Horus Heresy: A Thousand Sons Part 39

"I once named myself Choronzon to you, the Dweller in the Abyss and the Daemon of Dispersion, but those are meaningless labels that mortals hang upon me, obsolete the moment they are uttered. I have existed since the beginning of time and will exist beyond the span of this universe. Names are irrelevant to me, for I am every name and none. In the inadequate language of your youngling species, you should call me a G.o.d."

"You were the one that helped me save my Legion," said Magnus with a sinking heart.

"Save? No. I only postponed their doom," said the shadow. "That boon is now ended."

"No!" cried Magnus. "Please, never that!"

"There is a price to pay for the time I gave your sons. You knew this when you accepted the gift of my power. Now it is time to make good on your bargain."

"I made no bargain," said Magnus, "not with the likes of you."

"Oh, but you did," laughed the eyes. "When, in your despair, you cried out for succour in the depths of the warp, when you begged for the means to save your sons a you flew too close to the sun, Magnus. You offered up your soul to save theirs, and that debt is now due."

"Then take me," declared Magnus. "Leave my Legion and allow them to serve the Emperor. They are blameless."

"They have drunk from the same chalice as you," said the eyes. "And why would you wish them to serve a man who betrayed you? A man who showed you unlimited power and then told you not to use it? What manner of father opens the door to a world of wonder and then orders you not to step through? This man who planned to use your flesh to save his own from destruction?"

The images in the gla.s.s changed once more, and Magnus saw the Golden Throne, its mechanisms wreathed in crackling arcs of lighting. A howling, withered cadaver sat upon the throne, its once-mighty flesh blackened and metastasised.

"This is to be your destiny," said the mirror, "bound forever to the Emperor's soul-engine, suffering unendurable agony to serve his selfish desires. Look upon this and know the truth."

Magnus tried to look away, but the horror of the vision was impossible to ignore.

"Why should I believe anything you say?" he cried.

"You already know the truth of your doom; I have no need to embellish. Look into the warp and hunt for your nemesis. He and his savage dogs of war are already on their way. Trust yourself if you do not trust me."

Magnus closed his eye and cast his senses into the seething currents of the Great Ocean. Its substance was agitated, and roaring tides billowed with tempestuous force. All was chaos, but for a slender corridor of stillness, through which Magnus felt the pa.s.sage of many souls.

He closed upon their lifeforce and saw the form his doom would take.

Magnus' eye snapped open and anger boiled over. His hand erupted in searing white fire, the most prosaic and primal of the arts, and his chambers were filled with billowing flames, burning everything within to cinders. Wood and paper vaporised in the white heat of Magnus' rage, and what little his despair had not destroyed, his rage consumed.

A column of blazing fire erupted from the summit of his pyramid, and a rain of molten gla.s.s shards fell from the summit. All eyes in Tizca turned towards the Pyramid of Photep, the plume of fire dwarfing that of the Pyrae.

Only the Book of Magnus remained inviolate, its pages impervious to the killing fire.

Nothing was left of the mirror, its fused shards bubbling in a molten pool at his feet.

"You can destroy them," said the fading reflections in the liquid gla.s.s. "Say the word and I will tear their vessels asunder, scattering them beyond all knowledge and hope of salvation."

"No," said Magnus, dropping to his knees with his head in his hands. "Never."

MAGNUS HAD NO knowledge of how much time had pa.s.sed when he heard the crash of his door breaking open. He looked up to see Uthizzar enter his chambers, his youthful features shocked at the devastation he saw within. A squad of Scarab Occult came with him, their visors marred by a single vertical slash that obscured the right eye lenses of their helmets.

Magnus had heard that the tradition had become commonplace after the Council of Nikaea, but to see such a visible sign of his sons' devotion was a poisoned barb in his heart.

"Uthizzar," said Magnus through his tears, "get out of here!"

"My lord?" cried Uthizzar, moving towards Magnus.

Magnus raised a warding hand, his grief threatening to overwhelm him as he thought of all he had seen and all that the monstrous G.o.d of the warp had shown him.

Uthizzar staggered as the full force of Magnus' thoughts struck him like a blow. Magnus veiled his mind from the young telepath, but it was too late. Uthizzar knew it all.

"No!" cried Uthizzar, crushed by the gut-wrenching hurt of betrayal. "It cannot be! You... Is it true? Tell me it is not true. What you did... What is coming..."

Magnus felt his heart harden, and cursed himself for such an unforgivable lapse of will. "It is true, my son. All of it."

He could see Uthizzar's eyes begging him to say he was joking, or that this was some hideous test. As much as Magnus wanted to save his sons from the sins of their father, he knew he couldn't. He had lied to himself and his warriors for too long, and this last chance for truth and redemption could not be squandered.

No matter what it entailed.

