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rogators,' the girl says. 'I remember. I was one for a while too, you know?' The girl nods. 'I'm Keeler,' says Keeler. 'I know who you are, mam. I know what you are.' 'Do you? Throne, please tell me.' 'You're hope,' the girls says. 'Our hope in the Emperor and the cause of man. Sindermann told us that.' 'Did he?' 'He also told us not to believe everything you said.' 'Kyril's very wise...' 'But I don't see how we can't, not now,' the girl says. 'Not now. I think, mam, that's why I was upset when you said we should give up. If hope gives up-' 'I didn't mean that. What's your name?' 'Leeta Tang.' 'Why did you stop being an interrogator, Leeta?' 'I don't think I did, I just... it just seemed more important to do this.' Tang gestures wearily at the wagons. 'Besides,' she says with a shrug. 'Who wants to remember this?' 'Didn't Kyril tell you?' Keeler asks. 'Oh, yes. Some long and inspirational speech. Something Lord Dorn said. The, uh, the act of recording a history affirms that there will be a future in which people will read it. It's a profound act of optimism.' 'There you go,' says Keeler. Tang sighs. 'I still don't believe anyone will want to remember this,' she says. 'I agree, but things change,' says Keeler. 'I asked why you stopped interrogating and started hauling munitions because... because it shows that we alter according to necessity. Pulling shells to the front line is important. Was important. Maybe getting the helpless out of the kill-zones is more important now. That's not giving up hope, that's just pragmatic.' 'Do you still believe in a future?' Tang asks. 'I am trying to,' Keeler replies. She's thought about this often. 'I remember when I was with the expeditionary fleet. With... Horus. Throne, I can barely say his name. That was all about the future. We imagined the future, and it seemed so bright and inspiring. Now I struggle to imagine anything at all. But I want to imagine something. I need to. We all need to. If we imagine a future, the best version we can manage, then perhaps that's how we realise it. I don't think it will be so bright and inspiring now, but I think it can be better than this, this apparent... inevitability.' 'Everyone's just talking about nothing,' says Tang. 'Have you noticed that? Just, I don't know, phatic conversations among the damned and doomed. Just talking about nothing. At the start, it was all memories of the future... you know, "When this is over I'll go see my aunt and visit the Planalto or Antipo Hive again", or "I can't wait to see my brother"... But now it's all just the past. Like we're stuck. People don't even say I remember, they just talk about people who are probably dead, or people who are dead, as if they are alive. Like they're fossilising the past as something to cling on to...' She trails off. 'Or am I going mad?' 'No, I have noticed that,' says Keeler. 'And I noticed you said memories of the future just then.' 'Did I? I'm tired.' 'No, Leeta. I think we are stuck in the now. I fear we literally are. My chron stopped yesterday. Do you know what time it is? What day it is, even?' Tang shakes her head. 'I think we are invaded by more than just material violence,' says Keeler. 'I think we are invaded on a... metaphysical level. Time and place is warping, slowing down, getting stuck. A constant now, where the past is barely a memory, with no value at all, and the future is withheld. Someone once wrote, "the future has no other reality than as present hope."' 'Was it Master Sindermann?' Keeler laughs. 'No, but it's something he told me. It's a very old piece of writing. What I'm saying is that hope contains the future, and it's the one thing we have. More potent than a cartload of shells.' 'Is this where you tell me the Emperor has a plan?' 'Dear me, Kyril really did talk about me, didn't he?' 'Everyone is talking about you, mam.' 'All right then. I think He does have a plan, and it is contingent on us believing in it. Our hope in it, our faith in it, makes it happen. We are the plan and the plan is us. They are not separate things. The Emperor doesn't have a plan that, if we perish, will still come to fruition. The plan is us.' 'It's going to be hard to hold on to that idea,' says Tang. 'I know. It's not easy. Listen, some of the conclave have operational vox-units. If I can find one, maybe we can raise the forward positions. Inform them we're holding munitions here. Have your teams rest. Maybe pull the wagons to the side of the street so the crowds can move through.' Tang nods. 'The plan is really us?' she asks. 'It always has been,' says Keeler. Keeler and the pilgrim host on the Via Aquila. 1:xxi Fragments A marching Banelord Titan erupts in flames and falls, killing hundreds on the ground below. There are so many war engines in the advancing line, its loss is barely noticed. At the blast of a horn, 12th Austra Auxilia rises to the fire step. Twelve hundred loyalist soldiers in bowl helmets surge out of their lines and dugouts, and charge into the unknown. The unknown is probably their doom, but it is preferable to the trenches they are leaving behind, where every shadow whispered and sniggered at them. Defenders plunge from the huge bulwarks and curtain walls. Some are burning, and streak like comets into the smoke far below. It is impossible to tell if death has caused them to fall, or if they are falling to their deaths. In the Khat Mandu Precinct, not far from the Jade Bailey, Acastia, bondsman of House Vyronii and pilot of the Knight Armiger Elatus, walks alone. After the engine war hell at Mercury Wall, and the shattering of the great Titanicus formations, she has formed fealty ties with the Legio Solaria. A temporary pledge, she believes, an exigency troth. Princeps Abhani Lus Mohana needs all the engines she can get in her purview. And Acastia cannot walk alone. But she is alone. Effectively. Sections of Legio Solaria are spread thin across the precinct, and all the links are fettered by distortion and twitching interference. The scratching, intermittent wash of the noospherics is driving migraine scissors into her brain, and Elatus is skittish and thready, unable to scent others of its kind. The place is lonely and empty. Somewhere, according to the last reports, mass engine wars are raging in the southern Sanctum. The Great Mother of the Imperial Hunters is driving the bulk of her remaining Legio, along with five maniples, against the massed daemon machines near the funeral pyre of Bhab Bastion. Acastia can imagine the fury. But here it is silent. The vacant streets and creeping veils of smoke speak to her more of war's desolation than any frenzy of combat. This was the Palace. Not a palace. The Palace. Acastia surveys the deceitful patterns of the sensoria, the choppy flood of thermal tracks, electrostatic signals, motion tremblers. She adjusts her tactical abstracts and walks. Squalls of dark rain that could be oil or blood patter off the Armiger's cowling, off the smaragdine lacquerwork and the polished ivory. The pennants of her broken house, red and silver, swing lank from her weapon arms. A track lights. Acastia pans, and transmits an alert signal that she is sure no one will hear. Ahead, the 86K Ministration Building, its primary doorway open to the elements. She sees something move, something unreeve through the entrance like a mooring rope slipping through a boat's hawsehole. Like a serpent. She advances, weapons live. Thermal spears and chainblades. Autoguns. The munition hoppers read low, so she aims to make any kills blades-first. Her target bursts into the open, slamming through the broken doorway. It emerges, and then keeps emerging, a colubrine shape of pulsating meat and muscle with the girth of an Aurox armoured transport. It doesn't seem to stop coming. More and more of it extrudes from the entrance. The front half of it, pale and colloid, undulates across the wet ground towards her, and raises its head, a maggot-mouth, yawning like a lamprey's sphincter-maw, surrounded by lump-teeth. Fronds of tentacle sub-limbs writhe around the mouth, and lash at her. Her target-auspex refuses to lock it. The thing is huge and right there, but the noospherics waver, and the guns refuse to hard-lock. Tentacles whip out. They are tipped with bone harpagons. Acastia feels the heavy thumps as these organic grappling hooks strike the Armiger's hull, and puncture, and grip. She hears and feels the steel-and-ceramite-shod heels of Elatus screeching as the engine, against its will, is dragged across the rockcrete towards the gaping mouth. Blades it is, then. As the Palace convulses and dies, noise is everywhere and almost absolute. It is layered: the deep and constant booming of the mass weapons, the sledgehammer thump of the orbital batteries at the port of the Lion's Gate, the pounding of artillery, the horn-blast of engines, the thunder of the falling walls, the chatter and cackle of weapons, the screaming of the masses. The sounds combine and blend, becoming a constant, whirling vortex of noise, a steady roar, a breathless chirm. Millions caught inside the Palace-trap collapse from acoustic shock, or go mad and die. Some places, odd and eerie pockets, are mysteriously quiet. The Hall of Governance behind the Clanium Library is one of them. It appears to have been ransacked twice; once by the clerks and administrators in their haste to evacuate, and then by some unknown force that blasted through it like a winter gale. Fafnir Rann, lord seneschal of the Imperial Fists, advances through the stillness. His weapons are raised. With the surviving chiefs of the Huscarls, via patchy vox, he is attempting to engineer a defence of the north-east Sanctum approach. The hall is oddly silent. Papers scatter the floor. The paint peels, white flaked back to show arsenic-green primer. The varnish of the railings and banisters has buckled in a cracquelure that suggests intense heat. He leads Fi

rough it like a winter gale. Fafnir Rann, lord seneschal of the Imperial Fists, advances through the stillness. His weapons are raised. With the surviving chiefs of the Huscarls, via patchy vox, he is attempting to engineer a defence of the north-east Sanctum approach. The hall is oddly silent. Papers scatter the floor. The paint peels, white flaked back to show arsenic-green primer. The varnish of the railings and banisters has buckled in a cracquelure that suggests intense heat. He leads First Assault Cadre forward. Mizos and Halen have command of support cadres in the other wing of the building. They have, Rann estimates, ten minutes to secure the location and the plaza outside, and draw up double lines of Astartes and light armour, before the first of the traitors arrive. They're coming through Exultant Quarter, onto the Maxis Processional and the Avenue of Justice. Tracking suggests Death Guard and Iron Warriors, but Rann suspects the World Eaters and the Sons of Horus will lead the way, for, since the walls broke, they have been the most rapacious and the fastest-moving. In the next chamber, the old, foxed mirrors that once loomed over rows of rubricators at their desks are bleeding. It's probably rust, seeping out of the wall fixings. What else could it be? He checks his heads-up. Mapping shows one more chamber ahead before they reach the southern side of the building. There they can set up firing positions along the second-floor windows that will turn the plaza into a killing field. Mizos and Halen should shortly be in position. One of his men signals for him. Calodin, one of the newborn, accelerated through the progenitive programme into the ranks. He's studying the old mirrors. 'Leave it,' Rann instructs. 'My lord,' says Calodin. Rann goes to him. He sees the scarlet drips plinking off the edge of the mirror's frame onto the floor. He sees what so fascinates Calodin in the mirror. Rann is not in the reflection. Neither is Calodin, nor any of the men. Against the mirror's silvered tain, the room is clean. It is full of scriptorum desks, and cowled scribes working, and cogitators chattering out reams of data sheets, and servitors distributing files. The image moves, but it is silent. Rann raises an axe to smash the glass. As his blade comes up, the scribes in the reflection all turn and look at him. Their eyes are weeping blood. He sees what is behind them, the vague mass of swarming darkness and ash, the baleful eyes, the barracuda jaws, and he knows that what is behind the long-dead scribes in the reflection is actually behind him. He turns. The Neverborn laughs. The shooting starts. 1:xxii Last rite I am old. I am tired. I sit on the front pew of the wooden supplicant stalls to the right-hand side of the Golden Throne. I ease my limbs. I rest my staff against the stall beside me. The seats are old and tired too, their gold leaf cracked, their carved finials as bleached and smoothed as driftwood from exposure to the Throne's light. The motionless proconsuls, Uzkarel and Caecaltus, pay me no heed, for I am a part of this place to them, as much a feature of the realm they guard as the great dais and the tiles and the pillars. They are not the sort of guards or sentries that a senior of the court can have a passing conversation with. They are fixed in duty at a post-human pitch that is unsettling in its intensity, and allows no distraction. Such is the perfection of the weapons he has wrought. I had no hand in the Custodians. I take my seat and I wait. I have done all I can. I have stood at his side. I have called to him, urged him, requested that he answer. There has been no sign of a response. All I can do now is attend to other affairs of state while I wait. If a response ever comes. It must. It must! So, though I sit and wait in silence, for all sound is crushed this close to the Golden Throne, there is no silence inside me. Since I came to this place that others call the Throne Room hours ago, to stand watch at his side and plead with him to rouse and listen, my mind has also been at work elsewhere. A multitude of elsewheres. It is noisy inside my head: a thousand thousand thoughts, a host of ideas and concepts semantically condensed into sigils and symbols, the synchronised minutiae of an empire in crisis, a hundred concurrent farspoken conversations with seniors of the War Court or my diligent, labouring Chosen in various parts of the shrinking Palace. Simultaneously, I monitor a score of different charts and updating data-projections, I advise and command, I review every scintilla of the data that comes blizzarding at my mind and convert it into compressed packets of differentiated information, sorted by subject and priority, each one summarised by a sigil, sign or signifier in my mental inventory. The workings of the Imperium become a constellation of sigils in my brain. This is my life. This is how his Regent serves him. I am old. I am tired. I sit on this worn pew. There is still so much to be done, and I now appreciate that, if what I have predicted comes to pass, I will not live long enough to see it all finished. I divert a portion of my mind to the rapid preparation of a legacy; the compilation - hasty and clumsy, I am sorry to say - of the crucial yet soon-to-be-orphaned tasks I will have to delegate to my Chosen when the time comes. It will test them, but they will cope. That's why I chose them. One other task occupies me as I await his response. I intend to complete it myself. I won't leave it for others to finish after I'm gone. One part of my mind has, for the last few hours, been permanently linked to the cordoned Theatre of the Chirurgeons fifteen kilometres away from where I sit. I breathe. I close my eyes. I bow my head. My active conscious focus returns to that mental strand. I prepare to make another try. In my mindsight, I resolve the Theatre. There he lies, the Great Khagan, the Warhawk, broken in death. Just hours past, Jaghatai slew Mortarion in a humbling duel perhaps most remarkable because they were so unevenly matched and, unlike the treacherous Pale King, Jaghatai could not hope to come back from the dead. I look down at his face, his shuttered eyes, his cyanotic lips, as almoners wash and anoint his body, and a Stormseer administers his funerary rites. I smell the stink of salves and sterilising liquors. The Warhawk is dead, by any mortal standard. Because he fell so close by, just beyond the walls, his body was carried in at once, and placed on this catafalque in a balming field of catalepsean stasis and life-suspense. If he had died further out, or on another world, there would be no hope at all. But there is. For now and not much longer, an iota of necromimesis remains. The tattered banner of Jaghatai's soul, gusting into the warp, is still attached to his corpse by a single thread. I have determined this, and I have been trying, repeatedly in these last few hours, to draw it back. Every shred of healing science has been exhausted, for it is a matter quite beyond medicae lore. I have been ministering my anagogic craft to keep that thread attached. It is slow salvation. Each time I try, the attempt ends in failure, and I am forced to ease away. The Khan's soul will not survive a prolonged effort on my part. It frustrates and saddens me. It should be possible. I don't know why I can't save him. Perhaps even my will and warpcraft are not sufficient. Perhaps it is hubristic of me to presume I can act like a god and claim the power or right to bring a man back from death. Perhaps... perhaps Jaghatai is tired of the world and yearns to leave it. But I will try, and I will keep trying. If my lord's attention was not so occupied elsewhere, it's what he would be doing. It's what he'd want me to do. He would not see another son die. I bend my mind in again and resume the subtle psycho-surgery to keep Jaghatai's soul secure. And this time... this time, I am granted one merciful miracle. Anabiosis. It is demanding, even for me, but I gather the tattered, dancing shreds of Jaghatai's soul, and I draw them back in, folding them tenderly into the casket of his body. I exhale. The Warhawk will live. It will be days, weeks, perhaps months before his corporeal body heals and he awakens, but he will live. If any world remains to live upon. Then, at the very last, as I look down at what I have done, I realise I haven't done it at all. I couldn't. Such a feat was beyond me. It was shameful arrogance to believe I could do any such thing. I have not done this. Someone else has. Someone else has reached in past me and performed the deed, like the god he is not, but appears to be. Because someone else has stirred, and needs me, and does not want me distracted by other matters. I look up, eyes wide open. Proconsul Caecaltus is looming over me like a golden titan in his Aquilon plate. He is reaching down to nudge my arm and wake me. 'I'm here! I'm awake, my boy!' I splutter, heaving myself upright. He tries to steady me and help me up. 'I can do it!' I tell him. A proconsul of the Hetaeron does not leave his place except under the most exceptional circumstances. 'Regent-' he says, with the sort of voice a mountain would have if it could speak. 'I know! I know! I know!' I insist. I clutch my staff with numb fingers, and hobble past him, out of his immense shadow into the light that casts it. The golden king upon the Golden Throne seems just as still and silent as he was before. But I know he is present, his mind swung open and directed at me. It is a terrifying feeling. 'Forgive me that I called upon you,' I say. 'I would not disturb you in your work. But it's time. The clocks run out.' He nods. His voice is suddenly inside my head. It says, I cannot fight alone. 1:xxiii Mindsight I cannot fight alone. In those four words, he tells me everything. I am lost for words of my own. The implication, the intent, is shocking. It was what I hoped

ilent as he was before. But I know he is present, his mind swung open and directed at me. It is a terrifying feeling. 'Forgive me that I called upon you,' I say. 'I would not disturb you in your work. But it's time. The clocks run out.' He nods. His voice is suddenly inside my head. It says, I cannot fight alone. 1:xxiii Mindsight I cannot fight alone. In those four words, he tells me everything. I am lost for words of my own. The implication, the intent, is shocking. It was what I hoped and wanted to hear, but what it signifies petrifies me. It means his assessment matches mine. This is the end. We stand upon a precipice so sheer, that only actions of true, last resort are possible. A war that forces him to fight is a war that no one should have begun. His words resound inside my skull. All I can think is that, from this point on, it will be bloody and costly and messy. He will have a plan already, because he always has a plan, and he will take me through it soon enough, and ask for my advice and wisdom. But whatever form it takes, it will be gruelling and difficult, even for him, each step back from the brink as hard as the next. 'Of course you can't,' I say. 'Of course you can't fight alone.' I turn aside, and begin preparations at once. I must summon those who need to be part of this. Once they are alerted, and on their way to join us, he can lay out his strategy for me. He needs instruments to brandish torches and keep the darkness at bay as it comes at him from every angle. Who still lives that he can place such trust in? My mindsight spreads wide, across all that remains visible. I look for his sons. I look for our last allies. Let them be revealed. There! The first, closest to us yet likewise far away. Far beneath the Throne, in the looping neverness of the webway. His name is Vulkan. I would say he is singular, though each of my lord's sons is singular in his own fashion. Upon Vulkan, my master bestowed a special part of himself. Vulkan is the only one of the primarch sons who inherited his father's aeviternal nature. My master is eternal, and so is Vulkan. It is a trait, in fact, they share with me. Thus, Vulkan lives, and Vulkan dies, and Vulkan lives again. To Vulkan, my master entrusted enduring continuity, the courage to keep the flame alive. Vulkan is athanasy embodied. Vulkan has not failed his father. Not ever. And it has cost him too many lives and deaths already. I see him, deep in the webway, hammer in hand, trudging homeward to take his place at the gate beneath the Throne. Tears spring to my eyes at the mindsight of him. He is but a charred skeleton, a burned ecorche in an anatomist's dissecting lab, crusted ribbons of flesh broiled to his cracked bones, refusing to die, trying to heal. He stumbles- His newborn heart, misshapen, has foundered and burst. He falls, dead. And then lives, such is the curse gifted to him. He lives, and slowly hauls his bones upright once more, clawing at the haft of his scorched hammer for support. He stands. He sways. He starts to walk again. Vulkan has just killed Magnus, the second greatest of his father's failures, the greatest of his disappointments. Because of what Magnus is now, that death won't last. The Lord of Prospero can't really die. But Vulkan has vanquished him and banished his deathless corpse into the outer darkness. I do not know how many times Vulkan died performing that deed, or how many times he has died on the long walk back from it, starting and restarting as he struggles to fully live again. Vulkan has killed Magnus, but still the warp screams at his heels, and the screech of pursuing daemons echoes down the hollow psychoplastic pathways of the webway behind him. I reach to him, and whisper gently into his still-renewing mind. I tell him that we need him here. I need him to stand, and guard the Throne, and bar the webway door. He must hold it while his father is gone. He does not answer. He cannot. He has no lips nor tongue, no throat, barely even an embryonic sentience. But I feel his assent. Vulkan will prevail. He will not fail us, for he is eternal, just as we made him to be. He is the quintessence of infinite patience. I watch him a moment longer, the halting skeleton, dragging itself back from innumerable graves, meat and sinew slowly knitting on its bones, blood welling forth as from some sacred spring to plump the neoblastic veins and capillaries still sprouting like vines across his reassembling frame, the hammer dragging heavy on the ground behind him. He walks, relentlessly, half-dead, out of the furnace, out of the nocturnal veil, to serve the Throne. He walks back from death, one step at a time, as his father prepares to walk towards what will probably be his. Who else? I look again. My mind extends across this chamber that others call the Throne Room, upwards to the cloth-of-gold baldachin suspended above the Throne, a vast canopy embroidered with the contradictory yet intertwined principles of concordia and discordia that frames the electric-blue aura of my great lord's light; outwards from the Throne's massive plinth, carved from the psychoreactive material known on the craftworlds as wraithbone, and inset with psycurium and dark glass panels, tourmaline and aerolithic moldavite; past silent Uzkarel and Caecaltus at their posts, past the gleaming ranks of their Hetaeron companies at attention beyond them; out, like a rushing tide across the lustrous floor of sectile marble and ouslite; across the susurrating banks of stasis generators, archeotech regulators, and psykanic amplifiers that surround and feed the Throne, prophylactic mechanisms brought here in haste and urgently set to work when the folly of Magnus cracked the harmonised serenity of this adytum; past the diligent conclaves of the Adnector Concillium in their cowls and chasubles, standing amid the fat snakes and intestinal loops of power cables, ministering to the operation of these murmuring devices; then further out, along the frightful height and breadth of the cyclopean nave itself, a canyon turned upside down; between the soaring auramite columns rising like the trunks of mature Sequoiadendron giganteum, the Solomonic pillars of twisted bronze, the acanthus-headed colonettes, the gargantuan scissor arches; beneath the shining, ornate electro-flambeaux strung like stalactite pendants from the dizzying ceiling, and between the lumen orbs that float like infant suns; on, past echelons of burnished automata maintaining talismatic psycho-systems; past empty, scarlet-cushioned stalls where once the High Lords of the Council gathered, and the void-manic worthies of the Navis Nobilite awaited audience; past the golden pulpits of the cataleptic astropaths, adrift in algolagnic fugues; around the clattering dream-dynamos and stegosaurian oniero-looms; past the hypnostatic augury kilns breathing steam and dripping myrrh, and the affirmatrix prognometers leaking synthetic plasma, and exhaling the smell of industrially recovered nightmares; past the scriptorums of the noctuaries; past brass reliquaries and vitrodur grails; past mother-of-pearl loggia where bewitched diviners and incanting prognostipractors sift and read the ribbon-tapes of transcribed glossolalia spilled from the chattering indifference engines, searching for morsels of meaning; past prophesires swinging thuribles, and technoseers wheeling scrimshandered feretories; past mendicants in penance at their kneeling desks and anchorites bearing electro-generative monstrances; on, through the sound of melismatic antiphon and canticle welling from the mouthless choirs in chantry niches, screened by lace-pattern iconostases so they cannot catch sight of him and forget the words; past regiments of catachumen observants, seeking expiation and brimming with eucharistic ardour; along the walls of porphery and mica mosaic, frescoes of death's-head putti and cackling ephebes that conceal hidden figures of alchemy; past engraved genealogies, and past the blazoned armorial hatchments of the twenty Legions, all but eight now shrouded in amaranthine drapes of mourning; past the iron tabernacles of the chimerical brethrendae composing, as rapidly and ceaselessly as they can, via feverish automatic writing, new variations of the material truth in a frantic effort to mediate and divert the impending bow wave of fate; past flocks of scurrying serfs and deferential abhumans, all blindfolded so they can remain present and sane at the same time, all rushing to deliver reports that no longer matter; past Zagreus Kane, the Fabricator-in-exile, with his coterie of adepts, weeping for the decimation of his battle engines, and plotting the deployment of the few that remain; past acres of empty marble floor where one day we will have to place tombs; past the great banners of liberty and victory that hang like waterfalls from the high walls every step of the nave's six-kilometre length; beneath the vaulted gloom of the ceiling, wrought of Peruvian gold and tromp l'oeil and crystal mined on Enceladus, a ceiling a kilometre high; past the silent, waiting companies of the refulgent Custodes Pylorus who make their motionless vigil at the door, whispering their ever-mantra of by His will alone, to the ceramite and adamantine door itself, the Silver Door, the innermost gate of eternity. And out. It's just a room. I go beyond. Beyond, my urgent mindsight stretches. Through the eternal door, beyond the secular, humanist cathedral of his throne room, into the alabaster halls outside, to the acheronic avenues of approach, the measureless rockcrete tunnels that thread the Inner Sanctum, the radiant bridges spanning infinite cavern gulfs, in the aphotic depths of which crushed grave-cities lay untouched. I do not linger. My mind floods out through the buried halls of the final fortress, through each of the Great Seals, along fusion-bored mass-passageways where armies once marched to crave benediction, and Titan engines

edral of his throne room, into the alabaster halls outside, to the acheronic avenues of approach, the measureless rockcrete tunnels that thread the Inner Sanctum, the radiant bridges spanning infinite cavern gulfs, in the aphotic depths of which crushed grave-cities lay untouched. I do not linger. My mind floods out through the buried halls of the final fortress, through each of the Great Seals, along fusion-bored mass-passageways where armies once marched to crave benediction, and Titan engines strode ten abreast to approach him like supplicants and kneel like men at his feet- There. Two more. Two more coming through the lambent, sodium glare. Rogal Dorn, the stalwart Praetorian, and beloved Sanguinius. I have no need to summon either of them, for they are already hurrying to us, side by side, flanked by the greatest of their lieutenants, Imperial Fists and Blood Angels, a delegation of Astartes. They are coming to him as a deputation, I think. They have done all they can, beyond all that could have been asked, but the clocks run out. They are coming to tell him it is time. They are coming to tell him, demand of him, that he rise up with them at this second before midnight. And if he won't, they are coming to remove him and escort him to safety. He has refused this option since the siege began. It is not pride, it is not a refusal to acknowledge the threat. It is simply that there is no safety. There is nowhere to go in the entire span of the galaxy where he would be safe from what is approaching. Rogal, perhaps his truest son, the exemplar of unwavering loyalty. I see his emptiness. He is undone, his body aching and exhausted, his armour battered by combat during the frenetic retreat from Bhab Bastion, his mind spent. That exhaustion is a terrible thing to feel. Rogal, one of the finest strategists in history, oversaw this defence. He orchestrated the fortification of our stronghold, and his tactics, brilliant, ambitious, mercurial, ran the game, the greatest game of regicide ever played. I want to embrace him, and praise him for his labour. He has excelled, and sustained his play, beat by beat, by means of engineered planning, shrewd anticipation and reflexive improvisation, through every harrowing turn of fortune. But his mind is empty. There is no more game. There are no more moves to make. I sense the vacuum in him, his weary mind surprised to find itself spinning free and wild, with nothing left to process or decide. The feeling is alien to him, and toxic. He has never not known what to do. He has never not known what is coming next. He hopes his father does. He is coming to beg his father to tell him. And Sanguinius. His physical wounds are greater, though he hides them from others behind the aura of his being. He cannot hide them from me. Beneath his projected radiance, I can see the damage to his armour and his body, the open wounds, the tattered and scorched feathers of his wings. Now he is back inside the Sanctum, the aegis of his father's protective spirit is healing him, faster than any mortal could ever heal. But it is not enough. He may never be whole again. He will bear some of these crippling injuries for the remainder of his life. He tries to walk tall. He hopes his sons will not see the spots of blood he leaves behind him on the hallway floors. He has just conquered both Angron, the strongest and most hate-filled of our foes, and Ka'Bandha, the daemon-bane of the IX, but that incomparable pair of deeds has cost him woefully and, unlike Vulkan, Sanguinius has but one life to risk. I see his suffering, the wounds in his flesh and the hurt in his limbs, but more than that, the pain in his heart. Like Rogal, he has given everything and it has not been enough. He has destroyed Angron, broken Ka'Bandha, closed the Eternity Gate, and locked the final fortress. And yet, the walls fall. The sun is red. The clocks run out. He does not understand why we are made to suffer. None of them do, in truth. Not even the primarch sons have the context to understand the scope of their father's plan, the depth of his allotheistic learning, or the true extent of what is at stake. But Sanguinius, Bright Angel, he feels it most of all. I taste his anguish. There will be no recrimination. He simply wants to ask his father why. In different ways, they both seek revelation. They are coming to us, I do not need to summon them. They are coming to ask for help, and this time, perhaps to their surprise, my master will be ready to answer them. Who else? My mind unfurls, spreads wider, out into the body of the Sanctum precinct, where towers burn and walls that should have held forever subside in torrents like a child's toy blocks. The Palatine is entirely invaded, with homicidal urgency and fetishistic glee. The air reeks of ozone and smoke-filth. Trumpets and sirens blast alarums that are too late, or blare orders that cannot be followed. This was mankind's central arcology, the heart of empire, and it is overrun by acronical slaughter and waves of Neverborn carnage. Only the final fortress, sealed by Sanguinius' monumental deed, remains sacrosanct. Those of our forces that got inside, before the great gate closed, now man the last walls, and those that did not - so very, very many - will now never get in, and are doomed to fight to the death in the insanity of the Palatine Zone. Even the final fortress has been contaminated. Before the Archangel locked the Gate, the first invaders broke through. Now the Gate is shut, and the Sentinels of the Legio Custodes labour to exterminate any traces of the enemy that slipped inside. The daemons are here- There. Valdor. First of the Ten Thousand. Defender of the inner circle. He is hunting in the Preceptory of the Heironymite, eradicating the squealing horrors that stole in before Eternity closed. Constantin's mind is bright with focus. The master of the Legio Custodes is a dreadful thing, perhaps the most ruthless of all the demigods my lord commands. To Constantin was granted very little latitude. His role is the simplest of all. He has fulfilled it without hesitation. He stands apart from the others, not a son, but both less and more, an ever-vigilant proxy, impartial and unwavering, not biased by issues of blood, lineage or fraternity. He was made to stand apart so there would be one among them who could keep the unprejudiced objectivity of distance. But in the course of this war, my lord has come to pity him, and has allowed Constantin to learn more, and share more of his noesis. In part, he did this because it would help Valdor perform his duties even better, but he also judged it only fair to let him learn. He gave Valdor a weapon, the Apollonian Spear, and through it, revelation. With each kill it makes, it teaches him. Each thrust through daemonic flesh and bone imparts instruction, feeding Constantin knowledge from the things he kills. I only hope he has not learned too much. I fear he might have seen enough to interrogate his creator's design. I know Constantin is acting on his own recognisance now, building contingencies of his own in case my lord's plan fails. He thinks he is keeping this secret from me, but he is not. I know he has permitted the construction of a weapon to be used in extremis. It will end my lord's sons, and their sons too, all of them, without discrimination. Constantin has always questioned the wisdom of the demigods his master made. I have allowed him the consolation of this weapon, accepting even the employment of the genius monster he recruited to make it. It will not be needed. Or if it is, then it exists, and our master will not be alive to witness its use. I call to him. 'My king,' he says, hearing my voice as his lord's. He comes at once, without demur, leaving his men to finish the work, leaving Neverborn things writhing and lacerated in his wake, his damascened armour splashed with their blood. He is still, without doubt, loyal. He will hold his secret weapon in reserve, and stand at his master's side as the clocks run out. Only after that, if his master is gone, will he enact his sanction, draw the curtain down on this bloody revenger's tragedy, and wipe it all away. Valdor is on his way. Rogal and Sanguinius. Vulkan. My mind drifts for a moment, through the fused ceramite ruins of the Inner Palace, vainly searching through streets filmed with bacterial clouds, and caustic gas, and the wind-blown ashes of a million victims. There should be others to find. Once there were so many who could be called upon in an hour of need. But there are no more. These four are the last of them. The rest are all dead, or have become the reason that our world is dying. 1:xxiv Fragments The gunners are all dead, but the autocannon battery keeps firing. Death has clenched the lead crewman's hand around the fire control paddle. The battery pours tracer fire out into the murk, wide of any target except the sky, and it will keep doing so until the bulk munition drums run dry, or until the end of time, whichever comes first. The Bayer Ordnance Komag VI is a light assault weapon manufactured in the Yndonesic Bloc towards the end of the Unification Wars. It is one of a hundred antique patterns still in service, cheaply made, easy to maintain, and basic in function, issued to the lower orders of the Army Auxilia. Sandrine Icaro tries to remember how to work it. It does not represent the instruments of war she is used to employing. The Second Mistress Tacticae Terrestria has not had to touch a gun in years. But she did two tours with the hive territorials in her youth, to fulfil the service requirements that got her into Tacticae War School. The damn thing is basic. It has three controls, and one of those is the trigger. She fumbles. Her hands are covered in blood. People are milling around her. 'Get into the transports!' she yells. 'Get into the damn transports!' Clerks and junior staffers, rubricators and assistant desk officers look at

Tacticae Terrestria has not had to touch a gun in years. But she did two tours with the hive territorials in her youth, to fulfil the service requirements that got her into Tacticae War School. The damn thing is basic. It has three controls, and one of those is the trigger. She fumbles. Her hands are covered in blood. People are milling around her. 'Get into the transports!' she yells. 'Get into the damn transports!' Clerks and junior staffers, rubricators and assistant desk officers look at her, eyes wide. She can see how utterly mindless they are, mindless with terror and confusion. She feels it herself. The street, one side of which has been levelled by mortar fire, is packed with survivors. Smoke is coming in on a weird, angled plane. Icaro's not sure how any of them got out. She can still just see the bastion, three kilometres south, visible through the buildings and towers around her. Bhab Bastion is on fire, burning like some awful torch. 'Get in the damn transports!' she yells again. 'We have to leave this zone!' People push past her. She tries to shove and steer them. She got the Komag off the corpse of a militiaman a few hundred metres back. The Komag, and two spare magazines. She thinks the damned thing's jammed. She focuses her attention on trying to clear its action. It's better than thinking about what has just happened. When the end came, it was so sudden. They stayed as long as they could. Too long. Icaro doesn't think they're going to reach the safety of the Sanctum Imperialis now. Figures stumble past. Between them, they're carrying Katarin. Icaro's not sure why. Katarin Elg is clearly dead. Her body is caked in white dust, but the chalky coating is clotted crimson around the head and chest. She wants to tell them to put poor Katarin down so they can move more quickly. She can't bear the thought of leaving Katarin here. 'Where is Captain Vorst? Has anyone seen Captain Vorst?' she yells. No one answers. 'Halmere? What about Osaka?' She tries to herd them towards the last of the transports. The first shots start chasing them down the street. Auto-fire. Someone falls down, as though they've simply had enough. 'Where is Lord Archamus?' she yells. 'Has anyone seen my Lord Archamus? Did he make it out?' No one knows. More shots. Traitor forces begin to appear, two hundred metres away. Infantry units, corrupted devils that were once Imperial Army Excertus. 'Where is Lord Archamus?' Icaro yells. A man to her left is smacked off his feet by high-velocity hard rounds. Sandrine Icaro remembers her basic training. She clears the jammed round, reslots the magazine, raises the Komag VI, and starts to return fire. Keeler follows Glacis Street, past lines of the shell-shocked, aimless and displaced. The conclave has set up an aid station in the ground floor of a once-celebrated dining house. Wereft is there. She asks about a functioning vox, and he says he'll find one. She stands under the portico for a moment. Survivors shamble past. So many are blindfolded, and some of those stumble onwards, ringing plaintive handbells. Many heave along on stilts or shoes that have been platformed with timber or bricks to avoid contact with broken glass, toxic groundwater or bacterial spills. Most are masked or veiled, or swing foetid censers to ward off the foul air and the caustic smoke. Officers of the Command Prefectus Unit have set up a checkpoint nearby. The Command Prefectus is a new agency of the emergency powers that Keeler still doesn't quite understand, despite encounters with Boetharch Mauer and her officers. Founded by the Huscarls Praetoriat, it seems to be more concerned with discipline and superficial concepts of morale than protection. Even Mauer seemed adrift in her duties. Keeler suspects the Prefectus are an idea conceived at the very highest level, to contain and ward off Chaos, without any firm understanding of what Chaos is. Here, as elsewhere, the officers are checking people for signs of disease and infection, and examining them for the weals and marks of corruption. They focus mainly on the able-bodied, on people of fighting age, or military who have become detached from their units. If any pass inspection, the Prefectus tags them with a mark of purity, using the hand staplers the Corps Logisticae used to pin scripts and deployment tags to service personnel. A purity tag means you are fit to serve. It will allow you access to aid stations and soup kitchens. It also shows you can be trusted. Emblems and insignia, even uniform colours, are meaningless. All the sides have changed. The enemy could be anyone. And anyway, even if emblems meant anything, everyone is too layered in grime for them to be identifiable. The seal of purity has become the only meaningful emblem of the loyalist cause, more than the aquila or any Imperial crest. It signifies loyalty. Those who get them, keep them clean and visible with spit and rubbing fingers. Those who don't move away, bewildered. In the long lines waiting for inspection, Keeler sees people flagellating themselves to remove any mark or graze that might be mistaken for impurity. They chastise themselves brutally, hoping that the sight of flayed skin, and their willingness to inflict such damage on themselves, indicates their resolve, no matter what marks or sores blemish them. Other self-harm, cutting off warts and buboes, debriding infected or plague-festered flesh. 'Do they have to do this?' she asks one of the Prefectus. 'I didn't tell them to,' he replies. He is a boetharch. He wears the black storm coat with twin lines of red enamel buttons, crimson gloves, and the silver emblem of his unit. 'Make them stop.' 'I can't make them do anything,' he says. 'Where's your tag?' 'She doesn't need one,' Wereft calls out from the steps. The boetharch shrugs. He's got too much to do to engage in an argument. He's prepared to take the word of a veteran enforcer of the Provost-Marshal's office. She walks back to Wereft, and is about to speak when something colossal bursts the sky behind her and throws her on her belly. The shock-pulse knocks most people in the street down, and topples the Prefectus station. What windows remain are all blown in. When Wereft helps her to her feet, she turns and sees a huge, rippling bolus of fire rising into the sky to the east. Single strands of wiry flame, traceries of debris, spill from its underside like the fine ribbons of a jellyfish. 'What-' she says, swallowing hard. Overpressure has muffled her hearing. 'Munition plant,' says Wereft. 'Over Tavian Arch way. MM Three-Forty-One is my guess.' 'She said it was on fire.' 'Who did?' 'The girl-' 'Well, it's just torched off and taken its dumps with it.' No more munition hauls, then. Not from this area. If the vox still works after the electro-mag pulse of that blast, she'll reach a frontline unit and inform them of the wagons' location. They have to move on. They have to urge the masses north. There's already panic and jostling nearby. A stampede brewing. They'll have to work hard to keep them calm. 'We'll need help,' she says to the boetharch. 'With what?' he asks. 'Order,' she replies. 'Discipline.' The line breaks. Close to thirty thousand infantry, Excertus and Auxilia Imperialis, from twelve different regiments including the PanNord 110th, have recovered some momentum in the open plain near the blazing ruins of Principaria Gard, driving into a considerably larger mass of Traitor Auxilia advancing from the Annapurna Gate. After sixteen brutal minutes of choked battle, the traitor force has been levered sideways, partly wedged against the huge earthworks running east to west. It is ugly work. The terrain is iced and frozen, victim of freak etheric weather patterns, and the battle has come down to bayonets and pole weapons. The main combat is a thick, churning melee covering ten square kilometres, thousands of soldiers caught in the savage push and pull of a giant, brawling skirmish. Lit by the flicker of low lightning, the two armies grind at each other face to face, crowds mobbing crowds, the closest of close quarters. The traitor formation is about to disintegrate. Then World Eaters, drawn by the scent of blood, sweep in from the south, and the brittle, determined discipline that has got the loyalist commanders this far shatters almost instantly. Order collapses. Fortune inverts. The line breaks. Slaughter results. Thinking they have time to set and range the artillery, Captain N'jie and his platoons of Kovingian Light Ordnancers line up along Quaternary Ridge. But time has been crushed into powder, and the Traitor Mechanicum's skitarii engulf them before they have even unlimbered or planted the recoil spades. The Kovingians fight and die around their unfired cannon, reduced to pistols, knives and shovels. Keeler waits in line. She waits in line, accepts inspection, and takes a purity tag. She thinks others will too if they see her doing it. Teach by word, teach by deed. They see you stand up, they'll do the same. She also believes it's the only icon that means anything now, an article of faith. A talisman of hope to counteract the symbols of atrocity that are appearing on every wall. She doesn't like the Prefectus' callous process, or the exclusion, but she reminds herself there's a greater purpose at work. Eild rallies the conclave, and sends out the speakers to start drawing the crowds north. By his estimate there are nearly a million people welling up from the southern Palatine. 'North,' she says to him. 'That's the plan. Tell them "north".' 1:xxv A Warmaster confesses his crime 'So what is your plan, Ollanius?' Actae asks. 'In my experience, plans work best the less people share them,' says Oll. 'It reduces the odds of someone screwing them up.' His answer echoes in the narrow, sloping chamber they've made their rest-stop. Actae smiles. 'I'll take that as a no, then,' she says. 'No, what?' asks Katt, perched beside Oll, a weigh

ng up from the southern Palatine. 'North,' she says to him. 'That's the plan. Tell them "north".' 1:xxv A Warmaster confesses his crime 'So what is your plan, Ollanius?' Actae asks. 'In my experience, plans work best the less people share them,' says Oll. 'It reduces the odds of someone screwing them up.' His answer echoes in the narrow, sloping chamber they've made their rest-stop. Actae smiles. 'I'll take that as a no, then,' she says. 'No, what?' asks Katt, perched beside Oll, a weight of scorn in her voice. 'No, he doesn't have a plan, Katt,' says Actae. 'I thought as much. That's why I came to find you. To help you. To... I suppose, engineer a plan that might actually work. You have the potential, clearly. Your very long association with the Emperor.' Everyone looks at Oll, even Leetu. They've set their lamps on the ground, and they blaze like little campfires, throwing their shadows long and lean up the sloping walls until they become part of the pitch darkness overhead. 'Association is a strong word,' says Oll. 'I knew Him, a very long time ago. We stopped being friends. I don't suppose we ever were friends, but... anyway... I ran from Calth, when Calth burned. I was running away, but somewhere along the line, I started running towards something. I believe there are higher powers at work in the universe, powers, forces, whatever you want to call them. I think I have been set on my path for a reason, so I'm following it. And if I can do anything when I arrive at the end of it... if I have any influence left, as one Perpetual to another, both cursed by that state of being, I intend to use it.' 'You believe in god, Trooper Persson,' says Graft. 'This I have recorded about you. You are pious. You cherish a private faith in the old, prohibited religions.' Oll nods. 'Yes. An old habit. Very old. Too old to be shaken off. But what I believe in doesn't matter. Only what I can do.' 'End it,' says Zybes. 'Yes, Hebet,' says Oll. 'End it. End this incredible, monstrous, unnecessary bloodshed. That's the bottom line.' 'Stab him,' says Krank. 'Stab him with a blade that cuts through space.' Katt snorts a laugh. 'Stab who?' asks Leetu. 'Yes, Ollanius? Who?' asks the sorceress with a sly smile. 'Horus,' says Zybes. Oll shrugs. 'Oh,' says Katt, in surprise. An expression of shock and realisation spreads across her face. 'He means either one,' she says. 'Either one of them. Or both. Whatever it takes.' 'Whatever it takes...' Actae echoes. 'But you intend to talk to Him first,' says Leetu. It's almost a question. 'Who?' asks Krank. 'His old friend,' says Actae. 'I do,' says Oll. 'I mean, if there's a chance. I doubt there will be. And I doubt He'll listen. He's never listened to anybody. But I think that's the intention. Otherwise, why me? It could be anyone carrying this knife if it's just a case of stabbing.' 'Because he might drop his guard if he encounters an old friend?' Actae suggests. 'No one else could get close.' 'Maybe,' says Oll. 'But that's not really me. That's more of an Alpharius move. Besides, He'll be wary of me. He wouldn't lower His guard. I've stabbed Him before.' There is a long silence. 'Are you joking?' asked Katt. 'Expand on that, Ollanius,' says Actae. 'Nothing much to add,' says Oll. 'We had a falling out. This was thirty thousand years ago, give or take, so... a lot of blood under the bridge since then.' 'No, no,' says Krank, wide-eyed. 'You have to say more than that!' Oll looks at them. After the loyalty they've shown to him, he owes them something. This deep under the earth, entombed in rock, it feels like the most secure crypt, where an old secret might be safely unwrapped. 'There was a great tower,' he says. 'It was called, by some, Etemenanki, and stood at a place called Babilin, or Babel. I'm sure that means nothing to any of you, because scripture's no longer taught.' 'It means something to me,' says Actae. 'Was it real?' 'It was,' says Oll. 'The culture that built it had power. They were a dangerous obstruction to His plans. A danger to everything, actually. They had weaponised language. Enuncia, they called it. I was His Warmaster, His friend. We campaigned and brought them down. I thought we'd burn everything. But, to my great disappointment, it turned out He wanted Enuncia for His own purposes.' It was a long time ago, but it feels oddly fresh to Oll, because he so recently relived the whole affair in the dreams woven by Hatay-Antakya Hive. 'So you stabbed Him?' asked Zybes, wide-eyed. 'I did. To stop Him. That ended what the lady here described as our association.' He looks at Actae. 'Now you,' he says. 'Tell us something. You're a Perpetual too.' 'Not born so,' she replies. 'Not like you at all. But granted, after death, a second birth and a new lifetime. I was born on Colchis. I was used by the Aurelian's people as a confessor, and as a priestess of their craft. And for that association, Ollanius, I was killed by the Emperor's golden warriors.' She pauses. 'And in dying, saw the truth of the warp. All of it. Then I was reborn in this form. What you would call sorcery remade me, Ollanius, not some happenstance of biology or evolution, but now I serve the truth. No one and nothing else.' 'The Cabal tried to use you,' says Oll. 'John told me.' 'They did. They sent Damon Prytanis after me. Another Perpetual.' 'He's dead,' says Oll. 'He is. Finally and fully. But I serve no one and nothing now, except the greater cause of finishing this conflict before it finishes us all. The same as you.' 'A loose definition of the words "the same", I think,' says Oll. 'For now, Ollanius, we only have each other.' 'Cyrene Valantion,' says Katt quietly. Actae turns her veiled face towards her sharply. 'Oh, you're clever, girl,' she says. 'That mind of yours is more cunning and light-fingered than I realised. You hooked that from my thoughts.' 'It was just there, on the surface,' says Katt. She looks a little pleased with herself. 'Yes, I was Cyrene Valantion, the Blessed Lady. My flesh-sight was taken when Monarchia burned. I died in the prelude to Isstvan. After years of tormented enlightenment, or perhaps enlightened torment, I was reborn. I was no longer Cyrene. I had escaped death, and I had been given a different kind of sight. Think what you will of me, Ollanius, but I am a significant asset.' Oll gets to his feet. 'They're taking a long time,' he says to Leetu. 'Any signal from Alpharius?' Leetu shakes his head. 'All right,' says Oll. 'A few more minutes, then.' He wanders a few steps down the passage, the direction they came from, and peers into the darkness. 'Something the matter?' asks Leetu. Oll looks at him, and drops his voice to a whisper. 'On the way up here, you had the tail end.' 'Yes.' 'Did you hear anything behind us?' Oll asks. 'No,' Leetu replies. 'Like what?' 'Doesn't matter,' says Oll. 1:xxvi Sharper than thorns On the Via Aquila, in front of the Scholaster Hall, the human tide parts suddenly. People pull back in stumbling dismay, a hole in the crowd. A man has fallen. Conroi-Captain Ahlborn of the Command Prefectus pushes his way through the packed crowd, and reaches the gap. Stiglich, one of his best from the Hort Palatine, follows him. 'Keep back,' Ahlborn calls to the people. 'Keep back!' The man is writhing on the ground. A factorum worker, perhaps, or a labourer from the mills. From his convulsions, it looks as though he has been poisoned. Ahlborn realises that the sight shocks him: not the man in agony, for he has seen far too many humans in agony in the last few hours. What shocks is the empty circle of street around him. The Via Aquila is so congested, there has barely been space to move or breathe. But this man, this writhing man, commands a circle of open, littered ground a full six metres in diameter. The crowd looks on, wide-eyed and silent. Some pull up their purity tags for Ahlborn to see, but he isn't looking. 'Is there a medic?' he calls out, crouching over the man. 'A medic? A doctor?' No one answers. They are all as afraid of the crimson-gloved Prefectus officer as they are of a man afflicted with madness or disease. Ahlborn looks at Stiglich. She shakes her head. 'We have to get him somewhere,' he tells her. 'Carry him off the street.' He reaches down gingerly. The man is matted with filth, and he has soiled himself. He mumbles something, something Ahlborn can't quite catch, and stares up with blood-blown eyes. 'I don't understand,' Ahlborn tells him. 'Kin? King? King who? Is there someone here called King?' The man vomits suddenly. Strings of waxy glair spatter the roadway. Ahlborn flinches back. He doesn't want to touch the man. He can see dark spots on his skin, the maculae of disease, the rotting plague that the enemy carried in with them. He wants to put a shot through the man's head, but he can't do that in front of the crowd. And they can't leave him here. He clenches his teeth and reaches out again. The man gets up. He rises quickly, swaying. He grins at Ahlborn and Stiglich. Vomit drips from his chin. He says something again, the name, and then shivers. Spines, the size and colour of rose-thorns, sprout from his skin. They erupt from his cheeks and brow, his jaw, his forearms, and the backs of his hands. Ahlborn cries out in alarm, and draws his sidearm. The crowd starts screaming. The man, thorn-stippled, turns and staggers away. Ahlborn can't take a shot with people all around. Stumbling, the man reaches the steps of the Scholaster Hall. The crowd parts like a curtain to let him pass, recoiling in fear and revulsion. Ahlborn and Stiglich run up the steps after him. He's gone inside, through the great doors, into the unlit, empty chambers of the hall. Ahlborn leads the way. It's cold, quiet and dim inside. Every step sets off a dozen echoes. The ceilings are high, supported by pillars. A firelight glow throbs through the tall, dirty windows. Stiglich, carbine rais

nd. Stumbling, the man reaches the steps of the Scholaster Hall. The crowd parts like a curtain to let him pass, recoiling in fear and revulsion. Ahlborn and Stiglich run up the steps after him. He's gone inside, through the great doors, into the unlit, empty chambers of the hall. Ahlborn leads the way. It's cold, quiet and dim inside. Every step sets off a dozen echoes. The ceilings are high, supported by pillars. A firelight glow throbs through the tall, dirty windows. Stiglich, carbine raised, nudges Ahlborn and nods. On the ground, a splatter of stomach contents. They edge down the hall, covering each other, their footsteps making hundreds more even though they try to tread softly. The man is waiting at the far end, under the huge oeil-de-boeuf window that presents the stations of the Scholasticae in glassaic. He is no longer a man. Some Neverborn thing has hatched, thorns first, inside him, and burst him from within. It crouches against the wall, raw-boned and glistening, trying to peel and scratch the husk of the man's skin off itself like rind. It's not just the Palace that is invaded, Ahlborn thinks. We are invaded, and conquered from within. He wonders what awful sin, what crime, what accidental dream the man committed to become so ghastly a conduit. They both raise their weapons and fire, raking the thing backwards against the stone wall in a storm of dust, stone chips and ichor. Its neverlife undimmed by ballistic trauma, it rushes them. Ahlborn, still firing, manages to get out of its path. Stiglich is lifted off the floor, entwined by thorned fingers, and pulled in half. Ahlborn will not forget the wet crack of her living spine separating. Dropping the halves of her, it turns on him. It giggles, chunters and cackles through pin-cushion lips. His weapon is out. He backs up, frantically trying to reload. It speaks. A name. The words that the man it hatched out of was trying to say. The Dark King. When it says it, it shudders, as though just speaking the syllables fills it with terror. A shadow crosses in front of Ahlborn. There's someone else here, someone huge, moving fast and without a sound. A grey knight. An Astartes legionary in almost colourless plate, like a phantom. He has a sword in each hand, a black combat gladius and a longer battlesword. The Neverborn rears up at the warrior, hissing, clutching. The Astartes slices back, one blade and then the other. Fluid squirts from massive wounds. As it comes at him again, he buries the long sword into one armpit, and the gladius into ribs. The Neverborn lurches backwards, the swords wedged through it, wrenching both from the warrior's grip. The Astartes reaches behind his head and draws his third sword, a chainblade clamped to his back. It revs and wails as he brings it down, sawing the Neverborn in half vertically. Now it dies. The warrior kills his chainsword, and returns it to his back clamp. He crouches, and recovers his other blades. Ahlborn knows him. The Lone Wolf. The last loyal son of Horus. 'Loken?' he whispers. 'Loken? Sir?' Garviel Loken turns and looks at him. Rubio's blade is in his right hand, Mourn-It-All in his left. 'It said "The Dark King",' he says. 'I heard it, sir.' 'Mean anything?' Ahlborn shakes his head. 'You're Ahlborn, correct?' Ahlborn nods. 'Yes, sir. What... may I ask... to find you here, I...' 'I was with Keeler,' says Loken, 'escorting her. But the war front swept in too close, so I sent her onwards, and dropped back to establish a defence line.' 'When was this?' asks Ahlborn. 'I don't know. An hour ago? Two?' He pauses. 'I'm on my way to the Processional of the Eternals,' Loken says. 'The main fight is there. I heard the gunfire...' He looks around at the gloomy hall. He seems confused for a moment. 'Sir,' says Ahlborn, 'the processional... it is leagues from here.' 'Where is this?' Loken asks. 'The Scholaster Hall, sir. On the Via Aquila.' 'The Via Aquila?' 'Yes, sir.' 'That's... that's nowhere near where I was. Nowhere near where I was going...' Ahlborn hesitates. How does an Astartes get lost? How does an Astartes lose his way? Is the Lone Wolf injured? Is he... Throne save us... is he invaded by the creeping inner madness too? 'The Via Aquila?' Loken asks again. 'Yes, sir. Right outside.' 'Something is wrong, Ahlborn.' 'That is... an understatement, sir.' 'No, conroi-captain,' Loken snaps. 'I was at Praestor Gate. I was on the avenue there, approaching the processional. I heard gunfire, just a hundred metres away, so I followed the sound. Just a hundred metres... and I was here.' 'But, no,' Ahlborn stammers. 'With respect, no, sir. Praestor is fourteen kilometres from here, at least. Probably nineteen. That's...' 'Not possible,' says Loken. 'Exactly, sir.' 'But true,' says Loken. 'I think the empyric is in us so deep, it is warping everything. Time. Spaces. The materia of the world and the Palace. My being here is not possible, and yet here I am. The impossible, Ahlborn, no longer exists.' 1:xxvii Hydra John turns a machined gold dial built for hands larger than human, and hears a slow hum of power rising. Console lights come on around the cabin, pale blue bars of neon blinking in auramite frames as start-up and reboot systems begin to cycle. He eases himself out of the red leather driving throne, and clambers back down the cabin to the Coronus' hatch. None of the other vehicles have shown a spark of power, but the Custodes vehicle has retained some reserve. No surprise. The grav-carrier is a breed apart from the other transports, built using technologies both older and more advanced than the mainstay Imperial standard. He looks out into the gloom. 'Pech?' he calls. 'Pech? This one's working.' There's no answer. The Alpha Legionnaire has left the checking to him, and gone to scout ahead, to make sure the next portion of the route is still clear enough for vehicles. 'Pech?' He climbs back in. He can feel the vibration of the under-deck generator as it begins to sequence, and hear the whine of the grav-system slowly boosting to operational power. He opens some of the built-in storage lockers. Four bolters, too big for anyone except Pech or Leetu. One is a master-crafted piece of great beauty, with silver and emerald inlay, fitted with double-drum magazines. John can't even lift it. The next two lockers contain racks of Solar Auxilia lasguns and autorifles, high quality and manufactory-fresh, still in their plastek wraps. The Alpha Legion were anticipating human agent support. Prepared for every eventuality. No shit. The next locker holds handguns, both Astartes and human pattern, including two handsome voltvolvers that look like Mechanicum archeotech. There are metal canisters packed in the bottom of the locker. He opens one, and smiles at the contents. Pech is taking too long. They should have rejoined the others and been moving again by now. John climbs out of the Coronus to find the psi-damper and make sure it's packed aboard. As he jumps onto the ground, the grav-carrier's restart cycle reaches operational power, and the exterior lamps come on automatically, drenching the area in front of the vehicle with bright ovals of light. The Alpha Legionnaire is standing there. His return was typically silent, but the lights have surprised him. He stands for a moment, motionless, his armour iridescent, motes of dust drifting around him in the hard glare. 'You found one that works, then?' he asks. 'Yes,' says John. 'Power reserves optimal? No drop off?' 'Enough to start the generation system,' says John. 'Now it's building its own charge. Should be good to go. Is the way ahead clear?' 'The way ahead? Yes.' 'No collapses or cave-ins, then? A transport's going to make the rest of this trek a lot easier.' 'No collapses,' says the legionnaire. John nods. 'I left something inside,' he said. 'Just a sec.' He turns to climb back in. 'That can wait.' John pauses, and glances back at the Astartes. 'That can wait what?' he asks. His pulse is racing. He's not sure what to do, because he's pretty sure he's about to die, and his ruse to get back in to grab a voltvolver or something with serious kill-power has just been thwarted. 'I don't understand what you mean,' says the Alpha Legionnaire, and takes a step forward. John smiles his best forced smile. He's only got himself now. Wits, brains, smarts. The only way he's going to live another minute, another second, is to use what he has. The unexpected. The oblique. 'That can wait what?' John repeats, still smiling, maintaining relaxed body language. 'All the way here, you've called me by name, every other sentence, emphasising the fact you know me. Psychological reinforcement. Pretty standard. But now you've stopped.' The Alpha Legionnaire hesitates for a fraction of a second. 'I don't understand what your problem is,' he says, his tone expressing genial bemusement. 'Well, you wouldn't,' says John with a cheerful shrug. 'You're not Pech.' 'Of course I am,' says the Alpha Legionnaire. 'You can't be,' says John. 'He knows my name. And he's standing right behind you.' Fooled just for a second, the Astartes turns to look behind him. John dives for the hatch. He isn't even slightly inside when the huge hands grab him from behind. 1:xxviii Xenophon John's face and forearms slam into the hull as his legs are snatched backwards. When he hits the ground beside the grav-carrier, he's already dazed from that jarring impact, his nose full of a salty stink, his mouth full of blood. The Alpha Legionnaire rolls him onto his back, pulls the autopistol out of John's belt, and tosses it away. If I'd thought that was going to do any good against Astartes plate, I'd have tried it already, John thinks. He tries to clear his head. His nose feels crushed, and there's blood running into his throat. The bastard basically bounced his face off the Coronus. But he didn't kill him. Not outright. And an Astartes kills when he decides

nose full of a salty stink, his mouth full of blood. The Alpha Legionnaire rolls him onto his back, pulls the autopistol out of John's belt, and tosses it away. If I'd thought that was going to do any good against Astartes plate, I'd have tried it already, John thinks. He tries to clear his head. His nose feels crushed, and there's blood running into his throat. The bastard basically bounced his face off the Coronus. But he didn't kill him. Not outright. And an Astartes kills when he decides to, so John being alive is a conscious decision. 'Get up,' the legionnaire says. John can't. He's too foggy. He rolls on his side and cough-spits blood. He's split his lip and bitten his tongue. 'How many of you are there?' the Alpha Legionnaire asks. John spits again and tries to sit up. His face is numb, but the pain in his tongue is acute. 'Don't play for time, Grammaticus.' John flinches. 'Yes, I know who you are. You caught me out. But you will be aware of the techniques I can employ. How many of you are there?' John sits up, clutching his oozing mouth, and shrugs. The Astartes picks him up and slams him against the grav-carrier. John's sure he feels a rib pop, but the air is crushed out of him so completely, he greys out. The legionnaire holds him there. 'How many?' Blinking, head swaying, John looks at the burnished visor inches from his face. It's just a frozen snarl of metal. He can see the intricate green and silver scales, the droplets of his own aspirated blood gleaming on its grille. He can't see the eyes behind the lenses in the deep, recessed sockets, but he's so close he can see the orange flicker of the display projecting on the inside of the tinted plex. 'How many?' John says something, but his split tongue is so swollen, it comes out as a gurgle of blood and spittle. 'Repeat.' 'Xenophon...' John grunts. His words are slurred and impeded by his swollen tongue. 'You're running Xenophon? We're on the same bloody side...' The Astartes keeps him pinned against the carrier with his left hand, and lowers his right. Power-armoured fingers, as gentle as a lover's, find the rib lesion and track the rib around the curve of John's torso. John winces. A fingertip stops, adjacent to a pressure point. It digs in. John screams. The pain rips up his spine and into the base of his skull. His legs go numb. 'This flow of information is one-way,' says the Astartes. 'How many of you are there?' 'There's no incentive for me to answer,' John replies, each word distorted by his tongue. 'You're not going to let me live.' 'I might.' 'You're Alpha Legion.' 'And?' 'Everything about you is a lie. Let me live? Lie.' John has one card left. A word, one of the many words of power he glimpsed in Oll's vision of the word-filled tower back in Hatay-Antakya Hive. It's the only one he could recall after the vision faded, and he's memorised it. It's a word of the proto-language Enuncia, and he isn't sure what it does, but he knows that once he's said it, he'll forget it. He was saving it, saving it as a last resort, for when they finally close with their quarry. But that moment will never come if he doesn't survive this- The huge right hand moves up and rests a thumb against his brachial plexus. 'Stopping the pain is an incentive,' the Alpha Legionnaire says. 'Preventing pain is an incentive. Live or die is hardly the point. Pain is the significant factor. Pain, and how much of it there is before death.' 'Pain's just distraction,' John gurgles. He starts to form the word. The Alpha Legionnaire presses with his thumb to prove it isn't. John screams again. His hand goes slack in paralysis. His mind spins, no longer able to compose the syllables he needs. Shock and nausea wash through him. There's raw terror simply in the gentle restraint with which the Astartes is administering pressure. 'How many?' The hand moves to John's paratoid lymph node, a finger resting on the mastoid process. 'Make me scream again,' gasps John. The hand stops. 'Making me scream is a great way to find out how many people are with me.' 'Last chance,' says the Alpha Legionnaire. Metal hits metal. The impact is so clear it's almost as if a bell's been struck. Suddenly released, John hits the ground. Two huge figures grapple beside him. Both are in green and silver plate. One has a bolt pistol drawn, but the other has clamped the wrist of the hand holding it. John blinks, and tries to crawl away from the brutal contest. It's not like two men brawling, rolling in the dirt, punching and cursing and grabbing at each other's clothes. It's two giants in power armour. It's fast, transhumanly fast, nightmarishly fast, almost faster than John can track: blows, blocks and grips exchanged in rapid, surgical series. It's like lying close to two counter-rotating propellers that are spinning and chewing up the ground towards him, out of control. Pech is the one with the pistol. He didn't take a shot. Now he's locked. The other Alpha Legionnaire shifts and slams Pech against the carrier. Pech pivots and mashes the other Astartes against the Gorgon parked beside it. Flakes of rust puff into the air. The Alpha Legionnaire spins Pech again, trying to break his grip, and caroms him off the carrier's hull a second time. John scrambles, and then rolls frantically. The two Astartes crash down into the space where he had been sprawled. He'd have been crushed under them, and churned up by their wrestling plasteel bulks. John tries to get up. His legs are nerve-limp, and his rib is shrieking pain through his midsection. His left hand is paralysed. He slips, falls, gets up again. He staggers clear as the two Alpha Legionnaires thrash over again in a tangle that would have pulped him. The other Astartes breaks Pech's grip on the bolt pistol by cracking his hand against the carrier's port grav nacelle. They roll again. Fists connect in a flurry, drawing sparks and grazing armour. Now John can't tell the bastards apart. John drags himself aside, staring in horror. One Alpha Legionnaire lands a solid blow, and the other rocks back against the nacelle. There's an Astartes combat knife the size of John's forearm already in the fist of the first one. He tries to punch it home, but the other slides away, and the blade gashes the nacelle's plating. The Alpha Legionnaires lock again, one holding the other's blade back. They plough past John, out of the space between the carrier and the Gorgon, into the pools of light cast by the carrier's lamps, spinning and rotating each other. Dragging his deadened leg, John blunders back to the carrier and tries to haul himself up the hull. His left hand just won't work. He gets a toehold, and boosts himself up onto the nacelle, falling on his face again. He hacks up blood, hardly able to breathe. Behind him, a green blur moves in the bright wash of floodlights, ceramite clanging and grinding against ceramite. The glinting combat blade finally bites. It punches through the reinforced undersuit exposed between groin guard and tasset, in and out, as fast as a snake striking. Blood gouts down the cuisses and greaves. Alpharius staggers backwards, trying to reset a defensive stance. The other Alpharius stamps in, blade levelled for the kill-jab over the gorget. A lance of boiling light vaporises the ground between them with a savage bang. Leaning against the Coronus' hatch frame to stay upright, John aims the voltvolver at both of them, bracing his right wrist with his left forearm to steady the weight of the hefty, antique weapon. Post-discharge voltaics writhe and crackle around the muzzle. 'One question,' John says, his enlarged tongue making him sound stupid. 'How many of us are there?' 'Nine,' says Ingo Pech. John's shot melts a hole in the chestplate of the other Alpha Legionnaire. He falls on his back with vapour pouring out of the hole. He's still twitching. Pech limps to him, breaks the combat knife out of his spasming grip, and rams the blade under the lip of the helmet and up into the skull inside. 'One of yours?' John asks, lowering the gun and sagging slightly. 'We're all Alpharius, John. You know that.' Pech unlocks the dead Alpha Legionnaire's helmet and removes it. He stares down at the face. 'Mathias Herzog,' he says. 'Him? Really?' 'Yes, John.' 'Working to Xenophon?' asks John. 'Yes. Sent here to activate the sleepers, like I was.' 'You should have shot him, Pech,' says John. 'You had the drop on him.' 'There was a high-percentage risk that you'd have been hit,' says Pech. 'I had to separate you and take him down.' 'Appreciated.' The Alpha Legionnaire turns to look at John. 'We may not all be on the same side, John,' he says, 'but I am on your side.' 'That's the most Alpha Legion thing anyone's ever said,' says John, and slides down onto his haunches with a long, slow moan. 1:xxix In Lupercal's Court You stand and wait, patiently, arms outstretched, as the fitters machine your war plate into place. You use the time to think, to run multiple tactical schemas in your head. Perturabo of Olympia had a reputation for such mental feats, but in your opinion, the reputation was largely undeserved. His plans were so complex, so precise, so cumbersome. They lacked panache. Panache is the mark of true war-genius. You only let him orchestrate the whole thing, truth be told, as a favour, brother to brother. Something for him to do. Something to keep him busy. And, of course, to placate his constant, needy yearning to prove himself against Rogal. Well, he's gone now. Gone to sulk, most likely, because at every turn, Rogal has proven superior. Rogal, stolid and humourless as he seems, has some panache after all. It is such a damn shame Rogal decided to throw in with the other side. Such a damn, stupid shame. It would have been a pleasure to have him at your right hand. He would have cracked that place open inside two weeks, maximum. Faster, if you'd goaded him. Yes, a shame. But then Rogal, for all his

ng to prove himself against Rogal. Well, he's gone now. Gone to sulk, most likely, because at every turn, Rogal has proven superior. Rogal, stolid and humourless as he seems, has some panache after all. It is such a damn shame Rogal decided to throw in with the other side. Such a damn, stupid shame. It would have been a pleasure to have him at your right hand. He would have cracked that place open inside two weeks, maximum. Faster, if you'd goaded him. Yes, a shame. But then Rogal, for all his panache, has always been a dull conformist. Rogal didn't choose his side because he thought it was right. He chose it because it was safe. Oh, Rogal Dorn. You will be almost sorry to kill him, but you will console yourself that it is his own lack of imagination that has brought about his death. The fitters are taking forever. You have a headache. Some cloud of migraine that is either setting in or in retreat. Did you have a migraine before? You can't remember. You were busy. They are taking forever, fussing with the power connectors of your Talon, as if this is the first time they've done it. And they are whispering. They haven't done that before. Whispering to each other. What is it they are saying? 'Stop your whispers,' you tell them. Softly, of course. They look at you, and you read alarm in their faces. No, more than alarm. Terror. Terror, and puzzlement. One seems to cower, as though he fears you will strike at him. What's got into them? 'You were whispering,' you explain. 'Whisper, whisper. It's annoying. Stop it.' 'Yes, Warmaster,' says one. 'Begging your forgiveness, Warmaster,' says another. There's a tone there you don't like, a hint they feel falsely accused. You let it slide. It's trivial, and you have more important things to do. They continue with the final fitting work. And they keep whispering, though more quietly. You decide to ignore it. You'll have a private word with Mal later, and instruct him to dole out punishments accordingly. Have them all demoted from the personal retinue and sent back to the arming decks. Another team can take their places and their honour. They step back. The Court, your personal place of grace, falls silent. Even the walls hold their breath. The wargear, the Serpent's Scales, so miraculously fashioned by Kelbor-Hal and his artificers, clings upon you like the burden of responsibility and decision, the weight of war, the substance of authority. The fitters bring the wolf pelt, and hang it as a mantle around your shoulders. It takes four of them to lift it. A great beast indeed, taken on the moon of Davin, a lunar wolf for a true Luna Wolf. You look for approval. Your attendants in the Court smile and nod from their alcoves and ledges. Some bow. Some shiver and tuck themselves behind the drapes that line the chamber, unable to bear your magnificence. Some avert their gaze behind splayed fingers and cower, giggling, in the orifices of the walls. You walk from your private chamber. Your plate feels light, as though they haven't adjusted it properly. Or perhaps you're just stronger. You've been feeling stronger these last few days. With the end in sight, that's a boost to your vengeful spirits. The prospect of victory at the end of a difficult compliance always feels uplifting. It takes away fatigue and makes you feel like a- Like yourself again. Unstoppable. Vital. Justified. You walk to the bridge. It's possible that they have relocated the bridge, because the walk seems to take longer than usual. Perhaps a structural reconfiguration as a result of the additional skins of armour you have ordered to sheathe the hull and fortify the primary compartments. The hallway is now too long, despite the lightness you feel. Corridors intersect and subdivide, leading to parts of the ship whose purposes you seem to have briefly forgotten. That's understandable. You've had a lot on your mind in the past weeks, an inhuman burden of data to process, and decisions to make. You have deliberately spent hours in meditative focus in the Court, clearing your head of all extraneous thoughts, the usual mental garbage of work-a-day duty, to achieve a clarity with which to consider what really matters. A state of oneness, attuned to the core issues of the compliance. You can't be expected to remember where this sub-corridor leads, or what that side chamber is used for. That's the shipmaster's job. The walls breathe. It is very bright in the hallway, like being outdoors in the sunlight on the wide plains of Chogoris, or the bleached ever-deserts of Colchis. Light, almost sickly bright, strobes slightly, flickering through leaves swayed by the wind. Or something like leaves. You don't care. You don't look. You can hear the whispering again, like dead leaves skittering in the breeze or shushing under foot. Like the dry wing cases of beetles. Like whirring moths- What is it they are whispering? It's very annoying. You can almost make out the words. The name. One name, uttered and repeated. 1:xxx World's end It's time. As we wait for his champions to arrive, he shows me his plan. Effortlessly, he takes my mindsight into his, and melds them together so I see things as he sees them. I tremble. I am old. I am tired. My frail bones shake, and I cling to my staff to stay standing. Such power. My mind feels as though it is about to burst. I gaze, sharing his will and view, out to the limit of his mindsight. I see... I see what is revealed. The Imperial Palace, all of its dominions, maimed and disfigured, its towers lightning-clapped and tumbled down, its golden avenues scorched to molten streams of clotted alloy, its polished walls baked in soot and befouled. It is numb with terror, rendered vacant by shock. It clings to its last shreds of life. It is as close to death as Jaghatai was, gone past the fatal brink and owning only a fragment of its vitality. Firestorms seethe. Caliginous hosts of plated men and towering war machines, like swarms of gleaming insects, pour in through sundered walls. Energy beams sear, noctilucent, through the choking swathes of smoke. Pestilential rains, of blood and toxins and biomatter, hammer the broken bastions and churn the dystrophied plains to mire. Cataracts of blood splash from fractured ramparts and splintered battlements. Wider still, spears of light flash from our last defensive battery, the ransacked port of Lion's Gate, which the White Scars have retaken and somehow cling on to. The orbital lasers stab at the obscured heavens, and are answered a hundredfold by the traitor fleet above. I see a giant void-ship shearing and burning as it falls through the clouds. I see the vast impacts of orbital bombardment, porcupining slow explosions around the collapsing skirts of Lion's Gate. Its defiance is humbling. Its end is near. Wider still, the outstretched surface of the world, mottled and bruised, shuddering in tectonic agony and seismic convulsion, gashed and lacerated, fall-out plumes rising from the shiver-flash of glowing, irradiated lesions the size of nations. The world is wreathed in smoke and flame, the atmosphere peeling away like flayed skin. And nothing is whole any more. The warp is spilling loose, coruscating into realspace, suppurating the flesh of the planet, corrupting and transmuting all matter it touches. This is end-stage war, the pyrophoric caress of Chaos metastasising the human home world, eating it away, making its own realm where once we ruled. Wider still, the buckled sphere of Terra, rotting in its own skin, bathed in un-light, the black specks of the numberless traitor fleet settling like blowflies on its polluted rind. The orb of once-proud Terra is encircled by a noxious nephelospheric halo, a livid puncture in reality, a raw corona, as my master's son, his beautiful, first-found son, our enemy, immanentises his insane transaction with the four false gods of annihilation, and consigns the world into the distended maw of the warp. The natural laws of the world are undone. This is his configuration of tomorrow, sanctified by the bloody print of his hand. What is my lord trying to show me? I see nothing that I don't already know, or can't imagine. His first-found's domination is utter and absolute. I expect to discover some tiny flaw, some chink or fissure in his attack, something or anything we can use to leverage a counter-strike. But there is none, and I knew before my lord showed me this that none would exist, for Horus Lupercal has proven that while Rogal and Perturabo might be proclaimed the greatest strategists of the age, none can compare to the Warmaster. There is nothing. My lord, my master, my King-of-Ages, my friend... you must accept this. There is nothing. You must accept that our fight back, which we perhaps have left too late, must be done the hardest way, one blow, one step, one metre, one strike at a time, a gruelling uphill struggle against a far superior- Wait. Wait. 1:xxxi Revelation Can it be? Surely, it cannot. A mistake on my part, a misapprehension of my mindsight. I am old, after all. The sheer weight and wealth of the data that my lord is showing me, the scope of it, the etheric fury... it has confused me for a moment, overwhelmed me, and made me see what I want to see, rather than what actually is. I look again, my mind pushing at its capacity, amplified by his will, mindsight narrowed like a needle. There. There? Surely that can't be true? I refuse to allow myself to hope- It is true, Sigillite. There it is. A detail so small, so lost in the background storm of system-wide conflagration, that I missed it the first time. I look again to be sure. I check and re-check the veracity of my insight. What I show you is true. And I see that it is undeniable. The Vengeful Spirit, his first-found's death ship, has lowered its shields. My mind reels. I blink. I stare up at my lord, incredulous. His hands shiver on the arms of the Throne. 'What does this mean?' I ask. What does it signify? D

There it is. A detail so small, so lost in the background storm of system-wide conflagration, that I missed it the first time. I look again to be sure. I check and re-check the veracity of my insight. What I show you is true. And I see that it is undeniable. The Vengeful Spirit, his first-found's death ship, has lowered its shields. My mind reels. I blink. I stare up at my lord, incredulous. His hands shiver on the arms of the Throne. 'What does this mean?' I ask. What does it signify? Damage? Error? A malfunction? A boastful challenge? A hubristic gambit? A vulgar trap? It doesn't matter. The shields are down. The shields are down. There is our variable. It does not matter what it represents, though every instinct in me names it a trap. It is what I have been searching for without thought I would ever find it, the one brief hope that could reconfigure all of this. Whatever it is, we will make it what we need it to be. The shields are down. I test it again, to make certain I am not fooling myself. There is no deception. The treasonous heart of the first-found is wide open. I breathe deeply and slowly. I take one last look, wider still, across the universal madness and cosmic apocalypse, out to the very failing edge of mindsight, and glimpse the reddened whirlpool ruin of the Solar Realm, an open wound in the flank of the Milky Way- I close my eyes. I have seen so many of the wars that history has witnessed. I have never seen a war like this. We will end it now, by his will alone, or we will die. 1:xxxii The fortunate ones She's sitting on the steps near the Prefectus station, resting for a moment before setting out. She's peering at the oddly clean tag stapled to her coat. Leeta Tang approaches her, followed by the other gang-guides and their blindfolded, coffled teams. 'Can I stay with you?' she asks. 'Can we all stay?' 'Of course,' says Keeler. 'I want to help you guide the refugees.' Keeler rises to her feet. She nods. They start to walk, joining the river of refugees shuffling along the Via Aquila. Someone calls her name, but it isn't anybody in the crowd. 'Mam?' Tang asks. 'If we keep faith. If we hold on and actually get there. To some kind of future, I mean. If we manage to get there, how will we remember all of this?' 'As the place where the future started,' says Keeler. 'As the fire in which a decent future was cast. We will remember ourselves as the fortunate ones.' 'And what will we say about it?' 'We'll say, I was there.' PART TWO HOW LIKE AN ANGEL IN APPREHENSION, HOW LIKE A GOD! 2:i King of the Hollow Mountain They have finally found Vassago the Librarian, after days of searching. When Corswain is told the news, he goes at once. 'How?' he asks. At his side, Adophel the Chapter Master seems to shrug. 'Our perimeter patrols located him by chance on a rock shelf outside the Tertiary Portal, your grace,' he says. 'Not how was he found. How was he killed?' 'Skull crushed to pulp. Massive trauma. No defensive wounds. He was either surprised-' 'Who surprises a Librarian, Chapter Master?' Adophel opens his huge hands, palms up, to acknowledge the faulty logic of his suggestion. Or perhaps to crave forgiveness for his lack of answers. 'Or he knew his killers, your grace,' he says. Corswain, seneschal of the First Legion, the Hound of Caliban, halts and looks at him. A chill, world-top wind saws down the ancient metal tunnel. 'Knew his killers?' Corswain asks, weighting each word with lead. 'This beacon hill had become a nest of daemons, your grace,' Adophel replies. 'We have purged it and cleaned it out, and we hold it now. But the taint lingers. Things still lurk in recesses and shadows. Daemonkind beguiles, my lord. We are taught this. They wear masks and change faces, according to the particular deceits they seek to weave. Librarian Vassago was committed to our cause. Our best hope, perhaps, of guiding our smiths and restoring function to the mountain. I venture the malign spirits lingering here recognised that, and conspired to stop him. And wore faces he trusted to lure him to his demise.' 'Whose faces?' asks Corswain. 'Mine?' says Adophel. 'Yours? The face of any friend. Does it matter?' It doesn't. The loss matters. Vassago was the centrepiece of Corswain's strategy. This place, this hollowed mountain, this 'beacon hill' as Adophel so typically calls it, making everything, even mountains and worlds, less imposing than his own renown, must be brought back to life. They come out through the Tertiary Portal into the open air. A waiting phalanx of cowled Dark Angels bow their heads. On the fortified buttresses of rock rising sheer above them, defensive stations have been rebuilt and re-manned to watch over the vale below. Corswain pauses for a moment. The view is memorable. The Astronomican, 'this beacon hill', is the last, glowering mountain of the world. Where once a continental range stood, the mightiest on Terra's face, only this peak remains, solitary and symbolic. The other mountains were ground down and levelled, through feats of engineering that Corswain can scarcely imagine, to form the vast plateau for the Palace Imperialis, but this was hollowed out and laced with mechanisms of the Emperor's devising. It was fashioned into a psychic beacon, a beacon hill, yes, but one whose light could be seen from distant stars. The beacon light of Terra, the signal of Old Earth, reaching across the trackless territories of the Imperium as a reminder of Imperial order, and a guide-star for any of mankind seeking a homeward path. It has been dark for too long. Facing its greatest hour of treachery and murder, the Imperium is blind. The Astronomican was Corswain's primary objective when he undertook his suicidal counter-strike to Terra. Even with his ten thousand warriors, the backbone of his fighting force for the last five years reinforced with much-welcome Calibanite strengths from Zaramund, he could not hope to engage the traitor fleet head-on, or drop directly into the main warzones of the Palace. Enemy numbers are staggering. His contingent would have been shredded in minutes, overwhelmed. To make the best of his resources, Corswain chose instead to run the gauntlet, a sheer act of bravado or madness, and retake the mountain instead, securing a loyalist foothold on the home world outside the Palace. He prevailed, though the odds were long and the daemon-war in the mountain abhorrent. Once the beacon hill was secure, many of the First, Adophel among them, petitioned him to push on, with a stronghold at their backs, and drive into the flanks of the besieging traitors in a breaking effort to relieve the Palace. It was tempting. The enemy host is vast, and the Lord of Iron's investment of the Palace a superb display of poliorcetic warcraft. He has built a constricting circumvallation around the entire Zone Imperialis, but, arrogantly expecting no counter-action from a field army, he has prepared no contravallation whatsoever to guard his heels. A firm strike, ten thousand Astartes, could perhaps drive a wedge through the traitors' careless spines... Corswain is no coward, but he rejected the idea. He could see the futility. Ten thousand was not enough to break the siege, even from a secured surface footing. It would take more. Far more. That was his decision, as lord commander. It was upheld and endorsed by the Archangel Sanguinius, in a fleeting, jumbled vox-link. Sanguinius told Corswain to hold: hold the mountain, hold the line, light the beacon. So what Corswain does, he does in Sanguinius' name. In his memory, he fears. From the rock platform outside the Tertiary Portal, in the bitter wind, he stares out across the vale and the plains beyond. Even from a distance, the scene is piteous. The golden city that once filled the land before him, a crown on top of the world, a palace that was a city that possessed the dimensions of a nation, is lost in a cloud of fire. The sky is scoured to blackness. Smoke encases the heavens. Dull clots of flamelight, red and infernal, throb within a blanket of cinders and dust a thousand kilometres wide. It is no longer possible to glimpse, even from here, the shining spires of the Emperor's city. They may all, indeed, have tumbled. The vale and the slopes of the mountain are caked white, but it is not snow. It is the fresh fall of ash blown back from the Palace, falling softly, forming drifts and samite swathes across the black rock. Corswain is not the saviour of Terra. He remembers the joy-turned-to-despair of Admiral Su-Kassen and the valiant Halbract when they realised that his force was not the vanguard of the long-awaited relief, the racing front edge of the deliverers, an eager herald of Guilliman and the Lion. He was all he was. The hope was false. He could not tell them that Guilliman or the Lion were en route, or even if they were still alive. But they must be. He tells himself they must be. It is an imperative that he cannot bring himself to doubt. His liege-father and noble Guilliman are still alive. They are racing here, closing with every passing second, leading the full and terrible might of the remaining loyal Legions. They must be. For only they can break this. Only they can turn this tide and crush the infamy of bastard Lupercal and his brother-usurpers. They are mankind's last hope. To doubt that is to accept defeat. His duty is to prepare the way for them. For there to be even a shred of hope, Corswain has to hold Terra's beacon hill, and make it shine again. He has to pierce the enfolding shroud of darkness that obscures the very location of the Throneworld, and guide salvation in. I will light the fire so that my father can see and come to me. No wonder the daemons conspire to stop him. Vassago's murder won't be their last attempt. 2:ii Master of Mankind The Word Bearers have assembled for you, thousands of them, lining the approachways to the main bridge levels. They sing your name,

in has to hold Terra's beacon hill, and make it shine again. He has to pierce the enfolding shroud of darkness that obscures the very location of the Throneworld, and guide salvation in. I will light the fire so that my father can see and come to me. No wonder the daemons conspire to stop him. Vassago's murder won't be their last attempt. 2:ii Master of Mankind The Word Bearers have assembled for you, thousands of them, lining the approachways to the main bridge levels. They sing your name, yell it, a raw, bawling chorus of homage. You walk through their midst, nodding, accepting the praise, indulging them, almost shaken by the volume of their massed voices. None of them dares to look directly at you. None can bear to. You are too glorious for even their post-mortal eyes. As you move through them, as your immense shadow passes over them, they look away determinedly, tears in their eyes, trying not to glimpse you as they chant your name. There is fury in that chant. It's almost manic desperation. It feels as though they are afraid of stopping, or taking breath, or pausing, as though screaming your name is the only thing that's keeping them alive. Maybe it is. You raise your hand in a modest gesture to acknowledge their adoration, and enter the main bridge. Inside, they are waiting for you, which is only right. The seniors, the commanders, your inner circle. You smile a generous smile as you enter the grand expanse of the bridge, the smile a father bestows upon his extended family, and they bow, just as they should. 'Rise,' you say. They rise. They gaze up at you in awe, at the regal, smoke-dark mountain of your towering figure. You loom over them, the stature of a new-forged god, the solemn authority of a dark king. 'You were waiting for me?' you ask, with a wry smile. 'We were, Great Lupercal,' says your equerry. 'Very good, Maloghurst.' What was that? Did he just correct you, under his breath? Did he murmur 'Argonis'? Did he just shoot a nervous look at the senior officers standing nearby? He's a fool, but you'll excuse him. Everyone is overexcited. You can feel the tension in the room, like the leaden air before a thunderstorm breaks. The eagerness. The anticipation. This is what they all live for. Victory. Triumph. Conquest. Compliance. This is what the Luna Wolves were bred for. Your sons, not a loser among them. As victory approaches they gather, like wolves indeed, scenting the kill to come, the looming end and the imminent death. 'Let us review, then,' you declare. You move to the great strategium, the projection table upon which you have planned and executed every one of your victories. Such has been the scale of your career, on this warship, with these men, in victory after victory, the table has a patina of use. The auramite edges and control surfaces are almost burnished from the repeated touch of hands, the hololithic plate scuffed and worn from tapping fingertips and demonstrative gestures. It should be replaced, really, or at least fully serviced by the adepts, but you can't bring yourself to instruct it. It is a fine device. It has been your instrument of command down the decades, moulded to your touch, fatigued by your hands, a hard-working tool of warfare and an artefact of your military legacy. It will be in a museum one day. There will be a placard: Upon this tactical device, Horus Lupercal, Master of Mankind, planned out his conquests and built the Imperium. It is fitted to you, like a good sword or a favourite bolter. It is a weapon, a weapon wielded by your mind as your hand wields a blade. You would rather cast out an heirloom gladius. Sentimental? Perhaps. You may be excused sentiment at this hour. You are human after all. Someone has left tarot cards scattered on the strategium's surface. That's very sloppy. How unlike the command cadre. The Harlequin of discordia, The Eye, The Great Hoste, The Shatter'd World, The Labyrinthine Path, The Throne reversed, The Hulk, The Moon, The Martyr, The Monster and The Lightning Tower, all major arcanoi. The Dark King is askew across The Emperor card. You sweep them onto the floor. You light the table. The Palace appears, a three-dimensional light-form, expressed in micro-detail at Millisept Sigma resolution, a standard broad appraisal that includes climate patterns and rendered atmospherics. The smoke bank is so wide and thick, there is virtually nothing to see. Just a blur, a greyness, as though dusty cloaks have been heaped across the plate. 'My sons,' you say. 'Such a pity to behold. Our target site has seen better days.' You laugh. Someone else laughs, though it's more of a whisper. Swift haptic gestures peel the atmopsherics back, erasing layers of cloud. When you finally reveal the Palace beneath, it takes you by surprise. An awful thing to see. A dolorous thing. It is heartbreaking. For a moment you suspect that someone, perhaps Ezekyle or Tarik, has loaded a simulation of the surface of some blasted moon or volcanic planetesimal as a joke. Just the sort of prank they'd pull to ease the tension. But it's not a moon. It's not a joke. The punctured, cratered, punished relief is the Zone Imperialis Terra. A ruined wasteland the size of a major nation state. The Palace is almost entirely gone. The fool, you think. The stupid, blind, unreasonable, arrogant fool. He did this. He made this happen. He brought this hell down upon himself. His pride earned this wrath. So damn him, for he has brought this hell down on millions besides. On billions. They have suffered this because of him. Those innocent multitudes. It is almost unbearably sad. But the state of the city is inevitable. You can't be stalled by tragedy. You clear your throat. 'Call up dispositional overview,' you tell your equerry. 'My lord,' says one of the command cadre. 'There are issues we should address-' 'An overview first, I think,' you say. 'My lord Lupercal, the issues are critical. We-' 'Are they, Sejanus? Critical?' you snap. You pause. Emotion has got the better of you for a moment. You find a smile. 'Forgive my abruptness, Hastur,' you say. 'I meant no rebuke. I would like an overview before we scrutinise details.' 'Of course, my lord. But we-' 'Are you going to press this, Captain Sejanus? What, I wonder, do the Mournival think of you questioning a direct instruction?' 'The Mournival, sir? They-' 'Can they not speak for themselves, captain?' 'They are not here, my lord,' says your equerry. He sounds timid. He doesn't want to point out your slip. Of course, they're not here. Of course. They're on the surface, even now, leading the compliance. Of course. What a stupid mistake to make. Sejanus is only here to- Sejanus is only here to report, and the others- What a very stupid mistake to make in front of them. Correct it. Move on. Show confidence. They're all looking at you, the officers, the tacticians, even the young woman, Oliton. She's there at the back, stylus in hand. Right there between Nero Vipus and Luc Sedirae and the tall things, the tall things that stand by the door and whisper. 'Overview,' you say. 'Now, please.' Your equerry steps in. He adjusts the display. The tabula topographica shifts to project a tactical breakdown, your armies laid out upon the table. 'Baraxa has Second Company, here,' he tells you, pointing, 'alongside Abaddon and First. They have cut in deep, and approach the limit of the Gilded Walk. Balt and Third Company hold here. Vorus Ikari has advanced Fourth Company rapidly, almost to the Confessional-' 'With typical haste,' you remark. 'Ikari is rash. Too hungry for-' 'Some might say, my lord, but Fifth, under Beruddin, and a unit of the Justaerin led by Ekron Fal have flanked his reckless overstretch here and here, and have actually cut off the Praetorian's southern line.' They have. It's rather elegant, a daring but precise extension, the sort of spear-tip tactic you might have devised and drilled them in so that it could be sublimely executed. Perhaps you did. Perhaps Ikari was simply obeying your instruction with that bold run of his. Yes, of course. That's it. Beautiful. Your plan exactly. That couldn't have been accomplished without expert oversight, and who else but you is overseeing this? 'Sycar sweeps the remainder of the Justaerin along this line, in support of Abaddon,' Maloghurst goes on, rotating the image. It's funny, you hadn't noticed before quite how much he resembles that battle-brother from First Company's Storm Eagle cadre. What is his name? The one with the unmarked face? Kinor... Argonis, yes. Argonis. The likeness is uncanny. 'Malabreux, Master of the Catulan Reavers, has broken through here, with Seventeenth Legion support, and is on the brink of taking Predikant Bastion and the Hall of Ushers.' Then it is all as you ordained. As you laid it out. You hope the Lady Oliton is paying close attention. You hope she is getting this all down, word for word, for this is the very essence of your genius, your potency as a martial savant. You have brought your finest game to the table at this, the most crucial moment of your career. 'And of these here?' you ask. 'In the vanguard between Ezekyle and dear Sycar? Which units are these again?' Your equerry coughs awkwardly. 'Mal? Which units? Who commands them?' 'I... I do not know their names, my lord,' he says to you. 'How can you not know their names?' you ask. It's preposterous. Thousands of men, tearing into the Sanctum, and their units are unidentified? 'We don't know the names yet,' says Layak. 'Not all of them, lord,' says Sejanus. 'Not yet.' 'Are these not the warriors you summoned to support us, Layak?' you ask. 'Are these not the very ones you let in yourself?' Zardu Layak nods. He smiles. There is blood on his teeth. 'We thought you might tell us their names, lord,' says Sejanus. Yes, of course. They want you to grandstand a little. Show off your mastery with the remembrancer watching. How clever of them to engineer an

nidentified? 'We don't know the names yet,' says Layak. 'Not all of them, lord,' says Sejanus. 'Not yet.' 'Are these not the warriors you summoned to support us, Layak?' you ask. 'Are these not the very ones you let in yourself?' Zardu Layak nods. He smiles. There is blood on his teeth. 'We thought you might tell us their names, lord,' says Sejanus. Yes, of course. They want you to grandstand a little. Show off your mastery with the remembrancer watching. How clever of them to engineer an opportunity for you to magnify your own legend. You bend down and peer at the display, and you increase the resolution. You say, 'As I thought,' as though you were testing them. 'We have Kweethul, and there, his steeds, and here the juggernauts, and here, those that are the letters-out-of-blood, and here the pestigorae and the tzaangorae, and here Scarabus, and here the Drach'nyen host, and here proud Be'lakor, and here the ones that are of the Doombreed, and here Rhug'guari'ihululan, and here N'Kari, and here the Bahk'ghuranhi'aghkami upon their palanquins, and besides them the Tsunoi, and the Heartslayer, and Khar-Har, and carnate Illaitanen, and old father Ku'gath, and Skarbrand and Epidemius, and those of the Masque, and Karanak and wily Suvfaeras, and ancient Tallomin, and that which is Uhlevorix, and iron-willed Ax'senaea, and Abraxes and Ulkair, and weeping Jubiates, and Ushpetkhar, and the storming ruin of Madail, and Ghargatuloth, and J'ian-Lo, and Mephidast, and M'Kar and Collosuth, and here, the one who walks behind us, whose name is Samus, and all of them. All that is and was and ever will be.' You hear them echo it, is and was and ever will be. You hear Oliton's stylus scratching at her slate, recording every word. The air has turned cold. You can tell how impressed they are. How excited. But also, how scared. This is no common undertaking, and there is no reason to pretend that it is. It is time to change your tone. 'We never wanted this,' you say. 'We never asked for it. Sons and brothers, I know how you feel, for I feel it too. This is the last thing we wanted to happen, and it seems unthinkable that we are doing it. I want you to understand that I know that. If I had thought, during the crusade... in the thirty sweet years of... If I had thought, when my father saved my life on Reillis, if I had thought for one moment...' You take a deep breath. 'He is false,' you say, quite plainly. There is a murmur from them, a whisper and a murmur. 'He is false. He is a false god. And he has played us false. He has used us to further his petty dreams. His... his preposterous vision of the future. We are of his blood, but we are not his children. I am not his son. He made us merely to use us, and to use us up. How much of our blood has he spilled? How many of our lives have we given? He has constructed a plan, shared it with no one, and expected us to blindly enact it for him. Well, my sons, my beautiful sons, we are strong and we are loyal, but we are also clever. We have done enough and seen enough to understand the true abomination of his scheme. It will annihilate everything we love and everything we believe in. So it must be stopped. This I told him. This, we all told him. But he did not listen and he did not cease, so he must be made to cease. Though my heart is broken, my loyalty is not. I am loyal to the Throne. I am loyal, unto death, to the Imperium of Mankind. But not to him.' You look away, as if to contemplate the grandeur of the bridge, and the helm-serfs and steersman at work below, but in truth it is to conceal the tear in your eye. 'He withheld,' you say. 'Shamelessly. He used us as toys, as playthings, and spent us as though our blood was nothing. But more than that. When we beheld, by accident, by happenstance, the truth of all that is, he denied it to us. He denied us the power and the magnitude, the shining glory of Aeternity, claiming it was not for us, and that we were too small and weak to own it or use it. And worse, as it turns out, he had kept it from us all along. Forever. He has kept the truth of what we might be from us, in case, I think, we came to eclipse his status. He wanted it for himself, all of it. Well, I am not weak. We are not weak. And he is not the father I once loved.' You look to the officers, to Hastur and Luc and Zardu. 'Assist me with this,' you say. You hold out the Power Talon. 'Detach it.' They come forward, and, between them, unclamp the seals and disconnect the power and munition feeds. Hastur slides it off your right hand. You take it from him and drop it onto the strategium table. The image of the burning Palace shivers, disrupted, and the glass projection plate cracks. The Talon almost covers the entire tabletop. With your freed right hand, you unclasp the gauntlet of your left hand. You drop that on the table too. You show them the worn gold ring you wear on the smallest finger of your left hand. 'He gave me this,' you say. 'Do you see it? The motif? It was wrought the year before he was born. It was his gift to me, as Warmaster. He said that I had become his centaur, half-man, half-army, that where I rode, the Legions would ride with me. Well, I ride here now, and he will meet his dreadful Sagittary at last. You are my sons. Unlike him, I will not waste you. I will not squander you and send you to death without a passing thought just to serve my whim. My love for you, and my pledge to you, is this - that we will go into this together, and stand together, and triumph together, and free the Throne and the Imperium of Man from this tyrant, together. And after, we will share the truth and wonder of immateria infinitum, for it is in us already, and fills our hearts, and raises our spirits, and whispers blessings in our ears, and it is the strength we need to face him, and compel him, and topple his deceit.' You look at them. 'And when we are done, after this hour, you will live in glory, and you will be able to say, "I was there, the day Horus slew the Emperor." That is my pledge.' 2:iii The pride of Caliban The Librarian's body, wrapped in a groundsheet, is being carried in off the false snows by gun-serfs. The killers left his body where they hoped it might not be discovered, broken on the crags outside the fastness, in among the piles of choir-dead Corswain's men have raked from the stalls of the Astronomican. Corswain sees the warriors escorting it up the winding track. Brothers Tanderion, Cartheus, Asradael and Zahariel. Like Vassago, Calibanite veterans all. 'I sent for them,' Adophel tells him. 'I thought they should know.' Corswain nods. The Calibanite reinforcements provided by Lord Luther at Zaramund, with the promise of twenty thousand more to follow, bother Corswain still. He needed the men, dearly, but his liege-father's strict orders have stood for a long time: a sword does not unsheathe itself. Luther had been commanded to remain on Caliban to raise and train new recruits, not to deploy in the field on missions of his own devising. His presence on Zaramund had been in defiance of the Lion's command, and to accept men from him was to countenance that defiance. But the Lion is not here. He has been gone for years, lost in whatever crusading quest he has seen fit to undertake. Corswain is his seneschal, in all respects the acting master of over half the First Legion, an avenging son, and his father's proxy. It was his decision to make, and the galaxy has changed since he last saw his father. The strength of the enemy, once unimaginable, has now been miserably revealed. Corswain needed warriors, and the Calibanites were warriors, ready and fresh. He hopes his liege-father will one day censure him for his decision to waive Luther's disobedience, because, for that to happen, his father will need to be alive. Corswain longs to hear his voice again, even if it has to be fierce with rebuke. Vassago had been proof positive of Corswain's wisdom in accepting Luther's men. A gifted warp-seer, Librarian Vassago had been an essential part of their conquest at the Hollow Mountain. Without him, they could not have bested the Neverborn thing they had found within. Vassago had become a true and trusted friend, and he had thrown himself into the arcane labour of restoring the Astronomican's function. It was a deed quite beyond the martial skill set of a son like Corswain. He descends the track to meet them. 'The loss will be mourned,' he says. 'Later, when there is time.' 'You still believe in a later, then, your grace?' asks Cartheus. 'I have to,' Corswain says. 'And my brother Vassago did.' The Calibanites seem to bridle at the word. 'We are together in this,' says Corswain. 'Of course,' says Tanderion. 'Vassago's work had barely begun,' says Corswain. 'But you were close to him, all of you. I look to you to help complete what he cannot.' 'You look to us for counsel?' Cartheus asks. 'I do. And for technique.' 'He was the Librarian,' says Asradael, glancing back at the winding sheet. 'In an official sense,' says Corswain. They look surprised. Corswain looks at Zahariel El'Zurias. 'Brother, I know you too were once of the Librarius, trained in its ways.' 'Before the Emperor's Edict,' replies Zahariel. 'An edict now overturned,' says Corswain. 'The Lion himself ruled on this. I ask you, brother, to assume the role.' 'You ask a great deal, your grace,' says Zahariel. 'I have not used those gifts in a long time. I fear they are weak from neglect...' He pauses. 'But perhaps, as a concerted effort...' Zahariel looks at the other three. 'All four of us were once of the Librarius, returned to the common ranks after Nikaea. With your permission, my lord...' 'I grant it so,' says Corswain. 'For all of you. I need your lore and craft.' They are startled. The Edict has stood for a long time. Vassago had been a rare example of its sanctioned and tentative revocation within the First. For Corswain, the Lion's seneschal, to reinstate them all,

