Lantern's Light Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Lantern’s Light – James Swallow

  About the Author

  An Extract from ‘The Buried Dagger’

  A Black Library Publication

  eBook license

  Lantern’s Light

  By James Swallow

  The message had been phrased to make it sound like a request, but in truth, it was a summons.

  It was a father’s demand to his son, the orders of a general to his soldier.

  Make haste to my side, it said, so we may speak.

  It pretended to be spoken among equals, but Mortarion knew that it was anything but. The Emperor of Mankind could not utter a single word without it becoming an inviolate command.

  And who are you to defy your gene-father? The question echoed in the depths of the warrior’s clouded thoughts. It came to Mortarion in a ghostly voice he almost recognised.

  His eyes rose, looking up from the depths of the hooded robe that formed a shroud about his sallow face. The great mantle was draped over a suit of artificer-wrought power armour, which in recent months Mortarion had learned to wear like a second skin, and it pooled on the deck of the shuttlecraft where he sat on a low iron bench.

  The armour had been modified extensively after it was presented to him. The body-sleeve, battleplate and synthetic musculature fitted the primarch as if he had been born to it, but Mortarion had not cared for the ornate beautifications and martial décor built into the gauntlets, greaves and cuirass. To the dismay of the armorial artisans in service to the Emperor, Mortarion stripped the superfluous detailing and discarded it, leaving only the heraldry that was necessary for battlefield operations.

  Instead he made them cast an icon of the Death Guard sigil and place that upon the plate. The skull-and-sun was too potent a symbol, too close to his heart to be left behind along with the rest of his old life.

  The skull meant death, as it both threatened Mortarion’s life and stood as his ally, while the six-pointed sun represented the illumination of freedom he had brought to his world.

  But is our world free? The voice whispered the question as the small star-craft passed beyond the pull of planetary gravity, and Mortarion allowed his attention to drift to a glassy portal in the shuttle’s hull.

  Out there, framed against an endless veil of dark nebulae, he saw the arc of Barbarus’ surface. From this vantage, his home world was a churning sphere of orange-amber toxin clouds agitated by the radiation of a weak yellow sun. Only the vaguest shape of land masses beneath the cloud banks could be determined. The planet had a baleful, menacing aspect, but still it stirred a strange kind of melancholy in Mortarion’s heart.

  Even as the revelations of his true roots continued to unfold, Barbarus would forever remain the place where Mortarion had been born, and it mattered little to him if he had not actually originated there. Barbarus had forged Mortarion into what he was now, and he would never forget that.

  And yet… Mortarion’s gaze moved to the stormy nebula shroud, billions of spans beyond the furthest orbit of this solar system. He had long known of sister worlds to Barbarus orbiting their sun, having snatched the knowledge of such forbidden lore from the books of his adoptive father, the brutal Overlord Necare. But to know as he did now that there were trillions more stars and worlds out past that Stygian veil… The thought of it was dazzling.

  A part of him wanted to see those worlds, to sink his mailed gloves in their sands and waters, to stride across new lands and alien vistas, to fight in new battles. Not since he had been a youth had Mortarion been so thirsty for knowledge. Then, the skeletal and cruel Necare had beaten him and denied any education that was not of the Overlord’s desiring, forcing Mortarion to learn through guile and subterfuge. He felt the same familiar frustration returning now.

  After they had been reunited, Mortarion’s father – his true gene-father, the Emperor – had bid him to remain within the bounds of this system for more than a Barbarun solar year. It had not been easy.

  Imagine, said the voice, living your whole life in one room of one house and never knowing anything more. Then the door is flung open and you see a street, a town, a nation, a world beyond. But you are told you cannot venture out. Not yet.

  Such disappointment.

  The Emperor had come to Barbarus with His mighty fleet, and offered the people of the poisoned world a chance to rejoin the great Imperium of Man, from which they had been lost millennia ago. They took it without hesitation.

  Of course they did. They were mortals, after all, and Mortarion’s father was a being like no other. How could they have refused Him?

