Nemesis

the laws of nature, that a being so majestic, so lit with power, could stand in a room

among men, Astartes and the greatest mortal psyker who ever lived, and be as a

ghost.

But then he was the Emperor; and to all questions, that was sufficient answer.

His father came towards him, and Rogal Dorn bowed deeply, at length joining the

others at bended knee before the Master of the Imperium.

The Emperor did not speak. Instead, he strode across the Shrouds to the tall

windows where the sailcloth drapes hung like frozen cataracts of shadow. With a

flick of his great hands, Dorn’s father took a fist of the cloth and snatched it away.

The hangings tore free and tumbled to the floor. He walked the perimeter of the

room, ripping away every last cover until the chamber was flooded with the bright

honey-yellow luminosity of the Himalayan dawn.

Dorn dared to glance up and saw the golden radiance striking his father. It

gathered its brightness to him, as if it were an embrace. For an instant, the sunlight

was like a sheath of glowing armour about him; then the primarch blinked and the

moment passed.

“No more shadows,” said the Emperor. His words were gentle, summoning, and

all the faces in the room turned to look upon him. He placed a hand on Dorn’s

shoulder as he passed him by, and then repeated the gesture with Valdor. “No more

veils.”

He beckoned them all to stand and as one they obeyed, and yet in his presence

each of them felt as if they were still at his feet. His aura towered over them, filling

the emotions of the room.

Dorn received a nod, as did Valdor. “My noble son. My loyal guardian. I hear

both your words and I know that there is right in each of you. We cannot lose sight of

what we are and what we aspire to be; but we cannot forget that we face the greatest

enemy and the darkest challenge.” In the depths of his father’s eyes, Dorn saw

something no one else could have perceived, so transient and fleeting it barely

registered. He saw sorrow, deep and unending, and his heart ached with an empathy

only a son could know.

The Emperor reached out a hand and gestured towards the dawn, as it rose to fill

the room around them. “It is time to bring you into the light. The Officio

253

Assassinorum have been my quiet blade for too long, an open secret none dared to

speak of. But no longer. Such a weapon cannot exist forever in the shadows,

answerable to no one. It must be seen to be governed. There must be no doubt of the

integrity behind every deed, every blow landed, every choice made… or else we

count for naught.” His gaze turned to Dorn and he nodded slowly to his son.

“Because of this I am certain; in the war to come, every weapon in the arsenal of the

Imperium will be called to bear.”

“In your name, father.” The primarch returned the nod. “In your name.”

Dagonet was all but dead now, her surface a mosaic of burning cities, churned oceans

and glassed wastelands. And yet this was a show of restraint from the Sons of Horus;

had they wished it, the world could have suffered the fate of many that had defied the

Warmaster, cracked open by cyclonic torpedo barrages shot into key tectonic target

sites, remade into a sphere of molten earth.

Instead Dagonet was being prepared. It would be of use to the Warmaster and his

march to victory.

Erebus stood atop the ridgeline and looked down into the crater that was all that

remained of the capital. The far side of the vast bowl of dirty glass and melted rock

was lost to him through a mist of poisonous vapour, but he saw enough of it to know

the scope of the whole. Transports were coming in from all over the planet, bringing

those found still alive to this place. He watched as a Stormbird swooped low over the

crater and opened its ventral cargo doors, dropping civilians like discarded trash amid

the masses that had already been herded into the broken landscape. The people were

arranged in lines that cut back and forth across one another, crosses laid over crosses.

Astartes stood at equidistant points around the kilometres of the crater’s edge, their

presence alone forbidding any survivor from making an attempt to climb out and flee.

Those that had at the beginning were blasted back into the throng, bifurcated by bolt

shells. The same fate befell those who dared to move out of the eightfold lines carved

in the dust.

The supplicants—for they did not deserve to be known as prisoners—gave off

moans and whispers of terror that washed back and forth over the Word Bearer

Chaplain like gentle waves. It was tempting to remain where he stood and lose

himself in the sweet sense of the dark emotions brimming across the great hollow;

but there were other matters to attend to.

He heard bootsteps climbing the wreckage-strewn side of the crater, and moved

to face the Astartes approaching him. All about them, thin wisps of steam rose into

the air from the heat of the bombardment still escaping from the shattered earth.

“First Chaplain.” Devram Korda gave him a wary salute. “You wished me to