...' He pauses. 'But perhaps, as a concerted effort...' Zahariel looks at the other three. 'All four of us were once of the Librarius, returned to the common ranks after Nikaea. With your permission, my lord...' 'I grant it so,' says Corswain. 'For all of you. I need your lore and craft.' They are startled. The Edict has stood for a long time. Vassago had been a rare example of its sanctioned and tentative revocation within the First. For Corswain, the Lion's seneschal, to reinstate them all, and bid them draw upon their once-forbidden talents is an act of heartbreaking fraternity. That he does it, without hesitation or formality, there on the cold mountainside, shows them the extremity of the threat they face. 'You trust, your grace, perhaps too much in our potential,' Tanderion says. 'A blade grows rusty and dull without use, and it has been a long time since we even dared-' 'I know,' says Corswain. 'But you, brothers, know more of this art and artifice than I.' 'We know barely-' Cartheus begins. 'But we will do whatever we can,' says Zahariel. 'Whatever we know, whatever old ways we remember from observation of beloved Vassago, we will employ as you command. We serve you, your grace. And I am honoured to see that you value us, no matter how o'erconfident that faith is.' Corswain nods. He smiles. Adophel is calling to him. 'Carry him up,' he tells them. 2:iv The Emperor Must Die You let your words hang in the air. You pause for effect. You can see that your declaration has made a startling impact on them. Their eyes are bright. Their hearts are strong. Some wipe away tears with hands that are almost trembling. Even the whispering has stopped. Your rallying speeches to your men have always been the keenest weapons on your belt. You needed to set them straight, and you have done so. There will be no hesitation now. 'Let us finish what we have begun,' you say. You turn. 'Now, someone had an issue to raise. A question, when I came in. Does it still stand?' They glance at each other. 'The shields, my lord...' says your equerry. 'Are down,' you say. 'My lord?' 'On my command, the voids have been lowered,' you say. 'When did you give that command?' one of them asks. 'When I chose to give it,' you snap. 'It was my decision as Warmaster, and I don't believe you get to question that.' 'My lord,' your equerry says, exhibiting some agitation, 'elements of the Fifth have retaken the port of Lion's Gate from your brother Mortarion. Indeed, we fear-' 'The White Scars should be commended for their tenacity,' you remark with a nod that says you are still man enough to acknowledge the courage of your foe. 'What of it?' 'The port's guns are operational,' says Falkus Kibre. 'They are firing upon our fleet elements. Without shields, we are vulnerable-' 'I'll tell you what makes us vulnerable,' you bark, hard enough to make the Widowmaker flinch. 'I have seen the intelligence reports. The intercepts.' 'My lord, Great Lupercal,' says your equerry, 'what reports are you speaking of?' You pick up the data-slate from a nearby console, open the files, and hold it up. 'Transmissions,' you say. 'Intercepted transmissions. From Roboute and the Lion.' They look at you in horror. They had no idea. You are forced, once again, to remind yourself how much more capable than them you are. Your perceptions, your insights, your understanding. You have always excelled, and now your powers are magnified by the gifts invested in you. The data on the slate is near gibberish. None of them could make sense of it, or discern the danger it represents. Only you could read the truth. 'Our enemy's reinforcement is rushing down on us, headlong,' you say, projecting the slate's data onto the repeater screens around the bridge so they can all view it. 'They are, perhaps, three days away. I'll stake my life it's not more than five. Roboute and the Lion, with their Legions. With their vengeance fleets. With their indignation and their pathetic notions of loyalty. That's what makes us vulnerable, my sons.' You set the tablet down and look at them. 'We will destroy them when they arrive,' you state. 'We will break them as we broke the Legions of the Praetorian and the Khagan and the Brightest One. But their intervention will make our task more difficult. An unnecessary impediment. Only a fool fights on two fronts unless he has to. Isn't that right, Lev?' Beside the table, something nods. 'Indeed so. Then it is my judgment that the Throne must be empty when they arrive. We finish this, and then we turn to face them. One battle followed by another, not two at once. This is elementary combat doctrine, my sons. Why are you struggling with it? We bring Terra to compliance before they arrive. Indeed, that will break them. How could it not? Can you imagine their faces, Guilliman and the Lion, when they realise they have come too late? That the lies they were racing to preserve are all undone? There will be no fight. They are not that stupid. They will surrender, and kneel before us, and beg us to forgive them. Or they will flee in despair. Either way, one victory resolves the other.' 'But how does lowering our shields bring about a victory?' Maloghurst asks. That does it, really. You can't be blamed, in truth. Has the momentous nature of the hour rendered them stupid? Are they deliberately testing your patience? Well, test no more. You slap him, a backhand across the face. The force of the blow hurls your insolent equerry across the bridge and into the guard rails, which bend under the impact. He collapses to the deck, as twisted as ever. There is blood. Serves him right. 'The Emperor must die,' you tell them all. 'He is the only thing that matters. He has hidden this whole time behind his walls and his gates, behind his armies and his engines. He has cowered from me. He has sent his sons, our brothers, to fight for him, to throw away their lives in a futile effort to stop us. And every one of those lives I have mourned, and regretted having to take, because it should have been his. He hopes, prays, that he can remain hidden until his wayward sons arrive. So we must tempt him out. We must entice him. We must make him think he has some fleeting chance to win this and retain some dignity in the eyes of his sons. He wants me. Me. I won't go to him and play the game his way. I will lure him out. Let him have his try, for I am more than ready.' 'So... it is a ploy? A trap?' asks Sejanus. 'It will seem a mistake, or a malfunction,' you say. You smile. You show them reassurance. 'It is the flaw he has been looking for and waiting for and praying for. He will not be able to resist. He will think it a tactical masterstroke that will take me unawares. Our enemies gather for a final push, but the Emperor must die first.' There is silence. 'No more questions?' you ask. 'Good. Go. Prepare. Prepare to greet a boarding action. Tell the First Captain to finish his work, and sack the Palace. Burn it all. Kill for the living and kill for the dead. Leave nothing but a heap of ash and stone, and a throne for me to sit on.' You see them resolved. Good. Some seem eager. This is grim work, but it will soon be over. They are relieved you are taking on the main burden yourself. The rest is just operational necessity. You wonder if they should refinish their plate in black for this final stage, to signify respect for the enemy fallen. You think it would be an appropriate mark of honour if they dressed their gear in mourning. But they already have. 2:v A broken sword As Vassago's pall-bearers wind up the track towards the Portal, Corswain joins Adophel on an outcrop of rock. The drop beneath is sheer, a natural pass that was left unaltered by geo-engineering because it was well suited for defence. Ash snow billows around them, and settles on the dead below, the jumbled corpses of the astrotelepathic choir that once sang in the mountain. Their bodies have been prised from the mangled chantry-tiers of the Grand Chamber, and cast aside without ceremony. They are tumbled across the slopes, like the scree and wreckage of some human avalanche. Corswain sees the look on Adophel's face. 'You heard?' he asks. 'It is my duty to hear and know,' says Adophel. 'And advise?' 'Why else would I need to hear and know?' 'So advise me, Chapter Master. Am I slipping the leashes too much on the warp-seers?' 'Far too much,' says Adophel. 'Their employment is governed by the most strict-' 'I know, old friend, but-' Adophel raises a hand gently to halt Corswain's reply. 'I had not yet reached my advice, your grace,' he says. 'That was your request, was it not?' Corswain nods. 'You place too much trust in them,' says the Chapter Master softly, 'or perhaps, more correctly, too much hope. Part of me wishes, against decency, that they have more of the seer-craft in them than is seemly, and will startle us by performing the deed you desire. The other part... well, it longs to be confounded. It hopes they will fail, and prove our suspicions of all immaterial dabblers false and defamatory. But what matters now is... well, all things, a greater contest... perhaps the greatest of all. There is a beast to hunt and slay, the most infamous of all, and to stand a chance, we must be pragmatic. At the door of death, we must fight by any means, or there will be no First to have integrity. In Aldurukh, in ancient days, there was a proverb. "A broken sword is better than none at all." Those four Caliban-born sons may be our broken sword. Not the most sporting or gallant weapon, but all that we have to hand. So, there is my advice.' 'And it accords with my instinct,' Corswain replies. 'But... you will watch them?' 'Hell's blood, of course. Like a hawk. Which is why I hear and know. And one hint of baneful idolatry, I will snap their spines myself.' 'And mine for permitting it?' Adophel turns his craggy face. He sees Corswain's rueful smile. 'In a heartbeat,' he says. 'Good,' s

four Caliban-born sons may be our broken sword. Not the most sporting or gallant weapon, but all that we have to hand. So, there is my advice.' 'And it accords with my instinct,' Corswain replies. 'But... you will watch them?' 'Hell's blood, of course. Like a hawk. Which is why I hear and know. And one hint of baneful idolatry, I will snap their spines myself.' 'And mine for permitting it?' Adophel turns his craggy face. He sees Corswain's rueful smile. 'In a heartbeat,' he says. 'Good,' says Corswain. 'If all is lost, then the honour of our Legion will pass from this world unblemished.' 'I think we will all be cleansed by valour 'fore then,' says Adophel. He unclamps the sensorium from his left vambrace and hands it to the seneschal. Corswain studies the display. The data it presents is incomplete, and scabbed with interference. But enough is comprehensible. 'An army?' Adophel nods. 'An army, of considerable magnitude. It is, if we can trust the read, three days out at least. But it is advancing rapidly, and without doubt moving towards us. We are the only possible target.' 'A traitor army?' 'Yes. They issue no code signal or cipher, but what else could it be? A formation drawn off from the siege force to prosecute us. There is chatter too, on the vox. I have teased it out and isolated it. Heathen bile, incomprehensible. But a voice we know.' 'It's him?' 'I'd wager my life it's him.' 'Then I command you make us ready for combat, Chapter Master,' says Corswain. 2:vi The last gathering The first of the champions are about to arrive. I sit upon the throne, facing the Silver Door, and wait for them. Not the throne, of course. My throne. It is but a poor, high-backed wooden chair, lacquered red, and marked with certain sigils of my devising. It is kept in a side chamber off the main nave, and brought out for my use when I am required to enact the formal duties of Regent. I have it placed with its back to my silent lord and the great dais, so that it appears that the sun is rising behind me. The intimidating proconsuls, Uzkarel and Caecaltus, have brought it hence for me today, and set it carefully in its spot. Either one of them could carry it on the crook of a single finger, but they insist on bearing it between them, in all solemnity, as though it was an artefact of veneration. It is not. It is simply somewhere for me to sit, for I am old and almost always tired. Chairs, thrones, dungeons, rooms, men, gods. Words are strange and imprecise, and unintended significances too easily applied. I have always found symbols far more fluent and explicit when it comes to expressing sophisticated meaning. I am old. But I am not tired now. I am fizzing with expectation. I stare at the Silver Door, so far away from me, as though staring at it will make it open faster. I tap my staff - tick! tick! tick! - against the tiled floor. Come now! Come now! The clocks run out! Let us get this matter underway! An invisible hand rests gently on top of mine to dissuade me from fidgeting with the stick. I stop. I smile to myself ruefully. 'Yes,' I murmur, 'I am impatient, my lord. Forgive me.' He does. 'Nervous, perhaps,' I reply. 'Preparing myself.' He whispers. 'No,' I assure him. 'No second thoughts. I have not changed my mind.' He wonders. 'No, old friend,' I say, 'I fully understand what you are going to ask of me.' Crowds are starting to gather in this place they call the Throne Room, and in the pavilions and chambers adjoining it. I have beckoned to us all those we will need to support this undertaking: senior lords, war courtiers, high functionaries, intelligencers, artificers. A mere three or four thousand people, the necessary logistical backbone, technical and bureaucratic. I sent my thought-summons, little sigils of compressed meaning and instruction, flashing out like shooting stars through the hierarchy of the Sanctum, hand-picking the appropriate personnel. They enter, in small groups, wide-eyed and hushed, through the side doors and ante-ports around the edges of the nave, and congregate in huddles. I can smell their anxiety, their awe, their dread. There is palpable anticipation, an excitement that I share with them, and have not felt since- That I have not felt, ever. This surpasses the Declaration of Unification, the Call to Crusade, even the Great Triumph. I have, I suppose, grown too used to the monuments and punctuations of history. But this, I cannot deny it, has a suspension, as if everyone, and everything, and everywhere, has turned to look. At what we do now. What he does now. They gather, meek and quiet, around the Silver Door at the south end of the nave, along the lustrous floor of outer aisles, and they crowd the triforium galleries above. The choirs are singing only the low plainsong needed to maintain psychomantic equilibrium. No one dares approach, nor should they. From where they stand, cowed by the scope of this impossible room, all they see is a remote figure on a faraway golden seat, as still and silent as it has ever been. Beneath that outward stillness, my lord does a thousand things every second, a thousand things that only one or two of them at most could even begin to comprehend. He stokes the wards that guard the last of the Palace. He radiates controlled burns of telaethesic energy that weaken and shrivel the Neverborn instantiating closest to our fastness. He watches and moderates the flow of the endwar, at both micro and macro levels. He moves through the minds of individual warriors as they crunch and gasp and stab, observing the flow of combat at a granular level; and simultaneously, he watches from above, like one of poor Jaghatai's finest hawks, hovering on an updraught, beholding, below him, entire regiments and armies as they twist and pivot and brawl. He shaves and shapes the etheric turmoil of the webway, guiding and conducting immaterial force via the Throne's ancient machineries, so that the doomsday pressure can be held at bay. And he tries, as best he can, to soothe the minds of a billion terrified human souls as they flee and panic and scramble for some vestige of safety. I fear I will be able to manage but a fraction of those things. The expectant tension increases and becomes razor-sharp as the Silver Door opens and the Custodes Pylorus admit the train of armourers. In they troop, in their imbricated iron-and-brass garb, ceremonial versions of the work armour they wear in the smithies. Every man and woman of them is deaf, the occupational hazard of work in the constant din of the hammering rooms. They haul and push the burnished carts on which my lord's wargear lies, brought from the sealed chambers of the House of Weapons. A tight, hard hush falls. He has not spoken, but his intent is plain. I rise from my seat. The first two champions are here. 2:vii Admission 'Brother,' Sanguinius whispers, an aside. 'Look.' Rogal Dorn and Sanguinius step through the Silver Door together, blades drawn and centred to their brows in respect and fealty. They enter the eerie, infinite glare of the Throne Room. Dorn is flanked by senior Huscarls, and the Angel by solemn Sanguinary Guards. The golden Sentinels at either side of the great door respectfully drop their chins as one. The growing crowd of worthies parts in deference at the sight of the primarchs to make a path. Dorn sees what has drawn his beloved brother's attention. The high company of the Imperial Armoury has entered ahead of them, and their procession is beginning its slow, dignified advance along the six kilometres of the nave. 'Then it is upon us,' says Rogal Dorn, his voice barely audible. Neither he nor Sanguinius have ever become used to this chamber, no matter the number of times they have come here. It triggers vertigo, acrophobia, agoraphobia and kenophobia. Despite the numinous and pervasive light, it inspires a fear of darkness too. It is the only place in creation where such feelings manifest for them. The endless space seems to whisper to them of their mortality, as though every stone and tile and column is intent on reminding them of their insignificance. But that's not what Dorn feels today. His voice, and heart, are stilled by the sight of his father's weapons, brought through in honour. The gathering crowd around them stirs, both fearful and elated. Dorn glances at Sanguinius. There is joy and sadness in both of them. Joy, sadness, and infinite fatigue. This is what they had hoped for and also what they have dreaded. Is the drawing-in of the great armours a sign they have failed in their duties, requiring their father to finish what they could not? Or is it a sign of their success, that they have held the line, beyond all expectation, long enough for this moment to become possible? Simply that it is happening is enough. They look to the Sentinels. 'You are admitted, lords,' says one. The brothers sheathe their blades. 'Are we instructed to approach?' asks Dorn. 'At once.' Dorn turns, but Sanguinius catches his arm and stops him. For a second, they stand shoulder to shoulder, eye to eye. 'You've performed the most extraordinary feat,' Sanguinius says unexpectedly. 'Please remember that.' Dorn is taken aback by the frankness of the comment, and the innocent sincerity with which it is expressed. His startled half-smile wavers with imprisoned emotion, a flash of light at the high slit-window of an otherwise impregnable keep. 'A mere... fraction of your deeds, brother,' he replies awkwardly. 'You closed the Gate. You locked-' Sanguinius shakes his head. 'I was a warrior, Rogal. Just a warrior. You were the one who mattered.' He embraces the Praetorian, the spontaneous impulse of a child. As with his guileless comment, the embrace is unexpected and unselfconscious, a rare display of emotion, especially in such a gathering. For a moment, Dorn freezes, then he completes the embrace. When they step back, a single teardrop glints on the Brightest One's pauldron wher

replies awkwardly. 'You closed the Gate. You locked-' Sanguinius shakes his head. 'I was a warrior, Rogal. Just a warrior. You were the one who mattered.' He embraces the Praetorian, the spontaneous impulse of a child. As with his guileless comment, the embrace is unexpected and unselfconscious, a rare display of emotion, especially in such a gathering. For a moment, Dorn freezes, then he completes the embrace. When they step back, a single teardrop glints on the Brightest One's pauldron where the Praetorian rested his head, and a single drop of blood gleams on the Praetorian's backplate where Sanguinius pressed his hand. 'Not yet.' They both look aside. The crowd has parted again. Constantin Valdor has entered, his spear across his shoulder. The Custodes Pylorus do not drop their chins: they kneel, for they are his. 'Not yet,' he repeats, a growl. 'Your plaudits and self-congratulation.' 'You are owed much yourself, Constantin,' says Sanguinius. Valdor shrugs. His armour is pitted and filthy. He eyes them both. 'If any is owed and any necessary,' says Valdor, 'then it can wait until the outcome is settled.' 'No,' says Sanguinius. 'Let's imagine it can't. None of us may live to see that outcome, so I'll make damn sure I say it, while I still can, and you can both listen. You've both excelled, and you're both owed, and I am proud to call you brothers.' 'Brothers, now?' sneers Valdor. 'Brothers, is it?' 'In every way that matters, Constantin,' says Sanguinius. He sighs. 'I meant no slight by it, captain-general. But now I see that-' 'Stop,' says Valdor. He sniffs, and his brows furrow. 'I recognise the spirit of your words, Ninth son,' he says grudgingly. 'And... and if this is our only moment, as you suggest, then... then I tell you I have nothing but honour in my heart for you both.' His eyes narrow as he looks at Sanguinius. 'But no embrace is necessary,' he adds. The remark is intended lightly, and the tension slackens. But Dorn can see how wracked with unspoken, perhaps unspeakable pain Valdor has become since they were last face to face, as though the captain-general has seen and done too much. It hurts to behold that in a being of such legendary fortitude. Dorn looks away, at the receding procession. 'Shall we fall in behind?' he suggests. 'Yes,' says Valdor. 'You two should. His will is known to me already. I will follow as soon as I have issued my last instructions.' He turns aside. Attending him are two giants of the Custodian order whose plate is so coated with soot it seems almost black. The grim Wardens of the Dark Cells are a rare sight even in the Throne Room. With them, Dorn sees, is Kaeria Casryn and seven others of the Silent Sisterhood. They may have been there all along, and their null states only just registered by his senses. Valdor begins to instruct them, his voice low. Sanguinius and Dorn turn and follow the armourers in, side by side. 'He's going to fight,' murmurs Sanguinius as they advance. 'I think he is,' Dorn replies. 'Should we weep or rejoice?' asks Sanguinius. 'I think it is just cause for both,' his brother says. 2:viii The Order in the dark In the mountain, the wind sings through odd angles. It has always been a sacred space. In the oldest of all times, when men were mere figures with spears in the great landscape, tracking ibex and deer through the foothills, the mountain whispered, and some men put down their spears and left their game trails, and ascended, against all common sense, to penetrate the darkness of its worming caves and crystal-threaded tunnels. They were the shamans, and to them the mountain granted the first insights of otherness. Their rituals were ancient before the Emperor was born, and the mountain is why the Palace was raised in this high, remote place. As with all the rest of Terra, the Emperor refashioned the mountain to suit his needs. Tunnels of steel and ceramite replaced the ancient cave systems, and heat-bored shafts replaced connate flues and chimneys. Cavities of intricate and exact geometric design were cut inside the rock surrounding the Great Chamber, in whose gleaming, spherical space was raised the silver and auramite chancel tiers of the astropaths. Great machineries of secret design were set deep in the rock range, their inlaid conduits aligned to enhance and amplify the natural wonder of the resonating quartz and chyrosite. The mountain's natural sonority was harnessed by rational science, and industrialised by etheric technology, and its eternal whispers were weaponised into a blinding scream. Yoked to the service of the youthful Imperium, the mountain forgot all of its old names, some already half-lost or cancelled into myth, and became the Astronomican. It became the Light of All Worlds, the inescapable radiance of mankind's supremacy, and the visible expression of the Emperor's guidance. It mutters to itself, still. Even now the light is out, the choirs butchered, and the precious apparatus broken and defaced, it mutters still. The brethren-leaders of the Caliban formation leave Vassago's body in an undercroft, in the care of bedesman serfs, and withdraw to an amplifier sub-vault deep beneath the Great Chamber where they can be alone. The vault, heat-finished and squared off, is nevertheless a remnant of the original caverns. It smells of cold, and its walls glimmer with the mineral traces of quartz and lustrous anthospar. There is no echo, none at all, despite the emptiness. As they speak, sparks of light, cinnabar and violet, dart across the crystal veins, as though triggered by certain words. 'I do not understand you,' says Cartheus. 'We silenced Vassago because he pledged to Corswain's side, yet now you do the same?' 'I do,' says Zahariel. 'And so must you, without demur.' 'If we are to go along with him,' snaps Cartheus, 'why kill Vassago? His death becomes meaningless.' 'His death had meaning for him,' Zahariel replies. 'It showed him he had gone too far. He had spoken too openly. It showed him we Mystai will not tolerate those who break our confidences. I said what I said to Corswain to protect the rest of us.' 'Protect how?' asks Tanderion. Zahariel, a noted warrior long before he came to Corswain's side, stares at the three of them. He can feel their stubborn disapproval. 'We can't hide forever,' he says. 'Vassago knew that. He had become too enamoured of Corswain. Considered him a brother. I am certain he was close to unburdening himself and telling Corswain of the Order. Of what the Order represents. For that alone, he died. The Mystai tradition must guard itself completely. And I think the sight of what we found here, the daemon that had made this place its nest, troubled him greatly. I believe it made him doubt that immaterial powers can ever be subdued to our will. Such was his trust in Corswain, Vassago was close to speaking out.' He turns and stares at the dim rock wall, where once men limned dye-marks with their hands to design the future. 'Corswain is a fine leader,' he mutters, almost to himself. 'That cannot be denied. I admire him. I see why Vassago softened in his bearing towards him. If any can lead us out of this, it is Corswain, for we are in this now, my brothers, to the hilt. We have come to Terra, into the mouth of hell, and our side has been chosen for us. If we are to live, and the Order to continue, we must commit.' 'Has our side been chosen?' Asradael asks. Zahariel seizes him by the throat and squeezes. Asradael sinks slowly to his knees. The other two look on, aghast. 'You saw what was here, brother,' Zahariel hisses. 'You saw what Vassago saw. Have you no wits? It was a thing of Chaos, raw and terrible. I have no doubt its ilk has made slaves of all the so-called traitors, aye, even the dread Lupercal. Did you somehow mistake it for the Spirit of Caliban to which we vow fealty?' 'No-' Asradael gasps. 'No, indeed. The spirit that guides us is a pure thing of the immaterial realm, the circle-serpent from which flows the wisdom of the Mystai. We are sons of Caliban, sons of Luther. We will know no master, not any who command from the gilded Throne of Terra. Not Lupercal. Not the Emperor. That is our side in this.' 'Let him be,' says Tanderion. 'Yes, fine words, brother,' says Cartheus. 'But in practice, as worthless as dung. This is wartime, and a side must be chosen.' Zahariel releases his grip, and Asradael rocks forward, gasping. 'Of course it must,' says Zahariel, staring at Cartheus. 'Do you believe you have a choice? Would you side with the others against Corswain? Would you side with the Emperor's Children and the World Eaters and the insane Sons of Horus? Our side is chosen for us, and it was chosen from the moment we set forth under Corswain's banner. We fight for ourselves, not for traitor or loyalist cause, but for Caliban. And that means casting our lot in with the side that will serve us best. Brothers, the loyal alignment must win this war, or all is lost, so we must help them. Vassago was on the brink of saying too much, so we took his words away. But we must complete Vassago's work. Make this beacon shine. Win this war. Then our destiny will be ours to shape again.' 'And when all is done?' asks Cartheus. 'Consider the gains we could make,' Zahariel says to Cartheus. 'If Corswain emerges victorious from this bloodshed, and his victory is achieved with our aid, we will have him in certitude. He will value us, and honour us.' 'And we can turn him to our advantage?' asks Tanderion. He grins at the notion, a wolf scenting prey. 'I think so,' says Zahariel. Spark-lights flicker in the rock wall, mimicking his cadence. 'Turn him, or use him. If the Lion is dead, Corswain will be lord of the First when this is over, and we will have his ear. If the Lion lives, then we will have influence over his successor. The brute Lion's been gone too long. The First looks to Corswain, for he has been steadfast and present. The Lion would find he has few fr

our advantage?' asks Tanderion. He grins at the notion, a wolf scenting prey. 'I think so,' says Zahariel. Spark-lights flicker in the rock wall, mimicking his cadence. 'Turn him, or use him. If the Lion is dead, Corswain will be lord of the First when this is over, and we will have his ear. If the Lion lives, then we will have influence over his successor. The brute Lion's been gone too long. The First looks to Corswain, for he has been steadfast and present. The Lion would find he has few friends here, and none on Caliban. So we will serve Lord Seneschal Corswain. To the death, if necessary. We will become invaluable allies that he can never renounce. Brothers, has he not already remade us Librarians, so we may practise openly?' They nod. 'Then we will build on that and cement that trust. Suitably vizarded to protect its identity, the Order will stand forward and prove its worth to him.' He pauses, and removes something from the satchel under his robe. 'You'd... go that far?' asks Cartheus, amazed. 'Yes, brother. Corswain must understand the honour he is receiving. We must impress him, by our deeds and by our appearance. Though not of the Order, he is of Caliban after all. He must be made to feel the weight of tradition and the old line upon him, and marvel that he can be worthy of such prestige. When the time comes, I will wear the face I wore when we came to Vassago. For him, that face was a punishment. For Corswain, it will be an accolade.' 'You would dare?' Asradael growls, rising back to his feet. 'I dare indeed,' says Zahariel, 'with the blessing and permission of Lord Luther. A face is a face, and a mask is a mask, and the meanings and significances are ours to employ. Lord Seneschal Corswain will be served by four loyal Librarians. And by something else.' He can tell they all have their doubts, but then, they appreciate so much less than him. Though Mystai, they have not yet ascended to his level of enlightenment. He reads their misgivings, and gently steers them with a deft psionic touch. His power is low and silent, but inexorably erosive, like a glacier or a mature river. It firmly alters the course of the other minds it touches. He intends to work on Corswain in the same way. Bring those who are reluctant round to the right way of thinking, without them ever realising they have been subject to persuasion. One by one, they nod in agreement, even Asradael. Zahariel offers them his hand. 'There has never been a war like this, brothers,' says Zahariel. 'So there has never been a moment like this. The Order can turn this disaster to its great advantage.' 'The gramyries of Ouroboros will instruct us in the repair of these devices,' says Cartheus, almost eager suddenly. 'The lore of the Triumvirate Engines can be applied, if we are careful and circumspect.' 'That was Vassago's plan,' says Zahariel. 'You have that lore by rote?' 'Since boyhood,' Cartheus replies, for they had all been tutored by the Mystai teachers, and each had committed certain texts to memory. 'The Bestiaries of the Great Hunt will serve us too,' says Tanderion, 'and I hold those by recollection. Each verse, each engram. Through them we can channel etheric force.' Zahariel nods. 'Then we are agreed. Are we not, brother?' Asradael glares, then joins his hands with the others. Sparks flash around the rock seams of the walls like angry fireflies. 'We are,' Asradael says. 'In my nonage, I was charged to learn the Chanson of Mamenezy. I can recite it without flaw. Its charms and bindings will reinforce the engrams of the Bestiaries.' 'Then we must to work,' says Zahariel. 'But we must work swiftly, for Chaos is coming to claim this mountain back.' 'How do you know?' asks Cartheus. 'Look at the walls, my brothers,' says Zahariel. 'Look at the signs, the marks that flash and resonate, and read them well. The future is writ before our eyes. Chaos is coming hence to harrow us, and its name is Typhus.' 2:ix What the Angel has seen And now they approach. The war plate my master has not worn, the sword he has not drawn, since the Great Crusade, are nested on the armourers' velvet biers. Rogal and Sanguinius follow the procession, solemn and pensive. I heave upon my planted staff, and drag myself up from my little wooden throne. I can taste Rogal's impatience, perhaps even a little eagerness. He has held the reins of command since this began. Now he wants to be commanded. Now he wants to fight, and carry his fury to our enemy in person, not through the remote instrument of some army or division. He will get his wish. We are not about to flee this field of war. There will be fighting enough for all of us. In Sanguinius, I taste only pain and fear. He is wounded more grievously than he wants to admit or show. He is afraid he has fought too much, and too recklessly, to be fit for the final battle. I fear he's right. But he's hiding more than wounds. He's been hiding something else for much longer. He thinks I don't know, but my mind is busy, busy, everywhere. I know of the escalating visions that have been haunting him. Sanguinius has inherited, like damned Magnus, his father's more esoteric aspect. A state of higher grace, and in that grace, a visionary foresight. But I believe that, in some specific area, that foresight has begun to exceed his father's. The Angel's visions have been coming with increasing frequency. He tries to cover them, but they are sharp thorns snagged in the silk of his thoughts. When his attention has been on other things, I have slipped into his mind, examined the visions to discern their value and origin. They have all been glimpses of futures, some through his brothers' eyes. But there is one in particular that he keeps close and will not, through force of will, reveal, even to my mindsight. I have gently tried to prise it from him, but the way to it is utterly blocked by a great fortress wall he has built from a single burning question. Why must we suffer? I share my concerns with the one I serve as I watch their slow approach. He knows already. 'Of course you do,' I murmur. 'And what of the boy's question?' I will answer him. I will answer every question they ask. I owe them that. 'Good,' I whisper. 'Good. But I wonder... why that question? What calamity has he foreseen that makes that question so impenetrable and absolute?' Can you not guess, Malcador? He has seen me fall. I breathe deeply to steady my nerves. 'And what might you tell him, with regard to that?' I ask. I will tell him that I will not. I will face down the Four and deny them, and I will cut the strings of their deluded puppet, my own first-found, and I will return to the throne triumphant, and take my place for ten thousand years, and ten times ten thousand more. I nod. 'Make sure of it, old friend,' I murmur, 'for I will not be here to hold you to the promise.' 2:x Vectors There is only the mountain. We see only the mountain. We turn our backs on the false, golden city and march towards the mountain instead. The Emperor must die, but someone else can kill him. Our Pale King is gone, but his commandments remain. Death must guard itself, and scythe down the vulgar fraudulence of mortality. Like a fever, we will consume. Parts of us doubt. Parts of us think the port of the Lion's Gate, stolen from us by the savages of the V, should be reconquered. Other parts buzz with desire to be at the final fortress when it cracks open, so that our name can be recorded as the cause of death. We will allow some latitude. The corpus of Terra is in its terminal stage, and its palsied, myalgic organs offer no resistance to our infection, so we will spread like wildfire, unchecked, decaying and diseasing that which remains. Under Serob Kargul, alive with meat-flies within his metal frame, we will advance upon the Sanctum and there, with Vorx and Kadex Ilkarion at our side, we will sow end-stage corruption. Thus will the haemorrhagic truth of the Rot be conjugated. The stolen port we will assail, but on it waste no great strength. The White Scars are few, and they have, in some great fit, like the false-dawn flare of vitality that spikes just before death, resolved to open active fire on the Lupercalian fleet. Unwise, little hawks. You have drawn wrath and damnation down upon yourselves, for the fleet will answer and annihilate you. The Pale King's words to us were clear. The mountain, the hollow hope. That must be our true target. Hope must be crushed and extinguished, resected and cauterised before it can metastasise and spread. We will not fail in that. And it is our wish too, the death rattle of our father be damned. His death will not hold us back. So that is where we spread, advancing across the pedregal wastes towards the mountain, to infect and rot away all hope. We will send our dreams before us to plague the foe and eat away all resolve. We walk with Caipha Morarg, who cannot disguise his scepticism at our decision, but dares not repudiate the order of his beloved king. We walk with Crosius, who understands our aim, and understands our particular ache for this objective. We walk with Melphior Craw and Skulidas Gehrerg and all the other warriors that the fever of the warp has swollen into monstrous, behemoth champions. We will crush hope, yes, for that is our pathology. We will be destroyers, for the Hive, like a twitching ball of maggots, writhes within us all. But we will also annihilate Corswain, for the Pale King has promised us that Corswain is there. Our long duel, for good or ill, has run its course, and illness will prevail. Corswain of the First will choke on the congealed flux of his own lungs, and rot in our arms. We will be aggressive. We will be virulent. We will be incurable. The Hound of Caliban thinks he is immune. He commands a mountain, and believes we cannot permeate his cordons. But we can seep in through the smallest gap, or enter as spores in the slightest breath, and multiply. We will

as promised us that Corswain is there. Our long duel, for good or ill, has run its course, and illness will prevail. Corswain of the First will choke on the congealed flux of his own lungs, and rot in our arms. We will be aggressive. We will be virulent. We will be incurable. The Hound of Caliban thinks he is immune. He commands a mountain, and believes we cannot permeate his cordons. But we can seep in through the smallest gap, or enter as spores in the slightest breath, and multiply. We will open fistulas in his bulwarks and transfuse our septicaemic influence into his dark angelic blood. We will swarm as prions through pores, ooze as helminths into orifices, and our drones, pouring like sizzling smoke from the bone funnels and flutes of our back, will be numberless, a legion of legions, and bloat the sky with lymphatic darkness. The mountain, hollow like a cyst, filled with loyalist pus to be evacuated and drained, is distant, a good material measure from our position. For a conventional army, it is three days' march away, four or five perhaps, allowing for considerations of armour advance and terrain. But the lytic malaise of the warp permeates this world, reducing dimensions to jelly, slicing distance and suturing it back together in new proportions. We are closer, far closer, than Corswain imagines. He will feel our bacteriophagic caress long before he is ready. And our diseased god, grandfather-lord of decay, has shown us another truth, through febrile dream and delirium. Our god has shown us Corswain's comorbidity. The cancer is already within him, eating away at his heart, asymptomatic but congenital. It is morbid, inoperable, invasive and degenerating. When it finally erupts, it will be fulminant and refactory. For we have seen the sparks of Chaos in his meat and in his bones, a parasitic wastage deep within the body of the First Legion. We sense the flicker of activity, the chancre of Chaos within his own ranks, psyker-whelps sired on Caliban, already picking and scratching at the scabs of the immateria. We will barely have to fight him, for we will already be fighting him from within. For we are the termination. We are the Death Guard. We are the Destroyer. We are Typhus. 2:xi Fear made flesh Dark, feral figures swarm Logis Gateway and Clanium Square. Fafnir Rann's elements have been driven out into the quadrangles and scholar-courts beside the library, and there is no room to recompose. The entire length of the Hall of Governance is ablaze, wrecked by the daemon-fight they have just endured, and the assault position Rann hoped to establish and hold is lost. As the Sons of Horus - and he knew it would be them - begin to pour through the gateway from the Maxis Processional, his formations are not locked in and waiting to greet them, they are in disarray. Plans die as fast as men, and the pavements around the burning hall are littered with bodies in yellow plate. Beliefs die too - long-cherished, long-trusted beliefs in method and technique. Some things don't die. Rann doesn't know what it was they found in the Hall of Governance other than it was nigh-on impossible to kill. He buried his axe-blades in its bolt-shot mass, but he still isn't sure if it is actually dead. He isn't certain it was alive to begin with. Rann thinks it was probably waiting for them, that it found them, which means that all the normal principles of combat are null and void. Everything he has learned, every battlefield tactic the Praetorian schooled into him, is meaningless. This notion distresses him more than any aspect of the physical danger surrounding him. The art of war as practised by the Imperial Fists is no longer trustworthy. He feels a sort of numbing loss. The rubrics of the world have come undone. This was supposed to be a bounding counter-attack - hasty, yes, and born out of dire necessity, but calculated and precise. He had identified the threat, the numbers of the foe, the direction of movement, and he had formulated a robust response to meet, block and decapitate the enemy advance. Textbook methodology. Except, suddenly, the enemy was behind them. It was where it couldn't and shouldn't be. It was already among them. What good is rational methodology when the foe can just appear? When it can come out of nowhere? When it can come out of mirrors? He and his surviving men are pinned. There is nowhere to fall back to. Rann would only consider that option if it allowed them a chance to reinforce a line, but lines are meaningless. Plans are meaningless. The direction of enemy advance is meaningless. The thing in the hall, that shrieking thing that claimed the lives of so many of his men and left raking fingernail punctures in Rann's armour, was the greatest nightmare of the Imperial Fists made manifest. Rann tries to shake the thought off, but it won't leave him alone. The supreme fear of the Imperial Fists, if they could admit to a fear at all, is to be outplayed by unpredictable variables. Not to know. The war-craft of the VII has always depended on knowing: knowing the location, the angles of advance, terrain variables. Such specifics become their weapons, even in a fight this precarious and desperate. Not any more. And it is as though the thing in the Hall of Governance knew that. It hadn't come to simply tear their bodies, it had come to shred their minds. It was a psychological coup, severing their faith in method as fast as it severed limbs. It was as if their darkest phobia had come to life. Worse, it was as though their most secret and deepest doubts had created it. Rann tries to gather himself, but there is nothing to cling to. Plans are pointless, and the rules are vanished. The enemy, now in part or totally imbued by some Neverborn magic, can be anywhere and everywhere. Intel and preparation are worthless. The trusted mindset of the Imperial Fists cannot be trusted. Rann thinks that this is what human fear must taste like. He is conditioned to process fear so it doesn't affect him, but that conditioning seems to have failed or malfunctioned. Rann is heedless of the bolt shells shrieking past him, the explosions that crater the courts, heedless even of the figures in filthy plate that mob through the outer quadrangles. They are just foes and dangers. He knows how to face foes and dangers. He doesn't know how to face unprocessed fear, and now that settles upon him. He hears men calling for instruction, fear staining their voices too. He forces his mind to focus. He studies the data-flow of his retinal display. His auto-senses are screening out the harsh stimuli of explosions and flash-fire. What his visor's sensoria render is a patchwork of heat-as-colour, laced by the geometric graphics of structures and architectural solids. On that float icons, the tag-markers broadcast by each legionary's helmet system to afford instant overview and identification even during the sensory overload of extreme combat. Each marker is a small fist icon and a name. To his left, Calodin, Lignis and Bedwyr. Then Devarlin and the assault squad teams. To his right, the icon-cluster of Leod Baldwin's fire-team. Across the quad, the jumbled light-dots of Tarchos' squads, holding semi-cover around the buttresses of the Scholars' House. Between them, icons that have gone still and dropped to a pale half-tone: the markers of the fallen, their systems still transmitting at low power so that bodies can be found and recovered. So many. Too many. The Sons of Horus spill into the quads. To one side, armour supports them, tread weapons and sooty war machines that erupt through walls and sub-gates, scattering masonry and crushing barricades. They clatter up new hills of broken stone, and fire their turret weapons, loosing concussive hell into Rann's positions. The side wall of the Archivum collapses like a released curtain and buries three squads in an avalanche of bricks. Rann expected the traitors to have long since turned off their tag-markers, but they have not, and his system still reads them. Wolf's head icons, the old mark of the XVI. But the names appending those icons have become illegible. They are incomprehensible non-names, as though the generating algorithm has corrupted, or is simply unable to form letters and characters graphically. Wolf's head icons and broken hell-names. So many. Too many. Rann yells into his squad-to-squad, and concentrates fire on the largest of the breach points. His fire-teams open up, and so do those of Sergeant Tarchos and, to the left across the range of quadrangles, Fisk Halen. Mass-reactive shells from Astartes boltguns and heavier support weapons bracket the breach point. Visibility drops instantly as the area torches with thousands of explosive detonations and vomiting clouds of dust. Half-seen traitors quake, twist and topple. Some icons go to pale half-tone, but, it seems, so few. Something is leading the Sons of Horus in. It is a cloven-footed horror the size of a Knight engine. Its wings are vast, but still don't seem big enough to lift its mass off the broken ground. The flex and flap of them, which Rann can hear, like the sound of sawing rope, seems more intended to fan the flames and drive the wall of smoke towards them. The thing is hunched and horned. Its eyes are orange gashes of neon. Rann does not want to look at those eyes. He doesn't want to acknowledge that the thing, somehow, is still wearing the distorted pauldrons of XVI Legion Cataphractii plate. It has a tag-marker. The icon is a mere blister of contaminated pixels to his auto-senses. Rann reloads. He orders a sustained concentration of fire. He ignores the thump and thwack of impacts as men drop all around him. A hail of fire - a stupendous hail of fire - crosses the area from his right. For a few seconds, it becomes a torrential deluge. Rann sees dark, misshapen figures writhe and fall. A counter-strike comes in, crossing the head of the Maxis Processional like a steady flow of magma, burning e

marker. The icon is a mere blister of contaminated pixels to his auto-senses. Rann reloads. He orders a sustained concentration of fire. He ignores the thump and thwack of impacts as men drop all around him. A hail of fire - a stupendous hail of fire - crosses the area from his right. For a few seconds, it becomes a torrential deluge. Rann sees dark, misshapen figures writhe and fall. A counter-strike comes in, crossing the head of the Maxis Processional like a steady flow of magma, burning everything in its path. Figures in yellow, shields locked, driving in across Rann's flank. Rann sees the raised standard a second before the data of his retinal display updates with marker codes. Archamus. Master of the Huscarls. Second Of That Name. Archamus... For the last months, Archamus has served in the Grand Borealis, Dorn's proxy in the command bastion. But Bhab has fallen, and Archamus, perhaps impatient after so many hours at a strategium, fighting the war with his mind rather than his fists, has not fallen back into the locked Sanctum to continue his duty. He has taken to the field instead. Perhaps he couldn't retreat. Perhaps the great gate was already shut. Perhaps joining the fight was his only option. Perhaps the sight of him here is a true signifier of defeat and desperation: there is nothing left to control or command, no orders left worth giving, and no strategy to oversee. Perhaps fighting is the only option remaining. But the sight of him. The sight of him, here. A wonder. Six hundred Imperial Fists, many of them Huscarl veterans, advancing in perfect Antecessum Purgatus and driving unbelievable fury into the enemy's ribs. The traitors came in like a flash flood, a dirty torrent. Archamus' formation is much slower, the crawl of molten rock. But water splashes and dissipates. Lava is thick, steady and inexorable, and water turns to steam where it touches. 'He is with us!' Rann roars. 'He stands with us!' His men roar in response and find some new stocks of courage. Halen's battle squads actually manage to edge forward six or seven metres, and engage close, swinging chainblades or firing point-blank. A portion of the enemy tide, stung by Halen's jab and blocked by the Hall of Governance, turns too wildly and meets the rolling shield wall of Archamus' advance. A second axe-blow falls across the throat of the traitor column. From the east, bisecting the Avenue of Justice, comes a line of Blood Angels Kratos tanks and Falchion super-heavies, with Sicarans and Basilisk tractors in flank formation. The hammer of their rolling bombardment turns the top of Maxis into a forest of flame-trees. Enemy machines, turning to train on Archamus, are gutted by penetrator shells and bulk-beam weapons. Rann sees a traitor Arquitor hurled into the air, spinning, track-links whipping like a broken belt. The Blood Angels advance through the rows of their armour, moving with fluid, surgical speed that counterpoints Archamus' steady, relentless roll. Icon markers light up. There, the squad groups of Satel Aimery, of Zealis Varens, of Zephon Sorrow-Bringer. Aimery's assault teams burn forward on their jump packs, led into the air by the rare wonder of Azkaellon, commander of the glorious Sanguinary Guard, whose augmetic wings cast him in the image of his glorious primarch. Airborne Astartes, angels of death, moving like missiles at low level, spear fire and bolter shells into the enemy breaking beneath them. 'One push to snap their neck,' Archamus roars over the vox. The Master of Huscarls' observation is true: despite their vast numbers, the head of the enemy mass is boxed in and blocked on three sides. At once, both Halen and Aimery demand the honour. Both are well placed, their units in striking distance. But Rann is reading the field. Either strike will be anticipated, and either one could end in an overreach. In the space of three minutes, Fafnir Rann has subconsciously rewritten the tactical rulebook in his head. Preparation and tested moves are all redundant, the honoured codes of formation warfare hopelessly inadequate. The enemy thrives on the unexpected. The Imperial Fists must learn the knack of it. 'Mine,' Rann voxes. 'My lord seneschal?' he hears the Master of Huscarls respond, trying to isolate Rann's voice from the inter-signal mayhem. 'Hold them hard,' says Rann. 'I have it.' 'Yours indeed, Fafnir.' Rann orders meltas and flamers to the fore. He gives the command even as his men are assembling. Of all the battle groups in this crossroads of armies, his is the smallest, the weakest, and the most poorly positioned, the least likely to move or attempt a surge. That's precisely why Rann calls it, and precisely why Archamus, after months of studying the evolving madness of battle on his strategium, approves it, without hesitation. Rann, technically, outranks him, but field authority always falls to the commander with the superior position. A fundamental code of Imperial Fists warfare. Archamus defers. He tightens his line, and communicates holding restraint to Halen and Aimery. Rann and his men are already moving, charging across the rubble from the dead end that should have been their unmarked graves. They come at the header formations of the Sons of Horus from the least expected direction. And they burn them. Howling flamers and squealing meltas cut their path for them. Roasting armoured figures topple before them, incandescent, shrieking and thrashing. Impact follows a few seconds later, the winding, hammer-blow contact of Astartes clashing with Astartes in close combat, swinging mauls and chainswords, driving with broken storm-shields. Rann's axes, Headsman and Hunter, bite deep. He guts one traitor son, and keeps running as the brute spins away, then sweeps the axe in his left hand through a spine with crunching force. Slivers of plasteel fly. He keeps moving, splitting a blackened visor in two. To his right and left, the newbloods of his squads keep pace, crashing from one foe to the next, wheeling chainswords and hammers. Blow by blow, they break the yard open all the way to the Logis Gateway, then clear the line across Clanium Square. The enemy, its numbers vastly superior, is caught in a bottleneck, and by surprise. The mass of them flinches back, stung, and then shatters across its right-hand edge as the Blood Angels armour lights off and rains shells into their confused and tight-packed mass. The tide falls back. Lupercal's bastard-sons retreat. The cloven-hooved thing leading them is already vanishing into the smoke. It's a brief respite. Rann knows that. The enemy will gather and resurge in minutes. But they've held the line at Logis against a foe that, until now, has not been even slightly checked. Rann halts the charge at the edge of Clanium Square. Pushing further, though his blood wants him to, will simply force the kind of overreach he feared for Halen and the Blood Angels. Aimery's guards fly in to land around him, finishing the half-dead enemy with execution shots from bolt pistols or the clinical down-strikes of blades. Archamus, resuming area control, orders rapid repositioning to defend the retaken ground before the assault resumes. There will be no time to rest. Battle will blur into battle. 'My hand, brother,' says Azkaellon, coming to Rann across the rubble and the burning dead, his augmetic wings retracting and folding high like a white banner against his back. They clasp. Azkaellon, Herald of the Sanguinary Guard. He seems like a winged god in gold. Rann feels mortal before him. 'Ingenious,' the huge First Sanguinary says. 'Improvised,' says Rann. 'Indeed, my lord?' says Azkaellon. 'The spirit moved me,' says Rann. 'But of course. You've heard, then?' 'Heard what?' asks Rann. Azkaellon looks at him. 'That He rises?' he says. 'That He stands with us?' Rann is silent for a second. 'Is... is this true?' 'Word is spreading. He rises, brother. He rises from the Throne to stand with us. This is the hour.' 2:xii The end of time I take a moment to steady myself. Curse my mortal shell, but I am old and I am tired. I consider resuming my seat for a moment, just a moment, to ease my old bones, but that would be a symbol of weakness. He mustn't think me weak. He will not be able to trust me if he thinks me weak. Yet the rising, world-drowning tide of the immaterium hammers and burns at my soul. I feel my lord fight to adjust and correct, re-crafting the invisible, constructing and reinforcing talismatic dykes and dams of psykanic force, opening psychomantic outfalls and conduits to relieve the rising pressure. It is growing ever more disturbed by the moment. In the great chamber of the Golden Throne, astropaths moan and spasm, bedevilled by unbidden dreams, and the oniero-looms spew friction-smoke as they spin too fast. Prophesires weep, lamenting, and prognostipractors bleed from the mouth and ears. Indifference engines judder on their platforms, and archeotech valves spit green and yellow sparks. What new surge wracks the currents of the webway? Keeping it chained is a constant, precise struggle. I wonder... will I be remotely prepared for it when my turn comes? Will- Another surge. I feel the Throne sigh as it shudders and rides the empyric current, its amplifiers and stasis-nodes straining. What is causing this fresh perturbation? My mindsight turns upwards. Peerless Terra falls ever further into the void-wound Horus has cut. A caustic halo surrounds it utterly, so that it resembles a great, inflamed, infected eye. The nephelosphere around it burns black, like the petals of a monstrous, poisoned flower, arcs of morbid lightning millions of kilometres long lashing across the Solar Realm. The forces of two universes, cosmic opposites, mingle and intermix, contrary to the absolute laws of cosmological regulation. The warp and realspace are beginning to devour each other, cannibal galaxies starting to feed, to consume, to mutually obliterate. The empyrean will

that it resembles a great, inflamed, infected eye. The nephelosphere around it burns black, like the petals of a monstrous, poisoned flower, arcs of morbid lightning millions of kilometres long lashing across the Solar Realm. The forces of two universes, cosmic opposites, mingle and intermix, contrary to the absolute laws of cosmological regulation. The warp and realspace are beginning to devour each other, cannibal galaxies starting to feed, to consume, to mutually obliterate. The empyrean will win, of course, for it is malevolently hungry in a way our cold and starry void is not. And there, hanging over us still, is his utterly vengeful spirit. Unlike every other vessel in the vast murder-fleet circling the skies of Terra like carrion birds, it remains unguarded. Its shields are still down. It is wantonly, brazenly exposed. A threat, an invitation, a seductive promise. He thinks he's luring us into a fatal mistake. Except this is not his work at all. It is a scheme devised by the four behind him, the four anagogic annihilators who govern him. His role is merely their impatient host. The four are allowing him to believe that this is a tactical masterstroke, a summons my lord and master cannot refuse. Horus Lupercal accepts this. He seeks gratification and triumph. My lord's first-found was always so very eager. Flagrantly, he shows us the trap he thinks he has set and beckons to us. Well, you once-wonderful son, you peevish traitor-child, it is a trap indeed, but not for your father. In your pride and confidence, intoxicated by the power you have so unwisely drunk, you have built your own demise. So, is it that? Is it that indecently bared flagship, shamelessly revealed, that suddenly perturbs the warp so, and makes the Neverborn shriek and gyrate with expectation? That makes the noctivagant horrors in the burning streets of the Dominions gibber with glee? That makes the webway roar? I think perhaps it is. Daemonkind quivers, salivating, at the prospect of the coming moment and- No. No, it is not. It is something else. I feel the pattern of it, the particular gust and eddy of the immaterial gale beneath my lord's adytum. Impossible. Too soon, surely? And yet... In my mind, he warns me to brace myself. I feel him take control at once, applying full and conscious mastery of the turbulent ever-seas. Warding bells and klaxons sound automatically. The Armoury procession halts, bewildered. The Custodians stand ready, spears raised. The Sisters unsheathe their blades and their anti-souls. The conclaves of the Adnector Concillium scurry to and fro, adjusting flow regulation and dynamic connection. The lights of the vast electro-flambeaux hung along the arched and echoing nave flutter and dim. A hundred centuries of noetic learning and practice guides his hand. My lord and master opens the webway door. Withering light floods out, scorching the flagstones and crusting the auramite fittings of the chamber with fulgurite soot. By his will alone, my lord holds the ether back long enough for the figure to emerge. Then, as his will ebbs and frays, he closes the door again, clamps the telaethesic locks, throws bolts forged from the heavy metals of white dwarf stars, re-engages the dampers, and rekindles the wards. The light fades. The chamber floor before the Golden Throne is spattered with ectoplasmic fluid and fuming pools of ooze and waste-wash. Spavined and translucent things from nowhere, by-blow organisms from the deep trenches of the warp, splash and twitch, and flop and gasp, unable to survive in a world they were not made for. They die, decay and liquify in the light and air of the Throne Room, leaving nothing but puddles of putrid jelly and a lingering odour of decomposition. And there he stands, amid the spatter of bio-organic emulsion, whole and home, the acrid vapours of the webway rising like smoke from his shoulders. Vulkan. The Promethean son. I share the astonishment of all those gathered here. Vulkan turns and kneels to his father, head bowed. I see Rogal and Sanguinius start, and hurry forward, pushing past the halted line of the armourers. Vulkan has returned. Joy fills me at the sight of him but, just as quickly, dread. He was hours away when my mind last visited him, clawing his half-dead, half-living way back along the psychoplastic halls. I doubted he would return before it was time for his father to leave. 'Lord father,' he says, the low voice of a flexing fault line, 'I feared I was coming too late. Whole ages it has taken me to reach your side.' And then I understand. It is an alarming thing to realise that even I can be mistaken in my reading of signs. Vulkan's sense of time, just like his father's, just like mine, is born of the perpetual, and runs outside the mortal flow of hours. But our perceptions here are contradictory. Instants have become centuries, and years moments, for him and for us, in different ways. I understand now the full degree of the damage wrought upon Terra. The last walls are falling, the sun is red, and the clocks... the clocks do more than just run down and disagree. The ruin of the warp so afflicts the materia of Terra that dimensions have collapsed. Space and distance, time and duration, those constant and trustworthy arbiters of realspace, have seized and fallen. Time, a local foible of our reality, no longer counts. It is no longer our ally, or our rival. The Palace, and all of Terra, and all of us, have become pinned in the infinite now of the empyrean, and we will remain there until the grip of Chaos is broken. This is neverness, the abdication of metaphysical continuity. This is the unmoving Uigebealach of the webway's singularity-node. This is un-time. There will be no tomorrow, for there is no longer a today or a yesterday. There will be no tomorrow unless we wrench Terra from the sucking wound of the warp and allow space and time to reformulate according to Euclidean and Minskowskian principles. The four, the False Four, know this. To them, this is a step closer to triumph, depriving us of orthodox reality. To them, this is the final state of madness that will carry us off. I think on this in despair, and then... and then I start to chuckle to myself. They have - because they do not understand it - forgotten logic. The foul False Four have forgotten that we still think in human terms, and plan human plans, according to human conceptions. They have denied us tomorrow. But if tomorrow is the fall of Terra, then we have been strenuously denying that for months! By melting time away, and condemning us to neverness, they have given us a moment of eternity, an endless now in which to forge the tomorrow of our choosing. 'In the webway, my father,' Vulkan says, 'as I walked, I heard a name. It came from the walls and the air, again and again.' 'The Dark King?' I ask. Vulkan glances around at the sound of my voice and the soft tap of my approaching staff. 'Lord Regent,' he says, and rises to his feet. I shuffle forward, leaning heavily on my staff, until I am alongside him. I reach up, and pat him on the shoulder, an avuncular greeting. Then I eye the splatter on the flagstones around us, dubiously probing one rotting lump of dead flesh with the tip of my staff. I wrinkle my nose. 'Was it the Dark King?' I ask again. 'Vulkan, the name, my boy? Was it the Dark King?' 'It was, Lord Sigillite,' Vulkan replies. 'Yes, I have heard it too,' I tell him. 'And what does it mean?' asks Sanguinius, as he and Rogal join us at the foot of the great dais. 'It is a title sometimes claimed by Curze,' says Dorn. 'And, I understand, an element of the tarot.' He glances at me warily. He knows full well my fluency in the language of symbols. Though it seems like years past, it is only months ago that I gave Dorn a private reading in which, following the reveal of The Moon, The Martyr, The Monster, and The Lightning Tower, The Dark King turned to lie askew across The Emperor. I place great credence in the working of the cards, and consider my old deck an especially prized possession, but dear Dorn has no stomach for such superstitious frippery, and he is annoyed that this bothers him. 'Yes,' I reply, 'it signifies Konrad, and also the name of an ill-favoured card in the tarot arcanoi. But, in this case, my dear Praetorian, both definitions are mere echoes of the real truth.' I look up at the Golden Throne, raising a hand to shield my eyes from the glare. Will you tell them? I ask. He tells me that I speak for him in all things. 'Very well,' I say. I turn to the three great primarch sons. 'It means,' I say, 'the end and the death.' 2:xiii A cornered wolf Loken can suddenly hear a boltgun firing. It's close. 'Stay back, Ahlborn,' he instructs. Ahlborn's been with him for twenty minutes, vainly trying to guide him to the last place Keeler was seen. No one in the crowd seems to know. Everyone's seen her, no one's seen her. It's not even clear which way the crowd is moving. The Via Aquila is choked with people, but there doesn't seem to be an agreed direction. Which way does the great avenue run? North? He hears the gunfire again. Ragged bursts. 'Ahlborn!' he cries. But he can't see Ahlborn any more. Where's the man gone? Where have the crowds gone? He's entered a side yard that's littered with broken glass and a few discarded possessions. There's a groundcar parked, abandoned. Ahead of him are the doors of a large building, perhaps a grand archive or a depository. Is that the Clanium Library? Sudden squalls of rain hammer down. The raindrops are fat and dark, like oil or beads of dark glass. Through the downpour and the veiling smoke, Loken can make out a great city gate looming above the large building. Is that Praestor Gate? Is it Lotus? How could it be either? They've only been moving for twenty minutes. How has he lost his bearings again? The rain gets heavier. Where the hell is Ahlborn? Where did the crowds go? How do so many people vanish so

ory. Is that the Clanium Library? Sudden squalls of rain hammer down. The raindrops are fat and dark, like oil or beads of dark glass. Through the downpour and the veiling smoke, Loken can make out a great city gate looming above the large building. Is that Praestor Gate? Is it Lotus? How could it be either? They've only been moving for twenty minutes. How has he lost his bearings again? The rain gets heavier. Where the hell is Ahlborn? Where did the crowds go? How do so many people vanish so completely? All he did was step from the street into the yard. The great city gate is burning. It must be two kilometres away, but Loken can hear the munching crackle of the flames and the hiss of fire meeting rain. Veneered between those two sounds, something else... another sound, just for a second. It sounded like someone calling him by name. 'Ahlborn?' There's absolutely no trace of the conroi-captain. The rain is raising a fine spray from the broken flagstones, and streaming down the walls. The walls are marked with signs and names that Loken decides to ignore. The gunfire rattles again, closer. He draws his bolter and checks the load. He's getting low on shells. He'll favour blades in a fight if he can. But against a shooting foe... When the World Eater appears, striding into the yard with an axe in one fist and a boltgun in the other, Loken drops him with a single shot. The brute is huge. His goat-spike horns look like unwound ammonites. The mass-reactive blows open his chest. He falls hard, cracking the flagstones with his impact. The blood leaking out of him starts to ripple in the rain. Loken takes a step forward. Instinct tells him to duck, and a swinging maul misses his head by inches. There is absolutely no explanation for how the Word Bearer got behind him. Loken tries to turn. The maul catches him on the backswing, smashing the bolter out of his hand and throwing him into the wall. Bricks shatter. He rolls, trying to rise. The Word Bearer ploughs in at him, laughing. The traitor's eyes are insane. He's trying to say something, perhaps tell Loken something, but there are too many fat, wet tongues in his mouth to leave room for coherence. The maul sings down. Loken blocks it with his chainsword. The grinding teeth chew the maul away at an angle, and wrong-foot the gibbering Word Bearer. That gives Loken enough time to get upright and recompose. He starts driving the Word Bearer back. The traitor is forced to use his heavy maul to make defensive blocks and fend off the stabbing, slicing strikes of the chainsword. A warrior of the Death Guard lumbers out of the rain. He's wider than he is tall, his rusted, sweating armour bloated and distorted. His helm, or his head, or perhaps both, have become some ceratopsian fight-mask with tusks over the eyes and a snout horn. The back of it flares into an iron frill and the entire left cheek and jaw are swollen like a metal balloon. The Death Guard, plodding at first, starts to jog as soon as he sees Loken. He lumbers across the yard from Loken's left, hoisting his warhammer. Loken blocks the Word Bearer's maul with his chainblade, and then kicks out, putting his right heel into the Word Bearer's abdomen and hurling him away. The Word Bearer sprawls on his back. Loken snaps left out of the path of the Death Guard's clumsy assault. The down-swinging warhammer hits the wall, and the wall tears open like mummified flesh. Loken rotates and catches the Death Guard across the pauldron with his biting sword. The pauldron cracks in two, and dirty blood gushes down the traitor's right arm. He issues a gurgling roar, and sweeps the warhammer in a wide, horizontal arc. Loken evades. He hears the whistle of it passing him. The Word Bearer is back on his feet, yelling something unintelligible at his fellow traitor as he closes from the left. And somehow, the World Eater is upright again too. There is an appalling hole in his chest plating, a crater of impacted ceramite, metal and meat. His hands, blood drenched, grasp his bearded axe. Loken fends off the Death Guard, sidesteps, and draws Mourn-It-All in his left hand. As Death Guard and Word Bearer come at him simultaneously, he smashes the traitor-son of Mortarion to his knees with a ripping down-slash of the chainsword, reverses, and runs the entire length of Mourn-It-All through the Word Bearer's head. He wrenches the blade out of the sagging body just in time to block the World Eater's axe. Despite his size, and the size and weight of his axe, the World Eater is hacking frantically, as lithe as a boy with a stick. The axe comes at Loken again and again, without wind-up or balance compensation. The World Eater seems oblivious to the gaping wound in his torso. Loken fends off the raking axe, first with one blade, then the other, drawing sparks. The Death Guard, chips of torn ceramite flaking from the oozing chain-wound in his shoulder, charges from the right, head down, helm-horns angled like an angry bull. Loken clips aside the World Eater's axe, and barely dodges the lunge. As the Death Guard blunders past, Loken hacks Mourn-It-All across his lower back, and severs his spine. The Death Guard drops on his face, writhing and sputtering, froth and noxious slime weeping from the long gash across his back. He tries to crawl, then succumbs to a fit of wet coughing and choking, and falls limp, his head propped up at an odd angle by his snout horn. The Nucerian axe catches Loken and knocks him over. Pain flares across his ribs. The World Eater shrieks a war cry, bringing the axe down with both hands. In desperation, Loken rolls. The axehead embeds in the flagstones, biting stone. Still prone, Loken sweeps the World Eater's legs and drops him on his back with a crash. Then it's simply a matter of who gets up first. The World Eater is fast, but the Luna Wolf is faster. The chainsword takes the World Eater's head off as he rises to vertical, and his body collapses again with a scrap-metal clatter. The head bounces, rolls, and comes to rest like a caltrop on its horns. Loken pauses, a sword in each hand, alert, breathing deeply. The rain hammers down, mingling the blood of three foes in the broken gutters of the yard's pavement. Nothing stirs. No one else appears. The black rain is so heavy, Loken can no longer see the burning city gate. 2:xiv Anabasis At my lord's instruction, I explain to the four of them the corruption and suspension of time and how this, inadvertently, might actually favour us. Then I tell them his scheme of attack. Its code name, quite utilitarian, is Anabasis. Our defenders hold the sealed walls of the final fortress, while outside the last of our warrior-armies fight a hopeless rearguard to delay and thwart the enemy advance. Neither will last long, but while they do, we must strike. A boarding action by teleport assault, so only the most formidably armoured will be capable of withstanding the transition. It will be a spear-tip thrust against the primary, just the way my lord taught his first-found. Taught him so well, indeed, that he owns the tactic as his signature. 'He will expect it,' says Dorn, unable to stop being a strategist. 'Well, we can let him, Rogal,' I reply. 'Let him expect exactly what is coming. Expecting something, and stopping it, are different things entirely.' 'But to walk into a trap-' he insists. 'Oh, let us hope it is a trap!' I tell him. 'For though time has run out, we have no time left to spare. If it is an error, a mistake, or a malfunction, those things could be remedied at any moment. If the shields are re-lit, this chance is lost. The urgency with which we must act is self-evident.' Then I tell them that our lord will lead the assault himself. That is why he rises. The four of them will stay here, and hold the Palace through the final hours. They all immediately turn to look at the Golden Throne. Just as I expected. Each one of them wants to protest. My lord dims the radiance of his aspect a little so they can read the solemn sincerity on his face and not burn out their eyes. His glance alone has quietened kings and stilled the objections of caesars. It permits no defiance, and they are loyal, all of them. All of his children were made to be loyal, but the grotesque heat of this war has fully proofed these four. The fidelity of Valdor and these last three sons is irreproachable. I am startled, therefore, when Sanguinius says, simply, 'No.' Sanguinius! Of all of them! Even Valdor looks at him askance, and the captain-general was the only one I truly thought might utter an objection. I ask the Great Angel what he means by his protestation. He does not look at me. His gaze remains fixed on the Throne. There is a shining quality in his eyes. It's not defiance. It's... some kind of certainty. Before he can answer, Rogal speaks too. 'We will not let you go alone, liege-father. Not into this.' Oh, now Rogal! I study him too. The Praetorian dares not speak another word of opposition, but the white heat of his thoughts is clear enough. This siege, they sear, and all the work I have done to hold it, has never been about the Palace. I have defended the Palace because you are in it. If you go to the Vengeful Spirit, then my siege defence moves with you. It is as simple as that. 'My king,' says Constantin. 'What you have commanded is out of the question. The Legio Custodes are your lifewards. They are the only ones fit for this undertaking. They must go with you, and where they go, I go.' Vulkan does not speak, but he does not have to. His frown expresses his reservations quite plainly. Well, well. I am dismayed. All of them! I know full well my lord will be infuriated by their reaction to a simple order, yet also touched by their determination to defend him. Except, is this response born of high virtue and love, or of something darker? Sanguinius is the paragon of integrity, yet he was the first to refuse. Of them all, Valdor was ever the most unswerving.

here they go, I go.' Vulkan does not speak, but he does not have to. His frown expresses his reservations quite plainly. Well, well. I am dismayed. All of them! I know full well my lord will be infuriated by their reaction to a simple order, yet also touched by their determination to defend him. Except, is this response born of high virtue and love, or of something darker? Sanguinius is the paragon of integrity, yet he was the first to refuse. Of them all, Valdor was ever the most unswerving. Now he disobeys? Has, as I feared, his deepening exposure to the secrets of Chaos gnawed a discontent in his heart? Is this a sign that the rot of disloyalty has reached even the heart of fidelity? This war has split brother from brother and father from son, against the rule of nature. At this final hour, do these last sons turn against their master's will? I look to the Throne. I ignore the painful dazzle of the light in my eyes. I remain calm, for no counsel was ever valued that came from fervent lips. Think, I say, to him and him alone. They've given everything for you, as I'll give everything, so you must, in turn, give back. Share now, be it in victory or defeat. You always told me, always, that we were together in this. The whole of mankind, as one thing, striving as one. So... think, my King-of-Ages. There must be understanding here. For too long, as is your habit, you've seemed silent and remote, hiding your schemes from all. I know, I know. You have been most wretchedly preoccupied. Well, my old friend, they've learned to think and decide for themselves. They've had to. And isn't that how you made them, the trait you fostered in them? Don't be the stern patriarch now and rebuke them for the very virtue you raised them to uphold. He knows I'm right, of course. I am correct because, in so many ways, I have been his conscience down the years. He has made mistakes. That's only human. There are things he regrets, for he has told me so. The greatest of those is that he has kept others out. He was too long alone, I fear. Too many centuries, working in solitude. There were sometimes friends and allies, but one by one they left him, or reached the ends of their natural lifespans. He made Constantin and the primarchs as sons and first companions, but their arrival still seems recent to him. He has not grown accustomed to trusting them the way that he should, or sharing with them the scope of his intentions. Well. No more mistakes, old friend. Do not act the tyrant and bark orders. You must compromise, and show them a sign that the trust they have in you is reciprocated. All four, it cannot be denied, are needed on the ground. The conflict has reached its fiercest pitch, and to remove all four champions from the field is to remove all the figureheads and symbols that cleave our forces together. But neither Rogal nor Constantin will permit my lord to venture alone without their forces as close protection. Indeed, both thought the hour of our lord's enforced evacuation was approaching. Vulkan has fought in solitary for too long, and yearns to wage war alongside his brothers, and Sanguinius has the honour of his Legion to uphold. Debate now would be fruitless. I sense my master quell his anger. Good. We are together in this, and we will end it together, not just through the united strength of our company, but because you need them to see it done. They need to witness the culmination of this war, and the end of this horror, and share in the achievement, just as, afterwards, they must share in the plan. For them to fully invest their hearts in the future, they must be stakeholders in the present. Understand your oversights. You have withheld too much, for too long, veiling your Great Work from all eyes. They are your sons, and their part in this must be respected. And, further, this is owed them. They have needs of their own to fulfil: honour, justice, catharsis, retribution. They have borne all of this, and show the wounds of it, and those wounds must be assuaged. Each one, in his own way, is also a vengeful spirit. But there must be accommodation. Just as my master cannot be everywhere, and do all things, neither can they. His mind turns to me, and makes his resolution known. Once again, I become his voice. 'Constantin, Rogal,' I say, my tone as thin as paper, 'you will select your best warriors, a company each. I warn you not to denude our embattled forces on the walls. Our last fastness must hold while you are absent. Rogal, I know you have already made your pick, anticipating this moment days ago. Constantin, choose which Sentinels you require.' I turn to Vulkan. I lean heavily on my staff, for standing has become a Herculean task. 'Vulkan,' I say gently, 'you deserve to go, but you will not, for I need you. I'm sorry. Your father is about to ask me to ward the Golden Throne in his place. It's not a task I welcome, but I'll do it without demur. I need you here at my side. You know, sadly too well, the reason why.' He pauses. In the long moment that follows, I see Vulkan's jaw clench. I know he feels robbed of honour in this. But the reasoning is irrefutable. Vulkan has no gift whatsoever for the operation of the Throne, no ethereal magic, which is why Vulkan, and only Vulkan, must stay to take my place if I fail. For if I fail, then all is truly lost, and Vulkan must take the Throne and prevent Horus from obtaining all the riches, secrets, treasures and mysteries of the Palace. Forever. Vulkan knows this to be true. Finally, and simply, he nods. 'Sanguinius,' I say. 'You will select a company of Blood Angels to join Anabasis. But we stand in the final fortress at the final hour, my boy. The last of our forces are fighting and dying as we speak, to preserve this last piece of earth. They need a commander. More, they need a figurehead, a warrior they can rally to, and who will keep their courage alive to the very last. You're the Brightest One. You are, and always have been, the embodiment of glory, the shining symbol of all that we cherish. A Blood Angels company will have the honour of joining the Vengeful Spirit assault. I suggest Raldoron best suited to command it. But you must stay here and be our figurehead. In this, you will be named the Emperor's true Warmaster, and drive back the hosts of the one who so villainously defames that title.' I nod towards my lord. His word is stated. I ask them if they understand what I have told them. Rogal, Constantin and Vulkan reply that they do. Sanguinius... Sanguinius says nothing. 2:xv At the Hegemon The warriors stationed at the Hegemon inspect her credentials and admit her. Ilya Ravallion, tactician to the ordu, counsellor to the primarch Khan, devisor of stratagems for the V Legion White Scars. She is led through the emptied halls, through lines of Custodians, units of Imperial Fists, and makeshift choke-point cordons manned by Imperialis Auxilia. The Hegemon, topped by its massive tower, is one of the oldest and largest structures in the compound of the Sanctum Palatine Imperialis, and it has been repurposed. For the longest time, it has been the seat of planetary government, the domestic counterpart of the Great Chamber legislature, where the High Lords convened to debate Terra-centric concerns as opposed to the grand and outward Imperial policies of the Senatorum Imperialis and the Great Chamber. The armoured bastion tower rising from it is the central fastness of the Legio Custodes. It has become, in the last hours, the heart of command. Ilya is weary, and sick, but she walks with determination, her White Scars escorts Gahaki, khan of the Burgediin Sarhvu, and Ainbataar Khan at her side. In the face of destruction, there is a spark of hope. She has been told, assured in fact, that the Great Khagan, fallen in battle, has been salvaged from death, as though by some miracle. Sigillite magic. Ilya does not understand it at all, for she saw the Khan dead and carried in, but she does not question it, and the joy of it has raised her from her knees, out of her pain, out of her lamentation. If Jaghatai lives, then she will resume her duties and spend the remainder of her life fighting for a future he can live in. She wonders if Sojuk has heard the news. Sojuk was her bodyguard for the longest time, and she allowed him to leave her side to join the front line. Fearsome Gahaki and stern Ainbataar have insisted on filling Sojuk's place and warding her, for nowhere is now safe, not even in the Sanctum. Does Sojuk know the Khan lives? Has the news fired his resolve too? Is he still alive out there? At the huge entry hatch of the echoing Rotunda, she presents her credentials yet again, and Gahaki and Ainbataar scowl at the Auxilia colonel examining them. 'You are admitted, mam,' the colonel says to the apparently frail old woman in the shabby general's coat. Ilya nods. Gahaki snatches her papers from the colonel's hands, and they enter. The Rotunda is a circular chamber with a high domed ceiling. In more peaceful times, it was a political debating chamber. It has already become a bustling command centre. Though gangs of servitors and Mechanicus adepts are still wheeling in and setting up station desks and hololith displays, and the room is alive with the wail of machine tools, this didn't happen overnight. It would have taken days to strip out the tiered seating and galleries, and link up the huge strategium arrays. She detects the Praetorian's handiwork, Dorn's uncanny knack for being three steps ahead. He knew Bhab Bastion would fall, or at least made provision in the event of its possible loss. This is Loyalist Command now, a scene of frantic activity, confusion and effort, three-quarters built and already in use. It is hauling on the reins of control dropped, through brutal necessity, at Bhab. Transition of control, if not smooth, has at least been improvised urgently. Ilya stands for a moment. She sees the officers of the War Court and the robed s

uncanny knack for being three steps ahead. He knew Bhab Bastion would fall, or at least made provision in the event of its possible loss. This is Loyalist Command now, a scene of frantic activity, confusion and effort, three-quarters built and already in use. It is hauling on the reins of control dropped, through brutal necessity, at Bhab. Transition of control, if not smooth, has at least been improvised urgently. Ilya stands for a moment. She sees the officers of the War Court and the robed seniors of the Tacticae Terrestria hard at work, blind to the industry and disturbance around them, already lost in considerations of vital strategy. She wonders what she can do, and where she might possibly start. She observes the data scrolling on the active displays, the blink of real-time revising maps. Already, her experienced mind can discern structures, connections, possibilities and chances. She doesn't feel her age any more. She doesn't feel like she's dying. A keen occupation of the mind can keep all things at bay. She turns to her bodyguards. 'Return to the walls,' she says. 'Szu-Ilya, we are sworn to-' Gahaki begins. Ilya shakes her head. 'I am home, Sarhvu-khan,' she says. 'This is my place now. My battlefield. You are needed elsewhere, and urgently.' 'But, szu-Ilya-' 'If death can reach me here, ringed in the Hegemon by Custodians and Imperial Fists, then it can reach me anywhere, with the greatest respect, whether you are with me or not. Go, please. I will supply the ordu with the wisest counsel I can from here, as best I can.' They hesitate, nod and depart. No word of farewell. It's a thing she's always loved about the White Scars. Every leave-taking is done without sentimentality, for every leave is taken in the expectation of reunion. It is a liberatingly optimistic attitude for warriors who live such short lives. Alone, she turns, reviews the flow of activity around her, and finally lights on a face she recognises. 'Mistress!' she calls out. 'Mistress, I am here to work.' 2:xvi The sacrifice I have neither the time, nor patience, frankly, to interrogate Sanguinius' curious silence. I turn to my impassive lord. 'Now?' I ask. He tells me yes. 'Already? Ah.' I sigh. It's foolish. I've been preparing for this moment since the day we realised that Magnus was no longer a viable candidate. My lord has been unwavering in his reassurance to me. He believes me capable, and I trust that, for our minds have been strangely entwined for a long time, long before he took up the title Emperor and I became a Sigillite. It's not that I wanted longer. I've had enough years, more than my fair share. But there is still so very much to do. However, in truth, I wish this had happened when I was younger and stronger, and invulnerable with the recklessness of youth, rather than now, when I am so old and so tired. Not that it would really have made any difference. Still... I am lost in my thoughts as I begin to limp my way towards the great dais, ordering my mind, settling my estate, frantically sending out last-moment thought-notes and idea-symbols, reminders and instructions, so that others can finish what I will leave unfinished. These sigilised messages swirl around me like a colony of bees evicted from their hive, flying off piecemeal in every direction to find new homes. It is sloppy, haphazard work. I have no time left to be methodical, precise or polite. Everything just goes, dumped like ballast from my head. I am so lost in my thoughts, I do not really pay attention to what's going on around me. I stop short when I hear a gasp. It would stop anyone to hear primarchs gasp in surprise and dread, and hear them fall to their knees in abject obeisance. At the foot of the gleaming dais, I look up. I look up the exquisite steps that I will climb and never come down again. The sun is in my eyes. My lord. My King-of-Ages. My friend. My Master of Mankind. He stands. He has risen from the Golden Throne. He stands above me like the god he isn't. He stands. That in itself is a minor miracle, for he has not stood in a long time, and I was beginning to fear he could not. Cloth of golden light hangs from his frame and his arms, streaked with trace threads of crimson sunset and scarlet dawn. Microclimate lightning sheets and shivers around him, and corposant sloughs like blue ice from the arms of the Throne at his back. There is a halo of white radiance behind his noble head, bright as a full hunter's moon or a steadfast star, his face cast in shadow, an eclipse before that disc but for the splendour of his eyes. Powers that be! I had forgotten this! I had forgotten his majesty! I had forgotten how tall he was, how astronomic, how wonderful, how terrible, how- How did I ever think I could take his place? What kind of old and tired fool am I? I ought to bow! I need to bow down! I need to abase myself and bury my face in the stones of the floor, for he is too bright to behold! I fuss and fumble, clumsily, my old limbs too stiff to obey me. I stumble- Hands catch me, and arrest my fall before I crack my face against the lower steps of the dais. The Sentinels, Uzkarel and Caecaltus, have swept from their posts at the moment of my mis-step, but they have not reached me in time. The hands supporting me belong to Rogal and Sanguinius. Vulkan is with them, his hand extended to help me upright. Constantin looms behind them, concern in his eyes. 'Let me help you,' says Sanguinius. 'Oh, forgive an old man!' I mutter. 'Steady yourself,' says Rogal. 'I am as steady as ever, my boy,' I chuckle. They set me on my feet. Vulkan hands me my staff. I look at them. They surround me, their worry for me showing in their faces. I shoo them away. 'I'm fine,' I assure them. 'These old legs. When you get to my age, eh?' Sanguinius looks at me. His jaw tightens. 'I'm fine,' I insist. Valdor nods curtly. The two proconsuls step past the primarchs, and stand either side of me to guide me up the steps. They reach to take my arms to support me. 'Oh, no!' I tell them. 'I'll climb these damn steps myself.' 'Give us the honour, lord, of escorting you, at least,' says Uzkarel quietly. I huff and allow it. I begin my climb up the steps of the plinth, squinting into the glare, pulling myself up each step with my staff as a prop clutched in both hands. It is a struggle for me, but nothing like the struggle that will follow. Above me, my King-of-Ages waits. He remains standing, motionless, silent, ignoring the awe that fills the Throne Room, all eyes upon him, eyes that never thought to see him stir or stand again. They have longed for him to rise, and now they are terrified of what his rising signifies. He looks only at me. Right into my heart. Halfway up the steps I pause. I glance at the dutiful Sentinels either side of me. 'That's far enough now,' I say. 'I'll go the rest of the way alone.' Their golden masks express no response. 'You are both Hetaeron Companions, yes?' I ask them quietly. 'Likely, then, that one or both of you will go with him to ward his side in the final fight. I ask you this, then. Do not fail him.' 'We are not conditioned to fail, my Regent,' says Caecaltus. 'Oh, I know all that, my boy! I know all that! I know how peerless you are! I'm not talking about devotion or duty or ability! Those things are wired into you! I'm talking about... about... when it's all done, I mean, bring him back to this seat, you hear me? Bring him back alive. You do all you do for him, but do this for me. Here, here...' I lick the tip of my left index finger, and with it, I draw my sigil on the breast of Caecaltus' plate. The mark is gone as soon as it is made. Then, with another lick, I do the same to Uzkarel. 'I leave my mark, the mark of myself, upon my plan,' I whisper as I draw the shape. 'This is what will happen, and with my hand I signify it. It cannot be undone. Do this for me.' They make no reply. Staff braced, I resume my climb. The proconsuls stay where they are, respecting my request. I near the top, the light around me. My lord and master moves. He steps down to me, and offers me his hand in support. That hand. That great and capable hand that has held the galaxy in its palm. I feel him close. To my surprise, he permits me to share the private working of his mind. The signs I read there are clear. 'Don't be sad,' I say. This is more painful than he expected it to be. He is afraid he will never speak to me again, that there will be no more hours spent exchanging thoughts and words, configuring mankind's best fate. His memories are Antarctic-bright: the day he first showed me the Throne, and told me what it did, the shining look of disbelief in my eyes; the evening when we both realised that I could moderate its functions too, that my mind, like his, had the capacity to engage with it and not instantly perish; the night when we concluded, through plain, logical deduction, that there might come a day when I would have to take his place; that, in almost every configuration of the future we could model, someone would have to do it. I was not afraid. Not then, not now. I knew what that would mean. I brushed it off as a 'thing that would have to happen if it came to it'. He hoped it never would, because he knew what it would mean too. And, for the longest time, it seemed unlikely. He had built a contingency to avoid it ever becoming compulsory. The contingency's name was Magnus. Now the time is here, I do not hesitate. I take the hand he offers to steady me, and I ascend the final steps to the Throne. I give him a nod and a little smile, and whisper to him, 'Do not mourn,' in a voice no one else can hear. And then I prepare to take my seat. There is nothing else to say. After centuries of conversation, in which we have dissected and shared everything, there is nothing left to say. Just a look from one friend to another, an unspoken understanding of everything that has passed between us, and the debts we o

e. I take the hand he offers to steady me, and I ascend the final steps to the Throne. I give him a nod and a little smile, and whisper to him, 'Do not mourn,' in a voice no one else can hear. And then I prepare to take my seat. There is nothing else to say. After centuries of conversation, in which we have dissected and shared everything, there is nothing left to say. Just a look from one friend to another, an unspoken understanding of everything that has passed between us, and the debts we owe each other. This act is my final, everlasting gift to mankind, to the future, to the plan painted on the wall. But in his eyes, I can tell he knows that I am only really doing it for him. The greatest, most universal acts are always born from the personal. I am old. I am tired. I sit upon the Golden Throne. 2:xvii Unfinished business Tension breaks into a state of high alert. Orders are already circulating through the Throne Room and beyond, conveyed by vox signal, astropathic command, and by psycho-meme, orskode and thoughtmark. Runners and messengers are despatched, and servo-skulls hurtle along avenues of approach, broadcasting binharic chatter, their tiny, straining lift-systems leaving high-pitched echoes in their wakes. The shield-companies of the Custodes are already shifting, commanded with almost glance-like ease by Valdor from the foot of the Throne. The commands are complex and detailed, communicated with just a nod of battlemark. Sentinel details realign and change. Selected Custodians move from their vigil places to the arming chambers and deployment areas, their eternal stations instantly filled by replacements. Dorn's Huscarls burst from the Throne Room to ratify and initiate the Praetorian's pre-prepared orders of battle. The members of the High Council and their mobs of officials scatter to set for readiness, to authorise the necessary diversions of main generator power, and to inform the emergency command station at the Tower of the Hegemon of the evolving situation. In the Throne Room, the company of armourers resumes its slow, ceremonial advance. Outside the Silver Door, in the aching halls of the Sanctum Approaches, Khalid Hassan, Chosen of Malcador, hurries to his post, his mind sore from a sudden psyk-burst of symbolic instructions that the Sigillite has just planted there. He steps aside, a green-robed ghost, as Imperial Fists Huscarls hammer past, wipes tears from his tired eyes, and continues on. At the door itself, another delay. Supervised by Sisters of Silence, labour gangs of Adnector Concillium automata are hauling huge hexagrammatic generators into the Throne Room on lifter carts. There are eight of them, drawn from the Dark Cells, each one the size of a main assault drop pod. Behind them come more wagons and carriers, laden with additional and emergency talismatic apparatus, void-screen broadcasters, and portable telaethesics. Hassan stops and watches them roll past, scrupulously checking the accuracy and completeness of the consignment. There are more to come. Other resources are being carefully withdrawn from storage as he stands there, to be brought up from the bowels of the Palace by freight conveyors. Hassan taps the cowling of one hexagrammatic turbine with his middle finger as it is rolled past. He hears the harmonic of the impact ringing. Yes, it is correctly tuned. This is Sigil Protocol, one of eight hundred and fifteen contingency measures held in readiness. Some were prepared long before the siege began, others are recent - somewhat desperate, in Hassan's opinion - additions. Sigil is one of the oldest, and was written into contingency shortly after the devastation of Magnus' folly. It is a sequel, an appendage, to the necessary horror of the Unspoken Sanction. Hassan had hoped Sigil, this dreadful sigil, would never need to be enacted. His breath is short in his chest, a flutter of panic. It's come to this. Whatever the end turns out to be, this is it. According to the psycho-meme instructions the Sigillite remote-printed into his mind not ten minutes earlier, a crushing load of symbology he is only just beginning to parse, Sigil is now active. What's more, the Unspoken Sanction must also be made ready. Throne of Terra... Throne of Terra... Others of the Chosen, others of his kind with the same mark on their cheeks, are already abroad in the Palace, beginning the preparatory tithe and selecting the required psycho-able, not by lot or on a volunteer basis, as was once considered, but by ruthless exaction. They need the best, the most compatible, whether the best and most compatible wish to submit themselves or not. Hassan turns, using autonomic techniques to calm his galloping heartbeat, and finds Kaeria Casryn behind him. She bows. 'Sigil is enacted... You have full protocol instructions?' he asks. She nods again. 'It must be entirely precise,' Hassan says. The Oblivion Knight seems to sigh, as if frustrated by his fastidious manner, a relic of the military discipline drilled into him in his former life. It is precise, she replies in thoughtmark. Every detail, according to both the written edict and the verbal instructions. I have checked and rechecked. 'And the instructions came from-' Yours, from the Great Sigillite, I imagine, signs the sister of Steel Foxes Cadre. Mine, directly from the captain-general. 'We should compare-' We do not need to. 'If there is even a minor discrepancy, Casryn-' Are you disputing the accuracy with which the captain-general compiles his instructions? 'No,' says Hassan. 'No, of course not. Forgive me.' We have rehearsed this, and rehearsed this, until we have it by rote, she signs. 'I know. But even so, are we ready? Are you ready?' Casryn stares at him. He can detect something in her eyes, framed above the grille of her half-helm, that wavers between misery and terror. She, like him, played a key role in the oversight of the Unspoken Sanction the last time it was enacted. The only time. She has had to live with that horror too. She knows what is about to happen, and what may happen as a consequence. Yes, Casryn replies. He nods. The Eighteenth is here, she signs. That's something, at least. 'It is,' he replies. He knows this. The Sigillite flash-filled his mind with a bewildering quantity of order-signs and information markers. The presence of Vulkan was one of those facts. Vulkan's unique gifts will be a distinct asset in this endeavour. But he also represents a fail-safe that Hassan would rather not contemplate. 'Carry on,' he says. 'I will join you shortly.' Casryn bows and turns away. She has vanished before she has even moved into his peripheral vision. Hassan struggles to sort through all the information memes his master has bequeathed him. There's just so much of it, in no clear order, the usual precision of signifiers sloppy, as though Malcador was running out of time and simply trying to say everything and anything he could think of before he forgot. He has clearly been detained by the Emperor's business. Every last thing the Regent needed to impart, every idea, every meaning-dense sigil, every passing thought, every last minute, while-I-remember notion has been delegated to his Chosen to free his mind. One sigil carried particular emphasis. Malcador has marked the thought-file it condenses with the meme-tag Terminus. Hassan sees figures emerging from the Throne Room, coming his way. They are giants, wraiths of black smoke and jet shadow that flicker along the fusion-bored walls of the mass-passageway towards him like an approaching nightmare. He stands in their path anyway, and they halt. 'Aedile-Marshal Harahel,' Hassan says. The two Wardens of the Sodality of the Key glare down at him. They are Legio Custodes giants, but the terrible glory of their golden plate is dulled with soot to a menacing black. The Dark Cells and archives in the catacombs deep beneath hold all the forbidden technologies and secrets of Old Night, curated and secured by a specialist Excertus taskforce. The Sodality of the Key is the Custodes coterie that supervises the handling and transfer of such devices when they are called for. 'Stand aside,' says one. 'You know my rank and my authority, Warden,' says Hassan. 'I have business with you.' 'Our directives have been issued,' the dirt-tarnished Custodian answers. Hassan wants to shrink and flee from them. He stands his ground. 'I should hope so,' he says, 'and I am here to confirm them. And to see that they are carried out with complete diligence.' 'They were issued by our master,' says the Warden, making no effort to keep the warning growl out of his voice. 'And mine were given by mine,' says Hassan. 'With respect to the captain-general, the Sigillite's wish in this is absolute.' 'Stand aside.' Hassan draws breath. Without hesitation or error, he begins to recite the entire name-sequence of Aedile-Marshal Harahel. It is four hundred and nine name-units long, inscribed on the inside of Harahel's blackened armour, and known to only a very few. To know it is to command authority at Throne Room level. Harahel raises a giant hand and stops Hassan forty-six names into the recitation. 'You've made your point,' he says. 'Speak, then.' 'You are charged with the handling of the individual known as Fo, and also of the device he has constructed.' Harahel does not immediately reply. 'Come, marshal, let us speak as men,' says Hassan. 'The employment of Fo, and the existence and purpose of the device he has crafted is known to the Sigillite. Did the captain-general really think such a thing could be concealed?' 'Then what?' 'It is the Emperor's will, and thus the will of the Sigillite also, that the device be preserved and held in reserve. For use in last resort only. It is signified Tier XX, and deemed a terminus sanction. It must be made safe, and its architect too.' 'Then our directives match,' replies Harahel. 'The captain-general was precise. We are to manage

nd purpose of the device he has crafted is known to the Sigillite. Did the captain-general really think such a thing could be concealed?' 'Then what?' 'It is the Emperor's will, and thus the will of the Sigillite also, that the device be preserved and held in reserve. For use in last resort only. It is signified Tier XX, and deemed a terminus sanction. It must be made safe, and its architect too.' 'Then our directives match,' replies Harahel. 'The captain-general was precise. We are to manage the individual, Fo. We are to withdraw the device to the Dark Cells for safekeeping. You have no further need to detain us.' 'Pending transfer,' says Hassan. 'You left that part out. The Sigillite is aware that Captain-General Valdor intends the device to be secured in the Dark Cells. This is appropriate, for the Custodians of your sodality are by far the best suited for this responsibility. But your custody of it is pending transfer. When... if... the time comes, and transfer becomes viable, it will be supervised by me at the behest of the Sigillite. Are we clear?' 'This was not as it was communicated to us,' replies Harahel. 'Nothing was said about transfer.' 'Then I have communicated your directives more fully, so that mistakes cannot arise. Be thankful I was here to intervene.' 'This was not as it was communicated to us,' Harahel repeats. 'You will need to present confirmation.' 'Very well, I will obtain it.' 'I do not think there is time left for that,' the Warden replies. Hassan goes cold. He looks past them, then pushes past them, and starts to run, leaving the sable giants standing there. He rushes to the Silver Door. It is open, the convoy of wagons still rolling through. Hassan ducks around one conveyer and runs through the doorway. Golden Sentinels turn, spear-blades down, to stop him, then step back into place when they recognise him. He starts to sprint now, along the colossal nave, hoisting up his robes to prevent himself from tripping. He sees other figures in green robes, others of the Chosen like him, running forwards too, breaking from the gathered throngs at the back of the Throne Room, rushing along aisles parallel with him. None of them are going to get there in time. Hassan sees the Throne, far away. He sees the small group of figures around it. The view is blurred, because of the frantic motion of his headlong sprint, and because there are tears in his eyes. All the while, he's still frantically unpacking and sorting all the data his master dropped into his head to be actioned. He sees the figures. A great form in gold has risen from the high throne. It stands, bathed in a flare of white light. There is another figure on the steps below it, tiny, crooked and hunched. The shining figure reaches out a hand to help the other the last few steps of the way. A moment passes between them, as though they are exchanging words. Then the great shining form gestures towards the high throne. It seems to be burning, as though the entire dais is on fire. The tiny, crooked figure seems to nod. He shuffles forward. He sits upon the Throne. The flames, it seems, reach higher and engulf him. Hassan stops running. He pulls up, bent double, hands on his thighs, panting. Tears stream from his eyes and splash on the sectile patternwork of the nave floor. He has found and unpacked the last note-meme planted in his mind. A scrap, just words, barely forming an integrated sigil. Almost an afterthought. It says, Khalid. Do not fail me. Goodbye. 2:xviii Only as a hero The Sigillite sits upon the Throne. He does not and will not speak. His eyes are open but sightless, or rather they see nothing of the chamber that others call the Throne Room. They see only the immeasurable deeps of the empyrean. He sits still, upright, his hands resting, just as his lord's did, on the arms of the Throne. His staff lies at his feet. A dazzling swathe of radiance, like ball lightning, encases him and the Throne, boiling and flickering. The glare of it drives all shadows backwards from the great dais, stretching them out, long and narrow, across the chamber, the shadow of a father and those of the sons at his side, long, radiating lines of darkness in the blinding light, like the shadows of humans on a ridge, watching the sunrise at solstice. Vulkan, standing beside his towering father, his two brothers, and the captain-general, finds it hard to watch. Malcador is making no voluntary movement, but he is trembling, every part of him, every bone, every atom. Vulkan gazes at him in the heart of the fire and sees the jitter, like a pict-feed stuck and jumping, wobbling, vibrating, the REM-twitch of the Regent's open eyes, the shiver of his jaw, the flutter of his robes, the minute and cycling quiver of his hands on the armrests. But the Promethean lord can also sense the masterful and assured operation of Malcador's guidance at work, the strong mind, the purpose, and the absolute concentration. Vulkan can hear the mechanisms of the Throne responding to the Sigillite's every subtle adjustment. He can feel the immaterial flood obeying his directives and commands. 'I can feel his focus. And his pain,' Vulkan murmurs. I can feel his cells dying, one by one, he thinks. 'And his sadness,' says Dorn quietly. 'It's not his sadness, brother,' says Sanguinius. He glances at their father, silent at their side. 'It's yours, isn't it?' The Master of Mankind makes no reply. Is he overwhelmed with love for his old friend, with speechless admiration at the scale of the Regent's sacrifice? He is only human, after all, and the sensation is coming from somewhere. Valdor turns away, grim. Another last survival of the Long Yesterday has passed from the world, leaving precious few remaining. 'We must begin,' he says. Vulkan shakes his head wearily. His resolve is granite-hard, for he understands more than any of them what this signifies. 'The Sigillite-' he begins. The Hero, a voice corrects him gently. Vulkan looks at his father, eyes narrowing at the radiance of his aspect. He nods. Down the scope of the nave, a few others have dared approach, pushing past the halted armoury train. They have come to stop a few hundred metres away, men and women in green robes, perhaps a dozen of them. They stare at the Throne. Vulkan sees their grief and shock. A couple of them have sunk to their knees. They are known to him. The Chosen of Malcador, the individuals of special ability and particular aptitude that the Sigillite hand-picked down the years to serve as his aides and proxies. Through them, the Regent has conducted his inscrutable business. Only these twelve or so have made it here in time, and even they are too late. Others are still on their way, pulled by the psychic bond they shared with the Sigillite. There has been no opportunity for a farewell in person, no last fond words or whispered wisdoms. Required by circumstance to put his affairs in order without ceremony, Malcador has brusquely decanted his thoughts into all of them, distributed piecemeal and without finesse. Their minds ache with the burdens they have been handed so suddenly, and which they have barely begun to process, making this loss even harder to bear. There is a change in the air suddenly, a winnowing aura of calm that moves like a summer breeze from the Master of Mankind down the great length of the nave towards the Chosen. Everyone in the room feels its soothing aspect. He is alleviating the worst of their immediate suffering, for they will all need to be sharp and capable from this moment on. They must complete the tasks the Regent has left to them. They are the executors of his legacy. They contain the Sigillite's last testament. The greatest sacrifice of our age, the voice tells them softly. Our Sigillite is no more. Regard him now, as you fulfil his bequests, only as a hero. Your duties are not finished, and neither is his. What we do now, all of us, we do because he has made it possible. Remember him. Remember that. Use that memory to prevent even a moment's falter. They nod. Some weep. They all bow. Hiding his own grief, the King-of-Ages Risen turns to his sons and the captain-general. 'Now we begin in earnest,' He says. Malcador the Sigillite ascends the Golden Throne 2:xix At the Hegemon Sandrine Icaro looks up from her station. Her robes are dirty and stiff with dried blood, and her mind is on a thousand other things. It takes her a moment to identify the thin, dishevelled woman who has appeared at her elbow. 'Ilya Ravallion,' says Ilya. 'Of course,' says Icaro. 'You'll forgive me-' 'If I may, I'm here to assist. Tell me where you need me.' Icaro blinks. Ilya can see the Mistress Tacticae's hands are shaking, and there is a neural tick twitching under her left eye. There is, incongruously, a light assault weapon - a Komag VI, if Ilya is not mistaken - resting across the edge of Icaro's workstation, as though she wants it in sight and in reach at all times. Ilya has heard that Icaro, and a very few other seniors from Bhab, were among the last to reach the final fortress before the Archangel sealed the Gate. Icaro looks as though she doesn't quite believe she made it. 'If you're fit,' says Icaro. 'No one's fit for anything, mistress, not any more,' replies Ilya, 'but I am capable.' 'We lost a lot,' Icaro murmurs. 'The War Court was decimated coming out of Bhab. We-' She pauses, listening to data feeds coming in through her plugs and earpiece. She realigns unit graphics on her lithic display, and punches in an augur cross-feed. 'Two Seven advance to Gilded six-six-eighty, radial and bracket. Confirm,' she says, and waits for a response Ilya can't hear. Satisfied, she glances back at Ilya. 'Yes please, then,' she says. 'Station six.' She points. 'Access authorisation is "Icaro".' Ilya raises an eyebrow. 'I know. We haven't had time to be sophisticated about it. Light the desk, please. We have data-stacking from the eastern line. I need someone to

nit graphics on her lithic display, and punches in an augur cross-feed. 'Two Seven advance to Gilded six-six-eighty, radial and bracket. Confirm,' she says, and waits for a response Ilya can't hear. Satisfied, she glances back at Ilya. 'Yes please, then,' she says. 'Station six.' She points. 'Access authorisation is "Icaro".' Ilya raises an eyebrow. 'I know. We haven't had time to be sophisticated about it. Light the desk, please. We have data-stacking from the eastern line. I need someone to start processing it. Main items to me, everything else...' 'My judgement?' 'It'll have to be, yes.' Ilya nods, and crosses to the vacant station. Icaro's attention is already submerged in data again. At every station nearby, War Courtiers are locked in concentration so intense it seems like they will burst, their hands moving like hummingbirds on the console haptics. Ilya sits, punches in the laughably make-do code, and wakes the desk. The desk is new, dragged in from somewhere else and connected to power and noosfeed barely half an hour earlier. It floods with data-blocks the moment it's initialised. She starts to sort and process, triaging information. Her brow knits. She understands at once the intense concentration of the others. Some data is broken, some incomplete. Some seems like it's been transcribed into xenos code. And there is so much of it. 'Ravallion!' She looks up. Icaro is standing, looking in her direction through the throng, glancing at an order wafer she's just been brought by a man in a green robe. One of Malcador's Chosen. 'Mistress?' Ilya calls back. 'Dump what you're doing. We need a priority link to Fifth Legion units at Lion's Gate port. Standard connectives are out, or they're refusing to respond. I presume you have Legion-specific combat codes or vox-authentics they might trust?' 'I do,' says Ilya. 'Fast as you can, please.' Ilya turns back to her screen, and conjures vox and hardline links. She initiates a signal, coding in the encrypted battle-cant of Chogoris. The Chosen is suddenly standing at her side. He's not one of those she met when she brought the Warhawk home. He's a middle-aged man, augmetic traceries gleaming bright against his black skin, the sigil on his cheek. 'Ravallion,' she says. 'Sage mistress,' he replies. 'I am Gallent Sidozie, of the Chosen.' There is a huskiness to his voice, as though he has recently been crying. In this hour, Ilya thinks, our emotions take us by surprise. 'Content of this message?' she asks, fingers hovering, waiting. 'Instruct Lion's Gate to cease firing at Target Principal.' 'Cease firing?' 'Yes.' 'Target Principal?' 'I believe you heard me.' 'You mean the traitor flagship?' 'I do, sage mistress,' he says. She looks at him. 'May I ask why? If the White Scars can strike at Lupercal while they are still able-' 'It is not your place to ask for clarification,' he says. She holds his gaze for a moment, then nods. 'As you like,' she says, and turns back to the console to enter the message. 'I'll despatch by data-burst and then try voice.' She hears him sigh gently. In a low voice, he says, 'I have just delivered an operational directive from the Throne Room. Mistress Icaro will announce it shortly. To understand its importance, I will advise you in strict confidence that we will shortly have spearhead deployment on the Vengeful Spirit.' Ilya swallows hard. She does not react. She does not turn and look at him. She keeps her eyes on the display. 'Teleport assault?' she asks, barely audibly. 'Primary strength. Its void shields are down. He has risen to lead it Himself. Operational reference is Anabasis.' 2:xx Shiban, Fifth, Lion's Gate At Lion's Gate space port, a broken relic of its former magnificence cradled in the firestorms of hell, the main batteries speak again. Lances of power, kilometres in length and as pearly-fluorescent as deep-ocean eels, retch and spit from the massive orbital gun platforms into the dust-caul of the sky. Ship-killing beams shriek upwards at the traitor fleet. The port, its skirts and out-flanks reduced to scrap and wreckage, is like an island in the midst of the inferno, its main superstructure bent and almost listing, such is the catastrophic damage done to the bedrock it sits on. It is hundreds of kilometres from the Sanctum, hundreds of kilometres from the nearest loyalist force, entirely cut off and surrounded. An atoll of defiance, the only Throne-held position in the entire Palace Dominions outside the final fortress, it is slowly drowning in the maelstrom of warp-corrupted ground, furnace-storms, super-orbital bombardment, and encircling enemy assault. It is raging, furious, as it dies. Battles boil through the port's hems and lower levels: loyalist forces, principally White Scars and Imperialis Auxilia, waging a futile, fall-back fight against the vastly outnumbering echelons of the Death Guard and the swirling horrors of instantiating Neverborn. Devastating fire from the traitor fleet ruptures the territory around it, and explodes entire spires and freighting platforms off its shoulders and spine. Its remaining void shields soak up some strikes in crackling ripples. It feels as though the voids are doing little more than simply holding the disintegrating port together. In the smoke-clogged, half-lit ruin of the primary fire control, deep in its upper structure, Shiban Khan, called Tachseer, has just been crowned ahn-ezen, Master of the Hunt. It is not a title he will hold for long, but the khans of the ordu have insisted. When the V dies, it will not die leaderless. Shiban accepts the honour with brief solemnity. He turns from the others, from Ganzorig the noyan-khan, Jangsai Khan, Chakaja Stormseer, and Yiman. 'Finish the work,' he tells them. 'Kill what may still be killed while we yet live.' They bow, and hurry to their places. Shiban can hear shooting from below. It sounds close. He calls for target solutions. Atrai, the White Scars legionary manning the augurs and sensoria, tries to locate clean paints on the warfleet above them. Nothing is returning true, as though malfunction or distortion is corrupting even the port's immensely powerful detection and ranging systems. Power is also ebbing. It is taking far longer each time for the main batteries to cycle back to full charge. But Shiban can see from the fluttering hololiths that the one key truth remains. The Vengeful Spirit, unguarded, voids down. One direct strike... 'Acquisition?' he calls. Atrai and the others shake their heads. 'Damage observed from previous cycle?' Atrai looks at him, as though wishing he could say something other than a helpless negative. 'Again!' Shiban yells. 'Kill that thing!' The deck vibrates as the bulk generatives whine back to capacity. 'My lord?' Shiban turns. A young White Scars warrior, wounded, is handing him a data-slate. 'Direct from the Sanctum, lord,' he says. 'Authentication is confirmed.' It reads correctly. They've been ignoring all contacts, assuming that every transmission is a pack of traitor lies. But this, this is genuine. The message, however, makes no sense. 'Do we have operational vox?' he asks. The wounded legionary replies with a nod that suggests he will die trying to provide it. The message had an encrypted channel appended to it. 'Channel as indicated,' Shiban orders. He links his armour's vox-system to the main comms grid. An icon tells him when the connection is established. It wavers, threading in and out. 'Shiban, Fifth, Lion's Gate,' he says. 'Hegemon Control, authenticated,' a voice crackles back. He knows it at once. Ilya. There's no time to acknowledge that, or ask after her. There's no time for anything. 'Confirm instruction, Hegemon Control,' he says. 'Instruction - deselect firing solutions, Target Principal.' 'Repeat and confirm. Target Principal is shields down, repeat shields down. Do you understand?' 'We understand. Instruction confirmed, and sanctioned by the War Court. Deselect firing solutions, Target Principal, effective immediate.' 'Yes,' he says. 'Shiban, we don't want you to hit it,' the voice crackles, fading in and out. 'I copy,' he says. 'I will comply. But, Hegemon Control, you don't understand. We have been targeting it for the last sixteen minutes. Its shields are deactivated. Our battery strength is at prime. Our target-plotting systems are damaged but functional. It should be dead already.' 'Explain.' 'I cannot, Hegemon Control. It's not a matter of us not firing at it. We cannot hit it.' Ilya Ravallion pulls out her earpiece and rises to her feet. 'Mistress Icaro!' she calls out. 'Lion's Gate confirms receipt of instruction.' Through the bustle, Icaro hears her and nods to her. She is about to make her announcement. 'Mistress Icaro!' Ilya yells. 'I need you to stop, listen and comprehend. Right now. It is not what it seems. There is something wrong.' 2:xxi Marked as ready Proconsul Caecaltus Dusk has been selected. Proconsul Uzkarel Ophite has not. Or rather, they both have, but not for the same duty. Uzkarel will remain at his post, and will assume direct command of the Hetaeron Sentinels in the Throne Room during the absence of the captain-general and Tribune Diocletian. Caecaltus will assume direct command of the Hetaeron Sentinels assigned to their king's company for the assault. Neither of them regards the captain-general's choices as favour or disfavour. Uzkarel does not feel passed over, nor does he resent his brother-Sentinel's selection. Caecaltus does not register pride, or feel singled out for special preference. They are Legio Custodes. They are nothing like the other warriors fielded in humanity's cause. They are precision instruments of absolute focus, refined and conditioned way past such trivial distractions as pride or envy or disappointment or ambition. All that they are, their minds, their souls, their wills, is forged into one quality; all that they are, and it is so very much, is co

