MEDUSON

DAN ABNETT

HERE WERE NO surgical lasers available.

A clustered missile strike over Isstvan V had blown out the Ionside' s flank from the lateral exchangers aft, voiding eight deployment bays and the portside apothecarion chambers. The smaller medicae annex on the ship's starboard side was overwhelmed with lifecritical cases. Dying legionaries on stretcher boards were lined up along the hallway.

Shadrak had only lost a hand. He reported instead to a makeshift triage station set up in the forward hold. Most of the staff there were frightened serfs drummed up from the ship's crew. Gorgonson of the Lokopt Clan was the only Apothecary present, the only one that could be spared from the chaos of the medicae annex. He looked at the hand.

'Excise,' he instructed the human attendant waiting nearby. 'Clean down to the forearm bones. Leave some tissue for conjunction and graft. I'll be back to fit the augmetic.'

Gorgonson didn't say anything to Shadrak. There was nothing to say.

No. There was a great deal to say just no words with which to say it.

He treated Shadrak like a piece of broken machinery presented for repair, not as a brother, an old friend or a fellow son of Terra. He didn't even make eye contact. He just moved on to the next case, a battlebrother whose helm had been fused to his cheek by a melta burst.

The human was a young ensign, frecklefaced and redheaded. His anxiety made him seem like a small boy compared to Shadrak's bulk. 'Seat yourself, lord,' he stammered, gesturing to a commandeered suitroom rediner that had a metal service trolley positioned beside it.

Shadrak didn't much care for the term ' lord' . He was a captain, and that word alone was more than sufficient. But he was too tired to correct the serf, too empty. He felt like the tombs of Albia that he had visited as a child: vast and enduring, but long since robbed of the precious things they had once contained.

Using his good hand, he took off his helm and placed it on the deck. Then he unstrapped his weapon belt, so that the harnessed gladius and bolt pistol would not encumber him when he sat. The belt had loops for reload clips. They were empty.

The recliner creaked under his armoured weight. He set his boots on the foot rest, leaned back and placed his ruined left arm on the trolley. It would have been palm up, if he had still had a palm.

The attendant stared at the wound. The hand was missing most of the fingers. It was a bloody mitten of blackened meat, with broken knucklebones protruding like twigs. The wrist was misaligned. The composite ceramite sleeve of Shadrak's ironblack armour was mangled at the cuff, the torn ends stabbing into his flesh.

'Is there pain?'

Truth be told, Shadrak hadn't been aware of any pain not physical pain, anyway. The other pain was too immense, too entire.

Surprised, he answered, 'No.'

'I have no anaesthetic,' the man added reluctantly. 'I have some numbing agents, but resources are so—'

'Just do it,' said Shadrak. His body had autonomically shut down a great number of his neural receptors at the moment of injury. His left hand didn't feel much of anything anymore. It was just a dead weight, like a piece of kit he couldn't unbuckle and remove.

'There are no surgical lasers either,' the serf apologised. Shadrak saw he was wiping a manual bonesaw with a sterile swab. The man's hands were shaking.

Under other circumstances, in other wars, Shadrak would have been amused by the sheer pathos of the situation.

But his capacity for amusement was as empty as the tombs of Albia too.

He sighed.

'You'll never get through the vambrace with that,' he said. The man looked as though he was about to panic. 'Do you have medical training?'

'I am a junior gunnery officer, lord,' the man replied. 'But I have my corpsman certificate.'

Again, the ''lord''…

Shadrak reached over with his right hand, unclasped the elbow guard and let it fall to the deck. Then he unfastened the clamps in the crook of his elbow and midforearm, and tugged the composite plasteelandceramite sleeve off. Parts of the gauntlet were still attached, flapping loose. The buckled wrist seal was impacted into his flesh, and it took a little more effort to wrench it clear. Fluid and flecks of meat spattered the deck.

He stripped away the undersleeve, tearing the fabric. His exposed skin looked as pale as bone, in stark contrast to the mauled mess of his hand.

'How did this happen?' the man asked, eyes wide at the fully exposed damage.

'Horus happened,' said Shadrak.

He rested his arm back on the trolley. The man approached, gingerly, puffing counterseptic onto the wound from a flask, his hands still shaking. He took a grip on the bone saw, and consulted an anatomical diagram he had called up on the display of his dataslate. Shadrak knew that the man was dying to ask what he had meant, but didn't dare.

He rested the saw's serrated edge against Shadrak's flesh just below his torn wrist. The skin was covered in spots of fastdotted blood. The serf swabbed them away, and then made the first draw.

There was pain, of course, but it seemed minor and distant. Shadrak sat back and let it pass over him. He stared at the hold's gloomy roof, into the darkness beyond the hanging lumens. He let his mind fill with memories memories from before the pain. He tried to recollect something as far from it as possible. Before this minor discomfort, before the greater injury of the dropsite, before Medusa, before the Gorgon, before the Great Crusade…

He thought of Terra, and the last years of the Unification Wars. He thought of his first days as a Storm Walker, serving under Lord Commander Amadeus DuCaine in the theatres of Afrik and the Panpacific. Back then, justly proud of their fresh, geneherited might, none of them had known what the Storm Walkers would become, or what revision of structure and loyalty they would have to undergo. And even once they had known, they had embraced it wholeheart edly. It had not been a matter of reformation or repair, though fates knew that the X Legion were especially resilient when it came to repair.

It had been a matter of ascendancy.

It had been a blessing. To be called to your primarch's side, to become one of his. Shadrak had cast off his Terran surname, a mortal vestige that had fallen into disuse anyway, and taken the name Meduson to demonstrate and affirm his allegiance to his in home world.

He had become Shadrak Meduson of Clan Sorrgol, Captain of the Tenth Company. The Storm Walkers of Unification had become the Iron Hands. They had expected nothing but glory in their future.

Even if calamity chanced to overtake the Iron Tenth on the field of war, it would be a glorious calamity in the Emperor's service.

None of them had ever anticipated this inglorious ruin. None of them could ever have imagined such a measure of raw treachery.

None of them could ever have expected this scale of loss and pain.

'I'm sorry,' the man said.

Shadrak opened his eyes.

Despite his clotting factors and vascular shunts, the top of the nolley was running with blood. It was dripping off the edges and making a rectangular, splatterpattern halo on the deck. The flesh of his wrist was marked with several bloody hesitation wounds. When the young serf had finally found some confidence and purpose, he had opened a gash like a gasping mouth, but the bone was barely nicked.

The man's hands were shaking more than ever. 'Your bones are very… very strong, lord.'

Shadrak saw that he was sweating.

'They were made that way,' he replied, sitting up. 'Give me that slate.'

The serf handed him the dataslate, and Shadrak reviewed the anatomical graphic as dispassionately as he might check a mechanical diagram. He made a note of the bone formation, compared it with what remained of his wrist, took note of blood vessels and tendon assembly and paid heed to the recommended link points for structural and neural grafting.

'I'll do it,' he said, handing the slate back. 'It'll be quicker.'

The man slowly offered him the bloody saw, but Shadrak had already leaned over the side of the recliner and drawn his gladius. He set the edge of the blade along the clumsy guide cut that the bone saw had scored, paused, and struck his ruined hand off with a single, swift blow. It bounced off the side of the trolley and landed in the pool of blood on the deck. The serf hesitated, as though he felt it would be polite to pick the severed hand up and return it to Shadrak. Then he remembered himself, dropped the saw, and hurried forward to attend with clamps and wadding.

'If it's going to hurt anyway,' said Shadrak as the man worked, binding the stump tightly, 'it's better that it doesn't linger too.'

Good advice, he thought. Applies to so damned much.

GORGONSON RETURNED AN hour later and inspected the wound.

'Do this yourself?'

'It seemed for the best,' Shadrak replied.

'You're no surgeon,' said Gorgonson.

'Never claimed to be. But your man there was intent on whittling me down until I was nothing but a spinal column and a rictus.'

Gorgonson frowned. 'We're doing the best we can, given the circumstances.'

'Well, he made more of a mess of me in ten minutes than the damned Sons of Horus could manage in a week.'

Gorgonson glared at him. 'Don't even joke,' he hissed. 'Damn you, Shadrak. Don't even say the words aloud.'

'You don't think I'm angry?' asked Shadrak. 'I'm beyond rage. I'm in another place entirely. White heat and boiling blood. I'm going to butcher and burn every one of the bastards. Give me my new hand so I can get on with it.'

Gorgonson hesitated. They had known each other for twentyfour decades. Like Shadrak, Goran Gorgonson had been a Storm Walker, a son of Terra. They had fought through the Unification Wars side by side. At their ascendancy, Goran had elected to join Lokopt, the clan that most remembered and celebrated the Terran aspect of the founding. But he had changed his name to Gorgonson in honour of the primarch.

'Anger's not going to get us anywhere, earthbrother,' Shadrak said quietly, 'except deader than we are already.

Anger's a blindfold, a fool's motivation. I reserve it only for killing blows. We need cool heads and clear minds. This is survival, repair, rebuilding. Terra only knows, we're good at repair we excel at it, so this should play to our strengths.'

'They're calling a council,' said Gorgonson.

'Who's they?'

'The clanfathers.'

'A clan council?' Shadrak asked. 'What in Terra's name for? This isn't a matter of bloodline and heritage.'

'Isn't it?'

'The clanfathers are proposing to assume command? Collective command?'

'I suppose so. In the absence of…' Gorgonson paused. There were words that were going to be too hard to say, names that were going to be too hard to utter. 'The clanfathers take control, for now. Isn't there comfort and assurance in that? They are veterans who understand—'

'A clan council is the last thing we need,' said Shadrak. 'Command by committee? Pointless. We need positive, singular leadership.'

'I didn't know you had aspirations of command,' Gorgonson remarked.

Shadrak thought about that for a moment. The notion came as a surprise.

'I don't,' he replied. 'I've never considered it. I just know we need something now. Someone. We're dead without it.

Just a shattered rabble.'

Gorgonson sighed. 'Any Apothecary, even the best of us, will tell you that you can graft on a new hand, but you can't graft on a new head.'

'Then we'll have to learn how,' said Shadrak.

A servitor beside Gorgonson was holding the augmetic on a tray.

'Nothing fancy,' said the Apothecary, reaching for a scraper and a neurofuser. 'I have no juvenat packing left either, so you'll have to let it bond by itself. Don't test it. It'll be weak. For months, probably. Let it bed in and heal.'

Shadrak nodded.

'Just fix me up,' he said. 'I'm sure I'll have many weeks of calm and leisure to get the healing done.'

Gorgonson started working. 'Is he dead?' he asked quietly.

'Yes.'

'You know this?'

'Amadeus told me,' said Shadrak. 'It was confirmed from the surface.'

'Lord Commander Amadeus is dead too,' murmured the Apothecary.

'Yes. I saw it. But his word lives. The Gorgon is dead, and our stepfather Amadeus is gone too. So we can lie down and die with them, or we can learn to graft heads.'

IT TOOK EIGHT weeks for the Council to assemble. That meant eight more weeks of running. The Gorgon's martial policy had always been to fight and move on, but this was not the sort of moving on that Shadrak approved of.

They gathered at Aeteria, a lonely rock of sulphurous waste and tainted pink skies on the edge of the Oqueth Sector.

Twentynine ships hung low in the heavens, including two Salamanders vessels and three Raven Guard. They seemed ghostly, like dark thunderheads behind the wispy banks of cloud. They were survivors of Isstvan, all of them.

It wasn't much of a council. Only five clanfathers were present. The fate of the others was unknown, though intelligence data reported that the forces of the Iron Tenth had scattered after the massacre, put to rout. Many of the Raven Guard and Salamanders had fled too. Purgefleets of the Sons of Horus and the Emperor's Children were reported to be razing system after system in an effort to obliterate any survivors before they could regroup. No reliable figures were available, but it was possible that all three Legions had been reduced to mere thousands.

'We have been… shattered,' said Lech Vircule, ClanFather of Atraxii, rising to his feet. They had gathered in the courtyard of a ruined monastic structure, built in the Age of Strife and abandoned, like Aeteria, generations before. The lonely walls echoed his words.

'But not broken,' answered the ClanFather of Felg, Loreson Unfleshed. 'There will be others, like us, meeting in secret as we do now. We are disconnected, but not lost.'

Vircule shrugged.

'We cannot regroup or coordinate,' he said. 'Lines of communication are cut or disadvantaged. No one dares show himself or attempt an open signal. With the traitors abroad in force, any glimpse of us will result in unstinting prosecution.'

'Our structure allows for this, lord father,' said Augos Lumak, a captain of Clan Avernii. He was one of the few members of the genesire's favoured to have made it out of the massacre alive. 'Our clan structure, as ordained by the Gorgon, will serve us well. Independent units of command, interlocking. We can survive, by dint of our individual commands, and reassemble.'

The Atraxii clanfather nodded. 'That is to be hoped. Only when unified can we turn and fight back.'

'Then we will never fight back,' said Shadrak Meduson.

There was a silence, filled only by the moan of the wind across the lagoon.

'You spoke, captain?' said the fleshspare Loreson.

'Quite clearly, lord father,' said Shadrak. 'The accursed Warmaster, may fate smite him, will not give us grace to regroup.'

'We do not need his grace.' The clanfather's voice was a synthetic growl. 'Or his permission.'

'As he did not need our grace or permission to slaughter us, and to murder our genefather and stepfather alike,'

said Shadrak. 'We are not alone in this. Salamanders and Raven Guard stand with us.' He gestured to the ranks of the other Legions present. 'Our brothers of the Eighteenth and Nineteenth follow different martial philosophies. We could learn, learn mutually. We could learn to fight in new ways, marry the iron force of the Tenth to the stealth of the Nineteenth and—'

'Our brothers of the Eighteenth and Nineteenth are welcome here,' said Vircule of Atraxii.

'Our losses match yours in scale and grief,' said a Raven Guard captain named Dalcoth. 'We must combine resources

—' 'You are welcome here,' Vircule repeated, cutting him short.

'But our words are not?' asked Dalcoth. There was a bitter grin on his lips.

'In time, of course,' said Karel Mach, the ClanFather of Raukaan. 'But this is clan council business and words. Our way of war is not yours, sir. We will not stoop to sly hitandrun tactics.'

'Stoop?' asked one of the other Raven Guard officers.

'I meant no insult.'

'On the flight here, we spent time discussing operational needs with your captains,' said Dalcoth. 'Meduson of Sorrgol agreed with my proposal that a hybridisation of tactics might avail us of—'

'Captain Meduson should know his place,' said Vircule.

'He was not the only officer of the Tenth who thought so,' said Dalcoth.

'But I was the loudest, so I speak for the notion here,' said Shadrak.

'Eight weeks aboard the survivor ships, crammed in with brothers from other Legions. Of course we talked. It is selfevident that—'

'Know your place, Meduson,' said the ClanFather of Atraxii more firmly. 'Know your place, Terranborn.'

'I know my place well enough,' said Shadrak. 'It appears to be somewhere on a sulphurstinking waste at the end of the galaxy. Any delay is going to weaken us further. We are not, and we will never be, what we once were. The Raven Guard are ready to fight. Guerrilla tactics, if necessary.'

Dalcoth nodded.

'The Salamanders too,' said Shadrak.

Nuros, the most senior legionary of the XVIII Legion present, nodded in turn.

'This is clan council business,' said Loreson Unfleshed.

'It would seem that the Council does not know its business,' replied Shadrak. 'When we lose in war, we are returned to the enclaves and are rebuilt. We are made better than we were before. But that luxury is not open to us now. When we lose on the field, away from an enclave, what do we do?'

'We repair as best we may,' said Karel Mach. 'Battlefield fixes. We make the best of the resources available to us.'

'That is our situation now,' said Shadrak. 'And what is available to us? The good brotherhood of our fellow Legions.

The chance to learn, to alter ourselves, and to remake ourselves in ways that the traitors are not expecting.'

'Enough!' barked Jebez Aug. Aug was an Iron Father of the Sorrgol Clan, hailing from Medusa. With his venerable status came great influence. 'You shame our clan with your outspoken remarks, Terranborn.'

'I speak only with respect,' said Shadrak.

'You have shown the Council precious little respect,' said Aan Kolver, the ClanFather of Ungavarr.

'Indeed, because you have warranted none,' said Shadrak. 'I speak with respect to our genesire.'

'Escort the captain from this place immediately,' said Vircule to Aug. 'He needs time to level his head and dull his tongue.'

'WHAT ARE YOU playing at?' Aug asked. Shadrak could feel the Iron Father's anger radiating out like a force field.

They stood on the caustic shoreline of the sulphur lake. Acid vapour swirled like battlefield smoke.

'What? We bite our lips now? Even now, in this predicament?'

'Sorrgol has no clanfather here,' said Aug. 'You shame us in the company of—'

'I shame you?' Shadrak shook his head. 'Is that really what matters now? The shame of speaking out? Fates above, we are shamed enough! The clan leaders are groping around, trying to recover something we have lost forever. By the time they reach a decision, we will be discovered and slaughtered. Or if they reach a decision, it will be the wrong one, and we will be slaughtered anyway!'

'We need unification, Shadrak,' said Aug. 'For morale alone.'

'I agree. But under one warleader, with one purpose.'

'One leader?' Aug laughed bitterly. 'Who?'

'You, perhaps?'

Aug spat and looked away.

'No one wants it,' said Shadrak. 'None of us. Not a single captain, not a single Iron Father. That's why the clanfathers have taken the lead. They are projecting a sense of security, of unity, through our blood heritage. A reassurance in this time of loss through the bonds of fraternity. But it's a group decision, so that no one shoul ders the burden alone. No one bloody wants it! That's why no one has stepped forward and called the rally around him.' He looked at Aug. 'No one wants to be seen as trying to replace the Gorgon. No one wants to replace Amadeus DuCaine. No one wants to be seen as that impertinent or disrespectful. I understand it.'

He paused.

'But we need to raise the storm again. No one wants the command. No one wants to appear so arrogant as to imagine that he can assume the primarch's role. But it's not a matter of want, or pride, or vainglorious ambition. It's a matter of necessity.'

'This talk will get you killed, Terranborn,' said Aug.

'No!' Shadrak snapped, pointing towards the monastery. 'That talk will get us killed.'

He lowered his hand. The augmetic graft had not fully healed and still ached abysmally. The violence of the gesture had jarred it.

'I have it on good medical authority that you can't graft on a new head,' he said.

Jebez Aug uttered a dry laugh. He shifted his fleshspare frame and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 'You don't need to be a medical authority to know that,' he replied.

'I'm not suggesting that anyone pretend to be the Gorgon. I'm not proposing that anyone presumes he can command as well as Ferrus Manus, or attempt to be such a master. I am simply talking about focus of authority. One mind, one will, one iron drive strong enough to compel us for long enough to…'

'To what?'

'Do what needs to be done.'

'Which is what? Survive?'

'No.' Shadrak looked out over the misted lake. 'You can't graft on a new head, but you can cut off an existing one.'

He turned to the Iron Father. 'We need to focus long enough to get Horus. To cut off his head. We decapitate the traitors.

We do to them what they did to us. We shatter them, and scatter them to the winds. We end this treachery.'

After a moment, he added, 'Then we can die, for all I care.'

EMBARKATION HAD BEEN ordered. Stormbirds and lifter ships rose from the surface of Aeteria and soared up to the waiting warships.

Shadrak had been posted to the strike cruiser Iron Heart. They were to escort the flotilla's flagship Crown of Flame.

Iron Father Aug gathered the officers of Clan Sorrgol while the ship prepared to make way. The clanfathers had instructed the respected veteran Aug to take command.

'I believe we have Meduson to thank for this,' he said.

'What have I done now?'

'Our clan has the weakest numbers after Avernii,' said Aug, 'so we have been told by the Council to absorb the overspill into our formations. We are to coordinate with the Salamanders and Raven Guard squads as they are brought aboard, too.'

'So we are bastardised while the other clancompanies stand more or less intact?' asked Captain Lars Mechosa.

'No one's intact,' whispered Shadrak.

'I'd ask you to watch your words, brother,' Augos Lumak said to Mechosa. 'You absorb my Avernii too. Do we make you bastards?'

'No, you make us fatherless,' snarled Mechosa. 'Where were the favoured Avernii at Isstvan? Saving the Gorgon?

Why, no! They were dying at his feet.'

'Damn your eyes!' Lumak cried, rising from his seat.

'Sit down, Lumak!' Aug shouted. 'Captain Lumak of Avernii! Sit yourself down! This clanunit is mine to command.'

'Then bring your foulmouthed dogs to heel, Iron Father!' Lumak snapped. 'If you expect me to recognise your authority, then you damned well better exercise it and put Mechosa in his place.'

'Captain Lumak—'

'Or I'll do it,' Lumak added.

'Oh, really?' replied Mechosa. 'I would love to see you try, you toothless cur.'

Lumak reached for his sword, but another hand clasped over his before he could draw the blade.

'Don't, Lumak,' said Shadrak through gritted teeth. 'I mean it. Don't.'

'Let go of me,' said Lumak, looking Shadrak in the eye.

'Yes, let him go!' mocked Mechosa. 'I yearn for some sport.'

'Do not unsheathe your blade,' Shadrak whispered into Lumak's face. 'Not in here. Not like this, against a brother.

Once it's drawn, it can not be put away.'

'You Sorrgol bastards,' growled Lumak, 'covering for each other, dishonouring the—'

'My loyalty to Clan Sorrgol becomes more frayed with each passing hour,' said Shadrak. 'I would rather cut it and cast off my chosen name of Meduson. I would go back to my Terran birth name. My loyalty is only to the Tenth, and to the memory of the Gorgon.'

'Then unhand me,' said Lumak.

'We're in the middle of a civil war against traitor Legions,' said Shadrak slowly. 'Is this really time to start another one, inside our own?'

He looked at Mechosa.

'Apologise,' he said, 'right now.'

Mechosa looked down and hesitated.

'Civil war is the greatest crime humanity has known,' Shadrak said to him. 'Brother betraying brother? The very thought sickens me. What about you, Mechosa? Or are you of that disposition too? Do you find it a matter of nothing to draw arms against your own?'

Mechosa looked up, his eyes burning brightly. 'Damn you, Shadrak,' he said.

'Already good and damned,' Shadrak replied. His grip on Lumak's sword hand had not diminished.

'I'm no traitor,' said Mechosa.

'Then stop acting like you're about to become one,' said Shadrak.

Mechosa cleared his throat.

'Brother Lumak, I apologise for my words. We have endured too much. Tempers are weak… Ahh, I make no excuses. There was no call for that.'

Lumak looked at Shadrak. 'Unhand me, brother.'

Shadrak released his grasp. Lumak let go of his sword grip, walked around the table and offered his hand to Mechosa.

'I would that all of Avernii had died, and more besides, if we could have saved the genesire,' he said. 'You were not there. You did not see. We did not shirk. We gave all we could. It was not enough. That fact will haunt me until the day I die, surrounded by the butchered corpses of traitors.'

Mechosa took his hand.

'I do not doubt it. I would gladly join you in that death.'

Shadrak sat down as the officers retook their places. His graft throbbed from the effort of keeping Lumak's hand in place.A thin thread of watery blood sobbed from the cuff of his armour.

A FIST THUMPED on the outer hatch. Shadrak rose, rebinding the bloodsoiled wrap around his wrist. He was stripped to the waist, his torso and shoulders showing a hundred old scars. His flesh was inlaid with augmetic circuitry.

On his right side, his entire ribwall was an augmetic plate grafted to his fleshspare bone. That had been part of him since the Battle of Rust.

'Come!' he called.

His quarters were small and cluttered. Space was limited on the Iron Heart.

The hatch opened with a scrape of metal on metal, and Jebez Aug stepped inside.

He looked around.

'Your chamber is no better than mine,' he remarked.

'What do we need more than a deck to sleep on?' asked Shadrak.

Aug smiled. 'I sleep standing up.'

'Are we underway?' Shadrak asked. He knew that they were. He had felt the yawing slip of translation an hour before. His question had been a soft way of asking where they were going.

Aug nodded.

'I need a Hand Elect,' he said, cutting right to it.

To recompense Aug and Sorrgol for becoming a bastard clan, the Council had declared him acting warleader of the fleet under their uithority. In practice, this simply meant he was responsible for the clanfathers' protection. But however compromised a warleader's role was, a warleader always needed a reliable deputy.

'You're asking my advice?'

'I considered Mechosa, of course, because of his record, but he's an illtempered brute.' Aug paused, and idly scratched the back of his shaven head. 'I also considered Lumak, as a gesture of good faith towards the Avernii. After today's altercation, I can't favour one without offending the other.'

He looked at Shadrak.

'By the way, my thanks for that,' he added. 'You defused a bad moment.'

'I spoke my mind, Iron Father. That's all.'

'As a Hand Elect should.'

'Me?'

'Yes, sir, you, sir.'

'No one likes me,' said Shadrak.

'One of your most appealing qualities. You have been pretty blunt about your demand that somebody steps up and take the reins of authority.'

'Yes, but not me. I have no ambitions above line command.'

'Wasn't that your very point?' asked Aug. 'No one wants the responsibility? The Gorgon's gone, and none of us want to suggest we could take his place.'

'Yes.'

Aug sat down on the cot.

'Shadrak, you're Terranborn. That means that we Medusans, no matter how brotherly we are, either think you're superior because you were genereared before us, or dismiss you as not actually Medusaborn truestock. You favour the welfare of the Salamanders and the Raven Guard more than most. You seem to understand them and liaise with them better than others. You speak your bloody mind all over the place. The clanfathers despise you. And you're the only man I know who seems to have a clear and singular vision of what we should be doing.'

'Which is?'

'Focusing command and killing that bastard Horus.'

'So you were listening to me.'

'Shadrak… for the dubious reasons I've just enumerated, you seem to me to be the wisest choice. I can't think of a better Hand Elect, not when it comes to helping me keep what's left of this clan in line.'

'I suppose the Hand Elect would get a privileged look at our line orders?'

Aug reached into his thigh pouch and produced a dataslate. He tossed it to Shadrak, who caught it, instinctively, with his left hand, and winced.

'What's the matter?' asked Aug.

'Graft's still healing. The augmetic's fine. The flesh is weak.'

He speedread the slate's summary.

'Several aspects of this I don't like already,' he said.

'I knew you wouldn't,' said Aug.

'Can I consult the other Legions? Share this with them to get tactical feedback?'

'My Hand Elect can do just as he damn well pleases,' said Aug.

DALCOTH, NUROS AND their seniors slapped their fists to their breastplates as Shadrak entered the chamber.

'No need to salute,' he said.

'I think there is,' said Nuros softly. 'You are the Hand Elect. Discipline and respect remind us we're not dead.'

They took their seats around an oval table. Shadrak placed the dataslate in front of him.

'You've seen the data,' he said.

'Troubling,' said Dalcoth.

'Enlighten me.'

'You know already,' said Nuros.

'Doesn't hurt to hear someone else say it.'

'Your clanfathers are all transiting together on the Crown of Flame.'

'The Council stays together,' says Shadrak.

'And forms one nice, big target,' said Dalcoth. 'Idiocy.'

'Clan council business and clan council words,' said Shadrak. 'They are collectively our leadership, now. No one has preeminence. They stay together. Consider them as one being our leader.'

'And one big target,' Dalcoth repeated.

'How did the Tenth ever conquer worlds?' asked Nuros.

'Brute force,' said Shadrak. 'And rigid discipline. It served us well. Superbly well. But we always had the Gorgon and DuCaine to remind us when to break the rules. Now we haven't got the numerical strength to deliver any great degree of force, and we're hidebound by the traditions of our Legion. The clan council has always gathered in times of need, to maintain a sense of union and solidarity, especially in the absence of the primarch or the lord commander. I think the custom was all well and good when those absences were temporary.'

'Your Legion must unlearn their old ways,' said Nuros.

'I know.'

'Or one of you must step up,' Dalcoth added.

'Jebez Aug has been named as warleader for this endeavor,' said Shadrak.

'An honorific only,' said Nuros. 'That is, if I understand the obscure and shifting lines of allegiance and fealty within your Legion. Jebez Aug answers to the clan council. He is only as much of a warleader as they will let him be.'

'I know that too.'

'You should also know,' said Dalcoth, 'with respect, I'm not sure how long the Eighteenth or the Nineteenth can stay with the Tenth Legion formations while this attitude prevails. Singular vision of war leadership is essential, even if it is then divided between autonomous splinter fleets.'

'A council can only advise,' said Nuros. 'It can't command. How long will it take them to reach any tactical decision in the heat of combat?'

'Longer than usual,' said Shadrak. 'No one wants to make the call. Unless we can learn to graft heads back on.'

'What?' asked Dalcoth.

'Nothing. No matter.'

'Let's move on,' said Nuros.

'Oh, let's,' agreed Shadrak.

Dalcoth tapped the slate's screen. 'And this is what we're doing? This is our undertaking?'

Shadrak nodded. 'Subvox communiques have been received. Coded. Iron Tenth battlecant. There's an Iron Hands flotilla waiting in concealment in the solar shadow of Oqueth Minor. They have Raven Guard forces with them. They're awaiting reinforcement. We're moving to join them. Council's orders. United, we'll form a reasonably serious battlegroup.'

'If I was Horus,' said Dalcoth, 'and I was hunting the remnants of my enemy, I'd want to lure them out of hiding. I'd pretend to be a friend and call for help.'

'Is that Raven Guard tactics?' asked Shadrak.

'Sometimes.'

'Do the traitors know Iron Tenth battlecant?' asked Nuros.

'Why should they?' asked Shadrak.

'Why wouldn't they?' asked Dalcoth. 'We study each other. We all do it. We observe the strengths and weaknesses of our fellow Legions. You can be sure as hell the traitors have done it. How else did they overwhelm us so entirely at Isstvan? We trusted them, and they were right inside our commnets.'

'Fulgrim and your genesire were good comrades of old,' said Nuros quietly, 'as close as any brothers. There was trust there. But Fulgrim cut off the head of Ferrus Manus without a moment's hesitation. By comparison to that foul act, how little do you think he would have agonised over stealing your ciphers?'

'So this is a trap?' asked Shadrak.

'No,' said Dalcoth. 'We're saying it could be a trap.'

'I invite your recommendations,' said Shadrak.

'IF IT COMES to a boarding action, or a counterboarding response, we'll do it the old way,' said Jebez Aug. 'Tubes.

Launches. Shiptoship teleportation requires a vast expenditure of power, and it's notoriously unreliable. We're likely to lose a fifth of our forces to an unsecured teleport during combat.'

'Don't worry,' muttered Shadrak, 'they'll mainly be Raven Guard.'

'Your humour grows ever darker, brother,' said Aug.

'Are we going to employ their expertise or not?'

'The clanfathers will never approve it.'

'They don't have to. You have command. This ship is yours. You are the acting warleader.'

'Is this the true advice of my Hand Elect?' asked Aug.

'You'd better hope so,' replied Shadrak.

Aug pursed his lips, and then nodded.

'Good,' said Shadrak. 'Next, tighter field control on the shields.'

'Useless against longrange fire.'

'But perfect for close quarters, which is what this is going to be if it happens. Next, all ship munitions set for impart detonation rather than timed or ranged. Next...'

SHADRAK HAD NEVER even made it onto the surface of Isstvan V. The clancompanies of Sorrgol had been in the second line with Amadeus DuCaine, an orbital reserve for the Gorgon's main assault.

They had seen the horror blossom across the world below in disbelief. Then it had become a frenzy first to extract any of their brethren still alive, then simply to fight their way clear. Ships had flamed out all around them. The heavy killships of the IV and XVI Legions had come in gunning, raking their way across the orbital line.

The Ionside's escape had been stalled by the cluster strike across her port side. With the drives offline, they had been boarded. The Sons of Horus had poured in through the breach, hungry to take the killing to a personal level. They had fought in corridors where the decks were streaming with blood. They had fought in voided compartments where the space around them was full of spinning debris and wobbling bubbles of gore and fluid.

Shadrak made war with a bolter in his right hand, and a gladius in his left. His aim had always been better righthanded, his speed and strike superior with his left. That was where his strength and dexterity lay.

He'd just emptied the last of his boltrounds through the faceplate of an enemy legionary when the plasma blast mutilated and cooked his left hand. He had picked up his fallen gladius and fought on righthanded.

Not long after that, the frantic teams of enginseers had relit the cruiser's drives and, with a series of desperate and unsteady burns, they had torn free of the enemy ship grappling them.

On the bridge, dripping blood that wasn't all his own, Shadrak had taken the last message from Amadeus DuCaine.

His old friend. His commander from the very start.

'The Gorgon's dead!' DuCaine had yelled at him over the link, the image of him fracturing and breaking up.

'My lord?'

'He 's dead! He's gone! Fulgrim butchered him! They're all dying, Shadrak! It's a bloody massacre! An obscenity!'

'My lord, move your ship clear of the line!'

'Too late, boy! The drive's gone for good. Hull plates are splitting. They're inside with us! Bastard bloody—'

The image had blinked away for a second. Then it had come back.

'—ember Rust!'

'Say again, my lord.'

'I said, do you remember Rust? Fates, you were there! You were one of the first, Shadrak one of my Storm Walkers from the very start! Emperor's bloody own!'

'Yes, my lord.'

'Then don't you forget Rust, boy! Don't you lie down and die! Not ever! You know what kind of horror that hordefight was!

Millions of the greenskin bastards! But we raised the storm. We raised the bloody storm! We prevailed!'

The lord commander's voice had become a brittle screech. Shadrak had not been sure if it was through pain, or the strangling distortion of the vox.

'My lord? Lord Commander DuCaine?'

The image blinked on and off, choppy and broken.

'Raise the storm, Shadrak! Raise the bloody storm, my boy! Tell the Tenth to raise the storm and take every last one of the bastards to hell!'

The image had vanished. The screen had fuzzed with white noise.

Then there had been another, final blink. Amadeus DuCaine was screaming.

'Don't you forget me—'

Dead air.

Off the bow of Shadrak's wounded cruiser, the lord commander's warship had blinked out like a dying commlink, and been replaced by the heat and light of a newborn sun.

TRANSLATING OUT OF the warp, the survivor fleet decelerated towards Oqueth Minor. It was a pale, baleful star.

'Contacts!' the Master of Detection announced. 'Thirty ships!'

'Code match?' asked Jebez Aug.

'Codes confirmed.'

'Of course they are,' muttered Shadrak.

'Profiles?' asked Aug.

'Pattern match. Several types. All Legiones Astartes fleetcraft.'

'Which is in no way an assurance,' Shadrak whispered to the Iron Father.

'Ramp up visual resolution,' Aug called.

'Standby, commander… Hulls read as blackened. Fire damage. No visible insignia or serial numbers.'

'You don't like this, do you?' Jebez Aug said to Shadrak.

'I haven't liked much of anything since my eighth birthday, warleader,' Shadrak replied.

'Is Dalcoth prepared?'

'He is.'

'I'll lead them if it comes to it.'

'No, warleader. That's the Hand Elect's job. Your place is here.'

'Our flagship is hailing,' reported the Master of Vox.

There was a long wait.

'Codes exchanged. Cipher confirmed. Lead ship is identified as the Master of Iron. ClanFather of Borrgos commanding. The Council is greeting.'

Aug tapped his fingers on the console impatiently. 'Come on, come on…'

'Request for our flagship to draw alongside the Master of Iron so that the Council can be united,' reported the Master of Vox. The reuest has been accepted by the clanfathers.'

'Batteries to power?' asked the Ironwrought Master of Ordnance.

'We dare not risk anything so provocative,' replied Aug. 'But ready the mechanical autoloaders. I want all weapons at my discretion inside ten seconds, if it comes to it. You understand me?'

'Aye, sir.'

'The flagship is under our protection,' Aug reminded everyone.

On high resolution, they watched the tortuously slow progress of the Crown of Flame as it drew alongside the Master of Iron, and secured mooring lines and anchors.

'Council is boarding,' advised the Master of Vox.

They waited again.

'Report?' asked Aug.

'Nothing, sir.'

'It's been ten minutes. Report.'

'Vox is dark, sir.'

'There will be ceremonials,' said Mechosa. 'This is a great day, after all.'

Shadrak was about to warn him about tempting fate, but the Master of Vox cut him off.

'Acoustic echoes,' he said, straining at his augmetic ear plugs, one hand clamped to the side of his head.

'Origin?' barked Aug.

'From inside the Crown of Flame. Flattening the signal. I'm trying to wash it to get a clean signature. It sounds like…

cheering.'

'I told you,' smirked Mechosa.

'Cheering,' the Master of Vox repeated, and then halted. 'And gunfire.'

'Arm the batteries!' Aug roared. 'Shields! Ahead half! Battle stations!'

'Contact group is arming weapons!' the Master of Detection yelled. 'Gun ports opening! Their batteries are charging!'

A light licked up inside the Crown of Flame. It stuttered, then grew brilliant, lancing out from every port and launch bay. The flagship began to buckle, as if it was being twisted and wrung out by huge, invisible hands. The hull split and geysers of fire rushed up through the cracks, forming great plumes of burning gas and interior atmospherics.

'Target and fire!' Aug yelled. 'Target and fire!'

The Iron Heart's deck shivered beneath their feet as the main batteries began to spit. The blackened enemy ships were already purring forwards and unloading storms of ordnance. Space lit up in a blinding flicker show.

Close quarters, Shadrak thought.

The rest of the warleader's fleet was firing too. Formation against formation, pointblank in starship terms. The flagship was already dead, a burning ruin slowly tumbling away from the enemy's mooring lines and showering incandescent dust, ash and debris into the void. The cruiser alongside the Iron Heart shuddered and tore open under the enemy bombardment.

'Get us closer,' Aug ordered. 'Gut them!'

'Raise the storm,' Shadrak whispered.

He looked at the main oculus screen and shuddered. Hololithic projectors upon the prows of the approaching enemy ships had lit up, unfurling bright banners of light.

Each one, in gold and red, revealed the searing Eye of Horus. The screen blinked.

'Intercept signal!' the Master of Vox called over the general chaos of voices yelling orders.

'Keep firing!' Aug shouted.

'Intercept, sir!' the Master of Vox repeated.

The screen blinked again. A face appeared. It was cold and expresionless, framed in black armour. There was no mistaking the Cthonian aspect of the features: a true son of Horus.

The vox crackled as the image spoke.

'I am Tybalt Marr,' he said. 'You are declared an enemy without restitution. Your extinction is my undertaking. I offer you a plain choice, in simple respect of our old fraternity. Surrender now, and be rewarded with a swift and relatively painless death , or fight on and receive the most excruciating doom imaginable. You have thirty seconds to answer.' Jebez Aug looked at Shadrak. 'Hand Elect?'

'My warleader?'

'Board the bastard. Bring me his head.'

'Gladly. What are you going to do?'

'I'm going to answer him.'

Shadrak ran to the bridge exit, calling out commands into his voxlink.

Behind him, he heard Jebez Aug open a channel and then begin the most profane stream of invective ever uttered by one of the Iron Tenth.

It was as furious and blistering as the voidwar around them.

THE SHIPTOSHIP FIGHTING was as intense as any that had occurred above cursed Isstvan. There were fewer ships, but they were so closely packed it was as though they were being swept by artillery bombardment from batteries of monstrous guns. Ships burned. Everything shook. Lightbursts bloomed so brightly that they overwhelmed legionary autosenses. Rail guns spat. Laser batteries and hull mounts streamed ropes and stutters of light. Hardround cannons hosed shell loads into shields and hulls, or countermeasured rushing shoals of missiles.

Aug drove his fleet directly in amongst the enemy ships, maximizing the effect of his tightly calibrated shields and impactdetonating warheads.

He had been designated warleader, the escort protector of the flagship, and thus, according to structure, was de facto secondin command to the clan council.

And the Council was gone.

'Are you ready?' Shadrak asked as he entered the teleportarium.

Dalcoth nodded. 'All four bays are set and ready for transfer, Hand Elect,' he replied.

Shadrak eyed the mix of battleready Raven Guard and Iron Hands on the transmission platform.

He opened his vox. 'Warleader,' he said.

'Speak,' Aug replied.

'Request permission to divert power to the teleportation systems. The main batteries will be deprived to the extent of fortyfour per cent for the next two minutes'

'Permission granted.'

Shadrak looked at the Master of Transfer as he took his place on the platform beside Dalcoth who drew his bolt pistol.'Do it!' he ordered.

THEY LOST NINETEEN of their force in the transfer, transmitted atoms scattered like dust by the enemy shielding, or befouled by materialisation inside the dense hull plating.

The interior of the XVI Legion warship smelled of smoke and blood. The lighting was on red reserve, with primary power diverted to weapons and shields.

Coming out of the winding shock of teleport, Shadrak glanced around to get his bearings. Immediately, he saw two Raven Guard planted deep into the deck by mismaterialisation. Both were dead, blood streaming from their dislocated neck seals.

'Move!' Dalcoth yelled.

Shadrak ignited his visor's preysight. The corridor became a luminous green cave. He saw streaks and ribbons of glare as gunfire erupted.

Sons of Horus, nightblack in green wash.

Target one. His flickering overlay crosshairs darted. He put a massreactive round into a faceplate at ten metres. The traitor's head detonated in a flash that Shadrak's autosenses read as whizzing shards of ceramite and hot, cooking chunks of bone.

Parts of the ceiling blew out. Fizzling power cables slithered out, jerking like snakes. Dalcoth engaged two of the Sons of Horus, gutting one with his chainaxe, then twisting away from the toppling figure in a neat sidestep to blast a boltround into the chest of the other.

The legionary flew backwards, crunched off the wall plating, and left liquid smear of blood and pulped organs on the panel as he slumped onto his side.

Another came at Dalcoth. Shadrak stepped in and sheared the traitor's head in half crosswise with his gladius.

Blood jetted into the air as the halfheadless warrior took a couple of stumbling steps and then collapsed.

Despite the binding and bracing, Shadrak's left wrist stung with the jarring impact of the blow.

'Forward!' he ordered.

Iron Hands Terminators in Tartarospattern wargear led the way along the spinal hall, heavy flamers hosing ahead of them. Breacher legionaries flanked the group, their panoplies locked. Shells and bolts rebounded from the shield wall.

Then Shadrak heard the shriek of multimeltas and felt the chestpummelling thump of heavy bolters.

Heavy contact. The heaviest.

Shadrak passed the fallen form of a Salamander who had been shredded by a volkite caliver. He loosed off massreactives into the defensive lines ahead of him. Something energyladen and sensitive detonated, throwing bodies and deck plates into the air.

'They have force superiority!' Nuros voxed.

