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His Will – Guy Haley

About the Author

An Extract from ‘Dark Imperium’

A Black Library Publication

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HIS WILL

By Guy Haley

They could hear them talking on the other side of the wall panels, but they could not distinguish what was said.

Brother Clydeus was crammed closely against Frater Mathieu. He couldn’t stand to be trapped. The innards of the walls brushed against his face, stuffy with machine heat and the smell of dust and old grease. The metal reinforcements of the relic box dug into his wrists. It was just about light enough to carry on his back with the head strap, but there wasn’t any room for that in the hole. The walls pressed in on him, crushing his soul. He was scared of small places, and he was ashamed of that. But if they were found, they were dead, and that scared him even more.

Frater Mathieu said it was a test of his belief. Clydeus had no wish to fail – that was all that stopped him from weeping – so held the box tight even though his arms shook, and kept his mouth shut.

A few tiny lumens blinked deep in the workings, warning of some overlooked malfunction. Their illumination touched on the skulls of the machina opus embossed on the inside of the panels. All the panels bore the mark of the Machine-God, though no one would ever see them. Clydeus fought his fear by focusing on them. He breathed slowly, inspired by these hidden signs of devotion to draw on his faith. The machine-priests worshipped the Emperor in their own peculiar manner, but they shared a god, so in a way, he told himself, the God-Emperor was looking at him through the hollow eyes of the idolatrous skulls.

It did a little to dampen his terror.

‘Protect us, oh lord of Terra.’

His half-breathed prayer brought a hissed rebuke from Frater Mathieu.

‘Silence.’

Mathieu was staring intently through a crack in the wall, where a buckled plate had opened up the slightest gap. A knife edge of light cut across his eyes. They were steely. He was always so calm, always so brave. Clydeus wished he could be like him, but he wasn’t. The light of the Emperor shone so brightly in Mathieu.

The frater said Clydeus would find his courage, but Clydeus thought him wrong. He had no courage, none at all.

The muffled conversation moved off. He heard Hiven laughing.

‘Master, I cannot bear it in here,’ Clydeus whispered. ‘Let me out.’

‘Be quiet, Clydeus,’ said Mathieu calmly. ‘We will only be in danger a moment longer. You can and shall bear it, in the Emperor’s name.’

‘Yes, frater.’

‘Fear not, Hiven is coming back.’

Familiar footsteps approached, the drag of a ruined foot and the thump of a crutch, very loud; deep noises carried much better through the metal than words. Hiven was alone, that much was clear.

Clydeus whimpered as the wall panel in front of Mathieu was yanked back hard.

‘They’re gone,’ Hiven said. ‘I don’t think they were looking for you, so that’s good news.’

Clydeus fell out of the open wall. Wires tangled him, and he fought them off, almost dropping the precious box. Mathieu stepped free of the priest hole with far more dignity. He rubbed at a long burn on his forearm given him by a heat exchanger pipe. Clydeus looked at him in wonder. Mathieu had not made a sound. The older priest saw him looking and tugged the sleeve of his filthy robe over the wound.

Clydeus was young, not yet in his twenties. His hair was cut in an unflattering bowl through which his ears protruded. Clydeus hated his ears, and his large nose. He did not regard himself as handsome, not that a priest should think about such things, and Clydeus punished himself often for doing so, but he did think about them.

Mathieu, on the other hand, was handsome. He was only a few years older than Clydeus, but infinitely more worldly, and exuded a confidence that made Clydeus feel inferior as much as it comforted him. Clydeus loved and worshipped Mathieu, but he envied him, and sometimes that shaded into hatred.

Both of them wore the robes of the Acronite Mendicants, the cream of the rough fabric so grimy it was almost black after so many months hiding.

‘You are sure they are gone, Brother Hiven?’ said Mathieu.

‘Yes,’ said Hiven. ‘They’re not much to worry about. They’re only doing it for the extra ration. They’re not very diligent.’ He was talking fast, stimulated by the rush of adrenaline. If that made him seem unreliable, it was not so, for Hiven was a good guide and a valued friend. He was pale with lack of sleep and malnutrition, the ugly crop of boils around his lips especially livid, but helping the priests energised him. It kept him alive.

‘What were they doing? It’s a little late for a patrol.’

‘They were sent down by the masters, to make sure we’re not planning anything. Don’t worry. If they suspected you were here, they won’t say.’

‘Do not underestimate the evils men will do for a small advantage,’ Mathieu said.

Hiven rubbed his jaw. ‘Things aren’t so bad yet. The masters won’t come down here themselves. From what the patrol said, they think it’s beneath them,’ said Hiven. He looked about nervously, though the corridor was deserted, and there was no sign of tampering on the ancient metal to indicate the installation of machine spies. ‘I think there aren’t that many of them. We could resist.’

Speaking about the masters was dangerous. Clydeus felt a fresh stab of fear.

‘There’s no way we can fight them. It does not matter if there are ten or a thousand. Even one of them will slaughter us,’ said Mathieu sternly. ‘I want you to put any thoughts like that far from your mind, Brother Hiven. Do you understand me?’

‘I wasn’t talking about–’

‘You were,’ said Mathieu. ‘The reprisals could be terrible. They would kill hundreds of us, cruelly too, as examples to the rest. Fear is their greatest weapon. Do not provoke them into using it.’

Hiven nodded and shifted his crutch under his armpit. He looked away.

‘Yes, frater.’

‘We must merely endure, until the Emperor sees fit to save us from this unclean bondage.’

‘Yes, frater.’

Clydeus peered down the corridor. It ran for half a mile at least, the spots of illumination cast by isolated lumens fading eventually into darkness. He imagined tall, inhuman shapes lumbering down it, and him with nowhere to go, because the corridor was equally featureless and equally long in the other direction. He wished more than anything that Mathieu would command them to move on. He wanted the day to be over, so they could get to whatever hiding place they were due to sleep in that night.

But their duties were not done. The most perilous part still awaited.

He almost gasped with relief when Mathieu said it was time to go. Mathieu put the plate back in place over the priest hole himself, turning the screws at the corners with a piece of sharpened metal that dangled from a cord at his belt.

‘Come,’ he said. ‘The Emperor awaits us.’

He strode ahead, fearless. The Emperor granted Mathieu great energy. Clydeus prayed daily he’d get a share too. As it was, the relic box felt awfully heavy as he reattached the strap’s hooks to the brass handles, slung the pad around his forehead, and trudged after the priest and the guide.

