MLP 30K: Rebel Dawn

Luna quickly shuts the door and takes a breath, sucking the misty vapours from the humid evening air to provide some modicum of calm. But all too soon, the peaceful sensation flees from her with a single insistent whisper in the back of her skull.

Not now, I have enough of a headache.

She thought mostly to herself, though the essence of her irritation still seeped out as a low harrumph. She'd only just finished dealing with Neighsay, there's about a dozen letters to write and more than a few events to plan. Yet the moment she'd turned her back on the moss covered doorway, somepony else was clamouring for her attention.

And this one seemed insistent as it bubbles up with a note of irritation.

Taking a quick breath and keeping her hooves spread wide enough to support her in her dozy-state, she closes her eyes and lets her consciousness drift. A familiar dark dreamscape confronts her. The tapestry of falling dreams and star-spun consciousness in the dark suddenly seems inconsequential next to the familiar cold orb burning on the horizon.

She approaches the pulsing incandescent sphere, and the voice hits her like a hammer.

“You have been ignoring me, Little Moon. I have been patient, but there is something I want you to see. Something I wish you to hear, and know, so that you may understand the measure of my resolve. For your actions against Erebus, against the warp-spawned beasts-”

“Horus?” She asks aloud, but if he hears her, he certainly isn't listening. The Lupercal's voice is sharp, irritated, and commanding. It brooks no disobedience, no delay, as hard as rock and impersonal as unforged iron.

“For your assistance, this is a measure of my gratitude, let there be no mistake that you are in my confidence.”

“Just let me get back ho-”

And through the glint of a hazy orb she glimpses another half-dream. And what she sees steals the breath from her lungs.

The world that made itself known to her was little but a blur of moving shapes and vivid light, interspersed by a chorus of indistinct voices. A rhythmic thrum shivers through her frame, deep and basal like the heartbeat of the world. The sickly unnatural scent of oils and an acrid stink assaults the princess, though something whispers that they were 'exhaust fumes' and 'machine oil.'

And after a blink she knew she wasn't in Canterlot.... or Equestria.

She was at the back of some cavernous hold, seated in a high backed throne of obsidian presiding over what could only be called an unnatural host in some great throne room ripped from the pits of Tartarus. Around her is an impenetrable mass of giants, insectoid creatures, masked horrors, armoured denizens, robed scribes, and emaciated forms clutching golden fetish staffs stretching as far as the eye could see while bathed in the light of unnatural green radiance or backlit by a myriad of sickly, cold, and unfamiliar stars. All gather in a wide circle dozens deep radiating away from the black throne's raised dais.

At the foot of the throne, clad in a rainbow assortment of cloaks and plumes, are five figures that stand facing her.

No. Facing him.

“Horus?”

Her mind quickly puts the pieces together, and her blood seems to freeze as she sees visages of her friend so clearly etched on that of three of them. Blue eyes, green, grey... that wasn't right. No gold. None were like him. But they had to be related, his 'vaunted' sons. A strange feeling stirs in her breast at that, like ruffled feathers.

Silence.

The voice in her head booms loudly, sharp but not intrinsically unkind.

“Vakt boldi, Malek.” A wet and rasping voice wheezes from nearby, hidden in the lee of the throne. Luna catches a glimpse of the twisted form from the corner of her eye. It's bent awkwardly to one and heavily stooped, clutching a silver cane for support, and garbed in thick furs complete with a decapitated wolf head resting on its shoulder.

The words come out jumbled as a sound, but seem to decipher themselves in her head. 'It is time, my Lord.'

“So it is, Mal. So it is.” Comes the deep voice as it takes in a breath.

Horus grips the edge of the throne, looking over the congregation with an Imperious air quite at odds with the proud and jocular figure Luna had found in the depths of the dreamscape those months ago.

From the tilt of the chin, to the brooding silence, it felt like she was on stage. It was a role. A play, even if it was an unfamiliar one.

