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vox in here's started hissing! I think we're being challenged!' Bulveye bent at the knees, placing as much of his body behind the armoured railing of the transport as he could. The rest of the Wolves followed suit. The Wolf Lord looked over at Andras. 'I'd get down were I you,' he said. 'Here's where things get interesting.' All at once the night sky lit up with beams of energy and stitching streams of fire as the spire's defensive batteries went into action. Energy blasts struck the prow of the transport, blasting holes through the armour plate and showering the passengers with molten shrapnel. Bulveye turned back to the control room. 'Aim for the centre of the spire!' he told Ranulf. 'There have to be landing pads there for maintenance and supply!' The transport plunged onwards through the hail of fire. Its high speed and the surprise of the spire's gunners made it a difficult target, and it crossed the distance to the citadel in a matter of seconds. Ranulf caught sight of a suitable landing pad at the spire's midpoint and raced towards it. Only at the last minute did he try to flare the engines back and come in for a landing. They touched down with a bone-jarring crunch and a long, rending sound of tearing metal. Everyone was thrown forwards, piling up in the craft's mutilated bow as the transport skidded wildly down the landing pad in a shower of sparks. Finally, friction asserted itself and the transport slowed, skidding to a stop less than a dozen metres from the far edge of the pad. It took several moments for the warriors to extricate themselves from the bow of the transport. Jurgen and Halvdan led the way, leaping over the rail onto the landing pad with weapons at the ready. The rest of the Wolves and Andras's warriors quickly followed, their faces concealed by armoured veils. Bulveye yelled to Ranulf as he reached the rail. 'Make sure this bucket is ready to fly by the time we get back,' he said, 'otherwise it's going to be a long walk back to Oneiros!' The Wolf Lord leaped over the rail and landed with a clang onto the pad. Five yards away, a long, low hatchway led into the spire. Bulveye waved his battle-brothers towards the hatch. As they advanced, Andras came up beside him, closely trailed by his warriors. 'What now?' he asked. Bulveye nodded at the hatch. 'This has to be a loading hatch for carrying parts and supplies into the citadel,' he said. 'The passageway beyond will take us to the reactor chamber sooner or later.' He nodded to Halvdan. 'Melta charge! Make us a hole!' The lieutenant nodded and fitted one of their six anti-armour charges to the hatch. Moments later there was a whoomp of superheated air, and a large, molten hole had been blown through the door's thick plating. Without hesitation, Jurgen and two of the Space Wolves dived inside, and boltguns echoed in the space beyond. The staging area beyond was littered with wreckage from the blast; smashed containers spilled half-melted debris across the black floor and smouldering, armoured corpses attested to the force of the melta charge's focused blast. The Wolf Lord and the rest of the assault team charged through the breach as Halvdan pulled a small auspex unit from his belt. The Astartes keyed in a series of commands, and the unit lit up immediately. 'I'm getting a strong energy source at about seven hundred metres,' he said, gesturing towards the centre of the spire. 'That's got to be the reactor.' 'Take point,' Bulveye said with a curt nod. 'Find us the shortest route to the core and stop for nothing.' For the next twenty minutes the assault team drove their way deeper into the spire, navigating by the energy traces on Halvdan's auspex unit. Bulveye and his Wolves moved swiftly and lethally through the access corridors of the alien citadel, orchestrating a well-rehearsed dance of death that tore through everything the Harrowers put in their path. The huge passageways were teardrop-shaped and oddly faceted, as though the entire citadel had been carved from a strange kind of crystal, and the walls hummed with stored energies. Every surface was suffused with a purplish light, picking out strange, graceful carvings on the crystalline walls but leaving much else in shadow. The xenos defenders sealed all the hatches leading into the spire and organised hasty defences behind each of them, but each time the Wolves would use a melta charge to create a breach and then dive through firing while the defenders were still recovering from the effects of the blast. It was a time-honoured technique that the Astartes had mastered in boarding actions over the course of decades, and so long as they kept up their momentum the warriors were difficult to stop. Bulveye knew they were getting close when they blasted their way into a large room lined with strange, pulsing controls and filled with almost fifty xenos warriors. The Wolves made their breach and broke through into a storm of hissing splinter fire. Jurgen and the two warriors who went in first were struck dozens of times, but the armour succeeded in deflecting most of the deadly needles. Without hesitating they rushed at the mass of aliens, their power swords and chainaxes held high, and in moments were locked in a savage melee. The Wolf Lord was next through the breach, and found himself attacked from three sides by armoured raiders brandishing rifles and jagged knives. He drove back the assailants on his left with a shot from his plasma pistol, then slashed furiously at the rest with his power axe. The keen blade split rifle barrels and armoured torsos with equal ease, and the aliens fell back in disarray. Bulveye charged after them, allowing room for Halvdan and the rest to make their way into the chamber behind him. Splinters howled through the air, and the crackle of Antimonan pistols replied in kind. Andras came up on Bulveye's left, slashing at the aliens with his sword. Splinters raked him, but the projectiles sparked and deflected away from the noble - evidently the armiger harness incorporated a defensive force-field of some kind. The rest of the Antimonans joined in with ferocious zeal, shooting and stabbing at every Harrower they could see. The aliens fought to the last, emptying their weapons and then using their bayonet-tipped rifles as pole-arms until they were finally cut down. One of Andras's men lay dead among them, and every one of Bulveye's warriors had sustained a number of minor wounds. 'Press on,' the Wolf Lord commanded, indicating the open archway at the far end of the chamber. They emerged into a vast room whose ceiling rose to a peak far above their heads. Control consoles lined the walls of the octagonal chamber, and three other archways led off in different directions from the room. At the centre of the chamber, suspended in a complex network of struts and field induction matrices, rested an enormous, spindle-shaped crystal. The feeling of ambient power was thick inside the chamber; each pulse shivered along the Wolf Lord's bones. 'This is it,' he said. 'Halvdan, set the remaining charges. The rest of you cover the other entrances.' 'Two had best be enough,' the lieutenant said, limping forwards and scrutinising the crystal to determine where his charges would do the most damage. The rest of the warriors raced forwards, fanning out around the huge reactor room to block access via the other three entrances to give time for Halvdan to do his work. Bulveye was only a few steps behind them, crossing to the opposite side of the chamber, when the Harrowers launched their counter-attack. They struck from all three sides at once, pouring splinter fire through the openings that ricocheted dangerously around the room. The fire was so intense that the defenders had to duck away and take cover, which gave the xenos troops the opening they needed to launch their charge. Armoured warriors burst into the chamber from left and right, driving back the Antimonans and coming to grips with the warriors of Bulveye's Wolf Guard. Across the chamber, Bulveye saw one of Andras's warriors lean into the third archway and open fire with both pistols. Splinter fire sparkled across his shields - then a pair of indigo energy beams struck the warrior full in the chest, collapsing the energy field and blasting the man apart. Right on the heels of the energy bolts charged a force of black-armoured warriors wielding long, powerful glaives that crackled with blue arcs of electricity. Within moments another of the armigers was dead, cut in two by the blow of one of those deadly weapons, and the two Wolves guarding the entrance had been driven back, hard-pressed by the fearsome attackers. Into the space created by the sudden charge came a tall, lithe figure, clad in intricate, arcane armour and wreathed in a corona of swirling, indigo-hued energy. A long, curved black blade hung loosely in his right hand, and a long-barrelled pistol was ready in his left. His hair was long and black, hanging unbound past his shoulders, and his face... The sight of his face caused Bulveye's blood to run cold. The xenos chieftain had no face - or rather, he had a multitude of them. Ghostly, agonised human faces flickered and wailed in the place where the alien's face ought to be. Men, women, children - each face twisted in a mask of unutterable terror and pain. From across the room, Bulveye could feel the horror radiating from the terrible holo-mask, as palpable as a knife drawn against his cheek. The wolf inside him rose up, baring its fangs. Its rage and bloodlust filled him. Now? It seemed to ask. Now, Bulveye answered, and he let the rage of the Wulfen fill him. The Wolf Lord raised his glowing axe and howled, a primal sound born in the primeval forests of ancient Terra itself, and then charged at his foe. Two of the chieftain's bodyguards leaped into the Wolf Lord's path, their glaives held ready. He shot them both with blasts of his plasma pistol, dropping them with glowing craters bla

olf inside him rose up, baring its fangs. Its rage and bloodlust filled him. Now? It seemed to ask. Now, Bulveye answered, and he let the rage of the Wulfen fill him. The Wolf Lord raised his glowing axe and howled, a primal sound born in the primeval forests of ancient Terra itself, and then charged at his foe. Two of the chieftain's bodyguards leaped into the Wolf Lord's path, their glaives held ready. He shot them both with blasts of his plasma pistol, dropping them with glowing craters blasted in their chests. A third bodyguard leaped forwards, stabbing with his glaive. The motion was almost too swift for the eye to follow, but the battle-madness had taken hold of Bulveye, and his body moved almost without conscious thought. He swept the blade aside with the flat of his axe, then brought the weapon around in a back-handed blow that sheared through the warrior's neck. Bulveye shouldered the headless corpse aside and charged on, howling as he went. The xenos chieftain was waiting for him, his blade still held almost casually to one side. Heedless, berserk, the Wolf Lord swung a blow that would have split a normal man in two, but the power weapon struck the dark field surrounding the alien and slowed as though cutting through wet sand. When the edge struck the chieftain it scarcely marked his intricate armour. Bulveye might have died then if it had not been for one of his warriors. One of the Wolf Guard covering the portal, a fearsome warrior named Lars, had despatched his foe and now hurled himself at the alien chieftain as well. His axe struck the alien's force-field and glanced harmlessly off the chieftain's helm. In return the xenos leader lashed out with his curved blade and struck off Lars's head. Furious, Bulveye pressed his attack, aiming a series of swift blows at the chieftain's arms and torso, but the chieftain became a whirling blur of deadly motion, dodging the Wolf Lord's every stroke or parrying effortlessly with his flickering blade. The alien's black blade struck again, and Bulveye dimly felt the point sink deep into his side. The chieftain drew his sword free and leaped lightly backwards, hissing with pleasure. The Wolf Lord let out a roar of thwarted rage and shot the nimble figure with his plasma pistol, but the bolt dissipated harmlessly against the alien's force-field. Before he could pursue further, a black-armoured figure crashed against Bulveye from the right. The bodyguard knocked the Wolf Lord off his feet, and the two went down in a tangle of limbs and weapons. Both struggled to pull their blades free quick enough to deal the killing blow. Out of the corner of his vision, Bulveye saw the xenos chieftain drawing nearer, his sword ready. Then suddenly he heard the sound of an Antimonan pistol at close range and a bullet punched through the bodyguard's helm. Bulveye hurled the alien's body away as Andras raced past with two of his armigers to challenge the alien leader. Their pistols blazed in their hands, but the bullets seemed to vanish in the swirling void surrounding the Harrower. The chieftain's blade flashed, but the armigers' force-fields succeeded in deflecting the alien's attacks. Antimonan swords sliced and thrust at the alien, but the chieftain avoided the attacks with contemptuous ease. Still, the momentary distraction was enough to allow Bulveye to recover. The Wolf Lord leaped to his feet amid the raging melee, and found himself in a slowly tightening circle as the alien attackers drove his warriors back towards the centre of the room. Many of the Wolf Guard had surrendered themselves to the Wulfen as well, and they wrought a hellish slaughter among the enemy, but for every warrior they slew it seemed that two more took his place. In another few minutes it seemed that they would be overwhelmed. A shout carried across the chamber from behind Bulveye. He turned to see Halvdan standing by the towering crystal, and the sliver of reason that remained to him told the Wolf Lord that the charges for the reactor had been set. Bulveye turned back to the xenos chieftain and realised what he had to do. He lunged forwards, gathering speed as he charged towards the alien. By this time, both of Andras's warriors were dead, and the young nobleman was fighting the chieftain on his own. He wielded his blade with superlative skill, but the alien was far swifter and more experienced; only the Antimonan's energy shield had saved him from certain death. Each blow against Andras's shield sent arcs of energy crackling along the surface of his scale armour, and it was clear that it was close to failing. The chieftain was so intent on killing Andras that he didn't notice Bulveye's charge until it was nearly too late. He shifted position in a blur of motion, swinging his weapon in a decapitating stroke, but the Wolf Lord surprised him by dropping his plasma pistol and seizing the alien's sword arm at the wrist. The field's energy sank through Bulveye's armour like ice water, a cold so sharp it sank like a knife into his bones, but he gritted his teeth and held on nonetheless. Surprised, the alien spat a stream of curses and tried to pull away, but Bulveye let go of his axe and clamped his right hand around the chieftain's neck. With a roar of pure, animal fury, he picked the lithe alien off the deck, turned and hurled his body at the power crystal a few metres away. When the chieftain's energy field struck the crystal there was an aclinic flash and a concussion that knocked nearly everyone from their feet. The chieftain's body was vaporised instantly by the blast; pieces of his shattered, smouldering armour ricocheted around the room like shrapnel from a grenade. The next thing Bulveye heard was a strident, atonal sound that seemed to reverberate through the structure of the spire itself. Shocked from his battle-madness by the blast, he saw the last of the Harrowers fleeing from the chamber as fast as they could. Andras stood close to the Wolf Lord, still reeling from the shock of the battle. 'What's happening?' he yelled. Bulveye grabbed his weapons off the deck. 'That sounds like an alarm of some kind,' he shouted. 'The reactor must have been damaged by that energy field. We need to get back to the transport right now!' Five of Andras's men and two of Bulveye's Wolf Guard lay dead, surrounded by heaps of alien bodies. Jurgen and Halvdan were already helping the survivors to grab the bodies of the fallen and carry them out as well. Together they raced back the way they'd come, ready to kill anyone who got in their way, but the alarm had sent every Harrower on the spire scrambling for their own means of escape. By the time they staggered out onto the landing pad, the skies were starting to fill with Harrower transports hastily lifting off from the doomed citadel. Alien bodies - some armoured, some not - were piled in heaps before the damaged transport, their bodies torn apart by boltgun shells or ravaged by the whirring teeth of Ranulf's chainsword. The pilot stood with his feet planted on the landing pad before the transport's gangway, his armour spattered with alien gore. Bulveye raised his axe in salute to Ranulf's dogged defence, and ordered everyone onto the xenos craft. 'How long until your charges blow?' Bulveye asked Halvdan as they clambered aboard. 'Another fifteen seconds, give or take,' the lieutenant replied. 'Morkai's teeth!' Bulveye cursed. 'Ranulf, get us the hell out of here!' With a whine of tortured impellers and a ragged scraping of metal, the crippled transport shuddered into the air and yawed dangerously to port. The craft didn't so much take off as fall off the side of the landing pad, taking its passengers on a stomach-churning drop as the vehicle's motors struggled to repel the force of gravity. Ten seconds later the spire was lit from within by a series of explosions that rippled outwards from the centre of the structure. Arcs of lightning a thousand yards long whipsawed across the spire's surface, cutting away landing pads and carving furrows in the crystal surface. Then, slowly, like a toppling tree, the massive spire began to settle towards the planet's surface. Its tip hit the rocky ground and shattered, scattering debris in a billowing cloud of dirt that stretched for kilometres in every direction, then the spire fell onto its side and vanished in massive detonations. The shockwave of the blast spun the transport around like a top and sent it corkscrewing through the air. For several vertiginous moments, Bulveye was certain they were going to crash, but Ranulf managed to ride out the wave and get the craft stabilised a scant hundred metres off the ground. Behind them, a rising pillar of dirt and smoke was highlighted by the first, pink rays of dawn. 'What now?' Andras said, leaning ashen-faced against the craft's dented rail. Bulveye scanned the skies, watching as dozens of Harrower ships boosted their thrusters and climbed into the sky, heading for orbit. 'We return to Oneiros,' he said, 'and wait to see what the survivors do. Either they'll start fighting amongst themselves to see who will be their next leader-' 'Or?' The Wolf Lord shrugged. 'Or we'll be having visitors in a very short amount of time.' THROUGHOUT THE MORNING the sky was full of vapour trails from Harrower ships boosting into the upper stratosphere. As the first of Oneiros's citizens crept tentatively out from their shelters and gaped at the towering column of dirt and smoke staining the sky to the west, Bulveye and Andras led their warriors to the Senate building and awaited Antimon's fate. For the first few hours they dressed their wounds, shared out ammunition and fortified the structure as best they could. Then, as the day wore on and sounds of jubilation rose from the surrounding hills, Andras sent an armiger into the city in search of food and wine. By late afternoon a procession of joyous Oneirans began arriving with the last scrapings from their larder: prese

ining the sky to the west, Bulveye and Andras led their warriors to the Senate building and awaited Antimon's fate. For the first few hours they dressed their wounds, shared out ammunition and fortified the structure as best they could. Then, as the day wore on and sounds of jubilation rose from the surrounding hills, Andras sent an armiger into the city in search of food and wine. By late afternoon a procession of joyous Oneirans began arriving with the last scrapings from their larder: preserved meats, shrivelled vegetables and sweet, cloying wine. To Bulveye's warriors, it was a feast worthy of a primarch. As the sun set, the warriors drank and ate and enjoyed the fellowship of battle-brothers who had faced death side by side. Bulveye observed the gathering with no small amount of pride. The Antimonans had acquitted themselves well. In centuries to come, he was sure the planet would provide the Imperium with fine soldiers for the Army, or perhaps even young aspirants to the Allfather's Legions. Night fell, and sharp-eyed lookouts manned the terraces outside the Senate building and searched the sky for signs of attack. Not a single flash of light was spotted, nor could the Astartes detect the faint specks of ships orbiting the planet. Bulveye took this to be a bad sign, and he and Andras spent a sleepless night preparing to make a final stand inside the Senate building. It was just before dawn when an Astartes lookout saw the first tell-tale streaks of light in the sky. Bulveye and Andras were sitting together at the foot of the steps that led to the Speaker's chair when the Wolf Lord's vox bead activated. 'Fenris, this is Stormblade. Fenris, this is Stormblade. Are you receiving, over?' The voice sent a jolt through Bulveye. He clambered to his feet, looking skywards as though he might suddenly glimpse the Space Wolf cruiser hovering up near the ceiling. 'Stormblade, this is Fenris! I hear you! What's your status?' 'Our battle group arrived in-system twenty hours ago and made a stealthy approach to the planet,' the officer on the Stormblade answered. 'When we were still about eight hours away, we were engaged by a large fleet of xenos vessels, but we inflicted heavy losses and forced them to disengage an hour later. The survivors have fled towards jump points near the edge of the system.' By this point, the rest of the Wolf Lord's warband were on their feet, as well as Andras and his warriors. Every one had a questioning look on his face. Bulveye regarded them all with a triumphant look and cried, 'A battle group has arrived from Kernunnos and defeated the Harrowers! Antimon is free!' Armiger and Astartes alike broke out into cheers at the news. Andras stepped forwards and clapped Bulveye on the shoulder. 'We owe you more than we will ever be able to repay, my friend,' he said to the towering warrior. 'From this day forwards we will remember today as the day of Antimon's deliverance.' The Wolf Lord only shook his head. 'There is no debt between us, brother,' he replied. 'Just serve the Allfather faithfully in the years to come and give your due to the Imperium, and that will be thanks enough.' The young nobleman's smile faltered. 'I don't understand,' he said. Bulveye laughed and waved his hand dismissively. 'That's nothing to worry about at the moment,' he said. 'It will be months before the Imperium can send representatives to begin integrating your world with the rest of the worlds in this subsector. For now, I expect you'll be want to restore the Senate, which is a good first step. The Imperial governor, when he arrives, will need their support to ensure full certification of the planet. And then the real work will begin!' Andras's hand fell away from the Wolf Lord. He took a step back. 'There's been a misunderstanding,' he said. 'We have no desire to be part of your Imperium - especially now, when we've only just regained our freedom!' Bulveye felt his heart turn to lead. Jurgen and Halvdan sensed the change in their lord's demeanour and stepped close. Andras's trio of armigers did the same, their expressions tense. The Wolf Lord paused, desperate for the right words to change what he feared was about to happen. 'Andras,' he began. 'Listen to me. I came here because the Imperium needs this world. It needs every human world to come together and rebuild what was lost before. Believe me, the galaxy is a dangerous place. There are alien races out there that would like nothing more to see our extinction - or worse. You and your people know this better than anyone.' He took a step closer to the young nobleman. His armigers laid their hands on the hilts of their swords. 'We must be united in a common cause, Andras. We must. The Allfather has commanded it, and I'm honour-bound to obey. Antimon is going to be part of the Imperium, brother. One way or another.' He held out his left hand. 'An age of glory awaits you. All you have to do is take my hand.' A look of anguish crossed Andras's face. 'How can you say this to me, after all we've been through? Weren't you the one who said that a life not worth fighting for is no life at all?' The young man's voice trembled with anger. 'Antimon is free, and will stay that way. Her armigers will protect her!' Bulveye shook his head sadly. 'The Imperium will not be denied, Andras. So I ask you one last time: will you join us?' The young warrior's expression turned hard and cold. Slowly, he shook his head. 'I will fight you if I must.' Bulveye's empty hand sank to his side. His heart felt cold as lead. 'Very well, brother,' he said heavily. 'So be it.' The axe was an icy blur between the two warriors. Andras never saw the blow that ended his life. A half-second later boltguns roared, and the two shocked armigers fell dead as well. Bulveye stared at the bodies of the young men for a long time, watching their blood spread in a widening stain upon the floor. Abruptly, his vox-bead crackled. 'Fenris, this is Stormblade. The battle group is in orbit and awaiting your instructions. We have assault troops mustered and ready, and surveyors have identified targets for preliminary bombardment. What are your orders?' The Wolf Lord tore his gaze away from the dead men at his feet. When he spoke again, his voice was like iron. 'Stormblade, this is Fenris,' he said. 'This world has refused compliance. Execute crusade plan epsilon and commence combat operations at once.' With a heavy tread, the Wolf Lord stepped over the bodies of Andras and his men, leaving bloody footprints on the steps as he climbed his way to the Speaker's chair. The wood creaked under his weight as he sat himself upon it and rested his bloody axe across his knees. Outside, the people of Antimon were still cheering their deliverance when the first bombs began to fall. SCIONS OF THE STORM Anthony Reynolds ISOLATED FOR COUNTLESS millennia in the stygian darkness of Old Night, the inhabitants of the world designated Forty-seven Sixteen had at first rejoiced to be reunited with their long-lost brothers. For over four thousand years they had thought themselves alone in the universe, and had come to regard ancient Terra as little more than a vague, half-forgotten race-memory; an allegorical myth, a fabled genesis world invented by their ancestors. They had greeted the Word Bearers envoys with open arms, gazing upon the immense, grey-armoured Astartes warriors with awe and reverence. 'Irrevocably corrupt worshippers of a heathen deity,' First Captain Kor Phaeron stated damningly upon his return from the meeting. 'Is it not the duty of the crusade to embrace all the distinct strands of humanity, even its most wayward sons?' said Sor Talgron, Captain of Thirty-fourth Company. 'Would not the God-Emperor wish His most devoted Legion to lead these blind children to enlightenment?' Officially, the expanding Imperium of Man was a secular one, promoting and expounding the "truths" of science and reason over the "falsehoods" of religion and spiritualism. The XVII Legion, however, understood the truth, though it was, at times, a heavy burden to bear. Sor Talgron knew that the time was drawing near when the acknowledgement of the Emperor's divinity would be universally embraced. Faith would become the greatest strength of the Imperium, greater than the untold billions of soldiers that constituted the Imperial Army; greater even than the might of the Legions of Astartes. Faith would be the mortar that held all the disparate elements of mankind together. Even the most blinded of Legions, those who most vocally denied Lorgar's holy scripture, would in time come to understand the inherent truth in the primarch's words. And they would be forced to beg his forgiveness for having ever cast doubt upon his words. That the Emperor denied His divine nature did little to smother the fires of devotion within the XVII Legion; only the truly divine deny their divinity, Lorgar himself had written. 'You know the Emperor's mind now, Talgron?' Kor Phaeron growled. 'If you have such insight, please enlighten us lesser mortals.' 'I claim no such thing, First Captain,' Sor Talgron snapped. Sor Talgron and Kor Phaeron glared at each other with undisguised venom through the cloying incense smoke rising from dozens of hanging censers. The circular, tiered room where the war council was taking place was deep in the heart of the Fidelitas Lex, Lorgar's flagship, and the captains of the other Grand Companies stood silently around its circumference, watching with interest from the shadows to see how this confrontation would develop. However, Erebus, the softly spoken First Chaplain of the Legion, interposed himself between Kor Phaeron and Sor Talgron, ever the mediator, moving into the centre of the sunken command pulpit and breaking their venomous glares. 'The First Captain and I shall consult with the Urizen,' Erebus said smoothly, ending the discussion. 'Lorgar's wisdom shall guide us.' Still glowering, Sor Talgron had bowed

umference, watching with interest from the shadows to see how this confrontation would develop. However, Erebus, the softly spoken First Chaplain of the Legion, interposed himself between Kor Phaeron and Sor Talgron, ever the mediator, moving into the centre of the sunken command pulpit and breaking their venomous glares. 'The First Captain and I shall consult with the Urizen,' Erebus said smoothly, ending the discussion. 'Lorgar's wisdom shall guide us.' Still glowering, Sor Talgron had bowed to the First Chaplain before spinning on his heel and striding from the room along with the other dismissed captains. He waved skulking robed servants out of his path, intending to travel by Stormbird back to his own cruiser, the Dominatus Sanctus, and rejoin Thirty-fourth Company. It had been more than a month since Sor Talgron had seen the blessed primarch of the XVII Legion, and the Urizen's absence at the war council had been keenly felt. Tempers were fraying, and dissent was beginning to spread through the ranks; the Legion needed Lorgar to return to them. The holy primarch had been locked within his personal shrine-chamber in self-exile for a full Terran month - ever since his audience with the Emperor of Mankind. In that time he had allowed none for Kor Phaeron and Erebus, his closest advisors and comrades, into his presence. The entire Forty-seventh Expeditionary Fleet had sat dormant while it waited for its primarch's orders. Sor Talgron had snatched a momentary glimpse of his primarch as the Urizen was ushered into his private quarters upon his return from his meeting with the Emperor, and had been shocked to the core of his being by what he had seen. Always, Lorgar had radiated a palpable aura of passion and belief, an unassailable shield of faith that was at once awesome and terrifying. Whereas it was said that the Wolf s strength was his irrepressible ferocity, the Lion's his relentless tenacity, and Guilliman's his strategic and logistical brilliance, Lorgar's strength was his unshakeable faith, his profound self-belief, his ruthless and unwavering devotion. Though Erebus had sought to hide the Urizen from the gaze of the Legion, Sor Talgron's eyes had locked with those of his primarch for the briefest of moments before a hatch had slammed down, blocking his vision. The depth of despair he had seen in Lorgar's eyes had forced him to his knees. His eyes had filled with tears and his stomach had knotted painfully, his mind reeling. What could possibly have transpired upon the Emperor's battle-barge to have so shaken the unshakeable? He had not even reached the embarkation deck of the Fidelitas Lex when he was contacted by Erebus, requesting his return to the war chamber: the Urizen had made his decision. As he marched back through the labyrinthine corridors of the Fidelitas Lex, Captain Sor Talgron prayed that Lorgar himself would be present, though in this he was to be disappointed. Still, at least a decision had been made - after a month of idleness, the XVII Legion at last had purpose. 'In his great mercy,' Erebus said, addressing the reassembled gathering of Word Bearers captains, 'the Urizen wishes that this long-lost strand of humanity be brought to compliance; that they be embraced into the fold of the Imperial Truth.' Murmurs spread around the gathered captains, and Sor Talgron nodded his head in approval. Such was the way that the XVII Legion had operated since the start of the crusade. They had brought the glory of the Imperial Truth to every world that they had encountered thus far, and though their progress might not have been as swift as that of some of the other Legions, those worlds left behind by the XVII Legion were the most devout and loyal of all. Those who refused the word and those deemed unworthy were, of course, zealously crushed, ground to dust beneath the armoured heel of Lorgar's Astartes, but those who accepted their teachings were embraced into the Imperial truth, their loyalty assured. Sor Talgron cast a triumphant glance towards Kor Phaeron, but the First Captain did not look displeased by the proclamation, for all that he had been braying for war earlier. 'However,' Erebus continued, 'it is with sadness and remorse that the Urizen has come to his decision. The Emperor is displeased with our Legion, brothers.' Absolute silence descended over the chamber, every set of eyes focusing on the First Chaplain. Sor Talgron felt his blood run cold. 'The Emperor, it seems, is not satisfied with the rate of our progress. The Emperor is not content with the worlds, compliant and faithful, that we have delivered to Him. In His wisdom,' Erebus continued, his voice soft and yet with a growing edge of bitterness, 'the Emperor has rebuked our blessed primarch, His most faithful and devoted of sons, and ordered him to hasten our crusade.' Dark mutterings passed between the gathered captains, but Sor Talgron blocked them out, focused on the words of the First Chaplain. 'Our blessed primarch feels that, given time, the inhabitants of Forty-seven Sixteen could be taught the error of their ignorant, heathen ways; that they would make model Imperial citizens once guided towards the light of truth by our Chaplains and warrior-brothers. However, the Emperor's orders are clear, and the Urizen is a faithful son; he cannot refuse his father's order, though it causes him much lamentation.' 'And what are those orders, First Chaplain?' said Captain Argel Tal of the Seventh Company. 'That we do not have the time necessary to convert these ignorant heathens to the Imperial Truth,' Erebus said, with some reluctance. 'Their profane beliefs are deemed incompatible with the Imperium. As a result... Forty-seven Sixteen must burn.' Sor Talgron reeled at the proclamation, shocked and horrified that an entire world that might have been brought into the Imperial Truth was condemned to death merely because of... what? The Emperor's impatience? He immediately felt ashamed, guilt swelling up within him for even thinking such blasphemy. Once this war was done, he swore that he would attempt to atone for his errant thought through hours of penance and self-flagellation. Nevertheless, after they had recovered from the initial shock of Lorgar's orders, every captain of the XVII Legion, Sor Talgron included, threw themselves fully into preparations for the forthcoming war with a focus bordering on fanaticism. He was a warrior of Lorgar, Sor Talgron reminded himself; it was not for him to attempt to interpret the orders of his betters. He was a warrior first and foremost, and he fought where - and against whom - he was commanded. Less than twenty-four hours later more than a hundred and ninety million people were dead - over ninety-eight per cent of the doomed world's population. The cruisers and battleships assigned to the Forty-seventh Expeditionary Fleet anchored at high orbit, and for twelve hours unleashed their payload upon the condemned, storm-wracked planet. Cyclonic torpedoes and concentrated hellfire broadsides pierced the storm clouds spanning the planet. Entire continents had disappeared in flames. One city survived the carnage. This was the seat of the planet's governance and the centre of its blasphemous worship. Protected within a bubble of coruscating energy was the profane palace-temple of the enemy, a structure as large as a city in itself. Unwilling to allow even a single heathen blasphemer to remain alive, for that would have been against their lord's orders, five full companies of the XVII Legion were mobilised, striking down towards the planet's surface to finish the job. Sor Talgron led Thirty-fourth Company down towards Forty-seven Sixteen, the Stormbirds carrying his loyal Astartes warrior-brothers descending into the storm-wracked atmosphere. Despite the weight of the preliminary bombardment that had preempted the ground assault, it soon became apparent that the enemy defences were not completely neutralised; blinding arcs of energy screamed up from below, smashing several of the Stormbirds out of the air even as they entered the planet's atmosphere, the lives of almost a hundred precious warrior-brothers lost in the blink of an eye. Sor Talgron ordered the Stormbirds to pull off their current trajectory, and sent swift warnings to his brother captains of Fourth, Seventh, Ninth and Seventeenth Companies following in his wake, advising them to come at the dome from a different angle. Even as the vox transmissions were sent, Talgron's Stormbird was hit, sheering away one of its wings and shorting out its controls, sending it into a fatal, spiralling dive towards the ground. Assault hatches were blown, and at nineteen and a half thousand metres Sor Talgron leapt from his granite-grey Stormbird, leading his Space Marines screaming down towards the ruined city below as their jump packs roared into life. The ruined enemy city was spread out below as Sor Talgron's Assault squads broke through the storm clouds, the speed of their descent enhanced by the powerful engines of their jump packs. From their altitude the curvature of the world could be seen clearly, and the shattered remains of a city pummelled into the ground by ordnance was spread out as far as the eye could see in every direction. At the centre of the shattered city was the flickering dome, a blister of energy in the fire-blackened flesh of the enemy land. That dome was easily twenty kilometres in diameter, and rose almost a quarter of that distance above the ground. As he descended towards the city, arcs of lightning stabbing down from the clouds around him and up from the ground below, the captain of Thirty-fourth Company calmly identified a landing zone and transmitted the coordinates to his men. They landed five kilometres from the flickering dome. The enemy city was a single grand superstructure hundreds of levels high, its grand valley-like boulevards criss-crossed with thousands of arched walkways and lined with

ter of that distance above the ground. As he descended towards the city, arcs of lightning stabbing down from the clouds around him and up from the ground below, the captain of Thirty-fourth Company calmly identified a landing zone and transmitted the coordinates to his men. They landed five kilometres from the flickering dome. The enemy city was a single grand superstructure hundreds of levels high, its grand valley-like boulevards criss-crossed with thousands of arched walkways and lined with balconies and terraces. Much of it had been blasted into oblivion, but more had survived than Sor Talgron had expected - the glassy material that everything on this world was constructed from was apparently more resilient than it appeared. Before the bombardment had begun, the city must have looked stunning, though Sor Talgron found such opulence deeply suspicious. Beauty, he felt, was to be mistrusted. Nothing living had survived the brutal bombardment outside the shimmering dome. Those inhabitants of Forty-seven Sixteen that had been exposed to the full brunt of the barrage had been obliterated, flesh, muscle and bone instantly consumed in roaring flames, leaving only circles of ash where they had stood as evidence to their ever having existed at all. Charred bodies in their millions, those who were inside when the bombardment commenced, were strewn throughout the glass buildings of Forty-seven Sixteen. Tens of thousands of them were discovered in the profane temple-shrines dotted all over the city, their flesh melted together into obscene, congealed, fleshy lumps that were almost unrecognisable as having ever been human. The scale of the slaughter was nothing if not impressive. Drop-pods streamed like a deadly shower of meteors down from the battle-barges in the upper atmosphere. Scores were destroyed as they dropped through the storm, their occupants instantly slain. At first it appeared that they faced no ground resistance. Then the first of the robotic, three-legged war constructs marched unscathed through the flickering shield-dome to meet them, lightning spitting from their blade-arms, and battle was met. THE STORM-WRACKED world was in its final death throes. Lightning ripped across the bruised skyline. The flashing of electricity was constant, a blinding strobe that threw the battle-scarred ruins of the alien superstructure into stark relief. Sor Talgron's primary heart was pounding, pumping over-oxygenated blood through his veins. Hyper-stimulated adrenal glands fired, fuelling his aggression and sending fresh energy shooting through his nervous system. The stink of ozone and discharging electricity was strong in his nostrils. He pressed himself hard up against a shattered, glass-smooth spire, taking cover as another of the enemy war constructs fired a blast of harnessed lightning towards him. The crackling arc of energy slammed against the spire half a metre away, sending flickering sparks of energy dancing across its smooth surface. Mouthing a curse, Sor Talgron slammed a fresh sickle clip into his bolt pistol. Thunder rumbled deafeningly overhead, an unrelenting churning roar that made the Space Marine captain's insides reverberate. Another blast struck, this time catching one of his warriors, Brother Khadmon, full in the chest as he broke from cover. The Astartes warrior was hurled backwards by the force of the blast, smashing him into another spire with bone-crushing force. He slid to the ground, his armour blackened and bubbling, and Sor Talgron knew that he was dead. Khadmon continued to twitch for several minutes, as flickers of electricity danced across his corpse. His flesh had been cooked within his power armour, his innards and blood boiling; the heat generated by the lightning-weapons of the enemy was easily a match for the lascannons borne by the Devastator-Havoc squads. Sor Talgron swore. Too many of his company brothers had already died this day, and he felt his anger and resentment building. Apothecary Uhrlon was already moving towards the fallen warrior, risking himself as he leapt towards the dead Astartes to drag the corpse into cover. 'Be quick, Apothecary,' Sor Talgron shouted. 'We can't stay here. We have to take down those spires!' Not for the first time, Sor Talgron prayed that this plan of Kol Badar's was going to work. If the spires were brought down, would that cause a rent in the seemingly impenetrable shield-dome as the favoured sergeant predicted? He believed that it would, but if Kol Badar was wrong, then even more of his brothers would die before the day was out. For a moment he watched as the Apothecary carried out the grisly duty of extracting Brother Khadmon's precious gene-seed. The drill screeched as it penetrated Khadmon's ceramite armour and flesh, splattering his armour with blood. More forks of lightning struck around him. No more of his warriors were caught in the killing blasts, but it was only a matter of time before the enemy flanked their position, repositioning themselves to draw a direct bead on them. The robotic war constructs of the enemy were formidable foes. Far from unthinking, predictable automatons, they had proven to be wily and dangerous enemies, constantly adapting and refining their tactics and strategies to best defeat the invaders. Artificial intelligence. Such a thing was an abomination. The Emperor Himself had decreed such research forbidden, part of the compact agreed between Terra and Mars, and to go against the word of the Emperor was heresy of the highest order. That the inhabitants of Forty-seven Sixteen could not possibly know this was of little consequence. 'Squadron Tertius, do you read?' said Sor Talgron, broadcasting across the vox-net. 'Yes, captain,' came the prompt reply, the voice muffled and devoid of emotion. 'Orders?' 'I need you here. We're pinned down. The enemy are positioned upon fortified balcony positions. Distance is...' He turned towards the Astartes sergeant nearby, Brother Arshaq. 'One hundred and forty-two metres, elevation eighty-two degrees,' said Sergeant Arshaq, risking a glance around the spire to get a lock on the enemy. He ducked back as several blasts of lighting stabbed towards him, striking the glassy spire with shocking force. 'You get that, Tertius?' said Sor Talgron across the vox. 'Affirmative,' confirmed Squadron Tertius. 'On our way.' They were positioned on one of the high flyover walkways that criss-crossed the immense, man-made valleys separating the different sections of the city's superstructure, pinned in place by the weight of incoming fire. Glancing down, Sor Talgron could make out thousands of granite-grey armoured battle-brothers, accompanied by scores of the Legion's tanks, fighting hard for every inch of ground as they closed in on the shimmering shield-dome from all directions. The flash of muzzle flare from thousands of bolters was like so many flickering candles at this distance, and the roar of the weapons was drowned out by the relentless booming thunder overhead. Missiles left lingering coils of smoke in their wake as they spiralled towards the enemy, a deadly robotic army that knew nothing of fear or mercy, and gouts of retina-searing, white-hot plasma spat from overheating weapons. The deceptively delicate-looking war constructs of the enemy stalked through the mayhem all but unscathed. Slender insectoid legs carrying them inexorably forwards, they stepped steadily through the hail of bolter fire, each of them protected by a sphere of lightning that flashed and sparked as they absorbed the incoming fire. Their return fire exacted a horrifying toll, lightning weapons slaughtering Astartes and sending Predator and Land Raider tanks flipping end over end. Concentrated lascannon fire struck again and again at the constructs' shields, finally overloading several of them and blasting the robotic machines apart, but the sheer weight of fire required to neutralise even a single machine was staggering. With the practicalities of war and the difficulties of his mission occupying his mind, Sor Talgron had pushed aside any moral qualms he had regarding the validity of the war. That the humans of Forty-seven Sixteen were divergent was undeniable. Their unrepentant and wilful manufacture of thinking machines alone was enough to condemn them. Yet for all this, the captain of Thirty-fourth Company could not help but feel pity for those whom his Legion had been sent to slaughter. A stab of resentment lanced through him, shocking him with the strength of the emotion. Why had the Emperor not allowed the XVII Legion to even attempt to bring Forty-seven Sixteen to enlightenment? Since landing, Sor Talgron had not seen a single living human - all they had faced so far had been their war constructs, though the gory, dismembered and obliterated remains of people were everywhere. 'Here they come,' said Sergeant Arshaq, drawing Sor Talgron out of his reverie. Squadron Tertius came streaking up from below, three boxy grey shapes moving at great speed. These were new innovations from the forges of Mars, and the land speeder pilots threw their anti-grav attack vehicles from side to side, jinking to avoid incoming fire that speared towards them. They screamed underneath the flyover on which Sor Talgron and his veteran squad were taking cover, engines roaring as they zeroed in on the location that Sergeant Arshaq had provided, and as they rose in altitude and began their attack run, their weapons began to belch. Heavy bolters spat hundreds of high-velocity explosive rounds towards the enemy constructs above, and multi-meltas screamed as they fired, sending superheated blasts into the foe, overriding their shields and rendering the robotic war machines molten. 'Targets neutralized,' came the word from the land speeder squadron, barrelling underneath a bridge spanning the man-made valley of glass buildings, before performing a tight loop around it and screaming overhead. 'Good work

pons began to belch. Heavy bolters spat hundreds of high-velocity explosive rounds towards the enemy constructs above, and multi-meltas screamed as they fired, sending superheated blasts into the foe, overriding their shields and rendering the robotic war machines molten. 'Targets neutralized,' came the word from the land speeder squadron, barrelling underneath a bridge spanning the man-made valley of glass buildings, before performing a tight loop around it and screaming overhead. 'Good work, Tertius,' said Sor Talgron, stepping out into the open once more. Glowing green targeting matrices flashed before his eyes. Information feeds streamed across his irises as he focused on the target location for his next jump. Two hundred and seventy-four metres, his head-up display informed him. In a clipped voice, he conveyed the coordinates of the leap to his warrior-brothers. Confirmations of his orders flooded in, and without ceremony, Sor Talgron broke into a run towards the low balustrade of the flyover. Placing one foot upon the railing, he launched himself out into open space. Before the force of gravity began to drag him to the ground, his jump pack roared into life. Powerful vectored engines screamed, and he accelerated sharply into the air, flames and dirty black smoke spewing out behind him. Warrior-brothers of Thirty-fourth Company leapt into the air behind their captain, flames roaring in their wake. Sor Talgron could see more of his Assault squads in the distance, streaking towards their targets like fireflies, trailing fire as they ascended vertical precipices and criss-crossed gaping expanses between glass structures in bounding leaps, attempting to avoid the heavy weight of incoming fire. Targeting crosshairs appeared in the corners of his vision, drawing his attention, and he turned his head to see another group of enemy war constructs a hundred metres to his side, stepping smoothly out onto a terrace built into the side of a cliff-like section of the city's superstructure. They lifted their lightning-rod arms in the direction of Sor Talgron and his veteran squad, and he saw the sparking build-up of power along those silver lengths. Barking a warning, Sor Talgron threw himself into a barrelling spin, taking him off his current trajectory. A fraction of a second later, a trio of blinding streaks of lightning speared by him. Deafening, supersonic cracks of thunder accompanied these blasts, though the damping systems of his helmet made the sound bearable. Two warriors of Talgron's veteran Assault squad were hit, struck out of the air by forks of energy. Electricity leapt from their bodies to those nearby, shorting out life-systems and sending targeting arrays haywire. 'Take them,' Sor Talgron said, turning in the air towards the enemy even as those warrior-brothers that had been hit fell, smoking, down into the maelstrom of battle far below. Gunning the engines of his jump pack, anger filling him at the thought of his fallen brethren, the captain of Thirty-fourth Company angled his flight to take him down amongst the enemy machines. There were three of the constructs, and he lifted his bolt pistol and began firing as he descended towards them, each pull of the trigger sending a mass-reactive bolt screaming towards its target. Lightning-shields flashed into existence around the enemy robots, his rounds merely stitching flashing impacts across their surface. Blasts of lightning tore up towards the descending Word Bearers, making the air crackle and reverberate with power, and Sor Talgron saw the information feed from another of his warriors go dead. Angry, and eager to unleash this anger on these unliving foes, Sor Talgron came in to land fast, his rapid descent bringing the glass terrace racing up towards him. The vectored engines of his jump pack swivelled towards the ground as he swung his legs out in front of him, and a fiery blast slowed his descent. His boots skidded on the surface of the smooth terrace as he touched down, and his heavy power mace was in his hand instantly, coruscating energy wreathing its flanged head with a press of its activation stud. While the lightning fields that protected the constructs could effortlessly shrug off a direct hit from a bolt gun, Sor Talgron had learnt that they afforded less protection against blows landed in hand-to-hand combat, or shots fired at point-blank range. Closing the distance quickly was imperative. The sight of the enemy constructs up close filled him with loathing. Abominations. They were synthetic mockeries of humans, their very existence an offence. Perhaps he had been wrong in thinking this war unjustified, Sor Talgron pondered as gazed upon their blasphemous forms. They stood almost as tall as a Dreadnought, though they were far less bulky than the deadly war machines of the Astartes Legions. Each of them had a human-like torso made of the same semi-transparent glassy material that formed the entire city - manufactured perhaps for its non-conductive properties - and featureless heads filled with circuitry sat upon their shoulders. In place of humanoid legs, each of the constructs was borne upon three slender multi-jointed insectoid limbs - each perhaps three metres long if extended straight. These legs gave the machines a disturbing, arachnid feel, like some twisted amalgamation of man and spider, though there was nothing organic about them. The arms of the constructs were like those of men, except that their forearms ended in long, tapering spikes of silver instead of hands. Electricity sparked between these arms as they were brought close together. Veins of silver ran through the bodies of the abominations, all leading to their "hearts", the battery-centres of harnessed storm energy in the centre of their torsos. Electrical pulses flickered along these metallic threads, seemingly powering all of its functions: movement, thought, weapons and the lightning-fields that made them all but invulnerable to ranged fire. The constructs moved with the jerky precision of long-legged hunting birds as they reacted to the Word Bearers' attack. Dirty flames belched from Astartes jump packs as more of Sor Talgron's brethren touched down around them. Bolt pistols roared, and flamers belched, bathing the robotic machines in gouts of super-heated promethium, though the worst of these attacks were, of course, deflected by the protective domes of lightning that flared around each of the constructs. Sor Talgron leapt towards the nearest of the abominations with a roar. The sentient stepped away from him and brought its silver lightning-rod arms together with a clap of thunder. A jagged spear of light flashed towards the captain of Thirty-fourth Company, but he had preempted the strike, and threw himself to the side. The crackling arc scythed by him, making the oath-papers affixed to the rim of his shoulder pad burst into flame. He closed the distance quickly, recognising that the abomination needed time for its lightning weapon to recharge. With a sweep of his crackling mace he struck the construct's shield, the stink of ozone rising as the two power sources came together with a deafening crack. The sphere of energy was torn apart by the blow, sparks and energy wreathing Sor Talgron's weapon as the shield dissipated. Stepping in close and grunting with the effort, Sor Talgron smashed his power maul into one of the construct's insectoid legs. Though fragile looking, the slender limb was as hard as tempered plasteel, and while thousands of tiny cracks spread up and down the glassy limb, it did not shatter. A pained, whistling sound, something akin to the musical trill of a song-bird, erupted from the war machine. It tried to back away from him, but its damaged limb buckled as soon as it placed weight upon it, and it crumpled to the floor. Sor Talgron closed in on the fallen construct, even as it struggled frantically to right itself. Its two intact legs skittered off the smooth, glassy terrace floor, and again it emitted its pained bird-song like whistle. It flailed with its pair of lightning-rod arms, discharging electricity wildly, narrowly missing him. Sor Talgron pressed his heavy boot down upon the chest of the construct and smashed his power maul into its domed head, shattering it. Sparks spat from its ruptured cranium, and the power core located in its chest faded, the silver veins running through its transparent body turning dark and lifeless. The shield of another of the constructs was brought down, and a melta-blast turned the torso of the machine molten, super-heated glass running like lava, dripping down its legs and onto the floor with a hiss. Spinning, Sor Talgron fired his bolt pistol at the last of the war machines, but the lightning-field sprang up before him, absorbing the power of the bolts. Its arms came together with a deafening crack and another of Sor Talgron's veterans was killed, lifted from his feet and hurled out into open space, his body swathed in electricity. Brother Sergeant Arshaq launched himself at the construct from its side. He punched with his immense power fist, the blow dispelling the construct's shield with a powerful explosion of energy. Bolt pistols bucking in their hands, Sor Talgron and his veterans stepped towards the now unshielded construct. It reeled beneath the blows, emitting pained bird-cries, and spider-web cracks appeared upon its torso and head. Sergeant Arshaq planted another bolt into its artificial cranium as it staggered. The high explosive round found a crack and detonated within the constructs head, spraying shards of glass in all directions. However, even in death it was a deadly foe. It floundered, staggering drunkenly, electricity leaping from the stump of its neck. Its arms flailed, and as it turned towards Sor Talgron those silver limbs came together, and a lethal fork of energy shot towards him, accompanied by a deafening crack. He saw it coming, and managed to twist

artificial cranium as it staggered. The high explosive round found a crack and detonated within the constructs head, spraying shards of glass in all directions. However, even in death it was a deadly foe. It floundered, staggering drunkenly, electricity leaping from the stump of its neck. Its arms flailed, and as it turned towards Sor Talgron those silver limbs came together, and a lethal fork of energy shot towards him, accompanied by a deafening crack. He saw it coming, and managed to twist his body so that it did not strike him with the full brunt of its power, yet it still lifted him off his feet and sent him flying through the air. His vision instantly turned black as the photochromaric lenses of his helmet were melted by the intense heat. The acrid stink of liquefying wires and cables filled his helmet. He was slammed hard into a wall, cracking its glass surface with the force the impact. Spinning off the angled surface of the wall, Sor Talgron was thrown over the edge of the terrace. He was freefalling then, arms and legs flailing wildly. Still blind, he spun in the air, groping for a handhold. His ceramite encased fingers merely scratched against glass, screeching loudly. Abruptly his fall came to an end as he landed on a lower terrace with bone-jarring force, cracking its surface. The thirty-metre fall would likely have killed a lesser man, but Sor Talgron pushed himself unsteadily to his knees, his bones bruised but unbroken. Smoke rose from his blistering power armour and lingering sparks of electricity flickered across his body. Sor Talgron tore his damaged helmet from his head. Seeing that it had been rendered useless by the electrical blast, he hurled it away from him, his face flushed and angry. The stink of burning flesh - his own - was strong in his nostrils, and he blinked as he was momentarily blinded by the lightning tearing apart the heavens. While many warrior-brothers of the XVII Legion had the noble countenance of their primarch, Sor Talgron had the face of one born to fight, with broad, thick features and a nose that had been broken so many times it was nothing more than a fleshy lump smeared across his face. He scowled darkly and swore as he pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, his muscles protesting. Sergeant Arshaq, flames spewing from his jump pack, landed alongside him, followed closely by the other members of Veteran Squad Helikon. 'Are you all right, captain?' asked the sergeant. Sor Talgron nodded his head. 'The construct?' he said. 'Destroyed,' confirmed Arshaq, reaching a hand out to his captain. 'The path to the shield-dome is clear.' Sor Talgron accepted Arshaq's outstretched hand, allowing the veteran sergeant to help him back to his feet. The last vestiges of the electricity that had engulfed him flickered over his gauntlets and up Arshaq's arm. Nodding his thanks, Sor Talgron turned towards the flickering shield-dome, shielding his eyes against its glare. They were only five hundred metres from the lightning-shield now, and the air crackled with intensity, making his short-cropped black hair stand on end. The weight of fire being directed against the immense lightning-dome from the ground was awesome. Hundreds of tanks were bombarding the flickering, curved sides of the shield at a scale that would have long ago felled city blocks. A demi-legion of Titans, immense machines of destruction crafted by the adepts of Mars that stood as tall as buildings, unleashed the full power of their weapons against the shield, yet even these, amongst the most potent weapons the Imperium of Man was able to construct, appeared to have little effect. From within the shield-dome, more of the blasphemous enemy war constructs were marching, passing through the shield unscathed, protected within their bubbles of energy. They stalked out to meet the Word Bearers in the streets below, moving forwards in staggered lines, lightning forking from their silver arms as they brought them together. How many more of them did the enemy have, Sor Talgron wondered? Sor Talgron was almost blinded as another searing orbital strike split the sky, lancing down through the upper atmosphere to smash against the top of the shield. Still it held, an impenetrable barrier that it seemed would not be breached, no matter the amount of ordnance thrown against it. 'I really hope this plan of Kol Badar's is going to work,' said Sergeant Arshaq. 'You and me both, my friend,' said Sor Talgron. His eyes settled on the immense tower-spires encased in silver that ringed the shield-dome. Each was struck time and again by lightning spearing down from the tumultuous storm clouds, and an intense humming of power reverberated from these giant rods as the power built within them. Several times a minute this harnessed energy was expelled from one of the spires in great lightning arcs that stabbed down into the streets below, striking at tanks and squads of Astartes with deafening thunderclaps, killing dozens with every strike. Even as Sor Talgron and Squad Helikon looked on, electricity leapt from one of the silver spires in a jagged line, striking at one of the giant Warlord-class Titans blasting at the shield-dome from afar. The cataclysmic sound of the discharge hit them a fraction of a second later, the sound threatening to rupture Sor Talgron's unprotected eardrums. The Titan's void shields were stripped away by the force of the strike and it rocked backwards as if in pain. Another immense blast of energy forked from the silver spires, striking the Titan in its head even as it attempted to step back away from the danger, and the forty-metre-high colossus toppled, smashing down on top of a pair of Land Raider battle tanks, crushing them like paper. Interspersed between these towering spires were smaller ones, and while those too were frequently struck by the fury of the storm, when they discharged their power, it was not towards the Astartes but rather towards the shield-dome itself. Sor Talgron had studied these spires from afar, and he believed that Kol Badar was correct in suggesting that these were what was keeping the shield intact. The lightning they absorbed forked from their silver lengths into the shield, strengthening it and keeping it solid. These were Sor Talgron's targets, for he believed that if they were destroyed, then the shield would fall. Located high up on the superstructure, they were hard to target from the ground, and the defensive spires surrounding them would strike down any aircraft approaching to drop its payload upon the shield-spires. It fell to his Assault squad to launch the strike. However, less than a quarter of his jump pack-equipped warriors had made it this far - the strength of the enemy's resistance had not been foreseen. He had only enough Assault squads remaining to take down three of the spires, and he had no idea if that would be enough to have any real effect on the shield. Still, he was not going to back off now. He could see grey armoured figures in the distance, fire and smoke trailing behind them, leaping towards the spires he had allocated as targets. The time to test Kol Badar's theory had come, and again he prayed that this was going to work. 'It has to work,' Sor Talgron said grimly to himself. He took a deep breath, then opened up a vox-channel to his Assault squads. 'Report,' he said. 'First wave, target secured,' growled the voice of Kol Badar, his most trusted veteran sergeant, and the one who had suggested this course of action. Tactically astute and fearless in battle, Sor Talgron knew he would go far. 'Awaiting your mark,' said the sergeant. 'Second target secured, captain,' said Sergeant Bachari, in command of the second wave. 'Melta charges locked in position.' From his position, Sor Talgron could see the warriors of Bachari's second wave in the distance surrounding the slender silver spire that had been designated as their target, less than fifty metres from the flickering veil. Kol Badar's first wave would be surrounding a similar spire, fifty metres higher up the structure. 'Sergeant Paeblen? Does Squad Lementas control the third target?' said Sor Talgron. 'Engaging the enemy, captain,' came Paeblen's voice. The sound of roaring chainswords, Astartes shouting and weapons discharging echoed in the background. There was a loud explosion, and the line abruptly descended into static white noise. A moment later, a new voice crackled across the vox. 'Brother Aecton here, captain,' said the voice. 'Go ahead, brother,' said Sor Talgron. 'Sergeant Paeblen is down, captain,' said Brother Aecton. 'I am taking temporary command of the third wave.' Aecton was an experienced member of Squad Lementas, a battle-scarred veteran that Sor Talgron knew could be relied upon to keep his wits in the most nightmarish situations. As the longest-serving member of Lementas, it fell to him to take command if anything happened to his sergeant. A moment later the vox crackled, and Aecton's voice came through once more. 'Target secured, captain. Melta charges are in place.' 'Good work, Brother Aecton,' said Sor Talgron. 'All squads: blow your charges on my mark,' said Sor Talgron. Turning to Sergeant Arshaq, he nodded solemnly. 'Moment of truth,' remarked the sergeant. Sor Talgron smiled grimly. 'Do it,' he said. THE MELTA BOMB clusters placed around the base of the three silver spires detonated simultaneously. For a moment, Sor Talgron saw no real effect, and he felt certain that the ploy had failed. Then he saw one of the three targeted spires begin to shudder. As the melta charges turned its base to a superheated morass of bubbling liquid and hissing gas, the spire began to sag. With a metallic groan, accompanied by wildly discharging electricity, the kilometre-high spire collapsed and fell inwards, straight towards the shield-dome. Even as that one spire began to fall slowly towards the lightning-dome, so too did the other two shudder and collapse,

felt certain that the ploy had failed. Then he saw one of the three targeted spires begin to shudder. As the melta charges turned its base to a superheated morass of bubbling liquid and hissing gas, the spire began to sag. With a metallic groan, accompanied by wildly discharging electricity, the kilometre-high spire collapsed and fell inwards, straight towards the shield-dome. Even as that one spire began to fall slowly towards the lightning-dome, so too did the other two shudder and collapse, falling slowly at first and then with increasing velocity. If the fall of the spires had any effect at all, created any breach in the shield whatsoever, then Sor Talgron felt certain that it would only be a momentary gap. 'Now!' roared Sor Talgron, leaping into the air, the flames of his jump pack carrying him straight towards the dome. He accelerated fast, the engines of his jump pack straining against the forces of gravity. He could feel the power of the shield-dome intensify as he drew nearer, making his skin tingle and his eardrums reverberate painfully. He was no more than fifty metres from the veil when the first spire struck. An explosion of light and electricity erupted, far more intense than any he had yet seen. A moment later, the other two spires hit, creating a blinding discharge of electricity. Bolts of power leapt madly between the three silver spires, and a rent was momentarily ripped open between them, a hole sheared in the fabric of the dome. Without pause, Sor Talgron angled towards the temporary gap, pushing the engines of his jump pack to their limits, burning rapidly through the last reserves of fuel. Jagged arcs of lightning criss-crossed back and forth across the tear in the shield-dome as the veil began to reform its impenetrable mesh. With a shout, Sor Talgron pushed on, knowing that he was committed now; there was no turning back. He roared through the ever-diminishing hole, and his entire body was jolted as a barbed fork of lightning passed through him, using his flesh as a conduit. His jump pack shorted out completely, sparking and smoking, though the force of his momentum carried him through the rapidly diminishing rent in the veil. His vision was fading in and out, and he dropped like a stone, a smoking, charred body, landing heavily on a palatial balcony within the flickering dome. Sor Talgron twitched involuntarily for a moment as the last vestiges of electricity left him, dissipating across the smooth glassy floor. Pushing himself up to one knee, smoke rising from the burnt, stinking flesh of his face, he unclipped the release clamps upon his breastplate, and his now useless, smoking jump pack dropped to the ground with heavy clunk. 'That was... unpleasant,' said Arshaq, pushing himself to his feet nearby. The veteran sergeant's cream-coloured tabard was hanging off him in fire-blackened strips. Some parts of the robe were still on fire, and Arshaq casually ripped the remnants of the fabric away from him. Only the warriors of Squad Helikon had made it through the gap. The other three of the surviving Assault squads were stuck outside the shield-dome. Sor Talgron swore. It had taken all of the squads' melta bombs to create even that momentary crack in the enemy's defence - it would not be a move that his Assault squads would be able to replicate, nor was he able to contact his brother Space Marines beyond to advise them of a new course of action - evidently, the shield-dome blocked vox traffic as easily as incoming lance strikes. The all-encompassing lightning-dome they were now ensconced within obscured everything beyond. Sor Talgron's scorched face was stinging, but he ignored the pain, his eyes fixed in the distance. The city within the dome had been untouched by war, and it was an awe-inspiring sight. Pristine crystal domes, glass spires and interconnected walkways that gleamed like spider-webs dipped in quicksilver sprawled before them. But Sor Talgron paid none of these structures any mind; he was completely focused upon the looming glass structure in the distance - and upon the giant statue that towered above it. His eyes narrowed as he glared up at the titanic statue. It stood more than a kilometre tall, a titanic silver and glass colossus in the form of a man, standing with arms raised. Lightning from the shield-dome struck the statue's outstretched hands every few seconds, bathing it in flashes of flickering energy that coiled around its arms and torso. Sor Talgron felt loathing rise up within him. This was no statue of a heroic founder or local legend; this was an effigy of the god of the people of Forty-seven Sixteen. 'So it is true, then,' said Arshaq, disgust in his voice. 'These people are heathen idolators.' 'Lorgar, give me strength,' Sor Talgron murmured. 'Captain,' said Sergeant Arshaq, consulting his auspex. 'We have multiple contacts, moving on our position. What are your orders?' 'We go there,' said Sor Talgron, pointing towards the statue. 'And we kill everything we find. Those are our orders.' STRANGELY, THEY HAD encountered little resistance since passing through the dome. After the brutal battle towards the centre of the enemy superstructure, the utter absence of the enemy here was eerie. They traversed over expansive arched walkways of delicate glass, moving warily towards the immense central spire, covering all the angles and scanning for movement. The battle outside the sphere of lightning had been bloody in the extreme - the artificial war constructs were deadly foes, utilising weaponry unlike anything that any of the crusade fleets had encountered, as far as he understood. Yet here, within the sheltered, impenetrable dome of energy, it was peaceful - almost serene. Through vaulted hallways and soaring cathedral-like passages they moved, footsteps echoing loudly upon the smooth glass. 'It's like a tomb,' remarked Arshaq. Sor Talgron was forced to agree. He almost wished for an enemy to appear, just to break the tension. Almost. The Word Bearers moved warily along a wide bridge spanning two glittering crystal spires, closing steadily on the central temple structure that rose up before them like an exotic crystal flower, atop which stood the colossal statue of the enemy's false god. Sor Talgron could not look upon the vile storm-god statue without feeling his gorge rise. On more than one occasion they glimpsed enemy constructs stalking along bridges and walkways far below, moving towards the shield-dome and the battle raging outside, but they appeared unaware - or unconcerned - with the Astartes already within the shield. It seemed that the entire superstructure of the enemy continent-city revolved around this strangely alien building, and all the walkways, ramparts and flyways within the veil led towards it. Undoubtedly, it was a structure of great importance, and Sor Talgron felt strongly that the last vestiges of humanity on this doomed world were hidden within. They covered the ten kilometres to the heart of the city swiftly, moving at a fast pace that they could have maintained for days on end. At last they drew near the central temple-building. The storm-god statue loomed above them, its arms bathed in lightning. They were just stepping out from beneath a towering archway of crystal splinters, stalking warily towards this central structure, when Sergeant Arshaq spoke. 'Life readings,' he warned, consulting the squad's auspex. They were the first life signs that the device had registered since their arrival on Forty-seven Sixteen. Sor Talgron barked an order and Squad Helikon formed a defensive perimeter around their captain. They continued to advance, drawing ever closer to the huge, cylindrical temple that rose up before them. Gaping, triangular portals were cut into the sides of the temple. The interior was filled with blinding light - nothing within its brilliance could be discerned. Warily, the Word Bearers advanced towards the nearest portal. Sor Talgron shielded his eyes against the bright light. There was a delicate shimmering sound emanating from within, and with a nod he ordered Squad Helikon in. Stepping inside was like being transported to a completely different location. Sor Talgron felt the change in the air against his burnt skin. The air here was cool and vaguely fragrant, where outside it was hot and filled with the acrid stink of electricity. His gaze was immediately drawn upwards. The immense structure was formed around a vast cylindrical shaft, which disappeared into the distance overhead. This lofty expanse was filled with shimmering light that descended from above like an ethereal waterfall falling in slow motion. A strange, lilting sound accompanied this fey light, something akin to the sound of glass chimes, overlaid with the hum of energy. Hundreds of arcing balconies and gantries ringed this central shaft, and walkways criss-crossed the expanse. So focused on these disturbing wonders was Sor Talgron that he barely registered the panes of glass silently sealing the portal behind them. Standing atop a fluted pillar of glass was an exact replica of the colossus half a kilometre overhead, though this statue was a "mere" fifty metres tall. Its head was thrown back rapturously, its arms held skywards in what might have been praise or glory. Shimmering light bathed this statue in radiant brilliance. The floor sunk away below them in a steep series of tiers - hundreds of them. And upon each tier crowded the kneeling figures of men, women and children. These were the first people that the Word Bearers had encountered since their arrival on Forty-seven Sixteen - the last of the world's population. All had their heads bowed to the floor in prayer, facing towards the glass idol of their profane storm-lord. Sor Talgron guessed there must have been some forty thousand people packed into the stadium-like temple, all of them murmuring in low voices and rocking from side to side, as if lost in a trance

the kneeling figures of men, women and children. These were the first people that the Word Bearers had encountered since their arrival on Forty-seven Sixteen - the last of the world's population. All had their heads bowed to the floor in prayer, facing towards the glass idol of their profane storm-lord. Sor Talgron guessed there must have been some forty thousand people packed into the stadium-like temple, all of them murmuring in low voices and rocking from side to side, as if lost in a trance. None seemed to have noticed the appearance of Sor Talgron and Squad Helikon. Upon a dais at the bottom of the circular tiers, a diminutive old man stood leaning upon a staff of glass and silver. He raised his head, staring up at Sor Talgron and his brethren. He did not appear surprised or shocked at their appearance; rather, he wore a mournful expression on his cracked parchment face. 'Stay with me,' said Sor Talgron. 'Hold your fire, and follow my lead.' His eyes were locked on the one who could only be the religious leader of the enemy civilisation. This was the one that Kor Phaeron had met with less than two days earlier. Flanked by the warrior-brothers of Squad Helikon, he began marching down the steep stairs towards the enemy leader. At some unspoken command, the entire congregation of men, women and children stood, turning to face the intruders into their realm. The Word Bearers tensed, levelling weapons towards the crowd. Sor Talgron expected to see the flush of anger and resentment in their faces, but they stared at the towering Astartes forlornly and, perhaps, with a little disappointment. 'Nobody engage,' warned Sor Talgron. For all that the enemy appeared to pose little threat, he knew from experience that it took but a single individual to turn the mood of a mob murderous - indeed, the Chaplains of the Legion were skilful at inciting just such emotion. Were the crowd to turn on them, the resulting massacre would be terrible. He and his brothers would reap a bloody toll, taking down hundreds, perhaps thousands, of these people, but there were only half a dozen, facing more than forty thousand. Even Astartes would eventually be dragged down by such numbers. The warriors of XVII Legion descended the steep tiers, eyeing the crowd that parted before them warily. The people regarding them stood in absolute silence, which was, Sor Talgron thought, perhaps more disconcerting than had they been braying for blood; at least that he would have understood. The old man regarded their approach solemnly. 'What are we doing?' hissed Sergeant Arshaq, using a closed vox channel so none of his squad could hear. 'I want to see how divergent these people really are,' said Sor Talgron, replying on the same closed channel. He had known Arshaq for decades, both having been raised in the same temple on their grim home world of Colchis, and the captain overlooked such breaches in protocol from the sergeant, valuing his opinion. The sergeant's silence to his answer was enough to tell him that Arshaq did not approve, but he knew him well enough to know that the sergeant would back him up, no matter what. They descended to the bottom of the tiers, and started up the steps of the dais towards the old priest. Sor Talgron levelled his bolt pistol at the elderly man's head. 'Squad Helikon,' said Sor Talgron in a low voice. 'Establish a perimeter.' 'Yes, captain,' said the sergeant of Squad Helikon, nodding. With clipped commands, Arshaq directed his squad members into position. They spread apart, facing outwards, scanning the crowd for potential threats. Talgron stepped onto the final level of the dais and came to a halt before the old priest. The elderly man came up barely to his midsection, and though he was clearly ancient, his eyes were bright and alert. Something in his gaze made Sor Talgron vaguely uneasy. Was he a sorcerer? He dismissed the notion immediately. The old man was unnerving but he felt no threat from him. He lowered his pistol. 'I am Sor Talgron, Captain of Thirty-fourth Company, XVII Legion,' he said, his voice ringing out loudly, breaking the silence. 'Why do you bring death to my world, warmonger?' said the old man, speaking a corrupted, archaic form of Low Gothic. 'You will order the complete surrender of your armed forces, effective immediately, and relinquish control of the world designated Forty-seven Sixteen,' said Sor Talgron, ignoring the old priest's words. 'Understand?' 'Why do you bring death to my world?' said the priest again, but again Sor Talgron refused to acknowledge his words. 'You will lower the lightning-shield protecting this structure,' he said firmly. 'You will order your people and your infernal thinking machines to cease all hostilities. Do I make myself clear?' The old priest sighed, and nodded his head vaguely. With a gesture, he drew Sor Talgron's attention towards a dark glass cube that was rising smoothly from the floor. Was it some form of weapon? His pistol was in his hand instantly. There was something forming within the solid mass of the prism, and sensing no immediate danger, Sor Talgron stepped cautiously towards it. The perfect glass cube would have come up to the chest of a regular human, but Sor Talgron was forced to bend forwards to peer at the image taking shape within. At first the object forming within was hazy and transparent, like a ghost-image, but within several heartbeats it solidified. It was somewhat like the three-dimensional representations that he had seen produced by advanced pict-devices, but those images were always poor representations of reality. This image looked real, a solid artefact, encased in the glass cube. It was an open book, he saw, painstakingly illuminated with ink and gold leaf. The borders were replete with impossibly intricate, coiling designs and interweaving patterns. Sor Talgron saw that stylised figures and creatures were worked into these borders, hidden amidst the twisting patterns and coiling spirals. Each of the pages was covered in dense lines of script written in a firm, austere and vaguely familiar hand. Every warrior-brother of the XVII Legion spent several hours every day engaged in solitary illumination, but never had he seen a work such as this. The penmanship and artistry was phenomenal, far beyond anything that Sor Talgron or any warrior-brother could ever hope to achieve. It was a work of undeniable genius - something that surely no mortal hand could ever hope to match. Indeed, the only illuminated works that he had ever seen that were even vaguely comparable was those penned by the Urizen himself, and he had only been allowed fragmentary glimpses of those great works... He leaned in closer, eyes widening. The text was written in the variation of High Gothic utilised only by the religious elite of his homeworld, Colchis. 'What is this?' said Sor Talgron in shock, his mind whirling. He threw a glance towards the priest, standing nearby, but it was impossible to read the expression in the old man's eyes. He turned back towards the book seemingly trapped within the black cube. '...and in faith shall the universe be united...' he said, reading aloud a line that leapt out from the dense script. His voice faltered. He knew these words. Indeed, he had memorised this work in its entirety. He swallowed heavily. '...united behind the... the God-Emperor of all mankind,' he said in a hoarse whisper, completing the hallowed line. He looked back at the old priest in confusion and shock. 'I don't understand,' he said. 'We are the Scions of the Storm,' said the old man, gesturing with both arms to encapsulate all the people standing around the temple dais. 'What in Lorgar's name is that supposed to mean?' growled Sor Talgron. The old priest snorted, and shuffled past Sor Talgron. He leant forwards and brushed his fingertips across the smooth surface of the cube. The pages of the book within the glass prism turned in response, flicking rapidly. Each was intricately illuminated and covered in dense script. Sliding his fingertips more slowly across the surface of the cube, the old priest made the pages turn slower, flicking slowly until he came to the densely illuminated frontispiece of the holy text. He flashed Sor Talgron a sad smile, pointing at the page. The captain of Thirty-fourth Company stared wide-eyed at the full-page illumination. It showed a radiant figure bedecked in wondrously detailed armour, detailed in gold leaf. The divine figure's head was thrown back, and surrounded by a golden halo. The God-Emperor of Mankind. Sor Talgron's eye was drawn to the golden armour worn by the God-Emperor, to His ornate and ancient breastplate, the breastplate He was said to have worn while leading the ancient armies of unification across the ravaged surface of old Terra... the breastplate that bore the ancient symbols of His rulership, symbols that were recognised and rightfully feared before even the commencement of Old Night, the symbols mirrored on the golden armour of the Legio Custodes, the Emperor's personal guard. These symbols rose in bas-relief from the Emperor's armour; they represented the Emperor's wrath - thunder bolts. Understanding dawned. The inhabitants of Forty-seven Sixteen were worshipping the Emperor... SOR TALGRON SWALLOWED thickly, still staring at the image of the Emperor. Scions of the Storm, the old man had called his people; sons of the storm. They were worshipping the Emperor as a god, the personification of the storms that wracked their world. 'Now you understand,' said the priest. He tapped a finger onto the smooth surface of the cube, and the three-dimensional image of the holy work disappeared. 'This war should never have been sanctioned,' said Sor Talgron. 'Your people are not heretics.' 'No,' said the old priest. 'We wished to join your Imperium - long had we thought ourselves alone in the darkness.' 'We can stop this,' said Sor Talgron. 'You must lower your shield

the personification of the storms that wracked their world. 'Now you understand,' said the priest. He tapped a finger onto the smooth surface of the cube, and the three-dimensional image of the holy work disappeared. 'This war should never have been sanctioned,' said Sor Talgron. 'Your people are not heretics.' 'No,' said the old priest. 'We wished to join your Imperium - long had we thought ourselves alone in the darkness.' 'We can stop this,' said Sor Talgron. 'You must lower your shield - I cannot contact my commander while it is intact.' How many people had already died here? And for what? Sor Talgron felt hollow inside. They had committed genocide because of a misunderstanding. The Scion smiled sadly, and stepped towards Sor Talgron. He placed a wrinkled hand upon the captain's chest plate, over his heart. 'Give me your word that the last of my people will live, and the shield shall be lowered,' the old man said. 'I swear it,' said Sor Talgron. The shield-dome encasing the temple-palace of the Scions flickered and disappeared, and Sor Talgron hastily patched in to the Fidelitas Lex, speaking of what he had learnt. 'Understood, Talgron,' came Kor Phaeron's muffled reply. 'The Urizen has been informed. Hold position.' The long-range vox-channel was cut off, and for long minutes Sor Talgron and Squad Helikon stood by uneasily, waiting for fresh orders. The squad still kept their weapons upon the crowd, and Sor Talgron stared up at the statue of the Emperor above. Long minutes passed. Now that the shield-dome was down, vox-reports began to flood in - it appeared that all fighting across Forty-seven Sixteen had ceased. 'Teleport signature,' reported Arshaq finally. 'This will all be over soon, old one,' Sor Talgron said in a respectful tone. 'The Urizen will be pleased to have learnt that you are believers.' A moment later, scores of coalescing shapes began to appear around the circumference of the tiered prayer-levels above, teleporting in from the Fidelitas Lex in low orbit overhead. They appeared at first as little more than vague shimmers of light, then as more solid forms as realisation was completed. One after another, a hundred Terminator-armoured Astartes materialised, weapons trained on the human worshippers of Forty-seven Sixteen. Sor Talgron raised an eyebrow. 'A little dramatic, brother,' he commented, under his breath. He raised a hand in greeting to his brother-captain. The distant figure of Kor Phaeron nodded curtly in response, though he made no move to descend the tiers. Two more shapes began to coalesce, this time on the dais alongside Sor Talgron. His eyes widened as he saw who it was that was teleporting in, and he dropped to one knee, his head bowed and his heart hammering in his chest as the teleportation was completed. A warm hand was placed upon the crown of his head, its pressure firm, yet nurturing. 'Rise, my son,' said a voice spoken with quiet, understated authority that nevertheless made a shudder of unaccountable panic ripple through Sor Talgron. It was not an experience common for an Astartes. Pushing himself to his feet, Sor Talgron lifted his gaze and looked upon the shadowed face of a demigod. LORGAR WAS AS magnificent and terrible to behold as ever. His scalp was completely hairless, and every inch of exposed flesh was caked in gold leaf, so that he gleamed like a statue of living metal. The sockets of his soulful, impossibly intense eyes were blackened with kohl, and Sor Talgron was, as ever, unable to hold the Urizen's gaze for more than a fraction of second. There was such vitality, such depth of pain, such intensity and yes, such suppressed violence in Lorgar's eyes that surely only another primarch could hope to stare into them without breaking down weeping before this living god. He stood a head taller than Sor Talgron, and his slender physique was encased within a magnificent suit of armour. Each overlapping plate was the colour of granite and inscribed with the intricate cuneiform of Colchis. Over this he wore an opulent robe the exact shade of congealed blood, the fabric heavy with gold stitching. The Urizen, the Golden One, the Anointed; the primarch of the XVII Legion had many names. To those whom he deemed heretic, he was death incarnate; to his faithful, he was everything. 'We are pleased with your success, brother-captain,' said a smooth voice. Almost gratefully, Sor Talgron turned his gaze towards the figure that accompanied the primarch. Erebus. Who else would dare answer for the primarch? 'Thank you, First Chaplain,' said Sor Talgron, bowing his head respectfully. 'This is the one?' said Lorgar, his intense gaze fixing upon the figure of the old priest, who stood transfixed at Sor Talgron's side. The captain of Thirty-fourth Company had all but forgotten about him. The elderly hierarch leant heavily on his staff, his eyes wide with horror. He was shaking his head slightly from side to side, moaning wordlessly. 'This is he, my lord,' replied Sor Talgron. 'This is the one I believe to be the leader of this world's cult of Emperor-worship.' Erebus smiled, though the smile did not reach his eyes. Sor Talgron knew that look well, and his blood turned to ice. 'I gave my word that no further harm would befall his people,' insisted Sor Talgron. 'Don't make a liar of me, Erebus.' 'You're going soft, brother,' said Erebus. 'It is my belief,' Sor Talgron said, looking towards Lorgar, 'that a race memory of the God-Emperor lingers in the subconscious of the inhabitants of Forty-seven Sixteen. They are devout, and worship Him faithfully, albeit as a crude, elemental force. It would be an easy thing to direct them towards the Imperial Truth, my lord. I feel that had such knowledge been known beforehand, the war on Forty-seven Sixteen would have been deemed unnecessary and inappropriate.' Erebus craned his neck to look up at the statue of the storm-god above them. He raised an eyebrow and exchanged an amused glance with his primarch before looking Sor Talgron in the eye once more. 'You've done your duty, captain,' said Erebus, stalking around behind the old priest like a wolf circling its prey. 'And you've saved the lives of many of our brothers. For that, you are to be commended.' 'There is more,' insisted Sor Talgron. 'I believe that they have been... picking up our signals, my lord. I saw a copy of...' His voice faltered as the Urizen turned his gaze towards him once more, and he felt a shudder of unease beneath the power of the primarch's gaze. 'A copy of what, captain?' 'The Lectitio Divinitatus, lord,' said Sor Talgron. 'Really?' said Lorgar, clearly surprised. 'Yes, my lord,' said Sor Talgron. 'Walk with me,' said Lorgar. Sor Talgron found himself responding instantly. Such was the power and control in the primarch's voice that he would not have been able to resist had he any wish to. 'Bring him,' the Urizen said over his shoulder, and Erebus guided the old priest, gently but firmly, in their wake. Squad Helikon fell in behind them at a nod from the First Chaplain, leaving the dais empty. The primarch stepped off the dais and strode towards the steep, tiered stairway that would take them up to the ring of Kor Phaeron's First Company, standing motionless around the circumference of the arena above. Sor Talgron had to hurry to keep pace. Abruptly, the primarch came to a halt at the bottom of the stairs, turning to face the captain of Thirty-fourth Company, a rare, sardonic smile curling the corners of his lips. 'It was a lifetime ago when I wrote the Lectitio Divinitatus,' said Lorgar. 'It is the greatest literary work ever to have been conceived,' said Sor Talgron. 'It is your masterpiece.' Erebus laughed lightly at that, and Sor Talgron felt his choler rise. Lorgar broke into motion once more, taking the stairs four at a time, and he struggled to keep up. Of the thousands of people who stared open-mouthed at this golden, living god walking among them, the Urizen paid no notice. 'Much has happened these past months,' the primarch said. 'My eyes have been opened.' 'My lord?' said Sor Talgron. 'The Lectitio Divinitatus is nothing,' said the primarch. There was a quiet but forceful vehemence to his voice. 'Nothing.' Sor Talgron could not comprehend what he was hearing, and he furrowed his brow. Was this some test of his faith and devotion? 'I am composing a new work,' declared Lorgar, favouring Sor Talgron with a conspiratorial glance. They were almost at the top of the tiered steps. 'It is almost complete. It is to be my opus, Talgron, something with true meaning. It will make you forget the Lectitio Divinitatus.' 'What is it, lord?' said Sor Talgron, though he immediately feared he had overstepped his mark. 'Something special,' said the Urizen, tantalisingly. They reached the top of the tiered amphitheatre, where they were greeted by Kor Phaeron, who dropped to one knee before his lord primarch. When he stood, his eyes were burning hot with the flames of fanaticism. He licked his lips as he stared at the old priest, who was being helped up the final stairs by an attentive and gentle Erebus. 'My lord,' said Sor Talgron, his mouth dry. He felt the gaze of the priest upon him, but avoided it. 'Are we to condemn these people for... for merely being cut off from Terra?' Stony silence greeted Sor Talgron's words, broken finally by Kor Phaeron. 'Ignorance is no excuse for blasphemy, brother,' he said. Lorgar glared at his First Captain, who backed away, dropping his gaze and visibly paling. Then the primarch put his arm around Sor Talgron's shoulder, and drew him away from the others. At such close proximity, he smelt of rich oils and incense. The scent was intoxicating. 'Sometimes,' said Lorgar, his tone one of regret, 'sacrifices must be made.' He turned Sor Talgron around. The priest was still looking at him, eyes filled with dread. Out of the corner of his vision, Sor Talgron saw the primarch's almost imperce

st Captain, who backed away, dropping his gaze and visibly paling. Then the primarch put his arm around Sor Talgron's shoulder, and drew him away from the others. At such close proximity, he smelt of rich oils and incense. The scent was intoxicating. 'Sometimes,' said Lorgar, his tone one of regret, 'sacrifices must be made.' He turned Sor Talgron around. The priest was still looking at him, eyes filled with dread. Out of the corner of his vision, Sor Talgron saw the primarch's almost imperceptible nod. A knife, its blade curved like the body of a serpent, was suddenly in Erebus's hand. Sor Talgron cried out, but Lorgar's grip around his shoulders was crushing, and he could do nothing as the blade was plunged into the old priest's neck. Holding the old man upright with one hand, Erebus ripped his knife free and a fountain of blood spurted from the fatal wound. Hot arterial blood splashed across the plates of Erebus's blessed armour, staining it dark red. Dipping a finger into the geyser of blood, Erebus swiftly drew an eight-pointed star upon the dying man's forehead, though the meaning of the symbol was lost on Sor Talgron. Then, the First Chaplain hurled the old man away from him, sending him crashing down the stairs that he had just helped the old man climb. The priest's body tumbled and flopped end over end. It came to rest halfway at the foot of the stairs, a broken, lifeless marionette, blood pooling beneath it, arms and legs bent unnaturally. Before the shocked worshippers of Forty-seven Sixteen could react, the entirety of the First Company began firing. The sound was deafening, blotting out the screams. Bolters and autocannons were swung methodically from left and right, mowing down unarmoured men, women and children indiscriminately. Heavy flamers spewed their volatile liquid fire down into the packed masses. Ammunition was expended, and the First Company Terminators calmly reloaded, slamming fresh magazines into place, replacing drums of high-calibre rounds, threading fresh belts through arming chambers and replacing empty canisters of promethium with fresh ones. Then they simply continued firing. 'Do you trust me, Sor Talgron?' said Lorgar, his breath hot against the captain's face. Shocked and horrified by the scale of the brutal massacre, Sor Talgron was unable to answer. 'Do you trust me?' the Urizen said, more fiercely, his voice quivering with such intensity of feeling that Sol Talgron felt that his legs would surely have given way beneath him had he not been supported. The captain of Thirty-fourth Company turned his face towards the impassioned, golden face of his primarch, lord and mentor. He nodded his head slightly. 'Then believe me when I say that this is necessary,' said Lorgar, his voice full of righteous fury. 'The Emperor, in His wisdom, has driven us to this point,' said Lorgar. 'This is His will. This is His mercy. The blood of these innocents is on His hands.' The deafening roar of the slaughter slowly died. At a barked order from Kor Phaeron, the Terminators of First Company began descending the tiers, inspecting the kills and executing those who had, miraculously, survived their concentrated fire. 'I need to know who I can trust,' said Lorgar, his voice filled with such intensity that Sor Talgron knew fear - real fear - such that an Astartes should never know. 'I need to know that my sons would follow me where I must go. Can I trust you, Word Bearer?' 'Yes,' said Sor Talgron, his throat cracked and dry. 'Would you walk into hell itself alongside me if I asked it?' asked Lorgar. Sor Talgron made no immediate response. Slowly, he nodded his head. Lorgar stared at him intently, and he felt his soul shrivel beneath the penetrating gaze. In that moment Sor Talgron felt certain that Lorgar was going to kill him then and there. 'Please, my lord,' gasped Sor Talgron. 'I would follow you. I swear it. No matter what.' The intensity suddenly left Lorgar's face, washed away as if it had never been. How could he ever have thought the Urizen meant him harm, he thought? He almost laughed out loud, the notion was so ludicrous. 'You asked me before what the great work I am scribing was,' said Lorgar, his tone casual and light. 'For now, I am calling it the Book of Lorgar.' The primarch of the Word Bearers released his grip on Sor Talgron. Lorgar's golden lips turned into a smile, and despite everything, Sor Talgron could not help but feel his heart lift. Lorgar laughed softly to himself. 'Such hubris, I know,' he said. 'I'd like you to read it.' Lorgar looked him directly, his eyes flashing. 'What do you remember of the old beliefs of Colchis, Sor Talgron?' THE VOICE James Swallow IN SILENCE, ONLY truth remains. But to find it; ah, there is the task. For, one must ask herself, what place is truly silent? Where can the absolute stillness of tranquillity be found? The question was a common one placed to novices at the very start of their induction, and it was a rare aspirant who showed the wisdom to come even close to the correct answer. Many would look to the stars, through the portals of the great ebon-hulled craft they found themselves aboard, and they would point to the void. Out there, they would say. In the airless dark, there is silence. No atmosphere to carry the vibrations of sound, no passage there for voice nor song nor shout nor scream. The void is silence, they would say. And they would be corrected. For even where there is no air to breathe, there is still clamour, the... chaos, as it were. Even there, broadcast across wavelengths that unaugmented humans could not perceive, there was the riot of cosmic radiation and the constant rumble of the universe's great stellar engines as it turned and aged. Even darkness itself had a sound, if one had the ears with which to hear it. So then. The question again. Where is silence? Here. Leilani Mollitas mouthed the words, her voice stilled. It is here, within me. She touched her chest with both hands, palms flat and blades of fingers extended, thumbs crossed in the shape of the great Aquila. Inside her thoughts, behind her closed eyes, beyond the rush of blood in her veins, the novice strained to listen and find the tranquillity of self; for it was only within the human heart that the absolute purity of silence could be found, the peace that only the mute could know. A frown grew upon her pale, pleasant face. She could not reach it. Even as that thought formed in Leilani's mind, she knew she was lost to the moment. The perfect embrace of serenity faded from her and she allowed a breath to escape her lips. In the flat hush of the sanctum the noise of her exhalation was like the rush of a wave breaking against a shore, and she felt her cheeks colour slightly. Her eyes snapped open and she blinked, displeased with herself. Her mentor stood a few feet away, observing her with the same perpetually watchful air that was the very meter of her character. The other woman moved her head slightly, the top-knot of purple-black hair about her otherwise shorn scalp shifting to pool on the shoulders of her golden battle-bodice. Below the flexible duty armour, reinforced red thigh-boots and studded gloves covered her limbs, with more plate metal for her sleeves and a snake-skin of dense mail as leggings. Tabards hung free from her waist and she was without weapons, her helmet or the finery of her furred combat cloak. Amendera Kendel of the Storm Dagger cadre, Oblivion Knight and Sister of Silence, stood before her without a sound. Her amber eyes betrayed a teacher's concern for a promising student. Leilani smothered her startled reaction quickly. She had thought herself alone in the Black Ship's meditation chamber, utterly unaware of the other woman's arrival. The girl could not help but wonder how long Kendel had been there, how long she had been studying her as she tried and failed to find her inner focus. By contrast, the novice was dressed only in her mail undersuit and the lightweight hooded robe of an unvowed aspirant. Leilani raised her bare hands and began to sign, but her mistress halted her with a short shake of the head. Instead the woman held the tips of two fingers to her chin. Give voice, commanded the gesture. The novice's lips thinned. She longed for the day when words would no longer pass from her mouth, but as she had just demonstrated, it would not be today. At this moment, Novice-Sister Leilani Mollitas felt further away from taking the Oath of Tranquillity than she ever had before. 'Sister Amendera,' she began, and even her whispers rose to fill every corner of the cavernous Sanctum Aphonorium, 'How may I be of service to you?' Kendel's hand fell to the crimson leather of her belt and her fingers toyed with it a moment; Leilani knew the subtle cue from her many months of service as the Oblivion Knight's adjutant. Her mistress was framing her thoughts, marshalling them into ready formations in much the same way she commanded her Witchseeker squads. The novice wondered if Kendel had ever made an ill-considered statement in her entire life. You continue to be troubled. The Knight spoke in ThoughtMark, one of the symbolic sign languages employed by the Silent Sisterhood. Small in scale, full of delicate gestures of finger and thumb, it served to convey concepts of great subtlety or intricate nature. It was far more graceful than the large, sharp motions of BattleMark, the command language used by the Sisters to communicate on the field of conflict, far more complex and nuanced. Many of the fine inferences of Kendel's intent could not have been translated directly into spoken Imperial Gothic. There were shades of degree in her statement that no human voice could ever have delivered, and thus Leilani felt hobbled as she replied with crude words. 'It is so,' she agreed. 'The news from the outer rim is difficult for me to assimilate.' The words tumbled out of her in a rush, echoing slightly off the curve

communicate on the field of conflict, far more complex and nuanced. Many of the fine inferences of Kendel's intent could not have been translated directly into spoken Imperial Gothic. There were shades of degree in her statement that no human voice could ever have delivered, and thus Leilani felt hobbled as she replied with crude words. 'It is so,' she agreed. 'The news from the outer rim is difficult for me to assimilate.' The words tumbled out of her in a rush, echoing slightly off the curved steel walls of the meditation chamber. The novice was feeling increasingly uncomfortable speaking out loud in this hallowed place. The Aeria Gloris, as with every starship in service with the Divisio Astra Telepathica, was equipped with aphonoria, great spaces within their hulls where sound-deadening technologies rendered the closest equivalent to absolute quiet. To break that silence seemed an obscenity, a defacement; yet Sister Amendera made no move to step aside and usher Leilani into the nearby antechamber, concealed from them by ornate curtains of black and gold. Perhaps it was some sort of test, like the question? Yes, that had to be it. Kendel had made it clear during Leilani's duty under her command that she expected much from the young aspirant, and not for the first time the novice-sister wondered if she would be found wanting. 'What we witnessed in the Somnus Citadel,' she continued, 'the... creature brought back from Isstvan aboard the starship Eisenstein.' The girl shook her head, recalling a mutated Astartes warrior that had run riot across the Sisterhood's lunar stronghold, the freakish aberration that had once been a loyal warrior of the Emperor. 'These things pull at my reason, mistress, and I find it difficult to hold my mind upon the tasks at hand.' She looked away, to the steel decking beneath her boots. 'All this talk of traitors and heresy. Horus...' The Warmaster's name left her lips and it seemed louder than a gunshot. She stumbled over her thoughts and looked up once more. Kendel nodded once. These reports of his rebellion are hard news. It would be a lie to say that no sister remains unaffected by the terrible duplicity that is said to be unfolding. 'It has robbed me of my focus,' Leilani admitted. 'I think of good men, of the noble Astartes we have often fought alongside, and then to conscience such monstrous deceit among their ranks...' She shivered. 'The Astartes and the primarchs are line kindred of the Emperor of Mankind himself, and if they are wracked by such division then...' The novice's throat went dry as she tried to utter the words. 'What if such horror reaches our ranks, mistress?' The other woman looked away. You would not be aware, she signed, but I met him once, the Warmaster. He was everything they say of him. And if he truly has turned his face from the rule of Terra, then it will be the war to end all wars to give him his censure. Leilani felt sobered by the Oblivion Knight's direct statement. In her service to the Sisters of Silence, the novice had been exposed to many sights - psykers driven insane by their ability to touch the churning madness of the warp, human beings whose flesh and minds had been twisted beyond all recognition, things less than alive that boiled with infernal psychic power - but all these were enemies she could understand, they were foes that, although reviled, Leilani could grasp in her reason. But the traitors? What possible motive could they have? This was the greatest era of humankind, with the galaxy turning at their feet and the Great Crusade at its height; why would one so highly placed as the Warmaster Horus wish to put a match to the Emperor's Utopia, when its completion was so close at hand? Who can know? replied Sister Amendera. The novice blushed, suddenly aware of the echo around her, realising that she had voiced those last few thoughts aloud. The swish of the fine silk curtains hanging across the chamber entrance drew the attention of both women, as the Null Maiden Sister Thessaly Nortor entered. Her taut, scar-sharpened face was drawn in a scowl and she gave a blunt BattleMark reply, clearly having heard the novice's last words. Target Warmaster. Traitor. Uprising status Flawed/In Error Condition. Insurrection will be Terminated in short order before Rebellion can Expand/Cause Collateral Damage. Nortor shot Leilani a hard look, a clear scolding in her eyes. The second-in-command of the Storm Dagger cadre had made no secret of her disdainful opinions of the Warmaster's mutiny. The other woman's breath rasped quietly through the mechanical apparatus at her neck; where Mollitas and Kendel showed bare flesh, almost three-quarters of Nortor's throat had been replaced with a mechanical augment. Made of a polished silver-steel, her artificial implant served the function of flesh destroyed during an engagement against the Jorgalli, inside one of the xenos's bottle-worlds. As well as her neck, much of the Null Maiden's lungs were also synthetic proxies assembled by the Sisterhood's biologians. On one level, Leilani was privately envious of the dour Sister Thessaly; Nortor's larynx had been lost to the acidic bite of the bottle-world's alien atmosphere, and she had refused to allow her augmentation to be fitted with an artificial replacement. The woman was as silent a Sister as was humanly possible. 'We can only hope that the Warmaster sees the error of his ways,' offered Leilani, but even as she said the words they seemed little more than weak and foolish optimism. He must recant. Nortor's obvious annoyance calmed slightly and she switched to the more reasoned language of ThoughtMark. To oppose the Emperor is the height of madness. The only explanation is that the Warmaster has grown envious of his father's greatness. She shook her head. That, or he has lost his mind. In the other Sister's retort, the novice heard the echo of similar words that had chimed from elsewhere in the Sisterhood. Even as news of the rebellion spread, so too there was the talk of a different movement in motion: a growing sect of veneration for the leader of humankind. Such reverence seemed ill-fitting; Leilani balked at the use of the term "worship" in connection with a being so avowed to a secular path for his people, and yet this so-called Lectitio Divinitatus was raising its head in the strangest of places. If anything, the novice found the question of this school of thought almost as hard to swallow as the concept of Horus's perfidy; and yet, while the Emperor was no deity, it could not be denied that his magnificence was so great that granting him such exalted status was at least an understandable mistake. But it was something to be expected of common, unsophisticated tribals from the feral worlds, not the educated men and women of the Imperium. Sister Amendera became aware of a pict-slate in her subordinate's white-knuckled grip, and she gave her a quizzical look. In turn, Sister Thessaly bowed slightly and offered the device to her commander. Leilani could guess what the slate contained - an updated skein of mission orders from the command stratum of the Sisterhood on Luna, sent directly from the high offices of the Departmento Investigates. THE FULL SCOPE and range of the Black Ships and their duties were known only to a select few among the upper tiers of the Silent Sisterhood, the lords of the great Council of Terra and the Emperor himself, but the basic tenet of their works were well recognised. The exact number and disposition of Black Ships that prowled the galaxy purposely remained an unknown; all that could be certain was that the worlds of the Imperium would witness one of them appear in their skies at a preordained time of tithing, ready to accept their cargo. The vessels did not take tribute in the form of riches or chattel - as much as they were warships, the Aeria Gloris and her sister-craft were also great asylum-barges where those revealed to show the taint of the pskyer were interred. Every world beneath the Emperor's light was duty-bound to give up those of its populace marked with the potential - latent or not - for psychic talent; and those that were not given freely, those that escaped the net, these too were the quarry of the Black Ships and the Sisterhood. In the dark holds of their dungeon decks, psykers of every stripe and power were corralled and tested. Many did not endure the process well, and perished under the harsh glare of the Vigilators and Prosecutors. Others, those too damaged by their own warped psyches or too dangerous to be allowed to live, would quietly be put down and the ashes of their corpses cast into suns. The ones who were strong enough to survive and pliant enough to accede to the will of the Imperium were the lucky few. For them, further, harder testing lay ahead in the ironclad mind-halls of the City of Sight on Terra itself, the headquarters of the Divisio Astra Telepathica. There, they would take the first steps upon the road to the ritual of soul-binding and recruitment into the ranks of the astropathic choirs. The duty of the hunt and the stewardship was a harsh one that no ordinary human could hope to accomplish; indeed, to even conceive of crewing a Black Ship with mere troopers from the Imperial Army, or even the great Astartes, would be a path to ruin. Such were the powers of some psykers that the perceptions of a mind could be twisted and reordered to their will. It was not uncommon for the worst of the psi-witches to cloud thoughts, to coerce and control through pure exercise of will. A normal man could be made to unlock cages and think no ill deed done, never knowing that he had freed a monster. Mindless servitors alone could not be trusted to deal with so complex an obligation. Only the Sisterhood, who brought with them the gift of Silence, had the strength to hold the witches in check. This they did through fealty to the Emperor, this they did through the very action of their beatin

of the psi-witches to cloud thoughts, to coerce and control through pure exercise of will. A normal man could be made to unlock cages and think no ill deed done, never knowing that he had freed a monster. Mindless servitors alone could not be trusted to deal with so complex an obligation. Only the Sisterhood, who brought with them the gift of Silence, had the strength to hold the witches in check. This they did through fealty to the Emperor, this they did through the very action of their beating hearts and the blood in their veins. This duty they marked with their vow never to speak. For the Sisters of Silence were poison to witchkind. Chance mutation within the human genome, once in every million, might create a psyker; but in once in several billion would yield the precious jewel of the Pariah gene, the Untouchable. It was the cold logic of evolution that brought them forth. If the unfettered mental power of a psyker existed, then in balance there had to be those at the opposite end of the genetic spectrum - those whose minds were the absolute antithesis of the warp-touched, whose presence alone was enough to nullify the raging psi-fire. Each Sister was an Untouchable, a psychic blank forever protected from the sorcery of the witches they hunted. Immune to psychic attack, their very aura enough to disrupt and distress their prey, there were no better warriors to fulfil this great duty. But still, at day's end, they were not superhuman. Trained hard to fight alongside the elite of the Emperor's military, certainly, respected and venerated by all, undoubtedly, but still human. Still weighed down with human doubts and human fears. AMENDERA KENDEL CONSIDERED this as she weighed the pict-slate in her hand, watching Novice-Sister Leilani and the churn of thoughts writ large across her face. She did not need the preternatural power of a telepath to read the girl's mind. The great dread over the rebellion of Horus hung across everything like a dark cloak, blotting out the light with a haze of confusion. Every Sister aboard the ship, if she admitted it or not, found her thoughts turning to the matter of this unprecedented event in moments of introspection. In the hush of the Aeria Gloris, it was easy to find oneself drifting into reverie, for the mind to fill in the stillness with thoughts and wondering that, if left unchecked, could spiral out of control. Typically, the iron discipline of the Sisterhood and the call of their duties tempered such things; but the sheer scope of the Warmaster's rebellion... of his heresy... It tore at reason and composure like a wild, clawed thing. Kendel forced the thoughts away and glanced down at the pict-slate, drawing her focus back to the mission at hand. Upon it she glimpsed the seal of Celia Harroda, the Witchseeker Pursuivant, and above it a notation from the high office of Sister-Commander Jenetia Krole. She licked dry lips. Krole, mistress of the Raptor Guard and one of the Emperor's personal battle confidantes, was the highest-ranking Sister alive. The mark of her notice upon this operation made the gravity of the situation clear, in no uncertain terms. She removed a glove and placed her bare skin on the sensing pad, letting the slate prick her finger. A moment later the blood-lock released the cipher that untwisted the text from encoded gibberish back into readable Gothic. The first few pages reiterated what Kendel had already been told in her earlier briefing at Evangelion Station. The Aeria Gloris had been called from its normal circuit pattern and placed under an emergency re-tasking diktat, dropping from the warp to hastily resupply at the orbital platform before making space for the Opalun Sector. The Black Ship had only just begun its tithe cruise, and as such the dungeon decks were practically empty; Kendel suspected this was an important factor in the choice of the Aeria Gloris for this task, but she had not made mention of it. The orders were deceptively direct. One of their sister-craft, an older, larger vessel called the Validus, had failed to make three scheduled astropathic check-ins and was now officially logged as missing, status unknown. The Validus, in contrast to Kendel's ship, was at the end of her cruise, her decks groaning with a bounty of telepaths, pyrokenes, kineticates, dreamers and mind-witches of every stripe. She should have hove to in Luna's orbit one month ago. Sister-Senior Harroda had commanded Kendel in brisk, severe BattleMark. Mission/Task: seek-Iocate-evaluate. Determine cause of anomaly. Recover if possible. Those words encompassed a multitude of possibilities. Black Ships had gone missing in the past, on more than one occasion. For all their combat capability and advanced stealth technologies, the craft in service to the Astra Telepathica were not invulnerable. They largely travelled alone for good reason, but this also meant that they could fall prey to enemy craft in greater numbers or become mired if caught by stellar phenomena. She remembered the Honour Haltis, ambushed and obliterated in battle with eldar reavers; the White Sun, taken by warp storms, and all the others. But a missing Black Ship also conjured up the very worst of possibilities: a breakout. On a vessel laden with witches, such a thing was a true horror to consider. As such, Harroda's orders had concealed the implication that, if needed, Sister Kendel's remit would stretch to the application of a most final end to the voyages of the Validus. The Aeria Gloris was now only hours from the area confirmed as the last known location of the errant vessel, and with each passing moment Amendera Kendel felt her unease grow. She chided herself that the source of her concern was not simply the obvious matter of what caused the craft to go dark, but also a trivial personal disquiet. She felt slightly guilty at her outward treatment of her adjutant. Novice-Sister Leilani had allowed her anxiety over the Warmaster's rebellion to occupy too much of her thoughts and it was affecting her meditation; but by the same token, Kendel dwelled on something that was, in all honesty, far more inconsequential. The Validus carried the flag of the Oblivion Knight Sister Emrilia Herkaaze, and the woman was not unknown to Amendera Kendel. Far from it; they had first met in the dark iron halls of a Black Ship just like this one, both of them drawn to the notice of the Sisters of Silence as children. Each of them recruited from worlds in the Belladone Reach, Kendel and Herkaaze had shared a vague kinship throughout their aspirant trials, but as they had grown into full Sisterhood, the women's early friendship soured. Now, years later, they were bitter rivals, each nursing antipathy for the other. She refused to draw up the reasons from her memory, instead letting them bubble and churn just below the surface of her thoughts. To dwell on such things would only dilute her focus still further. Sister Amendera wondered if the Witchseeker Harroda was aware of their ill-feeling towards one another; she thought it likely, as little seemed to pass beneath the notice of Sister-Senior Celia's diamond-sharp gaze unnoticed. Perhaps, in its way, this was a test for her. Ever since the incident at the Somnus Citadel and her involvement with the renegade Death Guard Garro, Kendel had become aware that she was being scrutinised by her peers. To what end, she could not be certain. The Knight became aware of her adjutant and her second watching her intently, waiting for her to proceed. She nodded and scrolled further on through the data encoded on the pict-slate. This is confirmation of what we have already been told, she signed with her free hand. Records of the ship's tithe and previous ports. Estimation of current weapons load-out and systems capacities- She halted abruptly. The dense data transmission sent out to them via machine-call vox had some additional matter appended, key among them a single digitised datum captured from a partial astropathic communication. The protocols associated with Black Ship signals were completely absent; normally, any communication sent from vessel to vessel would be prefixed with a number of codicils and ciphers. There were none. The message had been sent uncoded, in the clear. Out loud. Kendel pushed the "execute" key and the slate replayed the datum. In the quiet of the Aphonorium it seemed like shouting. A woman's words, rough and strangely toned, as if it had been a very long time since she had used them and could not quite remember how to speak. Two words. Just two words, but they brimmed with a terror so powerful that Sister Amendera felt her hands contract into fists, and she saw Nortor and Mollitas fall breathless. 'The voice...' said the woman. 'The voice...' And then once more, as a ragged scream. 'The voice!' 'What does it mean?' The novice blinked and frowned, staring at the pict-slate. 'It must have been a sister, but she spoke the words... She spoke them aloud.' At her side, the Null Maiden nodded slowly. Typically, Sisterhood transmissions sent to locales beyond line-of-sight were despatched not with words but in an ancient machine-readable variant of ThoughtMark known as Orskode, a mechanical rattle of clicking that to untrained ears would resemble the sounds of turning cogwheels. For this woman, undoubtedly one of Herkaaze's cadre, to not only eschew that but to willingly break her Oath of Tranquillity... The implications were ominous. The ship never exited the empyrean, noted Thessaly. We can only guess at what they might have encountered in warp space. Amendera felt a cold chill across her, as one might feel on a summer's day if a shadow passed before the face of the sun. She remembered the stink of death and decay in the corridors of the Somnus Citadel, a fly-swarmed man-shape of something insectile and foul, killing and corrupting with every clawed footstep. She did not need to guess at what horrors the warp could hold. She had already