The storeroom Hiven had chosen for the service was tucked well out of the way behind one of the refectories. Its supplies had been dispersed to the others around the kitchens. There was so little food left on board that it could have been gathered together, and most of the rooms left empty, but the local quartermaster kept a well-ordered system, arranging material by type. It was harder to guard, he said, but easier to account for, and the trust he gave his comrades as they watched it kept up their morale. They didn’t do it like that everywhere, but it worked for them. A side benefit was that they could quickly free up space for the church when the priests came to the sector.

Everything had been moved out, shelves, supplies and all. A simple, folding table had been set up as an altar at one end, and covered over with a plain but clean cloth. On top of it stood a statue of the Emperor. It was a little battered, made of cast resin. Nothing fancy, nothing valuable, but to this particular congregation it was a source of great comfort. It would have meant a painful death to whoever was caught with it. The dangers attached to the effigy only increased the people’s reverence, and the quartermaster showed it to Mathieu and Clydeus as proudly as if he had never shown them before.

Clydeus liked him. He was a kind man. He could have abused his position, being one of the last remaining officers, and one with control over the food at that, but he had instead risen to the occasion, making sure everyone was fed, enabling the services, and keeping people safe as they laboured for their new masters.

Mathieu opened the relic box to get out the candles and went to set them up. They carried their own; they were rare things now. There were a few prayer books in there besides the candles, a couple of holy symbols and Mathieu’s inactive servo-skull. If the box had ever held a relic, it was long before Clydeus’ time. He’d tried suggesting they ditch the box and the skull. To Clydeus’ mind, it would have been much easier to carry their appurtenances of worship in a bag. He’d suggested it once.

It was the only time he had seen Mathieu angry.

It was the skull, Clydeus was sure, not the box. He took out the prayer books and it was revealed. Mathieu had fitted the box with padding to fit the skull as best he could, so it stared up out of the bottom with its hollow, horrible eyes, its few augmetics carefully curled about it. A large ‘HV’ was carved into the bone of the forehead. Clydeus set the books down and let his fingers trace the letters.

Not for the first time, he wondered who the skull had belonged to. Its powercell had given out a while ago and would not recharge. It needed proper maintenance. Whoever the skull had been must have been holy indeed for Mathieu to treat it so. He could have discarded it. He probably should have. At the very least, he could have hidden it somewhere. Emperor knew there were a billion potential places. But the frater insisted on carrying it.

He insists that I carry it, Clydeus corrected himself.

‘Clydeus,’ Mathieu said softly. He extinguished his taper and nodded to the doorway. ‘They are here. Be alert.’

Through the door the first of the congregation came, the shuffling masses of the lower ordnance deck reload gangs. They kept filing in, cramming themselves in so tightly they jolted against the altar. They consumed so much of the oxygen, Clydeus became dizzy. The smell coming off them was powerful, the scent of machine oils, burnt fyceline, brass, the sharp tang of the void even, all laid on the barnyard aroma of people doing their best to keep clean without adequate water.

Mathieu watched them with a father’s indulgence, until the room was completely full. More were in the corridor outside. A hush fell on them, so intense it was as if they were willing their hearts to beat more quietly, so they would not miss a single word. Clydeus glanced at the pathetic collection of prayer books he’d unpacked from the box. There was enough for maybe one in twenty people, and no way of passing them out into the crush.

‘Brothers and sisters,’ said Mathieu. He smiled warmly. To many priests, the words were homilies of no real meaning. To him, they were a literal truth; he saw them all as his family. ‘I come to you with words of comfort, on this, the four hundred and seventy-fifth day of the capture of the Macragge’s Honour, flagship of the returned primarch, Roboute Guilliman. May the Emperor watch over His son.’

‘May the Emperor watch over His son,’ the congregation replied.

And so the service started. They all began that way.

Mathieu and Clydeus’ duties ended with the Indulgence of the Innocent, where the sick and frightened asked the priests for their personal intervention with the Emperor. This lasted a long time, as many of the crew wished to speak. Hiven grew more nervous the longer it went, and by the time it was over he was evidently worried. His broken foot rasped over the deck plates as they made their way out of Gunnery Section Seven into Gunnery Section Six. Although he was of little use in the heavy work of the magazine since his accident, he was fast despite his crutch, using it to swing himself forward at a surprising pace, and Clydeus panted trying to keep up with him.

The patrols were more prevalent during the late watches. Although the battleship was in the hands of the Red Corsairs, for the human crew, the routines of their duty had changed little. Their new masters were crueller, the conditions were worse, and so their suffering was greater, but the shipboard rhythms of work, sleep and sustenance ran on as regularly as they ever did. It was not so long ago that the Red Corsairs had been servants of the Emperor themselves, and they had not yet plunged into the erratic habits of some other Heretic Astartes.

The only element of life that had changed was worship. Where it was permitted at all, the crew were herded into grim fanes to give praise to the Dark Gods, but most of the fallen Space Marines seemed to disdain religion of all kinds, and so long as the crew did not openly praise the Emperor they were left alone, and the time meant for devotion was empty.

That was where Clydeus and Mathieu came in. If they were discovered, they would suffer the most terrible of fates. Mathieu spoke of their probable martyrdom as if he were resigned to it, desiring only to do as much good as he could before the end came. Clydeus swung from utter terror to elation at the thought, and secretly clung to the dream that he would be made a saint.

They were on the move constantly. The nooks and crannies they were forced to inhabit as they brought the Emperor’s Word were terrible places, but some were worse than others.

It was too late to make their next contact, so they spent the dark watches in a gap at the centre of a run of pipes. The space was narrow, and the three of them had to sleep in a row, with Clydeus in the middle. His head was by Hiven’s feet, the relic box was heavy on his stomach, and the pipes were not only uncomfortable, but also knocked and gurgled. He spent the night praying.

‘Make me brave, oh Emperor,’ he said to himself, no louder than his breath. ‘Please make me brave.’

When Hiven roused Clydeus, he was groggy and in foul spirits. The corridor he clambered out into was exactly the same as when he had gone to sleep. He could have been asleep for a few moments or a week for all he knew. There was little to mark the passage of time on board the ship, and although he had been born there, and knew nothing else, it still disoriented him.

