Lemuel saw the anger in Ahriman’s face, the bitterness of memory causing the plants nearby to wither and blacken. He felt a nauseous twist in his gut and swallowed a mouthful of bile as Ahriman continued.
“With every passing year, more and more of our warriors would succumb to the flesh change, though we grew ever more adept at spotting the signs and taking steps to contain them. Perversely, the more warriors suffered the change, the stronger our powers became. We learned how to keep the worst of the flesh change at bay, but more and more of us were falling prey to it and the voices of our persecutors were growing ever more strident. There was even talk of disbanding us and expunging us from Imperial history.”
Lemuel shook his head.
“That’s the thing about history,” he said. “It has a habit of remembering the things you’d like to forget. No one can erase that much, there will always be some record.”
“Don’t be so sure, Lemuel,” said Ahriman. “The Emperor’s wrath is a terrible thing.”
Lemuel heard the sorrow in Ahriman’s voice and wanted to ask more, but the tale was not yet done.
“Ohrmuzd and I were at the forefront of the Thousand Sons, its greatest warriors and most powerful practitioners of the arts. We thought we were immune to the flesh change, that our power was too great for it to touch us. How arrogant we were! Ohrmuzd fell prey to its effects first, and I was forced to secure him as he fought against his rebelling flesh.”
Ahriman turned to Lemuel, and Lemuel quailed before the intensity of his gaze.
“Imagine your body turning on you, every molecule refusing to hold to its genetically-encoded purpose, with only your strength of will preventing your flesh from uncontrollably mutating, all the while knowing that eventually you must weaken and it will take you.”
“I can’t,” said Lemuel. “It’s beyond me.”
“I did what I could for Ohrmuzd, but soon after his succumbing, I too was afflicted. I did not go into stasis with the rest of our fallen brothers, doomed to wait out the entirety of the Great Crusade until a cure could be found, for I was able to stave off the change, though it was a battle I knew I was destined to lose.”
Ahriman smiled, and the twisting pain in Lemuel’s guts subsided.
“Then, a miracle happened,” he said. “We reached Prospero and the Emperor found Magnus.”
“What was it like?” asked Lemuel. “To be reunited with your lost sire?”
“Magnus was our salvation,” said Ahriman, with no small amount of pride. “We descended to the planet’s surface at the Emperor’s side, though I remember little of the first meeting of father and son, for my body was wracked with pain as I fought to hold myself together. It was a dark time for our Legion, and yet a joyous one. It was clear to us that we could not go on as we were, for the flesh change was taking too many of us, and there was nothing we could do to stop it. Even as we despaired, we rejoiced, for we were finally reunited with the genetic father of our Legion.”
Lemuel smiled to hear the fond recollection in Ahriman’s voice. The Captain of the 1st Fellowship looked over to the Pyramid of Photep, and an unreadable expression crossed his face, like a man afraid to face a guilty memory he has buried deep.
“Within a day of the Emperor leaving Prospero, more and more of the Legion fell prey to the change. Though I had resisted it longer than any other had before, I too succumbed and my body began to rebel. My powers raged uncontrolled, but all I remember of that day is the horror of knowing that soon I would be little better than some of the monstrous things we had slain in our expansion from Terra. Soon, I would need to be put down like a beast.
“Then I remember a soothing voice in my head, soft and silky, like I imagined a father’s would be when comforting a sick child. Darkness stole over me, and when I awoke, my physique was unblemished and without a mark. The flesh change had almost destroyed us, yet we were whole and in control of our bodies once more. The Legion had been saved, but I felt no joy that day, for a piece of me had died.”
“Your twin brother,” said Lemuel.
“Yes. I was whole, but Ohrmuzd had died. His body was too ravaged by the flesh change, and nothing could be done to save him,” said Ahriman. “I took his silver oakleaf and incorporated it into my armour. His memory deserved no less.”
“Again, you have my condolences,” said Lemuel.
“None of us could recall anything of how this miracle came to pass, but we were alive, though barely a thousand of us were left.”
“The Legion name,” said Lemuel.
“Literally,” agreed Ahriman. “Now we truly were the Thousand Sons.”
Lemuel frowned and said, “Wait, that doesn’t make sense. You were known as the Thousand Sons before you reached Prospero, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why that name in particular? The Legion’s name only makes sense afterMagnus saved you on Prospero,” said Lemuel. “Yet you were known as the Thousand Sons before then. So is it just a stupendous coincidence that there happened only to be a thousand survivors?”
“Now you are thinking like a Practicus,” said Ahriman with a smile. “I keep telling you that there is no such thing as coincidence.”
“So what are you telling me? That the Emperor saw what was happening to you and knew that Magnus would save a thousand of you?”
“Perhaps. The Emperor has seen a great many things,” said Ahriman, though Lemuel sensed evasion in his words. “Yes, Magnus saved us, but he never said how he did it.”
“Does it matter?” asked Lemuel. “He saved you. Isn’t that enough?”
Ahriman turned his gaze to the heavens. “That remains to be seen, but I think it willmatter. I think it will matter a great deal.”
AS MUCH AS she was worried about Kallista, Camille was relishing her day of exploration too much to worry about her stricken friend. She had rolled out of bed, kissed Chaiya goodbye, and made her way to the rendezvous with Khalophis without so much as a second thought for Kallista Eris. She felt guilty about that, but not so guilty she was going to miss out on the chance of exploring the Desolation of Prospero.
Khalophis’ disc-speeder brought them to the ruined city in less than an hour, which had disappointed Camille until he told her how far and fast they had travelled. Tizca was far behind them, and she wondered why everyone still called the lands beyond Tizca the “Desolation”, as nothing could be further from the truth. The landscape was as lush as anything she could ever imagine. Vast forests and wide open plains spread to the horizons, and crystal clear rivers spilled in foaming waterfalls from the mountains.
Khalophis had steered the speeder with delicate skill, which she found surprising. She expected him to fly brusquely and without finesse. The sense of speed as they flew through this bountiful land had been exhilarating, and the thrill of being allowed to explore the far cities of Prospero was as close to perfect as she could imagine.
Camille looked up at the high stacks of blackened iron and stone towering above her. Their structures were wrapped in greenery and swayed gently in the chill winds funnelled down from the end of the valley. Hundreds of skeletal frames arranged in what looked like grid patterns dotted the valley mouth, and the ground underfoot was like faded rockcrete, cracked and split by patient weeds.
Broken piles of stone clustered the bases of the structures, like cladding or flooring pushed from the structures they had once enclosed by the relentless forces of nature.
Over the course of the morning and early afternoon, they had discovered some that still had elements of their internal structure intact, but these were few and far between.
Khalophis followed her, his boltgun slung casually over his shoulder as he watched her capturing pict images of the structures. She already had a library’s worth of images, but the things she had touched so far had yielded little of interest.