Sons of the Emperor Page 5

  'You wouldn't,' Magnus sighed. 'Even your murderous clan wouldn't open fire on their own brothers.'

  Curze looked up at his brother, his expression much the same as Sevatar's had been when the first captains spoke on the surface of Zoah.

  'All you prove,' Curze said, 'is how little you know me. Sevatar, give the order to open fire.'

  Magnus' remaining eye widened. He reached out a hand. 'Brother—'

  'This is Sevatar,' the Night Lord spoke across the vox network. 'Open fire on the tower. Bring it down.'

  'Brother!' Magnus called, then… ceased. He tensed, wincing as he felt the impacts begin on the psychic shield his sons had raised around their treasure. Several of the Thousand Sons present grunted and staggered in psionic sympathy.

  Curze's claws retracted and deployed in the momentary silence. 'When the Emperor came to my world, he brought light to Nostramo, a world that had never seen the sun. He brought the light of knowledge, Magnus. Suddenly, my people could see the wider galaxy around them. They could perceive other worlds and other cultures, city after city that didn't dwell in the endless dark. Civilisations of peace and laughter. That knowledge didn't free them, brother. It shackled them. It wrapped them in misery. Nostramo heaves with their sorrow, that the cost of their peace is fear and blackness. My people suffer in my absence. Law breaks down as they fight their bindings. And why? Because of knowledge. Because a well-meaning teacher brought a perspective they weren't yet ready to know.'

  Magnus' features were tight with concentration. Even so, he shook his head, his voice breathy with realisation.

  'You are a hateful, blind creature. The Emperor will hear of this.'

  Curze didn't gloat. He didn't even smile. 'How long can you hold that barrier for, Magnus?'

  'Forever, if I wish it.' Now it was Magnus speaking through clenched teeth. 'Forever and a day.'

  Curze still didn't smile, though did his eyes glint with cold mirth? It seemed, to at least one observer, that they did.

  'And how long before your legionaries begin to wear out from exhaustion? How long before accidents occur, and all of those detonating shells kill your sons on the ground? A day? A week? A month? I have the ammunition. Or I could pull my warriors back, and open fire with the Nightfall. How long would you keep your Thousand Sons on the surface then? This only ends one way, Magnus. My way. I would rather you stood with me, and prevented bloodshed. Your men don't deserve to die for their misguided optimism.'

  Magnus nodded, the gesture one of acceptance if not agreement. 'I will remember this, Konrad. I promise you, I will remember this.'

  'Good,' said Curze. 'Lessons should be remembered. That is why they are taught in the first place.'

  'Ah.' Now Magnus smiled. His regal features were a poor foundation for malice, but there was nothing warm in that smile 'A lesson, is it? Bold words, from a man that just claimed ignorance was bliss.'

  Curze's jaw tightened; the most emotion he'd shown thus far. 'I will hold fire for thirty minutes. Get your Legion off the ground. The tower falls in half an hour.'

  The claws slashed out once again, and Curze's image flickered with distortion. Magnus' did the same. The walls of the chamber blurred with static, and…

  …and Ulatal stared at the space where the two demigods had been a moment before. The hololithic recording faded away, and the device on the table still clicked as it cooled. Ulatal felt the stillness of his assigned quarters as a physical caress against his skin.

  'I fear Magnus was right,' he said to himself.

  'Perhaps he was,' Sevatar allowed. Ulatal jerked at realising he wasn't alone, and his reknitted bones throbbed with the sudden motion.

  Sevatar was standing in the doorway, his spear in his hand. Ulatal resisted a groan at the fresh wave of pain flowing through him, from moving after remaining still for so long.

  He hadn't heard Sevatar return. Now the bulkhead stood open.

  'Why?' he asked the warrior. 'Why did you do it?'

  'You are a military man. You know the weight of classified information, and the many reasons such data is withheld.'

  'The Great Crusade is grander than that, though.' Ulatal heard the naive optimism in his own voice, but it didn't shame him. 'It's about… hope. Enlightenment. Truth.'

  'Some minds are not equipped to deal with the truth.' Sevatar walked into the room, his boots thudding on the floor. With the butt of his spear, he casually pushed the door closed. It sealed with a mechanical crunch. 'Perhaps both primarchs were right, or both were wrong. It hardly matters.'

