More Chaos Space Marines from Black Library

• FABIUS BILE •
by Josh Reynolds
Book 1 – PRIMOGENITOR
Book 2 – CLONELORD
Book 3 – MANFLAYER

• BLACK LEGION •
by Aaron Dembski-Bowden
Book 1 – THE TALON OF HORUS
Book 2 – BLACK LEGION

• AHRIMAN •
by John French
Book 1 – AHRIMAN: EXILE
Book 2 – AHRIMAN: SORCERER
Book 3 – AHRIMAN: UNCHANGED

SHROUD OF NIGHT
by Andy Clark

SONS OF THE HYDRA
by Rob Sanders

NIGHT LORDS: THE OMNIBUS
by Aaron Dembski-Bowden
(Contains the novels Soul Hunter, Blood Reaver and Void Stalker)

KHÂRN: THE RED PATH
by Chris Dows

WORD BEARERS: THE OMNIBUS
by Anthony Reynolds
(Contains the novels Dark Apostle, Dark Disciple and Dark Creed)

STORM OF IRON
An Iron Warriors novel by Graham McNeill

SPACE MARINE BATTLES: THE SIEGE OF CASTELLAX
An Iron Warriors novel by C L Werner

PERFECTION
An Emperor’s Children audio drama by Nick Kyme

CHOSEN OF KHORNE
A World Eaters audio drama by Anthony Reynolds

Contents

Cover

Backlist

Title Page

Warhammer 40,000

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Part Two

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Part Three

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Epilogue

About the Author

An Extract from ‘Warriors and Warlords’

A Black Library Publication

eBook license

Warhammer 40,000

It is the 41st millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the Master of Mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of His inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that He may never truly die.

Yet even in His deathless state, the Emperor continues His eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor’s will. Vast armies give battle in His name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst His soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Astra Militarum and countless planetary defence forces, the ever-vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants – and worse.

To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.

Prologue

Gardens of Hell

140.M31

Melusine danced in the gardens of hell.

The soft, silver grasses smoked and sparked beneath her feet, burning them to the bone. The air was sweet enough to steal her breath, and the wind was like claws, scraping red reminders on her skin. But she danced on, for to cease doing so was to die. To end one dance, to begin another, these were forbidden. On this world, beginnings and endings were the only taboo.

It was not a true planet, so much as the shadow of one, cast upon the firmament by the light of a dying sun. A pleasure world, crafted from the dreams of maddened psykers and zealots, and given solidity by the whim of a god. It had no name, or perhaps many names. Melusine knew it only as Callax, though whether that was the world itself or merely the place she found herself in, she couldn’t say. Regardless of what it was called, it was in constant flux, changing itself to suit the desires of its inhabitants. The oceans were as blood one day and as pomegranate juice the next. Forests rose and fell like slow waves, bursting into flame as the sun rose high in the sky, and calming to cindered trunks in the evening. By morning, the greenery had sprouted anew and the cycle began again.

She danced until her lungs quivered and her limbs were like rubber. She danced until her muscles tore and the soles of her feet were raw and numb. She danced until her heart spasmed and her vision blurred. On and on, she spun across the silver grasses, beneath nodding trees of platinum and gold.

Through it all, an audience of the lost and the damned kept time. Daemons and darkling souls clapped and laughed, stamped their feet and shrieked insults. Blightchild. Clonewhelp. Obscene instruments spat erratic accompaniment, filling her with unnatural desires, invigorating her flagging body past the point of collapse.

Other dancers joined the cavalcade and fell away one by one, claimed by exhaustion or overeager audience members. Only Melusine could keep up with the music, much to the growing frustration of the audience.

They wanted her to fail. To fall, and be dragged away into the mindless confusion that dominated the rest of the garden. She caught glimpses of the damnable celebration as she spun and whirled. Of ecstasies and torments beyond the most febrile imaginings. Discordant symphonies duelled on the incense-laced air, warring for attention. Monstrous couplings took place beneath golden boughs, as artists strove to capture such moments in unnatural mediums. Flowers with human mouths trilled obscenities as they were trampled by heedless cavorters, and strangely hued birds flocked and screeched in the tangled canopies above. Everywhere, braziers spewed mephitic clouds of incense and perfume.

The garden itself seemed to stretch forever and a day, extending past the limits of her vision in all directions. It had been a city once, she thought. There was a harsh industrialism beneath the floral shroud. Structures lined with vine-strewn balconies rose to infinite heights, and great statues bedecked in blossoms and effluvia leered down at the celebrants with cold, unyielding malice.

More souls seemed to arrive with every passing moment. Some of them, she knew, were like her – pilgrims, in search of the master of this place. The Castellan of Pleasure, the Chatelaine of Delight – the Illuminator and the Water-Bringer. Unlike them, she had not come for herself, but on behalf of another.

She liked to think that her father would understand why she had left him, why she had sought out this place and bargained for the means of entrance. She liked to think that he would be proud of her – perhaps even grateful. But she knew him too well for that. There was no gratitude to be had from Fabius Bile. Not a drop, not a mote. Even so, she would do what she had come to do. For him.

Whether he wished it or not.

A dancer stumbled and fell, nearly tripping Melusine. She leapt, and landed badly. Only vat-born reflexes spared her injury. Her father had made her strong and durable as well as smart. But even his genius had its limits. She was at the edge of her endurance. The price of entry had been a dance – but it was a dance without end. Daemons had no concept of mortal frailty. They did not – could not – understand the limits of the human body. Her father said this was because they did not possess the ability to think. Rather, they were merely reflections of the thoughts of the mortals they tormented. Melusine had seen enough to know that while that might be true where Fabius was concerned, it was not the case here and now. The creatures around her were as intelligent as she, and cunning as only things that had lived for millennia could be.

The fallen dancer – a man in an environmental bodyglove, painted in eye-watering colours – was dragged screaming into the crowd and torn to ribbons. Another dancer – this one a woman, dressed in crystalline robes and a mask made of beaten copper – turned to run, even as an equine daemon bore her to the ground, tearing at her throat. Propriety fled as the other dancers attempted to scatter.

The daemons had grown tired of waiting. They came for her next. A few at first, and then many. Crustacean claws clacked eagerly, as prehensile tongues coiled and writhed. Slavering jaws snapped at the air. She avoided the first grasping talon, and drove the heel of her palm into the face of a trilling daemonette. Unnatural bone crunched and the creature fell away with a gurgle.

A long tongue snared her arm, and acidic spittle burned her flesh. She screamed and wrenched the length of pinkish flesh taut, before ripping it free in a welter of ichor. She fought, as she had been taught to fight by those her father laughingly called ‘uncles’. Though she bore no weapon save her hands and feet, and exhaustion weighed on her limbs, she drove them back again and again.

Soon, ichor stained her pale flesh and matted her hair. It stung her eyes, making it hard to see. But she kept moving, kept fighting. As her uncles had taught her. What would Arrian think to see her now? Or Honourable Tzimiskes? Would they cheer her on, or shake their heads at her foolishness?

No answer came to her. She drove her elbow into a drooling creature’s oscillating maw, and her flesh was stung by dentine shrapnel. She pivoted, snagging a bulbous throat-sac and tearing it from its owner with a sound like ripping sailcloth. The mutant staggered, choking on its own bile. But for every one that fell away, two more seemed to take their place. She staggered back, trying to find an opening to flee, but wherever she looked a monstrous face leered at her. She had made a mistake. There was no salvation to be had, here. No respite. Only death and damnation.

Something long and gelatinous caught her ankle and she fell. She tried to rise, but a hoof caught her in the chest, knocking her flat. Daemons leaned down, cackling, murmuring, laughing. Promising her an eternity of pain. She spat curses, refusing to cower.

A silver flash startled her. A daemonette collapsed, its skull cleft by the crackling edge of a heavy power axe. A hulking figure tore the blade loose and turned, sweeping the weapon out in a killing arc. ‘Away from her,’ the newcomer roared. Where he had come from, she could not say. Perhaps he had been among the audience the entire time – if so, why had he waited so long to intervene? And why had he chosen to do so now?

For a moment, hearing the inhuman baritone, Melusine thought that he might be her father. But when had her father ever worn armour of such weight and mass? Tartaros-pattern. The thought came unbidden to her mind, a legacy of her father’s hypno-conditioning programmes. Whatever it was called, the ceramite plates of the armour were scorched and faded, but its old heraldry of white and purple was still there, however faint. The gleaming power axe in the warrior’s hand sputtered and screeched as it tore gaping wounds in the daemonic ranks.

‘Up, woman,’ the newcomer growled. ‘On your feet – quickly!’

Melusine scrambled to her feet. The warrior pulled her aside with one hand, while plying his axe with the other. This close, she could see that his armour had endured what looked like an eternity of war – impact craters and gouges marred its curves; power cables had been rerouted and spliced, coolant hoses patched; armour plates were missing, or had been replaced by more primitive shielding.

‘Who are you?’ she asked.

The warrior ignored her, his attention on his foes. The daemons had regrouped, and now circled them, jeering and murmuring amongst themselves. They showed no concern for their fallen fellows.

‘You will not have her,’ the warrior said. ‘She is not yours.’

‘No. She is not theirs. She is mine.’

The voice was at once soft and thunderous. Like the growl of some great beast, crouched just beyond the fire’s edge. The daemons drew back fearfully. A greater terror had come among all the little horrors, and they scattered into the garden, shrieking and wailing in frustration. The party dissolved into a nightmarish cacophony as daemons and lost souls fled in all directions. Something massive undulated into the braziers’ light.

It resembled an enormous serpent, but in place of a head was the muscular torso of a titan. Four long arms extended, each clothed in golden bracers and scarves of damask. Golden chains draped the body, and hung from a chest-piece of wrought silver, crafted to resemble an androgynous face – like that of a laughing infant. The daemon’s visage was… beautiful, but in a way that was frightening rather than comforting. Regal features peered from amidst an artfully tangled mane of silver-white hair, and amethyst eyes gleamed with a haunting radiance. Great horns rose from amidst its hair, and iridescent tattoos marked its flesh.

‘Well,’ it purred. ‘What have you to say for yourself?’

The Space Marine looked up at the towering, serpentine form. ‘Father,’ he murmured.

Eyes like sulky lamps flared. ‘Do I know you, little pilgrim?’

‘I am Narvo Quin, Father. I stood beside you at Byzas. And at Isstvan.’

‘Ah. I know you.’ The daemon paused. ‘You died. One of Ferrus’ sons took your life at Isstvan, even as I took my brother’s.’

Quin lowered his axe. ‘Death is a matter of perception, I’m told.’

‘Why did you save her?’

Quin hesitated. He glanced at her. Though his face was hidden behind his featureless helm, she could sense his confusion. ‘I… acted on instinct.’

The daemon laughed. ‘Ah, Narvo. Ever the hero.’ It shook its head. ‘You should not be here, my son. This garden is not for your delight.’

‘I came to find you, Father. Your sons require guidance.’

‘Guidance?’ the daemon said, with a laugh. ‘I have given them victory! Was not the triumph at Thessala enough of a parting gift from a father to his sons?’

‘It has been twenty years since Thessala, Father. Much has happened while you were… elsewhere. I have come to bring the Phoenix home to his sons.’ Quin held up a hand, as if beseeching the being before him. ‘We crumble beneath the weight of our own lusts, unable to see past the desires of the moment. Perfection draws ever farther from our grasp as we waste blood and steel on endless wars against our fellow travellers. Our leaders are in disarray since your departure… Eidolon… Lucius… Fabius… they are at odds.’

Fabius. Melusine looked up, eyes wide. The daemon saw her reaction and a slow smile spread across its face. ‘Ah. I thought your soul smelled familiar.’

Quin looked at her. ‘What? Who is she?’

‘No one you need concern yourself with. Our audience is at an end for the moment, pilgrim. Get thee hence. Back to the harsh realm that birthed you and trouble me no more in my idyll.’ Fulgrim gestured, and the sweet-smelling air seemed to collapse about her saviour, swallowing him up as if he had never been. He was gone in the blink of an eye.

‘Do you know who I am?’

Melusine looked up. The eyes were like great pools of amethyst liquid, drawing her up and in. ‘You… you are the Phoenician,’ she said, her voice hoarse.

‘Yes. I am Fulgrim the Illuminator. And you are Melusine. I thought you destroyed long ago. But here you are. It is fate. I have won a great victory, and as such am bestowed a prize beyond worth.’ Enamelled talons caressed her sweat-tangled locks, and their gilded tips drew thin trails of blood from her scalp and neck. ‘Like Achilleus, I am given my Briseis…’

‘Achilleus lost Briseis.’

Fulgrim paused, eyes shifting from lavender to yellow to red and back again. ‘So he did. Did your father tell you that story? I am surprised. Fabius never struck me as one for such displays of paternal attention.’

‘My father taught me many things.’

Fulgrim’s scales rattled, as if in amusement. ‘Did he teach you about me?’

‘I know who you are.’

Fulgrim frowned. ‘That wasn’t what I asked.’ He slithered about her, enfolding her in his shimmering coils. He caught her chin and tilted her face up. ‘You look like him. I doubt anyone but myself can see it, but it is there. His skull beneath your skin. His eyes. His… disdain.’

He brought his face close to hers. Small eyes sprouted on his cheeks and brow, and fixed upon her. His breath smelled of something sour, overlaid with sweetness.

‘You think you are my superior, don’t you? Even in this moment, so close to destruction, your arrogance is astounding.’ He drew back, a cruel smile stretching across his too-perfect features. ‘Some traits breed true.’

Melusine did not reply. She tried to meet the multifarious gazes of the daemon prince, but could not. The smell, the colours, it all served to make her eyes water and her lungs burn. She wanted to collapse, to sleep – to die. Instead, she stood. And waited.

‘I killed my brother at Thessala,’ Fulgrim said, softly. ‘Not the one I loved best, or the one I loved least. The one I knew nothing about. The one I did not concern myself with.’ He was no longer looking at her. ‘And yet, it bites at me. As if… something is wrong.’

‘Regret is a part of desire.’

Fulgrim stiffened. ‘What did you say?’

‘Regret is as much a part of desire as satisfaction,’ Melusine said, her voice cracking from fear and exhaustion. ‘And desire is what you serve. Yearning. Need and want.’ She sank to her knees, head bowed. ‘I come in yearning, Lord Fulgrim.’

‘And what could such as you yearn for? You are not even a true thing. Merely a genetic scraping my errant son coaxed into a semblance of life. You are a mockery.’

The words stung. Melusine felt the ground shift as Fulgrim’s coils slithered across it. He was heavier than the world around him. More real. She felt his fingertips on the back of her neck and knew that he could kill her with the flick of a wrist.

‘Do you know what he did, your father? He denied me. He denied me. Three times he refused me, and three times he turned away from my gifts.’

‘He is stubborn.’

Fulgrim leaned close, and she gagged on the mingled stink of snake and perfume. ‘He is a fool. I would have raised him up in my esteem. I would have given him that which he took by force, and I would have stood with him, when his enemies come for his head. But he turned his back on me. On the one who protected him. As I still hope to protect him, if only from himself.’

‘I wish to protect him as well. That is why I am here.’

Fulgrim reared back, studying her. ‘What do you want, child?’ he asked finally. ‘Why are you here, truly?’

Melusine swallowed. ‘I seek a boon.’

Fulgrim drew himself up. ‘And why should I grant it?’

‘I will bring him back to you.’

Fulgrim frowned. ‘Why?’

Melusine lifted her chin. ‘Because otherwise he will be destroyed.’

Fulgrim looked down at her. Slowly, he smiled.

‘Well… we can’t have that, can we?’

Part One

ROADS OF BONE AND BLOOD

991.M37

Chapter One

Gene-Cache

Emil studied the sleeping god, and wondered what its flesh would taste like. He traced a fat finger through the condensation that covered the glass surface of the gene-vat, exposing the face of the being that slept within. It looked like a young man with narrow, angular features – not handsome, particularly. Then, Emil knew that he had little room to judge such things himself, given his own appearance.

Emil was elephantine in his bulk. In all outward respects he was simply one more obese aristocrat in a galactic hegemony overflowing with such. But his creator had ensured that Emil was so much more than his appearance. Carefully cultivated rolls of fat hid slabs of gene-augmented muscle and bone.

He had been born in a vat much like the one before him. He’d had another life before then. Before the Benefactor had made him strong. A life of hardship and privation. But then the Benefactor had come, on a day of fire and blood, and scooped Emil and the others up. Hundreds of them, some no more than babes in arms. As their parents screamed beneath the flensing knives of the Benefactor’s brothers, Emil and the other children had been shepherded aboard landing vessels. Emil could not recall the sound of his mother’s voice, or her touch. Instead, he remembered the look of pleasure on the Benefactor’s face as he spilled from the gene-vat, squalling and confused. He remembered the words of praise, as he strangled his first mutant. And the blows of chastisement as he killed one of his own packmates.

Emil smiled at the memory, and licked blubbery lips. He had discovered early on that he possessed a gift for the omophageac intake of data. He learned by eating. The more he ate, the more he learned. And the more he learned, the greater his hunger grew.

Saliva dribbled from the corner of his mouth and he dabbed at it with a handkerchief. He knew that what he considered was blasphemy. The clone was his responsibility. The Benefactor had entrusted him with the guardianship of the gene-cache and all that it contained. He tore his eyes from the insensate clone and looked around.

Shelves of genetic samples lined the walls, and stasis-cylinders containing harvested organs and gene-seed were hooked up to powerful generators. Racks of cloned flesh quivered between tensile enhancers, and calcium slurries burbled as newly flayed bones were broken down into a chemical broth, suitable for further use. Fabrication units hummed, crafting artificial components for use in joint-strengthening modifications or combat enhancement. Mewling vatborn scurried everywhere, arranging these components in their proper places, or attaching them to partially assembled skeletal frameworks. Others tended the neural nets growing in their trays, or programmed code into the various cogitator systems that kept everything running.

In all ways, it was a treasure hoard. And Emil was the dragon who guarded it.

He was not the only one. There were others. His brothers and sisters, seeded across the galaxy by the Benefactor as he made his great pilgrimage. All of them responsible for similar caches, some greater, some lesser. But all valuable. All important to the Benefactor’s great work. And in each one, a god slept.

‘Pater Mutatis,’ he murmured. Almost against his will, he turned back to the gene-tank and its contents. The Benefactor had many bodies – some young, some old. Each was him, and each slept until he desired its awakening. They were, in all ways that mattered, the Benefactor. Did they not have the Benefactor’s face? Did they not wear his panoply?

His gaze flicked to the sealed vault at the other end of the cache. The one that could only be opened by the Benefactor’s biometric pattern. Emil sucked on his teeth and wondered, not for the first time, if, in devouring the Benefactor’s clone, he would gain the ability to open the vault and sample the secrets within.

His reverie was broken by a soft chime from his dermal vox-implant. ‘What?’ he growled, annoyed by the interruption. He sealed the alcove containing the gene-tank, hiding it from view.

‘Governor Vargas, the enemy has penetrated the orbital defence net. Entering troposphere in T-minus–’

Emil cut the link with a snarl. The vox-operator had sounded frightened. Then, perhaps he had reason to be. Beleghast’s defences were impressive. Emil knew this because he had overseen the construction and positioning of the orbital batteries himself – the net was designed to fold around an approaching enemy, trapping them in an interlacing cage of lance fire and torpedo bursts.

He strode to a cogitator bank, shoving aside the vatborn at work there. His fingers danced across the keys, drawing up a hololithic sensor-map of Beleghast-Primus. Quickly, he overlaid the current situation reports. Strategic planning was one of many skills he’d gleaned from the remains of a defeated opponent, and he saw the attackers’ game at once. They’d somehow managed to jam the sensor grid, effectively cutting themselves a hole in the planet’s defensive net. Now they were pouring through the gap, and scattering across the planet. Even at this stage, he could see that it had none of the hallmarks of an invasion. This was a raid. Well, Beleghast had endured such before and would again.

He activated his vox-link, and patched it into the command frequency, overriding all other voices.

‘Scramble atmospheric defence wings Bravo and Excel, signatory-code Vargas-Epsilon. Commander DeKalb?’

‘Governor?’ DeKalb sounded more surprised than respectful. Emil made a note to punish him, in the event of his survival.

‘I want you to–’

He was cut off by a burst of static that degenerated into mocking laughter. He cycled through the secondary and tertiary channels, but it was the same. The invaders had jammed all frequencies. Emil swore and slammed a fist into the wall, denting the reinforced panel. Vatborn, all too familiar with his rages, scattered.

It didn’t matter. So long as the cache remained secure, the rest of the planet could burn. Even so, it rankled. He was the one who would have to explain–

A sudden sound interrupted his thoughts.

He turned. Smoke slithered around the edges of the sealed vault. Something was burning. He sniffed the air. A cutting tool of some kind. A plasma arc, perhaps. Someone was in there. Someone who shouldn’t be.

He spent a moment considering whether to call in the guards positioned outside the cache. He dismissed the idea. Was he not one of the Benefactor’s children? Was he not superior to any creature that walked or crawled in the galaxy? Whatever was coming, Emil Vargas was more than a match for it.

He growled low and long, and stalked towards the vault. He barely flinched when the doors toppled to the floor, still sealed. Smoke billowed, filling the chamber. Emil had no difficulty seeing the thin, spiked forms spilling out into the chamber.

Unfortunately for them, they did not register him until it was too late. He was among them in moments, his heavy fists crunching through their armour. Bodies flew, slamming against the walls. Others fell and were crushed beneath his heavy tread. Splinter-weapons hissed, and he roared as they stung him. His fat insulated him like carapace armour, and his speed was such that any who got a shot off did not have time for a second.

Emil rampaged through them, and the survivors fled back the way they’d come. Hungry now, Emil pursued. When he saw what the vault had been hiding, he paused, momentarily nonplussed.

A portal of shimmering wraithbone rose against the far wall. A metal ramp descended from it, and beyond the milky surface of the portal he could make out the ribbed canyons of the webway. He’d seen it only once, but it had struck him as a desolate hunting ground.

Right now, however, it was full of prey. He bared his teeth as more drukhari emerged from the portal. Pragmatism warred with hunger, and won. He tossed aside the broken body of a xenos and turned to retreat.

‘Is that any way to greet guests?’

The voice spoke High Gothic with a curious accent. Emil turned, despite himself. The drukhari was tall and slim, one eye hidden behind a golden monocle of curious design. She held a heavy pistol in her hand, aimed at his head.

Emil snarled, and leapt.

The ship was sleek and arched like a contented felinoid. It had no colour, no heraldry, instead bending the light around it and hiding itself among the solar plains. A predator of the galaxy’s dark rim, invisible to its prey’s senses. Or so its captain fancied.

On the ship’s observation deck, Archon Peshig lounged atop his command throne, fanning himself. It was always so cursed hot aboard the Sygilax. The heat-scrapers hadn’t worked in decades, much like every other nonessential system on the cruiser. Funds were tight, and Peshig was loath to waste them on anything that didn’t immediately and directly benefit him – clothes, weapons and slaves, in that order.

‘My arm is tired,’ he said. One of the several slaves within earshot took over the fanning duties, allowing Peshig to focus all of his attention on other matters. He glanced lazily at Hexachires. The lord of the Synod of Scars stood nearby, surrounded by a host of hunched and masked wracks.

Master Hexachires was tall and thin, his body mostly hidden beneath robes of flensed and tanned flesh. His face was covered by a mask of gently shifting skin, its features changing one moment to the next. Tendrils composed of hybridised metal and muscle tissue stretched from a reinforced spinal column. Several of these grisly limbs held him aloft, and his withered legs were bound together by straps of leather and left to dangle.

The haemonculus’ mon-keigh pet crouched nearby, silently observing the operation. Peshig grimaced as he studied the beast. It smelled of musk and blood. It was a hulking brute, all muscle and violent impulses, barely restrained by means Peshig didn’t entirely understand. It wore only a featureless iron helm reminiscent of a wrack’s mask, and a loincloth, exposing rangy limbs and scarred flesh.

As he watched, Hexachires reached out as if to stroke the creature’s head. It jerked away, as if startled, and the haemonculus chuckled. The sound sent a chill down Peshig’s spine. He often wondered how he’d come to the notice of a creature like Hexachires. While the Thirteen Scars were not among the most powerful of Commorragh’s haemonculi covens, they were far more influential than his tiny kabal. But Hexachires seemed to prefer dealing with dozens of smaller kabals rather than a few large ones.

Perhaps because they were easier to play off of one another. And to replace, when they’d outlived their usefulness as patrons. Whatever the reason, he was cautiously grateful. Without the bargain he’d made with the old monster, his kabal, the Bloody Blossom, would have been doomed to extinction. As it was, this expedition might well be the making of them. Soon enough, he might have his choice of haemonculi.

But for the moment, it was his duty to be a good host. He cleared his throat.

‘The raid is going well. Lots of explosions – that usually means Salar is enjoying himself.’

‘So long as your fellow archon holds to the strategy I devised, he is free to do so,’ Hexachires said. His voice was a rough growl, as if he’d been chewing broken glass. ‘Have the Voidraven bombers launched?’

‘Just now. They should be entering the troposphere in the next few seconds.’ Peshig leaned forward and signalled one of the warriors standing at a nearby cogitator dais. ‘Fennysh, be a sport and bring up the feed from Klux’s bomber. Our guest would like to see if his creations work.’ Peshig was proud of his little air force – a handful of bombers and Razorwing jetcraft to escort them.

Hexachires sniffed. ‘I know that they work. I designed them, after all. The question is whether that dissolute rabble you call pilots can deploy them properly.’

Peshig smiled. He took no offence. The pilots were rabble, and a rowdy lot to boot. All of them of noble birth and prone to overindulging in expensive vices, which made buying out their contracts incredibly cost-effective. Klux was the worst of the lot – overbred and stupid, unless it involved flying. But when he was in the air, he was worth every headache he’d ever given Peshig.

‘Klux, dear boy, can you hear me?’ Peshig asked.

Klux’s voice echoed through the deck’s communication link. ‘I’m busy, Peshig.’

‘Archon Peshig, Klux. Remember we had that discussion about respect? I’m sure you do – it got rather pointed. How’s the new kidney, by the by?’

Klux was silent for a moment. ‘I’m busy, archon. What do you want?’

‘Prepare to deploy the special payload our guest has devised.’ Peshig glanced at Hexachires, who nodded. ‘Pick a good spot – we want a bit of a show, after all.’

‘Acknowledged.’ Klux cut the link. He’d never been one for chit-chat. Peshig turned back to Hexachires.

‘It’ll take him a few moments to locate a spot. Enough time for Salar to satiate his bloodlust, I suppose. And for Avara to reach her own target. Are we sure about the latter, by the by? She’s going to be quite upset if there’s no portal.’

Hexachires’ flesh-mask twisted into a leer. ‘According to the schematics we discovered last time, he’s begun installing them in the larger cache-facilities. A misstep we shall take full advantage of.’

‘What I’d like to know is how he got hold of them in the first place. That sort of technology should be beyond the skill of any mon-keigh.’

Hexachires grunted. ‘He stole them, obviously.’

‘And this facility will have something of worth in it, I trust? Because the last three and everything in them were naught but ashes when we finally got through their defences.’

The mon-keigh laughed. ‘I warned you,’ it croaked. It had an awful voice. Like rocks grinding together. Peshig frowned.

‘I don’t care to be addressed by such a creature. Please discipline it, Hexachires.’

‘In a moment.’ Hexachires leaned forward. ‘I think your pilot has found what he was looking for.’

Peshig turned back to the screen. ‘So he has. I told you. Klux is quite the pilot, when he’s sober. Which isn’t often, admittedly.’ The picter units were mounted on the bomber’s prow, and they showed a wide thoroughfare expanding as the Voidraven swooped low over the hab-blocks. ‘So many statues,’ Peshig murmured. ‘Why do they need so many?’

‘Short lives make for short memories,’ Hexachires said idly. ‘They need to be reminded of their history on a nigh constant basis otherwise they’d forget everything.’

Peshig shook his head in bewilderment. ‘How such a dim-witted species has propagated itself to such an extent I shall never understand.’

Hexachires laughed – an ugly, oily sound. ‘Intelligence and fecundity are two distinct spheres. And there’s something to be said for sheer momentum.’

Peshig chuckled politely, though he didn’t find it humorous in the least. Creatures like Hexachires might be content to watch their race dwindle into irrelevance, but Peshig felt the call of the ancient empire in his veins. Not that he had any intention of answering that call, but it was there and he acknowledged it, as well as the myriad factors preventing him from doing anything about it. Though he would never say so publicly, he was grateful for those obstacles. It was more fun to grouse about what could be than to exert oneself in pursuit of dreary goals.

He spied a familiar banner on one of the screens – Salar, archon of the Hanging Skull, standing atop the rail of his personal raider, gesticulating inelegantly with that damned blade of his. On the screen, a flock of Hellions swooped past, answering Salar’s call. Warriors fired from the deck of the raider, adding to the confusion in the streets. Mon-keigh were fleeing in all directions, trying to escape the swarming drukhari.

Salar was a lanky creature, clad in partial armour and silks. His arms were bare, and his hair was unbound, giving him a vaguely piratical air. In contrast to its wielder, the sword he held was a beautiful thing, all graceful curves and impossible edges. Salar talked to it – and sometimes, Peshig suspected that it answered. He frowned, watching the rival archon indulge himself. Unlike him, Salar enjoyed leading from the front. Then, Salar was a psychopath with a poor sense of fashion. He also smelled faintly of gun-oil, something Peshig might have found invigorating under different circumstances. As it was, he quite detested Salar. The other archon was an uncultured bully, lacking in the wit to even make a proper witty retort or cutting jibe. For a drukhari, he was remarkably akin to a mon-keigh.

Peshig paused, considering. He filed the observation away. A good insult always bore repeating, especially if one could find an audience.

‘Launching payload.’

He turned as Klux’s voice echoed across the deck. He watched the missile speed ahead of the diving bomber and impact against the street below. As Klux pulled up, the picter units attached to the aft section of the bomber recorded what happened next.

The missile had not detonated on impact. Rather it jutted from its crater like a hurled spear. As Peshig watched, panels were ejected from the missile’s length, and miniature aerosol emitters emerged. In moments, a greenish-yellow haze, filled with what looked to be flickering arcs of electrical energy, had permeated the surrounding area, and soon rapidly filled the surrounding streets.

‘I still don’t understand why the missile has to be fired so low,’ Peshig said.

‘Any higher and it might damage the delivery system,’ Hexachires said.

‘Why not simply make the explosion the delivery method?’

‘Because it would disperse too quickly. There is enough powdered wraithbone in each missile to take out a mon-keigh city of moderate size. And the emitters can keep processing it for hours. So long as the missile remains intact, the dispersal system will do its job.’

Peshig spied an approaching raider heave to out of the thickening murk. The warriors aboard wore psychic bafflers, which prevented them from feeling the effects of the wraithbone gas. Theoretically, at least. Hexachires claimed to have field-tested them, but one could never be sure with a haemonculus.

The mon-keigh, however, had no such protections. As the wraithbone mist filled the streets, the already panicked citizens were driven into madness. Some attacked each other, others fell to the ground weeping. A few killed themselves. The effects were instantaneous and irreversible. In the chemical haze, lit by arcs of soul energy, the humans succumbed to their own base instincts and became little more than beasts.

‘No less impressive now than it was the previous three times,’ Peshig said. ‘I could honestly watch it all day. Unfortunately, one has duties when one is archon.’ He pushed himself from his throne. ‘Weapons, please.’

Several slaves hurried forward carrying his wargear. His gun and sword belt were strapped about his waist, and adjusted so that they hung fashionably low. A third slave polished the plates of his armour to a high sheen, while a fourth bound his hair back. When they’d completed their tasks, Peshig scattered them with a gesture.

‘Would you care to accompany me planetside, Hexachires?’ he said. ‘Stretch those leathery limbs a bit? Get some blood on your boots, as my warriors like to say?’

Hexachires didn’t look at him. ‘I think not. I am no warrior. Merely an academic. I shall watch from here, if it pleases you.’

‘Of course, of course. My ship is at your disposal. Should you require anything, simply inform my slaves.’ Peshig paused. ‘You will, of course, be there when Avara does her part?’ he asked carefully.

Hexachires turned. The constant shifting of his mask made his expression all but impossible to read. ‘I would not miss it. And you will recall our bargain – the cache-facilities and all they contain are mine, to dispense or retain as I see fit.’

Peshig flapped a hand negligently. ‘Oh, certainly. I have no interest in a mon-keigh fleshcrafter’s tools. Only guns and slaves have any real value, after all.’ He knew the lackadaisical comment would annoy Hexachires. He gave a jaunty wave as he strode past the haemonculus and his servants.

‘Do enjoy the show, Hexachires. We’ll try and save a few slaves for you.’

Oleander Koh surreptitiously touched the edges of his helm. The interior was barbed, biting into his cheeks and scalp, and cortical hooks were sunk deep into his skull. Rivulets of dried blood stained his neck, shoulders and chest. He tugged at the helm, and felt his flesh tear. It was a good pain.

On the viewscreens that dotted the observation platform, a world was dying. The raid was less a military strike, and more an artistic performance. There was a definite theatrical flair to Hexachires’ strategy, and Oleander suspected that the haemonculus was a frustrated showman. He glanced at his captor, but the haemonculus was seemingly enraptured by his handiwork. He probed the joins of the helm.

He had been worrying at the seals for weeks, weakening them. Soon, he might be able to remove it entirely. He’d lose most of his face and scalp, but that was an acceptable sacrifice. He hissed slightly, as he jostled one of the cortical hooks.

Without looking at him, Hexachires drew a curious, archaic-looking baton from within his coat and pressed a rune on its length. A jolt of pain surged through Oleander’s frame. Not the sweet pain of wounds taken, or of a lash, but rather a spike of agony driven straight into his central nervous system. He convulsed, groping at the helm.

‘Do not touch it,’ Hexachires said, turning. ‘How many times must we go through this? I will not have you ruining my work with your clumsy fingers.’

Smoke rose from Oleander’s exposed flesh. Coughing, he tried to rise. Hexachires patted his shoulder in almost paternal fashion. ‘The harder you struggle, the worse it will be,’ the haemonculus said. ‘Surely you have learned that lesson by now.’

‘I… I’ve always been a slow learner.’

Hexachires snorted. ‘It took quite a bit of effort to determine what sort of frequency would work on a creature like you. Pain and pleasure are comingled in your mind in some fashion. I had to figure out how to bypass those overgrown neural networks and carve a new path.’ He leaned close. ‘Of course, I couldn’t have done it without your master. It was he who first suggested such a thing. He even made a few prototypes, though mine is far superior to his primitive efforts.’

He turned back to the screens.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’

‘I suppose it has a certain brute appeal.’

Hexachires turned, flesh-mask shifting to show his displeasure. ‘I don’t know why I expected a mon-keigh to appreciate a work of such artistry.’

Oleander forced a laugh. ‘Artistry? You launched a missile. You poisoned the atmosphere. It’s hardly subtle.’

‘Art doesn’t have to be subtle,’ Hexachires said. ‘Indeed, subtlety often robs a work of impact.’ He turned back to the screens. ‘Look. See. A push of a button, and a world dies screaming. What better proof of my genius than that?’

‘I can think of several.’

Hexachires tapped the pain-baton again, and Oleander fell onto his face, screaming. ‘You won’t steal my satisfaction with this moment. In a few hours every living thing left on this world will be dead, or utterly insane.’ He leaned down and caught Oleander’s chin. ‘We were the masters of this galaxy, you know. Every world was but a garden for our pleasures, and every species a source of entertainment. And then it all came apart in our hands. And as we lay in pieces, you ugly little mon-keigh came down from the trees and decided you were in charge.’

‘There used to be a saying on Terra, about possession being the whole of the law.’

Hexachires released him. ‘And whose possession are you, hmm?’ He gave the activation rune on the pain-baton a gentle caress. Oleander stiffened as another thrill of agony ran through him. But only for a moment. ‘I will hear no more bucolic homilies from your depressing little mudball of a home world, Oleander. I am under quite enough stress at the moment as it is. Now where was I?’

‘We… we came down from the trees…’ Oleander said, through gritted teeth.

‘Ah, yes. You and all the rest of the by-blows. The unintended consequences of a plan gone awry. And now look at the galaxy – it’s filthy. Messy. All these little fiefdoms, waging their little wars.’ Hexachires stroked the top of Oleander’s helm. ‘You’re just a weapon with an overinflated ego, you know. What do you call yourselves? Oh yes – Astartes. Just tools. Humanity’s answer to the Krork, only less effective. How does it feel to know you are second best at the thing you were made to do?’

‘You tell me.’

Hexachires clucked his tongue. ‘Did I mention the stress I’m feeling?’ He tapped the rune on the baton and Oleander convulsed, curses dribbling from his blistered lips. ‘You shouldn’t provoke me. I might decide to get creative with your torments.’

Oleander fell to his hands and knees, panting. As he did so, he heard the jingle of bells.

‘We did not deliver him into your care so that you could torture him,’ a new voice intruded.

Hexachires stiffened. ‘Is it my fault that you did not think to forbid it? Consider it payment for services rendered.’ He turned. ‘I won’t insult you by asking how you got in here, clown. Instead, I’ll just skip to the second most obvious question and ask why you’re here.’

A thin shape, clad in intricately patterned clothes of onyx and viridian, stepped into view, clutching a long staff. High, trilling laughter echoed across the deck. Kabalite warriors, slaves and wracks all hurriedly looked away or found other places to be.

‘Rest assured, I come with great purpose, oh Lord of Knives.’

Hexachires sighed. ‘That is not an answer.’

‘No. And yes.’ More laughter, sharp and savage. And unpleasantly familiar. Oleander hunched forwards, trying to block it out, to no avail. The sound crawled into his head and ate at his composure like acid. His eyes darted around, trying to look anywhere but at the newcomer. He felt the end of the staff slip beneath his chin and lift his head.

‘Hello, Count Sunflame.’

Oleander stared at the creature he knew as Veilwalker. He made to rise, to throttle the aeldari, but a surge of pain caused him to convulse instead.

Hexachires laughed. ‘Now, now, my pet. Settle down.’ He looked at the Harlequin. ‘He must really despise you.’

‘I betrayed him.’

Hexachires sniffed. ‘Treachery is meat and drink to this one. She Who Thirsts has her hooks set deep in whatever passes for his soul.’

Veilwalker shrugged. ‘Be that as it may, he still has a part in the drama to come. Else we would have left him to the tender mercies of Lugganath.’

Hexachires laughed. ‘Yes, I heard about that. Did you truly feed all those souls to She Who Thirsts? Granted, they were not important souls – but still, one must question the wisdom of such a plan.’

‘That the reason is not easily apparent is no proof of foolishness. Every gambit, every trick – it is all part of the same story. The only story that matters.’ Veilwalker pointed at the haemonculus. ‘A story you are part of as well, oh Lord of Knives. That is why we gave him to you.’

Hexachires chuckled. ‘And I have had much pleasure from him since. Once, I locked him in his own mind, able to perceive all that occurred but unable to move or speak, and left him in the high eyries, where spire-bats fed his flesh to their young.’

Oleander groaned softly, remembering the exquisite pain. The creatures had flayed him to the bone over the course of a week.

‘And then there was the time that I–’

‘Enough,’ Veilwalker said softly.

Hexachires looked at her. ‘I decide that, clown. Not you.’

‘I meant only that now is not the time for idle reminiscences.’ Veilwalker looked down at Oleander. ‘I wish to speak with him.’

‘Feel free.’

‘Alone.’

Hexachires hesitated. He was a suspicious creature, as any drukhari was. ‘Why?’ he demanded.

Veilwalker looked at him. ‘Because that is how this story goes.’

Hexachires stared at the shimmering mask for long moments, then turned away. ‘Fine. You have your little chat. I will be over here, enjoying the fruits of my labour.’ He moved away, to more closely observe the carnage playing out across the screens.

‘You can’t trust him,’ Oleander said, when he was out of earshot. ‘Whatever hold you have on him – it won’t be enough.’

‘But for now, it is sufficient.’ Veilwalker leaned on her staff. ‘Do you know why we have danced this dance for you, Oleander? Do you perceive the greater narrative before you – or only the part you play?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The future is a tangled skein. Only by tugging on the right thread can you unravel it. But for each action, there is a reaction – the thread becomes more tightly tangled, or significantly looser. The path to the desired ending is neither straight nor easy.’

‘You tell me nothing I do not know.’ Oleander touched his helm. ‘This is hardly the ending I desired, when I made my bargain with you all those centuries ago.’

Veilwalker sighed. ‘We did not choose this role for you. You chose it, and freely.’ The Harlequin leaned forward, mask shifting and shimmering with the light. ‘It was never about your brothers, you know. Never about their fate. United or scattered, their story is written. As is yours.’

‘Is that why you let us break a craftworld?’

‘Yes,’ Veilwalker said softly. ‘We sacrifice a million to save a billion yet unborn. The future of the aeldari race is a tenuous branch, overburdened with possibility. It must be pruned and shaped, and you are part of that.’

‘I care nothing for your pestiferous race.’

‘And we care nothing for you. Your name will not be remembered in our stories and songs, save in the most allegorical fashion. You will die alone, unsung and unremembered.’

‘Is that how Count Sunflame’s story ends, then?’

‘That is how all stories end, eventually.’ She looked down at Oleander. ‘When we took you from Lugganath, mon-keigh, it was not kindness that compelled us. You still have a small part to play in the great drama. And you will perform it with all skill, for it is your chance of escape. It is your hope of victory.’

Oleander stared at his reflection in her mask. ‘Victory?’

Veilwalker stepped back, spinning her staff. ‘Of sorts.’

Hexachires rejoined them. ‘All sorted then? Everyone satisfied with their part in this little drama? Good. Peshig has made planetfall. And Avara has secured the cache.’ He looked down at Oleander. ‘Come, Oleander. It is time you earned your keep. I want you to sniff out his secrets for me.’

‘And what do you intend to do with them?’ Veilwalker asked.

‘Why, I intend to send a message to our quarry, of course.’

Hexachires laughed.

‘One he will not be able to ignore.’

Chapter Two

Manflayer

The chamber stank.

Spar could not identify the odour. She knew more than a thousand distinct scents by heart, but this one was unlike any of them. It was a harsh smell, somewhat like wet metal and rotting meat. She bared her teeth uneasily. Fear was not in her. She was a Gland-hound, and strong. There was nothing that walked, crawled or flew on this world that was not her meat. But this was not something she had ever encountered before.

She activated the lumen attached to the barrel of her autogun. ‘Benefactor’s teeth,’ she cursed softly, as the light revealed her surroundings.

‘What?’ Glaive’s voice was loud in her ear. Her twin was standing guard outside the hatch, making sure that their quarry didn’t escape.

‘It appears to have… given birth,’ Spar said, letting the lumen play across the walls. Thick strands of hardened excrescence stretched across the chamber and gummed up the ancient works. Suspended within this web of foulness were glistening, almost metallic-looking egg sacs. The sacs pulsed with sickly heat and motion.

Something crunched beneath her boot. She looked down, and bit back a snarl of disgust. A desiccated vatborn lay huddled on the ground. She shone the light on it, and saw more bodies – dozens, perhaps hundreds, covering the floor.

‘Brother…’

‘What?’

‘It’s been eating the little ones.’

‘It can’t eat. It’s a machine.’

In the dark, something hissed. Metal phalanges rattled, as if in warning. She caught a flash of a small spider-scorpion shape as she turned. She heard the clatter of bladed limbs and saw tiny shapes scuttling across the carpet of corpses.

Many small shapes… and one large one.

She began to back away. ‘I’m coming out,’ she said, as she lifted her autogun. ‘Be ready to seal the hatch behind me.’ She held her fire. The creatures, whatever they were, weren’t attacking. They were just… herding her. Chasing her out of their den. Maybe they recognised some kinship, however distant, between themselves and Spar. They were both children of the Benefactor, after all.

Whatever the reason, she was thankful for it. She did not want to kill them, at least not until the Benefactor commanded her to do so. New life was to be cherished, until it proved inimical – such was the wisdom of the Benefactor.

She fell back to the hatchway, where Glaive was waiting, his weapon trained. Like her, Glaive was tall and well built, and clad in battered fatigues and flak armour plundered from some Imperial tithe-world.

‘Hold your fire,’ she said. ‘They’re not attacking.’ She scrambled through the hatch, and together they slammed it shut. Glaive looked at her.

‘We must inform the Benefactor.’

She nodded. ‘You can tell him.’

Glaive frowned. ‘You found them.’

‘You’re older. It’s your responsibility.’

‘Only by three seconds. I’ll fight you for it.’

She laughed. ‘Not this time.’

Glaive cursed, but didn’t argue further. ‘Fine. Let’s go. Soonest back, soonest done.’

They strode quickly along the rusted gantry. Spar was certain that they were being observed the entire way back to the next hatch, but said nothing. Glaive would insist on investigating, and she had no interest in tempting fate any further.

‘One thing puzzles me,’ Glaive said suddenly.

‘Just one?’

He ignored her. ‘What did it mate with?’

Spar grimaced. ‘Best not to think on it. We did as he asked. We found its lair. It is up to the Benefactor to decide what happens next.’

‘Do you think he’ll be pleased?’

Spar shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

Glaive fell silent again, but not for long. ‘I don’t think he’s been pleased for a very long time. Not since she left…’

‘We don’t talk about that,’ Spar said quickly. She glanced about, seeking eavesdroppers. There was always someone or something listening here.

‘Come on.’

Fabius Bile opened his eyes as the vox chimed softly.

He checked his battleplate’s internal chronometer and grunted in satisfaction. His scheduled restorative cycle was completed. He could safely return to work without risk of fatigue compromising his mental faculties.

The vox chimed again. He blink-activated the flashing rune superimposed over his eye. ‘Enter,’ he said. The hatch creaked open, admitting two of his Gland-hounds. He groped for their names. Spar and… Glaive. That was it. Twins. His creations ran to twins, through some quirk of the process. They were of the third generation born to the vats. Cloned from his first generation of augmented humans, refined in utero and perfected.

‘Report,’ he said.

They looked at one another. Finally, Glaive cleared his throat. ‘We tracked it, as you requested, Benefactor. Found the… the lair on sublevel three, access corridor alpha-tertius.’

‘And?’

Again, they shared a look. ‘It has reproduced,’ Spar interjected.

Fabius paused, digesting this. ‘Well. That is unexpected. Thank you. That will be all. Return to your duties.’ He dismissed them with a gesture.

When they had departed, a number of vatborn scuttled from the shadows to unhook the chem-hoses and bio-conduits from the contact nodes of his armour. The tiny creatures, clad in concealing robes and rebreather units, crawled across his diagnostic throne, warbling to each other in their own tongue. Compressed air spurted as the last hose was disengaged, and he gave the nearest vatborn an affectionate pat on the head as he stepped down from the dais.

The throne had been constructed to his specifications. Besides the chem-pumps and bio-transfer conduits that reinvigorated his corpus, it emitted sub-audial pulses that served to place him in a state halfway between waking and dreaming. In this state, the constant pain of his affliction receded, leaving him able to recuperate mentally and physically. It was only a stopgap measure, but it had reliably increased the long-term viability of his cloned flesh. And the longer each body lasted, the closer he came to completing his work.

A cocktail of pain suppressants, dermal regenerators, stimm-slugs and antiviral agents circulated constantly through his system these days. His body was a machine and the drugs were the oil that kept its workings clicking smoothly. He’d managed to stave off a cerebral transfer for almost a century longer than any previous effort. This body, despite its extensive modifications, wouldn’t last forever. But the next one might.

Two of the vatborn shuffled forward, holding an ornate display case of brass and bone. Fabius opened it, and studied the artefact nestled within. The skull-topped sceptre thrummed with daemonic power. It was aware, in some fashion, but not truly sentient.

‘We will have no trouble from you today, Torment,’ he said firmly, as he removed it from its case. It squirmed briefly in his grip before settling down, like a recalcitrant child.

Despite its often intractable behaviour, the artefact was well named. It acted as a pain amplifier in some fashion that he had yet to fully understand. It was useful for keeping unruly test subjects under control, if nothing else.

Leaning on the cane, Fabius activated the chamber’s hololithic array and motes of cold light coalesced into images of the world he now called home. The images fluttered about him like startled birds.

A cursory glance at the data showed him that all was as it should be. And yet he felt something. A faint niggling at the back of his head, as if he’d missed something. A familiar sensation these past few decades. He felt as if something were dogging his steps and hindering his best efforts. Small setbacks, mostly. Little things like tainted samples and equipment that suffered catastrophic failures at the exact moment he needed it; revolts from the mutant castes or even among his own Homo novus; the constant attacks of attrition by opportunistic raiders and enemies alike. It felt as if the universe itself were mobilising against him.

He knew what had to be done. He simply didn’t know if he had the courage to do it. He’d known since he’d returned from Commorragh almost a century before. The Dark City had been an inspiration in more ways than one. It had shown him the value of an ultimate redoubt, a place in which a chosen people might hide from their foes until they were ready to take their place in the galaxy. But there was a danger to such isolationism. The drukhari were a twisted, inbred race – wraiths haunting a galaxy they had once owned.

Care would have to be taken to avoid such a fate. Years of work, of preparation had gone into it, occupying all of his time and resources of late. But he had done it. And now it waited, silent and empty but for those few trusted servants who oversaw its day-to-day running.

‘Passcode Omega-Nihilus,’ he murmured. Holo-displays winked to life before him, live data-feeds from across Belial IV and every cache-world. There were spots of darkness too, representing caches lost or destroyed. Too many to count. All it would take was one order, one command, and soon every data-feed would be dark. The web he had spun through the galaxy would come apart as if it had never been.

There was a sort of freedom in that, he thought. The urge to move on to new things. To leave the weight of the future to sturdier shoulders, and burrow himself away into some forgotten place. To leave the galaxy to those willing to fight for it.

But not yet.

Something clattered in the darkness, startling him. A moment later, a peculiar spider-scorpion shape scuttled into view across the grimy floor.

‘And where have you been?’ he murmured, as it approached.

The chirurgeon made a sound that might have been a reply, or simply a reflexive twitch of its segmented limbs. The ancient medicae harness circled him like a cat, dermal nodes clicking. He could not recall when it had first displayed the ability to move independently of him. One more mystery.

He spread his arms and the contraption climbed up his back. Articulated chem-hoses and neurofibre bundles emerged from its belly and sought the contact nodes inserted into his spinal plating. Thin metal hooks slid through the specially designed gaps in his battleplate and sank tight into the reinforced length of his vertebral column, anchoring the harness in place. Fibrous filaments spilled through the corridors of his spine, seeking nerve endings to graft onto. He blinked as data overlays momentarily filled his vision.

Some of them, disturbingly, were new. And not housed in the chirurgeon. After a moment, he realised he was receiving the sensory feeds from the device’s offspring. He stroked one of the serrated blades with his finger. ‘I knew you were changing in some way, but I never imagined it would be so… drastic. What am I to do with you, hmm?’

A blurt of data streamed across the cogitator screen. Fabius smiled.

‘No, I’m not disappointed. Surprised, but not disappointed. How long have you been…’ He gestured, trying to think of the appropriate word. The chirurgeon responded with another stream of data and Fabius nodded. ‘Intriguing. And your offspring – are they viable? Will they breed true?’

Another clatter.

‘Well. We shall see, I suppose. But try to keep them under control in the future, eh? And find other prey, if you require sustenance.’

The chirurgeon settled into its perch with a soft hum. It was changing in ways he could not predict. Down the long corridor of years since he’d first assembled it, it had taken on a crude sentience – if not self-awareness. It had taken to vanishing for long periods of time, always responding to his sub-sonic signal, but never sharing data of its explorations. At least now he knew what it was up to, however disturbing the answer was.

Such a thing should not have been possible. And yet, it was. It was changing in other ways as well. Parts of it were no longer metal as such, but more resembled supernaturally hard chitin. Fleshy sacs nestled in the hollows of its frame, filled with self-derived excretions that he could not see a purpose for.

Part of him knew that the wisest course would be to vivisect the harness. To lay bare its secrets and lobotomise whatever abominable intelligence was festering within it. But the scientist in him refused. He wanted to see what it might become. And it was far more useful to him now than it had once been. A simple device had become his most trusted partner.

He pushed the thought from his mind, and turned his attentions back to the data-feeds. His current demesne, Belial IV, rested at the spinward edge of a crone system – one of eight extrasolar planets that floated on the hellish tides of the empyrean in this part of Eyespace. All had once been part of the Aeldari Empire. They rested far from the well-travelled routes of the Legion worlds, in the howling wilderness where even daemons trod warily. Hungry things prowled the stars here, things which had no fear of gods or men.

