Graham McNeill: A Thousand Sons

had changed the destiny of the Thousand Sons forever.

United with the Legion that carried his genetic legacy, Magnus bent every shred of his towering

intellect to undoing the damage their aberrant genes had done.

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And he had succeeded.

Magnus saved his Legion, but the Crusade had progressed in the time it had taken him to do it,

and his warriors were eager to share in the glory their brothers were earning with every passing day.

The Expedition Fleets of the Legions pushed ever outwards from the cradle of humanity to

reunify the Emperor’s realm. Like squabbling brothers, each of the primarchs vied for a place at

their father’s side, but only one was ever good enough to fight alongside the saviour of humanity:

Horus Lupercal, Primarch of the Luna Wolves and beloved son of the Emperor.

The Emperor stood at the head of the Luna Wolves and Guilliman’s Ultramarines, ready to

unleash his terrible thunder against the greenskin of Ullanor, a war that promised to be gruelling and

punishing. Who better than the favoured son of the Emperor to stand at his side as they throttled the

life from this barbarian foe?

Ullanor would be a war to end all wars, but there was fighting closer to hand that demanded the

attention of the Thousand Sons. Lorgar’s Word Bearers and the Space Wolves of Leman Russ

fought in the Ark Reach Cluster, a group of binary stars occupied by a number of belligerent

planetary empires that rejected the Imperium’s offer to become part of something greater.

The Wolf King had sent repeated calls for the XV Legion to join the fighting, but Magnus

ignored them all.

He had found something of greater interest on Aghoru. He had found the Mountain.

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CHAPTER TWO

Drums of the Mountain / Temple of the Syrbotae / A Place of the Dead

They had only been climbing for twenty minutes, but already Lemuel was beginning to regret his

hasty idea to spy upon the Thousand Sons. He’d discovered the steps hidden in the rocks on one of

his frequent solitary walks in the lower reaches of the titanic mountain. Set in a cunningly concealed

cleft a hundred metres from the deadstones, the steps wound through the rock of the Mountain,

climbing a steep, but far more direct path than the Astartes would be following.

It might be more direct, but it certainly wasn’t easier. His banyan was stained with sweat, and he

imagined he didn’t smell too pleasant. The sound of his heart was like the pounding kettledrums of a

triumphal band welcoming the Emperor himself.

“How much further is it?” asked Camille. She was relishing this chance to venture deeper into

the Mountain, though Kallista appeared rather less enthusiastic. The Astartes awed and scared her,

but the idea of spying on them had sent a delicious thrill through her when he had suggested it. He

couldn’t read her aura, but her expression said she was regretting her decision to come along.

Lemuel paused, looking up at the metal yellow of the sky to catch his breath and slow his racing

heartbeat.

“Another ten minutes, maybe,” he said.

“You sure you’ll last that long?” asked Camille, only half-joking.

“I’ll be fine,” he assured her, taking a swig of water from his canteen. “I’ve climbed this way

before. It’s not much higher. I think.”

“Just don’t collapse on me,” said Camille. “I don’t want to have to carry you back down.”

“You can always roll me back down,” replied Lemuel, attempting some levity.

“Seriously,” said Camille, “are you sure you’re up to this climb?”

“I’m fine,” he insisted, with more conviction than he felt. “Trust me, it’s worth the effort.”

Back at the deadstones it had seemed like a grand adventure for the three of them to undertake,

but the numbness of the senses he felt was like having his ears stoppered and his eyes sewn shut.

From below, the mountain had been a black wall of nothingness, but climbing deeper into the rocks,

Lemuel felt as if that nothingness was swallowing him whole.

He passed the canteen around, grateful that Kallista and Camille indulged his desire to stop for a

rest. It was early evening, but the day’s heat hadn’t let up. Still, at least there was some shade here.

They could afford a brief stop, for the only other route he knew would take at least an hour to

traverse, even for Astartes.

Lemuel took the bandanna from around his neck and mopped his face. The cloth was soaked by

the time he was done, and he wrung it out with a grimace. Camille looked up the steps, craning her

neck to try to see the top.

“So where does this lead exactly?” she asked.

“There’s a plateau a bit higher up,” he said. “It’s like a viewing platform of some sort.”

“A viewing platform?” asked Kallista. “For what?”

“It looks out over a wide valley I call the Temple of the Syrbotae.”

“Syrbotae?” asked Camille. “What’s that?”

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“A very old legend of my homeland,” replied Lemuel. “The Syrbotae were a race of giants from

the Aethiopian kingdom of Meroe.”

“Why do you call it that, a temple I mean?” asked Kallista, horrified at the word.

“You’ll understand when we get there.”

“You have a way of choosing words that could get you into trouble,” said Camille.

“Not at all, my dear,” said Lemuel. “The Thousand Sons are nothing if not rebels. I think they

would appreciate the irony.”

“Rebels? What are you talking about?” asked Kallista angrily.

“Nothing,” said Lemuel, realising he had said too much. Stripped of his ability to read auras, he

was being careless. “Just a bad joke.”

He smiled to reassure Kallista he had been joking, and she smiled back.

“Come on,” he said. “We should get going. I want to show you something spectacular.”

It took them another thirty minutes to reach the plateau, by which time Lemuel swore never to climb

the mountain again, no matter how spectacular the views or what the enticement. The sound of his

drumming heartbeat seemed louder than ever, and Lemuel vowed to shed some weight before it

killed him.

The sky was a darker shade of yellow brown. The light would never really fade, so he wasn’t

worried about negotiating the descent.

“This is amazing,” said Kallista, looking back the way they had climbed. “You were so right,

Lemuel.”

“Yeah,” agreed Camille, taking out her picter. “Not bad at all.”

Lemuel shook his head.

“No, not the salt flats. Over there,” he said, waving towards a row of spiked rocks that looked

like slender stalagmites at the edge of the plateau. If the artificiality of the Mountain had ever been

in doubt, the sight of the stalagmites, which were clearly the remains of fluted balustrades, would

have dispelled it.

“Over there,” he said between gulps of air. “Look over there.”

Camille and Kallista walked over to the stalagmites, and he saw the amazement in their body

language. He smiled, pleased that he hadn’t let them down with his talk of a spectacular view. He

stood up and stretched his back. His breath was returning to normal, but the drumming in his ears

hadn’t let up one bit.

“You weren’t wrong to call it a temple,” said Camille, looking down into the valley.

“Yes, it’s quite a view, isn’t it?” said Lemuel, regaining some of his composure.

“It is, but that’s not what I mean.”

“It’s not?” he asked, finally realising that the drumming he was hearing wasn’t in his head. It