Horus Rising by Dan Abnett

structure to the duties expected of you. You should prepare yourself to spend more time with the command staff, and function at the Warmaster’s side. Have you a proxy in mind to oversee the Tenth in your absence?’
    ‘Yes, Horus,’ Loken said.
    ‘Vipus?’ Torgaddon smiled.
    ‘I would,’ Loken said, ‘but the honour should be Jubal’s. Seniority and rank.’
    Aximand shook his head. ‘Second lesson. Go with your heart. If you trust Vipus, make it Vipus. Never compromise. Jubal’s a big boy. He’ll get over it.’
    ‘There will be other duties and obligations, special duties…’ Abaddon said. ‘Escorts, ceremonies, embassies, planning meetings. Are you sanguine about that? Your life will change.’
    ‘I am sanguine,’ Loken nodded.
    ‘Then we should mark you in,’ Abaddon said. He stepped past Loken and waded forward into the shallow lake, away from the light of the lamps. Aximand followed him. Torgaddon touched Loken on the arm and ushered him along as well.
    They strode out into the black water and formed a ring. Abaddon bade them stand stock-still until the water ceased to lap and ripple. It became mirror-smooth. The bright reflection of the rising moon wavered on the water between them.
    ‘The one fixture that has always witnessed an induction,’ Abaddon said. ‘The moon. Symbolic of our Legion name. No one has ever entered the Mournival, except by the light of a moon.’
    Loken nodded.
    ‘This seems a poor, false one,’ Aximand muttered, looking up at the sky, ‘but it will do. The image of the moon must also always be reflected. In the first days of the Mournival, close on two hundred years ago, it was favoured to have the chosen moon’s image captured in a scrying dish or polished mirror. We make do now. Water suffices.’
    Loken nodded again. His feeling of being unnerved had returned, sharp and unwelcome. This was a ritual, and it smacked dangerously of the practices of corpse-whisperers and spiritualists. The entire process seemed shot through with superstition and arcane worship, the sort of spiritual unreason Sindermann had taught him to rail against.
    He felt he had to say something before it was too late. ‘I am a man of faith,’ he said softly, ‘and that faith is the truth of the Imperium. I will not bow to any fane or acknowledge any spirit. I own only the empirical clarity of Imperial Truth.’
    The other three looked at him.
    ‘I told you he was straight up and down,’ Torgaddon said.
    Abaddon and Aximand laughed.
    ‘There are no spirits here, Garviel,’ Abaddon said, resting a hand reassuringly against Loken’s arm.
    ‘We’re not trying to ensorcel you,’ Aximand chuckled.
    ‘This is just an old habit, a practice. The way it has always been done,’ Torgaddon said. ‘We keep it up for no other reason than it seems to make it matter. It’s… pantomime, I suppose.’
    ‘Yes, pantomime,’ agreed Abaddon.
    ‘We want this moment to be special to you, Garviel,’ Aximand said. ‘We want you to remember it. We believe it’s important to mark an induction with a sense of ceremony and occasion, so we use the old ways. Perhaps that’s just theatrical of us, but we find it reassuring.’
    ‘I understand,’ Loken said.
    ‘Do you?’ Abaddon asked. ‘You’re going to make a pledge to us. An oath as firm as any oath of moment you have ever undertaken. Man to man. Cold and clear and very, very secular. An oath of brothership, not some occult pact. We stand together in the light of a moon, and swear a bond that only death will break.’
    ‘I understand,’ Loken repeated. He felt foolish. ‘I want to take the oath.’
    Abaddon nodded. ‘Let’s mark you, then. Say the names of the others.’
    Torgaddon bowed his head and recited nine names. Since the foundation of the Mournival, only twelve men had held the unofficial rank, and three of those were present. Loken would be the thirteenth.
    ‘Keyshen. Minos. Berabaddon. Litus. Syrakul. Deradaeddon. Karaddon. Janipur.