'Agreed,' Dalcoth cut in. 'If our objective was to take the ship, it is no longer viable.'

'We've barely begun!' snapped Shadrak. 'Are you suggesting we abort?'

'Hit and run tactics,' Dalcoth replied. 'We hit, we run. That way, we live to fight again.'

'Sometimes, with respect, your tactics sound like cowardice,' replied Shadrak. 'How did you Raven Guard ever conquer worlds?'

'By knowing when to fight and when to retreat. It's called tactical restraint.'

'Abort denied.'

'Then select a new objective, Hand Elect!' Dalcoth's voice was temporarily drowned out by gunfire.

'We could loop back to the drive chambers and attempt to trigger an overload,' Nuros voxed. 'My assault group has sufficient charges.'

'Denied. Objective is now Tybalt Marr's head,' said Shadrak.

'How is that strategic?' yelled Dalcoth.

'It's symbolic. It matters.'

'How did the Tenth ever conquer worlds…?'

'Exactly like this,' replied Shadrak Meduson.

SHADRAK MEDUSON OF the Clan Sorrgol, Iron Tenth, Terranborn Storm Walker, did not achieve his objective.

Not that day, at least.

He was denied by circumstance, by fate, and specifically by a Sons of Horus Terminator that Shadrak's visor display identified as Xorn Salbus.

Shadrak, supported by Raven Guard and Iron Hands Breachers, fought as far as the enemy ship's main bridge interlock. Terminator lifeguards met him there, appalled and astonished that the loyalist boarding effort had cut so far and so deep.

Volkite and bolter fire sliced into the boarding party. Bodies, and body parts, began to pile up in the narrow entrance to the interlock annex. There was turmoil, a deadlock of wicked crossfire.

In cover, returning fire, Shadrak felt his vox chime.

It was Aug. 'Shadrak!'

'My lord!'

'The day has turned against us, captain. Abort your efforts and jump out.'

'Negative. We are too close. I can smell Marr's fearsweat!'

Shadrak ducked back, and slammed home a fresh clip.

'I repeat, abort,' voxed Jebez Aug, 'We've crippled seven of their ships, for the loss of nine of ours. But a relief force flying Third Legion colours has just translated into the system. They're eighteen clicks out and closing fast. Shadrak, we're outnumbered four to one now. We can break and run, or we can die.'

'My lord…'

'Aren't they the tactics your Raven Guard friends recommended? We've hurt them, and hurt them properly. Let that be enough. Abort and withdraw now, or we leave without you. I'm breaking the grapple lines.'

'Abort. Understood,' Shadrak voxed back.

He knew it was the right decision. In the fever of close combat, his blood was up, and that was clouding his judgment. A full measure of vengeance was never going to be taken in a single day. He had to live, so that he could avenge again.

Still, the temptation to press on just a few minutes longer and take Marr's head as a trophy…

His vox chimed again. This time, it was Mechosa.

'Meduson! Hand Elect! Promise me you're aborting the raid now!'

'Mechosa?'

'The Iron Heart's bridge is hit! Two salvos. Warleader Aug is dead. I— '

A roar of blast wash and static drowned out his voice.

Aug was dead. According to the ordained structure, after the Council and the warleader, Shadrak was, by default, next in command succession.

He was warleader now. He had to go where he was needed before the entire hierarchy collapsed in disarray.

'Abort! Abort now!' he yelled. 'All boarding squads trigger abort!'

'Abort confirmed!' Dalcoth called.

' Confirmed!' voxed Nuros.

Further responses echoed in from the X Legion's own boarding officers.

Shadrak fired to cover his men as they fell back. He moved clear of the heavy iron bulkhead so that the teleport could get the cleanest possible lock on him.

The air was thick with smoke and blood mist. A blackplated Terminator loomed out of it.

Xorn Salbus.

The Butcher Salbus, whose reputation for brutality had spread beyond the ranks of his own Legion long before he had turned traitor.

The monster swung his chainblade.

Smaller and lighter, Shadrak evaded, emptying his clip into the giant's chest plating. Salbus reeled back in a fireball of exploding massreactives. Blood dribbled from his peppered, punctured chest, but he remained on his feet.

Shadrak didn't wait for the Terminator to swing his blade again. He lunged forwards and drove his gladius tipfirst into the breastplate where it was compromised.

The plating caved like honeycomb. The gladius cleaved through Salbus's chest, clean through, until Shadrak's plunging fist was buried half a forearm deep in the warrior's oozing, throbbing innards.

Salbus shuddered and began to sink. Shadrak tried to pull his hand and sword free. They were wedged tight by the inwardpunched ceramite plate.

Sons of Horus were closing all around him. Shadrak saw them, shadows in the smoke. Dalcoth and others were desperately voxing his name.

He pulled again, unable to relax his grip on the gladius in order to slide his hand free.

Salbus fell to one side, dragging Shadrak down with him, who fought to release himself.

One of the Sons of Horus emerged from the smoke, but was immediately blown off his feet. Nuros appeared, blasting into the choking vapour with a captured volkite caliver. There were two of the Iron Tenth boarders and a Raven Guard with him.

'Come the hell on!' Nuros yelled.

Shadrak wrenched again. 'Trigger the extraction!' he ordered. 'Go!'

He pulled as hard as he could. Pain flared up his arm, white hot.

He felt flesh tear and graft bonds shear.

He pulled his arm free, and left his augmetic hand behind in Salbus's chest.

WITH THE LOSS of one more ship, the loyalists broke from the void battle and made a jump at emergency velocities.

They left a halfmauled enemy fleet and a debris halo of burning hulls in their wake.

JEBEZ AUG WAS not dead. The strike on the bridge had taken his right arm and leg, and ruptured several organs. But he had survived.

'He will make recovery in time,' the Apothecaries told Shadrak, 'but it will be months, and he will be more fleshspare by the end of the process.'

Shadrak sat at the Iron Father's bedside, watching the vital monitors flicker.

Aug stirred.

'Shadrak…' He smiled weakly. 'Did you bring me the head?'

'I failed to do that, warleader,' Shadrak replied. 'Another time.'

'We tasted some vengeance today,' murmured Aug.

'Too little, and at a terrible cost. But it is a start and, if nothing else, we have learned what we must do from here on.

We have learned what it means to be shattered, and the path we must follow if we are to achieve our vengeance.'

'Singular focus of command,' said Aug.

'Yes, that. For this force, and for any broken unit like us. But more than that. We must learn to pace ourselves.

Tactical restraint. To hit and run, and not to be greedy and trust in overwhelming power as of old. We must learn the tactics and techniques of those thrown in with us and respect them. We must take our iron and alloy it with the mettle of the others who were shattered alongside us. We must mix our broken strength with other broken strengths to forge a new, unbroken edge.'

'Spoken like a warleader,' whispered Aug.

'I am Captain of the Tenth Company, my lord, and you are living yet.'

'In some degree,' Aug smiled. 'Shadrak, I will not be fit for command for a long while yet. These days are too crucial.

The line of authority must be constant and unwavering. There must be continuity.'

'Yes, but—'

'You know this is the truth of it, Shadrak. You have always been sharper on tactics than me. See the truth of it now, and do not fight me on this. I am too tired to beat you into submission.'

Shadrak smiled. It was the first time he had truly smiled in a long while.

'I see the truth of it,' he replied. 'But I want it recorded that this is not something I ever asked for.'

Aug nodded.

'That will be recorded. Shadrak, those who aspire to command are seldom the ones best fit to take it. Since Isstvan, you have proven yourself to be the most clearsighted of us all. The right hour chooses the right man. The right man emerges in the right hour. This is your time, Shadrak. The Tenth Legion needs you. Consider it destiny, if you will. And it may be unwanted by you, but you are the one who must seize it. You are not presuming to take the Gorgon's place the void he left has called you to this duty. No one will oppose you, or they will answer to me. Help me up.'

Shadrak eased Aug a little more upright with his good hand.

'Witness this!' Aug called out.

Dalcoth, Nuros, Lumak and Mechosa entered from the outer chamber.

'My last act as warleader is to name Shadrak Meduson as warleader of this battle group. Bear witness, and honour him with your loyal service.'

They nodded and slapped their fists to their chestplates.

'I will need a good Hand Elect,' Shadrak said, rising. He looked at the others. 'I will need the finest force captains too.

I want the four of you, and any men, officers or line troops, that you choose to recommend. This is a moment to trust on experience, not the rote of seniority.'

He raised his fist in the old salute of Unity.

'My first act as warleader is to name Iron Father Jebez Aug as my Hand Elect. If you will serve, brother, and suffer the indignity of our reversal.'

'No indignity, but I am not fit,' said Aug.

'You will be. Until you are on your feet again, these four will jointly serve in the role of Hand Elect as a… What is it they call it again?'

'A Mournival,' said Dalcoth.

'Ah,' said Shadrak. 'Just so. But I dislike that term. You are the four quarters of this whole, until Jebez Aug is remade.'

THEY LEFT THE chamber to let Aug rest.

'Go to the bridge,' Shadrak said to Mechosa. 'Open the wideband comms, and send a direct signal. Iron Tenth cipher. For the attention of Tybalt Marr, son of Horus. Let the message read, ' Days will pass. Years perhaps. But know this, traitor. I will raise the storm, and I will find you, and I will take your head. This I swear by the blood of the Iron Tenth and the memory of my genesire. Shadrak Meduson, warleader.'' Understood?'

'You would put your name to this?' Mechosa asked. 'Why?'

'Because a shattered Legion of survivors inspires no dread,' Meduson replied. 'So we will give them a name to fear.

Each strike we make, each blow we deliver, we will leave my name in blood until it breeds in them a terror for their very souls. The Sons of Horus are no match for the wronged sons of Medusa.'

GORAN GORGONSON CLEANED the ruptured stump and began his repairs. Ceiling fans breathed cold air into the apothecarion chamber.

'Is there pain?' Gorgonson asked.

'None at all,' replied Shadrak.

The Apothecary showed him the new bionic he was about to graft in. 'A better design. Superior function and strength. If you let it bed in this time.'

'I can't promise anything,' replied Shadrak.

Gorgonson lit the surgical laser to excise splintered bone. He had alloy mixed ready to remodel the bone ends and make them fit to receive the graft.

'What was your name?' he asked as he worked.

'What?'

'Your birth name, earthbrother. From before. Before you were Meduson, before you and I were made Terranborn Storm Walkers.'

'Smyth,' said Shadrak.

'Smyth?'

'You were from Solar Stellax as I recall, Goran. Smyth is a name all too common in Old Albia where I was raised.'

'But you appreciate the deeper meaning? A worker of metal? A craftsman with a forge?'

'I do I seem to have a fondness for symbolism.'

'You've forged something powerful today, Shadrak.'

'I will forge better tomorrow, BrotherApothecary,' said Shadrak Meduson, 'and the day after, and, even better still, the day after that. Give me my hand, Gorgonson. Make me whole and give me my hand, so that one day soon I might close my fists around the throat of Horus Lupercal and choke him until his filthy light goes out.'

AFTER THE REPAIR was finished, Gorgonson left Shadrak alone.

His arm bound to his chest, the new warleader rose from the surgery cot, and walked to one of the chamber's thicklensed ports.

He stared out. He saw only infinite blackness.

He knew that somewhere in its enfolding embrace, lost and scattered in the darkness, were the souls of the ones that had lived, souls that he would struggle to unite until death claimed him.

And out there too, blacker than the void by far, were the treacherous souls of the ones he would destroy.

UNFORGED

GUY HALEY

'IT'S DEFINITELY DOWN there?' asked Jo'phor.

Hae'Phast checked his handheld auspex. The screen displayed the topography of the area in tightlybunched lines.

Where the ravine split the land, the lines gathered into one thick band. A red dot pulsed at their centre, a Salamanders Legion designation screed hovering over it.

'The reading is clean, Jo'phor. A Stormbird, designation Warhawk VI. One of ours. All the codes are correct.'

'How far down?'

Hae'Phast removed his helmet and scratched at his face. The lines of his coalblack features were etched with pale grime, and his beard reached past the lip of his plastron. The last weeks were a blur of frantic escapes, scavenging, furtive dawn marches. Time had become a meaningless value that their suit systems enumerated. Their armour was battered, the colours unrecognisable, stripped down to dirty metal, or scorched black.

'Hard to tell,' he said. 'There might be a ledge down there, could be on that. It might be down at the very bottom that's two kilometres.'

'We have to ask ourselves, assuming it is whole, then how did they get it down there?'

Hae'Phast grunted. 'It's not that narrow. I knew a veteran pilot attached to the Twelfth Chapter. He could thread a needle with a Thunderhawk. I don't see many places that are any better to put down without alerting the traitors.'

Jo'phor stared into the ravine. Noon had passed three hours ago. The bottom was lost in shadow. Midnight lurked there, unconquered by the sun.

'It is a suitable place to hide a Stormbird.' He blinked several times, his eyes gritty with tiredness. They had gone past the point where the gifts of the Emperor could help them. Not since his transformation had he been so sorely pressed. He knew it was even harder on the neophyte, Go'sol.

'I don't see how it matters,' Jo'phor said. 'Either it is an extraction team, or it is a trap. We can go down there or we can walk away. A simple choice.'

Hae'phast slid forward on his belly to gain a better vantage, but he saw no more than Jo'phor did.

'We might die if we do, or we will die if we don't,' Jo'phor continued. 'Is that our choice, between probably and certain death? Or are we losing focus, brothers. Are we giving up?'

Hae'Phast's face set. The light of his eyes, low as embers these last days, flared angrily. 'Never,' he said.

Sulphurous winds blew out of a grim sky. Mountains of black granite stretched away in every direction, the land between faulted by gaping chasms. Somewhere to the south was the Urgall Depression, although where exactly Jo'phor was no longer sure. That was a good thing. The chaotic terrain baffled their auspex and armour systems. If they found the mountains difficult, so would the traitors.

They had seen no one else for days. Jo'phor sometimes entertained the idea that they were the only living things on the planet. At other times, when the sorrow overwhelmed him and the world took on a distant, brittle quality, he thought that they might all be dead.

There were similarities between Isstvan V and his home world of Nocturne. Both were landscapes crafted by volcanic upheaval, but Nocturne heaved with furious vitality. Isstvan's heart was cold and still, its surface nigh on lifeless. Up in the mountains, the air was so bitter that even the world's meagre apportionment of low order vegetation would not grow.

If Nocturne were to die, it would be like Isstvan V. Jo'phor could not imagine a more fitting hell for his Legion.

Away to the south, a straight line gave away the location of one of the ancient xenos highways. Who they were and what had happened to them was lost to prehistory. They were dead too, their works mere monuments to the futility of existence.

Jo'phor looked away from the canyon to the rest of his pitiful squad. 'I can't make this decision. Brothers?'

The four of them looked at each other. Hae'Phast curled his lip.

'I say let's do it. Better a slim chance than no chance at all.'

'Go'sol?'

The Scout thought a moment. 'Hae'Phast is right,' he said. He had abandoned the honorifics due to the others several days ago. He had proven himself to them time and again. In their eyes at least, he was a neophyte no longer. 'What choice do we have?'

'Donak?' said Jo'phor.

The last of their number was silent. His features were so tense they were like a clay model that had been carelessly crumpled before firing. He did not speak. As far as the others knew, he was unable. Only Donak could have told them, but he had not uttered a single word since he had joined them. His eyes flickered as they danced from face to face. He nodded once, and drew his knife.

'Then we are decided,' said Jo'phor, sliding back from the edge. 'We go down.'

THE DESCENT WAS arduous. The ravine's side was a twisted mass of boulders and grotesque rock formations. The mountains were young; their rock had been rapidly formed and was as fragile as glass. The trek took hours. The weight of their armour caused seemingly solid rock to give way beneath them. Several times they doubled back to find a safer way, until they came to a place where they had no alternative a vast scree cone, high as a mountain itself, the far side blocked by a cliff that prevented them from skirting the top.

'I don't like the look of it,' said Jo'phor. 'The material looks unstable.'

'It is unstable,' said Hae'Phast. He threw a rock into the centre of the scree. It stuck fast, but a portion of the slope slipped dangerously around it.

Loose rock and sand mantled the slopes as far as they could see downwards. The execresences of lava that made up the upper slopes were buried beneath it.

'We're not turning back,' said Hae'Phast. 'We're almost there.'

They stood precariously, legs locked against the treacherous black stone.

'I'm lightest,' said Go'sol. 'I don't have full battleplate, so I'll take a line.'

'You don't have to do this, brother,' said Jo'phor.

'Yes, I do.'

From their utility pouches, the Space Marines pulled out emergency rappels fifty metres apiece of stringthin high tension cable. Go'sol linked them together, then bound one end around his waist. Hae'Phast drove his combat knife into a cleft in the rock and tethered the other end to its hilt.

Cautiously, Go'sol crabbed his way across. Shattered stone skittered away from his feet as if startled. The Scout froze, his fingers spread, ready to grab for any purchase he could. He looked as though he were trying to placate the mountain itself.

BUT the debris moved no further, and Go'Sol went on. Shortly after he made the other side.

Hae'Phast tested the rope after Go'sol hauled it taut. 'That's as good as it'll get.'

'I'II go next,' Jo'phor offered.

A hand grabbed his arm. Donak shook his head and pushed past him.

His great, armoured weight sent miniature avalanches slipping down the mountainside. He slid on the material all the way across, almost losing his footing towards the end. Only the line saved him.

He announced his arrival with a single voxclick.

'Now me,' said Jo'phor. He checked the knife.

'It will hold, or it will not,' said Hae'Phast gruffly. 'Cross, brother.'

Jo'phor gripped the line. It seemed ethereally slender, almost impossible to feel through his gauntlets. The drop below was staggering. The slope was so steep that its integrity must have been at the utmost limit of material tolerance.

He went slowly.

By the time he joined Donak and Go'sol at the foot of the cliff, it was dark.

'Hae'Phast,' he said, risking the vox.

'On my way.'

The line twanged with Hae'Phast's every step. The light from his helm became steady as he fixed his eyes on his destination.

He paused. 'Brothers. There is—'

He never finished.

The line went slack. Jo'phor switched to light amplification in time to see Hae'Phast fall, his arms windmilled. He toppled backwards, tumbling head over heels, dislodging rolling curtains of stone as he tried to dig in with his hands.

But he could not hold on, and slithered away into the dark.

A rumble heralded the avalanche. Hundreds of tonnes of rock sheared away. Hae'Phast's helm lenses flashed once more in the gloom, far below, and the mountainside followed him.

As the thunder of the fall subsided, Jo'phor searched the night.

'Do you see him? Could he have survived?' Go'sol whispered desperately.

In the greentinted, staticladen view that Jo'phor's helm provided, he saw nothing but settling dust. Hae'phast's vital signs were flat.

'No,' he said. 'He is gone.'

From there, the way was easier.

JO'PHOR PUT HIS head around the corner carefully. He had his boltgun in his hands. The ravine floor proved wide enough to take a gunship, bringing the slippery rush of hope. They were close enough now for his battleplate's shortrange sensors to pick up the locator signal. He had a thumbnail map active in the top right of his vision plate, the beacon there pulsing red. A bight floored with black sand greeted him. On the other side was a crag. He pulled his head back in.

'Is it there?' asked Go'sol hopefully.

'There's a spur of rock. The signal's coming from behind that,' said Jo'phor. 'Even if someone's watching, we should be able to get across without being shot at.'

'We should try signalling them. We should turn our identification markers back on. If there is someone here, and they're friendly—'

'We have few friends left on this rock,' interrupted Jo'phor. 'Chances are it's a trap. We'll have to risk it.'

'And if it's not?' said Go'sol.

Donak, as always, said nothing.

They ran across the sand, eyes upon the cliffs and scree around them. As they rounded the corner, Jo'phor's hearts sank.

There was no gunship.

The locator beacon was genuine, but there was no sign of the Stormbird that once housed it. The apparatus was propped up against the rock face. Above it three words were scraped onto the rock, almost luminously white in the dark: WELCOME TO PURGATORY.

The air cracked gently the characteristic report of a legionary sniper rifle. Jo'phor spun around. Go'sol collapsed, shot cleanly through the head.

A second shot caught Donak in the arm. He fell sideways, sprawling for cover.

Jo'phor threw himself to the side as a third shot spacked into the ground exactly where he had been standing. The Emperor's gifts came alive, supercharging his metabolism. Time slowed. Conscious thought receded. What little was left of his humanity was submerged.

The alterations to his mind bypassed his frontal lobe, reaching under for the more primitive, efficient systems it overlaid. Before he knew it, he was running, his body and armour working in tandem, he functioned optimally despite his weariness. He was a weapon, forged to the Emperor's design. His helm's autosenses switched to thermal and highlighted three heated paths through the cold night, still coherent though warped by air currents.

A lasweapon's discharge track.

Another round flared across his lenses. He had his bolter up to his shoulder, laying down a suppressive burst as a figure moved to engage him from behind another boulder. The warrior was forced to duck back.

He could see them now five traitors betrayed by plumes of hot air vented by their armour's cooling plants. They were visible to him as writhing columns that flattened themselves out sixpointfour metres up against a cap of cooler air, their tops dragged into cirrus shapes by sluggish laminar flow at the thermal boundary. His racing mind tracked them all. He fired on fully automatic the moment he saw a cooling vent protrude over a rock.

His infravision flared as the nozzle was caught and detonated, the blasts of other shells bursting all around it. The traitor was flung around by the hit, and his hand appeared bright in the falsecolour image as he steadied himself. This Jo'phor missed, but by then he was bounding up the slope, using the talus that sheltered the traitors as stepping stones.

Donak had gained cover and was firing from behind Jo'phor, keeping the enemy pinned down.

So be it. If they were to die, let them take a few more of their treacherous kin with them.

Bolt fire blasted the fragile rock into pinging shards all around him, the rest of his foes abandoning caution as he closed.

He reached the rock sheltering the first Space Marine and scrambled over the top, slaying him with three fast shots, gun pointed down as he leapt across the gap to the next boulder.

The vox clicked. 'Stop! Stop!' came a frantic voice.

Jo'phor detected cowardice. His hatred for those who had slain his father, betraying the great dream, howled in his mind and blotted out all else. Let them beg for mercy. He had none to give.

The next traitor was ready for him. Bolter shots raked across his breastplate. Two were deflected, but two more penetrated the cabling on his front. Gas hissed. Power was abruptly cut to his left leg. He sagged, off balance. The foul taste of Isstvan's unfiltered air filled his mouth. The fifth blasted through the joint at his shoulder, embedding itself deep inside his chest. The bolt blew, shredding both his hearts and his lungs.

His armour contained the explosion. Somehow he survived, but his time was ending. He fell forward, coughing blood into his visor.

A figure appeared from behind a rock twelve metres away. Jo'phor's eyes widened.

A Salamanders unit identification rune pulsed in his viewplate.

The legionary threw down his sniper rifle and broke into a run. 'No… No!' He reached Jo'phor and caught his arm.

'Brother! What have we done? Cease fire! Cease fire all of you they are ours!'

Other identrunes blinked into life, smeared out by Jo'phor's fluids.

Iron Hands.

The Salamander wrestled Jo'phor's helmet off the world was world was dimming as it clanged off the rocks. The Salamander held up Jo'phor's limp head with cold metal gauntlets.

'Brother! Brother!' The warrior's voice was anguished. Such pain.

It was no terrible thing to be leaving all this behind, Jo'phor realised 'No, stay with us! Stay with us! What have we done?'

Jo'phor could no longer see. A fearful roaring filled his ears. Through it, Jo'phor heard Donak bellowing wordlessly into the desolate night.

He felt a sense of vague disappointment, but his war was over.

IMMORTAL DUTY

NICK KYME

I have erred, and so I must atone.

I lived when I should have died, and so I must become Immortal.

Oath of the Immortals

On MY KNEES, I faced the ship's deck. The contorted faces of my brothers stared back, frozen in their last tormented moments.

My name is Ahrem Gallikus and I am Immortal, but this was the day that I was supposed to die.

It was my right. My destiny, one that I alone set in motion long before the fields of our greatest ignominy. Long before Isstvan.

A chill pricked the skin at the nape of my neck, between the black adamantium gorget and a closely shorn scalp of coaldark hair. At first I thought it was the starship's atmospheric recirculation lacing the air with frigidity, until I realised it was the axe blade poised in judgement. Mercifully, the edge remained enervated or I would surely have been dead already. But then why imbue it with an actinic sharpness when a simple heft and cleave will do the job just as well?

Logic. Efficiency. Temperance.

Forged together, these words were our creed. A bond of iron, I always believed. Where was this alloy in our father when he needed it most? Again, as they often did in those days of bereavement and grief, my thoughts turned to melancholy.

'Ahrem,' uttered a voice from the shadows surrounding me, as sharp as the naked blade against my flesh. 'Tell us.'

He used my given name, the one afforded to me by the chieftain of Clan Gaarsak, and it grated in my ears. He had no right to use that name.

'I am Legionary Gallikus, Order Primii,' I replied with minimum respect. Back then I saw it as needless theatre, all of this. 'Gallikus, then,' uttered the voice a second time, the irritation in its timbre unmasked. 'We have questions. You will answer them.'

The axe blade descended incrementally, nicking my skin to draw a bead of blood. I saw my breath fog in the cold, stagnant air; felt the thrum of the Obstinate's impulse engines resonating from the lower decks; heard every minute adjustment of my interrogator's posture in the low, predatory growl of his armour.

I was at peace, ready for my duty to end. My immortal duty. I lowered my head a fraction in gentle supplication.

My interrogator took that as an indication to proceed, which it was. In a way.

'Tell us of the Retiarius.'

The name of that vessel put fire in my veins, banishing the cold of the hangar deck as my mind was cast back to hot halls, crimson and black. Sweat, blood, death… it all collided in a moment of searing recollection. It did nothing to warm the frozen flesh of the battlebrothers who stared back at me, dead eyes fixed wide in their decapitated heads.

I wondered briefly if the method of execution was meant to be symbolic, ironic or inadvertently in bad taste.

'Tell us what you remember.'

I remembered fire in the upper atmosphere of Isstvan, and hell reigning across the heavens. But this was amorphous, an impression only. An emotional response.

I considered the possibility of sanction if I had admitted that. Emoting is supposed to be anathema to the Iron Tenth.

I am sometimes led to wonder if life itself is, too. Instead, the first memory hit me. It felt like a mailed fist, but sang with the thunder of a battlebarge's opening broadside…

'BLOOD OF MEDUSA!'

Mordan was seldom given to such outward expression, but our path to the Retiarius was proving volatile.

Harnessed in the assault ram's dual prows, my brothers were giving off the same, albeit unspoken, sentiment.

Katus gripped his breaching shield doublefisted and held it across his chest like a totem. The bionic eye he wore in his right socket flared with nerveinduced autocalibration.

Sombrak ground his teeth. He was my shieldbrother and did it before every battle. It was loud and discordant because his jaw was cybernetic. Most of us were patched up thusly, our broken bodies rebuilt so that we could wage war one final time.

This was my eighth ''final time''. Fate could be cruel like that.

Azoth was the last brother I knew well, though in all there were ten souls armoured in Medusan black in the hold.

The rate of attrition was grievous amongst our ranks, and I soon found little need to learn names.

Of all my brothers, those known and unknown, Azoth was the most prone towards rhetoric. When we were made Immortal, our father stripped us of rank and title. Reforged, our new calling was a badge of shame to all in our Legion, and we lost our old identities.

I believe that Azoth had been a Frater Ferrum an Iron Father before he fell from grace. He still had the gaps in his armour where they had unbolted his servoarm. Whatever he had been before, now he was our sergeant.

He called out to us, bellowing against the tumult within the hold. 'Forlorn hope! Our ranks have never been breached. Be steadfast.' I could hear the servogrind of his gauntlet as he gripped the haft of his thunder hammer. 'Be resolute. Our dishonour demands it of us. Death awaits. We do not fear it! For what is death…?'

'To those who are dead already!' I roared in unison with my brothers.

He had a way with words, old Azoth. I think I will miss him the most.

Warning klaxons sounded, coinciding with a rush of crimson light flooding the low ceiling above us. We were close, but that was no guarantee of us reaching the Retiarius intact.

Over thirty assault rams were cast out into the void, all ridden by Medusan Immortals. I doubted that even half would make it through.

A Caestus was a durable vessel, fashioned specifically for this purpose. It was fast too, but the sheer amount of weapons fire erupting between the two larger vessels across the gulf of space was intense.

Great tracts of the void separated the Gorgonesque and the Retiarius, littered with silent explosions like scarred nebulae, and immense clouds of rapidly dispersing shrapnel. To us, aboard our diminutive assault ram, it was a long and perilous journey. To those two great behemoths, it would be regarded as close range.

As our hull shuddered with every close impact, the inertial suppression clamps held us steady. I closed my eyes and imagined our destination.

I had seen the Retiarius before, during the Great Crusade. Back then it had been an ugly, hulking vessel, wellsuited to its brutish occupants. Its flanks were stained azure and dirty white, the echo of legionary warplate. Slabnosed and upscaled with muscular fighter bays and ablative armour plating, it was reminiscent of a pugilist in the form of a starship.

I felt our punch resonate through the Caestus's hull, a glass fist striking a jaw of steel. Were it not for the magnameltas burning furiously to soften the Retiarius's formidable hide then we would have been dashed to wreckage in an eyeblink.

As it was, we bit deep. Our glass fist had shards, and these had cut the outer flesh of the much larger vessel.

We broke through amidst an evaporating cloud of ferric smoke, our small assault ram having bored through the starship's hull and clamped securely in place. Disgorged onto a dark, semilit hangar we had little time to get our bearings before counterboarding troops arrived to try and repel us.

'Lock shields!'

Azoth bellowed out the command, but we had already begun to form up.

It was an archaic tactic, reminiscent of the Romanii or Grekans of Old Earth, but it was effective. Much about war endures, fraternal conflict being foremost in my mind as we breached a vessel that we had once considered to belong to our allies.

But it was mortal armsmen and not our erstwhile brothers in arms, the World Eaters, that we faced upon that deck.

A strong, determined fusillade hit us first, hot las raining in from hastily erected weapon teams and broken firing lines. We held, soaking up their fire, taking everything they threw at us without flinching. Then we pushed on, moving as one, the aegis of our breacher shields impenetrable to the brave men and women who had come to stop us.

Despite their obvious disadvantage, the Retiarius's mortal troops went in close. Three further assault rams had struck this section of the ship and all four squads came together before the armsmen hit us. Their solid shot weapons and mauls proved fatally ineffective.

The feeble momentum of their attack was dispersed when they shattered against our shield wall, and we absorbed the impact before returning it tenfold. Medusan waroaths cut the air as cleanly as any blade.

And almost as deadly.

The mortals quailed before our seeming inviolability and fury.

I battered my first opponent, letting the blood from his broken skull spray against my shield before I finished him.

The stomp of my foot was all it took, and suddenly I was pushing forwards with my immortal brothers. I shot a second through the cheekbone, his face erupting into mist as the massreactive shell exploded. I barged a third, splitting ribs. A fourth fell back in front of me against our advance and I severed his neck with the edge of my breacher shield, barely noticing the blood wash against my armoured boot.

Our purpose made us ruthless. A blockade around Isstvan's upper atmosphere was preventing the X Legion from reaching its father, with the Retiarius just one of the vessels impeding our path. Our mission was simple. Our Iron Fathers had been clear. Destroy the ship by any means possible. If that meant our deaths, so be it.

Inexorable, inevitable, we crushed the counterassault forces from the Retiarius. Then we cut down the weapons teams, then the deckhands, until every crewmen in sight was slain. It was an honourless but necessary act.

After this, we broke ranks to quickly neutralise the rest. The deck was slick with enemy blood, but it was hard to discern in the dull light.

'Where are we?' asked Mordan.

'Aft of the enginarium, I think,' I replied. I knew a little of the vessel's layout, in so far as it would adhere to extant expeditionary fleet schemata. 'In one of the smaller hangar bays, near the ship's outer skin.'

A relatively small chamber with a low ceiling and bare deck plate underfoot, the hangar would have been used to cloister the Retiarius's various smaller interdiction craft. For now, it was empty of starfighters and assault craft, the World Eaters having disgorged their entire complement to duel with the Iron Hands vessels attempting to break through the blockade. Instead, ammo hoppers and riggers crowded the narrow space. Rigging chains hung down from overhead pulleys, gently swaying in the aftermath of the battle. Steam plumed from vents in the walls, and it was sweltering. A pervasive, animal heat lathered every surface in a fine veneer of sweat. It stank.

The voxfeed in my ear crackled. Communal channel. As expected, the voice of BrotherCaptain Udris of the Gorgonesque came through the voidstatic.

Azoth told him that we had successfully made ingress and were moving deeper into the vessel. Resistance had been minimal.

We all knew that would change.

'The blockade?' asked Sombrak, when Azoth had finished receiving his orders from the Gorgonesque.

'Still intact,' Azoth replied. 'We'll know if it isn't. These halls will be filled with fire, the walls will shatter and we'll be cast to the void. For now, they stand. So we must sunder them. The Avernii are dying below us, brothers.'

'I would have liked to stand with the Gorgon one last time,' said Katus, his head bowed.

Azoth clapped a gauntleted hand on his shoulder. There was an underlying anger in the former Frater's tone. At the betrayal unfolding on Isstvan or the stripping of his rank, it could be either or both.

'Aye, Katus. So would I, but we have our lot and it is here aboard the Retiarius.'

We moved out, leaving the dead to fester in the heat.

As SOON AS our breach had been detected by the bridge crew, the Retiarius locked down its bulkheads and sealed all blast doors, seeking to contain us in a nonvital part of the ship.

While two of my brothers with lascutters went to work cleaving open the blast door to the hangar, the rest of us adopted a defensive posture. Azoth took me aside. His mood was grim.

'No word from the other squads,' he told me. 'Cunaeda, Vorrus, Hakkar…' he shook his head. 'Thirtythree assault rams went out. Currently, I only know of four that reached the Retiarius and they stand in this hangar. How far is the enginarium?'

'It's relatively close,' I said, recalling the schematics eidetically, 'but there are warrens of tunnels and chambers beyond those doors before we reach it.'

Azoth nodded, looking to my side rather than at me, as if I had just confirmed what he already knew in his gut. He spoke with some resignation. 'This was always a suicide mission…'

Of all the Immortals I had known and fought beside, Azoth seemed the least sanguine about dying to restore his impugned honour. Or perhaps it was dying with what he felt was his honour still impugned. Azoth was brave, the equal of any Iron Hands legionary including the noble Avernii but I suspected his fervent wish was to return to the order of Iron Fathers before he fell in battle.

But we were ghosts now, all of us, our honour as incorporeal to us as smoke. We had erred, and so we had to atone, or so the oath went.

The blast door from the hangar went down, heralded by a resounding clang as it hit the deck on the other side.

More gloom, more visceral darkness. Sweltering heat struck us like a fist, even more palpably than before. Impulse droning from the nearby enginarium was deafening. The thunderous report of broadsides trembled the deck underfoot and the walls shook with vibrational recoil. Petrochemical stink merged with the actinic aftertaste of recently discharged laser batteries wafting upwards from the lower decks.

A starship at war was as brutal a battlefield as any, but the Retiarius deserved infamous acclaim for its severity.

The powerarmoured warriors who came at us from the sweatdrenched shadows were testament to that.

First blood went to the World Eaters.

Clad in beaten up warplate, festooned in spikes and studs, the sons of Angron looked worthy of their name. Blood and grime tarnished them, lending further ferocity to an appearance where no more was needed. Froth bubbled up through their rebreather grilles and feversweat scented the air. Savage, snarling, brutal I saw animals coming at us from the shadows, not men. Their martial prowess was daunting, even to us.

An Immortal I did not know cried out, shield arm hanging slack with his vulnerable shoulder joint cut and the tendons beneath it severed. A second blow went from left clavicle to right hip. After overcoming inertial resistance, the two body halves slid apart and spilled my brother across the deck.

A plasma pistol at close range evaporated the head of another Medusan who reacted too slowly. Three more in the front few ranks were savagely gutted. Chainblades both swords and axes growled bestially.

Like an animal that was suddenly aware that it had been wounded, we recoiled. First we closed the breach from the door, keeping our enemy on the far side, so they couldn't spill out and surround us. Then we fought back.

A strong push that was as much about Medusan tenacity and grit as it was the durability of our breacher shields saw us gain a footing in the first corridor section beyond the blast door. Our enemy yielded to us, surrendering ground without choice, but then trammelled any further progress with ferocity and sheer weight of bodies.

It was impossible to count, but I reckoned twice our number thronged the warren of corridors before us. We breached, every legionary in our foresworn company, and then the sons of Angron hit us like a hurricane of swords.

Hot sparks flashed angrily off the edge of my shield as it met the burring chainblade of a World Eater. My enemy was unhelmed, revealing a face puckered with scar tissue and metal piercings. A chain looped from his ear to his nose and a spiked bar skewered both cheeks. Tattoos that looked like killtallies marked his neck, though the darkness made it hard to tell for sure.

I mashed my shield into his body and he staggered, grunting. Pressing my bolt pistol into the purposeforged groove of my breacher shield, I shot him almost pointblank in the throat. Skull fragments and red matter rattled against my faceplate as the World Eater's head exploded.

Grimly, I advanced a step.

We all did.

Azoth rallied us.

'Hold steady!' he roared. 'Shields as one!'

They hit us again, raging, foaming at the mouth like rabid dogs. I felt the frenzied, repeated axe strikes against my shield resonate down to my shoulder. It burned and a numbness born from excessive muscular tension spread into my arm.

Azoth was unrelenting. 'Hold!'

A few more seconds of battery passed before he said, 'Now… heave!'

Unified, ordered, strong, we advanced and threw our aggressors back. Their killing lust made them fearsome but profligate with their effort. One man, however skilled and ferocious, cannot hold back a tide. A hundred men, if acting individually, will find themselves similarly disadvantaged.

After their initial wild flurry, the World Eaters were struggling to break us down. After herding them from the breach in the blast door made by our lascutters, we found ourselves several metres into the warren of corridors.

Compared to the hangar it was confined, but wide enough for six shields abreast.

'Form ranks!'

Azoth was trying to impose further order. Unable to match their ruthless fury, it was the only way to break the World Eaters.

Thrust to the front, I was shouldertoshoulder with Mordan and Katus. The former was an arch fatalist who had surprised us all by living this long. The latter was a zealot who believed that strength came from adversity, and who revelled in his Immortal calling. Different though they may be, the mutual determination bleeding off my brothers was both infectious and galvanising. Behind us, I could sense Azoth's desire to be a part of the fighting rank, to prove that his shaming had been unjust. His shield was against my left shoulder guard, stalwart and unyielding. Sombrak had the right, as staunch as an iron buttress. Not once had I seen him ever take a backwards step in combat.

As well as our former ranks, our clans were also scoured from us. To be Immortal is to be alone, but despite this abject form of penitence I felt as closely bonded to these warriors as if they were all from Gaarsak and not spread the length and breadth of Medusa.

The World Eaters hit us hard with a renewed strength born of rage. Bloodied, they carried on unbowed, proving as tough and determined as we knew them to be.

I had seen their warmaking first hand, not as an enemy but as an ally.

I earned my shame that day on Golthya, during the Great Crusade, not long after we were reunited with our father…

Inside the Retiarius we reached as far as a crossjunction before our progress was arrested. A hulking Dreadnought almost filled the corridor ahead of us with its sheer bulk. Our sudden stall also prompted World Eaters to attack us from either flank. Our steady advance was stopped at the nexus of the junction, forcing us into an arrow wedge.

Katus and three others stormed the monstrous war engine.

One of its weapon arms was missing, and I suspected it had been in the midst of ground deployment preparation when we breached the vessel. Instead, it had been reassigned to stop us getting any further. Sombrak carried a meltacharge. So did three other Immortals in the boarding party. Allowed to detonate in the enginarium deck, these incendiaries would wreak havoc on the Retiarius.

Leading with his shield, Katus took a bruising blow that dashed him against the wall. His power pack ruptured and the small explosion threw him forwards into the Contemptor's lightning claw.

He spat blood. It sprayed the inside of his helm and leaked out through a crack in his faceplate. He was dead before he hit the ground. Boltshells caromed off the Contemptor's armoured hide from the other three Immortals who had charged with Katus, but they were no more than irritants. The Dreadnought battered two of them down with its claw, gouging one through his shield and crushing the other under its armoured foot when the Iron Hand lost his footing.

The fourth Immortal was Mordan, the only one to be alone out of the group that had gone forwards to engage the monstrous Contemptor.

He wasn't alone for long. A renewed shield wall rushed up to join him.

I tried to suppress a twinge of envy at my brother's glorious death as I advanced on the Dreadnought. It swung again, blood boiling on its energised talons and filling the corridor with the stench of burned copper. Mordan and I put up our shields as one, but I felt every pound of the Contemptor's pistondriven force rattling down through my body. It put us both on our knees.

'Your mistake…' I snarled, as Azoth waded into the gap left by Mordan and staved in the Dreadnought's head with his thunder hammer. Sombrak's volkite speared it through the chest in the same coordinated attack. It staggered as if unable to comprehend the immediacy of its own demise and fell back into an inert heap of metal.

The Dreadnought's death barely registered with the other World Eaters. They were of the killing mind now and would not relent until either they or we were dead. For the first time since we had boarded the Retiarius, the thoughts of the Iron Tenth and the World Eaters aligned.

We rode the storm of their fury. Without the Contemptor to break our ranks, the close confines of the corridors suited us.

'Take it!' shouted Azoth, now part of the front fighting rank where he belonged. 'Take everything they've got!'

Hammer blows pummelled our collective defence, but we held. The shield wall held and we were able to advance.

The base of my shield scraped the floor with every hardwon step. My shoulder burned from having to thrust it into the reverse side of my shield to keep the enemy from overrunning us. Our strength came from cohesion. If one link failed then our entire chain would unravel.

They hit us; we hurled them back. Each time we stood firm and absorbed the punishment, the World Eaters became more frenzied in their attempts to break us, and more reckless.

It took over eighteen minutes for us to kill every warriorberserker in the warren. By the time it was over, blood slicked the walls, and drenched the deck beneath us, and we emerged into the next chamber weary but victorious.

I had expected to see the enginarium. What we found was something quite different.

A wide slope led from the corridor section's upraised bulkhead. We barrelled out onto it, maintaining good order and swiftly redressing our ranks in the process. It led to a pit, little more than a hollow basin of bare, bloodstained metal.

It had been recently cleansed but some marks remained, the indelible legacy of a Legion's bloodletting.