his brother-Sentinel's selection. Caecaltus does not register pride, or feel singled out for special preference. They are Legio Custodes. They are nothing like the other warriors fielded in humanity's cause. They are precision instruments of absolute focus, refined and conditioned way past such trivial distractions as pride or envy or disappointment or ambition. All that they are, their minds, their souls, their wills, is forged into one quality; all that they are, and it is so very much, is concentrated into unqualified faithfulness. Not for them the tawdry rivalries and passions that seem to flash so very often among the Astartes, always feuding and boasting and seeking to outdo each other. Uzkarel and Caecaltus both deem Astartesian behaviour bafflingly counterproductive, though they seldom spare it any thought at all. Uzkarel and Caecaltus do not even exchange glances when Caecaltus leaves his eternal post in the Throne Room. No farewell, no wishing of good fortune. At the silent signal, Caecaltus just removes his helm and starts walking away, pausing only to meet his replacement, Sentinel-Companion Dolo Lamora. They pause, touch their bowed foreheads together, then continue on their separate ways. The forehead touch is not a greeting, or a gesture of respect, it is merely a rapid neurosynergetic transfer that instantly acquaints Dolo Lamora with the circumstantial detail of Caecaltus' vacated post, as though he had been standing there himself all this while. Uzkarel Ophite does not look up to watch Caecaltus go, nor does he look up to see Dolo Lamora arrive. He is simply aware of the situational change. His concentration and alert remain pure. In the arming chambers below, two full war companies of Legio Custodes are priming for war: Valdor's assault company, and the Companion company that will flank the King-of-Ages. In truth, there is little to do, for every guardian has been fully and permanently war-ready for months. Weapons, cells, plate seals and armour systematics are simply checked and approved by white-clad adepts. Only a handful, like Diocletian, and the captain-general himself, who have been in recent combat, are obliged to submit to more thorough attention. Weapons are reloaded, cells recharged, blades re-edged. Damaged plate components are cleaned, re-finished, re-polished, or entirely replaced. Minor wounds are treated. Dirt, grease and blood are washed away. Perfection of wargear ensures perfection of performance. It is almost silent in the Custodes arming vault. No one talks. Caecaltus Dusk submits to inspection. Serfs take his paragon spear and his praesidium shield aside for examination. Diagnostics check his sensoria, his refractor system, and his arae-shrike device. Scanners play inquisitive light across every segment and component of his ornate Aquilon-pattern plate. The check seems to take longer than usual. 'Done?' Caecaltus asks. The adept-supervisor nods, but asks that the proconsul's breastplate be removed for cleaning. 'Why?' Caecaltus asks. To wash away minute traces of an unknown organic residue, he is told. Caecaltus looks down at his golden chest plating. The old man. The spittle on his finger. The mark's not visible any more. It barely ever was. 'No,' says Caecaltus. Passed ready, Caecaltus walks through to the inner chamber. He passes the Companions assembling in the holding area. Marked as ready, they draw up in perfect, silent rows, steady as statues in the amber light. From the arming chamber across the wide hallway outside, Caecaltus hears the chosen company of Imperial Fists Astartes taking their oath of moment. The voice of a Huscarl leads them. An instant timbre/tone match with Caecaltus' mental archive identifies the voice as Diamantis. An adequately proficient warrior, for a Space Marine. Human voices, human customs. The Legio Custodes need no such rituals, no bold evocation to summon up courage. The voices fade behind him. The proconsul reaches the inner chamber. Few are let in here. The armourers are finishing their work. From the threshold, Caecaltus finally sees something that causes him to register a flicker of emotion. His heart rate shifts imperceptibly for two or three seconds. Then he hears a step behind him and turns at once. His paragon spear sweeps instantly to 'guard' position. 'You cannot be here,' he states simply. 'But I am,' says Sanguinius, 'and you will let me pass.' 2:xxii Fate denied Sanguinius stands fully armed and plated for war. He has never looked more regal or magnificent. 'He will send for you when He is ready,' says the Custodes proconsul facing him. 'I will see my father now, Companion,' Sanguinius replies. 'You are defying His will.' Sanguinius hesitates. 'I am, Proconsul Caecaltus,' he admits. The Sentinel does not move. His paragon spear is held more firmly and steadily than Sanguinius has ever seen a weapon proffered. The micro-muscular control of the Legio Custodes is extraordinary. 'Proconsul,' says Sanguinius gently, 'I wish to explain myself to him, and I need to do that before-' He pauses. He is aware of the others now. Four other senior Sentinels, summoned no doubt by the proconsul's neurosynergetics, have arrived behind him in complete silence. They have all come from the holding area. They are all members of the Anabasis protection company. They are all gloriously armed for war. They take their positions behind him, in a perfect half-moon suppression formation. Sanguinius hears the slow whine of charging Adrathics. Sanguinius raises his hands, open, and shows them to the proconsul facing him. No threat, no weapon. 'I will see my father now, Caecaltus,' he says very calmly and very clearly. 'You are defying His will,' Caecaltus repeats. 'Which is why I must see him now,' says Sanguinius. 'He will send for you when-' Something ripples in the air. The proconsul tilts his head for a moment, then nods, and steps aside. The Bright Angel steps past him into the inner chamber. The light inside is emerald, crossed by the white beams of focus-lights deployed by hovering servitors. The air holds the perfume of industrial incense. Oh, my father... A telepathic signal has just dismissed the armourers, and they step back from their final refinements and adjustments. His father's wargear, as it flexes in test and evaluation, moves with the fluid perfection Sanguinius remembers from the fields of Ullanor. Years of expert crafting have refined and enhanced its systems and its subtle calibrations, and years more of finishing and fining have made it gleam and glow like molten gold. His father turns, and his scarlet mantle billows behind him, casting an impossible shadow across the floor of the arming chamber, like the rolling terminator of nightfall across the face of a world. He has put on his new aspect. He is no longer Master of Mankind, or King-of-Ages. He has put away the symbolic masks of 'Lord of Terra' and 'father'. He has cast aside the graven idol, and the aspect of the idle king upon a golden throne, which he was obliged to wear for too long. He is as Sanguinius first knew, as all the sons knew him, first-found onwards, in the glorious days of the beginning. He is again what they want him to be. The warrior-monarch. The Emperor. Sanguinius' eyes widen, and he smiles. Then, as he becomes aware that the mighty proconsul and the other four Sentinels have sunk to their knees behind him, he bows his head in shame and humility. He hears his father approach. He stands his ground, awaiting his rebuke. His polished, mended auramite plate conceals his lingering wounds. No rebuke. Just a gentle question. Sanguinius looks up again. 'No, I will not be Warmaster,' Sanguinius says. 'Not here, not now. I will not take the name. It is a tarnished symbol.' Someone must stay. Someone must be seen to lead. 'Fafnir Rann,' Sanguinius replies. Rann is a great hero. 'Or Aimery,' says Sanguinius. 'Or Azkaellon. Or Thane. Or Huscarl Archamus, Second Of That Name. Any one of them would command the hearts of all loyal men. Any one of them. And there are others besides. Amit, in his great fury. Diamantis. Any of the golden Warden-chiefs of the Custodes. Diocletian Coros would-' A small gesture cuts him short. You are refusing to stay? 'I am insisting on going,' says Sanguinius. Is that not the same thing? A small, almost boyish smile crosses Sanguinius' face, partially masking the pain he is suffering. 'No, father,' he replies. 'After everything we have endured, the day is here. I absolutely refuse to let you go alone. It is my right, just as it is the right and honour of Rogal and Constantin.' Behind the Angel primarch, on their knees, heads bowed, the five Sentinels Hetaeron listen, monitor, ready to react. Once more, the emotional turbulence of the late-born sons complicates the issue. They know their king's will profoundly well, for it is through that will alone that they function. It is never to be disobeyed. Proconsul? Companions? 'My king?' says Caecaltus. Stand. Caecaltus rises. The other four rise with him. Companions, elucidate my son. He does not listen to me. Caecaltus and the others fan out. They form a wide circle around the Angel, their guardian spears upright at their sides. Sanguinius eyes them warily. 'My lord king could deny you, even now,' says Caecaltus, almost without inflection, as though the words are not his own and he is merely reporting them. 'He could cite the wounds that you think you have successfully concealed. You have not. You are too weak, too hurt.' 'My king is even afraid that the injuries done to you by Angron are mortal,' says Companion Andolen, 'and that death has already got its grip on you.' 'I will not listen to this,' says Sanguinius, glaring at the Sentinels. 'Not from them! Father, why do they speak for you?' 'My king wanted you to stay to protect you,' Caecaltus continues, without hesitation. 'As a rallying figurehead for the Palace, you can ex

u think you have successfully concealed. You have not. You are too weak, too hurt.' 'My king is even afraid that the injuries done to you by Angron are mortal,' says Companion Andolen, 'and that death has already got its grip on you.' 'I will not listen to this,' says Sanguinius, glaring at the Sentinels. 'Not from them! Father, why do they speak for you?' 'My king wanted you to stay to protect you,' Caecaltus continues, without hesitation. 'As a rallying figurehead for the Palace, you can excel despite your wounds.' 'You do not need to fight, or find new reserves of strength and fortitude,' says Companion Nmembo. 'You can simply be present and visible, a presence signifying inspiration.' 'But to tell you that is to humiliate you,' says Companion Kliotan. 'To remark upon your weakness, and your lack of fitness, to suggest your lord father is sparing you the effort of the onslaught to keep you out of harm's way,' says Companion Systratus, 'that would be hurtful.' 'That would be the greatest shame you could know,' says Caecaltus. But to face me, unflinching and defiant, shows your courage is not weak. 'If you know all this, father, then you know that it is more than honour or reputation that drives me to defy you,' says Sanguinius. Tell me what you saw. Sanguinius hesitates. Your vision. Your foresight. The true reason you are so determined to join the assault. 'If you know my visions, father, then you know already.' I do not see them as you do. 'My king was alerted to your visions by the Sigillite,' says Caecaltus. 'My king scarcely knows their detail or specific content,' says Companion Andolen. 'My king only knows them as things that move upon you from time to time, like fever-fits,' says Companion Kliotan. Tell me what you saw. 'You already know,' Sanguinius replies. This? Sanguinius grimaces as a fevered, nightmare image passes through his mind. 'No, father,' he says. 'I did not see you die. I did not see you fall. I do not demand to come so I can change that vision of heresy.' The Angel blinks. A tiny tell, but enough. It wasn't that at all. 'I foresaw a different death at the hands of Horus,' the Angel says, a whisper. 'I have been seeing it for a long time. I have worked to outplay the prediction at every turn, at every step of the way, each permutation, each possible version, as it has come upon me, I have evaded it and refused its truth. I have denied the prophesy several times. But the possible permutations diminish. It wasn't Signus. It wasn't Ultramar. It wasn't Gorgon Bar. It wasn't Eternity Gate. The possibilities are finite, and there is one remaining. It must be now. It must be the endgame and the Vengeful Spirit.' Your death? Sanguinius pauses. He nods. You intend to go to see this fulfilled? 'No, father. I intend to go to see it denied one last time.' 'It is far too great a risk,' says Caecaltus. 'No, proconsul! No!' Sanguinius declares. 'The alternative is a greater risk altogether!' He stares at his Emperor-sire fiercely. 'If it is ordained that I am to die at Lupercal's hand,' says Sanguinius, 'then I cannot let you go alone. Because that means that Horus will survive so he can come for me again, afterwards. Don't you see? If I stay, Horus lives. And if Horus lives, then you will have failed.' Sanguinius- 'I must face the last permutation. I must force it. I cannot allow for the possibility of another, for the cost to us will be too much.' 'So you would go willingly to your doom?' asks Nmembo. 'Sacrifice yourself for-' 'No.' Sanguinius has never sounded more sure. He has never sounded so much like his father. 'I intend to reject it. To defy it. To change it as I have changed it every time so far. Father, I will kill him myself if that's what it takes. But I cannot allow the permutations, now reduced to one, to breed and multiply again. I cannot allow a future with Horus in it.' Silence. The moment of quiet is so utter, it is uncanny. 'My king, your father, has always called them configurations, not "permutations",' says Andolen softly. 'The models of the future He has set, refined and revised across the lifespan of mankind. They are always subject to variance.' 'We make our future, and that future is only grim darkness if we fail to be wise and cunning, and refuse to reconfigure our designs to match the fluctuations of fate and the vicissitudes of history,' says Kliotan. 'This has been my king's process since He first watched a man's fingers smudge paint on a wall,' says Systratus. 'As if by some beautiful symmetry, and because you are His son and His blood, you have intuitively learned to do the same,' says Caecaltus. He pauses, and then adds, 'My king is proud.' But still, you gamble everything. 'Yes,' says Sanguinius. You would walk knowingly towards death. 'Yes,' says Sanguinius again. And he smiles. 'My vision says that the day I face Horus is the day I die,' he says. 'So if I face him today, that day is here. But Malcador told us, father, as we stood in the Throne Room, he told us that time has ceased. Today is not today, or any day. We are caught in the un-now. Horus, father, will not kill me today, for there is no today. By the time a tomorrow comes, a tomorrow of any kind, Horus will be done, defeated by your wrath, and my vision will be voided. This is how I know fate can be denied. The permutation... the configuration... can be defied if we act together.' A nod. Permission. 'Prepare to join your company, lord primarch,' says Caecaltus. 2:xxiii The last testament of the enemy They are preparing to kill him. 'Inevitably,' says Basilio Fo. He has been expecting it. There are only so many reprieves a man like him can expect to get (especially given what I've done). He has found loopholes before, proved his usefulness to postpone the hour of execution, but there may not be any left to find. He waits, then, for the inevitable. He hears heavy footsteps approaching outside his chamber. The captain-general (a particularly vicious piece of work, in my unsolicited opinion) has granted him quarters in the depths of the Sanctum Imperialis. The last days of Fo's long life have been spent close to the very heart of things, barely eight kilometres from the Throne Room (barely eight kilometres from Him!). Fo wonders if He knows Fo is here. The Custodians are a strange breed. At times, they seem like automata, mere vulgar extensions of His arrogant will. But, at others, they seem oddly independent and secretive, as though they are working to an agenda of their own. (Am I kept a secret even from Him? Am I a highly confidential resource, a secret weapon project, like the device I made for them?) He doubts it. The Emperor (and it is excruciating to use the inflated, grandiose title, though ultimately preferable to the even more objectionable pronoun, as if 'He' is the only 'Him' that anyone could ever, possibly be referring to) is omniscient, isn't He? Possessed of a 'mindsight' that perceives all? That's the myth He likes to sell, anyway. If there's any truth in it, surely He would be aware of Fo's proximity? And aware of what the captain-general's had him doing. But if He does, it's surprising that He hasn't simply descended from on high in a pillar of flame, and reduced Fo to ashes. They never got on. Too many ideological differences. Too much (what is the phrase?) blood over the weir. The quarters provided for him are very spare, so spare they barely earn the name 'quarters'. Fo has a cot, a chair, a basin, and he has been allowed a few books. There are no windows, and the door is kept locked. It's a cell, really, though of a better quality than that rancid hole in the Blackstone. Nearby, a short walk away under guard, is the small laboratorium where they let him work. No one has come to fetch him today (undoubtedly because they consider my work to be finished. The device is, after all, essentially complete, as a prototype form at least. In hindsight, I should probably have ignored the captain-general's demands for quick results, and spun the work out to keep myself indispensable). His quarters, the laboratorium, that's all he gets to see. Fo was free, briefly, thanks to the gene-witch, but now this is his entire world. Two rooms. He is in the greatest palace in the galaxy, the greatest treasure-store of learning, and he gets to see two small rooms of it. It is, perhaps, the greatest and cruellest punishment of all, to be so very close to so much knowledge (He always did like His books) and yet not be able to touch it, or see it. Fo never expected to return to Terra. Never. He expected to die somewhere out in the stars, his name forgotten, his latest host-body finally expiring of old age or some systemic failure he lacked the technology to repair. When, once in a while, every couple of lifetimes during his long exile on Velich Tarn, he thought about Terra, Fo dreamed sad dreams of the world that he would have made from it, the future he would have shaped. Fo's Imperium would have been superior, a post-human extrapolation of the species devised along pure biomechanical lines, not this dystopian, hyper-militarised hierarchy. Fo would have eschewed any dependence on legacy genetics, psionics, and most especially the warp. He would not have called it an Imperium, and he most surely would not have declared himself Emperor. But he'd lost that fight, lost it long ago, during the ferocious centuries of the Age of Strife. The Emperor had prevailed, and Fo had fled to the stars. And because, as the old adage says, history is written by the victors, the Emperor is now the saviour of mankind, and Fo is a war criminal, a monster, the personification of all the wrongs that the Emperor has come to make right. Except, Fo wasn't wrong. The world is literally falling apart. Doom has come to Terra. Fo takes little satisfaction from that, but there is some vindication there. The Emperor's overweening scheme has brought about this calamity. His militarised

had fled to the stars. And because, as the old adage says, history is written by the victors, the Emperor is now the saviour of mankind, and Fo is a war criminal, a monster, the personification of all the wrongs that the Emperor has come to make right. Except, Fo wasn't wrong. The world is literally falling apart. Doom has come to Terra. Fo takes little satisfaction from that, but there is some vindication there. The Emperor's overweening scheme has brought about this calamity. His militarised hierarchy, His legacy genetics, His careless employment of psionics, His foolhardy dalliance with immaterial power; these things, the foundational principles of His Imperium, are precisely the elements that have brought about its fall. They have combined (with, deliciously, an elegant garnish of hubris) in a perfect hellstorm. This end, this death, is His doing. It is exactly the catastrophe Fo predicted and fought against. Vindication is a small consolation, something to cling to and smile about as he waits for the end. Fo won't die alongside the rest of mankind, even though that annihilation can be no more than hours away. He will already be dead, because they are coming to kill him. Does he have regrets? Some: that no one ever listened to him; that he didn't prevail in the Age of Strife and divert this benighted future; that he never got the chance to look Him in the eye and say, 'I told you so.' Nothing worth stewing over. What's done is done. If Fo has any real regret at all, it's that he did, against all expectation, return to Terra but, once there, he never got a chance to examine the wealth of knowledge and advancement that had accumulated in his absence. That would have been the only reason ever to return: a few days, left to his own devices, in His libraries. The footsteps stop outside his door. Fo hears a voice, and the activation of a key. The inner hatch opens with a sigh, sleeving into the wall. His executioner enters. 2:xxiv Beyond reason The air throbs. The lights are dimming to half power. In the great basalt vaults nearby, the mass teleport platforms are being drawn to power. They walk into the holding area, father and son. They are flanked by the proconsul and his four impassive Sentinels Hetaeron. The light smokes in the dim, heavy air as they halt in the centre of the chamber. Around them, the four companies of Anabasis stand assembled: the burnished Cataphractii, the assault squads, the Terminators, the majestic Sanguinary Guard, Dorn and the Huscarl Praetorians, Valdor and his towering Custodes, Raldoron and the Blood Angels, Diamantis and the Imperial Fists, all geared and plated for war, all in panoply as beautiful as it is terrifying. All bow their heads in reverence. The Emperor has returned and stands among them. 'One last question,' Sanguinius says. Why do we suffer? Sanguinius laughs in surprise that he is not really surprised at all. 'You know my question before I ask it?' he says. Of course. 'It is in the forefront of your thoughts,' says Caecaltus. 'It is the bedrock of your mind,' says Systratus. Ask it. 'Very well,' says Sanguinius. 'Why do we suffer? Knowing the trials and pain we would face, why did you make us to suffer?' Because whatever we are and whatever we do, we are, and must always be, human. 'That simple?' Sanguinius asks. 'Nothing is simple,' says Proconsul Caecaltus. 'But my king vowed to the Sigillite that He would answer your questions as they came. So, understand. Suffering, pain, grief, they are all extremities of the human condition.' 'It would have been too easy to shed those things,' says Andolen, 'to excise them, to remove the messy and illogical mechanisms of emotional response, those non-verbal animal reactions of our early hominid forms.' 'My king could have made his sons, and their warrior-sons too, without emotion,' says Nmembo, 'freed from feeling, concern or care, unburdened by hurt and loss and sadness, coldly proofed against the galaxy with a biological armour stronger than any ceramite plate.' 'But that would have made them less,' says Systratus. 'That would have made them mere flesh-machines,' says Kliotan, 'bloodlessly cold, and driven only by instruction and intellect.' 'Even we, His Companions, woven by a different craft, were not forged to lack that spark,' says Caecaltus. 'But, what? You just hide it better?' asks Sanguinius wryly. Caecaltus makes a grudging shrug. 'But isn't rationality the very essence of your working?' Sanguinius asks his father. Most certainly. 'And the feeling heart and the hurting soul can be an impediment at times,' says Systratus. 'It was for the aeldari, as we understand it,' says Kliotan. 'Reason, and rationalist stability, and the empirical operation of high science, these must be our unshakable touchstones,' says Andolen. 'Then what? You strove for a balance when you made us?' Sanguinius asks, frowning. It was more than that. 'I realise it is a hard question to answer,' says Sanguinius. 'Even for you. Even with a mouthpiece as articulate as the proconsul. Forgive me, I-' He stops short. The world has altered, without warning. The holding area has gone, the proud companies of war vanished. Sanguinius realises he is being granted his answer after all. He is being shown it, a symbolic answer blending signs and devices, his gift of foresight commandeered by his father's will to display a last personal, privileged vision, exclusively shaped for his eyes alone. The powerful telempathic rapport enfolds him for a second, sharing memories that run back deep into time. It is immersive, more than any vision he has previously experienced in his life, and bewildering at first. The shift of scale, of intellect and perception, is giddying. Stars of all magnitude, each one singing its eternal electromagnetic song, circle him slowly in void without end or edge. He is not sure what he is supposed to be seeing, or how to decipher it. 'Father?' Then, slowly, he begins to see. Meaning, structure, the long, tenuous thread of a plan. He sees a world below him. It is perfect and bright, its vivid blues and greens mantled with lace of white cloud as dazzling as ice. Terra. No, no. He begins to understand better. Terra, before it was Terra. Old Earth. Young Earth. A species upon it. A species in its youth, young, virile, headstrong and rash, but brimming with potential, far from perfect, but with the capacity to be so much. This is the start point. Time begins to spin like a wheel, accelerating. It begins to play out its thread, fast and faster. Sanguinius catches his breath. It's too fast, too fast for him to follow. Histories flicker past, like fire-cast shadows dancing on the wall of a cave, occasionally, almost subliminally, illuminating some mark or image painted there. A figure. An animal. A city. A handprint. It's all too quick for him to comprehend, too fast, too much. Except, he realises, he does follow. He does understand. 'I am...' he murmurs, 'I am-' I am the end product of centuries of a Great Work, he comprehends, marvelling. Me, my brothers, our sons, all of our kind, we are the culmination of a Great Work, and that work is nothing less than the salvation of human biology. I see the beautiful young world below has grown older and darker now, stained with damage and woe. The void around me has grown blacker, suffocating. The Ages of Strife and Long Night have come and gone, woefully damaging the human genome. It has fallen prey to grim genetic drift and degenerative mutation rates. The Great Work is not just to unify Terra and rebuild the infrastructure of empire, it is to rebuild the human vessel itself. To repair molecular codes, to arrest mutation and, where necessary, select for positive trait alterations. Pinprick specks of light flicker on the surface of the world, increasing in number, like the first shoots of spring from hard winter ground. They multiply. They flicker out among the stars too. They are minds. Psykers, proliferating unchecked, are a deeply destructive flaw, but the emergent Navigators are essential. Sanctioned genetic reconstitution is crucial for human growth, and in pursuing it, my father reaches a profound understanding of human biological structure and function. Aeons subdivide. Centuries turn over, one by one, like tarot cards on a table. As they turn, rationality has to remain paramount, but emotions, though unruly and forever unpredictable, are still mankind's greatest assets. Long years of neuro research show my father this beyond doubt. The human mind is an astoundingly powerful instrument. We are capable of almost anything. But without emotions, we would permanently operate at capacity, even when performing simple tasks. If our minds were machines, they would have to be filled to the brim with exhaustive, pre-programmed, pre-set instructions for every possible eventuality. This processing would demand a level of energy that no human, or even post-human, could ever maintain. 'That is the function of feeling?' Sanguinius asks, intrigued, his voice tiny in the vastness of the memories that shift around him. It is as though he is at last making sense of himself. Now cells subdivide in place of aeons. The arch of heaven, the Milky Way, is a gene helix. Lives pass by, like the ticking of a clock, so very swift, each one filled with joy and sorrow, love and loss, success and failure. Emotions are the very root of our supremacy as an organic species. Arising not from the cortex, but from root brainstem consciousness, they are reactive, and function as short-cuts to decision. They facilitate rapid thought and resolution, bypassing processed perception. We think and then act because we feel first. Emotions emancipate our minds, allowing for spontaneous and intuitive cognition, and they remove the need for densely pre-programmed brains. Emotions are symbols, instantly bypassing conscious decision and conveying more than words can ever manage. 'So the

not from the cortex, but from root brainstem consciousness, they are reactive, and function as short-cuts to decision. They facilitate rapid thought and resolution, bypassing processed perception. We think and then act because we feel first. Emotions emancipate our minds, allowing for spontaneous and intuitive cognition, and they remove the need for densely pre-programmed brains. Emotions are symbols, instantly bypassing conscious decision and conveying more than words can ever manage. 'So they are fundamental, not vestigial traits?' Sanguinius wonders, fascinated. The memory rapport fades. Sanguinius feels the loss of it. He has never felt so safe anywhere, or so intimately enfolded. He has never felt his father's mind so close. They are still in the holding area. All heads around them are still bowed. Not even a second has passed, and no one has noticed the tiny interruption. 'Quite fundamental,' Caecaltus replies. 'They make us what we are. To create the primarchs and the Astartes without emotions would have doomed us to stagnation, indecision and failure.' 'The very things, those unique, individual qualities that made Horus Lupercal turn, are the same traits that will allow you to triumph,' says Systratus. 'My king, your father, would no more have made His sons without emotion than He would have removed them from Himself,' says Caecaltus. 'And He could have done both.' 'He considered that?' asks Sanguinius. 'Of course,' says Caecaltus. 'He rationally weighed every option. Anyway, there is your answer. That is why we suffer.' We suffer because it is the sad but necessary consequence of our ability to prevail. 'Then I thank you,' Sanguinius says. For the explanation? Sanguinius shakes his head. 'For the curious gift of humanity. I have been called a god, father. I have been called an Angel, and looked upon as divine. I would rather the vulnerability of a warm and feeling heart than the cold mettle of a deathless god.' The others approach: Rogal, adorned in shining golden plate inlaid with chrome and amber, and Constantin, caparisoned in lacquered auramite. Behind them, the assembled host stands ready, four companies of the most superlative warriors the galaxy has ever known. And the most capable. Sanguinius understands that now. 'My Emperor, the platforms await,' Rogal says. The hum of power rises. The lights flicker. The Emperor of Mankind unsheathes his sword. 2:xxv Fate proves cruel In the Rotunda, the lights go out. There is a distant bang of mass discharge, a quake of overpressure that seems to shake the whole Palace, and a sudden stink of ozone. Consoles fail, and several hololith plates crack and craze spontaneously. After a moment, emergency power cuts in, and the chamber is lit by a ruddy glow for several seconds until main power returns. Sandrine Icaro consults her data-slate, checks for confirmation, and then steps onto the central podium. 'Attention!' she shouts. 'Your attention!' The voices around her drop to silence. Every face turns. 'Notification,' she announces. 'Teleport event confirmed as complete and optimal. Anabasis assault is underway and running.' There is a burst of applause. Some present look upward involuntarily. 'Get to work!' she yells, climbing down. At station nineteen, Tactician Jonas Gaston tries to get Icaro's attention, but she is surrounded by War Court seniors. The Gilded Walk has just fallen and immediate responses must be decided. Sidozie, of the Chosen, sees Gaston's agitation, and crosses to him. 'Situation?' Sidozie asks. The young man is junior, inexperienced, drafted in at short notice to plug a gap left after Bhab. He is clearly close to panic. 'A signal, sir,' he begins, one hand pressed to his earpiece. Sidozie checks the display. Gaston is manning overwatch and deep listening, monitoring traitor fleet operations in the hope of intercepting command transmissions. 'A signal?' 'Very broken... very faint...' Gaston says. Sidozie plugs his augmetics into the station system and listens for himself. A reedy, scratchy whisper, like the scrape of twigs. He moves Gaston aside, and adjusts the filters with expert precision. He listens again. Gaston sees the look on his face. Sidozie increases gain to maximum, until the audio backwash is almost deafening. He strains to hear. '...Repeat, we are nine hours out. Nine hours out. Deploying now to wide formation assault positions, inbound. Terra Control, do you receive? Terra Control, can you respond? Repeat, we are nine hours out. Terra Control, respond. We need immediate tracking guidance. Light your beacons. We are extending to wide assault formation. Terra, hold your positions. Remain in secure defensive alignment. Hold your positions. That's all you need to do. Just hold. Repeat, we are nine hours out. Terra Control, respond. Acknowledge. Hold your positions and light guidance now. Terra Control, this is Guilliman...' 'Oh, shit,' stammers Sidozie. 'Oh shit.' He turns. He starts to bellow Icaro's name. 2:xxvi In ruins As they charge towards the pitiful bulwarks and dug-outs before Radium Gate, the Imperial Fists hit their flank hard from the left. What was already havoc deteriorates into a savage, running melee in the smoke and the howling, cyclonic filth. Bodies crash into bodies, blades swing and smash, and armour buckles. The liquid mud is a foot deep, and splashes high as bodies topple into it. An Imperial Fist with twin axes, so doused in blood his yellow armour looks more like the plate worn by the IX, drives through the wheeling mayhem, removing heads and limbs. The Neverborn are screeching in the smoke-pall. Bolters bark and bang. The Imperial Fist, roaring, takes down Itha Clathis of Second Company with a blow that sounds like a sledgehammer hitting tin, and sends blood and fragments of bone into the air in a stupendous, arcing fountain. He knocks Kaltos of Second aside with a glancing strike, then comes at Tyro Gamex of Third, gore stringing from his blades. Another figure blocks his path, intercepting him with an impact like two armoured transports colliding head-on. Ezekyle Abaddon, First Captain of the Sons of Horus, wrenches out his blade. His foe is dead. Fafnir Rann is dead. Abaddon crouches in the steaming mud, and tears off the corpse's helmet. No. Not Rann, after all. An Imperial Fist, one of the VII, but not Rann. In the confusion of the melee, he thought it was. And the man fought well, which seemed to confirm Abaddon's identification. But it's not him. That trophy is yet to be taken. Abaddon rises. Sons of Horus, giants in dirt-sullied plate, explode through the smoke past him, splashing forward, charging the line. Bolters open up, sustained fire. The smoke jumps with flashes and shadows. The weak, improvised defence of Radium Gate mounted by the Imperial Fists is about to collapse as fast as the Gilded Walk resistance. Dorn's master touch is gone. They are a shambles, rudderless, lacking cohesion, lacking strategy, reduced to impulsive and helplessly reactive efforts of repulse. Abaddon has lost count of the figures in yellow, red and white he has butchered today. There is shame in this. It is not the victory he dreamed of, or the triumph he desired. Too much has been accomplished by infernal processes, by startling Neverborn atrocities that have exploded out of polluted darkness and thin air, or sprouted from the buckling ground. Not enough, not nearly enough, has been done the way he was taught. He may mock the Praetorians for their loss of military precision, but where is his? Abaddon is a warrior. He wanted to take the Palace with militant perfection and exemplary soldiering. But this is no longer, in any way, a soldier's war. He is sick at heart, sick to the gut. They have brought horror, and become horror. This was not the way his father ever practised, and it is not the victory his father promised. Abaddon halts, lowering his blade. The Sons of Horus continue to stream past him on either side, bellowing in glee, giving themselves entirely to the weaponised insanity of the fall of Terra. Despoilers all. Let them finish it. Let them take the Gate and dismember the defenders. He starts to trudge back up the broken slope, through the choking waft of ash, towards what passes for their forward command position. The vox clicks in his ear again. It's been doing that for half an hour, longer perhaps. Not the incoherent back-chatter of the mob, a signal: someone trying to contact him long-range. But the channels are washed out, or jammed, and each time he's tried to answer it, there's been nothing but garbled sounds and white noise. At the line, where the Sons of Horus' spiked banners are pitched like the lank sails of funeral barges, the Mechanicum of the war-steads are arriving, leading columns of barbaric killing engines and rumbling saurian breacher-rams. Clain Pent, Fifth Disciple of Nul, stands aloft on the gibbet-balcony of a vast, tusked war engine, his limbs writhing like some manic conductor at a rostrum, orchestrating the advance and deployment via noospheric gesture. Eyet-One-Tag of Epta motions to Abaddon from her palanquin. 'First Captain,' she says, a human mouth framed and crowned by augmetic sensor-blisters. 'There is a repeated signal-' 'I am aware,' he growls. 'You do not respond?' 'My system is jammed-' 'Then avail yourself of my devices,' she invites. Mastervox instruments are rolled forward in the acid rain. Adepts fuss and simper around them, cleaning dials. Abaddon takes a proffered plug and connects it to his suit sockets. 'Abaddon,' he says. 'Ezekyle, at last!' It is Argonis. He sounds scared. 'Are you still orbital?' Abaddon asks, puzzled. 'Yes, yes. I've been trying to reach you. Trying for hours-' 'Just speak, equerry.' 'The voids, Abaddon. The voids-' 'What of them?' 'He's lowered them. He's lowered the voids.' 'What voids? Who has?' Abaddon asks. 'Lupercal, Abaddon. Lupercal has lowered the void shields

ound them, cleaning dials. Abaddon takes a proffered plug and connects it to his suit sockets. 'Abaddon,' he says. 'Ezekyle, at last!' It is Argonis. He sounds scared. 'Are you still orbital?' Abaddon asks, puzzled. 'Yes, yes. I've been trying to reach you. Trying for hours-' 'Just speak, equerry.' 'The voids, Abaddon. The voids-' 'What of them?' 'He's lowered them. He's lowered the voids.' 'What voids? Who has?' Abaddon asks. 'Lupercal, Abaddon. Lupercal has lowered the void shields on the Vengeful Spirit.' Abaddon pauses. Toxic rain and liquid mud trickle off his visor. 'Are you still there? Ezekyle?' 'Say that again,' says Abaddon. PART THREE THE DAY WILL NOT SAVE THEM 3:i A warp-twisted hell The abrupt silence is shocking. It puzzles Caecaltus Dusk for a second, until he realises it just feels like silence because he is so accustomed to the distant, constant drone of war. At my post in the Throne Room, day after day, the faraway rumble of warfare was so unremitting, I became inured to it, and inhabited it without regard. But here- In a shiver, the background drone has gone, and only silence remains, a fossil imprint of missing sound. The silence, the utter stillness, is tranquilising. Caecaltus feels numb. For a moment, the proconsul has to remember - actively, consciously force himself to remember - where they are and what they have come to do. We have come to strike. We have come to undertake the solemn business of war against- Around him, the golden demigods of the Hetaeron company are silent too, as though they, like Caecaltus, are unnerved by the sudden quiet. None of them has experienced the thunderclap of their arrival, for the savage boom of mass and pressure displacement was over by the time they were fully materialised. Vapour drifts from their armoured forms, teleport energy dissipates like forest mist, and sparks of recorporealisation backwash circle them like fireflies. Proconsul Caecaltus takes a step forwards. Companions advance around him, spears aimed. As they begin to move, transmaterial dust residue sifts from their plate like flour. They move quickly. They move silently. They move in perfect coordination, spears raised. They encircle the almost luminous figure of their king and master, ready to protect Him from- What was I expecting? Anything. Everything. But- There is no attack, no ambush, no host of warriors waiting to repel their boarding action. If this is a trap, and the Praetorian Seventh son was so sure it would be, then it is either an odd one or a poor one. The assault site selected for the spearhead is Embarkation Deck Two, and that is where they are. It is a vast chamber, part hangar, part launch tunnel. The distant mouth of it, a kilometre away, shows the cold blackness of space, held at bay by integrity fields. Caecaltus turns slowly, surveying the long plasteel flight ramps, where guide lights blink on automatic, the raised galleries and skeletal gantries, the side holding bays, the munition silos. Above them, the immense manipulator gears and ship-clamps hang like ornithological limbs, grasps empty. Around them, on the launch rails and standing platforms, the Stormbirds are rigged for preflight. There are eight of them. They are painted white, and marked with the emblems of the XVI Legion Luna Wolves. I would have thought they might be re-dressed by now in their new traitor liveries. I am surprised, indeed, that there are any here. Were they not all deployed, long since? Caecaltus approaches the nearest launch stand, with Kliotan to his right and Andolen to his left. Why is there no one here? The Stormbirds are rigged and ready, but ready for what? He looks up at the sleek lines of the nearest craft. The huge transatmospheric drop-craft were the backbone of all Imperial assaults during the crusade to remake the galaxy. Fine, trustworthy, graceful machines from an earlier time, their kind is now slowly being replaced by more functional delivery vehicles. Warmaster Lupercal has kept his in perfect condition. And with them, from this deck and the other five like it on this mighty flagship, the Warmaster conquered half the stars in his father's name. From here, the ceramite deck plates beneath my feet, the Warmaster's sons set out, oaths of moment sworn, and accomplished deeds of valour and skill that aligned the peace of the Imperium. Sometimes, I was with them. I may even have gone to war in some of these very machines. I remember escorting my master on a war-drop in Stormbird Three during the Gorro Undertaking. Is that one of these? Caecaltus begins to look for the tail-number insignia- He stops himself short. How am I allowing distraction into my mind? How am I sidelined by memory and nostalgia? Where is my focus? We have achieved primary site-to-site. I lead a company of one hundred Custodians in support of my master, who has drawn for war for the first time since the secret conflict in the webway. Why can't I concentrate? No one comes. Nothing moves. The deck is empty of figures, except the Lord of Terra and His Hetaeron. There is no sign of damage or decay, no dirt or spent casings from rapid turnaround and refit. The lights glow pearlescent. Atmospheric processors hum at the frontier of hearing. Fuel lines are still connected. On consoles and wall plates, screeds of luminous data flicker and shift silently. If this was a ceremonial inspection, my master would pass the Warmaster's scrupulous presentation with approval, and commend his deck crews and servitor chiefs. But it is not. It is not! This is the solemn business of war, not- There are no servitors either. Not even dormant units in the charging racks of the side bays. Just the haunted, echo-less serenity of a shiftship holding orbit. It is almost hypnotic. The proconsul's Custodes, golden phantoms, edge forwards and fan out wider, spears raised for instant reaction. In their midst, the Master of Mankind steps with them. Silence prevails. There is no ambient vox-chatter, nothing on the link, no noospherics, no psykanic activity. Everything is a soft, doughy emptiness. How has our arrival not been detected? A bulk-teleport assault... the energy signature of that, and the contiguous heat-flare, that should have registered on the ship's sensoria like a missile strike- No alarms sound. No warning detectors blink. There is no noise of activity, of armoured figures rushing in response. Is this ship empty? Caecaltus tightens his grip on his paragon spear. He feels something welling inside him. With frank astonishment, he realises it is fear. I haven't known fear in centuries. Fear was an old friend, but we no longer speak, for I have no business with him any more. Yet here he is. The Stormbird on its launch rack to his right, its tail stencil is eight. Caecaltus thought it was three for a second, but no- I thought we would be transporting into a warp-twisted hell, not this. I can't- No noospherics. No vox. Not even a hint of immaterial activity. This chamber is as null-sterile as the vaults of the Sisterhood. How- Where are we? I can't- Caecaltus looks at his warriors, silent, auramite giants stalking forward against the bathing whiteness of the deck. Don't they feel it too? Don't they- The lights on the launching ramp wink on auto-cycle, blinking a pathway to blackness. Where are Dorn and the captain-general and my lord's beloved Angel? Where are their companies? What- Everything seems slow. Like a dream. Like a heavy dream. The silence glides into him, oppressive, like the shadow of the void, the deep, cosmic mono-note of the celestial deeps. Can- Why can't I focus? Caecaltus sees the main internal hatch, a bulwark of steel and adamantine. Embarkation Deck VIII is fusion-engraved across it. My mouth is dry. I- The Vengeful Spirit only has six embarkation decks. Caecaltus should have noticed all of this. All of it. He was primed and alert, ready - perhaps readier than he has ever been - for the trial ahead of them. He should have noticed these discrepancies the second he arrived. But his mind is like sludge, like jelly- I should have seen- Caecaltus turns to look at Sentinel-Warden Kliotan at his right. He feels like he is moving in slow motion, suspended in thick fluid. None of them have spoken since their arrival. Whatever else might have broken the oppressive silence, their vox-link should be live. There should have been immediate hortcode exchange and voice confirmation on arrival. My helm display is dead- Only now, Caecaltus notices that too. Kliotan turns to look at him. It is very slow. It takes a century for his crested golden helm to turn. Others turn too. The proconsul's Custodians all turn to look at him. They are as slow as sap, as slow as continental drift, as slow as the very slowest setting of a pict playback. They turn to look at him- No, not at me. They are all turning to look at the Master of Mankind- Blood wells from Sentinel-Warden Kliotan's eye slits and trickles down his faceplate like tears. It oozes and runs from the snarling mouth of his sculpted visor. What is this- It runs from the eyes of all the warriors around them. Caecaltus feels himself weeping blood too- What's happening- The slow silence ends. Suddenly, there is nothing but screaming. Suddenly, the world is a blur of lightning-fast movement. They come for Him. Weeping blood and shrieking, the Master of Mankind's own guardians come at Him from all sides. 3:ii 888 'Try it again,' says Sandrine Icaro. Her voice is brittle and sharp. The Hegemon's Rotunda is hushed, but for the murmur of instrumentation and the occasional warble of an alert. No one speaks. 'Negative vox,' says the War Court officer at main communication at last. 'Negative noospheric link. Negative trace signal or transponder locator. Negative lock on teleport marker beacons.' 'Keep trying,' says Icaro. 'Ten-second cycle. They must be alerted to the situation change. They... He has to kno

'Try it again,' says Sandrine Icaro. Her voice is brittle and sharp. The Hegemon's Rotunda is hushed, but for the murmur of instrumentation and the occasional warble of an alert. No one speaks. 'Negative vox,' says the War Court officer at main communication at last. 'Negative noospheric link. Negative trace signal or transponder locator. Negative lock on teleport marker beacons.' 'Keep trying,' says Icaro. 'Ten-second cycle. They must be alerted to the situation change. They... He has to know of Ultramar's approach.' And we have to know, thinks Ilya, watching from her station. We have to know if they even got there. The data reported by Lion's Gate port is deeply concerning. It suggests that all augury scans and sensoria reports are dubious at best, falsified or unreliably incomplete. Anabasis assault should have been called off. But who tells Him that He cannot do something? There should be joy, the first real joy in months, a renewed hope of salvation. The Emperor has risen to lead the final fight, and the liberating fleets of the last, loyal sons, in all their fury, are but nine hours out. But there is no way of confirming the signal from Guilliman, and no way of answering. The avenging sons come too late anyway, for their father has already committed and passed the point of no return. And, though nine hours close, the vengeance fleet is blind. It cannot find Terra in the warp storm wracking the Solar Realm, and Terra has no beacon to light to show it the way. Ilya looks at the stations nearby, where senior tacticians have been analysing auspex returns and detection grid metadata since she first brought the issue regarding Target Principal to Icaro's attention. Sidozie also has two seniors running a forensic review of the teleport pattern log. One of them suddenly signals to Sidozie. The Chosen reviews his data-slate, then hurries it across to Icaro. Ilya just gets out of her seat and follows him. She's at Sidozie's side when he presents the findings to Icaro. Icaro doesn't even bother sending Ilya back to her station. She is at the very edge now. Ilya can see it in her, the frantic, milling spiral of panic. 'What does this mean?' Icaro asks Sidozie. 'It's a transmission report coding,' says the Chosen. 'It is appended to all teleportation transfers. One-one-one, for example, signifies successful transfer, with complete materialisation integrity, at selected destination and-' 'I know that!' Icaro snaps. 'What is this? What is eight-eight-eight?' 'We... aren't sure, mistress,' says Sidozie. 'It appears to be an archaic error signature, usually expressing a teleport failure due to insufficient power. Either that, or it's some invasive scrap code.' 'What are you saying?' Icaro asks. 'Are they still here? Is He still here? Did they not transfer?' 'They are not here,' Sidozie replies. 'Throne Room confirms this. Power level discharge was also confirmed as optimal on all bulk teleport platforms. But we are also unable to hard-fix Target Principal.' 'But it's right there. Shields down. Wide open.' 'It appears to be, mistress. But, with repeated attempts, we cannot acquire solid target or location solutions on it.' Icaro looks at him. 'What the hell does that mean?' she asks. 'What the hell does eight-eight-eight signify?' 'It means, mistress,' he replies, 'we have absolutely no idea where Anabasis assault went. We have no idea where He is.' 3:iii Vigil Despite the intense glare, it is possible to see the drops of blood trickling from the Sigillite's tear ducts. Vulkan doesn't want to look. The light radiating from the Golden Throne and the figure upon it is too bright, and too sickly, and it chills him to see the old Regent in such extraordinary, silent pain. But he must look. A last vigil. The most important of all. The Throne Room has been emptied of all but key personnel. The Concillium adepts fuss at their tasks, nursing the wheezing stability engines. The Throne itself, radiating light like a miniature sun, sings. It is a high, constant note, a harmonic vibration, a fingertip running around the edge of a glass, but amplified to a level that could crack stone. Vulkan wonders how long Malcador will be able to maintain control. How long can a man last like that? The energies pulsing through the Throne would cremate a mortal soul in seconds. Malcador is no ordinary mortal, but he is nothing compared to Vulkan's father, and Vulkan knows how grievously his father suffered in that seat. Malcador sits fixed, rigid, still as the stone effigy on the lid of a tomb, but for the spasmodic twitch of his hands and the tremble of his eyelids. His eyes have rolled back, showing only white. His mouth is slack, as though palsied. His skin, it seems to Vulkan, is beginning to crack, like the dry pages of an ancient book. The Sigillite has not spoken since he took the Throne. Vulkan didn't expect him to. He knew the focus required for operation was so onerous that there would be nothing spare to give. But Vulkan found himself anticipating something. The Sigillite was ever an ingenious man, with power to match his cunning. Vulkan never liked him much, but he has always admired him. The Regent had such a breadth of learning, and such a hunger for knowledge. Vulkan suspects that one of the reasons, beyond loyalty and necessity, that Malcador took the Throne was that it would offer him a chance to see, to truly see, for one lethal but spectacular instant, the greatest knowledge of all. To operate the Golden Throne is to open one's mind entirely to the etheric structures of the universe, and Malcador has an exceptionally potent mind. The Regent's only task is to regulate the dangerously hypertensive webway, but in enhancing the Sigillite's ability to do that, the Throne would also grant him a unique perspective. Mindsight, foresight, farsight and all other aspects of psykana would be amplified, providing a metaphysical insight that, Vulkan imagines, borders on omniscience. Thus would be unveiled the invisible underpinnings of fragile realspace, the deep and eternal conjunction of materium and immaterium, the ephemeral patterns of the warp, things that Vulkan, in all his journeys and all his years, has never witnessed. Vulkan had been secretly convinced that the Sigillite would communicate something, or at least try. If not words, then a sign of some sort. Where Vulkan's father is infamous for withholding, and only ever alluded to things the Throne had allowed him to see, Malcador would want to share. Sitting there, in silent agony, he is surely learning things, more and more, with every passing second, things that could undoubtedly assist the war. What could he be perceiving? The dispositions of the enemy? Radical techniques of defence? Esoteric methods of combating the Neverborn? Surely, all those things and more. Malcador, who, as Rogal Dorn's silent partner, had orchestrated the fundamental mechanics of the siege and every stage of their obsidional tactics, now has a superlative vantage. He can see all of the everything he could never see before. Vulkan was certain that Malcador would be dying to communicate that, to use his insight to steer them, with utmost expertise, through the final battle. Instead, he just seems to be dying. Forever. Vulkan looks to the side. Abidemi has approached. The Salamanders Draaksward bows his head. 'Any word?' Vulkan asks. 'No, my Lord of Drakes,' replies Abidemi. 'The teleport chambers report transfer, and Hegemon Control confirms it. Anabasis assault is deployed.' 'But?' 'No contact, lord. My agents in Hegemon Control report some consternation.' 'Regarding?' 'Nothing official, my lord. But there are concerns that the situation was the trap our Praetorian suspected. Indeed, there is great doubt as to exactly where your brothers and our lord your father have gone.' 'Teleport signal capture? Redirection?' 'Perhaps. There is no data. They may be aboard the Spirit now, or the Spirit itself may have been a bluff.' Vulkan looks back at the figure in the Throne. 'I think he knows,' he says. 'The Lord Sigillite?' Vulkan nods. His jawline clenches. 'I think he knows and he wants to tell us. I think he's desperate to tell us.' 'Why, my lord?' 'Look at his mouth, Atok. See? The way it twitches, now and then? A shiver of the lips. I think he's trying to tell us something and he simply cannot.' Abidemi hesitates. 'My lord,' he says, 'you should withdraw to a safer distance. It is too dangerous to be this close to the Throne for long.' Vulkan nods, and sends the Draaksward back from the heat of the glare. He takes one last look before following. 'What are you seeing, Sigillite?' Vulkan murmurs. 'What are you seeing? Everything? Nothing? Or the broken fragments of our demise?' 3:iv Fragments It is the end, and not the end. The death, and not the death. The final fortress of Terra's Palace has less than a day of life left in it, but that day will never end. Linear time has gone, replaced by the warp's un-when. The vortical fury of the consuming flames will rage forever, and the very act of dying, even on the Golden Throne itself, has become immortal. Demigod corpses litter the Gilded Walk, the Clanium Precinct, and the splintered ferrocrete wastes around the Palatine Ring. The corpses wear war plate, fabulously wrought, of yellow and red, white and gold. Inside each suit of war plate are bones and meat and rapidly cooling blood, and the end of dreams and duties and proud principles. Each corpse is an oath kept, a moment over. Each one is an ended history of prestigious deeds and courage that knew no fear. Each one contains a life story that no one will ever tell, for the remembrancers are all gone. There have been no last words, no final testaments, no mortal declarations. No one is left alive to harvest, with narthecium and tender surgical reductor, their progenoid seed, a thousand times as precious, by gram, than tritium. Each demigod has died alone, unhear

ud principles. Each corpse is an oath kept, a moment over. Each one is an ended history of prestigious deeds and courage that knew no fear. Each one contains a life story that no one will ever tell, for the remembrancers are all gone. There have been no last words, no final testaments, no mortal declarations. No one is left alive to harvest, with narthecium and tender surgical reductor, their progenoid seed, a thousand times as precious, by gram, than tritium. Each demigod has died alone, unheard, unshriven, his dying actions, by far the greatest of his already great life, unwitnessed. There are so many of them. Whatever else this endless day is, it is the end of the Astartes as anything more than elite strike troops. They will never be pre-eminent and numberless again. Their banners are trampled underfoot, or soaked in gore, or matted with mud. They drape over some corpses like winding sheets. The symbols they marched under, and believed in with their entire beings, shroud them in death. The umbratic symbols of the foe are still raised. The great, unblinking eye gazes from a thousand banners, staring with mad glee at the devastation wrought by those who hold it aloft. The red-and-ebon traitor banners flutter in the smoke-stained, firelit twilight, flapped like batwings by the holocaust gales, shivered like gooseflesh by the constant dysphonic roar of traitor voices. More banners, and still more, are being manufactured to join those already raised. In the spark-filled gloom, the smaller and malformed Neverborn move in hissing gaggles behind the main advance, flaying and peeling skin from the dead and the almost dead, fashioning standards of human leather to hang from bone frames. They huddle and squat in the glare and the lagoons of blood, cackling and snuffling, using dagger-fingers to score and prick out the shape of the great eye, symbol of a pinchbeck god. They mark out eightfold stars. They whisper names to themselves, and shudder with anticipation every time that name is the Dark King. Khagashu of the Night Lords walks through the slaughterfields beyond the Eirenicon Gate. Ahead of him, another of the Palatine bastions is beginning to succumb to fire and shredding assault. Khagashu cannot see the ramparts falling. He is too far away yet, and the false night is too thick with cindersmoke. But he can hear the noise of it, carried fitfully on the bradycardic gusts of a heartsore wind. Rockcrete and adamantine, raised to withstand macro shells, is yielding to behemoth fangs and insatiable claws, and the sound of it is delicious. Elated, proud, he struts with pavonine delight, and signals his scavenger gangs of feral humans, abhumans and cankered servitors to spread through the bloody spilth of the battlefield. Like children gathering shells and curious pebbles on a beach at low tide, they are collecting skulls. Khagashu and his foragers have instructions that, though they were murmured to them by nothing more than shadows and damp air, they are quite determined to fulfil. They must construct carefully aligned mounds of skulls, according to strict ritual measurements, in preparation for the ascendant coronation. Then there will be a throne to build. Khagashu isn't yet sure who it is for. On the broad talus of the Irenic Barbican, one of the chief bastions of the Palatine line, an engine war escalates into sudden fury. Remnants of Legio Gryphonicus mount a ferocious repulse in an effort to keep the barbican intact for another thirty minutes. All the rules are gone. Range factors are ridiculous. Churning out of water-choked culverts, support armour wrestles with the enemy treads, hull to hull, main weapons firing almost point-blank. Basilisk platforms are used like duelling pistols, head-to-head at zero metres. New suns flare and fade in quick succession along the vast earthwork edge as punctured reactors light off and go critical, wiping out everything around them. The radiating heat-wash is so intense, it instantly bakes the lakes of mud into dry seabeds cracked in star patterns. Gharnak Omaphagia, disgraced Warlord of Legio Magna, is killed by engine-fire as it mounts the talus, disembowelled by shells that spin its torso aside in a cloud of oil. Leaking systems catch and Omaphagia immolates, a giant figure burning head to foot like some festival hecatomb on a heathen midsummer. Khorness Gorewalker, another daemon Warlord, pushes past it at main stride, mounts blazing. Three of the Warhounds mobbing its heels founder and fall on the massive rockcrete caltrops laid by the loyalist Mechanicus. Gorewalker passes the prone carcass of Indomat Celsior, a Gryphonicus main engine that has been brought down on the slope. Celsior is on fire, its hulk swarming with a saprophytic mass of traitor ground troops. Gorewalker, kicking its way through tanks and maniples of House Hermitika Knight Armigers as though they are toys, is stopped at the mid-line of the embankment by sustained beam fire from the Warlords Bellus Shockatrice and Argent Polemistes. Gorewalker endures a great deal, far more than build-specifications ever dreamed of, before its hull bursts, rent by structural failure and the collapse of the immaterial energies empowering it. It staggers backwards, crushing its own ground support underfoot, but remains standing until Polemistes mass-launches rockets from its shoulder silo. The fizzling, vespine rockets hit Gorewalker in rapid succession, like a drumroll, draping its chest and shoulders with an intricate garland of small, overlapping detonations that blink-bloom around it, and then tip it off its feet. Its huge wreck slides two hundred metres down the slope, shovelling an entire assault squadron of tanks into the talus ditch. The Warmonger Castellan Corda advances alongside Shockatrice and Polemistes, adding its monumental support, its batteries harrowing the surging edge of enemy machines and men as they sweep up the earthwork. But more giant figures are looming through the kilometres-deep smoke towards the barbican. They are not war engines of the Legio Magna, for though towering and humanoid like Warhounds and Warlords, they are not machines at all. One takes to the air upon gigantic wings. Zhintas Khan and eight other White Scars fight a running battle against a pack of the Lupercal's ferocious Astartes in and around the Botanicus Gardens. They have become life-sellers. Zhintas Khan is amused by the term. It was said to him, an hour earlier, by a Blood Angel called Khotus Meffiel, with whom he shared the brief but savage dismemberment of a Cthonian Dreadnought. Meffiel said that they, like all the loyal warriors left outside at the closing of the Gate, had just one responsibility to discharge: to sell their lives for the highest price they could get. What tally could they reach before death, now inevitable, overtook them? The concept added pride and zeal to an otherwise thankless duty. What will my life sell for? Zhintas Khan wonders. His price stands at forty-four traitor lives. He parries with his tulwar, and decapitates a Sons of Horus legionary. Forty-five. Not enough yet. Not nearly enough. Propinquity Court is a single square kilometre of open park just off the Via Palatine, surrounded by the House of Atlases, the Albigen Belvedere, the Devotorium Mundus, and the cloisters of the College of Jurists. Across six timeless hours it becomes the site of five separate battles, each one depositing a new stratum of bodies and wreckage. Here, Vigil Sister Vedia and squads of terrified militia drive back a force of traitor guards sworn to the observances of the Word Bearers. The fight is astonishingly brutal, and leaves the Devotorium on fire. Here, Pyre Warden Ari'i, Sigil Master Ma'ula and Sergeant Hema of the Salamanders hold off three rallying assaults by the Death Guard, and only survive a fourth when House Cadmus Armigers arrive to support them. Here, four units of the Hort Palatine are slaughtered by assault squads of the Sons of Horus led by Vorus Ikari in an action that levels the cloisters and descends into almost ritualised execution. Here, Prefect-Captain Arzach of the Legio Custodes and his Companions fight and slay the Neverborn things found feeding on the dead. Here, Captain Brastas of the Imperial Fists holds back a tide of World Eaters until, munitions spent and reduced to blades and shields alone, he and his men are finally overrun. Propinquity Court is not alone in recording a catalogue of actions. Many streets, yards, gardens and courts in the Palatine approaches become the sites of multiple, contradictory battles, often overlapping, often without strategic sense as those loyal forces left outside the walls, those life-sellers, attempt to frustrate the enemy advance. Like the bodies of the loyal Astartes dead, the actions are not remembered, nor their significances noted. War has little or no memory. Feats of extraordinary prowess that would, in other times and other places, have been recorded and celebrated, are finished and forgotten even before the next wave of violence sweeps through, crunching obliviously over the bones of the valorous and the defeated alike. In the final ever-hours of the siege, such deeds and achievements take place that would fill a thousand books and swell the honoured archives of Terran military history, but all are lost and unremembered, as ghosts in the fog and smoke of their tumult. Bodvar Bjarki gets back up again. There's blood in his eyes, and most of it is his own. The last impact lacerated his head so deeply, his scalp is torn open. At Nafus Crossing on the Delphic edge, loyalist units have been holding back the enemy advance for three straight hours, though time seems to have lost the definition it once had. Their numbers have dwindled with every transpontine thrust the Death Guard makes. Bjarki, Heaper-Of-Corpses, and one of the very few warriors of the VI Legion Space Wolves active on Terra, feels like he's one of the las

s, and most of it is his own. The last impact lacerated his head so deeply, his scalp is torn open. At Nafus Crossing on the Delphic edge, loyalist units have been holding back the enemy advance for three straight hours, though time seems to have lost the definition it once had. Their numbers have dwindled with every transpontine thrust the Death Guard makes. Bjarki, Heaper-Of-Corpses, and one of the very few warriors of the VI Legion Space Wolves active on Terra, feels like he's one of the last defenders standing at Nafus. Flexing his grip on his blade with blood-slick hands, he looks around. He's not one of the last at all. He is the last. War-horns boom. He can hear the shrill warble of meltas, and smell the stink of cooking stone. Three times he has fought back the enemy bastards from the top of the mound of bodies piled at the north end of the bridge. Three times, he's been struck from the apex of that corpse-hill. Each time he's clambered back up to hold the ridge of snapped bone and torn flesh, there have been fewer warriors with him. But Bjarki's thread is not yet cut, and though there are no skjalds to sing it, his saga is not done. Not yet. He spits, and invokes the spirit of Fenris, the dark and silent slip of not-wolves running the black-and-white forests. He starts to climb the bodies again. He'll make it four times. Five. As many times as it takes, or as many times as he has left. There are few wolves on Terra but, in the name of Russ, he will be a one man Rout. Lantry Zhan, a forward observer for the PanCon Fifth and a shot-caller for the mortar squads, struggles to ascend a ridge of rubble west of the Via Irenic. His brigade knows there are Traitor Astartes close by, but they have no idea of numbers or angle. It's taken Zhan fifteen minutes to find a decent vantage. Through his scope, from the ridgetop, he finally sights the enemy. They are not Astartes. They are dire Neverborn things, slope-shouldered ogres, that seem to be wallowing or playing in the lagoon of a macro-shell crater. He adjusts focus. What are those atrocities doing? What sport are they- Zhan sees what they are doing. He snatches the scope away from his eyes. He wishes he had never looked. As they advance along the Metome Processional in the vague hope of reaching the Delphic Line, Marshal Agathe finally solves the riddle of the names, or the lack of them. The ragged army group, some three thousand infantry men hauling unlimbered, iron-wheeled field guns between them, are hugging what's left of the Metome Wall as cover as they advance. Enemy shells lob right over them, dropping into loyalist positions three kilometres to their north. They're like rats in a gutter, three thousand half-named rats. Agathe divided her army at Hermitage Gate during a lull in fighting. She sent two thousand men, under Hort Captain Martineaux, to hold the Tigris Arcades, and another six, along with her Kratos tanks, under Sire-Militant Sklater towards the Gilded Walk, a decision that she now realises was futile given the firestorms blazing in that direction. Most of what she has left are from the 403rd, plus a battalion of Vesperi. She hears Phikes shouting angry orders as he urges the troops along, heaving and grunting with the field guns. There have been skirmishes: a close call with stegatank engines that were trying to breach the wall, and a ferocious melee with necrotic traitor zealots, stinking of the frenzon they were glanding as they slaughter-charged the line. Agathe tries not to dwell on the odd changes to the landscape. Not the widespread damage and upheaval, the uncanny alterations. Stone walls sheathed in damp skin. The ground, in places, like frozen meat, slowly thawing. Buildings rotting as though gangrenous. The foetor of corruption. She ignores the way certain parts of the processional seem to sigh with the echo of soft breathing, a suspirious tremble accompanied by a sticky breeze. The Dark King is not a name she wants to consider. For it to appear on the damn wall like that suggests it has significance, and she doesn't want to understand why, because her imagination runs wild. It says a lot to be in this hell and still be afraid of something worse. The mind has an unparalleled capacity for destructive speculation. But the 403rd's names are a less distressing subject for speculation. Most of the 403rd use forenames only, like Captain Mikhail, or nicknames, or just serial numbers. Perhaps- One of the field guns gets mired. Men shout, and bring ropes to drag it clear of the sucking ooze. 'You don't use names,' she says to Mikhail, standing nearby. He glances at her, unsure what to say because it wasn't a question. 'Anonymity?' she asks. 'Or shame?' He's reluctant to answer. 'You weren't ordered to service, were you?' she asks. 'Never mind. Don't answer. Don't admit anything. I don't care. But you and your men, you weren't ordered to service. There was no formal mobilisation at Gallowhill.' 'There wasn't time,' he replies, very quietly. 'No one came and rounded you up to serve,' she says. 'You just did it. Picked a name. Pulled weapons from the dead.' 'We had to do something,' he says. Agathe understands that. 'Brave choice,' she says. 'Not brave,' he replies. 'There was nowhere to run. And once we fought clear, we figured the only way we could do any good was to act like we were authentic.' 'No, I think it's brave,' she says. 'And I don't care what you are if you stand on the right side. And your lack of names...' 'What about it?' Agathe nods in the vague direction of the enemy, the stained horizon beyond the wall. 'They know our names,' she says. 'They seem to. Or they're learning them. The Neverborn. They call to us and leave whispers in the air. Like it gives them power over us. So I'm glad to have men with me who have taken care to hide theirs. Might make you live a little longer. The enemy's known my name for weeks.' The man exhales. 'We'll be shot for this,' he says. 'When it's done, we'll be rounded up and shot as fugitives, won't we?' 'Probably,' she replies. 'But we don't know what awaits us after today, do we?' They hear shouts and shooting. Marauders have burst into the gulley three hundred metres ahead. The fighting is already close and murderous. She can see bat-faced figures with needle teeth, lobed ears and clusters of spider-eyes. She can hear entrenching tools crunching as they are used as weapons. They start to run. She hears the officer yelling serial numbers as he calls in his fire-teams. No names. Just duty. 'Respond. This is Hegemon Control. Anabasis, respond and verify.' The War Court junior at the mastervox station has been repeating the same words for long minutes now. Too many minutes. Sandrine Icaro has a rapidly growing list of other bulletins and priorities to deal with, but she cannot take her eyes off the junior and his patient but futile efforts. Nothing matters more than this. If Anabasis is lost, then the entire structure and purpose of the world as she understands it is gone. Nothing seems real. She wonders if anything is. Everything has felt unreal to her since she fled Bhab Bastion. Icaro puts it down to partial amnesia triggered by the traumatic circumstances of that escape, but the sensation is not easing. Everything has acquired an odd, dreamlike quality. She has no idea how she survived the assault on Bhab. She has no idea how she managed an evacuation, or made it back, unscathed, to the final fortress. She has brief memories of burning streets, of gunfire. More than anything, she has no idea how she got into the Sanctum. How did she do that before Eternity Gate closed? She doesn't even remember passing in through the Gate. She remembers Bhab, then the frenzy of the warzone, then being here, in the Rotunda, as though time, and distance, and direction, and relative position have all telescoped and twisted. She fears it is all a dream. She suspects she's dead; that she died in Bhab Bastion, or in the streets outside, and everything since then has just been an illusion, the desperate imaginings of her mind as it died, the final flash-second of her life stretched out into a dream of all the things she wished and yearned and longed for. She hopes it is. She hopes she's actually dead on the floor of the Grand Borealis, and that all of this is just the final firing of her cooling synapses. Icaro would rather that. She would rather be ensnared in the final millisecond of her life than for this to be real. She would rather be dead than for any of this to be true. Let me be trapped in my own death, she thinks, rather than He be trapped in His. 3:v Visions of heresy It makes such perfect sense. Such perfect, rational sense. Caecaltus isn't sure why it's taken him so long to appreciate it. The Emperor must die. He must. It's the only logical conclusion that anyone sane could reach. The Emperor must die- No-! The Emperor must die. He is mad, a mad monster, drunk on power, and His tyrannical rule has lasted far too long. He really must die- Nooo-! He must die now. It's the only way to stop the war. It's the only way to protect the human race. The Emperor must die immediately- Please stop-! He must be put down and destroyed as quickly as possible. And who better to do that than the men built to guard His life? Who else is strong enough? Close enough? Please- Who else has the peerless clarity of mind to understand the perfect, rational sense of it? The Emperor must die. I can't- Take that spear. Plunge it through Him. Free the species. Shut up-! It's all been arranged. The stage is set. Everything is ready. The Emperor won't see it coming, because He's a mad monster, and utterly deranged. All the hard work's been done. He's been brought out of hiding to His place of execution. He is defenceless. Now just take that spear- Get out-! The cunning of Horus Lupercal knows no limits. There is a reason his father named him Warmaster. He has arranged it, and ma

e. I can't- Take that spear. Plunge it through Him. Free the species. Shut up-! It's all been arranged. The stage is set. Everything is ready. The Emperor won't see it coming, because He's a mad monster, and utterly deranged. All the hard work's been done. He's been brought out of hiding to His place of execution. He is defenceless. Now just take that spear- Get out-! The cunning of Horus Lupercal knows no limits. There is a reason his father named him Warmaster. He has arranged it, and made it all so easy. Look at the simple perfection of his stratagem. He set a trap so blatantly and painfully clumsy it can only be a trap, a trap so brazenly incompetent that the Emperor could not afford to resist it- Stop! No! He laid bait so staggeringly unsubtle that it spoke to delusion, to a loss of faculty, to hubris and arrogance, and beckoned with such graceless inelegance that even the infallible Master of Mankind was convinced His first-found had lost his wits- You will stop- And so the Emperor, proud and mad as He is, rushed into it, knowing full well it was a trap, yet arrogant enough to think He was ready for it. Ready for anything. More powerful than anything. More mighty than- Noooo-! No, indeed. The trap itself was the ruse. There was no way in creation for Horus to surprise his father, so he didn't even try. Instead, he let his father surprise Himself. His arrogance was His own trap. Now, take the spear- Caecaltus Dusk resists. He falls to his hands and knees, weeping and spitting blood. The feral ingenuity of Horus Lupercal has undone him entirely. It has undone them all. Choking on his own gore, he goes into violent convulsions as he tries to break the insidious control that has been placed upon him. He wants to get up - needs to get up - and defend his king and master. Some of his brethren have collapsed, stricken like Caecaltus, but many of the other Companions have already turned on Him. Part of Caecaltus' brain, the part that he is resisting with every fibre of his being, is telling Caecaltus to get up and join them. It is screeching at him to become the utter contradiction of his nature. There is a pain in his chest, an invisible knife through his heart, pinning him to the deck. All he can do is lie there, shaking and fitting, witnessing the horror as a blood-dimmed vision. A vision of atrocity. Of heresy. Of natural law undone and duty desecrated. Of the most shameless infidelity. A king, turned on by his royal bodyguard. A monarch, surprised and betrayed by the ones he trusted most. A caesar, butchered by the captains he never thought to doubt. We cannot be doing this, but we are. It is impossible for us to be doing it, but we are doing it anyway. Horus, you will pay for this. My King-of-Ages is alone. He cannot- Blood jets. The Master of Mankind decapitates Sentinel-Warden Kliotan before Kliotan can skewer Him with his lance. The Lord of Terra catches Sentinel-Warden Cazadris and Hetaeron Companion Kintara on the backswing of His burning blade as they rush Him. He deflects Shield-Captain Damorsar's halberd, and cuts him in two. Hykanatoi Krysmurthi weeps as his master beheads him, because he realises what he is being coerced to do. You will pay. You will pay, you traitorous monster. Shield-Captain Avendro cartwheels away, auramite splintering like golden glass, the long spray of his blood spattering the white hull of the Stormbird racked beside him. The trap was in us, all along. There was nothing waiting for us at all. Your doors were wide open and your shields were down. There were no surprises waiting for our master except your profound mastery of the immaterium, which we have woefully underestimated. We knew your power was great, first-found. We had no conception of how great. Host-Marshal Telemonis shreds through a guard rail, his headless form plummeting into the shadows of the underdeck sub-holds. The Emperor came here ready for anything, first-found, so you prepared nothing. Misdirection. He was looking everywhere except at Himself. With His attention held, you reached in and, with formidable sleight of hand, took away His readiness. You took away His focus and determination, from the moment He arrived. You took it from all of us. The Emperor's warblade, a brand of white fire, leaves burning magnesium after-streaks in the air. You took away our keen edge by easing our minds into distraction and puzzlement, into reflection, into random thoughts. You did it with such precision we forgot ourselves. You did it with such concealed domination of will even our master couldn't sense your mind at work. Companion Caercil sinks to the deck and slides apart in three pieces, like a perfect puzzle that will never be put back together. And then you twisted the pristine souls of the Custodians. Each one of us was painstakingly restructured on a molecular level to withstand the corruption of Chaos, but you took the incorruptible and you broke our minds. You broke the unbreakable. Sentinels Tyrask and Systratus thrust at their master with guardian spears, firing their integrated bolters. We are shrieking because we understand what you have done to us. We are screaming because you have forced us to turn on the master we love above all things. We are howling because we are fighting it and we cannot resist. The mass-reactive rounds explode against the rippling shield of His will, and He slices off the powerblades of their spears. Tyrask and Systratus get to take one step backwards before they are struck down. You are forcing our master to kill us. Sentinel Mendolis grazes the blade of his castellan axe against the Emperor's right pauldron, throwing sparks. Companion-Captain Vantix, wailing in lament, drives his warblade into the Emperor's ribs. Blood jets. You will pay, Horus! You will pay! The Master of Mankind reels, then shreds Vantix into ribbons with His power claw. He sidesteps Mendolis' second lunge in a swirling billow of cloak, and runs His sword hilt-deep into Shield-Captain Amalfi's chest. Each Companion He strikes down is a profound loss to humanity. Each one is a perfect creation of genetic and esoteric engineering, masterpieces hand-wrought with the most diligent and exacting labour. Each one is a boon companion and a friend, beloved as any son. And He is being obliged to destroy them one by one. The peerless blade splits Mendolis open. It splinters Companion Heliad's visor and spins him off his feet. Was that why, first-found? Was that why you made us your weapon of choice? The psychological effect? Did you think it would make Him hesitate? Did you think it would make Him vulnerable? You clearly do not understand at all. Vestarios Entaeron drops to his knees, clutching his ruined torso. He crumples sideways. Sentinel Justinius misses with a two-handed swing, and does not live to try a second. He is the Emperor of Mankind. He comes upon you in wrath, clad in His aspect of war. More than thirty thousand years of work will not be undone by your malice and spite. That He is required by you to kill His own, perfect warriors does not make Him falter or weaken His resolve. It just makes Him all the more determined to vanquish you. He- Beam energies rip across the flight deck. The Master of Mankind is knocked down. Oh, Golden Throne. Oh my King-of-Ages- The Emperor has fallen against the side of another Stormbird, denting the armoured flank and shaking it on its launch rack. The Tharanatoi squad closes in, encircling Him, the blood of their tears streaming down the ornate goldwork of their Terminator armour, their Adrathic weapons cycling for a second salvo. He cannot let them hit Him full beam again- The Emperor leans for a split second against the Stormbird, fighting down the lingering pain so He can refocus His will. A squad of Hykanatoi vault the guard rails to their master's right, racing up the launch ramp to flank Him. The relic weapons of the Tharanatoi glow with power. The Emperor raises His hand. Imperial lightning ripples out, a brilliant neon blue. The searing forks scorch the deck and hurl the Tharanatoi into the air like sheaves of corn caught in a cyclone. One ricochets off a ceiling hoist, fragmenting. Two tumble over the platform edge and plunge down the shaft of the through-deck elevator. Two hit a racked Stormbird so hard their armoured bodies punch through the hull like breacher rounds. Four hit the deck with enough force to leave craters. One explodes, the power system of his Adrathic beamer jarred to critical instability. The catastrophic detonation throws others off their feet. They sprawl on the deck around Caecaltus and the other handful of Companions convulsing in resistance seizures. Caecaltus rolls on to his side, shaking. He tries to rise, but he can't. He tries to reach for his spear, then pulls back his hand. He knows that if he touches it, the urge to use it against his master will become impossible to resist. He sees the Hykanatoi bearing down the ramp on his master's right. He sees his master turn and look at the deck supervisor's console on the chamber wall a hundred metres away. He sees his master tense and spear the console with a telekine pulse, and then duck to His knees. The ramp's ion launch catapult fires the Stormbird He was thrown against. It slams over Him, past Him. Fuelling cables stretch and snap in clouds of sparks. Its engines and systems are dead, so it is merely dead weight, slung by the ion rail's accelerator. The Stormbird mows down and pulverises the Hykanatoi on the ramp. It keeps going, starting to tumble, down the entire kilometre length of the rampway, in an expanding, seething fireball, and finally obliterates as it impacts the invisible integrity fields at the deck mouth. The Emperor rises to His feet. Loss, bitter pain and fury have broken the lulling spell of indecision woven by the warp. His will is now entirely clear and engaged. Before any more of the screaming Custodians can move or rise

he Stormbird mows down and pulverises the Hykanatoi on the ramp. It keeps going, starting to tumble, down the entire kilometre length of the rampway, in an expanding, seething fireball, and finally obliterates as it impacts the invisible integrity fields at the deck mouth. The Emperor rises to His feet. Loss, bitter pain and fury have broken the lulling spell of indecision woven by the warp. His will is now entirely clear and engaged. Before any more of the screaming Custodians can move or rise or act, He enforces it fully. The deck lamps dim. Guide lights blow out. Consoles short and explode. Cables spit cinders and sag from the ceiling systems. All the Custodes still alive drop. Caecaltus collapses onto his face. They are all screaming and writhing. It is no longer in torment or grief. It is simply in pain. Pain will do it. The Emperor applies more. Shrieking, Caecaltus can hear his master's booming wrath inside the buckling bones of his skull. I will burn your touch out of them, first-found. Do you see what I am now? Do you see what is coming for you? 3:vi Repulse They have seen what's coming, and they prepare to meet it. War slides armies across the field and into conjunction, like playing pieces, to clash and compete, as though it is all some heartless, preordained game. Near Hasgard Gate, just short of the Delphic Battery's southern front, Fafnir Rann prepares to meet the enemy's next move. Archamus has positioned Rann there, for Archamus is a grandmaster of war's merciless game. Rann takes his place under the broken arches of the Delphine Viaduct, its proud spans demolished by engine fire. Petrocarbonic smoke, luxuriant as velvet and as toxic as reactor dust, floods the street basin like a living thing, racing ahead of the advancing traitor line. Archamus has just been named Lord Militant Terra. Signals are torn and patchy, and Rann is not sure of the significance of this. It suggests the chain of authority is somehow broken, or that Hegemon Control has devolved leadership to the field. It suggests great Sigismund is dead or occupied with other, vital work. It suggests the Praetorian Dorn is not able or available to lead the fight, which in turn suggests that the Lord Angel and mighty Valdor are also, somehow, gone. Rann puts such doubts and fears from his mind. He assumes, for he is no fool, that some significant counter-strike is being planned or is already underway, a counter-strike that occupies the Emperor's three greatest champions. He hopes desperately for its success. He feels no resentment that he cannot be part of it. The line must be held, and it is down to those remaining outside the sealed gate, men like him and Archamus, Aimery and Azkaellon, to do that work. They have been fighting relentlessly, without break or pause, for at least twelve hours, though Rann's chron system has become defective, and he is unable to track combat time precisely. It feels like months, longer than the rest of the siege combined. Archamus has been calm and masterful since his authority was announced and authenticated. There is more than a hint of Dorn in him. His deep voice speaks to them over the crackling vox-cast, grim and exact, moving units like ivory markers on a regicide board. Archamus is in the thick of it too, somewhere close by the mayhem, fighting hand-to-hand as he runs the game in his head. Archamus chose to stay outside when Eternity slammed. Rann knows the old Huscarl well. He can't help but feel there is an incongruous note of delight in Archamus' commands. They are on the last stroke before midnight, in the belly of hell, but Archamus rejoices in the combat, freed from his desk-station at Bhab to join the fight. Even if it is simply to die with dignity, blade in hand. It is his right, and Rann won't deny him. Rann expects the same right himself. He cannot see a way they can prevail now, for too much has been lost, and the enemy is far too great, but they can serve as they were born to serve, holding fate back for as long as they can, and requiring the very highest price for their lives. Archamus has sent Rann's units forward along the causeway below the viaduct, with a force of White Scars under Namahi, Master of the Keshig, to their left on the Via Atmosine. Rann can hear White Scars jetbikes and the chatter of their bolters through the billowing smog. Blood Angels, four squads at least, are reported as closing on his right, but there's no sign of them. Relays report a surge of World Eaters pouring in from Hasgard along the viaduct approach. Rann spreads his formations wide, making up in coverage what he sacrifices in line density. His approach to warfare has always been more fluid than Archamus', less strict or formal. He knows this is why Archamus was elected to field command over him: Archamus has superior strategic experience, while Rann can do his best work at the cutting edge of the fight. Archamus expects this fluidity from him. He has directed the lord seneschal, but not specified any formal notions of deployment or fighting structure. He would not presume to do so, no more than Rann would presume to question Archamus' grasp of the battlespace dynamic. When they come, the World Eaters are not alone. It is more a rabble, a disjointed, incoherent mass of Traitor Astartes and warriors of the Dark Mechanicum jostling together as they charge down the causeway towards the Via Atmosine. They are manic, unchecked and raving, drunk on the ecstasy of slaughter and the infernal forces that compel them. Many are indeed World Eaters, now rage-blind, their bolters long since discarded in favour of blades and tearing hands. Some still wear the caedere remissum crests of their kind, and bark blasphemies in the Nagrakali argot. Most are barely recognisable as Astartes: they are grotesquely swollen and distorted, reshaped by the warp into lumbering, ogre-like forms that bound and gallop down the rockcrete on all fours like giant apes. Their necks and shoulders are thick and hunched, like those of fighting bulls or boars. They squeal and bawl, their snouts and toad-mouths and other transmuted features bristling with tusks and horns and saw-edged fangs. Among them, the soot-caked, skeletal figures of gun-servitors, some stilted and preposterously tall, some multi-limbed, some hunchbacked with heavy powercells or tanks for flamer weapons. Some ride artillery carriages mounted with swivel guns or pot-de-fer, or crew ornate, self-propelled zamburak fitted with autocannons and fusion sakers. Rann sees Death Guard too, ponderous and abdominous, leaking liquid pus from the seams of their distended plate, and Sons of Horus, fleeting, howling, crested shadows of wrath. But many are undefinable, Astartes so disfigured it is impossible to determine their origin Legion. They are caked in mud and gore, or transmuted into inhuman, Neverborn shapes, or have covered their plate with garish colours and obscene symbols that sear the mind if the eye lingers on them too long. They are an onrushing wall of depravity. Rann's sensoria render the tag-marker icons of most as degraded, pixelating smudges. A few markers remain legible, and Rann's skin crawls to see the names of old once-brothers and fine comrades appending such monstrosities. 'Line hold!' he roars on the company channel. Affirmation runes light up on the side-bar of his visor. In a day of the most ferocious warfare he has ever known, this is going to be an entirely new level of savagery. He marvels at the mettle and capacity of his brother Praetorian Imperial Fists, and the White Scars and Blood Angels too. They have all fought at exemplary levels in their lives, never found wanting, but on this last day of days, they have drawn on new reserves of speed and skill and fury. The level of violence required in this last stand makes every other war pale into insignificance and seem like a trifle. It is as though they have never really fought at all until this hour. His fire-teams open up from behind planted shields. Leod Baldwin's heavy weapons group pumps cannon fire and bulk las at the approaching tide. The squads commanded by Tarchos, Devarlin and Halen rip off bolter shots. Rann's standing order was single shot to preserve ammunition stocks, but just as Archamus defers contact applications to Rann, so he defers to his warriors. They are men of experience. All have selected rapid fire because they know that in such a target-rich environment, no round will be wasted. And they need to smash the momentum out of the enemy mass before it reaches them. The raging blitz of fire lights up the smoke, and bathes the causeway in a flickering brilliance, and even underlights the broken arches of the viaduct above them. The front rank of the enemy bulk is chewed apart, then the rank behind, then the third, until those that follow are either shot apart or brought down by the corpses piling up in their path. Baldwin's cannon fire strikes a spidering zamburak, and it detonates in a wild globe of light that blows a smoking, burning hole in the enemy's ranks twenty metres in diameter. Everything caught within it is vaporised. Bolter fire from Halen's squad slays some bestial, Neverborn devil, four metres tall, and horned like a ram, that comes clambering and scything through the mob, maiming its own followers in a paroxysm of desperation to reach its prey. The diamantine-tipped mass-reactive shells stop it in a series of shuddering impacts, pummelling it, riddling it in showers of blood and meat, and finally disarticulating it entirely. But the tide cannot be dammed. The enemy stampedes on, clambering and scrambling across its own dead and dying, like some conveyer system in a manufactory that blindly rolls product into product even though the line is jammed. Rann knew as much, even before his squads began their barrage. He has already formed his melee squads between the spaced-out, blazing fire-teams. The skirmishers, mostly Imperial Fists, but with so

it in showers of blood and meat, and finally disarticulating it entirely. But the tide cannot be dammed. The enemy stampedes on, clambering and scrambling across its own dead and dying, like some conveyer system in a manufactory that blindly rolls product into product even though the line is jammed. Rann knew as much, even before his squads began their barrage. He has already formed his melee squads between the spaced-out, blazing fire-teams. The skirmishers, mostly Imperial Fists, but with some worthy White Scars among them, are either men like Rann who specialise in the brute action of hand-to-hand, or warriors who have lost their bolters or expended their munitions in previous actions. Most have been given storm shields. They draw up in hastate formations, angled like ice-ploughs with their tips towards the enemy, the flaring lines of each V dressed with overlapped shields. Chainblades rev. Powerblades ignite. As the mass reaches them, the formations drive forward, punching into the approaching line like broad spears. Rann, an axe in each hand, is at the tip of one V. The impact is an instant, jarring concussion of plasteel and ceramite. As the melee squads drive in, raking like a serrated blade into the enemy line, and breaking its integrity like a fork turning soil, the fire-teams disengage, fluidly re-forming into smaller Vs to plug the gaps between the teeth of Rann's formations. They dig in, bearing the pressure of the foe-weight against them. Unity will not hold for long, but while it does, the hastate formations broaden out, turning narrow spikes into makeshift shield walls that open like wings. From there, it becomes incoherent, a whirling maelstrom of fury, a blur. Rann is in the very thick of it, orientated only by the shield bearers at his left and right. His furious axe blows overlap, hacking with mechanical repetition. The air fogs with blood vapour, and fills with hammerscale and spinning chips of ceramite. The din of armour striking armour, and weapons striking armour, and weapons striking shields becomes one endless, grinding shriek, utterly deafening, a numbing metal torrent that reminds Rann of the ceaseless noise in the hammering rooms of the House of Weapons. Rann has no idea what he is destroying. Every shape and movement in front of him is a target. His visor overloads with baffling data, unable to code and represent the mayhem fast enough. He knows his line will break at any moment. He can feel it buckling and stretching, losing cohesion as wave after wave of traitor bodies crashes into it. He is standing on bodies, climbing up the mound of dead that his men are making. And too many of the dead are his own men. 3:vii Out of madness and into insanity Caecaltus feels his master ease His will. The pain ebbs. The shame will never go away. Thirty-nine of the proconsul's company are dead. The rest sprawl, trembling. Some are too broken in mind or body to continue. If you can rise and stand with me, rise now. Caecaltus hauls himself to his feet. Twenty-seven others claw their way slowly upright. They cannot look at the Master of Mankind, such is their abject remorse. Caecaltus feels his lord reach out with mindsight and scan each one of them, blink-fast. Caecaltus feels it wash across him. The scan hunts for lies, for lingering deceit, for the smudges of remaining, implanted treachery. There is none. The Custodes have regained their grip, though none will ever be the same again. Take up your arms. They obey. Caecaltus looks at the rest of the Hetaeron company, those who have not risen, who cannot get up. He feels another tremble of psykanic power as his master extends a small measure of grace to each, a final, soothing thought to ease their suffering. Then the Master of Mankind ends them, quickly and without pain, a needle of will to each that triggers a cataclysmic intracerebral haemorrhage, and instant death. The lights flicker, stuttering the embarkation deck between twilight and sickly glare in a fitful pulse. Proconsul? Caecaltus walks with his master between gilded corpses towards the main hatch. The twenty-seven Companions follow them. Caecaltus checks his sensoria and comms, but from Dorn and Sanguinius and the captain-general, or any of the warriors in the companies with them, there is no answer, only the low and threatening crackle of the warp, like wood burning in a grate. They should all be here, but they are not. The Emperor and his depleted company face the hatch. The Lord of Terra takes hold of its six-tonne adamantine mass with His mind and crumples it like metal foil. He lifts it from its frame and tosses it aside. Through the shredded portal ahead of them, they see the hallways of the Vengeful Spirit. To his left, Caecaltus hears Companion Estrael shudder and moan as his mind submits. The Emperor quickly administers a needle of will to stroke Estrael out and end his torment. The Companion falls to the deck. Caecaltus continues to gaze at what lies ahead of them, trying to reconcile what he sees without losing his grip on his own injured sanity. Now this is the hell his master was expecting... 3:viii The horror of names unchanged Something breaks. Rann feels it go, feels the constant chest-to-chest, visor-to-visor compression slacken. He assumes his own formation is collapsing. But it is not. Managing, for the first time since combat-impact, to turn his head, he sees his line, though tangled and torn, is relatively whole. The slackening is coming from the enemy quarter, no matter that the enemy outnumbers them forty to one. Somehow, the enemy has lost its focus and impetus. 'On!' he yells, though the order is not needed. His men drive on, shields held where shields still remain. Chainblades wail as they swing, and blurt as they connect. Rann buries Hunter in the skull of a Sons of Horus warrior, then finds the axe wedged, and uses Headsman to shear off the helmed head it is stuck in. For the next few moments, the blows he rains with Hunter use the wedged skull as a cudgel, breaking rather than chopping, until the helm, and the skull inside it, disintegrate and mash off his axehead. They have space now. They are inside the reeling scrum of the enemy, but there is space. The enemy isn't retreating, but it is separating. Rann cuts down a roaring World Eater, and smashes through a gun-servitor cart, and then sees, just ahead, the reason. Through the whirl of bodies, he sees white jetbikes, riders striking from the saddle, cutting across the front of his line at an angle. Namahi's White Scars have punched in from the Via Atmosine, driving their machines and firepower into the right flank of the traitor host. The riders have no space for speed or manoeuvre. They are moving slowly, like horses wallowing in a river, deep in the enemy mass, ripping fire from their bike guns, point-blank, as they chop and hack with their swords and lances. Rann is almost overcome by their bravery. The White Scars have willingly sacrificed their speed and mobility to penetrate the thick of the brawl and relieve the pressure on the left span of his line. They could have held back, spared themselves, or run harrying charges from a distance. But the White Scars' resolve, and their unflinching allegiance to the Imperial Fists, has never been more boldly affirmed. They have driven straight into the density, foregoing all of their trademark advantages, to support the Imperial Fists before they fell. Rann hopes he lives to the end of this day, simply so he can take Namahi, Master of the Keshig, by the hand and embrace him as a brother. In an age when brother murders brother, this seems like a miracle of fraternity. Rann leads his men in a slogging, shielded drive to link up with the White Scars. Artillery and mortar shells start to land along the line of the causeway as the enemy's support formations try to break the deadlock, heedless of their own troops within range. Rann takes apart a Death Guard after a furious exchange of blows. The Death Guard's warhammer cracks Rann's pauldron in the exchange, and he feels tendons snap and bones bruise. Past the Death Guard, Rann strikes down a World Eater before it can bring its chainaxe to bear, then hacks apart two bulk weapon servitors. He reaches the nearest White Scars riders, Halen at his heels, and defends them from flank attack, driving back the warriors mobbing them. The fight becomes stagnant and dirty, just grinding to hold ground. He smacks aside World Eaters and bladed automata, then guts some skinless Neverborn thing that lunges at him. Some of the White Scars dismount, their bikes destroyed, and slash with their tulwars and long sabres double-handed. Then Fisk Halen falls, toppled by a thundercrack blow that splinters his faceplate. Still alive, Halen tries to crawl free, using his tattered shield to fend off his furious attacker. Rann slams in to protect him. His helm display makes identification. The marker: Sor Talgron. Rann remembers Talgron, a fierce Word Bearer from the early days. It was said he died, following injuries received on Perception Primus, begging not to be interred in a Dreadnought chassis. Something has brought him back and granted him a second life. He is a giant, wrought from augmetics, bulging with synthetic power. His filthy armour is badged with parchment and pages of Lorgar's deranged litanies. His face, framed in crude bionics, is a raddled mass of burn scars. He wields a fizzling crozius that drips with dark, oily power. The mace head of the crozius is fitted with jagged side-blades. Talgron is chanting something as he swings for Halen, like a form of blessing or benediction. He is almost crooning the words, the only ones of which Rann can make out are 'dark' and 'king'. Rann is convinced that the Word Bearer is making his utterances out of some twisted kindness, as if he is offering last rites to fortify the soul of the man he is trying to pulp into the rockcrete. The most horrifying

s with dark, oily power. The mace head of the crozius is fitted with jagged side-blades. Talgron is chanting something as he swings for Halen, like a form of blessing or benediction. He is almost crooning the words, the only ones of which Rann can make out are 'dark' and 'king'. Rann is convinced that the Word Bearer is making his utterances out of some twisted kindness, as if he is offering last rites to fortify the soul of the man he is trying to pulp into the rockcrete. The most horrifying thing about him, Rann decides, is that he still has a name. Most have lost theirs in crackles of non-loading graphics, but Talgron still generates a marker. He is a monster, demented, a burned husk caged in bionics, his mind blown out by warp madness. But his name somehow clings to him. He is still Sor Talgron. This is the fate they will all face, Rann understands. Not to die, but to remain themselves, their identities preserved no matter how far the warp twists and mutates them. Rann engages. It is like striking at a bastion wall. Talgron's machine form is so large, so powerful, it seems rooted to the ground. Rann's blades draw no more than sparks. Talgron scythes at him with the burning crozius, and Rann ducks back. Talgron chuckles. He says Rann's name. He says it fondly, as though he is greeting a long-lost friend. He offers his hand. Repelled, Rann strikes again. Talgron grunts and swings at him. Rann tries to deflect the crozius, but the Word Bearer is too powerful, and the impact against Headsman's haft almost spins Rann off his feet. He backs away. A berserk World Eater lunges at him from his right, and he scythes, sending the brute flying with an understroke cut, keeping his eyes on Talgron. The giant is advancing, singing his litany to Rann. There is sadness in Talgron's blood-logged eyes, as though he is disappointed that his old comrade has rebuffed his heartfelt blessing. Rann backs off further, avoiding each swing that comes at him. He does not know how he is going to overcome the Word Bearer, but at least he is drawing him away from Halen. He sees one of the White Scars dragging Halen clear. Talgron swings again, catching Rann well enough to chip his plate and rock him around. Bedwyr and Cortamus rush to his aid. The three Imperial Fists, side by side, attempt to contain and stop the monstrous Word Bearer. Cortamus, too eager or too brave, dies almost at once, his head crushed into his body by a down-swing of the infernal crozius. Bedwyr locks in, using his upraised storm shield to hold off Talgron's rain of blows. The sight of Talgron's name-marker reminds Rann that his display still has some function, despite the sensory overload and deluge of data. He locks a sensoria analysis of the Word Bearer's bionic form, pinpointing structural weaknesses using a scanning algorithm devised by Dorn himself for target integrity assessment. It pings up a flurry of indicators, and Rann lunges in, with Bedwyr's shield warding him, striking with his axes. He swings not with the blind fury demanded by the fight thus far, but with a surgical accuracy, slicing the left knee at the outside of the joint, a block of servos above the left hip, and across the inside of the right elbow. Each impact severs motive systems, and causes lubricant and hydraulics to spurt. Talgron lurches back, hobbled, his augmetic body no longer obeying him as diligently as before. Rann puts another slice in across his neck, cutting a sheaf of cables. Furious, wounded, Talgron tries to come at him, swinging his mace. Bedwyr's shield blocks the swing, but in that instant, Rann sees that the blade spikes of the crozius are in fact eagle wings, the aquila span of the Imperial icon. It seems a bitter disgrace that Talgron is killing loyal sons with such a symbol. It fires Rann with incandescent anger and outrage. He puts Headsman's blade across Talgron's breastplate, tearing off the pages of his gene-lord's book, and Hunter's through the side of Talgron's cicatrised face. Eyes wide, Talgron snorts blood from his nose, and dies for the second time. His immense bulk collapses with a crash. When Rann turns from his kill, he sees that figures in red have joined the fight. The promised four squads of Blood Angels, delayed no doubt by other traitor warbands, have finally arrived, raking into the mass from the right with their gleaming longswords and stabbing lances. They are led by the noble Dominion, Zephon. Their charging thrust, impressively as swift as any White Scars assault, catches the traitor mass across a new angle, squeezing the head of it between the Imperial Fists and White Scars formations until it bursts. The traitor host, harried by the loyalists, ebbs backwards into the smoke, its savage urgency lost to hurt and surprise. An eerie, aching silence falls upon the causeway, now cleared of all enemy except their mangled dead. Rann lowers his axes. He knows it will not last. Talgron's butchered corpse is carried off the field in the confusion by his brethren, and brought to Portis Bar. Later, in the terrible aftermath, he will be made to live again, against his abject wishes, for a third time, interred in the sarcophagus of a Dreadnought shell to endure the living death he had always rejected. 3:ix Unspoken Even from a safer distance, Vulkan and Abidemi find it hard to tear their horrified fascination away from the sight of Malcador's eerie immolation. But they turn. Three of Malcador's Chosen are advancing along the nave, accompanied by a Sister of Silence and several other officials. 'Watch him,' Vulkan says to Abidemi, nodding towards the Throne. 'If he stirs at all-' 'I will, my lord.' Vulkan leaves his son at vigil and walks down the nave to meet the approaching figures. He has no intention of straying far from the Throne. If Malcador perishes in his courageous efforts, or the hated enemy breaks in to take the Inner Sanctum, he has a duty to perform. The Talisman of Seven Hammers, a protocol retrofitted into the Golden Throne, can only be activated by Vulkan's command. Once initiated, it will destroy the Throne, and the Sanctum, and all the treasures of the Palace, entirely. Vulkan, the Maker, the Shaper, the demiurge-craftsman, will be the Un-Maker of all that the Emperor has built, splitting the Palace and the world open before Horus can plunder it. If anyone claims the Throne back from Malcador, it will be Vulkan's father on His return. No one else. Horus will never get the chance. The three Chosen are named Khalid Hassan, Moriana Mouhausen and Zaranchek Xanthus. They bear the sigil of the Regent on their cheeks. Vulkan doesn't know them well, but he trusts them because Malcador trusted them. They bow to him. All look pale with grief. With them are Kaeria Casryn of the Sisterhood, and Eirech Halferphess, Astrotelegraphica Exulta of the Higher Tower, along with several seniors of the Concillium. 'My lord primarch,' says Hassan. 'We bear confidential communication from Hegemon Control.' He hands a data-slate to Vulkan. Vulkan reads it. 'When was this received?' he asks. 'Not long ago,' says Hassan. 'Mere moments, in fact, after Anabasis assault deployed.' 'So, another few minutes...?' 'Another few minutes and the operation might have been suspended,' says Hassan. 'Fate is cruel.' 'I think fate is very deliberate,' Vulkan replies. 'We receive this, just seconds after my father finally committed, and there was no going back? That's not an unkind coincidence, Chosen One.' 'You think... the timing is deliberate?' asks Mouhausen. 'I imagine the traitor fleet has been blocking all manner of signals,' Vulkan replies. 'They've jammed most of our comm-operations. For this to get through? At that moment of all moments? That's malicious gamesmanship. That's Lupercal deliberately letting hope come too late. His intent is to psychologically ruin us.' 'But you believe it to be genuine?' Vulkan looks back at the slate, and rereads the transcript of Guilliman's transmission. 'I think it is. We'd easily identify a falsified signal. The codes are right. No, I think it's authentic because only an authentic message would be cruel enough.' 'Then the tragedy is, they can't find us,' says Xanthus. 'The saviour fleet, however close, is blind to us.' Vulkan nods. 'And we can supply them with no beacon,' he remarks. He looks at Halferphess. 'The Astronomican is non-functional?' he asks, knowing the answer, but hoping to be surprised. 'My lord,' replies the Exulta, 'we don't even know if the mountain still stands. Bombardment has probably razed it. And, if it exists, we cannot perform a remote ignition. The infrastructure is too badly damaged, and the power conduits destroyed. Even if we had power to spare.' 'Then this hope is no hope,' says Vulkan, handing back the slate. 'My lord,' says Hassan. 'Exulta Halferphess has proposed that we might activate a temporary beacon here.' 'Here?' 'It would be makeshift,' says Halferphess. 'And there are inherent technical problems. But by channelling etheric power from the Throne-' 'No,' says Vulkan simply. Psycho-able reinforcements are already being assembled, Casryn relays in thoughtmark. The first are arriving now to supplement Sigil Protocol- 'You mean to strengthen the Sigillite if his power ebbs?' asks Vulkan. Yes. And more, if necessary. The Unspoken Sanction- 'Is a crime,' says Vulkan. 'We will support the Sigillite. We're not going to burn through-' 'It's been done once. It can be done again,' says Hassan. 'And we are all dying, my lord. The world is dying. Candidates would give their lives willingly to bring the Unspoken Sanction into effect, if it buys us more time.' If the reinforcements are gathering already, in preparation, we could use their power to fire an emergency beacon, employing the Throne mechanisms and the choral systems of the Throne Room, Casryn signs. The Adnector Concillium assures us it is feasible, and the Exulta can oversee- 'Have you found enough of

ne again,' says Hassan. 'And we are all dying, my lord. The world is dying. Candidates would give their lives willingly to bring the Unspoken Sanction into effect, if it buys us more time.' If the reinforcements are gathering already, in preparation, we could use their power to fire an emergency beacon, employing the Throne mechanisms and the choral systems of the Throne Room, Casryn signs. The Adnector Concillium assures us it is feasible, and the Exulta can oversee- 'Have you found enough of them, then?' asks Vulkan. 'Enough psyker volunteers?' 'Volunteers is a misleading term, my lord,' says Xanthus. 'Indeed it is,' says Vulkan. 'And it was my understanding that there was a dearth of alpha-rated psykers in the Palace. Prior to the siege, too many had been shipped out, on the instruction of your master the Sigillite, in order to engineer the concealment of Titan.' 'This... is true,' Hassan concedes. 'A significant portion of the Palace reserves were removed. They have not been replenished due to the situation. We are... limited.' 'And you'd expend those we have to light a fire that we hope someone will see, rather than keep them ready to support Malcador's efforts?' No one responds. 'I won't entertain this,' says Vulkan. 'Not yet, at least-' 'My lord,' Hassan begins. Vulkan looks at him sharply enough for the Chosen to flinch. 'There are other possibilities to explore first,' Vulkan says. 'Listen to me, all of you. I have longed for Roboute and the others to arrive, with all my heart. I can think of nothing more glorious than my brothers descending in fury to end this atrocity and grind Horus under their heels. I yearn for it, just as you do, and I feel the pain of that belated transmission. But we are committed now, and more precariously balanced than ever. My father has taken the fight to Horus. He must prevail. Malcador, your master, has taken the Throne to maintain stability. He must prevail. Our duty, my friends, is to support them both, in every way we can, so they emerge victorious. An attempt to establish a rudimentary beacon here will jeopardise the function of the Throne, and the life of the Sigillite, and will expend our precious resources far too rapidly. And for what? The remote hope someone will see? It is a remote hope indeed. An empty promise. We will continue as we are. Casryn, have them bring in the first of the psycho-able to act as a choir of support. Just support. Burn them out, and you'll answer to me. We must help the Sigillite maintain his focus. As for my father, we will wait another hour, then re-evaluate if we have not heard from him.' 'The clocks are broken, my lord,' says Hassan. 'Then count on your fingers, Chosen One,' says Vulkan. They nod. 'Go,' says Vulkan. As they turn, he calls Hassan's name and draws him aside. The others stride away down the nave. 'Your master left you without warning,' Vulkan says. 'He did, sir.' 'And you were all bonded to him, I know. The loss must be very great. I can see it in you.' Hassan nods. 'There was no time for farewell. And he will not return to us as he was, if at all.' 'Tell me, Hassan. Is it possible he is trying to communicate with us?' 'My master?' 'Yes.' Hassan glances towards the distant Throne. 'I... What makes you ask?' 'A feeling, Hassan. I watch him, and I feel he's trying to speak.' 'To you?' 'To anyone who will hear. I thought perhaps, you, or...?' Hassan shakes his head. The idea has upset him. 'My master knew that once he had consigned himself to the Throne, his focus would be absolute, my lord. Before he took his place, he dumped masses of sigilised information into each of us. It was a shattering experience. He conveyed, urgently and without his usual finesse, all of his thoughts and plans, and every last symbol of intention and unfinished deed, in the hope that we would enact them now that he could not. We are all still trying to make sense of his bequest.' 'Like a living will?' Hassan nods. 'In a way, lord. My point is, he did that because he knew he would not get a chance to speak later. So, for that reason, I doubt your idea is any more than fancy.' Vulkan takes him by the arm, a huge hand on a tiny mortal limb, and leads him closer to the Thone where Abidemi is standing watch. They feel at once the rising heat on their faces. 'His mouth still twitches, my lord,' Abidemi says. 'You see?' Vulkan says to Hassan. 'Hassan, he must have knowledge in him now beyond any wisdom he possessed before. Untold measures of it. I think he is desperate to communicate it to us or impart some sign. I believe he's trying to convey vital secrets that we should know. Things that could win this war for us.' 'I see his lips move,' says Hassan very quietly. 'I see he suffers a great deal. But I think it is involuntary. Just a tic. A nerve spasm.' 'I think he's trying to talk,' says Vulkan. 'I'm sure of it.' 'Well, not to my mind or my ears, lord,' says Hassan. 'If my master is talking, then it's not to me or to any of the Chosen.' 'If Malcador is talking, Hassan,' asks Vulkan, 'who is he talking to?' 3:x In torment Daemons howling beneath me and at my back. Ice-bladed hyperborean winds carving at my mind. Moments of brain-freezing anomia, becoming ever more frequent. Pain beyond any limit I could have imagined. Pain in everything. I struggle even to exist. I fight, to temporise my mindsight and maintain plenary control. The Throne is a living thing, scalding with power and fury, a wild steed that no human was ever meant to master or break. It's trying to eat me alive. It's trying to consume me with hyperphagic lust. In the whirling darkness beyond the light, the Neverborn caw and press, dressed in dazzling raiments and cloaks sewn from the souls of saints. They tear at me, willing me to make a mistake, however small. Some tiny error they can exploit. They probe at the telaethesics to find a fingerhold, pecking holes as fast as I adjust. They try to spancel me to the Throne until my bones snap. They try to change my mind and make me one with their cause through bewildering acts of meticide that annihilate and blank whole portions of my mind. The pain is beyond unbearable. The assault beyond relentless. But I can see. I can see it all now. I can see the full material distortion afflicting Terra, the infected and weeping halo of voidmist, the lethal saturation of the warp. I can see the delicate genius of the Vengeful Spirit trap, now that it is sprung. I can see how the Emperor has been tricked, not by brute force but by infinite subtlety. I can see the macabre and impossible intersection of there and here, now and then, conjoined in ways no one on Terra has yet realised. I can see how every one of our ploys is about to be undone, in ways we could not have predicted. I can see Roboute and the Lion, so close yet lost and blind. I can see my lord and friend the Emperor cut down, Sanguinius rotting in a grave-pit, Valdor driven insane, and Dorn lost, alone and cornered. I can see the shadow of the Dark King. And I can see all this, because Horus is letting me see it. What the Warmaster hid from the Emperor to lure him, Horus is showing me to torment me. The caustic images burn my brain. I cannot speak. I simply cannot make my mouth move. I can barely make my mind work. There is no time to waste, for I have to concentrate through the agony and focus, just to keep the Throne functioning at a basic level. If I manage to speak at all, it must be precious words to the few who matter. Not poor Vulkan, at the foot of the Throne, waiting for an answer. Not even my Chosen, for they have been instructed already. If I speak, every word must count. And it won't be words, because they are too difficult to form. It will be signs. It will be sigils. That's all I'm capable of now: signs, sigils, symbols, and every one of them - if I can manufacture any at all - must be sent, at the limit of my immolating will, to those that fate, luck and blind chance have left on the board in places where they might, just might, stand a chance of changing this outcome. Few will. Perhaps none will. In truth, all are likely to die. But if I can steer just one of them, nudge just one of them to take the right step... A feeble whisper, I call to them. I know their names. 3:xi Zahariel in the mountain Zahariel hears a whisper. It makes him pause in his work. He rises, and he listens. It is only the wind sawing through the mountain's deep amplifier vaults, but for a moment it sounded like someone saying his name. Nothing. A distraction. The hollowness of the place soaks up sound and spits it back out at different angles. He looks around for Cartheus, Tanderion and Asradael, but they are in adjoining chambers, hard at work. Already, in mere hours, the four of them have reconstructed part of the sacred mountain's psionic lattice, reweaving the etheric filaments where they were burned out and torn by daemonic excess. But it is hard toil, painstaking, and it quickly exhausts the mind. He knows why. The mountain has forever been a place of acute sensitivity, and now, as chaogenous power saturates the whole world, it is worn away raw. As he composes and configures the talismatic engrams, one misstep, one lapse in mental defence, could split his soul open. It makes him feel vulnerable and weak, and neither feeling suits him. It is like feeding a feral beast through the bars of a cage, knowing that the beast would rather feast upon him than the meat he proffers. He has guarded himself. He has marked his armour with hexagrammatic wards, and taught his three brothers to do the same. The shamans of old did not come here to mark figures on the walls. Sympathetic magic was not about composing an image of some desired future. It was about making the future present. They knew the rock was just a membrane, not solid at all, but a veil on which the etheric world was projected. The images of hunters and hunted were just tracings of things on the other