"We have to warn the Legion," hissed Uthizzar, spinning on his heel and barking orders to the Scarab Occult. "Mobilise the Spireguard and stand the fleet to battle orders. Disperse the Arming Proclamation to the civilian militias and issue a general evacuation order for non-combatants to the Reflecting Caves!"

Magnus shook his head, and a wall of unbreakable force sprang up before Uthizzar and his warriors, trapping them within his scorched and smoking chambers.

"I am sorry, Uthizzar, I really am," said Magnus, "but I can't let you do that."

Uthizzar started to turn towards him, but before his son could look him in the eye, Magnus ended his life.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX.

A Good Student/My Fate is My Own/Dispersal THE TANG OF salty air was strong. A stiff breeze blew in from the sea, and Lemuel felt a pang of nostalgia as he thought back to the sweeping coastlines of Nordafrik. The waters around his home had long since retreated, but the exposed seabeds shared the memory of their days at the bottom of the ocean with the air.

He shook off the memory. He needed all his powers of concentration.

The port area of Tizca was heaving with bodies: sweating stevedores, teamsters, servitors and load-lifters. The Cypria Selene was scheduled to break orbit in four hours, and the last-minute preparations for her departure were in full swing. Trucks, supply tankers, baggage lifters and water bladders carefully negotiated the busy port, and the noise of horns and shouting drivers rivalled the roar of engines.

The hot reek of burning metal saturated the day as shuttles and lifters screamed into the sky to deliver the last crewmembers and pa.s.sengers to their berths. Few remained on Prospero, and a palpable sense of excitement suffused the port.

Lemuel's nerves were stretched bow-taut. Red-jacketed soldiers of the Prospero Spireguard circulated throughout the port, and officious docket-supervisors checked and rechecked pa.s.ses and permits.

Beside him, Camille walked with her hands clasped demurely before her. She wore a long dress of emerald green, cut low and embroidered with black lace around the hems, sleeves and collar. She had balked at wearing the n.o.blewoman's dress before Lemuel had pointed out that a patrician gentleman's consort would need to be seen in such a garment.

At this moment, that patrician gentleman was reclining in his palanquin, its ostentatious appearance enhanced by silk brocade and velvet cushions stolen from their living quarters. Bedecked in an exquisitely tailored suit, Mahavastu Kallimakus was failing miserably to look like an arrogant n.o.bleman of Terra by looking down his nose as he tapped an ebony cane on the pillars of his conveyance.

Only Lemuel was spared the indignity of disguise, wearing his beige remembrancer's robes to masquerade as Mahavastu's personal scribe and eunuch escort to Camille. That last element of his disguise had raised a smile as they planned how best to reach a shuttle bound for the Cypria Selene. At least it had raised a smile with everyone except Lemuel.

Behind them came a team of bearers, nine servitors carrying a collection of steamer trunks filled with the ma.s.s of papers, sketchbooks and grimoires written by Mahavastu in the years he had spent as Magnus' puppet. Lemuel had urged Mahavastu to leave them, but the old man was adamant. The past needed to be preserved. History was history and it was not for them to judge what should be remembered and what should be forgotten.

"I won't be a burner of books," said Mahavastu, and the discussion was ended.

They had entered the port area without incident, for centuries of peace and an increasingly compliant galaxy had made the people of Prospero complacent.

"So how are we going to do this?" asked Camille. It was the first thing she had said this morning, for there had been a furious row the previous night as she had told Chaiya of her decision to leave.

"Trust me," said Lemuel. "I know what I'm doing."

"You keep saying that, but you never say what you're going to do."

"I won't know until the time comes."

"Well that's rea.s.suring."

Lemuel didn't reply, understanding the root of Camille's harsh words. They moved through the crowds, avoiding the main thoroughfares of wide-wheeled trucks as they ferried soldiers and crew to the loading berths. Tall-sided hangars, storage silos and fuel towers made up the bulk of the port facilities, and they threaded a path between them as they wound towards the silver platforms built on the edge of the sh.o.r.eline.

A dozen craft growled in their berths, the last to join the orbiting ma.s.s-conveyer. This would be their last chance to get off Prospero.

Lemuel led them towards the launch bays as two more craft climbed into the sky on shrieking columns of jetfire. Camille walked alongside Mahavastu's palanquin, trying and failing to look decorous as the bulked-out servitors bore him without complaint. They made for an unusual spectacle, but one Lemuel hoped looked about right for pa.s.sengers who had every right to be taking flight on the newly refitted Cypria Selene.

"This isn't going to work," said Camille.

"It's going to work," insisted Lemuel. "It has to work."

"No it won't. We'll be stopped and we'll be stuck on Prospero."

"With that att.i.tude we definitely will be," snapped Lemuel, his patience wearing thin.

