The Primarch of the Thousand Sons was a divine, rapturous figure of light amid the darkness. The gold of his armour had never been brighter, the red of his vast mane never more vivid. His flesh burned with the touch of immense power, greater than anything it had ever contained before. His eye locked onto Ahriman, and the depths of despair he saw in that haunted, glowing orb froze the blood in his veins. In that moment, Ahriman felt the horror Magnus had felt as his sons mutated into monsters and the anguish, centuries later, as he watched them butchered to serve a brother’s lunatic ambition.
He understood the noble ideal that had stayed the primarch’s hand throughout the battle, recognising it for what it was, not for what he had thought it to be. He felt his father’s forgiveness for doubting him, and heard his voice in his head.
“This doom was always meant for me, not you,” said Magnus, and Ahriman knew that every warrior of the Thousand Sons was hearing the same thing. “You are my sons, and I have failed you.”
Ahriman wanted to weep at his primarch’s words, feeling the sorrow of a being who had beheld all of creation, but had fallen short in his reach to grasp it. When Magnus spoke again, he alone heard the primarch’s voice.
“Ahzek, lead my sons within the pyramid.”
“No!” he cried, tears of grief mingling with the rain falling in endless torrents.
“You must,” insisted Magnus, lifting his red arm and pointing towards the bronze gates of the pyramid, which now swung open. White light shone enticingly from within. “Amon awaits you, and he bears a priceless gift you must bear away from this place. You must do this, or all we have done here will have meant nothing.”
“What of you, my lord?” asked Ahriman. “What will you do?”
“What I must,” said Magnus, looking over at the raging form of Leman Russ as he charged with a glacial lack of speed onto the causeway. The primarch reached down and touched the jade scarab in the centre of Ahriman’s breast-plate. The crystal shone with a pale light, and Ahriman felt the immense power resting within it.
“This was cut from the Reflecting Caves,” said Magnus. “Every warrior of my Legion bears one set in his armour. When the moment comes, and you will know it when it does, concentrate all your energies on the this crystal and those of your battle-brothers.”
“I don’t understand,” pleaded Ahriman. “What must I do?”
“What you have been destined to do since before you were born,” said Magnus. “Now go!”
“I will stand with you,” vowed Ahriman.
“No,” said Magnus with an endless abyss of regret. “You will not. Our fates are unravelling even now, and what happens here hasto happen. Do this last thing for me, Ahzek.”
Though it broke his heart, Ahriman nodded, and the world swelled around him as the flow of time restored its integrity from the distortion Magnus’ arrival had caused. The bellows of burning pyres and immaterial thunder rolled across the face of the world once more, and the deafening fire of weapons roared even louder than before.
The howl of the Wolf King blotted them all out. Ahriman and the Thousand Sons turned and ran towards the Pyramid of Photep.
MASSES OF PEOPLE filled the pyramid, terrified civilians and exhausted Spireguard. The Thousand Sons poured inside, their armour black and dripping from the nightmarish deluge drowning the world beyond. At a conservative estimate, Ahriman guessed that just over a thousand warriors had escaped the attack of the Wulfen.
“A tenth of the Legion,” he said.
The horrifying scale of the loss staggered him.
Hathor Maat and Sobek came alongside him as he struggled to come to terms with what had become of their beloved Legion. Still numb from the sight of so few survivors, Ahriman sought out Amon, who stood in the centre of the vast chamber.
Amon was clad in his armour, but the plates were clean and unblemished. His weapons were sheathed and he carried a reinforced chest, sealed with a padlock of cold iron.
“He said you would live,” said Amon.
“The primarch?”
“Yes. Years ago as you lay dying in the midst of the flesh change he knew you would live to see this moment.”
“Spare me your tales,” stormed Ahriman. “The primarch said you have something for me?”
“I do,” confirmed Amon, holding the chest up for Ahriman to open.
“It is locked.”
“To all others perhaps, but not to you.”
“We don’t have time for this,” hissed Ahriman, looking over his shoulder as two gods of war clashed with the sound of worlds colliding. Blazing light filled the pyramid, and the howl of Leman Russ vied with the thunderous lightning of Magnus.
“You must maketime,” snapped Amon, “or all this will be for nothing.”
Ahriman reached up and took hold of the lock, which snapped open with a metallic click at his touch. He opened the lid and drew in a breath as he saw the book within, its cover red and cracked with age, as though it were an archaeological find instead of a working grimoire.
“The Book of Magnus,” breathed Hathor Maat.
“Why me?” demanded Ahriman.
“Because you are its new bearer,” said Amon. “You are to keep it safe and ensure the knowledge contained within its pages never falls into the wrong hands.”
Ahriman lifted the book from the iron chest, feeling the weight of power and expectation contained within its hallowed pages. The potency of the incantations and formulae called to him, alluring and redolent with promises of the great things he might achieve with the secrets inscribed upon its pages.
He wanted to refuse, to place the book back in its chest and secure the lock so that no one would ever gaze upon its pages and crave the power it could grant. He wanted Magnus to return and retrieve his grimoire, but understood with sudden clarity that was never going to happen.
Magnus had no expectation of surviving his duel with Leman Russ.
Ahriman took the book and ran back to the bronze gates of the pyramid, desperation lending his strides greater speed. Brilliant flashes of light and thunderous impacts came from the other side of the gate, as colossal forces beyond mortal comprehension were unleashed.
Ahriman reached the mighty portal, and saw a battle between two brothers that was unparalleled in its savagery, power and folly. Magnus and the Wolf King struggled with the fate of a world balanced on the outcome. Forking traceries of lightning shot upwards from the ground, isolating them from the host of Wolves and Custodes.
Russ rained blow after blow on Magnus, shattering the horned breastplate, and in return Magnus struck his brother with a searing blast of cold fire that cracked his armour and set light to his braided hair.
It seemed as though the combatants had swollen to enormous proportions, like the giants they were in the myths and legends. The Wolf King’s frostblade struck at Magnus, but his golden axe turned the blow aside as they spun and twisted in an epic battle beneath the madness of a blazing storm of sheet lightning and pounding thunder. This was a battle fought on every leveclass="underline" physical, mental and spiritual, with each primarch bending every ounce of their almost limitless power to the other’s destruction.
The waters around the pyramid broke upon the shores, black as oil, and churning as though an unseen tempest boiled beneath the surface. Space Wolves and Custodes ploughed through the water, wading through the crashing spray to reach the pyramid in lieu of aiding Leman Russ in his battle. Magnus swept his hands to the side, and the warriors on the water cried out in agony as it transformed into corrosive acid, burning through ceramite plates and rendering flesh and bone to jelly.