More of our Immortal brothers were waiting for us in the pit, impaled from groin to crown on ugly iron spikes. I counted thirty and balked at the realisation that so few of us had even reached the Retiarius, let alone died on it.

I heard the clenching of fists in impotent wrath, the muttering of vengeful oaths against the World Eaters. I kept my own emotions buried, but felt the deepest stirrings of hate begin to flare like a hot, angry welt against my pride.

Azoth had been right in his assessment this was a suicide mission.

Glory and honour were not the rights of the damned, and we were damned men. Our shame had made us that.

My shame had condemned me to that fate. On Golthya.

It had been a bleak, ugly world. We were arrayed against the kethid, a hairless, perversely humanoid alien species who had, like so many others during the coming of Old Night, subjugated the native human populace. Deep into the yawning mouth of Jreth Valley, we deployed clouds of phosphex to kill the greyskinned aliens, but the kethid had fashioned anabatic winds through their crude science. It turned our deadliest, most loathsome weapon against us.

How we burned, the green flame flaying our flesh and turning our iron to nought but charred matter…

Croen died first, our company's vexillary. Then Laeoc, Garric, Mae deg… until there was only me, Sombrak and a handful of others left. Our flank had been crippled and we too surely would have died were it not for the berserkers clad in blue and white that descended from on high.

We fought with them, but only in a supporting role. It was meant to be our victory. The World Eaters lauded us for our courage. I stood at the shoulder of Varken Rath, a legionary of singular skill, who thanked me personally for my efforts. Sombrak and the rest of our surviving ironkin made similar swordbrothers.

Alas, our father did not see it thusly. I have wielded a breacher shield ever since.

I have often reflected on the cruelty of that and how the battle of Golthya mirrored that aboard the Retiarius in both its desperation and ferocity.

At the edge of the pit on board the Retiarius, the World Eaters were waiting for us. Unlike the ones we had defeated in the warren, these men were armoured more like gladiators.

I knew them. I had seen them emerging from the burned metal teardrops of their deep insertion pods, through the dissipating phosphex mist that had claimed over half my company before the alien kethid attacked.

Savage, even back then, the Rampagers were much changed.

Unhooded, they wore their facial tattoos openly. Chains and thick veils of iron ringlets accented their white and blue power armour, the spikes entwined between the links presaging a darker aspect to come. Head to foot, they were swathed in gore, baked hard over their warplate by the Retiarius's immense enginarium heat. Without needing it confirmed, I knew in my marrow that the blood was Medusan, wrung from the tortured bodies of our brothers in the pit.

One of the Rampagers stood out amongst the rest. He nodded towards us, I thought. Then I realised he was actually gesturing to me.

'Gallikus…' his voice boomed across the echoing space, resonating off the pit and the shattered breacher shields lining its walls. 'Well met.' It almost sounded genial, a greeting.

It was, of sorts. Or rather, a challenge.

It was Rath. There could be no mistaking my former comrade in arms. It was blunt nomenclature for a genhanced instrument of war that was anything but. He was an exemplary swordsman and wielded a blade in each hand as if to prove it. I needed none. He had gutted kethid on those blades like they were swine. Falax, they were called, or so Rath had told me.

'If you want to reach the enginarium then this is the battleground you must cross to do it,' he said, calmly gesturing to the pit where they had staked our brothers out to die. He nodded to me again. 'I'll give you a good death. You've earned that right.'

I wanted to crush him. For his unintended condescension and the barbarous way his kin had treated mine. I almost heard our swordbond break in his casual laughter.

'Some yet live!' cried Sombrak, who jabbed a finger at an Immortal twisting on his metal spit.

'Blood of Medusa!' Mordan's gauntlets cracked as they clenched tighter around the handle of his shield.

Rath was smiling. All the Rampagers were smiling.

Azoth had seen enough.

'Kill them! Avenge the fallen!' he roared, and every Iron Hand in our slowly dwindling company drew swords and mauls.

For what the Rampagers had done, we would have our vengeance at close quarters.

Our desperate assault was over. All we had left was retribution and, some believed, a last chance for honour. Our immortal duty.

To their martial credit, the World Eaters waited until we were halfway across the pit before they rushed to engage us.

Then we clashed. There was no order to it, no unity. Just blood.

We outnumbered the Rampagers two to one, but in the first eight seconds of the battle those odds were slashed drastically.

As I closed on Rath, briefly allying with Mordan to bring down one of the Rampagers and watching the World Eater gut one of my brothers in return, I considered the very likely fact that we had been allowed to get this far. That we had been drawn here for the prospect of a good fight. Perhaps Angron needed his psychotics to have their blood up before he unleashed them?

That arrogance would unstitch them, I decided.

Rath and I met in the centre of the arena. I still had my shield it would be a vital barrier against my opponent's twin falax but had drawn a gladius in lieu of my holstered pistol.

Blade to blade. Honour demanded no less.

At first, Rath seemed to appreciate the gesture but then his face locked up in an expression of pure, agonised rage.

His eyes widened, the spontaneously rupturing veins turning the sclera a deep, visceral red. No trace of the man remained; now there was only a beast.

For almost three minutes he hacked into my shield as I mustered a desperate defence. He only stopped when Sombrak tried to wade in and relieve me. Despite his murderblindness, Rath reacted on instinct. He halfparried Sombrak's thrust and let the blade pierce his side. With the other falax, he cut off Sombrak's head.

I sagged back, too exhausted to take advantage of Rath's distraction. My breacher shield was split down the middle, the arm holding it numbed to lead. I watched Sombrak's body slump to its knees and his head roll away into shadow.

Then Rath turned, exultant with the kill, and came again for me.

No martial quarter was given this time. Rath was drunk on murderlust.

His falax came in high and I twisted to let my shoulder guard take the blow. It found the vulnerable join between the metal plates of my armour and cut all the way down to the mesh beneath, cleaving through to my flesh. Blood welled instantly. I felt it seep into my armpit and gum around my chest.

The second blade I blocked, turning it aside before aiming a stabbing thrust that sank my gladius two thirds of the way into Rath's midriff.

It was a debilitating wound, meant to slow and eventually incapacitate. Rath showed no sign of either. We were up close. I could smell his charnel breath. A savage headbutt smashed my faceplate, cracking the retinal lenses and sending the glass splinters back into my face. An elbow strike put me on one knee before Rath brought the falax round into my flank where it lodged like a nail.

I screamed. He roared.

The end was near, my immortal duty almost dispensed at last. I saw my breacher shield, smashed apart and discarded on the deck. Other shields and the bodies of my brothers had joined it.

We should never have broken our ranks, given in to hate and fury. Ours was a colder creed, one of reason and the inviolability of tactical logic. We had erred, and now our atonement was due.

Head bowed, I felt a chill progress through me. It matched the cold disembodied sensation of my cybernetics.

But the blow did not fall. My neck and head remained attached.

Instead, I heard the klaxon drone of emergency sirens as the arena was flushed with red urgent light.

Azoth had fought his way from the pit. He was wounded, and his thunder hammer was bloody, but he still stood.

He was venting the chamber, releasing everything into the void.

The World Eaters had not cleansed the pit before. They had purged it in the vacuum of space. My brother had found the mechanism and did so again, only with us and our enemies present.

In the few seconds I had left, I saw the grim resignation on Azoth's face. This wasn't how he had wanted it to end.

Then I was yanked out by the venting pressure. I felt light and not just because of the absence of air and gravity.

Rath's last defiant roar was stolen in that rushed exhalation, pitched into silence in dark and starless space. He swung for me, out of compulsion from whatever fuelled his rage rather than petty impotence, but the slow cut of his falax missed its mark.Las flashes cut through the darkness, spearing us on their incandescent beams. Rath was shredded, so too were my brothers. I saw Azoth impaled through the chest before I was struck a glancing blow.

I spun, fading in the endless void, just another piece of debris.

The vista of the battling starships expanded before me, terrible and beautiful at once. Broadsides carved through kilometres of space. Explosions bloomed, abject in their quietude. The Gorgonesque was listing, her engines dead, her shields and armour stripped bare.

Her warp drives going critical was like the dawning of a miniature sun, a silent flash of awesome light that seared my retinas. I rode the resulting bow wave of pressure, my armour crystallising with hoarfrost even as I felt the explosive burn of the Gorgonesque' s dramatic last breath.

'I REMEMBER LITTLE more after that,' I told my accusers, the Obstinate s black deck resolving before me as I left the memory of the Retiarius behind, 'save waking in your apothecarion and being marched to this hangar bay for summary judgement.' I could not keep the bitterness from my voice.

'You believe you are being treated harshly, Legionary Gallikus?'

I declined to reply, my head bowed with the cold weight of the axe blade upon my neck. The dead stares of my decapitated brothers frozen on the deck seemed mocking. And I was about to join them.

'Before you kill me,' I said at length, 'tell me, did we break the blockade?'

My accuser came forwards into the light. I heard some gesture he made, the whirring of old servos in a wrist or elbow, and felt the pressure against my neck ease. I looked up into the face of an Iron Father, but not one that I recognised.

He was badly scarred and his left cheek and part of his skull shone dully in the halflight. A tight grey beard like wire wool was shaved into a speartip on a jutting, imperious chin. The venerable Iron Father looked down upon me like I was the dirty oil he had to scrape from his weapons.

'We failed,' he replied. 'We were weak.'

There were two others with him, a Salamander and one of the Raven Guard.

This is barbaric…' I heard the son of Vulkan mutter, despite the low hum of the Obstinate's impulse engines partly masking his voice. His eyes flared like burning coals.

The Raven Guard gently raised his hand, warning the Salamander to silence, and they stepped back as one. This was Iron Hands business, conducted in the Medusan way as our father had taught us.

I was finding it hard to process the situation, the incongruous presence of the other Legion warriors, the mood of fatalism emanating from the Iron Father. Then there was the last figure in the room with me, my wouldbe executioner, one I felt I recognized and that stirred a disquiet in me that I could not explain at the time.

'Then what are our primarch's commands? Is Horus defeated? Is Isstvan still contested?' I had so many questions.

'What of the Retiarius?'

The Iron Father shook his head, sadly. 'It's over, Legionary Gallikus. You were the sole survivor of the attack on the Retiarius. The war for Isstvan is done. We lost…' He paused, as if to telegraph the blow that was coming so I could be ready for it. 'Ferrus Manus is dead.'

'Dead?' I tried to rise from my knees but a strong hand held me down. 'Release me!' I snapped, turning to meet the haunted eyes of an old friend. For a moment, I let slip my other concerns. 'Azoth?'

He gave no recognition of the fact I had just spoken his name. I thought he had died and yet here he was, aboard the Obstinate. But something was very wrong. His flesh looked cold, gelid, like the severed heads in front of me. Azoth's fire had been extinguished. Ice filled his veins and countenance. A dead man stood before me with the axe, dead and yet animate, bereft of any sense of cognition that would mark him out as the warrior I once knew.

'What have you done?'

'What was necessary. Horus defeated us, scattered us. Shattered our Legions.'

Looking back at the Iron Father, I saw he held my breacher shield. It had been reforged, made whole, even as we ourselves had fractured.

'You have erred,' he said, 'and so you must atone…'

I took the proffered shield, stunned into silence by the revelations I had just heard.

The Iron Father met my gaze and I saw the determination in his eyes, the bitterness and soulshriving desire for revenge.

'Such is the fate of all Immortals…' uttered a voice behind me. The voice of Azoth, the echo of our damnation.

GREY TALON

CHRIS WRAIGHT

It WAS A lucky ship, one upon which the fates smiled. Its hull had been laid down on the forge world Aphret in the one hundred and thirtieth year of the Crusade. Seventeen other destroyers had been completed in the same series, their superstructures filled out to the same template, each one also destined for Legion fleets.

This one was number seven, a good number, free of the defects that were always found in earlyrun models. As war fronts had multiplied and the Mechanicum worked to evermore punishing schedules, such defects were possible whatever the magi might have claimed.

From Aphret's orbital shipyards it was delivered to the distribution hub at Tallameder for fitting out and ritual dedication. Legion brokers crawled over the voiddocks in huddled packs, observing, noting, checking and scheming.

They knew the consequences of returning to their masters bearing lowerquality materiel than their rivals, and so bidding was fierce.

The Luna Wolves had a reputation. They were tough, dragged to maturity on Cthonia with none of the refinement of, say, Fulgrim's agents. Ship captains from other Legions whispered that Horus had insiders throughout the requisition bureaucracy, and as a result his own fleet had the edge. That might even have been true, although ship captains whispered all sorts of things.

The unmarked ship was snapped up by a Legion agent named Flak Trakus, along with five more of the series. He said he liked the looked of number seven. All were quickly marked with provisional XVI Legion iconography, before being escorted under low burn to the Luna Wolves' forward base at Ipheriax Tertius for trials. Two failed to meet the Legion's exacting standards, leaving four to be given the full livery.

The ships' induction was overseen by Ezekyle Abaddon, deputising for his primarch, who remained at the cutting edge of the Crusade. The First Captain did his duty perfunctorily, eager to be back at his master's side. He looked so observers reported at the time deeply bored.

Number seven was named Grey Talon, and given to the command of what had been the 19th Chapter of the Luna Wolves. Its first legionary captain was Lucial Vormar, a Cthonian with ambitions to rise within the Legion and an enthusiastic lodge member right from the inception of the quiet orders. The Talon was small by the standards of the fleet, slotting between a pure torpedo boat and a line frigate. Such vessels were often referred to as destroyers, though the forward lance mounted under the main prow shield was uncommon for the class, making it weaponheavy for its void displacement. The configuration performed well during seventy years of constant warfare, and it was only returned to its home berth twice for refit and overhaul. Four more captains and two more shipmasters took the helm during that period, each of them using it as a springboard for greater things.

Soon the Talon had reinforced its reputation as a fortunate ship, one that promised advancement for its crew, and it found a regular place in actions across the everexpanding battlefront of the Great Crusade.

By the time of Isstvan III, it was under the command of Hierek Mon, a member of Vormar's lodge with an enviable killtally and a reputation for void flair. He defied orders to remain on a highorbit blocking station and entered the bombardment zone in the wake of Angron's disastrous intervention, earning the ire of the Legion command. His reward was to be placed in a suicidal position during the fleet deployment for the subsequent inferno at Isstvan V, given little cover and expected to atone for his zeal in death.

Once again, though, the Grey Talon defied expectations, riding its everpresent luck during the ruinous battle over the scrapfilled void space. Mon almost survived the entire encounter, poised to rejoin the main warfleet with honour restored, but for the intervention of a fleeing Salamanders boarding party on a captured lander. The loyalists used it to break into the destroyer as she came about, and after a brief but brutal action took it from within.

Mon died on his bridge, screaming out curses as his limbs were hacked from him. During the confusion of the loyalist withdrawal, the Grey Talon managed to clear the system and enter the warp, its innards still riddled with closequarters fighting as the Salamanders assumed full control.

It was renamed after that, given the title of Nocturne's primary city, Hesiod. Other refugees were found and taken on board, including Bion Henricos of the X Legion and the renowned White Scars Librarian Targutai Yesugei. The ship was drawn into a new kind of war, running the shadows, hunting down isolated advancepacks of the enemy and cutting their throats. It was dangerous work, testing the good fortune that had by then been burned into the ship's spars.

The end almost came under the broadsides of the Death Guard frigate Mind's Resolve. With the charred orb of Prospero below it, the Hesiod was surrounded in a corona of fire, knocked offbeam and rolled into macrocannon range of three more cruisers. Its fortune held out, though, arriving in the shape of the main White Scars battlefleet. The fighting swept over it, dragging it spinwards, leaving it listing but still airtight. By then Henricos was its commander, cheated from the death he had confidently expected and left to brood as his powereddown ship drifted silently from the battlesphere.

The Hesiod was retrieved six hours later and pulled into the V Legion's ambit. Techcrews discovered then that the enginechamber had been punctured and that it had been only minutes from destruction. The White Scars had laughed at that. Henricos hadn't he knew the reputation of the ship, the one it had carried since its hull had been laid down, and did not see survival as something necessarily to aspire to.

With the last of the Salamanders dispersed throughout the fleet, Henricos was joined by new White Scars on the bridge. The ship's name was switched again, restored to Grey Talon as it had been before, and its colours reverted to those of the Sons of Horus. Its ongoing role was decided even before the policy came down from the Khan himself it would be an infiltrator, a chameleon, a snake in the shadows. Outright warfare, openly declared, was no longer an option.

Henricos never left the bridge during the refit. He worked obsessively, driving the menials to extreme lengths to refashion the engines and realign the weapons. Those who saw him during that time sent shocked reports back up the V

Legion hierarchy.

He was like a devil, they said. A tortured spirit.

Perhaps that was why they sent Hibou to him, to act as some kind of exemplary punishment. That was possible, though not likely. The primarch had doled out penance in sorrow rather than rancour.

Moreover, Hibou knew to what manner of ship he had been assigned. It had cheated death before, and might do so again, whatever odds it sailed into. They had all told him that Nozan, Torghun trying to improve his mood before they were sent on their own deathmissions. Even in the face of their great error, locked down by the shame of it, they could still see a path into the future. A way back, if fortune smiled on them.

And the Grey Talon was a lucky ship, they said. One upon which the fates smiled.

FOR A LONG time after boarding, Hibou Khan did not leave his cell. He felt the vibrations as the plasma drives keyed up, thrusting the ship clear of the already dispersing White Scars fleet. Some time later, this changed to the highpitched whine of warp engines, followed by the lurch of entry into the aether. After that was the eerily quiet passage through the immaterium, punctuated only by the creak and snap of the Talon's flanks.

It felt like they had been in the warp for a long time. The campaign on Chondax had been a nearconstant series of jumps, bridging the vicious combatphases on the system's farflung worlds. He'd had plenty of time back then to consider the Legion's place of dishonour, to listen to the words of Hasik NoyanKhan, to talk to fellow members of the lodges and take in their grievances. The fighting had become almost secondary to the question that had come to dominate discourse in the brotherhoods.

What next?

And the answer to that had been: the Warmaster. Distrust of Imperial command structures had become so absolute, so ingrained, that aligning with Horus had come to seem not so much as prudent as inevitable. The entire Legion admired Horus. They knew of the regard between him and the Khan. Out of all the Eighteen, only the Thousand Sons had been closer, and relations with Magnus's sons had been conducted largely through the Stormseers.

So it had been natural. When he was in the mood to find excuses, Hibou would remember that. On other days, when the shame made him want to ram his face into the metal walls of his cell until the blood ran, he would remember the warnings of his heart, the tremors of unease when the transmissions came in from beyond the veil around Chondax and the strange light in the eyes of some of his fellow loyalists.

Loyalists. None of them had been loyalists. That term was now reserved for those who had cleaved to the Throne, while those who had been drawn to Horus's magnetic presence had been cast into the darkness, reviled as traitors and consorts with yaksha.

That had never been part of the draw. No one had shown them the destination at the end of that path, and if they had done so the revolt would have been snuffed out long before it could have threatened the Legion's cohesion.

It made him nauseous to think how close they had come. The vidcaptures from the Vorkaudar, the Word Bearers ship captured by Yesugei, had made the implications plain.

It would have started with a vow. The vow would have been made in good faith.

At times, musing on that, Hibou regretted not taking the deathoath, the tsusan garag, which would at least have sealed his pact and left no room for reconsideration. If he had done so, he would now be dead, his hearts pierced by the primarch's own blade. As it was, he had been left the path of penance to cleanse his soul by taking the fight ahead of the main fleet, striking with no hope of survival, carrying the anger of betrayal back to its heart.

He was of the sagyar mazan now. They would find absolution only by returning the pain to its origin to blood the archtraitor as he had blooded them. Deeper, more sharply.

But there would be weeks before he could unleash his blade again, and until that moment he had to negotiate the inner warrens of the starship with a soul who hated him almost as much as he hated the ones who had cast their lot with damnation.

Sighing, Hibou Khan adjusted his robe over his armour, and made to leave his cell. It could not be put off forever. If they were to fight together, they would first have to learn to speak.

HENRICOS WORKED ON the machine. He had been working on it since the day he had been taken on board by Xa'ven.

In contrast to the Vorkaudar, it was a good, clean machine, one that he could engage with and improve. The Sons of Horus had not fallen quite so deeply into debauchery as the Word Bearers, at least not by the time of the Dropsite Massacre when the ship had been taken over, and the metal remained unsullied. It smelled of them still the fusty pelts they wore, the Cthonian hides but it functioned more or less as a machine should.

For as long as he worked, he could forget the anger. If his hands, bionic and organic, were occupied then they did not itch to carry a weapon. In any case, there were no weapons on board that were worthy of his adoption. He still had his Medusan bolter, though no blade to go alongside it. The White Scars had offered him dozens of their own, and it had been hard not to laugh at them for that. Their metalwork was capable enough but they had fouled the metal with sweeping Chogorian runes, and the shafts were too basic, too unaugmented. Nothing they had offered him had had the same heft and killing potential as a true Medusan zweihander, and so he had rejected everything.

He leant over his navigation station, staring at the images on the vidfeeds. He had been looking at the scan for hours, and his eyes were beginning to have trouble focusing. He could have let the cogitators take the strain, but they were poor on detail, and detail was everything.

The task consumed him. By the time he sensed the other presence on the bridge, it was hard to guess how long he had been there.

Damned Chogorian stealth.

'What do you want?' Henricos rasped, never taking his eyes from the screen.

Hibou Khan drew closer. Henricos could smell him too old ceremonial oils on his ceramite, the last gift from his brothers in the Legion that had banished him. That had been sentimental and a waste. Henricos would have killed them all and recycled the geneseed and weapons. Why trust a part that had already failed?

'I do not know our trajectory,' said Hibou, in accented but reasonably fluent Gothic. It seemed that not all of them had the same impediment as their stormwitch.

'And?'

Hibou stiffened. 'We are destined to fight together. Perhaps I should know something of your plan.'

Henricos let a long breath slide out of his clenched lips, then stood up. 'Nine of you. All traitors. You will know the plan when I tell you. Until then, you would do well to keep your mouth closed and your eyes away from my scanners.'

To his credit, Hibou absorbed the spite. His tanned face, marked with the pucker of selfinflicted scars, flickered by just an infinitesimal amount.

'If we had been traitors, we would be dead,' he said.

Henricos could feel his humours darken. Even looking at the White Scar made him angry, just as almost everything else made him angry. 'I do not wish to do this now,' he muttered.

Hibou stood his ground. 'We have been in the warp for a week. I would train, if I knew what I was training for.'

Henricos turned on him. 'What do you need that you do not possess? You have your blades. All fighting is much the same.'

'You truly believe that?'

Henricos drew closer. 'So what fighting have you seen, White Scar? Greenskins?'

It was so easy to bring it back the skies above the dropsite, flared red, streaked with the contrails of falling assault claws. There had been seven primarchs in that slaughter. Seven. The killing had been industrial.

'I know you underestimate us,' said Hibou evenly. 'Do not think that this will anger me. We are used to it.'

'Damn you!' spat Henricos, clenching his metal fist. 'Underestimate you? I know the damage you can do.' He edged even closer, his sour breath washing over the scarred face before him. 'Tell me why I should even suffer you to look at me. I fought as the Gorgon was being cut apart. I fought as my Legion was being cut apart. I have fought every second since, and will fight until fate stops my hearts, and you. You. You were not even sure who the enemy was.'

Hibou did not respond, but Henricos could see that he wanted to strike him. A nerve had been touched.

'We were wrong,' the White Scar said, softly. 'We erred. We will pay the price.'

'Aye, we all will,' Henricos said, his voice edged with disgust.

He had never doubted, not for a microsecond. Ferrus Manus had never doubted. There had never been room for it they had the assignment, and they executed it. That was why Horus had gone for them first. Of all the Legions, the Iron Tenth had been the most steadfast, the only ones not plagued by ambitions beyond the most efficient prosecution of war.

There were moments when he took pride in that. Mostly, though, the thoughts just summoned the blind rage back, so he shoved it down, burying the memory in the work schedule that made his servos stutter and his eyes scratch.

'Get away from me,' Henricos said. 'I will summon you when I need you. Until then, just stay away. You make me…'

In another age, he might have said ' sick' , but the Iron Hands did not sicken, for what was broken was quickly replaced.

'…angry.'

And that was true enough, though hardly remarkable anymore.

HIBOU DID AS he was bid. There was no point in antagonising the Iron Hand further, for who knew where his rage would take him? Hibou adopted the same tactic his Legion always did withdraw, pull away, conserve strength for another pass. He tried not to let his everlurking shame cloud his emotions, for that would make him duller, less able to react when the time came. But that was not easy, for the shame was infinite and did not diminish.

He walked down the corridors of the ship, feeling its otherness with every step. He had only ever gone to war on vessels of the ordu, with their clean lines and bright livery. This ship was stained by the temper of its original masters crude edges, dark shades. It was a bluntedged weapon. The ongoing sense of dislocation surprised him, and he made a mental note to attend to it in his meditation.

The Grey Talon was sparsely inhabited a mix of servitors, a skeleton crew of menials from the White Scars, and no doubt some old XVI Legion serfs who had managed to avoid Xa'ven's purge and now kept their heads down in the dingy corners of the bilge levels. In the absence of proper numbers, it was Henricos who kept the whole thing together, stringing automated mechanisms into line, restoring burnedout systems, reviving dormant machinespirits. The furious pace of work was all that kept him from lashing out at living targets, and that was welcome enough.

Were all Iron Hands the same, Hibou wondered, with that mix of sullen fury and morbid obsession? Impossible to tell. He had never fought alongside them before, and did not expect the current experiment to last long enough for him to form a settled opinion.

He reached the practice cages, where Teji was already limbering up. Hibou drew one of the blades from the racks, watching his opponent idly.

He had not known Teji before. The young warrior had been just one of many lodge members across many brotherhoods: each of them seduced by the same words and tiptoeing the precipice of damnation without knowing it.

The Khan had ruled that killsquads of the sagyar mazan be composed of strangers, lest the bonds of old brotherhood return and kindle fresh insurrection. A sensible precaution, but in truth hardly necessary. They all knew how close they had come, and what they had to do to redeem themselves.

Teji had been from the Brotherhood of the Red Sun, one of the many under Jemulan's command. He had reached Ascension just before Chondax, joining the fleet in the last reinforcement wave from Chogoris before the veil fell. Not long in which to make a choice that would cripple his future forever.

Hibou entered the cage, bowing. Teji returned the gesture, and brought his blade into guard. The weapon was as blunt as Hibou's, and wouldn't have hurt even a mortal badly. Damage was not the point of the exercise, though it was balance, speed and reaction.

'Did he speak to you?' asked Teji.

Hibou shook his head. 'I made the first move. He will make the next.'

Teji smiled. 'Maybe.'

The sagyar mazan had become closer during the voyage, all nine of them, but wariness still remained. They were an artificial unit, pushed together only by a shared culpability, which in itself was a poor foundation for vengeance. Combat would test their weak links, either welding them firm or shattering the whole.

'Begin, then,' said Hibou, and the two of them swept into movement, parrying, jabbing, using the blades with all the fluidity of their training. In seconds, the cage became an arena of Chogorian art, a crucible of swordsmanship.

Immersed within that, the divisions seemed trivial. The doubt, the guilt, all of it became invisible, sublimed by the dominant physicality of combat.

So they fought one another, enjoying the release. They knew, though, that when the blades were lowered again it would all come back, vivid like the shuddered recollection of dreams.

He was back on Medusa, trudging beneath lightningscored skies, feeling the primordial cold pressing in upon his skin.

Somewhere up in the gloom, invisible beyond the nightdense clouds, the iron band of the Telstarax hung in orbit, ruined and echoing

a gravemarker of another age.

He had never seen it, but it had always been a figure of Medusan myth the ancient torc that marked the world from the void, shackling it in metal. He had never seen the primarch Ferrus Manus either, but knew that he was there too, somewhere. A mortal Telstarax of sorts, both guardian and destroyer, forging the planet's sons into new weapons and purging the last morsels of weakness from their privationhardened bodies.

He had walked for ten days as the dull Medusan sun had it, drinking little, eating little, his boots kicking up black dust and caking his layered synthfabrics. His breathermask had picked up a fault and clicked when he inhaled, letting in the gritty taste of spoildust. His landengine was just a memory now, grinding its way south with the rest of his clan. The dirty smokeplume had hung on the horizon for a long time before being lost in the smog, but he had never turned to look for it.

On the eleventh day, the tower rose up before him colossal, clad in plates of inkblack iron. He heard the boom of engines under the earth, and felt the shiver of the solid rock underfoot. Walls loomed away from him in geometric layers, starshaped for siege, crowned with guns as vast as his old tracked home.

He thought he had reached the Sorrgol citadel then, but he was wrong, because the tower before him was only the smallest of many spires, a mere sentinel over the southern gates. Beyond it stretched forges, burners, smelters and extractors, kilometre after kilometre, linked by webs of iron pipework and covered in a cloak of carbon vapour.

Before the gate stood Ferrus Manus, a titan in charcoal armour, invincible and eternal in his watch over the citadel. Except that he was wrong about that too the guard was just a legionary of the Tenth, the first he had ever seen, though to a youth's awed eyes it might just as well have been the primarch himself.

He felt his head go light at last, and struggled to keep his feet. The gatewatcher gazed down at him with eyes that glowed dull red amidst a slopegrilled helm.

'I come to serve,' he said, proudly, belligerently, daring the warrior above him to refuse.

He thought he heard a faint whirring, like optical instruments. The legionary might have been considering the words, or was amused or irritated by them, but with the helm in place his emotions were unreadable.

'So I see,' the legionary eventually replied.

The gate cracked open, pulled back by immense cylinders. He swayed on his weary legs, catching sight of the furnaces beyond the fields of metal and the boiling, underlit clouds.

The legionary gestured for him to enter.

'Have you the spine, child?' he asked, his voice a tinny, machinefiltered snarl. 'Make it to the tower, and they will test you further.'

He was afraid then. Desperately afraid. His throat was dry, his hands cold with sweat, and it was hard to make his legs move.

The legionary waited, silent again, as unmoving as the walls around him.

He wanted to move. He could see the great tower within, a jagged blade at the heart of the foundries, glistening like the slate edges of mountains.

He wanted to move.

HENRICOS WOKE WITH a jerk. He had fallen asleep over his station on the bridge, slumped on a scanner console. None of the crew had dared to wake him.

He lifted his head, wiping a line of drool from the smeared screen. How long had he been out? Seven minutes, by his armour's chronos. That was his sleeppattern now a few moments here and there, islands of unconsciousness between the long work shifts.

The lapse was shameful. He was on the bridge, surrounded by those who had marked his weakness and would now be wondering how much longer he could last.

Work harder.

He tightened his shoulders, feeling the shift of armourplate over tight muscle, the pain of limbs that had been cramped and compressed for too long.

He looked down at the screen. It was covered with phosphortrails of warpwake projections, overlaid on a cartographic grid of dizzying complexity. He had traced the last two trail patterns over that, marking the passage of the Grey Talon through the maze of the aether.

He studied the incoming signals, making allowances for the known ghost reflection from the augur array. Blinking to clear the last of his fuzziness, he remembered where he had got to before unconsciousness had crept up on him. He activated a new scansweep and watched the screen fill with data. It had taken five hours to prepare the algorithms, just as it had done for all the other searches. At times he wondered whether he had forgotten how to do it properly.

It had been Jebez Aug who had hammered the technique into him, drilling the procedures by rote under the shadow of constant discipline. 'Others may be faster,' the Iron Father had been fond of saying to him. 'Others may even be stronger, but none are more methodical.'

Aug, no doubt, was dead. It was likely now that the entire clan had been wiped out, either at Isstvan or in the aftermath. All of them, lost in the inferno. The old lessons had not helped them then, but they had all gone into that situation blind, forgetting their own maxims in their haste to reach the enemy.

Ferrus, too. The blindest of us all.

The lens before him throbbed with fresh runes, and Henricos snapped back to full attention. He reviewed the multilayered tangle of trajectory markers, twisting away within stylised warpconduits.

For a moment, he saw nothing.

Then a glimmer. A faint trace, just visible over the range of possible warppaths.

He could almost imagine Aug with him again, leaning over him, uttering a rare grunt of satisfaction.

Henricos checked, to be sure, then opened a channel to Hibou. There was no avoiding the meeting now.

'Khan,' he said, keeping it to the point. 'Ready your squad and meet me on the bridge. We have our target.'

HIBOU STARED AT the screen, wondering exactly what he was supposed to be looking at. He was adept at reading tactical displays of a dozen kinds, but Henricos had created a mosaic of overlapping nonsense on the pictfeeds, one that even a Mechanicum magos would have struggled to process.

'You see it?'

'I do not,' said Hibou, bracing himself for fresh scorn. 'Please, show me.'

Henricos snorted in exasperation, then zoomed in on the image. 'Forget three dimensions the warp operates differently. We alter standard scan algorithms and course settings to cover the greatest area in the shortest time. The result is an organic pattern, developed by my clan's Iron Father on Medusa, and takes into account the underlying movement of aether conduits. We are not in physical space, so we do not move as if we are. The equations are…

complex.'

Hibou could believe that. The screen was crammed with trajectories, half of which meant nothing to him. 'You mean this,' he said, pointing to a shipmarker set several hours in Grey Talons wake.

'No. Look at its movements, the same as ours it is a mirror. A ghost. Consider it an artefact of the scanners and ignore. The target is here.'

Henricos gestured towards a faint blip on the extreme edge of the display. Hibou frowned.

'That is not a shipmarker,' he said.

Henricos rewarded that with a sarcastic smile. 'Astute. A shipmarker is not what we seek.' He zoomed in further, increasing the granularity of the sweep. 'This is a warpwake the sign of deep passage. Count yourself lucky, White Scar. None of your Legion could have detected this.'

Hibou let the insult slide. He was used to them. 'How far?'

'I can bring us within strike range. But remember this is not physical space. We must track it, using the searchpattern, waiting for them to drop out, then we fall upon them. I can materialise on top of it, in its shadow. They will have only seconds to respond.'

'They will not see us coming?'

'Not unless they were schooled to recognise an algorithmic pursuit. That is unlikely.'

Hibou detected the sullen pride there and let Henricos enjoy the moment. The Iron Hands had had precious little to celebrate, and if their warptracking prowess was grounds for arrogance then they were welcome to it.

'Which Legion, then?' Hibou asked. 'Can you tell me that?'

'Look here.' Henricos zoomed in further, exposing the wound in the warp gouged by the preyship's engines. 'Three salients, aggressively pitched, characteristic of Dracoseries drives an old configuration. These were favoured by one Legion only, so either that is a Sons of Horus ship, or you may have my eyes.'

Hibou felt eagerness stir just at the name. 'Can we take it?'

'No idea, not until we break the veil. But it cannot be much larger than us, and we will be on it before it knows we are a threat.' He looked up at Hibou, and for the first time there was a crooked grin twitching at his lips. 'You wished to know the plan. Here it is. We are in their colours that will give them a moment's uncertainty. We board before they can raise shields, take the command bridge, disable it. The guns on the Talon can do the rest.'

Hibou nodded. The schematics were already beginning to untangle in his mind, and he could half see the route that the Iron Hands legionary was proposing.

'And you will take the Talon's helm,' he said, planning how he would deploy the boarding party.

'I will not,' growled Henricos, slamming the screen away on its angled mount and resuming the hostility that bubbled just under the surface of his humour. 'I will be with you. We will need all the blades we can muster.'

That anger was directed now no longer at those he was forced to serve with, but at the real enemy, the ones who had unambiguously chosen treachery.

'Side by side, then,' said Hibou, smiling dryly.

'If you insist,' muttered Henricos, turning back to the data. 'As long as we kill and as long as we hurt them, I care not.'

IT WAS TWELVE more hours before the target ship made signs of dropping from the warp. For most of that time the killteam waited in the holds of the gunship Golden Dagger, primed for rapid hangar exit. Boarding torpedoes had been considered and rejected they would be coming in too fast to guarantee a fireangle so they trusted the manoeuvrability and speed of the Thunderhawk to get them across the void gulf.

After launch, the Talon's mortal crew, under the command of a stoic Chogorian bridge officer named Omoz, would keep the destroyer as close as possible, drawing any incoming fire while the boarding parties infiltrated the hangars.

Henricos waited impatiently, locked in the gunship's forward hold, Hibou's White Scars in restraint cages on either side of him. Streams of data scrolled across his visor feed, giving him every detail of the final approach. Both vessels were still in the warp, but the target had now changed course dramatically and was slowing for exit. The Grey Talon pursued it along the twisting lines of the Sorrgol pattern, operating on the automatic guides he had set in place before taking position.

'Start launch cycle,' he muttered, keeping an eye on the evolving timings.

The Thunderhawk's thrusters roared into life. Ahead of them, glimpsed through grainy pictfeeds, the hangar door locks slammed open.

'Warpbubble punctured ahead,' reported Omuoz over the comm. 'It is coming out.'

'Remain tight on it,' warned Henricos, frustrated that he could not be in two places at once and fly both ships. He had tried to relax the V Legion pilots who steered both the Talon and the gunship were as good as any he'd ever seen but it was still hard to trust outsiders. 'Five kilometres, real space. No more.'

It was insanely close, a warp exit virtually on top of their enemy's, but it had to be that tight or they would lose the fractional chance.

Golden Dagger rose from the apron on booming cushions of downdraft, hovering a metre clear. A second later, the Grey Talon ripped free of the aether's clutches. As soon as it had cleared the rift, the hangar's voiddoors ground open amidst a smudge of straggling Geller remnants.

'Now!' cried Henricos.

The Thunderhawk hit full speed, hurling him back against his restraint harness, and shot out into the void. The target hung just ahead of them on the augur screens, emerging from the last of its warp rift just as the Talon was cleared, angled away and with its running lights low.

'Shields?' demanded Henricos.

'Not yet,' reported Omoz, his voice commendably calm.

The enemy ship raced towards them. Henricos saw then how big it was a line frigate with a full battlelance and cursed under his breath. It would already be scanning the Grey Talon, sending hails, running checks against fleet ledgers and picking up the incoming gunship. The subterfuge of their XVI Legion livery was painfully slight.

'Get us in now,' he voxed to the Golden Dagger's crew.

They sped under the shadow of the frigate's hull. Rows of hangar bays, all of them barred, swam up into the viewers. The Thunderhawk's battlecannon loosed, sending shells screaming into the nearest voiddoors. Hull plates exploded under the impact, disintegrating in a welter of spinning adamantium.

'Faster!' roared Henricos, knowing that the void shield arrays would now be powering up.

The gunship swooped for the aperture, blasting through at a steep pitch, scraping the edges of the hangar entrance before shuddering to a fullstop and coming to rest on a violent bloom of downthrust. The sponsonmounted heavy bolters opened up, spraying in twin arcs from the ingress, raking enemy ships locked on the deck rails and shredding any crew caught out on the apron.

Disengaging his restraint cage, Henricos slammed the ramp release. 'Out, out, out!'

They spilled from the holds, accompanied by the howl of released atmosphere and the blare of alert klaxons. Behind them, the gauze of atmospheric containment fields finally slid across the shattered hangar entrance, now too late to do anything other than trap the infiltrators within the hull.

Hibou raced ahead, making for the hangar's inner doors. The Khan had a power sword with a florid dragon carved into its crackling edge. Henricos followed him with his bolter at the ready, scanning for incoming targets.

The first opposition came from the ship's mortal crew. They reacted quickly, forming up at the intersections of the corridors leading up from the hangars and laying down concentrated fire. All of them were from a hard world and had lived lifetimes of combat, so they performed admirably.

Yet it didn't help them. The White Scars were astonishingly fast, crashing aside the opposition before it had time to get established, whooping and yelling as they laid about them with their blades. Henricos had never seen them in action as squads before, and he could admire the seamless interaction between them a warrior would sway out of the way to allow another to fire, then dart back into contact, aware the whole time of the flight of bolterrounds and the whirl of steel around him.

'The flesh is weak!' Henricos roared, watching the enemy die, listening for the wet slap of flesh splitting and the echoing rip of the massreactive shells going off. That gave him pleasure, the first he had taken since the similar slaughter on the Vorkaudar.

The Scars joined him in viciousness. They hit recklessly, aiming for pain, and their cries were edged with something more raw than he had heard before. It was a kind of frenzy, with each kill seeming to spur them deeper into it.

They were the sagyar mazan, the penitents, and they fought like it.

Henricos and Hibou led them onwards, carving twin passages towards the command bridge. The pace quickened, and they stormed through crew halls and armouries, leaving a long trail of slicked blood behind them. The decks shook as heavy impacts rocked the hull the Talon firing, stressing the void shields and keeping the enemy crews busy.

The boarding party tore up through the levels, hurling grenades into choke points, charging through them with the fleshscraps still flying. The White Scars' armour became streaked with red splatterpatterns across the ivory. Henricos's own ironblack plate barely reflected the gore, though he was as steeped in it as the rest of them.

By the time they had reached the wide assembly chamber below the bridge, the real enemy emerged, pushing past their own battling crew to get at the invaders, issuing Cthonian killchallenges from brassedged augmitters.

The Scars scattered instantly, spreading out across the chamber's marble floor and racing for the cover of the supporting columns. Bolterfire crisscrossed the open spaces, shattering rockcrete and throwing a powder haze across the hall. Henricos thudded up against a threemetrewide pillar, feeling the stone of it tremble as the massreactives exploded.

He waited two seconds, letting his cover absorb the fusillade, before charging out again keeping low, trusting his armour to take the hits. By then the Scars were moving too, flitting like gorespeckled ghosts between the columns. They danced through an oncoming storm of bolterrounds, spinning as they came within swordreach to give their blades more speed.

Henricos lumbered by comparison, coming up against the bulk of a Sons of Horus warrior in dark, seagreen plate.

Both bolters fired simultaneously Henricos was hit on the shoulder, his enemy in the chest. The impact of the Iron Hand's round caused the greater damage, throwing the traitor back by a hand's width.

Henricos pressed in fast. He fired again, cracking his enemy's faceplate, then piled in with his gauntlets, punching rapidly and hard until he heard the wet crack of a breaking spine. As the warrior fell, Henricos grabbed his power maul finally something he could relish using and pressed onwards.

By then the noise in the hall was hammering, a mix of vox roars and explosions. More Sons of Horus charged in, adding to the lattice of shellfire.

Henricos's mind suddenly shifted back to Isstvan the last time he had faced the XVI Legion in numbers. He remembered the desperate stands on the ridges at the edge of the depression, watching as waves of the enemy advanced, the bloody dust kicked up into a boiling cloud of rage.