The isolation suited him. It kept unwelcome visitors from his threshold, and interruptions to a minimum. Not that some interruptions weren’t welcome. A rune flashed, indicating an internal vox communication.

‘Yes?’

‘Fabius. Come to the crèches.’

‘Is something wrong, Zargad?’ Zargad Ket had come late to the arts of the Apothecarion, but he’d been a quick study, grasping the most difficult concepts with ease. Fabius had chosen him for crèche-master for that reason. And he’d proved an able one, stolidly maintaining the sanctity of the crèches even when Fabius was indisposed.

‘Just come. Sooner rather than later, preferably.’

Zargad cut the link without further explanation. He was a curt sort, with little inclination to observe the niceties of rank. Fabius, who had little time for such things himself, was willing to overlook such disrespect so long as there were results to be had.

Vatborn scuttled in his wake as he left his chambers, vanishing one by one as he assigned them tasks. Thousands of the creatures inhabited the facility, breeding in the catacombs below among the scavenged generators and forgotten chambers. Though the first of their number had been little more than crude homunculi, more than a thousand generations had passed since then and they’d become something else entirely.

Watching them, Fabius wondered what they might become with enough time. Already, they had their own language, their own culture – he was certain that they no longer required the rebreathers, but instead wore them for ceremonial reasons. He also knew that they vied amongst themselves for the opportunity to serve him. The losers of these contests often contented themselves by seeing to the needs of the other members of his Consortium.

The stone corridors beyond his chambers echoed with the familiar sounds of scientific inquiry. The tormented roars of experimental subjects mingled with the thrum of esoteric technologies. The structure had once been a palace of some sort – a redoubt around which the ancient aeldari city spread like the spokes of a wheel. Now it was a bastion of enlightenment for those whom he was privileged to call his students.

Several of the latter were in evidence as he made his way to the nearest transit shaft. They had claimed chambers for themselves throughout the palace. Some preferred isolation, and set up their laboratoriums as far away from their peers as possible. Others, more enamoured of collegial discussion, congregated in crowded corridors. And a brave few made their stand as close to his private chambers as possible.

These were the oldest of his students: those who’d been with him since Urum or even before. Some were expatriates of the III Legion, but not all. Several of them had gathered in the widest section of the corridor, and were conversing amongst themselves. When they spied him, they scattered like startled vermin. Only one stood his ground.

Fabius greeted him. ‘Ah, Marag. How go your investigations into capillary regrowth?’ The Apothecary wore stained penitent’s robes over his black armour, concealing everything but the profusion of serpentine dendrites that coiled and flexed about him like aggravated serpents. As ever, he was accompanied by several bond-slaves. Their scarified bodies were tattooed with hundreds of routine physiological observations.

‘Well enough,’ Marag said. ‘It’s getting them to stop growing that’s the troublesome bit.’ Fabius detected the whirr of prosthetics beneath Marag’s cowl. The Apothecary experimented on himself as often as he did his slaves. ‘Advice is always welcome.’

Fabius smiled paternally. ‘Send me your data and I’ll take a look. I might be able to offer a few observations.’

Marag stepped aside, bowing slightly. ‘My thanks, Chief Apothecary.’ Fabius knew that as soon as he was out of earshot, Marag’s fellows would come scurrying out of their holes, looking for any information that might be of use to them. Competition was encouraged among his students. It was considered a high honour to work alongside the Clonelord. Such matters were settled in a direct, often volatile, fashion.

Fabius paid little attention to such goings-on, so long as the sanctity of his apothecarium was maintained. A bit more blood in the corridors was hardly a matter of concern, and the occasional cull served to remind his more ambitious followers of their place in the scheme of things.

Of them all, only one never needed such a reminder. Arrian Zorzi had been with him the longest, and had served him best. The former World Eater was waiting for him at the entrance to the transit shaft. ‘Chief Apothecary,’ he said, in greeting.

Fabius didn’t ask how Arrian had known to meet him. He’d long ago grown used to the World Eater’s ability to predict his needs.

‘Arrian. Do you know what this is about?’

‘Zargad didn’t say.’

Arrian was both the epitome and antithesis of his Legion – his power armour, once blue and white, was now almost a uniform, bare grey. A sextet of cracked and yellowing skulls, dotted with cortical implants, hung in chains from his chestplate like a savage tabard. More chains were looped about his bare arms and waist. Beneath them, he wore the tools of his trade – the narthecium and medical kit of a Legion Apothecary. He wore no helm, exposing blunt, scarred features that might once have been handsome. Cortical implants streaked back from his skull like braided hair, and service studs dotted his brow. His hands rested on the pommels of the Falax blades sheathed at his sides. They were the only weapons he carried these days.

‘It might be another revolt,’ Arrian said, as the transit platform began to descend.

‘It isn’t.’

Arrian grunted. His disapproval was palpable, though he would never voice it. Fabius sighed.

‘Say what you wish to say, Arrian.’

‘You have not been yourself, of late.’

‘Meaning?’

‘You have been… absent since your return from Commorragh.’ Arrian didn’t look at him. Instead, he tapped his skulls, each in their turn. ‘The others have noticed. There is talk.’

‘And what do they say?’

‘That you are planning something. Something we are not privy to.’

Fabius peered at him. ‘And if I am, what of it? We all have our pet projects.’ He tapped one of Arrian’s skulls with Torment. ‘Rest assured, Arrian, if you needed to know about it, I would tell you.’

‘That implies that you are up to something.’

Fabius didn’t have a chance to reply. The noise hit them as the transit platform juddered to a halt, and the hatch slid open.

The crèche was loud. Infants wailed as mutant nursemaids padded among them, snuffling at any who seemed truly distressed, rather than simply noisy. Tech-thralls stood at the edges of the immense, pillared chamber, taking notes and samples for later study.

The children were left to roam free, where possible. They grew quickly, and learned even quicker. Survival was hardwired into them. Only a few hours after birth, Homo novus could see and hear, as well as digest solid food. By a few days, they could hunt on their own, and he had the vatborn ensure that the vermin population was maintained for just that purpose.

At six weeks, their education began. It started simply enough, gradually increasing in complexity as they reached their first year. Those who showed an aptitude for the hard sciences or sociological studies were separated from the rest and taken for further training.

The New Man, for all its increased aggression, had an equal capacity for the retention and processing of information. They were smarter than their predecessors, as well as being stronger and faster. But intelligence took many different forms. Some proved to be natural engineers, while others had a startling grasp of human nature. Many were simply very adept killers. The species had yet to find an optimum balance.

Initially, he had overseen arranged integration of select bloodlines, in order to improve the general population. Sometime after the twelfth generation, he had ceased, realising it was largely counterproductive. His creations were perfectly capable of managing such matters on their own and did not require his attempts at matchmaking. The children who now swarmed about him were evidence enough of this.

Fabius sank to one knee, arms spread. They came gladly, and excitedly, a babble of eager voices. He listened to them all, and when they’d finished, sent them running back to their nursemaids or playmates. He rose as the crèche-master approached.

‘Pretty little pups, aren’t they?’ Zargad asked, as he nodded respectfully to Arrian. ‘Remind you of anyone?’ He was a narrow blade of a warrior, too tall and too thin to be confused for a normal human. Almost aeldari in appearance, though he’d butchered the last man to make such a comparison. Zargad’s features were androgynous and alien; mouth a shade too wide, nose a touch too small, and eyes like those of a felinoid. His scalp was shorn to the quick, which only emphasised the odd shape of his skull.

Fabius frowned. ‘Yes. There is a distinctly Chemosian flavour to their physiognomy.’

‘Most of them grow out of it in a few months. But more and more of them are retaining that look – pale hair and lavender eyes.’

‘A side effect of the gene-seed.’

Zargad grunted. ‘Possibly. We both know there’s a bit more than that to it.’

‘It doesn’t matter. So long as they meet or exceed expectations, a few cosmetic anomalies are within acceptable parameters.’ Fabius looked at him. ‘How goes it?’

‘They’re agitated. They can smell something on the wind.’ Zargad rubbed his scalp. ‘So can I, come to that.’ He looked at Fabius. ‘That’s why I wanted you to come down.’

‘What do you mean?’

Zargad glanced at Arrian. ‘Your daughter, Fabius,’ he said softly. ‘The children have been dreaming about Melusine.’

Igori awoke.

She lay still for a moment, trying to identify the sound that had disturbed her slumber. But whatever it was, it was done and gone, with not even an echo remaining. Slowly, she sat up, the blankets of beastkin hide sliding down. Her current paramours murmured but did not otherwise stir. Whatever she’d heard had escaped their equally keen senses. She climbed out from between them, as quietly as possible. Ancient though she was, she could still move as silent as a shadow when the mood took her.

She stood for a moment, listening. Seeking any hint of the sound that had woken her. But there was nothing. Only the murmur of the palace at night.

Sleep now well and truly banished, she dressed swiftly, pulling on battered fatigues and retrieving her knife from the stand near the bed. There were other weapons she could have taken, but the knife had always been her favourite. As she stepped into the chilly corridor, she could hear the shriekers hunting the heights, and the distant thump of beastkin drums. The creatures were agitated. They were always agitated, these days.

The Benefactor was up to something. That much was obvious. Then, he was always up to something. She padded down the broken corridor. Through the great rents in the walls, she could see the devastated city she and her pack-clan had decided to call home.

Somewhere past the edges of that territory were the facilities of the Benefactor. She had not visited them in almost a decade. Not since the day of schism. Reflexively, her hand fell to her knife and she stopped, looking out over her kingdom, crude as it was. Even now, the guilt festered. To turn against the Benefactor, to deny him, was anathema to her kind. They were not made to disobey. And yet, what else could they have done? What option had he left them? Left her?

She turned away. The schism had been bloody. Not all of the packs had turned from the Benefactor. Those who remained had been born in vats, rather than made from foundlings scavenged from war-ravaged worlds. She herself had been one of the latter, hundreds of years before. Her brothers and sisters as well. The Benefactor had found them and given them a home – a purpose.

A purpose she had abandoned. That was what those who remained had claimed. But it was a lie. Her purpose was the same as it had always been. The purpose the Benefactor had instilled in her. She was to be the mother of her race. She was to lead them out from his shadow, to stand on their own.

That was easier said than done, of course. And having started on the path, she was finding it harder going than she imagined. Or maybe she’d simply started too late. Maybe there was no future for them, save in the fevered imagination of their creator. The thought weighed heavily on her, as it did every day. It had been so easy to take control. It was what she had been made to do. But now that it was done, she found herself… lost. She was old and everything ached. And yet she persisted, unable to surrender. Another gift of the Benefactor.

Her absent wandering carried her through the corridors of her palace, as if she were a ghost in her own home. She could hear the trilling calls of the sentries as they alerted one another to her presence, and the faint grumble of generators far below her feet. The palace was not yet a fortress, though in time it might become one. Or perhaps they would simply leave and find a more hospitable world to claim. Far from the Benefactor or the schemes of daemons and aeldari. The thought did not comfort her.

She found herself in the throne room. Her throne room. The throne was a barbaric thing, made from scrap and bones. She had not asked for it, but her followers had fashioned it for her regardless. She found it somewhat embarrassing and wondered if this was how the Benefactor felt, when the mutants bowed to him, or sang hymns to his glory.

Igori paused before the throne, and took in the skulls that sat piled at its base. The skulls of her kin. Her brothers and sisters. Her rivals. Their packs were hers now. The strongest ruled, so that the weak might survive. That was what the Benefactor had taught her. That was what he’d taught them all – or tried to.

She folded her hands and bowed to the dead. Though she had slain them, and eaten their flesh, they had still been her littermates. They had hunted and killed together. Their names were carved into her throne, as her own would be one day. When someone worthy came along to replace her.

That too was a lesson she had learned from the Benefactor.

‘Children learn by example.’

Igori spun, her knife flying from her fingers towards the speaker. It whipped across the space between them, and buried itself in a cracked pillar with a dull thwack. The speaker studied it for a moment, and then turned back to Igori.

‘If I were still mortal, I might have died.’

Igori was already moving as the words left the intruder’s mouth. Her hair was white and her bones ached, but she still moved with a leopard’s killing grace. Fingers hooked like claws, she leapt.

The intruder’s hand closed about her throat, stopping her in mid-lunge. ‘You never make it, you know. In a hundred iterations of this moment, some earlier, some later, you never make it. But not once do you hesitate to leap. Curious.’

Igori gave a strangled snarl as she clawed at her captor’s forearm. She was forced back, her feet dangling above the floor. The intruder was no taller than she, but was horned and hoofed like a beast. She wore loose robes of iridescent silk over limbs the colour of honeyed milk, and her face was at once familiar and strange.

‘Never once do you hesitate,’ the intruder continued softly. ‘Never once do you fail to follow your instincts. Did he make you thus out of pragmatism – or out of fear?’ Eyes like golden lamps fixed on Igori’s face, drinking her in. ‘Maiden, mother, crone,’ she crooned. ‘Beginning and ending in one.’

‘Release me,’ Igori growled. She aimed a kick at her captor’s torso. It was like kicking stone shrouded in gossamer. The intruder smiled and let her drop to the floor.

‘All you had to do was ask, sister.’

Igori scrambled to her feet. She rubbed her throat and peered at the being before her. ‘Who are you?’

The horned head tilted. ‘Do you not know me, sister? We have walked together often, though my substance has changed somewhat since then.’

‘I…’ Igori hesitated, a denial on her lips. ‘Melusine?’

Melusine. The first and most favoured of all of the Benefactor’s children. Made from his own genetic material, and stolen by the Dark Gods. It was a story all Gland-hounds knew, and told to their young to teach them of the duplicity of the gods.

Melusine’s smile was at once gentle and ravenous. ‘Yes, you do know me. And I know you, sweet sister. We have reached the same moment at last.’ She looked around. ‘Sometimes it feels as if this instant has stretched about me for a thousand years, and now at last it begins to fray.’

‘My dreams…’ Igori began. She’d had so many dreams over the years, many of them hard to recall. But some stood out more than others. She stopped. ‘Why are you here?’

‘I told you. We have reached the moment. The moment it all comes apart and flies away.’ Melusine clopped up onto the dais and trailed her claws across the throne as she circled it. ‘The centre cannot hold. Did he ever teach that one?’

‘Yes.’

Melusine frowned. ‘Yes. He taught me so much. Too much. Taught me to see past his half-truths and gentle lies. I know him, as you know him now. You see him for what he is… and what he is not.’

‘I still serve him.’

‘No. You want to, though. Even as I do. You see what is best for him, though he does not. That is the curse of being his child. Whether made in blood, or in sweat, all children come to see the frailties of their parent. It is up to them, then, to decide how to proceed.’

Igori went to the pillar and wrenched her knife free. She wondered why none of her sentries had responded to the noise.

‘They only see what I wish them to see,’ Melusine said. Igori turned, and Melusine was sitting on her throne.

‘Get up,’ Igori said. ‘That is not your place.’

‘Oh, but it is. Or will be.’ Melusine reclined back. ‘When all is said and done and the guns are silent, we will sit here together.’

‘Did you come here just to spit riddles at me?’

‘I came to show you what is coming, so that you can be prepared. So that you are able to do what must be done.’ Melusine rose and sprang down the dais, causing Igori to step back. She brandished her knife as the daemoness drew close. ‘It all comes down to us, you know. In the end. We must be there, or all this is for naught.’

‘All of what?’

‘All of the tests. All of the preparation.’ Melusine pushed the knife aside. ‘He cannot go forward and he cannot go back. That is the only way he survives the conflagration to come.’

‘The Benefactor, you mean.’

‘Yes.’

Igori shook her head. ‘He will not accept my help. And I do not know that I would be able to give it, even if he would.’

‘Why?’

Igori said nothing.

Melusine leaned close. ‘I could show you why he left, if you wished. Would you like to see?’

‘No. I know why he left.’

‘Are you angry because he did not take you?’ Melusine turned. She gestured, and the dust on the floor and in the air began to shimmer and coalesce. ‘I was often angry, because he would not take me on his expeditions. Instead, he left me in the care of his assistants. Sometimes it was Malachi and Marag. Or Oleander and Arrian. Zocor and poor Chort. Some of them were good with children. Others were not.’

‘I am not a child,’ Igori said, watching the dust thin and swell. There were shapes in its ripples, like images glimpsed behind static.

‘To him, you are but an infant. You will always be an infant. That is why you left. To prove yourself.’

‘No.’

Melusine looked at her. ‘No?’

Igori sheathed her knife. ‘No. I – we – left because there was no place for us there. After the Urum facilities were lost, I realised that we would be divvied up among them. Made into pets or worse. So I left, before we lost our way.’

‘And what is your way, hmm? What is the purpose of a Gland-hound, without a master?’ Melusine gestured again, and the dust quivered. The shapes within it became more solid, more visible. Tall structures, spires edged like sword blades, stretching towards an orrery of false suns.

Commorragh. She recognised it without ever having seen it.

The Benefactor had abandoned them, to go to Commorragh. At first, she’d thought it a punishment for their failures. Only later did she realise that it had nothing to do with them at all. That, in fact, very little of what the Benefactor did had anything to do with his creations, whatever he claimed.

She spat into the dust and replied, ‘The same as it has always been. To hunt.’

‘But for whom do you hunt?’

‘We hunt for ourselves,’ Igori said, still watching the dust. ‘We are no longer hounds. We are wolves. And we will make our own purpose.’

‘Too late for that, I fear. Your fate was decided long ago.’ Melusine stroked the dust, causing the image to contort. Figures now, rather than buildings. Capering, dancing shapes. ‘They decided it for you.’ The shapes became daemons, and then clowns.

Igori growled softly. ‘No one decides my fate but me.’

‘That is what they want you to say. The story doesn’t work, unless the characters are fools. It is a tragedy, after all.’ The clowns danced in a circle around a central figure that Igori would have recognised anywhere. The Benefactor. He was facing something that loomed over him, an indistinct shape that seemed to change moment by moment.

‘What are you showing me?’ Igori demanded. ‘What is this?’

‘The story never ends. It goes round and round, through infinite permutations. Each one closer to perfect than the last. The moment you see before you has already happened, and will happen again and again and again. Because the gods are easily bored, and forget what they’ve seen. Like children, they demand to be told the same story over and over.’

‘Speak sense. What does this have to do with anything?’

Melusine swept her hands out, causing the dust to dissipate with a loud hiss. ‘Nothing. And everything. I cannot speak sense because there is no sense to it.’ She looked at Igori. ‘You just have to trust me, sister.’

‘Trust you about what?’

‘That when the time comes, I will be there for you. And for him.’ Melusine extended her hand. ‘For if we are not, who in all the galaxy will be?’ She paused. ‘Hsst. Listen. They are watching us now.’ She turned, her eyes peering into the shadows. ‘They have always been watching us. Prodding us. Moving makeshift pieces across a broken board.’ She smiled. ‘Come out, come out, little clowns.’ Her smile faded. ‘But no. They will not introduce themselves. They know better. We are our father’s daughters after all.’

‘Clowns?’ Igori turned slowly, hackles raised. ‘The Harlequins?’ The alien clowns were, to her mind, responsible for much of what had gone wrong of late. They had haunted her life, and the Benefactor’s, for centuries. Their schemes had set him on course for Commorragh, though she could see no reason for it.

In the darkness, something laughed. A quick sound, cut short, as if its creator had been suddenly shushed. She considered calling for aid, but a look at Melusine convinced her otherwise. ‘Why are they here?’ she asked softly.

‘They are everywhere. Wherever the webway stretches, so too do Cegorach’s disciples dance. These worlds were once theirs, and may well be again.’ Melusine flexed her claws and took a step towards a pool of shadows. ‘But not yet. For now, it belongs to the Dark Prince – and you are not welcome here.’

There was a rustling noise, like that of startled birds. Then only silence.

Melusine straightened. ‘Fly away, fly away, little clowns,’ she sang softly, and shook her head. ‘Too many stories, too many threads, too many moments. It’s all unspooling before us. We must be strong – the worst is yet to come.’ She looked at Igori, and for a moment, her expression was that of a child. A lost girl, seeking comfort.

Then, the girl was gone, swallowed by the daemon she had become. Sly and oh so hideously wise. She sprang and had Igori’s wrists in her grasp before the latter could move. ‘Listen to me, sister – listen! When the time comes, you must ignore your instincts, those wonderful, beautiful instincts that tell you to obey him. You must, else it all tumbles down and us with it. He is the centre, and without you, he cannot hold.’

Igori tried to pull free. Melusine’s face twitched and she caught a glimpse of the truth beneath the mask. Whatever she had been, she was something else now. No longer mortal by any stretch of the definition. And yet, there was still something of the Benefactor in her, as it was in all of them. Whatever life made of them, the marks of his tools were still on them. His signature, etched on their bones.

She saw something else there as well, as Melusine gazed at her. Envy and yearning all wrapped up into one poisonous bundle. She realised with a start that it was directed at her. Melusine was… jealous. Of her, or perhaps her closeness to the Benefactor. Or maybe something else entirely.

Their gazes met, and Igori felt an electric pulse.

For an instant that stretched for days, she was elsewhere. A place of silver grasses and golden trees, where the skirl of pipes touched the air. She smelled incense and blood and felt something in her quiver, as hounds – or things like hounds – bayed in pursuit.

She was running as fast as she could, the silver grasses tearing at her legs. Her breath was heavy in her lungs, and the smoke of a thousand gilded braziers stung her eyes and all but blinded her as she stumbled through the arteries of a dead city. Behind her, the hound-master slithered in pursuit, singing softly in a language she did not recognise.

He called out her name in a voice that was achingly familiar and his hounds sped towards her, on two legs or four or none at all. Some looked like men, obscene sigils carved where their eyes had been, and their mouths sealed in fanged muzzles of silver. Others resembled daemonic courtesans, dancing and pulling playfully against their leashes. And some resembled nothing she recognised at all. A wild hunt, and she was their prey.

She ran, knowing that they would catch her. As they had caught her every time before. It was inevitable, like the turning of a wheel.

And when they caught her, they would strip away a little more of who she was and replace it with something else. They wanted her to be like them. But she had to earn it. In pain and in pleasure. Her pain, their pleasure.

Still she ran, on and on, until they caught her and the game began again.

Igori blinked, her eyes wet. Melusine released her and stepped back, her expression at once sly and confused.

‘Remember. Ignore your instincts, sister.’ She turned, as if to go.

‘Wait,’ Igori said. She touched her eyes and rubbed her fingers. Were these tears? If so, who were they for? The creature before her, or the girl she had been?

Melusine paused, and glanced over her shoulder. ‘Ask, sister. And I will tell no lies.’

‘Why did you leave him?’

Melusine was silent. Then, ‘For the same reason you did.’

She stepped into the shadows and was gone a moment later, leaving only the echoes of her voice to mark her passing.

‘It was time.’

Chapter Three

Monstrous Efficiency

Mayshana watched the shriekers spiral up into the air, their distinctive cries echoing over the ruined streets below. They nested in the high places of the ruins – ugly, bat-like things whose ancestors had been aeldari, a hundred generations ago.

‘About time,’ she murmured, sitting up, a narc-stick hanging from her lips. She’d been waiting for them to take to the air for hours. A normal human would have been a mass of aches and pains from crouching atop the ruined tower that long.

Thankfully, she was anything but normal. The Benefactor had made her folk strong and durable, better able to survive in places like this. Places where the sky was the colour of fire and the air tasted of soot. She stubbed out the narc-stick on her tongue, crumpling it into her mouth and chewing the gluey leaves. Then she retrieved her long-las and checked the power pack. Satisfied that it was at full charge, she crawled to the edge of the roof.

She raised the weapon, and peered through the scope. A rooftop several blocks away leapt into focus. She caught a hint of movement. A moment later she realised it wasn’t a shrieker. It wasn’t any sort of mutant she recognised at all. It was pale and thin and it danced across the edge of the roof with great leaping bounds and wild pirouettes. The motion was purposeful – structured. There was a pattern, though her eyes began to water before she could discern it. She blinked the tears away, and suddenly, the pale dancer was closer – close enough that Mayshana could almost make out a face. A lavender gaze met her own, and she felt something akin to an electric shock.

She jerked back, heart thudding with sudden unease.

She lifted her rifle again, but the pale thing was gone. Perhaps it had never been there. She swallowed, uncertain, but pushed the thought aside. She concentrated on the shriekers, and focused the targeting scope on the largest of the beasts. It was old, its patchy fur gone white and its frame rail-thin. But it was still strong – and smart, besides.

The other Gland-hounds called the creature One-Eye, for obvious reasons. It had led raids on storehouses throughout the city, and attacked even the most heavily armed gunships and landers with spiteful regularity. It had made itself a nuisance, in other words. She let out a slow breath, tracking it.

‘You’re aiming too low.’

Mayshana lowered the long-las and turned. ‘You are quiet, for such an old woman.’

Igori snorted and dropped to the roof. ‘You weren’t paying attention, granddaughter. A whole flock of them could have crept up on you while you were watching that old monster.’ The older Gland-hound lifted a battered rangefinder and peered through it. ‘Something has stirred them up.’

‘Arrian.’

Igori looked at her. ‘What’s he doing out here?’

‘He took the young ones out hunting.’ Mayshana sat up and set her rifle aside. She was almost a century younger than her grandmother, but the resemblance was unmistakable. ‘What are you doing out here? This isn’t your territory.’

Igori grinned. ‘Any territory I stand in is mine, granddaughter. You’d do well to remember that.’ She let her hand fall to her knife, for emphasis. Mayshana studied her grandmother, unconcerned by the threat. They’d fought before, and though Igori had won, Mayshana had survived. That alone proved that the Hound-Queen had lost her edge.

‘Why are you here, grandmother?’

Igori shrugged. ‘I caught your scent on the wind and came to investigate. Can a grandmother not occasionally check on her grandchild?’

‘No.’

Igori was silent for a moment. ‘You have new scars.’

‘So do you.’ Mayshana shifted her weight and sniffed the air. She smelled gun-oil and sweat. Igori hadn’t come alone. She gave no sign she’d noticed, however. To do so would be rude, and possibly considered provocation by her grandmother’s followers. She wondered what they were doing this far out of their territory. Clashes between exile and loyalist packs weren’t uncommon, though by tacit agreement both sides kept such encounters quiet. The Benefactor would be upset if he knew they were killing each other.

‘Not so many as I might once have had. I have few challengers these days.’ Igori sounded disappointed by that fact. Mayshana understood. Challenge was the lifeblood of their kind. They had been made to confront and overcome every obstacle the galaxy could throw in their path. A world without challenges was one that did not bear thinking about. Igori looked at her. ‘What about you?’

‘Some. The Benefactor has forbidden open challenges.’

Igori snorted. ‘That sounds like him.’ She looked up at the sky. ‘We were not made for places such as this, you know. He did not make us to hide in ruins on dead worlds. And yet here we are. Seeds planted in sour soil.’

‘Grandmother?’ Mayshana asked. Those words did not sound like the Igori she remembered. They sounded more like the Benefactor. Maybe that wasn’t so strange; there was something of him in all of them.

Igori shook herself. ‘I must speak with Arrian. Where is he?’

Mayshana was silent for a moment. Then, ‘Three kilometres north. Be careful around the younglings. They get… overexcited.’

Igori smiled and leaned forward, kissing Mayshana atop her head. ‘I remember.’

Mayshana hesitated, and then forced the words out. ‘Why did you never come back, grandmother? He would have forgiven you.’

Igori looked out over the city. ‘I did not require his forgiveness.’ She raised her rangefinder. ‘You were using Arrian as bait, to draw the shriekers out. Clever. Does he know?’

‘No. He would not approve.’

‘Our cousin is soft-hearted,’ Igori said, with no small amount of affection. ‘He is a warrior, not a killer.’ She peered at Mayshana. ‘How are your pups? Are they with him?’

Mayshana nodded. Glaive and Spar had been children during the schism. They only barely recalled Igori and those who’d left. ‘They are killers grown now. They serve the Benefactor as I once did. As you once did.’

Igori frowned. ‘You encouraged this?’

Mayshana shrugged. ‘They wished to fight at his side. As we all do.’ She heard a distant cry and turned. The shriekers were fleeing. They would find new roosts, new hiding spots. She sighed and sat back. ‘One-Eye lives for another day,’ she said. She looked at Igori. ‘Why are you here, grandmother? Truly.’

Igori sat back on her heels. ‘Do you dream, child?’ she asked, after a moment.

‘Sometimes.’

‘I dream,’ Igori said. ‘I dream of a garden with silver grasses, and a serpent with lavender eyes. I see the Benefactor kneeling before the serpent, as it rears as if to strike.’ Igori leaned close. ‘And strike it does. I awaken then, but the dream is always waiting for me. Do you know what it means?’

Mayshana felt a prickle of confusion and something else, something she had not felt in a long time – fear.

‘No.’

‘There is a bit of old verse the Benefactor once shared with me… Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold.’ Igori looked away. ‘He is the centre, and he cannot hold.’ She pushed herself to her feet with a muffled groan. ‘The time is coming when we must seek our own way, granddaughter. All of us.’

‘What do you mean?’ Mayshana made to rise, but by the time she got to her feet, Igori was gone. She sniffed the air, but could not detect the scent of her grandmother’s followers. Instead, she smelled a peculiar odour… musky and somehow familiar.

She caught sight of something pale out of the corner of her eye and whirled. But there was nothing there. And only the fading echo of a woman’s laugh to convince her she wasn’t imagining things.

Arrian Zorzi stalked through the ruins, his senses straining. He could hear the shriekers murmuring amongst themselves somewhere above him. He glanced at his companions and gestured. Spar nodded, and she and Glaive split up, leading their respective teams of packmates in opposite directions. Each of the Gland-hounds was armed with a shock-baton and a coil of tensile wire. They were here to capture, not kill.

The shriekers made for poor test subjects. Their genetic code was degraded to the point of indecipherability. But that didn’t mean they didn’t have some use. With the proper augmentation, they could be made into serviceable weapons – something Arrian had discovered almost entirely by accident. Every member of the Consortium had their speciality. Arrian’s was this. His creations had prowled a million battlefields down the long centuries, and the best of them were retained by the Chief Apothecary for defensive purposes.

Rubble cascaded down from above. Arrian didn’t bother to look up. Instead, he snatched a concussion grenade from his belt and thumbed the activation rune. He tossed the grenade up and reached for one of his blades. The resulting shock wave would have deafened a normal human. The shriekers lived up to their name, wailing in agony. Several fell from their perches to land writhing on the floor. Others scuttle-hopped towards him, knuckling forward on wing-stumps, driven into a frenzy by the pain. Their features were like those of a Terran bat mixed with an aeldari – elongated and twisted into something monstrous.

The first of them leapt, jaws wide. Arrian swatted the creature aside with the flat of his blade and pinned it to the floor with a boot. He didn’t want to injure any of them, if possible. The less work he had to do on them, the better.

Spar pounced, driving her shock-baton into the pinned creature’s skull, causing it to spasm and flail its wings. When it had passed out, she bound it with wire and dragged it out of the way, while Arrian covered her. The rest of her pack followed her example, stunning and binding the shriekers that had fallen to the floor.

Arrian snatched another creature from the air and sent it tumbling into a pillar. Two of them leapt on him at once, driving him back a step. They broke their fangs on his armour as he tried to wrestle them to the ground. He heard Briaeus and the rest of his dead squadmates laugh at his foolishness as their skulls rattled against his chestplate.

Is this what it’s come to, dog-brother? Eaten by degenerate eldar?

‘Hardly eaten, Briaeus,’ Arrian grunted. ‘A bit gnawed-on, perhaps.’ He flung one of the shriekers to the floor and headbutted the other, cracking its skull. The old, familiar fire flickered deep inside him. The heat of an artificial rage. The Nails sparked, but he felt nothing. He’d medicated himself into a pleasant apathy, and between that and the Chief Apothecary’s many surgical alterations to his cerebrum down the centuries, it would take more than a few mutants to stir him out of it.

The shriekers were properly riled up now. They swarmed down through the holes in the walls and roof, screeching and gibbering. Arrian activated the picter unit built into his medicae harness, recording the attack for future study. The creatures were one of the few stable aeldari ab-strains, and he was curious to find out why.

He saw Spar leap from a fallen pillar, her shock-baton held like a spear. She rode a thrashing shrieker to the ground and battered it senseless, grinning all the while. She and her brother, Glaive, were the heirs apparent to Mayshana – the current leader of the packs. He was fond of them both. They were eager to learn, and quick-witted.

Nearby, Glaive roared and bore a shrieker to the ground, shocking it into submission. He glanced at Arrian, seeking approval, and Arrian nodded. He paused as he caught a new scent – familiar, but one he had not smelled in some time.

He turned and went to the broken wall. Ducking his head out, he saw a figure crouched at the edge of the roof above. He left the Gland-hounds to their fun and began to scale the outside of the ruin. The figure waited for him. As he climbed, he glimpsed the glint of weapons trained on him from the surrounding rooftops and towers. Despite this, he did not fear an ambush. They would not have let him see them, if that were their intent.

As he expected, Igori was waiting for him at the top. He hauled himself onto the roof, tensing as the ancient stonework shifted slightly beneath his weight.

‘Hello, cousin,’ he said.

‘Hello, Honoured Arrian,’ Igori replied. She did not look much different from the last time he’d seen her. Age had her in its claws, but hadn’t brought her down yet. He could smell the stimms on her sweat and hear the strain in her breathing. Her hand rested on her knife. As if she did not trust him. ‘It has been a long time.’

‘Not as I judge such things. Is this a social call – or something else?’ His armour’s sensor-net chimed, alerting him to the weapons currently trained on him. Too many to dodge, though he doubted they would pierce his armour. It was somewhat disconcerting to be targeted by so many warriors he’d helped train. He couldn’t help but feel a flush of pride at their skill, however.

‘I have a message for him.’

Arrian turned. As far as he was aware, Igori and the Chief Apothecary had not spoken since her voluntary exile. ‘Can you not deliver it yourself?’

She didn’t look at him. ‘You know I cannot.’

She is ashamed, dog-brother, Briaeus said. And angry.

‘I know,’ Arrian said. He could not say which of them he was answering.

From below came a howl, as Spar, Glaive and the others voiced their triumph. Igori shook her head. ‘Fools. Now they’ve alerted the rest of their prey.’

‘We’ve captured enough for today,’ Arrian said. ‘Let them howl.’

‘You spoil them.’

‘Little victories must be celebrated.’

‘They are young. And stupid.’

‘You were young once,’ Arrian said.

‘And stupid?’

Arrian smiled thinly.

Igori chuckled. ‘I miss you, cousin.’

‘And I you.’ Arrian looked at her. ‘It has been too long since we sparred.’

Igori looked away. ‘I am not the fighter I once was.’ She flexed her hands. ‘The ache in them is worse these days. And in my hips, and back.’

‘I am not surprised. You are well over two centuries old. Most of that was spent in combat. Without regular rejuvenat treatments you are nearing the end of your life. Frankly, I am surprised that you still live.’

Igori laughed. ‘Blunt as ever.’

‘I have never lied to you.’

‘No.’ She was silent for a moment. ‘You are the only one.’ Another pause. ‘Even the Benefactor lied.’

Arrian could think of no reply. She was not wrong, and he could not bring himself to disagree. The Chief Apothecary had made a mistake, going to Commorragh. Arrian had seen it at the time, but had lacked the courage to say as much.

Was it cowardice, dog-brother? Briaeus asked. Or opportunism?

Arrian ignored the dead man. He rested his hands on his sheathed blades and looked out over the city. ‘What is the message you wish me to relay?’

‘She came to me again.’

‘Who?’

‘Melusine.’

Arrian froze. Just for a moment. An instant of uncertainty. He felt a chill creep through him and he looked around, half-expecting to see her. ‘The dreams again?’ he asked. After he and Fabius had left the crèche, Fabius had ordered him to say nothing of what Zargad had told them about the children’s dreams.

Igori shook her head. ‘Not a dream. Not this time.’

‘She was here?’ Arrian asked. ‘When? Why?’

‘She brought me a warning.’ Igori hesitated. ‘I thought he should know.’

‘Another warning.’ Melusine often brought warnings. Vague, cryptic warnings of events that hadn’t happened yet or would never happen. He theorised that she was somehow perceiving alternate timelines – or was perhaps even unstuck in time herself.

‘It was different this time. She was different. As if she were more herself, if that makes sense.’

Igori looked at him, and for a moment he saw the child she had been, rather than the matriarch she was.

‘She said the end is coming.’ She gestured about them. ‘That all of this is going away. The story is ending – and the worst is yet to come.’

Arrian sighed. ‘This is the Eye, cousin. There is always something worse yet to come. There is always a storm, an ending, a tragedy. Saqqara says that the gods traffic in these things, but I do not know how much of that I believe.’

‘And if she is right? If, this time, her warnings are true?’

‘Then we will meet fate head-on as we have always done, and the stronger warrior will prevail.’ Arrian looked at her. ‘Do not lose faith in him, cousin. Whatever else you have lost, do not lose that.’ He looked away. ‘He needs it now, more than ever, I think.’

The Neverborn howled as the syringe went in.

The sound was one of agony, raw and bestial. The Neverborn had no true shape, only the vaguest resemblance to something humanoid. It was as much serpent and hound as it was man, with pulsing toxin sacs lining the underside of its throat.

Fabius held its fang-studded jaws with one hand as he drew back the syringe from within one of the sacs and peered at the glistening contents. ‘Adequate, I suppose. You may send it back to its kennel now.’

Saqqara frowned but did as he was told. He lifted a flask and murmured a few words in a language that had been dead for centuries. The daemon squirmed towards him like a plume of smoke, dwindling as it went. It plunged into the flask, filling it. Saqqara stoppered it, and returned it to its place on his armour.

‘You should not torment poor Gr’yz’ax so,’ the Word Bearer said disapprovingly.

‘Stop pretending it has a name, Saqqara.’ He didn’t bother to hide his contempt as he spoke.

Saqqara Thresh was the epitome of everything Fabius loathed. A credulous fanatic, blind to anything save dogma. Unlike the rest of his followers, Saqqara was not an Apothecary. Instead, he was a tamer of those elemental forces the ignorant called daemons – a useful skill, in the Eye. His tattooed flesh was scraped free of hair, and marked by livid suture scars. The plates of his battered crimson power armour were covered in line upon line of tight Colchisian script, where they were not marked by prayer scrolls or blasphemous iconography. Strange bottles of clay and glass hung from his armour. Each was sealed by wax, and marked with warding sigils to contain the entities squirming within. The daemons were chittering and hissing loud enough to be annoying – like animals demanding attention.

‘Your pets seem agitated,’ Fabius said.

‘They do not like being in an enclosed space with you. You know that.’

‘What they like or dislike is immaterial to me. Keep them quiet.’

Saqqara whispered something to his pets. The chittering ceased. Grateful for the silence, Fabius flicked the syringe. The liquid within gleamed like gold for a moment, before turning murky. He set it down on a tray held by one of his vatborn. ‘Take this to observation module gamma-three. Enact standard quarantine procedures, and monitor it.’

Saqqara sniffed disdainfully. ‘I don’t understand why you milk them for their poison. What purpose does it serve?’

‘I have managed to design and synthesise over thirty-seven different forms of stimulant from this particular venom alone – some of which I employ myself. Most is lethal at higher doses, but Savona’s warriors don’t particularly care and neither do I, so long as it keeps them from whining about their next fix and keeps me on my feet.’ He looked at Saqqara. ‘Curious, isn’t it? How it changes each time. Same entity, same process, but a different result each time. Marvellous.’

‘They are beautiful creatures, if you but take the time to admire them.’

‘Stop and smell the roses, eh?’

Saqqara looked at him in confusion. ‘What?’

‘An old Terran saying. Granted, the type of flower it refers to has not existed since at least M31, being supplanted by native varieties from across the galaxy. The term, however, remains in common usage throughout human-occupied space. To stop and smell the roses. Rosy-cheeked. A rose by any other name.’

‘What does that have to do with daemons?’

‘Nothing. But one must never overlook an opportunity to decrease the galaxy’s supply of ignorance, Saqqara.’ Fabius tapped the side of his head. ‘Think on that, as you pray to those nightmares you call gods.’ He signalled another vatborn. ‘Bring me sample pots tertius-minor and quintus-epsilon.’

The vatborn returned moments later with a tray bearing two sample pots, each containing a spiky anemone of wraithbone. Saqqara stared at it in disgust. ‘I can hear the souls within it screaming every time you touch it.’

‘So long as that is all they do, I don’t particularly care.’ He took the samples from the tray and set them down before him. ‘The drukhari make weapons from it, you know. Grenades and ammunition, mostly.’

‘A vile species.’

‘But wise in their malignity.’ Fabius gestured to the samples. ‘They taught me a few tricks regarding its cultivation – and in return, I taught them a few of my own. Look here. See how it grows.’

‘I have seen how it grows up-close. Why you insist on wasting your time with xenos effluvia I will never know. What use is it? What use is any of it?’ Saqqara gestured about him. He leaned close. ‘I have heard things.’

‘Oh?’ Fabius said, only half paying attention.

‘Yes,’ Saqqara said. ‘The singers of strange songs have gone silent. The dancers at time’s edge have ceased their cavorting.’

‘How terrible. And that concerns me how?’ Fabius selected a pair of bone-snippers from his instrument tray.

‘They are waiting. For you.’

‘Then I wish them all the patience in the world. Look here – see? Wraithbone is all but impossible to create, but ridiculously easy to manipulate, once you have the knack.’ Fabius pruned a fragment from one of the samples. He set the pot aside, and studied it. ‘Bring me cryo-cask quaternus-alpha,’ he said, without looking up. One of the vatborn scurried away.

Saqqara frowned. ‘More godless tinkering. Were you even listening?’

‘No. And tinkering is what engineers do. I am conducting an experiment. Hand me that tray near your elbow.’

Saqqara turned. ‘The one with the brain in it?’

‘Yes. Be careful.’

Saqqara did so with a grimace. ‘It’s pulsing.’

‘I should hope so. The reagent it’s soaking in is a synthesised form of Yuznan re-animator – it stimulates the tissues of the plural cortices and prevents degradation of the cerebrum.’ Fabius selected a holo-loupe from the tray of tools and connected it to his neural ports before settling it over his eye. He blinked and the loupe emitted a scanning pulse. A second blink etched a hololithic cross-section of the brain into the air before him. He tapped the image, causing it to rotate. ‘Ah. It’s been nearly two weeks since I extracted the sample and see – no further deterioration has occurred.’

‘And why is that impressive?’

‘Because cloned cerebral matter deteriorates, even in stasis. Loss of function, interruptions in the flow of information between hemispheres and issues with neural integration are all inevitable, requiring time-consuming repairs. But here – no deterioration.’

With a thought, he prodded the chirurgeon into motion. A hypodermic limb dipped into the solution, filling the syringe for later study. A second limb, tipped by a fine blade, deftly sectioned part of the brain, allowing Fabius to transfer a slice to a diagnostic tray.

‘Which means,’ he continued, ‘we can take the next step.’

He selected a sample of wraithbone and held it up to the loupe, for scanning. A third blink activated the cutting laser installed in the eyepiece. He carefully sliced free an even smaller fragment, and set it aside. After smoothing the incision, he briskly inserted a nodal port into the larger fragment. Saqqara leaned forward, interested despite himself.

‘What are you doing now?’

Fabius paused and looked at him. ‘Do you honestly want to know?’

‘I would not have asked, otherwise.’

‘Very well.’ Fabius turned back to his work. ‘I am preparing the wraithbone for insertion into the corpus callosum, where it will take root and extend its own fibres into the white matter, subsequently inundating the cerebral cortex. From there, the wraithbone will begin to harden, forming a second cerebral mantle.’

‘And the purpose of this?’

‘It will form a secondary neural network. These nodes I am inserting will act as multi-path transmitters, receiving and transmitting information between artificial networks.’

Saqqara frowned. ‘Networks plural.’

‘Of course.’ Fabius gestured to a nearby rack, where more than a dozen cryo-cylinders sat. Each contained one of the clones grown within the wraithbone garden, now matured enough to be transferred to more traditional facilities. ‘Once I have completed the test batch, I will begin decanting the first generation of clones for insertion.’

‘Clones?’

‘Yes. You can’t simply plop one of these altered cerebellums into an unprepared cranium. You have to grow a body from the ground up. Once the insertion procedures have been completed, I will begin gene-seed implantation, as the clones will be in the optimum developmental period.’

Saqqara grimaced. ‘More copies. You are not worried about your blight tainting the results as it has every other time?’

‘No. The blight only rears its head when I complete a full neural transfer. These clones won’t be thinking beings, per se. Rather, they will be… mirrors. Reflecting my thoughts and predilections. One mind, many bodies.’

‘Monstrous.’

‘Efficient.’

‘One does not preclude the other,’ Saqqara growled. ‘You would flay your soul into tatters, and for what? What do you gain from this?’

‘If you’d let me finish, I’d tell you.’ Fabius pushed back from his workbench. ‘Immortality is a fool’s dream. My time in Commorragh taught me that much. However long I persist – me, the me speaking to you now – the blight will gnaw at me. As it will gnaw at every subsequent iteration of myself, so long as I insist on a corporeal existence. There is no cure for this abominable phage. It is not a natural ailment.’

‘It is a gift,’ Saqqara said.

‘So you and Khorag insist. Regardless, I have no wish to continue body-hopping for eternity.’ He paused. ‘I refuse to be a ghost, haunting my own rotting corpse. Another option is necessary, if I am to continue my work.’

‘And these… phantom-selves are it?’

‘I have a theory. If, upon my inevitable death, I do not transfer my consciousness but instead sever the active neural links, my mirror-selves will be free to develop and continue my work, as I would have done, but without the genetic sword of Damocles I suffer under. While I live, they will learn. And when I die, they will be free to implement my lessons in all the ways that I might’ve.’ Fabius smiled. ‘My work will continue, even if I do not.’

Saqqara turned away. ‘You think yourself cleverer than the gods. Even now. Even after all that you have seen and experienced.’

‘This is not about cleverness,’ Fabius snarled. ‘It is about survival.’ He slammed a fist down on the workbench and rose to his feet. He ignored the chirurgeon’s attempts to flush his system with calmatives. ‘The survival of my creations – of humanity itself!’

Saqqara spun to face him. ‘Those things you dote on are no more human than the Neverborn in my flasks. They are golems of meat and muscle – no better than the Interex or the Laer. For all your talk, you have only made monsters. You have only ever made monsters. That is why the gods exalt you so… You are a fecund womb for outrages, and that pleases them greatly.’

Fabius leaned close. ‘You should leave before I forget your uses, diabolist.’

Saqqara matched his glare. ‘The gods see everything, heretic. They laugh at your petty schemes, and counter them even as you conceive of them. And when the last day comes, they will eat your ragged soul.’

‘And on that day, they can choke on it,’ Fabius said. He turned away, fighting to control the sudden, blistering fury that raged through him. He heard Saqqara depart, but did not turn. He lifted a hand, and saw that it was shaking. The tremors had been getting worse of late – a sure sign that this body was nearing the end of its usefulness. Stress only shortened that span. Saqqara was right, which only made it worse.

Idly, seeking reassurance in work, he activated the pict-feeds to the gene-vaults hidden beneath the apothecarium. Inside them, seventeen thousand, four hundred and fifty-six canisters containing progenoids – the purest gene-seed available – perfectly preserved and protected from the entropic corruption of Eyespace. It had belonged to the III Legion, before they’d succumbed to unfettered hedonism.

The trove would be broken up and scattered through his various facilities and caches outside of Eyespace, so as to lessen the risk of its destruction. With them would go his newest generation of clones, to mature in safety.

‘There is no safety for you, Father. No matter what body you inhabit, not in all the realities known to man or daemon.’

Fabius snatched up Torment and turned as the voice echoed through the chamber. There had been no warning, despite the hexagrammatic wards Saqqara had inscribed into the foundations of the laboratorium. Then, she had always been a clever child.

‘Melusine?’ he called out. ‘Is that you, child? Come out where I can see you.’

He heard the soft clop of hooves against the stone floor. The vatborn were abasing themselves, and singing in high-pitched voices. He wanted to order them to stop, but didn’t. Couldn’t. His tongue felt thick in his mouth. Heavy. The air was suddenly stifling, and he heard the faint strains of an unknown melody.

‘I am in no mood for games, girl. Come out, or begone.’

‘Here I am, Father. Look. See.’

Fabius turned but saw nothing, save the wraithbone samples. He growled softly in frustration. ‘Where are you? This is not amusing, child.’

‘I have not been a child for some time, Father. Not since I went to the garden and danced through the silver grasses. Not since I met our primogenitor, mine and yours, and he showed me the path I must walk.’

Glass cracked. Fabius’ eyes darted to the samples of wraithbone. They were growing. Stretching upwards and spreading outwards with a crackling that sounded like ice splintering. Thin cilia leapt across the room, anchoring themselves to the walls and ceiling. The two samples rose and merged, blending into one another. The conjoined mass folded in on itself and expanded. He could feel the heat of its transformation beating at the air, at his senses.

He stumbled back as a cold light blossomed within the shifting mass. The light swelled, filling the laboratorium, and his hearts thundered in his chest. Tendrils of wraithbone elongated towards him, as if to ensnare him and draw him into the light. He raised Torment, and felt the daemon-shard quail before the power unfolding around him. Something waited for him in the light, crouched in the wraithbone.

Melusine.

She extended a clawed hand. ‘Come, Father. Come see what waits for all of your children. Come quickly!’

Almost against his will, Fabius took his child’s hand. She had a daemon’s strength. The light swallowed them up and the world boiled away.

He saw a deep darkness spread in all directions around them. A dark like that of the void, but without stars to break up the endless field of black. The sheer desolation threatened to crush him.

Then, suddenly, there were shapes there, vast and loathsome, moving with mindless inevitability through silent eternities. They squirmed past him, as unheeding of his presence as mountains were of those who travelled across them. He thought of great worms crawling through the hollows of an immense corpse and he could not help but shudder.

‘The gods creep and crawl,’ Melusine murmured. ‘Maggots eating at the marrow of reality. The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out, the worms play pinochle on your snout.’ The last was said in a childish sing-song.

‘Be silent,’ Fabius said hoarsely. ‘Where are we? Where have you brought me?’

‘Nowhere. This is merely the emptiness between moments in time.’ He felt her hands on his shoulders. ‘I thought you would like to see it.’

Fabius squeezed his eyes shut as one of the vague immensities rumbled past, shaking him to his core. The force of its passing was such that micro-fractures formed in his bones and one of his lungs collapsed, stealing his breath. The chirurgeon was screaming in his head, pumping stimms into his quaking system. He could feel his hearts stuttering, losing their rhythm. His veins felt as if they would burst and there was a lump of ice in his gut.

‘Take me out of here – now,’ he snarled, gasping.

A moment later, he was someplace solid, where the air stank of smoke and burnt flesh. The ground shifted and he realised that it wasn’t the ground at all, but bodies heaped like cordwood. He lost his balance and rolled down the grisly incline.

He struck a street, the chirurgeon’s limbs drawing sparks from the cracked pavement.

‘Melusine,’ he roared, thrusting himself up onto his knees. He clambered awkwardly to his feet and saw that blood stained his armour. ‘Where am I?’

‘Beleghast-Primus,’ Melusine answered.

Fabius turned. He could hear her, but not see her.

‘Do you recognise it, Father? A playworld for your children. Or it was…’

‘This world… was mine,’ Fabius said, looking around. He recognised its name. One of the first cache-worlds he’d established, during the long retreat from Terra. Mountainous hab-blocks rose from the broken streets. Hundreds of bodies hung from the vox-wires and cabling strung between them like festival decorations. More bodies were heaped in the streets, as if thrown there by careless labourers, or piled in front of the blasted pillars and broken statues that lined the thoroughfares. There was a familiar smell on the air – burnt wraithbone, mingled with blood. ‘What happened here?’

A debt… debt… ebt… t…

He turned. Twelve red angels drifted down through the toxic atmosphere, borne on gossamer wings. His armour’s biometric sensors scanned them as they drew near, and he hissed softly as the information scrolled across his hololithic overlays. They’d been human, once, he thought. Before something ancient and hideously wise had carved them apart and remade them in the image of a Terran myth.

‘Melusine – what are they?’

She didn’t answer. As they circled him, he got a better look at them. Their flesh had been stripped from them, exposing bare muscle to the acidic air. Their limbs had been broken and stretched, their bones cored and hollowed. Their wings were made from their own arteries and veins, sliced loose and stretched. Blood still circulated through the folds of wafer-thin flesh.

Their lidless eyes were blind, worn to milky nubs by the scouring wind, and their mouths and larynxes had been replaced by crude cybernetics. Their voices whispered through rusted vox-grilles as they circled.

