'The body is that of Verulam Moy, captain of my 19th Company,’ said Horus, his voice weary and filled with pain. 'He fell in the line of duty and will be honoured as such,’
'You have my deepest sorrows, my lord,’ said Petronella, her heart aching to see the Warmaster in such pain.
'Was it Eugan Temba?' she asked, fishing out her data-slate and mnemo-quill. 'Did he kill Captain Moy?' Horus nodded, too weary even to answer her. 'And Temba is dead? You killed him?' 'Eugan Temba is dead,’ answered Horus. 'I think he died a long time ago. I don't know exactly what I killed in there, but it wasn't him,’ 'I don't understand,’
'I'm not sure I do either,’ said Horus, stumbling as he reached the bottom of the slope of debris. She reached out a hand to steady him, before realising what a ridiculous idea that was. Her hand came away bloody and wet,
and she saw that the Warmaster still bled from a wound in his shoulder.
'I ended the life of Eugan Temba, but damn me if I didn't weep for him afterwards,’
'But wasn't he an enemy?'
'I have no trouble with my enemies, Miss Vivar,’ said Horus. 1 can take care of my enemies in a fight. But my so-called allies, my damned allies, they're the ones who keep me walking the floors at night,’
Legion apothecaries made their way towards the War-master as she tried to make sense of what he was saying. She allowed the mnemo-quill to inscribe his words anyway. She saw the looks she was getting from the Mournival, but ignored them.
'Did you speak to him before you slew him? What did he say?'
'He said… that only I had the power… to stop the future…' said the Warmaster, his voice suddenly faint and echoing as though coming from the other end of a long tunnel.
Puzzled, she looked up in time to see the Warmaster's eyes roll back in their sockets and his legs buckle beneath him. She screamed, reaching out with her hand towards him, knowing that she was powerless to help him, but needing to try to prevent his fall.
Like a slow moving avalanche or a mountain toppling, the Warmaster collapsed.
The mnemo-quill scratched at the data-slate and she wept as she read the words there.
NINE
Silver towers
A bloody return
The veil grows thin
From here, he could see the pyramid roof of the Amenaeum, die low evening sun reflecting on its gold panels as if it were ablaze, and even though Magnus knew he used but a colourful metaphor, the very idea gave him a pang of loss. To imagine that vast repository of knowledge lost in the flames was abhorrent and he turned his Cyclopean gaze from the pyramid of crystal glass and gold.
Tizca, the so-called City of Light, stretched out before him, its marble colonnades and wide boulevards tree– lined and peaceful. Soaring towers of silver and gold reared above a city of gilded libraries, arched museums and sprawling seats of learning. The bulk of the city was constructed of white marble and gold-veined ouslite, shining like a bejewelled crown in the sun. Its architecture spoke of a time long passed, its buildings shaped by craftsmen who had honed their trades for centuries under the tutelage of the Thousand Sons.
From his balcony on the Pyramid of Photep, Magnus the Red, Primarch of the Thousand Sons, contemplated the future of Prospero. His head still hurt from the ferocity of the nightmare and his eye throbbed painfully in its enlarged socket. He gripped the marble balustrade of the balcony, trying to wish away the visions that assailed him in the night and now chased him into the daylight. Mysteries of the night were revealed in the light of day, but these visions of darkness could not be dragged out so easily.
For as long as Magnus could remember, he had been cursed and blessed with a measure of foresight, and his allegorical interpretation of the Athanaeum ablaze troubled him more than he liked to admit.
He poured himself some wine from a silver pitcher, rubbing a copper-skinned hand through his mane of fiery red hair. The wine helped dull the ache in his heart as well as his head, but he knew it was only a temporary solution. Events were now in motion that he had the power to shape and though much of what he had seen was madness and turmoil, and made no sense, he could make out enough to know that he had to make a decision soon – before events spiralled out of control.
Magnus turned from the view over Tizca and made his way back inside the pyramid, pausing as he caught sight of his reflection in the gleaming silver panels. Huge and red-skinned, Magnus was a towering giant with a lustrous mane of red hair. His patrician features were noble and just, his single eye golden and flecked with crimson. Where his other eye would have sat was blank and empty, though a thin scar ran from the bridge of his nose to the edge of his cheekbone.
Cyclopean Magnus they called him, or worse. Since their inception, the Thousand Sons had been viewed with suspicion for embracing powers that others were afraid of. Powers that, because they were not
understood, were rejected as being somehow unclean: rejected ever since the Council of Nikaea.
Magnus threw down his goblet, angry at the memory of his humbling at the feet of the Emperor, when he had been forced to renounce the study of all things sorcerous for fear of what he might learn. Such a notion was surely ridiculous, for was his father's realm not founded on the pursuit of knowledge and reason? What harm could study and learning do?
Though he had retreated to Prospero and sworn to renounce such pursuits, the Planet of the Sorcerers had one vital attribute that made it the perfect place for such studies – it was far from the prying eyes of those who said he dabbled with powers beyond his control.
Magnus smiled at the thought, wishing he could show his persecutors the things he had seen, the wonders and the beauty of what lived beyond the veil of reality. Notions of good and evil fell by the wayside next to such power as dwelled in the warp, for they were the antiquated concepts of a religious society, long cast aside.
He stooped to retrieve his goblet and filled it once more before returning to his chambers and taking a seat at his desk. Inside it was cool and the scent of various inks and parchments made him smile. The wide chamber was walled with bookshelves and glass cabinets, filled with curios and remnants of lost knowledge gleaned from conquered worlds. Magnus himself had penned many of the texts in this room, though others had contributed to this most personal of libraries – Phosis T'kar, Ahriman and Uthizzar to name but a few.
Knowledge had always been a refuge for Magnus, the intoxicating thrill of rendering the unknown down to its constituent parts and, by doing so, rendering it knowable. Ignorance of the universe's
workings had created false gods in man's ancient past, and the understanding of them was calculated to destroy them. Such was Magnus's lofty goal.
His father denied such things, kept his people ignorant of the true powers that existed in the galaxy, and though he promulgated a doctrine of science and reason, it was naught but a lie, a comforting blanket thrown over humanity to shield them from the truth.
Magnus had looked deep into the warp, however, and knew different.
He closed his eye, seeing again the darkness of the corrupt chamber, the glitter