Hiven went ahead, meeting with the unofficial leader of the next section, a gunnery sergeant. When he returned, they were taken to perform their next service. There was some disagreement over the location. The crew of the section wanted to hold the worship in a chapel between two of their gun batteries. Hiven said that was far too dangerous, and there followed an argument. Clydeus was too tired to care. All he wanted was to be fed. Food was their wages for bringing the Word.

The sergeant backed down. A new place was found. Clydeus and Mathieu were given a meal, far bigger than the rations provided for the locals. They accepted them gratefully.

The service passed off as they all did: cramped, furtive and hot. Finally, it was over, and they were due to find their next resting spot, when a woman hovering by the door plucked up courage to come forward. Clydeus was packing the box with the candles and the books.

‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘Frater, can I talk to you?’

His heart sank. She had the timorous yet determined manner of all their petitioners, and Mathieu never rejected a genuine call for aid. It was going to be a long night.

He scolded himself. His thoughts were unworthy of the God-Emperor. The priests were there for others. Service to Him on Terra was paramount. His life meant nothing.

‘Remember the Emperor’s sacrifice, brother,’ Mathieu had said to him, more than once. ‘It is far greater than yours.’

‘I am no frater, mistress…?’ Clydeus said.

‘Call me Lyasona.’

‘Yes, Mistress Lyasona.’ He found it hard to look her in the eye. Not only his unworthiness was to blame for that; she was unusually pretty, and he was a bashful mess around women. ‘I am an unordained brother. That’s the frater, him who led the service in praise of our lord.’ He made himself look into her eyes when he pointed to Mathieu. The despair in them sped his heart. He swallowed. ‘Do you need something?’

She nodded.

‘Frater,’ he called to Mathieu, already afraid.

Twenty minutes later he found himself hurrying after Mathieu down a crowded, three-storey habway. Tiny cells led off every level. Grey washing hung between the gallery railings, which were so close two people could have leant out and embraced over the gap. Eyes watched suspiciously from half-open slide doors. He heard children crying, those too young to have learned to be silent.

Hiven had gone off to find a new route to their next stop, as the old one had been closed by decompression. The Corsairs weren’t maintaining the ship as well as the Ultramarines, another thing that suggested their numbers were few. Their neglect was as evident on the fabric of the vessel as it was on the faces of its crew. Clydeus walked quickly to keep up with Mathieu and Lyasona. He heard only snatches of their conversation. All he knew was that there was something wrong with the woman’s son.

They stopped at a closed door that was like all the hundreds of others.

‘This is it,’ said Mathieu. He held his hand out to the door. A terrible chill radiated from the metal. He looked back at Clydeus. ‘Can you feel it? The cold?’

He could. ‘It’s not just cold,’ said Clydeus.

‘No,’ said Mathieu. ‘No, it isn’t.’

He looked to Lyasona. She was very frightened.

‘Can you open it for me?’ he asked. ‘It would be better if you did. Your son must be strong to survive this long, and he will let his mother in. The thing that has hold of him will react badly to us, and the door may not open for me.’

She began to cry as she reached for the handle. Mathieu took her hand in his.

‘Do not fear, sister. We shall do what we can. Even here, the minions of evil have no power to defy the Emperor. He stands by us, always, I promise.’

She did not look convinced, but hesitated. ‘Please, be kind, my boy Grent does not look…’ She swallowed. ‘He does not look like himself.’

She opened the door. An icy wash of air spilled out into the corridor. Clydeus shivered. His breath plumed.

The room beyond was very small, the main feature being four bunks so closely spaced one on top of the other that it would be difficult to roll over without brushing the bunk above. A narrow way passed between the beds and the opposite wall, into which was set four lockers. A small table occupied the tiny amount of space remaining. This had a square of cloth on it, a single lit candle, and an effigy of the Emperor on the Throne scratched into a polished sheet of scavenged metal. The etching was crude, the marks blackened with soot.

Although the lumen in the room was on, there was a darkness that swallowed all the light it cast. Only the table was illuminated, as if the effigy held back the dark, yet the image of the Master of Mankind looked troubled, and His eyes were fixed upon the lower bunk.

The room smelled bad, of sickness and vomit, and something else, deep and sweet and tantalising. Clydeus felt a shameful confusion as his mouth watered.

Mathieu crouched down. Clydeus saw that what he had taken for a bundle of bedclothes was actually a small boy. Mathieu rolled him over, exposing a moon-pale face with a crusted mouth. The boy moaned. Clydeus thought he heard something chuckle behind him, and started. More strange noises came and went on the edge of hearing. Hissing, foreign words, weeping, growling. Mathieu ignored them as he inspected the boy.

‘How long has he been like this?’ Mathieu asked.

‘Three days,’ said Lyasona.

‘How did it begin?’

‘With a fever. One shift change he would not wake.’

Mathieu lifted the bedclothes. The boy was stripped to his undergarments. He was horribly thin. Although the awful cold of the room made Clydeus shiver, the boy was damp with sweat. Mathieu touched his forehead. The boy moaned again.

‘Not the sickness. When did all this start?’ He glanced up. ‘The cold, the dark. When, and how?’

The boy’s mother looked confused. She had obviously not been sleeping much. ‘Two days before his fever. There were noises. Like a rasping on the metal. I heard Grent crying one night, then heard him talking. He laughed. I thought I was dreaming.’

‘Any more sudden changes in temperature, knocking, odd noises, anything up to a week or two before?’ Mathieu bent over the boy, put his ear to his chest, then sat up sharply. ‘Here, or elsewhere in this sector?’

The woman nodded. ‘I heard rumours, talk in the laundry and in the metal reclamation foundry where I work. Moving shadows. Bad dreams. I didn’t believe them.’

Mathieu made a thoughtful noise. He reached into his habit, and pulled out the talisman of the Acronite order. He took it from around his neck, wrapped the chain about his fist, and brought it slowly towards the boy.

It had gone barely an inch towards the child when his eyes snapped open. He gave out an inhuman hiss, and scrabbled to the far side of the bed. Mathieu put away his amulet. The boy’s face cleared.

‘Mama?’ he said. He began to cry.

Mathieu stood. ‘Do not fear, little one. We shall help you.’ He turned to Lyasona. ‘It is good that you came to us. He is afflicted and must be dealt with.’

‘Afflicted? You mean the warp madness?’ Now the woman began to cry. ‘But those with the warp madness are–’

‘No. Not like that. I will not give him the Emperor’s final mercy. The Emperor will help us. We must take him to a holy space. The way chapel your people wished us to use. Is it far?’

Lyasona shook her head.

