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Fire and water and stone
Dawn
Going home
NOBODY PAID THE meteor much attention, until the fire started. Giant balls of flame tend to do that when they crash through hundreds of metres of rock into a patch of firedamp. The gas caught alight, and fire engulfed the mine, cracking rock with its blazing heat and melting any exposed metal to slag. Warning bells rang out over the hive as anyone who could get there rushed to the mine, wielding buckets of water and sand. The ranking gangers barked orders as people poured onto the scene, directing their attempts at firefighting and overseeing the evacuation of the tunnels.
Between hauling out the wounded and trying to halt the spread of the flames, nobody noticed the fleeing child, and only once the blaze had burnt itself out (with the help of a pack of vigilantes who dug out a water pipe, cracked it open and flooded half of the mine, rendering it impassable for almost a month and leaving a third of the hive without running water) did the people of Cthonia learn what had caused it; an enormous, now incinerated ceramite and armourcrys capsule, about a metre and a half in length and with no visible purpose.
Those who ventured into the mine after its ravaging by fire and water would sometimes hear splashes and footsteps, and occasionally the more sharp-eyed among them would catch a glimpse of something small darting around a corner, too quickly to identify. The more nervous ones came to believe it was a ghost; the more grounded ones brushed it off as a startled mine-fox.
Slowly the water drained back into the earth, and life around the mine returned to normal. The walls cracked by fire were patched up as much as they could be, and the tunnels collapsed by the floods were cordoned off. The footsteps retreated to the more isolated parts of the mine, and the theories of the capsule-ghost faded away.
And, several months later, on one of the rare nights the clouds and smog parted to reveal small, hazy stars, and when everybody on the surface looked to the sky in quiet wonder, nobody noticed the child creep out from the tunnels, six kilometres from where the fire began.
Three years would pass before anything else remarkable happened to the child.
“THIS" SAID JARL, holding out the package in a wizened grip, “needs to get to Seddon sharpish.”
The boy nodded. “And what do I get out of it?”
“One-seventy.”
“Don't insult me.”
“One hundred and seventy. Not one point seven.”
The boy's eyes widened fit to fall out of their sockets. He shook his head back into a cool expression, knowing better than to let anyone know he needed the money. “When by?”
Jarl looked to the clock on the wall, the bones in his old back cracking as he twisted. “Sed wants it by eleven, so you got three hours and change. Shouldn't be a problem, for you at least.”
“'Course it isn't. It never is.”
“Heh. That pride'll kill you one day, lad. You mark my words.”
“Yeah, sure. Just gimme the thing and I'm out of here.”
“This 'thing' is worth more than a dozen of your lives. Don't do anything stupid, and don't stop. Don't ever stop.”
The boy scooped up the package and tucked it into the crude pack over his shoulder. “I take it I don't want to know what this is.”
“Damn right you don't.” said Jarl, lighting a lho-stick. “And anyone asks you, my name doesn't pass your lips. Got it?”
“As always.” The boy turned to leave, the bell above the shop door jingling as he opened it.
“And boy,” Jarl held up a hand as the boy turned to face him again, “good luck.”
The boy only smiled.
Outside, the glow-globes lining the walls flickered incessantly, casting long, intermittent shadows. The boy strolled out of Jarl's shop, careful to present a calm, inoffensive profile to anyone who may be watching; and, in the tunnels, someone was always watching. Tiny shifts of pebbles or shallow breathing always followed the boy, for the whole hive knew his work. He had long ceased to fear them. Despite the absurd sum of money riding on tonight's delivery, the boy continued to move casually. Those watching him moved to follow, stealthy to anyone but the boy's ears.
Gunshots rang in the distance, but neither the boy nor his pursuers gave them any attention. The boy greeted a handful of those that passed him by, and waved to those too far to greet, but spent most of the first kilometre just wandering along, even as the gunfire drew closer. The boy made a mental note to avoid the Karsharris district, just to be safe.
One of his pursuers peeled off, apparently growing bored with the whole thing. Two more followed that example, leaving just one dogged tracker. The boy grinned; now began the fun part. He broke into a wild, barely-touching-the-ground run, each stride devouring the ground despite his small size. The pursuer gave chase, but from his footsteps the boy knew he could outpace whoever his follower turned out to be.
