Chapter 249: Farce
Many years later, when faced with Mortarion and Curze, both injured and sullen, Horus would remember that distant afternoon when he pushed open the banquet hall doors and saw chaos unfold before his eyes.
At that time, Mortarion had worn the very same expression.
It was a slightly hot afternoon, and the heavy news of a fallen brother weighed upon his heart. They had lost one of their own forever—after he had done something unforgivable.
The Emperor did not forgive his son. Even though he was usually tolerant and allowed the Legions much freedom in their own affairs, this time, he ultimately unleashed the Wolf and the Lion.
Horus tried to speak with the two executioners. The Lion answered with his usual stiff bluntness, while the Wolf was downcast, reluctant to stain himself with blood.
But no matter what, by the time Horus sought them out, most of the truth had already been erased. Even the killers themselves could not recall what lay beyond the fog.
Horus himself had forgotten what had transpired, but in the end, he was entrusted with a task: to carry this news to his brothers—though their memories had already been altered.
The facts had vanished, leaving only the sting in their hearts. No dirge had yet been sung, and Guilliman and Dorn, chosen and trusted by the Emperor, still had other burdens to bear.
What saddened Horus most was knowing that Sanguinius would never feel anything positive about this matter. The genetic flaw of the Ninth Legion was the Angel's private torment; the erasure of an entire Legion would only deepen his fears.
Horus walked slowly across the carpet. The Lupercal's sharp eyes had already noticed the slackened vigilance of the mortal honor guard, but at that moment Horus had no mind for such things.
Before the stories of the Primarchs, mortals were but ants.
Horus calculated how to speak. He was already grieved enough; he did not want his brothers to bear any more sorrow.
Guilliman and Dorn were somewhat prepared for this matter, and Sanguinius already knew all that Horus had known earlier. Mortarion and Magnus, however, were ignorant, and they did not need to be entangled in this affair.
Horus invited Mortarion and Magnus partly because Mortarion had indeed participated in the Rangdan Xenocide, and partly because Magnus might have insights regarding the psyker-induced memory erasure.
But also—well, this was Horus's own private reasoning: he knew he had to invite the unknowing. Otherwise, any discussion between Dorn, Guilliman, and Sanguinius would turn into disaster.
Regarding the missing Legions, each of them knew something.
If ignorant brothers were present, then the others would not speak so freely. Perhaps that would make things easier for them—giving them someone else to focus on instead.
Mortarion, Horus thought, would naturally draw everyone's attention. The Angel and Guilliman would try to help him, while on the subject of psychic matters, he might even find common ground with Magnus.
At last, he arrived. The great banquet doors stood closed before him, with faint noises seeping through the heavy wooden panels.
It seemed they were having a good conversation.
That fact brought Horus a slight measure of comfort in his heavy heart. He did not rush to enter. The Lupercal took a deep breath and forced a perfect, sunny smile.
At least before Mortarion and Magnus, he had to maintain the image that nothing was wrong.
He looked forward to the banquet beyond those doors—at least it would not feel as heavy as reality.
Horus pushed the doors wide open.
"Greetings, everyone—"
Horus's voice broke off.
Sanguinius was half-kneeling on the floor, pressing Mortarion down with all his strength, while Mortarion still struggled fiercely. Nearby, Dorn stood with his arms crossed beside Magnus. The Crimson King's usually flowing hair hung limp and flat, and he remained silent.
When Sanguinius saw Horus, he looked up and gave him an apologetic smile.
Horus slowly formed a question mark in his mind.
?
. . . .
Horus sat in silence. On the banquet table beside him, the dishes had already been cleared away, leaving only wrinkled white cloth—like the state of Horus's heart.
He might have come here for a reason, but when he saw Guilliman dispersing the crowd, the Angel with wings drooping slightly, and Dorn sitting alone in silence, Horus suddenly felt an absurd sense that he should not be here at all.
Perhaps he should not have invited Mortarion. Or Magnus. Or perhaps neither of them should have been invited.
Even Horus, so often gifted with impromptu speeches, found his words pale and powerless in the face of such an abstract reality.
The entire hall was suffused with a suffocating heaviness that words could not capture. For some reason, it seemed as though all of his brothers were directing a kind of apology toward Horus.
That included Magnus, who was checking on his own sons' injuries, and Mortarion, sitting cold-faced on the other side while his sons examined his wounds—Sanguinius had used a little too much force.