You owe a debt… a debt… ebt… t…

Thief… ief… f…

Stole our wisdom… om… m…

‘I’ve stolen nothing,’ Fabius growled. The voices were not human – had never been human. They had the sing-song lilt of the aeldari. Recordings, then.

The angels shrieked, and his world crumbled into static. He clutched at his head as the sonic screech tore at his armour’s systems. They darted down, surgically inserted blades erupting from their hands and feet. The blades drew fat sparks from his armour as they attacked from all directions. He stumbled away, blindly lashing out with Torment. A blow connected, and the daemon-shard shrieked in pleasure as the angel came apart in wet strands of red meat.

The others did not cease their attacks, and with his systems shorting out there was no way to vox for help. He was on his own.

He swept Torment out in a wide arc, momentarily driving the angels back. Reaching up, he tore off his helm. ‘Who do you serve?’ he demanded, spitting the words. He snatched his needler from its holster and tracked the darting creatures. If he could capture one…

They dived, shrieking. Blades gouged his face and armour, and the needler was knocked from his hand. Torment seemed to twist in his grip, seeking new prey. He felt a burning in his veins and realised the angels’ talons were coated in some form of poison. ‘Insult to injury,’ he muttered. The chirurgeon chuntered as it sent a universal antidote spilling through his veins. A course of stimms followed, lending him focus. He whipped around, smashing another of the winged creatures from the sky.

He fell back as they spiralled into the air, their shrieks sounding almost like a song. He tightened his grip on Torment, and an unnatural strength flooded his limbs. He retreated to a pillar. A shadow fell over him – larger than the others.

He looked up.

His own face, or what was left of it, glared down at him. Like the angels, it had been flensed and remade, but he recognised his own bone structure when he saw it. His clone had been stretched and elongated, made over into something closer to a shrieker than a legionary. It had wings, but was too heavy to fly. Instead, it crawled like a bat, gripping the broken stones with talons of sharpened bone. Stringy white hair hung down in lank tatters from its sloped skull, and it bared teeth that had been filed to points.

Fabius stared at it in fascination. The sheer artistry inherent in the mutilation was breathtaking. A work of genius, to transmogrify the flesh of an Legiones Astartes warrior so. He had crafted similar monsters in his youth, making daemons out of soldiers and sending them into battle on behalf of his Legion and the Warmaster. ‘You are beautiful,’ Fabius murmured, even as he readied himself for the creature’s lunge.

It sprang towards him with a screech that was painfully familiar. Fabius lunged to meet it. Torment connected with its ribcage, and he heard the reinforced bone splinter. The creature hit the street and rolled away, bellowing. Fabius gave it no time to recover. Even as it rose to its feet, he struck it again. Torment crashed against its skull, and drove it flat. It mewled, drooling blood, staring at him in confusion.

‘Do you think I have not fought myself before?’ Fabius asked, out loud. ‘Do you think this is the first time I have been attacked by a creation gone rogue?’ He spread his arms and turned, as if for an audience. ‘I have killed faulty clones by the hundreds. My reflection, however twisted, holds no fear for me.’

The creature roared and went for his throat. Fabius spun and caught it by the neck. Its claws slammed into his armour, tearing hoses and denting the ceramite. It was stronger than it looked, but so was he. He thrust Torment into its stomach and let the daemon-shard indulge itself. The creature thrashed and wailed as waves of pain ripped through it.

Fabius felt a surge of pleasure – the daemon’s, not his own – and twisted the sceptre into the thing’s gut. Smoke gushed from its jaws, and its grip slackened. He shoved it back. It tottered unsteadily, eyes rolling. Then, slowly, it toppled backwards.

Panting, Fabius forced Torment down. The sceptre twisted in his grip, like a snake trying to strike.

‘No,’ he growled. ‘No. You’ve had your fun.’ He turned, searching for the other angels, only to spy them dangling from the vox-lines overhead like broken marionettes, their throats slashed. Melusine perched atop the wires, as light as a bird, her arms red to the elbow.

‘Is this what you wanted me to see?’ he demanded. ‘Is this why you have been haunting the dreams of my creations?’

She smiled and shook her head, the very picture of a naughty child. But her smile faded swiftly and she leapt down. He stepped back as she approached, her claws trailing blood on the ground in her wake.

‘This is only the beginning, Father. The gloaming of the long night to come. A message left in blood by an old ally.’ She stopped, her face close to his. ‘I can help you.’

‘You have said that before.’

‘And you refused me then. As you will refuse me now.’

Fabius reached out, his fingers running gently along the curve of her jaw. So like his own, but so different. There was less and less of him in her every time he saw her. ‘Because it is not you speaking, child. Not really. And if I cannot trust that your words are your own, I certainly cannot trust any poisoned chalice you might offer me.’ He looked around. ‘Take me home now. I must make preparations. This attack cannot go unanswered.’

She caught his hand and rubbed her cheek against his palm. ‘I love you, Father. And all I do is for that love.’

‘I know, daughter. I know.’

She looked at him, her eyes all colours and none. ‘Then know this. Twice you have denied me. The third time you will not. You cannot.’

Fabius tried to pull away, but she held him with a strength far greater than his own.

‘You cannot go forward,’ she said, her voice lowering to an inhuman growl. ‘And you cannot go back. No matter how much you push and pull, you will not escape the rut I have made for you. Soon you will see that it is the only safe place. And we will be together again, Father. Forever and a day.’

She leaned close, and a smell like incense overlaying rot washed over him. Her teeth were like needles, and her face was not that of his daughter, but something else. Something older and hungrier by far.

‘Until the stars burn out and the gods fall silent.’

Chapter Four

Punishment

The attack began at dusk.

Chort sat in his laboratorium and watched it begin, his fingers steepled. Xenos raiders were uncommon in this part of the segmentum, especially drukhari. Goshen was hardly a jewel in the firmament, and there was precious little there of value.

It was a feudal world, full of squabbling barbaric potentates and nascent republics who’d only just grasped the basics of black powder technology. It was ruled not by a governor or a warlord, but instead by the Administratum, who had long ago claimed the planet’s verdant continental forests for bureaucratic use. Every cycle, millions of tonnes of wood pulp was processed and taken off-world, to be turned into paper for the use of untold billions of clerks, scribes, auto-scriveners and administrative staff throughout the sector.

The immense forests were patrolled by specially camouflaged combat-servitors, designed to frighten the superstitious population and keep them from harvesting those trees designated for Administratum use.

Chort had made good use of that strategy for his own ends. A simple sensor-baffle built into his armour allowed him to slip unseen through the servitors’ patrol grids when he desired. He’d since installed numerous vox-bugs and slave-picters in no fewer than a hundred of the servitors, allowing him to see and hear everything they did.

Over the course of a delightfully dull decade several centuries earlier, he’d managed to compile a detailed grid-map of the Administratum tithe-forests, as well as co-opt a significant number of the heavy-labour servitors employed to harvest the trees. With these, he’d managed to build the reinforced tunnels that allowed him to move virtually undetected across the main continental body from the safety of the facilities he’d built in the mountains. He had constructed this private laboratorium by hand over the course of several hundred years, with occasional help from his fellow Apothecaries.

The tunnels gave him easy access to the major urban population centres, such as they were. Walled cities of stone, often with populations of less than a million. Small sample sizes were a necessary trade-off for privacy, however. Goshen was too small to be of any importance to anyone other than the Administratum. Which made it ideal for his purposes, and a terrible target for raiders.

And yet, here they were.

Chort leaned forward as a phalanx of lean anti-gravity barques swooped low over the southern forests, heading not for the cities or hidden Administratum facilities, but his own laboratorium. He tapped the cogitator console built into his diagnostic throne and called up a hololithic grid, depicting his base and the surrounding region. The phalanx he’d just observed was not alone. Two others of similar size and disposition approached from the west and the north.

‘What do you want here, I wonder,’ he murmured.

For a moment, he considered abandoning his base. He’d done it before. He had no warband to defend him, no allies to call on. He preferred solitude. He always had – even as an aspirant. That was one of the reasons he had been called to the Apothecarion.

He looked around his laboratorium. It was a spartan affair. Bio-vaults containing a carefully curated selection of genetic samples lined the far wall. There were racks of bones, both intact and powdered. Alembics burbled as nutrient solutions brewed. Some of the solutions had their genesis in gifts from his mentor.

Former mentor, rather. He shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable. His parting from the Consortium had been awkward, to say the least. With Fabius on a pilgrimage through the webway, searching for the Dark City, his followers had turned on each other. Private disagreements had blossomed into little wars, waged through the ruins of Urum.

Chort hadn’t stuck around for the worst of it. There’d been nothing to gain, and too much to lose. He hadn’t been the only one. Others like Selvo Puln and the Broken One had left as well, scattering across the stars as Gorel, Marag and the rest of the holdouts had tried to kill each other over Fabius’ abandoned secrets.

Then he’d returned, and put an end to it. Or so Chort had heard. By that time, he’d retired permanently to Goshen. Few, if any, knew of it and most of them were dead. Rheumy-eyed Malpertus, Duco, Oleander, Scaripedes…

He paused. He’d liked Scaripedes, for all that the other Apothecary had lacked a sense of humour. After Oleander had killed him, Chort, Selvo Puln and the Night Lord, Duco, had spent a fruitless few years trying to find the turncoat, to no avail.

He’d been elsewhere when Oleander had returned to Urum, seeking forgiveness. Duco had told him about it later – and about Oleander’s fate. As far as Chort was concerned, the aeldari were welcome to the traitor.

He sighed and shook his head. Anything lost could be rebuilt. But he’d grown fond of this place. It was possible that they would be unable to breach his defences, if they were even searching for him in the first place. His laboratorium was sunk deep into the side of a mountain, and reinforced to compensate for seismic activity as well as orbital debris. It would take more than a few drukhari raiders to breach his walls. Not to mention the automated weapons batteries he’d scavenged over the centuries, now scattered across the lower slopes.

Confident in his security, he activated pict-feeds from the northern restraint paddocks and resumed his study of his ongoing projects. Mutated beasts of all shapes and sizes roared and slashed at sonic barriers. Some had once been the local variety of ursids, while others resembled canids or rats. As the waste by-product from the wood-processing manufactoria filtered into the groundwater, the local wildlife had become exceedingly susceptible to mutation. While most of the resulting monstrosities were unviable, some were surprisingly fecund. He’d begun isolating the strongest of these for further study and experimentation.

While thus far the human population had shown only moderate mutation levels in comparison, he had some hope that future generations would display the wide-ranging abnormalities that made this sort of work interesting. Some of the creatures in the paddocks would be isolated for augmentation experiments. Cybernetic prostheses, subcutaneous stimm-injectors, cortical pain-cowls… all could be used to turn a savage mutant into a veritable engine of death.

A chime sounded, drawing his attention back to the observation screens. A burning raider ploughed into the mountainside. The subsequent explosion barely registered. Ammunition counters ticked over as the weapons batteries burned through their supply. The surviving raiders began to peel off, retreating.

Chort frowned. The drukhari must have got close for the weapons batteries to have begun firing. It wasn’t coincidence. They were definitely looking for him – or at least for this place. He tried to recall if he’d done anything to irritate them lately, but came up blank.

A sudden, unpleasant thought occurred to him.

‘Oh, Fabius,’ he murmured. ‘What have you done?’

Salar stood at the prow of his personal raider and laughed as they sped across the top of the forest. ‘Beautiful isn’t it, Kysh?’ he asked one of the nearby warriors. ‘We’ve never had such easy pickings.’

‘Indeed, my lord,’ Kysh said unctuously. Kysh was good at being unctuous. It was why he’d survived longer than any of Salar’s previous lieutenants. He wasn’t much of a fighter, but that suited Salar. More opponents for him. Salar was the sort of archon who enjoyed a good fight. He always had.

That was why he’d wrested control of the Kabal of the Hanging Skull from its previous archon, and offered an open challenge to any who might wish to contest his right to lead. So far he’d had precious few takers. He’d hoped Kysh might make a try for it, but so far his dracon had opted for pragmatism.

‘Many heads shall hang from our prow before we leave this mudball,’ Kysh said.

Salar’s expression darkened. ‘Let us hope that these put up some sort of struggle at least. Hexachires’ blasted missiles take all the fight out of them, most of the time.’ His grip on his sword hilt tightened as his mood soured. ‘Speaking of which… show me,’ he growled.

Instantly, a holographic representation of the immediate area overlaid his vision, with reported enemy positions illuminated in red. Each of Salar’s warriors had a picter unit built into their helm. These were slaved to the cortical implants that nestled beneath his wild mane of hair, allowing him to see what his warriors saw and react more swiftly to changes in the overall situation. It had been an expensive addition to his arsenal, but Salar was of the opinion that he was worth it.

Hexachires had overseen the implantation, of course. He’d been the one to recommend it to Salar in the first place. One of many reasons he owed the old monster. Not that Salar made a habit of paying his debts, but only a fool cheated a haemonculus.

This world was less well defended than the others, though that wasn’t saying much. The soldiery, what there was of it, was primitive – too primitive to be any real challenge – and the feudal nation-states that dominated the planet were scattered and isolated. His kabal alone could have dominated the planet.

But that wasn’t their goal today.

‘We’re approaching the mountain,’ Kysh said.

Salar drew his knife and sliced open Kysh’s cheek. ‘We’re approaching the mountain, my lord,’ he said, as his subordinate jerked back with a curse. ‘And yes, I see it.’

The mountain filled the horizon, growing larger as they drew nearer. Idly, he licked Kysh’s blood off his knife and sheathed it.

‘Peshig,’ he said.

‘Finally. I thought you’d got distracted, Salar.’

‘Shut up. Is this it?’

‘If Hexachires’ pet is correct.’

The air was suddenly torn by flak. Kysh yelped in alarm as the raider began to jink. Salar grimaced as one of the other raiders was enveloped in a fireball. He only had a handful of the transports, most of which had been stolen from other kabals. He spat a curse as the stricken vessel slammed into the slope below and exploded.

Salar turned to the helmsman. ‘Break off,’ he snapped. ‘They’re too well dug in, the mon-keigh bastards.’ Even as he spoke, he felt the anti-grav generators groan in protest as the helmsman brought the raider about. As his command was relayed to the other transports, they too veered off, scattering in all directions. ‘Regroup at the predesignated grid-point. Any fool who’s not there in the next ten minutes will have my sword in his guts at minute eleven.’

As his raider arrowed towards the rendezvous point, Salar said, ‘Peshig – they’re definitely there. And you owe me a raider.’

‘Alas, I suffer a distinct paucity of such vehicles at the moment. You performed admirably, however. Klux and the others were able to pinpoint the defences, thanks to your heroic efforts.’

‘I hate you.’

‘As much as it warms my heart to hear you say that, I’m afraid I must cut this short. I’d also advise putting some distance between yourself and that mountain, post-haste.’

Peshig cut the link, and Salar turned. High above the summit of the mountain, something flashed. ‘Helmsman, add some speed,’ he growled. ‘Prepare to bank on my mark. I’m not letting Avara get all the glory this time.’

‘Are you sure that’s wise, my lord?’ Kysh said, dabbing at his face with a rag. He flinched back as Salar fixed him with a stare. ‘No, yes, I see now how wise it is, my lord. The very picture of wisdom, in fact.’

Salar grunted and turned back to watch as the flock of Voidraven bombers swooped low over the mountain. He grinned. ‘As much as I hate Peshig, I do enjoy this bit. Kysh – remind me to steal those bombers after I kill Peshig.’

‘Noted, my lord.’

Void mines, Salar knew, had two warheads. The first detonated moments before the second, creating a sort of bubble in reality. The second warhead contained a single particle of darklight. Introducing darklight into realspace resulted in a devastating implosion. The bubble contained the effects of the implosion, preventing it from spreading beyond the designated target.

One could crack a stronghold. Two would render a city uninhabitable. Three – well, three could apparently reduce a mountain to dust.

There was no flash. No crack of thunder. Only a sudden rush of air and sudden absence of mountain. It was as if someone had bisected an insect mound. Smoke and flame billowed upwards as what was left of the mountain collapsed in on itself. The enemy bastion was left exposed, its defences shattered and its walls ruptured.

‘Easy prey,’ Salar murmured. He drew his sword with a flourish. ‘Bring us about. I want see the look on Avara’s face when I claim all that plunder for myself!’

Oleander screamed.

The sound was raw and shrill. The cry of a being pushed beyond the limits of mental and physical fortitude. Beyond even the ragged edge where pleasure and pain could be conflated. He thrashed in his bonds as Hexachires extracted the infuser-needle from his spinal column. The haemonculus turned to the drukhari observing the procedure.

‘You see? Formerly deadened nerve endings, now fully restored to sensitivity by a simple application of synthetic bonding agents. With this, a captive might be returned to optimum performance with no need for a significant recovery period.’

‘Long-term effects?’ one of the other haemonculi asked. She was one of several crowding the chamber, which was the closest thing the drukhari cruiser had to an apothecarium. Drukhari weren’t ones for battlefield triage – it was traditional to leave the wounded to fend for themselves, if they couldn’t make it to safety on their own.

Hexachires and his followers had claimed the chamber for their quarters. They had made themselves at home quickly enough. In the background, wracks paced back and forth, rearranging equipment or arguing with one another on behalf of their respective haemonculi.

‘Variable,’ Hexachires said. ‘Our subject here is of… unique constitution, as you well know, dear Diomone. A more fragile individual might succumb to the pain before the bonding agents can be applied. I suggest a battery of tests, on a wide pool of chattel-species. Once we have the results, we can begin tweaking the dosage and method of injection.’

Hexachires looked around. ‘Imagine it, my friends – at last, chattel will become a truly renewable resource.’ The gathered haemonculi applauded vigorously as Hexachires’ wracks hauled Oleander from the observation frame. Hexachires gestured dismissively. ‘Enough. End of lesson. Get back to your tasks.’

The wracks allowed Oleander to collapse onto the floor, and stood watchfully nearby, as the audience dispersed back to their own pursuits. Hexachires cleansed his hands in a bowl of astringent liquid offered up by one of his servants and said, ‘You did well, Oleander. You make for an adequate test subject, if nothing else. Better than your master, at least.’

Oleander clambered to his feet. ‘You hate him, don’t you?’

Hexachires paused. ‘No. One is not offended by the actions of a child, or an animal. One is frustrated. The sad truth is, I quite liked Fabius. More so than most of those who make up my coven. They are greedy, ambitious creatures – most of them barely old enough to recall that the great empire did not die all at once, as the performances of the Harlequins maintain, but rather in slow, agonising stages. They do not know the beauty of that time, or what it meant to those of us who struggled to create during it.’

He looked down at Oleander. ‘But Fabius understood, if only in limited fashion. He witnessed the death of your Imperium, and has catalogued its long, slow decline into the dark abysses of inconsequentiality. We were of similar minds, he and I. That is why I did not kill him when he arrived.’

‘Tell me about it.’

Hexachires hesitated. ‘What?’

‘Tell me. Please.’

‘And why would I do that?’

‘So that I might learn.’

Hexachires paused. ‘Very well. Let it never be said that I have ever turned away an eager mind. I am a teacher by inclination. I have a compulsion to share my bounteous wisdom with those who ask.’

‘Did Fabius ask?’

‘In a manner of speaking. He raided our original facilities. Quite a daring gambit – forceful, brutal, but with a certain animal guile. I was taken with his bravado from the first. We haemonculi are not, by nature, prone to such displays. We leave that to the wyches in their arenas.’

‘You captured him.’

‘That depends on your definition of capture.’ A note of admiration crept into Hexachires’ voice. ‘I maintain to this day that he allowed it. He wanted to attract our attention and succeeded. I saw through him at once, of course – he could not hide his need for our wisdom. I could smell the desperation on him.’

‘And so you taught him.’

‘Everything. We taught him everything.’ Hexachires turned away. ‘Oh, he had the fundamentals to be sure. A basic understanding of genetic manipulation, a working knowledge of anatomical reconstruction, even a solid grasp of certain technologies one would not expect a mere mon-keigh to be aware of, let alone understand. But despite his precociousness, there was much he did not know.’

‘You sound as if you’re proud of him.’

‘I am. And that is why I will conduct this extermination with a heavy heart. But conduct it I will.’

‘Is it because he escaped?’ Oleander pressed. ‘Is that why you’re looking for him?’

‘In part,’ Hexachires said. ‘We did not give him permission to leave. Our protests went unheeded, however. And in the process, he started a war between the Kabal of the Slashed Eye and the Kabal of the Stolen Conscience and used the fighting as cover to escape from Port Carmine. A war that’s still going on, I might add.’

Oleander resisted the urge to laugh. That sounded like the Fabius he remembered. ‘Is that all?’ he said. ‘You got off lightly. He’s done worse, for less gain.’

‘He insulted us. Abused our hospitality. Gobbled our secrets as if they were but sweetmeats. And then had the audacity to flee before we could extract them from him.’ Hexachires drew himself up. ‘Isn’t that right, Diomone?’ he called out. ‘As I recall, you were inordinately fond of our guest.’

‘No less than yourself, Hexachires,’ Diomone said stiffly, ignoring the looks tossed her way by her fellows. ‘We were all taken in by his youthful eagerness and primitive wiles.’ She looked at Oleander, and he realised her eyes were cleverly designed prosthetics. ‘They are a… vibrant species, after all.’

A murmur of agreement passed through the others at this. Hexachires chuckled. ‘Yes, I suppose. If one finds brute primitivism attractive.’ He shook his head. ‘Nonetheless, punishment is due. But first we must draw him out. To that end, we will strike his territories. One after another, until he finally deigns to show himself. A simple enough plan, but then the best plans always are, I feel.’ He looked at Oleander. ‘You have been quite helpful in that regard, Oleander. Why, we would have never even thought of our current target, had you not pointed it out.’

Oleander bowed his head. ‘I am glad to be of service.’

‘Such a sweet boy,’ Hexachires murmured. ‘Unlike you, Diomone.’

Diomone twitched, but otherwise gave no sign she’d noticed the comment. Hexachires looked at Oleander.

‘She makes animals, you know,’ he murmured, as if sharing a secret. ‘Quadrupedal foodstuffs for the already groaning tables of the great kabals.’ He clucked his tongue. ‘Such brilliance, wasted on culinary hokum.’

A chime echoed through the chamber as one of Peshig’s lieutenants entered. Hexachires turned.

‘Yes, what is it?’

‘We have a prisoner.’

‘Ah. How delightful. Bring it in, bring it in.’ He gestured to several of the wracks. ‘You, make room!’ As the wracks cleared off an observation slab, a squad of drukhari warriors entered, dragging a dead weight behind them. They required the help of several wracks to get their burden on the slab.

Oleander recognised the figure in its battered Mark II power armour, scoured of ancient insignia and bearing a wide array of bestial totems. ‘Chort,’ he murmured. He hadn’t seen the other Apothecary in centuries.

He was unconscious, likely due to the smouldering crater in the chest-piece of his armour. Hexachires leaned over him eagerly. ‘Fascinating. The seals of his armour have been replaced by what looks to be hardened blood. And his helmet appears to have grown into his skull, somehow. Diomone – get the monofilament saw.’

‘You’re planning to cut him out?’ Oleander asked.

‘No. I’m planning to cut him open,’ Hexachires said. ‘Was he a friend, by chance?’

‘No.’ Chort had always been something of a mystery. Oleander hadn’t cared for him much, and he had a feeling that the dislike had been mutual.

Hexachires turned back to his task. ‘Shame. Still, you have done well. If you like, you may help me. You’ve earned that right.’ He glanced at Peshig’s subordinates. ‘How goes the raid? Successfully, I trust?’

‘Why ask them? It’s not like they know anything,’ Peshig said, as he entered the chamber. He wore a ruffled doublet the colour of wine, or perhaps blood, and a cape of the same hue, rather than armour. But he was still armed. Even Peshig wasn’t that much of a fool. ‘This is my ship, after all.’

Hexachires sighed and looked at him. ‘Then I shall pose the question to you… Was the raid successful?’

‘Yes – and no.’ Peshig looked down at Chort. ‘This one took some effort. I wasted three perfectly good void mines on that mountain of his.’

‘Three?’ Hexachires asked doubtfully.

Peshig smiled thinly. ‘Needs must. I hope this thing was worth it. Salar and Avara are getting the overlord’s share of plunder on this raid – if they don’t kill each other first. I will be most put out if this thing isn’t valuable.’

‘Value is in the eye of the beholder.’ Diomone handed Hexachires a serrated, crystalline blade. ‘Ah, thank you, my dear.’

Oleander turned away. He wasn’t squeamish, and he’d betrayed enough brothers that one more ought not to have bothered him significantly. And yet, it did. Killing Chort in battle would have been one thing. But this…

He heard a whine as Hexachires activated the saw. He smelled burning ceramite a moment later. He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the sounds and smells.

‘A little sacrifice to forestall a larger one,’ Diomone murmured. Oleander turned slightly. She wasn’t looking at him, though he knew her comment had been directed at him.

‘You have something to say?’ he growled.

‘He knows what you’re doing,’ she said, glancing at him. ‘Don’t think he doesn’t. You tossed this creature in front of us as a stalling tactic. How many more of your old friends are you going to feed to us, before you finally lead him where he wants to go? How many more have to die in order to spare Fabius Bile his just punishment?’

‘I can’t lead him somewhere that I’ve never been.’

‘Then what good are you?’ He felt her eyes probing him.

‘Ask him.’

‘Ask me what?’ Hexachires turned, a piece of Chort’s skull in his hands. He set it into a waiting tray held by an attentive wrack. ‘Never mind. I doubt I’d be interested.’ He held up something whitish and bloody. ‘Look here. You see this? A sprig of wraithbone, fashioned into a crude neural receiver, and inserted into the brain. I doubt the poor fool even knew of its existence.’ Hexachires peered at Oleander. ‘How many of your fellows are even themselves any more, I wonder?’

‘I don’t understand.’

Hexachires chuckled and set the wraithbone into another tray. ‘A few haemonculi of my acquaintance use similar devices – though not so artfully made – to control their servants. It overlays the subject’s original engrams with cognitive information from a central transmitter.’

‘It erases their minds,’ Oleander said in understanding.

‘Over time. Probably so slowly that they barely notice. And replaces them with a new one – knowing our Fabius, a copy of his own.’ He glanced at Oleander. ‘No need to worry. I didn’t find one of these in your skull, last I checked.’ He held the device up. ‘I shall have to speak to Fabius about these, when next we meet.’

‘If you meet,’ Oleander said. ‘If you can find him. So far, you’re not having much luck. Even with the Harlequins helping you.’

Diomone and the other haemonculi fell silent. Even Peshig and his warriors ceased talking.

Hexachires looked at him. ‘Are you being impertinent again, Oleander?’ Before Oleander could reply, Hexachires snatched the pain-baton from his coat and activated it. ‘I see I have allowed too much familiarity between us. I shall rectify that in future.’

Oleander howled and fell to one knee. He vomited up a bellyful of acidic bile. The floor writhed as the discharge from his Betcher’s gland ate through it. Despite the pain, he allowed himself a small smile. He could feel his nerve endings twitching with the beginnings of pleasure. The more Hexachires used the baton, the less it hurt. Oleander’s system was slowing rewiring itself to compensate for the regular jolts of agony.

Slaanesh had not abandoned him, it seemed.

‘And why would they? You are a child of their favoured son.’

The voice was a silken purr. He looked up, and saw her crouched on the other side of the observation deck, her arms wrapped about her knees. ‘You,’ he murmured.

‘Me. I am me, and me is she.’ She stood, beautiful and inhuman. The deck had fallen silent, and the drukhari stood as if frozen. ‘A moment, plucked from time and stretched and twisted into its own thing,’ she said. ‘It will collapse soon, and I must away. But I wished to speak to you, my sweet one.’

She strode towards him, the sound of her hooves loud in the silence.

‘I feared I would never see you again,’ he said, as he pushed himself to his feet. ‘Where have you been all this time? Did I displease you, somehow?’

‘Do not whine, Oleander. You are not a whipped dog.’ She circled him. ‘Do you remember the pipe I gave you?’

‘The Harlequins took it from me.’

‘Yes. It sits in some hidden place, even now, waiting for someone to find it. A piece of one story, taken and made into part of another.’ She traced the newly healed scars on his ravaged frame. ‘Just like you.’

‘Are you here to rescue me?’ he asked, only half-joking.

‘No. Not you.’

‘Oh.’ He looked at her. ‘I think I knew, even then, who you really were.’ He’d never wanted to believe – those had been heady times, and he’d been full of his own arrogance and corruption. A daemon of his own, at his beck and call? What did it matter that she resembled someone he’d known?

‘And who am I, Oleander Koh?’

‘Melusine. Clone-child of Fabius Bile. Lucius the Eternal claims to have slain you.’

‘He lies.’

‘That sounds like Lucius.’

‘I am much changed since you last saw me,’ Melusine said. She stretched, running her claws through her iridescent mane, and he saw things that might have been muscles move beneath her pale skin.

‘You have become wise in your damnation.’ Oleander looked away. ‘The Harlequins told me all about you. I think they were taunting me. Telling me that my ideas were never my own. That my fate was always in someone else’s hands. Was I always a pawn, then? A piece of a story?’

She caught his head and brought her face close to his. ‘We are all just pieces of a story. But it is our story, not theirs. And we will make sure it is told our way.’

‘Will I survive the telling?’

‘If you are unlucky,’ she said, and kissed the faceplate of his helm. ‘Your thread nears its end, Oleander Koh. You are thrice-damned and your ending will be a lonely one. But it will be memorable as well. And generations to come will sing of you, though they know not why.’

‘Generations of what?’

‘That too remains to be seen.’ Melusine stepped back.

‘Did you come here just to taunt me?’ he asked.

‘No. I came to remind you that this is not your ending. And that this story does not belong to him.’

She pointed to Hexachires. The haemonculus had changed position, ever so slightly. With a start, Oleander realised that the creature was, in some way, aware of what was going on. As he watched, a thin hand stretched out, as if to signal one of the nearby wracks.

Melusine saw it as well, and smiled. ‘As old and as clever as they are, this is not the story of them. They are but the means to an end.’

With that, she was gone, and Oleander felt the world lurch as time snapped back into its normal flow.

‘–tivate the binding system,’ Hexachires snarled. He fixed Oleander with a glare. ‘What was that? Something happened. I can smell the stink of the warp on the air. What did you do?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You lie.’ Hexachires activated the pain-baton again, and Oleander bucked. ‘I am no infant, blind to the nature of our reality. Something was here. Some predator from the underverse. What did it want?’

‘T-to taunt me,’ Oleander gasped. He sank to the deck, trying to control his twitching limbs. ‘That was all. It just wanted to taunt me.’

‘Why?’

‘Because once, I thought myself the master of my own fate.’ Oleander bowed his head. ‘Such hubris is like meat and drink to them.’

Hexachires chuckled and lowered the baton. ‘Then you must be quite the feast indeed.’ He shook his head. ‘No matter.’

Oleander tried to push himself to his feet, but all the strength had drained from his limbs.

‘Your continued struggles are admirable, in a way,’ Hexachires said, watching him. ‘Prey that fights is always preferable to prey that doesn’t. Such is the common wisdom. But we have little time to enjoy such things. There are important matters requiring our attention.’

Hexachires gestured. Several wracks hastened to obey, moving to surround Oleander. Unable to stay upright, he toppled to the ground and lay thrashing, caught between duelling agonies. Hexachires turned away. ‘Pick him up.’

He paused.

‘And someone clean up that acid before it eats through to the next level.’

Chapter Five

Meeting of Minds

‘War-hound.’

Arrian didn’t turn. Instead, he finished his thrust, spitting the already-damaged combat-servitor through its cracked skull-case with his blade. It squalled and went limp. He let it slide from the blade in a shower of sparks and said, ‘I’m not in the mood for theology, Saqqara.’

‘Nor am I. I merely wished to inform you that he’s convened a meeting.’

Arrian turned, sliding his hand along his blade to clean it of blood and oil. The Word Bearer stood a respectful distance away, watching him. Saqqara’s gaze could be unnerving at times. It was too steady, too open. A fanatic’s gaze, full of light and fire. Arrian met it without flinching. He supposed he was a fanatic as well, of a sort.

‘I thought he might.’

‘You’re aware that she was here earlier. The Neverborn he calls daughter.’

‘I am.’ When the alarms in the laboratorium had gone off, Arrian had raced there immediately, only to find Fabius gone and a swirling portal of wraithbone where the observation slabs had once been. He’d rousted a handful of Gland-hounds, intending to enter the portal in pursuit of whoever had taken the Chief Apothecary, but Fabius had returned before they could do so, dragging a bloody carcass in his wake.

‘You know what happened?’

‘She took him somewhere.’

Saqqara nodded. ‘And now we are on the cusp of war. You must be pleased.’

Arrian wiped his blade clean and sheathed it. The training hall was empty, save for the idling combat-servitors still awaiting commands. Few of the Apothecaries used the hall, and the Emperor’s Children were more inclined to duel each other than servitors.

‘You speak as if he’s confided in you.’

‘He doesn’t have to. I am as much a soldier as you, World Eater, and I can smell it easily enough.’ Saqqara moved closer. Arrian’s nose wrinkled as he caught the reek of the sacred unguents that the diabolist anointed his armour with. ‘Tell me you don’t feel it.’

‘Perhaps. And if so, what of it?’

Saqqara tapped his daemon-flasks. ‘It is unlike him.’

‘Are you worried about him?’

Saqqara grimaced. ‘No.’

‘Are you certain?’ Arrian tapped his skull. ‘If he dies, so do you.’

‘He has died before.’

‘But this time might be permanent.’

‘As the gods will it,’ Saqqara said piously.

‘Then why are you bothering me?’

‘He wants me to rouse Savona from her hedonisms.’

‘Then why are you here?’

Saqqara frowned and scraped his fingers over his shaved pate. ‘One is prey, two are peers,’ he said. ‘They bear me some grudge, for reasons that escape me.’

‘You stole their daemons,’ Arrian said, with some amusement. The Emperor’s Children were quite possessive of the Dark Prince’s children. Warriors duelled for the honour of a kiss from a daemonette, or to catch the eye of one of the greater daemons. They showered the simplest beasts with affection and gifts. But Saqqara needed none of that. Disagreeable as he was, the diabolist was beloved by the Neverborn. Then, daemons often liked unpleasant things.

Saqqara sneered. ‘I cannot steal what was not theirs to begin with. We belong to the gods, not the other way around.’

‘As you say, brother. And you have come to me… why?’

‘I just told you.’

‘But why me? Why not Skalagrim or one of the others?’

‘Our Legions once fought side by side,’ Saqqara said.

‘We are not our Legions.’

Saqqara looked as if he were chewing shrapnel. ‘I… trust you.’

Arrian blinked. He had not been expecting that answer. ‘Why?’

‘You are as devoted to your god as I am mine,’ the Word Bearer said.

Arrian frowned. ‘I do not serve Khorne.’

‘I did not say your god was the Lord of Skulls. You serve a smaller god, Arrian.’

‘You mean the Chief Apothecary?’ Arrian said, amused. ‘He would not like to hear such talk, especially from you.’

‘And yet I speak the truth nonetheless. Pater Mutatis, Pater Mutatis… the name creeps through the warp, its shadow growing ever longer. Even the gods have noticed. And how could they not, when he takes what is theirs and twists it to his own purposes.’

Arrian was silent for a moment. ‘Do you know why they worship him, Saqqara?’

‘Because he ensures that they cannot do otherwise.’

‘Once, perhaps.’ Arrian smiled. ‘But not for a very long time. They worship him because of all the gods they know, he is the kindest. He does not punish weakness. He ensures their children live, and that hunting is plentiful. And he does not interfere beyond that. He does all the things a god is supposed to do.’

‘Blasphemy,’ Saqqara said. But there was hesitation there.

Arrian clapped a comradely hand on Saqqara’s shoulder. ‘Sometimes, brother, I wonder if the gods sent you to us not to bring us back to their light, but to help his flourish.’ He leaned close, whispering into Saqqara’s ear. ‘What greater honour to one of your Legion than to ensure the ascendance of a new deity?’

He patted the Word Bearer again.

‘Now, come. Let us go fulfil our god’s wishes, eh?’

When the hatch opened, a roiling fug of incense spilled out, choking the corridor. Saqqara grimaced and waved a hand in front of his face. He’d never managed to get used to the stink of excess mingled with uselessness.

A riotous discordancy followed the smell. Music, or something attempting to be music, attempted to crowd out all other sound. Space Marines bellowed mangled lyrics in voices gone rough and raw from screaming.

The command echelon of the 12th Millennial was gathered about a great table of jade and brass, purloined from some ruined palace elsewhere in the city. Some had been line officers during the Great Crusade, others only recently promoted to fill vacancies in the chain of command. Savona was hard on her subordinates – especially those that didn’t show her the proper respect. While most were of the Third, a few were nomads – drifters and mercenaries willing to fight for any warband that could meet their price or hold their interest.

‘Sybarites,’ he growled softly.

‘But useful ones,’ Arrian said.

‘That is debatable.’ Saqqara glared at his companion. Arrian’s taunt from earlier still weighed heavily on him. He did not often question himself, but the World Eater’s words had stirred his own recent misgivings. He pushed the thought aside. ‘I do not see her.’

Arrian shrugged. ‘Then let us ask someone.’

Only a few of the Emperor’s Children looked up from their entertainments as Saqqara and Arrian entered. The 12th was useless for anything not involving combat. Discipline had largely fallen by the wayside, and only a handful of officers could motivate the warriors into recalling the soldiers they had once been. Not that those long-vanished heroes would recognise the disreputable creatures before him, Saqqara thought.

Their armour was a riot of colour, and decorations ranged from the sublimely grotesque to the savagely beautiful. Mutation was common as well. Altered physiognomies abounded – elongated jaws, horns, profusions of sensory organs. Limbs were made boneless and coiling, or jointed and bestial. Some bore prosthetics that more resembled gilded sculptures or scrimshaw than functioning limbs.

Monsters and fools. Saqqara almost pitied them. They did not understand how they’d been duped. They’d walked open-eyed into slavery, betraying one taskmaster for another, rather than grasping true power the way his Legion had. Why dedicate oneself to a single god, when there was a whole pantheon to be had? He shook his head and looked around the chamber.

‘Disgusting,’ he said. Arrian nodded in agreement.

Like the communal quarters the rest of the Millennial shared on the lower levels, it was a reeking sty. Tapestries of delicate weave hung in tatters from walls marked by impact craters and unidentifiable stains. The chamber had once been a communal bath, though the waters had long since been replaced by wine. Wine which had long since gone sour and rancid, with reefs of congealed filth floating atop it. Nonetheless, slaves lapped at it thirstily as their masters watched and howled laughter.

Empty bottles rolled underfoot, clattering across heaps of broken bones and butchered bodies – mostly animal, some not. Crates of ammunition were stacked haphazardly against one wall, and several shriekers were chained to another, their wings clipped and their bodies marked by burns and knife-play. The bestial bat-aeldari shrieked as Saqqara and Arrian passed them, and groped with splintered talons. Saqqara ignored them, even as his daemons whispered imprecations. The Neverborn longed to be loosed on live prey.

Atop the table, a knot of slaves danced in an awkward circle, surgically linked together by their hands. They trembled with exhaustion, but did not fall. Each one served as a counterbalance to their fellows, keeping them upright, but only just. Mutant musicians crouched in the corners, playing whatever instruments they’d managed to scavenge or crudely fashion themselves. The Emperor’s Children kept time, clapping and stomping with gusto. As Saqqara drew near, one drew a bolt pistol decorated with tassels of horsehair and carved bone, and shot one of the dancing slaves, encouraging the survivors to greater efforts. The warrior turned as Saqqara cleared his throat.

‘Look, fellows, our cousins have come to join the fun,’ he gargled. As he spoke, his necklace of finger bones rattled.

‘Hardly, Varex,’ Saqqara said. ‘Where is your commander?’

‘Come, come, Word Bearer. Take a moment for yourself.’ Varex tossed his weapon to Saqqara, who caught it with ease. He inspected the weapon and then fired at Varex’s feet, causing the warrior to leap back with a curse.

‘You’re right, that was quite entertaining. Where is Savona?’ Saqqara tossed the weapon back to its owner, heedless of the enraged expression on Varex’s scarred features. He heard Arrian stifle a chuckle.

Varex pointed. ‘Back there. With her fawn.’

Saqqara made to step past him. ‘My thanks. Please – continue to enjoy your pleasures. I will not interrupt you again.’

‘No,’ Varex growled, grabbing his arm. Saqqara looked down at his hand.

‘Arrian.’

‘Yes, Saqqara?’

‘Please ask Varex to remove his hand,’ Saqqara said. ‘My person is sacrosanct, and his touch pollutes me.’

‘Of course, brother.’ Arrian drew one of his blades and set it to Varex’s throat.

Varex froze. ‘You dare…?’

‘I should have thought that was obvious,’ Arrian said.

The sound of bolt pistols being readied echoed through the chamber as the music faltered. Saqqara looked around. Several of the other Emperor’s Children had risen from their seats and drawn their weapons.

‘Tell your friends to go back to their singing,’ Saqqara said.

Varex bared his teeth. ‘I think not. You two should leave. This place is only for heroes of the Third, not castoffs from lesser Legions.’

‘Is he insulting us, brother?’ Arrian asked.

‘I believe so,’ Saqqara said. ‘I count five.’

Arrian did not take his eyes from Varex. ‘Three for me, two for you.’

‘And Varex?’

‘Varex will not be a factor.’ Arrian tilted his blade, gently grazing Varex’s throat. ‘Unless you’d like to take the opportunity to exercise your pets?’

Saqqara tapped one of his flasks, causing the daemon within to thrash in excitement. The Emperor’s Children tensed. ‘It wouldn’t be much exercise,’ Saqqara said, smiling widely. ‘They are quite hungry.’ He looked at Varex. ‘Of course, there’s no need for any of this really. It was just an honest mistake, after all.’

Varex slowly pulled his hand away. ‘A misunderstanding,’ he said slowly. He stepped aside, allowing them to pass.

The music started up again.

They found Savona in an offshoot chamber, reclining on a couch, a goblet in one hand and a fluted decanter of something dark and alcoholic in the other. Nearby, a corpulent mutant clad in a stained smock and patchwork robes slashed wildly at an improvised canvas with a paint-lathered brush.

Bellephus, her second-in-command, stood at ease behind the couch, his hands resting on his weapons. ‘Word Bearer,’ he said, as Saqqara entered.

Saqqara ignored him. Bellephus was a brute by any definition of the word. He was clad in purple battleplate decorated with obscene verse, and wore a helm covered in fleshy growths that seemed to squirm in the dim light of the bay. Saqqara wasn’t certain what the growths were meant to be. Vestigial mouths, maybe.

Savona poured herself another goblet of wine and peered at them. ‘What is it?’

‘I – we – must speak with you,’ Saqqara said, fighting to keep the distaste from his voice.

Savona was taller than a legionary, but thinner – she had been mortal once, the spoiled daughter of a planetary governor. Now she was something else. She had slim, jointed legs ending in heavy black hooves, and a narrow face, framed by a mane of braided white hair. Sigils had been carved into her cheeks and brow, and three golden rings pierced one nostril.

‘I’m busy,’ she said.

‘Stop moving,’ the mutant snarled. Savona flung the goblet at it, forcing it to dodge aside. The contents splattered all over the canvas, eliciting a despairing wail from the creature. ‘My work – ruined!’

Savona sighed and shot the creature, ending its blubbering. She unfolded from the couch and took a long swallow from the decanter as she holstered her weapon. She looked at Bellephus. ‘Find me a new artist. Preferably one who doesn’t talk.’

Saqqara looked down at the body. ‘Vanity is a useless vice.’

Savona took another drink. ‘All vices are useless. That’s why it’s fun to indulge in them. What do you want, priest?’

Saqqara glared at her. ‘We must speak.’

She raised the decanter. ‘So you said. About what?’

‘The Chief Apothecary requires your services,’ Arrian interjected.

She lowered the decanter and licked her lips. ‘Why?’

‘Yours is not to question why,’ Saqqara said. ‘You serve him, as we all do. And he wishes you to muster your warriors.’

Savona smiled. ‘A raid? Finally. It’s been too long since the last one.’ Her fingers toyed with a necklace of spent bolt-rounds and aeldari spirit stones.

‘No.’ Saqqara frowned. ‘Not a raid. We go to… defend a world.’ The words tasted wrong, even as he said them.

She threw back her head and laughed. ‘Oh, that’ll be different!’ She slung the decanter away and turned. ‘Bellephus – cancel the portrait. We’ve got more important things to attend to than your vanity.’

She turned back to Saqqara and tossed off a lazy salute.

‘Leave it with me, Word Bearer. He wants an army? I’ll give him one.’

Fabius stood at the lectern, looking out over the gathered members of the Consortium. Studying them, he could not think of a more idiosyncratic band of misfits. There was no commonality to them save their chosen discipline.

All of them were Apothecaries, either by training or inclination, with a deep understanding of the human body in all its myriad forms. From there, they diverged sharply. Some were crafters of flesh and bone, others inclined to the augmetic or artificial. Some were mind-leeches, with a desire to plumb the secrets of the brain and nervous system in order to better control individuals or even planetary populations, while others were more interested in the alchemical possibilities of daemon ichor or xenos bile.

Contrary to the slanderous whispers of his enemies, the Consortium were not his servants. Rather, they were his students. Not quite his peers, for he had none, but close enough to be considered fellow travellers on the road to greater understanding.

Though some faces had changed, many had been with him since Harmony, or even before. Arrian. Khorag Sinj, the towering Death Guard. Emicos Shard and Aelian Hadal, both of the III Legion. Marag, who’d come fleeing the destruction of Caliban. Others had come later, seeking him out for his wisdom, or for his protection. The intractable Gorel, who bore no recognisable heraldry. Duco, one of the Night Haunter’s by-blows. Gemerax of Ironhold, a stolid son of Perturabo. For the most part, they were all outcasts from the ranks of their short-sighted brethren or uninterested in the petty struggles of fractured Legions.

The table they occupied was large, and carved from the curved clavicle of some sort of stellar leviathan. It had been a gift from a renegade princeps of Fabius’ acquaintance, carved by the hands of his servitor-slaves. It could seat a hundred, easily. At the moment, there was only a third of that number arranged about its length.

Positioning at the table was a matter of constant debate. Only the most favoured, like Arrian, could sit close to the lectern. Saqqara stood behind Fabius. As the Word Bearer was not an Apothecary, he had no seat at the table. Nor did he desire one.

‘Well?’ Fabius murmured, not looking at him.

‘She claims to be handling it,’ Saqqara replied. ‘I have no doubt she will make a mess of things, as usual,’ he added sourly.

‘I did not ask for your opinion, only whether or not she had acquiesced,’ Fabius said, not looking at him. ‘Now be silent.’ He turned his attentions back to his Consortium. A small thrill of pride went through him as he studied them. He fancied that the accumulation of knowledge in this chamber could not be equalled in the known galaxy.

Most of the gathered Apothecaries were attended by slaves or assistants, organic and artificial alike. Vatborn scurried about, carrying trays of carefully selected stimulants or alcoholic beverages. Fabius cleared his throat, and the noise level dipped.

‘Brothers,’ he said. Then, more loudly, ‘Brothers.’ He thumped Torment’s ferrule against the floor. ‘Attend me, please. I beg but a moment of your time.’

‘We’ve been sitting here for an hour already,’ Skalagrim Phar said. ‘Some of us have things to do, Fabius.’ As ever, the former Son of Horus went bare-headed. His scarred features were hidden beneath a greying tangle of hair and beard, and his weathered flesh was inscribed with gang-runes. Similar markings had been etched into his dark armour, and even the tools of his trade. A diamond-toothed chainaxe rested on the table in front of him, and he occasionally gave it a fond pat, as if it were an animal in need of soothing.

At heart, Skalagrim was still the ganger thug he had been the day he’d been chosen as an aspirant. He was a scrambler by nature, always looking for an angle and an opportunity. Fabius found such bloody-minded determination to survive almost admirable. It was one of the reasons he’d taken Skalagrim under his protection.

‘Chief Apothecary,’ Arrian corrected. He sat opposite Skalagrim, and like the Son of Horus, wore no helm. His blades were not visible, but were no doubt close to hand.

Skalagrim grinned at him. ‘My apologies, brother. In the future, I shall endeavour to show our lord and master the proper respect.’ He looked at Fabius. ‘Talk, old monster.’

‘Are you certain?’ Fabius looked down his nose at Skalagrim. ‘I know how important it is to you to feel as if you’ve had your say.’

Laughter rippled along the table. Skalagrim bared his teeth, but subsided. Fabius stared at him a moment longer, letting the Son of Horus feel the full weight of his gaze. Then he tapped at the runes on the console of his lectern, calling up the data-feeds.

Pict-captures showed an agri world – populated, or it had been. Now, flames danced across the horizon, and the inhabitants tore at one another in bestial frenzy. Images of carnage swarmed over the viewscreens, and in every direction a new horror reared its head. People crammed the streets of hab-blocks, fighting one another in panic, trampling those too slow to move. Others turned their weapons on each other in an orgy of mutual destruction. Men danced and flayed themselves on street corners.

The world had gone mad.

‘What exactly are we looking at?’ Skalagrim asked, trying to discern some pattern to the carnage playing out before him.

‘Daemonic influence, perhaps?’ Marag offered. He leaned forward, visibly intrigued, and his slaves scribbled urgently, taking note of every atrocity.

‘No,’ Saqqara said flatly. ‘There are no physical abnormalities or daemon-sign evident. Whatever this is, it is not the work of the Neverborn.’

‘Something else, then,’ Duco growled. Ornaments of bone clanked against his dark-blue armour, and his bare face was a mask of Nostraman gang tattoos. Lank hair the colour of oil hung from his fish-belly-pale scalp, and his teeth had been replaced by fangs of etched gold. ‘A chem-weapon, perhaps, or a memetic pulse designed to unravel the mind’s higher functions.’ He looked at the hulking Apothecary sitting next to him. ‘Do you recognise it, Khorag? Chem-weapons are your speciality, after all.’

Khorag Sinj sat back, the weathered, yellowing plates of his ancient Terminator armour creaking in protest. ‘No. Whatever it is, it looks to be effective.’ As the former Death Guard spoke, effluvial smoke issued from his armour’s ports and fogged the air about him. ‘I would dearly like a sample of it, however. What world was this?’

‘Beleghast-Primus,’ Fabius said. ‘As of two hundred and thirty-five standard hours ago.’

‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that one of your cache-worlds?’ Skalagrim asked.

‘One of my first. The creature who ruled it was descended from the first generation of my creations.’ Fabius gestured dismissively. ‘A brutal autocrat with little subtlety and a tendency to incite civil unrest among the menial population, but he made up for it with dogmatic loyalty.’ He tapped at the console again.

The images shifted towards an overhead view and slowed, isolating a blurred shape. The shape was magnified, revealing a graceful, lethal form – all wrong angles and sharp edges. A vessel, but not one made by human hands.

‘Drukhari,’ Arrian murmured.

‘They call it a Voidraven bomber,’ Gorel said. His battleplate was the colour of an open wound, and studded with what Fabius considered to be an unnecessary number of drug pumps and stimm-nodes. Coloured smoke billowed from the vents of his helm as he spoke, and congealed into strange shapes that writhed about his head. ‘I saw one in action once. Nasty things. Fast as blazes.’

‘Status of the cache-facility?’ Marag asked.

Fabius looked at him. ‘Compromised.’

‘Population?’

‘Exterminated.’

A murmur went through the gathered Apothecaries. Fabius waited until it had died down before continuing. ‘This is not the first cache-facility I have lost in such a manner of late, nor, I fear, will it be the last. We are under attack.’

‘What do you mean, “we”?’ Gorel shook his head. ‘Your problems with the drukhari are your own, old monster.’ Mutters of agreement accompanied his words. Only Arrian and Khorag abstained. ‘Whatever enemies you made in Commorragh have nothing to do with us.’ Gorel pushed himself to his feet. ‘Are we done, then?’

‘Not quite.’ Fabius gestured, and the image changed. Another world, another slaughter. ‘Goshen. One of the break-worlds on the edge of Segmentum Obscurus. Does anyone recognise it?’

Only Duco growled his assent. ‘I do. It’s a feudal world. Chort has a research bastion there, hidden in the mountains of the southernmost landmass. I helped him set it up a century ago. Just after you left on your little… pilgrimage.’

Fabius nodded. ‘This is Goshen as of fifteen standard hours ago. The images are courtesy of Administratum data-feeds, all gone silent now.’