exited the empyrean, noted Thessaly. We can only guess at what they might have encountered in warp space. Amendera felt a cold chill across her, as one might feel on a summer's day if a shadow passed before the face of the sun. She remembered the stink of death and decay in the corridors of the Somnus Citadel, a fly-swarmed man-shape of something insectile and foul, killing and corrupting with every clawed footstep. She did not need to guess at what horrors the warp could hold. She had already seen them, spilled out into the real world. A MADDENED SEA of blood-churned surf, curtains of nameless and impossible colour, great howling halls of flayed emotion; the hellish nightmare of the immaterium raged around the Aeria Gloris as the Black Ship closed the distance towards its drifting sister-vessel. The incalculable monstrosity of warp space thundered and screamed, beating at the energy bubble of the Geller field, clawing at the craft that dared to penetrate this realm of pure psychic force; even the massed numbers of Untouchables aboard were not enough to hold such energies at bay. Without the protective barrier, the Aeria Gloris would be engulfed. The Validus floated there, the only sign of any life the dull emerald glow from the emitter coils visible about her warp motors. Power still flowed through the derelict, but the craft made no moves to turn to meet them, nor to offer communication through vox or tight-beam laser. Alive and yet dead, the Validus floated, serene against the madness. If the two vessels had met in normal space, it would have been policy to send across a scout party on a boarding craft, allowing the Aeria Gloris to stand off and bring her cannons and torpedo launchers to bear, lest the Validus suddenly become a threat worth terminating. But here inside the screaming caverns of the empyrean such protocols could not be followed. Instead, an altogether more delicate approach was required. With care, the shipmaster's bridge crew brought the Aeria Gloris closer and closer until the glimmering non-matter of her Geller field brushed that of the Validus. Cogitators programmed for just such tasks passed orders, via festoons of golden commwire and mechadendrites, to servitors using scrying scopes to measure the energy spectra being broadcast from the other Black Ship. By agonising moments, they brought the vessel's protective envelope into synchrony with its neighbour. Like two bubbles meeting on the surface of a pond, they touched one another, shifted and finally merged. Such an operation was a difficult one, but then the Black Ships were crewed by some of the finest crop of thinking serfs available to the Imperium. It would take their constant stewardship to maintain the merging of fields; a single miscalculation would collapse both, and open the starships to the ocean of insanity lapping at their keels. And yet the Validus drifted as if upon a calm sea. Seasoned veterans among the crew serfs talked among themselves and spoke ill of such unusual circumstance. Some, those who thought themselves safe to do so beyond the sight of the Sisters, even bent at the knee and offered a prayer to Terra and the Emperor. The warp was rage, and constant with it. But here, in this place, there was a cavity within the churn and thunder, an expanse where all seemed becalmed. If it had been the surface of a planetary ocean, then there would have been no breath of air, only glassy water from horizon to horizon. Such things were unknown by the shipmaster, and with the tradition of all sailors dating back to the times of mankind's first voyages in craft of wood and sail, he and his men feared and cursed it. Elsewhere, on the lower decks of the Aeria Gloris, power moved to mechanisms capable of tunnelling through the layers of space-time, and a great flare of boiling light enveloped the ship's teleportarium stage. The women stood upon it shimmered like mirages and were gone. THE TRANSITION FLASH faded into the darkness and Sister Amendera gestured with her drawn sword. To her right, Leilani held a bolt pistol in one hand and an auspex in the other, her attention on the chiming reports of the sensor device. To her left, Thessaly was already cutting order-gestures in the air, flinging the shapes towards the three Sister-Vigilators that had accompanied them. Kendel ran a finger over her forehead without conscious thought, absently tracing the red lines of the Aquila tattoo there. She took a careful breath, glancing around the low, wide corridor they had appeared in. The Knight had expected to find the chamber cold, perhaps the air inside thin from slowed life support functions and proximity to the outer hull; she had ordered the teleport servitor not to target them too deeply into the Validus's mass, for fear that the risk of a mis-integration would grow with the distance of projection. But the air here was warm and dry, like a desert just after sunset. And more than that, there was peculiar stillness to it, as if the motes of dust around them were suspended in some sluggish fluid. Kendel stepped forwards, letting her blade lead her, making small, experimental cuts in the air. Despite her faint discomfort, she couldn't find anything immediately wrong. The gravity seemed normal, and she could smell... nothing. 'Thermal blooms in that direction,' offered Sister Leilani, her voice strangely flat. She pointed ahead, towards the end of the corridor. Ahead there were shapes piled untidily beyond the low greenish glow of the lumes in the walls, sharp-edged metal frames of tubes and wire. Cages, signed Nortor. The Knight nodded and advanced. She had ventured no more than a few steps when a gasp of alarm made her turn about. One of the Vigilators had approached a support pillar made of iron, which extended from the deck to the ceiling above. Her hand was in a fist and she opened it to her commander. Amendera watched a rain of metal sand fall lazily from her fingers, glittering in the lume-light. The Vigilator gestured to the pillar and showed where she had touched it. The Sister's gloves had left dents in the iron. It crumbled beneath even the lightest of touches, becoming more powder. Kendel snapped her fingers and Sister Leilani dutifully moved to the stanchion, tracing the scanning device over its length. She frowned and repeated the action, clearly unhappy with the initial reading. 'Odd,' she admitted, her words dulled and distant-sounding. 'The auspex suggests that this piece of the ship's structure is far older than the rest of the metal in this corridor...' Her frown deepened. 'By the order of several million years.' The Knight allowed herself the rarity of a faint grunt of dismissal and beckoned her troop onwards. Strange as that was, it would not do to become bogged down in such minutiae so quickly. The group moved on, towards the discarded cages, and at once Kendel understood exactly where the teleport flash had deposited them. They were at the perimeter of the Validus's husbandry yards, where the hunting animals deployed by the ship's prosecutor squads would be corralled. The thought had only just occurred to her as she crossed some invisible membrane and a barrage of sensation suddenly assaulted her. There was no force-field barrier, no detectable wall to divide one section of the corridor from another; it was simply that one moment the air about her was dead and quiescent and the next it was dense with smells and sounds. Perhaps, like the warping of time around the metal stanchion, the two ends of the passageway existed in differing states. Nortor came to her side and she saw the other Sister's face wrinkle in faint disgust. Here, the air was thick with the coppery stink of old, spilled blood, a heavy perfume of rust that almost concealed other, earthier stenches of rotten meat and faeces. The tainted air here also carried sound differently; it was clearer, harsher on the ears. Kendel heard a scraping, a dripping, from one of the shadowed corners. She stepped over a flattened enclosure, seeing a mush of small bones, flesh and white feathers inside. Among the pieces of the dead raptor were shiny golden psiber circuits that flashed as they caught the light. One of the Sister-Vigilators aimed her bolter in the direction of the sound and thumbed a switch on the weapon's flank; an illuminator rod fixed to the barrel snapped on, casing a cold oval of white light before it. The scraping paused, and there at the edge of the torchlight a pair of eyes glowed. More beams stabbed out to reveal a large, pale-furred mastiff as it sniffed in the direction of the women. The snout of the enhanced canine was brown and wet, and as it panted, the glassy vials of accelerant fluids implanted in its back clinked together. To one side, Nortor snapped her fingers in a command string, but the animal ignored her. After a moment, the hound looked away and bowed its head, returning to its task. Kendel took a careful step closer and the animal was fully revealed, lapping at a wide comma of blood pooled about the head and neck of a crew serf. The top of the man's skull was open, and in one hand he held a Sisterhood-issue stake-thrower. She studied him for a moment; he appeared to have used the weapon first to nail his legs to the deck by firing a long quarrel through each ankle, then one more through his other hand. 'He tried to crucify himself,' said Leilani. The en-dog was looking up at them again, and slowly its lips drew back to show metal teeth, a low growl building in its throat. Kendel heard the fluid in the tubes bubble and hiss. She had seen the damage these animals could do firsthand when she herself had given orders to release them. The Knight threw a glance at Sister Thessaly and made an open-handed gesture. Flamer. There was a snap-hiss as the pilot lamp lit, and Nortor brought her weapon off the strap and around in one smooth action. Before the en-dog had the chance to rock forwards off its steel-clawed fe

o show metal teeth, a low growl building in its throat. Kendel heard the fluid in the tubes bubble and hiss. She had seen the damage these animals could do firsthand when she herself had given orders to release them. The Knight threw a glance at Sister Thessaly and made an open-handed gesture. Flamer. There was a snap-hiss as the pilot lamp lit, and Nortor brought her weapon off the strap and around in one smooth action. Before the en-dog had the chance to rock forwards off its steel-clawed feet, the Sister squeezed the trigger bar and bathed the animal in a cloud of burning promethium. It died with a squeal and they left it where it fell, moving on towards a bank of access shafts. Kendel saw her novice dally a moment around the animal's corpse and snapped her fingers. Leilani's head bobbed in acknowledgement, and she followed. The light from the gun torches swept left and right around them as Kendel gave the other woman a sideways look. That will not be the only death we see this day, she signed. Look. The Vigilators moved on, and in heaps here and there, piled up against the walls or amid the smashed cages, there were dead after dead. Raptors, hounds and servitors. But not a single Sister. THE DECK PLANS of the Validus had been encoded into the memory tubes of Leilani's auspex, and once the boarding party had found their bearings, it was a simple matter to orientate themselves in order to scale the Black Ship's inner tiers towards the commandery and bridge. Sister Thessaly took a moment to send a vox message back to the Aeria Gloris, a staccato chatter of clicks that signified all was well, that the mission was proceeding as planned; but the novice could not help but wonder how anything they encountered here could be "as planned". The Validus was a death ship, a floating tomb, and if it had not been silent before, then it truly was so now. Leilani knew the emergency protocols as well as any Sister. The standing orders aboard Black Ships were rigid and unchangeable: in the event of any shipboard catastrophe of such magnitude that the command crew could not overcome it, failsafe switches would flood the dungeon decks with Life-Eater, a bio-weapon of terrible swiftness and horrific virulence. If the Sisters aboard this ship were as dead as the serfs they had found, then so were the witches. It had to be so; if it were not, then why were the boarding party still alive, why had they not been attacked the moment they teleported aboard? Moreover, she knew that whatever had killed the unfortunates they had found had been no gas or bio-weapon. They moved deeper into the Black Ship's interior, past long corridors of testing cells walled in with spherical shields made of psi-toxic phase-iron, across the gantries between the utility decks. Overhead, stalled carriages on angular rail channels that in other times would shuttle crew and material from tier to tier and down the city's-length of the vessel were frozen in mid-journey, faint lights burning inside. Along the way they found more signs of curious phenomena: other places where hull metal had been turned into dust or wet slurry by means unknown, one section where the air was hazed by a smoke that hung like a frozen image until they passed through it, and chambers where the walls, floor and ceiling were painted over with a molecule-thin layer of human blood. It seemed without rhyme or reason to Leilani; perhaps it was the touch of the warp at the hand of these things. At last, they reached the command deck, another broad corridor that branched off into smaller ancillary chambers, with the open amphitheatre of the Validus's bridge at the far end. Lit in the yellow smoulder of the lumes were masses of bodies, piled atop one another in a disordered fashion, as if a thronging crowd had perished instantly on its feet and been left where they had fallen. Ahead of her, Sister Thessaly hesitated and held up a hand to halt the rest of the group. There was a strange murmur in the air, an ebb and flow like the sound of surf on a shore. It took a moment for the novice to realise that it was breathing. She peered at a group of the bodies closest to her - they were crew serfs, their duty uniforms simple tan affairs with a minimum of braid and sigils - and was startled. They were not dead; none of them were. Instead, the whole mass of the crewmen lay, blank eyes seeing but not seeing as if in some form of catatonia. Nortor prodded one of them with the tip of her boot. When there was no reaction, she reached down and took the hand of a serf. Without pause, the Silent Sister broke the man's finger. The wet snap of bone sounded, but little else. Sister Amendera picked her way through the bodies to peer into an open iris hatch on the far wall; Leilani followed her, recognising the doorway as the entrance to a saviour pod. There were more bodies inside, some of them strapped into the seats of the escape capsule, others lying on the floor where they had dropped. Like the serfs in the corridor, all of them were alive but insensate. The novice studied the face of one man, a bridge officer by the rank tabs on his shoulder boards. His eyes were those of a doll, glassy and infinitely empty. 'Whatever did this destroyed their minds.' She glanced around the corridor again. 'All of them. All at once.' Leilani's throat became arid as she imagined this scene replicated all through the Validus, with every crewmember reduced to a fleshy husk, minds ruined by some catastrophic, instantaneous flash of psychic force. 'In Terra's name,' she whispered, 'what happened here?' Further down the corridor, one of the Vigilators rapped on the steel wall to attract their attention. No Sisters, she signed. Onwards, ordered the Oblivion Knight. THE VIGILATORS SHOULDERED away the bodies of fallen crew choking the entrance to the bridge proper, and the Silent Sisters entered with weapons at the ready, casting their sight into every shadowed corner on the ready for attack. A long platform that extended out over the main oval of the control pit several metres below, the bridge was designed in such a way that the Black Ship's commanding officer could stand at the rail as if at the prow of an oceangoing vessel, and see his staff ranged out beneath him. Only the most senior crew had stations on this level, and the wide banners of flickering hololithic screens formed an arc of glassy lenses in the air above their consoles. Most of the monitors were little more than rains of static, but some still functioned, showing the process of autonomic systems inside the Black Ship's drive core, the steady tick of life support. Leilani noticed one screen displaying a feed from an exterior camera; the blunt bow of the Aeria Gloris was visible, rendered in shadow against the churning red-purple hell of warp space. Other active screens were lined in dark crimson, trailing pennants of emergency warning glyphs. One of the Vigilators scrutinised an engineer's panel, her long leather-clad fingers moving over the keys. The kill-switch was not activated, she signed. There was no release of the termination option here. Nortor looked up from a console by the command throne. Shipmaster's log is intact. Kendel sheathed her sword with a grimace and gestured for Sister Thessaly to continue. The other woman tapped a string of keys on the console and a crackling hum issued out from vox grilles hidden in the steelwork. Leilani caught sight of a man in a commander's dark kepi, sprawled out on the deck in lee of a Y-shaped stanchion; it was this man's voice that filled the dank air of the bridge as the data-spool rewound. Each entry was short and precise, punctuated by a clicking code indicating numerical data. The shipmaster spoke of an urgent signal that had reached them outside the normal strictures of contact protocol, a faint entreaty that the astropaths aboard the Validus had considered strangely phrased and slightly disturbing. The bonded psykers complained of their disquiet at the communique, and they were sickened by a peculiar resonance that clung to the signal, an echo of phasure displacement that troubled them greatly. And yet, the message was in order, bearing the ciphers that guaranteed the authority of the highest levels of the Silent Sisterhood. The novice saw her mistress scowl at this, her eyes narrowing. The briefing imparted by Sister Harroda had mentioned nothing of any message sent to the craft before its disappearance. The shipmaster spoke of a single, simple order contained in the transmission. The Validus's captain was commanded to bring the vessel to a halt in this region of the ever-turbulent warp and await further contact. This they had done, only to encounter the first incidents of the atemporal phenomena that the Sisters had witnessed on their passage through the lower decks. The entry ended, and after a pause Nortor triggered the next in the sequence. This is the last, she noted. Again the voice of the shipmaster; but this time he seemed like a different man, the matter-of-fact clarity with which he had recorded his earlier logs gone. Leilani listened carefully and heard spikes of raw panic in the captain's words fighting to overwhelm his self-control. She heard him pause and mutter, his voice rising and falling as he fretted over the fate of his ship. There, amid the sudden and alien calm, something had begun down on the dungeon decks. Moving like a tide, radiating like a nova, inside the iron holding cells the massed psyker cargo awoke as one, burning out the neuroshackles that held them in check, the potent dampening filters pumped into their bloodstreams becoming weak and ineffective. The Validus's astropathic choir began to scream. There was weeping and bellowing and- Silence. The final entry ends here, signed Sister Thessaly. There is nothing else. Leilani felt sickened, as if an invisible patina of dirt was suddenly coating her flesh. The idea of rampant, uncontrolled psykers in such n

ls the massed psyker cargo awoke as one, burning out the neuroshackles that held them in check, the potent dampening filters pumped into their bloodstreams becoming weak and ineffective. The Validus's astropathic choir began to scream. There was weeping and bellowing and- Silence. The final entry ends here, signed Sister Thessaly. There is nothing else. Leilani felt sickened, as if an invisible patina of dirt was suddenly coating her flesh. The idea of rampant, uncontrolled psykers in such number was utterly abhorrent to her. It was everything the Sisterhood stood against, and it made her feel soiled to think she was in close proximity to such a thing. Fighting down a shudder, the novice-sister found her gaze drifting up to the gantry above the bridge platform. There was a single hatch up there, a thick disc of metal set in a heavy ring of black iron; beyond it would be a narrow tunnel leading to the astropath habitat, where the ship's tame psykers would parse messages for transmission across the interstellar deeps. Such sections of a starship were always heavily shielded, for even the smallest amount of telepathic interference could upset their delicate sensory paths; aboard a Black Ship, the matter was magnified a thousandfold. Only the most highly trained, the most tightly controlled of the astropath kindred could ever serve aboard a vessel that was such a riot of psi-noise, and even then the life expectancy for them was a fraction of that of their fellows aboard normal ships of the line. Even their sanctorum, isolated from the rest of the craft through advanced technologies, energy fields and thick walls of psi-resistant metals, was pale shelter for them. Leilani could not help but wonder what had transpired in there after this... awakening. She looked back to find the Oblivion Knight watching her. Sister Amendera gestured in BattleMark, having clearly come to the same conclusion. Investigate and evaluate Grimly, the novice accepted her orders with a nod and shucked off her cloak, so that she could more easily enter the narrow conduit overhead. Removing her bolt pistol, Leilani checked the weapon and reached for the access ladder, willing her hands not to tremble. The hatch yawned open to present her with a shallow, gloomy tunnel lit from the far end by pale blue illuminators. Without looking back, she ascended, leading with her pistol. She smelled decay in the stalled, stagnant air. The chamber was spherical and smooth-walled, the faint light spilling from oval lumes arranged in a ring around the interior equator. The inner surface of the murky chamber glittered gently where intricate lines of microscopic text ranged around from pole to pole. Leilani felt a moment of confusion, of wrongness, and in the next second she had the reason why. 'Gravity,' she said aloud. 'There's gravity in here.' Usually, the astropaths aboard a craft of this class would live in a null-gee bubble, cut off from the graviton generators of the rest of the ship so that they could float freely without concern for the vagaries of something so base, so mundane as walking upon their feet. But here, the nullifying field was inactive, and she sought and found a sparking control panel some distance up the curved walls where the command switches has been forcefully disabled. It was then that she saw them, and understood. There were three astropaths in the choir of the Validus, and it appeared that, while afloat overhead, with great care they had removed their outer robes and fashioned them into nooses, fixing one end to the upper ranges of the hollow chamber and the others about their necks. Then, one of them must have destroyed the controls and allowed the pull of gravity to reclaim their bodies, and snap their necks. The corpses of the dead psykers swayed slightly in the flow of new air that had followed Leilani up the access tunnel. In the low light, she could not make out any features upon the three; their faces were puffy, blood-streaked orbs, turned to ribbons of wet meat where they had clawed at themselves in some sort of frenzy. WHEN SISTER LEILANI returned to the bridge platform, Kendel read what the young woman had seen in the astropath chamber from the paleness of her face. All targets self-terminated. The novice-sister gave her report in BattleMark without thinking, but Kendel chose not to correct her. The sight had shaken the girl. Mollitas was far stronger than she gave herself credit for - if she had not been, the Oblivion Knight would never have chosen her as her adjutant - but she was reluctant to test her own limits and, until she did, the Oath of Tranquillity, the mark of the Aquila and true Sisterhood would be beyond her reach. Orders? Sister Thessaly stood before her commander, toying with her weapon. The Oblivion Knight hesitated for a moment, then nodded to the senior of the Sister-Vigilators. Split squads, she signed. Vigilators, aft approach. Kendel touched her chest. This unit, forwards. Descend and converge. She brought her hands together and clasped them. In one context the symbol could mean alliance, in another collision, or even amalgam. In this, it indicated a target to be located and isolated. It was not necessary for her to outline their objective; the last words of the shipmaster had made that certain. She switched speech. We will find our sisters, she told them. This is our order and our obligation. Nortor made the sign of the Aquila. 'In the Emperor's name,' whispered Mollitas. THEY EMERGED INTO an icy cavern, boots crunching on rimes of hoarfrost and snow, the access channel to the dungeon decks carpeted with a blanket of oily grey slush. It was a peculiar sight to see inside the metal halls of a starship, more suited to a winter's day upon some distant colony world. Kendel's breath emerged from her mouth in trails of white and she threw a questioning look to the novice. They were deep inside the Validus now, nowhere near the exterior hull where the leeching cold of space could reach them. The Knight raised a hand to her armoured collar to toggle a vox control, intending to signal the Vigilators. Were they seeing the same thing? Was this yet another of the strange spot-effects that were scattered throughout the interior of the derelict Black Ship? But a motion from Nortor made her hesitate. The other Sister nodded towards tall columns of dirty ice clustering in one corner. There was movement behind them and breath, white in the air. 'Who is there?' The novice-sister gave voice to the question. 'Show yourself.' Kendel felt a weak, familiar pressure at the back of her skull. It was like the sense of heaviness in the sky before a storm, or the very faintest of echoes. She was drawing her eagle-head sword when a figure suddenly bolted from between the ice pillars, half-running, half-skidding towards them. A man in a frost-caked overall came at her, an iron manacle and length of broken chain clattering about one ankle. She saw a leering grin and eyes wide, showing too much white. Haloes of vapour formed around his hands and she felt the already-low temperature drop still further. He was conjuring snow out of the air, grabbing it and moulding it into blades of ice. Kendel knew the kind well: a cryokene. She held up a hand to halt Nortor from placing a bolt shell through his breastbone as a matter of course, and let the psyker come on towards her, his bare feet slapping at the frozen deck plates. In the man's eyes she saw the moment, as she had so many times before with her other quarries, when understanding hit him. In mid-run, the psyker pushed into the edge, the faint, ghostly periphery where Kendel's Pariah gene began to exert its influence upon him. He entered the invisible zone about her where the Sister's Untouchable nature created a pool of nothingness in the shadow-space of the warp. Some of Amendera's kindred were stronger in this than others, and in some the great gift of Silence manifested itself in different ways; for the Oblivion Knight it was an unseen sphere that extended beyond her flesh, dampening the power of any psyker with increasing severity the closer they came. The cryokene stumbled, the ice storm he had been creating from thin air suddenly evaporating in his clawed hands, the ice shattering. Kendel met his gaze with a warning glare and shook her head in mute censure. The psyker bounced on the balls of his feet; even an animal would have had the sense to react to such a barrier, to be cowed and back off. But if reason had ever been in this man, it was long gone now. Undeterred, he screamed and threw himself at her, scratching at her eyes. The Pariah effect, as potent as it was, could only protect against the sorcery of telepathic contact and other witch ploys. Against physical attack, against shot or blade or claw, it was no shield; but for those, the Sisters of Silence had their years of training in the schola bellus of Luna. Almost as an off-hand motion, Kendel creased the cryokene's scalp with the heavy brass crown on the pommel of her weapon. It connected with a dull crack and he went back to the deck on his haunches, sliding on the thin ice. 'Can you not see what we are?' called Sister Leilani. 'In our silence, you cannot harm us.' 'You cannot hear!' he shouted, his voice a sudden, atonal bark of sound. 'If I cannot hear, you must not!' He scrambled back to his feet, and again he threw himself towards Kendel. 'You must not hear!' He was insane, that was not in doubt. Perhaps, whatever release of energy had killed the minds of the crew serfs and servitors had only scrambled the wits of this one, and in the disorder that followed he had found his escape from the Black Ship's cells. Not that it mattered. There would be nothing to glean from this witch. The Oblivion Knight stepped into his attack, with her hand-and-a-half sword still held in a reversed grip. Turning, she brought the blade up to meet the cryokene's throat and took him there, dec

as not in doubt. Perhaps, whatever release of energy had killed the minds of the crew serfs and servitors had only scrambled the wits of this one, and in the disorder that followed he had found his escape from the Black Ship's cells. Not that it mattered. There would be nothing to glean from this witch. The Oblivion Knight stepped into his attack, with her hand-and-a-half sword still held in a reversed grip. Turning, she brought the blade up to meet the cryokene's throat and took him there, decapitating his body with a lean stroke that let the victim's momentum do the work for her. Crimson fluid gouted briefly into the air, spattering across the grubby snow. Specks of blood dotted Kendel's golden cuirass, but the arterial spray was sporadic and quickly stilled. She stepped over the corpse and walked on through the ice and snow as the last gushes of red pooled on the cold deck, a thin wisp of steam rising from the length of her sword blade. What did he mean? Sister Thessaly matched her pace, signing carefully. He spoke of hearing something. Perhaps there is a connection with the last words of communication from this ship? Kendel held the tips of two fingers to her chin, and Nortor nodded in slow agreement. 'Give voice,' murmured Sister Leilani. 'But to what?' THE FURTHER THEY progressed, the stronger the sense became of a new, strange denseness in the atmosphere, a thickening of the air that brought with it a greasy, metallic tang that Leilani could not clear from her throat, no matter how many times she sipped water from the dispenser nozzle in her portcullis-shaped gorget. She knew that the Oblivion Knight and the Null Maiden sensed it as well; their moods became wary and sullen as they passed through the outer sections of the holding areas, the cells where the less dangerous denizens of the dungeon decks were typically held. The novice chanced a look in through the locked doors of cells she chose at random; inside each there were odd, wet pastes of matter that might have been bodies, if flesh were wax and pressed to a flame. The air was unnaturally still, cloying to the point that it took on the properties of a membrane. Leilani felt the ghost-touch of it on her bare face, like the gossamer caress of spider webs. Ahead, ever at the lead, Thessaly Nortor's boot scraped to a halt and the novice froze, ready for the next maddened psyker or freakish phenomenon to rear its ugly head. Instead, the Null Maiden turned towards the other two women and made the sign for Sister. They came across her in the middle of the chamber; she sat cross-legged on the dark iron deck plates, her head bowed in concentration and her sword drawn, both hands clasped around the slim hilt. Leilani was aware of a peculiar calm that seemed to radiate from the woman's body, an absence of emotion or energy. A silence, for want of a better word. Her mouth was moving but no sound emerged; still, the novice had only to read a word or two and she knew what litany was being unspoken. Without realising it, Leilani said the words aloud. 'We are Seekers and we shall find our Prey. We are Warriors and woe to those we Oppose...' She trailed off, her cheeks colouring. A frown formed on Sister Amendera's face and Leilani looked again at the distaff Sister. The other woman had a top-knot of rust-red hair that hung loosely, lank and sweat-soaked, over her bald skull. There was a line of livid pink puckering down the left side of the Sister's face and neck from her cheekbone, pointing like an arrow towards the lightning-bolt symbols etched on her shoulder plates. She bore the same rank as Kendel, and it was with that realisation that Leilani recognised the woman. With a dry gasp, Sister Emrilia Herkaaze of the White Talons cadre opened her eyes, her battle meditation broken, and looked up at her. The woman's left eye, framed by the scarring, was an intricate augmentation of blue glass and golden clockwork. She gave Leilani a cold, evaluating once-over. Herkaaze ignored the offer of Nortor's open hand and got to her feet, shrugging off stiffness. The Oblivion Knight turned her glare towards Kendel; the lower half of the woman's face was concealed behind a half-mask resembling barred gates, but the novice could tell her mouth was twisting in a sneer. I knew that someone would come, signed the other Knight, but I never would have expected it to be you. Kendel's expression cooled. The mission fell to us. The Storm Daggers go where they are sent. The tension between the two Knights was strong, and Leilani could not help but think back to the rumours she had heard about Kendel and Herkaaze's thorny rivalry. One story, told to her by another of the novices, said that the women had once fought with a fire-witch on Sheol Trinus; Herkaaze, unwilling to fall back before a powerful enemy and regroup, had been struck by burning debris and later turned the blame to Kendel for refusing to support her. Leilani had not believed the tale at the time, but now looking at Sister Emrilia's old wounds, she wondered if there might have been some truth in it. Herkaaze caught her staring and pushed closer to the novice. Seen enough, speaker? She asked, her augmetic eye glittering. Leilani looked at the deck, cowed. I sense witchkind, noted Sister Thessaly. Close at hand The scarred Knight nodded but did not address the other woman, instead focusing her intent back on her former comrade. Are you all there is? You three? Sister Amendera shook her head. A lance of Sister-Vigilators attend us. I sent them by a secondary path, via the aft decks- Herkaaze made a derisive noise in the back of her throat. You sent them to their deaths, then. At this, Nortor clasped her fist into her palm, tapping out an interrogative tone-message through the signal-generating touchpads on the knuckles of her glove. Leilani heard the short-range signal echo through the vox in her wargear. They waited for a moment for the standard "all-clear" reply from the other team, but there was only the hiss of static. Nortor paled slightly and shook her head. Horrors are loose aboard this ship. I lost many Sisters of my own to the witches who ran free in the madness. Herkaaze nodded to herself. We killed as many as we could. Anger flared on Kendel's face and she grabbed the other Knight's arm. She did not sign, but her question was clear. With exaggerated care, Sister Emrilia peeled the other woman's hand from her grip. There was no time to send a full warning. We had to come here, to build the wall. Else all would have been lost. 'The wall?' Herkaaze winced at the sound of her voice, but Leilani ignored it. 'I do not understand.' Nortor folded her arms across her armoured breasts, fists to elbows. The sign meant wall but also bastion and enclosure. 'What happened here?' asked the novice. Answer her, demanded Kendel. Herkaaze shot the young woman an acid look, and finally nodded. She began to sign in ThoughtMark, quickly and sharply; the motions were so swift, so animated that to an unschooled observer they would have resembled the training kata of some dance-like martial art. Sister Emrilia gathered up the threads of events left unwoven by the curious warning detected by Evangelion Station and the logs of the Validus's shipmaster. After the Black Ship had hove to and in turn been becalmed in this odd void-within-a-void, from all about the craft probing psychic impulses forced their way into the vessel. At first, some of the crew-serfs claimed to see ghosts stalking the corridors; such sightings were not uncommon on ships where the raw agony of caged telepaths left psychic stains upon the bulkheads, but these were no ordinary wraiths. These ghosts moved in concert, intent on tasks that seemed more military than otherworldly. And soon, the rioting erupted across the dungeon decks. Many of the psykers killed themselves or died when the pulses of psi-force lashed their cells. Too late, Herkaaze admitted, she and her Sisters had realised that the probing attacks were not random, but targeted at the most powerful psykers aboard the Validus. Each impulse blew open cells and holding cordons - but when granted their sudden freedom the captured witches did not flee. Stranger still, they moved deeper into the dark prison spaces, seeking each other. A troop of Sister-Prosecutors dared to venture in and witness what sorcery the mutants were creating; those women died, but not before passing on reports of what they saw. In her studies, Leilani had read many of the great texts in the towering stacks of the libraria in the Somnus Citadel, from the earliest volumes of the Psykana Occultis to the Voiceless Judgements of Melaena Verdthand. In these tomes of psychic research and lore, the young sister-in-waiting had learned much of the witch. She believed that faith in sword and bolter and silence were but one half of a sister's armoury, that knowledge of their quarry carried equal weight. In this, she had read much of the strangest extremes of psykerkind; and so even as Kendel and Nortor watched Herkaaze's terse report with growing disbelief, the novice found herself nodding, knowing that such freakish things were indeed possible. The grim-faced woman continued. The very worst and the very strongest of the Validus's tithe of witchkind shambled together and became an amalgam. Sister Emrilia was very careful to use the sign-gesture for that word, bringing her hands together and clasping them. An amalgam, in the manner of fusion or joining. Leilani felt her blood run cold. 'This I have read of,' she broke in. 'A group-mind, the spontaneous formation of a shared telepathic consciousness. On Ancient Terra, in the Age of Strife, the nation-state of the Jermani had a word for it. Gestalt.' Sister Amendera took a warning step towards the other Knight. The Life-Eater, Kendel snapped her hands back and forth. Why was it not used? Herkaaze eyed her. Malfunction, she replied, Sabotage/Outside influence. Cause

manner of fusion or joining. Leilani felt her blood run cold. 'This I have read of,' she broke in. 'A group-mind, the spontaneous formation of a shared telepathic consciousness. On Ancient Terra, in the Age of Strife, the nation-state of the Jermani had a word for it. Gestalt.' Sister Amendera took a warning step towards the other Knight. The Life-Eater, Kendel snapped her hands back and forth. Why was it not used? Herkaaze eyed her. Malfunction, she replied, Sabotage/Outside influence. Cause unknown. The four of them stood for a long moment, weighing the import of what had been described. Whatever the instigating force, whatever the impetus was that had created this freakish confluence of minds, the question now at hand was how to deal with it; how to kill it, Leilani corrected herself, for such a radical mutation would not be allowed to live in the Emperor's secular, ordered galaxy. The scarred woman returned to her explanation, and this time she seemed less angry, more morose at the thought of what orders she had been forced to give. Knowing full well that the squads of Witchseekers, Vigilators and Prosecutors aboard the Validus could not hope to defeat a monster fuelled by the power of witches raised to such geometric heights, Sister Emrilia did the only thing that she could. Her last order to her Sisters was to deploy about the dungeon decks, each of the warriors to find and take a space where they could kneel and recite the creed, a place where they could draw within and bring forth the gift of silence from themselves. There were some among the common citizenry who called the Sisterhood the "Daughters of the Gates", partially in respect to the half, three-quarter or full helmets they wore, fashioned in designs after the portcullises of archaic castles, but the name also came in respect to their mission - to stand as the barrier between the rampant insanity of unchained witches and the safety of the Imperium. In echo of this, Herkaaze gave the command to encircle the group-mind aboard the Validus and hold it in place. Each Sister of Silence, her Pariah's mark burning cold in the minds of the psyker freaks, was one bulwark in a ring the witches could not cross. However, by the same token, no Sister could step away. It was an impasse. But now you are here, Sister Emrilia signed, switching back to ThoughtMark once again, and you can take my place while I move in and kill it. KENDEL'S LIPS THINNED. Her former comrade had not changed at all since Sheol; if anything, the beating she took on that desolate sphere had not humbled her, but instead hardened her intractable manner. Here they stood, Knight and Knight, their ranking equal and unquestioned, yet still Herkaaze spoke to her as if she were addressing an inferior. We are not here as your reinforcements, Kendel gestured. We are here to rescue you. The other woman glared at her, the old scar tissue on her cheek darkening. Like the eye she had replaced, it would have been a simple matter for the Sisterhood's chirurgeons to have patched and regrown the damaged flesh on Emrilia's face, to have made her seamless and whole again; but instead she wore the disfigurement visible to the world, as if it were some sort of badge of honour. Amendera's lip twisted; such a gesture was something she might have expected of an Astartes, but not a Sister. We cannot break the line. Herkaaze's body language was severe and accusatory. One severed link and that horror will be freed to prey upon the galaxy. This is the only option. I go in and I kill it. We, corrected Kendel, drawing in all of them in one flick of her hand. We will kill it. Nortor was nodding. Mollitas can take the Knight's place here, in the ring. We three will venture deeper. Kendel glanced at the novice-sister and shook her head. For all her book-learning and potential, Sister Leilani was not ready for this challenge. She had too many doubts, too much churning inside her thoughts to find the serenity needed to truly bring forth the silence. The Oblivion Knight indicated that the Null Maiden would take Herkaaze's place there and kneel on the deck. For a moment, an instant so slight that one who did not know Thessaly Nortor would not have seen it, Kendel's second wavered; then she bowed and drew her sword, falling into the meditative stance. Before she bowed her head she drew her flamer and handed it to Mollitas without statement or ceremony. Leilani took it with a nod, drawing herself up, digging deep for her courage. Sister Thessaly closed her eyes and began to mouth the words of the creed. In the next second Herkaaze was stepping to stand in front of the other Knight. No support required. Her BattleMark was sharp and angry. Stand down. In the past you censured me for failing to aid you. Now you will do the same when I make that offer freely? Kendel signed the words and watched the other Knight's scarring turn crimson, the old wound showing Herkaaze's anger like a beacon. There was a moment when Sister Emrilia seemed on the edge of actually uttering her rebuke out loud; but then she turned away. Come, then. But this is my vessel and command here is mine. Herkaaze did not wait for Kendel to acknowledge her, and walked on, towards the far hatch. Confirmed. Sister Amendera made the cross-fingered gesture at her chest and looked up to find her adjutant watching her intently. INSIDE HERKAAZE'S WALL there was madness; madness and phantoms. The ghosts attacked them in a horde, coming out of the decking and the ceiling, falling out of shadows and from behind support pillars. They were shimmering and wailing, the noise of them at the furthest end of the spectrum from the Sisters. Bolt shells and pulses of fire from the flamer moved through them, and swords were of little use. The wraiths closed and faded even as they screamed, evaporating like morning dew as their energies collided with the limits of the Pariah effect; but there were some that were flesh and blood, hidden in the morass like a dagger wrapped in a cloak. They were crewmen of the Validus, drained of mind like those on the upper decks, but unlike those poor fools, these were rendered into the bloody realms of psychosis. Concealed in the crush of their spectral doubles, they laid into Kendel, Herkaaze and Mollitas with clubs fashioned from broken pieces of metal or severed limbs. Corralled inside the invisible barrier, the forces that had twisted the psyches of these serfs had turned upon themselves. Their minds like rabid animals trapped in a snare, they were gnawing upon their own reason, all trace of what made them men gone now. Inside those thought-hollowed skulls, there could be nothing but darkness and void. By chance Kendel matched gazes with a man in a shipfitter's tunic and she knew without doubt that he, like all of them, was ruined inside. It made her angry: these poor fools were not even the enemy, just the overspill of the witchery left to fester here in the bowels of the Validus. Still, she did not allow this emotion to prevent her from giving the mindless ones their due despatch. Her sword moved in flashing arcs, opening bodies to the air and sending aerosols of crimson to spatter across the walls. The two Oblivion Knights fought as mirrors of one another, the ingrained training of the Sisterhood's blade schola rising to the fore without the need to frame it in conscious thought. Behind them, Sister Leilani spent fire upon the foe in grunting chugs of exhaust from the flamer's bell-shaped mouth. They died as they were cut down or turned to shrieking torches. The bodies of the unreal became motes of dust in the still, stale air of the corridor, while the bodies of the real carpeted the decking. Then there came the moment's pause, the three of them panting hard. Kendel watched Herkaaze clean her blade on the jacket of a dead serf and she wondered if the White Talon warrior had thought of these poor creatures in the same manner as she had. Amendera doubted it; Sister Emrilia had always been one for a singular worldview of black and white, good and bad. She did not have any room for shades of grey; that, if Kendel was honest with herself, was at the heart of the disputes they had shared more than any other matter. Nearby, Sister Leilani returned Thessaly's flamer to its strap across her shoulder and blew out a shuddering breath. 'Throne's sake,' she husked. 'They swarmed upon us as soldier ants would those invading their mounds. I dread to think what force compelled them.' Herkaaze gave the novice another disapproving look, as if she were trying to glare the younger woman into silence. Mollitas did not seem to notice, too caught up in the train of her own thoughts. The Knight saw her face grow pale as some terrible notion came upon her. 'Mistress,' she began, with a wary tone. 'What if this...' Leilani indicated the walls of the Black Ship. 'If all this is the framework of some gambit by the rebel Astartes?' Suddenly, words began to fall from her lips in a cascade. 'It is known that some of their Legions have been said to engage with witchery, and-' The hard report of brass upon steel sounded, silencing the novice, and Kendel turned to see where Herkaaze had rapped the pommel of her sword against the deck. Must she speak so often? demanded the other Knight. Do you fear she may be right? Kendel signed the question back in reply. Herkaaze did not even bother to grace her with an answer, and moved on. She pointed with her drawn blade, the tip aiming at a great oval hatch up ahead. The metallic stink of psyker spoor was strongest there, the echo of it throbbing at the base of Amendera's temples. Emrilia walked on towards the massive door, never looking back. BEYOND THE HATCH was a chamber that ended in a smouldering molecular furnace. It was this sight that would be the last for the most powerful and unruly of the psyker-kind processed aboard the ship. Executed here, on the iron deck, then cast into the open maw of t

blade, the tip aiming at a great oval hatch up ahead. The metallic stink of psyker spoor was strongest there, the echo of it throbbing at the base of Amendera's temples. Emrilia walked on towards the massive door, never looking back. BEYOND THE HATCH was a chamber that ended in a smouldering molecular furnace. It was this sight that would be the last for the most powerful and unruly of the psyker-kind processed aboard the ship. Executed here, on the iron deck, then cast into the open maw of the machine, their bodies would be reduced to ash; it was believed that no psychic could reconstitute themselves after such a killing. Perhaps, then, it was fitting that they found the group mind here, the men and women that were its component parts huddled together in a crowd, some standing, others on the floor or lying against the walls in an unearthly accumulation. Unlike the mind-dead on the other tiers, these ones seemed on the surface to be animate and alive; in some ways that made the sight of them all the more horrible. 'They have no faces,' said Leilani. In fact, she was only half-correct. The hundredfold members of this unnatural psychic amalgam each had the suggestion of eyes, nose, a mouth, but they were in a constant flux, never settling to become anything like a human aspect. Instead, they were sketches, half-finished approximations of what a person might look like, all of them the same. One moment, long of nose and narrow of eye, then fatter about the cheeks and with a tiny moue of a mouth. Bone beneath their skins made ticking, popping sounds as the structure of their skulls was warped and altered, second by second, over and over again. All of them turned to stare at the Sisters and cocked their heads in quizzical fashion. The novice grabbed for the flamer at her shoulder and flicked her gaze down at the volume meter: half-full. Her fingers found the trigger bar and the weapon's emitter bell hissed in readiness. This is it, signed Herkaaze. This is the Voice. They advanced across the chamber and the pieces of the gestalt closest to them retreated, propelled back by the proximity of the Untouchables' psi-toxic presence. The three women moved in a tight triangle, each watching an angle of attack. But unlike the cryokene, unlike the en-dog, these shifting faces betrayed no clear intention, no emotion that could be read and predicted. They simply observed, with expressionless stares, the glimmer of intellect and intent broken into shards that barely registered in a hundred pairs of eyes. Leilani began to wonder how such a thing could be killed; the weapons the Sisters carried with them were not enough to terminate so many at once. And if they began a cull piecemeal, how would the group-mind react? The swaying, blank figures all took an abrupt breath, their faces shifting into a hatchet-browed aspect and solidifying. 'Far enough.' The rasping and atonal words were spoken by groups of them in a dislocated chorus that made her skin crawl; each syllable was uttered by a different cluster of voices in unearthly harmony. 'Stay your weapons-' Leilani saw the expression on Herkaaze's face twist into one of fury, incensed at the temerity of the demand. The Oblivion Knight surged forwards with a snarl, and the cluster of psykers nearest to her recoiled as she came at them. Sister Amendera reached out to hold her back, but she was not quick enough. Her sword still warm from earlier kills, Herkaaze struck out and carved into a woman in a prisoner's shipsuit, the brand of a telekinetic on her forehead. The cut that ended her was a downwards slash that opened the woman's torso, and without pause the scarred Knight extended and severed the hand of another psyker, this one a male. He fell to the floor, one arm ending in a red stump jetting fluid. The other psykers moved with sudden speed, and Leilani recalled the flocking motion of arboreal birds on her home world. The disparate pieces of the group-mind moved like water, flowing away from the attacker, leaving the dead and injured among their number where they fell. Leilani realised she was already seeing them as a single entity, no longer thinking of the psykers as discrete people within a larger whole. Cut off from the horde, the man with the missing hand suddenly screamed and there was cracking anew from the bones of his face as his flesh attempted to reset itself. Abandoned by his kind, he began to resemble the crazed remnant they had encountered outside. Herkaaze silenced him by opening his throat with her blade-tip. 'Stay your weapons!' This time it was a shout, every member of the gestalt bellowing as loudly as their lungs would allow. The sound was so strong in the low-ceilinged furnace chamber that it gave the Sisters pause. Leilani experienced a moment of confusion. Any handful of the psykers present in the chamber would have been more than a match for two Oblivion Knights and a novice-sister, and as one in this strange meta-concert, they doubtless wielded enough power to kill them all in an instant, crushing them by bringing down the deck above, by burning off all air in the chamber by pyrokene firestorm or any one of a dozen methods. Why then were they still alive? 'What do you want?' she asked. The answer from a myriad of throats made her blood chill. 'Leilani Mollitas. Emrilia Herkaaze. Amendera Kendel. I have been waiting for you.' 'They know our names...' The novice's words seemed tiny in comparison to the voice of the crowd. Witchery! Herkaaze signed furiously. They have plundered our thoughts! Impossible, Kendel replied silently. No telepath can penetrate the bastion of our minds. We are Untouchable. 'I know who you are,' echoed the chorus, 'and I must speak with you.' The faces of the assembled mass moved and altered again, melting and flowing in meter to the mood of the words. With each utterance, Leilani felt the ebb and drag of psychic force shifting about her like an ocean of clear oil. The presence of the group-mind rebounded around them in captured echoes. The novice gripped the flamer tightly, and struggled to keep herself from shaking. First, in the things she had read in the libraria, then in the living, breathing madness she had witnessed in the transformed Astartes on Luna, and now here, before her in this ship... Every half-truth and myth Leilani had heard about the powers that lurked within the empyrean were made true. Whatever dark corner of the warp spawned you, creature, you will not manifest here. Kendel sheathed her blade and in its stead drew her bolter to the ready. Laughter pealed around the crowd. 'This is not the face of Chaos. What you see here is only a message and the messenger.' What message? Kendel demanded her answer with savage jabs of motion. 'A message,' repeated the voices. 'Once before a message came and it was too late to change the pattern of things. You were there, Amendera Kendel. You saw this.' Leilani saw the Knight nod slowly, making the sign for an Astartes. 'Garro...' whispered the novice. 'A new message. A warning.' The breathy choir paused. 'For the ears of the Emperor of Mankind. Darkness comes, Sisters. The great eye opens and Horus rises. The history of tomorrow is known to me.' Kendel exchanged glances with her subordinate. Precognition was a known and documented psionic effect, although extremely rare and difficult to interpret. Leilani could imagine her mistress turning the words over in her mind; if this confluence of psychic had power enough to pierce the veil, perhaps... perhaps they might have some insight into the skeins of events yet to occur. Herkaaze spat noisily on the deck and brandished her sword. Destroy this monstrosity! she signed. It is some ploy, either of the witches' origin or even the turncoat Warmaster himself! We cannot ferry this abhorrence into the Emperor's divine presence. It must be killed! She advanced with her blade raised high, head sweeping back and forth like a hunting hawk looking for her next prey. Members of the group-mind broke apart from the main pack as she came at them, forming into smaller flocks that retreated from her along the ashen-stained walls. 'I am not your enemy!' came the multiple cry. 'The storm is about to break, but the course of things can be changed!' Herkaaze's only answer was to lunge and strike down another psyker. 'Millennia of endless warfare can be prevented!' Panic and desperation entered the voice of the chorus. 'Believe me!' From out of nowhere, a cluster of figures rushed towards Leilani and she raised the flamer, ready to immolate them in a heartbeat; but their flowing, waxen faces turned to her, imploring as they altered, begging her to hear them out. 'What do you want?' she screamed out the question again. In turn, they howled back at her. 'I am only the portal, the messenger and the message. Across the madness of the warp, where time and space become unravelled and the tapestry of events falls apart. I call to you from then.' Hands grabbed at her robes. 'I warn you from your tomorrows. Your now is my past. I am living in the hell I wish you to uncreate, centuries gone and the fires still raging.' AMENDERA KENDEL HAD once believed that the universe could do nothing to shock her; the horrors that she had witnessed in service to the Silent Sisterhood, the years that matured her from a callow novice to an Oblivion Knight of rank and stature, these things had shown her much, from the glories of the human heart to the very depths of monstrosity that nature could create. But she had lost that arrogance, truly lost it when word had come of the Heresy, when she had looked into the eyes of a creature cut from the raw matter of corruption. She had known then that there was more that moved upon the face of the universe than could be encompassed in her judgement. And here, now, she found herself challenged again. It would be easy for her to take the path Emrilia followed, to decry and shout for death. To question

e very depths of monstrosity that nature could create. But she had lost that arrogance, truly lost it when word had come of the Heresy, when she had looked into the eyes of a creature cut from the raw matter of corruption. She had known then that there was more that moved upon the face of the universe than could be encompassed in her judgement. And here, now, she found herself challenged again. It would be easy for her to take the path Emrilia followed, to decry and shout for death. To question and wonder, even for a moment, that was beyond Herkaaze's insight. There had been moments when Kendel had thought she too had become reactionary and hidebound - and this was one more reason why she selected the girl Leilani as her adjutant. At times, she saw the mirror of herself in the novice-sister, keeping her close so that she might reinforce that dormant sense of wonder. But to comprehend this... A voice, speaking not from the here and now but a time yet to happen. A future? Try as she might, Sister Amendera could not find it in herself to deny that such a thing, as incredible as it seemed, was not possible. It was the warp, after all; and in the warp, all things were malleable. Emotion, distance, thought, reality. If dimensions such as these were distorted here, then why not time itself? 'This place and this instant,' cried the psykers. 'I am here as you are, peering in from my unfuture to the shifting sands of the past.' All together, they moved their hands to their faces, the tips of two fingers to their chins. 'To give voice.' Herkaaze was frozen, kneading the hilt of her sword, turning in place, daring the witchkin to come within reach of a cut. She did not see the cluster grouping around Sister Leilani, entreating the girl with open hands and upturned faces. Kendel moved towards the girl, unsure of how to proceed. 'You know me,' they told the novice, flesh shifting again, bones crackling. 'Look. See.' There was something new in the chanted words, a cadence and pitch that seemed at once eerily familiar to Kendel, but unknown as well. Older, somehow. Her breath was struck from her lips as the group-mind's aspect altered once again, the sketch of a face thickening, becoming firm and definite. A cold sensation crawled along the base of the Knight's spine. 'You know me,' they said, and each one of them was the mirror of Leilani Mollitas. THE NOVICE SCREAMED in fright at the faces surrounding her. They were some strange mimicking of her own plain features, but lined and aged by years and hardship. She looked and saw dozens of elder sketches of herself, renderings of what she might be should she live a hundred years. The timbre of the voices echoed in her memories, and she was suddenly thinking of her mother. The similarity was uncanny and it terrified her. She could not deny it: the voices were hers. The flamer dropped from her nerveless fingers to the deck, and she stumbled back a few steps. 'How... can this be?' The chorus inhaled together and replied. 'I have done terrible things to get to this place,' said the voice. 'Pacts and accords that have scarred my soul.' 'We are Untouchable,' Leilani husked. 'They say we have no souls.' 'We have,' came the reply. 'Else I would have had nothing to burn, no coin to pay my way here.' She became aware of the Oblivion Knights either side of her, each watching with expressions of horror and wonderment. The voice pealed like a bell. 'That price I... you paid willingly. Now trust me. Take me to him, and we will be able to reorder a galaxy yet unsullied by-' There came a sound; not quite a howl, not a gasp or a cry but some strangled merging of all three. It burst from Herkaaze's mouth in a flash of spittle and rage. Her revulsion was so towering that she could not hold in the exhalation. Her free hand flew about her face in a wild dance. Traitor bitch! she signed, almost too fast for the eye to follow. If this insanity is to be believed, then you have consorted with mind-witches! You have betrayed your oath to the Throne of Terra and the Lord Emperor! Leilani tried to find the words to explain, but her thoughts were confused. It was not her, but some other possible incarnation of the woman she would become who had done this deed; and yet the novice shuddered as she looked wildly around at the psykers who wore her face. If such a thing had been done, what was the magnitude of these sinister pacts her elder self mentioned? Treating with witchkind was the least among them; in order to make this bridge across the warp, sorcery of the darkest stripe would be needed. Her Pariah gene, burned from her DNA. Her literal self, subsumed into a mass-mind for the sole purpose of punching a hole into the past. What magnitude of event could have been so great to have made that choice seem a reasonable one? The novice felt conflicted. Sickened by the scope of such mad sacrifice, it was all she could do not to retch, but even as she was revolted, Leilani found a kernel of understanding. 'Yes,' she whispered, 'I would do such a thing. If that was required of me, if the cost was so high, yes. I would do this deed.' She turned her gaze inwards, and touched the tranquillity inside herself, newly revealed beneath a light of new self-knowledge. In Leilani's silence, only the truth of who she was remained. It was this thought that followed her into darkness, as the tip of Herkaaze's sword carved through her spine and erupted from the chest plate of her battle-bodice. KENDEL BARELY HELD in the scream, her mouth gaping open but the utterance smothered by the force of her sacred oath. Sister Leilani's eyes rolled back and she coughed out a great tide of blood, her body collapsing as Herkaaze drew back her blade from where she had stabbed the girl in the back. The novice-sister fell in a clatter of armour and flesh against the corroded decking. Crimson spread around her in a rippling halo. The Knight brought up her bolter and aimed it at the other woman, the weapon trembling in her grip. She felt wetness on her cheeks. Why? Kendel mouthed the words, her other hand tight in a mailed fist. She wanted to shout the question, but her voice would not come. How can you ask that? Herkaaze gave her a defiant glare, daring her to shoot. I have stopped this monstrosity before it started. Strangled the horror in its crib. Around them the psykers were whispering, then mumbling, then speaking and finally screaming. They clawed and howled at each other, tearing the flesh of their faces into rags. Their cries were just one word, repeated until the chamber resonated with the sound. 'No. No no no no no no no no no-' The air trembled and the deck groaned with it. Kendel ducked as one of the psykers, a pyrokene, suddenly erupted into flames and caught a cluster of his fellow prisoners alight. Elsewhere, a tornado of force flashed where a psychokinetic lost control of herself. As if they were untrained hounds whose leashes were suddenly cut, the witches were running wild. Mollitas's death tore them down, and the Oblivion Knight saw the group-mind fracturing, self-destructing. Clipped by the psi-fires, pieces of the metal ceiling broke away and crashed to the ground. Plumes of gas and drifts of meat-smoke stinging her nostrils, Kendel saw Herkaaze disappear behind a cascade of tumbling pipes and spun away to avoid a gout of flame. The Validus trembled and moaned again; she thought of the calmed void outside in warp space. How long would it last now, with the witches in disarray? She took two steps and hesitated, half-turning, remembering Leilani's corpse there on the deck, but all around her steel and iron was turning into ruins of gritty powder. Kendel thought she heard the echoing report of a bolter firing from deeper into the chamber; the Knight ignored it and fled, cutting down a pair of ferals who tried to block her path. Into the corridor beyond, she felt her boots slip and become mired as the deck softened beneath her steps. All over the walls, tendrils of decay snaked out, aging everything they touched. Time itself was digging its fangs into the hull of the Validus, the freakish effects no longer confined to locations here and there throughout the vessel. Kendel's tapped out the emergency all-channel recall on her glove, searching the smoky gloom for any sign of Sister Thessaly or the White Talons who were still on the ship. Her vox crackled but no reply codes came. She reached beneath her combat cloak and her fingers touched her teleport recall beacon. The Oblivion Knight gripped the slim golden rod in her hand, her thumb hesitating over the activation stud. Why did Nortor fail to answer her? Where were the others? What mad hell had this death ship come from? Kendel spat and glared at the rod's winking indicator; then the deck beneath her gave way, and she knew nothing else. LIGHT CUT INTO her eyes and she coughed. Blinking owlishly, Amendera Kendel became aware of a restraint harness around her and the thin whisper of liquids enveloping her body. She tried to focus, staring at a shimmering shape on a dark wall. After a while it resolved into a reflection, and she orientated her perceptions. She lay suspended in a bath of pale pink fluids, her body for the most part naked except for places where metal devices were joined with puckered, inflamed skin. A narthecia tank, a great cocktail of medicines and liquids that mended burned flesh or torn skin. The Knight had often seen the like in the medicae decks of the Aeria Gloris, but in all her service she had never found herself in one of them. The fluids resisted her attempts to move, pulling on her. She could shift a little, and then only her head and neck, raised above the enamelled steel walls of the tank. The chamber was dim, lit only by the glow of a single lume set low and the red laser-optics of a hunchbacked servitor. It moved slowly just to her right, orbiting between two sculpted consoles that chimed in time with her heartbeat a

ae decks of the Aeria Gloris, but in all her service she had never found herself in one of them. The fluids resisted her attempts to move, pulling on her. She could shift a little, and then only her head and neck, raised above the enamelled steel walls of the tank. The chamber was dim, lit only by the glow of a single lume set low and the red laser-optics of a hunchbacked servitor. It moved slowly just to her right, orbiting between two sculpted consoles that chimed in time with her heartbeat and breathing. Kendel glanced down at her hand and saw a line of burn scarring across the palm that had held the teleport beacon. Not dead, then. The sight seemed to be the final confirmation for her. She drew in a breath and found it hard to hold it; her lungs ached. 'Awake.' The word fell from the shadows beyond the far end of the tank. Kendel blinked and threw a look at the servitor, but the machine-helot did not appear to notice. The Knight pushed again at the restraints holding her in place, but they were of dense plastiform and immovable. 'Don't.' The voice was harsh and broken. 'You will reopen the wounds you have spent so long healing.' Parts of the shadows detached from the dark and moved. Kendel saw a figure, a woman, a Sister. The shapeless coils of a robe, the lume-light touching a shorn scalp and the cascade of a topknot beyond it. At once she was shocked; even in shadows, Kendel could see this was no unavowed novice but a ranked Sister of Silence. For a Sister to speak aloud was anathema. The woman seemed to sense her amazement. When she spoke again, there was a cruelty in her words. 'We are alone here, you and I. The servitor cannot report. None will know that I have given voice.' In the dimness, the Sister touched two fingers to her chin. 'You are aboard the Aeria Gloris,' she continued. 'That errant harpy Nortor came to your rescue as you lay insensate. The teleport recovered you.' The figure shook its head once. 'The Null Maiden did not survive the translation.' A sharp tension twisted in Kendel's chest. She had known Thessaly Nortor for many years, and her loss cut deeply. 'Some of the White Talons escaped in saviour pods.' Kendel heard a low, wry chuckle. 'We were the lucky ones. Treated to such a show.' The Sister spread her hands. 'The Validus, consumed by a wash of psychic fury, eaten alive by rabid time. The vessel torn to shreds, the warp about it churned into a maelstrom. Ah.' She shivered. 'It is such a delicacy to say these things without gesture.' In defiance, Kendel moved her right hand just enough that the other woman could read the signs. You sully your oath. You break the silence. 'He will forgive me.' The woman stepped closer, and Emrilia Herkaaze's face revealed itself. 'It was He who guided me to the pods when you left me to die. He who guided my blade when I executed your errant novice. He, who saved me when you abandoned me on Sheol Trinus.' The Knight snarled with fury and pulled at her restraints, the pink fluid splashing around her. Thin whorls of new blood issued out through the liquid from ruptured sutures. Disgust filled her at the towering injustice of it that this callous and narrow-hearted woman should live and poor Leilani perish. Herkaaze came close and halted, bowing her head. 'Whatever it was that we witnessed in there, I killed it as I said I would. Your novice, she had some connection to the monstrosity, that is not disputed.' She sighed. 'Perhaps there was some truth to the ravings of the voice. If it was indeed a messenger from our unbound future then her death here annulled that skein of time. Those events will not unfold.' The other Knight nodded to herself. 'In a way, I saved her from herself. She died unsullied, with the seed of corruption still dormant inside. And so the order of the universe is preserved.' The message, signed Kendel, wincing in pain. You killed the messenger. Whatever truth there was for us to learn goes unheard! She spoke of wars we could prevent, a great burning! Sister Emrilia shook her head. 'No one will believe you if you make mention of that. Give voice to it and you will destroy your reputation, for I will decry you. At best you will ruin yourself. At worst, you will split the Sisterhood.' She glared at the other woman, dearly relishing the feel of words on her tongue. 'Do you wish that, Amendera?' You are a blind fool. Arrogant and superiors. Kendel turned her head away. You and every one of your stripe are a cancer on the Imperium. 'I see better than you,' she replied, walking back towards the shadows. 'My eyes are open to the truth. Only one so divine as the God-Emperor has the right to tamper with the weave of history.' At the utterance of the word "god", Kendel turned back, a questioning look on her face; but the other woman was still walking, speaking almost to herself. 'If there is to be war, it is because He wishes it. I am the vessel for His voice, sister, and all who are mute before His glory will not rise with me.' Herkaaze vanished into the darkness and Kendel closed her eyes. Inside she sought out silence but it remained lost to her. CALL OF THE LION Gav Thorpe IN A STORM OF kaleidoscopic violence, reality was torn apart. From the seething warp-point burst forth a starship, slab-sided and bristling with weapon systems. Within moments of the warp rift opening, the Spear of Truth had smashed into realspace, and almost immediately its launch bays were opening, shafts of red light spilling from the yawning maws of its hangars. The battle-barge spewed forth a swarm of unmanned probes that darted out from the warship's armoured hull in all directions, turning and weaving a complex pattern like bees around their hive, their scanners seeking any sign of immediate threat. A few minutes later, patrol craft erupted from their mechanical wombs on white-hot plasma jets. They formed up into three squadrons, one fore, one aft and the other circling the battle-barge amidships. Thus protected, the Spear of Truth began the long process of slowing its immense speed. On the bridge of the Spear of Truth, Chapter Commander Astelan was geared and armed ready for battle, as were the rest of his crew, heedful of the standing orders for vessels to be ready to fight immediately. Such orders were not merely dogma. Despite her guns and patrol craft, the Spear of Truth, like all starships, was most vulnerable dropping out of warp space. Just as a man requires time to orientate himself upon recovering consciousness, so too did the battle-barge and its inhabitants need to adjust to realspace. Astelan was clad in his power armour, as were his three companions, Galedan, Astoric and Melian, each a captain of the companies carried aboard the battle-barge. Their armour was shadow-black, broken only by the red winged-sword insignia of the Legion upon their left shoulder pad and their company markings on the right. The dull grey of exposed piping and cables broke through from under the overlapping ceramite chestplates, coiling under the arms to the backpacks that supplied power to the suits. Though painstakingly maintained, each showed small but tell-tale signs of wear and tear - spots of corrosion, repaired battle damage and makeshift replacement parts. Astelan had heard that newer versions of armour had been developed, with reinforced joints and fewer weak spots, but it had been more than four years since his Chapter had been in contact for a substantial resupply. Around the massive figures of the four Astartes were several dozen functionaries clad in simple robes or white coats. Most stood at workstations, while some were on hand with dataslabs to record any orders given by their commanders. The only sounds were the thrumming of logic machines, the chitter of readouts, the tread of boots on mesh decking and the murmurs of the technicians. All were well practised; there was no need for idle chatter, only clipped reports from the bridge crew. 'Local scan negative for planetary bodies.' At Astelan's waist hung a power sword and his holstered bolt pistol. They had been in his possession since he was promoted to sergeant, only fourteen years ago, and they were as much a badge of office for him as the insignia inscribed upon his chest plastron. He tapped his fingers against the hilt of the sword as he waited for the sensor screen to re-establish itself. 'Local scan negative for artificial bodies.' 'Wide sensor array operational.' The seconds ticked by slowly, as the Spear of Truth metaphorically shook away its dizziness and regained its sight and hearing. 'Tactical display coming online.' The mood of concentration did not lighten at the news, for although the Spear of Truth was now no longer swathed in a sensorial limbo, it would take a while before the data being relayed back to the ship was collated and analysed. 'Local comm-web established.' A few more minutes passed until a technician spoke again. 'Localised scanning complete,' he said. 'Zero threats detected.' Though there were no obvious sighs of relief or relaxation, the tension aboard the bridge dissipated somewhat. Alertness turned to focused activity; caution to curiosity. Astelan looked up at the huge digital display that rendered all of the incoming data into an understandable image. It was crude at the moment, little more than a wire-frame schematic of the system and its major planetary bodies, and would take several days for the picture to be completed as the surveyor probes raced through the system sending back their findings. Over the coming hours, eighteen more vessels broke from warp at various points around the star system's outer reaches, each spawning its own small brood of escorts and augury devices. Seven more battle-barges, three fleet carriers and eight light cruiser-class warships descended upon the silent worlds orbiting the deep-red orb at the system's centre. Invisible, tight-beam laser communications criss-crossed the void seeking the whereabo

robes raced through the system sending back their findings. Over the coming hours, eighteen more vessels broke from warp at various points around the star system's outer reaches, each spawning its own small brood of escorts and augury devices. Seven more battle-barges, three fleet carriers and eight light cruiser-class warships descended upon the silent worlds orbiting the deep-red orb at the system's centre. Invisible, tight-beam laser communications criss-crossed the void seeking the whereabouts and conditions of the other fleet members. After several hours, contact was fully re-established. The fleet correlated their courses and calculated velocity descents for rendezvous, inbound towards the core worlds. The Dark Angels began their exploration of system DX-619 in earnest. Astelan was patient. It would be at least seven more days before the fleet had decelerated to something approaching orbit-navigable speed, and he was determined to use that time to gather as much information as possible about this uncharted stretch of the galaxy. A radio signature, faint or perhaps even nonexistent, had brought the Dark Angels here; the merest chattering murmur against the background radiation of the universe. It would most likely be nothing, a cosmic anomaly caused by an irregularity in the star's emissions or a millennia-old echo of a civilisation long since turned to dust by the passing of an age. Such had been the case for ninety-five per cent of the systems the task force had investigated over the last five years. Almost all were deserted, for even at the height of mankind's spread across the stars they were scattered thinly, pockets of humanity amongst the impossible vastness of interstellar space. In the early years the forces of the Great Crusade had met with huge success, bringing the Imperial Truth to hundreds of worlds in the relatively densely populated systems around Terra. Here, in the yawning chasm between spiral arms, such colonies had always been sparse, and through the isolation of the Age of Strife it was possible that none at all had survived. With every warp jump, Astelan always readied himself for action, for unexpected discovery, but with every jump he also hardened his expectations with the overwhelming probabilities involved in finding these far-flung outposts of humanity. It was thus understandable that Astelan watched the data monitors in a less-than-expectant mood. As the fleet gradually converged, he subconsciously processed the scan results scrolling across dozens of screens that filled the walls of the bridge. Technicians fussed over control dials and comm-units, cursing as connections were lost, grinning to their colleagues when unexpected feedback results were received. Astelan ignored them all, focusing entirely on one part of the main screen - the radio signature intercept relay. It was on that small wavering graph line that Astelan heaped his thoughts. It was a dull white line against the black of the screen, barely moving, showing nothing more than the static background hum of the universe's birth. Four days, he told himself. Four days for a positive contact. Four days before he ordered the fleet to turn around and head outsystem for another jump. It would be a waste of time to decelerate for longer, with the attendant need to accelerate again ready for warp jump, and so he gave his hopes four days to manifest. Already resigned to disappointment by recent experience, Astelan tore his eyes away from the radio relay and gave a nod to his second-in-command, Galedan. The captain accepted control of the bridge with a nod of his own and took the Chapter commander's place as Astelan turned and left. 'COMMANDER REQUESTED ON the bridge.' Galedan's voice sounded metallic through the comm-grille of Astelan's quarters, and its flat, precise tone gave no sense of the captain's mood. Astelan was sat at his small desk, garbed in an open-fronted robe, poring over weapons manifests. There was no need to respond. Galedan would have been more specific if the Chapter commander's presence was urgently needed, and the lack of a general alarm reassured Astelan that this was probably nothing more than some routine logging or scan result requiring his authorisation. He placed the manifests neatly into the desk's drawer and stood. A glance out of the small port showed the DX-619 star, much closer now. The dark shape of a planet could be clearly seen intruding upon the edge of the orb. That was nothing new, either. They had been closing on the world for three days now and they would reach it in two more. It was just a small shadow at the moment, like any other ball of rock they had encountered. With a resigned weariness, Astelan made his way along the metal and plascrete innards of the ship to the bridge. As the heavy double doors hissed open, Astelan was confronted by a scene of intense activity. The technicians were gathered in small clusters of fours and fives around certain instruments, and seemed to be checking each other's calculations and findings. Galedan turned, and Astelan saw a glimmer in his companion's eyes and an expectant look. Unlike the Chapter commander, Galedan was in his armour, as befitted the bridge commander. Servos creaked as the captain gestured towards the main panel. Astelan's eyes immediately fixed on the radio relay as he strode into the room. He stopped in his tracks only three paces in. There was a spike on the small line. It was not particularly tall, but it was a definite abnormality. Regaining his composure, Astelan stepped up beside Galedan. The captain turned an inquiring look at one of the chief technicians and received a wordless nod in reply. 'Report,' said Astelan. 'Confirmed artificial radio signature, commander,' Galedan replied, unable to keep the hint of a smile from his lips. Astelan turned his attention to the chief technician, a lanky man with thinning hair and grey stubble. 'Automated? Location?' said Astelan. A couple of times before they had come across old beacons or communications satellites miraculously still functioning centuries after those that had launched them had perished. 'Fourth planet, definitely fluctuating very likely to be non-automated,' the technician reassured him. 'Sound general alarm,' ordered Astelan. It was a wise precaution, but Astelan did it as much to alert the crew that something was happening as he did out of military prudence. 'Signal the rest of the fleet with our findings. Rendezvous adjustment to point sigma-absolute. Please convey an invitation to Chapter Commander Belath to join me as soon as possible.' FURTHER SCANNING REVEALED that the planet's inhabitants had the capability to communicate by radio, and technicians soon confirmed that the inhabitants were human and spoke a dialect of the Terran language. The news that the fleet had indeed discovered an isolated human world brought Belath to the Spear of Truth for a meeting between the two Chapter commanders. With the fleet at general quarters once more, Astelan stood in one of the Spear of Truth's docking bays clad in his armour, awaiting the arrival of Belath. Accompanying Astelan were his three on-board company commanders and an honour guard from the First Company. Around them the hangar was full of drop-pods, the immense shapes of Castellan-class bombers and Harbinger assault craft, as well as the hawk-like forms of five Deathbird interceptors. Racks of bombs and missiles, crates of ammunition and stacks of power packs filled much of the remaining space. A dull clang above the Chapter commander signalled the arrival of Belath's transport. In the ceiling, gears ground into action and a breeze wafted upwards as the inner lock doors opened and the air inside the hangar was drawn up into the void above. Hydraulics wheezing, the heavy lift brought down the sleek, eagle-prowed craft, lights strobing an orange warning to those below and throwing dancing shadows around the assembled Space Marines. As the lift descended, Astelan considered how little he knew of his visitor. This was the first opportunity that he had been granted to meet his fellow Chapter commander face-to-face. He had exchanged comm contacts with Belath but only on a very formal basis. Belath's fleet and Chapter had joined Astelan's only two weeks earlier in the Calcabrina system. Astelan had been informed by Belath that the Dark Angels' primarch, the Lion, had sent Belath to add his forces to the expedition. Astelan knew nothing of Belath, but these days that was not surprising. The massive influx of warriors into the Legion following the rediscovery of Caliban meant that there were many commanders who had never met each other, tossed together on task forces and in warzones all across the galaxy. That one such Chapter commander had been despatched to assist Astelan was curious for the simple fact that there had been little enough for Astelan's Chapter to do and additional forces were unlikely to change that. 'The Lion probably wants Belath to gain some experience alongside the veterans before sending him off on his own,' said Galedan, guessing his commander's thoughts by way of their long history together. Astelan merely grunted a non-committal reply and kept his gaze upon the shuttle as the lift thudded to the hangar floor. With a hiss, the beak-like prow of the ship opened up to form a boarding ramp, and a lone power-armoured figure strode down. To Astelan, Belath looked incredibly young, perhaps only thirty or thirty-five years old. Given that the Legion's strength had increased by almost twenty thousand in the last few years, it was no shock to see that relatively junior Astartes were occupying command positions. After contact with Caliban many company officers had been promoted to Chapter commanders over the new recruits, and it was this that had seen Astelan's own rapid rise to prominence. It had since been decided not to split the existing Terran veterans too much across th

perhaps only thirty or thirty-five years old. Given that the Legion's strength had increased by almost twenty thousand in the last few years, it was no shock to see that relatively junior Astartes were occupying command positions. After contact with Caliban many company officers had been promoted to Chapter commanders over the new recruits, and it was this that had seen Astelan's own rapid rise to prominence. It had since been decided not to split the existing Terran veterans too much across the new Calibanite Chapters and so it was inevitable that some of the more recent additions would be commanded by all but untested warriors. Belath had the pale skin and dark hair that was common to many Calibanites, though his eyes were a deep blue rather than the usual brown or grey. His hair was cropped exceptionally short, in stark contrast to Astelan's long braids, and Belath's expression was of tight-lipped solemnity. The arrival stopped in front of Astelan and held a fist to his chest in salute. As Astelan nodded in greeting, he noticed something that caught his eye. 'What's that?' Astelan asked, pointing to a heraldic symbol on Belath's right shoulder plate, where normally a Space Marine's organisational and rank markings would be painted. It was decorated with a quartered shield, white and blue, emblazoned with a sword held in the grip of a taloned foot. 'That is the symbol of my order,' replied Belath, somewhat taken aback. 'The Order of the Raven's Wing.' Astelan turned an inquiring look to Galedan. 'One of the knightly orders,' the captain said. 'A Calibanite rank badge.' 'And that?' said Astelan, redirecting his accusing finger to Belath's other shoulder pad, which was painted a dark green beneath the Dark Angels symbol. 'The glorious Lion El'Jonson has decreed that Calibanite warriors are to wear the green of our home world's forests,' said Belath with no small hint of defiance. 'It is to act as a remembrance of the battles fought to tame Caliban under the leadership of the Lion.' Astelan merely nodded without comment. The two Chapter commanders stood gauging each other in silence for several heartbeats before Astelan spoke again. 'Welcome aboard the Spear of Truth,' he said, extending a hand. 'I am pleased to make your acquaintance.' Belath hesitated, and then broke into a disarming smile and shook Astelan's hand. 'It is my honour and privilege,' the young Chapter commander said. Followed by his entourage, Astelan led Belath from the docking bay into the dorsal concourse that ran the length of the Spear of Truth. As they headed towards a nearby conveyor, they passed open archways through which Astelan's Space Marines could be seen readying for battle. Squad upon squad of power-armoured warriors ran through weapons or maintenance drills under the stern eyes of their sergeants. Banners were carefully taken down from their honoured positions on the walls of the chambers, paint carefully applied to dents and scratches on armour and solemn oaths renewed before the symbols of the Legion. 'My Chapter is also ready to fight,' assured Belath as the group stopped before the mesh door of the conveyor. One of the honour guards stepped forwards and pushed a broad plate on the wall. The conveyor door slid aside for the pair to enter. Astelan dismissed the escort as he stepped inside. The conveyor was a cube some ten feet by every dimension, lined with thick plascrete walls. Astelan turned two dials as Galedan, Astoric and Melian followed the two Chapter commanders. 'Are they ready not to fight?' asked Astelan as the door slammed shut. The conveyor jolted into action, rapidly rising up through the decks of the battle-barge. 'I do not understand,' said Belath, raising his voice so that it could be heard over the clatter of chains and gears. With a shudder the conveyor halted for a moment and then continued, now heading horizontally towards the prow of the battle-barge. Astelan considered his reply for a moment before speaking. 'We exist to bring the Emperor's peace to the galaxy,' said Astelan finally. 'Though we may bring war to millions, we should not crave it.' 'We were created to fight,' countered Belath. 'Yes, and we are also charged with the responsibility of choosing who we fight against,' said Astelan. 'When we go to war, we must do so in the sure and utter knowledge that it is right. From this comes our wholehearted dedication to victory. We must be a terrible foe, and must do terrible things, in order that others will learn from our enemies' follies. Once unleashed, out anger cannot, and should not, be stayed. Relentless on the attack, intractable in defence, these are the hallmarks of the Astartes. Yet, it is perhaps all too easy to stir ourselves to angry war for small reason. You must remember that a world crushed beneath our heel may be resentful, and requires garrisons and resources to guard it. A world that comes freely to accept the wisdom of the Emperor must be embraced as a brother for they will add strength and not detract it.' 'We are perfected in body and mind to be the sword of the Lion,' said Belath. 'Where he directs, our blade falls. It is not our part to judge the punished, merely to administer the punishment. Let diplomats and bureaucrats argue the reasons and let us be dedicated to the annihilation of our enemies.' As if to punctuate the young Chapter commander's remarks, the conveyor suddenly halted and a bell rang somewhere above it. Galedan opened the door and the three captains stepped out into the corridor beyond. Belath made to take a pace but Astelan laid a hand upon his arm and held him back, turning Belath to face him. 'You command more than a thousand of the finest warriors in the galaxy, as do I,' said Astelan. 'The Emperor has placed in me that power, but with it must come the judgement to wield it wisely. I do not know what you learnt about war in the Order of the Raven's Wing, but it is bloody and costly and only a fool desires it.' 'The Lion has chosen me to lead this Chapter,' said Belath, gently but insistently prising his arm from Astelan's grip. 'I have my orders from the primarch and I will not hesitate to carry them out.' Without offering a reply Astelan strode from the conveyor and turned left along the corridor. A great double door of carved wood stood out incongruously from the plascrete walls and metal decking. The carvings were of an angular, abstract design. Astelan ran his gauntleted fingers over the lines and curves, tracing them. 'I fashioned these doors myself,' the Chapter commander said, looking at Belath. 'For many hours I laboured, copying designs from memory seen on the long halls I grew up in upon the Sibran Steppes of Terra. There is a tale in these patterns, for those who know how to read it.' 'What tale?' said Belath, his anger replaced by intrigue. 'Later,' replied Astelan reluctantly as he opened the doors. 'We have a campaign to plan.' 'Later then,' said Belath, stepping past Astelan into the room beyond. Inside was the operations room of the Spear of Truth. The walls were filled with banks of blank screens and comm-units, faced by long benches as yet vacant. The thrum of latent power filled the air, waiting to turn the quiet chamber into the epicentre of a military action that could conquer worlds. Belath gave the equipment no second glance, having similar facilities upon his own vessel, and instead strode to a huge glass-topped oval tablet at the centre of the chamber. Astelan followed him with the others and directed Astoric to activate the hololith. The glass flickered into life, a dull grey at first but warming up to a bright green. As the captain deftly manipulated the controls, a glowing three-dimensional sphere rose up from the table, slowly rotating. The press of more buttons illuminated small patches on the surface of the globe, and flickering lights sprang up in a haphazard maze around them. 'This is the system's fourth world,' announced Astelan. 'We are currently standing out some seven hundred thousand kilometres from low orbit on the standard ediptic plane. No visual data is yet available, but I have highlighted sources of energy spikes and radio interference. Most likely they are urbanised areas.' 'Populated?' asked Belath with considerable excitement. 'Yes, populated,' said Astelan with a smile. 'You seem to have joined us just in time. Five years we have been out in this wilderness with barely a glimmer of life to be seen. I hope you realise how fortunate you are.' 'Certainly,' said Belath. He took a deep breath and then turned to face Astelan, his fist held formally against his chest. 'With your permission I would like to lead the assault.' Astoric and Galedan both laughed, but were quickly silenced by a look from Astelan. 'While your enthusiasm is commendable, it is a bit early to be talking of assaults,' the Chapter commander told his young peer. 'Do you plan to make contact?' asked Belath, his eyes fixed on the hololithic representation of the world. 'I have not yet decided,' said Astelan. 'It is a delicate situation.' 'As far as we can determine, the inhabitants are as yet unaware of our presence,' said Galedan, staring at the flickering three-dimensional image as if it was the world itself. 'Contact would reveal us and we would lose the element of surprise.' Astelan nodded in agreement. 'It's a mess of communications,' he admitted. 'I do not know how we would make contact, or with whom. There appear to be no planet-wide official frequencies. It seems that we have several states and governments to deal with.' Belath looked up at this, his face thoughtful. 'That could prove to be an advantage,' he said. 'We could introduce ourselves to one nation and deal directly with them - use them as a partner to reveal ourselves to the remaining populace.' 'But with whom would we initially ally ourselves?' said Astelan with a shake of his head. 'We have no means of determining which power blo

e appear to be no planet-wide official frequencies. It seems that we have several states and governments to deal with.' Belath looked up at this, his face thoughtful. 'That could prove to be an advantage,' he said. 'We could introduce ourselves to one nation and deal directly with them - use them as a partner to reveal ourselves to the remaining populace.' 'But with whom would we initially ally ourselves?' said Astelan with a shake of his head. 'We have no means of determining which power bloc is dominant, if any. Such an intercession could provoke conflict between the states, even civil war.' 'We need more information before we can proceed,' said Astoric. He glanced at the others before continuing. 'Local knowledge.' 'Communications techs are analysing everything that's incoming,' said Astelan. 'We can unravel more through studying the commsfeed.' 'Why not just go and take a look?' said Belath. 'Better still, we should capture some of the inhabitants for questioning.' 'We'll need somewhere isolated,' said Galedan, peering at the hololith. He nodded in satisfaction and indicated an area on the southern continent. 'This area seems sparsely populated. There's scattered urban centres, but plenty of open space for us to land undetected.' Astoric turned his attention to data streaming past the image of the planet. 'It will be nightfall over that part of the planet in just under three ship hours,' the captain said. 'One moon will be in recession, the other dark.' 'I will lead a short sortie to the surface to establish a ground base and gather more information,' announced Astelan. 'We'll drop tonight with a reconnaissance force and see what we can find.' 'Is that wise, commander?' asked Galedan. 'It would be more prudent if I or one of the other captains led the mission, you are too valuable to risk until we know more.' Astelan fixed them all in turn with a fierce stare. 'It's been three years since I last set foot planetside,' he growled. 'I'm bloody well going to step onto this one first!' AS ASTELAN HAD wished it, so he was the first to step from the assault ramp of the huge Harbinger drop-transport. The drop-ship could be more likened to a small fortress than a transport, silhouetted against the cloudy sky. The outline of the drop-ship was broken by eight armoured turrets armed with lascannons. Smaller automated defences swivelled back and forth; rocket multi-launchers and anti-personnel heavy bolters peered towards the horizon with unliving eyes. The whine of anti-grav engines caused Astelan to step aside from the ramp. Ten jetbikes swept past in pairs, their riders clad in stripped-down armour. A few metres from the drop-ship their engines erupted into piercing howls and the reconnaissance squadron fanned out swiftly. Soon the flicker of their jets disappeared into the darkness. Following closely behind, heralded by the deeper thrum of their engines, two land speeders shot from the bowels of the Harbinger, their heavy weapons ready to provide support to the bikers. Squads of Astartes pounded down the ramps, the drop-ship trembling with the weight of dozens of booted feet upon plasteel. Squad by squad the company assembled under their captain before being dispersed to positions around the site. Astelan cast his gaze left and right, taking in his surrounds, the landscape digitally projected onto his eyes by his helmet's auto-senses so that the dark was almost as bright as day. According to Astoric there was a medium-sized conurbation three kilometres away. The dropsite was located in a patchwork of fields separated by chest-high walls and ditches. Here and there were dotted clusters of plain buildings. To the west was a thick forest, beyond which lay the town. The fields rose up onto steep-sided hills to the north, but the rest of the terrain was open and flat. It was these long fields of fire that had contributed towards Astelan's decision to land at this point. It was here that Astelan hoped to make contact with the planet's inhabitants. Having been present at three other first-contact situations, he knew that the next minutes and hours would be vital. Scans had shown no orbital craft, even basic communication satellites, so the shock of visitors arriving from space might well be considerable. Astelan had chosen this relatively small backwater to acclimatise to the world and to act as a gentle introduction to the natives - it was unwise to drop armoured warriors into the heart of a planet's major cities unless widespread panic was the desired result. That the world did not have space-capable craft was surprising but not unknown. So much knowledge had been lost during the long centuries of darkness, many worlds had even returned to cruel barbarism and superstition. At the moment, the world was neither friendly nor enemy, simply an intriguing enigma that Astelan wished to swiftly unravel. Astelan set up his command post some five hundred metres from the Harbinger inside an abandoned farmstead. It was a set of simple cubic constructions of plascrete, of a pattern laid down by the standard template data seen all across the galaxy during mankind's expansion to the stars. As other units moved to similar positions in buildings and along walls surrounding the dropsite, Astelan idly mused whether other standard template construct materiel would be found. It was not a particular concern of his, but the Mechanicum of Mars would be interested. The sound of a distant detonation tore Astelan from his thoughts and he dashed outside, ducking his considerable frame beneath the low lintel of the doorway. Amongst the trees a pall of smoke rose into the air. He saw flashes of flame and a few moments later came the crash of more explosions. His comm-piece crackled inside his helmet and Astelan gave the sub-vocal command that activated the pickup. It was Sergeant Argeon, the leader of the recon sweep. 'It looks like our small town is, in fact, a military installation, commander,' the sergeant reported blithely. 'I don't think they were expecting visitors.' Astelan swore loudly. The jetbikes were almost three kilometres distant, several minutes from supporting units. Before he could make any further analysis, the keen auto-senses of his armour attracted his attention. It was the unmistakeable whine of approaching jets. The defence arrays on the Harbinger also detected the incoming craft and a hail of missiles streaked skywards upon trails of fire, screaming to the west. Explosions blistered in the low clouds that hung over the whole sky, but there was no way of telling if any had hit their targets. No more than a minute later the answer came. Small black shapes appeared, a long chain of them drifting downwards towards the Harbinger. They erupted in blossoms of incendiary destruction around the drop ship and upon its hull, splashing some form of burning fuel in their wake. Evidently at least one aircraft had survived. As the Chapter commander processed this new development, Argeon's voice was in Astelan's ear again. 'They are readying for an attack on our position,' the sergeant said. 'What are your orders?' 'Pull back a kilometre and establish a new cordon,' Astelan replied. Jetbikes were for scouting, not for mounting a resistant defence. 'Acknowledged, commander,' said Argeon. The tactical display showed that Sergeant Cayvan was moving his three squads forwards on his own initiative, securing the boundary of the woods. Astelan left the experienced sergeant to his own devices, confident that he knew what he was doing. 'Withdrawal pattern, commander?' asked Sergeant Jak in the comm-piece. 'Not until we know what their aerial capability is,' said Astelan. There was little sense in piling the troops back onto the burning Harbinger until Astelan knew whether the enemy had the means to shoot down the transport. A different tone signalled a message incoming from orbit. 'I have coordinates for orbital barrage confirmed.' It was Belath, his tone quiet and assured. 'Negative,' responded Astelan. 'They might not have orbital craft but we have no idea if they have ground-based defences capable of striking back. Do not give away your position.' 'I understand,' said Belath. 'I am dispensing craft for atmospheric dominance.' 'Yes, cover the landing zone and put your companies on their ships in preparation for landing,' Astelan said. 'They already are, Astelan,' replied Belath with a note of umbrage. 'Stand ready for my word then,' said Astelan. By now the Harbinger was ablaze along half its length. Its surviving turrets were firing a near-continuous stream of anti-air rockets into the clouds. Their approach all but masked by the din, more unseen jets screeched overhead and a short while later the ground was rocked by massive explosions. The heavy bombs tore huge craters in the grassy mud and sent plumes of stones and dirt high into the air. Several scored direct hits on the landing craft, tearing out great chunks of plasteel armour and rockcrete superstructure. More thunderous detonations swiftly followed, the explosions much smaller than those of the bombs though more accurate and numerous. It appeared that artillery was also being brought to bear on the drop zone. The rattle of small-arms fire drifted from the woods, interspersed with the heavier cracks of bolter rounds. Cayvan's squads were being engaged by their new enemy. Astelan swore again. He had so little information with which to construct a suitable strategy. The enemy had unknown numbers, unknown positions and unknown capabilities. In the face of his own ignorance, the Chapter commander fell back on the principal strategy of the Astartes - attack and dominate. 'Cayvan, hold position,' Astelan barked quickly over the comm-net. 'Sergeant Argeon, I want the locations of those artillery pieces relayed to Chapter Commander Belath. Jak, deploy your Devastators onto the hills and provide cover fire. Move the rest of your squads north and suppo

strategy. The enemy had unknown numbers, unknown positions and unknown capabilities. In the face of his own ignorance, the Chapter commander fell back on the principal strategy of the Astartes - attack and dominate. 'Cayvan, hold position,' Astelan barked quickly over the comm-net. 'Sergeant Argeon, I want the locations of those artillery pieces relayed to Chapter Commander Belath. Jak, deploy your Devastators onto the hills and provide cover fire. Move the rest of your squads north and support Cayvan. Melian, stand ready to reinforce either flank.' His warriors thus set into motion, Astelan ducked back inside the farmhouse. It was empty inside but for a few broken pieces of furniture and discarded rags. Sergeant Gemenoth had erected a tactical display unit in the centre of the main room. It was a simple vertical glass plate and projector, linked into the comm-net of the Dark Angels' battle-barge in geostationary orbit thousands of kilometres above them. The screen showed the rough topography of the surrounding area, and the locations of Astelan's squads were marked out by symbols that juddered across the artificial battlefield. Astelan tried to match the fragmented display and the gunfire and explosions outside with the reports buzzing over his helmet's comm-link. It was no good; he still felt he had no clear picture of what was happening. 'Squads two and three, form up on my position,' he told his guards as he moved back outside. The Dark Angels closed in on Astelan as another salvo of shells tore at the ground around the farmstead, showering them with clods of earth, shrapnel and pieces of stone clattering upon their armour. As Astelan vaulted over the low wall encompassing the group of buildings, he cast his gaze to the woods. There was still a considerable amount of firing and detonations tore at the treetops. There seemed little threat from other directions so it was towards the forest that he led his men. Another barrage landed around the Dark Angels as they jogged towards the treeline. Astelan felt the shockwave buffet him, while battle-brothers Rathis and Kherios were thrown from their feet by the impacts. Astelan stopped and turned with concern but the two Astartes pushed back to their feet and retrieved their bolters, their armour pitted and scored but not breached. Assured that neither was injured, Astelan continued towards the trees at a brisk pace, slipping his power sword from its sheath and unholstering his bolt pistol. The trees were closely packed, the thick canopy of foliage swathing the woods in darkness. A few ferns broke through the leaf mould but the woods were otherwise free of undergrowth. The ground was soft underfoot and the heavy Astartes sank into the mulch, their boots leaving deep prints in the rotting leaves. Muzzle flashes and the roar of bolters drew them to the left, and barely a hundred metres under the trees, Astelan saw the first of Cayvan's squads. The Astartes were standing just beneath the lip of a long, low ridge, trading fire with an enemy as yet out of Astelan's view. Bullets kicked up sprays of mud and pattered from the Dark Angels' armoured suits. Astelan reached the squad, and their sergeant turned to address him. 'Sergeant Riyan is flanking to the north, Chapter commander,' the Astartes said. 'He believes several hundred attackers, maybe up to a thousand, are trying to push through to the landing site.' 'Then we must push back,' said Astelan. He waved for the squad to follow him and stepped over the ridge. Astelan saw immediately that the enemy were using the trees and undulating ground for cover, darting into view, firing their crude automatic rifles and then ducking back out of sight. As soon as he strode over the ridge, the intensity of fire rose sharply. The flare of gunfire seemed concentrated to his right as the fusillade tore bark from trees and slashed through low-hanging branches. He felt impacts across his chest and right shoulder but paid them no heed. Behind him the squad advanced in two sections, one laying down a storm of bolter fire while the other advanced. The foremost Astartes then took up position and unleashed their own weapons while the rest of the squad moved up past them. The explosive-tipped bolts tore chunks out of the trees and ripped apart any enemy soldier unfortunate enough to be hit. As they closed in, Astelan could make out his foes more clearly. They were dark-skinned and dressed in drab blue overalls. They looked more like farmhands or factory workers than soldiers, but they held their ground as the Astartes approached and their fire was both accurate and determined. Glancing around, Astelan saw the bulky shapes of other Astartes moving in from the left and the right, pressing forwards alongside their Chapter commander. A bullet struck Astelan's helmet, its impact knocking his head back. Dizzied by the hit he fell to one knee. Static blurred the vision in his right eye as his helmet's auto-senses attempted to recalibrate themselves. Astelan could see indistinct shapes along a low ridge just to his right. Though half-blinded, he raised his pistol by instinct and fired off eight shots, the whole magazine, in the direction of the enemy. Two soldiers were torn apart by the bolts and the rest ducked for cover. Several seconds passed and still the vision in his right eye was fuzzy. With a grunt, the Chapter commander stepped sideways and stood with his back to a tree. Shells were now erupting around him, blasting apart foliage and bark, and bullets whined and splintered close by. Unperturbed, Astelan stowed his weapons and then twisted the helmet free, which came away from the neck guard with a hiss of escaping gases. He hooked the helmet to the belt band of his armour. Tasting blood, he reached up to his right cheek. There was blood on the fingertips of his gauntlet. Astelan had no idea how deep the wound was, but registered no discomfort, so he assumed it was superficial. His enhanced blood would have clotted the wound already. He calmly reloaded his bolt pistol and drew his sword again. Astelan resumed his advance, cracking off single shots as heads and limbs moved into sight from behind the trees. At close quarters the fighting was becoming chaotic. Rounds zipped and screamed past every few seconds, though none struck him. The artillery fire was slackening, perhaps for fear of hitting their own soldiers or perhaps from some action by the Astartes. Still, a few shells were detonating close at hand, spraying Astelan with charred leaves and baked mud. A new sound entered his consciousness: the throbbing bass note of an autocannon. The sound was reassuring, and Astelan looked to his right and saw an Astartes laying down a curtain of fire with the heavy weapon, his legs braced wide apart, a torrent of shell casings clattering off his backpack. This proved too much for the enemy and their fire quickly diminished as fighters were driven into cover by the autocannon's fearsome torrent of fire. In the lull, the Astartes charged forwards, bolters coughing, battle cries ringing from the trees. It seemed that Riyan's flanking manoeuvre had been successful, for the enemy were streaming away from their positions, heading back westwards, while more Astartes moved in from the north. Tongues of fire licked out through the trees from flamers, while bright lances of multilaser fire strobed with deadly effect along the foxholes and shell scrapes the enemy had dug into the ground. The retreat turned into a rout before the fury of the Dark Angels. Some of the soldiers threw down their weapons in their flight, their panicked shouts drowned out intermittently by the crack of exploding bolter rounds, the hiss and boom of frag missiles and the distinctive snap of lascannons. 'Hold pursuit,' Astelan ordered. 'Find me a dozen wounded for prisoners.' 'Armour! Armour! Armour!' Riyan suddenly shouted over the comm. 'Tracked fighting vehicles approaching our position from the north and west.' There was the sound of an explosion close at hand and the line buzzed with static. Another voice cut in. 'This is Brother Nikolan,' the Astartes said. 'Armour has large-calibre weapons. Sergeant Riyan is seriously wounded.' 'Jak, move up to Riyan's position and take command,' snapped Astelan. The sergeant gave an affirmative and headed off northwards at a run. Astelan waved for the remaining Astartes to follow him to the north-west. Within a few minutes, the growl of combustion engines drifted through the trees. Denied his auto-senses, Astelan relied on the reports of his battle-brothers to identify the tanks' positions in the darkness. Exhaust plumes lit up like fireworks on their helmet displays and a steady stream of coordinates was passed across the comm-net. The stench of oil-based fuel wafted from the west, and Astelan peered into the gloom. A moment later he saw the glaring blossom of a muzzle flash highlighting a tank less than two hundred metres away, its bulk concealed behind an outcrop of rock. The shell exploded just behind the Chapter commander and he heard cries from wounded Astartes as grit and dirt showered down onto him. Now that he knew where it was, Astelan could make out the tank's shape a little better. It was compact, its turret seemingly oversized for its hull, with a short-barrelled cannon. Secondary weapons opened fire with flashes, and more bullets screamed past. The turret adjusted slightly and the main gun angled down towards the Dark Angels' position. 'Disperse!' bellowed Astelan, sprinting to his right. His power armour took him across the ground in huge leaps, covering half a dozen metres with every pace. The explosion smashed apart a tree trunk just metres from where the squad had been stood. Brother Andubis was flung sideways by the detonation, smashed head-first against another tree. He sat up and raised his arm to show that he was not badly injured. As the squad regrouped, Brother Alexian took up a