  'How can the truth not matter?'

  'Ah, the truth matters,' said Sevatar. He looked reflective for a moment. It wasn't an expression that looked at home on his features. 'But what is true is not the same as who is right or wrong. The tower fell. We burned everything we found inside to ash and cinder, and then we shelled the spire until it was naught but dust. That is the truth. That is what matters.'

  He looked down at the human, black eyes unblinking. 'You learned what you came to learn. Was the recording enlightening?'

  Ulatal nodded. 'It was.' He smiled suddenly, a rare expression aboard the Nightfall. 'I've never seen demigods argue before.'

  'Yes, it has entertaining elements,' Sevatar admitted. 'We are told it would be awful for morale if it ever became common knowledge, however. Primarchs must not be seen to be at odds with one another. The Crusade's mandate is strict on these matters. I doubt most humans would care about or understand the gravity of the argument, but I did not write the codes of conduct. I merely enforce them. Sit still, please.'

  'Why?'

  Sevatar raised his chainglaive. His armour joints growled in chorus. The chain-teeth stayed inactive; they would rend flesh easily enough without the warrior needing to gun the weapon's trigger.

  'This is why.'

  Ulatal set his jaw and refused to close his eyes. He stared up at his killer, awaiting the blur of movement that would herald the end.

  'Sevatar.'

  Sevatar stood motionless.

  'Sevatar.' The voice crackled from the vox-link in the first captain's collar.

  The warrior remained unmoving. 'What is it, Shang?'

  'The cripple,' came the vox-voice. 'We've received word that he has been assigned to the Voidmaw as group captain.'

  Sevatar, with his spear still raised high, looked down at the man he was about to kill. 'Is that a rank and role you wish to claim?'

  Ulatal didn't move, not even to nod or shake his head. He honestly didn't know what he was going to say until he drew a shaking breath, and spoke.

  The final wall had fallen, and with it Venikov. The city had been called 'the Bloody Bastion' by the Ranknar Blood-Guard. It was impregnable, they had said. Now Venikov burned, its precincts as hollow as the confidence that had once proclaimed it unbreakable.

  And as it fell, and burned, the Imperial war machine ground on.

  Sarda watched the city fall through his omniscope, glad for the kilometres between him and the armour-clad star warriors who had laid siege to his world. The hills where he had led those fleeing the destruction of Venikov would do little to stop the oppressors, however.

  'How many?' asked Veddus. Sarda thought the goreov priest sounded weary, not just with the fatigue of the war but a spiritual malaise that came with the almost certain knowledge that your culture and everything you knew would soon be extinguished and replaced by another.

  But then Sarda had always thought too much. He had been thinking ever since the so-called Emperor had made his proclamation. The Emperor had spoken of unity and compliance, but to Sarda this had sounded like conquest and annihilation. He adjusted the strap on his leather hauberk, suddenly uncomfortable.

  'Blood-Marshal Enoch has forged a last redoubt. At the old keep in southern Venikov.'

  'How many, captain?' repeated Veddus, the sound of a cloak rasping as he swept closer.

  Sarda tweaked the brass omniscope, adjusting the dials to focus in on the warriors and refugees fleeing Venikov.
They were heading south, to the hills, to the next city on Erod. The last city. He adjusted his armour again. The studs were digging in through his padded jerkin. A rime of salt crusted his forehead where his leather helm met skin and made him sweat.

  'A few thousand.'

  'Is that all?' uttered Veddus, pausing at the thought.

  Sarda heard the priest's breath reverberate against the brass mask. 'Over a hundred thousand men entered that city.'

  'Blood-Marshal Enoch has another thousand trying to hold them off.'

  'Teeth of Ranknar…' hissed Veddus.

  Sarda doubted their patron god was listening. There was only one god that really mattered now, and he was on the other side. The Dragon.

  'We'll need to fall back to Romistad. The Red Citadel is formidable,' said Sarda.

  Veddus nodded, starting to grow in confidence again. 'Yes. Out here in the hills we are vulnerable. The Red Citadel can withstand a siege. Let's see if these curs have the stomach for it. I'll see the Dragon slain on our walls. Bled dry! I swear it by Ranknar!'

