Angron: Slave of Nuceria (The Horus Heresy Primarchs Book 11) Read online

  Backlist

  The Primarchs

  CORAX: LORD OF SHADOWS

  VULKAN: LORD OF DRAKES

  JAGHATAI KHAN: WARHAWK OF CHOGORIS

  FERRUS MANUS: GORGON OF MEDUSA

  FULGRIM: THE PALATINE PHOENIX

  LORGAR: BEARER OF THE WORD

  PERTURABO: THE HAMMER OF OLYMPIA

  MAGNUS THE RED: MASTER OF PROSPERO

  LEMAN RUSS: THE GREAT WOLF

  ROBOUTE GUILLIMAN: LORD OF ULTRAMAR

  The Horus Heresy series

  Book 1 – HORUS RISING

  Book 2 – FALSE GODS

  Book 3 – GALAXY IN FLAMES

  Book 4 – THE FLIGHT OF THE EISENSTEIN

  Book 5 – FULGRIM

  Book 6 – DESCENT OF ANGELS

  Book 7 – LEGION

  Book 8 – BATTLE FOR THE ABYSS

  Book 9 – MECHANICUM

  Book 10 – TALES OF HERESY

  Book 11 – FALLEN ANGELS

  Book 12 – A THOUSAND SONS

  Book 13 – NEMESIS

  Book 14 – THE FIRST HERETIC

  Book 15 – PROSPERO BURNS

  Book 16 – AGE OF DARKNESS

  Book 17 – THE OUTCAST DEAD

  Book 18 – DELIVERANCE LOST

  Book 19 – KNOW NO FEAR

  Book 20 – THE PRIMARCHS

  Book 21 – FEAR TO TREAD

  Book 22 – SHADOWS OF TREACHERY

  Book 23 – ANGEL EXTERMINATUS

  Book 24 – BETRAYER

  Book 25 – MARK OF CALTH

  Book 26 – VULKAN LIVES

  Book 27 – THE UNREMEMBERED EMPIRE

  Book 28 – SCARS

  Book 29 – VENGEFUL SPIRIT

  Book 30 – THE DAMNATION OF PYTHOS

  Book 31 – LEGACIES OF BETRAYAL

  Book 32 – DEATHFIRE

  Book 33 – WAR WITHOUT END

  Book 34 – PHAROS

  Book 35 – EYE OF TERRA

  Book 36 – THE PATH OF HEAVEN

  Book 37 – THE SILENT WAR

  Book 38 – ANGELS OF CALIBAN

  Book 39 – PRAETORIAN OF DORN

  Book 40 – CORAX

  Book 41 – THE MASTER OF MANKIND

  Book 42 – GARRO

  Book 43 – SHATTERED LEGIONS

  Book 44 – THE CRIMSON KING

  Book 45 – TALLARN

  Book 46 – RUINSTORM

  Book 47 – OLD EARTH

  Book 48 – BURDEN OF LOYALTY

  Book 49 – WOLFSBANE

  Book 50 – BORN OF FLAME

  Book 51 – SLAVES TO DARKNESS

  Book 52 – HERALDS OF THE SIEGE

  Book 53 – TITANDEATH

  Book 54 – THE BURIED DAGGER

  Contents

  Cover

  Backlist

  Title Page

  The Horus Heresy

  Dramatis Personae

  Prologue

  PART ONE

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  PART TWO

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  PART THREE

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  An Extract from ‘The Buried Dagger’

  A Black Library Publication

  eBook license

  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 Mankind conquer the stars in a Great Crusade – the myriad alien races are to be smashed by his 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, as system after system is brought back under his control. Triumphs are raised on a million worlds to record the epic deeds of his most powerful champions.

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

  Many are the tales told of these legendary beings. From the halls of the Imperial Palace on Terra to the outermost reaches of Ultima Segmentum, their deeds are known to be shaping the very future of the galaxy. But can such souls remain free of doubt and corruption forever? Or will the temptation of greater power prove too much for even the most loyal sons of the Emperor?

  The seeds of heresy have already been sown, and the start of the greatest war in the history of mankind is but a few years away...

  ~ Dramatis Personae ~

  The Primarchs

  Angron, Primarch of the World Eaters

  The XII Legion, ‘World Eaters’

  Mago, Centurion of the 18th Company

  Orontes, First Axe of the 18th Company

  Astakos, Standard Bearer of the 18th Company

  Hanno, Dimachurias of the 18th Company

  Salicar, Warrior of the 18th Company

  Kaeptra, ‘The Red’, Centurion of the 37th Company

  Ghoss, Sergeant of the 85th Company

  Delvarus, Sergeant of the 44th Company

  Kauragar, Centurion of the 21st Company

  Vaion, Apothecary of the 18th Company

  Korit, Techmarine of the 18th Company

  Vorias, Lectio Primus of the Librarius Division

  Tethys, Lexicanum of the Librarius Division

  Iocare, Codicier of the Librarius Division

  Khârn, Centurion of the Eighth Assault Company and Equerry to the Primarch

  Lhorke, ‘The First’ Dreadnought, Contemptor-Pattern

  Gahlan Surlak, Apothecary

  The Martian Mechanicum

  Vel-Kheredar, Magos

  Non-Imperial Personae

  Ohna, of the Many

  Prologue

  THREE DAYS

  ‘O, that our fathers would applaud our love

  To seal our happiness with their consents!’

