Horus, by ellis_esquire

He was there when the Emperor fell. The Warmaster Horus was once the most loyal and devoted of all of the Emperor’s children. And now? A disgusting creature twisted by the greatest enemies of the Imperium of Man. Memnon had stood at the portal onto the bridge as one of his brothers charged the monstrosity before them. He watched in horror as a terrible psychic blow stripped and blasted the suit of Artificer armour of his fellow brother layer by layer, like unimaginably powerful acid, until only bone remained – and readied his immortal soul for the possibility of a similar fate. He prepared to charge the creature that now called itself Warmaster – he had to buy the Emperor some time, even if it cost him his life. In His last moments of consciousness the Saviour of Mankind had used this momentary respite to summon his immense psychic gifts, concentrating all of his anger, betrayal, disgust, and love of what His son had once being into pure destructive force. He blasted the Warp-tainted filth back to damnation. Oh, how horrifically beautiful it had been to watch the Emperor cast down His beloved son - even as His own blood pooled across the floor.

However he had failed in his duty, arriving just in time to his master brought low by the warped evil that was once the leader of His Great Crusade; his throat dangling open with a lunatic’s smile; one hand hanging from tendons, the other limp on an arm that had been ripped almost clean off; the flesh of his face melted and twisted, one of his eyeballs was completely burst; his spine snapped like a twig. It brought tears of vengeance to his eyes to see his Liege desecrated so far from perfection and he roared his anguish to the heavens. As an Adeptus Custodes, his creation and reason for living was to protect this single being, the Master of All Humanity, from harm. It should have been him – he should have been on the receiving end of these diabolical wounds, but he had failed.

The nightmarish corridors of the Vengeful Spirit had become twisted beyond the material universe, becoming a daemonic monstrosity that seemed to have a life of its own and slowing the progression of boarding squads almost to a standstill. The corridors were no longer forged ceramite and adamantium, but coated in spongy, amorphous warp flesh, the floor a carpet of tongues. Disgusting appendages had erupted from the walls, groping and slashing, even dragging one of his squad halfway into the bulkhead wall, the only evidence of his existence a sickly green ripple running through the flesh and the memories of his slowly dwindling battle-brothers. Insane voices gibbered from the air, and sickening pressure seemed to swell inside each man’s brain with every step. Only sheer force of will held the daemons out. The smell was overwhelming even through his helmets advanced purification filters, chokingly rancid meat mingling with a copper taste that burned in the back of the throat and plastered the tongue to the roof of one’s mouth - the latter being the residue of foul sorcery, the former was much more disturbing in its potency. Fire that burned like acid and thousands of gibbering, spectral entities were jettisoned into the corridors as if the ship itself was fighting back to repel the righteous intruders. Everything was chaos. Forming a strategy in the constantly changing maze of the infernal crafts belly was an impossible act; the only way Memnon and the elite number of Custodes of Artulon veteran squad, that had been teleported in the seconds that Horus had lowered the barges shields, had been able to locate the bridge of the barge was to forge through the insanity towards the thickest of the fighting. He was the final man standing of the men to board the craft.

But it was far from over. Even as Horus had fallen to the magnificence of his father, Abaddon, the new arch-Traitor had being plotting. The psychic backlash of the Emperor’s physical demise was paralyzing, shattering the minds of the forces loyal to the Imperium; even lesser men countless leagues away had been driven insane by the loss and feeling of complete emptiness. But even through the blood trickling from his eyes it had been clear to seeing the contorted snarl that constituted Abaddon’s face as he retreated further into the bowels of this hell-spawned battle barge - as clear and intense as the morning sun. Abaddon would return. Even if it took him an eternity he would return and stamp out the fires of the Imperium of Man from existence. This could not happen. This would not happen.

Memnon Phoivostus tightened his grip on the haft of the beautiful broadsword gifted to him by the Emperor himself, and prepared to thunder after the bastard he now held responsible for the death of his Liege. He may be alone, but that is how the Adeptus Custodes worked most efficiently. Even when in squads each warrior was an individual, relying on no one else for their continued survival – whereas Astartes were soldiers and battle brothers and worked at their peak when in tactical squads. This was one of the main ways Custodes and Astartes differed, and the difference was great. Being alone brought no hesitation to the Custodes, they were trained to rely on themselves and no one else.

In spite of this, something did cause him to hesitate. The ground was trembling.

“Wait.”