proffers. He has guarded himself. He has marked his armour with hexagrammatic wards, and taught his three brothers to do the same. The shamans of old did not come here to mark figures on the walls. Sympathetic magic was not about composing an image of some desired future. It was about making the future present. They knew the rock was just a membrane, not solid at all, but a veil on which the etheric world was projected. The images of hunters and hunted were just tracings of things on the other side. Zahariel has learned this from the ghosts of the shamans that drift around him in the darkness. He tries to stay alert and focus. There is still too much to be done, and just days before the enemy arrives. At the very darkest recess of his mind is a thought he doesn't want to acknowledge, that he will not share with anyone, not Cartheus or Tanderion or Asradael, not even with himself. He is susceptible. A part of him wants to submit and allow the warp in. Not just the warp, but those who move through it, those who have themselves submitted and- He catches his breath. 'Cunning,' he says, to nothing. 'Oh, that's cunning.' It nearly had him. He nearly let down his guard. Something is trying to reach at him, to prise into his head. Something that can sense him. Something that is using the resonance of the mountain to show him some kind of sign. He has set his sword down while he works, but he goes to it, lifts it, and draws it. He thinks it's still here, watching him. He is sure he knows who it is. The old enemy. He studies the walls, with their flickering seams of chryosite and quartz. He almost expects Typhus to loom from the shadows, hands extended to greet him. Typhus, so deeply drenched in the warp, has always known the secret, agnostic leanings of the Order hidden in the Dark Angels' heart. This is his guile at work, an effort to turn those he thinks might stand with him. This is his way of infecting minds and cracking them from within. 'Hell take you and your nightmares, Death Guard,' he says out loud. 'You cannot tempt us so. When you come, we will be ready, staunch and fresh upon the high cliffs while you crawl in the dirt at our feet.' The lights in the rock throb, describing promises of truths and secret powers and deathless majesty. His blade shakes in his hand. He hears a buzzing in his ears. He yearns to know more. He- He raises his hand, palm out, the warding gesture. 'I abjure you!' he cries. The lights sparkling across the face of the wall go out. The membrane goes cold. The buzzing stops. He is left alone in the cold depths of the mountain. The intruding presence has gone, and he has no idea what thought, what whisper, what mystic sign, fortified him against it. The lights slowly return, pulsing dimly in the crystal traceries. They show the truth now, no longer twisted by temptation and deceit, the future writ. It is not the same future he read just hours before. What he sees is barely credible. Zahariel turns and runs into the adjoining chamber. His footfalls echo and bounce in the stone gullet of the mountain. He finds Cartheus first. Cartheus is kneeling in deep contemplation, repairing a psionic engram that fizzles in the air in front of him. Zahariel grabs him and hauls him to his feet, breaking his intense focus. The delicate engram shatters like glass. Cartheus, dazed, starts to protest. There isn't time for words. There isn't time for anything. Zahariel clamps his hand across the right side of Cartheus' head and communicates directly, by will. Cartheus gasps, staggers back a few steps, and then turns, without further word or question, and rushes away to carry the warning. Zahariel sinks to his knees where his brother was kneeling. He breathes hard. Blood is singing in his neck, his throat, his temples. He reaches for the satchel under his robe. He pulls out the mask. There isn't time. There isn't time for anything. Except this. 3:xii Sindermann at Leng 'You shouldn't even be here,' the woman says. She's young and looks scared, but there's a defiance in her that is quite impressive. Kyril Sindermann is about to reason with her: she's an archivist, and she's only doing her job. But Mauer just pushes past. 'Prefectus,' Mauer says, as though that explains everything. 'I'm sorry,' the archivist says. 'I can't allow it. Access to the Hall is forbidden. You need permission in writing, from the Sigillite, and only then to request a volume to be brought from the stacks. You can't-' 'Have you any idea what's going on out there?' Mauer snarls at her. 'Yes,' says the archivist. 'Yes, I do.' 'Will you display the same measure of defiance to the next person who comes to the door?' asks Mauer. 'Because it will probably be one of the Sons of Horus. They're inside. They're inside the Palatine.' The archivist sags slightly. She's petite, and seems to Sindermann to have been made even smaller by the baggy, insulated coveralls she is required to wear. He's sure she's trying not to cry. 'I am Sindermann,' he says, as gently as he can. 'Authorised by the Praetorian to run the Order of Interrogators. This is Boetharch Mauer, chief officer of the Command Prefectus. Do you know what that is?' The archivist shakes her head. 'The Interrogators and the Prefectus are both agencies created to safeguard what might be called the Imperial Truth,' he says. 'We work to protect the historical and factual essence of what makes us us. What makes the Imperium. We're trying to defend it against the forces invading us. I'm sorry, this is a longer conversation. Am I making any sense to you?' The archivist doesn't answer for a moment. She looks past Sindermann, through the door she opened after their repeated knocking. The plaza beyond is empty, and awash with rain. It is a gloom of false twilight in which the groundcar they arrived in is barely visible. Every few seconds there is a flash, like the strobe of lightning, which makes everything outside starkly black and white. But it isn't lightning. The archivist murmurs something. Sindermann can't hear her over the hissing spatter of the downpour. 'What did you say?' he asks. 'I said... What do you want?' 'We've come, perhaps in vain, on a desperate mission of hope.' 'Hope?' 'I believe there is material here that might help us,' says Sindermann. 'Old material, perhaps restricted. Right now, I'm sorry to say, anything is worth trying.' 'I'm only junior,' the archivist says. 'Are you alone here?' Sindermann asks. She nods. 'Everyone... everyone left,' she says. 'I think they've gone to fight. Or hide. And the Custodians assigned to guard the Hall were all withdrawn, without explanation, about an hour ago.' She looks at her wrist, and frowns. 'My chron has stopped. About an hour ago, I think.' 'But you remained at your post?' 'I didn't know what else to do,' she replies. 'I've worked here all my life.' 'Open this!' Mauer barks from the other side of the atrium. She's trying to drag open the huge wooden doors, eight metres tall, that lead into the main collection. 'Do you have keys?' Sindermann asks the archivist. She does. She fishes a big ring of pass keys, both old mechanicals and advanced encrypted wafers, from the hip pocket of her coveralls. Sindermann follows her across the atrium. It's a huge space, four storeys high. The floor is checked with black and white tiles. The roof is a crystalflex dome across which night rain swirls. A single, immense electro-flambeau hangs from the apex of the dome, bathing the atrium in golden light. Sindermann, like Mauer, leaves tracks of muddy rainwater in his wake. Mauer stands back. The woman selects a large brass key, and unlocks the paired doors. They step into a vast, gloomy space. The air is soft, warm, climate controlled. The light is muted and diffuse. They are entering on the fifth floor. Over polished wooden rails, Sindermann can see the four galleried levels below. Above, fifteen more levels, each stacked and galleried, connected by spiral staircases and portable ladders. The central space is a wide oval. He has never set foot in the Hall of Leng before. It is the Palace's most significant library, a priceless collection of artefacts and data that exceeds even the Clanium, the Majestary of Records, the Terran Collection, and the Augustian Library. And it has always been the most restricted. 'Where do we start?' Mauer asks. Sindermann shrugs. 'This was your idea,' she snaps, and strides away. She starts picking along the nearest stack of shelves, examining spines. Sindermann sighs. He's not sure it was. He starts to follow her. 'Perhaps I could help?' the archivist says. He looks at her. 'If I knew what you were looking for?' she adds. 'This war has taken on a new and grim dimension,' he says. 'Daemons?' she asks. 'At least, that's what people are calling them.' 'You've seen them?' She shakes her head. 'I've heard things. I think that's why most people fled.' 'Well, yes,' says Sindermann. 'The Neverborn. We can't fight them as we fight other things... and Throne knows, we're barely managing that. But the Hall of Leng is a special collection, is it not?' 'Yes, sir.' 'What differentiates it from all the other libraries and archives, even the most confidential, is that it contains forbidden and outlawed material.' She nods. 'It's said that this is the Lord Emperor's private collection,' she replies. 'Not Imperial records, but the surviving treasures of Old Earth.' 'You say that as if you're not sure,' he says. 'Sir, I've worked here for sixteen years. It's an honour to serve in such a special place. But I have never looked inside a single book.' 'Never? But there are millions-' 'Nineteen point six million,' she replies. 'I care for them. That's the duty of the staff. We monitor the environmental controls, clean, maintain, repair and archive as necessary, and draw selected volumes from the stacks for examination. Which is usually for the Sigillite or one of his Chosen. W

f you're not sure,' he says. 'Sir, I've worked here for sixteen years. It's an honour to serve in such a special place. But I have never looked inside a single book.' 'Never? But there are millions-' 'Nineteen point six million,' she replies. 'I care for them. That's the duty of the staff. We monitor the environmental controls, clean, maintain, repair and archive as necessary, and draw selected volumes from the stacks for examination. Which is usually for the Sigillite or one of his Chosen. We don't look at the books.' 'There seems something distressingly wrong about that,' he says. 'Not my place to say,' she answers. 'But I can access the catalogue. Perhaps direct you.' 'Well, good,' he says. 'So you're looking for... what?' 'The means to fight daemons,' says Sindermann. 'Perhaps grimoires. Incantations. Rites of banishment. Treatises of spells...' He tails off. He can see the way she's staring at him. 'Such things exist here,' she says. 'Along with many sacred texts, the testaments and so-called holy books of all the banished and prohibited religions. But, sir, they are all superstitious nonsense. They were written in eras of ignorance and false faith. They are just old words on old pages, empty and meaningless, and they can no more fight daemons than I can.' 'Well, the daemons aren't daemons,' says Sindermann. 'Not in the sense of folklore and supernatural story. I have been aware of them for a long time, since a terrible encounter in a place called the Whisperheads. My knowledge is far from complete, but through careful examination of the ideas I have gathered over the years, I have come to believe that they are the forces of a companion dimension, a warped exoplanar space that conjoins our own material reality. We see them as daemons, for that is how our minds make sense of them, and they are certainly dreadful and destructive entities that operate beyond the laws of our reality. But they are not magick. They can be fought.' The archivist tilts her head to one side, a moderately sarcastic look on her face. 'Good sir, if the daemons aren't daemons, why would you come here looking for spells to banish them?' Sindermann smiles. 'Because the spells aren't spells either. My theory... and I confess it is a poor one, which seems to have come upon me as a flash of inspiration from some external source rather than a rationally composed concept... my theory is that this other space, this warped space, has interacted with our own throughout all of history. Down through the ages, even to the earliest times. The phenomena witnessed have had a deep cultural effect. They are the root of all ideas of the supernatural, of daemons and spirits, ghosts and devils. And, I venture, all religions too. Through history, man has encountered the unknown, and given it many names. And mankind has learned things about it. A body of lore, incomplete, I grant you, that has informed the operation of what we might call magicians.' 'Magicians, sir?' 'From the earliest shamans, painting on rock walls, to sorcerers and seers, witch-doctors and alchemists, prophets and wise-women, mediums and priests. They were the lucky ones - or unlucky, I suppose - the very few who glimpsed the otherness. And in their parchments and riddles, and their rituals and their scriptures, they recorded what they knew. Rules, untidy and makeshift rules, ideated for the divination and abjuration of the Other. I believe that some, perhaps many, were closer to the truth than they realised. Closer than our dismissal of them, at any rate. Some odd rite or incantation from fifteen or twenty thousand years ago might, by accident, if you will, retain some power that we can harness as a weapon.' The archivist frowns. 'That seems unlikely,' she says. 'I quite agree,' says Sindermann. 'But I am too old and delicate to fight on the walls with a gun, and too mortal to face down an Astartes traitor. This is the only form of fighting I might be suited for. It is desperate. Very desperate, and probably futile. But I need to do something. And my dear friend the boetharch thinks the same way. So here we are, at your door, begging for help.' 'I don't know what you'll find,' she replies. 'I fear, sir, your desperation has led your imagination into riot.' 'Quite right,' he says. 'But I ask you this. What were you doing here?' 'I... I was maintaining my post, sir.' 'Knowing that the first thing to come to the door would probably kill you, effortlessly? And that you would not be able to resist in any way?' 'Yes.' 'But you keep your post in principle, because it's the thing you know how to do?' Sindermann smiles. 'I think we are rather alike. This foolish errand is, perhaps, all I know how to do. But consider... the Hall of Leng, unlike all the other libraries, is forbidden and guarded by Custodians. Well, usually. Doesn't that suggest to you there must be something in here of true power?' She is about to answer, when Mauer's voice echoes to them. 'Having a nice chat down there, are you?' They look up. Mauer is already on the gallery above. She leans over the rail and glares down at them. 'Listen,' she calls out. 'Listen to this... It says... "Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste brought death into the world, and all our woe, with loss of Eden, till one greater man restore us, and regain the blissful seat..." and then it says... "who first taught the chosen seed, in the beginning how the heaven and earth rose out of chaos..." Does that sound like a spell to you? Some kind of ritual?' 'It does,' says Sindermann. 'Hold on, I'm coming up.' 'She's touching it!' the archivist yelps, pointing at the old book, bent open in Mauer's hands across the wooden rail. 'She's reading it! That's not permitted!' 'Then you'd better come and keep an eye on us,' says Sindermann. 'Sir!' says the archivist. She regains her composure and starts running after him. 'Sir!' He turns to look at her. 'What?' he asks. 'This idea you have, this notion... Where did it come from? Who instructed you to do this?' For a moment, Sindermann remembers the Praetorian speaking to him on the roof garden in the rain. He'd said, 'Find some words.' He'd been instructing Sindermann to resume work as a historian, but the sentiment was the same. That, however, was long ago, before the Saturnine assault, and Dorn's words were not what had motivated him to come here. 'You know...' says Sindermann, with a shrug. 'I have no idea.' 3:xiii Keeler on her pilgrimage On the Via Aquila, Keeler hears someone call her name, and it's not any of the millions with her. 'Are you sick? Euphrati?' Perevanna asks, but she greys out for a moment. She tries to steady herself. She knows what it is because it's happened before, just a few times. The nauseous, pre-ictal phase of vision. She had it at Lion's Gate. The world gets muffled, and her sight dims, and she can hear her own blood. She always assumes its Him, but He hasn't spoken to her very often, and she's never been truly sure its Him anyway. 'Euphrati?' It passes. She straightens, and takes a breath. She can pass it off as tiredness. Perevanna knows everybody has long passed the point of exhaustion. It's never really a voice, and never really her name. Like this time, just a fleeting glimpse in her mind's eye of impossible light, a blinding brilliance above the world. In that light is her name somehow, not spoken but represented as a sign. She feels sick. She suddenly thinks of all the times since the siege closed in and crushed their lives that she's thought she's heard her name called out. Most of the time she's dismissed it, just a voice in the ever-growing crowd. What if it's been Him every time and she's missed it? What if He's been trying to tell her something and she hasn't understood? 'I'll catch you up,' she says. 'Keep them moving.' Perevanna looks at her for a moment, then nods. She takes herself to the side of the road, and clambers up into the rubble to find a place to sit and catch her breath. In the Via Aquila below her, the exodus streams past. Eild reckons six million now, maybe more. There's no way of managing more than the roughest estimate. The conclave has been moving them north, away from the front line, though now it's a case of the masses moving the conclave. When they started out, trying to guide survivors, there was some sense of control. But the tide of refugees is now so vast it's moving of its own volition, like a great river or an elemental force, carrying the members of the conclave with it. She and the others have no more hope of guiding it or stopping it than they have of turning it around. She doesn't know where they're going except north, and she's no longer sure why. The Via Aquila seems to have forgotten how to end. It's one of the main processionals of the central citadel, a vast highway, but even vast highways come to an end eventually. This doesn't. They seem to have been trudging along it for hours. She gets up and clears dust from her throat. A dry wind flutters the purity tag stapled to her coat. The river of souls below her, tight-packed and a hundred metres wide, stretches as far away as she can see to her right, where the bloom and fire-flash of war covers the sky, and also to her left, where there is just haze and drifting smog. So does the Via Aquila. It's become impossibly, monstrously long, attenuated in ways that make her skin crawl, like the dimensions in a dream where the faster you run towards something, the further away it gets. They are lost, on a straight road. They were lost, she thinks, before they even set out. She is glad of her brief vision and the sense of something calling to her, despite the nausea and discomfort it brought, because it gives her hope. Keeler had begun to think, for reasons she can't fully explain, that He had somehow suddenly gone from the world and left them all behind, that He had disappeared and was no longer in His

eam where the faster you run towards something, the further away it gets. They are lost, on a straight road. They were lost, she thinks, before they even set out. She is glad of her brief vision and the sense of something calling to her, despite the nausea and discomfort it brought, because it gives her hope. Keeler had begun to think, for reasons she can't fully explain, that He had somehow suddenly gone from the world and left them all behind, that He had disappeared and was no longer in His place on the great Throne. So long as there is a voice, there is a chance. 3:xiv Constantin in his silence He doesn't need to speak. From the moment the mass teleport unfolds them back into corporeality, they know that everything is wrong. Everything, perhaps, except Dorn's prognostication of deceit. Well, damn him. Damn him and his clinical, Astartesian projections of strategy. Of course it was going to be deception. Of course it was going to be a trap. It's not even subtle. The waiting Neverborn pounce before they are even solid, biting and clawing at their molecular patterns while they are still resolving. Sentinel Geliden solidifies to find his subatomic integrity so disrupted he is missing his torso from the breastbone down. He topples in a cloud of scrambled cells. Companion Astricol materialises in several pieces, which fly apart in showers of immortal blood and bounce across the deck. He does not have time to know what greeting has met him. He is dead on arrival. Sentinel Valique appears, on fire from the inside. The others in the company strike. Their reactions could not be faster; reflexes that would shame mere Astartes. From pre-flare precipitation through materialisation through first daemon murders to their first kills, barely six nanoseconds pass. They are at pitched combat instantly, without prelude or warning, like pict-footage edited to play from the middle of battle. They are moving and killing before Geliden hits the deck, before the pieces of Astricol begin to separate, before Valique starts screaming. Constantin Valdor truncates the daemon he appears face to face with. His power sword is in and through the thing before it can react. Its head - massive, horned, manged with disease - is still grinning in anticipation as it is sheared off its shoulders. Valdor doesn't need to speak. His command over his Custodes is partly wordless neuro-synergy, and partly decades of relentless drill and rehearsal. The company moves as one thing, like a troupe of gymnasts, their performance at once both precise choreography and acutely nuanced reaction. Their conditioning and combat formats are cured into them, practised to the point of objective perfection, but the expression of them is ordained, demi-second by demi-second, by Valdor's neural cues. He doesn't need to speak because there is no need for verbal command, and because there is nothing to say anyway. They are in a pit of daemons. Immediate lethal force must be applied. And it is. Guardian spears lunge, stab and redress. Castellan axes hack and block. Integrated bolters and plasmics blurt and howl. Heavy Adrathics roar like afterburners. Greatswords slice. Misericordias bone and fillet. Where necessary, auramite fists and vambraces crush faces, block limbs or punch through chest walls. Valdor is older than any primarch son, and his collated experience of war exceeds that of any of them. For the longest while, through the grinding lifetimes of the Unification Era and the early years of the Great Crusade, he had begun to believe, without complacency, that there was nothing in creation he hadn't met and killed. The civil war has shown him otherwise. It has revealed to him not just new, monstrous adversaries, but new forms of them. The galaxy seems to delight in presenting him with surprises. He is never surprised. Surprise is a human handicap, and comes weighted with fear and hesitation. His response, always, is simply curiosity. How may I learn to kill this? He applies his curiosity now, with surgical focus. He knows the primarch-children regard him as sullen and remote, like some malcontent uncle who begrudges their inheritance. They think him single-minded and stuck in his ways, unimaginative, and oddly unambitious. They assume he disapproves of them, of them and their Astartes, and believes they should never have been bred or birthed. Valdor knows they think this of him, and he simply does not care. For the most part, they are entirely correct. He regards them as a profound mistake, the rare miscalculation of a brilliant mind. He considers them a disaster waiting to happen. He disapproves of them and resents them, for their boisterous and petulant emotions and the undeserved glory that flows towards them like iron filings to a magnet. He sees the civil war as an unequivocal vindication of those beliefs. But those are political beliefs, and play no part in his duty, so he keeps them to himself. And the vindication gives him no pleasure, because pleasure is a human handicap, and comes weighted with extenuation and prideful satisfaction. He says little or nothing on the matter, except for occasional private rumination to those closest to him, of whom there are few. He keeps his counsel. It is not his place to express an opinion. The primarchs are also correct in thinking him single-minded, but to see this as a failing reveals only that they have no understanding of his purpose. He, and those he commands, were built for one task: to guard the life of the Emperor. That is his duty, impressed into him at a genetic level. The primarchs speak of duty as though it is a solemn calling, and yet they flout it and shy from it at the slightest provocation. He is single-minded, because he has a single purpose. To see that as a fault shows they have no comprehension of duty whatsoever. But they are wrong to believe him unimaginative. They would be surprised, profoundly, he thinks, at his curiosity. It is a baseline requirement of his purpose: to enquire, to examine, to learn, as constantly as his name implies, the nature of the galaxy so he may perform his duty with ever greater efficiency. It makes him intellectually hungry, an appetite he sometimes feels on an acutely physical level. As the civil war unfolded, and the unknown exoplanar threat of the immaterium began to manifest, his mentor, He that Valdor guards, showed him a kindness, and gave him a gift: the Apollonian Spear. What it pierces, what it bites, it knows. It learns, and transmits that learning to the hands that wield it. A weapon of revelation. A feast for a starving warrior. What Constantin doesn't know, and perhaps can never know, is whether the Emperor gave him the spear as a simple practicality, to improve the performance of his duty, or if there was something more human, more unconditional, in the gift. Was it just to make Valdor a more effective warrior, or did his mentor feel pity and wish to placate his constant curiosity? Did He fear, perhaps, as his gene-sons rioted and turned traitor, because, allegedly, their needs were not met, that Valdor might break too? Did the Emperor think that Valdor would grow disloyal if his burning curiosity was left unsatisfied? Was the spear a bribe? An inducement to maintain loyalty and stave off resentment? An enticement to create the illusion that his needs were recognised? He trusts it is not the case. The Emperor knows him better than that, surely? The Emperor made him better than that. To suspect that of Him is to think that the Emperor doubts him, and that cannot be, because doubt is a human handicap, and comes weighted with mistrust and anxiety. The only way to know for sure would be to pierce the Emperor's flesh with the spear - if it could even do that - which would grant Valdor complete elucidation of all mysteries, but also entirely defeat the original purpose of his duty. Better to regard the spear as merely an instrument vital to the accomplishment of his work. Some rotting, dragonate depravity rears up at him, billowing from the shadows while being simultaneously half-made of those very shadows. Valdor ends it with his sword, a stroke that splits its body in a mesial slice and opens it like a book. But his sword, fresh-forged in the House of Weapons, has already chopped down two capering Neverborn with hirsine heads and lariat tongues, and a massive tarantulous form with a thousand compound eyes freckling its furred mass. The blade has begun to choke out, and some substance in the dragonate beast, some liquor or some energy, shorts out its power, entirely. An emaciated giant, four metres tall and thos-headed, like the jackal-gods of the ancient Nilus, swings for him. Valdor ducks the sickle talons and the long, eight-jointed digits that bear them, and drives his sword in. But its energy is exhausted, its edge is chafed and dinted, and it is now only dead metal. Metal is not enough to tear this thing's hide. Valdor back-steps, hurls the sword away - incidentally impaling some squealing lesser spawn that dared too close - and unlocks the spear from his backplate. Eight seconds into the fight, eight seconds since materialisation, and a master-crafted weapon is worn out. The thos comes at him, hunched, head down, porpentine quills rising like hackles on the base of its skull, its dog-teeth bared, a ringent grin, not of delight but because, like a dog, it is tasting him in the air. Valdor makes no flourish. His technique is never ostentatious. With a twist of his hips, he drives the spear tip-first into the thing's shrunken chest until the blade emerges through the spine. A moment. It's never pleasant. It never lasts longer than a blink or a heartbeat. Valdor waits for it to be over, deadpan. In the blink, in the heartbeat, a mystery is transmitted through the haft of the spear, into his hands, into his soul, the mystery of a grotesque and elaborate lifetime... Aeons of un-terrenitous existence in the bloodwept eternity of

ntatious. With a twist of his hips, he drives the spear tip-first into the thing's shrunken chest until the blade emerges through the spine. A moment. It's never pleasant. It never lasts longer than a blink or a heartbeat. Valdor waits for it to be over, deadpan. In the blink, in the heartbeat, a mystery is transmitted through the haft of the spear, into his hands, into his soul, the mystery of a grotesque and elaborate lifetime... Aeons of un-terrenitous existence in the bloodwept eternity of the warp, various embodiments of flesh and bone, deep ravening appetites and desires, a brief millennium worshipped as a deity by terrified priests in a shadowed temple at Saqqara, nine more locked in a lightless mastaba, a sojourn to a seething plutonium star on the hem of the Milky Way, pseudo-names and apocryphal titles, symbols, runes, glyphs, imprecations, prayers, rituals, allegiance to the entity of Change, a name, a real name... 'M'han Thytt,' murmurs Valdor, uttering the dead thing's name to take power over it, and so he will remember it the next time. He jerks the spear out, and it comes free in a gout of mud-brown ichor. The thos collapses. He twists, using the base of the haft to trip an attacker, before slicing with the blade. Another moment. Another blink, another heartbeat. 'Qullqullech,' he whispers. Twelve seconds into the fight. The Custodes have ignited their arae-shrikes to broadcast blight-code that defeats and confounds any cogitators or sensoria trained on them. Adrathic weapons are turned on the largest horrors looming from the darkness. Blades and lances flense smaller forms into bloody meat, or burst etheric instantiations into voidmist. As they fight, the automatic systems in the Custodians' wargear scan for vox, noospheric and psycho-active linkages, communication bands, positioning data and reference markers, and tactical connectives, hunting fast and wide with high-function cogitation capability. Valdor knew it would be a trap. Unlike Dorn, he didn't regard it as a worry to be questioned and evaluated. He knew it as an operational certainty, simply to be expected. He knew it because the Emperor knew it too. The Emperor does not make mistakes, because mistakes are a human handicap, and come weighted with ignorance and poor judgement. The Emperor would not have commanded Anabasis without expecting deceit. The brat Lupercal had dared Him, and He had out-dared the dare by accepting. This was always going to be a fight. A fight to the death, after all, was the desired outcome. Nothing about this is surprising Valdor. Except, perhaps, for the fact that he has only lost fourteen men in the first seventeen seconds. He blocks and thrusts, dodges scything claws and biting maws, guts and skewers, endures moments, learns names and mysteries, maintains his singularity of purpose. Then, in the thick of the melee, his suit link chimes. Search parameters exhausted. No data. He keeps killing and learning as he ponders this. No data. No available vox or data linkage. No positioning. No contact with Hegemon Control or any of the other Anabasis companies. No contact with Him. He remains calm, killing a herpetine form as his mind whirs, ignoring, uncharacteristically, its name and secrets. Where are they? Where is He? Transition should have placed them all in Embarkation Deck Two. All four companies of the spearhead, no more than two hundred metres apart. The darkness around them, the darkness that has entombed them for all of the twenty seconds since they arrived, is impenetrable and suffocating. The others should be close. He should be close. But Valdor somehow knows they are not. Even if he couldn't see them, or hear them, or scan them, or raise them on the link, he would know. Intuitively, he would know that He was close by. He is not. And this is no embarkation deck. The walls, where visible, are taut sails of skin stretched like vocal cords. The floor is spoiled meat that extrudes fat white maggots when weight is placed upon it, like pus squeezed from a pimple. The air is a shivering etheric soup. He is not here. Valdor has no data confirming His whereabouts or proximity. Valdor doesn't even know where he is himself. He kills again, spit-speaks a name, then swallows hard. He has one duty, one duty, bred for it. He pursues it single-mindedly. It is his life. The preservation of the Emperor. And suddenly, he cannot. Was that the trap? Was that the deceit? The torment that brat Lupercal chose for him? To prevent him being the only thing he has ever been? He does not panic. Others would. He does not. He doesn't even become anxious. Only those who know him best - and those would include the two Custodians fighting either side of him, Proconsul Ludovicus and Warden Symarcantis - would be able to detect the change in his mental state, the micro-increase in his pulse rate and breathing. They both glance at him. 'Focus!' he snarls, the first verbal instruction he has issued. The rate of attack is not diminishing. It is increasing. Entire menageries of atrocity are spilling out of the tangible darkness from every side, gibbering and laughing, whispering and mewling, like rushing waves of nightmare breaking on the margent shore of sanity. Breaking across his men, of whom, twenty-three seconds into the fight, only seventy-nine remain alive. Are they even aboard the bastard child's ship? Did he divert their matter transmission? Change their destination using signal capture redirection? Did he send them into the webway? Did he send them into the warp itself? Sparks flurry, embers in the air. Diocletian Coros is unloading bolt-round after bolt-round into a colossal tusked beast to bring it down. The concentration of shots has caught its straggled pelt alight. Tribune Diocletian has been obliged to act with such inefficient fury, because the tusked thing had been about to strike Valdor. Who hadn't seen it coming. Distraction had broken his focus. He nods his appreciation to Diocletian, turns, stabs a thing - half plump infant, half hornet - out of the air, mutters its name, then recomposes his formation via neuro-synergetics. The daemon droves multiply, living darkness becoming solid things. He is not scared. He isn't even angry, though rage is a weapon he always keeps close at hand. He hesitates to use it, because rage is a human handicap, and comes weighted with imprecision and unforced error. But he will reach for it if he must. His curiosity lights him up. He needs to know. He needs to know. Not the names belonging to the participants in the misbegotten parade of murder around him, names that will simply edge him ever closer to the fringe of madness, but something true. Something real. Something he can fight with, or against. He hefts the spear. It works against flesh, even immaterial corporeality, but not against inanimate materials. The deck, though. The deck is maggot-puckered meat. Valdor plunges the Apollonian Spear into the floor, or the ground, or the deck, or whatever it is or used to be. A moment. A blink, a heartbeat. A mystery. A name. Constantin Valdor shudders. It is twenty-five seconds into the fight. 'Vengeful Spirit,' he whispers. 3:xv Azif Adophel said three days. Adophel is seldom wrong. But he is wrong. Corswain goes to the parapet below the Tertiary Portal. The Chapter Master is gazing into the drop, surveying the long channel of the pass. 'I can't explain it,' Adophel says before Corswain even speaks. 'I was sure we had time yet.' He points. The scree slopes immediately below them are furred in deep ash and snow, but the lower realms of the pass are bare black rock, caught in the windshadow of the mountain. There is movement, undetected by any of the auto-sensoria they have set up. Corswain hears a buzzing. The azif, the night-scratch of insects, reckoned in the old deserts of Terra to be the call of daemons. He sees, at a great distance, a stream coursing along the very bottom of the deep pass. It is just a trickle, like a fresh run of meltwater in spring. It winds beneath the rock-shadows, in and out of blackness, but where it catches the hyaline daylight, it glitters like tumbling jewels, blue and green. There's no way to easily judge scale, but Corswain can see that it's not men. A mass of tiny, gleaming shapes. A moving, advancing mat of- Beetles. Flies. A trickling stream of them, threading up the pass. How many must there be? How many billions must it take to make up a glinting black rill on the floor of the pass? Far below, a gauze of mist drifts across the trackway. When it's gone, there is a figure standing there, gazing up at Corswain on the distant cliff. The stream of insects has halted, as though dammed, at the figure's heels. It is Typhon. It is Calas Typhon, proud son of Barbarus, First Captain of the XIV Legion. He looks exactly as he did the day Corswain first met him, all those years ago before hell descended. His plate gleams in the cold light. He raises his hand in an almost fraternal salute. 'You are broken,' he says. Just a whisper, but Corswain hears it as clearly as he would if they were face to face. 'You are broken, Corswain, inside and out. Our long game of war comes down to this, and in respect of you, we offer a chance to submit. Submit to us. Do not attempt a final fight.' 'You can offer me nothing but death,' Corswain yells back. He has to raise his voice so it will carry the thousand metres down into the pass. Typhon's soft reply comes effortlessly to his ear. 'Of course. Nothing but death. But it need not be by blade or violence. Submit, and it will be painless. A gentle decay into silence. We offer this in honour of your worth as a rival. No recrimination. Accept that you are broken, and take this gift from us. Spare yourself the pain of resisting the inevitable.' The voice is commanding, honest, respectful. An offer of honour, warrior to warrior, mindful of dignity, courteous in manner. It is the integrity Cor

reply comes effortlessly to his ear. 'Of course. Nothing but death. But it need not be by blade or violence. Submit, and it will be painless. A gentle decay into silence. We offer this in honour of your worth as a rival. No recrimination. Accept that you are broken, and take this gift from us. Spare yourself the pain of resisting the inevitable.' The voice is commanding, honest, respectful. An offer of honour, warrior to warrior, mindful of dignity, courteous in manner. It is the integrity Corswain would show to a helpless foe. For a moment, he finds himself considering it. It would be so easy to let go, so sweet to relinquish the effort of- 'Sire. Your grace.' Corswain looks at Adophel. 'Hell's blood,' says Adophel very quietly. 'The urge to agree is almost overwhelming.' Corswain nods. 'You feel it too?' 'Like an ache in my heart. What's wrong with us? What is he doing to us?' 'He was always witch-blooded,' says Corswain. He looks around. A good portion of his forces are positioned to guard the pass, both above on the jagged lip of the cliffs, and on the skirt walls and fighting platforms below the portal. There should be more, but they thought they had longer. Many are still undeployed, or occupied in purifying the mountain's chambers. They thought they had three days. Adophel said three days. How could Typhon have reached them so quickly? And why does he come alone, with only carrion flies and chirring beetles as an escort? Corswain looks at his men. They are silent and motionless, as though they too have been transfixed by Typhon's offer. It feels as if their hearts have emptied. Cartheus runs out onto the parapet. He drops to his knees and almost scrape-skids to rest at Corswain's feet. 'They are here!' he cries. 'Your grace, they are all here!' 'What?' 'He's beguiling you! Against all sanity, they are here already!' Corswain blinks. It's not possible. Typhon has come alone. He should descend and finish him, for his gall, and set his head on a spike to greet the Death Guard army when it arrives. Corswain turns and gazes down into the pass. 'Begone,' he yells. 'Or I'll cut you down where you stand.' 'Pity...' Typhon whispers. His figure is already dissolving into languid mountain mist. His last word echoes and repeats, slowly blurring with each repetition into the whirring scratch of azif. In the shadow-thwarted bed of the deep pass, the stream of blackness starts to move again, scuttling and scritching, inching between pebbles and stones towards the base of the portal. But they are not pebbles, or stones. They are boulders and age-tumbled blocks. The gleaming shapes are not beetles and flies, they are men. Scale telescopes and shifts. Distance reduces, and the sheer cliffs of the pass seem to soar and tower. There is an army in the pass, a whole army at their door. It is plated in dirt, and where the thin light catches the moving plate, it glints and sparkles iridescent, like the wing cases of scarabs. It swarms towards them. 'To arms...' Adophel croaks, then clears his throat and repeats the words with more force to clear the strangled break in his voice. On the walls and fighting platforms, the men shift, but it is slow and stunned with disbelief. The air below is suddenly freckled with flies. The buzzing azif swells in volume. 'Raise the line!' Corswain snaps at his Chapter Master. 'Every man, every weapon we have!' 'Your grace-' 'Do it! You heard our brother Cartheus! He has no reason to lie, but by my soul, we are blinded by lies! Typhus infects us with his fever-dreams! Go! Go!' Adophel turns and strides towards the portal, yelling commands. Arms and armour clatter as men respond. 'Are you sure of this?' Corswain asks Cartheus. 'What unfolds below... it's not just another warp-conjured trick to drive us mad?' 'Upon my life, no, your grace!' the warp-seer replies. Corswain sees the odd symbols and wards chalked on the man's plate. 'Zahariel has read it. He sent me with all urgency. They are here and upon us already.' Corswain unsheathes his warblade, and glares down into the pass. The gulf below is full of churning black forms. Clouds of flies smoke the air like the vapour haze of a cataract. The Dark Angels had the advantage of height, and the natural choke point of the pass, but the enemy is already teeming up the rocks, like black water running uphill, against all laws of nature, impossibly ascending even sheer rock to the first of the fighting platforms, the grip and purchase of the warriors as sure and effortless as spiders on a wall. He thought they had days to prepare, days to lay up their defence and edge their blades. They do not. He raises his sword in the brumal light. 'Kill them,' is his only command. 3:xvi Surfacing The freight elevator, unused for months, takes almost twenty minutes to ascend from deep storage bunkers kilometres beneath the Sanctum. As it rises, it passes other storage levels, vast lonely halls, haunted by silence, that were once lined with rows of burnished war machines and stocks of munitions, enough to conquer a galaxy. But they have been picked clean, the cellars and reserves of the Palace stripped bare by the siege. War has emptied the vaults, leaving dim rockcrete compartments so vast, the entire human population of Terra could be contained there, sheltered from the surface onslaught. If only anyone had thought to do it. The elevator arrives, finally, with a shuddering clank, in a dispersal chamber adjoining the power plants that serve the House of Weapons. The chamber is also empty, apart from the abandoned freight haulers and exo-loaders that once handled the flow of armaments. They stand in the gloom like sculptures of orkoid beasts, their service to the war effort ended. Amber warning lamps flash briefly. The elevator's tripartite hatch whirs open, and the Coronus grav-carrier rolls out across the chamber's floor, lifting a silent billow of dust. At other times, its arrival would have triggered security notices and brought Sentinels to investigate, even though this vehicle is one of theirs. But no one comes. John isn't sure if that's because the Alpha Legionnaire has run scrap code exploits to mask them from the automated security systems, or because there is no one watching any more. He isn't sure which of these ideas alarms him more. The legionnaire brings the carrier to a halt and powers it down. 'Are we ditching this?' asks Dogent Krank, who has quickly come to like the well-armed and well-armoured reassurance of the Coronus. 'The mass-passageways of the lower Sanctum are more than large enough to accommodate a vehicle of this size,' says Actae. John looks at her. 'I have a feeling,' he says, 'that He's not going to like us arriving unannounced and knocking on His door. I know for sure He won't like it if we roll up in a tank.' John and Pech dismount first, John with his kitbag shouldered. They walk away from the carrier, looking for signs of life, feeling the infrasonic thrum of the nearby power plants in the air. The air is dead and stale, as though circ-processors have been shut down or set to conserve. 'The Sanctum,' murmurs John. 'Dispersal chamber six-nine-four,' Pech replies. 'About ninety minutes' walk to the Throne Room proper.' John glances around at the emptiness and dust wistfully. His face and ribs still hurt, and his mouth and chin are bruised and scabbed. 'Not quite the Palace I imagined it would be,' he says. 'It's a service area, John. A utility vault. The formal areas of the Sanctum are quite grand. You won't be disappointed. In fact, you may want to brace yourself.' 'I was being sarcastic, Pech.' 'Ah.' 'You've seen them then?' John adds. 'The, uh... formal areas?' 'I've glimpsed them. Some of them.' 'You damn Hydra, you'll find your way into anything, won't you?' 'It's why we were made, John.' 'Well, my hat's off to you, Pech,' says John. He sets his kitbag down and rummages inside it to check he has everything. 'You did exactly what you said you'd do. You got us in. Into the Sanctum. Nigh on half the galaxy is trying and failing to do that, including several of the most gifted and powerful primarchs. You showed them, eh? Devil Lupercal should have put his money on the Alpha Legion. I guess that's why Erda sent you to us.' 'I suppose so.' 'Well, anyway,' says John, rising to his feet, with a slight wince as he braces his bruised ribs. 'My thanks. Sincerely. We literally couldn't have got this far without you.' He casually pats the Alpha Legionnaire on the chestplate, an almost affectionate gesture of comradeship. When his hand comes away, it leaves something behind. 'Don't move, though, Ingo,' he says. 'Not a muscle. Please.' 'What have you done, John?' John raises a hasty finger to his lips. 'I wouldn't even speak, if I were you. Seriously. Now it's set, it's acutely motion sensitive.' Pech freezes, as much a statue as the derelict exo-loaders around them. His suit systems have already identified what John has done. The close-focus limpet mine anchored to his chestplate displays a small, red, blinking rune. 'Be resourceful, you said, so I'm being resourceful,' John tells the unmoving giant. 'I'm taking you out of the game, just like you told me to. Move, even slightly, and that thing goes off. But don't move, because I don't want you to die. Just stay there. Really, really steady. I know your kind knows how to do that.' He bends down, scoops up his kitbag, and reaches into it again. Behind them, the others are emerging from the carrier. 'I found a canister of them in that tank's storage locker,' John says. 'Same place as the voltvolver. One of your caches, I think. Now, you stay put. I'll sort out the rest of this mess.' He walks towards the carrier. The others have all dismounted: Oll, the long companions, Leetu and Actae. The witch moves to meet him, her blind head cocked in curiosity. 'What's happening?' she asks. 'What's Alpharius doing? Why-' John strides towards

Behind them, the others are emerging from the carrier. 'I found a canister of them in that tank's storage locker,' John says. 'Same place as the voltvolver. One of your caches, I think. Now, you stay put. I'll sort out the rest of this mess.' He walks towards the carrier. The others have all dismounted: Oll, the long companions, Leetu and Actae. The witch moves to meet him, her blind head cocked in curiosity. 'What's happening?' she asks. 'What's Alpharius doing? Why-' John strides towards her. He lets the kitbag drop, revealing the psi-damper in his left hand, and flicks the pod's casing open with a snap of his wrist. He's ready for it, teeth gritted. She isn't, and it's going to hurt her more anyway. Actae squeals, and falls to one knee, clawing at her head. John puts the damper down, just out of her reach, its soft, blue light glowing at maximum, and steps back. He pulls the voltvolver out of his belt with his right hand, and aims it directly at her head. 'Stay down,' he says. 3:xvii Someone in authority 'Keeler!' Again, the voice- 'Keeler! Mam!' No, not some divine whisper. A real voice. Across the torrent of the flowing crowd, she sees Tang waving to her. Keeler jumps down and pushes through the press to reach her. Tang has soldiers with her, members of the conclave, or willing civilian volunteers. They stink of promethium because most are carrying flamer units liberated from the munition wagons. Trial and error has shown that flames are the best defence. It's not much, because despite their vast numbers, they are not an armed force. But flamers can lay down screens of fire to drive off the raiding enemy units that harry the exodus, and fire is the best protection against the Neverborn, especially when they irrupt inside the refugee column. Fire has become the weapon of faith. It's not much protection. If they are overtaken or surprised by an enemy main force, there will be absolute slaughter. 'What is it?' Keeler asks. Tang gestures to Katsuhiro, the trooper who has become part of their rabble. Caked in dust and masked like a bandit, he still clutches the child to his body. Keeler doubts he will ever let it go. 'Someone demanding to see someone in authority,' says Katsuhiro. Keeler grins. 'Best of luck with that,' she says. 'He means you,' says Leeta Tang. Keeler shrugs and follows them, walking up the ragged edge of the processional, in the stone-choked gutter, following the direction of flow. They move faster than the main body of the mass, which crawls, bandaged and blindfold, like a vagabond glacier. Katsuhiro and two flamer troops lead her and Tang off the main thoroughfare into an area of burned-out ruins. People from the exodus are resting there, propped on stone blocks and broken walls, easing torn feet and getting their strength back before rejoining the long march. A little way in, Keeler sees a robed man indignantly arguing with Wereft and several more conclave soldiers. The robed man is injured, and his indignation has robbed him of what was once some stately dignity. 'What is this?' Keeler asks Katsuhiro. 'We saw a flyer come down,' he replies. 'A little Orgus 'thopter chopped by flak. Your man Wereft sent a team to check for survivors. Found this one.' 'Are you in charge?' the robed man asks as Keeler approaches. 'No one's in charge,' she replies. 'If you're here for any length of time, you'll realise that.' 'I require soldiers!' the man says. 'An escort detachment. You will provide them.' 'That's not possible,' she says. 'I told him it wasn't possible,' says Wereft. 'Then make it possible!' the man snaps. 'Sir, we can offer you support and somewhat limited medicae assistance,' she says, 'But beyond that...' 'Do you know who I am?' the man asks her. His anger is born out of fear, she can see that. She can also see that she does know who he is, to a certain extent. Up close, she can see the fine quality of his robes, the expensive silks, the mantle and crest of office disguised by dust and oil, the eyes that have been sutured shut for decades. 'This,' says Wereft, 'is Nemo Zhi-Meng.' 'Lord!' the man snaps. 'Lord! You will address me with respect!' 'With respect then, Lord Zhi-Meng,' says Keeler, 'you're shit out of luck. You can come with us, or you can make your own way. A dubious choice, I realise.' He is stunned to silence. He sits down heavily on a slab of rockcrete, head bowed, and his shoulders start to shake. 'Step back, please,' Keeler says to the others. They back off and leave her alone with the man. She crouches in front of Zhi-Meng. 'I'm afraid authority has its limits now,' she says gently. 'Life too. Hell is here.' 'I know it,' he murmurs, nodding. 'I mean no unkindness, my lord, but all we can do is walk, in the hope of walking clear of this.' He turns his face towards her. Though his eyes are long gone, the sacrifice of his art, his blindsight is sharp and knows exactly where she is. 'You're Keeler?' he asks. She nods. 'I am-' he begins. 'Choirmaster of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica,' she answers. 'A lord of the High Council of Terra. One of the Senior Twelve. My lord, in other circumstances, it would have been a singular honour to meet you. Where were you going?' 'I was at Bhab Bastion,' he says. 'Trying to... to do my work. Reinforce the telaethesics...' He shrugs. 'Bhab is fallen,' he says. 'I guessed as much.' 'We tried to evacuate. My lifewards got me to a flyer, but-' 'This is not flying weather, my lord.' Zhi-Meng laughs, a brittle laugh. 'It was a slaughter, Keeler. Great men and women, the Imperium's best, butchered in the halls, burned like kindling...' 'Men and women of all stations have been brought low by this, sir,' she replies. 'Come with me to the street outside and I will show you millions of them. War makes no distinctions when it comes to privilege, office or nobility, I'm afraid.' 'I was trying to reach the Sanctum,' he says. 'To rejoin the command structure and perform my duties-' 'I can't get you there,' she says. 'Eternity Gate is shut forever. Our duties are reassigned for us all. Ours, now - yours and mine - it's simply to survive, if we can.' He nods. 'You're leading refugees out of the centre?' 'Yes, lord.' 'To where?' 'I have no idea,' she says. 'Nowhere in this world is safe, but I'm hoping some places are safer than others. Perhaps the northern districts, or even off the plateau itself, if we can get that far. To be honest, I think lack of food and water will kill most of us long before that, and if they don't, the enemy is at our backs and getting ever closer.' 'The world is broken,' he says. He rubs dirt off his cheek with the back of his hand. 'The last things I saw before I left my post... readings and data that made no sense. Time, dimensions... I mean the basic laws and fundamentals of the material world. They are corrupting. Terra is being dragged into the warp, Keeler. The natural laws of space and time can no longer be trusted to guide us. I know you know what the warp is.' 'Yes,' she replies. 'I have heard a great deal about you,' he says. 'One of the very first beyond the privileged few to glimpse the truth of our universe. That is correct, isn't it?' 'It is.' 'I confess, mam, I was one of those who voted to keep you incarcerated. To keep you locked away so you could divulge nothing. The truth was kept close for a long time, Keeler, for good reason.' 'I was taught the truth sets us free.' 'Sadly, no. And to say so makes you sound naive. Since the very first, I have known this. Since I was first elected to my role and inducted into the mysteries. To run the Telepathica, and support the Astronomican, I had to learn things that would curdle the mind. For all the Emperor's power, mankind exists on the very brink, under sufferance of the warp. Without it, we cannot maintain an empire, but it is our greatest foe. I have always petitioned, most strenuously, that the secrets of our universe must be kept from almost everybody. Then the likes of you come along, half-glimpsing something, and then speaking of faith and divinity-' 'I only speak of what I have seen, sir.' 'Without thought to the danger of it! The gods are false, Keeler. I have come to understand, through this horror, that there is a reason He prohibited religion and followed His instinct to shield mankind from understanding. The gods are false, but an awareness of the deep powers makes them real. The derangements of faith and belief stir up the empyric void.' 'I understand that,' she says. 'I understood it when it was first revealed to me. And for the longest time, that policy made sense. Ignorance was the best defence. The Emperor could shield us by our ignorance until His great plan was implemented and mankind could exist free of the warp. But Horus came.' 'Yes, Horus came.' 'And look at us, sir. Look where we are now. This can't be hidden or ignored. The warp is revealed to all and everyone. And the ignorance enforced upon us makes us more vulnerable for, lacking a better explanation, the masses see this as daemons and devilry which, of course, amplifies the effect. The ignorance that once protected us now magnifies the warp.' 'You are a more rational person than I expected, Keeler,' he says. 'Thank you. And I ask you this, because you may be one of the few who can answer... If superstitious dread amplifies the warp, might not faith fortify against it?' 'Faith in what?' 'In the Emperor. If fear agitates the warp into a frenzy, might not faith generate a stabilising calm?' 'You betray your lack of comprehension, Keeler. At the risk of gross simplification, such a mechanism would only work if the Emperor was a god, in the way that primordial entities of the empyrean may be called gods.' 'But what if He is?' 'Dear woman, I have stood in His presence. He is many things, but a god He is not.' 'I have met Him too,' she says. 'You have?' 'I have. He's here with me now. He is my hope. He is the hope of the mil

a frenzy, might not faith generate a stabilising calm?' 'You betray your lack of comprehension, Keeler. At the risk of gross simplification, such a mechanism would only work if the Emperor was a god, in the way that primordial entities of the empyrean may be called gods.' 'But what if He is?' 'Dear woman, I have stood in His presence. He is many things, but a god He is not.' 'I have met Him too,' she says. 'You have?' 'I have. He's here with me now. He is my hope. He is the hope of the millions in the street. He is the voice calling my name. He is the light. I think, sir, though I bow to your greater learning, that you have beheld it all but missed the point. You understand the detailed rubrics of your office, and the complex mechanisms of the Astropathica, yet fail to see...' She stops, and sits down heavily. The nausea has overwhelmed her again, quite suddenly. There's a light in her eyes that makes the shape of her name, a shining voice that dazzles her. 'Are you all right?' asks Zhi-Meng. 'What happened?' 'I am... It's passing...' 'I felt that. Felt something. A wash of psykana, for a moment... Do you have the gift, Keeler? Does that explain your fanciful ideas?' She clambers heavily to her feet. 'I don't know anything, sir,' she says. 'Really, I don't. I freely admit that my life has become cursed by mere flashes, all incomplete, of the greater truth. I have seen the lightning through a keyhole. I can only make what sense of it I can. But I know where we're going.' 'Who?' Zhi-Meng asks. 'All of us. I know where we're going, or where we're supposed to be going. I know where we need to be. I saw it, quite suddenly. A light. A guiding light. It is everything. It is the most important thing.' 'Do you mean a place where all these people will be safe?' he asks. 'Where we will be safe?' 'I don't know,' she replies. 'I don't think it's safe at all, but I know it's where we have to go.' 'How do you know? Who is telling you this?' 'I don't know that either,' says Keeler. 3:xviii Unless you fail 'What the hell are you doing, Grammaticus?' Oll yells. 'What I'm supposed to do, Oll,' John growls back, his teeth gritted, his weapon aimed at Actae's head. 'I'm looking after you. Watching your back. I've got them. Both of them.' Actae groans, flopping over into a foetal position on the oil-spotted rockcrete. 'Stay down,' John tells her, the gun still aimed. He snatches a sidelong look at Oll. 'I had to wait until we were inside. Don't look at me like that. I know how dangerous she is. Alpharius told me all about it.' 'I know full well how dangerous she is,' says Oll, glaring at John in dismay. 'She pretty much told me herself.' John sniffs and nods. 'Did she? Well, this is how it has to go.' He glances at the others. They're all staring at him in shock, all except Katt, who has collapsed into Krank's arms. She's twitching and shivering. 'Sorry, Katt,' John calls out. 'Psi-damper. It was the only way, and there was no time to warn you.' He looks back at Oll. 'Just say the word,' he says. 'The word?' 'Come on, Oll! She's too dangerous to live. Just say the word!' 'For god's sake, John,' says Oll. 'I don't want you to shoot her.' 'Really? Knowing what you know?' 'I know she was sent to help us.' 'So she claims-' 'Erda co-opted her for a reason,' says Leetu quietly. 'Her, and Alpharius too. She brought us all together because we need each other.' 'Yeah?' says John. 'Well, I have the greatest respect for your lovely mistress, Astartes, but I don't think she knows everything. This Actae woman has an agenda of her own.' 'O-of course I do,' Actae gasps. 'And I h-haven't hidden it.' 'Turn that thing off, John,' says Oll. 'Oll...' 'Turn it off. You've got a gun on her. Let her speak.' John hesitates. With a scowl, he crouches and deactivates the damper. He keeps the gun trained on Actae's skull the whole time. 'This is a mistake,' he says. 'My life's just one long series of those,' says Oll. He looks at Actae. She's risen on all fours, panting as she tries to clear her head. 'I'm giving you a chance,' says Oll. 'The things you've said, I'm not going to lie. They scare me. I think you're crazy. But I also trust Erda's insight. She believes we need you, she steered you to us. So I'm not just going to kill you. Talk. Please.' Actae raises her head. She rocks back and sits on her heels, trying to regain her breath. 'I'm the fail-safe,' she says. 'What does that even mean?' snaps John. Oll raises a hand to shut him up. 'Explain that,' says Oll. 'There are too many variables,' says Actae. 'Even you admit you're not sure what you're going to do when the time comes. Erda was providing options and opportunities. Alpharius was the way in. I'm the fail-safe.' 'If this goes wrong...' Oll begins. 'If this goes wrong.' She nods. 'If you fail to deliver. And, I swear, I have no idea why she has any faith whatsoever in you and your rabble. But I trust her insight too. Just like you. She is the future we might have had. She saw the dangers long in advance, but she was shut out and silenced. She sent me to help you, Oll Persson. I intend to fulfil that obligation. Help you in any way I can. I have demonstrated that intent already. Whatever I believe, I won't impose it on you.' 'Unless I fail,' says Oll. 'Unless you fail. If you can't achieve what you set out to achieve, then - and only then - I'll take my own measures. If Horus, as I believe, is too potent for any of us, even the Emperor himself... then I will try things my way.' 'Harness him?' John says. 'Harness the damn warp?' 'If I can,' she replies. 'Perhaps I can't. But I will certainly try, and I have an unrivalled insight. Whatever Horus was is long gone. He is an instrument now, a very powerful one, but an instrument, no more or less. Instruments exist to be used.' 'Oh, 'cause it's that simple,' John sneers. She slowly rises to her feet. John's aim follows her up, and never wavers from her head. 'There are two sides in this, Oll Persson,' she says, turning her face towards Oll. 'That is the nature of war. Two sides must be defeated, or persuaded to alter course, in order for this conflict to end. That, or the galaxy and our species burn. You, Oll, are the weapon sent to stop the Emperor. If you succeed, you may be enough. But if you fail, I am the weapon sent to stop Horus.' John starts to laugh. 'Shit, Oll,' he says. 'Are you swallowing any of this?' Oll shakes his head wearily. 'Your words have a ring of truth,' he says to Actae, 'even if John can't hear it. But we've come a long way, and we're tired, and I can't see how we can trust you. You could be lying. You could be saying what you think we want to hear. You might even be telling the truth, but only because there's a gun to your head. The moment John puts away that preposterous handgun, you could turn on us.' 'So, you're saying I should shoot her?' John asks. 'Shut up, John,' Oll sighs. 'I'm sorry you don't trust me,' says Actae. 'So am I,' says Oll. 'But I understand. Our views of the cosmos are very different. Perhaps that's why Erda drew us together.' 'Perhaps. But I still see no way of trusting you from here on.' 'There is a way,' says Leetu quietly. Oll glances at him. 'There is a way,' Leetu repeats. 'A safeguard. A way of keeping watch on her thoughts in case she tries to deceive us.' 'Go on.' 'It would be demanding. An unpleasant hardship.' The Astartes looks over at Katt, who is beginning to stand unaided, her hands shaking. 'A psykanic link. The witch lets the girl watch her thoughts. One mind open to the other. The girl would act as a leash. If the witch even thinks of behaving contrary to your wishes, we'll know. Likewise, if the witch tries to hide her thoughts, the girl will know that too. She can warn us.' Leetu stares at Katt. 'It's a big ask, I realise,' he says. 'I'll do it,' Katt says without hesitation. 'Katt-' says Oll. 'I will do it. I'll watch her like a hawk.' She steps forward and glares pugnaciously at Actae. 'Well? You call it,' she says. 'Let you into my mind?' Actae replies, a look of mild disgust on her face. 'Let you in, to see everything-' 'It's that,' says Katt, 'or Grammaticus pops you in the forehead.' Actae lifts her hand sharply. 'If you let me finish, girl,' she hisses. 'The idea is repulsive. My mind is my own, and I shudder at the thought of some grubby urchin ransacking my secrets and my memories. But my comfort is not the issue. There is far too much at stake. If that's what it will take for you to trust me, Oll Persson, so we may continue... So be it.' 'Wait,' says John. 'She's talking about trust. There's no trust in this! She could falsify her thoughts, wall off parts of her mind-' 'I could do all those things,' says Actae. 'But I won't, Grammaticus. That's the point. I need your trust. I have nothing to hide.' She turns her face towards Oll. 'Well?' she asks. 'Do you trust me? Do you want to trust me?' Oll thinks for a moment. He walks over to Katt and hugs her tight. 'Don't do this if you don't want to,' he whispers. 'It will be a lot. It will be unpleasant.' 'It's all right,' she whispers back, resting her head on his chest. 'I think I've finally worked out why I'm here.' Katt pulls away from him and faces Actae. 'Go on,' she says. Actae smiles. It is not a comforting smile. 'As you wish, child,' she replies. She dips her head slightly. Katt blinks, and she lets out a little gasp. Oll can tell that the contact is immediately distressing, but Katt breathes hard and clenches her fists, determined not to show on her face the horror flooding her mind. 'There,' she says, with some effort. 'Not so hard. Not so bad.' She tries to flash a smile at Oll, but it's more of a grimace. 'What happens now?' asks Zybes. Oll crosses to John, places his hand on the top of John's gun and gently pushes his aim down. John scowls at him, then submits and tucks the weapon away. 'This is a mistake, Oll,' he says qu

ontact is immediately distressing, but Katt breathes hard and clenches her fists, determined not to show on her face the horror flooding her mind. 'There,' she says, with some effort. 'Not so hard. Not so bad.' She tries to flash a smile at Oll, but it's more of a grimace. 'What happens now?' asks Zybes. Oll crosses to John, places his hand on the top of John's gun and gently pushes his aim down. John scowls at him, then submits and tucks the weapon away. 'This is a mistake, Oll,' he says quietly. 'Like I said...' 'I had them both. I won't get that chance again. You understand this is why I'm here, don't you?' 'To make amends, for things you did or should have done in other lives.' 'Yeah, that,' says John. 'Whatever. Oll, I threw my lot in with you to protect you. To get you where you need to be, that's all. You have to let me do that.' Oll nods. 'I mean it,' says John. 'Let me look after you. Let me get you there. Stop overruling me. I don't have your scruples, Oll. Your moral compass. Let me do the dirty work so your hands stay clean. Damn it, I should have just shot her.' 'Well, don't ask my opinion, then.' 'I won't,' says John. 'Next time, I won't. Stay out of my way. I'll just do what needs to be done to save your sorry arse. No consultation. I won't give you the chance to talk me out of it.' 'Fine.' 'Fine. Because you can talk your way out of anything.' 'That,' says Oll, 'is basically what I'm counting on.' John snorts in disdain. He picks up the damper, drops it back in the kitbag, and looks over at the motionless Alpharius. 'Right,' he says to Actae. 'Free him.' 'I'm sorry?' Actae replies. 'I know about the code word. The pre-conditioning. The path you've set him on against his will. Change Orphaeus. Abort it. Switch it to something else.' 'I can't,' she says. 'Don't give me that. Switch it to Xenophon. Let him be his own man.' 'I repeat, John Grammaticus, I can't.' 'She can't,' says Katt. 'She's not lying. Once Twentieth Legion plan conditioning is triggered, it can't be undone...' 'It can only be revoked by Alpha Legion auto-hypnotix, a deep neural process that is quite outside my expertise,' says Actae. 'I'm sorry. There's nothing I can do about it.' 'You can activate the poor bastard but you can't shut him down again?' Actae doesn't reply. Katt, wide-eyed with worry, nods on her behalf. 'Shit!' says John. 'You utter... Shit!' He claps his hand to his head and stares at the floor. 'John?' Oll asks. 'Get them moving, Oll. Get them all moving. Leetu, take point. I'll be right behind you.' They all look at him, then start to move away across the chamber towards the distant hatch. John blows out a breath to settle himself, and then walks over to the unmoving Pech. He stands facing the frozen giant, so Pech can see him. 'I'm sorry,' he says. 'Truly. Don't try to answer. Just listen. You know I can't take that thing off you. Not with you coded the way you are. You know I can't risk it. I'm sorry it's played out like this. I know you'll get out of it. You'll find a way. I dunno, maybe micromovement over a period of weeks or months, you'll finally deactivate it and take it off. You people are good at that sort of thing. But I can't take it off you now. I know you understand why.' Pech makes no response. 'So,' says John, with a shrug. 'Sorry. If I get a chance, you know, afterwards... if there is an afterwards... I'll come back. I swear. I'll come back and unlock it. Just don't move in the meantime. And if I don't get the chance, well... like I said. Sorry. Not the way I wanted it to go.' The Astartes remains utterly silent. 'Right,' says John. 'Well... Goodbye, Pech.' He turns and walks away after the others. The Alpharius is still standing there, motionless, long, long after they have gone and the hatch has closed behind them. 3:xix Rogal in the desert Rogal Dorn spends a century in the yellow desert until he finally concedes that there is no way out of it. After a century, he also believes there is no way into it either, although he is in it, which suggests that this is untrue. A small fact to cling to. He came here. He was brought here. There must have been a way in, once. Unless he has always been here. After a century, that starts to feel like the truth. He meticulously orders the facts he can be certain of. Every day, he collates the available facts. Every day, for a century, there are fewer and fewer of them. The sun rusts them away. He is here. Fact. The desert is endless and the sunlight unrelenting. Fact. Something, technological or metaphysical, intercepted his teleport pattern and diverted him to this wasteland. Fact. None of those who departed with him are here. Fact. This is not the Target Principal, the Vengeful Spirit. Fact. But it is a trap. Fact. He is alone. Fact. He knows exactly who he is. Fact. 'I am Rogal Dorn, Praetorian of Terra, primarch of the Seventh Legion Imperial Fists, seventh-found son, defiant and unyielding,' says Rogal Dorn to the hot and empty desert air. The desert is boundless, a soft sea of yellow sand, the colour of his Legion's plate. The sky is a hot white haze, the colour of his hair. There is no sun, except that everything is sunlit. There is a breeze, parched and dry, that comes intermittently, and lifts the soft sand from the crests of the dunes in horsetail plumes to make new dunes nearby, grain by grain. There are walls. Ancient stone walls, faded pink, and bleached by light. They are too high to climb and they serve no purpose he can identify, for they keep nothing in and nothing out, and merely stand, crossing the dunes in forking, geometric lines. There are walls either side of him, suggesting but never admitting that he is caught in some gargantuan labyrinth. He tries and fails to climb them. He listens at them, hoping to detect sounds from the other side, but he does not. Some days, he ascends to the top of the highest dunes, and from there, as the breeze lifts the sand around his feet, he can almost see over them. Almost. Enough to see the odd, angled lines of their arrangement and the fact that, beyond them, lie more dunes, and other walls, and more dunes. Fact. Every day, for a century, he orders the facts he can be certain of. He is here, and no one else is. Fact. He is alone. Fact. His pattern was diverted. Fact. This is not the Target Principal, the Vengeful Spirit. Fact. It is a trap. Fact. The desert is endless and there is no way out. Fact. There is no way in. Perhaps. He knows exactly who he is. Fact. 'I am Rogal Dorn, Praetorian of Terra, primarch of the Seventh Legion Imperial Fists, seventh-found son, defiant and unyielding,' says Rogal Dorn. The bodies are here. They are all long dead and they are all his sons. They are scattered across the dunes and piled up against the bases of the walls, for kilometres. They wear the yellow plate of the VII Legion Astartes Imperial Fists, but they have been here so long that only dry white bones reside inside them, and the plate is abraded by breeze and sand, so all numerals and identifier markings are worn away. He doesn't know who they were, except that they were once Imperial Fists. They may or may not be the men who formed the company he left with. He can't be sure. Those men, hand-picked, may be here, but if they are, why were they long dead when he arrived? And who are all the others? There are far, far more than a company-strength of men scattered across the dunes. There are thousands. Tens of thousands. Yellow plate is piled like metal shingle along the foot of the walls. Many times he attempts to count them, to reach an accurate number which he can add to his list of facts. But he always loses count, some days after ten thousand, some days after twenty, for there are so many, and it is impossible to know where he started counting and where he has finished. He tries to mark them with his sword as he counts, cutting a notch in each pauldron. That scrupulous method gives him a figure of thirty-seven thousand four hundred and nine, before he loses count and forgets if he has notched a pauldron or not. Besides, his sword-edge is beginning to blunt, and he is weary, and there are still so many more, more than those he has already counted. Unsure, he starts again. He orders the available facts. There are very many dead, and the desert is endless. Fact. The walls are very slightly too high. Fact. There is no sun, but the light neither rises nor sets. Fact. It is slightly cooler in the shadow of the walls. Fact. There is no way out. Fact. There is no way in. Is that a fact? 'I am Rogal Dorn, Praetorian, primarch of the Imperial Fists, seventh-found son, defiant and unyielding,' says Rogal Dorn. The desert is yellow. The light is white. The walls are very slightly too high. He sits in the cool of the shadows, day after day, amid the litter of yellow armour, and recites the available facts to himself. His sword is notched. He is alone. The breeze lifts feathers of sand from the ridges of the dunes like spindrift from the sea. There is no way out. This is a trap. Fact. 'I am Rogal Dorn. I am. I am Rogal Dorn. Primarch of the Imperial Fists, seventh-found son, defiant and unyielding,' says Rogal Dorn. The desert is yellow at first. In the course of a century, it darkens. He doesn't notice it at first until, years later, seated in the cool shadow of the wall, he realises that the yellow of the dunes has become darker. It has become pinker, like the faded pink of the ancient stone walls. The sky is darker too. It is blue-white, hot blue-white, the colour of his eyes. The yellow plate of the uncountable dead is beginning to rust. It is turning brown. It is rusting and, fleck by fleck, is slowly blowing away. Is that why the dunes are growing darker? Is it rust mixing with the sand? He orders the available facts. Facts are his arsenal, knowledge his strength. Every battle he ever won, he won through application of knowledge. He is starved of fa

d pink of the ancient stone walls. The sky is darker too. It is blue-white, hot blue-white, the colour of his eyes. The yellow plate of the uncountable dead is beginning to rust. It is turning brown. It is rusting and, fleck by fleck, is slowly blowing away. Is that why the dunes are growing darker? Is it rust mixing with the sand? He orders the available facts. Facts are his arsenal, knowledge his strength. Every battle he ever won, he won through application of knowledge. He is starved of facts. It is hard to know how to fight without facts to guide his actions. There are few here, fewer every day. There were more before, but many of them have rusted away. In the siege, there were facts. Too many facts. More facts than there are grains of sand in this endless desert. Only he could order them all, and count them, and use them. That's why he was Praetorian. He never told anyone at the time, but it was a crippling burden. He longed to be out from under the constant weight of facts, the accumulating piles of data. In the months of the siege, he longed to be free of that weight. He longed just to fight as a man, as a warrior, with a sword. He longed for the simplicity of that. To fight, face to face, hand-to-hand, the freedom of physical war. By the end, it was all he wanted. To be free of the infinite data, the relentless pressure, the constant mental war, and just take up his sword and fight. To join the others on the walls and release himself into the joyous liberty of physical combat, where only instinct and reaction mattered, and his mind could rest. To stand, to fight, to kill, and not to think. Just for a while. Please. He never told anyone that. That was all a long time ago. He barely remembers it. But he is sure there was a siege. 'I am Rogal Dorn, primarch of the Imperial Fists, defiant and unyielding,' says Rogal Dorn. His sword is notched and blunt. He is very tired. These walls, bleached pink, are not the walls he longed to stand on. Things become simpler, here in the shadow of the walls where he sits. Facts rust away. There are fewer and fewer of them every day. There are no days because there are no nights. Years pass, and it grows darker still. Where yellow became pink, pink becomes brown. Everything has rusted. There is nothing yellow left, except some tiny shards of yellow ceramite and plasteel around his feet. Everything is worn out. He believes the entire desert is just grains of rust, that there were once far more bodies, and that other centuries, which must have passed before he arrived, had worn many of them away to form the endless desert where he found himself. The dunes were the rust particles of other suits of plate and other sets of bones, reduced by light and breeze. He orders the available facts. He counts the bodies that remain. He gives up and starts again. The blade of his sword is beginning to wear away. He begins to like the fact that there are fewer facts to order and arrange, fewer things to take into account, less data to process and triage. He remembers longing for that simplicity. When was that? Long ago. Perhaps during a siege. He remembers yearning for it, anyway, and oddly, now he has it. There is simplicity here, in the cool shadow below the walls. There is very little to put in order. He is alone. There is no way out. The walls are very high. His sword is a shank of worn metal. He was going somewhere, but he never arrived. There were people with him, but they are not here now, or they are rusted to flakes in the cool shadow of the walls. They are probably long dead. Whatever he was a part of - a siege, was it? Whatever it was, it must be over by now. Long over. Losers defeated, victors decided. It's out of his hands now. It's no longer his responsibility. It's a relief. He thinks he longed for it, once. He forgets. His memory is rusting. It's a great relief, just to sit in the cool and be. Not to think. Not to decide. 'I am Rogal Dorn, of the Imperial Fists, defiant,' says Rogal Dorn. 3:xx Measureless They walk through empty golden halls, and across floors of gleaming marble that soak up the sounds of their footsteps. 'Is this what you expected?' John asks. Oll shrugs. The scale of the Palace is breathtaking, designed, he supposes, to inspire awe if not outright fear. 'He always had lofty ideas about Himself,' he replies. John smirks. 'That's an understatement,' he says. 'It's not pride, though,' says Oll. 'Not really. Not the way you or I would think of it. The man I knew...' - he sniffs slightly as he says the word 'man' - 'the man I once knew, He didn't really care for majesty or material riches. It was all just a means to an end. Everything was. The palaces, the titles, even the face He wore, they meant nothing to Him. All that mattered was what they meant to other people. They were just aspects, John. Signifying devices. To carry authority, He had to look the part. To rule a galaxy, He needed a palace like this. I assure you, He would have as soon lived as a monk in some stone cell, or in a hut on barren moors... He needed nothing. But no one would have taken Him seriously. This monstrous, tasteless edifice is simply the natural conclusion of His progress.' 'What, just theatre?' 'Dangerous theatre,' Oll replies with a nod. Another hallway yawns before them, cased in gold and lined with statues, and filled with taut silence, the painted ceiling so high it seems just a bar of pale sky. 'It's everything I expected,' says Oll. 'Except the emptiness.' 'Yes,' says Zybes. 'I thought we would have been found by now. Long since. Found and challenged.' 'There's no one here,' says Krank. 'I think everyone is at the walls,' says Leetu quietly. They are all talking quietly, even though no one is around, afraid of raising their voices in such a hallowed place. 'Every soldier, every warrior, those that would ordinarily guard this place day and night.' The Legion-less Astartes gestures to alcoves that line the aureate walls between the towering statues. They look like shrines, but Oll knows they can't be. He realises what Leetu is suggesting. The alcoves are made for sentries to stand in eternal vigilance. Oll has to adjust for scale, for the alcoves are so large. Giants stood here, golden giants, he is sure. But they are gone now. Even the elite lifewards are at the Delphic walls, fighting the last fight, and no one is left to patrol the emptied hallways of the final fortress. He and his long companions have only got this far because the place has been abandoned. No one has expected intruders at the very heart of things, for nothing is supposed to have got this far. 'We should find someone,' says Krank. 'What for?' asks Zybes. 'Well, we can't just wander around aimlessly,' says Krank. He's clearly scared. 'We're here on official business, aren't we? We should find someone, and tell them we want to see Him right away-' 'How do you suppose that will work out for us?' Katt asks, though Oll knows it's Actae asking the question, using the girl as a mouthpiece. 'We're intruders in the sacred heart of all things, and our intentions are ambiguous at best. It would be quite a feat, and quite incriminating, merely to explain how we got here.' Katt looks at them, her eyes not quite her own. 'They will find us soon enough, and I, for one, am in no hurry to greet the golden warriors again.' 'So... we just find this Throne Room place?' asks Zybes. 'Yes,' says Oll. 'We find this Throne Room place.' 'Will we, though?' Krank asks. 'We've been walking for hours. What seems like hours. This palace is endless, and every hall looks like the last one...' Oll feels it too. He tells himself it's just his imagination, but it truly feels as though they are walking some implausible, stately labyrinth. He has a poor history with labyrinths. He still has bad dreams about Knossos. He wants to ask Leetu if he can borrow the skein of thread the Astartes carries in his bag, so he can tie knots to finials and mouldings and the fingers of gilded statues and mark their way, for fear they are simply doubling back on themselves. Perhaps they are. Perhaps He already knows they are here, and is playing games to deceive and confuse them. Perhaps He has no interest in the distraction of an uninvited audience, and is keeping them at bay with His psychic wiles. That would be just like Him. Delaying the inevitable. 'I will find you,' Oll mutters. 'What?' says John. 'Thinking aloud,' says Oll. 'Leetu? I saw you carry twine in your bag. Can I use it?' The Astartes pauses, and then produces the ball of red thread, wound around its fid. He hesitates before handing it over. It is the property of his mistress, and he's loath to give it up. Oll takes it with a nod, cuts off a short piece, and ties it around the ankle of a golden statue. He tosses the twine to Zybes. 'Every chamber we come to, Hebet, every room,' he says, 'do the same.' Zybes nods, baffled at the purpose of his new task. 'Becoming paranoid, Ollanius?' Katt asks. 'Speak for yourself,' says Oll. 'I'm not paranoid. Just suitably apprehensive.' Oll looks at Actae. 'I meant literally, speak for yourself. Stop using the girl. She's not there for your use, she's just keeping an eye on you.' 'Very well,' says Actae. Katt sighs slightly, as if some weight has eased from her. They start walking again. 'You think He's toying with us?' John asks Oll quietly. 'I wouldn't put it past Him. He doesn't want to have the conversation I want to have.' They pass into the next hall, then the next, treading softly. Each chamber is as glorious and intimidating as the last, the statuary as solemn, the alcoves as empty. But except for some details - the colour of the inlaid marble floor, the pose of statues, the designs of zodiacs and monads engraved on the auramite walls - they seem like the same halls, repeating. They also seem so clean. So clinically clean, sterile, more like a laboratory than a regal dwelling. There is no smell, n

t to have.' They pass into the next hall, then the next, treading softly. Each chamber is as glorious and intimidating as the last, the statuary as solemn, the alcoves as empty. But except for some details - the colour of the inlaid marble floor, the pose of statues, the designs of zodiacs and monads engraved on the auramite walls - they seem like the same halls, repeating. They also seem so clean. So clinically clean, sterile, more like a laboratory than a regal dwelling. There is no smell, no grime. After the long companions' unmeasurable years of travel, through dark places and mummified cities, the caves crushed by time, the saponified landscapes of xenos realms, the squelching morass of forgotten battlefields, the raddled husks of hive arcologies in torment, the death-rattled tumult of exoplanar corpse-continents, they have become too accustomed to constant filth and dirt and foulness. This place, this Palace, is too perfect, untouched and pure. Even the service hall where they first arrived, the dispersal chamber, a utility space, even that was unnaturally immaculate, but for a layer of dust that was, itself, unpolluted. These rooms, in their spotless clarity, seem acutely wrong to them. And they seem purposeless. Halls that lead to further towering halls, anterooms opening to other cavernous anterooms, the constant soft hush of a gallery or mausoleum, the glitter of the giant pendulum lights. Approach rooms and colonnades lead to more approach rooms and colonnades, and arrive nowhere. Is the scale and proportion of the Palace so inhuman that it defies expectation, or is the scale playing with their minds? In each chamber, Oll makes sure Zybes ties off a loop of thread. The auramite doors at the far end of the next hall stand ajar, as though someone passed through in a hurry without caring to close them. The hall beyond is yet another arcade of heroic statues and empty alcoves, glowing soft amber in the light of the electro-flambeaux. They move along it. Zybes fusses with his thread, then hurries to catch them up. 'Quite a journey we've had,' muses John. Oll nods. 'Through caverns measureless to man, eh?' 'I didn't take you for a student of poetry, Grammaticus.' 'I'm not. I wasn't. The words just drifted into my head. All sorts of verse I was made to read when I was young. Never had much time for it. Funny how memories come back.' 'After lives as long as ours,' says Oll. 'Caverns measureless to man... I certainly remember that one. Keats.' 'Not Keats. Coleridge.' 'Be quiet!' Katt yelps suddenly. They turn and look at her. Actae is twisting her head from side to side, as if searching with her blind eyes. 'What is it, witch?' John asks. 'Hide,' hisses Actae. 3:xxi Fragments The Lady Lucia Galika Tamerocca hides, though it is a poor form of hiding. The heavy drapes of the grand chamber have been closed, the last chore of her household staff before they fled. The room is gloomy, but for the lamp at her side. The Lady Lucia Galika Tamerocca has put on her finest gown, with its vast train and skirts of lace and silk. She has put on her best powdered wig, and she has rouged her cheeks. This is how she would dress whenever she, along with the high-born scions of other noble houses, was summoned from her palatine mansion to a formal event in the Sanctum. The room trembles. She hears the windows shiver in their casements. The Lady Lucia Galika Tamerocca watches her beloved songbirds flutter and chirp in the huge and ornate birdcage on the table in front of her. How unafraid they seem. The cage is too heavy for her to carry, for she is an old woman, and she would never have left them behind. She considered letting them go, setting them free, but like her, where would they fly to? The Lady Lucia Galika Tamerocca has decided to stay, to hide in the curtained darkness until whatever finds her, finds her. She is too dignified to run. She is of noble blood, and this mansion is her family home. She will not be driven out of it by mindless curs, no matter how brutal they are. The room trembles. Dust drifts down from the ceiling. The Lady Lucia Galika Tamerocca keeps her seat, despite the sounds that rise like a storm around her house. This is her home. She absolutely will not run. She is nobility, and nobility does not flee, and besides, who would feed her birds? She hears something scratching at the chamber door. They are here now. Very well. So be it. The Lady Lucia Galika Tamerocca has a laslock pistol in her lap. Face down, Sergeant Hetin Gultan of the Royal Zanzibari Hort hides among the dead by pretending to be one of them. The dead are his men, and mud clasps them all. The enemy approaches, stalking from the smoke. He hopes he will pass unnoticed, but he will not. The World Eaters smell fear, and the dead are no longer afraid. Barthusa Narek of the Word Bearers stays hidden. Concealed in the rubble of a smashed fortification, he watches the cities of the human home world burn. The Word Bearers who accompanied him to Terra and the final fight are dead. Most were killed when their drop-ship was hit by battery fire on the assault run. The rest he killed himself. Once on the burning fields of the Throneworld, one mote swept up on a war of global scale, he had no need to keep pretending he was one of them, or that he shared their manic ambitions. There's only one death, one end, that interests him. He's tracking his prey. Hidden, invisible, he scopes from the rubble with his sniper rifle. He has standard ammunition left, and he'll use that as he pleases. He has one fulgurite bullet remaining too, and he's saving it. When he finally locates his father, Lorgar, he will load it and use it. There is nowhere to hide. Something down the street, a traitor engine by the sound of it, is raking Kucher's position with some kind of cutting beam, some hideous area-denial weapon. The beam, scarcely thicker than a whisker, is only visible when it passes through smoke. It cuts through everything it touches like a hot wire. It cuts through brick, stone, metal and armour. It cuts through Kucher's men. He sees it slice the corners off buildings, cleanly sectioning stonework like soft cheese. He sees it prune light poles and drop them like logs. He sees it pass, like a flawless surgical blade, through the tops of helmets, through torsos, through limbs. The corpses of nine men are already piled on the pavement, cut into astonishingly geometric cross-sections. There is so much blood. Kucher yells at his squad to move and find cover, but there is absolutely nowhere to hide. Sergeant Geera falls, precisely severed at the waist. Trooper Vaskol loses both legs at the knees and collapses like a bolster. Trooper Herch leans against a wall, and then half of him slides away vertically in a sudden out-welling of blood that leaves the rest of him propped up like a dissection plate in a medicae treatise. Kucher hurls himself into cover behind the command Aurox. He feels the vehicle shudder slightly, and sees a meticulous hairline crack suddenly running along the hull, end to end, at chest height. Kucher smells burned meat and the coppery stink of blood. He looks down at himself as he falls apart. The skitarii, vassals of the Dark Mechanicum, think they are well hidden. They have clambered up the flying buttresses of the shell-struck manufactory, and gained access to the lowest tier of the flat roofing. They move in fire-teams, lugging the disassembled parts of three heavy fusion mortars between them. Torrential rain pelts down across the roofscape, and vapour swirls up from the galvanised panels of the flat roof. The skitarii flash encrypted binharic data-bursts to and fro. On the next level up, they will unpack their cargo, and assemble the mortars for firing, dropping a string of fusion bombs on the unsuspecting loyalist forces dug-in behind the manufactory's eastern wall. The skitarii are from the Kal-Tag Delt sub-branch, a purpose-specific clade designed for line infiltration, and group-unified by stealth-adaptive coding. Their power sources are baffled to mask heat profile, and their motivators frictionless and damped. Despite the weapons and munition canisters they carry, they move in virtual silence; their body armour - layers of long, ceramite leaf panels that encase them like feathers - is matt-grey and non-reflective. They are virtually invisible to auspex and modar. Their optics and sensoria are particularly large and sensitive. Nevertheless, there is someone waiting for them on the flat roof. He is crouched in the rain, a sword flat across his knees. The skitarii register surprise-code. They were hiding/concealed. How did the Astartes legionary hide/conceal himself from their hiding/concealment? How did he get there without detection, to be hiding/waiting for them? Their binharic queries go unanswered. Loken rises to his feet, chainsword purring as he extends it out to his right. He draws Rubio's blade in his left hand. The Kal-Tag Delt register no fear. Fear is not a coded option for them. They set down the mortar components and rush him. They have calculated the variables. They are many and he is- -into them, without hesitation. Blades loop and hiss in the rain, shredding armour leaves and plastek, spraying debris and severed limbs into the air. They stab at him, they shoot, but he is moving too fast, and he is in among them, impaling and carving, smashing one skitarius into another with crushing force. Rubio's blade smokes with angry power as it slices through tubing, through wiring plaits, through mechadendrites, through torso-plate, through helmets surgically fused to skulls. A skitarius folds under the fury of Loken's chainsword like torn foil. Broken leaves spin up from the impact. Loken turns and rakes Rubio's blade through the thorax of a particularly large Mechanicum warrior. Its chest explodes in sparks and fragments of circuitry. As it teeters, systems ruined, he delivers a hard kick to

io's blade smokes with angry power as it slices through tubing, through wiring plaits, through mechadendrites, through torso-plate, through helmets surgically fused to skulls. A skitarius folds under the fury of Loken's chainsword like torn foil. Broken leaves spin up from the impact. Loken turns and rakes Rubio's blade through the thorax of a particularly large Mechanicum warrior. Its chest explodes in sparks and fragments of circuitry. As it teeters, systems ruined, he delivers a hard kick to its belly that smashes it off the edge of the flat roof, and knocks three others of its kind off the lip with it. The remainder scuttle back from him, fast-processing the conclusion that he is an unexpectedly dangerous impediment. One flash-burns out a noospheric signal, calling in immediate fire support with no heed for the integrity of itself or the surviving members of its unit. Such is the pragmatic war-logic of the skitarii. This impediment is too dangerous and must be obliterated as a priority. One and a half seconds later, an auto-slaved launcher unit three streets away fires a hunter-seeker missile vertically with a sucking roar of fire-wash. The missile climbs on a tail of blue flame, arcs and plunges. Loken sees the twinkle of it, and leaps. The entire flat roof annihilates as it impacts, and two of the great stone buttresses collapse, folding like weary limbs. In the courtyard below, Loken rises to his feet. The flagstones under his boots are cracked from his sure-footed landing. Cinders flutter down around him in the rain. He glances up at the burning rooftop he just vacated. The flames swirling off it are almost incandescent. He sheathes Rubio's blade, then uses the tip of his chainsword to probe the broken bodies of the four skitarii he kicked off the roof. They are smashed and crumpled on the yard's flagstones around him. One stirs, and starts to gurgle out some kind of reboot code. Loken applies a little pressure and lets the chainsword saw its head off. He takes stock. He was sure he just heard someone call his name again. The yard, mysteriously, seems familiar. Rain sheets down. An abandoned groundcar stands off to one side. The flagstones are littered with broken glass and lumps of burning debris from the destroyed roof above. Ahead of him are the doors of a large building. But everywhere looks the same now. Everywhere is a repeating desolation of darkness and rain and rubble. His sensoria detect movement. He slides into hiding and awaits the next encounter. They scramble to find cover. There was an alarming note of fear in Actae's warning. The only possible hiding places are the vacant alcoves, the ornate recesses where giant sentinels once stood. They crowd into the shadows of three of them, pressing in behind the elaborate frames. A procession passes down the hall. Soldiers of the Hort Palatine in ceremonial regalia march in, streaming - as it seems to Oll - from nowhere. They are escorting what looks like a column of prisoners: men and women in simple cream robes. These prisoners appear scared, or at least apprehensive, and the stink of psykanic power wafts from them. There are over two hundred of them. Behind them come two cowled figures in green robes, conversing in low voices; behind them, two terrifying Custodians in gold bearing castellan axes of immense size. In one of the alcoves with Actae and Katt, Oll tries to squeeze himself against the wall and remain hidden. Through the fretwork of the alcove's frame, he sees the agitated psykers herded onwards. For a second, it seems as though ghosts flutter around them, half-seen shades, but he's sure it's just a trick of the light. Then the Custodians pass by, and he shrinks in even more tightly, for they are beautiful and dreadful both at once. It takes a long time for the procession to disappear into the next chamber. They hear doors close. Oll peeks out. The hall is empty again. 'Psykers,' he murmurs. 'Submitting to sacrifice,' Actae says. 'What do you mean?' 'It wasn't clear. Their minds were clouded by something. But the figures in green, they were two of the Sigillite's Chosen. I could hear some of their thoughts. This is the fifth recruitment today. They are gathering the psycho-active, tithing them... as a safeguard of some kind. Something called "sigil", an unspoken sanction. Taking them to the Throne Room to...' 'What?' asks Oll. 'I saw their thoughts, Ollanius,' says Actae. She turns her blindfold face towards him. 'The Chosen were just as scared as the reinforcements they had conscripted. They're not sure what's going on, but the Emperor has risen from the Throne and has engaged upon some sudden new plan.' 'What do you mean, "plan"?' 'I don't know,' says Actae. 'She doesn't,' says Katt. 'And they didn't know either.' 3:xxii The place and manner of my execution Of course, they granted him a gaoler too. A guardian to watch over him, to take him to the laboratorium and back, and to stand in vigil outside his door, day and night. The guardian is a golden giant named Amon Tauromachian. Early on, Fo couldn't really distinguish the brute from others of his kind, but he's come to know him, as much as anyone can come to know these kinds of facsimile gods. Amon seems thoughtful and almost kind (well, compared to that vicious killer the captain-general), if the word can be applied to a three-metre-tall genetic monster in laughably ostentatious gilded war plate. Amon is his gaoler, his guardian, and now, it seems, his executioner. 'It's time then, is it?' asks Fo, looking up from his books. Amon reaches up and disengages his neck seal. He lifts the helm from his head. The poor monster seems to want to look Fo in the face, unmasked, as though this conveys some sort of respect or dignity. 'Directives have been issued,' Amon says, his voice the soft rumble of a storm on a neighbouring continent. Fo scowls to himself. He sets aside his book. He hasn't been allowed a pen or any means of making a record, and the walls of his quarters (unlike the noctilithic walls of my squalid cell in the Blackstone, from which I also learned so very much) are impervious to marking. But he has modified the nail of his right index finger so that it can impress individual letters and numerals in the books he's been given, and he has perfected a kind of inverted braille by which he can record, secretly, his private thoughts and ruminations. Once he's dead, the books will probably be discarded, or returned to some library without anybody noticing the slight dimples and stipples embossing the pages. They'll never know what he wrote, or the secrets he hid. 'Issued, eh? May I ask who by?' Fo says. 'I have not been told,' says Amon. 'I have simply been instructed to discharge my watch of you, and hand you over. I am-' Fo raises a hand quickly to silence him. 'Oh! Please, Amon. Don't make your next words "only following orders". Do me that decency, at least.' Amon opens his mouth and closes it again. An almost imperceptible expression of distress crosses his broad features. It was what he was going to say, of course. The idea that Fo knew that reinforces his concerns that Fo is somehow learning to manipulate and read him. Amon has been told all the stories about Fo's legendary and almost superhuman genius. Almost all of them are lies, or at least wild exaggerations. Fo is just a clever but frail old man in a paper suit. There is no way he can control a being like Amon, not by hypnosis or auto-suggestion or subliminal micro-direct, or any means biomechanical, or chemical, or anything. But Fo is clever. Fo knows that the one thing he has left is his reputation. It's not what he can do, it's what they think he can do. Fo gets up. He brushes down the paper of his smock. 'Those orders, Amon. What were they?' 'To guard you. You know that.' Fo nods. One of the most powerful beings on Terra has been charged to guard him. Such creatures do not waver or relent in any way. They cannot be influenced. Indeed, the Custodes (each one brilliant in his own way) indulge in ingenious games to test themselves, to predict, imagine and out-think any possible ploy that might be used against them to disrupt their function. They cannot be out-thought. They are always projecting every possible variation. But this, Fo reasons, creates an unusual loop of bio-feedback. It is a pleasingly simple sequence: the Custodes cannot be out-guessed. The Custodes are utterly diligent in their duty. One has been appointed to guard him. Fo has a (undeserved, really) reputation for being superhumanly ingenious. Thus his Sentinel scrutinises him with greater and ever-greater degrees of analysis, trying to identify what ingenuity Fo is about to use. Of course, there is none. Fo is just an old man in a paper suit, with no means whatsoever to influence or manipulate a Custodian (can anything do that? Can anything turn them? I doubt it), but Amon suspects he can (or will try) and so is constantly alert, constantly watching for tiny tricks and minute tells. The mere expectation that Fo is about to try something is breeding a kind of paranoia in Amon that is slowly impairing his performance. So, in fact, Fo has two things left. His reputation, and the way that reputation interferes with Amon's vigilance. Fo need do nothing at all (and I can do nothing anyway) and the Custodian will slowly lose himself in ever-decreasing loops trying to predict what the trick (which is genuinely nothing) is. 'Follow me,' says Amon. 'Can I bring my books?' Fo asks. Amon nods. Fo gathers them up. He offers the bundle to the Sentinel. 'Do you want to check them, or take custody of them?' Amon looks at the bundle. He is evidently wary that they are part of the non-existent trick. 'You can carry them,' says Amon. 'So, where are we off to?' Fo asks as they start to walk. Amon doesn't reply. 'Oh, Amon,' says Fo, 'show a condemned man the respect of conversation. How's the war going? Have we lost yet?' 3

w me,' says Amon. 'Can I bring my books?' Fo asks. Amon nods. Fo gathers them up. He offers the bundle to the Sentinel. 'Do you want to check them, or take custody of them?' Amon looks at the bundle. He is evidently wary that they are part of the non-existent trick. 'You can carry them,' says Amon. 'So, where are we off to?' Fo asks as they start to walk. Amon doesn't reply. 'Oh, Amon,' says Fo, 'show a condemned man the respect of conversation. How's the war going? Have we lost yet?' 3:xxiii The honour of Angels And, at the last, they cannot hold them. The long martial feud that has existed between their Legions, between Angels of Darkness and Guardians of Death, between the great war-captains Corswain and Typhus, seems pitiful and meaningless, merely the blunted games of the lists or the dainty sport of the tourney ground. It feels preposterous, a cheap and empty jest, that Corswain and his men have ever counted themselves the victors, or ever believed themselves the superior army. For there is no stopping this. The Death Guard comes, in a form and manner so changed, in mien so unlike before, it is as though their paths have never crossed, and the Angels of Caliban are no more than children, dressed for play with paper armour and wooden swords, surprised by real bandits or set upon by winter-hungry wolves. Lines break, shields shatter, defences topple in candent clouds of sparks, fighting platforms burn and collapse. This is not the Death Guard they have known, and met, and matched on other fields. This is some fevered derangement, some altered version, plucked from the secret nightmares of Caliban: the old foe, but not the foe, some new thing wearing an old name. Some horror. Corswain believed he had begun to understand the chaogenic touch of the warp, and steel himself against the diseased state of the Death Guard. But the narrow mountain pass has become a black pit, the stink a scalding gag of carious meat and liquid fever, the air a blizzard of blowflies, white ash and black snow. The Death Guard host bursts across their battlements and fortified slopes like a pestilential wave, drowning everything beneath its surge. Swarms of man-things in swollen, bloated armour ascend the gloomy cliff-faces with insectile determination. They clamber and grimp up sheer rock that no human or demi-human should be able to scale, and pour out across the upper platforms, slaughtering and hacking. Dark Angels who have withstood the most ferocious xenos forces are cut down and torn apart in moments. Bodies pile and begin to rot from the very instant of death. Flies are everywhere, everywhere, billowing from visors and screaming mouths, spewing like smoke from the fluted horns and finials of Death Guard plate, sawing the air with their deafening roar of azif. Comms fail, stripped of all meaning beyond the static skritch of wing cases. The light has failed too, filtered to an achromatic nothing by the fly-clouds and the airborne chitin dust. Blood is almost white where it splashes rock and armour, and black where it spatters snow. Corswain fights. With him, on the ravine ledge, Tragan of the Ninth Order, Vorlois, Bruktas... and others close enough to touch at arm's length yet masked anonymous by the fly-blown murk. The mechanisms of their bolters have jammed, clogged with insect filth and crushed fly-bodies, so they fight with blades, damascened longswords and heirloom hand-and-a-halfs smeared with a gurry of black, caustic pus. Corswain rends dark armour and spills diseased entrails. He kicks the slain and dying foes from the rampart, casting them back into the faces of those clawing up behind them. He splits helms and breaks blades. Each blow sprays blood that adds to the slench dammed by the rampart lip. Men slip in blood, wade in it to their shins. It drizzles the air, a prisk of aerosolised gore that films their wargear and drips from their elbows and pauldrons. And in it all, he knows one thing. They are going to lose. Corswain knows this, in his heart, as sure and certain as any pledge he has ever made. It is not the enemy's fury, nor his uncounted numbers, nor the plague of his contagion. These are things they might have withstood, for they are ten thousand sons of Caliban. No, it is not that the Death Guard is going to triumph; it is that the Dark Angels are going to lose. For their courage has gone. Their resolve. Somehow, somehow the very heart of them, that has always faced down enemies, no matter the odds, seems to have dissolved like ice in the sun. Their will has failed. He tells himself that it is the corrosive magick of the warp, that Typhus has infected them, through the gifts of Chaos, with a distemper that has robbed them of their determination, and sapped their vigour. He can see it in those around him, like Tragan. He can feel it in his own bones, an ache, a wasting despair, a futility. He tells himself that this is Chaos at work, weakening the mettle of the Dark Angels. But it is gnawing in his mind too. The buzzing azif tells him this is his fault. His alone. This loss will be his. He has led them to this end. His ten thousand followed him, for years, from war to war, never doubting his leadership even as they faced the suicidal run to Terra and the horrors of the Hollow Mountain. They followed him, without hesitation, even though they knew it would be to their deaths, for they believed in him, and believed their seneschal would make their life-price count, achieving some victory on Terra that would matter. But it will not. They have come, like fools, it seems, to waste themselves on the shores of hell. They will accomplish nothing but death, squandered by a leader who thought he knew better. This is Corswain's folly. This is Corswain's defeat. They have loyally followed him because he was the voice of the Lion, but his roar was an empty promise. He was too bold, too confident. He has not led them to glory, just to a humiliating and pointless doom at the hands of their arch-enemy. Corswain has failed their trust and, their belief gone, they are failing him, spirit broken, fighting with lacklustre anguish simply to prolong the bitter ending. It's not true. It's not true, Corswain tells himself, fighting bodies with his steel, and the buzzing with his mind. I have not wasted this effort and I have not wasted these men. In the face of the fall of Terra, in the face of the triumph of Ruin, any attempt, however long the odds, was worth making. The Lion himself would have done the same, and I would do it again. We had to try. This falter of faith, this withering of self-belief, it is just the miasma of the warp, weakening us from within. If we can but find ourselves, if we can remember our spirit but for a moment- He cannot even convince himself. His limbs are leaden. He will die on this cold mountainside, his body fattened with maggots, with ten thousand sons of Caliban dead around him. Whatever vainglorious notion of heroism brought him to the birthworld, it is revealed as utter falsehood by the swarming, tenebrous majesty of the plague-bearing foe. But still he holds, by some thread. Still he holds at the rim of the pass, bodies piling around and under him, his sword's edge chipped and notched, swinging at the clumsy, taliped beasts that claw over the lip of the cliff and shamble towards him through the fog of flies and cinders. He sees Tragan fall, carried over in the soup of blood by multiple attackers. He splashes to him, cleaving assailants off his brother, hauling bodies away and despatching them with frenzied blows. Tragan is on his back, struggling to tear free and regain his feet. A mace clubs Corswain from behind. He reels, and then, like Tragan, is mobbed in a scrum of Death Guard. Hands seize him, pin him, threatening to rip his limbs from his body. He tries to fight. A Death Guard brute, larvae pouring from its mouth-slot like rice, raises the mace to mash his head. The brute combusts. His bulk, wreathed in plasmic fire, collapses, molten metal fused to blistered meat. The mace drops into the mire. More beams sear out of the blizzarding insect clouds, engulfing others. Heads un-form like hot wax. Corswain stumbles forward, released, his armour spattered with droplets of molten Death Guard plate. A figure steadies him. 'Stand firm, your grace,' it says. Plastered in mud, blood and a crust of crushed insects, Corswain looks up and sees hope in the most unexpected form. A sign. A silver mask. 'Stand firm, great seneschal,' says Lord Cypher. The Dark Angels hold the line against the Death Guard. 3:xxiv Discovered in their doubt We should follow them,' says Oll, shouldering his kitbag. His companions look at him uneasily. 'The psykers?' asks Krank. 'Yes,' says Oll. 'At a careful distance, of course.' 'Why?' asks John warily. 'Because they were being taken to the Throne Room,' says Oll. 'What have we found, John? Just one anonymous damn hallway after another. Do you want to keep wandering in circles, or follow someone who knows where they're going?' He walks towards the doors at the far end of the hall. Graft starts to trundle after him obediently, and a second later, Zybes and Leetu follow. The others hesitate. John glances at Actae. 'Risen, you said?' he asks her. 'That was the word framed in their minds,' replies Actae. 'It was emotionally dense. The idea that he is risen carried immense significance for those people.' 'I'll bet,' mutters John. He hurries after Oll, and catches up with him at the doors. Oll's got his ear to them, cautiously preparing to open them. 'Wait,' says John. 'Why?' asks Oll. 'I think...' John begins. It's like he can't bear to say it. 'I think we might need to reconsider our options.' 'No,' says Oll. He looks at John and sees that, for the first time, John Grammaticus looks properly scared. Oll can almost see the confidence leaking out of him. 'If He's risen,' John says, 'if He's left the Throne... then He's committed