  In the upheaval that followed, much had changed, and was still changing. Each day, Mortarion found it a struggle to hold on to the threads of the old life he had lived.

  Before the coming of the Emperor, Mortarion was the rebel son of the highest of the Overlords – at first Necare’s most terrible weapon, then his most hated enemy. He had turned on his adoptive father and the court of callous beings led by the twisted fiend, fighting to liberate the beleaguered ‘lesser’ humans of Barbarus from the monstrous predations of the creatures who subjugated them.

  Mortarion was an outsider, then a warrior, and finally a leader. He raised an army that took back the planet one domain at a time, and christened the best of those freedom fighters as his Death Guard. He named them as his unbroken blades.

  He dwelled on thoughts of those warriors – of Rask and Murnau, Skorvall and Kargul and the others – and of course his acerbic brother-in-battle, his fellow exile Callas Typhon.

  That questioning voice he heard in his thoughts always sounded like Callas. Indeed, it was his old friend’s way to challenge everything, and to ask the unaskable questions.

  All of them were up here too, out in high orbit beyond the planet, aboard the ships that the Emperor had left behind after His departure. Mortarion’s elite were the first to be uplifted, and remade by the Imperium’s incredible technologies in the bio-labs aboard those craft. Even now, that process was nearing its conclusion, as his most trusted soldiers were subjected to a rigorous regime of genetic modification, biological implantation and neural programming.

  Mortarion looked away, glancing at one of the grey-armoured warriors sharing the shuttle’s cargo bay with him. A Dusk Raider, or so they had first been named, one of the tribes of the Emperor’s Legiones Astartes – his so-called Space Marines. They were to Mortarion as Mortarion was to his gene-father, greater than mortal men but still born out of mortality.

  One day soon, Typhon, Rask and all the others would be like that one. The common clay of the Barbarun Death Guard would emerge reincarnated, striding into the light to stand side by side with the warrior Legion the Emperor had brought Mortarion as a gift. They would all carry the name from that day onward.

  Some would not survive the process, of course. Several had already perished, their bodies unable to withstand the great toll the forced transformation put upon them. And there were more to whom this great boon was denied: those deemed too old or whose chromosomal matrix was incompatible with the Emperor’s bio-altering technology.

  A waste of good material, said the voice in his head.

  The legionary in grey noticed his primarch’s gaze upon him and came to attention. ‘My lord?’ he asked, taking a step closer. ‘Do you wish something of me?’

  He was Terran-born, like all of the Dusk Raiders. By Mortarion’s word, they too were now renamed as Death Guard, but they were very different from the pale sons of Barbarus. They hailed from dozens of disparate ethnicities drawn from the northlands of the Emperor’s distant Throneworld, and the warriors of the XIV Legion
were seasoned, hardened by battles in the gene-father’s so-called ‘Great Crusade’.

  The warrior was of standard rank, armed with a powerful boltgun. He was one of several assigned as Mortarion’s honour guard, and they were superlative fighters to a man.

  ‘Your name?’ asked the primarch.

  ‘I am Brother-Legionary Alexus Xael, my lord.’ He gave a shallow bow.

  Mortarion nodded. He remembered this one from recent training engagements on one of the outer worlds of the system.

  Good with that gun, he recalled. With a dozen like him, Barbarus could have been freed in days, not years.

  At first, Mortarion’s instinct had been to distrust these Terrans. In the wake of the Emperor’s arrival, he’d had an entire army gifted to him, with the express implication that he would step into the role of their commander and lead them in his gene-father’s wars.

  But no leader could start from zero. Just as Mortarion had to learn how to use the new weapons and armour the Imperium granted him, so too he learned the tactics and strategy of how to fight with these Legiones Astartes.

  He was an exceptionally quick study, and months of wargames and training had brought Mortarion to where he stood now – battle ready, straining at the leash to leave Barbarus behind and venture out into the galaxy beyond.

