The Horus Heresy: Vengeful Spirit

Those citizens who had not already fled to the surrounding countryside or risked travelling to the upper transit platforms in the hope of securing passage off-world huddled fearfully in their homes. Farther ahead, a last few shuttles blasted skyward.

Suspicious eyes watched the arrival of his army from the cover of parapets and shutters. Behind the curiosity, behind the masochistic need to see their conquerors, Horus recognised bone-deep fear.

‘The last time I entered this city, I was parading in glorious triumph with Jaghatai and the Lion,’ said Horus. ‘I marched at father’s right hand, and the people cheered my name.’

Mortarion grunted with grim amusement. ‘Aye, not exactly Ullanor, is it?’

Horus turned to address the three members of the Mournival who marched behind him. They were a sorry looking group, scarred and burned by war, but victorious nonetheless. Ezekyle in particular was looking the worse for wear, his eyes downcast and his mien truculent.

‘What do you think, my sons?’ he asked as they passed beneath the towering arch of the second wall.

‘About what?’ asked Aximand.

‘Why do these people not welcome our arrival?’

‘Aside from the fact that we killed their army?’ said Kibre.

Horus waved that trifling objection aside.

‘They’re afraid,’ said Aximand.

‘Of what, that I’ll have them all put to death?’

‘Perhaps, but more likely they fear change. Right now, most of these people are wondering what our arrival will mean for them. Will they be enslaved or freed? Richer or poorer? Like all tiny cogs in a great machine, they know that it matters little whose hand is at the crank, only that it turns.’

‘Give it time,’ said Horus. ‘They’ll be cheering my name again when I bring them the crown of Terra.’

‘A crown is it now?’ said Mortarion. ‘Being made Warmaster wasn’t enough, so now you’re going to be king?’

‘Have you forgotten already?’ said Horus as the citadel’s rearing towers and gilded domes came into view.

‘Forgotten what?’

‘I’m not going to be king, nor even Emperor,’ said Horus. ‘I’m going to be a god.’

2

Targost, or the thing within Targost, reached for Iacton Qruze. The flesh of its face was bubbling like the surface of a muddy swamp. The stench was appalling. Qruze scrambled away on his backside, fumbling for his pistol.

Bror Tyrfingr charged the Samus-thing, but it was like trying to tackle the leg of a Warlord Titan. Samus slapped the Fenrisian away, like a man swatting an irritating fly. Bror landed on a flaming drum and rolled, spilling its contents in a shower of embers.

The creature’s jaw cracked wide open and oozing black ichor boiled up from the interior of its skull. Serrated triangular teeth pushed out from the stump of its neck and a host of lashing, vertical tongues emerged, rough and forked. A multitude of glowing eyes formed in the roiling, glutinous mass of its phantom skull.

Its form stretched upwards, diseased roots sprouting from its lower limbs and infesting the deck like oily ropes.

‘I’m Samus...’ it gurgled with mucus-thick breath, and the name struck a dreadful chord in Loken’s heart. The air tasted of static and biting on metal. Shadows moved on the wall, independent of the firelight.

Samus, he knew that name. He knew it from a world made compliant a long time ago in another life. He’d heard it over the vox and in the air of Sixty-Three Nineteen. He’d heard it spoken by Xaver Jubal just before he’d opened fire on his brothers.

The Whisperheads.

Loken was there again, in that glistening cave, fighting his fellow legionary as the foundations of his world came apart.

He had a sword in his hand, but he couldn’t raise it.

This is fear.

This was what mortals dealt with every day of their lives. Fear of the alien, fear of war, fear of pain, of disease. Fear of failing those who trusted them.

How could anyone live like this?

Loken was paralysed, his limbs leaden at his sides.

Varren charged, burying the smile of his axe in the Samus-thing’s belly. Sawing teeth bit deep. It bent over and plucked Varren from the ground, its circular mouth fastening on his shoulder. Blood sprayed and Varren’s arm spasmed, releasing the axe grip.

Voitek’s arms hacked at its flanks, as Severian sliced through gristle-like fronds whipping from Targost’s transforming flesh. A shot from above punched through its wraith skull.

Karayan.

Qruze finally had his pistol out and was pumping shot after shot into the creature’s chest. The mass-reactives were swallowed whole without effect.

The Samus-thing laughed and tossed Varren aside. He landed forty metres away beside the altar of Davinite stone. Bror Tyrfingr picked himself up, shouted something to Qruze and Severian. Loken heard Altan Nohai shout something in return, sounding surprised.

Loken’s armour registered a sudden drop in temperature.

Then Rubio was there.