  A great explosion lit the horizon to the north. Tremors were felt as far as the hills. They ripped Venikov and the old keep apart.

  Sarda lowered the omniscope, and let out a long shuddering breath. He faced Veddus. The blank visage of the mask was reflected in the priest's eyes. The mask's stylised representation of a gaunt human face, edged instead of curved, could not hide his fear.

  'What is it?' he demanded. 'What happened?'

  'Blood-Marshal Enoch is dead, goreov.'

  Veddus swallowed audibly. 'Are you certain?'

  Sarda pointed a crimson glove in the direction of the city.

  Except there was no city. Venikov was gone.

  Only fire remained, a conflagration so large and ferocious it engulfed the sky like slow spreading ink and turned it red. And at the heart of the blaze, killing with fang and claw, a giant in emerald scale.

  A myth brought terrifyingly to life.

  Veddus scarcely had voice enough to name it out loud, 'The Dragon…'

  'I am a son of a blacksmith,' said Vulkan, gazing across the desert, 'and you…'

  'What?' asked the Outlander. 'What am I?'

  Vulkan turned to regard the warrior next to him.

  'You are no mere outlander.'

  The heat of the day was fading on Nocturne and the tribesmen out on the ash plains were bringing in their herds as the two great beings stood on a high dune looking out at a world of fire.

  The warrior bowed His head, acknowledging the truth. He then raised a gauntleted hand to the sun and watched the light reflect off the metal. He had shed a lie, this warrior, one meant to put the Noctumeans and their chieftain at ease.

  'Am I not a man, Vulkan?' He asked, the rays catching not only His gauntlet but the rest of His armour-clad body, so that He shone with a radiant golden light.

  'You look like a king,' Vulkan replied, and for the first time felt uncomfortable in the rough apparel of a blacksmith.

  'I am no king, but is a king not also a man?'

  'Not to the vassals of his kingdom.'

  The warrior smiled, a mentor pleased with his student, and turned to face Vulkan. His hair caught on the hot wind, trailing like black smoke. His short red cloak fluttered, a statesman about to address his people.

  'I am the Emperor.'

  'Ah,' said Vulkan, his turn to smile now, 'greater than a king. And your empire is the stars?'

  The Emperor followed Vulkan's gaze to the red-stained heavens and grew sombre.

  'Not yet. There is darkness out in the void.' He looked back at Vulkan, His eyes cold with sorrow. 'That is why I need you.' This mood lasted only a moment before the warmth returned. 'A blacksmith's son. To help me bring the light.'

  'Of creation?'

  'Yes. And to be one of my generals.'

  Vulkan scowled, suddenly ill at ease.

  'I am no warlord.'

  'And yet war has come to the galaxy. It must, Vulkan, and you shall be one of those who leads it. Mankind must emerge from Old Night and embrace the Truth.'

  'Your truth?' The words had the bite of accusation that Vulkan did not try to soften.

  'The Imperial Truth. That there are no gods and mankind's fate is what he or she makes it.'

  'I know only the truth of metal and how it bends to fire,' Vulkan looked down at his hands as if imagining the fuller gripped against his leathern skin, 'the truth of what I can see, and the earth beneath my feet.'

  'And that is why I need you.'

  'I still don't understand.'

  'You will.'

  'And what if I do not wish to leave? General, warlord, call it what you will, but I have never imagined a sword in my hand or an army at my command.'

  'You lead your people.'

  'That is different. I protect Nocturne from those who would see it harmed, or enslaved. You are talking about conquest. I am a maker, not a destroyer.'

  'You would prefer a hammer to a sword, and an anvil against which to strike it.'

  Vulkan nodded.

  The Emperor stepped out of the light and His lustre appeared to fade. He seemed smaller, more ordinary. His face looked weathered, as if He had spent some time out in the wild places of His world. It was the face of a farmer or a hunter.

  'I want you to join me willingly, Vulkan. Will you allow me to convince you? I am confident you will see the necessity of your presence and see my cause as just.'

  The wind rose across the desert, bringing with it the scent of ash. A mountain peak erupted, releasing a tongue of flame that tasted the heavens. From deep beneath the earth a sympathetic roar answered.

  'The Time of Trial comes again soon,' said Vulkan.