Her courts were cold, pretend, as much for obligatory show as efficacy. Canterlot's halls were abandoned at midnight and left to the skeleton troop of required guards attending her on most nights, leaving the Evening Court in utter silence. The intangible court of Night in her subjects dreams always yielded more than sitting aloof and proper in her subservient throne in Canterlot Castle.

This was not like her court. This wasn't like it at all. She could only watch as the jostling crowds knelt or saluted with arms crossed over breasts or raised in the air. It was a marvelous sight, both terrible and radiant as her heart skips a beat.

And thus Horus spoke.

“My sons. My friends. My compatriots in this, our Great Crusade. Upon this momentous day, I welcome you all.”

A shiver courses through her frame. Unlike her sister who was afforded a deep and abiding respect and obedience through love and affection, she sees a sea of flinty steel staring up in a mixture of fear and unrestrained awe.

“For those of you occupied in your respective war zones, for your obedience you have my gratitude. I promise, I shall not take up too much of your time.”

Horus makes a show of panning his gaze across the innumerable cohort, eyes meeting many as thronging clusters of the lesser beings could only look down instead of meet his gaze. But when they find his sons, they only stand taller and more pronounced.

“I am sure some of you have heard rumors and whispers of our deployments over these past few months since the fight on Davin. I will say now what I said then, Erebus, a commander of the Word Bearers did indeed turn on us with the intent to commit murder. To compound these problems, our enemy has dispatched a call to the Emperor's Custodian Guard, claiming wrongdoing on the part of Primarch Magnus the Red of Prospero, and his legion.” He draws a long and dramatic sigh, moderating his voice to a disappointed dirge, “To this end, a censure force is being assembled under Leman Russ and Constantin Valdor as we speak. Can you confirm this, Consul Kurn?”

One of the wavering ghostly apparitions flickers from among the second elevated row of insubstantial forms appearing like a Pegasi choir. He's a brute of a man, even in his spectral blue form, grim faced with markings under his eye and down his neck with a Zebraic plume of hair. After an awkward pause, like some spectral communion, he bobs his head, “Yes, Warmaster. It is as you say, the censure fleet mustering in the Beta-Garmon cluster is currently underway.”

Horus nods, apparently satisfied as Luna hears the scratch of quills on parchment in the background. She dares not blink, she dares not even break concentration. Something about it felt too pressing. Too important.

“What do my sons say regarding the serpents within the legions?”

“Kill them!” The outburst is swift and vicious, spat like venom from the pulled back lips of the largest of the five at the base of the throne. While Kurn was broad and barbaric from afar, Luna wanted to rear her head back at the bitter vitriol as a massive warrior took a step forward.

“Is that so, Ezekyle?”

He looks like Horus, but wrothful, green-eyed, blood red top knot swaying as he placed an armoured foot on the bottom step of the throne. “They deserve death. The same fate as all who oppose us. They deserve nothing short of what Temba got, what all of them on Davin got! We shouldn't be sniffing around the void like a dog. If we're not going to go for the throat and head to Colchis and drag Lorgar out by his neck, we keep going and close in and get Erebus!”

“What of Magnus, Abaddon?” another of the five asks in a stoic drone, stately and strong jawed, but with a short mop of a blond mane. “If the Word Bearers put something else into action, surely there's a reason for it.”

The hulking Abaddon curls his lip in contempt, “What about him? It's a feint, Loken. We're obviously closing the noose. We keep going.”

“Commander,” Another speaks up, so close to Horus and Abaddon both. The only difference was his blue eyes, and the constant edge of a frown flitting at the edges of his face.

“Speak, Aximand.” Horus waves with a small gesture that tells him to rise and look him in the eye.

Aximand evidently does, looking up towards his primarch. “Any involvement between the sixth and fifteenth legions is going to end in disaster, whether or not it's related to us. If you contact Russ, perhaps you can dissuade him, or at least buy us time to reposition a force of observers to the system.”

