False Gods

sheen of the sword, and the blow that would change the fate of the galaxy. He saw death and betrayal, heroes and monsters. He saw loyalty tested, and found wanting and standing firm in equal measure. Terrible fates awaited his brothers and, worst of all, he knew that his father was utterly ignorant of the doom that threatened the galaxy.

A soft knocking came at his door and the red-armoured figure of Ahriman entered, holding before him a long staff topped with a single eye.

'Have you decided yet, my lord?' asked his chief librar­ian, without preamble. 'I have, my friend,’ said Magnus. 'Then shall I gather the coven?'

'Yes,' sighed Magnus, 'in the catacombs beneath the city. Order the thralls to assemble the conjunction and I shall be with you presently.' 'As you wish, my lord,’ said Ahriman. 'Something troubles you?' asked Magnus, detecting an edge of reticence in his old friend's tone. 'No, my lord, it is not my place to say,’ 'Nonsense. If you have a concern then I give you leave to voice it,’ Then may I speak freely?' 'Of course,’ nodded Magnus. 'What troubles you?'

Ahriman hesitated before answering. 'This spell you propose is dangerous, very dangerous. None of us truly understand its subtleties and there may be consequences we do not yet foresee,’

Magnus laughed. 'I've not known you shirk from the power of a spell before, Ahriman. When manipulating power of this magnitude there will always be unknowns, but only by wielding it can we bring it to heel. Never for­get that we are the masters of the warp, my friend. It is strong, yes, and great power lives within it, but we have the knowledge and means to bend it to our will do we not?'

We do, my lord,’ agreed Ahriman. ЛҐЬу then do we use it to warn the Emperor of what is to come when he has for­bidden us to pursue such matters?'

Magnus rose from his seat, his copper skin darkening in anger. 'Because when my father sees that it is our sorcery that has saved his realm, he will not be able to deny that what we do here is important, nay, vital to the Imperium's survival!'

Ahriman nodded, fearful of his primarch's rage, and Magnus softened his tone. There is no other way, my friend. The Emperor's palace is warded against the power of the warp and only a conjuration of such power will breach those wards,’

Then I will gather the coven immediately,’ said Ahriman.

Yes, gather them, but await my arrival before beginning. Horus may yet surprise us,’

Panic, fear, indecision: three emotions previously unknown to Loken seized him as Horus fell. The War-master crashed to the ground in slow motion, splashing into the mud as his body went completely limp. Shouts of alarm went up, but a paralysis of inaction held those closest to the Warmaster tightly in its grip, as though time itself had slowed.

Loken stared at the Warmaster lying on the ground before him, inert and corpse-like, unable to believe what he was seeing. The rest of the Mournival stood similarly immobile, rooted to the spot in disbelief. He felt as though the air had become thick and cloying, the cries of fear that spread outwards echoing and distant as though from a holo-picter running too slow.

Only Petronella Vivar seemed unaffected by the inaction that held Loken and his brothers firm. Down on her knees in the mud next to the Warmaster, she was weeping and wailing at him to get back up again.

The knowledge that his commander was down and a mortal woman had reacted before any of the Sons of Homs shamed Loken into action and he dropped to one knee alongside the fallen Horus.

'Apothecary!' shouted Loken, and time snapped back with a crash of shouts and cries.

The Mournival dropped to the ground beside him.

'What's wrong?' demanded Abaddon.

'Commander!' shouted Torgaddon.

'Lupercal!' cried Aximand.

Loken ignored them and forced himself to focus.

This is a battlefield injury and I will treat it as such, he

thought.

He scanned the Warmaster's body as the others put their hands on him, pushing the remembrancer out of the way as each struggled to wake their lord and master. Too many hands were interfering, and Loken yelled, 'Stop. Get back!'

The Warmaster's armour was beaten and torn, but Loken could see no other obvious breaches in the armoured plates save where the shoulder guard had been torn away, and where the gaping puncture wound oozed in his chest.

'Help me get his armour off!' he shouted.

The Mournival, bound together as brothers, nodded and, grateful to have a focus for their efforts, instantly

obeyed Loken's command. Within moments, they had removed Horus's breastplate and pauldrons and were unstrapping his remaining shoulder guard.

Loken tore off his helmet and cast it aside, pressing his ear to the Warmaster's chest. He could hear the Warmas­ter's hearts, pounding in a deathly slow double beat.

'He's still alive!' he cried.

'Get out of the way!' shouted a voice behind him, and he turned to rebuke this newcomer before seeing the double helix caduceus symbol on his armour plates. Another apothecary joined the first and the Mournival was unceremoniously pushed aside as they went to work, hissing Narthecium stabbing into the Warmaster's flesh.

Loken stood watching them, impotent and helpless as they fought to stabilise the Warmaster. His eyes filled with tears and he looked around in vain for something to do, something to make him feel he was helping. There was nothing, and he felt like crying out to the heavens for making him so powerful and yet so useless.

Abaddon wept openly, and to see the first captain so unmanned made Loken's fear for the Warmaster all the more terrible. Aximand watched the apothecaries work with a grim stoicism, while Torgaddon chewed his bot­tom lip and prevented the remembrancer from getting in the way.

The Warmaster's skin was ashen, his lips blue and his limbs rigid, and Loken knew that they must destroy whatever power had felled Horus. He turned and began marching back towards the Glory of Terra, determined that he would take the stricken craft apart, piece by piece if need be.

'Captain!' called one of the apothecaries, a warrior Loken knew as Vaddon. 'Get a Stormbird here now! We need to get him to the Vengeful Spirit*.'

Loken stood immobile, torn between his desire for vengeance and his duty to the Warmaster.

'Now, captain!' yelled the apothecary, and the spell was broken.

He nodded dumbly and opened a channel to the cap­tains of the Stormbirds, grateful to have a purpose in this maelstrom of confusion. Within moments, one of the medical craft was inbound and Loken watched, mes­merised, as the apothecaries fought to save the

Warmaster.

He could see from the frantic nature of their ministra­tions that they were fighting an uphill battle, their Narthecium whirring miniature centrifuges of blood and dispensing patches of syn- skin to treat his wounds. Their conversations passed over him, but he caught the odd familiar word here and there. 'Larraman cells ineffective…' 'Hypoxic poisoning…'

Aximand appeared at his side and placed his hand on Loken's shoulder. 'Don't say it, Little Horus,' warned Loken. 'I wasn't going to, Garviel,' said Aximand. 'He'll be alright. There's nothing this place could throw at the Warmaster that'll keep him down for long.'