Ullanor would be a war to end all wars, but there was fighting closer to hand that demanded the attention of the Thousand Sons. Lorgar’s Word Bearers and the Space Wolves of Leman Russ fought in the Ark Reach Cluster, a group of binary stars occupied by a number of belligerent planetary empires that rejected the Imperium’s offer to become part of something greater.
The Wolf King had sent repeated calls for the XV Legion to join the fighting, but Magnus ignored them all.
He had found something of greater interest on Aghoru. He had found the Mountain.
CHAPTER TWO
Drums of the Mountain/Temple of the Syrbotae/A Place of the Dead
THEY HAD ONLY been climbing for twenty minutes, but already Lemuel was beginning to regret his hasty idea to spy upon the Thousand Sons. He’d discovered the steps hidden in the rocks on one of his frequent solitary walks in the lower reaches of the titanic mountain. Set in a cunningly concealed cleft a hundred metres from the deadstones, the steps wound through the rock of the Mountain, climbing a steep, but far more direct path than the Astartes would be following.
It might be more direct, but it certainly wasn’t easier. His banyan was stained with sweat, and he imagined he didn’t smell too pleasant. The sound of his heart was like the pounding kettledrums of a triumphal band welcoming the Emperor himself.
“How much further is it?” asked Camille. She was relishing this chance to venture deeper into the Mountain, though Kallista appeared rather less enthusiastic. The Astartes awed and scared her, but the idea of spying on them had sent a delicious thrill through her when he had suggested it. He couldn’t read her aura, but her expression said she was regretting her decision to come along.
Lemuel paused, looking up at the metal yellow of the sky to catch his breath and slow his racing heartbeat.
“Another ten minutes, maybe,” he said.
“You sure you’ll last that long?” asked Camille, only half-joking.
“I’ll be fine,” he assured her, taking a swig of water from his canteen. “I’ve climbed this way before. It’s not much higher. I think.”
“Just don’t collapse on me,” said Camille. “I don’t want to have to carry you back down.”
“You can always roll me back down,” replied Lemuel, attempting some levity.
“Seriously,” said Camille, “are you sure you’re up to this climb?”
“I’m fine,” he insisted, with more conviction than he felt. “Trust me, it’s worth the effort.”
Back at the deadstones it had seemed like a grand adventure for the three of them to undertake, but the numbness of the senses he felt was like having his ears stoppered and his eyes sewn shut. From below, the mountain had been a black wall of nothingness, but climbing deeper into the rocks, Lemuel felt as if that nothingness was swallowing him whole.
He passed the canteen around, grateful that Kallista and Camille indulged his desire to stop for a rest. It was early evening, but the day’s heat hadn’t let up. Still, at least there was some shade here. They could afford a brief stop, for the only other route he knew would take at least an hour to traverse, even for Astartes.
Lemuel took the bandanna from around his neck and mopped his face. The cloth was soaked by the time he was done, and he wrung it out with a grimace. Camille looked up the steps, craning her neck to try to see the top.
“So where does this lead exactly?” she asked.
“There’s a plateau a bit higher up,” he said. “It’s like a viewing platform of some sort.”
“A viewing platform?” asked Kallista. “For what?”
“It looks out over a wide valley I call the Temple of the Syrbotae.”
“Syrbotae?” asked Camille. “What’s that?”
“A very old legend of my homeland,” replied Lemuel. “The Syrbotae were a race of giants from the Aethiopian kingdom of Meroe.”
“Why do you call it that, a temple I mean?” asked Kallista, horrified at the word.
“You’ll understand when we get there.”
“You have a way of choosing words that could get you into trouble,” said Camille.
“Not at all, my dear,” said Lemuel. “The Thousand Sons are nothing if not rebels. I think they would appreciate the irony.”
“Rebels? What are you talking about?” asked Kallista angrily.
“Nothing,” said Lemuel, realising he had said too much. Stripped of his ability to read auras, he was being careless. “Just a bad joke.”
He smiled to reassure Kallista he had been joking, and she smiled back.
“Come on,” he said. “We should get going. I want to show you something spectacular.”
IT TOOK THEM another thirty minutes to reach the plateau, by which time Lemuel swore never to climb the mountain again, no matter how spectacular the views or what the enticement. The sound of his drumming heartbeat seemed louder than ever, and Lemuel vowed to shed some weight before it killed him.
The sky was a darker shade of yellow brown. The light would never really fade, so he wasn’t worried about negotiating the descent.
“This is amazing,” said Kallista, looking back the way they had climbed. “You were so right, Lemuel.”
“Yeah,” agreed Camille, taking out her picter. “Not bad at all.”
Lemuel shook his head.
“No, not the salt flats. Over there,” he said, waving towards a row of spiked rocks that looked like slender stalagmites at the edge of the plateau. If the artificiality of the Mountain had ever been in doubt, the sight of the stalagmites, which were clearly the remains of fluted balustrades, would have dispelled it.
“Over there,” he said between gulps of air. “Look over there.”
Camille and Kallista walked over to the stalagmites, and he saw the amazement in their body language. He smiled, pleased that he hadn’t let them down with his talk of a spectacular view. He stood up and stretched his back. His breath was returning to normal, but the drumming in his ears hadn’t let up one bit.
“You weren’t wrong to call it a temple,” said Camille, looking down into the valley.
“Yes, it’s quite a view, isn’t it?” said Lemuel, regaining some of his composure.
“It is, but that’s not what I mean.”
“It’s not?” he asked, finally realising that the drumming he was hearing wasn’t in his head. It was coming from the valley, a haunting, relentless beat that was hypnotic and threatening at the same time. The percussive booms of scores of drums interleaved with brutal disharmony, plucking at Lemuel’s nerves and sending tremors of unease down his spine.
Intrigued, he walked stiffly on tired legs to join the two women at the edge of the plateau.
He put a hand on Camille’s shoulder and looked down into the valley. His eyes widened and his jaw hung open in surprise. “Throne of Terra!” he said.
AHRIMAN HEARD THE drums, recognising the dissonant notes echoing from the Mountain as those once declared forbidden in an ancient age. Nothing good could come of such a sound, and Ahriman felt certain that something unnatural was being orchestrated within the valley. The Sekhmet matched his pace, their heavy suits driven on by uncompromising will and strength.
“This bodes ill,” said Phosis T’kar, as the drums grew louder. “Damn, but I do not like this place. I am blind here.”
“We all are,” replied Hathor Maat, looking towards the upper reaches of the valley.
Ahriman shared Phosis T’kar’s hatred of the blindness. As one of the Legion’s Adept Exemptus, he had attained supreme summits of mastery, aetheric flight, connection with a Tutelary, and the rites of evocation and invocation. The Sekhmet were powerful warrior-mages, and could call forth powers mortal men could never dream of wielding. On his own, each warrior was capable of subduing worlds, but in this place, with their powers denied them, they were simply Astartes.
SimplyAstartes, thought Ahriman with a smile. How arrogant that sounds.
Even as he scanned the valley ahead, Ahriman began forming the basis of a treatise for his grimoire, a discourse on the perils of dependence and overweening pride.