“A personal touch to my brother might be personally appreciated, but it will do little. And I will not bow to leashed dogs to plead my case. This is a foregone conclusion: the writ of censure has been drafted, and Captain-General Valdor is not the type to let paperwork go to waste.” A mirthless smile forms on Horus's lips, Luna can practically feel the sensation of her own muzzle forming into the same fanged grin she tried to let go in the ruins of the Everfree Castle not so long ago.

The golden-haired Loken looks over to his grim counterpart, “If we are closing in on Erebus, we won't need much, a battlecruiser squadron and no more than two companies should be more than enough to destroy him or bring him to justice. We could turn the fleet around and be at Prospero before any ship from Beta-Garmon can interfere. That way we can at least ensure the edict is properly followed.”

“Mal?” Horus looks to his left, glancing at the withered wolf-cloaked figure.

Maloghurst's twisted and scarred face comes into full view as he nods, lower face hidden by a metal grill where a lattice of scar tissue forms around his cheeks and ruined nose. “Assuming the warp doesn't present any unexpected complications, Loken is correct: we would reach Prospero via the Ryza warp corridor in five to six weeks. It would take at least seven from Beta-Garmon.”

“And if Erebus has some fortress world or other allies? Then what?” Abaddon spits, “We waste our chance at taking his head and lose more legionnaires? We're already stretched thin!” The hulking warrior points to the spectral blue form of apparently absent figures.

“Not half as much as the White Scars, Imperial Fists, or Iron Warriors.” Loken replies, getting a growl of disapproval.

A forth of the quintet, a black haired figure with a long face merely looks up with a bit of a squint. “I think I agree with Abaddon, Garvi.” He has a faint lilt, and even a shadow of a smirk. Holding up a hand to forestall a reply, the smirk broke into a firm grin, “I know, I know, it surprised me too. But there's no way we can just let Erebus slip the net like this, and we still have more forces than we need as a whole. Why not let the Judicature, the Tyrannis, and a few battalions keep up the hunt for Erebus, then take the rest of our forces under the Spirit and skip back to Prospero?”

There's no real objection, at least not for a few moments. Horus holds up a hand, growling, “I feel the hand of the ship upon me, Tarik. It wouldn't be right to have someone else hunt Erebus in my absence. No one fights my battles for me. No one.”

“Commander,” The blue-eyed son chimes, “surely we've entered the realm of Ultramar. This is the thirteenth legion's problem as well. Surely we could gather any necessary support from them while still prosecuting the hunt for Erebus. Any major incident between the sixth and fifteenth could be disastrous for us all, and if the Word Bearers did it, there must be a reason they set them on a collision course.”

“It's because Russ is a single minded mutt, and his commanders are even worse.” Abaddon snorts in derision, missing a faint glimmer of disapproval from Horus himself. “They did it because they knew it'll end in a fight-”

“That we should be trying to prevent if at all possible.” Loken replies, looking over at the unspeaking fifth member of the group, and then the grim-faced Aximand. “It's our responsibility, we are the Warmaster's legion.”

“They'll listen to us.” Aximand nods, glancing between Abaddon and Loken.

“Tybalt,” Horus starts, “you've been quiet.”

Luna's direction is focused on the fifth. He's tall, gaunt, eyes downcast. But as he glances up, she finds herself looking into eyes she's seen before. They're green, bright, and alive. The pain is still there, but so is a strength of will to meet Horus's own. He looks like Horus, though from what she sees, a faint hairline is growing in. She recognizes him from last time, and she stares in shock at the now embossed silver lines on his armour.

They were fashioned into her cutie mark and rendered to exacting perfection.

His voice is sharp, higher than the others, save Aximand. “Erebus must be held accountable, and he must be held accountable by you. But the Thousand Sons can not be abandoned, or Erebus will have won a victory that we may not fully understand: we must deny him both, Commander.”

It felt... practiced? Something wasn't quite right, perhaps because it came without pause.

