False Gods

No answer was forthcoming, so Karkasy looked up in irritation to see an armoured warrior standing mutely before him. At first, Karkasy felt a thrill of panic, seeing the man's longsword and the hard, metallic gleam of a bolstered pistol, but he relaxed as he saw that the man was Petronella Vivar's bodyguard – Maggard, or something like that.

Well?' he asked again. 'Was there something you wanted?'

Maggard said nothing and Karkasy remembered that the man was mute, thinking it foolish that anyone would send someone who couldn't speak as a messenger.

'I can't help you unless you can tell me why you're here,' said Karkasy, speaking slowly to ensure that the man understood.

In response, Maggard removed a folded piece of paper from his belt and held it out with his left hand. The war­rior made no attempt to move closer to him, so with a resigned sigh, Karkasy put aside the Bondsman and pushed his bulky frame from the bed.

Karkasy picked his way through the piles of notebooks and took die proffered paper. It was a sepia coloured papyrus, as was produced in the Gyptian spires, with crosshatched patterning throughout. A little gaudy for his tastes, but obviously expensive.

'So who might this be from?' asked Karkasy, before again remembering that this messenger couldn't speak. He shook his head with an indulgent smile, unfolded the papyrus and cast his eyes over the note's contents.

He frowned as he recognised the words as lines from his own poetry, dark imagery and potent symbolism, but they were all out of sequence, plucked from a dozen dif­ferent works.

Karkasy reached the end of the note and his bladder emptied in terror as he realised the import of the message, and its bearer's purpose.

Petronella paced the confines of her stateroom, impa­tient to begin transcribing the latest thoughts of her bodyguard. The time Maggard had spent with the Astartes had been most fruitful, and she had already learned much that would otherwise have been hidden from her.

Now a structure suggested itself, a tragic tale told in reverse order that opened on the primarch's deathbed, with a triumphal coda that spoke of his survival and of the glories yet to come. After all, she didn't want to confine herself to only one book.

She even had a prospective tide, one that she felt con­veyed the correct gravitas of her subject matter, yet also included her in its meaning.

Petronella would call this masterpiece, In The Footsteps of Gods, and had already taken its first line – that most important part of the tale where her reader was either hooked or left cold – from her own terrified thoughts at the moment of the Warmaster's collapse.

Iwas there the day that Horus fell.

It had all the right tonal qualities, leaving the reader in no doubt that they were about to read something pro­found, yet keeping the end of the story a jealously guarded secret.

Everything was coming together, but Maggard was late in returning from his latest foray into the world of the Astartes and her patience was wearing thin. She had already reduced Babefh to tears in her impatient frustra­tion, and had banished her maidservant to the tiny chamber that served as her sleeping quarters.

She heard the sound of the door to her stateroom open­ing in the receiving room, and marched straight through to reprimand Maggard for his tardiness.

'What time do you call…' she began, but the words trailed off as she saw that the figure standing before her wasn't Maggard.

It was the Warmaster.

He was dressed in simple robes and looked more mag­nificent than she could ever remember seeing him. A fierce anima surrounded him, and she found herself unable to speak as he looked up, the full force of his per­sonality striking her.

Standing at the door behind him was the hulking form of First Captain Abaddon. Horus looked up as she entered and nodded to Abaddon, who closed the door at his back.

'Miss Vivar,’ said the Warmaster. It took an effort of will on Petronella's part for her to find her voice.

'Yes… my lord,' she stammered, horrified at the mess of her stateroom and that the Warmaster should see it so untidy. She must remember to punish Babeth for neglect­ing her duties. 'I… that is, I wasn't expecting.

Horus held up his hand to soothe her concerns and she fell silent.

'I know I have been neglectful of you,’ said the Warmaster. 'You have been privy to my innermost

thoughts and I allowed the concerns of the war against the Technocracy to command my attention,’

'My lord, I never dreamed you gave me such consider­ation,’ said Petronella.

'You would be surprised,’ smiled Horus. 'Your writing goes well?'

Very well, my lord,’ said Petronella. '1 have been pro­lific since last we met,’

'May I see?' asked Horus.

'Of course,’ she said, thrilled that he should take an interest in her work. She had to force herself to walk, not run, into her writing room, indicating the papers stacked on her escritoire.

'It's all a bit of jumble, but everything I've written is here,’ beamed Petronella. 'I would be honoured if you would critique my work. After all, who is more quali­fied?'

'Quite,’ agreed Horus, following her to the escritoire and taking up her most recent output. His eyes scanned the pages, reading and digesting the contents quicker than any mortal man ever could.

She searched his face for any reaction to her words, but he was as unreadable as a statue, and she began to worry that he disapproved.

Eventually, he placed the papers back on the escritoire and said, 'It is very good. You are a talented documen-tarist,’

Thank you, my lord,’ she gushed, the power of his praise like a tonic in her veins.

'Yes,’ said Horus, his voice cold. 'It's almost a shame that no one will ever read it,’

Maggard reached up and grabbed the front of Karkasy's robe, spinning him around, and hooking his arm around the poet's neck. Karkasy struggled in the power­ful grip, helpless against Maggard's superior strength.

'Please!' he gasped, his terror making his voice shrill. 'No, please don't!'

Maggard said nothing, and Karkasy heard the snap of leather as the warrior's free hand popped the stud on his holster. Karkasy fought, but he could do nothing, the crushing force of Maggard's arm around his neck robbing him of breath and blurring his vision.

Karkasy wept bitter tears as time slowed. He heard the slow rasp of the pistol sliding from its holster and the harsh click as the hammer was drawn back.

He bit his tongue. Bloody foam gathered in the corners of his mouth. Snot and tears mingled on his face. His legs scrabbled on the floor. Papers flew in all directions.

Cold steel pressed into his neck, the barrel of Mag­gard's pistol jammed tight under his jaw.

Karkasy smelled the gun oil.

He wished…

The hard bang of the pistol shot echoed deafeningly in the cramped billet.

At first, Petronella wasn't sure she'd understood what the Warmaster meant.