He was hit again, a boltround smacking into his knee joint before exploding against the covering plate, and he staggered in the charge. A traitor got close to him with a chainaxe, and Henricos whipped his crackling maul around to block the challenge. They were coming in from all angles now, pushing the boarding party away from the hall's far end and driving them back towards the exposed centre.

'For Ferrus!' he bellowed, lashing out and driving the maul deep into his enemy's neck before kicking the choking adversary aside and launching himself at the next. They had to keep the momentum up, break through to the bridge before they were dragged into a drawnout melee, or the chance would be gone.

By then the Scars were fighting with an almost berserk energy, their battlechallenges more like screams. Henricos saw a Sons of Horns legionary literally torn apart by two of them, his body sliced at the armour joints by whistling bladework. The Warmaster's own were just as vicious a few metres away, an ivory battlebrother was dragged to the deck, his back broken and his helmplate smashed.

Henricos limped over to avenge the kill, but was slammed to the ground by a bolt impact, the third to hit him. He skidded over, his armour scraping against the marble. He made to rise, and only then realised what damage had been done blood was cascading down from his stomach, foaming around the ragged edges of the hole in his armour.

He spat, furious at the setback, and switched to his bolter, snapping the muzzle up to fire. But his vision blurred from pain, and he missed the target. An enemy legionary sprinted towards him, swinging a power axe around his head to generate the downforce for a killing strike.

Henricos tried to rise, to get his maul up to block the blow, but he never got the chance. A White Scars legionary smashed into the charging traitor, blocking him bodily and sending them both careering across the deck. They rolled together, hacking madly, until the White Scar managed to pin him. With a deft twist, he plunged his curved sword deep into his enemy's gullet, ripping upwards to tear out his throat. Then he was up again, falling back to Henricos's position, drawing a bolt pistol and firing out into the throng.

'Khan…' acknowledged Henricos, still struggling to rise.

Hibou crouched beside him. 'Can you fight?'

Henricos snarled, knowing the answer but unable to get the words out. He would be lucky not to bleed to death where he lay. 'The bridge… is within range…'

That, technically, was a lie. The assault had stalled, and the bodies of four White Scars lay motionless across the chamber floor. The rest were falling back towards his position, pursued by twice that number of Sons of Horus.

Hibou kept firing, trying to slow the oncoming traitors. 'I do not think so. We will end more of them yet, though.'

Henricos reloaded his bolter and took aim. As he did so, the entire chamber rocked, as if buffeted by a hull breach.

For a moment he dared to hope that the Grey Talon had broken through the void shields, though the thought did not last long the ship did not have the weaponry, and even if it had there were no more troops aboard that could have turned this battle.

'Die well, brother,' he snarled, taking aim at an advancing group of Sons of Horus and opening fire again.

He didn't expect his shots to do more than hinder their inevitable onslaught, but his shells seemed to multiply in midflight, hitting the targets in a whole volley of massreactive destruction. The advance crumpled to a halt amidst a roiling wave of explosions, sending the Sons of Horus reeling backwards.

Startled, Henricos looked around, and only then detected the acrid tang of teleport discharge. Seven leviathans in Terminator battleplate stalked out of disintegrating warpfrost spheres, clad in a mix of Gorgon and Cataphractii suits, laying down a heavy curtain of fire from twinlinked bolters and combimeltas.

Their plate was black, pitted with bare metal scratches, the edges picked out in white. He saw Medusan emblems on the pauldrons cogs, fists, skulls. They were all clans he recognised, ones he had fought alongside or been rival too, including his own Sorrgol, bearing the wrenchandcog sigil, just as he himself wore.

The White Scars reacted quicker than he did, joining the new assault, adding their speed to the advance of the Terminators. Henricos remained locked down by the shock of recognition.

We were all dead…

Hibou sprinted back into the melee, joining his brothers in the counterattack, crying out in the outlandish tongue of his home world. As Henricos struggled to regain his feet, cursing at the sluggish recovery of his flesh, a shadow fell over him. He looked up into the redeyed glare of a Legion deathmask. He might as well have been back on Medusa gazing up, stupefied, at the anonymous legionary he had thought was Ferrus Manus.

'Bion Henricos,' came the familiar voice of Shadrak Meduson, once captain of Sorrgol's Tenth Company, but now so much more. 'Ensure you do not die here. I will have need of you.'

MEDUSON HAD ARRIVED in the X Legion strike cruiser Iron Heart. The warship was many orders more powerful than either Grey Talon or the XVI Legion frigate which was named, somewhat ironically, the Inexorable Conquest so it had been able to render down the enemy ship's shields in two colossal broadsides. The Terminator bridgehead was just the start more troops were sent over in boarding rams, spilling into the narrow inner passages and clogging them with slaughter.

With such numbers, the assembly hall was quickly taken, followed by a swift and brutal assault on the bridge. The enemy, as could be expected, fought to the end, but it was Meduson who ended it, decapitating the ship's captain with a single savage swipe, mirroring the death of his genesire amidst the metallic choler of the assembled Iron Hands.

Hours later, the ship was secured. Five of the White Scars' killteam still lived, including Hibou Khan. Henricos came closer to death than he felt comfortable admitting, but the hated fleshcomponents responded to the challenge, aided by the knives of the Iron Heart's medicae teams.

By the time the last of Meduson's troops returned to the strike cruiser he was on his feet again, and was there when Meduson himself returned to the ship's council chamber. The room was hexagonal and of nightblack iron, rising up into a shaft like a foundry vent and filled with the grinding hum of engines.

'Henricos. You did as you were bid,' the warleader noted.

That was as much congratulation as he was likely to get from Meduson for staying alive. It already felt unusual, having grown used to the courtesy and deference of the Chogorians, to be plunged back into the blunt manner of his own Legion.

'It was an order,' said Henricos.

Meduson stood alongside four others two Iron Hands, a Salamander and a Raven Guard. It seemed that the hybrid army sent to Isstvan still endured, at least in scraps.

'Many clans,' said Henricos. 'Many Legions.'

'Forged into one. We are gathering in numbers again.'

Henricos could admire the sentiment. A nagging part of him thought it mistaken, but there could be no arguing with rescuers. 'Others of Sorrgol?'

'Jebez Aug lives, though I command the clan. Much has changed you will be told all these things. What of you?'

Henricos told them of the flight from Isstvan, the encounter on Prospero, and the penitents of the V. Shadrak Meduson listened intently, absorbing the data like a machine, scouring it for anything he could use.

'Then that was a ship of my Legion?' asked the Salamander, sounding genuinely interested.

'For a time,' said Henricos. Though it has been many things.'

'And the Khan remains loyal?' pressed Meduson.

'Completely. His Legion has mobilised for war. Even now he will be engaging the enemy.'

'But those you fought with they were traitors?'

Henricos paused. 'No. They were not.' He struggled to find the words. 'There was… insufficient data.'

Meduson did not look convinced. 'You vouch for them?'

It felt strange, to be defending Hibou and the rest, but now that they had fought together it was harder to maintain outright hostility. 'They are atoning.'

'So be it. If they can fight, I can use them.' Meduson looked at Henricos carefully. 'You can see what is happening here. The strands are being pulled together, winding into cords of greater strength.'

'And that is wise?'

'Why would it not be?'

Henricos glanced across the faces in the room: three of them ashen, one bonepale and another dark. 'While we hunt apart, we are hard to detect. And when we come together, we can be seen. We cannot defeat this enemy through strength

they have more of it.'

'Yet there are things we can achieve,' said Meduson. If the challenge to his strategy irritated him, he made no sign of it. 'I have marked a soul for destruction and I have bound the warriors under me to this cause. If we do no more than this, it will have satisfied honour.'

Henricos did not much like the sound of that, but knew better than to press the matter. If Meduson was motivated by vendetta than that would at least be purpose, and he himself had been working without that for too long.

'Count yourself fortunate,' Meduson said. 'You were fated for death on that ship. Now you will fight on.'

Fortunate. Of course.

'But it was not fortune that brought you,' said Henricos.

Meduson snorted a dry laugh. 'So you worked it out.'

'The sensorghost, mirroring our every move. You were watching us.'

'Aug detected you. He recognised the Sorrgol searchpattern and replicated it, mimicking a scannerartefact, something we have done many times. Consider that your luck in this if he had not counselled us to wait and to observe, we would have destroyed you as a Sons of Horus vessel.' Meduson sounded amused. 'Aug admired the way you ran the algorithm, though he was disappointed that you did not investigate the ghost.'

Henricos felt the barb. The White Scar had seen it, and he had not. 'I was in error. I will learn from it.'

'See that you do. This will be a war of deceptions, and they are as apt to it as we.'

Henricos bowed. 'So what now?'

'Our fleet has another ship. We are used to the process now purge the crew, instate our own and add the guns to our arsenal.'

'You are rebuilding the Legion, brother?'

Meduson shook his head. 'No, but we are more than scattered clans now. That is the lesson here.'

'And if there is no Tenth, I guess you are no longer captain.'

'Warleader. That is all.'

Henricos could have commented on that. He could have remarked that there had already been an idea in which many Legions were subsumed under a single commander, with a title that was not so far away from this new one. He might have noted that this had not apparently ended well and that the parallels were worth noting…

Of course he did not do this. Meduson's quiet command was evident. The suicide mission that Henricos had willingly embraced was now part of something greater. He was no longer alone amidst the warriors of other Legions, and he had the chance to do more than petty damage to those he hated with such perfect clarity.

He should have been happy. That should have doused the anger that still burned through his every vein.

'Then you will join us,' said Meduson, in a way that was more observation than command.

'On one condition,' Henricos replied.

Meduson looked at him warily.

'Name it,' he said.

Medusa's skies were never open. There were never starlit nights just the turmoil of toxinheavy vapour banks, jostling, boiling and murmuring in the dark.

He limped from the southern gate towards the citadel's heart. All around him the forges worked, tended by ranks of silent guardians with faceplates of beaten metal. Factory spires rose from the installation's twisted entrails, each one crusted with the panoply of the machine valves, intakes and conveyors. Between them were the great shafts, plunging away into the planet's core, welling up rustred from the violence unfolding in their deep wells.

He dragged his bandaged feet through streets thick with dust, his jaw clenched tight against the pain and the hunger. The walls were far behind now and he had not seen another armoured guardian, just mortals like him in black climate suits, all consumed by the spinebreaking labour of the forges. He had been told to enter, but did not know the way. Amidst the smog, the sparkspills and the biting cold, it was hard to see more than ten metres ahead, let alone locate the path to the citadel's heart.

He knew even then that this was the test. Others must have done what he was doing left the precarious safety of the clan landengines and stumbled over the plains towards the strongholds. Maybe most of them died on the way, their bones picked clean by the icy wind. That was the kind of selection Medusa specialised in, the one that made its children harder than adamantium.

He lowered his head, clutching his collar to keep the chill out. There was no point in peering ahead through the gloom, so he just focused on putting one foot in front of the other keeping his muscles moving in rhythm.

It must have been many hours before the ground started to rise and the path switched back between stairways of newcut stone.

Inner walls rose up around him, vaster even than those on the perimeter. He saw a great sigil made from polished slate a circular cog device, centred on a stylised wrenchhead. It was huge, more than thirty metres in diameter, and embedded in a cliff face of stone that seemed to tower up into the turbulent heavens themselves.

Before he was even fully aware of it he was climbing steeply, breathing heavily, feeling the air grow more coarse and cold. His eyes were slits now, screwed against the dust. Something was bleeding he could feel the hot trickle down his chest but he kept putting one foot on each new step before him, inching his way upward.

Only once did he look back. He saw the plains stretch away from him far below, webbed with metal and punctured with gaspluming wellheads. He saw concentric rings of walls, as solid as the sacred mountain, each one studded with defence towers. When the lightning whipped across the obsidian landscape he saw the detail there, picked out in neon, markers of a manufactory of infinite power and strength.

He never remembered the final ascent, the one that ripped the skin from the soles of his feet and made his lungs burn. He must have passed through many portals, each one opened for him by the machineguardians of that place who recognised a supplicant and allowed him passage.

By the time his senses returned he was in a great hall, lined with iron columns and lit with orange sodium lamps. He had fallen and was on his knees, but he still shuffled onwards, knowing that he would either reach the place of testing or die like an animal.

He looked up, blinking through the filthsmear across his eyes. There were bodies all around him then skeletal figures with metal parts embedded in their ghostly flesh, spidery amalgams of mortal and machine, and dwarfish attendants that scuttled between the legs of the greater constructs around them.

And then there were the Lords of Medusa, clad in blackened iron and attended by scores of robed menials. They were looking down at him. He could hear their maskfiltered breathing, scraping like the wind of the plains over stone.

One of them came closer, stooped, and took his chin in one gauntlet.

He lifted his head, painfully, trying not to wince. Just as at the gate, he heard the whirr of instruments. He was being scanned, judged and assessed.

The iron knight before him said nothing until the scans were complete. The grip on his chin was icecold.

'Pass the gate,' said the knight, 'and your trials will be eternal.'

He could feel his heart beating weakly.

'You will be Sorrgol. None will own you but us. When you learn secrets, you will never share them. You will fight alone, you will take no allies. We are the Iron Tenth, and we are alone. Outside this place is weakness. We alone are strong.'

He believed those words as soon as he heard them. A fierce joy kindled in his breast, and for the first time he became sure that he would survive to take the trials.

'You will never trust. You will never dilute your strength by fighting alongside another who is not of Medusa. We are the Iron Tenth. We alone are strong.'

There was moisture on his cheeks. He would listen, he would learn. He would break free of the shackles set upon the world by fate, and see the iron collar in all its voidset majesty, and to accomplish this he would absorb every maxim given to him.

He would learn. He would believe.

'You understand this?'

'I… do,' he rasped, his lips dry and bleeding.

'Then repeat it. Say it, and never forget it.'

'We are the Iron Tenth,' he said, burning with both pain and pride, yearning for nothing more than it to be true. 'And we alone are strong.'

HE FOUND HIBOU down in the Talon's practice cages. The Khan had been working nearconstantly since the assault on the Inexorable Conquest, believing that faults in his killteam's tactics had led to the failure. Unlike Henricos, he could take little satisfaction from the arrival of Meduson, since his actions had done nothing to bring it about. The redemptive mission he had embarked upon had brought him neither deserved victory nor honourable death, leaving him dependent once again on the intervention of others.

Henricos watched him for a while, remaining in the shadows. The White Scar fought just as he had done on the frigate a blur of speed, far surpassing anything that the common warriors of the X Legion could summon. There was a virtue in that, just as there was a virtue in the more solid techniques that the Medusans had been schooled in.

Eventually the Khan stopped, glistening with sweat, panting heavily. He must have been working for hours.

Henricos came to meet him at the cage's entrance, offering him an oilstained cloth.

'I did not think to see you again,' said the Khan, wiping his brow.

'You thought I'd take a place on the Iron Heart.'

'It is a fine ship.'

They walked together, heading for the chamber's exit. 'It is a long time since I was on a Medusan vessel. Perhaps I remember them differently.'

Hibou raised an eyebrow, and the movement made the scar on his cheek twitch. 'Then you are staying on the Grey Talon?'

Henricos shrugged. 'This is a lucky ship. And I do not trust you to fly it.'

'That may be wise you have fouled half the systems.'

They reached the exit, and Hibou paused at the doorway. 'Teji is dead. Three others. Their blood was wasted we would have lost the action.'

'That is war.'

'We must do better.'

Henricos nodded. 'We will.'

He reached over his shoulder and drew a sword, the first he had carried since Isstvan. It was no curved piece of Chogorian steel, but an augmentedfunction Medusan zweihander, the length of a mortal man, riddled with power feeds and linked disruptor field generators. It was the kind of weapon he had dreamed of owning again, far better than a bolter or a borrowed powermaul.

'Next time we fight, I will be at your shoulder with this. A single strike can carve a legionary in two.'

Hibou looked at the longsword cautiously. The heavy construction was the antithesis of everything that his own Legion practised in weaponry. 'Impressive, certainly,' he said, doing his best.

Henricos laughed. 'It was the condition of my taking Meduson's command. That, and captaining the Talon. I see potential here. I see a melding of philosophies.' He sheathed the sword again. 'Your kind move a blade fast. You could teach me how to do that.'

Hibou didn't manage to hide his surprise. 'Teach you?'

'And the reverse.' Henricos hit the door release, and the blastpanel slid back. 'Meduson is serious. He's going after the Sixteenth now, right to the top. You are correct we need to find a way of doing better. Perhaps this is it.'

'That is madness.'

'In all likelihood, but what strategic use is sanity now?' Henricos fixed Hibou with a steady glare. 'If the chance comes, I will take it. I will look on the Warmaster's face as I end him. Will you be beside me then?'

Hibou stared back warily, seemingly unable to decide if he was being mocked. 'You will never get the chance.'

'You're probably right.'

'But if you did…'

Henricos waited patiently. In the end, though, Hibou never finished the sentence. The Chogorian's eyes moved back to the hilt of the zweihander.

'So how does it handle?' Hibou asked.

Henricos stepped back from the door and unsheathed the blade again. He nodded over to the practice cage.

'Draw your own blade,' he said, wondering how well his wounds would hold up if things got too strenuous. 'I will demonstrate.'

THE KEYS OF HEL

JOHN FRENCH

'The true danger of the unknown lies not in its existence, but in knowing that it exists.'

Kyril Sindermann, in his speech to the Symposium of Nessus

What are the Keys of Hel?

I sleep and the question rises in my thoughts like the moon above a black sea. I do not know what the question means, and if I know the answer then it is lost to me.

My limbs are a dull echo on the edge of my awareness. My thoughts move with creaking slowness through my mind.I see a face of dead flesh, its lips moving though no words come. I feel the cool flash as a blade punches through my ribs. Pain skitters down my nerves.

The clink of chains.

WAKEN.

Warm blood. Thickening beat by slowing beat.

I see…

Nothing.

Thoughts are echoes. Have I had them before? Have I asked this question before? Is this slow cycle of consciousness a wheel turning without end, repeating again and again?

I know who I am. My name is Crius. I was Lord of the Kadoran. I am the banner bearer of the X Legion. I am the emissary of Ferrus Manus. I am the Iron Hand of the Crusader Host. I am all this. But these are answers to questions I have not asked.

Where am I?

Am I still beneath the mountain? Do I lie still in the gaol of the Emperor for the crime of being a loyal warrior in a war of betrayal? Is the coldness of this sleep a prison?

More questions, but still not the right question.

WAKEN.

I see a face. It is set in goldenyellow armour, and it looks down upon me. A black cross on a white field, and the clink of chains.

Friend…

The word comes to me, but I do not know why. What is a friend?

I am not a creature of friends of brothers, perhaps, but not friends. I am one of a kindred. We are bound by what makes us strong, by the flesh of our father.

Father…

Pain, bright like a fractured sun. I am the pain and it is my world. I am not alone here because it is here with me.

Why is the pain here?

Still not the right question, but closer. Much closer.

The pain is rising now, spinning around me, flaying the numbness of sleep.

What is this?

The pain is everywhere. The world is not blank now. It is white. Blinding, cutting, burning white.

And the pain is growing. It has a shape. It has a head now, and arms, and a hole that beats where there should be hearts.

The figure of pain reaches for me.

Why is it here?

It is pulling me in.

Why does it want me?

What is it?

WAKEN.

And I wake.

The connections snap into place down my spine. Pain flashes along nerves and cables. My limbs become my own, dead flesh and machine answering with icy snarls.

I know what I am.

I open my eyes. Light pours into my world. Projected data bathes the chamber before me. Vapour rises from icedogged machines. I feel the snaking sensation as the flesh and machine fuse to my mind.

I step forwards. Ice falls from me in brittle scales. Pistons extend and snap my limbs into place. Energy crackles along conduits and I hear iron fingers flex. The pain is everything. Every sensation is a colour of agony.

I am a son without a father. I am a warrior risen from the edge of the grave of all he knew, and all that created him. I am the dead in a war of fools.

What are the Keys of Hel?

I am the answer.

I am a life stolen from the dark, and lived in oblivion.

I walk from my tomb, and behind me my brothers wake from their own sleep and follow me to war.

THE FIRE ROARS and we fall. A shot hits the drop pod's carapace and peels off a petal of burning armour. The air rushes out. Flames roar in the spill of atmosphere and then vanish. We are tumbling, the view beyond flicking past in snatches. I see the starforts sitting at the centre of webs of light, great burning spiders hanging above the blue sphere of the world below. I see our ship, the Thetis, sinking into the pool of fire pouring from them. She is bright with the blood of her wounds, liquid metal and glowing gas spilling from her bulk as she scatters more and more craft into the well of gravity.

I am still clamped to the drop pod's core. Nine stand with me. We are silent as our world spins and spins. There is no air in the pod now. A sensation registers cold on the bare flesh of my face. I neither blink nor move.

I can feel the echo of the animating waves pulse through me, stronger than the beat of blood, sharper than iceladen air. A wall of gouged armour fills the split in the pod wall. The muzzles of vast guns shout silently into the distance. We spin and spin. Explosions throw shards of metal through the pod. I feel one strike my armour and bury itself deep. The sensation passes.

The drop pod's thrusters fire. Our spin is a blur, then a scream of thrusters fighting to steady us. They fail.

The pod strikes the starfort.

Force slams through. A wall buckles inwards. Sheared edges slam into the warrior next to me. He dies for a second time. Black pearls of stagnant blood and oil rise from him as the pod bounces back up from the starfort's surface. The thrusters are firing at random. Lights begin to pulse in time with an alarm that no one can hear. We are hit again, spinning, rolling and glancing over ravines and cliffs of armour.

A plate rips from the pod and I can see the great, crenellated ring of the starfort extending away. Pods and gunships hurtle towards it, and the fire of a thousand guns rises to meet them. The Thetis is no longer sinking through the starfort's bombardment. It is drowning in an inferno.

This is the end.

We will not waken again. Here we perish. This is the last battle that we have snatched from the jaws of death. It is not an end of renown and glory. It was never going to be. All things end. All ages pass, and even the deathless may die.

Our pod leaps high above the starfort's skin, and I know that we will slam down again. I can see the buttresses and ridges of antennae waiting for us, ready to mash the pod to splinters and spill the wreckage back into the void.

'Fire,' I call, and the machines in my throat catch the word and carry it to my brothers. They move like sleepers still half in a dream. We fire our weapons.

Beams and shells rip the shell of the pod from us, and we are loose from the wreckage, diving towards the fort.

We strike the hull. The impact shudders through me as my armour magclamps to the fort's skin. Bones crack in the remains of my flesh.

I rise, pistons straightening, and I feel my weapons arm with a tingle of shifting agony.

A hatch blows outwards from the outside of the starfort. Five Death Guard roar into the vacuum in their voidharnesses.

I fire and my brothers follow. They are like me. They died on battlefields from Isstvan to Greydoc and have slept in cold dreams at my side. Most still dream, the echoes of life just tatters. They follow, and they know the pain of this unlife, but they are spared the thoughts that remain to me.

Rounds and beams skid from the Death Guard's armour. A volkite strikes one in the gut. The beam burrows through a join in the plates and into his flesh. He becomes instantly still. The impeller of his harness pushes him upwards for a second and then cuts out. Then a jet of steam and powdered flesh explodes from the wound and spins him over and over.

The rest land. There are four now. They wait until they are on the surface of the fort's hull to fire. Strings of plasma cut through us. The Death Guard shake as the recoil tugs at them. Another of my brothers falls, his body and armour hanging in a shredded ruin, swaying from where his feet are still clamped to the hull.

I charge at them. My boots ring and lock as they strike the hull. My brothers come with me, loping forwards. A boltround hits my shoulder, explodes and shears off layers of piston casing and cables. The impact registers somewhere far off and remote, a sliver of information that does not belong to this moment. The hammer head snaps out from my arm and locks into my hand. The first Death Guard stops firing and a film of cold energy sheathes the shield on his wrist. I raise my hammer, and behind and above me the Thetis looms and glows, like a spear tip hot from the forge fires.

The Death Guard does not wait for me to strike. He slams forward, his shield high, his muscle and armour cannoning into me while my blow is still unfolding. I reel, one foot clamped to the deck and the other loose. His chainsword comes up, tip first, the teeth a silent blur, and I have an instant to know that it will hit and that there is nothing I can do to prevent it.

The chainsword slams into my torso. I feel the cutting teeth bite into the ceramite, and their roar suddenly vibrates through my armour and body. There is a second of resistance and then blood, oil and shreds of dead flesh are churning into the vacuum as the blade saws upward. I feel it, but with a slow, drawnout delay.

I have a jolting instant to see all around me, to see our drop pods and boarding craft disintegrating into motes of fire, to see the Thetis rock in her wrapping of explosions, to see the human troops pouring from the starfort's hatches, guns ready, their movements slowed by void suits. And I have long enough to know that we have reached the end of our war.

We will be no more after this. We will end. I am not sorry. Ours was a war fought from beyond death. It was a war of obliteration not victory, and its end always lay in a moment like this, in fire and ruin.

My eyes find the helmed face of the Death Guard as he prepares to rip his blade from my chest.

It will end now.

But not without a price for our destroyers.

I punch my left hand forwards, metal fingers splayed. My fist closes on the Death Guard's gorget and I yank him close. He is fast, but my strength is not that of flesh. The chainblade is buzzing in the ruin of my chest. His face plate crashes into my shoulder. His eye lenses shatter and the air inside his helm vents outwards with a mist of blood. I would like to think that he feels shock, that he feels doubt and panic, and the cold realisation that retribution has found him. He won't though. The only thought running through his skull will be that he has to kill me. I know this. It is what I would have thought. They made us alike in that respect.

HE RECOILS. THE chainsword rips down. My hammer activates as I strike, and strike, and strike, until red meat and blood scatters with the slivers of his armour.

I stand still, suddenly cold and without the pain that tells me I am still in the land of flesh.

Data is cascading past my eyes like blood flowing from a wound. Somewhere beyond the runes I see the lights of battle. I turn my head up to see the Thetis fall as I know she will.

And a vast, black shape cuts through the lattice of fire. It is another vessel, smaller than the Thetis but still vast a dagger compared to her scorched hammer head.

Fresh flowers of bright, cold light open across the blackness. A great dome of light erupts on the other side of the starfort, and a second later the tremor hits.

The scrolling data in my eyes stops.

I hear a voice calling to me in tones of static, but I am no longer a thing that hears or replies. I am falling backwards away from the world above, falling back to the jumbled memories of life and the questions that only the dead ask.

What are the Keys of Hel?

They are a dream that ends and wishes it had not. They are what happens when life runs out and hate endures.

WAKEN.

I am standing beneath the burning dome of the heavens.

WAKEN.

I am watching the world become a receding dot. Beneath and behind me the blank dream of true death rushes up to catch me as I fall.

'Waken.'

It is a voice that calls me. I obey it. I waken to the slow unfolding of pain that is the return from the dreams of ice.

I know the face that greets me. It is a face of blank iron with slots for eyes. It is the face of Phidias, my resurrector, my brother amongst the living. Interface sockets dot his armour and a mane of interface cables hang down his back like a cloak.

I try to speak, but the connections between my mind and body are not complete.

Phidias gives a single shake of his head, as though hearing what I was about to ask.

'We endure still, Crius. The battle was won, the enemy destroyed.'

A spider of pain climbs my throat and I can speak.

'How?' I ask.

'You were found and taken from the void.' He pauses. 'I made you again.'

I track the sensations as my body becomes mine again. It is different. The beat of blood is fainter, the tingle of flesh more distant. The cold thrill of metal presses into my awareness where before there had been the warm pulse of muscle and nerves. I have lost much, but I do not feel weaker. I feel stronger.

'No,' I say, forming the word slowly. There is still ice on the remaining flesh of my face. 'How did we prevail?'

Phidias looks at me for a long moment. He is calculating, processing data and possibilities.

'Another ship came to our aid.'

'Another ship?'

'Its arrival caused the enemy to miscalculate its key defensive choices. That cost them everything.'

'What other ship?'

'They have been looking for us, following the messages we sent into the warp to bring the enemy to us. They have been seeking for some time. Or so they claim.'

'Who are they?'

'The ship is the Daedalus.'

I hear the word, and at the back of my awareness I feel something move a twitch, like the fingers of a hand beneath a shroud.

'Do they know I am here?'

'No,' he says with a brief shake of his head.

'Is the Daedalus still bound to the same clan?'

He nods. I wish that I could close my eyes to think, but I cannot. Data blinks across my vison as I consider. After a moment I speak one of the key questions aloud.

'If they do not know I am here, then why were they seeking us?'

'They say that they have been seeking all they can find of the Tenth Legion. There is a gathering of might, an attempt to mend what is broken so that we may be whole again.'

I pause. There is no point speaking of the delusion of such an idea. I think of Rogal Dorn, of Sigismund and the Imperial Fists squatting on Terra in hope of being able to face down the tide of treachery. I think of the hunger for hope that took me from Terra to find the shattered remains of my Legion. The nobility of such motives does not make any of those actions any less futile. There is only one reason to fight now, and that is to take the measure of vengeance from this universe before it is ashes.

'Why have you woken me, Phidias?' I ask, and the master of the Thetis nods again as though acknowledging that we have reached the point he was waiting for.

'Because they have asked to meet the chiefs of our force, and because they are not fools. The Thetis is still being repaired and will not be able to run. Once they realise what I have done and what you are, we will have to destroy them before they attempt to destroy us. Unless we can reach a point of balance.'

'You wish to avoid death at the hands of our kin. Does the manner in which we end still matter, Phidias?'

'Yes. It does'

I am silent. I do not know if I feel the same way he does. I do not know if I feel anything. At last I nod.

The Kadoran. The Daedalus.

Pearls of ice fall from my face as I shrug from my wrappings of frost.

My clan. My ship. Two shards from a life I no longer live.

'Very well,' I say as. 'Let us go and speak with my clanbrothers. Let them see what has become of their lord.'

What are the Keys of Hel?

They are the fires taken from the mountain. They are what should not and must not be. Only in the last days of humanity, when law has no meaning, should any think to break the locks placed upon them.

These are those days.

THE REPRESENTATIVES OF Clan Kadoran wait for us. Twenty warriors armoured and armed, their weapons ready stand beneath the wings of their gunships on the deck of a hangar bay. Around them, the jumble of our scavenged assault craft fill the gloom like the halfgnawed leavings of a carrion beast. It is hot, or so the data tells me. I feel neither cold nor heat anymore. They will have noticed that, as they will have noticed the damage to the Thetis's hull, and the quiet which radiates from the darkness of the ship. They wait and wonder exactly who, and what, they have found. I know this. It is a mirrored moment, an experience repeated from my past but this time seen from the other side.

We watch them for several seconds, but they do not see us. Beside me stands Phidias, and to either side of us, stretching away into the gloom, two hundred of our silent brotherhood. At last Phidias steps forwards and I go with him.

Our brothers remain where they are, unseen and unmoving.

The Kadoran react as they see us. Guns come up and volkite calivers and plasma blasters shrill as they rise to a firing charge.

We stop. Stillness extends into the space and silence. The moment has a feeling of stolen familiarity.

'I am Soter. I am ClanFather of the Kadoran.'

I look at him and he looks back. His armour is battle marked, but the marks are like scars over healed flesh, and beneath them his armour purrs with smooth efficiency. His helm is clamped at his belt, his head bare. A strip of steelgrey hair runs down the centre of a scalp dotted with cog studs. His eyes are his own, but the flesh of the righthand side of his face is a sculpture in circuitry and chrome. He radiates calm and strength.

I know him. I know him very well. His eyes move between Phidias and me in a single sweep of movement. Lights flicker beneath his right eye, but his face shows nothing. He waits, and when we say nothing he speaks again.

'We are come to you as blood of the same Legion, and to call you to gather with our kin. Who are you, and of what clan?'

'I am Phidias, master of the Thetis'. The words are uninflected, a blank gift of fact.

Soter gives the smallest nod, and then turns his gaze to me.

'And you?'

'It is I, brother,' I say, even though I know that my voice no longer sounds like the one they would remember.

He stares at me. Everything is very still. I feel a pulse in the air and know that vox transmissions are flicking between Soter's entourage. Their guns do not lower.

'Lord Crius?'

I take a single step closer, aware of the piston creak of my frame as I move.

'It is a long way from old wars, Soter, and longer since I was lord of anything.'

He continues to stare.

'We did not know you lived,' he says at last.

I do not respond to that. 'Why are you here?' I ask instead.

He pauses for a second, and I can feel him considering his answer. That was always his strength, both in battle and in strategy. Logic and strength were the pillars of the X Legion's might in war, but in Soter there was a vein of instinct rarely found in those of our blood. It was one of the qualities that allowed him to rise above his peers, and triumph where others fell. It was one of the reasons in the limited form we are given to such sentiment that I liked him. And now I could tell that his instinct was holding his tongue, telling him that something was wrong.

'I came looking for any of our Legion who might endure.' His eyes move between Phidas and me. 'I came to summon all I found.'

'To what end?'

'For war.' He leaves off both my name and the title he had previously given me. It is not an accident. The Iron Hands do not make small errors.

'War is everywhere, Soter. There is no need to gather to find it.'

'The Legion will be drawn together again,' he says.

'He is dead!' I hear the dry voice roar into the vast space. It is a thundercrack of rage, bitterness and pain. It is my voice. I feel the bulk of my body flex, as pistons and cable feeds twitch. When I speak again my voice is quieter, but I can still feel the edge in it, the emotion which has come from somewhere I cannot see within myself. 'Ferrus Manus fell, our father is no more. We are broken. The Legion is no more. Nothing can change that.'

'We are strong. We endure, and we can be reforged.'

'We are not strong enough, brother. We are the remains, the echo which has yet to fade.'

'You refuse, then?' he asks, and I hear the suspicion in the words.

I take another step forwards.

'That you ask is a courtesy I appreciate. But you know already that we will not be a part of the false dream you chase.'

Our gazes are locked, and in that moment I know that I was right and that he has deduced what I am now. I wait to hear his next words.

'What have you done?' he asks, and I hear the voice of the young Medusan warrior who I chose from a throng of shivering humans, and who became a warrior at my side and bore my banner for six decades of conquest and war.

'I have become the vengeance of the fallen,' I say, and behind me my brothers in death step from the gloom.

What are the Keys of Hel?

They were the seal placed by our father upon all the principles and knowledge that should never be applied. Few outside the Legion knew of the ban placed by Ferrus Manus on the Sarcosan Formulae, the Progression of the Seventh Gate, and the Ophidian Scale. Even amongst his sons few knew more than the name and, of those who did know, most grasped only shadows of dark possibility. Cyberresurrection, ghola, death and life bound by field, woven by metal and sung by axioms of the unknown. Created by man in the Dark Age of Technology, or by alien hands under cruel suns, their origin does not matter. They are the evolution that our father placed beyond our reach, the lock upon a gate to a denied realm.

I have walked through those gates, and now I step between stolen moments amongst the living. I walk with fire, pain and hatred for all that has brought me here, and for all that has been lost.

And as I persist I think of my genefather. Of the warrior who died, who fell and who allowed himself to be weaker than the universe.

And I know now with every pulse of false life that he was right.

'HOLD!' SOTER'S SHOUT cuts through the buzz of fireready weapons.

I watch him. He has not taken his eyes off me. His warriors freeze. He had not needed to call out he could have held their fire with a subvocal command. But he had spoken it aloud, and I knew as I looked at him that it had been so I could hear it.

Beside him one of his warriors flicks a gaze across the lines of the dead. I recognise him: Taurus, a sergeant in the 167th. I had raised him to that rank. He had been a fine warrior, hard and unyielding as a worn anvil. I realise that I no longer think of them as my warriors. If I look further, and let memory and logic flow, I will recognise more of them. They once followed me in war, knelt to me as their lord, and I had called them brothers. That is gone now. We are separate, two shards cleaved from a broken sword falling away from one another.

'We did not come here as enemies,' he says. He looks carefully at the dead ranged behind me. I read the gesture and shake my head.

'I do not threaten, Soter. This is honesty. We cannot be a part of what you attempt. You know that. You need to understand.'

He shakes his head once.

'That you could do this…'

'There is nothing to protect. We are what we are. The Legion cannot be remade, and we are no longer with you. We are this age's last children. Go back to your dreams, Soter, and leave us to ours.'

Soter is utterly still. He is calculating, running the situation through logic and reason, searching for the decision he will have to make. The living flesh of his face shifts almost imperceptibly. He is about to speak.

'You have broken the decrees of our father,' he says. Behind him, Taurus and the rest shift imperceptibly. They are holding themselves on the razorfine edge before violence. 'You have passed beyond. You have turned your back on Ferrus Manus. You are not of the Legion. You are its shame.'

And there is a paused instant, as though the second that has just passed and the one that is to come have yet to join.

He is right. I know that he is right. The words are true, but they also do not matter. The warriors facing me come from a different world, a world that is not the cold sleep of death and the pain of waking.

'Kill them,' says Soter.

Gunfire blazes through the dark. Haloed beams of light spear into armour and explode cold muscle. Plasma screams as it blasts metal into vapour. Soter's Iron Hands are spreading out amongst the hulls of the assault craft, firing as they pull back towards their own gunships even as the ring of dead warriors closes. None of my brothers fire back.

'Hold your fire, Soter!' I call. He has leapt away and is firing at the slow shapes of the dead. He has not fired at me, though. He had the opportunity, in the long moment when he faced me, his weapon in his hand as the dead stepped into the light. He could have poured bolts into my head until it was pulp and bone.

He did not fire. Iron Hands do not make such errors. He had chosen not to fire.

'Soter,' I call and stride forward. The air is thick with the streaked light and tattered shrieks of gunfire.

'You are an abomination,' he calls.

They are halfway to their gunships. The craft's heavy bolters are stitching the gloom into a sheet of explosions.

'Leave us,' I call, as rounds explode across my armour. I rock in place. 'End this and go.'

'This ship will burn,' he calls and raises his bolter. Its muzzle is a frozen circle of black in my sight. 'We will purge you from us.'

'I cannot allow that,' I call. 'You will end here and we will endure.'

'So be it, then,' he says, and squeezes the trigger.

The bolt never leaves the barrel. A sharp edge of plasteel and lightning cuts the weapon in two, and a ball of shrapnel bursts from it.

Soter is turning fast, but Taurus's second blow cuts the front from his skull, and the third shatters his chest plate and ribs. Soter falls.

'Cease,' Taurus calls, and the warriors beside him put up their weapons. He turns and looks at those whose brother and leader he has just killed. Again there is the itching pulse of vox traffic, felt but silent to me, passing between them.

Then he turns back to me. I cannot read his posture; he seems just as all of the X Legion can at times, unmoving, poised between detachment and fury.

'My thanks,' I say. He twitches.

'We will leave,' he says. 'You will not try to prevent us. You will not stand against us.'

He turns and walks away. I can still see the sheen of Soter's blood on his armour, splattered red reflecting black in the dim light. The rest fold in around him, taking the places of a warrior guard of a clanfather.

'You claim his place by taking his life?'

Taurus pauses and turns back, and in that motion I can sense the loathing he is carrying just beneath the surface of control.

'That was always the way. The old Medusan way. He made the wrong choice, the weak choice, the choice of flesh and sentiment, not iron. If he was stronger I would not have been able to kill him. Death is the consequence of weakness.'

The blank gaze of his helm is fixed on me, and I hear the unspoken implication in his words. 'What you have done is not gain strength. It is not inevitable. It is weakness.'

'Then why leave us unpunished?' I ask.

He laughs, a growling roll that sounds utterly inhuman, and utterly without humour.

'Destruction is forgiveness. I will not sacrifice the strength of our clan to undo what you have done. You are living the punishment for your own heresy, and I will not spare you from it.'

Taurus turns his back, contempt sharp in every line and movement. He begins to walk towards the waiting gunships.

'And him?' asks Phidias looking down at the shape of Soter on the deck between us. Taurus turns and looks at the bloody ruin of his former lord.

'He stays with you,' he says.

What are the Keys of Hel ?

They are a voice growing fainter as the past walks away from us. A key is a beginning, but once the door is open those beginnings are forgotten. We walk through and leave what brought us there behind. We become the present.

We become the inescapable now.

SOTER WAKES. I am waiting for him when he does. He looks up at me. He no longer has a true face. Lenses and tangles of wire sit at the front of a skull of chrome. I watch the lenses twitch, watch the hand rise and the digits flex.

'Welcome, brother,' I say.

'It…' he begins, and then stops as though the buzz and click of his voice has surprised him. 'It is… pain.'

'Yes,' I say. 'It is.'

He rises, each limb moving one at a time until he is standing. 'Will this end?' he asks and his eyes are not looking at me but at the exposed flesh of his right hand, waiting for its skin of armour. 'Yes,' I reply. 'When we wake no more.'

He looks for a moment longer at his still fingers, and then nods.

What are the Keys of Hel?

They are the reward for our weakness. They are the cruelty of iron. They are all we have left.

DEEDS ENDURE

GAV THORPE

'COMMENCE BOMBARDMENT!'

A second passed.

Then another.

Still there was no sign that the command of SpearheadCenturion Kratoz had been heard. The gun decks of the Phorcys remained suspiciously silent. On the ship schematic in the lower right corner of the main screen the status display showed the battle cruiser's torpedo tubes still loaded.

The Iron Hands' commander turned artificial eyes on his fire control officer, Khrysaor, glinting yellow in the dim light glowing from the panels and screens of the strategium.

'Sergeantatarms, why have we not opened fire?'

'Forgive me, but our firing solution has been compromised. I was attempting to recalculate.'

'Compromised? Explain.'

'Our companions, spearheadcenturion. The Salamanders' vessel has moved into close orbit, coming between us and the surface of Praestes. If we open fire they will be in the path of our ordnance.'

'They are in the way? Is Ari'i an imbecile? Does he realise what he is doing?'

'I would suggest, commander, that he is entirely competent from our recent experience. Adjusting for navigational error would not bring the Hearthfire so close. I would have to conclude that the intercession of his ship is deliberate.'

'Blocking our fire on purpose? I see. Truly the flesh is weak. Ari'i is mad, not stupid. Let us see if sanity can prevail.'

ON BOARD THE frigate Hearthfire Pyre Warden Ari'i of the Salamanders considered the possibility that he had just sacrificed the life of nineteen fellow Space Marines, as well as his own, in a pointless gesture. It was an outcome not lost on his secondincommand, Sigilmaster Aka'ula.

'With much respect, my lord, we have no guarantees that the Iron Hands will not simply open fire regardless.'

