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None of these warriors had even seen Cthonia, much less earned scars in its warrens. They were a mongrel brood pulled from the dark corners of a dozen worlds: Norane, Vortis, Manhansu, Cylor, Neo-geddon and other places forgotten before they were ever known. Gang killers, clan warriors, murder-cult dross. They were alike in only one way – they all had the capacity to survive what had been done to them. The Apothecaries and bio-adepts had begun their production in batches of tens of thousands.
‘My brother,’ said Perturabo softly, his eyes still on the flow of data, ‘is many things, and his flaws were always hidden by the praise heaped on him. Call him steadfast, and that is merely a lacquer given to blunt unreason. Loyalty in him is merely a need to belong. Nobility is the gilding to base pride…’ Forrix held himself still. He had not heard Perturabo talk of Rogal Dorn directly in years. ‘But the one thing my brother is not, is a fool.’
‘Because if there are arch-traitors and saints, then hope is their realm, the realm of cosmic change and slaughter and sorrow. They are the ones who will decide tomorrow, and if there are any tomorrows after that. We are human, Master Vek. Our lives only matter in quantity. We can dream and despair and cling on to what we have, but those things live only in us. Our hope is our own, and if the universe cares, it does so by accident. That is why people pray to the Emperor and call my old friend a saint. Because deep down, they know that they cannot change the great course of events.’
‘I know I need to do what I can. And yes, I believe… I believe that we are small, and that our dreams cannot change the stars. But sometimes our deeds can change the universe, even if it is only by accident. If you want to, you can find your hope in that.’
It was not just Dorn’s choices that were charged by duty, but his nature – his will a chain holding back a storm that could pour out and break the world.