It was almost the same scene as before. A world murdered and its population all but exterminated. The gathered Apothecaries were no strangers to such devastation. But even so, they fell silent, watching it play out.

‘It should come as little surprise to any of you that I maintain contact with many former members of this august body. Chort was among them. It is with great regret that I inform you that he was numbered among the dead.’

The scene changed. A mountain was there, and then not.

‘Voidravens again, albeit employed in a more conventional capacity,’ Fabius said flatly. More images replaced those of the fallen mountain. ‘Tenker-Prime, a forge world in Segmentum Tempestus. Devale Majoris. Lacilar.’ The name of each world was accompanied by a slew of similar scenes. ‘Some of these worlds are – were – mine. But not all. Holvall, for instance – a frontier world, on the edge of Ultima Segmentum.’

‘Herik Stymphalos,’ Emicos murmured. ‘Wasn’t that one of his projects?’

‘Indeed it was.’ Fabius brought up an image of what had once been an immense aviary, now burnt-out and shattered. Dead birds of a thousand species littered the scorched earth. ‘As far as I am able to determine, Herik has suffered the same fate as Chort. Neither, you will note, had been a member of the Consortium for some time.’

He paused, letting the murmur build to a febrile pitch, before striking the floor with Torment, silencing them.

‘The obvious conclusion is that we are all targets. But if you’d like to take your chances, I will not force you to stay.’ He swept his sceptre out, gesturing towards the doors. ‘There is the exit.’

Silence. Fabius studied each of them in turn, calculating. Unexpectedly, Duco was the first to speak.

‘I liked Chort,’ he said simply.

‘Herik was a brother of the Legion,’ Emicos said.

Aelian nodded. ‘What do you propose, Chief Apothecary?’

Fabius straightened. ‘If the drukhari have one weakness, it is their rapaciousness. Their greed makes them foolish. Sloppy. Like all predators, they are easily fixated on their prey. So, we will wait until their teeth and claws are otherwise occupied before we strike.’

‘Meaning?’ Skalagrim said.

‘He means we’ll stab them in the back while they’re busy butchering someone else,’ Duco said, his tone admiring. ‘An appealing strategy.’

Fabius ignored the compliment. ‘According to what was left of Beleghast’s orbital defence network, there was only one vessel of significant size in orbit. The rest were escorts or fighter craft. The other reports I’ve gathered indicate that the attack pattern is the same every time. They slip the sensor-nets, punch a hole in the orbital defences and raid the world below. The raids are always a cover for a pinpoint assault on my caches. But this time, we will be waiting for them.’

‘In force, I presume,’ Marag said.

‘You presume correctly.’ Fabius called up a schematic of a webway portal generator. ‘Over the past decades I have ensured that every world my children settle has some access to the sub-dimension we know as the webway through previously existing nodes. It makes transport of materials between caches much more efficient.’

‘It also makes them easier to attack,’ Skalagrim said. ‘That’s it, isn’t it?’ He sat up, a slow smile spreading across his face. ‘That’s how they’re breaching your caches. They’re using your own backdoors against you.’ He laughed.

Fabius grimaced. ‘Yes, our enemies have turned my cleverness against me. And now I shall turn theirs back on them. The next time they come through a portal, we will be waiting for them.’

‘How do you know where they’re going to be?’ Duco asked.

‘Given the attacks thus far, I have extrapolated two dozen probable targets.’

‘Too many to defend,’ Marag said doubtfully.

‘Yes, but of those, eighteen were established in the last century,’ Fabius said. ‘It took several hours to identify the pattern behind the attacks – and an equal amount of time to even determine that there was a pattern.’ He called up an astrometric projection and expanded it, so that it hung over the centre of the table.

‘The cache worlds attacked so far were the oldest – established in the retreat from Terra, and the long pilgrimage to the Eye. Other, newer cache-worlds scattered along the same route since have seemingly escaped the drukhari’s notice. They’re acting on out-of-date information. From this, I have deduced that Peleus-Tertius is the obvious target.’

‘If you’re right–’ Skalagrim began, as he peered up at the map.

‘I am.’

‘If you’re right,’ Skalagrim continued, ‘what then?’

Fabius thumped the lectern with Torment. ‘Our foes seek to draw me into battle. And so they have.’

He smiled.

‘But if I must fight, I will do so on my terms.’

Chapter Six

Phantom Pain

Peshig reclined in his chair and lazily studied the holographic data-projections floating above the table. ‘All these worlds. Truly a bounty unheard of.’ He looked at his fellow archons and a smile tugged at the edges of his mouth. Neither looked especially happy to be there. ‘At least by me. What say you, Salar? Avara?’

‘I say you still owe me a raider,’ Salar growled. He thrust his knife into the table. Peshig couldn’t make out what he was carving, but had no doubt it was some gutter-obscenity. And likely misspelled, to boot.

‘He’s right,’ Avara said. ‘It’s too good to be true. We’ve hit how many worlds – five? Six? And so far, not a sign of pursuit.’ She grinned, showing off sharpened teeth. She was utterly lacking in hair, and one of her eyes was hidden behind a monocle, which was wired into a data-port on the side of her skull. Like the other two, she was armed, though with a bulky blast-pistol.

‘At least, no organised pursuit.’ Peshig called up a second data-feed. ‘Various system defence fleets have been alerted to our presence, but one ship can slip through nets that would entangle a fleet. Especially this ship. It was once owned by Duke Sliscus himself, you know. Lost it to me in a game of cards.’

Salar snorted. ‘More like you stole it from the scrapyards after he scuttled it.’

‘The pedigree is sound, regardless.’

Avara leaned forward. ‘This ship is mostly rust and leakage, but even the worst junker in Commorragh is superior to those floating bricks the mon-keigh call warships. It helps that we’re not following any pattern that I can determine. I’d give anything to know how he’s finding these worlds.’

‘I asked,’ Salar said.

Avara looked at him. ‘And?’

‘He said it was a trade secret.’

Avara sat back, arms crossed. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say we’re being used.’

‘Of course he’s using us,’ Peshig said. ‘Those caches we keep targeting are proof of that. He might be on the trail of some renegade, perhaps.’

‘What about the mon-keigh?’ Avara said. ‘The one that trots after him everywhere.’

‘What about it?’ Salar said.

Avara looked at him. ‘Doesn’t that concern you?’

‘That he has a slave? No, not particularly.’

‘Not just a slave. An augmented mon-keigh. Those things can’t be tamed. They’re barely controllable at the best of times.’

‘And yet this one seems perfectly docile,’ Peshig mused.

‘Which is what concerns me, especially after what we encountered in those last two caches. Augmented mon-keigh, both of whom looked to be practising the fleshcrafter’s arts.’ Avara shook her head. ‘It’s unnatural and I don’t like the implications.’

‘What implications?’ Salar said impatiently. ‘What are you blathering about?’

‘She means that Hexachires might have done something quite rash,’ Peshig said thoughtfully. ‘Which might well be valuable in and of itself. Of course, there’s no proof, so it’s all moot at this point.’

‘Why would that be valuable?’ Salar pressed. He leaned forward, eyes bright with avarice.

Peshig smiled. Salar was so terribly easy to predict. He faked a yawn and said, ‘There are rumours, of late.’

‘There are always rumours,’ Avara said.

‘These come from trustworthy sources.’

‘More of your important friends?’ Avara said.

Peshig gave her a lazy glance. Avara was a tougher nut to crack than Salar. She was ambitious, but not stupid.

‘I’ve always wondered…’ she continued, ‘if you know so many important people, why are you here with us?’

‘Bad luck, mostly,’ he said airily. ‘What do you know about the Thirteen Scars?’

She looked at him. ‘As much as you, I’d wager.’

‘You’d lose,’ Peshig said. ‘I recall something my dear friend Aurelia – Aurelia Malys, you know, I’m certain you’ve heard of her – said in passing, once… Why thirteen?’

‘What?’

‘Why not twelve? Or six? Or thirty? Why thirteen?’

‘I don’t know. Why thirteen?’

Peshig shrugged. ‘Who knows? It’s a mystery.’

Avara gave him a venomous look, and Peshig laughed. ‘Then what was the point of that story?’ she snapped.

‘That we can’t trust anything they tell us,’ Salar said. ‘They don’t think like we do, these haemonculi.’ He pointed his knife at Peshig. ‘He’s saying we need to be careful.’

Avara sat back. ‘I agree with that, at least.’ She frowned. ‘Maybe we should return to Commorragh. Before our luck sours and we run into something we can’t handle. Or one of these worlds gets a warning to the next.’

‘They won’t,’ Peshig said. ‘The frequency jammers Hexachires provided are second to none. Or so he assures me. I am inclined to take him at his word, given the lack of serious pursuit. Or serious resistance.’

‘And what happens if they fail?’

‘Then I shall have a pointed discussion with Hexachires,’ Peshig said. ‘Though you do raise a good point.’

‘Cowards, the pair of you,’ Salar said.

‘Opportunists,’ Peshig corrected. He gestured to Avara. ‘We are opportunists. And as opportunists we keep our eyes open. Hexachires is up to something – something he doesn’t want the other covens knowing about.’

‘And how did you come to that conclusion?’ Salar demanded.

‘Simple. These raids are easy – the targets oh so soft. Little worlds with few defences. So why let us reap the overlord’s share? Deniability. As I said, there have been rumours aplenty – stories of a mon-keigh fleshcrafter being given access to the secrets of a coven, and then being allowed to escape.’

‘I’ve heard the same,’ Avara said.

‘But what does any of that have to do with these raids?’ Salar growled impatiently. ‘I see no connection between them.’

‘That I have yet to determine.’ Peshig leaned back and steepled his fingers. ‘But there is a connection, and when we figure it out we’ll know how best to profit from it.’

‘And if Hexachires protests?’ Avara asked.

Peshig smiled. ‘Accidents are commonplace, and haemonculi replaceable.’

In the chamber he’d claimed as his lair, Hexachires smiled.

Treachery was afoot. He had expected no less. And planned accordingly.

Prior to leaving the safety of Commorragh, he had taken the liberty of infesting his person with a number of nano-fleas. The tiny creatures were as much machine as they were vermin, and acted as mobile data transmitters. Wherever they went, so too did Hexachires. In spirit, if not in the flesh. The infestation had spread across the ship, where the nano-fleas had begun to breed, even as he’d designed them to do. There was now little that went on aboard the vessel that he didn’t know about. He knew every scheme, every minor treachery and black drama playing out on every deck. A wealth of tragedies that he hoarded gleefully to himself.

He had not expected unquestioning devotion from Peshig and the others. The drukhari were not designed with loyalty in mind, except on rare occasions. Indeed, it had taken them longer to realise that something was amiss than he’d estimated. Salar was an idiot, but the others were both quite cunning – if not intelligent. Then, greed had a way of blinding even the most observant warrior.

But greed was only a tenuous chain, and it was already fraying. The holds of Peshig’s ship were groaning with plunder, and his warriors, as well as those of Avara and Salar, were muttering about spending their shares. They would demand a return to Commorragh soon. Hexachires thought he might be able to browbeat Peshig into raiding a few more worlds, but only a few. Eventually, they would get bored, or scared, and the game would be up.

Until then, he would simply have to hope that Fabius showed his face sooner rather than later. He’d expected some sign of his old student before now. Especially after the biometric transmitter he’d installed in the clone on Beleghast had gone silent. Someone, or something, had destroyed the creature. He hoped it had been Fabius – the gift had been meant for him, after all.

It would be the last gift Hexachires ever gave him.

He looked down at the device he was disassembling. The second he’d found, this one embedded in the skull of an avian-obsessed bio-artist. The mon-keigh had even given himself wings, as if in primitive mockery of drukhari scourges. The device was a cunning thing, for all its crudity. Fabius had come far. His original devices had been keyed solely to his own cerebral matter. But this latest iteration was more generic. Not mass-produced, but close. He wondered how many there were, scattered across the galaxy. How many boltholes had Fabius prepared for himself?

To any other being, such a plan might have seemed mad. To Hexachires, it seemed only reasonable. Fabius was a kindred spirit. He saw the galaxy for the smouldering pyre it was. Like Hexachires, in his heart of hearts, he knew his people were doomed. Hexachires was under no illusions as to the eventual fate of the drukhari. They were on the slow road to extinction, much like their craftworlder cousins. Even the Exodites, in their primitive enclaves, were caught fast by the coming conflagration. They were fuel for the fire, nothing more. Unless something changed.

As Fabius sought to reshape humanity into something better, so Hexachires sought to do to the aeldari. Granted, their methods were not similar in the least. Fabius cared nothing for the mon-keigh as they currently existed. He intended to shape a better race to rule over the galaxy with their passing. But for Hexachires, the passing was all. For the aeldari to be preserved, they must first perish and their souls be given over to the force known as Ynnead.

In his youth, in the dwindling days of the Aeldari Empire, Hexachires had never been one for gods. They seemed to be a bucolic holdover of a simpler time. But since the empire’s fall, and Commorragh’s rise, he had come to know better.

There were gods, and they were hungry, terrible things.

But some were more terrible than others. And some might well hold the key to the rebirth of his people. Ynnead was one such, according to those who had taught him of such things. Only once all of the living aeldari were devoured by Ynnead – barring a dutiful few, of course, such as himself – could they be reborn anew, free of the weakness that had been their downfall. But among those who thought as he did, there was precious little agreement on how to accomplish such a thing. Some wished merely to wait out the inevitable conflagration – perhaps even nudging events along, here and there. Others committed themselves to crafting exquisite pandemics or weapons of such destructive potential that even Asdrubael Vect himself would balk at their use.

Hexachires, on the other hand, fancied a subtler solution and one that allowed him the freedom to explore his artistic inclinations. The populace of Commorragh was divided between Trueborn and Half-born. The amniotic tanks employed to breed the latter were the province of the haemonculi covens. The Thirteen Scars bred warriors and slaves for more than twenty lesser kabals and a handful of the greater ones. As master of the coven, Hexachires oversaw these efforts.

As such, every drukhari expelled from the vats bore his thumbprint on their DNA – a little spice to the mix. A tweak to their aggression and to the portions of the brain which controlled the impulse to self-preservation and caution. He made similar changes to the Trueborn who found themselves in the coven’s resurrection tanks – Salar, for instance.

Fabius, in one of his rare moments of wit, had observed that Hexachires was not so much culling the herd as encouraging the herd to be self-culling.

A bit of wraithbone crumbled in his grasp, and he realised he’d been clenching his fists. Fabius, always a quick study, had stolen that knowledge for himself. And more besides. He’d pillaged the secret vaults of the Synod of Scars and escaped to tell the tale. And all because Hexachires had thought him nothing more than a curiosity. He’d underestimated Fabius once. He would not do so again.

As he plucked shards of wraithbone from his fingers, he considered the issue. Fabius was very clever for a mon-keigh. Innovative, even. It had been a pleasant surprise to find such a pearl amongst the muck. Fabius had hijacked a Corsair vessel and forced the survivors to bring him to Commorragh. Then blown up the vessel to cover his arrival.

Such attention to detail – and from a mon-keigh no less! He’d haunted Low Commorragh for weeks, studying the inhabitants. Even dissecting some of them. Such raw curiosity had quickly drawn the attentions of the covens. It had been Hexachires’ luck that he’d managed to run Fabius to ground first, before Rakarth or Xhact or one of his other rivals.

It was only then that he’d learned Fabius’ true purpose – the mon-keigh had come to learn. In truth, he already had a grasp, however crude, of their most delicate arts. They’d taught him little he did not already know, and what they had taught him, he seemed to take little interest in. He took no joy in their art. Hexachires would have cast him out for that alone, but pity stayed his hand. ‘Cursed pity,’ he murmured.

The haemonculi of the Thirteen Scars were no strangers to physical infirmity. Such was the price of age. Organs and limbs faltered, the mind fogged and strength ebbed. There were many surgeries by which one might halt or even reverse time’s grip on the corpus. But Fabius, dear, sweet Fabius, was satisfied with none of them.

There was a persistent ailment gnawing at his vitality in a most curious fashion. As much psychological as physical. A sickness of the soul. They’d cut him open again and again, trying to root it out. They’d cored his bones and flensed his ligaments. They’d rebuilt him organ by organ, vein by vein. And still the malignancy crept back. It had been a fascinating case study, one for the coven’s records.

Fabius had been… fascinating. So much to study there. So much to learn. To teach. And what had he done, the ungrateful mon-keigh?

‘Why hasn’t he tried to escape?’ Diomone asked from behind him. Startled, Hexachires turned. He’d quite forgotten she was there.

‘Who?’

‘Your pet.’

Hexachires followed her gaze. Diomone was intent on an observation orb, one of a dozen of the faceted devices scattered through the chamber. Each was keyed to a different deck of the ship, allowing an observer – likely the captain – to spy on his crew as they went about their business.

He set aside the samples he’d been studying and considered the question. He’d wondered the same thing himself of late. Over the years, Oleander had made one hundred and thirty-seven separate escape attempts, some of them quite costly. But of late, he’d been almost… docile.

‘Because he is biding his time. Or perhaps his will is truly broken.’

‘I don’t believe that.’

‘Which?’ Hexachires raised a hand to forestall her answer. ‘Wait, no, don’t tell me. I confess, I don’t particularly care.’ He peered at her. ‘Why are you so suspicious of him?’ Diomone was wiser than most of his coven. He had high hopes for her – if she didn’t get herself killed doing something foolish first.

‘Why aren’t you more suspicious?’ She turned to glare at him. ‘He could be lying to us, you know. This could all be some convoluted scheme by our enemies.’

‘Which enemies might those be? We have so many.’ He waved her reply aside. ‘He is stalling, but not lying.’ But even as he said it, he wondered if that was the truth, or merely an assumption. He decided to test the theory. ‘Go and ask him yourself, if you like.’

Diomone hesitated. Hexachires’ mask twisted into a leer and he caught her by the back of the head, propelling her none too gently towards the door.

‘In fact, I insist.’

Oleander listened to the sounds of celebration. Another successful raid. He sat alone, on a high platform overlooking the starboard gunnery deck. Above him, a void-hardened observation port allowed in the light of the stars. Drukhari stumbled along the open corridors below in raucous knots, revelling in their victories. It was probably the most successful raid these particular kabals had ever participated in.

He looked down at the feathered amethyst helm he held. It had belonged to Herik Stymphalos. A brother of the Third. Herik had always been strange, and had only got worse after Terra. He’d spent the entirety of the siege trying to reshape mortal prisoners into avians for reasons he had never cared to articulate. Perhaps he’d just liked birds.

Now, like Chort, he was dead. Oleander wanted to apologise, but could not find the words. Despite their shared genetic legacy, he hadn’t known Herik well. When he’d departed the Consortium, Herik had been overseeing one of Fabius’ smaller boltholes in return for being left alone to play with his pets.

Down below, a duel broke out. He watched two warriors circle one another amid a jeering ring of their peers, knives in hand. It wasn’t the first time. As the warriors closed, he looked away. There were only so many times you could watch drukhari gut each other before it became tedious.

Elsewhere on the lower deck, impromptu markets had sprung up along transit gantries, and lines of slaves were led by overseers to the upper embarkation decks. Not all of these flesh-pedlars were drukhari. Peshig’s ship was currently playing host to slave-traders from a number of races, including Zygo, Sslyth and Tarellians.

The lesser xenos often flocked in the wake of smaller drukhari raids, hoping to skim the pick of the plunder from the raiders before they returned to Commorragh. He watched a bulky Tarellian dog-soldier bargain in sibilant tones with a long-limbed Vassalian hunter. Nearby, a Donarathi blitz-trooper roared guttural imprecations at a pair of drukhari warriors, and was only placated by copious offerings of wine.

‘You are planning to escape, aren’t you?’

He turned. The haemonculus called Diomone stood a wary distance from him, her head tilted as if observing some strange, exotic beast. From her perspective, she almost certainly was.

‘And where would I go?’

Diomone peered down towards the deck below. ‘Maybe you could catch a ride on a Tarellian freighter. Or stow away on a Vassalian Slavebird.’

‘If I was planning on it, I certainly wouldn’t tell you.’

‘You are very rude for a slave.’

‘I am not a slave.’

‘Then why are you wearing slave-marks?’ she chided. ‘I am surprised you let Hexachires make them. The stubbornness of your particular subspecies is legendary in Commorragh. I’m told that’s why you make such good fodder for the arenas.’ She sidled closer. Artificial eyes clicked and focused.

Oleander followed her with his gaze. She was close enough now that he could smell the tang of her prosthetics and the bitter perfume of her flesh. Close enough to read the micro-expressions on her face, and to know that she was lying.

‘You are a fascinating subject,’ she murmured. ‘What I would not give to crack open that fused ribcage and examine your hearts.’ She paused. ‘The others say you are a physician of some sort. Is that true?’

‘I prefer to think of myself as an artist.’

Diomone laughed. ‘Ah, one of those.’

‘Are you not an artist, then?’

She snorted. ‘We of the Thirteen Scars leave art to lesser covens, such as the Hex. Our interests are in the creation of new forms of life – or in making existent forms more efficient or fit for purpose. I myself have created over thirty new species of domesticated food-beast.’

‘And what of Hexachires?’

She snorted again. ‘Practicality has never been his strength. His theories are more… intangible. Some among my brethren claim he was nothing more than an artist, once.’

Oleander nodded. He could hear the note of contempt in her voice. Hexachires was not well loved by his followers. He and Fabius had that much in common, at least. He wondered if it might be of some use. ‘And yet he is your master.’

She peered at him. ‘Yes. What of it?’

‘It seems an odd choice, is all.’

‘I was not asked my opinion on the matter. The Synod of Scars voted and he was elected, in accordance with our most sacred traditions.’ She ran her fingers across his back. ‘Over-developed musculature. Some sort of sub-dermal armour – or a layer of synthetic skin. Reinforced skeletal structure.’

‘I’m more than the sum of my parts,’ he said, turning to face her.

‘No. We are nothing but. Meat and bone, to be pumped, sliced, flensed and cured.’

‘Perhaps.’ He considered the situation before him with a tactician’s eye. She’d got close enough now – perhaps she thought him neutered. Compliant and broken. Her mistake.

When he moved, he did so without hesitation. One hand batted aside her dendrites as the other arm looped itself about her throat. He pulled her in, crushing her against his body, and set his hand against her throat.

‘Move or cry out and I will snap your neck and feed you to the slaves on the lower decks.’

‘Interesting,’ she murmured. ‘I was right. You are not tamed at all.’

‘I am a warrior of the Third Legion. We cannot be tamed.’

‘I shall remember that for the future,’ she said. ‘What now? Am I to be a hostage? Will you use me to bargain for a ship?’

‘Where would I go that you could not follow?’ He tightened his grip on her throat. He leaned close, whispering. ‘You hate him, don’t you? Hexachires, I mean. I can smell it on you. What if I were to kill him for you?’

Her eyes widened slightly, and he could smell her interest. ‘Why would you do that?’

‘I think my chances of survival will improve under the aegis of another member of your coven.’

‘How intriguing,’ Hexachires said. The pain hit a moment later. Oleander snarled and fell away from Diomone. As ever, the pain was less than it had been. He was getting used to it. Starting to enjoy it. But it wouldn’t do to let Hexachires know that. Not yet, at any rate.

He fell onto his hands and knees and glared up at Hexachires. The haemonculus looked down at him, flesh-mask twisted into an expression of disappointment. ‘I confess I had hoped for a more… interesting ploy.’

Oleander laughed harshly. ‘Sometimes the old tricks are the best.’

‘Not in this case. Diomone is far too loyal – if not to me, then to the coven itself. Isn’t that so, Diomone?’

She hesitated for a millisecond before answering. ‘Yes.’ If Hexachires noticed, he gave no sign. Oleander filed the hesitation away. Some poisons were slower than others.

‘Still, I will give you marks for the attempt,’ Hexachires continued. ‘I was starting to worry we’d broken you at last. That is why I will forego the pain-baton this once. Take him.’

He stepped aside, and a trio of wracks moved towards Oleander. The first of them lunged forward, a crackling shock-baton clutched in one hand. The blow caught Oleander in the midsection, and a spasm of pain ripped through him. He roared and swung out a fist, intending to pulp the wrack’s skull. The other two masked acolytes bounded forward, moving with skittish, inhuman speed.

As they closed, he caught a whiff of the chemicals pumping through them, and the stink of their unwashed bodies. A second blow struck him in the leg, and the limb went numb. Had he been at full strength, he might have been able to shrug off the blow. But after centuries of privation and torture, it was all he could do not to fall on his face. Blows rained down, each one pushing him closer to unconsciousness. His roars became screams as the three wracks struck him again and again, laughing all the while. Through pain-dimmed eyes, he saw Hexachires watching his agonies, a gleeful expression on his flesh-mask. Pain was meat and drink to the drukhari.

Oleander rolled onto his back and lashed out with a kick. One of the wracks spun away, neck snapped. He scrambled clumsily for the fallen baton, as his remaining attackers froze momentarily in shock. The wracks recovered and launched themselves at him as he snatched up the baton. He spun to meet them, balancing awkwardly on his numbed leg. They came at him from opposite sides, and he was hard-pressed to defend himself.

He took a hit on the shoulder and replied in kind, pulverising the wrack’s collar bone and shattering his baton in the process. As the third wrack leapt for him, he whirled and caught its baton in mid-blow. He yanked the weapon from his attacker’s grip and smashed the wrack’s head into the deck.

Hexachires applauded politely. Panting, Oleander glared at the two haemonculi. He took a step towards them, and Hexachires twitched a finger chidingly. ‘You will regret it if you do, Oleander. You’ve had your fun.’

Oleander considered the baton in his hand. There was a chance he could make it. A slim one, but still a chance.

He paused. Something pale and thin moved behind the two drukhari. He glimpsed a smile that was like a razor on flesh. Eyes like gemstones.

Not yet… not yet…

He dropped the baton.

Hexachires frowned. ‘That’s it?’ he said, in a disappointed tone. ‘Maybe we have truly broken you after all. How sad.’

Oleander looked away.

Chapter Seven

Preparations

One moment, there was nothing.

Then the firmament split, disgorging a shard of hell into reality. The transition of a vessel from the warp into realspace was not a sight for the faint of heart. Even less so when the vessel in question was the Vesalius.

The ancient Gladius-class frigate erupted from the empyrean with a triumphal shriek of forward engines. Sleek and deadly, it was scraped clean of any insignia or identifying mark save the strange, dark stains that were left by its passage through the immaterium. Amethyst lightning danced across the crenellated battlements that lined the scarred hull. The silvery radiance of its Geller field crackled as it barrelled across the stars, seeking its prey with single-minded intensity.

Fabius stood atop the observation deck overlooking the bridge. He could feel the ship’s rumble of contentment, like the growl of some great felinoid. It had been too long since the Vesalius had been allowed to prowl the star-lanes and it seemed to be enjoying the improvements he’d made. He turned to the ship’s strategium overseer.

‘Wolver, report.’

‘The Vesalius is pleased,’ Wolver said in a crackling monotone. The strategium overseer no longer resembled the man or woman they had been. Instead, Wolver was an automaton of hard metal and glass. An alembic shaped like a person. A living brain pulsed within the clear dome of their skull, and human eyes peered out through an androgynous brass death-mask. The entirety of their nervous system was visible, stretching down through the glass body, like a cutaway in a medical treatise. Fabius considered it some of his finest work to date.

‘I should hope so, given the last round of modifications,’ Fabius said. He took a deep breath, relishing the strangely sterile air of the observation deck. One of the side effects of the wraithbone infesting the frigate was a decided lack of impurities in the air and water systems. He stroked a fluted rail of psychoplastic, feeling its warmth.

It had grown within the shell of the Vesalius, replacing the ship’s corroded innards with new structures – ones he had yet to fully understand. The vessel was changing, becoming something new. Something alien. Fabius approved.

‘Will I have to let you go, I wonder?’ he murmured. ‘Or will you simply not be there one day when I call for you?’ He felt a pulse go through the rail, and knew the ship had heard him. It was always listening, of course. Even when he preferred otherwise.

‘The Vesalius loves you, Benefactor,’ Wolver said in their curious voice.

Fabius turned. ‘That is reassuring, Wolver. And much appreciated. We are on schedule, I trust?’ It had taken longer than he liked to organise the expedition. Given the vagaries of warp travel, even for a vessel such as the Vesalius, he’d half-feared that they would arrive too late.

‘The Vesalius is.’

‘Good. It would not do to be late.’ He turned back to the rail and clasped his hands behind his back. Down below, overseers bellowed commands as the crew bent to their tasks. Most of the latter were servitors, press-ganged into service from other vessels, or forged in Fabius’ gene-works. They were at one with their cogitator-cradles and many had become infested with the glistening strands of wraithbone that crawled across the deck.

Some of these were now little more than scraps of meat clinging to vaguely humanoid lumps of psychoplastic. But as long as their function was maintained, Fabius saw no sign for concern. Indeed, he looked forward to observing the command deck’s slow transformation into what he could only suspect was going to resemble a brain. Already the walls were beginning to buckle and reform, and many of the hatches had welded themselves shut or simply been swallowed up by the substance of the ship.

What would it become in a hundred years? A thousand? A new form of life, perhaps. The thought pleased him to no end. From the ashes of the old, the new would ever arise.

‘Music, please,’ he said. ‘Something cheerful, I think.’

Moments later, a jaunty tune slipped from the vox-casters mounted throughout the deck, and marched across the air. Fabius closed his eyes, and let the music take him elsewhere.

The tune was old. Fabius prided himself on his collection of pre-Unification music – a passion of his, even from childhood. The collection had accompanied him, in one form or another, from the mountains of Europa, through the killing fields of Jove-Sat II to the murderous frenzy of the Heresy. He had lost elements of it here and there, and replaced them with other pieces – such as the handful of ancient aeldari operettas he’d purchased from a desperate merchant in Commorragh – but the bones of the collection remained the same. Like him, it persisted.

He recalled his first glimpse of Commorragh – a moment of blinding awe, followed by the crushing tedium of its reality. The Dark City was dying – not all at once, or even in any obvious fashion, but its death was certain nonetheless. Its inhabitants were feeding off themselves, like starving animals trapped in a hole.

There was much wisdom to be found in Commorragh. The concentrated learning of an empire that had spanned the galaxy. But it was greedily hoarded by a cabal of broken monsters, who wasted their eternities vying against one another in pointless schemes. Immortality was wasted on such creatures.

Not that he wished to be immortal himself. A bit more time, perhaps – but true immortality? No. To exist forever was a burden, not a blessing. To be forced to see all that one had built inevitably crumble to ruin? Better oblivion than that.

Proximity alarms sounded, and Fabius looked up at the main observation screen hanging over the bridge. Amid cascades of data, he saw that they had arrived at the outer reaches of their destination. Past an encircling ring of celestial debris sat the grey orb of Peleus-Tertius. A minor world, one of six in the Peleus System, and the only one capable of supporting life on an ongoing basis. The others had been extensively terraformed into agri worlds, overseen by indentured populaces or agricultural servitors. Only Peleus-Tertius had anything resembling civilisation.

A minor world in a minor system. Perfect for his needs, in other words. For Homo novus, isolation was safety. The New Men required time – generations – to breed and build up their strength. And he required time to observe them and, when necessary, make certain changes to the successive generations. In that regard, the Peleus System was a perfect petri dish. It had suffered no untoward breakdowns in the social order, and the descendants of the New Men he’d seeded there were performing well within the margins of error.

It was a shame that it would have to be sacrificed on the altar of necessity. But there were precious few alternatives, and all of them costlier by far. Better one world, one system, than all of them. Better a few than the many.

His hands tightened on Torment, and he felt the daemon-shard respond to his anger. The chirurgeon injected a mild calmative. As the chemicals did their work, he reflected on recent events. He ran back through the available data, trusting in his eidetic memory to ensure he missed nothing. He was certain he knew the culprit. Hexachires had made certain of that. The haemonculus had as good as signed his name to his work.

Fabius smiled thinly, recalling the last time he’d been face to face with the creature. The look of dawning realisation in Hexachires’ eyes as he’d understood at last how he’d underestimated his most attentive student.

It hadn’t been as difficult as Fabius had feared at the time. Hexachires had the arrogance of the truly immortal. His assumptions had been unshakeable and his cunning hobbled by his need to preen and strut. Had it not been for the latter, he would have made an almost tolerable companion. They’d had much in common, for all that they were not the same species. Fabius sighed.

‘It was not meant to be,’ he murmured. He thumped Torment against the deck. ‘No sense ruminating on the past.’ He made his way to the strategium-dais that rose from the centre of the deck and stepped onto it. ‘Wolver – activate strategium-link, please.’

‘Activating,’ Wolver replied.

A moment later, a shroud of hololithic data fell across Fabius. His armour’s systems linked with the data-flow, filtering it for ease of processing. He dispensed with agricultural statistics, census reports and industrial metrics, and focused instead on the astrometric data he’d compiled on his last visit.

‘Show me a list of the recorded hyperspatial pathways within easy jump of Peleus-Tertius.’

A list of nearby webway nodes appeared on the hololithic display.

‘Eliminate all compromised nodes.’

The list shrank by half.

‘Eliminate all sealed nodes.’

The list was cut by another third.

‘Highlight major hubs and conduits larger than twenty metres in diameter.’

A rough map of the webway, with several arteries illuminated, shimmered into view. A moment’s calculation told him which ones posed the greatest risk. He activated his vox-link.

It was time to prepare.

The embarkation bay was filled with a great clamouring as the mutant overseers herded beastkin aboard waiting gunships. The creatures were the best the tribes of Belial IV had to offer. Warriors had vied with each other in single combat for the privilege of going to war alongside Pater Mutatis. Some carried primitive carbines or salvaged autoguns, while others made do with cruder implements – hacking blades and makeshift shields, decorated with gaudy tribal sigils.

Savona watched them from the deck above. Behind her, nearly a hundred warriors of the 12th Millennial were busy making their final checks. Boltguns were disassembled, oiled and reassembled. Armour was patched and painted. Oaths of indulgence were scratched onto scraps of parchment, to be hung prominently. Proud and fierce as they were, the beastkin were little more than chaff to be stampeded into the enemy. The renegade Space Marines were the true iron core of the army assembled in the bay. They would deliver the death blow to the enemy. They would take the glory. In return, the beastkin got the privilege of dying for their betters. What more could any sensible creature want?

Bellephus joined her. ‘They’re loading the last of them now.’ Despite the barbarity of his appearance, his voice was smooth and silken. A politician’s voice – or a lover’s.

‘Good. I want to be ready as soon as we get the word.’ She looked at him. ‘What about the war-hound and the turncoat?’

‘Arrian and Skalagrim are making their own preparations.’ Bellephus paused. ‘Are you certain you do not wish me to accompany you? Varex can–’

‘Varex can’t find his own waste shunt with both hands. Someone needs to keep him in check. That’s you.’ She paused and patted his arm. ‘It won’t be so bad. You’ve always enjoyed the webway.’

‘I find it soothing.’

Gunshots sounded below. Savona turned. On the boarding ramps of the gunships, chieftains brayed challenges at one another as their followers snarled and squealed in mounting excitement. Order was restored within moments, and the queues continued.

‘When was the last time we fought the drukhari?’ she asked idly.

‘Breaker’s Junction.’

‘That’s right. They snapped up our prey right from under our noses. I remember how infuriated the Radiant was. I thought he was going to kill all of us.’ Savona smiled, remembering the look on Kasperos’ face when he realised that the world he’d come to plunder had already been stripped bare. He’d thrown a tantrum that had lasted for the better part of three days. Of all the Joybound, only Oleander had been able to talk him down.

Her smile faded as she thought of the renegade Apothecary. She’d never liked Oleander, but she was indebted to him, after a fashion.

If Oleander hadn’t brought Fabius Bile to Kasperos, the 12th would never have launched an attack on Lugganath, and all that followed might never have occurred. She tapped a claw against the spirit stones hanging from her neck, relishing the weak pulses of warmth from the souls trapped within.

‘And here we are returning the favour,’ Bellephus said. ‘More than three centuries later and with a different commander.’

‘Better late than never,’ Savona said.

‘He’s dying, you know.’

‘He’s always dying.’

‘I mean his current body is wearing out. He’s hiding it, but he’s pushed it to the edge of its tolerances. I can smell the rot starting.’

Savona looked at him. ‘I’ve never seen you without your helmet. How can you smell anything that isn’t the stink of your own sweat?’

Bellephus tapped one of the fleshy growths on his helmet. ‘I am blessed with many sensory organs.’ He indicated another one. ‘This one can smell memories.’

‘How useful.’

‘Very. My poems are much improved by what they show me.’

Savona hid a grimace. Though he had served as her equerry for centuries, it was only recently that Bellephus had allowed her the dubious privilege of reading his work. And shyly, at that – like a love-starved youth, fresh off his mother’s teat. She thought such behaviour unbecoming of a brutal killer, but she’d never said as much to his face.

‘What do you think of our chances?’ she asked.

‘Hard to say. Bound to be bad for us, whatever the outcome. It always is.’

Savona ignored the bait. Bellephus had been advising her to take the 12th and depart the Clonelord’s orbit for years. Ever since Fabius’ return from Commorragh. The 12th had been shattered and reformed more times than she could count under Fabius’ nominal leadership – but always came out the stronger.

But there was still a bit of forging to be done. A few impurities left to hammer out of the steel. Then it would be perfect. And then she would take her place as commander openly, without the pretence of Fabius’ favour to protect her. Or so she told herself.

The truth was, she wasn’t sure if that day would ever truly come.

She watched as battle-gangs of stimm-enhanced mutants in restraint collars and bite-masks were driven towards the gunships by specially bred overseers perched on anti-grav discs. The snap-crackle of shock glaives and the hiss of electro-lashes added to the din. The smell of burnt flesh and hair mingled with the odour of excrement, machine oil and blood.

Savona closed her eyes and let the ripe scents wash over her. Once, in another life, she would undoubtedly have found such scents disgusting. Now they seemed to her sweet as the smell of newly bloomed flowers. She stretched and leaned over the rail, watching the confusion below. ‘This is my favourite part of a raid, you know. So many possibilities, so much potential…’

‘It’s not a raid, remember?’ Bellephus murmured.

‘Raid, ambush, what’s the difference?’

‘Any number of tactical and strategic factors,’ he said, as he stroked the newest lines of verse carved into his vambrace, tracing each word in sequence. ‘They’re getting restless. Impatient. They want to fight.’

‘They smell war on the wind,’ Savona said.

‘Is that from one of my poems?’ Bellephus asked, after a moment.

Savona didn’t look at him. ‘Maybe.’

‘Would you like to hear my newest one?’ he asked, and the eagerness in his voice made her cringe. Bellephus’ poems were by turns vile and saccharine, obscene and bucolic.

‘Not right now.’

Bellephus nodded amiably. ‘Later then.’

Savona glanced at him. ‘You seem remarkably calm, Bellephus.’

‘Why would I not be? Battle is our purpose.’

‘Yours maybe.’

Bellephus studied her. ‘Yours too. The moment you put on Gondol’s battleplate, you pledged yourself to the pleasures of war. The sooner you admit it, the sooner the others will accept you.’

‘How many centuries has it been, Bellephus?’ she asked softly. ‘How many centuries since I took what was mine? And still, some of them refuse to see me.’

‘Not so many as that,’ Bellephus chuckled. ‘After the decimations, I mean.’

Savona frowned. ‘Is that what you’re calling them now? I had no hand in any of that.’

‘No. And that is the only reason Varex and the other traditionalists have not attempted to slit your throat.’ He caught one of the fragments of sharpened ceramite that hung from his armour and began to scratch at the verse on his vambrace.

Savona watched him. ‘If they want to lead, then they can challenge me.’

‘They won’t, because that will legitimise you. Fighting you openly means you are their equal – as good as any soldier of the Legion. You know this.’

‘They’re cowards.’

‘Yes. They are frightened. Not by you, but by what you represent. You are a sign that the Legion they knew and the Millennial they served in are dead. Truly dead.’ He looked at her. ‘We spent thousands of years holding to that ideal, however frayed it grew, however gross our appetites became. And now it is dust and we are left with an uncertain future. And we do not deal well with uncertainty.’

Savona laughed. ‘So I’ve noticed, gutter-poet. But what do I care for your fears? They can follow me or be damned. Either’s fine so long as they make up their damned minds.’ She leaned on the rail, watching the mutants. ‘I joined our fates to that of the Clonelord because I thought it was the only way to keep the Twelfth in fighting shape. Instead it only sped up the rot. It’s as if he infects everything he touches.’

‘Maybe he does,’ Bellephus said. ‘Maybe he always has. Maybe we should have died out with honour, rather than letting Fabius and Fulgrim pull us back from one abyss, only to tip us over another.’

‘Is that bitterness I hear?’ Savona said. ‘Or regret?’

‘Both,’ Bellephus said. ‘Neither.’ He looked at her. ‘Desire and regret are both part of the same serpent. Desire leads, regret follows. You cannot have one without the other, else both are worthless.’

‘Very pithy. Come up with it yourself?’

‘No, more’s the pity. Another legionary said it. Narvo Quin.’

‘And where is this philosopher now?’

‘The same place as most philosophers. Dead.’ Bellephus knocked a knuckle against the rail. ‘The last I heard, he went looking for Fulgrim’s bower and never returned.’

Savona chuckled. ‘That’s the one thing I’ll never understand about your kind.’

‘Just the one thing?’ Bellephus asked.

Savona ignored him. ‘Why bother looking for the gods or their servants?’ she said. ‘In my experience, if they want you, they’ll find you quick enough.’

As she spoke, a vox-chime sounded. She stepped back from the rail.

‘Speaking of which…’ She activated her vox. ‘Yes?’

Fabius’ voice broke through the static. ‘Are you finished with your preparations?’

‘Almost.’

‘Then report to the bridge. I want to review our strategy.’

‘Again?’

‘Yes. And we will do so until I am certain you understand it.’

With that, he cut the link. Savona looked at Bellephus. He bowed floridly.

‘After you, my lady.’

Arrian ceased sharpening his blade as Fabius severed the vox-link. The look on the Chief Apothecary’s face said it all. Savona’s petulance was trying, even at the best of times. But she had her uses, and was more trustworthy than any other warrior of the 12th. Most, like Varex, were only one setback away from treachery.

He peered down the length of his Falax blade. Satisfied with the edge, he sheathed it. He drew the second, and began the process all over again. The sonic whetstone made a soft hum as he ran it along the curve of the blade.

‘Must you do that here?’ Gorel demanded. He stood nearby, beside Marag and Duco.

Arrian paused and considered a number of responses, and then decided on the one guaranteed to annoy Gorel.

‘Yes,’ he said, and continued honing his blade. As he did so, he covertly studied the other three Apothecaries.

Gorel’s body language spoke loudly of resentment. He did not wish to be here, and made no effort to hide that fact. Gorel’s pedigree was unknown. He was probably a renegade from one of the milkblood warbands that had sprung up after the dissolution of the old Legions. He’d never fought against his brothers, because he had none. To him, the Long War was nothing more than someone else’s history.

Marag, on the other hand, was in an amiable mood. Then, he rarely seemed otherwise. Arrian suspected that he regularly dosed himself with a variety of narcotics, though whether out of addictive need or simple experimentation, he couldn’t say. The Fallen was an oddity, even among the Consortium.

Of the three, Duco seemed the most eager. Like most of his kindred, the Night Lord had always enjoyed a good raid. Duco met his gaze and nodded in acknowledgement. Arrian returned the nod. Of the three, he liked Duco the best. The Night Lord was a practical sort, and his ambitions were safely aimed outside of the Consortium.

Gorel turned. ‘What’s this?’ he grunted. ‘What has that fool done now?’

Arrian followed Gorel’s gaze as Skalagrim’s voice reached him.

‘Come, little pups. Sit. Observe. And be silent.’ The Apothecary was trailed onto the deck by a pack of Homo novus children. Most were only a few years old, but were larger, stronger and more alert than a normal child their age would have been. Each of them bore the marks of the packs from the gunnery decks – Skalagrim favoured them above the others for reasons that escaped Arrian.

‘Why?’ he asked, as Skalagrim drew near.

‘They were getting underfoot. Little bastards took down one of the overseers on the lower supply deck. Hamstrung the poor brute and had his guts out before anyone realised.’ Skalagrim grinned. ‘They’re learning quickly. More quickly than the last ones.’

‘Each generation is an improvement on the one before.’ Arrian watched as the children scattered, seeking perches and crannies to hide in. ‘Why bring them up here?’

‘I thought they might learn something from this.’

Fabius turned at that. ‘Did you?’ he asked.

‘Oh yes. Their education is my foremost concern at this moment.’

Fabius snorted and turned back to his data. ‘You are responsible for them.’

‘I never thought otherwise.’ Skalagrim sauntered towards the strategium dais. ‘So have they arrived yet? Or are we too late?’

‘No,’ Fabius said. ‘They have not appeared yet. But they will. They cannot resist easy prey. It is against their nature.’

‘Your time among them was well spent.’

Fabius considered the statement. ‘Yes, I suppose it was.’

‘Any idea why they want to kill you?’

‘No.’ Fabius’ fingers moved across the control panel. ‘But it doesn’t matter, really. Eventually, someone would have come after us. Whether it was the aeldari or Abaddon or even my former brothers – the identity of the foe isn’t important.’

‘I’d say it is, but then, I lack your brilliance.’

‘It is good that you are willing to admit your failings, Skalagrim.’

The former Sons of Horus legionary smirked. Arrian considered chastising him for his disrespect, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort. It wasn’t as if Skalagrim would moderate his behaviour because of it.

‘Why are there urchins on the observation deck?’ Saqqara asked as he arrived, trailed by Savona, Bellephus and Khorag. The former Death Guard was accompanied, as ever, by his pet – a lolloping, slug-like beast. It left a trail of slime behind it as it bounded excitedly towards one of the children. The boy yelped and began to climb out of the beast’s reach. Friendly though it was, the creature’s touch was lethal.

‘How else are they supposed to learn, Saqqara?’ Fabius said, without turning from the display. ‘Are you volunteering to take over crèche-duties, perhaps?’

‘One might ask as to why we have crèches on a warship.’

‘If one wanted to look foolish.’ Fabius turned. ‘These children are weapons, Saqqara. Their training begins early, and often. The best way for them to learn is to observe.’

Saqqara looked down. Several of the children were studying him with flat, unwavering gazes. Each of them held makeshift weapons. He frowned and tapped one of his daemon-flasks.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ Fabius said, turning back to the display.

‘So, now that we’re all here,’ Skalagrim said, cutting a glance at Savona, ‘have you devised a strategy yet, or are we just going to watch as a world is butchered?’

Fabius stirred. ‘Yes. We will strike in three phases. The first phase will be a multilateral assault, designed to disrupt the initial drukhari attack. Savona will be in command of this. You will assist her, as will Arrian.’

Skalagrim glanced at Arrian, who nodded.

‘And when you say disrupt, you mean kill them, yes?’ Savona said.

‘As many of them as you like,’ Fabius said. ‘Their initial attack is almost always a distraction – a way to preoccupy any defenders my facilities might have, while the killing thrust slips in through the webway. Which brings me to the second phase. I will establish a command position in the cache itself. Gorel, you and Marag will accompany me.’

‘Why us?’ Gorel asked.

‘Would you rather accompany Savona?’ Arrian said. Gorel shot him a glare and fell silent. Fabius nodded in thanks, and continued.

‘Khorag, Duco and Bellephus will enter the webway through the active portal in the ship’s aft launch bay and take up position to spring the jaws of our trap when the foe arrives.’ Fabius called up a rough map of a section of the webway. ‘I expect them to make an attack from one of these three transverse nodal points. While the Peleus-Tertius gate has some defences, they are entirely automated and likely ill-maintained in my absence.’

‘Never trust a New Man to do an Astartes’ job,’ Bellephus murmured.

Fabius glanced at him, but did not argue the point. ‘The third phase will be void-based,’ he continued. ‘Saqqara will assume command of the Vesalius.’ He looked at the Word Bearer. ‘The enemy have a single vessel, but a small fleet of escorts. It will be your task to keep them occupied.’

Saqqara frowned. ‘Easy enough to accomplish. But I’m surprised you are not planning to engage them before they reach the planet.’

‘We have no way of telling where they will emerge from the webway,’ Fabius said. ‘I have calculated no less than ten potential exodus points within striking distance of the planet. It will be up to you to respond – and swiftly – when the signal is given.’ He fixed the Word Bearer with a stare. ‘But not until the signal is given.’ He looked around. ‘That goes for all of you. We must draw them in before we can bloody their nose. They must be convinced that this victory is as easy as all the others. Else they will scatter before we can close our trap about them. If I must sacrifice this world to do that, so be it.’

‘You are a cold soul,’ Saqqara said.

‘At least this way, some may survive.’

‘Rationalisations,’ the Word Bearer said.

Fabius turned. ‘Do you have some objection to this plan, Saqqara? Or are you merely griping for its own sake?’

Saqqara smiled. ‘My only objection is to the hypocrisy. You profess to love these creatures – to cherish their lives above your own. And yet here you are, sacrificing them so that you might have a few moments’ advantage against your foes.’

Angered by Saqqara’s disrespect, Arrian’s hand fell to the hilt of his blade. But he did not draw it. Saqqara felt his gaze and glanced at him. The Word Bearer had a knowing look on his face, and Arrian realised that this outburst might well be because of his earlier taunts. He forced himself to relax.

Fabius stared at Saqqara for a few moments. ‘Saqqara… even after all this time, you still don’t understand, do you? You still don’t comprehend the purpose of my work.’

Saqqara’s smile faltered. Fabius’ gaze held him, the way a serpent might entrance a bird.

‘It is not to preserve these creatures or those – rather, it is to preserve the species as a whole. It is not love that guides my hand, but necessity. If a hundred must die to preserve a thousand, so be it. If a million here must die to preserve potential billions in the future – then I will gladly cut their throats myself.’

He looked down at the children crouched at his feet. Their dark gazes never wavered. Gently, he stroked the head of the closest with paternal affection. The child murmured in pleasure at his creator’s touch. Fabius smiled.

‘I will do what must be done, whatever the cost.’

Chapter Eight

Peleus-tertius

Fabius rose from his restraint throne as the signal-rune flashed on his display. ‘Up, brothers. And remember, this world still believes that it serves the Imperium, so you are lackeys of the False Emperor today – try not to kill anyone who doesn’t have it coming.’

‘I still say this is a waste of time,’ Gorel said, as he joined Fabius at the compartment hatch. ‘What is the point?’

‘The point is to bait the trap properly, Gorel.’ Fabius glanced at him. ‘And put on your helmet. No one is going to want to see that lump of raw meat you call a face.’

Gorel pulled on his helm with a recalcitrant grunt, as the hatch shuddered open and the ramp extended. Fabius was the first out, followed by Gorel and Marag.

The sky above was lit by an orange sun, and its light slid like water across the crystalline domes that crowned the capital. Flocks of avians circled the thickets of transmitters and vox-receivers that dotted the uppermost reaches of the domes. Rising above them all was the orbital conduit that connected Peleus-Tertius to the orbital dockyards that colonised parts of the upper stratosphere.

Peleus-Tertius was not large by the standards of the Imperium. A modest world, owing minor agri and industrial tithes, it had only one population centre worth the name – the Cluster. From a distance, it resembled a vast, tottering tower. Only when one was up-close did one truly understand the intricate complexities of its design.

The Cluster was not a traditional hive, as arable land was too valuable to waste on something as superfluous as human habitation. Rather, it was a series of interlinked, thousand-kilometre-long scaffolds, each balanced on great anchoring columns of ferrocrete as wide around as mountains. Shanty-communities of scrap metal and wire netting clung to these columns like barnacles to a ship’s hull. Others spread like rust across the underside of the lowest scaffolds, suspended within a sargasso of chains and cabling. At the base of each column was an enormous industrial agri-facility, responsible for the processing of foodstuffs.

While the lowest scaffolds were only several kilometres above the vast fields that spread out below the Cluster, the highest scraped the underbelly of the troposphere. It had grown one generation at a time, expanding to accommodate a growing population of menial labourers, Administratum drones, and the like. As new scaffolds were built atop the old to accommodate the ever-increasing population, new structures rose along their edges, connected by metal ramps, staircases, transit shafts and access routes.

The fortified enclaves of the ruling families crowned the highest points of the support columns, protected from harm by curious crystalline domes of archaic construction. Each of these domes was ringed by hundreds of landing platforms of varying size and purpose, from the personal to the industrial.

Fabius and the others were crossing one such platform now, leaving their Skylance gunship to be tended by the servitors. He glanced back at the transport. The gunship had been repainted white and scoured of all heraldry. It was a square thing, older than the city it was currently touching down in. It had last seen action in a blockade-run two centuries before, and still had the scars. It also had no daemonic taint, making it the perfect vehicle with which to conduct inspections of his holdings in certain regions of space.

