[Horus Heresy 21] Fear to Tread

Author:James Swallow
Format: mobi

SIXTEEN

Witch-minds

Red Ghosts

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‘This will be dangerous,’ said Ecanus. ‘Some of us will die.’ He ran a hand over his bare scalp. His skin looked pallid in the sombre light of the medicae chamber.

‘And yet still we came.’ Brother Deon stood behind him, keeping to the shadows. Deon’s face was always hidden in the gloom of his hood, only one small sliver of his ruddy complexion visible to the rest of them.

Kano found himself nodding. ‘None of us are ignorant of the price this will exact.’ He looked around the room at the seven other warriors who stood in a loose group, some in their battle armour, others in duty robes. They all shared a single trait: a look in their eyes that belied a deeper truth.

We all saw the red angel, the angel of pain, Kano thought. And we all fear what it means.

There was only one face missing, and the absence nagged at him. The Rune Priest Stiel was nowhere to be found. Kano was aware that Captain Redknife and his Space Wolves had gone out to join the advance on the Cathedral of the Mark, but that had been before the shock of the primarch’s fall. He had hoped his cousin from the VI Legion might stand with them in this act, but Kano had no idea if the dour Fenrisian was still alive.

‘We’re wasting time,’ said a rough, urgent voice. Novenus, the eldest of them, stood with his head bowed and his long, steel-coloured hair in an unkempt mess about his armoured shoulders. The old warrior’s armour was dusty and spattered with bloodstains that had yet to dry. He had walked in from the wastes with an empty bolter in his hand, leaving behind his brothers of the 57th Company to heed the unspoken call.

Before him was Sanguinius.

The primarch’s mighty frame, still armour-clad, lay across a cruciform operating stage under a battery of auspex arrays and illuminators. His wings, spread out beneath him, gave the impression of a great drift of snow holding him up, but the flawless white was marked with black scars of fire damage and the stark ruby of spilled blood.

His repose was not the tranquil solemnity of the dead, but a darker sleep tormented by agonies that only the Angel could know. Sanguinius’s gallant aspect was acted upon by subtle tells of deep pain. His face was that of a dreamer snared by nightmares.

Brother Salvator, a rail-thin and vigilant legionary from the 269th Company, stared at his master. The three long scars that went from his jawbone to his temple were livid. ‘I see this with my own eyes and I still cannot believe it.’ A few of the other warriors nodded in agreement. ‘How was this done, Kano? The Angel cannot fall! He is a titan, with strength to shrug off the blows of any foe!’

It was Ecanus who answered. ‘This day Sanguinius does not suffer a wound to his flesh. He suffers the wounds to ours.’ He turned to Salvator. ‘Brother, our primarch is the soul of the Blood Angels.

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