What lurked in the depths of the Mountain that could effect such change?

THE GROUP LAPSED into silence, each person pondering the implications of their shared abilities. Kallista and Camille were relieved to share their burdens with others, yet wary of discarding a lifetime of secrecy in so short a time.

It had bonded them. Whatever else might happen, whatever other journeys they might take, this shared secret had forged a link between them. For now it was a fragile thing, but with careful nurturing, it might prove to be enduring.

“So what do we do with this then?” asked Camille at last.

“What do you mean?” asked Lemuel.

“I mean, what do we do?” said Camille, throwing her hands up as though he were being obtuse. “If you’re saying that we’re part of the 28th Expedition because of our abilities, are we supposed to know that’s why we were selected? Can we use our abilities openly?”

Lemuel considered the question before saying, “I would caution against that, my dear. Powers like ours are still considered witchery in some circles.”

“Do you think we are in danger?” asked Kallista, picking at a fold in her jellabiya. “Is that why they’ve gathered us together? To get rid of us?”

“No, I don’t believe so,” said Lemuel hurriedly. He stood and went over to her chair, taking her hand and looking her straight in the eye. “I don’t believe the Thousand Sons would go to such lengths just to have us burned at the stake.”

“Then why do they want us?”

“I confess I do not know for sure,” he said. “Lord Ahriman says he wants to teach me how best to use my powers. I think we are here to learn.”

“Why would the Thousand Sons care about teaching us anything?” asked Camille.

“Lord Ahriman said that by using our powers we make ourselves vulnerable,” said Lemuel, grasping for concepts he didn’t know how to articulate. “I don’t understand it really, but I got the impression that we’re all part of something larger, and that we’re on the cusp of something wonderful. We could be the first of a new breed of people, people who can use their abilities safely and teach other to do the same.”

Kallista snatched her hand back, and Lemuel was shocked at the fear he saw in her face. Her aura shifted hue, turning from a soft yellow to an angry red.

“I don’t want to be a new breed of anything,” she said, pushing her chair back and rising to her feet. “I don’t want this ability. If I could get rid of it I would!”

Lemuel stood and raised his hands in a placating gesture.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to push you.”

“It hurts so much,” she said, haltingly, pressing her hands to her temples and holding back tears with an effort of will. “Every time the fire comes, it burns part of me away with it. Unless I stop it, I’m afraid it’s going to burn me away entirely one day.”

Camille pushed herself from her chair and took Kallista in her arms.

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “We’ll look out for you, won’t we, Lemuel?”

“Of course,” he said, “without question. People like us need to stick together.”

“People like what?” said a voice behind them.

Lemuel jumped as though struck, and turned to see a frail old man in the beige robe of a remembrancer with a long mane of frizzy white hair, only reluctantly contained in a wiry ponytail. Thin and stooped, he carried a slim, leatherbound book under his arm, and his walnut coloured skin was ancient and deeply creased with great age.

“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” asked Mahavastu Kallimakus, Scrivener Extraordinary to Magnus the Red.

Lemuel was first to recover. “Mahavastu! No, no, you’re always welcome. Come in, won’t you? I rarely see you these days. Magnus got you so busy writing his memoirs you don’t have time for your old friend?”

Kallimakus looked uncomfortable, and Lemuel read the unease permeating his aura.

“Is something the matter, my friend?” asked Lemuel, steering Kallimakus into the tent.

“I rather fear it might be,” said Mahavastu.

“What is it?” asked Camille, getting up and allowing the old man to take her seat.

“It is the primarch,” said Mahavastu, placing the leatherbound book in his lap with a guilty shudder. “I fear he and his warriors are in great danger.”

“What kind of danger?” asked Kallista.

“The gravest danger,” said Mahavastu. “The gravest danger imaginable.”

THEY CAME AT last to a great chasm in the heart of the Mountain, a perfectly circular sinkhole, hundreds of metres in diameter. The roof above the enormous pit was a crystalline temple dome, formed from the same substance as the Titans. The dome was pale cream, threaded with veins of crimson like the finest marble. And, like the Titans, its substance had been invaded with the black ropes of corruption.

Thousands of glistening, pulsing black pillars rose from the pit like the roots of some unnatural weed. They pulsed with liquid motion, obscene mockeries of life-giving veins that fed on life instead of sustaining it.

“Great bones of Fenris,” hissed Skarssen. “What manner of beast is this?”

No one had an answer for him, their horror at the sight too visceral to put into words.

Ahriman moved through the stunned Astartes to the edge of the pit. A ledge ran around the circumference of the chasm, easily wide enough to drive a pair of Land Raiders abreast. Gold and silver symbols were worked into the bones of the rock, as the though they had always existed and the Mountain had simply grown up around them.

Magnus stood at the edge of the chasm, looking in wonder at the impenetrable forest of oozing black tentacles rising from the pit. The lustre had returned to his skin, as though he were refreshed by the journey closer to the source of the power beneath the Mountain. Ohthere Wyrdmake and Lord Skarssen followed Ahriman, joining the primarch at the edge.

“What are they?” asked Skarssen, kneeling beside the nearest symbol, a gold serpent entwined with a silver eye.

“Warding symbols?” suggested Wyrdmake, “Like the wolf talismans we bear.”

Skarssen touched the wolf pelt at his shoulder, and Ahriman watched as all the Space Wolves superstitiously reached for various fetishes hanging from their armour. Those closest to Wyrdmake touched the eagle-topped staff he carried, and Ahriman smiled.

“Superstition?” he said. “The Emperor would not approve.”

“An Astartes of the Thousand Sons telling us what the Emperor would not approve of?” laughed Wyrdmake. “Ironic, wouldn’t you say?”

“No, I just find the gestures quaint,” smiled Ahriman, “almost primitive. I mean no offence of course.”

“None taken,” replied Wyrdmake. “But you too reached for a talismanic device.”

The smile froze on Ahriman’s lips as he realised the Rune Priest was right. Without even being aware of it, he had pressed his fingers to the silver oakleaf cluster on his shoulder guard, the icon that had once belonged to Ohrmuzd.

“Perhaps we are not so different after all,” said Wyrdmake.

“Perhaps not,” allowed Ahriman, turning his attention back to the thick ropes of black matter rising from the pit.

Magnus stood immobile, as though in silent communion, and Ahriman stood next to him.

“My lord?” he asked. “What is it?”

“It’s incredible, Ahzek,” said Magnus. “It’s raw matter, the very stuff of the Primordial Creator given form.”

“It’s rank is what it is,” hissed Skarssen. “Any fool can see that.”

“It’s alive,” hissed Uthizzar, walking to the edge of the pit with sleepwalker’s strides.

“Oh, it is alive, all right,” nodded Magnus. “I have never felt anything quite so alive, not for a long time. Not for a very long time indeed.”

Ahriman felt a thrill of warning along the length of his spine. Previously, the primarch had labelled this power stagnant and dead.

“It’s calling us,” said Uthizzar, and Ahriman heard the dream-like quality of his voice. “I need to go to it.”