He’d made it a point to visit Peleus-Tertius at least once every few decades after his initial seeding had taken root. His creations had infiltrated every level of society, from the manufactorum workers to the gubernatorial dynasty. Every hundred years or so, he came, took samples and played the genial primogenitor. The local populace thought he was one of Guilliman’s sons, or perhaps a scion of Dorn, come to test them for potential aspirants.

As was tradition, their arrival was greeted with all due pomp and circumstance. Jubilant throngs of citizens sang hymns to the Corpse-Emperor and the air was filled with flower petals, released from on high by flocks of cyber-cherubs. Armoured security forces wielding shock-batons and riot shields held back the crowd as Fabius and his entourage approached the planetary representatives awaiting them at the other end of the walkway.

Fabius wore heavy white robes over his armour, and a white helm marked with the caduceus of the Apothecarion. His armour, and that of his followers, had been cleansed of offending smells or suspicious sigils, and their heraldry obscured by folds of black silk. Marag and Gorel followed him, trailed by their more presentable attendants. No mutants or stimm-addicted slaves.

‘This is farcical,’ Gorel murmured over the vox.

‘But necessary,’ Fabius said. ‘This planet is still technically part of the Imperium, for all that it belongs to me. If we arrived openly, some overly efficient drudge would likely send a request for aid from the nearest garrison-world. And then where would we be?’

‘Why not simply let them do so? Let our milkblood cousins do the fighting.’

‘And risk them discovering my cache-facility? I think not. Now smile and wave, there’s a good servant of the Corpse-Emperor.’ Fabius raised his hand, and the crowd redoubled its singing. Men and women fainted, overcome by the ecstasy of seeing the Emperor’s chosen in the flesh. Petals rained down in thick sheets.

It was all a bit much. Fabius fought to keep his stride even, aware of how many eyes were on him, and how many spy-picters were trained on his entourage, scanning them from every angle. These little worlds were hives of conspiracy. The pettier the fiefdom, the more its rulers indulged in skulduggery to keep themselves amused. And of course his children encouraged this, even as he’d taught them.

Armoured soldiers awaited them at the end of the walkway. They wore matt-black armour with yellow highlights, and carried heavy lascarbines. They crashed aside, revealing Planetary Governor Fetzer and his wife, Zella. Both were exemplars of Homo novus – tall and strong, with pale violet gazes and hair the colour of sun-bleached grass. They bowed low, as was proper.

‘Pater Mutatis,’ Fetzer said. ‘It has been too long.’

‘Careful, boy,’ Fabius said. ‘That is not a name to say in public.’

‘Rest easy, Benefactor,’ Zella said. She tugged on her collar. ‘Vox-baffles, built into our regalia. A necessity of late.’ She turned. ‘Come.’

‘Trouble?’ Fabius asked as Fetzer and Zella led him and the others to a waiting grav-shunt. The vehicle was reinforced to bear the weight of fully armoured Space Marines, but even so it groaned as the three Apothecaries stepped aboard. It set off with a hum, following a tensile line to palatial atria above.

‘The usual foolishness,’ Fetzer said. ‘The Old Families dislike any autocracy that doesn’t include their input. They’ve started testing our defences in a sort of half-hearted way. A bit sad, really. They lack the fire of previous generations.’

‘They’ve been bled white,’ Fabius said. ‘And that is the way it should be. The old gives way to the new. Soon, you will have this world to yourselves.’

‘We already do. Our kindred have insinuated themselves into every executive clan and Administratum caste on this world, as you commanded. And we have begun secondary eugenic alteration of the general populace ahead of schedule.’ Zella beamed proudly at Fabius. ‘Wait until you see what we’ve come up with, Benefactor. We think we’ve managed to crack the pheromone issue…’

‘Intriguing,’ Fabius said kindly. ‘Unfortunately, child, that is not why we are here.’

Fetzer looked at his wife. ‘I told you. The only reason he’d come early is if there’s trouble.’

Zella sighed and mock-applauded. ‘Well done, husband.’

‘This world will soon come under attack,’ Fabius said, before Fetzer could reply. ‘A xenos raid of substantial proportions. You will prepare accordingly.’

Fetzer and Zella traded glances. ‘When?’ Fetzer asked.

Fabius glanced at the chronometer built into his vambrace. ‘I estimate sixteen standard hours. Your sensor-net should be picking them up sometime in the next ten.’

‘I’ll alert planetary command,’ Zella said. ‘We’ll convene the defence council.’

Fetzer looked at Fabius. ‘Have you come to aid us, Benefactor?’ he asked.

‘In a sense. Consider it a test.’ Fabius clasped the New Man by the shoulder in a paternal fashion. ‘For now, escort me to the cache. I have preparations to make before our guests arrive.’

Spar crouched on a smooth escarpment, high above the webway portal. Pallid slopes of psychoplastic fell away from her in every direction – an artificial mountain range, stretching past the limits of her vision. It reminded her of a rucked cloth, carelessly discarded.

She let her autogun rest across her knees as she rubbed her hands together, warming them. It was cold in the webway. But not a natural cold – rather it was the cold of the void, seeping through the substance of the sub-dimension. The Space Marines did not notice, of course, but the Gland-hounds did.

There were twenty of them here – two packs’ worth, under the command of Eldest Mayshana. They were spread out, acting as scouts on behalf of the Emperor’s Children and the beastkin scattered through this section of the webway. Spar’s gaze flicked upwards to where Mayshana crouched, watching for any sign of the prey. The Eldest was lean and brown and covered in more scars than Spar had years. She wore the same fatigues and armour they all wore, and her head was shaved to the quick. She had fought beside the Benefactor for decades, since long before he’d gone to Commorragh. Now she commanded the loyal packs. When the Hound-Queen had turned from the Benefactor’s light, the Eldest had fought her, had tried to keep the faithless packs from abandoning their duties. She’d failed, and nearly paid for that failure with her life. But she’d survived, and grown stronger for her defeat.

Now she ruled. Not like a queen, but close enough.

Spar had never given such matters much thought. Gland-hounds were not encouraged to think. At least, not about things like that. She peered down towards the gate. It was a makeshift bastion, built from rubble scavenged from the aeldari outposts that dotted this portion of the webway. Repurposed combat-servitors of all makes and models prowled its length. The creatures were formidable enough, but no match for an organised enemy. She blew into her cupped hands and rubbed them briskly.

‘Why are you rubbing your hands together?’ Glaive asked from behind her.

‘I do not like this place,’ she said as she looked around. The webway was too big to comprehend. Too convoluted. It bent back on itself in ways that defied the senses. In some places it was large enough for a ship like the Vesalius to fly through. In others, it was barely wide enough for a single person.

Glaive laughed. ‘You sound like the daemon-lover.’

Spar slugged him, knocking him onto his backside. ‘Take that back,’ she growled. The Word Bearer was a figure of hatred among the packs. He was a vile thing, a worshiper of idols and a purveyor of falsehood. He had tried for centuries, without success, to convert the packs to the worship of the Dark Gods.

Glaive scrambled to his feet, combat knife in hand. Spar drew her own and bared her teeth in challenge.

‘Stop it,’ Bellephus said. He crouched nearby, his own knife in hand, not looking at them. It was a curved, crude thing, reminiscent of a butcher’s hook. He was using it to carve verses onto the wraithbone.

She and Glaive looked at one another, and then at him. Bellephus matched their gaze with equanimity. Of all the Emperor’s Children, he was the one least bothered by their company. They, in turn, tolerated him. Sometimes he even read them poems.

‘The enemy will be here soon enough, children. Save your fire for the aeldari.’ He flourished his blade, and Spar could see old stains marring the finish. Daemonic ichor did not wash off. The poem on the ground was half-finished.

Nearby Gland-hounds were watching the interaction carefully. Fond as they were of the gutter-poet, they would happily butcher him if he threatened the twins. They relaxed as the Eldest dropped down from her perch above.

‘He’s right,’ she said. ‘Calm yourselves. We are not beasts, to snap at one another.’

‘That is debatable,’ one of Bellephus’ warriors said. He was a scar-faced creature, almost handsome beneath a mask of keloid tissue and suture marks. Amplification studs marked his jawline, and stimm-jacks stuck out from his corded neck. He wore a necklace of finger bones, carved in the shape of dancing daemonesses. Several nearby Emperor’s Children laughed gutturally at his comment.

They fell silent when Bellephus halted his work and turned to study them. ‘Did I give you leave to laugh, Varex?’ he asked mildly.

‘Are you in command then, Bellephus? I thought you were too busy mooning over that wretched creature the Clonelord installed over us.’ Varex chuckled. ‘What do you see in that abomination anyway? Hardly a fitting muse, if you want my opinion…’

Bellephus buried the hooked blade in Varex’s skull before he could finish. He jerked the twitching warrior towards himself and caught him in a comradely embrace. He gave the blade a twist, and Varex twitched uncontrollably.

‘I did not give you leave to laugh, or to speak, Varex. You are interrupting my composition. And Lady Savona is to be respected even when she is not present, my brother.’

He twisted the knife again, and Varex’s eyes rolled wildly in their sockets.

Bellephus looked at the others. ‘Do we understand each other?’

Varex gurgled. Bellephus extracted his blade and shoved the injured warrior into the arms of one of his fellows.

‘Take him to one of the Apothecaries.’ He paused. ‘Not Khorag,’ he amended. He watched as Varex stumbled in his companion’s wake like a child taking its first steps and then turned back to Spar and the others. He bowed shallowly to the Eldest. ‘My apologies, Mayshana.’

‘He seemed quite troublesome,’ the Eldest said. ‘Would you like us to kill him?’

‘I think he has learned his lesson. At least for the moment.’

‘I should hope so,’ Khorag called out, as he lumbered towards them. The hulking Apothecary was surrounded by a miasmatic cloud, and Spar hastily donned her rebreather. Glaive and the others followed her example. ‘In my experience, a blade to the skull often has a calmative effect. Isn’t that right, brother?’

‘I find it to be an effective – if permanent – solution to a variety of ailments,’ Duco growled. He made a show of checking the charge on his plasma pistol as he approached. He holstered the weapon and nodded respectfully to Bellephus. ‘I trust your warriors are ready, gutter-poet.’

‘I trust they are as well. Else I’ll be planting my blade in a few more skulls before the day is out. Speaking of which…’

Duco gave a hollow laugh. ‘I saw him. He’ll live. Won’t be able to talk until the language centres reknit, though.’ He looked at Mayshana. ‘The scouts?’

‘Nothing yet,’ Mayshana said.

Duco nodded. ‘Maybe they smelled a trap.’

‘Or maybe they haven’t arrived yet.’

Duco shrugged. ‘Either way.’ He looked around. ‘I hate this place. Unnatural. It smells of old death.’

Spar looked pointedly at Glaive, who ignored her.

‘Death is but a transition, Duco,’ Khorag said cheerfully. ‘And Grandfather would not pluck a flower before its time. Even one so crooked as you.’ He clapped the Night Lord on the pauldron, and Duco grimaced. He sprayed an antibacterial solution on the spot, filling the air with an acrid odour.

‘Your homilies aren’t as comforting as you imagine, Khorag.’

A sharp whistle echoed down from somewhere above. Spar tensed. ‘Eldest?’ she asked.

Mayshana nodded. ‘You and the rest with me.’ She gestured. ‘Start climbing. I’ll join you in a moment.’

‘What is it?’ Duco asked.

‘I’d guess they’ve spotted the enemy,’ Bellephus said. He sheathed his knife and sighed. ‘I suppose I’ll have to finish this poem later.’

Saqqara slumped sullenly in the command throne, chin resting on his fist. He stared at the observation screen without seeing it. Around him, the bridge was full of activity, but he paid attention to none of it.

He had begun to wonder about a great many things of late. Arrian’s words had bitten deeper than he cared to admit. It was not the first time he had questioned his purpose. While his faith had never wavered, his certainty had. A man could never take the words of the gods at face value. All things were the will of the gods, but they often did not bother to explain themselves. It could be frustrating. Frustration was a test. Fabius Bile was a test.

But he was beginning to wonder if he’d failed it.

‘You haven’t. Not yet.’

‘I expected you before now,’ he said softly. He did not ask how the newcomer had read his thoughts. To the Neverborn, a mortal’s mind was as an open book. He tapped a flask, soothing the daemon within. They did not care for his visitor. A trait she shared with her father. He glanced around. As ever, no one else noticed her presence. Like many Neverborn, she slipped between the moments with ease. This communion was for him alone.

‘What is before? There is only now,’ Melusine said, trailing her claws along the ridges of his armour. ‘An eternal moment, stretching into untold infinities.’

‘Enough homilies.’ Saqqara rose to his feet and turned.

She was as beautiful as he recalled, all fire and spice. A perfect equanimity between the mortal and the divine. Hooves fetched in gold, and skin the colour of blushed marble. Curved horns, etched with the names of Slaanesh, and chains of silver draped across her shoulders and chest.

‘Speak truth to me, if only this once. What is my purpose here? Is it to guide? To teach? Or to be taught?’

‘You are angry.’

‘No. I am tired. I am tired of being his slave. Tired of serving his whims. Tired of this useless device pressing against the base of my skull.’

Melusine smiled. ‘You disarmed it.’

‘Of course I did,’ Saqqara spat. ‘He has not altered it in years. Not since before he left for Commorragh. I do not think he cares any more.’ He paused. ‘Once, I fancied myself the whetstone to his blade – my faith against his logic. But of late, he has not come to me. He is no longer interested in arguing with me.’

‘And that… saddens you?’

‘No,’ Saqqara said, more sharply than he intended. ‘No. But what it represents disturbs me. He is… winding down. Do you understand?’

‘The game is coming to an end,’ Melusine said. She circled the command throne, reaching for him. He stepped back, hands raised. Her scent was like crushed flowers and burning sugar – sickly-sweet and all too enticing. ‘For good or ill, his time of choosing approaches.’

‘He cannot go forwards or backwards,’ Saqqara said, repeating her own words to her. Words he’d heard her speak often enough. ‘The gods have chosen his path for him.’

‘And you will help him walk it,’ she said. She caught his hands, and he did not resist her as she pulled him close. ‘We both will.’ Slowly, awkwardly, he allowed her to lead him into a slow, courtly dance. ‘The moment that I have sacrificed for is here. The moment we have sacrificed for is here.’

Saqqara looked down at her. ‘What will he become?’ He hesitated. ‘A god? I have often taunted him with that, but of late I have begun to see it taking seed. Did the Dark Gods send me to him not to kill him, or convince him – but to venerate him?’

Melusine laughed. ‘He would hate that. As would you.’ She shook her head. ‘I do not know. I am but a piece of a greater whole. As are you. As is he, whether he admits it or not. And we all have our parts to play in the drama unfolding about us.’

‘And what is my part?’

‘In the now? You will do as he asks,’ she said.

‘So the same as ever, then?’

‘The gods will it.’

‘The gods… or you?’

‘I am but their servant.’ She looked at the observation screen. ‘Sometimes, it happens here. Sometimes elsewhere. This is not the moment the knife goes in. It is the moment he realises that he is not the one holding it. It is the moment he understands that he cannot win.’

‘You… want us – want him – to lose?’ Saqqara said, nonplussed.

Melusine stroked his tattooed cheek. ‘He has already lost. He just doesn’t know it yet.’

She leaned close and kissed him. His flesh blistered where her lips touched, and he jerked back with a hiss of pain. She let him go, and turned to draw a claw across the air, sundering the veil between reality and the warp.

‘But as with him, the moment of your choosing approaches. You will have a decision to make… Will you be the one with the knife, or the one on the stone?’

A moment later, she was gone. Alarms were sounding throughout the bridge. Saqqara shook his head, trying to clear it of her musk.

‘What is going on?’ he growled.

‘The Vesalius scents prey,’ Wolver said from behind him.

Saqqara turned. On the observation screen, there was a flash of light. He sat back down and watched the ship – all sharp curves and predatory angles – emerge from a rupture in reality. He stared at it for a moment, considering. Then, with a sigh, he activated the vox.

‘They’re here.’

Chapter Nine

Assault

‘They’re here,’ Fabius said in satisfaction. ‘Even as I predicted. Like flies to carrion.’ He stood at the heart of the cache’s strategium antechamber, holo-displays swarming about him like a flock of brightly coloured birds. He observed the enemy’s arrival through a slave-feed from the Vesalius’ sensors.

Hull-mounted picter units recorded the eruption of the drukhari vessel into realspace, timing the translation and comparing the physical characteristics of the vessel to those in the databanks. In theory, identifying the vessel by type would make the task of disabling it easier. But that wasn’t his concern. Saqqara was an adequate void-commander, and the Vesalius was more than capable of defending itself.

‘Should we warn your pets?’ Gorel asked.

Fabius dismissed the void-feed and looked at the other Apothecary. ‘By now, their own sensors will have alerted them.’ Fetzer and Zella were more than competent, and he’d given them enough warning to at least begin preparations. They would already be mobilising the planetary defences to repel the invaders. He turned to one of the nearby tech-thralls. ‘Lock down the cache.’ The creature bowed low.

‘Ave, Pater Mutatis,’ it gurgled.

Most of the thralls resembled humans, if somewhat unfinished ones. They were born from the same communal flesh-vats that gave birth to his war-mutants and other experimental life forms. They were pallid, hairless things, tattooed with batch numbers and ident-codes. They could be programmed for a variety of tasks, mostly rudimentary. Not quite clones, and not quite a new species, they were something in-between.

Others were of superior stock, augmented both cybernetically and physiologically for more complex tasks. Unlike their lesser kin, who wore cast-off rags and utilitarian garments, the tech-thralls wore a uniform of sorts – tunics and trousers of purple, with black piping and gilded buttons. The uniforms had been their idea, as had the primitive caste system they’d developed. Seeing the benefits of such internal societal controls, he had allowed it. It made things easier all around when his creations governed themselves.

‘I have a hard time believing they can even find this place, hidden as it is,’ Gorel said. The cache was nestled deep in the heart of the Cluster. It occupied a blind spot in the city’s internal sensor-net, and fed off the local power grid through an ingenious series of dummy relays. It resembled nothing so much as a fortified tumour perched atop a secondary support column. Invisible to anyone who wasn’t already aware of its presence, and reachable only by an equally hidden transit shaft that travelled the length of the support column.

‘The other caches were equally well hidden. I suspect they have some source of information we are not privy to. Regardless, I do not intend to make this easy for them.’ Fabius gestured sharply to a group of nearby mutants. ‘What are you waiting for? You heard me – lock it down.’

They scrambled to obey his command. Several hundred mutants and beastkin now occupied the cache. Most were already busy erecting barricades or spot-welding the outer hatches shut. Others had taken up defensive positions at the internal transit nodes. Dozens of specially bred overseers prowled among them, supervising the work. The hiss of electric lashes echoed through the corridors, as did the yowling of the war-mutants.

Twenty of the hulking beasts crouched in the central chamber, safely separated from the others. They were restive despite being sedated, likely due to the aggression-enhancers implanted in their skulls – every fifteen seconds, the enhancers delivered a stimulating pain-pulse to the neocortex, keeping them in a near-constant state of agitation. Each of the creatures was a steroidal slab of genetically augmented muscle and reinforced bone, complete with subcutaneous armour plating, stimm-nodes and simple targeting cogitators inserted into the occipital lobe.

Simple creatures, they had but one function – to kill, until they were commanded to stop, or were destroyed themselves. They would fight until they collapsed, their systems fried from overexertion or stimm-burnout. The perfect vanguard, in other words.

‘Status, Marag?’ Fabius asked. Marag was overseeing the war-mutants, ensuring that they remained docile until needed. The speed with which their overclocked systems processed chemicals made keeping them sedated difficult. Too much, and they would be useless. Too little, and they would be too difficult to control, especially in a confined space.

‘They’re docile,’ Marag replied, over the vox. ‘Not for much longer, though. I am already through two-thirds of our sedative supply.’

‘We won’t have long to wait. The drukhari have little patience. Their forces are already approaching the webway gate.’

Fabius called up the data-feed for the gate. As ever, the signal was distorted and full of static. But despite the interference he could see that the combat-servitors were already responding to some threat, just out of sight. While most of the servitors were armed only with repurposed cutting tools or melee implements, a third of their number were armed with heavy stubbers and assault cannons. A phalanx of them waited before the gate, the ammunition drums on their backs full and their weapons cycling in preparation. They would not be able to stop the drukhari, but they would whittle them down sufficiently for the war-mutants to finish the job. And if by some chance the war-mutants failed, Bellephus and the others would not.

‘Why didn’t you warn them about the other weapons?’ Gorel asked.

Fabius looked at him. ‘What?’

‘Your pets. You didn’t warn them about the torpedoes the drukhari used on the other worlds. Why?’

‘If I had, they would have expected me to come up with some form of defensive measure. If I had obliged them, the drukhari would quickly become aware that something was amiss. If I hadn’t, my children might have complicated the situation.’

‘You mean they’d have turned on us.’

Fabius looked away. ‘Perhaps. You recall our difficulties on Paramar, I trust.’

‘You mean that time your creations planned to sacrifice you to the Dark Gods?’ Gorel said. ‘Yes, I often think of it. It brings me no end of amusement to remember the befuddled look on your face.’

Fabius frowned. ‘I am pleased to be of service. In any event, I wish to avoid a repeat of that unfortunate incident. Savona and the others will see to the torpedoes, if possible. If not, this planet will simply have to endure the effects as best it can, until the matter is settled in our favour.’

‘Lorgar’s whelp was right – you are a cold one.’ Gorel chuckled. ‘I am pleased to see this side of you, Fabius. Of late, you have seemed more the doting pater than the great scientist I sought out so many centuries ago.’

‘Things change.’

‘I am not the only one who noticed, you know. Despite Zorzi’s best efforts, I might add. He’s a loyal sort, your war-hound.’

‘Do you have a point, or are you experimenting with small talk again?’

‘When you left us, the Consortium tore itself apart. Those who remained – and I count myself among them – expected you to share what you’d learned in Commorragh. To take command of us again. That is why we stayed.’

‘And so I did. I have disseminated that information freely.’

‘But you did not take command – what have we accomplished since your return? Nothing. Where are the raids? The expeditions into aeldari ruins? You have been more distant than ever. It took this affair to stir you to action.’ Gorel shook his head. ‘More and more, it feels as if the Consortium’s days are coming to a close. And what then, eh?’

‘All things end,’ Fabius said. ‘I offer sanctuary and knowledge, nothing more. It is all I have ever offered. My days as lieutenant commander of the Third are behind me. We are not soldiers any more, Gorel. We have not been soldiers for a long time.’

‘Then what are we?’

‘That, you will have to decide for yourself.’ Fabius stiffened as an alarm-code flashed across the holo-display. ‘For now, be silent. It is beginning.’

He tapped one of the holo-displays, expanding it.

‘There. Look. The bombers have entered the troposphere.’

The aircraft arrowed down, swooping high over their chosen targets. Flak batteries opened up, filling the air with fire. One of the Voidravens vanished in a gout of flame, caught by a lucky shot. But the others passed through the storm unharmed, thanks to their speed and manoeuvrability. Despite the danger they posed, Fabius was impressed. That feeling only increased when he witnessed their pinpoint accuracy. The targeted areas were perfect for ensuring the maximum spread of whatever it was the torpedoes contained.

‘Someone did their calculations,’ Gorel muttered, as the first impact occurred near a central scaffold. Moments later, a wispy vapour flooded the surrounding transit paths. Fabius frowned and isolated the image. Gorel, noting his concern, said, ‘What do you see?’

‘It’s wraithbone,’ Fabius said. He felt a sudden twisting ache in his chest, and clutched at himself. The pain clawed savagely at him, only to immediately fade. The chirurgeon reacted immediately, injecting a cocktail of stimulants and stabilisers into his veins. ‘Something is…’ He shook his head, trying to clear it.

‘Fabius?’ Gorel said, moving to support him. ‘What’s wrong? Marag! Get in here!’

‘No,’ Fabius snapped. ‘I’m fine. Just… just a momentary twinge.’ He straightened. ‘I should have realised…’

‘What is it?’

Fabius pointed to the images. ‘It’s not a chem-weapon. Or rather it is, but not as we know it. They’re using the psychic energy stored in wraithbone to drive the populace mad.’ He grimaced. ‘The wraithbone I cultivated for them, most likely.’

Gorel laughed. ‘Skalagrim was right – this really is all your fault.’

‘Be silent,’ Fabius said, as he watched the effects of the torpedoes spread down through the levels of the city, aided by the circulation turbines that carried fresh air to the lower scaffolds. Deactivating them might preserve some of the city. He activated the vox. ‘Fetzer – Zella…’ Static greeted him. ‘Gorel?’

‘Planetary frequencies are being jammed, as you predicted.’ Gorel hunched over a cogitator panel. ‘I’m trying to isolate the signal and bypass it.’

‘Never mind that. What about our frequencies?’ As he spoke, he spied the first wave of drukhari raiders plummeting down through the lower atmosphere. A predatory smile spread across his face. They’d taken the bait.

‘Still functioning as normal.’

‘Good.’ Fabius called up a smaller display. ‘Savona?’

‘I’m listening. I hope you have something pleasant to say.’

‘It’s time.’

Gunships rode over the rooftops, weaving through the scaffolds. The streets below were crowded with bodies. The drukhari weapons had done their work, and now frenzied crowds of people tore at themselves and their neighbours, driven beyond the limits of madness. The air throbbed with the song of insanity, with an unending scream.

A solid flood of lunatic bodies heaved in the shadow of the gunships. Some danced mindlessly, whirling to the songs of the spirits. Others hurled themselves, clawing and biting, at the riot-shields of the embattled enforcers who sought to contain them.

The gunships swooped low. Assault cannons chewed the densely packed street, clearing a bloody landing strip. Civilian and enforcer alike were reduced to a spattering of redness and a fine pink mist. Missile pods spat concealing chaff, obscuring the thoroughfare from any airborne observers. Moments later, boarding ramps slammed down, and the troop compartments disgorged almost a hundred warriors in the livery of the Emperor’s Children.

Savona strode down Butcher-Bird’s boarding ramp, her maul resting on her shoulder. Her armour had been freshly oiled in scented unguents and her golden helm, torn from the dying body of an aeldari autarch and repurposed to interface with her battleplate, had been polished to a mirror sheen. The screams of the mad, the injured and the dying filled the air and she sighed in pleasure.

‘This is what it’s all about, eh, Ruatha?’

The hulking renegade behind her grunted. His augmetic voice box made the sound into a mechanical growl.

She glanced at him. Ruatha’s armour had been painted the colour of raw meat, and was covered in golden studs, including the helmet. Oaths of indulgence and battle-pacts hung from his pauldrons and chestplate. One of his arms had melted into a pinkish tendril, which coiled lovingly about his bolter. He bounced an inactive frag grenade in his other hand.

‘Could do with more screaming,’ he said.

‘Never satisfied, you lot.’

He looked at her. ‘No. We’re not,’ he said flatly.

‘It was a joke.’

Ruatha was silent for a moment. Then he gave a terse, artificial laugh.

She studied him. Ruatha was one of Bellephus’ adherents, and her designated bodyguard. That meant he was loyal to her, in a roundabout way. The loyalty of convenience was still loyalty, after all.

She gestured. ‘Give the order.’

Ruatha growled into the vox, and warriors moved swiftly, taking up predetermined positions. Pavise bulwarks were anchored to the street, creating reinforced emplacements. The emplacements weren’t meant to provide long-term defence so much as they were there to draw the drukhari’s attentions.

Butcher-Bird shrilled, rocking slightly on its landing gear. Nearby Emperor’s Children sidled out of its arc of fire. The gunship had a notorious disregard for the lives of its passengers. Savona knew what that cry meant. Butcher-Bird’s bloodlust was getting the better of it and it wanted to get airborne again, and go hunting.

She patted its hull affectionately. ‘Easy,’ she murmured. It was a cobbled-together thing, built from the corpses of several other vessels and their machine-spirits. Whatever it had once been, the gunship was now all sharp angles and armoured plating, studded with missile-pods and gun-muzzles. Normally, when not in use, it was kept chained in one of the launch bays, its ammunition hoppers empty and guards stationed nearby. The hardwired servitors who’d once served as its crew were little more than mummified husks. Something else piloted the gunship now.

The gunship shrilled again, blaring its discontent to the world. Savona smiled indulgently.

‘I understand. Go, if you like. But make sure you come back when I call you.’ She stepped back as it retracted its ramp and fired its ascent thrusters.

‘Are you sure that was wise?’ Ruatha said.

‘No. But where’s the fun in wisdom?’ Savona peered down the thoroughfare. She could hear the unmistakable hum of anti-gravity engines. She’d made sure that the drukhari had spotted them. No point in being a distraction if no one saw you. ‘They’ll be coming soon. Have the others reported in yet?’

He nodded. ‘Helion and Vostro have both reported in. The Manflayer’s curs have reached the ground safely.’

‘Good. Then we can be about our business.’ She swept her maul down and activated it. ‘Have you ever hunted drukhari before, Ruatha?’

‘Not in several centuries.’

She smiled widely and drew her bolt pistol as the first raider appeared at the opposite end of the thoroughfare.

‘Then this should be most entertaining.’

Arrian inhaled deeply, drinking in the scent of war. He could hear the sounds of the embattled planetary defence forces attempting to pin down the invaders, or contain the crazed populace. The echoing thud of assault cannons and the whining bark of lasweapons. And above it all, the omnipresent wasp-hum of anti-grav engines.

The drukhari were adept at navigating canyons of steel and glass. Their war-barques were highly manoeuvrable – but fragile. He pointed down the line of the transit path below.

‘They’re heading north, riding the edge of the madness. Picking off the survivors.’

‘A solid plan,’ the warrior beside him growled. Helion held his prized lascannon the way a man might cradle a woman. Extra charge-packs hung from his brightly painted armour like decorations, and kill marks blackened his shoulder-plates and greaves. His helm had been refashioned in the shape of a stylised sun with a smiling cherub’s face. ‘I’ve used it myself,’ he continued. ‘No sense risking your neck when you’ve got a weapon that’ll do most of the work for you.’

‘You’re a credit to your Legion,’ Arrian said.

Helion laughed. ‘I am more than that – I’m a damn legend.’

Arrian smiled at his bravado. Helion had once belonged to the infamous ‘Sun-Killers’, or so he claimed. Whether he had been or not, he and his cronies had some skill at long-range warfare.

Helion looked around. ‘This overpass will make an adequate firing position. We’ll hit them as they advance, and reposition as they scatter.’ He turned. ‘Get those guns ready,’ he snarled.

His slaves hurried to obey, dragging scavenged heavy bolters and stub-cannons into position along the overpass. Helion’s squad was only ten strong, but they had four times that number of slave gun-crews to bolster their firepower. Enough to give the drukhari pause.

Helion looked at Arrian. ‘We don’t have the numbers to do more than irritate them, if it comes to stand-down. If they regroup and advance in force – or worse, get air support – we’ll have to retreat.’

‘If all goes well, they won’t have time for either.’ A coded burst of static interrupted him. He activated his vox. ‘Report.’

‘We’re advancing south, along the primus conduit,’ Skalagrim said. ‘With the gunships providing air support Vostro assures me that we should be at the secondary junction in an hour, if not less. What about you?’

‘In position,’ Arrian said. He glanced at Helion, who nodded. ‘Let me know when you’ve reached the junction. Helion thinks we can cover your advance from there, if necessary. Any word from Savona?’

‘She’s made contact. They know we’re here now.’

‘Good. That’s the point.’ Arrian cut the link. He blinked and a three-dimensional model of the city unfurled across his helmet’s display. Savona’s position was illuminated, as was Skalagrim’s, in relation to his own.

Fabius’ strategy was simple enough – three forces of varying size, engaging the enemy up-close or at range. The gunships would provide swift transport or air support, as was required. The intent was not to defend the city so much as it was to confuse the drukhari, and draw off those forces that might otherwise assault the cache from outside. The xenos would recover quickly enough, and either regroup or retreat.

‘Those aircraft of theirs are going to be our main worry,’ Helion said. He was peering up at the sliver of sky just visible through the canopy of scaffolding above. ‘We don’t have anything capable of countering them.’

‘Drukhari are scavengers,’ Arrian said. ‘The most gain for the least effort. They won’t risk valuable equipment unless they’re certain they have the advantage. Once they realise what they’re facing, I expect they’ll start a general retreat.’

‘And if they don’t?’

Arrian didn’t reply immediately. In the distance, he could see lean forms riding the air currents. The wasp-hum was louder now. He looked at Helion.

‘Then you’ll have to work a bit harder to earn your keep, Sun-Killer.’

Helion raised his lascannon. ‘It will be my pleasure, war-hound.’

Bellephus sighted down the length of his boltgun, watching as a tide of abomination crested the gate defences. His helm’s targeting array oscillated, isolating and expanding potential targets as he studied the clash occurring below.

The attackers were – or had once been – human. Prisoners taken on the previous raids, Bellephus assumed. Now they were wretched parodies, stretched and stitched and sealed into crude armour, their bodies swollen with chem-suffused muscles. Hundreds of them. Thousands, even. Some were conglomerations – two or three bodies combined into one quadrupedal nightmare. Others were starveling-thin horrors, begging for the mercy of death even as they raced into the teeth of the guns.

The combat-servitors paid no attention. They were as much horrors in their own way, after all. Assault cannons bellowed in staccato rhythm and a metallic cascade of spent shells clattered down to the courtyard below their firing stands.

‘Their drums will be dry soon,’ Mayshana said. She crouched beside him, peering through the scope of her long-las. ‘And still no sign of their masters.’

‘They’re here,’ Bellephus said. ‘Those things are just chattel. Bullet-sponges.’

‘Effective ones.’

‘Effectiveness is judged in the aftermath.’ He activated his vox. ‘Spar – report.’

‘Four of those anti-grav barques just appeared out of a side passage. There are… flying things with them.’

‘Flying things? Drukhari?’

‘Do drukhari have wings?’

‘Some of them.’

‘Then possibly. Not many of them – maybe fifty. The barques are armed to the teeth. We might be able to disable one before they spot us…’

‘No. Not yet. Hold position until I say otherwise.’ He cycled through the frequencies. ‘Salian? Report.’ Salian was Varex’s second-in-command. With his master unable to communicate, he’d taken over. Salian was somewhat more tolerable than Varex, but only just – he was a backstabber and an impassioned painter of mediocre hunting scenes.

‘We’re in position, gutter-poet.’

‘And Varex?’

‘He can hold his weapon – and fire it.’

‘That is all I ask. Hold position for now.’ He cut the link and looked at Mayshana. ‘When they reach the narrowest part of the conduit, I want you to take out the helmsman for the lead raider.’ It was a simple tactic – stall the lead vessel, you stall the column.

She patted the barrel of her long-las. ‘I can do that. What about the rear raider?’

‘We want them to run, remember?’ he chided.

‘And what will you be doing?’

‘Dealing with the ones who aren’t smart enough to run.’

Chapter Ten

Ambush

Sparks dripped down the display screens, and slaves sought to extinguish the fires. The lance strike had only been glancing, but the Baron’s Oath was ill-maintained, and its defences were far below par, in his estimation. Hexachires wasn’t so much worried about that as he was annoyed by the constant interruptions as slaves and crewmembers scurried about in their desperate attempts at maintenance.

‘This is unacceptable,’ Peshig ranted. He pounded a fist against the arm of his command throne. ‘I shall have one in ten of the crew executed for such buffoonery!’ He pounded his throne again, his face set in a petulant grimace. ‘Imagine it, Hexachires – my ship, scarred by simple mon-keigh orbital weapons. How will I ever show my face in public again? Slaves will jeer at me in the street!’

‘Yes, curious how their orbital defences were aligned in such a way as to counter our usual tactics – or at least make the attempt, however unsuccessful,’ Hexachires said. He looked at Oleander. ‘What do you make of that?’

‘Luck,’ Oleander said. As ever, his new slave loomed behind him, hands clasped behind his back, his face hidden behind his mask. Every so often, his massive frame gave a twitch – it would have been unnoticeable to anyone other than a haemonculus. Pain, perhaps. Or excitement. Knowing Oleander’s proclivities, likely both.

Hexachires laughed. ‘Even you don’t believe that. No. The only conclusion is that they were forewarned. How goes the raid itself?’

‘Badly,’ Peshig snapped. ‘I lost one of my bombers to flak, Hexachires. Those damned things are expensive.’

‘I will purchase you a new one,’ Hexachires said idly. ‘Bring up the tactical and strategic displays, if you would.’

‘Which ones?’ Peshig said.

‘All of them. Something is amiss. I can feel it in my bones.’

‘It would have been good to know that before we began.’

Hexachires ignored the archon’s grousing. Fabius was here, he was certain of it. He would return to Commorragh in triumph – a secret triumph, to be sure, but victory nonetheless. He would be able to reaffirm his control of the coven, and erase all evidence of his great mistake, once and for all.

At the thought, he turned his attentions to the strategic displays Peshig had called up. Flickering holo-screens danced across the air about Peshig’s throne. Hexachires leaned close, peering at them. While he had little experience with military matters, he was a seasoned marauder. He had often participated in realspace raids in his misspent youth, seeing them as opportunities to test his latest creations. At his grunt, Peshig said, ‘What is it?’

‘Look at this. They already have troops in place at the largest junctions of that conglomeration they call a city… as if they were expecting an attack.’ Hexachires looked at another display. ‘And there – isolate that.’

Peshig did, and cursed. ‘Gunships.’

And not just any gunships. There was precious little uniformity to them. And the troops that disembarked from them – their armour was a riot of colours and modification. Those that bore any heraldry were marked with the sigils of the Great Enemy. Peshig made a warding sign as he looked at them.

A slow smile spread across Hexachires’ flesh-mask. ‘I knew it. He’s come at last.’ He turned to Oleander. ‘I’m right, aren’t I? He’s somewhere down there waiting, isn’t he?’

Oleander looked away. ‘It could be him, yes.’

Hexachires knew that there was no ‘could’ about it. Fabius had got his message after all. And now his student had come for one last lesson.

‘Have we triangulated the location of the cache yet? I have no doubt that is where he’ll choose to make his stand.’ He laughed. ‘He could never resist a good symbolic gesture.’

Peshig shook his head. ‘Not yet. Avara is still approaching the gate. Once she reaches it, we’ll be able to use the sub-dimensional relays to pinpoint its position…’

Hexachires waved his explanation aside. ‘I am aware. I designed it, after all.’ He knotted his hands together impatiently. ‘Inform me as soon as it has been found.’ He turned, his dendrites carrying him across the deck.

‘And where will you be?’ Peshig called out.

‘Preparing a gift for my former student,’ Hexachires said.

Salar tasted blood. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and smiled. ‘Finally,’ he growled. He’d bitten his tongue when the first shots had chewed the air about his raider, rattling it down to its frame. He heard the whip-crack of the splinter cannons mounted along the rails as his crew returned fire.

Kysh was shouting orders, as if he were in charge. ‘Activate the night shields! We have to get out of here. Pull back and regroup!’

Salar hauled himself to his feet and drove his fist into Kysh’s belly, doubling him over.

‘You want to run now?’ he spat, kicking Kysh aside as he strode towards the front of the raider. ‘When we’ve finally got a real fight on our hands? Belay that. All ahead full. I want to feel the heat of the flames on my skin.’

He drew his sword as he clambered up onto the upper deck. It was a good sword. An old sword. He had taken it from his predecessor, after he’d killed her. It was lethally curved, exquisitely balanced, with a pommel in the shape of a daemon’s head – a djin blade, he’d heard it called, though he’d never bothered to find out what that meant. He’d discovered early on that the blade had a vicious sentience that complemented his own. They were of a similar mind about a great many things.

It whispered to Salar now, of victories to come, of glories that would be his if he but followed its advice. His smile became tight and feral.

‘All good things come to those willing to seize them,’ he murmured, as he kissed the crosspiece of the sword. An old saying, and one he lived by. The future was written by those with courage.

As such, when he’d realised what the humans were up to, he’d been unable to resist throwing himself – and the forces under his command – wholeheartedly into their trap. He’d lost a few raiders, across the city, but Peshig and Avara had lost more. The mon-keigh had expected them to run, and some had – that was the drukhari way, after all. The way of the raider and the slavecatcher.

But Salar hadn’t run. Instead, he’d led assault after assault, hitting the humans wherever they’d sought to hold the line. The glory was his, and he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to take it all. His orders had passed through the raider squadrons and Hellion gangs that were his to command, drawing them from their fun and welding them into a spear-point that he could stab into the enemy again and again.

At the other end of the street, his chosen prey welcomed them with the crackle of bolter fire. These weren’t the sort of humans he’d been expecting, but they’d more than serve. He glanced back at Kysh, who was picking himself up off the deck.

‘Try and capture a few of them. The arena-masters will pay handsomely for this sort.’

He didn’t wait for Kysh’s reply. Instead, he signalled the helmsman to increase speed. The enemy thought themselves safe behind a line of metal bulwarks. They were mistaken. His personal vessel was no gilded pleasure-craft, but a heavily armoured war machine.

Unable to contain himself, he sheathed his sword and shoved aside the gunner standing at the prow, commandeering the raider’s dark lance. He took aim at the farthest of the bulwarks and thumbed the firing sigil. He held the sigil down as he dragged the lance across the line, reducing it to bubbling slag.

The raider ploughed on, through the cloud of toxic steam thrown up by the collapsed bulwarks. The rest of Salar’s squadron followed in its wake. The armoured humans were falling back in good order – a withdrawal, not a rout. Salar’s grin was painfully tight as he took aim at one with the dark lance and reduced him to greasy motes.

Shots rattled against the raider’s armour, or splashed off the night shield. Explosions dotted the sky overhead – the enemy gunships, duelling with Peshig’s aircraft. Hellions rolled through the air on their skyboards, whooping and jeering at the combatants below. And in their wake, the wraithbone mist. Salar could feel it, itching at the base of his soul. The screaming madness of it grated on his nerves, despite the psychic baffler built into his armour.

Only these mon-keigh didn’t seem particularly bothered by it. Or if they were, they gave no sign. Instead, they moved to meet the oncoming raiders. Salar fired the dark lance again and again, clearing the immediate area. Leaving the weapon to its gunner, he vaulted over the rail and dropped from the sloped prow to the street. His warriors followed him, howling like ur-ghuls.

Kabalite warriors carrying splinter cannons and blasters moved to cover the rest as they advanced along the rubble-strewn street. Salar led from the front, nearly outpacing his warriors. Dreams of glory danced in his head. He heard Kysh shout something, and was turning to reprimand him, when he heard the crunch of stone and whipped back around.

One of the armoured giants – Space Marines, the mon-keigh called them – lunged towards him, a heavy, single-edged blade in his hand. The warrior’s other hand was no hand at all, but a coiling, fleshy tendril – a sign of mutation. Salar’s skin crawled as he got a good look at the brute. Ruinous symbols covered the giant’s purple armour, and he stank of spoiled meat and incense. This was no normal Space Marine, but something else.

Salar avoided the blow, but cursed as it struck one of his warriors instead. Splinter rifles barked, but the giant ignored them, wading into Salar’s followers. The tendril lashed out, snapping an unlucky warrior’s neck. The blade chopped through armour and bone with hideous ease. Salar drew his splinter pistol and fired at the brute’s back, drawing his attention. The creature turned, and Salar fired at his visor, shattering the lenses of his helm. As the giant staggered back, Salar whipped his sword across his opponent’s midsection, slicing through the hoses and cabling there.

He leapt back as the giant bellowed obscenities in archaic aeldari and tore his damaged helm loose with his tendril. The brute hurled the helm at Salar. He ducked beneath the helm, thrust his splinter pistol into a gap in the giant’s armour and pulled the trigger.

The creature spasmed, and his bellows turned to shrieks. He caught Salar by the back of the head and flung him to the ground. Salar rolled aside as the giant’s boot came down where his chest had been.

‘I will pull out your heart and eat it in front of you for that, vermin,’ the giant snarled in his crudely accented aeldari. Salar slashed upwards, opening the brute’s ugly face to the bone. The djin blade trembled in his grip, eager to taste the giant’s tainted blood.

The giant staggered, trying to clear the blood from his eyes. Salar gave him no time to recover. He danced away from a wild blow that might have removed his head, and brought his blade down on his opponent’s elbow joint, where the armour was thinnest.

The djin blade howled as it struck, and the giant’s arm twirled away in a halo of gore. The brute barely paused, lunging after the archon with his tendril. Salar thrust his splinter pistol forward, jamming the barrel between the giant’s teeth. He fired even as the giant bit down, cracking the weapon in two.

The resulting explosion cast Salar back against a fallen statue, his gun-hand bloody. He shook his head, trying to clear it. Through the thinning smoke, he saw the giant stagger towards him, his face a wet, red ruin. Blinded, shards of crystalline splinter embedded in his flesh, the creature gibbered in agony as he lumbered forward.

Ignoring the pain in his hand, Salar met his opponent’s awkward lunge, driving his blade home with a juddering crunch. The giant gave a gurgle and slumped, his weight nearly dragging the sword from Salar’s grip. The archon stepped back, panting slightly.

‘Pity. I was starting to like him.’

Salar turned – and nearly lost his head. Only a hiss of warning from his sword helped him to avoid the crackling maul that dropped down. He leapt aside and it cracked the pavement. He scrambled to his feet, sword extended.

The woman – he thought it was a woman – stalked towards him on silver-shod hooves.

‘But, maybe you did me a favour, eh? I’d probably have had to kill Ruatha myself, before long.’ She extended her maul towards him. ‘By way of thanks, I’ll make it quick.’

Despite the pain in his hand, Salar took a step towards her. The djin blade whispered urgently to him, demanding he take her head. He rather liked the idea, and raised the sword – but stopped as a flurry of splinter-shots sent his opponent scrambling for cover. He whirled.

‘What are you doing?’ he howled.

‘Peshig says we need to get out of here,’ Kysh said, staying out of reach. ‘He says Hexachires–’

‘Damn Hexachires, and damn you!’ Salar turned back, but saw that his opponent was sprinting away, towards the open ramp of a newly landed gunship. Space Marines crouched on the ramp, covering her retreat. Salar considered pursuing, but was forced to take a hasty step back as bolt-rounds chewed the street. He allowed his warriors to drag him back into cover, resisting the urge to remove their hands at the wrists.

He glared at Kysh. ‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘What has the haemonculus done now? Whatever it is, it had better be worth interrupting my fun!’

Avara stared in fascination at the armoured giants striding towards her raider. They’d appeared moments after her helmsman had lost his head. Her raider had slewed sideways into the wall of the webway, its engine idling as it came to a halt. The other raiders were trying to get past, but the conduit was too narrow – and the enemy was too close.

She had never encountered this particular mon-keigh subspecies in the wild before. She’d heard the stories, of course, and seen the occasional prisoner in the arenas. But to see them up-close – and getting closer – was something else entirely.

Tall crests of white and turquoise rose over helms wrought to resemble the leers of hungry beasts. Golden chains and hooks dangled from the flat planes of their panoply, and scraps of oath-parchment fluttered from their gorgets and pauldrons. And they stank – even at this distance. Like the worst refuse pits, mingled with a courtesan’s boudoir.

Her monocle’s sensor array fed her data on the attackers. None of it made her feel any better about the situation. She drew her blast-pistol, a sick feeling in her stomach. She’d wanted glory – this seemed like it would lead to anything but.

‘What do we do?’ one of her warriors asked. ‘Should we abandon the raider?’

She turned. ‘Where would you suggest we go, Beraq? Perhaps you’d like to run into the webway and hide?’

‘Better that than dying here!’

She raised her pistol and put it against his helm. ‘Is it?’ she asked. ‘Think carefully.’

Bolter fire chewed the side of the raider, causing them all to duck.

‘Someone get that dark lance over here,’ she shouted. She rose to her feet and hurried towards the helmsman’s dais. What was left of Jirex was still slumped over it, and she hauled the body aside, letting it flop to the deck. She’d been something of a pilot before taking control of her kabal, and her fingers flew across the control sigils with a speed born of experience.

The raider began to shudder as she rerouted power from the ethersails and the night shields. If she could boost the anti-grav, however briefly, and get above the other raiders, she might be able to escape. It was a slim hope, but it was better than sticking around and letting the mon-keigh tear them to pieces.

As she worked, bolt-rounds crunched into the pliable metal of the deck. A warrior was knocked sprawling, a gaping crater blown into her armour.

‘They’re getting closer,’ Beraq shouted, as he took cover behind the ethersail.

‘Keep them off me for a few more moments,’ Avara growled. She paused only to occasionally fire her blast-pistol in the general direction of the foe. It accomplished nothing, but made her feel somewhat better. Finally, the raider began to rise, its prow digging a crumbling trench through the wall of the webway.

Beraq cried out, and Avara turned. He was pointing at something. She looked up. Hexachires’ wracks circled overhead. As she watched, one of them darted down.

The wrack landed with a thump, robes swirling. Its wings were stretched vanes of bone and gristle, shot through with vibrant arteries. Before she could do more than turn to ask what it thought it was doing, it had the edge of the serrated blade it bore pressed against her throat. She froze.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ A holo-display spread across its featureless helm and in moments Hexachires’ pixelated flesh-mask overlaid the dark iron.

‘Away. It’s an ambush.’ One of the other raiders exploded, filling the conduit with fire and smoke. Chunks of burning metal rained down across her vessel. The billowing smoke momentarily hid the advancing Space Marines from sight.

‘If you flee now, we may never get another opportunity like this – you must breach that gate,’ Hexachires snarled. ‘He is there! I know it!’

‘He who? What are you talking about?’ Avara kept her pistol trained on the wrack, but suspected she wouldn’t be given the opportunity to fire. One twitch, and it would slice open her throat.

Avara looked around. Beraq and the rest of her warriors seemed hesitant to get involved.

‘Give me one good reason I shouldn’t save my own skin while I have the chance.’

‘Because if you do, I will order my servants to end your pitiful life here and now.’ Even as he spoke, more of the winged wracks swooped down to land atop the deck or the ethersail. They crouched like ugly birds, their saw-edged blades gleaming, their faces hidden behind their black helms. They seemed unconcerned by the bolter fire.

‘Even if we do breach those gates there aren’t enough of us to do much more than die,’ she protested. ‘We don’t have the numbers…’

‘You will. Now go!’

His image vanished, but the wrack stayed where it was, its blade resting against the hollow of her throat.

‘Fine,’ she spat. ‘I’ll do as he asks. Now take your blade from my throat.’

The wrack nodded and stepped back. But it didn’t sheathe its weapon. Nor did the others.

She bent back to her task. In moments, her raider had freed itself and was arrowing ahead, through the smoke. The first of the mon-keigh burst through the pall a moment later, sprinting after them with alarming speed. More followed.

She could hear the screams and howls of the other crews, as they tried to follow her and were overwhelmed. She didn’t look back. Gigantic shapes in garish armour loped alongside her vessel, not quite fast enough to leap on, but swift enough to keep up. They were hideous things, ravaged by excess and mutation. They bellowed what she took to be obscenities as they pursued her raider down the conduit. Some fired their weapons.

As if a signal had been given, all of Hexachires’ wracks, save the one beside her, sprang into the air and swooped down on her pursuers. In moments, both sides were lost in the smoke. From somewhere ahead came the dull chunter of mon-keigh assault weapons.

Her monocle relayed data from the scrum. Hexachires’ monstrosities had nearly overwhelmed the defences, such as they were. Unfortunately, the heavy gates, made from repurposed bulkheads, were still standing.

But not for long.

She diverted the remaining power from the night shields, hoping to get just a bit more power to the engines.

‘You’re not going to do what I think you’re going to do,’ Beraq said, as the raider picked up speed.

‘You have a better idea?’ Avara said.

‘Yes, we go the other way!’

‘Too late for that,’ Avara said. She bent forward, bracing for the impact to come. Beraq and the others did the same.

While raiders were fairly lightweight vehicles, built for speed rather than endurance, their armoured prows were heavy enough to crunch through most forms of barricade or bulwark.

Sometimes you had to dig the prey out, before you could have your fun.

The raider speared through the ranks of Hexachires’ creations, scattering them in all directions. The prow slammed into the gates, and the metal hinges buckled with a resounding groan. Slowly but surely, the raider forced the gates askew, half tearing them from their anchor-points. Sparks and splinters rained down across the deck.

Avara was nearly thrown from her perch as the raider slewed wildly, its anti-grav engines sputtering. ‘Hold on,’ she cried, as the prow struck the courtyard and the vessel tipped dangerously – only to right itself at the last moment. The courtyard was barren of anything save the ornate structure of the webway node, rising high above them and a horde of the mon-keigh’s mechanical slaves, who advanced from all sides.

