‘I can’t accept that,’ said Remus.

‘What is so hard to accept?’ said Guilliman. ‘You followed my teachings, and they led you to defeat. If this and Calth have taught us anything it is that we must always be adaptable and never too hidebound in our thinking.’

‘But your teachings…’

‘Are yet flawed,’ said Guilliman. ‘No one, not even one such as I, can anticipate every possible outcome of battle. My words are not some holy writ that mustbe obeyed. There must always be room for personal initiative on the battlefield. You and I both know how one spark of heroism can turn the tide of battle. That knowledge and personal experience can only be earned in blood, and the leader in the field must always be the ultimate arbiter of what course of action should be followed.’

‘I’ll remind you of that when the Troublesome Fourthare next in the field.’

Guilliman chuckled. ‘Be sure that you do, Remus. I am aware that some think me emotionless, the Talos of ancient days come to life, and desiring only to suffocate free thinking with my prescriptive ways. But such times are upon us that brook no deviation from our course.’

‘So was there a way to win that last fight?’

‘Perhaps, but I will let you find that answer.’

‘And what will you do?’

‘I will continue to pen the Codex Astartes,’ said Guilliman.

‘ Codex Astartes?’ said Remus. ‘Is that what you are calling it?’

Guilliman smiled and nodded. ‘Yes, I think it has an appropriately weightyfeel to it, don’t you? In war and in peace it will provide an invaluable repository of knowledge, but I do not wish it to be regarded as a substitute for reason and initiative. Do you understand?’

‘I think so,’ said Remus, as Guilliman beckoned him over to the edge of the cliff.

‘These are the darkest days the Imperium has known,’ said Guilliman. ‘And I fear for what the future will bring. Calth is lost to us, and Isstvan. Who knows how many other worlds my brother will burn in his madness?’

‘But you have a plan to fight him?’ pleaded Remus.

Guilliman did not answer, as though afraid of what Remus might make of his answer.

At last he said, ‘I have a plan, yes, and it is a dangerous one, too dangerous to divulge for the moment. But when the time comes to put it into action, I must ask you all to trust me as never before. When that time comes, you will be called traitors, cowards and faithless weaklings, but nothing could be further from the truth. I can see no hope in the times ahead for the Imperium as we know it, and that is why I had you fight these mock engagements. However this war plays out, it is inevitable that you will need to fight warriors you count as brothers. Perhaps even those who currently stand in opposition to the Warmaster.’

‘I won’t pretend to understand what that means, but you can count on us to do everything you ask of us,’ promised Remus.

‘I know I can,’ said Guilliman.

‘We beat every army you sent at us, but I have had time to think why we lost against the Sons of Horus.’

‘That was quick.’

‘I’m a fast learner.’

‘True. So what is your conclusion?’ asked Guilliman.

‘It wasn’t a fair contest of arms.’

‘How so?’

‘You didn’t fight alongside us,’ said Remus.

‘And you believe that would have made a difference?’

‘I knowit would have made a difference,’ said Remus, looking up at Guilliman’s perfect features. ‘And you know it too.’

Guilliman shrugged modestly, but Remus could see that the primarch agreed with him.

Roboute Guilliman looked up into the heavens, as though trying to perceive some far distant truth or faraway battle yet to come. At last Guilliman turned to Remus, and the captain of the 4th Company saw a haunted look in his eyes, like a desire clung to in the face of hopelessness.

‘Then let us hope that when the Warmaster is to be put down, I am the man facing him.’

LIAR’S DUE

James Swallow

+++Broadcast Minus Zero Zero [Solar]+++

THE VOICE FROM the speaker horn above the square was metered and automatic, and it did not differ from the everyday tonality it gave to matters of the most mundane news. The flat, near-emotionless words rang out over the streets of Town Forty-Four, across the mainway and the alleys, over the rooftops of the general store and the rover stables. The people under the shadow of the Skyhook stood rooted to the spot in shocked silence, or else they wandered in circles, fear and confusion robbing them of reason.

The recording reached its conclusion and began again.

‘ The Imperium speaks,’ said the humming, clicking voice, a chime of orchestral tones jangling beneath the opening phrase. ‘ On this day, news from the core reaches the agricultural colony of Virger-Mos II.’ That part of the statement was always the same, promising the people of Forty-Four and the other settlements across this backwater world a measure of understanding about the galaxy at large around them.

Today, the prologue rang an ominous note, the familiar turning sinister. The main body of the message began; somewhere far over their heads, at the summit of the Skyhook, was the planet’s lone astropath. The psyker’s sole duty was to parse news into palatable forms and send it down the telegraph. ‘ This is Terra calling, and with grave import. Make all citizens aware and know this grim certainty. The battle has broken the Eternity Gate. The Imperial Palace falls as Terra burns around it. It is our great sorrow to announce that the Emperor of Mankind lies dead at the hand of Horus Lupercal, Warmaster.’

Some of the townsfolk began to weep, others cradled their heads and tried to deny the voice’s words. One man laughed, a humourless bark of utter disbelief. And then there were others, who looked on and said nothing, only nodding as if they had known all along that this day would come.

Beneath the speaker horn, the marquetry boards ticked and clicked, the carved wooden slates turning about to form the shapes of the words. ‘ The Emperor joins the roll of honour alongside his sons: Sanguinius, Dorn, Russ and the Khan. The remnants of his forces now sue for peace. Surrender is at hand here. The inter-Legionary conflict is no more. The battle for independence is concluded, and Horus has his victory. Even now, ships are being dispatched to all points of the etheric compass to cement his new rule as Imperator Rex.’ There was a moment of silence, as if the machine-speaker could not fully grasp the words it projected. ‘ Know this. The war is over. Horus has the throne.’

The speakers fell silent and the panic began to bed in.

In the cool of the icehouse’s porch, Leon Kyyter’s gaze dropped to the upturned palms of his hands and he saw the line of little white crescents where he had dug his fingernails into his own flesh. He felt dizzy and sick inside. The youth was afraid to stand up for fear he might stumble and collapse upon the cracked blacktop of the mainway. It was a nightmare; it felt like a dream, there was no other explanation. Nothing else made any kind of sense.

The Emperor, dead?It was impossible, unbelievable. The birds in the sky would speak High Gothic and the seasons would rewrite themselves before such a thing could happen! Leon refused to accept it. He would not!

‘Horus has the throne…’ He heard the words repeated by one of the grainwives from the Forroth farmstead. She was trying the phrase out, speaking it aloud to be sure it wasn’t just a string of nonsense words.

‘Will he come here?’ asked someone else, and the question was like a spark to kindling. Suddenly everyone in the town square was talking at once, voices rising in angry confusion. Leon was buffeted by fragments of conversation coming from all around.

‘…how long would that take?’