear his gaze from this towering being.

Wait... Was it towering?

With each second, it seemed as though the apparition's shape changed without him even being aware of it. Without seeming to vary from one second to the next, the being was alternately a giant, a man, a G.o.d, or a being of radiant light and a million eyes.

"What is it?" asked Lemuel, the words little more than a whisper. "What have they done?"

He couldn't look away, knowing on some primal level that the fire that burned in this being's heart was dangerous, perhaps the most dangerous thing in the world. Lemuel wanted to touch it, though he knew he would be burned to ashes were he to get too close.

Kallista screamed, and the spell was broken.

Lemuel dropped to his knees and vomited, the contents of his stomach spilling down the rockface. His heaving breath flowed like milky smoke from his mouth, and he stared in amazement at his stomach's contents, the spattered ma.s.s glittering as though the potential of what it had once been longed to reconst.i.tute itself. The air seethed with ambition, as though a power that not even the deadstones could contain flexed its muscles.

The moment pa.s.sed and Lemuel's vomit was just vomit, his breath invisible and without form. He could not take his eyes from the inchoate being below, his previously overwhelmed senses now firmly rooted in the mundane reality of the world. Tears spilled down his cheeks, and he wiped his face with his sleeve.

Kallista sobbed uncontrollably, shaking as though in the midst of a seizure. Her hands clawed the ground, scratching her nails b.l.o.o.d.y as though she were desperately writing something in the dust.

"Must come out," she wept. "Can't stay inside. Fire must come out or it'll burn me up."

She looked up at Lemuel, silently imploring him to help. Before he could move, her eyes rolled back in their sockets and she slumped forward. Lemuel wanted to go to her aid, but his limbs were useless. Beside Kallista, Camille remained upright, her face blanched beneath her tan. Her entire body shook, and her jaw hung open in awed wonder.

"He's beautiful... So very beautiful," she said, hesitantly lifting her picter and clicking off shots of the monstrous being.

Lemuel spat a mouthful of acrid bile and shook his head.

"No," he said. "He's a monster."

She turned, and Lemuel was shocked at her anger. "How can you say that? Look at him."

Lemuel screwed his eyes shut, only gradually opening them once again to look upon this incredible figure. He still saw the light shining in its heart, but where before it had been beguilingly dangerous, it was now soothing and hypnotic.

Like a badly tuned picter suddenly brought into focus, the being's true form was revealed: a broad-shouldered giant in exquisite battle-plate of gold, bronze and leather. Sheathed at his side were his weapons, a curved sword with an obsidian haft and golden blade, and a heavy pistol of terrifying proportions.

Though the warrior was hundreds of metres below him, Lemuel saw him as clearly as a vivid memory or the brightest image conjured by his imagination.

He smiled, now seeing the beauty Camille saw.

"You're right," he said. "I don't know how I didn't see it before."

A billowing mantle of golden feathers floated at the being's shoulders, hung with thuribles and trailing parchments fixed with wax seals. Great ebony horns curled up from his breastplate, matching the two that sprang from his shoulders. A pale tabard decorated with a blazing sun motif hung at his belt, and a heavy book, bound in thick red hide, was strung about his armour on golden chains.

Lemuel's eyes were drawn to the book, its unknown contents rich with the promise of knowledge and the secret workings of the universe. A golden hasp was secured with a lock fashioned from lead. Lemuel would have traded his entire wealth and even his very soul to open that book and peer into its depths.

He felt a hand on his arm and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. Camille hugged him, overcome with wonder and love, and Lemuel took pleasure in the embrace.

"I never thought to see him this close," said Camille.

Lemuel didn't answer, watching as two figures followed the being from the cave. One was an Aghoru tribesman in a glittering mask and orange robe, the other a thin man wearing an ash-stained robe of a remembrancer. They were irrelevant. The majestic being of light was all that mattered.

As though hearing his thoughts, the warrior looked up at him.

He wore a golden helmet, plumed with a mane of scarlet hair, his face wise beyond understanding, like a tribal elder or venerable sage.

Camille was right. He was beautiful, perfect and beautiful.

Still embracing, Lemuel and Camille sank to their knees.

Lemuel stared back at the magnificent being, only now seeing that a single flaw marred his perfection. A golden eye, flecked with iridescent colours without name, blinked and Lemuel saw that the warrior looked out at the world through this eye alone. Where his other eye should have been was smooth and unblemished, as if no eye had ever sat there.