‘Find me four strong men. I will need rope, and pins to tie them to the deck. Be quick!’

The woman rushed off.

‘Warp madness?’ said Clydeus. ‘He is doomed. No one can survive that.’

Mathieu turned to Clydeus. ‘He is not mad. He is possessed.’

‘Possessed? What do you mean?’

‘By a spirit from the warp. A Neverborn,’ Mathieu said quietly. The boy looked at him sharply and growled.

‘A what?’

‘A malevolent supernatural creature.’

‘Like the devils from the scriptures?’ said Clydeus.

‘A little. There is an echo of the truth in some of the parables. The reality is much worse. They are sometimes called warp xenos.’

‘Then it is not warp madness?’

‘You shipborn call it warp madness sometimes, yes,’ said Mathieu. ‘But is it really madness? There are also visions, and strange happenings, aren’t there? Inexplicable things.’

‘That is witchery,’ said Clydeus with a shudder.

‘Of a sort, but from no human agency. These Neverborn find their way into our world through unguarded minds, and usurp the will of those they take. It’s not surprising it’s happened here, in the Maelstrom. I suppose it was inevitable.’

‘I was born on this ship,’ said Clydeus. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ But he did, deep down. Warp madness, witches – these were convenient excuses. Every shipborn had an idea something was out there, if only from the nightmares they had when the ship sailed the warp. There were rumours. You did not speak of them. Those that did vanished.

‘They were a secret, for a long time, even from voidsmen like you. There are many secrets in this Imperium of ours,’ said Mathieu thoughtfully.

‘Then how do you know?’ said Clydeus.

Mathieu gave him a stern look. ‘I know because the Emperor wills it, Clydeus. Now is not the time for questions. We must work fast if we are to save the boy, and everyone else aboard this ship.’

Men arrived with Lyasona, hooded and masked so they would not be recognised. They wrapped the boy tightly in a blanket and carried him from the habitation quarters, up out onto the main gunnery levels. It was quiet up there, few people about. Only the gun masters were present, sleeping in hammocks strung upon the workings of the enormous macrocannons they were responsible for. The area was out of bounds to most of the ship’s inhabitants. But a few quiet words from Mathieu with the sentries standing guard at the junction of each gallery, and they were allowed through. Clydeus sweated at each challenge. The Red Corsairs were not loved by the crew, but like Mathieu had told Hiven, there were always those ready to curry favour.

The chapel was situated between two batteries. From its wide arches, it was possible to see each way down the rows of silent cannons. It was deathly silent. The chapel had been profaned. The statues of the Emperor had been torn out, and the sacred barred Terran ‘I’ gouged off the metal by machine tools, yet despite the efforts of the enemy, it remained sacred, for as soon as they crossed the threshold, the boy began to thrash and moan. The men struggled to hold him, and cursed.

‘Emperor preserve us, we’ll be heard!’ said Clydeus. ‘The heretics themselves patrol these levels.’

‘It will not matter if we don’t deal with this boy,’ said Mathieu. He directed the men to lay the boy out. They used the power tools of their trades to drive pins and hoops into the floor, and they bound the child’s ankles and wrists to them. The boy was shrieking now. When the men let go of him, he floated up, so that there was a clear few inches between his flesh and the deck. They backed away quickly; what was visible of their expressions under their hoods and masks showed they were aghast.

‘Go, get out of here!’ Mathieu commanded them. They gladly obliged, vanishing down access stairs back into the lower decks.

‘Help me, Clydeus,’ said Mathieu, when they had gone.

‘What do I do?’

‘Hold his head. Get the gag into his mouth, then hold his head fast between your knees to stop the thing inside breaking his neck.’

Grent was growling loudly. They heard the few men in the gunnery halls slipping from their posts and leaving. No one wanted any part of what was happening there, and as much as they feared the ship’s new owners, they feared their superstitions more.

What Clydeus witnessed was no superstition. The boy’s eyes were gleaming with awful power. When he went to put the knotted rag Mathieu had made for a gag into the boy’s mouth, his head snapped around, and his teeth sank deep into the flesh of Clydeus’ hand.

‘Terra’s dry bones!’ he cursed, snatching his hand back. He stood, unsure. His fear getting the better of him.

‘Clydeus, get the gag in, or he’ll lose his tongue!’ Mathieu hissed.

Clydeus moved round the top of the boy’s head. Mathieu knelt on his chest, pushing him back down, though the dark power in the child fought back, and Mathieu was forced to exert all his strength to keep the boy on the floor. He struggled with strips of parchment torn from the prayer books, touching them to the boy’s flesh where they blackened and stuck fast.

Clydeus moved in again with the gag. The boy’s head rolled lazily around, the neck bending at an unnatural angle, until the bone popped. He laughed – an evil, awful sound.

‘Clydeus, quickly!’

But the boy’s eyes had locked with Clydeus’, and something looked out from them. Clydeus felt his soul pulled upon, like he was falling head first into dark waters from which there was no escape. Visions of power filled his mind. He would be a cardinal, loved by billions, confidant of the Emperor, desired by women, wealthy beyond the dreams of the greediest lord…

‘Clydeus!’

Clydeus shook his head. That was not service, not to Him. It was service to himself. Shame buried his terror.

‘Emperor shield me,’ he said. He pinned the boy’s head between his knees and forced the gag into his mouth.

‘Good, quickly, put your hands on his chest. Repeat my words. This is an old ritual, but it will work only if our faith is strong. Now.’

Mathieu lifted his head, closed his eyes, then began to recite.

‘Oh Emperor, who sits in judgement of us all.’

‘Oh Emperor, who sits in judgement of us all,’ Clydeus repeated.

‘See this most innocent of your servants, see his suffering, see his utility to you, and in your mercy cast out from his flesh the daemons of the warp.’

Clydeus recited the words.

‘Scour from his mind the unholy touch of the unborn, the not born, the never to be born. Free his soul from their clutches. Lift his mind into the light of your mercy.’

The boy bucked and snarled. The gag began to smoulder. The parchment curled. Clydeus goggled. The boy’s eyes were yellow, alive with hatred, the light they cast painful to see. Now he saw a billion torments, things no man could live through, and yet Clydeus lived to experience them all…

‘The words, Clydeus!’ Mathieu said. ‘Now! Look at me!’

‘I–’

‘Don’t look into his eyes!’

Clydeus tore his gaze away, and repeated the words quickly, his tongue tripping over them. The possessed child writhed.