  But more than that, Mortarion had encountered something he had not expected. He had bonded with these Dusk Raiders, in a manner that words could not articulate. In a strange way, it was as if that connection had always been within him. Lying dormant, waiting to be activated.

  ‘A question for you, Xael,’ he said. ‘Soon we will dock with my father’s command ship. What is the protocol?’

  Xael’s brow furrowed. ‘I do not understand…’

  ‘I am still new to this. What will be expected of me?’

  ‘Ah.’ The warrior gave a nod as he caught on. ‘There is much of the Imperium that prides itself on great ceremony. This is an important occasion. I imagine there will be many formalities to be observed.’

  In the depths of his hood, Mortarion’s gaunt features twisted into a scowl. ‘I have no tolerance for such things.’

  Xael smiled slightly. ‘I share your dislike, my lord. But I do not have the rank to ignore those demands.’

  ‘I do.’ Mortarion rose from the bench and walked toward the portal in the hull.

  The rest of the voyage passed in companionable silence, and presently a wall of gold and steel rose up ahead of the shuttle, as the craft oriented itself towards the yawning maw of a huge docking bay.

  The great hull of the battle-barge Bucephelus, flagship of the Emperor, extended away in all directions. The craft was a gargantuan work of martial artistry, ornate and menacing in equal measure, bristling with sculpted weapons and fields of shaped ablative armour. The mass of the Bucephelus was so great that it generated its own gravity gradient, making it necessary for the barge to be moored far away, up above the plane of the ecliptic. Had it come too close to Barbarus, the vessel would have exerted a deadly tidal influence on the planet’s already-fierce weather systems.

  His father’s ship was mighty, and Mortarion had learned that there were many more craft of such size and scope in the Emperor’s war fleet. Some of them belonged to Mortarion’s gene-brothers, the sibling primarchs who had been – as he was – scattered to all points of the etheric compass before they had matured to adulthood.

  After their first meeting, the Emperor spoke in elliptical terms about the matters of that event, showing genuine emotion and heartache at the trials His sons had endured. But when Mortarion tried to learn more about the causes of this ‘scattering’, his father deflected every question.

  If He is so powerful, how could He have let such a thing happen? The potential answers to that silent query served only to darken Mortarion’s mood further still.

  The shuttle touched down with a soft rumble, and presently the hatchway at the end of the compartment opened like an iris. Heady, perfumed air entered the ship, and with it came a brash chorus of martial trumpets.

  The sound pulled Mortarion’s lips into a sneer and he marched out through the hatch, gesturing to Xael and the rest of his honour guard to remain where they were.

  He emerged in the battle-barge’s vast docking bay to find ranks of gold-armoured Custodian Guards holding banners and weapons in salute. There were musicians playing an anthem and other figures in over-detailed clothing whose purpose and function were unknown to him. Mortarion imagined that he was supposed to walk between them with measured steps and feigned interest.

  He did not.

  Mortarion ignored the gathered throng and advanced alone, striding up a tier of low stairs towards a floodlit reception dais shrouded by towering drapes of crimson velvet. His father was not there, but the primarch did not hesitate, the chamber falling to silence around him as the trumpet fanfare faded early. Now the only sound was the hard thud of his armoured boots upon the deck and the hushed whispers of the shocked functionaries.

  He was almost at the dais level when a man came out to meet him. A human in a tall hat and a brocade coat bearing several tech-augmentations, the man was trailed by a device that darted about with no visible means of support. The machine resembled the eye of a steel giant gouged out and left to bob in the currents of the air, observing everything the man in the coat said and did.

  ‘My Lord Mortarion!’ he began, his tone at once fearful and agitated. ‘Forgive me, but your stride was… ah… not as metered as expected!’ He waved at the curtains. ‘The intent was that your father steps forth first, and you–’

  The primarch cut him off. ‘Who are you and what is your purpose here?’

  The man stuttered, then made a vague attempt to regain his poise. ‘If it pleases the primarch, I am Lackland Thorn, noted remembrancer and documentarian to the Imperial Court, and the–’

  Again, Mortarion did not let him gain any momentum. ‘Remembrancer? What is that?’ All eyes were on the primarch now, but he paid no heed to them.