According to the Angel's account, Mortarion had seized the moment when Guilliman was entangled with mortal officials over the vox, breaking free from both Guilliman and Dorn. Against all expectations, the Death Lord had displayed a staggering endurance.
Fueled by a towering wrath, Mortarion had tried to brawl with Magnus.
Then Sanguinius had pinned him down. The good news was that, upon seeing the Death Lord charging at him, Magnus had finally stopped provoking him.
At last, at Horus's suggestion, Mortarion's own Deathshroud intervened to persuade him. It proved to be a good idea—the Death Lord finally calmed down and swore not to initiate another attack on Magnus.
"Enough, I think."
The silence was finally broken by Guilliman, who had been quietly giving orders all along.
"Most of the people will undergo Level-Two memory excision. As for the outer ring of honor guards, Level-Three will suffice. The Ultramarines will escort them to the procedure. I have also explained the situation to this world's planetary governor."
Sanguinius let out a relieved smile. The Archangel turned to Guilliman.
"Thank the Emperor you were here, Guilliman. Without you, I think this farce would have spread much further."
"In truth, rumors of this banquet will still leak out in ciphered whispers," Guilliman admitted with a wry smile. "But I doubt anyone will believe a report so exaggerated."
His gaze wandered between the far corners of the hall, where Magnus and Mortarion sat apart.
At last, Guilliman looked to Horus.
It was clear that only Horus could bring this matter to a close. The Angel could not. Guilliman's authority was insufficient. Dorn lacked the charisma to rally the room.
In fact, Dorn had already harshly berated both Mortarion and Magnus for their behavior, unable to fathom how either could resort to blows so readily.
Horus, for his part, could understand Magnus. The Crimson King would never tolerate insults against psykers—not when that was his proudest identity.
But Mortarion… Horus could not understand why he would choose to openly insult Magnus, knowing full well he was a psyker.
Horus did, however, know Mortarion's loathing for Librarians. Back on Drune, Mortarion had shown a twisted, hidden resentment toward the Death Guard's own Librarius.
After hearing Sanguinius repeat Mortarion's words verbatim, a chilling thought occurred to Horus.
Could it be that Mortarion had actually been trying to warn Magnus?
The idea was too terrible. Horus instinctively recoiled from pursuing it further. If it were true, it would mean that Mortarion's social skills…
Well, perhaps Dorn and he would finally have something in common.
But stalemate could not last forever. When the clocktower tolled nine times into the night, Horus finally managed to assemble a semblance of a proper council.
Originally, Horus had simply intended to dismiss Mortarion and Magnus. Estrangement, while painful, was preferable—he was under no obligation to reconcile every Legion's conflicts.
Sometimes, Horus even welcomed a little friction and conflict between the Legions.
But the Angel looked at him thoughtfully and said:
"I want to hear them debate about the warp, Horus."
"Perhaps Magnus's arguments we already know too well. But this new brother, Mortarion—I am curious about his view."
The Angel turned his gaze away, staring toward the Death Guard's side of the hall. Compared to the ever-eloquent Thousand Sons, the Death Guard were notably silent.
Dorn, Guilliman, and Horus had not noticed, but the Angel had.
The Archangel could not speak of it openly, but to use Magnus as leverage—perhaps that was not a bad approach.
Maybe he should not be so fixated, but any who could see into the warp would never ignore nor underestimate that presence.
At the very least, he needed to confirm whether the Death Guard were engaged in some kind of forbidden experiment. Magnus might be impulsive, but his shouted words had lodged themselves in the Angel's mind.
Through Horus's mediation, at opposite ends of the long table now sat a cold-faced Mortarion and an enraged, seething Magnus.
"I will not ask you to apologize for your slanders," Mortarion said calmly. "But neither will I speak with you further. Let my commander, Hades, answer your questions and refute your nonsense."
"I will not attend such 'banquets' again. For me, or for anyone else, this has been nothing but disaster."
"Your slanders against psykers then?! Your words of prejudice!"
Magnus roared in fury. Every Primarch present could testify—it was Mortarion who had begun this quarrel.
Mortarion only looked at him silently, eyes ablaze with towering wrath, but the Lord of Death uttered not a word more—
It was another form of contempt, another form of mockery. Magnus realized this in his fury.
So he turned his head.
+ Ahriman, represent my will. Debate that barbarian in my stead. +
+ Do not fear, my son. If he tries to strike you, I will stop him. +
Ahriman swallowed hard, casting his gaze toward the being across from him.