As the chase began, another gunshot rang out, this one far too close to be from the firefight in Karsharris. Almost immediately an engine roared nearby, and the boy's heart hit the floor. The boy darted up one of the many stairways that clung to the walls of the hive and dashed along the narrow stone walkway. Oncoming walkers swore and cursed him as he leapt past them, but the boy would slow down for no one. With an impossibly sharp turn he hurtled across a bridge between the buildings, his footfalls hammering against the old, groaning metal.
A tetrabike pulled onto the street below, and the boy had barely touched the stone on the other side when gunfire shredded the bridge behind him. The boy kept running; stopping was tantamount to suicide. Ahead of him he could see an alleyway between buildings on the upper level. He lowered his head and readied himself for another high-speed turn. At the mouth of the alley he heard the bike slow, and realised a fraction too late what that entailed.
Between them, the momentum and the impact hurled the boy into the alley, stunning him for the moment it took him to connect the gunshot to the pain in his side. He reached for the source of the pain and found a bleeding dent in the side of his chest. The boy knew about bullet wounds; something like this should have punctured a lung at the very least, and yet as he pulled himself to his feet he couldn't even feel broken bone. The questions could wait, however. The engine had stopped, and he could hear the approaching footsteps of whoever wanted him dead. The boy tore away onto the street on the other side and made yet another lightning-quick turn to bring him out of the nearing gunner's view.
“The feth is this?!” came a voice from the alley.
“The feth is what?” said another, further away, and from below.
“He's gone!”
Crossing another bridge, then another, the boy did not stay to listen to his attackers' disbelief. Wanting nothing more than to put as much distance as possible between himself and them, he ran and ran with no heed for direction. Between the towering red stone walls he darted, changing levels at random and avoiding the eyes of anyone he passed. Only once he had left the district did he give himself a moment to catch his breath.
The boy slipped into another alley, this one long and with a street overhead that completely spanned the gap above, leaving no room for possible observers – or snipers. Once safely in the middle and certain he couldn't be seen from the road, he curled up between a dented metal crate and a pile of long-ignored newspapers. He pulled off the backpack and twisted – painlessly, despite the bullet – to look at his side. A layer of fresh pink skin covered what had once been a hole, and refused to hurt even as he poked it to feel the bullet still lodged inside.
He had always healed quickly, but this was ridiculous. You didn't just survive a bullet to the chest, let alone run across a district with one. The boy poked it again, feeling the bullet move slightly with the pressure. He leant back against the wall and held a breath for as long as he could, then released it. Three or four minutes of controlled breathing brought his heart rate down enough to let him think. He looked to his backpack and pulled it closer to him out of a new sense of paranoia. Nervous hands, still shaking from the adrenaline, undid the toggle and the boy peered inside.
The package looked no worse for being landed on and nearly shot. He lifted it out and narrowed his eyes at it. It felt lighter than a box twice the size of his hand had any right being, and when he shook it the insides did not rattle, but fluttered. He set it down in front of him and stared at it, willing it with his eyes to reveal its secrets.
Jarl had said he didn't want to know what lay inside, and Jarl's judgement could usually be trusted. Besides, knowing its contents would hardly do him any favours. If Seddon wanted this kept secret, a nosey courier, even the best one in the hive, could be removed.
“I hate you.” said the boy to the box. The box, being a box, remained silent.
ON THE FRINGES of the Cthonia system, the great ship Herald of Dawn broke warp and returned to realspace after three weeks of travel, and three years of waiting. Everyone aboard knew the reason for their journey, even the humblest serfs and low-deck labourers, and quiet excitement buzzed between the adamantium walls.
Nowhere was more alive with activity than the ship's teleportarium. Tech-adepts wove between and tended to esoteric machinery and cables strewn across the floor with the Mechanicum's usual disregard for practicality and trip hazards, while communications teams established ground contact and the teleportarium's resident psykers looked over the warp to ensure that teleportation was as safe as it could ever be.
The Emperor of Mankind, flanked by his companions of the Legio Custodes, also gazed into the warp. On Cthonia burnt a light so brilliant, so familiar – two years of careful growth and preparation had made him well acquainted with the souls of his primarchs. This soul burnt like a sun among fireflies, young but ready to become everything the child was born to be. For the first time in the three years since the warp had torn them away from him, the Emperor looked upon the soul of one of his sons, and smiled.
His sons?
In his mind, the Emperor laughed at himself. How absurd. The primarchs would become warriors, politicians, generals, not his children. Each carried a portion of his DNA, but only to make them greater than any mortal could ever hope to be. He had not spent two and a half thousand years designing and perfecting these pinnacles of humanity to satisfy some paternal inclination.