fter Oll, and catches up with him at the doors. Oll's got his ear to them, cautiously preparing to open them. 'Wait,' says John. 'Why?' asks Oll. 'I think...' John begins. It's like he can't bear to say it. 'I think we might need to reconsider our options.' 'No,' says Oll. He looks at John and sees that, for the first time, John Grammaticus looks properly scared. Oll can almost see the confidence leaking out of him. 'If He's risen,' John says, 'if He's left the Throne... then He's committed to some new plan. A new tactic. An endgame.' Oll nods. 'So He'll be even harder to reach.' Oll nods again. 'And even harder to stop,' he agrees. 'So we should reconsider,' says John, 'before it's too late.' The others have gathered around them. John's sudden fear is contagious, and they all look rattled. Oll realises their morale is finally caving in. It's not as though they ever had much of a chance anyway, and every step of their journey has been skin-of-their-teeth luck. But all along John's been the dynamo, a source of eager determination, sometimes irritating, always intense, that's kept them all afloat. That daredevil, almost manic fire has gone out, quite abruptly, and without it, everything seems very cold and uncomfortably real. They can no longer ignore the immeasurable folly of their mission. 'No,' says Oll. 'We're not going to reconsider anything. We push on.' He reaches for the door handle. John grabs his wrist. 'We could still get out,' John insists. 'Use the knife. Get these people to safety-' 'I said no,' says Oll, pulling his hand free of John's grip. 'You don't get to recruit me and then back out at the last minute. I never wanted to do this. You talked me into it. So here we are. And it's already too late. The knife won't carry us out of here. It couldn't get us in here, remember?' He opens the doors. Another long, silent hallway confronts them, entirely empty but for the demigod statues lining its walls. The light is the gold-leaf glow of early summer. 'Hebet? Tie another thread, please,' says Oll as he starts to advance along the hall. Zybes nods, and trots over to the nearest statue, unwinding the twine. As he waits, Oll looks back at the others. John is loitering in the doorway, reluctant to enter the hall. 'What are you afraid of?' Oll says to him. 'Failing,' John answers. 'Dying. Getting everyone killed. Him.' 'Me too, John.' 'You don't show it.' 'I have my faith, John,' says Oll. John laughs sarcastically. 'Oh. That,' he says. 'Trooper Persson believes in god,' says Graft, rotating its upper body segment to face John. 'He is pious. He is a man of faith. He will be guided by that faith to do what is called "good works". This I have recorded about him on a number of occasions.' 'Faith is meaningless,' says Actae. 'It is an outmoded concept. A crutch for the puerile and the ignorant.' She turns her blindfolded eyes towards Oll. Her poise is arch and superior. 'Or is faith,' she asks, 'against all rational sense, your guiding principle in this whole endeavour, Ollanius? If it is, I regret ever getting involved.' 'Ignore her,' says Katt. She looks at Oll. 'Just lead us and we'll follow.' 'Yeah,' says John. 'What "good works" should we do now, whatever the hell that means?' 'Good works means to endeavour to help others who require help,' says Graft, 'without expectation of reward or profit. It is not conditional on self-benefit. This I have rec-' 'Oh, shut up!' says John. He glares at Oll. 'Do you know what? That pious streak of yours was a charming little quirk for about a century. It's beginning to wear thin.' He points at the tiny Catheric charm around Oll's neck. 'That's bullshit,' he says. 'Your "god" is-' 'What I have faith in is my business,' says Oll. 'You have faith too. You had faith in me. That's why you came to me and begged for help. You had faith that I could do this. Where's that gone?' John looks aside sullenly. 'The things we've been through to get here, John,' says Oll. 'You've never flinched. I'm sure you've been afraid many times. Terrified. I know I have. But you've never lost that faith in me until now. Why is that?' 'Oh, I'm sure you're going to tell me,' says John. 'I think it's because we're actually here,' says Oll. 'I warned you, the Palace is a weapon. It's messing with your mind. It's purposefully designed to be intimidating, to make you feel small and powerless and lost-' 'This... dangerous theatre?' 'Right,' says Oll. 'It's all for show. The architecture is intended to swallow us and make us feel like nobodies-' 'Oh, we're nobodies, all right,' says John. 'We're nobodies who made it all the way to Terra,' says Oll quietly. 'We're nobodies who got inside His damn Sanctum. These last-minute fears are just a subliminal reaction to the weaponised environment. It's crushing you psychologically, exactly the way He wanted it to.' 'No,' says John. 'The witch said He's risen. Risen from the Throne. What does that tell you, Oll?' 'It could mean anything,' says Oll. 'It means,' says John, 'that He's not here any more. All this bloody effort getting here has been for nothing.' 'Don't talk that way,' says Zybes. 'It sounds like you're giving up.' 'No one's giving up, Hebet,' says Oll. 'John's faith may be wavering, and I understand why, even if he refuses to admit it. But mine isn't.' 'Faith!' John snorts. 'Is that really all you've got?' 'It's all I need,' says Oll. 'How about a plan?' John growls. 'Or is that god of yours going to show you some kind of sign?' 'Maybe he will. Or maybe we work this out for ourselves.' 'What are you saying?' asks John. 'We just have to tweak our plan a little?' 'Plans are hard to revise when they don't exist in the first place,' says Actae. 'Just... don't talk!' Katt snaps at her. 'As you command, my leash,' Actae replies sardonically. 'Of course Trooper Persson has a plan,' says Graft. 'Does he?' asks Actae. 'This would be the plan he refuses to share with any of us?' Oll doesn't answer. He's suddenly frowning. He's looking intently at John. 'Well, there's our sign,' he says. 'What?' Katt asks. 'What's wrong with your face?' Oll asks John. 'Nothing!' John says. 'That's my point,' says Oll. John touches a finger to his mouth and chin tentatively. Then he gropes at his ribcage and shoulders. 'That rogue Alpha Legionnaire did a serious number on him,' Oll says to the others. 'But there's not a mark on him any more.' 'I don't understand,' says John, bewildered. 'Nothing hurts. No bruising. My lip isn't split, and my tongue-' 'What's happening?' asks Zybes in alarm. 'It's the aegis,' says Oll. 'The what?' asks Krank. 'The Sanctum's psychic shield,' says Leetu. Oll nods. 'Correct,' he says. 'It's His aura. A projection of His will...' 'It holds the warp at bay,' says Actae, 'and protects from empyric assault.' 'Indeed,' says Oll. 'But it can have a healing effect too. Like a side effect. Back in the day, it was considered a miraculous property of His palaces and fortresses. Wherever He was, He would extend His will as part of the site defences. But people who were granted an audience, or came inside His protection, they were often cured of disease or restored to health. It was just a by-product of His intense psychic presence.' 'Which means He's still here,' breathes John. Oll nods. 'Which means He's still here,' he agrees. 'We're inside the aegis. Your injuries have vanished. We have to be really close to Him. It's not as though He can have someone else maintain the Sanctum's aegis in His place.' Slowly, John begins to grin at Oll. 'Damn you, Oll,' he murmurs. 'See? Sometimes you just need a little faith,' says Oll, smiling back at him. 'Faith is your department,' says John. 'I don't touch the stuff myself.' John hoists his kitbag and they stride together towards the next set of golden doors. The others exchange glances and then hurry to catch them up. 'So we've still got a chance?' asks Krank. 'I think we have,' says Katt. 'I think Erda was a fool to believe in either of these men,' says Actae. Oll approaches the imposing doors, preparing to open them, but John stops him. 'Let me,' he says. 'My business is watching your back while you get things done, remember? What did you call them, eh, Graft? "Good works"? Let's do some of those.' He nods to Leetu, who raises his weapon to cover the doorway. John listens at the doors, then takes hold of the handle. 'Ready, Argonauts?' he asks, grinning back at them. His confidence has returned, as quickly as it fled. Contagious as his fear, the return of his familiar, cocky grin draws a smile from Katt, Zybes and Krank. He swings the huge doors open. The tip of the levelled sentinel blade is aimed directly at his face, even though it is rested at the hip. 'Submit instantly,' says the Custodian giant, 'or be destroyed.' 3:xxv The Angel in flight The Blood Angels of Anabasis take Embarkation Deck Two. They sweep the sub-deck prep chambers, the adjoining service crypts, and both the principal and secondary access routes. Terminators led by Khoradal Furio snap left as soon as the arrival site is claimed, and burn through the aft control blocks and duralium stores, securing tertiary engineering and port power relay four within eight minutes. Sarodon Sacre's assault formation make even better progress, clearing ventral eighteen and nineteen, cutting the primary power relays to the ninth quadrant (port) autoloader assemblies, and then establishing control of the interdeck connectives at five points. The squads of Maheldaron, Krystaph Krystapheros and First Captain Raldoron elegantly leapfrog Sacre's blocking action, mine and disable the entire port-side auspex array, then break through cleanly into the deck twelve interlace and punch a route directly to the main spinal. By then, their primarch and the Sanguinary Guard have reached them. The spear-tip bites deep into the flank of the Vengeful Spirit. The fighting is brutal and intense. Roga

trol of the interdeck connectives at five points. The squads of Maheldaron, Krystaph Krystapheros and First Captain Raldoron elegantly leapfrog Sacre's blocking action, mine and disable the entire port-side auspex array, then break through cleanly into the deck twelve interlace and punch a route directly to the main spinal. By then, their primarch and the Sanguinary Guard have reached them. The spear-tip bites deep into the flank of the Vengeful Spirit. The fighting is brutal and intense. Rogal's projections were entirely accurate. The Sons of Horus, plumed and ferocious, resist with magnificent resolve, even though they have been taken by surprise. Within seconds of the initial teleport flare, the ship is screaming with alert klaxons, and the vox is wild with directives deploying squads down-ship to supplement and reinforce the units that have confronted the initial boarding. It was everything Sanguinius expected: no one, not even the elite of the Immortal Ninth, storm-boards an Astartes flagship without meeting the most savage resistance. And these are not just Astartes. These are the warriors of the legendary XVI. These are the peerless Luna Wolves, against whom every other Legion, no matter how much they deny it, measure themselves. Sanguinius has broken into their home, their ship-fortress, the heart of their Legion. No one commits such an outrage without suffering the most lethal reflexive reaction. Sanguinius doesn't waste time analysing the defiance he faces. Even if there was a way of knowing what percentage of the XVI had been deployed to surface action, there is still no means of calculating the odds or determining how many Astartes are present on the Vengeful Spirit, for nobody has any reliable data on the Legion's current size. What confronts him is merely a blistering and exemplary resistance, and he matches it with a blistering and exemplary attack. Nor does he distract himself with consternation at the fact, obvious from the very first moment, that only his company, just one-quarter of the Anabasis assault, has transitioned successfully. There is no sign of the other formations, of Rogal, Constantin or his beloved father, and all links to Terra are jammed. Was it teleport malfunction, or worse? Will the others arrive on their heels, belatedly, any second? Are they already here, elsewhere on the vast ship-fortress, misdirected somehow and out of contact? Such speculations are pointless. He is here. He is committed. There is no going back. There is a compliance to deliver, and an illumination to achieve. If he has to accomplish that with just a quarter of the intended force, then he will. At least it's not a trap. The flagship was entirely unprepared for their shock assault. He has seen the disbelief and indignation on the faces of those he has killed. To their credit, the Sons of Horus do not break. Of course they don't. They rally and adapt with unhesitating dedication, just as his Blood Angels would if the situation was reversed. Some Legions, like Rogal's, Roboute's and Ferrus', are famed for their immaculate presentation and discipline. Others, like Leman's and Konrad's, are notorious for their savage, feral aspect. His Legion and Lupercal's, the IX and the XVI, always had one thing in common: they combined both. Each presented as formidably noble and disciplined, with the drilled precision and gleaming perfection of an Ultramarines high cadre, yet each could, in the blink of an eye, unleash unrestrained hell as monstrous and wild as any Fenrisian Rout. That is what made them special. That is what made them the best, the most feared, and the most celebrated of all the Legiones Astartes. Majestic ferocity. Feral discipline. And now the Astartesian exemplars meet each other, face to face, in a death match to discover which is truly the finest Legion. It is positively childish to think of it in those terms, as a competitive test between rival champions, but to think of it in any other way is to dwell on what's really at stake, and Sanguinius has no need of such mental shackles. He and his men fight as they have always fought, for the peerless glory of the moment, for unqualified victory, to prove their superiority, brazen in their pride and audacity. He told them to affect this mindset. In the final moments before departure, as they assembled their cohort on the platforms of the bulk teleport, those were his last instructions to them. Fight for victory alone. For the simplicity of absolute achievement. Think not of the significance, nor the odds, nor the consequences. Think not of vendettas or grudges or perceived slights. Put from your thoughts all notions that you are avengers or redeemers or saviours. Just fight and win for the honour of demonstrating your unmatched superiority. Fight as Angels. And so they do. And so they have. He has seen their arrogant glory before. He has never seen them match this. Each Blood Angel is a bright devil, a radiant monster, glorious in crimson and gold, leaping and vaulting, fast as thunderbolts, furious as the shining wrath of heaven, blades and spears raised aloft, teeth bared, voices loud and wild with courage. They are almost too fast to follow, too bright to behold, too beautiful to contemplate. The Sons of Horus, for all their courage and ability, seem like crude ogres of the primordial midnight. Each of the Sons of Horus is a fallen angel, an abyssal hero, dark as shadows, bracing and recoiling, sulphurous as the searing rage of hell, shields and chainblades held to block, eyes blazing, voices roaring with denial. They are strong as bedrock, too dark to perceive, too terrible to pity. But he almost pities them. Their dead litter the hallways. Their broken plate fumes and burns. Their traitor blood, once so noble, washes the decks. These are decks he knows. Knows well. In this ship, with these men, with this great lord, Sanguinius first rode the stars as a son of man. The Cthonian warlord mentored him, and taught him the ways of man's war long before Sanguinius ever joined with his own sons. He was part of them, a brother, an honorary son of Horus, taken in and welcomed as one of their own. He knows this ship well. He learned it by heart. He knows these warriors too, and every nuance of their astonishing technique. He exploits that knowledge unashamedly. It is because he knows the unique fingerprint of the Vengeful Spirit that the Blood Angels knew to sweep the sub-deck prep chambers and the adjoining service crypts as soon as Embarkation Deck Two was taken. It was because he knew the layout of both the principal and secondary access routes that Khoradal Furio's Terminators snapped left instead of right as soon as the arrival site was claimed. It was thanks to him they understood the urgency to burn through the aft control blocks and duralium stores, and secure tertiary engineering and port power relay four before turning through-ship at the more obvious target points. Only his insight allowed Sarodon Sacre to clear ventrals eighteen and nineteen, and cut the primary power relays to the ninth quadrant (port) autoloader assemblies, for on other vessels of the class, the primary power relays are seated beneath ventral twenty-two. Minutes would have been lost locating the correct relays, and there would have been no time to advance and control the interdeck connectives. Only he knew that the port-side auspex array was sheathed in unusually heavy diamantine plating, which would require mines to breach and destroy. The squads of Maheldaron, Krystaph Krystapheros and First Captain Raldoron would never have reached the deck twelve interlace before the Sons of Horus sealed it, and besides, they would not have had Sacre's blocking action to cover their flank, because they would still have been searching ventral twenty-two. It is because of him, and his intimate memories of the flagship, that they have already breached the main spinal, the primary artery of the ship. It is because of him. And it is because of Horus. It is because of the friendship they shared, the time they spent, the love that bonded brother to brother, the secrets they revealed to each other without hesitation. Sanguinius knows this ship like any in his own fleet, because Horus taught him the lay of it. The love is gone now, cold and dead. Bitter fury fills its place. Sanguinius is taking the ship with devastating precision, deck by deck, because he once loved his brother, and that love was reciprocated. He exploits his privileged understanding of the Spirit with simultaneous regret and delight. His father told him emotions had been preserved for a reason, so he rejoices in both. He mourns the great Lupercal of old, the peerless, charismatic friend, who taught him the ship level by level, and had no idea that one day his generosity would orchestrate his defeat. He hates the foul Warmaster of the present, who has betrayed everything and everyone, including his old self, by creating a weapon to spear his own flank and unerringly find his very heart. Sanguinius even delights in the applied formation of his men: a spear-tip. The trademark of the Luna Wolves, the bravura method of so many of their victories, a tactic Horus taught his brother so he could similarly excel. Sanguinius turns the spear-tip on the warrior who devised it. He fights. He kills. He advances. He savours the delight of advantage, and the ironic reversal of betrayal. He embraces the satisfaction that Horus all but briefed him on the specifics required to take the XVI flagship all those years ago, as though, subliminally, he knew that one day it would have to be done. He feels no remorse, and he ignores the pain. But the pain does not ignore him. The main spinal is the greatest of the ship's titanic longitudinal hallways, as great in scale as some of the fine processionals of the Inner Palatine. It is a space three decks deep, and runs as a grey steel canyon, arch-roofed and buttressed with grand scisso

briefed him on the specifics required to take the XVI flagship all those years ago, as though, subliminally, he knew that one day it would have to be done. He feels no remorse, and he ignores the pain. But the pain does not ignore him. The main spinal is the greatest of the ship's titanic longitudinal hallways, as great in scale as some of the fine processionals of the Inner Palatine. It is a space three decks deep, and runs as a grey steel canyon, arch-roofed and buttressed with grand scissor arches, for five kilometres through the heart of the ship, like the long naves of antique cathedrals laid end to end. It was impressive: the major vaults of Gloriana-class void-ships always are, the ostentatious extravagance of the shipwright's art, an architectural statement of power and majesty. I will build a ship to traverse the stars, and in it I will place such vast and humbling chambers it will seem as though I have lifted a great palace into the sky. Such is my ambition, my magnificence, my confidence in the colossal over-power of the immense drive systems that they will propel such a vanity of excess mass across light years with ease. There will be no economy of volume. Those who come to these vessels as visitors will weep in awe that we are so mighty we bring our fortresses to them. Main spinals are meant to be awe-inspiring. Sanguinius recalls his own sensations of intimidation when he, a winged giant, first walked its length at Lupercal's side, struck dumb by the spanning archways, the suspended rows of martial banners that marched to infinity, the Luna Wolves and crowds of ship's crew, Navis Nobilite and common serfs that thronged the illuminated upper galleries, and cheered him from the overlooking decks and raised terraces. He remembers being confounded that all of this could be contained within a single ship. But it seems mere function to him, now. A wide and indefensible route of advance down which to charge, an expressway to the enemy's heart, and an invitation. It seems squalid, too. The gilding is flaked and worn, the illustrious banners long gone, the gleaming deck stained with oil and coolant. The XVI always favoured utility over flourish, and this long approach seems to have been stripped back and made barren, like some low-deck service corridor, or the coldly spartan cloister of some grimly ascetic monastery. The air is cold, the light glaucous, and the Sons of Horus who crowd at the marble rails of the upper galleries are no longer cheering. His advancing parade is garlanded by ticker-tape streams of bolter fire and raining petals of las. The punished deck cracks and pockmarks with such intensity it soon resembles the pores and crinkles of old skin. Plumes of dust and grit spring up around him and his men like sudden fields of wheat. His Cataphractii advance into the hail of gunfire, sparks dancing off their sculpted plate. His tactical squads dart to the side of the spinal, using the pillars of the lower archways as cover, blazing return fire up and across the cyclopean space, and raking the upper galleries. Balustrades explode, showering dust and lumps of mangled stone and metal. Torn figures fall, striking the deck far below. Sanguinius and his elite guard take wing. 3:xxvi Seeking meaning where none may exist They move through the stacks in the velvet gloom, with no particular process or plan, just picking and tasting at random, like children loose in an orchard, drawn at whim to the next promising fruit. Already, the rows behind them are piled with books pulled from shelves, or left open and abandoned on lecterns and side tables. The young archivist would be dismayed, but Sindermann has sent her off to consult the catalogue listings. Mauer shows a fascination Sindermann would not have expected from so terse and pragmatic an officer. She seems almost enraptured by what she is finding, and keeps calling out lines and verses for Sindermann to scribble down in his old, dog-eared notebook. He hears her rattling out the latest thing that's taken her eye. He only catches the last few words. '"...awake, arise, or be forever fallen!"' 'Wait. Slower. Say it again.' He can't keep up with her urgent dictation so, by the end of the first hour, she is transcribing annotations on her data-slate, and they content themselves with calling out lines to each other through the stacks, sometimes a distance apart, so that the words of Old Earth echo in the stilted space of the Great Hall, uttered aloud for the first time in perhaps ten or twenty thousand years. Mauer reads out something else, her voice coming to him from beyond the stacks where he is rummaging. '"It little profits that an idle king, by this still hearth, among these barren crags-"' 'I don't think so,' he tuts. 'Wait, Sindermann. It goes on... wait... "Some work of noble note may yet be done, not unbecoming men that strove with gods... one equal temper of heroic hearts, made weak by time and fate, but strong in will, to strive, to seek, to find and not to yield."' 'Is that a poem?' he calls back, lifting down a heavy, leather-bound volume of what appears to be late 37th century political speeches. 'Mauer? Is that a poem?' 'I think so,' she replies. A pause. She appears suddenly, in the shadows at the end of the shelves, studying a small book. 'A Lord Alfred? It's hard to tell. The pages are so faded. Lord Alfred. Was he a High Lord?' 'I don't know,' he replies. She tuts, and discards the book onto a nearby pile. 'What is a poem anyway?' she asks. Sindermann sighs. Her approach is so random, he's finding it hard to concentrate. 'Mauer,' he says, 'I don't really have the time to explain the cultural function of lyric verse. I think you know what a poem is.' 'Of course I know what a poem is,' she snaps. 'I didn't mean that. I meant... what's the point of a poem? And when does a poem stop being just words and become something else? When do words gain power? Under what circumstances?' 'Power?' 'You know what I mean. The reason we're here.' He does know what she means, and yet he still can't answer. If any abreactive magick lurks in the Hall of Leng, he has no idea how they will find it, or recognise it if they do find it. Where does verse, or prose, or memoir stop, and ritual begin? Can things be both at once? Are there incantations of control stashed here in this great collection, under lock and key, or merely the indulgent scribblings of the ages, the fancy of idle men in easier eras, who set out to do no more than praise a lover, or articulate some feeling, or describe a flower or, perhaps, merely rhyme for the sake of rhyme? The arts, whatever they might be, have come to play an increasingly insignificant role in Imperial life, eroded by Strife and Old Night, until they are vestigial memories, non-functioning organs dwarfed by rational science and secular industry. He recognises, belatedly, his own lack of knowledge. Did the arts ever have a purpose, at any time in history, or have they always been decorative? Does some art have true function and capacity and other art not? How does he, with a mind raised in the schools of the modern Imperium, even tell? 'I have found a Metaphysics of Old Albia,' Mauer calls out from beyond the shelves, 'and something called the Codified Ministrations of Narthan Dume.' 'Add them to the pile, Mauer,' he calls. 'I have.' 'Listen,' he says, propping a book open in his hand. '"I met murder on the way..."' 'Why is that significant?' she calls back, unseen. 'Horus went to Murder. Urisarach, which he called Murder...' he trails off. 'What's it from? A grimoire?' 'The Mask of Anarchy,' he replies, reading the title. 'It says, "Rise like Lions after slumber, in unvanquishable number..."' 'Does that mean the First Legion?' 'I don't know,' he says. 'I doubt it.' They are both idiots, he decides. Idiots for embarking on this. He sees them both for an instant, as if from a distance through other eyes, himself and Mauer, an old man and a stern woman, lost and alone in the shelf-maze of an abandoned library, seeking meaning where none may exist. An effort of monumental desperation, without plan or forethought, driven by apocalyptic fear. This, he thinks, this is why people believe in gods. This is how they come to believe. In fear for their existence, they seek meaning in the dark, any meaning they can cling to, building false gods from nothing, assembling false significance from random scraps that were never connected or meant to be connected. It is exactly, precisely the kind of manic, superstitious pseudo-faith that the Emperor erased from human culture so that mankind could be free to build and make and know. 'How about the Principia Belicosa?' 'Skip it,' he replies. 'That's merely a record of conventional warfare.' He doesn't even know why they came here. Not any more. The desperation of the hour notwithstanding, two sensible, sane people came here to... what? Two people, millions of books, trillions of words. What were they even thinking? He can't remember whose idea this was, his or Mauer's, and if it was Mauer's, then the folly of it seems so unlike her. Yet she went along with it, and seems more caught up in it than him. '"At the still point of the turning world, neither flesh nor fleshless. Neither from nor towards, the still point, there the dance is... Where past and future are gathered..."' He ignores her voice. It is as though something told them to come here. As though, without words, someone sent them here. If there was something here, something of true worth and value, surely the Emperor or the Sigillite would have come to fetch it long since? The Hall of Leng, so piled with books and words, perhaps that's all it is. An emptiness, a trove of junk and memories left over from the distant past, a museum of antique and useless ideas. A museum of trifles. Yet He kept it. He preserved it all, in one of the most secure locations in the Sanctum. That, to Sindermann, is the

ords, someone sent them here. If there was something here, something of true worth and value, surely the Emperor or the Sigillite would have come to fetch it long since? The Hall of Leng, so piled with books and words, perhaps that's all it is. An emptiness, a trove of junk and memories left over from the distant past, a museum of antique and useless ideas. A museum of trifles. Yet He kept it. He preserved it all, in one of the most secure locations in the Sanctum. That, to Sindermann, is the true marvel, and the true tragedy. An unexplored, unexploited wealth of past ideas. Of high art. Does it make Him more a god that He sequestered it, or more human that He, perhaps out of sentiment, could not bring Himself to discard it? '"To see a world in a grain of sand, and a heaven in a wild flower,"' Mauer reads out, walking into view, '"hold infinity in the palm, and eternity in an hour." I like this one. I don't know what it means. Do you think it means the wall or the gate?' 'Mauer.' 'The wall or the gate? What do you think? I think-' 'What is the Hall of Leng?' Sindermann interrupts. 'After all?' 'What?' she asks, leaning around a shelf-end to look at him. 'What is it? A treasure house of the riches of Old Earth? In which case, why is no one ever given access to it, or scholars granted admission? Or is it just His-' 'His what? Sindermann?' 'His scrapbook? His attic? His private casket of mementos and bric-a-brac?' 'You think it's that?' Sindermann shrugs. 'I think it has a ridiculously vast building devoted to it, if it is. But then, everything about Him is on a scale beyond our understanding.' 'Are we wasting our time?' she asks, lowering the book in her hands. He looks at her, and shakes his head in doubt. 'Do you remember what prompted us to come here, Mauer?' he asks. She starts to answer, then stops. She has no answer, and he can see that it troubles her. 'It's in our minds, isn't it?' she whispers. 'The warp. It's made us mad, and we don't even see it. It's in everything. It planted some insane notion in our heads and off we ran like...' 'Idiots?' he suggests. Mauer scowls. 'No,' she says. 'No, Kyril. No. There's something here. I'm sure of it. Think how this place was locked and guarded. How secure. The Emperor is pure rationality, and it is not rational to build a place like this unless it guards something of actual value. Keep looking.' She glances back at the book in her hands. '"...the sacred river ran, through caverns measureless to man, down to a sunless sea,"' she reads. She tosses the book aside. 'Not that, obviously. Keep looking.' The young archivist reappears suddenly. She gazes in dismay at the books scattered on the chequerboard floor, but decides not to say anything. She has a data-slate in her hand. 'I have consulted the catalogue,' she says nervously. 'I think I may have located some items in special storage.' 'Where?' asks Mauer. 'Collection eight-eight-eight,' she says. 'Which is where?' 'Down here,' she says, gesturing. They freeze. A heavy thump has just rung through the echoic space of the vast library. 'That was the main doors,' the librarian whispers. 'Someone's here with us,' says Mauer. She draws her sidearm. 'Someone, or something.' 3:xxvii Arise Below the Hollow Mountain, the wind shifts. Corswain gazes at the silver mask. 'Do not ask,' says Cypher. 'Do not question it, your grace. I have been with you all along. I stand with you now. That is all you need to know.' His words echo in the ether, carried and amplified by profound psionic force. The choking clouds of flies billow back. 'Sons of the First, your duty to your seneschal, please,' Cypher declares, his voice piercing every mind on the hill-slope and cliffs. 'He gave you an order. Kill them.' Immediately, he is at the edge of the black rock, over which the pullulating droves of the Death Guard are still spilling. He begins to mete out death to all unwise enough to come across the lip at him. His sword splits open black armour like blisters. His plasma gun torches men whole, and sends their molten bodies hurtling down the cliff in pyretic streaks. Dark Angels rush to his side, like lions out of slumber. The spirit that was lacking surges back. Faith finds its steel. It is the work of the Librarius. A supreme effort of will and one, no doubt, they have been striving to achieve since the Death Guard magicks settled upon them all and the battle first began. Corswain knows it is their doing, though it marvels him to the core all the same. The revelation of Cypher is miraculous, but it alone could not have overturned his vanguard's despondency so quickly. Cartheus and his brothers are working in concert somewhere, magnifying the effect, echoing the image of Cypher into every mind. It is bravado, the theatre of war, but it has a dazzling effect. As he runs to Cypher's side, sword raised, Corswain knows he will not question it. Not now. Not ever. The symbolic office of Lord Cypher is a curious and ancient part of the Legion's hierarchy: a warrior assigned by the Lion, masked and always anonymous, charged with the custody of the secrets and traditions. In such wise, he is a tradition of secrets himself. Where he chooses to reveal himself, and which battles to fight, are always subject to his own decision, except that he always stands true in the darkest hours, for there is no greater tradition or discipline within the Legion order than the pursuit of perilous victory. And this fly-blown hell is a dark hour indeed. Corswain had no notion that Lord Cypher was hidden in his ranks. He thought him far away, perhaps abiding within the echelons of his father. He thought the power of Cypher's presence a blessing he could never wish for. But here he stands, like some divine sign from the Emperor. It seems impossible, but Corswain will not question it. That itself is contrary to tradition. His descent to the furnaces of Terra have shown him the impossible too many times. This day alone, endless in scope, has been filled with daemons and phantasms, with vile impossibilities made flesh. It seems just and right that one impossibility should manifest in their favour. A sign perhaps. A portent that the Lion yet lives, or that the Emperor has noticed their minor efforts in the general tumult of the stricken world. Do not question it. Rejoice. Rejoice and fight. To have Cypher make his stand with you is the greatest accolade of the Legion. It lauds you, and marks you and your battle out as the most vital and deserving. It is a living symbol that means the spirit of the First Legion is focused upon you. And the spirit is here without doubt. As the swarms of flies flurry back, so too the clouds of doubt and hopelessness. The malediction of Typhus, the warp-conjured ailment cast upon them all to wither and kill them as surely as any Death Guard steel, burns off them like morning fog in hard sunlight. Their minds are clear, their hearts, their souls. It does not mean victory. The fight is still insurmountable, the miserable odds beyond calculation, but if they fail, if they fall upon the black cliffs of this mountain, they will die as Dark Angels, not as broken men, and in their dying they will give bloody account of themselves. If victory belongs to the polluted filth of Typhus' host, then it will be bought only by the most hellish price. Corswain, Hound of Caliban, lays in beside Lord Cypher, beside Tragan, beside Vorlois, beside Bruktas, who is missing an arm but warring anyway, beside Harlock and Blamires and Vanital, beside Erlorial and Carloi and the gun-shields of the Third Order, beside men who had utterly lost their way mere minutes before. Now they fight again, butchering to clear the cliff. Splinters fly and blood gouts with such force it rains back upon them. Corswain is plastered in gore and mire and frass, flies stuck to him like black gems. He splits corcoid beak-visors and opens armour with such force, the ceramite is pleached around the gaping wounds as the bodies tumble away. He hears the shrieking zinzulation of chainblades from every side. Then that too is muffled by a wail of tempest air. Flashes bloom along the run of the black pass, explosion followed by explosion, wracking the foe far below, and hurling bodies into the air like dolls. The fire blossoms are vast, bleached white in the mockshade monochrome of the blighted air. Craft shriek low overhead, sweeping from the mountain and down the length of the pass, Stormbirds and Thunderhawks, raining munitions on the Death Guard mass. They are Dark Angels ships, the very craft that brought them to Terra, charged with the last of the fuel and warheads, and sent aloft by Adophel. Corswain watches them turn and bank along the narrow ravine. He watches the rolling, fiery wake of their lethiferous bombardment, sending clonic shockwaves through the tight-packed foe below. He lifts his sword in the half-light with a fury he thought had left him forever. Words come to him from somewhere. 'Awake, arise or be forever fallen!' he yells, and the Librarius carries his command to every soul on the field, as both a threat and an unwavering promise. 3:xxviii 'On, I said, Ikasati!' He ignores the pain. Aloft, his wings powering, he races like a missile, the Sanguinary Guard at his heels. Their speed and sweeping agility make them hard targets to track. They bank under and between the spans of the scissor arches, using the screen of these great structures to shield themselves from chasing gunfire. Now the ceiling and the arches stipple and pock, a mirror of the ruined tracts of floor. Beyond the third great arch, with some broken feathers eddying from his wings, Sanguinius turns hard and swoops in upon a gallery on the second level. The Sons of Horus there baulk as they see him stoop at them like a plunging eagle. He falls upon them. Two Sons of Horus are smashed over the gallery rail by the backstroke of the blade Encarmine. Two more are imp

s to shield themselves from chasing gunfire. Now the ceiling and the arches stipple and pock, a mirror of the ruined tracts of floor. Beyond the third great arch, with some broken feathers eddying from his wings, Sanguinius turns hard and swoops in upon a gallery on the second level. The Sons of Horus there baulk as they see him stoop at them like a plunging eagle. He falls upon them. Two Sons of Horus are smashed over the gallery rail by the backstroke of the blade Encarmine. Two more are impaled on the spear in his left hand. Another is broken under his feet as he lands. He swings the spear, throwing off the skewered dead, sending their burning corpses flying to tumble other Sons of Horus like skittle pins. Encarmine rips, a bar of red light, and two more fall, cut asunder through the torso, blood dappling his feathers like rain. Another crashes his warhammer into the primarch's thigh, and loses his head for his temerity. A bolt-round detonates against Sanguinius' breastplate, causing him to wince and stumble. The officer, a company captain, fires his boltgun again, but Sanguinius has already hurled the Spear of Telesto, and the shots fly wild as the officer is staked against the back wall of the gallery, his feet dangling. Sanguinius ploughs into the mass, slicing Encarmine two-handed. The blade passes through ceramite and plasteel, through chainswords trying to strike, through boltguns rising to fire, through storm shields held in frantic defence, through chestplates, pauldrons and helms. Clouds of blood vapour, smoke and splinters billow around him like a halo. Encarmine splits a massive Terminator, one of the vaunted Justaerin, but wedges fast in the thickness of the plate. Sanguinius releases the blade, pushing the dead Terminator away, while wrenching the huge warhammer from its dead fingers. With that trophy, lavishly wrought and weighted with a uranium core, he continues his merciless advance, cracking armour, splintering visors, and pulping the organics within with transmitted hyper-concussions. Hammerscale sprays from crumpled plate. Blow by inhuman blow, he clears the gallery, leaving bodies buckled in his wake, and breaks his way beyond the arch into the next gallery, another proud span of colonnade where once the Luna Wolves stood, cheering his name. Their inheritors die miserably in the same spots. He slaughters, and ignores the pain. Proud Taerwelt Ikasati meets him, coming the other way. The Sanguinary Guard's golden wargear is running with gore. With sword and fusion maul, Ikasati has purged the next gallery along. Below them, Furio's squads make rapid advance down the main floor, the hail of suppressing fire much reduced. 'My lord...' Ikasati says. Sanguinius tosses the hammer aside. The head of it is deformed from furious employment. It strikes and cracks the gallery wall, and falls to the deck. 'On,' Sanguinius grunts. He turns to recover his spear and sword from the corpse piles. 'My lord-' 'On, Taerwelt! On, and again! No pause! We clear these galleries one by one! Purge them, and cut our way to the traitor's heart!' Ikasati switches from battle-cant to informal Aenokhian, and his voice drops. 'My lord, you are hurt-' Sanguinius frees Encarmine from the dead Justaerin and glances down. The bruise of soot on his chestplate where the bolt-round hit him still smoulders. The pain is hard to ignore now. 'You were hit...' 'On, I said, Ikasati!' Sanguinius growls. The Sanguinary Guard stares at him, then nods, and leaps from the fractured balustrade, wings wide. Blood is leaking from the seams of Sanguinius' abdominal armour. The blood is dirty, and he can smell the sickly rot of it. He barely felt the bolt impact, and it did not cause this wound. It simply angered the older injury he carries, the one he has been most carefully concealing. Angron's blade bit him deep, deeper than any wound he has ever sustained, and he is certain that the blade was toxic with infection. He can feel the poison in his blood, the clammy numbness of his organs, the tear and grind of the unhealing wound every time he moves. The dressings he packed across his torso have ruptured. He grits his teeth. He can ignore it. He did not foresee Angron as his killer, so this wound is not fatal. This will pass. It will heal. Besides, he only has to keep going for a while. They are almost there. The day will reach an end. He will reach Horus very soon. He jerks the Spear of Telesto from the wall where it pins its smouldering kill. He will not halt until he gets to the end. The end, or whatever else might be waiting for him there. 3:xxix Another authority The place is empty and cold; grey rockcrete walls lined with arterial pipework. They walk together, side by side, a demigod giant and a tiny old man in a rustling paper suit. Fo can hear the distant, muffled thump of explosions. It really is getting close. 'Who do you guard me from, Amon?' he asks. 'You are... a prisoner, and therefore must be guarded.' 'Yes, obviously, but...' Fo pauses. 'Sometimes I wonder, are you guarding me from things that might harm me, or are you guarding everything else from me?' 'Can't it be both?' asks Amon. 'I don't know. Can it?' 'I think a basic definition of the role of a guard is both. It certainly can be both. Is this some kind of game?' A tone of wariness again (aha!). 'I hear you like games, Amon.' 'I do not. But I am good at them.' Fo nods. He can feel that loop of paranoia tightening. 'I can presume, then, that at least part of your duty is to guard me, which is to say, protect me from others?' Fo asks. 'It is.' 'Protect my life?' 'It is.' 'Protect me from harm?' 'It is. Rather, it was. Directives have been issued. My duty function is completed. You are to be passed to another authority.' 'That,' says Fo, 'sounds alarming. Tell me, if you don't mind, for it seems we are about to part company forever... You say your duty function is completed. How do you know?' 'I have been informed so.' 'But, really... when does duty end? "Only in death..."? Isn't that the mantra you fellows like to bark, given half a chance?' 'No,' says Amon. 'The phrase you refer to, I believe, originates with the Imperial Army. They are mortal, and therefore death is a more practical increment by which to measure things.' Fo smiles. 'Was that a joke, Amon?' 'No.' 'Are you sure? Not even a tiny bit of one? I distinctly caught a hint of dry wit at work there.' 'It was not a joke.' 'Oh,' says Fo. 'How very disappointing.' They reach the small laboratorium. The hatchway stands open, and the lights inside are on. They do not stop, but as they pass, Fo sees a team of high-grade servitors inside, their body cowling painted black. They are hard at work, dismantling and tagging his apparatus, and packing it away in insulated cargo crates. 'He's confiscating it, then? Your lord and master, Valdor? Confiscating my work?' 'It is complete,' replies Amon. 'You completed it. It is being secured.' 'And so I become a disposable asset,' says Fo. 'I probably shouldn't have said it was complete, should I? Might have lived a little longer that way, eh, Amon?' 'Haven't you lived long enough?' asks Amon. Fo doesn't answer him, not even with a quip. He has just seen what is waiting for him at the far end of the long, dank corridor. 3:xxx Wolf at the door Head down, weapon raised, Mauer fans her hand. Keep low! Keep hidden! Sindermann doesn't need to be told. He cowers, heart thudding, below a reading table, with piles of books as a useless bulwark. He realises the little archivist is tucked in behind him, her arms wrapped tight around her upraised knees, trying to make her small form smaller still. He sees the abject terror in her eyes. He reaches out and clasps her hand. The boetharch prowls forward, sidearm braced, steering between the laden shelves. The smell of aged paper and book-must seems unbearably strong suddenly. The smell of dead history. Another soft thump. Movement. Something moving on the floor below. Then silence. Mauer presses in against a bookshelf, her back to it. She undoes the red buttons of her coat so her upper body can move more freely. She listens. Nothing. Then another stirring, brief. Heavy feet, but moving softly, across black and white tiles. Or is it stairs? She moves around, glimpses a shadow, and ducks back. The shadow was big. Imposing. Though seen only for a second, it was not human. Where is it? She waits. She listens. She smells the faint odour of wet metal. Of fyceline. Of blood. Where is it? She flops onto her knees and crawls along the stack row, then peers out to get a better look. But the shadow's gone. There's only the sepia light, the sombre shadows of the racked shelves, the gleam of the burnished handrails, the sound of rain on the roof. Mauer swallows hard. If she fixes it with a clear shot, can she bring it down? Something that big? Is she fast enough? Has her service weapon got enough power? No, she isn't, and no, it hasn't. But they're dead anyway, if she doesn't try. She hears a noise, from an entirely different direction. A rustle of parchments. She wriggles around. Another sound, from the opposite direction. A book, flipped through, then cast aside. Where the hell is it? '"The day will not save them, and we own the night."' She has no idea where the voice is coming from. It is deep and powerful, a minatory tone. Pages rustle. Another book examined. 'Not his words, then, after all,' the voice muses. 'Stolen. He claimed them for his own, but this attributes it to an "Amiri Baraka", back in the early millennia.' Where the hell is the voice coming from? Above her? Below? To her right? She leans to her right, gun raised. From her left, a sword blade rests gently against her neck. A shadow falls across her. 'I could hear you,' says the voice. 'I knew you were there, from the moment I entered.' Mauer turns slowly, the blade at her throat. The Sons of Horus legionary is

ll,' the voice muses. 'Stolen. He claimed them for his own, but this attributes it to an "Amiri Baraka", back in the early millennia.' Where the hell is the voice coming from? Above her? Below? To her right? She leans to her right, gun raised. From her left, a sword blade rests gently against her neck. A shadow falls across her. 'I could hear you,' says the voice. 'I knew you were there, from the moment I entered.' Mauer turns slowly, the blade at her throat. The Sons of Horus legionary is an immense silhouette standing over her. 'Did you think you could kill me?' it asks. 'No,' she says, her voice shaking but honest. 'But I was going to try.' The shadow nods. 'Leave her alone!' Sindermann yells. He bursts into view at the end of the stack, glaring at the shadow. 'Leave her alone, I said. What the hell are you doing here?' 'Exactly my question,' says Loken. 3:xxxi Say it Later that century, the rusting brown cast of the desert and the walls and the sky have grown darker still. It is red. Everything and everywhere is red, like blood, the colour of blood, scarlet out in the sunlight, across the endless dunes, and crimson, madder and orchil hues in the darker shadows of the wall. He remembers, sometimes, longing for blood. The fire of blood, the gush of blood, the physicality of blood. He wanted that simplicity. He wanted to fight, in a blood fight, spilling blood close up, not fight with his mind from a distance. He wanted to put the mental fight aside, give up the crippling, endless puzzle of war, the never-ending facts and data, and just be a man with a sword. Just give up. Stop thinking and give in. Just fight. Just fight, mindlessly. Just be free. Just fight and kill, for blood. For blood, the colour of this desert. Just blood for the sake of blood, simple, released, unthinking. Just blood. Blood for- How long ago was that? Who was there? Does it matter? Which side was he on? He tries to order the available facts. He was a warrior who just wanted to kill. They wouldn't let him. They wanted him to think. They wanted him to decide everything. They wanted him to order the available facts because they said he was good at it. He didn't want to decide. He didn't want to have to make those decisions. It was killing him. He never told anyone that. He wanted to stop and make somebody else decide, make somebody else order the available facts. All he wanted to do was to go to the walls and forget it all and fight, a man with a sword. Just fight. No thought. No decisions. Just fight, mindlessly, free, the way the others did. Just fight. Spill blood. That's all. Just blood. Blood for the- Just give up. 'I am Rogal Dorn, defiant,' says Rogal Dorn. Just give in. 'I am Rogal Dorn,' says Rogal Dorn, sitting in the crimson shadow under the red wall. Are you even that? Were you ever? Just give up. 'I am Rogal,' says Rogal. Not even that. Don't think. That's all you really wanted, isn't it? Not to have to think any more? You can do that here, in the shadow of the wall. Just give up. Give in. He orders the available facts. 'I...' he says. Is there anything he's certain of any longer? All the facts have rusted, and all the thoughts have gone. There is only blood. That's all he really wanted. Give in to that. 'I...' he says. Just blood. Say it. 'I...' Say it. Say blood. The thing you wanted. 'Blood,' he says softly. Soft as the flecks of rust the dry breeze lifts in horsetail plumes from the ridges of the dunes. Say it again. 'Blood.' Who is the blood for? 'For-' Say it. Who is the blood for? 'Blood for the-' For? For whom? He's waiting for you. You just have to say it. 3:xxxii Our father in hell Proud ship, proud Spirit, I see what you have become. Even from this great distance, my embattled mindsight can see what his excess has made of you. I can perceive the truth of it, whole and entire and terrible, for my mind is not shuttered by deceit like the brave sentinel souls who travel with my lord and master. I want to help him. I want to stand alongside my beloved friend, the Master of Mankind, and aid him in his fight. But I can't. All I can do is watch, from my excruciating perch on the Golden Throne far away. Horus Lupercal is allowing me to witness this. I can smell his cruelty. He hopes the sight of it will break my concentration so I lose control of the Throne. I will not. I will not. But I cannot help but look, and what I see is a whole agony in itself. I see a hell-pit, a realm of horror that my lord's first-found has wrought, mistaking it for heaven. Perhaps the great Lupercal is now so far gone this seems like a heaven to him. His gods - gods that are not gods - have lied to him. The lies are so very convincing. Fleetingly, they fool even my master. I see him forced to blink and look away as he advances, to shake off the visions of gold and lustrous pearl, the pure white light that bathes everything in a glow like sunlight on fresh snow. It reminds him of the great Himalazian peaks, silent and unspoiled, when first he climbed them, lifetimes ago, and stood, and breathed the empty cold, and looked upon the white dazzle of the top of the world, and decided that this would be where he would raise my city. It was a place that knew eternity. This place knows it too. This poor, proud ship is a ship no longer. The four, the False Four, have made it a bridge to infinity, matter fused with unmatter, a pathway from sane reality to insane ether. The entire Solar Realm is subsiding into the warp, and the Vengeful Spirit is the focus, the primary pathway between realms. I see that my master, for all his great power, is finding it hard to concentrate and hold on to the truth. The compounding lies of heaven and hell are so very convincing. It is all too easy to become lost in private fantasies born of doubt, or secret fear, or burning need. The warp tempts us all. I fear for all who embarked on this assault with him: Constantin, Sanguinius, Rogal... wherever they are, they may already be lost to delusions manufactured to exploit their smallest flaws. My master's Companions, the pitiful remains of the Hetaeron company, for all their preternatural gifts, are entirely beguiled by the lies. They see heavens of their own, madly beautiful or beautifully mad. Warden Xadophus sees an Elysian temple of glass and gold leaf, sunlight beaming from a pale dome. Custodes Frastus beholds a serene field of glory, surrounded by alabaster pillars under a bright noon sky. Prefect Andolen perceives the halls and galleries of a golden palace, lined with auramite effigies of heroes, paved with silk-sheen marble. The others too: it's hard to track. Their thoughts, usually so steeled and focused, are slippery with amazement and wonder. They see around them the glory of the Inner Sanctum, the Palace they have guarded their whole lives, replicated in every detail, but magnified in scale and richness a thousand times, more lavish than any citadel their master ever built. To Proconsul Caecaltus, he that I marked with my sigil, the company advances along the Gilded Walk, yet it is ten times broader and a hundred longer, and gleams beneath a sky more pure than any Terra has ever known. To Karedo, it is the Hall of Worthies, flanked by statues and roofed in crystal, which marks the final, western approach to the Silver Door. To Ravengast, this is the cryselephantine Yulongxi Passageway, which leads to the cloisters of the Imperial adytum. Lies. All lies. They are all so amazed at the radiant kingdom, they see not the menace suffusing every inch of the place, at every hand. Frastus, pausing to marvel, sinks slowly into the golden floor, unaware of his descent as he vanishes from view. Braxius, lost in rapture, disappears quite suddenly. I think the golden statues took him, yet they are quite still, their frozen gazes turned away innocently. Andolen stops, and leans back against an engraved auramite wall in contemplation. The wall begins to pull him in, without a ripple, as though he is being gently lowered into molten gold. I see this happening. My mouth moves, silently screaming. I want to call out, but they cannot hear me. They do not see what I see: the nightmare black, the rot, the filth, the truth that briefly replaces the palatial glory every time I blink. I see my master turn and yell Andolen's name. Andolen stirs, and smiles to see his lord. He is half-sunk in the wall. There is no seam or line where the gold of his plate ends and the wall begins. My master grabs his hand and tries to pull him free. He sinks further. Andolen, awake! I hear my master cry. Andolen blinks, confused, then alarmed, slowly realising his plight. My master cannot pull him free. He won't let go. He stakes his sword in the deck and, with his free hand, grips the limb of a vast aureate statue nearby to anchor himself. He hauls, yet still Andolen won't come loose. The statue feels cold to my master's touch, even through his gauntlet. The statue is one from the Hall of Worthies. It depicts one of the primarch sons. I don't know which one. My master grips the leg so hard the gold deforms, ruining the sculptor's perfect line of thigh and knee. I see the crafted shape of harness and plate, the laurels on the head, the sceptre held high in the left hand, the loop of frayed red twine tied around the fingers of the right hand. Awake! my master roars. He will not let the lies consume them. Straining to pull Andolen clear, he unleashes his will to drive the radiant cloud of falsehood from their brains. Awake! Please. Know yourselves. Wake from this stupor or be forever fallen. They wake. Some of them, at least. Others are too far gone. They wake, by his will alone, and see the ship as I see it. They see the darkness and the decay, the cancerous steel of the deck, the diseased bulkheads. They see their master gripping a half-broken stanchion as he tries to haul Andolen from an oozing wall of meat that is sucking him in like quicksand. An

rive the radiant cloud of falsehood from their brains. Awake! Please. Know yourselves. Wake from this stupor or be forever fallen. They wake. Some of them, at least. Others are too far gone. They wake, by his will alone, and see the ship as I see it. They see the darkness and the decay, the cancerous steel of the deck, the diseased bulkheads. They see their master gripping a half-broken stanchion as he tries to haul Andolen from an oozing wall of meat that is sucking him in like quicksand. Andolen is screaming. The most terrible sound in creation, to hear a Custodian cry out in fear. Others start forward to help their lord: Xadophus, Karedo, Caecaltus. But all they drag free is Andolen's arm, torn off and blurting blood. Frustrated that their lies have been exposed, the spirits of the ship become vengeful. They sweep in from all sides, wide-mawed and roaring, from the darkness, snatching men off their feet even as they turn in confusion. I see what the cursed first-found is trying to do. Or rather, I see what the four that rule him are trying to do. This is them at work, the predators in the long grass. All four have deployed their gifts here, to stop my lord, because they fear him. They are targeting the Hetaeron Custodians because they dread the killing power each one represents. They are trying to pick them off, one by one, through violence or madness, until my master is forced to stand alone. Further, they are trying to weaken my lord and dilute his power. The Custodes were built to protect him, but the four have turned them into a burden, forcing him to protect them, for only if he shares his will and mindsight with them, diminishing his own power, can he keep them alive and alert. Once more, the insidious cruelty of the warp is demonstrated to me. It fights not fairly if it can fight with cunning. It wants no match with my lord and his warriors on an equal footing, for it has no doubt as to who would win that. It turned my lord's men against him when he first arrived, now it turns them into an encumbrance. It knows, and mocks, his love for each of them, and it knows he will not see them wasted and destroyed. It obliges him to mete out his strength to them, so they can at least see the truth, and fight it. It seeks to weaken my great lord and wear him down until he is at last alone and vulnerable. These are the treacherous blood games it wishes to play. Well, my lord and Master of Mankind has some skill in such games. The Spirit, once-proud ship, is but a ruin, no more than a derelict, decayed tomb, like the benighted space hulks we have sometimes found, drifting and lost between stars. The warp has eaten it away, and where it has not rotted and disfigured, it has transmuted and diseased. The decks are scarred and dislocated, the walls rusted and soiled. In places, it has split open so that the hull gapes wide into the void. But it is not the hard vacuum of near-Terran space that glares back in, nor are they familiar constellations that I see glinting through the torn and collapsed hull-skin. The Vengeful Spirit, just like the rest of the immense traitor fleet, just like Terra itself, and the entire Solar Realm, is half-sunk in the immaterium, much as poor Andolen was half-sunk in the wall. What surrounds my lord now, what permeates his first-found's flagship, is the leaching, cankered voidmist of the empyrean, flooding into realspace to claim it as its own. This increasing flux is what pollutes Terra, and deforms it, and reduces it, and mangles spatial dimensions, and revokes time, and allows the Neverborn and dead to walk. Horus' ship has not been spared the dissolving touch of Chaos it has carried to the Throneworld and unleashed. You have brought the Emperor face to face with Chaos, first-found, closer than when he sat upon the Throne or walked the shrieking halls of the webway, perhaps closer even than when he last faced the four, and took their fire from them on Molech. You have brought Chaos to his very door, and forced him to look it in the eye. Do not, then, expect him not to use it. I see him look down at his hands. They are sheathed in auramite, because it is almost quantum-inert, and thus most efficacious in the manipulation of immaterial forces. Bare skin is better. This much he knows. He tears his right gauntlet off, hangs it from his harness, and seizes the immaterium with bare hand and a bared mind. It is scalding and alive with anger, but my lord is no longer constrained by the constant duties of the Throne. That is my burden now. There is no time. There are no clocks. There is no pain. My master hears only the crackle of the warp. I watch as he harnesses that sound and uses it as a focus, a drishti, to regulate his work. The immaterial presses at him. It seeks to overwhelm and drain him, but he understands its fire. It is the same fire he stole from the four annihilators, and used to keep them at bay, the same fire he has wielded, for centuries, to drive them back whenever they have come too close. They flinched then, from their own fire. They flinch now. You have forced this confrontation, first-found. You have brought my lord into a realm of Chaos to face you. Did you think that would weaken him and grind him down? How can he grow weak when there is limitless power around him to draw upon? You do not put out a fire by throwing fuel upon it. He draws upon your flames. Over the millennia, he has worn many masks, each suitable to the task at hand. His mind, his greatest gift, allows him flexibility in such things. Now you see him at his truest aspect: as terrible as he can be when terror is the only recourse. He is ordo ab chao. He is lux in tenebris. The Emperor lights up your pitiful, wretched ruin of a ship. He burns back your perfidious darkness. He empowers his ailing Companions, and rekindles their courage. He shares his searing mindsight with them, banishing the false heavens and murderous paradises you conjured to drown them. He sharpens their senses and the edges of their blades. He fires the cryptochromes in their eyes, the retinal proteins he wove into their construction that lets them read magnetic fields, and allows them to see the actual, physical structure of this place behind the congealing lies and illusions. He boosts their data-depleted senses and banishes the cognitive dissonance created by the isotopic space around them. Despite the inhuman pain that wracks every atom of my body, I rejoice at the sight of it. Refreshed, renewed, the Custodians form up around my lord. Xadophus, Karedo, Caecaltus, Taurid, Ravengast, Nmembo, Zagrus... the last of the few. They see through your nacrous dreams, first-found, to the spoil-heap desolation they veil, the botched pipes and curdled waste, the fibrous decks seethed with a filigree of worm tracks, the dripping ceilings and sloughed wall panels, the dangling cables and broken fittings, the litter of bones and the oozing stacks of skulls. Your darkness billows back like squid ink. The gathering Neverborn, some quite the most enormous of their ilk I have ever glimpsed, scream mirthlessly at my lord's baleful fire, which scorches their minds. They surge forward. Golden blades meet them. The stench of their blood and bursting organs infects the air, the nidor-reek of their meat and fat burning as powerblades cut through it, but it cannot overwhelm the osmogenesia, that pure odour of sanctity, that surrounds my lord and his Companions. They drive forward, smashing through the daemons' energumenical mass, possessed by will and power and abreactive fire. The decks shudder as infamous beasts collapse and die, or stagger, howling, back into the shadows, trailing blood or mauled limbs. Horned things, tusked things, insectile horrors come apart under raining blows and roaring shells, deliquescing into slicks of aithochrous sludge, or spattering the walls and floors with sizzling ianthine blood. My master begins his vastation, advancing blow by blow and death by death, into the dark heart of your lair, searing away the evils that you throw at him, edging ever closer to your abditory, your inner sanctum. Your attempts to stop your father have forced his hand, obliging him to become stronger, to reject notions of mercy, to adopt the aspect I hoped he would never have to wear. I am reluctant to admit it, but this pleases me. I am almost delighted to have lived just long enough to see his ultimate fury unleashed. The things he slays, dead, undead, or Neverborn, incinerate in outrage at the power he is wielding. They see him for what he is, first-found. They see him in the aspect you have forced him to assume: Emperor, Master of Mankind, thanetiser of daemons, annihilator of the annihilators, bearer of stolen fire, death-bringer to the false and pitiful four. He is here, first-found. In rage, in extremity, in theandric fury, he is here and he is coming for you, with all of the vengeance and malice you are owed. No more restraint. His reluctance is gone. He will take great pleasure in obliterating you. For I hear his mind ringing through the warp. I am here, Horus Lupercal, and for you, I am the end and the death. 3:xxxiii Somewhere Somewhere, in the outer darkness, four voices start to laugh. It is cruel laughter. They laugh, and begin to whisper the name of the one who is now here. They lisp and hiss the name. Over and over. The name. The name of the Dark King. PART FOUR IN THE MIDST OF CHAOS 4:i Terminus He takes a breath. He swallows his grief. He raises his green cowl to shadow his face, so that no one can see the pain in his eyes. Xanthus, Chosen of Malcador, slips down the shadowed cloisters that flank the Imperial Sanctum. Like all of the Chosen, wounded by sudden loss, he dearly wanted to maintain his vigil in the Throne Room, but there is too much to be done. Far too much. The Chosen have been working tirelessly since long before the war began, their toil all but invisible. History will not record th

eath. He swallows his grief. He raises his green cowl to shadow his face, so that no one can see the pain in his eyes. Xanthus, Chosen of Malcador, slips down the shadowed cloisters that flank the Imperial Sanctum. Like all of the Chosen, wounded by sudden loss, he dearly wanted to maintain his vigil in the Throne Room, but there is too much to be done. Far too much. The Chosen have been working tirelessly since long before the war began, their toil all but invisible. History will not record their efforts, or even their names. The Sigillite called them, fondly, the 'hidden seamsters of the Imperium'. How he will miss him. Though they will go uncelebrated, the achievements of the Chosen are as great as any performed by the Astartes or the Excertus Imperialis. Under the Sigillite's covert direction, they have woven and maintained the fabric of the Imperium, balancing all the vying offices and institutions of governance, as a cunning and entirely discrete arm of political administration. They act as a lubricant to allow the great gears and cogs of authority to turn without jamming. 'Few decisions of significance have been made in the Palace,' the Sigillite once boasted, 'without one of my Chosen in the room.' Great Terra, he will miss him. Xanthus believed that, when the final hours came upon them, the workload would ease. So much is rendered trivial by the approach of an apocalypse. Instead, though it seems there is nothing anyone can do except wait for some kind of conclusion, the Palace seems busier than ever. The heart of the Sanctum beats frantically. War Court seniors and aides of High Council lords and ceremonial officials rush past, each on his or her hasty task. Petitioning nobility pack the mass-passageways around the Throne Room, craving admission. Sentinel guards clear pathways through the crowds, crowds of Terran aristocracy gathered like pleading commoners, to allow Oblivion Knights to lead through processions of psycho-able conscripts. Some of the Chosen help supervise these scared, tithed herds. Sigil Protocol is now being implemented in full force. Concillium work-crews bring in additional areopeaic devices in wagons hauled by abhuman gangs. The devices, each one huge and strange, like sound mirrors wreathed in filament wires or the tarnished anvils of blacksmith giants, will be conjoined with the Throne mechanisms to improve stability. To prolong the Sigillite's... well, not his life, but the progression of his death. He will miss him so badly. All the halls and processionals are packed: the Hall of Worthies, the Hall of Swords, the Mencavite Hall, the Martian Approach, the Hall of Celebrants, the Calisto Galleries. They swarm with ushers and lords, household serfs and dominion governors, Navis Nobilite and high-status servitors. Xanthus knows that, in truth, most of them have very little urgent business. They are finding things to do, inventing tasks and hectic purposes, simply so they can congregate in the Throne Room approaches where they feel they will be safest. Even here, deep below ground, tremors can be felt. The Delphic is beginning to submit to the enemy's assault. Very soon, the traitors will be inside the final fortress. He pushes through the crowds of purposeless activity, following worthies through to Mencavite, and then heading along the echoing Yulongxi Passageway towards Martian. The Chosen still have genuine errands to run. Such was the Sigillite's parting gift. A monsoon download of unfinished business. In addition to his stinging bereavement, Xanthus' mind aches from the raw psionic deposition. All the Chosen are still mentally struggling to prioritise the tasks the Sigillite left to them, muddled and unfiltered, in his living will. Xanthus has, as far as he can tell, sixty-seven to perform, though there may be others tumbled into the recesses of his mind. Each one, in another age, would have been the most essential thing that had to happen in the Palace on a given day. But they will have to wait, because his priority now is the performance of a duty that was left to Hassan, the most senior of their kind, because Hassan, in his seniority, has been called away to the Antirooms by a sudden security crisis. Hassan has mentally passed the duty to Xanthus. It is a thought-file marked Terminus. 'Get it done,' Hassan said. As soon as Xanthus studied the engram, he understood the relevance and the urgency. The sodality had already been instructed. 'Without delay,' Xanthus had replied. So he runs, without delay, down the Yulongxi Passageway to Martian. It is a matter of Imperial Security, of interdisciplinary politics. The autonomous authority of the captain-general must be checked. If, as the Sigillite believed, the Imperium survives this day, it cannot emerge with the Legio Custodes, already frighteningly powerful, holding quite so many cards. Moriana Mouhausen, of the Chosen, is waiting for him in the Martian Approach. Like Xanthus, she had tasks of her own to perform and, like Xanthus she has been co-opted to Hassan's purpose. Like Xanthus, she is poorly hiding her grief. 'Have you found her?' Xanthus asks. 'I have,' she replies. 'Is she really the most appropriate proxy for this?' 'According to Khalid, yes,' he says. 'She has talents that can be exploited to achieve leverage, and Khalid reminded me that she has previous experience with the subject.' 'I have reservations, Zaranchek,' Mouhausen replies. 'If we fail in this, the implications-' 'I know.' 'I'm saying, she is unaligned, potentially divisive, and bears no authority in the Palatine-' 'The same could be said for us, Moriana. Couldn't it?' 'Even so, she-' 'She can hear you, you know.' They both look aside. 'She' is waiting nearby, leaning diffidently against the engraved gold panels of the Martian Approach. Either side of her stand the officers of the Hort Palatine who have escorted her here as requested. Nearby, the polished ouslite floor is scattered with red petals. There are sprays of flowers in glass vases on every demi-lune table along the length of the approach, and none have been attended by the household staff in days. They are silently shedding petals as though they wish to lose excess weight and be better able to flee. 'You are Andromeda?' Xanthus asks. 'Seventeenth of that archetype,' she replies. She straightens up. Her grey robes have a soft, feline flow. Her chrome hair glints in the light of the vast electro-flambeaux overhead. 'You are both of the Chosen?' Xanthus nods. 'And this concerns Fo?' He nods again. 'Am I to understand this is an unofficial errand?' asks Andromeda-17. Xanthus reads her grin of curiosity as amused relish. He dares not imagine how the Selenar gene-witch reads him. 'It comes from the highest authority-' he says. 'Well, not the highest, eh? Not the highest. From your master, which is significant, but not the same thing.' 'It comes from the highest authority present on Terra,' says Moriana. 'Oh,' says Andromeda. 'That's interesting. And I'm sure you won't elaborate on what that means.' 'This is a delicate matter,' says Xanthus, 'of high priority. A smoothing of interaction between two different agencies.' 'Back-room politics? Underhand?' 'If you like.' 'Between Malcador's lapdogs and...?' 'The Legio Custodes.' Andromeda-17 raises an eyebrow. 'How very Machiavellian,' she says. 'Do you know who that was? Never mind. I would say that this kind of political intrigue seems pathetically inappropriate under the circumstances. We're all going to die. What machinations could possibly be so important that they have to get done now? But you mention Fo, and the Custodes. I presume they wish to assume control of the little monster and his weapon, and the office of the Sigillite would rather they did not?' 'They already have the weapon,' says Xanthus. 'We may or may not be able to secure it through official channels.' 'The Sigillite is allowing them to keep it?' Andromeda asks. 'You know what it does, right?' 'The weapon is a last resort,' says Moriana. 'The Sentinels understand this. It is classified Tier XX as a Terminus Sanction. Once the crisis has passed-' Andromeda laughs. 'Once the crisis has passed...?' she echoes. 'Once the crisis has passed,' Moriana reaffirms, 'the weapon will be removed from Custodes supervision and placed in more appropriate hands.' 'Meaning yours?' Andromeda smiles again. 'Don't worry. I know you won't answer that. I get it. The weapon isn't important. The mind that made it is. Because the mind that made it can replicate it.' 'Correct,' says Xanthus. 'So the Custodes want the maker securely in their jurisdiction. Once the crisis has passed, they want to be left holding all the cards. Ready for the next crisis. Or just to clean house after this one.' 'The Custodes intend to execute him,' says Xanthus. 'Ah, I see,' says Andromeda. 'A miserable death for a miserable creature, and entirely deserved. But I appreciate that the office of the Sigillite doesn't want to lose so vital an asset. The last lord of Old Night represents a weapon that would make the Chosen a more powerful institution than the primarchs or the Legiones Astartes. The power of life and death over the god-king's creations. In the present circumstances, many would see that as a good thing. The brave Custodes certainly seem to.' 'Do you?' asks Moriana. 'Not my place to say,' she replies. 'We have a window of opportunity,' says Xanthus. 'A temporary power vacuum, if you will. We procure Fo now, or the opportunity will be lost.' 'You're thinking about the future still? How brave.' 'The present is out of our hands,' says Xanthus. 'The future is our only viable concern. You engineered his release once. Will you assist again?' Andromeda nods. 'I'll take it from here,' Xanthus says to Mouhausen. 'Get back to your duties.' She nods, and hurries away, beckoning the officers of the Hort Palatine to follow her. 'We don't have much time,' Xanthus says to the

if you will. We procure Fo now, or the opportunity will be lost.' 'You're thinking about the future still? How brave.' 'The present is out of our hands,' says Xanthus. 'The future is our only viable concern. You engineered his release once. Will you assist again?' Andromeda nods. 'I'll take it from here,' Xanthus says to Mouhausen. 'Get back to your duties.' She nods, and hurries away, beckoning the officers of the Hort Palatine to follow her. 'We don't have much time,' Xanthus says to the Selenar gene-witch. 'Directives have been issued, and the Custodes are already en route.' 'You realise I hate his living guts, don't you?' she asks. 'That,' replies Xanthus, 'hardly matters.' 4:ii Close work They take back a little ground. Just a little, and it's meaningless in the grand scheme of things, but it matters. To Fafnir Rann, it feels like a proactive achievement after hours of mindless resistance. When the enemy thrust chokes at the Delphine Viaduct, Archamus, Second Of That Name, orders in sustained bombardment from the high batteries. The firestorm, delivered by principal wall guns built to kill engines and void-ships, cuts a molten canyon-scar across the southern limits, and catches the mass of the enemy fall-back between Fratary Bastion and the ruins of the Hasgard Gate. The bombardment lasts six minutes, and Rann has no idea how many traitors die in it, but the number would be in the high thousands. A signal victory on another day: today, high thousands are just a drop in the traitor ocean. The senior Huscarls call for entrenchment to take full advantage of the Delphine win: dig in along the viaduct line, and fortify that link in the stretched chain. Immense formations of Sons of Horus and World Eaters are driving in at the loyalist line to the east and the west. In under an hour, the mauled traitor prong driven back behind Hasgard will be ready for a second bulk assault. But Rann has other ideas. If they can extend their line as far as Hasgard, they can form a salient from which to strike at the eastern and western traitor masses flank-wise rather than simply head-on. Archamus concurs. The salient won't hold for long, but every minute bought back is another minute of the Emperor's life. The terrain beyond the viaduct is a smoking mire where nothing is identifiable any more. Heat radiates from the mud banks, the pulverised rockcrete and the lagoons of slime steam. In minutes, Rann's advance is specked and pied with liquid mud. Namahi's riders, scouting ahead through the vapour with their servo-raptors, return with auspex surveys. Nothing lives between their position and Hasgard, but sensoria read life-traces in the surviving bunkers and blockhouses below Hasgard. The enemy has taken shelter there, and dug-in, hoping to hold a beachhead in preparation for their reinforcements. 'Close work,' says Zephon. Rann nods. That's exactly what it will be. Every hand in the advance rises. Rann won't ask anyone to undertake a fight he wouldn't tackle himself. Fisk Halen volunteers, of course, but Halen is now bareheaded, his nose and mouth hidden by a rebreather, his ruined helm ditched. Rann gives him acting command of the advance instead, and asks for his bolt pistol. Halen hands it over without hesitation. Rann chooses Leod Baldwin and Val Tarchos. Zephon chooses Rinas Dol and Kystos Gaellon. Namahi dismounts and calls two of his riders to follow him. Is this posturing? Rann wonders. The two field leaders, Blood Angels and White Scars, electing to go because Rann did? With Namahi, it's a possibility, but not for the usual reasons of pride or rivalry. Rann knows the White Scars have always felt the outsiders in the loyalist formation, deployed, contrary to their usual role, by necessity in the siege defence. From the start, they have been viewed as the junior partners, second to the Blood Angels and the Imperial Fists, a mobile force unsuited to defensive war-work. The Keshig-Master is simply seeking to underline that his brothers are willing and able to do whatever is required. As far as Rann is concerned, the White Scars have been proving that every day since the siege began. Their honour is beyond doubt, and their status alongside the Imperial Fists and the Blood Angels irrefutable. In Dominion Zephon, there seems no swagger either, though the Imperial Fists and Blood Angels have long enjoyed a contest of honour. Zephon, almost wordless, seems clinically matter-of-fact. He's going because why wouldn't he? In that, Rann thinks, he simply conducts his leadership as I do. No fuss, no devolution of responsibility: face it yourself, or dare not expect it of others. The nine advance, through the mud-lakes and swelter. The liquidised ground is already baking and cracking in the post-bombardment calefaction-shock radiated by the area. The air swims with heat distortion. The complex of bunkers is half-buried in the caking ooze. It will be close work, as Zephon said. Close confines, close quarters, clearing chamber by chamber. Baldwin and Tarchos have clamped their main weapons, and drawn pistols and combat knives. The Blood Angels and White Scars have done likewise, drawing bolt pistols, and where the Blood Angels have poignards, the White Scars have edlel or gutting blades. Large weapons or long blades will be cumbersome inside. Rann locks his twin axes across his backplate, and takes out his own pistol and Halen's. Zephon, similarly, keeps his keen sword, Spiritum Sanguis, in its scabbard across his back. He has left his brace of precious volkite pistols - powerful, but impractical for the kind of combat ahead - in the care of one of his lieutenants in the advance, and borrowed a blunt-pattern bolt pistol. To Rann, the Exarch of the High Host, like all Blood Angels, seems a creature of splendour and rich panoply, so it reassures him to see Zephon favour plain functionality over ornate wargear. They turn off their active icon marker transmitters, and fan out along the northern limit of the bunkers. Rann moves with Zephon, scaling a huge, frozen wave of mud onto the top of a blockhouse. A shell has punched a hole in the roof, a circular wound through three feet of rockcrete, surrounded by snapped and twisted rebar. Since the fight at Clanium Square, Rann has noted a difference in Zephon. He doesn't know the Blood Angel well, by reputation mainly, but he knows him well enough. The Dominion was once known as a warrior of fury and passion, but now carries himself differently, moves differently. Even his voice, when he does speak, seems affectless. Rann hasn't marked it much until now, because there has been no room to think, but here, in the steaming silence, he is obliged to watch his kill-partner closely for signals and gestures. The beauty and grace, so typical of the IX Legion, is still there, but Zephon now reminds him, he realises, of some exacting natural predator, driven by a hardwired impulse to kill and feed, but entirely and scrupulously in control of that urge. The wild bravado has gone, and in its place is just the dense, lightless silence of menace. Rann wonders what might have effected such a change in the once noble warrior, but he need only look around. This war has done it to all of them, and to everything they know and value. It has hollowed them out, left their eyes empty and their expressions blank, and scraped the gilt of glory off all their deeds. Mere purpose remains, blackened and scorched, the duty to kill until killed. Valour, glory, pride, triumph... such Astartesian qualities are gone and bankrupt. It pains Rann to see Zephon so; to see a glorious angel clipped and dulled, all spirit vacated. Rann has always thought of the Blood Angels as the exemplars of martial prowess, not just great practitioners like the Imperial Fists, but paragons of inspiring prestige. It pains Rann, for in Zephon's grim emptiness, he sees his own, and sees the hollow soul of every loyal son left on Terra. He checks his melancholy thinking, for the work is upon them and intense focus is required. Rann listens for sounds in the bunker below, and tracks for heat spots. He gestures to Zephon, then takes the lead, dropping feet first through the hole. Inside, it's a lightless oven of mangled debris. He advances, slowly, silently, with both pistols raised. His visor penetrates the darkness for him, resolving a green ghost-fog where the contours are shattered blocks and twisted metal, collapsed internal walls and the mashed pulp of those who were in the bunker when it was split and blown out from the inside. Zephon drops in behind him, and they spread out in parallel. Rann's visor passive-tags Zephon with an icon so Rann can track him and not target his movement in error. He reaches a hatchway into a connecting corridor. Torn struts and pipework jut from the ruptured rockcrete. Rann raises his pistols either side of his head, then swings through the doorway, a gun aimed in either direction. Empty. More layers of wreckage strewn underfoot. Dust clogging the air like mist. Zephon glides past him, pistol up, dagger low. He pulls in against a bulkhead, and covers the angle as Rann moves up past him. Room to the right. Vacant. Room to the left. Two corpses: World Eaters demolished by overpressure where they cowered. Rann covers Zephon. The Blood Angel moves left. Another chamber. He aims through the door as Rann switches past him. Tight angle. Nothing visible within. Rann nods, and Zephon rotates in. Three more bodies, destroyed by monumental shockwaves, compressed against the rear of the chamber like flotsam. Next, an adjoining chamber, a sub-communication duct. The cables of main-system vox-casters drape like vines from the torn ceiling. A 'caster bank has fallen sideways, three tonnes of metal tilted against the wall with its broken mechanical guts spilled out. Rann enters first, pistols aimed. Zephon covers, then crosses behind him, so they loop the slumped bulk 'caster. The World Eater, his left le

dies, destroyed by monumental shockwaves, compressed against the rear of the chamber like flotsam. Next, an adjoining chamber, a sub-communication duct. The cables of main-system vox-casters drape like vines from the torn ceiling. A 'caster bank has fallen sideways, three tonnes of metal tilted against the wall with its broken mechanical guts spilled out. Rann enters first, pistols aimed. Zephon covers, then crosses behind him, so they loop the slumped bulk 'caster. The World Eater, his left leg trapped, is hidden by it, but they know he's there. Their sensoria picked up his corrupted icon marker, his pulse, and the cycle of his plate systems from outside. He's been trying to gnaw his leg off to get free. When Rann swings around at him, he grunts and grabs for his bolter. Zephon's poignard has run through the back of his skull by then, the tip projecting between his teeth like a tongue. Black blood spatters the caking white dust. A half-open blast hatch, misshapen by air pressure. Rann goes first. The approach hall of a billet area. The hall was tiled, and half of the white tiles still cling to the walls. The rest are strewn and shattered on the deck. There is a little more light. Low-level auxiliary power feeds the caged overheads. They flicker, and the swirling dust makes the shadows undulate. Rann prowls in, covering a doorway with his left pistol and the hall ahead with his right. Zephon slips past him as he stands watch, then rolls around the doorway into a second chamber. Clear. Rann moves on. More tiled walls, some shedding tiles like fish scales. The doorway into a large barrack area. The insignia of the Hort Palatine has fallen off the wall. Most of the long line of metal lockers are still upright. In the bay-end, dirty water pisses and fizzles from broken shower pipes. Rann gets a faint contact, but he can't lock it. Just motion. Not all of the enemy have functioning marker systems any more, or they have shut them down. He signs to Zephon, who follows him in. Rann hugs the wall to the left of the locker bank. Zephon slips down towards the bay-end to flank him. His sensoria paints a large alcove or archway beyond the lockers. They both freeze as they hear the rapid, muffled discharge of bolt pistols. The sounds echo through the ruined bunker complex. One of the other clearance teams has engaged. Rann longs to know who, and to know status, but he won't go vox-active in case the enemy pinpoints him. He takes another silent step. Something behind the locker bank opens fire with an autocannon. 4:iii High risk There are two of them, standing like statues beside the hatch of the main elevator bank. Fo lives in a state of constant transhuman dread, appalled at the monstrosity of His creations. He had just about got the measure of Amon Tauromachian, but these... 'What is taking so long?' one of them asks. 'Nothing,' replies Amon. 'Just final supervision checks. The subject is registered high risk. He is a genius, according to the Mondavardi Scale, and of high cunning. Thorough supervision checks were required.' 'You flatter me, Amon,' says Fo, trying to hide his gnawing terror, trying to ignore the ice in his guts. These things, these monsters, they are the beasts assigned to kill him. The Eastern Approach elevator bank has been locked down by a Custodes override. Xanthus and Andromeda take the service stairs, rattling up the dingy ferrocast steps. She is younger than him, fitter, but she has to race to keep up such is his dedicated urgency. 'Do we have a plan?' she asks. 'I was leaving that to you,' he replies. 'Then I'll improvise.' They exit on the secure floor. Almost at once, he checks her, and pushes her into the shadows. She frowns at him, but he points. Ahead, the service passageway runs for fifteen metres and then opens into a vestibule where main corridors converge on the elevator bank. She sees two immense figures in black armour: Custodians, but of some sub-order she doesn't recognise. As they watch, two more figures arrive at the head of the corridor to face the pair in black. One is a golden Sentinel, and she's quite certain it's the one named Amon. The other, a tiny child beside the other three, is Fo. 'What are they?' she whispers. 'Wardens of the Sodality of the Key,' Xanthus whispers back. 'We're too late.' 4:iv Eight individuals Khalid Hassan, Chosen of Malcador, enters the Antirooms. He has, he believes, no time for this, but the orskode alert indicated security/intruder, and that obliges him to attend. He's had to trust Xanthus with his primary duty, and that feels wrong. He does trust Xanthus, completely, but the Sigillite legacied the thought-file marked Terminus to him, and he feels as though he is dishonouring his master's wishes by delegating. The Antirooms are an annex of gold and glass thirty minutes brisk walk from the Throne Room. They fall under the jurisdiction of the Custodes, though they are officially maintained by the Sisterhood. There are forty-six such facilities in the Sanctum precinct, and another nine in the Hegemon. The moment he enters, Hassan feels the bite of the artificially generated null space, the pinch across the bridge of his nose and the pressure below his ears. Sister Vigilator Mozi Dodoma awaits him, her wrists resting across the long quillons of the biedhander planted tip-down in front of her like a staff. The sword is almost as tall as she is. At her side towers a Sentinel, Hetaeron Companion Ios Raja. 'An intruder?' Hassan asks. 'Several,' replies Raja, though Dodoma is thoughtmarking the same word. 'Some panicked nobility penetrating a secure area?' 'Outsiders,' says Raja, again interrupting Dodoma's deft signing. She looks at him. 'My apologies, Vigilator,' he says. The outsiders were apprehended near the Hall of Worthies, she signs, her greatsword resting against her collarbone. The Custodes have secured them but- 'Wait,' says Hassan. 'Outsiders?' Yes, Chosen One. 'Forgive me, but in the circumstances, isn't that supposed to be absolutely impossible?' The very reason we summoned you, she signs. The breach requires the most senior authority. And that's me, thinks Hassan. In the Palace, outside of the Throne Room, that role falls to me. 'Show me,' he says. He follows them. Armourglass airgates hiss open. The gleaming gold of the walls reflects from the crystal diamantine floor. In the inner suite, the air is cold and the bite of the null fields stronger. Eight individuals, Dodoma signs as they walk. Four human, as far as we can assess. Two psykers. One servitor mechanical. One Astartes. 'Of dubious provenance,' Raja remarks. 'A hybrid, in my judgement, or some malformation. Perhaps immaterially altered.' 'Which Legion?' Hassan asks. No Legion. 'That's absolutely not possible,' says Hassan. 'Hence my estimation,' says Raja. 'Are these... traitors?' Hassan asks. 'Is this the first wave, the first penetration? An advance scout-' Dodoma's hand moves, switching from elegant thoughtmark to the curt simplicity of battlemark. The gestural meaning is simply: ? The core of the inner suite is a ring of cells made of non-resonant crystal set in ornate psycurium frames. Hassan can see shapes inside, figures in eight of the glass boxes, but the crystal has been opaqued so they remain silhouettes. He notes that the anti-systems of the suite have been raised close to maximum. Items have been laid out for examination on a long glass table. Psyber-skulls hover over them, probing them with whisker-thin beams of light, bobbing and darting like hoverflies as they process information. Hassan sees weapons, most of them regular army-issue, with the magazines or powercells removed and placed beside them. He sees a voltvolver of arcane design, then a bolt pistol. It's old, with a gold-wire grip and a side-mounted sight. 'Phobos pattern,' says Hassan. 'No,' says Raja. 'Actually an M-six-seven-six Union Model autobolter. It predates Imperial pattern designation.' Old, agrees Dodoma. 'An antique,' says Raja. Hassan picks it up. It is extremely heavy and he has to use both hands. There is no Legion marking on it at all, not even a designation stamp or code number. 'Which Legions used these?' he asks, putting it back down carefully. Dodoma makes the ? again. 'And this... Astartes... has no insignia?' 'None,' says Raja. 'His armour pattern is also antique. The chestplate was stamped LE two.' He also carried these, signs Dodoma. Beside the gun there are several grubby satchels. Psyber-skulls are carefully unpacking them, an item at a time, using miniature mechadendrites and extensor probes. Hassan sees a deck of cards. They're old too, handmade, slightly worn. He starts to turn the top cards over, one by one, laying them out in a line. Tarot cards, simply rendered, made of plascard. He recognises a few of the designs... The Harlequin of discordia, The Eye, The Great Hoste, The Shatter'd World, The Labyrinthine Path, The Throne reversed, The Hulk, The Moon, The Martyr, The Monster, The Lightning Tower and The Emperor, all major arcanoi. He turns another. The Dark King. 'A poor reading,' remarks Raja. 'One might expect no less,' replies Hassan. He knows the tarot, in various arcana variations, is in common use, though officially frowned upon as superstitious vulgarity. He also knows that the Sigillite often privately consulted a deck, and placed great credence by it, and that the deck he used had allegedly been designed by Him, though under what circumstances the Emperor would lower Himself to such esoteric practices, Hassan can't imagine. What strikes him about these crude cards is the similarity to the designs on Malcador's liquid-crystal wafers. Tarot is ubiquitous enough, but massively variable in style. These might have been copied from the Sigillite's personal deck. The last card he turned unsettles him. Hassan has been made aware of current concerns regarding that symbol. He looks at the next item laid out on the glas

under what circumstances the Emperor would lower Himself to such esoteric practices, Hassan can't imagine. What strikes him about these crude cards is the similarity to the designs on Malcador's liquid-crystal wafers. Tarot is ubiquitous enough, but massively variable in style. These might have been copied from the Sigillite's personal deck. The last card he turned unsettles him. Hassan has been made aware of current concerns regarding that symbol. He looks at the next item laid out on the glass. It is a primitive stone knife. 'What the hell is that?' he asks. 'I don't know,' replies Raja, 'but it troubles me.' 'Did these people resist?' Hassan asks, looking at Dodoma and the Companion. 'No,' says Raja, 'though they were furtive, and moving to avoid discovery when detected. They did not resist.' 'Did they offer explanation? Excuse? Justification for their presence?' asks Hassan. 'Did they make... I don't know, demands?' One, signs Dodoma. And it's all they've said. They request audience with someone in authority. 'Really?' Their leader repeated this. Strenuously, though he remained calm and non-confrontational. 'Their leader? They have a leader?' Hassan asks. Dodoma takes him over to one of the crystal cells. This one, she signs. Hassan adjusts the gold dials on the fascia and the crystal gently de-tints. A man stares out at him. He is old. No, not old. Worn, Hassan decides. His grubby clothing is faded, ex-military and commonplace. His skin is dirty and weathered by sun and the open outdoors, which Hassan has not visited in a long while. He looks like nothing special at all, just another army dog-soldier, a 'script, one of the billions dragged in to bulk out the Excertus and man the walls. But there is a curious strength in him, an intent, a dreadful solemnity in his eyes. His mouth moves. Hassan adjusts another dial to bring up volume. 'Repeat,' he says. 'I am Ollanius Persson,' the man says, his voice relayed by the vox-speakers built into the cell. 'I understand you request audience with someone in authority?' says Hassan. 'That's not what I said at all,' the man replies. 'Oh. I was told-' 'I said take me to your leader,' the man says. 'Take me to see Him.' 4:v Closer still Rann leaps backwards as the wall shreds. Broken tile sprays in clouds of dust. The shots stitch around and start to hit the locker bank, punching through the thin metal of the back-to-back uprights. Some of the locker doors on Rann's side deform or are blown off completely. Several rounds slice clean through and strike the facing wall. The end section of the lockers is rapidly mutilated and fractured. As the shooting starts, Zephon darts around the opposite end of the lockers, and is body-slammed by a Sons of Horus legionary. The two of them crash backwards into the shower bay, Zephon underneath. The legionary, his huge form sheened in white dust, has a power fist, and tries to punch down into Zephon's face. Zephon twists sideways, and the fist shatters the tiled floor of the wide stall. Zephon's gun-hand is pinned. As the power fist rises again, he stabs up into the armpit with his poignard. The Sons of Horus warrior howls, writhing. Zephon tears his other hand free, and fires two bolts up into the body on top of him, blowing the torso apart, and coating the white tiles and white dust of the shower bay with blood. Rann is forced back to the barrack room doorway by the rate of fire. He ducks outside, using the thick wall as cover, feeling it quake as heavy-calibre rounds smack into it. A few rounds spit through the open doorway and explode against the opposite wall of the corridor. Pistols raised, Rann holds position, weathering the storm. His visor shows him a heat source moving around the locker bank, but most of that is muzzle flash and superheated smoke. The gunfire is now so intense it is dislodging tiles on his side of the wall, sloughing them off the rockcrete so they shatter around his feet like crockery. Then the shooting stops. Rann doesn't hesitate. He swings back into the doorway, already firing both pistols. The Sons of Horus warrior with the cannon, now emerged from behind the ruined locker bank, takes one shot in the chest and another in the face, and is hurled back into the lockers, which further buckle under his impact until they have become a crumpled hammock of twisted metal supporting his corpse. Rann keeps moving. He sees a third Sons of Horus legionary beyond the bank, and drops him with a headshot. He reaches the archway. Zephon is back on his feet and moving to join him. A bolt-round sings out of the archway, missing them both. Zephon, with a better angle, fires four suppressing shots through the arch, and Rann pivots in. The air is thick with dust. He kills a Sons of Horus legionary with a single shot as he comes through, and the traitor's toppling body actually wipes a brief man-shaped gap in the airborne dust as it collapses. Rann switches right, right hand, single shot, and puts another traitor into the tiled wall, a plume of gore rising above his head more magnificent than any topknot. Simultaneously, left hand, ninety-degree angle to the right, single shot down the length of the chamber to drop a Sons of Horus warrior attempting to run for the rear hatch. Zephon's behind him, firing two shots to the left into the haze. Rann keeps moving. Bay to the left, single shot, left hand. Hall to the right, single shot, right hand. His multitasking ability is not confined to an ambidextrous use of war-axes. Ahead, a service hall. Two figures. Both pistols, side by side, square-on and blasting. Both figures jerk and then sprawl. 'Replenishing!' he snaps. Zephon has already jammed a fresh magazine home, and puts timed shots down the service hall as Rann reloads his pistols. More gunfire spits through the dust to their left. Zephon rotates, cool and methodical, and snap-shots a Sons of Horus legionary off his feet. Rann keeps moving. Zephon and Fafnir Rann purge the traitors. 4:vi Directives have been issued 'He will offer no challenge to us,' one of the Wardens says with a hint of scorn. They are twins of Amon Tauromachian, armoured giants. But where Amon's plate is gold, theirs is blackened and ash-dark. (Is this the garb their kind wear for executions?) It is peculiarly terrifying. The gold armour of the Custodes seems to celebrate their majesty and (albeit ineffectively) minimise their threat. To cake them in black seems blatant, and designed to emphasise their menace. 'Aren't you going to introduce me to your friends, Amon?' Fo asks, barely keeping the wobble out of his voice. 'No,' says Amon. 'Well, I don't trust them.' 'That has no significance,' says one of the monsters. 'I assure you, it does to me,' says Fo. 'Your trust in us, or lack thereof, has no bearing on the performance of our function,' says the other monster. 'It is immaterial.' 'Oh, now there's a loaded word I wish you hadn't used,' says Fo. 'Your considerations of vocabulary do not concern us,' the monster says. 'Irrelevant is an appropriate synonym,' says the other. 'It is,' agrees Fo, 'but even so. Tact? At a time like this... You gentlemen are so very precise in all things, so very, very precise, and there you go using a word with quite alarming connotations. At a time like this.' 'This dialogue is irrelevant,' says one of the Wardens. 'To you, perhaps,' says Fo. 'Not to me. And not, actually, to Amon.' 'It is,' says Amon. 'It is irrelevant.' 'Well, no. Agree to disagree, Amon. I would like to know who these people are before you let them walk off with me. I don't trust them.' 'That has no bearing on anything,' says Amon. 'It has a great bearing on your duty, Amon. Who are these men? I don't trust them. When does duty end?' Amon pauses. He glances at the giant figures in black. 'This is Aedile-Marshal Harahel. This is Companion Shukra. They are Wardens of the Sodality of the Key.' 'Ah,' says Fo. 'The ones that shut things away. The ones who keep safe all the dangerous things. Am I a dangerous thing, tribune? Have you come to shut me away?' 'Directives have been issued,' says Harahel. 'Or have you come to kill me?' asks Fo. 'Directives have been issued,' says Shukra. 'So I gather. By whom? Who has issued these directives?' 'That is-' 'Don't say irrelevant,' says Fo. 'And absolutely don't say immaterial. Because it's very relevant.' 'Your opinion has no bearing,' says Harahel. 'I'm sure it doesn't,' says Fo. 'But Amon's does. It's his duty to guard me. His duty was instructed by Captain-General Valdor, and it has not yet concluded.' 'Our directives were issued by the captain-general,' says Shukra. 'Oh, now we're getting somewhere. Amon's directive was authenticated. Wasn't it, Amon?' 'Yes.' 'Are your directives authenticated?' Fo asks. 'Of course,' says Harahel. 'Follow us now,' says Shukra. 'Have you seen their authentication?' Fo asks Amon. 'No.' 'Then how do you know they are genuine? Please, Amon. Think. Your kind do not make mistakes. To make a mistake is to fail in your duty. Your duty is my life. Your duty has not yet ended. Do not make a mistake now and end your duty in error.' 'Be silent,' says Harahel. 'There, you see?' says Fo, glancing at Amon, and wagging a finger at the giant in black. 'A demand. Almost a threat. Not the rational presentation of accurate fact that your kind follows to the letter. Please, think. You've seen the hell outside. You've seen the doom falling upon Terra. The warp is in everything, Amon. Nothing can be trusted. It's turning brother against brother. Primarch against primarch, oppositions that should not be possible, such is the will of the Emperor, and yet-' 'Be silent,' says Shukra. 'We have to do something,' Xanthus whispers. 'Wait,' says Andromeda, watching the exchange by the elevator bank carefully. 'Some improvisation, as you promised-' 'Just wait, Chosen One,' she hisses. 'I think the old fleshcrafter is about to demonstrat

upon Terra. The warp is in everything, Amon. Nothing can be trusted. It's turning brother against brother. Primarch against primarch, oppositions that should not be possible, such is the will of the Emperor, and yet-' 'Be silent,' says Shukra. 'We have to do something,' Xanthus whispers. 'Wait,' says Andromeda, watching the exchange by the elevator bank carefully. 'Some improvisation, as you promised-' 'Just wait, Chosen One,' she hisses. 'I think the old fleshcrafter is about to demonstrate why he is so dangerous.' 'Be silent,' repeats Shukra, cutting Fo off again. 'Another demand!' cries Fo. 'You see? I do not trust them, Amon, because nothing can be trusted any more. Nothing! Except I do trust you. So, do you trust them?' 'Be silent,' says Harahel. 'Follow us,' says Shukra. 'Show me authentication,' says Amon. The Wardens stop and look at him. There is no way to read their expressions behind their soot-black visors, but Fo is certain it is indignant fury. 'Step aside, Custodian,' says Harahel. 'Your duty is discharged.' 'Not yet. Confirm and authenticate your directives.' 'Directives have been issued,' says Harahel. 'Confirmation of those directives may be obtained from the captain-general.' 'Obtain them,' says Amon. 'This is not currently possible. Captain-General Valdor is unavailable.' 'Obtain them via neuro-synergetics.' 'This is not currently possible,' says Aedile-Marshal Harahel. 'Captain-General Valdor is not present on Terra, and neuro-synergetic link is unviable.' 'Then I cannot release the subject to you,' says Amon. 'You will not block us,' says Harahel. 'Step aside,' says Shukra. 'No,' says Amon. They stare at each other. Amon's face is expressionless. 'Step,' says Harahel. 'Aside.' 'No,' says Amon. 'Tauromachian...' Harahel growls. 'If my lord the captain-general is unavailable, obtain authentic confirmation from another source,' says Amon. 'Authentication hierarchy states that suitable alternatives for a Tier XX directive are the Throne, the Lord Praetorian, or the Sigillite. No other sources are appropriate.' 'No,' says Shukra. 'Do so, or we have an impasse,' says Amon. 'There is no alternative.' 'There is,' says Harahel, taking a step towards Amon. 'I believe it would be an ironically fitting end to this cataclysm for Custodes to enter into conflict with Custodes, Harahel,' says Amon quietly. 'The bitterest betrayal of all that our beloved Emperor could face. Treason is the sport of bastard primarchs and their crude Astartes sons. It is their flaw, not ours. We were made better than that, weren't we?' 4:vii An invincible calm '"A commitment to war must be absolute, for once killing has been done, it cannot be undone. Thus the true justification of war must be determined before commitment is made,"' Loken reads out, '"but when war is made against daemons, there need be no other justification than it is a war made against daemons." This, from a manifesto on combat written in the two hundred and seventy-seventh century.' Loken lowers Sindermann's notebook, and turns back a page or two. 'That's a long time ago, Kyril. The depths of Long Night,' he remarks. 'Arresting, I'm sure, but I'm not sure of the purpose of any of this.' 'Neither are we, Garviel,' says Sindermann. He has explained his efforts once, and he's tired of repeating himself. Rain beats on the high roof of the Great Hall, and thunder-that-isn't-thunder rolls outside. They have gathered around a reading table in one small corner of the gloomy library. Sindermann sits, weary. Mauer leans against bookshelves, her arms folded. The young archivist hugs the shadows behind them, timid. All three are watching the grey Astartes as he stands, examining the books and notes. '"There is shadow under this red rock, come in under the shadow of this red rock, and I will show you something different from either, your shadow at morning striding behind you, or your shadow at evening rising to meet you. I will show you fear in a handful of dust."' Loken looks up from the notebook. 'Why that one?' he asks. 'Why note that one?' Sindermann shrugs. 'I don't know. It seemed to resonate at the time. That was one you called out, boetharch. I just scribbled it down.' He looks across at Mauer. 'Do you remember?' he asks. She shakes her head. She's still staring at Loken. 'You still haven't accounted for your presence here,' she says. To his left, Sindermann feels the young archivist shrink further into the shadows of the stacks. The Astartes, his plate pitted and flecked with blood and dirt, simply terrifies her. She can do nothing except stare at him and cower. Loken looks over at Mauer. He has removed his helm and set it on the table. It doesn't make him any less intimidating. 'I have no account to make,' he says. 'Shouldn't you be,' asks Mauer, 'I'm just guessing now, fighting somewhere?' 'I was,' says Loken. 'I thought I was. I was at Praestor Gate. The heart of it. I was moving with a formation of Dorn's men to engage at the Processional of the Eternals.' 'And?' 'I heard gunfire, close by. I went to the assistance of your colleague, Ahlborn, is it? Ahlborn. I went to his aid.' He pauses, and turns another page. 'Ninety-fifth century allegorical verse? Really?' he asks. He looks at Sindermann quizzically, and shrugs. 'And then?' asks Mauer. 'You were with Ahlborn?' 'I've known you a long time, Garviel,' says Sindermann. 'You often hesitate to speak when you can't make sense of facts.' Loken glances at him. 'There are no facts, Kyril,' he says. 'Everything is broken.' 'I don't quite know what that means,' says Sindermann. 'The part I left out,' says Loken. 'I was at Praestor Gate. I heard gunfire close by. I went to help Ahlborn. But then, I was at Scholaster Hall on the Via Aquila. That's where Ahlborn was.' 'Praestor's twenty-four kilometres from there,' says Mauer. 'Twenty, but yes. However, to me, it was a street away.' 'You must have lost track of time,' says Mauer. 'In the heat of battle-' 'No,' says Loken. 'A blackout-' 'No,' Loken repeats. 'I considered all of those things. Fatigue. Confusion. Acoustic shock. But it keeps happening.' 'What do you mean?' 'I lost Ahlborn on the Via Aquila. We were looking for Keeler. I thought I was heading for the Lotus Gate, but I found myself on the Via Terranic. So I tried again. Two streets across from Terranic, I was at the Metome Wall. Places, leagues apart, folding into other places. No matter what route I took. Multiple times, it's happened. In the last hour, I've been from Lion's Gate to the Palatine to the Sanctum. Locations hundreds of kilometres apart.' 'But Eternity Gate is sealed-' Mauer begins. 'In the last hour?' Sindermann asks. 'What time is it?' Loken asks, though it seems more like a challenge than a query. 'The clocks are all stopped, sir,' says the archivist from the shadows, daring a whisper. Loken looks at her, and she flinches. 'She's right,' he says. 'That's the first true statement anyone's made. The clocks have stopped. Time has unwound. Time and dimension. I suspected as much, and I said so to Ahlborn. I'll say the same to you. The warp is in us so profoundly, everything is changing, compacting, contorting. Places are touching that shouldn't touch, melting and fusing with each other. The Palace... and I suspect all of this world... is blurring and realigning as a deranged labyrinth. Time has stopped, and distance is meaningless.' 'Is this... a weapon turned on us?' Mauer asks. For the first time, Sindermann hears a hint of fear in her voice. 'The sorcerous powers of the foe, collapsing our-' 'It could be,' says Loken. 'It could be the work of the Crimson King. It could be any of them. One final twist of the knife to tumble us into madness and ensure their triumph. But, if you want my personal opinion, I don't think it is. I think it's a symptom. A by-product of the war. My cursed father has brought the entire power of Chaos with him, and unleashed it upon Terra. The whole world is drowning in the immaterium, and the physical laws around us are changing. First it was dreams and nightmares, possessions, then the birth of Neverborn things. Now it is the fabric of reality itself, unravelling. Chaos has infected Terra, reshaped it according to its own rules as it draws us into the bosom of its realm.' The archivist suddenly starts to cry. Sindermann gets up to comfort her. 'This is how you came here?' he asks. 'When I found myself in the Sanctum,' says Loken, 'I tried to get to the Delphic, to serve there. Each time I did, I found myself in a rainswept courtyard. The times I tried again, each time, the same courtyard. The one outside this hall. It is as though something wants me to be here. This place. So, the fourth time, I went along with it and came inside. And found you.' 'Are you saying you think you've been directed here?' asked Mauer. 'By who? By what?' 'By something,' says Loken. 'At first, it was all random. But since I reached the Sanctum, it has seemed deliberate, as if I was being shown a sign. Something wants me at the Hall of Leng. I suspect the Sigillite.' 'Why?' 'I am chosen by him, and he has often been in my head these last weeks. But he has always spoken to me, and made his presence known. I don't know why he doesn't speak now. I want him to tell me what he needs me to do here. When I came in, I thought it would be obvious.' 'And it's not?' asks Mauer. 'It may have something to do with your work,' says Loken, 'but the rationale for that isn't even obvious to you.' 'What was the last thing he said to you?' asks Sindermann. Loken shrugs. 'Combat directives, and that was days ago. Nothing pertinent. He simply plants instructions into the minds of the Chosen to keep them tasked. He is, as you can imagine, busy.' He pauses. 'But I'll say this,' he adds, 'when I was at Praestor Gate, just before I went to help Ahlborn, a phrase popped into my head. Just very suddenly. I think it was something you q

en, 'but the rationale for that isn't even obvious to you.' 'What was the last thing he said to you?' asks Sindermann. Loken shrugs. 'Combat directives, and that was days ago. Nothing pertinent. He simply plants instructions into the minds of the Chosen to keep them tasked. He is, as you can imagine, busy.' He pauses. 'But I'll say this,' he adds, 'when I was at Praestor Gate, just before I went to help Ahlborn, a phrase popped into my head. Just very suddenly. I think it was something you quoted to me years ago, Kyril, aboard the Spirit, when you were an iterator and I sat in your audiences. I don't know why it came back to me.' 'You were a rewarding student in those days, Garviel,' says Sindermann with a sad smile. He pats the young archivist on the shoulder, and finds his kerchief so she can dry her eyes. 'What was the phrase?' '"In the midst of chaos, I found there was, within me, an invincible calm,"' says Loken. Sindermann frowns. 'I don't recall quoting that,' he says. 'I'm not even certain who it is. Is it Poul Kertus Varik?' The archivist, blowing her nose, says something. 'Camus,' she repeats, a little louder. 'It's Camus.' 'Whom I have not read,' says Sindermann. 'There's a copy here,' she says. 'So you have read books?' says Sindermann. She flushes. 'Some, I confess.' 'There is definitely a copy here,' says Mauer. They look at her. She is holding up her data-slate, the screen towards them. 'I wrote this down,' she says. 'I'd given up calling things out by then. It was the last thing I wrote down before Loken arrived.' On the screen are the words, In the midst of chaos, I found there was, within me, an invincible calm. 4:viii A problem of jurisdiction Unbearably calm, Harahel pauses. 'We will obtain authentication,' he says. He gestures, and the elevator hatch behind him hisses open. He steps in with Shukra. In the doorway, he turns and looks back. 'When I return, Tauromachian,' he says, 'your duty will be over. All of your duties. Valdor will see to it himself.' The hatch closes. Amon looks down at Fo. 'I will conduct you back to your quarters, and we will await their return,' he says. They turn to retrace their steps, Fo shuffling along in Amon's shadow. 'Thank you, Amon,' says Fo. 'I did not do it for you, Fo.' 'I know. It was simply attention to the logic of duty. But thank you anyway.' 'Look at you two, bonding,' calls Andromeda as she steps out of the service passage shadows behind them. Amon turns to study her. His spear is already raised and gleaming. 'Didn't take you by surprise there, did I, Custodian?' she asks. 'I have been aware of you both since you entered this level seven minutes ago,' replies Amon. 'It is not my place to interfere with the business of one of the Sigillite's Chosen or one of his companions. Unless it interferes with mine.' Xanthus walks up behind Andromeda, who is standing, arms folded, smiling at Fo. 'The security of this subject and his device are a priority concern of the Sigillite too,' Xanthus says. 'We have come to assist, Custodian.' 'I was not notified,' replies Amon. 'There's a lot of that today,' says Andromeda. 'Things are a little busy.' 'What are you doing here, gene-witch?' Fo asks, his brow furrowed. 'Do not communicate with them,' Amon tells him. 'The Sigillite has instructed that the subject be placed in our recognisance,' says Xanthus. 'The Chosen will take charge of him.' 'I was not notified,' says Amon, 'and it appears to conflict with the captain-general's directives. And this female has a history of unauthorised behaviour and subversion, especially with regard to the subject. So, no.' 'Those directives cannot be authenticated,' says Xanthus. 'Yes, we heard that much,' says Andromeda. 'Incorrect,' says Amon. 'Custodial directives have not yet been authenticated. They will be. Until then, my duty function, which is authentic, remains in place. Tell me, Chosen One, can your directives be authenticated?' Xanthus pauses. 'No,' he admits. Andromeda shoots him a sharp look. 'Nice going,' she mutters. 'Leave it to me, I said.' She turns back to Amon and smiles. 'No one's directives are being authenticated today,' she says. 'Frankly, it's a mess. You can imagine why. We're going to have to use our own best discretion.' 'Why is nothing being authenticated?' Amon asks. She shrugs. 'As I said. A mess. It's as if there's no one actually in charge any more.' She looks at Xanthus. 'Who is in charge, right now?' Xanthus clears his throat. 'In the field, Lord Militant Terra Archamus,' he answers in a reluctant mumble. 'At Hegemon Control, Mistress Tactician Sandrine Icaro. In the Throne Room, the Primarch Vulkan.' 'Really?' says Andromeda, genuinely surprised. 'When I said mess, I...' 'What of the Emperor?' asks Amon. His spear lowers a little. 'Oh, you poor boy,' says Fo. 'They really have kept you in the dark, haven't they? Left you to your duty. Abandoned you at your post-' 'Be silent,' growls Amon. 'So where is the high and mighty Emperor?' Fo asks Xanthus. 'Run for the hills? I don't blame him. I'm surprised that oaf the Praetorian and the blowhard Valdor haven't evacuated him by now. Picked him up, kicking and screaming, and carted him off to the last express out of town. Have they quit too? Run away? Are the lifeboats full of rats, looking back at the sinking ships? What about the one with the wings? And the Khan fellow, you know, big moustache-' 'The Warhawk is dead,' says Xanthus. 'The Praetorian Dorn, Sanguinius, Captain-General Valdor and the Emperor have committed to the war.' 'Great merciful gods,' breathes Fo. 'It really is the end of the world. And your Sigillite?' 'The Regent occupies the Throne,' says Xanthus. 'Well, then he's dead too,' says Fo. 'Not yet,' whispers Xanthus. Andromeda hushes him with a gesture. 'Custodian Amon,' she says. 'It seems to me we are dealing with a problem of jurisdiction. The Custodians and the Chosen both want control of this maggot. Your orders are clear - to guard him, yes? I understand, absolutely, that those orders cannot be relinquished until you are relieved of duty. Might I also be correct in thinking your duty includes making sure he finishes his work?' 'His work is completed,' says Amon. 'No, it isn't,' she says. Fo stares at her, eyes wide. He has no idea what she's doing. 'The subject confirmed it,' says Amon. 'Him?' she asks. 'He lies, Amon. He'd never hand over a finished commission if it meant he was of no further use. He has neglected to include a vital component. The weapon won't work.' 'If that was true,' says Amon, 'Fo would have played that trick already. If he'd left a loophole as insurance, he would have used it. Just now, to evade the Aedile-Marshal. Instead, he was obliged to appeal desperately to my function imperatives. You are the liar.' Andromeda laughs and claps her hands. Her laughter, echoing down the dank corridor, seems brittle and out of place. 'Very good,' she says. 'I forget how perceptive you creatures are. So easy to mistake you for a dumb, unthinking statue. Fair enough, Amon. You got me. So I'll level with you. He's not lying. Fo's clever. But he's not that clever. His weapon is based on biomechanical principles, which is his field of genius. Flesh-eating phages, I presume, sir? Tailored to the biomatter code of Astartes and primarchs?' Fo nods. His eyes are bright. This new lie is unexpected (and I am enjoying it very much). 'Fo has little or no knowledge of the warp, however,' says Andromeda. 'His weapon will kill Astartesian flesh. I'm talking a galactic slaughter. The crowning glory of his horrible career. But the Astartes aren't merely flesh, are they? Nothing is. Each body is connected to a soul, and each soul is inextricably linked to the warp. That is the nature of reality, and not something Fo has studied. So, if activated, his weapon will not entirely purge the Astartes. It will leave a significant portion of their essence in the warp. I say that again, for emphasis... in the warp. And what's out there, what threatens us, is barely physical any more. Horus Lupercal certainly isn't. The traitors, Amon, are immersed in the immaterial, soaked in it. So even if the weapon works, it will not destroy the right targets. It is hardly the last resort Valdor hoped for.' 'I admit,' says Fo, grudgingly (for I am perfectly happy to play along with this ruse), 'that is the Emperor's genius. To meld the immaterium with the physical in the creation of his sons. I ignored that component. I really didn't think it through. But then I have never studied these factors.' 'You see?' Andromeda says. 'Amon, your duty is not fulfilled, because Fo's work is not complete. The Chosen and I are here to make sure it is completed. Properly. And time, my friend, is against us.' 'What are you proposing?' asks Amon. 'You heard him,' says Andromeda. 'He said it himself. He hasn't studied these factors. We must allow him to, immediately.' 'That would certainly help...' says Fo. 'The data repositories are too far away,' says Amon. 'The Clanium has fallen. The Hall of Leng is too distant and probably inaccessible-' 'The Sigillite keeps a small private archive in his retreat, Custodian,' says Xanthus. 'Very well,' says Amon. He turns immediately and starts to lead Fo away. Fo looks back at them, mouth wide in mock amazement. Andromeda glances at Xanthus. He shrugs a 'what the hell?' at her. Im-pro-vi-sing, she mouths to him. 4:ix My life for Lupercal No one is listening any more. No one. He has lost control. 'I am First Captain,' says Abaddon, almost to remind himself. No one else is listening. He thought it would be glorious, when it finally came. He thought the end would be glorious, a victory beyond victories, an illumination beyond illuminations. The crowning triumph. The greatest achievement of any warrior. But it is not. It is more horrific than he ever imagined. It is an unfathomable atrocity. He was steeled fo

life for Lupercal No one is listening any more. No one. He has lost control. 'I am First Captain,' says Abaddon, almost to remind himself. No one else is listening. He thought it would be glorious, when it finally came. He thought the end would be glorious, a victory beyond victories, an illumination beyond illuminations. The crowning triumph. The greatest achievement of any warrior. But it is not. It is more horrific than he ever imagined. It is an unfathomable atrocity. He was steeled for it, of course. A man, even a warrior as infamously ruthless as Ezekyle Abaddon, does not go into such an undertaking blind. He resolves himself, he centres his mind, he inures himself from the carnage that will follow. He makes himself ready, not just for the pain and the blood and the loss and the effort, but for the mental carnage. This is Terra, the Throneworld. Any other action pales by comparison, and not merely in scale. This is the biggest war he has ever been part of, but he's indifferent to that. To invade Terra, to conquer it and bring it to compliance, that is an act of desecration. It is the ultimate iconoclasm, a breaking of oaths and a shattering of rules. It requires an inhuman strength of will. To turn against your species and your cradle-world, to turn against your creator, to turn against everything you were, and renounce it all. That takes singular resolve. But he was prepared for that. Abaddon has made his choice, long since, and he is strong. He was ready to witness the horror, ready to mete out the havoc, ready to withstand the conceptual shock of what he was doing. He was even prepared to stand alongside the daemon-things that disgusted him in order to get the deed done. For, after the end, there would be glory. A triumph. A peerless victory. A tyrant would be dead, a toxic regime overthrown. His kind would be free, his beloved father vindicated and crowned, and a new and better world born from the flames. Abaddon had oathed that he would do anything that had to be done, without flinch or hesitation. For, beyond anything, it would prove his worth. His loyalty. His courage. His ability. The victory would be his, for he was the lord commander on the field, his father's chosen proxy, the tip of the spear, a new master of war and mankind, who would deliver the coup de grace and claim the greatest feat of all. It would all be worth it. But it is not. And he is not. No one is listening any more. He has lost control. And this is not something to which the word 'victory' could ever be applied. It is obscenity. From the burning slopes of Coriolis Park, fast by the blood-washed bastion of Auguston, which cooks like a dirty rag, he sees the swarming host engulfing the fortresses of Lycia and Naxos, the palisades at Crucis Hill, the broken line of the Via Aquila and the ramparts of Marquis Bar. He sees the sundering towers toppling one by one, in fire and debris, their flanks disintegrating, falling away like calving glaciers. He sees buildings scalped and eviscerated. He sees the sudden uprush of titanic dust clouds as spires are levelled, filling streets for kilometres at a time. He sees the burning spans and collapsing bridges, the furnace line of the horizon, the uncounted dead and the unnumbered deathless. Sixteen kilometres ahead, Antiphrates Fortress, perhaps the last of the Palatine bastions, enters its death throes. Explosions shudder beneath its skin, and the entire fortress, a colossal island of stone and steel rising above the Palatine Zone, begins to slope, capsizing like a yacht at sea, wallowing into the stagnant mire that the landscape has become. Everything - stone, ground, rock, metal - has begun to ooze, seeping clotted filth and tar like fat rendered from meat. A cheer goes up as Antiphrates succumbs, a throaty roar of a million voices that shakes the sky. Ekron Fal has accomplished this cataclysm. Ekron Fal and his Justaerin and his screaming hosts. Ekron Fal, veteran of Isstvan, a true monster of destruction whose Cataphractii plate shifts and seethes and changes like a living thing. Ekron Fal, who has ignored all of Abaddon's summonses. To the west, fifty kilometres, a line of pestilential smoke marks the advance of the Catulan Reavers and their Word Bearers retinues. At their head, their master Malabreux, reckless Tarchese Malabreux, joyful in his killing, the superlative terror-soldier, carrying the profaned banners of Bhab Bastion aloft to boast of his deeds. Tarchese Malabreux, who has refused to acknowledge Abaddon's repeated commands. No one is listening. From where he stands, on the burning slopes, Abaddon feels as if he can see all the way to the very Delphic Battlements, though they must be sixty kilometres distant. The Delphic, the proud Delphic. With Antiphrates and the Palatine principals gone, the Delphic is all that remains, a final rampart girdling a final fortress. It is already assaulted at almost every side. Serob Kargul, Lord Contemptor, and the Death Guard have reached it. Lord of Silence Vorx and his Death Guard echelons too. The wild hosts of World Eaters are gouging at its southern hem. Vorus Ikari, captain of the Fourth, that unbridled sadist, is there. So too Taras Balt and Third, singing their Davinite doxologies. So too Kalintus and Ninth, Dorgaddon and Tenth, Zistrion and Thirteenth. So too all the daemons of hell, and the gnawing, restless dead who will not lie down and be damned. Vorus Ikari, Taras Balt, Kalintus, Dorgaddon, Zistrion, them and the rest besides, who have disregarded his signals, and declined his instructs, and spurned his demands for vox-contact. 'The command link is down,' his adjutant tells him, 'there is too much interference to establish contact,' and 'Captain Ikari's seniors report he is in the thick of combat and a link is impossible,' and 'No response from Captain Dorgaddon's units,' and 'Third command repeats that Captain Balt cannot disengage to speak with you at this time.' No one is listening. No one wants to listen. They are lost in their lusts and consumed by that which consumes them. More, and more damning, they think it is Abaddon's cupidity that issues these demands: that he wants this victory for himself, that he wants this glory, and that he resents their gains and seeks to restrain them as they race ahead. If only they understood. How can he make them listen? 'I am First Captain,' he murmurs. 'My lord?' His adjutant, Ulnok, approaches up the slope. 'Speak.' 'Captain Beruddin commends himself to you. He reports Fifth Company is now closing on the Delphic, and has engaged with White Scars forces. He urges you to join him without delay so you may cherish this triumph as brothers, and break the wall together. He regrets he cannot link with you directly while engagement is ongoing.' Abaddon spits on the ground. 'Logistics?' he asks. 'The flight cadre stands ready for your word, sir. They have fuelled and prepped as you instructed.' 'Then I give it.' 'They...' Ulnok hesitates. 'Lord captain, the pilots direct me to say there is no suitable landing zone in this vicinity.' 'Then I direct you to ask them to select one. Have them tell me where they can set down, if they would be so very kind. Have them select a damn site, any site, and I will draw my companies there.' 'Yes, lord. To... uhm, embark, lord?' 'You heard me.' Ulnok hurries away. 'Airborne assault, my captain?' Abaddon turns, and sees Baraxa descending the slope to join him. At the heels of the Second Company captain come Sycar of the Justaerin and Fyton of Seventh. Baraxa, his helm removed, reaches him and bows his head. 'Airborne?' he repeats, with a wary smile. 'A rash gamble, Ezekyle. The Delphic and its voids are as strong as shit. They'll burn 'birds out of the air. I admire the flourish, but we'll take the final fortress better on foot.' 'No flourish, Azelas,' says Abaddon. 'No airborne assault.' 'But I just heard you say-' Baraxa begins. 'You came, then?' Abaddon says, cutting him off. Sycar and Fyton have joined them. 'Well, you summoned me, so why would I not?' Sycar replies. 'You were most insistent, First Captain,' says Lycas Fyton. A curious pattern has begun to appear on his face in the last few weeks that looks like some kind of dermal infection, but which seems to be scarification. There is a fresh gash across his brow that appears to be welling yellow ichor. 'No one is listening,' says Abaddon. 'My lord?' Baraxa says, frowning. 'I was insistent because no one is listening,' says Abaddon. He gestures at the burning world. 'No one. Not any more. I am First Captain but that, it seems, means nothing. Everything is broken. Everything is madness.' 'We came,' says Sycar. Abaddon looks at them, and nods, mastering his rage and remembering himself. 'I need you to understand,' he tells them, his voice low. 'This isn't pride. This isn't some fit of indignation on my part. I am not trying to hobble the other companies so that First can claim the laurels.' 'We... didn't think it was,' says Baraxa. 'And it's not remorse,' says Abaddon. 'Not at all. No last-minute qualm or compunction, even though...' He pauses, and looks back at the atrocity behind him. 'Even though, brothers, look at what we've done.' 'Then why summon us?' asks Fyton, his tone curt. 'Seventh was locked in at Polemos Bar, alongside Sixteenth. We had Dorn's puppets falling before us. Thane himself, his back to the wall-' 'Everything is broken,' says Abaddon. 'Ezekyle-' Baraxa begins. 'Listen to me! Everything is broken! Everything we stood for, the structure and discipline of the Sons of Horus. The things that made us the very best of all, ruined and gone.' 'Because a few damn orders have gone astray?' asks Fyton. 'This day is like no other, Ezekyle. This victory unparalleled. I think even you might forgive the heedless energy and zeal of our captains as they race to conclude this business. Let them have their moment and revel in it.' He pauses