The voice thundered from behind Memnon, stopping him in his tracks. He spun and looked into the face of Rogal Dorn, Primarch of the Imperial Fists and once brother to Horus. Dorn’s eyes burned with pure anger at the sight of the living Custodes when he could feel that his father was mortally wounded. It was almost painful to maintain contact with such intensity.

“You still live. How?”

“I was too late to do anything, much like yourself.” Memnon replied coolly, watching the eyes of the Primarch widen just a fraction at the hooded insult. “Abaddon exited the bridge as I arrived, and I must have his head-“

“You would blindly charge after that morsel before checking that my father still breathes?!” Dorn’s rage was barely contained. Memnon began to open his mouth but Dorn hammered his shoulder pad out of the way with an open palm and stormed towards the prone form of the Emperor with a number of Custodes in tow. Memnon bit back his anger and followed suit.

He could see Dorn hesitating as the Custodes surrounded the Emperor. “Our lord yet lives!” yelled a Custodes brother, “Though his breath is shallow and his heartbeat feint”

At this the Primarch visually gathered himself and took a knee by his dying Emperor’s side. “Father, what do you command of me?”

“The Throne...Golden Throne...you must take me there now!” The Emperor whispered through gritted teeth. The Master of Mankind’s eyelids flitted shut, as if that last exertion of energy completely drained him.

“I must find Abaddon. He will atone for his Heresy and the atrocities he and Horus have committed against the Imperium,” Stated Memnon. “I will rejoin you in the Palace once this sworn duty is completed.”

“No, you will do no such thing.” Dorn rumbled, fire burning in his eyes. And with that he keyed in the teleporter beacon and white flame engulfed them.

Every fibre of his genetically engineered DNA itched for him to reach out and tear Dorn’s head clean from his shoulders. Memnon did not answer to the Imperial Fists Primarch; he had his own lapdogs to jump to his every whim. Even amongst his gigantic genehanced brothers Memnon was considered quite tall, but not the tallest. He was well over a head taller than most of the Astartes, and slightly leaner than a lot of his companions. He stared icy death directly into Rogal Dorn’s eyes as the teleportation concluded, but held his tongue and body in check.

They had never seen eye-to-eye, and Memnon was not sure if there truly was a reason. Maybe it was just his pride – The Emperor had given Rogal Dorn the order and honour of fortifying the Imperial Palace, and not his true heir’s, some of who had stood by his side on the field of war for nearly 800 years. He felt that the guardians of the Palace, men who knew it better than any other living creature save the Emperor himself, should be reinforcing the fortress to the impenetrable bulwark it had the potential to become. However the Emperors word was final. Or it had been until Horus had been caressed by the twisted fingers of Chaos. Now He would spend the rest of eternity upon His Golden Throne, holding back the tide of Chaos from penetrating the heart of the Imperial Citadel and His prone form.

Or maybe it was the way some of the Primarch brothers acted towards those they deemed as lesser creations. They believed that they were superior to all other creatures within the universe, save for their Father, the Emperor. However, Constantin Valdor – a mere Custode, and one of the only beings senior to Memnon within the military wing of the Imperium – had proved that self righteous belief to be completely in error. During an honour duel that had lasted for over an hour, Valdor landed the victorious blow against Horus. However this was before the Warmaster’s fall into madness, the duel would have been over much quicker and with a different outcome against the creature that bested the Emperor.

Memnon watched with silent fury and anguish, as the complete wrongness of the grim tableaux playing out in front of him finally hit home. Rogal Dorn was a statue at the side of his brother Jaghatai Khan, Primarch of the White Scars. The Khan was caked in gore, and his movement was completely at odds with that of his sibling. It seemed he couldn’t stay still for longer than a few seconds, each movement measured and purposeful in his subconscious, betraying the lethality in his heart. He watched as the husk of Malcador - once the Sigilite of the Emperor, now the Hero of the Imperium – was removed from the Golden Throne. How the last embers of his life were quietly extinguished and the dust of his corpse billowed outwards.