He drew his sight away from the warp, returning his gaze to the bustling teleportarium. Given the increase in volume, both loudness and quantity, of shouted information across the great hall housing the ancient machinery, they would have to wait only a few minutes more before the teleporters were ready.
“Translation point confirmed!”
“Gellar wall in place and stable!”
“Warp tunnel is secure! Can we get a go-ahead?”
Soon enough the machines rumbled into life, filling the hall with a high-pitched buzz that vibrated through the jaws of anyone listening. As the teleportarium staff donned heavy-duty earmuffs, shouts were replaced with a complex array of hand signals, and the Emperor and his team were beckoned to the translation pads.
The buzzing reached fever pitch, and the psykers took on their second role in the teleportarium. Even over the ear-splitting noise that not even the earmuffs could fully keep at bay, the psychic call rang loud and clear through every mind in the room.
All hands, away from the translators! All hands, away from the translators! Teleportation in t-minus-ten seconds!
T-minus-nine!
T-minus eight!
The Custodes took one final check of their positions, readying their guardian spears out of habit rather than concern.
T-minus-six!
T-minus-five!
Everyone not tending to critical machinery covered their eyes, or, in the case of those with augmetic eyes, switched them off.
T-minus three!
T-minus-two!
The buzzing turned into a throbbing whine, against which the earmuffs were simultaneously useless and infinitely better than the alternative.
T-minus one!
Teleporters eng-
The Emperor did not get to hear the rest of the call. With a deafening crack reality split open, hurling him and his companions through the warp for a fraction of a second. They rematerialised in an Imperial Army barracks, where, the moment the flash subsided, everyone in the hall fell to their knees in reverence. The Emperor acknowledged them with a nod, and the custodians spread out and analysed their surroundings.
The Emperor offered a curt greeting to the most senior officer present, a major who did not dare meet his eye. She managed to get to her feet, better than some could do in the presence of the Emperor, and offered a nervous greeting of her own. “W-welcome, my lord... It-it is an incredible honour to meet you. I- my name is Major Synol, if-if you need – that is, if we can assist you in any way – ” the sentence caught in her throat.
The Emperor offered a smile, though Synol would not see it. “Thank you, Major.” his voice rumbled, trying not to unnerve her further. This was not an unusual response to him; all things considered, Synol held herself together admirably. Though he did everything he could to make himself less threatening to the general populace, even the least psychic human alive could pick up on the overwhelming power of his soul. His presence took some getting used to.
Synol nodded furiously and backed away to make a path for the Emperor. With a slight turn of his head he beckoned Constantin Valdor, chief of his custodians, and made his way out of the hall. The custodians followed suit, and Constantin fell into step beside the Emperor. The group ducked under the doorframe and out into the smog-choked day, where the Emperor turned his sight to the burning soul again.
Constantin, who had long since learnt to recognise the subtle shifts in expression that marked the Emperor's looking into the warp, drew his spear closer and tensed his shoulders. Though the Emperor could quite easily watch two planes at once, he still appreciated his chief custodian's vigilance. The rest of the Custodes moved to surround him, protecting him with a bristling wall of spears despite being on friendly turf. Paranoia, thought the Emperor, was vastly preferable to negligence.
The soul moved with no great purpose, slow and careless. The Emperor took his time in ascertaining the primarch's location, moving his gaze through the warp to triangulate. As he watched, the primarch grew more and more vigilant, perhaps aware he was being watched? He drew away, waiting to see if the primarch settled without the Emperor's warp shadow looming over him.
A heartbeat later, the primarch panicked. The soul flared and darted forward, upward, rightward, leftward -
The Emperor was running before he even realised it. He almost stumbled as the primarch's soul twisted with pain, but he knew he could not afford to stop. For a few strides he held his breath in his chest, only releasing it when he saw the soul move again. The Custodes followed close on his heels, Constantin keeping as near as he could. “What's happening?” he called over the slamming of armoured feet.
“The primarch is in danger.”
“Where is he?”
“About three kilometres south, two and a half kilometres down, but he is moving.”
Soldiers hauled open the gates to the barracks at the sight of the oncoming wall of power armour. Outside the compound, the Emperor followed the roads with precognitive ease, sending his sight ahead of him to assess the quickest routes forward.