towards the Dark Angels' position. 'Disperse!' bellowed Astelan, sprinting to his right. His power armour took him across the ground in huge leaps, covering half a dozen metres with every pace. The explosion smashed apart a tree trunk just metres from where the squad had been stood. Brother Andubis was flung sideways by the detonation, smashed head-first against another tree. He sat up and raised his arm to show that he was not badly injured. As the squad regrouped, Brother Alexian took up a firing position with his lascannon. He shouldered the anti-tank weapon like an immense sniper rifle, peering along its sight towards the hull-down tank. A beam of blinding energy spat forwards as he pressed the firing stud, smashing into the tank just above the turret ring. Flames sprang up immediately, and in their light Astelan saw helmeted figures popping the hatches and scrambling free. Two cleared the wreck before the ammunition inside ignited, blowing apart the vehicle in a spectacular detonation that sent fire and shrapnel high into the air. The light of the explosion revealed scores of soldiers were now moving back into position to attack, bolstered by their armoured support. The Astartes levelled their weapons and began to fire once more. Over the din of bolter rounds and the burning tank, Astelan recognised a loud roar overhead: the tell-tale engines of a Castellan bomber. Explosions rippled through the blasted trees barely a hundred metres from the Astartes' positions, tearing apart scores of enemy. The rapid barking of heavy bolter fire heralded a strafing run that cut down dozens more. Satisfied with his work, the pilot banked his craft back towards the landing zone. Astelan sent the order for the rest of the force to fall back by squads and secure the perimeter of the landing zone once more. Though the enemy attempted a counter-attack, the swift intervention of Castellans and Deathbirds pouring missiles and fire into the woods soon convinced the opposing soldiers to allow the Astartes to pull back in peace. Back at the landing site, Astelan saw that though the enemy had suffered horrendously, the Dark Angels were not without their losses too, mostly from bombs, artillery strikes and tank guns. Clusters of wounded Astartes sat or lay around the force's three Apothecaries, who stapled wounds, cauterised gashes and did what else they could to patch up the injured warriors until they could receive proper treatment back aboard ship. Most were back on their feet and ready to fight within minutes. Three would never fight again. Astelan watched with grim resignation as Vandrillis, his Chief Apothecary, moved from one dead Astartes to the next. He disengaged the cables of the Astartes's backpack and pulled it aside. Vandrillis then used his reductor, a complex array of blades mounted on his forearm, to cut through the back armour plate to expose the flesh below. The shiny, hard shell of the battle-brother's black carapace was slick with blood. Vandrillis drilled down into the flesh of the dead Astartes and then punched the reductor deep into the exposed spine. With a twist and a yank, he tore free the lower progenoid, an egg-shaped gland that stored the Astartes's gene-seed so that it could be recovered and implanted into a new recruit. Vandrillis placed the precious organ into a vacu-flask and continued his bloody work on the Astartes's neck. Though it was a reminder of the fate of every Astartes, to die in battle, it was also reassuring. Every warrior carried within him the primarch's gene-seed and with it the means to create more Astartes. To know that even in death the Legion would be strengthened was a thought that allowed the Astartes to fight without fear, to make the noblest sacrifice without hesitation. Astelan knew that his fate would not be on the end of a reductor, for his progenoids had matured over two decades ago and had been removed in the relative safety of a shipboard medical bay. He had made his contribution to future generations of Dark Angels and could fight now safe in the knowledge that others would be able to follow. Turning away from the grisly scene, Astelan signalled for Gemenoth to bring him the long-range comm-array; with his helmet damaged it was the only way for Astelan to contact the fleet. He punched the frequency of Belath's battle-barge into the readout. 'Signal received, this is Belath,' the Chapter commander answered. 'What is your situation?' 'Get us off this rock,' Astelan replied. THE WITHDRAWAL OF Astelan's landing force was to last for the rest of the night, during which the local forces tried three more times to attack the drop-zone. Under heavy air cover, three more Harbingers were brought down from Belath's fleet and the Dark Angels were able to collapse back to their transports under the covering fire of the heavy weapons and armoured support that the reconnaissance force had lacked. Astelan was the last to leave, staring balefully at the ravaged drop-zone as the ramp closed in front of him. All he had wanted was to secure some locals for intelligence, and now he had overseen a significant battle. In the dim light of dawn he looked at the ravaged forests and crater-pocked field that had been the battleground. This did not bode well for a peaceful introduction to the Enlightenment of the Emperor. HE WAS NOT surprised to find Belath aboard the Spear of Truth's operations room, awaiting his arrival. 'We must move fast and regain the initiative,' said Belath. 'We have lost the element of surprise and even now the armed forces of the world will be at full readiness. The more time we give them, the harder the battles ahead.' 'What are you proposing?' asked Astelan, his gaze directed towards the glowing orb above the hololith. 'While you were sparring with the locals, I conducted more analysis of the transmissions data,' said Belath, leaning with his fists on the edge of the glass tablet, his eyes fixed on Astelan. 'The locals refer to the world as Byzanthis. There are six continents, each in essence a separate nation-state. We strike at each state simultaneously, dropping from orbit into their capitals. We disable their governments and military command within hours, and isolate power and transport networks in a matter of days.' 'Divide and conquer?' said Astelan, finally meeting the stare of Belath. Before Belath could answer, the door hissed open and Galedan strode in. 'You should listen to this,' he said, crossing to the comms centre. As he dialled in a frequency a tinny voice crackled from the speakers. '-ed. Unwarranted attack on the sovereign territory of Confederate Vanz will not be tolerated,' the voice was saying. 'Byzanthis Committee of Nations has convened to decide a response. Confederate Vanz will not stand alone. Aggressor strangers will be resisted. Unwarran-' 'It's a looped message on a broad range of frequencies,' said Galedan, switching off the unit. 'We can reply?' asked Astelan. 'Of course,' said Galedan. 'This is a distraction,' said Belath. 'We need to strike now!' 'We have a means to make peaceful contact,' said Astelan. 'Why choose to ignore it?' 'There is little sense of a planetary nationhood,' Belath argued. 'Two states are currently at war, the others have all fought against one another on and off over the past centuries. Crush each state individually and the world falls.' 'There is a global council, this Committee of Nations,' said Astelan. 'The situation is easily retrieved through them.' 'Diplomats and ambassadors for the most part,' countered Belath. 'You have not heard what I have heard. The Committee of Nations is considered weak and ineffective. They have no real power or control.' 'Then we will give them that power,' said Astelan. 'We shall make amends for the inadvertent conflict and communicate with the council. The state governments will be forced to treat with us through the Committee of Nations, and from that we will forge a common fate for the whole planet.' 'And if they refuse?' said Belath, straightening. 'We simply give them more time to swell their armies. Not only will more delays give these forces time to build their strength, they will spread propaganda about their supposed victory over us.' 'It does not strike me as right that we give these people no chance for a peaceful solution,' argued Astelan. 'What would history think of us? What would Caliban be now if the Emperor had come with a closed fist rather than an open hand?' 'Caliban is different,' said Belath. 'Because it is your world?' said Astelan, pacing towards Belath. 'Because we have the Lion,' said Belath confidently. 'The Emperor had no choice but to treat with us. Any invasion would have been costly and counterproductive.' 'And so because no primarch dwells here, we should offer them no choice?' snarled Astelan, stepping right in front of Belath, who stood his ground. 'Their blood, their lives, are worth less because of a chance of fate?' 'It was not chance that brought the Lion to Caliban,' said Belath with quiet assurance. 'Destiny brought our leader to us.' Astelan did not speak for a moment and stepped back, rubbing the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. 'I will contact the Committee of Nations and explain our peaceful intentions,' Astelan said finally. 'Galedan, make preparations.' The captain left the room, casting a wary glance at Belath as he walked past. 'I cannot consent to this course of action,' said Belath as soon as the door had hissed shut. He raised a placating hand before Astelan could respond. 'It is clear we cannot agree on this. We must send word to the primarch for guidance, so that his orders might be understood by us.' Astelan laughed but there was no mirth in tone. 'We are Chapter commanders of the Dark Angels,' he said scornfully. 'We cannot run to the Lion or the Emperor every occasion that we face difficulty. We are leaders of an Astartes Legion. We must act, not vacillate. If you

as soon as the door had hissed shut. He raised a placating hand before Astelan could respond. 'It is clear we cannot agree on this. We must send word to the primarch for guidance, so that his orders might be understood by us.' Astelan laughed but there was no mirth in tone. 'We are Chapter commanders of the Dark Angels,' he said scornfully. 'We cannot run to the Lion or the Emperor every occasion that we face difficulty. We are leaders of an Astartes Legion. We must act, not vacillate. If you wish to cry off to Caliban, then you are free to leave. I am staying here and contacting the council.' 'This is a war of reconquest,' spat Belath. 'What we are building is more important than the lives of a few men, larger than the sacrifice of thousands, even millions. You are soft, and I wonder what the Lion will make of your lack of courage.' With a wordless shout Astelan seized Belath by the edges of his breastplate and charged him into the wall, plascrete cracking under the impact. 'Your lack of respect will not be tolerated,' snarled Astelan. 'Nor yours,' replied Belath calmly, his blue eyes piercing in their intensity. 'I fought for the Emperor and he chose me to be the tip of his spear,' said Astelan, his tone low and measured. 'My Chapter has fought on a dozen worlds against foes the like of which you have no comprehension. We have earnt battle honours given to us by the Emperor of Mankind, and I have earnt his respect and praise.' 'I too have my honours,' replied Belath with no sign of trepidation. 'I was the first of my order to be chosen by the Astartes, I am the first to be made Chapter commander. I have been raised on traditions far older than your Legion, Terran. Many generations of my forefathers fought for the Order of the Raven's Wing and their blood flows in my veins. You may look down in dismay at the heritage of Caliban, but it is your home now. Its people will be your people. It is the world of the Lion, and his traditions shall be the traditions of the Dark Angels. It is by his judgement that I mark my worth, not by yours.' Astelan released his grip and sighed. 'I say not these things to insult your heritage, nor as a threat, but as a warning,' the Chapter commander said quietly. 'Be ready for battle at all times, but do not rush heedlessly towards it. It is not just the lives of those below that you condemn, but some of your own. Your battle-brothers will shed their blood in this cause, and some will lay their lives upon its altar for you. Do you not owe it to them to make sure that what you do is righteous and unavoidable?' Belath turned away and walked towards the door. He stooped just short of it and turned. 'It was your mistake that has precipitated this situation,' he declared. 'I cannot forgive that but I shall allow you the chance to redeem yourself. You have seniority and I would not have it known that I abandoned a battle-brother.' With that he opened the door and strode out, leaving Astelan with his dark thoughts. ASTELAN CAST HIS gaze upwards in frustration, his fists clenched. He was sat at the main comms panel of the operations room, with Galedan, Belath and a horde of technicians on hand. He had spent the greater part of the last two days dealing with various Byzanthisian functionaries in his attempts to organise a delegation; two days spent talking to bureaucrats and politicians had left his patience very thin. Now he was finally talking to somebody who had the power to convene the Committee of Nations. 'There was no premeditated attack,' he repeated, forcing himself to remain calm. 'I only acted to defend my men.' There was a pause while his message was transmitted. A few seconds passed before the response came from the planet below. 'What assurances do you give that you do not "defend" yourselves again?' the voice of Secretary Maoilon hissed from the speakers. 'You expect to land troops at a military base and not consider it provocation?' 'Our choice of landing site was an error that I deeply regret,' said Astelan, and never had he felt the truth of his own words so strongly. 'I will attend a meeting of your committee and explain everything. All of your questions are best answered face-to-face.' Again there was a pause filled with static. 'You alone will come?' asked Maoilon. 'Unarmed?' 'I and my fellow commander,' said Astelan. 'Two of us. Unarmed. Transmit the location of the chambers and a time suitable for the meeting.' 'Treachery will be dealt with harshly,' said Maoilon. 'There will be no treachery,' said Astelan and then he signalled for the radio link to be cut. He swivelled in his chair to face Galedan. 'Organise whatever needs to be organised. Belath and I will teleport in.' 'We should have squads ready to follow us,' said Belath. 'They will be able to deploy within moments onto our location should the locals attack us.' Astelan considered arguing, but from the expression on Belath's face he had already made his decision. 'Do what you will as precaution, but you will accompany me unarmed,' said Astelan. 'Agreed,' said Belath. CRACKLING ENERGY SWATHED Astelan, bathing the Chapter commander and his squad in an actinic glare as the teleporter activated. Astelan felt the usual jarring dislocation and a burning sensation throughout his whole body. In milliseconds the transition was over, but just like the Spear of Truth emerging from the warp, Astelan needed a moment to gather his wits. He blinked rapidly to clear his fogged vision and found himself in a wide circular hall built from white marble, or some similar local stone. It was a circular amphitheatre in layout, with rows of seats ranged around the low central platform on which he was stood. Five sets of steps led up to tall, narrow double doors spaced evenly around the hall's circumference. Halfway between each set of doors were windows of the same proportion through which Astelan glimpsed a deep-blue sky. The hall was filled with people, some dressed in strangely cut suits, others in bright robes or simple smocks. There were all manner of different skin colours and features, jewellery and headdresses, but the hundreds packed into the auditorium had one thing in common: the absolute terror written upon their faces. Most were wide-eyed and open-mouthed, some were visibly shaking and sweating and others were on their feet or cramming themselves into the backs of their chairs in an effort to put as much distance between themselves and their new arrivals. A few moments later more teleporter energy crackled across the floor to Astelan's left, and where there had been empty air now stood Belath. He was dressed, as was Astelan, in simple robes of black. At his right ear Belath wore a comm-piece and Astelan could see that it was on open transmission; the Chapter commander's troops in orbit would hear everything said. Astelan raised his arms out and held his palms up to show that he held no weapon. 'I am Chapter Commander Astelan of the Dark Angels Legion.' Astelan's voice boomed out and rebounded from the walls and ceiling, carrying easily to every part of the broad chamber. 'I am here as the representative of the Emperor of Mankind. Who here has authority to speak with me?' The assembled delegates glanced nervously at each other until an elderly man limped forwards, a walking cane in his right hand. He was bald but for a few wisps of hair and a thin beard that hung to his chest. His skin was like dried leather and a cataract scarred his left eye. The remaining good eye regarded Astelan with a mixture of apprehension and awe. The elderly man hobbled forwards to stand in front of the giant Astartes. Astelan was almost two feet taller than the man who stood before him, and his broad body could have contained his frail frame ten times over. The man stood regarding the newcomer with his good eye, and Astelan returned his stare with a steady gaze. 'I am Chairman Paldrath Grane,' said the man. His voice was strong and unwavering, utterly at odds with his physical condition. 'I speak for the Committee of Nations, but others will speak for their own.' 'Your world is but one of many thousands spread across the stars,' Astelan said, speaking slowly and clearly. 'The ancient empire of man was shattered, but a new power has arisen. From ancient Terra the Emperor of Mankind now builds a new galaxy upon the remnants of the old. Humanity unites under his leadership and benefits from his protection.' 'Of ancient Terra, we know not,' said Grane. 'Old worlds, old star empires, this we recall in our most prized histories. You come with war and offer peace. What right has your Emperor to rale Byzanthis?' 'By his own power and destiny has he been chosen to lead us,' said Astelan. 'Prosperity, technology and peace will be yours if you embrace the Emperor's Enlightenment.' 'And if we refuse?' This was from an equally ancient man sat in the front row of seats just to Astelan's left. The Chairman turned with a scowl, which was returned in kind. 'Identify yourself,' said Belath, stepping forwards. 'President Kinloth of Confederate Vanz,' the man replied. Though old, he was more sturdily built than Grane, with a full head of short grey hair and a close-cropped beard. His eyes were sunken and ringed with dark lines and his teeth much stained. 'It was my army you attacked four days ago.' 'A misunderstanding, it was not our intent to fight but to make peaceful contact,' said Astelan. 'And what peace you bring to families of two thousand, seven hundred and eighty men killed?' demanded Kinloth. 'What peace you bring to one thousand, six hundred and fifteen more that lie in hospitals?' 'The peace of the knowledge that no more need die here,' said Belath. 'They will be remembered for their sacrifices and gloried by the Emperor's servants,' said Astelan quickly, hiding his annoyance. 'None fall in the Emperor's service and go neither unheeded nor unremarked, nor their families unrewarded.' 'If what you say is t

es of two thousand, seven hundred and eighty men killed?' demanded Kinloth. 'What peace you bring to one thousand, six hundred and fifteen more that lie in hospitals?' 'The peace of the knowledge that no more need die here,' said Belath. 'They will be remembered for their sacrifices and gloried by the Emperor's servants,' said Astelan quickly, hiding his annoyance. 'None fall in the Emperor's service and go neither unheeded nor unremarked, nor their families unrewarded.' 'If what you say is true, Confederate Vanz will welcome your Emperor when he arrives,' Kinloth said. His eyes had lit up at the mention of reward and it was clear he saw some personal gain in the unfolding events. 'Lashkar Kerupt will not welcome your Emperor,' said another dignitary, a short middle-aged woman in a flowing silken red dress embroidered with butterfly designs. Her dark hair was bound into a tight knot, and her face was painted with yellow and her lips with black. She stood and turned to address those behind her. 'Listen to me!' she cried out. 'Strangers come with hand offering peace while holding gun behind backs. Our astro-stations detect strangers' ships above our cities. Warships intent on destroying. Strangers come to kill or enslave our world. We must take hostages to guarantee freedom.' Astelan darted a glance towards Belath at the mention of ships in orbit above the world's cities, but the Chapter commander gave no acknowledgement. 'Seize them!' cried the woman and the doors were flung open. From entrances all around the hall black-unformed soldiers burst into the room, stubby carbines in their hands. 'Wait!' Astelan shouted, both a warning to the soldiers and a command to Belath. 'Protect your commanders!' snapped Belath, his eyes regarding Astelan with cold hostility. No more than two seconds after his command, the air around the pair snapped with energy. Bulky figures shimmered into view encircling the pair; ten massively armoured Terminators raised their combi-bolters and opened fire. The initial salvo was devastating, tearing holes in chests, ripping off limbs and decapitating by the score. Such desultory return fire as existed pinged harmlessly from the inches-thick ceramite-and-adamantium bonded shells of the warriors' armour. 'Withdraw,' said Astelan as bullets skipped from the tiled floor and plucked at his robe. Facing foes coming at them from every direction, the Terminators formed a defensive ring and began to walk towards one of the doorways. Hysterical shouting and panicked shrieks mixed with the deafening crash of combi-bolters. The delegates clawed and kicked at each other as they streamed away from the Astartes. Some snatched up weapons from fallen soldiers but were blasted apart in turn. Stepping over blasted and blistered bodies, the Astartes retreated up the steps, through the doorway and into the room beyond. They were in some form of small antechamber, filled with soldiers. As the Astartes entered, the soldiers turned and fled without firing a shot. Two Terminators moved forwards to secure the other doorway, and for the moment Astelan found himself in a centre of calm. 'They detected your ships!' he bellowed at Belath. 'I told you not to move without my command!' 'I have made no move as yet,' Belath replied calmly. 'Drop forces stand by to respond to my command. I await your consent.' Astelan opened his mouth but said nothing, unable to give voice to the mixture of rage and incredulity that was boiling up inside. 'Should I strike now or shall we withdraw again?' Belath asked, his voice barely heard by Astelan through the thundering of his heartbeat in his ears. 'What?' Astelan said. 'Shall I order the attack or shall we teleport back to orbit?' Belath said. 'All of their leaders are here. Those who wish to surrender can do so now. Those that wish to fight will face the consequences of their decisions.' 'This is how you wanted it to happen, isn't it?' said Astelan. 'I had no idea the natives were capable of detecting a vessel in low orbit,' said Belath. 'However, we cannot rectify that and should act as necessary to preserve our troops and foster victory. To delay further would be a grave error.' Astelan took a few paces back and forth, his brow creased in a frown as he considered what to do. Eyes narrowed with anger, he turned his glare upon Belath. 'Do it!' Astelan snapped. 'Order the assault!' Belath nodded, showing no signs of emotion. He turned away and whispered something into his comm-piece. 'It is done,' Belath said, turning his attention back to Astelan. 'What of the council?' 'I fear there is little to be salvaged here,' said Astelan. The two of them pushed past the Terminators guarding the door back to the main chamber, whose weapons had been silent for more a minute. The council hall was a scene of utter ruin. The marble was slicked with blood, chairs smashed and bodies, of soldier and delegate, were piled up around the doors. Some still moved, groaning from their wounds. Slumped at the bottom of a flight of steps was Grane, a fist-sized hole in his lower back. Astelan crossed the chamber to gaze down at the decrepit Chairman. There was no sign of life. A thunderous rumble shook the floor and Astelan looked up sharply. Another followed swiftly after, shaking the entire hall and sending dust and shards of stone showering down from the ceiling above. 'It has begun,' said Belath, gesturing towards a high window. Astelan followed his pointing finger and gazed outside. As he walked towards the window Astelan could see fire raining down from the heavens as the ship lying in space above unleashed its bombardment. The city stretched for kilometres in every direction around the hill upon which the council chambers sat. Avenues of high buildings radiated outwards and long terraces of houses clung upon steep hills in the distance. Plasma warheads detonated upon the boulevards and bombardment cannon shells obliterated parks and tenements. After several minutes the devastating torrent of fury abated. Astelan looked upwards and saw the dark shadows of drop-ships growing in size. On fiery tails drop-pods screamed downwards, slamming into the roofs of buildings and smashing into cracked and burning streets. Their doors opened like armoured petals and the Astartes within disembarked with bolter and flamer. Astelan could hear nothing from here but could imagine the crack of bolter and the screams of the dying. The wrath of the Dark Angels had been set free. Belath stepped up to the window and gazed out, the fires reflected in his eyes. He turned his head and looked at Astelan. 'The cities will be under our control within hours,' he said. 'The world, in a few days.' 'The blood of all who die is on your hands,' said Astelan. 'I will not let this go unpunished.' Belath smiled at that moment, and it was a hard, emotionless expression that chilled Astelan to see it. 'You do not decide guilt or punishment,' said the young Chapter commander. 'My astropaths already send word to Caliban of what occurs here. You will soon learn the consequences of disobedience, Terran.' THE LAST CHURCH Graham McNeill MIDNIGHT SERVICES HAD once been crowded at the Church of the Lightning Stone. Fear of the darkness had drawn people in search of sanctuary in a way the daylight could not. For as long as anyone could remember, the dark had been a time of blood, a time when raiders attacked, monstrous engines descended on wings of fire and the violence of the warlike thunder giants was fiercest. Uriah Olathaire remembered seeing an army of those giants as it marched to battle, when he had been little more than a child. Though seven decades had passed since then, Uriah could picture them as though it were yesterday: towering brutes who carried swords of caged lightning and were clad in plumed helmets and burnished plate the colour of a winter sunset. But most of all, he remembered the terrible magnificence of their awesome, unstoppable power. Nations and rulers had been swept away in the dreadful wars these giants made, entire armies drowned in blood as they clashed in battles the likes of which had not been seen since the earliest ages of the world. Now the fighting was over, the grand architect of this last world war emerging from the host of toppled despots, ethnarchs and tyrants to stand triumphant on a world made barren by conflict. An end to war should have been a wondrous thing, but the thought gave Uriah no comfort as he shuffled along the nave of his empty church. He carried a flickering taper, the small flame wavering in the cold wind sighing through the cracks in the stonework and the ancient timbers of the great doors to the narthex. Yes, the midnight service had once been popular, but few now dared come to his church, such was the ridicule and scorn heaped upon them. Changed days from the beginning of the war, when fearful people had sought comfort in his promises of a benign divinity watching over them. He held his gnarled claw of a hand around the fragile flame as he made his way towards the altar, fearful that this last illumination would be snuffed out if his concentration slipped even a little bit. Lightning flashed outside, imparting a momentary electric glow to the stained-glass windows of the church. Uriah wondered if any of his last remaining parishioners would brave the storm to pray and sing with him. The cold slipped invisibly into his bones like an unwelcome guest and he felt something singular about this night, as though something of great import were happening, but he couldn't grasp it. He shook off the sensation as he reached the altar and ascended the five steps. At the centre of the altar sat a broken timepiece of tarnished bronze with a cracked glass face, and a thick, leather-bound book surrounded by six unlit candles. Uriah carefully applied the taper to each candle, gradually bringing forth a welcome light to the church. Aside from the magnificence of the

something singular about this night, as though something of great import were happening, but he couldn't grasp it. He shook off the sensation as he reached the altar and ascended the five steps. At the centre of the altar sat a broken timepiece of tarnished bronze with a cracked glass face, and a thick, leather-bound book surrounded by six unlit candles. Uriah carefully applied the taper to each candle, gradually bringing forth a welcome light to the church. Aside from the magnificence of the ceiling, the interior of his church was relatively plain and in no way exceptional: a long nave flanked by simple timber pews and which was crossed by a transept that led to a curtained-off chancel. Upper cloisters could be reached via stairs in the north and south transepts, and a wide narthex provided a gallery prior to a visitor entering the church itself. As the light grew, Uriah smiled with grim humour as the light shone upon the ebony face of the bronze timepiece. Though the glass face was cracked, the delicate hands were unscathed, fashioned from gold with inlaid mother-of-pearl. The clock's internal mechanisms were visible through a glass window near its base, toothed cogs that never turned and copper pendulums that never swung. Uriah had travelled the globe extensively as a feckless youth, and had stolen the clock from an eccentric craftsman who lived in a silver palace in the mountains of Europa. The palace had been filled with thousands of bizarre timepieces, but it was gone now, destroyed in one of the many battles that swept across the continent as grand armies fought without care for the wondrous things lost in their violent spasms of war. Uriah suspected the clock was perhaps the last of its kind, much like his church. As he had fled the palace of time, the craftsman had cursed Uriah from a high window, screaming that the clock was counting down to doomsday and would chime when the last days of mankind's existence were at hand. Uriah had laughed off the man's ravings and presented the clock to his bemused father as a gift. But after the blood and fire of Gaduare, Uriah had retrieved the clock from the ruins of his family home and brought it to the church. The clock had made no sound since that day, yet Uriah still dreaded hearing its chimes. He blew out the taper and placed it in a shallow bowl at the front of the altar and sighed, resting his hand on the soft leather of the book's cover. As always, the presence of the book was a comfort and Uriah wondered what was keeping the few faithful that remained in the town below from his doors this night. True, his church stood at the summit of a high, flat-topped mountain that was difficult to climb, but that never usually stopped his dwindling congregation from coming. In ages past, the mountain had been the tallest peak upon a storm-lashed island shrouded in mists and linked to the mainland by a sleek bridge of silver, but ancient, apocalyptic wars had boiled away many of the oceans, and the island was now simply a rocky promontory jutting from a land that was said to have once ruled the world. In truth, the church's very isolation was likely all that had allowed it to weather the storm of so-called reason sweeping the globe at the behest of its new master. Uriah ran a hand over his hairless scalp, feeling the dry, mottled texture of his skin and the long scar that ran from behind his ear to the nape of his neck. He turned towards the doors of his church as he heard noises from outside, the tramp of feet and the sound of voices. 'About time,' he said, looking back at the clock and its immobile hands. It was two minutes to midnight. THE GRAND DOORS of the narthex opened wide and a cold wind eagerly slipped inside, whipping over the neat rows of pews and disturbing the dusty silk and velvet banners that hung from the upper cloisters. The ever-present rain fell in soaking sheets beyond the doors and a crack of lightning blistered the night sky alongside a peal of thunder. Uriah squinted and pulled his silk chasuble around him to keep the cold from his arthritic bones. A hooded figure was silhouetted in the doorway to the narthex, tall and swathed in a long cloak of scarlet. Uriah could see the orange glow of burning brands carried by a host of shadowy figures who stood behind him in the rain. He squinted at these figures, but his aged eyes could make out no detail beyond firelight glittering on metal. Displaced mercenaries looking for plunder? Or something else entirely... The hooded figure stepped into the church and turned to shut the doors behind him. His movements were unhurried and respectful, the doors closed softly and with care. 'Welcome to the Church of the Lightning Stone,' said Uriah, as the stranger turned towards him. 'I was about to begin the midnight service. Would you and your friends wish to join me?' 'No,' said the man, pulling back his hood to reveal a stern, but not unkind face - a remarkably unremarkable face that seemed at odds with his martial bearing. 'They would not.' The man's skin was leathery and tanned from a life spent outdoors, his hair dark and pulled back into a short scalp-lock. 'That is a shame,' said Uriah. 'My midnight service is considered quite popular in these parts. Are you sure they won't come in?' 'I'm sure,' repeated the man. 'They are quite content without.' 'Without what?' quipped Uriah, and the man smiled. 'It is rare to find a man like you with a sense of humour. I have found that most of your kind are dour and leaden-hearted men.' 'My kind?' 'Priests,' said the man, almost spitting the word as though its very syllables were a poison to him. 'Then I fear you have met only the wrong kind,' said Uriah. 'Is there a right kind?' 'Of course,' said Uriah. 'Though given the times we live in, it would be hard for any servant of the divine to be of good cheer.' 'Very true,' said the man as he moved slowly down the aisle, running his hands over the timber of each pew as he passed. Uriah walked stiffly from the altar to approach the man, feeling his pulse quicken as he sensed a tangible threat lurking just beneath the newcomer's placid exterior, like a rabid dog on a slowly fraying rope. This was a man of violence, and though Uriah felt no threat from him, he knew there was something dangerous about him. Uriah fixed a smile and extended his hand, saying, 'I am Uriah Olathaire, last priest of the Church of the Lightning Stone. Might I have your name?' The man smiled and shook his hand. A moment of sublime recognition threatened to surface within Uriah's mind, but it was gone before he could grasp it. 'My name is not important,' said the man. 'But if you wish to call me something, you may call me Revelation.' 'An unusual name for one who professes a dislike of priests.' 'Perhaps, but one that suits my purposes for the time being.' 'And what purpose might that be?' asked Uriah. 'I wish to talk to you,' said Revelation. 'I wish to learn what keeps you here when the world is abandoning beliefs in gods and divinity in the face of the advances of science and reason.' The man looked up, past the banners to the incredible ceiling of the church, and Uriah felt the unease that crawled over his flesh recede as the man's features softened at the sight of the images painted there. 'The great fresco of Isandula,' said Uriah. 'A divine work, wouldn't you agree?' 'It is quite magnificent,' agreed the man, 'but divine? I don't think so.' 'Then you have not looked closely enough,' answered Uriah, looking up and feeling his heartbeat quicken as it always did when he saw the wondrous fresco completed over a thousand years ago, by the legendary Isandula Verona. 'Open your heart to its beauty and you will feel the spirit of god move within you.' The ceiling was entirely covered in a series of wide panels, each one depicting a different scene; nude figures disporting in a magical garden; an explosion of stars; a battle between a golden knight and a silver dragon; and myriad other scenes of a similarly fantastical nature. Despite the passage of centuries and the fitful lighting, the vibrancy of hues, the Active architecture, the muscular anatomy of the figures, the dynamic motion, the luminous colouration and the haunting expressions of the subjects were as awe-inspiring as they had been on the day Isandula had set down her brush and allowed herself to die. 'And the whole world came running when the fresco was revealed,' quoted Revelation, his gaze lingering on the panel depicting the knight and the dragon. 'And the sight of it was enough to reduce all who saw it to stunned silence.' 'You have read your Vastari,' said Uriah. 'I have,' agreed Revelation, only reluctantly tearing his gaze from the ceiling. 'His works are often given to hyperbole, but in this case he was, if anything, understating the impact.' 'You are a student of art?' asked Uriah. 'I have studied a great many things in my life,' said Revelation. 'Art is but one of them.' Uriah pointed to the central image of the fresco, that of a wondrous being of light surrounded by a halo of golden machinery. 'Then you cannot argue that this is not a work truly inspired by a higher power.' 'Of course I can,' said Revelation. 'This is a sublime work whether any higher power exists or not. It does not prove the existence of anything. No gods ever created art.' 'In an earlier age, some might have considered such a sentiment blasphemy.' 'Blasphemy,' said Revelation with a wry smile, 'is a victimless crime.' Despite himself, Uriah laughed. 'Touche, but surely only an artist moved by the divine could create such beauty?' 'I disagree,' said Revelation. 'Tell me, Uriah, have you seen the great cliff sculptures of the Mariana Canyon?' 'No,' said Uriah, 'though I have heard they are incredibly beautiful.' 'They are indeed. Thousand-metre-high representations of their kings, carved in stone that no weapon can mark or drill can cut. They are at least as i

tion with a wry smile, 'is a victimless crime.' Despite himself, Uriah laughed. 'Touche, but surely only an artist moved by the divine could create such beauty?' 'I disagree,' said Revelation. 'Tell me, Uriah, have you seen the great cliff sculptures of the Mariana Canyon?' 'No,' said Uriah, 'though I have heard they are incredibly beautiful.' 'They are indeed. Thousand-metre-high representations of their kings, carved in stone that no weapon can mark or drill can cut. They are at least as incredible as this fresco, somehow worked into a cliff that had not seen sunlight in ten thousand years, yet a godless people carved them in a forgotten age. True art needs no divine explanation, it is just art.' 'You have your opinion,' said Uriah politely. 'I have mine.' 'Isandula was a genius and a magnificent artist, that much is beyond question,' continued Revelation, 'but she also had to make a living, and even magnificent artists must take commissions where they are to be found. I have no doubt this undertaking paid very well, for the churches of her time were obscenely wealthy organisations, but had she been asked to paint a ceiling for a palace of secular governance, might she not have painted something just as wondrous?' 'It's possible, but we shall never know.' 'No, we won't,' agreed Revelation, moving past Uriah towards the altar. 'And I am tempted to believe there is an element of jealousy whenever people invoke the divine to explain away such wonderful creations.' 'Jealousy?' 'Absolutely,' said Revelation. 'They cannot believe another human being can produce such sublime works of art when they cannot. Therefore some deity reached into the artist's brain and inspired it.' 'That is a very cynical view of humanity,' said Uriah. 'Elements of it, yes,' said Revelation. Uriah shrugged and said, 'This has been an interesting discussion, but you must excuse me, friend Revelation. I have to prepare for my congregation.' 'No one is coming,' said Revelation. 'It is just you and I.' Uriah sighed. 'Why are you really here?' 'This is the last church on Terra,' said Revelation. 'History will soon be done with places like this and I want a memory of it before it's gone.' 'I knew this was going to be an unusual evening,' said Uriah. URIAH AND REVELATION repaired to the vestry and sat opposite one another at a grand mahogany desk carved with intertwining serpents. The chair creaked under the weight of his guest as Uriah reached into the desk and removed a tall bottle of dusty blue glass and a pair of pewter tumblers. He poured dark red wine for the pair of them and sat back in his chair. 'Your good health,' said Uriah, raising his tumbler. 'And yours,' replied Revelation. Uriah's guest took a sip of the wine and nodded his head appreciatively. 'This is very good wine. It's old.' 'You have a fine appreciation of wine, Revelation,' said Uriah. 'My father gave it to me on my fifteenth birthday and said I should drink it on my wedding night.' 'And you never married?' 'Never found anyone willing to put up with me. I was a devilish rogue back then.' 'A devilish rogue who became a priest,' said Revelation. 'That sounds like a tale.' 'It is,' said Uriah, 'But some wounds run deep and it does no good to reopen them.' 'Fair enough,' said Revelation, taking another drink of wine. Uriah regarded his visitor over the top of his tumbler. Now that Revelation had sat down, he had removed his scarlet cloak and draped it over the back of his chair. His guest wore utilitarian clothes, identical to those worn by virtually every inhabitant of Terra, save that his were immaculately clean. He wore a silver ring on his right index finger, which bore a seal of some kind, but Uriah couldn't make out what device was worked upon it. 'Tell me, Revelation, what did you mean when you said this place would soon be gone?' 'Exactly what I said,' replied Revelation. 'Even perched all the way up here, you must surely have heard of the Emperor and his crusade to stamp out all forms of religion and belief in the supernatural. Soon his forces will come here and tear this place down.' 'I know,' said Uriah sadly. 'But it makes no difference to me. I believe what I believe and no amount of hectoring from some warmongering despot will alter my beliefs.' 'That is an obstinate point of view,' said Revelation. 'It is faith,' pointed out Uriah. 'Faith,' snorted Revelation. 'A willing belief in the unbelievable without proof...' 'What makes faith so powerful is that it requires no proof. Belief is enough.' Revelation laughed. 'I see now why the Emperor wants rid of it then. You call faith powerful, I call it dangerous. Think of what people in the grip of faith have done in the past, all the atrocities committed down the centuries by people of faith. Politics has slain its thousands, yes, but religion has slain its millions.' Uriah finished his wine and said, 'Have you come here just to provoke me? I am no longer a violent man, but I do take kindly to being insulted in my own home. If this is all you are here for, then I wish you to go now.' Revelation placed his tumbler back down on the desk and held up his hands. 'You are right, of course,' he said. 'I am being discourteous, and I apologise. I came here to learn of this place, not to antagonise its guardian.' Uriah nodded graciously. 'I accept your apology, Revelation. You wish to see the church?' 'I do.' 'Then come with me,' said Uriah, rising painfully from behind his desk, 'and I will show you the Lightning Stone.' URIAH LED REVELATION from the vestry back into the nave of the church, once again looking up at the beautiful fresco on the ceiling. Shards of firelight danced beyond the stained glass of the windows, and Uriah knew that a sizeable group of men waited beyond the walls of his church. Who was this Revelation and why was he so interested in his church? Was he one of the Emperor's warlords, here to earn his master's favour by demolishing the last church on Terra? Perhaps he was a mercenary chief who sought to earn the new master of Terra's gratitude by destroying icons of a faith that had endured since the earliest days of mankind's struggle towards civilisation? Either way, Uriah needed to know more of this Revelation, to keep him talking and learn what he could of his motives. 'This way,' said Uriah, shuffling towards the chancel, an area behind the altar that was curtained off from the rest of the church by a rich emerald drape the size of a theatre curtain. He pulled a silken cord and the drape slid aside to reveal a high, vaulted chamber of pale stone in which stood a tall megalith that rose from the centre of a circular pit in the ground. The stone was napped like flint and had a distinct, glassy and metallic texture to its surface. The mighty stone was around six metres tall and tapered towards the top, such that it resembled an enormous speartip. The stone reared up from the ground, the tiled floor of the pit laid around it. Patches of wiry, rust-coloured bracken clustered at its base. 'The Lightning Stone,' said Uriah proudly, descending a set of stairs built into the ceramic-tiled walls of the pit to place a hand on the stone. He smiled, feeling the moist warmth of it. Revelation followed Uriah into the pit, his gaze travelling the length of the stone as he circled it appreciatively. He too reached out to touch it and said, 'So this is a holy stone?' 'It is, yes,' said Uriah. 'Why?' 'What do you mean? Why what?' 'I mean why is it holy? Was it deposited on the ground by your god? Was a holy man martyred here, or did a young girl receive some revelation while praying at its base?' 'Nothing like that,' said Uriah, trying to keep the irritation from his voice. 'Thousands of years ago, a local holy man who was deaf and blind was walking in the hills hereabouts when a sudden storm came in over the western ocean. He hurried back down to the village below, but it was a long way and the storm broke before he could reach safety. The holy man took shelter from the storm in the lee of the stone and at the height of the storm it was struck by a bolt of lightning from the heavens. He was lifted up and saw the stone wreathed in a blue fire in which he saw the face of the Creator and heard His voice.' 'Didn't you say this holy man was deaf and blind?' said Revelation. 'He was, but the power of god cured him of his afflictions,' said Uriah. 'He immediately ran back to the village and told the people there of the miracle.' 'And then what happened?' 'The holy man returned to the Lightning Stone and instructed the townspeople to build a church around it. The story of his healing soon spread and within a few years, thousands were crossing the silver bridge to visit the shrine, for a spring had begun to flow from the base of the stone and its waters were said to be imbued with healing properties.' 'Healing properties?' asked Revelation. 'It could cure diseases? Mend broken limbs?' 'So the church records say,' said Uriah. 'This bathing chamber was built around the stone and people came from across the lands to bathe in the sacred waters while they still flowed.' 'I knew of a similar place far to the east of this land,' said Revelation. 'A young girl claimed to have seen a holy vision of a woman, a holy woman that bore a conspicuous similarity to a religious order of which her aunt was a member. Bathing houses were set up there too, but the men that ran the site were afraid the output of their holy spring would be insufficient, so they only changed the water in the pools twice a day. Hundreds of dying and diseased pilgrims passed through the same water every day, so you can imagine what a horrible slop it was at the end: threads of blood, sloughed-off skin, scabs, bits of cloth and bandage, an abominable soup of ills. The miracle was that anyone emerged alive from this human slime at all, let alone was cured of anything.' Revelation reached out to touch the stone

the output of their holy spring would be insufficient, so they only changed the water in the pools twice a day. Hundreds of dying and diseased pilgrims passed through the same water every day, so you can imagine what a horrible slop it was at the end: threads of blood, sloughed-off skin, scabs, bits of cloth and bandage, an abominable soup of ills. The miracle was that anyone emerged alive from this human slime at all, let alone was cured of anything.' Revelation reached out to touch the stone once more, and Uriah saw him close his eyes as he laid his palm flat on the glistening stone. 'Haematite from a banded ironstone formation,' said Revelation. 'Exposed by a landslip most likely. That would explain the lightning strike. And I have heard of lightning curing people of blindness and deafness, but mostly in those whose suffering was a result of hysterical complaints brought on by earlier traumas rather than any physiological effect.' 'Are you trying to debunk the miracle this church was founded upon?' snapped Uriah. 'There is a malicious streak to you, if you would seek to destroy another's faith.' Revelation came around the Lightning Stone and shook his head. 'I am not being malicious; I am explaining to you how such a thing could have happened without the intervention of any godly power.' Revelation tapped a finger to the side of his head and said, 'You think that the way you perceive the world is the way it actually is, but you cannot perceive the external world directly, none of us can. Instead, we know only our ideas or interpretations of objects in the world. The human brain is a marvellously evolved organ, my friend, and it is especially good at constructing images of faces and voices from limited information.' 'What has that to do with anything?' asked Uriah. 'Imagine your holy man sheltering from the storm in the cover of this great stone when the lightning bolt hit, the fire and the noise, the pounding surge of elemental energy pouring through him. Isn't it possible that an already-religious man might, in such desperate circumstances, perceive sights and sounds of a divine nature? After all, humans do it all the time. When you wake with dread in the dead of night, is that darkness in the corner not an intruder instead of just a simple shadow, the creak of a floorboard the tread of a murderer instead of the house settling in the cold night?' 'So you're saying that he imagined it all?' 'Something like that,' agreed Revelation. 'I don't mean to suggest he did so consciously or deliberately, but given the origins and evolution of religions in the human species, it seems a far more likely and convincing explanation. Don't you agree?' 'No,' said Uriah. 'I don't.' 'You don't?' said Revelation. 'You strike me as a not unintelligent man, Uriah Olathaire. Why can you not concede at least the possibility of such an explanation?' 'Because I too have seen a vision of my god and heard His voice. Nothing can compare with knowing personally and completely that the divine exists.' 'Ah, personal experience,' said Revelation. 'An experience utterly convincing to you and which cannot be proved or disproved. Tell me, where did you receive this vision?' 'On a battlefield in the lands of the Franc,' said Uriah. 'Many years ago.' 'The Franc were long ago brought to Unity,' said Revelation. 'The last battle was fought nearly half a century ago. You must have been a young man back then.' 'I was,' agreed Uriah. 'Young and foolish.' 'Hardly a prime candidate for divine attention,' said Revelation. 'But then I've found that many of the men who appear in the pages of your holy books are far from ideal role models, so perhaps it's not surprising at all.' Uriah fought down his anger at Revelation's mocking tone, turning away from the Lightning Stone and climbing from the pit. He made his way back towards the candlelit altar, taking a few seconds to calm his breathing and slow his racing heartbeat. He lifted the leather-bound book from beside the candle and took a seat on one of the pews facing the altar. He heard Revelation's footsteps and said, 'You come in an adversarial mood, Revelation. You say you wish to learn of me and this church? Well come, let us joust with words, thrust and parry one another's certainties with argument and counterargument. Say what you will and we will spar all night if you desire. But come sunrise, you will leave and never return.' Revelation descended the steps of the altar, pausing to admire the doomsday clock. He saw the book in Uriah's hands and folded his arms. 'That is my intention. I have other matters to attend to, but I have this night to talk with you,' said Revelation, pointing to the book Uriah clutched to his thin chest. 'And if I am adversarial, it is because it infuriates me to see the blinkered wilfulness of those who live their lives enslaved to such fantastical notions as are contained in that book and others like it - that damnable piece of thunder in your hands.' 'So now you mock my holy book too?' 'Why not?' said Revelation. 'That book is nine centuries worth of agglomerated texts assembled, rewritten, translated and twisted to fit the needs of hundreds of mostly anonymous and unknown authors. What basis is that to take guidance for your life?' 'It is the holy word of my god,' said Uriah. 'It speaks to everyone who reads it.' Revelation laughed and tapped his forehead. 'If a man claimed his dead grandfather was speaking to him he'd be locked up in an asylum, but if he were to claim the voice of god was speaking to him, his fellow clerics might well make him into a saint. Clearly there is safety in numbers when it comes to hearing voices, eh?' 'This is my faith you are talking about,' said Uriah. 'Show some damned respect!' 'Why should I?' said Revelation. 'Why does your faith require special treatment? Is it not robust enough to stand some questioning? No one else on this world enjoys such protection from scrutiny, so why should you and your faith be singled out for special treatment?' 'I have seen god,' hissed Uriah. 'I saw His face and heard His words in my soul...' 'If you have had such an experience, you may believe it was real, but do not expect me or anyone else to give it credence, Uriah,' said Revelation. 'Just because you believe a thing to be true does not make it so.' 'I saw what I saw and I heard what I heard that day,' said Uriah, his fingers clenching tightly on the book as long-buried memories swam to the surface. 'I know it was real.' 'And where in Franc did this miraculous vision take place?' Uriah hesitated, reluctant to give voice to the name that would unlock the box in which he had shut the memories of his past life. He took a breath. 'On the killing field of Gaduare.' 'You were at Gaduare,' said Revelation, and Uriah couldn't tell if Revelation's words were a question or simply an acknowledgement. For the briefest second, it sounded as though Revelation already knew. 'Aye,' said Uriah. 'I was.' 'Will you tell me what happened?' 'I'll tell you of it,' whispered Uriah. 'But first I'll need another drink.' ONCE AGAIN, URIAH and Revelation returned to the vestry. Uriah reached into a different drawer and removed a bottle, identical to the first, except that this bottle was half-empty. Revelation sat, and Uriah noticed the chair protested once more at his weight, though the man was not especially bulky. Uriah shook his head as Revelation held out the pewter tumbler and said, 'No, this is the good stuff. You don't drink it from a tumbler, you drink it from a glass.' He opened a walnut cabinet behind his desk and lifted out two cut crystal copitas and deposited them on the desktop amid the clutter of papers and scrolls. He uncorked the bottle and a wonderful peaty aroma filled the room, redolent with the memories of high pastures, fresh, tumbling brooks and dark, shadow-filled woods. 'The water of life,' said Uriah, pouring two generous measures and sitting opposite Revelation. The liquid was heavy and amber, the crystal of the glass refracting slivers of gold and yellow through it. 'Finally,' said Revelation, lifting his glass to take a drink. 'A spirit I can believe in.' Uriah said, 'No, not yet, let the vapours build. It intensifies the flavour. Swirl it a little. See the little slicks on the side of the glass? They're called tears, and since they're long and descending slowly we know the drink is strong and full-bodied.' 'Can I drink it now?' 'Patience,' said Uriah. 'Carefully nose the drink, yes? Feel how the aromas leap out at you and stimulate your senses. Allow yourself to react to the moment, let the scents awaken the memories of their origin.' Uriah closed his eyes as he swirled the golden liquid around the glass below his nose, letting the fragrances of a lost time wash over him. He could smell the mellow richness of the alcohol, his memory alight with sensations he had never experienced: running through a wild wood of thorns and heather at sunset, the smoke from a fire in a wooden hall with a woven roof of reeds and which was hung with shields. And above all, he sensed a legacy of pride and tradition encapsulated in each element of the drink. He smiled as he was taken back to his youth. 'Now drink,' he said. 'A generous sip. Swirl the drink over your tongue, cheeks and palate for a few seconds before you let it slide down as you swallow.' Uriah sipped his drink and revelled in the silky smoothness of its warmth. The drink was powerful and tasted of toasted oak and sweet honey. 'Ah, that's a flavour I've not had in a long time,' said Revelation, and Uriah opened his eyes to see a contented smile on his visitor's face. 'I didn't think any remained.' Revelation's features had relaxed and Uriah saw his cheeks glow with a rosy health. For no reason he could identify, Uriah felt less hostile to Revelation now, as if they had shared a moment of sensation that only two connoisseurs could appreciate. 'It's an old

drink was powerful and tasted of toasted oak and sweet honey. 'Ah, that's a flavour I've not had in a long time,' said Revelation, and Uriah opened his eyes to see a contented smile on his visitor's face. 'I didn't think any remained.' Revelation's features had relaxed and Uriah saw his cheeks glow with a rosy health. For no reason he could identify, Uriah felt less hostile to Revelation now, as if they had shared a moment of sensation that only two connoisseurs could appreciate. 'It's an old bottle,' explained Uriah. 'One I was able to rescue from the ruin of my parents' home.' 'You make a habit of keeping old alcohol around,' said Revelation. 'A throwback to my wild youth,' said Uriah. 'I was fond of drink a little too much, if you take my meaning.' 'I do. I have seen many great individuals brought low by such an addiction.' Uriah took another sip, a smaller one this time, and savoured the heady flavours before continuing. 'You said you wanted to know of Gaduare?' 'If you are ready and willing to tell me of it, yes.' Uriah sighed. 'Willing, yes. Ready... Well, I suppose we will find out, eh?' 'Gaduare was a bloody day,' said Revelation. 'It was hard on all who were there.' Uriah shook his head. 'My eyes are not what they once were, but I can still tell that you are too young to know of Gaduare. You would not even have been born when that battle was fought.' 'Trust me,' said Revelation. 'I know of Gaduare.' The tone of Revelation's words sent a shiver down Uriah's spine and, as their eyes met, he saw such a weight of knowledge and history that he felt suddenly humbled and ashamed for arguing with Revelation. The man put down his glass and the moment passed. 'I should tell you a little of myself first,' said Uriah. 'Who I was back then and how I came to find god on the battlefield of Gaduare. If you've a mind to hear it, that is...' 'Of course. Tell what you feel you need to tell.' Uriah sipped his drink and said, 'I was born in the town below this church, nearly eighty years ago, the youngest son of the local lord. My clan had come through the final years of Old Night with much of their wealth intact and they owned all the land around these parts, from this mountain down to the mainland bridge. I wish I could say I was treated badly as a child, you know, to give some reason for why I turned out the way I did, but I can't. I was indulged, and became something of a spoiled brat, given to drinking, carousing and bouts of petulance.' Uriah sighed. 'Looking back, I realise what a shit I was, but of course it's the lot of old men to look at themselves as youngsters and realise too late all the mistakes they made and regrets they carry. Anyway, I decided in my adolescent fires of rebellion that I was going to travel the world and see whatever free corners of it remained in the wake of the Emperor's conquests. So much of the world had been brought under his sway, but I was determined to find one last patch of land that wasn't yet under the heel of his thunderbolt and lightning armies.' 'You make it sound like the Emperor was a tyrant,' said Revelation. 'He ended the wars that were destroying the planet and defeated dozens of tyrants and despots. Without his armies, mankind would have descended into anarchy and destroyed itself within a generation.' 'Aye, and maybe we'd have been better off that way,' said Uriah, taking another sip of his drink. 'Maybe the universe decided we'd had our chance and our time was up.' 'Nonsense. The universe cares not a whit for our actions or us. Our fate is wrought by our own hands.' 'A philosophical point we'll no doubt return to, but I was telling you of my youth...' 'Yes, of course,' said Revelation. 'Continue.' 'Thank you. Well, after I announced my intention to travel the world, my father was good enough to grant me a generous stipend and a retinue of soldiers to protect me on my journeys. I left that very day and crossed the silver bridge four days later, travelling across a land recovering from war and which was growing fat on labours decreed by the Emperor. Hammers beat out plates of armour, blackened factories churned out weapons and entire towns of seamstresses created new uniforms for his armies. I crossed to Europa and caroused my way across the continent, seeing the eagle-stamped banner everywhere I went. In every town and city, I saw people giving thanks to the Emperor and his mighty thunder giants, though it all seemed hollow, like they were going through the motions because they were too afraid not to. I'd seen an army of the Emperor's giants once when I was a child, but this was the first time I had seen them in the wake of conquest.' Uriah's breath caught in his throat as he remembered the warrior's face, leaning down to regard him as though he had been less than an insect. 'I was drunk and whoring my way down the Tali peninsula when I came upon a garrison of the Emperor's super-soldiers at a ruined clifftop fortress and my romantic, rebellious soul couldn't help but try and bait them. Having seen them in battle, I shudder now to think of the hideous danger I was in. I shouted at them, calling them freaks and servants of a bloodthirsty, tyrannical monster whose only thought was the enslavement of mankind to his own towering ego. I paraphrased the works of Seytwn and Galliemus, though how I remembered the old masters when I was so drunk, I'll never know. I thought I was being so clever, and then one of the giants broke ranks and approached me. Like I said, I was monumentally drunk and filled with that sense of invincibility that only drunks and fools know. The warrior was a hulking figure, more massive than any human being should ever be. His brutish frame was encased in heavy powered armour that enclosed his chest and arms, and which I thought was ridiculously exaggerated.' 'In previous wars, most warriors preferred to grapple with one another in close combat rather than use long-range weapons,' said Revelation. 'The power of a warrior's chest and arms were of paramount importance in such feats of arms.' 'Ah, I see,' said Uriah. 'Well, anyway, he came over and lifted me out of my chair, spilling my drink and upsetting me greatly. I kicked at his armour and beat my fists bloody against his chest, but he just laughed at me. I screamed at him to let me go and he did just that, telling me to shut my mouth before tossing me off the cliff and into the sea. By the time I'd climbed back to the village, they were gone and I was left with a hatred as strong as any I'd known. Stupid really, I was asking for it and it was only a matter of time until someone put me in my place.' 'So where did you go after Tali?' asked Revelation. 'Here and there,' said Uriah. 'I've forgotten a lot of those years, I was drunk a lot of the time. I know I took a sand-skimmer across the Mediterranean dust bowl and traversed the wastelands of the Nordafrik Conclaves that Shang Khal reduced to ashen desert. All I found were settlements that paid homage to the Emperor, so I carried onwards far into the east to see the ruins of Ursh and the fallen bastions of Narthan Durme. But even there, in places so far away as to be the most desolate and remote corners of the world, I still found those who gave thanks to the Emperor and his gene-engineered warriors. I couldn't understand it. Didn't these people see that they'd just exchanged one tyrant for another?' 'Humanity was heading for species doom,' said Revelation, sitting forwards in his chair. 'I keep telling you that without Unity and the Emperor there would be no human race. I can't believe you don't see that.' 'Oh, I see it all right, but back then I was young and full of the fires of youth that see any form of control as oppression. Though they don't appreciate it, it's the function of youth to push at the boundaries of the previous generation, to poke and prod and establish their own rules. I was no different from any other youth. Well, perhaps a little.' 'So you'd travelled the world and hadn't found any corner of it that hadn't sworn allegiance to the Emperor... Where did you go next?' Uriah refilled their glasses before continuing. 'I returned home for a spell, bearing gifts I'd mostly stolen along the way, then set off again, but this time I went as a soldier of fortune instead of a tourist. I'd heard there were rumours of unrest in the land of the Franc, and fancied I could earn myself renown. The Franc were a fractious people before Unity and did not take kindly to invaders, even ones posing as benign. When I reached the continent, I heard of Havuleq D'agross and the Battle of Avelroi and rode straight for the town.' 'Avelroi,' said Revelation, shaking his head. 'A town poisoned by the bitterness of a madman whose meagre talents fell far short of his ambition.' 'I know that now, but the way I heard it at the time, Havuleq found himself wrongly accused of the brutal murder of the woman the Emperor had appointed as his governor. He was set to be shot by a firing squad when his brothers and friends attacked the Army units tasked with his execution. The soldiers were torn to pieces, but some of the townsfolk got themselves killed in the fighting, including the local arbiter's son, and the mood of the people turned ugly. For all his other faults, and there were many, Havuleq was a speaker of rare skill and he fanned the flames of the townsfolk's ire at the Emperor's rule. Within the hour, a hastily formed militia had stormed the Army barracks and slain all the soldiers within.' 'You know, of course, that Havuleq did assault and murder that woman?' Uriah nodded sadly. 'I learned that later, yes, when it was too late to do anything about it.' 'And then what happened?' 'By the time I reached Avelroi, full of piss and vinegar for the coming fight, Havuleq had rallied a number of the local townships to his cause and had amassed quite an army.' Uriah smiled as the details of his early time in Avelroi returned, clearer

e Army barracks and slain all the soldiers within.' 'You know, of course, that Havuleq did assault and murder that woman?' Uriah nodded sadly. 'I learned that later, yes, when it was too late to do anything about it.' 'And then what happened?' 'By the time I reached Avelroi, full of piss and vinegar for the coming fight, Havuleq had rallied a number of the local townships to his cause and had amassed quite an army.' Uriah smiled as the details of his early time in Avelroi returned, clearer than they had been for decades. 'It was a magnificent sight, Revelation, the icons of the Emperor had been torn down and the city was like something from a dream. Colourful bunting hung from every window and marching bands played in the streets every day as Havuleq marched his soldiers up and down. Of course, we should have been training, but we were buoyed up with courage and our own sense of righteous purpose. More and more of the surrounding towns were rising up against their Army garrisons, and within the space of a few months around forty thousand men were ready to fight.' 'It was everything I'd dreamed of,' said Uriah. 'It was a glorious rebellion, courageous and heroic in the grand tradition of the freedom fighters of old. We were to be the spark that would light the fuse of history that would see this planetary autocrat tumbled from his self-appointed rulership of the world. Then we heard that the thunderbolt and lightning army was marching from the east and we set off in grand procession to meet it in battle. It was a joyous day as Havuleq led us from Avelroi, I'll never forget it: the laughter, the kisses from the girls and the spirit of shared brotherhood that filled us as we marched out to battle. It took us a week to reach Gaduare, a line of high hills directly in the path of our enemies. I had read my share of the ancient stories of battle and knew this was a good place to make our stand. We occupied the high ground and both our flanks were anchored on strong positions. On the left were the ruins of the Gaduare Bastion, on the right a desolate marsh through which nothing could pass.' 'It was madness to oppose the Emperor's armies,' said Revelation. 'You must have known you could not defeat them. These were warriors bred for battle, whose every waking moment was spent in combat training.' Uriah nodded. 'I think we knew that as soon as our enemy came into sight,' he said, his features darkening at the memory, 'but we were so caught up in the mood of optimism. By now our army was fifty thousand strong, and we faced less than a tenth of that number. It was hard not to feel like we could win the day, especially with Havuleq riding up and down and firing our blood. His brother tried to calm him, but it was already too late and we charged from the hillside like mad, glorious fools, screaming war cries and waving swords, pistols and rifles above our heads. I was in the sixth rank and we'd covered nearly a kilometre by the time we got anywhere near the ranks of the giants. They hadn't moved since we'd set off, but as we got close, they shouldered their guns and opened fire.' Uriah paused and took a long gulp of his drink. His hand was shaking and he carefully and deliberately set his glass down on the desk as he continued. 'I'll never forget the noise,' he said. 'It was like a thunderstorm had suddenly sprung into existence, and our first five ranks were completely cut down, dead to a man without even the time to scream. The enemy's bolts tore limbs from bodies or simply burst men apart like wet sacks. I turned to shout something, I forget what exactly, when I felt a searing pain in the back of my head and I fell over the remains of a man who'd had his entire left side blown off. It looked like he'd exploded from the inside out. 'I rolled onto my knees and felt the back of my head. It was sticky and matted with blood and I realised I'd been hit. A ricochet or a fragment. Anything larger and I'd have lost my head. I could feel the blood running from me and looked up in time to see our enemies fire again. That's when I started to hear screams. Our charge had ground to a halt, men and women milling around in confusion and fear as they suddenly understood the reality of what Havuleq had begun. 'The thunder warriors put up their guns and marched towards us, unsheathing swords with serrated edges and motorised blades. The noise, oh god, I'll never forget the noise they made. A roar like something out of a nightmare. We were already beaten, their first volley had broken us, and I saw Havuleq lying dead in the middle of the field. The lower half of his body had been blown clean off and I saw the same terror I was feeling on every face around me. People were begging for mercy, throwing down their weapons and trying to surrender, but the armoured warriors didn't stop. They marched right up to us and hacked into us without mercy. We were cut apart and brutalised with such economy of force that I couldn't believe so many people could die in so short a time. This wasn't war, at least not as I'd read about it, where men of honour fought in glorious duels, this was mechanised butchery. 'I'm not ashamed to say I ran. I ran, soiled and bleeding, for safety. I ran like all the daemons of legend were after me and all the time I was hearing the awful sound of people dying, the wet sound of flesh splitting open and the stench of voided bowels and opened bellies. I can't remember anything much of my flight, just random flashes of dead bodies and screams of pain. I ran until I couldn't run any more, and then I crawled through the mud until I lost consciousness. When I woke, which I was surprised I did at all, I saw it was dark. Pyres had been lit and the victory chants of the thunder warriors drifted over the killing field. 'Havuleq's army had been destroyed. Not routed or put to flight. Destroyed. In less than an hour, fifty thousand men and women had been killed. I think I knew even then that I was the only survivor. I wept beneath the moonlight and as I lay there bleeding to death in agony, I thought of how pointless my life had been. The heartbreak and ruin I'd visited upon others in my reckless pursuit of hedonism and self-interest. I wept for my family and myself and that was when I realised I wasn't alone.' 'Who was with you?' asked Revelation. 'The power of the divine,' said Uriah. 'I looked up and saw a golden face above me, a face of such radiance and perfection that my tears were no longer shed for pain, but for beauty. Light surrounded this figure and I averted my eyes for fear I'd be blinded. I'd been in pain, but now that pain was gone and I knew I was seeing the face of the divine. I couldn't describe that face to you, not with all the poetic images in the world at my disposal, but it was the most exquisite thing I had ever seen. 'I felt myself lifted up and I thought that this was the end for me. And then the face spoke to me, and I knew I was destined to live.' 'What did this face say to you?' asked Revelation. Uriah smiled. 'He said, "Why do you deny me? Accept me and you will know that I am the only truth and the only way".' 'Did you reply?' 'I couldn't,' said Uriah. 'To utter any words would have been base. In any case, my tongue was quite stilled by the awesome vision of god.' 'What made you think it was god? Did you not hear what I said earlier about the brain's ability to perceive what it wants to? You were a dying man on a battlefield, surrounded by your dead comrades and you were having an epiphany of the futility of the life you had led. Surely you can think of another explanation for this vision, Uriah, a more likely explanation that does not require the supernatural?' 'I need no other explanation,' said Uriah, firmly. 'You may be wise in many things, Revelation, but you cannot know what goes on in my own mind. I heard the voice of god and saw His face. He bore me up and set me into a deep slumber, and when I awoke, my wounds were healed.' Uriah turned his head so that Revelation could see the long scar on the back of his neck. 'A piece of bone shrapnel had been embedded in my skull, barely a centimetre from severing my spinal cord. I was alone on the battlefield and I decided to return to the land of my birth, but when I returned I found my family home in ruins. The townsfolk told me that Scandian raiders from the north had heard of my family's wealth and come south in search of plunder. They killed my brother then violated my mother and sister in front of my father to force him to tell them where he hid his treasures. They couldn't know my father had a weak heart and he died before they could learn his secrets. I found my home in ruins and my family little more than bleached cadavers.' 'I am sorry to hear of your loss,' said Revelation. 'If it is any consolation, the Scandians would not accept Unity and were wiped out three decades ago.' 'I know, but I do not revel in death any more,' said Uriah. 'The men who killed my family will have been judged by god and that is justice enough for me.' 'That is noble of you,' said Revelation, real admiration in his voice. 'I took a few keepsakes from the ruins and made my way to the nearest settlement, thinking I'd get blind drunk and then try to figure out what to do with my life. I was halfway there when I saw the Church of the Lightning Stone and knew I had found my purpose in life. I had spent my life until that point living only for myself, but when I saw the spire of the church I knew that god had a purpose for me. I should have died at Gaduare, but I was saved for a reason.' 'And what reason was that?' 'To serve god,' said Uriah. 'To bring His word to the people.' 'And that's what you've been doing here?' Uriah nodded. 'It's what I've been trying to do, but the Emperor's promulgators traverse the globe with his message of reason and the refutation of gods and the supernatural. I assume that is why you are here and why none of my congrega

aw the spire of the church I knew that god had a purpose for me. I should have died at Gaduare, but I was saved for a reason.' 'And what reason was that?' 'To serve god,' said Uriah. 'To bring His word to the people.' 'And that's what you've been doing here?' Uriah nodded. 'It's what I've been trying to do, but the Emperor's promulgators traverse the globe with his message of reason and the refutation of gods and the supernatural. I assume that is why you are here and why none of my congregation has come to the church tonight.' 'You are correct,' said Revelation. 'In a manner of speaking. I have come to try and convince you of the error of your ways, to learn of you and to show you that there is no need for any divine powers to guide humanity. This is the last church on Terra and it falls to me to offer you this chance to embrace the new way willingly.' 'Or?' Revelation shook his head. 'There is no "or", Uriah. Come, let us go back out into the church as we talk, I want to instruct you of all that belief in gods has done for humanity down the ages, the bloodshed, the horror and the persecution. I will tell you of this and you will see how damaging such belief is.' 'And then what? You'll be on your way?' 'We both know that's not what's going to happen, don't we?' 'Yes,' said Uriah, draining the last of his drink. 'We do.' 'LET ME TELL you a story that happened many thousands of years ago,' said Revelation. They walked along the north transept of the church, coming to a set of spiral stairs that led to the upper cloisters. Revelation followed after Uriah, talking as he climbed. 'It is a story of how a herd of gene-bred livestock caused the death of over nine hundred people.' 'Did they stampede?' asked Uriah. 'No, it was a handful of half-starved creatures that escaped from their paddocks outside Xozer, a once-great city of the Nordafrik Conclaves.' They reached the top of the stairs and began walking along the cloister, its confined walls dark and cold. Dust lay thick on the stone-flagged floor and a handful of thick candles that Uriah could not remember lighting guttered in iron sconces. 'Xozer? I've been there,' said Uriah. 'At least I saw what my guide told me were its ruins.' 'Quite possibly. Anyway, these hungry animals walked through a building holy to one of the many cults that called Xozer home. This cult, which was known as the Xozerites, believed that gene-bred meat was an affront to their god and they blamed a rival sect known as the Upashtar for the defilement. The Xozerites went on a rampage, stabbing and clubbing any Upashtar they could find. Of course, the Upashtar retaliated and rioting spread throughout the city and left close to a thousand people dead.' 'Is there a point to that story?' said Uriah, when Revelation did not continue. 'Absolutely, it tells a universal tale and typifies religious behaviour that has been recurring since the beginning of human history.' 'A slightly far-fetched example, Revelation. One freakish story cannot serve as a proof that belief in the divine is a bad thing. Such belief is the bedrock of moral order. It gives people the character they need to get through life. Without guidance from above, the world would descend into anarchy.' 'Sadly, millions once held that view, Uriah, but that old truism just isn't true. The record of human experience shows that where religion is strong, it causes cruelty. Intense beliefs produce intense hostility. Only when faith loses its force can a society hope to become humane.' 'I don't believe that,' said Uriah, stopping by one of the arches in the cloister and looking down onto the nave. Dust swirled across the floor, blown by the storm winds chasing around the lonely church. 'My holy book gives instruction on how to live a good life. It has lessons humanity needs.' 'Are you sure?' asked Revelation. 'I have read your holy book and much of it is bloody and vengeful. Would you live your life literally by its commandments, or do you view the people who populate its pages as exemplars of proper behaviour? Either way, I suspect the morals espoused would be horrifying to most people.' Uriah shook his head. 'You're missing the point, Revelation. Much of the text is not meant to be taken literally, it is symbolic or allegorical.' Revelation snapped his fingers. 'That's exactly my point. You pick and choose which bits of your book to take literally and which to read as symbolic, and that choosing is a matter of personal decision, not divinity. Trust me, in ages past, a frightening number of people took their holy books absolutely literally, causing untold misery and death because they truly believed the words they read. The history of religion is a horror story, Uriah, and if you doubt it, just look at what humanity has done in the name of their gods over the millennia. Thousands of years ago, a bloody theocracy that venerated a feathered-serpent god rose in the Mayan jungles. To appease this vile god, its priests drowned maidens in sacred wells and cut out the hearts of children. They believed this serpent god had an earthly counterpart and the temple builders drove the first pile through a maiden's body to pacify this non-existent creature.' Uriah turned to Revelation in horror and said, 'You can't seriously compare my religion to such heathen barbarism?' 'Can't I?' countered Revelation. 'In the name of your religion, a holy man launched a war with the battle cry of "Deus Vult", which means "god wills it" in one of the ancient tongues of Old Earth. His warriors were charged with destroying enemies in a far-off kingdom, but first they fell upon those in their own lands who opposed the war. Thousands were dragged from their homes and hacked to death or burned alive. Then, satisfied their homeland was secure, the zealous legions plundered their way thousands of miles to the holy city they were to liberate. Upon reaching it, they killed every inhabitant to "purify" the symbolic city of taint. I remember one of their leaders saying that he rode in blood up to the knees and even to his horse's bridle, by the just and marvellous judgement of god.' 'That is ancient history,' said Uriah. 'You cannot vouchsafe the truth of events so lost in the mists of time.' 'If it were one event, I might agree with you,' replied Revelation, 'but just a hundred or so years later, another holy man declared war on a sect of his own church. His warriors laid siege to the sect's stronghold in ancient Franc, and when the city fell his generals asked their leader how they might tell the faithful from the traitor among the captives. This man, who followed your god, ordered the warriors to "Kill them all. God will know His own". Nearly twenty thousand men, women and children were slaughtered. Worst of all, the hunt for any that had escaped the siege led to the establishment of an organisation known as the Inquisition, a dreadful, monstrous plague of hysteria that gave its agents free rein to stretch, burn, pierce and break their victims on fiendish pain machines to force them to confess to disbelief and identify fellow transgressors. Later, with most of their enemies hunted down and killed, the Inquisition shifted its focus to wychcraft, and priests tortured untold thousands of women into confessing that they engaged in unnatural acts with daemons. They were then burned or hanged for their confessions and this hysteria raged for three centuries in a dozen nations, a madness that saw whole towns exterminated and over a hundred thousand dead.' 'You pick the most extreme examples from the past, Revelation,' said Uriah, struggling to maintain his composure in the face of such tales of murder and bloodshed. 'Times have moved on and humanity no longer behaves in such ways to one another.' 'If you believe that then you have been shut away in this draughty church for far too long, Uriah,' said Revelation. 'You must have heard of Cardinal Tang, a mass-murdering ethnarch who practised a crude form of eugenics. His bloody pogroms and death camps saw millions dead in the Yndonesic Bloc. He died less than thirty years ago after seeking to return the world to a pre-technological age, emulating the Inquisition's burning of scientists, mathematicians and philosophers who contradicted the church's view on cosmology.' Uriah could stand no more and walked towards the stairs at the far end of the cloister that led down into the narthex. 'You fixate on the blood and death, Revelation. You forget all the good that can be achieved through faith.' 'If you think religion is a force for good, Uriah, then you're not seeing the superstitious savagery that pervades the history of our world,' said Revelation. 'It's true that just before the descent of Old Night, religion gradually lost its power over life, but like the worst kind of poison, it lingered and fostered division amongst the people of the world that endured. Without belief in gods, divisions blur with passing ages; new generations adapt to new times, mingle, intermarry and forget ancient wounds. It is only belief in gods and divine entities that keep them alien to one another, and anything that divides people breeds inhumanity. Religion is the canker in mankind's heart that serves such an ugly purpose.' 'Enough!' snapped Uriah. 'I have heard enough. Yes, people have done terrible things to one another in the name of their gods, but they have done terrible things to one another without the recourse to their beliefs. An acceptance of gods and an afterlife is a vital part of what makes us who we are. If you take that away from humanity, what do you suggest takes its place? In my many years as a priest I have ministered to many dying people, and the emotional benefits of religion's power to console them and those left behind cannot be underestimated.' 'There is a flaw in your logic, Uriah,' said Revelation. 'Religion's power to console gives it absolutely no more credence or validity. It might very well be a c

n acceptance of gods and an afterlife is a vital part of what makes us who we are. If you take that away from humanity, what do you suggest takes its place? In my many years as a priest I have ministered to many dying people, and the emotional benefits of religion's power to console them and those left behind cannot be underestimated.' 'There is a flaw in your logic, Uriah,' said Revelation. 'Religion's power to console gives it absolutely no more credence or validity. It might very well be a comfort to a dying man to believe that he will go to some bountiful paradise of endless joy, but even if he dies with a wonderful smile on his face, it means nothing in the grand scheme of things as far as the truth of the matter is concerned.' 'Maybe not, but when my time comes, I will die with my god's name on my lips.' 'Are you afraid to die, Uriah?' asked Revelation. 'No.' 'Truly?' 'Truly,' said Uriah. 'I have my share of sins, but I have spent my life in the service of my god and I believe that I have served Him faithfully and well.' 'So why is it then, when you go to these people who are dying and clinging to their beliefs that they don't welcome the end of their life? Surely the gathered family and friends should be of good cheer and should celebrate their relative's passing? After all, if eternal paradise awaits on the other side, why are they not filled with gleeful anticipation? Could it be that, in their heart of hearts, they don't really believe it?' Uriah turned away and made his way down the narthex stairs, his anger and frustration giving him force of pace that quite outweighed the stiffness in his limbs. A cold wind blew in from the outer doors and he could hear the mutter of voices and the scrape of metal on metal from outside. The narthex of the Church of the Lightning Stone was an austere place, stone walls with niches in which sat statues of various saints that had passed this way in the thousands of years the church had stood. A swaying candelabra, empty of candles, hung from the roof, but it had been many years since Uriah had been able to climb the stepladder in the store room to replace them. He pushed open the door to the church and walked stiffly down the nave towards the altar. Four of the six candles he had lit there had gone out and the fifth guttered and died in the wind that entered with him. The lone candle burned beside the clock and Uriah made his way towards it as he heard Revelation enter the church behind him. Uriah reached the altar and lowered himself to a kneeling position with some difficulty. He bowed his head before the altar and clasped his hands together. 'The Lord of Mankind is the Light and the Way, and all His actions are for the benefit of mankind, which is His people. So it is taught in the holy words of our order, and above all things, god will protect...' 'There's no one there to hear you,' said Revelation from behind him. 'I don't care what you say any more. You have come here to do what you feel you need to do and I'll not buttress your ego and self-righteousness by playing along any longer. So just end this charade.' 'As you wish,' said Revelation. 'No more games.' A golden light built behind Uriah and he saw his shadow thrown out onto the graven surface of the altar. The pearlescent hands of the clock shimmered in the reflected light and the ebony face gleamed. Where once the church had been gloomy and filled with shadows, it was now a place of light. Uriah pulled himself to his feet and turned to see a wondrous figure standing before him, towering and magnificent, clad in golden armour fashioned with love and the greatest skill, every plate embossed with thunderbolts and eagles. Gone was Revelation, and in his place was a towering warrior of exquisite splendour, an exemplar of all that was regal and inspirational in humanity. The armour bulked his form out beyond measure and Uriah felt tears spilling from his eyes as he realised he had seen this breathtakingly, achingly perfect face once before. On the killing fields of Gaduare. 'You...' breathed Uriah, stumbling back and collapsing onto his haunches. Pain shot through his hip and pelvis, but he barely felt it. 'Now do you understand the futility of what you do here?' said the golden giant. Long dark hair spilled around the warrior's face, a face that Uriah could only see through the hazy lens of memory. He could see the unremarkable features of Revelation subsumed into the warrior's countenance, itself so worthy of devotion that it took all Uriah's self-control not to drop to his knees and offer what remained of his life to its glorification. 'You...' repeated Uriah, the pain in his bones no match for the pain in his heart. 'You are the... the... Emperor...' 'I am, and it is time to go, Uriah,' said the Emperor. Uriah looked around at his now gleaming and brightly lit church. 'Go? Go where? There is nowhere else for me in this godless world of yours.' 'Of course there is,' replied the Emperor. 'Embrace the new way and be part of something incredible. A world and a time where we stand on the brink of achieving everything we ever dreamed.' Uriah nodded dumbly and felt a firm hand gently take his arm and lift him to his feet once more. Strength flowed from the Emperor's grip and Uriah felt the aches and ailments that had plagued him for decades fade until they were little more than evil memories. He looked up at Isandula Verona's magnificent fresco, and the breath caught in his throat. Colours once dulled by the darkness now blazed with life and the ceiling seemed to burst with life and vitality as the Emperor's light gave it fresh animation and vibrancy. The skin of the painted figures shone with vitality, and the livid blues and lusty reds radiated potency. 'Verona's work was never meant for darkness,' said the Emperor. 'Only in the light can it achieve its full potential. Humanity is the same, and only when the suffocating shadows of a religion that teaches us not to question is gone from this world will we see its true brilliance.' Uriah only reluctantly tore his eyes from the impossibly beautiful fresco and cast his gaze around his church. The stained-glass windows shone with new life and the intricate, subtle architecture of the interior gleamed with the skill of its builders. 'I will miss this place,' said Uriah. 'In time I will build an Imperium of such grandeur and magnificence that this will seem like a pauper's hovel,' said the Emperor. 'Now, let us be on our way.' Uriah allowed himself to be guided down the nave, his heart heavy with the knowledge that the course of his life had been altered by, at best, a misunderstanding, at worst, a lie. As he followed the Emperor towards the narthex doors, he looked up at the ceiling once more, recalling the sermons he had delivered here, the people who had hung on his every word and the good that had flowed from this place and into the world. He smiled suddenly as he realised that it didn't matter whether his life and faith had been based on a falsehood. He had believed what he had seen and he had come to this place with a heart open and emptied by grief. That openness had allowed the spirit of his god to enter his soul and filled the emptiness within him with love. What makes faith so powerful is that it requires no proof. Belief is enough. He had devoted his life to his god, and even with the understanding of how his fate had been manipulated by random chance, he found no resentment in his heart. He had spread a doctrine of love and forgiveness from his pulpit and no amount of clever words would make him regret that. The door to the narthex was still open and, as they passed through its cold embrace, the Emperor pushed open the main doors of the church. Howling wind and sheets of rain blew inwards and Uriah clasped his robes tightly to his body, feeling the night's cold stab into his body like a thousand shards of ice. He looked over his shoulder towards the altar of his church, seeing the lone candle beside the doomsday clock snuffed out by the gale. Once again, his church was swathed in darkness and he sighed to see this last illumination extinguished. The wind blew the internal doors shut and Uriah followed the Emperor out into the darkness. Rain soaked him instantly and a crash of lightning lit the heavens with an actinic blue glow. Hundreds of warriors stood in ordered ranks before the church, brutal giants in pugnacious armour he had last seen on the battlefield of Gaduare. They stood immobile beneath the downpour, the rain beating against the burnished plates of bronze in an unrelenting tattoo and causing their scarlet helmet plumes to hang limply at their shoulders. There had been some refinements, saw Uriah, the armour now all-enclosing and each warrior sealed from the elements by an interlocking series of artfully designed plates. Huge backpacks vented excess heat in steaming plumes like breath, and each of the warriors carried a burning torch that hissed and fizzed in the downpour. Huge guns were slung over their shoulders and Uriah shivered as he remembered the murderous volley, like the thunder at the end of the world, that had felled so many of his comrades. The Emperor put a long cloak about Uriah's shoulders as a group of armoured warriors stepped towards the church with flame lances raised. Uriah wanted to protest, to speak out against what they were about to do, but the words died in his throat as he realised they would have no effect. Tears streamed down his face along with the rain as torrents of flame erupted from the warriors' weapons and licked over the roof and walls of the church. Other warriors fired grenades that smashed through the stained-glass windows of the church and percussive booms thudded from inside as the hungry flames took hold of the roof. Thick smoke billowed from the windows, the rain doing nothing to dampen the destructive ambition of the flames, and Uriah wept to think of the

y would have no effect. Tears streamed down his face along with the rain as torrents of flame erupted from the warriors' weapons and licked over the roof and walls of the church. Other warriors fired grenades that smashed through the stained-glass windows of the church and percussive booms thudded from inside as the hungry flames took hold of the roof. Thick smoke billowed from the windows, the rain doing nothing to dampen the destructive ambition of the flames, and Uriah wept to think of the wondrous fresco and the thousands of years of history that was being destroyed. He turned to look up at the Emperor, the warrior's face lit by the fires of destruction. 'How can you do this?' demanded Uriah. 'You say you stand for reason and the advancement of understanding, but here you are destroying a repository of knowledge!' The Emperor looked down at him and said, 'Some things are best left forgotten.' 'Then I hope you have foreseen the consequences of a world bereft of religion.' 'I have,' replied the Emperor. 'It is my dream. An Imperium of Man that exists without recourse to gods and the supernatural. A united galaxy with Terra at its heart.' 'A united galaxy?' said Uriah, averting his gaze from his blazing church as he finally grasped the scale of the Emperor's ambition. 'Indeed. Now that Unity has been achieved on Terra, it is time to reclaim humanity's lost empire among the stars.' 'With you at its head, I presume?' said Uriah. 'Of course. Nothing of such grand scale can be achieved without a singular vision at its heart, least of all the reconquest of the galaxy.' 'You are a madman,' said Uriah. 'And you are arrogant if you believe you can subjugate the stars with warriors such as these. They are powerful to be sure, but even they are not capable of such a thing.' 'You are right,' agreed the Emperor. 'I will not conquer the galaxy with these men, for they are but men. These are the precursors to the warriors I am forging in my gene-labs, warriors with the strength and power and vision to bestride the battlefields of the stars and bring them to compliance. These warriors shall be my generals and they will lead my great crusade to the furthest corners of the galaxy.' 'Didn't you just tell me of the bloody slaughters perpetrated by crusaders?' said Uriah. 'Doesn't that make you no better than the holy men you were telling me about?' 'The difference is I know I am right,' said the Emperor. 'Spoken like a true autocrat.' The Emperor shook his head. 'You misunderstand, Uriah. I have seen the narrow survival path that is all that stands between humanity and extinction, and this is the way it must begin.' Uriah looked back at the church, the gleeful flames reaching high into the darkness. 'It is a dangerous road you travel,' said Uriah. 'To deny humanity a thing will only make them crave it all the more. And if you succeed in this grand vision of yours? What then? Beware that your subjects do not begin to see you as a god.' Uriah looked into the Emperor's face as he spoke, now seeing past the glamours and the magnificence to the heart of an individual who had lived a thousand lives and walked the Earth for longer than could be imagined. He saw the ruthless ambition and the molten core of violence at the Emperor's heart. In that instant, Uriah knew he wanted nothing to do with anything this man had to offer, no matter how noble or lofty his ambitions might be. 'I hope in the name of all that is holy you are right,' said Uriah, 'but I dread the future you are forging for humanity.' 'I wish only the best for my people,' promised the Emperor. 'I think you do, but I will not be a part of it,' said Uriah, casting off the Emperor's cloak and walking back towards his church with his head held high. The rain beat down on him, but he welcomed it as a baptismal. He heard footsteps approaching him, but he heard the Emperor say, 'No. Leave him.' The outer doors of the church stood open and Uriah walked into the narthex, feeling the heat of the flames as they billowed around him. The statues were on fire and the doors to the nave were gone, blown off their hinges by the blasts of grenades. Uriah marched into the blazing heat of the church, seeing a wall of flame devouring the pews and silken hangings with insatiable hunger. Smoke filled the air and the fresco above him was almost obscured by the roiling blackness. He looked at the clock face on the altar and smiled as the flames closed in around him. THE WARRIORS REMAINED outside the church until it collapsed, the roof timbers crashing down into the building in a tremendous flurry of flying sparks and wreckage. They stayed until the first rays of sunlight crested the mountains and the rain finally extinguished the last of the flames. The ruins of the last church on Terra smouldered in the chill morning air as the Emperor turned away and said, 'Come, we have a galaxy to conquer.' As the Emperor and his warriors marched down the hillside, the only sound to be heard was the soft chiming of an old and broken clock. AFTER DESH'EA Matthew Farrer 'YOU DON'T HAVE to do this,' said Dreagher, breaking the long silence, and the relaxing of tension from the other War Hounds was audible even without Astartes senses. Kharn looked around the loose square of warriors and saw sneaking relief in their expressions. Someone had finally come out and said it. 'You need not do it.' Dreagher could not quite bring himself to step between Kharn and the doors, but his voice was steady. 'You should not do it.' But other signs gave the lie to the composure in Dreagher's voice. Kharn watched his fellow captain's respiration move at just below combat-preparation speed, watched the veins in his face and shorn scalp tick at an elevated rate, took in the motions of his eyes, the subtle shifts of his shoulders as his body went through the muscle-loosening routines that had been part of their deep conditioning. Dreagher's skin carried the scent of scouring-gel but underneath it, coming off his skin, was the scent of adrenaline and the inhuman essences that the Astartes body made for itself when the danger instincts rang. They were all keyed up; Kharn's own metabolism was escalated too. He could hardly have helped it. The air cyclers had not yet been able to carry away the tang of blood that had washed through the anteroom the last time the double doors had opened. As Kharn worked his palate and tongue, processing and tasting the air, he realised something else: the rest of the ship had fallen as silent as the anteroom they stood in. The anteroom's semicircular outer wall opened through to the barrack-decks, and normally the broad colonnade was alive with sounds. Voices, the clank of boots and the softer tread of the menials and technomats, the distant sound of shots from the ranges, the almost subsonic buzz of the new power weapons, all gone now. The decks were as silent as the great chamber beyond the steel-grey double doors at Dreagher's back. The strangeness of that silence tautened his nerves and muscles further still. Kharn ignored his body, letting it do what it will. He kept his eyes cold. 'Eighth Company makes me the ranking captain aboard, now,' he told them. 'My rank, my oath and my Emperor. Together they close the matter. In case anyone is insolent enough to think there's even a matter to close.' 'No,' came a voice from beside him. Jareg, the Master Shellsmith from the artillery echelon. 'The matter to close is that we must find a way to, to...' Jareg motioned wordlessly towards the doors, face twisted in distress. 'We... don't know how this will end,' said Horzt, commander of the Ninth Company's Stormbird squadron. Kharn watched the man's hands form fists, shaking to match the shake in his voice. 'And so we have to plan for the worst. One of us here, now, may need to command the Legion yet, and-' He broke off. In the space beyond the doors a voice, deeper than a tank-rumble, mightier than a cannon-blast, was roaring in anger. If there were words to it, they were blurred and muffled by the slabs of metal in the way, but still the War Hounds fell silent. They had shouted oaths and orders and obscenities over the clamour of gun, grenade and chainaxe, over the scream of Stormbird jets, over the keen and bellow of a dozen different xenos, but Kharn was the only one who dared to speak now over that distant, muted voice. 'Enough,' he said, and his voice was flat. 'I'm not stupid enough to deny what we all think and know. You all owe Horzt a salute for being the only one to find enough Astartes guts in his belly to say it. The Emperor has brought us our lord and commander. The heartspring of our own bloodline. That is who is with us now. Our general. The one of whom we are echoes. Do you remember that? Do you?' Kharn looked from one to the next, and the War Hounds stared back at him. Good. He would have struck any of them who hadn't met his eyes. On the other side of the scarred grey plate of the doors, the distant voice roared again. 'Now, this,' he went on, 'this thing we are doing here, this is right. It is not for any Lord Commander, it is not for any high-helmed, gilt-edged custodian, it is not for anyone-' his shout stiffened their backs, widened their eyes '-to come between the War Hounds and their primarch and live. Only for the Emperor himself will we stand aside, and the Emperor has shown his wisdom. He has taken this duty and he has laid it on our shoulders.' He looked at Dreagher again. Like Kharn, the man was dressed in white, bands of blue glittering across the high-collared tunic, boots and gauntlets a dark ceremonial blue rather than functional shipboard grey. The Emperor's lightning-bolt emblem gleamed at his collar and shoulder. His dress matched Kharn's own: the formal garments with which the War Hounds symbolised they were about their most solemn business. It was obvious why. Dreagher wanted to go in Kharn's place. Wanted to go in and die. 'We

ooked at Dreagher again. Like Kharn, the man was dressed in white, bands of blue glittering across the high-collared tunic, boots and gauntlets a dark ceremonial blue rather than functional shipboard grey. The Emperor's lightning-bolt emblem gleamed at his collar and shoulder. His dress matched Kharn's own: the formal garments with which the War Hounds symbolised they were about their most solemn business. It was obvious why. Dreagher wanted to go in Kharn's place. Wanted to go in and die. 'We have our primarch now,' Kharn told them, and even now he felt a little shiver at the words. All these years since they had launched outwards from Terra, watching as one mighty creation after another emerged from unreclaimed space to take their places in the ranks. Kharn had heard how the Salamanders had waited in orbit around the burning moon, waited for the Emperor's word that the one he had found there was indeed their sire. He remembered the first sight of chilly-eyed Perturabo walking at the Emperor's shoulder the day they took ship for Nove Shendak, and the change in the Iron Warriors when they knew who was to command them. Every Legion still with that empty place at its head felt the same longing, sharper with every voyage, every campaign. Would this next star be the one where their blood-sire lived? Would this ship, this communique, bring the news that their father-commander had been found, out there in the dark? And then that electric day when the word had come to the mustering docks at Vueron, the news that their own primarch had been found, their lord, their alpha, their... And it had come to this. 'We have our primarch now,' he repeated, 'and he will lead his Legion in whatever manner he chooses. We are his just as we are the Emperor's. What we wish or plan no longer matters. The commander of the War Hounds will meet the primarch of the War Hounds, and what happens will be as the primarch wills it. So be it. No more talk.' Besides, he thought as Dreagher saluted and silently walked to the doors, I don't suppose it will be long before he works his way down to you. He was surprised at the thought, but surprised also at the lack of emotion that came with it. For all that the War Hounds were a hot-blooded Legion, Kharn found his thoughts flat and colourless. He took a moment to wonder if this were how others felt, the enemies who had advanced to their doom under War Hound chainaxes, or the condemned men of the auxilia in the days before the Emperor had banned the Legion from decimating allies who disgraced them on the field. Dreagher worked the key controls and the doors swung silently outwards. Beyond them, oddly prosaic, a plain set of broad steps went down into shadows. Another roar, wordless and deep-throated, came echoing up from the gloom. Kharn shook the thoughts away, walked forwards, and let the darkness fold over him as Dreagher swung the doors closed at his back. KHARN CAME DOWN the broad, shallow steps into the great space that had been built into the ship as Angron's triumphal hall. He had been in it many times but it was a different space now, even with most of it lost in the dark. It felt different. Kharn registered that sensation, of walking into a strange space unfamiliar to him, and wondered if any room that held a primarch could feel the same again. He walked three slow, measured paces onto the smooth stone chamber floor, and pushed his enhanced vision through its darkness adjustments - the primarch had shattered most of the lights, or torn them from their mountings. Here and there the survivors cast glow-pools that did little more than texture the darkness around them. Some of the glows showed dark spatters and puddles across the floor, but Kharn did not bother to look closely. Even if the smell of it were not drowning his senses, he had seen the aftermath of death too many times not to know it. He felt the urge to look around him for his brothers. Gheer, the Legion Master, who had come in here first when the Emperor had told the War Hounds they must take this duty upon themselves and then taken ship to meet the Thirty-seventh Fleet at Aldebaran. Kunnar, the First Company Champion, who had donned his formal cape, taken up his axe-staff and walked down the steps after the noises coming through the doors had convinced them that Gheer was long dead. Anchez, who had captained the assault echelon, had walked down next. He had joked with Kharn and Hyazn as the doors had been opened for him, despite the blood they could already smell on the air. The man had never known what fear was. Hyazn had been next, and two of the banner-bearers from his personal command coterie had insisted on marching down the steps into the dark with him. They had meant to block the primarch's fury for long enough that Hyazn could speak with him. It hadn't worked. Vanche, the master-at-arms to old Gheer, had insisted on being next, even though the next to inherit the Legion's command, and so the duty of taking up embassy to their lord, should have been Shinnargen of the Second Company. The point was moot now. Shinnargen had met his end in here an hour after Vanche. I am, primarch, the servant of your will, thought Kharn, and I would never dare to pronounce you the servant of mine. But still, my newfound lord, if you would make your peace with your Legion while there are still any in your Legion to draw breath... He exhaled, and took another step into the room. For a moment he thought he could hear movement, the padding of feet, a rush of air that felt like breath before everything splintered and whirled and he crashed into a pillared wall to land hard on his back, gasping in pain. By the time the gasp had entered his lungs, reflex had taken over and he was up on one knee, turning to put his broken right arm and shoulder to the wall and holding and tensing his left arm ready to ward as he scanned for motion, eyes sifting the gloom, pushing into infrared to see the hulking shape hurtling forwards to fill his vision- Will overrode reflex, and with an iron effort Kharn forced his hand towards his side. Then he was skittering on his back across the floor, breath hammered out of his lungs and cracked clavicle flaring. Unthinkingly he drew his knees to his chest, turned the skidding tumble into a backwards roll. Training, determination and Astartes neural wiring let him shunt the pain to the back of his mind as he came up into a combat crouch. Then will took over again, and Kharn made himself stand upright and placed his hands by his sides. He looked back and found the spot where he had rested a moment ago, but the floor was empty, no shape or heat-trace. Was this how it was for the others? He caught himself wondering, and stopped thinking about it when the lapse in concentration started him swaying on the spot. He focused, half-heard movement closing in behind him and opened his mouth to speak, and a moment later was jerked up from the floor, the back of his head and neck in the grip of a hand that felt bigger and harder than a Dreadnought's rubble-claw. Will, will over instinct: Kharn stopped himself from kicking backwards, trying to wrench free. 'Another one? Another one like the rest?' The voice in his ear was a rasp, a rumble, words like handfuls of hot gravel. 'Warrior made, warrior garbed, uhh...' For a moment the grip on the back of Kharn's neck juddered and his body shook like a Stormbird hitting atmosphere, then the animal growl from behind him became a roar. 'Fight!' He was being carried forwards one-handed in long blurring strides across the width of the hall. 'Fight me!' With the words, a slam into the wall hard enough to leave Kharn's wits red-tinged and reeling. 'Fight me!' Another slam and the red was shot through with black. His limbs felt sluggish and only half there. The voice was bellowing drowning his hearing, pouring into his head and trampling his jangled thoughts. 'Fiiight!' Another steel-hard grip closed about his broken arm and for a brief moment Kharn whirled through the air. Another impact and his back was to the wall, his feet dangling, broken shoulder incandescent with pain as one of the great hands pinned him against the dark marble. It took a moment for things to clear. Astartes biochemistry stabilised his pain and his cognition, glanded stress-hormones slammed into his system and Kharn looked at his primarch's face with clear eyes. Wiry, copper-red hair curled away from a high brow, pale eyes sat deep behind cheekbones that angled down like axe-strokes to an aquiline nose and a broad, thin-lipped mouth. It was the face of a general to follow unto death, the face of a teacher at whose feet the wise would fight to sit, the face of a king made for the adoration of worlds: the face of a primarch. And rage made it the face of a beast. Rage pushed and distorted the features like a tumour breaking out from the skull beneath. It made the eyes into yellow, empty pits, debased the proud lines of brow and jaw, peeled the lips back from the teeth. And yet it was a face so maddeningly familiar, the face of the sire whose template had made the War Hounds themselves. Kharn could see his brethren in the bronze skin, the set of the eyes, the lines of jaw and skull. Pinned there and staring, the thought that flicked into his mind was of the Legion's battles against the capering xenos whose masks wove faces out of light, taunting them with distorted mockeries of themselves. The primarch's grip tensed, and Kharn wondered if he had heard the thought - didn't they say some of their sires had that trick? Slowly Angron's other hand rose up before Kharn's face. Even in this light he could see the crackling shell of quick-clotting blood coating the fingers. The hand made a trembling fist before his face that seemed to hang there for an age before it slowly opened to make a stiff-fingered claw. Kharn could tell how the claw would strike: a finger in each eye, powerful enough to punch through the back

nd Kharn wondered if he had heard the thought - didn't they say some of their sires had that trick? Slowly Angron's other hand rose up before Kharn's face. Even in this light he could see the crackling shell of quick-clotting blood coating the fingers. The hand made a trembling fist before his face that seemed to hang there for an age before it slowly opened to make a stiff-fingered claw. Kharn could tell how the claw would strike: a finger in each eye, powerful enough to punch through the back of the socket and into his brain, the thumb under his jaw to crush his throat, the whole hand then ready to clench and rip away the front of his skull or pull his head from his neck. Astartes bone was powerfully made - did the primarch have the power for that in just one of his hands? Kharn thought he did. But the hand did not strike. Instead Angron leaned forwards, the snarling gargoyle-mask of his face closing, closing, until his mouth was by Kharn's ear. 'Why?' And his whisper was like the grate of tank-treads on stone. 'I can see what you're made for. You're made to spill blood, just as I am. You're not born normal men, any more than I was.' A long, savage growl. 'So why? Why no triumph rope? Why no weapon in your hand? Why do you all walk down here so meek? Don't you know whose blood I really- eh?' They were close enough that he had felt Kharn's smile against his cheek, and now he pulled back to see it. Angron's eyes squeezed shut for a moment, then flashed open again as he twitched Kharn away from the wall and slammed him back again. It seemed to Kharn that he could feel the fingers of the hand that held him thrumming with checked violence. 'What's this? Showing your teeth?' Another slam against the wall. 'Why are you smiling?' By the end of the question the voice was once again at that shattering roar, and even Kharn's hearing, more resilient than human, rang for whole seconds before it cleared. And in those few seconds, he realised that the question had not been rhetorical. Angron was waiting for an nswer. 'I am...' His voice, when he found it, was hoarse and brittle. 'I am proud of my Legion brothers.' He swallowed to try and soothe his dry throat so that he could speak again, but before he could take another breath he was pulled from the wall and dropped. Angron's kick lofted him into the air in a long curve that fetched him up against a cold, torn corpse. When Kharn dragged in a breath it was full of the reek of blood and offal. There was no way to tell whose the body had been. Bare feet thumped along the stone floor, counter-pointing growling heaves of breath as Angron closed the distance. He leapt and landed in a crouch beside Kharn as he tried to make his body move. The grip damped around him again, around his jaw and face this time, and he was dragged half-upright to stare into the primarch's eyes again. 'Proud.' Angron's lips worked as though he were chewing on the word. 'Your brothers. No warriors. None of you will fight. Why... are... you...' He was shaping his words with difficulty, and one hand had risen to clutch at his head. 'How, uh, how can, nnn...' And then he lifted Kharn by the front of his tunic and slammed him back down. The ragged remains on the floor gave a bloody squelch as Kharn's back came down across them. 'No pride!' roared Angron, in a voice that Kharn thought dizzily could finish the job of bone-breaking that his fists had started. 'No pride in brothers who stand there with their wits slack! Dull-eyed as a steer on a slaughter-chute! None of you fight! My brothers, my brothers and sisters, oh...' The grip on Kharn's tunic lifted, and he blinked his vision clear and looked up. Angron was not looking at him any more. The primarch had sunk back onto his haunches, one great hand over his eyes. His voice was still a powerful rumble, but barely formed and harsh with accent. Kharn had to concentrate to make out the words. 'My poor warriors,' Angron was murmuring, 'my lost ones.' And then he dropped his hand and looked into Kharn's eyes. The fury was still in his stare, but it had been banked like a furnace, glowing a dull vermilion rather than roaring crimson. 'Your brothers,' he said in a drained voice, 'are not like my brothers, whoever you are.' Whoever you are. It took a moment for the words to sink in, and the next thought was, He doesn't know. How can he not know? Still flat on the floor, Kharn took a shuddering breath. 'My name is Kharn. I am a warrior-' 'No!' Angron's fist shattered the floor beside Kharn's head. Stone chips stung his skin. 'No warrior! No!' '-of the Legiones Astartes, the great league of battle-brothers in service to our-' 'No! Dead!' screamed Angron, his head back, muscles corded in his neck. 'Uhhh, my warriors are dead, my brothers, my sisters-' '-beloved Emperor,' said Kharn, fighting to keep his voice cool and level, facing down the urge to gabble and plead, 'humanity's master, our commander and general, by whose-' At the mention of the Emperor Angron had begun to shudder and now he threw his head back again, baying like a beast up into the dark, shocking Kharn into silence. Then, snake-fast, his hand closed around Kharn's ankle and with a single wrench of his body he threw him spinning through the air. There was no time to twist in the air or curl. Kharn managed to get his arms around his head before he crashed into a chamber wall and dropped limp to the floor. Through the red-grey mist in his head he could hear Angron's voice, still filling the chamber with deafening, wordless howls. Within his own body he could feel twitching and roiling as his implanted organs worked on his system: somewhere in there Angron had damaged something badly. Something for the Apothecarion to study, he thought. If they're up to the challenge of identifying which scraps are mine after all this, he found himself adding, and the grim little mental chuckle from that thought was what gave him the strength to push himself, groaning, up onto his elbows and knees. Angron's foot landed like a forge-hammer between his shoulder blades and flattened him back to the floor, cracked sternum sending out ripping bursts of pain, feeling the fused shell of his ribcage creaking as he fought for breath. 'You don't injure easily, do you, you meek little paperskins?' came Angron's voice from above him, the words bitten out in curt growls. 'Who makes warriors who won't make war? Your murdering bastard commander, that's who.' More shifts in him as Kharn's metabolism noted the dwindling breath in his lungs and changed its pace to use its oxygen more efficiently. He felt the tickle of pressure as his third lung shifted to higher functioning to take up the shortfall, and a warm sensation in his abdomen as his oolitic kidney worked on the heightened toxins in his blood. 'Sends his cowardly little paperskins to die for him, oh yes, I know his sort.' Angron's words were running together into an almost continuous growl. 'Hands that've never felt the heat of blood. Skin that's never parted. Brain-pan that's never been kissed by the Butcher's Nails. Tongue that's never... huh.' The weight had shifted on Kharn's back. Angron didn't have the leverage to keep the crushing pressure with his foot, and his other foot had started to come up off the floor. Then suddenly the pressure was gone, and Kharn whooped for air with all three lungs as Angron kicked him over onto his back. 'You're not dying the way I've seen men and women die.' Angron stood over Kharn for a moment, head high like a ceremonial statue, then began to circle where he lay, back bent and head thrust forward, a great hunting cat scenting prey. 'You take wounds the way... hnnn...' He dug the fingers of one hand into scalp for a moment, and Kharn could see his fingers tracing the lines of deep, runnelled scars, '...the way I do. Your blood crisps itself like mine, it... smells...' His hands balled into fists, and Kharn saw the tension roll up the forearms, into the shoulders, into the neck and finally once again pulling the primarch's features into the rage-mask. Slowly, clumsily, Kharn managed to sit up and onto one knee, braced for a new strike, but Angron kept circling him. 'You carry yourselves like men used to iron in their hands, not air. If I were killing you on the hot dust, I'd know your names, because you'd have paid me the proper salute and we'd have turned the rope together.' Around and around him the padding footsteps. Kharn could feel the primarch's gaze on him like heavy chain draped over his shoulders. 'Does it bother you, dying to one who will never know your names?' Did it bother him, Kharn wondered? But of course that wasn't the question. He was an emissary, here to deliver a message, not to debate. 'We are your Legion, Primarch Angron. We are your instrument and yours to command. The deaths of our enemies are yours to command, and so are our own.' Not a punch or a kick or a grip, this time, but a ringing, open-handed clout to the side of his head that pitched him sideways. 'Mock me again and I'll crumble your skull in my fingers before your mouth has finished the words.' Angron's voice was shaking with a precarious restraint that was more frightening than a bellow. 'My warriors. My brothers and sisters. Oh my braye ones, my brothers, my...' For several seconds Angron simply paced, his jaw opening and working soundlessly, his head twisting from side to side. 'Gone they are, gone without me, I...' Angron's fists began to move. He beat them against his thighs and chest, brought one fist and then the other around in long looping motions to smash into his mouth and cheeks. In the new quiet of the chamber the sounds of his flesh splitting and his grunting breaths seemed magnified, textured. Kharn watched, unable to speak, as Angron dropped to his knees, fists doubled in front of his face, muscles locked taut and body shaking. There was a silence. Finally, Kharn broke it. 'We are your Legion. Made from your bloo

to move. He beat them against his thighs and chest, brought one fist and then the other around in long looping motions to smash into his mouth and cheeks. In the new quiet of the chamber the sounds of his flesh splitting and his grunting breaths seemed magnified, textured. Kharn watched, unable to speak, as Angron dropped to his knees, fists doubled in front of his face, muscles locked taut and body shaking. There was a silence. Finally, Kharn broke it. 'We are your Legion. Made from your blood and genes, crafted in your image. We have fought our way from the world where you, my lord, were conceived. We have spilt blood and burned worlds, we have shattered empires and hounded species into oblivion. Searching for you.' Just let me speak, lord, he thought as he felt the strength coming back into his voice. Just let me bring our petition to you and then my mission is fulfilled and I am content. Do as you will. 'We do not fight you because you are our primarch. Not just our commander, but our blood-sire, our fountainhead. No matter what, I will not raise a hand to you. Nor will any of my battle-brothers. We are ambassadors to you now. We are here for our Legion and our... our Emperor,' Kharn tensed, but this time Angron did not respond to the word. 'We are coming before you to plead with you to take up the rightful place that was set for you at your creation.' He began moving, wanting to shuffle closer to where Angron knelt and hunched and shook, but even now the violence that the primarch exuded like heat made him pause. Kharn took an unsteady breath. Pain from his wounds kept sawing at the bottom of his consciousness, nagging at him. He squeezed shut his eyes for a moment, pushed himself through the battlefield exercises that had been hypnoconditioned into him on the mountainsides of Bodt, smothered the pain with will. That gave him a moment to think, and with the respite he brought his mind to bear on this task the way he would a battlefield, a fortification, an enemy's swordwork. He thought about his own mission, about the reports he had heard from the Emperor's own flagship before and after the disastrous visit to the planet's surface, about the primarch's own words. There had been battle down there, they all knew that. Kharn felt a flicker of envy. The rebels now lying as corpses down there had already had the glory of their primarch, their primarch, leading them in- Understanding came in a flash, given a weird focus by the pain. 'I envy them,' he said quietly. 'Those ones who fought with you. I wish I had known them. They followed you to battle. That is all any of my brothers and I ask of you, sire. The chance to fight with you as they did.' Slowly the primarch's hands lowered from his face. He was kneeling with his back to the nearest unbroken light, looming over Kharn in silhouette, but Kharn's vision took in enough infrared to let him see the bitter little smile on the giant face. 'You? No nails, no rope. Hope you've got a good head for mockery, Kharn of the so-called Legion. We'd have had sport with you in the camps. Jochura would have been merciless. Sharp-tongued, that boy was.' The smile lost a trace of its bitterness. 'I'd watch him bait the others. In the cells at first and then after, when we were roaming. He'd mock, they'd laugh, and he and the one he mocked would laugh harder than all the rest of them. It... was... good. Good to watch. Jochura always swore he would die laughing at his killer.' The smile vanished and Angron's mouth took a brutal downwards twist. 'I told him... told him... uuh,' and Kharn felt the impact up into his body as the great fists smashed into the floor again. He made to speak but the words were cut off as Angron's arm shot out, quicker than sight, and then his hand was locked around Kharn's neck and jaw, dragging him in. 'I don't know how they died!' Angron's shout was so loud that the words seemed to fuzz into white noise in Kharn's ears. The hand shook him like a sack. 'We swore! Swore!' Kharn was being yanked backwards and forwards, and Angron's other hand beat the floor in rime. Amid all the clamour a sharp new scent imprinted itself on his senses, and Kharn realised it was the primarch's blood, freshly shed. Angron had battered his hands bloody against the stone. 'We swore an oath,' Angron went on, his voice dropping to a groan like wrenching steel. 'On the road to Desh'ea I had each of them cut a new scar for my rope, and I cut theirs. And we swore an oath that by the end of all of our lives we'd cut the high-riders a scar that would bleed for a hundred years!' Despite himself, Kharn's hands came up as Angron's grip tightened around his neck and he fought the urge to try and grapple free. 'A wound their great-grandwhelps would still cry from! A wound to haunt any of them who dared look on the hot dust again!' Angron's grip shifted, and air flooded back into Kharn's lungs. He hung half-kneeling with one of the primarch's hands pressed into each side of his head. 'All this,' Angron said softly, 'and even my sworn oath wasn't enough.' He parted his hands and let Kharn crumple to the floor. 'Because I don't even know how they died.' When Kharn opened his eyes Angron was sitting cross-legged a little way from his feet, elbows on knees, head thrust out in front of his shoulders, watching him. He could no longer smell the primarch's blood as fresh as he had - had he lost consciousness for a time? Or had he just lain disorientated in the gloom? Or did Angron's blood clot and seal even faster than his own? He thought it probably did. He took a breath, torso flickering with pain, and pushed himself up on his elbows. 'And so how do you meet death, paperskin?' The coolness in Angron's voice was startling after the raving daemon that had battered and flung him like a puppet. 'Do you make your salutes when you're on the dust? Declaim your lineage like the high-riders? Declaim your kills like us? Tell me what you do while you're waiting for the iron in your hand to warm up to blood-heat.' 'We-' Kharn began, but the unbecoming sprawl was cramping his chest. He pushed himself the rest of the way up and knelt, sitting back on his heels, keeping his breathing steady and composing himself through the pain. Even slumped over as he was, Angron was taller than Kharn by half a head. 'The oath of moment,' he said. 'Our last act before we embark for combat. Each of us prepares our vow to our brothers in the Legion. 'What we will do for our, our Emperor,' Angron snarled at the word, 'our Legion and ourselves. We witness the oaths. Some Legions write them and then decorate themselves with the written oaths.' 'Did you take one of these oaths before you came in to see me?' Angron asked. 'No, primarch,' replied Kharn, slightly wrong-footed by the question. 'I did not come in here to fight you. I say again, not one in the Legion will raise a hand to you. Oaths of moment are for battle.' 'No challenge,' rumbled the looming shape. 'You do not ask their names when you walk the dust, and you don't give yours. No salutes and no showing of ropes. This is how they fight who say they are my blood-cousins?' 'This is how we fight, sire. We exist to make the Emperor's enemies extinct. We've no need of anything that does not serve that end. And we rarely fight enemies who have names worth knowing, let alone saluting. What the rope is, forgive me, primarch, I do not know.' 'How do you show your warriorship, then?' The puzzlement in the primarch's voice seemed genuine, but when Kharn hesitated over his answer, Angron lunged forwards and punched him over onto his back. 'Answer me! You little grave-grubber, you sit there and smirk at me again like some high-rid... uhhh...' The primarch had sprung to his feet and now he picked Kharn up by the throat, yanked him into the air and dropped him flat on his back again. By the time Kharn had shakily pushed himself back up, Angron had walked away to stand under one of the lights. He turned to make sure Kharn was watching, then turned and spread his arms. The primarch's torso was bare, packed with inhuman musculature on the Emperor's design, broad, heavy and angular to accommodate the thickened bones and the strange organs and tissues that Astartes legend said the Emperor had grown from his own flesh and blood, modified twenty different ways for his children. Kharn found himself wondering for a moment if Angron had grown up with the slightest idea of what he truly was, before he realised what the primarch was showing him. A ridge of scar tissue began at the base of Angron's spine. It travelled up his backbone, then veered to the left and around his body, riding over his hip and curving around to his front. Angron began to turn in place underneath the light and Kharn saw how the scar seemed to expand and thin again, ploughing and gouging the skin, in some places vanishing entirely where the primarch's healing powers had overcome it. The scar looped around and around Angron's body, spiralling up over his belly, around his ribs, towards his chest. A little past the right of his sternum, it abruptly stopped. 'The Triumph Rope,' Angron said. His hand moved to indicate the upper lengths of the scar, where it was smoother, more continuous, less ugly. There were no healed patches in its upper reaches. Kharn jumped as Angron thumped a fist against his chest with a report like a gun. 'Red twists! Nothing but red on my rope, Kharn! Of all of us, I was the only one. No black twists.' Angron was shaking with rage again, and Kharn bowed his head. His thoughts were bleak: I've started this now, and I wish to finish it, but primarch, I don't know how many more of your rages I can withstand. Then Angron's hands had gripped his shoulders, cruelly grating the bones in the broken one, and the muscles in Kharn's neck and jaw locked rigid as he worked to stop himself crying out. 'I can't go back!' came Angron's voice through the pain, and the note in his voice was