Horus nods, and rises to his feet. Looking over the crowd, his gravely bass rocks the assembled throng of countless hundreds, “I, by my supreme authority as Warmaster, do hereby declare Erebus of Colchis, as well as the Serrated Sun chapter of the seventheenth legion, and all forces found to be in collusion with them to be traitors to the Imperium. Furthermore, all members and representatives of the seventeenth legiones astartes are now subject to censure. They will be brought into custody at any and all opportunity, and those that resist are to be treated as enemy combatants. This is my will. Near and far, to the exclusion of all other orders, my word is inviolate.”

Some of the assembly whisper among themselves, but most merely listen as Horus peers over the massing congregation.

“There will come a day of reckoning, and it will be soon. Very soon. All forces of the legion will muster at the world of Ryza in Segmentum Ultramar. Iacton Qruze.” Horus waits for just a moment as an aged looking giant steps forward from among the front ranks of his kind. Spotting the wizened warrior, Horus continues. “For your valor and duty, you shall take command of the Magna Tyrannis, the flagship of the Ryza mission. It is yours.” he nods before looking at the unhappy looking face of Abaddon.

“My First Captain, you are to be my rod of authority. The forces gathered to Ryza shall be yours to command, with the express purpose of the protection of the Prosperine system, subordinate to no-one; neither Primarch nor Princeps of Terra. If the censure fleet makes a move in anger, in defiance of you, then you shall respond with an iron fist. This is my will. Maloghurst, you shall act as the emissary to deliver this warning to any and all that oppose us.”

The scribbling sounds and surprised whispers from the crowd do little to stop the primarch from descending his throne as he snatches an immense mace, his symbol of authority. Presenting it like a sceptre, he points it at the crowd, “I shall see to the persecution of our enemy myself. And to this end, I shall take with me the second, fifth, eleventh, eighteenth, nineteenth, forty-second, and sixty-fifth companies with me aboard the Vengeful Spirit. My pursuit fleet shall also take the Judicature, The Lupercal Pursuvient, the Cthonic Dawn, and the Black Wolf squadron. Princeps Turnet,” he addresses a lean, black clad figure with a skull for a face. Seeing eyes in empty sockets look up at him, the Lupercal continues, “You shall transfer your battle group to the Magna Tyrannis, but I wish you to detach a demi-maniple of your titans to accompany my command. We shall continue on in our pursuit of Erebus. This is my decree.”

“You're not coming with us?” Abaddon asks, genuinely surprised as a crooked raised brow marred his usually sharp features.

“No, but I will meet you at Prospero as soon as we have reached our destination and completed our task.”

“Where's that?” The First Captain snaps right back.

Horus merely grins, “That is for me to know.”

'Manatax?' Luna asks quietly, and in a flash, she hears the reply.

You have two weeks.

The thunder of applause came out from the tiny vox bead as a cataclysmic rasp of white noise. Echoes of the Warmaster's voice would be ringing through the upper corridors of the vessel, broadcast to the cantinas of the remembrancers and iterators near the end of the concourse. But in the deep and dreadful rotted core of the aged void-craft, among the twisting steel labyrinths and tangles of immense cables and conduit lines, he listened.

Through closed eyes, he saw more than they ever would.

The wafting vapours of decay mingles with machine oil and lubricant. The sickly concoction festers on contact with the air, then drips from corroded pipe fittings in the narrow blind chamber. A single figure, dressed in grey fatigues squats in the middle of the floor, listening in as a ring of candles around him wheezes and flickers every time the mag-lift rushes by beneath them, sending gusts of wind through the acid-pocked floor and through the crude plasteel grating. He smiles a bit, showing teeth.

His eyes open slowly as he listens to the rhythmic machine clap on the other side of the vox-link. The man whispers to himself as he lays out a data-slate on top of a small innocuous grey ceramite case. It was a simple thing, not so different from a toolbox, and not hard to hide when nobody was looking for it. The man reaches out and lets his hand brush the uncomfortably cold plasteel box as the stasis field crackles and pops at his touch.

“What are you playing at, Lupercal?”

A wet voice burbles from behind him, choked by phlegm and masked in a machine-filtered rasp. "Orders?"

"No." The man sighs and lovingly pats the mostly unremarkable case, "Not yet."