The Emperor led his team downwards into the depths of the hive, following the fire of the soul which had, after another bout of wild, unrestrained flight, drawn to a halt. The Emperor continued to charge through the hive as people fled into their homes at the sound of approaching thunder. Fragments of possible futures passed in front of his inner eye, and he caught a glimpse of another, tiny glow in the warp, so small compared to the primarch as to be almost insignificant, were it not for the dark intentions roiling across its surface.
He reached out to the primarch's soul, touching it with his mind for a split-second. He left only a concept, not even a fully-fledged thought, just enough to get him moving.
RUN.
In one quick motion, the boy swept up the package and sprang to his feet. He hesitated for a moment, unsure of what his intuition was picking up, but in a second he shoved the box back into his pack and broke into a sprint to the other end of the alley. Footsteps broke out behind him, and the boy thanked whatever instinct had noticed them before his ears had.
He stole up the nearest flight of stairs, bounded across the roof above the alley he had just left, and peered over the edge to the floor below. No good – he had chosen the alley precisely because he couldn't be seen from above. The boy leaned down further, now practically upside down with most of his torso hanging over the edge.
Silhouetted by the glow-globe at the far end of the alley stood a tall, slender gentleman, openly carrying a crossbow in one hand. The boy grinned and waited for his pursuer to be out of sight of the alley before leaping down and landing hard on his feet. He laughed to himself and shook the impact out of his legs, took one brief look over his shoulder, then strode off down the walkway on the side of the alley from which he – and his second follower of the day – had come.
More gunfire cracked through the hive, and the boy's survival instinct had him in a crouch before he could realise what happened. Once the initial shock faded, he cringed. It seemed the assassination attempt had left him more nervous than he realised. The gunshots had come from several streets away, albeit in the direction that lay between him and Seddon's territory. He got to his feet and rolled his shoulders. He couldn't let the night's events get to him.
The clock tower poking out from the sea of buildings showed the time as quarter past nine, so with just under two hours to get to his destination the boy broke into an easy jog. He consciously refused to flinch at the gunfire as he drew closer to it, though he did draw closer to the walls whenever gangers bolted passed him to join the firefight. He recognised some of the colours the gangers wore, and realised precisely where he had found himself. In his desperation to escape the first gunners, he had made his way into the Karsharris district, right on top of a turf war.
The boy ducked behind a market stall that had closed shop for the night and considered his options. Moving at an ordinary pace, without gang wars and would-be assassins to worry about, the boy could have the package to Seddon with half an hour to spare. Going over or under the district would take too long, as would skirting around. With no idea how long the fight would last, he couldn't risk waiting it out. Then a thought occurred to him; nobody would be insane enough to follow their mark into an active firefight, right? Perhaps, if he kept to the shadows, he could pass through with a minimum of fuss and lose anybody tailing him at the same time.
After yet another pack of gangers passed his impromptu hiding place, the boy slipped back onto the walkway. The gunshots grew steadily louder, almost drowning out the accompanying yelling as he approached. Below him, he saw the first of the fight's victims, sprawled across the street. A few breathed; most didn't. One or two gangers flitted between the wounded, doing little but keep the dying company. Another tetrabike roared past, weaving among the bodies, and the boy pressed up against the wall. He steeled himself again and pressed on, only hesitating again when he came close to the fight itself.
Bullets whistled through the air as gangers in at least three different liveries fired from behind improvised barricades, replying to any movement with a hail of shots. The corpses lining the streets told of an ill-advised attempt at mêlée combat, now replaced by this war of attrition. Thirty or so metres in front of the boy, a young man in the colours of Skalo's gang broke cover, spraying fire wildly. The boy dropped to the floor as the bullets sang over his head, and with the sheer weight of fire none of the other gangers dared poke up their heads. Behind the gunner, a group of his comrades began to advance behind the shield of gunfire.
A single crack halted the hail of bullets. The back of the gunner's head exploded, and, free of the suppressive fire, the opposing gangers let loose their own volley, tearing down those foolish enough to try and advance. The boy crept into the deepest shadows against the wall, desperate to avoid the snipers that patrolled the upper streets. No doubt every level involved in the fight – and, from the gunfire above and below him, there were many – had its own team of snipers from every faction. Crawling forward on his belly, he wondered if this had been a good idea after all.
He froze after every slight shuffle forward, waiting for any eyes on him to lose interest before moving again. With no clock in sight he had no idea of how long he had spent shuffling, freezing then shuffling again, but he knew he couldn't risk losing too much time. He pulled himself into an alleyway, staying low to check the place before getting to his feet. Above him hung a walkway with enough of a gap to fire down, so he pressed himself against the nearest wall again, watching as much of the alley as he could.