'I do not recall the pyre warden offering guarantees when he asked that we remain with him after Isstvan,' answered Sergeant Hema from the navigational controls. 'Can not even the most prodigiouslytalented artisan find that his final blow quite unexpectedly shatters the blade he has diligently forged?'

'They will not fire,' Ari'i assured them. Not yet, he added silently.

'They have no sense of brotherhood, my lord, not as we understand it. They cannot be trusted to act in a rational manner.'

'A grave error, Sigilmaster,' replied Ari'i. 'The Iron Hands are exceptionally dedicated to their code, and reason and rationality are prized amongst Medusa's sons. I am hoping that my irrational act will force them to reconsider. I take it as a good sign that we are still alive to have this conversation.'

The command chamber of the Hearthfire fell silent as the trio of Space Marines waited for the Iron Hands' response.

A shrill tone drew their attention to the sensorium controls. Hema was closest, turning from his position to tap out an inquiry into the console's keypad.

'Aggressive sensor sweep, localised,' he announced.

'From the Phorcys?' asked Aka'ula.

'Yes. It's a target lock.'

'A bluff,' Ari'i told them, having not moved a centimetre from his place at the central command array. 'Centurion Kratoz must know that we realise he has enough firepower to destroy us in a single salvo, even without a dedicated target lock. He is simply making a point of it.'

'Detecting energy surge in the Phorcys's weapon batteries.'

'SPEARHEADCENTURION, I submit that it is inadvisable to open fire at this juncture.'

Kratoz ignored his subordinate's protest and considered having Khrysaor replaced. He offered the sergeantatarms one last opportunity.

'All power to starboard armament, weapons officer. Prepare to open fire on target vessel.'

'As you command, spearheadcenturion.' The screens flashed with the redistribution of the main reactor output to the starboard energy grid. 'I submit that we cannot conclude one hundred per cent that the Hearthfire will not have opportunity to return fire. Salamanders vessels are famed for being uparmed.'

'They have nothing that can penetrate our shields.'

'I further submit that our target on the surface is stationary and hence not going to depart any time soon. You could request that they remove themselves from our line of fire.'

Kratoz could no longer glare, not with artificial eyes, and it was an expression he missed on occasions such is this.

Despite his borderline insubordinate tone, Khrysaor was correct in his assessment. 'Very well. Comms officer, hail the Hearthfire.'

The commslink display situated to Kratoz's left crackled into life, the screen filling with static for several seconds until the connection was established. A blurry, monochrome image appeared on the display, becoming more focused after another few seconds. In grainy grey and white, Ari'i's pitchblack skin seemed flat and unmoving. The hoop of ornamentation he wore through his right brow was like a ring of white and his eyes a light grey, though in reality Kratoz knew they were a disturbing scarlet. There was a four millisecond delay between Ari'i speaking, white teeth showing on the screen, and his bass voice coming from the speaker grille beneath.

'Centurion Kratoz, I trust there is a solid reason for why your ship seems to have locked its weapons onto my vessel.'

'Why in the name of the Gorgon are you getting in my way? Move aside and allow the Phorcys to open fire on the target.'

' I cannot do that at the moment, my ally. I am still not convinced that yours is the justified course of action.'

'You are not convinced? I have gigatonnes of destructive potential pointed at your vessel, that is all the convincing that is required. Move your ship out of my way!'

The browpiercing swayed as Ari'i frowned.

'You misunderstand, spearheadcenturion. Perhaps you have forgotten in the six months since our introduction, so let me remind you that I am a praetor of the Emperor's Legiones Astartes. I do not explain myself to officers of a captain's rank, no matter how impressive their battlehonorific. Or is it the case that the Iron Hands no longer care for chainofcommand and rank protocol between Legions? Has the loss of your primarch also stripped you of any adherence to the discipline and order for which your Legion was rightly famed?'

Ari'i's words burned like the acidetched geometric designs on the back of Kratoz s hands, deliberately spiteful and yet utterly vindicated. Kratoz touched the fingers of his left to his forehead in apology.

'My error, kinsman. I spoke in anger. As the Gorgon taught us, the flesh is weak. Shall we let more rational, calmer heads prevail over the vagaries of the heart? I would very much appreciate if you would come aboard the Phorcys to discuss the ongoing action against Praeneste.'

'Your invitation is welcome. Both of our vessels will hold station for the moment. I will prepare to come aboard at once.'

Kratoz nodded and signalled to the comms officer to cut the link. The screen stuttered into grey and then turned blank, reflecting the spearheadcenturion's gaunt features where Ari'i's face had been moments before. His eye lenses looked like circles of pure white against a haggard mass of creased skin.

'Prepare to receive the pyre warden and his party,' Kratoz told his command crew, before his voice dropped to a mutter. 'Perhaps in person he'll be more tractable.'

KRATOZ INSPECTED THE conclave chamber, ensuring nothing was amiss or out of place. The Thunderhawk had already docked and the Salamanders were making their way under an escort led by Khrysaor. The main table was a long rectangle of chrome polished to an almost blinding sheen, gleaming in the pale blue light of the strips overhead. At the table's centre was a plate of diorite carved in representation of the Iron Hands' Legion icon. Kratoz took a moment to consider the faceted whiteandgrey stone. Harder than granite, it had been chosen to represent the unyielding nature of the Gorgon's code, a code that Kratoz had tried to uphold in the months since he had left the Isstvan System, his primarch dead, slain by the traitor Fulgrim.

It was difficult. To confide in his subordinates would be an unseemly act of weakness. It was his rank to lead, to be not only the spearheadcenturion but the spearhead itself. Where he went the others would follow. But who could he follow? The Gorgon was dead. The Legion... Was there a Legion without its primarch?

There had been anarchy, conflicting orders, death and destruction everywhere. He had acted. He had led. The preservation of warriors and materiel had been his primary concern. Warriors and materiel that was now of use in the fight back against Horus.

So why did he feel guilty? Why did he feel like a coward?

'The flesh is weak,' he whispered, running his gauntleted hand over the diorite.

'We shall be at the chamber in thirty seconds,' Khrysaor warned over the vox. ' In attendance with Lord Ari'i, Captain

Sigilmaster Aka'ula and Sergeant Hema.'

'These Nocturnean names make me worry I'll choke on my own tongue.' Kratoz took his place at the head of the table and sat down. 'Very well, I am ready.'

He waited, immobile, quelling the doubts and frustration with the straightforward facts he would present to Ari'i. In the last few seconds before the Salamanders arrived he was settled again, confident that he pursued the correct course of action.

The doors slid open and Khrysaor entered first. Like Kratoz he was clad in battleplate of black, trimmed with silver.

The sergeantatarms had extensive bionic remodelling of his left arm and shoulder, replacing the limb that had been lost fighting orks on Duraseth. Although Khrysaor always maintained that he was perfectly integrated with the artificial limb, he sometimes had the habit of clenching and unclenching his robotic fingers repeatedly in times of stress, as he was doing now. Kratoz thought again of dismissing his subordinate but chose not to better that he had some moral support against the three Salamanders than none at all.

Kratoz hated himself for momentarily questioning his authority on his own ship, and it was perhaps his sour expression at this that greeted Ari'i as the Salamanders commander crossed the threshold. Taken aback, the pyre warden stopped a stride inside the doorway, head tilted slightly to one side in surprise.

To cover his momentary embarrassment. Kratoz rose to his feet and bowed, right fist held to his forehead.

'Welcome aboard the Phorcys, my lord,' he intoned solemnly as he straightened, glad that his artificial eyes could not further betray his flustered mood. Kratoz gestured towards the empty bench that ran down one side of the narrow table facing the briefing displays.

'My aidesdemilitant,' said Ari'i as his two companions joined him. The first was nearly a head taller than any of the other Space Marines, his flesh like carved ebony, crisscrossed with scars that covered almost every part of the exposed skin. He wore a tabard of scaled reptilian hide over his dark green armour, mottled dark red and brown like dried blood.

'Sigilmaster Aka'ula.'

'Sigilmaster? I am not familiar with the rank,' said Kratoz, inclining his head towards the Salamanders legionary.

'Mostly an honorific,' Aka'ula replied, seating himself close to Kratoz. 'I was a recordkeeper. My rank is as company captain.'

'And this is Sergeant Hema,' Ari'i continued, indicating the third member of the visiting party. Save for his broader cheeks to Kratoz the sergeant was physically indistinguishable from his officer. His armour, on the other hand, had been heavily modified, based on an old Mark III suit with external reinforcement, additional plates and visible boosted musdesystems and pneumatics.

'You like it, my friend?' said Hema with a grin, raising his arms and turning first to one side and then the other to show Kratoz the battleplate. 'They call me a superstitious fool, but I could never abandon this armour. It saved me many times before they introduced the Mark Four and I couldn't part with it.'

'Impressive,' Kratoz conceded. 'And the internal systems?'

'Fully upgraded to the latest autosensor suites and black carapace interface, my friend.'

'Perhaps when this current situation has been successfully resolved you might spend some time with my armourers.

I am sure they would be intrigued to learn more about what you have done.'

'Of course. What I know you shall know.' He cast a pointed look at Kratoz as he sat down. 'We are on the same side, are we not?'

Kratoz ignored the question as he sat. The conference was a delay he would have preferred to have avoided. Every minute before they acted risked the success of their mission at Praestes.

'We were agreed that the World Eaters facility on Praestes had to be destroyed. I believe you said it was an ideal target for our next mission.' Kratoz held up a hand as Ari'i looked to interrupt. The praetor nodded for Kratoz to continue. 'I do not wish to throw your words back at you, kinsman, that is not my intent. There is a threat here. It must be neutralised. Not only is the recruiting citadel creating the World Eaters that we will face on the fields of battle in the future, they have begun to use their psycholobotomisation techniques and cybernetic augmentations on a wider swathe of the populace. The creation of legionaries is a timeconsuming process but all too soon Praestes will flood the galaxy with tens of thousands, perhaps millions of augmented, merciless, fearless human soldiers.'

Ari'i listened to this with an intent look and when Kratoz was finished the Salamanders commander stood up, placing his hands on the table.

'I do not object to the destruction of the citadel, but to the manner employed. The main structure is shielded against laser and teleportation, we know that much from our earlier scans. Using weapons batteries and torpedoes will cause immense collateral damage to the surrounding area. To destroy the World Eaters you would annihilate the city of Taurius and kill millions of Imperial citizens.'

'Citizens in league with the World Eaters,' countered Kratoz. 'Praestes has been a fief world of Angron for decades.

Do you think they will stop supporting the World Eaters if we merely ask them?'

'I know for certain they will not support us if we kill their families and flatten their capital!' Ari'i banged a fist on the table, leaving a sizeable dent. Kratoz took a deep breath, resisting the urge to berate his superior for such offhanded vandalism. 'When Horus is defeated, every world we turn against the Emperor must be brought back to the Imperial Truth. We can neutralise the threat at Praestes without turning three billion people against the Imperium.'

'I am only a simple spearheadcenturion,' Kratoz said, also rising to his feet. 'I will gladly leave such lofty matters of strategy to you, my lord, but I must apply myself to the immediate concern.'

'Which is?' asked Hema.

'The prosecution of the war against the traitors that have sided with Horus,' Kratoz answered. 'There is a valuable target vulnerable to attack beneath us and I will destroy it. You speak of the longer term? If we allow the facility to continue to produce warriors it threatens any chance we have of victory. The traitors cannot be allowed to use the civilians of the Imperium as a means of avoiding vengeance.'

'Vengeance?' Ari'i said the word quietly, leaning toward Kratoz, his eyes become crimson slivers. 'That is simply another word for revenge.'

'What of it? Do you not wish to hurt those that have so hurt us? It is not ignoble to strike back at those who have betrayed all we fought for. They have killed our primarchs, destroyed whole Legions of their brothers. You would allow them to escape punishment for a few million people? Do not claim that throughout the whole of the Great Crusade innocent blood never once stained the hands of the ohsonoble Eighteenth Legion!'

'When unavoidable, we killed the innocent to secure compliance,' Ari'i admitted. 'But only then. It seems to me that perhaps your desire to punish the World Eaters extends, to those that, through no decision of their own, supported Angron's Legion in the past.'

'You are wrong,' added Hema, glowering at Kratoz. 'About the primarch. Vulkan lives, and when we are reunited with him we will have to look him in the eye and be proud of our conduct in his absence.'

'What alternative course of action would you submit?' asked Khrysaor before Kratoz could retaliate with more venomous words. 'If we are agreed on the objective, perhaps we should concentrate on the means.'

The spearheadcenturion allowed his subordinate to quell the tension, taking the time to restore some equilibrium to his own thoughts. It was just too galling for the Salamanders to be so righteous, but there was still potential for them to be useful allies.

'The praetor does not have to issue explanations, only orders,' snapped Aka'ula. 'Be thankful he has indulged you thus far. You will stand down until you receive such commands.'

'I think you overestimate his authority,' Kratoz said slowly, trying hard not to let the Salamander's words goad him into another outburst. 'The interLegion codes were left in bloody tatters in the Urgall Depression. The simple fact is that you have a frigate with twenty legionaries on board, while I have a battle cruiser with more than two hundred, plus considerable materiel.'

'Such threats are unnecessary, spearheadcenturion,' said Ari'i, sitting down.

'It was a statement of fact, not a threat. If I wish to conduct an orbital bombardment of Taurius I will do so.'

'And I cannot force you to do otherwise, but I hope that I can steer your thoughts to another solution.' Ari'i sighed and leaned back, turning his gaze to Khrysaor. 'Did you know that I once met your primarch. Fought alongside him, in fact.''I was not aware of that,' admitted the sergeantatarms. 'It is a great honour for you.'

'It is, it is indeed. He told me that he admired the artisanship from Nocturne, and that we should be proud of our heritage as makers and warriors. Simple words, but coming from Lord Manus it was the highest praise I had known that had not come from the lips of Vulkan.'

'And the point of this nostalgia?' snapped Kratoz, who had only briefly met the Gorgon amongst a thousand others during his induction, and never exchanged words with him. 'Do you seek to drag authority from a chance encounter with our dead father?'

'I hope to help you see that we have more in common than divides us, but you seem intent on confrontation. Tell me, son of Medusa, why do you wish to antagonise me in such fashion? Have you something to prove?'

Kratoz kept his tone matteroffact, as though he was debating the best way to wire a power unit or strip an engine for maintenance. It helped him to make his points with precision, finding comfort in the exactitude of his statements.

'It is your condescending manner that aggravates my mood, kinsman. I am afraid your Legion is notorious for its sanctimony on occasion. Today you have demonstrated why that reputation was earned. Mercy and the protection of innocents are worthy ideals to uphold in times of plenty. The Salamanders could choose to sacrifice as many of their own as Vulkan wished to uphold such ambition.' The centurion's voice turned harsher despite his effort, the thought of recent events too much to hold back the emotion. 'The universe has changed! We stand on the precipice of annihi lation and you would have me toss my warriors over the edge for the sake of a few million civilians? We will mourn their loss, but nobody else will. There are trillions more that require our protection. The Gorgon might not have passed on his wisdom to me in person, but I have followed his teachings. He taught us that in war, a pragmatist will always defeat an idealist, because a pragmatist will do whatever needs to be done. We live in pragmatic times, Pyre Warden Ari'i of the Salamanders. We can no longer afford the luxury of ideals.'

'If we are not fighting to protect our ideals, for what cause do we fight?' asked Hema. His armour wheezed as he turned on the bench to look at his commander. 'I cannot see that we will resolve this dispute any time soon. Perhaps a moment of reflection for all of us and then we shall reconvene?'

'As the Medusan saying would have us believe, the wisest head often sits on the shoulders of the least rank,' said Kratoz. He bowed his head to Ari'i and stepped away from the table. 'Let us not take too long, the enemy are aware of us and even now I fear they make preparations against our design. I will have refreshments delivered and we will speak again in ten minutes.'

'REFRESHMENTS' TRANSPIRED TO be thick slabs of shipbread spread with lumpy protein paste and jugs of recycled water, which remained untouched on the table. Considering the circumstances fresh food had not been a priority in the last halfyear Ari'i convinced himself that Kratoz had made the offer with sincerity.

'It's beyond me why you allow Kratoz to speak to you in this manner,' Aka'ula said after a few minutes.

Ari'i raised his hand to silence the Sigilmaster.

'Remember where we are. Keep a tight hold on your tongue for the moment.'

They waited for their hosts to return, each alone with their thoughts. After ten minutes, to the second, the doors opened and Kratoz stepped into the chamber with Khrysaor close behind. As the spearheadcenturion seated himself, looking with a grimace at the uneaten food, Ari'i spoke up.

'An orbital attack is not only wasteful of life, it is the least effective means we have at our disposal. Only a total saturation bombardment will guarantee the implantation facilities are destroyed beyond reconstruction. We cannot expect resupply, so a good proportion of your ordnance will be expended in the attempt.' Ari'i leaned his elbows on the table, the metal creaking beneath the weight. 'A ground assault not only reduces collateral casualties, it ensures total success with the minimum use of our most scarce resources.'

'A ground assault? Against the World Eaters? I would estimate the garrison of such a citadel at three to four hundred, and we have no information regarding how many of the lobotomised soldiers they have thus far created. Even if we were against the legionaries alone, they are in a prepared position. Between us we do not have enough force to complete an assault.'

'However, we will try,' said Ari'i.

'Why?' Kratoz looked at the Salamanders, incredulous. 'We give up the lives of our warriors to protect traitor lackeys? It makes no sense, morally or tactically. No, praetor, your plan is simply unacceptable.'

'Are you not ready to die for the Emperor?' asked Aka'ula, rubbing his stubbled chin. 'Has the Iron Hands' honour vanished so completely?'

'It is not a question of honour, Sigilmaster,' Khrysaor answered quickly, cutting off his commander's retort.

'Practicality demands that we assess the benefits and costs of any strategy, and the costs of the pyre warden's strategy do not warrant the potential costs.'

'Honour?' growled Kratoz. 'Where was the honour of the Word Bearers? The Iron Warriors? The Sons of Horus? The Gorgon and his Avernii veterans fought with honour and it earned them their graves. Do not lecture me on honour, son of Vulkan. Where was your master when the Gorgon confronted the foe?'

'You need to ask such questions because you were not there,' replied Aka'ula. 'How convenient that you should arrive late to Isstvan when you should have been beside your primarch when he led the attack.'

Kratoz paled, jaw tightening. Again Khrysaor responded first, but his demeanour was as livid as his superior's.

'The vagaries of the warp robbed us of the opportunity to prove ourselves on Isstvan, but they do not explain how it was that your ship was so close to the edge of the system when we arrived. The calculations are easy enough to make and show that you must have quit your holding orbit of the fourth world within hours of the drop taking place. Why did the Hearthfire flee so soon, my lord?'

Hema and Aka'ula both were on their feet in an instant, demanding apology for the accusation. Kratoz's ranted reply was lost in the shouting.

'Enough!' bellowed Ari'i, once again slamming his hand onto the table, the crash of ceramite on metal filling the chamber. He stood slowly, taking a deep breath. His glare was directed at his fellow Salamanders more than the Iron Hands. 'This is not how we conduct ourselves. Ever. Centurion Kratoz, accept my apology for any implication that you have been anything less than a stalwart warrior of the Emperor.'

This mollified Kratoz a little and he once again touched his forehead in apology.

'My lord praetor, with the utmost respect let me continue the petition. It is pointless to risk our lives in a direct confrontation with the World Eaters when orbital attack will bring equal success.'

'I will consider your views, spearheadcenturion.' Ari'i walked the length of the table and extended a hand, which Kratoz shook hesitantly. The praetor held him there for a few seconds, looking deep into the artificial eyes of his counterpart. 'I do not throw away the lives of warriors needlessly, but sometimes sacrifice is required to uphold a greater truth. Be assured that I have made no final decision and I will give your concerns the full weight of my thoughts.'

'If you are not prepared to accept my plan immediately, I must be content with such assurances,' Kratoz led Ari'i to the door and signalled to Khrysaor. 'Sergeantatarms, escort our visitors back to their gunship. Pyre Warden Ari'i, I await the conclusion of your deliberations. I hope they do not take long.'

WHEN THE CONTINGENT was back aboard the Hearthfire, Ari'i summoned his legionaries to attend him, leaving orders with the bridge that the navigational officers should continue to hold course between the Phorcys and Praestes. The Salamanders convened on the upper mess deck, standing in a circle so that all could see and address one another.

It was a small command by the standards of a lord praetor, but Ari'i valued it as though it was a task force of ten cruisers and twenty thousand Space Marines.

'We were delivered from the firestorm of Isstvan by fortune and the command of our primarch,' Ari'i began. 'It is a chance to wage war against Horus that many of our Legion were not given. It must not be thrown away with rash action, but we should not be so timid that opportunity to inflict harm on our foes is squandered.'

He looked around the circle of Salamanders and saw fierce pride in the expressions of his blackskinned warriors.

'You understand the situation that we face, and the options that have been laid before me. I know that you are loyal and will follow my lead into the heart of Mount Koranua itself, but we are few and before I make my final decision I would hear your thoughts, pay heed to your guidance. I will lead, but I will not be a tyrant.'

'You cannot allow Kratoz to bully you into accepting his strategy,' Aka'ula began, lifting his fist to his chest in salute as he spoke. 'If you defer to his demands now, all authority is lost.'

'If you do not,' ventured Tu'atta, repeating the Sigilmaster's gesture, 'you risk alienation. We can accomplish more in concert with the Iron Hands than alone.'

'Kratoz has a point,' added Hema, giving respect to the others with his salute. 'He has far more men than us, and his ship has greater firepower. Perhaps we need him more than he needs us.'

'We will show him the error of that view,' countered Sergeant Marsoon. 'If we do not act with conviction now, what is the point having Kratoz as our superior in all but name? Better that we show him our true strength and fail than to continue to hide it for no future gain.'

'Iron Hands seek only revenge,' Aka'ula snarled. 'They act out of destructive spite and will do so again and again to our destruction unless you can leash Kratoz to your authority and guide their passions to a more worthy end.'

'You must lead.'

The words were quietly spoken, but they came from Vestar, who rarely spoke to anyone. Though uncommon, his observations always contain sound insight. All eyes fixed upon the Nocturneborn legionary.

'Kratoz has lost his father and fears to replace him. You cannot replace the Gorgon, but you must assume command here.'

Ari'i accepted this with a nod, and others spoke, but the words of Vestar stayed at the forefront of the praetor's thoughts. When all had spoken, their fists lifted to the plastrons to show as such, Ari'i smiled.

'Whatever occurs, I could not have asked fate to deliver to me a better company of brothers than stand beside me now,' he told them. He moved around the circle, touching foreheadtoforehead with each of the Salamanders as a sign of respect.

When he had returned to his place Ari'i took a deep breath, his demeanour solemn undiminished.

'I do not seek the preservation of life for its own sake, but I will not weigh the lives of innocents against the worth of a Space Marine. Loyalty, honour and respect cannot be calculated, measured and balanced by logic engines, they can be judged only by the hearts of men. The countless trillions we fight for may seem an uncountable mass at times, but we must remember that they are us – they are humanity. The seed of each is our future, potential leaders and warriors and great saviours of our people. The Emperor created us to fight, and to die if needed. There is no easy route to victory. We must tread the steeper trail to the summit of the mountain, and some of us will fall along the way. But believe me, the view from the top will be all the grander for the effort!'

Led by the pyre warden, the Salamanders raised their fists and swore anew their oaths of fealty, to Vulkan and the Emperor. And so the sons of Nocturne began their preparations for battle.

'SENSORS, REPORT POSITION of the Hearthfire.'

Kratoz knew the command was superfluous the officer at the sensor banks would notify him the minute the Salamanders frigate moved out of the way but nearly an hour had passed since Ari'i had departed to make his decision.

'Still holding position relative to our orbit, spearheadcenturion.'

'Gunnery, lock all weapons on that frigate!'

Khrysaor turned to look at his commander, his expression conflicted.

'You wish to open fire on the Salamanders' vessel, spearheadcenturion?'

'The senses of a legionary are famed across the galaxy, sergeantatarms, and yet twice now in the last few hours your hearing appears to be deficient. If Ari'i does not move his ship out of the way in the next ninety seconds, I'll blast him out of the way. Do I need to send you to the apothecarion?'

'May I submit an alternative course of action, spearheadcenturion?'

'Does it involve listening to Ari'i lecture me endlessly on protecting innocent lives and adherence to duty and my moral obligations?'

'No, spearheadcenturion.'

'Very well, submit your proposal.'

Khrysaor left his post to approach his superior and spoke softly.

'Contact the Hearthfire and request an audieqce with the praetor.'

'I'm disliking this plan already, sergeantatarms, but continue.'

'He will accept your request. We travel by gunship to the Hearthfire, and take with us a full complement of legionaries. Once aboard the Salamanders ship we can commandeer the vessel and steer it out of the way ourselves.'

'You want to commence a boarding action against the Hearthfire? Your hearing really has deteriorated, Khrysaor, or perhaps your memory. Why would I risk boarding when I can simply annihilate them from afar?'

The Salamanders will not offer resistance, spearheadcommander. 'They will be outnumbered and Ari'i will see that the death of warriors from either Legion serves only the enemy's purpose. Faced with such direct action, the Salamanders will comply.'

The plan had some merit, not least because despite his threats, Kratoz was not comfortable killing his fellow legionaries. His anger dissipated by Khrysaor's intervention, the spearheadcommander could see the benefits of a peaceful resolution to the impasse.

'Very well, make the necessary inquiries with the pyre warden. I will assemble the boarding force myself.'

THE CRACKLE OF cooling metal accompanied the thud of boots as Kratoz descended the assault ramp of the Stormstrike gunship. He had expected Ari'i or one of his senior legionaries to meet him, but instead found a solitary member of the Hearthfire' s unenhanced crew standing to attention, hands by her side. She was middleaged, perhaps fifty years by Terranstandard, and wore a dark green dress coat bound tight at the waist with a thick black belt, a sash of reptile hide across her torso perhaps denoting she was of some higher rank amongst the Legion attendants. She raised her fist sharply to her chest in salute as the centurion stepped down to the deck of the landing bay.

'Where is the lord praetor?' the Iron Hands commander demanded.

'He is currently engaged with another matter,' the aide replied. 'I am Mehhet Ulana Vacol, primaris deck officer of the Hearthfire. I have full authority in the absence of the lord praetor.'

'Absence?' Kratoz waved away his own question. 'It doesn't matter, I can tell you as easily as Ari'i. Guide me to your main bridge, I am taking command of this vessel.'

'By what authority, spearheadcenturion?' If the woman was surprised or nervous she was remarkably adept at hiding it. 'This is a vessel of the Eighteenth Legion, and it is commanded by a praetorechelon officer.'

Kratoz sent a signal over the comm and his legionaries marched from the Stormstrike, footfalls thunderous on the bare metal of the deck. The Iron Hands formed two ranks behind their leader, moving in perfect unison like fifty blackandsilver automatons. For the moment their weapons were lowered, but Kratoz was sure his intent was clear.

'I am not used to repeating myself, Primaris Deck Officer Vacol. This frigate is now under the auspices of the Iron Hands. It is currently interfering with my mission and will move aside. I demand to see the lord praetor.'

'He is on his way,' Vacol told him, glancing towards the massive blast doors that split the hangar from the adjacent landing bay.

A rumble of hidden gears caused Kratoz to turn in the same direction, in time to see the huge portal rumbling open and a blaze of light from the adjoining flight deck flooding between the receding doors. Twenty figures were silhouetted against the light, far bulkier than any normal Space Marine. As his eyes adjusted, Kratoz recognised Terminator armour, but unlike anything he had seen in a long time.

The warplate of the Terminators was far broader and taller than standard legionary power armour, and these had an additional exoskeletal frame carrying slanted plates of extra armour, all decorated in the dark green livery of the Salamanders. Their left hands were fashioned in a variety of powered fists, claws and chainblades designed for close combat, antiarmour assault and bulkheadcutting, and in the right they carried an assortment of weapons ranging from simple combibolters to triplebarrelled autocannons, plasma chargers and rocket launchers, and one carried an immensely rare longmuzzled volkite culverin.

Yet it was not these amendments that amazed Kratoz. The Iron Hands had numerous experimental suits of Terminator armour with modified heavy weaponry and ablative shields. What stole the curse from Kratoz's lips was the additional weapon systems mounted across the backpacks and shoulders of the Terminators. A plethora of armourpiercing missiles, lascannons, multimeltas and a conversion beamer were all pointing in his direction. Each was quite literally a walking tank.

The voice of Ari'i emanated from the external vocaliser of the lead warrior.

'SpearheadCenturion Kratoz, welcome aboard the Hearthfire. These suits were designed by Vulkan himself and we were about to transit them to the surface of Isstvan when the massacre began. The primarch gave me a direct order not to allow them to fall into the hands of the traitors, hence our swift departure.'

Ari'i swung first to the left and then to right, looking at the row of warriors behind him.

'You mentioned something about trying to take my ship from me?'

IF THE SITUATION had not been so fraught Ari'i might have enjoyed the moment of hesitation before Kratoz reluctantly raised his hand in salute and bowed his head to the approaching pyre warden. The Salamanders commander had not intended to humiliate his counterpart in this fashion, it had been happenstance that Kratoz had launched his ridiculous coup as Ari'i and the others were about to board their gunships in the neighbouring launch bay.

'I expect you to return to the Phorcys immediately.' Ari'i raised his power fist and pointed to the Stormstrike. 'And take your legionaries with you.'

'What a waste,' replied the centurion. He waved a hand at the Terminators, shaking his head slowly. 'Vulkan entrusted you with his work and this is how you use it? Even with these armoured suits you cannot take the World Eaters' fortress alone. Be thankful that there will be nothing for the enemy once I have annihilated the city after your deaths. It is not the armour or weapons that makes the warrior, it is the spirit. You will fail. Your sentimentality will be your undoing. The flesh is weak.'

'I have heard you say that phrase on several occasions since our first encounter. I am not sure that you really understand what it means.'

'You may have spoken with the Gorgon but do not think to school me in the teachings on my own primarch!'

'Perhaps I must if the lesson was not learned properly,' Ari'i snapped back. 'What you say, the flesh is weak, is only part of the saying. In forgetting the end you have lost the meaning. Vulkan said it in praise of Ferrus Manus, after the One Hundred and EightyFourth Expedition when our Legions jointly liberated the orkdominated worlds of the Shoxua Cluster. The fighting had been fiercer than anything we had expected. Your primarch said in jest that his arm was tired from killing so many orks, and Vulkan retorted with 'the flesh is weak, but deeds endure'. It was a celebration of what they had achieved, and a remark that even primarchs can die but what they do will last beyond their lifespan. It was a message of humility, not condemnation. Flesh is weak because it knows it must come to an end, and so we must rise about the concerns of flesh and leave a legacy that others will be proud to inherit. Ferrus Manus understood that. He was a harsh master, an unforgiving ally, but he was also a maker of things a builder, not a destroyer.'

Kratoz stepped back, shocked by Ari'i's words. In a moment he had recovered, his confusion quickly turning to irritation.

'Another lecture,' snarled the centurion. 'It doesn't matter what you say, the only thing you are going to leave behind on Praestes are corpses.'

Kratoz spun away, shouting for his men to embark onto the gunship. He followed them up the ramp and paused at the top to look back with a last shake of the head. Ari'i returned to his warriors and ordered the launch bay sealed again.

As they lined up to board the dropships, he paused at the foot of the ramp.

'Reconsidering your choices, my lord?' Hema asked, stopping next to him. The old sergeant had tried to insist he could accompany the squad in his Mark III armour but had eventually relented and donned one of the modified sets of battleplate. Even so, Ari'i could tell at a glance that Hema had already started making adjustments, shamelessly thinking he could refine the primarch's work.

'Perhaps I am victim to a different sort of hubris, Hema,' Ari'i admitted. 'If we fail, Kratoz will level the city anyway.

What then of our sacrifice? Am I just wasting the wargear and time the primarch gifted us?'

'That's the problem with legacies, my friend,' said Hema as he started up the ramp. 'You're never around to see which sort you've left.'

THE STRATEGIC DISPLAY of the Phorcys showed the positions of Ari'i and his Terminators, the signal routed to the battlecruiser via the commsnetwork of the Hearthfire. From a dozen speakers around the strategium the voices of the Salamanders' vox exchanges surrounded Kratoz. He listened intently, torn between wishing failure upon the selfrighteous pyre warden Praetor and admiring Ari'i's bravery and dedication. Not to mention the skill and firepower of his squad, who had already stormed the outer barbican of the citadel and were cutting their way to the power plant housing located near the east wall.

'Hema, watch your left flank, there are more of those psychotic scum up in that gun tower.'

'Tracking five power armour thermal plumes on the wall ahead. Engaging with tempest missile fire.'

'We need a chainfist to get past these security doors. Abanta, cover me while I cut through.'

On the display the flashing icons of the Salamanders moved closer and closer to the heart of the citadel, but they were massively outnumbered despite their prowess and superior firepower. Every few minutes one of the flashing sensorium returns would wink out, the lifesigns of the warrior no longer detected. Twentythree minutes after arriving on the surface, an energy spike registered on the scanner, denoting a significant explosion.

'Spearheadcenturion!' Kratoz turned at Khrysaor's uncharacteristically excited exclamation. 'The shield generator. It has been disabled.'

'Full power to laser batteries,' Kratoz snapped. 'Lock targeting array on the citadel.'

'While the Salamanders are still inside, spearheadcenturion?'

'Stand aside, sergeantatarms,' insisted Kratoz, his anger at being countermanded for a third time almost too much to bear. At that moment his ire burned sharply more than fiercely, turning his words to an icy whisper. 'I will lay in the target coordinates myself. Issue the standby for battle readiness.'

There was no further protest from Khrysaor. He stood back from his panel, allowing the spearheadcenturion to take his place at the weapons targeting controls. Kratoz looked up at the strategic display and listened to the terse conversations across the vox. Two more Terminators had died in the last few seconds, surrounded by a small army of lobotomised psychopaths, leaving only twelve to fight their way into the facility core.

He looked at Khrysaor with unblinking lenses, hand hovering over the button that would issue the fire command to the gun decks, torpedo bays and laser turrets.

'The flesh is weak, sergeantatarms. Remember that.'

'PRESS ON! FIGHT on for Vulkan and the Emperor!'

Despite his exhortations, Ari'i knew that the battle was lost. The momentum of the initial assault had drifted away and the advance had become bogged down by the sheer quantity of soldiers being thrown into the path of the Terminators. His triplebarrelled autocannon cut a swathe through a heavy gunnery team setting up a lascannon in a doorway to the right, the explosive shells turning the weapon to a mangle piece of metal, the flesh of the gunners splashed across bare ferrocrete. He turned the autocannon onto three World Eater legionaries firing at him from a trench ahead and simultaneously activated the mind impulse unit of the primarchforged battleplate to fire the heavy bolter mounted over his shoulders.

The Salamanders Terminators strode onwards through a tempest of fire, lasers and bullets deflected by their additional armour plating, shells and mortar bombs showering them with shrapnel and broken ferrocrete as explosions engulfed the advancing squad.

The killing ground between the outer fortifications and the keep was filled with the living and dead, a carpet of Praestan corpses underfoot as he advanced. Their guns were proving insufficient so the citadel's garrison poured from sallyports and armoured doors with knives, mauls and chainswords. They threw themselves at Ari'i and his warriors, the World Eaters implants buzzing in their temples, oblivious to the fact that their swords and dirks were as effective against his Terminator plate as a gnat's bite. Ari'i's power fist hissed with energy as he smashed aside his foes, sweeping them away in bloodied pieces.

His suit's sensors flared a high energy warning a moment before something brilliantly white flashed for an instant just a few dozen metres ahead. A gun tower that had been raking machine gun fire across the squad exploded into molten droplets, showering redhot rain onto the defenders and Terminators alike. The shrieks of the unarmoureed soldiers quickly merged with the ongoing cacophony of battle. ,

'Orbital laser!' Aka'ula shouted as another pale line seared down through thae gate tower of the keep. 'Damn Kratoz, he couldn't even wait until we were dead.'

Ari'i looked up and saw dark blurs descending towards the ground.

'Torpedoees,' he muttered, not quite believing Kratoz had finally acted. Even the Terminator suits would be no defence against ordnance designed to breach the hulls of battleships.

If it spell lied the end for the Salamanders, it also heralded destruction for the World Eaters. Ari'i contented himself with the thought that had he not taken out the shield generator, the Phorcys would be using mass drivers and antiship missiles rather than pinpoint laser strikers. There would be deaths in the city, but far fewer because of the Salamanders'

actions.

The quiet, confident voice of Vestar broke through the fog of confusion and disappointment that clouded Ari'i thoughts as he watched the dark smudges growing larger above the citadel.

'Those aren't torpedoes.'

Pinpricks of fire became the recognisable flare of retrorockets firing. The torpedoes resolved into drop pods, several dozen of them. As they slaammed into the rockcrete of the killing ground, some petailed open discharging flurries of explosive warheads that slashed bloody holes through the World Eaters' slavesoldiers. Squads of legionary warriors poured from others, bolts, plasma and laser fire adding to the torrent of deadly fire. A second wave of larger craft hit the grcround a few seconds later, their armoured skins shed by explosive charges to reveal Predator tanks, Vindicator siege tanks and a Dreadnought.

The Salamanders parted to allow the Iron Hands armour to form an attacking lance point directed towards the inner fortifications. Lasers, whirlwind missiles, autocannon shells and a storm of other ordnance converged on the keep, lighting it with dozens of detonations and slicing energy beams.

A Predator tank slewed to a halt beside Ari'i and he looked up to see the command hatch in the blocky turret flip open. Helmetless, SpearheadCenturion Kratoz emerged from inside the tank. He raised a fist to his forehead and then cupped his hands to shout down over the din of growling engines and the crash of a citadel wall falling under the bombardment.

'Your flank is secured, push forward, lord praetor. I should not have doubted the strength we gain from righteous conviction. Let us leave a worthy legacy together. My thanks for setting me back on the right path. Deeds endure!'

THE NOOSE

DAVID ANNANDALE

'YOU ARE MARRED,' Lord Commander Ariston said.

Theotormon was silent. There was nothing he could say, Ariston thought. Not before that selfevident truth. The captain of the Emperor's Children strike cruiser Tharmas stood in Ariston's quarters aboard the battlebarge Urthona. His flaws were an affront. No doubt conscious of this, Theotormon kept his peace so as not to give further insult.

Ariston was conscious of the irony in his words. They were surrounded by flaws. His irony was deliberate. He revelled in it. Yet it was a false one, for he was justified in upbraiding Theotormon. The tapestry series that covered his walls had once been exquisite in its flawlessness. It was The Tribute of Europa. Millenniaold, it depicted the birth of the Emperor's Children brought to heel by the Emperor's Thunder Regiments during the Unification Wars on Terra, the nobles of Europa offered up their youth in service to the Emperor. The sequence was a movement from justified defeat to glorious fealty, culminating with the first warriors of the III Legion marching under the banners of the Palatine aquila.

Or so the tapestries had been. Now they were slashed by an elaborate crosshatch of knife strokes. Nailed to the marble wall behind the hangings were the bodies of remembrancers who had spoken out when the great enlightenment had come upon the Legion. Their flesh had been torn with the tapestries, and their vitae had run down and stained the woven fabric. Thus the art of the enemy bled and died. The destruction of the perfect possessed an even greater perfection.

But it still wasn't enough, was it? The ordinary, completed flawlessness of the atrocity fell short of the transporting sublimity he sought. The blood had dried and blackened. The suffering was over.

But the bleeding should not end. The cries should not fall silent. Blind to the truth that had come to Fulgrim, the enemy should know only pain and more pain.

That would be better; that would be closer to true perfection.

Theotormon's flaws, on the other hand, were the mundane, unforgivable ones of failure. His flesh and his armour were disfigured by his own hand, but his ship had been scarred by another's.

'This is the tally of the encounter in the Hamartia System,' Ariston said. 'The battlebarge Callidora destroyed, its escorts, the Infinite Sublime and the Golden Mean, lost as well. And when a full fleet answers the call for help, not only are two more ships lost to mines and the Tharmas damaged, but the enemy escapes. Tell me again, captain, what enemy is this?''The Iron Hands.'

'The Iron Hands.' Ariston paused, pretending to sort through his memories. 'I was under the impression that we had shattered them at Isstvan. Perhaps I was wrong. They must have been able to field a number of formidable squadrons to hurt us that much.'

Silence again. Into it fell the distant screams of the tortured. The exploratory desolation of the flesh never ceased aboard the Urthona. There was so much to learn, so much to experience. Mortification's supreme ecstasy beckoned just beyond the horizon of knowledge. The cries were now part of the air of the battlebarge. They rose and fell with the rhythms of lungs, of hearts. They were the sound of the new soul of the Emperor's Children.

'How large was the squadron?' Ariston pressed.

'They used a single strike cruiser,' Theotormon said. 'The Veritas Ferrum.'

His voice was flat. Ariston didn't know if the care with which he kept emotion from his voice was due to shame or anger at being made to answer for the disaster.

Ariston hoped it was both.

'One strike cruiser,' he said. 'Which then escaped.'

Theotormon nodded.

At the end of another long silence, Ariston repeated, 'You are marred.'

'I am, lord commander.' Theotormon barely hid his resentment.

'But from excess comes wisdom,' said Ariston. 'The flaw is the foundation of future perfection.'

'I do not understand.'

'Clearly not.' This was why a commander's role was also one of instruction. 'We will extinguish the last sparks of the Iron Hands resistance.' A simple statement of fact. Based on the estimates of the portion of the X Legion to have escaped Isstvan, the squadrons that were accompanying the Urthona were enough on their own to exterminate the Iron Hands.

'But we will not waste resources in searching the galaxy for the hiding places. They will come and offer themselves up to us for the slaughter. Thanks to you. Thanks to your flaws.'

'I see.'

'Do you?'

'You will put the Tharmas out for bait.'

Ariston smiled. The razorwire he had threaded through the contours of his lips scratched at his flesh, reopening wounds. The taste of his own blood trickled down his tongue.

'Are you helpless?' he asked. 'Are you that badly flawed?'

Theotormon's left fist tightened. 'We can still fight,' he said. 'We have lost half the starboard guns. Our Geller field is unstable. Any jumps we make must be small, and we can't do many.'

'Hardly bait, then,' Ariston said.

He was lying. They both knew it. When the fleet coming to the aid of the Callidora had encountered the mine field left by the Veritas Ferrum, not all the ships had been damaged. And some had been hit more severely than the Tharmas.