And the Emperor awakened. He seemed frail as an old man, physically aged one thousand human years within the last few moments, even so Memnon’s heart lifted momentarily. His voice was rustling paper as he spoke to his clo0sest sons. “Poor, brave Malcador the Hero. He reserved a fragment of his strength for me. It gives me a little time to pass final orders to you all. If you do as I ask then I shall not wholly die, my spirit will at least survive. My injuries are severe, more so than I had hoped but less so than I had feared. My psychic powers will return to me in time but my body will never heal. I shall never walk amongst you again. I am now bound to this machine for all time. My faithful bodyguard and attendants know what is required. You must do as they request!” “Dorn and Jaghatai, you have much work to do. Though the head of the serpent has been destroyed its coils still choke the safety of mankind. You and your loyal brothers must fight on. Cleanse the taint of treachery from out stars. Never again must we allow the Ruinous Powers of Chaos to have such a chance.

“Now all of you go! You know your duties. Execute them well. The universe has many horrors yet to throw at us. This is not the end of our struggle. This is just the beginning of our crusade to save Humanity. Be faithful! Be strong! Be vigilant!”

Those were the last words that he or anyone else would hear from the Emperor’s now dead lips.

After the Primarchs had left the throne room and all that remained were the Emperors Companions, who would most likely never leave Terra again, Memnon approached the Golden Throne. Kneeling before his Creator he could feel the warm glow of peace emanating from the Throne, and began to whisper.

“ My Lord, forgive me for my failure. Not once, but twice did I betray my vows and my reason of creation to you on this day. I allowed my emotion to cloud my judgement, instead of checking your condition. I was not swift enough in my justice to reach you in time. Even if you can forgive me, I will never forgive myself. It is not emotion that drives me to do what I have to do, it is righteous vengeance. Your loyal Primarchs have to lead their Legions, so as a member of the Adeptus Custodes I believe myself to be the most qualified being in the galaxy capable of what needs to be done. My Veteran squad was killed to a man in the boarding action, and my brothers will be able to replace me with my squad. I do not delude myself in believing that I will see you again, but I swear that I will stop at nothing to complete my quest. Long live the Imperium!”

And with that he spun on his heel, never to look upon the Emperor’s face again.

Rogal Dorn, by RAFF

Memnon stalked through smoke blackened corridors, once pristine and gilded, towards the Imperial Palace space port. What had once been not seeing eye-to-eye with Dorn had transformed into something else after the stunt he had pulled on Horus’ ship. Getting in the way of the duties of one of the Emperors Companions was a crime of high treason, punishable by death, and Dorn was getting away with it! Memnon felt responsible for his friend and mentors death and would not stop until the threat of Abaddon was removed from the Imperium for all time.

Servitors cleared debris and removed bloodstains from the walkways as he passed. Now the heretical fleet was in retreat rebuilding of the Palace was underway – the cleanup operation would take years to be completed, but it had to start somewhere. His mind was set; talking to his Liege had helped. He now knew the course he would take, and no matter the outcome, or what he had to do to achieve it, he would complete his objective.

He walked towards the tech-clerk that was in charge of off-world craft. Looking at the great crowd of people in front of him he sighed inwardly. He hated having to use the Emperor as a badge of office, but as he needed to leave as quickly as possible it was unavoidable. “As Guardian of the Lord Emperor, I command you release to me a ship and its crew.”

“What do you require?” Buzzed the tech-priest, its mechanised mouthpiece clicking like that of a beetle.

“Something small, the fastest craft you have. And it must be difficult to detect by fleeing battle cruisers. Oh and you most probably won’t be getting it back.” Memnon added with a smirk. He was under no false illusions; right now Abaddon was one of the most powerful beings in the universe, and taking his head would most probably cost the Custode his life. He must atone for his failure. He must. And that meant the execution of Horus’s favourite son, whatever the cost.

The Palace tech-priest looked up at Memnon, unmoving, obviously calculating the most logical course of action to be taken. After a few moments deliberation his mouthpiece shifted. “Certainly, lord, right this way” barked from under the robes hood in a clipped, emotionless way. Memnon followed through the sprawling Imperial spaceport, taking in the maniacal work being carried out by the diverse forms of servitors of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Immense scaffolding was being erected towards the cavernous ceiling; blasted holes gaped into the night sky like pockmarks. The stars shone through the smoke circling the Fortress-City of Terra, blinking down on the destruction wrought by Chaos. They had travelled a great distance, almost the length of the vast building, until finally the Adept stopped.

“This is the best I can offer you,” droned the tech-adept “The Emperor’s Sword. it is due for launch tomorrow. Nimble, tough, difficult to detect. The Mechanicum would be grateful if you could find a way to return it, no matter the importance of your mission – it is currently the only ship of its kind.”