With quick, short sidesteps, the boy made his way down the alley, looking up every so often to make sure none had heard him. Perhaps the walkway above held no strategic value, or the gangers simply hadn't bothered to occupy it. Either way, the boy thanked his luck as he neared the other end, and risked turning his back as he peered around the corners. Seeing nothing, he checked upwards one last time and slipped out of the shadows. On the next level up two packs of gangers had met and seemed more interested in gutting each other than the boy skirting beneath them. The boy allowed himself a grin, and padded along the stone catwalk.
A metal bridge lay between him and the other side, not something he wished to risk even with his naturally soft footfalls. One tiny clang could get the attention of the brawlers above him, and perhaps the distraction would be just enough to make them forget one another for long enough to shoot him.
He scanned the area for another way across, maybe a clothesline, or a narrowing of the walkways he could jump. A stone bridge spanned the gap about a thirty second sprint away, and the boy moved to run for it before the tap of footsteps stopped him. Flat against the wall again in a heartbeat, out of the corner of his eye he saw half a dozen gangers, in a livery he didn't recognise, turn the corner out of the alley behind him. His held his breath for fear it would give him away, hoping that the shadows would keep him safe.
For far too long the boy waited, until the gangers had made their way across the bridge in the distance and vanished into one of the alleys branching off from the far side. Unwilling to hang around for more to arrive, the boy broke into a run past the alley to make for the sandstone bridge.
This time, all he heard was the crack of a bowstring, followed by his own shout of pain. He stumbled, hit the ground, and pulled his head to his chest as yells from the fight above gave way to a rain of bullets for the path below. One shot caught the boy's elbow – he felt bone shatter this time – but, having not yet left the shadows, he made a poor target, and the gangers gave up quickly.
He lay still for a moment more before trying to pull himself back up. The pain had faded almost as soon as it had occurred, but he collapsed when he tried to put weight on the ankle that now had a crossbow bolt poking out of both sides. He heard footsteps approaching from the alley, and recognised them as the ones that had followed him from Jarl's.
“Clever boy,” said a deep, soft voice as the steps drew closer.
The boy hissed as he tried again to get to his feet, ignoring his ankle as the pain flared with the pressure. He managed to place most of his weight on his right, intact foot, while letting his broken arm hang limp beside him. Straightening his back as best he could, he took a slow, agonising step backwards.
“I don't want you dead, boy.” said the slender crossbowman. “Give me the package and we'll call it a day, hm?”
The boy spat, and the crossbowman laughed.
“They always did say you were proud. A shame.”
The stranger emerged from the alleyway, and the boy forced himself back another step. He gritted his teeth as his would-be assassin pressed the end of the crossbow against his forehead.
“One last chance, boy.”
The boy just grinned, and took one more step. What sounded like distant thunder rolled through the hive, and the crossbowman looked to one side. The boy took his chance.
In the moment before gathering all his strength and throwing himself backwards off the ledge, the boy wished he had looked down. He fell too quickly to complete the next thought before he hit the stone walkway several levels below. His back took most of it, but his head whiplashed against the ground and his shattered ankle and elbow slammed down shortly after.
He wondered if he should move. The thunder grew closer now, loud enough to be heard past the roaring in his ears. Still, even as he lay with a crossbow bolt in one ankle, a significant hole in one elbow and probably many more injuries he would discover when he tried to move, he felt a glow of pride. Whoever wanted that package had not planned their ambush well.
Risking a tiny movement, the boy tried to turn his head to see where precisely he had landed. He grimaced as his back objected, but refused to stop moving. From the blood on the walls, whatever fighting had been here had moved on. With the success of moving his neck, he brought his left arm around and lifted his upper body to see his other side. Braced on his arm he shuffled his legs forward, ignoring the objections from his ankle, then brought his right leg up into a kneeling crouch. It would do for now, thought the boy as he caught his breath.
Past the thunder he could feel through the ground, the boy barely heard the patter of nearing footsteps. He twisted himself around as far as he could, and his eyes widened at the advancing gangers, in the same unfamiliar livery from earlier. They had planned their ambush very well.
His breathing went wild as he hauled himself to his feet, too proud to die on his knees. Wobbling on one leg, he squared his shoulders and drew his knife, mostly to spite them if they thought he would be an easy kill. The boy listed to one side, but caught himself before he fell. One ganger laughed, but not loud enough to hear over the oncoming thunder. The boy tried to recentre his weight, and stared down the gangers with equal parts defiance and resignation. He opened his mouth to spit one last word of resistance.
