The Unremembered Empire Part 36

Horus could go burn in the warp! Nothing he had achieved was even half so impressive! Konrad Curze was about to anoint himself as the Emperor's greatest and most formidable son.

He would do it by bringing his father's Imperium cras.h.i.+ng down more thoroughly and painfully than anything that the Lupercal had so far managed. He would do it by bringing about not a change of state or leaders.h.i.+p, but utter galactic oblivion.

They would die. All of the primarchs would die, and in dying they would witness the sheer magnificence of his terror.

Curze rose. The two men on the empty street below him hurried out of sight.

He spread his tattered cloak and launched himself towards the next rooftop.

21.

Dreams and

Visions

*There is only one way to see, and that is through

the knowledge of one's own eyes,

looking straight ahead.'

a Rogal Dorn, Principles of Sound Defence The sun came up fast. It was bright and warming. He watched it glinting off the waters of the bay.

He tried to relax.

The farm workers had started their toil early, wandering up the mountain slopes from the settlement below before sunrise, their scythes across their shoulders. He could hear them, as he had heard them for the last two hours, taking their blades to the gra.s.ses that threatened to choke Sotha's black halls, laughing, chatting.

He could smell the rich scent of cut stalks filling the early morning air.

Guilliman sat down on the gra.s.sy promontory, the upper slope of Mount Pharos. He wiped a hand across his brow.

Sotha was a good world, a peaceful place. All of the forces and influences that insisted he return to Macragge were somehow softened here in this summer light. Guilliman, to his shame, realised how much he craved this peace. Sotha was like a mythical Eden. For an irrational moment, Roboute Guilliman willed Dantioch to fail in his efforts to re-tune the Pharos, and wished never to return. A part of him knew that he could live out his days on Sotha in utter contentment, barebacked and tanned in the sunlight, careless, mowing the gra.s.ses with his scythe, season in and season out.

It was just a dream. Such simple, pastoral destinies did not lie in store for beings like Roboute Guilliman. Fate held, for him, a future of duty and responsibility, very different from that which might await an honest agri-worker. No common farmer would play a role in the final battle against Horus.

He heard a heavy tread crunching towards him and looked up.

*My lord,' Sergeant Arkus said, saluting. He was carrying his company's standard.

*At ease, Arkus,' Guilliman told the Ultramarine. Arkus's armour glinted in the sunlight.

*You're trying too hard,' he added.

*My lord?'

*When I arrived last night, your armour was in perfectly respectable condition, as was the plate of the other battle-brothers in your company. I remember these things. This morning, you've buffed your plate to the point of insanity.'

*My primarch is here,' Arkus said, offended. *A surprise inspection of this post. What else would I do?'

Guilliman got up and faced him.

*I'm sorry, Arkus. My remark was petty and uncalled for. Your armour code is perfect.'

Arkus nodded, and rested the base of the standard on the ground.

*My lord,' he said. *I am an Ultramarine. Trying too hard is the entire point of us, isn't it?'

Guilliman smiled and saluted Arkus.

*Make your report, brother,' he said.

*Warsmith Dantioch says we will be ready to test in one hour,' Arkus said.

*You can tell him I'll be there,' Guilliman said.

Arkus saluted and walked away.

Guilliman turned his face towards the sun and tilted his head back.

*Brother?'

Guilliman turned and saw the Lion walking down the mountain slope towards him. Behind the Lion, a young Scout from the 199th Aegida followed anxiously.

*Brother?' Guilliman returned.

The Lion sat down on a boulder, tired and frustrated. He locked his hands over his knees.

*Roboute,' he said, *you should listen to this young neophyte. What's your name, lad?'

*Oberdeii, my lord,' the Scout said.

*Tell it to Roboute... My pardon, tell the primarch before you,' said the Lion, *what you told me.'

Oberdeii looked at Guilliman.

*It's all right,' Guilliman said. *Tell me, son.'

*The most n.o.ble Lord of the First,' replied the Scout, *was asking me about this site, about the experience of the posting here. I may have spoken out of turn.'

*Then if the harm is done,' said Guilliman, *you can do no more harm repeating it. Speak, Oberdeii. There will be no repercussions.'

*Well, then, about this place, lord,' Oberdeii said. *It is an odd place to be. An odd place to garrison for any time. The Pharos... It breeds dreams. It is alive with them. If you stay here long enough, or live here as we do, the dreams begin to permeate you. They are as much part of this mountain as the gra.s.s, rock and air.'

Oberdeii looked up at Guilliman.

*I hope you believe me, lord,' he said.

*I do.'

Guilliman thought of the dreams he had just had, of renouncing his rule and living out his days in a careless pastoral idyll. The Pharos magnified things. It made truths and hopes seem very real. Just a night in its environs had given flesh to his private wishes of an end to duty and responsibility.

*We have begun to notice things, patterns in our dreams,' Oberdeii said. *We have learned to pay attention. Warsmith Dantioch, may blood be his honour, has told us that the Pharos here gives light upon an empathic vibration. This would account for much. We have all felt it. My worthy sergeant, Arkus, he had a dream. He dreamed that the Dark Angels were coming to Macragge. And lo! Two days later, this very thing happened. Captain Adallus, just two nights ago, had a dream of blood, and woke up calling out the name of Curze.'