'Ezekyle-' Baraxa begins. 'Listen to me! Everything is broken! Everything we stood for, the structure and discipline of the Sons of Horus. The things that made us the very best of all, ruined and gone.' 'Because a few damn orders have gone astray?' asks Fyton. 'This day is like no other, Ezekyle. This victory unparalleled. I think even you might forgive the heedless energy and zeal of our captains as they race to conclude this business. Let them have their moment and revel in it.' He pauses. 'Let me have mine,' he adds. 'Think for a minute,' says Abaddon. 'One damn minute. What we do today shapes us for tomorrow. What we are now, we will be afterwards. The Sons of Horus, like the Luna Wolves we were, are the finest of all Legions, the personification of controlled precision in war. And here, in this cataclysm, on this day of days, we forget ourselves and fall apart. Our values and authorities are lost, discarded, ruined-' 'All this because the seniors have disregarded a few of your signals?' asks Fyton. 'Enough, Lycas,' whispers Baraxa. 'No, not enough,' says Fyton. He looks at Abaddon. 'You are a great man, Ezekyle. Finest warrior I ever saw, and I am proud to call you brother and commander. But this pique is unbecoming.' 'Fyton,' Baraxa growls. 'Shut up, Azelas,' says Fyton. 'It ill-suits you, Ezekyle. To stand at the edge of the rear line and pitch a fit of indignation when your orders, barked from a great distance, are overlooked? Where are you, man? It should be you at those walls, leading from the front. The captains should be begging you for the chance to follow at your heels. They should be pleading with you for an order that lets them stand with you in honour.' 'I was there,' says Abaddon quietly. 'You were there?' 'I was there the day this began,' says Abaddon. 'I was there at the front, all the way from Lion's Gate when it fell, all the way along the Gilded Walk and the Grand Processional, right there at the front, Lycas, carried by the energy and the glory, rejoicing in this triumph.' 'Then why are you here?' asks Fyton. 'Why the hell are you here, skulking in the rear lines, squawking orders like a-' 'Enough!' Baraxa snaps. 'Because,' says Abaddon, looking directly at Lycas Fyton, 'everything is broken.' 'Brother, captain,' says Fyton, his tone more moderate. There is concern in his eyes. 'I know you have misgivings. You always have, and I understand. I know you lack trust in the etheric powers we employ, and think we should not invest ourselves so much. I understand. The warp calls who it calls. It is a friend to us, and without it, we would not have taken this seat of power.' 'Wrong,' says Sycar. 'This is a soldier's war. Always has been. We don't need Neverborn filth to fight it for us. This is about us. The stand we make. The rights we seek to avenge. I understand Ezekyle's position. We have surrendered too much control to the immaterial-' 'No,' says Fyton. 'Not wrong, Hellas. How can you think that? All we do, we do for the Lupercal. He is the one who has ordained this. He is the one who has invested us so. He chose the immaterial as our weapon, and it has served us well. He has perfected its use, and thus made this triumph possible. He has shown us how to control it-' 'Has he?' asks Abaddon. 'Of course,' says Fyton. Ulnok has returned. 'Well?' asks Abaddon. 'My lord, flight cadre has selected Sacristy Field, to the south of Hasgard Gate. They report the terrain there will support a landing operation.' 'Tell them two hours,' says Abaddon. 'Tell them I want Stormbirds for six companies.' 'Yes, my lord.' 'We are embarking?' asks Fyton, puzzled. 'Yes,' says Abaddon. 'Those that have deigned to respond to my orders are embarking. That includes you and Seventh, Lycas.' 'Embarking for what purpose?' asks Fyton. 'An airborne run at the Delphic would be insan-' 'We are returning to the Spirit,' says Abaddon. The three captains stare at him. 'Are you joking?' Sycar asks. 'Are you mad?' asks Fyton. 'Everything is mad, and everything is broken,' says Abaddon. 'We should all be returning, every last one of the Sons of Horus, but you're the only bastards who would listen.' 'We are this close to the finish!' Fyton cries, holding up a thumb and index finger almost touching. 'You've lost your way, Ezekyle. Lost your way and your mind. No one is pulling out. We're at the walls, brother! The fortress is ours! You'd have us withdraw at the very last gasp, and give up all we have achieved?' 'Malabreux can finish it,' says Abaddon. 'Ikari can finish it. Fal can raze the place to the ground and carry the tyrant's head out on a stick, for all I care. They're at the walls, as you say, so they can finish this murder. Our place is at our father's side.' Fyton starts to protest again. Baraxa silences him with a raised hand. He stares at Abaddon. 'Why?' he asks. 'Why, Ezekyle? What do you know that we don't?' 'Our lord Lupercal, who I love more than all things, needs us,' says Abaddon. 'He has taken leave of all sense. I believe now, more than ever, he has become too enthralled by the powers he has unleashed. You asked where I was, Lycas. Ask instead where is he? Where is Lupercal? He should have led this from the front. He has not set foot on this world. He has not raised a hand in this fight. I have longed for him to be the Lupercal I know, and he has not.' 'So... this is, what... churlishness?' Fyton asks. 'Vexation that he has left the tiresome hard work to you? He's Lupercal, you child. You're the First Captain. This is your damn job!' 'My job, Lycas, is to protect the person of my beloved father, whatever ails his mind,' murmurs Abaddon. 'First and foremost, my life for the Lupercal. No oath matters more, not even the illumination of this pretend god and his gaudy palace. No one is listening to me. Everything is broken, and we must make haste to mend it before it is lost forever. Lupercal, our Legion, everything we are.' 'What do you know, Ezekyle?' Sycar asks. The Master of the Justaerin's voice is very small, just a hoarse whisper coming from his immense plated form. There is a hint of fear in it. 'I have spoken with Argonis,' says Abaddon. He sighs. 'Damn, it feels like an age ago. The hours are broken too. I've been trying to rally you all ever since. Kinor says the voids have been lowered. The Spirit is wide open.' They gaze at him. 'If it's a ruse,' says Abaddon, 'then it's a private one known only to our father. Horus himself ordered it done. I think he is taunting our enemy. I think he is, in all madness, inviting direct contest. Our foe may be close to death, brothers, but he has fury left in him yet, fury that will double and redouble given such reckless opportunity. I believe our Lupercal has underestimated the danger of this gambit. I do not even think it was his choice. All I know for certain is that our main force is here, wading in the mire and ignoring commands, and he is on the Spirit, essentially unprotected. I have called in the Stormbirds for immediate return. We move now. The fight is not here, brothers. The real fight is not here at all.' 4:x Closest The blockhouse galley and food stores are deep inside the bunker, and the walls there are brick-built partitions, for there is no need to replicate the shell-proofed ferrocrete skin of the outer shell. It is a suboptimal place to fight. Las-shot chops through two and even three thicknesses of bricks, filling the air with rust-red dust and a pungent stink of burned oxides. Bolt-rounds blow out holes a metre wide. Everything is close range. There is no long range. Even the shots coming from the adjoining mess hall are travelling far less distance than in the open field. Rann's visor detects the density of the rockcrete spars of the bunker's frame. They stand like pillars every five metres, infilled with brickwork. He uses one as cover, as gunfire tears out the brick courses either side of him. He reloads. Auspex return reads four: two in the galley behind the wall, two more in the communal space beyond. Zephon, behind a bulkhead at the other end of the corridor, is trying to line shots into the mouth of the mess hall doorway, where a fifth and possibly sixth shooter lurks. Between them, they have killed twenty-seven traitors since entering the complex. The traitors in the galley space unleash fury at the wall behind him. Lumps of brick, mortar chips and clouds of red powder spray out around him. Rann waits for the beat, the brief moment when the boltgun reloads, then he spins out, firing both pistols through one of the holes his enemies have conveniently made for him in the wall. He kills the Sons of Horus legionary with the boltgun outright, slamming his huge bulk backwards into a stove unit, and clips the traitor with the heavy las. The latter barks in anger, and lurches for cover behind a stack of drums for dry goods storage. Rann races to a second, lower hole in the brickwork, and puts two bolt-rounds into him, bursting him and one of the drums. The Sons of Horus legionary sinks, slack, into a seated position, spoiled protein meal pouring out over him like sand. Zephon is still clipping off shots at the other end of the corridor, and the shots are being answered. The air is filmed orange with brick particulates. Rann moves again, kneeling to use one of the lowest blast holes. The low angle gives him a clear line along the length of the galley, past the prep counters and the row of stewing kettles to the doorway of the chamber beyond. He fires rapidly, both guns, driving the two traitors there into frantic cover. Rann reloads. He's about to hose again when his visor flashes a marker to his extreme right. A corrupted wolfshead icon. The Sons of Horus warrior, a massive, distorted brute, is charging him down the narrow access corridor. He is carrying a heavy, rectangular storm shield in front of him, and firing a bolt pistol over its top corner loop. Rann scrambles backwards. Two bolt-rou

to the doorway of the chamber beyond. He fires rapidly, both guns, driving the two traitors there into frantic cover. Rann reloads. He's about to hose again when his visor flashes a marker to his extreme right. A corrupted wolfshead icon. The Sons of Horus warrior, a massive, distorted brute, is charging him down the narrow access corridor. He is carrying a heavy, rectangular storm shield in front of him, and firing a bolt pistol over its top corner loop. Rann scrambles backwards. Two bolt-rounds hit the wall beside him, covering him in red dust, a third clips his right greave. Only half-upright, Rann scrabbles in retreat, returning fire, but the shield soaks everything up, the explosive impacts searing harmlessly across its surface. Rann ducks into the galley doorway to evade the shooting charge, knowing it will expose him to the Sons of Horus in the chamber beyond. As he swings through the galley door, he empties the pistol in his right hand at the rear-galley arch to keep the shooters in cover, then clamps the empty pistol to his plate and draws one of his stowed axes. Quarters are still too close for this kind of weapon, but he is acting on pure instinct. He lets Headsman's haft slip down through his hand so he is holding it at a mid-point, as a hatchet. As the charging traitor draws level with the doorway, Rann, so coated in brick powder it looks as though his yellow plate has rusted, swings out to greet him, and buries the head of his axe squarely in the shield boss. Now he has a split second, and leverage. He hauls on the axe haft, prising the shield away from the Sons of Horus legionary's body, and puts three rounds into the opening with the pistol in his left hand. The traitor drops, unguarded torso blown out point-blank. The shield drops with him, clamped to his arm. Rann drops too. The killers in the communal space beyond the arch have resumed fire, further mangling the galley doorway. Hunched down, Rann puts one foot on the edge of the fallen shield and frees Headsman. He stows it, then drags the shield off the traitor's arm. Incoming shots chew the wall behind him and the doorway beside him. Still crouching, he reloads both pistols. There won't be time once he's in it again. He clamps one pistol, takes the other in his right hand, and hoists the shield onto his left. He glances at Zephon. The Blood Angel, at the far end of the corridor, is still trading shots with the enemy in the mess hall. Rann knows, from his brother's stance, that Zephon is about to break cover and charge. 'Hold!' he shouts, but Zephon is already racing for the mess hall doorway, head down, pistol barking. If Rann moves to support, it'll open them both to the traitors in the communal space. A simple, tactical choice. Rann raises the shield and charges the length of the ruined galley. Shots hammer off the shield, bucking it in his grip. He reaches the archway, and kills one of the defenders immediately, firing over the loop: a shot to the throat, then another to the belly as the Sons of Horus warrior folds away. The other is to his left, just inside the room. Rann turns on him, shield raised, now taking fire at zero distance, the impacts threatening to wrench the shield off his arm. He just keeps moving, slamming the shield into the Sons of Horus legionary, driving him back against the chamber wall. The traitor is pinned for a second. Rann slots his pistol over the loop, rams his entire weight and power into the shield, and puts a single bolt-round through his face. He steps back. The immense dead weight of the Sons of Horus warrior slithers to the floor, leaving a sticky track of gore down the wall. Rann can hear shots exchanged in the mess hall. Still, he takes a second to check the chamber, to make sure there's no one else in hiding, and no one about to storm in from the access beyond. Then he goes back, fast, shield up. Zephon is just inside the mess hall doorway. Two traitors are sprawled dead at his feet, and he is grappling hand-to-hand with a third. At some point since Rann last saw him, Zephon's helm has been torn off or discarded. He's been hit at least once in the shoulder, his pauldron scorched and buckled. Rann's instinct is to help him, but fierce gunfire is coming at them both from deeper in the room. Rann ploughs past Zephon into the hall, shield up, drawing fire. Two more traitors: another of the Sons of Horus and a World Eater, both marker-tagged with corrupted gibberish. The Sons of Horus traitor is to the right, firing a boltgun. The World Eater is to the left, closer, but not shooting. Rann guesses the brute's heavy cannon has cooked out and jammed. He prioritises, advancing on the Sons of Horus warrior, emptying his magazine. His target, in partial cover, holds his ground, doing the same. Bolts hammer the shield. The Sons of Horus legionary's last shot finally cracks the shield diagonally. Rann's last shot explodes the traitor's head in a splash of blood, bone and ceramite flakes. Rann leaves the ground. The World Eater, a huge beast, has abandoned his jammed cannon and slammed into him from behind. Rann is caught in a vicing bear hug, his feet milling. The World Eater is yowling in his ear, coating Rann's right pauldron and the side of his helm in viscous spittle. Rann drops his empty pistol and tries to break free, but he has no purchase, and he's clamped to the beast's chest by his captured shield. His left arm is almost crushed. He can feel his plate creaking as though it is about to fracture and split. His torso is compressed. The World Eater is terrifyingly strong, far stronger than any Astartes, for it is not truly Astartes any more. It is beyond transhuman. Right in front of his wedged face, Rann sees its ugly, white talons cutting into the edge of his shield, its huge hand, flesh swollen and almost translucent, folding the shield like the cloth of a cloak. He realises his war is about to be over. 4:xi A personal connection 'You see,' says Hassan, 'that's simply not possible. And even if it was possible, I wouldn't allow it. You don't seem to me to be a stupid man. Did you think I would allow it?' 'I think if you thought about it, you might,' says Oll. They sit, facing each other, in one of the Antirooms' interrogation chambers. Like the cells, like everything, it is wrought from crystal and gold, and entirely inert. Hassan's simple chair is auramite. Oll's is a more complex affair of crystal and psycurium, fitted around him as though ready to restrain him, recline him, and present him for cranial surgery. Either side of him are field generators fashioned to resemble seated Bhutanese dragons, their long, swan necks curling upwards to present their open mouths either side of Oll's head, as though they are roaring in his ears. A single command, and they will be: the mouths are the speakers of null-field emitters and pain goads. The dragons are, of course, wrought from gold. 'The only reason we're having this conversation,' says Hassan, 'is that you and your companions have somehow got inside the Sanctum. That requires close investigation. Otherwise, your claims, your demands-' 'I understand,' says Oll. 'We are interlopers. Trespassers. At any other point in history, we would have been arrested and thrown into some oubliette. I imagine, time was, you got idiots trying to get in all the time. Petitioners, madmen, pilgrims... people who just wanted to get close and touch greatness. I doubt any of them ever got further than the outer limits of the Dominions. But these are not those times, and I am not one of those idiots.' He sounds reasonable. He sounds sane. Hassan is trying to be reasonable too, more reasonable than he feels he should be. There's something about this man, his calmness. It struck Hassan the moment the cell glass de-tinted. This 'Persson' is intensely steady and assured. That would be unusual enough under normal circumstances: the strays and lunatics who attempt access to the Sanctum are usually so overcome by the scale and awe of the place they are manic and raving by the time - a very short time - they are apprehended. But this man is alarmingly serene. The Palace doesn't scare him, or even seem to impress him, and neither does his proximity to the heart of everything. And neither does the insanity raging outside. Hassan has better things to be doing, but this distraction is compelling. 'I advise, again, we execute him and the others,' says Companion Ios Raja. Oll turns his head gently, and regards the Custodian standing at Hassan's shoulder with a relaxed, almost wry glance. Throne of Terra, even a damn Custodian doesn't bother him. 'So noted, again, Companion,' says Hassan. He looks at Oll. 'He doesn't scare you?' 'Of course he does,' replies Oll. 'But I'm tired. I've come a long way, and I've seen some shit. You'll forgive me, but it honestly feels like too much effort to get worked up.' Oll leans forward a little. The motion sensors in his chair chime. 'There isn't much time... Hassan, is it?' he says. 'I have a duty to perform that is so important, it... it's way beyond any of your rules and edicts and commandments. It's outside of official structures, even the grandiose structures of your almighty Imperium. It is, I suppose, personal. Yes, personal, though it affects everyone and everything. Please, Hassan. You seem like a decent man. I need to see Him, face to face.' 'How could it be personal?' asks Raja. 'No one has a personal connection to the Emperor.' Oll pauses. 'I'm sure they don't. But He's known to me. We knew each other once.' 'No one could vouch for this unlikely tale,' says Raja. 'He could,' says Oll. He looks at Hassan. 'You're one of the Sigillite's people, aren't you? A chosen man? Then you know what it's like. To be one of the very few people in existence to have a personal connection to a being like that.' Hassan nods. The reminder is sudden and painful. It reminds him of his grief, of the urgent work he has to do, of the sc

Oll pauses. 'I'm sure they don't. But He's known to me. We knew each other once.' 'No one could vouch for this unlikely tale,' says Raja. 'He could,' says Oll. He looks at Hassan. 'You're one of the Sigillite's people, aren't you? A chosen man? Then you know what it's like. To be one of the very few people in existence to have a personal connection to a being like that.' Hassan nods. The reminder is sudden and painful. It reminds him of his grief, of the urgent work he has to do, of the scale and multitude of things slipping away, undone, every second. This is a waste of time. It might even be a trick of the warp, a soft and reasonable invasion where violence has failed, though none of the Antiroom systems detect a trace of that. 'Explain it to me,' says Hassan. 'Once more, simply. I will make a judgement. That will be the end of it. Explain who you are and what you want. Unfold to me the matter you wish to discuss, or the message you wish to convey. Account for the two unsanctioned psykers in your company, and the warrior who seems to be an Astartes but most assuredly is not. Begin.' Oll sighs. His chair chimes again as he sits forward, rests his elbows on his knees and steeples his fingers. He leans his mouth and chin against his thumbs for a second, thinking. 'My name is Ollanius Persson,' he says. 'I have travelled a long way to meet with a man I once knew. A long, long way, further than you can possibly comprehend. The people with me are companions who have joined me on that journey to help me. They are innocent of any crimes that I know of. You should let them go. Let them leave the Palace. I suppose that's not possible. I need to speak with Him. I beg you to let me do that. I am here to help.' 'Help... what?' asks Hassan. 'Help end this nightmare. I hope. Actually, I don't know if I can do that. But at least, help stop it becoming something infinitely worse.' 'Your story is both flimsy and ridiculous,' says Raja. 'There is nothing you can say that-' 'Actually, there are two things,' says Oll reluctantly. 'Do you know what a Perpetual is? Do you understand what is meant by the term "Perpetual"?' 'Mythologically, yes,' says Hassan. 'You're looking at one,' says Oll. 'Bit of a let-down, I'm sure, but there we go. I was born something over forty thousand years ago, here on Terra. I am a Perpetual. So is the Emperor. So is, I believe, your Sigillite master. We are kin. I demand the right to speak to my kin. They would both be aggrieved to know you have blocked my effort to meet with them.' There is a long pause. 'What,' says Hassan quietly. 'What is the second thing?' 'This Palace,' replies Oll, 'this Sanctum. Right now, it is the most secure place in the known galaxy, protected by things like that.' He gestures at Raja. 'You might want to ask yourself,' he continues, 'how the hell I got in here, and what else I might be capable of doing.' 4:xii Control, not controlled The captains stare at Abaddon for a moment, then Sycar and Baraxas turn aside and open vox-links to instruct their companies waiting nearby. Fyton glares at Abaddon. 'These were not your orders,' he says. 'You chide the others for disobedience, but you are disobeying the direct commands of the Lupercal. For shame, Ezekyle.' 'Did you not hear me?' Abaddon asks. 'I heard a brat complain about hard work,' Fyton replies. 'I heard a soldier repudiate his oaths of moment. I heard a Son of Horus doubt the reasoning of Horus Lupercal, Warmaster, believing he knows better.' 'Fyton-' 'If Lupercal has set a trap, Abaddon,' says Fyton, 'then it is his trap. He knows what he's doing. He always does. If he hasn't informed you of his plans, then it is because you, First Captain, are not part of them.' 'Our lord father has lost control,' says Abaddon. 'If you say so,' says Fyton. 'I will not be returning. Neither will Seventh. I am staying to fulfil my orders, orders he gave me, not you. I suggest you do the same, or prepare yourself for a future in which you are no longer First Captain of anything.' 'I gave you an order, Fyton,' says Abaddon. 'I do not acknowledge your authority, Abaddon,' says Fyton. He turns, and begins to walk back up the smouldering slope. 'Do not, Ezekyle,' Baraxa whispers to him. 'Do not what, Azelas?' Abaddon asks. 'Strike him. Kill him. The man's a wretch. And barely a man any more. But you are Ezekyle Abaddon, First Captain, First Company, Sons of Horus. Everything may be broken, everything may be lost, but while you are still you, our Legion retains discipline and control.' Abaddon nods. 'I mean, it,' says Baraxa. 'Don't descend to their level. They are contaminated. They are consumed. They have no control, just as you fear our father has no control, for the warp controls them. But you, Ezekyle, do.' 'I know.' 'Then, you keep it.' 'I will,' says Abaddon. He nods again. 'I will. Control, not controlled.' 'Good,' says Baraxa. 'Then there is still a Legion.' 'Yes, still. Now, can we make ready?' 'We can make ready, Ezekyle. We can embark, your hands unsullied. Besides,' Baraxa adds, 'that's why you keep the Master of the Justaerin close and loyal.' At the top of the burning slope, Captain Fyton turns as Hellas Sycar calls to him, and topples as the black-clad Terminator destroys him with a single blow. 4:xiii What others call the Throne Room 'What's happening now?' John whispers, as soon as he is close enough to Oll. 'We are making headway, I think,' Oll replies. 'Do not converse,' snaps Ios Raja. He is in front of them, leading the way. 'Or being taken for execution,' Oll whispers. 'It could go either way.' John had been removed from his crystal cell and placed with the others under guard in the armourglass atrium of the Antirooms. They had waited, watching, as on the other side of the crystal wall, Sisters of Silence had packed some of their possessions into a small, duralloy negation crate. John had seen the athame go in, the ball of twine, Leetu's cards, and his shears and torquetum. The rest - their weapons, carry bags and personal effects - had been left on the examination table. Once the crate was packed, it was handed to Companion Raja. Then other Custodes, along with several of the Sisters, had closed around Oll and his long companions and escorted them out. A last, long walk begins. They have joined a main processional, moving at a brisk pace, with the green-robed Chosen at the head, alongside Raja, who carries the crate in front of his chest like an offering. Custodians and Sisters flank them, and follow on behind. In the cell, John had formulated a dozen escape plans. None of them fitted this scenario. The Custodes are everything the Custodes should be: indomitable golden monsters. John can see no way to out-smart, out-run, or escape them, and he certainly can't fight them. The Sisters are worse. They are so hard to track, even when you know they are there, shifting like smudges in the air. And they are blanking what gifts he still possesses. 'Did you strike a bargain?' whispers John. 'I said all of us, or nothing,' Oll replies. 'All of us what?' 'Do not converse!' Raja snaps again, without looking around. 'Your leader has requested an audience with the supreme lord of Terra,' says the Chosen to John over his shoulder. 'Sharp ears,' John replies. 'You're our leader now?' he whispers to Oll. 'Shhh!' Oll replies. 'Due to certain factors,' the Chosen continues, 'I have granted this. The audience will be brief. My lord cannot leave his location, so we are going to him. You will all answer any questions put to you in full, without deception. Lies will be detected and punished.' 'Great,' murmurs John. 'This is what we wanted,' Oll whispers. 'I don't think it is,' says Actae. John glances back at her. The witch's skin is pale and clammy. Like him, and like Katt too, Actae is suffering the suppressive presence of the Sisterhood. She is clearly struggling the most, which suggests to John her psykanic powers are significantly more than anything he or the girl can muster. She is also rigid with apprehension. John can see it. It's the Custodians. From what he's been told, it was their kind that killed her the first time she died. Is it fear she's registering? Hatred? Or just recollection? Behind Actae and Katt come Krank and Zybes, both anxious and wide-eyed, then Leetu, who carries his helm under his arm and zero expression on his face. Last of all, Graft trundles at their heels, oblivious. They turn off the processional into another, equally grand, equally gilded, equally empty. Their footsteps ring out across the marble: all except, John notices, the footsteps of the Sisterhood. They pass statues, the effigies of the great and good, the noble and the dead. John sees Oll glance at something. 'What is it?' he whispers. There's no way to pause, or go back and look. Oll shakes his head. 'What?' asks John. 'I thought I-' Oll starts to say. He shakes his head again. 'It doesn't matter.' 'Cease conversation,' Raja barks. The processional reaches a huge mass-passageway, fusion-cut through the bedrock. The delicate glow of the electro-flambeaux becomes the sickly glare of sodium lamps. As they turn into the vast tunnel, they feel a cold breeze, and catch in it the smell of oil, rock, fyceline and smoke. John has no idea why any tunnel needed to be built on such a scale. What the hell ever needed to move along it? The air is climate-controlled, but it still feels damp, as if they're in a cavern at the bottom of the world. There's something ahead. It seems large, but they take minutes to reach it. Slowly, step by step, its sheer size begins to become evident. It's a portal of cyclopean proportions. A door. A silver door. 'Oh god,' he says. 'Do not speak,' orders Raja. Even when it's impossibly big, it still seems to take hours to reach it. John realises he's breathing fast, too fast. This is why they came. Here. This place. This terrible place. But now they're

they're in a cavern at the bottom of the world. There's something ahead. It seems large, but they take minutes to reach it. Slowly, step by step, its sheer size begins to become evident. It's a portal of cyclopean proportions. A door. A silver door. 'Oh god,' he says. 'Do not speak,' orders Raja. Even when it's impossibly big, it still seems to take hours to reach it. John realises he's breathing fast, too fast. This is why they came. Here. This place. This terrible place. But now they're actually here, he wants to be anywhere else instead. They approach the Silver Door, the last door of eternity. They halt. 'Hassan, Chosen of Malcador,' the Chosen calls out to the burnished Custodes Pylorus. Lances at their sides, heads raised, they seem like yet more decorative statues, but for the slight flutter of their huge red plumes in the tunnel breeze. 'By His will be done,' calls Hassan. The Silver Door opens. What lies beyond, slowly revealed as the door swings wide, numbs John's mind. His thoughts drain away. Nothing he has seen in his life, not even the scale and dimension of the Palace they have navigated so far, can cushion the impact. The space, the soaring arches, the light. He has no words. Even he, the logokine, has no words. It is indescribable. It defies his ability to accommodate it. It is endless, beyond scale, defiant of dimension, both glorious and paralysing, magnificent and awful. There is singing, and it's inside his head. The air itself is lustrous and alive. Hassan leads them in. A figure awaits them, dwarfed by distance, but amplified by grandeur. It is a god. John hates himself, but there is no other word for the being they are approaching. A god. Supreme. Transcendent. Cloaked and gigantic, god stands with his back to them and waits as they walk the last kilometres of heaven to his feet. When they get there, John realises there are tears streaming down his cheeks. He wants to fall down and beg forgiveness. He wants to scream into the awful light and the terrible beauty and the living air. 'Kneel,' Raja barks. They kneel. John, Zybes, Krank and Katt, all at once. Zybes is weeping, hands clasped. Graft's pistons hiss as the servitor lowers its chassis. Actae, reluctant for a second, stoops to her knees, and bows her head. Leetu drops to one knee, his face still raised, proud and in martial respect, his helm clamped under his arm. Finally, Oll kneels too. 'You know me,' he calls out. 'You will not speak!' Raja cries. 'He does,' says Oll. 'He knows me. This isn't necessary.' 'Oll-' John hisses through his tears. 'This... abasement... it is undignified,' Oll calls out. 'It is the tawdry protocol of one too used to power. It is beneath you. And it is no way to treat an old friend. You know me.' The god turns to look at them. Raja, and the Custodes escort, and Hassan, and the wraith-sisters, all bow. Oll's face falls in sudden surprise. 'You do not know me,' he whispers. 'I do not,' says Vulkan. He stares down at them. He points to John Grammaticus. 'But I know you,' he says. 4:xiv Magical sympathy 'There must be something here,' says Loken. 'For him to steer me here, however obliquely, there must be something.' 'Must there?' asks Mauer. 'If you're right, and all has become delusion, then there is no logic. No purpose. No connection. No scheme. The recurrence of that phrase was just a coincidence, the echo of insanity in a madhouse.' 'Or minds joining together,' says Sindermann. 'Minds, thoughts, ideas... warping into each other, binding together, creating synchronicities and connection. What Garviel described, what's happening to the city... it's probably happening to our minds too. An interconnecting labyrinth. An abstraction of ideas-' 'Bullshit,' says Mauer. 'The distribution of warped space effect is clearly uneven, as yet,' says Sindermann. 'Some places more than others, some locations more connected to the immaterium, or interconnected by the immaterium, than others-' 'If Terra is sliding into the empyrean, then it will be true of everywhere soon enough!' Mauer retorts. 'Yes, but why certain places first?' asks Sindermann. 'There is no logic! It's madness!' 'No, no,' Sindermann says, shaking his head, starting to pace. 'Some places... some places are more susceptible than others. More sympathetic. Like people! Some people are affected more rapidly than others. It could be a resonance, a... a... quality of materia... perhaps a legacy of pain, or thought or... or... psychic activity. This place, the Hall of Leng, it's always been considered special...' 'Because of the things in it?' asks Mauer. 'Yes, but the site itself. Leng. Mauer, the entire Palace was built here because of the mystical significance of certain locations within its bounds.' 'Alleged,' says Mauer. 'That's true, isn't it?' he asks the frightened young archivist. She nods. 'The Palace, it is said, was built here because this has been a sacred place since the rise of man,' she says. 'The Emperor chose it. The Himalazian Zone contains many sites of ancient, ritual significance. The Palace was raised to contain all of them within its precincts.' 'And Leng was one of them,' says Sindermann. 'A sacred site. We can't explain what brought us here, Mauer, beyond some deluded notion. But something brought Garviel here too. Perhaps it was the Sigillite. To me, that proves that we were right to come here. That there is something here worth finding.' 'You are inspiring as ever, Kyril,' says Loken. 'But what have you actually discovered?' Sindermann sags. He glances at the scattered books around them. 'Well...' he says. He sighs. Loken picks up Sindermann's notebook again. 'Have you tried saying any of these things aloud?' he asks. 'Reciting them?' 'Yes,' says Mauer. 'And?' 'Nothing happened. Nothing at all.' 'Nothing happened here, you mean,' says Loken, 'nothing you were aware of or witnessed. Perhaps they are having some more distant or general effect? I heard your echo, Mauer, from far away. Or vice versa.' Sindermann looks at the archivist suddenly. 'Hang on,' he says. 'What were you saying? You were telling me something, just as Loken arrived. Something about a special collection-' 'Collection eight-eight-eight,' she replies. 'Take us there,' he says. 4:xv Kill or fall There is a jarring impact. Without warning, Rann is released. He falls to the floor, rolls aside, and turns to see the howling World Eater slowly sinking to its knees. Namahi, Master of the Keshig, is right behind it, gripping its hair with one hand. With the other, in an almost frenzied blitz of hammering blows, he is stabbing it repeatedly in the neck and shoulders with his edlel. He doesn't stop. He just keeps stabbing, hand banging up and down like a steampress, two blows a second. Finally, he lets go and steps back. The White Scar's white chestplate and visor are drenched in backspatter. The brute, dead on its knees, topples forward. Namahi looks at Rann. He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the chambers beyond the mess hall. 'Everything is clear, lord,' he says. Rann gets up. He gestures towards the route that he and Zephon came. 'And that way too, Keshig-Master,' he replies. Then he goes to Zephon. The Sons of Horus traitor he was grappling with is dead, and Zephon is hunched over the corpse, battered and wounded. 'Still alive?' Rann asks. 'As much as any of us,' Zephon replies. Rann clasps Zephon's hand and pulls him to his feet. The Blood Angel's hair is matted with gore, and his beautiful face is a mask of blood, but his Astartesian metabolism is already closing burst vessels and clotting. Rann sprays him with the last of the counterseptic from his belt-pack to wash the blood out of his eyes. The damage is ugly but superficial. There's not much more he can do. 'I told you to hold,' he says. 'I chose not to,' Zephon replies. 'We got it done. There's no time to "hold" any more, Rann. It's kill or fall.' Rann nods. He glances at Zephon's last three kills, crumpled on the mess hall's floor in a swill of blood. Their throats have been torn out, as though ripped open by the bite of a wild beast. 4:xvi A collection of secrets She leads them down spiral stairs to a lower level. There is a heavy door, but her ring of keys opens it. 'We are seldom allowed in here,' she says, as they enter. It is another wing of the library. Sindermann is sure there are others besides. They follow the archivist down a wide, dark staircase. There are framed pictures on the walls, held in humming suspensor fields, but it's too dark to really tell what they depict. Sindermann glimpses pale shapes, and abstract forms, ghost faces looking back at him, darkened by time and thick varnish as much as by the fustian gloom. The chamber below is wide and low, with a barrel-vaulted ceiling. It is cast in a blue, twilight glow of auxiliary lighting. The archivist pauses at the foot of the staircase, and uses a wafer from her keychain to activate a wall panel. She throws a series of switches. One by one, the main lights come on: dull glow-globes hung at intervals like pendants on long cables. They rouse slowly, like embryonic suns rising to main sequence brightness. Their light is yellow, the colour of old paper or worn bone, and barely banishes the chamber's shadows. Gloom lurks, reluctant to be evicted, between the many rows of high shelves, and lingers below the desks and reading tables. The air smells of electrostatic and paper dust, of cotton and vellum, of dry age delicately suspended in subtly moderated stasis fields. It smells, to Sindermann, of ancient learning, of forgotten thought, of ideas so old they have not been held alive or kept warm in human thoughts for centuries, and have grown cold and inert. Old learning, but new to him and his modernistic principles of scholarship and examination. The shelves of books run, not as straight rows, but as a geometric maze, interrupted in places by islands of readin

aper dust, of cotton and vellum, of dry age delicately suspended in subtly moderated stasis fields. It smells, to Sindermann, of ancient learning, of forgotten thought, of ideas so old they have not been held alive or kept warm in human thoughts for centuries, and have grown cold and inert. Old learning, but new to him and his modernistic principles of scholarship and examination. The shelves of books run, not as straight rows, but as a geometric maze, interrupted in places by islands of reading tables. Stretches of the walls are hung with more paintings, and still more are stacked, side-on, like tall, slim books, in racks beside plan chests, humidified cabinets and stasis displays. 'Where do we even begin?' asks Mauer. Sindermann starts to walk along the nearest row of pictures. Automatic sensors light each one as he comes close in a downward fan of pale radiance. Extraordinary things. The light reflects white from the old varnish and lacquer of oil paintings, and gleams off gilded frames. It glows ivory from the handmade papers of blockprints and engravings, and from the pale primed canvases of abstract works. He stares, then moves to the next, one light field dimming in his wake as the next comes on. He reads the marker tags below the works, the names of artists and mystics... engravers, painters, designers and visionaries from across four hundred centuries of human civilisation. He feels almost breathless with awe. 'Kyril?' 'We do what we did before,' he says, gazing at an etching of a descending god or an ascending devil. He can't tell which. 'We try at random. Let synchronicity and coincidence guide us. All the angels of the library. The warp is making its connections. We'll let its providence work for us.' He turns to them. There is a smile on his face. He raises his hands, a conductor bringing his orchestra to attention. 'What else can we do?' he asks. They spread out. He crosses to the nearest shelf, trying to clear his mind and let chance, or some dowsing, subconscious force direct him. His fingertips drift along ancient spines, some frayed, some repaired and rebound, some too worn to read. There are names and titles unknown to him. Rapturous Beasts, The Book of Glass Hands, Autoclone Illumin of Luna Habitat, Liber Bidoph vel CX, Revelati Draconis... He takes one down. 'We need gloves,' the archivist announces. Loken, nearby, raises his huge, plated hands and shows them to her. She shudders, and quickly hurries to inspect a different stack. Loken picks a book at random. '"Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art,"' he reads out. '"Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night..."' He shrugs and closes the volume. 'I don't think this will work,' he says. 'No, no, Garviel, we just need to be patient,' Sindermann replies. 'We just need to allow ourselves to be receptive. Learn how to hear the... the... What did they used to call it? The muse. That piece you just read-' 'This?' asks Loken, holding up the book. 'Yes,' Sindermann nods. 'As you read it, I was just reading this. Listen... "one bright star, to burn and heap the ashes of the moon".' He looks at Loken expectantly. 'And?' asks Loken after a pause. 'Stars, Garviel! Stars!' Sindermann says eagerly. 'Two books, chosen by chance, read simultaneously, both speaking of lone, bright stars! You see?' 'No, Kyril.' 'The connection, my boy! The subtle synchronicity! As though things are aligning. We just have to see those connections... Oh, don't look at me like that. "Bright star, alone..." What are the chances of that concept occurring, just like that, at random, the moment we walk in here?' 'I would think... quite high,' says Loken. 'I would think that it's not much of a coincidence, and that the word "star" is not unusual, and is probably used a lot by poets. Poets being poets.' Sindermann hesitates, then nods and puts the book down. 'The Clavicula Incubi,' Mauer calls out from nearby, reading along a shelf. 'The Five Books of Novopangaea, The Combinatorial Art of Merzhin Ambrosianus...' 'Slow down, Mauer,' Sindermann murmurs, not looking up. His initial rush of enthusiasm has dampened. He turns the pages of another book he has pulled arbitrarily. The Sortes Astronom. They're going to need translator systems, he realises. 'Enochian Chants,' Mauer continues, urgent, 'A Catalogue of Alexandria Biblios Compleat, uhm, something called Al Azif-' 'Let chance guide you!' Sindermann calls back, trying not to sound encouraging and not as annoyed as he feels. 'Don't overthink. Imagination, Mauer. Synchronicity.' 'What is the Dark King?' Loken asks, appearing at his side again. 'The Dark King?' Sindermann asks. 'I don't know. A reference to the old cartomantic arcanoi, I think. Why, have you found something?' 'Just this,' says Loken, holding another frail volume open. 'This says it's a "concordance of fraudulent and false gods". You see here, where it fell open? Rex Tenebris. It says it means "the Dark King".' 'I believe that's Proto-Gothic,' Sindermann says, frowning. He takes the book from Loken. 'Yes, I recognise some of these names... all the forgotten and banished gods here, look. Dyeus, known as Iuppter... Anpu-Anubis... Enlil... Baal... ah, yes. Rex Tenebris. Why does it interest you?' 'I heard the name spoken outside, several times,' says Loken, 'another chant of the damned and the Neverborn. I heard it at the front line, and in the streets, and from the mouths of daemons. It feels significant.' 'Perhaps.' 'Maybe it's just a new name for the Lupercal,' says Loken. 'Their chants and cries are hardly sophisticated. "The Emperor Must Die" lacks nuance.' 'Indeed, Garviel. But let me see what I can find.' Sindermann glances encouragingly at Loken, but Loken has already vanished along another row. Sindermann takes down another book, and flips it open indiscriminately. Then crowned in his stead, the Dark King. Startled, he feels a shiver. He puts the book back quickly and selects another. One that is once born immortal is born again as a king of All Darkness. He's starting to panic. The random incidence of the phrase is uncanny. It's what he hoped might happen, but now it's actually happening, it scares him. He pulls another book, bound in shagreen, opens it on an unpremeditated page, and reads: The black shell cracks, thus he ascends, in the timeless time, and is elevated to the gods, to reign as a dark-crowned king. 4:xvii Horus, rising He is approaching now, fast, angry. You can feel His rage, and it amuses you. Finally, after all these years you have prompted an emotional reaction from Him. Your father is just a man, after all. He is brimming with fury, and burning with power. Such power. He is shining in your mindsight like a star. You had Him encased in a stifling, muffling, sense-depriving shell of pure, black immaterial force, but He has cracked that open, and now He burns a path towards you. The Vengeful Spirit creaks and shakes at the fury of His approach. He is so strong, so powerful, any being in the galaxy would shriek in eternal dread and hide in the depths of hell rather than face Him. But there is nothing in the galaxy like you any more. You no longer have to hide. You no longer have to conceal your power behind veils of secrecy and deceit. If He'd had an inkling of how strong you'd become, He would never have dared come to challenge you. So you wrapped all of yourself in un-when, in skeins of timelessness... your presence, your thoughts, your soul, your power. You muted your mind, took shelter in the past, in memories, in hesternal seclusion, behind artificial masks of dementia and madness. You allowed nothing to give you away, for just a glimpse of your true self would have stopped Him in His tracks and made Him flee. There's no going back now. He's approaching, and you no longer have to hide. You rise up. You cast off your masks and disguises, and stand revealed. It's liberating. Intoxicating. Those around you - your warriors and officers, your sons, the other things that lurk and whisper - they cry out in dismay at the sight of you. The revelation of your new aspect is too magnificent for them. Their eyes burn. They fall to the deck, weeping and screaming and soiling themselves. You are a star, too. You are a tower of lightning. You are a king above kings. You do not underestimate the nature of the fight that is about to take place, the last battle. It will be testing. It will be hard. Your once-father is strong. But you are infinitely stronger. You are Horus Lupercal ascendant, chosen of the gods. And He, when all is said and done, is just a man. So, if necessary, He will die like one. He has taken your bait. He has run headlong into your trap. He has entered your kingdom. You control everything here. You control the board and every move that is made. There is not an atom of the Vengeful Spirit that does not obey your merest thought. It is no longer a ship. It is a place of execution and apotheosis. Your once-father, the tyrant, the liar, the false Emperor, thinks He has come to confront you on a warship in orbit. He has not. He has come to the inevitable centre of all things. He thinks He can fight the future. He can't. This is where it will be decided. This is your realm now. 4:xviii A Realm of Chaos 'What about this?' the archivist says. Her voice makes Sindermann start so much, he drops the book. 'Are you all right?' she asks. 'Yes,' he replies, trying to slow his breathing. It's just words, just a random recurrence of words. A fluke. A psychological trick. He was looking for synchronous magic. Of course it would shake him when it seemed to appear. 'Yes. Of course,' he says, steadying himself. 'What were you saying?' 'My hand just landed on this one, sir,' she says. She is holding up a book to show him, a small volume, of evident age. The binding is so worn, he can barely read the spine. He leans in and squints. 'A Primer of Enuncia,' he reads. 'I don't know what that is.

t words, just a random recurrence of words. A fluke. A psychological trick. He was looking for synchronous magic. Of course it would shake him when it seemed to appear. 'Yes. Of course,' he says, steadying himself. 'What were you saying?' 'My hand just landed on this one, sir,' she says. She is holding up a book to show him, a small volume, of evident age. The binding is so worn, he can barely read the spine. He leans in and squints. 'A Primer of Enuncia,' he reads. 'I don't know what that is.' 'Look at this!' Mauer calls. She hurries past them lugging a large and heavy folio, and sets it down on the nearest reading table. Sindermann and the archivist go to join her. Mauer is turning the pages. The folio is large, and contains, loose-leafed, old sheets of parchment and what look like maps. 'The name caught my eye,' she says, untying the ribbon closure. 'Regno Kao.' 'A Realm of Chaos,' says the archivist. 'Which reminds me,' Sindermann says to her. 'I was going to ask if you have a translation device.' 'I do,' she says, summoning a psyber-skull from its niche. 'But the name is written there, on that label beneath the original title.' She points. Sindermann feels stupid. His anxiety is undermining his usual diligence and precision. 'Keep up, old man,' Mauer snorts. She opens the folio, and starts to rifle through the sheets inside. 'Look at that,' says Sindermann, stopping her from turning another page. 'Is that a map? A city?' 'No, a labyrinth,' says Mauer. 'Or both,' says Loken, suddenly behind them, looking over their shoulders. 'What does that say, the legend?' 'Urbs Ineleuctabilis,' says Mauer, sounding it out. The archivist has beckoned in the psyber-skull, a device formed, it seems, from a canine skull fused to a simian one, then bound in gold and brass. It hovers, buzzing, over the table and passes a quick bar of red light across the chart. 'The Inevitable City,' it declares, speaking in a monotone smear of noise that is simply sampled sounds edited to simulate words. The four of them stare down at the chart for a moment. 'It's nothing,' Mauer decides. Her urgent, impatient mind has already dismissed it. 'Some old myth. Let's get back to work.' 'It looks like the Palace,' says Sindermann. 'It doesn't,' says Mauer. 'It's just some old fantasy. Some nonsense.' 'Something led you to it, Mauer,' Sindermann says. She scowls. 'Well, I don't entirely subscribe to your search methodology anyway, Sindermann. "Let chance guide you"? Honestly, I'll humour you, but it's a suspect and frankly bullshit approach. We should be more rigorous, maybe consult the data-catalogue-' 'It does look like the Palace,' says Loken in a quiet voice. 'I mean, it doesn't and it does. Some aspects are entirely wrong-' 'Please,' says Mauer. 'Not you as well. I think we've become too suggestible. We're seeing patterns and connections where none exist. There's a word for that-' 'Apophenia,' the psyber-skull whirs, 'Pareidolia.' 'Whatever,' she snaps. 'Let's get to a more systematic-' 'Look again, boetharch,' says Loken. 'This map shows a location of convoluted madness. Agreed. But the double-helical shape? Like the notation for infinity? And see, where the gates are marked? And the principal structures? They echo the layout of the Zone Imperialis.' 'No-' says Mauer. 'I have spent hours in these last few months studying diagrammatics of the Palace Dominions,' says Loken. 'Tactical schematics, combat assessments... I tell you, the comparison is uncanny. This could be a plan of the Palace, made by a child... or an unsettled mind...' 'All cities look alike,' says Mauer. 'In their basic components-' 'All cats look alike in the dark,' says Sindermann, trying to ease the tension between the two. 'Not helpful,' says Mauer, shooting him a look. She points to the map. 'I'm familiar with maps of the Dominions too, Astartes. Yes, there are a few points of correspondence. But there are far more discrepancies. If that's the Sanctum, what's that? Or that? What's that structure? If that's the Lion's Gate, what is that? Please, can we move on?' 'It looks as though maps have been interlocked or overlaid,' says Sindermann. 'The diagrams of two cities, superimposed. Perhaps more than two-' 'Where are you getting this from, Kyril?' Mauer asks. 'There's no scale, no measurement, no definition. There's no evidence this was even drawn as a proportional representation-' 'What if this is...' Sindermann pauses. 'What if this somehow depicts what the Palace is becoming? The intrusions of the warp? The superimposition of other places or times? The realignment and distortion Garviel was describing?' 'How would any of that feature on an old map?' Mauer snaps. 'When was this composed?' Loken asks the archivist. 'There is no date or origin for the work, sir,' she replies. 'Except some alleged provenance that it was part of "The Book of Chaos Foreseen". Nothing can be verified.' 'What of the text here, along the edge?' Loken asks. The archivist touches the psyber-skull gently, and it bobs over the section Loken is indicating. The bar of red light slides slowly across the faded brown ink of the old cursive penmanship. 'Yette knowe this is the true and everlasting place of madeness and lyes that concealeth all truth within its manifold streetes and fyne gates, which hath stoode since before time was and will stand throughe time and unto beyonde all time, eternal, and is withoute anye time, for it was builded in the Darke, and in the everlasting Darke remaines. It standeth foreverr beyonde all mortal sight, as beyonde a mirror upon the other side, seen only in visions and the most fytfulle dreams, subjecte to constant motion of currents and ethereal tides, and is the House of Ruin and insanity both, for within it dwelleth the four who haunt the dark, and besides them, many other vacant thrones and diverse spirits of revenge and ruination. It lyeth but a mere lifetime's journey from Calastar, yet therein its walls and turrets join, by masons' craft, to the walls and turrets of that impossible city, and so too but a moment's eternity from the City of Duste, and also close by Uigebealach, whiche it is and is not, and thereby it is and is not alle things and places thereafter and before, freed from alle reason-' 'Enough,' says Loken. '-and upon the Daye of Dayes it will become so all thinges, and its gates will devour all the Works of Man, and also Man, and all the angels and stars betimes, and the mighty works of Man will be as nothinge and despaire, and all peoples forgot and all empires unremembered, and all who look upon it, as throughe one great Eye, shalle say I weep now at the inevitable triumph of its Ruin, for ruin it is and ruin it brings-' 'Enough.' The psyber-skull falls silent. The bar of red light winks out. 4:xix Supplicants 'Stand up,' says Vulkan. Grammaticus stands. 'You remember me, my lord?' he asks. Vulkan's eyes are superheated red, the blazing glow of the world's core. 'I remember you,' he says. 'Barely, as a dream. When we met, my mind was not my own. But it is hard to forget the face of the man who killed me.' Ios Raja sweeps around, a golden blur. The blade of his spear stops a hair's breadth from John's throat. 'Killed me, and in so doing contrived my salvation, I should say,' says Vulkan. 'Lower your blade, Companion. This man gave his life so that I could live again. But for his sacrifice, I would not be here to stand with Terra.' 'That was years ago,' says John, as the gleaming blade moves away from his neck. 'And a considerable simplification.' 'Perhaps,' says Vulkan. 'There were other elements in play, on Macragge and afterwards. But you played the key role. And you surrendered your life for me.' He pauses. 'Yet you stand before me now.' 'As you stand before me,' says John. 'You speak as though you know the curious logic of a Perpetual existence,' says Vulkan. 'In part,' says John. 'But I am not of that rare kind. A rough facsimile, for a while. Not even that now. When I gave you my life, sir, I was not brought back as a multitude. I am mortal, with but one life. You, I trust, have many left within you.' John puts his hand on the shoulder of Oll, kneeling beside him. 'This is the man you should be talking to,' he says. 'He certainly knows that curious logic.' 'What is your name?' Vulkan asks. 'John Grammaticus, sir,' says John. 'And this is Ollanius Persson.' Oll rises slowly to his feet. 'I would relish a conversation with you both,' says Vulkan. 'However now, clearly, is not the time. I can barely justify this interruption to the work. But Hassan reported your remarkable intrusion, and your unusual demands. Both required the consideration of the most senior authority. I cannot leave my post here, so you were brought to me. I want an account. You will make it brief.' 'I came to see your father,' says Oll. 'From where?' asks Vulkan. 'Calth, but that's irrelevant. In truth, the past. I knew Him once, a long time back. I would speak with Him again.' 'He never mentioned you,' says Vulkan. 'I'm sure He hasn't. But then, has He ever mentioned much?' Vulkan raises an eyebrow slightly. 'You came as a group?' he asks. 'Travelling companions, fellow survivors of Calth,' says Oll. 'The journey has not been easy. We've needed each other. I humbly ask that you have the Vigilant Sisters step back, for they are causing suffering to some of my friends.' 'Security must be maintained!' Raja snaps at once. 'Have the kind Sisters back away,' Vulkan says to him. 'Or would you like to insult my fortitude further?' Raja bows his head and, at his thoughtmark, the Sisters and the Custodian escort step back from the group, forming a much wider perimeter. Oll hears Actae sigh in relief. Raja remains at their side, with Hassan, the negation crate he was carrying set on the lustrous floor at his feet. 'Thank you,' says Oll to the primarch. Vulkan nods. 'What was your business with my father?' Vulka

nce. 'Have the kind Sisters back away,' Vulkan says to him. 'Or would you like to insult my fortitude further?' Raja bows his head and, at his thoughtmark, the Sisters and the Custodian escort step back from the group, forming a much wider perimeter. Oll hears Actae sigh in relief. Raja remains at their side, with Hassan, the negation crate he was carrying set on the lustrous floor at his feet. 'Thank you,' says Oll to the primarch. Vulkan nods. 'What was your business with my father?' Vulkan asks. 'To discuss with Him the course, purpose and meaning of this conflict.' 'Do you bear new intelligence?' Vulkan asks. 'Information about the foe that could prove decisive?' 'Probably not,' says Oll. 'Then I wonder why he would discuss it with you.' 'Because we have discussed wars many times,' says Oll. 'We have planned them together, and we have fought them together. He has, in the past, valued my perspective.' 'You are a soldier?' 'Once upon a time.' 'Your martial wisdom must be significant if he took counsel from you.' 'I'm just an ordinary soldier,' says Oll. 'Was an ordinary soldier.' 'Yet one who evidently values his military skills enough to risk misadventure,' says Raja, 'to come a great distance, by his own admission, and seek to speak them aloud.' 'The Companion makes a good point,' says Vulkan. 'This is the end war, sir,' says Oll, looking squarely into Vulkan's eyes. 'Perhaps the end and the death of everything. A soldier would be failing in his duty if he did not do whatever he could.' 'I sense you are being sparing with the truth,' says Vulkan. 'Some things, great lord, are for His ears alone,' replies Oll. 'Can I speak with Him?' 'No,' says Vulkan. 'May I ask why?' asks Oll. 'This is your decision?' 'It is a matter of practicality,' says Vulkan. 'My father is not here. You cannot speak to him. I am the most senior authority on Terra, which is why you are speaking to me.' 'Where is He?' asks John. 'At war,' says Vulkan. 'Then what of the Sigillite?' asks Oll. Vulkan turns slightly, and with one gesture of his mighty hand, indicates the pulsing light that fills the Throne Room far behind him. It is a terrible radiance, the living light that began to gnaw at them all when they first entered. It smells of compressed pain and torn hopes, of burning gold and whispering agony. Against the glare, Vulkan is backlit like a cliff at sunset. 'Malcador,' he says, 'occupies the Throne in my father's stead.' Oll peers into the light until his eyes begin to ache and a migraine blossoms in his skull. He can just see, in the distance, tiny specks of figures toiling in the glare, the shape of curious machines. He can almost pick out the shape of a colossal throne, raised up in majesty. He cannot make out a figure on it. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again. The Emperor has gone, and all the senior commanders save Vulkan with him, and the Sigillite is lost in the technological inferno of what mortals laughably refer to as 'the Throne'. They have arrived too late, and it's all been for nothing. 4:xx Fragments Titan engines grapple, hand-to-hand and claw-to-claw, on the precipice lip of ragged cliffs that were once Dorn's insurmountable walls. Corpses drift in rank grey water where gas bubbles rise off sewage. High above, on grilled decking and walkways, men brawl by firelight with blades and hooks and clubs. It is frenzied. Blood drizzles down through the walkway grilles towards the grey water below. The living can no longer remember why they are fighting. The dead no longer care. Sojuk of the White Scars sheathes his blade in the torso of a Word Bearer. Jetbikes roar past him, cannons firing as they rush the enemy charge. Sojuk longs for their speed and freedom. Time, cold and dead, has wrapped its weight around him like loops of heavy chain. Men run through the smoke, from nowhere, to nowhere, lugging their weapons and their lives, muttering prayers and bewitched by battle-madness. From somewhere close, the industrial thunder of mega-bolters. Ruin roars. The Palace screams. Maximus Thane yells to be heard, and tries to rally the last of his men, but there, on the tattered edge of the Gilded Walk, they are too busy selling their lives for the highest price to hear him. Agathe wrenches her bayonet out of her enemy's gut. The fight rages around her along the length of the razor-wire line. They are not going to reach Primus Gate. The gate and its fortifications are probably gone anyway. The stone walls of the culvert have become mottled flesh, and are covered with names. Closing in, Neverborn spectres call her by hers. Corswain, the Hound of Caliban, lifts his bloodstained sword. The blade gleams in the half-light, but that half-light is merely the cold, phosphor glow streaming from the eyes and mouths of the ink-black Death Guard driving up the pass and splintering his lines. There is nothing but shadow beneath the Hollow Mountain. Corswain has raised whole mounds and hills of corpses, and set them aflame, but the mountain itself remains dark. Zephon edges his blade with a whetstone, preparing for what will surely be the last battle of Hasgard, and his last battle too. Fafnir Rann watches him, loading shells into his bolter. On the burning plains, a giant throne of skulls sits empty, awaiting the imminent coronation. Mangler claws gouge open the Shadowsword's flank, and something inside it detonates. The blast wrenches the Shadowsword's huge bulk into the air, like a rider bucked from a horse. Jera Talmada, in the turret of her Banestorm, sees it land, burning from within. She orders 'Load!' but the Banestorm's main weapon has seized. She orders full reverse, knowing there is nothing behind her that is any different from the carnage ahead. Armies tear into armies in ranks a thousand men deep and ten thousand wide. Spears jab, lifting bodies. Guns boom, shredding others. Broadswords and tactical spathas cleave helmets, crush skulls and tear pseudoflesh. Skin rips. Blood sprays. Bionics short out and fail. Plasteel cracks. Psykanic energy roils and lashes. Aggression is channelled by hypno-indoctrinated commands, or coded machine pulses, or obsessive training, or merely by a tenuous sense of self. The quaking air reeks of glanded combat stimms and piss and blood and fear. Every warrior carries another's death in his fist. The turmoil is unending and unbearable. Horns boom. Fire vomits from the punished ground. Adrathic wrath scorches the air. Bodies buckle and melt in waves of xenophasic heat. Tracked behemoths clatter over mud and wire and bones. Voltaic lances gouge and shatter against shield walls, and plated phalanxes punch through infantry lines like chainfists. There is rout and overrun, panic and disarray. Loyal corpses, breathing yet, but doomed, rush forwards under standards of foliated skulls and splayed eagles, caked in ash and gore, to meet the screaming host of treason, which smashes into their dented shields under banners made of entrails and flags of unblinking eyes. They bear their Neverborn lords with them on biers, swollen-bellied, horned beasts that whisper unutterable names through blood-flecked lips, or play flutes fresh-fashioned from human femurs. Carious bodies pile up and slither, twenty, thirty, forty deep. There is a hircine stink, a reek of nidor, the dry burn of weapon-generated ozone. They kill for the living and kill for the dead, and kill because killing is all that remains. The bony touch of mortality is upon them all, and their deaths will last forever. It is the final triumph of Ruin, hymned by the spit and crackle of the warp. Thus is the malison of Chaos. The world hangs badly, at an angle. Above, in the supernal realm, the lochetic nimbus of the opening warp burns against the blind, unconstellated void, turning in the thestral glow like the wheel of all fortunes, licking spears of lightning down to strike and tumble the last steeples and towers of Terra. It is a great eye, like the eyes on the drenched banners far below, its pupil blazing, its sclera bloodshot. It observes the shrieking psychomachia of the species, and devours each and every soul that flies up, a furnace spark. It gazes down upon the rock that they call the world as it is dismantled wholesale by a relentless concentration of absolute fury. It witnesses the end of the world, the end of Terra, the end of the rock that they kill on and for. The four watch too, the False Four, through the eyes of their avatars in the dreaming shadows of the Lupercal Court: the dripping, red-plashed Father of Massacres, the trembling, feverish Grandchild of Decay, the languid Drinker of Delights, shaking with algedonic glee, the squirming, unstable Beast of Change. They see the plan ended, ruined and unfinished, and signify their approval of that repudiation with the bloody prints of their gnarled and sutured hands. Their laughter becomes the avalanche roar of a falling world. 'Respond. This is Hegemon Control. Anabasis, respond and verify.' The War Court junior at the mastervox station keeps repeating the same words. She is the third junior to occupy the seat, taking over the task in rotation, repeating the same signal every twenty seconds. Sandrine Icaro and the other seniors in the Rotunda are now sure, beyond any doubt, there will never be a reply. Bloody teardrops trickle down Malcador's desiccating cheek. The heat radiating out of him is now so intense, they evaporate before they've barely formed. 4:xxi The Dark King Oll feels himself sag, the hope and determination that has fuelled him, thus far, now draining away. The exhaustion he has kept at bay for so long sweeps in like a tide. The air around him shimmers, dazzling with motes and filaments of light thrown, like cinders, from the immolating Throne. He hears the creak and shiver of the vast chamber's huge arches tensing in the outflow of raw power. He hears the pure song of the astrotelepaths running through the tumult

ely formed. 4:xxi The Dark King Oll feels himself sag, the hope and determination that has fuelled him, thus far, now draining away. The exhaustion he has kept at bay for so long sweeps in like a tide. The air around him shimmers, dazzling with motes and filaments of light thrown, like cinders, from the immolating Throne. He hears the creak and shiver of the vast chamber's huge arches tensing in the outflow of raw power. He hears the pure song of the astrotelepaths running through the tumult like a single thread. 'It is me or no one,' Vulkan says to him. 'Is there anything you wish to say?' Oll shakes his head. 'Then I cannot vouch for your purpose or presence,' says Vulkan, 'and I believe you are nothing more than a distraction. Besides, I am sorry to say, I suspect your motives.' Raja has brought him the crate, and is holding it open. Vulkan inspects the objects within. Arcane aeldari instruments, a ball of twine, a handmade tarot... 'Can you explain this?' Vulkan asks. He is holding up the athame. 'Just a stone knife, my lord,' says Oll quietly. 'I know stone and I know rock,' says Vulkan, 'I know all the elements of the mineral realm. It is that, yes, but it is more besides. An ugly thing with a deep shadow.' 'It struck me, my lord,' says Hassan, 'as an artefact of particular evil.' Vulkan drops the athame back into the negation crate, as though unwilling to hold it for long. He takes out Leetu's old deck, and starts turning the cards, one by one. 'My lord,' says Hassan. 'I noted that a particular card features in this set.' 'Indeed?' muses Vulkan. He stops. He's found it. 'Indeed so,' Hassan replies. 'I discovered it at the random turn of a card-' Vulkan holds the card up. 'Is it a symbol you know?' he asks them. 'A concept? Do you understand some greater meaning? The name of it shivers on the lips of the enemy and echoes down the colonnades of the webway.' 'The name, sir?' Oll asks. 'The Dark King,' says Vulkan. 'Wait-' says Leetu, suddenly confused. 'This name is spoken?' asks Actae abruptly, interrupting him. 'It is said repeatedly, almost as a refrain,' says Vulkan. 'Do you know it?' 'Trust her not, lord,' says Raja. 'She will answer,' says Vulkan. He looks at Actae, and bids her stand. Actae rises, and Katt gets to her feet at her side. 'Do you know the name?' Vulkan asks. 'A true meaning?' Actae tilts her blindfold head, as if struggling, either with pain or some mental battle. 'Not as our word, in our language,' she says. 'But perhaps in the un-tongued languages of the immaterium. Do you mean to say "the Dark King"?' To Oll, the words are exactly the same, its sound and phonetic value identical. But when the witch says it, the name suddenly has a sharp edge. Katt shivers at it, and Oll feels John wince. 'It is the same phrase,' says Hassan. 'No,' says Actae. 'Names have power, and they are mutable. Meanings may shift and change. One thing becomes another. That phrase has a simple enough meaning for us. But in other places its meaning is quite different and specific.' 'What places?' Vulkan asks. 'In the warp, sir. In the unresolved realms of possibility that only prophesy can see. In the day of days when time runs out. Oh, by the lights of the stars... it has been spoken?' 'It has,' says Vulkan. 'The Sigillite and my father both, they said it represented an ending, and a death.' 'And more,' replies Actae. 'The Dark King is more.' Again, as she says it, Oll feels it cut the air, like a razor against soft skin. 'Pity's sake,' murmurs John, 'every time she says it...' 'What?' asks Oll. 'I mean, I can hear what she's saying, and I can see her damn lips move, but there is another meaning hidden inside the phrase. I hear echoes of aeldari, and other xenos lexicons. Like they all have the same words, or that many meanings have all converged on one sound.' 'What are you talking about?' Hassan snaps. 'Listen to him,' says Oll. 'He is a logokine, and words to him are living things.' 'Explain the meaning,' says Hassan. John shrugs helplessly. 'I can't... just with a sense of inevitability and... and extinction.' Leetu has risen to his feet. 'My lord primarch,' he says softly, 'that card was not part of my deck. I have owned those cards for years. They were a gift from my mistress. I know every one of them, front and back. I have never seen that card before. It was not in my deck when I came to this palace.' Vulkan frowns at the card. 'Yet it is clearly made by the same hand, to the same stylistic design, and of identical materials,' he says. 'Chosen? Have it examined by cartomancers and scryers. And you... Tell me what you know of it at once.' 'Lord,' says Actae, with some reluctance, 'the Dark King is... it is the name first written in the time before man, and repeated ever since, unbidden, by the prophets of all species. It is a name symbolising the rising god to come.' 'There are no gods!' scoffs Raja. 'You're a fool,' Actae tells him. 'Before the fall of the aeldari, there was no fourth power of Chaos. The gods of Chaos breed and multiply, propagating like storms through the empyrean. They are born in turn, though they have all existed forever. Time has no meaning for them. The fall of the aeldari did not cause the birth of She Who Thirsts, merely her occurrence. So too with all other gods, be they foul entities of Chaos, or divine forces of sentient power.' 'She Who Thirsts was born out of the death of an entire sentient culture,' says John. 'Such is the inevitable fate of all advanced, psychic species,' says Actae. 'And the Dark King is our fate. This war, my lord, is not one of loyalists against traitors. It is not about the conquest of Terra and mankind by Chaos. It is certainly not about a son at war with his father. This is the Triumph of Ruin. Horus and the Emperor have taken their conflict to such a pitch, that we are about to suffer the same fate as the cursed aeldari. The human race will die in birth-fire, consumed by blood-rage, pestilence, violent transmutation and blind desire. And from the grave-pyre of our civilisation, the broken galaxy will see Horus rising, absolute and complete, as a new, true and terrible god.' She bows her head, shivering. At her side, Katt looks across at Oll with an expression of hopeless shock. 'She's telling the truth,' she says. 4:xxii Handprint He has lost sight of the others. Collection 888 didn't seem as extensive as the Hall's upper galleries, but its twilit, mazy layout has enveloped him. He can hear Mauer's voice, now and then, and occasionally a word or two in answer from Loken, somewhere beyond the shelves that surround him like walls. Sindermann walks the length of another row of stasis-held pictures, the lights blinking on as he gets close to each one. He sees a faded, extraordinary painting entitled The Tower of Babel. He stares at it for a long time. Was it a particularly favourite piece of His? Cherished for its technique, or simply its immense age? Does it have a meaning? A pertinent meaning he can decipher? Next to it, an arresting expressionist piece called The Five Thrones by an unknown artist working in the last years of the 66th century. It shows the distant, chair-like structures at a distance, so they appear huge, the size of buildings or pyramids. They are set within a city of strange design, viewed as through some curtain of flames. Is it a view of hell from outside, or heaven seen from hell? Sindermann looks at it until it no longer makes sense, or perhaps makes too much sense. He has begun to suspect that no meaning may be extracted from anything in the library, for he and the others have no frame of reference. There is no way to understand the nature of the curation. If they knew why each piece was kept, they could begin to identify the significances. He opens one of the sliding cabinets, and a light comes on inside illuminating a large, preparatory sketch. The delicate pencil work has somehow survived millennia. It is evidently a technical copy, made by hand, of an original work now long lost. There is no label. It shows a hunt or chase. There are antelope and bison, side-on, mid-leap, and startled deer breaking and running. There are men, with bows and spears. All the figures are crude and stylised to the point of simplicity. Sindermann imagines the original was a piece of parietal art, displayed on the wall of a cave or chamber, rendered in oxides and charcoal. Only this traced copy remains. Despite the simplicity, he can see the motion and energy, the urgency of the hunt, and even the arcing path, between hand and fleeing antelope, that the cast spear will follow. He can see the flank where the spear will strike. At the edges of the image there are additional marks that seem to indicate vegetation or undergrowth, and shapes seem to lurk within those marks. It's not clear what they are. Perhaps they are supposed to be other animals, or concealed predators lying in wait. Beside them, in the corner, is the outline of a human handprint. It's not so much a picture, Sindermann decides, more a diagram, a visual plan. It's so old, Sindermann doubts anyone has an idea of its full significance any more, or could explain the maker's intent. He sighs. He closes the display cabinet, and wanders through the winding stacks to find the others. Mauer is sitting, perched, on the top of a rolling ladder. 'According to the' - she pauses, and checks the cover of the book in her hand - 'Last Chronicles of the Lemurian Kingdoms, "All kingdoms on the Earth fall and perish when those that rule become absolute in power."' She looks down at him. 'So there's that,' she says. 'Where is the archivist?' They both look around. Loken has reappeared. 'Where is she?' he asks. 'Here, sir,' says the archivist. Sindermann realises she had been in the shadows nearby the whole time. 'A question,' says Loken. 'Follow me.' He turns and starts to walk. Warily, the archivist follows him. Sindermann glances at Ma

the Lemurian Kingdoms, "All kingdoms on the Earth fall and perish when those that rule become absolute in power."' She looks down at him. 'So there's that,' she says. 'Where is the archivist?' They both look around. Loken has reappeared. 'Where is she?' he asks. 'Here, sir,' says the archivist. Sindermann realises she had been in the shadows nearby the whole time. 'A question,' says Loken. 'Follow me.' He turns and starts to walk. Warily, the archivist follows him. Sindermann glances at Mauer. She jumps down off the rolling ladder and they fall in step behind. Three rows of shelves over, Loken comes to a halt in front of the wall. 'Where does that lead?' he asks. 'Sir, I... I don't know.' He looks at her. 'You work here. You must know.' Deeply scared of him, she shakes her head. 'I really don't,' she answers in a fragile whisper. There's a hatch in the wall. A large hatch. It's not a door like the one they entered by. It reminds Sindermann of a security hatch, or even an airgate. It is robust and heavy duty. He can see the marks of wear and use around the sill and the seal rim. It's old. It's been in service for years. The grey steel looks like dirty ice in the gloom. 'It must go somewhere,' Loken says. 'Is it an exterior hatch? Or does it secure another collection? If the latter, then it must be something significant.' The archivist shakes her head. 'It has to go somewhere,' echoes Mauer. 'Do you have a key?' Again, the archivist, struck dumb with nerves, shakes her head. 'I don't remember seeing it when we came in,' says Sindermann. 'Neither do I,' says Loken. He turns to the archivist. 'Please,' he says, 'I understand you're scared. But where does the hatch go? Is it a secure area you are not allowed to enter?' 'Sir,' she says. She swallows hard, her voice tremulous. 'I'm trying to tell you... I don't know where it goes because I didn't know there was a door there.' 'You didn't know?' 'Sir, I have been in here several times over the years. I have never seen that door before in my life.' Mauer draws her sidearm. 'Everybody step back,' says Loken. They do so, but not far. They stand and watch as Loken approaches the hatch. He traces his fingers across its surface, and studies it closely. He presses his hand, palm flat, against the wall to try the lock mechanism. To his surprise, there is a thump, and the hatch slides open. A gust of stale air blows out. Sindermann smells smoke, the cold hint of a fire gone out. Beyond the hatch is a metal corridor with grilled decking. It is quite unlike the design and fabric of the Hall. Loken glances back at them. 'Stay here,' he tells them. 'I mean it.' He steps through the hatch. The corridor is dim. Pipework threads the walls. There are lamps set in the ceiling, but they are deactivated or broken. Small, emergency lights in the wall emit a soft, amber glow. He takes a few steps. He has a rising, disconcerting sense of familiarity. He dismisses it. Foolish. All Imperial architecture looks alike. The same templates are used everywhere. This could be a bulk hallway anywhere in the Palace, a corridor in any- Loken stops. There is a designator mark stencilled on the wall panel. He reads it, then reads it again to make sure he isn't going mad. He retraces his steps and walks back into the library. 'Well?' asks Sindermann. 'I'm going to explore further,' Loken says. He wants to tell Mauer to summon support, but he knows that no one will answer her calls. He wants to tell them to run, to lock all the doors behind them and get the hell out of the Hall of Leng, get the hell out and hide. But he knows there is nowhere left to hide. Nowhere is safe. The Sanctum is no longer a sanctuary. He doesn't want to panic them. Panic will help no one. Their last minutes or hours shouldn't be spent in terror, because terror and death will find them soon enough. 'Stay here,' he says instead. 'Don't follow me.' They stare at him. 'Do you understand?' Loken asks. 'Yes, yes,' says Mauer. 'What is it, Garvi?' asks Sindermann. 'Nothing, I hope,' Loken replies. 'A service corridor. A sub-access. Let me just check.' He looks Sindermann in the eyes for a second. The old man nods. Loken turns, and steps back into the corridor. Inside, he presses his hand against the interior plate and the hatch slides shut behind him. It knows his touch. His biometric print. Of course it does. He would still be in the record. At least Mauer and Kyril and the archivist can't open the hatch and come after him. It won't respond to their touch. It has never granted any of them full clearance. 4:xxiii My father's house Once the hatch is shut, he unclamps his helm from his waist, and puts it on. He locks the neck seals and wakes the visor. Over his back, he draws Mourn-It-All and Rubio's blade. Loken begins to walk forward. He pauses at the stencil marker and reads it again, just to make sure he hasn't made a mistake. He hasn't. He is standing in Sub-Access (Port Ventral) 423762. He is aboard the Vengeful Spirit. INTERLUDE THOSE WHO BEAR WITNESS i The Dance Without End A masque has come to Ulthwe, the first masque since the Fall. It has come without summons, like a gift: a harlequinade of the Rillietann, the first seen in centuries, stepping from the slanting light of a far-angled gate, and walking in silence through the wraithbone chambers of the craftworld to the Ovation. There, without preliminary or overture, they start their performance. The asuryani of Ulthanash Shelwe gather to behold it. Some ask, What is the meaning? Is this a blessing, or a portent? Some ask, What is this dance? Eldrad Ulthran knows. Though the Harlequins have remained hidden in the webway since the Fall, wards of the Laughing God Cegorach, their dance has never ended. They have danced in seclusion, maintaining the old masques, such as The Penumbral and The Leering Moon, and adding new ones, such as The Dance Without End. He has never seen that masque, but he has heard tell of it. It is the great rite of lament, added to their repertoire during the years of seclusion, for it depicts the tragedy of the Fall. Eldrad comes to the Ovation to stand with the others and watch. The Ovation is his favourite place on Ulthwe. Of great compass, it is the only chamber on the craftworld that feels as though it is outside. Here, there is a wide span of sky, a soft sunset, and a broad tract of eitoc grassland nodding in an idle breeze. A ring of soft beige rocks surrounds the grassy bowl of the stage, a kilometre wide. The shadows are long and the dusk muted. All of it is simulated. Psi-engram circuits in the wraithbone deck and soaring dome manufacture this environment from memories, and optical fields make the space feel even larger than it actually is. He stands among the rocks with the others, watching the dance, feeling the remembered sunlight, smelling the recalled scents of eitoc and the wildflowers. Around the imagined horizon, evening thunder rolls, and lightning prowls. But the noise is not thunder, and the blink-flash is not lightning. It is the crackle of active gates far away, around the edges of the room. The dance is a spectacle of the highest theatre. A full company, troupes of mimes and jesters, of warlocks, of light and shade and in-between, led by their master Harlequin, all clad in dazzling domino suits, all vizarded in the false-faces of their chosen agaith. And with them, the blue shade of a Solitaire, signifying the prestige of the piece. They move across the floor of the grassy bowl in a choreography that is both surgically precise and as fluid as water. When the dance ends, the dancers promptly begin again, repeating the entire sequence. Word spreads. Despite the mounting anxiety and the desperate measures of preparation being undertaken across the aeldari diaspora, emissaries come to behold the masque. The first harlequinade since the Fall is a thing of true significance, and must be witnessed. The emissaries arrive through the far-angled gates. They come from craftworlds scaling for reactive war; from others fleeing at maximum impeller towards the galactic hem; from precious crone worlds raising their defences; from shuttered maiden worlds hiding their most precious thoughts in soulglass flasks; from Exodite communities withdrawing to their covenanted places of safety. No matter the crisis, the masque must be attended. Then no one comes. Sudden squalls of immaterial horror boil and spill through the far-angled pathways. Transit is no longer possible. The old ways are blocked. Eldrad orders the gates closed. Those who are here must remain. Those who have not yet arrived may never come, and many may have been lost en route. Eldrad has expected this. He is reluctant to admit that he had not, however, farseen it. In the past weeks, farsight has progressively clouded and dimmed, blocked by etheric tumult just as transit is now blocked. The future is either hidden from asuryani eyes, or it is no longer there. Nechrevort, the emissary of Commorragh, is last to arrive before the gates close. The Guardians close in at once at the sight of an envoy of the aeldari's reviled and degenerate cousins. 'I come to witness, unbladed,' she says, her scarified palms raised, her smile lethal. 'Will you deny me?' 'I will deny no one,' Eldrad replies, 'not even an eladrith ynneas. The masque is for our blood, where ever it runs.' He signals to the Guardians to back away. 'I think our blood will run,' she says, as she walks beside him through the nodding grass towards the Ovation. 'Yours, farseer. Mine. Don't you?' 'Your tone is prognosticatory, Dracon Nechrevort. I thought the drukhari had no truck with the farminded arts?' 'We need no farsight to see the doom come upon us,' she replies. 'The mon-keigh have outdone themselves. They will drag more than their own kind to annihilation.' The masque has been underway for nine days. On the Ovation's stage, the whirling figures of the company sha

he says, as she walks beside him through the nodding grass towards the Ovation. 'Yours, farseer. Mine. Don't you?' 'Your tone is prognosticatory, Dracon Nechrevort. I thought the drukhari had no truck with the farminded arts?' 'We need no farsight to see the doom come upon us,' she replies. 'The mon-keigh have outdone themselves. They will drag more than their own kind to annihilation.' The masque has been underway for nine days. On the Ovation's stage, the whirling figures of the company shape agonies and ecstasies with formal precision and sinuous grace. They tumble in the air like birds, they flutter like leaves, they spring and bound, and curve around each other. The domino suits shine and flash, iridescent. When the dance ends, they begin it again, repeating the same suite of symbolic movements. The sky is carved from smoke, and the breeze tastes of sadness. Eldrad and the kabal dracon join the onlookers on the rock rim. Eldrad sees autarchs look away, shunning the drukhari. He sees exarchs scowling at her presence, and Exodites moving to stand apart. None make menace, for to do so would be to abuse the hospitality of Ulthwe. The emissary of Iyanden shows no compunction. She steps close to Eldrad, despite the dracon nearby. 'What have you seen?' she asks him, quietly, as they observe the harlequinade. 'Nothing, Mehlendri,' he replies. 'Have you looked?' 'You ask me that, Silversoul? I have looked. There is nothing to be seen. This you know, for, from the fear in your eyes, I know you have looked too. Nothing is visible, and even if it was, what good is it to us? To farsee is to know the yet-to-come. What use is sight alone?' 'Anticipation, always our virtue,' replies his visitor. 'To farsee is to read the path, and from that the steps may be changed.' He looks at her. 'I love you for your trust in that,' he says. 'Yet I hate you that you still cleave to that idea.' 'Anticipation has won me many victories,' she says. 'Perhaps.' 'I have farseen defeats, and changed the steps so that Iyanden has arrived instead at triumph.' 'Have you, Silversoul? Or have your Aspects simply fought harder and prevailed?' She frowns. 'I lament to hear the great farseer speak so ill of his art. Why would the asuryani be given the sight to read fate if not to change it?' 'Because life is cruel,' he replies. 'Eldrad,' she says, 'I came to Ulthwe to consult you, for Ulthwe sees further than any-' 'You came to see the masque,' he says, 'and that is enough. The Harlequins come from seclusion to dance for us. That tells us all we need to know. A great catastrophe passes through the stars. We will be lucky to survive it.' 'We have farseen its coming for years. Now it is upon us, there must be something we can-' 'Now you counsel for action, Iyandeni? When the asuryani have spent years condemning any involvement with the mammals and their wars? We knew they would burn out. We saw that much. This is how it happens.' 'But on such a scale, Eldrad? Yes, we farsaw their fall. But we underestimated their potential for destructive spite. Their home world, now the focus of their final grief, sinks like a hot coal through the silk of creation and spills the warp. Our sight has dimmed, and the Harlequins come to dance. That can only mean their final fall will be a second fall for us, consuming all.' 'Then run, Silversoul.' 'Iyanden runs, Ulthran.' 'And Ulthwe cannot. We are lodged in the scar tissue of our own mistake.' 'So you would... give up?' He turns from her. In the pale air of the simulated sunset, he sees other emissaries nearby watching their exchange with interest. He sees the amused smirk of Nechrevort. He claps his hands three times. 'Stop the masque!' he commands. The dancers falter and stop. On the Ovation's stage, the Harlequins glare at him from behind their startling masks, some crouched low, about to spring or spin, some lowering outstretched arms. Only the nodding grasses stir. Eldrad stands in the moth-light, and extends his arms. His robes melt into vapour. His armour comes to him, soft ribbons of glassy colour that bind and settle upon his limbs and body until he is tight-cased in the aspect of war. 'I will tell you what I have seen,' he announces to the gathered luminaries. 'I will tell you what I have done.' The Harlequins hiss, and huddle in a lithe mass, arms around each other. 'Once, behind us on the trodden path, there was a great people,' he says, 'of mighty accomplishment and sharp supremacy, who inherited the stars and all that webs between-' 'Do not school us, Eldrad,' objects Kouryan of Biel-Tan. '-and in their supremacy and accomplishment, they foresaw where their path would lead, yet they did not change the steps or turn aside.' Mehlendri glares at him, offended. 'Recite not our shame as though it is an argument against our art,' she says. 'Our shame?' he asks. 'You speak of the asuryani, in the time before She came to quench her thirst upon us, and this is known, and this is mourned. But it is no argument. Our loss, though the greatest of all losses, simply reinforces the necessity of our craft. What we farsee, we act upon. What is yet-to-come, we recompose. This is the bitter lesson of the Fall. Our pride blinded us. We have heeded our farsight since-' 'The story was not ours,' Eldrad replies. 'I was speaking of another, the younger kind. Their steps are the same, as though they have learned the same dance from us, and now perform it with us, a duet, echoing every move.' 'They are low things,' snaps Jain Zar. 'They are a million years behind us. They seek to ape our past glory, but they will never rise to such refinement. They will wipe themselves out, as a thousand other kinds have done before them. We have avoided their outgrowth as much as we can, and kept out of their affairs. They will soon be gone.' 'Very soon,' Eldrad agrees. 'What concerns us is the manner of their passing.' He looks at them all. 'For generations, we have farseen the damnation of the human - yes, let's call them what they are - the damnation of the human line. These upstarts who, nonetheless, have forged an empire worthy of the name. Their vigour has surprised us. We have watched them repeat the same hubristic mistakes we made. We have awaited their inevitable ruin, for is it not the fate of all species that harness the power of the mind to affect their destiny? I warned of this, Ulthwe warned of this, but you refused involvement. I chose to ignore that decision.' There is a murmur of dismay. 'I have manipulated certain parties in an effort to head off this disaster, for I knew then what you know now. Not only the human line shall perish. My efforts, over years of careful agency, have come to little. Some of my actions have been ill-judged, and I have trimmed the skeins of fate to correct them as best I can. But I have tried. Now you protest, in your woe, that it is time to take action. It is too late. The one called Horus Lupercal wields too much power for us to stand against him. I have one principal agent left in play. He has ensured that the forces opposing the Lupercal have one great champion more than they would have otherwise, the so-called Promethean Son. My agent may be able to do more, but I fear not. Our sight is dim because there is no future to observe. We have no choice but to see out the policy you determined, to let them burn, and fight back the flames of conflagration if they come too close to us. Or, if fate is cruel, and the human line does not end itself, then we will prepare to resist a broken species fuelled by Chaos. We have no choice now but to wait. The Harlequins come to dance for us, The Dance Without End, to remind us what we are capable of enduring, for we must endure again, and weep, for it is only proper, the passing of a sentient kind.' 'Fine words,' says Nechrevort, breaking the silence that follows. 'But incorrect in one detail.' 'How so?' asks Eldrad. Nechrevort gestures at the recoiled Harlequins. 'That, High Farseer of Ulthwe, was not The Dance Without End,' she says. 'Tell me what you mean, drukhari.' 'I have seen the dance,' she says. 'The Harlequin troupes may not have left the far-angled ways since the first breath of She Who Thirsts, but they have danced their masques in High Commorragh.' 'For you alone?' asks Jain Zar. 'We made no secret of it,' says Nechrevort, 'but none of you seemed to want to come. You would have been welcome. We are not savages. We can honour the terms of masque-truce as well as you. Still, my point is, I have seen The Dance Without End. Three times. And each time I wept in shame and fury at what was lost of us all. I know the steps and forms. This is not that dance.' 'Of course it is,' says Eldrad. 'It is very like, I agree, farseer,' she replies. 'The forms of it, the structure, and many of the steps. It follows the same pattern. It has the same number of performers, the same distinctions of light, dark and twilight troupes. The four mimes are still daemons. The Death Jesters are still the harvesters of mortality. It depicts the fall of a race, and the birth of a god. But these nine troupers do not represent the old race. And the Arebennian Solitaire does not represent She Who Thirsts.' 'No,' says Eldrad. 'You are mistaken.' 'Am I?' asks the drukhari emissary. 'I wish I was.' She looks over at the Harlequins. 'What is the name of this dance?' she asks. 'It is The Dance of the End and the Death,' hisses the troupe master, the words awkward as though he has forgotten how to speak. 'And what role does the Solitaire play?' 'The one that shall be born,' replies the troupe master with a growl. 'The new god.' Eldrad feels a chill upon his skin. It is not a simulation of the room. How has he not seen this? Or has he just refused to see it because the implications are too terrible? 'What is the name of your role?' Eldrad asks the hooded soloist. 'The Dark King,' the Solitaire replies. ii A mote of discordia Mar

