False Gods

'We have to be prepared for the worst.'

'No,' said Loken, louder than he had intended. 'We would know if-'

'If what?' asked Torgaddon.

'If the Warmaster was dead,' said Loken finally.

Thick silence enveloped them as they struggled to come to terms with such a hideous idea.

'Loken's right,' said Abaddon. 'We would know if the Warmaster was dead. You know we would. You of all of us would feel it, Little Horus,’

'I hope you're right, Ezekyle,’

'Enough of this damned misery,’ said Torgaddon. 'All this talk of death and we haven't found hide nor hair of the Warmaster yet. Save your gloomy thoughts for the dead that we already know about. Besides, we all know that if the Warmaster was dead, the sky would have fallen, eh?'

That lightened their mood a little and they pressed on, making their way along the central spine of the ship, passing through juddering bulkheads and along corri­dors with flickering lights, until they reached the blast doors that led to the bridge.

Loken and Abaddon led the way, with Aximand, Tor­gaddon and Sedirae bringing up the rear.

Inside it was almost dark, only a soft light from rap­tured consoles providing any illumination.

The Warmaster sat with his back to them, his glorious plate armour dented and filthy, cradling something vast and bloated in his lap.

Loken drew level with the Warmaster, grimacing as he saw a grotesquely swollen human head in his comman­der's lap. A great puncture wound pierced the

Warmaster's breastplate and a bloody stab wound on his shoulder leaked blood down the armour of his arm.

'Sir?' said Loken. 'Are you alright?'

The Warmaster didn't answer, instead cradling the head of what Loken could only assume was Eugan Temba. His bulk was immense, and Loken wondered how such a monstrously fat creature could possibly have moved under his own strength.

The Mournival joined Loken, shocked and horrified at the Warmaster's appearance, and at this terrible place. They looked at one another with a growing unease, none quite knowing what to make of this bizarre scene.

'Sir?' said Aximand, kneeling before the weeping Warmaster.

'I failed him,’ said Horas. 'I failed them all. I should have listened, but I didn't and now they're all dead. It's too much,’

'Sir, we're going to get you out of here. The dead things have stopped attacking. We don't know how long that's going to last, so we need to get out of this place and regroup,’

Horus shook his head slowly. They won't be attack­ing again. Temba's dead and I cut the vox signal. I don't know how exactly, but I think it was part of what was animating those poor souls,’

Abaddon pulled Loken aside and hissed, 'We need to get him out of here, and we can't let anyone see the state he's in,’

Loken knew that Abaddon was right. To see the War-master like this would break the spirit of every Astartes who saw him. The Warmaster was an invincible god of war, a towering figure of legend that could never be brought low.

To see him humbled so would be a blow to morale that the 63rd Expedition might never recover from.

Gently, they prised Eugan Temba's massive body away from the Warmaster and lifted their commander to his feet. Loken slung the Warmaster's arm over his shoulder, feeling a warm wetness against his face from the blood that still dripped from Horus's arm.

Between them, he and Abaddon walked the Warmas­ter from the bridge.

ЛУак,' said the Warmaster, his voice weak and low. 'I'll walk out of this place on my own.'

Reluctantly, they let him go, and though he swayed a little, the Warmaster kept his feet, despite the ashen pal­lor of his face and the obvious pain he was in.

The Warmaster spared a last look at Eugan Temba.and said, 'Gather up Veralam and let's get out of here, my sons.'

Maggard slumped against the steel bulkhead of the Glory of Terra, his sword covered in black fluids from the dead things. Petronella fought to hold back tears at the thought of how close they had all come to death on this bleak, Emperor forsaken moon.

Sheltered behind the bulkhead where Maggard had thrust her, she had heard rather than seen the desperate conflict that raged outside – the war cries, the sound of motorised blades tearing into wet meat, the percussive booms and explosive flashes of light from the Titans' weapons.

Her imagination filled in the blanks and though a gut-loosening terror filled her from head to toe, she pictured glorious combats and heroic duels between the towering Astartes giants and the corrupt foes that sought their destruction.

Her breathing came in short, convulsive gasps as she realised she had just survived her first battle, but with that realisation came a strange calm: her limbs stopped shaking and she wanted to smile and laugh. She wiped

her hand across her eyes, smearing the kohl that lined them across her cheeks like tribal war paint.

Petronella looked over at Maggard, seeing him now for the great warrior he truly was, barbaric and bloody, and magnificent. She pushed herself to her feet and leaned out beyond her sheltering bulkhead to look at the battlefield below.

It was like a scene from one of Keland Roget's land­scapes, and the sublime vision took her breath away. The fog and mist had lifted and the sun was already breaking through to bathe the landscape in its ruddy red glow. The pools of swamp water glittered like shards of broken glass spread across the landscape. The three magnificent Titans of the Legio Mortis watched over squads of Astartes, armed with flamers, putting the corpses of the dead things to the torch, and pyres of the fallen mon­sters burned with a blue green light.

She was already forming the metaphors and imagery she would use: the Emperor's warriors taking his light into the dark places of the galaxy, or perhaps that the Astartes were his Angels of Death bringing his retribu­tion to the unrighteous.

The words had the right epic tone, but she sensed that such imagery still lacked some fundamental truth, sounding more like propaganda slogans than anything else.

This was what the Great Crusade was all about and the fear of the last few hours was washed away in a swelling wave of admiration for the Astartes and the men and women of the 63rd Expedition.

She turned as she heard heavy footfalls. The officers of the Mournival were marching towards her, a plate armoured body borne upon their shoulders, and the lev­ity she had witnessed in them earlier now utterly absent. Each one's face, even the joker Torgaddon's, was serious and grim.

The cloaked figure of the Warmaster himself followed behind them, and she was shocked rigid at his beaten appearance. His armour was torn and gashed with foul­ness, and blood spatters matted his face and arm.

'What happened?' she asked as Captain Loken passed her. 'Whose body is that?' 'Be silent,’ he snapped, 'and be gone.' 'No,’ said the Warmaster. 'She is my documentarist and if that is to mean anything then she must see us at our worst as well as our best,’ 'Sir-' began Abaddon, but Horus cut him off. 'I'll not be argued with on this, Ezekyle. She comes with us,’

Petronella felt her heart leap at this inclusion and fell into step with the Warmaster's party as they began their descent to the ground.