In the Eyes of Men
by Falconwind
Chapter Three
The forest surrounding Horandrin was unnaturally quiet. In the distance, he could hear the calls of birds, hoping not to be heard. But where he stood, some miles from the fortress, the wind was silent, and the leaves even more still.
Horandrin moved off the path, into a clearing obscured by trees. Standing in the center, he composed himself, the world seemingly quieting further.
He dropped into a combat stance, his legs bent and his body ready to react. Grasping the hilt of his sword slowly, deliberately, he drew it forth from its sheath, the metal scrapping slightly as it emerged. The tip freed itself, and sharp ping resounded throughout the clearing. Grasping with the other hand, he set the sword before him, perfectly vertical.
His eyes glowed brightly, and he placed his imaginary foes around him. Without preamble, he struck out.
A sweeping downward blow cleaved a foe in half. He spun to block an imaginary blow to his head. His body responded instantly to his commands, faster and more graceful than any man. His limbs moved the massive sword in lightning-quick, intricate movements with flawless precision. He pivoted on his waist, bringing his sword down in a wide arc, decapitating yet another enemy as his body moved with his constant footwork. His muscles, no longer muscles, moved his armoured form in a manner that demonstrated his unnatural abilities.
He continued his practice for what seemed like hours. He stopped only when the sun had finally gone too low in the sky to keep the clearing lit.
Sheathing his sword, he sat on the grass, a large tree bearing his weight from behind. He'd been going about his practice for nearly seven hours straight. Horandrin no longer breathed, he not longer sweat, and no longer tired. This made him and his brethren among the best fighters in the galaxy, but for all that advantage on the battlefield, Horandrin would have given it up in a heartbeat, if only to feel that heartbeat. If only to feel the dampness of skin, the aching of lungs, and the soreness of muscle.
Instead, he felt nothing, and yet everything. He could tell the grass was below him, and the bark behind him. Each was easily identifiable, but distant. Horandrin would describe it as more like being told of sensations, rather than actually feeling them.
In the quiet dusk air, he thought lightly, almost daydreaming. Yet the things he thought of, were by no means to be taken lightly at all. The past, present, and future, all jockeyed for position in his mind, and each was awarded only a small amount of consideration.
Things were moving too fast, Horandrin realized. Despite his resolution to consider his actions more carefully than Ahriman, he realized that he had not done so. He had charged blindly ahead on a mere whim of a conclusion. It was true that he did not regret his using the Light of Revelation, but should he not have considered more deeply the impact that it would have on his Legion? He had confronted Daleon with the spell not a week later than his own self-casting.
And now, only a year later, he had behind him a significant number of his brethren. And only a year later, they were already restless, impatient.
Many of his Thousand Sons wanted to move soon, to strike, to march, to speak, to confront, anything. They wanted action, but Horandrin could not provide it.
The Thousand Sons had not been separated within itself like this since the Horus Heresy. They had been united in their belief in the Emperor, and broken when the Space Wolves attacked. Then, when they escaped into the void, the were once again united under a new banner; the banner of Tzeentch. And now, the Legion was divided again, but this time, one side was not yet aware of the other.
Horandrin, for all his power, could not predict the longevity of such ignorance, and this was a source of undying worry. Worry, for there was much left to do before they would be truly ready.
No one but himself knew of the problem that threatened to halt the redemption of the Thousand Sons. Though he would not admit it to anyone, not even Daleon, Horandrin had not the slightest idea how he was going to get his followers off the planet. For, such an endeavor would necessitate a spacecraft capable of traversing the vast distances of space. At present, they had exactly zero such vessels.
But Horandrin, for reasons of the slightest decency, could not bear to betray the trust vested in him by the many brothers that saw him now as their leader. He had not promised them blood, conquest, or the stars, but he had promised them a beginning. And the beginning that he had set into motion was coming to a premature end.
If Horandrin could not see his dream to its conclusion, then surely time would be the one to stop it.
Horandrin chuckled humourlessly at the thought. Time was what he needed, and what he didn't need. It was an odd bedfellow, both working for him and against him. On the one hand, more time would allow for more planning, more preparation. But on the other hand, the longer they waited, the higher the risks of their movement being discovered, and purged in a fashion perhaps befitting the Emperor himself.
