Magnus the Red: Master of Prospero Read online

  'He did,' confirmed Magnus. 'Of course, given a free hand, we could achieve far greater in a fraction of the time.'

  'We could?'

  'Of course,' said Magnus, giving him a curious look.

  The Stormbird twisted on its axis over one of the upper landing platforms, and Atharva heard the whine of its landing claws deploying. Surrounding turrets followed the gunship's motion, and Atharva frowned at the bellicose intent he sensed within every one of them.

  The Stormbird groaned as the pilot set it down and the wounded superstructure eased. The pitch of the engines rose as the pilot cut power. Atharva let out a relieved breath.

  The Thousand Sons unharnessed and began disembarkation preparations as the frontal assault ramp lowered with a grating whine of protesting mechanisms.

  'Walk with me, Atharva,' said Magnus, 'and meet my brother of Olympus.'

  Only later would Atharva be able to clearly recall his first meeting with Perturabo of the Iron Warriors.

  Rain began to fall as he stepped from the belly of the injured Stormbird - hard, slashing rain that bounced from his armour and washed the dust of Zharrukin from its plates. Glaring stab-lights from a covering firestep swept the platform, catching every droplet, which seemed to be falling in slow motion.

  Four figures emerged from the fortress and advanced through the rain. Three were legionaries in burnished plates of hulking iron rendered slate-grey in the shadows of their surroundings. They advanced shoulder to shoulder, and each bore a curved, rectangular shield upon his left side, with a sheathed gladius held fast upon his right.

  Leading them was Perturabo of Olympus.

  Atharva's step faltered at the sight of the Lord of Iron.

  The primarch was a giant whose likeness might have been carved from the same rock as the mountains. Jutting over his wide shoulder plates was the wire-wound grip of an enormous broadsword worthy of the ancient war gods. Suddenly, tales of Perturabo felling entire armies with a single blow seemed not so far-fetched.

  Clad in titanic plates of Terminator armour, he towered over his warriors, his strength vast and depthless like an approaching thunderhead. His power was brutally direct, yet it was without arrogance, leavened with open features that broke into a ready smile at the sight of Magnus.

  'The Meterologicus feared you taken by the magna-storm,' said Perturabo, his words beaten upon the air like forge hammers on hot metal. 'But I told them it would take more than a city-killing storm to bring down Magnus the Red.'

  'Had we waited a minute longer before abandoning Zharrukin, they would have been right,' said Magnus. 'But what I learned in that final minute may make all the difference, brother.'

  The primarchs embraced, like armoured beasts seeking to assert dominance over a rival. They came apart and Atharva saw no rivalry, only shared brotherhood.

  Brother. That word again…

  The primarchs were so different in aspect and power, so diametrically opposed it seemed lunacy to imagine them springing from the same genetic root. But to look deeper was to see a shared passion for artistry and hidden knowledge, a love of beauty and the art of rendering wonders.

  Atharva's eyes roamed Perturabo's armour, taking in every curve and line, every flourish of a master craftsman, together with the many modifications that bore the hallmarks of one whose knowledge of machinery was unmatched. In a moment of revelation, Atharva understood that the primarch himself had made these alterations.

  Perturabo spoke again, but Atharva was not listening. It took him a moment to realise that the words were not for Magnus, but for him.

  'My lord?' he said.

  'My armour,' Perturabo repeated. 'Is there something awry with its construction?'

  'No, my lord,' said Atharva, finding it suddenly hard to form the right words as the primarch's stare bored into him like a drill. 'I… I was just admiring its workmanship. The embellishments are… quite unique.'

  'Tell me what you see,' commanded Perturabo.

  Atharva's mouth was suddenly dry, and he took a moment to gather his thoughts before speaking.

  'I see the handiwork of Terrawatt armourers, pre-Unity designs and eastern skill,' he said, trying not to let the primarch's appraising gaze distract him. 'I see distant echoes of Narodnyan craft, but echoes nonetheless. The baroque turns on the plastron and gorget lead me to believe these plates were wrought in the Kholat Syakhl forges.'

