Graham McNeill - A Thousand Sons

of the monstrous being.

Lemuel spat a mouthful of acrid bile and shook his head.

“No,” he said. “He’s a monster.”

She turned, and Lemuel was shocked at her anger. “How can you say that? Look at him.”

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Lemuel screwed his eyes shut, only gradually opening them once again to look upon this

incredible figure. He still saw the light shining in its heart, but where before it had been beguilingly

dangerous, it was now soothing and hypnotic.

Like a badly tuned picter suddenly brought into focus, the being’s true form was revealed: a

broad-shouldered giant in exquisite battle-plate of gold, bronze and leather. Sheathed at his side

were his weapons, a curved sword with an obsidian haft and golden blade, and a heavy pistol of

terrifying proportions.

Though the warrior was hundreds of metres below him, Lemuel saw him as clearly as a vivid

memory or the brightest image conjured by his imagination.

He smiled, now seeing the beauty Camille saw.

“You’re right,” he said. “I don’t know how I didn’t see it before.”

A billowing mantle of golden feathers floated at the being’s shoulders, hung with thuribles and

trailing parchments fixed with wax seals. Great ebony horns curled up from his breastplate,

matching the two that sprang from his shoulders. A pale tabard decorated with a blazing sun motif

hung at his belt, and a heavy book, bound in thick red hide, was strung about his armour on golden

chains.

Lemuel’s eyes were drawn to the book, its unknown contents rich with the promise of

knowledge and the secret workings of the universe. A golden hasp was secured with a lock

fashioned from lead. Lemuel would have traded his entire wealth and even his very soul to open that

book and peer into its depths.

He felt a hand on his arm and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. Camille hugged him,

overcome with wonder and love, and Lemuel took pleasure in the embrace.

“I never thought to see him this close,” said Camille.

Lemuel didn’t answer, watching as two figures followed the being from the cave. One was an

Aghoru tribesman in a glittering mask and orange robe, the other a thin man wearing an ash-stained

robe of a remembrancer. They were irrelevant. The majestic being of light was all that mattered.

As though hearing his thoughts, the warrior looked up at him.

He wore a golden helmet, plumed with a mane of scarlet hair, his face wise beyond

understanding, like a tribal elder or venerable sage.

Camille was right. He was beautiful, perfect and beautiful.

Still embracing, Lemuel and Camille sank to their knees.

Lemuel stared back at the magnificent being, only now seeing that a single flaw marred his

perfection. A golden eye, flecked with iridescent colours without name, blinked and Lemuel saw

that the warrior looked out at the world through this eye alone. Where his other eye should have

been was smooth and unblemished, as if no eye had ever sat there.

“Magnus the Red,” said Lemuel. “The Crimson King.”

Aghoru’s sun had finally set, though the sky still glowed faintly with its light. Night did not last long

here, but it provided a merciful respite from the intense heat of the day. Ahriman carried his golden

deshret helmet in the crook of his arm as he made his way towards his primarch’s pavilion. His

connection to the secret powers of the universe had established itself the moment he had led the

Sekhmet past the deadstones. Aaetpio’s light had welcomed him, and the presence of the Tutelary

was as refreshing as a cool glass of water in the desert.

Ahriman’s relief at the sight of Magnus emerging from the cave was matched only by the

recognition of the disappointment in his eyes. The magnificent primarch glared down at the circle of

warriors gathered around the altar, and then shook his head. Even denied the use of his enhanced

acuity in the Mountain, Ahriman had felt his master’s enormous presence, a power that transcended

whatever wards were woven into the stones of the mountain.

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Magnus marched past them, not even bothering to further acknowledge their presence. The

masked tribesman, who Ahriman knew must be Yatiri, walked alongside the primarch, and

Mahavastu Kallimakus, Magnus’ personal scribe, trotted after them, whispering words into a slender

wand that were then transcribed by a clattering quill unit attached to his belt.

“This was a mistake,” said Hathor Maat. “We shouldn’t have come here.”

Ahriman rounded angrily on him, saying, “You were only too keen to march when I suggested

it.”

“It was better than sitting about doing nothing, but I did say that the primarch told us to wait,”

Maat said with a shrug.

Ahriman had wanted to lash out at Hathor Maat, feeling his self-control faltering in the face of

the Pavoni’s smug arrogance. That he was right only made it worse.

He knew he should have trusted Magnus’ judgement, but he had doubted. At best it would

probably mean a public apology to Yatiri, at worst potential exclusion from the Rehahti, the inner

coven of the Thousand Sons chosen by Magnus to address whatever issues were currently

concerning the Legion.

Its members were ever-changing, and inclusion within the Rehahti was dependent on many

things, not least an Astartes’ standing within the Legion. The cults of the Thousand Sons vied for

prominence and a place in the primarch’s inner circle, knowing that to bask in his radiance would

only enhance their powers.

As the power of the aether waxed and waned, so too did the mystical abilities of the cults.

Invisible currents inimical to one discipline would boost the powers of another, and portents of the

Great Ocean’s ever-changing tides were read and interpreted by the Legion’s geomancers with

obsessive detail. At present the Pyrae was in the ascendance, while Ahriman’s cult, the Corvidae,

was at its lowest ebb for nearly fifty years. For centuries, the Corvidae had been pre-eminent within

the ranks of the Thousand Sons, but over the last few decades, their power to read the twisting paths

of the future had diminished until their seers could barely penetrate the shallows of things to come.

The currents of the Great Ocean were swelling and boisterous, the geomancers warning of a

great storm building within its depths, though they could see nothing of its source. The subtle

currents were obscured by the raging tides that empowered the more bellicose disciplines, ringing in

the blood of those whose mastery only stretched to the lower echelons.

It was galling that reckless firebrands like Khalophis and Auramagma strutted like lords while

the hidden seers and sorcerers who had guided the Thousand Sons since their inception were forced

to the sidelines. Yet there was nothing Ahriman could do, save try every day to re-establish his

connection to the distant shores of the future.

He put such thoughts aside, rising through the Enumerations to calm himself and enter a

contemplative state. The pavilion of Magnus loomed ahead of him, a grand, three-cornered pyramid

of polarised glass and gold that shimmered in the evening’s glow like a half-buried diamond.

Opaque from the outside, transparent on the inside, it was the perfect embodiment of the leader of

the Thousand Sons.

Three Terminators of the Scarab Occult stood at each corner. Each carried a bladed sekhem

staff, and their storm bolters were held tightly across the jade and amber scarab design on their