‘It’s working! It’s working!’ Clydeus said.

‘Concentrate! The holy words only! Cast out this beast!’ Mathieu shouted.

‘Cast out this beast!’ Clydeus repeated.

‘Cast out this beast!’ Mathieu said again.

‘Cast out this beast!’ Clydeus said. They sang their words now, their voices matched in harmony, and a sense of purity grew around them, pushing out from the walls, of the chapel, passing through Clydeus so that he gasped at the touch. The light pressed down, containing the vileness pouring out of the boy, sealing it away, and driving it to extinction.

‘Cast out this…’

The boy’s struggles took on new levels of violence. The daemonhost ripped out one of the pins restraining his arm, punching Mathieu full in the face. The older priest fell back. Grent twisted around, and burst free from his remaining bonds. Small hands grabbed Clydeus’ habit, and with monstrous strength flung him aside.

Clydeus scrambled up in time to see the boy stand, and he was no longer a boy. His back was hunched. His spine rippled under his skin as his shoulders rose up, becoming huge and powerful. His legs grew, his feet warped, until he was stood upon elongated toes, like a canid balancing upon its hind legs. A muzzle pushed out from the face. His ears became huge and pointed, ribbed with nodules of bone. The gag burst into flame and the daemon wolfed down the ashes.

‘You are too late, priest,’ the beast said. ‘I am coming. I clothe myself in flesh. All souls here will be mine. Verily, shall I feast upon the sweetmeats of your spirits until I am sated, and I shall save yours for last.’

A part of Clydeus collapsed then inside. He had no courage, he had no confidence, and he was sure he would run, or fall to his knees and plead for his life.

He did neither of those things. He might have no courage, but he did have faith, and it armoured him, and lifted him up, so that he felt exultant. As parts of his mind fell away into darkness, they left his faith uncovered, a bright and shining pillar of adamantium, strong as a fortress, and he knew then who he was.

He was a servant of the Emperor, and he would suffer no daemon.

‘No!’ he said. ‘No! No! No!’ He drew out his icon from his habit, and advanced on the daemon. It had not yet consolidated its hold on the boy’s body, and the flesh moved uneasily between the new form and the old.

‘By the grace of the Emperor, who protects all men, I command you begone! Leave this child of Terra, back where you came!’ He was making it up as he went, shouting out whatever came into his mind. But the words were not important. His faith was. He felt the God-Emperor at his side. He felt His presence. He saw His light.

Mathieu got to his feet, and he spoke too. Together, they forced the daemon back, as light poured from the very stuff of the air about them. The daemon shrank. Its flesh ran, turning from diabolical beast back to small boy, until with a clap of thunder it was done. A black shape screamed up from Grent and passed out through the hull.

Grent collapsed. But the light did not go out.

Clydeus turned to Mathieu, and fell to his knees at what he saw.

‘Oh, my lord, oh, my Emperor!’ he said, burying his face in his hands, but still he could see.

An aura glowed silver all around Mathieu. A halo of gold surrounded his head. In his mind Clydeus saw a tumult of images, of war, and death, and victory.

He looked up, and had the impression of someone standing behind Mathieu. Clydeus could not see his face. He was a shape in the light. But he saw a hand rest briefly on Mathieu’s shoulder, and with a moan of holy ecstasy the older priest collapsed. Eyes looked from the light as it faded. Words that were not words growled through the fabric of the chapel, making the metal shake, and Clydeus knew what he must do.

With a great boom, the light went out, and Clydeus stood agape.

He heard a hue and cry far off down the halls. Alarms were raised, and voices. He did not have much time.

He went to Mathieu and shook him.

‘Get up, frater! Please wake, you must return the boy.’

‘The Master, the Master of Mankind,’ murmured Mathieu.

‘I pray it was He,’ said Clydeus. ‘Oh, how I hope! Please, master, you must get up.’

Clydeus helped the frater to his feet, then helped him gather up Grent, placing the unconscious child’s arms around Mathieu’s neck.

‘You must leave.’

‘Where are you going?’ said Mathieu.

Clydeus smiled. ‘Nowhere. They are coming.’ He looked down the gallery, to where lights danced in the dark, and the sound of armoured feet rang loudly from the deck.

‘Clydeus, they will kill you.’

‘I know, but you will be saved. Did you hear?’ said Clydeus. He was gripped by ecstasy. ‘Did you hear what He said? Did you hear what He wants you to do?’

The pair of them locked gazes. The approaching footsteps got louder. They were only a few hundred yards away now.

‘I heard what He said,’ said Mathieu. ‘You will die a martyr. I will honour you always. Emperor walk with you, Brother Clydeus.’

‘Oh, He does, Frater Mathieu, He does!’

Mathieu slipped away into the labyrinthine service ways. Clydeus sat down cross-legged in the centre of the chapel as the bobbing suit lights of the Heretic Astartes approached, and he gave thanks for his revelation.

They came for him, and they were cruel indeed. But nothing they could do to him before he died made him talk, nor did it wipe the beatific smile from his face.

Brother Clydeus had found his courage.

Mathieu passed down the hab-block corridor, dragging a chorus of whispered prayers behind him. People came to their doors, and on seeing the boy gave open voice to their faith, hidden for so many months now.

He knocked on the door of the boy’s mother. It opened into the wall and Lyasona let out a small cry at what she saw.

Grent stirred, and rubbed at his eyes. ‘Mama?’ he said. ‘What is happening?’

‘Take him,’ said Mathieu, passing the child to his mother. ‘He is well now. His sickness is gone. The Emperor has touched his soul. Cherish him.’

‘Thank you, frater!’ Lyasona said. ‘What can I do to repay you?’

‘Nothing,’ said Mathieu. ‘Service to the Emperor is its own reward.’

‘Then let me feed you at least.’

‘Another time perhaps,’ he said. He retrieved the relic box, put up his hood, and placed the strap around his forehead. ‘Rejoice, sister, our captivity is nearly done. Soon the Angels of the Emperor will come for the Macragge’s Honour and take it to be with the primarch. Then my real work shall begin. The Emperor has called upon me, and I have much to do.’

