False Gods Read Online Free PDF

the Luna Wolves, bloodlessly. The defeated foe was brought into compliance quickly and efficiently, allowing the commander to leave Kor Phaeron of the Word Bearers to complete the task of bringing the light of truth and enlightenment to Davin.
    Yes, it had been a good war, or so he had thought.
    Sweat trickled down the back of his head and ran down the inside of his armour, its greenish, metallic sheen still new and startling to him, even though it had been months since he had repainted it. He could have left the job to one of the Legion’s many artificers, but had known on some bone-deep level that he must look to his battle gear himself, and thus had painstakingly repainted each armoured segment single-handedly. He missed the pristine gleam of his white plate, but the Warmaster had decreed that the new colour be adopted to accompany the Legion’s new name: the Sons of Horus.
    Loken remembered the cheers and the cries of adoration laid at the feet of the Warmaster as his announcement had spread through the Expedition. Fists punched the air and throats were shouted hoarse with jubilation. Loken had joined in with the rest of his friends, but a ripple of unease had passed through him upon hearing his beloved Legion’s new name.
    Torgaddon, ever the joker, had noticed the momentary shadow pass over his face and said, ‘What’s the matter, you wanted it to be the Sons of Loken?’
    Loken had smiled and said, ‘No, it’s just—’
    ‘Just what? Don’t we deserve this? Hasn’t the commander earned this honour?’
    ‘Of course, Tarik,’ nodded Loken, shouting to be heard over the deafening roar of the Legion’s cheers. ‘More than anyone, he has earned it, but don’t you think the name carries a whiff of self aggrandisement to it?’
    ‘Self aggrandisement?’ laughed Torgaddon. ‘Those remembrancers that follow you around like whipped dogs must be teaching you new words. Come on, enjoy this and don’t be such a starch arse!’
    Tarik’s enthusiasm had been contagious and Loken had found himself once again cheering until his throat was raw.
    He could almost feel that rawness again as he took a deep breath of the sour, acrid winds of Davin that blew from the far north, wishing he could be anywhere else right now. It was not a world without beauty, but Loken did not like Davin, though he could not say what exactly bothered him about it. A sour unease had settled in his belly on the journey from Xenobia to Davin, but he had pushed it from his thoughts as he marched ahead of the commander onto the planet’s surface.
    To someone from the nightmarish, industrial caverns of Cthonia, Loken could not deny that Davin’s wide-open spaces were intoxicatingly beautiful. To the west of them, soaring mountain peaks seemed to scrape the stars and further north, Loken knew that there were valleys that plumbed the very depths of the earth, and fantastical tombs of ancient kings.
    Yes, they had waged a good war on Davin.
    Why then had the Word Bearers brought them here again?
    S OME HOURS BEFORE , on the bridge of the Vengeful Spirit , Maloghurst had activated the data-slate he held in his twisted claw of a hand; the skin fused and wet pink, despite the best efforts of the Legion apothecaries to restore it. He had scanned the contents of the communiqué within the slate once more, angry at the turn of phrase used by the petitioner.
    He did not relish the prospect of showing the message to the Warmaster and briefly wondered if he could ignore it or pretend the missive had never come before him, but Maloghurst had not risen to become the Warmaster’s equerry by insulating him from bad news. He sighed; these days the words of bland administrators carried the weight of the Emperor and, as much as Maloghurst wanted to, he could not ignore this message in particular.
    The Warmaster would never agree to it, but Maloghurst had to tell him. In a moment of weakness, Maloghurst turned and limped across the Strategium deck towards the