He looked down, staring intently at the grass. Perhaps, he thought, this course of action was not such a good idea. Perhaps he should have waited longer, bided his time. He did not like the fact that he had thrust this situation upon his Legion. I should have taken more time before acting, he thought. Now it is too late to stop.
What you did was right. Was this his own thoughts? He could not tell whether the voice came from him, or another. If not now, then when? When would such a chance for change come again? How long would you be able to live with yourself if you saw your brethren in their imprisonment? Trapped within body, mind, and soul. Be proud, Horandrin.
"I am proud," he said to himself. "Proud of my brothers, who would follow me, as they follow their hearts."
Hearts that they owe you.
"They owe my nothing but gratitude. That is all. Their hearts are their own," he said standing.
A small smile would have crept onto Horandrin's face as he thought of the irony of the situation. Had he heard any man speaking of 'hearts' and 'gratitude' a few years ago, he'd most likely have laughed at him mockingly.
But the true insult was the fact that Horandrin lacked the one thing that could put them truly on their way. "Space is an ocean, and the warp is the wind. Without spacecraft, men can only float adrift with their fate in the hands of time. What do you think of that? That our voyage is cut short at the pier?" he asked the wind.
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"Where have you been?" Daleon asked, his voice betraying his irritation.
"Worried?" asked Horandrin, jokingly.
He crossed his arms, not amused. "Annoyed."
Horandrin continued into the fortress with Daleon fast behind. "And why so, Daleon?"
"The others have been talking. They are restless, Horandrin, surely you can see that. They want to act now, they want to prove to themselves that this is not a cruel trick or dream." Daleon walked past him and stood in his path. "Horandrin, they want freedom."
"If they move now, they will get death instead."
Daleon cast his glance to the floor, and then brought it back up to drill into Horandrin. "We cannot procrastinate any further," he growled, "we need to do something, anything. And if you will not-."
"Then you will?" Horandrin asked, dangerously.
Without so much as a breath, Daleon continued. "Then they will. On their own, without us."
Horandrin looked at Daleon intently. This was indeed serious. He sighed. "I apologise, Daleon. And I too wish we could move, but we are not able to."
"Why?"
Horandrin sighed once again, more wearily this time, and moved to step past.
Daleon remained in his way by moving also. "Horandrin," he said, deadly serious. "What are you not telling me? What re you keeping from us?"
Horandrin only stared back.
"You have spoken of your planning, your ideas for our departure, but you have not spoken of any of your conclusions... I too am not blind, Horandrin. I can only assume that you have not been able to figure out a way to leave this planet. Am I correct?"
Horandrin's silence was affirmation enough.
Daleon's green gaze fell to the floor. "I see... You should have told us, Horandrin."
"You understand, though, why I could not. I did not want to see those eyes, now alive and bright with hope, recede back to the monotony of before."
Daleon approached, and placed a hand on his shoulder. "These are dangerous times, my friend. Now, more than ever, we need to be unified. Part of that unity means sharing the burden of troubles. Too many times has pride doomed a man to a lonely death."
Horandrin nodded, but did not speak.
"Then I hope you will accept my help."
"I will. I should have asked, Daleon. It was stupid of me."
"Yes, it was. But at least I know now why we cannot act yet. To do so would be suicide."
"Yes, but let's speak of this further in private. These halls echo much too loudly for my comfort." Horandrin moved forward, and Daleon fell into step behind him.
Several turns later, they found themselves at the entrance to Horandrin's quarters once again. This time, however, a marine stood by the door.
"What business do you have at my doorstep?" questioned Horandrin, as he approached the marine. He was no more than curious, as he recognised him as one of his followers.
The marine bowed deeply. "Master Horandrin, I am Sergeant Braxton. I have been sent by the others to humblely request that you enlighten us to your plans."
Horandrin had heard of this particular sergeant before. From the parts of conversations that he'd heard, Braxton was quite a skilled warrior. However, this in itself was neither surprising nor unique; they were all exceptional fighters compared to any man. What set Braxton apart from the rest was his independant nature, which had been present even before his revelation. That was what Horandrin found interesting about him.
"Sergeant Braxton, if I wished my boots to be kissed, I'd call a Cultist to my side. I have no time for meaningless pleasantries." He opened the door. "Besides, it hardly befits a man of your reputation."
Horandrin held the door open. "Coming?"
Braxton cleared a non-existing throat. "Uh, yes."