  'It does,' said the Emperor, 'and it touches more than just this world. This is a trial for all of mankind.'

  Vulkan's gaze lingered on the mountain - its name was Deathfire - before returning again to the Emperor.

  'I agree to your proposal. If you can convince me, I will leave Nocturne and go with you. But I have questions.'

  'Then ask, Vulkan, and I promise you I shall only answer with the truth.'

  They had promised the truth, but had come cloaked in lies.

  Sarda remembered these words from the Great Goreov, the Incarnadine himself. They were to be the priest's last - the violent kiss of heat as the temple dais turned into a storm of fire, and blood drowned out what followed.

  The priests were all dead bar one, their faith slain along with them.

  'We will still have vengeance,' said Veddus, leaning in to Sarda's ear. He could smell the alcohol on the goreov's breath. It had the tang of warm iron to it.

  They had sealed the gates to the Red Citadel. Cannons girded its high, rust-red walls. Men thronged its battlements dressed in full martial panoply: Blood-Guard in crimson leather and Red Knights in ceramic war-garb that reflected their namesake. It was a long, deep wall the garrison held, one that stretched for almost a kilometre to both the east and the west. At the heart of the city, imposing and formidable, was Ranknar's oldest keep. It had never been taken. Ever. The Incarnadine who held it held Ranknar.

  Yet as Venikov faded to a dirty orange glow on the horizon, those behind the walls cowered. They feared the fire. They feared the Dragon.

  'We should not have refused them,' said Sarda, and felt himself yanked hard by his gorget to face Veddus.

  'Renounce our faith!' the priest spat drunkenly, and drew a few eyes in their direction. 'You are a holy warrior of Ranknar…' He trailed off. The title had less and less meaning with every passing hour.

  'And where is Ranknar now?' asked Sarda.

  Veddus released him. 'He would not abandon us,' he rasped, and looked to the courtyard below. 'We must make a sacrifice…'

  Sarda seized the priest's wrist as he made to draw his bloodletter. The knife's dark edge caught the fading light and flashed in Veddus' eyes, making him squint.

  'It does not matter any more. What good would it do?' said Sarda.

  V
eddus made a half-hearted struggle. Those who caught his hungry gaze recoiled.

  'We can still make an offering. And we have weapons. More than one. They have served Erod for centuries. The blessed of Ranknar. He would not—' The words caught in his throat as he joined the hundreds of others in the Red Citadel staring at the horizon.

  A black, irregular line stood out amongst the smoke and the fading glow of fire. It was a slow moving tide a wave of elongated cannon barrels, tank tracks and riveted armour, and it was about to wash Romistad and the Red Citadel away.

  'Raise shields!' a watchman cried.

  'Ranknar preserve us,' whispered Veddus, as the heavens shook with manufactured thunder and the Imperial bombardment began.

  And as the first enemy shells began to fall, and the cannons on the Red Citadel's walls answered, a dark mood came over Veddus.

  'Gather them, Sarda.' The bloodletter kissed the warrior's neck and drew a bead of fluid shaped like a red ruby. 'As many as you can.' He looked to the Imperial line and the star-warriors advancing heedlessly into the Ranknar cannonade. 'I will anoint the bogatyrs, and then unleash them.'

  'And if they fail?' asked Sarda.

  'With faith, they shall not,' said the priest, bile colouring his voice. 'But if they do, then we both know we have one last gambit to play.'

  'Was it a trick?' asked Vulkan, looking to the sky and half expecting the promised ship to appear, belching fire through a swathe of sulphuric cloud.

  'A trick?' asked the Emperor.

  'The way you shed your disguise. You didn't merely cast off a cloak or lower a mask, you changed… everything. Is this,' he gestured to the Emperor in His gilded glory, 'your true self?'

  'Isn't identity a matter of perception? You see… what, a gold-clad ruler? A king, you said. Others might see something different. A man. A father.'

  'But was it a trick?' Vulkan pressed.

  'What does it matter? Please,' said the Emperor holding up a hand to show His sincerity, 'I am not trying to avoid the question, but I am interested in your rationale for asking it.'

  'I would know the manner and design of the man who bids me leave my home and people. I am a simple man, but do not think of me as credulous.'