  – attributed to the Nameless Thane of Old Albia

  Across a lifetime that spanned more than a century, there existed three days that, to Iocare’s mind, were fundamental in the shaping of his destiny. The first had come on Terra, when he was a child on the cusp of becoming a man. Such a fate would be denied forever to him that day, as he was taken from the world he knew, and placed within that of the Legion.

  The second day had come many years later, after extensive conditioning, surgeries and genetic restructuring had moulded Iocare into somethi
ng that was no longer human, but rather the weapon humanity would wield to conquer the stars. Decades of fitful, sleepless nights, the persistent whispers of those around him that only he could hear, the unexplained pain that wracked him and set him apart from his Legion kin; all was made clear when he was inducted into the Librarius of the XII Legion, the War Hounds, where he was trained to fashion what he had called a curse into a gift, and then a weapon.

  And then there was the third day, the last of the days that would close off who Iocare had been and change him into what destiny would have him become. As he walked through the decks of the Hound’s Tooth, feeling the minds of thousands of beings around him like the lapping tides of a churning sea, the Librarian’s brutal, slab-like features were creased in an honest smile.

  That third day was today.

  Iocare’s brethren of the 18th Company’s Librarius awaited him as he arrived at the Hound’s Tooth’s principal apothecarion. Their faces were stoic, almost cold as their eyes followed his approach. Yet they did not need their faces or their words to converse amongst their order. Iocare reached out to them, brushing his mind softly against each of theirs. He felt confusion in some, anger in others. And in some, though they would never admit it, Iocare sensed the barest admiration, tightly guarded within the hardened layers of their mental wards.

  Iocare knew their concerns. He understood them. He knew why so many viewed him as foolish, even suicidal. Every XII Legion warrior, no longer War Hounds but now the Eaters of Worlds, who had undergone the procedure had died. No one, Librarian or otherwise, had taken the Butcher’s Nails into the meat of his mind and lived.

  But he would.

  The coalition of the Legion’s finest Apothecaries and Techmarines had laboured without rest since the discovery of their primarch to replicate the neural implants present in their lord as he had demanded. Design after design, prototype after proto-type, all had failed. Even the intervention of Vel-Kheredar, the prodigious magos of sacred Mars, had yet to produce a viable replication of the Nails. Until, it was hoped, now.

  A scattering of Iocare’s Legion kin had gathered to observe the procedure, arranging themselves in loose rows around the wide banks of armourglass outside the apothecarion. Their expressions were guarded, or hidden behind the marble-white faceplates of their helms. Iocare could sense the curiosity within his brothers, the expectation bleeding off their auras like a haze.

  The company’s centurion, however, was nowhere to be found. Mago’s absence was felt by all those present, a stark indication of his dissent against the transformation that Iocare was poised to undertake. Where the commander of the 18th saw recklessness and fatalistic folly, Iocare saw destiny. He saw the fulfilment of what their primarch demanded, that his sons be remade in his image. Iocare would become the bridge between the Legion and their lord, the father that refused to look at them as they were now. Especially those of the Librarius.

  Iocare would make their father see his Legion. He would make Angron see him.

  Reclined upon the cold surface of the surgical slab, Iocare watched with calm as a team of medicae servitors removed his armour and bound his limbs and torso with thick adamantium restraints. Their caution was a product of experience, as well as necessity. Despite the procedure having undergone countless iterations of design and implementation, the effect upon the subject was never the same, apart from death. None within the Legion knew exactly what would happen when this newest iteration of the Butcher’s Nails was implanted.

  Orchestrating the lobotomised slaves were representatives from both the Legion’s Techmarines and Apothecaries. Gahlan Surlak, who had taken the creation of a viable reproduction of the Nails as his own personal crusade, was absent, watching through the eyes of the servitors as he toiled alongside Vel-Kheredar on the newly rechristened Conqueror.

  Working in silence, the servitors quickly sheared Iocare’s head to the scalp and marked points of incision across his skull, all under the careful supervision of the Librarian’s specialised kin. His restraints were checked, and then checked again. A heavy brace was installed on either side of his head and neck to lock it into place. With the preliminary actions completed, the Apothecary Vaion came to Iocare’s side, the chamber’s harsh, sterile light gleaming from his ivory plate.

  ‘I am able to administer a sedative,’ said Vaion, raising his narthecium gauntlet and its array of injectors, ‘to render you unconscious, or apply a nerve block to the affected areas. It will not impact the implantation.’

  ‘No.’ Iocare met his brother’s gaze as he refused him.

  ‘There will be a considerable amount of pain,’ said Vaion.

  Iocare turned his eyes back to the ceiling. He answered in Nagrakali, the guttural tongue quickly supplanting Low Gothic as those born of Terra became increasingly outnumbered in the Legion’s ranks. ‘Pain is the purpose of the Butcher’s Nails. Pain is what made the primarch who he is. If the Legion is to succeed in forging unity with him, then it will be forged through pain.’