So saying, Mathieu returned to the dark, and to his service.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Guy Haley is the author of the Siege of Terra novel The Lost and the Damned, as well as the Horus Heresy novels Titandeath, Wolfsbane and Pharos, and the Primarchs novels Konrad Curze: The Night Haunter, Corax: Lord of Shadows and Perturabo: The Hammer of Olympia. He has also written many Warhammer 40,000 novels, including Belisarius Cawl: The Great Work, Dark Imperium, Dark Imperium: Plague War, The Devastation of Baal, Dante, Darkness in the Blood, Baneblade and Shadowsword. His enthusiasm for all things greenskin has also led him to pen the eponymous Warhammer novel Skarsnik, as well as the End Times novel The Rise of the Horned Rat. He has also written stories set in the Age of Sigmar, included in War Storm, Ghal Maraz and Call of Archaon. He lives in Yorkshire with his wife and son.

An extract from Dark Imperium.

The void is impossible for the human mind to encompass.

Within the galaxy mankind calls home there are three hundred billion stars. Around these revolve hundreds of billions of worlds, and the spaces between are crowded by a diversity of objects which defy enumeration. Mankind’s galaxy is but one of trillions of galaxies in a universe of unguessable size. The distances between even proximate astronomical bodies are inconceivable to creatures evolved to walk the warmer regions of single small world.

This is why the void cannot be understood. Not by men, nor by their machines.

The magi of Mars insist on their understanding, but their apprehension can only ever be an abstraction, dead numbers modelled by dead-flesh cogitators. No matter how brutally expanded their minds, men cannot comprehend the majesty of the void.

And when one considers the warp, that nightmare realm skulking behind that of touch, sound and sight, well… any being who claims understanding of that is either deluded or insane, and is in both cases dangerous.

Among the higher races there are those better equipped to grasp their own limitations. They understand that the cosmos is ultimately unknowable; they accept their lack of insight. By comparison, the creatures of Terra are so crude in thought that – in the opinion of these more enlightened civilisations – it is a wonder humanity can understand anything at all.

Humans are beings of short reach. Give them voidships, change their shape by geneforge and augmetic, provide them with weapons of sufficient power to break a star, and the children of Old Earth are still but apes removed from the savannah. And just as an ape’s mind cannot hold an ocean, and the notion of a whole world is inexplicable to it, so a man’s mind cannot hold the void, and the layered infinities of the warp are beyond him entirely.

The Imperium claims a million worlds as its own. It is an empire spread gossamer-thin across the run of stars, its worlds so far removed from one another that it requires the bloody effort of countless men and women to sustain. In the grand flow of history, the Imperium is the greatest galactic empire of its day. To the people who populate it, it is the most powerful ever to have existed.

However, to the uncaring universe, it is nothing, the latest in a line of such realms that stretches back to the days of the first thinking beings, when the stars were young and the warp was calm, and horror had yet to uncoil its tendrils into the material realm.

There are philosophers that argue war is man’s natural state, and to the inhabitants of this era of blood it is a proven hypothesis. War is everywhere. Peace is the dream of a silent Emperor, broken by His treacherous sons.

Those sons continued to fight.

Over the green gas giant of Thessala, two great battlefleets engaged. Titanic energies snapped and blinked in the eternal night of space.

The total efforts of star systems went into the construction of these fleets. Neither was free of the taint of blood, not in their construction – for tens of thousands of lives had been expended in their making – nor in their usage. The resources of planets had been poured entire into the forging of their frames, and the secrets of ancient sciences plundered to bring them to murderous life. Both had been responsible for the levelling of civilisations.

The fleets differed in only two regards. First was in their appearance. One was a gaudy assault on the senses, the other a motley collection of sober liveries. The second and more fundamental difference was in their allegiance. The sober fleet fought for the continuation of humanity’s great stellar empire; the gaudy one was dedicated to its extinction.

The battlefleets pursued each other in a slow dance that broke through Thessala’s rings, hundreds of vessels ploughing gaps through the dust that would take centuries to close. The voiceless lightning of their guns filled the skies of Thessala’s inhabited moons. The lives of millions below depended on the outcome of the battle, but the consequences would ripple much further.

At the centre of this iron storm there was no calm, no eye in which respite might be found. Instead, there was a pair of leviathans: the Ultramarines battle-barge Gauntlet of Power and the Emperor’s Children battleship Pride of the Emperor. Two vessels, forged in a common cause but now implacable enemies, locked together in mortal combat only thirty kilometres apart – no distance at all in void war.

Each was the flagship of a primarch, genetically engineered demigods crafted by the Emperor of Mankind. Aboard the Gauntlet of Power stood Roboute Guilliman, the foundling of Ultramar, the Avenging Son. The Pride of the Emperor was home to Fulgrim – the traitor, the fallen exemplar, the blighted phoenix. Once covered in his Emperor’s blessings, Fulgrim had followed the arch-traitor Horus and pledged his allegiance to ancient dark gods, becoming the herald of perversity.

In fighting for their father, both primarchs were made fathers themselves, though not of princes or strong daughters; through the application of arcane science, they were the sires of two of the Space Marine Legions, mankind’s greatest warriors. The Space Marines were lords of the galaxy, designed to reunite the human race and shepherd it to a glorious future. Instead, they had failed and turned upon one another, and their war had nearly destroyed the Imperium.

Such fury a battlefleet can unleash!

It can cow a world without a shot. It can extinguish the life of a species. Battlefleets are the tools of tyrants, whomever they fight for. Whether their admirals espouse salvation or damnation matters not to the execution of their purpose. Death follows in their wake.

To those participating, a void war seems a terrifying, roiling chaos of violence, but it is the pinnacle of mankind’s destructive ingenuity, a whirl of gigantic explosions where lives are snuffed out by the hundred. In such combat, a single man is nothing; he is but part of the machine of the ship he serves, as essential or otherwise as a steel cog or an indicator lumen. He can do nothing but work his appointed task and pray his life will not end, or if it must end, that it does so in painless disintegration. A single crewman’s task dominates everything, even his fear of death. There is no escape from service. War and his part in it are the totality of his existence.

Yet what is a void war to the timeless deeps of the blackness that envelops all these footling motes of light that sentient creatures battle so earnestly over? A void war is twinkles in the distance. It is silence. It is infinitesimals of matter sparking and dying, scintillas of metal and flesh consumed by transient fires. The detonation of a battleship kilometres long is insignificant to a cosmos where the death of a sun atomises worlds. On a galactic scale, the loss of a warship and ten thousand lives is a nugatory flash outshone by the billion-year candles of the stars.

The inverse is true to a single man. His life is all that matters, for one life is all a man has, and he fears to lose it. Yet he must blindly serve in terror. The universe gives meagre gifts, and it does not care how they are spent.