The thunder became the hammering of massive footfalls, and the gangers finally decided to take note of it. They turned, just as a wall of huge machines, shaped like humans but far too large and made entirely of gold, rounded the corner, led by one in particular, even larger than the rest and with eyes that glowed a terrible white. With horrified yells the gangers turned to flee, but slammed hard into a wall the boy could not see. Unable to get past the invisible barrier no matter how they pounded against it, their screams grew more and more desperate as the machines bore down on them.
The boy froze, every instinct telling him to run but knowing he would never make it. He could only stare as the machines drew to a halt and levelled their spears with the panicked gangers. The tallest one, with the glowing eyes and what appeared to be an entire face, stepped forward.
“How dare you?” it boomed, in a voice that could never have come from a machine. “How dare you?”
As they scrabbled against the 'wall' the gangers wailed and pleaded, with one or two falling to their knees in terror. From the giant's hand sprang a bolt of lightning, searing flesh and cracking bone. The boy winced at the screams, but could not look away. Even as this stranger faced down the ones who were about to kill him, he felt a rush of fear. He's a witch, the boy thought. Every thought turned to escaping the monster before him, before the witch destroyed everything he touched.
“Do you even know – can you even comprehend what you have done?” The witch lifted the gangers into the air without even touching them, letting them hang by their throats from nonexistent hands. Struggling did nothing, there was no grip for them to escape. Soon the giant grew tired of their flailing and rasping pleas for mercy, and six cracks rang out as the pressure holding them up snapped their necks. The corpses fell to the floor without another sound, and the glow in the witch's eyes faded away.
The boy took a shuffling step back, trying hard not to show the pain in his face. With the murderers out of the way, the witch and his machines walked towards him, stepping over the dead with their huge strides the boy knew he could never outrun, even on an intact ankle. He took a breath, held it, and balled his left fist despite knowing he could never fight them. He peered up at the witch-giant and, for the first time, truly feared for his life.
The witch knelt in front of him, and their eyes met. Something stirred in the boy's mind, some memory of dark, brown eyes he had never seen before. He felt his fear slip away, only to come surging back with the thought that the witch may be toying with his mind.
“Do not be afraid,” said the witch, with a voice like storm clouds. “I am the Emperor of Mankind.”
The boy's eyes widened. The Emperor? The one who had found Cthonia six years ago, swearing to reunite the stars under human rule? That Emperor?
“You're joking.”
The Emperor laughed, as did the machine-men around him. The boy looked at them with a start, only to lose his balance and tumble. A huge, armoured hand caught him before he hit the ground, and set him down with a gentleness the boy had not expected. “I am entirely serious,” said the Emperor. “Show me your wounds.”
Still not willing to try moving his ankle, the boy offered his arm, still looking at the Emperor with mistrust. He bit back a yell as the Emperor took his broken elbow in hand and looked over it. Again his eyes began to glow white, and the boy could not hold back the second yell as he felt the fragments of bone being rearranged. Soon the pain was replaced by a warm numbness, which then faded to simple painlessness. The boy stared at his arm, flexed his hand cautiously then, with an expression of wonder, shook his now unbroken arm back and forth.
Again the Emperor and his machines laughed, and the boy stopped to look at the golden machines with mistrust. One caught his eye, one taller than the others – but nowhere near as tall as the Emperor – and apparently also with a face. This one smiled and gestured to the others, which in turn reached for their tall, conical heads and twisted them off, to reveal human heads beneath. The boy's relief quickly faded into embarrassment, and he turned his gaze back to his newly healed arm.
He swallowed the awkward lump in his throat and looked back to the Emperor, who had moved to inspect his ankle. “What do you want from me?”
The Emperor looked up, fixing the boy with those eyes he swore he had seen before. “What I am about to tell you will seem impossible, but I ask you to trust me. I am sure you have noticed that you have grown twice as fast as an ordinary child, and that you are unusually strong and fast?”
The boy nodded, biting down on his tongue as the Emperor lifted his ankle.
“You are a primarch. You were created in my laboratoria on Terra to be the pinnacle of humanity, infinitely more powerful in body and mind than any mortal. In an accident you were lost to me, flung across the galaxy through the warp. You will join me in my Crusade to unify the galaxy, as my general and advisor. A legion of astartes exists in your image; superhuman warriors, not as powerful as you but still far beyond the power of mortal humanity. Yours is one of twenty such legions, one for each of the twenty primarchs. You, Horus, are the first to be found.”
