“Defending the Emperor requires a talent for discerning hidden truths,” replied Amon carefully. “I pride myself on having a certain skill in that regard.”
“Yes, I see you do. You are an exceptional man, Amon, and I believe you will go far within your order. I see great things ahead for you,” said Magnus, before adding, “and for you also, Haedo.”
Amon inclined his head at the primarch’s comment, and the two Guardian Spears were lifted aside, allowing Magnus and the Sekhmet to pass.
“That’s it?” asked Ahriman as the Custodes lowered their weapons.
“The Unified Biometric Verification System has identified and logged your genetic markers within its network,” said Haedo. “You are who you claim to be.”
Magnus laughed, and asked, “Is anyone ever who they claim to be?”
The Custodes did not answer, but stood aside to allow them past.
THE PODIUM WAS in sight, but one last intercession was to come before Magnus could take his place at the Emperor’s side. Even once through all the checkpoints, Ahriman could feel the shadowing presence of the untouchables on the periphery of vision and sense.
From the primarch’s comment, he surmised that the watchmen were in fact the Sisters of Silence, the mute sisterhood of untouchables and the guardians of the Black Ships. How typical to see them and the Custodes working hand in hand.
This was the inner circle, metaphorically and literally, for here were gathered the mightiest beings in the cosmos, the brightest sons of the most incandescent sire. Here was where the primarchs gathered before ascending the platform to stand at their father’s side.
Ahriman could see the winged, angelic form of Sanguinis, the lusty red of his armour contrasting with pale feathers of his wings. Hung with loops of silver and pearl like glistening tears, the beatific primarch stood with the Khan, a swarthy warrior shawled in furs and lacquered leather plate, with a winged back-banner that echoed those of the Lord of Angels.
The golden-skinned Urizen held intense discourse with Dorn of the Fists and Angron, while the Phoenician and his cadre of lord commanders preened alongside Horus Lupercal and his lieutenants. Fulgrim’s white hair shone like a beacon, his perfect features gloriously sculpted. Little wonder the members of his Legion prided themselves on their aesthetic with such an example to follow.
Magnus swept forward to join his brothers, but before he reached them, a warrior in dusty white armour edged in pale green stepped to meet him. His shoulder-guard bore the image of a skull in the centre of a spiked halo, marking him as Death Guard. His posture was bellicose, and Ahriman read his hostility in an instant.
“I am Ignatius Grulgor, 2nd Company Captain of the Death Guard,” said the warrior, and Ahriman heard the judgemental tone and the arrogant sneer that spoke of a man without humility.
“I do not care who you are, warrior,” said Magnus calmly, though the undercurrent of threat was unmistakable. “You are in my way.”
Like a living statue, the Astartes stood his ground before Magnus. Two mighty warriors in brass, gold and ash-coloured Terminator armour appeared on either side of Grulgor, long, ebony-hafted scythes held in spiked cestus gauntlets. The harvest blades were dark and heavy with the weight of slaughter they had accumulated. A name leapt to Ahriman’s mind:
Manreapers.
“Ah, the nameless Deathshroud,” said Magnus, looking around him. “Tell your master to show himself. I know he is here, within forty-nine paces, if memory serves.”
Ahriman blinked as a dark outline seemed to flow from a patch of shadow at the foot of one of the Custodes Titans, a tall, gaunt figure in armour of pallid white, bare iron and brass, shrouded in a mantle of stormcloud grey. A bronze rebreather collar obscured the lower part of his hairless skull, and feathers of rancid air gusted from it at regular intervals. The giant figure breathed deeply of these vapours.
“Mortarion,” hissed Hathor Maat.
His sunken cheeks were those of a consumptive, and the deep-set amber eyes those of a man who has seen horrors without number. Glass vials and philtres strung together on Mortarion’s breastplate clinked musically as he walked, his strides sepulchral, punctuated by the rap of his enormous scythe’s iron base on the polished ground. A long, drum-barrelled pistol hung at his side, and Ahriman recognised the merciless form of the Lantern, the Shenlongi-designed pistol that was said to unleash the fire of a star in every blast.
“Magnus,” said the Primarch of the Death Guard by way of a greeting. “I wondered if you would show your face.”
Mortarion’s words were brazen. These were brothers, warrior gods crafted by the Emperor to conquer the galaxy in his name. Like all brothers, they squabbled and vied to attract the attention of their father, but this… this was distilled anger.
“Brother,” said Magnus, ignoring Mortarion’s words. “A great day is it not? Nine sons of the Emperor gathered together on one world, such a thing has not happened since…”
“I know well when it was, Magnus,” said Mortarion, his voice robust and resolute in contrast to his pallid features. “And the Emperor forbade us to speak of it again. Do you disobey that command?”
“I disobey nothing, brother,” said Magnus, keeping his tone light, “but even you must recognise the symbolism of our number. Three times three, the pesedjetof ancient gods, the Occidental orders of angels and the nine cosmic spheres of the forgotten ages.”
“There you go again with talk of angels and gods,” sneered Mortarion.
Magnus grinned and moved to take Mortarion’s hand, but the Lord of the Death Guard pulled away from him.
“Come on, Mortarion,” said Magnus, “you are not immune from the music of the spheres. Even you know that numbers are not cast blindly into the world, they come together in orderly balanced systems, like the formation of crystals or musical chords, in accordance with the laws of harmony. Why else would you insist on keeping these bodyguards within seven times seven paces of you?”
Mortarion shook his head and said, “Truly you are as lost in your mysteries as the Wolf King says.”
“You have spoken with Russ?”
“Many times,” promised Mortarion. “He has been quite vocal since departing the Ark Reach Cluster. We know all about what you and your warriors have been doing.”
“What is it you think you know?”
“You have crossed a line, Magnus,” hissed Mortarion. “You hold a snake by the tail and bargain with powers beyond your understanding.”
“No power is beyond my understanding,” countered Magnus. “You would do well to remember that.”
Mortarion laughed, the sound like mountains collapsing.
“I knew a being like you once before,” he said, “so sure in his powers, so convinced of his superiority that he could not see his doom until it was upon him. Like you, he wielded dark powers. Our father made him pay with his life for such evil. Have a care you do not suffer the same fate.”
“ Darkpowers?” said Magnus with a shake of the head. “Power is simply power, it is neither good nor evil. It simply is.”
He pointed to the pistol at Mortarion’s side.
“Is that weapon evil?” he asked. “Is that great reaper of yours? They are weapons, nothing more and nothing less. It is the use men put such things to that makes them evil. In your hands, the Lantern is a force for good. In an evil man’s hands it is something else entirely.”
“Give a man a gun and he will want to fire it,” said Mortarion.
“So now you are going to give me a lesson in causality and predestination?” snapped Magnus. “I am sure Ahriman and the Corvidae would welcome your input on the subject. Come to Prospero and you can instruct my warriors.”
Mortarion shook his head.
“No wonder Russ petitioned the Emperor to have you censured,” he said.