The rest of the fleet had pursued the Iron Hands through the immaterium. And lost them. Ariston's squadrons had joined up with the wounded vessels later, and he had singled out the Tharmas for a reason. He would construct the perfect trap for the Iron Hands, and the Tharmas was the perfect bait. It was strong enough that it could put up a convincing fight. But its injuries were such that Ariston thought it very unlikely it could prevail against a strike cruiser or larger ship. That was the prey Ariston sought. Let Theotormon pick off any minor targets that swallowed the lure.

The lord commander strode to the ornate desk dominating the port side of the chamber. Human limbs were fastened to its legs. He picked up a vellum star chart and showed it to Theotormon. 'Here,' he said, pointing to the Cyzicus System, a short jump from Hamartia. 'You can make it this far, I believe.'

Theotormon nodded. 'I believe so.'

'You are fatally marred if you do not. Make for Cyzicus. Then call for our help.'

'And I call until the enemy appears,' Theotormon said.

'Yes.'

'My redemption has a high cost.'

Ariston frowned at the resentment. 'You are fortunate to have this opportunity,' he said.

THE DELIUM SYSTEM had a name only because it existed, and for no other reason. It was uninhabited. Its four planets were all gas giants. None of their moons were colonised. And yet, it was a hostile system; Khalybus suspected that he and the ragged fleet he led had found the most hostile corner of it.

Fleet. He felt a jab of anger when he remembered what that word had meant to the Iron Hands before Isstvan V. It had meant more than a single strike cruiser and a handful of frigates and destroyers, all of them damaged to a greater or lesser degree. He knew he was lucky to have even that much at his disposal. Of his fellow captains with whom he had managed to make contact after the disaster, he was one of the few to have escaped Isstvan with more than a single ship.

Luck.

Escape.

Hateful concepts. They should have no place in the experience of the 85th ClanCompany of the X Legion, or aboard the Bane of Asirnoth. They should have remained abstractions. Things that enemies relied upon, only to be fatally disappointed when the Iron Hands shut down every destiny except total defeat. But he knew luck and escape now, along with other, equally foul terms.

Defeat. Treachery. Flight.

Then there was that other concept, the worst of them all: Ferrus Manus is dead.

Like so many of his brothers, he refused the experience of that one. Though its shadow fell over every moment of his existence, and every decision he made, he shunned it. He would not think about it. None of them could.

Khalybus had enough to think about on Galeras. The moon was a study in geological anguish. It was in close orbit around its planet. The gravitational forces of the giant tore and pulled at it. The crust distorted, rising and falling with an ocean's tides. Volcanic eruptions racked the globe, throwing ash plumes hundreds of kilometres into the air. The surface was layers of congealed lava flows. Galeras had no indigenous life forms, but in its constant violence and change, it had its own form of life. Landing on Galeras had been a challenge in itself. The construction of a base was madness.

Khalybus walked along the outer wall of the madness, inspecting the work. The modular fortification had to be modified if they were going to last more than a day on Galeras's heaving crust. The flesh was weak, yes, always, but sometimes iron could become stronger if it took on some of the characteristics of the flesh. Flexible plasteel seals joined each segment of the walls, given them a degree of flexibility. Khalybus stood motionless, feeling the microquakes send vibrations up from stone, through the walls, and through his boots. Both his legs and his right arm were bionic, and the faint thrum ran along their length.

The base was on the crest of an isolated hill. Beyond the walls the land dropped away in a steep slope. The ground was uneven yet smooth the succession of flows gave it the contours of melted wax. Ash fell from the sky, an endless blizzard of grey. Visibility was a few hundred metres at best. Though the base's location had been dictated by priorities other than defence, its position was a good one. It would take a very determined and powerful siege to triumph over what was being constructed.

Also a mad one. For who would want to contest possession of a worthless satellite in a strategically irrelevant system?

This was not a world for the sane to inhabit, not even the sons of Medusa. The Legion's home world put all of its life forms through brutal tests, but it did still support life. He had faith that the Iron Hands could sustain a foothold on Galeras indefinitely, but there were few reasons to do so.

Few reasons. There was, however, one in particular.

Khalybus turned to face the interior of the base. The hab units were along the periphery, and there weren't many.

Even with rebreathers, the mortal serfs of the 85th could not survive long on the surface. The construction of the base and its operation was the work of the legionaries. The central block had been completed, and the project within was proceeding well. Smoke, steam and sulphur yented from its chimneys. From the interior came the heavy, syncopated beat of machinery. Deep booms and the harsh cracks of splintering rock blended with the endless thunder of the dis tant eruptions.

Two legionaries emerged from the block. One was another Iron Hand from the Bane of Asirnoth, Raud. The other was Levannas, a battlebrother of the Raven Guard contingent that had been part of the desperate flight from Isstvan V.

Altogether, there were now two squads' worth of XIX Legion warriors aboard the Asirnoth and its escorts. Khalybus knew that some Salamanders had also been picked up by his brothers, but there had been none within reach during his own retreat.

Raud and Levannas spotted him and strode towards the wall. Khalybus waited. When they reached the iron staircase up to the parapet, Levannas hung back, walking more slowly so that Raud would reach Khalybus first.

'I take it you have news, sergeant,' Khalybus said.

Raud saluted. 'A message from the Asirnoth. The auspex has picked up a distress beacon. It appears to be from the Emperor's Children strike cruiser Tharmas.'

'Appears to be?'

'Full confirmation is impossible,' he admitted.

Khalybus hadn't expected otherwise. This was the new reality of war in the Imperium. He couldn't trust anything to be what it appeared.

Still, this might what they had been seeking. 'Where is it?' he asked.

'The Cyzicus System.'

That was a piece of data hard to ignore. Close enough to the Harmartia System to be convincing. Khalybus had not spoken with Atticus since they had conferred along with Plienus and Sabenus by remote lithocast, but a short time ago there had been a signal burst from him. It had been linked to a mine, set to be released upon detonation. It was a proud curse directed at the Emperor's Children, but it had been received by the Bane of Asirnoth as well. It was Atticus's way of telling his brothers that he was still in the war without jeopardising his location.

There had been no word from Atticus since, and no detection of the enemy.

The immense storms that had surged through the immaterium made communication almost impossible and travel perilous. The risks needed a high prize. The Tharmas might be it. The vessel's location made sense. Khalybus could picture it limping just that far from Harmartia.

Levannas joined them. 'What do you think, captain?' he asked. Levannas had become the liaison between the Raven Guard and the Iron Hands. His qualifications for the role appeared to be an instinctive diplomacy, since he was not an officer by rank. There were none who had escaped with Khalybus.

'It is clearly a trap,' Khalybus said. It was difficult to speak of strategy with the Levannas. The Raven Guard and the Salamanders had not betrayed his primarch, Ferrus Manus, but they had not marched with him as they should have either. He knew Levannas believed in the decisions of Corvus Corax. He knew that there was nothing to be gained in shunning the warriors of the XIX Legion.

Trust, though, that was different. He could not trust.

Yet he had to, or at the very least not refuse to hear what Levannas had to say. What was left of the Iron Hands must now engage in a new form of warfare. As much as he resented having to admit it, even to himself, this was a form with which the Raven Guard was more familiar.

'Yes,' Levannas said. 'It is a trap. That does not mean it will be a successful one.'

'The Emperor's Children do not do things by halves,' Raud said. 'It will be a good trap.'

'I would be insulted otherwise,' said Khalybus. 'Even more insulted than I am by the methods we must use.'

Raud muttered, 'Strike from the shadows, then scuttle back.'

Levannas smiled to show that he was not offended.

'The only dishonour,' he said, 'belongs to the traitors. The shadows are true, brothers. If you understand them, they have an honesty that is missing in the light.'

As the Raven Guard spoke, it seemed to Khalybus that the crepuscular light of Galeras dimmed around him. He was standing in the open, as they all were, but he became harder to see. His hard features became difficult to make out behind the ashfall. His stillness took on the characteristics of an absence. He was in and of the shadows, and that, Khalybus saw, was indeed a truth. In withdrawing from sight, Levannas revealed his core reality to them.

Khalybus looked at his own right arm. He moved the fingers that had not been flesh and blood for over two hundred years. He considered his own truth the truth of the Iron Hands that he must safeguard more jealously than ever before.

'We are not you,' he said to Levannas. 'And we will not become you.'

'I would never suggest that you should,' Levannas answered.

'We still can't attack directly,' said Raud.

'I know. We all do.' He eyed the central block of the base. 'So we must find a new way to fight that is still true to our primarch.'

'Then we will head into the trap.' The upper half of Raud's skull was metal. There was still flesh on his lower jaw, though, and he could just about form the approximation of a smile.

'Well, they're hardly going to come to us, are they?' asked Khalybus.

THE LOGICAL MOMENT to spring the trap would have been at the Mandeville point of the Cyzicus System. Khalybus had the Bane of Asirnoth at full battle stations, ready to open fire the second after transition to real space. He would not let the Emperor's Children have an easy kill. He had no illusions about such a battle's outcome, though. If the Asirnoth were unable to flee back into the warp, it would not survive a prolonged encounter. The strike cruiser had been damaged over Isstvan. Some repairs had been made, but there were limits to what had been possible. The void shields were some way from full strength. There hull had been compromised, and the sites of those wounds were painful weaknesses.

The first hard reality of Khalybus's gamble: it was easily within the power of the Emperor's Children to annihilate any single ship that took the offered bait.

The second hard reality: he had no choice but to take that bait.

He stood in the lectern above the bridge of the Bane of Asirnoth. Nothing appeared in the oculus. The system was quiet except for the distress beacon of the Tharmas.

'Auspex?' Khalybus asked.

'We have picked up the radiation from the Tharmas' s engines,' Seterikus said. 'No other vessels within range.'

'Which doesn't mean they aren't here,' said Raud. He was at the weapons station, at the forward end of the bridge.

'Of course they're here,' Khalybus said.

But they hadn't attacked. They were remaining hidden. Why? Because killing the Bane of Asirnoth would be insufficient. The traitors had bigger prey in mind.

So do I, he thought.

'It would be disappointing if they were not. Set course for the Tharmas.'

The III Legion strike cruiser was about a third of the way from the Mandeville point toward the system's sun.

Czysicus was an old red star. It had swallowed up its inner planets hundreds of millions of years ago, leaving only the outer gas giants and the frozen planetoids of its Kuiper belt. Czysicus was as dead as Delium, though it was now alive with the anticipation of war.

Khalybus kept the first stage of the approach to the Tharmas slow and cautious. There was no point in trying to disguise the Bane of Asirnoth's presence. The Tharmas and whatever other Emperor's Children vessels that waited concealed in the system already knew that they were here, but he wanted time to detect the rest of the enemy force, if he could. He wanted a feel for the full nature of the trap.

Still nothing. Only the endless broadcast of the enemy cruiser's beacon.

Khalybus saw Levannas looking at him. The Raven Guard had taken up a discreet position on the bridge, near the back wall, just below and to the right of the lectern. He was out of the way, but visible if the captain wished to speak to him. 'Well?' Khalybus asked. 'What do you see in the shadows here?'

'I'm sure I see the same things you do, captain. They are waiting for us to engage.'

'At which point they will wound us, force us to retreat, and follow.'

'Yes.'

Which is what we've been expecting all along, he thought. The absence of an initial attack was confirmation of that theory.

Khalybus nodded to himself. 'We have no choice but to play their game,' he announced. 'But we will beat them at it.

Full speed ahead, full barrage. I want that verminous ship destroyed.'

The background hum that was the sum of the Asirnoth' s machinery of life increased. Its vibrations became more intense. Khalybus felt the ship's anger as though it were his own. Its life and his were on a continuum.

This was part of what it meant to be one of the Iron Hands not just to understand the strength of the machine, but to be the machine. When he was aboard the Bane of Asirnoth, when he commanded its course and its actions, there was no absolute demarcation line between his being and the ship's. The helmsmen of other Legions experienced that blurring when the mechadendrites fused them to their vessels. But every warrior of the X Legion walked the path towards the unbending power of the mechanical. The machine had a discipline, a focus and a clarity that was foreign to the flesh. The Bane of Asirnoth was an extension of his will, a force multiplier of his own strength. It was his right arm reaching out to crush his foe. And he, and all the legionaries aboard, repaid the machine's gifts by moving closer and closer towards complete identification.

Ferrus Manus had shown them the way. He had not been given the time to complete his journey though he was not dead, he could not be dead and it was their duty to redouble efforts to complete the pilgrimage. Now, more than ever, they needed the rigour of the machine.

Standing a few steps behind Khalybus in the strategium, Cruax said, 'And so, as we expected, we will strike and we will run.' His machine voice sounded more cold and hollow than ever.

'Yes, Iron Father.' Khalybus did not look back. 'But more than that, as well.'

'I know. My concern remains. What will this strategy cost us? How much is it shaped by strangers to our philosophy?'

Khalybus glanced down at Levannas. Circumstances were forcing the Iron Hands to learn from the methods of the Raven Guard. But those lessons would not alter the core of the Legion. 'Do you doubt me?' he asked Cruax, quietly, keeping the exchange between the two of them.

'I have doubts about where this path is leading us. The Legions who abandoned our primarch on Isstvan have nothing to teach us.' There was no tone in the voice of the guardian of the Iron Hands' soul. The anger was in the words.

Khalybus shared it. He wanted Cruax to understand that he had not made his decisions lightly.

'What choice do we have? If we wish to fight on, then we must adapt.' He looked back at the other warrior. Cruax's servoarms were folded behind his back. Of all the legionaries aboard the Asirnoth, he was the one most fully transformed. Khalybus wasn't sure if he had any flesh left at all. 'What we are about to do,' he said, 'is true to the Iron Hands. It will be precise. It will be rigorous. It will succeed on those merits.'

Cruax said nothing. Khalybus faced the oculus once more.

'IT'S THE BANE OF ASIRNOTH', Enion reported. 'Captain Khalybus.'

'Thank you, equerry,' Ariston said. Not the Veritas Ferrum. A shame. Revenge on Atticus would have been a pleasing, violent symmetry. But perhaps Khalybus would be the key to the other captain as well. Ariston watched the trajectories of the strike cruisers plotted on the tactical screens.

'We could take them apart now.'

'We could,' Ariston agreed.

Enion hesitated, expecting an order. Ariston amused himself by not giving it.

'There is no need to put the Tharmas at risk,' said Enion.

'The imperfection of Theotormon's command needs to be chastised,' Ariston told him. 'Emphatically. And more to the point, are we going to satisfy ourselves with a single strike cruiser? Not even the one that destroyed the Callidora?'

'No, lord commander.'

'No,' Ariston repeated. 'We will use these Iron Hands to take us to their brothers.'

'They aren't fools.'

'True. So our mistake must be perfect. They must believe they have thwarted us.'

THE TWO SHIPS went to war. They opened fire at virtually the same moment. They were as big as mountains, as long as cities. Their movements were too massive to reflect the urgency in the wills that drove them. They struck at each other with torpedoes and cannons. Their weapons had speed, but the wills were faster yet, the hatreds more furious. The ships turned on each other with majesty, with the grace of monuments. There would be no evading the wounds of the duel.

Instead, they engaged in the lethal, gradual dance of manoeuvring to be the first to strike the greatest injury.

The oculus flashed with the energy discharges of the void shields. Khalybus heard the damage reports. He saw, below him, the telltale red of the runes appearing on the screens monitoring the cruiser's health. He had little need to hear or see either. He could feel how his ship fared. Its body was his.

But it had his will, and it would not stop before it had torn the life from its enemy.

The Bane of Asirnoth was cutting across the prow of the Tharmas. The Emperor's Children ship presented a smaller profile, but Khalybus was able to strafe it with the full thunder of the starboard armament. The Tharmas fired forwards, and Khalybus saw the weakness most of its torpedoes and shells were coming from the port side.

'Get us around to their starboard flank,' he told the helmsman, Kiriktas. They don't want us there.'

Kiriktas complied. The Asirnoth began its turn, still at full speed.

The Tharmas tried to counter. It did not have to move as far or as fast to keep the Asirnoth away from its vulnerabilities. But its movements were hampered, and it revealed its second weakness.

'Their engines...' Raud began.

'I can see,' Khalybus said. He saw more than that. He saw the inevitable result of the dance. The Emperor's Children had already lost. They had lost the moment the nature of their wounds had become visible. There was nothing the traitors could do to stop what was coming. He hoped they realised this as completely as he did. He wanted them to experience the closing down of possibility, the unstoppable approach of execution.

They fought to the end, though. They fought hard to take the Asirnoth to oblivion with them. The Tharmas' s guns concentrated their fire on a single point amidships.

'Shields going down,' Demir called. 'Hull integrity compromised.'

'Vent and seal,' Khalybus ordered. 'Full energy to the starboard shields.'

'Contacts!' said Seterikus. 'Multiple signals moving in'

'From what direction?' Khalybus asked.

'All of them.'

'Brothercaptain,' said Demir, 'our port flank will be vulnerable.'

'We have time.'

Demir paused, then said, 'So ordered.'

They had time, Khalybus told himself. He would create it himself if necessary.

The Bane of Asirnoth completed the manoeuvre. The two ships were flank to flank. The distance between them became an irrelevance. The Tharmas was still fighting, but it was dead.

'Fire,' Khalybus said.

The Asirnoth struck with a full broadside, and then again. It hit the Tharmas with better than twice the force that the III Legion ship could summon. Khalybus grimaced as he felt the Asirnoth shudder.

The shields flared again, and even with the boost in power, some of them collapsed. Demir was calling out damage reports, but Khalybus tuned them out. He focused on the Tharmas. His concentration followed shipkilling ordnance across the void. He had committed the Asirnoth to this action, and by the Throne, this act of justice would be complete.

Under the bombardment of massive shells, the void shields of the Tharmas flared like suns, then fell into darkness.

The torpedoes slammed through the hull, and then there was a new light. It began as a pulsing crimson. That was the firestorms scouring the ship's corridors. It grew brighter, building in pain and intensity. It became the plasma cry of a dying ship. The Tharmas cracked wide open. Its fore and aft halves began to move independently even as they were swallowed by the growing fireball. The immense ship was dwarfed by its explosions. Cascading shockwaves reached out across the void.

'Get us clear,' said Khalybus, but Kiriktas was already altering course, putting the Asirnoth into a straight run, taking off on a tangent from the arc it had been making around the Tharmas. 'Redistribute shield energy, Brother Demir.'

Even as he spoke, the first torpedoes from the rest of the fleet hit the Asirnoth's port flank. The jolt was a big one.

Even before Demir spoke, Khalybus knew the injury was serious. The vibrations of the ship had carried the shock to him.

The pulse of the ship's life stuttered. Khalybus wondered if he'd been wrong. This didn't feel like an attack to wound. The Emperor's Children were coming to kill.

'We've lost two banks of port cannons,' Demir said. 'Secondary damage from exploding ordnance. There is a breach across the loading bay. Fires are spreading.'

'Do what is necessary,' Khalybus said. Demir did not need to be told what to do. The order was confirmation that, as captain, he understood the losses that were occurring, and the further toll that would be paid. How many battlebrothers had been near the bay and had been propelled into the void? Had they lost any gunships? How many serfs had been incinerated by the fires? Questions whose answers were, in this moment, irrelevant. What mattered was the survival of the ship itself, and its ability to continue the war. Second by second, that was the only consideration, if there was to be any hope of reaching the end game of this campaign.

'Can we afford the greater loss ahead?' Cruax asked, as if reading his mind.

'If there is a way of avoiding it, I will take it,' Khalybus said.

The Bane of Asirnoth shuddered again. Tocsins wailed.

'There will not be,' Cruax said.

'The Emperor's Children will suffer worse,' Khalybus promised.

But only if the Asirnoth escaped this system.

'Helmsman Kiriktas, make course for the Mandeville point. Brother Seterikus, what are the positions of the foe?'

'Still on the outer edges of the system. The ships on the far side are closing. The ones closest to the Mandeville point are not advancing.'

'They know we have to come to them. Then let us do so. Full speed. All forward batteries fire.'

This was the hardest gamble he would make in the Czysicus System. It was also the one move that was open to him.

The Iron Hands could not evade the net being drawn around them, and they could not fight an entire fleet. There was a tremble in the Asirnoth's vibrations now. Khalybus doubted his vessel could fight a single enemy with any expectation of survival. There only flight or death now. And so the strike cruiser ran in the teeth of the trap.

'Brothercaptain,' Seterikus reported, 'we are making for the battlebarge Urthona.'

'Then let us give them cause to worry,' Khalybus said.

'This is desperate,' Cruax muttered.

'So is this mission. So is our war.'

'I understand, captain. But is the desperation one that is true to us?'

'It is,' Khalybus said. 'We knew this was a trap. The risk is a calculated one. That the odds are against us makes it no less calculated.'

'Good,' said the Iron Father.

The Bane of Asirnoth ran straight for the Urthona, cannon shells and torpedoes racing ahead, as if they might clear the void of incoming fire. The Asirnoth's profile would be reduced from the perspective of the battlebarge. Khalybus saw the irony in using the same tactic against the enemy that had done so little for the Tharmas. But the Iron Hands had speed.

That, and the faint hope of luck, was all they had to see them through to escape.

Calculated, Khalybus thought. The word was all the more bitter for being true. He and his brothers had been pushed to this extremity by treachery. All the Iron Hands had now was the calculated risk in its most dire form.

The guns of the battlebarge and its escorts flashed.

ARISTON SMILED AS he turned from the tactical screens to observe the display in the oculus. The clockwork toys of the X Legion were behaving with perfect predictability. They did as he expected, when he expected. He could mark time with the beats of their manoeuvres. There was no art to their warfare. It was mechanistic. He had never understood their commitment to that approach. When they had fought side by side, he had appreciated the pulverizing victories they achieved, but found their methods uninspiring. Now he had a different perspective. Now he would use their plodding dullness as a medium for his art. He had the canvas prepared, and they would travel across it, marking it according to his will. A creation on this scale would be a source of delicious sensation, he was sure, especially at its moment of fruition, when the Iron Hands took a great leap towards final extinction.

'Annihilation,' he said to Enion, 'has a piquancy that should be tasted more often, don't you agree?'

'Quite so, lord commander.'

Did Enion agree because he felt he should, or because he truly did understand what Ariston meant? The equerry was an intelligent officer. He had been demonstrating a growing aptitude for the intricacies of sensation, and the nuances of pain. Hooks and wires linked the corners of his eyes to his shoulder plates. Every time he turned his head, he opened his flesh again. He appeared to be eternally weeping tears of blood, though he had slit the corners of his mouth into a fixed grin. Perhaps he did have some conception of the exquisite nature of Ariston's plan.

'Hurt them,' Ariston ordered his officers. 'Make them believe their moment has come. But do not kill them.'

'AT LEAST WE made one of them move,' Raud said.

A frigate to port of the Urthona was engaging in evasive action, rising above the plane of the battle. The battlebarge did not deviate in its course. Its ranks upon ranks of guns blazed, shaking the void with silent thunder. The Urthona was twice the size of the Bane of Asirnoth, but there was still arrogance in its unwavering slow approach. It was not invulnerable to the strike cruiser's attacks.

They know how badly we've been hurt, Khalybus thought. He saw mockery in the Urthona's indomitability. The Emperor's Children were holding up a mirror to the Iron Hands. Look, they were saying. This is how you once went to war, and we have taken this from you.

The Ariston shuddered again as the enemy shells struck its prow. The shields bled off the worst of the impacts, but the kinetic force of projectiles a dozen metres long was such that heavy blows ran along the spine of the vessel. The armour on the prow crumpled.

A torpedo flashed across the top of the hull and struck the base of the superstructure. The impact shook the bridge with the force of an earthquake. It knocked the mortal crewmembers off their feet. The legionaries remained standing, though Khalybus knew they were bracing for the inevitable. It would not take many more barrages of that scale to doom the Asirnoth. If the rest of the fleet started hitting them, the end would come in seconds.

'Helmsman,' Khalybus said, 'our need to escape grows pressing.'

Kiriktas summoned more power from the engines. The background hum of the Bane of Asirnoth became a snarl. And beneath it was the deeper, coiling tension of the warp drive building up for the jump. The juddering and the stuttering spikes in the vibrations became stronger too. Khalybus spared a thought for the stability of the warp drive, the integrity of the hull, and the strength of the Geller field. Then he put the concerns to one side. The Asirnoth would survive the jump, or it would not.

First it had to survive until the jump.

'Ten seconds,' Krikitas announded.

Another barrage from the Urthona hit. Somewhere, iron shrieked. A chain of explosions, building on each other, rattled down the spine of the ship.

It seemed to Khalybus that he was holding his vessel together through willpower alone.

Well enough, then. He had plenty to spare.

Reality shuddered and tore. The Bane of Asirnoth jumped into the warp.

THE WOUNDED SHIP vanished from the physical realm. It left behind dissipating energies some from its own injuries, some the whispers of insanity that bled in from the warp. Ariston saw perfection in the damage done to the strike cruiser. The Iron Hands would, he judged, survive the journey through the empyrean, though they would be tested. It would be a much more difficult one for them than for the Emperor's Children, even if they weren't limping.

He opened a communications channel to the entire fleet. 'All ships, follow behind the Urthona', he said. 'We shall let our quarry guide us through the immaterium.'

The battlebarge made its jump minutes after the Asirnoth. Its drives had been powering up during the entire confrontation. The length of the Iron Hands' lead meant little, though, in the warp. There, space collapsed and time contorted. Neither had any objective meaning. Dark simulacra took their place, alongside the illusion of matter, the insistent presence of dreams, and the being of dark intelligences.

The warp was a storm. It convulsed with a fusion of delight and fury. Waves of nonbeing rose to infinity and crashed upon the mad creatures who thought they could navigate the domain of the gods without their leave.

For the chosen few, however, the way was made clear. The Urthona passed between the vortices of destruction. The Emperor's Children would travel the seas of unreality without hindrance. Enlightenment had taken them to the wisdom hidden in the furthest extremes of sensation, and that light shone on their paths through the immaterium. The powers that ruled in the warp were one with Horus's war against the Emperor.

The Bane of Asirnoth was caught in a tempest. Their Navigator would be all but blind. Where was the Emperor's light to guide them?

Nowhere. Occluded. Swamped by the great ruinstorm.

'The enemy will be lucky to make short jumps,' Enion commented.

'Luck has little to do with it,' said Ariston.

'I don't understand.'

'We are here to follow. We want them to reach their destination. Our masters wish it too.' He smiled. 'Their journey won't be easy, but they will reach safe harbour.' His smile became broader yet. 'Which we will then burn.'

THE SHUDDERING OF the Asirnoth grew worse after the translation to the warp. The stresses of the immaterium were less direct than a bombardment, but they were more insidious. The death of the real surrounded the vessel, and sought to erode its existence.

'Are we being followed?' Khalybus asked Seterikus.

The legionary shook his head in frustration. 'I can't tell, brothercaptain.' He turned from the auspex display. 'They could be right on top of us and we wouldn't know.'

'They are here,' Levannas said. 'Depend upon it.'

'I am.' If they weren't, the Iron Hands would have won a tiny victory, one hardly worth the sacrifice. He addressed the entire bridge. 'We cannot see the enemy, but we must assume that they can see us. All efforts must now be put toward evasion.'

'The longer we stay in the warp...' Raud began.

'I know, brother. I wish we had a choice.'

'If we manage to lose them,' Seterikus asked, 'what have we accomplished?'

'We won't lose them. But we can't underestimate them. If our evasions are a facade, they'll know. We must try everything in our power to shake them.' He paused, waiting. There was a question his brothers would be asking themselves. He wanted one of them to articulate it. Speaking it aloud, and having it answered, was important. Not for the success of his strategy, but for the morale of his clancompany.

Raud spoke first. 'Brothercaptain, it would appear that our strategy is predicated on the assumption of our own failure.'

'It is,' Khalybus told him, still speaking to them all. 'This is our weakest moment. We know this. So do the traitors.

Knowing exactly what our relative strengths are is crucial to the prosecution of war. We will be rigorous in all things.

Even in this necessary failure. It is from this precision that our victory will come. Do any of you think we can deceive the Emperor's Children? No? I swear to you, brothers, that we can. But we will deceive them with the truth.'

He looked back at Cruax. The Iron Father nodded.

'Perfection,' Khalybus said. He faced the bridge again. 'Perfection. The Emperor's Children believe the concept is theirs. But recall the weapons that Ferrus Manus and Fulgrim forged on their first encounter. They were both perfect. Our route is not theirs, and our perfection will smash theirs.'

He paused for a moment.

'After all,' he added, 'they failed to stop us from entering the warp in the first place.'

TRACKING THE BANE OF ASIRNOTH was a pleasure in and of itself. It was, Ariston thought, like watching the scurrying of an insect across a sheet of parchment. The insect could change direction all it wanted, but it remained as visible at the end of its efforts as it had been at the beginning.

The warp was not parchment. It was obscurity and madness. The strike cruiser made sudden course corrections, taking advantage of the very storms that threatened the ship with destruction. Ariston pictured how the manoeuvres must appear to the Iron Hands. They sailed down current after current of insanity, making ever more random choices, risking with every decision the dissolution of coherence. They must, he thought, find it impossible to believe that they could be detected in this raging insanity of nonspace.

The Urthona had no difficulty tracking its quarry. If the chase had been through the Czysicus System, and the Asirnoth had been leaking radiation, the pursuit could hardly have been simpler. The art lay in keeping back. 'I will personally execute the captain of any vessel that is detected by the enemy,' he announced to the fleet. They were all eager for the blood of the Iron Hands. So was he. But there must be enough blood. There must be all of it.

So the fleet followed. The distance between it and the X Legion ship was a fiction where space was a lie. But the vessels were all real. They had presence, an intensity that affected the warp and was detectable by the other ships.

Ariston held his force back. He reduced to zero the intensity of the fleet's presence with respect to the Bane of Asirnoth.

The strike cruiser faded to a dim perception. It could still be tracked, but it hovered on the edge of disappear ance. To the Iron Hands, beset by the full force of the warp storm, the Emperor's Children would be invisible.

Enion said, 'We run the risk of losing them.' The Asirnoth was travelling down yet another turbulent current.

'We do not,' Ariston replied.

'But if they should...'

Ariston cut him off. 'What they do is irrelevant. They have been lost from the moment they took the bait. Our actions are what matters. I will not sully the perfection of our art by rushing forwards in blind eagerness. That is the risk. When we mar the work by accident instead of purpose is when we fail. That was Theotormon's crime.'

And he had been punished.

Hours of shiptime passed before the Bane of Asirnoth at last translated from the warp. Ariston was surprised its captain had risked a jump this long and turbulent. His ship was badly damaged. It must be on the verge of losing structural integrity.

The Urthona followed. The fleet reemerged in real space.

The system was another dead one.

'Delium,' Enion said. Ariston liked the symmetry with Czysicus. Chance had reinforced the aesthetics of the trap.

They were running their prey to ground in a corner of the galaxy as empty and hopeless as the one where the chase had begun.

Good.

The Bane of Asirnoth was leaking plasma. It left a trail so easy to follow it was almost insulting. If Khalybus was trying to hide, Ariston really would take offence.

He wasn't. They found the strike cruiser at low anchor over Galeras.

Observing the auspex readings, Bromion called out, 'Strong energy readings from the moon. The enemy has established a base.'

'So they've chosen their gravesite,' Ariston said.

In the oculus, the Bane of Asirnoth became more clear. Its injuries were extensive. Fires shone through the fissures in the hull. The cruiser's silhouette was deformed, sunken. It was a chewed bone.

Ariston pointed at it. 'We will march on the base. But first, rid my sight of that sad wreck.'

The Iron Hands fired back. Once. Ariston was surprised they managed even that.

The Urthona's void shields shrugged off the single broadside. It responded with a devastating barrage of torpedoes and cannon fire. It was joined by every ship in the fleet. They surrounded the Asirnoth and seared the void with the power of the Emperor's Children. The cruiser vanished, the explosion of its ruptured warp drive indistinguishable from the firestorm that caused it.

The fire of the Asirnoth's death still burned, a miniature sun, when the drop pods began their descent on Galeras. The near orbit of the moon was crowded with ships. Their hulls disgorged a metal hail that pummelled the surface. The plains below the Iron Hands base filled with legionaries in armour the colour of luxury and violence.

Ariston stood at the base of the hill as the host gathered before him. He turned to Enion at his side. 'The point is not just the victory,' he said. 'There is a lesson to be taught as well.'

The Emperor's Children would roll over the Iron Hands with an unstoppable wave. They would smash the foe with an echo of their own machinic war, and in the irony of that gesture would be the excess of true art.

The rows of Space Marines disappeared into the murk of the atmosphere. The drop pods were vague silhouettes.

Further out came the snarl of the tanks brought down by dropships. Ariston could not see them, but their strength was at his command. Their shells would hammer the walls of the base while the legionaries marched on it.

,

'Brothers,' he voxed to them all, 'the Iron Hands have fled, and now they cower. Shall we complete their humiliation?'

He was answered, exulted in the clamour of his warriors. This was war converted to sensation, and sensation weaponised.

The march began.

The Iron Hands base was barely visible at the crest of the hill. At first, it was a smudge, a blurred mass of black. It wasn't until Ariston was halfway up the slope that the details began to resolve themselves. The lines of the wall sharpened even as they were battered by the Demolisher shells of the Vindicator tanks. It was only then that the cannons on the walls answered back. That surprised Ariston. The Iron Hands had given the Emperor's Children all the time they needed to land and assemble. Ariston's army was beyond any numbers that Khalybus could possibly have behind the walls, but to wait this long to return fire was a compounding of errors.

At his side, Enion frowned. 'Are they really this stupid?'

'I find that hard to believe.'

'A trap of their own?'

'Likely.'

'But how? What could they hope to do?'

Ariston didn't know. For the first time since the arrival of the Bane of Asirnoth in Czysicus, he felt a flicker of unease.

He tried to imagine what the broken, depleted Iron Hands could possibly use to counter his advance. He failed, and that failure disturbed him, because the abject collapse of the X Legion was even harder to imagine.

Ariston watched for a mine field or an ambush. Both would have been possible. The volcanic smog of the atmosphere was so thick, that even with his preysight he would not have seen an attack until it was too late.

But even a successful ambush would barely have slowed the advance. And there was nothing. Just the cannons on the wall.

Their shells punched craters into the hill. Legionaries disintegrated. The guns took their toll, though it was a small one. And one by one, they fell silent as the tanks drew nearer, concentrating their fire, and smashing the walls down.

There had been no further defensive barrages for several minutes by the time Ariston crossed the ruined fortification lines. Ahead was the centre block of the fortress. The smaller prefab structures close to the walls were burning.

'Where are they?' Enion asked.

Ariston was wondering that too. Whatever was buried in the rubble would remain hidden, though he saw what looked like the remains of servitors here and there. There was no trace of the Iron Hands, and there was only silence from the heart of the fortress ahead.

Was the ambush yet to come, he wondered? No. Even with the greater concentration of his forces in the base, his army was so vast that it still extended all the way down the slope.

'An orbital strike?' Enion suggested.

'With what?' If the Bane of Asirnoth had still remained intact, perhaps. He headed toward the main bunker. 'Our answers will be here,' he said.

'As will the trap.'

'It will be a poor one.'

It had to be.

Some shells had fallen upon the structure, but it had withstood them. It had lost a number of its vent stacks, but appeared to be sound enough. Bolter at the ready, Ariston shouldered the doors open; they weren't barred. The corridor ahead was deserted. Lumen globes lit a silent path and the air was thick with absence.

'There is no one here,' Enion muttered.

'If they were all aboard their strike cruiser, they are worse than fools,' replied Ariston. The unease was still there, but also rage. His great triumph would be an embarrassment against an enemy this incompetent.

But no, that was impossible. The Iron Hands were fools in their dogmatic loyalty to the Emperor. But they were still tacticians.

The corridor led to a massive open area at the centre of the block. Here a shaft descended deep into the tortured crust of Galeras.

'A risky endeavour,' Enion commented.

'Agreed.' Sulphuric fumes rose from the depths. Even inside the walls, Ariston could hear the distant, endless rumble of the moon's volcanoes. Dust, shaken loose by the trembling rock, floated down the sides of the shaft. One solid quake would be enough to trigger a collapse.

'It's deep,' said Enion. There were lumen strips at regular intervals as they disappeared deeper into the gloom.

'Whatever is down there, they went to considerable effort and risk to reach it,' said Ariston. He gestured to an elevator whose tracks appeared to descend the full length of the shaft. 'An open invitation.'

'Bait?'

'Of course it is. They didn't refuse ours. I won't refuse theirs.'

'We have a choice.'

'Do we? If we want to finish them off, we have to know where they are. We have to know what they're doing.'

Ariston thought for a moment. 'One squad with me,' he said. 'And I want the fleet ready for emergency embarkation.'

'What could they do against us?'

'I don't know. They think they can do something. I won't give them the chance.'

Ariston, Enion and the eight brothers in the command squad entered the conveyor carriage it was a rapid one, but the descent was long, the shaft going much deeper than Ariston would have guessed. The violent life of the moon followed them down. Profound vibrations thrummed down the walls. They plucked at the conveyor's tracks. The deck of the platform buzzed.

Down. Down. No branching tunnels. No mining. Just down, down and down through the crust.

'What were they looking for?' Enion wondered.

And how did they know it was here? Ariston thought. There was only this base. This one shaft. This was the work of certainty, not exploration.

The temperature was rising. There was a glow coming from below now.

It was red. Molten.

The answer came to Ariston just before he saw what waited in the depths.

'They weren't looking for anything,' he said to Enion. 'They were placing something.'

'What...' Enion began, but then cylindrical shapes resolved in the gloom. They were fastened to the walls of the shaft, waiting for a distant signal to begin their brief but terrible flowering.

Cyclonic torpedoes.

Ariston opened his mouth, but he had no voice. It had been throttled by the noose that had tightened around his fleet.

SUCH WEAPONS COULD crack a planet in half, given the right circumstances. The 85th ClanCompany had removed the element of chance. Rigour, Khalybus thought, as he witnessed the culmination of his work. Precision. That was where the Iron Hands found the sources of perfection.

The torpedoes detonated. Their immense power multiplied the stresses that sought to pull the moon apart. Galeras's death came all at once. The moon exploded. The fire of its ending was dull and ugly, a volcanic fist lashing out at the near orbit. A storm of fiery crust fragments blew outwards through the Emperor's Children's fleet. The Urthona disintegrated, and its blast was bright, as proud as a star. It was surrounded by the smaller pyres of other ships.

Collisions and shockwaves built upon each other. Vessels many thousands of metres long were mere fragments in the holocaust, battered to nothing as the moon's fragments were propelled outwards. Mountains tore through hulls.

There was no time to react. There was no evasion. The only escape came from blind chance.

As the shockwave passed, a few survivors pulled away from the disaster. None were undamaged. Few would have made the jump to the immaterium.

Aboard the Iron Hands frigate Sthenelus, which had lost its captain during its own ordeal over Isstvan, Atticus directed their extermination. His squadron was small. There were no capital ships. But it was more than enough to smash what was left of the enemy. The Emperor's Children had one cruiser remaining the Hypsous and it was already burning when the Sthenelus came for it. A gaping hole ran through the centre of its span. It was barely moving. Its drive was likely about to go critical. Khalybus made sure that it did.

The light from the Hypsous's end washed through the bridge of the Sthenelus. Khalybus watched until there was only void again, then left the bridge. He was heading for his new quarters the chambers of a dead warrior, now occupied by the captain of a dead ship.

Levannas was waiting in the corridor just outside. Khalybus hadn't seen him on the bridge, but that didn't mean the Raven Guard hadn't been there.

'I'm curious to hear your thoughts, captain,' Levannas said.

'I am glad of our victory,' Khalybus said. 'I regret that we suffered a significant loss, too.' The Bane of Asirnoth had no longer been voidworthy when they had reached Delium again. The Iron Hands had abandoned it, leaving only enough servitors aboard the strike cruiser and at the base to make a show of presence by firing the guns.

'The Emperor's Children suffered a much greater blow.'

'Perhaps.' The III Legion had been hurt. Nothing much more than that.

'Do you see what we might be able to accomplish?' Levannas asked, and at that moment, Khalybus heard his carefully suppressed desperation. The Raven Guard needed to continue the war as badly as the Iron Hands did.

'Yes,' Khalybus said quietly. 'Yes, I do see.'

Incorporating the Raven Guard's methods into the Iron Hands' strategy had borne fruit. Shattered, fragmented and wounded though they were, they could still strike at the enemy, and hit hard.

They were still in the war, and they would exact their payment of blood.

And yet...

He had assured the Iron Father that he would keep to the path of the Iron Hands. He believed he had done so.

And yet...

So many shadows. So much subterfuge.

Change had come. Caught by tragedy and necessity, the Iron Hands were becoming something other than what they had been when Ferrus Manus had led them. Khalybus could see the transformation happening before his eyes.

It disturbed him that what he could not see was where it would end.

UNSPOKEN

GUY HALEY

'THIRTY MINUTES TO extraction. I will be entering vox silence, commander. Confirm?'

Captain Sulnar held his breath to hear the voice in his earpiece. The Thunderhawk pilot spoke softly, as though he feared to be overheard.

And well he might be. Their furtive communications were conveyed over clandestine frequencies unique to their clan, but the Warmaster seemed to know everything.

' Confirm. Were close to escaping this death trap, so I'm not taking any chances.'

'Acknowledged. Leave your beacon active or I'll be coming in blind.' A click, small but definite, came over the vox.

'Engaging wide band vox suppression in five... four... three... two... one...'

The vox crackled out. Sulnar set a chronocounter running in his helmet display. The numbers ran down, hundredths of a second tumbling, seemingly frantic to be spent.

Still, too slow.

He searched the sky for some sign of their extraction craft, but nothing moved up there. Somewhere beyond the blank night sky, vessels still loyal to the Imperium orbited the world. How, he had no idea. He decided it best not to question miracles.

There were five of them left, the survivors of the attack at Purgatory. He sat propped up against a rock, his mangled legs projecting in front of him. The others were secreted in the rocks overlooking the beacon they had taken from the gunship.

They operated on a closed voxnet, at the shortest range and narrowest frequency. Their identification markers were deactivated, their armour powered low. They were taking no chances.

Tarkan cursed.

'Report,' Sulnar ordered.

'Movement five hundred metres up.' Tarkan spoke quietly,with minimum exhalation. His battleplate would prevent anydisturbance to his aim, but Tarkan was meticulous.'Four, maybe five

or six. We tagged them on the motion

sensor.'