, the words awkward as though he has forgotten how to speak. 'And what role does the Solitaire play?' 'The one that shall be born,' replies the troupe master with a growl. 'The new god.' Eldrad feels a chill upon his skin. It is not a simulation of the room. How has he not seen this? Or has he just refused to see it because the implications are too terrible? 'What is the name of your role?' Eldrad asks the hooded soloist. 'The Dark King,' the Solitaire replies. ii A mote of discordia Mars listens. Mars watches. Mars waits. There is never silence here, only a constant, low hum of readiness and patience. All things work in one coadunated, holy purpose, all sounds blend into one sound. It is the bass throb of sacred data-rivers flowing through the hyper-cooled cores of the mass cogitators, creating and constantly updating a model of divine reality. It is the purr of the deep-set reactors, sunk like wells into the planet's mantle, generating and regulating colossal power. It is the moan of wind sawing the high-tension cables that support the sensoria dishes, each up-turned like an open flower, each ten kilometres in diameter, each cupped in a precision-drilled crater across the red rock of the Lantis Planitia, the single most massive detection array in the Solar Realm. It is the crackle and cluck of radiation monitors on the scorched surface, and the scrubbing whir of environmental processors in the measureless red-lit vaults. It is the motion of a billion adepts and magi moving through the chambers of the forge like lifeblood through the chambers of a body, each with a dedicated task to perform, each task unified with the rest. It is the rumble of idling drive systems that comes, like distant thunder, from the numberless bulk conveyers suspended like impossible islands in the seared blue of the Martian sky, or clustered like suckling aphids around the docking spires of the Ring of Iron; a fleet to rival that of the Warmaster, but built to reconstruct and re-forge. It is the throb of immaculate standard templates held in stasis archives. It is the ceaseless binharic murmur of the noosphere, linking every last component of the True Mechanicum, the whispering voice of Mars, speaking from and to all things, soothing, reassuring, enlightening, exact, omniscient. Mars waits. An entire priesthood culture, the perfect fusion of god machine and spiritual organics, synchronised across a city the size of a continent which modifies the face of Mars like an augmetic implant, dedicated in every specification to the true and real Omnissiah that has finally been revealed... Mars waits for the word. In the very heart of Olympus Mons, Kelbor-Hal waits to give it. The Fabricator General, sleeved in a temple-cocoon of filament wires and data cables, suspended in noospheric rapture, observes the oceanic mass of data. The cupped dishes of the Lantis Planitia are his eyes, the networked swarm of orbital auspex nodes his ears, the sky-tilted augury systems and prognosticators his pulse. He observes, parsing the data-current, meticulously appraising even the smallest and most insignificant unit of code. He does not sleep, for he needs no sleep. He registers no impatience, for impatience requires a contrasting capacity for patience, and those are vestigial organic qualities he has long since had excised, along with his limbs, his principal organs and his teeth. There is no frustration, no trace of the fretful urgency that would torment an organic. There is merely a binary synthesis of passive and active states. Passive, he waits and ingests data. Active, he notes the passage of time, the lack of response to his communications. Passive, his dish-eyes study the raw lesion of light that now occupies the astronomical position of Terra in the heavens. Active, he records the increasing loss of data-definition in that area, the cessation of signals from the Warmaster's invasion fleet, the interruption of reliable analysis of the Terran surface warzone, the steadily increasing levels of immaterial radiation. Passive, he monitors as the mass cogitators scrutinise the spectra of these new energies, and decide on names and definitions for them, and projects their interaction with realspace dynamics. Active, he reviews the last signals from the Warmaster, the complex terms of their negotiated treaty, and the resources he has agreed to facilitate. Kelbor-Hal will not dishonour his pact. The True Mechanicum will not dishonour its pact. No detail of the arrangements will be left incomplete. When the Lupercal signals that the deed is done, the compliance of Terra achieved, and that obscenity the False Emperor overthrown, the Fabricator General will give the word, Mars will mobilise, and the waiting fleets of bulk conveyers will set out for Terra to begin the reconfiguration and restoration of the Throneworld. He notes, in his personal thought-archive, that the deed is taking longer than he anticipated, and longer than the Warmaster boldly estimated. The siege drags on. It has lasted nine point seven months, relative, longer than Kelbor-Hal's initial projection. The False Emperor and his forces have displayed intensely stubborn levels of resistance, though that in itself was a variable the Fabricator General had presumed. Kelbor-Hal has never underestimated the False Emperor. Though defiantly secular, allowing for no shred of spirituality, the so-called Master of Mankind had come to the Red World in the guise of a god. This was a knowing act, confessing no divinity, but suggesting it, the true triumph of faith over proof. The Mechanicum had accepted the Emperor as the Omnissiah Manifest, and he had made no effort to deny that idea, for it suited him to have Mars worship and follow him. This had caused the Schism, a crisis of faith from which the priesthood had barely recovered. But in those dark days of division, new secrets had been learned from the logi-stacks of forbidden vaults. Some, the hereteks, had called it scrap code, the contagious meme-words of abominable intelligences, but Kelbor-Hal and his loyal magi had recognised the truth in it. The scriptures of Moravec had revealed the true word of the Omnissiah. The Terran Emperor was no god incarnate. Kelbor-Hal had used the scripture code to unite and heal Mars, to unify and repair it, to link it in one manifold absolute, and to build the new, True Mechanicum from the ruins of the old theocracy. Kelbor-Hal will not permit the False Emperor to deceive his kind again. Mars will prevail, holy and divine, and Terra will fall, taking the Lord of Heresy with it. He watches carefully. The levels of gross realspace trauma afflicting the Terran location as a by-product of the compliance are also higher than his initial speculated models. Realspace fabric is eroding and collapsing at an exponential rate. Nineteen new forms of xeno-etheric energies have been identified. He wonders if there will be anything left at the end. He wonders if there will be any fragment of Terra remaining from which to rebuild. Perhaps the remains of Terra will be left so toxic and ruinous that the entire site will need to be abandoned, and the new Throneworld raised on Mars instead. That would please the Omnissiah. He waits. Mars waits. They are the same thing, priest and world synthesised into one symbiotic entity, poised and ready, singular in faith. The constant hum alters slightly. It is an infinitely tiny sub-harmonic shift that only he can detect. A minute variable. An error in a single unit of code. Curious, he locates it, draws it to the surface of the data-sea for inspection, as one might select a single grain of sand from an ocean floor. It is a tiny aberration, one single proto-cell of data misaligned with the rest of the reality organism. At first, he cannot define the nature of its error. He adjusts his noospheric appraisal, and deploys higher levels of analytic scrutiny. It is a tiny mote of discordia. A single packet of information return, one of a trillion received every second by the sensoria of Mars. It is out of step with all the others. It is not temporally synchronised with the rest, by a factor of one millionth of a second, even allowing for relative position. Its time is wrong. Kelbor-Hal presumes this to be a micro-discrepancy in imaging or auspex mesh, a tiny imperfection in the Mars arrays. Active, he tests this assumption, running diagnostic examinations of the Mechanicum systems to locate machine fault, technical malfunction, data-decay and storage/evaluation flaw. Concurrently, he instructs a full re-scan as a comparative. It is mildly diverting. Faults occur in every system, no matter how immaculate, due to the holy laws of entropy. They are always a pleasure to correct, for the correction of a micro-error is the path to perfection. It is the first error he has detected in four months. It is something to do besides wait. The diagnostics report no fault. The re-scan returns the same error. Alertly active now, the Fabricator General repeats the diagnostics and the re-scan. The diagnostics report no fault. The re-scan now returns two micro-errors. Two motes of discordia. Two temporal anomalies. Kelbor-Hal diverts all primary magi to address the issue. By the time - four nanoseconds - they are in work, the error return is four. Then sixteen. Then two hundred and fifty-six. He is watching a cascade failure. An expanding zone of temporal collapse. The epicentre is Terra, but the error-wave is accelerating outwards across the Solar Realm. Time is broken. The four-dimensional structure of realspace is unravelling, dismantled by the exoplanar forces bulging through the rift-wound that the Warmaster has inflicted on Terra. Time is broken. Kelbor-Hal pauses, and reframes his definition, realising that it is woefully imprecise. Time isn't broken. Time has ceased. It has stopped. It has frozen, suspended. The constant low hum of Mars changes again. Cautionary sirens start to wail in th

s accelerating outwards across the Solar Realm. Time is broken. The four-dimensional structure of realspace is unravelling, dismantled by the exoplanar forces bulging through the rift-wound that the Warmaster has inflicted on Terra. Time is broken. Kelbor-Hal pauses, and reframes his definition, realising that it is woefully imprecise. Time isn't broken. Time has ceased. It has stopped. It has frozen, suspended. The constant low hum of Mars changes again. Cautionary sirens start to wail in the depths of the forge. Kelbor-Hal composes a priority signal to the Warmaster, and sends it on repeat. He watches as the wave of un-time, rolling out from Terra, begins to break across the Martian Zone. He watches as the harmonised chronometers of the forge suspend, or zero out. He watches as the clocks stop. He watches as the measureless data in the caverns of his domain begins to re-form and rewrite, recomposing into new units of information, each one identical, each one the same word, each one the same binharic expression of a name. It is the name of the Omnissiah. The new Omnissiah. The true Omnissiah. Kelbor-Hal begins to scream, which is quite unlike him. iii The last hand In the imposed silence, they play games, not as diversion, but to maintain some modicum of mental performance. Niora Su-Kassen had, for the first two months, chosen regicide as her habit, playing against the bridge crew and, when the opportunity arose, against Captain Halbract and the other Huscarl seniors of the Praetorian contingent. Playing regicide against an Imperial Fist was an exercise in futility, until Su-Kassen recognised the substrate of ground war strategies they imposed on the board. Innovating, purely to keep her mind curious, she introduced some battlefleet tactics to her game, principally theories of swarm assault and elective sacrifice, and so defeated Halbract twice, and forced a stalemate three times. She knew she would savour the expression on his face for the rest of her life. A hint of wounded pride, but also a fascination that bordered on hunger. The next time they played, Halbract had analysed his losses, ascertained her tactical ploys, and adjusted accordingly. He resumed his winning streak. He had learned from defeat, and revised his strategies. She never won again. That is not the reason she has stopped playing regicide, though. After two months, a game predicated on the concept of killing a king seems distasteful. She makes the ship her habit instead. The ship. The Phalanx, the largest and greatest fortress-vessel in human history. She prowls its walkways and galleries, its fighting decks and drive compartments, hour after hour, inspecting it minutely, and sometimes undertaking her own adjustments and maintenance. She speaks, in whispers, to every crewperson she encounters, from duty officers down to the lowliest munition serfs and stokers. She learns names. She hears fragments of life stories. She observes their habits and the games they play to stay alert. Regicide, Nine-gambit and Senet in the officers' refectory; Ashtapada in cartography; Gow, and Hounds and Wolves, in the war room; games of dice and wager in the billet decks; hands of Tarock on the fuse canisters of the autoloaders; rounds of Song and Cartomance in the dining halls, fast-shuffled turns of Thrice-My-Trick in the boiler sumps. Boredom is the immediate foe. Boredom, and a commensurate slackening of morale and readiness. The Phalanx, for all its might, is cowering in the radiation shadow of Saturn's rings, veiled by the gas giant's magnetic fields. Along with it, just as silent, lurk hundreds of loyalist warships, the survivors of the Solar War, the scrap remnants of the Legion fleets, the Saturnine Flotilla, the magnificent Jovian Fleet. All are running dark, systems on minimal, in a state of hibernation as close to full shutdown as possible. It is an armada, and with it she could conquer worlds. But against the traitor fleet, it is nothing more than a few wounded strays hiding in a gutter. The Warmaster's ships, a swarm of battle groups, own total dominance of the Solar Realm. To move is to be detected, to be detected is to be annihilated, either in line engagement with the traitor host, where the term 'numerical superiority' feels like an ironic understatement, or picked off like a sickly herd by the rapacious predator formations that stalk the inner and outer spheres. Su-Kassen sometimes considers annihilation. It has a certain appeal. As an admiral of the Jovian Fleets, as Grand Terran Admiral (Acting), she is a career warrior constructed for war as surely as the Phalanx itself. Fighting, even to the death, seems preferable to waiting in what feels too often like a coward's silence. She dreams of onslaught. She computes strategies and gambits. Every one of them ends in defeat and obliteration at the hands of the traitor mass, with an inevitability that matches Halbract's mastery of regicide. But victory is not her objective. Killing is. She imagines scenarios of a cold start, a mass acceleration, slingshotting her bruised armada into the Terran Sphere. A target-rich environment. There would be no coming back but, Throne above, they would die well. They would claim a price. The Phalanx alone would gut a dozen grand cruisers before it died. They would punish and wound the traitor fleet, shred its flank, and burn all that they could before their time ran out. It would be glorious. It would be better than endless silence. It would be something. But she keeps the idea to herself. Halbract and the seniors would deny it the moment she suggested it. They would probably have her removed from command. The Phalanx formation is reserved for one, unequivocal purpose: to wait until summoned and, once summoned, to execute a lightning extraction to remove the Emperor from Terra. They are the last card to play, the last hand, an acknowledgement of ultimate defeat. They are the last trick, the mechanism of resignation. Their move is the final move, a declaration that the loyalists concede. Without them, the Emperor, in final defeat, will simply die. The Praetorian Huscarls and the Custodians will not permit that eventuality. They are dedicated to the Emperor's life. Though Terra might fall, unthinkable in itself, He must live. She bides her time, waiting for her final duty. Time is slow, as though the clocks have stopped. She doubts the Emperor will ever allow Halbract's endgame. History has demonstrated His determination. He will never leave the Throne, or allow Himself to be removed to safety. She is entirely sure that, in this, He is like her. Fight to the last. No quarter. No concession. To the death. But Dorn's order was precise. She, and her armada, and her thousands of personnel, wait to execute a command that will never be completed. She puts down the grip-wrench she's holding. In frustration, she had clenched it so tightly her thin fingers are blanched white. She wants to scream to rid her body of tension, but anything beyond a whisper is prohibited. Enemy sensoria are listening, even for the slightest vibration or hull-echo that might give away position. She imagines ways to convince Halbract, but there was no chance of that to begin with, and the odds are even lower since Corswain's run. The Dark Angel and his host of ten thousand, a beacon of hope for a second, until it became clear it was only ten thousand, had elected to make a suicidal sprint for Terra in an effort to secure and relight the Astronomican. It had taken every iota of her diplomacy to convince Halbract to allow it, and more besides to get him to commit the Emperor's flagship, the immense Imperator Somnium. That ship, the fastest and most advanced in her armada, had been the only vessel capable of achieving the run, and the action had necessitated its sacrifice. Corswain had argued that without the light of the Astronomican, no relief fleets could ever find their way to Terra. That had been many days ago. Years, so it feels to her. They had watched, from the bridge, the glorious dash. The fire-flashes dotting Terra's orbital zone. The bright flares that winked out. The Somnium had gone, obliterated in the line-breaking charge, and Corswain's warships too, racing in its wake. No word had come of the drop's success. No confirmation that anything or anyone had reached the surface alive. The Astronomican had not relit. Halbract had passed no comment, but she knows the entire affair has simply reinforced his resolve. She walks the silent spaces between Aft Ventral Circulation and Aft 987 Fitting. She walks the endless lines of waiting Xiphon interceptors in the hangar bays. She wonders if the Astartes' practice cages meet the silence order threshold. She longs to damage something with a sword. A rating salutes her. A moment for recollection. Tanstayer. Modit Tanstayer, drive assembly second class. She greets him with a whisper, and asks after his stomach, because last time she spoke to him the relentless diet of slab rations had stricken him with the gripes. He is better now, thank you for asking, admiral. She enquires about his winning streak at Tarock, for Tanstayer has more luck with cards than digestion. He says he is a victim of his own success, and the deck crew refuse to wager with him, because he wins too often. 'Besides,' he whispers, 'they are all more entertained by watching Montak.' Su-Kassen asks to see. Montak - Guillaume Montak, the assembly chief - is seated in the fitting shops. He is hunched over a tool chest, setting out dog-eared tarot cards on its lid. It is an elderly deck, apparently of the standard Imperial composition, the major and minor arcanas. A ring of watching crew members parts, respectfully, to let her observe. Montak is an old, whiskered veteran, his gnarled hands stained almost blue from chemical exposure. There are general regulations regarding casual divination, but Su-Kassen is well aware of the deep veins of superstition

ted in the fitting shops. He is hunched over a tool chest, setting out dog-eared tarot cards on its lid. It is an elderly deck, apparently of the standard Imperial composition, the major and minor arcanas. A ring of watching crew members parts, respectfully, to let her observe. Montak is an old, whiskered veteran, his gnarled hands stained almost blue from chemical exposure. There are general regulations regarding casual divination, but Su-Kassen is well aware of the deep veins of superstition and tradition that lace the ancient orders of the battlefleet. Voyagers and mariners have always cherished their luck and their portents. She will pass no judgement. She has a deck of her own. Montak seems alert to this too. He greets her arrival without concern, just a simple knowing nod and smile, and continues his spread. The Leonormal Spread. An old form, unconventional. The reactive wafers glow in the half-light of the fitting shop. Montak turns the cards face up in the precise sequence of reading, each turn a little flourish, a little twitch of the wrist that makes each card snap. She watches the read. The Harlequin of discordia, The Eye, The Great Hoste, The Shatter'd World, The Labyrinthine Path, The Throne reversed, The Hulk, The Moon, The Martyr, The Monster, The Lightning Tower, and The Emperor. He turns the last. The Dark King. An odious reading. There is a murmur from those watching. She presumes it is because they, like her, recognise an ill-starred spread. But Montak is grinning. Wagers are changing hands. Su-Kassen frowns. To her, and she is not without private experience, the spread is poor, and the interpretation painfully bleak. A shift towards discord and the most fell aspects of fortune. A world embattled and lost, a throne overturned... She knows one should not lean towards the literal in any interpretive reading, but The Eye, representing the Ocularis Malifica that marks the doom of the xenos aeldari, cannot help but remind her of the roiling, nephelospheric nimbus of immaterial collapse that the bridge displays show suffusing the Throneworld. 'I don't understand,' she whispers to Tanstayer. 'Why the amusement?' 'Because of the way the cards turned,' he whispers back. 'But they turned upon a disagreeable spread.' 'Yes,' he agrees. 'Again.' Montak looks up at her and winks. 'Care to wager, admiral?' he says. He gently shuffles the deck. 'On what?' Su-Kassen asks. 'At first, it was the composition,' says Tanstayer. 'A coin for every card predicted. But, since yesterday...' 'Since yesterday?' Su-Kassen asks. 'Since yesterday,' says Montak, 'it is merely bet on yes or bet on no. Will it come the same, or different?' 'The permutations are considerable,' says Su-Kassen. 'It isn't a coin toss.' 'You'd think,' chuckles Montak. 'It's come the same wise every time,' says Tanstayer. 'Every time, the same spread.' 'How many times?' she asks. 'Fifty?' Montak guesses. 'Thereabouts. In a row.' She blinks. 'Chief, I know you as a good man and an old rogue,' she says. 'The rogue, I suspect, is now at work. You are fleecing these men with sleight of hand.' 'Not so, my lady,' he says. He offers the deck to her. 'You may sort and shuffle, if you like. Be my guest. If the soul receiving the reading shuffles, it-' 'Transfers energy to the deck,' she says. 'I know the way of it.' She takes the deck. The edges of the cards are stained blue. She shuffles, deftly, four times, then cuts, then riffles twice more. 'Oh,' says Montak. 'Lads, we have a card-savvy sharper in our midst.' The men snigger. Su-Kassen hands the deck back. Montak licks the pad of his thumb. He lays the spread again. The Harlequin, The Eye, The Great Hoste, The Shatter'd World, The Labyrinthine Path, The Throne, The Hulk, The Moon, The Martyr, The Monster, The Lightning Tower, and The Emperor. Last, The Dark King. She stares at the spread. 'Chief,' she says. 'I need you to burn these cards.' Montak looks at her questioningly. Before she can say more, a light on her data-bracelet starts to flash. Intercoms and hails have been muted, but the bead of light means she is needed on the bridge. 'I'm called away,' she says. 'Burn these cards immediately. That's an order...' Halbract is waiting for her. The tiered bridge chamber is as vast and silent as a mausoleum. 'Lord Halbract?' she whispers as she enters. The Huscarl draws her aside. His sharp face is set hard. 'Admiral,' he says, his voice hushed. 'The clocks have stopped.' 'A malfunction? Which clocks?' 'No, admiral,' he says. 'All clocks. Every chron aboard. Every timepiece aboard the Phalanx. Even relativistic trackers. They have stopped, all frozen at the same moment.' 'We...' she begins. 'What?' She breathes hard. 'Has an explanation been offered, Halbract?' she asks, as composed as she is able to be. 'Analysis suggests that immaterial activity in the Sol System has...' Now he hesitates. 'Has somehow afflicted the natural operation of realspace. Time has stopped.' 'Stopped?' 'A still point, without backward or forward motion. A hiatus. A cessation.' 'Over what area?' 'We are still determining, admiral. Perhaps the entire Solar Realm. Perhaps beyond that.' She nods, as though it is nothing. She doesn't want the bridge crew seeing the fear brewing inside her. She does not want to appear weak to Halbract. 'Find out, please,' she says. 'As quickly as we can. I authorise use of passive sensoria, but only within the bounds of detection avoidance.' Halbract nods. She walks to her chamber adjoining the bridge. Its gloomy familiarity and lack of scale offers some reassurance, but not enough. She unlocks the brass tantalus and pours a regulation measure of amasec. She swallows it in one hit. She sips the second. She thinks of Montak. Her own deck of psychoreactive wafers is in her desk drawer. She considers, for a second, taking them out, and shuffling and dealing for herself to expose his roguish palming and tricks of forcing. But she has an awful feeling that she knows how the spread will read. PART FIVE STEADFAST AS THOU ART 5:i Fragments The dead now outnumber the living, but both the living and the dead are outnumbered by the deathless and the never-alive-at-all. Corpses are piled five or six deep along the foot of the Delphic Battlement. They died where they fell, driven back against the mighty wall, cut down as they made their last defence with no room left to retreat. They lie, limbs entangled, draped across each other, in the mire. They are not men. They are Titan war engines. The few of their kind still standing, the last of the loyalist engines, back slowly through the firestorms of the Palatine, one wretched step after another, discharging their weapons ceaselessly into the onrushing traitor mass. Their power and munitions are almost spent. One by one, they will be taken and toppled: split by armour fire, or felled by Neverborn wrath. Some will detonate like star-deaths, annihilating acres of ground with them. Some will simply stop, power exhausted and reactors choked out, to be overwhelmed from the ground up by traitors, who will scale them like teeming ants until they are shrouded head to foot in moving skins of tiny armoured bodies. Each death will be an epic feat of courage. Each death will be just another engine-kill to be notched on a corroded pauldron or the iron skirts of a daemon-tank. Each death will go unwitnessed. Warfare moves as one thing, a shifting mosaic of a billion individual pieces. It flows like a flood of tar, sparking with uncountable flashes. A great carpet of fighting human figures has been rolled out across the uneven terrain, up slopes, across ridges, down valleys and over hills. It covers everything, and it is in constant, writhing motion. Numberless weapons, hacking and bludgeoning, numberless shots burning in the air, numberless claws, numberless teeth. Plough-nosed war machines, grinding on treads, score through the fields of warriors, casting bodies into the air behind them like husks from bulk harvesters. The air is dull amber, burned by the glare of the staggering detonations that burst and spray against the pitted walls of the Delphic. The wall-armour plates of ceramite and plasteel flake and bruise, pushed past the limits of their material properties by the relentless fury of assault. Adamantine wall plating, superheated by unholy flame, begins to dribble and ooze, coursing quicksilver tears down the towering battlements. Only the locked and final fortress of the Sanctum Imperialis remains. The Palace Dominions, once a celestial city-state that covered the area of a nation, are reduced to its last redoubt, a lone enclave of defiance, girded by the last wall of the Delphic Battlement and the straining casemate of its void shields. Magnificans is long gone, a cremated wilderness of firestorms and rubble. Anterior is no more, a swamp of churned mud and flame-lapped ruins through which the ever-multiplying traitor forces still pour to swell the howling host encircling the Sanctum. Even the outer belts of the Sanctum are lost: the great encircling defence of the Ultimate Wall has been torn down, and each majestic section of its circuit - Europa, Saturnine, Adamant, Western Hemispheric, Indomitor, Exultant - cast over and splintered, along with their bastions, and the names they wore as emblems of resistance. Inside the broken crown of the Ultimate Wall, the Palatine and its inner ring of city-forts burns in hell. Lakes of flame boil around mountains of dead. Ruins fume with frost-fire. Seas of liquid mud stretch uninterrupted for kilometres, like a desolate, endless beach where the tide of war has rolled out, the silt flats and mud bars swirled with coloured bands of chemicals, oils and liquified organics, and dotted with the half-submerged islets of war machines, of dead engines, of fractured bastions, of unidentifiable wreckage, of hills and mounds where lost men made their last stands. Loyal forces, whole

s of flame boil around mountains of dead. Ruins fume with frost-fire. Seas of liquid mud stretch uninterrupted for kilometres, like a desolate, endless beach where the tide of war has rolled out, the silt flats and mud bars swirled with coloured bands of chemicals, oils and liquified organics, and dotted with the half-submerged islets of war machines, of dead engines, of fractured bastions, of unidentifiable wreckage, of hills and mounds where lost men made their last stands. Loyal forces, whole armies and divisions in some cases, still live and fight in the deathscape of the Palatine Ring, but they are alone, asphyxiated by smoke, unable to advance or retreat, cut off, and already counted as extinct by the despairing war court in Hegemon Control. So great is the final cataclysm, in this last un-hour of the day of days, that even Terra itself begins to submit. The earth convulses and splits, wrenching open abyssal canyons and fire-breathing gulfs that swallow loyalist and traitor ranks alike, or gargantuan sinkholes that belch volcanic rage. Only the final fortress remains. If that. The four divine atrocities of Chaos urge their followers forward, into ever greater throes of feverish devotion. The toppling is now so close, the victory a palpable taste in the air, despite the gagging soot and smoke. In a time of un-time, the victory is already occurring and has occurred. Those of the Khornate creed seethe forward, the blood drumming inside them so intensely that their vessels and flesh may burst from the pressure. The red partakes of every crime, swollen with a fury that has become a new force of nature. Mercy, pity and hope are obsolete concepts. The Blood God's Neverborn heralds trample such meaningless notions into the morass. They are giant things, larger than the largest Titan engine, their skyscraping antlers glowing neon orange against the thick blackness of the sky. Those plighted to She Who Thirsts delight in the rapture of collapse. They claw and beat and lick at the last wall, crooning their demented lullabies and unhinged love songs. They thrill with obsessive need and intolerable desire. They are betrothed to ruin, and this is their annunciation. They lust for the coming feast. The bloated vermin infected by the Grandfather Lord of Decay scurry and teem through the wreckage, befouled and befouling all, riddled with lice, drooling infected phlegm, boring their mephitic contagion into skin and bone and mind. The hierophants of Change and their legions of converts ripple, unstable and in flux, and sing nine-beat hymns to the great rites of transformation: life into death, earth into fire, materia into immateria. Unstable in their thoughts and their atoms alike, they roil like sputtering fire through the torque and mutation of reality. They laugh at the final wall, for it is nothing. There is no outside or inside any more. Every pathway is inevitable. He is in the bowels of the great ship that was once his home. He knows the way, for his life here was part-spent learning its secrets. Loken grips his chainsword, the other blades sheathed across his back. He is following the bilges of the vessel, the lowest, darkest zones, alert for any trick or murmur of the foe. Fluid trickles down the walls from the rusted ceiling. The vast service tunnel is knee-deep in frothy liquid. Infrequent service lamps bounce multiple reflections off the surface as he wades through it, sending ripples out in wide circles. The liquid is bright red. The last time he was here, this colour was due to rust. Corrosion from higher levels would seep down and stain the bilge-water with its oxides. He can smell it isn't that any more. It's blood. Vast quantities of blood, leaking through the ship from unimaginable carnage many decks above. It's swimming down the ironwork walls, and dripping from the bulkhead spans, collecting and pooling, as though the Vengeful Spirit has suffered some vast haematoma. He wonders if the lividity is visible on the skin of the hull outside. He wades on. The structure and configuration of the great ship has warped, and is still warping. Loken considers each junction he comes to, each hatch, each access. Which way now? Which way will lead him to his father? And when he finds him in this bloody ruin, what will be left of him? 5:ii On becoming more than man No one tells you what it will feel like when you become a god. No one warns you how strange it will seem. Understandable. How many souls have ever done it, so that they can recount the experience? You were raised to believe that figure was zero, because you were raised to believe there were no gods. Another of your father's infinite lies. No, let's be fair to Him. That's what He believed. He spent millennia believing He was a lonely king in a godless universe. His realm was empty. It was void and without form. There were no higher powers behind the sky, no omniscient beings dwelling beyond the architecture of the star fields. He was alone, the only being of significant potency in an otherwise mechanical cosmology. He was powerful, the most powerful thing in existence, but He was no god, and He knew it. And He knew there were no gods to be found anywhere. There was no fate, no destiny, no purpose, no structure, no plan. The universe was merely a state of materia that had, once upon a time, begun, and which would one day end, and between those two points there was no meaning or sense. So He made sense for Himself. There was no one else to do the job. A self-appointed demiurge, He took on the aspect of a god and engineered a fate, and a destiny, and, most certainly, a plan. He imposed a meaning. He must have presumed, along the way, that such a feat would make Him a god, by default, or turn Him into one. It didn't. You believe He probably thought it had, though. You can see that now. All those years of insisting He was 'just a man', all those edicts denying His divinity. That's just what a man, who thought He was a god, would believe that a god would do. What is that phrase again? Mersadie will know it. 'Methinks He doth protest too much.' Too much indeed. The affected, self-effacing modesty of the truly arrogant. He thought humility and denial would make people more eager to believe in His divine nature. Kneel at His throne. Quake at His gaze. Take His Word for everything. Your father has no idea what it's really like. How could He? You didn't either, until... until this. You're not sure what you are. Perhaps you're a god now, perhaps not. You're certainly not just a man any more. You have woken from a state of confusion to find yourself changed. Unearthly power fills you to the brim. If you're not a god, then you are well on the way to becoming one. Perhaps this is the state of transition, slow and strange, as you transform from a man into something more? It is not how you imagined it, or how anyone could imagine it. It is beyond mortal knowing. There is simply before, and there is afterwards. Before, you were Horus Lupercal, beloved and triumphant. And now you are this. It is not entirely pleasant or comfortable. When time permits, you will sit down with the remembrancer and tell her all about it. It is rare knowledge, unique. It is worth recording, the state-change where mortal embodiment starts to fade and ascension begins. Whether you are a god already, or simply in the process of becoming one, you can no longer quite define your edges and limits, the span of your physicality, or the breadth of your senses. It almost makes you want to weep, because you are no longer what you were, and you can never go back. It's hard to even remember what you were like before this happened. You are glad Mamzel Mersadie wrote it all down. You can go and read your own history and be reminded of the man you used to be. She is not here. You'll send Maloghurst to find her. But he is not here either. The fitters and the attentive squads of senior officers have gone. Even the vast host of Word Bearers, who assembled to sing your name, have departed. You think, perhaps, they all fled in terror at the sight of you when you started to transfigure into this higher form. No one's here, apart from you and the things that whisper your name. The Lupercal Court is dark. The light hurts your eyes. You see better in the void. The darkness soothes your mind. This is a period of adjustment. You must be allowed time to come to terms with what is happening to you. How long must that be? You realise that's up to you. The thought makes you chuckle. You answer to no one. You need no one's permission for anything. If you want time to adjust, then so be it. You grant it to yourself. There's so much to get used to. You dreamed of power, and now you have it. It's disconcerting. You wonder where everyone is. Then - again, the disconcertion! - you realise you know, because you know everything. There's no one here because you sent them away. You gave the command, and now your faithful followers, your sons and warriors, are spread out across the ship to execute the trap you meticulously devised. Because the false ones have arrived, enticed by the bait you set. Unable to resist, your enemies have boarded the flagship, and entered the realm of the Vengeful Spirit on a final and desperate mission to vanquish you and win this war. They will fail, of course. You've already decided that too. Your trap is inescapable, and your victory certain. Their efforts, which to them seem so brave, are merely the last spasms and twitches of an animal in its death throes. They are the prey, and you, you are the wolf, your jaws clamped around their throats, waiting patiently for the last shudders of life to cease. In the distance, very faintly, you can hear the sounds of violence echoing through the ship. Your enemies are beginning to die, one by one. But they don't have to. Death is not the only option. They can make a choice. You have, in your benevolent grace, prepared gifts for

brave, are merely the last spasms and twitches of an animal in its death throes. They are the prey, and you, you are the wolf, your jaws clamped around their throats, waiting patiently for the last shudders of life to cease. In the distance, very faintly, you can hear the sounds of violence echoing through the ship. Your enemies are beginning to die, one by one. But they don't have to. Death is not the only option. They can make a choice. You have, in your benevolent grace, prepared gifts for each of them; each gift fashioned by one of the four powers of your ascendancy. The gifts are temptations, invitations, offerings. You will not be a cruel god. If they accept your gifts, they can join with you and become one with you. If they spurn your gifts, well then... vengeance is yours. Everything is ready. Your guests approach. The false ones, the false four. Not the Old Four, who are sublimely blended into the vessel of your soul, but the four new fools who have demanded to meet you face to face. Constantin. Your siblings, Rogal and Sanguinius. Your father. Here they come... 5:iii Invincible The pressure gates blow in an intense cloud of flame, and the Angel and his vanguard fly through the breach. Ikasati would have paused for a second, but Sanguinius is airborne before the immense fireball stops roiling or the pelt of scrap plasteel stops raining down, so he and the Guard loft with their primarch, wings extended. They fly like a salvo of rockets, bucking the gulp of overpressure, through the swirling blaze, with blackened lumps of debris stinging off their glorious plate. Triumph is close. Extraordinarily close. Taerwelt Ikasati has never seen his lord so furious or so eager. There is a reckless abandon in him, a terrible hunger that suggests his lord feels immortal on this day of days. And so he is. So are they all, whether they live or die. The blood-bright Angels of Baal, the magnificent IX Legion, have surpassed themselves. Despite the odds, and lacking the support of three-quarters of their intended force, they have, in Terra's darkest hour, excelled. Alive or dead, their names will be remembered. The first to reach the traitor's throat. The first to penetrate his lair. The first to mete out justice and vengeance on those who have broken all covenants and trusts, all bonds of blood and fealty, who have torn the works of man asunder, and threatened the very existence of the Imperium. Beyond the ruptured wreckage of the gates, the traitor host awaits, drawn up in ranks two hundred deep. The forward files have already crumbled, felled and mutilated by the blast. The rest, cased in ugly plate and as menacing as murder, recoil in dread when they see what is coming at them through the flames. Sanguinius, wings wide, howling his brother's name, merciless. What sight in all creation could be more devastating? The smoke-stained air of the Great Atrium lights up as the traitor multitude opens fire. A thousand points and flecks of light, from bolters and las-weapons, from voltaics and Adrathics. A hail of fire. Heedless, Sanguinius soars through it, and ploughs into the front lines. His impact is a hammer-blow that sends a ripple through the entire regimented mass. Bodies, veteran and powerful Sons of Horus, spin into the air and smash to the deck in his wake. Many are not whole. He drives into their fracturing formation, sword scything, spear plunging. He strides, like a man wading into an ocean swell, leaving a furrow of the dead and the dismembered behind him. The sea-spray is jetting blood, the cresting wave a cloud of splinters, the spume a haze of gore. He does not stop. The enemy mass, three full companies at least, perhaps more, winces as he cuts into it, like a body flinching as a sword runs through it. In a second, other swords are raking wounds of their own: Raldoron, Sacre, Meshol, Ikasati and the tempests of the Sanguinary Guard on their hissing augmetic wings, each shearing into the lines, each reaping his own devastating furrow through the ranks of the foe, turning bodies at their heels as a plough turns soil. Behind them, slower but no less dreadful, come the storming phalanxes of Furio's Cataphractii, the cohorts of Maheldaron's tactical squads, and Krystapheros' assault brigade, the tempered weight of the Anabasis company. They are the lance, driving into the traitors' heart to deliver the killing stroke, and Sanguinius is the tip of the spear. 5:iv Pandaemonium They are now thirty-seven seconds into the fight. The perfect biological instrument of Constantin Valdor's mind is keeping time even though their chron systems have failed and the sensoria arrays in their golden armour have overloaded. He has learned nine hundred and three new names, and the attendant secrets that accompany them. Unrelenting havoc boils around them, and a darkness as heavy as pack-ice vices them. There is no way out of the pit. They have spent three days fighting their way along a deep ravine of cartilage and bone only to find the end blocked by a sheer cliff. Three days' effort wasted. Three days. But they are only thirty-seven seconds into the fight. There is no time to contemplate their situation. Constantin's mental performance, his engineered ability to multi-task, evaluate and process, is superlative. So are the minds of all his Custodians. They exceed the abilities of mere Astartes, and probably all primarchs too. Even in the most intense battle, they can maintain peak killing precision and combat response, and still have a reserve left for strategic reckoning. But not in this. The more Constantin tries to evaluate some kind of overview, the more furiously the assaults come. This pit, the Vengeful Spirit, is matching the speed of his thoughts with the intensity of its attacks. It is not permitting him time to do anything more than compose reactive strikes. It is trying to overwhelm him physically and mentally with its unstinting aggression. If his mind slips, his body will fail; if his body falters, his mind will be lost. He doesn't even have time to recognise this. Thirty-eight seconds into the fight. Constantin wanted this confrontation. He yearned for it. He knew it would be demanding. He knew it would be the single most important fight of his service, and thus likely to be the most arduous too. He wanted it to be demanding. Such a feat deserved to be the most stupendous challenge; the hardest, the most gruelling, the most costly, the most brutal, the worst. Constantin thought he was ready for it. He had been bred for it, crafted one atom at a time to be fit for it, indoctrinated to be eager for it, and a lifetime of service and victory in arms had shown him the very worst things combat could be. But this... Now he is in it, thirty-eight seconds into it, he accepts that he had no idea what the worst could mean. This exceeds even his grimmest imaginings. This multiplies the fury of his most savage past encounters not just by a factor or ten or a hundred, but into some entirely other range of magnitude, so beyond the limits of his experience that it doesn't even seem to be a fight any more. The very words - fight, battle, assault - are inadequate. It is a state of constant frenzy in which his body cannot stop moving, his reactions cannot slow, his nerves cannot slacken, and his mind cannot think. It is thirty-nine seconds into the fight. 5:v Come in under the shadow In the red desert, in the crimson shadow under the red wall, he rises to his feet. There is no way out of the endless place. He knows this, because in the course of a century, he has walked the length of every wall, and trekked the crest of every dune, surveying every inch of the boundless waste. There is no way out, except to say it. It wants him to say it. But he won't. He won't give in. Even though he feels like it's what he has always, really, really wanted to do. He is not sure of anything any more. There are no facts, no data, nothing available he can order. He is only sure of one thing. 'I am,' he says. He has nearly rusted away. The breeze and sun have bleached the identifier markings from his wargear. He isn't completely sure of his own name. But mettle lasts where metal rusts. He won't give in. A century has passed. A century at least. Maybe two. Maybe three. It's hard to know, because he can't count the days any more than he can count the bodies along the wall, because the bodies have all rusted away to nothing, and there is no day or night. Whatever he needed to get back to, whatever he has missed, it will have ended long ago. But he will get back. He raises his sword. It's just a ragged nub. He starts to scratch at the walls again. Along the walls, in the cool shadow, for kilometres on end, the red stone is marked with the things he has scratched. He has been doing it for years. Plans, marked on walls. Schemes. Configurations of possibilities. Designs for escape. Designs for the future. Hundreds of them. Thousands of them. Each one, carefully made, has proven unworkable or impossible. So he has abandoned each one in turn, and begun another. This scheme. That scheme. This plan. That design. 'I am,' he says, reminding himself. With what's left of his sword, he rakes another plan on the wall. Everything is blood red. He scrapes and cuts, shaping his next scheme in the dirt, scraping and cutting. He scratches men. They have weapons. He inscribes walls, for walls, like plans, have always been useful to him. He scores lines of approach and retreat, lines of axis and engagement. It is not art, or decoration. It isn't a memorial of a battle he once conducted. It isn't a record of something that has been. He is carving out tomorrow. It is a statement of intention, of what will be. He is making a plan, so he can execute it. He is imposing his will. The red desert doesn't like it. It wants him to stop. It keeps telling him to stop, in whispers carried by the breeze. Just give up. Just give in. Just say it.

ores lines of approach and retreat, lines of axis and engagement. It is not art, or decoration. It isn't a memorial of a battle he once conducted. It isn't a record of something that has been. He is carving out tomorrow. It is a statement of intention, of what will be. He is making a plan, so he can execute it. He is imposing his will. The red desert doesn't like it. It wants him to stop. It keeps telling him to stop, in whispers carried by the breeze. Just give up. Just give in. Just say it. He won't. 'I won't,' he says. He is defiant. He is unyielding. This, he thinks as he works, this will be. One of these plans, one of these permutations. One of them will work. I will break out and run, like so. I will be somewhere else. There will be other people there, waiting for me. These are the weapons they will be carrying. This - as his fingers move from scratched line to scratched line - this will be the path I will follow to escape. This is where it will end, this cross here. This will be my target. What is set out here on the wall in crude gouges and ragged scrapes will happen in life tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the century after. But it will happen. I will evade and get away, for here, see? I am already free. I am modelling the future. To sanctify this, to commit to this configuration of tomorrow, he scoops his callused, filthy hand into the red dust at his feet. He cups a handful of blood-red dust. In it are tiny yellow flecks of plasteel. He presses it, palm flat, against the wall. He leaves his mark, the mark of himself, on his plan. This is what will happen, and with my hand I signify it. It cannot be undone. I am already free. 'I am Rogal Dorn,' he says, reasonably certain. 'My name is Rogal Dorn.' It doesn't like it. The red desert, the red wall, the red everything, it doesn't like it. It whispers on the breeze. Say it, say it, say it. Who is the blood for? Say it. Give in. Just say it. Give in to your longing. Say it. He has decided not to. It tries to persuade him. It coaxes. It pleads. It demands. Some years, it uses other voices, close to or far away. The voices it uses sometimes sound like voices he once knew. But he can't name them. He can't confidently name himself. 'I am Rogal Dorn,' he says, just in case he's right. Dorn wanders the endless desert. 5:vi What have you become? Caecaltus Dusk no longer has to think. The most precarious and important combat of his life, and he no longer has to focus or concentrate. The will of my master, the Emperor, moves through me. It is liberating. It is strange. The proconsul has always been his master's instrument. He was constructed to be precisely that. But his duty as an instrument has always been performed through fierce discipline, dedication and intense focus. The Emperor's will has bidden him and commanded him, but only rarely has it invested him and co-opted his form directly. It invests me now. It is absolute. He is moving faster, striking harder, and fighting more ferociously than ever before in his life, but none of it is a conscious choice. Caecaltus is a passenger in his own body. They all are, the last of the Hetaeron. All of us, encircling our glorious lord as He makes His advance, are just extensions of His being. The Emperor, one towering figure in blazing gold, surrounded by seven giants, has become one mind in eight bodies. Some might say that makes Caecaltus a puppet. Some might say, those curs with the temerity to question the Emperor's actions and methods, might see it as definitive proof of a ruinously inflamed ego, of an insane need to control everything, of an authoritarian singularity that disregards the interests of other living things. Some might see it as evidence that we Custodes are less than human, that for all our vaunted prowess, we are mere drones, lacking the vitality, self-identity and personality of the oh-so-human Astartes. But it is not so. Caecaltus is no puppet. It feels, far more, as though Caecaltus is a favourite weapon, a master-crafted sword, a prized blade, and he is simply being wielded. There is joy in it, as though this is the way it was always supposed to be. To feel the Emperor's will operating through him is the ultimate expression of his purpose. A sword does not question the way it is used. A sword does not question anything. It simply exists to be a sword, and it can only become itself in the hand of its wielder. It is oddly tranquil. Caecaltus has never felt such intrinsic unity with his master. I feel myself moving, at speeds I did not know I was capable of. I sense my reflexes and reactions elevated to an inconceivable degree. I see the paragon spear in my hands as it spins and jabs, delivering one faultless execution after another. I see the dark horrors all around us split and burst, tear open and de-manifest. He sees his brethren at his side, the last of the Hetaeron company. Xadophus and Karedo, Taurid and Ravengast, Nmembo and Zagrus, all of them proven exemplars of Legio Custodes excellence. Caecaltus thought he had seen martial perfection, but never before has he witnessed any of them fight with such flawless grace or fidelity. They are all channelling His will, seven weapons wielded by His extended mind in supreme synchronicity, subduing and destroying anything in this corpse-hulk flagship that attempts to block their advance. He sees his master. Or, rather, he does not. Caecaltus cannot. With every step they take, the Master of Mankind steadily increases in radiance. His aura has always been present, a part of Him, sometimes soft like moonlight, sometimes sharp as daybreak. But it has never been as incandescent as this. It is almost too bright to behold directly, an alabaster glare that radiates from His immense figure, rendering Him as nothing except a human shape made of blinding white light. In my whole lifetime, I have never known my king manifest a level of power even approaching this. But it's hardly surprising. There has never been a need before. There has never been a moment like this. The unprecedented demonstration of power, the absolute investment of His companions as extensions of His self... Without it, they would all be dead. For the power of the enemy defies description. Nightmares assault them from every angle. The warp enfolds them, naked and raw, wild and screaming. Horus, somehow, is orchestrating this maelstrom. Caecaltus can only conclude that Horus Lupercal, once so noble and admired, has become something quite other. Not a daemon prince like some of his cursed brothers, but more, far more. He was always so strong-willed, it is hardly surprising that his doom-form should be strong too. Not man, not transhuman, not even possessed soul, but some transcendent conduit of energy. Caecaltus doubts Horus even knows it. He doubts 'Horus' even exists any more. Oh, Horus Lupercal. You poor, deluded child. What have you let into yourself? What have you allowed to spill free? What have you become that you can unleash this hellstorm upon us? 5:vii Fragments Fire and fury rage at the Delphic Wall. The final wall of the final fortress will not keep them out. Fire howls and fury roars. They scream and shriek in unison. In frenzied partnership, they encircle the Sanctum Imperialis and throttle it, squeezing their psychopathic fingers tighter. Fire blisters the citadel's armoured skin, and melts its steel. Fury claws at its stone, abrading it, and opening fissures. Together, they gnaw away the last proud circuit of wall, and the last void shields, and the last battlements and casemates. Relentlessly, piece-by-piece, fragment-by-fragment, they grind the Delphic down. Nothing stands forever. Even the mighty Delphic must eventually succumb and break open, like the hard shell of some delicacy, or the dome of a skull. Then the fire and the fury will dig inside, scoop out the soft meat within, and feed. Their hunger will not be denied. Nothing stands forever. To be a defender on the last wall is to be a soul trapped on a mountain ridge as a firestorm roasts the world alive. Everything is flame, everything is noise. All around, wall gun emplacements, terrepleins and turrets unleash a torrential pelt of shells, beams and projectiles. But as fast as they rain death upon the traitor host, they drain the Sanctum's dwindling munition stocks. Batteries burn out, their systems unable to maintain the intense fire rate. Autoloader systems jam inside the walls. Macro-las weapons overheat, and blow out the gun-boxes and bartizans containing them. The enemy assault delivers an equal and answering bombardment from below. Their munition supplies seem inexhaustible. Swarms of missiles, constellations of fireballs, and seething lances of energy remorselessly maul the defensive ring. The Delphic's void shields convulse under the onslaught, the walls glow. The host below is uncountable; uncountable beasts driving uncountable siege machines up the ramps of their own uncountable dead. Scaling ladders climb like vines, groping for the summit, replaced as fast as they are burned away or levered back. Siege engines fight and jostle to suckle at the ravelins and outwork parapets. For each one that topples, victim of the wall guns, another dozen roll through the burning wreckage to take its place. The booming voices of the enemy's war-horns are a weapon in themselves, drowning out the burst of shells and the detonation of explosive rain, bursting eardrums, turning guts to jelly, grinding sanity into a pulp of wet terror. From the battlements of the last wall, the enemy below is a sea, a deluge, an engulfing ocean of hatred and rage. In its black swell, a billion baleful eyes glare upwards, a billion voices scream obscenities and blasphemies. Not all are human. Some once were, some are warp-bred and Neverborn. The daemons charge and flock, squealing and baying, swooping at the wall-top on ragged wings, bounding at the wall-foot on cloven hooves, beating at the enciente'

grinding sanity into a pulp of wet terror. From the battlements of the last wall, the enemy below is a sea, a deluge, an engulfing ocean of hatred and rage. In its black swell, a billion baleful eyes glare upwards, a billion voices scream obscenities and blasphemies. Not all are human. Some once were, some are warp-bred and Neverborn. The daemons charge and flock, squealing and baying, swooping at the wall-top on ragged wings, bounding at the wall-foot on cloven hooves, beating at the enciente's stonework with bladed fists, ploughing through their own allies to reach the last wall and sunder it. Nothing stands forever. Yet for some of the defenders, it feels as though they will stand forever. Nassir Amit, called Flesh Tearer, struggles to master the impatience in his heart. He has been standing, motionless, for nine hours. His company, designated 'Denial 963', is drawn up on the reserve stages of the wall's inner level, below the casemates and fighting platforms. He has eighty-three men. All are Blood Angels of the IX, though they did not begin the war as this unit. They are all survivors of the Eternity Gate, squads and sections of decimated companies recomposed as a makeshift new one. Denial 963 is one of twenty companies being held at readiness on this wall section alone. They are armed, they are plated, they are oathed, but their moment is yet to come. To Amit's right waits Denial 774, a similarly patchwork company of White Scars commanded by the worthy Hemheda. To his left is Denial 340, a unit hastily woven from Salamanders and Iron Hands, commanded by a Wolf of Fenris called Sartak. Hemheda is as still and silent as Amit, but Sartak paces in front of his ranks, muttering and cursing. They wait. All of them. All twenty companies. This has been instructed. These are their orders. They wait, even though the wall shakes below them, and the voids ripple overhead. They can hear the roar of artillery emplacements along the fighting platforms above them, and see the flash of fire-sprays bursting against the parapet. Sartak stops pacing. 'Where is Honfler?' he snaps. He gazes over at Amit. 'Where?' he snarls. Amit makes no reply. The Space Wolf's lack of discipline annoys him, though he shares his frustration. To stand and not fight feels wrong. But those are the orders. Praetor-Captain Honfler of the Imperial Fists has command of this wall section, and his orders were both clear and utterly in accordance with principles of siege repulse set down by the Praetorian. Until the enemy achieves scale or breach of the enceinte, the defence of a wall line is the province of the batteries and wall guns. There is little that a warrior, even an Astartes legionary, can do on the fighting platforms. Until the enemy arrives in person. Until then, to commit all forces to the parapet is to lose men to enemy barrage for no reason. So they must stand, held in reserve on the comparative safety of the staging levels, waiting for the command to come. It is a bitter contradiction. Amit yearns to fight. He yearns to close and kill. It feels wrong to be standing here, waiting for war, when war is only a few hundred metres away. Amit wants to be unleashed. But if that desire is satisfied, it will mean they have lost. It will mean the batteries are spent, and the voids have failed, and the ramparts overrun. For Amit's wish to be fulfilled, the enemy must invade the final fortress. And so they stand, his company, and so many others like it, longing to fight yet willing the order not to come. For when it comes, the siege will be over, the Warmaster triumphant, the last sanctuary violated. Amit, and men like him, will no longer be fighting to win, or even survive. They will simply be fighting to punish the triumphant. However much Amit wants a fight, he does not want that one. He tries not to wish for it, however heavy and thirsty his sword feels in his hand. 'Where is Honfler?' Sartak bawls. He hoists his war-axe onto his shoulder and strides over to Amit, until they are nose-to-nose. 'Where is he?' the Wolf growls. 'That fool? We stand here forever!' 'Nothing stands forever, brother,' Amit replies, unmoving. Sartak stares back with a frown. He thinks about it. The grim logic dawns on him. He starts to laugh, the mordant laughter of resignation and death-glory Amit has heard so often from Sartak's Legion. 'Good,' he says. 'That's good. I like you, Angel-son. A dark wit. Damned if we do, eh?' 'Damned when we do,' says Amit. 5:viii Inferno Almost all of me is gone now. All gone. Gone and damned. I can't- The layers of my self have peeled away in the heat, reduced to ash... Sigillite, Imperial Regent, Master of the Chosen, these parts of me have burned away, one by one, even my human self and form, even the name Malcador. I- Aah- All gone. Almost all of me. These things, these names, these titles, these sigils that have represented me during my life, have been systematically erased by the Throne, and all that remains is a sigil of pain. The Throne. The Golden Throne. The burning Throne. Curse the bastard thing! It is eating me alive- I- I'm sorry, old friend, if you can hear me. Can you? I do this for you, always for you. I have no regrets. It's just the pain. The devouring fire- But I do not know how much longer I will last. The slow instant of my death, which began the moment I took this seat, has been drawn out into an unbearable eternity by the un-when, but it must end. What- Ahn. What willpower I have left, what self, is finite. I dwindle, old friend. The end of my everlasting moment of death is approaching, and I fear it will come too soon, before- -before the work is done and the war settled. Mhn. Nnh. I don't think he can hear me any more. I can barely see him. I am old and I am tired. I am weak, my strength sapped by this task. My straining sight is beginning to fade, for my eyes are long gone and my mind is going. I can no longer see my beloved master as clearly, or follow his progress through the horrorscape of the first-found's flagship. What little I can see is granted to me by the grace of Horus, who tempts and taunts me with these visions in the hope that they will break- -break me. Nggh! But I hold on, still. Just. Barely. And what little I can still see, the scraps and flickers, gives me no hope. My greatest lord and oldest friend advances towards the lair of the first-found monster, one hard-fought step after the next, through a place where all sense has fled. All reason. Chaos prevails. My ailing mindsight sees only absolute madness. Oh, my King-of-Ages! Despite my long life and my frequent interaction with the immaterium, I have never seen the warp so wholly unleashed. And I believe that even my lord has only glimpsed its like before; on Molech, perhaps... in the furious surreality of the webway... in his darkest fears. Such a sight. Such vile, atrocious- No. If my lord can bear that, then I can bear this. Focus, Sigillite! Focus, you useless old man! Ignore the pain and concentrate on the work. Use the mindsight vision of your old friend as a drishti to distract yourself from the agonies devouring your soul- Yes. Better. That's better. Focus on him. The sight of him. There. My King-of-Ages, and in such a place. It- It reminds me, perhaps, of Hell, of Gehenna, of the old religious concept of an inferno, of the infernus immanis, of the Pit, of an underworld where all the comforting laws of nature have been abandoned, along with hope, and replaced by pain and horror. Yes, exactly that. Uncannily that. I have long believed that the human concept of a 'hell', which has haunted mankind down the ages, and informed the structures of its makeshift religions, is derived from the warp. Of course, in latter years, this vivid concept was tamed, by theologians and philosophers, into allegory and symbolic fable. But it comes from somewhere. It comes from the warp, from flashes of the empyrean's tumult glimpsed, through the ages, by certain people in their dreams and waking nightmares: the nascent psykers, the prophetics, the visionaries, the far-sighted, and the wielders of imagination. They wrote of it, in verse and prose, and painted pictures. I have seen these works, a great many of them, for my lord the Emperor collected them. Many he selected by hand from the inventory of cultural treasures that the Order of Sigillites had preserved during the Age of Strife. He did this, I believe, out of fascination or sentiment, if such feelings are within his compass. The artefacts are stored in secret depositories adjoining the private archives of the Sigillites beneath the Palace. From time to time, as Regent, I used to visit the hidden collections and puzzle over the images. They were all so similar. I now see why. I can no longer visit the private galleries at Leng and the Clanium, but watching him, I can see artworks come to life. Eternal damnation- I can see it. It is real- 5:ix Alone The tempest squalls of depravity blast the Emperor and His companions. The warp-wrath is fluid, churning, a shifting fume that seethes and kaleidoscopes, becoming solid to strike and liquid spray when struck. It conjures patterns and scales, sparks and unknown colours, blisters of terror and scabs of madness. Hook-toothed jaws lunge out of it, snapping at them, then recede to nothing in mists of onierolysis as fast as they came. Eyes glare. Clawed limbs and tentacles sprout from air and deck and ceiling, lashing at them, a thousand every collapsing un-minute. Caecaltus Dusk endures as his master endures. I know the unbreakable resolve of my King-of-Ages. I am the steel of His will. I feel the conflagrant light of His power. He will not let this be the end of the Earth, the terminal fate of mankind, or the end of Himself. He will not let your ruination triumph. He endures because He is strong. And you, Horus, have made Him so. The Master of Mankind continues to draw upon the very power unlea

lashing at them, a thousand every collapsing un-minute. Caecaltus Dusk endures as his master endures. I know the unbreakable resolve of my King-of-Ages. I am the steel of His will. I feel the conflagrant light of His power. He will not let this be the end of the Earth, the terminal fate of mankind, or the end of Himself. He will not let your ruination triumph. He endures because He is strong. And you, Horus, have made Him so. The Master of Mankind continues to draw upon the very power unleashed against Him. He steals it, just as He stole fire on Molech, and hurls it back. He casts flame-storms from His fingertips with such force that the shrilling Neverborn, live-birthed out of the vortex, incinerate before they have full substance, and the ship's corridors, briefly recalling the metal from which they were once made, burst and shred from the overpressure. His sword, a blade of blazing sunlight, cleaves materia and immateria alike, and fills the air with scalding blood-steam. His fury is boundless. So is this hell. The bestial Neverborn instantiate everywhere, massed and wailing legions of the damned, the manifest armies of pandaemonium, in unvanquishable numbers. They seek to kill Him, not just in body, but in His entirety. Horns and fangs and slicing talons swarm to shred Him: to tear armour from flesh, and flesh from bone, and soul from body. They seek to destroy not just His mortal shell but the perpetual spark within Him. He will not be beaten. He will not be turned back. Though Chaos assaults the Emperor with unprecedented ire, unleashing its power in a condensed paroxysm that exceeds all the warp events in human history, He will not back down. He meets the excess of Chaos with its own excess, pushing His own power beyond any cautious restrictions He has previously respected. He has always been a conduit too, resilient enough to tolerate the burning wire of immaterial force that sizzles in His blood. He has been training Himself to stand it for more than thirty thousand years. He has conditioned Himself to bear its force, to tap it, to use it, to inhale its fire and breathe it back in the faces of the Chaos Pantheon. They have opened the sunless sea of the empyrean to Him, and so He drinks from it to magnify His own almighty power. The False Four are fools if they think this display of excess can overwhelm Him. It empowers Him, Horus Lupercal, it empowers Him. It feeds Him an excess of His own. He is set on this path, first-found, and He will find His way to you. He will carve a sure and inexorable road through your labyrinth of madness, His sword in His right hand and fire in His left, and meet you. He will find you. In the midst of Chaos, the Emperor finds there is, within Him, an invincible calm. Caecaltus feels it flood through him like ice-water. It is so shockingly pure, tears spring from his eyes. This day will not save you, Horus, for you have broken day and night and the circuit of time. You have built an eternity here, a frozen infinite without laws, presuming that will protect you and confound your father. It will do neither. If this is your trap, your endgame ploy, it has sprung and failed. Your father was a master of this art for one hundred and twenty thousand generations before you were whelped. You have made a shrieking parody of the world for nothing. If this is your snare, first-found, the eye of your storm of terror, it is an eternity that will not last. It will break. It is but eternity in an hour, or a day, eternity in a heartbeat. At the still point of this turning world, where past and future are gathered and inert, some work of note may yet be done. To you, my lord may have seemed like an idle king, perched on a distant throne, made weak by time and fate, but He is strong in will. So very strong. Stronger now than ever before, He will strive. He will seek you out. He will not yield. The empyric deluge has destroyed the war-systems of all the Hetaeron Companions. Their comms are burned out, their auspexes fused, their sensoria blinded. Caecaltus cannot see what is around the next twist or turn of the maze, and those twists and turns shift and change like hallucinations anyway. There is no point predicting, for there is no future to predict. My lord's armour systems are likewise ruined. He listens instead for the telltale crackle of the warp, the spit and sear of the blaze inside you. Glutted with the power He takes from you, Horus, He metes out what little He can spare, investing us and reinforcing us. Our bodies, so precisely constructed, can each bear a little. He makes us stronger. He makes us parts of Him. The Emperor pushes forwards. He amplifies the Hetaeron, one equal temper of heroic hearts. He pours His mindsight into them and they become additional eyes and ears and hands. Through them, He reads the real, or what remains of it, the broken slivers of sound materia that drift in the fevered insanity, the fragments of deck and flooring they can trust. They leap from one foundering scrap of reality to the next, frail and unsteady stepping stones in the void, as the warp soughs around them. By His will. Through Caecaltus, He sees the winged spawn ahead, and hacks it asunder before it strikes. Through Taurid and Ravengast, He holds the flank against drooling fiends and ulcerated miscreations. Through Nmembo and Zagrus, He guards the rear, driving back the snarling, screeching things that bulge from the exoplanar membrane and fly at them like spittle, snapping at their heels. Through Xadophus and Karedo, stalwart at His left and right, He discerns the path. By His will alone. Together, as one, moving and fighting as one cohesive entity, they cut their way into the Vengeful Spirit's dark and broken heart. And they harrow its hell. 5:x Waiting in darkness for the end A noose of darkness has tightened around Collection 888 and its faded portraits of hell and perdition. The shadows have swelled and expanded since Loken left them, and the temperature has steadily dropped, despite the library's advanced climate control. According to the system's wall panels, ambient temperature and humidity are being kept constant, but Sindermann can feel the cold in his bones. They wait awhile to see if Loken will return, but he does not. Eventually, Sindermann leaves his bench beneath one of some eighty-first-century sculptor's stranger works, suspended in a cone of soft light, and crosses to the hatch. He has no idea how long they've waited. It feels like hours, but the clocks have all frozen. His own pocket-chron has begun to wind backwards. Mauer and the archivist watch him. The hatch is firmly sealed. The lock mechanism, when he finally, gingerly, touches it, refuses to respond. It's cold. So is the hatch, and the wall around it. He can see a powder of ice crystals beginning to form. It feels as though there is an immeasurable chill on the far side, the absolute cold of the open void, and that the heat of the library chamber is slowly leaching out. Perhaps there is, thinks Sindermann. Perhaps this is the heat-death that accompanies Ruin. Time stagnated, places overlapped, reality wound up tight in a ball of coterminous moments, bleeding away heat and light in a slow decay. He looks back at the others and shrugs. 'He's not coming back, is he?' asks Mauer. 'To Garviel,' says Sindermann, 'it may seem like he's only been gone a few moments.' He walks back to join them. 'Really?' asks Mauer. 'You really think that time a-and space...' She trails off. 'Yes,' he says. Mauer shudders and shakes her head. 'I know you're a creature of order and discipline, boetharch,' he says gently, 'but you're also a great pragmatist. I'm surprised you're not accepting the state we find ourselves in.' 'I don't know how you can be so calm,' she replies. 'Oh, I'm not,' he assures her. 'This derangement of the cosmos is entirely disturbing. It's nigh on impossible to process. But it's not hard to accept, given all the evidence we've seen. I suppose I can't see the point in panicking.' He shakes his head wearily. 'Or I haven't got the energy to panic,' he adds. 'I can't process it at all,' says Mauer. 'These last months, Mauer,' he says, sitting down beside her, 'we've seen so many things... Things that defied credibility. Things beyond imagination. And you've faced them down. But now your capacity runs out?' 'Monsters, nightmares,' she mutters. 'I can face those. But this is everything. The very fabric of the world, the rules and laws of matter. There is nothing left I can count on, nothing I can trust. Not the ground beneath me, not the air, not the passing of the minutes, not even my own mind.' Sindermann sighs. 'Then I believe,' he says sadly, 'that the Emperor has failed us.' The archivist looks at him in alarm. 'He should have prepared us. Told us. Taught us. Not just you and me, the whole of humanity. He has this entire archive of evidence. Warnings from the distant past. But He keeps it shut away. He should have educated us so that we could have prepared. He should have shared what He knew so that we'd be ready.' He rubs his hands together to keep warm. 'But He chose not to. He deprived us of all spiritual appreciation, and thus we come to this moment supremely unfit and unqualified to face it.' 5:xi That which passeth all understanding Those works of art- Gng. Nhh. Focus. Those works. My lord should have destroyed those works of art and madness, but I believe he could never bring himself to do it. They were, in their own way, beautiful. In each one, I think, he saw himself. He saw the minds of people like him, who obtained one fleeting glimpse, perhaps by force of will, and were forever changed, and thereafter compelled to create some record of what they had seen. Those poor souls... All of them scarred because their minds were too acute. They were often deemed mad, and their work dismissed as fancy. But two qualities were always obvious to me. The first was the

r bring himself to do it. They were, in their own way, beautiful. In each one, I think, he saw himself. He saw the minds of people like him, who obtained one fleeting glimpse, perhaps by force of will, and were forever changed, and thereafter compelled to create some record of what they had seen. Those poor souls... All of them scarred because their minds were too acute. They were often deemed mad, and their work dismissed as fancy. But two qualities were always obvious to me. The first was the astonishing commonality of their visions. There were too many similarities for them all to have imagined them separately. Through some mysterious action of immense synchronicity, they all saw the same thing. They saw what I see now. They saw what my old friend is experiencing first-hand. The second was that paint, and pencil, charcoal, words, rhyme... None of the tools at their disposal could begin to do justice to the truth. One may shiver at the sight of The Garden of Earthly Delights or the The Great Day Of His Wrath, but they are mere hints, mere suggestions, as through a glass darkly. The truth is not the leaping flames, the ragged blight, the sundering peaks, the dripping venom, or the curling thorns; the truth is not the devilish blasphemies that, ungainly and beyond all reason, caper and squeal their danse in the fiery glow. It is not the things that my lord and his last golden companions are cutting their way through with blade and bolt. Physical horror can be assimilated and ignored. The real truth is the sense of senselessness. We- We are too used to living in a world of materia, a commonplace realm tightly governed by laws and the parameters of physics, of logic, of order and sanity. I see now that the greatest horror in the material universe is as nothing compared to a brief instant of the warp's totality. All laws are shed, all rules vacated, all truths untruthed. My lord feels it in the very molecules around him. Nothing behaves as it should. Nothing is reliable. Nothing can be trusted. All is Chaos, in the most literal sense. Once you are within the realm of Chaos, nothing retains the semblance of sense. He has never come this close to it before. He has never allowed it to surround him. My King-of-Ages has always had a lifeline, or a path back, a throne to anchor him, or a beacon to light him. He has only ever stepped one foot over the threshold. Even at his most daring, he has never entered entire, without some strategy for escape. Well, no longer. Just like me, the Vengeful Spirit is devoured by the warp. The material fabric of the great ship is corrupted. What my Emperor advances through, one pace at a time, fighting for every step with his last few men at his side, is an infusion of materia and immateria that still partly and occasionally resembles a Gloriana-class, Scylla-pattern warship. There are stretches of apparently solid decks and hallways, arches and chambers, locations that my lord recognises, but they are not those things. They are fitful recollections of the ship, old memories of the Vengeful Spirit made real in haphazard flashes, lumped together in illogical sequences, then forgotten again just as abruptly, in foams of voidmist. This is a fluid, approximate memory of the flagship rendered by the immaterial, like water trying to remember what it was like to be ice. And those old memories- Gah! Mmnn! They are his memories, I think. Horus' memories. His derangement is extreme if this is the best recollection he can conjure. The warp is in our first-found enemy now, far beyond any limits he was built to withstand. 5:xii Upon the face of Terra In the whispering darkness of the Lupercal Court, you wander, blind, hands outstretched to feel your way. Like you, the place has flexed and changed. Nothing is the same. Even the darkness is a different kind of darkness. You are drowning Terra in the immaterial, and everything is washing together and blurring into one, like pigments on a wall, flushed by rain, the painted images dissolving and the colours running. Whatever was painted there before is no longer visible. Was it a man? A landscape? Some animals, perhaps? It doesn't matter, for it no longer has any significance. The dyes and colours have leaked and blended, diluted in the immaterial wash, and this new darkness is the result. In it, your groping fingers feel the shapes and forms of things as they are now. Vengeful Spirit and world mixed together. Ship and palace. Sky and land. Steel and stone. Inside and out. Above and below. It's all become one thing, a tangled, knotted connection that is now impossible to navigate. As soon as your father led His assault on board - a bold, brave step - you allowed the impossibility to descend, and enfolded Him in your trap. He has no way out, no way back. There is only one place for Him to go. In this new darkness with no future, there is only you. You and the throne you will sit on, and the Court that surrounds that throne, and the palace that surrounds that Court. Your palace, a city. An eternal city. A city that encompasses the galaxy. It was always going to be this way. It was always coming to this. It was inevitable. Your Inevitable City. Your realm. You decide you want to see it. You are Horus Lupercal, and you're ready. You call for a light, and something brings you a light. Fire crackles around your hand as you raise it and illuminate the Court. There are five thrones. That surprises you, just for a moment, until you remember that nothing should surprise you because you made it that way. Five thrones. One is for you. It must be. The others are seats of honour for the four powers of your ascendancy. Change, blood, delight, decay. The four cardinals of the compass of Chaos. The four quarters of the eightfold star. They await the avatars of those potent properties. They are part of the gifts. Of course they are. That's how you planned it. Here, the four powers of Chaos will be represented, two at your right hand, two at your left. You wonder which of them will end up occupied? You have always been a gracious host. You honour those who come to you. Which of them will refuse you and spurn your invitation? Your gifts were generous. Handmade. Personalised. Extravagant. Decay, for the beautiful Angel, a rebirth from the mortal wounds of life. Blood, for dear Rogal, a feral liberation from the stifling order of his regimented mind, a blessed release into the oblivion of Chaos where he can at last forget decision and become the unthinking warrior he always craved to be. For stern Constantin, the liberation of change, allowing him to renounce the harsh and blinkered strictures of his life and become more, become emancipated, no longer a blindly obedient servant but instead a free-thinking being, alert with the secrets that were always kept from him. And for your father, delight. The reward of pleasure, of pride, the licence to be, at last, what He has always truly been, and to relish that state, no longer burdened by responsibility or destiny, no longer hobbled by the urge to guide or command, no longer crippled by the demands of a thirty-thousand-year-long plan. Here He may sit, and rest, and indulge, and rejoice in power for the sake of power alone. Mankind can make its sorry way without Him. He need never give the human species another thought. Henceforth, the plans will all be yours. If they accept your gifts, well... What a wonder that will be. This Court will be full, and joyous, and glorious. You, ascendant, above all others, exactly where you belong, and the four of them, a council of power, a new Mournival to hang upon your every word, and to do your bidding. Will they accept? Some of them might. Sadly, you think some of them might not. As an ascendant mind, you see these things clearly. Some things cannot be changed, even though past and future, just like here and there, no longer exist and have become one. What they were before will be hard to undo, even though it is now inevitable. Rogal is yours, you're sure of that. The blood rises in him and cannot be staunched. Sanguinius, whom you've always loved, he too will embrace your gift, for who would turn aside the gift of life itself when proffered by a brother's hand? He will come and sit at your side. Indeed, you think he's close, close to seeing the truth of everything. He always saw so much more than others. The sight of the Inevitable City will seem like a relief. Of Constantin, you have graver hesitation, for his doubts have been there since before you were born. His envy of you and your brothers runs too deep. He would have had you killed long since, you and all your kind. But then, he isn't really a man. He has so little free will, so little understanding. He is the way your father made him, just an instrument. A fine one, no doubt, a peerless one, but you might as well command a sword to stop being a sword or a spear to stop being a spear. Poor Constantin is merely duty and obedience in human form, and he doesn't know enough about anything to know any better. And your father. He is, in His way, the most likely to accept. But His ego is the obstacle. He has always known best, and after thirty millennia that self-belief is so engrained, it has fossilised. It will no longer bend, only break. You hope it does break. Your offerings are genuinely intended, but if they are rejected, then you won't hesitate. If, to your surprise, your father accepts, then you will be glad. You will be together again, as you were for those three perfect decades long ago. But you don't think He will, and you privately hope He doesn't. His time is done. He needs to end, and you have been longing to end Him. You loved Him once, above all others, but you hate Him now, for His falseness and lies. Reject my gift, father. Put up your fists and fight me. I so very much want to kill you. You sigh. The darkness whispers. It's whispering your name, you're fairly sure of that. You wonder whi

You will be together again, as you were for those three perfect decades long ago. But you don't think He will, and you privately hope He doesn't. His time is done. He needs to end, and you have been longing to end Him. You loved Him once, above all others, but you hate Him now, for His falseness and lies. Reject my gift, father. Put up your fists and fight me. I so very much want to kill you. You sigh. The darkness whispers. It's whispering your name, you're fairly sure of that. You wonder which of the thrones is meant for you. The fifth one. But which is the fifth? The largest one? It must be. That must be the one meant for you. A throne fit for a god. The clocks have stopped. Time's gone. But you are impatient. They must be close now, but they are taking so long. It's time to finish this, to bring it to an end, or at least a death. You walk through the living, breathing darkness, brushing whispers aside like gossamer, to the door of the Court. It opens for you, because it cannot resist your will. You will wait for your new Mournival in the hall, ready to escort them in so they can take their places. Power sings inside you. Outside, the hall is vast and gloomy and very quiet. The Vengeful Spirit abides here, but the chamber is more than that. The Inevitable City has been opened to honour your ascension. You step into it. You step from the Lupercal Court into the immense hall and, for the first time since this all began, you finally set foot on the surface of Terra. 5:xiii Things change In the midst of it all, in the heart of the burning Palace, certain moments pass, virtually unnoticed, moments of profound significance whose ramifications will change everything, but which are lost in the fog and the filth and the derangement. One is the end of the primacy of the human Imperium. It has been ascendant for nearly three centuries, a cultural edifice that has encompassed thousands of worlds, the single greatest military power in the galaxy. That military power, that prowess, the legend of the indomitable Astartes, the inexhaustible Army, the matchless fleets, is both the symbol and the reason for its supremacy. Somewhere, in the smoking darkness, in an instant that flits by unnoticed, that changes. The Imperial war machine stops. It keeps fighting, and fighting valiantly, but there is a shift in its collective mindset. It is no longer the greatest thing. It has met something greater. That greater something is not military at all, and it is ultimately immune from injury, no matter how many rounds and rockets and missiles and shells are thrown at it. It is a slow, corrosive, existential dissonance that will not be fully recognised for decades, or even centuries. The great Imperium, if it survives this day, may continue to fight and even dominate. But it is no longer supreme. It has met its match. And its match is an immortal, unbridled force that almost no one had realised was there. The Imperium's idea of itself has been broken forever. The other thing of significance that passes, unmarked, obscured by fire, is the integrity of the final fortress. Like the Imperium's supremacy, it is lost long before anyone realises it. Ekron Fal and Vorus Ikari, Sons of Horus, side by side, lead the storm assault against the Delphic Battlement. Fal's dread Justaerin hammer the monumental defences with heavy fire as Ikari's company, the malefic Fourth, advance under shield with war engines of Mortis striding in their midst. The two leaders, at once partners and rivals in this action, jostle for supremacy. They are the tip of the Warmaster's spear, but each wants the honour whole. Whoever breaks the wall first, whoever leads the tide of rout into the splintering final fortress, will doubtless claim the rank of First Captain from Abaddon, for Abaddon is absent. And anyway, Abaddon is a relic, a piece of yesterday no longer fit to serve, nor strong enough to lead. This glory is too bright for the old First Captain, this effort too great. Ezekyle Abaddon's era is done. This is their time. They strike with unfettered savagery and merciless precision, foul parodies both of the once-lauded Astartesian principles, Fal's monstrous strength matched only by Ikari's astounding cruelty. Streams of macro shells puncture the Delphic's adamantine lip. Pylons topple like fir trees in a hurricane. Resonators and relays explode in scorching flares of discharge. Torrents of sparks cascade down the battered wall, and flutter like banners in the wind and rain. A section of the void shield has collapsed. 5:xiv Light the fire In the shadow of the Hollow Mountain, the Death Guard assault collapses backwards, crumbling from the cliffs and down into the lonely pass. The sons of the Lion roar their defiance, clashing bloody swords against buckled shields. It is but brief respite, time to clean and cauterise wounds, to re-edge blades and reload guns. Without question, the traitors, fearfully mauled, will regroup and come at them again. The fury of Typhus, his hatred for Corswain and the First, burns like a fever that refuses to break. He will not let them go. He will plague them and scour them until naught but their sticky bones remain in the twilight air. 'Where did you come from, lord?' Corswain asks, his breathing laboured from supreme exertion. He is swathed in gore as though he has bathed in it. 'I told you, Hound of Caliban... do not ask,' says Cypher, no less badged in blood. Corswain shakes his head. 'Not good enough,' he says. 'At other times, perhaps, but not here. Not now. The end of the Throneworld is a torrid place of phantoms and lies, and I need to trust you.' 'Have I not already proven my worth and trust, your grace?' 'Aye, you have. Prove it further. Put all doubt from my mind.' 'I come because you need me,' says Cypher quietly. 'I come because these Dark Angels need proof that you are worthy, that you carry the authority of the Great Lion in this war, and should be followed unto death. I come from the spirit of the First Legion, for therein I dwell. I have always been here with you. I appear only in the direst of times, when the sight of me may fortify courage more vitally than any flag or standard.' 'The Emperor sent you to us,' says Corswain. 'If that is what you believe, then that is the truth of it,' says Cypher. Corswain kneels to him, and bows his head. Around him, others kneel too, Harlock and Tragan, Blamires and Bruktas, Vanital and Vorlois, three dozen more besides, and more beyond that, hulking, plated figures smeared in blood and streaked with mire, their blades gathered to their breasts under their bowed chins. Weapons sheathed, Cypher bends down and grips Corswain's head with both hands. He tilts his face up until Corswain cannot help but gaze into Cypher's masked eyes. 'You have been away a long time, lord seneschal,' Cypher says. 'I had to be sure of your loyalty before I came to your side.' 'As I needed to be sure of yours,' says Corswain. 'In the madness of this war, it has been hard to tell friend from foe.' Cypher grasps him by the wrists and pulls him to his feet. 'This I understand,' says Cypher. 'And it is only right. Doubt is part of a true warrior's armour. But so is trust. Do you doubt still?' Corswain hesitates, but he feels, for the first time in months, that there is a light upon him, as though some greater power is suddenly shining forth and renewing his faltering strength. He shakes his head. 'Then the spirit of the First is whole for now, my lord,' says Cypher, 'and may it remain so until the end of this great trial.' 'Will we claim the field here?' Corswain asks. 'We will drive the Death Guard to rout, or die trying,' Cypher replies. 'And more besides.' 'What more?' 'We will relight the fire of this mountain, and bring hope to Terra.' 5:xv Fragments The sky is a wide, fierce netherscape, fractured by lightning and distended by bellying smoke. Black rain falls, a monsoon of sheeting force that pummels and sluices and drenches. Where the monumental clouds part, the night sky can be glimpsed, filled with stars. But the night is just the lightless flesh of the enveloping warp, and the stars are baleful, unblinking eyes. Tjaras Grunli of the Rout, wolf-born, takes his last breath. He lies on his back in the ruins of the Irenic Barbican, his shoulders propped against an ouslite slab, like a body laid out on a mortuary block. He is too mutilated to move. Around him lie the corpses of Blood Angels and Imperial Fists, of White Scars, of Salamanders, of Shattered Legion warriors and of the finest Excertus mortals, each one fallen in turn until only Grunli remains, gore-haired and wet-axed. Across the bodies of his fallen brothers sprawl the carcasses of the Death Guard Grunli took down in vengeance and arch defiance until he was too wounded to stand. The sky is black smog, so low it seems to be almost touching his face. Stars, half-seen, wink through the pall. They seem to be watching him. He wonders if any of them are the same stars that rose in the winter nights of Fenris. Vorx of the Death Guard has left him for dead. No execution stroke, no honouring death-blow for a worthy adversary. And Grunli is dead. He knows it. He inhales, and knows it is the last breath he will ever take, the last breath he has the strength to draw. When he lets it out, there will not be another. But he holds onto it. He holds onto it as a last scrap of life, a last bubble of heat and air, for while it is in his blood-filled lungs, he is not yet gone. The Neverborn that skitter and writhe at the heels of the Death Guard, an honour train of the diseased, the maggot-mouthed and the corpse-gnawing that follow the pestilential XIV wherever it goes, begin to close in, sniffing and yapping, daring each other to inch closer to the fallen Wolf. Among them shuffle the hunched, cadaverous haruspices who, with hooks and loop knives, will read the future in his entrails once he has breathed his las

le it is in his blood-filled lungs, he is not yet gone. The Neverborn that skitter and writhe at the heels of the Death Guard, an honour train of the diseased, the maggot-mouthed and the corpse-gnawing that follow the pestilential XIV wherever it goes, begin to close in, sniffing and yapping, daring each other to inch closer to the fallen Wolf. Among them shuffle the hunched, cadaverous haruspices who, with hooks and loop knives, will read the future in his entrails once he has breathed his last. Tjaras Grunli refuses to exhale. Sojuk of the White Scars plants his tulwar through the head of a Word Bearer. It takes the leverage of his heel to pull the blade free again. Enclosed by rings of flame in the ruins of Gallium Bar, he leads his brothers in what is becoming an eternal raid. There is no greater strategy, no command from Archamus or the Hegemon. The vox is nothing but a dry-brush crackle of nonsense. So they stay in motion, reaving, killing, chasing through the tormented dereliction of the open field, assaulting whatever they can. This motion-war is contrary to the philosophies of his brothers, the Imperial Fists and the Blood Angels. Sojuk is surprised that they still follow him, his rank be damned. But in nine hours, as best as he can count, they have made thirty-two engagements, and he has led them to victory in each one. He has won something more valuable than rank. He has won respect. They pause upon a cliff of bruised masonry above a ditch of burning bodies. From Gallium, he expects to see the prospect of Hindress Fort and the southern Palatine batteries. Instead, he sees a broken monument that looks for all the world like the Lion's Gate. But that cannot be, unless the maelstrom of war has bewildered them and led them further astray than he has reckoned. Sojuk ventures it is some other monument, some other gate. He doesn't know the Palace well, and that ignorance hardly matters, for all he is searching for is an enemy to hunt. Where that hunt happens has no significance. There is movement in the silted gulches and thread-trenches to their west. An enemy formation of some size, greater than his own dwindling force, but slow where he will be fast. He nods to it. 'What hope is there?' a Hort Kalizan soldier nearby asks, fatigued to the edge of his wits. 'None,' Sojuk tells him. 'But-' 'Hope drains you,' Sojuk says, 'because it promises too much. Be glad you're shot of it. When you have nothing left to hope for, you have nothing left to fear.' Death dilates. In the ravaged expanses of the Palatine, units of both sides - beleaguered loyalists and invading traitors - churn for position in the elemental deluge. Beset by wildfire, by keening winds, by sheeting black rain, by lethal banks of gas and smoke, they fight to secure footholds, to manoeuvre, to find shelter, to orientate themselves. The warscape betrays them at every turn. On fields of sucking mud, Excertus units stagger through the downpour, scanning for landmarks they can use to find bearings now their compasses spin and lie. Huddled in earthworks and hammered trench systems, Auxilia brigades scope for contacts, no longer sure which way they are pointing. Limping, scarred armour groups stalk through gutted street blocks, turning in maddened circles as their guidance systems give back nothing but gibberish. Mechanicus formations stop and freeze, unable to process accurate routes, unable to execute pre-coded battle plans. Astartes units, trying to regroup, but no longer trusting their sensoria, slither uneasily through cracked culverts, and cross shattered roads, hunting for notations that match the plan of the Palace they carry in their maps and memories. Many have removed their helms, trusting eyes more than visors. Many on both sides glimpse distant structures through the deluge, the towers and elevations of a city still standing, the black cliffs of fortress walls. They recognise nothing. Skylines refuse to match. Identifiable structures, seen from far off, are not where they should be, or stand beside other structures that were never in their vicinity. Worse, the combatants catch sight of buildings and monuments that they know have already fallen. Nothing is true. No scope or rangefinder can be believed. Officers, their nerves already shredded, blame atmospheric mirages, fata morganas, the sanity of their scouts and observers, the trustworthiness of their original data. Many doubt they are even where they believed they were. Units turn. They reposition. They circle aimlessly. They advance on enemy positions only to discover the enemy suddenly behind them. Some quit safe entrenchments, and blunder directly into killing fields. Some move for safety to find better cover, and find themselves securing strangely familiar dug-outs. Men are executed for these mistakes. Men despair. Men go mad at the sight of walls and bastion towers that they know have long perished in battles that took the lives of their comrades, but which loom through the vapour as distant, taunting ghosts. At what remains of Targus Point, the 55th Pan-Polar advances under fire, making a near-suicidal push to reposition their field guns and supply a vital covering barrage for the Maglex Rifles they are flanking. It is a costly, gruelling effort, but the commander of the 55th finally gets his regiment into place on a rainswept escarpment, and begins his bombardment. The medium artillery pieces, over two hundred guns, thump and recoil for ten minutes, lighting up a belt of the field three kilometres away. Only then does the commander learn that the 55th is somehow turned about and, despite hauling his cannons through the murk under fire, he is on the other flank of the Maglex line and has been shelling them the whole time. The Pan-Polar commander reads the ragged paper that the speechless despatch runner has brought him. He orders firing cease, hands his officer's sword to a nearby lieutenant, and walks towards the wire, never to be seen again. At the VTC-26 Batteries, just west of Irenic, the 414th Ludovic finally charges, and takes a row of blockhouses that has held out against them for over an hour. Storming inside to plant their Imperialis standards, all they find are the crumpled dead of the Ninth Gustav and their own burning banners of the Emperor. The massed forces of the enemy, every bit as bewildered as the loyalist lines, forge ahead. They need no maps, no bearings, not even eyes. The Pantheon of Four has shown them the way and told them the truth: all paths lead to the same place. The destination is inevitable. 5:xvi A place to stand The Metome Processional has run out, vanishing into the mauled earth like the rotting line of a wooden breakwater receding into wet sand where the sea has eaten it away. There's no sign of the Metome gun-decks either. Her vague plan to make for the Delphic Line is cast aside. Unless they abandon their artillery pieces, they are too slow-moving. They are out in the open, though the horizon around them seems too close and too tight, because it is curtained by walls of ash that rise, thirty kilometres high, in every direction. When they find the black mansion, she decides it's as good a spot as anywhere. They need a place to make a stand, to dig in, to fight, and this is the only structure of substance for many kilometres. Marshal Agathe, shutting out the constant pain in her half-swollen cheek and jaw, gives her instructions. The officers nod and hurry to their tasks. Phikes follows her inside. The black mansion - Phikes named it when they first came in sight of it - is a large, hulking structure. Though ruined, with at least one wing reduced to rubble by recent barrages, its walls are unusually thick, and thus it has survived where virtually all the other buildings in what were once the streets around it are levelled to slag heaps. Agathe thinks she should know it. The place seems familiar, and was clearly once a major landmark. But in an arcology of major landmarks, that means little. It is low, square-built, wide, cyclopean in frame, and entirely blackened. It has been gutted by fire at some point in the last few days, and Agathe presumes the stonework is scorched. It will do. The bulk of her force, some three thousand or so, remain outside, prepping the field guns which are their primary strength. She has ordered the gunnery officers to dig the guns in along overlapping lines to cover the west, with a further spur of gunlines to the east. These have been directions from which all attacks have come in the last four hours. There's some hellish firefight - a tank battle, she guesses - raging behind the ash banks twelve kilometres to their east, so she anticipates contact from that direction. Forward observers are sent out to watch for enemy movement. They're using semaphore, whistles and signal lamps, because the vox is entirely dead. The men are exhausted from dragging the unlimbered guns and the ammunition wagons. Agathe reckons they'll be able to see an enemy unit approaching from at least two kilometres out, and thus have a grace period to use their artillery and shell the living shit out of it. If the enemy comes from a different angle - north, say, or south - it will be a different story. Her men are gunners, trenchers and light infantry. If Traitor Astartes surprise them and get close, it won't even be a fight. The directions, east, west... They are arbitrary anyway. Compasses aren't working, suggesting some dramatic electromag disruption, and tech is fried. There's no sun to sight from, or gauge time of day. She lines her gun the way her gut tells her. Instinct's kept her alive this long. On the other hand, damned instinct has made her live through it this long. If she's wrong, then her forces will pull back into the black mansion directly behind her gunlines and use its heavy walls as a stronghold. The place is built like a fort, thick walls, small windows. Was it a fort? she wonders. Was it Laufey?

atic electromag disruption, and tech is fried. There's no sun to sight from, or gauge time of day. She lines her gun the way her gut tells her. Instinct's kept her alive this long. On the other hand, damned instinct has made her live through it this long. If she's wrong, then her forces will pull back into the black mansion directly behind her gunlines and use its heavy walls as a stronghold. The place is built like a fort, thick walls, small windows. Was it a fort? she wonders. Was it Laufey? Or maybe Hermitage Gard? If it was Hermitage, then it's lost three or four storeys from the top, yet it doesn't look as if it was ever any taller. She walks inside to inspect her stronghold, following Phikes. He's sent clearance teams in ahead, poor bastard trench-fighters from the 403rd, to check for nasty surprises. The place is gutted, but its bones are good. The walls look ten metres thick in some places. The portals and gates are stout and defensible, and show traces of portcullis and blast-door systems. Some of those hatches, still extant and as thick as the doors of bullion safes, could be freed and made to close, she reckons, if they clear some of the rubble off the floor. There's rubble everywhere. The floors are strewn. The fire was so hot, there's no trace of furniture, fittings or bodies. She sees some twisted bars of metal among the broken stone. The place is cold now, no matter how hot the fire that cleansed it was. It sulks its chill at her. Water drips from cracked roof sections. The air is empty, and full of echoes. 'What's that?' she asks. 'Marshal?' Phikes looks back at her. 'What did you just say, Phikes?' 'I didn't speak, mam.' Agathe frowns. Someone did. 5:xvii Neither here nor there It takes Amon Tauromachian longer than he expects to conduct them to the tower. Too long, in fact. The direct route, via Galitae Processional, somehow leads them to the Bosphorus Court. Amon doubles back. The upper end of Yulongxi should have brought them to the Pons Albedo spanning the ventilation canyon between the Hall of Marshals and the Ariadne Belvedere, but instead it takes them to the plaza below the red stone gates of the Magistary, which is thronged with panicking courtiers and long, bewildered lines of household servants clutching bundles of salvaged possessions, like aimless merchant caravans. An old man, a member of the high nobility from his robes, is standing on the low wall of the plaza's central fountain, singing some archaic song loudly, for no apparent reason. A hymn. In this day and age. How does anyone still remember the words to an old hymn? No one is listening anyway. Amon glares at the scene, then turns around. Melanconia Gate is blocked by rubble where a wall has toppled. Pasiphae Gate is choked with refugee columns searching for an open shelter, and besides, through the grand arches of the gateway, Amon can see only the high-buttressed walls of the Eastern Approaches, which is where they have come from, and not the long boulevard of the Via Asterius, which is what should have been there. The Onopion Processional, slowly filling to capacity with more displaced citizens of the Zone Imperialis, simply ends in an anonymous blank wall. Thoas Way, mysteriously empty and unlit, leads only to the ambulatory circuit of the Tauropolis. The Mytheme Conduit brings them, haphazardly, to the statue-lined courtyard west of the House of Weapons. The full crew complements of several battlefleet vessels have gathered there, some still in flight suits, listless and apprehensive. The statues on the court's many plinths have gone, without explanation, but an old man has climbed up on one, and stands, singing in a thin, reedy voice. It looks like the same old man who had been singing in the Magistary's plaza, but Amon knows it can't be. It sounds like the same hymn too. Amon doesn't care. He's deeply troubled by the unforced detours. He knows the Palace in every detail. It's his duty to know it, and his memory is perfect. How could he have made so many mistakes? 'I am very tired,' Fo announces (for I have been walking much further than I wanted to). 'Are you lost or something, Custodian?' 'No,' says Amon. 'Well, my feet are sore,' says Fo (and they really are very sore indeed). 'Don't be such a child,' Andromeda-17 tells him. 'I am not a child,' Fo replies, 'though I would love to be one again. To be young again. Wouldn't that be nice? This body is so old and weak.' 'There are a lot of things that would be nice,' says Andromeda. 'Are you lost?' the Chosen, Xanthus, whispers warily to Amon. 'No,' says Amon. Ten minutes, or what seem like ten minutes later, he has proved it. The Pons Aegeus takes them out across a vast circulation trench towards the tower. Amon ignores the fact that this is not what he intended, nor is this where the Pons Aegeus has ever previously led. He tells Xanthus something about 'needing to take an indirect route for security reasons'. On the span of the skyway, they are assailed by the wind. In the deep gulf below them, the Palace's environmental systems move atmospheric currents with a tempest roar. The wind on their faces is not fresh. It is warm, and smells of smoke. Amon knows that the climate of the Sanctum, as trapped and besieged as any of them, has slowly begun to degrade. It's become overloaded with toxins and compounds that even the mass recycling filters cannot handle. In the past, the Sanctum Imperialis generated its own weather patterns, with cloud formations and bands of rain collecting under the dome of the aegis shield. Now the sky above, such as it is, is soot-black, low, and flecked with capillaries of lightning. A red haze glows to the south and west. Visibility, even here, is reduced. 'Look,' says Fo, pointing, 'that crackle there. See it? Is that the shield starting to collapse? The Sanctum voids giving out and fraying along the seams?' 'No,' says Amon. 'I think it is,' says Fo (because I know full well it is). 'No,' says Amon. From the west of them comes a long, sustained rumble that begins like a ripple of applause and then rises in intensity. They watch as the Spire of the Castellan, five kilometres away, slowly declines and slides into the canyon of the circulation trench. It starts hesitantly, with a tremble buckling the lower sections. Then the upper reaches begin to lean, with an almost languid elegance, and then the entire thing caves, collapsing into a cataract of rockcrete fragments that plunge into a rising curtain of dust. 'That can't be good,' says Fo. 'No,' says Amon. 'It can't.' The wall of beige dust expands, caught in the air currents of the trench. It starts to race towards them like a sandstorm. 'Get inside,' says Amon. He waits as they pass him, then takes a last look at the cityscape beyond. He wishes, dearly, that he could consult with the captain-general, and receive an unequivocal directive regarding Fo. But the captain-general has been out of contact for hours. 5:xviii Darkness comes It is thirty-nine seconds into the fight, and they are as good as blind. Constantin Valdor's neuro-synergetic command is breaking down. The swaddling darkness is pervasive and almost tangible. It weights their limbs and shoulders like volcanic ash or some heavy black mantle of opulent fabrics. It leadens their minds like guilt or shame. It rains upon them, streaking their golden plate like oil. It billows around them like a blizzard of dirt, or like some nightmarish murmuration of birds, a billion dark specks flocking and turning as one. It seems to seep into his helm, into his visor, into his mouth. Things flow and move within it, darting in its currents, things he only glimpses. Sleek bat-forms, gleaming like slate and as fluid as silk; vast shapes like winged rays trailing slipstream tails. He feels the draught of them as they rush past, the slapping impact of their swaying, shagreen wings. One veers and snatches Companion Aldeles off his feet, and they never see Aldeles again. Constantin stabs at the darting selachimorphic shadows, but they seem no more solid than the liquid smoke of the darkness. The only light is the flash of fire: the white sparks of their bolter shots, the sheeting yellow of the last Adrathics, the scintillating blue and pink of combusting warpflux in the changeling blackness. So many flickering light sources, yet they illuminate nothing. His company, diminishing in number, is suddenly forested by gnarled trunks of glistening meat that erupt from the fleshy floor. Like trees carved from carrion, they writhe branch-limbs that spit hellflame. The trunks, twice his height, sway in some unfelt wind, like marine anemones undulating in the current of the abyssal darkness. Their skirts billow like gills, and the fungus-flesh of their columns glitter with gelatinous scabs of frogspawn eyes that slide and froth across cauls of fat. The flame squirting from their swaying limbs melts auramite, and roasts men whole. Constantin tries to sever their limbs before they can belch flame. Some tree-things rupture and explode, others topple and collapse. The fire within them spills out and flows like pyrophoric fluid, conjuring little mocking sprites of Constantin and his men made of flame, which dance and crackle around their feet. Struck or stamped out, the pink flames shatter into coals of blue fire that eat at their sabatons and greaves, and gnaw them away like phosphor. He smashes the flesh-trees as they rear up, barging them with his pauldrons, toppling them with his spear haft, and tearing them with his blade-tip. He learns new names that he is forced to spit out: K'Chan'tsani'i. He is no longer interested in learning how to kill new things. The knowledge he has accumulated sickens him to his core. The darkness is alive with laughter. Constantin ignores it. Some of the laughter is coming from his own men. He ignores that. Some of those men are already dead. He ignores that too. There is singing, approximate vo

em with his pauldrons, toppling them with his spear haft, and tearing them with his blade-tip. He learns new names that he is forced to spit out: K'Chan'tsani'i. He is no longer interested in learning how to kill new things. The knowledge he has accumulated sickens him to his core. The darkness is alive with laughter. Constantin ignores it. Some of the laughter is coming from his own men. He ignores that. Some of those men are already dead. He ignores that too. There is singing, approximate voices wailing approximate words, the melody carried by the very ebb and flow of the swirling gloom. The keening has nine beats in a measure, a strangely limping, additive rhythm that reminds him of old Balkan songs he knows from pre-Unity days. The accumulating names in his mind tell him that it is a Kairic chant forbidden to the air. Another thing for him to ignore. Diocletian Coros breaks clear and yells out. All neuro-synergy is lost, but they hear his voice. They form up and follow his lead, gripping each other's pauldron edges to gauge some sense of direction, fending off fire and snapping beak and beating wing. Diocletian cuts a route along a rising shelf of muscle fringed with a hem of gleaming adipose and connective tissue. The cliff at their backs is strutted with giant ribs and embossed with pearlescent knots of cartilaginous fibre. A daemon falls upon them. It is by far the largest thing they have encountered in the thirty-nine - now forty - seconds of the fight. Constantin has a sense of it as some vast vulture or corpse-bird, but he can't really see it. Its colossal shoulders are hunched and high, its neck serpentine, its head sunken and snapping a raptor beak longer than a jetbike. Its wings, unseen but suggesting a span so wide it could embrace the galaxy, beat against their straggling line, crushing Meusas and Tiberean, and casting Prefect Kaledas off the lip of the ridge and into the void below. Constantin can't see Kaledas, nor tell how far he has fallen, but he can hear him screaming. The screaming goes on for far too long. Eventually, it becomes part of the nine-beat chant. The daemon is on them. Its hooked talons, each the size of a Titan engine's ursus claw, bite into the ridge of muscle to find purchase, and it perches like a seabird on a cliff ledge, pecking with its spear-beak. Its wings are everywhere, battering them, filling the air with feather-fibres and the stink of psittacine lice. The jabbing beak impales Laphros, pinning him to the meat wall of the cliff. The blood that sprays out is partly his and partly that of the punctured landscape. Symarcantis manages to spear the daemon in its flank below its left wing, and tries to lever it away. It turns on him, whipping its neck to hurl Laphros' corpse off its beak. Ludovicus severs its throat with his power sword. The huge bulk of the daemon, its massive pinions still flapping, collapses off the ledge, loose feathers and down tufts tumbling in the air and burning where they settle. Its takes Symarcantis' lance with it, wedged in its side. Only Constantin's tight hold prevents Symarcantis following his lance over the edge. He hauls the Warden up. Symarcantis grips Constantin's hand for a second, then takes up Laphros' axe, which is lying on the lip where it fell. Constantin yells for them to advance, but there is no movement. Diocletian shouts back that the path has run out. The shelf of muscle simply tapers into the flesh of the cliff. Another hopeless path, like all the paths they have tried to take. They are lost, and soon their lives will be lost too. The darkness grows thicker and heavier. This isn't possible, but it happens anyway. Moving, pulsing blackness, pumping with a nine-beat measure, chokes and strangles them, filling their nostrils, their ears, their throats and guts, their tear ducts. Constantin howls the names he has learned to keep it at bay, but his tongue is swollen and his mouth is full of liquid darkness. They are forty-three seconds into the fight. Valdor and the Custodians close ranks against the darkness... 5:xix Life after death Missiles, slicing low across the matted ooze, strike the end post of the earthworks at Processional Square, but they are merely a distraction. Debris is still raining down as Maximus Thane and the last of his battle-brothers take to the parapet. They get there just a few seconds before the enemy begins its escalade. The traitors, for the most part berserk World Eaters, but with some Mechanicum elements in support, have counted on the brace of missiles to clear the parapet and keep the defenders ducking while they make their rush. The Excertus companies with Thane, a jumble of weary, clay-caked men and women from a score of different regiments, are still sheltering in the flakboarded cover-boxes and blast trenches, but the armoured Imperial Fists doggedly make the line. Thane's plate is gouged and scorched, and pieces of it are cracked or missing. His hammer's head is pitted and scored, and the haft is greased with organic waste. When he closes his eyes, he can still see the massacre on the Gilded Walk; the Emperor's finest demolished, row-by-row, by the onrushing legions of the damned, and the daemonswarm that followed them. Thane should have died there. By force of will alone, he and the few brothers with him fought clear, broke through a flanking line, and turned back to harry the skirts of an enemy mass they could not face head-on. They have been fighting ever since. Retreat is not an option. The Praetorian Fists hold the line: that litany is embedded in his soul. But his lord-father Dorn always taught him the error of literal interpretation. Sometimes holding the line can be a worthless act of suicide, where to recompose upon a new line will cost the enemy far more. Every Imperial Fist is prepared to die for his ground, but the veterans are those who can negotiate a higher price for their mortality. Most of Thane's men are newborn initiates, apart from the veterans Kolquis and Noxar, and the fierce Huscarl Berendol. The initiates have been rushed into the ranks because of the crisis. They are fine men, and Thane sees promise in them all, but they are too fresh, and their minds too stiff with the rubrics of the VII. Thane and his veterans are instructing them by example, showing them that while there is courage in death, there is greater courage in the conviction to reframe and fight better. Flexibility, motion, harrying counter-attacks - such things have finer defensive properties in a hellstorm overrun, against a foe with dismaying numerical superiority. And Thane has learned some tricks himself, observing the White Scars units that fought alongside them. The White Scars, bred for mobile strikes, should have been muzzled and next to useless in a siege war such as this. But they have adapted, and their propensity for movement has even extended to their doctrines, which have kept in motion and adjusted. He has watched them turn their art of war into forms of 'running defence' and 'defence by attack'. Thane's admiration for them is hard for him to express. The initiates, firebrands all enflamed with the stern fundamentals of their Legion, have sometimes objected to Thane's motile tactics, horrified that he is prepared to give ground or sometimes, as they see it, retreat. He accepts their criticism and commends their nerve to speak out. 'I retreat,' he tells them, 'and thus I am alive still. Alive to teach you this lesson. And alive to do what I will do next.' 'Which is, lord?' 'Kill more of the bastards.' They see the look in his eyes. Some mutter about 'death before dishonour'. 'What is more honourable?' he asks. 'One dead traitor or a hundred? Death before dishonour is a lofty refrain, but ask yourselves what it means. First of all, ask "How many deaths?"' 'How many, lord?' 'It's their deaths we're talking about. How many can you claim before your honour is upheld? There is more dishonour in keeping your mind and place so rigid that you achieve but a fraction of the tally that might have been.' His hammer pulverises the rising skull of a World Eater. Head pulped and slack, and now set backwards upon its broken neck, the World Eater topples off the parapet. It is just the first. The roaring enemy mass is piling the earthwork line like a snowdrift. Eaters. Thane thinks of them just as Eaters now, and refuses to respect them with their full name. They are vermin beasts, devourers of carrion, necrovores. They do not deserve Astartesian courtesy. Thane's hammer does not falter. Thane does not hesitate. To his left, Berendol swings his greatsword with a measured stroke that seems leisurely, but actually speaks to an acute understanding of momentum, weight-balance and combat economy. Beyond the Huscarl, Kolquis counterpoints strokes of his chainblade with shots from his bolt pistol, creating a staggered arrhythmia of defence actions that the rising Eaters cannot predict. To Thane's right, two of the initiates, Molwae and Demeny, 'prentice-brothers' as Berendol disparagingly calls them all, are hacking like threshers on a mill floor. Their strokes are good, their fevered energy enough to make Thane and the two veterans seem languid. They are landing two or even three blows for every one of Thane's. But every two or three are hitting the same stricken targets. Thane doesn't know if it's manic desperation - for who of them, even veterans, have not felt a touch of that on this day of days? - or a youthful display of pride to make a good showing at his side and not let him down. He does know that the final hours of Terra's fall are not a teaching moment. But when else will it matter if not now? Without breaking his flow, without turning to them, he calls their names on the intervox. 'Slow your rates,' he says. 'Judge your strikes. One good blow, not three hasty ones. Each stroke is a kill-stroke. They can only die once.' Molwae and Demeny adjust in an instant, without a

of days? - or a youthful display of pride to make a good showing at his side and not let him down. He does know that the final hours of Terra's fall are not a teaching moment. But when else will it matter if not now? Without breaking his flow, without turning to them, he calls their names on the intervox. 'Slow your rates,' he says. 'Judge your strikes. One good blow, not three hasty ones. Each stroke is a kill-stroke. They can only die once.' Molwae and Demeny adjust in an instant, without a question or a side look. They become considered, raising accuracy above speed. Their kill rates do not drop. They follow his model as a paragon of the Astartesian principles. He could not ask for more. From down the fighting line, Noxar yells a warning, but Thane only hears half of it before the noise of the threat drowns it out. Blinding jets of flame hose up the embankment line, engulfing sections of the swarming Eaters, and pluming across the bulwark. Two Imperial Fists, initiates both, plunge off the parapet into the trench behind, sheeting trails of flame like comets. The storm-engines of the Traitor Mechanicum, barging forward through the crush of Eaters, have unleashed their heavy flamers, and the bulk meltas mounted like searchlights on their forward rails. No one uses heat-war or fire-war with allies forward of their position. The Mechanicum has dispensed with this particular courtesy of combat. Perhaps the field alliance of Mechanicum and Eaters is tenuous at best. Perhaps the Martian wretches want to be titular victors of this engagement and cheat the feral sons of Nuceria of their triumph. Perhaps they do not care. Perhaps, thinks Thane for one chilling second, the World Eaters do not care. There is no time to consider the Eaters' willingness for self-sacrifice in the name of victory. Stones and shield-plates melt like water. The blow-torch ferocity of the flame-mounts, built to ignite Titan engines, razes the parapet. Burning death rises in his face, bright enough to burn away the whole world. Thane's last thought is of his beloved primarch lord. He is going to die, never knowing if he has honoured Rogal Dorn or failed him. 5:xx Unyielding One year, it tries a new voice. It says: There is shadow under this red rock (come in under the shadow of this red rock), and I will show you something different from either, your shadow at morning striding behind you, or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of dust. He hears it quite distinctly. He doesn't know what it means, though the wall is like a red rock, and there is a cool shadow beneath it where he chooses to sit, and everywhere here is dust. He thinks he knows the voice too. It sounds like a warrior he once knew, whose armour bore no markings. His own armour has no markings either, because the wind and sand have worn them off. Perhaps the warrior was lost in the desert too? He can't remember the warrior's name. It was too long ago, and besides, he's fairly sure it is just the red doing different voices. Still, the little, bleached memory of the warrior reminds him of a little faded patch of the past he thought he had lost in the dust. He starts scraping a new plan out on the wall. 'I am Rogal Dorn, unyielding,' he says. Just give up. Just say it. Just say it. Who is the blood for? The whispers are distracting. After a few more years, he decides to talk while he works, to blot them out. The red doesn't like that either. 'Two millennia before the start of the first modern era on Terra, it was written in the Sumari epic lyric, called by some the Record of Gigamech, that two warriors debated whether or not to execute a captured enemy-' Behind the wall, the red hisses in annoyance. This again. 'They eventually elect to kill him. This brings down on them the opprobrium of what, at that period, were considered gods. There were no gods. But in this case, "gods" are a metaphor for societal outrage. The poem, some thirty thousand years old, is the earliest human record of ethics in warfare. The idea of just and unjust killing. It is the first application of morality to warfare.' The red growls its displeasure. He smiles, and adds, 'Mankind realised, even then, that blood was never just for blood.' Another growl. He carries on working, scratching, planning. He is not really talking to the red, because you cannot really hold a conversation with it, not any conversation he is prepared to have. But there is no one else here besides him and the red. He talks to drown out its whispers, so he can concentrate. It is simply a bonus that what he says annoys it. 'Some... and we can only estimate... but some one-and-a-half-thousand years later, the cultures of archaic Eleniki developed the first rules of war. They were not binding, and had no legality, but they were agreed, and abided by, at a social level.' These are the things he remembers. He learned them, long ago. Someone taught him, when he was young. His father, perhaps? He thinks he had a father. He recites the history of warfare ethics as a mantra, a focus for his rusting mind, a wall to block out the whispers. A calculated annoyance. He keeps talking to himself. It's odd at first, for no one has really spoken for almost a century except the whispers. The sound of his own voice surprises him. He had almost forgotten how to speak. Give up. Give in. Say it. Say who the blood is for- 'Circa three hundred, M1, in the period known as the Martial States, in the Eastern Eurasian expanse, the concept of yi bang was devised to regulate the application of war. This formalised the justification for killing, making it the supreme method of judicial punishment. It could be used only by the ruling elite. Just kings, lords, emperors. Blood was not for anyone else.' Behind the wall, the red snarls. 'This is the convention later known as jus ad bellum.' Years pass. Plans are scratched, scrapped, and new versions added. Frustrated by his dry-voiced lectures and the scritch of his blade, the red stops whispering. Sounds come, instead. Noises on the other side of the wall. Distant murmurs of battle and destruction. He stops and listens. He presses his ear to the wall to hear better. The sounds are close, just on the other side. They are so tempting. But he can't climb the walls, because the walls are slightly too high, and he knows that if he treks up to the top of the highest dune, he still won't quite be able to see over. He wants to. He wants to see. He longs to let go. To give up. To wade out into the blood and stop thinking. But the only way to get out, the only way to reach the other side, is to give in and say the thing the red wants him to say. 'I am Rogal Dorn,' he says instead. 5:xxi Our days of glory ended Under the command of Azkaellon of the Sanguinary Guard, a significant force of Blood Angels, Imperial Fists and White Scars moves up to occupy Hasgard. By the time they arrive, Rann and his teams have swept the bunker system again, carried out the enemy dead, and dumped them in the acidic pool of a giant shell hole west of the fortification. They now have a salient from which to strike at the main enemy lines pushing towards the Delphic Battlement. Comms are still patchy over any kind of distance, so Namahi sends two White Scars on jetbikes to carry the news to Archamus, and coordinate action between the main loyalist force on the Delphic approaches and Rann's little thorn to the side. Rann reckons they can hold the scabby shell of Hasgard for a day, longer if Archamus can find them some armour support or an operational engine. White Scars pathfinders, on foot and bike, scout the routes between Fratery, Hasgard and the Viaduct, watching for enemy movement. It will come, soon enough, and it will be legion. In the ragged bunkers, they keep watch and prep. Munitions are painfully low. They find a cache or two of bolt-rounds and other kinetics, marked with the Imperialis crest, in the bunkerwork stores, left behind by the previous defenders, but no one wants to scavenge munitions from the traitor dead. Their hard rounds and projectiles seem cursed to the touch, as tainted as the beasts who loaded them. 'Our days of glory ended at the Gate,' Azkaellon tells Rann, as they sit together on the roof emplacement of one of the bunkers, watching the field for movement. The Sanguinary Guard, like all the Blood Angels, calls it 'the Gate' as though there are no others. Perhaps there aren't to them. They mean the last, immortal struggle of the Brightest One against Angron and the foul Bane of the Ninth, a feat of arms unlikely to be matched, the deed that locked the final fortress. But Sanguinius has left the field. He, and Dorn, and Valdor, and the Emperor, gone to some last clash, some finitude, that the likes of Rann will probably never know about. The fate of the Palace has been left in the hands of their orphaned Astartes sons. 'All our glory ended there,' Azkaellon says. His sadness seems at odds with his painful beauty. 'My Bright Lord was obliged to close the Gate. There was no choice. Angron's bastards were upon us in uncountable numbers. It must have been a terrible decision to make. But he did the right thing, because he is strong. The Sanctum had to be protected. It had to be sealed. He got as many sons inside as he could.' 'Not you?' Rann asks. 'There was so little time,' says Azkaellon. 'So you were left outside?' The Sanguinary Guard shakes his head, sorry that he gave the wrong impression. 'Oh no, Fafnir,' he says. 'I chose to stay. We all did. Me, and the Bringer of Sorrow, and Rinas Dol, Gaellon, all the others. Those that were closest to the Gate went in. The rest of us were further out. Our retreat would have delayed things and risked...' He trails off for a moment. 'So we chose to stay,' he says quietly. 'The World Eaters were on us in droves. We chose to stay, and sent our decision to the Bright Lord. Close the Gate. We stood our groun

