The Horus Heresy: The Master of Mankind

‘Why?’ the girl had asked. She heard the fear in her voice. Never had she felt less like a revered witch-priestess of her people.

‘A tithe. Another tithe. One of souls and magic, not wheat and grain.’

‘Run, Skoia,’ said her father, looking into her eyes. ‘Run and hide.’

The mothers of her mother and the fathers of her father had besieged her with agreement. The spirits, all of her ancestors, screamed at her to flee.

Skoia fled, white dress streaming, hair loose, into the forest.

Her people are part of the Imperium, so they are taught. Her grandmother told her of the Crusaders’ Coming, when the warriors from the Cradleworld landed almost a century ago and brought the word of peace from humanity’s Emperor. The First Earth, now called Terra, silent all these thousands of years, wasn’t a myth after all.

The First Earth warriors had demanded compliance, and it had been given. They demanded tithes, and these were also given. Every year the grain haulers carry great portions of the annual harvest into the heavens, to dock with the orbital platforms and await collection. This, it has always been believed, was enough. Mankind has been brought back together, each rediscovered world a jewel in the unknown Emperor’s crown.

But no Imperial spaceships have made planetfall since the Crusaders departed all those years before. Not until now.

Skoia hears dogs among her pursuers, barking and growling. The fear is enough to force her to her feet once more, staggering into a weak run. The spirits are hissing and agitated, yet she can scarcely hear them over the heaving of her breaths and the beat of her straining heart.

Through the trees ahead she sees one of the hunting dogs, as much machine as beast, its fur stripped in places in favour of robot parts, as though it had suffered in an accident and its owner had the credits required for expensive machine-fusion. Its jaws are locked open with a weapon pointing from inside its mouth. Behind it stands a woman, an Imperial woman, her head shaven, her flesh marked with tattoos of eagles. She wears gold and bronze beneath a red cloak. Her eyes are as dead as the gaze of a body upon an unlit funeral pyre.

Skoia turns and stumbles west. It’s no use. She hears the dog bearing down behind her, its machine parts whining. It shoulders into her, throwing her from her feet. It stands above her, growling. The weapon in its mouth aims down at her face.