False Gods Read Online Free PDF Page B

Warmaster’s sanctum chamber. He would leave the slate on the Warmaster’s table, for him to find in his own time.
    The sanctum doors slid smoothly aside, revealing the dark and peaceful interior.
    Maloghurst enjoyed the solitude of the sanctum, the coolness of the air easing the pain of his raw skin and twisted spine. The only sound that broke the stillness of the sanctum was the breath rasping in his throat, the abnormal rearward curvature of his spine placing undue pressure on his lungs.
    Maloghurst shuffled painfully along the length of the smooth surfaced oval table, reaching out to place the slate at its head, where the Warmaster sat.
    It has been too long since the Mournival gathered here, thought Maloghurst.
    ‘Evening, Mal,’ said a voice from the shadows, sombre and tired.
    Maloghurst turned in surprise towards the source of the voice, dropping the slate to the table, ready to rebuke whoever had seen fit to violate the Warmaster’s sanctum.
    A shape resolved out of the darkness and he relaxed as he saw the familiar features of the commander, eerily red-lit from below by the light of his gorget.
    Fully armoured in his battle plate, the Warmaster sat at the back of the darkened sanctum, his elbows resting on his knees and his head held in his hands.
    ‘My lord,’ said Maloghurst. ‘Is everything alright?’
    Horus stared at the terrazzo-tiled floor of the sanctum and rubbed the heels of his palms across his shaved skull. His noble, tanned face and wide spaced eyes were deep in shadow and Maloghurst waited patiently for the Warmaster’s answer.
    ‘I don’t know anymore, Mal,’ said Horus.
    Maloghurst felt a shiver travel down his ruined spine at the Warmaster’s words. Surely, he had misheard. To imagine that the Warmaster did not know something was inconceivable.
    ‘Do you trust me?’ asked Horus suddenly.
    ‘Of course, sir,’ answered Maloghurst without pause.
    ‘Then what do you leave here for me that you don’t dare bring me directly?’ asked Horus, moving to the table and lifting the fallen data-slate.
    Maloghurst hesitated. ‘Another burden you do not need, my lord. A remembrancer from Terra, one with friends in high places it would seem: the Sigillite for one.’
    ‘Petronella Vivar of House Carpinus,’ said Horus, reading the contents of the slate. ‘I know of her family. Her ancestors chronicled my father’s rise, back in the days before Unification.’
    ‘What she demands,’ spat Maloghurst, ‘is ridiculous.’
    ‘Is it, Maloghurst? Am I so insignificant that I don’t require remembrance?’
    Maloghurst was shocked. ‘Sir, what are you talking about? You are the Warmaster, chosen by the Emperor, beloved by all, to be his regent in this great endeavour. The remembrancers of this fleet may record every fact they witness, but without you, they are nothing. Without you, all of it is meaningless. You are above all men.’
    ‘Above all men,’ chuckled Horus. ‘I like the sound of that. All I’ve ever wanted to do was to lead this Crusade to victory and complete the work my father left me.’
    ‘You are an example to us all, sir,’ said Maloghurst, proudly.
    ‘I suppose that’s all a man can hope for during his lifetime,’ nodded Horus, ‘to set an example, and when he is dead, to be an inspiration for history. Perhaps she will help me with that noble ideal.’
    ‘Dead? You are a god amongst men, sir: immortal and beloved by all.’
    ‘I know!’ shouted Horus, and Maloghurst recoiled before his sudden, volcanic rage. ‘Surely the Emperor would not have created such a being as me, with the ability to grasp the infinite, to exist only for this short span! You’re right, Mal, you and Erebus both. My father made me for immortality and the galaxy should know of me. Ten thousand years from now I want my name to be known all across the heavens.’
    Maloghurst nodded, the Warmaster’s furious conviction intoxicating, and dropped painfully to one knee in supplication.
    ‘What