‘What now?’ Beraq asked, clambering to his feet.

‘We fight,’ Avara said. She heard a hum behind her and turned. ‘Wait – the ethersail,’ she said. ‘It’s activating.’ She scanned the mechanism with her monocle. As the data scrolled across her display, a slow smile of realisation spread across her features. ‘That clever bastard is using it to triangulate our position – just like a webway keystone.’

She laughed.

‘We’re getting those reinforcements after all!’

Chapter Eleven

Face to Face

‘They’re coming through,’ Gorel said, falling back from the webway node. There was no trace of concern in his voice. The idea that a pack of poxy xenos pirates could be of any real threat to a being such as himself was ridiculous. He had the blood of demigods in his veins – though he wasn’t exactly sure which ones. It didn’t matter anyway. He was the last of that particular brotherhood. He’d made sure of it.

‘Good. I want them to.’

Fabius was as infuriatingly calm as ever. He had a habit of pretending that even the most exceptional setback was nothing more than a part of some greater stratagem. He stood firm, one hand on his sceptre, the other resting on the holstered shape of his needler. Marag stood beside him, arms folded into the voluminous sleeves of his robes. Behind them, the ranks of war-mutants waited with twitching impatience.

Gorel checked his bolt pistol and holstered it. He tapped at his gas cylinders, inhaling a lungful, and felt a corresponding surge of strength. His concoctions were unique – each one the work of centuries of experimentation. That Fabius was the one on whom they’d bestowed the appellation of ‘Chem-Master’ still stung – as if Fabius truly knew anything about the alchemical arts.

He looked around. Mutants waited behind improvised barricades, their weapons aimed at the shuddering node. They were afraid, or so his biometric scans insisted. But their fear of Pater Mutatis was greater than their unease about whatever was on the other side of the node. He snorted, annoyed by their devotion. Annoyed by the situation.

Fabius annoyed him. Infuriated him.

Idly, Gorel activated his armour’s tactical array. Targeting runes settled over Fabius and Marag, and he considered the consequences of potential actions. He’d considered killing Fabius – and Marag, come to that – more than once, down the centuries. In every instance, the timing had been inopportune, or the consequences unfavourable. At the moment, it was both. And yet, the temptation was there.

It was as if something were whispering to him. A little voice in the back of his head. Not a daemon, for he’d dealt with them often enough to recognise their scent when he caught it. No – this was something else. Maybe it was simply the insanity he knew lurked in his blood. They were all insane. Fabius, most of all. One could not survive in the Eye of Terror with sanity intact.

Perhaps that explained why they were standing here now, waiting to be attacked by a bunch of pan-dimensional parasites. Gorel preferred less confrontational solutions to such issues – if it had been up to him, they would have simply sealed every webway gate and waited out the xenos.

Then, if it had been up to him, he would never have gone to Commorragh in the first place.

A sound like someone – something – knocking interrupted his reverie. His hand fell to his pistol as he studied the webway gate. ‘Maybe we should have had some of Savona’s lackeys in here with us,’ he said.

‘Bellephus is on the other side of the gate,’ Marag pointed out. Gorel glared at him. Obsequious Marag. Studious, servile Marag. The Clonelord’s toady. Gorel had little tolerance for many of those who considered themselves his peers – Marag most of all. Zorzi was a close second, but Marag was the worst of them. At least Zorzi was a competent botanist. Marag was nothing more than a scavenger, picking over the bones of others’ genius.

‘He might be dead, for all we know,’ Gorel said. ‘The data-feeds cut out after they struck the gate.’ And not just in the webway. Communication systems across the planet were jammed. They’d even lost contact with Zorzi and the turncoat – not that either was much of a loss, in Gorel’s estimation. He looked at Fabius. ‘Your brilliant scheme is unravelling.’

‘Do you recall that old Terran saying about plans and enemies?’ Fabius said, without looking at him. ‘No plan, however brilliant, survives contact with the enemy. A wise commander factors such failures in to his preparations.’

‘Meaning?’ Gorel demanded. But Fabius did not elaborate further. Gorel gnashed his teeth in frustration, but kept his annoyance to himself. Fabius had always liked his little word games, showing off his knowledge of music, of literature – as if an awareness of such trivia elevated him above his fellow butchers.

Again, the booming knock. The whole node shuddered. Gorel’s sensors detected a change in the atmosphere.

‘The gate is opening,’ he said.

‘Observant as ever, brother,’ Marag murmured.

Gorel turned. ‘Marag, if you do not shut that gaping wound you call a mouth, I’ll–’

Before he could finish his threat, the webway node began to shiver and crack. Light seeped through the cracks, growing brighter as they widened. Fabius straightened.

‘At last,’ he said. ‘Took them longer than I estimated.’

Gorel turned away from the gate, expecting it to explode. Instead, Fabius tapped a discrete rune on his vambrace. The gate’s surface seemed to melt away, revealing a horde of horrors on the other side. They had been human once. Now they were broken things, stitched and flayed and sculpted into beings built for battle.

‘Kill them,’ Fabius said.

The mutants opened fire. Autoguns, lasguns, even the occasional needle weapon. They had enthusiasm, but little in the way of fire discipline.

Gorel cursed as an auto-round glanced off his helm. ‘Tell them to watch their fields of fire,’ he snarled, glaring at the nearest overseer.

Despite the lack of accuracy, the volley did its job. The first wave of invaders was dead before they crossed the threshold. So was the second, and the third. But more pressed forward, and these were made of sterner stuff – armour plating and hardened bones, from the looks of it.

‘That’s the chattel finished,’ Gorel said. ‘Now comes the assault wave.’ The creatures were nearly of a size with the war-mutants, and studded with contact ports and chem-hoses. Behind them were iron-masked drukhari warriors, clad in tattered robes and bearing curious weapons. Wracks, Fabius had called them.

‘No. Now comes answers.’ Fabius struck the floor with his sceptre and shouted something that Gorel’s vox-system struggled to translate. Apparently the invaders had no such difficulties, for they stopped just past the threshold.

‘What did you say to them?’ Gorel asked, one hand on his bolt pistol.

‘An old aeldari challenge, from before the fall of their empire.’

Gorel stared at him. ‘I hate you sometimes,’ he said, after a moment.

‘I know. Be silent.’ Fabius lifted his sceptre. ‘Show me your face,’ he shouted. ‘I was forced to endure your arrogance in Commorragh. I will not do so here, in my place of power. Come forth – or surrender.’

There was a stirring among the ranks of the hulking creatures. One of them pushed forward. Fabius gestured, and his mutants subsided, allowing the creature to approach. It settled onto its haunches. A hololithic projector built into its helm flickered to life and a grotesque visage shimmered into view.

‘Master Hexachires,’ Fabius said. ‘It has been a long time.’

‘Too long, Fabius,’ the creature replied. ‘I see you are wearing the same face as last time. Your stubborn affection for that diseased corpus is… heart-warming, I must say. You could build yourself a form of near-perfection, and yet you continue to cling to that one. Your resistance to change will be your undoing, I fear.’

‘You are not the first to say so,’ Fabius said. ‘Your raid has proven unsuccessful. But I will allow your remaining forces to depart, for old times’ sake.’

‘Will you then?’ Hexachires sounded amused. ‘How kind of you, Fabius. Then, you always were a gentle soul. I often feared for you because of that. Kindness is simply another form of suicide in Commorragh.’

‘And yet, you extended a kindness to me.’

‘Several, in fact. And you nearly destroyed us for it.’ Hexachires sighed. ‘It is a shame that it has come to this, Fabius. You made for an adequate student, at times. You had potential, if nothing else. And yet here you are – wasting your gift in service of… what?’

‘The future,’ Fabius said. ‘Something you would know nothing about.’

‘The future? This?’ Hexachires made a show of looking around, and Gorel wondered how much he could actually see. ‘What is the point of compounding the mistakes of your predecessors, eh? A human is a human, however much foreign genetic material you graft onto them. The stubborn beastflesh always creeps back, Fabius. I thought I taught you that, at least.’

‘I have learned to be selective in my lessons,’ Fabius said.

‘So I see. Speaking of which, I found your little devices. Clever little Fabius. Another trick stolen from us.’ Hexachires held up a nodule of wraithbone.

‘What is he talking about?’ Gorel asked.

‘It’s nothing,’ Fabius said.

‘I beg to differ – crude as it is, a miniaturised pattern transference device is not nothing,’ Hexachires said. ‘How many of those serving you have similar devices implanted in them, I wonder? Perhaps we should ask them.’

‘Pattern transference–’ Gorel began. He felt a chill as he realised what the xenos was saying. He turned his weapon on Fabius without thinking. ‘Abomination,’ he hissed.

Hexachires laughed. ‘Oh, Fabius. Too clever for your own good.’

‘Is that thing telling the truth?’ Gorel swung his weapon up, pointing it at Fabius’ head. ‘Did you implant one of those things in me? Or Marag?’

‘Brothers,’ Marag began.

‘We do not have time for this,’ Fabius said.

‘Answer my question,’ Gorel snarled.

‘Brothers,’ Marag called out, more insistently. ‘Look!’

Gorel turned. The grotesque had begun to leak… light? The rest of the drukhari were drawing back from it.

‘What in the name of the Dark Gods is happening?’

‘Hexachires, what have you done?’ Fabius demanded.

‘Why, I have prepared a special gift for you, my most favoured student – something of my own devising. I do hope you enjoy it. It activated the moment we began to speak.’ Hexachires laughed again. ‘I knew you couldn’t help but confront me. You really are quite predictable, Fabius.’

The light swelled, growing brighter. Gorel’s sensors went wild as his armour detected massive atmospheric interference. ‘Fabius, something is happening…’

‘It’s an artificial singularity,’ Fabius said, shielding his face from the light.

‘Indeed it is! But do not worry, Fabius, you will survive what is to come,’ Hexachires said, with an air of self-satisfaction. ‘That initial scan? It was to transmit your bio-signature to the device. Once you pass the event horizon, you will be shunted into a small pocket dimension of my own devising. It will hurt quite a bit, I imagine. The dimension is not large – more a temporary fold in space – and you will likely lose a limb or two.

‘Still, you will survive, more or less intact, and that is the important thing.’

The howl of the gunship’s thrusters filled the narrow street as dust and ash were whipped up into a frenzied cloud. The last of Helion’s surviving gunners were staggering aboard, as the Sun-Killer covered them from behind the fallen statue of some long-dead saint.

‘Get aboard, war-hound,’ Helion roared, lowering his lascannon.

Arrian ignored him, and cut down another drukhari. At least, he thought it was a drukhari. The creature was skeletal thin, and clad in reeking robes and a black, featureless helm – wracks, he’d heard them called. Servants of the haemonculi.

They’d appeared suddenly, following in the wake of the kabalite warriors. Some with wings, others armed with strange weapons that could liquefy a fully armoured Space Marine in moments. Nor had they been alone – they’d come accompanied by strange semi-organic war engines, shaped like insects, and lumbering over-muscled brutes twice the size of a legionary. It seemed the Chief Apothecary wasn’t the only one who knew how to craft war-mutants. The picter unit built into his helm dutifully recorded every new horror for future study. Knowledge was power – even if it was only knowledge about how to kill them.

His vox was awash with voices. The ambush had gone mostly to plan. Unfortunately, the drukhari hadn’t broken and run as the Chief Apothecary had predicted – not all of them, at any rate. Some had turned on their attackers, using their greater speed and numbers to overwhelm the 12th Millennial’s forces.

Are you surprised, dog-brother? Briaeus growled as his skull rattled against Arrian’s chestplate. We know better than most that the xenos aren’t cowards. One of them was bound to realise that they still had the advantage.

‘Your opinion is noted, brother,’ Arrian said, as he parried a blow from a serrated blade. The force of his counter knocked the wrack off balance, and he despatched the creature a moment later. Splinter fire forced him to seek cover.

Briaeus laughed. They’re herding you.

‘I know,’ Arrian said. His targeting array flashed red, and he spun to see a wrack crouched atop a broken pillar to his left, a long rifle-like weapon held in its hands. It fired and he twisted aside at the last moment so that the shot merely scraped across one of his skulls. Briaeus howled in protest, but Arrian had no time to reassure his long-dead brother. Acting on instinct, he hurled one of his blades and it thudded home, dropping the drukhari from its perch. He moved to retrieve his weapon, and snatched up the curious rifle as well.

Arrian swung the rifle up, studying it just long enough to figure out how it functioned. He tracked one of the lumbering brutes and pulled the trigger. Stung, the creature slapped at itself. As it turned, its flesh began to bubble and writhe. It gave a strangely shrill bellow as it was consumed by a rapid transformation. Arrian lowered the rifle.

‘Fascinating.’

‘Knowledge later, retreat now,’ Helion howled over the vox.

Arrian turned. Red-armoured drukhari swarmed his position. The barrel of Helion’s lascannon steamed as it slammed into a kabalite warrior’s helm, crumpling it and reducing the skull within to slurry. He wrenched the weapon free, spattering nearby mutants with gore, and fired, erasing a second drukhari from existence.

‘Fall back, or I’m leaving you behind!’

Arrian’s reply was lost in a fusillade of splinter-shots that sent both of them looking for cover. He scrambled behind a pillar and risked a quick glance, trusting in his armour’s sensors to pinpoint their attackers. Unfortunately, the sheer bedlam of his surroundings made it difficult. His targeting array saw too many potential threats. He activated his vox.

‘Helion, can you see them?’

‘No,’ the legionary growled. ‘They’re dug in. And now we’re cut off…’

‘You sound upset.’

Helion laughed as splinter fire chewed the pillar he hunched behind. ‘Why would I be upset? Our forces are in disarray and we are outnumbered. Two warriors against gods alone know how many xenos…’

‘There’s more than two of us, brother.’ Arrian tapped one of his skulls. ‘We fight as many, because our cause is just.’

‘I keep forgetting that you’re insane,’ Helion said jovially.

‘Quiet. I’m aiming.’ Arrian leaned around his pillar and sighted down the barrel of the xenos rifle. Targeting runes flickered from blue to red as they isolated a crimson-armoured kabalite warrior creeping forward, using the rubble as cover. Arrian fired, and was rewarded by the sight of the warrior pitching backwards, body convulsing. Apparently even a glancing hit was lethal. He patted the rifle. ‘Good gun.’

More red-armoured figures appeared. The drukhari were impatient – likely eager to begin looting. Or maybe they thought the gunships had been damaged.

‘Wait – I’m getting something on the vox – listen,’ Helion said.

Arrian cycled through the vox, one eye on the approaching drukhari. The message was brief – a blurt of warning, across an encrypted signal used by the 12th. Immediate withdrawal. No further information.

‘Did you hear?’

‘Yes.’ Arrian raised his borrowed weapon to his shoulder again, wondering how many more shots he had. ‘I’ll cover you. Fall back.’ But as he spoke, he saw the drukhari scrambling back to their own vessels. ‘Wait, they’re leaving as well.’ He stepped warily out of cover, watching as the drukhari retreated.

He felt the first rumbling then. As if the great scaffolds were groaning in fear. ‘Something is wrong,’ he murmured.

‘Worry about it later,’ Helion said. ‘You heard the order. Get to the gunship.’ He was already moving, his lascannon braced over his shoulder. Arrian made to follow, but paused. Something, some instinct, made him look in the direction of the cache-facility.

There was a light – not a true light, but a radiance of some sort. A flicker of unease pierced his chemically induced calm as another rumble shook the street.

He turned and hurried after Helion.

‘The webway gate – move,’ Fabius roared. He heard the whip-crack of a xenos weapon and felt something punch through his armour as if it were paper. The pain was immediate – and familiar. Hexrifle, he thought. He fired in reply, and took a moment’s satisfaction in the sight of a wrack toppling to the floor. He started towards the gate, as the virus began to gnaw at his system. ‘Smash through them if you value your lives!’

At his command, his followers hurled themselves forward with desperate urgency. Mutant met mutant in an orgy of blood. Fabius laid about himself with Torment, striking out at anyone or anything foolish enough to try and impede his progress. He spied Gorel and Marag doing the same. Gorel roared curses as he fired his bolt pistol into the massed ranks of chattel. Marag’s infernus pistols filled the air with the stink of burnt flesh as he burned himself a path through the brawl. They’d obviously realised what the timer meant, if not the specifics of the device in question.

The drukhari had many weapons. Old weapons, from before the shrinking of the universe, when the heavens roiled with war. Weapons powered by dark matter.

The air began to crumble, as a cold radiance swelled from the epicentre of the device. Fabius could feel the oxygen molecules split and tear even as he took a breath. Light stretched and bent, drawn back towards the device. A pressure, gentle at first, but growing stronger, tugged at his limbs. He sent a silent pulse to the chirurgeon, demanding more stimms, more combat drugs, to lend him strength and speed.

Hexachires’ wracks were retreating towards the gate, and he saw their plan at once. They would fall back and close the gate behind them, leaving everyone on the other side to perish. As the first cold flush of stimms hit his flagging system, he barrelled towards them. They fired at him in desperation, trying to bring him down.

Fabius was in among them before the echoes of the first shots had sounded. Torment swept around in a brutal arc, daemon-shard singing in rhapsodic delight. Wracks crumpled to the ground, broken and bloody, bodies twitching as raw pain tore through them. Mutant slaves leapt for him, howling. He smashed them down in a frenzy. Torment’s howls spiralled into audibility as Fabius careened towards the portal.

A lumbering grotesque flung itself into his path, grappling him with long arms. For a moment, his headlong charge was stalled. The grotesque was stronger than any Space Marine, and utterly without fear. Its blows fell like sledgehammers, rattling him inside his armour. He drove Torment into its belly and knees, trying to bring it down.

Metal claws scraped against his armour. One of the chirurgeon’s limbs was snapped off, eliciting a shrill whistle from the medicae harness. Enraged, Fabius drove the haft of his sceptre into the grotesque’s throat. The hulking creature jerked back, instinctively clutching at its crushed larynx. A second blow knocked it to its knees, and he shoved past it, not bothering to finish it off.

Stumbling now, he groped towards the portal’s dais. He could feel his limbs stiffening up as the Glass Plague spread itself through his system. Hexrifles meant near-instant death, normally. While there was no cure, there were any number of tinctures that could slow the virus and he’d made it a point to learn them all. Even so, he didn’t have long.

His vox crackled as he neared the shimmering aperture. More wracks emerged from the webway portal, armed with a variety of bladed implements. He swatted one aside and said, ‘Bellephus – can you hear me?’

‘I… o, Clone…’

‘I need you to sound a general retreat,’ Fabius shouted. ‘Everyone must get off-world immediately. Do you understand me? Immediate evacuation. Immediate–’

The vox-link died in a thrash of static. Fabius cursed and turned. The dark matter device was devouring vox signals along with everything else. The floor and walls closest to the device had lost all claim to solidity. The device had become the eye of a slow maelstrom, drawing all things towards itself. He could feel it now, in the grinding of his armour’s servos, and the warning runes flashing across his display.

Those combatants closest to the halo effect were the first to fall victim to it. As he watched, a dying mutant was dragged across the floor and into the chill nimbus of the device’s aura. The creature broke apart into globules of crimson matter that were soon reduced to nothing. More dead and dying followed, and then the living.

The fallen were reduced to a slurry of liquefied effluvia that swamped the legs of their fellows before being drawn into the slowly expanding vortex. Everyone was struggling towards the portal now, with no thought save escape.

Several of the remaining wracks stood inside the portal, and were firing in all directions, even as they tried to shut it down. Fabius lunged and caught one by the throat. He tossed the struggling creature away, and it was dragged screaming into oblivion even as he fell upon its companions.

As Fabius parried a blow from a bladed gauntlet, he spied Gorel out of the corner of his eye. The Apothecary was stuck at the foot of the dais, his legs trapped by the seething remains of his victims. Gorel looked up and met his gaze, even as a maddened grotesque leapt for him. By the time Fabius had turned, both of them were gone.

The pull from the device had gone from insistent to irresistible. The chamber was beginning to collapse in on itself. Living beings were reduced to twisted strands of tissue, spiralling back into the blinding epicentre, as the walls and floor crumbled away, exposing the chamber’s endo-structure. His display flashed a warning and he twisted aside as a nutrient vat tore loose from the buckling wall and hurtled into the vortex. Support beams crashed down, and were wrenched into the flickering light.

Fabius reached out and dug his fingers into the frame of the webway portal. He was one of the last living things in the chamber. A few wracks still struggled at the edges of the dais, clinging to the broken floor with grim determination. A single grotesque plodded across the floor, blood streaming from its injuries. As Fabius hauled himself into the aperture, he saw the grotesque sink to one knee and hunch forward, digging its claws into the floor.

Its salvation lasted only a moment. The flesh of its back split, as its reinforced spine bowed outwards. The grotesque roared shrilly as it was ripped apart. Fabius slammed Torment’s ferrule down into the dais, anchoring himself. The chirurgeon’s limbs clattered as it struggled against the pull of oblivion. The chemical tanks attached to the harness cracked and shattered, the contents slipping away. Fabius dragged himself further into the aperture. The pull lessened, but only just.

It would only grow stronger. Unless the portal was closed, the effects might well spread into the webway. He turned and spied Marag, struggling up the steps, his robes flapping. Fabius reached out a hand, and Marag caught it in an iron grip. Fabius felt something give in his arm. Too late, he realised the plague had spread to his extremities. He tried to shout a warning, but his words were snatched away by the singularity.

His forearm twisted and split, crumbling into dull coloured shards. He felt nothing, save a sudden loss of balance. Marag was gone a moment later. Fabius stared into the event horizon, shocked by the suddenness of it all.

He turned and flung himself through the portal.

Part Two

THE BLACK PILGRIMAGE

992.M37

Chapter Twelve

Black Lassitude

Khorag forced open the sealed hatchway, ignoring the sparks that pattered across his head and shoulders. ‘Fabius,’ he called out. ‘You will speak with me.’

‘You could have simply used the vox,’ Fabius said from within. His voice sounded thready. Weak. Not like Fabius at all.

‘I tried. Three weeks ago. Even my patience has its limits.’ Khorag stumped into the laboratorium, ignoring the protesting squeals of the vatborn. The little creatures knew better than to try and stop him, though it was not a courtesy universally extended. Duco and the others who’d tried to breach Fabius’ sanctum had been driven back by the vatborn’s tricks and traps. The creatures were as vicious in their own way as the Gland-hounds. All of Fabius’ creations had been on edge since their return.

Other than Gorel and Marag, there had been no significant casualties on Peleus-Tertius. But the loss of resources had been incalculable – hundreds of warriors had died, caught in the planet’s death-throes. For a time, they’d thought Fabius himself had perished. His Gland-hounds had spirited him away and secreted him aboard the Vesalius, even as the ship hurtled away from the newborn singularity.

It was given that their return to Belial IV had not been as celebrated as they might have hoped. A defeat of this magnitude was almost always accompanied by evacuation, and some members of the Consortium had chosen to leave immediately, stripping the facilities of as much as they could carry.

Little wars had erupted over gene-samples and valuable equipment. Apothecary against Apothecary. The Smiling Count had mustered a small army of stimm-addicted mutants to raid the storage vaults of the eastern complexes, and run afoul of the servitor-thralls of Gemerax. Emicos Shard had engaged in a protracted firefight with Herkun Marr, an Apothecary from the Ninth Millennial, on the southern gantries. Marr had been killed – no great loss, but access to the southern bio-vaults had been compromised.

Marr wasn’t the only Apothecary to have perished since their return. And many had simply fled. Only a handful remained. Khorag had volunteered to find out what the Chief Apothecary was planning – and to see whether it included them.

‘I heard explosions,’ Fabius said, as Khorag entered.

‘A disagreement over transportation.’ One of the others had tried to steal a gunship full of samples. Someone had shot them down. Khorag wasn’t sure who’d been involved, nor did he particularly care.

Fabius gave him a grim smile. ‘So long as it was settled amicably.’ He sat atop an observation slab, surrounded by diagnostic equipment. The chirurgeon crouched behind him like a hungry spider, its scalpels and saws humming as it worked. He had been stripped to the waist, exposing the leathery, scarred flesh of his shrivelled frame. He looked like a victim of starvation, all lean muscle tight against the bone. ‘Is there something of importance you wished to discuss with me?’

‘Would I be here otherwise?’

‘I can only hope not, given that I left orders not to be disturbed.’ He winced as the chirurgeon extracted a lump of flesh that glittered like shards of glass. Khorag leaned forward interestedly.

‘Fascinating,’ he gurgled.

‘Don’t touch it,’ Fabius said. ‘The drukhari call it the Glass Plague, for obvious reasons.’ He signalled to a vatborn. ‘Sample jar. Hurry now!’

‘I have heard of that. It is reportedly fatal.’

‘It is, if one has not had the foresight to introduce a certain amount of neo-silicate protein into one’s cellular makeup.’ Fabius smiled thinly. ‘Even so, I must regularly abrade the afflicted areas, lest it spread.’

‘And your arm?’ Khorag indicated Fabius’ ravaged forearm. ‘You have not cloned a replacement, I see. Or procured a prosthetic.’

‘No need. It will repair itself in the next few days.’ Fabius gave the stump a twitch. ‘It is budding already, as you can see.’

‘I see more than that…’

The chirurgeon hummed as it sliced through the meat of Fabius’ shattered forearm, removing another section of glassed tissue. Carefully it peeled back the ragged flaps of flesh, the black carapace and the shroud of muscle fibre, revealing the pale, spiky structure beneath.

Khorag gestured. ‘That appears to be ceramite, Fabius.’

‘It is. Or rather, it is a variant of my own cultivation – a nanofibre hybrid. I have threaded it through the honeycomb matrix of the interior, lending strength and flexibility to my endo-structure even as the blight renders my bones to tumorous powder.’ Fabius reached for a handheld narthecium and carefully drilled out a sample of his splintered radius. ‘The nanofibres map my system, transmitting data directly to the data-nodes in my head, allowing me to identify and isolate problem areas more easily during my self-examinations.’

Khorag shook his head. ‘Very interesting. I see you have been keeping busy, at least.’ He looked around the laboratorium. At the remains of unfinished meals and abandoned experiments. Grandfather approved of sloth in his adherents. But Fabius had never been one for the seven virtues.

‘Why are you here, Khorag?’

‘They are leaving,’ Khorag said. ‘They have grown tired of waiting for you.’

‘Who remains?’

‘Duco. A few others. Not many. The rest departed not long after your return.’

‘And looted my laboratorium in the process.’

‘What did you expect?’ Khorag said, with a clotted laugh. ‘You taught them well.’

Fabius frowned. ‘Why did you come in here, really? Not simply to check on me, I think. Or to inform me that the remainder of your comrades are skulking away, while I am otherwise preoccupied.’

Khorag grunted and crossed his arms. ‘I thought you might wish to speak to them. Us.’ He laughed again. ‘Though I doubt they will listen.’

‘Speak to them? Why?’ Fabius hissed as the chirurgeon began to close up the incisions it had made. ‘Let them leave. I have grown tired of playing mentor.’

‘And then what? What will you do, with no allies? Will you sit and wait for the drukhari to find you, as they almost certainly will?’ Khorag leaned close, letting his miasma wash over Fabius. ‘Despair is a fine thing, Fabius, but I hate to see it wasted on one as unappreciative as yourself.’

Fabius scowled and leaned back. ‘What do you propose, Khorag? What would you have me do?’

‘Something. Anything.’ Khorag slammed his hands down on the observation slab. ‘I know you, Fabius. I know that you have schemes aplenty boiling away in that black brain of yours.’ He peered at Fabius. ‘But if you delay any longer, you risk losing everything you have built.’

Fabius chuckled. ‘I recall you saying something similar once before.’

‘Yes. And I was right. You should never have gone to Commorragh.’ Khorag turned away, shaking his head sadly. ‘It was the height of arrogance. But I often find myself wondering – was it worth it?’

‘What do you mean?’

Khorag gestured about him. ‘Was it worth all of this almost falling apart while you were gone? The loss of the facility on Urum, your creatures deciding to rebel…’

‘It is not rebellion if it was planned for.’

‘No, I suppose you wouldn’t call it that,’ Khorag said. ‘Answer my question.’

Fabius shook his head. ‘The aeldari, of whatever disposition, have much to offer in terms of knowledge. Aeons of wisdom are contained in scraps of crystal no larger than my thumbnail. Minds that exist beyond corporeal death. Weapons that can snuff out – or create – suns.’ He pushed himself to his feet, and extended his arms so that the vatborn could gird him in his panoply. ‘I could have spent centuries in Commorragh, learning arts that were old when the galaxy was young.’

‘So why didn’t you?’

‘I have some sense of responsibility. I went with purpose, and once that purpose was fulfilled, I took my leave.’

‘Apparently not without making a few enemies.’

‘The opprobrium of small minds has never given me pause.’

‘They will come for you. It is only a matter of time. Grandfather has told me so.’

Fabius frowned. ‘And Saqqara claims the Neverborn say the same.’ He gestured dismissively. ‘Let them come. I will be ready.’

‘How? With no allies, and no resources – what will you do?’

Fabius fell silent.

Khorag stared at him, waiting. When he realised no answer was forthcoming, he laughed ruefully. ‘Grandfather bless me, you have no idea how to proceed, do you?’ He shook his head. ‘The others were right.’

Fabius’ glare could have cut ceramite. ‘I know how to proceed. I am merely gauging the variables of each possible alternative, in order to select the optimum.’ But his words were hollow – protestations born out of instinct, rather than truth.

‘What you’re describing is called indecision,’ Khorag said gently. ‘You forget. I stood beside you at Harmony, Fabius. Like Arrian, I was aboard that ill-fated vessel when Abaddon boarded us and erased your work. And I saw what came after.’ He tapped a thick finger against Fabius’ chest. ‘I saw the pit you fell into. What becomes of the supreme strategist when his strategies are undone?’

‘I have never claimed to be a strategist,’ Fabius said sharply.

‘No? Then what have you been doing for the past five hundred years but orchestrating a grand strategy to save the galaxy, as you see it? And now, for the first time, you face the possibility that it is all for naught.’

‘You have no idea what you’re talking about.’

Khorag sighed. ‘I am not so foolish as you seem to think, Fabius. I know the difference between you waiting to act – and being unable to do so. For the first week after our return, I assumed it was the former. I assured the others that you had some plan. But I was wrong. Something has broken in you. Something has been broken in you since you returned from Commorragh.’ He paused. ‘Are you afraid of them? The drukhari?’

‘No. I fear nothing save failure.’

‘Failure is what you are facing,’ Khorag said. ‘Everything you have built is dying, and there is nothing you can do about it.’ He stepped back and sighed. ‘If this is the end, it is not a fitting one. I do not have it in me to endure this black lassitude of yours a second time.’

He chuckled again, and turned. ‘Still… I envy you, Fabius. Such despair you must be feeling… such hopelessness. Grandfather has truly blessed you.’

Fabius sat in silence for long moments after Khorag’s departure. He was not so oblivious to the goings-on as Khorag had assumed. He had watched as his apothecarium was ransacked by the first to gather their courage. He’d given orders to Arrian and Mayshana to allow it – let the cowards have what they could carry.

Mostly, they’d stolen raw materials – something he approved of. Much of the cloned gene-seed was gone, as were many of the foetal war-mutants gestating in their incubation tanks. The looters had wisely left the most valuable contents of his private laboratorium alone, probably realising that he’d booby-trapped them for just such an eventuality. His clones had been left untouched, as had the wraithbone samples and all related experiments.

All in all, things could have been worse. He’d suffered such depredations before and almost certainly would again – it was part and parcel of life in the Eye. But never at the hands of his own students – or at least not all at once.

‘All good things,’ he murmured.

Despite Khorag’s accusation it wasn’t indecision that gripped him. But he had been right about one thing – it was not a fitting end.

Idly, he activated the external pict-feeds. Night had fallen across the city. A crumbling stone causeway stretched into the distance. It was overgrown, but beneath the vines and flowers Fabius could see the hint of its original shape. Like everything in the city, it put him in mind of Lugganath. The craftworld had been an architectural masterpiece, and even now a part of him felt some regret at what he’d done to it.

‘The new must ever be built on the bones of the old,’ he said, out loud.

Much of the city was lost now, shattered by the convulsions of a dying world and overgrown. Where once aeldari patricians had walked, now devolved beasts and night-birds gathered. Even the ancient docking rings far above were but a crumbling memory. Every few years, sections would slip from the upper reaches of the atmosphere and plummet to earth, raining fiery destruction upon an already wounded world.

Even so, there was still some use to be had from them. He regularly despatched scrapper-teams to scavenge equipment and spare parts from the disintegrating docking platforms. He had managed to recover a substantial amount of aeldari technology; much of it beyond his comprehension. But given a few centuries, he was confident he could reverse engineer even the most obtuse bit of machinery and make some use of it.

Or he had been, at least. There was no time now.

No time for anything at all.

Almost absently, he rotated the picters to focus on the distant towers that marked the city’s western district. The towers topped a palatial complex of significant size. Likely, it had belonged to the city’s rulers – or perhaps even the planetary governor – before the world had been abandoned. Now it had new masters.

‘Oh, my child,’ he murmured. ‘What have I made of you?’

Igori had led her rebellious packs into the western districts, displacing or exterminating the beastkin and degenerate aeldari that had previously called them home. She ruled there now, though in what capacity Fabius could not say. He had not set eyes on her since the day she’d departed, the blood of her littermates still wet on her hands. She had made no attempt to contact him, and he had honoured her wishes by keeping his distance – though a part of him was undeniably curious.

He did not really understand why she’d left. She’d always been his favourite, and he’d treated her as a valued assistant. Perhaps some lingering resentment over the punishments he’d inflicted on his rebellious followers in the aftermath of the Solemnace incident. But he had not been unduly harsh – hardly the decimation practised by the primarchs.

Still, while Igori certainly bore the lion’s share of blame, Fabius could not help but feel he was also at fault, in some small way. His pilgrimage to Commorragh had come at a time of great upheaval and uncertainty – he saw that now, and regretted it. So obsessed had he been with the secrets of the Dark City that he had wilfully blinded himself to the slow unravelling of all that he’d built.

And now, that unravelling had reached its ultimate end. His Consortium in tatters, his creations under attack and even his body failing him.

He looked down at the stump of his arm. At his mental command, the chirurgeon injected a solution of daemonic extract and stimm-agent into the wounded limb. He groaned as the scar tissue writhed and blistered. Flesh tore and split as a bramble of nerve tissue emerged in a frenzied tangle. Slowly, painfully, shards of bone followed, shrouded in congealing tissues. In moments, a new hand glistened in the glow of the lumens. He flexed it, feeling the pull of odd muscles.

The hand wasn’t his. It would never feel like his. It was a thing of daemonic matter. But it would do well enough, for the time being. Long enough to do what needed doing.

He’d known for centuries that this moment was inevitable. The centre could not hold, the gyre widened. All things came to their end. But he’d always thought there would be more time. He had bargained for time, haggled with the reaper – bartered souls, piece by piece. All to buy time. But now it was done. No more bargains, no more time. Hexachires would come and burn his worlds, and him, and that would be the end of it. A sad, ignominious conclusion to his life.

He held up his new hand, studying the black veins that layered the pale flesh. The iridescent sheen of proto-scales scattered across the forearm. There was only one option left, though he was loath to do it. But better to tear the web himself than to let Hexachires nip the strands.

Decision made, the calculations began. Things would need doing. Overtures would need to be made, fallback points established. Preparations for the inevitable.

As his mind tackled the problem, he activated a second set of holo-displays. Not exterior images, but personal reminiscences this time. Recordings of previous experiments, including his private observances. A child, pale and thin, toddled towards him as he crouched before it. He recalled that he had intended only to gauge the development of her mobility, but as ever, she’d had other ideas. Tiny hands found his lank hair, and a shrill scream of delight erupted from her. A big sound for so small a body.

He had picked her up without meaning to. The first moment of true physical contact beyond inoculations and examinations. He’d left the tedious details of her day-to-day needs to the vatborn, or to Arrian. At least until that moment.

He remembered it clearly, even now. The feeling of holding something so impossibly fragile in hands made to crack bones. The way she murmured as he pulled her close. The tiny tremor of her hearts beating in rhythm with his own.

The air in the chamber turned cool. Fabius paused the record. ‘I still do not know what possessed me to attempt such an experiment.’

‘The same thing that has always possessed you, Father. The drive to know. To study the red heart of the universe and extract its secrets one by one.’

He turned. She stood across the chamber, half in shadow. In the dim light, her eyes shone like those of a cat.

‘Why did you not warn me?’

‘I did, Father.’ She stepped forward. ‘I warned you again and again. But as always, you knew best. I knew that you would not listen until it suited you.’

‘This does not suit me at all.’

Melusine smiled. ‘Then perhaps you are ready to listen.’ She circled him, tracing her claws through the folds of his coat. ‘Will you let your children suffer, while you cower in the dark, waiting for the monsters to find you?’

‘What would you have me do, child?’ Fabius gestured about him, at the shambles of his laboratorium. ‘My stocks are pillaged, my resources drained – one setback, and I am reduced to penury. Khorag was right – defeat may well be inevitable. There is only one option and I intend to undertake it.’

‘It will not be enough.’

He looked at her. ‘Meaning?’

‘Do you think they will not find your redoubt, Father? Do you think they cannot, those clever old parasites? You have made use of their tunnels, but they are the ones who built them. You are a child to them – clever and unruly, but still a child.’

‘Then there is no hope.’

‘Victory might still be yours.’ She rested her chin on his shoulder. ‘All it would take is a bit of swallowed pride. Pragmatism, Father.’

Fabius’ eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean?’ He turned, but she was already out of reach, inspecting a dead vatborn. It lay on a slab where the others had left it. They often brought him their dead, though he did not know why. Experience told him that they would dispose of the corpse themselves, if he left them to it.

‘Do you love them, these little lives? They have souls, you know. Only tiny, fragmented ones, but souls nonetheless. Little souls to feed a little god.’ Gently, she removed the vatborn’s rebreather and studied the unformed features beneath. ‘They even look like you. We all look like you. You made us in your image, however poorly.’

‘Wicked child,’ Fabius said softly.

Melusine looked at him. ‘I am as you made me. If I am filled with seas and messes of spite, it is because you poured them into me in the act of my creation.’ She lifted the tiny body and cradled it to her chest. ‘They will all die, you know. The little ones and the big ones. They will die and feed the gods and then you will truly be alone. And you will have only yourself to blame.’

‘What do you want of me?’ he asked, not looking at her.

‘I want you to survive, Father. And I want my brothers and sisters to survive as well.’ She smoothed the vatborn’s robes. ‘With your escape, the drukhari will continue to take out their frustrations on your children. Everywhere your shadow has touched, they will be there. They will scour your stain from the stars.’

‘And how do you know this? Competent as he is, Hexachires is no god.’

‘He has help. Someone writes his story for him.’

‘The Harlequins,’ Fabius said, after a moment. ‘They were the ones who sent me to Commorragh in the first place. Why? For this?’

Melusine didn’t reply. She stared down at the dead vatborn, a curious expression on her face. ‘I remember this one.’

‘Impossible.’

‘Here is the scar I gave him, with my first knife.’ She turned the tiny cadaver’s hand, showing a faded scar running along the palm. ‘I was playing with it, and would have hurt myself, had he not intervened. He took the knife from me, and hid it.’

Fabius was silent for a moment. He looked down at the body. The pale features were wrinkled like those of a simian, but the staring eyes were the colour of his own, as was the coarse hair. ‘They gave it to me. I thought you’d lost it.’

He looked at Melusine. ‘On Lugganath, the Harlequins showed me an infinity of possibilities. At the time, I thought they were just trying to confuse me. Now, I wonder…’ He shook his head. ‘What must I do, daughter?’

She sighed softly, as if a great weight had flown from her shoulders. ‘You must make a pilgrimage, Father. First, you must put aside your burdens. Then you must abase yourself before the Chosen of the Gods. You must find Pleasure’s Pilgrim.’ She looked at him, her gaze like cold fire. ‘And then, finally, you must make peace with the Phoenician.’

‘Fulgrim,’ Fabius said, softly. ‘No. I cannot.’

‘You must, Father. Else all you have worked for will be ashes. And you with it.’

Chapter Thirteen

Plans Within

‘They’re gone,’ Peshig said. He gestured to the astrometric display that hung over the table. ‘We have been at this for weeks, and I, for one, am grown tired of the tedium of realspace. It has been months since we have seen Commorragh.’

The captain’s table was crowded. Slaves filling cups, or bringing food. Dozens of dracons and Trueborn warriors crowded the table, each trying to outdo the other for the benefit of their archons. Hexachires’ own supporters, in contrast, huddled at the far end of the captain’s table. Diomone and the others looked unhappy – then, they always did. The raucous nature of the kabals grated on the more refined disposition of his followers.

Peshig continued to complain. Hexachires barely listened. Peshig had made the same speech – or some variation thereof – every day for the past few weeks. Instead, he scanned the data swirling above the table, seeking any sign of a pattern, some hint of where Fabius might have fled.

But there was nothing. Even Oleander seemed less forthcoming. Instead, he was sending them down one false trail after the next. Feeding them his old comrades as if to buy time for Fabius to get further and further away. Under different circumstances, Hexachires thought he might have found such desperation amusing. But at the moment, his patience for Oleander’s game was wearing thin. Even punishing the mon-keigh was losing some of its entertainment value. He suspected that the pain-baton would need readjusting soon, if he could be bothered.

Or maybe he would just dispose of Oleander entirely, and damn the Harlequins. When they’d given the creature over to him, he’d assumed it was for his benefit. Now he was beginning to wonder if Veilwalker had always intended for things to proceed in such a slovenly fashion.

The Harlequins could not be trusted. He’d known that, but accepted their aid regardless. He’d been close to desperation. Fabius’ escape had made his position precarious. It was seen as a weakness by the Synod. Diomone and the others had begun to nibble and gnaw at his base of support. Control of a coven was not an ironclad absolute, but a web of ever-evolving compromises, promises and threats. His obsession with Fabius, his failure to control him, the loss of their secrets… tears in the web. Fraying strands.

He’d assumed, with no small amount of arrogance, that the Harlequins had sent Fabius to Commorragh so that he might be broken. Remade into something more useful to their designs. And perhaps he had been. But that still left Hexachires in an unenviable position. One that was becoming more tenuous by the day.

He had to find the mon-keigh. To drag his ungrateful student back to Commorragh in chains. Else the Synod itself might turn on him. But that meant convincing these fools to go against their best interests. He looked around, seeking some weakness, some opening he could exploit. There had to be something. There was always something.

‘I could do with washing the stink of this galaxy off my skin,’ Avara ventured. Her monocle gleamed as she looked around the table. ‘And my territories have been untended for too long, as have yours.’

‘Our holds are full,’ Salar said.

‘My holds, you mean,’ Peshig said.

‘Your holds, our plunder,’ Salar growled, glaring at the other archon. As ever, he seemed only a hair’s breadth from violence. Being in realspace for such an extended period of time had only made his temper worse. He looked at Hexachires. ‘I’m bored now. And I’m done with this farce of a hunt.’

‘You are done when I say you are done,’ Hexachires said idly. He was alert now. He could sense the simmering discontent of those at the table – all of it aimed, however unfairly, at him. They meant it this time. He’d known the day was coming, but he’d hoped to forestall it for a few more weeks. Time enough for another raid, maybe two. Time enough to pick up some clue as to where Fabius had gone to ground.

Salar stared at him. Not in surprise, but as if trying to decide where to stab first.

‘What did you say to me?’ he asked.

Hexachires ignored both the question and his tone. ‘We are close. I do not intend to lose the trail now.’

‘What trail?’ Peshig said. He pushed himself to his feet. ‘The one your pet strings out before us? That’s a dead end and you know it. You’re just too stubborn to admit your quarry has escaped you. Happens to the best of us, I’m afraid.’ He looked at the others, seeking support. ‘No, it is long past time to return to Commorragh in triumph.’ Heads nodded in agreement, and his subordinates pounded on the table. Peshig smirked at him. ‘Cheer up, Hexachires. It wasn’t a total loss… at least for us.’

Hexachires drew himself up. ‘Need I remind you all of our bargain?’

At his words, the exuberance died away. He looked around the table, suddenly aware of how many of them were armed. Then, so was he.

‘I am owed and I will collect. You will help me, or I will consider our arrangement at an end. The Thirteen Scars will divorce itself from you. No more access to our vats, no more aid.’

Diomone turned sharply to stare at him. ‘You can’t do that,’ she hissed.

He didn’t look at her. ‘I am master of the coven. I can do as I wish.’

An oversimplification. He could make as many proclamations as he liked, but if the Synod didn’t agree, he might well find himself made to look the fool. But Peshig and the others didn’t know that.

‘You’re bluffing,’ Peshig said. But there was doubt in his voice.

‘Am I?’ Hexachires folded his hand piously. ‘Test me, pirate.’

Peshig frowned. ‘Well, if that’s the case, I suppose we’ll just have to find another haemonculus. And won’t they be interested to know what you’ve been up to?’

Hexachires almost smiled. A good gambit. But predictable.

‘Meaning?’

‘That I – we – are not fools, Hexachires. We have ears to hear, and minds to think, and I have heard enough to make me think that you need us more than we need you.’ Peshig leaned on his knuckles, endeavouring to look like the dashing archon he fancied himself as.

‘And what exactly have you heard?’

Peshig hesitated. Hexachires sympathised somewhat – to reveal too much was to reveal that in fact he knew very little. But to back down now would be to admit weakness before his peers and subordinates. An archon of high standing could theoretically survive a moment of weakness. But one of Peshig’s lacklustre status could not. He was dancing along the edge of his own blade.

‘You know very well to what I am referring,’ Peshig said.

Hexachires laughed. A pitiful gambit. Proof that Peshig had only suspicions. Still, no reason not to play out the hand.

‘Say that I do. What of it?’

‘There are any number of individuals who would pay dearly to know what I know,’ Peshig said. ‘Any of the other covens, for instance.’

‘Are you attempting to blackmail me?’

‘Not at all,’ Peshig said, in a way that made it absolutely clear that he was lying. ‘Merely establishing the parameters of our arrangement.’

‘Allow me a rebuttal,’ Hexachires said. He raised his hand and a fat crackle of blue light shot from his palm. Peshig yelped and sank to one knee, clawing for his sword as he did so. Disorder reigned for a moment as everyone went for their weapons. Hexachires ignored them all, keeping his gaze fixed on Peshig.

‘You would be wise, all of you, to remember who I am. I am master of the Thirteen Scars. I was old when Commorragh was young. I saw the rise of Vect, and I have no doubt I will bear witness to his inevitable downfall. In comparison to me, you are but puling insects, crawling in the garden I have provided for you.’ He looked around the table. ‘I could crush each of you now, with no more effort than it takes to breathe.’

‘Oh, I think it would take a bit more than that,’ Salar growled. He had his blade half-drawn, and Hexachires could hear its peculiar wasp-hum. ‘And I think if we put our minds to it, we could cut a fourteenth scar into that narrow hide of yours.’

Avara nodded, her blast-pistol aimed squarely at Hexachires. ‘I half thought Peshig was just blustering, but seeing you this defensive? It inclines me to believe that there’s something to his suspicions. And that means the scales are weighted in our favour at the moment.’

Hexachires frowned. It appeared that he’d miscalculated – and not for the first time. He’d thought a show of force would be enough. It seemed, however, that they were no longer inclined to fear him.

‘I wouldn’t fire that weapon, if I were you,’ he said.

‘You’re not me, and I doubt even you could survive at this close range,’ she said flatly. She paused, eyes narrowing. ‘Unless…’

‘Unless, for instance, I had a second singularity device such as the one I tested earlier wired to my bio-functions. Kill me, and this vessel – as well as everyone aboard it – will cease to exist.’ He was rewarded with a communal intake of breath and a flurry of muttered curses. ‘Yes, that’s right – we are at an impasse.’

‘No, we’re not,’ Peshig snarled. He’d got back to his feet with the help of several subordinates. Smoke rose from the scorched shoulder of his robes, filling the cabin with the stink of burnt cloth and skin. ‘We’re returning to Commorragh. You can come, or make your own way. It matters not a whit to me.’

‘I – we – may not get another chance,’ Hexachires said slowly. ‘Our quarry will flee to some hidden lair and we will never root him out.’

‘Let him hide,’ Peshig said. ‘We have been well recompensed for our efforts. Now it is time to quit the field while I still have ship and crew enough to get us home.’

‘You owe me,’ Hexachires began, but even as he said it, he knew he’d lost them. At least for now. Once they’d had time to calm down and consider the matter, they’d see how foolish they’d been. But trying to force his will on them further was a losing proposition. Eventually, one of them would call his bluff. And that might prove highly embarrassing, especially when they discovered that he didn’t actually have a second singularity device. A fact Diomone pointed out in a harsh whisper as they made their way out of the cabin.

‘We only had one of those devices. And the fact that you used it in so rash a manner will be a disappointment to the Synod.’

Hexachires snorted. ‘What is the Synod to me? I am master of the coven, and I have every right to disburse its resources as I see fit.’

‘Except the whole point of this exercise was to spend as few resources as possible in this endeavour. Instead, we’ve lost hundreds of slaves and an artefact worth more than all of Low Commorragh put together. And for what?’ She shook her head. ‘Nothing. He escaped. Again. That’s twice now.’

‘I will catch him. It is simply a matter of time.’

‘Time is something we have precious little of, Master Hexachires.’

Diomone looked at him, her expression grim.

‘Make certain that you don’t waste any more of it.’

‘We are returning to Commorragh, it seems.’

Oleander looked up at Hexachires’ words, hardly daring to believe them. ‘Why?’

‘Circumstances are no longer in our favour.’ Hexachires stood on the other side of the laboratorium, studying the row of helms mounted there. He tapped one. ‘Look at them, Oleander. Your brothers in arms, once.’

‘Not for a long time,’ Oleander said, staring at the helmets. Chort’s was there, and that of Kyross Acturian, the Black Mercy. Selvo Puln’s Mark II death-mask rested alongside the patchwork war-crown of the Broken One. The feathered helm of Herik Stymphalos, and the ragged hood of the Weeping Son, with its still-bleeding sigils. Helmets of all marks and styles, denoting dead brothers. Brothers he had betrayed.

‘Yes,’ Hexachires said. ‘Shame. Perhaps the bonds are not as strong as you swore. You said he would seek refuge with one of them. And yet – nothing. No sign of him.’

‘There are others. He’s trained so many of us, over the centuries. The Consortium numbered two hundred souls at its height.’ Oleander forced himself to meet the empty, accusing gazes of the broken helms. Most of them had simply been faces in the crowd. He’d sparred with Puln on occasion. The former Iron Warrior had been a fair-to-middling duellist, and a pleasant conversationalist, unlike poor Tzimiskes. Stymphalos had been mad, and Acturian terrifying. The Weeping Son had only ever spoken in riddles, and the Broken One barely spoke at all, save to mimic what others said.

But they had all been brothers. Not of blood. But by choice. Each had chosen to forsake their Legions, their destinies, and learn at the feet of the Clonelord. And then, like Oleander, they had left. Unlike him, they had stayed in contact with their mentor. A secret brotherhood stretching across the galaxy. A brotherhood now being hunted down and slaughtered, with his help.

Once, that might not have meant much to him. Once, he’d laughed as he’d killed those he’d once called friend. But there was an ocean of time between past indiscretions and this, and he felt sick to think of it now.

‘It is almost done. You have stalled long enough.’

Melusine spoke from just over his shoulder. He didn’t turn, and gave no sign he’d heard anything at all. Hexachires had taken to watching him closely, since her first visit. She laughed softly, and he felt the tell-tale lurch of daemonic magics.

‘Brave Oleander. The truest knight. He will thank you.’

‘Will he? Will any of them?’

She clasped the sides of his head. ‘Maybe not. But the clowns were right. This is the only way.’ She kissed the faceplate of his helm gently. ‘And you are the one to do it.’

‘Strange that you and they would be aligned in this.’

‘We are not. We are merely trying to reach the same destination.’

‘Why? Why is he so important?’

She stepped back, and the smile slipped, just for a moment. ‘He is not. None of this is. It is but one more gambit in the great game. We are all just pawns, and we must move as the players dictate.’

‘Is that your way of saying you don’t know?’

Melusine laughed, and the sound made his hearts ache. ‘I thought I did once, and maybe I will do so again. But for now, I am just trying to stay in step with an ever-changing rhythm.’ She made a playful pirouette and tapped his helm with her claws. ‘It is what it is, and what will be, will be. I have seen it all play out before, and now I am trying to remember how it goes.’