The brakes went on in the boy's mind. A thousand questions bubbled just below his conscious thoughts, but only one managed to break the surface of confusion. “... Horus?”
“You have no name, correct?” asked the Emperor, and the boy nodded. “Then your name shall be Horus.”
The boy turned the name over in his head. It felt right somehow, fitting into the space in his mind where a name should have gone. Horus grinned, then yelled again as the Emperor eased the bolt out of his ankle. Only half of the bolt came out, more easily than if he had pulled out the whole thing. The Emperor must have split it with his mind.
“So, um...” Horus chewed his lip, unsure how the Emperor would take his next question. “Are you a witch?”
The Emperor looked up and stopped his manipulation of the other half of the bolt. “I am a psyker. I can control the energy of the warp and use it to my advantage.”
“Oh.” said Horus as the Emperor returned to removing the bolt. He yelled out a third time as the end caught an awkward spot, but the Emperor was gracious enough to stop pulling. He tried again at a different angle, with better results. “So if you can control the warp,” said Horus when the other end of the bolt cleared the now bleeding hole in his ankle, “how did you lose us... primarchs?”
The Emperor let the ankle sit loose in his hand. When he spoke, he did so quietly. “I did everything I could to protect you.” He looked downwards, as though trying to avoid Horus' gaze. “It was not enough.”
Horus could practically taste the awkwardness, and wracked his brain for something to change the subject. As the Emperor's eyes turned white once more he choked back another objection, digging his fingernails into the sandstone as the bones of his ankle went back into place. Soon enough the numb warmth washed over it, then faded away leaving a now uninjured ankle with a small round patch of fresh, pink skin.
Another moment of awkwardness passed before the Emperor broke the silence. “Now it is my turn to ask a question. Why, do you know, were those people trying to kill you?”
Horus froze. “Not a clue.” He said, drawing his backpack closer and pulling his foot from the Emperor's hand. The Emperor raised an eyebrow, bearing down on him with a gaze that could buckle steel. Horus shrunk back, his eyes darting about to try and spot a break in the wall of armoured giants around him.
“Horus - ”
“What's it matter to you, anyway?”
“Horus,” said the Emperor, in a tone that made it quite clear he was not to be interrupted, “I want to know what is so important that people would kill to possess it.”
“I... it's nothing. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, that's all.” Horus could no longer bear to hold that gaze, and gestured with his eyes to the shooting above them.
“They were hunting you. Whatever secret you are keeping, it cannot be worth your life.”
Horus brushed his toes through the dirt. He wanted to trust this stranger – something in the back of his mind already did. But Jarl had said not to open the package, and Horus had standards. He was a professional. You didn't just go rummaging through other people's property unless you were robbing them. Especially not Seddon's property; nobody robbed Seddon.
He wrapped one hand around the strap of his backpack and swallowed a lungful of air. “If I give you this,” he said, “what happens to me?”
“I will bring you back to ancient Terra, and you shall begin your training as a primarch. I would do this regardless of what secrets you kept.”
Being on another planet would certainly keep Seddon at bay. “So nothing's going to happen to me?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
“You promise?”
The Emperor lowered his head. “On my honour as the Emperor of Mankind, I so swear to you.”
Horus narrowed his eyes, glancing up at the giants around him, then unslung his pack and pulled out the box. “Give me one more reason to trust you.”
The Emperor paused, apparently hesitating. After a second or two of waiting, he spoke, again in the soft, quiet voice that had taken Horus by surprise the first time. “Because I am your father.”
The Emperor's retinue seemed just as surprised as Horus, with stifled gasps, tilted heads and dropped jaws. Horus regarded the Emperor with cautious eyes, but the piece of him in the back of his mind knew the truth of those words. The fear that this could all be an elaborate ruse, a witch's trick of the mind, still lingered, but he brushed it aside as best he could. If nothing else, he would die with a name.
He extended his arm to the Emperor, who took the box with a delicacy not expected from huge, gauntletted hands. He snapped the strings holding the box closed and opened it, tilting it at an angle when he noticed Horus leaning forward to see its contents.
“Parchment?!” shouted Horus, rushing forward and staring into the box with wild eyes. “I nearly got myself killed for a bunch of parchment?”As he tried to grab at one of the sheets, the Emperor pushed his hand aside and lifted the box to his own height. He sifted through the contents, eyes impassive and unreadable.
