False Gods

Loken could smell Eugan Temba long before they saw him, the reek of his putrefaction and death thick even beyond the bridge. They made their way cau­tiously onto the bridge, and Loken sent his warriors around the perimeter with directional chops of his hand.

'What are we going to do about those men up there?' asked Vipus, pointing to the dead soldiers stitched to the banners hanging from the roof. 'We can't just leave them like that,’

'I know, but we can't do anything for them just now,’ said Loken. 'When we destroy this hulk, they'll be at rest,’

'Is that him?' asked Marr, pointing at the bloated corpse.

Loken nodded, raising his bolter and advancing on the body. A rippling motion undulated beneath the corpse's skin, and Temba's voluminous belly wobbled with internal motion. His flesh was stretched so tightly over his frame that the outlines of fat maggots and lar­vae could be seen beneath his parchment skin.

Throne, he's disgusting,’ said Marr. 'And this… thing killed Verulam?'

'I assume so,’ replied Loken. 'The Warmaster didn't say exactly, but there's nothing else here is there?'

Loken left Marr to his grief and turned to his war­riors, saying, 'Spread out and look for something, anything that might give us some clue as to what hap­pened here,’

'You don't have any idea what we're looking for?' asked Vipus.

'No, not really,’ admitted Loken. 'A weapon maybe.'

'You know we're going to have to search that fat bastard don't you?' Torgaddon pointed out. Who's the lucky sod who gets to do that?'

'I thought that'd be something you'd enjoy, Tarik.'

'Oh no, I'm not putting so much as a finger near that thing.'

'I'll do it,’ said Marr, dropping to his knees and peeling away the sodden remnants of Eugan Temba's clothing and flesh.

'See?' said Torgaddon, backing away. Tybalt wants to do it. I say let him,’

Very well. Be careful, Tybalt,’ said Loken before turn­ing away from the disgusting sight of Marr pulling apart Temba's corpse.

His men began searching the bridge and Loken climbed the steps to the captain's throne, staring out over the crew pits, now filled with all manner of vile excrescences and filth. It baffled Loken how such a glori­ous ship and a man of supposedly fine character could come to such a despicable end.

He circled the throne, pausing as his foot connected with something solid.

He bent down and saw a polished wooden casket. Its surfaces were smooth and clean, and it was clearly out of place in this reeking tomb. Perhaps the length and thick­ness of a man's arm, the wood was rich brown with strange symbols carved along its length. The lid opened on golden hinges and Loken released the delicate catch that held it shut.

The casket was empty, padded with a red velvet insert, and as he stared at its emptiness, Loken realised how thoughtless he'd been in opening it. He ran his fingers along the length of the casket, tracing the outline of the symbols, seeing something familiar in their elegantly cursive forms.

'Over here!' shouted one of Locasta, and Loken quickly gathered up the casket and made his way towards the source of the call. While Tybalt Marr disas­sembled the traitor's rotten body, Astartes warriors surrounded something that gleamed on the deck.

Loken saw that it was Eugan Temba's severed arm, the fingers still wrapped around the hilt of a strange, glitter­ing sword with a blade that looked like grey flint.

'It's Temba's arm right enough,’ said Vipus, reaching down to lift the sword.

'Don't touch it,’ said Loken. 'If it laid the Warmaster low, I don't want to know what it could do to us,’

Vipus recoiled from the sword as though it were a snake.

What's that?' asked Torgaddon, pointing at the casket.

Loken dropped to his haunches, laying the casket next to the sword, unsurprised when he saw that the sword would fit snugly inside.

'I think it once contained this sword,’

'Looks pretty new,’ said Vipus. 'And what's that on the side? Writing?'

Loken didn't answer, reaching out to prise Temba's dead fingers from the sword hilt. Though he knew it was absurd, he grimaced with each finger he pried loose, expecting the hand to leap to life and attack him.

Eventually, the sword was free, and Loken gingerly lifted the weapon.

'Careful,’ said Torgaddon.

Thanks, Tarik, and here was me about to throw it about,’

'Sorry,’

Loken slowly lowered the sword into the casket. The handle tingled and he had felt a curious sensation as he had said Tarik's name, a sense of the monstrous harm the weapon could inflict. He snapped the lid shut, letting out a pent-up breath.

'How in the name of Terra did someone like Temba get hold of a weapon like that?' asked Torgaddon. It didn't even look human-made.'

'It's not,' said Loken as the familiarity of the symbols on the side of the casket fell horribly into place. 'It's kinebrach.'

'Kinebrach?' asked Torgaddon. 'But weren't they-'

'Yes,’ said Loken, carefully lifting the casket from the deck. 'This is the anathame that was stolen from the Hall of Devices on Xenobia.'

The word went out across the Vengeful Spirit at the speed of thought, and weeping men and women lined their route. Hundreds fdled each passageway as the Astartes bore the Warmaster on a bier of kite-shaped shields. Clad in his ceremonial armour of winter white with burnished gold trims and the glaring red eye, the Warmaster's hands were clasped across his golden sword, and a laurel wreath of silver sat upon his noble brow.

Abaddon, Aximand, Luc Sedirae, Serghar Targost, Falkus Kibre and Kalus Ekaddon carried him, and behind the Warmaster came Hektor Varvarus and Mal-oghurst. Each one wore shining armour and their company cloaks billowed behind them as they walked. Heralds and criers announced the route of the cortege, and there was no repeat of the bloody scene on the embarkation deck as the Astartes took this slow march with the beloved leader who had fought beside them since the earliest days of the Crusade. They wept as they marched, each one painfully aware that this might be the Warmaster's last journey.

In lieu of flowers, the people threw torn scraps of tearstained paper, each with words of hope and love written on them. Shown that the Warmaster still lived, his people burned herbs said to have healing

properties, hanging them from smoking censers all along the route, and from somewhere a band played the Legion March.

Candles burned with a sweet smell and men and women, soldiers and civilians, tore at themselves in their grief. Army banners lined the route, each dipped out of respect for the Warmaster, and pleading chants followed the procession until at last they came to the embarka­tion deck. Its vast gateway was wreathed in parchment, every square centimetre of bulkhead covered with mes­sages for the Warmaster and his sons.

Aximand was awed by the outpouring of sorrow and love for the Warmaster, the scale of people's grief at his wounding beyond anything in his experience. To him the Warmaster was a figure of magnificence, but first and foremost, he was a warrior – a leader of men and one of the Emperor's chosen.

To these mortals, he was so much more. To them, the Warmaster was a symbol of something noble and heroic beyond anything they could ever aspire to, a symbol of the new galaxy they were forging from the ashes of the Age of Strife.

Horus's very existence promised an end to the suf­fering and death that had plagued humanity for centuries.