James Swallow - Nemesis

lives of an entire planet’s population! The Sons of Horus have taken revenge on a

world because of what your assassins did there!” He shook his head. “If the counterrebellion

on Dagonet had been allowed to fade, if their war had not been deliberately

and callously exacerbated, Horus would have passed them by. After my brothers and

I have broken his betrayal, the Imperium would have retaken control of Dagonet. But

now its devastation leads to the collapse of keystone worlds all across that sector!

Now the traitors take a strong foothold there, and it will be my battle-brothers and

those of my kindred who must bleed to oust them!” He pointed at them all in turn.

“This is what you leave behind you. This is what your kind always leave behind.”

Valdor could remain silent no longer and he stepped forward. “The suffering on

Dagonet is a tragedy, none will deny that,” he said, “and yes, Horus has escaped our

retribution once more. But a greater cause has been served, Lord Dorn. Kell and his

force chose to preserve your father in exchange for letting your errant brother live.

This assassin-creature Spear is dead, and a great threat to the Emperor’s life has been

neutralised. I would consider that a victory.”

“Would you?” Dorn’s fury was palpable, crackling in the air around him. “I’m

sure my father is capable of defending himself! And tell me, Captain-General, what

kind of victory exists in a war like the one you would have us fight?” He gestured at

the room around them. “A war fought from hidden places under cover of falsehood?

Innocent lives wasted in the name of dubious tactics? Underhanded, clandestine

conflicts, fuelled by secrets and lies?”

251

For a moment, Valdor half-expected the Imperial Fist to rip up the table between

them just so he could strike at the Custodian; but then, like a tidal wave drawing back

into the ocean, Dorn’s anger seemed to subside. Valdor knew better, though—the

primarch was the master of his own fury, turning it inward, turning it to stony,

unbreakable purpose.

“This war,” Dorn went on, sparing Malcador a glance, “is a fight not just for the

material, for worlds and for the hearts of men. We are in battle for ideals. At stake

are the very best of the Imperium’s ultimate principles. Values of pride, nobility,

honour and fealty. How can a veiled killer understand the meaning of such words?”

Valdor felt Malcador’s eyes on him, and the tension in him seemed to dissipate.

At once, he felt a cold sense of conviction rise in his thoughts, and he matched the

Imperial Fist’s gaze, answering his challenge. “No one in this room has known war

as intimately as you have, my lord,” he began, “and so surely it is you who must

understand better than any one of us that this war cannot be a clean and gallant one.

We fight a battle like no other in human history. We fight for the future! Can you

imagine what might have come to pass if Kell and the rest of the Execution Force had

not been present on Dagonet? If this creature Spear had been reunited with the rebel

forces?”

“He would have attempted to complete his mission,” said Sire Culexus. “Come to

Terra, to enter the sphere of the Emperor’s power and engage his… murdergift.”

“He would never have got that far!” insisted Sire Vanus. “He would have been

found and killed, surely. The Sigillite or the Emperor himself would have sensed

such an abomination and crushed it!”

“Are you certain?” Valdor pressed. “Horus has many allies, some of them closer

than we wish to admit. If this Spear could have reached Terra, made his attack…

Even a failure to make the kill, a wounding even…” He trailed off, suddenly appalled

by the grim possibility he was describing. “Such a psychic attack would have caused

incredible destruction.”

Dorn said nothing; for a moment, it seemed as if the primarch was sharing the

same terrible nightmare that danced in the Custodian’s thoughts; of his liege lord

mortally wounded by a lethal enemy, clinging to fading life while the Imperial Palace

was a raging inferno all around him.

Valdor found his voice once more. “Your brother will beat us, Lord Dorn. He

will win this war unless we match him blow-for-blow. We cannot, we must not be

afraid to make the difficult choices, the hardest decisions! Horus Lupercal will not

hesitate—”

“I am not Horus!” Dorn snarled, the words striking the Custodian like a physical

blow. “And I will—”

“Enough.”

The single utterance was a lightning bolt captured in crystal, shattering everything

around it, silencing them all with an unstoppable, immeasurable force of will.

Rogal Dorn turned to the sound of that voice as every man, woman and Astartes

in the chamber sank to their knees, each of them instinctively knowing who had

uttered it. The Sigillite was the last to do so, shooting a final, unreadable look at the

primarch of the Imperial Fists before he too took to a show of obeisance.

252

The question escaped Dorn’s lips. “Father?”

The darkness, the great curtain of shadows that had filled the furthest corner of

the chamber now became lighter, the walls and floor growing more distinct by the

moment as the unnatural gloom faded. He blinked; strange how he had looked

directly into that place and seen it, but without really seeing it at all. It had been in

plain sight for everyone in the room, even he, and yet none of them had registered the

strangeness of it.

Now from the black came light. A figure stood there, effortlessly dominating the

space, his patrician features marred by a mixture of turbulent emotions that gave even

the mighty Imperial Fist a second’s pause.

The Emperor of Mankind wore no armour, no finery or dress uniform, only a

simple surplice of grey cloth threaded with subtle lines of purple and gold silk; and

yet he was still magnificent to behold.

Perhaps he had been listening to them all along. Yet, it seemed to be a defiance of

the laws of nature, that a being so majestic, so lit with power, could stand in a room

among men, Astartes and the greatest mortal psyker who ever lived, and be as a

ghost.

But then he was the Emperor; and to all questions, that was sufficient answer.

His father came towards him, and Rogal Dorn bowed deeply, at length joining the

others at bended knee before the Master of the Imperium.

The Emperor did not speak. Instead, he strode across the Shrouds to the tall

windows where the sailcloth drapes hung like frozen cataracts of shadow. With a

flick of his great hands, Dorn’s father took a fist of the cloth and snatched it away.

The hangings tore free and tumbled to the floor. He walked the perimeter of the

room, ripping away every last cover until the chamber was flooded with the bright

honey-yellow luminosity of the Himalayan dawn.

Dorn dared to glance up and saw the golden radiance striking his father. It

gathered its brightness to him, as if it were an embrace. For an instant, the sunlight

was like a sheath of glowing armour about him; then the primarch blinked and the

moment passed.

“No more shadows,” said the Emperor. His words were gentle, summoning, and

all the faces in the room turned to look upon him. He placed a hand on Dorn’s