Graham McNeill - False Gods

Euphrati Keeler lay, unmoving, her skin pale and smooth, with a sheen to it that made it look like pol­ished ceramic. Since she had faced the horror in Archive Chamber Three, she had lain unmoving and unrespon­sive in this medicae bay.

Sindermann had told Mersadie what had happened and she found herself torn between wanting to believe him and calling him delusional. His talk of a daemon

and of Euphrati standing before it with the power of the Emperor pouring through her was too fantastical to be true… wasn't it? She wondered if he'd told anyone else of it.

The apothecaries and medics could find nothing phys­ically wrong with Euphrati Keeler, save for the eagle shaped bum on her hand that refused to fade. Her vital signs were stable and her brain wave activity registered normal: no one could explain it and no one had any idea how to wake her from this coma-like state.

Mersadie came to visit Euphrati as often as she could, but she knew that Sindermann came every day, spending several hours at a time with her. Sometimes they would sit together, talking to Euphrati, telling her of the events happening on the planets below, the battles that had been fought, or simply passing on ship gossip.

Nothing seemed to reach the imagist, and Mersadie sometimes wondered if it might not be a kindness to let her die. What could be worse for a person like Euphrati than being trapped by her own flesh, with no ability to reason, to communicate or express herself.

She and Sindermann had arrived together today and each instantly knew that the other had been crying. The news of Ignace Karkasy's suicide had hit them all hard and Mersadie still couldn't believe how he could have done such a thing.

A suicide note had been found in his billet, which was said to have been composed in verse. It spoke volumes of Ignace's enormous conceit that he made his last good­bye in his own poetry.

They had wept for another lost soul, and then they sat on either side of Euphrati's bed, holding each other's and Keeler's hands as they spoke of better times.

Both turned as they heard a soft knock behind them.

A thin faced man wearing the uniform of the Legio Mortis and an earnest face stood framed in the doorway.

Behind him, Mersadie could see that the corridor was filled with people.

'Is it alright if I come in?' he asked.

Mersadie Oliton said, 'Who are you?'

'My name's Titus Cassar, Moderati Primus of the Dies Irae. I've come to see the saint.'

They met in the observation deck, the lighting kept low and the darkness of space leavened only by me reflected glare of the planets they had just conquered. Loken stood wim his palm against the armoured viewing bay, believing that something fundamental had happened to the Sons of Horus on Aureus, but not knowing what.

Torgaddon joined him moments later and Loken wel­comed him with a brotherly embrace, grateful to have so loyal a comrade.

They stood in silence for some time, each lost in thought as they watched the defeated planets turn in space below them. The preparations for departure were virtually complete and the fleet was ready to move on, though nei­ther warrior had any idea of where they were going.

Eventually Torgaddon broke the silence, 'So what do we do?'

'I don't know, Tarik,' replied Loken. 'I really don't.'

'I thought not,' said Torgaddon, holding up a glass test tube with something in it that reflected soft light with a golden gleam. This won't help then.'

"What is it?' asked Loken.

These,’ said Torgaddon, 'are the bolt round fragments removed from Hektor Varvarus.'

'Bolt round fragments? Why do you have them?'

'Because they're ours,’

What do you mean?'

'I mean they're ours,’ repeated Torgaddon. The bolt that killed the lord commander came from an Astartes bolter, not from one of the Brotherhood's guns,’

Loken shook his head. 'No, there must be some mis­take,’

There's no mistake. Apothecary Vaddon tested the fragments himself. They're ours, no question,’

Той think Varvarus caught a stray round?'

Torgaddon shook his head. The wound was dead cen­tre, Garviel. It was an aimed shot,’

Loken and Torgaddon both understood the implica­tions, and Loken felt his melancholy rise at the thought of Varvarus having been murdered by one of their own.

Neither spoke for a long moment. Then Loken said, 'In the wake of such deceit and destruction shall we despair, or is faith and honour the spur to action?'

'What's that?' asked Torgaddon.

'It's part of a speech I read in a book that Kyril Sinder-mann gave me,’ said Loken. 'It seemed appropriate given where we find ourselves now,’

That's true enough,’ agreed Torgaddon.

'What are we becoming, Tarik?' asked Loken. 1 don't recognise our Legion any more. When did it change?'

The moment we encountered the Technocracy,’

'No,’ said Loken. 'I think it was on Davin. Nothing's been the same since then. Something happened to the Sons of Horusthere, something vile and dark and evil,’

'Do you realise what you're saying?'

'I do,’ replied Loken. 'I'm saying that we have to uphold the truth of the Imperium of Mankind, no mat­ter what evil may assail it,’

Torgaddon nodded. 'The Mournival oath,’

'Evil has found its way into our Legion, Tarik, and it's up to us to cut it out. Are you with me?' asked Loken.

'Always,’ said Torgaddon, and the two warriors shook hands in the old Terran way.

***

The Warmaster's sanctum was dimly lit, the cold glow of the bridge instruments the only source of illumina­tion. The room was full, the core of the Warmaster's officers and commanders gathered around the table. The Warmaster sat at his customary place at the head of the table while Aximand and Abaddon stood behind him, their presence a potent reminder of his authority. Mal-oghurst, Regulus, Erebus, Princeps Turnet of the Legio Mortis, and various other, hand picked, Army comman­ders filled out the rest of the gathering.

Satisfied that everyone who needed to be there had arrived, Horus leaned forwards and began to speak.

'My friends, we begin the next phase of our campaign among the stars soon and I know that you're all curious as to where we travel next. I will tell you, but before I do, I need every one of you to be aware of the magnitude of the task before us,’

He could see he had everyone's attention, and contin­ued. 'I am going to topple the Emperor from his Throne on Terra and take his place as the Master of Mankind.'

The enormity of his words was not lost on the assem­bled warriors and he gave them a few minutes to savour their weight, enjoying the look of alarm that crossed each man's face.

'Be not afraid, you are amongst friends,' chuckled Horus. 'I have spoken to you all individually over the course of the war with the Technocracy, but this is the first time you have been gathered and I have openly spo­ken of our destiny. You shall be my war council, those to whom I entrust tbe furthering of my plan.'

Horus rose from his seat, continuing to speak as he circled the table.

'Take a moment and look at the face of the man sitting next to you. In the coming fight, he will be your brother, for all others will turn from us when we make our inten­tions plain. Brother will fight brother and the fate of the

galaxy will be the ultimate prize. We will face accusa­tions of heresy and cries of treason, but they will fall from us because we are right. Make no mistake about that. We are right and the Emperor is wrong. He has sorely misjudged me if he thinks I will stand by while he abandons his realm in his quest for godhood, and leaves us amid the destruction of his rampant ambition.

'The Emperor commands the loyalty of millions of soldiers and hundreds of thousands of Astartes warriors. His battle fleets reach across the stars from one side of the galaxy to the other. The 63rd Expedition cannot hope to match such numbers or resources. You all know this to be the case, but even so, we have the advantage,’