  ‘I… record.’ Thorn gestured at the mechanical orb, which hummed to itself as it moved to watch both of them. ‘I write.’ He produced an electro-quill and the shimmering ghost-hologram of a screen appeared projected from a jewel on one of his gloves. ‘It is my honour to document the Emperor’s actions for posterity, so that later generations might know His deeds…’ Thorn seemed to recover some of his earlier self-confidence and leaned closer. ‘I hope to do the same for you, Lord Mortarion.’ He smiled insincerely. ‘I wish to learn more about the ways of your adoptive people, and the nature of your most challenging planet! Barbarus, you call it, yes?’

  ‘Barbarus is many things,’ Mortarion replied, looking Thorn up and down. Thorn’s patronising tone irritated him, and judging from the man’s physique, the primarch estimated that this ‘remembrancer’ would not survive a day down on the surface of his home world. ‘You could call it challenging.’

  He pushed past Thorn and took the last two steps up to the top of the dais, hearing a mutter of disapproval move through the assembled crowd. Another protocol he had transgressed, no doubt, but Mortarion did not wait to learn what it was.

  ‘Where is my father?’ he demanded, stepping into an oval of brilliant light cast from illuminators far overhead.

  ‘Are you so eager to see me once again? I am pleased,’ said a voice, and from the corner of his vision, the primarch saw the velvet curtains parting. A towering figure in golden robes stepped forward, and seemed to radiate a brighter glow than the lights above.

  Somewhere behind him, Mortarion heard Lackland Thorn choke off a gasp and drop to the deck in reverence. Armour clattered against steel as the ranks of soldiery did the same. Only the Custodians remained standing, forever ready, their devotion needing no such act to affirm.

  Mortarion wanted to defy the same compulsion to show obeisance, but he could not. He looked briefly at his fa
ther and went down on one knee, before bowing his head. The actions happened as if preordained, as if already written into history.

  ‘Rise, my son,’ said the Emperor, and there was a cautious smile on His weathered, tanned face. His patrician gaze took in the wholeness of Mortarion with a single glance, and the primarch wondered what his gene-father was seeing. How deep could the Emperor’s vision penetrate? Did His sight-beyond-sight see the colours of Mortarion’s true psyche? Did He know His son’s inner thoughts?

  No, said the voice in his head. If He did, things would be different.

  Wouldn’t they?

  Mortarion came back to his feet and saw the Emperor’s smile widen. ‘You defy expectation at every turn.’ He nodded towards the crowd. ‘Forgive me. This sort of thing does not interest you, I should have considered that.’ Concern shaded His eyes. ‘You’ve lived through so much hardship. Such pomp and ceremony must seem needless and wasteful.’

  ‘I’m sure it has value to some.’ Mortarion glanced at Thorn.

  ‘Indeed.’ The Emperor’s smile returned, and He placed a hand on His son’s shoulder, drawing him away. ‘Walk with me.’

  His father dismissed His retinue, all but for a single Custodian Guard who followed them at a distance of twenty paces, and He strolled from the landing bay with Mortarion at His side. They crossed through an airlock hatch and emerged into a long, tubular corridor.

  The passageway was spun out of a kind of crystalline glass: long curved sheets of vitreous material suspended on frames made of white metal. Mortarion saw that the corridor ran the length of the great ship’s spine, ranging from the dock at the bow of the Bucephelus all the way to the gigantic command castle rising up from the stern.

  Out through the curved windows, Mortarion saw other ships in the fleet that had borne the Emperor back to Barbarus after His year-long absence. Many of them were golden in hue, decorated with lightning bolts and double-headed eagles, craft as big as leviathans floating in the silent dark.

  Others had differing liveries and they bore sigils that Mortarion did not recognise. One of them – showing the device of an opened book bearing a flame – hove close as a chain of transport lighters moved from it to the Emperor’s flagship.