The Outcast Dead

  THE HORUS HERESY

  Graham McNeill

  THE OUTCAST DEAD

  The truth lies within

  v1.0 (2011.12)

  The Horus Heresy

  It is a time of legend.

  Mighty heroes battle for the right to rule the galaxy. The vast armies of the Emperor of Earth have conquered the galaxy in a Great Crusade – the myriad alien races have been smashed by the Emperor’s elite warriors and wiped from the face of history.

  The dawn of a new age of supremacy for humanity beckons.

  Gleaming citadels of marble and gold celebrate the many victories of the Emperor. Triumphs are raised on a million worlds to record the epic deeds of his most powerful and deadly warriors.

  First and foremost amongst these are the primarchs, superheroic beings who have led the Emperor’s armies of Space Marines in victory after victory. They are unstoppable and magnificent, the pinnacle of the Emperor’s genetic experimentation. The Space Marines are the mightiest human warriors the galaxy has ever known, each capable of besting a hundred normal men or more in combat.

  Organised into vast armies of tens of thousands called Legions, the Space Marines and their primarch leaders conquer the galaxy in the name of the Emperor.

  Chief amongst the primarchs is Horus, called the Glorious, the Brightest Star, favourite of the Emperor, and like a son unto him. He is the Warmaster, the commander-in-chief of the Emperor’s military might, subjugator of a thousand thousand worlds and conqueror of the galaxy. He is a warrior without peer, a diplomat supreme.

  As the flames of war spread through the Imperium, mankind’s champions will all be put to the ultimate test.

  CONTENTS

  THE OUTCAST DEAD

  The Horus Heresy

  CONTENTS

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  PROLOGUE

  PART 1

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  PART 2

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  The City of Sight

  NEMO ZHI-MENG Choirmaster of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica

  ANIQ SARASHINA Mistress of the Scholastica Psykana

  EVANDER GREGORAS Master of the Cryptaesthesians

  KAI ZULANE Astropath seconded to Navigator House Castana

  ATHENA DIYOS Astropath of the City of Sight

  ABIR IBN KHALDUN Astropath of the City of Sight

  The Outcast Dead

  ATHARVA Adept Exemptus of the Thousand Sons

  TAGORE Sergeant, 15th Company, World Eaters

  SUBHA Warrior of the 15th Company, World Eaters

  ASUBHA Warrior of the 15th Company, World Eaters

  SEVERIAN Warrior of the 25th Company, Luna Wolves, The ‘Wolf’

  ARGENTUS KIRON Warrior of the 28th Company, Emperor’s Children

  The Hunters

  YASU NAGASENA Seer Hunter of the Black Ships

  KARTONO Bondsman to Yasu Nagasena

  MAJOR GENERAL MAXIM GOLOVKA Commander of the Black Sentinels

  SATURNALIA Warrior of the Legio Custodes

  The Lords of Terra

  ROGAL DORN Primarch of the Imperial Fists

  The Petitioner’s City

  PALLADIS NOVANDIO Priest of the Temple of Woe

  ROXANNE CASTANA Supplicant of the Temple of Woe

  BABU DHAKAL Clan lord of the Dhakal

  GHOTA DHAKAL Enforcer

  Wonders are many on Earth, and the greatest of these is Man, who rides the Great Ocean and makes his way through the deeps, through wind-swept valleys of perilous seas that surge and sway.

  – Attributed to the Tragedean Sophocles, pre-M1

  Dreams are mirrors in which are reflected the true character of the dreamer. What should happen when the individual face of the dreamer sees himself reflected in the collective dream mirror of all humanity?

  – Aniq Sarashina, Oneirocritica Sarashina,Vol XXXV

  Your vision will become clear only when you look into your heart. Who looks outside, dreams. Who looks inside, awakens.