No black twists.' Angron was shaking with rage again, and Kharn bowed his head. His thoughts were bleak: I've started this now, and I wish to finish it, but primarch, I don't know how many more of your rages I can withstand. Then Angron's hands had gripped his shoulders, cruelly grating the bones in the broken one, and the muscles in Kharn's neck and jaw locked rigid as he worked to stop himself crying out. 'I can't go back!' came Angron's voice through the pain, and the note in his voice was not fury now but an anguish far greater than the pain of Kharn's injuries. 'I can't go back to Desh'ea. I can't pick up the soil to make a black twist.' Angron flung Kharn away and dropped to his knees. 'I can't... uhh... I need to wear my failure and I can't. Your Emperor! Your Emperor! I couldn't fight with them and now I can't commemorate them!' 'Sire, I, we...' Kharn could feel hide stings and blooms of heat inside his abdomen as his healing systems worked on wounds inside him. 'Your Legion wants to learn your ways. You are our primarch. But we haven't learned them yet. I don't know...' 'No. Grave-grub Kharn doesn't know. No Triumph Rope on Kharn.' Kharn kept his eyes on the floor but the sneer was all too audible in Angron's voice. 'For every battle you live through, a cut to lengthen the rope. For a triumph, let it scar clean. A red twist. For a defeat you survive, work some dust from where you fought into the cut to scar it dark. A black twist. Nothing but red on me, Kharn,' said Angron, spreading his arms again, 'but I don't deserve it.' 'I understand you, sire,' Kharn answered, and he found that he did. 'Your brothers, your brothers and sisters,' he corrected himself, 'they were defeated.' 'They died, Kharn,' said Angron. 'They all died. We swore to each other that we'd stand together against the high-riders' armies. The cliffs of Desh'ea would see the end of it. No more twists in the rope. For any of us.' His voice had softened to a whisper, heavy with grief. 'I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be drawing breath. But I am. And I can't even pick up the dust from Desh'ea to make a black twist to remember them by. Why did your Emperor do this to me, Kharn?' There was silence after the question. Angron, still standing, had let his head fall forwards and was digging his knuckles into his forehead and face. The lights made strange shadows across his skull, lumpy with metal and scars. Kharn got to his feet. He swayed, but his balance held. 'It isn't my place to know, sire, what the Emperor said to you. But we-' Angron wheeled, and Kharn flinched. The primarch's eyes were alight, and his teeth were bare, but it wasn't a snarl now, it was a broad, vicious grin. 'Didn't say much to me, no he did not. Think I let him? Think I did?' Angron was in motion again, prowling to and fro under the light, his head snaking from side to side. 'I knew what was happening. I'd stood there and seen the high-riders' killers coming up for my brothers and sisters at Desh'ea, I knew, I knew. Ahhh!' His hands shot out and blurred as they clawed the air in front of him. 'Had his own brothers, didn't he, his kin-guard. All gold-plated, fancying themselves high-riders even though their feet were in the dirt like mine. Pointing their little blades at me!' Angron spun, leapt, hurtled at Kharn and slammed him backwards with an open palm. 'They drew weapons on me! Me! They... they...' Angron threw his head back, palms pressed to the sides of his skull as though sheer physical pressure could keep his boiling thoughts on track. For a moment he was frozen like that, and then he wrenched his body forwards and drove his fist into the stone by Kharn's head. Stinging grains of rock flew out from the impact. 'Killed one, though,' spat Angron, rearing up and starting to prowl again. 'Couldn't put my hands on that Emperor of yours. Ahh, his voice in my ears, worse than the Butcher's Nails...' Angron's fingers swiped and rubbed across the metal in his skull. His gaze was transfixing Kharn again. 'Took one apart though. One of those gold-wrapped bastards. No stomach for it, your Emperor, paper-skinned like you. Pushed me back, into that... place... the place he took me from Desh'ea...' The shadows over Angron's face seemed to deepen at the recollection and his body hunched and folded inwards. 'Teleport,' said Kharn, understanding. 'He teleported you. First to his own ship, and then to here.' 'Something you understand, maybe.' Angron was still moving, further away now, harder for Kharn to pick out except as a smoke-warm shape in infrared. He had his head back and his arms out, as though he were addressing an audience in a high gallery. 'My sisters and brothers and I, owned by the high-riders, floating over us with their crow-cloaks. Their maggot-eyes buzzing around us while we drew each others' blood instead of theirs.' He growled, punching and clawing the air above his head. 'And you, Kharn, owned by the Emperor who draws your blood and puts his gold-shiny puppets into the fights he won't...' Kharn was shaking his head, and Angron had seen him. 'Well now,' his voice rumbled out of the shadow, and all the menace was back in it. The sound reminded Kharn how weak he was, how wounded, how unarmed. 'Kharn calls me liar. Kharn thinks he will question his primarch for the sake of his Emperor.' Once again Angron came out of the darkness in a leap, landing in front of Kharn with one hand cocked back for a pulverising punch. 'Admit it, Kharn,' he snarled. 'Why won't you say it?' The cocked fist shook but did not swing. Angron pushed his face forwards as though he were about to bite Kharn's flesh. 'Say it! Say it!' 'I saw him once,' was what Kharn said instead. 'I saw him on Nove Shendak. World Eight-Two-Seventeen. A world of worms. Giant creatures, intelligent. Hateful. Their weapons were filaments, metal feathers that they embedded in themselves to conduct energies out of their bodies. I remember we saw the surface roil with the filaments before the worms broke out of it almost at our feet. Thick as a man, longer than you, sire, are tall. Three mouths in their faces, a dozen teeth in their mouths. They spoke through the mud in sonic screams and witch-whispers. We had found three systems under their thrall, burned them out of their colony nests and chased them home. But on their cradle-world we found humans. Humans lost to humanity for who knows how long, crawling on the land while the worms slithered in the marsh seas. Hunting the humans, farming them. Killing them.' Angron's eyes were still narrowed and his fist still raised, but he no longer shook. Kharn's eyes had half-closed. He remembered how the War Hounds' blue and white armour glimmered in the worm-world's twilight, remembered the endless, nerve-sapping sucking sounds as the lunar tides dragged the mud oceans to and fro across the jagged stone continents. 'The Iron Warriors were with us too, and Perturabo landed with the assault pioneers after our lances scoured our drop-zone bare and dry. He worked out how to dredge and shape the ground. The earth there, well, there barely was earth. Just muddy slops, full of trace toxins, the bedrock deep enough that a man'd drown if he planted his feet on it.' 'How did you stop them?' demanded Angron. 'If you couldn't stand on the ground?' 'Sentries with high-powered lasguns, sire, devices to read the movements of the mud to hear them moving through it towards us, explosives we seeded around the earthworks and allowed to sink to where the worms burrowed. Perturabo's earthworks were a miracle. He built trenches and dykes, penned in the mud seas and drained them, drove the worms back, reclaimed land these wretched humans could build on. And when the worms came out to fight us, they met the Emperor and his War Hounds.' 'You're speaking of yourself,' said Angron. 'Yourselves.' Kharn nodded. 'The War Hounds. XII Legion Astartes. Made in your image, as your warriors, primarch. He saw us fight in the Cephic hive-sprawls and named us for the white hounds the Yeshk warriors in the north used. He did us an honour with the name, primarch. We are proud of it, and we hope you will be too.' Angron gave a growl, but he did not speak. The hand that had been a fist had opened again. 'The southern anchor of Perturabo's earthworks was a rock, the closest thing that place had to a mountain, the only one the sludge tides hadn't been able to wear down. When the worms saw the Mechanicum begin to change the world's face they mustered to break us under the peak. They buried themselves in the sludge beyond our range and came forwards under it to meet us.' Kharn's voice was speeding up as his memory filled with the sharp reek of the poisoned ground and the warning cries from the Imperial Army artillerists as the mud ocean heaved. Angron had backed away, his head pushed forwards and his eyes were full of concentration. 'They first came in a wave,' Kharn said. 'They had skulked around the fringes of the earthworks, carried off some of the crews working the pumps and dredgers. We had not fought a decisive action against them for months. But now Gheer and Perturabo had read the patterns of their attacks and placed us for the counter-assault. We formed up among Perturabo's aqueduct walls, only half-built they were and still blocked half the sky. We took our oaths of moment and primed our bolters.' 'Bolters?' 'A firearm. A powerful one. The weapon of the Astartes.' 'Ehh. Get on with it. The worms came for the earthworks.' Angron was staring over Kharn's head, yanking his hands back and forth, shuffling his feet. It was a moment before Kharn realised the Primarch was playing the defence out in his mind, ordering the lines, mapping out the ground. 'So they came up like chaer-dogs at a spike-line? Stupid to rush a shield wall. Tell me what you did.' Kharn closed his eyes, focusing past his injured body to run the conditioned routines that ordered his memories. 'The first line of the

worms came for the earthworks.' Angron was staring over Kharn's head, yanking his hands back and forth, shuffling his feet. It was a moment before Kharn realised the Primarch was playing the defence out in his mind, ordering the lines, mapping out the ground. 'So they came up like chaer-dogs at a spike-line? Stupid to rush a shield wall. Tell me what you did.' Kharn closed his eyes, focusing past his injured body to run the conditioned routines that ordered his memories. 'The first line of them broke the mud with their jaws and filaments,' he said, 'and they came at us behind a wall of their power-arcs. The mud steamed in front of them and where the arcs converged they shattered rock. They sent a rolling bombardment ahead of them. We worked to break it with thudd guns, dropping shells behind their blast-front, and we broke up the rock in front of them with grenades. We thought we had their measure when the counter-bombardment made their front lines shiver, but they were simply filling up our attention, measuring where our own line was wavering. When their blasts dropped away they came in force to the weak points. Drove wedges into our front. To flank and envelop we'd have had to go out onto the mud where we could barely walk, and where the mud was shallow enough for us to try it, they had second and third lines ready to drag the flankers under or cook them in their armour. To break the assaults we had to get them onto rock, where we could manoeuvre better than they. Perturabo had built traps into his earthworks. False outer walls, double emplacements, killing zones along the drainage canals.' Angron nodded approvingly, looking up and down the dark chamber as though he could see the great rough walls, lit by orange bolter-flare and the blue-white power-arcs of the worms. 'But still we had to bring them inside our lines to break them. Hold them back and then fall to second positions, one formation at a time, through the Army lines to where we were waiting to drop the axe. There were a lot of worms, primarch.' Kharn grinned. His wounds throbbed as the vividness of the memory prompted his metabolism to begin glanding combat stimms. 'Our axes weren't dry for a month.' In answer Angron growled again, making a quick double motion of his arm as though swinging a blade forwards and backwards at something below his own height. Barely thinking about it, Kharn's warrior brain filed away the Primarch's footing and balance, his arm and shoulder motions, noted where a riposte might land home. Then, still in his combat stance, Angron pinned Kharn with his gaze again. 'The Emperor. You talk about fighting down there in the mud but you don't talk about the Emperor. High-rode, did he? Hung above you, did he?' Angron's voice was rising, turning ugly and ragged. 'Laughed at you, did he? Called your blood-spills, did he? Admit it, Kharn!' In a blur he crossed the distance and knocked Kharn to one knee with a looping, glancing arm-sweep. 'The Emperor,' Kharn said, and couldn't stop himself from smiling at the memory. 'The Emperor was a golden storm descending onto Nove Shendak's filth. When the worms were in amongst us he came down from the peak and it was as if he had brought a fragment of the sun down for us in amends for the sun we couldn't see through those filthy fogs. He shone out over the battle lines like a beacon. His custodians were like living banners, the troopers rallied to them, but he...' Kharn closed his eyes, looking for the words. 'Imagine, sire, did they fight in your home with grenades? Explosive weapons, small enough to hold in the hand and throw?' 'High-rider weapons,' snarled Angron. 'Not fit for a warrior on the hot dust.' 'But imagine, primarch, some,' he searched for the word Angron had used, 'some paperskin who takes a grenade and simply grips it in his fist until it explodes. Imagine how it would destroy the hand, shatter the arm, ruin the body! Wherever the Emperor met one of their columns head on it shattered like that. He didn't repel them, sire. Didn't defeat them. He ruined them. Assault after assault, not even Perturabo when he came down to the lines for the final-' 'You've said that name already,' boomed Angron from behind him. 'Who is he?' 'Forgive me, sire. Another primarch. One of the first we found. I was new to the War Hounds when the message went through the fleets, and I almost didn't understand what it meant. Not until I saw the Iron Warriors and how they reacted. The very air seemed to change around them. They and we and the Ultramarines, we were travelling together. We envied them. They had found their blood-sire and their general. Now we have found ours.' 'Another. Another one.' Kharn risked a look around and up. Angron was standing still, hands pressed to his face again, teeth grinding as he concentrated. 'Another one of me?' 'Not like you, primarch. A brother to you. Made for conquest and kingship as you are. The Iron Warriors, they're his Legion now.' 'Brave fighters?' 'Brave enough,' Kharn answered, 'with a wall to sit on or a trench to stand in.' 'Walls.' Angron growled the word. 'Walls can be broken.' 'So we tell them, sire. Perhaps you can-' 'Walls,' Angron cut him off. 'When we first broke out of the caves and walked on stone, not dust, we were nearly trapped within walls. We had the weapons we'd drawn one another's blood with and they were ready for a change of flavour. The high-riders laughed, the way they always laughed as they looked down on us on the dust, and they called out taunts the way they goaded us when we fought.' Angron whipped his fists through the air as though he were batting at insects. 'Sent their voices through the maggot-eyes they watched us with. Voices, voices. "Oh, do oblige, wonderful Angron!"' Angron's voice was suddenly, eerily imitating a higher, softly accented, singsong voice. '"We wagered you'd take a wound from a dozen enemies, surely a single wound, won't you oblige and bleed for us?"' His tone shifted and he imitated another. '"My son is watching with me, Angron, what's wrong with you? Fight harder, give him something to cheer!" The eyes, the voices. The Butcher's Nails in my head... hot... smoke... in my thoughts...'A wolfish look stole over Angron's face. 'It was good to fight without the eyes and the voices. They tried to trap us but we wouldn't stop for them. Every line they formed we rushed before they were in formation. They were everywhere but we were fast.' Angron was suiting actions to words, loping back and forth, smashing and lunging and ripping at imaginary enemies. 'Jochura with his laugh and his chains. Cromach, he fought with a brazier-glaive. Hah! I gave him the first black twist in his rope, and he and I burned the watchtowers at Hozzean together. Klester riding her shriekspear through the air, you should have seen her, Kharn, so fast, and ohh...' Angron was clutching at the metal tracery poking out through his mane. 'Fast we moved, fast, not hanging between walls, entrapment is death, fast, trust and discipline... Never rest, always forwards, hunger for the enemy, that's what they taught us... Uhh, my brothers and sisters, oh, if we had known how it would end, we didn't know!' Angron fell to his knees and howled. 'All that valour! The eaters of cities, they called us! All the mountain fastnesses, burning like beacons! All the Great Coast painted in blood! We devoured Hozzean with flames! Meahor! Ull-Chaim!' Weeping and roaring, he leapt to his feet, oblivious to Kharn looking on. 'We broke them at the river before Ull-Chaim! Hung half a thousand high-riders and kin-guard from the vine bridges! The princelings' heads floating on the river, down to the lowlands as our heralds! The silver lace from their skulls, ahh, ripped from their skulls, wrapped on my fists!' The furnace rage was back. Kharn thought to shuffle away, and dismissed the idea. He would not hide from Angron any more than he would fight him. And Angron would find him anywhere in this room anyway. And no sooner had he finished that thought than he had been wrenched from the ground by each arm and swung over the primarch's head to be slammed into the floor. Stone cracked under him. 'They paid! They paid! We made them pay!' Angron kicked Kharn across the floor, bellowing. 'Paid for my brothers and sisters! Who will pay?' Dizzy, fainting, Kharn felt himself picked up and slammed down again, kicked again, grabbed by the neck. 'Pay, War Hound! Pay! Fight me!' Something - fist? Foot? - crashed into his chest and Kharn sprawled on the floor, choking. 'Get up and fight!' The end of it, then, Kharn thought. Well, I carried my embassy as well as a War Hound could. He tried to rise and couldn't, so he lay full-length on his back and spoke weakly into the air. 'You are my primarch and my general, Lord Angron. I swore that I would seek you out and follow you, and I will not fight you. And if I must die, then yours is the hand I will die by. I am Kharn and I am loyal to your will.' While he waited, he faded from consciousness then jerked back as his system shifted itself to rouse him and the pain of his injuries sharpened. He could not see or hear Angron, but he could feel the stone floor underneath him and the cool air in his lungs. When it came, Angron's voice was frighteningly close, almost by his ear. 'You are warriors, Kharn,' the primarch said. 'I know warriors when I see them.' Kharn tried to answer but pain rippled through his neck and chest when he tried to speak. 'This... Emperor,' Angron said, palpably struggling to keep his voice level. 'He is the one you swore to?' 'We swore to each other,' Kharn managed to get out, 'in his name and on his banner.' His breath took a long time to come. 'That we would not... raise a hand against you.' Angron said nothing for a time. Kharn's consciousness had begun to flicker again by the time he spoke. 'Such devotion... from such warriors...' His voice tailed off, faded and returned. His hands were pr

ried to speak. 'This... Emperor,' Angron said, palpably struggling to keep his voice level. 'He is the one you swore to?' 'We swore to each other,' Kharn managed to get out, 'in his name and on his banner.' His breath took a long time to come. 'That we would not... raise a hand against you.' Angron said nothing for a time. Kharn's consciousness had begun to flicker again by the time he spoke. 'Such devotion... from such warriors...' His voice tailed off, faded and returned. His hands were pressed to his head again. 'A man who can... a man... to whom... your oaths... for him you would...' Minutes passed. Angron's voice came again. 'This room. I can leave it?' It took Kharn a moment to work out how to answer. 'This is the flagship of the War Hounds. Our greatest vessel. It is the instrument of your will and yours to command, primarch, as are we.' For a long time there was no answer, just quiet and dark, and just as Kharn was starting to feel his consciousness go again he felt himself lifted, slowly and gently now, and carried through the dark. THEY HAD LOOKED at one another when the booming knock came on the doors, unsure of what to do, but only for a moment. Then Dreagher worked the openers, and when the locks clanked and the portals groaned open he was there. The War Hounds gasped and moved back as the giant shadow on the steps grew, advanced, came into the light. With his right hand the primarch supported Kharn, battered and hanging barely conscious. Angron stood, wary, wound tight as a bowstring, his free hand opening and closing. His breath rumbled in his throat. For long minutes each War Hound in turn blanched under the primarch's gaze, until Kharn managed to lift his head and speak. 'Salute your primarch, War Hounds. Salute he who shed blood on the hot dust and made the high-riders pay for their arrogance. Salute your blood-sire and the general of the XII. Salute the one whose soldiers were named the Eaters of Cities. Salute him, Astartes!' And the War Hounds answered him. Hands and voices lifted in salute and axe-heads were crashed against the floor. Gathering around Angron, he towering silently at their centre, they shouted and saluted again, and again, and Kharn found the strength and voice to stagger to join the circle and add his shouts to theirs. 'Primarch,' said Angron. His voice was a murmur, but it cut the War Hounds' voices straight to silence. 'I am a general again.' 'Primarch!' shouted Dreagher in response, 'General! Your warriors were the eaters of cities, lord, but with you to command us the War Hounds will be the eaters of worlds!' For a moment Angron swayed, his eyes and fists closed. But then he looked at Dreagher, from there to Kharn. And he smiled. 'World Eaters,' he said, slowly, tasting the sounds. 'World Eaters. So you shall be, then, little brothers. You'll learn to cut the rope. We shall bleed, and be brothers.' This time they all met his eyes. Slowly, one of Angron's great fists came up to return their salutes. 'Come with me, then, World Eaters. Come down into my chamber and we will speak.' Angron turned on his heel and walked back into his chamber. Silently, supporting Kharn in their midst, the World Eaters followed their primarch down into that darkness that stank of blood. PROLOGUE LOYALTY AND HONOUR Caliban In the 147th year of the Emperor's Great Crusade THERE WERE NO trumpets to announce their arrival, no cheering crowds to welcome them home. They returned to Caliban in the dead of night, dropping down through the sullen clouds of a late autumn storm. One by one the drop ships broke through the heavy overcast, their white undercarriage lights knifing through the gloom as they swept down to the landing field below. For a few moments the black hulls of the Stormbirds were highlighted by the harsh yellow glow of the space port lights, picking out the winged sword insignia of the Emperor's First Legion on the transports' broad wings. The assault ships flared their thrusters and settled onto the landing pad amid billowing clouds of hissing steam. Moments later came the iron clang of assault ramps striking permacrete, followed by the heavy tread of armoured feet; huge, broad-shouldered giants emerged from the roiling mists. Rain lashed at the curved plates of the Dark Angels' black power armour and soaked the white surplices of the warrior-initiates. Here and there, orbs of blurry crimson light leaked from the oculars of battle helms, but for the most part the Astartes had bared their faces to the storm. Water beaded on heavy brows and blunt cheekbones, on gleaming data plugs and shaven pates. To a man, their expressions were as stern and impassive as stone. The Astartes marched to the far end of the permacrete and formed into silent ranks facing the Stormbirds, their boltguns held at port arms. There were no proud banners to raise above the serried lines, nor bold champions to anchor the files with their ceremonial harness and master-crafted blades. All those honours had been left behind with their parent chapters, still fighting with the primarch and the Fourth Expeditionary Fleet at Sarosh. Their armour was polished and unadorned; only a few bore the traces of battle scars mended during the long journey. Since leaving Caliban to join the Emperor's Crusade they had participated in just a single campaign; few of them had seen any combat at all before receiving the order to return home. Thrusters roared as empty Stormbirds lifted ponderously into the air, making room for still more drop ships descending through the iron-grey cloud cover. The ranks of the returning warriors swelled, rapidly filling the northern edge of the landing field. It took more than four hours to transport the entire contingent to the planet's surface, with the assault ships working in steady rotation; the assembled warriors waited and watched in complete silence, stolid and immovable as statues while the wind howled and the storm raged about them. Two hours before dawn, the last of the transport flights touched down. The ranks of Astartes stirred slightly as warriors roused themselves from meditative rotes and came to full attention as the last four Stormbirds lowered their ramps and their passengers disembarked. First came the wounded; Astartes who had suffered grievous injuries during the combat landings at Sarosh, their comatose forms borne on grav-sleds and watched over by attentive Legion Apothecaries. Next was the guard of honour, comprised of the most senior warrior-initiates in the cadre. In the lead marched Brother-Librarian Israfael, his dour face hidden within the depths of a wide samite hood. Each of the Astartes in the guard of honour wore surplices hemmed with ruby, sapphire, emerald, adamantine or gold, signifying their devotion to one of the Higher Mysteries. All, that is, except one. Zahariel marched ten steps behind Brother Israfael, his head hooded like that of his mentor and his armoured hands tucked into the broad sleeves of his plain surplice. He felt self-conscious and out of place among the champions and senior initiates, but Israfael had been adamant. 'You saved everyone on Sarosh,' the Librarian had declared, back aboard the Wrath of Caliban, 'including the primarch himself. And you spend more time at Luther's side these days than all the rest of us combined. If you don't deserve to stand in the honour guard, none of us do.' The guard of honour followed at a measured pace behind their wounded brothers, who passed slowly by the waiting ranks of Dark Angels and then took their leave, headed for Aldurukh's extensive medicae wards. Israfael halted the guard of honour before the assembled Astartes and with a murmured command ordered a sharp about-face. Twelve boots crashed down in unison on the rain-slick permacrete and every warrior stiffened to attention. Rain drummed against Zahariel's hood, plastering it slowly to the top of his shaved head. Across the landing field the assault ramp on the Stormbird lowered with a faint hiss of hydraulics. Ruddy light spilled down the ramp, casting a long, martial shadow onto the scorched pavement as a single, armoured figure emerged into the stormy night. At just that moment, the driving rain slackened and the howling wind receded like an indrawn breath as Luther set foot on Caliban once more. The former knight was clad in gleaming armour of black and gold, forged in the close-fitting Calibanite fashion rather than the larger, bulkier Crusader-pattern suits favoured by the Astartes. A curved adamantine combat shield bearing the insignia of a Calibanite wyrm was strapped to the knight's upper left arm, while his right pauldron bore the winged sword insignia of the Emperor's First Legion on a dark green field. On Luther's left hip rode Nightfall, the fearsome hand-and-a-half power sword gifted to him in happier days by Lion El'Jonson himself; in a holster on his right sat an old and well-worn pistol that had seen much use in the monster-haunted forests of Caliban. A winged great helm concealed the knight's features and a heavy black cloak swirled about his feet as he strode swiftly to the assembled warriors. Every eye was upon Luther as he came to a halt precisely twenty paces from the Astartes and surveyed their ranks with glowing, implacable eyes. Though he had been given many of the same physical augmentations as Zahariel and the rest, Luther had been too old to receive the gene-seed as they had. They towered head and shoulders over him, and yet his sheer physical presence seemed to fill the space around him, making him seem far larger than he actually was. Even Israfael, a Terran by birth, seemed slightly awed by Jonson's second-in-command. He was the sort of man that came along once in a thousand years, a man who might have united all of Caliban but for the appearance of another, even greater figure: Lion El'Jonson himself. Luther surveyed the Astartes for a moment longer, then reached up and drew off his helm

lders over him, and yet his sheer physical presence seemed to fill the space around him, making him seem far larger than he actually was. Even Israfael, a Terran by birth, seemed slightly awed by Jonson's second-in-command. He was the sort of man that came along once in a thousand years, a man who might have united all of Caliban but for the appearance of another, even greater figure: Lion El'Jonson himself. Luther surveyed the Astartes for a moment longer, then reached up and drew off his helm. He had a handsome, square-jawed face, with strong cheekbones and an aquiline nose. His eyes were dark and piercing, like chips of polished obsidian. His hair was black as jet and cropped close to his skull. Thunder rumbled off to the south and the wind began to pick up again, blowing a curtain of cold rain across the landing field. Luther turned his face to the heavens and closed his eyes, and Zahariel thought he saw the ghost of a smile play across his face as the drops struck his cheeks. The precipitation grew into a steady, pelting shower once more. Zahariel watched as Luther took a deep breath and glanced back at the assembled troops. This time his grin was broad and comradely, but Zahariel saw that the smile didn't reach all the way to Luther's eyes. 'Welcome home, brothers,' Luther said, his powerful speaking voice carrying easily over the rain and the wind, and eliciting rueful chuckles from the Astartes in the front ranks. 'I regret that I can't promise you a grand feast, such as welcomed the questing knights of old. If we're lucky and we're bold, perhaps we can stage a quick raid on Master Luwin's kitchen and make off with some fresh victuals before the day's work begins.' Many of the Dark Angels laughed at the thought, remembering Luwin, the roaring tyrant of the kitchens at old Aldurukh. Zahariel chuckled in spite of himself, thinking back to his days as an aspirant and remembering fondly the halls and courtyards of the fortress. For the first time since leaving Sarosh, he found himself looking forward to seeing Aldurukh again. Before the laughter could entirely subside, Luther tucked his helmet under his right arm and nodded to his honour guard. 'All right,' he said. 'Let's go see how much the old rock has changed in our absence.' Without another word, Luther turned on his heel and set off for the landing field's access road, his shoulders straight and his head held high. Immediately his honour guard fell into step behind him, and then moments later the pavement resounded with the thunder of hundreds of armoured feet as the rest of the cadre began the march to the distant fortress. Luther marched at the head of the column like a conquering hero, returning to Caliban in glory rather than exile. It was an impressive performance, Zahariel thought, but he wondered if any of his brothers were fooled by it. OFFICIALLY, THEY HAD been ordered back to Caliban because the Great Crusade was about to enter a new operational phase, and the First Legion was in dire need of new recruits to meet the tasks the Emperor had planned for them. The Lion declared that experienced warriors were needed at home to speed up the training process, and a list of names was drawn up and circulated throughout the fleet. Little more than a week after being deployed on their first campaign, Zahariel and more than five hundred of his brothers - over half a chapter - discovered they had been dismissed. The news had stunned them all. Zahariel had seen it in the eyes of his battle brothers as they'd mustered on the embarkation deck to begin the long trip back to Caliban. If the Legion needed warriors so badly, why were they being pulled from the front lines? Training recruits was a job for elders, men who were full of wisdom but past their physical prime. That was the way it had been on their homeworld for generations - and it had escaped no one that virtually all of the Astartes being sent home were from Caliban rather than Terra. Ironically, it was the announcement that Luther himself would take charge of the recruitment effort that convinced them something was wrong. Luther, the man who had been Jonson's right hand for decades, and who had risen to become the Legion's second-in-command despite not being an Astartes himself, had no business leaving the Crusade to train young recruits at Aldurukh. He was being sent as far from the Lion as possible, and the rest of the cadre were being exiled along with him. They followed their orders to the letter, without question or hesitation, as they had been trained to do. But Zahariel could see the doubts that had taken root inside each of his battle brothers. What did we do? How have we failed him? But Luther gave the Astartes little opportunity to speculate; once the Wrath of Caliban entered the warp he established a rigorous regimen of equipment maintenance, combat training and readiness drills that kept spare time to an absolute minimum. To all intents and purposes, it appeared that the Legion's second-in-command took the primarch at his word and intended to fulfil his assigned task to the best of his ability. When he wasn't taking an active role inspecting wargear or supervising combat exercises, Luther spent the rest of his time secluded in his quarters, drafting plans for overhauling the training practices at Aldurukh. Zahariel was kept as busy as the rest, although he quickly found himself exempted from the more mundane aspects of the shipboard inspections and readiness drills in favour of training his psychic powers under the tutelage of Brother-Librarian Israfael and acting as Luther's unofficial aide-de-camp. The order had come down shortly after the voyage began. Luther required an assistant to help draft the orders for the new training scheme and organise the ongoing activities aboard ship. He had chosen Zahariel personally for the job. Most assumed that he'd chosen the young Astartes because of their shared exploits during the Saroshi assassination attempt aboard the primarch's flagship, the Invincible Reason. They were correct in their assumption, but not for the reasons they imagined. The Saroshi had been a highly cultured people who hid a terrible canker at the heart of their civilization. Sometime during the nightmare known as the Age of Strife they had sealed a pact with a horrific entity in exchange for their survival. When the Dark Angels had assumed the task of formalising Saroshi compliance, the Saroshi leaders had attempted to assassinate their primarch by smuggling an atomic warhead onto the flagship. Had the bomb not been discovered and dealt with by Luther and Zahariel, the Legion would have been dealt a catastrophic blow or so the story went. Luther never brought up the incident during the length of the voyage back to Caliban, but the question hung in the air between them. Had Jonson suspected the truth? Was that why Luther had been sent away, and was Zahariel being punished by virtue of his association to the event? There was no way to know. THE SPACE PORT was one of five within a two-hundred-square-kilometre perimeter around the Legion fortress of Aldurukh. Zahariel could remember a time when the land had been covered in dense forest that teemed with deadly plant and animal life. Caliban was considered by Imperial planetologists to be a "death world" - a planet that wasn't merely dangerous but actively inimical to human life. Every day had been a struggle for survival, and life was both brutal and often very short. It was only through the courage and sacrifice of the planet's knightly orders that humanity survived at all. Lion El'Jonson had united all the knightly orders under his leadership and had led a successful campaign to eradicate the deadliest of Caliban's monsters, but the final blow had come in the form of the Imperium. The Emperor's servants had descended on the planet with enormous machines that cleared dozens of kilometres of forest a day and left flat, lifeless earth in their wake. Mines, refineries and manufactorums had followed, ready to transform the planet's abundant resources into vital war materiel for the Emperor's Crusade. Cities were built to supply the sprawling industrial sites, growing upwards and outwards with each passing year as villages and towns were emptied and their citizens relocated to better serve the Imperium. In the past, more than two dozen villages and settlements had supported the fortress of Aldurukh, providing everything from food to clothing, metal ore and medicines so that the knights were free to hone their skills and defend the land from the beasts. All of them were gone now; the land surrounding the fortress had been levelled and transformed into a vast military and logistical complex. Zahariel would have been hard-put to recall where any of the villages had once stood. Now, in addition to the space ports, there were training centres, barracks, arsenals, storehouses and maintenance yards stretching as far as the eye could see, all dedicated to supplying the Legion with the men and equipment it needed to fulfil its role in the Great Crusade. Even at such a late hour, the cadre went almost unnoticed in the bustling activity surrounding the fortress. Cargo lifters and shuttles came and went between the space ports and the harbours in high orbit, ferrying supplies and personnel destined for the front lines. The Dark Angels passed long convoys of ordnance haulers and supply trucks on their way to and from the landing fields. Platoons of armoured vehicles roared past, heading for the marshalling yards south of the fortress or to the training grounds for the Legion's auxiliary Imperial Army units. Once, a regiment of new Army recruits stopped in its tracks and shuffled quickly off the road to let the Astartes pass. The young men and women in their crisp new battle-dress stared open-mouthed at the marching giants and the golden-armoured figure who led them. They marched through the rain and the wind for ten kilome

ds. Platoons of armoured vehicles roared past, heading for the marshalling yards south of the fortress or to the training grounds for the Legion's auxiliary Imperial Army units. Once, a regiment of new Army recruits stopped in its tracks and shuffled quickly off the road to let the Astartes pass. The young men and women in their crisp new battle-dress stared open-mouthed at the marching giants and the golden-armoured figure who led them. They marched through the rain and the wind for ten kilometres, passing through curtain walls made from permacrete and studded with defensive shield projectors and automated weapon emplacements. The closer they drew to Aldurukh, the denser and higher the structures grew, until finally the Astartes found themselves marching down man-made canyons lit solely by globes of artificial light. Yet Aldurukh rose above all else, a bastion of strength and tradition surrounded by a sea of constant change. Its granite flanks had been scraped bare by Imperial construction machines; even now, titanic excavators scaled its sheer sides, carving out ledges and boring tunnels deep into the rock as the fortress continued to expand into the heart of the mountain itself. Zahariel had heard of plans to one day create a series of gates at the foot of the mountain that would provide access to the fortress's subterranean levels as well as lifts that would carry passengers up into the centre of the fortress within seconds. For all its efficiency, the notion seemed vaguely offensive to him; the path up the Errant's Road to the castle gates had been trod by the knights of the Order for centuries, and had taken on great spiritual significance in their legends and lore. His brothers could ride the lifts if they preferred; he intended to walk the path built by his elders for as long as he was able. To his relief, the fortress hadn't yet changed so much in the years he'd been away. At the base of the mountain, rising incongruously to either side of a narrow, paved lane that passed between two towering barracks facilities, stood the ancient, weathered menhirs that marked the foot of the old road. The old stones depicted the beginning and ending stages of a knight's journey: the left menhir was carved in the likeness of a proud knight striding forth into the world, pistol and chainsword in hand; the one on the right showed a battered and weary warrior, his armour splintered and his weapons broken, kneeling wearily but with head held high as he contemplated his return home. Zahariel smiled to see Luther brush his fingertips lightly against the right-hand menhir as he passed by, a tradition that reached back to the earliest days of their brotherhood. He repeated the gesture, feeling the smooth stone beneath his fingertips and thinking of the generations of his forbears who had done the same, stretching back for millennia. The storm broke as they trod the narrow, winding road, though the wind still tangled their surplices and tugged at their hoods as the clouds paled with the first light of dawn. The climb, though long, passed quicker than Zahariel expected. After what seemed like only a couple of hours he found himself upon a broad, paved square that in times past had been a forested clearing, where aspirants to the Order once spent a long and harrowing night before the castle gates. Now those gates were thrown wide open as the Dark Angels approached, and Zahariel saw with surprise that the courtyard beyond was filled with ranks of young recruits, arrayed to create a processional that led to the feet of the castle's outer citadel. The recruits had been assembled in haste; many of them stared at the new arrivals with an equal mix of curiosity and surprise. Luther led his warriors down the length of the processional as though he'd expected the impromptu assembly all along. At the far end of the long line of recruits waited two figures: one wasted and bent with age, the other clad in dark armour and a surplice hemmed with gold. He stopped at a respectful distance from the two, and behind him the cadre of Astartes came to a thundering halt. As if on cue, the assembled recruits sank to one knee and bowed their heads to the golden knight. A trumpet pealed from the castle gatehouse, the traditional signal for a knight home from a long and dangerous quest. Master Remiel, of late the Castellan of Aldurukh, knelt before Luther as well. Behind Remiel, Lord Cypher inclined his head respectfully to the Legion's second-in-command, though Zahariel could not help but notice a faint glitter of amusement in the warrior's eyes. Cypher was not a name, but a title; one that went back to the earliest days of the Order. His role was to maintain the traditions, customs and history of the brotherhood, as well as maintaining the integrity of the Higher Mysteries - the advanced tactics and teachings shared with the senior initiates. Because he was the literal personification of the Order and its beliefs, once a man took the role of Cypher he gave up his proper name from that moment forward. He was the brotherhood's touchstone, a knight of great experience and wisdom who held little real power but wielded enormous influence within the organisation. The current Lord Cypher was even more of an enigma than most, not least because of his youth and lack of seniority within the brotherhood. When Lion El'Jonson became Grand Master of the Order it had been expected that he would name Master Remiel to the position; instead, he raised up a little-known knight younger than Luther or many other high-ranking peers. It was said that the new Cypher had been trained at one of the Order's lesser fortresses, near the beast-haunted Northwilds, but even that was little more than rumour. No one could fathom Jonson's decision, but no one had found cause to complain about it, either. By all accounts, the current Cypher was more of a reclusive, scholarly figure than previous bearers of the title, spending long hours poring through the libraries and record vaults hidden within the castle - though the paired pistols at his belt hinted that he was as capable a fighter as anyone else in the brotherhood. Luther seemed genuinely surprised by Master Remiel's gesture of fealty. He stepped forward quickly, extending his hand. 'Do your knees trouble you, Master?' he said. 'Please, let me help you up.' He looked left and right, taking in the ranks of kneeling recruits. 'Rise, all of you, in the Lion's name,' he said, his voice ringing from the walls of the citadel. 'We are all brothers here, with no man set above another. Is that not so, Lord Cypher?' Cypher inclined his head to Luther once more. 'It is indeed,' he replied in a quiet voice. The faintest of smiles played across Cypher's face. 'Something we would all do well to remember.' Master Remiel stared at Luther's outstretched hand for a moment. Reluctantly, he accepted the offer and rose stiffly to his feet. He had aged a great deal in the past few years, Zahariel saw, and seemed almost diminutive between the towering figure of Cypher and Luther's enhanced stature. Like most of the senior members of the Order, Remiel had been accepted into the Legion, but was far too old to receive the Dark Angels' gene-seed. Strangely, he had also refused even the basic physical augmentation and rejuvenation that men such as Luther had received. He remained a product of a bygone age, one fading quickly into the mists of time. 'Aldurukh welcomes you, brother,' Remiel said to Luther. His voice was hoarse with age, which made his tone all the more stern and forbidding. 'The captain aboard the Wrath of Caliban informed us of your impeding arrival, but there wasn't enough time to arrange a proper welcome.' He stared up at Luther, his pointed chin thrust out in a proud, almost defiant pose. 'The recruits stand ready for inspection. I look forward to hearing your appraisal.' For the first time Zahariel noted the faint air of tension in the courtyard; from the slight straightening of Luther's shoulders, it was clear he sensed it as well. The young Astartes surveyed the assembly carefully, and realised that Remiel's impromptu welcome might be designed to send a message to the cadre as well. Master Remiel thinks the Lion has lost faith in him as well, Zahariel thought. Why else send Luther and half a chapter of Astartes all the way back to Caliban to take over the training of recruits? Never before had Zahariel questioned the orders of his primarch. The very idea that Jonson could make a mistake seemed inconceivable. But now, a cold sense of foreboding sent a shiver along his spine. Luther, however, seemed unaffected by Remiel's tone. He chuckled, gripping the master's arm warmly. 'You have forgotten more about the training of fighting men than I will ever know, Master,' he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. 'We're here to help train more recruits, not train them better.' Luther turned to the assembled men and smiled proudly. 'The Emperor himself has spoken, brothers! He expects great things from our Legion, and we will show him that the men of Caliban are worthy of his esteem! Glory awaits you, brothers; have you the loyalty and honour to earn it?' 'Aye!' the recruits answered in a ragged shout. Luther nodded proudly. 'I expected no less from Master Remiel's students,' he said. 'But time is short, and there's much work still to be done. The Great Crusade waits on no man, and before long I and my brothers here will be called back to the thick of the fighting. We intend to bring as many of you with us as we can. The Lion needs you. We need you. And starting today you will be tested as you never have before.' A stir went through the assembly - not just the recruits, but the Dark Angels surrounding Zahariel as well. Everywhere he looked, he saw expressions of determination and pride. Luther's challenge had transformed the atmosphere of the courtyard in a single instant; even Master Remiel seemed moved by the conviction in

to the thick of the fighting. We intend to bring as many of you with us as we can. The Lion needs you. We need you. And starting today you will be tested as you never have before.' A stir went through the assembly - not just the recruits, but the Dark Angels surrounding Zahariel as well. Everywhere he looked, he saw expressions of determination and pride. Luther's challenge had transformed the atmosphere of the courtyard in a single instant; even Master Remiel seemed moved by the conviction in Luther's voice. The cadre felt it, too. For the first time, they saw a noble purpose in what they'd been sent to do. They hadn't been forgotten. Rather they would soon return to their brothers out among the stars at the head of an army that they'd helped create, one that would propel the First Legion into the annals of legend. Luther spoke again, this time with an iron tone of command in his voice. 'Brothers, you are dismissed,' he ordered. 'Return to your morning meditations and prepare yourselves for the today's training cycle. You can expect to encounter a host of new challenges as the day progresses, so be prepared for anything.' Under Master Remiel's watchful eye, the recruits dispersed quickly and quietly from the courtyard. The Astartes of the training cadre remained in ranks, awaiting word from Luther. Zahariel watched him speak a few quiet words to Remiel after the last of the recruits had left. Lord Cypher had vanished at some point during Luther's short speech; Zahariel couldn't say how or when he'd left. After a few moments, Remiel bowed to Luther and took his leave. Luther turned to the waiting Astartes, his expression businesslike. 'All right, brothers, now you can see the challenge that lies before us,' he said with a faint grin. 'The sooner we're done here, the sooner we can return to the fight, so I don't plan on wasting a single minute. Report to the training grounds at once. We're going to put these young ones through their paces.' Luther's honour guard bowed their heads and broke ranks, and the rest of the cadre followed in quick succession. Zahariel was turning to go when Luther caught his eye. 'A word, brother,' the knight said, beckoning to him. Zahariel joined Luther as the cadre filed from the courtyard. Speaking quickly, Luther summarised the parts of his training plan that he intended to implement over the course of the day. 'Coordinate with Master Remiel to ensure that all of the instructors are informed of the changes,' he said. 'I'm going to have to leave matters of implementation entirely in your hands, brother. For the time being I'm going to have my hands full reviewing everything that's happened here at the fortress in our absence.' 'I'll see to it,' Zahariel said, both surprised and honoured that Luther would place so much trust in him. Despite the responsibility that had been placed on his shoulders, he was surprised to find that his spirits were lighter than they had been since the battle at Sarosh. For the moment, the two were alone in the vast courtyard. Luther was gazing across the empty space, his mind turning to other matters. On impulse, Zahariel said, 'That was well done, brother.' Luther glanced quizzically at the young Astartes. 'What do you mean?' 'What you said a moment ago,' Zahariel replied. 'It was inspiring. To tell the truth, many of us have been in low spirits since we left the fleet. We... well, it's good to know that we won't be here for long. All of us are eager to get back to the Crusade.' As Zahariel spoke, the light seemed to go out of Luther's eyes. 'Ah, that,' he said, his voice strangely subdued. To Zahariel's surprise, Luther turned away, glancing up at the cloudy sky. 'That was all a lie, brother,' he said with a sigh. 'We've fallen from grace, and nothing we do here will change that. For us, the Great Crusade is over.' ONE ALARUMS AND EXCURSIONS Gordia IV In the 200th year of the Emperor's Great Crusade THE PRIMARCH'S SUMMONS found Brother-Redemptor Nemiel at the Seventh Chapter's forward base in the Huldaran foothills, just twenty kilometres south of the planetary capital. Dawn was only two hours away, and the chapter's battle brothers were completing their final checks on their weapons and equipment. The last survivors of the Gordians' battered heavy divisions had finally halted their long, bitter retreat and decided to make a stand amid the steep, iron-grey hills. The Dark Angels sensed that this would be the last battle in the months-long campaign to bring the stubborn world into compliance. It had been a hectic night on the windswept plains. The Seventh Chapter had travelled two hundred kilometres on the previous day, harrying the Gordian rearguard, and there was little time to prepare for a dawn assault against fortified enemy positions. Nemiel had spent much of the time shuttling back and forth between the chapter's four assembly areas, speaking with each of the squads, evaluating their readiness and, when asked, receiving their battle-oaths in the name of the Lion and the Emperor. He had only just reported to Chapter Master Torannen and certified the chapter fit for combat when the message was sent down from the fleet: Brother-Redemptor Nemiel and squad to report aboard the flagship immediately. Transport en route. The Stormbird touched down less than fifteen minutes later, just as the Imperials' preliminary bombardment began to fall on the enemy's forward positions. Surprised and somewhat bemused, Nemiel could only clasp hands with Torannen and accept the chapter master's battle-oath, then watch the Seventh Chapter's armoured vehicles rumble northward without him and his men. Within minutes, the dropship was climbing skyward again. After a single orbit of the war-torn planet, climbing high over its storm-tossed oceans and soaring, white-capped mountain ranges, the Stormbird's pilot had adjusted his course and was closing on the Imperial squadrons anchored above Gordia IV - only to be shunted into a temporary holding pattern while the battle barge completed a resupply evolution and cleared its embarkation deck. After all the haste and urgency, Nemiel was left to sit and wait, contemplating the grey-green world below and wondering how the battle was faring for Torannen and his chapter. A half-hour passed. Nemiel listened idly to the vox chatter over the fleet command net and turned his attention to the constellation of warships and transports that surrounded the primarch's battle barge. He could remember a time, fifty years past, when the 4th Expeditionary Fleet numbered no more than seven vessels; at Gordia IV the flagship was accompanied by twenty-five ships of various types, and that was barely a third of the fleet's total complement. The remainder were organised into discrete battle groups that were in action across the length and breadth of the Shield Worlds, fighting the Gordian League and their degenerate xenos allies. The warships anchored around the flagship constituted the fleet's reserve squadrons, plus vessels damaged in recent actions against the League's small but powerful space navy. Tenders were pulled alongside the grand cruisers Iron Duke and Duchess Arbellatris while repairs were underway on their battle-scarred flanks. Plasma torches twinkled coldly in the dark as hundreds of servitors repaired damaged hull plating and wrecked weapons emplacements. After several minutes of idle study, Nemiel noticed frantic activity around a dozen other warships as well. Cargo lifters and supply shuttles were flying back and forth from the fleet's huge replenishment vessels, delivering everything from reactor fuel to ration tins at breakneck speed. For the first time he felt a twinge of uneasiness, wondering if the League had managed to launch a surprise counter-offensive that had caught the Legion off-guard. When the Stormbird was finally granted priority clearance to land, the tension Nemiel felt in the air of the cavernous embarkation deck only served to deepen his unease. Harried-looking officers and ratings were hard at work organising hundreds of tonnes of supplies and getting them stowed as rapidly as possible. Shouted orders and angry tirades from impatient petty officers were drowned out by the loud crackle of the deck's magnetic barrier as two more Stormbirds came aboard in rapid succession and touched down directly behind Nemiel's ship. The drop ship's assault ramp quivered beneath the weight of armoured feet, and Brother-Sergeant Kohl led his squad out onto the deck. The Terran had removed his helmet and clipped it to his belt, and he surveyed the frenetic activity with a bemused scowl. Nemiel glanced over at Kohl as the squad leader joined him at the base of the ramp. 'What do you make of all this?' he asked. Kohl shook his head. The sergeant was one of the oldest surviving Astartes in the Legion, having fought in the very first battles of the Great Crusade, two hundred years before. His broad face was all flat planes and jutting angles, creased with old scars and weathered by centuries of hard fighting in the service of the Emperor. His black hair hung in tight braids close to his bull-like neck, and four polished service studs gleamed above his right brow. When he spoke, this voice was a gravelly basso. 'Never seen anything like it,' Kohl said warily. 'Something's happened, that's for certain. The fleet looks like they're getting ready for a fight.' The embarkation deck's containment field crackled again, admitting two more Stormbirds onto the increasingly-crowded deck. Assault ramps deployed, and more Astartes squads - veterans one and all, judging by the battle honours decorating their breastplates and pauldrons - disembarked with the same mix of bemusement and professional alacrity. An alert tone echoed from vox speakers set in the overhead. 'All squad leaders and command staff report to the strategium immediately.' Nemiel frowned up at the overhead. Even the bridge announcer's voice sounded unusually

two more Stormbirds onto the increasingly-crowded deck. Assault ramps deployed, and more Astartes squads - veterans one and all, judging by the battle honours decorating their breastplates and pauldrons - disembarked with the same mix of bemusement and professional alacrity. An alert tone echoed from vox speakers set in the overhead. 'All squad leaders and command staff report to the strategium immediately.' Nemiel frowned up at the overhead. Even the bridge announcer's voice sounded unusually anxious. 'Everyone seems to know something we don't,' he muttered. Kohl shook his head. 'Welcome to the Great Crusade, brother,' he replied. Nemiel chuckled, shaking his head in mock exasperation. He'd fought beside Kohl and his squad many times over the past few decades, and had learned to appreciate his sarcastic wit, but this time Nemiel couldn't help but notice the faint undercurrent of tension in the veteran sergeant's voice. 'Come on,' he said, setting off towards the lifts at the far side of the embarkation deck. 'Let's go find out what all this is about.' Human crewmen stood to attention as Nemiel passed, and fellow Astartes bowed their heads respectfully. Fifty years of hard campaigning had left their mark on the young Calibanite. His armour, fresh from the forges of Mars a half-century ago, was now scarred and blemished from countless battlefields. His left pauldron, replaced by the Legion armourers after the combat drop on Cyboris, had been engraved with battle scenes commemorating his chapter's charge against the Cyborian hunter-killers. Parchment ribbons fluttered from the edges of his right pauldron, affixed with stamps of melted gold and silver to commemorate deeds of valour against humanity's many foes. The cloak of a senior initiate hung about his shoulders, edged with double bands of red and gold to mark his rank in the Higher Mysteries - a tradition from the old Order on Caliban that had been implemented by their primarch. He'd grown his hair long, like his Terran brothers, and wore it in tight braids bound by silver wire. But of all the awards and accolades that Nemiel had earned over the last half-century, it was the gleaming staff clutched in his right hand that he was proudest of. The crozius aquilum marked him as one of the Legion's select order of Chaplains, charged with maintaining the fighting spirit of their battle brothers and preserving the ancient traditions of their brotherhood. It had been ten years since he'd been nominated for the position following the grim siege of Barrakan, when his chapter had been cut off by the greenskins and trapped at Firebase Endriago for eighteen months. By the end they were fighting off the alien assaults with fists and pieces of sharpened steel scavenged from bombed-out strongpoints, but through it all Nemiel had never wavered. He'd taunted the greenskins relentlessly and exhorted his brothers to acts of ever-greater defiance in the face of insurmountable odds. When a greenskin's crude axe had shattered his knee he'd grabbed the beast by one of its tusks and kicked it to death just for spite. When the last line of defence was broken, he'd stood his ground in the face of a massive xenos champion and fought an epic duel that had given the chapter time to launch a counter-attack that finally exhausted the last of the enemy's strength. The next day, when relief forces finally managed to fight their way through to the firebase, Nemiel had stood on the ramparts and cheered with the rest of his brothers. It took several minutes before he registered the slaps on his shoulders and back and realised that the chapter wasn't cheering for victory - they were cheering for him. Not long after, the chapter voted unanimously for him to take the place of Brother-Redemptor Barthiel, who had fallen during the darkest hours of the siege. The whole thing still seemed a bit unreal to him, a full decade later. Him, a paragon of the Legion's ideals? As far as he was concerned, he'd just been too angry and stubborn to let a bunch of dirty greenskins get the better of him. In private moments, he'd hold up the crozius and shake his head in bemusement, as though it belonged to someone else. This should have been Zahariel's, he'd often think to himself. He was the idealist, the true believer. I just wanted to be a knight. Not a month went by that he didn't wonder what his cousin was doing back on Caliban, and he regretted not saying farewell back on Sarosh. The departure of Luther and the rest had been sudden, almost businesslike, and at the time Nemiel had assumed, like everyone else, that they would be back with the fleet before long. But Jonson had never spoken of them again - he no longer even read the regular dispatches from Caliban, relegating that task to members of his staff. Luther and the rest seemed to have been entirely banished from the primarch's mind, and as the years lengthened into decades, rumour and speculation had begun to circulate through the ranks. Some suggested a falling-out between Jonson and Luther over the near-disaster at Sarosh, of old jealousies and petty enmities rising to the fore. Others speculated that Luther and the rest bore the blame for allowing the Saroshi bomb aboard the Invincible Reason, which led to sometimes-heated debates between the Terran and Calibanite factions within the Legion. Primarch Jonson made no attempt to address any of the rumours, and over time they were forgotten. No one spoke of the exiles much any more, except as a cautionary tale to new initiates: once you fell from grace with Lion El'Jonson, you were never likely to rise again. I should send Zahariel a letter, he thought absently. He'd started several over the years, only to set them aside as the chapter prepared to deploy to yet another conflict. Then he'd begun his tutelage as a Chaplain, which occupied every spare moment that wasn't spent fighting or training to fight, and before he knew it, the time had just slipped by. He resolved to try again, just as soon as they'd gotten the current crisis under control. Whatever the situation was, Nemiel thought grimly, he was certain that Jonson and the 4th Fleet were up to the task. THE BATTLE BARGE'S strategium, which overlooked the warship's bridge and served as the combat control centre for both the Invincible Reason and the 4th Fleet as a whole, was already filled to capacity by the time that Nemiel arrived. The human officers on deck bowed their heads and stepped aside as he and Kohl went to join their brethren by the strategium's primary hololith tank. The mood on deck was tense; unease showed on the faces of the Astartes and the human officers, no matter how much they tried to conceal it. Some tried to mask their concerns with rough banter; others withdrew, focussing their attentions on their data-slates or receiving reports from their subordinates via vox-bead, but the signs were there for a trained Redemptor to read. Moments after Nemiel's arrival, a stir went through the assembly. The assembly stiffened to attention as Lion El'Jonson, primarch of the First Legion, appeared at the entrance to the strategium. Like all of the Emperor's sons, Jonson was the product of the most advanced genetic science known to mankind. He hadn't been born; he had been sculpted, at the cellular level, by the hands of a genius. His hair was shining gold, falling in heavy curls to his broad shoulders, and his skin was pale and smooth as alabaster. Green eyes caught the light and seemed to glow from within, like polished emeralds. His gaze was sharp and penetrating, laser-like in its intensity. Normally, Jonson preferred to wear a simple white surplice bound with a belt of gold chains, which only served to accentuate his towering physical presence and genetically perfect physique. This time, however, he was clad for war, cased in the intricately-crafted power armour that had been gifted to him by the Emperor himself. Ornate gold scrollwork had been worked into the curved, ceramite plates, detailing forest scenes from distant Caliban. Across the breastplate was a vivid depiction of a younger Jonson wrestling with a fearsome Calibanite Lion; the monster's back was bowed and its paws raked furiously at the sky, its neck strained to breaking point by the primarch's powerful arms. At his hip, Jonson carried the Lion Sword, a glorious blade forged on Terra by the Emperor's own master armourers. A heavy cloak of emerald green swirled at the primarch's back, and he walked with the portentous tread of an avenging angel. Voices fell silent at Jonson's approach. Nemiel watched the expressions of man and Astartes alike change at the sight of the primarch. Even to this day, after fighting alongside Jonson for so many decades, Nemiel still felt a bit awed every time he stood in the Lion's presence. He'd often said to Kohl and the rest that it was a good thing the Emperor had dedicated himself to ridding the human race of religious superstition - otherwise it would be all too easy to look upon the primarchs and worship them like gods. For his part, Jonson seemed completely unaware of his effect on his subordinates - or else was so accustomed to it that he simply accepted it as a fundamental fact, like light or gravity. He acknowledged senior officers and long-time veterans like Kohl with sombre nods before taking his place at the strategium's circular hololith projector. Jonson fitted a data crystal into the projector's inload socket, paused scarcely a moment to marshal his thoughts, and began to speak. 'Well met, brothers,' Jonson began. His normally melodious voice was subdued, like someone who has just been dealt a terrible blow. 'I regret to have called you away from your duties, but this morning we received grim tidings from the Emperor.' He paused, meeting the eyes of the officers and Astartes closest to him. 'The Warmaster Horus and his Legion have renounced their oaths of allegiance, along with Primarch Angron's World Eaters, Mortar

a moment to marshal his thoughts, and began to speak. 'Well met, brothers,' Jonson began. His normally melodious voice was subdued, like someone who has just been dealt a terrible blow. 'I regret to have called you away from your duties, but this morning we received grim tidings from the Emperor.' He paused, meeting the eyes of the officers and Astartes closest to him. 'The Warmaster Horus and his Legion have renounced their oaths of allegiance, along with Primarch Angron's World Eaters, Mortarion's Death Guard and Fulgrim's Emperor's Children. They have virus-bombed Isstvan III, the most heavily-populated world in the system, and have rendered it lifeless. An estimated twelve billion human lives have been lost.' Gasps of shock and cries of dismay were uttered by many of the fleet officers. Nemiel scarcely heard them. He felt only the rushing of blood in his temples and the awful coldness that seemed to spread like a wound through his chest. The primarch's words echoed in his mind, but they didn't make any sense. They couldn't make sense. His mind refused to accept them. He turned to Kohl. The veteran sergeant's expression was stoic, but his eyes were glassy with shock. The rest of the Astartes also bore the news in silence, but Nemiel could see the words sinking into them like a torturer's knife. The Redemptor shook his head slowly, as though he could banish the awful knowledge from his head. The primarch waited patiently for the assembly to regain a sense of order before continuing. He keyed a series of controls on the side of the hololith projector, and the device flickered into life. A detailed, three-dimensional map of the Eriden sector flickered into existence before the assembly. Imperial systems were displayed in bright blue, while at their heart, the Isstvan system pulsed an angry red. Jonson pressed another set of keys, and many of the star systems surrounding Isstvan changed colour in an irregularly-expanding sphere. Nemiel and many others in the assembly were shocked to see a score of systems switch from blue to red, and scores more flicker from blue to a dull grey. 'The reasons for the Warmaster's rebellion are unclear, but the magnitude of his actions cannot be overstated. News of the rebellion has spread like a cancer through the sector and beyond,' Jonson said, 're-igniting old tensions and territorial ambitions. Some governors have openly declared for Horus, while others see the rebellion as an opportunity to build petty empires of their own. In the short space of just two and a half months, Imperial authority in the Ultima Segmentum has been severely compromised, and dissent is beginning to spread into Segmentum Solar as well.' Jonson paused, studying the pattern of unrest represented on the map as though it held secrets that only he could see. 'It's likely that agents loyal to the Warmaster are operating all across both Segmenta, helping fuel the growing dissent. Note how the outbreaks of lawlessness spread from system to system along the most stable warp routes leading back to Terra, the direction from which any large-scale retaliation is certain to originate.' Nemiel took a breath, drawing on the psycho-linguistic rotes he'd learned in training to suppress his emotions and focus on the data suspended in the air above the projector. To his eyes, the instances of revolt in the Ultima Segmentum appeared haphazard, but Lion El'Jonson was famous within the Legion - if not elsewhere - for his strategic genius. He had an almost intuitive ability to understand the balance of forces in a conflict and predict its course with stunning accuracy. It made him one of the Emperor's finest generals, second only to Horus himself - and in the opinion of many Dark Angels, perhaps even greater than that. 'As soon as word of the Warmaster's rebellion reached Terra, the Emperor began assembling a punitive force to confront the rebel Legions and take Horus into custody,' Jonson continued gravely. 'According to the despatch we received, a full seven Legions, led by Ferrus Manus and the Iron Hands, are en route to Isstvan, but it will be at least another four to six months before they arrive. In the meantime, Horus has redeployed his forces to Isstvan V, and is in the process of fortifying the planet in anticipation of the coming attack.' Out of the corner of his eye, Nemiel saw Kohl fold his arms across his chest. He glanced at the Terran sergeant, and saw a bemused frown cross his weathered face. 'The next few months are going to be crucial for Horus and the rebel Legions,' Jonson said. 'The Warmaster knows that the Emperor will respond with all the force he has available. I now believe that our deployment to the Shield Worlds was part of an effort to scatter the Imperium's most loyal servants as far as possible in order to minimize the number of Legions he would have to face at any given time. Even so, a strike force of seven full Legions poses a dire threat to Horus's survival; surviving a planetary siege from such a force, let alone defeating it, will require transforming Isstvan V into a veritable fortress world. That will require an enormous amount of supplies and equipment on very short notice - the sort of materiel that only a fully-operational forge world can provide.' The primarch adjusted the controls on the projector, and the sector view blurred, focussing in closely on the Eriden subsector and its neighbours. One system very close to Isstvan, stubbornly blue in a sea of grey and red, was suddenly highlighted. 'This is the Tanagra system, located at the edge of the adjoining Ulthoris sub-sector. As you can see, it is only fifty-two-point-seven light years from Isstvan, and lies along the most stable warp route to and from Terra. It also happens to be one of the most heavily industrialised systems in the entire sector, with a Class I-Ultra forge world named Diamat and more than two dozen mining outposts and refineries scattered throughout the system. Historically, Tanagra was rediscovered by Horus's Legion and became compliant relatively early in the Great Crusade. It has been a key logistical centre for the region ever since.' Jonson indicated the highlighted system with a thoughtful nod. 'It is no exaggeration to say that whoever controls the Tanagra system might well determine the fate of the entire Imperium.' Murmurs spread through the assembly. The primarch's voice carried easily over them all. 'The Warmaster's treachery caught all of us off-guard - just as he intended it to do,' Jonson said. His voice took on a cold, angry edge. 'At this stage, our forces are too deeply enmeshed here in the Shield Worlds to respond quickly to Horus's treachery; the best estimates of my staff indicate that it would take us nearly eight months to conclude our offensive operations, even on an emergency basis, and re-position ourselves for a strike against Isstvan. Even if we could move more quickly, Horus's agents would be able to alert the Warmaster in time to organise a counter-move.' Jonson paused, once more surveying the shocked faces surrounding him, and his lips quirked in a predatory smile. 'A small, hand-picked force, however, might accomplish what an entire Legion cannot.' He pointed to the Tanagra system. 'Diamat is the key. If we can keep its industrial wealth from Horus's hands, he and his Legions will be as good as beaten.' The murmurs among the assembly grew to an excited buzz. Suddenly, Nemiel understood the frenetic activity occupying much of the fleet, and the primarch's summons from the planet below. He'd been chosen, along with all the other Astartes who'd come aboard. A fierce pride swelled in his breast. Looking about, he could see that many of his brethren were feeling it as well. Jonson raised a gauntleted hand for silence. 'As many of you already know, I've issued orders for many of our reserve squadrons to resupply and prepare for immediate deployment. I have also summoned two hundred veterans - the most I feel we can spare - from our chapters on the planet below. As you're well aware, the Shield Worlds campaign is at a critical juncture. We've been fighting the Gordians and their degenerate xenos allies for months, and this is our best opportunity to break the alliance once and for all. My senior staff will be transferring aboard the grand cruiser Decimator within the hour, and will remain behind to conclude operations here in the Shield Worlds as quickly as possible. I will personally lead the expedition to Diamat, with a battle group of fifteen warships. We will travel light, leaving the slower tenders and supply vessels behind, and trust that we will be able to replace our stores when we reach Tanagra. Our Navigator believes that if current warp conditions persist, we should reach Diamat within two months.' Jonson folded his arms and stared at the fleet officers. 'One thing more. As far as the fleet - indeed, the rest of the Legion - is concerned, the Invincible Reason and the ships of the battle group are withdrawing for refit and repair at Carnassus. We'll be taking a number of damaged vessels along with us to maintain the ruse. Secrecy is vital. Horus is certain to have agents in the region keeping watch on us, and they must not suspect where we're really headed until it's too late to do anything about it. Is that clear?' The officers responded at once with nods and muttered assents. Nemiel and the Astartes said nothing. It went without saying that they would comply. The primarch nodded curtly. 'The battle group will weigh anchor and depart for the system jump point in ten hours and forty-five minutes. All ongoing repairs, resupply efforts and equipment checks must be complete by that time. No exceptions.' Jonson turned his attention back to the hololith projector. 'I expect by now that the Warmaster has despatched a raiding fleet to Diamat to begin plundering the necessary supplies,' he said. 'When we reach the Tanagra system, eight weeks from now, we need to arri

arch nodded curtly. 'The battle group will weigh anchor and depart for the system jump point in ten hours and forty-five minutes. All ongoing repairs, resupply efforts and equipment checks must be complete by that time. No exceptions.' Jonson turned his attention back to the hololith projector. 'I expect by now that the Warmaster has despatched a raiding fleet to Diamat to begin plundering the necessary supplies,' he said. 'When we reach the Tanagra system, eight weeks from now, we need to arrive fully prepared to fight.' TWO THE TYRANNY OF NEGLECT Caliban In the 200th year of the Emperor's Great Crusade THE TINY LOGIC engines in the brass holoscriptor whirred softly as they wrote data onto the portable memory core. Zahariel paused while the buffer emptied, taking the time to review the facts and figures stored in his own memory. When the indicator light set atop the 'scriptor flashed from amber to green, he continued his report. 'Brother Luther's planet-wide recruiting efforts continue to show a steady twenty per cent increase each training cycle; for the third time in a row we have had to increase the size of our training chapters to accommodate the new aspirants, and the Magos Apothecarium reports that our new screening model has dramatically reduced incidents of organ rejection among inductees. In fact, not a single fatality has been reported for the last two training cycles, and the magos is confident that this trend can continue indefinitely.' Zahariel straightened slightly, his hands clutched tightly behind his back and his head held high as he looked into the 'scriptor's lens and imagined himself speaking directly to the primarch and his senior staff. 'I am thus proud to present you with four thousand, two hundred and twelve new Astartes, ready to join their brothers in the Legion's front-line chapters. This represents a certification rate of nearly ninety-eight per cent; an extraordinary achievement by the standards of any of the Emperor's Legions. I am also pleased to report that the Magos Logistum has certified two thousand suits of new Mark IV armour, a hundred new suits of Tactical Dreadnought armour and two hundred of the new Thyrsis pattern jump packs for transhipment to the fleet from the forges at Mars. The manufactories here on Caliban are including two thousand new chainswords for the fleet armoury and twelve million rounds of bolt gun shells. We are expecting a shipment of armoured vehicles from the Mechanicum within the next two months, and will expedite the transhipment as soon as they have been certified. If all goes as planned, they will be accompanied from Caliban by two new divisions of Jaegers, who are performing their final training manoeuvres this month.' Zahariel paused for half a beat, going over the figures in his head to make sure he'd left nothing out. Satisfied, he nodded to the 'scriptor. 'This concludes my report. By the time you receive this, we will have already begun our nineteenth training cycle. Brother Luther and the training masters concur that further reduction of the cycle time would only degrade the fitness of new recruits, so we've reached an optimal training time of twenty-four months, incorporating accelerated surgical implantation into an ongoing regimen of conditioning and instruction. Current projections indicate that we will have another five thousand new Astartes ready for battle by late 315. The Mechanicum has assured us that shipments of wargear will continue on an accelerated basis until you order otherwise.' His face sobered as he reached the final item of his report. 'As a postscript, I regret to inform you that Master Remiel has taken his leave of the Legion at the age of one hundred and twelve. I am proud to say that he left on horseback, riding the Errant Road with lance in hand. All of us, especially Brother Luther, regrets his loss. We shall not see his like again. I trust this report finds you at the forefront of the Emperor's Crusade, driving back the shadows of Old Night and adding to the glories of our venerable Legion. On behalf of Luther the rest of the training cadre, we remain your loyal and dutiful brothers in arms.' He bowed deeply to the 'scriptor. 'Victoria ut Imperator. This is Brother-Librarian Zahariel, signing off.' Zahariel reached forward, shutting off the 'scriptor with a flick of a switch. The logic engines whirred and clattered, transferring the rest of the message to the memory core. As he listened to the machine work, he debated continuing further. Was he tempting the primarch's wrath? There was no way to know. On the other hand, he thought ruefully, what was the worst that could happen if he did? The 'scriptor finished its work. He paused, composing his thoughts, then adjusted the dials on the face of the machine. As the machine clattered, setting up a new message header, Zahariel stepped back in front of the lens. When the amber light blinked twice, he said. 'Appended message file, classification four-alpha, standard cipher. Recipient: primarch Lion El'Jonson, First Legion.' When the light turned green again, Zahariel took a deep breath and began his plea. 'I beg your pardon in advance, my lord, and I hope you will not think me speaking out of turn, but I would be remiss in my duties if I didn't make every effort to improve the fortunes of our Legion in these trying times.' He hesitated, considering his words carefully. 'Our training cadre has worked diligently for the last half-century, refining our recruiting and training procedures to meet the challenges that the Emperor has set for us. I believe that my reports - as well as the constant flow of warriors and supplies - testify to our dedication and success. We have achieved a degree of speed and efficiency unmatched by any other Legion, and we are rightly proud of our achievements. At this stage, our procedures have been well-established, and we have a highly-capable infrastructure in place to continue the induction process. What the Legion needs most is for veteran warriors to return home and share the experience they've gained over the last fifty years. By the same token, our brothers here on Caliban are acutely aware of the limited nature of their own experience, and are eager to hone their skills against the Emperor's foes on the front line. This especially applies to Brother Luther, whom I believe would serve the Legion far better at your side than conducting recruiting drives here on Caliban.' Zahariel kept his face calm and composed, even as his mind struggled to find the perfect argument that would sway the primarch. 'I think it fair to say that we have done all we can here, and it would be in the best interests of the Legion if we were rotated back to our parent chapters in the fleet. This goes particularly for Brother Luther, whose skills as a warrior and diplomat are well-known. If you were to summon just one of us back to your side, my lord, let it be him.' His hands, clasped behind his back, tightened into fists. There was more he wanted to say, but he feared that he had pressed his luck too much already. Zahariel bowed his head before the lens. 'I hope that after you have reviewed my reports you will see the logic of my request. We all have a duty to the Emperor, my lord; all we ask is for the chance to fulfil it as we were meant to - defeating his enemies and redeeming the lost worlds of mankind.' Zahariel sketched another quick bow, and, lest he be tempted to speak further, he reached forward swiftly and switched off the recorder. Silence fell in the small office, broken only by the whir of the 'scriptor's logic engines and the murmur of voices in the adjoining operations centre. Sighing faintly, the young Librarian turned away from the machine and surveyed the cramped, neatly-kept space, with its polished grey desk-cum-hololith unit and neat stacks of message cores containing status reports on everything from training schedules to munition production quotas. Beyond the desk, a tall, narrow window looked out past the Tower of Angels onto the southern sector of the Legion's vast sprawl of armouries, barracks and training grounds. Tall spires rose out of the late-afternoon smog, navigation hazard lights blinking red and green through the haze. He looked out at the bustling activity, the energetic industry of war, and wondered what had become of old Master Remiel. There was a clatter of gears and the 'scriptor ejected the memory core. Zahariel plucked the small cylinder carefully from the socket and slipped it onto an ornate brass carrying tube marked with the heraldry of the Legion. Checking his internal chrono, he saw that he had just enough time to reach the detachment before they left for the embarkation field. He keyed his vox-bead and summoned a transport, then drew up the hood of his surplice and headed for the lifts on the opposite side of the operations centre. A sense of foreboding dogged his steps as he entered the lift and descended into the depths of the great mountain. Zahariel couldn't say why the years had started to weigh on him of late. Most of the last half-century had passed swiftly indeed, lost in a whirlwind of hard work and seemingly endless iterations of recruitment strategies, training schemes and industrial expansion. Luther had seen at once that it wouldn't be enough to simply accelerate the pace of training; fulfilling the primarch's stated objectives demanded the creation of an enormous support structure that stretched across the entire planet. It was a herculean task, and at first Zahariel told himself that it was an honour that Jonson had chosen them for it. Luther involved himself in every aspect of planetary administration, from tithe structures to industrial and arcology construction, and Zahariel was drawn along in his wake. Luther depended on him more and more, leaving him to make decisions that affected the lives of tens of millions of people each day. At first, the sheer weight of his responsibil

hed across the entire planet. It was a herculean task, and at first Zahariel told himself that it was an honour that Jonson had chosen them for it. Luther involved himself in every aspect of planetary administration, from tithe structures to industrial and arcology construction, and Zahariel was drawn along in his wake. Luther depended on him more and more, leaving him to make decisions that affected the lives of tens of millions of people each day. At first, the sheer weight of his responsibilities horrified him. But he summoned up his courage and rose to the occasion, determined to redeem himself in the primarch's eyes. Caliban's forests dwindled, replaced by mines, refineries and industrial sprawls. Huge arcologies rose like man-made mountains across the landscape as the planet's population swelled. Civilization spread across the globe, and the ranks of the Legion increased as Luther found ways to reduce the training cycle from eight years to only two. Meanwhile, reports of Jonson's exploits made their way back to Caliban, swelling their hearts with pride as the Dark Angels marched from one victory to the next. Transport ships from hundreds of distant worlds carried battle honours and war trophies back to Aldurukh, testifying to the valour of the primarch and the Legion's fighting chapters. The members of the training cadre admired each and every token sent back by their brothers and made comradely boasts of how they would exceed them all when Jonson summoned them back to the fighting. Yet the decades passed, and no summons came. Jonson had never returned to Caliban; two planned visits had been cancelled at the last moment, citing new orders from the Emperor or unexpected developments in the current campaign. With each passing year, Luther's promise to the cadre in the castle courtyard sounded increasingly hollow, but not a warrior among them faulted him for it. If anything, their loyalty to Luther had increased during their exile. He shared their burdens and praised their successes, inspiring them by virtue of hard work, humility and personal charisma. Though they would deny it if asked, Zahariel believed that many of his brothers owed more loyalty to Luther than they did their distant primarch, and that worried him more and more as time went by. It was only in more private moments, travelling across Caliban on manufactory inspections or working long hours alongside Luther in the Grand Master's sanctum, that Zahariel saw the turmoil in the great man's eyes. News took a long time to reach Caliban these days, as the expeditionary fleets advanced farther and farther across the galaxy. Transports laden with plunder and trophies had grown less and less frequent of late. Then, recently, they'd received the news that the Emperor had named Horus Lupercal his Warmaster and left the crusading Legions to return to Terra. At first, Luther had hoped to keep the news quiet, but that had been folly. Before long all of their battle brothers had been talking about what had happened, and what it meant for them. None of them were fools. They could see that the Great Crusade was entering into its final phases, and their last chance for glory was slipping away forever. After several long minutes the lift deposited Zahariel at the base of the mountain, amidst the Legion's cavernous vehicle assembly areas. Plasma torches hissed and sputtered as Techmarines and servitors laboured to repair severely damaged Rhinos and Predator tanks sent back to Caliban from the front lines. No sooner had he stepped from the lift chamber than a four-wheeled personal transport rolled smoothly out of the vehicle pool and stopped beside the Librarian. He stepped into the open-topped passenger compartment, large enough to accommodate two Astartes in full armour. 'Sector forty-seven, training chapter five, main assembly grounds,' he ordered the servitor in the driver's compartment, and the transport set off at once, gathering speed as it made for one of the cavern's transit tunnels. Zahariel's thoughts wandered as they sped past ranks of armoured personnel carriers, tanks and assault vehicles. He turned the memory core over and over in his hands, wondering at the unease that lingered in the recesses of his mind. Not even Israfael's meditative techniques had managed to blunt the sense of foreboding he felt. It was like a splinter beneath the skin, reminding him painfully of its presence and defying every attempt to pluck it out. He could not say why it was so important for Luther to return to Jonson's side. They had all borne their exile with stoicism and dedication to duty, as any Astartes would, and Luther more than most. Of course, Zahariel knew why; the Legion's second-in-command was seeking redemption for what he'd nearly done aboard the Invincible Reason. Luther had discovered the bomb that the Saroshi delegation had smuggled onboard the Dark Angels' battle barge and had done nothing about it. For a brief time he'd let his jealousy of Lion El'Jonson's achievements overcome his better nature, but at the last moment he'd come to his senses and tried to make things right. He and Zahariel had nearly died disposing of the Saroshi bomb, but somehow the primarch suspected Luther's earlier lapse and had exiled him to Caliban. Now Luther worked to extirpate his guilt, but his efforts went unnoticed. Yet what other choice did Luther have? Even if he wanted to defy Jonson's wishes, what options did he have? A demand for a fair accounting and a return to the front lines? To do that he would have to leave Caliban and seek out the primarch, in direct violation of Jonson's orders, and that meant outright rebellion. Luther would never countenance such a thing. It was inconceivable. But if Jonson did nothing - if he let these loyal warriors sit here while the Crusade came to a close, it would leave a scar within their brotherhood that would never truly heal. Such wounds tended to fester over time, until the entire body became imperilled. It had happened on Caliban all the time, back in the old days. Zahariel reached up and rubbed his forehead as the transport exited the tunnel into the afternoon sunlight. He couldn't imagine outright dissent within the Legion, but the thought still nagged at him. The Librarian clenched the message tube tightly. If he earned the primarch's wrath, so be it. This was far more important. It took almost an hour to travel from the mountain to the chapter training facilities in sector forty-seven, passing through successive rings of defensive walls and checkpoints before pulling up at the edge of a broad parade ground surrounded on three sides by barracks, firing ranges and combat simulator centres. Zahariel sat bolt upright as the transport rolled to a stop, his brow creasing in a worried frown. The square was empty. He checked his chrono again. According to the embarkation schedule, there should be a thousand Astartes in full combat gear waiting to board a transport for high orbit. 'Wait here,' he told the servitor, leaping from the idling vehicle and striding swiftly to the chapter master's quarters. Zahariel keyed the door open and rushed into the ready room to find the chapter master conducting an informal briefing with his newly-trained squad leaders. The young Astartes turned at the Librarian's approach, failing to conceal the bemused looks on their faces. 'Chapter Master Astelan, what's the meaning of this?' Zahariel said, his voice calm but stern. 'Your Astartes should be mustering for embarkation this very minute but the square is empty.' Astelan's eyes narrowed on the advancing Librarian. He was one of the few Terrans serving with the Legion on Caliban, having been sent to Aldurukh some fifteen years after Luther and the rest of the training cadre. He was a veteran warrior who'd risen quickly to command of a chapter in the years following Jonson's ascension to primarch and his sudden reassignment was every bit as baffling to Zahariel as his own. He presumed that Luther was aware of the circumstances, but if Astelan had been exiled from the expeditionary fleets like the rest of them, the Master of Caliban hadn't made that fact public. Instead, he'd immediately assigned the Terran to lead one of the newly-reorganised training chapters, and treated Astelan with all the respect and esteem that he showed his other battle brothers. Luther's charisma and leadership quickly won him over, and now Zahariel would be hard-pressed to name another member of the Legion more loyal to the Master of Caliban. 'The muster was cancelled two hours ago,' Astelan said in a deep voice. He had a bluff, square-jawed face and deep-set eyes shadowed by a brooding brow. A fine white scar bisected his right eyebrow and stretched across his forehead up to the edge of his scalp. When he'd arrived on Caliban he'd worn his hair in long, tightly-knotted braids, but within the first few days he'd shaved his scalp and kept it that way. 'By whose order?' Zahariel demanded. 'Luther, of course,' Astelan replied. 'Who else?' The Librarian frowned. 'I don't understand. Your warriors were certified for deployment. I saw the report myself.' Astelan folded his arms. 'This has nothing to do with my Astartes, brother. Luther has cancelled all deployments offworld.' Zahariel was suddenly conscious of the message tube clutched in his left hand. 'That can't be right,' he said. 'It's not possible.' Astelan's scarred eyebrow raised slightly. 'Luther appears to think otherwise,' he said. One of the squad leaders chuckled, but the chapter master silenced him with a sidelong glance. 'He's in command here, is he not?' Zahariel ignored the challenge in Astelan's tone. 'Why did he cancel the deployments? The fleet is depending on those reinforcements.' The chapter master shrugged. 'You will have to ask him, brother.' Biting back a sharp reply, Zahariel spun on his heel. 'I will, Astelan,' he said, heading for the door. 'You can be assured of that.' HE FOUND LU

otherwise,' he said. One of the squad leaders chuckled, but the chapter master silenced him with a sidelong glance. 'He's in command here, is he not?' Zahariel ignored the challenge in Astelan's tone. 'Why did he cancel the deployments? The fleet is depending on those reinforcements.' The chapter master shrugged. 'You will have to ask him, brother.' Biting back a sharp reply, Zahariel spun on his heel. 'I will, Astelan,' he said, heading for the door. 'You can be assured of that.' HE FOUND LUTHER high in the fortress's topmost tower, at work in the Grand Master's chambers. Jonson and Luther had shared the huge working space in better times, shaping the future of first the Order, then the Legion. As ever, scribes and staff aides bustled through the adjoining rooms, performing the countless daily tasks of Imperial rule. Luther's desk was a massive bastion of polished Northwild oak, solid enough to stop a boltgun shell even before the heavy hololith projector and cogitators were installed. He used it as a bulwark to keep visiting bureaucrats out of arm's reach, as he often joked. Just behind the desk stood a narrow archway that led to a small, open balcony. Zahariel saw Luther out in the sunshine, glancing thoughtfully up at the cloudless sky. He rounded the desk and stepped to the edge of the balcony, reluctant to intrude even under the current circumstances. 'May I speak to you for a moment, brother?' Luther glanced over his shoulder and waved Zahariel forward. 'I take it you've heard about the deployments,' he said. 'What's going on?' Zahariel replied. 'Has there been some word from the primarch?' 'No,' Luther said. 'More's the pity. There have been... developments here on Caliban.' Zahariel frowned. 'Developments? What does that mean?' Luther didn't reply at first. He leaned against the balcony's stone railing, staring down at the industrial sprawl thousands of feet below. Zahariel could tell that he was troubled. 'There have been reports of unrest in Stormhold and Windmir,' he said. 'Worker strikes. Protests. Even, some cases of sabotage at the weapon manufactories.' 'Sabotage?' Zahariel exclaimed, unable to conceal his surprise. 'How long has this been going on?' 'Several months,' Luther said darkly. 'Perhaps as long as a year. It began with a few isolated incidents, but the problem's worked its way through the outer territories like a reaper vine, digging deep into every chink and crevice. Now it's bleeding us in a hundred places. Work stoppages have cut ammo production by fifteen per cent.' Zahariel shook his head. He held up the message tube. 'That can't be right. I prepared the reports personally. We're over our quota.' Luther smiled ruefully. 'That's because I've been making up the shortfall by drawing lots of ammunition from the fortress's emergency stockpiles. Now we're dangerously low.' The Librarian let out a long breath. 'The emergency stockpiles were held in reserve to defend Caliban from enemy attack. Jonson would be furious if he knew they'd been cleaned out. What about the constabulary? Why haven't they put a stop to this?' 'The constabulary have been less than effective,' Luther said, glancing meaningfully at Zahariel. 'You mean they're helping these... these rebels?' 'Indirectly, yes,' Luther said. 'I have no proof, but I can think of no other way to explain it. There have been few detentions, and little progress on attempts to uncover who is organising the dissenters.' Zahariel considered the implications. 'The upper echelons of the constabulary are filled with warriors from the defunct knightly orders,' he mused. Once again, the sense of foreboding tingled at the back of his mind. He pressed the fingertips of his right hand to his forehead. 'I was thinking much the same thing,' Luther said. 'There are many former nobles and powerful knights who broke with the Order when we swore our loyalty to the Emperor. Many of them possess considerable wealth and influence in their former domains.' 'But what do these rebels want?' Luther turned to Zahariel. This time, his dark eyes glinted coldly. 'I don't know yet, brother, but I intend to find out,' he said. 'But I'm going to need warriors I can trust, so I've cancelled all deployments until further notice.' Zahariel leaned against the balcony. The decision made sense, but he feared that Luther was striding along the edge of a precipice. 'The primarch needs those warriors in the Shield Worlds,' he said. 'If we delay them, it could lead to disastrous consequences.' 'Worse than having Caliban descend into anarchy?' Luther countered. 'Don't worry, brother. I've given this much thought. We'll send in the Jaegers first. If it they appear to have matters well in hand, I'll release the new Astartes for immediate deployment to the fleet.' Zahariel nodded, still uneasy. 'We need to root out their ringleaders,' he said. 'Drag them out into the open and confront them with their crimes. That will put an end to this lawlessness.' Luther nodded. 'It's already begun,' he said. 'Lord Cypher is searching for them even as we speak.' THREE HAMMER AND ANVIL Diamat In the 200th year of the Emperor's Great Crusade 'VOX TRANSMISSION FROM Destroyer Squadron Twelve,' Captain Stenius reported, joining the primarch at the strategium's primary hololith display. 'Long-range surveyors are picking up thirty vessels anchored in high orbit above the forge world. Reactor and sensor emissions suggest a mixed group of capital ships and heavy-grade cargo transports.' Lion El'Jonson rested his hands against the burnished metal rim of the tank. A faint smile played at the corners of his mouth. 'Identification?' Stenius shook his head. He was another veteran of the Legion's earliest campaigns, and bore the scars of his service proudly. His eyes were silver-rimmed, smoke-grey lenses set deeply into sockets that were seamed with scars. Nerve damage, inflicted by razor-sharp slivers of glass from an exploding hololith display, had transformed his face into a grim, inscrutable mask. 'None of the vessels in orbit are flashing ident codes,' the captain replied. 'But Commander Bracchius, aboard Rapier, claims the reactor signatures from two of the larger craft match those of the grand cruisers Forinax and Leonis.' The primarch nodded. 'Formidable ships, but well past their prime. I expected as much: Horus has sent a second-line fleet comprised of renegade Imperial warships and Army units to plunder Diamat, while holding back his Astartes to protect Isstvan V.' Stenius watched gravely as the hololith image above the table updated to reflect the new data. Diamat hung in the centre of the display, rendered in mottled shades of rust, ochre and burnt iron. Tiny red icons dotted the face of the world facing the approaching Dark Angels battle group, marking the approximate size and location of the enemy ships in orbit. Two of the icons had been tentatively classified as the two rebel grand cruisers, while others were given probable classifications based on their size and reactor emissions. Currently, the plot was showing no less than twenty cruiser-sized contacts anchored at Diamat, clustered around another ten heavy transports. Nemiel, standing to Jonson's left on the other side of the hololith table, saw the concern in the captain's eyes. Second-rate or not, the rebels had twice as many capital ships as they did. For the moment, the Dark Angels enjoyed the advantage of surprise, and the enemy had been caught with little room to manoeuvre, but it was anyone's guess how long that would last. Tension and uncertainty hung heavy in the dimly-lit chamber; Nemiel had observed it for weeks in the hunched shoulders and hushed exchanges between the fleet officers. During the two-month voyage from the Gordia system the news of Horus's betrayal and the nature of their clandestine mission had left indelible marks on the crew's psyche. They've lost their faith, Nemiel thought. And why not? The unimaginable had occurred. Warmaster Horus, the Emperor's favoured son, has turned his back on the Emperor, and brother has been set against brother. He studied the faces of the men inside the strategium and saw the same fear lurking in the depths of their eyes. No one knows who to trust any more, he sensed. If someone like Horus could fall, who might be next? The two hundred Astartes aboard the flagship dealt with their own uncertainties as they always did: honing their skills and preparing themselves mentally and physically for battle. Early in the voyage, Jonson had issued a set of directives organising his hand-picked squads into two small companies and establishing a rigorous training regimen to cement them into a cohesive fighting unit. As the only Chaplain aboard the battle barge, Nemiel found himself personally tasked by Jonson to monitor the Astartes' training regimen and periodically certify their physical and psychological fitness. Since virtually all of the Legion's senior staff members had been left behind at Gordia IV, Nemiel soon found his responsibilities expanded to include logistics and fleet operations as well. He accepted the extra duties with pride and a certain amount of uneasiness as well, because the more he worked alongside Lion El'Jonson, the less sense the undertaking to Diamat made. Such a relatively small force couldn't possibly hold out for very long against the full strength of four rebel Legions, and Nemiel couldn't imagine that the Emperor would have ordered Jonson to attempt such a thing. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became that the primarch had ordered the expedition to Diamat for reasons that were entirely his own. Nemiel focused his attention on the tactical plot and tried to put his foreboding aside. 'The rebels have us outnumbered, my lord,' he pointed out. Jonson gave Nemiel a sidelong look. 'I can perform hyperspatial calculations in my head, brother,' he said wryly 'I think I can manage to count to thirty unaided.' Nemiel

n to attempt such a thing. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became that the primarch had ordered the expedition to Diamat for reasons that were entirely his own. Nemiel focused his attention on the tactical plot and tried to put his foreboding aside. 'The rebels have us outnumbered, my lord,' he pointed out. Jonson gave Nemiel a sidelong look. 'I can perform hyperspatial calculations in my head, brother,' he said wryly 'I think I can manage to count to thirty unaided.' Nemiel shifted uncomfortably. 'Yes, of course, my lord,' he said quickly. 'I don't mean to belabour the obvious; I was just curious as to your strategy-' 'Easy, brother,' Jonson chuckled, clapping Nemiel on the shoulder. 'I know what you meant.' He pointed to the cluster of transports above Diamat. 'That's going to be their weak point,' he said. 'The success or failure of their mission depends on the survival of those big, lumbering ships, and they're going to hang like an anchor around the rebel admiral's neck.' He glanced back at Stenius. 'Any picket ships?' Stenius nodded. 'Bracchius reports three squadrons of escorts in a staggered sentry formation,' he reported. 'They have detected our scouts and are coming about to engage. Time to contact is one hour, fifteen minutes at current course and speed.' He straightened, hands clasped behind his back. 'What are your orders, my lord?' he inquired formally. The battle group had reached the point of no return. At this point, more than one and a half astronomical units from Diamat, the battle group still had time and manoeuvring room to come about and retreat from the system. If Jonson chose to press ahead, it would commit his small force irrevocably to battle. Jonson did not hesitate. 'Execute attack plan Alpha,' he said calmly, 'and send the signal to launch all Stormbirds. Bracchius is to maintain speed and engage as soon as the pickets come within range. He'll have the honour of striking the first blow against Horus's rebels.' Stenius bowed to the primarch and turned about, issuing a stream of orders to the flagship's command staff. Jonson turned his attention back to the tactical plot. 'Brother-Redemptor Nemiel, inform the company commanders to prepare their squads for an orbital assault,' he said. 'I expect we will be in position to launch in just over three hours' time.' 'At once, my lord,' Nemiel replied, and began to relay the command through his vox-bead. The image above the hololith tank updated again, this time depicting the approximate location of the battle group's three small scout squadrons. Ahead of them, three much larger squadrons were displayed in bright red, shifting slowly into a rough crescent formation. The arms of the crescent were oriented towards the oncoming Imperial scouts, like a pair of encircling arms. Blue and red numerical data, depicting the range, course and speed of the two formations changed with steadily-increasing speed. Lion El'Jonson studied the glowing motes of data and folded his arms, his expression distant and thoughtful. Nemiel watched another ghostly smile play across the primarch's face as both forces arrayed themselves for battle, and fought down another twinge of unease. At that moment he would have given a great deal to know what Jonson saw in the grim picture that he did not. AS SOON AS the Dark Angels' battle group had arrived in the Gehinnon star system it had effectively split into two forces. Six of the group's sixteen ships were sleek, swift destroyers, which the primarch immediately ordered ahead of the main division with a trio of light cruisers to provide support. These scout squadrons quickly pulled ahead of the larger and slower cruisers, their long-range surveyors sweeping the void ahead of them and attempting to fix the size and disposition of the enemy fleet. Now that the enemy was sighted, vox signals went back and forth between the two destroyer squadrons and the trio of light cruisers hanging back in their wake. As the rebel picket ships - no less than fifteen enemy destroyers, organised into three large squadrons - deployed into a standard crescent formation, Jonson's light cruisers flared their thrusters and moved up to form a battle line with the rest of the scouts. Thousands of kilometres behind them, the main body of Jonson's battle group was altering formation as well. The Invincible Reason and the strike cruisers Amadis and Adzikel drew ahead of the two grand cruisers and two heavy cruisers that comprised the rest of the main force. At the same time, the armoured blast doors covering the three ships' prow hangar bays slid ponderously open and flight after flight of Stormbirds leapt like loosed arrows into the darkness. Within minutes, seven squadrons of the heavily-armed assault craft were speeding ahead of the formation, racing to join up with the distant scouts before the rebel destroyers reached extreme firing range. With four minutes left to contact, the rebel pickets suddenly increased speed; perhaps the flotilla commander detected the oncoming Stormbirds, or gave in to his eagerness to open the engagement, but it was too little, too late. Jonson's Stormbirds were streaking through the scout squadron's firing line just as the enemy destroyers opened fire. The rebel ships opened the engagement as Jonson expected they would, opening their bow tubes and launching a salvo of deadly torpedoes at the oncoming scouts. Thirty of the huge missiles - each one powerful enough to blow a destroyer-sized ship apart - sped towards the scouts in a wide arc that left the Imperial ships with no room to escape. Surveyor arrays aboard the Stormbirds detected the launches at once, and the Astartes pilots spread out their formations as widely as possible to intercept the oncoming torpedoes. They swept through the volley of missiles in the space of a few seconds; lascannons spat bolts of searing light, spearing through the torpedoes' casings and detonating their huge fuel tanks. Massive explosions flickered angrily in the darkness in the Stormbirds' wake, spreading clouds of incandescent gas and debris that faded quickly in the airless void. Almost half of the torpedoes were destroyed; the rest sped onward towards their targets, too fast for the assault ships to alter course and come around for another pass. The Astartes held their course, already picking out targets among the oncoming picket ships. The scout squadrons opened fire on the incoming missiles as soon as they came within range. Macro cannons and rapid-cycle megalasers filled the vacuum ahead of the small ships with a veritable wall of fire. Energy lances - massive beams of voltaic power - swept in burning arcs ahead of the light cruisers. More globes of flame bloomed along the path of the onrushing scouts, blending together into a seething field of vaporised metal and radioactive gas. Five torpedoes slipped through the maelstrom. They crossed the remaining space to their targets in less than a second, flying into a second, smaller cloud of exploding shells as the destroyers' flak batteries opened fire. The servitor-crewed guns succeeded in destroying two of the remaining missiles. Three torpedoes out of thirty struck home. One of the weapons smashed into the prow of the destroyer Audacious but failed to detonate; Hotspur and Stiletto, however, were not so fortunate. The torpedoes' plasma warheads tore the lightly-armoured destroyers apart, transforming them into expanding clouds of gas and debris in a single instant. Horus's rebels had claimed first blood. The surviving ships passed through the remnant gases of the intercepted torpedoes, wreathing their void shields with streamers of plasma and temporarily fouling their auspex returns. Hungry for vengeance, their surveyor crews strained at their scopes, searching for engine telltales amid the storm of interference. Moments passed; points of heat swelled like stars in the radioactive haze. Ranges and vectors were calculated and relayed down to the torpedomen, who entered the data into their deadly charges. While the enemy pickets were still trying to reload their tubes, the scouts launched a torpedo salvo of their own. By this time, the two formations were at extreme weapons' range, and the enemy pickets were faced with a dilemma: fire at the oncoming Stormbirds, the torpedo salvo or the scout squadrons behind them. The flotilla commander was forced to make a split-second decision, ordering all gun batteries to target the scouts and leaving the rest to the flak guns. It was a brave but costly tactic. The Stormbirds reached the pickets first, each squadron orientating on a target and thundering in at full power. Explosive shells and multilaser bolts hammered at the oncoming assault craft, but the heavily-armoured Stormbirds pressed on through the barrage. Here and there an enemy shot struck home; engines exploded or cockpits were shattered by direct hits, but the rest continued their attack. They swept in low across the destroyers' upper decks, pummelling their hull and superstructure with cannon fire and melta rockets. Four of the pickets staggered out of formation, their bridges smashed and their decks ablaze. Seconds later the Imperial torpedoes struck. Seven of them hit their targets, blowing the rebel destroyers apart. The four surviving ships plunged onwards, doggedly trading blow for blow with the scout squadrons. Their void shields blazed beneath a rain of explosive shells and ravening lance beams as they plunged into the Imperial formation. At such close range the gunners could scarcely miss their targets; one by one the shields of the rebel ships failed and the concentrated Imperial fire ripped them open from stem to stern. But Horus's ships and their veteran crews died hard. They concentrated their fire on the survivors of Destroyer Squadron Twelve, pouring fire into Rapier and Courageous. The void shields of the two destroyers collapsed beneath the onslaught; Courageous died a moment

as they plunged into the Imperial formation. At such close range the gunners could scarcely miss their targets; one by one the shields of the rebel ships failed and the concentrated Imperial fire ripped them open from stem to stern. But Horus's ships and their veteran crews died hard. They concentrated their fire on the survivors of Destroyer Squadron Twelve, pouring fire into Rapier and Courageous. The void shields of the two destroyers collapsed beneath the onslaught; Courageous died a moment later as a shell found its way into her main reactor room. Rapier fought on a few seconds more, destroying one of the picket ships with her last salvo, before an enemy shell detonated in her torpedo magazine. Forty seconds had passed since the rebels' first salvo. Captain Ivers, master of the light cruiser Formidable, sent a terse vox to the flagship: the way to Diamat was clear. 'INCREASE SPEED,' JONSON ordered, watching the telltales update on the tactical plot. They were less than a quarter of a million kilometres from Diamat now, well within range of the battle group's surveyor arrays, and they were getting positional updates on the enemy fleet in real time. It had been more than an hour since the initial engagement against the rebel pickets. The Stormbirds had been recovered and were being rearmed for another sortie. Nemiel had expected that the surviving escorts would be withdrawn as well, but Jonson had instead sent the depleted force on a roundabout course that threatened to swing around the far left flank of the enemy squadrons that had weighed anchor and were forming a battle line between Jonson's force and the planet. The rebel transports were still in high orbit above Diamat, surrounded by a protective cordon of eight cruisers. Nemiel felt the rumble of the battle barge's thrusters reverberate through the deck plates as the Invincible Reason went to maximum acceleration. The battle barge and her flanking strike cruisers had adopted a wedge formation, presenting themselves as primary targets to the rebel ships. The Astartes' ships, designed to force their way through a hostile planet's defence network and deploy their landing companies, were even more heavily armoured than typical ships of the line. Jonson calculated that the enemy ships would focus the majority of their fire on the battle barge, buying his other ships precious seconds to close to effective firing range. 'Any response to our hails?' Jonson asked Captain Stenius. They had been trying to raise the Imperial authorities on Diamat as soon as they had come within vox range. Stenius shook his head. 'Nothing yet,' he replied. 'There's signs of heavy ionization in the atmosphere, though, so we might not get a signal through until we reach orbit.' 'Atomics?' the primarch asked. The captain nodded. 'It looks like the rebels have launched dozens of orbital strikes, likely targeting troop concentrations and defence installations.' 'Have the rebels succeeded in reaching the forges?' Nemiel asked. 'If not, they must be very close,' Jonson said. 'Otherwise those transports would have broken orbit as soon as we were detected.' He nodded his head at the telltales representing the escorting cruisers. 'They also wouldn't have left behind such a strong reserve force to guard them unless they already contained something valuable, so we have to assume that the enemy has at least managed to breach a number of the planet's secondary forges. If there are any defence forces still in action, they will be concentrated around the primary forge complex and Titan foundry.' 'Titans?' Nemiel asked. 'There is a legion based at Diamat?' Jonson nodded. 'Legio Gladius,' he replied. 'Unfortunately, their engines are embarked with the 27th Expeditionary Fleet, far to the galactic south. On Horus's orders, I might add.' 'What does that leave the defenders with?' The primarch paused, consulting his memory. 'Eight regiments of Tanagran Dragoons, plus two armoured regiments and several battalions of heavy artillery.' Nemiel nodded. It was an impressive array of force. He wondered how much of it still survived. 'What forces can the forges muster?' Jonson shrugged. 'An unknown number of Mechanicum troops. The scions of Mars are not obliged to share the secrets of their defences.' He paused, studying the plot for several moments before straightening and shaking his head. 'It's looking unlikely that the rebels will detach any units from their main body to try and intercept our escorts. They'll trust the reserve cruisers to keep them at bay, which leaves us facing no less than twelve ships of the line.' 'Ten minutes to contact,' Stenius announced. 'Orders, my lord?' 'Are the Stormbirds ready for another sortie?' Jonson asked. 'We have two squadrons ready for launch, and Amadis reports that they have one squadron standing by. Adzikel has a fire in her hangar bay from a crash-landed Stormbird. They estimate another fourteen minutes before they can resume flight operations.' 'The battle will be over in ten,' Jonson growled. 'Very well: signal the scout force and order them to ready torpedoes and prepare for a course change on my mark. Transmit the same signal to the main force, and add that no ship is to fire until ordered.' Stenius bowed curtly and began barking orders across the strategium. On the tactical plot the distance between the two fleets was dwindling rapidly. They would be in extreme weapons range within moments. Nemiel thought back to the savagery of the initial engagement and prepared himself for the coming storm. The main body of the enemy fleet was centred on four grand cruisers; at this range the officers aboard the flagship had positively identified them as the Avenger-class grand cruisers Forinax and Leonis, and the Vengeance-class ships Castigator and Vindicare. To either flank of this powerful group of ships were arrayed a squadron of four cruisers each: a mix of Crusaders, their hulls bristling with weapon batteries, and swift, lance-armed Armigers. Against such a force, the Dark Angels had their battle barge and two strike cruisers, plus the Avenger-class grand cruisers Iron Duke and Duchess Arbellatris and the Infernus-class heavy cruisers Flamberge and Lord Dante. Though the rebels had a clear edge in numbers and firepower, they no longer had any ships capable of launching torpedoes - a slim advantage that Jonson intended to capitalise on. The seconds ticked by. Captain Stenius watched the readouts on the tactical plot. 'We're at extreme torpedo range,' he announced. 'Not yet,' Jonson ordered. He watched the scout force slip past the main body of the rebel fleet, still accelerating towards Diamat and the vulnerable transports. Stenius nodded. 'Two minutes to extreme firing range.' 'Any signals from the planet's surface?' Jonson asked. 'Negative,' the captain replied. 'Very well.' Jonson turned to Nemiel. 'If we don't hear anything from the governor or his defence forces by the time we reach orbit, I'm going to send the landing force down around the main forge complex. Your orders will be to secure the forge and eliminate any rebel troops in the area. Clear?' 'Clear, my lord,' Nemiel answered at once. The battle group sped onwards, straight into the guns of the waiting rebel ships. Two minutes later the Aegis Officer called out, 'Incoming fire!' 'All ships brace for impact!' the primarch ordered. Lance beams leapt from the prows of the rebel cruisers, raking the void with searing beams of force. They slashed across the prow of the Invincible Reason and the two strike cruisers, causing their shields to flare with incandescent fury. Violet light blazed beyond the reinforced viewports of the bridge and a powerful blow resounded through the hull of the great ship. 'Hull breach, deck twelve, frame sixty-three!' the Aegis Officer called out. 'No casualties reported.' Captain Stenius accepted the news with a curt nod. 'Do we return fire?' he asked the primarch. 'Not yet,' Jonson replied. He was studying the readout on the plot intently. 'Signal the scout force: come about to new heading one-two-zero and commence torpedo runs on rebel grand cruisers.' The Astartes ships ploughed through glowing clouds of plasma and vaporised deck plating as they continued to close on the rebel ships. As they closed to optimum firing range the enemy force began a slow turn to starboard so they could bring their fearsome broadsides to bear on the Imperial ships. But as they began their turn, Nemiel saw the scouts begin their course change. The nimble escorts swung around in a tight arc directly behind the enemy ships, their presence hidden by the rebels' own reactor emissions. The trap had been sprung. Jonson smiled coldly. 'Signal Amadis and Adzikel: target enemy grand cruisers and launch torpedoes. Captain Stenius, you may fire at will.' More lance shots leapt from the rebel ships, and now the enemy weapon batteries were going into action as well, hurling streams of blazing shells at the oncoming Imperials. At the same time, torpedoes leapt from the tubes of the Astartes ships and the oncoming scout vessels, bracketing the rebel grand cruisers from both fore and aft. Heavy blows pummelled the battle barge to port and starboard. Alarms wailed. 'Multiple hits, decks five through twenty!' the Aegis Officer called out. 'Fire on deck twelve!' 'Signal the main force,' Jonson said calmly. 'New course three-zero-zero. All units, target enemy cruisers to port. Fire at will.' Wreathed in a maelstrom of fire, the Imperial ships swung ponderously to port, aiming away from the centre of the enemy formation and instead towards the four rebel cruisers on the enemy's flank. Along the dorsal gun decks of the battle barge, enormous turrets slowly traversed, bringing their massive bombardment cannons to bear on an Armiger-class cruiser. At the same time the battle barge's starboard weapons batteries went into action, hammering at the rebel ship's void shields with a hail

