‘As is the notion you can hurt me.’
‘We’re not going to debate it, you maggot, you treacherous bastard,’ says Guilliman. ‘I just wanted you to know that I will rip your living heart out. And I want to know why. Why? Why? If this is our puerile old feud, boiled to the surface, then you are the most pathetic soul in the cosmos. Pathetic. Our father should have left you out in the snow at birth. He should have fed you to Russ. You worm. You maggot.’
Lorgar raises his face slightly so that Guilliman can see a hint of his smile in the shadows of his face.
‘This has nothing to do with our enmity, Roboute… Except that it affords me the opportunity to avenge my honour on you and your ridiculous toy soldiers. That is just a delicious bonus. No, this is the Ushkul Thu. Calth is the Ushkul Thu. The offering. It is the sunrise of the new galaxy. A new order.’
‘You’re rambling, you bastard.’
‘The galaxy is changing, Roboute. It is turning upside down. Up will be down, and down will be up. Our father will be tossed out of his throne. He will fall down, and no one will put him back together again.’
‘Lorgar, you–’
‘Listen to me, Roboute. You think you’re so clever. So wise. So informed. But this has started already. It’s already under way. The galaxy is turning on its head. You will die, and our father will die, and so will all the others, because you are all too stupid to see the truth.’
Guilliman steps towards the lithocast phantom, as though he might strike it down or snap its neck.
‘Listen to me, Roboute,’ the light ghost hisses. ‘Listen to me. The Imperium is finished. It is falling. It is going to burn. Our father is done. His malicious dreams are over. Horus is rising.’
‘Horus?’
‘Horus Lupercal is rising, Roboute. You have no idea of his ability. He is above us all. We stand with him, or we perish entirely.’
‘You shit, Lorgar. Are you drugged? Are you mad? What kind of insanity is–’
‘Horus!’
‘Horus what?’
‘He’s rising! He’s coming! He will kill anyone who stands in his way! He will rule! He will be what the Emperor could never be!’
‘Horus would–’ Guilliman clears his throat. He swallows. He is dazed by the sheer extent of Lorgar’s dementia. ‘Horus would never turn. If any of us turned, the others would–’
‘Horus has risen against our cruel and abusive parent, Roboute,’ says Lorgar. ‘Accept that, and you will die with greater peace in your heart. Horus Lupercal has come to overthrow the Imperial corruption and punish the abuser. It is already happening. And Horus is not alone. I am with him, sworn and true. So is Fulgrim. Angron. Perturabo. Magnus. Mortarion. Curze. Alpharius. Your loyalty is air and paper, Roboute. Our loyalty is blood.’
‘You’re lying!’
‘You’re dying. Isstvan V burns. Brothers are dead already.’
‘Dead? Who are–’
‘Ferrus Manus. Corax. Vulkan. All dead and gone. Slaughtered like pigs.’
‘These are all lies!’
‘Look at me, Roboute. You know they are not. You know it. You have studied every one of us. You know our strengths and our failings. Theoretical, Roboute! Theoretical! You know this is possible. You know from the very facts that this is a possible outcome.’
Guilliman steps back. He opens his mouth, but he is too stunned to reply.
‘Whatever you think of me, Roboute,’ says Lorgar, ‘whatever your opinion, and I know it is about as low as it can be, you know I’m not a stupid man. I would betray my brother and attack the assembled might of the XIII Legion… for a grudge? Really? Really? Practical, Roboute! I am here to exterminate you and the Ultramarines because you are the only force left in the Emperor’s camp that can possibly stop Horus. You are too dangerous to live, and I am here to make sure you do not.’
Lorgar leans forward. The light catches his teeth.
‘I’m here to remove you from the game, Roboute.’
Guilliman steps back.
‘Either you’re insane, or the galaxy has gone mad,’ he says with remarkable steadiness. ‘Whichever, I am coming for you, and I will put you and your heathen killers down. Excommunicate Traitoris. You will not have any opportunity to reflect upon the monstrosity of this crime.’
‘Oh, Roboute, I can always rely on you to sound like a giant pompous arsehole. Come and get me. We’ll see who burns first.’
Lorgar turns to step out of the light, and then hesitates.
‘One last thing you need to know, Roboute. You really don’t appreciate what you’re up against.’
‘A madman,’ snaps Guilliman, turning his back.
Lorgar alters.
His holocast form shifts, like fat melting, like bones deforming, like wax dripping. His smile tears in half and something rises up out of his human shape. It is not human.
Guilliman senses it. He turns back. He sees it.
His eyes widen.
He can smell it. He can smell the pitch-black nightmare, the cosmic stench of the warp. The thing is growing, still growing. Lorgar’s empty skin sloughs off like a snake’s.
It is a horror from the most lightless voids. It is glistening black flesh and tangled veins, it is frogspawn mucus and beads of blinking eyes, it is teeth and batwings. It is an anatomical atrocity. It is teratology, the shaping of monsters.
Filthy light veils it and invests it like velvet robes. It is a shadow and it is smoke. Its crest is the horns of an aurochs, four metres high, ribbed and brown. It snorts. There is a rumble of intestines and gas, of a predator’s growl. A smell of blood. A whiff of acid. A tang of venom.
The things that hovered behind Lorgar are transforming too. They turn beetle-black, gleaming, iridescent blue. Their boneless limbs and pseudopods writhe. They stir vibrissae and clack like insects. Multiple faces fold and ooze into one another, mutating into ghastly diprosopia. Overlapping mouths pucker and lisp Guilliman’s name.
Guilliman steadies himself. He will know no fear.
‘I’ve seen enough of his charlatan tricks,’ he says. ‘Break the lithocast link.’
‘The… link…’ begins the Master of Vox. ‘Sir, the link is already broken.’
Guilliman sweeps back to face the nightmare, the thing-that-is-no-longer-Lorgar. His hand reaches for the hilt of his sword.
The thing speaks. Its voice is madness.
‘Roboute,’ it says. ‘Let the galaxy burn.’
It lunges, jaws wide, spittle flying.
Blood, many hundreds of litres of human blood, suddenly sprays the walls of the flagship’s bridge under pressure. The crystalflex window ports blow out in blizzards of shards, voiding into space.
The bridge tower of the immense battleship Macragge’s Honour explodes.
TARGET // ENGAGEMENT
‘In the Phase of Open Warfare, especially when one is placed in a position of defending or countering, one must be proactive. Determine what commodities or resources you will need to gain the advantage and place your opponent on the defensive. Establish which of these commodities or resources your opponent possesses. Take them from him. Do not chase glory. Do not force unwinnable confrontations. Do not try to match his strength if you know his strength over-matches yours. Do not waste time. Decide what will make you strong enough, and then acquire those things. Your most desired commodity is always your continued ability to prosecute the war.’
1
It gets light early. Another beautiful day on the estuary. The light’s so good, Oll reckons they can get an extra hour or so’s work done. An hour is an additional two loads of swartgrass. A day of hard labour for good returns.