  – Nemo Zhi-Meng, Choirmaster of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica

  From: Chirurgeon Bellan Tortega (BT), certified neuro-psychic attendant

  To: Patriarch Verduchina XXVII, House Castana, Navis Nobilite

  Observed period: Cycles 15-18

  Subject: Zulane, Kai (KZ)

  Evaluation summary: NON-FUNCTIONAL/POTENTIALLY SALVAGEABLE

  Excerpted from 4423-4553: Full Case Notes to follow.

  TRANSCRIPT EXCERPT BEGINS.

  BT: Can you tell me what happened on the Argo?

  KZ: No.

  BT: No?

  KZ: No.

  BT: Why not?

  KZ: I don’t want to.

  BT: With respect, you are in no position to withhold anything you know. The incident involving the Argo represents a significant financial deficit for House Castana, not to mention the considerable loss of prestige with respect to the XIII Legion.

  KZ: Take it up with Nemo. I was only loaned to Castana, I don’t care about their losses.

  BT: You should. You should also know that my evaluation will play a significant part in deciding whether you can continue with House Castana. Or continue at all for that matter.

  KZ: Like I said, I don’t care.

  BT: Do you WANT to be sent to the hollow mountain?

  KZ: Of course not. No sane person would.

  BT: Then I would co-operate if I were you.

  KZ: You don’t understand, it’s not about co-operation.

  BT: Then enlighten me, Kai. What IS it about?

  KZ: It’s about hearing ten thousand men and women die. It’s about hearing every single last thought as their bodies were torn apart by things. It’s about hearing the terror of people about to die every time I close my eyes. It’s about not putting myself through that nightmare again. [Subject breaks down. Three minutes of sobbing.]

  BT: Are you finished?

  KZ: For now.

  BT: Then do you feel like talking about what happened?

  KZ: Terra, no! Maybe someday, but even when I do, it won’t be with you.

  BT: Why not?

  KZ: Because you’re not here to help me.

  BT: That’s EXACTLY why I’m here, Kai.

  KZ: No it’s not, and stop calling me Kai as if we’re friends. Your only purpose in being here is to show the XIII Legion that House Castana can keep its house in order. I’m an embarrassment to your precious patriarch.

  BT: No, you are part of the family. All Patriarch Verduchina wants is to help.

  KZ: Then leave me alone. The Argo isn’t a memory I want to go back to. Not yet, maybe never.

  BT: Confronting the past is the only way you can face the future. Surely you can see it’s not healthy to dwell on such macabre memories. Purge them and you can return to your duties.

  KZ: You’re assuming I WANT to return to my duties.

  BT: Don’t you?

  KZ: [One minute pause] I don’t know.

  TRANSCRIPT EXCERPT ENDS.

  Addendum:

  Sire, as this excerpt clearly shows, Kai Zulane displays classic symptoms of denial, paranoia and an inability to face the truth of his ordeal. It is my conclusion that he believes he is responsible for the events tha
t led to the loss of the Argo, though the truth of this is for others, more qualified in the fields of multi-dimensional overlaps, to determine. However, I do not believe any individuals could live through so traumatic an experience without some psychic scarring, none of which is evident in Kai Zulane’s aetheric aura. I would, therefore, venture the opinion that Kai Zulane is not beyond recovery. Kai Zulane represents a significant investment in time and effort (both by House Castana and the Adeptus Astra Telepathica) and to simply ‘cut our losses’ and send him to the hollow mountain would, at this point, be premature.

  In summary, it is my recommendation that Kai Zulane be returned to the auspices of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica for immediate rehabilitation. This will reaffirm our commitment to the XIII Legion, and effectively allow House Castana to pass the burden of responsibility elsewhere.

  I remain your humble servant in all things, and can offer further clarifications, should they be required, on Kai Zulane’s psychic pathology at your convenience.

  Bellan Tortega

  Neuro-psychic attendant 343208543.

  Antonius, do what the unctuous little chirurgeon says.

  Throw Zulane back to the City of Sight.

  He can be their problem instead of ours.

  V.

  It is the hour before dawn when the hunters come for them.