Daleon fell into the couch, but Horandrin and Braxton both choose to stand.
"I've heard that the men are about to mutiny," Horandrin said.
"That's more accurate than you might think, sir. I would say that you must act quickly, or else you may lose control of them, sir."
"You speak wisely, sergeant," commented Daleon.
"It's simple common sense," replied Braxton. "I'm sure even you can see that."
"Did you just insult me, sergeant?"
"More of a small poke, sir. Shall I apologise?"
"Don't bother."
"Thank you, sir. I at least know that you aren't a stuck-up egotist."
At this Horandrin laughed. "All right, Sergeant, I believe you better stop before Daleon start crying."
This, of course, incited more laughter.
"This, gentlemen, is what living is about." His mirth quickly faded though. "But we must now work to keep ourselves alive. Sergeant Braxton, I expect you to convey what I am about to tell you to the rest of the men."
He nodded.
"We have a major problem, Sergeant Braxton. I would have mentioned it sooner, but I did not want to hurt the men. But I feel I must tell you now, if only to help you understand why we cannot escape as yet." He paused, thinking of the best way to break the news. "We do not have a means of leaving the planet."
"I know," replied Braxton.
"You know?" he asked, surprised. "Is it really that obvious?"
"Like I said, common sense. It seems to me, that it is the most difficult of our obstacles. We can sneak out of the fortress, or fight our way out. But even if we manage to get that far, it will all be pointless if we can't even get off this damn planet."
Horandrin nodded. "But that brings me to the reason that you'rte still here, in this room. Do you have any ideas on how we might find interstellar transport?"
"You mean a warp-capable spacecraft." It was a statement, rather than a question. "Off the top of my head, no. But perhaps something will come to me."
"I hope that it comes quickly. The sooner we get a solution, the sooner we can leave," commented Daleon. "I have been thinking, Horandrin. Stealing a thunderhawk is easy enough, thus, if we can have a ship in orbit, it would not be at all too difficult to get to them."
"But we don't have a ship, Daleon. And until we do, such plans are somewhat premature."
"Sirs, what if we were to go on a mission?" Braxton popped the question.
"What about it?"
"Well, sirs, if we were to go on a mission, we would obviously need transport off the planet. In other words, we would need a ship."
"But you forget, such a ship would be commanded by a captain loyal to the Legion, not us."
"I don't forget, Lord Daleon. Of coursee the captain would be loyal to the Legion, but he is a Cultist. He will obey orders without question, even ours."
Horandrin understood where the sergeant was going. "We simply must present ourselves as still loyal to the Legion as well, he will follow our orders, then."
"Exactly."
Daleon, though, realised yet another complication. "Both of us have the authority to lead small expeditions. You, sergeant, have even less authority. We are talking about a major undertaking; one hundred and ten space marines is quite an exodus."
"We need at least a destroyer, if we wish to take anything with us."
"No," Horandrin said. "I do not believe we can take much equipment with us. At least, nothing substantial. The more we bring, the more people we involve."
"I think, no matter what we do, we're going to be involving quiet a few people, sir."
"I will take an account of what resources we have among our men," offered Daleon. "Perhaps we have more authority as a whole, rather than individuals."
"Yes, that would be quite helpful, Daleon, thank you."
"Shall I ask for more opinions, Master Horandrin?"
"Yes, ask those you trust."
"Which brings me to another question, Master Horandrin. How is it that one hundred brothers of the Thousand Sons are able to turn from Tzeentch... I mean, I don't mean to be negative, but it seems a little unbelievable."
"It has been in the back of mind as well, sergeant. I have no answer for you, I'm afraid."
Daleon stood. "Admittedly, that is quite strange, but I take comfort in the fact that we have not heard of anything. We have quite a few bodies in quite a few places. We would have heard of any treachery by now."
"Well, one cannot be too careful. There is much at stake," reminded Horandrin.
"You need not remind me," Daleon complained.
"I was simply stating it to the wind."
"Sirs," interrupted Braxton, "I believe we have work to do."
"Indeed, we do, Sergeant." He opened the door. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I would like some privacy."
"Of course, Horandrin."
"Of course, sir."
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Okay, I think I'll end it here for now. Sorry, no action yet, but it seems this story is not going in the direction most WH40K fanfics do. I.E. Bloodbath after three paragraphs. Oh, darn.