In the ocean of the warp there existed hundreds, thousands of indescribable sensations and emotions—but what tormented Ahriman was that the being opposite him assaulted his every sense at once.
The only way to avoid it seemed to be to shut off his faint psychic perception. But for a Thousand Son like Ahriman, that was unthinkable.
Nor could he refuse the Crimson King's command.
+ As you will, lord. +
There was no choice. Choice itself had already been observed, already made.
At least for now, most of the Primarchs seemed to support Magnus's stance—especially Sanguinius. Ahriman did not believe that after all the commotion, the psychic Angel had failed to notice something.
Any psyker, once glimpsing the essence of that being, would choose the side of the Thousand Sons.
Ahriman took a deep breath and stepped forward.
At least he believed he could out-debate these inarticulate brutes. On Prospero, rhetoric had been a necessary art.
And then he saw it.
Hades, across from him, smiling.
It was the same as before—that half-smile, neither kind nor cruel, which sent a chill crawling down Ahriman's spine.
He even thought he glimpsed an apology in it. Apology—for what?
Then came the punch.
A straight punch.
Not refined, not technical—just a pure, unadorned straight punch.
From beneath the hood, the left eye flared with a dreadful red afterglow. The smile at Hades's mouth had not even faded.
Then Ahriman blacked out.
He could not tell whether it was the force of the blow that had knocked out his body, or the profane power that clung to it that shattered his mind—or both.
It was rare—this was the first time Ahriman experienced true, unbroken sleep. He no longer reached out to sense the warp; he had cut himself off completely from the outside world.
When he awoke again, he saw his companions groaning in pain beside him—Ahriman wagered that after knocking him out, the monster had at least restrained its strength somewhat.
And he saw the indescribable expressions of the surrounding Imperial Fists and Blood Angels who had witnessed it all.
This is wrong.
Ahriman thought bitterly. They had not seen Hades's projection within the endless sea. To them, it was nothing more than Thousand Sons being struck down and humiliated.
This is wrong. They had fought within the immaterium itself—but no one else realized it. They saw only the Thousand Sons collapse in disgrace.
Shame and anger clawed up inside him, giving Ahriman the desperate courage he needed. The Thousand Sons had to reclaim their honor.
He considered his options. The Angel would understand the warp. Guilliman, if Ahriman described the order and discipline of psychic power, would surely support him.
And Lord Horus would always side with whichever faction showed weakness—he would not impose his own view upon the debate.
The only obstacle was Dorn. Yet Ahriman believed Dorn would not win much sympathy for his rigid stance.
Suddenly, Ahriman realized: Victory was already within reach. They would defeat the Death Guard in debate, reveal to the Primarchs what Hades truly was, and then appeal directly to the Emperor to expose Mortarion's crime.
Across from him, Hades arched an eyebrow. His opponent seemed lost in thought.
Unlike the Thousand Son who was desperate to win, Hades did not care for victory or defeat.
If he truly wanted to win, he could have simply spilled everything, watched every Primarch in the hall fall into visions, and then watched them all inevitably slide into damnation.
But words themselves were meaningless. To Hades, when dealing with someone who met the terms for him to act, the only answer was always physical.
It might not fit the quaint morals of M30, but it suited the grim truth of M31.
Watching Ahriman still caught up in his scheming, Hades understood that the Thousand Son intended to sway the Primarchs, to condemn him.
Hades saw the effort clearly.
As for his own effort—
The great doors of the hall suddenly burst open. A Custodian and a Sister of Silence marched in, heads held high, the crimson plumes of their helms flaring, declaring their authority.
Hades noticed that, apart from Magnus and Ahriman, the other Primarchs' faces all darkened.
Custodians!
Ahriman's heart leapt. They must be here to seize Hades! After all, he bears the Emperor's seal upon him.
This was surely a good thing. Their enemy had lost; the Custodians themselves would reveal the truth of his crimes.
Hades folded his arms, tilting his head slightly in silent exasperation.
Why waste time with debate when you could simply bring reinforcements? Even if the other side had clearly misunderstood.
Still, Charon and the others had arrived quickly. For that, Hades was grateful—though he suspected they had in fact been lurking near the Death Guard fleet all along.
Charon saluted the assembled Primarchs, then walked straight toward Hades—
And saluted him.
Magnus's eyes widened.
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Note: The part where Hades punched Ahriman is a flashback thing, about the previous chapter where Hades is being attacked by the Thousand Son, knocked them all out, and then being surrounded by the Ultramarine and the other Space Marine Legion.
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