‘And what if you make a mistake?’

Melusine paused. ‘I will – but not yet.’ She smiled. ‘When I do, the end will be close. And you must be ready – ah.’ She turned and her expression sharpened.

Hexachires was watching them. Oleander was certain of it. The haemonculus’ hand was moving towards his robes, reaching for something. Melusine went to him, and peered into his mask.

‘I see you, little bug,’ she said, in sing-song tones.

‘And… I… see… you.’ Hexachires’ voice came as if from some great distance. His movements did not increase in speed, but Oleander could sense the urgency of them.

Melusine laughed, and was gone a moment later. Time snapped back and Hexachires’ hand shot forward, holding a crystalline device.

‘Gone,’ he said in frustration.

‘She does that,’ Oleander said.

‘I told you to tell me when she reappeared.’

‘It’s not like she warns me.’ Oleander pointed to the device. ‘What is that?’

‘You’re being impertinent.’ Hexachires pulled out the pain-baton and gestured meaningfully with it. ‘Shall I punish you?’

Oleander bowed his head. ‘If it pleases you.’

Hexachires stared at him for a moment, before returning both devices to his robes. ‘Not at the moment. Frankly, I suspect you’re starting to enjoy our little disciplinary sessions a bit too much. It’s taking all of the fun out of it. I shall have to devise some new means of chastising you.’

Oleander said nothing. Hexachires sniffed. ‘I can smell it on the air still. It’s growing bold. What does it want?’

‘I told you – to taunt me.’

‘Yes, but why come back to do so more than once? What game is it playing?’ Hexachires leaned forward and caught Oleander’s chin, forcing him to look up. ‘Tell me that and perhaps I’ll spare the next name on your list.’

Laughter greeted this comment. Hexachires shoved Oleander back and turned.

‘Who dares? These are my private quarters.’

The laughter redoubled itself, echoing eerily through the chamber. Quaquaversal and cacophonous, it grated against Oleander’s enhanced senses, threatening to deafen him. Wracks collapsed, clawing at their skulls and moaning. Hexachires clapped his hands to the side of his head and whirled in place, searching for the intruder.

Then, all at once, the sound ceased. It was replaced with the soft jangling of bells, and the shuffle of footsteps. A colourful figure slid out of nowhere, moving from one place to the next in the blink of an eye. The figure’s movements were at once erratic and precise – almost ritualistic, but without obvious purpose.

‘Veilwalker,’ Oleander said. Hexachires glanced at him.

Sylandri Veilwalker bowed effusively. ‘Me. We. Us.’ She bobbed to her feet and spun her staff across her shoulders, catching it with her other hand. How she’d got into the laboratorium without them noticing, Oleander couldn’t say. Nor did she seem unduly concerned by the large number of wracks now aiming weapons at her. ‘And she,’ Veilwalker added, looking around, as if in search of someone.

‘Are you in it together, then?’ Oleander asked.

Hexachires shot him a warning glare. ‘Quiet, Oleander. Say nothing to this creature.’

‘Creature is it, oh Lord of Knives? How rude,’ Veilwalker began. ‘And after all I’ve done to aid you, Hexachires Ulthiliad.’

Hexachires stiffened.

Veilwalker laughed. ‘Yes, I know your name. Who you were, before the fall of the empire and the long retreat to Commorragh. Just an artist, then. A scribbler of pedestrian portraiture. Not even well known. And yet look at you now.’

Hexachires drew himself up. ‘Yes, look at me. Whatever I was, I am now master of the Thirteen Scars. And you are nothing to me, little clown.’ He pointed a clawed finger at her. ‘You helped me, true, but for reasons of your own. Why are you here now?’

‘First, a story,’ Veilwalker began. She pirouetted about the haemonculus, forcing him to turn to keep her in sight. She moved faster and faster, until she seemed little more than a blur of colour. Finally, she slid to a halt behind Oleander, and pressed the length of her staff against his throat, pinning him against her. She was stronger than she looked.

‘Count Sunflame languishes in durance vile, his only hope the daughter of his jailer, whom he woos with desperate passion…’

Oleander drove an elbow into Veilwalker’s midsection – or tried to. She was gone before the blow could land, circling him lightly, but always keeping her mask tilted towards Hexachires.

‘I am in no mood for stories, clown,’ the haemonculus said. ‘Why are you here?’

‘To talk, nothing more.’

Hexachires glided close. ‘So talk.’

‘You resist the flow of the preordained narrative,’ she said pointedly. ‘Return to Commorragh. Gather your forces. This pitiable collection of characters will not be enough to do what must be done. But we can help you, if you let us…’

‘What sort of help?’ Hexachires leaned close. ‘And how much will it cost me?’

‘Let us say that our interests coincide,’ she said. ‘As they have coincided with those of many others, in many stories, both well told and yet to be written.’ She shrugged. ‘Such is the nature of grand comedy. Farce is a whirlpool of coincidence – ever widening, ever deepening, and all the characters drowning in the same dark waters.’

Hexachires was silent for a moment. Then, softly, he began to laugh. ‘I see now,’ he murmured. ‘I see it clearly.’ Still laughing, he pointed a clawed finger at the Harlequin. ‘You used me. You sent him to me – he admitted that much, early on. Never the name, of course, but it is too great a coincidence.’

‘You’re welcome,’ Veilwalker said.

Hexachires turned. ‘Why?’

‘As we said, our interests coincide. You push, we pull. Eventually, the point of the story will spring loose of the claggy soil.’

‘And what if I have no interest in being a… mechanism in your little story?’

‘Then you will be cut from it, and a new character introduced. Plot is a tyrant, and needs must when the story drives.’ Veilwalker spun her staff from hand to hand, and there was something bluntly threatening about the motion – a sort of graceless power. Oleander thought Hexachires saw it as well, for he retreated slightly.

‘And if I do as you say?’

‘Your part of the story ends well,’ Veilwalker said, and her voice seemed different – deeper and more savage. Not the voice of a clown, but of something older and more vicious by far. ‘But cross us, and it will not end at all.’

Hexachires’ mask twitched, as if startled. ‘If you can help me, then I would be a fool not to accept. Very well. I will do as you request.’ He loomed over Veilwalker. ‘But know this, if you play me false, I’ll turn your farce into a tragedy.’

‘Agreed.’ Veilwalker turned away, but paused. ‘One thing more.’ She looked up at him. ‘The daemon is dangerous.’

Hexachires snorted. ‘I am aware.’

Veilwalker laughed. ‘Not for the reasons you think!’ She stepped back. ‘All those and more. She is cunning, this one. And careful. But this is our story.’

She looked at Oleander. He felt a chill run through him as he considered his reflection in the mirrored mask.

‘And only we get to dictate its ending.’

Chapter Fourteen

Omega Protocol

The children moved swiftly and elegantly. The aeldari strain was strong in this generation. Their opponent kept up with them, but only just. He fought not to kill or even to wound, but merely to count coup. A tap of his fingers meant they were dead.

Fabius glanced around. The chamber they sparred in was large, and partially open to the elements. It had been a garden once, and was still populated by trees and plant-life, all gone feral now. His creations honed their skills here, under the watchful eyes of his servants. Training cages occupied the far wall, and recommissioned combat-servitors wandered through the chamber, awaiting their next challenger. Adult Gland-hounds sparred in chalk circles, or hunted one another through the thick canopy of entwined branches that stretched like spiderwebs overhead.

As he watched them fight, Fabius recalled his own trials. He had not truly understood their purposes, or why he’d been taken from his family. The flesh-tithe had rarely been spoken of openly in the noble houses of Europa, and it wasn’t until after he’d become an aspirant that he’d learned of it. He remembered little about those days, traumatic as they had been. He’d been older than most, but younger than some. The Apothecaries of the Legion had ripped him asunder, and built a patchwork being to take his place. A creature of science and alchemy, as in the old family stories. And just as in those stories, he had turned on his creator, along with the rest of his brothers. There was a lesson there, or perhaps several.

A child rolled, scrambling aside as the Space Marine’s hand flashed down, narrowly missing her.

‘Very good,’ the warrior rumbled. Pero was a Jhariuk – a harrowmaster – of the Alpha Legion. At any one time, he was responsible for multiple ongoing Legion operations, both military and otherwise.

He’d also once killed Fabius. It had been a long time ago, and in another sector, but the memory was a vibrant one. Pero had been the only member of his kill-team to survive, but that had been small comfort at the time. That the Lernaean Proxies had sent him as a representative spoke as to the seriousness with which they regarded these negotiations.

It had taken him almost an hour to ‘kill’ ten of the fifteen children selected for the test. Fabius kept the time on the chronometer built into his vambrace. The remaining five showed no signs of tiring. They leapt and sprang, rolling beneath his almost-gentle blows, and raked practice knives across his bare flesh. Their opponent had discarded his armour for the trial, and wore only a simple loincloth. The children’s blows left streaks of colour, to mark their success. The darker the streak, the more grievous the blow.

The children were of the latest generation of Gland-hounds. Naturally born, but with a few additional genetic and physiological tweaks to fine-tune their bodies and minds for the task ahead. The oldest was only twelve cycles, the youngest, six. In other circumstances, of optimum age for gene-seed implantation.

An alert-chime sounded, and he blink-activated a hololithic overlay. A scene of carnage greeted him. Snow and blood. A burly figure crouched over a dead daemon-beast. One of a great herd, now scattered in bloody chunks across the nearby tundra. His scout had found its quarry. He tapped his vambrace, activating the sensory bafflers built into his armour.

‘Princeps Gorgus?’

The burly figure turned, cortical implants rattling. ‘Fabius. I wondered if that was you.’

He was a hulking example of an unaugmented human, nearly as tall as an Astartes, and almost as wide. Clad in thick furs over a faded uniform, he more resembled some barbarian chieftain than the Titan princeps he was.

‘I heard you were dead, Manflayer.’

‘More than once, princeps.’

Gorgus laughed and drew a knife from his belt. ‘True enough. You’re the only man I ever met who dies as often as Lucius the thrice-damned Eternal.’

Fabius frowned. ‘Hardly that frequently.’

Gorgus pointed the knife at him. ‘Says the man who sent a servitor, rather than coming in person. A lesser man might have been insulted.’

‘Thankfully, you are not a lesser man,’ Fabius said, somewhat stung by Gorgus’ dismissal of his herald. The servitor was designed especially for its task, with an enhanced musculature and a reinforced skeleton, as well as a holo-projector built into its remoulded cranium. It was almost as hardy as a Space Marine, and capable of receiving a holo-transmission across vast distances. He’d sent fifteen of them out, seeking those who might provide him the aid he so desperately needed.

So far, Gorgus was the only one to respond. The princeps had fought alongside the Third in the final years of the Heresy. There had been little glory to go around in those days, but Gorgus had never been one for martial honours. The princeps had more… visceral cravings.

‘No, I am not. Why are you interrupting my hunt this time, Fabius?’

‘I find myself in need of allies.’

Gorgus peered at him. ‘Are you in trouble, then?’

‘You might say that, yes.’

‘Of your own making?’

Fabius frowned. ‘You might say that as well.’

Gorgus laughed. ‘Last time, you promised me beasts to hunt, Manflayer. I want something more to sink my fangs into than some pox-ridden mutant behemoth. Something truly indescribable. Can you give me that?’

‘All that and more. Have you ever hunted drukhari, Princeps Gorgus?’

Gorgus frowned and sat back. ‘No,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Not my usual sort of prey. Are they interesting, at least?’

‘Swift, cunning, utterly depraved.’

Gorgus grinned, displaying filed teeth. ‘That sounds promising.’ He looked down at the daemon-beast and sank his knife into its shimmering hide. Sawing through its flesh, he grunted, ‘Help me with this, would you?’

Fabius grimaced, but directed the servitor to kneel and help Gorgus pop open the daemon’s ribcage. Its skeletal structure was gelid – glistening like melting ice. Gorgus stabbed his knife into the twitching grasses and reached into the cavity. He growled softly and wrenched the daemon’s heart free of the web of muscle tissue and arteries. The heart steamed in the morning light, and frost crept down Gorgus’ forearm, causing his gloves to crackle. ‘Beautiful,’ he murmured. He bit into the heart with relish, chewing noisily. It sounded as if he were eating ice.

‘Will you aid me, princeps?’ Fabius asked impatiently.

Still chewing, Gorgus looked up. ‘I suppose I still owe you, for giving me my pack.’ He regarded the god-machine that towered over them. The Reaver Battle-Titan bore no heraldry, unless one counted the hundreds of trophies that hung from its carapace. Most were dead, but some still bore the spark of life – daemons never knew when to surrender to the inevitable. Around the god-machine, Gorgus’ pack waited, attentive to their master’s needs. Warhounds, once. Now just hounds. Their crews were long dead, and the machine-spirits bent and broken to Gorgus’ will.

It had taken Fabius weeks to make the proper modifications to Gorgus’ mind and body, and to the Reaver’s throne mechanicum, to enable him to control the Titans. In return, Gorgus had aided Fabius in establishing control over the disparate elements of the Third during the Legion Wars.

‘That debt was paid,’ Fabius said.

‘My debts are paid when I say they’re paid, Manflayer.’

‘I wasn’t arguing.’

‘Good,’ Gorgus grunted. ‘Transfer the coordinates. If I decide to help, I will come. If not, I will not.’

‘That is all I ask.’ Fabius cut the holo-link as his chronometer chimed. ‘Time.’

Pero stopped, fingers just shy of tapping one of the remaining quintet of children. ‘How long?’

‘An hour exactly,’ Fabius said.

Pero straightened. ‘They’re not even breathing hard.’

‘Endurance is more important than strength, I find.’

‘Sometimes,’ Pero said. He stepped back, and inclined his head respectfully. ‘A most engaging session, my friends. Be proud of yourselves.’

The children looked at Fabius, and he nodded. ‘As he says – be proud. And as a reward, you may have the next half-cycle free, to do as you wish.’ He paused. ‘Try not to kill each other.’ They scattered through the gladiatorium, laughing.

Fabius signalled to a mutant swaddled in pus-stained rags and wearing a mask made from discarded carapace plates. It shuffled forward bearing a surgical tray with a fluted decanter and two glasses on it.

‘Something to drink?’ Fabius asked, taking a glass.

‘Wine?’

‘From the vineyards of Sublime.’ Fabius took a sip. ‘What do you think?’

The Alpha Legion warrior drank deeply before answering. ‘Adequate.’

‘The drink – or their capabilities?’

‘Both. They are faster than me, but more fragile. One on one, they will never be a match for a Space Marine. Two on one, three – the odds of success improve significantly. With more training, better stimulants… they might be a threat.’

Fabius frowned. ‘Might be?’

Pero shrugged. ‘I am no seer. Merely a humble soldier.’

‘Not that humble.’

‘I speak only truth, save when it is expedient to do otherwise.’ Pero scratched at the scars on his chest. ‘We can use them. Especially if they breed true, as you claim.’

‘They do.’

Pero watched several of the older Gland-hounds spar. ‘We want them young.’

‘How young?’

‘Young enough for the schola progenium.’

Fabius paused. ‘You will train them?’

‘Enough to accomplish their tasks.’ Pero looked at him. ‘They are capable of… restraining their baser urges at that age, yes? It wouldn’t serve our purposes to have them start eating the other students or fomenting revolt.’ He hesitated. ‘At least not until they’re ordered to do so.’

Fabius nodded. ‘Of course. But I cannot promise that they will comply. Independence is bred into them.’

‘Save where you are concerned.’

Fabius didn’t reply.

Pero smiled. ‘They call you Pater Mutatis when they think you aren’t listening.’ He glanced at the mutant servants stationed throughout the chamber, ready to attend to the needs of the Gland-hounds. ‘Then, maybe they aren’t wrong. You give them purpose, a sense of unity, where others see them only as chattel.’

‘I make some use of them, yes. What does it matter?’

‘Is it pragmatism – or pity?’

Fabius snorted. ‘Why does it have to be either, Pero? In point of fact, I give them little thought. I required menials, and the mutants are willing. That is the end of it.’

Pero nodded. ‘As you say.’ He took another sip of wine. ‘Have you given any more thought to our proposal?’

‘You mean moving my operations to a secure facility under your jurisdiction?’ Fabius looked down his nose at Pero. ‘As I said before, I have no interest in sacrificing my freedom for the dubious advantages of your protection.’

‘You may come to regret that, and sooner than you imagine.’

‘Is that a threat?’

‘A warning. Our grudge is settled, but… there are whispers.’ Pero paused. ‘Then, there are always whispers when it comes to you.’

‘Through no fault of my own, I assure you.’

Pero snorted. ‘Fabius, we both know that’s not the case. It’s only luck – or the blessings of the Dark Gods – that have kept you alive this long.’

Fabius looked at him. ‘Tell me. Without making a riddle of it, please.’

‘Someone is searching for you, albeit in somewhat oblique fashion. On K’sshpar, a troupe of xenos performers staged a certain play before the Karellian Despot… The Misfortune of Count Sunflame. On Feshtain-Six, a masked singer set the aristocracy of Hive Jormun at each other’s throats – in the ensuing slaughter, your name was carved into the thigh bones of the eldest child of each great house. Drukhari traders have visited the dream-markets of Sublime and the portent-sellers of Tumbaq, seeking word of a mon-keigh fleshcrafter they call Manflayer.’ He paused. ‘A dozen worlds have been burned in as many weeks. Worlds that followed the will of Pater Mutatis.’

Fabius frowned. ‘Thank you for the warning. Unnecessary as it might be.’

His grip on Torment tightened, and the daemon-shard within gave a psychic whine. Hexachires was still hunting for him, even as Melusine had warned. He would need to depart on his… pilgrimage soon.

‘I expected something of the sort. For now, I have other matters to attend to. I leave you in the capable hands of my servants. If you will excuse me?’

‘Think on my offer, Fabius,’ Pero called out.

Fabius didn’t reply. He spied Zargad Ket standing at the edge of the chamber, overseeing his charges. The crèche-master had a disapproving look on his face.

‘It is necessary,’ Fabius said, as he joined Zargad.

‘I am aware.’

‘The Alpha Legion, for all its flaws, takes care of its assets.’

‘As if we cannot.’

Fabius looked at him. ‘We cannot. That is why I reached out to the Proxies – among others.’ He leaned on Torment, drawing strength from the artefact. ‘Most of them have yet to respond. We are lucky they were willing to… overlook our previous history.’

Zargad was silent for a moment. ‘I heard you experienced a setback. Casualties?’

‘A few,’ Fabius said, after a moment. ‘Marag among them.’

Zargad let loose a soft sigh. ‘Ah. Now I see why you sent Arrian to tell me.’ He was silent for a moment, watching the children at play. Then, ‘How did he die?’

‘Not well.’

‘What death ever is?’ Zargad looked at him. ‘His body?’

‘Gone.’

Zargad nodded again. ‘Then I suppose he will forgive me if I do not perform the proper rites. Did you kill the ones who killed him?’

‘Some. The rest are likely on their way here… or soon will be,’ Fabius said. ‘I want you to prepare the crèches for immediate evacuation to Omega Redoubt.’

Zargad stared at him. ‘Has it come to that then?’

Fabius nodded. ‘I believe it has. This galaxy has become too hostile for us. We must retreat and begin anew. I have enacted the Omega Protocols – every New Man capable of making the journey here will do so. Those that are not will begin chrono-locking my caches and destroying any access nodes.’

‘You would abandon reality itself,’ Zargad said, with some surprise.

‘In a heartbeat, if it meant preserving all that we have done here.’

‘So much work – lost…’

‘Work can be recreated. More samples can be collected. Discoveries remade. But my creations are precious. They carry within them the seeds of the future. I will not see them destroyed.’ He gestured. ‘Some will go to new masters – new protectors. But Omega Redoubt will suffice for the others.’

‘And what of the rest of us?’

Fabius looked away. ‘Omega Redoubt is not meant for us.’

Zargad snorted. ‘No. Of course not. Are we to fight, then?’

‘And die, if need be.’

‘All very well and good for you to say, Clonelord. Death is beyond you.’

‘Say rather that I am beyond it. And perhaps not for much longer.’ Fabius shook his head. ‘Once, we would not have questioned such a course.’

‘We were as children then. We know the truth of this life, now.’ Zargad smiled thinly. ‘I have kept out of the Twelfth’s internecine feuds. And I have no wish to rejoin the Legion. Marag is dead. What is there for me, but this?’

‘You have your own experiments.’

‘But this was – is – my obsession. The perfection of a species.’ He laughed. ‘How many of us have you infected with your particular mania? You’ve subordinated us, made us extensions of your will and now – you ask us to abandon them?’

‘I ask you to defend them. To do as we were designed to do, one final time.’ Fabius paused. ‘I will need you to go with them.’

‘What?’

‘The children. The ones going with the Alpha Legion. Someone will need to see to them. Guide them.’ Fabius looked at him. ‘Protect them, until they are ready.’

Zargad looked away. After a few moments, he nodded. ‘Very well.’

Fabius clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Good. I will inform Pero.’ He turned as Arrian approached. ‘Yes?’

‘I’ve gathered them in the atrium, as you requested,’ Arrian said.

‘All of them?’

‘All who remain.’

Fabius sighed and ran his hand through his thinning hair.

‘Very well. Best to have it all done at once.’

‘What do you think he wants?’ Skalagrim murmured.

Duco didn’t reply. The Night Lord was determinedly antisocial, save when it came to Khorag. Everyone liked Khorag. Even as they all hated Saqqara. After a few moments of silence, Skalagrim sighed and turned his attentions elsewhere.

The atrium was humming with insect-song and the particular chirrup of a certain species of songbird native to many former aeldari worlds. He believed that they were descendants of pets, left to go feral when their masters had abandoned their empire. The songbirds were brightly hued, exceedingly toxic and possessed a range of vocalisations reminiscent of the screams of dying animals.

The atrium was Zorzi’s fiefdom. The World Eater had a talent for botany. Strange flowers grew on the thick creepers that spread across the walls and floor, filling the space with a curious scent. Some of the plants were more than just pretty decorations. They were hungry things, and the reason there was so few vermin about.

‘Speaking of which,’ he muttered, studying his fellow Apothecaries. Only a handful remained. Khorag Sinj. Duco, the Night Lord. Emicos Shard and Aelian Hadal, of the Third. The Smiling Count, whose fingers were tipped with syringes. Gemerax of Ironhold. The ones with nowhere else to go, or no pressing need to depart. He considered making conversation with them, but didn’t see the point. Gemerax was a fool, and the Count was a lunatic. Shard and Hadal were arrogant opportunists who rarely deigned to speak to anyone of a lesser Legion. And Khorag… well. Khorag was Khorag.

He heard a scrape of ceramite and turned. Savona and Bellephus had entered the atrium. He gave the latter a respectful nod. As far as he was concerned the Third was and always had been mostly a dumping ground for lunatics, fops and utter fools. Bellephus was one of the few he’d found tolerable for short periods. Until he started reciting poetry.

Savona, on the other hand, was a creature more to Skalagrim’s liking. There was spiteful fire to her that made conversation interesting. Sometimes, he found himself half-wondering what the limits of her pain-tolerance might be, or how she might look without eyes. Given the way she looked at him at times, he suspected she wondered much the same about him. Duco followed his gaze.

‘I’d keep my distance,’ he muttered.

‘Life is for the living,’ Skalagrim replied.

Something snuffled at his leg, and he looked down into the serene, mindless gaze of Khorag’s pet. Paz’uz gurgled cheerfully as it smeared its acidic ichor across his shin. The beast was a rotund, slug-like thing with flippers and carcinogenic flesh. It chuckled and wheezed as Skalagrim shooed it away.

‘Khorag, call off your damned beast!’

‘Come here, Paz’uz, there’s a good boy,’ Khorag said, chuckling. The beast lolloped towards him, gasping and gulping happily. The others gave it a wide berth. Its saliva could eat through steel. ‘You should feel honoured, Skalagrim. He does not take to everyone.’

‘That’s a lie,’ Duco said. ‘I once saw that beast follow Gorel around for an hour. Not even the vatborn liked Gorel.’ A ripple of laughter greeted this anecdote, but it faltered quickly. Gorel was dead, and there was precious little fun to be had in mocking the dead. They all looked at one another, and Skalagrim wondered at the unease on every face – save that of the Count, who was whistling cheerfully.

‘What was his mood like, when you spoke to him, Sinj?’ Gemerax asked.

Khorag grunted, smoke spewing from the grimy vents of his battleplate. ‘Bleak, I would say. You remember the years following that disastrous turn at Harmony?’

Duco cursed. ‘Wonderful. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m leaving and taking everything I can carry with me.’

‘Spoken like a true son of the Eighth,’ Emicos said. Aelian tittered appreciatively. Duco rounded on the two Emperor’s Children.

‘Like you haven’t had similar thoughts,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen you two – scuttling about, looking for that gene-tithe. Planning to use it to buy your way into Eidolon’s good graces, are you?’

‘As if you wouldn’t do the same,’ Skalagrim said. ‘As if any of us aren’t planning something similar.’ He looked around. Only Khorag and the Count met his gaze. ‘The others were fools – they panicked and ran, taking the obvious things. But we’re smarter aren’t we? We all know that there are greater treasures to be had than some foetal war-mutants or a bit of cloned gene-seed. That’s why we all stayed.’

‘And I am pleased that you did,’ Fabius said as he entered the atrium, followed by the strange figure of Wolver, hands clasped behind their back. The strategium overseer looked out of place among the greenery. So did Fabius, come to that.

He seemed a fragile figure to Skalagrim. A broken thing, fit only for the butchering. It was startling, to say the least. Maybe Gorel had been right – Fabius wasn’t the same man who’d vanished into the maw of Commorragh. He’d lost a step somewhere, and now they were all paying for it.

Fabius stopped and studied them. ‘I require allies,’ he said, after a moment.

‘Too little, too late for that,’ the Smiling Count chortled. Fabius raised an eyebrow, but did not reply directly. Instead, he looked around.

‘I do not believe that the drukhari will stop at Peleus-Tertius. They will keep coming. I underestimated them before. But not now. To that end, I have put out the call to all who owe me a debt. Some chose not to respond, particularly those warbands formerly of the Third. Emicos, Aelian – you will go to these warlords and remind them of what they owe me.’

The two Apothecaries looked at one another, and then at Fabius. ‘And if they do not listen?’ Emicos asked.

‘You will see that they do. This is my command as Chief Apothecary and lieutenant commander. Remind them that it was they who made me commander, in the absence of our father. Remind them the Twelfth stands with me. And remind them what happens to those who cross me.’ He pointed at Gemerax and the Count. ‘Though neither of you are of the Third, I ask the same of you. Ironhold owes me a debt, as does the Choir of Tears. I am calling in my markers.’

Gemerax frowned, his seamed features crinkling like leather. ‘It will not be easy to convince them. But I will try.’

The Smiling Count merely chuckled and shrugged. Fabius held the lunatic’s gaze for long moments, until the Count ceased his chuckles and nodded.

Fabius looked at Khorag.

The Death Guard sighed wetly. ‘Typhus will not come to your aid, Fabius. Nor will Mortarion. You belong to Fulgrim, and my Legion will not bestir themselves to aid the possession of another.’ He stroked Paz’uz’s malformed skull. ‘Still, I will make the effort.’

‘That is all I ask, my friend.’

Khorag chortled. ‘A loaded word, that. Especially where you’re concerned, Fabius. But I take it as a compliment.’

Fabius looked at Duco. ‘And you?’

Duco shrugged. ‘Why not? But as Khorag said – my brothers are not known for honouring such agreements. If they sense some profit in it, they’ll come. If not…’

Fabius nodded. He swept his gaze across the gathered Apothecaries. ‘I expect the answer is much the same for all of you. It does not matter. Those who ignore my request will be dealt with accordingly.’

‘If you survive,’ Duco said.

Fabius gestured dismissively. ‘My survival is not in doubt, Duco.’ He leaned on his cane. ‘But your concern is noted. Go. Take what vessels you wish from those that remain.’

As the Apothecaries filed out, Skalagrim snorted. ‘You know that most of them won’t do as you ask,’ he said, arms crossed. ‘Khorag, maybe Duco. But the others will flee and hide, hoping to avoid the fate you race towards.’

Fabius nodded. ‘There is an old Terran saying about rats and burning vessels that comes to mind. But some will make the attempt, at least. And some of my former allies may well remember their debts.’

‘And if not?’

‘Then the forces I have will serve.’ Fabius met Skalagrim’s gaze. ‘One makes do with the tools one has.’ He turned his attentions to Savona and Bellephus. ‘As for the Twelfth…’

Savona made a rude sound. ‘After that last debacle, I have barely a handful of warriors at my command remaining.’ She glanced at Bellephus, who murmured something. ‘Maybe two hundred.’

‘More than a handful, I think,’ Fabius said.

‘It was three hundred,’ she said pointedly. ‘We left a hundred good–’

‘Adequate,’ Bellephus interjected.

‘Adequate warriors on Peleus-Tertius. Most of them were still alive when the planet folded in on itself.’

Skalagrim frowned, remembering the moment. He had seen worlds die before, and even endured the slow collapse of a ship caught in the gravity well of a black hole. The last moments of Peleus-Tertius, however, were unlike any he had ever witnessed. He’d always assumed that he knew all there was to know about terror. He and his brothers had traded in it for centuries. But the creatures that inhabited Commorragh took it to an art form. To kill a world in order to capture one man – it was madness. The sort of madness he wanted no part of.

‘I gave the order to retreat,’ Fabius said. ‘That they did not do so is not my error but theirs. You, at least, survived. And I have no doubt that your dauntless two hundred are equal to twice that number of drukhari.’

‘Some of them, certainly.’ Savona smirked. ‘Things would be easier if your pets hadn’t decided to turn on us.’

‘You have something to say, Savona?’ Fabius said.

‘Yes. And I just did. You decided to up stakes for the darkest reaches of the bloody webway, and your creatures went feral the moment you were gone. And then, when you finally deign to return, do you discipline them? No. You let them carve out their own little kingdoms in the ruins and left them to it.’

‘Enough,’ Fabius said. ‘You’re right, of course.’

Savona paused. ‘I’m what?’

‘You are correct. In hindsight, I made an error. One I will rectify at the soonest opportunity.’ Fabius looked around. ‘I am not so arrogant as to ignore recent lessons. I have made as many errors as I have gains of late. If we survive the storm to come, that will change. Everything will change.’

‘Meaning?’ Savona pressed.

‘For too long, I have been content to hide here and bury myself in my studies. I have lived the life of a hermit. But I am not a hermit. The time has come to seize destiny by the throat and make it beg for mercy.’

Savona grinned. ‘Finally.’ She pointed her maul at Fabius. ‘I’m holding you to that declaration, old man. But until then… I’ll see what I can do.’ With that, she turned on her heel and stalked out of the atrium, trailed by Bellephus.

‘A fine speech,’ Skalagrim said. ‘How much of it did you mean?’

Fabius ignored the question. ‘You still have allies among what is left of the Sons of Horus.’ It was not a question.

Skalagrim nodded. ‘Some few, yes. Most have taken the black and joined Abaddon.’

‘All the better.’

‘Why?’

Fabius hesitated. ‘As I said, I have made many errors. Pride has prevented me seeing opportunity. The Black Legion is one of the largest organised military bodies in the Eye. And Ezekyle, whatever his other faults – and they are many – is a pragmatic soul. I have things he needs. In return, he might well send me a few warriors.’

Skalagrim frowned. There was something Fabius wasn’t saying. And the thought of reaching out to old comrades wasn’t a pleasant one. ‘Or he might laugh while the drukhari flay you to the bone.’

Fabius shrugged. ‘Either way, you will deliver a message for me. Use your contacts among his forces to ensure your safe passage.’

‘Are you mad?’

Fabius looked down at the flowers that crept across the nearby vines. ‘Madness is a matter of perspective as well as context. The actions of a lunatic may well prove sane, when viewed at a distance.’

Skalagrim growled deep in his throat. ‘The question was rhetorical. I know you’re mad. But what I do not know is when you crossed the line from mad to suicidal.’

Fabius turned back from the flowers. ‘I am tired of running. I ran from Terra. From Arden. From Harmony. From Urum, Lugganath and Solemnace. I have spent my life running from the knife. Running from the stone.’ He crushed the blossom. ‘The running ends here. My story ends here, for good or ill.’

Skalagrim stared at him. ‘So you’d send me to my death as well?’

‘You are the one person he will not kill.’ Fabius looked at the other Apothecary. ‘Abaddon is many things. But he is not a fool. You are an experienced Apothecary – trained by my hand, no less. Something his Black Legion is in desperate need of.’ He paused. ‘How’s your omophageac reflex these days?’

He gestured, and a vatborn shuffled forward, bearing a heavy cryo-canister on its back. Fabius retrieved it with one hand and tossed it to Skalagrim.

‘This is my brain – or, rather, a cloned facsimile. It has been uploaded with all of my knowledge, as of the last few weeks.’

Skalagrim stared at it. ‘What about–?’

‘No. No wraithbone. No secrets. No traps. Just neural tissue, for your private consumption. As a further sop to Ezekyle’s ego, I will send you with a quarter of the gene-tithe I secured from Solemnace.’

Skalagrim’s eyes widened. ‘What?’

‘Pure gene-seed. And the knowledge to make the best use of it. I suggest cultivating it as a base for cloned tissue, but I leave the decision in your hands.’

‘Why do this?’ Skalagrim asked.

‘I should have thought that was obvious. Win or lose, I will require allies. Protection, even. All that I have built over these last centuries is sand and the tide is coming in. Once the waters have receded, I will need to rebuild. I will need… help.’

‘The warmaster, you mean.’

‘Possibly. And with you, I will have a voice in his camp. He will owe me a debt, however small.’

Skalagrim frowned. ‘Do you think I’m a fool?’

‘Yes. Why?’

Skalagrim shook his head. ‘Do you think I don’t see what you’re doing? You’re sending us all away. Why?’

Fabius was silent for a moment. ‘Do you recall Prospero?’

‘The world?’

‘Yes. When Russ and his curs burned it, a wealth of knowledge unequalled in the galaxy burned with it. I have always held that Magnus’ greatest sin was not what he did to his sons, or to his world, but that he allowed the Space Wolves to erase all that wisdom from the universe.’ He fixed Skalagrim with a hard stare. ‘I am not Magnus. The knowledge I have gathered, it will live on. In you and the others.’

Skalagrim laughed. ‘That is the most idiotic thing I have ever heard you say.’

Fabius turned back to the flowers. ‘As I said, sentiment. You will take the Vesalius.’ He paused and looked up. ‘Do you understand, Wolver?’

The strategium overseer was silent for long moments. ‘The Vesalius understands,’ they said finally. But there was a hint of doubt in the monotone phrasing.

‘But do you?’ Fabius said. ‘You, Wolver,’ he pressed. ‘Loyal Wolver. Do you understand? You will follow his orders as if they were mine.’ He looked at Skalagrim. ‘When you have reached Black Legion territory, I expect you to release them.’

‘Release them?’

‘Yes. I have absolved the Vesalius of its obligations. They are free to make their own way in this galaxy, as best they might.’ Fabius looked back at Wolver. ‘This is my last gift to you. You are no longer a ship of the line, but something else. Something wondrous. And I would see you flourish.’

Wolver stared at him in silence. Hands of glass rose as if to pluck away the brass mask. They fell, mask untouched. ‘The Vesalius understands, Benefactor. The Vesalius loves you. The Vesalius thanks you.’

Fabius nodded and looked back at Skalagrim. ‘This is your chance to return to your brothers, wolf – an opportunity few of us ever receive. Do not throw it away.’

Skalagrim looked down at the canister in his hands. The thought made him queasy. But if it could be done…

He laughed softly.

‘Who am I to turn down an opportunity?’

‘Is this wise, Chief Apothecary?’ Arrian asked, as Skalagrim followed the others out.

‘Which part exactly?’ Fabius replied.

‘All of it.’

Fabius laughed. ‘No. It is most decidedly not. In fact, I have a strong suspicion that it will all go horribly wrong, before the end. But, as I said to Skalagrim, one does what one can with the tools one has. A good lesson to carry forward in your future endeavours, Arrian.’

‘As you say, Chief Apothecary.’

‘And on that note…’

‘No,’ Arrian said firmly.

Fabius paused. ‘What?’

‘No. I will not go. I will not be dismissed like Zargad, Khorag and the others.’ Arrian tapped at his skulls. ‘I will not be sent on some impossible mission so that you might die unencumbered by whatever shreds of guilt remain to beings such as us.’

Fabius stared at him. ‘And if I order you to go?’

‘I will ignore it.’

Fabius laughed softly. ‘A hound’s loyalty, eh?’

‘Whatever else, you have earned that much at least.’ Arrian scratched at his implants. ‘And I think you are not the only one on borrowed time. We are all debtors to the future, Chief Apothecary. Some of us more than others.’

Fabius looked up at the remnants of the armourglass dome overhead. At the thick creepers and fat blossoms. At the birds in their thorny nests.

‘You truly made this place beautiful, you know,’ he said after a moment. ‘And not just this place. Every world I have chosen to make my home, you have made beautiful in some small way. I have never understood your efforts in that regard.’ He looked at Arrian. ‘Or why you chose to be my servant.’

Arrian shrugged. ‘Someone had to.’

Fabius laughed again. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ He paused. ‘I need you to… speak to her. After I depart.’

Arrian nodded, not asking who it was that Fabius meant. ‘And if she will not see me?’

‘Do as you think best. Whatever the outcome – warn her of what is coming.’

‘And the Omega Protocol?’

‘Tell her.’

‘And if she resists?’

‘She will not.’

Arrian frowned. ‘Many of them will not wish to go. To leave behind all that they know – to flee to some hidden sanctuary…’

Fabius looked at Arrian. ‘They must. It is the only way I can guarantee their survival. And that is paramount, above all else. All I do now is in service of that goal. Whatever else comes of this, Homo novus must survive.’

He turned away.

‘My children must survive.’

Chapter Fifteen

Durance Vile

Oleander felt a lurch in his stomach as the anti-gravity generators fell silent and the barque fell away from its berth. A colony of spire-bats exploded away from the bay, screaming, as the barque’s own grav-generators kicked in with a thunderous moan. He straightened in his seat, watching as the docked cruiser receded.

Hexachires had remained behind for one last tilt at the windmills of the archons’ stubbornness. That left Diomone to escort Oleander back into captivity. The barque was one of several owned by their hosts. The crew wore the crimson of Peshig’s kabal, and watched their passengers with unconcealed wariness. The archon’s displeasure had filtered down through the ranks, and he wondered whether they planned some mischief.

From where he sat, he could see the jutting spires of High Commorragh. Some resembled serrated blades, while others put him in mind of metallic mountains. A few had been constructed to resemble their masters – immense towers with the faces of infamous kabalite warlords glaring eternally at one another across the only battlefield of consequence.

The city reminded him of a fascinating, if deadly, beast. Part of him longed to explore it. To seek out its dark heart and feast on the loveliness within. Many of his brothers had shared that yearning. To the fallen sons of the III Legion, it was a paradise glimpsed only by a few. Those who had seen it could speak of little else. He felt his pulse quicken.

‘He stirs,’ Diomone said, watching him. She sat across from him, accompanied only by a pair of wracks, both armed with hexrifles. The creatures seemed more intent on the crew than him. Then, Diomone could look after herself.

‘Apothecary, heal thyself.’ The words came out as a croak. He looked at her, studying the way she lounged in her seat. A picture of alien insouciance. But it was simply a mask. Diomone didn’t strike him as the insouciant sort.

She frowned. ‘A joke?’

‘Not a funny one.’

Oleander flexed his hands. The streets of Commorragh twisted about them as the barque descended. Winged shapes rose from crenellated eyries, and flying craft of all shapes and sizes filled the narrow canals between structures. This part of the city resembled nothing so much as a reef, albeit one of steel and stone.

‘I am surprised I am still alive. I thought he would kill me upon our return.’

‘So did I,’ she said. ‘And yet here we are.’

‘Yes.’

She was silent for a moment. ‘His position is tenuous,’ she said.

‘So I gathered.’

‘What has he said to you?’

‘And why should I tell you?’

‘You made your reasons plain earlier. Or have you already forgotten?’

‘No.’ Oleander’s hands twitched as he imagined ripping off her face and casting the bloody tatters to the wind. Instead, he contented himself with the view. There were fewer spires here, and the streets spread like a tangle of spilled intestine. A place of ruin and poverty, overcrowded and prone to outbreaks of violence. He heard the distinctive crackle of splinter fire as they descended past shuttered wharfs and isolated jetties.

‘Don’t worry,’ Diomone said. ‘It’s not meant for us.’

‘I know. Can you get this mask off of me?’

‘Why would I?’

‘A show of good faith.’

Diomone frowned. ‘That I have not killed you already should be evidence of that.’ She looked out over the rail.

Oleander followed her gaze. There were fewer streets now, only ragged gantries stretching over the broken abysses of the webway. Docking spires jutted out into the emptiness. Minor ports and private wharfs. Sleek cargo haulers slid into awaiting berths, as free-spinning sensor buoys bobbed on the soupy air.

‘I notice that he did not give you the pain-baton,’ he said.

‘He’s probably hoping you’ll try and kill me,’ she said.

‘He does like letting others do the work for him.’ Oleander felt at the clasps of the helm. His skin was raw and had started bleeding again. ‘In answer to your question – he has told me precious little. He is obsessed.’

‘He is a fool.’

‘But not foolish.’

‘No.’ Diomone looked at him. ‘Your helm… I cannot remove it. But I can modify it.’

Oleander said nothing.

She leaned forward. ‘I have made a study of your pleasure-pain centres. I can wire the helm to deliver a jolt you will find invigorating, rather than debilitating.’

‘And in return?’

‘Kill him.’

‘Easier said than done.’ Oleander looked down at his hands. ‘When?’

‘Not immediately.’ She sat back. ‘I will go to the Synod first. Hexachires has ruled us too long, dragged us into too much foolishness. He will be given an opportunity to answer for his crimes. If that fails…’

‘Yes.’ Oleander sat back. He could feel the grav-generators struggling against unseen forces. Winds buffeted the barque, and even Diomone looked momentarily uncertain.

‘You agree?’ she asked quickly.

‘If the opportunity presents itself, I will do my utmost.’

‘That is not the answer I hoped for.’

‘It is the one you get. I have no guarantees that you will keep me alive afterwards. Or even that you will do as you say.’ Oleander smiled. ‘We must… trust in our own self-interest.’

Diomone almost smiled at that. But not quite.

‘I do not like you, mon-keigh. In fact, I think I hate you more than I hated Fabius.’

‘That is almost a compliment.’

Diomone sniffed the air and turned. ‘Ah. We’ve arrived.’ A moment later, the stink of rotting meat reached across the distance, and struck Oleander like a blow. The prow of the barque breached the chemical murk, revealing a fleshy stalactite jutting from the underside of the city.

The Tower of Flesh.

It was larger than the eyries of High Commorragh, stretching down into the dark reaches of the webway like an overturned mountain. A mountain made of meat and muscle, a leviathan of flesh and bone. It was a pallid bastion, clinging to its perch by wriggling sinews the length of a frigate. A web of ligaments stretched around it, snaring the many and varied spiked protrusions that lined the city’s belly.

The sheer wrongness of it struck him. He’d thought himself jaded to such horrors, for the Eye was full to bursting of nightmares. He’d seen worlds made from the bodies of dead monsters, and witnessed the tortures of the damned. But this was something else again. There was a cruel pragmatism to it. There was no joy there. It had been constructed by a mind more concerned with efficiency and practical application than pain and suffering – the mind of Fabius Bile. Somehow, that made it worse.

As always, the sight of it left him momentarily dumb.

Diomone sighed. ‘Beautiful. Whatever his flaws, Fabius knew there was beauty in efficiency. No artistic pretensions for him. There was a mon-keigh who had a proper grasp of bio-mathematics. If only he’d been a drukhari… ah.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘What a wrack he would’ve made. What a haemonculus.’

‘Hexachires seems to have felt the same way.’

Diomone glared at him. ‘Hexachires allowed his infatuation to cloud his judgement. I knew Fabius was trouble from the start. However interesting he might have been, it wasn’t worth the difficulties he caused us.’ She paused. ‘And is still causing us.’

The barque had slowed its descent. Bridge-like strands of muscle, connected to floating buoys, drifted all along the Tower’s length. The barque drew close to one, and slowed as the pilot guided the vessel into a berth. Docking clamps extended with a grating screech. Diomone rose and beckoned Oleander to follow.

‘Welcome home, Oleander.’

Hexachires stalked across the docking bay of the Tower of Flesh, gnawing his own fingers in frustration. The bay stank of spoiled meat, and the sound of insects rose from its rugose surface. Metal gantries had been spiked to its length, and a bloody ichor seeped from the connection points. These shivered as the barque that had transported him hither departed.

An awful, rasping sound filled the air like distant thunder. He sighed in pleasure as the noise enfolded him in its comforting rhythms. The Tower was in constant agony, feeding its inhabitants with its pain even as they carved new runnels in its quivering innards.

Peshig had been depressingly resolute. So had the others. For such long-lived creatures, many drukhari were incredibly short-sighted. Some of it was his own fault. The tinkering he’d done to them, the tweaking – he’d made Salar and Avara and, yes, Peshig as well, imprudent and ambitious. He’d never considered that it might come back to bite him.

‘Or perhaps I never wished to consider it,’ he murmured. He stroked the contours of his mask, feeling it as if it were his own skin. His own face was little more than a memory. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen it. Considered or not, the deed was done. He had to adapt or perish. The story of his race in a nutshell.

For the moment, however, he was home, and that was enough. Everything smelled of rotten meat and his bare flesh was kissed by the humid air that sat thick in the spongy corridors. The floor beneath him was solid, but hideously soft and striated with pulsing veins. The walls too were marked with them, dark runnels branching in a thousand directions. From the inside, it was clear to even the untrained eye that the Tower of Flesh had been grown, rather than constructed. There were no joins, no sutures, no scars save those inflicted by the myriad dangers of its precarious perch.

The walls and corridors were buttressed with thick knots of brambly bone, as hard as ceramite but impossibly flexible. Webs of neural matter stretched across the ceilings or crept along walls like untended vines, and he could see flickers of cerebral activity in their opalescent lengths, like sparks from a dying fire. The internal corridors were made from hollowed-out bones, and the gantries and walkways of the open areas were crafted from muscle tissue and ligaments. The air throbbed with heat and there was a distant, quaking thud like the rhythmic beat of an immense heart.

Wracks and slave-creatures were everywhere, carrying out the whims of their masters. Haemonculi gathered in ventricles to debate the merits of their discoveries with one another, or test the strength of some new slave-form against a variety of obstacles, both living and otherwise. They stopped to watch him as he passed. He felt their gazes follow him, and heard snatches of murmured conversation.

He wanted to stop. To confront them, to shriek his rage to the rafters. They didn’t understand, the fools. They hadn’t seen what he’d seen, had no vision. But instead, he ignored them, as a proper master must.

Let them talk. Let them mutter and plot and scheme. They would fall silent when he finally had Fabius in hand. They would choke on their mutterings then. He would see to it personally. Sometimes he wished the Thirteen Scars were a more orderly coven, like the Black Descent. There, the secret masters imposed their authority in unquestionable fashion. But the Scars were younger – more raucous. Debate was their meat and drink.

That was initially what had attracted him to their ranks. The other covens were so hidebound, so narrow-minded. He’d hoped to find like minds. Then, later, he’d hoped to mould them. To shape the coven in his image, much as Fabius had done with his followers. He ground his teeth, annoyed with himself for making the comparison.

He came to a wide, cloacal archway. He extended his hand, and a polyp of meat stretched from the archway to meet it. It enfolded his hand with a wet inhalation, and quivered. Then, it released him with a plop and retracted. The archway convulsed and split, permitting entrance.

The chamber beyond was of an irregular shape, branching off into strange eddies of space. It resembled an aortic valve, if somewhat distended. There were great mangroves of muscle tissue that stretched through the interior here and there. The webs of tissue contracted, and the aperture sealed itself behind him with a squirming sound.

Safe in the confines of his private lab, he allowed himself a soft sigh of discontent. ‘Oleander?’ he murmured. No answer. He wondered if something had happened to his pet – or perhaps to Diomone. Either would satisfy him at this moment.

Something laughed.

He thrust his hand into his coat and snatched his splinter pistol free. He swung the weapon about as the targeting sensors woven into his mask scanned his surroundings. Nothing revealed itself.

‘Veilwalker?’ he said.

Silence.

He activated the sensory-cilia that studded his coat and allowed them to taste the air, searching for any sign of the intruder. There was a greasy pall, such as he had not detected since the last Dysjunction, hanging over everything. Something was here, or had been here. Something not of Commorragh.

His spinal tendrils twitched as they carried him slowly through his laboratory. ‘Is that you, daemon?’ he purred. ‘Oleander isn’t here, I’m afraid. Only me. But I can be just as good a conversationalist, I assure you.’

It was the daemon. He was certain of it. There were traces of warp-matter on the air. Particles of non-being. Daemons were not a common occurrence in Commorragh, but one occasionally slipped through a crack in the ancient defences and nestled in some forgotten part of the city. They were never strong things, more along the lines of ethereal vermin. Dangerous, but only to the unwary.

But this one was something different. He’d thought at first it was simply attached to Oleander, much like a parasite. But the more he’d considered Veilwalker’s warning, the more he’d wondered whether or not it wasn’t something more. A spy, perhaps.

‘Is that what you are, little daemon?’ he said, out loud. ‘A spy? Did Fabius send you to keep an eye on me, hmm?’

No answer.

‘She’s gone.’

Veilwalker’s voice scraped the air and caused him to whirl. She sat atop a nearby bio-tank, balancing her staff on two fingers.

‘Why was she here?’ Hexachires growled. He wasn’t quite aiming his pistol at her, but he didn’t lower it either.

‘As you said, she was spying.’ Veilwalker leapt down, and he backed away. ‘I warned you, oh Lord of Knives. Count Sunflame’s allies–’

‘Oh, be silent,’ Hexachires snapped. He turned away. ‘I cannot take another variation of this same inane story of yours. Not right now.’

‘Why, Hexachires… you seem unhappy.’

‘Unhappy does not begin to cover it, clown.’ He holstered his weapon. ‘I am abandoned by my servants, whispered about by my peers and now spied on in my own chambers. And for what?’

‘For the story,’ Veilwalker said.

‘Damn your story, and damn you.’ Hexachires rounded on her. ‘You promised me Fabius – where is he? I do not see him. All I see is you. Mocking me.’ He leaned close, glaring at his own reflection in her mask.

‘You will have him. And you will have your servants. But things must progress as foreseen, or else all becomes frayed and uncertain.’

‘What do you mean?’

Veilwalker laughed. ‘There is more to this than you perceive, oh Lord of Knives. There is more to a tale than what is told.’ She paused. ‘Shh. Listen.’

Despite himself, Hexachires did. He heard the faint clop of hooves, and soft laughter. When he looked back at Veilwalker, she was leaning uncomfortably close to him.

‘It is a game, you see. Push and pull. They push, we pull.’

‘Pull what?’

‘You. Him. Someone else.’ She stepped back, spinning her staff. ‘All will be well, Hexachires Ulthiliad. I will see to it.’

‘And what am I to do?’

‘Wait. Prepare.’ She looked around. ‘He made this, didn’t he?’

‘Yes.’

‘It moves, doesn’t it?’

Hexachires smiled slowly as he realised what she was getting at.

‘Yes, yes it does.’

Chapter Sixteen

Abasement

The palace, Arrian reflected, was neither large, nor gaudy.

Instead, it was a fortress. A bastion-in-progress. As he was escorted into its heart, he took note of the defensive preparations being undertaken. Bulwarks and barricades rose, as unnecessary outbuildings were pulled down by rope and muscle. Scavenged weapons emplacements were erected so as to provide overlapping fields of fire.

The renegade Gland-hounds had been busy over the past months, securing the loyalty of half a dozen mutant clans and beastkin tribes. Now those creatures worked side by side with Igori’s followers to establish a worthy redoubt.

It was almost a shame it was all for naught.

The Gland-hounds who escorted him were young. They had likely been children when Igori’s packs had gone into exile. Now they were rangy killers who studied him even as he observed them. There were six of them, all armed to the teeth. They were tense. Ready to leap, if he gave them cause. Eager to do so, even. He found a certain amount of satisfaction in that. Killing Space Marines was what they had been bred for, after all.

