False Gods

grammatical connections, it's proving very difficult to translate.' 'What book is it?'

'I believe it to be the Book of Lorgar, although I haven't been able to speak with First Chaplain Erebus to verify that fact. If it is, it may be a copy given to the Warmaster by Lorgar himself.' 'So why does that make it so important?' 'Don't you remember the rumours about Lorgar?' asked Sindermann urgently. 'That he too worshipped the Emperor as a god? It's said that his Legion devastated world after world for not showing the proper devotion to the Emperor, and then raised up great monuments to him.' 'I remember the tales, yes, but that's all they are, surely?' 'Probably, but what if they aren't?' said Sindermann, his eyes alight with the possibility of uncovering such knowl­edge. What if a primarch, one of the Emperor's sons no less, was privy to something we as mere mortals are not yet ready for? If my work so far is correct, then this book talks about bringing forth the essence of god. I must know what that means!'

Despite herself, Euphrati felt her pulse race with this potential knowledge. Undeniable proof of the Emperor's divinity coming from Kyril Sindermann would raise the Lectitio Divinitatus far above its humble status and into the realm of a phenomenon that could spread from one side of the galaxy to the other.

Sindermann saw that realisation in her face and said, 'Miss Keeler, I have spent my entire adult life promul­gating the truth of the Imperium and I am proud of the work I have done, but what if we are teaching the wrong message? If you are right and the Emperor is a god, then what we saw beneath the mountains of Sixty-Three Nineteen represents a danger more horrifying than we can possibly imagine. If it truly was a spirit of evil then we need a divine being such as the Emperor, more than ever. I know that words cannot move mountains, but they can move the multitude – we've proven that time and time again. People are more ready to fight and die for a word than for anything else. Words shape thought, stir feeling, and force action. They kill and revive, cor­rupt and cure. If being an iterator has taught me anything, it's that men of words – priests, prophets and intellectuals – have played a more decisive role in his­tory than any military leaders or statesmen. If we can prove the existence of god, then I promise you the itera­tors will shout that truth from the highest towers of the land.'

Euphrati stared, open mouthed, as Kyril Sindermann turned her world upside down: this arch prophet of sec­ular truth speaking of gods and faith? Looking into his eyes, she saw the wracking self-doubt and crisis of iden­tity that he had undergone since she had last seen him, understanding how much of him had been lost these last few days, and how much had been gained.

'Let me see,’ she said, and Sindermann pushed the book in front of her.

The writing was an angular cuneiform, running up and down the page rather than along it, and right away she could see that she would be no help in its transla­tion, although elements of the script looked somehow familiar.

'I can't read it,’ she said. What does it say?'

Well, that's the problem, I can't tell exactly,’ said Sin-dermann. 'I can make out the odd word, but it's difficult without die grammatical key.'

'I've seen this before,’ she said, suddenly remembering why the writing looked familiar.

'I hardly think so, Euphrati,’ said Sindermann. This book has been in the archive chamber for decades. I don't think anyone's read it since it was put there.'

'Don't patronise me, Sindermann, I've definitely seen this before,’ she insisted.

'Where?'

Keeler reached into her pocket and gripped the mem­ory coil of her smashed picter. She rose from her seat and said, 'Gather your notes and I'll meet you in the archive chamber in thirty minutes,’

'Where are you going?' asked Sindermann, gathering up the book.

'To get something you're going to want to see,’

Horus opened his eyes to see a sky thick with polluted clouds, the taste in the air chemical and stagnant.

It smelled familiar. It smelled of home.

He lay on an uneven plateau of dusty black powder in front of a long-exhausted mining tunnel, and felt the hollow ache of homesickness as he realised this was Cthonia.

The smog of the distant foundries and the relentless hammering of deep core mining filled the sky with par­ticulate matter, and he felt an ache of loneliness for the simpler times he had spent here.

Horus looked around for Sejanus, but whatever the swirling vortex beneath Terra had been, it had evidently not swept up his old comrade in its fury.

His journey here had not been as silent and instant as his previous journeys through this strange and unknown realm. The powers that dwelled in the warp had shown

him a glimpse of the future, and it was a desolate place indeed. Foul xeno breeds held sway over huge swathes of the galaxy and a pall of hopelessness gripped the sons of man.

The power of humanity's glorious armies was broken, the Legions shattered and reduced to fragments of what they had once been: bureaucrats, scriveners and official­dom ruling in a hellish regime where men lived inglorious lives of no consequence or ambition.

In this dark future, mankind had not the strength to chal­lenge the overlords, to fight against the terrors the Emperor had left them to. His father had become a carrion god who neither felt his subjects' pain nor cared for their fate.

In truth, the solitude of Cthonia was welcome, his thoughts tumbling through his head in a mad whirl of anger and resentment. The Emperor tinkered with powers far beyond his means to master – and had already failed to control once before. He had bargained away his sons for the promise of power, and now returned to Terra to try once again.

'I will not let this happen,’ Homs said quietiy.

As he spoke, he heard the plaintive howl of a wolf and pushed himself to his feet. Nothing like a wolf lived on Cthonia, and Horus was sick of this constant pursuit through the warp.

'Show yourselves!' he shouted, punching the air and bellowing an ululating war cry.

His cry was answered as the howling came again, draw­ing nearer, and Horus felt his batde lust swim to the surface. He had the taste of blood after the slaughter of the Custodian Guards and welcomed the chance to spill yet more.

Shadows moved around him and he shouted, 'Lupercal! Lupercal!'

Shapes resolved from the shadows and he saw a red-furred wolf pack detach from the darkness. They

surrounded him, and Horus recognised the pack leader as the beast that had spoken to him when he had first awoken in the warp.

'What are you?' asked Horus, 'and no lies,’

'A friend,’ said the wolf, its form blurring and running with rippling lines of golden light. The wolf reared up on its hind legs, its form elongating and widening as it became more humanoid, its proportions swelling and changing until it stood as tall as Horus himself.

Copper skin replaced fur and its eyes ran like liquid as they formed one, golden orb. Thick red hair sprouted from the figure's head and bronze coloured armour shimmered into existence upon his breast and arms. He wore a billowing cloak of feathers and Horus knew him as well he knew his own reflection.

'Magnus,’ said Horus. 'Is it really you?'

'Yes, my brother, it is,’ said Magnus, and the two war­riors embraced in a clatter of plate.

'How?' asked Horus. 'Are you dying too?'

'No,’ said Magnus. 'I am not. You must listen to me, my brother. It has taken me too long to reach you, and I do not have much time here. The spells and wards placed around you are powerful