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