False Gods by Graham McNeill Page A

remainder of the Mournival did likewise, guiltily standing to attention before the commander. The dark complexioned woman with the black hair and fanciful dress stood at his side, and though she was tall for a mortal, she still only just reached the lower edges of his chest plate. She stared at them in confusion, no doubt wondering what she had just seen.
    ‘Are your companies ready for battle?’ demanded Horus. ‘Yes, sir,’ they chorused.
    Horus turned to the woman and said, ‘This is Petronella Vivar of House Carpinus. She is to be my documentarist and I, unwisely it seems now, decided it was time for her to meet the Mournival.’
    The woman took a step towards them and gave an elaborate and uncomfortable looking curtsey, Horus waiting a little behind her. Loken caught the amused glint concealed behind his brusqueness and said, ‘Well are you going to introduce us, sir? She can’t very well chronicle you without us can she?’
    ‘No, Garviel,’ smiled Horus. ‘I wouldn’t want the chronicles of Horus to exclude you, would I? Very well, this insolent young pup is Garviel Loken, recently elevated to the lofty position of the Mournival. Next to him is Tarik Torgaddon, a man who tries to turn everything into a joke, but mostly fails. Aximand is next. “Little Horus” we call him, since he is lucky enough to share some of my most handsome features. And finally, we come to Ezekyle Abaddon, Captain of my First Company.’
    ‘The same Abaddon from the tower at Ullanor?’ asked Petronella, and Abaddon beamed at her recognition.
    ‘Yes, the very same,’ answered Horus, ‘though you wouldn’t think it to look at him now.’
    ‘And this is the Mournival?’
    ‘They are, and for all their damned horseplay, they are invaluable to me. They are a voice of reason in my ear when all around me is confusion. They are as dear to me as my brother primarchs and I value their counsel above all others. In them are the humours of choler, phlegm, melancholia and sanguinity mixed in exactly the right amount I need to keep me on the side of the angels.’
    ‘So they are advisors?’
    ‘Such a term is too bland for the place they have in my heart. Learn this, Petronella Vivar, and your time with me will not have been in vain: without the Mournival, the office of Warmaster would be a poor thing indeed.’
    Horus stepped forward and pulled something from his belt, something with a long strip of parchment drooping from it.
    ‘My sons,’ said Horus, dropping to one knee and holding the waxen token towards the Mournival. ‘Would you hear my oath of moment?’
    Stunned by the magnanimity of such an act, none of the Mournival dared move. The other Astartes on the embarkation deck saw what was happening and a hush spread throughout the chamber. Even the background noise of the deck seemed to diminish at the incredible sight of the Warmaster kneeling before his chosen sons.
    Eventually, Loken reached out a trembling gauntlet and took the seal from the Warmaster’s hand. He glanced over at Torgaddon and Aximand either side of him, quite dumbfounded by the Warmaster’s humility.
    Aximand nodded and said, ‘We will hear your oath, Warmaster.’
    ‘And we will witness it,’ added Abaddon, unsheathing his sword and holding it out before the Warmaster.
    Loken raised the oath paper and read the words the commander had written.
    ‘Do you, Horus, accept your role in this? Will you take your vengeance to those who defy you and turn from the glory of all you have helped create? Do you swear that you shall leave none alive who stand against the future of humanity and do you pledge to do honour to the XVI Legion?’
    Horus looked up into Loken’s eyes and removed his gauntlet, clenching his bare fist around the blade Abaddon held out.
    ‘On this matter and by this weapon, I swear,’ said Horus, dragging his hand along the sword blade and opening the flesh of his palm. Loken nodded and handed the wax seal to the Warmaster as he rose to his