Dan Abnett - The Horus Heresy - Horus Rising

Loken nodded.

This seems a poor, false one.’ Aximand muttered, looking up at the sky, 'but it will do. The image of the moon must also always be reflected. In the first days of the Mournival, close on two hundred years ago, it was favoured to have the chosen moon's image captured in a scrying dish or polished mirror. We make do now.

Water suffices.'

Loken nodded again. His feeling of being unnerved had returned, sharp and unwelcome. This was a ritual, and it smacked dangerously of the practices of corpse-whisperers and spiritualists. The entire process seemed shot through with superstition and arcane worship, the sort of spiritual unreason Sindermann had taught him

to rail against.

He felt he had to say something before it was too late. 'I am a man of faith,' he said softly, 'and that faith is the truth of the Imperium. I will not bow to any fane or acknowledge any spirit. I own only the empirical clarity of Imperial Truth.'

The other three looked at him.

'I told you he was straight up and down.’ Torgaddon

said.

Abaddon and Aximand laughed.

There are no spirits here, Garviel.’ Abaddon said, resting a hand reassuringly against Loken's arm.

"We're not trying to ensorcel you.’ Aximand chuckled.

This is just an old habit, a practice. The way it has always been done.’ Torgaddon said. "We keep it up for no other reason than it seems to make it matter. It's... pantomime, I suppose.’

'Yes, pantomime.’ agreed Abaddon.

%Ve want this moment to be special to you, Garviel.’ Aximand said. "We want you to remember it. We believe it's important to mark an induction with a sense of ceremony and occasion, so we use the old ways. Perhaps that's just theatrical of us, but we find it reassuring.’

'I understand.’ Loken said.

'Do you?' Abaddon asked. You're going to make a pledge to us. An oath as firm as any oath of moment you have ever undertaken. Man to man. Cold and clear and very, very secular. An oath of brothership, not some occult pact. We stand together in the light of a moon, and swear a bond that only death will break.’

'I understand.’ Loken repeated. He felt foolish. 'I want to take the oath.’

Abaddon nodded. 'Let's mark you, then. Say the names of the others.’

Torgaddon bowed his head and recited nine names. Since the foundation of the Mournival, only twelve men had held the unofficial rank, and three of those were present. Loken would be the thirteenth.

'Keyshen. Minos. Berabaddon. Litus. Syrakul. Der-adaeddon. Karaddon. Janipur. Sejanus.’

'Lost in glory.’ Aximand and Abaddon said as one voice. 'Mourned by the Mournival. Only in death does duty end.’

A bond that only death will break. Loken thought about Abaddon's words. Death was the single expectation of each and every Astartes. Violent death. It was not an if, it was a when. In the service of the Imperium, each of them would eventually sacrifice his life. They were phlegmatic about it. It would happen, it was that simple. One day, tomorrow, next year. It would happen.

There was an irony, of course. To all intents and purposes, and by every measurement known to the gene-scientists and gerontologists, the Astartes, like the primarchs, were immortals. Age would not wither them,

nor bring them down. They would live forever... five thousand years, ten thousand, beyond even that into some unimaginable millennium. Except for the scythe

of war.

Immortal, but not invulnerable. Immortality was a by-product of their Astartes strengths. Yes, they might live forever, but they would never get the chance. Immortality was a by-product of their Astartes strengths, but those strengths had been gene-built for combat. They had been born immortal only to die in war. That was the way of it. Brief, bright lives. Like Hastur Sejanus, the warrior Loken was replacing. Only the beloved Emperor, who had left the warring behind, would truly

live forever.

Loken tried to imagine the future, but the image would not form. Death would wipe them all from history. Not even the great First Captain Ezekyle Abaddon would survive forever. There would be a time when Abaddon no longer waged bloody war across the territories of humanity.

Loken sighed. That would be a sad day indeed. Men would cry out for Abaddon's return, but he would never

come.

He tried to picture the manner of his own death. Fabled, imaginary combats flashed through his mind. He imagined himself at the Emperor's side, fighting some great, last stand against an unknown foe. Pri-march Horus would be there, of course. He had to be. It wouldn't be the same without him. Loken would battle, and die, and perhaps even Horus would die, to save the Emperor at the last.

Glory. Glory, like he'd never known. Such an hour would become so ingrained in the minds of men that it would be the cornerstone of all that came after. A great battle, upon which human culture would be based.

Then, briefly, he imagined another death. Alone, far away from his comrades and his Legion, dying from cruel wounds on some nameless rock, his passing as memorable as smoke.

Loken swallowed hard. Either way, his service was to the Emperor, and his service would be true to the end.

The names are said,' Abaddon intoned, 'and of them, we hail Sejanus, latest to fall.'

'Hail, Sejanus!' Torgaddon and Aximand cried.

'Garviel Loken.’ Abaddon said, looking at Loken. 'We ask you to take Sejanus's place. How say you?'

'I will do this thing gladly.’

'Will you swear an oath to uphold the confratern of the Mournival?'

'I will.’ said Loken.

'Will you accept our brothership and give it back as a brother?'

'I will.’

'Will you be true to the Mournival to the end of your life?'

'I will.’

'Will you serve the Luna Wolves for as long as they bear that proud name?'

'I will.’ said Loken.

'Do you pledge to the commander, who is primarch over us all?' asked Aximand.

'I so pledge.’

'And to the Emperor above all primarchs, everlasting?'

'I so pledge.’

'Do you swear to uphold the truth of the Imperium of Mankind, no matter what evil may assail it?' Torgaddon asked.

'I swear.’ said Loken.

'Do you swear to stand firm against all enemies, alien and domestic?'

This I swear.'

'And in war, kill for the living and kill for the dead?'

'Kill for the living! Kill for the dead!' Abaddon and Aximand echoed.

1 swear.'

'As the moon lights us.’ Abaddon said, 'will you be a true brother to your brother Astartes?'

'I will.'

'No matter the cost?'

'No matter the cost.'

'Your oath is taken, Garviel. Welcome into the Mour-nival. Tarik? Illuminate us.'

Torgaddon pulled a vapour flare from his belt and fired it off into the night sky. It burst in a bright umbrella of light, white and harsh.

As the sparks of it rained slowly down onto the waters, the four warriors hugged and whooped, clasping hands and slapping backs. Torgaddon, Aximand and Abaddon took turns to embrace Loken.

"You're one of us now,' Torgaddon whispered as he drew Loken close. 'I am.’ said Loken.

LATER, ON THE islet, by the light of the lanterns, they branded Loken's helm above the right eye with the crescent mark of the new moon. This was his badge of office. Aximand's helm bore the brand of the half moon, Torgaddon's the gibbous, and Abaddon's the full. The four stage cycle of a moon was shared between their wargear. So the Moumival was denoted.

They sat on the islet, talking and joking, until the sun rose again.

THEY WERE PLAYING cards on the lawn by the light of chemical lanterns. The simple game Mersadie had proposed had long been eclipsed by a punitive betting

game suggested by one of the soldiers. Then the iterator, Memed, had joined them, and taken great pains to teach them an old version of cups.