"Lemuel. Camille," said Mahavastu from the palanquin. "I understand we are all under a lot of pressure here, but if it wouldn't be too much trouble, would both of you please shut the shirring h.e.l.l up!"

Both Lemuel and Camille were brought up short, shocked at the old man's language.

Lemuel looked up at Mahavastu, who seemed, if anything, more offended than them.

"I apologise for my profanity," said Mahavastu, "but it seemed like the only way to restore calm. Sniping at each other is only going to end things badly for us all."

Lemuel took a deep breath.

"You're right," he said. "I apologise, my dear."

"I'm sorry, Lemuel," said Camille.

Lemuel nodded and led the way downhill again. At last they reached the entrance to the shuttlecraft launch platforms. This time there was a security checkpoint, as not even the citizens of Prospero left such dangerous places unsecured. Spireguard manned the entrance to the shuttle areas, and blue-robed officials checked the ident.i.ty of everyone going through to the launch platforms.

"Now we get to see if all that training was worth it," said Camille.

Lemuel nodded. "Let's hope I was a good student."

They approached the checkpoint, and Lemuel handed over a sheaf of papers taken from one of Kallista's notebooks to a bored-looking clerk. The words written there made no sense, but it would be easier if the mark couldn't understand them.

The clerk frowned, and Lemuel took that as his cue.

"Lord Asoka Bindusara and Lady k.u.maradevi Chandra to take ship to the Cypria Selene," said Lemuel, projecting a confidence he didn't feel into the man's aura. "I am their humble servant and scrivener. Be so good as to indicate which of the waiting shuttles is the most regally appointed."

Lemuel leaned in and whispered conspiratorially "My master has grown accustomed to the luxuries of Prospero. It wouldn't be pleasant for anyone were we to be a.s.signed a craft that wasn't a d.a.m.n palace, if you take my meaning."

The clerk was still frowning at the words on the page. It wouldn't take long for him to see past Lemuel's bluff and understand he was looking at gibberish. Lemuel felt the man's bureaucratic mind processing the letters before him and increased his manipulation of his aura. Siphoning off the sanguine and the bile, he crafted the impression that the doc.u.ments were travel pa.s.ses and berthing dockets for three pa.s.sengers and their luggage.

The clerk gave up with Lemuel's papers and consulted a data-slate of his own instead.

"I don't see your names," he said with officious satisfaction.

"Please, check again," said Lemuel, edging closer as a trio of shuttles blasted off from the sh.o.r.eline. He sensed Camille and Mahavastu's panic behind him and increased his mental barrage. Even as he did so, he could feel that it wasn't working.

Lemuel heard a gasp of surprise from behind him, and a soothing blanket of acceptance settled over him. From the gla.s.sy look that came into the clerk's eyes, Lemuel saw it was affecting him too. Someone moved beside him and a woman's voice said, "There has been a last minute addition to the pa.s.senger manifest, these are my guests aboard ship."

Lemuel smiled as Chaiya rested her hand on the clerk's arm, feeling her influence spreading through him. It seemed every native of Prospero enjoyed a measure of psychic power, and he wondered how he hadn't noticed it before.

"Yes," said the clerk, sounding unsure, but unable to say why. "I see that now."

He nodded as Chaiya's certainty increased, and he waved to the soldiers on either side of the gateway. The clerk stamped a lading billet for their steamer trunks and handed Lemuel four berthing disks, each with a stamped eye at its centre. Lemuel tried not to look as relieved as he felt.

"My lord thanks you," he said as they swept through the gate.

No sooner were they hidden from sight of the clerk and his soldiers, than Camille threw herself into Chaiya's arms and kissed her. They embraced until Mahavastu coughed discreetly.

"You came!" said Camille, tears smudging the make-up around her eyes.

"Of course I came," said Chaiya. "You think I'd let you leave without me?"

"But last night-"

Chaiya shook her head. "Last night you blindsided me with all your doomsaying talk. And the idea that you were leaving scared me. I don't want to leave Prospero, but if you think there's something bad coming, that's good enough for me. You've never been wrong before now. About anything. I love you and won't be parted from you."

Camille wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her dress, ruining the fabric, but not caring.

"There is something bad coming, I know it," she said.

"I believe you," said Chaiya with a nervous laugh. "If you're wrong we can always come back."

Lemuel nodded towards the shuttle the clerk had a.s.signed them.

"We'd better get moving," he said. "Ours is one of the last to leave."

Their ragtag group followed the directions of blue-coated ground crew towards the berth of a sleek lighter of gleaming silver. Its wide wings enfolded them in shadow as they pa.s.sed beneath them, and its flat-bottomed cargo bay was slung beneath the berthing frame they had to climb to reach the crew ramp.

Lemuel allowed himself a small smile of success.

Camille and Chaiya laughed and giggled as they walked hand in hand towards the lighter.