.' Wreathed in a maelstrom of fire, the Imperial ships swung ponderously to port, aiming away from the centre of the enemy formation and instead towards the four rebel cruisers on the enemy's flank. Along the dorsal gun decks of the battle barge, enormous turrets slowly traversed, bringing their massive bombardment cannons to bear on an Armiger-class cruiser. At the same time the battle barge's starboard weapons batteries went into action, hammering at the rebel ship's void shields with a hail of macro cannon shells. The enemy cruiser's shields flickered angrily under the relentless barrage before collapsing entirely. At the same time her lance batteries lashed at the Invincible Reason, raking her void shields from stem to stern. Beams of force pierced the defensive field and clawed through the barge's armoured hull. Seconds later the battle barge replied with a rolling salvo from her bombardment cannons. They boomed through the hull like war drums, each one growing louder as the volley marched closer to the bridge. The shells glowed as they sped through the void and smashed into the flanks of the rebel ship. Nemiel watched in awe as a series of massive explosions rippled through the cruiser's decks, until finally it blew apart in a flare of escaping plasma. Farther away, the grand cruisers at the centre of the enemy formation were reeling beneath the blows of Imperial torpedoes that struck them both fore and aft. The Forinax staggered out of the formation, her bridge aflame, while the Castigator saw most of her starboard gun decks smashed by a trio of powerful hits. The scout force reduced speed and continued their run behind the rebels, lashing at the enemy ships with their weapon batteries and energy lances. The Imperial ships plunged through the rebel formation, exchanging thunderous broadsides with the enemy. The smaller cruisers suffered greatly under the punishing blows of Jonson's larger ships; a Crusader received a broadside from both the Amadis and the Iron Duke that ripped her open and left her a burning hulk, while the second Armiger blew apart in another massive fireball as her reactor core was breached. Lances and shells hammered the Imperial ships as well; the flagship and the strike cruisers bore the brunt of the enemy fire, their armoured hulls riddled with multiple impacts and the glowing tracks of lance hits. Duchess Arbellatris staggered beneath a hail of fire; her hastily-repaired hull plating gave way beneath the onslaught, wracking the proud vessel with devastating internal explosions that left her drifting out of control. Flamberge and Lord Dante suffered as well, their upper decks and superstructure smashed by a hail of enemy shells, but the battered heavy cruisers held their course and returned fire with every weapon they had left. The exchange lasted barely fifteen seconds, though to Nemiel it seemed like an eternity. The void was rent with fire and streams of blazing debris. Ships and men died in the blink of an eye before the two forces drew away from one another on opposite courses. The scout force continued to harry the rebels as they sped away and began a slow turn to re-engage the Imperial battle group. 'Damage report!' Jonson ordered. The Invincible Reason shuddered like a wounded beast as she sped on towards Diamat. The air in the strategium was growing hazy with smoke as fires spread throughout the ship. Captain Stenius was bent over the Aegis Officer's station, his augmetic lenses glowing green in the reflected light of the flickering readouts. 'All ships report moderate to severe damage,' he replied. 'Duchess Arbellatris is not responding to signals. Flamberge and Lord Dante report heavy casualties. Iron Duke and Amadis have both sustained damage to their thrusters, and Amadis also reports that her flak batteries are out of action. Repairs are underway.' 'What about us?' the primarch said. 'How hard were we hit?' Stenius grimaced. 'Our armour stopped the worst of it, but we've got hull breaches all over the ship and a fire raging on three decks. The torpedo deck reports that the forward tubes are fouled, but they're working to clear them.' He shrugged. 'It's not good, but it could have been much worse.' Jonson smiled grimly. 'Don't tempt fate, Captain. We're not finished yet. Signal the main force to alter course to three-three-zero and launch the Stormbirds. We'll head straight for those transports and see if we can force them to weigh anchor. I'm betting the reserve force will opt to disengage rather than risk those ships.' He turned to Nemiel. 'Brother, it's time you made your way to the drop pods. We'll be over Diamat in another ten minutes.' FOUR UNCERTAIN ALLEGIANCES Caliban In the 200th year of the Emperor's Great Crusade THERE WAS AN ill wind blowing through the halls of Aldurukh, and Zahariel feared he was the only one who felt it. The courtyard was much the same as it had been when he was a young aspirant; the white paving stones were kept spotlessly clean, the more to highlight the dark grey stone of the spiral that had been laid there many hundreds of years before. The Order had used it as a training tool, incorporating the curving lines into their sword routines and close-order drills, but Brother-Librarian Israfael claimed that its significance was far more ancient. 'Walk the Labyrinth and meditate daily,' he told his students. 'Fix your eyes upon the path, and it will help to focus your mind.' Zahariel walked the spiral with slow, deliberate steps, his head covered by a deep woolen cowl and his hands tucked into the sleeves of his surplice. His eyes followed the endlessly curving line of dark stone, no longer truly seeing what was before him. The Librarian's mind was turned inward, buffeted by an unseen storm. He could feel the energies of the warp whipping about him like a gusting breeze, angry and turbulent. Israfael had warned him on the trip back from Sarosh that the winds of the warp were far stronger on Caliban than any other world he'd ever visited, and the senior Librarian had spent considerable time studying the phenomenon since they'd returned. From Zahariel's own observations, it seemed that the energies surrounding the vast fortress had grown increasingly agitated over the past few months. He knew from his training that the warp was sensitive to strong emotions - particularly the darker passions of fear, sadness and hate. Given the troubling events that were occurring beyond the walls of Aldurukh, the rising wind felt like an ill omen of things to come. The civil unrest spreading across Caliban baffled and troubled Zahariel, all the more so because it had evidently been building for a long time. He was dismayed to discover that the clues had been there all along. After learning of the situation from Luther, he had spent every free moment sifting through the vast message archives in the fortress's library. The Imperium operated and maintained Caliban's fast-growing vox and data networks, and every bit of message traffic - from personal calls to news broadcasts - were captured and archived as standard procedure. So far he'd managed to work his way back through several years' worth of data, and his Astartes training had taught him exactly what to look for. The patterns were obvious to one educated in the myriad ways of waging war. There was an insurrection spreading across Caliban. It was well-organised, well-equipped and growing bolder with each passing day. It hadn't been going on for months, or even a year, as Luther claimed, but possibly as long as a decade. Whoever was behind the unrest had been very careful, starting with small disturbances in scattered settlements and slowly expanding as their skill and experience increased. Reports of industrial accidents at weapon manufactories and other industrial sites had been written off in the past as the unfortunate consequence of a highly aggressive expansion program, but now Zahariel wondered how many of these accidents had actually been staged to cover up the theft of weapons and other military-grade equipment. Investigations by Munitorum officials and the local constabulary had been perfunctory at best, but the Imperial bureaucracy on Caliban was overworked and undermanned and there was good reason to believe that the planet's law enforcement organisation had been compromised. There was certainly enough evidence to indicate that the constabulary had been covering up the extent of the problem for a long time, but yet... How could Luther not have known? The ghostly pressure of the warp vanished, like a snuffed candle. Zahariel paused, took a deep breath, and tried to regain his focus once more. It seemed inconceivable to him that Luther had missed the signs for so long. He was justly famous for his intellect, one of the very few on Caliban who could converse with Jonson on an almost equal footing. Zahariel knew that Luther monitored the reports of the Administratum, the local militia and the constabulary as a matter of course - it was part of his duties as the master of Caliban. If the threat was obvious to him, it should have been glaringly so to a man like Luther. The implications were disturbing, to say the least. Zahariel wished there was someone he could talk to about his concerns. More than once he'd been tempted to bring the matter up to Brother Israfael, but the Librarian's stern and aloof demeanour had persuaded him against it. The only other member of the Legion he felt he could talk to had been Master Remiel, and now he was gone. The young Librarian cast his eyes skyward and found himself wishing, once again, that Nemiel had been sent home as well. Zahariel thought his cousin could be overly cynical at times, but right now he needed a pragmatic perspective more than anything else. As much as he wanted to believe that Luther was still a noble and virtuous knight at heart, Zahariel had a sacred duty to his Legion, his primarch, and above all, the Emperor himself.

could talk to had been Master Remiel, and now he was gone. The young Librarian cast his eyes skyward and found himself wishing, once again, that Nemiel had been sent home as well. Zahariel thought his cousin could be overly cynical at times, but right now he needed a pragmatic perspective more than anything else. As much as he wanted to believe that Luther was still a noble and virtuous knight at heart, Zahariel had a sacred duty to his Legion, his primarch, and above all, the Emperor himself. If there was corruption within the ranks he was obligated to do something about it, regardless of who might be involved, but he had to be absolutely certain before he took action. Morale among the brothers was tenuous enough as it was. Once again, Zahariel breathed deeply and tried to focus once more on his meditations. He closed his eyes, summoning up the mental rotes that Israfael had taught him, if only to drive away the worries that gnawed at his heart. He ruthlessly pushed conscious thought aside and emptied his mind. The ghostly wind gusted once more, surprising him with its strength. Invisible and insubstantial, it nevertheless pushed roughly against him. The force of it rocked him back on his heels; without thinking, he opened his eyes and found himself staring into the face of the storm. A pale blue glow suffused the courtyard, similar to moonlight but roiling like oil. Wild currents swirled and eddied around him, outlined in shades of black and grey; if he focused on them, they took on patterns that plucked uncomfortably at his mind. A faint, discordant moaning filled his head. The intensity of the vision startled the young Librarian for an instant. His concentration faltered - yet the sensations grew stronger. Dark, hooded figures stirred at the edges of his sight, and then a voice, alien and yet chillingly familiar, echoed in his mind. Remember your oath to us. Zahariel let out a startled cry and spun on his heel, seeking the source of the voice. Memories of his quest for the Calibanite Lion, more than fifty years past, flooded back to him in an instant. He remembered wandering into a remote part of the forest more haunted and evil than he had ever known before, and the strange, hooded creatures who had confronted him there. His hearts pounding wildly, Zahariel searched the courtyard's shadows for the Watchers in the Dark. The blue glow and the angry wind vanished from one blink to the next, and when his vision cleared, he found himself staring across the courtyard at the pensive figure of Luther. The master of Caliban was studying Zahariel intently. 'Is something wrong brother?' Luther said quietly. His voice was full of concern, but the knight's expression was inscrutable. Zahariel mastered himself quickly, controlling the flow of adrenaline and lowering his heart rate with a few controlled breaths. 'Brother-Librarian Israfael would reprimand me for letting someone catch me unawares while I was meditating,' he said. It shocked him how quickly the lie came to his lips. Silence fell between the two warriors. Luther studied Zahariel for a long moment, then smiled ruefully. 'We've all got a lot on our minds these days, haven't we?' 'More so than ever before,' Zahariel managed to say. Luther nodded in agreement. He crossed the courtyard quickly, his manner formal but his expression still guarded. 'I've been looking all over the fortress for you,' he said. Zahariel frowned. 'Why didn't you contact me on the vox?' 'Because some conversations don't belong on the network,' Luther replied in a low voice. 'I'm about to attend a very important meeting, and I want you there as well.' The Librarian's frown deepened. 'Of course,' he replied at once. Then, more hesitantly, he said, 'The hour is very late, brother. What's this about? Has something happened?' Luther's handsome face turned grim. 'An hour ago, insurgents launched attacks on foundries, manufactories and Administratum buildings all over Caliban,' he said. 'Since then, riots have broken out in a number of arcologies, including the new one up in the Northwilds.' His lip curled in an angry snarl. 'The constabulary has been unable to deal with the crisis, so I've despatched ten regiments of Jaegers to restore order.' The news stunned Zahariel. Suddenly, Luther's decision to withhold the Legion's reinforcements seemed almost prescient. The insurgency on Caliban had entered a dangerous new phase. His mind began to race, recalling reams of data on combat readiness, deployment times and logistics requirements for the Astartes chapters and support units on-planet. 'Will this be an operational meeting, or a strategic one?' he asked. 'I'll need a few minutes to collect the proper data files.' 'Neither,' Luther replied. His expression became guarded. 'The rebel leaders have been in contact with Lord Cypher. They want to meet with me under a flag of parley, and I've agreed. They'll arrive within the hour.' THE SHUTTLE WAS a standard Imperial design, anonymous and unnoticed among the hundreds of craft coming and going from the landing fields around Aldurukh. At precisely two hours past midnight, the transport touched down and lowered its landing ramp. Its engines subsided to an idle hum as five individuals moved quickly and purposefully down the ramp and crossed the permacrete towards the open doorway of a nearby hangar. They entered the cavernous space warily, scanning the deep shadows for potential threats. Finding none, the rebel leaders and their lone escort crossed to the centre of the building, where Luther and Zahariel stood in the glow of one of the hangar's many floodlights. Zahariel watched the traitors approach and tried to remain outwardly calm. His mind was in turmoil, torn between outrage and obedience. Luther's decision to meet with the leaders of the insurrection shocked him to the core; it went against everything the Legion had taught him. Defiance of Imperial law demanded swift and ruthless action, without mercy or compromise. Negotiation of any kind was unthinkable, and threatened to undermine the Emperor's authority. Entire worlds had been devastated for less. But this wasn't some strange, isolated planet like Sarosh. This was Caliban. These were his people, and Zahariel knew in his heart that they weren't corrupt or evil. Perhaps that was what was foremost in Luther's mind as well, he thought. It served no one, least of all the Emperor, if millions of innocent lives were lost thanks to the actions of a misguided few. And if anyone could convince these men to abandon their cause, it was Luther. So Zahariel told himself, and tried to master the doubts that gnawed at his heart. The five figures each wore an aspirant's hooded surplice, hiding their faces in shadow. None of them were armed, as the ancient traditions of parley demanded. As they stepped into the circle of light, Zahariel felt a rising pain in the back of his head. His vision wavered; the hooded figures seemed to double before his eyes, and the light flickered strangely. The Librarian screwed his eyes shut and used the rotes he'd learned from Israfael to try and clear his mind. When he opened them again, his vision was clear, but the pain refused to go away. The rebel leaders drew back their hoods, one by one. Lord Cypher was in the lead, his expression flat and unreadable. The others Zahariel recognised with a mix of anger and dismay. The first of the rebel leaders was Lord Thuriel, scion of a noble family in the southlands that still clung stubbornly to its last vestiges of wealth and power. Behind him came Lord Malchial, the son of a famous knight who had earned much renown during Jonson's crusade against the great beasts. The fact that he and Thuriel had been bitter enemies for decades led Zahariel to wonder what could have possibly united them so. After Malchial came another surprise: the third rebel leader was a woman. Lady Alera had inherited her title when all four of her brothers had been killed in the Northwilds, and under her leadership her household had prospered until the coming of the Emperor. Now her fortunes were in decline, like all of Caliban's noble families, but she remained a force to be reckoned with. But the last of the rebels was the most surprising of all. Zahariel recognised the man's ruined face at once: more than a half a century ago, Sar Daviel had been among the knights who had stormed the fortress of the Knights of Lupus, and was one of the warriors who fought the terrible beasts that their foes had loosed upon the Order. A monster's huge paw had crushed the right side of his face, caving in his cheekbone and bursting his eye. The creature's talons had carved Daviel's flesh down to the bone in five ragged arcs that stretched from his right ear all the way to his chin. By some miracle he'd survived the terrible wound, but when the Emperor had come and the Order had been absorbed into the Legion his request to join the ranks of the Astartes had been denied. The young knight had left Aldurukh soon after, and none knew what had become of him. Daviel was an old man now; his hair had grown white and his face seamed with decades of hard living out on Caliban's ever-shrinking frontier, but his body was still lean and strong for a man almost seventy years of age. Thuriel caught sight of Zahariel, and the noble's sharp, aristocratic features darkened with rage. He rounded on Cypher. 'You assured us that only Luther would attend the parley,' he snapped. Lady Alera and Lord Malchial cast suspicious looks at the Librarian's tall, imposing form. 'That's not for Lord Cypher to decide,' Luther replied in a steely tone. 'Brother-Librarian Zahariel is my lieutenant; anything you say to me can be said to him as well.' He folded his arms and stared forbiddingly at the rebels. 'You requested this parley, so let's hear what you have to say.' The cool menace in Luther's voice caused Lord Thuriel to pale slightly. Malchial and Alera looked uneasily at one anoth

lera and Lord Malchial cast suspicious looks at the Librarian's tall, imposing form. 'That's not for Lord Cypher to decide,' Luther replied in a steely tone. 'Brother-Librarian Zahariel is my lieutenant; anything you say to me can be said to him as well.' He folded his arms and stared forbiddingly at the rebels. 'You requested this parley, so let's hear what you have to say.' The cool menace in Luther's voice caused Lord Thuriel to pale slightly. Malchial and Alera looked uneasily at one another, but neither seemed willing to speak. Finally Sar Daviel let out an impatient growl and said, 'We speak for the free peoples of Caliban, my lord, and we declare that the Imperial occupation must end.' 'Occupation?' Luther echoed, his voice faintly incredulous. 'Caliban is an Imperial world now, governed and protected by the Emperor's law and the might of the First Legion.' 'Protected? More like conquered,' Malchial interjected. 'It was Lion El'Jonson who welcomed the Emperor - his father, if rumours be true - to Caliban and delivered the planet into his hands.' 'For all we know, that was their plan all along,' Lady Alera snapped. 'It seems very convenient to me that Jonson arrives on Caliban under very mysterious circumstances, and then, just when he's gained control of the planet's knightly orders, the Emperor just happens to find him.' 'That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard,' Zahariel snapped. 'You people don't know what you're talking about! If you had any idea how vast the Imperium is-' Luther cut off the Librarian with an upraised hand and a warning glance. 'My lieutenant speaks out of turn,' he said smoothly. 'Nevertheless, your suspicions, Lady Alera, are groundless at best. As to you, Lord Malchial, how do you defend the assertion that my primarch delivered Caliban to the Emperor? Our own legends speak of Caliban's ties to distant Terra. Now, thanks to the Emperor, those ties have been restored, and our planet has entered a new age of prosperity.' 'Prosperity?' Lord Thuriel snarled. The noble's initial pallor had vanished beneath a swelling tide of outrage. 'Is that what you call the wholesale plundering of our world? Perhaps if you'd stuck your head outside the walls of this spreading canker you call a fortress you'd see how Caliban suffers! Our forests are gone, our villages ploughed under, our mountains cracked open like nuts and scraped clean by huge mining machines! Noble families that fought and bled for their lands and their people for generations have been disinherited, their feudal subjects carried off and put to work in Imperial factories and mines. And the knightly orders who might have protected us from all of this have all been disbanded or-' he glanced up at Zahariel's giant form '-altered nearly beyond recognition.' Zahariel's fists clenched at the implied insult. Only Luther's steady demeanour kept the Librarian's anger in check and the rules of parley intact. By contrast, the Master of Caliban folded his arms and chuckled softly. 'And now we get to the heart of things,' he said with a mirthless grin. He indicated the rebel leaders with a sweep of his hand. 'Your grievances are personal, not collective; you're not rebelling for the sake of your feudal subjects, as you call them, but because you've lost the wealth and power your families have hoarded over the centuries. Do you imagine that the majority of our people would actually want to become peasant farmers once more? The Emperor has completed the process that Jonson began here with the Order: providing safety, security and above all, equality for everyone, regardless of their class or station.' Lady Alera looked pointedly from Luther to Zahariel and back again. 'Clearly some people are more equal than others,' she said. Luther shook his head, refusing to take the bait. 'Appearances can be deceiving,' he replied evenly. 'Indeed they can,' Sar Daviel said, stepping to the front of the group. 'Look at me, brother. I'm no pampered earl's son. I earned these scars by your side in the Northwilds, serving Jonson's vision. And how was I rewarded?' Luther sighed. 'Brother, it was nothing more than cruel fate that kept you from the ranks of the Legion. Your injuries were too severe to permit the process of transformation, just as I was too advanced in years. It was your decision to leave. You still had a place at Aldurukh.' 'Doing what?' Daviel shot back. 'Polishing the armour of my betters? Scurrying through the halls like a pageboy?' Tears shone at the corners of his remaining eye. 'I'm a knight, Luther. That used to mean something. It meant something to you, once upon a time. You were the greatest among us, and frankly it kills me to see how Jonson has used you all these years.' Zahariel saw Luther stiffen slightly. Daviel's blow had struck home. 'Have a care, brother,' Luther said, his voice subdued. 'You presume too much. Jonson united this world. He saved us from the threat of the beasts. I could never have done that.' But Daviel didn't waver. He held Luther's gaze without flinching. 'I think you could have,' he replied. 'Jonson could never have convinced the other knightly orders to support his crusade against the beasts. You did that. The plan might have been his, but you were the one who rallied an entire world behind it. The truth is that Jonson owes you everything. And look how he has repaid you. He's cast you aside, just like me.' 'You don't know what you're talking about!' Luther snarled, his voice sharp with anger. 'Not so,' Daviel said, shaking his head sadly. 'I was there, brother. I watched it happen. When I was a child, my greatest ambition was to become a knight and ride at your side. I know what a great man you are, even if no one on Caliban still remembers. Jonson knows, too. How could he not? You raised him like a son, after all. And now he's left you behind, like the rest of us.' Lady Alera stepped forward. 'What has the Imperium truly given us? Yes, the forests are gone, and with them the beasts, but now our people have been herded into arcologies and put to work in manufactories or recruited to serve in the Imperial Army. Every hour of every day we see a little more of ourselves carved away and carried off into the stars, to serve a cause that doesn't benefit us in the least.' 'You can scorn the old ways if you wish, Luther,' Lord Thuriel added, 'but before the creation of the Order, the noble houses provided the knights that fought and died for the peasantry. Yes, we took our due, but we gave back as well. We served in our own way. How do Jonson and the Emperor serve us? They take the very best of what we have and give little or nothing in return. Surely you of all people can see that.' 'I see nothing of the kind,' Luther answered, but his expression had grown clouded. 'What about medicines, or better education? What about art and civilization?' Malchial snorted derisively. 'Medicines and education that make us better labourers, you mean. And what good are art or entertainments when you're too busy slaving in a manufactory to appreciate them?' 'Do you imagine ours is the only world called upon to contribute to the Great Crusade?' Luther replied. 'Zahariel is right. If you only knew the scope of the Emperor's undertaking.' 'What we know is that we're being impoverished for the sake of people we don't know and have never seen,' Thuriel countered. 'We've had our culture and traditions taken from us,' Daviel interjected. 'And now our people are in greater danger than ever before.' Luther frowned. 'What is that supposed to mean?' he asked, some of the anger returning to his voice. Daviel started to answer, but Malchial cut him off. 'It means that Caliban's suffering will continue to worsen under Imperial rule. The question is whether or not you will stand by and allow it to happen.' 'You're not our enemy, Sar Luther,' Lady Alera said. 'We know you're a brave and honourable man. Our fight is with the Imperium, not with you or your warriors.' Zahariel stepped forward. 'We are servants of the Emperor, my lady.' 'But you're also sons of Caliban,' the noble countered. 'And this is your world's darkest hour.' 'Join us, brother,' Sar Daviel said to Luther. 'You've denied your destiny for too long. Embrace it at last. Remember what it was like to be a knight and ride to your people's defence.' 'Defence?' Zahariel said. 'It's you who have taken up arms against your fellow citizens. Even now your rebels are fighting constabulary officers and Jaegers all across the planet, and innocent people are suffering in the riots you've spawned.' He turned angrily to Luther. 'You can see what they're trying to do, can't you? If we move quickly our battle brothers can crush this revolt in a matter of hours. Don't let them play on your jealousies-' Luther rounded on Zahariel. 'That's enough, brother,' he said, his voice as hard as iron. The sharp tone brought the Librarian up short. The Master of Caliban glared at him a moment longer, then turned back to the rebels. 'This parley is finished,' he declared. 'Lord Cypher will return you from whence you came. After that, you will have twenty-four hours to order your forces to cease all operations and turn themselves in to local authorities.' The rebel leaders glared angrily at Luther, all except for Daviel, who shook his head sadly. 'How can you do this?' he said. 'How can you think I wouldn't?' Luther shot back. 'If you think I hold my honour so cheaply, then you're no brother of mine,' he said. 'You have twenty-four hours. Use them wisely.' Thuriel turned to Lady Alera and Lord Malchial. 'You see? I told you this was pointless.' He shot a venomous look at Lord Cypher. 'We're ready to leave,' the noble said, and headed swiftly for the waiting shuttle. One by one, the rebel leaders fell in behind Thuriel and walked out into the pre-dawn darkness. Zahariel felt tension drain from the muscles in his neck as the pain in his head began to ease. He made a mental note to as

of mine,' he said. 'You have twenty-four hours. Use them wisely.' Thuriel turned to Lady Alera and Lord Malchial. 'You see? I told you this was pointless.' He shot a venomous look at Lord Cypher. 'We're ready to leave,' the noble said, and headed swiftly for the waiting shuttle. One by one, the rebel leaders fell in behind Thuriel and walked out into the pre-dawn darkness. Zahariel felt tension drain from the muscles in his neck as the pain in his head began to ease. He made a mental note to ask Israfael about the episodes. Whatever was causing them, they were clearly getting worse. Luther walked along behind the departing rebels, his expression lost in thought. After a moment, Zahariel followed. Part of him wanted to insist that Luther arrest the rebel leaders on the spot - the parley was a convention of Caliban's rules of warfare, not those of the Imperium, so the Legion wasn't truly bound by it. But another part of his mind warned that he'd already overstepped his bounds with Luther, and Zahariel was uncertain what might happen if he pressed further. The engines of the shuttle rose to a pulsing roar as the rebels hurried to the waiting ramp. Zahariel stopped just outside the hangar, but Luther continued on, escorting the leaders across the permacrete. Daviel was the last to board the shuttle. At the bottom of the ramp he turned to regard Luther. Zahariel could see the old knight say something to the Master of Caliban, but his voice was lost in the shriek of the shuttle's turbines. When Daviel had disappeared inside the shuttle, Luther turned and made his way back to the hangar. Behind him, the transport lifted off in a cloud of dust and sped off westward, racing ahead of the dawn. Zahariel watched Luther approach and braced himself for a sharp rebuke. The knight's face was deeply troubled. When he reached the Librarian's side, he turned to watch the dwindling lights of the shuttle's thrusters and sighed. 'We should get back to the strategium,' he said. 'We've got a lot of work to do.' The Librarian nodded. 'You don't think they'll heed your warning?' 'No, of course not,' Luther replied. 'But the words needed to be said, nonetheless.' After a moment he added, 'Best we kept this meeting to ourselves, brother. I would not want any misunderstandings to impact morale.' Zahariel knew an order when he heard one. He nodded curtly and watched the shuttle disappear from sight. 'What was it that Sar Daviel said to you, just before he left?' he asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral. Luther stared out into the darkness. 'He said that Jonson betrayed us all. The forests are gone, but the monsters still remain.' FIVE INTO THE CAULDRON Diamat In the 200th year of the Emperor's Great Crusade NEMIEL REACHED THE midships ordnance deck at a dead run, his helmet locked in place and counting the seconds he had left until the battle barge entered Diamat's atmosphere. Already he could feel the rhythmic thunder of the ship's gun batteries rumbling through the deck plates beneath his feet, which meant that the battle group was trading fire with the enemy reserve squadron. Jonson was racing forward with his ships as quickly as he could to deploy his Astartes onto the beleaguered forge world, and Nemiel had no intention of keeping the primarch waiting. Thick, heavy steel hatches were clanging shut in rapid succession along the length of the cavernous drop bay as the assault pods were sealed into their launch tubes like oversized torpedoes. Only one pod still sat in its loading cradle, poised above the last of the portside launch tubes. A single hatch was still open, red light spilling down the steel ramp from the cocoon-like re-entry compartment within. A single, heavy blow rang sharply through the bulkheads; an enemy shell had penetrated the flagship's armour and detonated on one of the decks above. There was an ordnance crew waiting for Nemiel at the foot of the open pod; they followed him up the ramp, ensured he was locked into the re-entry harness and fitted a series of data cables to interface plugs set into his armour's helmet and power plant. They completed their tasks in just a few seconds and retreated from the pod without a single word. Nemiel barely noticed; he was already tapping into the fleet command net through the pod's vox array. Readouts flickered coldly across the lenses of his helmet. Icons of red and blue flared to life, silhouetted against the curve of a planet. At first he struggled to make sense of the torrent of information, but within a few seconds a coherent picture of the orbital battle took shape. The reserve squadron had formed a wall of steel between the heavy cargo carriers and Jonson's onrushing ships. The Dark Angels' Stormbirds, however, had already raced past the rebel cordon and were even now launching strafing runs on the largely defenceless transports. With the Duchess Arbellatris out of action, Jonson was left with just six ships against eight undamaged enemy cruisers, but the rebel ships were caught at anchor, with little room to manoeuvre against the fast-moving Astartes ships. A salvo of torpedoes was already speeding towards the rebel cruisers' flanks, and the battle barge and her strike cruisers were well within range to open fire with their devastating bombardment cannons. So long as they were committed to protecting the transports, the cruisers were practically stationary targets for the battle group's combined firepower. No sooner had the ramp sealed shut over Nemiel's re-entry compartment than the whole pod gave a grinding lurch and began to descend into its launch tube. Kohl's gruff, sardonic voice reverberated from Nemiel's vox-bead over the squad net. 'Good to have you join us, brother,' he said sarcastically. 'I was beginning to think you'd gotten lost.' 'We can't all spend our time lounging around in a drop pod, sergeant,' Nemiel said with a chuckle. The pod jolted to a stop with a loud clang, then came the thud of the hatch sealing overhead. 'Some of us have to do proper work so you can live this life of leisure.' A chorus of deep voices laughed quietly over the vox. Nemiel smiled and glanced over the status readouts of Kohl's Astartes. All nine of the warriors showed green on the display, which was no less than he expected. He had fought alongside them for so long that he'd come to think of them as his own squad, and much preferred their jibes over the deferential respect that most other members of the Legion afforded him. Kohl began to growl a retort but was cut off by a priority signal over the fleet command channel. 'Battle Force Alpha, this is command,' Captain Stenius called over the vox. 'We are thirty seconds from orbital insertion-' a hollow boom echoed through the battle barge's hull and the signal broke up into squealing static for a second '-are now in contact with Imperial forces on the ground. Inloading new drop coordinates and tactical data to your onboards now. Stand by.' Seconds later the schematic of the orbital battle disappeared, replaced by a detailed map of a battle-scarred city and the outlying districts of a massive forge complex. The city - identified in the image as Xanthus, Diamat's capital - was built along the shore of a restless, slate-grey ocean, and stretched for dozens of kilometres north and south along the rocky coastline. Twenty kilometres east of the city outskirts, far inland along a desolate plain of black rock and drifts of red oxide, rose the conical slopes of a massive volcano that lay at the heart of the Adeptus Mechanicum's primary forge on Diamat. Many hundreds of years in the past, the scions of Mars had bored into the corpus of the dormant volcano and tapped the geothermal energies within, fuelling the vast smelters, foundries and manufactories that surrounded it. At the far edge of the great plain, the city sprawl and the forge's warehouse complexes met. Squalid subsids and reeking shanty towns fetched up hard against a towering permacrete wall that separated the orderly world of the Mechanicum from the haphazard lives of ordinary humans. Nemiel took it all in, absorbing every detail with his keenly-trained mind. Icons blinked into life across this grey zone between the city proper and the great forge: blue for the units of the Tanagran Dragoons, and red for Horus's traitors. It took only a moment for the Redemptor to realise that the situation on the ground was desperate indeed. Xanthus proper had been subjected to prolonged orbital bombardment over the course of several weeks. The city centre was a burnt-out wasteland, and the great, artificial bay of the harbour district was dotted with the hulls of hundreds of broken or capsized ships. To the southeast of the city, connected by tramways to both the city and the great forge complex, lay the planet's primary star port. The port was firmly in rebel hands. Nemiel counted six heavy cargo haulers landed at the site, surrounded by rebel support units and at least a regiment of mechanised troops. Rebel ground forces had been advancing up the tramway towards the forge complex with four infantry regiments and approximately a regiment of heavy armour, and had apparently managed to break through an Imperial strongpoint covering the forge's southern entrance. There was no data on enemy troop strength or Mechanicum defence forces inside the complex itself. Nemiel suspected that the data had all come from the Imperial forces on-planet, and they had no idea what was going on behind the walls of the Mechanicum preserve. Blue icons were driving south and east through the grey zone towards the rebels along the tramway; two under-strength regiments supported by a battalion of armour, trying to hit the rebels in the flank and drive them away from the forge. It was a valiant attempt, but the rebels had already stymied the Imperial counter-attack along a rough front some five kilometres north of the tramway. 'Ten seconds to orbital insertion,' Captain Stenius said over

n behind the walls of the Mechanicum preserve. Blue icons were driving south and east through the grey zone towards the rebels along the tramway; two under-strength regiments supported by a battalion of armour, trying to hit the rebels in the flank and drive them away from the forge. It was a valiant attempt, but the rebels had already stymied the Imperial counter-attack along a rough front some five kilometres north of the tramway. 'Ten seconds to orbital insertion,' Captain Stenius said over the vox. 'Battle Force Alpha, stand by for drop.' Glowing blue circles appeared on the tactical map, showing the landing zone for the drop. The two companies would come down in a chain of foothills that bordered the very southern edge of the plain, some two kilometres south of the rebel-held tramway. The strategy from there was obvious: the Astartes would advance north and strike the rebels from their other flank, cutting access to the tramway and trapping them against the Imperial forces further north. The elevated terrain south of the tramway provided excellent fields of fire and ample cover for the Dark Angels, allowing them to target the rebel forces at will. Once resistance along the tramway had been eliminated Nemiel reckoned that one company would remain to hold the road against reinforcements approaching from the star port, while the other company would enter the forge complex itself and hunt down any rebel forces operating there. 'Five seconds. Four... three... two... one. Begin drop sequence.' A massive impact hammered into the Invincible Reason's port side, hard enough to slam Nemiel against this re-entry harness, and everything went black. JONSON HAD BROUGHT his battle group into Diamat at a fairly steep angle, intending to close with the rebels as rapidly as possible and deploy the landing force. Since the cruisers and the transports they guarded were in geo-synchronous orbits over Diamat's main forge complex, this brought the two forces into point-blank range. Weapons batteries and lance turrets blazed away at the Imperial ships, which responded with a spread of torpedoes and the deadly bombardment cannons of the flagship and her strike cruisers. The battle barge was wreathed in a hail of explosions as she drove ever closer to the enemy battle-line. At the last moment, the Invincible Reason and her strike cruisers slewed to starboard, almost paralleling the enemy cruisers as the flagship prepared to release its drop pods. Less than fifty kilometres to port - appallingly close range for a naval engagement - a rebel Armiger-class cruiser raked the battle barge's flank with its heavy lance batteries. Torpedo impacts had gouged deep craters in the Armiger's hull, igniting fires deep in the bowels of the stricken cruiser. The flagship's bombardment cannons fired a rolling volley into the Armiger. At such close range, each and every shell found its mark. The giant rounds - five times the mass and explosive power of a standard macro cannon shell - punched through the cruiser's armour and touched off a chain of catastrophic explosions inside the hull that overloaded the ship's plasma reactor. The huge warship disintegrated in a tremendous explosion, hurling molten debris in every direction. One piece of the destroyed cruiser - a hunk of armoured superstructure as large as a city block - smashed into the flagship's port side just as she began her drop sequence. The Invincible Reason lurched to starboard under the tremendous impact, throwing off the precise manoeuvres directed by the ship's Ordnance Officer. But it was too late to abort; the automatic sequence had activated and the pods were firing at a rate of two per second. Within ten seconds all two hundred Astartes had been launched, their pods scattering through the atmosphere over the battle zone. THE DROP POD'S onboard power plant restarted a second after launch. Data displays flickered back to life and attitude thrusters fired, correcting the pod's corkscrewing tumble through the atmosphere. It juddered and shook like a toy in a giant's rough hands. Tortured air howled past the drop pod's rudimentary stabilisers, but their vertiginous spiral finally ceased. The flagship had been hit hard, Nemiel reckoned, which meant that they had likely been knocked outside their deployment envelope. He scanned the readouts quickly while the pod's logic engines read its trajectory and projected its new landing point. A yellow circle pulsed on the tactical map. Nemiel frowned. They were going to come down a few kilometres north of the tramway now, right into the middle of the rebel forces who were holding off the Imperial counterattack. That was going to complicate things. Nemiel checked the command frequency, but heard only static. Between the atmospheric ionization and the thick hulls of the drop pods, he wouldn't be able to speak to Force Commander Lamnos until the Astartes had reached the ground. The Redemptor switched over to the squad net. 'Everyone still here?' he called. 'You were expecting us to go somewhere, brother?' Kohl replied at once. A new voice came over the vox, mellower than Kohl but just as amused. 'I don't know about the rest of you, but I could stand to stretch my legs,' Askelon, their Techmarine, said with a chuckle. 'All this lying about is bad for the circulation.' 'Says the one who spends all his time with his head and shoulders buried in a maintenance bay,' Kohl retorted. 'Which makes me an authority on the subject, wouldn't you agree?' Askelon replied. 'That'll be the day,' snorted Brother Marthes, the squad's meltagunner. 'The day Sergeant Kohl stops being disagreeable is the day he stops breathing.' 'That's the stupidest thing I ever heard,' Kohl grumbled, and the squad laughed in reply. The turbulence of re-entry rose to a bone-shaking crescendo and then held steady for a punishing nine-and-a-half minutes until a warning icon flashed on the display and the retro thrusters kicked in. The Ordnance division aboard the flagship had programmed the pods to deploy their thrusters at the last possible moment, just in case there was a significant anti-aircraft threat over the drop zone. The jolt was akin to being kicked in the backside by a Titan, Nemiel mused. An ear-splitting roar swelled up from beneath their feet as the thrusters flared to full power for three full seconds, right up to the point of impact. Nemiel felt another, much lesser jolt, and dimly heard a rending crash, then a series of small, sharp impacts reverberated through the pod's hull before it finally came to rest. Nemiel's display blanked, flashing an urgent red. 'Disengage and deploy!' he shouted over the squad net, and hit the quick-release on his re-entry harness. There was a hiss and a rush of hot, reeking air as the ramp in front of him began to deploy - then stopped at roughly a sixty-degree angle. The hydraulics whined insistently, nearly shifting the pod's bulk with the effort, before the safety interlocks kicked in and aborted the process. At the back of his mind, Nemiel sensed that the deck beneath him was angled slightly. He growled with irritation, took a step forward and planted a foot against the ramp. He heard a crackle of masonry; the ramp rebounded slightly, then lowered another half a degree. Acrid smoke and waves of heat were starting to penetrate the inside of the re-entry chamber. Nemiel heard muffled cursing over the vox-net as other members of the squad tried to force their own way out of the pod. He took hold of the entry frame with one hand and the ramp's edge with the other and clambered up and out, then saw at once what had happened. The pod had come down squarely atop a multistorey hab unit, punching like a bullet through at least four or five floors before finally coming to rest in the building's decrepit basement. Faint sunlight filtered down through the gaping hole of the floor above, all but occluded by clouds of increasingly thick smoke. The pod's retro thrusters had set the building's upper storeys ablaze. Several of the pod's ramps had managed to open fully, while others, like Nemiel's, had been blocked by piles of debris. Brother-Sergeant Kohl was braced against the side of the pod and helping free Brother Vardus and his cumbersome heavy bolter. Brother Askelon came around the side of the pod closest to Nemiel. His powerful servo arm deployed above his shoulder with a faint whine as he placed his feet carefully among the rubble. 'Stand clear!' he called, then opened the gripping claw of his arm and extended it against the side of the pod. Servo-motors hummed with gathering power. Askelon slid backwards a few centimetres; Nemiel stepped forward and tried to help brace him. Then, with a grating of powdered masonry and a groan of metal, the pod shifted slowly upright. 'Well done, brother,' Nemiel said, clapping the Techmarine on the shoulder as the pod's ramps fully deployed. 'Sergeant Kohl, find us a way out of here.' 'Aye, Brother-Redemptor,' Kohl answered, his tone all business now. He snapped orders to his squad, and the Astartes went to work. Already, Nemiel could hear the snap and crackle of lasgun fire outside, followed by the hollow bark of bolters. Within seconds the squad was scrambling up a fallen slab of permacrete to reach the building's ground floor. Flaming debris fell amongst the Astartes like stray meteors; small pieces clattered harmlessly off their armour. At ground level, Sergeant Kohl pulled an auspex unit from his belt and took a compass reading in the smoky haze. 'Orders?' he asked Nemiel. The Redemptor made a snap decision. 'We go north,' he said to Kohl. Kohl checked the glowing readout once more, nodded curtly, and headed off into the blackness. The Astartes didn't bother fumbling about for a doorway - when he encountered an inner wall he barrelled right through the flimsy flakboard with scarcely a pause. In moments, the squad saw a large square of hazy light up ahead. Kohl led the squad throu

m his belt and took a compass reading in the smoky haze. 'Orders?' he asked Nemiel. The Redemptor made a snap decision. 'We go north,' he said to Kohl. Kohl checked the glowing readout once more, nodded curtly, and headed off into the blackness. The Astartes didn't bother fumbling about for a doorway - when he encountered an inner wall he barrelled right through the flimsy flakboard with scarcely a pause. In moments, the squad saw a large square of hazy light up ahead. Kohl led the squad through the viewport at a run, emerging onto the street outside in a shower of glittering glass shards and a billow of dirty grey smoke. They were on a narrow avenue running roughly east-west through the grey zone. Piles of debris and dozens of blackened bodies dotted the road as far as Nemiel could see. Most of the buildings fronting the street were little more than hollowed-out shells, their facades blackened and cratered by small arms fire. A smashed six-wheel military transport lay on its side a few dozen metres to the squad's right, its tyres still burning. The air reverberated with the crackle and thump of weapons fire and the ominous whistle of mortar rounds arcing overhead. The roar of petrochem engines echoed up a narrow cross-street just twenty metres to the squad's left. Nemiel recognised the sound at once: Imperial military APC's, moving fast. It sounded like four vehicles - a full mechanised platoon. 'Ambush pattern epsilon!' He called out, waving half the squad to the opposite side of the street. Kohl followed after the warriors, his bolt pistol scanning for threats. Brother Marthes knelt behind a pile of blackened rubble to Nemiel's immediate left, bracing his heavy bolter atop the pile. The Redemptor drew his bolt pistol and hit the activation stud on his crozius aquilum. The double-headed eagle atop the staff blazed with crackling blue energies. The APCs reached the corner in seconds, rumbling fast up the cross-street towards the front line a few more kilometres north. They were lightly-armoured Testudo personnel carriers, armed with a turret auto-cannon and capable of transporting a full squad of troops. Their drivers were going all-out, kicking up thick plumes of black exhaust from their engine decks. The Dark Angels had gone to ground with admirable speed and skill, concealing their presence behind piles of debris or in the entry niches of several ruined buildings. Just as the APCs appeared, one of the Astartes stepped out of cover and raised the muzzle of his stubby meltagun. Brother Marthes brought the antitank weapon to bear on the flank of the lead Testudo and touched the firing stud, unleashing a blast of high-intensity microwaves that converted the vehicle's metal hull into superheated plasma. The APC's fuel tanks exploded in a ground-shaking whump, blowing the Testudo apart in a shower of blazing fragments. Brother Vardus opened fire a second later, raking the rear Testudo with an extended burst of heavy bolter fire. The mass-reactive rounds exploded against the APC's armoured hide and gouged craters in its solid tyres. Here and there the rounds found a seam in the armour plates and penetrated into the APC, wreaking bloody havoc on the men crammed within. The Testudo lurched to a stop, smoke pouring from the holes punched in its side. The two middle APC's swerved left to try and avoid the burning wreck of the lead vehicle and escape the kill zone. Their turrets slewed to the right and spat a stream of high-explosive shells down the street, blasting more holes into the burnt-out buildings and digging up sprays of permacrete from the rubble piles. Brother Marthes switched his aim and fired at the next APC in line, but this time his shot went a little high, striking the vehicle's small turret and ripping it open. Autocannon shells cooked off in the blast of heat, wreathing the Testudo's upper deck in angry flashes of red, and the APC abruptly lost speed. The second Testudo, moving too fast to stop, rear-ended the damaged vehicle and spun it ninety degrees to the right, nearly flipping it over. Vardus levelled the heavy bolter at the two immobilised APCs and hammered them with short, precise bursts. Nemiel watched the rear ramp of the second Testudo come down and raised his bolt pistol. As the panicked squad fled from the stricken vehicle, he and the rest of the squad cut them down with a volley of bolter fire. The last of the rebels had yet to hit the ground when Marthes fired another shot at the damaged APC, this time scoring a direct hit and immolating the men trapped inside. It was a far cry from the old tales of chivalry he'd been taught on Caliban, Nemiel thought, surveying the carnage with clinical detachment. War was about butchery, plain and simple. Notions of glory came long afterward, he'd come to realise, imagined by those who had never seen the reality with their own eyes. Nemiel's vox-bead crackled to life. 'All units, location and status check,' Force Commander Lamnos said tersely. Brother-Sergeant Kohl and two other squad members dashed down the street to check the wrecked vehicles and ensure there were no survivors. Nemiel called up a map of the landing zone on his tactical display and checked his coordinates. They'd come down just a kilometre and a half north of the tramway, close to the forge's southern entrance. 'This is squad Alpha Six. Status is green. Awaiting orders,' he replied, providing their coordinates. 'Affirmative, Alpha Six. Stand by,' Lamnos answered at once. Less than a minute later the Force Commander came back. 'Alpha Six, we're getting a signal that Echo Four's pod is down but failed to deploy. Enemy forces are closing in on Echo's location from the south. Link up with Echo Four and ascertain its status immediately. Stand by for coordinates.' Nemiel compared the coordinates to his tactical map. Echo Four had come down half a kilometre to the southeast, closer to the forge complex. 'We're on our way. Alpha Six out,' he replied. Kohl and his warriors returned from the killing ground. 'There's mechanised infantry with Testudo APCs coming up the street from the direction of the tramway,' he reported. 'They'll have to wait,' Nemiel said. 'We're heading east. Echo Four is in some kind of trouble; the pod probably came down inside another building, and the ramps won't deploy. We've got to get there before the rebels do.' Kohl nodded his helmeted head and addressed the squad. 'Askelon, you wanted a nice walk in the sunshine, so don't let me hear you crying if you can't keep up. Brother Yung and Brother Cortus, you're on point. Let's move!' Without a word the squad rose from cover and set off east down the street, their boltguns sweeping ahead and to the flanks in search of targets. Nemiel fell into step with Techmarine Askelon and Brother Marthes beside him, while Kohl and three other squad members brought up the rear. Farther east, the grey wall of the forge complex rose above the smoking ruins of the grey zone. Tall, blinking towers made a metal forest beyond that forbidding barrier, girding the flanks of the bound volcano at the heart of the Mechanicum's domain. Plumes of orange and black smoke hung heavily about the complex, giving the place a nightmarish cast. We came all this way to defend that? Nemiel grinned ruefully within the confines of his helmet. It hardly seemed like the kind of place worth dying for. SIX ANGELS OF DEATH Caliban In the 200th year of the Emperor's Great Crusade 'THIS IS EPSILON Three-Niner Heavy, lifting from zone four! I'm taking fire!' The panicked vox-transmission cut through the hectic buzz of conversation in the fortress strategium, tearing Zahariel's attention from the glowing panes of after-action reports projected above his desk. Gritting his teeth, he blanked his hololith display and stepped swiftly from his office into the bustling chamber beyond. It was mid-afternoon of the fourteenth day since the insurgents' global campaign began and so far the violence showed no signs of abating. The strategium had been in constant operation ever since, staffed by a mix of Legion officers and aides and senior commanders of the Jaeger regiments in action across Caliban. The men and women of the Jaegers struggled to cope with the constantly shifting nature of the enemy attacks, and the pressure of maintaining civil order while simultaneously trying to come to grips with insurgent cells that avoided direct combat as much as possible. They consumed pots of bitter tea and stim capsules and tried to match the stoic calm of the Astartes that loomed in their midst, but he could feel their frustration as the cargo hauler's distress call broadcast from the vox-unit across the room. Zahariel caught sight of Luther standing near the vox-unit, listening intently. So far as he knew, the Master of Caliban hadn't left the strategium for days on end. A new voice crackled over the vox as Zahariel worked his way across the chamber. He heard a Legion air defence controller say, 'Epsilon Three-Niner Heavy, be advised, combat air patrol has been alerted and is vectoring on your position. Time to rendezvous is thirty seconds. What are you seeing?' Epsilon's civilian pilot came back over the vox at once. 'My co-pilot says he's seeing red flashes to the north, out beyond the perimeter. My starboard engine's been hit. Temperature is spiking! I need to divert and make an emergency landing!' 'Negative, Three-Niner Heavy,' the controller shot back. 'Increase speed and altitude. Do not, I repeat, do not attempt to land.' Zahariel shook his head in irritation. The civilian pilots always tried to set their transports back down at the first sign of trouble, not realising that turning around and slowing down for landing only made them more vulnerable to ground fire. Thunder reverberated through the room as the combat air patrol roared past Aldurukh's spires, heading north at full speed. 'What are the rebels going after this time?' Zahariel asked as he

speed and altitude. Do not, I repeat, do not attempt to land.' Zahariel shook his head in irritation. The civilian pilots always tried to set their transports back down at the first sign of trouble, not realising that turning around and slowing down for landing only made them more vulnerable to ground fire. Thunder reverberated through the room as the combat air patrol roared past Aldurukh's spires, heading north at full speed. 'What are the rebels going after this time?' Zahariel asked as he reached Luther's side. 'A Type II cargo hauler loaded with ten thousand tonnes of promethium,' Luther replied grimly, his eyes fixed on the vox-unit's grille. 'They couldn't have picked a better target.' Zahariel's eyes widened. Epsilon Three-Niner was, for all intents and purposes, a flying bomb. A direct hit on one of the pressurised promethium tanks in its cargo holds would turn the ship into a massive fireball, scattering wreckage and blazing fuel all over the northern landing zones. He thought of all the fuel substations and warehouses in that sector and tried to calculate the devastation such an explosion would cause. The vox-unit crackled once more. This time, the deep voice of an Astartes sounded from the grille. 'This is Lion Four; I've got a visual on Epsilon Three-Niner at this time. Stand by.' Moments later, the pilot spoke again. 'Contact! I've spotted a group of rebels operating a lascannon from the back of a civilian truck two kilometres outside the perimeter. Engaging now.' 'Hurry up, Lion Four!' shouted Epsilon Three-Niner. 'We just got hit again!' Lion Four didn't respond. Seconds ticked by, and Zahariel realised the strategium had fallen silent. Then, moments later, the vox crackled once again. 'This is Lion Four. Target destroyed. Repeat, target destroyed. Epsilon Three-Niner is clear.' A relieved cheer went up from the Jaeger officers and Legion aides; any victory, however small, was worth celebrating under the circumstances. The Astartes in the chamber received the news impassively and continued with their work. Zahariel took a long breath and glanced at Luther. 'The rebels are getting bolder,' he observed. 'That's the third attempt in the last twelve hours.' The Master of Caliban frowned thoughtfully. 'We need to push the perimeter out another five kilometres or so, and increase our mobile patrols. Sooner or later they'll realise that vehicle-mounted lascannons are too easy to spot and switch to shoulder-fired missile launchers, which will make our job that much harder.' Zahariel nodded in agreement. So far they had been fortunate; two shuttles had been shot down over the past two weeks, but none of the larger transports had suffered more than minor damage. Clearly the rebels hoped to interdict all orbital traffic from Aldurukh to the waiting supply ships above Caliban, but Luther was determined to continue operations despite increasingly loud protests from the civilian pilots who were hauling the cargo. Of greater concern to Zahariel was the fact that no new supplies were coming in to replace those being launched into orbit. 'We have four Jaeger regiments in training that are advanced enough to perform basic combat patrols,' the Librarian suggested. 'We could put them on perimeter patrol immediately.' 'What about line regiments?' Luther asked. Zahariel shook his head. 'All of our combat-capable units have been deployed. Right now the Jaegers are stretched thin.' He paused. 'We have almost an entire Scout chapter ready for action, brother. We could send them out in pairs to patrol the countryside around Aldurukh and hunt down rebel weapon teams instead of calling up the trainees.' Luther seemed to consider this for a moment. 'If the tempo of rebel attacks increase, I'll consider it,' he said at length. 'In the meantime, set up a patrol rotation for the training regiments.' 'Very well,' Zahariel replied. He tried to keep any trace of exasperation from his voice. Violence had raged across Caliban for two weeks, and the Dark Angels had yet to stir from Aldurukh. He couldn't fathom Luther's reluctance to commit the Legion. Zahariel chose to believe that the Master of Caliban was holding them in reserve for a swift, decisive blow against the insurgents. The only other possibility was that Luther wasn't certain of his own allegiances, which was simply too terrible to contemplate. 'THE SITUATION IS absolutely intolerable.' Magos Administratum Talia Bosk's metal-capped fingers sliced through the air in a gesture of Imperial pique. She sat perched on the edge of the tall, throne-like chair in the Grand Master's chambers, her slight figure nearly swallowed by the bulk of her layered robes. 'Our production quotas have slipped by sixty-three per cent at this point. Something must be done about these attacks at once, or we won't be able to meet our commitments to the Emperor's Crusade.' From the dread in Bosk's voice she might have been describing the end of life as she knew it - which, from her perspective, was probably close to the truth. Bosk and most of her staff were from Terra, having been assigned to Caliban by the Administratum to oversee the planet's growing bureaucracy and its breakneck industrialization programme. Gleaming, metal-sheathed cables ran from recessed data ports at the base of her skull and wound about her bird-like neck before disappearing beneath the wide collar of her robes. Her shaven head was adorned with tattoos etched in holographic ink, drawing on her own bioelectric field to project shimmering images of the Imperial Aquila a few millimetres above her skin. The haptic interfaces covering the tips of her fingers were ornamented with tiny jewels and delicate whorls, like fingerprints, etched into their platinum surface. Her augmetic eyes gleamed with a cold, blue light as she regarded Luther across the massive oaken desk. It was late afternoon, and the slanting light was creeping across the chamber floor from the tall windows on the west side of the room. The chamber, which normally seemed spacious to Zahariel, was crowded with regimental officers, staff aides and Bosk's fretful retinue of bureaucrats. He stood patiently by the window, his broad shoulders outlined by the setting sun, a data-slate gripped loosely in his hand. The meeting, intended to provide Luther with a status report from the planet's senior Imperial officials, wasn't going well. Luther sat back in the Grand Master's enormous chair. Built for Lion El'Jonson's massive physique, it made the great knight seem almost childlike in comparison. He rested his elbows on the chair's broad arms and regarded Bosk coolly. 'Rest assured, Magos Bosk, there's no one on this planet more conscious of our obligations to the Legion than I,' Luther replied. Only someone who knew him well could detect the undercurrent of tension in his voice. 'General Morten, perhaps you could enlighten us on the current security situation.' General Morten, outfitted in the dark green uniform of the Caliban Jaegers, cleared his throat and rose slowly from his chair. Like Bosk, he was a Terran, a decorated soldier of many years' service who had been tasked with creating the planet's defence forces. He was a short, stout man, with sagging jowls and a nose that had been broken so many times it was little more than a misshapen bulb in the centre of his weathered face. His voice was a steely rasp, thanks to a year fighting amid the toxic ash plumes of Cambion Prime. 'Caliban's major arcologies remain under martial law, with mandatory curfews in effect,' the general began. 'The riots appear to have run their course, at least for the moment, but we're still seeing isolated rebel attacks on checkpoints, precinct houses and infrastructure targets like water pumps and power substations.' He sighed. 'A heavy troop presence in the arcologies has sharply reduced the number of attacks, but it can't eliminate them completely.' Luther nodded. 'What about industrial sites?' 'We've had much better luck there,' Morten continued. 'The larger manufactories and mining outposts have been assigned a small garrison for security, with mobile reaction forces standing by to provide reinforcement in case of an attack. As a result, we've managed to defeat a number of major attacks over the course of the last few days.' 'Although it appears that the rebels feel confident enough to start sniping at transports and shuttles coming and going from Aldurukh itself,' Bosk complained. Not half an hour after Epsilon Three-Niner's narrow escape, Bosk's shuttle had been briefly targeted by a rebel autocannon on its approach to the fortress. 'Who are these criminals, and how have they managed to accomplish so much in so little time?' Luther took a deep breath, clearly choosing his words carefully. 'There are indications that the rebels are made up mostly of disaffected nobles and former knights. We believe they've been laying the groundwork for this campaign for many years, stockpiling weapons and organising their forces.' 'Their discipline is impressive,' Morten said grudgingly. 'And their organisation is highly decentralised. I have no proof, but I strongly suspect that one or more of their senior leaders have received Imperial military training at some point. We haven't been able to gather any useful intelligence on their command and communications network, much less identify any of their leaders.' Zahariel eyed Luther intently, wondering if he would identify Lord Thuriel and the other rebel leaders, but the knight said nothing. 'What do these criminals want?' Bosk demanded. Luther regarded the magos inscrutably. 'They want to be relevant once more,' he said. 'Then they can go to work in a munitions plant,' Bosk snapped. 'This planet has obligations - strict obligations - to the Emperor's forces, and it's my responsibility to make sure those obligations are met. What's being done to round up these ringleaders and deal with them?' Morten sighed. 'That's easier sa

nd the other rebel leaders, but the knight said nothing. 'What do these criminals want?' Bosk demanded. Luther regarded the magos inscrutably. 'They want to be relevant once more,' he said. 'Then they can go to work in a munitions plant,' Bosk snapped. 'This planet has obligations - strict obligations - to the Emperor's forces, and it's my responsibility to make sure those obligations are met. What's being done to round up these ringleaders and deal with them?' Morten sighed. 'That's easier said than done, magos. My troops are already stretched to the limit maintaining order and protecting your industrial sites.' 'Which are sitting idle because there aren't any labourers to man the assembly lines,' Bosk retorted. 'They can't leave their hab units while martial law is in effect.' Layers of fabric rustled as the magos folded her thin arms and glared at Luther. 'Where is the Legion in all this, Master Luther? Why haven't they been unleashed against the rebels?' Zahariel straightened. Bosk had cut to the heart of the matter. Now perhaps they would hear the truth. Luther leaned forward, resting his forearms on the massive oak desk, and met the administrator's stare unflinchingly. 'Administrator, my battle brothers are capable of a great many things, but hunting criminals isn't one of them. When the time is right and the proper targets present themselves, the Dark Angels will act - but not before.' Magos Bosk stiffened at Luther's reply. 'That won't do, Master Luther,' she said curtly. 'This unrest must stop immediately. Caliban's obligations must be fulfilled without delay. If you won't act, then I'll be forced to report the situation to Primarch Jonson and to the Adeptus Terra.' The air in the chamber was suddenly charged with tension. Luther's gaze turned hard and cold. Zahariel started to step in and try to defuse the situation when the door to the chamber opened and one of Morten's aides hurried inside. With an apologetic bow to Luther, the aide turned to the General and whispered urgently into his ear. Morten frowned, then began asking the aide a number of increasingly urgent questions. Magos Bosk watched the exchange with growing alarm. 'What's happened?' she asked, her metal-clad fingers clicking as she gripped the wooden arms of her chair. 'General Morten? What's going on?' Morten waved his aide away. He looked questioningly at Luther, who gave his permission with a curt wave of his hand. The general took a deep breath, and addressed the magos. 'There's been... an incident at Sigma Five-One-Seven,' he said. 'An incident?' Bosk said, her voice rising. 'You mean an attack?' 'Possibly,' the general replied. 'At this point we don't know for certain.' 'Well, what exactly do you know?' Morten couldn't entirely suppress a frown of irritation at the administrator's demanding tone. He related what he knew in a clipped, businesslike manner. 'Approximately forty-eight minutes ago our headquarters received a garbled transmission from the garrison at Sigma Five-One-Seven. The vox operator confirmed that the signaller was using the garrison's proper callsign and encryption code, but couldn't make out what he was trying to say. The transmission lasted thirty-two seconds before being cut off. Nothing has been heard from the garrison since.' 'Jamming?' Luther inquired. Morten shook his head. 'No sir. The transmission simply stopped. The signaller was cut off in mid-sentence.' The Master of Caliban turned his attention back to Magos Bosk. 'What exactly is Sigma Five-One-Seven?' 'A materials processing plant in the Northwilds,' she replied. 'It went online last month, and has yet to become fully operational.' 'How many labourers?' 'Four thousand per shift under normal conditions, but as I said, the plant wasn't operational.' Bosk pursed her lips as she accessed her cortical data shunts. 'There were difficulties with the plant's thermal power core. An engineering team was on site, trying to track down the source of the problem, but that was all.' Luther nodded. 'And the garrison?' 'A platoon of Jaegers and an attached heavy weapons squad,' Morten answered. 'Enough to defend the site against anything but a major rebel attack.' 'Well, obviously that's exactly what happened,' Bosk snapped. 'You said you had mobile troops to reinforce the garrisons in the event of attack. Why haven't you despatched them?' The general glowered at Bosk. 'We did, magos. They landed at the site five minutes ago.' 'Well, what in the Emperor's name did they find?' Bosk demanded. Morten's expression turned grim. 'We don't know,' he said reluctantly. 'We lost all contact with them moments after they touched down.' Luther sat bolt upright in the Grand Master's chair. Zahariel felt a wave of unease wash over him; something very strange was going on. From the dark look in Luther's eyes, it was clear that the Master of Caliban felt much the same. 'How large was the relief force?' Luther asked. 'A reinforced company,' Morten replied. 'Two hundred men, plus heavy weapons and ten Condor airborne assault carriers.' Zahariel's unease deepened. 'A force that size would have been more than enough to deal with any rebel attack. 'It's possible that the original transmission was a ruse, and the relief force was lured into an ambush.' 'It's possible,' Luther said, somewhat dubiously. 'But why no vox signals? Surely we would have heard something.' He turned to Morten. 'Are there any other reaction forces in the area?' 'The closest one is more than two hours away,' the general replied. 'I can divert them to the site, but it would leave the Red Hills sector without any reinforcements in the event of another attack.' Bosk rose angrily to her feet. 'This is outrageous,' she declared. 'Master Luther, I mean you no disrespect, but I have to report this to Primarch Jonson and my superiors on Terra. The situation is worsening by the moment, and it's obvious to me that you're unwilling to commit your Astartes in battle against your own people. Perhaps forces from another Legion can be despatched to put an end to the uprising.' Luther's handsome face paled with anger. General Morten saw the danger and began to stammer a quick reply, but Zahariel cut him off. 'The defence of Caliban is not a matter for the Adeptus Terra to concern itself with,' he said in a stern voice. 'And our primarch has more important matters to occupy his attentions at present. Master Luther explained to you that he was waiting for the proper time to order our battle brothers into action, and clearly that moment has arrived.' Luther turned to Zahariel as the Librarian spoke, and the two warriors locked eyes. The Master of Caliban glared at the Astartes for a moment, his dark eyes glittering with anger. Zahariel met the knight's gaze steadily. After a moment, Luther seemed to master his anger. He nodded slowly, though his expression was still deeply troubled. 'Well said, brother. Assemble a squad of veterans and depart for Sigma Five-One-Seven at once. Eliminate any resistance and secure the site, then report back to me. Understood?' Inwardly, Zahariel breathed a sigh of relief. He regretted having forced Luther's hand, but he was certain that, in time, the Master of Caliban would forgive him. The Librarian bowed to Luther, then nodded respectfully to General Morten and Magos Bosk before striding purposefully from the room. His conscience was clear. For the sake of the Emperor and the honour of the Legion, the Dark Angels on Caliban were rousing themselves for war. SEVEN BROTHERS IN ARMS Diamat In the 200th year of the Emperor's Great Crusade NEMIEL'S SQUAD RACED down the narrow street towards the location of Echo Four's downed pod, expecting to encounter more rebel troops at any moment. Sounds of fighting between Astartes squads and enemy forces echoed across the grey zone with increasing intensity as the rebels began to respond to the danger in their midst. Nemiel heard the bark of autocannons and, here and there, the flat boom of a tank's battle cannon adding to the din. 'Turn south at the next corner,' he called out to his squad. 'Echo Four should be another four hundred metres down the cross-street and somewhere to the left.' 'Acknowledged,' said Brother Yung, one of the two warriors on point. Nemiel watched the Astartes race up to the street corner and put their backs to a burnt-out storefront, their bolters held across their chests. One of the two warriors - Brother Cortus, Nemiel thought - slid to the end of the wall and peered around the corner. Nemiel heard the battle cannon fire and watched the corner of the building Coitus was standing at disintegrate in the space of a single heartbeat. The two Astartes disappeared in a blizzard of pulverised stone and fragments of structural steel. A billowing cloud of dust and smoke enveloped the intersection and rolled down the street towards the rest of the squad. The squad took cover on reflex, crouching behind rubble piles or pressing close to a building wall. Nemiel checked his helmet display and saw the status icon for Brother Cortus flash from green to amber. He was wounded, perhaps seriously, but still functional. The walls of the building must have shielded the Astartes from the worst of the blast. Less than a minute later Brother Yung emerged from the smoke cloud, his black armour caked with brown dust. He was half-carrying, half-dragging Brother Cortus. Nemiel rose from cover and jogged forward as Yung set the wounded warrior down next to the shattered stoop of a hab unit. Cortus reached up and fumbled with his helmet. One side of the ceramite helm had been partially crushed, shattering the right ocular and splitting it from crown to nape. Yung lent a hand and helped the wounded Astartes pull the helmet free. 'Status?' Nemiel asked. Brother Cortus sent the smashed helmet bouncing across the street. The skin on the right side of his face had been deeply scored by the impact, peeling away the flesh down t

ed warrior down next to the shattered stoop of a hab unit. Cortus reached up and fumbled with his helmet. One side of the ceramite helm had been partially crushed, shattering the right ocular and splitting it from crown to nape. Yung lent a hand and helped the wounded Astartes pull the helmet free. 'Status?' Nemiel asked. Brother Cortus sent the smashed helmet bouncing across the street. The skin on the right side of his face had been deeply scored by the impact, peeling away the flesh down to the bone in some places. His right eye was a bloody ruin, but the wound was clotting quickly thanks to Cortus's enhanced healing ability. 'One battle tank and four APCs, three hundred metres south,' he said, his voice rough with pain. 'Approximately a platoon of infantry in hasty defensive positions, maybe more.' 'I was talking about your head, brother.' Cortus glanced dazedly at the Redemptor, blinking his one good eye. 'Oh, that,' he said dismissively. 'It's nothing. Did anyone see what happened to my bolter?' 'Here,' Yung said laconically, handing over Cortus's dirt-caked weapon. The wounded warrior's face brightened. 'Thanks for that, brother,' he replied. 'Kohl would have had my skin if I'd lost it.' 'Too right,' Sergeant Kohl growled as he crouched down beside Nemiel. 'It sounds like the rebels have beaten us to Echo Four,' he said to the Redemptor. 'We might already be too late.' 'Or perhaps we're just in time,' Nemiel countered. 'Three hundred metres is too far away to have a good chance at a kill with the meltagun. We'll have to get closer.' He looked back down the way they'd come, searching for an alley they could use to outflank the enemy position, but there was none. 'We'll have to cut through the buildings,' he decided. 'Sergeant, you and Askelon lead the way.' Kohl nodded and beckoned to the Techmarine. Nemiel helped Cortus to his feet, then followed the sergeant through the hab unit's gaping doorway. It took ten minutes for the squad to work its way through the partially-collapsed structure. Kohl and Askelon ploughed through any rubble in their path; in places the Techmarine used his servo arm to reinforce damaged structural supports so that the squad could keep moving without touching off a cave-in. They emerged from the building via a broken out viewport, crossed a narrow, filth-strewn alley, and entered the shell of another structure on the far side. The second building had almost completely caved in, forcing the Astartes to scramble over enormous piles of rubble to reach the opposite side. Nemiel could hear the idling rumble of petrochem engines now, and the distant sound of shouted orders. They reached the crest of a rubble pile close to the far corner of the building and hunkered down. Nemiel joined Kohl and Askelon, and peered over the top of the pile. By this point, his armour was so caked in dust that it was nearly invisible against the backdrop of debris. He could see the enemy positions through the tall, broken viewport frames at the corner of the ruined structure. The battle tank was parked in the centre of another intersection, its flanks wreathed in exhaust fumes. The four APCs were arrayed behind it in a loose formation; their ramps were down and their troops had deployed into cover on either side of the street. At the opposite corner of the intersection stood a ruined hab unit with a huge, ragged hole high on the side of one of its upper storeys. Flames licked hungrily about the hole. 'We've found Echo Four,' Nemiel announced over the vox. 'Vardus, set up your shot. Everyone else, get ready to move.' Brother Vardus worked his way up the rubble pile and aimed his meltagun through the viewport frame at the tank. The rest of the squad climbed up the slope to either side, their weapons ready. The meltagunner glanced at Nemiel and gave a nod. 'Fire!' Nemiel said. The meltagun went off with a hissing shriek of superheated air and struck the tank in the side, right beside the engine. Molten pieces of armour plate and track segments went spinning through the air. Nemiel surged to his feet. 'Loyalty and honour!' the Redemptor cried. 'Charge!' With a shout, the Dark Angels scrambled down the rubble pile and leapt through the open viewport frames, their boltguns blazing. Rebel troops tumbled to the ground, their light armour no match for the bolters' powerful rounds, but the survivors immediately returned fire. Lasgun rounds buzzed through the air, detonating against the sides of the blackened buildings with a staccato crackle. Nemiel emerged into the street at a run, charging straight towards the parked APCs. The Testudos were already traversing their gun turrets, but the Astartes were already too close for the vehicles to use their guns effectively. Lasgun bolts seared the air around him; he brought up his bolt pistol and snapped off two quick shots, hitting a trooper crouching in the doorway of a building a little further down the street. 'Get across the intersection!' he ordered over the vox. 'Make for the building on the opposite side; that's where Echo Four went down!' Nemiel said, running past the burning tank. Askelon and Kohl dogged his heels, trading fire with the rebel troops. They ran into the midst of the parked APCs, and the sergeant tossed a fragmentation grenade into the troop compartments of the two vehicles he could reach. Vardus took aim and fired on the move, hitting one of the Testudos a bit farther down the street. The bolt struck the APC square on the front glacis and burned easily through the armour plate, touching off a huge explosion. Nemiel reached the far side of the intersection in just a few seconds and found himself under fire from three different directions. Another squad had taken cover around the building where Echo Four had gone down, and now they fired point-blank at the onrushing Astartes. A las-bolt struck Nemiel full in the chest; another dug a glowing crater out of his left pauldron, but his ceramite armour withstood the worst of the impacts. Askelon was struck several times as well, but his ornate harness, forged by the master craftsmen on Mars itself, shrugged off the hits with ease. To Nemiel's right, Brother-Sergeant Kohl shot one rebel soldier point-blank with his bolt pistol, then sliced his power sword through another. Nemiel caught sight of an enemy sergeant off to the left, hastily switching power cells on his laspistol. The Redemptor shot the man twice, then rushed in among the rest of the soldiers, slaying every rebel he could reach with savage blows from his crozius. A las-bolt flashed through the building's open doorway and struck him in the midsection; he felt a searing pain as the bolt found a weak spot in his armour, but the ceramite plating still managed to deflect most of its energy. Roaring a challenge, Nemiel pressed forward into the building leaving the survivors of the enemy squad to his brethren. He found himself inside another blasted, fire-scorched shell; the hab unit's roof and three storeys had collapsed some time ago, leaving only the battered outer walls still standing. In the corner of the building, directly opposite the entrance, sat Echo Four. The drop pod had come down at nearly a forty-five degree angle and had dug itself into a mound of crashed flakboard and masonry. There wasn't a single ramp that could properly deploy at that angle, leaving the occupant trapped inside. Figures scattered about the shadowy interior, firing lasguns and laspistols at Nemiel. One bolt struck his right thigh, while two more punched into his chest. Amber warning telltales flashed on his armour readout, but the suit's integrity was still well within accepted parameters. He charged towards the pod, his powerful legs driving him relentlessly over the shifting piles of rabble. His bolt pistol barked again and again; each shot struck home, killing a rebel soldier as he rose from cover or tried to switch positions to outflank him. He had just crested the tallest debris pile, only ten short metres from the drop pod, when he saw the flicker of an energy field low and to his left. Without thinking he dodged to the right and brought his crozius down to block the blow, and just barely managed to keep his leg from being cut off at the knee. As it was, the rebel lieutenant's power sword sliced deeply through his left calf and caused him to stumble. The pain was so intense it took his breath away. Even with the autohypnotic rotes at his command, the wound very nearly sent him into shock. His armour sensed the damage and immediately compensated, stiffening the pseudo-musculature of his left calf and immobilising it, like a ceramite splint. The sudden change in mobility pitched Nemiel forward, sending him sliding face-first down the debris pile into the midst of the platoon's small command squad. The rebels closed in on Nemiel from all sides, firing their laspistols as they came. He was hit in the head, shoulders and chest; the armour stopped the blasts, but the integrity sensors began to shade from amber to red. He heard the distinctive crackle of the rebel lieutenant's power sword as the man chased down the slope after him. Nemiel crashed to a stop against a tangle of steel supports at the base of the pile and twisted onto his side just as the enemy officer reached him. The power sword swept down at his chest, and he just managed to twist far enough to parry it with his crozius. Snarling, the lieutenant drew back his blade for a quick thrust, but Nemiel brought around his bolt pistol and shot the man through the heart. Another rebel soldier rushed past the lieutenant's falling body and tried to drive a bayonet into Nemiel's throat. The Redemptor contemptuously blocked the thrust with his crozius and killed the soldier with a backhanded blow to his head. The remaining soldiers scattered as Brother-Sergeant Kohl reached the crest of the debris pile and opened fire with his bolt pistol. The survivors retreated from sight around anothe

but Nemiel brought around his bolt pistol and shot the man through the heart. Another rebel soldier rushed past the lieutenant's falling body and tried to drive a bayonet into Nemiel's throat. The Redemptor contemptuously blocked the thrust with his crozius and killed the soldier with a backhanded blow to his head. The remaining soldiers scattered as Brother-Sergeant Kohl reached the crest of the debris pile and opened fire with his bolt pistol. The survivors retreated from sight around another mound of fallen permacrete. Kohl sheathed his power weapon and dashed nimbly down the slope. 'Are you all right, brother?' he called, extending his hand. Nemiel waved the offer of assistance away. 'I'm fine,' he said, climbing quickly to his feet. He was about to ask for Brother Askelon when the Techmarine appeared at the top of the pile and quickly moved to join them. Instead of inquiring about Nemiel, however, his eyes were for the drop pod alone. Askelon indicated an open crate a few metres away. Four disc-shaped melta charges had been carefully unpacked and sat in a neat row on a small slab of flakboard. 'I'd say we were just in time,' he noted, giving Kohl a meaningful look. 'Well, you know what I say, Askelon?' Kohl shot back. But the rest of his retort was swallowed in a thunderous explosion as the tank outside fired its battle cannon into the derelict building. The blast pulverised a ten-metre-wide section of the building's front entrance, showering the Astartes in a hail of jagged stone and metal. When the cloud of dust and smoke cleared, Nemiel could look through the hole the cannon had made and see the enemy tank, still sitting where Marthes had hit it. The melta blast had knocked out the vehicle's engine, but the crew was still very much alive. 'Marthes!' Nemiel called out over the vox. 'I know, brother, I know!' Marthes called back. 'I'm at the southern end of the building with half the squad. Just give me a minute to get into position.' 'We may not have another minute!' Nemiel shot back. But it wasn't himself or his squadmates he was worried about - the downed drop pod made for a much more enticing target. 'Askelon, we've got to get that pod open!' he shouted. The Techmarine nodded his helmeted head. 'We need to get it level fast, so the ramps can deploy!' he said. His gaze fell to the melta charges. 'Help me with these!' he said, and bent to grab two of the discs. Nemiel and Kohl each grabbed one of the charges and followed Askelon around to the far side of the pod. The Techmarine surveyed the debris pile, then activated his servo arm and began to dig deep gouges into the rubble at specific points below the canted end of the pod. 'You're not going to be able to dig this pile out fast enough!' Kohl barked. 'I'm not planning to, brother,' Askelon said. He took one of the melta charges, set its timer, and shoved it into one of the gouges, then quickly placed the second one. Nemiel heard the whine of servos as the tank's turret rotated to bear on its new target. Then came a shriek of superheated air, and a melta blast struck the tank from its right. The detonation reverberated down the street, but when the smoke cleared, Nemiel saw that Marthes had shot from too far away, and the melta blast hadn't fully penetrated the tank's armour. The crew inside had likely been stunned by the hit, but that wouldn't last for more than a few seconds. Askelon grabbed the charge from Nemiel's fingers. 'I'd find some cover, if I were you,' he said, setting its timer and placing it in the pile. The three Astartes hurried away from the pod and crouched at the base of the debris pile. No sooner had they settled onto one knee than the four charges detonated in carefully-orchestrated succession. The blasts went off so close together that the sound merged into a single, thunderous explosion. Molten stone and vaporised earth sheeted out from the pile, channelled away from the pod by the precise placement of the charges. In one stroke, Askelon removed ten cubic metres of rubble from beneath one end of the drop pod. Slowly, then with gathering speed, the elevated end of the pod began to settle, until it landed upright with a hollow metal clang. The flank of the pod slammed into the corner of the building, sending an alarming series of cracks forking across the damaged walls. Immediately, Nemiel heard the metal thud of harness releases popping then the buzzing whine of servos as the pod's four large ramps finally deployed, revealing Echo Four's lone passenger. The huge figure in the centre of the pod was approximately humanoid in shape, with two stubby, powerful legs and a pair of mighty weapon arms attached to a giant, barrel-like torso. A sensor turret, shaped similarly to a helmet-clad head, swivelled left and right from an armoured collar set a little above the torso's middle. The overall effect was of a hulking, hunchbacked giant, with a matte black ceramite hide. Both shoulders bore the winged sword emblem of the First Legion, and a score of noble battle honours fluttered from the Dreadnought's frontal plates. A Mechanicum artisan had applied gilt scrollwork to the glacis, just beneath the Dreadnought's notional head, which bore the name Titus. Gears and servo-motors whirring, Brother Titus strode from his drop pod just as the tank fired its cannon once more. The shell flew into the pod where Titus had been standing a moment before and blew it apart. Red-hot shrapnel pinged like raindrops off Brother Titus's shoulders. The Dreadnought cleared the ramp in three long steps and kicked its way through the debris piles towards the rebel tank. Its turret slewed to the right, desperately tracking the oncoming war machine while the crew struggled to load another round into the cannon's breech. Brother Titus was armed with a standard Dreadnought weapons configuration. His right arm terminated in a large, multi-barrel assault cannon, capable of firing streams of high-velocity shells that were lethal to troops and light vehicles, but far less likely to penetrate the thick armour of a battle tank. Titus's left arm, however, ended in a powerful, four-fingered hand that crackled with pent-up energies like an Astartes power fist. Nemiel and his brothers watched Titus charge through the ragged gap blown in the front of the building and bring that tremendous fist down on the top of the tank's square turret. Armour plates crumpled like tin; there was a bright, violet spark and a tremendous concussion as the turret split apart beneath the blow. Flames leapt from the ruptured seams. Nemiel shook his head in awe at the Dreadnought's power. 'Brother-Sergeant Kohl, re-form the squad,' he said, and began limping quickly from the building. The pain in his leg had subsided to a dull ache, thanks to injections from his suit's array of pain blockers and his own enhanced healing abilities. He switched to the company command net. 'Force Commander Lamnos, this is Alpha Six,' he said. 'We've reached Echo Four and freed Brother Titus. No enemy forces in our immediate area. What are your orders?' 'Good work Alpha Six,' Lamnos responded. 'Titus was the only one still unaccounted for. The rest of the landing force has engaged rebel units along the tramway, and we've received word that forward elements of the Tanagran Dragoons are working south to link up with us.' There was a short pause while Lamnos consulted with his other squad leaders. 'There are still enemy units present around the entrance to the forge complex, approximately one kilometre to your southeast. Take Titus and engage the rebels.' 'Affirmative,' Nemiel replied. 'Alpha Six, out.' The Redemptor limped over to Kohl and Askelon, who were standing in the shadow of Brother Titus. Askelon was clearly in awe of the mighty Dreadnought; Kohl was looking up at Titus's sensor turret, his head cocked as though in conversation. They were probably speaking on a private channel, he realised. Dreadnoughts were an uncommon sight in the Legions; since they required a human mind to operate, only severely-injured Astartes were offered the opportunity to continue serving the Emperor by having themselves installed into one of the war machines. Those offered the task were typically warriors who had demonstrated great heroism in battle and were mentally strong enough to endure their entombment in a Dreadnought's sarcophagus. As a result, they were accorded tremendous respect by their brethren. Titus's head swivelled slightly at Nemiel's approach. 'My thanks to you and your squad, Brother-Redemptor,' he said over the squad channel. Titus's voice was deep and powerful, and entirely synthetic, devoid of human inflection. 'Force Commander Lamnos has directed me to accompany your squad for the time being. What is our objective?' 'The rebels have taken the southern entrance to the forge complex,' Nemiel said, turning and heading off to the southeast. 'We're going to take it back.' EIGHT DARK DESIGNS Caliban In the 200th year of the Emperor's Great Crusade A ROILING, GREY overcast hung over the towers of Sigma Five-One-Seven, swallowing the rays of the setting sun and plunging much of the processing plant into shadow as Zahariel and his warriors reached the outskirts of the site. They made their approach straight down the plant's primary access road with a clatter of steel treads and a billowing wake of oily black smoke from the Land Raider's massive petrochem engine. Sitting in the assault tank's troop compartment, Zahariel adjusted the settings of the tactical display on the bulkhead next to his station and switched from light-enhancement to thermal view. Instantly the blocky outlines of the plant's main buildings and its sifting towers were painted in stark silhouettes against a vivid green background, their flanks studded by bright spots of white that marked the locations of hot chem-lights. Peering carefully at the display, he could make out a faint, white nimbus colouring the air at the centre

rtment, Zahariel adjusted the settings of the tactical display on the bulkhead next to his station and switched from light-enhancement to thermal view. Instantly the blocky outlines of the plant's main buildings and its sifting towers were painted in stark silhouettes against a vivid green background, their flanks studded by bright spots of white that marked the locations of hot chem-lights. Peering carefully at the display, he could make out a faint, white nimbus colouring the air at the centre of the plant; from what he knew of the site's layout, he suspected that was likely the heat rising from the power plants of the relief force's ten Condor transports. According to the blueprints, the site had a large, central landing zone for offloading heavy-lift cargo haulers. The reinforcements could touch down there and unload under cover without worrying about fire from rebel forces around the site perimeter. Except that there weren't any rebel troops, as near as Zahariel could reckon. The dark foothills, scoured down to bare rock by Imperial crawlers, were silent and still. Stranger still was the lack of any obvious signs of attack: there were no gaps in the plant's tall perimeter fence, nor thermal scars on the buildings from small arms or light artillery fire. More and more, he was coming to believe that the threat to the plant had been internal rather than external. He'd accessed the site's status reports and work logs on the short flight from Aldurukh and discovered that the engineering team working on Sigma Five-One-Seven's thermal plant consisted of twenty-five Terran engineering specialists and a hundred Calibanite labourers. Could the labour pool have been infiltrated by insurgents? Zahariel thought it entirely possible. From there, it would have been easy to smuggle weapons onto the site and hide them in the plant's sub-levels until the time was right. Using the advantage of surprise, such a force could then easily overcome the rest of the engineers and the unsuspecting garrison, and then set an effective ambush for Imperial relief forces. Zahariel could understand how such a thing could be done. He just couldn't figure out why. An attack of this kind didn't match the insurgents' tactics to date, and it seemed like a disproportionate investment of time and manpower on a target that was far from any of the planet's major population centres. So far, the rebels were doing a very effective job of crippling the planet's industrial base by fomenting riots in the arcologies and staging hit-and-run raids with small, well-armed guerrilla forces. And this particular plant was sitting idle anyway; Zahariel could think of a dozen targets offhand that would have made better candidates for a takeover. There was a great deal about the situation that didn't add up, and he wasn't heading back to Aldurukh until he had some answers in hand. The voice of the Land Raider's driver crackled over Zahariel's vox-bead. 'Coming up on the site's main gate now,' he said. 'Orders?' 'Increase speed,' Zahariel replied. 'Advance up the main road towards the central landing zone.' The assault tank's engine roared in reply, and the Astartes in the troop compartment swayed in their seats as the Land Raider surged forward. The vehicle struck the plant's heavy main gate and crumpled it contemptuously. Zahariel heard the faint clang of the impact and the screech of metal as the broken gate was ground beneath the heavy tank's treads, but the barrier scarcely slowed the Land Raider down. As the tank roared along the main road, he switched to the Legion command frequency and reported in to Aldurukh. 'Seraphim, this is Angelus Six,' he called. 'We have reached Objective Alpha and are proceeding to secure the area.' The reply came back at once. Zahariel was surprised to hear Luther's voice over the vox instead of the strategium's duty officer. 'We read you, Angelus Six. Any sign of the garrison or the relief force?' 'Negative,' Zahariel replied. 'No obvious signs of combat, either. I expect I'll learn more once I reach the central landing zone.' 'Understood,' Luther said. 'Broadsword Flight is on station and standing by if you require support, Angelus Six. Remain in contact at all times.' The Librarian twisted a dial on the tactical display and brought up a regional map of the Northwilds sector. A green diamond, representing the transport craft that had delivered the Land Raider from Aldurukh was shown exiting the area to the south. There was also a small, red chevron blinking above the mountains northwest of the site, flying in a circular holding pattern between Sigma Five-One-Seven and the recently established Northwilds arcology. The alphanumeric code beneath the chevron told him that Broadsword Flight consisted of three Stormbirds, each loaded with a full suite of air-to-ground ordnance. Luther had put enough firepower at his disposal to destroy an entire armoured regiment. Zahariel was more grateful for the obvious sign of Luther's support than the Stormbirds themselves. 'Understood, Seraphim,' he answered. 'We will keep you advised.' Zahariel switched the tactical display back to the tank's forward auspex array, then turned away from the screen and bent in his seat to pick his helmet off the Land Raider's deck. 'We're coming up on the edge of the objective area,' he said, pitching his voice to carry over the tank's roaring engine. 'Prepare to deploy. Brother Attias, take the pintle mount.' Silent and purposeful, the veteran squad fitted on their helmets and checked their weapon loads. Across from Zahariel, Chapter Master Astelan readied his bolt pistol and power sword. When the order had come down to assemble a combat patrol to investigate the site, Astelan had been among the first to volunteer. After nearly a half-century in garrison, every member of Luther's training cadre was eager for action, and Zahariel was glad to have a warrior of Astelan's ability as part of the squad. At the far end of the troop compartment, Brother Attias rose to his feet and worked his way down the narrow aisle between his squadmates. Attias had been an aspirant of the Order at the same time as Zahariel and Nemiel, and as a youth he'd earned no small amount of grief thanks to his nervous and overly-studious nature. That had changed on Sarosh, when an alien monster had melted his helmet with a torrent of caustic slime. Attias had been lucky to survive, but the Legion Apothecaries had been powerless to heal the damage wrought by the monster's acid. In the end, they had been forced to strip away most of the flesh and muscle and graft polished steel plates directly to Attias's skull, transforming his face into a gleaming death mask. After more than a year recovering from his wounds, he had joined Astelan's training cadre, where he was roundly feared by the chapter's novices. Zahariel had barely spoken to him in the years since returning to Caliban. Outside of training, Attias rarely spoke to anyone at all. Zahariel watched as Attias stepped past him and took up the remote controls for the Land Raider's pintle-mounted storm bolter. Servomotors whined on the tank's roof as the weapon elevated and began to cover the rooftops of the plant's outer buildings as they made their way deeper into the site. The heavily-armoured Land Raider was impervious to all but the most powerful anti-tank weapons, but in the confines of the industrial plant a rebel team with melta bombs - or worse, a meltagun - could be a serious threat. For several minutes there was nothing to do but wait. Zahariel reached over and unclipped his force staff from where it hung against the tank's armoured bulkhead and gripped the cold, adamantine haft with both hands. The staff was both a weapon and a focus for the Librarian's psychic abilities, and Zahariel took a moment to meditate upon it as Israfael had taught him to do. He began with a series of slow, steady breaths as he interfaced first with the crystalline array of the psychic hood built into his power armour. The array, built into a metal shell that rose from the back of his cuirass and partially enclosed his bare head, served as a crucial buffer that shielded his brain from the terrible energies of the warp. Without it, he risked madness - or worse - every time he unleashed his psychic powers in battle. The interface cables connecting Zahariel to the hood grew warm against the back of his skull as he accessed the array and focused his awareness on the staff. Only then, once he was firmly grounded, did he extend that awareness further and take the measure of the psychic energies surrounding Sigma Five-One-Seven. The shock was like an icy gale against his skin. Zahariel felt his flesh prickle; his muscles tensed, and a hungry, howling wind thundered in his mind. He felt the crystal array behind his head grow hot as the psychic torrent threatened to overwhelm the hood's dampeners. It was like the raging storm he'd experienced at Aldurukh, only far stronger and wilder. What was worse, the Librarian could feel an otherworldly wrongness about the tempest - a taint that seemed to tug at his very soul. Zahariel recoiled inwardly from the shock of the psychic storm. Screwing his eyes shut, he drew back his awareness as swiftly as he could, but the vileness in the aether plucked at him like grasping tendrils. For a horrifying second it felt as though there was a sentience behind the psychic force, and he was reminded of the nightmarish spectacle he'd witnessed on Sarosh. After what seemed like an eternity, he managed to pull himself free from the taint. It withdrew and left him shaken to his core. 'Are you well, brother?' Zahariel looked up and saw Astelan's concerned expression. He nodded, catching his breath. 'Of course,' he replied, 'merely focusing my thoughts.' The chapter master raised a dark eyebrow. 'They must be very weighty thoughts. I can see the pulse in your temples from here.' Zahariel wasn't certain how to respond. Did he sha