'And?'

'We lost them. And the sensor.'

Sulnar breathed out through his teeth. Traitors. They had found their sensor and blinded it. He blinkclicked his longrange vox open again. He did not use his neural interface to activate it. It was working, unlike so many of his armour's systems. He felt so limited without the use of his legs, and blinking the vox on was at least a physical act he could perform. It made him feel like he was doing something, not simply lying out of the way like so much dead meat while others watched over him.

'Spear of Truth, come in.'

Did he warn the pilot? If he were in his position, he would not risk an approach if there were traitors on the way.

The decision was irrelevant. There was no reply. Not even static hiss. The jam held.

He checked the positions of his men. With their markers deactivated, the only thing he had on his visor's tactical display was their last locations.

Slight energy spikes and mild thermal differences told him that they were still there, but had he been unaware of their presence he would not have found them.

Unless he were looking very carefully. He hoped that the traitors were not.

The irony of the current situation was somewhat ridiculous. They had set up the trap for their enemies, only to guide friends to them for one final, desperate rescue attempt. And now, the efficacy of their trap threatened to kill them just as they seemed to have found a way out.

'Vogarr, I can see your energy signature too easily. Power down your motive systems a further twenty per cent.'

'My apologies brother,' said Vogarr. 'I have erratic power delivery. I will see to it when we are safe.'

Yes, thought Sulnar. Like I will repair my bolter, and see to my legs. He longed to be back in the fight.

There was a tension in them all. Rescue had seemed impossible for so long. They had given their all to destruction and to vengeance, and now this... They were on edge, far more than when only death had awaited them.

They waited now in turn.

'How long?' asked E'nesh, the Salamander. The other four of their group were all Iron Hands, all members of Clan Sorrgol. E'nesh was an outsider, but he was their brother. They all had the clock running. Perhaps E'nesh asked because he did not believe it. Sulnar was not certain he believed it himself.

'Nineteen minutes,' he said.

Kortaan, the last of their number spoke. 'I think I see something. Movement, coming down the slope. Can you get a shot, Tarkan?'

'I could, but they'll scatter,' replied Tarkan. 'That's a Scout's grasp of tactics, Kortaan. Keep it together. We open fire as we planned, when they are close and grouped.'

'Yes, brother.'

Information rolled across Sulnar's visor. He patched through to Kortaan's visual feed. Three shapes, still small in the view, picking their way to the ravine floor. They had no identification markers.

'Should we hail them?' asked Tarkan.

'Negative , ' said Sulnar. 'Might be a scouting party. Could have blindhunters waiting, up behind.'

'The slope is too steep for constructs,' said Kortaan.

'No, it is not. If it was, then we'd never survive. Take them by surprise, Tarkan.'

The figures disappeared from sight, enhanced or otherwise. They were coming to the beacon's position now, drawn in by the lure. It was ten minutes at a cautious pace.

When they came, they were dealt with, and Captain Sulnar discovered that Isstvan V had one last horror to inflict upon him.

The Thunderhawk arrived three minutes after that.

I HAVE BEEN sleeping. I have been dreaming of the massacre, and have brought my dreams into the waking world. I am fully awake now, at this moment. The events of Isstvan V are still with me. They do not fade as nightmares will, for they are not nightmares. Oh, how I wish they were.

I cannot speak. I do not know why. The words will not come.

I sit upon the edge of the examination table and await my fate. My wounded arm is hot where the regeneration clasp works upon torn flesh. Already I can move my fingers again.

The warriors of the Iron Hands stand in judgement over me, discussing me as though I were a broken machine.

Like a machine, I can say nothing in my defence, and I do not know why.

The Apothecary gestures to me. 'No, captain, I am not saying there is anything the matter with him. I am saying that there is nothing wrong with him at all.'

Upon the glass overlay are displayed parts of my anatomy. They are naked, revealed to plain sight by the artifice of the medical scanner. Part of me wonders how it works. A little of the hunger for the craft is within me yet, then, but it is an ember, dying under a black, sodden weight of persistent realisation. Realisation should be a transitory state.

What was not known before becomes known, and is processed accordingly.

But the enormity of the knowledge that chokes my soul will not allow its easy resolution. Each moment, I relive that first instant of sickening revelation.

Vulkan is dead.

Every time I think upon this truth, a wave of nausea and... fear? It cannot be. I have forgotten fear.

But I never forgot grief. That I feel keenly, and I know it for what it is.

Our father is slain. Ferrus Manus also. These Iron Hands have suffered the same loss as I have. Those around me speak and operate, performing their duties with the cold efficiency their Legion is known for. It is not obvious that they are damaged, but they are not undamaged. Far from it.

'Do you understand me?' one of their leaders asks. His insignia is that of a commander, I think. Their rank system differs from ours. His armour is battered, his countenance fierce, twisted by pain and fury, like a dragon in a trap. He has a bionic arm the right. It is uncovered by his battleplate, displayed for all to see, as is their custom. This too is damaged. The gleaming metal is torn and blackened around the elbow, heat bloom surrounding the wound to the prosthetic, purple fading through green to yellow. It is an iridescent bruise. When he moves his hand, it clicks. The three lower fingers no longer flex.

I nod without hesitation, but only once. I blink, putting out the forgelight of my eyes for a second, to show deference. What happens over the next few minutes is of the utmost importance.

The captain turns to the Apothecary. The medicae chamber of a strike cruiser is small and cramped, and this one is full of wounded Iron Hands. More wait on gurneys outside.

'He will not answer you, brother.'

'I can see that.' The commander turns again to the Apothecary, impatient. 'I do not care if he can speak or not. What I need to know is whether he can fight, Brother Vraka.'

Vraka glances at me. His eyes have been replaced with augmetics; a medical diagnostic model. They whir as they focus on my face.

'Commander Tayvaar,' says the Apothecary patiently, 'they found him with two others. He would not have made it that far up into the mountains if he could not. I'd say he can fight.'

'The others?' asks the commander.

Vraka shakes his head. The news of what happened to Go'sol and Jo'phor is too shameful to voice.

I cannot speak, but yes, I can fight. I grip the edge of the examination table with my hands. It is strange to be out of my armour after so long. If I could, I would put it back on again.

The captain looks down at me. It takes all my effort of will not to look away. I nod. I so desperately want to fight.

'Very well,' Tayvaar says abruptly. 'When he is rested, send him to me. All who can fight in the Shattered Legions will do so. And send for Brother E'nesh. Get him assigned.'

E'NESH WAS ONE of our ambushers. I follow him down the spinal corridor of the ship. Its unwieldy name is the Voluntas Ex Ferro. Before I left the apothecarion, a wildeyed Iron Hands legionary explained to me that the ship arrived late in the fleet chasing Lord Manus to the system, after the Avernii were all but annihilated and the primarch slain. The Warmaster had his victory and eventually moved on, leaving the dregs behind to finish us off on the surface. And so the Voluntas was one of the few that managed to creep back, months later, looking for survivors. He was crazed as he recounted all this, evangelising an unpalatable truth, as if he still could not believe that he had not died alongside his father.

There are one hundred and sixtyseven Space Marines on board. The Voluntas Ex Ferro is designed to support just over half of that, and so it is crowded. There are not enough quarters for all, and many of those on board are wounded.

I suppose I am one of the lucky ones. My body is whole, even if I cannot speak.

This is a Legion ship. There are few human serfs left on board. They are the indentured servants of the Medusans and of a phenotype unfamiliar to me. The Imperial Truth holds that humanity is as one, but one only has to look to see that humanity is many. Seeing the unenhanced suffering the shock of betrayal makes me wonder if we were right ever to try and reunite them. They do not meet my eyes. The Warmaster's actions have affected them more than us, at least superficially.

On a deeper level it may be worse for us in the long term. They are weak, and therefore pliable what is bent can be returned to shape. But the strongest metal does not bend, it shatters. I look into haunted transhuman faces as we walk to the gunship launch deck, and see so much broken iron.

Brother E'nesh leads me to Hangar Two. This is to be my berth.

'The other hangar,' he says, the first words he has uttered since he collected me from the infirmary, 'is full of the wounded.' He smiles, knowing of my affliction. He is trying to put me at ease, but his smile is full of pain and shame.

'They have only two operational Thunderhawks remaining.'

We pass them. They are scored by weapon impacts and reentry wounds, and crowded around by servitors. Three Ironwroughts and an Iron Father minister to them, directing the cyborgs and a dozen of the less technicallygifted Iron Hands to heal the machine. Brilliant blue sparks shower onto the deck as damaged armour is cut free.

I think on ceramite. It is durable and versatile. But it will crack. The heatshielding armour of this Thunderhawk, for example, subjected over and over again to the stresses of reentry, will begin to fail. It may look whole to the naked eye, but the molecular structure will be host to a thousand microfractures. It will serve and serve and then, one day perhaps suffering the smallest impact, and for no obvious reason at all it will shatter.

That is why we have the rituals of maintenance. This is why all components are tested and replaced when they have been subjected to outparameter stresses.

There is no one to replace these Iron Hands. Not any more.

A third Thunderhawk is not currently flight capable. The deck around it is torn, the result of a hard landing. The gunship has been turned around, cradled by cranes, supporting it where its feet no longer could. From the right, missing landing claws aside, it appears fine less marked, even, than its brothers. As we pass, I turn my head to see the port engine and wing assembly missing. I silently salute the skill of the pilot who brought it in. I wonder if it can be salvaged at all.

Beyond the crippled gunship the other five landing bays are empty. With the Voluntas so crowded, the area has been temporarily rigged as a barracks. There are places for us to sleep. Many cots, and a work bench next to each one.

The Medusans are kin to us Salamanders in their love of mechanisms. Just as well, for not one of the legionaries I have seen has a fully functional set of wargear. It would take the few adepts on this ship years to repair it all.

E'nesh leads me to a repurposed administrative desk. I can see that it is intended for me, for my armour is there.

The plastron and left vambrace are neatly laid out on the work surface. The rest is upon an arming frame.

He is embarrassed. 'I am sorry that your battleplate is not within the armoury or martial chambers,' he says, 'but, as you will have guessed, there is no space.'

I run my hand over the breastplate. It has been polished free of carbon bloom. Deeper marks in the metal have been smoothed and prepared for repair. I look to E'nesh, and his eyes drop.

'Forgive me. I thought to make a start on your wargear while you were being seen to in the infirmary. I had only the night. It was the least I could do after...' His voice trails away. The firelight of his eyes has an odd colour to it.

I scratch around the regeneration unit bound to my arm. The wound was grave, nearly enough to necessitate amputation. I was lucky it did not. It will heal. My muscles itch maddeningly as the cells replicate. The shot might have come from E'nesh's own gun. My three comrades Go'sol, Jo'phor, and Hae'Phast are all dead. Two of them slain by our allies, after having survived so much.

If I believed in such things, I would say fate was cruel.

I would thank E'nesh for the work he has done on my armour. It is neat and precise. But I say nothing. The silence between us yawns, a gulf I cannot bridge.

'Well,' he says. 'I will see you. My cot is there. There were already half a dozen of us on the ship. We Salamanders are all berthed together.'

I nod, though I cannot smile to reassure him. It is not his fault, the deaths of our brothers. He turns away, unsuccessfully trying to conceal a shame that I know he will carry forever.

It is already killing him.

TIME PASSES, TIME I spend working on my armour. If this were the old days, when we travelled in glorious fleets that laid the galaxy at the Emperor's feet, I would junk half of what is here and request replacements from the armoury. That is no longer possible. Materials are in short supply. I am, however, given another helmet, as I lost mine shortly after the massacre. It is brought to me by Osk'mani, one of my six brothers here, while I work. The helmet is newly forged, dull metal. It is of an unfamiliar pattern and inferior manufacture to my original, but the armour is thick. Three additional layers, with lamination achieved through the use of molecular bonding studs.

Osk'mani feels the same way about it as I do. He rests a hand on my shoulder. 'It is all they can do, brother. The internal systems are poor things, but the thickness will provide additional protection against mass reactives. Be thankful the rest of your armour is salvageable.'

I set the helmet on the stand, looking at my work.

I wish I could work faster. My brothers are all armoured, at full battle readiness. I can finally wear my plastron and backplate. I have replaced the power cabling running over my plackart and repaired the interfacings at the chest and spine. Luckily, the circuitry required only minor repair, for the complexity of the machinery there is such that a full renewal would require the knowledge of a Techmarine or Mechanicum priest. I am merely an artisan.

My right arm is also finished. This I leave off so as not to hamper my work. But the fibre bundles of both legs need replacing; it is intricate work, but not beyond me. The rerebrace of my left arm assembly is beyond salvaging. My power plant is open. One of the cooling coils is black and friable to the touch. Osk'mani looks over my shoulder at it all, making a noise in his throat as if to say he would not wish to undertake this task himself. He leaves me alone.

I am still working on my armour six weeks later when we are hailed by other survivors, and we join them.

In the following week, still more come, joining a flotilla that hides itself in the raging photosphere of a dying red star.

COMMANDER SULNAR STRODE across the docking tube, his new legs clanging on the deck plates. He felt empowered, full of grim purpose. Commander Tayvaar strode beside him. Behind them came eight legionaries, four from each of their clancompanies. The commanders saluted the Avernii guarding the entry hatch to the other ship.

'Commander Ishmal Sulnar of Clan Sorrgol.'

'Commander Rab Tayvaar of Clan Vurgaan.'

The veterans inclined their heads, and shifted the bulk of their Terminatorarmoured bodies aside to open the way.

'Be welcome, Commander Sulnar, Commander Tayvaar.'

Representatives of four clans crowded the briefing room. Elements of twentytwo companies of the X Legion were present in the fugitive fleet, but together added up to little more than eight in actual fighting strength. A Raven Guard ship flew alongside them. There were also a demicompany's worth of Salamanders scattered across the various ships.

None of them, however, had been invited to the meeting.

Three Iron Fathers held the floor. Their leader, Frater Jukaar, addressed the lost sons of Ferrus Manus.

'There should be no hastily appointed leader,' he proclaimed. 'For the duration of this crisis, the Iron Fathers will advise each companylevel commanding officer individually. There will be a moot of all the clans called on Medusa, and there it will be decided who shall lead the Legion. Though not now, and not here. Not like this.'

'Why?' asked a grimfaced captain of Clan Ungavarr. 'There are warriors who are up to the task.'

A commander of Sorrgol stood and banged a bionic hand hard on his chestplate. 'I will not be dictated to by Ungavarr!'

'Nor I,' growled another.

'And that, Commander Uskleer, is precisely why our warriors are divided and scattered,' said Frater Grivak. 'To set one clan over another at a time like this will lead to dissension.'

'Or open conflict.' added Frater Vrayvuus.

'There is one who could reunite us,' came a voice from the back of the chamber. 'Shadrak Meduson!'

'Meduson? He acts without forethought and without guidance!' said an Ironwrought in Grivak's retinue.

'And yet I have heard that many already follow him,' Sulnar whispered to Tayvaar.

'Most of the clanfathers are gone,' said Jukaar, raising his staff. 'Only we Iron Fathers may now stand outside the Legion's structure, in accordance with the old laws of Medusa. Rashness doomed us. Listen to our wisdom. This is how Warleader Meduson would have the Iron Tenth prosecute this war.'

'Then what are we to do?' asked Tayvaar, speaking up for the first time. 'You bring us news of Meduson and others of our Legion. Where are they?'

'We do not know,' said Vrayvuus. 'Deliberately so.'

'This is the wisdom we bring,' said Grivak. 'All survivors of the Isstvan Massacre are to divide into splinter cells.

Battlebrothers from any Legion are welcome in our ranks, if they can prove their commitment to the cause. We cannot attack the traitors directly, but we can harry them. We shall spread ourselves far and wide, attacking their supply lines and depots, and bringing news of the treachery to whoever we can.'

Sulnar's hand involuntarily tightened. To be separated once more from his brothers would be too much. 'Frater, we have little strength in such small numbers,' he said. 'What can we do?'

'Ask yourself instead, Sulnar, what could we do all together? Our Legion is a fraction of its former strength. Much of the 52nd Expedition is lost, and the rest of us are scattered widely. If we all came together, in one place, we could still likely do nothing useful against the enemy's superior numbers.'

'We would instead present Horus with a single target,' said Grivak. 'We would be pursued, and annihilated.'

'Our father is dead do not let his legacy die too,' Vrayvuus urged them all. 'If you would follow Shadrak Meduson to war, then do it on his terms. You must fight for him, but not with him.'

Tayvaar agreed. 'There is sense in this plan. Separately, we are more agile, harder to pin down and attack. Spread out across a broad front, we will tie up as many of the enemy by forcing them onto their guard as we will by actually attacking them.'

'As it should be,' said Juraak. 'Our disposition will be examined and reordered. We will not expose the warriors under our command to the truth of our Legion's inherent weakness. It is a secret shame that we will not share.'

'And that weakness is what?'

'That our primarch was wrong.'

Silence fell, full of foreboding.

'Very well then,' said Sulnar, keen to break the moment. 'What is our first move?'

'This,' said Vrayvuus, producing a dataslate.

Sulnar took it, and frowned.

'A staging post?'

'An astropathic relay station, and Legion supply point. Thetaclass planetoid with attendant base units. At the time of sending, fiftythree fleet resupply vessels were there. We have coordinates. It was discovered by a small contingent of Clan Atraxii fleeing the battle at Isstvan.'

'Sending?' asked Uskleer. 'Have them return to us, and share their findings in person.'

'There are multiple command structures operating in parallel,' Grivak explained. 'It is taking time to gather intelligence upon all the disparate elements of our Legion. Not all of them are heeding our call Clan Atraxii are particularly intransigent. Iron Lord Hrottaavak openly defies Warleader Meduson, in fact.'

'But not this company?' asked Sulnar.

'Our brothers appear to see sense,' said Grivak.

Sulnar passed the slate on, and Tayvaar looked over the information. 'Is not the key in such asymmetrical warfare to keep each cell in ignorance of the actions of the other?'

'Yes,' said Frater Jukaar. 'And among those of us who chose to work with Meduson before we came to you, there is a prohibition on contact in all but the most exceptional circumstances.'

'Such division suits our temperament,' Uskleer murmured.

'And these are exceptional circumstances?' Tayvaar persisted.

'Lone elements reach out to the rest of the Legion, as though it were still whole. They too seek to slake their thirst for revenge. They cannot do this alone, or without guidance.'

Tayvaar nodded. 'The outpost is well defended by the Twentieth Legion.'

'Bombardment?' suggested Sulnar. 'We have the ships.'

'We can't waste those supplies on the ground,' said Uskleer. 'We should launch a full combat drop. Boots on the ground.'

Tayvaar smiled unpleasantly. 'And what if it is a trap?'

Grivak waved a hand dismissively. 'If it is, we will surprise them. We have sufficient numbers in this group to destroy them outright, and scatter any ambush. It is the wish of the Iron Fathers that we proceed to our brothers' aid, and turn any trap back upon the traitors. We have fought our way out from harder places.'

'The time for weakness is over,' said Juraak. 'We will charge into peril as our father did. They expect it. Let us run at them. Let them underestimate us, and we will turn it to our favour.'

MY ARMOUR IS almost repaired by the time we go into battle. All systems check out perfectly. I am pleased with my work. I have repainted most of the plates, but not my left shoulder. There, I must renew my Legion heraldry. I sit down in my new arming chamber several times to do this, but find that I cannot.

It is still incomplete, scorched by the betrayal of Isstvan, when we attack.

We come out from the warp like rage itself, right on top of our target without thought for safe distances, matter interlacing or proximity translation interference. The Iron Hands are eager to destroy the enemy, and will have the element of surprise at all costs. The bowwave of our emergence sends the tenders around the asteroid wallowing as space convulses about them. Several are caught in brutal temporal eddies and are torn into fragments.

The guns of the station are upon us quickly, tracking the Voluntas Ex Ferro, highrate macrocannons casting ultrahigh explosive rounds. They aim at where we will be. Our path and theirs intersect, void combat's geometry of destruction executed as expected. Explosions bloom all along the ventral facing of the ship. Void fields flicker with otherworldly energy.

They hold, and my brothers and I are away, the Voluntas falling up above us.

Our Thunderhawk the third I saw, somehow coaxed back to life hurtled at the station without restraint or caution. The surface of the station rushes up to us. Forty per cent of its mass is of human construction. The rest is rock into which the artificial components are embedded. A thin regolith of pulverised stone coats the surface, fine as lapping powder.

Our target is the astropathic relay. It arches up on a soaring buttress, fantastical architecture that would be impossible on a Terranstandard world. The gravity of the asteroid is negligible, but I feel it pull nonetheless, a growing heaviness as we approach.

Ships explode in the sky around us. This is the work of the Raven Guard, stealing ahead. Our commanders play to our strengths.

'Stand ready!' commands Chosen Vra'kesh. There are twenty of us now, brought together from all over the flotilla, and we have a leader in the Terminatorclad Vra'kesh of the Firedrakes. 'We will secure the relay station. Our primary target is this access port.'

The port flashes on our visor displays. We know it well. We have studied it and every battle possible contingency for the last three days.

'We will rendezvous with the Iron Hands of Clan Vurgaan,' says Vra'kesh. 'It is an honourable duty.'

There is tension amongst their clans. They hope, I am sure, that overtures from another Legion will be better received.

Ten of us bear breaching shields. These are loangifts from the Iron Hands. There has not been time to repaint them, and so we bear their emblem. Vra'kesh has a small shield of his own crafting, an ingenious device around which crackles a power field, its discharges as lively as lightning. In his right hand he bears a power maul in the shape of a roaring salamander's head. I smile to myself, and imagine the killers of our kin smashed down by it.

There is a determination to us. Vulkan told us to endure, and so we must. But there is a grim joy also. The newcomers to our group brought news...

The primarch's body was never found. He might live.

I am sure he does. I know it somehow. I feel it in my chest, a truth that warms both my hearts, like a growing fire in a forge left cold for too long.

The Thunderhawk touches down for a handful of heartbeats. The pilots blow open the assault ramp without venting the atmosphere, and we emerge rimed in voidfrozen gases. Our guns are firing before the ship takes off again, blasting the dust around us. Between the gas cloud and the debris, we are blind for crucial seconds.

'Lock shields!' calls Chosen Vra'kesh.

'Distance to primary target, thirty metres,' E'nesh reports.

Those of us in the first rank bring our shields up as the mess clears, carried off by momentum. We run in a shuffling gait, skating on the loose material cloaking the surface. To push down too hard here is to risk death. The gravity is so weak it would not hold a shove from powerarmoured legs. Our feet kick up more dust that moves outwards in strange burst patterns, unrestrained by atmosphere.

'Contact! Contact!'

Threat indicators in my helm go wild. Seven of our traitorous kin are moving to engage.

I hold my shield in front of me and brace. Boltrounds burn at us, their propellant loads bright in the vacuum. They rattle across our front like hail, the noise of their impact and detonation conveyed to my ears through the metal. Their combined impetus threatens to knock us over. Osk'mani stumbles. I move my breaching shield to cover him a fraction, saving him from the next volley. The rounds batter against the plasteel. He offers no thanks as he rights himself.

Brothersinarms do not need thanks.

We return fire. The Alpha Legionnaires of the XX are arranged loosely, and we pick them off with concentrated fire.

Only one of ours falls. A good exchange.

Our formation tightens again, and we are at the door. It is plain plasteel, a modular design common across the Imperium. It is set at an angle into the ground. In less terrible times, I have visited many such places but I never thought that I would have to fight my way into one.

Chosen Vra'kesh pushes his way forward. Bolts spark from his heavy armour. They veer into space; some become embed and explode in the ground, others are caught and detonated by the energy field of his small shield. He has maglocked his power maul to his thigh, and in his other hand he hefts a melta bomb. He marches through a storm of bullets and slams it hard at the join in the centre of the doors. The rest of us form a semicircle around him as he sets the charge.

Battle rages across the surface of the planetoid. The Iron Hands fall upon the Alpha Legion with terrible savagery.

They ever were furious in battle, and the death of their primarch has made them more so. But where once the Iron Hands would have marched in step with us, their allies, now they run ahead, as careless as Angron's World Eaters.

I realise for all their grimness and rigid comportment, their Legion has changed. They fight here as if they do not care for their own losses, so long as they kill the enemy. Their lives have become meaningless. Their attack began in unity, but their vanguard is soon fragmented. They assault singly or in small groups. I see a wildness in them. They barely keep themselves in formation, and fight with unrestrained violence.

A lightning flash of an explosion comes from the torus of the station, and a docking array floats away as if gently nudged. Shortlived fire spews into space. Two tenders decouple violently, trailing strands of metal. Bodies shoot from the gaps unarmoured, human crew. Particulate matter wreaths them in shining clouds.

Boltrounds streak across the airless battlefield. All I hear is brought to me by vox, but my augmented hearing and my suit systems work hard to damp it down. The cacophony of battle is more disorienting when delivered secondhand.

The bulk of the traitor force is on the surface. Many wear void harnesses, or Anvilus power packs with spread venting arms, directing the outgassing of their cooling coils through their stabilisation jets to manoeuvre. This gives them an advantage in agility, but we have the advantage of fury. The Iron Hands fight with the strength of the insane.

'Clear!' shouts Vra'kesh.

We admit him into our shield circle and withdraw. The fusion bomb glows whitehot. A large part of the door follows suit, collapsing inward like melted plastek. The charge gives out, the metal cooling slowly. Space is cold, but with no medium to carry the heat all must be lost via direct radiation.

Venting air rushes from the breach. A spray of blood and matter as someone is sucked through the toosmall hole. Bolts streak outwards after it. We cover ourselves with our shields as Tu'vash and Juphat move up to force the doors wide with spreading claws. Displaced items and screaming Legion thralls are sucked into the vacuum's silence, bouncing from our shields. They wheel away to join the cloud of debris growing about the station.

Then we are inside.

The station has white corridors, brightly lit by lumen panels in the roof. Colour coded banding designates the sector. Here it is red.

Gravity plating gives an approximation of Terran norm. We do not rely on it, and engage our boot maglocks in preparation for its failure. Sure enough, it is deliberately disengaged by the enemy the moment we are through and into the complex.

The inner voidlock has not been sealed. There are five Alpha Legionnaires within. We can advance only three abreast, so cannot easily bring our numbers to bear. They back away from us, firing as they go.

It is a stately assault. We proceed in slow formation behind our shields, leaning into the decompression winds.

The traitors retreat to match our pace. We pass humans gripping onto emergency grabbars, struggling against the gale. Their eyes are wide with fear and their faces purple. I wonder if they understand what they do. Do they follow the Alpha Legion through loyalty or through fear? Do they even know what is happening at all? Not all of them could have the black hearts of traitors, surely? These thoughts came to mind during the Crusade from time to time, but I put them aside as we cleansed one noncompliant world after another. They seem more pressing now. The unwitting humans might be saved from themselves, if they knew the truth of this war.

These questions do not trouble our Iron Hands kinsmen. They pour in through the breached doors behind us and slaughter everyone they come across.

The wind drops. This section has breathed its last.

Two of the remaining enemy legionaries break for a side corridor, covered by the last of them. One ducks back, his bolts punching holes in our breaching shields. They may be traitors, but they are still Space Marines and their combat discipline is impressive.

My suit systems find something of interest in the vox chatter and present it to me. Voices from both sides jabber away in our helms. The station has been breached in several areas.

'Proceed to the main objective! Let the Iron Hands finish clearing this area,' orders Vra'kesh. 'Secure the astropathic relay.'Resistance is light. We pick up the pace. We pass through an unlocked door into an area with thin residual atmosphere. The difference is mostly aural. Sounds are carried by more than just the vox here.

'This way,' says Vra'kesh, pointing with his power maul.

The corridor opens out. We enter an armourglass dome looking out into the void. The relay post is visible through the curved roof. The Emperor's eagle finials on the relay have been beheaded, and baleful red lights shine from its windows. Burning ships and wreckage tangles frame it.

There, at the double doors that lead to the access spur, Iron Hands fight with Alpha Legionnaires. Iron Hands who were not of our assault group.

'To their aid, brothers!' Vra'kesh orders.

We break into a run, shouting out the newlyminted battlecry of our Legion.

'Vulkan lives!'

Shoulder to shoulder with the Iron Hands, we slaughter the enemy. There are seven of them, bearing the sigils of Clan Atraxii. Standing amongst the dead, their armour is battered. They are the ones, then, who brought word of the installation to us. Two of them turn away and walk through the door leading to the relay without a word.

Their leader steps before us. 'Thank you for your assistance,' he says, earnestly.

And then the rest of them turn their guns upon us.

Brother Kraydo goes down, his helmet hollowed out by a bolt. Juphor falls, hands failing to stop the crimson gushing from his ruined gorget. Once, we would have reacted to such an attack with shock and disorientation.

No longer. We have become inured to treachery.

We are close in. We grapple. There are more of us than them, and we are tired of betrayal. Vra'kesh proves the leveller. His power maul swipes wide, caving in the breastplate of one. A flaring of his shield's power field halts the downward arc of a chainsword, and another of their number dies.

I wrestle with my opponent. Our guns are gone. I pin his right arm, and he kicks my legs out from under me and we both fall, he on top of me.

Through his red helm lenses, I see a fervid glee in his eyes. He grips at my shoulder guard and shakes it hard. 'I am the Alpha and the Omega, you fool,' he growls. 'And we are not your enemy.'

I see the krak grenade in his hand just in time. Twisting, I throw him hard enough to send him into the armourglass beyond. The detonation obliterates his left arm and the window.

The corpse is sucked outwards by the explosive decompression. I follow, but E'nesh grabs my arm. He is maglocked to the floor and holds me easily. Klaxons blare and blast shielding clangs shut over the shattered window pane.

The gale drops with it.

The false Iron Hands are all dead. But they have achieved their apparent goal.

At the end of its slender white bridge, the astropathic relay goes down in flames.

Vra'kesh is stunned by the sight, his power maul sinking to the floor.

'I do not understand,' says Brother Ki'shen.

'Infiltrators,' says Da'eev. He kicks one of the corpses. The rest appear to be wearing actual Iron Hands plate, but not this one. The paint is new. Revealed by scratches, Alpha Legion blue shines.

'But why pose as Iron Hands to get us to attack their own outpost?' asks E'nesh incredulously.

'Perhaps ours are not the only shattered Legions, brother,' mutters Ki'shen.

Vra'kesh shakes his head. 'If they were loyal, why then turn their guns on us? It makes no sense.'

'He said something to Brother Donak,' says Da'eev. 'What?'

'I did not hear, brother,' said Ki'shen.

The others reply similarly.

'What did he say?' Vra'kesh demands of me.

I do not reply. The Firedrake marches up to me. In his Terminator plate, he is taller and far more imposing.

'What. Did. He. Say?' he asks again.

But I cannot say, and so the truth of it remains unspoken.

For now at least.

AFTER MORE DELAY, I settle to finish painting my second pauldron. Once this is done, then my armour will be compliant with my Legion's heraldic code. It is an important moment. Clad in this battleplate, I will be the Donak of old on the outside. But I fear that I will never be the same within, and so do not stop in reverence or contemplation.

I key the brush on. The pistons of the pump chirr quietly. Spray mists the air.

Within a few seconds, the pauldron is a glossy Salamandergreen, as it should be. I feel something within me a budding optimism, perhaps? I key the paint to a yellow, wait for the brush nozzle to clean itself, then begin to rough in the stencilled outlines of flames along the bottom edge.

This takes me a quarter of an hour. I am lost in my work.

When I am done, I stop. I should add the great emblem now. The drake's head.

I pause. Something is not quite right.

I set the paintbrush down and take up my combat knife from the table. Gripping the pauldron as hard as I can, I dig into the metal with the tip of my blade. The paint scratches, but I must go deeper, I must mark the metal as I have been marked. The blade squeals on the ceramite skin covering the plasteel beneath. The metal is strong, but I am stronger. I clench my teeth as I force the point into the otherwise flawless metal, ruining what only minutes ago I had set to rights.

The ceramite curls beneath the blade. Millimetre by millimetre I etch the salamander's head into the metal directly. Of course, I could use my engraving tools and have the emblem done in minutes, but that is not the point.

The struggle is the point.

'Brother, what are you doing?'

I turn, Osk'Mani is behind me with E'nesh. They appear troubled that I am vandalising my wargear, but I ignore them and turn back to my work. I am nearly finished. I do not care if they do not understand. They must also do this.

The last scruff of metal drops away. I hold up the pauldron. The emblem is sound, albeit rough. The hard scratches of it catch the light, making it appear to move.

It is what Jo'phor would do, I want to say. On Isstvan, he carved salamander heads such as this into the armour of our enemy, to make them aware that thoste faithful to the Emperor still lived, and would bring vengeance for their treachery. I do it to honour him, and to remember our cause. Jo'phor was right. We stand now in numbers, and together we might conclude what we began on Isstvan V.

It is a fitting tribute, and the renewal of a promise to pursue vengeance.

But I cannot speak. Not yet.

I look at my brothers, imploring them to understand. E'nesh nods and rests a hand upon my shoulder.

'Vulkan lives,' he whispers.

I nod. Whether it is true or not, we shall endure.

I turn back to my work.

I have blunted my knife. I must sharpen it again.

THE EITHER

GRAHAM MCNEILL

I

SHIPBOARD HOROLOGS SHOWED that three years had passed since the infamy of Isstvan. It felt longer. Much longer.

Three bloody years hunting the mewling scraps of Legions culled on the black sands. A duty he hadn't relished, even as he recognised its necessity.

Three years the XVI Legion spent earning glory without him, fighting at the forefront of this newbirthed war.

That hurt. That hurt a lot.

But he was nothing if not a true son, and he knew the value of obeying orders. So much time apart from his brothers and Lupercal was akin to a hot blade cutting pieces of his soul away.

Leaving a void like the one gouged by Verulam Moy's death.

Was this what the warriors of the X Legion felt, knowing their genesire was dead? Hollowed out and empty. In need of fresh purpose to fill that void? Was that what drove them to keep fighting in the face of certain extinction?

A yearning for purpose when there was no purpose?

He had described his feelings to a fleshspare warrior of the Iron Hands they'd captured a year ago in the airless hulk of the last remaining Momed voidhive.

His name was Tharbis of Clan Felg, but that was about all he ever told them. Interrogating one of the Legiones Astartes through pain was an exercise in futility. Doubly so with an Iron Hand.

Instead, he sought to break Tharbis with words of Ferrus Manus.

'I saw your genesire die on Isstvan,' he would say on one of his frequent visits to his captive's cell. 'I watched the Phoenician weep as he clove his brother primarch's head from his shoulders. And do you know what else I saw as he fell?

I saw the fight wither in the Iron Hands still standing. They simply gave up. One by one, they laid down their weapons and were slaughtered like swine. All so they might die next to their father. Quite noble in its own way.'

All inventions, of course he had seen nothing but dying Salamanders on Isstvan but they cut Tharbis deeply. Over and over he sought to break his captive with hopelessness and despair, yet even to his last, metallic, oilrich breath, Tharbis had defied him.

The last word to pass his lips had been a curse and a threat all in one. A name, he had since come to learn.

Shadrak Meduson.

He had laughed as Tharbis died, leaning close so that the last thing the warrior would hear would finally crush him.

'Haven't you heard?' said Tybalt Marr. 'I've already killed Shadrak Meduson.'

THE SKIES OVER Dwell burned hot. Reentry cones painted it in fire. Tybalt Marr was bringing his ships and his warriors back to the Warmaster. They'd translated insystem seven days ago and made all speed for the fifth planet. Only the ruins of the ship schools, battery plates and drifting siegehulks locked in everdecreasing orbits forced them to exercise more caution in their approach.

The Sea of Enna shone like an elliptical mirror of brass, reflecting the low sun and the skyborn atomic fires. It reminded Marr of the great amber eye at the centre of Lupercal's breastplate.

He guided the Stormbird lower, circling the haphazard collection of dwellings that made up the city of Tyjun, a disordered collection of eclectic structural forms filling a shallow rift valley like the leavings of a tsunami.

Only a vast ochre necropolis atop an overlooking plateau presented any unity of form. He'd learned it was known as the Mausolytic, and that it predated the Imperium by millennia.

Fitting that this reunion would be held in the shadow of a house of the dead.

Marr overflew its blocky immensity, keeping the proud nose of the Stormbird high. A flyby to honour Lupercal and to announce the triumphant return of one of his true sons. Wasteful not to simply land, yes, but he and his warriors had earned the right to preen a little.

A dangerous warleader was dead by their hand, his host broken. That was worth a little grandstanding.

Ten Stormbirds flew in formation with Marr's craft, roaring overhead with a legacy of victory carved into their entryhot flanks. Marr made one more circle before finally issuing the order to land. Coming in from the north, the septentrional aspect he had always favoured, he transitioned his gunship to vertical flight.

He brought the heavy craft down hard, a war landing.

Leaving the postlanding checks and protocols to a Legion thrallservitor, Marr decoupled from the controls and made his way back through the crew bays.

Kysen Scybale already had the squads on their feet. Scybale was a sergeant, Cthonian to the core. Old guard, but with sense enough to move with the times. A man of his experience should have been made captain by now, but Scybale knew where he fitted best.

One look into his flinty grey eyes, lit from within by Cthonia's dark fire, and even captains found themselves taking an unaccounted step back.

Marr's chosen warriors formed up, eager to rejoin the Legion. Scybale stood at Marr's right hand, Cyon Azedine on his left. The Company Champion's hand never strayed from the leatherwound grip of his mortuary sword, its baskethilt reworked to bear the death mask of the Iron Hand who had borne it before him.

'Don't we all make a pretty picture?' asked Scybale.

Marr grinned and gave the sergeant a nod, locking his transversecrested helm into the crook of his arm as the forward assault ramp lowered with a squeal of pneumatics.

Russet light poured in on a gust of air, hot with propellant from the Stormbird's exhausts.

Marr tasted Dwell.

Dry, spiced atmosphere. Saltrich wind from the sea and a low range of stillsmouldering heavy metals. A lingering taste of acrid preservatives.

He marched down the ramp, his stride sure and confident, purposeful in a way it hadn't been for a long time. He emerged from the shadow of the Stormbird onto a newlyconstructed apron of scorched plascrete at the edge of the plateau. Gunships squatted like scaled raptors in hot clouds of vapour to either side.

'The Legion was expecting us, yes?' asked Azedine.

Marr had no answer for him.

He hadn't expected a triumph to match Ullanor. He'd hoped, but hadn't really expected Horus Lupercal to be here.

He'd hoped a few companies of Sons of Horus at least.

Four warriors stood at the far end of the apron. Three were known to him as brothers, the fourth a stranger. At their number, Marr felt a twinge of unease. Nothing he could identify, just a ripple of sourceless disquiet.

First Captain Ezekyle Abaddon was impossible to mistake.

Tybalt Marr, 18th Captain of the Sons of Horus

Towering and brutal, his shaven head and swishing topknot made him unique among the XVI Legion. Cleaving close to Abaddon was Falkus Kibre, his enormous warplate making his already massive frame even larger.

The third warrior's face was cold and humourless, sharply angled and patrician in mien. Like the Warmaster, but without the dynamism of Horus Lupercal. A true son, saw Marr, but one that was unknown to him.

But in the face of Little Horus Aximand, Marr had his first real shock. He did his best to hide it, but the look on Aximand's face told him he hadn't been successful.

Little Horus held out his gauntlet before he could say anything.

'Welcome to Dwell, Tybalt,' said Aximand, his disfigured face moving as though the muscles beneath his skin were being worked by invisible strings. Still recognisably a true son, but somehow entirely other. Marr couldn't decide whether Aximand now looked more or less like their sire.

'Little Horus, what—' said Marr, but Aximand shook his head.

'Another time,' said Aximand. 'Let's just say that steel forged on Medusa has such a fine edge, and leave it at that.'

'As you say,' agreed Marr with a slight incline of his head.

'So the Either returns to us,' said Abaddon with what was probably meant to be a grin, but came off looking more like the death mask on Azedine's mortuary blade. 'Or is it the 'Or', I could never tell you two apart…'

Anger touched Marr at Abaddon's poor attempt at humour.

'You never did have any skill at jests, did you, Ezekyle?' he said. 'Verulam died on Davin's moon. So I'm not the Either any more, and I'm certainly not the Or. Now I'm just Tybalt Marr. Captain Tybalt Marr.'

Abaddon's brow furrowed, but he refrained from rising to the barb, much to Marr's surprise.

Before that changed, Aximand took a step towards him and put a hand on his shoulder guard. He gently, but firmly turned Marr towards the polished ochre stone of the Mausolytic.

'We meet in a liminal space,' he said. 'A place where life and death are not so far apart as we might wish. It's fitting we remember the dead as we knew them. Ezekyle meant no disrespect to the memory of Verulam. Did you, Ezekyle?'

'No,' said Abaddon through gritted teeth. 'I did not.'

Aximand nodded and stepped back. 'You see? The restoration of the Mournival has given Ezekyle fresh reserves of empathy and humility.'

That made Marr smile until the full import of Aximand's words hit home. That explained the vague unease he'd felt when he'd seen there were four of them.

The others saw the realisation in his eyes.

'He didn't know,' said the unknown warrior. 'Of course, how could he?'

Marr rounded on him, taking in his inferior rank.

'Who are you, and why are you talking to me as though you're my equal?'

The warrior gave a curt bow, barely enough to show respect.

'Apologies, Captain Marr, I offer all respect,' he said. 'My name is Grael Noctua of the TwentyFifth Warlocked.'

'You're just a squad commander,' said Marr.

'Yes,' said Noctua. 'For now.'

'And you're Mournival? All of you?'

Noctua nodded, and Marr saw a cold glimmer of a ruthlessly calculating intelligence. He wondered if the others had seen it.

'We needed our confraternity restored,' said Aximand. 'Now more than ever.'

Marr nodded, the muscles in his jaw tight as tension cables in a Stormbird's wing.

'And Lupercal?' he said. 'He approves?'

'He does,' said Abaddon, and Marr felt the knife in his back twist just a little deeper.

Falkus Kibre stepped forward and clapped both gauntlets on Marr's forearms. He and the Master of the Justaerin had never been close, but Marr had always respected Kibre's honest and brusque tothepoint manner.

'It's good to have you back,' said Kibre. 'Took your time disposing of a few ragamuffin survivors, eh?'

'You didn't vox ahead to tell them?' asked Scybale. 'Tell them what you did.'

'Tell us what?' asked Aximand.

Marr took a breath and said, 'That a warleader of the Tenth Legion named Shadrak Meduson was alloying those ragamuffin survivors into a fighting force of not inconsiderable strength. We destroyed his fleet at Arissak.'

