James Swallow - Nemesis

shoulder as he passed him by, and then repeated the gesture with Valdor. “No more

veils.”

He beckoned them all to stand and as one they obeyed, and yet in his presence

each of them felt as if they were still at his feet. His aura towered over them, filling

the emotions of the room.

Dorn received a nod, as did Valdor. “My noble son. My loyal guardian. I hear

both your words and I know that there is right in each of you. We cannot lose sight of

what we are and what we aspire to be; but we cannot forget that we face the greatest

enemy and the darkest challenge.” In the depths of his father’s eyes, Dorn saw

something no one else could have perceived, so transient and fleeting it barely

registered. He saw sorrow, deep and unending, and his heart ached with an empathy

only a son could know.

The Emperor reached out a hand and gestured towards the dawn, as it rose to fill

the room around them. “It is time to bring you into the light. The Officio

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Assassinorum have been my quiet blade for too long, an open secret none dared to

speak of. But no longer. Such a weapon cannot exist forever in the shadows,

answerable to no one. It must be seen to be governed. There must be no doubt of the

integrity behind every deed, every blow landed, every choice made… or else we

count for naught.” His gaze turned to Dorn and he nodded slowly to his son.

“Because of this I am certain; in the war to come, every weapon in the arsenal of the

Imperium will be called to bear.”

“In your name, father.” The primarch returned the nod. “In your name.”

Dagonet was all but dead now, her surface a mosaic of burning cities, churned oceans

and glassed wastelands. And yet this was a show of restraint from the Sons of Horus;

had they wished it, the world could have suffered the fate of many that had defied the

Warmaster, cracked open by cyclonic torpedo barrages shot into key tectonic target

sites, remade into a sphere of molten earth.

Instead Dagonet was being prepared. It would be of use to the Warmaster and his

march to victory.

Erebus stood atop the ridgeline and looked down into the crater that was all that

remained of the capital. The far side of the vast bowl of dirty glass and melted rock

was lost to him through a mist of poisonous vapour, but he saw enough of it to know

the scope of the whole. Transports were coming in from all over the planet, bringing

those found still alive to this place. He watched as a Stormbird swooped low over the

crater and opened its ventral cargo doors, dropping civilians like discarded trash amid

the masses that had already been herded into the broken landscape. The people were

arranged in lines that cut back and forth across one another, crosses laid over crosses.

Astartes stood at equidistant points around the kilometres of the crater’s edge, their

presence alone forbidding any survivor from making an attempt to climb out and flee.

Those that had at the beginning were blasted back into the throng, bifurcated by bolt

shells. The same fate befell those who dared to move out of the eightfold lines carved

in the dust.

The supplicants—for they did not deserve to be known as prisoners—gave off

moans and whispers of terror that washed back and forth over the Word Bearer

Chaplain like gentle waves. It was tempting to remain where he stood and lose

himself in the sweet sense of the dark emotions brimming across the great hollow;

but there were other matters to attend to.

He heard bootsteps climbing the wreckage-strewn side of the crater, and moved

to face the Astartes approaching him. All about them, thin wisps of steam rose into

the air from the heat of the bombardment still escaping from the shattered earth.

“First Chaplain.” Devram Korda gave him a wary salute. “You wished me to

report to you regarding your… operative? We located the remains you were looking

for.”

“Spear?” He frowned.

Korda nodded, and tossed something towards him. Erebus caught the object; at

first glance it seemed to be a blackened, heat-distorted skull, but on closer

examination the cleft, scything jawbone and distended shape were clearly the work of

forces other than lethal heat and flame. He held it up and looked into the black pits of

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its eyes. The ghost of energies clung to it, and Erebus had a sudden impression of

tiny flecks of gold leaf on the wind, fading into nothingness.

“The rest of the corpse was retrieved along with that.” Korda pointed. “I found

other bodies in the same area, among the ruins of the star-port terminal. Agents of the

Emperor, it would appear.”

Erebus was unconcerned about collateral damages. His irritation churned and he

brushed Korda’s explanation away with a wave of his hand. “Leave it to rot. Failures

have no use to me.” He dropped the skull into the dust.

“What was it, Word Bearer?” Korda came closer, his tone becoming more

insistent. “That thing? Did you unleash something on this backwater world, is that

why they killed my commander?”

“I am not to blame for that,” Erebus retorted. “Look elsewhere for your reasons.”

The words had barely left his lips before the Chaplain felt a stiffening in his chest as

a buried question began to rise in him. He pushed it away before it formed and

narrowed his eyes at Korda. “Spear was a weapon. A gambit played and lost, nothing

more.”

“It stank of witchcraft,” said the Astartes.

Erebus smiled thinly. “Don’t concern yourself with such issues, brother-sergeant.

This was but one of many other arrows in my quiver.”

“I grow weary of your games and your riddles,” said Korda. He swept his hand

around. “What purpose does any of this serve?”

The warrior’s question struck a chord in the Word Bearer, but he did not

acknowledge it. “It is the game, Korda. The greatest game. We take steps, we build

our power, gain strength for the journey to Terra. Soon…” He looked up. “The stars

will be right.”

“Forgive him, brother-sergeant,” said a new voice, an armoured form moving out

of the mist below them. “My brother Lorgar’s kinsmen enjoy their verbiage more

than they should.”

Korda bowed and Erebus did the same as Horus crossed the broken earth, his

heavy ceramite boots crunching on the blasted fragments of rock. Beyond him,

Erebus saw two of the Warmaster’s Mournival in quiet conversation, both with eyes

averted from their master.

“You are dismissed, brother-sergeant,” Horus told his warrior. “I require the First

Chaplain’s attention on a matter.”

Korda gave another salute, this one crisp and heartfelt, his fist clanking off the

front of his breastplate. Erebus fancied he saw a scrap of apprehension in the

warrior’s eyes; more than just the usual respect for his primarch. A fear, perhaps, of

consequences that would come if he was seen to disobey, even in the slightest degree.

As Korda hurried away, Erebus felt the Warmaster’s steady, piercing gaze upon

him. “What do you wish of me?” he asked, his tone without weight.

Horus’ hooded gaze dropped to the blackened skull in the dust. “You will not use

such tactics again in the prosecution of this conflict.”

The Word Bearer’s first impulse was to feign ignorance; but he clamped down on