tnessed on Sarosh. After what seemed like an eternity, he managed to pull himself free from the taint. It withdrew and left him shaken to his core. 'Are you well, brother?' Zahariel looked up and saw Astelan's concerned expression. He nodded, catching his breath. 'Of course,' he replied, 'merely focusing my thoughts.' The chapter master raised a dark eyebrow. 'They must be very weighty thoughts. I can see the pulse in your temples from here.' Zahariel wasn't certain how to respond. Did he share what he'd just experienced? Would it make any difference to Astelan or the rest of the squad? This was a situation he'd never experienced in any training scenario. The matter was taken from his hands, however, when suddenly the driver called out over the intercom. 'We've reached the central landing zone. I see ten Condor aerial transports in tactical landing formation at one hundred and fifty metres.' The Librarian pushed his doubts and questions aside. If there was one thing he was certain of, it was that hesitation in battle was often fatal. 'Halt and deploy!' he called over the intercom. Leaping to his feet, he drew his bolt pistol from its holster and addressed his squad. 'Tactical pattern delta! Treat all contacts as hostile until otherwise directed.' He raised his staff, noticing for the first time the rime of frost coating the metal shaft. 'Loyalty and honour!' The Land Raider rumbled to a halt, its front assault ramp deploying with a hiss of powerful hydraulics. Astelan stood, igniting his power sword's energy field. 'For Luther!' he shouted to his men. As one, the Dark Angels answered Astelan's cry. Zahariel had no time to wonder at the chapter master's strange oath; he was already rushing towards the assault ramp, the golden double eagle at the top of his staff held before him like a talisman. The landing field was a dark, grey plain of permacrete some five hundred metres square, bounded on three sides by huge, multi-storey mineral refinery and storage plants. Cylindrical sifting towers loomed over the idle refineries, ringed every ten metres by blinking red hazard lights. They cast long shadows across the field, bisecting the orderly rows of Condor transports crouching silently on their squat landing struts. Zahariel swept the field with his bolt pistol, searching for targets as the squad spread out around him. The transports' assault ramps were down and all of the craft he could see had one or more of their maintenance hatches open, but there were no signs of activity. The Librarian felt his scalp prickle as he grew aware of the deathly stillness that hung over the plant. He glanced at one of the warriors in his squad who was busy sweeping the field with a portable auspex unit. 'Any readings?' he asked. 'No movement. No life signs,' the Astartes answered. 'Trace heat on the engines of the transports, but that's all.' Zahariel's eyes narrowed warily. That wasn't quite all; he could sense the tension in the warrior's voice. There was something else, something invisible that didn't register on any of their equipment. He'd felt it once before, many, many years past, when he'd travelled deep into the forest in search of the last Calibanite Lion. This was an evil place, Zahariel knew. The air was heavy with a sense of malice and slow, hateful corruption, and it knew he was there. A dreadful sense of deja vu swept over him. Zahariel raised his head and looked past the hulking buildings and silent towers, searching the horizon for clues. He studied the broken line of mountains that comprised the nearby Northwilds, and realised that he was very close to that same spot where he'd fought the lion, decades ago. The terrible, twisted trees were gone and the echoing hollows had been scraped bare, but the aura of the place somehow remained. 'Not far from here,' a hollow voice spoke in Zahariel's ear. With a start, he turned to see Attias staring at him, just a couple of metres away. The lenses of Attias's augmetic eyes were flat and depthless in his polished, skull-like face. 'What is that, brother?' Zahariel replied. 'The castle,' Attias replied. The words were flat and emotionless, resonating from the small, silver vox grille embedded in his throat. He raised his chainsword and pointed off to the northeast. 'The fortress of the Knights of Lupus was just a few score kilometres off that way. You remember?' Zahariel followed the whirring tip of the sword and stared off into the gathering darkness. Sure enough, he could just make out the distant flank of Wolf's Head Mountain, the old peak from which the disgraced knights had taken their name. They had been the last of the knightly orders to defy Jonson's plan of unification against the great beasts that terrorised Caliban's people, and their intransigence had ultimately led to open conflict. He remembered the horrific assault on the fortress as clearly as if it had been yesterday. That had been his first real taste of the brutality of war. The worst shock, though, had been once the knights of the Order had breached the outer walls and fought their way into the castle proper. The outer courtyard of the fortress had been full of enclosures, most of them filled with twisted monstrosities. Zahariel and his brethren had been horrified to learn that the Knights of Lupus had been collecting as many of the great beasts as they could and preserving them from the wrath of Jonson's forces. Jonson had been so furious he'd ordered the fortress to be completely destroyed. Not one stone had been left atop another, and every trace of the Knights of Lupus had been wiped away. Except for their library, Zahariel realised. The library of the renegade knights had been vast, larger even than the one at Aldurukh, and filled with a huge assortment of ancient and esoteric tomes. To everyone's surprise, Jonson had ordered the library to be catalogued and transported back to the Rock. No one knew why, and Zahariel never learned what happened to the books after that. The Northwilds had always been the oldest, wildest and most dangerous wilderness region on Caliban. Now, nearly all of the forest was gone - but had something ancient and inimical somehow remained? Astelan's voice shook Zahariel from his reverie. 'Is your vox-unit working, brother?' he said. He nodded his head back at the idling Land Raider. 'I've tried to check with the crew, but no one is responding.' Zahariel turned and stared worriedly at the massive vehicle. He keyed his vox-unit. 'Raider two-one, respond.' Nothing. No interference, no static. Just dead air. The Librarian took a step towards the assault tank just as the driver's hatch rose on hydraulic hinges and the warrior's helmeted head appeared. 'We've been trying to call you for a full minute,' the driver said over the rumbling engines. 'Our vox-unit's not working properly.' Frowning inside his helmet, Zahariel tried to contact Luther. The orbital communications array and the Rock's far more powerful vox-unit should have easily picked up the signal, but once again, all he heard was dead air. The unit was working fine, he knew, and there were no signs of jamming. It was as though their vox signals were simply being swallowed, though he couldn't imagine how such a thing was possible. 'The vox was working fine at the plant's perimeter,' Astelan said, clearly thinking along the same lines. 'We could send the Land Raider back to maintain contact with Aldurukh while we secure the site.' Zahariel shook his head. The whole point of bringing the Land Raider in the first place was to provide a base of heavy firepower for the squad and to serve as a mobile strongpoint that the Astartes could fall back to in the event of an emergency. Until he knew more, he wanted the tank close by. 'Button up and keep a close eye on the auspex arrays,' he ordered the driver. 'And secure the assault ramp until we signal.' The driver acknowledged with a curt nod and dropped back inside the tank. Within seconds the circular hatch and the heavy ramp clanged shut, sealing the vehicle tight. Zahariel then turned to Astelan. 'Take two brothers and see what you can find at the plant's control room,' he said. 'There ought to be a log of vox transmissions at the very least.' He indicated the landing field with a sweep of his staff. 'We'll inspect the transports and try to find out what happened to the relief force.' Astelan acknowledged the order with a nod. 'Jonas and Gideon, you're with me,' he said, and headed off across the landing field at a ground-eating jog with two of the squad's warriors close behind him. Zahariel waved the rest of the squad forward. 'Spread out,' he ordered. 'But remain in visual contact at all times. If you see anything strange, inform me at once.' Weapons ready, the Dark Angels advanced across the landing field towards the closest of the Condors. Permacrete crunched underfoot; Zahariel glanced down and saw deep cracks running through the landing field's pavement. Here and there, he saw the tops of slick, brown and black roots pushing their way up through the cracks. Caliban's forests were not surrendering meekly to the Imperium's ground-clearing machines. His home planet was a death world, Zahariel had come to learn, and such places were nearly impossible to tame. Still, it surprised him to see so much damage to a site that couldn't be more than eight months old. Reinforced permacrete was built to resist the elements for centuries. They came upon the first transport in line, approaching it from the port side. Zahariel saw at once that the Condor's cockpit, set between the craft's building air intakes, was empty. The Librarian circled around aft as the squad surrounded the transport. Bolt pistol ready, he peered up the open assault ramp into the red-lit troop compartment. It was empty, save for an open toolbox sitting in the centre of the bay. 'Access panels are open, starboard side,' Attias said, peering up at the ship's fuselage. Zahariel walked aroun

ort in line, approaching it from the port side. Zahariel saw at once that the Condor's cockpit, set between the craft's building air intakes, was empty. The Librarian circled around aft as the squad surrounded the transport. Bolt pistol ready, he peered up the open assault ramp into the red-lit troop compartment. It was empty, save for an open toolbox sitting in the centre of the bay. 'Access panels are open, starboard side,' Attias said, peering up at the ship's fuselage. Zahariel walked around the transport and studied the open hatches. 'Auspex and vox arrays,' he said thoughtfully. 'I suspect the crews were running tests on their systems and trying to determine why their vox-units weren't working.' 'And then?' Attias said in his sepulchral voice. Zahariel shrugged. 'I don't know. There's no sign of a struggle. No weapons damage to the transport. It looks like the crew just walked away.' 'Like Sarosh,' Attias declared. 'No, not like Sarosh,' Zahariel shot back. 'The people of Sarosh went insane. This has to be something different.' Attias said nothing, his augmetic eyes lifeless and unreadable in a cold steel mask. The sound of running feet resounded across the permacrete plain. Zahariel turned to see Brother Gabriel approaching at a dead run. 'Astelan says to come at once,' Gabriel called out. 'We've found something.' NINE UNTO THE BREACH Diamat In the 200th year of the Emperor's Great Crusade 'I SEE THE Dragoons built the rebels some fortifications,' Kohl grumbled. Nemiel and the sergeant were crouching at the corner of a burnt-out building some two hundred and fifty metres from the entrance to the forge complex, peering across a wasteland of rubble and twisted girders that had once been someone's hab. From their vantage point they could observe approximately five hundred metres of tramway and the tall, wide gateway that led into the outer districts of the great forge. Neither of the Astartes cared for what they saw. At some point in the recent past the Imperial garrison had heavily fortified the entrance, creating a pair of permacrete bastions to either side of the gateway. Heavy weapons emplacements had been built to create a deadly crossfire covering the approaches to the gate, and revetments had been dug to provide cover for armoured vehicles as well. Buildings had been levelled in a two hundred metre swathe around the fortifications, creating a killing ground devoid of cover or concealment. It was a formidable strong-point by anyone's estimations, and Nemiel would have been encouraged by its presence, except for the fact that there were rebel troops manning the fortifications now instead of the Tanagran Dragoons. 'It looks like the Tanagrans at least put up a fight,' Nemiel observed. Their enhanced vision allowed them to scrutinise the bastions as well as any man with a set of magnoculars. 'Most of those gun emplacements have been knocked out, and there's a burnt-out tank in each one of those revetments. That's why the rebels have their vehicles parked along the tramway. Kohl gave a pessimistic grunt. They could see four Testudos lined up along the berm, hull-down, with only their squat autocannon turrets showing. 'Wonder why there aren't any tanks?' 'They were probably called away to reinforce another part of the line,' Nemiel suggested. The sergeant nodded. 'Bet those fields are probably mined,' he said, nodding at the wide expanse of churned earth that led up to the bastions. The Redemptor shook his head ruefully. 'You're a veritable beacon of hope, brother.' 'Hope is your area of responsibility,' Kohl declared. 'Mine is, among other things, steering callow young officers away from minefields.' 'And for that we are all duly grateful,' Nemiel replied. Then he took a deep breath, focused his attention, and studied the bastions one more time. He could see plenty of signs that the fortifications had come under heavy fire, but he couldn't extrapolate how the rebels had managed to overrun them. There were no bodies in the fields that might suggest an axis of advance, nor any burnt-out hulls of wrecked vehicles to indicate an armoured rush. If he could figure out how the enemy had managed to overcome the strongpoint, then the odds were he could make use of the same vulnerabilities as well. 'What do you think, brother-sergeant?' Nemiel asked. 'How are we going to take those bastions?' Kohl studied the fortifications for another few moments. 'Why, I expect we run right up and ask them to let us in.' Nemiel gave the sergeant a dark look, a gesture entirely wasted within the confines of his helmet. 'That's not very funny, sergeant.' 'As it happens, I'm not joking,' Kohl replied. 'NOT SO FAST,' Nemiel yelled over the Testudo's roaring engine. 'The last thing we need is to spook some trigger-happy rebel gunner into firing at his own side.' The two APCs were rolling down the tramway at a steady clip towards the forge entrance, wreathed in thick plumes of ochre dust and swirling petrochem exhaust. Askelon had used his servo arm and a plasma cutter to strip away everything he could from the interior of the vehicles, from the benches to the ammo baskets for turret autocannon, and still there was only enough room for one Astartes up front and three more in the troop compartment. Brother Marthes, who was driving the Testudo that Nemiel was riding in, would have to crawl out of the driver's compartment on his hands and knees before exiting via the assault ramp at the rear. For the hundredth time, Nemiel found himself wondering how he'd let Brother-Sergeant Kohl talk him into this. 'The sergeant said to make it look like we were running from something,' Marthes shouted back. 'If we're going too slowly, they might try to challenge us.' 'As opposed to going too fast and having them shoot at us?' Marthes didn't reply at first. 'I admit it made more sense when Brother-Sergeant Kohl explained it,' he replied. Nemiel shook his head irritably. At least Kohl had the decency to be the first member of the squad to volunteer for the scheme. He was in the second APC, along with Askelon, Yung and Brother Farras. Nemiel had Brother Cortus and Brother Ephrial in the cramped troop compartment with him. They were jammed in shoulder-to-shoulder in the noisy, exhaust-filled space and completely blind. Nemiel, closest to the driver's space, tried to crane his head around and see through one of the forward vision blocks, but he couldn't quite manage it. 'How far from the bastions are we?' he asked. 'One hundred and fifty metres,' Marthes answered. 'They saw us coming about a minute ago. I can see several of the Testudos aiming their cannons at us.' Nemiel nodded to himself. No doubt the commander in charge of the garrison was trying to call them over the vox and find out what they were doing approaching his position. Askelon had taken pains to shoot the APCs antenna off with his bolt pistol, but would the rebels be convinced? Would they even notice, or simply decide to take no chances and open fire? It's what he would do in their position. The Redemptor keyed his vox. 'Brother Titus, are you and the rest of the squad in position?' he called. 'Affirmative,' the Dreadnought replied in his metallic voice. 'I have you on my surveyors now.' 'Very well,' Nemiel said. 'Fire at will.' Two hundred metres north, at exactly the same spot where Kohl and Nemiel had reconnoitred the fortifications a half-hour before, Brother Titus stepped around the corner of the burnt-out building and readied his assault cannon. The weapon's six barrels began to spin with the ominous, rising whine of electric motors until they were little more than an iron-grey blur. The Dreadnought surveyed the enemy positions with a single sweep of his sensor turret and fired a long, roaring burst. Diamantine-tipped, light armour-piercing rounds raked across the northern bastion and then down along the parked APCs. The shells blasted craters in the formed permacrete; enemy troops caught in the open were literally blown apart by the high-velocity projectiles. The rounds punched through the thin armour of the easternmost APCs turret and touched off one of the shells in the ammo feed; it blew apart in a yellow fireball and filled the vehicle with a storm of deadly shrapnel. The remaining warriors in Kohl's veteran squad fanned out around the Dreadnought and began advancing across the no-man's-land toward the bastions, firing as they went. Their shots added to the storm of shells and drove the stunned rebels behind the nearest cover. The turrets of the three surviving Testudos quickly swerved to target the threat bearing down on them from the north. 'It's working!' Brother Marthes shouted. 'They're going after Titus!' 'Let's not leave him hanging any longer than we have to,' Nemiel replied. 'Increase speed!' The two APCs roared down the tramway at full throttle, seemingly racing for the safety of the fortifications around the gateway. As they drew close to the parked rebel vehicles, a sergeant rose to a crouch and began pointing urgently to positions alongside the berm, but both of the Testudos shot right past. 'Uh, Brother-Redemptor Nemiel?' Marthes said. 'You didn't mention anything about a barricade between the two fortifications.' 'We couldn't see between the fortifications during our reconnaissance,' Nemiel answered. 'Can we break through?' 'We're about to find out,' the Astartes said grimly. 'Brace for impact!' A second later the Testudo struck a pair of permacrete construction barriers that had been laid across the entrance to the forge. There was a tremendous crash, and a grinding of metal on stone, and the forty-tonne APC bucked skyward like a broaching whale as its sloped bow carried it over the lip of the barricade. There it might have remained, had not the second APC crashed into it from behind. The impact shoved the Testudo further forward, bearing over the barricade and forcing it into the gap beside the two bastions. The APC ca

pair of permacrete construction barriers that had been laid across the entrance to the forge. There was a tremendous crash, and a grinding of metal on stone, and the forty-tonne APC bucked skyward like a broaching whale as its sloped bow carried it over the lip of the barricade. There it might have remained, had not the second APC crashed into it from behind. The impact shoved the Testudo further forward, bearing over the barricade and forcing it into the gap beside the two bastions. The APC came to a stop, bow dragging across the tramway after having its front two wheels ripped completely away. 'Lower the ramp!' Nemiel shouted. Outside he could hear urgent shouts and the crack of lasguns. He heard a hollow booming at the back of the troop compartment, then a grating of metal as Brother Ephrial forced the partially-jammed ramp open. The sounds of battle flooded into the compartment: angry shouts, the crackle of las-bolts, the distant snarl of the Dreadnought's assault cannon and the hollow bark of boltguns. Las-bolts began to strike the side of the APC in a staccato hail of small explosions. Ephrial forced his way out of the wrecked Testudo and opened fire, snapping off short, controlled bursts at the ramparts of the bastion to the north. Cortus was next in line, and made it out significantly faster thanks to having enough room to throw himself against the ramp and drive it a bit further to the ground. A las-bolt struck him a glancing blow across the back of the helmet as he emerged into the open; he shook his head like an angry bear and struggled to his feet, his bolter spitting death at the rebels. 'Marthes! Let's go!' Nemiel shouted. The Redemptor clawed his way forward, his crozius clutched in his fist. He emerged into a veritable storm of fire from both sides of the gateway, and found himself staring at the sight of Brother-Sergeant Kohl's APC, lying on its right side atop the crushed remains of the barricade. The Dark Angels had succeeded in deploying their ramp and were now trading shots with the rebels in the southern barricade from behind the shelter of the wrecked vehicle. Nemiel drew his bolt pistol and headed right, firing shots up at the ramparts of the northern bastion as he went. The fortification was like a three-storey stepped pyramid, with a rampart and firing positions at each level. Unfortunately for the rebels, there was only a narrow frontage that actually looked down into the space between the fortifications; the defences were designed primarily facing outward, covering the hundreds of metres of kill zone and the long, wide tramway. Rebel troops were now crowded along those narrow ramparts, pouring lasgun fire down at the Astartes, but the Dark Angels were taking a fearsome toll of the bunched-up troops. 'Brother-Sergeant Kohl, get your section moving!' Nemiel called over the vox. 'Ephrial! Cortus! With me!' He ran stiff-legged towards the far end of the bastion, close to the actual gateway. As he expected, there was a ramp leading up into the fortification proper. 'Grenades!' he ordered. Ephrial and Cortus immediately pulled a pair of fragmentation grenades from their belt dispensers, set the fuses and threw them up and over the first-level rampart. Nemiel was already charging up the ramp, bolt pistol ready. The grenades went off with a pair of muffled bangs and a chorus of agonised shouts and screams. Nemiel reached the top of the ramp; it turned sharply to the right, opening onto the first rampart. It was a standard Imperial fortification, right out of the field manual, and he knew its layout well. He rounded the corner, firing his bolt pistol and charging the stunned rebels with a fierce battle cry. The rampart was a scene of carnage. Dead and wounded men were slumped at the base of the narrow, trench-like passage, shredded by bursts from the Dreadnought's assault cannon or blown apart by mass-reactive bolter shells. The survivors retreated down the length of the rampart, firing wildly as they staggered over the bodies of their comrades. More las-bolts rained down from the ramparts above; they detonated against his armour's broad pauldrons or glanced from the top of his curved helm. Nemiel kept moving forward, firing methodically and killing a soldier with each well-placed shot. Ephrial and Cortus joined him in moments, firing up at the higher ramparts to suppress the enemy fire. The rampart ran for fifteen metres due west, then doglegged sharply to the north-east. At the corner, Nemiel paused and threw a grenade of his own, then followed right on the heels of the blast. Several metres behind him, he heard the shrieking blast of a meltagun, and knew that Marthes had joined them at last. Around the corner the rampart ran for more than forty metres in a straight line, its weapon emplacements looking out over the killing ground that Brother Titus and the rest of the squad were currently advancing across. The parapet here had been savagely chewed by the Dreadnought's assault cannon and Brother Marthes's heavy bolter, and there were far more dead rebels than live ones still holding the trench. Fifteen metres down the line another ramp led up and back to the second level. The rebels fell back a bit further in the face of Nemiel's advance, but held their ground rather than give up the next ramp. They poured fire from their lasguns at the advancing Astartes, but the las-bolts were meant for lightly-armoured humans, not walking juggernauts like the Dark Angels. Nemiel advanced doggedly into the whirlwind of fire, pummelled by shot after shot. Warning icons flashed insistently on his helmet display, and he overrode each and every one. Gathering his strength, he charged the last ten metres until he was in close-combat range. Then the slaughter truly began. The blazing crozius swept down in hissing arcs, smashing helmets and crushing bone. There was nowhere to run in the narrow space; nowhere to manoeuvre or try to sneak around Nemiel's flanks. The rebels were forced to stand and face his wrath directly, and he slew them without mercy. When their courage finally broke and they turned and ran down the remaining length of the rampart, Nemiel realised he was thirty metres past the second-storey ramp, and his armour was caked in blood up to mid-thigh. He'd been treading on burnt and broken corpses for a full ten minutes. Down on the tramway another APC exploded in a shower of molten steel. Brother Titus and the rest of Kohl's squad were almost to the berm, and the remaining rebel troops were in full retreat, withdrawing on foot as quickly as they could down the tramway in the direction of the captured star port. Behind Nemiel, Cortus, Ephrial and Marthes were trading fire with the rebels on the second storey. The Redemptor slapped a fresh magazine into his bolt pistol and went to join them. The rebels fought doggedly, forcing the Astartes to fight for every metre they climbed, but the Dark Angels were relentless. Nemiel took the lead once more, firing away with his bolt pistol until he could draw close enough to wield his deadly crozius. He was wounded half a dozen times. Las-bolts burned through weakened spots in his armour and seared the flesh beneath. Once a rebel soldier charged him with a bayonet-tipped lasgun and jammed the blade into the joint of his left hip. The point dug deep into his flesh and snapped off when Nemiel smashed the man to the ground with a backhanded sweep of the crozius, but the injury scarcely slowed him by that point. Victory was close at hand. They threw the last of their grenades at the top of the third ramp, and they rushed forward to meet the rebels' last stand. Ephrial fell during the charge, shot through the right knee. He landed on the permacrete, his crippled leg extended beside him, and continued to blaze away at the enemy with his bolter. At the top of the pyramid the Astartes were able to spread out and attack the enemy at once, and a wild melee raged for almost three full minutes before the last of the rebels fell beneath Nemiel's crozius. He searched among the bodies for the commander of the detachment, but there were no officers to be found. 'North bastion secure,' Nemiel reported over the vox. 'One casualty.' 'South bastion secure,' Brother-Sergeant Kohl answered a minute later. 'No casualties to report.' 'Gateway secure,' Brother Titus reported. 'Brother-Redemptor Nemiel, I am detecting movement inside the forge complex; approximately six contacts, heading this way.' 'Very well,' Nemiel replied. 'I'm coming down. Brother-Sergeant Kohl, leave one member of your section behind as a lookout, then link up with me in the gateway.' Nemiel left Brother Ephrial behind to stand watch from the northern bastion and headed down to ground level. Off to the north-west, he could hear the rumble of petrochem engines and the squeal of tank treads. New signals over the company command net indicated that the Tanagran Dragoons had broken through and were almost to the tramway. Kohl and his warriors reached the gateway at the same time as Nemiel. Brother Titus stood squarely in the breach, his smoking assault cannon trained down a wide avenue that ran northeast into the vast complex. 'Where are the contacts now?' Nemiel asked the Dreadnought. 'Two hundred metres northeast,' Titus answered. 'I'm getting strange returns on my surveyors. Whatever they are, they are making good use of cover and avoiding direct line of sight.' He paused. 'I don't think they are rebel troops.' 'It could be Tech-Guard,' Askelon said. 'There has to be a garrison of some kind here to defend the forge.' 'Let's hope so,' Nemiel replied. 'Although it looks like the enemy managed to penetrate at least into the outer districts before we arrived. We need to investigate the returns, no matter what.' He turned to the Dreadnought. 'Hold the gate, Brother Titus. This shouldn't take long.' Nemiel led the group through the gateway and into the precincts of the Mechanicum. The roadway be

l troops.' 'It could be Tech-Guard,' Askelon said. 'There has to be a garrison of some kind here to defend the forge.' 'Let's hope so,' Nemiel replied. 'Although it looks like the enemy managed to penetrate at least into the outer districts before we arrived. We need to investigate the returns, no matter what.' He turned to the Dreadnought. 'Hold the gate, Brother Titus. This shouldn't take long.' Nemiel led the group through the gateway and into the precincts of the Mechanicum. The roadway beneath his feet wasn't permacrete, but a kind of smooth, grey metal cladding. It rang softly with each step, and continued northeast in a laser-perfect line towards the distant slopes of the great volcano. Tall, dark structures rose to either side of the roadway. Warehouses, Nemiel reckoned, or manufactories idled sometime during the rebel attack. The Redemptor moved forward, peering intently into the shadows surrounding the silent buildings. He knew basically where the six individuals ought to be, but try as he might, he could not spot them. 'They must be around the corner of one of these structures,' he said quietly. 'If so, they likely don't know we're here.' Techmarine Askelon shook his head. 'I wouldn't count on that,' he replied. 'If they're Tech-Guard, they could have surveyors that rival those of Brother Titus.' Nemiel didn't like the sound of anything that could see farther and keener than he could. 'Stay sharp,' he told his warriors, and pressed ahead. After just fifteen metres, Brother Titus called over the vox. 'The contacts are moving,' Titus reported. 'They're thirty metres north-by-northeast and heading your way.' The Astartes orientated on the bearing given by the Dreadnought, their weapons held low but ready. Ironically, it was Brother Cortus, the one-eyed Astartes, who spotted them first. 'There!' he said, indicating a narrow alley off to the left with a nod of his head. Six figures were spilling from the alley and fanning out in a semi-circular formation, heading straight for the Astartes. As they emerged from the shadows between the buildings, Nemiel could see that they were massive individuals, each one easily as large as an Astartes, and just as powerfully built. Articulated armour plates covered their hyper-muscled bodies, and even from this distance Nemiel could clearly see that their limbs and heads were heavily augmented with bionic and chemical implants. Their arms were fully weaponised, with an assortment of fearsome-looking energy and projectile weapons and lethal close combat attachments. He could hear them speaking to one another in blurts of binaric code as they advanced. Their augmetic eyes glowed a pale green from within burnished metal frames. Nemiel turned to Askelon. 'What are they signalling to one another about?' he asked. The Techmarine shook his head. 'I can't tell, sir. It's all highly encrypted. But their weapons systems and combat surveyors are fully active.' Nemiel turned back to the oncoming figures. 'Do you recognise them?' 'Oh, yes,' Askelon said. 'They're skitarii; more specifically, a unit of Praetorians. They're the Mechanicum's elite guard.' The Praetorians continued to advance, snapping and squealing to one another in sinister-sounding code. Nemiel took a step forward, making a point to lower his weapons. 'Ave, Praetorians,' he began. 'I'm Brother-Redemptor Nemiel, of the Emperor's First Legion. We've come to help defend the forge-' The rest of Nemiel's greeting was cut short as the Praetorians raised their weapon arms and opened fire. TEN HIDDEN EVILS Caliban In the 200th year of the Emperor's Great Crusade THE GROUND FLOOR of Sigma Five-One-Seven's control centre had been claimed by the plant's small garrison as a makeshift barracks. The squat, thick-walled building was an ideal defensive position, with access to the plant's vox-unit and a comprehensive network of surveyors that streamed real-time data covering the entire facility - all of which made the scene of carnage inside all the harder to understand. Zahariel stood just inside the control centre's single entrance and tried to make sense of the wreckage strewn across the wide, low-ceilinged room. Three-quarters of the space had been set with orderly rows of desks and logic engines, intended for the plant's supervisors and senior engineers once the site went into operation. The rest of the room had been claimed by at least one of the garrison's Jaeger squads. He could see torn and bloody bedrolls, kicked-over piles of ration packs and scattered crates of spare energy cells. Scorch marks stained the ochre-coloured walls, and the desks were scarred and cratered by lasgun fire. The Librarian took a deep breath, tasting smoke and the bitter tang of blood. Astelan stood in the middle of the carnage, grimly surveying the scene. 'The attackers came in through the front door,' the chapter master said quietly. He pointed at the wall to either side of Zahariel's head. 'Most of the scorch marks indicate that the Jaegers were firing at the doorway from over there, by their bedrolls.' 'They didn't try to take cover behind the desks, just a couple of metres away,' Zahariel observed. 'Obviously they didn't have time,' Astelan said. 'The Jaegers here were off-watch and likely asleep when the attackers arrived.' He nodded towards a doorway on the far side of the room. 'The platoon's second squad was camped in the next room over, and their area is undisturbed.' Zahariel pursed his lips thoughtfully, recreating the scene in his mind. 'Second squad is on patrol when the vox-units go out. The attackers deal with them first, then close in on the control centre and surprise the first squad.' He glanced at Astelan with narrowed eyes. 'None of which should have been possible, given that the attackers would have had to wipe out an entire squad of troops in full view of the plant's surveyors, then blast their way through this buildings reinforced door.' The chapter master nodded. 'We found a great deal of blood upstairs in the control room.' 'Show me.' Astelan led Zahariel deeper into the building through the deserted offices and echoing hallways of the control centre. The malevolent energies surrounding the site swirled about them as they walked. It was like feeling the eyes of a beast upon you as you were riding through a deep, shadow-haunted part of the forest, and from the set of the chapter master's shoulders, Zahariel suspected that Astelan felt it as well. They rode a lift to the building's third floor and Zahariel stepped into the plant's large control room. Logic engines whirred and clattered from dozens of empty workstations, and flickering green pict units displayed scrolling streams of data detailing every aspect of the plant's idle machinery. Brother Gideon knelt beside the plant's security station, set in a shadowed alcove just to the right of the lift. He had pushed aside the workstation's chair, which had been built to human specifications and was altogether too frail for Gideon's armoured bulk, and was working industriously at the controls. His right knee rested in the centre of a wide pool of mostly-dried blood. Once again, Zahariel paused and studied the scene for clues. Most of the work stations were operating in standby mode, except for two others. He quickly scanned the readouts on their screens; both were dedicated to monitoring the operation of the site's thermal power plant. The Librarian glanced back at the pool of blood. 'Someone got close enough to slit the watch officer's throat,' he mused. 'It was mid-afternoon, so that was probably the platoon commander or the senior sergeant,' Astelan said. Zahariel nodded thoughtfully. 'He would have been the first to die. Then the perimeter patrols would have been eliminated.' Astelan pointed to the security display. 'The killer likely monitored the ambushes from here - perhaps even coordinated them with teams on the outside. Then, when the time was right, he went downstairs and opened the door to let them finish the job.' The Librarian clenched his armoured fists. It had been a well-organised and ruthlessly-executed assault. But to what purpose? 'What about the vox logs?' he asked. Astelan motioned Zahariel to follow him to another alcove, this one situated at the rear of the chamber. Inside, the plant's vox-unit was still operating. Zahariel could hear the faint hum of power coursing through its frame, but the speaker was ominously silent. The chapter master turned to a display panel and keyed a series of switches. At once, a long string of readouts cascaded down the display. 'There was only one transmission today,' he said. 'The time stamp corresponds to the signal we received at Aldurukh.' Astelan folded his arms. 'Based on the condition of the bloodstain in the security alcove, I would estimate that the signal was sent approximately thirty minutes to an hour after the watch officer was killed.' 'They could have gotten the codes from the vox operator's kit. All they had to do was distort the caller's voice and wait for us to follow procedure.' The last pieces of the puzzle were falling into place, and Zahariel did not like the picture it revealed. 'Luther was right. The reaction force was lured into an ambush.' Astelan nodded. 'It appears that the rebels managed to infiltrate the labour force,' he said. 'But to what purpose?' Zahariel countered. 'They didn't intend to destroy the plant, obviously.' The chapter master cocked a thin eyebrow at the Librarian. 'They managed to wipe out an entire Jaeger company. Isn't that enough?' 'How do we know the Jaegers are dead?' he asked. 'Have you found any bodies?' Astelan glanced away. For the first time, the Astartes looked faintly uncomfortable. 'No,' he said. The thought sent a chill down Zahariel's spine. 'We've found plenty of blood, but that's all.' 'And whoever sent that signal also had some way of controlling whatever force is interrupting our vox transmissions,' Zahariel continued

t the Librarian. 'They managed to wipe out an entire Jaeger company. Isn't that enough?' 'How do we know the Jaegers are dead?' he asked. 'Have you found any bodies?' Astelan glanced away. For the first time, the Astartes looked faintly uncomfortable. 'No,' he said. The thought sent a chill down Zahariel's spine. 'We've found plenty of blood, but that's all.' 'And whoever sent that signal also had some way of controlling whatever force is interrupting our vox transmissions,' Zahariel continued. 'Whatever this is, it's not something the rebels have ever used before.' He turned away from the vox-unit and paced across the room, pausing to study the two functioning work stations. 'What do we know about the labourers?' he asked. Astelan shrugged. 'According to the maintenance logs, they arrived about a week ago as part of the quarterly rotation. The Administratum flies them in by shuttle from the Northwilds arcology and houses them in a pair of dormitories on the north end of the site.' 'No sign of them, either?' Zahariel asked. 'We haven't searched the dormitories yet, but I don't expect we'll find anything.' Zahariel shook his head. 'They have to be here somewhere, brother,' he said grimly. 'Three hundred bodies don't simply vanish into thin air.' 'Chapter Master Astelan!' Gideon cried. 'I've found something!' Zahariel and Astelan strode swiftly to the security station. The pict displays at the work station were all dark. 'What's this?' the Librarian said. 'I've been checking all of the surveyors and pict arrays covering the site,' Gideon said. 'All of the units have checked out fine up to this point, but the units on level B6 all appear to be dead.' Zahariel gave Astelan a sidelong glance. They'd all memorised the layout of Sigma Five-One-Seven, down to the smallest detail. 'That's where the thermal vent is located,' the chapter master said. Zahariel could see the memories of Sarosh lurking deep in Astelan's eyes. They all remembered the vast cavern beneath the earth, filled with millions upon millions of corpses offered up to the Saroshi's obscene god. Not here, he wanted to say. This is Caliban. Such things do not happen here. Instead, Zahariel gripped his force staff tightly in his hand and addressed the chapter master. 'Assemble the squad,' he said, his voice betraying nothing of the despair he felt. Astelan nodded curtly. 'What are your orders?' Zahariel glanced once more at the dark pict screens. 'We're going to go down there and find out who is responsible for this,' the Librarian replied. 'Then, by the primarch, they're going to pay for what they've done.' THEY FORMED UP by the Land Raider as the sun was setting behind the mountains to the west. A thick bank of grey clouds was rolling ponderously towards the site from the south, carrying with it the threat of a storm. The weather had grown increasingly wild and unpredictable over the years as the Imperium transformed the surface of the planet and filled the skies with plumes of smoke from their manufactories. Magos Bosk and the rest of the Administratum insisted that the changes were nothing to be concerned about. Zahariel eyed the looming clouds warily and wondered if Magos Bosk had ever conducted a squad-level skirmish in a raging gale. He confessed to himself that the odds seemed unlikely in the extreme. They boarded the assault tank and crossed the wide landing field, heading into the deep shadows filling up the alleys and access ways to the east of the site. The plant's massive thermal exchange unit was a black tower - wider at the base, then narrowing a bit at the middle before flaring open once more as it soared high into the sky over Sigma Five-One-Seven. Red and blue hazard lights flashed insistently along its length, warning low-flying aircraft to keep away; when the plant went into full operation the tower would be wreathed in hissing ribbons of waste steam, tinted a sickly orange by chemical flood lamps. The Land Raider's driver circled around the base of the huge tower until he came upon a wide, low-ceiling entrance at the southeast side. At Zahariel's command, the tank rumbled to a halt a few dozen metres from the opening, then the squad dismounted into the garnering darkness. Immediately, Astelan pointed to three sets of cargo crates, each arrayed in a crescent shape with the closed ends pointed towards the tower entrance. Zahariel recognised them even before he saw the familiar shapes of heavy stubbers aimed at the thermal unit's entrance. The Astartes approached the makeshift weapons cautiously, sweeping the shadows with their bolt pistols. Dried blood stained the permacrete around each of the positions; Zahariel's keen eyes detected scores of small craters where lasgun bolts had eaten into the pavement around the emplacements. A bloodstained portable vox-unit lay near the centre weapons station, its control panel smashed to pieces. Zahariel eyed the heavy stubbers. None of them showed signs of having been fired. 'It looks like the reaction force tried to set up a security cordon around the thermal plant's entrance,' he declared, 'the gunners must have been ambushed later, once the others were gone.' Astelan nodded in agreement. 'You think they realised what was going on?' The Librarian shook his head. 'They knew only what the enemy told them,' Zahariel said. 'I expect the company commander got off his Condor and found a frantic man or woman in labourer's coveralls who told him that the rebels had taken over the thermal unit and were planning to blow it up. So the captain rushed in there with everything he had, hoping to stop the enemy before it was too late.' Astelan glanced back at the Librarian. 'And now we're going in there as well?' Zahariel nodded grimly, raising his force staff. 'Whatever the enemy might expect, they aren't ready for the likes of us.' The members of the squad readied their weapons in mute agreement. Attias moved up alongside Zahariel, his silver death's-head mask seeming to float eerily out of the darkness. 'Loyalty and honour,' he rasped. 'Loyalty and honour, brothers,' Zahariel answered back, and led his squad inside. THE AIR INSIDE the thermal exchange unit was hot and humid, gusting like the breath of a huge, hungry beast. Red emergency lighting bathed the interior crimson, outlining billowing clouds of steam and glistening on drops of condensate flowing from overhead pipes and ductwork. Zahariel smelled the bitter reek of corroded metal and freshly spilled blood. 'I thought the thermal exchanger wasn't online yet,' he said aloud. 'It's not,' Gideon replied. 'I checked the readouts myself.' He pulled his auspex unit from his belt and tested it. The screen flickered and then filled with a cascade of data. The Astartes tried several different detection modes, then shook his head in disgust and put the unit away. 'No readings,' he reported, 'or at least, none that make any sense. I'm picking up a lot of interference from somewhere close by.' 'Somewhere,' Attias echoed, 'or something.' 'Tactical pattern Epsilon,' Zahariel interjected curtly, unwilling to let that train of speculation proceed any further. 'Stay sharp, and watch for likely ambush points.' Within moments the squad was arrayed in a rough octagonal formation, with a warrior at each corner of the octagon and Zahariel and Gideon, the auspex bearer, in the centre. It was a solid formation that drew on the ancient teachings of the Order, and was suited to dealing with close assaults from any direction. Abruptly he found himself wishing that he'd thought to equip the squad with a flamer or two before leaving Aldurukh, but that couldn't be helped now. Once he was satisfied that all of his warriors were in position, Zahariel waved the squad forward. Drawing on the maps he'd memorised, Zahariel guided the squad through the twisting corridors surrounding the base of the thermal tower. Visibility was limited; even with the Astartes' enhanced senses the plumes of mist and the dim red lighting created illusory patterns of movement and obscured vision beyond more than two metres. Zahariel could not help but admire the courage of the Jaegers who had preceded them; the human troops would have been all but blind as they tried to reach the lower levels of the tower. He doubted that they'd made it very far. The terrible heat and the reek of corruption increased as they pressed further inside, and the sense of malevolence grew stronger and more focused on Zahariel and the squad. He could feel its weight pressing against him like a smothering cloud, probing his armour in search of a way inside. The cables connecting his mind to the psychic hood grew deathly cold, and a film of black frost condensed on the haft of his force staff despite the cloying heat. He was tempted - strongly tempted - to reach out with his own psychic power and get a sense of the enemy that lay somewhere ahead, but years of training with Brother-Librarian Israfael cautioned against it. Don't waste your energies swinging blind, Israfael had told him many times. Or worse, leave yourself open to a surprise attack. Conserve your strength, maintain your defences, and wait for the enemy to reveal themselves. And so he did, resolutely pushing the squad forward and waiting for the first blows to fall. There were four industrial-grade lifts that provided access to the tower's lower levels, but they were deathtraps as far as Zahariel was concerned. If the enemy had access to a meltagun - and the Jaeger reaction force had carried two - then a single blast into such a tight space could wipe out half his squad. He had Brother Gideon disable their controls so the enemy couldn't use them either, then they began their descent via one of the tower's four long stairways. The stairs didn't switch back upon themselves, like in most structures; instead they descended in a long, arcing spiral that wound ever deeper into the earth. The foul presence permeating the air grew stronger with

- and the Jaeger reaction force had carried two - then a single blast into such a tight space could wipe out half his squad. He had Brother Gideon disable their controls so the enemy couldn't use them either, then they began their descent via one of the tower's four long stairways. The stairs didn't switch back upon themselves, like in most structures; instead they descended in a long, arcing spiral that wound ever deeper into the earth. The foul presence permeating the air grew stronger with each and every step. Zahariel concentrated on putting one foot in front of the next, recalling the labyrinthine steps that wound through the ancient stone beneath Aldurukh itself. Memories flitted through his mind as he walked; of his initiation into the Order and his long walk through darkness at Jonson's side. Fragmentary images came and went: stone steps and torchlight, the rustle of fabric, Nemiel's presence at his side as they descended a flight of stairs to... where? He couldn't quite recall. The memories were vague and only half-formed, like scenes from a dream. A dull pain swelled in the back of his head as he tried to concentrate on the images, until finally he was forced to push the thoughts away. More alarming were the cracks that began to appear in the outer walls of the stairwell as they descended deeper beneath the ground. Black roots had forced their way through freshly-laid permacrete more than a metre thick, spreading across the inner surface of the curved walls and spilling black, foul-smelling dirt onto the stairs. Red light glistened on the segmented bodies of insects that wormed and writhed their way among the roots. Ghostly white cave spiders, each as big as Zahariel's hand, rose up from their nests and brandished their long legs in challenge as the Astartes went past. By the time they reached the lowest levels the stairway was little more than a tunnel of raw earth and dripping plant matter, thick with crawling, chittering life. Strange, misshapen insects, bloated and foul, squirmed amid dense networks of rotting root matter. A long, segmented millipede, nearly as long as Zahariel's forearm, uncoiled like a spring from the curve of a root ball and leapt onto his shoulder, stabbing wildly at the armour plate with its needle-like stinger. He brushed the foul thing away with the haft of his force staff and crushed it beneath his boot. Still, the squad forged ahead, pressing through the ever-constricting tunnel until Zahariel began to think they would be forced to cut a path with their chainswords. Finally, Astelan and the warrior beside him at the front of the formation came to a halt. The air was stifling, thick with heat and the smell of rot, and the red emergency lights had long since given out. Dimly, Zahariel could sense a vague, greenish glow down and to the right, past Astelan's shoulder. 'We've reached the bottom of the stairs,' Astelan said quietly, casting a wary eye up at the swarms of insect life rustling ceaselessly overhead. 'What are your orders?' There was no telling what they might find beyond the opening to level B6. Zahariel was surprised the enemy had let them penetrate so far - he'd operated on the assumption that they would encounter resistance almost immediately, which would have at least given him some idea of what they were up against. The time might come very soon when he would have to draw upon his psychic abilities, whether he wanted to or not. He needed information more than anything else at this point. 'Press forward,' he said. 'Drive for the thermal core. It's the largest chamber on this level.' The chapter master nodded and stepped into the green-lit blackness without hesitation. Zahariel followed with the rest of his squad, bolt pistol at the ready. His feet came down on thick roots and cablelike vines stretching across the floor beyond the stairwell. Draughts of stinking air gusted past his helmet, and the insect noise surrounding the warriors swelled to frantic life. They pressed on down a low-ceilinged passage for more than a hundred metres, passing numerous cross-corridors as they went. The clinging plant life continued unabated down the passageway, and Zahariel realised the pale green glow came from colonies of bloated grubs that clung tenaciously to the twisted roots. Sounds of restless movement echoed all around them, seeming to grow louder with each passing moment. At one point Zahariel heard the clatter of talons behind a cluster of pipes half-hidden among a network of vines running along one of the walls, but he couldn't catch sight of the creature that made the noise. 'How much farther?' Gideon asked quietly. The warrior's voice was tense. The continual screeching and rustling had the entire squad on edge. 'Fifty more-' Zahariel started to say, just as the air filled with a hideous screeching and dark, armoured shapes burst from the plant life all around them. He was glancing over at Gideon just as a segmented creature struck downwards at the Astartes from the network of thick pipes running overhead. It was swift as a tree viper but as thick as Zahariel's upper arm, with hundreds of chitin-sheathed legs and a broad head set with a half-dozen compound eyes. In a flash it had wrapped around Gideon's torso and lifted the huge warrior off the ground, lunging and snapping at the back of his helmet with its curved mandibles. Bolt pistols barked and chainswords howled in the confined space as the squad was set upon from all sides. Gideon twisted in the monster's grip, slashing at its body with his whirring blade. Zahariel blew the creature's head apart with a single shot from his bolt pistol just as a powerful impact struck the back of his helmet and pitched him off his feet. Zahariel tried to twist his body as he fell, but the creature had his helmet gripped in its mandibles and it was stronger even than he. It drove him face-first onto the floor, wrenching his head left and right as it tried to crack the helmet he wore. Something sharp jabbed at the back plate of the helmet like a dagger, trying again and again to punch through the ceramite. Warning icons flashed before his eyes, informing him of his suit's failing integrity. With his elbows and knees on firm ground the Librarian flexed his augmented muscles and managed to twist onto his right side. His force staff was pinned beneath him, but he was able to aim behind him at the creature's thrashing body. It took three bolt pistol shots in rapid succession to blow the thing apart, showering him with fragments of chitin and reeking ichor. In the muzzle flashes of his pistol Zahariel could see three more of the monsters rearing up from the walls like snakes, their mandibles clashing as they prepared to strike. Without hesitation, he summoned up the full force of his will and unleashed the psychic fury of the warp. He had practised the attack countless times under Israfael's tutelage, but the sheer intensity of the energy coursing through him took Zahariel by surprise. It roared through him like a torrent, far stronger and easier to grasp than he'd ever experienced before. A nimbus of crackling energy surrounded the Librarian; he felt each and every vein in his body turn to ice, radiating from the cables of the psychic hood at the back of his skull, and the three creatures were engulfed in a torrent of raging fire that coalesced from the very air itself. They burst apart in the intense heat, their carapaces exploding from within. Zahariel gave a shout of triumph and surged to his feet. Skeins of crackling lightning played over the surface of his staff, and icy power raged along his limbs. For a dizzying instant his awareness sharpened to a supernatural degree, reaching into dimensions beyond the understanding of ordinary humans. The permacrete and metal of the corridor faded into near-invisibility, while living matter was etched with vibrant clarity. He could see the layers of root and vine blanketing the walls and ceiling, and every one of the thousands of insects living in their midst. He could also see the score of worms surrounding his squad, wrapping about the warriors and biting at their armoured forms. Worse, he could see the awful, unnatural taint that pulsed through it all. It stained every living thing in the corridor around the Astartes, corrupting them like a cancer. A cancer that seethed with awful, otherworldly sentience. The sight of it stunned Zahariel. It etched itself indelibly into his brain. This was worse by far than the horrors he'd witnessed on Sarosh. There, too, he had been deep beneath the ground, surrounded by death and corruption, but on Sarosh, the vile, jellylike creature they'd faced had been clearly born of the shifting madness of the warp. This taint, this evil that suffused every root and vine, was inextricably part of Caliban itself. ELEVEN CONVERSATIONS BY STARLIGHT Diamat In the 200th year of the Emperor's Great Crusade THE ATTACK WAS SO fast that it momentarily took Nemiel off-guard. In the space of a single heartbeat the Praetorians erupted into a blur of deadly motion, bringing their weapons to bear and charging across the last few metres between themselves and the Astartes. Multi-barrel slug throwers pounded at the Dark Angels, the explosive shells bursting in a series of sharp flashes across the ceramite surfaces of their armour. The warriors staggered under the hail of shells, blood spraying from wounds to their arms, torsos and legs. Urgent red telltales flashed on Nemiel's helmet display; pain flared across his chest, and his arms suddenly felt twice as heavy. A Praetorian shell had likely cut a bundle of synthetic muscle fibres beneath his breastplate. Brother-Sergeant Kohl was the first to respond. There was no time for questions or recriminations; the Praetorians were descending on them with the speed of a thunderbolt, brandishing power claws and blazing shock mauls that would make a mockery of their Crusader-pattern armour. The Terran stagger

shed on Nemiel's helmet display; pain flared across his chest, and his arms suddenly felt twice as heavy. A Praetorian shell had likely cut a bundle of synthetic muscle fibres beneath his breastplate. Brother-Sergeant Kohl was the first to respond. There was no time for questions or recriminations; the Praetorians were descending on them with the speed of a thunderbolt, brandishing power claws and blazing shock mauls that would make a mockery of their Crusader-pattern armour. The Terran staggered backward under a punishing barrage of explosive shells, roaring a curse in some forgotten tongue and returning fire with his bolt pistol. The shells struck one of the charging skitarii in the chest and head, flattening against the augmented warrior's armour plates without inflicting serious damage, but the gesture of resistance was enough to shock the rest of the squad back into action. Bolters hammered at the charging Praetorians, slowing their advance by sheer weight of fire. Blood and other fluids spurted from minor wounds; spatters of liquid hissed into steam where it struck the Praetorians' super-charged bionics. Nemiel smelled the acrid reek of adrenal compounds and hormone agitators. Off to Nemiel's right there was a shriek of superheated air as Brother Marthes shot one of the oncoming skitarii point-blank with his meltagun. The anti-tank weapon blew the Praetorian apart in a shower of sparks and charred bits of flesh. The Praetorian rushing at Nemiel was a massive brute that seemed more machine than man; a composition of bionic joints, synthetic musculature, adrenal shunts and pitted armour plating. His head was encased in a faceless metal shell, studded with multi-spectrum auspex nodes in place of ears, nose and mouth. His breastplate was decorated - if that was the word - with bar-code emblems and small plaques of glittering, iridescent metal. Perhaps he was a champion of sorts, or the leader of the detachment; Nemiel couldn't be sure. The Praetorian's left hand had been replaced by a huge, three-fingered power claw, its curved edges plated with adamantium and sharpened to a mirror-sheen. The warrior lunged at Nemiel with stunning speed, swiping the claw at his face. He knew better than to try and parry something so large, the power claw could easily knock his crozius aside - or worse, snap it cleanly in two. Instead, he ducked, allowing the Praetorian's swing to pass harmlessly over his head, and smashed his staff into the warrior's elbow. The power field of the crozius struck the bionic joint and fused it with a flash of actinic light, but the Praetorian scarcely seemed to notice. The huge warrior spun on his left heel and brought his right elbow back to smash into Nemiel's forehead. Ceramite cracked loudly in Nemiel's ears, and the impact hurled him off his feet. He landed squarely on his back, his helmet readouts crackling with washes of static. Without thinking, he fired a quick burst in the Praetorian's direction, and was rewarded with the sound of shells striking the warrior's armour plate. The skitarii was just a blurry shape on the helmet's damaged optical systems, fading in and out of existence like a monstrous ghost. The Praetorian moved closer, his claw arm reaching for Nemiel's right leg. A flash of light and another howl of tortured air swept over Nemiel. Marthes's shot vaporised the Praetorian's claw arm at the elbow and blistered the warrior's armoured shoulders and chest. The skitarii reeled backwards, his auto-senses momentarily overloaded. Nemiel dropped his pistol and clawed at his helmet release. He popped the catches with nimble fingers and tore the damaged helm from his head, blinking in the dim, red light of Diamat's distant sun. A wild melee was raging all around him as his battle brothers fought against the heavily-armed Praetorians. Brother Yung was down, his breastplate torn like paper and stained with blood. Techmarine Askelon had another of the Praetorians by the throat, lifting the brute off the ground with his servo arm and crushing the skitarii's metal-sheathed spine. He quickly turned his focus back to the one-armed Praetorian just a few metres away. The augmented warrior was in a crouch, the air shimmering around his scorched armour, his body eerily still as he reset his auspex nodes. Nemiel snatched up his bolt pistol and took careful aim, preparing to put a round through the Praetorian's throat. Suddenly a strange, trumpeting blurt of binaric code cut like a knife through the sounds of battle, and the Praetorians practically recoiled from the Dark Angels. They retreated a dozen steps and lowered their weapon arms, their chests heaving from exertion and the combat drugs that were boiling in their veins. The Astartes paused, their weapons trained on their adversaries. Kohl looked to Nemiel for instructions. But the Redemptor's attention was focused on a large force of armoured skitarii rushing down the roadway from the northeast. They were led by a tall, hooded figure clad in the crimson robes of the Mechanicum, riding atop a humming suspensor disk. Nemiel rose swiftly to his feet as the figure glided closer. 'What is the meaning of this, magos?' he snarled, his choler nearly overwhelming him. 'Error. Improper threat parameters. Misidentification,' the magos blurted in High Gothic. The voice was harsh and atonal, the words strangely inflected but recognizable. The magos paused, raising a hand that glittered in the rust-coloured sunlight. 'Apologies,' he continued, his synthetic voice more carefully modulated now. 'Grave apologies to you and your squad, noble Astartes. The skitarii were in seek-and-destroy mode, searching for enemy troops that had penetrated the complex. Your appearance on Diamat is... unexpected. I was unable to override the Praetorians' engagement protocols until it was too late.' 'I see,' Nemiel said curtly. So it's our fault for rushing here to protect you, he thought. He glanced over at Brother-Sergeant Kohl and guessed from the Terran's belligerent pose that he was thinking much the same thing. 'How is Brother Yung?' 'Comatose,' Kohl growled. 'His injuries are grave.' 'Let us conduct him to the forge's apothecarium,' the magos said at once. 'We will repair his body and mend his damaged armour.' For some reason, the magos's offer took Nemiel aback. 'That won't be required,' he said quickly. 'We will conduct him back to our ship when the battle is done, and let our brothers tend to him.' He studied the hooded figure warily. 'I am Brother-Redemptor Nemiel, of the Emperor's First Legion. Who are you?' The magos laid one metal hand atop the other and bowed from the waist. 'I am Archoi, magos of the Forge and former servant of the Arch-Magos Vertullus,' he said. 'Former?' Nemiel inquired. Archoi nodded gravely. 'I regret that the esteemed Arch-Magos was slain, twelve-point-eight hours ago, while coordinating the defence of the forge,' he said. 'As the senior surviving member of Vertullus's staff, I am now the acting Arch-Magos of Diamat.' Off to the south, a deep, brassy rumble shook the air. It swelled in volume, the source climbing slowly into the sky. Nemiel turned and saw a pair of ships boosting ponderously into orbit on pillars of cyan light. 'The rebels have had enough,' Kohl declared. There was a grim note of triumph in his voice. 'They're pulling out.' 'Indeed,' Archoi replied. 'Your primarch contacted us six-point-three-seven minutes previously, declaring that rebel forces in orbit are in full retreat.' The magos raised his arms, as if in benediction. 'Victory is yours, noble Astartes. Diamat is saved.' Archoi's synthesised voice fell silent, giving way to the fading thunder of the fleeing transports and distant rumble of Imperial vehicles. A rattle of small arms fire echoed in the distance. The Praetorians stared mutely at Nemiel and the Dark Angels, their augmented bodies as still as statues. Blood and lubricants leaked slowly from their wounds. Nemiel couldn't help but think that Archoi was being a bit premature. 'NATURALLY, WE'RE VERY grateful that you came when you did,' Taddeus Kulik said, though the look in the governor's hooded eyes suggested just the opposite. The primarch's sanctum aboard the Invincible Reason was a single, large chamber that stretched from one side of the warship's superstructure to the other and subdivided into smaller, more intimate spaces by fluted columns of structural steel. Tall, arched viewports to port and starboard threw long, sharp-edged shadows across the mosaics inlaid onto the deck, and hinted at the angular shapes of furnishings in the surrounding spaces. Fragments of hull plating had gouged the portside viewports in chaotic patterns, refracting the red light of Diamat's sun like a scattering of polished rubies. Jonson typically kept the lighting dim in the sanctum, preferring to work solely by starlight when possible, but out of consideration for his guests he'd lit the lumen-sconces on the pillars surrounding the large, hexagonally-shaped meeting space in the centre of the great chamber. A carved wooden campaign chair had been provided for the governor, who had been hit in the leg by a Iasgun bolt during the Dragoons' counterattack. A chirurgeon from the Imperial palace and a medicae servitor stood a discreet distance away, ready with painkillers should Kulik require them. The governor, a man in his middle years, still wore the battle-scarred carapace armour he'd fought in just a few hours before. A stained compression bandage was wrapped around his right thigh, and an old power sword hung from a scabbard at his hip. His pale grey eyes were bright with pain and fatigue, and though he made a point to relax into the back of his chair, the set of his shoulders was tense. Magos Archoi stood a few paces to the governor's right, his metal hands folded at his waist. He had changed out of his simple Mechanicum robe for his audience with the primarch, garbing himself in the formal att

urs before. A stained compression bandage was wrapped around his right thigh, and an old power sword hung from a scabbard at his hip. His pale grey eyes were bright with pain and fatigue, and though he made a point to relax into the back of his chair, the set of his shoulders was tense. Magos Archoi stood a few paces to the governor's right, his metal hands folded at his waist. He had changed out of his simple Mechanicum robe for his audience with the primarch, garbing himself in the formal attire of his late predecessor. The heavy robes of office were woven with gold and platinum thread, worked into complicated patterns that resembled nothing so much as integrated circuit paths; the sleeves were wide and terminated just below the elbow, revealing the intricate craftsmanship of Archoi's bionic arms. The magos had drawn back his hood, exposing the polished metal of his lower skull and neck. Data cables and coolant tubes ran in bundles along either side of his steel throat; auspex nodes and receptor pits were arranged around the vox grill set in the space where his mouth used to be. The magos had augmetic eyes set into the flesh of his upper face, glowing with faint pinpoints of blue light. His bald scalp was pale and dotted with faint scars. Nemiel couldn't read the magos at all; Archoi's body betrayed nothing but machine-like inscrutability. A pair of hooded acolytes stood a precise six paces behind him; heads bowed and muttering to one another in muted blurts of binaric cant. Lion El'Jonson studied the two officials over the tips of his steepled fingers. He sat in a high-backed, throne-like chair carved from Calibanite oak that only served to magnify his towering physical presence, his demeanour confident and utterly composed. Looking at him, one would never know that he'd been fighting for his life in a space battle just a short while before. 'Diamat's troubles are far from over, Governor Kulik,' Jonson replied gravely. 'There are resources here that Horus must have in order to prevail in the coming conflict with the Emperor. As soon as the survivors of his raiding fleet return to Isstvan, he'll immediately start putting together a new force - and this time it won't be comprised of renegade warships and former Imperial Army troops.' His gaze drifted to the red-stained viewports to port, his expression thoughtful. 'I expect we have no more than two and a half weeks, three at most, before they return. We need to make the most of it.' Kulik eyed Jonson warily. 'And what exactly would you have us do, Primarch Jonson?' he asked. The cynical tone in the governor's voice shocked Nemiel. He was standing to the right of Jonson's chair, turned so that he could address the primarch or the two officials if required. Upon returning to the flagship he'd seen to the needs of his squad and then spent more than an hour in the Apothecarium having bits of steel removed from his body. His battered wargear had been handed off to the ship's armourers for repairs, and he'd clad himself in a simple, hooded surplice before reporting to the primarch. His hands clenched reflexively at the near-insolent tone in the governor's voice. Kulik acted as though Jonson was as much of a danger as Horus - and why not, Nemiel thought? Four Legions had already cast off their ties to the Emperor, and the entire Segmentum was coming apart at the seams. Everyone's motives were suspect. The realisation left him cold. Jonson didn't miss the tone in Kulik's voice either. He turned back to the governor, his expression an icy mask. 'I would have you continue to do your duty, sir,' he said coldly. 'We must defend this planet at all costs. The future of the Imperium might well depend upon it.' Governor Kulik grimaced, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He rubbed the bandage on his leg, but Nemiel wondered if that was what truly pained him. 'My people don't have much left to give,' he said gravely. 'The rebels smashed every city and town from orbit. We don't even know for sure how many people are still alive. There's been no time to count all the bodies, much less bury them.' 'What of the Dragoons?' the primarch asked. Kulik sighed. 'We threw everything we had left into the counterattack once we learned that the company covering the forge's south entrance had been overrun.' The governor had been a military man in his youth. When the commander of the Dragoons had been killed in an atomic strike early in the rebel attack, and the Imperial palace had been bombed to rubble, he put on a Dragoon's carapace armour and took charge of the planet's defence. Kulik was a man who took his duties to the Imperium seriously. 'I've got perhaps one full regiment's worth of troops, cobbled together from half a dozen units, and most of an armoured battalion left,' he said, then shot a venomous look at Magos Archoi. 'On the other hand, the Mechanicum's troops saw little or no action during the attack, so they're likely to be at full strength.' Jonson turned to the magos and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. 'Is that so?' he asked. His tone was mild, but Nemiel saw a gleam of anger in the primarch's eye. Magos Archoi bowed his head in regret. 'It was Arch-Magos Vertullus's directive that the Tech-Guard be employed only for the purposes of defending our forge complexes across the planet,' he said. 'Many of us tried to convince him otherwise, but he said his orders came from Mars itself.' 'Not that it made any difference,' Kulik spat. 'The rebels sacked every one of the smaller forges and manufactories.' 'But they failed to seize more than twelve per cent of our primary complex outside Xanthus,' Magos Archoi pointed out. The governor glared at him. 'And had we not bled to keep them out, I wager that percentage would have been a great deal higher,' he retorted, his anger rising. 'Now is not the time for recriminations, my friends,' Jonson declared, holding up a hand to forestall further comment. 'We have fought hard and won a temporary reprieve, but that is all. Now tell us, Magos Archoi, how many troops can the Mechanicum muster for Diamat's defence?' The magos paused. One of his acolytes raised his hooded head slightly and let out an atonal squawk of code. Archoi burbled a reply in binaric, then said, 'As Governor Kulik pointed out, all of our lesser forges were seized by the enemy, and their defenders were slain. Fighting around the southern entrance to the primary forge was also very heavy, and our garrison suffered serious losses. At this point we can muster only one thousand, two hundred and twelve skitarii.' Nemiel saw Kulik grind his teeth at the offhand assessment, but the governor wisely chose to hold his choler in check. 'Thank you, magos,' Jonson said, taking control of the conversation again. 'For my part, I can muster one hundred and eighty-seven veteran Astartes for the planet's defence. I'm still waiting on damage assessments from my battle group commanders, but it's clear that all of my surviving vessels have sustained moderate to severe levels of damage, and all of them are low on stocks of fuel, ordnance and ammunition.' Magos Archoi bowed to the primarch. 'The full resources of our forge are at your service, Primarch Jonson,' he said. 'We can begin resupplying your ships and effecting repairs immediately.' 'Providing you're resupplied and the proper repairs are made, can your ships repel the next attack?' Kulik asked. Jonson considered his reply. 'It's unlikely,' he admitted. 'We'll hold them off as long as we can, but my ships are in no condition for a protracted battle. Keep in mind, however, that time is not on Horus's side. He knows that a huge force of Astartes is on the way to attack Isstvan, and could arrive here at any time in the next few weeks. Every day we can hold him off brings us that much closer to victory.' 'If all we have to do is dig in our heels and make the bastards pay for every kilometre, that's something we've had a lot of experience with,' Kulik said grimly. 'And we'll be right beside you every step of the way,' Jonson said with a nod. He turned to Magos Archoi. 'There is a great deal of planning to discuss,' he began. 'May I make a small request, magos?' 'Naturally you may, primarch,' Archoi replied. Jonson smiled. 'What I require most right now is information,' he began. 'Specifically, I need an accounting of the materiel that the rebels succeeded in removing from your forges, as well as an inventory of what remains, and where it is stored.' Archoi didn't reply for several moments. Kulik turned to regard the magos, his expression intent. 'Your request is problematic,' the magos said at last. 'The lesser forges were almost completely destroyed, and a great deal of data storage was lost.' Jonson raised a placating hand. 'Of course, magos. I see your point,' he said. 'If you could just provide an inventory of the materiel still stored at the primary forge site, that would be sufficient.' The magos bowed. 'Thank you for your understanding, primarch,' he replied. 'I will instruct my acolytes to begin compiling the data at once.' The primarch smiled, but his eyes were calculating. 'My thanks, Magos Archoi,' he said. 'Now, if you will excuse me, I must see to the needs of my brethren. We will meet again tomorrow to begin discussing an integrated defence plan.' Magos Archoi bowed deeply to the primarch and withdrew quickly, exchanging a flurry of code with his acolytes as he disappeared into the deep shadows beyond the audience space. Governor Kulik levered himself awkwardly to his feet, waving away the hands of the hovering chirurgeon. He inclined his head respectfully to Jonson, who nodded at the wounded man in return and watched him limp off into the gloom. After the governor had left, the primarch turned to Nemiel. 'What do you make of them?' he asked. The question surprised Nemiel. He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts. 'Governor Kulik seems like a brave and honourable man,' he replied. 'How many pl

ce space. Governor Kulik levered himself awkwardly to his feet, waving away the hands of the hovering chirurgeon. He inclined his head respectfully to Jonson, who nodded at the wounded man in return and watched him limp off into the gloom. After the governor had left, the primarch turned to Nemiel. 'What do you make of them?' he asked. The question surprised Nemiel. He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts. 'Governor Kulik seems like a brave and honourable man,' he replied. 'How many planetary rulers have we met who cower in their palaces and send better men to die on their behalf?' 'Well, his palace was blown to bits,' Jonson observed. Nemiel chuckled. 'He could have fled to the hills with his people, but he didn't. He honoured his oaths, and that counts for something.' Jonson nodded. 'Do you think we can trust him?' The Redemptor frowned. He studied the primarch's impassive face. Was Jonson making another joke? 'I... believe so,' he said after a moment. 'How could it possibly profit him to betray us now?' The primarch gave him a faintly exasperated look. 'Nemiel, the governor did well enough against Horus's cannon fodder, I'll grant you that,' he said. 'But the Warmaster won't just send auxiliaries next time. We'll almost certainly be facing other Astartes as well. How do you imagine he'll react then?' Nemiel frowned. It was still difficult to imagine the idea of fighting a brother Astartes. The very thought of it filled him with dread. 'Governor Kulik is no coward,' he said confidently. 'He'll fight, regardless of the odds. It's in his nature.' Jonson nodded to himself, and Nemiel saw that he seemed actually relieved by the observation. Could the primarch actually have a difficult time reading someone as forthright as Kulik? Was this the same individual who united all of Caliban in a crusade against the great beasts? But then it hit Nemiel; Jonson hadn't united Caliban. The plan was his but the person who convinced the knightly orders and the noble families to put aside their ancient traditions and unite under Jonson's banner was Luther. It had been his oratorial skills, his personal charisma and sense of diplomacy, and above all his keen insight into human nature that had allowed him to forge the grand alliance that had changed the face of Caliban. Jonson, by contrast, had spent his early years alone, living like an animal in the depths of the Northwilds, one of the most forbidding and inaccessible wildernesses on the planet. He didn't say a word for the first few months at Aldurukh, and was always considered cold and aloof even in later years. He was thought of as an intellectual and a scholar, and Nemiel knew that to be true, but now he also wondered if Lion El'Jonson, the superhuman son of the Emperor himself, could not relate to the people around him. He could predict how they would behave on the battlefield to an uncanny degree, but he couldn't tell an honourable man from a craven one. Are we all ciphers to him, the Redemptor wondered? If Jonson had so little in common with humanity, what did that make him? Nemiel realised abruptly that Jonson was staring at him. He shifted uncomfortably. 'My apologies, lord,' he said. 'Did you say something?' 'I asked you for your impression of Magos Archoi,' he said. 'Ah,' Nemiel replied. 'Honestly, I don't know what to make of him. How can a man willingly part with his own flesh and replace it with cold, unfeeling metal and plastek? It seems unnatural to me.' 'You mean like Captain Stenius? I think he rather appreciates having a pair of working eyes,' Jonson said wryly. 'That's different, my lord. Stenius lost his sight in battle. They were taken from him, not willingly thrown away.' Jonson nodded. 'So you think we can't trust him?' 'I don't know what to think about him, lord. That's what I'm saying,' He sighed. 'I confess I might be a little biased as well, after our first encounter.' Jonson nodded. 'Understandable,' he said. 'How is Brother Yung?' 'The Apothecaries are tending him now,' Nemiel replied. 'He suffered severe internal injuries, and his body went into stasis almost immediately.' As part of their extensive physical and genetic modifications, all Astartes possessed the ability to survive even the worst physical injuries by entering a kind of voluntary coma that focused the body's energies on basic survival. 'The chirurgeon says that he will heal, but there's no chance he'll be returning to action in the next few months.' 'And the rest of the squad?' Nemiel shrugged. 'Numerous minor injuries, but that's to be expected. Brother Ephrial is having his knee mended now, and will be fit for duty again within twelve hours.' He grinned. 'Just don't send us into battle any time in the next week or so, or half of us will be fighting in our surplices.' Jonson returned the grin. 'I think I can manage that,' he said, then rose from the chair. 'Go and get some rest. Give your body some time to recover. We'll begin planning in earnest on the morrow.' Nemiel bowed to the primarch and made to withdraw, but something he recalled from the previous conversation made him pause. 'My lord?' Jonson had already padded silently into the shadows. Nemiel saw him turn, silhouetted against the crimson light streaming through the portside viewports. 'What is it?' he asked. 'Why did you request that inventory from Magos Archoi?' he said without preamble. The primarch stiffened slightly. 'I should think it obvious,' he replied. 'If we're to devise an effective battle plan against the rebels we will need a full accounting of our supplies and all available assets.' Nemiel nodded. 'Yes, of course, my lord. It's entirely understandable. Only...' he paused. 'The request troubled the magos considerably. In these difficult times, with the Warmaster in open revolt and armies on the march, it's easy to misunderstand the intent behind such a request.' Jonson did not reply at first. He stared at Nemiel from the shadows, his powerful body completely still. 'I'm not a brigand, Nemiel,' he said, his voice quiet and cold. The Redemptor bowed his head. 'Of course not, my lord,' he said, feeling foolish now for bringing the matter up in the first place. 'I didn't mean that at all. But Archoi and Governor Kulik have already suffered a great deal at the hands of Horus's men. No one knows whom to trust anymore.' Jonson's gaze bored into Nemiel. 'Do you trust me, Nemiel?' the primarch asked. 'Of course,' Nemiel replied. 'Then rest,' Jonson said. 'And leave Archoi and Kulik to me.' The primarch turned away, gliding like a forest cat into the darkness. Nemiel watched him go, a feeling of unease sinking into his stomach. TWELVE AWFUL TRUTHS Caliban In the 200th year of the Emperor's Great Crusade HORROR AND REVULSION threatened to overwhelm Zahariel. He cried out in rage at the vision of evil before him - and then his senses shifted yet again. Pale light bathed the corridor, swelling from the bodies of his brother Astartes and the twisted monstrosities that they fought. Between one eye-blink and the next, the world had slowed near to a standstill, transforming the desperate battle into a kind of grim tableaux. Zahariel could see through the bodies of friend and foe alike; he saw hearts beating and veins coursing sluggishly with hot blood. He could see the black ichor suffusing the bodies of the terrible worms, and the foul corruption that spread within them. One of the monsters had seized brother Attias, wrapping around his torso and clamping its mandibles about his steel-encased skull. Within the creature's mouth was a long, needle-pointed spike of bone, sheathed in a powerful bundle of muscle that propelled it forward with the force of a bullet aimed at the back of Attias's head. A hollow channel within the bony needle pulsed with foul venom. Zahariel's horror was transformed into pure, righteous rage. He summoned the fury of the warp and swept his staff in a wide arc, hurling tendrils of searing white fire towards every creature he could see. Like thunderbolts, they sank through the monsters' flesh and boiled the liquid within. The Librarian felt his veins freeze and his hearts clench in agony, and the world snapped back into motion once more. A dozen of the creatures exploded, showering the squad with shattered chitin and a mist of stinking ichor. Zahariel reeled backwards, stunned by the intensity of his vision. Terrorsight, Israfael called it. He'd only experienced it once before, when he'd fought the Calibanite Lion. For that one instant, he had extended his consciousness partly into the warp. The coils of his psychic hood were so cold they seared his skin. He shuddered to think what might have happened had he exposed himself to the tainted energies inside the passageway without the hood's protection. The darkness within the corridor was lit with muzzle flashes as the squad rallied against the armoured worms' sudden assault. Chapter Master Astelan was still on his feet, blasting two of the monsters to pieces with well-aimed shots from his pistol and slicing another in half with a swipe of his chainsword. Brother Gideon leapt to his feet, shrugging off the body of the worm he'd killed and chopping apart another that had latched onto a fellow warrior's back. Attias charged forward to help free another fallen comrade, his fearsome skull-face lit by the hellish flames of pistol fire. With a fierce cry, Zahariel hurled himself into the fight. He focused his rage on the force staff in his hands, wreathing it in a crackling aura of psychic power. Every worm he struck was incinerated in a flash of blue fire and a sizzling clap of thunder that hurled their shattered husks into the air. He destroyed a half-dozen of the worms in as many seconds, and then as suddenly as it had begun, the battle was over. The Astartes stood in a rough circle, facing outwards, their armour scarred and dented and their pistols smoking. The blue haze of bolt propellant hung in the thick a

orce staff in his hands, wreathing it in a crackling aura of psychic power. Every worm he struck was incinerated in a flash of blue fire and a sizzling clap of thunder that hurled their shattered husks into the air. He destroyed a half-dozen of the worms in as many seconds, and then as suddenly as it had begun, the battle was over. The Astartes stood in a rough circle, facing outwards, their armour scarred and dented and their pistols smoking. The blue haze of bolt propellant hung in the thick air around them, and the smashed bodies of more than a score of worms lay about their feet. Several of the Astartes bore minor wounds, but none of them had fallen prey to the worms' fearsome stingers. 'What are these creatures?' Zahariel asked, probing one of the corpses with the butt of his staff. 'Reaver worms,' Astelan said, nudging one of the dead creatures with his boot. 'We used to hunt them when I was a child, but where I come from they never grow much longer than half a metre.' Zahariel had heard of reaver worms, like most Calibanite children, but had never seen one. They were a menace to human settlements all over Caliban, transforming small animals and livestock into living incubators for their eggs. The worms would wrap themselves around their victim's neck, driving their stinger into the prey's spine and injecting it with a tremendous amount of neurotoxin. The venom destroyed higher brain functions, leaving the autonomic functions intact and making the victim's nervous system hyper-conductive. Still attached to the victim, the worm then secreted enzymes into the prey's spinal chord that gave it rudimentary control of its motor functions. The worm would then literally drive the prey back to its communal nest, where the still-living victim would be injected with eggs by the nest's queen. Occasionally the worms would find their way into fresh human graves and try to make off with the corpse, much to the horror of the deceased's relatives. His skin crawled at the thought of the worm that had clamped onto his helmet, and the dagger-like stinger that had tried to punch its way into the back of his skull. 'I think we know what happened to the Jaegers,' he said grimly. 'And probably most of the labourers besides.' 'Most of them?' Astelan said. 'A worm didn't send the radio transmission to Aldurukh,' Zahariel said. 'Emperor protect us,' the chapter master hissed in disgust. 'It's been done before,' Attias said. 'The Knights of Lupus turned their beasts on us, remember?' 'But the Knights of Lupus are no more,' Astelan said sharply. 'And the great beasts driven to extinction. So where did these vile things come from?' 'That's not important right now,' Zahariel said, eager to change the subject. 'If the worms carried off the bodies of the Jaegers, it means they've got a nest and an egg-laying queen down here.' Astelan nodded in agreement. 'The queens are much larger than the drones,' he warned. 'Then she must be up ahead, near the thermal core,' Zahariel declared. He checked the load in his bolt pistol, then holstered it and pulled a frag grenade from his belt. 'Grenades first, then we charge. I'll take the lead. Any questions?' There were none, of course. The warriors of the squad had their orders. The Astartes returned to their formation and readied their weapons without hesitation. Zahariel took Astelan's place at the head of the group and set off down the corridor at a swift pace. As he did, he summoned his power once more and sent it questing down the passageway ahead. He sensed more worms waiting in ambush at the far end of the corridor and lashed the monsters with a wave of psychic energy. A hideous screeching filled the air, and powerful, armoured bodies burst from the concealing roots, thrashing in their death agonies. Zahariel struck them again, channelling every ounce of his rage into the blast, and the worms became shrieking pyres of purple and indigo flame. Zahariel primed the grenade in his hand. 'For the Emperor!' he cried, and hurled it down the corridor. Nine more grenades followed an instant later, flashing past his head in flat, precise arcs to detonate just beyond the entrance to the core chamber. More shrieking rent the air as shrapnel scythed through the creatures hiding around the entranceway. Zahariel answered them with a furious shout of his own and broke into a run, his force staff blazing like a firebrand. A swarm of reaver worms awaited their charge, ready to defend their nest. The Librarian hurled a torrent of psychic flame into their midst, immolating a score of the creatures and stunning the rest. He and his brothers crashed a moment later, and the battle was joined in earnest. Zahariel swept his force staff in a crackling arc and killed two worms lunging at him from the right. Another monster struck from the left, fixing its mandibles about his ceramite pauldron; in one swift motion he drew his bolt pistol and decapitated the creature with a single, well-aimed shot. Around him, chainswords howled and bolt pistols hammered as the Angels of Death slaughtered their foes. The chamber was a huge, man-made cavern that rose to a curved, dome-like ceiling thirty metres above their heads. The huge cylinder of the thermal core itself dominated the centre of the chamber, rising from a bore that had been drilled more than five hundred metres into the bedrock of the planet and disappearing through an opening at the apex of the dome, where it carried geothermal heat to power exchange units that supplied the rest of the plant. The air inside the cavernous space was gelid with heat and the stench of rot. The air around the thermal core shimmered like a mirage, and a powerful sense of dislocation threatened to overwhelm Zahariel. The cables of his psychic hood burned into his skull, and a spike of dull agony bore into his brain despite the effects of the dampener. The barrier between the warp and the physical world had been weakened here, and the sense of madness and corruption was almost palpable, like a layer of oil coating his skin. Sorceries had been worked here, his training told him, and the heart of it lay only a few dozen metres away. At the centre of the chamber, right at the feet of the columnar thermal core, lay a massive pile of corpses. The top layer, Zahariel could see, wore bloodstained uniforms of forest green - the Jaeger relief force that had been drawn to the site. But there were hundreds more, the Librarian estimated - likely the entire labour force of the plant as well. Hissing and screeching, the defenders of the reaver worm nest assaulted the Dark Angels from all sides. Zahariel blew one out of the air with a pair of shots from his bolt pistol and blasted two more into burning husks with a sweep of his staff. The Astartes kept their octagonal formation, facing outwards and slashing away with their chainswords at any monster that came within reach. The training of the Legion - and the rites of the Order before it - served the warriors of Caliban in good stead, and the bodies of their foes began to pile about their feet. But every time they slew one of the monsters, Zahariel felt the invisible energies swirling in the room grow more turbulent. Whatever dark designs had been set into motion here, their actions only served to energise it further. 'Press forward, brothers!' Zahariel cried, and the squad responded instantly, shifting their formation towards the thermal core one measured step at a time. The surviving worms redoubled their attack, leaping for perceived openings in the warriors' formation, but each attempt was met with a scything blade or the muzzle flash of a bolt pistol. The Dark Angels advanced relentlessly across the chamber, leaving a trail of broken, bleeding monsters in their wake. With each step, however, the air seemed to grow more and more charged. Strange coruscations crackled along the length of the core, and unearthly groans reverberated around the Astartes. As they drew nearer to the pile of corpses, Zahariel could see that they had been laid inside a vast spiral. The curving line was formed of a procession of carefully-shaped runes, each one carved into the floor by a plasma torch and filled with congealed blood. The symbols smote his eyes and sent jagged needles into his brain when he tried to focus on them, and the effect grew worse the farther along the spiral he stared. The surviving worms had abandoned their frenzied attack, and were retreating away from the Astartes in a ragged circle, their swift, sinuous forms slithering across the damp ground as they lurked beyond chainsword range. The members of Zahariel's squad continued their bloody work, picking off the monsters with careful shots from their bolt pistols. The death energies added to the growing maelstrom, stoking the invisible fires further. Zahariel gritted his teeth at the mounting pain in the back of his skull and drove his squad forward a stubborn step at a time. They were ten metres from the corpse pile now; he could see that each body had been daubed with runes of its own and coated in a translucent slime that shimmered faintly in the strange energies flickering overhead. As the ball lightning flashed, Zahariel glimpsed a sigil of some kind that had been painted against the side of the thermal core, about a dozen metres above the mound of bodies. But before he could focus on what it was, the worms suddenly turned about and rushed at his squad. A terrible sense of foreboding gripped Zahariel. Before he could shout a warning, however, nine bolt pistols hammered, and every remaining worm was blown apart in a single, simultaneous volley. Their death energies smote the ether like a hammer blow, and the pent-up forces in the chamber erupted. Zahariel felt the sense of dislocation sharpen dramatically as the barrier between the realms began to unravel. He staggered as his psychic dampener threatened to overload, sending shooting spikes of agony into his brain. Before him, th

ed Zahariel. Before he could shout a warning, however, nine bolt pistols hammered, and every remaining worm was blown apart in a single, simultaneous volley. Their death energies smote the ether like a hammer blow, and the pent-up forces in the chamber erupted. Zahariel felt the sense of dislocation sharpen dramatically as the barrier between the realms began to unravel. He staggered as his psychic dampener threatened to overload, sending shooting spikes of agony into his brain. Before him, the pile of corpses began to stir. For a fleeting instant, Zahariel thought his overtaxed nerves were misfiring, playing tricks on him. But then one of the dead Jaegers drew back his arms and pushed himself clumsily upright, revealing the ghastly wounds that covered his torso and neck. The dead soldier's face was slack, his mouth agape and his eyes glowing an unearthly green. Another corpse stirred, and another, until the entire mound was lurching into motion. Beneath the Jaegers were the bloated, rotting corpses of men and women in grey worker's coveralls, their slime-covered faces contorted in expressions of agony or horror. They were covered in patches of mould and colonies of squirming maggots; many were missing patches of skin or bore stumps of splintered bone in place of limbs. Yet what these horrors had concealed beneath their rotting bulk was more terrible by far. As the hundreds of corpses began to shamble, stagger and crawl towards the stunned Astartes, they exposed a score of bloated, squirming larvae that once had been people. Their bones had softened and their muscles stretched until their shapes bore little resemblance to human beings; only their feebly contorting limbs and their distorted, agonised faces revealed what they once had been. Zahariel could clearly see the coiled, black shapes of reaver worms curled within the jelly-like torsos of the larvae, slowly feeding on the still-living bodies of their hosts as they grew to maturity. The larvae recoiled from the open air, vainly trying to squirm beneath the armoured coils of the enormous worm that had lain at the centre of the chamber's sorcerous spiral. Daubed with blasphemous runes and glistening with slime, the worm queen raised her massive skull and screeched its fury at the grubs that had invaded its domain. It was a sight that would have broken the courage of lesser men, but hard discipline and the bonds of brotherhood held the Astartes in place. Chapter Master Astelan took a couple of steps forward and stood by Zahariel's side. 'What are your orders?' he asked in a steely voice, as the horde of living dead approached. Zahariel called upon the rotes Israfael had taught him and mastered the pounding agony in his skull before it could overwhelm him. 'Form a firing line!' he ordered. The closest of the corpses was only five metres away. As the eight remaining Astartes rushed forward to stand shoulder-to-shoulder beside Zahariel and Astelan, the Librarian called out. 'Change magazines!' As one, nine pairs of hands went to work, releasing nearly-empty clips from their bolt pistols and slapping fresh ones home. Charging handles racked home with a well-oiled clatter. The shambling mob was two metres away, almost close enough to touch. 'Squad!' Zahariel yelled. 'One step back! Five rounds rapid. Fire!' In lockstep, ten pairs of boots crashed upon the permacrete. Bolt pistols barked in a rolling volley. Green clad bodies jerked and blew apart in the storm of mass-reactive rounds. The first rank of corpses disintegrated under the fusillade. 'One step back. Five rounds rapid. Fire!' The bolt pistols thundered again. Each round found its mark, and fifty more bodies were reduced to bloody fragments. The rest of the mob staggered on, their outstretched hands little more than a metre away. At Zahariel's command, the squad took one last step back and fired five more rounds into the press. Firing bolts locked back on empty magazines as fifty more bodies erupted into gory mist. The mob had been cut in half in the span of twenty seconds, but the remainder pressed their advance. Wreathed in propellant smoke, Zahariel raised his crackling staff. 'Loyalty and honour!' he roared. 'Charge!' With a furious shout, the Dark Angels leapt into the midst of the monstrosities, their chain-blades howling. Swung with superhuman strength, the swords split torsos and severed limbs with each blurring stroke. Corpses toppled at the touch of Zahariel's force staff, their rotting flesh sizzling under the lash of the Librarian's psychic power. The undead surrounded the grimly fighting Astartes, clawing and grabbing at their armoured forms. What they lacked in strength and skill they sought to make up for in numbers, but the Dark Angels were masters at the craft of slaughter, and their ranks melted away like ice on a hot iron. Within moments the tide turned inexorably in the Astartes' favour - and then the worm queen struck. A timely flash of lightning provided the only warning. The fickle light sizzled about the thermal core, and Zahariel saw the bulk of the great worm rearing up, like a snake about to strike. The Librarian hurled himself to the side just as the creature lunged into the squad's midst with the force of a runaway train. With a shout, Zahariel spun to face the beast as the queen gathered herself together like a coiling spring and lashed out again, this time catching Gideon and two of the corpses in its wide mandibles. The curved pincers snapped shut like a giant scissors. The two corpses were bisected at once; Gideon's armour resisted a half-second longer before giving way as well. Astelan and Jonas whirled on their heels and slashed furiously at the queen, but their chainswords left little more than shallow scars on the worm's thick armoured plates. Screeching in rage, the queen tossed her bony head and smashed Jonas aside, then lunged at Astelan with her bloody mandibles. The chapter master leapt aside at the last moment, hacking a divot out of one of the huge pincers before rolling nimbly away. The worm crushed another half-dozen corpses beneath its bulk as it drew its coils together for another leap. Three Astartes charged the monster from different directions, hacking at it with powerful blows that left only scratches on the worm's thick, black armour. One of the Dark Angels lingered within reach a moment too long and was struck from behind by the queen's lashing tail. The huge warrior was flipped head-over-heels by the powerful blow and landed heavily on his face. A bolt pistol barked; Gideon, lying in a pool of his own blood, had reloaded his weapon and was snapping careful shots at the worm's eyes. Two burst apart in a shower of ichor, causing the queen to thrash and shriek in pain, but the wounds didn't seem to slow the creature in the slightest. Zahariel dropped his empty pistol and took a two-handed grip on his force staff. He had to end the fight quickly, before the monster killed or crippled any more of his squad. The Librarian channelled his will into the psycho-reactive matrices embedded in the force weapon's staff. Crackling arcs of violet light wound around the metal haft and created a blazing halo about the double-headed eagle at the staff's head. Raising the weapon above his head, Zahariel shouted a wild oath and charged straight at the creature. The movement and the flickering light of the staff had the desired effect. The worm queen swung its bleeding head around and lunged at Zahariel, smashing into the Librarian in mid-charge. The impact was tremendous, overwhelming Zahariel's senses. One moment he was racing towards the creature and the next he was flat on his back with the worm's mandibles locked about his waist. A score of flashing crimson runes blinked at the corners of his vision, warning of extensive servomotor damage and armour breaches. His vision came and went in bursts of distortion as the creature's scissor-like pincers cut into the feeds running from the power unit on his back. He heard the groan and pop of ceramite plates giving way beneath the terrible force of the worm's mandibles. He saw his battered armour reflected in the myriad facets of four black, soulless eyes, each as large as a dinner plate and close enough to touch. Zahariel brought down the butt of his crackling staff on the queen's skull, right between its monstrous eyes. The force staff punched through the thick bone with a flash of blue-white light and an angry clap of thunder as the Librarian channelled every erg of psychic force he could command into the creature's body. Nerves fried and brain matter boiled; the worm's remaining eyes burst and its armour plates cracked as steam erupted from its core. Zahariel snuffed out the monster's life force in a split second with the raging winds of the warp itself. It let out a rending shriek and tossed its head in a death spasm, smashing Zahariel to the ground hard enough to knock him unconscious. WHEN HE CAME to, he found himself lying on his back a few metres away from the worm's smoking corpse. Astelan was kneeling beside him, twisting his legs back into their proper position. Dimly, he could feel the tingle of pain blockers blurring the edges of his mind. 'Hold still for a few moments more, until the bones knit,' the chapter master said as he orientated Zahariel's right calf and began inspecting the servo-motors around the knee-cap. 'Most of your actuators are shot, but you should still be able to move about.' Zahariel nodded, focusing his thoughts on accelerating his healing faculties and taking stock of his armour. 'The queen?' he grunted. 'Dead,' Astelan confirmed. 'And the corpses went inert at the same moment. That was well done, brother. Luther would be proud.' 'What of Brother Gideon?' Zahariel asked. 'Comatose. His armour is keeping his vital signs stable enough that we should be able to get him back to Aldurukh.' Satisfied, the Librarian lay his head back against the floor and spent the ne

