This was the Book of Magnus, its contents the distilled wisdom of all that Mahavastu Kallimakus had written in his long years of unthinking service to the Thousand Sons. To look upon it was an honour, but to hold it and be expected to read from its pages was the culmination of a lifelong dream for Ahriman.

Yet, for all that he had rebuked Phael Toron, Ahriman couldn’t help but wonder if the man’s unease was justified. The ritual Magnus had them performing was uncannily similar to many they had destroyed during the glory days of the Great Crusade.

“Are we of one mind?” asked Magnus. “We can go no further without complete accord. The harmony of our assembly is all, for it bears that most precious cargo: the human soul.”

“We are in accord,” said the captains with one voice.

“Our work starts in the darkness, but comes into the light,” continued Magnus. “My form must be reduced to the chaos of its component parts, and the whole will be greater than the sum of its parts. This great work we are upon is our most determined effort to lay claim to mastery of our fate. By such works we show that we are not content to simply be pawns in the Great Game, but will play upon our own account. Man the dabbler becomes man the decider. Too few have the courage to take arms against an uncaring galaxy, but we are the Thousand Sons; there is nothing we dare not do!”

Magnus nodded to Auramagma, who turned to the white slab as the thousand Thralls began chanting in monotonous, meaningless syllables. The light from the Thralls’ crystals pulsed, as though with the heartbeat of the cave itself.

Auramagma turned right as he reached the slab, circling around it with the brazier forming a ring of aromatic smoke. Ahriman followed him, reciting angelic words from the Book of Magnus, the power of them a fulsome texture on his lips.

Phael Toron came after him, bearing the athame upon his outstretched palms, and following him came Uthizzar with the unlit lantern. Lastly came Amon, who bore the heated brazier in his armoured gauntlets. The five sons of Magnus processed around the white slab nine times before halting as Magnus took his place in the centre.

The Primarch of the Thousand Sons lay down upon the altar, his white robes spilling over its edges. Ahriman kept reading from the Book of Magnus as Uthizzar lit the lantern with a taper from Amon’s brazier. Auramagma held the censer aloft as Phael Toron stepped towards the recumbent form of Magnus.

Ahriman saw a ripple of light converging from all around them as streamers of aether drifted down from the crystals carried by the thousand Thralls. Within moments, the entire floor of the cave was awash with smoky light, the combined essence of the Thralls seeking an outlet for their energy. The light gathered in the mirrors, focusing its magnified illumination upon Magnus’ body, imparting a ghostly aura to his still form.

“It is time,” said Magnus, “Ahzek, give me the Moon Wolf.”

Ahriman nodded and lifted the iron pendant from the book. The moon glittered silver in the cavern’s light, and the fangs of the wolf shone like icicles. He lowered the pendant into Magnus’ flattened palm, looping the chain over his outstretched fingers.

“This was given to me by Horus Lupercal on Bakheng,” said Magnus. “It was part of his armour, but a lucky shot broke it from his pauldron. He gave it to me as a keepsake of that war, and joked that it would guide me in times of darkness. He was egotistical even then.”

“Now we’ll see if he was right,” said Ahriman.

“Yes we will,” said Magnus, closing his eye and making a fist around the pendant. His breathing slowed, becoming shallower as he concentrated on the love he bore for his brother. Within moments, a swelling bloodstain appeared on Magnus’ shoulder and he groaned in pain.

“What in the name of the Great Ocean is that?” cried Phael Toron.

“A sympathetic wound,” said Amon. “A repercussion, a stigmata, call it what you will. We have little time; the Warmaster has already been wounded.”

“Toron,” hissed Ahriman, “you know your role. Fulfil your duty to your primarch.”

The athame twitched on Phael Toron’s palms, lifting up and twisting in the air until it hung directly over the primarch’s heart. The silver cord within the vervain crown unwound of its own accord and slithered over the edge of the altar to bind itself to the magnetised chain.

“I will travel the Great Ocean for nine days,” said Magnus through gritted teeth, and Ahriman was astonished. To travel for so long was unheard of. “No matter what occurs, do not break my connection to the aether.”

The five warriors surrounding Magnus shared a look of concern, but said nothing.

“You must not falter,” said Magnus. “Continue, or all this will be for nothing.”

Ahriman lowered his gaze and continued to read, not understanding the words or how he knew their pronunciation, but speaking them aloud just the same. His voice grew in volume, moving in counterpoint to the chanting of the Thralls.

“Now, Toron!” cried Magnus, and the athame plunged down, stabbing into the primarch’s chest. A red bloom of glittering, iridescent blood spilled from the wound. Instantaneously, the swirling light found its outlet, and searing white beams erupted from the mirrors and surged into the hilt of the athame.

Magnus arched his back with a terrible roar. His eye snapped open, its substance without pupil or iris, but awash with all manner of incredible colours.

“Horus, my brother!” cried Magnus, his voice laden with the echoes of the thousand souls fuelling his ascent. “I am coming to you!”

And a terrifying, angelic form shot up from Magnus’ body in a blazing column of light.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

She was my World/Whatever the Cost/The Price

LEMUEL WAS FRANTIC with worry. He couldn’t find Ahriman, and Camille was running out of time. A week that had started out so well had turned to one of the worst in the space of a couple of days. Two of his dearest friends were gravely ill, and a third was suffering at the hands of a master who used him without care for his wellbeing.

Events were spiralling out of control, all his grand ideas for what he had hoped to learn from the Thousand Sons as insubstantial as mist. He had learned a great deal, but what use was power when those you loved could slip away from you without warning?

He had shed too many tears for lost loved ones. He wasn’t going to shed any more.

Camille lay in a bed not dissimilar to Kallista’s, though without the variety of equipment hooked up to her cranium. Cuts and grazes had been dressed, and her lungs had been flushed of carbon, ash and trace elements of metal oxides. The wound in her side had been treated and dressed, and she had been declared physically fit and prescribed strong pain balms and three days of bed rest.

After what Ahriman had told him, Lemuel worried that Camille didn’t have three days.

He had begged Khalophis to find Ahriman, only to be told that Ahriman was “with the primarch” and could not be disturbed. Though Lemuel’s body clock was turned upside down, he guessed it was early morning. Looking at a chrono above the nurse’s station he saw that ten hours had passed since Khalophis had brought Camille in.

Still, Ahriman had not come or even acknowledged Lemuel’s calls for aid.

When he returned to Camille’s room, Lemuel found an attractive ebony-skinned woman sitting by her bed, holding her hand and mopping her brow with a cloth. The elegant sweep of the woman’s bone structure told Lemuel she was a native of Prospero.

“Chaiya?” he asked.

The woman nodded and favoured him with a nervous smile. “You must be Lemuel.”

“I am,” he said, rounding the bed and taking Chaiya’s hand. “Can we talk outside?”

Chaiya glanced over at Camille. “If there is something you wish to say concerning Camille’s health, I think you should tell her first, don’t you?”