  Nagasena checks his rifle, already knowing it is fully functional. On a day like today he needs the solace of things done in the right order. Too many of this newly emergent Imperium’s people rush around without taking the time to ensure they are properly prepared. Truth and order are Nagasena’s watchwords, for they provide a centre from which all other things can flow. He has learned this from the teachings of a wise man born in these parts in an age now long forgotten.

  Those teachings survive only in scattered texts comprising gnomic aphorisms and proverbs, each one passed down from mentor to student over thousands of generations in secret script known only to a chosen few. Nagasena has lived his life by these teachings, and he feels they have guided him well. His life has been lived truthfully, and he has few regrets.

  This day’s hunt will, he thinks, be one of them.

  He uncoils from the cross-legged position in which he sits and slings his rifle across his shoulder. Around him, men come to their feet, energised by his sudden movement.

  ‘Is it time?’ asks Kartono, handing him a long bladed sword with just the barest hint of a curve. It is a wondrous weapon, sheathed in a scabbard of lacquered wood, jade and mother of pearl. A master of the metal arts crafted this blade to Nagasena’s exacting specifications, yet it is no sharper, no lighter or in any other way superior to the millions of sword blades churned out by the armouries of Terra. But it was crafted with love and an attention to detail that no machine can ever replicate.

  Nagasena knows the weapon as Shoujiki, which means Honesty.

  He nods respectfully to Kartono as Golovko approaches, bullish and bearing the scent of gun oil, sweat and lapping powder. In an elder age Nagasena’s ancestors would have considered him a barbarian, but now he is an honoured man. Golovko’s armour is bulky, cumbersome and designed to intimidate. His face looks much the same.

  He gives no greeting and his lip curls in instinctive distaste as he sees Kartono.

  ‘We should have struck in the middle watches of the night,’ he says, as Nagasena slips his sword through the black sash tied at his waist. ‘We would have surprised them.’

  ‘It would make no difference what time we came,’ says Nagasena, smoothing out his long black hair and settling a long scalp-lock over his shoulder. ‘Such men as we hunt will never truly be at rest, and there will never be a best time to fight them. As soon as the first is taken, most likely even before then, the rest will be instantly alert and dangerous beyond imagining.’

  ‘We have three thousand soldiers,’ points out Golovko, as though numbers are all that matter at a time like this. ‘Black Sentinels, Attaman Janissaries, Lancers. Even the high and mighty Custodians sent a squad.’

  ‘And it may still prove to be insufficient,’ says Nagasena.

  ‘Against thirty?’ says Golovko, but Nagasena has already dismissed him from his thoughts.

  He turns away from the bellicose general and moves through the assembled soldiers silently awaiting his signal. They are nervous, dislocated. Most of all, they are horrified that they are about to take up arms against those who fight in their name on worlds far distant from Terra.

  Nagasena looks up at the building that houses the Crusader Host. It is known locally as the Preceptory, and it is a triumphant structure of rearing golden lions, fluted columns and warrior statuary, capped by a lightning-shot dome of black marble. Heroic imagery adorns the fresco of the pediment high above the portico, and the grand approach leading to the entrance is paved with enormous flagstones bearing the names of worlds the Legiones Astartes have brought to compliance.

  Every day these flagstones are cut with fresh tallies, and Nagasena wonders how these men of war feel to see the litany of their brothers’ victories grow ever larger while they remain on Terra, ever more distant from the bloody edge of the Imperium’s frontier.

  ‘What are your orders, lord?’ asks Kartono.

  His companion is unarmed, but needs no weapons to be lethal. His former masters trained him to such a high degree of lethality that he is a weapon himself. Many people dislike Kartono for reasons they can never quite articulate, but Nagasena has long since grown used to his presence. He looks at the soldiers, confident that they are well hidden in the warren of gilded avenues and columned processionals that garland this region of the Imperial Palace like jewellery around the neck of a favoured concubine.

