The Horus Heresy: Vengeful Spirit

‘This only further proves my point,’ he said.

Qruze appeared at Loken’s side and put a hand on his shoulder.

‘Put the gun away, lad.’

Loken frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’

He looked down and saw he had his bolt pistol pressed against Cayne’s chest. He had no memory of drawing the weapon.

Bror Tyrfingr eased Loken’s arm from Cayne’s throat.

‘Hjolda, Loken,’ said Bror. ‘There’ll be plenty more people trying to kill us soon enough without you doing the job for them.’

‘Do you regret leaving the Sons of Horus?’ asked Cayne. ‘Is that it? Is that why you came on this mission, to return to your former master’s side?’

‘Shut up, Tubal,’ snapped Bror, baring his teeth.

‘I do not understand why you all wilfully ignore Loken’s damage,’ said Cayne. ‘He attacks Qruze at Titan, he fails to fight against his former brothers, potentially costing the lives of two of our team. And now he holds a gun on me. We are at a mission-critical stage of our infiltration, and Loken cannot continue. I am not saying anything the rest of you haven’t thought.’

Loken stepped back from Cayne and holstered his pistol. He looked around at the rest of the pathfinder team.

‘Is he right?’ he demanded. ‘Do you all think I’m unfit to lead this mission.’

Qruze and Severian shared a look, but it was Varren who answered, limping over from where he’d been patched up by Altan Nohai. The former World Eater’s chest was a perforated mass of bolter impacts and bloodstains. Skin packs and sealant grafts were all that kept his innards where they belonged. His skin was oily with sweat as his genhanced body burned hot with healing.

‘We have a leader,’ said Varren. ‘I shed blood with Nathaniel and Tylos to bring Loken back from Isstvan. Any warrior who lived through that slaughter deserves our respect. He deserves your respect, Tubal. Malcador and the Wolf King thought Garviel Loken fit for this mission, and I’ll not gainsay them. Nor should you.’

Cayne said nothing, but gave a curt nod.

‘Is this the will of the group?’

‘It is,’ said Bror Tyrfingr. ‘If any man deserves a chance to strike back at the Warmaster, it’s Loken.’

‘You are making a mistake,’ said Cayne, ‘but I will say no more.’

Altan Nohai appeared at Varren’s side, his arms slathered in blood to the elbows.

‘Zaven?’ asked Qruze.

Nohai shook his head.

7

The Battle of Lupercalia began, as the industrialised wars heralding the first collapse of Old Earth once had, with a pre-dawn barrage. Fifty-three newly-landed artillery regiments with over twelve hundred guns between them shattered the day with thunderous fire from upraised Basilisks, Griffons and Minotaurs.

Heavier guns waited in artillery depots for the general advance, the Bombards and Colossus, the Medusas and the Bruennhilde. Their guns were unsuited for long range barrages, and would follow the mechanised infantry to pound the Imperial ridge in the moments before the final escalade.

Army regiments sworn to the Warmaster advanced in wide convoys behind a creeping barrage of high explosives and a glittering screen of shroud bombs. Tens of thousands of armoured carriers daubed with the Eye of Horus and bearing icons of unnatural provenance roared towards the enemy. Battle tanks bore hooked trophy racks of corpses, and one glacis in five bore a chained prisoner from Avadon.

Hideous Mechanicum constructs of dark iron, clanking legs, spiked wheels and bulbous, insectile appearance marched with feral packs of skitarii keeping a wary distance.

A tide of armour and flesh roared over the wide expanse of the lowland agri-belts. The continent’s breadbasket of arable land, gold and green from horizon to horizon, was churned to ruin beneath their biting tracks. Totem carriers on flatbed transporters bore beaten iron sigils on swaying poles amidst hundreds of robed brotherhoods.

Self-anointed with bloodthirsting titles, their chants and rhythmic drumbeats were carried on unnatural winds to the waiting Imperial forces.

Perhaps half of the Titan engines of Vulcanum, Mortis and Vulpa followed the dread host. The Interfector engines were nowhere to be seen. The battle with Legio Fortidus had cost the Warmaster dearly. His Legios held the advantage of numbers, but the Imperials had an Imperator Titan and scores of Knights. A Knight was no match for a Titan, but only a fool would ignore their combined strength.

Tyana Kourion watched the advance of the Warmaster’s army from the flattened crescent ridge fifteen kilometres away. She leaned back in the cupola of her Stormhammer superheavy, panning her magnoculars from left to right. Eschewing battle dress, she wore her ceremonial greens. Though they were uncomfortable and hot, her entire regiment had chosen to emulate her defiance to keep her from standing out to enemy snipers.

‘A lot of them, ma’am,’ said Naylor, her executive officer. He sat in the secondary turret at the rear of the vehicle, scrolling through reports coming in from the flanking observation posts.

‘Not enough,’ she said.

‘Ma’am?’ said Naylor. ‘Looks like plenty to me.’