Zahariel nodded, focusing his thoughts on accelerating his healing faculties and taking stock of his armour. 'The queen?' he grunted. 'Dead,' Astelan confirmed. 'And the corpses went inert at the same moment. That was well done, brother. Luther would be proud.' 'What of Brother Gideon?' Zahariel asked. 'Comatose. His armour is keeping his vital signs stable enough that we should be able to get him back to Aldurukh.' Satisfied, the Librarian lay his head back against the floor and spent the next few seconds testing the strength of his muscles and bones. Armour plates grated and crimson runes flashed insistently in the corners of his eyes as he carefully flexed first the left leg, then the right. He would be weak for a few minutes more as his body worked to repair the damage, but he was functional. Astelan offered his hand and he took it gladly as he rose carefully to his feet. The worm queen's corpse was wreathed in tendrils of black smoke. Zahariel walked slowly over to the body of the monster and pulled his staff from the creature's forehead. The corpses it had controlled were sprawled about like puppets whose strings had been severed. Feeble motion across the chamber caught Zahariel's eye. The queen's larval hosts were squirming and writhing away from the carnage, drawn by some primal instinct towards the illusory safety of the thermal core. Zahariel limped slowly after them, drawing once more on the psychic power of the warp. The energy came reluctantly, flowing through the dampener and coursing along the staff. It was nothing like the wild torrent of power he'd felt before, and he was relieved to note that the sense of dislocation was receding. The oily feeling of corruption still lingered, however, staining the very stone of the chamber and pooling in the blood-soaked runes carved into the floor. Zahariel slew the larvae one by one, using the power of the staff to slay the host and snuff out the life of the monster within. The last of the abominations had reached the very base of the thermal core, its distorted face and thin arms stretching upwards as though pleading for aid from some nameless, atavistic power. The Librarian glanced upwards at the core as the last of the larvae burned. He was close enough now to see the symbol that had been painted on the side of the thermal unit. The image was comprised of hundreds of tiny runes that stung his eyes when he tried to focus on them, but the picture they formed was easy enough to identify: an enormous serpent eating its own tail. An ouroboros, Zahariel thought. Suddenly a voice crackled over his vox-unit, stirring him from his reverie. 'Angelus Six, this is Raider two-one. Angelus Six, come in.' 'This is Angelus Six,' Zahariel replied. 'It's good to hear your voice, brother,' the driver of the Land Raider said. 'We're picking up signals from beyond the perimeter again. Seraphim is calling urgently for a status update.' Zahariel took one last look at the symbol on the thermal core, then turned back to his squad. What he had to say to Luther couldn't be shared over the vox net. 'Inform Seraphim that we've secured Objective Alpha and we're returning to base. I'll deliver my report to him personally. We'll be back on the surface in ten minutes.' 'Raider two-one copies, Angelus. Standing by.' Astelan stood at what had been the centre of the sorcerous spiral, well apart from the rest of his brothers. He had removed his helmet and was studying the runes cut into the stone. The chapter master looked up at Zahariel as the Librarian approached. His expression was haunted. 'What are we going to do about this?' he asked quietly. Zahariel knew what Astelan meant. He reached up and pulled off his own helmet, grimacing at the strange mix of ozone and decay that permeated the air. 'I'll see to it,' he said. 'Gather the squad. We've got to get back and report to Luther at once.' The chapter master nodded and turned away. Zahariel followed, keying his vox-unit. 'Broadsword Flight, this is Angelus Six.' This time the reply came in loud and clear; the unnatural interference had subsided completely. 'Broadsword Flight copies,' said the leader of the Stormbird flight. 'Objective Alpha is compromised; repeat, Objective Alpha is compromised,' Zahariel replied. 'We are withdrawing in fifteen minutes. Execute Plan Damocles at that time.' The Stormbird Leader answered without hesitation. 'Affirmative, Angelus Six. Plan Damocles in one-five minutes.' Zahariel quickened his pace, passing Astelan and the rest of his squad. The Astartes fell in behind him, carrying both halves of Brother Gideon's limp form between them. They had little time to spare. In fifteen minutes the Stormbirds from Broadsword Flight would level Sigma Five-One-Seven, destroying any evidence of what had transpired at the site. The Dark Angels alone would know the truth. Otherwise, Caliban would surely die. THIRTEEN SECRETS OF THE PAST Diamat In the 200th year of the Emperor's Great Crusade FOR THE NEXT two and a half weeks, the Dark Angels and the people of Diamat worked day and night to prepare for the coming storm. Governor Kulik sent troops into the countryside to locate camps of refugees, conscripting all the healthy men and women he could find and putting them to work constructing new fortifications under the experienced eye of Jonson's veteran warriors. High above the forge, Jonson's warships lay at anchor - even the near-derelict Duchess Arbellatris, which had been towed back to Diamat by the light cruisers of the scout force - and were being worked over night and day by Magos Archoi's best tech-adepts. Flocks of cargo shuttles came and went daily, re-stocking the battle group's depleted stores of ammunition and heavy ordnance. Other craft ferried Governor Kulik and Magos Archoi to and from the Invincible Reason on a regular basis to confer with Primarch Jonson and refine their battle plan. Nemiel was busier than he'd ever been. When he wasn't managing repair and resupply schedules or fielding requests from the captains of the battle group he was shuttling down to the planet's surface to help supervise the construction of defensive positions throughout the grey zone and implementing Jonson's organisational changes to the planetary defence force. He ate little and slept even less, devoting his full energy and attention to every task that was put in front of him. The officers of the fleet and members of Kulik's staff commented on his dedication and zeal, and held him up as an inspiration to the men under their command. Nemiel would wave away their praise. He was merely setting a proper example, he would say, as any Chaplain ought. In truth, he consumed himself with work because it kept his growing doubts at bay. He couldn't help but think about his conversation with Jonson, and his evasive replies. The primarch wasn't a brigand, Nemiel knew; he hadn't come all the way to Diamat to sack its forges, as Horus's men had done. Yet he couldn't shake the notion that Jonson wasn't telling him the entire truth, and that went against everything Nemiel thought that the Legion stood for. More than once, he found himself wishing that Luther and Zahariel were still with them. He found himself sorely missing his cousin's unwavering idealism. It was late in the day when the primarch summoned Nemiel to his sanctum. He found Jonson seated at his favourite spot, beneath the towering viewports along the port side of the chamber. Red light shone along the side of Jonson's face as he bent over a series of aerial images spread atop a low, wooden table. He glanced up at the Redemptor's approach. 'There you are, Nemiel,' he said tersely, gathering the images together into a small stack. 'You've been keeping yourself scarce of late.' 'Not by design, my lord,' Nemiel replied guardedly. 'There's a great deal to be done before the rebels return.' Jonson grunted in agreement. 'True enough.' He looked up at Nemiel again and smiled. 'Wipe that guilty look off your face, Nemiel. I wasn't accusing you of anything.' He leaned back in his chair. 'What's the current status of the battle group?' Nemiel relaxed a bit, glad to be back on familiar terrain. 'Our scout force has nearly completed resupply and will be ready for operations within five hours,' he reported from memory. 'The strike cruisers Amadis and Adzikel have finished their most critical repairs and have begun re-loading their stores of ammunition and ordnance. Replacement Stormbirds have arrived from the surface to replace those lost in combat. The heavy cruisers Flamberge and Lord Dante report all repairs complete, and they expect to finish resupply within the hour.' He paused. 'Iron Duke reports that all of her weapon batteries are back in action, but damage to her hull is so extensive she'll need to be dry-docked to effect any meaningful repairs. The crew of Duchess Arbellatris has been working day and night, and Captain Rashid insists that she can be returned to action within a few weeks, but the tech-adepts assigned to her believe that the ship is a lost cause.' 'Inform Captain Rashid that he has forty-eight hours to do what he can; if the ship isn't capable of standing in the battle line by then, she will have to be abandoned and her crew reassigned to the other ships in the group,' Jonson said. 'That's all the time we can afford.' 'Have there been any new developments?' Nemiel said, suddenly alert. The primarch shook his head. 'Not yet. But based on the distance between systems and the minimum amount of time I estimate Horus would need to assemble another fleet and send it on its way, the rebels could arrive in the system imminently. The Warmaster must attack again as soon as possible, or he won't have enough time to strip the forge of its resources and put them to use back on Isstvan.' Jonson held up the small stack of images. 'Which brings us to this.' He held the images out to Nemiel. The Redemptor took them and began looking them over. 'The

stance between systems and the minimum amount of time I estimate Horus would need to assemble another fleet and send it on its way, the rebels could arrive in the system imminently. The Warmaster must attack again as soon as possible, or he won't have enough time to strip the forge of its resources and put them to use back on Isstvan.' Jonson held up the small stack of images. 'Which brings us to this.' He held the images out to Nemiel. The Redemptor took them and began looking them over. 'These look like aerial images of the forge complex,' he said with a scowl. 'Specifically the warehouse and depot facilities along the southern edge of the forge, closest to the gateway,' Jonson confirmed. 'You'll note that a number of the buildings have been highlighted for ease of reference.' Nemiel's scowl deepened. 'I'm not sure I understand, my lord,' he said, feeling suddenly uneasy. Jonson studied Nemiel in silence for a moment. 'Magos Archoi hasn't complied with my request for a full inventory of his stores,' he said carefully. 'Time is running out. Since he won't give me the information I need, I'll have to gather it another way.' 'But... that's not correct,' Nemiel protested. 'Archoi has provided detailed reports of the materiel he has on hand. I've seen them myself.' The primarch's eyes narrowed slightly. 'I have reason to believe that those reports are incomplete.' 'Why is that?' Nemiel pressed. His unease swelled until it threatened to become something akin to despair. 'Why are we here, my lord? You claim that we're here to stop Horus, but the logic of the situation and your own actions belie this. What else is there that has drawn you here?' Jonson straightened fractionally in his chair. His face was calm, but there was a steely edge in his green eyes. 'Are you calling me a liar, Brother-Redemptor Nemiel?' he asked. Nemiel's breath caught in his throat. Suddenly he sensed the deadly precipice that now figuratively yawned at his feet. Yet he would be damned if he allowed himself to be intimidated into silence and compromise his sacred oaths - not even by the primarch himself. 'Do you deny that you have a hidden motive for bringing us here?' he said. The Redemptor boldly met the primarch's imposing stare, ready to accept the consequences. Jonson glared at Nemiel a moment more, his expression calculating, before slowly nodding his head. 'That was well done,' Jonson allowed. 'You have the makings of a good interrogator, I think.' He spread his hands. 'Diamat is important to the Warmaster for reasons other than ammunition and building materials,' he said. 'I judged that it was best to keep those reasons a secret, for purposes of operational security. Restriction of information isn't the same thing as deception, Nemiel.' 'I never said you'd lied to us, my lord,' Nemiel pointed out. 'But what possible good does it do to withhold vital information from your own warriors and allies?' Jonson frowned. 'As a knight of the Order, I should think that would be obvious,' he said. 'Every facet of your training on Caliban was governed by custom, order and ritual. An aspirant could not become a novice until he'd passed certain tests to prove his knowledge, character and worthiness. Likewise, a novice could not rise to the ranks of knighthood without progressing through many ranks of knowledge and skill. Even upon reaching the coveted rank of knight, there were still degrees of initiation and rank that opened each warrior to new levels of knowledge and expertise, all the way to the lofty rank of Grand Master itself. Why was that so? Why didn't the Masters begin inducting the novices straightaway into the Higher Mysteries?' 'Because a novice wouldn't know what to do with the training,' Nemiel answered at once. 'Not before mastering a great many basic skills first. Trying to employ those advanced tactics without the proper foundation would just get them killed.' The primarch smiled. 'Precisely. Knowledge is power, Nemiel. Never forget that. And power, in the wrong hands, can inflict terrible harm.' Nemiel considered this. 'I understand, my lord,' he said at length. 'Is there anything in particular I should be looking for?' Jonson studied him a moment longer, then nodded to himself. 'Vehicles,' he said. 'Approximately six to eight of them; the references I saw were unclear on the exact number. They were reportedly built over a hundred and fifty years ago, and would likely have been placed into storage somewhere in the complex.' 'What kind of vehicles?' Nemiel asked. 'War machines,' Jonson replied. 'Like nothing either of us have ever seen before.' Nemiel frowned. 'But if the Mechanicum has these machines at their disposal, why aren't they using them?' Jonson shrugged. 'It's possible that Archoi doesn't know they're here. Or the Mechanicum has decided to withhold them for their own use, much as they did with their skitarii.' He raised a warning finger. 'What's important is that the Warmaster needs them, and we have to keep them out of his hands.' 'How does the Horus know about these war machines?' Nemiel asked. 'How else?' the primarch said. 'He's the one who commissioned them in the first place.' IT WAS A long and circuitous drive from the Xanthus star port to the southern entrance to the forge complex. Nemiel's Rhino - fresh from the assembly lines at Diamat and still showing its black coat of manufactory primer - had to first head north, past a series of fortified checkpoints, then eastward through a literal maze of narrow streets. The tramway was no longer passable; over the last two weeks the entire length of the road had been sowed with mines, cut by permacrete tank barriers and festooned with kilometres of molly-wire. Heavy vehicles trying to force their way northeastward towards the forge would have to fight their way through one obstacle after another, all the while coming under fire from concealed bunkers on both the north and south sides of the tramway. The ash wastes to the south of the tramway were passable by infantry but not vehicles, and were covered by the Dragoons' remaining artillery batteries. The only alternative was to press north and east, just as Nemiel's Rhino had done, but the rebels would be forced to break through each set of checkpoints and then find a safe path through streets that had been riddled with mines, tank traps and more ambush points. Neither route was completely impassable, as the defenders knew, but breaching them would take a great deal of time - something the enemy had in short supply. The southern gateway had also seen heavy reinforcement since Nemiel had last been there. Work parties had expanded the walls on both sides of the tramway and refitted the destroyed weapon emplacements with new heavy guns taken from the forge. Archoi's adepts had also installed remote sentry guns at strategic points along the walls, and a cadre of hulking skitarii stood watch over the battlements alongside Kulik's Dragoons. Magos Archoi had proposed embedding skitarii units with the governor's men and the Dark Angels alike to enhance their combat power, and the primarch saw the wisdom of the idea. Most of the skitarii were assigned to the under-strength Dragoons, who were given the responsibility of defending the tramway and the grey zone. The Dark Angels were to be held back in a mobile reserve, to reinforce key areas or deal with unexpected enemy attacks. The Dragoons spent their days labouring over their fortifications and then sleeping in them, while the Astartes had been assigned temporary quarters in a number of empty warehouses inside the forge complex, close to the gateway. A trio of skitarii Praetorians had been assigned to each squad for added reinforcement. Nemiel's Rhino drew up to the gateway and ground to a halt in a billowing cloud of dust. Civilian workers wiped sweat from their eyes and peered through the haze as the Redemptor disembarked and worked his way through the reinforced permacrete barriers that had been laid in an alternating pattern between the towering bastions. Dragoons and skitarii alike watched Nemiel from the battlements; his gaze searched among them, looking for the helmeted heads of his squad. 'Over here, brother!' Kohl shouted, waving his arm from the top of the southern bastion. Nemiel waved in reply and headed up to join him. He found Kohl and Techmarine Askelon at the topmost level, supervising the installation of advanced ballistic calculators that would help the Dragoons call down effective artillery fire on the attacking rebels. A trio of fearsome-looking skitarii stood nearby, observing the proceedings with almost mechanical detachment. 'Come to check up on us, brother?' Kohl growled good-naturedly. Nemiel looked over the crew of Dragoons and fretful tech-adepts installing the sensitive machinery and managed a grin. 'It's been too quiet lately. The primarch believes you're up to something.' Kohl grunted. 'Always,' he said, completely deadpan. 'Tell him I'm touched by his concern.' The Redemptor glanced over at the skitarii. 'How are the new squadmates?' he asked. Kohl grimaced. 'Not much for conversation, other than that strange hash that Askelon insists is speech,' he said. 'Mostly they just stand around and stare at everything.' 'Has Magos Archoi got them billeted with you?' 'Oh, yes,' Kohl replied. His tone was mild, but the look in his eyes spoke volumes of his unhappiness about the situation. 'Second Company is spread out among three adjoining warehouses, about half a kilometre from here.' Nemiel nodded thoughtfully. That was going to complicate things a little. 'Where's the rest of the squad right now?' 'Over at the north bastion,' Kohl replied, 'helping teach some new recruits how to work the heavy weapons. Why?' 'I'll be taking five of you back up into orbit with me in a few hours,' Nemiel replied, and raised a forestalling hand. 'Don't ask me why, because I don't know. The primarch has a job for us.' 'Well, that can't be go

ing warehouses, about half a kilometre from here.' Nemiel nodded thoughtfully. That was going to complicate things a little. 'Where's the rest of the squad right now?' 'Over at the north bastion,' Kohl replied, 'helping teach some new recruits how to work the heavy weapons. Why?' 'I'll be taking five of you back up into orbit with me in a few hours,' Nemiel replied, and raised a forestalling hand. 'Don't ask me why, because I don't know. The primarch has a job for us.' 'Well, that can't be good,' Kohl said with typical fatalism. He glanced over at the work party. 'We'll be done here a bit after nightfall. Is that soon enough?' Nemiel glanced west, where the sun was already low over the distant ruins of Xanthus. 'Nightfall sounds just about right,' he said with a nod. THREE HOURS LATER, the Astartes climbed up the rear ramp of Nemiel's idling Rhino and found their seats along the narrow benches that lined both sides of the troop compartment. As the ramp clanged shut the armoured personnel carrier revved its petrochem engines and lurched into motion. Brother-Sergeant Kohl had Techmarine Askelon, plus Marthes, Vardus and Ephrial. No sooner had the APC started moving than the squad leader turned to Nemiel and said, 'Now what's this nonsense about the primarch sending for us personally?' Nemiel grimaced. 'I had to think of something halfway plausible to pull you out of there without the skitarii making anything of it,' he said. 'The primarch wants us to perform a reconnaissance mission inside the forge complex itself.' As the Rhino worked its way slowly back down the access road towards the gateway, Nemiel produced the images that Jonson had given him and laid out the details of the mission. At the mention of the secret war machines, the attitude of the squad turned very serious indeed. 'We've got a lot of ground to cover in just a few hours,' Nemiel said at the conclusion of the briefing. 'Brother Askelon, what sort of threats are we likely to encounter?' 'There will be an array of electronic sensors covering each of the storage sites,' he replied, 'plus skitarii patrols with a full-spectrum auspex arrays. If these war machines are as valuable as the primarch believes them to be, they may be covered by additional security as well.' Nemiel nodded. 'We can avoid the patrols,' he said confidently. 'Can you get us past the sensors?' Brother Askelon considered the problem for several seconds before nodding. 'I can at least get us close enough to determine the contents of each building,' he said. 'All right,' Nemiel said with a nod. 'As soon as we're out of the Rhino, we go vox-silent; only verbal signals or hand signs. We can't risk having our transmissions detected. Questions?' There were none. Nemiel rose from his bench with a curt nod and opened the Rhino's portside door. With a quick check up and down the dark access road, he jumped lightly from the vehicle. The five other Astartes followed suit, reflexively fanning out into a standard tactical formation as they moved quickly into the deeper shadows between two large warehouses. Nemiel drew his bolt pistol, leaving his crozius aquilum attached to his belt. 'Let's try not to get into another fight with our allies,' he said quietly. Quiet chuckles rose from the darkness. 'Askelon, you've got point; I know it's not your usual position, but you'll spot the forge's security systems well before the rest of us. Brother Vardus, you're covering our back-trail. Everyone clear? Then let's get to work.' THEY WORKED THEIR way through the vast forge complex for hours, as Diamat's moon rose in a thin crescent and passed through a hazy, ochre sky. Now and again they would come upon a patrol of skitarii. These Tech-Guard weren't the massive, bionically enhanced killing machines of the Praetorians, but were simple soldiers akin to the Tanagran Dragoons, albeit in fine carapace armour and wielding high-power lasguns. Compact auspex units were mounted to the front of their helmets and flipped down over their faces like strange, insectoid masks. They moved with speed and skill, constantly alert and watchful, but the Astartes' enhanced senses allowed them to detect the patrols and find cover long before the skitarii were in a position to see them. Aside from the occasional patrols, the Astartes encountered no other signs of life. There were hundreds of warehouses and storage depots located in the southern sector of the forge complex. Most were single-storey structures, but others were tall, cavernous buildings with massive, rolling doors that could hold entire companies of heavy battle tanks. Without the locations provided by Jonson there would have been no way that they could have completed their search in a single night; as it was, Nemiel had begun to fear that they would be working right up until dawn. At each of the structures highlighted on Nemiel's images, the squad would take up a defensive position and let Brother Askelon go ahead to inspect the building's contents. Each time the Techmarine would emerge, shaking his head, and the squad would move on to the next building down the line. By midnight they were half-way through their search pattern and were doubling back eastward, heading for the warehouse districts on the other side of the access road. They were well north of the billets set aside for the Astartes ground force, and could see the towering, fortress-like manufactories off to the north, spreading out in a rough circle from the foot of the slumbering volcano. Tall, narrow smokestacks and squat cooling towers rose into the sky like the bones of dead gods, blackened and pitted by age. Cold, white lights shone like stars from the slopes of the conical mountain, while off to the north-east, the towering monolithic structures of the Titan foundry shone with sparkling pinpoints of sapphire, crimson and emerald. 'I've moved through dead cities that weren't as eerie as this,' Brother-Sergeant Kohl murmured beside Nemiel. 'I thought forges were like mechanical beehives. Where is everyone?' Nemiel shrugged, his eyes searching the darkness off to the south for signs of danger just as Kohl kept his attention focused on the north. 'Magos Archoi mentioned at one of the strategy meetings that he'd ordered all surviving tech-adepts and acolytes into a series of deep shelters near the heart of the complex. Only a few hundred volunteers are still above ground or in orbit, working with the battle group and helping supply our forces on the ground. Archoi said they'd suffered enough losses during the last raid, and he wasn't going to permit any more if he could help it.' Kohl grunted dubiously. 'It's an awfully clean battlefield, don't you think?' Nemiel glanced sidelong at the sergeant. 'What are you talking about?' Brother-Sergeant Kohl shrugged, eyeing the walls of the dark buildings to his right. 'Where are the shell holes? The scorch marks? Where are the burnt-out buildings? If the fighting was so heavy in this sector, why haven't we seen any sign of it yet?' The observation nearly stopped Nemiel in his tracks. Something tugged at the back of his mind; something else strange and out of place, but he couldn't quite put a finger on it. 'Maybe the battle sites are still up ahead,' he replied, frowning to himself. 'Archoi and his warriors came at us from the northeast. Let's see what lies up ahead.' But for the next three hours Nemiel and Kohl saw only more of the same: building after building, arrayed in laser-perfect lines, their permacrete walls unblemished save for decades of stains and pitting etched by acid rain. Nemiel's disquiet grew stronger. Something was very wrong. Barely two hours before dawn, Askelon found something. They had reached an enormous depot building, two storeys high and wide enough for a pair of super-heavy tanks to pass through its entry-way side-by-side. The Techmarine moved stealthily inside while the rest of the squad watched for Mechanicum patrols. He was back in less than five minutes. 'You need to see this,' he said to Nemiel. The Redemptor rose to his feet and signalled for the squad to follow him. Askelon led the warriors along a convoluted route that brought them past the cordon of sensors surrounding the perimeter of the structure. Soon, Nemiel found himself standing in a vast, cavernous structure, supported by soaring metal arches curving high overhead. 'It's empty,' he said to Askelon. His voice echoed faintly in the deserted building. 'No. Not quite,' the Techmarine said, turning about and pointing to the inner surface of the depot's towering metal doors. Nemiel turned about and saw that the metal slabs were splashed and streaked with dried gore. He stepped forwards, his enhanced vision easily picking out details even in the near-absence of light. 'Lots of carbon scoring,' he observed. 'Looks like high-power lasgun fire.' Kohl nodded, stepping up beside Nemiel. A gauntleted finger moved through the air, roughly tracing the outline of the stains. 'I'd guess ten to fifteen individuals, shot at close range,' he reckoned. 'Judging by the intensity of the lasgun fire, they must have been nearly blown apart. This wasn't a battle. It was an execution.' 'I thought much the same thing,' Askelon said. He stepped up to the doors and laid a fingertip against one of the dried stains. 'Not all of this is blood. Some of it is bionic lubricant or coolant.' Brother-Sergeant Kohl scowled. 'Didn't Magos Archoi say that Arch-Magos Vertullus was killed during the fighting?' Nemiel felt his skin grow cold. 'The magos never said who it was that killed Vertullus.' Kohl stared at Nemiel. 'You think there's been some kind of coup?' The veteran sergeant sounded incredulous. 'Archoi was in the area with a large force of Praetorians,' Nemiel mused. 'The attack would have given him an excellent opportunity. He could kill Vertullus and the other senior magi, dispose of the bodies, and no one the wiser.' Suddenly Nemiel's eyes widened. 'Bodies. B

illed during the fighting?' Nemiel felt his skin grow cold. 'The magos never said who it was that killed Vertullus.' Kohl stared at Nemiel. 'You think there's been some kind of coup?' The veteran sergeant sounded incredulous. 'Archoi was in the area with a large force of Praetorians,' Nemiel mused. 'The attack would have given him an excellent opportunity. He could kill Vertullus and the other senior magi, dispose of the bodies, and no one the wiser.' Suddenly Nemiel's eyes widened. 'Bodies. By the Emperor, that's what was missing. The bodies!' Kohl shook his head in consternation. 'What are you talking about now?' 'Governor Kulik said there was an entire company of Dragoons covering the entrance to the southern gateway,' Nemiel explained. 'The rebels supposedly overran them. But there were no dead Imperial troops anywhere. What happened to the bodies?' The sergeant frowned. 'I don't know. I doubt they just got up and walked away.' 'But perhaps they did,' Nemiel said. 'What if the Dragoon company guarding the gateway was betrayed by the very people they were there to defend?' Kohl's face turned grim. 'That would mean Magos Archoi is in league with Horus,' he said. 'We need to inform the primarch at once!' Nemiel held up a hand. 'Not yet. Not without more proof than this,' he said, indicating the blood-splashed wall. He paused, contemplating the tall doors, then glanced back at the empty, echoing space. 'What was Vertullus doing here in the first place?' he wondered. 'Maybe the war machines we're looking for were stored here, and he'd come to check on them?' 'The building's certainly big enough to hold six to eight large vehicles,' Askelon confirmed. 'There's dust and debris in the corners that suggest this place hadn't seen much activity in a very long time. The question is: where are the war machines now?' Nemiel's mind raced as he tried to think through the mystery. 'If Archoi is with the rebels, he was in the process of trying to hand over the war machines to them when we arrived,' he said. 'If the vehicles had sat in a depot for a century and a half, they would have been in need of some refurbishment. He would have taken them somewhere he and his minions could work on them without being disturbed - possibly even as early as several weeks before Horus's raid.' Askelon shook his head. 'The manufactories would have been working at full output at that point. They couldn't possibly have used them.' 'Well, where else would they have the facilities they would need?' Nemiel asked. The Techmarine spread his hands. 'Other than the Titan foundry, I can't think of any,' he said. 'And I guarantee you, the Legio adepts would take a dim view of someone else using their facilities.' Nemiel looked to Kohl. 'Except that Legio Gladius isn't here. Someone else is running the lights over at the foundry.' FOURTEEN WALKING THE SPIRAL Caliban In the 200th year of the Emperor's Great Crusade 'HOW CAN THIS be?' Luther demanded, his voice crackling with tension in the confines of the Grand Master's sanctum. He had abandoned the massive oaken chair behind the sanctum's wide desk and had begun to pace across the room. 'How is it possible that no one noticed this before?' Damaged servo-motors whined as Zahariel folded his arms. He and Astelan stood side by side before the Grand Master's desk, fresh from the transport that had carried them from Sigma Five-One-Seven. The sanctum was crowded with portable logic engines, stacks of papers and map tables, and half-empty cups of caffeine steamed in little clusters on the stone floor. They had interrupted a high-level operations meeting to deliver their report; the antechamber outside the sanctum was crowded with regimental officers and staff members who were doubtless wondering what all the secrecy was about. Only Lord Cypher had been allowed to remain in the room to hear the warriors' report. He stood by one of the chamber's windows, silent and half-hidden by shadow. Brother-Librarian Israfael was also present; the Master of Caliban had summoned him as soon as he'd heard the gist of Zahariel and Astelan's report. 'The clues were there all along,' Zahariel replied. 'What else could have created the great beasts? What else could have shaped a wilderness so relentlessly malevolent and deadly to human life?' 'Caliban is a death world, brother,' Israfael pointed out. 'Like Catachan or Piscina V. That doesn't mean it's inherently tainted.' 'Perhaps not,' Zahariel admitted. 'Perhaps the two traits are unrelated, but the fact remains that Caliban is tainted somehow. I saw it with my own eyes.' Luther paused in his restless pacing and fixed Astelan with a penetrating stare. 'What about you, chapter master? Did you see evidence of this as well?' Astelan had stood at a rigid parade-rest, shoulders squared and hands clasped behind his back as he and Zahariel had delivered their report. He met Luther's flinty gaze unflinchingly. 'There was nothing natural about the creatures we fought, my lord,' he said. 'I confess that I did not see the traces of corruption that Brother Zahariel reports, but I'm no psyker. If he says that's what he saw, then I believe him.' He shrugged. 'The Northwilds were always thought of as haunted, my lord, as you yourself must know.' The answer did little to please Luther. 'Damnation,' he hissed. The Master of Caliban turned to Israfael. 'How could the Imperium have missed this?' The Librarian shrugged. 'Because no one asked us to look,' he said. 'Have a care, brother,' Luther growled. 'I'm in no mood for jests.' 'I'm not trying to be impertinent,' Israfael answered. 'There were no obvious signs of corruption when the fleet arrived here; if anything, we were surprised at how few psykers we found among the planet's populace.' 'That's because witches and mutants were slain out of hand for hundreds of years,' Astelan grunted. Israfael acknowledged this with a wave of his hand. 'Another characteristic common to worlds that survived the Age of Strife and the fall of Old Night,' he said. 'Had any of these great beasts still survived by the time we found your world, we might have seen the need to investigate more closely, but as it was, there was nothing obvious to arouse our concern. This warp-taint, whatever it is, must be buried very deep indeed.' 'I agree,' Zahariel said. 'And I believe that it only became readily accessible recently, when the insurrection began. We know that warp taint feeds on human strife and bloodshed. The arcology riots could have been the catalyst that set the events at Sigma Five-One-Seven into motion.' Luther's eyes narrowed. 'So you're saying the rebels are behind this?' 'Not at all,' Zahariel replied. 'There was no evidence of rebel activity at the site whatsoever. I think that the attacks and the riots created an environment that others have succumbed to.' 'Like who?' Luther demanded. Zahariel considered his reply carefully. 'We accounted for the bodies of the Jaeger garrison, the reaction force, and the labourers that had been sent to work on the thermal plant. The Terran engineers assigned to the plant were nowhere to be found.' 'They may have been elsewhere at the site,' Israfael countered. 'You reported that your squad didn't search the labourer's dormitories, for example. They might well have been murdered in their sleep.' 'I'd considered that,' Zahariel said, 'but it was clear to Astelan and I that the site's garrison was betrayed from within. All of the Calibanite labourers had been murdered, along with the Jaegers. That leaves only the Terrans.' Before Israfael could offer a counter-argument, Luther interjected. 'All right, let's assume for the moment that the Terrans were responsible. What was the point of the ritual?' 'That's difficult to say,' Zahariel answered. 'Clearly the reaver worms were an integral part of it. Why else would the Terrans go to so much trouble to provide hundreds of corpses for the worm queen?' He thought the situation over for a moment. 'The sorcerers were gone long before we arrived, so we have to assume the ritual was completed successfully, and they'd gotten what they'd come for. The ritual itself was complicated and obviously required a great deal of planning to execute. Given that the Terrans had only been at the site for approximately six days, I think it's also clear that the whole operation was conceived elsewhere and put into action at the site.' 'Where had these Terrans come from?' Luther asked. 'Northwilds arcology,' the Librarian answered. Suddenly he straightened, remembering something he'd dismissed in the early stages of the mission. 'And that's where they must have returned to as well. Just before we entered the perimeter I picked up a civilian shuttle on our surveyors off to the west, headed in that direction. They fled the site minutes before we arrived.' The pieces started to fall into place. Zahariel nodded thoughtfully. 'I think this ritual was just one element of a much larger scheme, brothers. They performed the ritual at Sigma Five-One-Seven, gathered the fruits of their sorcery and returned to the arcology for the next phase of the operation.' Luther started to pace again, his hands clenched tightly behind his back. 'There are more than a thousand Terran engineers operating out of that arcology,' he growled. 'We'll have to investigate every industrial site they've worked on in the last month, just to be sure there haven't been any other rituals we don't know about.' Israfael bristled. 'You act like every Terran in the arcology has been corrupted!' 'Show me a Calibanite that's been corrupted and I'll revise my assumptions,' Luther answered coldly. 'In the meantime we need to track down every one of those engineers as quickly and quietly as possible.' 'That will be difficult, my lord,' Astelan said. 'Those engineers built Northwilds arcology. There are miles upon miles of tunnels and maintenance spaces they could be hiding in at this point - to say nothing

Israfael bristled. 'You act like every Terran in the arcology has been corrupted!' 'Show me a Calibanite that's been corrupted and I'll revise my assumptions,' Luther answered coldly. 'In the meantime we need to track down every one of those engineers as quickly and quietly as possible.' 'That will be difficult, my lord,' Astelan said. 'Those engineers built Northwilds arcology. There are miles upon miles of tunnels and maintenance spaces they could be hiding in at this point - to say nothing of the rebel activity already tying down our troops in that sector.' 'The rebels be damned!' Luther snapped. 'They can burn the arcology to the ground, so long as we catch these Terran devils and no one is the wiser!' Israfael's eyes widened in alarm. 'Surely you don't mean to say that we can keep this a secret. We have to report this to the primarch and the Adeptus Terra at once!' 'If word of this reaches Terra, Caliban will die.' Luther declared. 'Worlds have burned for far less.' The Terran started to protest, but found he could not. 'It's true,' he said heavily. 'I cannot deny it.' 'Then you understand why I cannot allow that to happen,' Luther said. 'Not here. Not on my watch. The people of Caliban are innocent and undeserving of such a fate, and I won't allow such a thing to happen.' Israfael rose slowly to his feet and faced Luther. 'What you're contemplating is against Imperial law,' he said gravely. 'Indeed, it smacks of treason.' 'That's easy for you to say,' Luther snarled. 'This isn't your home. These aren't people you've sworn a solemn oath to defend.' 'Of course I have!' Israfael shot back, his voice rising. 'Am I not an Astartes? The Imperium-' 'The Imperium brought us to this!' Luther roared. He rounded on Israfael, his face anguished and his hands clenched into fists. 'There were no rebellions before you arrived, no obscene rituals or human sacrifices! There was order, and law, and virtuous men who stood between the innocent and the terrors of the forest. It was your people who did this, who dug too deeply and grasped for too much, and now me and mine will pay the price!' Israfael tensed, and the air around him literally crackled with furious power. Astelan turned slightly to face the senior Librarian, his hands drifting slowly to his weapons. Zahariel recalled the chapter master's oath at Sigma Five-One-Seven and understood how perilous the situation had become. He rushed forward, placing himself between Luther and Israfael. 'We are all brothers here,' he said firmly. 'Neither Calibanite nor Terran, but Dark Angels, first and always. If we forget that, even for a moment, we are lost. Then who will protect our people, Master Luther?' Luther's gaze fell on Zahariel. For a long moment he was silent, until his expression grew bleak and his fists slowly unclenched. The Master of Caliban turned away, resting his hands upon the heavy desk. 'Zahariel is right, of course,' he said at last. 'I hope you will forgive my intemperate tone, Brother Israfael.' 'Of course,' Israfael said stiffly. Luther worked his way around the desk and settled slowly onto the throne-like chair. His expression was distant, his eyes haunted. 'I must meditate on this,' he said in a hollow voice. 'Too many lives are at stake to act precipitously. For now, we must make sure this rot has spread no further. Zahariel, send the scouts into the Northwilds. Have them reconnoitre every industrial site in the sector and search for signs of further corruption. Check the Administratum's records and find out which engineers were assigned to Sigma Five-One-Seven, then pass their identities on to the Jaeger regiments at the Northwilds arcology. They are to be captured and delivered to Aldurukh immediately.' He sighed. 'Brothers, I realize this is well outside the scope of our temperament and training, but this matter must be handled with the utmost secrecy. There is no one else we can trust with this.' Zahariel bowed his head respectfully. 'I'll see to it at once.' Luther turned to Astelan. 'Chapter master, as of this moment I'm putting you in command of Caliban's defence forces. Place our brothers on a war footing. I want strike teams ready to deploy in case any more ritual activity is detected, but no one is to act without my express authorization. Understood?' 'Understood,' Astelan replied gravely. 'We will stand ready, my lord.' 'Let's at least send some scout teams into the arcology as well,' Zahariel said. 'The sorcerers are most likely practicing their rituals close to the thermal core. If we could locate them quickly, we could-' Luther held up a restraining hand. 'Not yet. If we start suddenly committing our warriors now, during a relative lull in civil unrest, it will almost certainly lead to renewed scrutiny from the Administratum. That's something we can ill afford at this point.' 'Magos Bosk will have to be informed of the destruction of Sigma Five-One-Seven,' Israfael pointed out. 'If there are any reports to be made, I will make them,' Luther said sternly. 'None of you are to speak of what happened at the site, as a matter of operational security. Understood?' The four Astartes nodded. 'Then you are dismissed,' Luther said. 'Except for you, Lord Cypher. I have some questions to ask you.' Israfael turned on his heel and left the room without a word. Astelan was close behind, his expression eager. Zahariel hesitated for a moment, torn by feelings of doubt. Only he saw Lord Cypher glide quietly from the shadows to stand beside the Grand Master's throne-like chair. He wasn't certain what disturbed him more: the sight of Luther staring down at his own hands, his expression anguished - or the enigmatic smile that passed like a shadow across Lord Cypher's face. LIGHTNING FLASHED ANGRILY overhead, banishing the darkness for the space of a heartbeat and dazzling Zahariel's sensitive eyes. Thunder crashed, vibrating along his bones, and raindrops spattered heavily against his cheeks. He paused, struggling to calm his thoughts and banish the spots of colour from his vision. When his vision cleared, he set his feet upon the spiral path once more. It had been more than a week since the encounter at Sigma Five-One-Seven. Orders had gone out immediately from the Rock; the Scout chapter on Caliban had gone into action within hours, commencing a building-by-building search of every industrial site within the Northwilds sector. At the same time, a records search provided the identities of the Terran engineering team that had been assigned to Sigma Five-One-Seven. The information had been passed on to the Jaeger regiments deployed to the Northwilds arcology, but it was learned that the arcology's so-called Terran Quarter had been looted and burned during the first cycle of riots, and the inhabitants had been relocated for their own safety. The problem was that details of the relocation had been lost amid the chaos, and now no one knew for sure where many of the Terrans had wound up. The Jaegers were trying to locate them, but the local regiments had few troops to spare because of the continued threat of rebel attack. Though Luther seemed willing to let the arcology burn in order to track down the sorcerers, there was no practical way to issue such an order without raising a chorus of questions all along the chain of command. Zahariel had heard, indirectly, of the confrontation between Luther and Magos Bosk over the destruction of Sigma Five-One-Seven, and by all accounts it had been epic. Bosk had been livid over the loss of so much industrial capacity, and it had taken every bit of Luther's charisma and authority to prevent her once more from breaching protocol and reporting the situation to the Adeptus Terra. They were running out of time. Every passing hour was a boon to the fugitive sorcerers, who were no doubt working to further their plan somewhere in the labyrinthine depths of the arcology. Though the Jaegers were making a concerted effort to locate them, the fact was that there were large parts of the arcology that they couldn't penetrate due to the possibility of rebel attack. These no-go zones provided countless safe havens for the sorcerers to continue their work without fear of interruption. The only answer was to send in the Legion, Zahariel knew. A level-by-level sweep, conducted by their Scout chapter and supported by one or more assault chapters could brush aside any rebel resistance and isolate the real threat within hours. Such an operation, if conducted with proper ruthlessness, might even convince the rebel leaders that further resistance was pointless, and put an end to both threats at the same time. The problem was that only Luther had the authority to put such a plan into action, and he had gone into seclusion within hours of receiving the report on Sigma Five-One-Seven. No one could even say for certain where the Master of Caliban had gone, save for the enigmatic Lord Cypher, and he was sworn to silence. Zahariel had prevailed upon Cypher to carry close to a dozen messages to Luther urgently requesting permission to send the Legion into the arcology, but not a single one had been answered. The fact was, he was sorely tempted to defy Luther and order the Astartes into action. Technically, it was within his authority as Luther's second-in-command; with the Master of Caliban in seclusion, the decision was his to make, but doing so would betray his oaths of obedience to the Emperor and to the Legion. And yet, what if Luther was right, and the real danger to Caliban was from the Imperium itself? If that were true, then his oath to the Emperor was based on a lie, and counted for nothing. He didn't know what to believe at this point. The things he'd witnessed at Sigma Five-One-Seven had shaken his faith to the core. In all his life, Zahariel had never lacked for certainty. His faith in himself and his cause had been unwavering. Now it seemed like the very foundations of the world were quaking beneath his f

if Luther was right, and the real danger to Caliban was from the Imperium itself? If that were true, then his oath to the Emperor was based on a lie, and counted for nothing. He didn't know what to believe at this point. The things he'd witnessed at Sigma Five-One-Seven had shaken his faith to the core. In all his life, Zahariel had never lacked for certainty. His faith in himself and his cause had been unwavering. Now it seemed like the very foundations of the world were quaking beneath his feet. If he wasn't careful, his next step could well be his last. Overhead the storm raged, mirroring the turmoil in Zahariel's mind. He drew in a deep breath and channelled his frustrations into a mental summons. 'Show yourselves, you Watchers in the Dark!' he shouted into the raging wind. 'Long ago, I pledged my sword to you, to stand against the same evils that you did. Now I see the truth; this whole world is corrupted, and now my people are in dire peril.' Another searing flash of lightning answered his mental summons, banishing all but the deepest shadows and etching the courtyard in sharp relief. But this time the brilliant light did not fade; it deepened slightly in colour, from a harsh blue-white to a more silvery hue, like moonlight. Zahariel no longer felt the touch of rain on his cheeks, and the howling wind seemed strangely muted, almost plaintive in its howls. Then he saw the three hooded figures standing at the centre of the spiral. They were garbed like supplicants, wearing a surplice whose colour seemed to constantly shift from black to brown to grey and back again. Their heads were covered by voluminous hoods, their faces hidden by darkness. Their hands were tucked inside the sleeves of their surplice, so that not one centimetre of flesh could be seen. The Watchers in the Dark weren't human. Of that, Zahariel was certain. This was the form they chose to show him, because he was quite certain that the sight of their true nature would very likely drive him mad. One of the three spoke - Zahariel could not be certain which one. Their voices were like a complex skein of whispered sounds, woven together into the semblance of human words. You know nothing of truth, Zahariel, the watcher said. If truth and falsehood were so simple, our ancient enemy could never find its way into a human soul. 'I know what is right and what is wrong!' Zahariel shot back. 'I know the difference between honour and dishonour, loyalty and treason! What more does a man - or an Astartes - need to know?' He is blind, said one of the watchers. He has always been thus. Kill him, before he does more harm than he knows. Though the watchers were diminutive creatures by Astartes standards - each one barely more than a metre in height - Zahariel could sense the mantle of psychic energy that surrounded each of them, and knew that they could snuff out his life as easily as a candle flame. But he was in no mood to be cowed by these beings, not when the future of Caliban was at stake. 'Perhaps that was true once, but I have learned a great deal since the first time we met,' Zahariel countered. 'You're not ghosts or malevolent spirits, as the forest folk once believed. You're a xenos species that has been guarding something here on Caliban for a very long time. What is it?' Something mankind was not meant to trifle with, one of the watchers hissed. It has ever been thus. Your kind is too curious, too grasping and ignorant. It will be your undoing. 'If we are ignorant, it's because beings like you withhold the truth from us,' Zahariel shouted. 'Knowledge is power.' And mankind misuses its power at every turn. One day humanity will kindle a fire they cannot control, and the entire universe will burn. 'Then teach us!' Zahariel said. 'Show us a better way, instead of sitting back and waiting for disaster to fall. If you don't, then you're just as much to blame for what happens as we are.' The three beings stirred, and a wave of psychic power rolled away from them like a cold wave, engulfing Zahariel and freezing him to the core. The shock of it would have stopped an ordinary man's heart; as it was, the Librarian's circulatory and nervous systems struggled to keep him conscious. Yet he refused to be cowed by their expression of pique. 'You said to me, long ago, that this evil could be fought,' he said. 'Here I stand, ready to fight it. Just tell me what I must do.' The watchers did not answer at first. They stirred again, and the ether was charged with pulses and ripples of invisible power. He sensed that they were conversing somehow, on a level too rarefied for him to perceive. After what felt like an eternity, the ether stilled once more, and one of the watchers spoke. Ask your questions, human. We will answer what we can. The admission surprised Zahariel, until he remembered that the watchers had once admitted that they were a part of a larger cabal, dedicated to battling the most ancient of evils. For the first time, he perceived that there were limits to what these potent beings were capable of doing. 'All right,' Zahariel began. 'How long has Caliban been tainted by this evil?' Always, was the watcher's wintry reply. 'Then why have no Calibanites succumbed to its touch before now?' Because of our efforts, you foolish human, another watcher said. Zahariel was coming to recognise tonal differences between the beings now, though he still had no clear idea which voice belonged to which body. And, ironically, by the great beasts themselves, another watcher said. They were born of the taint, and lingered near the places where its corruption rose close to the surface. They killed nearly all of the humans who strayed too close, and those few who did survive were ultimately slain as warlocks by your own people before they could grow too strong. A sudden chill raised gooseflesh on Zahariel's skin as a memory returned to him from long ago. He remembered standing in the great library of the Knights of Lupus, listening to the bleak words of their doomed master, Lord Sartana... The worst... of all this, is the Lion's quest to kill off the great beasts. That's the real danger. That's the part we'll all end up regretting. And now the Terrans had come, cutting away the forests and forcing their way into the most inhospitable parts of Caliban in search of resources to feed the Imperial war machine. 'The thermal cores,' he mused. 'They sank the thermal cores deep into the earth and released the taint in the Northwilds.' And now others feed it with fire and slaughter, a watcher added. Zahariel nodded, thinking of the pile of corpses at Sigma Five-One-Seven. Many of them had doubtless been provided for the worm queen to lay her eggs, but others - likely the entirety of the Calibanite labour force - had been offered up as a sacrifice, to add power to the ritual and focus the energies that the sorcerers unleashed. If they managed to tap into the horror and bloodshed being unleashed by the rebels, what terrible things might they accomplish? In their own way, the rebels were more dangerous than the sorcerers themselves, Zahariel realised bleakly. And tragically, their cause wasn't entirely unjust. The Imperium did, in fact, pose a grave danger to Caliban - just not in the way that many of them suspected. Except for the old knight, Sar Daviel. He knew. Zahariel remembered his last words to Luther. The forests are gone, but the monsters still remain. Zahariel suddenly understood what had to be done. He turned to the watchers and bowed his head respectfully. 'Thank you for your counsel,' he said gravely. 'You have my word that the wisdom you've shared will be put to good use. I will save Caliban from destruction. This I swear.' The watchers studied him for a long moment, while the ghostly winds of the immaterium howled above their heads. Then, slowly, the watcher in the centre shook his cowled head. In that you are wrong, Zahariel of the Dark Angels, the watcher replied. Its unearthly voice was low, and almost sad. Caliban is doomed, and nothing you do can prevent it. Zahariel blinked in surprise, stunned by the watcher's words. When he opened his eyelids again, the afterimage of the lightning bolt was fading from his vision. Rain smote his face, and the Watchers in the Dark were gone. ZAHARIEL BURST INTO the Grand Master's sanctum unannounced, the thick, oaken door rebounding with a boom from the old stone walls. Lord Cypher looked up from behind the Grand Master's desk, his hooded form bent over neatly-stacked data slates and copies of readiness reports. The enigmatic Astartes' square-jawed face betrayed no emotion at the Librarian's sudden arrival. 'Master Luther remains in seclusion, meditating on the crisis,' he said coolly. 'Have you another message for me to deliver?' 'I'm not looking for Master Luther,' Zahariel said, stalking purposefully across the room. 'You're the one I wish to speak to, my lord.' 'Indeed?' Cypher straightened, hooking his thumbs casually in his tooled leather gun belt. 'And how may I be of service, Brother-Librarian Zahariel?' 'I want another parley with the rebel leaders,' Zahariel said. 'Specifically Sar Daviel. And it needs to be within the next twenty-four hours.' The request seemed to genuinely amuse Cypher. 'Shall I pull the moon out of the sky while I'm at it?' he asked with a faint grin. 'You got word to them once before,' Zahariel continued stubbornly. 'I have no doubt those channels are still open to you, if you choose to employ them.' The traditions of parley went back for hundreds of years on Caliban, when open warfare between knightly orders was more common. Even the bitterest foes maintained channels of communication to facilitate negotiations or declarations of surrender. It was a means of avoiding unnecessary casualties and bringing a swift end to open combat before both sides were too badly mauled to perform their sworn duty to the people of Caliban. The grin faded from Lord Cypher's fac

if you choose to employ them.' The traditions of parley went back for hundreds of years on Caliban, when open warfare between knightly orders was more common. Even the bitterest foes maintained channels of communication to facilitate negotiations or declarations of surrender. It was a means of avoiding unnecessary casualties and bringing a swift end to open combat before both sides were too badly mauled to perform their sworn duty to the people of Caliban. The grin faded from Lord Cypher's face. His lips pressed into a narrow line. 'Only the Grand Master can initiate a parley,' he said. 'Not so,' Zahariel countered. 'Astelan and I are his designated representatives, and so long as he remains incommunicado, we have the authority to prosecute the war as we see fit. And I wish to parley with the rebels at once.' Lord Cypher hesitated for a moment, but then ultimately gave a nod of assent. 'The rebels won't agree to a meeting at Aldurukh this time,' he warned. 'I've no interest in speaking to them here,' Zahariel said. 'Tell Sar Daviel that I will meet them at a place of their choosing,' he said, 'inside the Northwilds arcology. No other location is acceptable.' Cypher studied Zahariel closely. 'An unusual request,' he said. 'They will want to know why.' 'Because the fate of our world is going to be decided there,' Zahariel replied. 'Whether any of us like it or not.' FIFTEEN ENGINES OF WAR Diamat In the 200th year of the Emperor's Great Crusade THE FORGE'S MASSIVE Titan foundry was actually a collection of cyclopean structures that filled an area of five square kilometres, not far from the complex's southern gate. It was a self-contained manufactory, with facilities for creating everything from adamantine skeletal segments to tempered plasteel armour plate, and everything in between. Broad trackways, made to accommodate heavy load-haulers, connected to the towering structure at the centre of the foundry: the giant assembly building, where up to four of the gargantuan war machines could be built at the same time. When a Titan was completed it would then be handed over to the adepts of the Legio Gladius with solemn ceremony, and the engine would take its first steps to join its brethren at the legion's fortress, some ten kilometres to the north. Nemiel and his squad encountered the first of the skitarii patrols at the edge of the foundry sector; these were well-equipped troops in static positions, manning lascannons or heavy stubbers and sweeping the perimeter every few seconds with advanced auspex arrays. He halted the squad in the shadow of an idle manufactory and waved Brother Askelon over. 'It looks like the assembly building is the only part of the foundry in operation,' he said, nodding towards the towering well-lit structure. 'Magos Archoi isn't taking any chances. He's extended his security perimeter to the very edge of the sector. Can you think of a way we can get past those auspex units? It's imperative we find out what Archoi is doing.' The Techmarine considered the problem for a moment, and nodded. 'All of the facilities here are powered by the thermal reactors inside the volcano,' he said. 'The power feeds are run through utility tunnels that connect all the buildings. They'll likely be covered by automated security systems, but I believe I can bypass them.' Nemiel nodded. 'Let's go. We don't have much time until dawn.' Askelon led the squad back the way they'd come, to an access door at the far side of the manufactory. While Nemiel and the rest of the Dark Angels stood watch for more Mechanicum patrols, the Techmarine bypassed the door's security system and slipped inside. Fifteen seconds later he returned, beckoning for Nemiel. 'There are several small, cybernetic sentries prowling the building,' Askelon whispered. 'They follow predictable routes and use their surveyors to scan for signs of heat or motion, but they're very short-ranged. Stay close, and move only when I say.' The Techmarine led the squad across the dark floor of the manufactory, slipping between massive stamping machines and automated spot-welding arrays. Askelon traced a winding, deliberate route through the plant, pausing at times and listening for the telltale ultrasonic whine of an auspex transmitter. After several long minutes they reached a short, squat permacrete structure at the centre of the manufactory floor. Askelon located a plasteel door in the side of the structure and quickly disarmed its sensors, then led the squad inside. Within, a cluster of giant, metal-clad conduits rose like fat, silver worms from a circular hole in the middle of the bare permacrete floor and connected to large junction boxes on three of the four walls. Control panels along the wall beside the door monitored the power feed to the manufactory's systems. Askelon stepped to the edge of the hole and located a set of metal rungs that descended into the access tunnel below. Hot, dry air, smelling of ozone and sulphur, wafted up from the depths. 'We'll follow the tunnel to the access point underneath the assembly building,' he said to the squad. 'Keep your eyes open, brothers. There may be cybernetic sentries in the tunnel as well.' 'What do we do if we see one?' Kohl asked. 'Shoot it,' the Techmarine replied with a shrug, 'and hope that it can't get a signal off before it's destroyed.' Kohl and Nemiel exchanged grim looks and followed Askelon down into the tunnel. The utility tunnel was tall and wide, its circular walls lined with thick, metal conduits stamped with strings of binaric code. The Techmarine headed off down the tunnel in the general direction of the foundry, pausing from time to time to read the stamps on several of the conduits to his left. They travelled for more than two kilometres, following the trunk labels through one intersection after another. Finally, Askelon battle-signed for the squad to halt and sank slowly into a crouch. Nemiel moved silently forward and knelt down beside the Techmarine. 'What's wrong?' he whispered. Askelon raised his chin slightly, like a hound tasting a scent. 'Faint surveyor pulse, emanating from farther down the tunnel,' he said. 'We're outside its extreme range.' The Redemptor raised his bolt pistol. 'A sentry?' 'Yes,' Askelon replied. 'It's a sigma-sequence pulse, so it's not one of the small patrol units. Most likely it's a stationary unit, like a sentry gun.' 'Then it's probably sitting right at the feet of the ladder leading up to the foundry.' Nemiel said. 'Any way to outflank it?' Askelon shook his head. 'Unlikely. But there might be a way to temporarily incapacitate it.' 'Tell me.' The Techmarine pointed at the conduits lining the walls around them. 'This is category nine conduit; it's the most heavily-shielded insulator available,' he explained. 'But there's so much power going through these lines that there's still significant electromagnetic radiation leaking into the tunnel.' 'And how does that help us, exactly?' 'If I cut into the conduits I can use my armour's power plant to send a feedback surge down the line towards the sentry unit,' Askelon said. 'A powerful enough spike in electromagnetic radiation will overload its auspex receptors and force a reset. That will render it blind and unable to communicate for approximately thirty seconds.' 'Approximately?' Nemiel said. 'If I could see the type of sentry unit I could tell you down to the millisecond,' Askelon said. 'As it is, it could be one of a half-dozen models. Thirty seconds is my worst-case estimate.' Nemiel nodded. 'Get to work.' The Redemptor went back to the squad and told them what was happening while Askelon quickly marked out which conduits to tap and went to work. With deft movements he drew out a small, powerful plasma torch and cut open a half-dozen of the steel tubes, then he opened an access panel on the side of his backpack power unit and began attaching a number of heavy-gauge cables to the contacts inside. Several minutes later, the Techmarine was ready. He glanced back at Nemiel, who gave him the nod to proceed. Askelon quickly attached the cables to the power lines inside the conduits. His armour stiffened abruptly. Immediately, Nemiel saw the Techmarine's status indicators begin flashing urgently on his helmet display. The core temp of his power unit spiked beyond allowable tolerances and continued to climb. Askelon's physio-monitors began to fluctuate as well, as feedback coursed through the suit's neuro-interfaces and into his body. 'There's smoke rising from his power plant,' Kohl whispered urgently. 'Let him finish!' Nemiel hissed. 'It's the only way.' Seconds passed. Nemiel watched Askelon's indicators pulse from green to amber, and then amber to red. Without warning, a fountain of sparks shot from the servo-arm housing between the Techmarine's shoulders. Askelon spasmed, throwing out his hands and shoving himself away from the power conduits. The Techmarine fell backwards, stiff-legged, and crashed into the far side of the tunnel. Nemiel and the rest of the squad rushed to the downed Astartes. The air around Askelon shimmered with heat, radiating from his overloaded power unit. The Techmarine turned his head; squawks of sound crackled from his helmet's speaker. Nemiel didn't have to hear the words to know what Askelon was trying to say. 'He's sent the pulse,' Nemiel told the squad. 'Brother Marthes, take point. Sergeant Kohl, help me with Brother Askelon. Let's move!' The Astartes sprang into action, charging down the tunnel behind Marthes, who advanced with his meltagun held ready. Kohl and Nemiel brought up the rear, dragging the limp form of Askelon between them. Three hundred metres down the tunnel, the passageway fed into a large, square structure that echoed the permacrete blockhouse they'd entered at the manufactory. The plasteel rungs of another ladder climbed upward, presumably into the foundry's assembly building. Sitting at its feet, just as Nemiel suspected, c

prang into action, charging down the tunnel behind Marthes, who advanced with his meltagun held ready. Kohl and Nemiel brought up the rear, dragging the limp form of Askelon between them. Three hundred metres down the tunnel, the passageway fed into a large, square structure that echoed the permacrete blockhouse they'd entered at the manufactory. The plasteel rungs of another ladder climbed upward, presumably into the foundry's assembly building. Sitting at its feet, just as Nemiel suspected, crouched a matte-black sentry gun. Armed with a turret-mounted twin-linked lascannon, the automated unit crouched on four stubby legs like a hungry spider waiting for prey. Nemiel could hear the hum of its power unit as they approached. Its twin guns were aimed straight down the tunnel at the approaching Astartes. A single shot would cut through their armour like tissue. 'Up the ladder!' he ordered the squad. 'Get up and get out of sight!' Marthes stepped around the sentry gun and began climbing at once. Vardus paused at the bottom rungs, his heavy bolter slung at his side. 'What about Askelon?' he said. 'We'll manage,' the Redemptor shot back. 'Now hurry, brother!' Vardus started his climb, with Ephrial hot on his heels. Nemiel consulted his internal chrono: they had just twelve seconds left. He looked to Kohl as they reached the bottom of the ladder. 'We need to find a way to shut off the sentry gun,' he said. 'There must be an access panel-' Askelon shook his head sharply; the ceramite edges of his helmet scraped against his gorget, suggesting he'd sustained damage to his armour's muscle fibres. 'No,' he said, his voice coming through his helmet's damaged speaker as a tortured croak. 'Can't risk it. I... I can climb.' 'All right,' Nemiel growled. 'You go first. Kohl, you're next. Help him as much as you can.' He would stay until the last moment; if they ran out of time, he would tear open one of the sentry gun's access panels and try to shut it down. Askelon grabbed hold of the metal rungs and started climbing, seeming to gather strength with each lunge of his legs. Kohl was right behind him, ready to provide a judicious shove if the Techmarine faltered. Nemiel counted the seconds and checked the sentry gun for likely access points. Vardus and Ephrial leaned over the hole, grabbed Askelon's folded servo-arm and hauled him bodily up into the chamber above. Kohl raced up behind him. 'Clear!' he hissed to Nemiel. The Redemptor leapt for the rungs and scrambled upwards as quickly as he could. The timer on his display hit zero when he was halfway up. There was a series of rapid clicks and whirring sounds directly beneath him as the sentry gun sprang back to life. Hands reached down and grabbed the edges of his pauldrons. Nemiel felt himself yanked upwards like a sack of grain and deposited roughly on the permacrete of the upper floor. The Astartes froze, listening intently. Below them, the sentry gun clattered and whirred a moment more, then resumed its quiet vigil. Nemiel looked over at Askelon's prone form. 'Any sign of alarm?' The Techmarine reached slowly for his helmet and undid its clasps. Askelon pulled the helm away, revealing a sweat-streaked face stippled with broken blood vessels. A trickle of blood seeped from his nose and the corners of his eyes. 'No change,' he said in a husky voice. Blood slicked the Techmarine's teeth. Nemiel rolled over and rose to his knees beside Askelon. 'How badly are you hurt?' he asked quietly. Askelon chuckled faintly. 'I'm no Apothecary, brother,' he replied. 'The machinery of a living body is too complex even for me.' He levered himself to a sitting position with a grunt. 'Armour integrity is at sixty-five per cent. Power levels at forty per cent. Muscle fibre reflex is compromised, and I think I melted the motors on my servo-arm.' Nemiel frowned. 'You didn't mention that tapping those conduits would likely kill you,' he growled. The Techmarine managed a grin. 'It didn't seem relevant at the time.' He extended his hand. 'Help me up, please.' Kohl and Nemiel hauled Askelon upright. The Redemptor glanced warily at the edge of the hole. 'Can the gun sense us up here?' 'To a limited extent, yes,' the Techmarine said. 'But activity overhead won't trigger a combat response. It's down there to guard the approaches to the building, and that's all.' 'All right. Where do we go from here?' Askelon looked about the chamber. It was identical to the conduit room at the manufactory, only substantially larger. He nodded to the metal door across the chamber. 'That leads out into a sub-level beneath the main assembly floor. From there we'll be able to access almost every pan of the building.' Nemiel checked his chrono again. It was little more than an hour until dawn. 'A building like this is bound to have catwalks along the upper storeys, correct?' Askelon nodded. 'Three levels of them, in this case. You can look out over the entire assembly area from some of them.' 'Then that's where we need to be,' he said. 'Let's go.' KOHL TOOK POINT after that, leading the squad through the confines of the sub-level according to whispered directions from Brother Askelon, until they reached a narrow stairwell that climbed upwards into the assembly building proper. Weapons ready, they made their way carefully up the permacrete stairs, listening for the slightest sound of movement. Nemiel could hear the sharp crackle of arc torches and the snarl of power tools reverberating through the walls, the steel-on-steel noise like the sounds of a distant battlefield. They climbed up several storeys, past one dimly-lit landing after another, until Nemiel signalled for a halt. 'This is far enough,' he said. 'We don't need to get all the way to the top; I just want a good view of what's going on,' he told them. He turned to Askelon. 'Is there any risk of sensors at this point?' 'No,' the Techmarine replied. 'We're past their detection perimeter at this point.' 'All right. Marthes, you and Vardus stay here and cover the stairwell. Kohl, Askelon and Ephrial, you're with me.' Nemiel crouched at the plasteel door and cracked it slowly open. Beyond, the gantry-way was lit with red light from below. His autosenses picked up the reek of melted plas, petrochemicals and heated metal. Distantly, he could make out the sharp blurts and squeals of binaric cant, as well as a number of voices speaking in Gothic. The Redemptor concentrated, but he could make out what they were saying over the squalling of the machinery. He surveyed the gantry-way carefully for as far as he could see, checking for any signs of movement, then went back and checked again. Satisfied there was no one within the immediate area, he opened the door the rest of the way and crept quietly onto the plasteel catwalk. The assembly building was rectangular in shape, with an open floor plan surrounded by six huge niches that stretched from floor to ceiling. Giant servo arms were set into either side of these niches, able to climb to different heights along trackways set into the permacrete, and huge cranes hung from similar tracks high overhead. The Titans were assembled inside each niche, starting with the skeletal structure of the feet and working upwards to the head. Nemiel found himself crouched on a section of third-storey gantry-way at one end of the building. The storeys above him were plunged into darkness, without so much as an emergency lamp burning. Below, red light rose up from the assembly floor like the glow of an actual forge. Gusts of hot air, stirred by industrial grade arc torches blew against his faceplate. A rustle of iron links, musical and cold, chimed from the deep shadows high above the floor. Hundreds of chains had been suspended from the assembly building's ceiling, twisting and clinking together in the restless air. Each chain, more than fifty metres in length, had been strung with dozens of hooks, and on each hook hung a fresh corpse. Nemiel saw the bodies of Tanagran Dragoons, skitarii - even the mangled bodies of dead Praetorians - along with the smaller figures of tech-adepts and half-mechanical magi. Their corpses had been riddled by bullets or torn apart by energy bolts, sliced open by power claws or crushed by mechanical fists, and their fluids leaked from them in a steady, dripping rain onto the hulls of the enormous vehicles below. There were six of them, Nemiel saw. Their chassis were so wide that they could only be arrayed in a single file that stretched from one end of the assembly building to the other. Their armoured hulls were supported by dual sets of treads on each of the vehicle's flanks, with a sloped front that rose like a sheer-sided hillock more than two storeys high. Void shield generators studded the vehicle's sides, along with automated quad-laser and mega-bolter emplacements, but Nemiel scarcely noticed them. His gaze was drawn to the enormous cannon built into the centreline of the vehicle's hull. A complicated series of hoists and giant braces surrounding the cannon's barrel indicated that it was meant to be elevated and fired like a conventional artillery piece. The aft section of each vehicle was segmented like the body of a giant insect, and appeared to be even more heavily armoured than the rest of the hull. 'What in the Emperor's name are those things?' Kohl hissed. It was the first time Nemiel had ever heard the sergeant taken aback. Techmarine Askelon carefully eased into a crouch beside them. His eyes widened as he saw the machines on the assembly floor. 'Siege guns,' he said, his voice tinged with awe, 'but far larger than any I've ever seen before. Those look like macro cannons, fitted to a custom hull.' He pointed to the nearest vehicle. 'See those dual treads? Those aren't part of a contiguous drive train. They are distinct drive units, similar in size and power the ones used on Baneblade super-heavy tanks. There are three to a side, and that's just to form the foundation fo

hem. His eyes widened as he saw the machines on the assembly floor. 'Siege guns,' he said, his voice tinged with awe, 'but far larger than any I've ever seen before. Those look like macro cannons, fitted to a custom hull.' He pointed to the nearest vehicle. 'See those dual treads? Those aren't part of a contiguous drive train. They are distinct drive units, similar in size and power the ones used on Baneblade super-heavy tanks. There are three to a side, and that's just to form the foundation for each vehicle.' Tech-adepts were crawling like ants over each of the war machines, working feverishly along the armoured hull beneath the rain of gore. Symbols had been scrawled in blood at regular intervals along each machine's flank, but Nemiel couldn't make them out at such a distance. The Redemptor noticed that he vehicle closest to them had a large, open hatch on the top deck, to the right of the huge gun. 'What do you make of that?' he said, pointing to the two tech-adepts working in the well beneath the hatchway. Askelon leaned slightly forward, peering intently at the opening. His eyes widened. 'It's an MIU interface chamber,' he said, 'A neural interface link, much like we employ on our Titans. It looks like they're refurbishing the control leads and making it ready for use.' 'So a single operator could control one of these behemoths?' Nemiel said. The Techmarine nodded. 'Of course. They're big, but far less demanding than a bipedal Titan,' he replied. 'And the MIU makes it nearly impossible for them to be used if captured.' Nemiel nodded grimly, his gaze rising to the collection of corpses dangling in the air before them. 'Now we know what happened to the Dragoons covering the southern approach,' he said, his voice thick with revulsion. 'Not to mention a good many of the forge's own personnel. Magos Archoi is a madman. This whole thing smacks of some obscene, superstitious ritual. How could someone like Horus Lupercal be connected to such debased behaviour?' Memories of the foul things he'd witnessed at Sarosh rose unbidden in Nemiel's mind. He forced them aside with an effort of will and a savage shake of his head. Kohl tore his gaze away from the repellent sight and caught a glimpse of movement on the assembly floor. 'Here comes the high priest himself,' he growled, pointing to the narrow lane at the right of the parked war machines. Nemiel straightened, craning his head around to see Magos Archoi walking down the line of vehicles. A pair of tech-adepts followed a discreet distance behind the magos, their hands tucked into their sleeves, while a knot of four uniformed men dogged Archoi's heels and studied the siege guns critically. One of the men was conferring with the magos, speaking to him in urgent tones. It took a moment for Nemiel to recognise the uniform he wore. '15th Hesperan Lancers,' he murmured. 'Assigned to Horus's 53rd Expeditionary Fleet. It looks like some of the rebels stayed behind when their ground forces left the planet. They must have been meeting with that traitor Archoi and arranging delivery of the machines when we arrived.' 'And they've been biding their time ever since, waiting for the right opportunity,' Kohl snarled. 'That damned magos has embedded his warriors into every one of our combat units. We've got to warn the primarch or we may well have a massacre on our hands!' At just that moment, Brother Vardus leaned out from the stairwell entrance. 'Movement on the stairs!' he hissed, 'coming from above and below.' Kohl stared back at Vardus. 'Above and below simultaneously?' Vardus nodded. 'They're moving quietly. Might be a pair of patrols.' Suddenly, Askelon pointed across the cavernous space. 'I can see movement on the opposite gantry-way!' he said quietly. 'They're carrying something.' Nemiel felt the hairs on the back of his neck go up. He looked down at the assembly room floor. Magos Archoi was standing there, surrounded by a circle of bemused rebels. The traitor's hooded head was tilted upwards, looking directly at him. 'They know we're here!' he cried, drawing his crozius from his belt. 'It's a trap!' Lasgun fire erupted from the gantry-way on the opposite side of the building; red bolts hissed through the air, gouging craters from the permacrete wall in a string of sharp thunderclaps. A heavy bolter began to hammer away, spitting tracers across the intervening space in a series of measured bursts. Rounds struck many of the hanging chains, splitting their links and dumping their grisly cargo to the ground. Nemiel fired a burst in the direction of the heavy bolter and activated his vox-bead. 'Invincible Reason, this is Brother Nemiel!' he cried. 'Can you read me?' He was answered with a rising screech of static. The Redemptor went through a score of frequencies and got the same result. Archoi's traitors were jamming the vox-channels. Fire erupted from the stairwell behind Nemiel. Autoguns clattered and lasguns spat bursts of light at Marthes and Vardus, who responded with a brace of fragmentation grenades. Marthes levelled his meltagun down the stairs and fired a howling blast, then ducked out onto the gangway. 'There's a platoon of skitarii coming up the stairs!' he shouted. Dark figures were rushing at them along the gangway from the far side of the building, firing bursts of lasgun fire as they advanced. Kohl and Ephrial exchanged fire with them, dropping several with well-aimed shots. A burst of heavy bolter fire answered them, stitching the two Astartes with a stream of shells. Both warriors staggered beneath the hits, but their armour turned aside the blows. 'Marthes! Put a shot on that gangway!' Nemiel yelled as he leaned over the thin metal rail and levelled his pistol at Magos Archoi. The traitor didn't even flinch as the Redemptor laid his aiming point at the centre of the darkness beneath his hood and let off a burst. The shells flew straight and true - and detonated harmlessly against a force field just a few scant centimetres from their target. The officers with the magos drew laspistols and returned fire, striking Nemiel once in the leg and abdomen. Marthes shouldered his way onto the catwalk and fired his meltagun at the distant heavy bolter. The microwave burst struck the weapon and the gangway beneath it and superheated the metal in a split second, vaporising them in a fierce concussion and hurling burning skitarii to the assembly floor below. 'We're cut off!' Kohl shouted as he picked off another of the charging skitarii. 'Where do we go from here?' Nemiel glared down at Archoi. Several metres away, one of the burning skitarii had become entangled in one of the chains on the way down, and now he thrashed and twisted in the air as the flames consumed him. On impulse, he holstered his pistol. 'Follow me!' he said, then put a foot onto the rail and leapt into space. The thin metal of the railing bent beneath his full weight, throwing him off balance, but his leap carried him far enough to reach one of the grisly, corpse-strewn chains. He grabbed hold with one hand and slid partway down its length before the slippery metal snaked out of his hands. Nemiel fell the remaining few metres and landed atop the lead siege gun. A tech-adept rose up beside him, raising a crackling arc-torch, but he may as well have been moving in slow motion. The Astartes smashed the traitor aside with a sweep of his crozius and began to run along the downward-sloping hull towards Archoi and the rebel officers. 'For the Lion!' he roared, raising the crozius aquilum high as he launched himself at the traitors. SIXTEEN WHEELS WITHIN WHEELS Caliban In the 200th year of the Emperor's Great Crusade GENERAL MORTEN SHIFTED uncomfortably in the shuttle's oversized jump seat and tried to conceal the scowl on his face by pretending to study the view beyond the small window at his left. 'If I could perhaps get some idea of what it is you're looking for, I could arrange for a presentation from the garrison's senior officers.' 'That would defeat the purpose of the inspection,' Zahariel replied from his seat across the shuttle's passenger cabin. 'In fact, it would be best if the troops never knew I was there.' 'Very well,' Morten rasped, though Zahariel could see that his weathered face was still troubled. The Terran officer stared out the window for a moment more, debating what to say next. After a moment, he drew a deep breath and said, 'You asked me to inspect the troops at Northwilds to provide a cover for your own activities.' 'That's right,' Zahariel admitted. He didn't want to lie to the man any more than he had to. 'We'll part ways once the shuttle lands, and it's likely I won't be returning with you back to Aldurukh.' He spread his hands. 'I regret that I can't be any more candid, but this is Legion business. I'm sure you understand.' 'Yes, of course,' Morten said readily, but there was no mistaking the wary look in the old general's eye. For a brief moment, Zahariel wondered if there was something that the general was hiding but he quickly dismissed the thought with a flash of irritation. He had no reason to distrust Morten, Zahariel reminded himself forcibly. The man was, by all accounts, an honourable and dedicated soldier, and had every reason to wonder at Zahariel's request for an unannounced inspection of the garrison at the Northwilds arcology. The fact was, Zahariel couldn't afford to make his presence known to the local troops or the Administratum officials struggling to maintain order across the arcology's war-torn sectors; it would lead to pointed questions that he could ill afford to answer. The last thing he wanted was for General Morten - or worse, Magos Bosk - to learn that a member of the Legion was meeting secretly with rebel leaders in the midst of the most hotly-contested population centre on the planet. It was unlikely that either of the Terrans would take the news well. As much as he hated the idea of concealing his actions, Zahariel wa

truggling to maintain order across the arcology's war-torn sectors; it would lead to pointed questions that he could ill afford to answer. The last thing he wanted was for General Morten - or worse, Magos Bosk - to learn that a member of the Legion was meeting secretly with rebel leaders in the midst of the most hotly-contested population centre on the planet. It was unlikely that either of the Terrans would take the news well. As much as he hated the idea of concealing his actions, Zahariel was forced to admit that, when it came down to it, Morten and Bosk acted in the best interests of the Imperium, not Caliban itself. Shafts of late afternoon sunlight slanted through the window to Zahariel's right as the military shuttle began a wide, diving turn towards their destination. The Librarian craned his neck to peer out the window to the northeast, where the arcology rose sharp-edged against the backdrop of the weathered mountain range further north. The Northwilds arcology had been built according to the standard Imperial template; it was an irregularly-stepped pyramid that, even still in its initial stages, was five kilometres wide at its base and rose more than three kilometres into the cloudy sky. Narrow streets radiated away from the arcology across the plain, surrounded by hundreds of smaller buildings that had yet to be subsumed by the structure's ever-expanding footprint. Each arcology was constructed in a similar fashion on newly-compliant Imperial worlds: first would come the labourers and their families, relocated by the tens of thousands from towns and villages all over the hemisphere. They would be resettled in a town at the site of the new arcology, which would spread outward in all directions as its population swelled. Then, once there was a large enough labour pool that had been sufficiently trained to begin work, the digging of the arcology's foundation would begin. The structure would grow in stages, expanding outwards, upwards and downwards at the same time. Little by little, the arcology would swallow up the town, its residents progressively reassigned to districts inside the structure itself. The population would continue to grow as well, along with the civil services and bureaucracy that went along with it. In theory, the population and organisational growth would match the growth of the structure so closely that by the time the structure was complete, the arcology would be fully populated and self-sufficient. Of course, such things rarely ever went precisely according to plan. 'How many people are at Northwilds these days?' Zahariel asked. 'You mean civilians? About five million, all told,' Morten replied. 'About a quarter of that are Imperial citizens from offworld: Administratum officials, engineers, industrial planners and the like.' Zahariel consulted facts and figures committed to memory before leaving Aldurukh. 'A stage one arcology is built to support twice that number,' he observed. 'So half of the structure is still unoccupied?' Morten shrugged. 'The Imperium's industrialisation plan calls for twenty stage-one arcologies across Caliban, but the planet's population won't be able to support that for some time yet.' The Librarian frowned thoughtfully. 'That seems like a great deal of extra work. One would think that they would build new structures as needed, rather than all at once?' Morten spread his gnarled hands. 'Who can say? The Administratum has its reasons, I don't doubt.' 'How is the population distributed throughout the arcology?' Zahariel inquired. 'We're keeping the natives penned into the lower levels,' the general rasped. 'The garrison, the Administratum infrastructure and the offworld residents are housed on the upper levels, where we can keep them secure.' Zahariel gave the general a flat stare. 'Natives?' he said. Morten's scowl vanished. 'My apologies, sir,' he said, straightening in his seat. An embarrassed flush began to spread up his thick neck. 'Just a figure of speech. I meant no offence.' 'No, of course not,' the Librarian replied coolly. 'How are you managing to provide basic services to the population?' Morten drew in a quick breath. 'Well, I won't deny it's difficult. The lower levels bore the brunt of the riots, so a lot of the infrastructure was damaged. We're sending in work teams every day with armed escorts to perform repairs, and we've set up medicae facilities at strategic points to care for the injured.' 'So how much of the lower levels are without light or running water at this point?' Zahariel asked. 'Only about twenty per cent,' Morten said. 'If we can keep any more full-scale riots from breaking out, we can knock that number down even further in the next couple of weeks.' Zahariel nodded, keeping his face impassive. Twenty per cent without power or water meant roughly a million people trapped in the dark, shivering in the cold and living off military ration packs for the better part of a month. 'Is there no way to relocate the affected residents to another level?' Morten's craggy brows went up. 'Sir, you must be aware that an unknown number of the natives - excuse me, citizens - are also likely members of the rebellion. It's much more sensible from a military standpoint to keep them isolated and restore service to them than turn them loose in another part of the arcology where they can cause more mischief.' Zahariel turned back to the window and breathed deeply, biting back the outrage he felt. 'Is this sort of tactic normal when dealing with civil unrest?' he asked. 'Of course,' Morten replied. 'You've got to get it through their heads that when they destroy Imperial property they're only going to make their lives harder and more miserable. Sooner or later the lesson sinks in.' And how many rebels do you create in the process, Zahariel thought? The shuttle had descended to about two thousand metres by this point, and its turn sharpened as it came in for its final approach. Zahariel saw plumes of smoke rising from the arcology's flanks near ground level, suggesting that the populace was far from learning General Morten's brutal lesson. He was shocked to feel a perverse sense of pride at the thought. They continued their descent, passing below fifteen hundred metres before the shuttle pilot pulled up the nose of his craft and flared his thrusters for a vertical landing. The transport touched down on a broad landing pad, one of dozens that jutted from the arcology's northern face, with scarcely a jolt. Morten grunted in satisfaction as he unbuckled his safety harness and climbed wearily to his feet. 'My inspection will likely take the better part of three hours,' he said to Zahariel. 'Do I need to stretch it out further?' 'No need,' Zahariel replied. He had yet to climb from his seat. 'If I'm not back by the time you are done, return to Aldurukh without me. I will arrange for my own transport.' Morten paused, as though he wanted to inquire further, but after a moment he mastered his curiosity and gave the Librarian a curt nod. 'I'll bid you good luck then,' he said, then turned on his heel and headed for the exit ramp. Zahariel listened to the clang of the general's boots as he descended the ramp. One of the shuttle pilots passed through the passenger compartment, headed aft to check on the shuttle's engines. He waited a full minute more, then rose to his feet and pulled off his plain, white surplice to reveal a black body glove beneath. The rebel leaders had agreed to the meeting only on the condition that he come unarmed and unarmoured. The stipulation surprised and irritated him; did they imagine he would call for a parley with treachery in mind? He'd swallowed his aggravation and agreed nonetheless. There was too much at stake to haggle over such trivial details. The Librarian reached into an overhead locker and drew out a neatly-folded bundle of cloth. Zahariel unfurled the heavy cloak with a snap of his wrists and drew it about his shoulders. When he closed the clasp, the cloak's cameleoline outer layer activated, matching the grey hues of the compartment in less than a second. He drew the cloak's deep hood over his head and headed quickly to the ramp. Outside the shuttle the air was cold and brisk, with a strong wind blowing down from the mountains. Tattered streamers of smoke curled around the lip of the landing pad; he grimaced as he caught the mingled smell of ash and melted plas. Across the pad, a deep alcove led to a pair of blast doors that gave access to the arcology itself. A shuttle technician stood near the alcove, his back to Zahariel as he tried to wrestle a heavy refuelling hose from a recessed bay set into the pad itself. The Astartes moved swiftly across the pad, the faint sound of his footfalls lost in the idling whine of the shuttle's engines. He passed the technician close enough to touch him if he'd wished; the man glanced up irritably as he felt the wind of Zahariel's passage on his neck, but his gaze swept right past the Librarian without registering his presence. Clutching the cloak about his broad frame, Zahariel entered the broad, shadowed alcove and paused beside the blast doors. As near as he could reckon, he had six hours before the rendezvous on sub-level four. He turned to a maintenance access hatch, situated at the side of the alcove to the left of the blast doors. The hatch swung open noiselessly, revealing a cramped space lit with dim, red utility lighting and crowded with high-voltage conduits and data trunks. A narrow set of metal rungs led upwards and downwards into darkness. Before he'd left Aldurukh, Zahariel had memorised a circuitous route through the arcology's maze of accessways that would give him the best chance of reaching the rendezvous point unobserved. He'd need every bit of those six hours to make it to the meeting on time. The Librarian stooped his shoulders and squeezed his way into the human-sized space, then pulled the hatch shut behind him. Darkness close

conduits and data trunks. A narrow set of metal rungs led upwards and downwards into darkness. Before he'd left Aldurukh, Zahariel had memorised a circuitous route through the arcology's maze of accessways that would give him the best chance of reaching the rendezvous point unobserved. He'd need every bit of those six hours to make it to the meeting on time. The Librarian stooped his shoulders and squeezed his way into the human-sized space, then pulled the hatch shut behind him. Darkness closed in on all sides, heavy with the scent of lubricants, ozone and recycled air. The hum of distant machinery reverberated through his bones. With a deep breath, Zahariel began his descent into the depths. SIX HOURS AND ten minutes later, Zahariel was crouched in the shadows at the mouth of a maintenance access corridor. Just a few steps away, a metal catwalk ran along the high wall of one of the arcology's many generator substations. From where he crouched he had a good view of the rendezvous point on the generator floor, six metres below. Something was wrong. The time for the rendezvous had come and gone, and the rebel leaders were nowhere in sight. Instead, Zahariel saw a pair of men in utility coveralls waiting at the designated spot. One man puffed worriedly at a clay pipe, while the other tried to calm himself by cleaning his grimy nails with the point of a small knife. They looked like just another pair of generator techs stealing a few minutes' break away from the watchful eyes of their boss - except for the cut-down las-carbines hanging from their shoulders. What had happened to Sar Daviel and the rest? Why had these two men been sent in their stead? Now, after ten minutes, the men were growing restless. No doubt they were coming to the conclusion that he wasn't going to appear either. Zahariel gritted his teeth in irritation. He could let the men leave and try to follow them back to their superiors, but there was a significant risk that he could lose them in the arcology's labyrinthine passageways. That left him with only one viable option. The Librarian took a few, deep breaths, calling on his training to calm his mind and focus his thoughts, then he rose from concealment, took three quick steps and vaulted over the side of the catwalk. He landed with scarcely a sound, not three metres away from the two rebels. The man with the knife let out a startled squawk and recoiled from the Astartes, his eyes widening in fear. The pipe-smoker whirled, following the other man's startled gaze. To his credit, he kept his composure much better than his companion. 'You're late,' the rebel said around the stem of his pipe. 'I didn't come here to meet with you,' Zahariel said coldly. 'Where is Sar Daviel?' The two rebels exchanged nervous glances. 'We're supposed to take you to him,' the pipe-smoker said. 'That wasn't what we agreed upon,' Zahariel said, a shade of menace creeping into his voice. The knife-wielder blanched, his grip tightening on the handle of his tiny penknife. If the situation hadn't been so serious, the Librarian might have been tempted to laugh. The other rebel plucked the pipe from his lips and gave a disinterested shrug. 'Just doing what we're told,' he said. 'If you mean to parley, then follow us. If not, well, I expert you know the way out.' 'Very well,' the Astartes said coldly. 'Let's go.' 'First things first,' the pipe-wielder said. He reached into a pocket of his coveralls and drew out a small auspex unit. Placing the pipe back in his mouth, he activated the unit and adjusted its settings, then swept it over Zahariel from head to toe. Zahariel felt his choler rise as the rebel performed his scan. 'The agreement was that I not come armed or armoured,' he said, biting off each word. The rebel was unperturbed. 'That's as may be. I still have my orders.' Finished with the scan, he checked the unit's readout, then nodded to his companion. 'He's clear.' The second rebel nodded, then put away his penknife and started off towards the mouth of a dimly-lit corridor on the far side of the generator room. 'Follow him,' the pipe-wielder said. 'I'll be right behind you.' Biting back his anger, Zahariel fell into step behind the lead rebel. They walked for more than an hour, following a long, torturous route through the maintenance spaces that would have completely disorientated a normal man. As it was, Zahariel had only a vague notion of where in the arcology they were. He was certain that they had descended through another two sub-levels, making them at least a hundred metres below ground. At the end of the trek Zahariel found himself walking down a long, dark corridor that seemed to go on for at least a kilometre. After several minutes he began to see a faint, grey luminescence up ahead. He smelled brackish water and wet stone, and a low, hissing sound filled his ears. Soon the grey light resolved itself into a doorway that opened onto a clattering metal catwalk suspended over a man-made waterfall. To the right of the catwalk, close enough to touch, was a wall of plunging water that churned into foam just two metres below Zahariel's feet before passing under the catwalk and through a metal grate off to his left. They had reached one of the arcology's many wastewater purification plants, Zahariel realised. At the far end of the catwalk, about fifty metres away, a small, permacrete blockhouse jutted from the chamber wall. Two armed rebels stood outside the blockhouse door, their hands nervously gripping their stolen lasguns. The guards halted them at the end of the catwalk and conferred with Zahariel's guides in low, urgent tones; he tried to listen in on what was being said, but the white noise of the waterfall made it impossible. After a brief exchange, the guards nodded and stepped to one side. The pipe-wielding rebel turned back to Zahariel and gestured to the door with a nod of his head. 'They're waiting for you inside,' he said. At once, Zahariel's anger began to rise. Without a word, he rushed past the four men, pushing open the door with the flat of his hand and storming inside. He found himself in a small room, perhaps five metres to a side, which was lined with banks of controls and flickering data-plates. Four rebel soldiers stood in a tight knot on the opposite side of the room, close to a featureless metal door. To his left, Zahariel saw Lord Thuriel and Lord Malchial sitting in a pair of the control room's utilitarian chairs. Malchial was clearly agitated, leaning forward in the chair with his hands clenched so tightly his knuckles were white as chalk. Thuriel, on the other hand, was at ease, peering at the Librarian over steepled fingers. His dark eyes held nothing but contempt. 'So you chose to come after all,' Thuriel sneered. 'I'd half given up on you.' 'Had you been at the agreed-upon place you wouldn't have had to wait,' Zahariel shot back. 'We haven't the time for games, Lord Thuriel. Where are Lady Alera and Sar Daviel?' 'That's none of your concern,' Thuriel said. He turned slightly and nodded to the men at the door. As one, the four rebels turned to face Zahariel, raising their weapons. Two of the men were armed with heavy, blunt-nosed plasma guns. For a moment Zahariel could only stare at the rebels. The idea of violating the time-honoured tradition of parley shocked him more profoundly than any warp-spawned horror could. 'Upon further consideration, we've decided to make you our guest,' Thuriel said with a cruel smile. 'I think a high-value hostage will persuade Luther to take our demands seriously.' Zahariel, however, wasn't the least bit cowed. He folded his arms and glared at the rebels. 'I'm going to give you just one chance to put those guns away,' he said in a quiet voice. Thuriel chuckled. 'Or what?' he shot back. 'I've heard stories about the legendary toughness of the Astartes, but I rather doubt even you would survive a point-blank shot from a plasma gun.' 'None of us would survive, you idiot,' Zahariel said scornfully. 'In a small room like this the thermal effects would incinerate us all. Now, I'm going to say this one last time. Put your weapons away, or this parley is finished.' 'Parley?' Thuriel said incredulously. 'Have you not heard anything I've said? Unless you're here to accede to our terms, we have nothing to discuss.' Before Zahariel could reply, the door behind the rebel soldiers banged open. Sar Daviel appeared, shoving his way roughly past the startled gunmen. Behind him came Lady Alera, her face pale and her expression fierce. She, in turn, was followed by a third figure, stoop-shouldered and lean and clad in a plain white surplice identical to Zahariel's own. The Librarian looked into the figure's seamed face and felt a shock like a thunderbolt course up his spine. It was Master Remiel. 'THURIEL, YOU DAMNED fool,' snarled Sar Daviel. 'You've got no idea what you're playing at here. Tell your men to put away their guns right now, or I'll do it for them.' The old knight's scarred hands clenched into fists. He looked entirely ready to make good his threat. Daviel's scornful tone brought Lord Thuriel out of his chair. 'Mind your tongue when you're speaking to your betters, you old dog,' he warned. 'Or you'll wind up sharing the same cell as this hyper-muscled monstrosity here.' 'Listen to me,' Sar Daviel said, his voice low and insistent. 'Zahariel is here under the terms of parley. Do you understand what that means?' 'Parley?' Thuriel said with a harsh laugh. 'I've had quite enough of your romantic notions of warfare, Daviel. Do you imagine that Luther has suddenly had a change of heart, and wants to negotiate with us? Use your head, man!' He pointed an accusing finger at Zahariel. 'For all we know, he called this parley to draw us into the open so he could kill us!' 'Shut up, Thuriel,' Lord Remiel snapped. The old master's voice was roughened with age, but still bore the same lash of authority he'd wielded at Aldurukh. 'Have yo

with a harsh laugh. 'I've had quite enough of your romantic notions of warfare, Daviel. Do you imagine that Luther has suddenly had a change of heart, and wants to negotiate with us? Use your head, man!' He pointed an accusing finger at Zahariel. 'For all we know, he called this parley to draw us into the open so he could kill us!' 'Shut up, Thuriel,' Lord Remiel snapped. The old master's voice was roughened with age, but still bore the same lash of authority he'd wielded at Aldurukh. 'Have your men put away their weapons before Zahariel decides that the parley is void and turns your paranoid suspicions into reality.' The noble recoiled from the command as though he'd been slapped. The rebel gunmen wavered, casting uncertain glances between the rebel leaders as if unsure who to follow. When Thuriel didn't respond at once, Lady Alera wormed her way between the gunmen and pushed the muzzles of the plasma guns downward. 'Enough of this madness,' she declared. Then, to Zahariel, she said, 'I regret this misunderstanding has occurred, Sar Zahariel. Lord Thuriel and Lord Malchial acted rashly, and without the sanction of the rest of our leadership. In fact,' she continued, shooting an angry glance at the two noblemen, 'they conspired to delay the rest of us so that we couldn't interfere with their treachery.' 'Now, look here,' Malchial said, rising nervously from his chair. 'I never wanted any part of this. Lord Thuriel said-' 'We've heard more than enough of what Lord Thuriel has to say,' Remiel snapped. 'I advise the both of you to hold your tongue from this point forward. At the moment I'm of the opinion you're a bigger threat to our cause than Luther and his minions, and nothing in the terms of parley prevents me from having the both of you shot.' Remiel's threat ended the confrontation at a stroke. The gunmen withdrew to stand by the doorway behind the rebel leaders, their weapons held at port arms. Malchial went pale and his mouth snapped shut at once. Thuriel held his tongue as well, though his body trembled with barely-contained rage. Zahariel observed the entire exchange with outward calm, though inwardly his mind reeled at the implications of the scene playing out before him. It had been obvious from the start that the insurgents were very well-informed about Imperial strategy and tactics, but Luther and General Morten had assumed that deserters from the Jaeger regiments were the cause. The truth, Zahariel now realised, was far worse - and called into question many of their assumptions about the rebels and their motives. 'It was you all along,' Zahariel said, his heart sinking with the realization. 'How many years did you pretend to be our brother while you were laying the groundwork for this rebellion? When did you forsake your oaths to the primarch, master? Did it happen the day that Luther returned from the Crusade - or when Jonson passed you over and chose another to become Lord Cypher?' 'It was Jonson's treachery that brought us all to this,' Remiel said. The old master's voice was sharp as drawn steel. 'An oath born from deceit is no oath at all! His lies-' 'Save your breath, my lord,' Sar Daviel said, resting a hand on Remiel's arm. 'It won't do you any good.' The maimed knight let go of the old master and took a step towards Zahariel, his expression stern and unforgiving. 'You called for a parley, and in honour of the old ways we obliged you. What is it you want?' With an effort, Zahariel tore his gaze away from Remiel and collected his thoughts. He'd rehearsed this conversation in his head a hundred times on the way to the arcology. 'I'm here because of what you said to Luther, just before you got on the shuttle back at Aldurukh.' Sar Daviel's one good eye narrowed thoughtfully. He gave Zahriel a searching look, and then sudden comprehension dawned across his scarred face. 'You've seen something, haven't you?' 'What's happened?' Remiel said, a note of concern creeping into his voice. Zahariel hesitated, knowing that he had reached the point of no return. Luther had forbidden him to discuss the matter with anyone, but if he didn't, Caliban was doomed. Slowly at first, then with gathering speed and determination, he told the rebel leaders what he'd found at Sigma Five-One-Seven. When he was done, Zahariel studied the faces of each rebel leader in turn. Daviel and Master Remiel cast sidelong glances at one another, their expressions grim. Lady Alera and Lord Malchial were pale with shock, while Lord Thuriel's jaw tightened with building outrage. 'What is he talking about?' Thuriel demanded. 'What's this... this taint he keeps referring to?' He took a step towards the two older knights, his hands clenching into fists. 'How long have you been keeping this from us?' Daviel glared forbiddingly at the angry noble. 'It's none of your concern, Thuriel,' he growled. 'Believe me. The less you know about this, the better.' 'And now you presume to tell me what I have a right to know? You're no better than the damned Imperials!' Thuriel turned to Lady Alera. 'I told you we couldn't trust them!' he snarled, pointing an accusing finger at the old knights. 'Who knows what other secrets they're hiding? For all we know, they might have been working with Luther all along!' 'Thuriel, will you please just shut up,' Lady Alera said, her voice trembling faintly. She pressed a hand to her forehead, and Zahariel could see that she was struggling to come to grips with what she'd been told. 'Can't you see what's at stake here?' 'Of course I can,' Thuriel snarled. 'In fact, I see things a great deal more clearly than you, Alera. I see that the Terrans aren't content with raping our world; now they're feeding our people to monsters. And these two old fools knew it, but kept it to themselves.' 'We knew nothing of the kind, you arrogant, self-centred dolt,' Daviel shot back. 'Master Remiel and I were protecting our people from monsters long before you were born, and don't you forget it.' He jabbed a gnarled finger at the ruined side of his face. 'You want to talk about monsters, boy, you show me the scars you earned fighting them. Otherwise, shut your damned mouth!' 'So that's it, eh? Just shut up and trust you? Like we trusted Luther, and Jonson, and all those vultures from the Administratum?' Thuriel shouted back. His right hand fell to the pistol holstered at his hip. 'Never again, Daviel! You hear me? Never again!' The nobleman glared at Daviel for a long moment. The knight regarded Thuriel coldly, pointedly folding his arms in the face of the other man's threat. The rebel gunmen at the back of the room fingered their weapons nervously. Before the situation could escalate further, however, Lord Malchial leapt from his chair and gripped Thuriel's left arm. 'Leave it, cousin,' Malchial hissed fearfully. 'Nothing good can come of this.' Thuriel gritted his teeth in consternation, weighing his options. Finally, he drew his hand away from his weapon. 'For once, Malchial, you may be right,' the nobleman said. Thuriel swept a haughty gaze over the knights, Lady Alera and Zahariel. 'We're finished, do you hear? You'll not get another coin from me to finance your little games of deception. I'll find another way to set our people free from the likes of Jonson and his ilk. See if I won't.' He turned and stormed from the room, with a nervous Malchial close behind. 'Damn that Malchial,' Sar Daviel said as the door slammed shut behind them. 'Another moment more and Thuriel would have done something foolish. Then we could have been rid of the both of them.' Zahariel frowned. 'Was it wise to let them go?' he asked. 'You'd rather he were here, using up good air?' Alera said disgustedly. She waved her hand in dismissal. 'Thuriel provides us with money and outrage, and not much else. He doesn't have any real support inside the movement. Let him go. We've got much more important things to worry about.' Sar Daviel looked to Remiel. 'Things are far worse than we feared,' he said gravely. Remiel nodded, but he continued to stare searchingly at Zahariel. 'Why have you told us this?' he asked his old pupil. 'Because we're running out of time,' Zahariel replied. 'We've got to stop the Terrans before they unleash their master ritual, but if we send in a major force of Astartes to search for them we risk drawing the attention of the Administratum.' 'Who wouldn't hesitate to condemn the planet - and its people - if they learned the truth,' Remiel concluded. 'Condemn?' Alera said. 'What does that mean?' 'The Imperium views warp taint as... a cancer, if you will. A tumour on the human soul,' Remiel said. 'Not without reason, of course. No sane person wants to see a return of Old Night. But the problem here is that Caliban's taint runs deeper than just a handful of debased individuals; it permeates the very bedrock of the world.' 'Then how does one go about curing it?' she said, her voice rising with exasperation. The old master sighed. 'With fire. What else?' He eyed Zahariel coldly. 'The Imperium would relocate the Legion and as many of its loyal servants as it could. Perhaps a few hundred thousand could be saved. The rest...' 'That's why this must be kept secret,' Zahariel said calmly. His eyes never left Remiel's. The old master's eyebrows rose. 'That sounds like something very close to rebellion, young Zahariel.' The Librarian shook his head. 'Luther and I swore an oath to protect the people of Caliban, long before the coming of the Emperor,' he replied. 'As did you.' Sar Daviel nodded slowly. 'All right,' he said. 'What do you want from us?' 'A truce,' Zahariel said simply. 'Help us find the Terrans quickly and quietly, and we'll send in a kill-team to eliminate them.' Alera shook her head. 'I don't think so,' she said. 'Leave these sorcerers to us. We can take care of them.' 'Would that were so, Lady Alera,' Remiel said heavily. 'But Zahariel is right. Our people are no match for these creatures. This is a t

ing of the Emperor,' he replied. 'As did you.' Sar Daviel nodded slowly. 'All right,' he said. 'What do you want from us?' 'A truce,' Zahariel said simply. 'Help us find the Terrans quickly and quietly, and we'll send in a kill-team to eliminate them.' Alera shook her head. 'I don't think so,' she said. 'Leave these sorcerers to us. We can take care of them.' 'Would that were so, Lady Alera,' Remiel said heavily. 'But Zahariel is right. Our people are no match for these creatures. This is a task for the Astartes.' 'But we don't even know for certain that these sorcerers are here,' Alera protested. 'A truce at this point benefits the Imperials, not us! Their control of the arcology is balanced on a knife edge; if we give them time to catch their breath, bring in more reinforcements...' the noblewoman's voice trailed away as she watched a wordless exchange pass between Remiel and Sar Daviel. 'There's something else, isn't there?' she asked. Daviel nodded. 'We didn't tell you before for reasons of security,' he said gravely. 'But we've lost contact with a number of our sub-level cells over the last two weeks.' 'How many cells?' Alera demanded. 'Fourteen,' Remiel answered. 'Possibly as many as sixteen. Two others missed their last scheduled report this morning, but that could be the result of equipment failure.' The news sent a jolt down Zahariel's spine. 'How many cells do you have in the sub-levels?' Daviel shifted uncomfortably. 'A significant number,' he said. 'The Jaegers don't have the manpower to penetrate much beyond sub-level two, so we keep our combat teams on the lowest sub-levels between raids.' 'How many men have you lost so far?' Zahariel pressed. 'Tell me!' 'One hundred and thirty-two,' the maimed knight answered. 'All of them well-trained and well-equipped, and all of them lost without so much as a single vox transmission. Frankly, we were starting to suspect that you'd sent Astartes teams into the sub-levels to root us out.' Zahariel shook his head. 'It's begun,' he said. 'They're gathering bodies, just like they did at Sigma Five-One-Seven.' Alera's face twisted in a bitter grimace. 'As though the Terrans would have a hard time finding corpses in that charnel house.' 'Charnel house?' Zahariel echoed. 'What do you mean?' Lady Alera stared open-mouthed at the Astartes. 'Don't pretend you don't know,' she said, her eyes blazing angrily. Zahariel held up a hand. 'On my honour, lady, I have no idea what you're talking about.' 'Then who is responsible for the atrocities committed in your name?' she said coldly. 'Five million people, crammed into three levels built to hold a quarter of that number. No power, intermittent supplies of food and water, no functioning sanitation... What did you think was going to happen? People are dying by the hundreds every day. The bodies are tossed down maintenance shafts or piled in lifts and sent to the lower levels, so the survivors don't have to live among the corpses.' The news stunned Zahariel. 'This wasn't reported back to us at Aldurukh,' he said, his voice choked with outrage. 'Is there any way to know how many have died?' Remiel shook his head. 'Tens of thousands, son. Perhaps more.' Zahariel nodded thoughtfully. 'The Terrans knew. That's why they returned to the arcology.' He looked to Remiel. 'The incident at Sigma Five-One-Seven was a field test,' he said, like a pupil solving a problem for his tutor. 'They needed to refine the ritual, test its effects on a smaller scale before unleashing it here.' An image came to him, of an army of animated bodies shambling and crawling up out of the depths to slaughter the millions penned like sheep in the sub-levels above. 'There's no time to waste,' he said. 'If there's another outbreak of violence here, the Terrans will have all the psychic energy they need to begin a large-scale ritual. We've got to find them before it's too late.' Zahariel stepped forward, holding out his empty hand to the rebels. 'Will you agree to the truce?' Alera and Sar Daviel looked to Remiel. The old master stared at Zahariel's open hand for a long moment, a tormented look on his face. Finally, he straightened and looked his former student in the eye. 'For the pact to be binding, it must be sworn by both leaders,' he said sternly. 'If Luther gives me his hand, then I shall take it. Until then, we can have no truce between us.' 'Then come back with me to Aldurukh,' Zahariel said, his voice taut. 'We can be back at the fortress in two hours.' Remiel's eyes narrowed. 'Are you so certain he will agree to this?' 'Of course,' Zahariel replied, putting more sincerity into his voice than he actually felt. 'Do you imagine Caliban's greatest living knight would hold his honour so cheaply?' If Remiel sensed the doubt in Zahariel's heart he did not let it show. 'Very well,' he said with a curt nod. 'Sar Daviel will join us to help coordinate our forces.' He turned to Lady Alera. 'Alert our remaining cells and organise a search of the sub-levels at once. If you locate the Terrans, do not attempt to engage them. Do you understand?' Alera nodded. On impulse, she reached out and laid her hands on Remiel's own. 'Are you sure of this?' she asked. 'You swore you'd never return to the fortress. You said they'd betrayed everything you believed in. How can you trust them now?' Remiel sighed. 'This isn't about trust,' he said to her. 'It's about honour, and a last chance at redemption. I owe it to them, Alera. I owe it to myself.' He gently pushed her hands away. 'Now go. Zahariel is right. We haven't much time.' He smiled. 'I will return with the knights of Caliban at my back, or I will not return at all.' SEVENTEEN FIRE FROM THE SKY Diamat In the 200th year of the Emperor's Great Crusade LAS-BOLTS HISSED PAST Nemiel as he plunged down onto Magos Archoi and the rebel soldiers. His bolt pistol thundered, and two of the officers collapsed with gaping wounds blown in their chests. Archoi fell back from the Redemptor's attack, screeching in binaric, and his acolytes rushed forward, drawing high-powered laspistols from their belts. Nemiel struck down another of the rebels with a crackling swipe of his crozius. A las-bolt struck the side of his helmet like a hammerblow, causing his visual displays to waver, and a warning icon told him that the helm's integrity had been compromised. He shot the officer point-blank, blowing him off his feet - and then felt a hail of blows as the acolytes unleashed a volley of pistol shots into his chest. The acolytes were blurs of motion, their muscles undoubtedly stoked by combat drugs and adrenal boosters. Nemiel felt a half-dozen bolts pummel his breastplate, then a flash of searing pain over his primary heart. For a moment his vision threatened to grey out as his body fought to stave off the effects of shock, then abruptly the pain vanished and his mind cleared with a cold rush as his suit dumped pain blockers and stimulants into his bloodstream. A boltgun let off a rapid burst over Nemiel's shoulder and one of the acolytes fell in a spray of blood and fluids. The Redemptor shot the remaining acolyte twice, and finished him off with a backhanded blow of his crozius. He was leaping forward before the traitor's body had hit the floor, racing down the narrow aisle after the fleeing form of Magos Archoi. Brother-Sergeant Kohl ran alongside Nemiel from high atop the siege gun's hull, firing shots from his bolt pistol at every tech-adept who got in his path. Behind Nemiel, Marthes crouched atop the vehicle and fired another blast up at the skitarii who were firing down from the gantry-way they had just vacated. The catwalk blew apart in a storm of molten fragments, plunging the survivors to the permacrete floor two storeys below. Techmarine Askelon landed heavily on the permacrete floor, pushing onward despite his suit's heavily damaged systems. Vardus and Ephrial brought up the rear, cutting down any soldier or tech-adept who tried to circle behind the squad. Nemiel bore down on the magos like a Calibanite Lion, his lips pulling back in a feral snarl. If it was the last thing he did, he was going to make sure the traitor felt the Emperor's justice. Behind and above him, he heard Kohl shout a warning just as the Praetorians charged at him from the gap between two of the parked siege guns. The shout saved his life. Nemiel turned towards the sound and ducked low, barely avoiding a swinging power claw that would have torn his head off. A second Praetorian lunged at him, scoring a deep gouge across his hip with a glowing power knife. Nemiel brought his crozius down on the skitarii's knife hand, smashing the weapon from the warrior's grip, and pumped three rounds into the Praetorian's chest. The warrior staggered as the rounds punched through his armour, but his chemically-charged nervous system kept him upright. There were four of the hulking, gene-modded warriors: the one with the power claw reached for Nemiel's gun arm, while the second Praetorian brought his weapon systems to bear as he tried to circle around the Redemptor's flank. The remaining pair of skitarii were stymied by Brother-Sergeant Kohl, who leapt down onto the Praetorians with a furious shout. His power sword slashed down in a glowing arc, slicing through one warrior's weapon arm with a shower of sparks and spurting fluids. The Praetorian circling to Nemiel's right went down in a blaze of bolt pistol fire from Techmarine Askelon; seeing his opportunity, the Redemptor pivoted on his left heel and smashed his crozius into the other skitarii's head. The warrior died just as his claw snapped shut on Nemiel's forearm, leaving three deep, bubbling gouges on the black vambrace before collapsing to the ground. Kohl despatched the wounded Praetorian in front of him with a brutal cut that sliced open his armoured torso. The last of the skitarii raised his weapon-arm and took aim at the sergeant, only to die as Nemiel put three bolt pistol rounds in

ity, the Redemptor pivoted on his left heel and smashed his crozius into the other skitarii's head. The warrior died just as his claw snapped shut on Nemiel's forearm, leaving three deep, bubbling gouges on the black vambrace before collapsing to the ground. Kohl despatched the wounded Praetorian in front of him with a brutal cut that sliced open his armoured torso. The last of the skitarii raised his weapon-arm and took aim at the sergeant, only to die as Nemiel put three bolt pistol rounds into his back at point-blank range. Nemiel whirled, looking for the traitor magos, but Archoi was nowhere to be found. The Praetorians had accomplished their goal, buying time for the traitors to escape with their lives. The surviving tech-adepts had fled as well, scattering like vermin down the narrow lanes on the floor of the assembly building. The Redemptor started to pursue them, but Brother-Sergeant Kohl called for him to stop. 'We don't have time to chase rabbits,' Kohl said as las-bolts spat down at them from the gangway. 'We've got to get a warning back to our brothers and to the Dragoons.' Vardus, Ephrial and Askelon unleashed a blistering volley up at the skitarii, killing several and forcing the rest to withdraw. Nemiel wavered, drawn by the siren song of vengeance, but reason and training ultimately won out over emotion. 'You're right, brother,' he said to the sergeant. 'We've just forced Archoi's hand; he'll have to order his forces into action at once. Askelon!' he called, turning to the Techmarine. 'What's the quickest way out of here? We haven't got a moment to lose!' In fact, they were already ten minutes too late. ARCHOI'S PLAN HAD been a hasty one, devised on the spur of the moment as he stood over the bullet-riddled body of his former master Vertullus and received word that, at the absolute last moment, an unknown force of Astartes had arrived in orbit to save the beleaguered forge world. His takeover was already well underway, with loyal units of tech-adepts and skitarii murdering Vertullus's loyal supporters and herding the rest into the old shelters situated deep beneath the manufactories at the base of the great volcano. When the admiral in charge of the Warmaster's fleet informed him that they would have to withdraw, Archoi promised him that when they returned to Diamat, he and his people would be ready. It was that, or face certain execution once that bastard Kulik caught wind of his crimes. As the last of the rebel ships were pulling out of vox range, the magos fired off a compressed burst of binaric that outlined his scheme. The crucial element that the whole plan hinged on was a certain date and an approximate time, two and a half weeks away. Now that time had arrived, and Archoi had to trust that the Warmaster would not be late. Across the southern sector of the forge complex, down to the southern gateway and across the fortified grey zone, each of the skitarii embedded with the defence forces received a coded burst transmission. Sleeping soldiers awoke and quietly gathered up their weapons, while those on sentry duty drew knives or silenced weapons and turned them on their watchmates. Within minutes, gunfire crackled in the darkness as the Tech-Guard ambushed their erstwhile comrades. At the warehouse barracks of the Astartes ground force, most of the Dark Angels were still wide awake, tending their weapons and engaging in close-combat drills in preparation for the battles ahead. The Praetorians in their midst stiffened as the signal touched off implanted combat protocols and flooded their bloodstreams with a lethal brew of combat drugs. From one heartbeat to the next, the skitarii were transformed into berserk killing machines; the virulence of the drugs were so great that within fifteen minutes it would begin to erode their muscle tissue - literally eating them alive. Until that point, however, they were immune to all but the most catastrophic injuries. Readying their weapon implants and close-combat attachments, the Praetorians hurled themselves at the unsuspecting Astartes, and the blood began to flow. THE FIRST INDICATION of danger in orbit was the sudden storm of vox jamming that effectively isolated each of Jonson's ships. The resupply operations had ceased for the day, but there were still several hundred tech-adepts and servitors from the forge hard at work on the Iron Duke, the strike cruiser Amadis and the Invincible Reason. Several of the warships, notably the heavy cruisers Flamberge and Duke Infernus, as well as the escort ships of the scout group, all went to battle stations, while the others initially believed that the vox failure was an accident caused by the current repairs. As the captains of the battle group tried to sort out the sudden loss of communications and attempted to regain contact with the flagship, they were distracted from the threat that was gliding towards them out of the darkness. A small but powerful fleet, assembled in haste with whatever forces were at hand and quickly despatched to Diamat, was now stalking towards the planet with their engines idling and their surveyors silent. The ships of the scout force detected the oncoming enemy ships first. Signalling to one another in basic code using their running lights, the light cruisers and their attendant destroyers flared their thrusters and broke orbit, their surveyors sweeping the void in case the jamming was the precursor to an enemy attack. They detected the eight ships of the enemy force just a few minutes later. Signal lights flashed between the Imperial ships: Form line and prepare to launch torpedoes. With remarkable skill and precision the small ships raced forwards, increasing to attack speed. Below decks, servitors and torpedomen struggled to load the tubes, while on the bridge the Ordnance Officer input course and speed into the target solutions for the ship's weapons. Within five minutes the vessels signalled that they were ready to launch. As the scout force entered optimal torpedo range the signal was given: For the Emperor - launch all torpedoes. Orders were passed to the torpedo deck. The senior torpedomen checked their firing data and turned their launch keys. Less than half a second later, they were dead. As each torpedo received the electronic signal to launch, its plasma reactor overloaded, detonating its warhead inside the tube. The rakish bows of the sleek destroyers vaporised in expanding balls of plasma, transforming them into burning, broken hulks. The light cruisers fared only slightly better, their torpedo decks destroyed and fires burning out of control on their lower decks, the small squadron had no choice but to break off and try to save their ships. The explosions signalled to the rebels that their stealthy approach was at an end. Thrusters ignited, surging to full power; void shields crackled into existence, forming shimmering spheres around their vessels like ephemeral soap bubbles before firming up and fading from view. Surveyors blazed to life, painting the surprised Imperial ships with invisible energies and feeding targeting data back to the rebel gunnery officers. Eight ships: three cruisers, two heavy cruisers and three grand cruisers - bore down on the battered Imperial ships. Cut off from one another, uncertain if their own ammunition had been rigged to explode by the treacherous forge, the Imperials braced themselves for the rebel onslaught. DAWN WAS BREAKING as Nemiel emerged from the Titan assembly building. He heard the distant rattle of gunfire to the south and knew that they had run out of time. All he and his squad could do now was rush to the aid of their fellow Astartes and kill as many of the enemy as they could. 'Forward!' he shouted to his squad. 'Let no one stand in our way!' The Astartes raced down the access road towards the southern edge of the foundry sector, their weapons held ready as they searched for threats. The rumble of petrochem engines echoed amongst the buildings to the southeast, but there was no way to tell for certain where the sounds were coming from. It was most likely a mechanised patrol of skitarii, Nemiel thought, and kept part of his attention focused that way in the event they showed themselves. High-intensity lasguns barked behind them. Brother Vardus was struck in the back by a powerful las-bolt that caused him to fall onto one knee. Marthes held his meltagun in his left hand and bent down, grabbing Vardus's upper arm and pulling him to his feet. Brother Ephrial turned and fired a long burst back the way they'd come, eliciting a scream of pain from one of their pursuers. Up ahead, the engine sounds roared into angry life. 'Marthes!' Nemiel said, beckoning to the meltagunner. Just then, a Testudo APC rumbled into the access road from a side lane and lurched to a halt. Its turret autocannon slewed about and spat a stream of high-velocity shells at the running Astartes. The gunner's aim was poor and he overshot the mark, sending the shells screaming over their heads, but Nemiel could see the barrel dropping as the man adjusted his aim. Skitarii in carapace armour came around the corner as well, dropping to their bellies and opening fire on the Dark Angels. Brother Marthes ran ahead of the rest of the squad and took aim with his meltagun. A high-power las-bolt struck him in the left pauldon and left a burn across the thick ceramite. Another shot clipped him in the leg causing sparks to flare from his knee joint. The APC gunner, apparently realising the danger, adjusted his aim again and fired a burst of shells at Marthes just as he hit the meltagun's trigger. The blast cut into the vehicle's side like a power knife and detonated its fuel cells, hurling a ball of fire high into the overcast sky. Nemiel saw Marthes stagger as two of the autocannon's explosive shells struck him in the chest. There was a double flash, coming so close together that the sound of the blasts merged into a single loud thunderclap. T

PC gunner, apparently realising the danger, adjusted his aim again and fired a burst of shells at Marthes just as he hit the meltagun's trigger. The blast cut into the vehicle's side like a power knife and detonated its fuel cells, hurling a ball of fire high into the overcast sky. Nemiel saw Marthes stagger as two of the autocannon's explosive shells struck him in the chest. There was a double flash, coming so close together that the sound of the blasts merged into a single loud thunderclap. The Astartes staggered forward a few steps more, then fell forward onto his face. His status indicator in Nemiel's helmet display went abruptly black. The skitarii scrambled to their feet, their armour smouldering from the heat of the vehicle's flames. Nemiel and the others raked them with bolter fire, killing several and forcing the others to retreat. As Kohl reached Marthes, he knelt and took the meltagun from the warrior's hands and tossed it to Ephrial, then laid a parting hand on the dead warrior's shoulder before rising to his feet and sprinting after the squad. They put the burning hulk of the APC between themselves and their pursuers, then cut to the left down a side-lane to hopefully throw them off a bit further. As they came around the corner and turned south again, Askelon pointed to the sky. 'Look!' he said breathlessly. Nemiel looked skyward to see a shower of blazing meteors plunging through the clouds in the direction of the coast. Many burned out as they fell, carving bright trails of green and orange across the sky, while several larger pieces continued to fall until they disappeared over the horizon. It was an awe-inspiring sight, but one that filled Nemiel with dread. He'd seen such things many times before, at war-torn worlds like Barrakan and Leantris. Those meteors had been pieces of a starship that had been blown up in high orbit. The attack on Diamat had begun. Las-bolts snapped and howled through the air from the end of the access road. One hit Kohl in the chest, dispersing harmlessly against his breastplate. The squad returned fire, and a pair of skitarii broke cover and retreated back around the corner of a low-slung building. 'That was an observation team!' Nemiel warned his squadmates. 'We'll be coming up on their outer perimeter in another minute. Ephrial, get ready with that meltagun!' As they approached the end of the access road, Nemiel summoned up the layout of the perimeter fortifications in his memory. Just ahead and to the right was a lascannon post, with a heavy stubber post further west. Just ahead and to the left was another heavy stubber. He waved Ephrial to the corner of the furthest building to the right, while he angled off to the left. Nemiel put his back to the wall of the manufactory and glanced across the road at Ephrial. He battle-signed for the Astartes to hit the target to his right. Ephrial nodded, and without hesitation he whirled around the corner and fired a shot with the meltagun. There was an immediate, crackling boom as the lascannon's power supply detonated, followed by the screams of its maimed and dying crew. Immediately the heavy stubber to Nemiel's left opened fire, spitting a long burst of tracer rounds at Ephrial's back. He spun around the corner and levelled his bolt pistol at the four men in the sandbagged emplacement just five metres away. The Redemptor fired four quick shots, and the skitarii slumped to the ground. Nemiel turned back to the squad and waved them forward. They left the foundry sector and headed quickly for the sheltering warehouses further south, taking fire from two more heavy stubber emplacements as they went. Vardus was limping from an unlucky hit in his leg. Askelon was driving himself onward with ruthless determination, but Nemiel could tell that he was fighting the weight of his own armour, and was nearing the point of exhaustion. The Redemptor ran on, dropping the empty magazine from his bolt pistol and slamming in a fresh one. He reckoned they were four-and-a-half kilometres from the warehouse barracks of the ground force. Nemiel could still hear the sounds of bolter fire up ahead, so he knew at least some of his brothers were still fighting. Several times he tried to call out over the vox, but the jamming was still underway. Pillars of black smoke were rising from more than a dozen points out beyond the forge's curtain wall, and he feared the worst for Kulik's brave Dragoons. As they drew closer to the barracks, Nemiel suddenly heard a flurry of lasgun and stubber fire, answered by the snarl of an assault cannon. It was Brother Titus, he realised; the Dreadnought had been standing watch outside 2nd Company's barracks when they'd left on their reconnaissance mission earlier that night. On impulse, he led the squad in that direction, listening as the sounds of battle increased. By the time they drew within sight of the warehouse, a pitched battle was raging on the street outside. They found Brother Titus guarding the warehouse's side entrance from what amounted to a platoon of skitarii. Dozens of broken bodies lay around the Dreadnought's wide feet, denoting a failed assault by the enemy. Scores more of the Tech-Guard were sprawled on the permacrete, torn apart by the Dreadnought's fearsome cannon. Still more were arriving from the direction of the southern gateway, however, taking up firing positions and unleashing a storm of fire against Titus's front armour. Nemiel brought the squad to a halt. 'It's only a matter of time before those Tech-Guard bring up a missile launcher or a lascannon and destroy Titus,' he said. 'We're going to swing around and hit them from the rear. Askelon, can you still keep up?' The Techmarine's armoured shoulders were heaving after the terrible exertions of the run. His bloodied face was pale, but he looked up at Nemiel and smiled. 'Brother-Sergeant Kohl's been saying I need to get more exercise,' he said breathlessly. 'Don't worry about me.' 'He's just worried about having to carry your dead weight around,' Kohl growled. 'Now let's get moving.' The squad set off to the northwest, moving past a pair of warehouse buildings before cutting south again. They listened to the sounds of battle raging off to their left, gauging their position relative to the enemy and moving five hundred metres behind them. Then they cut back east, gathering speed as they prepared to swing around and strike the enemy from behind. They'd run for only a few hundred metres when just ahead they saw a platoon of skitarii jog into view, dragging four lascannons mounted on wheeled gun carriages. They saw the Astartes at almost the same instant; with three hundred metres between them, the enemy troops hurriedly dropped the trails on the four guns and began to frantically wheel them around to bear on the squad. 'Charge!' Nemiel cried, but the rest of squad hardly needed prompting. They broke into a full run, firing their bolters as they went. Nemiel watched the mass-reactive shells strike the armoured splinter plates of the gun carriages and ricochet harmlessly away. The crews worked quickly and with remarkable precision, connecting the weapons to their power units and energising the guns in the space of seconds. If they had been preparing to fire on human troops, it might have been enough, but the Astartes reached the enemy with seconds to spare. They leapt up and over the lascannons' splinter shields and came down among the shocked gun crews. Nemiel shot two of them point-blank, then slew two more with his crozius. Brother-Sergeant Kohl and Brother Ephrial killed almost a dozen more before the rest of the platoon broke and fled back the way they'd come. Nemiel paused amid the carnage, his autosenses detecting more sounds of activity to the south as still more enemy troops headed their way. He was about to order Askelon to disable the abandoned lascannons when the heavens split and trails of fire descended on the forge from on high. These were no simple meteors, falling in thin streaks of light before vanishing into oblivion. Nemiel counted eight separate streaks of smoke and flame, plunging down in a steep arc and converging on a common point: the heart of the forge complex, some thirty kilometres away. When they struck, the entire northern horizon blazed with terrible, white light. Nemiel had witnessed more than one orbital bombardment in his time, but those had been blazing trails of lance fire that carved across the ground like a burning blade, or salvoes of poorly-aimed macro cannon fire that saturated a target area with huge shells. He'd never been close enough to experience the fury of a barrage of bombardment cannons, and wasn't prepared for what followed. The eight shells struck the target area more or less simultaneously, their magma warheads detonating with the heat and force of a fusion bomb. His onboard systems registered the overpressure from the blast and had just enough time to yell, 'Get down!' before the blast wave hit. He dropped to the ground and pressed his helmet to the permacrete as a roaring wall of superheated air howled over him. His temperature sensors spiked, pushing into the red zone, and the force of the wind lifted him off the ground and tossed him like a toy down the narrow lane. The thunder of the blast was something he felt through his armour, reverberating down into his bones. His autosenses overloaded and shut down at once to prevent permanent damage. It was over in a matter of moments. One second the entire world felt as though it were coming apart at the seams, and the next, everything was almost eerily silent. Nemiel lay on his back, trying to regain his bearings. Icons blinked on his helmet display, informing him that his autosensors and vox-unit were resetting. As his vision cleared, he saw tendrils of smoke rising from his scorched armour. Slowly and carefully, he sat upright. There was smoke everywhere, rising from warehouses that had been set aflame by the blast wave.