Almost immediately, Marr knew something was wrong when he saw the confused reaction to his pronouncement.

'No, Tybalt,' said Aximand. 'I'm afraid Shadrak Meduson is very much alive.'

He should have died.

That was the thought uppermost in Marr's mind as he watched grainy pictcapture of the Iron Hands' Fire Raptors strafing the Dome of Revivification with gunfire. Highvelocity shells tore through its latticework structure, detonating the cryotubes within and wrecking mechanisms thousands of years old.

The Fire Raptors circled, their centreline and waist turrets braying with explosive fire, and the tower upon which the dome sat erupted like a flaming geyser.

Horus, Mortarion and Fulgrim were in that dome.

A meeting of brothers undone by an attempted decapitating strike.

If it hadn't been directed at his own primarch, Marr would have admired such a gutsy approach. Especially in the wake of the White Scars' abortive assassination attempt.

To have lain in wait for so long displayed a level of patience Marr had hitherto not encountered in his dealings with Shadrak Meduson. The boarding action he'd led aboard the Crown of Flame had taught Marr much about the man: his cunning, his determination and his resilience. Also recklessness and the exploitable desire to strike back hard.

But patience? No, that wasn't a virtue he associated with the warleader of the Iron Tenth.

Could Meduson be alive? Might he have escaped the slaughter in the Arissak System? It had been so comprehensive a defeat, so thorough in its bloodletting, that it seemed impossible anything could have escaped. He'd watched Meduson's flagship die, seen its guttering hulk tear itself apart in a lethal torsion of reactor detonations and warp implosions.

Marr shook his head and returned his attention to the pict capture, the swaying feed coming from a servitor drone attracted by the sudden noise and light.

When the end came, it came suddenly.

One of the gunships crumpled as though being crushed in the inescapable gravity of a black hole.

Then Horus Lupercal was there.

Marr's breath caught in his throat.

He'd watched this a dozen times already, and still the power of the Warmaster was astonishing. He leapt onto the prow of a gunship hooked by a chain hurled by the Death Lord. With one sweep of Worldbreaker, Lupercal demolished the Fire Raptor's prow, before vaulting onto the last enemy craft and breaking its spine.

It was the most incredible thing Marr had ever seen.

The pict capture exploded into static as Sons of Horus gunships finally arrived on station and shot down anything that didn't bear the Eye of Horus. Marr reached forward. He toggled the ivory switch to loop the broadcast and sat back on his bench seat as the image of the dome reconstituted itself in veils of light.

Marr sat in the central courtyard of what might once have been a wealthy merchant's villa, but was now just an empty marble shell. It sat on the upper slopes of the rift valley, within walking distance of the Mausolytic Precinct, wherein Horus Lupercal was said to be communing with the frozen dead of Dwell.

Marr had brooded within the villa for five days, the knowledge of Shadrak Meduson's survival having robbed him of the triumphant news he was to deliver. Small wonder the primarch made no time for him.

Two dozen dataslates lay scattered on the blackveined flagstones of the courtyard, each filled with notations of enemy actions over the last three years, spreading out from Isstvan. He'd studied them obsessively for those five days and his eidetic memory was fully conversant with everything they contained.

Marr picked up the nearest and scanned its contents again.

Acts of sabotage, supply lines cut, fuelling asteroids destroyed and a host of guerilla engagements where enemy forces had attacked, fallen back then attacked again.

Raven Guard through and through.

The random nature of each strike, and, more tellingly, its isolation from the others, had kept Marr kept everyone from registering their importance. But when viewed as being part of a greater whole, the faintest hint of an implacable, resolute and indefatigable will became apparent.

An iron will.

Marr saw nothing definitive, but each morsel was a tantalising breadcrumb that pointed to one inescapable conclusion.

Shadrak Meduson was indeed alive.

Not just alive, but raising his threatened storm with new skills and a new level of cunning alloyed in the fire of his apparent destruction.

Meduson's supposed defeat had come in the shockspasms following Isstvan V. The Iron Hands warleader had fought as he'd always fought, the only way he knew how, gathering whatever resources he could to assemble a fresh fighting force.

That was the way of the X Legion. If a machine broke down, they did whatever it took to get it working again, replacing broken parts with whatever came to hand. Meduson had taken that credo to its logical extension by incorporating squads from the Salamanders and Raven Guard into his formations.

And it had very nearly worked.

Marr had destroyed Meduson's agglomerated fleet, but the scattered, ad hoc flotillas in the outer reaches of the system had taken much longer to hunt down.

In the end, the survivors had been too broken, too dispersed and too psychologically shattered to endure the ferocity of Marr's vengeful prosecution. Of course, there had been elements that evaded destruction, but he'd believed them to be minor irritations and barely worth notice.

The assassination attempt on Dwell was the prism that threw an entirely new and dreadful light on that belief.

He reached down and lifted a clay amphora of wine that had somehow survived the city's fall and which he'd found halfempty in the basement. It was too thin and watery to his tastes, but just drinking it stoked a fire in his belly as his genhanced metabolism countered the alcohol.

The wine tasted sour, but everything tasted sour just now.

MARR WANDERED THE empty halls of the villa, drinking from the amphora and letting his mind consider the idea that the random attacks on forces sworn to the Warmaster were not random at all.

He had to take his suspicions to Horus Lupercal, but needed to be absolutely sure that what he believed was beyond doubt.

Too much certainty and he would be viewed as paranoid, jumping at shadows and seeing threats where none existed. Too little and Lupercal would dismiss him out of hand, relegating him to the rear echelons of forgotten warriors whose names history wouldn't bother to remember.

But hadn't that already happened?

How many more times could he be passed over? How many more times could he be ignored? The Either and the Or, two nicknames blithely indifferent to the individual heroism of Tybalt Marr and Verulam Moy's achievements.

Marr knew how the Legion viewed him. Precise, efficient and workmanlike. Steady, but without the glories won by men like Sedirae, Abaddon or, apparently, Grael Noctua. Even Marr's magnificent victories in the low mountains of Murder hadn't changed that perception.

He remembered standing in the strategium of the Vengeful Spirit during the early stages of the war on Murder.

Loken had been there, spitefully leaving him to the droning attentions of Iacton Qruze. The old warrior had been a relic from a bygone age of the Legion, a man whose counsel was rarely sought, but always offered.

'I won't be the halfheard,' said Marr, making his way down a carpeted hallway in the upper levels of the villa, a passageway replete with portraits that bore unmistakable genetic links.

Only the most recent picture had no date of death beneath it. A woman shawled with rich fabrics and draped in expensive jewellery stared back at him, handsome with rich living and what looked like subtle flesh sculpting.

'Did you own this fine dwelling?' he asked the portrait. 'How did it feel to have it taken from you? To have your dreams crushed under the boots of the Sons of Horus?'

The portrait was, of course, silent.

'Are you even still alive? Perhaps you fled to the interior countryside to wait out the war. Maybe you took refuge in another of your holdings, or in the household of a friend.'

Marr stepped away from the portrait and hurled the amphora at the wall. It shattered and soaked the picture, drenching it in wine that dripped in garnet droplets from its gilt frame.

'It doesn't matter!' he roared. 'Whatever became of you, you are nothing now. Whatever your achievements, they are as dust in the wind. All your labours, all your dedication, blood, sweat and tears… all shed for nothing.'

He turned as he heard a door opening below. Footsteps on marble. Too heavy a tread to be anything other than a legionary.

'Tybalt?' shouted a voice, echoing through the villa. 'Are you in here?'

He made his way back through the villa to the head of a fine set of marble and ouslite stairs that split apart midway down their length to curve groundwards in opposing symmetrical arcs. Below was Little Horus Aximand, standing in the centre of a mosaic floor of coloured glass tiles that depicted bucolic scenes of Dwell's pastoral antiquity.

'What do you want?'

'To talk,' said Aximand. 'As old friends do when they meet after long absences.'

Marr made his way down the stairs, much as the lady of this house must once have done when receiving guests.

Aximand waited patiently, his new face regarding Marr quizzically. Belted at his waist was a huge blade of Cthonian bluesteel, its edge notched and badly in need of repair.

'I want you to know that I put your name forward,' said Aximand. 'For the Mournival, I mean.'

'But I was rejected.'

'Ezekyle knows you are a good man, and coming from him that is a superlative compliment.'

Marr reached the bottom of the steps.

'But he still rejected my appointment,' said Marr. 'Which goes some way to explaining why he didn't tear my head off when I insulted him on the landing field.'

Aximand nodded. 'I'd urged him to be sympathetic. After a while he agreed.'

Marr grinned. Little Horus Aximand had been a true friend to him over the years, but this latest wound in his pride was going to take more than consoling words to salve.

'Why was I rejected this time?' asked Marr. 'And please, don't try and sweeten the balm.'

'Very well. Ezekyle didn't think you had the stomach for the job,' said Aximand.

Marr ground his teeth at so casual a dismissal.

'He kept pushing for his own men,' continued Aximand. 'Choleric types like Kibre, Targost and Ekaddon, but we needed balance. I hoped you would be the one to bring it, upon your return.'

'Balance?' asked Marr. 'And yet you let the Widowmaker in? I wonder if you properly understand the concept of balance.'

'You know Ezekyle,' said Aximand with a shrug. 'Once he gets an idea in his head, it's next to impossible to shift.'

'So that's why you made the overture to Grael Noctua? One of his, one of yours.'

'Something like that,' said Aximand, and Marr caught a trace of something else, some other reason behind Aximand's suggestion of Grael Noctua, something he wondered if Aximand himself even understood.

He sighed and said, 'I'd offer you some wine, but I think I just smashed the last amphora in Tyjun.'

'Shame.'

'No, it wasn't very good.'

Aximand smiled, and even with his new face, its warmth was genuine. 'So what are we to do if not drink as warriors?'

'You brought a sword,' said Marr. 'We could fight.'

'Would that help?'

'Help with what?'

'To balance your humours,' said Aximand. 'Because it looks like they need balancing.'

'Aye,' said Marr. 'There's a courtyard at the centre of the villa, that should suffice for an arena. Take up that monstrous blade of yours and we'll fight.'

' MournitAll,' said Aximand.

'What?'

'My sword, it's called MournitAll'.

'I know how it feels,' said Marr.

II

'RIDICULOUS,' SAID ABADDON, dropping the dataslate to the gleaming obsidian table. 'That's what they want you to think.'

They gathered in one of the sepulchral audience chambers of the Mausolytic, a place where the citizens of Dwell could meet and commune with their ancestors. Octagonal, with semicircular alcoves spaced at regular intervals around the wall, the gloomy and sombre chamber had been appropriated by the Mournival for their newly instigated meetings.

At Marr's request they gathered to hear his suspicions of the growing threat of Shadrak Meduson.

Aximand sat before a glowing hololith, the light throwing the bruises on his cheek and swollen eye into sharp relief.

Their sparring in the villa had been a brutal, punishing affair, of which Marr had taken the honours. Cathartic and not a little liberating, Aximand had been proven correct in that it had balanced Marr's humours.

Little Horus studied an entoptic rendering of interlinked icons.

Each one was the location of an attack on their or their allies' forces, with a spreading chain of outcomes linking to other attacks and their consequences.

It looked so much like a web Marr half expected to see the image of a glowing spider at its centre.

Or an iron fist.

'It's entirely the opposite,' said Aximand. 'If Tybalt's right, then they want us to dismiss them, to view them as a negligible threat until it's too late.'

Grael Noctua had a spread of dataslates fanned out before him, scrolling through multiple informational cascades at once.

'Or Ezekyle's right and it's all just beating the brush to make noise, to make us think there's a huge force out there working to some unseen plan and forcing the Warmaster to divert resources to fight them.'

Of all the Moumival, Noctua had thus far asked the most penetrating questions. Aspects Marr himself had not considered, counterpositions and Advocatus diaboli refutations that made him feel like he had entered a courtmartial with nothing more than circumstantial evidence and hearsay to prove his case.

Abaddon paced the floor, his boundless energies keeping him from sitting in one place for any length of time. Kibre sat opposite Aximand, restraining himself from pacing as Abaddon did with visible effort.

'If this were true,' said Falkus Kibre, speaking slowly and tapping the nearest dataslate, 'don't you think Horus Lupercal would have seen it?'

Elevation to the Moumival was evidently suiting Kibre.

Much to Marr's surprise, it was allowing a maturity he hadn't suspected the Widowmaker was capable of attaining to bloom. He'd asked the one and only question that had given Marr second thoughts about presenting his findings at all.

Marr hesitated, knowing he was taking a risk in suggesting any lack on the part of the Warmaster.

'Lupercal's gaze is fixed upon Terra,' he said 'It keeps him from seeing what is behind us.'

Abaddon stopped his pacing.

'And you said he didn't have the stomach for this,' said Aximand with a chuckle.

The First Captain switched his thunderous gaze between Marr and Aximand. 'Another one who thinks he knows war better than the Warmaster,' he said, with a shake of the head. 'There's nothing here, Marr, just a lot of smoke with no fire. You were on Isstvan. You know what we did there. Do you really think Lupercal would have been so careless as to let enough warriors escape who might form any kind of credible threat?'

Marr knew he was on dangerous ground here. To agree with Abaddon was to openly criticise their primarch, and even Aximand would take a dim view of such open dissent.

Speculation was dangerous here, so he stuck to facts.

He leaned over the table and switched the hololith to display scrolling diagrams that looked like genealogical trees, but which were in fact Legion orders of battle.

'This is a full manifest of the enemy forces deployed at Isstvan as it was divined at the opening of the assault,' said Marr, splitting the holo into three columns, silver, green and black. 'Iron Hands, Salamanders and Raven Guard. Watch.'

One by one, the icons representing enemy squads changed from pale blue to red as Marr fed in casualty reports and recorded exterminations. Like the creeping cellular sickness Marr had once observed Apothecary Vaddon studying in the bloodstream of an infected Scout auxilia, it expanded and increased the speed of its attack.

'Even though they are our enemies, it still chills the blood to see so much Legion strength lost,' said Noctua.

'Don't be foolish,' said Abaddon. 'You don't grieve for the enemy when he dies, you give thanks it wasn't you.'

Eventually the display finished updating, leaving the estimated forces a ragged shadow of their former glory.

'As best as can be estimated through collated butcher's bills and recovered armour, this is as close to an accurate figure as I can ascribe to the number of warriors who likely escaped Isstvan.'

The red icons of destroyed Legion formations faded out, and Marr swept the remaining icons together. They didn't fit together nearly as neatly as the original diagram, but then this wasn't an order of battle, just a representation of what had likely survived the massacre.

'Look at what's left, look at what we can't account for,' said Marr. 'I'll wager it's more than you thought, yes? Perhaps twentytwo thousand warriors all told, give or take a few thousand either side. That's not a force we can just ignore.'

'So more got off Isstvan that we thought,' said Abaddon. 'It still doesn't prove Shadrak Meduson's behind all these attacks or that he has some overarching plan. He mustered some resistance here at Dwell, but we defeated him. You broke him at Arissak. If he is in command, then he's doing a pretty poor job of fighting us. These attacks, irritating as they might be, are meaningless in the larger scheme of things.'

'Are they?' asked Marr, skidding a dataslate over the tabletop towards Abaddon. 'Meduson threatened to raise the storm against us, and that's just what he's done. Look at what these meaningless attacks achieved. An entire company of Sons of Horus diverted from the front lines of the war. Months spent securing Isstvan's supply routes, increased security around captured systems and, more crucially, the slowing of the march to Terra.'

Abaddon slammed his fist down on the table and cracks spread across its mirrorblack surface, reaching out to each member of the Mournival.

'Enough! You think because Meduson escaped you once before that he is everywhere now. You really expect us to take these guilty delusions of yours to Lupercal? No, Tybalt, go back to your company and get them ready for war.

Within the week we will leave Dwell for a greater prize.'

'You won't take this to Lupercal?' asked Marr.

'No,' said the First Captain. 'We will not.'

'And the rest of you agree with this?'

Kibre nodded, as Marr knew he would. Noctua also nodded, but he had at least considered his decision.

Aximand placed his palms on the table, but any hopes that Little Horus would side with him were quickly dashed.

'I think there is some merit in this, Tybalt, but I have to agree with my Mournival brothers,' he said. 'If this threat is as dire as you believe, to divert the level of resources you'd need to deal with it would greatly weaken our thrust on Terra.'

Marr nodded slowly and switched the hololith's display from the combined survivor lists to an image of the galactic spiral. Isstvan shimmered with a faint nimbus of cerulean light, Terra with a pulsing yellow haze, a blister in need of lancing.

'Ask yourself this, Mournival,' said Marr, pointing to the tenebrous gulfs of space between the blue and the gold.

'Who knows how much time the remnants of these shattered Legions have bought the Emperor and his warriors to fortify, regroup and prepare? How much closer to Terra would we be now, if not for them?'

He leaned forwards.

'And I'll tell you another thing, if Meduson is behind these attacks, then he has a plan, and things are only going to get worse.'

KYSEN SCYBALE AND Cyon Azedine were waiting for him in the pillared approach vestibule beyond the Mausolytic's inner chambers. He marched past them, helm held in the crook of one arm, his other hand gripping the hilt of his sword.

He kept up the swift pace until they stood on the scorched granite steps of the Mausolytic, looking out over the Sea of Enna.

'I'm guessing that didn't go well,' said Scybale.

'No,' said Marr. 'It didn't.'

'And there is no word yet from the primarch?' asked Azedine.

'None.'

'But I see you're still set on this course,' said Scybale. 'Without sanction or authority?'

Marr looked up into the burning sky and nodded.

'Now more than ever,' he said.

SORTIES OUT TOWARD Dwells Mandeville point were rare, and despite the name such locations were very rarely fixed points in space. The term was equally applied to any point far enough away from the gravity well of a star to allow safe translation into the warp. In essence, any point on a notional sphere surrounding the star could be the Mandeville point, which made a mockery of any attempt to guard it.

Local system pilots and astropaths, of course, knew points upon that sphere where the angles between the Empyreal realm and real space intersected to a greater degree and allowed for a smoother warptranslation.

Occupying regions of space tens of thousands of kilometres wide, they were haunted voids, where sourceless voices muttered obscenities and ghosts lurked in the shadows.

And such points could be guarded.

Three Sons of Horus vessels followed a stately course towards Dwells coreward jump point, known locally as the Azoth Gate. The two destroyers, the Helicanus and the Kashin, and the frigate Lupercal Pursuivant, bristled with vanes and spikes, mailed fists in the face of the void.

The small flotilla had set out from Dwell six days ago, and were making good time through the asteroid belt spread between the seventh and eighth planets. Marr commanded from the bridge of Lupercal Pursuivant, keeping his vessels in close formation as they navigated between waypoints towards the Azoth Gate.

The asteroids were the debris of the system's creation millions of years before, left to drift in a captured orbit around the sun. Hundreds of kilometres in diameter, each vast hunk of inert rock drifted through space like an aimless wanderer.

Thousands of kilometres separated each asteroid from its nearest neighbour, making transit of the belt a relatively simple affair.

Cosmic dust and micrometeor impacts ablated the hulls of all three vessels, fouling local auspex sectors with false returns and phantom images.

If there were going to be an attack, this would be an ideal location from which to launch it. Despite that, the three shipmasters were making no attempt at stealth. A constant chatter of vox passed between each vessel and active surveyor sweeps, together with highenergy electromagnetic pulses, lashed the void before them.

The auspex stations on every bridge revealed no trace of enemy presence.

Not that Marr expected any.

Not yet, at least.

THE FIRST SIGN of trouble came when the engines of the Lupercal Pursuivant stuttered with occlusion flare. The venting systems of a starship's drive systems were necessarily extensive, given the volatile plasmas employed in their reactor cores.

The fouling of venting systems with voidborne dust was something no captain could afford, carrying as it did the risk of explosive blowback into the reactor cores.

When the Master of Engines sent word to the bridge of the Lupercal Pursuivant of ejection failures throughout the engineering decks, Marr immediately shut down the reactors.

A flurry of urgent vox passed between the three shipmasters as the best course of action was deliberated. The Master of Engines estimated thirteen hours for the servitors to scrub the vents clear, and thus Marr gave the order for the Helicanus and the Kashin to continue onwards.

Two vessels on station was better than none.

The Lupercal Pursuivant would haul anchor in the shadow of an asteroid and rejoin the flotilla upon the restoration of drive functionality.

ELEVEN HOURS PASSED before they caught the first hint of another ship on an intercepting parabola. Marr stiffened on the command throne as the Master of Auspex lifted his fist a withered, fused claw of a thing.

'Captain Marr,' he said in a sopping gestalt of a dozen or more interleaved voices. 'A vessel approaches.'

'Designation?'

'By displacement, a rapid strike cruiser. The minds aboard bear the unmistakable touch of Medusa upon them.'

Marr didn't question this last morsel of information.

More than just machines were searching the void around the Lupercal Pursuivant. Locked in a pitch black chamber within the vessel's prow, a host of warptouched astropaths were linked to its sensorium via neural spikes driven into their cuneocerebellar tracts.

As it had been described to Marr, they felt vibrations in the spaces between real space and the warp.

Darkrobed Mechanicum adepts had modified the Lupercal Pursuivant's auspex systems during the three year hunt for Meduson's fleet, which had given the Sons of Horus a marked advantage against the Iron Hands.

A ship could go as dark as it was possible to go and still the Lupercal Pursuivant's shuttered astropaths could find it if the minds aboard burned brightly enough.

And from the look of the phosphorbright image on the viewscreen, the minds on this new ship burned so very brightly.

The Master of Auspex had once been a warrior of the Sons of Horus, but now he was something both more and less than transhuman. His altered body reclined on a gravcouch, pierced through by scores of bubbling tubes and inload cables. His head was encased in a latticework scaffold and the lid of his skull was crowned by numerous invasive implants. All of which completely remodelled the synaptic architecture of his brain to better process the visions coming from the astropaths and display them in a useable fashion.

'Looks like you were right,' said Scybale, his slategrey eyes following the glittering track of the incoming starship.

'They've been watching us. Who knows for how long…'

Marr nodded.

'It makes sense,' he said. 'We were the last of the Sons of Horus fleets coming in to Dwell, and such a muster speaks of a greater deployment to come. I can't imagine that Shadrak Meduson wouldn't want to know what Lupercal's next move is.'

'So he left a vessel lying in wait to watch our movements.'

'Yes, but whoever is in command of that ship is Iron Hands to the core,' said Marr. 'He couldn't resist a foundering vessel in an asteroid belt.'

'More fool him.'

'Who's to say we wouldn't do the same if Lupercal fell? What risks would we take to strike back at those who cut him down?'

Scybale shrugged, unwilling to concede he might make such an error of judgement. Instead, he changed the subject, gesturing towards the Master of Auspex.

'As useful as… this has proven, it's no end for a warrior of the Legion,' said Scybale.

Marr nodded in agreement. 'It sits ill with me also, sergeant, but the results speak for themselves.'

Scybale's vox chirruped and he placed two fingers to his ear. He nodded at what he was hearing.

'Enemy vessel five thousand kilometres and closing on our ventral rear quarter,' said the Master of Auspex.

'Coming in behind and below,' said Marr. 'Classic breaching tactics. They mean to cripple us then board us.'

'Azedine has his warriors ready on your word,' said Scybale, unable to mask his own urge to be locked in a gunship assault pattern.

Marr grinned.

'Don't worry, Kysen, you'll get your chance to fight,' said Marr. 'You and I both.'

THE PERFECT KILL. Executed flawlessly. The enemy's demise would be welcome in and of itself, but to deliver a deathblow with such machinelike precision against the Warmaster's own Legion just made this manoeuvre all the sweeter.

The Gorgorex was a rapid strike cruiser of the Vurgaan Clan, old and hoary even before the treachery of Horus. It had fought its way clear of Isstvan with a shellshocked cadre of survivors; mainly Iron Hands, but with a solid proportion of Salamanders and a handful of Raven Guard.

The Vurgaan were a proud and isolated clan, and thus the crew of the Gorgorex were well suited to the new way of war forced upon them after Isstvan.

Its commander was an Iron Father of the X Legion named Octar Uldin, and he swung the Gorgorex in below the stricken Lupercal Pursuivant using only the smallest bursts of thrust to manoeuvre. They were operating purely on external visual feeds; the risk of the enemy ship detecting any auspex sweeps were too great to countenance.

Uldin had watched the three vessels surging towards the Azoth Gate and logged them in the ship's database, assaying their speed, armaments and quirks as they went.

Any and all information on enemy vessels was invaluable, for just as warriors had their foibles, strengths and weaknesses that could be exploited, so too did starships.

Legion registries identified the frigate as Lupercal Pursuivant, the destroyers as Helicanus and Kashin. All were known to the Iron Hands after news of the disastrous engagement at Arissak had trickled down through the necessarily compartmentalised network of attack cells.

The Helicanus, the larger of the two destroyers, was slightly slower adjusting course to port. Its armour looked to have been repaired numerous times on its starboard flank, layered plate over layered plate, making it heavy on the turn.

The Kashin had a few seconds latency on its manoeuvring igniters, a weakness that a foe with greater agility could turn to its advantage.

And, it now transpired, the Lupercal Pursuivant had issues with its vent cowlings. Its reactors were burning hot, far beyond any recommended tolerances. If those vents weren't cleared soon, the ship would blow itself to pieces without any help from the Gorgorex.

At full magnification, the servitor crews struggling to clear the vents were like swarms of ants moving around the armoured haunches of a plainsdwelling leviathan.

Under normal circumstances, Uldin would not have engaged. His orders, passed down through secretive relays and encoded with the highest priorities, were to watch and wait. To observe and report.

That wasn't the Vurgaan way, especially when intercepted voxtraffic between the enemy ships appeared to confirm that the Lupercal Pursuivant was the flagship of a XVI Legion captain named Tybalt Marr.

That this was undoubtedly the same Tybalt Marr whose head Shadrak Meduson had sworn to take, made the danger of exposure worth any risk.

The dorsal launch tubes were loaded and ready.

They would kill the crew of this vessel, render it dark and then ram it out of the Dwell system with a single, highintensity burst of acceleration. The ship would never be seen again, its disappearance a celestial mystery that would never be explained.

'On my mark, light them up,' said Uldin.

'THEY'RE MAKING READY to launch,' said Scybale.

'Counterspread on my command.'

'It's a risk letting them fire first.'

Marr shook his head.

'No, it was the only way to get them in close enough,' he said. 'Once we stir the void with enough blood, the sharks will come to feed. And you know the first rule of voidwar?'

Scybale grinned and said, 'Be the shark.'

THE FIRST WAVE of boarding torpedoes raced from the Gorgorex at almost the same instant as a spread of countermeasures launched from the ventral guns of the Lupercal Pursuivant.

With a much lighter payload, the Sons of Horus missiles closed the distance between the two ships in the time it took the boarding forces to travel a hundred kilometres.

Little more than two hundred metrelong tubes filled with shrapnel, the countermeasures exploded and formed supersonic clouds of tumbling debris. The torpedoes had no chance to evade, their guidance systems locked until their terminal manoeuvres, and fully half were ripped open or sent tumbling off into deep space.

Battery fire engaged the rest and yet more were blasted to ruin before they got to within fifty kilometres of the Lupercal Pursuivant.

Point defence guns killed the rest as they executed their terminal dive.

Only one torpedo survived to penetrate the frigate's hull.

Avakhol Hurr, one of 18th Company's most feared breachleaders, was waiting for it with his bloodspattered warriors.

Not a single enemy warrior set foot on the Lupercal Pursuivant.

Realising he had been lured into the attack, Octar Uldin broke off immediately. The Gorgorex' s engines fired, but having drifted for so long, it took time to coax them to full power.

Time that the Lupercal Pursuivant did not need, having kept its engines hot to maintain the illusion of reactor cores on the verge of overload.

Marr swung the frigate around and let the multiple batteries on its prow and portside flank have free rein as it rapidly closed the distance to its prey. The hunted now became the hunter as slashing arcs of highyield lasers raked the Gorgorex s length.

Its voids were yet to ignite, and detonations marched across the dorsal armour, melting armoured plates to molten slag and explosively venting hull compartments to the void. Serfs and menials spiralled out, shockfreezing in an instant.

The Gorgorex shuddered in pain, but it was a vessel of the Iron Hands, proud and defiant. The voids finally lit as it took its wounding stoically, like a pugilist who knows he cannot win the fight, but will stay on his feet until the last bell.

Its engines flared, ready to push it from this onesided engagement.

Its rear quarters exploded as a flurry of torpedoes launched in its rear arc slammed home and detonated within the drive cowlings.

Swinging out from behind the moonsized asteroids that had covered their swift turns, Helicanus and Kashin effectively crushed any hope of the Gorgorex' s escape. Its engines vanished in an expanding plasma corona and oxygen bled into the void like glittering silver blood trails.

The two destroyers manoeuvred into close range. Their guns flayed its voids, collapsing entire quadrants of protection in moments before targeting its point defences. They pulled away with perfect synchrony as a shadow fell across the Gorgorex.

Angular and deadly, an assassin's blade over the face of the sun.

Lupercal Pursuivant hove to, so close that the space between it and the Gorgorex danced with borealis light as the remaining void envelopes overlapped. Generator vanes blew out in flaring surges of feedback. Space burned blue and purple and crimson.

A frigate of Lupercal Pursuivant's displacement normally had no capacity to launch strike craft, but its loading bays opened and three Stormbirds that had spent the voyage from Dwell chained to the deck now fell into space.

They rammed their engines to maximum thrust and powered towards the their stricken prey. Helpless, the crew of the Gorgorex could only watch and await the inevitable assault.

Hull penetration came two minutes later.

III

'DON'T THEY KNOW they're beaten?' said Scybale, ducking out from cover to fire down the transverse approach to the main axial. Return fire tore up the bulkhead behind him.

Shrapnel and flakes of metal drifted from the impacts, spiralling in the zerogravity chill. Behind them, a meltacut breach gusted with condensing air from the interior of the Stormbird locked to the Gorgorex s hull.

Half a dozen Sons of Horus fired back Marr's honour squad, positioned all around the hexagonal approach. The absence of up or down as relative terms was a benefit of combat in zerogravity.

The voxnet crackled as Cyon Azedine replied.

'Would you yield to an enemy who thought you beaten?' said the champion, his mortuary blade poised behind his combat shield. The Eye of Horus emblazoned upon it glinted with a web of frost in the voidchilled corridor.

'No, but I'm Sixteenth,' said Scybale. 'Even the Iron Tenth can't match that.'

'They appear to think differently,' said Azedine.

'Then it's time we disabuse them of that foolishness,' said Marr, hefting a widebarrelled weapon he'd appropriated from one of the support squads.

All cogs, coilwrapped condensing tubes and a tight ring of focus blades, the volkite caliver was a weapon more suited to lightly armoured targets, but it did have the advantage of being utterly lethal in confined spaces.

'Since when does a captain deign to wield a caliver?' asked Azedine, a man to whom the protocols of warfare were of paramount importance.

'When he wants the job done yesterday,' said Marr and depressed the griptrigger.

A searing beam of tightly focused energy shot down the transverse approach. It impacted on the far wall of the axial approach and exploded in a billowing cloud of caustic fire. Phosphorbright trails blazed with sudden, shocking intensity.

There were no screams in a vacuum.

'Azedine,' said Marr. 'Go. Now.'

Cyon Azedine spun out from cover, and his speed was something uncanny. Movement in low gravity was usually slow and painstaking, each step taken with magnetized boots.

Marr's champion had no truck with that.

Instead, he bounded from wall to wall, pushing off with limbs like coiled springs. He spun away from incoming rounds and, with a last pistonlike thrust from the ceiling, he slammed down onto the deck among the reeling survivors of the volkite blast.

His boots clamped the metal deck and his sword reaped lives. Sprays of blood hung like red archways in the air.

Marr released the volkite weapon and left it floating behind him.

'Let's go,' he said, and the rest of his honour squad followed him towards the enemy. Not that he expected to meet any resistance from here on in, since most of the ship's fighting strength had died in the void.

All through the enemy ship, breacher squads were converging on strategic targets: life support, reactor cores, engine spaces. The last thing Marr wanted was for the remaining crew to scuttle their vessel in spite. He needed it in once piece.

A starship had numerous routes through its superstructure, but only one to the command bridge.

And that target was Marr's.

By the time he and his warriors reached the main axial, Cyon Azedine had killed everyone there. Six bodies floated in the axial, trailing drifting slicks of vivid crimson. A blob of blood affixed itself to Marr's shoulder guard, painting his Legion marking in red.

He turned and moved up the axial towards the shuttered bridge interlock. Its defence guns weren't firing, which told Marr they were either out of ammunition or no longer functional. Most likely the latter, the arrogance of the Iron Hands leading them to believe they would never be boarded.

Crackling voices spoke of areas seized within the ship. Resistance was fierce, but minimal. Clearly this ship had been operating with something less than a skeleton crew.

That they had managed to fly it and fight at all was to be admired. Schematics overlaid the visor display within his helm, his warriors picked out in pale blue.

'Avakhol, bring your Breachers to me,' ordered Marr.

Moments later, he felt the vibration of heavy footfalls along the axial as a demisquad of Rukal Breachers approached.

Avakhol Hurr led them, a febrile warrior with a potent love of all things explosive. He carried a goresmeared thunder hammer, and his iron armour was a filthy mix of ocean green and rustcoloured stains.

A breacher never cleaned the blood from his battleplate and Hurr was no exception. He'd been a line warrior during the Jubal Secundus Liberation, but earned his command during the bloody shiptoship fighting above Isstvan.

Marr jerked his thumb at the bridge access. 'Get that open.'

The Breacher sergeant nodded and hefted his thunder hammer.

'My pleasure.'

MARR STORMED THROUGH the ragged, cherryred ruin of the entrance to the bridge. The Rukal Breachers followed, fanning out with their shields locked and bolters levelled, ready to annihilate any resistance.

The bridge was empty.

Or as good as empty, it made no difference. A single fleshspare warrior stood at its centre, locked to the deck and with a photonicedged war scythe. A dozen servitors flanked him, armed with a mix of clubbing weapons and tools adapted to form rudimentary firearms.

An Iron Father, if Marr wasn't mistaken.

The machinery around him was smashed and cratered, ruined beyond repair and useless. Deliberate sabotage to keep whatever data this vessel's logic engines had once held from falling into enemy hands.

But Marr had seen how much information could be retrieved from supposedly irreparable machines by the techsorceries of the Mechanicum, and knew something of value could probably still be extracted.

'I am Octar Uldin,' said the Iron Father. 'Which of you dogs wishes to die first?'

Marr almost laughed.

'You and I? We fight an honourable duel to the death? Is that what Shadrak Meduson is teaching you now, even after Arissak?'

Even a warrior with so little flesh left to him couldn't help but react to the name of the X Legion's new saviour.

'He teaches us that however we die, it will be with honour,' said Uldin, dropping into a fighting crouch with his scythe held to one shoulder.

'No,' said Marr, 'It will be screaming in agony when we torment what little flesh you have left, beyond anything even you can stand.'

He turned away.

'He's all yours, Azedine. Make him bleed, but don't kill him. The Warmaster will want him alive.'

THEY WERE WAITING for Marr when he returned from Dwell, as he'd known they would be. They'd denied him the Warmaster, but what had they expected him to do? Sit meekly by and accept the judgement of those he knew to be wrong?

That wasn't the XVI's way of doing things.

It wasn't his way of doing things. Not any more.

The Stormbird's engines growled as they powered down, hissing and steaming in the rain. Dwell's atmosphere was paying the inevitable price for a ferocious war fought in low orbit. Numerous spacebased gun batteries and drydocks had finally come down, and the sky over Tyjun was lousy with distortion. Actinic thunder boomed over the mountains and electrical tempests danced on the horizon. The smell of wet plascrete and foaming ocean water was strong. Rain battered the ground and the outer hull of the gunship.

Marr, Scybale and Azedine stood at the top of the assault ramp as a strobing sheet of purple lightning lit the Stormbird's interior.

'This could be bad, yes?' asked Azedine.

'It could be,' agreed Marr. 'We embarked on an unauthorised mission, took ships without the express consent of the Warmaster. Yes. This could be bad.'

'But what we learned,' said Scybale, 'from the very presence of the Iron Hands, from Uldin, that's got to count for something. Otherwise, what was the point?'

'That's what I hope,' said Marr.

'This could be bad,' repeated Azedine, wrapping his too delicate fingers around the hilt of his mortuary blade. 'They could strip us of our rank. Our position. Our honour.'

'They could do a lot worse than that,' said Scybale. 'You've seen some of the changes in the Legion, the things Erebus brought with him, the old Cthonian ways coming back. I'm not saying I'm against that, per se, but some of those ways were left behind for good reason.'

Marr straightened his spine. 'We're delaying, and we're better than that. Come on.'

He set off down the ramp, finding not four warriors awaiting him, but five. Four he'd expected, but the fifth…

Horus Lupercal, the primarch.

Encased in glossy black plate of colossal dimensions, he was a titan amongst giants. The glaring eye on his breastplate seethed in amber, the dark slit at its centre seeming to regard Marr with utter indifference. A pelt of resinstiffened fur mantled Lupercal's shoulders, the long fangs of its upper jaw splayed over one curved shoulder guard.

He held Worldbreaker in one hand, as easily as Marr might carry a slender data wand. It was of cold iron, its weight unimaginable. His other hand was bladed with reaper's talons, a tearing weapon as far beyond the power of a lightning claw as a legionary was above a mortal soldier.

But it was his face, a face that was both beautiful and cruel, that drew Marr in. A face that was the fountainhead of the Legion. Hadn't their renaming after Xenobia simply affirmed what they all knew?

Every one of the Mournival called themselves true sons, as did Marr, but they were pale imitations of the Warmaster's perfection. Only Aximand, with his terrible surgical rebirth, came anywhere close to the essence of the Warmaster.

Only now did Marr realise just how terrifying that was.

He dropped to one knee, Azedine and Scybale following his lead a heartbeat later.

'Sire,' he began, but the sensation of great weight on one shoulder stopped him from saying more.

Worldbreaker rested on his armour, kept from crushing him only by the Warmaster's great strength. He held the enormous, ultradense mace at full extension, a feat none gathered there could match.

'You've been busy, Tybalt,' said Horus.

'I have been fighting our enemies, my lord,' he said, keeping his head bowed.

'So I gather. Drawing up missions of your own and executing them with my ships.'

Marr finally dared look up, and a tremor ran down his spine as his eyes met those of the Warmaster. Better men than he had quailed before that iron gaze. Armies had laid down their weapons rather than stand against this mortal god. Yet even in the stormcloud fury he saw a glimmer of amusement behind this show of anger. Hoping he was right, Marr knew there was only one way to respond.

'I did, sire,' said Marr. 'To prove the broken warriors we left in our wake at Isstvan are no longer broken. They are organised, efficient. In contact.'

Horus removed Worldbreaker from Marr's shoulder.

'How do you know this?' he asked.

'Because he is going to tell me,' said Marr, rising and beckoning Avakhol Hurr from the Stormbird. The bloody Breacher and his fellow gutterkillers led Octar Uldin down the assault ramp, his neck clamped in the spiked collar of a mancatcher. Snapping sparks of electrical discharge burned the meat and metal of his neck, and his steps were stiff and ungainly as artificial nerves were stimulated with pain signals.

'One of the Iron Tenth,' said Horus. 'You took him in this system?'

'Him and his vessel,' said Marr. 'Lurking out by the Azoth Gate, keeping watch on our comings and goings and passing that information back to Shadrak Meduson.'

'You can't know that for sure,' said Abaddon.

'Can't I?' snapped Marr. 'While you were sitting on your complacent behinds, I took action. You were so sure of your own prowess that you never gave any other Legion credit for being as good, as resilient, as tough as us. Well, guess what? They are strong, and they are fighting back!'

Horus stepped in and took hold of Marr's shoulder guards, pulling him in tight to embrace him in a clatter of plate.

'Tybalt Marr,' he said as he released him. 'Truly you are a son of the north, the aspect of illumination, discovery, wisdom and understanding. As ancient Polaris was permanent, so too are you a symbol of the eternal.'

'Thank you, my lord,' said Marr, but Horus wasn't done yet.

'Yet the ancient peoples of Old Earth looked upon the north as a place of darkness, an aspect regarded with suspicion and, aye, even terror. The great Shakespire spoke of daemons 'who are substitutes under the lonely monarch of the north'.'

'I don't understand, my lord,' said Marr, as Avakhol Hurr forced Octar Uldin to his knees before the Warmaster.

'It means that you have been away from your brothers too long, I think,' said Horus, a single killing claw lifting Uldin's battered chin. The Iron Father's eyes were gone, plucked by Azedine's mortuary blade and now nothing more than sliced cables hanging down over his cheeks. 'That you have become the lone wolf, the hunter who works best alone.'

'What are you saying, sire? Exile?'

'No, but whether you are right or wrong, Tybalt, you will cost me dearly,' said Horus. 'If you are right, and Meduson is raising a storm in our wake, then I must send warriors to find him and kill him. If you are wrong, I must punish you for your disobedience. So which is it to be?'

'I am not wrong,' said Marr, certainty filling him.

Horus regarded him for a moment, as though weighing up which option would cost him the least. But that glimmer of amusement was still there, and Marr wondered if the others had seen it or even knew Lupercal had made his decision long before Marr's Stormbird had landed.

'Tell me what you want, Tybalt,' said Horus. 'Do you want to hunt down these 'Shattered Legions'? Root them from their shadowed lairs and drive them into the light? Destroy them?'

'I want to finish what we started at Isstvan,' Marr replied.

'Then you will be my hunter in the void. I will give you ships and warriors, weapons and power to do what must be done to end this threat.'

'My lord?' said Abaddon. 'The campaign…'

'Will succeed or fail with or without Tybalt,' said Horus, lifting his Talon and stopping any further discussion.

'I go to Molech, Tybalt,' said Horus, fastening his gaze upon him once more. 'Tell me what you are going to do.'

Marr stood tall and said, 'I'm going to bring you Shadrak Meduson's head.'

Document Outline

- Here were no surgical lasers available.

- It was a lucky ship, one upon which the fates smiled. Its hull had been laid down on the forge world Aphret in the one hundred and thirtieth year of the Crusade. Seventeen other destroyers had been completed in the same series, their superstructures filled out to the same template, each one also destined for Legion fleets.

- I

Table of Contents

Here were no surgical lasers available.

It was a lucky ship, one upon which the fates smiled. Its hull had been laid down on the forge world

I