red on the globe, nestled among a mountain range on one of Isstvan III’s northern continents. ‘The remembrancer order was not yet foisted upon us by the Council of Terra, but a substantial civilian contingent was left behind to begin integration with the Imperial Truth.’
‘Are we to assume that the Truth didn’t take?’ asked Eidolon.
‘Mortarion?’ prompted Horus, gesturing to his brother primarch.
‘Four months ago the Death Guard received a distress signal from Isstvan III,’ said Mortarion. ‘It was weak and old. We only received it because one of our supply ships joining the fleet at Arcturan dropped out of the warp for repairs. Given the age of the signal and the time it took for it to be relayed to my command, it is likely that it was sent at least two years ago.’
‘What did it say?’ asked Angron.
In reply, the holographic image of the globe unfolded into a large flat pane, like a pict-screen hovering in the air, black, with just a hint of shadowy movement. A shape moved on the screen and Loken realized it was a face – a woman’s face, orange-lit by a candle flame that provided the only light. She appeared to be in a small, stone walled chamber. Even over the poor quality of the signal, Loken could tell that the woman was terrified, her eyes wide and her breathing rapid and shallow. She gleamed with sweat.
‘The insignia on her collar,’ said Torgaddon, ‘is from the 27th Expedition.’
The woman adjusted the device she was using to record the image and sound flooded into the Lupercal’s Court: crackling flames, distant yelling and gunfire.
‘It’s revolution,’ said the woman, her voice warped by static. ‘Open revolt. These people, they have… rejected… they’ve rejected it all. We tried to integrate them, we thought the Warsingers were just some primitive… superstition, but it was much more, it was real. Praal has gone mad and the Warsingers are with him.’
The woman suddenly looked around at something off-screen.
‘No!’ she screamed desperately and opened fire with a weapon previously held out of view. Violent muzzle flashes lit her and something indescribable flailed against the far wall as she emptied her weapon into it. ‘They’re closer. They know we’re here and… I think I’m the last one.’
The woman turned back to the screen. ‘It’s madness, complete madness down here. Please, I don’t think I’m going to get through this. Send someone, anyone, just… make this stop—’
A hideous, atonal keening sound blared from the pict screen. The woman grabbed her head, her screams drowned by the inhuman sound. The last frames jerked and fragmented, freeze framing through a series of gruesome images: blood in the woman’s frenzied eye, a swirling mass of flesh and shattered bone, and a mouth locked open, blood on teeth.
Then blackness.
‘There have been no further communications from Isstvan III,’ concluded Mortarion, filling the silence that followed. ‘The planet’s astropaths have either been compromised or they are dead.’
‘The name “Praal” refers to Vardus Praal,’ said Horus, ‘the governor left behind to command Isstvan III in the name of the Imperium, ensure compliance and manage the dismantling of the traditional religious structures that defined the planet’s autochthonous society. If he is complicit in the rebellion on Isstvan III, as this recording suggests, then he is one of our objectives.’
Loken felt a shiver travel down his spine at the thought of once again facing a population whose Imperial official had turned traitor. He glanced over at Torgaddon and saw that the similarities with the Davin campaign were not lost on his comrade.
The holo swelled and returned to the image of Isstvan III. ‘The cultural and religious capital of Isstvan is here,’ said Horus as the image zoomed in on one of the northern cities, which commanded a large hinterland at the foot of a colossal range of mountains.
‘The Choral City. This
‘Are we to assume that the Truth didn’t take?’ asked Eidolon.
‘Mortarion?’ prompted Horus, gesturing to his brother primarch.
‘Four months ago the Death Guard received a distress signal from Isstvan III,’ said Mortarion. ‘It was weak and old. We only received it because one of our supply ships joining the fleet at Arcturan dropped out of the warp for repairs. Given the age of the signal and the time it took for it to be relayed to my command, it is likely that it was sent at least two years ago.’
‘What did it say?’ asked Angron.
In reply, the holographic image of the globe unfolded into a large flat pane, like a pict-screen hovering in the air, black, with just a hint of shadowy movement. A shape moved on the screen and Loken realized it was a face – a woman’s face, orange-lit by a candle flame that provided the only light. She appeared to be in a small, stone walled chamber. Even over the poor quality of the signal, Loken could tell that the woman was terrified, her eyes wide and her breathing rapid and shallow. She gleamed with sweat.
‘The insignia on her collar,’ said Torgaddon, ‘is from the 27th Expedition.’
The woman adjusted the device she was using to record the image and sound flooded into the Lupercal’s Court: crackling flames, distant yelling and gunfire.
‘It’s revolution,’ said the woman, her voice warped by static. ‘Open revolt. These people, they have… rejected… they’ve rejected it all. We tried to integrate them, we thought the Warsingers were just some primitive… superstition, but it was much more, it was real. Praal has gone mad and the Warsingers are with him.’
The woman suddenly looked around at something off-screen.
‘No!’ she screamed desperately and opened fire with a weapon previously held out of view. Violent muzzle flashes lit her and something indescribable flailed against the far wall as she emptied her weapon into it. ‘They’re closer. They know we’re here and… I think I’m the last one.’
The woman turned back to the screen. ‘It’s madness, complete madness down here. Please, I don’t think I’m going to get through this. Send someone, anyone, just… make this stop—’
A hideous, atonal keening sound blared from the pict screen. The woman grabbed her head, her screams drowned by the inhuman sound. The last frames jerked and fragmented, freeze framing through a series of gruesome images: blood in the woman’s frenzied eye, a swirling mass of flesh and shattered bone, and a mouth locked open, blood on teeth.
Then blackness.
‘There have been no further communications from Isstvan III,’ concluded Mortarion, filling the silence that followed. ‘The planet’s astropaths have either been compromised or they are dead.’
‘The name “Praal” refers to Vardus Praal,’ said Horus, ‘the governor left behind to command Isstvan III in the name of the Imperium, ensure compliance and manage the dismantling of the traditional religious structures that defined the planet’s autochthonous society. If he is complicit in the rebellion on Isstvan III, as this recording suggests, then he is one of our objectives.’
Loken felt a shiver travel down his spine at the thought of once again facing a population whose Imperial official had turned traitor. He glanced over at Torgaddon and saw that the similarities with the Davin campaign were not lost on his comrade.
The holo swelled and returned to the image of Isstvan III. ‘The cultural and religious capital of Isstvan is here,’ said Horus as the image zoomed in on one of the northern cities, which commanded a large hinterland at the foot of a colossal range of mountains.
‘The Choral City. This
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