Over Thessala, mankind fought in a civil war already centuries old. The Emperor of Mankind, a human with the power of a god, had tried and failed to unite humanity’s scattered worlds so that the species might survive the supernatural threat of Chaos. His sons, the primarchs, godlike beings He had created to complete this task, had themselves been corrupted, and half had turned against Him. The Horus Heresy, that war was called. It had ended the Emperor’s dream.

The Heresy was part of a war that had continued for aeons and would continue for aeons still.

To the beings of this galaxy, the war was everything; to the blank gaze of time, it was nothing. And yet, for all humanity’s seeming inconsequence, the children of its greatest son held the fates of two realities in their careless grasp.

Roboute Guilliman remained loyal to Terra. His ship was sternly decorated in gold, so much so that it rivalled that of Fulgrim’s vessel in ornamentation, but whereas the Gauntlet of Power was ornate, the Pride of the Emperor appeared vulgar. Its decoration had been applied with abandon – everything that could be adorned had been adorned. Back when the two ships had fought side by side, its extravagance had not been to the taste of the Ultramarines, who were born of more solemn worlds. Now it was an affront to decency, added to and added to again until tawdry obscured all trace of art. Neglect went hand in hand with this ostentation, and it made the Pride of the Emperor appear ugly. It was a decayed relic from a bygone age, like a theatre from a decadent century left to rot in the rain.

However, the Pride of the Emperor’s ability to mete out destruction remained undiminished. At point-blank range, it traded punishing blows with the Gauntlet of Power as the ships passed slowly alongside each other. Huge cannons flared, exchanging projectiles the size of transit containers. The space between became a deadly thicket of lance beams and laser light. Void shields blurred and sparked with the dissipation of mighty energies. Multi-hued lightning silenced communications and burst sub-systems with their feedback for thousands of miles around. Weaponry capable of levelling cities blinked and flashed on both sides.

Around these metal behemoths, dozens of other ships struggled in cosmic silence, some approaching the size and power of the flagships in their own right. Without exception, those on Fulgrim’s side were the damned ships of the Emperor’s Children. Though Fulgrim had lost his war and his humanity, his Legion yet held some cohesion. On Guilliman’s side fought half a dozen successor Chapters of the proud XIII Legion: the Ultramarines. Dissolution had been the price of faithfulness for the Legion of Ultramar, and though there were strengths in the smaller formations Guilliman had forced upon the Space Marines after the Great Heresy War, there were weaknesses also.

For all their primarch’s famed strategical genius, the loyalists had been out-manoeuvred and caught. Their pursuit of the fallen primarch had become a fight for survival. Three fleet elements of Emperor’s Children had pinned the loyalists into place above Thessala; Fulgrim had turned his flight from Xolco into a devastating trap.

Once, Roboute Guilliman would not have made such an error. Perhaps the dire situation over the emerald skies of Thessala was simple misfortune, and Fulgrim was no ordinary opponent, after all. Should Guilliman fail, history would surely be forgiving, if there were any good men left to write it.

Or perhaps the truth was that rage had clouded the Avenging Son’s judgement. Perhaps, some dared whisper, Roboute Guilliman had allowed his desire for revenge to overtake his reason.

Roboute Guilliman was stretched. Although several other primarchs still stood as champions of humanity, the wounded Imperium looked to Guilliman to save it. Every man has a limit, demigod or peasant, and Guilliman’s burden was the heaviest of all. He was the saviour of humanity.

The Pride of the Emperor heeled over, bringing its portside weapons batteries into better firing arcs. In response, the Gauntlet of Power intensified its barrage, and the void shield covering the Pride of the Emperor’s ventral towers winked out.

Explosions bloomed suddenly across hull plating encrusted with gold and filth.

An opening had been made.

On board the Gauntlet of Power, one hundred of Ultramar’s finest warriors waited on teleport blocks surrounded by buzzing machinery. They comprised fifty of the First Company and fifty of the Second, all garbed in the deep blue of the Ultramarines Chapter. The white helmets of the First Company’s veteran Space Marines, recessed under the cowls of Terminator armour, looked out at hundreds of tech-adepts and mortal crewmen labouring to prepare the Ultramarines’ way through the warp.

The Space Marines of the Second Company were in standard power armour, and were being equipped with tall breaching shields by arming servitors. Their battleplate lacked the sheer thickness of Terminator armour, and the shields, though bulky, would increase their survivability in the close-quarter fighting of the coming boarding.

Ammunition trains rumbled across the deck on plasteel wheels. Smartly uniformed Ultramarines Chapter menials handed out munitions to their masters while the enhanced warriors performed last-minute armour checks on themselves and their brothers. Chaplains strode from platform to platform, hearing oaths and affixing papers to armour with wax that hissed as they were impressed with sacred iron seals. Whether human or transhuman, every member of the Chapter worked with perfect efficiency. Even so, as invested as they were in their preparations, all of them had half an eye on the grand archway leading onto the deck.

The ship shook violently. Alarms blared. Lumens spat sparks and went dark. A section of gantry clanged down from the tangle of struts and pipes that clogged the ceiling high above. The crew continued upon its business with unhurried purpose. Orders were given to reroute power. Emergency teams of armoured voidsmen and specialised servitors began clearing the wreckage. All was restored to order.

Such calm made it easy to forget the punishing fire the ship was under. But there was no doubt that they were losing.

This was not how the battle was supposed to have gone.

From voxmitters studded into the columns and walls, a clipped voice sounded.

‘Shields down on the Pride of the Emperor. Prepare for assault.’ The words were swallowed by the clatter of preparation and tumult of war beating at the ship. They were not repeated, for the superior hearing of the Space Marines caught them all.

A clarion followed shortly, sharp and loud enough to be heard by mortal and transhuman alike. The servants of Ultramar stopped what they were doing and stood to attention.

A towering figure clad in the famous Armour of Reason strode through the archway. On his left hand he wore the Hand of Dominion. Belted at his waist was the Gladius Incandor. The bearer of these weapons was taller by far than the Invictarus Suzerain guard escorting him. He exuded a power and purpose that halted the breath of mortals in their throats.

‘First Captain Andros! Second Captain Thiel! Are your companies ready?’ the giant called.

The two captains crossed the floor to meet their lord. Second Captain Thiel was helmetless in power armour heavy with honours, while First Captain Andros was completely enclosed in a hulking suit of Terminator battleplate. They saluted their father the Ultramarian way, one fist across their chests – the old symbol of unity.