y that he gave the wrong impression. 'Oh no, Fafnir,' he says. 'I chose to stay. We all did. Me, and the Bringer of Sorrow, and Rinas Dol, Gaellon, all the others. Those that were closest to the Gate went in. The rest of us were further out. Our retreat would have delayed things and risked...' He trails off for a moment. 'So we chose to stay,' he says quietly. 'The World Eaters were on us in droves. We chose to stay, and sent our decision to the Bright Lord. Close the Gate. We stood our ground, and we held it, so that my lord and the others could get inside. It had to be done. They had to be held back. They would have choked the Gate otherwise.' 'How did you survive?' Rann asks. Azkaellon looks at him, an amused frown that pretends his martial prowess has been insulted. 'No, how?' asks Rann. 'You made an incredible sacrifice. The conditions you describe-' 'We fought,' says Azkaellon. 'I don't doubt it, sir,' says Rann. 'But how did you live?' Azkaellon shrugs. 'I honestly don't know,' he says. 'We fought. Throne, like a frenzy. Just taking as many of them with us as we could. It seemed to last for hours where I was expecting just seconds of life remaining. Then... then there was a break. A slackening. Their assault eased. I suppose their spirit was broken because they had watched their lord die. Or perhaps because the Gate was shut and they knew it was futile. There was a moment's easing, so we took it. We fought clear, away from the wall, out into the wastes of the Palatine...' He looks at Rann. 'We found cover, eventually, in a ruined bastion. Regrouped. Joined your lord Archamus' divisions soon after. We've been fighting ever since.' He pauses. 'Strangest thing,' he reflects. 'The ruin we sheltered in. It can't have been far from the Gate, because we didn't break far. The World Eaters were like an ocean around us. But I swear, it was Avalon Bastion.' 'That's a long way from the Gate,' says Rann. 'I know. The confusion of war, I suppose. We were moving fast. Desperation, I confess. There didn't seem to be any chance of cover. Then, suddenly, it was there.' He sighs. 'So I am left out here to watch over our brothers as night falls. There is no glory left, Fafnir, no valour, no burnished prize to be pursued. Just duty and endeavour, the brutal mechanics of survival. If we prevail, against these odds, then it will be the most significant victory of our lifetimes. But it will not be one to savour or celebrate. The warped blight of treason has broken us so utterly, this will be a time best forgotten.' 'By us?' 'By history. This war is a stain upon our culture, and even the winning of it will be sullied by the shame of it ever happening.' 'You sound resentful,' says Rann. 'Of what, brother?' 'That you were left behind.' Azkaellon smiles a thin smile. 'Not for a moment,' he says. 'My father expects this of me. He expects me to fly this path alone, in his stead, and hold the host together. I am his proxy, and there is no greater duty. My brothers of the Sanguinary Guard soar with him, at his side, to protect his life. They do not need me in order to excel.' 'Then perhaps resentful was the wrong word. You seem cold. I have seen it in the other Blood Angels out here. I have seen it in Zephon. It is not a demeanour I associate with my brightest brothers.' Azkaellon nods. 'True enough. The fire of our glory is dimmed and...' 'And?' 'I feel a weight upon me,' the Blood Angel confesses quietly. 'I know the others feel it too. Zephon most certainly. It's more than the bleak misery that afflicts us all. It's like a terrible dream I am yet to have, or a bleak nightmare that, on waking, I cannot quite recall. It presses upon us, Fafnir. Ah, you must think me a fool.' 'Never that,' says Rann. 'This war has taken everything from us, including our self-respect. I am sorry to see the fire of the Blood Angels burn so low.' 'It gutters low, but it is not out, brother,' says Azkaellon. 'We shield it from the wind so it might survive. And if it survives... if we survive... then after this, perhaps, it will blaze bright again and our legacy will live on. I fight through these gruelling, inglorious hours in the hope that one day we will be free to be glorious once more.' The Sanguinary Guard glances at Rann, his face solemn. 'But I think,' he says, 'all the glory my Legion will accrue through its deeds has already been achieved. Whatever happens now, if there are any stories to tell in any kind of hereafter, Sanguinius at the Gate is part of our legend, perhaps the greatest part. Our primarch will never perform a deed more noble. Our days of glory ended at the Gate.' 5:xxii The last glory They are the elite warriors of the Lupercal, three full companies of the Sons of Horus, held in reserve on the Vengeful Spirit as a personal bodyguard for the Warmaster. They are supported by a mass of Word Bearers, less regimented than the Horusian elite, but manic with bloodlust and idolatrous zeal, in number perhaps another five companies, backed by brigades of Traitor Excertus from the Merudin 20th Tactical Cadre and the infamous, hand-picked Hort Lupercali. With a force of this size and veteran prowess, the Warmaster could bring compliance to an entire world. With a force of this quality, the Warmaster has brought compliance to entire worlds. But they reel. They reel and they buckle, and they are driven back. Sanguinius, with just a single company at his heels, is tearing into them. There is no range. It is brutal close killing, packed body-to-body, the mayhem of mass melee, where to kill is to be showered in your victim's blood. The Great Atrium is vast, a huge temple of honour that crowns the magnitude of the Main Spinal, where once visitors were greeted with great ceremony before admission to the command decks, but it is packed to capacity, and the chosen ceremony is a blood rite. The rival forces lock and mesh, Blood Angels and Lupercalian Sons. There is no movement or leeway. They hold their places or die. They kill where they stand or die where they stand. They lock and hold. They push or resist. Men perish, held upright by the density of men around them. The deck is awash, and rubbled with corpses. The atrium's banners burn. Portions of gilded ceiling collapse, showering those below. The white ouslite walls are cracked and pocked with ten thousand smoking holes, like the cratered surface of a blighted moon. There is no give. There can be no breaking, no release, for if either side breaks, the day is done. If the Sons of Horus give way, they will be overrun and massacred, and the way will be clear to Lupercal himself: to Lupercal, the command bridge, and the seizure of the Vengeful Spirit. The flagship will be taken, the cruel war over, and the loyalist cause triumphant. If the Blood Angels, furious as the surface of the sun but wildly outnumbered, break now, then there will be no second chance. They will die, to a man, butchered in retreat, and the cause will be lost beyond any redemption. Terra will be lost. The Golden Throne. The Imperium. It is do or die. It is do and die. It is here and now, or never. The Great Atrium is the Spirit's throat, the jugular. Cut it, and the flagship falls, a prize trophy to be gutted and skinned, and its head set on display. The Sons of Horus will not falter. They cannot. They are the children of Horus Lupercal, the fury of the Warmaster personified, brimful of his wrath and his rage, imbued with his power, indomitable and loyal to the last. The thought of breaking does not enter their minds. Defeat has no place in their battle lexicon as a concept or even a word. This assault, for all its vehemence, is just a single company, the defiance of the already defeated. The Blood Angels will not falter. They will not. They are the last hope of salvation, the only loyalist formation to ever get this close to arresting the inevitable plunge of history into infamy. And they will not stop because they are the sons of Sanguinius, and they will follow him forever, and the Bright Angel will never stop. He simply will not. He simply does not. Of all the lives in that great and burning hall, his is the one that matters. Despite their implacable ferocity and luminous courage, the Blood Angels are outnumbered eight to one. If great Dorn, with his tactical genius, had drawn up a plan assessment, the Blood Angels would have lost before the ink of his signifying mark was dry. They should not achieve this. They cannot. It is non-viable. It is strategically unwinnable, on paper and in life. Except for him. Sanguinius is the variable. He is the disproportionate factor that overturns even the most carefully inspected projections, and invalidates the most impregnable logic. He is the outlier that revokes any tactical plan, which was why, in his wisdom, Dorn never factored him into any. It is not just Sanguinius' physical power, which is beyond doubt. It is his mind. The purity of his focus and the almost sacred perfection of his devotion. And it is his presence; the aspect of him, like some manifest projection of the Emperor's light. The Sons of Horus he carves through shield their eyes, despite the efficient function of their visors. Some begin to smoke and combust before he reaches them. Some die without him even touching them. He rives a crimson chine through the armoured walls of the foe for his sons to follow. Through it all, he ignores the pain. He has taken a thousand tiny wounds, gashes, tears and scratches, and he feels none of them. The blood streaming from his golden form is mostly not his own. But the wound in his flank aches in his soul. It gnaws into his gut, into his groin, and up through his ribs and lungs. He can taste blood in his throat, and that blood is sour and spoiled. When he opens his mouth to yell his brother's name, his teeth are flecked red. There is a septic simmer in his bloodstream, and he can smell the breeding decay inside himself. He hacks Encarmi

shes, tears and scratches, and he feels none of them. The blood streaming from his golden form is mostly not his own. But the wound in his flank aches in his soul. It gnaws into his gut, into his groin, and up through his ribs and lungs. He can taste blood in his throat, and that blood is sour and spoiled. When he opens his mouth to yell his brother's name, his teeth are flecked red. There is a septic simmer in his bloodstream, and he can smell the breeding decay inside himself. He hacks Encarmine sidelong, dissevering heads and limbs, and feels the unhealed wound pull open as he reaches out. He rams Telesto through a pair of flailing bodies, lifting them off the deck as they disintegrate, and feels the hot wash of the wound leaking under his placket. He crops and hews his path into the guts of the enemy mass, and feels the weeping sting in his own belly. He ignores it, but it will not be ignored. He wonders, for a moment, Has Horus killed me? Was Angron just the weapon? Is that how prophecy will make its vicious sense? He casts the thought away. He has no use for it, and no time for it. He has one life, and though it might be reaching its end, he has one purpose to fulfil, or that whole life will have been worthless. He will prevail, for there is no one else to prevail in his place. A war-axe notches his left arm. He smashes the wielder aside with such force, the attacker's body brings down other Sons of Horus. A chainsword howls close at his right. He shears the whining blade in two, then carves blazing Encarmine down through the chainsword's owner. Bisected like an anatomical diagram, another Son slams into the deck. Four more die in the Great Angel's path. Three others tear at him, and try to grip him and bring him over, clinging to his hips and thighs. He kicks them aside, pulling them off him, feeling the wound grind and drool as he moves. A few clear metres of deck ahead. He pushes on, growling away his hurt. A Word Bearer rushes him, but falls short, and drops to his knees, filthy smoke pouring out of his visor. Another two Sons of Horus try to bracket him, coming from left and right. Sanguinius swings at full extension, and passes the tip of Encarmine through the throat of the one on the right, making him buckle. As the traitor falls, trying to hold the blood and severed windpipe inside his neck with both hands, Sanguinius rotates, and lets his body weight lead the sword clean through the torso of the other. Another step. All is mayhem. From nowhere, a bolt-round hits him square in the cuirass. The blast lifts him and hurls him backwards. He finds himself dazed and entangled in a mob of the roaring foe, a dozen or more, who grasp and tear at him, almost lifting him prostrate above them like a prize as they try to claw the immortal weapons from his hands and rip the limbs from his body. He thrashes to regain his footing. He kicks out, and a helm crumples. He flails Encarmine blindly and beheads a roaring Son. Gauntlets scrabble and wrench at him. Some rip bloodstones from their settings. One shreds gilded laurels from his scorched cuirass. Another buckles his left vambrace. More haul at his hair and pin his wings. One rakes across his abdomen and compresses the wound. Pain blinds him. Death raises its cowl to show him its face. Darkness eats him. 5:xxiii Invaded Darkness, then a voice. Nassir Amit opens his eyes. Praetor-Captain Honfler has finally reappeared. 'Attend me,' the praetor orders as he approaches the denial companies waiting on the staging level. Amit had allowed himself to settle into a brief catalepsean fugue, partly to preserve his focus, but mostly to shut out the constant grumbling of the Space Wolf, Sartak. His mind is not rested. Induced circadian fugues are usually dreamless. Amit's had been clotted with visions of his gene-sire. In them, his Bright Lord had been lost in total darkness. There had been doors, doors and gateways, revealed by his primarch's groping fingers, but each one was treacherous, and none of them led anywhere. Not anywhere new, at least, not anywhere different. Most led his lord back to where he had started, while a few kept taking him to a vault where silent stone caskets waited in candlelight. One door, it seemed, brought his lord directly into Amit's dream. Each time that happened, the Great Angel would look at Amit with the forlorn eyes of a trapped animal, then turn to the darkness to try another door. There was so much pain in the dream, Amit can almost taste blood in his mouth. 'Attend me now,' Honfler commands. He is flanked by his line officer deputies, Aerim Lur of the Raven Guard, the Imperial Fists Vexillary Tamos Roch, and N'nkono Emba of the Salamanders Pyre Guard. The waiting companies stir. Sartak growls something that sounds like 'at last'. Amit tries to clear his mind. The ghost of his great lord lingers. Just a dream, he tells himself, born of his concerns for the Lord of Baal. Yet the enemy has been trying to worm its way in for seven months. A wall might keep it out, a firmly locked gate, but what if the enemy's siegecraft is so sophisticated it can invade their dreams to undermine them? He forces himself to focus on Honfler. This is the order, after all, the one none of them wanted to hear. Amit tells himself he ought to be listening when the Imperium's death-notice is proclaimed. 'The War Court has instructed reserve deployment,' Honfler announces, taking a data-slate from Aerim Lur. 'The following units will-' He stops, mid-sentence. Sartak is already ambling towards the access steps of the fighting platforms, casually gesturing for his company to follow him. 'Where are you going, Wolf?' Lur calls out. 'To war,' Sartak replies, looking back. 'You stay here talking, by all means.' Lur and Roch both take a step forward. 'Resume your place, Sartak of Fenris,' Honfler says. 'My place is on that wall,' Sartak replies. 'Your place is where the War Court tells you to be,' says Lur. 'Hell with them,' Sartak replies, baring his teeth. 'Their piss-poor decisions and craven tactics have steered us to this bloody ending. I should have been on that wall hours ago. I'll show you how the Rout-' 'Get back in line, you whining, insolent dog.' There is silence for a moment. Amit realises everyone is looking at him. He had spoken without thinking, as if seized by some sudden rage. He has no idea where that fury came from, or where it went, just as swiftly. 'Apologies, praetor,' he says to Honfler. Sartak sniffs, spits, then slowly walks back to his place at the head of Denial 340. He stares at Amit every step of the way. 'To continue,' says Honfler, his unamused eyes on both of them, 'your denial companies will be deployed into the Sanctum, not to the wall. You will form preparatory defensive lines.' 'Inside the Sanctum?' Hemheda asks. Then adds, 'Praetor.' 'Inside the Sanctum, Hemheda Khan,' Honfler replies. 'The voids are beginning to fail. If there's a cascade collapse, the Delphic may become unviable very quickly. I will not have assets stuck up here on the platforms when the enemy is breaching at ground level.' 'We need a new wall standing ready when the Delphic gives way,' says Roch. 'That's you.' 'Might as well stand there as here,' mutters Sartak, 'if standing is all we get to do. Eh, Blood Angel?' 'Damned when we do, Wolf,' Amit replies. His pulse is racing. Not quite the end, then. Not yet. Another desperate convolution of strategy by Dorn's War Court to stave off the inevitable. Denial indeed. Aerim Lur begins to announce dispersal. Six of the reserve companies will move to the Kylon Processional under his command. Another four, including Sartak's, will go with Honfler to the Martian Approaches. Emba will take five to the Western Mass Passageway. Amit's company, along with Hemheda's, will be two of the five Vexillary Roch leads to the Marnix Confluence. Amit presumes every staging level around the Delphic is being similarly denuded to stock the Inner Sanctum with manpower, and surround the approaches to the Throne Room. 'Make ready!' Honfler shouts. They are ready. Ready to move at once. The twenty denial companies begin to file onto the Delphic's armoured staircases to begin their descent. They march, all of them, with perfect drill discipline. Amit waits for Denial 963's turn to follow, listening to the rhythmic tramp of footsteps echoing from the stairs below. 'Hold them,' he says to his sergeant, Lamirus. 'If I'm delayed, move our company off and I'll join you shortly.' 'Where are you going?' Lamirus asks. Amit walks back along the line to the head of Denial 340. Sartak has his back to him, addressing his men, criticising Praetorian Tactical in lavishly scatological terms. He doesn't hear Amit coming. But he sees the look on the faces of the Salamanders and Iron Hands in his unit. He turns. They stare at each other for a moment. 'I insulted you, brother,' says Amit. Sartak frowns. 'You called me a whining, insolent dog,' he rumbles. 'Yes,' says Amit. 'I spoke out of turn.' Sartak doesn't reply. 'I... ask for your pardon,' says Amit. 'Why?' 'Because we won't meet again,' says Amit. Sartak sniffs. He shrugs slightly, and turns to face his men. Amit starts to walk back to the head of his unit. 'Blood Angel?' Amit looks over his shoulder. Sartak is staring at him. 'Did you say what you were thinking?' Sartak asks. 'Yes,' Amit replies. 'Good. No other bastard in this place seems to. I won't give you my pardon. I don't do pardon. I'll give you some advice.' 'Do you have to?' asks Amit. 'Looks like it's happening,' says Sartak. 'Very well.' 'When you close with the traitor scum, Blood Angel, face to face, make sure your bite is worse than your bloody bark.' 5:xxiv The Retreat The tower, known also as the Sigillite's Retreat, is a slender and lonely structure standing on a plasteel promontory above the trench. Stone-built, dirt-caked and slightly irregular, like an arthritic finger, it

my pardon. I don't do pardon. I'll give you some advice.' 'Do you have to?' asks Amit. 'Looks like it's happening,' says Sartak. 'Very well.' 'When you close with the traitor scum, Blood Angel, face to face, make sure your bite is worse than your bloody bark.' 5:xxiv The Retreat The tower, known also as the Sigillite's Retreat, is a slender and lonely structure standing on a plasteel promontory above the trench. Stone-built, dirt-caked and slightly irregular, like an arthritic finger, it seems a relic from another age, some architectural curio that has been allowed to linger, unmolested, while the rest of the magnificent Sanctum was raised around it and, ultimately, above it, eclipsing it in altitude, proportion and grandeur. Amon leads them across the promontory to the portico and begins to deactivate the security codes. The door at the base of the tower is heavy, blast-proof and sealed, and a much later addition to the building's mouldering stonework. 'Can't you let us in?' Andromeda asks Xanthus. 'I was only ever admitted at the Regent's invitation,' Xanthus replies, 'and then seldom. It requires Custodes clearance if the Sigillite is not present.' Andromeda glances at Amon. It seems to be taking the Custodian a long time to unlock the entry. The hololithic door-plate keeps flashing up denial runes, requiring Amon to enter increasingly more advanced permission codes, a formidably high level of securement for such an apparently modest and insignificant building. Fo gazes up at the ragged, shabby tower. 'I expected his regal highness Malcador to inhabit something more impressive,' he remarks. 'He doesn't live here,' says Xanthus. He doesn't live anywhere at all now, he thinks. 'It's just a phrontistery. A place of contemplation, and study.' 'A phrontistery,' Fo echoes, amused by the pomposity of the word. 'It looks like it's about to fall down.' 'It won't fall down,' says Xanthus. 'It has stood for a long time. A very long time.' 'I suppose,' says Fo. He looks far from impressed. 'A worn but robust old relic from another age.' (I know how that feels). 'I'm just saying, it looks a little frail.' 'So does the Sigillite,' says Xanthus. 'And yet he rules the Realm of Man as Regent.' The little fleshcrafter looks at him with cold eyes. 'I ruled a great realm once, too,' he says. 'Strange how things change.' 5:xxv Darkness in their beauty Something has changed. Rann cannot shake the feeling. It's more than just the great doom sinking down upon them all. Everyone feels that. But the Blood Angels seem especially fatalistic. Could the glorious fighting spirit of the IX Legion really have gone out prematurely, snuffed out by the draught of a gate slamming shut? Surely they won't falter now? Rann cannot imagine facing Terra's final battle without them at his side. But there's something about Azkaellon's tone, and the reticence he has seen in Zephon, that makes him suspect that the Blood Angels have withdrawn into some atavistic mindset as though crippled by mourning already. What presentiment of fate have they felt that he has not? Perhaps, in the absence of their primarch lord, this is how the IX prepares itself. Not by predicting the worst and offering their lives in the hope of preventing it, as Rann and the Imperial Fists were taught, but by accepting the worst and committing their lives as though they are avenging it. It was said that, in the early days, they were a vengeful and almost savage host, an aspect that altered and civilised over the years of the crusade until it was all but hidden by the grace they had acquired. Rann has always felt this about his brothers, the Angels of the IX. They are the most noble and wondrous of the Legions, but there is a revenant darkness in their beauty. He is glad he will never get to see it: it is a darkness only ever faced by their foes. Rann decides to press it no further. Besides, Zephon has just climbed into the emplacement to join them. 'Namahi's riders have returned,' he says. 'Lord Archamus is aware of our disposition. He sends you this.' Rann takes the wafer. It is a slip of paper, one of the Prefectus' purity tags, on which Archamus has written in his own hand. The Lord Militant Terra evidently no longer places any trust in the durability of slates or technology. He reads it. It says what Rann expects it to say: Archamus' brigades on the Delphic approaches are under heavy and constant assault from vast divisions of the Traitor Legions: World Eaters, Death Guard and the Warmaster's bastard Sons. Archamus anticipates a second, flanking front within the hour, and Hasgard will be in its path. He charges Rann to harry and slow that second front as best he can. Should it fail to appear, Archamus writes he will send word and have Rann launch a counter-strike into the ribs of the enemy's main strength. He thinks this second option unlikely, and the first more probable. He commends Rann's fortune, expresses his confidence that Rann will serve without fault, and signs the message 'Archamus, Second of that Name.' It is exactly what Rann expected, except for one detail. The missive is addressed to 'Fafnir.' Not My brother, or Lord Rann, or Lord Seneschal. Just Fafnir. In these last hours, despite the conventions of protocol, Archamus wished to communicate his respect and love for his brother by using his forename. It tells Rann that Archamus does not anticipate them meeting again. He looks away. 'Brother?' asks Azkaellon. Rann clears his throat. He tells the Blood Angels the content of the message, and their framing orders. They nod. It is as they expected. 'Leod Baldwin was asking for you,' says Zephon. 'I'll go to him,' says Rann. 'Take the watch.' 'Of course,' says Azkaellon. 'If they come, make your voices loud,' Rann says. 'Do not save them all for yourselves.' Azkaellon laughs. Zephon nods curtly, his scarred lips forming a shape that looks less like a small smile and more like a predator baring its teeth in a snarl. 5:xxvi Extraction Abaddon snarls the order to instruct launch as soon as his companies are secure aboard the Stormbirds. There's a fire in him, a terrible urgency, and it troubles his men as much as his ominous decision to extract from the front line. Clamped in his seat, he feels the airframe shudder, and hears the rising shriek of the engines as they climb to power- Then nothing. The vibrations cease and the engine-howl subsides. Lift failure. He suspects a mechanical fault, a technical launch-abort. The Stormbirds have been punished hard these last few weeks, with meagre ground crew provision on the surface fields. And the atmosphere is like soup, a petrochemical filth of grit and dust and scouring smoke. What is it? A clogged intake? Turbine abrasion? A seized fuel line? He feels his temper and tension rise, soaring as though to mock his grounded transport. He opens intervox to the cockpit, but only static replies. He unclasps his arrestor harness and releases the seat-clamp. His equerry Ulnok starts to unclamp too. 'Stay,' Abaddon growls to him. 'Everyone stays flight-ready.' He moves down the narrow passageway in the red gloom, head bowed to avoid the overhead gear. The warriors of First Company stay in their clamps. No one stirs, but he can taste their unease. Pulling out of the line was bad enough, but now a lift-fail? He's losing their trust. He knows it. What if it's not a mechanical fault? Sacristy Field, their extraction point, was hardly ideal. Close to the ruined zone of Hasgard Gate, it was already being shelled when their Stormbirds came in. What if the flight crew has rejected the lift as unviable? Transports are at their most vulnerable at the point of lift, exposed to surface-to-air weapons. Maybe the pilots have refused to lift into an increasingly hostile airspace? What if the enemy is already at the edge of the field, and his six companies are now caged in their transports- Abaddon cranks open the cockpit hatch. 'Explain,' is all he says. There is venom in the word. One protest, one citation of an operational objection to launch, and he'll execute them and fly the damn thing himself. 'First Captain, I cannot,' the pilot replies. His hands are off the flight controls. Abaddon can see that the Stormbird's systems are down-powered. 'The hell are you playing at?' Abaddon asks. 'When I instruct lift, I expect you to lift. Immediate return to the flagship is a priority-' 'At your command, First Captain,' says the pilot. 'And I have obeyed.' He glances at his co-pilot. Abaddon can't see their expressions behind the glare-visors of the flight gear, but he can smell the stink of fear, the- Incredulity. Abaddon leans down and peers through the tinted cockpit ports over their shoulders. 'Explain,' he says, but all the venom has gone now. 'I cannot, First Captain.' 'We didn't move.' 'We had barely raised to full launch power, First Captain.' 'Lower the ramp,' says Abaddon. 'Open the hatch.' 5:xxvii Infiltration The hatch finally opens, then another. With a series of scraping, metallic squeals, four interlocked layers of adamantine unlock and peel back, and internal shielding fizzles off. The Sigillite's Retreat is fortified like a vault. Stale air breathes out of the unlit doorway, a mix of damp stone and book-must. No one has been here for days, or even weeks. Amon leads them into the darkness. Pencil-thin beams scan them as they pass through the thick doorway, recording their bio-patterns in the entry log. There is a muffled thump as processors begin to circulate and refresh the air. Ahead of them, lighting systems alerted by movement begin to blink on. Inside, it is more capacious than the exterior suggested. The stone walls are lined with reinforcing struts of plasteel and what looks to Fo like psycurium. Stone steps spiral upward, level by level, as in the drum turret of some donjon. More lights come on: electro-flambeaux strung from the ceiling of each level, and individual glow-g

entry log. There is a muffled thump as processors begin to circulate and refresh the air. Ahead of them, lighting systems alerted by movement begin to blink on. Inside, it is more capacious than the exterior suggested. The stone walls are lined with reinforcing struts of plasteel and what looks to Fo like psycurium. Stone steps spiral upward, level by level, as in the drum turret of some donjon. More lights come on: electro-flambeaux strung from the ceiling of each level, and individual glow-globes suspended around the winding stair like bright and steadfast stars to guide the way. They go up. The second floor is lined, floor to ceiling, with bookcases, shaped to fit the curving walls. The third floor is the same, book-lined, but the stairs suddenly go the other way around the chamber. 'An unusual design,' remarks Fo. He hurries upwards, his feet not sore at all now, apparently. Amon pauses. He is sure that the winding stairs in the Retreat had always been a counter-clockwise spiral from top to bottom. 'This clock has stopped!' Fo calls out from above. On the fourth floor, Xanthus and Andromeda are watching Fo as he takes stock of the place. There are many more books, cased around the walls, and many objects and trinkets besides, set out for display: timepieces and antique scientific instruments, specimens preserved in rheumy jars, an anatomist's ecorche, the figurines of cancelled gods and redacted messiahs, a cross-sectioned nautilus shell, decks of cards and bowls of gaming pieces, wax discs and seals, the delicate skeleton of a small feline mounted on a stand. 'I expected more,' says Fo. 'There is much more,' says Xanthus. 'Many more floors. The lower levels are primarily miscellanea. But works relating to the Sigillite's primary areas of study, many in his own hand, are on the floors above.' 'Let's hope I find what I need,' Fo says sullenly (though, privately, I am finding this most engaging. The Sigillite's own manuscripts and notes?). He begins to walk up the next flight of steps, which, Amon notices, runs counter-clockwise on this floor. 'So many damn stairs,' Fo complains. 'I'm not young any more.' He stops, goes back down a few steps, and points to something he has noticed tucked in against the bookcases. 'Neither was he,' he says. It is a portable medicae unit of some sophistication, upright and set on small wheels for portability. It has an oxygen tank and mask, monitors for vital signs, a compact pharm locker, and a small defibrillator device. It has been slid out of the way, a shawl half draped across it, but it is clearly intended to be within easy reach. 'No,' says Xanthus. 'His health was often poor.' Fo nods. 'Age gets to us all,' he says. 'Well, except Him, I imagine. Unless you know how to do something about it.' 'The Sigillite did,' replies Xanthus, irritated. 'In his laboratorium, he had many devices-' 'Laboratorium?' asks Fo. He tries to make it sound casual, but he can't disguise the glint of interest in his eyes. 'Yes. He worked on many processes that-' 'And where is it?' Fo asks, hurrying on up the stairs. Amon follows him quickly. At the top of the next flight, there is another heavy blast hatch. 'Open it, Amon,' says Fo. Amon looks back at Xanthus and Andromeda on the steps behind him. 'We need to give him facilities to work in,' says Xanthus. 'Not without supervision,' Amon replies. 'Of course not,' Andromeda replies. 'I do not like this,' says Amon. 'None of us like it,' says Fo quietly. 'But there's a war, Custodian. You want that stopped, don't you? My weapon might be the only chance to do that. So, right now, we are in this together.' Amon looks at the old man. Fo recoils slightly. (I try to keep my composure, but these Custodes are dreadful creatures, and to be stared at directly by one...) He expects a list of prohibitions and restrictions, but the look alone is enough. Amon will kill him for the slightest indiscretion. Amon enters a series of codes. As before, it takes the highest level of encrypted permission to disarm the concealed auto-defences and unlock the area. The blast hatch grinds open, and lighting arrays wake up. Fo stares in through the doorway. The next floor is a workshop. It is panelled, floor, walls and ceiling, in stainless steel, and there are air-scrubbers built into the walls. On the long metal work benches, curved to fit the chamber, stand racks of surgical tools, networked cogitator units, centrifuges, gene-spinners and micro-implantation devices, cellular scanners, splicers and genome samplers. Cryo-stabilised cabinets hum beneath the benches. 'Oh, what wonderful things,' says Fo. 5:xxviii Inward There is no time to wonder at the grandeur and majesty of the Inner Sanctum as they are marched through it. Amit is too preoccupied to appreciate the scale of the spacious hallways or the magnificence of the engraved goldwork anyway. He can still taste blood in his mouth. The denial companies pass frightened citizens and courtiers pouring along the vast processionals in their thousands. Some carry a few possessions, or drag children by their hands. A few call out to the Astartes as they march by. They plead for protection. They beg the Astartes to escort them to a place of safety. 'Eyes front,' Tamos Roch instructs over the vox. 'Maintain pace.' The deeper they go into the Sanctum, the more they see other armed units taking position. Astartes squads and Excertus brigades, pulled from other sections of the Delphic, are deploying at cross-junctions and confluences, or establishing guard stations at principal hatches. Some are constructing makeshift barricades from salvaged furniture and auramite panels scavenged from walls. Amit sees support weapons being set up and locked off, and platoons mounting crewed guns on tripods. In one hallway, a squadron of Hort Palatine battle tanks has drawn up, their engines chugging. The denial companies automatically drop to double file to pass around them without missing a step. The heavy treads of the idling Carnodons have cracked the hall's tiled floor to powder. The tanks, begrimed, seem out of place in the regal hallway, though it is easily large enough to accommodate them. Did the Praetorian Dorn anticipate the need for armoured deployment inside the Sanctum when he configured the Palace layout? Amit wonders. Or is the inspiring scale of Imperial architecture simply an advantage the defenders can exploit? The outer walls and gates were robustly crafted for war, but the hallways of the Palace inside were surely constructed to convey splendour? The further he marches, the more Amit suspects Dorn had prepared for every scenario with a near-obsessive eye for detail. The Palace interiors were not obviously built for war, but in their ornate gold and sumptuous tiling Amit can discern the shrewd touch of a warrior-architect. The subtle traces are everywhere: in the way that grand hallways cross or join at imperceptibly offset angles; the way that staggered lines of statuary plinths provide perfect firing cover across entry spaces; the way that one gallery subtly tapers to create angles of fire into another; the way that upper belvederes are raked to allow enfilade onto the arcades below. Those balustrades are more than gold, he thinks; there is reactive armour under that lustre. Those piered arches overhead conceal blast doors ready to drop and seal choke points. And these grooves and notches that seem part of the sectile flooring's intricate pattern, they are shaped to take the base lugs of storm shields, so that shield walls can be locked in place in an instant to form barriers across plazas and walkways. All of these inconspicuous measures angle outwards, protecting the heart of the Sanctum. They approach the Marnix Confluence along a high upper gallery. Over the carved rail, Amit sees columns of stationary figures in the wide processional two hundred metres below. They are not military. Hooded figures and dormant servitors wait in silence beside rows and rows of bio-caskets. There are hundreds of them, each casket floating on a suspensor field. The caskets look like coffins. 'Is there a problem, brother?' Roch asks him. Amit realises he has fallen out of line and stopped to gaze at the columns below him. 'No,' he says. 'Reinforcement,' the Vexillary says, seeing what holds Amit's attention. 'For the Throne Room, should it be needed. They are holding until required.' 'They look like caskets,' Amit says. 'Coffins.' 'Very like,' Roch agrees. Roch double-steps with Amit as he resumes his place beside his marching company. 'Do I have to watch you?' Roch asks him quietly via discretional helm-to-helm vox. 'No, Vexillary,' says Amit. 'Good,' says Roch. 'I expect composure from the Ninth. The Wolves of Fenris are uncouth miscreants, but I have always thought my brothers of Baal as disciplined as my own Legion.' 'We are. Your forgiveness,' says Amit. 'Yet your outburst on the staging level,' says Roch. 'Provoked no doubt, but now you break formation-' 'It won't happen again,' Amit replies. 'Just the sight of those coffins... I have dreamed of coffins.' 'We've all been dreaming of coffins, brother,' says Roch. Amit doesn't bother explaining further. He can't convey how vivid the caskets in his fugue seemed, how significant, how much more than a dream. But that's all they were. When a man starts to tell you about his dreams, you smile patiently and nod. Dreams are just dreams. He can still taste blood in his mouth. At the Marnix Confluence, a cyclopean concourse where several mass passageways meet, they take up their assigned positions. Roch lays his five denial companies out in block formations across the vast space in front of the mouth of the Western Mass Passageway as though they are on parade. They begin their standing watch again, rigidly at attention, as perfectly composed as they were on the staging level of the Delphic. They wait. A while passes. A squadron of Knights

taste blood in his mouth. At the Marnix Confluence, a cyclopean concourse where several mass passageways meet, they take up their assigned positions. Roch lays his five denial companies out in block formations across the vast space in front of the mouth of the Western Mass Passageway as though they are on parade. They begin their standing watch again, rigidly at attention, as perfectly composed as they were on the staging level of the Delphic. They wait. A while passes. A squadron of Knights Asterius lumbers past in the distance and vanishes into the Proserpine Processional. Amit sees Hemheda leave his place at the head of Denial 774. The White Scar crosses to Roch, and the pair confer. Then Roch calls an order and repositions all five denial companies on the other side of the concourse, now facing a different direction. 'What is this?' Lamirus asks Amit. Amit voxes for clarification. Over the link, terse, Roch tells him it is a positional revision. Amit looks around, and studies the immense confluence. He notes the position of the stately Proserpine Watchtower on the far side beside the processional entrance. He notes the alignment of its gun-ports. He reads the subtle angles of the concourse itself, the tapered slant of adjoining halls, the defensive structures disguised in the regal architecture. 'We were facing the Throne Room,' he says. 'What?' asks Lamirus. 'We were facing inward, not outward,' Amit says. 'We were turned the wrong way.' 'How is that possible?' Lamirus asks. 'I don't know, brother.' 'How does a senior praetorian like Roch get the orientation reversed?' Lamirus presses. 'The Imperial Fists know the Inner Palace better-' 'I don't know,' says Amit. Roch yells a few more orders to correct their position and neaten their ranks. Amit stands in his new spot, silent, patient. Even from a distance, he can tell that the Vexillary is unsettled. 5:xxix Immolation Thane clears the line with a yelled order. He sees men leap off the parapet, chased by balling tumbleweeds of fire. He sees blackened forms slumped and twisted in the heart of the inferno. Thane moves to the right, with the veterans and the two initiates. Whipping wyrms of flame pursue them, roaring like a furnace with the door left open. This is an unforeseen event, in a day of unforeseen events, but his company has its standing orders. If the earthwork falls, they are to break apart in two formations, and then re-task to close and pincer the assault from the flanks. Every man, every prentice-brother, knows how this recomposition is supposed to work. The right-hand end of the earthwork position ends in a series of half-buried bunkers and barrage shelters. It is the only cover. Molwae and Demeny make it first, plunging headlong into the rank darkness. Thane follows, turning in the war-gnawed hatchway to haul Berendol in after him. He looks back. The entire length of the parapet is lost to cyclones of fire. Blackened Eaters slump and drape over the lip, immolating. Thane smells roasting meat-fat and melting ceramite. He sees Kolquis. The veteran-brother is five steps behind him, staggering and swaying. He is on fire from head to toe. Thane grabs for him, but the burning veteran howls, placing his burning hands against Thane's chestplate. He shoves Thane into the bunker, and slams the old blast door on him as the rest of the fire arrives. 5:xxx The hand of the False Emperor Abaddon leads the way down the nose ramp himself. The space around him is exactly what he glimpsed through the cockpit ports, but that doesn't make it any more true. It's not Sacristy Field. His Stormbird is sitting on the landing platform of an embarkation deck. It's Embarkation Deck Two. He has no doubt of that. He knows the place all too well. The space is silent. The eight Stormbirds rest on the intake stands, as though they have just set down and are cooling their engines ready for turnaround. He sees the long causeways of the launch rails, the winking guide lights, the waiting trolleys of munition canisters. He turns, slowly, and sees behind him the vast tunnel of the chamber stretching away towards the integrity fields and open space outside. Sycar and Baraxa have dismounted too. They walk towards him from their own craft, fire-teams flanking them, gazing around. 'Ezekyle-' Baraxa begins. 'Don't ask me to explain,' Abaddon replies quietly. 'I can't.' 'But we weren't even in the air-' 'I know.' 'Ezekyle, this is the Vengeful Spirit-' Abaddon looks at him. 'Stay calm and stay in control,' he says calmly. 'I can't explain this. Someone's playing games.' 'Games?' Baraxa asks, as though the understatement is funny. 'Who?' 'The enemy?' says Abaddon. 'The warp?' He shrugs, then offers a third suggestion. 'Our father?' 'What are you saying?' 'I'm saying... however or why-ever we got here, Azelas, we are clearly and urgently needed. To save our father. To save him from himself, maybe. I'm saying get the companies disembarked. Ready to move. Expect high resistance levels.' Abaddon glances around again. 'I fear the hand of the False Emperor in this,' he says. 'My instinct to return was correct. I just wish I'd acted on it sooner, for I fear we are already too late.' He looks at them. 'Shake it off,' he tells them. 'Get the companies battle-ready. Two minutes. Discipline any who lag. This is... Brothers, my heart tells me this may be the most important undertaking of our lives. So remember... control, brothers, not controlled.' They nod. They're both true to him, the only bones in the Legion he knows haven't broken. They're alarmed, just as he is alarmed, but they're not going to let that stop them. They are thrice-damned Sons of Horus, and a little warp-trick is not going to send them running. 'Our Stormbirds wore Legion colours, Ezekyle,' says Sycar. Abaddon nods. He knows that. The Legion's martial transports were all re-dressed in the new liveries before the end-war began. The Stormbirds they are exiting are all white, as white as they were in the days of the Luna Wolves. Abaddon had noticed that right away. He had chosen not to dwell on it. 5:xxxi The Martian Approaches 'I have always admired the vigour of the Sixth,' Praetor-Captain Honfler is saying as he strides along beside Sartak. 'There's much to admire,' Sartak replies. Honfler ignores the remark. 'Vigorous, indeed, the Sixth,' he goes on. 'Or should I say, the "Vlka Fenris"?' 'Fenryka. Vlka Fenryka,' says Sartak. 'Is that right?' Honfler doesn't seem to care. 'Not many of you here. On Terra. Not many of you among us.' 'A few,' agrees Sartak. 'Not many. I got unlucky.' The four denial companies are passing under the Antrurium Arch onto a processional that will join the Martian Approaches. A battalion of Eklander Excertus have set up a picket under the arch, with servitor gun-carriages in support. They look up as the Astartes companies pass by in perfect marching order, perfect except for the Fenrisian Space Wolf who turns to throw them a cheery salute. Some wave back. 'This, you see?' Honfler says. 'What? 'My point-' 'You have one?' Honfler draws Sartak off the line, and commands the units to keep their pace. 'I commend your spirit, Wolf,' Honfler tells him as the companies stride past. 'And I know your record. Impressive deeds. It's why we gave you a unit command. But you Space Wolves, you Vlka Fenryka... your comportment is woeful. It borders on insubordinate-' 'It does,' Sartak agrees. 'But impressive deeds. Let's not forget that part.' 'When we engage the traitor foe,' Honfler hisses, 'and we will, soon, I expect absolute adherence from you. Adherence to command directives. Adherence to the core principles of Astartesian duty. Can you do that, Wolf? Tell me now if you can't, and I'll have you replaced. I'm told your sergeant, Rewa Medusi of the Iron Hands, is a reliable officer.' 'He is,' replies Sartak. 'So am I. You'll get your adherence from me, praetor-captain.' 'Good,' says Honfler. 'But when we engage the traitor foe,' says Sartak, 'I expect you to keep up with me. Tell me now if you can't.' Honfler stares at him. Sartak smiles back, his fangs showing through the bristles of his plaited beard. 'I'm sure I'll manage,' says Honfler. They rejoin the march. At the end of the processional, the denial companies pass through a blast hatch onto the Martian Approaches. This thoroughfare, one of the Sanctum's principal mass passageways, is an immense space built to accommodate even the most massive war engines. The ceiling high above is lost in darkness and a micro-climate haze. The imposing scale is heightened by the fact that the tunnel is empty. Honfler calls a halt. Behind them, the Martian Approaches stretch away as far as they can see, lit by the sodium lanterns wall-mounted at intervals. But ahead, it is sealed by colossal security gates designed to block Titan engines. At the front of Denial 340, waiting in tight, ordered ranks, Sartak listens as Honfler confers with his officers. 'What's the issue?' Medusi whispers to him. 'Those gates aren't supposed to be shut,' Sartak replies. 'You can hear them?' Sartak nods. 'Honfler's been told to position us at marker eighteen,' he says. 'And that's beyond those gates. They're not supposed to be shut. Wait here.' He wanders forward to join Honfler and his officers. 'They'll be shut for a reason,' Sartak says. Honfler glances at him. 'No internal shutters or gates are supposed to be closed yet,' he says. 'The War Court has decreed that they will be kept open to allow troop deployment. They are only to be closed in the event of a breach to partition enemy advance.' 'They'll be shut for a reason,' Sartak repeats, a little more slowly. 'I want them open,' says Honfler. 'It's probably a malfunction.' 'What if it isn't?' Sartak says. The officers look at him. 'What if it's a breach?' Honfler hesitates. 'If it's a breach,' he says, 'no one knows about it. There have been no alerts. No alarms.

s. 'The War Court has decreed that they will be kept open to allow troop deployment. They are only to be closed in the event of a breach to partition enemy advance.' 'They'll be shut for a reason,' Sartak repeats, a little more slowly. 'I want them open,' says Honfler. 'It's probably a malfunction.' 'What if it isn't?' Sartak says. The officers look at him. 'What if it's a breach?' Honfler hesitates. 'If it's a breach,' he says, 'no one knows about it. There have been no alerts. No alarms. It's undoubtedly a system malfunction. We need the gates open so we can deploy to the correct position.' 'I am as anxious to meet my enemy as any man here,' says Sartak. 'But I don't want to let him in.' 'Agreed, Wolf,' says Honfler. 'But if it is a breach, and no one is aware, we need to find out.' He points at the Titan gates. There is a small postern hatch at the base of one of them. 'We'll open that hatch,' he says. 'My Iron Hands can do that,' Sartak says. Honfler nods. Sartak waves up Medusi and two of his augmeticised seniors. They advance towards the gates with Honfler and a squad of Imperial Fists. Medusi moves to the postern hatch, extending a dendritic manipulator to locate and disable the lock mechanism. 'Wait, brother,' Sartak says. He's staring up at the towering gates. 'What are you doing?' Honfler asks. 'Listening,' says Sartak. 'He's good at that,' says Medusi. 'What do you hear, Wolf?' Honfler asks. 'Darkness,' says Sartak. 5:xxxii Furnace-dream The darkness of the bunker is like an oven. Thane can feel the heat radiating through the earth embankment, the piled ballistic sacking, and the walls themselves. They can all hear the roaring incineration outside. It is not stopping. Flame-light spears through the cracks in the door frame, and heat-smoke oozes in. The door is beginning to pucker and drool. Thane gets up, and urges Berendol and the two initiates deeper. They move into the next bunker compartment, and the next, closing shutters where they can. The external heat raises a stink from old solvent stains on the rockcrete floor. They stumble on into a fourth compartment, then a fifth, finding their way in the hot darkness. They will cook in here. They will broil. If the outer door fails and the fire breaks in, their lives will end in cremation. Thane tries not to think of Kolquis, and the way he sacrificed himself to save them. He tries not to think of the burning, melting figure, still alive... He leads the way. There is a route out. There is. He personally scouted the entire layout of the position when they secured it. A sixth compartment, once used for munition storage, leads to a rockcrete junction. There, to the left, deep-set blast boxes and flak-curtained sleeping spaces. Straight on, a blast door exits into the support trenches. If they can reach it... He sees it ahead: the door, plasteel, tight shut. Thane slams into it, but it stays shut. There's no power to the lock system or the servo hinges. He smashes the lock off with his hammer, but the door still won't budge. He feels for clasps, for manual bolts, for locking clips. 'Maximus...' Berendol growls behind him. They feel the air pressure shift. The sucking, smelter-roar behind them becomes a shriek. Thane puts his hammer into the door, two-handed. It takes three blows to crack it from its frame. As it starts to swing open on buckled hinges, Thane kicks on through, the others following, heedless of what might await them on the other side. Whatever it is, it is preferable to what's coming down the throat of the compartments behind them. Thane slams the door to block it out. He hammers it four times, five, with the rapid haste of a prentice-brother, to deform its buckled shape back into place enough to hold. 'Maximus,' says Berendol. He hammers again, manic, pinching the metal of the frame so it will pin the door. 'Maximus.' Another dent across the sill to crush it into place. 'Thane!' Thane turns. He is dazzled. For a second, he thinks the Mechanicum has drenched the support trenches with bulk flamers too, torching the back line, so they have escaped from one inferno into another. But the glare is not firelight. It is golden, yellow-golden, the purest colour of fire, but not fire itself. And the trench is not a trench. 'What is this?' asks Berendol. A dream, thinks Thane. An error. A mistake. A wrong turn. A vision. He has not escaped. The flames consumed him, like they consumed Kolquis, and he is dead, and this is the furnace-dream his mind has cooked in its last seconds. A hallway, grand and magnificent. The air is cool, stirred only by circulation systems. Their feet are leaving tracks of ash and grit and filth on the gleaming mirror of the ouslite floor. The walls are burnished auramite, engraved with symbols of concordia and discordia, and soaring eagle motifs overlaying lightning bolts. Electro-flambeaux pendants hang high above them, depending from a ceiling of azure tiles. The hallway goes on forever. 'There was nowhere like this in the zone...' says Berendol. 'Nowhere,' Thane agrees. 'Did you survey the-' 'Of course I did.' 'Then how did you miss this door?' Berendol asks. 'And this bunker? Is it some-' 'It's not a bunker,' Thane says. 'Do not expect me to give you an explanation, my brother, but we are inside the Sanctum.' 5:xxxiii The asset The tower shudders slightly as something deep below them flexes in seismic discomfort. In the laboratorium's cold store units, sample flasks and vials rattle in their racks, and a sheaf of papers slides off the edge of the workstation. Basilio Fo doesn't seem to notice. Andromeda-17 watches him work. Fo has hunched his bag-of-twigs frame cross-legged in one of the high-backed work chairs. He has multiple cogitator screens open, sliding with data. He has hooked in an earpiece, through which he is listening to the data-system recite the contents of stored files, one after another. With his right hand, he is scribbling indecipherable notes on a data-slate. With his left, he is sorting through other data-slates, comparing other files, occasionally taking a glass tube out of the sample racks to give it a shake or hold it up to the light and examine its contents, or slipping another glass slide under the macroreader. 'What are you doing?' she asks. 'Quiet,' Fo replies, not looking at her (for I really can't abide interruptions when I am engrossed). Andromeda glances at Xanthus. The Chosen is standing by the spiral stairs, arms folded. Like her, he seems both mystified by, and dubious of, Fo's activities. 'You will need to keep us apprised,' Xanthus says. 'Every step of the way. Understand that this limited liberty and unusual opportunity has been arranged under the most extraordinary circumstances. We can't maintain your protection from other agencies if you keep us in the dark.' Fo plucks out the earpiece and turns his chair to face Xanthus. 'We're all going to be in the dark very soon, aren't we?' he says. 'And that darkness, when it falls, will be without end.' 'Time is certainly in short supply,' Xanthus admits. 'Oh, time's gone!' Fo scoffs, pointing a scrawny finger at the stopped chron on the wall. 'Time is a thing of the past. Let me assure you both that I am fully aware of the precarious position I am in. A political tug-of-war, with me as the rope, and all the while, the world literally burns around us. By "other agencies", I assume you mean the damn Legio Custodes?' 'To begin with,' says Xanthus. He is uncomfortable saying their name aloud. Amon is far below, guarding the Retreat's entrance, but Xanthus is aware how superhumanly sharp the ears of the Custodians can be. Fo sneers at that (they're so afraid of each other! So cautious, even now! He, the great big He, is so proud of His unified Imperium, but in truth the factions comprising it seem to have been in jurisdictional dispute since long before the actual civil war broke out). 'I am confident that the two of you will continue to protect me,' he says, 'because I think the two of you have begun to realise how important I, the reviled and abhorred monster, have suddenly become to the survival of the human race.' 5:xxxiv The judgement of Vulkan At Vulkan's signal, the supplicants are escorted from the Throne Room. The primarch watches as they are led away, until they are mere specks at the end of the nave, approaching the Silver Door. 'What actions will you take, my lord?' asks Hassan of the Chosen, who has stayed back. 'What actions can I take, Chosen One?' Vulkan replies. 'Our hands are tied. We have critical duties to carry out, and we cannot be distracted by-' 'But they spoke with conviction,' says Hassan. 'The men, Grammaticus and Persson, they were credible. And this talk of a newborn power, of Lupercal's ascendancy-' 'May just be talk,' says Vulkan. 'And if it is not, then it is a matter beyond my knowledge. We are prosecuting this war, above and below, with every means at our disposal. I do not know how we prosecute a threat that is not yet manifest.' Kaeria Casryn of the Sisterhood, who is also attending him, steps directly in front of him to emphasise her presence. It is an oddly confrontational habit common among nulls, who are so easily overlooked if they stray out of eyeline. Vulkan remembers that Krole used to do the same. Such matters are the purview of our lord the Emperor and the Sigillite alone, she signs in thoughtmark. They left you no instruction? 'No,' says Vulkan. 'And now neither can be consulted. But clearly, they knew of it, at least in part. Lacking direct instruction from them, I can only continue with the orders they issued me. We must presume that what we are doing, to some extent, will guard against this outcome as well.' If it is real, Casryn signs. You think it not? Vulkan signs back deftly. I think the supplicants admitted only a fraction of the truth they know, she replies, her hands quick. I think they withheld. I think they have agend

an. 'And now neither can be consulted. But clearly, they knew of it, at least in part. Lacking direct instruction from them, I can only continue with the orders they issued me. We must presume that what we are doing, to some extent, will guard against this outcome as well.' If it is real, Casryn signs. You think it not? Vulkan signs back deftly. I think the supplicants admitted only a fraction of the truth they know, she replies, her hands quick. I think they withheld. I think they have agendas they did not dare speak of. Vulkan nods. I do not trust them, she adds. The witch especially. 'Agreed,' says Vulkan. 'Then... what would you have me do with them, lord?' Hassan asks. Silence them, signs Casryn. 'Surely not,' says Hassan. In an hour of ultimate danger, they are one potential threat we can do without, she shapes. Silence them. Hassan looks at Vulkan. 'I will not commit murder on behalf of the Imperium,' says Vulkan. 'Especially without evidence of actual crime. The fact that they are an unknown quantity, and we are made uncomfortable by them, is not sufficient.' He turns to Hassan. 'Go have the Sentinels secure them, Chosen One,' he says. 'In the Antirooms?' asks Hassan. 'Preferably,' says Vulkan, 'if Companion Raja deems that facility safe enough. If not, the Dark Cells. Your discretion, Hassan. Whatever you choose, the members of that party must be prevented from any further participation, for the duration of this war.' 'Yes, my lord.' 'I err on the side of the good Sister's instincts,' says Vulkan, casting a glance at Casryn. 'Those people are dangerous, in ways we cannot yet fathom. They will be denied liberty and agency until this crisis is over and we can evaluate them properly.' Hassan hesitates, then makes the sign of the aquila, and strides away after the departing procession. Vulkan sighs, and turns. He begins to walk the length of the great chamber towards the painful light of the Throne. Casryn walks at his side, a ghost in his peripheral vision. 'You think me too merciful?' he asks. Not my place to comment on your decisions, lord, she signs. Vulkan nods. He expected nothing else. Malcador has submitted to the Throne. His father and his brother primarchs are gone and may never return. All decisions, the making of which might save or doom the human race, are now his alone. No one else is going to do it. 5:xxxv When all we have left is our faith in monsters I appreciate the web I'm caught in, Chosen One,' says Fo (more than you can begin to realise). 'I am an asset, but also a notorious and condemned criminal. I am deemed a pernicious threat to your Imperial ideology. But my weapon could end this nightmarish war by eradicating the Astartesian genetic line. And the Custodes... I beg your pardon, the other agency... would welcome that, for the Imperium would be preserved, and so too His life. So they want me locked up for their exclusive use, along with anything I invent for them.' 'Old man-' Andromeda begins. Fo turns to look at her. 'On the other hand,' he says, 'other agencies at the highest level of the Imperium would not look kindly on the eradication of the sons and grandsons of the Emperor. It is an extreme solution, swingeing in effect. Furthermore, it would unbalance the power structure, and place far too much influence in the hands of the already overpowered Custodes. So Malcador's Chosen' - he glances at Xanthus - 'another entirely unelected and unofficial other agency, is attempting to block the Custodes' exclusive control of me. And this is no mean feat, because the Custodians are physically and psychologically stronger than just about anything, and you can't trick them. So the Chosen, unilaterally, and in extremis, have called upon the services of... What should I call you, girl?' He looks back at Andromeda. She makes no response. 'An independent contractor of the Selenar,' Fo says sardonically, 'to help circumvent the Custodes. You can't rendition me directly, not from their keeping, and especially not at a time like this, a phrase that I'm finding qualifies just about everything we say-' 'Fo-' says Andromeda. 'Anyway,' says Fo, 'the intrigue you're conducting is torturous. You can't take me from the Custodes, because you don't have the authority, but you can persuade that brute Amon to go along with the idea that the weapon I have made requires urgent revision and refinement. This coup de force could only be achieved by having your' - he grins again at Andromeda - 'independent contractor of the Selenar use her formidable talent for non-linear ethical reasoning to convince the Custodian that he wasn't disobeying his duties, but rather performing them in an even more exact fashion. Make him think that he would be derelict not to assist you. To pull that off, and maintain the subterfuge to its natural conclusion, at which point I would be in your pocket rather than Valdor's, you had to bring me here and make it appear that I was busy fixing something that didn't really need to be fixed, which is apparently a wholesale waste of time.' Fo fixes them both with a chilling smile. 'An accurate summary?' he asks (knowing full well it's at least half-right. I just want to survive. I need to keep them all at bay). 'I assure you that I'm happy to make myself look busy in order to pull off the deception.' 'Your assessment of this situation is of no interest,' says Andromeda. 'And your attempts to manipulate us by appearing compliant are pointless. We are not your friends, Fo. The genocides you committed before Unification will never be forgiven.' Fo's smile turns into a scowl. 'We are only interested in the weapon and its effective function,' says Xanthus. 'I see,' says Fo. 'And you're deflecting about the fix not being necessary,' says Andromeda. 'Am I, Selenar?' says Fo. 'You have a tell,' she says. 'And what might that be?' 'If I tell you it won't be a tell any more, now, will it?' she says. 'I imagine not,' Fo says. 'For the record, I'm sure it's my habit of over-engineering every explanation. I do it to distract from the fact that my mind is occupied elsewhere. In this case, on the redevelopment of the weapon.' 'That's just more deflection,' says Andromeda. 'However, your perusal of the Sigillite's private materials is rather too eager and hungry. Hence my original question. What are you doing?' Fo hesitates. (I don't like either of them. They're both too cunning.) 'Well, gene-witch,' he says, 'at the risk of further explanatory over-engineering, it would appear that the lie you spun to get me here is not a lie after all.' 'The weapon doesn't work?' Andromeda asks. 'Oh, it works,' says Fo. 'But I could build a better one.' 5:xxxvi If the enemy awaits 'You can't hear darkness, Wolf,' says Praetor-Captain Honfler. 'No,' Sartak agrees. 'No, I cannot. But there is an emptiness beyond these gates. A silence, with nothing in it.' 'Open it,' Honfler says to the Iron Hands warriors. 'I would not, brother-captain,' Sartak says. Honfler looks at him. The fact that the Space Wolf is suddenly showing respect, and in earnest, bothers him more than any previous insolence Sartak has displayed. 'You were so eager to meet the foe, Wolf,' Honfler says, 'you all but disregarded my direct commands so you could get at them. Now you balk?' A little flash of anger crosses Sartak's face. He bites it back. 'The Great Angel closed the gate,' he growls. 'I will not have the skjalds sing of Odi Sartak as the fool who opened another.' Honfler nods. 'If the enemy awaits, we need to know. If they're inside...' He looks at his equerry. 'Anything from the Hegemon? Any tactical intel?' 'No response, sir. Vox is down again.' Honfler looks up at the towering curtain of the engine gates. 'We need to know,' he says. 'My call. I'll go.' 'Praetor-captain-' 'Four companies can hold a postern hatch,' Honfler says, 'at least long enough to raise the alarm. We have to know. Open it, Medusi.' The Iron Hands sergeant turns to the lock and begins to dismantle it. Honfler's officers form a bracket formation behind him, bolters raised. Honfler draws his blade and his bolt pistol. Sartak is beside him. 'What are you doing?' Honfler asks. 'Going with you,' Sartak replies, as though it's obvious. 'Ready the companies for repulse in case this turns to shit,' Honfler says. 'Medusi can do that,' says Sartak. 'He's a reliable officer. I'm going with you, son-of-Dorn.' 'More disobedience?' 'Of the best kind,' replies Sartak. 'Wolf-' 'I may have misunderstood your use of the word "adherence",' says Sartak. The postern hatch unlocks with a clunk. Medusi hauls it open. It is half a metre thick. Darkness beckons. Honfler steps through. Sartak follows him. There is nothing on the other side except a sense of invisible space. The blackness is so deep their enhanced optics and transhuman eyes can barely see more than a few metres. 'Power failure,' says Honfler softly. 'That would explain why the engine gates shut. Automatic lockdown-' 'Shhh,' Sartak hisses. Though he can't see it, he can sense that the space around them is vast. The Martian Approaches are vast, but this feels bigger still. He glances back. He sees Rewa Medusi framed in the oblong slab of light of the open postern, bolter ready. Sartak flashes quick hortcode commands. 'A breeze...' he murmurs to Honfler. 'Air-circ venting-' 'Either the power has failed or it hasn't.' He sniffs. The air seems fresh. No, it's thick with traces of wet soil, chemical-burn, dust, fyceline, smoke. It's cold. But it's not the dank, re-filtered over-recycled air of the Sanctum's sealed micro-climate. He squats, and feels the invisible ground. Not rockcrete. Not the heavy-grade surfacing of the Martian Approaches built to take the step of war machines. It's earth. Wet, gritty earth. Somehow- 'The enemy hasn't breached,' he whispers. 'The enemy is not inside. We're outside.' 'Outside? Of what?' asks Honfler. 'The Sanctum,'

ick with traces of wet soil, chemical-burn, dust, fyceline, smoke. It's cold. But it's not the dank, re-filtered over-recycled air of the Sanctum's sealed micro-climate. He squats, and feels the invisible ground. Not rockcrete. Not the heavy-grade surfacing of the Martian Approaches built to take the step of war machines. It's earth. Wet, gritty earth. Somehow- 'The enemy hasn't breached,' he whispers. 'The enemy is not inside. We're outside.' 'Outside? Of what?' asks Honfler. 'The Sanctum,' whispers Sartak. 5:xxxvii Doom manifest Abidemi approaches them from the direction of the Throne. The urgent pace of his trusted lieutenant's stride fills Vulkan with concern. 'My Lord of Drakes,' says Abidemi with a quick nod. 'The adepts of the Concillium wish you to know that they are seeing a sudden, massive spike in immaterial dynamics.' 'Meaning?' 'Perhaps...' The Draaksward hesitates. 'A new event, an anomaly... a new focus of empyric energy.' 'Where?' Vulkan asks. 'Within the webway?' Abidemi shrugs. 'Or on Terra, or perhaps the traitor fleet. It seems to be everywhere.' Is this just the next stage of the crisis? Casryn signs. The world is being drowned in the warp, Draaksward. Levels of immaterial activity are bound to increase incrementally as- 'No,' says Abidemi. 'I do not understand the art of it, but they tell me this is a particular event, as though a vast concentration of immaterial power has broken free or ignited.' 'How vast?' Vulkan asks. 'The adepts tell me their instruments are not calibrated high enough to measure it.' Vulkan starts to stride towards the Throne. He is no longer walking. The other two move with him. 'Explanation?' Vulkan asks as he moves. 'None, my lord,' Abidemi replies. Perhaps the manifestation of this Dark King? Casryn signs. Vulkan ignores her. 'An explanation is beside the point,' says the Draaksward. 'The event is destabilising the Throne. Whatever control the Sigillite has left, it is insufficient. The Regent is burning out. His control is slipping, and he is about to perish entirely. When that happens...' He doesn't finish. He doesn't have to. Vulkan knows exactly what will happen then. 5:xxxviii Wonder It is impossible to behold the Emperor any more. There is light everywhere, a light so fierce it has erased all shadows. The flagship around them is almost lost in a white and painful glare of absolute brilliance. Like the shock-flash of an atomic weapon, it cremates and evaporates the daemonic storm besieging them. But the flash does not subside. It is not a blink of detonation. It lasts, permanent and harsh. Proconsul Caecaltus can feel the heat of it at his back. He feels himself broiling inside his Aquilon armour, and his armour superheating. He feels as though he is standing beside a newborn supernova. How glorious... Caecaltus cannot look at his master. He couldn't even if he wanted to. His King-of-Ages is keeping Caecaltus turned away by force of will. Through His investment in them, He is keeping the gaze of all the Companions averted. If we look, one glimpse of that glory would melt our eyes. If we behold it, even for a nanosecond, it would burn our brains. I can feel the light inside me, scouring my flesh and bones, my very cells, like an inferno. My blood is steam. My armour is molten. If He lets us look at Him, we will die. But oh my king, for just one split-second glimpse of your wonder, it would be worth it. 5:xxxix A last glimpse Oh. Oh, I- Nhhh- You think- You think you're a god, first-found? Let me tell you... Mnnhh! Your father... your father has worn many aspects in his life, each one to suit the purpose at hand. He wears a new one now, bright and steadfast as a star. He will be what you need him to be. He will show you the face you need to see to stop you in your tracks and beg for mercy. You think you're becoming a god? Let him show you what true power looks like. Look. Look! Gnnh. You see it? I wish I could. I can't. Not any more. My time has come now. My end. My vision is fading fast, my mindsight burned out. I try to hold on, but my will is spent. The visions that you, Horus Lupercal, in your cruelty, share with me, bleach away and vanish, diffused into a blinding white glare that is too bright to look at. I think that light is him. I think it is my friend, the Emperor, more empowered than he has ever been, so brilliant that the light of him burns through my skull, star-bright. But perhaps it is you, Horus. Perhaps evil manifest is also too bright to behold. But I cannot be sure. It's too bright to see. I cannot see anything- I cannot- I'm sorry. I'm sorry, my old friend. I tried my best. I did all I could- My end is here and I cannot- 5:xl Steadfast Death is upon them now, sooner than he wished, faster than he dreaded. The best of Terra, the brightest and mightiest ever to wear the emblems of humanity, are done. Forty-three seconds were the best they could do before the Lupercal's wrath dragged them down into the oblivion of the pit and consumed them utterly. Constantin rages at this as he falls. He screams with indignation and wounded pride. He was determined they would be the ones who would prevail. They would be the ones to claim the victory. He, and his men, would show the bastard traitor how war was truly fought. But no. Forty-three seconds. That's all they could manage. Them, the greatest champions in the Emperor's host. Forty-three paltry seconds- Forty-four. He sees a light ignite. He is on his knees, thrown down by the peristaltic convulsions of the glistening ground. He thinks it's a flare at first. A distress flare fired by one of his company, or the slow fusion-burn of a dying Adrathic. It is not. It is singular and constant. A point of light, far away, but white-hot, rising like a star. The light bathes them. It illuminates the belly of the pit like a frosty twilight, and throws out long shadows. It makes the wet meat of the ground gleam, and reflects in the pools of blood and bile. Constantin struggles to his feet. The laughter has subsided, the singing too, chased into the clefts and folds of the pit and wherever else the suffocating darkness has fled to. He sees the landscape for what it is, a swollen canyon of pestilential flesh, glittering with mucus, throbbing with an angry, intestinal pulse, littered with the miserable, broken remains of his dead. He sees where the flesh of the place is riveted like deck plates, and where rusted bulkhead staples - massive things used in emergency hull repairs - are holding torn panels of stomach lining and brawn together as walls. He concentrates on the light. It glows like a full snow moon, silver-bright, very distant. It hangs over the nearby cliffs of diseased flesh, visible through the forking branches of exposed ribs and stretched shrouds of fat, like a single bright and steadfast star rising on a clear night, seen through trees from a forest glade. He can feel the light too, in his heart, in his soul. He can feel the trace of mindsight in it, reaching out, searching, seeking. The trace is weak, not enough to fill him and harness him so he becomes part of it, but enough for him to taste and recognise, enough to wash, like cool, clear water, the sticky darkness out of his eyes and mouth and brain, and renew a spark of hope. Enough to help him stand. Enough to let him know. Enough to guide him. 'It's Him,' he whispers, but his neuro-synergetics, refreshed and renewed, tell him his words are pointless. His surviving Companions know it too. They, like him, have risen to gaze at the light. Constantin starts forward at once. The others follow him. They crunch across glittering rimes of dried blood and shivering creases of skin and sinew. The gloom is nocturnal and the air still turbid, but they can see the light, clear and true, a sizzling star of great magnitude and clarity. They have it fixed. They have it to guide them. There will be greater torment ahead, no doubt, but they have a path to follow at last. They start to run. They are forty-five seconds into the fight. 5:xli Dawn He wipes red dust off what remains of his blade, and resumes his work. 'I am Rogal Dorn,' he says. He clears the dust from his throat. He picks up where he left off, perhaps hours or centuries earlier. 'Long ago, a philosopher and sometime remembrancer proposed a framework for the conduct of war, suggesting that war was permissible if it resulted in secure peace. But this was compromised by the notion that war could be divided into just war, which was that waged against outsiders, and unjust, which was war waged upon one's own people. This distinction remains. War to suppress or annihilate an outside threat, that which is xenos, is judged as justified as a means of security. Civil war is regarded as unjust and an abomination. Not all blood is the same.' The sounds of war grow louder. The wall vibrates slightly, sifting red dust down onto his working hands. His hands are blood red. He ignores it. He steps back to examine his latest diagram. Out of the wall's shadow, the sunlight is hard and strong. He looks up and sees, for the first time in a century or two, for the first time since he arrived, however that happened, that there is a sun in the sky. Everything is blood red - the wall, the desert, the sky, the dust - but there is a sun now. It is more of a star, in truth. A single, steadfast star. It is small, white, bright, fierce. It is the only thing the sky has done in the whole time he has been here, except change colour. He closes his eyes and feels the light and heat on his skin. He basks, for a second. Just give in. He goes back in under the shadow of the red wall, and returns to his work. His worn-away nub of sword scritches new lines of escape and defence. He resumes his recitation. 'A later philosopher formulated the principal criteria that serve as the foundation for warfare in civilised societies. There are two - just cause

ing the sky has done in the whole time he has been here, except change colour. He closes his eyes and feels the light and heat on his skin. He basks, for a second. Just give in. He goes back in under the shadow of the red wall, and returns to his work. His worn-away nub of sword scritches new lines of escape and defence. He resumes his recitation. 'A later philosopher formulated the principal criteria that serve as the foundation for warfare in civilised societies. There are two - just cause and formal authority. Only a king or an emperor can declare war, and then only if it has legal justification, such as the protection of a culture. It is otherwise illegal and forbidden, even for gods.' The noise of war on the other side of the wall becomes a palpable roar. Give in. Give up. Let go. Just say it. Blood for the Blood God. 'There are no gods,' says Rogal Dorn. He leans close to the wall, his mouth almost touching it. 'Not even you,' he whispers. 5:xlii The tip of the spear His vision melts into burning white. All he sees is a tunnelled disc of light, white-hot, like a distant, baleful star. He hears screaming. For a second, there is stillness: upturned and stretched upon the enemy mass, head back, he almost lets go to the pain and allows it to swallow him. But the star, small and pure white, shines at him out of the blood-black darkness, solitary, bright, steadfast, unblinking. In the blackness, he hears screaming. The screaming is coming from him. He is screaming at himself to remember who he is. Sanguinius. He flexes his entire frame, and breaks the mob's grip upon him. He crashes awkwardly to the bloody deck, and the reeling enemies surge onto him. Sanguinius. He endures their frenzied blows. He has one foot planted. Sanguinius. He rises. He rises with such inhuman force, fully plated Astartes are thrown into the air and tumble off him. Yelling in rage, he slays, without mercy or pause, those foolish enough to remain near, or those too slow to drag themselves back. Blood trails arc from his sword-blade and spear-tip. He springs forward, wings out to lift him, and swoops low over the heads of two Justaerin brutes who sprawl, lacerated, in his slipstream. He evades the chasing shots of a Catulan trio, spears one to a pillar, disembowels the second with a twisting slice, and crushes the third Reaver under his feet. He strides away from the mangled smear, tracking gore behind him, strikes another Justaerin to the ground, and skewers a Cthonic Heavy. He is now on the far side of the Great Atrium, facing the sealed inner hatches: forward access, command levels, cut off by great interlocked doors of black adamantine. Stray shots strike the peppered wall around them, and spark off the hatches. Sanguinius glances back. The atrium is pure, hellish turmoil, veiled in smoke, like a section of the Palatine war scooped out and locked in a box for display. He turns to the hatch. The activators are locked off, and thrusting the burning blade of Encarmine into their sparking guts does not release them. He shreds out the power instead, cutting all the feed trunking in crackling cascades of voltaic sparks. He sheathes Encarmine, and faces the doors. He cannot prise them apart. His fingertips can find no grip in the nearly seamless join. He gasps in effort and frustration. Is Maheldaron close by? Krystapheros? Anyone with remaining breaching charges? There's no time. If Horus realises his brother is this close, he may choose to flee, to regroup, to mutate the clean ending of this conflict into some clumsy, drawn-out farce. Sanguinius takes up the Spear of Telesto, and slides the slim, perfect tip into the join. He puts his weight into it, and wedges the spear-tip's elongated teardrop deeper, deforming the seam, grinding bright silver splinters and ringlets of shaved metal from the black doors. When the spear is as deep as it will go, as deep as the blood-drop hollow, he flexes his grip around the auramite haft and unleashes its power. The blast is a flare of lambent blue light that shudders the haft in his hands. The join around the blade is scorched, and drips molten rivulets. He looses the power again, and the hatches shiver. The join has parted, forced open by the compressed fury of the burst. Now he has it. He jams the spear in deeper, and hauls upon it, using it as a lever to drag the doors apart. They are thick, thirty centimetres deep. He yells out in effort as he drives every part of his primarch strength into the spear, feet planted, back stretching, arms locking. The spear's haft begins to bend slightly under tension. Veins bulge in his neck and temple. Torsion flexes the wound in his side, making it weep again. The pain spurs him. He leans into it and exerts more force. Slowly, very slowly, the huge doors begin to scrape open. As soon as he has levered enough of a gap, he pulls the spear out and plants it, tip down, in the deck. Its perfect form shows no sign of bend or distortion. He squeezes sideways into the gap, and begins to force it wider, pushing one side with his hands, the other with his shoulder, teeth gritted, shaking. Some traitors have seen his effort and his violation. Squads break from the battle and move towards him, firing their weapons. Bolt-rounds detonate against the hatch around him. One misses his face by millimetres and passes clean through the narrow opening. A Horusian Terminator, advancing at a rapid stride, begins to hose at him with its flamer mount. Krystaph Krystapheros cuts the Terminator down. He rushes to his lord's aid. Sarodon Sacre joins him, and Dytal Maegius. Then Ikasati too. They sweep into the traitors advancing on Sanguinius, and kill them, and then form a ragged ring to fend off any further assault. Their bolters start to thunder as more Sons of Horus break from the fight and come charging out of the wreathing smog. Krystapheros, first to his side, grabs the edge of one door and starts to drag at it as Sanguinius shakes in his effort to force them apart. Then heavy fire comes. The limping, thumping mass of a XVI Legion Dreadnought, which has already claimed far too many Blood Angels this day, looms through the curtains of flame that drape the atrium. Its assault cannons roar their rotary drone. Shots stipple the deck, cracking plasteel. Dytal Maegius spins aside, one leg shredded. Cannon fire stitches the black hatches, stinging off the metal. It catches Krystapheros as he heaves, and blows the upper half of him apart in a blizzard of bloody, shredding tissue. Pieces of pinging red ceramite catch Sanguinius across the cheek, and blood spatters him. Krystapheros' atomised remains plaster the left-hand hatch, gore sliding down its black surface, some matted with hair. The Angel leaps out of the gap, plucks Telesto from the deck, and hurls it like a spear-fisher before the Dreadnought can take any more of his sons' lives. At thirty metres, the spear impales the striding brute dead centre, and blows it apart in a leaping cataclysm of flame and metal. Sanguinius looks back at the hatch. The gap is wide enough to pass through, but not wide enough for any mass assault. Whatever awaits on the far side will easily pick off any force that comes through one at a time. Unless whatever awaits is already occupied. He runs for the hatch. 'Widen this!' he yells to Sacre and Ikasati. 'Blow it down if you can!' 'My lord!' Sacre yells. 'Do it! Secure this breach and hold it!' Then he is through. Through into deep and clammy darkness. The sound of the conflict behind him is muffled. A long bar of light tracks into the gloom from the gap between the doors. He hears something call his name. He draws his sword, moving out of the light. What's here? What's next? Who's here? Something detonates outside the hatch. The force, channelled through the gap, knocks him to his knees. When he rises, the darkness is complete. There is no gap. The doors are firmly interlocked again. He traces the seam. How have they closed? He had cut the power to them. No lateral force from a blast could have slammed them shut. He can hear nothing from outside. The seam is tight, and he no longer has his lever to prise it apart. Something sighs in the cold darkness. He spins around, sword ready. A fidget. The hint of movement somewhere. A whisper of voices. Lipless mouths wheezing something, but he can't tell what. He steps forward slowly. If he has to fight alone, he will. Perhaps that's how this should end. Perhaps how this is supposed to end. 5:xliii Fragments (a world turned inside out) The walls still stand, but there are no longer any walls. The gates remained locked, but there are no longer any locks. Matter no longer matters. For the warp is inevitable. What it has transmuted outside the final fortress, it now transmutes within. The four sturdy dimensions of the world are maimed and mangled, and in their place other dimensions unfurl their properties, mocking sense and deriding logic with their alien breadths and endless measures. There is no limit to the number of these dimensions, for the immaterium has no definition that the human mind can comprehend. The Golden Throne was an anchor to keep the warp in check, a linchpin to secure stability at the heart of the final fortress. But Malcador's will is overcome and the Throne burns, out of control. Thus the four dimensions are usurped and the new travesties take their place. Inside, outside, up, down, near, far... all become casualties of the war. Sense and understanding perish. Meaning is lost, or becomes un-meaning, for such is the horrifying mystery of the naked warp. See now the madness of Horus Lupercal's ascendancy. Come see, now, the triumph of the False Four, and hear the laughter of dark gods and kings. One small and steadfast star cannot burn bright enough to pierce the darkness now descending. 'The enceinte of the Sanctum is six kilometres away,' says Honfler. 'Six, Wolf! We cannot be outside.' 'I know

asualties of the war. Sense and understanding perish. Meaning is lost, or becomes un-meaning, for such is the horrifying mystery of the naked warp. See now the madness of Horus Lupercal's ascendancy. Come see, now, the triumph of the False Four, and hear the laughter of dark gods and kings. One small and steadfast star cannot burn bright enough to pierce the darkness now descending. 'The enceinte of the Sanctum is six kilometres away,' says Honfler. 'Six, Wolf! We cannot be outside.' 'I know,' Sartak whispers. 'But the world has decided to make fools of us both. Walk back to the postern hatch with me, brother. We close it, we bar it. We send word to the Hegemon. We tell them.' 'Tell them what? That you have lost your mind, and I have lost mine for believing you?' 'No,' says Sartak. 'We tell them there is no Sanctum any more.' They can barely see each other. They can barely see the oblong of light where Rewa Medusi stands. The blackness is so thick it feels as though they are blind. Honfler grips Sartak's arm. 'Sartak?' 'Brother?' 'You still have your axe?' 'I do.' 'Are you ready, Wolf?' 'For what, praetor-captain?' 'Impressive deeds, brother,' says Honfler. 'If we are outside, we are not outside alone.' Water drips. Agathe runs her hand along a wall. It is stone, dense and almost warm, and not - she shudders at the memory - anything organic. She wonders what kind of heat produced this level of carbon scorching. Everything is so black. But where she touches the stone, no soot comes away on her hands. Captain Mikhail approaches, leading one of the clearance squads. 'Secure on that side,' he reports. 'We're just finishing up.' 'Good,' she says. 'Once we can confirm security, we can bring the wounded in, cache our supplies. I want firing points set up at all outer windows and window slits. Can we get on the roof?' 'I...' he begins. He looks reluctant. 'What?' 'Yes, to what you said. Yes, we can get on the roof, I think. I was just going to say, I think I know what this place is.' 'Indeed? Enlighten me. It seems so familiar.' 'I didn't recognise it from the outside,' says Mikhail. 'Because I never saw it from the outside. But inside...' 'And?' 'It's a prison,' says Phikes, with a sneer. He points. 'Along that side there, those look like cells to me. Don't you think? Naturally, he'd recognise it.' 'Shut up, Phikes,' says Agathe. She looks at Mikhail. 'Is it?' Mikhail nods. 'I was here for a week, before I was transferred to Gallowhill. A lot of my lads were. It's a prison. The prison.' Agathe frowns at him, curious. 'Blackstone,' he says. 'Well, it can't be,' she says, but as soon as he says it she realises that is exactly what the place reminded her of. The notorious Blackstone, the Palatine's primary penitentiary. 'I think it is, mam,' says Mikhail. One of his men nods. 'Absolutely not,' she replies, without conviction. Mikhail's trooper, a man known only as Choke, for all of the 403rd are still sticking to forenames, pet names or serials, pulls out his trench spade. He scrapes a gouge in the wall with the bare-metal edge. Soot flecks off, but it's not soot. Under the black there is more black. Black stone. This isn't fire damage at all. 'See?' says Choke. 'Mam?' he adds. She does. It doesn't make sense. 'It's a prison,' she says, 'I'll grant you. But it's not the Blackstone. It can't be.' 'I think it is,' says Mikhail. It's not a contradiction. He's not trying to argue. 'No one gives a toss for your opinion,' says Phikes. 'Phikes,' she says, 'go check on the other teams. See how they're doing.' The adjutant looks at her. He brushes the front of his Vesperi uniform jacket, throws a quick salute, and wanders off. Agathe looks back at Mikhail and his crew. 'It must be another prison,' she says. 'Made of black stone, mam?' he asks. 'Why not? It's clearly a strong building material. Whoever planned the Palace's penal institutions may have had a thing for it. It's a prison, but it's not the Blackstone.' 'I thought the Blackstone was unique,' says Choke. 'It had a reputation because there wasn't another gaol like it...' 'Yeah,' says another. 'The stone, this black stuff, it was shipped in from off-world. That's what I heard...' 'It can't be the Blackstone,' she says, cutting them short. 'I... I won't let it be the Blackstone.' 'What do you mean?' asks Mikhail. 'The Blackstone prison is situated beside the Hegemon in the Sanctum,' she says. 'If this is the Blackstone, then we're somehow over a hundred and sixty kilometres away from where we ought to be, and the final fortress is gone.' The convict-troopers know this, she realises. They understand it. They don't want it to be true either. Phikes reappears. There's something wrong with him. He's running, and he normally prefers to strut, chest out. 'What?' she asks. 'You'd better come, mam,' he says. She's never heard alarm like this in his voice before, despite all they've been through. 'You... you'd better come.' Adophel brings word that the tide of Death Guard is re-massing, and that its vanguard of wallbreakers has already commenced a second ascent of the cliffs. The Dark Angels hasten to the bulwarks. Behind the mask of his potent identity, Zahariel balances his wits and steels the erosive, persuasive power of his mind. Corswain doubts still, but he cannot deny the power of Cypher to unite his weary men. A victory will banish all misgivings and cement the true Order and Spirit of Caliban within the First Legion for all time. They will be as one, and even the pride of the Lion will not be able to tear them apart. But what, he wonders, is the value of any victory here? The Palace of Terra may be about to fall. It may have fallen already. And if it has, what little purpose lies in their desperate travails on this cold mountainside? The taste of blood lingers in his mouth. Amit no longer feels that it is the residue of some remembered dream. It feels like the promise of a dream he is yet to have. It tells him that he dares not sleep again. Not ever. He does not want that dream to find him. The Marnix Confluence is quiet. The denial companies stand in place. Everything is motionless, except for Vexillary Roch, who paces the edge of the concourse in front of them, sword in hand. 'He should rest,' Lamirus says on discretional. 'Steady his focus. Clear his head. We'll need all our wits soon enough.' 'Agreed,' Amit replies. 'You should too, Lamirus,' he adds after a moment. 'You and all the company. While we stand and wait, take the moment to fugue and settle your mind.' 'I would prefer not, brother,' the sergeant replies. 'On the wall, I tried to rest, but-' 'But?' 'I had dreams. We all did. They were not soothing.' Amit turns his head to look at him. 'What dreams, brother?' 'I dreamt of our Angel lord,' Lamirus replies quietly, keeping his gaze fixed forward. 'All of the men dreamt the same. Our lord was lost, I think. He was in pain too. It was so real, I felt it myself.' Amit hesitates. 'Were there coffins, brother?' he asks. Now Lamirus glances at him. 'Coffins, yes. Caskets of stone. There were eighteen of them at least. It was hard to see. There was, I think, a candle, or some single source of light, but it was not bright enough to penetrate the dark. Did you dream this too?' 'Yes,' says Amit reluctantly. 'Tell me what else you saw.' 'First, there was a chamber,' Lamirus says. 'The chamber was large...' The chamber is large. He remembers, from his time aboard, that this is an entry vault to the command areas, noble and pillared. Sanguinius remembers the layout perfectly. Ahead, perhaps fifty metres, there will be access to the bridge approaches, to the command bridge itself, the shipmaster's chamber, the Navigator's annex, forward gunnery and principal auspex. The primary compartments. Horus kept private quarters here. Rumours - or was it dreams? - have told him that those quarters have become some deranged court, a little throne room to obsequiously glorify the Warmaster. He's close. And so is the end. The darkness is heavy, like moonless night. The air has a sepulchral chill. It doesn't feel like processed shipboard air. It feels cold and natural, like a winter's night on some lonely, planet-side retreat. Another step. The air smells of dust, of mould, the cold decay of the grave. In the gloom, he sees the way the walls and pillars have stained and decayed, like some untended temple left in the custody of the wind and rain for a thousand years. The deck plates underfoot have corroded, and they flake rust as he walks. Where is the Warmaster's glory now? A ship run down to dereliction, worn out and unmaintained, a space-borne hulk of its former self. Water drips somewhere. The dripping makes it sound as though the walls are breathing. It is very dark in the chamber, like being outdoors at midnight on the bleak tracts of Inwit, or the haunted ever-forests of Fenris. Darkness, almost sickly black, strobes slightly, flickering through leaves swayed by the wind. Or something like leaves. He ignores such trickery. He can hear the whispering again, like dead leaves skittering in the breeze or shushing underfoot. Like the dry wing-cases of beetles. Like whirring moths- What is it they are whispering? Sanguinius doesn't care. He continues forward, Encarmine ready to strike at a heartbeat. For a second, he thinks he sees something. A shape. A figure. He moves forward, his focus sharp. Again, a hint of movement. A glimpse of something up ahead. The shadow of a figure, hunched in full plate. Too big for an Astartes warrior. Too big for a primarch either, at least any still living. He moves towards it, blade up, but it is no longer there. He senses it to his left, turns, and catches sight of it again for a second before it is gone. A game? Is his brother toying with him, trying to wear him down and scrape his wits? That won't work, not after all he has done to get here. Or is his prey trying to e

ement. A glimpse of something up ahead. The shadow of a figure, hunched in full plate. Too big for an Astartes warrior. Too big for a primarch either, at least any still living. He moves towards it, blade up, but it is no longer there. He senses it to his left, turns, and catches sight of it again for a second before it is gone. A game? Is his brother toying with him, trying to wear him down and scrape his wits? That won't work, not after all he has done to get here. Or is his prey trying to elude him; simply afraid of what will happen when the fight is finally joined? He tries to ignore the pain, and the taste of blood in his mouth. When he looks down, he sees, in the gloom, the blood seeping from beneath his placket and running down his thigh plate, like red thread, tangled and knotted. That is where the sound of dripping is coming from. The shadow stirs again, ahead of him. He won't lose track of it again. He spurs forward, moving faster, ignoring the pain, ignoring the limp it imposes on him. He passes through a great archway into another chamber. There is light coming from somewhere, faint and warm, like a single candle spreading a feeble glow. A vault. A crypt. Its proportions are monumental and impossible to judge in the enclosing shade. The deck is paved stone. There is the hint of a barrel-vault ceiling overhead, also stone, but too swathed in shadow to make out. There are objects here. Rectangular blocks of considerable size, each laid flat on their longer side, ranged in two neatly spaced rows with an aisle between them. There are twenty of them. Sanguinius approaches. Close to, he sees they are made of stone. They are draped in sheets of amaranthine cloth. The colour of mourning. Sword raised, braced in a double-handed grip that will make his first blow as powerful as it can be, Sanguinius stalks forward between the rows. Amaranthine sheets cover all but one of the blocks. That one, the second from the end in the right-hand row, is bare, its sheet folded flat into a square and placed on its top. He moves towards it. It is stone. A stone casket. Its lid is slid slightly ajar, resting, waiting to be closed and sealed. The lid, he sees, is engraved with the numeral IX. 'You were a long time coming, but you are here at last.' Sanguinius wheels at the sound of the voice. He knows it. He knows it all too well, and the sound of it hurts him more than the pain in his side. The huge, plated shadow is staring at him, broad and immense, framed against the feeble light. It steps between the tombs and he sees its face. 'I have been waiting for you,' says Ferrus Manus. 5:xliv A world turned outside in The Delphic Battlements rain havoc on the ground below. Relentless bombardment from the wall guns flays the earth back to the bedrock, and fills the air with cloudbursts of lethal shrapnel. The barrage, fierce enough to consume an armour column, lacerates the charging line of traitors, killing thousands and annihilating the siege engines and mobile turrets they are dragging. Traitor engines, advancing with the waves of infantry, are shredded and demolished. A ten-kilometre run of the wall's talus becomes a sheeting jungle of flame and phosphorescent fire. It is the sixth mass assault that has been scourged and repelled in fifteen minutes. There seems to be a limitless reserve of traitor forces gathering in the darkness beyond the final fortress. Their attacks are now constant, wave after wave, their losses immense, but for every thousand slaughtered as they race to reach the walls, another ten thousand emerge from the battle-smog to try their turn, and for every siege tower obliterated, another ten are rolled out ready by magi of the Dark Mechanicum. Feral banners loom through the flowing smoke, foul standards of Chaos visible from the walls, multiplying in number like poison weeds, indicating the unearthly armies and murderous legions drawing close and assembling for assault. A keening fills the poisoned air; the blare of war-horns that shake the heavens, the ululation of demented priesthoods, the grumble of a billion drums, the clack and croak of inhuman hosts. Lucoryphus, Raptor, Night Lord, is surprised to discover himself alive. He was in the thick of the latest assault, caught by the bombarding rage that incinerated and liquidised the World Eaters, Sons of Horus and Death Guard charging with him. Lucoryphus had been soaring ahead, with others of his breed, carried by the burning streamers of their jump packs, above the common rabble of the ground troops. They had just begun their climbs towards the soaring upper parapets. A shell blast, which pulped the warriors beneath him, lifted him on its shockwave like a clod of soil, and hurled him through the air. He rises to his feet, bruised, bones battered. He has been thrown right against the foot of the Delphic wall, another broken corpse amid the debris and scraps of meat littering the immense, unbreachable stones of the almighty battlement. His jump pack is mangled. He looks up. The wall is a thousand metres high, strung with kill-wire and down-angled spikes. It is unscalable, for anybody, including him, who would wish to be alive when they reached the summit. He sees another mass wave preparing to come in. When they begin to move, the wall's guns will start to welcome them again, and this entire stretch of ground, still smoking, vitrified, and radiating blast-heat from the last charge, will become a fiery hell once more. And it will consume him. Eager, almost desperate, like a sharp-eyed corvid, he looks around, searching for something, anything, that he can use as cover. He spots a stone culvert, some kind of drainage outflow, and hobbles towards it, like a clumsy, grounded vulture, ditching his useless jump pack. As he reaches the culvert, he sees how shallow it is, little more than a niche. It won't protect him, but he claws his way under the lip of it anyway. The wave comes. He hears the jeering roar and the blast of horns. Within seconds, the walls reply. The ground shakes. The noise is unbearable. Pressure hammers him, and he rattles like a pebble in the cramped aperture of the culvert. Lucoryphus can't guess what will happen first. Will he burn and cook, or will he be vibrated to sludge by the shock-pressure? He starts to scream. It is an inglorious and obscure end for one such as him, who has performed some of the greatest feats of the war. The name Lucoryphus should have been etched on the Warmaster's plate, and hymned by daemons as a champion of the ages. A warrior who has achieved what primarchs have failed to do should not meet an anonymous end in a drain like a diseased rat. He was the first of the host to top the walls, the first to carry the battle into the False Emperor's Palace. This is not a fit or fair end for so illustrious a hero- The blast-rush, monumental, crushes him into the culvert slabs. He is wrenched inside out, atomised, reduced to pulp, to jelly, to steam, to particles, torn to burning tatters that are torn, in turn, to sparks- He opens his eyes, surprised to find he still has eyes. The floor is cold. His skin is burning, but that's just residual heat bleeding out of his scorched and smoking plate. He rises to his hands and knees, blood drooling from his mouth. He can smell seared flesh, and knows it is his own. He rises. The culvert is gone. The massive talus of the wall is gone. The wall itself, the insurmountable cliff of the Delphic, is gone. He doesn't know where he is. An empty hallway stretches before him. He turns, and sees it stretch away as far again behind him. The walls are auramite, inlaid with intricate figures. The floor is swirled marble, buffed like a looking glass. The ceiling is very high, and strung with ornate pendant lamps. Terror fills him. He understands where he is, though he cannot explain how he got there. He is all alone, and the terror of that ballasts his chest and gut like cement. But there is joy too, joy that carves through his fear. Blessed by the gods, he cannot be killed, and his fame is cast immortal. There will be statues of him. Cities, whole worlds, will be named in his honour. 'Mino premiesh a minos murantiath!' he murmurs in the mother tongue of his home world. For he is now the first-of-all twice. First to cross the Palace walls, and now first inside the final fortress. PART SIX THE INEVITABLE CITY 6:i Unravelled They've had their chance, and now it's gone. They are led away, flanked by the terrifying Sentinel giants and the distressing Sisters of Silence. No one speaks. No one dares. They are all afraid. For a brief moment, it had felt like they were going to be listened to. But the moment passed, and their reception was ended, and now they are being marched to some unspecified doom. Oll hopes it's detention. A cell, a prison. It's probably going to be worse than that. They were lucky Vulkan even listened as long as he did. The crisis is greater and darker and deeper than even the worst Oll has imagined. Vulkan, the only figure of authority left, is facing decisions and choices beyond mortal consideration. Oll knows that even a brief audience with him was remarkable. At the end of their conversation, Oll had tried to plead with him. 'My lord,' he had said, 'let us help you. Let us help the Imperium of Man.' Vulkan hadn't asked how. He hadn't bothered, and even if he had, Oll would have been at a loss to give him a credible answer. Vulkan had merely gestured to the immense Throne Room around them. 'This is the Imperium of Man,' he had said to Oll. 'This and only this. Everything and everywhere else is debatable, questionable and conflicted. The only part of the Imperium that remains intact and defined is this room. It is all I command. The Imperium of Man, which once straddled the stars, is reduced to this chamber, Ollanius. What territory remains is what I can see here, in my ambit. Nothing else is certain.' The Custodians and the Sisters

stured to the immense Throne Room around them. 'This is the Imperium of Man,' he had said to Oll. 'This and only this. Everything and everywhere else is debatable, questionable and conflicted. The only part of the Imperium that remains intact and defined is this room. It is all I command. The Imperium of Man, which once straddled the stars, is reduced to this chamber, Ollanius. What territory remains is what I can see here, in my ambit. Nothing else is certain.' The Custodians and the Sisters escort them back along the empty golden hallways. Oll senses they are being returned to the Antirooms where they were first held, but it's impossible to be sure because the grand, intimidating galleries of the Palace all look alike. These auramite halls seem like the same ones they were originally conducted along, but they are interchangeable. Perhaps they are being led back by another route? Perhaps they are being taken somewhere else altogether? It doesn't matter. They're done. Their folly is over. Their captors are no longer prepared to hear them out. Collaboration with the authorities has ceased to be an option, and escape from custody is even less viable. They are closely guarded by the most dangerous beings in the Emperor's host. The long companions trudge in silence, cowed and scared. Actae is especially withdrawn. The colour has drained out of her, she is leaning on Katt for support like an invalid, and Katt herself is suffering. The psychic trauma of the appalling Throne Room, and the continued proximity of the spectral nulls, have taken a terrible toll on them both, but Oll fears that the distress-reaction the pair are sharing through their psykanic bond is due far more to this notion of a 'Dark King'. The revelation of the imminent, final, horrifying stage of Lupercal's ascent affected Actae profoundly. Oll wishes he could question her about it, but now's not the time. There's never going to be the time. There's no way out. They crossed the galaxy to face the Master of Mankind and, against all the odds, they reached their destination. But He was out. It's buffoonery, the punchline to a bad joke, like one of the lesser epics the bards used to sing. The bards, in fealty to Apollo, would perform such tales at the feast-fire, amid the smell of wine and food and burnt offerings. They would select one suitable for the moment: an epic tale of prowess to lift the spirits, a tale of heroic woe for more sombre occasions. Some were comical and light-hearted, strewn with mishaps and blunders, sung to do no more than delight and amuse. That's what our odyssey has been, Oll thinks. One of the comical numbers, the farcical ones sung to the strum of a lyre, reciting catalogues of weakness, whimsy, imprudence and inglorious absurdity. A misadventure. That's all it's been. A half-baked try with a feeble ending, to make men laugh and shake their heads in disbelief, and pity the foolhardiness of those involved. Their song is over. 6:ii An instant away Even the song of the astrotelepathic choir is beginning to break and falter. Their urgent pace brings them as close to the foot of the Throne's vast stepped dais as they dare to be. They feel the radiant heat of it. Inside the encircling ring of outward-facing Custodians, wordlessly maintaining their vigil, seniors and apprenti of the Concillium toil to regulate the stabilisation engines arranged around the great dais. The light is fierce. There is a heady stink of ozone and heated metal, and also the reek of some of the universe's less quantifiable properties, which speak of bruised dreams, lacerated hopes, myopic farsight and caustic epiphany. The surging roar of the voiceless choir vibrates Vulkan's teeth and pulses in his blood. He shifts his arm slightly to dull a piercing harmonic issuing from his pauldron. Seniors of the Concillium hurry over to Vulkan, bow, and present him with data-slates outlining the fresh spike of empyric activity Abidemi spoke of. Their faces, hidden behind the tinted window-slits of their lead-lined gear, are glossy with sweat and prickled with burn-blisters. The plastek surfaces of their data-slates are bubbled and scorched. 'This anomaly is increasing in strength?' Vulkan asks, scanning the data. The seniors affirm it is. 'But there is no locus for it? No location or epicentre?' They confirm that there is not. Vulkan studies the data again. The anomaly, alarming in itself, is not the only concerning aspect. The Concillium's inability to determine its epicentre suggests that it is occurring, uniformly, everywhere. But a cursory glance at the metadata framing their observations reveals that nothing seems to possess a verifiable location any more. The Palace Dominions, the expanse of Terra... All seem to have shed their established, mathematised macrostructure, so that all points of reference have been lost and nothing can be correlated to anything else. It suggests the Sanctum's potent sensoria apparatus have become defective, or overwhelmed. Or that, somehow, everywhere has become everywhere. 'Is it possible,' Vulkan asks, 'that this anomaly is simply a consequence of the Regent's incremental decay? I mean, is this anomaly a separate event that is destabilising the function of the Throne, or is it a symptom of the Throne increasingly slipping from the Sigillite's control?' They cannot answer that. Vulkan turns to look at the Throne. He labours, signs Casryn, half-seen at his side. It is hard to see where Malcador ends and the burning radiance begins. What little Vulkan can perceive of the Sigillite is a blind and blinding neon shape that has been reduced to a mere stick figure. It is worse than Casryn suggests. Vulkan can see that. All monitoring data indicates that, in the course of the last few, un-trackable minutes, Malcador's strength has rapidly deteriorated. He appears burned out, gone forever, or at best is on the verge of annihilation. The Golden Throne will shortly be uncontrolled, its mechanisms racing unchecked. An immaterial breach, the implosion of cosmic magnitude that Vulkan's father spent years holding back, is imminent. Perhaps the anomaly is simply the first indicator of that calamity. At floor level, another member of the Adnector Concillium collapses. They are succumbing with greater frequency, overwhelmed by the raging power-bleed despite their protective gear, struck dumb or sightless or simply overcome. When they fall, serfs rush in to drag them clear and fetch them to the infirmary. Vulkan has been told that several have simply died. Fresh adepts, waiting in silent ranks below the sweep of the nearest scissor arch, hurry forward to take their places. The immateria engines they struggle to maintain cough and sputter, shiver and heave, bleeding liquidised axioms and gusting phlogistonic sparks. The floor around the dais is sooted black, and the backs of Uzkarel and his encircling detachment of Sentinels are dulled with tarnish. His eyes narrowed against the glare, Vulkan studies the mechanisms of the Throne. Has the time come? He identifies the Talisman of Seven Hammers though he knows precisely where it is. Must he now accept the inevitable and initiate the end of the Imperium? He rehearses the motions and gestures he will need to make in his mind. Perhaps, he thinks, the Talisman is the last safeguard, not against the immediate and overwhelming foe, but against the catastrophe of a new god, a notion only now brought to his attention but which, he prays, his father and the Sigillite foresaw and have made arrangements to counter. He wills the Talisman, abominable though it is, to be that safeguard. He needs to believe that Malcador and his father knew of this possibility in advance, and thus prepared an ultimate response. He cannot allow himself to think that it is not, for if it is not, then his father and the Sigillite had no foreknowledge of the threat of the Dark King, and have left nothing with which to fight it. My lord... Casryn signs. 'Wait...' he replies. The Sigillite is failing, lord. Vulkan can see it's true. He feels as though he can actually see Malcador's agonised soul burning and evaporating inside the luminous husk of his raddled body. We must supplement and reinforce him... 'Sigil Protocol-' Is no longer enough. It cannot sustain him until your father our lord returns. We are an instant from catastrophe. 6:iii Close to the city 'Stay back,' says Agathe. Phikes needs no encouragement to do so, but Mikhail stays at her side, his old lasrifle steady. She draws her sidearm. Phikes has brought them to a long block of cells. There is ruination in this part of the black mansion too. The floor is littered with rubble and debris. Some cell doors stand ajar, others closed. Some have been blown off entirely. The line of cells extends as far as she can see in the darkness. She advances, Mikhail beside her, whether she wants him there or not. Phikes waits behind her, with Mikhail's squad, and the clearance team that was working the area. She hears the knocking at once, the gentle rap of knuckles on a cell door. She can't tell which one it's coming from. The first cell is open, and empty. The second, its door ajar, is also vacant. The door of the third cell is closed. The knocking is coming from inside. Agathe glances at Mikhail, then beckons Phikes. He joins them, reluctantly. 'They were all checked?' she asks. He nods. 'So none are locked?' 'The squad forced open all that were, mam,' he whispers. She moves to the door. The knocking continues. Mikhail puts out his hand, stops her, and then moves in. He kicks the door wide, and goes in, weapon aimed from the shoulder. The heavy metal door shivers on its hinges. The cell is completely empty. The knocking has stopped. Agathe looks in over Mikhail's shoulder. Nothing. No sign of anything that could have been making the noise, no loose pipe or dangling debris stirred by the wind. The knocking resumes, now coming from a closed door