Dwell, with its fortified cities, orbital batteries, ship schools, and eight million pinnacle-grade fighting men, would be the cornerstone of Meduson’s line. And any fool could see the Elders of Dwell would never side against the Throne.
It was a matter of priority that their ignorance be illuminated swiftly, before they fell in step with the determined son of Medusa.
AXIMAND’S FACE HAD earned him his name, though he was not the only member of the Sixteenth Legion who resembled the primarch. For a good many, including the First Captain, elective genetics had guaranteed it. They were sons, truesons, amongst the Sons.
Aximand was the most alike of them all. It was not only the face; there was something in the manner of him.
Of course, he was Horus too, a common Cthonic name made popular because of the primarch. They were all sons of Horus in the end.
Little Horus. That’s what he was called, in tones simultaneously affectionate and mocking: Little Horus Aximand.
There was nothing little about him. Captain of the Fifth. One quarter of the Mournival.
‘He who serves as a captain here would be as a primarch in the company of others,’ said Abaddon, and he was talking of Aximand when he said it.
The reattachment left a scar. It set the character of the face differently, altered the seating of the muscles. Somehow, the wrongness, the imperfection, made him more like Horus, not less.
Steel forged on Medusa has such a fine edge.
HE HAD A dream he never shared with anyone. First Captain Abaddon had indeed proclaimed that dreams were a weakness to be eschewed by all the Adeptus Astartes. The dreamless Luna Wolves were surely the purest of all.
But times changed. The Luna Wolves had become the Sons of Horus. Kin had become unkind. The all-father of man had become the enemy. And, since Isstvan, Little Horus Aximand had begun to dream.
Every dream was essentially the same. Aximand would dream about the events of the day. The dream would match, in all particulars, his experiences, except that someone else was present. Someone else had come to join him, an intruder who remained just out of sight or in distant shadows, in the next room, or the corner of his eye. Aximand could not see the intruder’s face, but he knew he was there.
Aximand could feel him watching. He could hear him breathing.
LITTLE HORUS WAS afraid of the dreams at first. He was afraid to have started dreaming, afraid of what Abaddon might say if he found out, afraid of the faceless intruder watching him whenever he slept.
But he was not afraid of change. Change was, he insisted, part of his ruling character.
‘The melancholic humour is protean,’ he said. ‘It possesses the quality of autumn. It is transformative, the accelerator of death, the enabler of ends and beginnings. Autumn clears away the world ready for renewal. This is my purpose. I am not afraid.’
Then again, after they reattached his face, all he ever really looked was unlike himself.
ANOTHER CHANGE, FORCED on them by the circumstances of Isstvan, was the loss of the Mournival. Changing the name of the Sixteenth, changing the colour of their armour, those transformations had been embraced willingly as positive reinforcements of their resolve. They had never changed their allegiance: they still followed Horus and the Imperium.
The Mournival, though, the Mournival was a painful loss. That small clique of sons, of peers, of brothers, selected to counsel the Warmaster had always been vital, organic.
Little Horus still wore the mark of the half-moon on his helm, above the right eye-piece.
As the fleet translated into the Dwell system, he spoke to Abaddon on the subject.
‘It is an antiquated concept,’ said the First Captain. ‘See how poorly it served us at Isstvan?’
‘People served us poorly,’ Aximand replied, ‘not the Mournival. The Mournival was always intended to provide even-tempered advice. It was supposed to provoke discussion and dissent, so that we could properly debate each issue and be sure of arriving at balanced reasoning.’
Abaddon looked at him, uncertain.
Aximand smiled back.
‘It is true to say,’ he added, ‘that the decisions we had to make at Davin and Isstvan were so extreme, the natural dissent was…’
‘Was what?’ asked Abaddon.
‘Intense. Those who lost the argument could not be permitted to live. It is the way of things. When the matter is so great, those who speak against it become our enemies. They had to say no, for in their noour yeswas consecrated.’
They. Abaddon and Aximand never spoke the names any more. Previous members of the Mournival, perhaps: Berabaddon, Syrakul, Janipur and dear Sejanus. All of them were spoken of, as one would speak of beloved ancestors. But the last two to come and go, their names were never uttered. They were memories too painful for even a transhuman to bear.
‘The mechanism always worked,’ Aximand pressed, dropping his soft voice to a leaf-rustle whisper, making Abaddon bend closer to hear. Below them, the vast bridge bustled with activity.
‘The mechanism always worked, even when we had to kill our dissenters. The method was valid and valuable. The Mournival provides balance, and guarantees the right decisions.’
‘So you would reinstate it?’ asked Abaddon.
‘Do we not need balance now, more than ever?’
‘You would reinstate it?’ Abaddon repeated.
‘It was never gone,’ said Aximand. ‘There are simply vacancies.’
‘Who would you approach?’ asked Abaddon.
‘Who would you?’
Abaddon sniffed.
‘Targost.’
Aximand shrugged.
‘A sound suggestion. Serghar Targost is heartwood like us, but he is also lodge-master. The lodge needs him clear-minded, not compromised by Mournival duties.’
Abaddon nodded, seeing the sense of this.
‘Falkus Kibre,’ said Abaddon.
‘Hmmm.’ Aximand smiled again. Widowmaker Kibre was a true son, but he was also Captain of the Justaerin, and thus Abaddon’s number two. Too much weight in one corner of the Legion.
‘Kibre’s an excellent man,’ he began.
‘Kalus Ekaddon,’ said Abaddon, before Aximand could finish.
Ekaddon. Captain of the Catulan Reaver squad. Another of Abaddon’s company. Aximand wondered if Abaddon properly understood the concept of balance.
‘You make a suggestion, then,’ said Abaddon.
‘Tybalt Marr.’
‘The Either? He’s a good man, but he hasn’t got the stomach for the job, not even now he’s shaken off Moy’s shadow. Kibre is a good–’
‘Jerrod,’ said Aximand.
‘He’s got his hands full taking the reins of the Thirteenth now Sedirae’s gone,’ Abaddon replied.
‘He’s more than able.’
‘He is, but he has new responsibilities,’ said Abaddon.
‘Grael Noctua,’ said Aximand.
The First Captain paused.
‘Of the Twenty-Fifth Warlocked?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s just a squad commander.’
Aximand shrugged. He took up a silver cup from the side table and sipped.
‘There is no rule that members of the Mournival be seniors or captains. In fact, if it were just composed of senior men, where would its point be? The Mournival is about balance and perspective. Wouldn’t a good squad leader’s insight complement the judgement of a first captain?’