The biggest of the Emperor's armoured guards stepped closer and crouched beside him, nodding to Horus before looking to the Emperor. He said nothing, and the Emperor continued to leaf through the pages. He went through them twice before handing them to his guard. “Keep these safe, Constantin.”
“Of course, lord.”
“What are they? What's so special about them?” said Horus, pouting up at the two giants. Constantin looked to the Emperor again, clearly trying to keep the curiosity from his eyes.
“They are STC blueprints, Horus.”
Constantin's eyes widened for a heartbeat, but he swiftly regained his neutral expression. Horus, on the other hand, just tweaked an eyebrow.
“Meaning... ?”
“Standard Template Constructs. Ancient machines that contain vast quantities of technological knowledge, from medicine to engineering. Only a handful have been recovered since Old Night.”
“It certainly explains why these fine people wanted to kill him.” said Constantin, gesturing to the corpses behind him.
Horus leant forward. “So they're pretty valuable?”
“Priceless. Who gave these to you?”
Another moment of consideration passed. “People just pass things on to him. He doesn't find things. He just sends stuff where it needs to go.”
The Emperor's expression faded into a slight smile. “Very well,” he said, “have your secrets.” He got to his feet, towering over Horus and the guards that drew closer to him almost instinctively. “We should be leaving. Do you have anyone to whom you wish to say goodbye?”
Faces flashed past Horus' mind's eye. His thoughts tried to process the idea of leaving, of going across the stars to a destiny he'd never dreamed of. Every contact, every job offer, every favour owed would be left behind. How could he tell people? 'Oh yeah, just leaving to go conquer the stars with my dad, who's the Emperor by the way'. Not a chance. Everyone would think he'd gone soft in the head.
He chewed his lip before replying. “No,” he said. “I think it'd be better if they just thought I died.”
The Emperor nodded. “I see. Come then – can you walk?”
Horus negotiated himself into a standing position. His ankle still felt weak, and yielded if he put too much pressure on it, but there was no pain, and it could support his weight well enough. “I'm fine.”
“Good. Let us be on our way.”
THE JOURNEY TO the surface was slow for about five minutes. Horus, being the size of a six-year-old, had nowhere near a long enough stride to keep pace with the enormous Emperor and his retinue. After all parties grew fed up with the crawling pace and having to stop every ten seconds to let him catch up, the Emperor scooped up his son and perched him on one of the gold eagles that adorned his pauldrons.
“So,” said Horus, adjusting his seat on his father's shoulder and looking out over the hive from his vantage point, “what's half of priceless?”
“Excuse me?” the Emperor looked over to him, slightly bemused.
“Well, those blueprints are priceless, right? And I gave them to you. So I deserve half of it.”
Laughter rang out from the guards, though they at least tried to stifle it after the initial outburst. The Emperor laughed with them, a deep, melodious rumble. “You shall live comfortably, Horus. Your needs will be attended to.”
“So do I get the money or not?”
“You will have no need of it.”
“But I want it anyway!”
“I'm sorry, my lord,” chuckled Constantin, keeping close to the Emperor as ever, “but your son appears to be a mercenary.”
The Emperor rumble-laughed again. “He will learn.”
Horus peered over at Constantin through narrow, incredulous eyes. “So who are you, anyway?” he said, pointing a finger at him.
“My name is Constantin Valdor, chief Custodian to the Emperor.”
Horus just tilted his head. Constantin sighed and shrugged his shoulders.
“He is the leader of the Legio Custodes, Horus. The Custodes are my bodyguards and personal retinue.” said the Emperor,
“Bodyguards? You've got that fancy armour, and you're huge, and you can kill people with your mind. Why do you need bodyguards?”
“You have not seen our enemies, Horus. Once you have seen what has torn the galaxy apart during Old Night, you will see why I need a personal army.”
“Right...”
The whole journey up to the surface was a gauntlet of questions. Between them the Emperor and Constantin did what they could to answer them or deflect them until Horus was actually equipped to understand the answers, but once they reached the surface even the Emperor appeared glad to be heading back to the ship.
“So where exactly are we going? I gathered Terra, but where are we going now?” said Horus, ducking behind one of the metal eagles as he spotted someone who may have been a stranger or may have been someone for whom he had run a couple of letters last year.
“Now? We teleport to my flagship, the Herald of Dawn. After that? We go home.”