  'You have a good eye, Atharva,' said Perturabo, and Atharva was humbled the primarch knew his name. 'What else?'

  He looked closer, now seeing the curling script winding around the edges of the primarch's gauntlets, breastplate, greaves and pauldrons. They were not, as he had first thought, discrete armourers' marks, but a single inscription moving from piece to piece.

  'You bear a nomenclature sequence,' said Atharva. 'Similar to that of the Emperor's Custodians, but I do not recognise the language.'

  'It is Ur-Phoenician,' said Perturabo. 'One of the earliest languages known to humankind. This is a variant argot carried from Old Earth to become the first language of Olympia.'

  'What does it say?'

  'Nothing I wish to share,' said Perturabo, turning once again to Magnus, and Atharva felt a curious mix of relief at a burden being removed from his shoulders and regret that he could not bear it a little longer. 'So, brother, did you find anything in those ruins worth the price you almost paid?'

  'Time will tell,' said Magnus, as Thousand Sons legionaries began the process of unloading the Stormbird. Already XV Legion Techmarines and Mechanicum adepts were working to repair the damage wrought by the storm. Acetylene sparks and mag-welders flickered at its belly.

  Magnus gestured to the grav-sleds of recovered artefacts and said, 'We uncovered sealed archives and found much that predates the Great Crusade by centuries. Any one of them could be the key to revealing why this world alone of all the others in this system survived the cataclysm of Old Night unscathed.'

  'Why is that knowledge so important to you?'

  'It should be important to all of us,' said Magnus.

  'We have more pressing concerns just now.'

  Magnus affected a look of mock superiority and said, 'I seem to remember it was you who all but begged me to stay another hour in Boeotia to try and find the Library of Kadmus before the promethium infernos set the mountains ablaze.'

  Perturabo smiled at the shared memory.

  'We never did find it, did we?'

  'No, and not a day goes by where I do not regret denying you that extra hour.'

  'Have no regrets on that front,' said Perturabo. 'Mount Cithaeron was ablaze from foothills to summit ten minutes after we left. Had we stayed, we would have died.'

  'But we would have died enlightened,' said Magnus.

  Perturabo gestured to the aircraft-filled sky.

  'We are not here to save knowledge,' said Perturabo. 'We are here to save lives.'

  'Both are vital to the future,' said Magnus.

  'Aye, there's truth in that,' agreed Perturabo. 'But I wonder which you value higher.'

  Two

  REVERSAL • CRIMSON AND IRON • DOOMSAYERS

  A planet-wide state of emergency had been declared on Morningstar six Terran standard months previously. The first signs of the impending disaster came when a building atmospheric disturbance suddenly developed into a raging magnetic cyclone that ripped a twelve-thousand-kilometre swathe of devastation across the southern hemisphere.

  At first, this storm was believed to be an anomaly, a once-in-a-lifetime tragic occurrence never to be expected again.

  Six days later, local defence forces were scrambled to investigate a total failure of power in the belt-hives of the equatorial region. Tens of thousands died as coolant units failed and hydro-recycling facilities ceased functioning.

  A weaponised electromagnetic detonation was suspected, and members of an outlawed cult known as the Sons of Shaitan were named as the principal suspects. A relic from the days when men still put their faith in gods and daemons, i
ts tattooed members preached a doomsday doctrine that welcomed this apocalypse as a sign they were soon to sit at the right hand of their golden deity.

  But the truth was far worse.

  Mechanicum investigations revealed the source of the power failure to be a localised, high-gradient reversal of the magnetic fields generated in Morningstar's core. Fluctuations in a planet's magnetic field were not uncommon, though incidents of such focused strength were virtually unknown.

  When three more incidents occurred over the next seven days, enough data was generated by the Mechanicum Geologicus for its adepts to identify the nature of these disasters.

  Morningstar was in the midst of an ultra-rapid geomagnetic polarity reversal.

  Such events were common to all planets, with the periods between each shift lasting somewhere in the region of half a million years or thereabouts. Reversals in polarity typically took centuries to complete, and were so gradual as to pass all but unnoticed by the planet's inhabitants.