‘My Lord Guilliman! Your veterans await your command,’ said Andros, his voice ringing from the voxmitter set below his helm.

‘We stand prepared, my primarch,’ said Aeonid Thiel. His voice, rich and soft, was unmoderated by machinery. It was not so very long after the Heresy, and Thiel was still young for a Space Marine, though his face was lined with cares.

Guilliman looked down upon his captains resolutely. The primarch overtopped even Andros in his massive Terminator armour. He was a living god, humanity’s might captured and moulded as flesh.

Thiel gazed back, seemingly unable to take his eyes from the face of his gene-sire. Thiel was a good warrior, tested in battle many times, unafraid to voice his mind and modest enough to hide the love he had for his lord, but it shone in his face like a light.

Such devotion they bear me, thought Guilliman, even as I fail them.

There were so few of his original Legion left alive, and their replacements were born of a different, less certain era. Thiel’s regard was tempered by long friendship, and he had never lost his rebellious streak. The younger Space Marines were another matter. Guilliman remembered when his warriors had been less reverent. They had been better times.

‘We depart immediately,’ he said, his voice uncompromising. ‘The traitor will not escape again. The warriors of six Chapters stand ready to aid us. We shall not fail. To your stations – prepare for mass teleport.’

‘My lord, we are prepared,’ said Andros carefully. ‘But the enemy will outnumber us greatly. I am concerned for our chances of success. What is the practical action should resistance prove overwhelming? It is Second Captain Thiel’s and my opinion that you should remain here. We shall occupy the enemy, while the Gauntlet of Power withdraws. We cannot–’

The Avenging Son cut Andros dead with a look.

‘Too much blood has been shed on my behalf. I will not shy from this fight,’ Guilliman said, and his tone would brook no disagreement. ‘There can be no retreat until the Pride of the Emperor is crippled. I must face my brother and occupy him while these tasks are done. And if I must fight him, I will kill him, or I will die in the attempt. I cannot let him escape unpunished again. My sons,’ he added, his voice softening, ‘it is the only way to escape this trap.’

Andros bowed his helmeted head. Thiel paused a moment, uncertain, before doing the same. Sure of their agreement, Guilliman took his own helm from a grav-platform pushed by two mortal men. He mounted the teleport platform – stepping directly onto it with no need of the steps that led from the deck – and turned to address his sons.

‘Now, my warriors, let us show my brother the consequences of turning upon the Imperium of Terra!’

‘We march for Macragge!’ they bellowed, and their combined voices were enough to drown out the thunder of battle.

Guilliman’s Invictus Suzerain guard followed him onto the teleport pad. They formed a protective ring around him, their shields and power axes held up in a shield wall in preparation for teleportation directly into the jaws of battle.

To those around him, Guilliman was an infallible leader, his abilities supernatural. Even to the rational Ultramarines, who believed the Emperor of Mankind to be a man and not a god, and likewise His primarch sons, a sense of near-religious awe had crept into their attitude towards him. It had only become more pronounced since the last days of the Heresy.

But Roboute Guilliman was not infallible.

He knew this course of action to be fraught with risk. Andros had been right to raise the possibility of defeat. The primarch only wished he could praise his son for his insight rather than dismissing his concerns. His campaign against the Emperor’s Children had, to all purposes, failed. Fulgrim had the initiative. Guilliman’s choices had been made for him. The pieces were set on the board, there was only one option: they had to withdraw.

Currently, withdrawal was impossible. If the Gauntlet of Power broke off from the fight, then the Pride of the Emperor would inflict massive damage upon the battle-barge. Fulgrim would then most likely attempt a boarding assault of his own once their defences were shattered. Guilliman could not allow his brother to do that at a time of his choosing.

The primarch’s powerful mind had examined all possibilities. His own strategic treatises would have him retreat quickly, forming a fighting rearguard so that he might withdraw those of his ships that he could, minimising the damage to his flagship by sacrificing many of his others. Expending the lives of other men to save his own was not to Guilliman’s liking, especially when he saw a slim chance for true victory. He could not ignore this opportunity to slay his treacherous sibling. Guilliman had come to the conclusion that by defying his own tactical orthodoxies, he might surprise Fulgrim.

It was a slender chance. Fulgrim might well have dropped his ship’s shields on purpose, a mocking re-enactment of Horus’ last gambit to lure the Emperor aboard his ship at the end of the siege of Terra.

Guilliman had his own plans. Several boarding forces with independent but mutually supportive objectives would teleport in simultaneously with his own force. Teams drawn from multiple Chapters were tasked to head for the enginarium, the command deck, the navigatorium, the magazine, the subsidiary command deck and the main gunnery control. If only half of his strike teams were successful, they had a good chance of crippling the Pride of the Emperor from within. His warriors had orders to withdraw immediately once their objectives had been achieved. He would make sure as many survived as possible; he would not let his sons pay the price for his mistakes.

He had to settle the reckoning for his own errors.

Guilliman could not deny he had been hooked and played like a fish. All he could do was struggle free and bite the one who had snared him.

‘Make ready! We go to war!’ he called.

At his signal, the machines of the teleport deck hummed into life. Giant reaction columns crackled with immense power, feeding the focusing arrays that would tear open the veil between realspace and the warp. They glowed with painful light. As they shone brighter, curls of materialising corposant were leached from initiation prongs and fed into containment flasks, where it twisted as if alive.

So many of my brothers are dead, fallen to Chaos or lost, thought Guilliman. We assumed we were immortal. We are not. My time must come, but not today. Not at the hands of Fulgrim.

The arcane machineries of teleportation whooped and hummed, the deck vibrating with their activity. The tumult built to a crescendo.

A booming crack and flash of actinic light whited out the teleport deck. Suppressant vapours gushed from wide-mouthed tubes in anticipation of fires from over-stressed machinery. Human armsmen raised their shotguns in case of warp breach and daemonic incursion.

None came. Signal strobes blinked: red, red, red, then blue.

‘Teleport success, teleport success,’ droned a mechanical voice.

The lumens came back on. Corposant flasks emptied to the sounds of half-formed screams. Atmospheric vents drew smoke away, revealing empty pads. Adepts consulted vid screens and paper cogitator strips, and relief crossed their faces at the readouts.

Roboute Guilliman and his warriors were aboard the Pride of the Emperor.

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First published in Great Britain in 2020.
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