*Curze?' asked Guilliman.

*They saw it coming,' the Lion said to Guilliman.

*Thanks to this lighthouse,' Guilliman said.

*Thanks to this lighthouse and its xenos function,' the Lion agreed.

Guilliman looked to Oberdeii. *There is something more, isn't there?' he asked.

*There most certainly is,' said the Lion.

*All in my company first thought that the dream of the Dark Angels was merely a coincidence,' said Oberdeii, *but then the dream of Curze persuaded us there was more going on. Last night, my dear lord, I had a dream.'

*Share with me its contents, son,' said Guilliman. *Tell me of this dream you had.

Oberdeii told him.

Dawn was not far off, a cold and dismal dawn. Drab smoke wreathed the Castrum and the high towers of the Fortress, a legacy of the b.l.o.o.d.y night that was only now pa.s.sing. Aircraft and ground forces from the Fortress continued to make systematic sweeps of the Civitas's vast grid. Until they had found what they were looking for, there was no telling that the b.l.o.o.d.y night would become just a prequel to a bloodier day.

John and Damon travelled south-east across Strayko into the neighbouring deme of Anomie, moving as best they could to avoid detection by the sweep patrols. A measure of martial law had been imposed to keep civilians off the streets.

They were following John's track on the damaged thoughts of Vulkan. The pre-dawn was a pale blue hour around them. The empty, stately streets of Anomie felt like they were underwater. It reminded John of his last meeting with the fa.r.s.eer.

Every few minutes they were obliged to take shelter in an underwalk or beneath a portico as an Ultramarines search vehicle whined past overhead, or clattered across a junction in front of them.

Neither of them was aware of the dark shadow trailing them from roof to roof.

The more John considered the fa.r.s.eer's plan, the more it made him agitated. It was enervating. It was entirely the type of duty he had longed to perform, for what felt like forever. It was a contradiction of the Cabal's desires, a refutation of their philosophy and their control over him. John had a chance to fight, as a man, on the side of mankind.

It was, however, not going to be easy. John hoped he had the skill, wit and determination to see it through. The Cabal wanted Vulkan dead, for they had foreseen the epic role he would play in the final war against Horus and the warp. He was destined to be one of the most stalwart defenders of Ancient Terra. The Cabal did not want him alive to perform that conspicuous role.

Eldrad Ulthran had seen more. He had seen Vulkan's insanity, the demented state forced upon the proud primarch by the foul Night Haunter. As it stood, Vulkan was already out of the game. He was in no state to fulfill his destiny as the Cabal had predicted it. If John took no further action, his mission would be deemed a technical success.

The spear was a potent weapon. In the hands of a primarch, it could kill anything, even an unkillable being. In the hands of a Perpetual, however... Eldrad Ulthran's proposition was that under those circ.u.mstances, a different result might be obtained. Empowered by the touch of a Perpetual, the spear might cure instead of kill.

If John could strike the blow, then perhaps Vulkan might be restored. Rather than removing Vulkan from the war, John Grammaticus could repair and empower one of the Emperor's most powerful sons and most important allies.

There were obstacles to overcome. The presence of Curze, lurking somewhere in the Civitas, was a significant one. The Ultramarines and authorities of Macragge were another. Vulkan himself was a problem a how did one get close enough to stab an insane, hyperaggressive primarch?

Then there was the Cabal, of course, and the agent they had sent to be John's handler. John had known Damon Prytanis for a long time. They had never really been friends, but there was a lot of common ground between them. Though both Perpetuals, they were very different. John had always been very much the spy, the infiltrator, the covert operative who manipulated through disguise and dealt in information. Damon called himself a soldier, but he was a killer, pure and simple. He was an a.s.sa.s.sin, a taker of lives, and he did this with impunity. Damon Prytanis would not hesitate to take John's life if he thought John was reneging on his mission.

Or would he?

As they walked, John glanced at Prytanis, watching the easy gait, the casual demeanor, the shabby fur coat and muddy boots, the affectless manner that actually covered a hard-wired combat readiness.

There was doubt in Prytanis. There was misery. Like John, Prytanis had served too long, and against his own breed. John sensed in Damon Prytanis much of the resentment that was bottled up inside his own soul.

A Storm Eagle flew overhead, circling slowly on whickering engines, probing the lanes and back-walks between habs and insulae with cool blue-white stablight beams.

Damon and John ducked in under an arch, waiting for it to pa.s.s on.

*Can I ask you something?' said John.

*Sure. How I remain so effortlessly cool, while you're a hectic jangle of tics and quirks? It's because you're a psyker, Johnny, and I'm a fighter.'

*Well, not that, but thanks for the a.s.sessment.' John paused. Then he said, *How do you live with it?'

*With what?'

*Serving the Cabal?'

Damon shrugged. *They pay well,' he said.

*I thought so too, but they're using us as weapons against our own kind,' John said simply.

Damon made a face. It was an I-want-you-to-stop-talking face, a we've-had-this-pointless-conversation-a-hundred-times face.