  The Mechanicum's best-case scenario put the length of this reversal at six months. What was causing this hyper-accelerated reversal was unknown, but its effects were proving devastating.

  Magna-storms ripped through the atmosphere with increasing regularity and ferocity, disrupting power grids all across the planet. For three rotations, every light on Morningstar was snuffed out by a planet-wide electromagnetic hurricane, with only firelight to keep the darkness at bay. A magnetic-static hash of screaming voices disrupted all but the most powerful vox-systems, and riots erupted in a score of cities as food and water distribution ground to a halt.

  Violent seismic activity tore the planet's crust open in forking split lines. Morningstar's largest hive conurbation, built straddling a geothermal fissure, had sank into the fiery chasm that once supplied its power needs when the groaning tectonic plate broke apart.

  That same earthquake drowned another three coastal cities beneath tsunamis hundreds of metres high.

  The planet's population was quartered in a single month.

  If such disasters were not bad enough, Mechanicum theorists predicted an ultra-rapid erosion of Morningstar's atmosphere, resulting in lethal exposure levels of stellar radiation.

  Faced with the prospect of mass extinction, the Imperial Governor Konrad Vargha finally declared Morningstar lost and broadcast evacuation protocols on every functioning vox.

  Only the planetary capital of Calaena retained a functioning starport with the capacity to handle a large-scale evacuation. Within hours of Vargha's broadcast, the planet's populace were making their way to this last refuge to secure passage off-world. They arrived over the next weeks in their hundreds of thousands, and the people of Calaena opened their doors to every one.

  And when the city quickly became full, well-planned refugee camps were built in its surrounding environs, sprawling cities of canvas and plasflex shelters.

  The port facilities of Calaena were robust and extensive, but it swiftly became clear that Morningstar's fleet assets were woefully ill-equipped and insufficient to effect a mass evacuation.

  Appeals for salvation were hurled into the depths of space via dreaming astropaths, desperate pleas for any nearby Expeditionary Fleets to divert and offer their vessels to aid in the evacuation.

  A response was received from the XV Legion seventeen hours later. By fortunate happenstance, Magnus and his Thousand Sons were traversing the outer edges of the system and offered their assistance. Barely a decade out from its sabbatical on Prospero, the XV Legion fleet was yet to rebuild its full strength and would itself require additional help to ensure as much of Morningstar's populace was saved as possible.

  Fifty-four days later, the IV Legion answered.

  Ahzek Ahriman wished he had seen Calaena in its prime.

  The city's architecture was of a style that evoked memories of a world he left decades ago and which he knew he would likely never see again.

  He imagined this was what cities at mankind's peak must have been like: graceful, well proportioned, harmonious in their reverence for what had come before and cognisant of the coming future.

  A hard rain was blowing in from the ocean, freighted with hot fumes of the thousands of lighters, barques, transits, shuttles and atmosphere lifters ferrying men, women and children to the ships in orbit.

  The sky was a furious mix of purple, orange and pink, the churning atmospherics and the sheer mass of metal transforming it into something unpredictable and dangerous. Jetwash and arcing contrails criss-crossed the clouds, together with flashes of lightning and the slow dance of distant spots of light - warships in geostationary low anchor.

  The wide, tree-lined street he and his opposite number from the Iron Warriors were marching along was known locally as the Boulevard of Firmaments. Each of its individual cobbles was patterned with a celestial arrangement visible from one of Morningstar's many observatories.

  However, none of those cobbles could be seen due to the tens of thousands of frightened rain-soaked people moving miserably along its length en route to the gates of the star port. At hundred-metre intervals, armed legionaries kept the packed crowds of refugees moving and contained. The same scenes were played out every day on every major street of Calaena: Space Marines marching the day's randomly allocated rota of evacuees from the camps set up around the city towards the starport.

  Assuming the Mechanicum's estimates of how long Morningstar had left were accurate, Perturabo's genius for logistics would ensure the majority of its people were off-world before the planet's impending doom.

  Ahriman knew there had been protests at the heavy-handedness of the primarch's plan, but when the first batches of refugees were lifted into orbit on schedule, most died away.