  Vaion gave a slow nod of acquiescence. ‘As you wish, Codicier.’ The Apothecary looked to Korit, and stepped aside as the Techmarine took his place, the specialised tools of his back-mounted servo arms thrumming as they came online. Iocare brushed against the thoughts of his kindred. Caution warred with expectation across Vaion’s aura, where a clinical calm permeated Korit’s.

  ‘Are you prepared?’ asked Korit, his voice harshened by the grille of his snarling crimson helm.

  Iocare closed his eyes, took a slow breath, and then opened them again. ‘Bring forth the hammer, my brother.’

  Vaion affixed his helm in place with a soft snap of magnetising seals. He turned to one of the tables surrounding the surgical slab, passing over the trays of neatly arranged instruments before stopping before an armoured box slightly larger than a legionary’s head. The Apothecary’s fingers tapped against the runes of the crate’s access panel, applying gene-code samples and disabling the array of security failsafes ensuring the contents arrived upon the Hound’s Tooth without any chance of being tampered with. As the final lock cycled open, Vaion turned to Korit and waited.

  A shadow fell across Iocare’s face as the Techmarine loomed over him, a giant of deep-red armour framed by buzzing mechanical limbs and twitching mechadendrites. The restrained aura coating Korit’s mind crystallised into absolute focus in Iocare’s second sight as he made ready for the first incision. A beam of emerald light leapt out from the cluster of lenses on the left side of Korit’s helm, perfectly aligning the movement of his foremost servo arms to the path of the targeting laser as it settled over the Librarian’s brow.

  ‘We shall now proceed,’ rumbled Korit. ‘Mark the time.’

  ‘Acknowledged,’ replied Vaion. The sound of a surgical saw spinning to life eclipsed all sound within the apothecarion.

  The sharp buzzing whine of the saw tickled at Iocare’s inner ear. As it made contact with his flesh, the sound grew lower, softer, wetter. His left eye twitched as a fine mist of his own blood dappled his face. The air was filled with the hot metallic richness of transhuman vitality. The initial sting of the cut came and went, overtaken by a migraine grind as the mono-molecular cutting blade sliced its way through genhanced ­muscle and ate into the World Eater’s reinforced skull.

  Previous prototypes of the Nails had run the gamut of entry points for affixing the implants to the subject’s brain. Substantial progress had been made with a model that had attached itself at the temples, but it had been discarded with the others after once more it had ended in failure, and more dead or blood-maddened World Eaters had been cast into the incinerators of the 203rd Expeditionary Fleet.

  The iteration being tested on Iocare was a wholly new concept, a fan-like curve of dark iron and snaking sub-dermal connectors designed to be clamped over the front of the brow like a crown. Vaion lifted the device from its container, bringing it beside the table as Korit withdrew his saw-tipped ser
vo arm, dripping with dark Legiones Astartes blood.

  ‘Principal incision complete,’ said Korit flatly. ‘Prepare for installation.’

  Vaion leaned over Iocare, his hands working in an ordered dance. The flesh around the incision was pulled clear and pinned back, with any excess blood suctioned away by a tool in the Apothecary’s gauntlet. Time was a factor, due to a Space Marine’s rapid healing ability, and so they worked swiftly. Vaion reached for a table beside him, turning back to the slab with a glittering steel spreader in each hand. He pressed the instruments into the wide fissure carved into the Codicier’s skull, locking them into place before ratcheting them to slowly stretch the opening wider. Transhuman bone creaked as it was pulled apart, exposing the glistening pinkish-grey mass of Iocare’s brain.

  The pain escalated, a white-hot bloom starting at his brow and cascading down his entire being. A legionary’s transhuman physique was designed to curb such trauma, dulling even the most catastrophic of injuries. Even without the systems of his power armour, Iocare’s body could secrete chemical pain suppressants and combat narcotics directly into his bloodstream, numbing his nerves and keeping the warrior’s focus on the fight.

  Iocare prevented such reactions from occurring, with a will born of an inhuman discipline and control over his body. The Librarian took in all of the agonised sensation, allowing it to slash across his nervous system in jagged waves. He relished it as a kind of purifying torment, one that would push him from one state of being into the next.

  ‘Installation site prepared to optimum specifications,’ murmured Vaion as he took up the Nails in his hands. ‘Proceed with first phase of device installation.’

  Korit extended a mechadendrite from his helm towards the Butcher’s Nails, its trio of probes slotting into the device’s connection ports with a series of sharp clicks. The implant seemed to come alive then, with tiny lights winking in silent sequence along its length, and the sub-dermal connectors dangling from it ­snapping taut under the Techmarine’s control.

  Vaion lowered the Nails over Iocare’s skull, just shy of touching it. Korit lifted his left hand, the wrist rotating and the fingers making short, sharp movements in the air. The connectors moved in concert to his haptic control, each needle-tipped cable settling over an exact spot of Iocare’s brain before plunging down into the meat.