One second the entire world felt as though it were coming apart at the seams, and the next, everything was almost eerily silent. Nemiel lay on his back, trying to regain his bearings. Icons blinked on his helmet display, informing him that his autosensors and vox-unit were resetting. As his vision cleared, he saw tendrils of smoke rising from his scorched armour. Slowly and carefully, he sat upright. There was smoke everywhere, rising from warehouses that had been set aflame by the blast wave. The four abandoned lascannons were gone; he looked about and found one smashed to pieces against the side of a building, but the rest had simply disappeared. A squeal of static in his ears made him start as his vox-bead came back online. He was about to silence it again when he heard words coalesce out of the interference. 'Battle Force Alpha, this is Leonis!' spoke a familiar voice, hazy and hashed out by atmospheric ionization. 'Activate your teleport beacons and stand by!' Nemiel scrambled to his feet. Leonis was the primarch's personal callsign. He looked about the smoke-stained road and saw Brother-Sergeant Kohl climbing to his feet, along with Vardus and Ephrial. 'Where is Brother Askelon?' he called. 'We've got to get back to the warehouses immediately!' 'Over here,' a voice answered weakly from down the side-lane where they'd originally come. Nemiel and Kohl rushed to the corner to see Askelon slowly pushing himself upright. His unprotected head had been badly burned by the blast, but somehow the Techmarine was still able to move. They helped Askelon to his feet. He looked over at Kohl and tried to grin, his lips cracking. 'Looks like you'll have to carry me after all,' he gasped. Kohl grabbed the Techmarine's arm and draped it over his shoulder, then took hold of Askelon's waist with his left hand. 'I could carry two of you without breaking a sweat,' the sergeant growled. 'You just keep an eye out for more of those damned skitarii, and let me do the rest.' Nemiel grabbed Askelon's other arm and together they helped the Techmarine along. He could hear signals going back and forth across the Battle Force command channel, so he knew that at least some of the Dark Angels had survived Archoi's deadly ambush. He hoped there was an Apothecary still alive, for Askelon's sake. They linked up with the rest of the squad and headed back towards the barracks buildings as quickly as they could. It was only then that Nemiel fully saw the devastation that the bombardment had wrought. An enormous column of ash and smoke rose into the sky off to the north, where the volcano and the forge's centre used to be. The rising sun tinged the climbing column of debris in shades of blood red and fiery orange, whilst closer to the ground Nemiel could see thin veins of pulsing orange, tracks of real magma flowing like blood from the volcano's shattered flanks. Fires blazed out of control from horizon to horizon, consuming the shattered husks of wrecked buildings in a vast swathe surrounding the epicentre of the blast. For all intents and purposes, the forge complex had been destroyed. It took more than half an hour to cover the five hundred metres back to the warehouses. They saw the towering form of Brother Titus first. His armour had been scorched - in some places the paint had been stripped away down to the bare metal - but he seemed otherwise undamaged. The warehouses themselves were ablaze, and the road was full of Astartes. A disturbingly long line of dead battle brothers were stretched out along the roadway to their left; the bodies were being tended to by one of the ground force's two Apothecaries, collecting the gene-seed for the future of the Legion. The second Apothecary was tending to an even larger number of wounded Dark Angels who were formed into small groups according to their parent squads on the right side of the roadway. In the centre of the crowd stood the company commanders and senior squad leaders, gathered beneath the shadow of the great Dreadnought. In their midst stood a towering figure in gleaming armour, his head bare and his expression one of cold, righteous rage. Nemiel left Askelon in Brother-Sergeant Kohl's care and hurried over to join the primarch. Lion El'Jonson was receiving the reports of the company commanders when Nemiel arrived. Jonson caught the Redemptor's eye and but said nothing until the two captains had finished tallying their dead and wounded. As near as Nemiel could determine, some thirty of the Astartes had been killed in the ambush and twice as many others seriously wounded before the last of the frenzied Praetorians had been killed. The sight of so many dead brothers filled him with grief and a cold, fathomless rage. The primarch listened gravely to the captains' reports and then turned to Nemiel. 'We've a grim start to the day, Brother-Redemptor,' Jonson said. 'I hope you bring us better news.' Without preamble, Nemiel delivered his report. He told Jonson everything they'd found during the night, from the site of Vertullus's likely murder to the discovery of the great siege guns at the Titan foundry and Archoi's foul treachery. 'I surmised as much when most of our scouts were destroyed by their own brand-new torpedoes,' Jonson said. He turned and glanced back at the towering plume of ash and smoke to the north. 'When we traced the source of the vox jamming it made Archoi's duplicity all too clear.' 'The Lords of Mars will be furious at the loss of such a venerable forge,' Nemiel said forebodingly. Jonson turned back to the Redemptor, his green eyes blazing. 'Such is the fate of all traitors!' he snapped. The force of his anger was like a physical blow, as though he'd reached over and slapped Nemiel across the face. 'So Horus and the rest of his ilk will learn in due time.' 'We saw the debris of a ship falling to earth,' Nemiel ventured more carefully. 'I take it the rebels have returned.' The primarch drew in a deep breath and sought to master his humours. He nodded. 'A much smaller force, this time, but sufficient to their needs,' he said tersely. 'Horus moved much more quickly than I expected and sent out an ad hoc force not too dissimilar from ours. We would have been hard pressed to defeat them as it was, but Archoi's treachery proved to be our undoing. All of our destroyers were lost, along with both grand cruisers and the strike cruiser Adzikel. After bombarding the forge and eliminating the source of the jamming, I ordered the rest of the battle group to withdraw to the edges of the system and then teleported myself down to join you.' The news of the battle group's defeat sent a stir through the stoic Astartes. Nemiel gripped his crozius and straightened, remembering his duties to the Legion. 'While we live, we fight, my lord,' he said, his voice defiant. 'Though the storm rages and the foe gathers about us, we are unmoved. Let them come: we are the warriors of the First Legion, and we have never known defeat!' Shouts of agreement rose from the assembled Dark Angels. Jonson smiled. 'Well said, Brother-Redemptor,' he replied. 'You are right. We've suffered some terrible blows, but the battle isn't over yet.' 'What would you have of us, my lord?' Nemiel asked. Jonson cast his eyes to the north, towards the distant bulk of the assembly building. 'We fall back to the foundry,' he said. 'So long as we possess Horus's siege guns, the rebels won't risk an orbital bombardment.' When he turned back to the Astartes, his face was grim. 'Once we're in position, we need to fortify the sector as best we can, and prepare for the fight of our lives. Unless I'm very much mistaken, the Sons of Horus will be here soon.' EIGHTEEN A THORN IN THE MIND Caliban In the 200th year of the Emperor's Great Crusade THE TIMBRE OF the shuttle's thrusters deepened as they made a near-ballistic descent towards Aldurukh, swelling from an angry whine to a thunderous roar as they plummeted from the stratosphere into the denser air at sea level. The shuttle's airframe trembled as the pilot pushed the craft to its limits; Zahariel had told him to fly to the fortress as though his life depended on it, and he was taking the Astartes at his word. The Librarian felt the shuddering of the craft in his bones and had to raise his powerful voice to be heard over the noise. 'General Morten, this is a direct order,' he yelled into his vox-bead. 'Unseal the hab levels at the Northwilds arcology and redistribute the populace through the upper levels.' The Terran general's reply was faint and washed with static, but there was no mistaking the exasperation in his voice. 'Sir, I believe I explained this before. The security situation-' 'I'm well aware of the security situation,' Zahariel snapped. He glanced across the passenger compartment at Master Remiel and Sar Daviel, who were both pretending not to listen to the tense exchange. 'The cordon is only making things worse. You've got to get those people out of there before you have a catastrophe on your hands.' 'But sir, the logistics of relocating five million people-' 'Will require a great deal of effort and coordination on our part,' Zahariel cut in. 'So I expect you and your staff to give the matter your complete and immediate attention. Make it happen, general. I don't care what it takes.' Zahariel broke the connection without giving Morten a chance to reply. He wasn't interested in arguing the matter, and he had no intention of explaining his reasons over vox. Daviel turned away from the viewport at his left and stared questioningly at Zahariel. 'Do you think he'll do it?' the maimed knight asked. The Librarian sighed. 'Not all Terrans are corrupt devils, Sar Daviel. Morten is a good soldier. He'll follow orders.' Daviel's scarred face twisted into a scowl, but he offered no reply. Zahariel studied the scarred knight for a moment. 'How long have you known?' he asked. Sar Daviel narrowed his one good eye. 'Known what?' 'About Caliban. About the

ox. Daviel turned away from the viewport at his left and stared questioningly at Zahariel. 'Do you think he'll do it?' the maimed knight asked. The Librarian sighed. 'Not all Terrans are corrupt devils, Sar Daviel. Morten is a good soldier. He'll follow orders.' Daviel's scarred face twisted into a scowl, but he offered no reply. Zahariel studied the scarred knight for a moment. 'How long have you known?' he asked. Sar Daviel narrowed his one good eye. 'Known what?' 'About Caliban. About the taint.' Daviel's fierce expression grew haunted. 'Ah. That.' He rubbed his chin with one scarred hand. 'A long time. Too long perhaps.' The knight shook his head. 'At first, I thought I must be going mad. After all, you'd seen the same things I had, and never seemed to think anything of it.' Zahariel straightened in his chair. 'What things?' he asked, feeling the skin prickle on the back of his neck. 'What are you talking about?' Daviel frowned in consternation. 'Why, the library, of course.' He replied. 'At the fortress of the Knights of Lupus. Surely you remember.' His one eye grew unfocused, as though he were recalling the details of a nightmare. 'All those books. Those terrible, terrible books...' The Librarian felt his skin grow cold. 'How could you have seen the library, Daviel?' he asked him. 'I saw you wounded in the castle courtyard.' Daviel's gaze fell. 'So I was,' he said quietly. 'I was raving with fever for days afterward. The chirurgeons feared to move me in the state I was in, so I and a few other wounded men were left behind when the army returned to Aldurukh.' The old knight fell silent for a moment as the memories welled up inside him. He stared at his hands, curled like claws in his lap. 'Later, when we could get up and hobble about for a few hours at a time, they tried to find jobs for us to do, to keep our spirits up. So they put some of us to work in that library, crating everything up to be carried back home.' Daviel sighed. 'They rotated us in shifts, so we were only up there a few hours at a time, and we had strict orders not to open any of the books.' He smiled ruefully. 'The chirurgeons said they didn't want us to exert our minds unduly in our weakened state.' 'But you didn't listen.' 'No, I didn't,' Daviel said heavily. 'I and another knight succumbed to our curiosity. We pored through some of the oldest books as we readied them for packing. Towards the end, we spent more time reading than working to tell the truth.' 'What was in the books?' Zahariel pressed. 'History. Literature. Art and philosophy. There were books on science, and medicine, and... forbidden things. Ancient, occult tomes, many of them written by hand.' He shook his head. 'I couldn't understand most of it, but it was clear that the Knights of Lupus had been studying the great beasts - and the Northwilds itself - for centuries. They knew about the taint, though they didn't fully understand it. They seemed to believe it was a force that could be summoned and controlled. I saw grimoires that purported to contain rituals for that very purpose.' His voice trailed away, and his face paled at the recollections. Zahariel watched him raise a hand to his ruined cheek, as though the old wound pained him once more. After a moment, the knight gave a shudder and shook his head roughly, as though waking from a vivid dream. He blinked his eyes a few times and focused on the Astartes once more. 'Afterward, once the books were crated away and we were allowed to make the journey home, we tried to forget the things we'd seen.' He smiled faintly. 'Strange, of all the horrors we witnessed at that place, it was the memories of those books that haunted us most of all. We would talk about them sometimes, late into the night, trying to understand what it all meant. I believed that they heralded the next stage of our crusade; that once the great beasts had been destroyed, Jonson would dedicate our Order to driving the taint from Caliban once and for all.' Daviel's face turned solemn. 'Then the Emperor came, and everything changed. We traded one crusade for another, and I couldn't understand why. If what was in those books was true, then Caliban was still in terrible danger. That, more than anything else, was why I left.' 'Why?' Zahariel asked. Daviel paused, struggling to find a way to put his thoughts into words. His hand reached up to absently rub his scarred temple. 'I had to know the truth,' he said at last. 'The books had vanished, but the memories of what I saw stuck with me, like... like a thorn in the mind. I tried to tell myself that they were just fables - peasant myths, like the Watchers in the Woods - but guilt ate at me day and night. Because if the taint was real, the great beasts would just rise again, and everything we'd suffered would be in vain.' The old knight sighed. 'So I left the Order and embarked on one last quest - to find the surviving members of the Knights of Lupus.' Zahariel blinked in surprise. 'But there were no survivors,' he said. 'Lord Sartana had summoned the entire order back to their fortress in the Northwilds. They died to a man in the final assault.' 'So we were led to believe,' Daviel replied. 'Lord Sartana sent out the call, to be sure, but the Knights of Lupus were famous for sending their knights out to the farthest-flung parts of the world on strange and secretive quests. Not all of them could have made it back in time for the siege, or so I believed.' The Librarian frowned, trying to think back to the days immediately after the siege. Hadn't Jonson made a statement of some kind about hunting for outlaw members of the Knights of Lupus? He couldn't recall. A faint sense of unease stirred in his gut. 'For the first few years I waited near the ruins of their fortress, waiting for the errant wolves to come home,' Daviel continued. 'I expected the survivors would try to return and see what they could salvage of their order. When none appeared, I began to search the frontiers for signs of their passage.' 'Were you successful?' Zahariel asked. Daviel nodded grimly. 'As best I could tell, there were five Knights of Lupus who weren't present at the siege,' he replied. 'I found the bones of three of them in the deep wilderness, where they'd tried to live for months after the destruction of their fortress. The fourth one I tracked to a half-ruined tower near Stone Point, on the other side of the world from the Northwilds. He fought me like a cornered animal, and when he realised that he couldn't best me he leapt from the top of the tower into the raging sea rather than give up his secrets.' 'And the fifth?' Daviel paused, casting a questioning glance at Remiel. The old master gestured for the knight to continue with a wave of his hand. The old knight sighed. 'The last one was the hardest to track of all,' he said. 'He never stayed in one place for too long, passing like a ghost from one village to another. No one could remember for certain what he looked like, and he wore a great many names over the years. For a long time I couldn't be sure if he was even real - until I turned up his horse and tack, still marked with sigils of his order, in a trade town at Hills End.' 'What had become of him?' Daviel's good eye narrowed. 'According to the horse's new owner, the man took his coin, bought some new clothes from a merchant, and then presented himself to a brother knight of the Order who was passing through the village in search of new aspirants.' The news stunned Zahariel. He looked to Master Remiel. 'Surely someone would have realised-' Remiel arched an eyebrow at his former pupil. 'How so? If he were a young knight, with no reputation and no sense of honour, he could claim to be a woodsman's son and no one would be any wiser.' His eyes bored into Zahariel. 'With his skills and experience he could rise through the Order's ranks quite rapidly, in fact.' Zahariel frowned. 'What are you getting at?' he demanded. Remiel's expression turned bitter - and then the Librarian understood. Remiel saw the realization on Zahariel's face and nodded. 'Now you begin to see.' 'No,' Zahariel protested. 'It's impossible. Jonson would never have allowed-' 'But he did,' Remiel snarled, his voice sharpening with long-suppressed anger. 'Did you never wonder why Jonson named an unknown young knight as the new Lord Cypher, entrusting him with all of our traditions and secrets?' Zahariel shook his head. 'But why... what possible reason could he have for such a thing?' 'Think, son,' Remiel said, once more an impatient tutor instructing an obstinate pupil. 'Put aside your damned idealism for a moment and think in terms of tactics. What would such a choice give Jonson?' Zahariel swallowed his shock and irritation and considered the matter in cold terms. 'He chose someone with no ties to the Order's senior knights or masters, whose loyalty was to him alone,' he said, thinking aloud. 'Someone who could be counted on to act in Jonson's best interests above everything else.' 'And would keep his secrets, regardless of the consequences to everyone else,' Remiel said. The Astartes considered the implications and felt a cold surge of horror. 'I can't believe this,' he said, his voice hollow. 'Can't... or won't?' the old master said. 'Do you imagine this was any easier for me to accept? I helped raise Lion El'Jonson when Luther brought him back from the wilderness. He was like a son to me.' 'But why?' Zahariel protested. 'Why all the secrets and deceptions? We were sworn to him, Remiel. He already had our oaths. We would have followed him into Old Night itself if he asked.' Remiel didn't answer at first. Zahariel watched the old master's anger fade, like heat from a dying ember, giving way to anguish, and then finally, to an empty, barren sadness. 'It's not that any of us lost faith in Jonson,' he said softly. Tears glimmered at the corners of his eyes. 'Somewhere along the line, he lost faith in us. Wherever he and

the secrets and deceptions? We were sworn to him, Remiel. He already had our oaths. We would have followed him into Old Night itself if he asked.' Remiel didn't answer at first. Zahariel watched the old master's anger fade, like heat from a dying ember, giving way to anguish, and then finally, to an empty, barren sadness. 'It's not that any of us lost faith in Jonson,' he said softly. Tears glimmered at the corners of his eyes. 'Somewhere along the line, he lost faith in us. Wherever he and the Emperor are headed, we aren't meant to follow. All we can do now is reclaim what was once ours.' The thought stung Zahariel, like a knife pricking at his heart. He tried to gainsay Remiel, to find some fault in the old master's bleak logic. They spent the last few minutes of the flight in silence. WHEN THEY REACHED Aldurukh, Zahariel cased himself in his armour and took up bolt pistol and staff before leading Remiel and Daviel to the Grand Master's chambers. He found Lord Cypher there, as he expected he would. Cypher glanced up sharply from the reports piled atop the desk. His eyes widened as he saw the rebel leaders. It was the first time Zahariel had ever seen the Astartes taken by surprise. 'What's the meaning of this?' Cypher demanded coldly. 'Take us to Luther,' Zahariel demanded. 'Now.' 'I can't do that,' Cypher replied, regaining some of his inscrutable poise. 'As I've told you many times, brother, Luther is in meditation and does not want to be disturbed-' 'He will when he hears what we have to say,' Zahariel shot back. 'Caliban's survival is at stake.' His hand tightened on his staff. 'If you won't take us to him, then tell us where he can be found.' 'I can't do that,' Cypher replied coolly. 'My orders are from the Master of Caliban. You haven't the authority to countermand them.' 'Surely Luther expects to be informed in the event of an emergency,' Zahariel persisted. Cypher smiled thinly. 'Why, of course. Give me the message and I'll relay it to him immediately.' Zahariel felt a surge of anger. Before he could reply, however, he heard heavy footfalls behind him. He turned to see Brother-Librarian Israfael and Chapter Master Astelan standing just inside the doorway. Israfael eyed Daviel and Master Remiel with wary surprise, while Astelan's eyes flashed with irritation when he caught sight of Zahariel. 'Where have you been?' Astelan said. 'I've been searching for you all over Aldurukh!' 'What's happened?' Zahariel asked, already fearing what he might hear. If Astelan hadn't used the vox to contact him it could only mean one thing. 'Half an hour ago we began hearing of wide-scale rioting at the Northwilds arcology,' Astelan said grimly. 'Mobs of panicked civilians have rushed the barricades around the hab levels. Many of them are claiming that the Imperials are secretly in league with sorcerers who mean to sacrifice them to the warp.' Daviel let out an angry groan. 'Thuriel's behind this,' he said. 'That short-sighted idiot has damned us all.' Zahariel felt a chill race up his spine. 'What about the Jaegers?' he asked. 'I ordered General Morten to open the cordon and begin relocating the civilians.' Astelan shook his head in exasperation. 'We're getting wildly conflicting reports,' he said. 'We've heard that some units have opened fire on the rioters, while others have thrown down their arms or even switched sides. The Administratum officials at the arcology have contacted Magos Bosk, and she is demanding to know what we're doing about the situation.' 'I told you that we couldn't keep this a secret from her,' Israfael interjected angrily. 'She's probably drafting an urgent report to the primarch right now, accusing us all of negligence. And she would be right to do so!' 'That's not the worst of it,' the chapter master said, cutting Israfael off with an angry glare. He turned back to Zahariel. 'There've been fragmentary transmissions from Jaeger patrols on the lower hab levels, reporting that they're under attack.' 'Under attack?' Zahariel echoed. He eyed the rebel leaders. 'By whom?' 'By the dead,' Astelan replied. The words hung heavy in the chamber. 'It's over,' Remiel said, putting a voice to their thoughts. 'We're too late.' Zahariel shook his head stubbornly. 'No,' he said. 'Not yet.' He turned back to Cypher, his face pale with anger. The hooded Astartes started to say something, then recoiled with a gasp of pain as Zahariel sent a probe of psychic energy into Cypher's mind. 'The time for dissembling is past,' Zahariel said, his tone as cold and sharp as ice. 'Take us to Luther. Now.' Cypher gritted his teeth under the psychic onslaught. 'I won't...' 'Then I'll dig his location out of your brain,' Zahariel said, 'along with any other secrets you've been keeping. I can't say there will be much left of you afterwards, though.' Zahariel drove his probe deeper into Cypher's mind. The Astartes went rigid. A thin trickle of blood seeped from one nostril. 'Stop!' Cypher said in a choked whisper. 'I'll do it! I'll take you to him! Just-' He slumped with a groan as Zahariel released him. Cypher's head drooped for a moment, his shoulders heaving. When he looked up at the Librarian, his expression was savage. 'You don't know what you're trifling with, you fool,' Cypher snarled. 'The primarch-' 'The primarch isn't here,' Zahariel said coldly. 'So I'll trifle with whatever I must. Now get up. We haven't any more time to waste.' Cypher got up from behind the desk without another word. They followed him from the room, hovering at his shoulder like ravens. CYPHER LED THEM into darkness, deep within the bowels of the Rock. From the Circle Chamber, they descended through a secret stairway at the top of the Grand Master's dais that Zahariel never knew existed, yet at the same time seemed tantalisingly familiar. Try as he might, he couldn't reconcile the two notions; the more he concentrated, the more his head began to ache. Finally, he decided to let the matter go rather than compromise his already frayed concentration. The pain in his skull subsided, but didn't entirely vanish. The stairwell ended at a low-ceilinged room that might once have been a meeting space in times past; now the ancient brickwork was pierced by modern archways of fused permacrete that continued even further into the depths. Cypher led them through the dimly-lit passageways without hesitation, threading his way through a labyrinth of tunnels that began to tax even Zahariel's genetically-enhanced memory. Deeper and deeper they went, down into the very heart of the mountain, until it felt as though they had been walking for hours. Zahariel reckoned they were more than a thousand metres down when Cypher turned down a narrow, vaulted corridor that abruptly ended at a tall, arched doorway. The doors themselves, Zahariel noted with surprise, were plated with adamantium, and set in a reinforced frame. Anything powerful enough to breach that portal would also incinerate anything on the other side, his trained mind noted. Standing before the doors, Cypher dug a sophisticated electronic key from within his robes. With a last, furious glance at Zahariel, he held the key up to the portal and touched the actuator. Bolts drew back into the frame with an oiled clatter, and the tall doors swung silently inward. The library within was built vertically, its packed shelves rising on eight sides to a vaulted ceiling fifty metres overhead. Long, thin lumen strips set into the stone at the corners of the eight walls filled the space with pellucid light. The air smelled faintly of ozone and machine oil. High up along the walls Zahariel could see four small logo-servitors waiting unobtrusively in the shadows, clinging to the walls with their spindly limbs and watching the Astartes with small, red eyes. Zahariel reckoned the floor of the library was perhaps thirty paces across, covered with thick rugs to combat the subterranean chill. Reading desks and heavy wooden tables were arrayed haphazardly about the room, piled with open books and ancient, musty scrolls. More books were scattered in drifts across the floor, between and beneath the tables. There were so many that the Astartes were forced to pause just beyond the threshold, afraid of treading upon the fragile tomes. The air in the library was utterly still, heavy with the dust of ages. The only sound Zahariel could hear was the soft whirring of servomotors overhead. A current of invisible energy, faint but palpable, sent tendrils of ice spreading through his skull. He drew a breath and spoke into the cathedral silence. 'Luther? My lord, are you here?' A figure stirred in the shadowy depths of a high-backed chair near the centre of the room. Zahariel could just make out the head and shoulders of a man, limned in the faint, bluish-silver light. 'Zahariel,' Luther replied. His voice was rough, as if from long hours of exertion. 'You shouldn't be here.' Lord Cypher took a cautious step forward, distancing himself from the rest of the Astartes. 'I beg your forgiveness, my lord,' he said with bowed head. 'They would not honour your wishes.' Zahariel glared at Cypher's back. 'This has nothing to do with anyone's wishes,' he snapped. 'This is a time of crisis. Caliban stands upon the brink of disaster, my lord. The Legion must act, now, or all is lost.' Luther rose slowly from the chair and stepped forward into the light. His eyes were sunken and his cheeks hollowed, as though from the ravages of a terrible illness, and there were dark ink marks on his hands, wrists and throat. The Master of Caliban paused, his cracked lips working as he peered at the figures standing at Zahariel's shoulder. 'Master Remiel?' he said. 'Is this a dream? I thought you long dead.' 'I continue to confound my enemies, my lord,' Remiel answered with a faint smile. 'I'm glad to hear it,' Luther said. His expression turned sombre. 'But I see you travel in the company of rebels these days,' he said, pointin

of a terrible illness, and there were dark ink marks on his hands, wrists and throat. The Master of Caliban paused, his cracked lips working as he peered at the figures standing at Zahariel's shoulder. 'Master Remiel?' he said. 'Is this a dream? I thought you long dead.' 'I continue to confound my enemies, my lord,' Remiel answered with a faint smile. 'I'm glad to hear it,' Luther said. His expression turned sombre. 'But I see you travel in the company of rebels these days,' he said, pointing to Sar Daviel. 'Is it me you seek to confound now, master?' Remiel didn't flinch from the accusation. 'No loyal son of Caliban is an enemy of mine,' he answered coolly. Zahariel studied Luther with concern. 'My lord, when did you last eat or drink?' he asked. Though an Astartes could go for many weeks with minimal nourishment, he knew that Luther's body hadn't received the full suite of metabolic enhancements. By the look of things, Zahariel feared that he'd been fasting for weeks. The Master of Caliban ignored the question. 'What is going on here, brothers?' he asked, his voice regaining some of its strength and authority. 'The truth has become known,' Israfael said grimly. 'Rumours have spread through the Northwilds that the Imperium is in league with sorcerers,' he spat angrily. 'Riots have broken out, and the Administratum is up in arms.' Luther's eyes widened in anger. 'How did these rumours start?' he demanded. 'I ordered this knowledge kept secret! Who is responsible?' Zahariel took a deep breath and stepped forward. 'I am,' he said gravely. 'The fault is mine.' The admission took Luther aback. 'You?' he said disbelievingly. 'But why?' All eyes turned to Zahariel. Head high, the Librarian reported everything he'd seen and done at the arcology. Luther listened, his expression growing harder by the moment. He gave no reaction to the proposed truce with the rebels, though both Astelan and Israfael glowered angrily at the news. Zahariel concluded by relating what they'd recently heard from the Northwilds. 'Things are balanced on a knife's edge, my lord,' he said. 'If we strike quickly, we might still be able to contain the situation.' 'No, we can't,' Luther said flatly. He shook his head, his expression bleak. 'It's far too late for that. I don't fault you for what you did brother, but there's no going back now. Caliban's fate is sealed.' Luther turned in the stunned silence that followed and walked to one of the heavy reading tables. He bent over a massive, leather-bound tome, brushing the tips of his fingers across one of the thick, vellum pages. Zahariel caught a better glimpse of Luther's hands, and saw that the ink marks there were actually symbols of some kind, laid out in a geometric pattern. A chill raced up the back of his neck. 'They wanted me to kill him, you know,' he said quietly. 'I can still hear their voices as though it were yesterday.' Zahariel gave Luther a bemused frown. 'Kill who, my lord?' The Master of Caliban glanced up from the book. 'Why, Jonson, of course,' he replied. 'There we were, in the worst part of the Northwilds, so deep in the forest that we hadn't seen the sun for a week. We'd already killed two beasts by then, and lost Sar Lutiel in the process. Most of us were wounded and feverish, but we pressed on nonetheless.' He smiled faintly. 'No one had ever gone so far into that part of the wilderness, and we were all hungry for glory.' Luther eyes grew unfocused as the memories took hold. 'We'd come upon a stream at midday,' he continued. 'A prime spot for predators, but our water bottles were empty, so we decided to take the risk. I was standing watch, sitting in the saddle with my pistol ready. And the next thing any of us knew, there was this little boy standing with us. He'd walked right out of the woods into our midst, as silent as you please.' The Master of Caliban chuckled ruefully. 'We just gaped at him for a moment. I think everyone believed he was a fever dream at first. Naked as a babe, his golden hair matted with twigs and leaves, and his eyes...' Luther shook his head. 'His eyes were cold and knowing, like a wolf's, and utterly unafraid. Sar Adriel looked into those eyes and turned white as a sheet. He and Sar Javiel's hands were laden with water bottles, and couldn't protect themselves. "Kill him!" Adariel said to me. I'd never heard him sound so frightened in his life. And I nearly did,' Luther confessed. 'You don't know how close I came, brothers. I knew what Adriel was thinking; we were more than a hundred leagues from the nearest village, in the deadliest forest on Caliban, and here was a child, barely tall enough to touch my saddle, without a single mark on his body. He couldn't have survived in a wilderness like that alone. It wasn't possible. I remember thinking he was a monster,' Luther said. Tears welled in his eyes. 'What else could he be? So I raised my pistol and took careful aim. One shot to the head was all it would take. My finger was tightening on the trigger when he turned and looked at me. He didn't flinch at the sight of the pistol, and why would he? He didn't have the faintest idea what it was.' Luther drew in a great, wracking breath. 'That's when I realised what I was about to do, and I was ashamed. So I tossed the pistol to the ground.' Tears were flowing freely down Luther's cheeks. Zahariel glanced back at Israfael and Astelan; the Astartes were just as unnerved by Luther's strange demeanour as he was. He struggled to come up with a reply, but it was Remiel who spoke first. 'There is no shame in sparing the innocent,' the old master said softly. 'But he wasn't innocent!' Luther cried bitterly. 'He knew. Jonson knew about the taint all along and he's spilled an ocean of blood to keep the truth from us.' Zahariel reeled in surprise at the vehemence in Luther's voice. 'You can't possibly mean that, my lord,' he protested numbly. 'Why else would he have goaded the Knights of Lupus into war, then annihilated them? Why else take their books-' he picked up the arcane tome and brandished it at Zahariel '-and hide them from our eyes? Because of what they could tell us about the planet's taint. Lion El'Jonson went to great lengths to silence those who knew too much, and it only got worse once the Emperor arrived.' 'That is enough!' Brother-Librarian Israfael shouted. 'I will not have you defame our primarch in this fashion, much less the Emperor!' Pain blossomed in the back of Zahariel's head, so sudden and intense it nearly overwhelmed him. He groaned, pressing a hand to his temple and trying to push the agony aside, then turned to see Israfael standing well apart from the others, his fists clenched. Chapter Master Astelan stood to one side, his gaze shifting from Israfael to Luther as though unsure whom to believe. The room seemed to shift beneath Zahariel's feet. Things were spinning out of control, he knew. He'd never meant for things to come to this. 'Not everyone was silenced,' he protested. 'What about Nemiel? What about me? We were the last people to speak to Lord Sartana, and nothing befell us.' 'Brother Nemiel may lie dead on some distant world for all we know,' Luther said grimly. 'And you are here, exiled to a world that will soon be consigned to the flames.' His voice rose, teetering on the edge of madness. 'Don't you see? Jonson knew that the Imperium would one day destroy Caliban. That's why we're here. He didn't just forsake us, brother. He sent us here to die.' 'Not another word!' Israfael roared. Arcs of psychic power danced around his head, crackling like miniature thunderbolts. 'My lord, you are unwell, and no longer fit for command!' He turned to Zahariel. 'In the name of the primarch, and for the honour of the Legion, you must assume control and order Luther to submit himself to the Apothecarium at once.' 'It's too late for such treacheries, Terran!' Luther snarled. He tossed the book aside and came around the edge of the table, his dark eyes blazing. 'He knows the truth now. Don't you, Zahariel?' An invisible storm of psychic power swelled within the room. Zahariel's mind reeled. He saw Master Remiel and Sar Daviel just a few metres away, caught in between the two furious warriors. A thought came to him through the growing haze of pain. 'This is a mistake, my lord!' he said to Luther. 'Sar Daviel!' he cried. 'Your friend, the knight who read these same books. Who was he? Where is he now?' Daviel turned to the Librarian with a haunted look in his eyes. 'His name was Ulient,' the old knight said. 'He disappeared on the day the Emperor came to Caliban, and was never seen again.' A spear of pure, burning pain lanced through Zahariel's mind. He cried out, pressing his hands to his temples. It felt as though a dam had burst in his brain, unleashing a torrent of pent-up memories. ...Darkness. Armoured hands gripping him, holding him upright... ...Israfael's voice, echoing from the blackness. '...The plot failed and the conspirator is being interrogated. We will soon uncover those who sought to do us harm and deal with them...' ...Another voice. Brother Midris. '...Tell us everything and leave nothing out, or it will go badly for you. Start with how you knew what Brother Ulient was planning...' '...Brother Ulient?' he said. 'Is that his name? I didn't know him...' ...Except that he did. He'd seen him in the secret room beneath the Circle chamber. Nemiel had taken him there to meet with the members of the conspiracy. He remembered the hooded men in white surplices, talking of killing the Emperor of Mankind... '...The Imperium is not to be trusted. We know they are plotting to enslave us and take this world for themselves...' ...He remembered the shining figure that had appeared at the door of the interrogation chamber, his face too glorious to behold. The voice of the Emperor of Mankind rolling over him like an ocean wave... '...be sure he remembers nothing of this. No suspicion of any dissent must exist wit

remembered the hooded men in white surplices, talking of killing the Emperor of Mankind... '...The Imperium is not to be trusted. We know they are plotting to enslave us and take this world for themselves...' ...He remembered the shining figure that had appeared at the door of the interrogation chamber, his face too glorious to behold. The voice of the Emperor of Mankind rolling over him like an ocean wave... '...be sure he remembers nothing of this. No suspicion of any dissent must exist within the Legion. We must be united or we are lost...' Zahariel fell to his knees, his body trembling as the last vestiges of the psychic block unravelled. Israfael and Luther had fallen silent, and every eye was upon him. The sense of violation, of betrayal, was almost too terrible to bear. He turned to Israfael. 'You tampered with my mind, brother,' he said, his voice barely above a whisper. 'Of course,' Israfael said, his tone unapologetic. 'The Emperor himself commanded it. I would expect you to do the same.' 'Couldn't he have simply trusted me?' Zahariel cried. 'Wouldn't my oath have been enough? Has he no honour?' 'Honour has nothing to do with it!' Israfael snarled. 'We are his Astartes, Zahariel. It's not for us to question his will!' 'That is where you are wrong, Terran,' Master Remiel said. 'You and your kind may be content to live as slaves, but we never will!' Zahariel felt the surge of psychic power a heartbeat before Israfael struck. Time slowed, and everything seemed to happen at once. Bellowing in rage, Israfael rounded on Master Remiel and flung out a gauntleted hand. Skeins of searing white fire leapt from the Librarian's fingertips, but Sar Daviel was already moving, putting his body between Israfael and Remiel. The psychic blast tore into his chest, searing his flesh and setting his robes on fire. Luther shouted a command, and Zahariel felt his body respond even before his mind registered what he'd heard. He leapt to his feet and focused his will into his armour's psychic hood. The hood's dampener was not only for self-protection; it could also be used to combat the power of other psykers within a certain distance from the device. Zahariel turned its power on Brother Israfael, and the Librarian's energies faltered. At the same time, Chapter Master Astelan rushed at Israfael from the side, his pistol raised. But the senior Librarian would not be overcome so easily. Israfael ducked as Astelan tried to strike him with the butt of his bolt pistol and lashed out with his hand. His fingertips seemed to brush lightly against Astelan's breastplate, but Zahariel felt the psychic discharge that flung the chapter master through the air at him. Zahariel ducked barely in time, but his concentration on the dampener faltered for a fleeting instant. That was all the opening that Israfael needed. With a savage cry, he raised his hands and unleashed a torrent of crackling energy upon Luther. Zahariel felt the heat of the blast as it burned through the air past his head and struck Luther full in the chest. But the knight did not burn - instead, the wards painted upon his skin flared with an icy luminescence, deflecting the energy in a boiling wave away from his body. He saw Luther bare his teeth in a wolfish grin, then he opened his mouth and uttered a single word. The sound smote Zahariel like a hammer; he felt a searing pain in his ears and at the corners of his eyes, and he reeled under the blow. Israfael did as well. Bleeding from the eyes and ears, he staggered backwards before a searing bolt of plasma struck him full in the chest. The Librarian's eyes went wide. There was a crater in his breastplate as large as a man's palm, its edges still molten. He swayed on his feet, his lips working as though trying to speak, then sank slowly to his knees and toppled onto his side. Zahariel glanced back the way the shot had come. Lord Cypher slowly lowered his plasma pistol and cast a wary glance towards Luther. 'Are you well, my lord?' He asked. Luther didn't answer. Smoke curled in thin tendrils from each of the hexagrammic wards covering his body. 'How is Sar Daviel?' he asked. Master Remiel was kneeling beside the charred body of the old knight. 'Gone to the halls of honour,' he said quietly. Zahariel tore his gaze away from Cypher and staggered over to Israfael. The wound in his chest was grave, but he checked the Librarian's life support systems nevertheless and was surprised to find a faint reading. 'Israfael still lives, my lord,' he said. 'What shall we do with him?' Lord Cypher took a step towards the fallen Librarian, his pistol still in hand. Luther stopped him with a hard glance. 'Summon a pair of servitors to take him to the Apothecaries,' Luther commanded. 'When he's recovered enough we'll transfer him to a cell in the Tower of Angels and see if we can convince him of the error of his ways.' Then he turned to Astelan. 'Are the strike teams ready, brother?' The chapter master nodded. 'All is in readiness, my lord,' he said. 'Then your first orders are to arrest General Morten and his staff, as well as Magos Bosk and the senior officials of the Administratum,' the Master of Caliban said. 'Spare their lives if at all possible, but do what you must to secure them. From this moment forward, Caliban is a free world once more.' Astelan hesitated. Zahariel could see the struggle in the warrior's eyes, but in the end, his loyalty to Luther won out over years of unthinking obedience. 'It shall be done,' he said. Master Remiel rose wearily to his feet. Tears streamed down his face as he walked up to Luther. 'The knight of old has returned,' he said, his voice cracking with emotion. He reached out and gripped Luther's arms. 'Behold the saviour of Caliban!' NINETEEN LION RAMPANT Diamat In the 200th year of the Emperor's Great Crusade THEY DISCOVERED THE foundry sector entirely deserted upon their return. The Dark Angels found many of the perimeter outposts still intact, shielded from the blast wave of the bombardment by virtue of being sheltered in the lee of thick-walled manufactories, but the soldiers who manned them were gone. Jonson sent 1st Company and Brother Titus ahead with orders to secure the assembly building while 2nd Company moved along at a slower pace; they'd recovered three Rhinos from outside the warehouses and loaded them with the most seriously injured battle brothers, while the rest of the company followed along behind the vehicles with the bodies of the fallen. Nemiel and Kohl, reunited with the rest of their squad, found the body of Brother Marthes on the way back and made him a part of the sombre procession as well. As they made their way into the foundry precincts they began to hear the faint rumble of thrusters off to the south. Now and again Nemiel and the others would look back in the direction of the far-off star port, and search for telltale streaks of light that would signify the descent of an orbital transport. The Dark Angels knew that with every passing minute the wolves were gathering at their backs. It would only be a matter of time before they began to close in. Force Commander Lamnos, who was also the commanding officer of 1st Company, was waiting outside the assembly building when Primarch Jonson and 2nd Company arrived. 'The building has been secured, my lord,' he reported. 'We encountered several squads of stragglers inside, but they weren't in much shape to put up a fight.' 'What about the siege guns?' the primarch asked. 'All present and accounted for. The building weathered the blast very well, and the vehicles sustained no damage.' Jonson nodded. 'Well done, Force Commander. Let's get the wounded inside, then begin developing a defence strategy.' He cast a wary eye to the south. 'I believe we've only got two or three hours at most before the Sons of Horus begin their attack.' The Astartes went to work immediately, scouting out the terrain and scavenging working heavy weapons from the abandoned enemy emplacements. Jonson and the company commanders assembled outside the assembly building along with Nemiel and Brother-Sergeant Kohl, to review the terrain and develop a proper defensive perimeter. The primarch favoured a layered defence, with an outer defensive ring encompassing the entire sector, and an inner ring centred solely on the assembly building. The 1st Company was put to work on the outer ring, while the 2nd Company was assigned the inner ring. 'At this point, we only have enough strength to successfully defend about half of the outer ring,' Jonson said. In the absence of a hololith table, one of the Astartes had scratched a crude map of the foundry sector into the permacrete with the point of his power knife, and the Dark Angels had gathered in a circle around it. 'Naturally, we'll orientate our defence to the south, because the rebels will use the most direct approach - at least initially,' the primarch continued. 'We'll site our captured lascannons and heavy stubbers on rooftops here, here and here.' He indicated a series of buildings on the outer edge of the sector that provided commanding fields of fire down the main avenues of approach. 'The lascannon gunners' priority is to knock out as many vehicles as possible and strip the attackers of their support. Most of 1st and 2nd Companies will be arrayed in a wide arc covering all the southern routes into the sector. Three squads will be kept in reserve and mounted in our Rhinos to provide swift reinforcement to weak parts of the line.' He paused, studying the map thoughtfully. 'As the battle wears on, we can expect that they will probe around our flanks, looking for less well-defended areas. We'll have to stay flexible and be ready to re-orientate our squads at a moment's notice, falling back to the inner line if necessary.' 'What about Magos Archoi and the remaining skitarii?' Force Commander Lamnos asked. Since taking the assembly building there had been a few brief skirmishes with sk

inforcement to weak parts of the line.' He paused, studying the map thoughtfully. 'As the battle wears on, we can expect that they will probe around our flanks, looking for less well-defended areas. We'll have to stay flexible and be ready to re-orientate our squads at a moment's notice, falling back to the inner line if necessary.' 'What about Magos Archoi and the remaining skitarii?' Force Commander Lamnos asked. Since taking the assembly building there had been a few brief skirmishes with skitarii units from the north. Jonson shrugged. 'Archoi himself is most likely dead,' he replied. 'I expect he fled right back to his stronghold and was caught in the bombardment. Just in case, however, I want to post a squad of wounded battle brothers onto the roof of the assembly building to act as observers. If they detect a serious threat from the north, we'll despatch our mobile reserve to deal with it.' Lamnos and Captain Hsien of 2nd Company nodded in agreement. Neither warrior looked, particularly pleased with the tactical situation, but Jonson had devised a plan that made the best use of the assets they had available. Still, Nemiel couldn't help but note a grim undercurrent in the manner of the two leaders. They carried themselves like warriors who were about to make a final stand, and had already resigned themselves to their deaths. 'We've got almost a hundred and fifty battle brothers able to fight, plus a Dreadnought,' Nemiel pointed out. 'We should be able to hold the foundry almost indefinitely with so large a force. The Emperor knows we managed to hold off a horde of orks with far less than that back on Barrakan.' 'If we were only facing skitarii and conventional troops, I would agree with you,' Lamnos said readily. 'But this time we're dealing with the Sons of Horus. This may well prove to be the toughest battle that any of us have ever fought.' 'There's also the matter of supplies,' Hsien pointed out. 'Our warriors were fully resupplied before the attack began, but we'll go through our basic stocks of ammunition within a few days of heavy fighting,' he said. Jonson raised a hand. 'All of these things are true,' he said, 'but we also have a number of advantages here. First, we have something that the enemy desperately wants, so they cannot bring their heaviest weapons to bear on us without risking a direct hit on the siege guns. They can't just sit back and blast us with artillery; instead, they've got to come in and dig us out, which makes their job much more difficult. Secondly, their fleet is much smaller this time than it was during their first attack. Horus put together a raiding group with whatever he had immediately to hand, so I expect they have supply issues of their own. If we can defeat their ground units and drive them off the planet, the fleet will have little choice but to withdraw, and I doubt that the Warmaster will risk a third attempt with the Emperor's punitive force drawing nearer.' He gave the two company commanders a steadfast look. 'This won't be a protracted siege. Far from it. The enemy will have enough resources to sustain only a few days of intense combat before they will have to retreat. That was another factor in my decision to bombard the forge. Within a week they'll be more desperate for resources than we will.' The primarch's assertions effectively ended the discussion. Everyone knew of Jonson's strategic brilliance, and the mood of the company commanders was buoyed by his self-assurance. But Nemiel, ever the cynic, couldn't help but note the things that the primarch left unsaid. The attacking force was small, but fresh, and though their resources were finite, they were undoubtedly well-equipped. And it didn't matter if the Dark Angels could hold out a month or more if the Sons of Horus managed to overrun them in the very first battle. The company commanders left to join their respective commands and complete preparations for the coming fight. Nemiel and his squad went to join the mobile reserve. Jonson had specifically ordered the Redemptor to join the reserve force. 'You'll be most needed where the fighting is hardest,' he'd told Nemiel. 'I can't have you getting bogged down guarding some access road while the enemy is breaking through on the other side of the perimeter.' Nemiel accepted the order with a brusque nod. 'Where will you be, my lord?' he asked. A faint grin crossed Jonson's handsome face. 'Why, I'll try to be everywhere at once,' the primarch replied. Hours passed, and the tension began to mount. The sounds of orbital transports descending through the overcast grew more frequent as the day progressed. At mid-morning they heard a faint crackle of small-arms fire off in the far distance, somewhere out in the grey zone, and the Astartes wondered if some of the Dragoons had somehow managed to survive. The sounds of combat tapered off within a few minutes, however, and an uneasy quiet descended once more. Four hours past dawn they heard the rumble of engines off to the north, and the observers on the top of the assembly building reported a small force of APCs were heading for the northern perimeter at high speed. Nemiel and the reserve forces, accompanied by Jonson himself, hurriedly climbed aboard their Rhinos and raced down the access roads to meet the oncoming threat. No sooner had the Astartes deployed into cover around the perimeter's ruined buildings than four Testudo personnel carriers burst into view. Battered-looking Dragoons clung to the top decks of the APCs, and all of the vehicles showed signs of recent battle damage. Jonson and Nemiel stepped from cover and waved at the vehicles, which quickly changed course and slid to a halt some ten metres from the two warriors. The Dragoons on the tops of the vehicles regarded them with glassy-eyed expressions. The Testudos lowered their assault ramps and more troops spilled out into the daylight. Among them was Governor Kulik, still wearing his carapace armour and limping along with the help of a cane. Jonson stepped forward, raising his hand in salute. 'It's good to see you, governor,' he said. 'After Magos Archoi's betrayal we'd feared the worst.' 'For the first few hours, so did I,' Kulik answered. 'Archoi took us completely by surprise, damn him.' He turned and indicated his battered force with a sweep of his cane. 'This is all I have left. Barely half a company, out of a starting strength of twenty thousand men.' He turned back to the primarch, and Nemiel could see the pain etched across Kulik's face. 'We knew that if anyone could survive Magos Archoi's treachery, it would be you. So we loaded up the only vehicles we had left and managed to slip through the northern gate in the hopes of finding you.' 'What's the situation beyond the curtain wall?' Jonson asked. Kulik's face fell. 'The skitarii control the fortifications in the grey zone, and probably the southern gateway as well; we couldn't get close enough to find out,' he said. 'A small convoy of Tech-Guard headed out to the star port at first light. Since dawn, we estimate that eight to ten heavy troop transports and a number of dropships have landed there.' He nodded his head to the south. 'The last we saw, their vanguard units were on the move, heading north. The damned traitors are going to lead them through the grey zone and probably past the southern gateway as well. They'll be here within the hour, I expect.' Jonson stepped forward and laid a hand on Kulik's shoulder. 'You and your men have fought courageously, governor,' he said. 'They've given everything they have in defence of their world. Let us take up the banner from here. You can withdraw back to the north and slip into the countryside, while we hold off the rebels.' Kulik stiffened, and for a moment Nemiel feared that he would take insult at Jonson's heartfelt offer. 'I and my men are honoured by your offer,' Kulik said after a moment, 'but we're going to see this through to the end, if it's all the same to you.' Jonson nodded sombrely. 'Welcome, then,' he replied. 'Have your men take positions here, covering our northern approach. We've had some skirmishes with skitarii patrols, and we're worried that Archoi may be planning an attack.' 'I damn well hope he tries!' the governor said, a fierce look crossing his face. 'If he does, we'll deal with him, Primarch Jonson. You mark my words.' With that, he turned on his heel and began snapping orders to his men, and the Dragoons went to work with surprising speed. THE RESERVE FORCE returned to their start position and the wait began once more. Nemiel stepped outside the Rhino and sat down against its armoured flank, trying to balance his humours and rest his body with meditation. Ten minutes later, the observers called across the command net and said that a large force of armoured vehicles was approaching from the south. Orders were passed along the company command nets, and the Dark Angels readied their weapons. Twenty minutes later they felt the rumble of the armoured columns reverberating through the earth, drawing closer with every passing moment. Plumes of black petrochem exhaust rose from the midst of the warehouses to the south. Then, the gunners atop the buildings facing the enemy advance began to call out sightings: three columns of heavy tanks and APCs, approaching fast. To Nemiel it sounded like an entire mechanised battalion, heading straight down their throats. Jonson received the news calmly. 'Lascannon emplacements, target the main battle tanks and open fire at four hundred and fifty metres,' he said. The range was already so close that the anti-tank lasers opened fire almost at once. Bright red beams shot down the narrow roadways and struck the lead tanks head-on. One of the vehicles exploded with the first hit; another lost one of its treads and ground to a halt. The third tank pressed forward with a gouge scored along the side of its turret. Its battle cannon elevated and fired a high-explosive shell wit

arget the main battle tanks and open fire at four hundred and fifty metres,' he said. The range was already so close that the anti-tank lasers opened fire almost at once. Bright red beams shot down the narrow roadways and struck the lead tanks head-on. One of the vehicles exploded with the first hit; another lost one of its treads and ground to a halt. The third tank pressed forward with a gouge scored along the side of its turret. Its battle cannon elevated and fired a high-explosive shell with a hollow boom. The round overshot, flying past the weapons emplacement and crashing into a manufactorum on the north side of the sector. The Astartes kept firing, sending beam after beam at the tanks, until finally all three were knocked out. Behind the wrecks, the remaining tanks and APCs were forced to retreat and spread out further along the side-lanes before resuming their advance. The rebel forces came on in a much broader formation this time, their vehicles arrayed in a wide crescent that nearly encompassed the entire southern perimeter. This time the heavy stubbers joined in the battle, raking the enemy APCs with bursts of armour-piercing shells. The enemy responded with battle cannon shells and autocannon bursts, and the air was filled with explosions and blossoms of fire. The Astartes placed their shots with brutal efficiency, aiming for the known vulnerabilities in the armour plating of the battle tanks and destroying half a dozen in the space of just a few minutes. The APCs fared no better under the hail of shells from the heavy stubbers as the armour-piercing rounds found weak spots in their hulls and punched their way inside, wreaking bloody havoc on the troops embarked within. Several shuddered to a halt and exploded as a tracer rounds touched off their fuel cells, until finally the battalion commander ordered the rest of the infantry to dismount and continue the attack on foot. The infantry squads exited their transports and charged across the fifteen-metre open space, only to be cut down by heavy stubbers and disciplined bursts of boltgun fire from concealed Astartes squads. Twenty minutes after the attack began, the rebel advance faltered and began to withdraw. They left behind twenty knocked-out vehicles and more than two hundred dead soldiers. Three of the Dark Angels' weapons emplacements had been destroyed by battle cannon fire, and three Astartes had been slain. The First Legion could claim victory in the opening engagement, but the battle was only beginning. The Sons of Horus had yet to make an appearance. OVER THE COURSE of the next three hours the Dark Angels repulsed five more attacks. Each time the rebels refined their tactics and probed more aggressively around the Astartes' flanks. Each time they drove back the rebels with significant losses, but casualties among the defenders mounted, and with each attack they lost one or more of their few remaining lascannons or heavy stubbers. To Nemiel it felt as though a noose was slowly being tightened around them. The rebels dropped mortar rounds onto the outskirts of the sector during the third attack, targeting buildings where they knew a heavy weapons emplacement was located. By the sixth attack the enemy APCs were growing bolder, advancing within ten metres of the sector perimeter before being turned back. An hour passed before the commencement of the seventh attack, allowing the Astartes time to redistribute ammunition and tend their wounded. The Dark Angels' spirits had been restored by the time the first mortar rounds began to fall, and when the rebel tanks and APCs began their advance they opened fire with their few remaining heavy weapons and prepared for close-quarters combat. This time the rebel tanks and APCs closed in on the perimeter from three sides, and the weight of fire from the defenders wasn't strong enough to stem the tide. The enemy vehicles hit the first defensive line in a score of places; they poured cannon and heavy stubber fire into the manufactories as they pressed deeper, forcing the Astartes to break cover and assault the lumbering vehicles. Within minutes both companies were involved in dozens of squad-level melees, as the Dark Angels came to grips with platoons of heavily-armed infantry. And then, judging that the decisive moment had come, the Sons of Horus launched their attack. 'Rhinos approaching from the north!' Nemiel heard the call over the vox and saw the enemy strategy at once. While the rebel infantry had been probing the extent of the Imperial defences, the Sons of Horus had been moving under cover of the attacks in a sweeping movement to the north that would bring them around behind the Dark Angels' positions. It was the kind of swift, decisive strategy that made the Sons of Horus such deadly opponents on the field of battle, and reflected the tactical prowess of their illustrious primarch. Now, Nemiel and the mobile reserve was all that stood in their way. 'Move out!' he ordered as he leapt inside the lead Rhino and slammed the troop door shut. The three transports roared into motion, circling around the assembly building and racing down the accessways to the northern perimeter. He switched to the command net and called the rooftop lookouts. 'How many Rhinos are we facing?' he asked. 'I count four,' one of the lookouts replied. 'The Dragoons are engaging them now.' The Tanagran troops stood their ground in the face of the enemy charge, and the autocannons of their four Testudos began to spit bursts of armour-piercing rounds at the oncoming transports. Two of the lightly-armoured APCs were hit and ground to a halt, smoke pouring from their wrecked power plants. A third caught fire and exploded, scattering burning debris in a wide arc. Had the vehicles been crewed by human troops, the attack would have been stopped cold, but the hatches on all three of the destroyed vehicles slammed open and squads of pale-armoured warriors fought their way free of the wreckage and resumed their attack. They were fearsome apparitions of war, their battle-scarred armour clad with two centuries' worth of campaign honours and prized trophies looted from worlds stretching the length and breadth of the Imperium. Once they had been called the Luna Wolves, and had been the first of the Astartes Legions to be reunited with their primarch. Their name had been synonymous with the Emperor's Great Crusade for nearly two hundred years. Now they were called the Sons of Horus, and they had drowned Isstvan III in the blood of twelve billion innocent souls. Boltguns blazed, wreaking carnage among the Dragoons; plasma guns spat bolts of charged particles that bored into the front armour of the Testudos and blew two of them apart. The lone surviving Rhino continued forwards, firing bursts from its remote-controlled twin bolter until it crashed into the enemy positions and dropped its rear assault ramp. Another squad of rebel Astartes charged out of the vehicle and attacked the surviving Dragoons in close combat, carving through the exhausted soldiers with snarling chainswords and glowing power weapons. The Tanagran troops were on the verge of collapse when Nemiel and the reserves arrived. He ordered the APCs to halt fifteen metres back from the melee so the three squads could deploy in good order. The Redemptor looked across the battlefield at the fearsome, pale-armoured warriors. There were four full squads against his three under-strength ones; he and his men were in for a rough fight. Igniting his crozius, Nemiel led the charge. 'Loyalty and honour!' he cried. 'For the Lion and the Emperor!' Brother-Sergant Kohl took up the war cry, and in moments all twenty-three of the Dark Angels were shouting too, as they crashed into the ranks of their foes. Nemiel saw a rebel warrior cut down two screaming Dragoons and then turn upon him. He rushed at the Son of Horus, channelling all of his rage into a sweeping blow from his crozius. But the veteran warrior sidestepped the blow with fearsome speed and slashed the Redemptor across the wrist. Had it been a power blade, the sword would have sliced off Nemiel's hand; as it was, the teeth of the chainsword raked across his armoured gauntlet, scoring deep gouges in the ceramite plates. The Redemptor lashed at the rebel with a backhanded stroke, feinting for the warrior's head and then striking downwards at his knee. Again, the Astartes nimbly dodged the blow and then brought up his bolt pistol and shot Nemiel in the head. The blow to his helmet blinded Nemiel and knocked him off his feet. He registered the impact across his shoulders as he struck the ground and felt blood trickling down the bridge of his nose. The bolt pistol round had failed to penetrate his helmet, but the impact had split it and damaged the delicate circuitry beneath the ceramite plates. His vision came back in flashes of red-tinged static just as the edge of his enemy's chainblade pressed against his breastplate. He felt the whirring teeth skip and screech across the curved plate, scrabbling for purchase. In another few seconds he knew that it would mar the surface enough to bite deep, and then he was as good as dead. With a shout, Nemiel brought up his pistol and fired a shot into the side of his opponent's knee. The bolt round punched through the relatively weak joint armour and blew the warrior's lower leg off. The Astartes collapsed with a roar of pain and rage, and Nemiel threw himself atop his foe, batting aside his chainblade with the barrel of his pistol and slamming his crozius down on the warrior's helmet. The helm imploded with a bright blue flash, and the Son of Horus went limp. Gasping, Nemiel tore at his damaged helm one-handed until he finally pulled it free. A pitched battle was raging all around him; the Dragoons were nowhere to be seen, leaving his warriors to fight the numerically-superior Sons of Horus alone. Pistols flashed and thundered, and blades drew sparks as they slashed across the curved

inblade with the barrel of his pistol and slamming his crozius down on the warrior's helmet. The helm imploded with a bright blue flash, and the Son of Horus went limp. Gasping, Nemiel tore at his damaged helm one-handed until he finally pulled it free. A pitched battle was raging all around him; the Dragoons were nowhere to be seen, leaving his warriors to fight the numerically-superior Sons of Horus alone. Pistols flashed and thundered, and blades drew sparks as they slashed across the curved surfaces of power armour. He saw a Dark Angel take a shot from a plasma pistol at close range and fall to the ground, then another lose his arm to a deadly lightning claw. A rebel Astartes toppled, run through by Brother-Sergeant Kohl's power sword. Brother Ephrial smashed a rebel to the ground with the butt of his meltagun and blew the prone warrior apart with a searing blast of microwaves. The heat generated by the blast staggered everyone around him - all except the pale-armoured warrior who had slipped behind Ephrial. Brandishing a huge power fist, the Son of Horus punched Ephrial in the back of his head, killing him instantly. Nemiel leapt to his feet and charged at the warrior who'd killed Ephrial. A plasma bolt shot past his head, close enough to sear the skin on the side of his face, but he scarcely felt the pain. He raised his crozius, and the rebel seemed to sense the blow at he last moment. The warrior spun about, bringing his power fist up in a ponderous arc that nevertheless managed to deflect Nemiel's attack. The rebel spun on his heel and, quick as a viper, brought up a plasma pistol and loosed a bolt at Nemiel, but the Redemptor anticipated the move just in time and dodged to the side. The shot missed his shoulder by centimetres, flashing past and striking someone behind him. He heard an agonised scream, but had no time to see whether friend or foe had been hit. He lunged forward before the traitor could fire another shot, and smashed the pistol's barrel with a jab from his crozius. The Astartes hurled the ruined weapon at Nemiel's face, following behind the feint with a sweeping blow aimed at the Redemptor's abdomen. Nemiel dodged to the right, narrowly avoiding both attacks, and brought his crozius down on his enemy's left shoulder. The warrior's pauldron shattered beneath the impact and broke the traitor's shoulder along with it. The Son of Horus was driven to his knees. Before he could rise again the Redemptor crushed his skull with another blow from his power weapon. Nemiel whirled about, taking stock of the battle even as his last foe toppled to the ground. Everywhere he turned he saw pale-armoured figures pressing in on his warriors from all sides. Bodies of friend and foe alike littered the ground, but he could see at once that his warriors had suffered the worst in the exchange. There were less than a dozen left, including Brother-Sergeant Kohl and Brother Cortus. The Dark Angels were instinctively drawing together into a tight knot, standing back-to-back in a classic defensive formation that had its roots on Caliban. They were outnumbered more than two to one, but they refused to yield a centimetre to their foes. For the first time in his life, Nemiel truly felt that he was about to die. A strange peace settled over him at the thought, and as he joined his brothers he prepared to give his life for the Emperor. Then, suddenly, a shout went up from the Sons of Horus, and the entire mass of enemy warriors recoiled away from the Dark Angels. Stunned, Nemiel whirled about, searching for the source of the enemy's retreat. Lion El'Jonson fell upon the rebels with a fierce cry, the Lion Sword blazing as he carved through the enemy ranks. The rebels fell like wheat before a scythe, cut down before they scarcely had a chance to move, much less strike at their foe. Jonson was a vengeful god, a whirlwind of death and destruction, and the Sons of Horus retreated before his wrath. The enemy fell back to their Rhinos, firing their pistols to cover their withdrawal. The Dark Angels traded shots with them until the enemy had disappeared inside their transports and the Rhinos turned and sped out of range. Only then did Nemiel turn and take stock of their losses. With dawning horror, he saw that only eight warriors besides him were still standing. Fifteen of his brothers lay dead upon the permacrete, surrounded by the bodies of a dozen of their foes. They had turned aside the enemy attack, but the reserve force had been decimated. If the Sons of Horus launched another attack, there would be little left to stop them. THE DARK ANGELS had taken a terrible toll on the enemy, but they had paid an equally terrible price in return. The Sons of Horus had slain many of their battle brothers, but even worse was the horror of spilling the blood of fellow Astartes, something utterly unthinkable just a few scant months before. Out beyond the perimeter they could hear the rumble of engines, and sensed that the enemy was re-forming for yet another attack. Jonson took stock of his remaining forces and reluctantly ordered his remaining warriors back to the inner defensive line. Nemiel was summoned by the primarch as he and his squad were helping carry the most gravely-wounded brothers into the assembly building. There were only sixty warriors still standing; Force Commander Lamnos lay in a coma, his primary heart and his oolitic kidney ruptured by an autocannon blast, and Captain Hsien had been killed when his position had been struck by a battle cannon shell. The Tanagran Dragoons had died to a man fighting the Sons of Horus; Nemiel had found the body of Governor Kulik surrounded by his troops, his sword gripped in his hand. 'I have a task for you, Brother-Redemptor Nemiel,' the primarch said. Beside him, Brother Titus stood sentinel beside the assembly building's open doors. A plasma bolt had fused the barrels of his assault cannon, but his deadly power fist still functioned. 'What are your orders, my lord?' Nemiel replied calmly. 'It's absolutely vital that the siege guns do not fall into Horus's hands,' Jonson replied. 'Do you agree?' Nemiel nodded. 'Of course, my lord.' 'Then we must take steps to ensure that they are destroyed in the event that the Sons of Horus break through,' the primarch said. 'I want you to find Techmarine Askelon and instruct him to prepare a demolition device that will destroy the assembly building and everything within it. According to him, the siege guns' ammunition sections are fully-loaded. If he can rig the shells to detonate it should devastate everything within a five kilometre radius.' The Redemptor nodded sombrely. The order wasn't unexpected. Once he'd heard a full tally of their losses he knew that their odds of victory were growing slimmer by the moment. 'I'll see to it at once,' he said. He left the primarch and hurried into the assembly building. On the way he caught sight of Brother-Sergeant Kohl and the rest of the squad taking their place with the rest of their brothers at the inner line. For a moment he and the sergeant locked eyes, and Kohl seemed to understand what the grim look on the Redemptor's face signified. Nemiel gave the veteran a knowing nod, and the sergeant saluted him in return. There were close to a hundred seriously wounded Astartes laid up inside the assembly building, their conditions monitored by the ground force's Apothecaries. Nemiel searched among the unconscious or comatose figures, looking for Askelon and frowning worriedly when he could find him. 'Up here,' echoed a familiar voice. Nemiel looked up to find the Techmarine standing atop the dorsal hull of the lead siege gun. Askelon pointed to the rear of the huge vehicle. 'There are ladder rungs back at the ammo section.' Nemiel hurried back to the rear section of the war machine and scrambled up onto the dorsal hull. The armoured deck stretched for a hundred metres from one end to the other, nearly as long as an Imperator Titan was tall. He jogged down the length of the huge machine, joining Askelon by the open hatch where they'd watched Archoi's technicians work just a few hours before. 'What in Terra's name are you doing up here?' Nemiel asked. 'Brother-Apothecary Gideon said you should be resting. Your internal organs and nervous system were badly damaged when you tapped those power conduits.' Askelon waved such concerns away. 'I'm not doing us any good sitting down there on the permacrete,' he said hoarsely. Burn sealant had been spread across his burned face, giving the charred skin a synthetic sheen. 'So I thought I'd climb up here and see if I can get this monster running.' Nemiel's eyes widened. 'Is that possible?' Askelon sighed. 'Well, in theory, yes. The engine is functional, the weapons fully loaded, and the void shields - all four of them - check out as ready for activation. The problem is that there aren't any manual controls!' The Redemptor frowned. 'That doesn't make any sense. Even a Titan has a crew to assist its Princeps.' Askelon nodded. 'And these vehicles were built with supplementary crew stations - but Archoi's tech-adepts took out all the controls and welded the hatches shut!' The Techmarine shook his head. 'It doesn't make any sense. I can't imagine what Horus thought he could use to operate these machines - the systems aren't quite as complex as a Titan, but they're close.' He spread his arms and gave a frustrated sigh. 'So here we are with the firepower of an army in our hands, and no way to use it.' The Redemptor scowled down at the open cockpit. A thought niggled at him. 'Is there any way to rig a basic set of controls to the machine - even just to operate one of its void shields?' Askelon shook his head. 'Actually, operating the void shield is one of the most complex operations to manage - just ask any Titan moderati. Rigging an effective set of controls would take hours, possibly days.' He shook his head. 'Unless you have a spare MIU sitting around,

in our hands, and no way to use it.' The Redemptor scowled down at the open cockpit. A thought niggled at him. 'Is there any way to rig a basic set of controls to the machine - even just to operate one of its void shields?' Askelon shook his head. 'Actually, operating the void shield is one of the most complex operations to manage - just ask any Titan moderati. Rigging an effective set of controls would take hours, possibly days.' He shook his head. 'Unless you have a spare MIU sitting around, there's nothing we can do.' Nemiel glanced up at the Techmarine, his eyes widening. Askelon frowned. 'What's the matter?' he asked. 'We do have an MIU,' Nemiel said. 'It's been right under our noses all along.' THE ENEMY LAUNCHED their eighth and final attack an hour and a half later. Lion El'Jonson listened to the approaching sound of engines and readied his sword. 'Here they come,' he said to Nemiel. Around them, the surviving Astartes checked their weapons. At the Redemptor's urging, they had extended the perimeter of the inner line outwards another two hundred and fifty metres, stretching their coverage almost to the breaking point. 'Askelon is working as quickly as he can, my lord,' he said to the primarch. 'We have to buy as much time for him as we can.' 'This is a terrible risk we're taking,' Jonson replied. Amid the mounting tension, the primarch managed a faint smile. 'If we fail to hold them back and somehow we aren't both shot to pieces in the process, I'm going to hold you personally responsible for this.' Nemiel nodded. 'Duly noted, my lord,' he said in a deadpan voice that would have made Brother-Sergeant Kohl proud. The enemy vehicles advanced from three sides, nosing their way through the maze of close-set buildings and closing in on the assembly building. By careful planning or sheer, diabolical luck, most of the enemy vehicles emerged from cover at the same time. Nemiel counted ten Rhino APCs and, directly ahead, a patched-up battle tank. A square metal plate had been bolted over the crater blasted in its glacis by a lascannon bolt, and the rebels' technicians had jury-rigged enough of its wrecked controls to get it back into action. The tank shuddered to a halt as the rest of the APCs surged forward. Its turret tracked fractionally to the left and the battle cannon fired. The heavy shell howled through the air towards the Dark Angels and struck Brother Titus's armoured torso. The Dreadnought vanished in a thunderous blast, hurling bits of its arms and chest high into the air. Shrapnel rained down on the defenders, the metal fragments pinging off their armour. Jonson straightened in the wake of the blast, his expression tense. Twenty metres away, the Rhinos came to an abrupt halt. Assault ramps dropped to the ground as ten squads of pale-armoured Astartes disembarked and took shelter behind the cover of their vehicles. Farther back, the tank traversed its turret to the left, taking aim on a Dark Angels squad. 'This won't work,' the primarch snarled. 'That tank will sit back there and shoot us to pieces, and then the Sons of Horus will sweep in and mop up the survivors.' He drew the Lion Sword and held it aloft. Sunlight shone on its razor edge. 'Forward, brothers!' he cried. 'For honour and glory! For Terra! For the Emperor! Forward!' All sixty Dark Angels rose to their feet in a single, fluid motion and advanced towards the Sons of Horus, a thin line of black against a waiting phalanx of white. The battle cannon boomed again, but the gunner failed to adjust for the sudden enemy advance, and the shell blasted a gout of dirt and permacrete into the air behind the Astartes. The rebel warriors rose from cover and opened fire as well. Plasma bolts and shells stabbed out at the advancing Imperials, and the Dark Angels returned fire. The two formations drew inexorably together. Nemiel clutched his crozius tightly and prepared for one final battle. A tremor rippled through the ground beneath their feet - very faint at first, but growing in strength with each passing moment. Nemiel felt it through the soles of his boots and turned to Jonson, who had felt it, too. A throaty roar filled the air behind them, swelling outwards in a solid wall of sound as one of Horus's mighty siege machines rumbled slowly onto the battlefield. The war machine rose like a plasteel and ceramite mountain over the Astartes, its Hydra flak batteries and mega-bolter turrets along its flanks traversing to bear on the enemy ranks. The multi-barrelled laser batteries opened fire, unleashing a torrent of bolts at the stationary battle tank. The tank all but vanished in the glare of hundreds of detonations as the laser bolts pounded the armoured hull. Individually, each shot lacked the power to penetrate the mighty tank's reinforced ceramite plates, but one among the hundreds of impacts landed a direct hit on the plate steel bolted hastily over its former wound and burned straight through. Smoke billowed from the tank's open ports as the thermal effects of the bolt incinerated the crew in a split second. A pair of mega-bolters roared to life next, sending a stream of heavy calibre shells over the heads of the Dark Angels and into the enemy's ranks. Rhinos shuddered beneath dozens of hits and were torn apart in seconds; the Astartes standing alongside them fared little better. The Sons of Horus recoiled under the storm of shells; dozens of the warriors fell, their armour riddled with holes. The rest wavered for a moment more and then broke, retreating swiftly back into cover among the surrounding buildings. Mega-bolter shells pursued them the entire way, slaying a dozen more before the rest could escape. The Dark Angels stood in the shadow of the immense war machine, wreathed by wisps of fyceline propellant from the barrels of the mega-bolters and numbed by the awesome roar of the guns. Alone among them, Lion El'Jonson turned to the enormous engine and raised his sword in salute. 'Well done, Brother Titus!' he called over the vox. 'You could not have arrived at a more opportune time.' 'Techmarine Askelon deserves your accolades, my lord, not I,' replied Titus's synthetic voice. 'It was no small feat merging my MIU with the war engine's interface without access to the original STC blueprints; only the specialised tools and equipment in the assembly building allowed him to modify the vehicle's interface with my neural connectors. I regret that I am still unable to access the vehicle's shield array, and my locomotion is still very slow and clumsy, but all weapons systems are fully functional.' Jonson stared up at the mountain of metal. 'Brother Titus, can your surveyors detect the star port to the south?' 'The unit is in need of calibration, but yes, I am registering it on my array,' Titus replied. 'I am detecting twelve heavy transports and numerous small vehicles.' The primarch nodded. 'Load a shell into your siege gun and destroy the site.' Titus hesitated for only an instant. 'At once, my lord,' he replied. With a ponderous moan of heavy-duty motors, the giant cannon barrel began to elevate. 'Loading will complete in five seconds,' Titus said. 'I advise that you take cover behind me. I cannot adequately gauge the effect the gun's concussion will have when it is fired.' As primarch and war machine spoke, Nemiel cast his gaze upon the devastation that Titus had wrought. Scores of Astartes lay dead, surrounding misshapen metal hulks that were functioning APCs just a few minutes before. Behind him, heavy plasteel machinery rattled and groaned as the siege gun's auto-loading mechanism fed a magma shell into the cannon's breech. Recalling what such shells had done to the forge, he felt a deep sense of dread. What horrors could a warlord wreak with such weapons at his command? The Astartes withdrew a hundred metres behind the huge machine, nearly to the entrance of the assembly building itself. Nemiel glanced over at Jonson, and saw the primarch staring off to the southwest, towards the unsuspecting star port. The air blazed with a flare of orange and yellow light as the cannon fired, rocking the massive war machine back against its drive units. Nemiel felt the concussion of the blast like the fist of a god striking his chest; several of the Astartes staggered beneath the blow, while downrange the pressure wave hurled the wrecked Rhinos about like broken toys. The magma shell roared skyward, flaring like a shooting star until it was lost from sight behind the planet's thick overcast. They waited in silence, counting the seconds as the shell reached its apogee and began to fall to earth once more. Two minutes after the shot there was a flash of searing white light on the southern horizon, followed by a furious rumble that shook the earth where the Astartes stood, more than thirty kilometres away. A hot breeze wafted against their faces, smelling of molten steel and ash, and a slowly-rising pillar of dirt and debris climbed portentously into the sky. With a single stroke, the enemy ground force had been utterly destroyed. 'Such is the fate of all traitors,' Lion El'Jonson said. The implacable look in the primarch's eye made Nemiel's blood run cold. TWENTY THE CONQUEROR WORM Caliban In the 200th year of the Emperor's Great Crusade FOR THE THIRD time in twenty-four hours, Zahariel found himself locked into the jump seat of a Stormbird, his ears full of thunder and his eyes brimming with dark thoughts. The angels of Caliban's deliverance descended on the Northwilds arcology clad in fire, smoke and burnished iron. Luther had ordered a ballistic approach for the assault forces, so the drop ships literally fell from the sky upon the beleaguered city. To the panicked Jaegers securing the landing platforms on the arcology's upper levels it was like a scene from a mythical Armageddon. The command squad went in with the first wave. Zahariel's stomach leapt as the transport pulled out of its dive less than a thousand metres o

liverance descended on the Northwilds arcology clad in fire, smoke and burnished iron. Luther had ordered a ballistic approach for the assault forces, so the drop ships literally fell from the sky upon the beleaguered city. To the panicked Jaegers securing the landing platforms on the arcology's upper levels it was like a scene from a mythical Armageddon. The command squad went in with the first wave. Zahariel's stomach leapt as the transport pulled out of its dive less than a thousand metres over the arcology and the Stormbird's pilot gave full power to the thrusters scant seconds before touchdown. His gauntleted hands tightened on the haft of the force staff resting between his knees as he counted down the seconds until landing. Around him, the other members of the squad made final checks to their wargear with swift, practised movements. The atmosphere in the troop compartment was electric. Even Brother Attias seemed unusually animated, his steel-plated head turning left and right as he spoke words of encouragement to the Astartes at his side. The words of Luther's speech on the embarkation field still rang in their ears, calling them all to glory. The moment has come, brothers. Jonson has cast us aside; the Emperor, who once demanded our fealty, has forgotten us. Now we must decide whether to accept their judgment and give in to the darkness, or to defy them for the sake of our home and our people. He glanced across the compartment to the jump seats nearest the ramp. There, the Saviour of Caliban sat, clad in his gleaming armour like a hero of old. Luther's gaunt features were composed as he studied page after page of arcane text from the ancient grimoire propped across his knees. Lord Cypher sat closest to him, arms folded across his chest. He stared back at Zahariel from the depths of his hood, his expression unreadable. Zahariel focused on his breathing. Images came and went in his mind: Sar Daviel, wreathed in tongues of blue fire; Luther, marked with glowing runes and haloed by the same terrible flame; Brother-Librarian Israfael, smoke rising from the wound in his chest, his features distorted with anguish as he sank slowly to his knees. Shall we side with those who scorn us, or choose our own path, to protect the innocent from those who would exploit and corrupt them? The noise of the thrusters rose to a screaming crescendo, and then the Stormbird touched down with a tremendous, spine-rattling jolt. Jump restraints released with a metallic clatter and servomotors whined as the assault ramp deployed, letting in the cold, smoke-tinged air of the Northwilds. Boots thundered as the Astartes leapt to their feet; bolt pistols cleared their holsters and chainswords roared to angry life. Zahariel felt his body respond without conscious thought, caught up with all the rest in the intricate dance of death. Luther passed the book to Lord Cypher and led the way, his black cloak flapping wildly in the howling gale kicked up by the Stormbird's thrusters. Zahariel followed six paces behind Lord Cypher, flanked by Brother Attias to his right. Six other Astartes, all veterans of the fighting on Sarosh, fanned out around them, their weapons ready. Three other assault squads were deploying from their own transports on the landing platform as well, spreading out in a wide arc to cover the command squad's flanks and rear. The heavy blast doors leading to the arcology's upper levels had already slid open by the time Luther and his warriors had disembarked, and a large group of green-uniformed Jaeger officers were struggling to reach them through the gale spawned by the drop ships' thrusters. Leading the Jaeger troops was a wiry, sharp-featured officer in smoke-stained flak armour and fatigues. 'Colonel Hadziel,' Luther said in greeting, his powerful voice carrying easily over the roaring wind. 'An honour, my lord,' Hadziel shouted back. One hand was pressed to the top of his helmet to keep it in place, and he squinted into the grit kicked up by the Stormbirds. 'I apologise for not being able to keep you apprised of the situation during the trip, but the rebels have found some way to jam all of our vox transmissions. I can't coordinate with my squads inside the arcology, much less send or receive signals outside.' 'No need for apologies, Colonel. Frankly, we expected something like this.' Luther paused for a moment as the four transports took off with a bone-jarring roar, then spoke into the ringing silence that followed. 'One thing we need to be clear on from the outset, however, is that the rebels are not responsible for this. In fact, as of three hours ago, I concluded a truce with the rebel leaders, and they have agreed to assist us against our common enemy.' Hadziel and his staff exchanged bemused looks. 'Common enemy, my lord?' he asked carefully. 'Now is not the time for a detailed briefing, Colonel,' Luther said sternly. 'I assure you, all will be made clear once we've gotten this situation under control. Suffice it to say that a cabal of off-worlders housed here at the arcology have hidden themselves somewhere in the lowest sub-levels and are exposing this entire area to the malign effects of the warp.' To his credit, Colonel Hadziel accepted the bizarre turn of events with surprising poise. He blinked once, and nodded curtly. 'How can I and my Jaegers be of service, my lord?' 'Good man,' Luther said proudly. To a man, Hadziel's staff grinned, their confidence restored. The Master of Caliban beckoned them to fall in around him. 'First,' he said, 'what's the current situation and the disposition of the civilians?' Colonel Hadziel gestured to a pair of staff officers, who presented a portable hololith table and set it up at Luther's feet. 'For the last few hours, it's been complete chaos,' Hadziel said grimly. He keyed in a number of commands, and a cross-section of the arcology filled the air above the table. 'As luck would have it, the evacuation order from Aldurukh had just gotten underway when the unrest began. As a result, we already had a movement order in place and there were combat squads in the hab levels when the unrest began. Those squads bought us precious time to organise and took a lot of pressure off our checkpoints in the early stages of the riots. Otherwise, our cordon would have probably been completely overrun.' 'How many civilians were you able to evacuate?' Zahariel interjected. The colonel shrugged. 'Thousands, certainly,' he said, 'but I've no way of determining an exact number of evacuees. We're still trying to let people through, but it's extremely difficult at this point.' 'Why?' Luther asked. Colonel Hadziel took a breath, considering his reply carefully. 'These riots are much worse than anything we've seen before,' he said. 'We'd thought maybe some kind of disease had taken hold in the hab levels - something savage, like crimson fever or rabies. The last reports we got from our squads in the lower levels reported mobs of bestial civilians attacking every living thing in sight. Gunfire didn't seem to slow them in the least short of a las-bolt to the head. The uninfected civilians are panicking and trying to mob our checkpoints in an effort to escape.' The colonel's jaw tightened. 'There have been several incidents of troops turning their guns on the civilians in order to keep the crowds at bay.' He hit another set of keys and gestured to the holo-image. 'As it is, I've been forced to give up my initial positions and fall back to level fifteen, where there are fewer access points to cover and I can pass orders using runners.' Almost half of the lower levels of the arcology began to blink red. 'Everything below that level, including all the sub-levels, has been lost, which includes the arcology's thermal power plants, water and air circulation and waste recycling facilities. In purely military terms, we're no longer in control of the arcology.' Hadziel spread his hands. 'We're still trying to save as many civilians as we can, but we've got to check every group and make sure they're clean before we can let them through.' Luther turned to Zahariel. 'Are there any measures we can take to quickly discern living humans from these walking corpses?' Hadziel's eyes widened. 'Corpses, my lord? Those were reports from panicked troops. Surely you don't believe-' 'Make sure the checkpoints are issued thermal auspex units,' Zahariel cut in. 'Even a thermal lasgun sight will do. The corpses will have a much lower heat signature than the civilians around them.' 'Well, I...' Hadziel began, then took one look at the Astartes and thought better of his protest. 'I mean, I'll send the word out immediately.' Luther nodded curtly. 'Very good, colonel.' He paused for a moment, studying the display carefully for a moment. 'At this point, I want you to focus your efforts on holding the checkpoints at level fifteen and to continue evacuating civilians out of the hab levels as quickly and efficiently as possible. My warriors will form into strike forces and will pass through these checkpoints-' He indicated seven strategic locations across level fifteen '-and will advance into the contested areas towards the arcology's power plants and life support centres.' Hadziel frowned. 'My lord, we have no clear estimates on the number of infected individuals on the lower levels, but it certainly reaches into the hundreds, possibly thousands. They will be drawn to your warriors like blood moths to a wounded deer.' Luther nodded in agreement. 'That's the idea, colonel. My brothers will deal with the corpses and take the pressure off your troops. Once you've completed relocating the civilian population you'll be able to commit your forces to securing the arcology's lower levels. I want you to assign a liaison officer to each of my teams and ensure that their path through the checkpoints is cleared. That's all for now, gentlemen. We'll speak again once order is restored.' Hadziel nodded and began issuing

Luther nodded in agreement. 'That's the idea, colonel. My brothers will deal with the corpses and take the pressure off your troops. Once you've completed relocating the civilian population you'll be able to commit your forces to securing the arcology's lower levels. I want you to assign a liaison officer to each of my teams and ensure that their path through the checkpoints is cleared. That's all for now, gentlemen. We'll speak again once order is restored.' Hadziel nodded and began issuing instructions to his staff officers, who immediately began to draft the necessary orders. Luther turned away from the Jaegers and motioned for Zahariel, Attias and Lord Cypher to join him several paces away. 'Any word from the rebels still inside the arcology?' he quietly asked Zahariel. The Librarian shook his head. 'They're having no better luck with their vox-units than we are,' he replied. 'There's no way to know if they've found the sorcerers or not.' Luther nodded. 'Do you believe Colonel Hadziel's estimate of the number of corpses in the lower levels?' Zahariel shook his head grimly. 'Not in the least. They must number in the thousands, possibly the tens of thousands.' 'An army of the dead,' Brother Attias said in his hollow, synthetic voice. 'But to what purpose?' 'Fuel for the fire,' Luther said, half to himself. 'The sorcerers are using the violence and bloodshed to weaken the barrier between the physical world and the warp and facilitate their master ritual.' He cast a meaningful glance at Lord Cypher, who nodded. Zahariel scowled at the secret exchange, wondering what secrets Luther had uncovered from the forbidden library. 'Then we have to find a way to strike directly at the sorcerers and their ritual,' he declared. 'If we can locate them in time,' Luther said grimly. 'The ritual must be close to completion at this point.' 'Zahariel can lead us there,' Cypher said. His hooded head swivelled to regard the Librarian. 'You can sense the turbulence in the warp generated by the ritual, can you not?' 'I...' Zahariel paused, glancing from Lord Cypher to Luther. The Master of Caliban was staring at him expectantly. Was he being manoeuvred into something? Israfael's stricken face hovered before his mind's eye like a ghost. He shook his head, as though to clear it. 'That is, yes, I can, but that kind of prolonged exposure to warp energy is not without risk.' Luther grinned wryly. 'Brother, believe me when I tell you that if we don't stop this ritual we're all going to be exposed to more warp energy than is really healthy.' A strange, wheezing note blurted from Attias's vox grille. Zahariel turned to stare at the skull-faced Astartes. The sound continued, and it took the Librarian a few moments to realise that Attias was laughing. Cypher started to chuckle, and then Zahariel couldn't help but join in as well, dispelling the tension of the moment. 'Well, brother?' Luther prompted. Zahariel bowed his head. 'Give me a moment to centre myself,' he said, clenching the force staff tightly and focusing his awareness through his armour's psychic hood. At once he felt the churning maelstrom of the warp whirling about him. Its energy licked at him like tongues of flame, trying to find purchase in his soul. Jagged slivers of ice dug painfully into the back of his skull as the hood tried to shield him from the storm. The whirlwind spun about him, drawing him downward towards its locus like a gaping maw. Something lay at its centre, he sensed; a seed of darkness, hungry and impatient for release. Zahariel staggered slightly at the vertiginous pull of the ritual, holding himself apart from it by sheer effort of will. 'I can feel it,' he gasped. 'The sorcerers are trying to open a path for something to come through. Like Sarosh, only... worse, somehow.' 'Can you lead us to them?' Luther said. Zahariel concentrated on the vortex, following its currents with his mind. The biting cold in his head increased. Frost spread along the force staff's metal shaft. 'The locus is deep within the earth,' he said with a grimace. 'I'll be able to refine its position more precisely as we go.' 'Excellent,' Luther said. 'We'll have Hadziel unlock a bank of maintenance lifts that will take us directly to the lowest sub-level, then fight our way to the locus from there.' The Master of Caliban spun on his heel, snapping orders to Colonel Hadziel and to the other three squad leaders waiting at the landing pad. With an effort, Zahariel tried to re-orient himself in the physical world once more. The transition was much more difficult than he expected; even with the buffer provided by the psychic hood, the energies of the maelstrom still plucked at him, as though it had sunk barbs deep into his soul. He felt strangely numbed, unmoored within his own skin, and he knew that the grip of the storm would only grow stronger the closer he came to the centre of the ritual. He blinked, trying to clear his eyes, and found Lord Cypher studying him speculatively. Before Zahariel could ask what he was staring at, the enigmatic Astartes abruptly turned away. THEY DESCENDED INTO darkness, lit only by feeble red emergency lighting inside the maintenance lift's metal cage. Hadziel had authorised the activation of a bank of four lifts that would allow Luther's four assault squads to deploy together, concentrating their strength against whatever foes awaited them. Based on their experience at Sigma Five-One-Seven, Zahariel had advised choosing the set of lifts in the closest proximity to the arcology's main thermal core. The strength of the maelstrom increased steadily the deeper they went, until Zahariel scarcely had to focus his awareness in order to sense it. The unnatural energies sank effortlessly through his armour and pulsed sickeningly against his skin. Frost coated the housing of his psychic hood and sent needles of icy feedback into his brain. The storm winds tugged ruthlessly at him, tearing at his mind and soul with increasing vigour. Finally the lift jerked roughly to a halt, two hundred metres below the earth. They'd reached the lowest sub-level of the arcology. Luther gave a nod to the Astartes manning the controls, and the lift doors clattered open, revealing a broad, low-ceilinged chamber formed of fused permacrete. The air was stiflingly humid and thick with the stench of corruption. Here, as with the lower levels at Sigma Five-One-Seven, the earth had already begun to reclaim the space. Glossy greenish-black vines sprouted from cracks in the walls and along the floor, and a dripping, greenish mould covered much of the ceiling. Inserts chittered and squirmed through the tainted growth, or droned through the thick air on blurring wings. Sickly blue luminescence radiated from colonies of fungus that sprouted in haphazard clusters overhead, providing ample light to the Astartes' enhanced night vision. The Dark Angel squads deployed swiftly from the adjoining lifts. Three assault squads took the lead, forming a protective arc in front of Luther and the command squad, and orienting their weapons on the three entryways on the opposite side of the chamber. Two men in each of the assault squads carried a hand flamer, while two of the veterans in Luther's command squad were armed with powerful, short range meltaguns. The rest carried roaring chainswords and blunt-nosed bolt pistols, ideal for the kind of close-quarters fighting they expected to encounter. They were forty strong, a fearsome display of force. Entire worlds had been brought into compliance with less. Luther led the command squad into the chamber. His huge sword Nightfall burned a fierce blue in his right hand, and his ornate bolt pistol gleamed dully in his left. Zahariel stood next to him, clutching his force staff with both hands, while Brother Attias and Lord Cypher brought up the rear. Cypher held his plasma pistol ready in his right hand. The leather-bound grimoire was clutched tightly against his chest. The Master of Caliban leaned close to Zahariel. 'Can you sense the ritual in process?' he asked quietly. Gritting his teeth, Zahariel focused his awareness through the psychic hood. The dampener was already straining at the limit of its abilities; he could smell the strange mix of overheated circuitry and frozen metal. This close, he could sense rhythms pulsing through the howling psychic wind, like discordant notes struck by a madman's hand. The vibrations represented the symbolic chants that coaxed the energies of the warp into the physical realm. 'The ritual is well advanced,' the Librarian said, suppressing a groan of disgust. 'It could reach its climax at any time. We have to hurry!' Luther nodded. His dark eyes shone with fevered intensity. 'Listen, Zahariel. When we reach the ritual site, I want you to keep close to me. We have to confront this entity, together. I have the knowledge, but I lack the ability to manipulate the forces of the warp.' Zahariel shook his head. 'Confront it? You mean drive it back.' 'No,' Luther said. 'At least, not yet.' He turned and nodded at the grimoire that Cypher carried. 'That book contains the means to subjugate the spirit, bend it to our will. If we can reach it at the right moment, while it's still weak.' 'You can't be serious!' Zahariel cried. 'What you're talking about is madness! The Emperor-' Luther stepped close, until he was nearly whispering in Zahariel's ear. 'Yes. The Emperor has forbidden this. Why? Because he fears the beings of the warp. That's something we must learn to exploit, if Caliban is to remain free.' He looked deeply into Zahariel's eyes. 'Do you trust me, brother?' Zahariel found himself nodding, despite the misgivings in his heart. 'Yes. Of course.' 'Then help me. It's the only way.' Without waiting to hear Zahariel's reply, Luther turned and waved the assault squads towards the rightmost of the three large openings on the other side of the landing. So far, the path to the ritual site seemed to l