‘That belonged to Proximo Tarchon,’ said the god. ‘Centurion of the Ninth Division, Battle Group Two, Legiones Astartes Ultramarines.’
Semper knew he should spit in the traitor’s face or at least raise his weapon. His crew deserved to be led into their last battle by their captain. Yet the idea of raising a weapon against a being so perfectly formed, so sublime, seemed abhorrent.
He knew he faced a betrayer – an enemy, the enemy – yet Semper felt enraptured by his sheer magnificence.
The Warmaster took a step onto the bridge, and it took every ounce of Semper’s willpower not to kneel. ‘Proximo Tarchon and his warriors faced me without fear, for they were trained by my brother on Macragge, and such men are uniquely skilled at death dealing. But Proximo Tarchon and his warriors could not stop me.’
Semper tried to answer the Warmaster, but he couldn’t long hold his gaze and his tongue felt leaden.
‘Why are you telling me this?’ he managed at last.
‘Because you fought honourably,’ said the Warmaster. ‘And you deserve to know how futile it would be to waste your lives in pointless defiance at this point.’
Semper felt the paralysing awe he’d felt of the Warmaster diminish in the face of so arrogant a statement. He wished he’d had the chance to return to Cypra Mundi and watch his son grow to manhood. He wished the blast shutters weren’t down over the viewing bay so he might see the stars one last time.
He wished he could be the one to kill this god.
Semper lifted his duelling sabre to his lips and kissed its blade. He thumbed the activation clasp on the Boyer gun.
‘For the Imperium!’ shouted Semper as he charged the Warmaster.
Horus stood in the midst of carnage. One hundred and eleven people dead in less than a minute. A corpse lay at the Warmaster’s feet, divided into long sections by a diagonal stroke of energised talons.
‘Who was he?’ asked Mortarion, his holographic form wavering on the temporary floating disc projector the Mechanicum had rigged. Beyond the Death Lord’s image, faint impressions of Deathshroud could be seen, trailing their master like ghosts. The disc maintained a constant distance of three metres from Horus, closer than Falkus Kibre would have liked – even for a hologram – but exceptions had to be made for the primarch’s brothers.
‘Lord Admiral Brython Semper,’ said Horus.
‘A Lord Admiral,’ said the Death Lord. ‘Looks like you were right. Our father really does value this world.’
Horus nodded absently and knelt by Brython’s corpse. ‘A pointless death,’ said Horus.
‘He tried to kill you,’ pointed out Falkus Kibre, taking position at the Warmaster’s right hand.
‘He didn’t have to.’
‘Of course he did,’ said Kibre. ‘You know he had to. He might actually have surrendered until you said what you did at the end.’
Horus rose to his full, towering height. ‘You think I wanted him to attack me?’
‘Of course,’ said Kibre, puzzled the Warmaster would even ask.
‘Tell me, then – why did I provoke the Lord Admiral?’
Kibre looked up at Lupercal, and saw a fractional tilt to the corner of his mouth. A test, then. Aximand had warned him that the Warmaster liked to play these little games. Kibre took a moment to marshal his response. Quick answers were for Aximand or Noctua.
‘Because the Lord Admiral’s name would have been reviled forever if he’d surrendered his vessel,’ offered Kibre. ‘He’d fought hard and done all that honour demanded, but to surrender would have cursed his line from here till the end of time.’
Mortarion grinned. ‘What’s this? Insight from the Widowmaker?’
Kibre shrugged, hearing derision.
‘I’m a simple warrior, my lord,’ he said. ‘Not a stupid one.’
‘Which is why I was pleased when Ezekyle put your name forward for the Mournival,’ said Horus. ‘Things have become complex, Falkus, far more so than I thought. And far quicker. It’s good to have a simple man at your side in such times, don’t you agree, brother?’
‘If you say so,’ grunted Mortarion, and Kibre smiled. The gesture was so unfamiliar to him he didn’t at first know what his facial muscles were doing.
The Warmaster placed a hand on his shoulder and walked him to the command throne of Guardian of Aquinas. The hololith had been returned to life, painting a grim portrait of Molech’s future.
‘Tell me what my simple warrior sees, Falkus,’ said Horus. ‘You’re Mournival now, so you need to be more than just a shock trooper. Simple or otherwise.’
Kibre studied the shimmering globe of Molech. He took his time, and it was an effort not to advocate a full drop pod assault immediately. How long was it since he’d had to employ anything other than the directness of breacher tactics?
‘The battle for space is won,’ said Kibre. ‘The weapon platforms are ours, and the enemy ships are crippled or captured.’
‘Tell me about the orbitals,’ asked Horus.
‘They’re manoeuvring to new positions, but we can’t rely on them.’
‘Why not?’
‘Molech’s adepts will be re-tasking the surface missile batteries to destroy the platforms. We’ll take out some before they fire, but they were never intended to resist fire from the ground. At best, we’ll get a few salvoes away before the platforms are inoperable.’
‘Hardly worth the effort to capture them,’ said Mortarion.
‘A few salvoes from orbit is worth a whole battalion of legionaries,’ said Kibre. ‘Calth taught the Seventeenth Legion that much.’
‘He’s right, brother,’ said Horus, zooming in from the view of Molech’s orbital volume to its planetary zones. Four continental masses, only two of which were inhabited or defended to any degree. One heavily industrialised, the other pastoral.
The Sons of Horus and the Death Guard forces would direct the main thrust of their attack upon the latter continent. Molech’s primary seat of command lay within a mountain valley, at a city named for Horus himself, Lupercalia.
The Warmaster jabbed a talon at Lupercalia and traced a route across the continent, over verdant plains, past cities, through mountain valleys, before ending up at a ruined citadel on a storm-lashed island virtually clinging to the coastline.
‘The Fulgurine Path,’ said Horus. ‘That’s the road I need to walk, and this citadel is where we’ll begin.’
‘And the rest of Molech?’ said Mortarion.
‘Unleash your Eater of Lives,’ ordered Horus. ‘Lay waste.’
Loken moved down the corridor with Bror Tyrfingr to his left, Ares Voitek to his right. He kept the shotcannon pulled in tight, looking down the unfamiliar iron sight as he moved smoothly into the drive chamber. He hadn’t used a weapon like this since his time in the Scout Auxilia, but firing bolt weapons aboard a thin-skinned starship was generally frowned upon.
Tarnhelm wasn’t a large ship, so when Banu Rassuah informed Loken she’d detected an unauthorised bio-sign during her final calculations for Mandeville translation, it didn’t take long to narrow down the potential hiding places in which a stowaway could be hiding.
While the rest of the pathfinders secured the frontal areas of the ship, Loken, Tyrfingr and Voitek swept back to the drives.
‘Someone from that grim fortress orbiting Titan?’ asked Voitek, his upper servo-arms clicking with restraint cuffs. ‘That Oliton girl you saw?’