“And now to the heart of the matter,” said Malcador. “This gathering will address the question of sorcery in the Imperium. Yes, gentlemen, we are here to resolve the Librarian Crisis.”

A gasp of astonishment rippled from the tiers of the amphitheatre, though Ahriman had guessed what the substance of Malcador’s words would be as soon as he mounted the plinth.

“This is an issue that has divided us for many years, but here we will end that division. Some will maintain that sorcery is the greatest threat facing our dominion of the galaxy, while others will rail against what is said here, believing that fear and ignorance drives their accusers’ hands.

“Let me assure you all that there is no greater crisis facing the Imperium, and the heroic undertaking upon which we are all embarked is too vital to risk with discord.”

Malcador drew himself up to his full height and said. “That being said, who among you shall speak first?”

A gruff voice cut through the chatter from the tiers. “I shall speak,” it said.

Undulant light in the box opposite the Thousand Sons rippled as a powerful figure threw off his falsehood. The warrior’s beard was waxed, and he wore a snarling wolf’s head across his shaved scalp. The skin of its forelegs was draped over his barrel chest and its pelt formed a ragged cloak.

Armoured in stormcloud grey and bearing his eagle-headed staff across one shoulder, Ohthere Wyrdmake, Rune Priest of the Space Wolves, stepped down into the amphitheatre.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Witch Hunters/The Heart of a Primarch/Magnus Speaks

THE LIBRARIAN CRISIS: like a guilty secret, it lurked behind the veneer of Unity, a dull ache that the body of the Imperium had tried to forget, like a frightened man ignoring a pain in his belly for fear of what might come to light under the glare of examination. Librarians had first been introduced to the Legions when Magnus, Sanguinius and Jaghatai Khan had proposed a regime of psychic training and development that went hand in hand with the already rigorous creation process of an Astartes warrior.

The Emperor had sanctioned these first experiments as a means of directing and controlling the power of emerging psykers within the Astartes, and Librarius departments were formed within the Thousand Sons, Blood Angels and White Scars to train them. The Librarians they had crafted had proven to be loyal warriors and potent weapons in the Legion’s arsenal. Such was the success of these early experiments that Magnus pushed for his program to be expanded, allowing other Legions to benefit from his research.

With the success of the early experiments, many primarchs came to see the usefulness of Librarians, and allowed warrior-scholars from the Thousand Sons to form Librarius departments within their ranks. Not all the primarchs saw this as a good thing, and from the earliest days of its inception, the Librarian program was beset by controversy.

Psychic powers came with dark heritage, for the Great Crusade was rebuilding the lost empire of humanity from the wreckage left after Old Night, a cataclysm brought about, it was claimed, by the uncontrolled emergence of psykers all across the galaxy. As much as Magnus and his compatriots vouchsafed the integrity of the Librarians, they would always bear the stigma of those who had brought humanity to the edge of extinction.

Though there had been squabbles and division over the employment of Librarians, those divisions had been manageable and without real weight. The Thousand Sons heard the accusations levelled at them and stoically ignored them, content that they acted with the Emperor’s blessing.

Like an untreated wound, those divisions had festered and spread, threatening to become a rift that would never be sealed. And so, with Horus Lupercal anointed the Warmaster and his retreat to Terra imminent, the Emperor chose this moment to heal that rift and bring his sons together as one.

History would recall this assembly as the Council of Nikaea.

Others would know it as the trial of Magnus the Red.

OHTHERE WYRDMAKE CROSSED the amphitheatre and stepped onto the plinth before the Emperor’s dais. Ahriman willed Wyrdmake to see him, to feel the full weight of his treachery.

“I trusted him,” said Ahriman, bunching his fists. “He was just using me to betray us. All along, it was a lie.”

His anger fled as another thought intruded.

“Oh Throne!” he exclaimed. “The things I told him. Our ways and our powers. This is all my fault.”

“Calm yourself, Ahzek,” cautioned Magnus. “Do nothing to prove him right. In any case, it was I who urged you to place your trust in Wyrdmake. If this travesty of a conclave is anyone’s fault it is mine for not giving credence to the strength of my doubters.”

Ahriman forced himself back into the higher spheres, focusing on those that enhanced clarity and speed of thought. He kept away from those of empathy and strength.

Wyrdmake lifted his wolf-helmed head to face the glares of the Thousand Sons, his lined face pulled into a scowl of primal loathing. Such was its venom, Ahriman wondered how he could not have seen so brutal and violent a core to the Rune Priest. He had always known the Space Wolves were a butcher’s blade of a Legion, powerful and unsubtle, but to see that so clearly defined on one man’s face was still a shock.

“I will not waste time with fancy words,” said Wyrdmake. “I am called Ohthere Wyrdmake of the Space Wolves, and I fought in the murder-make with the Thousand Sons on Shrike. I stood alongside its warriors on the baked salt flats of Aghoru, and I name them a coven of warlocks, every one of them a star-cunning sorcerer and conjurer of unclean magic. That is all I have to say, and I swear its truth upon my oath as a warrior of Leman Russ.”

Ahriman was astonished at the archaic wording of the accusation. Was this the forgotten ages, when men were ruled by superstition and fear of the dark? He cast around the amphitheatre, horrified at the sagely nodding heads and expressions of outrage directed their way.

Malcador stood at the edge of the dais and rapped his staff on its marble floor. All eyes turned upon him.

“You level a terrible accusation upon your brother Legion, Ohthere Wyrdmake,” said Malcador. “Are there any who substantiate your claims?”

“Aye, Sigillite, there are,” replied Wyrdmake.

“Who stands with this accusation?” called Malcador.

“I do,” said Mortarion, emerging from beneath a falsehood and revealing his identity to the onlookers. As Ohthere Wyrdmake returned to his seat, Mortarion walked to the centre of the amphitheatre. Whether by coincidence or design, the Death Lord took exactly twenty-eight paces from the podium, and Ahriman again saw the recurrence of the number seven. Mortarion was clad exactly as he had been on Ullanor, as though he had been waiting for this moment since then.

Before Mortarion could speak, Magnus rose to his feet and slammed his hand down on the obsidian coping before him.

“Is this what passes for due process?” demanded Magnus. “Am I to be tried by faceless observers who hide behind their falsehoods. If any man dares accuse me, let him speak to my face.”

Malcador rapped his staff once more and said, “The Emperor has commanded it, Magnus. No man’s testimony is to be corrupted by fear of whose eyes are upon him.”

“It is all too easy to hide behind cloaks of anonymity and cast your venom. Far harder to look the object of your wrath in the eye while you do it.”

“You will have your chance to speak, Magnus. No decision will be made until all those who wish to speak have done so. I promise you,” said Malcador, adding. “Your father promises you.”

Magnus shook his head as he returned to his seat, his anger still simmering.

Mortarion had not moved during Magnus’ outburst, as though his brother primarch’s outrage was an inconsequential thing, something to be endured for the brief annoyance it caused. Ahriman dearly wished he could summon Aaetpio, but sensed the ensuing conflagration would be akin to letting a Pyrae Zealator loose in a promethium-soaked warehouse.