False Gods

'My lord?' replied Regulus. 'I aspire to the perfection of the machine state, but would not presume to compare myself with the Astartes,’

As well you should not,’ said Horas, continuing to pace around the sanctum. 'I will give you these construct machines, but as we have established, there will be a price,’

'Name it, my lord. The Mechanicum will pay it,’

The Great Crusade is almost at an end, Regulus, but our efforts to secure the galaxy are only just beginning,’ said Horas, leaning over the table and planting his hands on its black surface. 'I am poised to embark on the greatest endeavour imaginable, but I need allies, or all will come to naught. Can I count on you and the Mechanicum?'

'What is this great endeavour?' asked Regulus.

Horus waved his hand and came around the table to stand next to the adept of the Mechanicum once more, placing a reassuring hand on his brass armature.

'No need to go into the details just now,’ he said. 'Just tell me that you and your brethren will support me when the time comes and the construct machines are yours.'

A whirring mechanical arm wrapped in gold mesh swung over the table and placed a polished machine-cog gently on its surface.

'As much of the Mechanicum as I command is yours Warmaster,’ promised Regulus, 'and as much strength as I can muster from those I do not.'

Horus smiled and said, 'Thank you, adept. That's all I wanted to hear.'

On the sixth day of the tenth month of the war against the Auretian Technocracy, the 63rd Expedition was thrown into panic when a group of vessels translated in-system behind it, in perfect attack formation.

Boas Comnenus attempted to turn his ships to face the new arrivals, but even as the manoeuvres began, he knew it would be too late. Only when the mysterious ships reached, and then passed, optimal firing range, did those aboard the Vengeful Spirit understand that the vessels had no hostile intent.

Relieved hails were sent from the Warmaster's flagship to be met with an amused voice that spoke with the cultured accent of Old Terra.

'Horus, my brother,’ said the voice. 'It seems I still have a thing or two to teach you.'

On the bridge of the Vengeful Spirit, Horus said, 'Fulgrim,’

Despite the hardships of the war, Loken was excited at the prospect of meeting the warriors of the Emperor's

Children once again. He had spent as much time as his duties allowed in repairing his armour, though he knew it was still in a sorry state. He and the Mournival stood behind the Warmaster as he waited proudly on the upper transit dock of the Vengeful Spirit, ready to receive the primarch of the III Legion.

Fulgrim had been one of the Warmaster's staunchest supporters since his elevation to Warmaster, easing the concerns of Angron, Perturabo and Curze when they raged against the honour done to Horus and not them. Fulgrim's voice had been the breath of calm that had stilled bellicose hearts and soothed raffled pride.

Without Fulgrim's wisdom, Loken knew that it was unlikely that the Warmaster would ever have been able to command the loyalty of the Legions so completely.

He heard metallic scrapes from beyond the pressure door.

Loken had seen Fulgrim once before at the Great Tri­umph on Ullanor, and even though it had been from a distance as he had marched past with tens of thou­sands of other Astartes warriors, Loken's impression of the primarch had never faded from his mind.

It was a palpable honour to stand once again in the presence of two such godlike beings as the primarchs.

The eagle-stamped pressure door slid open and the Primarch of the Emperor's Children stepped onto the Vengeful Spirit.

Loken's first impression was of the great golden eagle's wing that swept up over Fulgrim's left shoulder. The primarch's armour was brilliant purple, edged in bright gold and inlaid with the most exquisite carv­ings. Hooded bearers carried his long, scaled cloak, and trailing parchments hung from his shoulder guards.

A high collar of deepest purple framed a face that was pale to the point of albinism, the eyes so dark as to be

almost entirely pupil. The hint of a smile played around his lips and his hair was a shimmering white.

Loken had once called Hastur Sejanus a beautiful man, adored by all, but seeing the Primarch of the Emperor's Children up close for the first time, he knew that his paltry vocabulary was insufficient for the perfec­tion he saw in Fulgrim.

Fulgrim opened his arms and the two primarchs embraced like long-lost brothers.

It has been too long, Horus,' said Fulgrim.

'It has, my brother, it has,’ agreed Horas. 'My heart sings to see you, but why are you here? You were prose­cuting a campaign throughout the Perdus Anomaly. Is the region compliant already?'

'What worlds we found there are now compliant, yes,' nodded Fulgrim as four warriors stepped through the pressure door behind him. Loken smiled to see Saul Tarvitz, his patrician features unable to contain his relish at being reunited with his brothers of the Sons of Horus.

Lord Commander Eidolon came next, looking as unrepentantly viperous as Torgaddon had described him. Lucius the swordsman came next, still with the same sardonic expression of superiority that he remem­bered, though his face was now heavily scarred. Behind him came a warrior Loken did not recognise, a sallow skinned Astartes in the armour of an apothecary, with gaunt cheeks and a long mane of hair as white as that of his primarch.

Fulgrim turned from Horas and said, 'I believe you are already familiar with some of my brothers, Tarvitz, Lucius and Lord Commander Eidolon, but I do not believe you have met my Chief Apothecary Fabius.'

'It is an honour to meet you, Lord Horas,' said Fabius, bowing low.

Horas acknowledged the gesture of respect and said, 'Come now, Fulgrim, you know better than to try to stall

me. What's so important that you turn up here unan­nounced and give half of my crew heart attacks?'

The smile fell from Fulgrim's pale lips and he said, 'There have been reports, Horas,’

'Reports? What does that mean?'

'Reports that things are not as they should be,’ replied Fulgrim, 'that you and your warriors should be called to account for the brutality of this campaign. Is Angron up to his usual tricks?'

'Angron is as he has always been,’

That bad?'

'No, I keep him on a short leash, and his equerry, Kharn, seems to curb the worst of our brother's excesses,’

Then I have arrived just in time,’

'I see,’ said Horas. 'Are you here to relieve me then?'

Fulgrim could keep a straight face no longer and laughed, his dark eyes sparkling with mirth. 'Relieve you? No, my brother, I am here so that 1 can return and tell those fops and scribes on Terra that Horas fights war the way it is meant to be fought: hard, fast and cruel,’