“It is appreciated, and I will do everything in my power to bring her back to you.” Knowing full well that he, never mind it, had a very slim chance of returning to Terra this promise felt as empty as the heart of the half-man, half-robot standing in front of him. Memnon stared at the tech-priest, and it appeared that he had come to the same conclusion. His glassy, dead eyes lingered on the hull, as if he were pict-capturing every detail and Memnon wondered if this is where the Mechanicum saw beauty; in their most cherished designs. “I will return tomorrow for the launch, make sure the crew is ready.”

“As you command,” whirred the adept, without breaking eye contact with the cruiser. Memnon spun on his heel and headed towards the nearest exit; he had to prepare for his coming duty – both his body, and his soul.

He had changed into a simply grey bodyglove, his armour packed into a simple adamantium transport crate. His shining silver blade was laid next to his pallet, the white light of his chambers holo-lamp catching the razor sharp edge and glinting like a jewel.

Memnon sat on the bare floor in the centre of his room. The enormous slab of his back was perfectly straight, his legs crossed underneath him. His whole body, his entire being seemed tensed, his almost beautiful face lined and contorted. Where Astartes features were enlarged and distorted, looking as if they suffered from gigantism, as they were in effect just humans that had been overloaded with growth hormones, making them much bigger, faster, stronger than any human. The Adeptus Custodes, on the other hand, were not. They were created more in His – the Emperor’s – image, and as such were almost perfection. Memnon’s grey green eyes burned with an inner fire, an intelligence that easily surpassed that of a human. They had a less bulky look about them, like ancient Gods of the Greckii and Romanii. Yet Memnon looked troubled.

A sharp knock rapped on his door, stirring him out of his meditation, and he relaxed. He stood, circled his shoulders and walked to the door. On the other side of the layers of plasteel stood one of Memnon’s oldest friends, a Custodian called Leandros.

“Brother,” he boomed, a tone of forced joviality in his voice. All of the Custodians felt the same, their closest companion, mentor, creator had been killed. This was a black time for the whole Imperium, but especially those that were closest to him. “Brother, I hear you are departing the Imperial Palace tomorrow. Tell me, how is that a wise move? And how can you possibly perform your duty to the Emperor if you are not here?”

“I do not expect you to completely understand what I have to do, and I mean this with no malice, but you were simply not there. You did not see the duel. You did not see Him cast down by His own son. You did not see the horrors of the ship or just how far the Sons of Horus have fallen. However I do ask you to trust me, as you have done in the past. Leandros, why are you here? Do you intent to stop me?”

“I would never do such a thing Memnon, just trying to talk some sense into you.” He forced a chuckle. “So, tell me what you are planning. How are you going to end his reign?”

“I am to give chase to Abaddon and the Vengeful Spirit tomorrow. Once I have caught them I will teleport onto the bridge and take his head.” Leandros laughed, a hearty, true laugh, the first Memnon had heard since the cataclysm of the Heresy. “That simple, huh? What makes you think you will be able to get close enough for a teleport to be possible? Or that you will find him at all.”

“I just know,” retorted Memnon “He is heading for the Eye, all of the traitorous scum are. You ask too many questions, my friend. However it was good to see you. I appreciate you punching holes in my plan, as thin as it is, but I must try nonetheless.”

“You will be missed brother,” Leandros sounded genuinely gloomy “be safe. Ave Imperator.”

“Ave Imperator” Memnon whispered as the door to his cell slid shut with a purr.

When Memnon returned the next day the engines of what was now his transport were already beginning to howl into life. The ship had been moved onto the launch deck. It was similar in design to what would become the Gladius-class frigate; however it was smaller, the size of a small destroyer class, and seeming to be made for a small tactical squad of elite marines. It bristled with gun batteries and torpedo tubes. The engines roared with the rage of angry Gods, burning white blue against the darkness of the launch deck.

He approached the vessel, admiring the fantastic design and construction as he neared the boarding pod. Small viewing portals were scattered along the vessels hull, and the battlements erupted out of the hull, mighty minarets topped with antennae and gun batteries decorating the rest. As he stepped into the pod that would take him to the ship he noticed the tech-adept that he had dealt with the day before stood in the corner, staring unblinking at the Custodian.

“I trust you remember the oath you swore yesterday” He clicked through those strange mandibles.

“Of course. Everything is in order for launch?”

“We are waiting on you, my lord.”

“Well, let us wait no longer.” With that the adept pressed a series of runes on the control pad and the pod lifted towards the entrance hatch of the battleship.