  Most, but not all.

  Scattered doomsayers in the golden, lightning-embossed robes of the Sons of Shaitan occasionally hectored refugees from rooftops or makeshift pulpits. Swift action was taken wherever such troublemakers were encountered, yet their message appeared to be gaining traction with a small minority of Morningstar's populace, who began leaving the camps and making their way to the regions of greatest danger in search of lethal rapture.

  Yet for all the cult's doomsaying, Ahriman sensed little panic among Morningstar's people.

  Uncertainty, yes. Fear, undoubtably, but no panic.

  Whatever geological failings Morningstar had as a planet, its people were disciplined citizens of the Imperium and stalwart in the face of adversity. He sensed no psychic potential among the population around him, which was unusual, but not without precedent.

  'We need to get them moving faster,' said Ahriman's armoured companion on the other side of the street. His iron yellow-and-black armour glistened in the rain. He spoke over their internal vox, scanning the crowds with a calculating gaze. 'I'm getting word of backlogs and choke points all across the city.'

  'These are ordinary people, not livestock, Forrix,' said Ahriman. 'Nor are they legionaries. They do not march as we march. If we goad them to greater speed, we will only turn their fear into full-blown panic. Then people will die.'

  Forrix was an Iron Warrior, a Legion Ahriman knew had little patience for mortal foibles. He had fought alongside elements of the IV twice, but that was in the days before either Legion had been reunited with its primarch.

  For the Thousand Sons, that great day had come thirteen years ago; it was barely four in the case of the Iron Warriors.

  'They should be afraid,' said Forrix. 'Fear is a great motivator.'

  'Hope is a better one.'

  Ahriman sensed Forrix bite back on a caustic retort.

  'You disagree?' said Ahriman.

  'I do, but this is not the time for idle banter,' said Forrix. 'My primarch's timetable allows for no leeway.'

  'I believe it is the planet's self-destructive timetable we ought to be more concerned with,' said Ahriman. 'Can your primarch plan for that too?' He sensed Forrix bristle at the implied insult to his gene-sire, and added, 'I meant no insult.'

  'The
n you should think before you speak,' said Forrix.

  'No warrior of the Thousand Sons would do otherwise.'

  'Implying that the Fourth does not?'

  Ahriman sighed. The IV were a Legion of methodical mindsets, quick to find fault in others.

  How might the influence of their primarch mitigate that?

  'No, Forrix, and if you persist in seeing insults in my every utterance where none are intended, then this is going to be a very long day,' said Ahriman, diffusing the choler in the Iron Warrior's aura with a gentle psychic pressure.

  'I apologise, Legionary Ahriman.'

  'My name is Ahzek.'

  'Kydomor,' said Forrix. 'My name is Kydomor.'

  The Harvest Dawn lifted from the outermost radial platform on a trail of dirty jetwash. Her ascent was erratic as she fought Morningstar's gravity before her engines stabilised and she hauled her ungainly bulk onto her assigned flight path.

  Vashti Eshkol watched the agri-hauler climb into orbit through the armourglass windows of Calaena's orbital command centre, hoping against all reason that the vessel's primitive drive units would get her into orbit. Vashti had grounded the Harvest Dawn for a mandatory refit seven months ago, but Primarch Perturabo's evacuation plan demanded every vessel - no matter how dilapidated - be pressed into service.

  Skitarii forager cohorts were combing every breaker yard, silo and hive sump within six hundred kilometres for anything that might manage even one trip into space.

  'I detect elevated adrenal levels in your bloodstream, commander,' said Magos Tessza Rom, speaking from the centre of the chamber.

  'Are you surprised?' asked Vashti, making her way back to her own command station, a simple brass-faced console inset with numerous data-slates. From here she could interface directly with each departing ship's avionics, direct the starport's defence guns and observe the intricate ballet of departures.

  'Not even a little,' said Rom. 'Every launch sees your adrenaline levels spike. It is a classic fight-or-flight response - significant hormonal cascade, increased blood pressure and heightened levels of neurotransmitters.'