  Three thousand armed men await his signal to advance, and Nagasena knows that by giving that signal, many of those men will die. Maybe all of them. He relishes few of his hunts, but this one in particular sits ill with him. He wishes he were back in his mountain villa, where his only concerns are the mixing of paints and tending to his garden, but his likes and dislikes are immaterial here.

  A mission has been set, and he is duty bound to obey. And though he does not like this order, he understands it.

  ‘Walk with me, Kartono,’ says Nagasena, stepping out onto the grand walkway of victories. Kartono trots after him, surprised at his master’s sudden movement. Nagasena hears Golovko through the vox bead situated in his ear and pulls it free. The man’s protests become tinny and distant.

  ‘They will know we are coming for sure now,’ says Kartono, and Nagasena nods.

  ‘Your presence alone will have alerted at least one of them,’ he says. ‘Did you really think so many armed men could approach a place like this without its occupants knowing of it?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ agrees Kartono, glancing over his shoulder. ‘The Major General will not be pleased. He will make trouble for us.’

  ‘That is a problem for another day,’ says Nagasena. ‘I will be sufficiently pleased if we live through this morning. It is highly likely we will die here.’

  Kartono shakes his head. ‘You are fatalistic today.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ says Nagasena as they climb the first steps of the Preceptory. ‘I dislike rising before the sun. It feels impolite.’

  Kartono knows his moods well. Nagasena has grown tired of hunting, but this task has been given to him by a man whose orders come with the highest authority. Refusal was not an option. He feels the chill of the day through his silken robes, but does not allow it to lessen his focus. Knowing that his armour would afford him little protection against the weapons of his prey, he did not have Kartono encase him within its lacquered plates of bonded ceramite and adamantine weave.

  A figure steps into view on the portico above, and Nagasena feels his heart beat just a little quicker. He is tall and broad shouldered, as one would expect for a warrior genhanced to be the pinnacle of physicality, but there is a gracile quality to him that is unexpected. His hair is longer than is usual, tied in a short ponytail, and
his face is broad, with the congenital flatness of features so common amongst his kind. Nagasena is reassured to see that he wears no armour, perhaps indicating that he has not come to fight. His robes are crimson, edged in ivory, and a jade scarab set in amber rests upon his chest.

  The man watches as he and Kartono climb to the top of the steps, his face unreadable and without expression. No, that is not quite correct. There is a sadness to him, visible only in the tiniest descending curve at the corner of his lips and a tightness around his eyes. At last Nagasena reaches the top of the steps and stands before the man, who towers over him like the oni of legend. The oni were also said to dwell in the mountains, but the old myths told of ugly creatures possessing horned skulls and wide mouths filled with terrible fangs.

  There is nothing ugly about this warrior; he is a perfect specimen.

  ‘Oni-ni-kanabo,’ whispers Kartono.

  Nagasena nods at the aptness of the expression, but does not reply.

  The warrior nods and says, ‘Oni with an iron club?’

  ‘It means to be invincible or unbeatable in battle,’ says Nagasena, trying to hide his surprise that the warrior knows this ancient tongue of Old Earth.

  ‘I am aware of that,’ says the warrior. ‘Another meaning is “strength upon strength” whereupon one’s innate power is bolstered by the manipulation of some kind of tool or external force. Very apt indeed.’

  ‘You are Atharva?’ asks Nagasena, now understanding how he can know their secret language.

  ‘I am Adeptus Exemptus Atharva of the XV Legion,’ confirms the warrior.

  ‘You know why we are here?’

  ‘Of course,’ says Atharva. ‘I expected you sooner.’

  ‘I would have been surprised if you had not.’

  ‘How many soldiers did you bring?’

  ‘Just over three thousand.’

  Atharva mulls over the number. ‘My brothers will be insulted you came with so few. You should have brought more to be certain.’

  ‘Others thought such numbers sufficient.’

  ‘We shall see,’ observes Atharva, as though it is no more than an intellectual exercise they are considering and not a terrible, unthinkable waste of Imperial lives.