Free Horus Rising by Dan Abnett Page B

high status of these three men, but he also hadn’t expected the induction to be so ritualistic.
    Horus Aximand, Captain of Fifth Company, was the youngest and shortest of them, shorter than Loken. He was squat and robust, like a guard dog. His head was shaved smooth, and oiled, so that the lamp-light gleamed off it. Aximand, like many in the younger generations of the Legion, had been named in honour of the commander, but only he used the name openly. His noble face, with wide-set eyes and firm, straight nose, uncannily resembled the visage of the Warmaster, and this had earned him the affectionate name ‘Little Horus’. Little Horus Aximand, the devil-dog in war, the master strategist. He nodded greeting to Loken.
    Ezekyle Abaddon, first captain of the Legion, was a towering brute. Somewhere between Loken’s height and Torgaddon’s, he seemed greater than both due to the cresting top-knot adorning his otherwise shaved scalp. When his helm was off, Abaddon bound his mane of black hair up in a silver sleeve that made it stand proud like a palm tree or a fetish switch on his crown. He, like Torgaddon, had been in the Mournival from its inception. He, like Torgaddon and Aximand both, shared the same aspect of straight nose and wide-spaced eyes so reminiscent of the Warmaster, though only in Aximand were the features an actual likeness. They might have been brothers, actual womb brothers, if they had been sired in the old way. As it was, they were brothers in terms of gene-source and martial fraternity.
    Now Loken was to be their brother too.
    There was a curious incidence in the Luna Wolves Legion of Astartes bearing a facial resemblance to their primarch. This had been put down to conformities in the gene-seed, but still, those who echoed Horus in their features were considered especially lucky, and were known by all the men as ‘the Sons of Horus’. It was a mark of honour, and it often seemed the case that ‘Sons’ rose faster and found better favour than the rest. Certainly, Loken knew for a fact, all the previous members of the Mournival had been ‘Sons of Horus’. In this respect, he was unique. Loken owed his looks to an inheritance of the pale, craggy bloodline of Cthonia. He was the first non-’Son’ to be elected to this elite inner circle.
    Though he knew it couldn’t be the case, he felt as if he had achieved this eminence through simple merit, rather than the atavistic whim of physiognomy.
    ‘This is a simple act,’ Abaddon said, regarding Loken. ‘You have been vouched for here, and proposed by great men before that. Our lord, and the Lord Dorn have both put your name forward.’ ‘As have you, sir, so I understand,’ Loken said. Abaddon smiled. ‘Few match you in soldiering, Garviel. I’ve had my eye on you, and you proved my interest when you took the palace ahead of me.’
    ‘Luck.’
    ‘There’s no such thing,’ said Aximand gruffly.
    ‘He only says that because he never has any,’ Torgaddon grinned.
    ‘I only say that because there’s no such thing,’ Aximand objected. ‘Science has shown us this. There is no luck. There is only success or the lack of it.’
    ‘Luck,’ said Abaddon. ‘Isn’t that just a word for modesty? Garviel is too modest to say “Yes, Ezekyle, I bested you, I won the palace, and triumphed where you did not,” for he feels that would not become him. And I admire modesty in a man, but the truth is, Garviel, you are here because you are a warrior of superlative talent. We welcome you.’
    ‘Thank you, sir,’ Loken said.
    ‘A first lesson, then,’ Abaddon said. ‘In the Mournival, we are equals. There is no rank. Before the men, you may refer to me as “sir” or “first captain”, but between us, there is no ceremony. I am Ezekyle.’
    ‘Horus,’ said Aximand.
    ‘Tarik,’ said Torgaddon.
    ‘I understand,’ Loken answered, ‘Ezekyle.’
    ‘The rules of our confratern are simple,’ Aximand said, ‘and we will get to them, but there is no