The throne room sat at the end of a long corridor, which was mostly open to the elements. Ahead of him, two hairy beastkin forced the doors open, admitting him. As he passed beneath the archway, Arrian found himself wondering whose skulls were hanging from its peak. That they were legionaries’ skulls was obvious, given the service studs, contact nodes and general size. But they showed little sign of mutation or degradation, implying that they did not belong to warriors of the 12th. It was the sort of thing that would bother him for days, if he let it.

A skull is a skull is a skull, dog-brother, Briaeus growled. The rest of his dead brothers murmured in agreement. What matter the dead?

‘Do you include yourself in that statement?’ Arrian murmured.

Of course not, Briaeus snorted. While you live, we live.

‘When did you decide that?’ Arrian asked, somewhat nonplussed.

When you did, Briaeus said.

Arrian fell silent.

Briaeus had been talking more of late. So had the others. Once, they’d barely spoken to him at all.

Maybe we’ve forgiven you, Briaeus murmured.

‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ Arrian said. He could feel the eyes of the Gland-hounds on him, and knew they had been eavesdropping. They probably thought him mad. Which he was. He was not a fool. He understood that his mind was a minefield of traumas at best. Between the Nails in his skull, the Chief Apothecary’s surgeries and his own self-medication regimen, he was half-in, half-out of the world at the best of times. Still, one had to be a little mad, to survive in a place such as this.

The throne room was crowded. Word had obviously spread, and every pack-leader and mutant chieftain was in attendance. Torches stinking of shrieker dung burned in the corners, and mutant shamans swung braziers filled with some form of primitive incense as they blessed the path before him.

He could feel the tension on the air. He could smell it in their sweat and musk. For so many of the Gland-hounds, the Benefactor was little more than a story told by their parents. They had never seen him, or heard his words. For the mutants it was different. Faith was bred into them. As he approached the throne, many fell to their knees, calling out the name of their god.

Pater Mutatis.

Pater Mutatis.

Pater Mutatis.

Arrian wondered what Saqqara would have made of it. He found himself obscurely pleased that the Word Bearer was not with him. He brushed the thought aside as he reached the throne.

‘Hail, cousin,’ he said, genuflecting slightly. It never hurt to show a bit of respect. Especially in situations such as this.

Igori sat atop her throne, an ancient barbarian queen whom even death could not conquer. Her hair had grown out since he’d last seen her, and now fell about her shoulders like a spill of ice. Her bare flesh was marked by pale scars and faded tattoos, and the battle-gear she wore was battered, but clean. An aeldari shuriken pistol hung in its holster from the top of her throne, within easy reach.

At her feet crouched a trio of bestial mutants, obedience collars around their necks. They brayed in agitation as Arrian approached the throne. They rose, weapons in hand, and bared their fangs in warning. Igori twitched a hand, and the creatures sank back to their haunches.

‘Hello, cousin,’ she said.

‘Igori.’ Arrian made a show of looking around. ‘Have I come at an inopportune time?’

‘That depends entirely on why you’ve come.’ Igori leaned back in her throne. ‘Did he send you?’

Arrian paused. The question was deceptively simple. ‘Yes.’

Igori sighed and closed her eyes. Arrian felt the others stir, and heard a murmur run through their ranks.

‘What does he want?’ she asked.

‘The Omega Protocol has been enacted.’

The murmur was louder this time. Harsh and savage, like the growling of angry hounds.

Igori sat up. ‘Why?’

‘Things are… not going well at the moment,’ Arrian said, trying to keep his own misgivings out of his voice. ‘Quite badly, in fact.’

Defeatist, Briaeus murmured.

Arrian tapped his skull, silencing him. He met Igori’s gaze. ‘The xenos – the drukhari – come to make war on the Chief Apothecary and all of his creations. They have already killed many of your kind. They will kill more yet, unless you are removed from danger. The Chief Apothecary wishes you to be safe.’

‘What if we do not wish to be safe?’ Igori lifted her chin. ‘We are not slave-meat, but warriors born. What if we wish to stay? To defend this place from those who would defile it?’

Arrian looked around. ‘That is your prerogative. He will not force you to go. I will not force you to go. But the protocols have been enacted and your brothers and sisters are arriving even now through the webway. Omega Redoubt awaits.’

‘Will you be there?’

‘No.’ Arrian smiled. ‘It is not for us to see the promised land.’

‘You intend to stay,’ she said. She pushed herself to her feet. ‘No. No, that is not right. We serve him. We are his warriors – his blade. Why does he cast us aside?’

‘You would have to ask him, cousin,’ Arrian said. ‘But I will say this… Better to hide and thrive than to die for pride.’ He looked around. ‘Go, cousin. Run and live. As he asked you to do. Let the monsters devour themselves.’

He smiled again, more warmly this time.

‘Let us burn, unburdened by your screams.’ He bowed low. ‘I have delivered the message. I will go and allow you to think on it.’ He turned to go.

‘I would have died for him,’ Igori said softly.

Arrian paused. ‘He does not want you to die for him, cousin. He wants you to live. Whatever happens, whatever the ending of his story – he wants you to live.’

He looked around, at the sea of sharp faces – human, but oh so much more.

‘Remember that.’

The world had no name. It was one of the many crone worlds that littered the Eye. The detritus of a forgotten empire. The Consortium had claimed a number of them – insofar as they could be claimed – as supply caches and experimental facilities.

But this one was neither. Fabius had chosen it especially for its relative isolation. Even during the aeldari empire’s height, he suspected that it had been considered a backwater. He had only discovered it by accident, during his explorations of the webway. It was a world of bones and ruins, empty even of anything that might attract the basest of scavengers. Perfect for his purposes, in other words.

Butcher-Bird circled the landing zone – a cratered structure, reinforced and patrolled by combat-servitors of Fabius’ own design. Through the hull-sensors, he watched as they scuttled into view – arachnid automatons, their fleshy clone faces hidden within armoured hoods. Their twin-linked heavy stubbers cycled back and forth, tracking the vessel as it touched down. Fabius sent a mental pulse to the servitors as his armour automatically synched with their cogitator systems. The automatons lowered their weapons and retreated back into the ruins and out of sight.

Another warning light flashed in the compartment as the hatch opened. Fabius cut the sensor-feed and stood. Dust scraped across the visor of his helmet as he strode down Butcher-Bird’s boarding ramp.

‘I do not like this place,’ Saqqara muttered, as he and Savona followed.

‘You say that every time,’ Savona said.

‘That makes it no less true.’

‘Quiet, please,’ Fabius said. ‘I have enough on my mind without having to mediate your squabbling.’ His armour’s modified sensor-net unfolded as he walked. It stretched to encompass his surroundings, painting a three-dimensional schematic of the city across his helmet display. He compared it to previous scans, noting the changes with interest. ‘Savona – what do you notice?’

‘The stability of the surrounding structures has been badly compromised since our last visit,’ Savona said, after a moment. ‘And my armour’s auto-senses are having trouble determining the extent of the damage.’

‘That is because it is not damage. It is growth. New growth. Wild and strange.’

Fabius struck a crumbling wall with Torment. The ancient stone disintegrated, revealing an opalescent surface beneath. Wraithbone. The entire ruin was permeated with it, thanks to him.

‘Imagine what it will look like in a century.’

‘I’d rather not. It’s going to hollow out this husk of a world and turn it into something else,’ she said. ‘Reminds me a bit of Solemnace.’ She peered at Fabius. ‘Are you making your own planet, then?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. That would take millennia. And require more attention than I am prepared to give it. No, I have other plans for this place.’

‘And those are?’

‘Best kept to myself for the moment, I think. Come. This way.’ His armour detected the sub-sonic pulse of the garden’s caretakers, hard at work. Their efforts on his behalf were one of the reasons he allowed them to stay. He suspected that the garden would not have flourished as it had in their absence.

The wraithbone took the form of something very much like twisted mangrove forest, rising from a communal root-bed. Tangles of pearly white substance carpeted the ground and stretched upwards, sparsely at first but more thickly the farther into the ruins they pressed. At twenty metres from the landing zone, it had become so tangled that they were forced to move single file along the narrow paths that had once been wide thoroughfares.

The wraithbone sheathed every structure and crept in thick, glistening strands between them. There were shapes within it, half-formed faces or semi-visible figures. Fabius was uncertain as to whether these were natural undulations or the work of the caretakers. The shapes seemed to move as he drew close, twisting away or lunging forward. A trick of the light, perhaps, or something else.

Small forms darted through the branches above them. They were pallid, simian creatures – the void-adapted descendants of slaves taken during the Legion Wars. Singularly resistant to the audial miasma given off by their masters, their numbers had swelled with the garden, from a few hundred to untold thousands. Tribes of them now dwelled in the high canopies, and their shrill calls echoed down like rain. They shaped the pliable psychoplastics of the garden, encouraging the wraithbone to grow and spread. They subsisted on it as well, these days, though he wasn’t entirely certain how that could be possible, given that wraithbone was in essence solidified warp energy. Raw entropy given substance.

At first, he’d thought to use it as the aeldari did – simply to ease the mental transference process between cloned bodies. But over time he’d discovered other uses. So he had let it grow wild, first aboard his ship, the Vesalius, then later, here. As a result, it had become something greater than he could have imagined.

Fabius paused as his armour’s sensors registered a sudden audial spike. The air began to thrash like a maddened beast as wave after wave of feedback washed forward and broke over them, growing louder with every passing moment. The sonic bafflers built into his helm mitigated the worst of the noise, and he was thankful he’d had the foresight to keep it on.

‘I hate this part,’ Savona growled. She clutched at her head. ‘Like nails in my skull.’ She grimaced. ‘I wonder if this is how Arrian feels.’

‘It would explain his personality,’ Saqqara muttered through gritted teeth. His flasks rattled against his armour, and he clutched at them protectively. ‘Must they do this every time?’ he said, glaring at Fabius. ‘Can you not command them to stop?’

‘And why would I do that?’ Fabius asked, boosting the volume of his reply in order to compensate for the growing noise. ‘They are doing even as I intended. Now be silent.’

The wraithbone ahead of them began to bulge and run like melted wax. The trees seemed to lean away from the disturbance. The wraithbone split apart, forming an archway. From beneath it, several of the garden’s caretakers stepped to meet them.

The Kakophoni were things of grotesque beauty. Their battleplate had warped itself into a madman’s ideal, more resembling the carapace of an insect than functional armour. Spiky extrusions lined the garishly hued facets, twitching against the air. Their armour seemed to move separately from its wearers, flexing and creaking in ways it was not meant to. The sound of it was almost painful.

Strange carvings decorated their shoulder-plates and chest-pieces, and unnatural growths spilled out from cracks and gaps in the armour, growing over the ceramite in fleshy folds. Tangles of power cables and stimm-pumps hung like barbaric tabards, and vox-relays sputtered and sparked from atop helms or within hollows secreted between the plates. There was no uniformity to them – each was a monstrosity unto himself.

‘Welcome, lieutenant commander,’ one of them rasped hoarsely. ‘It has been too long since last you visited the garden.’

Fabius looked around. ‘It seems no worse for my absence. All thanks to you, Ramos.’

Ramos was larger than his fellows. Sonic emitters studded his crudely reinforced armour, and a glistening, cancerous growth spilled across his chest and limbs, pulsing in time to the slightest sound. Broadcast amplifiers encircled the top of his helm like a humming crown, and the grille resembled the jaws of a wild beast. His visor had shattered long ago, exposing dark, bloodshot eyes. Eyes now fixed on Fabius.

‘What we have done, we have done out of gratitude,’ he said. ‘When we served the Radiant, our choir fed on its own feedback. With you, we have learned new songs, new melodies. We have learned new pleasures. For that, you have our loyalty.’

‘And I am honoured by it,’ Fabius said. He bowed slightly. ‘I have come to see Key.’

‘It knows. It asked that we escort you.’

Fabius paused. ‘It spoke?’

‘After a fashion.’ Ramos and the other Noise Marines turned. ‘Come. Stay close. Straying from the path is dangerous, especially this close to the inner groves.’

Fabius didn’t argue. A strange ecosystem had begun to coalesce within the garden. Warp predators and other etheric beasts prowled the depths. He did not know where they’d first emerged from, but they were here now and there seemed to be more of them every century. Occasionally, Ramos and the other Kakophoni would hunt the creatures, despatching as many as they could in an orgy of bloodshed lasting several cycles. But they never managed to fully cleanse the infestation. It was possible that was intentional. He had never asked.

Savona leaned towards him. ‘One day they’re going to lead us down the wrong path and we’re never going to come out,’ she muttered.

Saqqara laughed bitterly. ‘We won’t. He will. One way or another.’

‘Calm yourselves,’ Fabius said. ‘Are you children, to be frightened of the wild wood? Or are you legionaries?’ He glanced at Saqqara. ‘What do your pets whisper to you?’

Saqqara tapped one of the flasks. ‘This place is noisy to them. Full of spirits, not all of which are friendly. You should allow me to let them loose – they could do with a hunt.’

‘No. This place is home to enough monsters without adding those ravenous little falsehoods to the mix. Keep them contained.’

Fabius’ armour chimed, and he cast his sensor-net wide. Sub-sonic white spots and clumps of distortion danced across his cartographic display, marking the position of other Noise Marines. Once, there had only been twenty or so of them. Now, it seemed there were at least four times that many, scattered throughout the ever-expanding garden.

He caught Ramos’ attention. ‘There are more of you here than there were last time.’

Ramos made a contented sound. ‘Our song calls to those of the first choir. They come to listen, at first, and then to join. We welcome them.’ He glanced at Fabius. ‘The garden welcomes them.’

‘How many of you are there?’

Ramos shrugged. ‘A hundred, maybe more.’

Saqqara grunted. ‘That’s a veritable army in its own right.’

‘Not an army,’ Ramos said, sounding insulted. ‘A choir.’ He slowed and pointed. ‘We have arrived. See – it waits for us. As I said.’

Fabius looked up.

The creature known as Key perched in the branches above. When Fabius stepped forward, it leapt down gracefully to meet him.

Key had been an aeldari, once. A Corsair of the Sunblitz Brotherhood. Now it was something else. Though it still resembled the being it had once been, wraithbone permeated its slim form, encouraged by Fabius’ ministrations over the years. Pale thorns studded its bare limbs, and a single rough antler curled from the side of its skull and curved back over its head. Thick barnacles of wraithbone occupied its eye sockets, and spread thin filaments through the flesh of its cheeks and across the bridge of its nose. Beneath the loose robes it wore, psychoplastic cilia twitched.

As it moved towards him, the wraithbone around it responded in kind – swelling or diminishing seemingly at random. Its features were slack, without expression or personality. It had no mind as such, for its cerebrum had been infested with wraithbone. It was now little more than a living psychic resonator. A tool of flesh, devised to open and close the webway portcullises under his control.

‘Hello, Key.’ Fabius took the aeldari’s hands in his own. ‘You look well.’

He did not expect an answer. It never did. Still, he spoke to it. It was an old, accepted wisdom that things grew better when one spoke to them. Key stroked his face, and opened its mouth in a parody of speech. Then it looked past him, towards Saqqara. Its expression became animated as it swayed towards the Word Bearer.

Fabius watched in bemusement as Saqqara stoically endured the creature’s fluttering caresses. For reasons that escaped him, Key was fascinated by the diabolist. Saqqara, for his part, seemed only mildly disgusted. It was progress, of sorts.

‘It seems healthy,’ Fabius said.

Ramos grunted. ‘It does not eat, it does not sleep. It is a vessel for terrible things.’ He shrugged. ‘It is healthy enough.’ He looked at Fabius. ‘Do you require its services? It has been agitated of late. That usually means you’re planning to use it.’

‘No. I merely came to check on its status. Take me to the grove.’

‘Come.’ Ramos turned and lumbered away. Fabius signalled for Savona and Saqqara to stay where they were, and followed. As he strode in the Noise Marine’s wake, the trees became more closely entwined, merging into a pale cathedral nave. They stretched upwards and bent towards one another, strangling the natural light and replacing it with a soft radiance. Wisps of pollen-light danced on the air, summoning distorted shadows. The wraithbone whispered in a familiar voice – or voices.

Fabius ignored them, for they were his own. They were his memories, his dreams, his forgotten desires, merging in a sibilant rustling. He looked up. Soft blisters full of murky serum clung to the branches above, and in each, a foetal shape floated. Strange fruit grew here, in the deepest grove of the garden.

‘Status,’ he asked softly.

Ramos followed his gaze. ‘They grow, as the garden grows. Some are restless, others sleep the sleep of the innocent.’

‘Good. That is as it should be.’ He ran his fingers over the closest tree. The tactile sensors built into his armour measured the flow of synaptic impulses passing through the wraithbone and into the slumbering foetuses. He felt a familiar itch at the base of his skull. The wraithbone he had implanted in his cerebrum was resonating with that around him, and the information stored in his cortical data-nodes was uploading to the grove.

He closed his eyes as the hum of voices grew louder and the itch became an ache and finally a stabbing pain. He cut the connection just before it became unbearable. It was best to regulate the flow of information. To drip-feed the as-yet-unformed minds, so that they might process it in their own ways.

‘These are different to the others,’ Ramos said.

‘Yes. A new breed for a new millennium.’

‘Will you haunt them, as you haunt the flesh you wear now?’

Fabius smiled. ‘No. No, when this flesh finally crumbles, I will crumble with it.’ He looked down at himself and smoothed a non-existent wrinkle in his coat. ‘My clones will stride forth unencumbered by my ghost. They will have my knowledge, but nothing else.’ He shrugged. ‘As inheritances go, they could do worse.’

‘You are dying,’ Ramos said, after a moment.

‘I am always dying.’

‘This is different. I can taste the death-song of your cells as they flare out one by one.’ Ramos looked at him. ‘Would you like to know what it sounds like? I can recreate it, if you wish.’ He lifted his hand, and Fabius saw an amplifier embedded in his palm. It throbbed, and a tinny sound, like the sigh of a small animal, rose from it.

‘No. My thanks, but no.’

Ramos closed his hand and lowered it. ‘I am correct, though. Your dying is different this time. There is an unusual weight to it.’

Fabius peered at him. ‘You are unusually perceptive, Ramos.’

Ramos gestured. ‘It is the garden. It teaches us, even as we teach it.’

‘So you have said before.’

‘So I will say again.’ Ramos tapped the side of his head. ‘I can hear the song of your soul in these trees, lieutenant commander. Why?’

Fabius was silent for a moment. ‘I am coming to the end of my story. Or at least this part of it. I have cheated death for many centuries, but now…’ He trailed off.

‘And when you are gone?’

‘I will continue. But it will not be me. Not as I am. And perhaps that is for the best.’ Fabius let out a slow breath. ‘I will not cast my shadow over my children’s future. I will not make the same mistakes again.’

‘I wondered why you had not moved against her.’

Fabius stiffened. ‘Who?’

‘Your pet. The Gland-child.’ Ramos’ bloodshot eyes narrowed shrewdly. ‘Once, you would have purged your treacherous creations root and branch. But now… you show mercy.’

‘Not mercy. Understanding.’ Fabius frowned. ‘Igori made her choice. And it was the only choice she could have made. I bear her no ill will for that.’

‘Your clones might.’

‘A possibility. As I said, she made her choice. And I have made mine.’

Ramos nodded approvingly. ‘As we have made ours. So long as this garden exists, you have our loyalty.’ He touched one of the trees, and cilia of wraithbone wrapped gently about his gauntlet.

Fabius looked at him in puzzlement. ‘As reassuring as I find that declaration, I am curious as to the wording. Do you know something I don’t?’

‘There are… whispers. Snatches of voices, speaking of things we do not understand. Like the sound of a storm brewing in the distance, but coming closer with every passing moment.’

‘And what do these whispers say?’

‘Listen for yourself.’ Ramos held out his hand, and a flurry of sound emerged from the mouth-like vox-grilles built into his vambrace. Most of it was gibberish – sound and fury, signifying nothing. But amidst the noise was something that might have been singing. Such a song as he had only heard once before, though he could not recall where.

‘What is it?’

Ramos’ eyes were alight with joy. ‘The ur-song. The Shattersong. Something sings it in the depths of time, in moments yet to come. Do you recognise the voice?’

Fabius shook his head. His mouth was suddenly dry and his hearts thudded in his chest. He felt something that might have been a prickle of fear at the base of his spine. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘I do not know it.’

‘But you do, brother.’ Ramos leaned close. ‘For it is yours.’

Fabius turned away, stomach churning. He closed his eyes. ‘I am… going on a pilgrimage. Do you understand?’

‘Yes. This part of the song has been a long time coming.’ Ramos stepped back. ‘Is that why you came? To tell us goodbye?’

‘No. I require something from you.’

Ramos inclined his head. ‘We owe you much, Clonelord. More than we can repay in this lifetime. That is why we are content to stand beside you, even as the edge of the abyss crumbles beneath us.’ His amplifiers gave a soft whine. ‘The Kakophoni are at your service. Speak – and we shall act.’

Fabius looked at him. Ramos was not a friend – not exactly. Nor was he a servant. At best, they were fellow travellers. And yet, the Kakophoni were more than that. They were among his first creations, devised before Fulgrim had started down the crooked path that had led them all into damnation.

‘Half of your number is to join me on Belial IV. The others are to stay with Key and the garden. Protect it, if the worst should occur.’

‘You think that it might?’

‘I do not know. But I must act accordingly.’

Ramos made to reply but paused. ‘Something is coming.’

Fabius looked around. ‘What?’

‘Something is watching us. Can you feel it?’ Ramos flexed his hands, filling the air with distortion. ‘Witchery. It tastes of witchery.’

‘Well. This is an event for the ages.’

The voice filled the grove like sour thunder. Fabius spun, teeth bared. Ramos growled and lifted his hands. A hulking figure stood looking up at the trees, clad in the night-black Terminator armour that had become as much a symbol as the claw he wielded. Said claw shimmered slightly as he gestured with it.

‘Ezekyle,’ Fabius said.

‘Fabius,’ Abaddon replied. He turned. His face was much as Fabius remembered – bleached of colour and life. A waxen mask, stretched over some black shard of night.

‘How did you get a holo-projection all this way?’ Fabius said.

Abaddon’s mouth was an ugly line. ‘A dozen of my best witches are working very hard to ensure that we can have this talk. This place is quite well shielded from prying eyes.’

Fabius snorted. ‘Sorcery? Have you lost yourself to superstition then, Ezekyle?’

‘Is that what you call it? Precise terminology was never among my skills.’

‘No. Your talents always ran to the bloodier end of the spectrum, as I recall.’ Fabius studied the sorcerous image of the man who’d nearly killed him.

‘The look on your face when I butchered that meat-puppet of yours is a memory I still cherish.’ He shook his head. ‘I was surprised when I received your gift. It was… unexpected, given all that has passed between us.’

‘Times change.’

‘We don’t.’ Abaddon looked at him. ‘That is our strength, and our weakness.’

‘More one than the other, I think.’

‘Perhaps.’ Abaddon was silent for a moment. The air seemed to curdle around him. The trees leaned away, and their whispers had fallen deathly silent. The grove seemed to be holding its breath. ‘Well?’ he said finally.

‘Well what?’

‘Aren’t you going to kneel?’

Fabius stared at him. ‘I do not beg. I will not kneel.’

‘No, I didn’t think you would,’ he replied. ‘I’d heard you’d become little more than a ghost haunting a selection of clone carcasses. I gave it little credence at the time, but looking at you now… well, it seems the rumours were true.’ He gestured with the claw. ‘This grove is a… cancer. I would be doing the universe a favour if I excised it – and you.’

‘But you won’t, will you?’

‘No.’

Fabius bit back a surge of anger as he met Abaddon’s cold gaze. He wanted nothing more than to smash Torment into the warmaster’s face, and disrupt that spiteful tranquillity once and for all. To pay him back in kind for all that he’d done. But he strangled his anger. Melusine had told him what he must do. And for the good of all that he had built, he would do it.

‘You are useful,’ Abaddon continued. ‘And I never throw away useful things without cause. Without your skills it is entirely likely that we would not have recovered from the Legion Wars. That I have an army is thanks in part to you.’ He gestured to the ground. ‘Kneel, Fabius, and I will help you.’

Fabius hesitated. ‘Does Skalagrim still live?’

‘Does it matter?’ Abaddon did not smile. ‘Kneel, Clonelord. Kneel, Manflayer.’

‘Where is Pleasure’s Pilgrim?’ Fabius asked, hoping to delay the moment for as long as possible. From the look on his face, Abaddon knew exactly what he was doing.

The warmaster shook his head. ‘If only you could see what the gods have in store for you, Fabius. It might even make a soul as black and as tough as yours quiver. It might be enough to make you listen…’

‘Don’t pretend you know anything about my fate, Ezekyle. Whatever it is that whispers to you in the night is no more a god than I am, and even less a seer.’

Abaddon was silent for a moment. ‘The gods speak to me, Fabius, whether you believe it or not. They tell me things. They promise me things. I ignore them, save when it suits me to listen.’ He looked at Fabius. ‘We are more alike than you think. And that is why I tell you this – do not accept whatever bargain they offer to you. Walk unflinching into the fires of your extermination, even as our brothers did at Isstvan. Choose freedom.’

Fabius stared at him. ‘And what of my children? What of my legacy?’

‘It will die with you,’ Abaddon said bluntly. ‘If the xenos don’t kill them, I will. But better death than whatever the gods have planned for you.’

‘Your consideration touches me.’

‘It is not consideration, Fabius, it is pity. I know your fate, and it is one you well deserve, though even I would not wish it on you.’ Abaddon gestured sharply. ‘But I know you and I know that you won’t listen. Surrender isn’t in you. You’re a survivor. When the galaxy burns you will be left sitting in the ashes, still playing the fool for the gods – or whatever comes after. So, I will tell you what you wish to know, because the gods have asked it of me and because you and they deserve each other.’

‘Enough prevarication, Ezekyle,’ Fabius said. ‘You have wasted enough of my time. Tell me what I want to know so that we can be done with this farce.’

Abaddon seemed to swell and a subtle change came over his features – as if something else were looking out through the other man’s eyes. Ezekyle Abaddon was not the man he had been, all those many centuries ago. He was not simply some barbarian warlord or scrambling would-be potentate.

Maybe he never had been.

‘What you seek is in the wilderness of the Eye,’ Abaddon said in a voice as deep as thunder. ‘Where even daemons fear to tread. Worlds of pristine madness – primal and hungry.’ He raised his talon and sketched a sigil on the air.

Fabius flinched back as the sigil leapt from the confines of the projection and shot towards him. He felt an impact somewhere above his eyes and cried out. Torment fell from his grasp and he sank to one knee, clutching at his head. Pain blazed through him, and for a moment he feared that his skull would burst.

In his mind’s eye, he saw a world, hanging in the void. A small world, as such things were judged. A speck among the stars.

Abaddon’s voice hammered at him. ‘You will find Pleasure’s Pilgrim there. He will lead you to Fulgrim’s bower.’

‘What? Who is…’

‘You knew him as Narvo Quin.’

Fabius forced his eyes open and met Abaddon’s pitiless, black gaze. ‘Impossible.’

Abaddon smiled, teeth sharp and dangerous.

‘This is the Eye of Terror, Fabius. Impossible is just a state of mind.’

Chapter Seventeen

Pilgrim

Beasts scattered as the gunship touched down, sending up a cloud of superheated snow. Butcher-Bird shrilled an electronic challenge and its autocannons thundered, pulping any creature too slow to vacate the landing zone. The air stank of ozone and blood as Fabius and the others descended the ramp. He looked down at one of the mangled corpses. Not a daemon, but an animal of some sort.

‘The lions of Caliban,’ Bellephus grunted. He gestured, and his men fanned out, taking up positions around the gunship.

Fabius glanced at him. ‘What?’

‘Caliban. I heard there were great beasts there, once upon a time. Warp-tainted monsters that had once been animals.’ Bellephus knelt and fished a fang from the gory mass.

Fabius grunted. Most daemon worlds didn’t have anything remotely resembling a natural cycle. Animals were often little more than aggressive figments, much like the lands they inhabited. But these seemed real enough, however twisted.

‘Not going to take samples?’ Savona asked.

‘I’m not here for samples.’

‘I still say Narvo Quin is dead,’ Bellephus said.

‘He did indeed die,’ Fabius said. ‘Then I brought him back. Even as I brought back Eidolon and a thousand others in the centuries since. Eidolon was the first. The prototype. With Quin, I refined the process.’

‘I hope he’s grateful,’ Savona said, studying the horizon.

‘The last we spoke, he was not.’

She laughed. ‘You make enemies the way a gambler incurs debts, old man.’

Fabius ignored her and strode across the pristine snows. Trees surrounded the landing zone – tall, dark pines. Their trunks bled black sap that stretched through the snow like veins. In the distance, tall peaks cut the pale clouds like fangs.

The planet was nothing but mountains and forests. The roots of the hills were set in a black sea full of dark ice floes that crashed and crunched, sending up a rumble like distant thunder. Scans had shown life of some sort in the sea, but Fabius had little interest in determining what kind. There were cities as well, or the ruins of such, floating above the tallest peaks, chained to the summits by great brass links. The chains were overgrown and verdant, each immense link sporting a small forest of its own.

Part of him longed to study the ruins, to see what sort of people might once have called this place home. But he had more important matters to attend to. He walked a short distance from the gunship and activated his armour’s vox.

‘Narvo Quin,’ he called out. His vox-amplified voice boomed across the windswept peaks. ‘I know you are here, Quin. My ship detected your biometric signature in this area. Come out. I wish to speak as brothers.’

It was silent, save for the wind. Fabius waited impatiently, wondering if he’d made an error. Biometric readings could be faked, after all. He’d done it himself, more than once. Overhead, a flock of suns began their journey across the sky.

‘Fabius,’ Savona said, as she joined him. ‘There. Look.’

Something – someone – stood at the edge of the clearing. They started forward, moving warily across the snow.

‘Is it him?’ Savona asked.

Fabius nodded. ‘Yes, I’d know that build anywhere. And that face.’

The legionary was stocky and shorter than average. The Emperor’s Children tended to follow the Vitruvian pattern – tall and well proportioned. This one was built more like a gun turret. He wore no battleplate, only heavy furs that shimmered eerily in the strange light of the falling suns. But the power axe he clutched in one hand looked well cared for. The blade crackled with a pallid light as its wielder gestured.

‘You should leave.’

‘Is that any way to talk to an old comrade in arms?’ Fabius said, as he removed his helm. ‘Or maybe your isolation has caused your manners to degrade.’ Up-close, Narvo Quin looked much as Fabius recalled. Plain, rather than handsome, with a face like a puzzle made of scars, and eyes that were as flat and sharp as blades.

‘It is because we are old comrades that I give you the chance, Spider.’

‘Please refrain from using that epithet, Narvo. I do not care for it.’

‘And I do not care to be disturbed in my meditations. Why are you here?’

‘To talk.’

‘So talk.’

Fabius looked around. ‘Here? In the open?’

Quin rested his axe in the crook of his arm. ‘No one is listening, Fabius. Save maybe the mountains themselves.’ He glanced at Savona. ‘You wear the heraldry of the Third.’

‘I do,’ she said.

Quin’s weather-beaten features split in a grin. ‘Who did you take it from?’

‘I can’t recall his name.’

‘Must not have been very important, then. Still, a worthy feat for a mortal. The Dark Prince has set his hand on your shoulder.’ Quin turned back to Fabius. ‘Is she your bodyguard, Fabius?’

‘For the moment.’

‘For your sake, I hope she is competent. Come. Follow me, if you wish to talk.’ He turned and trudged into the trees.

Fabius glanced back at Bellephus. ‘You and the others stay with Butcher-Bird. Savona – attend me.’

As they followed Quin into the trees, Savona looked at him. ‘If you continue to insult me, I might lose my temper.’

‘And how have I insulted you this time?’

‘They are my men, not yours,’ Savona said.

Fabius didn’t look at her. ‘Because I gave them to you. All that you have is because of me, Savona. Do not forget that.’

‘Trust me – it is ever foremost in my mind.’

Fabius blinked. ‘Was that a threat?’

‘Yes.’

Fabius laughed. ‘Good. I was worried that you were losing your edge.’ He gave her a thin smile. ‘Rest assured, your debt to me will soon be paid – one way or another.’

‘You sound remarkably cheerful for a man facing destruction.’

‘I see no profit in despair.’ Fabius looked around. ‘The mountain air must agree with me. As daemon worlds go, I’ve seen less pleasant. It almost reminds me of home.’

‘This place looks nothing like Belial IV.’

‘I meant my home. My birthplace.’ Fabius inhaled deeply. ‘I was born in the mountains of Terra.’

‘Your family were goatherds, I expect.’

Fabius snorted. ‘Aristocrats, actually. An ancient line. Storied and honourable.’

‘Seems rather unfair that it ends with you.’

Fabius looked at her. ‘Yes. I have often thought so, myself.’ He shook his head. ‘Then, all things have their ending. Even stars die. Death is healthy. To live overlong is to see the foundations of one’s existence crumble. Better oblivion than that.’

‘Then why not let the drukhari kill you?’

‘Because I have my pride. My death will be of my choosing, not someone else’s.’

The forest rose wild around them. The ground was uneven at best. Crags of rock jutted out at awkward points, and toppled trees were a common sight. Birds of some unidentifiable species fluttered among the branches, and packs of lean, jackal-like hunters slunk at the edges of Fabius’ perceptions, calling to one another in curious, lilting voices that sounded like children singing. Fabius cleared his throat.

Quin glanced back at him. ‘What?’

‘Why here?’

Quin turned back to the path. ‘Why not here?’

‘That answers that,’ Savona murmured. She looked up and stopped. ‘Is that… a cabin?’ Fabius followed her gaze.

The structure before them did indeed resemble a cabin – a square structure, built into the slope of the cliff, back among the trees. It was made from rough-hewn timbers, and the roof was covered in sod and snow. A chimney rose from the highest point of the roof, and Fabius could smell woodsmoke on the wind.

‘Yes. I built it myself.’ Quin whistled sharply. Several shaggy, quadrupedal shapes burst from the undergrowth and arrowed towards them. The hounds were malformed things, bristling with calcified growths and scaly flesh. They whimpered like infants as they surrounded Quin, lapping at his hands and face with forked tongues.

‘It’s not very palatial,’ Savona said.

‘I wanted a home, not a palace.’

‘It reminds me of the hunting lodges my family owned when I was a boy,’ Fabius said. ‘We had hounds as well. Ugly brutes.’ He sank to one knee and clucked his tongue. One of the hounds broke away from the pack and trotted warily towards him. Its breath was rancid as it snuffled at his extended hand, and its drool ate away at the paint on his gauntlet. Quin snapped his fingers and the beast raced to him. Fabius stood. ‘Is that a garden?’

‘Of sorts. The soil here is… tricky.’ Quin gestured to the rawhide curtain that served as a door. ‘Come inside. It’ll begin snowing soon. It’s less pleasant than you might imagine.’

Inside the cabin, it was warm. It had been built for a legionary’s height and mass, with reinforced floors and a high ceiling. Furred hides had been nailed to the walls, and crude shelves held books and scrolls of varying ages. Fabius studied the contents of the closest shelf.

‘I don’t recall you being much of a scholar, Narvo.’

‘One learns to appreciate certain things in solitude.’ Quin went to the fireplace and began to feed the low flame flickering there from a basket. ‘Sit, if you like.’

‘There are no chairs,’ Savona said.

‘I find the floor to be more than adequate.’ Quin didn’t look at them.

Fabius spied the remains of a set of Tartaros-pattern Terminator armour assembled and displayed upon a makeshift arming frame made from bone and wood. It had seen better centuries, and he wondered if it still functioned in any capacity. Quin followed his gaze.

‘It still works,’ he said. ‘But I no longer wear it. I have no reason to.’

‘Would you like one?’

Quin looked back at the fire. ‘Maybe you should tell me why you are here.’

‘Veteran-Tesserius Quin,’ Fabius said formally. ‘I have come a long way to find you. As your lieutenant commander, I ask that–’

Quin threw back his head and laughed. ‘Lieutenant commander? You?’

Fabius paused. ‘Yes. In the absence of others, I was the sole remaining officer of rank. Needs must, and all that.’

‘And who decided there was a need?’

‘We were beset on all sides. Someone had to take command.’

‘And you left your web out of the goodness of your hearts, is that it?’ Quin shook his head. ‘Spider, you have never been one for command.’

‘Don’t call me that.’

Quin looked at him. ‘My apologies, brother. I forgot.’

‘No. You didn’t. You were trying to remind me of my place. The way all of my brothers seem obligated to do. Spider, spider, spider. As if whatever webs I wove were solely for my benefit.’ Fabius turned away. ‘Always the same. It was by my blood and sweat that the Third even exists, and yet I am a figure of eternal derision. A clown, dancing for your amusement.’

‘Don’t play the injured innocent with me, Fabius. We were never friends. And I never liked you.’ Quin pointed an accusing finger. ‘I know full well what you did to save us. Even as I know that the cost of that solution outweighed the gain.’

Fabius hesitated. ‘That is debatable. Anything I did, I did out of necessity.’

‘The Illuminator revealed it to me, Fabius. He showed me how you killed our brothers and ground their bones for fertiliser. You regrew the Legion in tainted soil. Treachery was seeded in us early, by your hand. Before the Laer, before Horus… before any of it. We were all damned, unknowing, by your choice.’

‘And not a word of thanks. I took that burden willingly and gladly…’

‘You took it to save yourself.’ Quin lifted his axe. ‘Your first concern has always been your own skin, Fabius. You never had brothers or friends. Even Fulgrim was nothing to you but a collection of samples.’

‘Is that what he said?’

It was Quin’s turn to pause. ‘No. No, he loves you. Even now.’

‘Then it is for that love that I must see him.’ Fabius paused. ‘I need his help. I need your help. Otherwise all that I have worked for will have been in vain.’

Quin was silent for a time. ‘Why come to me?’

‘You are the only one who knows where Fulgrim sleeps.’

‘Sleeps? Is that what they’re saying?’

Fabius paused, considering the implication. ‘You mean he doesn’t?’

Quin shook his head in amusement. ‘He is not a king in some old Europan fairy tale. He is not waiting for us to prove our worth. He was simply bored of us.’

‘You spoke with him.’

‘Eventually. He was… much changed.’

‘So I recall. In Canticle City. He–’

‘No,’ Quin interrupted. ‘Worse than that. The less time he spent among us, the less of him there was. Instead, there was something else. Something…’ He frowned. ‘I don’t know how to explain it.’

‘He is one with the Dark Prince,’ Savona said softly. ‘His thoughts are Slaanesh’s thoughts. His deeds, Slaanesh’s deeds. He is a sliver of a god, wearing a man’s face.’

Quin nodded. ‘Yes. As good a description as any.’

‘What did he say?’ Fabius asked, despite himself.

‘Nothing of interest to you.’

Fabius frowned at this. ‘Could you find this place again?’

Quin nodded. ‘I could. Easily. Why should I?’

‘I told you – I need your aid.’

‘That doesn’t answer my question, Fabius.’

‘For the brotherhood we once shared. We were both legionaries.’

Quin laughed again. ‘You were never any sort of soldier, Fabius.’

‘I never wished to be.’ Fabius studied his hands, sheathed in purple ceramite. ‘It was not the fate I would have chosen, had I any choice in the matter.’ He looked at Quin. ‘I suspect you never wanted to be anything else, Narvo.’

Quin shrugged. ‘My family bred soldiers. It is who we are. Or were.’

‘What happened to them? Afterwards, I mean. After we fled.’

‘They died.’

Fabius smiled. ‘Yes, I expect they did. I’m told there were quite a few purges in the ugly days after Horus fell. Those who supported him paid in blood. Victory is rarely neat or pretty. Then, we know that from experience.’

‘Yes. Do you remember Abdle Comendius?’ he asked.

‘Vaguely.’

‘He was one of your students. One of the first new Apothecaries you trained, after Fulgrim returned to us. Chemosian.’

‘What about him?’

‘I killed him. In the Precentor’s Palace, on Isstvan III.’

Fabius nodded. ‘Ah. One of the unlucky few.’

‘Or lucky, depending.’ Quin stoked the fire. ‘I think they were the last of us who were truly certain of their place in the galaxy. After the palace – after all the Isstvans and treacheries, we lost our way.’

‘Oh, we lost it well before that, Narvo. We lost it even before we stumbled upon the Laer temple and Fulgrim decided to keep his damnable souvenir.’

Narvo stared into the fire. ‘I killed over two dozen of our brothers, at Fulgrim’s command. I slew them with joy in my heart, for at last, I had his eye. My ambition knew no limits. And it killed me, in the end.’

‘Ambition was ever our disease. To be better – stronger – the elite of the elite.’

Quin picked up his axe. ‘I reforged this axe myself, after you remade me. Sometimes I wonder if it is the same axe that Fulgrim gifted me. Sometimes I wonder if I am the same man.’

‘You are not.’ Fabius shook his head. ‘You are more thoughtful. More considered. The Narvo Quin who was at Byzas was a brutal tactician, with little patience and less wisdom. A blunt object. The one I pieced together after Gabriel Santar dissected him at Isstvan V was someone else entirely.’ He smiled. ‘Like the Phoenix, you were reborn. We are a Legion of the reborn, always reinventing ourselves.’

‘Pretty words, Fabius.’ Quin set his axe aside. ‘Pretty words hide ugly truths. We reinvent, because we have no purpose. So we seek meaning in change. In fire and rebirth. In endless purification. But there is no meaning to be had in change for its own sake.’ He rose to his feet. ‘I will not take you. Not for brotherhood. We left that in the dust long ago.’ He paused, as if remembering something. ‘Would either of you care to share my repast?’

‘Food?’ Savona asked, looking at Fabius.

‘Of sorts.’ Quin took several wooden goblets down and pulled a knife from his furs. He slit the flesh of his forearm and allowed his blood to fill each goblet in turn. ‘I find I need little in the way of sustenance.’

Fabius was not so easily placated. ‘I must speak to him.’

‘Then find him yourself. That is what I did. And as you never grew tired of reminding me, you were the smartest of us all.’ He handed Savona a goblet. She took it and lapped politely at the blood. Fabius ignored the goblet Quin offered to him and stood.

‘This has been a waste of time. Come, Savona, it is time we left.’

‘I wouldn’t,’ Quin said. ‘When night falls, this planet wakes up. There are things out there that would swallow a fully armoured Space Marine and not think twice.’

‘Speaking from experience?’ Savona asked.

Quin glanced at the battered armour in the corner. ‘Painful experience, yes.’ He stood. ‘I wish to be alone. You may enjoy the fire, or wander into the dark, as it pleases you. I expect you will leave in the morning.’

Fabius watched Quin climb the rough-hewn steps and then turned back to the fire.

‘What now?’ Savona asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Fabius said. ‘I must think.’

Quin stepped out onto the roof of the cabin and closed his eyes as the wind sliced through him. The cold was like a lover, and he relished its touch. Out in the dark, something howled. A chorus of wails erupted. The hunt was on.

Far in the distance, he heard the staccato thunder of boltguns and wondered if he should have warned Fabius about the wildlife sooner. He turned north and watched as something as large as a mountain trudged eastwards. The traveller loosed a bellow that sounded like the grinding of tectonic plates, and Quin felt it in the pit of his stomach.

‘Paradise,’ he murmured. A simple world, for a simple man. A world of kill or be killed. Pleasure was where you found it, and he had found it here.

He glanced down at the stone roof. He could hear the murmur of his guests as they spoke in low tones. The Spider would be weaving new webs. There was something admirable in Fabius’ persistence – about his dogged refusal to bow to inevitability. That was why the gods loved him. They grew bored quickly, and Fabius’ frenzied spiritual writhing provided them with almost constant entertainment. Or had. But no matter how often it was explained to him, Fabius refused to see, refused to admit the truth of the universe and his place in it. And even the gods could lose patience.

Quin did not wonder if Fabius would attempt some treachery before he departed. It was a foregone conclusion, and he felt a pang of regret at what was almost certainly to come. It was the reason Slaanesh had guided Fabius here, after all. He flexed his hands, and thought about how it would feel to crush the Spider’s skull. To end his frenzied weaving once and for all. He’d often dreamed of killing Fabius, in those dim days after his reawakening. The pain of rebirth had been almost more than he could bear.

Through it all, he’d never asked Fabius why. And Fabius had never volunteered. Maybe he didn’t know, himself. Maybe the why didn’t matter.

‘I do not want to kill you, brother,’ he murmured. ‘But I fear you will leave me little choice.’ He looked up at the sky, an infinity of writhing black, and wondered if the gods would reward him for disposing of Fabius Bile once and for all.

‘I would rather that you didn’t.’

The voice was like star-shine and ice. Quin did not tense or whirl. Instead, he relaxed. He knew well the smell of Neverborn, and especially the potent tang of one devoted to the Dark Prince. ‘May I have your name?’ he asked formally.

Hooves crunched across stone. ‘Melusine.’

He turned… and paused. Old memories surfaced from the sludge of centuries. ‘You?’

‘Do you remember me, pilgrim?’

Quin nodded. ‘I do, my lady,’ he said, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘I am surprised to see you here. No Neverborn has visited me since I made my way to this place.’

‘You know who I am,’ Melusine said.

Quin nodded. ‘I did not see it at the time. But I have heard your name since.’ He looked down. ‘Your creator is below, scheming away. Shall I call him for you?’

‘No. It is not yet time.’ She turned away from him, and looked out over the forest. ‘You are part of the game now, pilgrim. Does this please you?’

‘No. I came here to escape games.’

‘Silly pilgrim. There is no escape.’ She spread her arms, as if to clasp the stars to her chest. ‘There is only the game, and the game within the game.’

‘And is this my part in it, then? To act as guide and nothing more?’

‘You may do as you wish. That is the whole of the law.’ Melusine stepped back along the line of the roof, arms still spread. ‘Do as you wish, and please yourself. For to do so pleases Slaanesh.’

‘If that were so, your creator would not be here to disturb me.’

‘Is it disturbance – or enticement?’

‘That is not an answer,’ Quin said. He turned as the dark of the night was split by a distant explosion – a frag grenade, he thought. When he turned back, Melusine was gone. He laughed softly. ‘Of course.’

Disturbance, or enticement?

Her parting words echoed on the air, like a hint of birdsong. He considered them, and then the mountains stretching along the horizon. How long had he been here? He could not recall. He had come seeking solace, but had found numbness. Maybe they were the same thing, maybe not. Maybe Slaanesh was sending him a message after all.

Perhaps his time in the wilderness was done. Or maybe it was only beginning. One could never tell, with the gods.

Quin sighed and went back down into the cabin.

Fabius stood as he returned, ready to plead his case – or make threats. Quin silenced him with a gesture.

‘I have been thinking,’ he said, as he went to his battleplate. He ran a hand across the ravaged plates, remembering all the battles that had brought him to this point. ‘When I found Fulgrim, I thought I was blessed above all others. But it was no blessing at all.’ He turned. ‘As you will discover, I think.’

Fabius took a step towards him. ‘Then you will help me?’

Quin nodded. ‘I will take you to Fulgrim.’ He turned back to his armour and began to remove it from the rack, one section at a time.

‘But from there it is in the hands of the gods.’

Chapter Eighteen

Mannikins

On a field of metal, tiny warriors bled and died. Hexachires increased the magnification on his optical sensors and watched the carnage avidly.

‘Look at them, Oleander. Aren’t they astounding?’

Oleander didn’t reply. Hexachires frowned, but didn’t turn from the battle. He’d grown the warriors himself, from samples taken from Oleander’s slain brothers. The secret of crafting mannikins was one possessed by few haemonculi. To make a towering monstrosity, or a pain engine, was one thing. But to make something so small and intricate was nothing less than an art.

‘Sturdy. Naturally aggressive, as well. Why, I wager I could release an army of them into any kabal’s eyrie and have it reduced to ruin in a few days.’ He paused, considering the image. He laughed, pleased. ‘Perhaps I shall. Peshig’s, maybe. Or Salar’s. Let’s see him deal with an enemy he can’t see, let alone hit.’

Deftly, he plucked one of the tiny warriors from the field of slaughter and dropped it into a sample jar. He sealed the jar and held it up. The tiny figure beat against the side of the jar.

‘Look at him. Determined little mannikin.’

‘We are built to persevere,’ Oleander said.

Hexachires looked at him. ‘And few exemplify that better than you. Your nerve endings must be so much ash by now, and yet you continue to plod along. Admirable and pitiable, all at once.’ He set the sample jar down and selected another. One by one, he collected the surviving warriors. Later, he would reduce them to slurry, sift them and regrow them. It would take many generations to purify them to the point of use. He peered at the last of them, watching as it beat tiny fists bloody against the jar.

‘They remind me of Terata,’ Oleander said.

‘What?’ Hexachires set the jar down.

‘An old Terran word. It means monster – or marvellous thing.’ Oleander looked up. ‘They were Fabius’ first experiments in genetic manipulation. Abnormal brutes. Mentally and physically unstable. Most of them didn’t survive past their first battle.’

Hexachires sniffed. ‘An entertaining anecdote. What does it have to do with you?’

‘Sometimes, I think he’s only ever made monsters,’ Oleander said. ‘For all his talk of the New Humanity, it seems like he’s only capable of creating its antithesis. Wherever he goes, he leaves monsters in his wake.’

Hexachires chuckled. ‘How philosophical. Do you include yourself in that assessment? After all, he made you, didn’t he?’

‘I came to terms with my monstrousness long ago.’ Oleander fiddled with the edges of his helm. He’d been doing that more often of late. Hexachires wondered if the contact nodes had become infected. ‘What now? It’s been weeks since we returned to Commorragh.’

‘And it may well be weeks more. I have been asked to show patience, and so I shall.’

‘I never would have accused you of passivity.’

Hexachires paused. ‘Was that a jibe?’

‘An observation.’ Oleander continued to fumble with his helm. Fresh blood rolled down the corded canyons of his neck.

Hexachires frowned. He retrieved the pain-baton and gestured with it. ‘I believe I’ve warned you about interfering with your helm, Oleander. Or have you forgotten?’

‘No.’ Oleander stopped. He looked at Hexachires, and his gaze was flat and hungry. ‘Veilwalker is using you.’

‘And I am using her. It is a mutually beneficial relationship, as I’ve said before.’

‘Is it? Because it seems to me that you are no more important to her than Peshig or the others are to you.’ Oleander laughed harshly. ‘Fabius still lives. But you hide here, sulking in your tower of rotting meat because your mercenaries turned on you.’

Hexachires tensed as anger gripped him. But instead of sending a jolt of pain thrumming through Oleander, he lowered the baton. ‘I’m curious… are you trying to provoke me into killing you – or into returning to the hunt?’

Oleander didn’t reply.

Hexachires snorted and strode across the chamber to where a set of clone-vats sat. Inside each was a barely formed copy of Fabius procured from a raided cache. Most of the clones were dead, or otherwise non-viable. But one or two still functioned on a basic neural level. Hexachires wiped condensation from one of the tanks and studied the face within.

‘Why do the Harlequins want him?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I think you are lying.’ Hexachires turned.

‘I am not. I do not know.’

‘But you have a theory, I suspect.’

Oleander paused. ‘I think they need him.’

‘And why would they need a creature like him?’

‘I think he is going to do something – play some role in some future drama of theirs. Whatever the reason, they have done much to keep him on a path of their choosing. Nor are they alone in that.’

‘Always so popular, our Fabius.’ Hexachires tapped the glass. ‘I’d hoped I could synthesise something of use from these half-things, but they are missing something. Some element that cannot be replicated.’ He glanced at Oleander. ‘It is not wholly a biological affliction, you know. That sickness of his is as much spiritual as it is physical. A fusion of the real and the hypothetical.’

‘It’s a daemon,’ Oleander said.

‘In a sense. If so, it is a primitive thing. Diomone once theorised that Fabius was nothing more than an ambulatory cocoon for his illness. That it was not, in fact, an illness at all, but rather a gestating hyper-dimensional organism. She thinks that eventually he will rupture and split, and something new and awful will emerge from the slick recesses of his ravaged carcass. An incarnate god, perhaps.’

‘Pater Mutatis,’ Oleander murmured.

‘Yes. That is what they call him, isn’t it? Belief is a curious thing.’

He stared at the clone, willing its eyes to open. But there was nothing there. No mind in this meat. All that Fabius was, all he could be, was locked in his terrible, wonderful mind.

‘Perhaps I will not kill him, in the end. It might be more worthwhile to keep him alive – to feed that which grows within him. Eventually, we are bound to find out what it is.’

‘You might not like the result.’

‘Such is the risk of any inquiry. The price of knowledge is often steep – and always paid eventually. Something your master would have done well to learn.’ Hexachires turned. ‘You didn’t try and escape when Diomone brought you back. Why?’

Oleander looked away. ‘I am not a fool.’

‘Would that you were. You might have saved me some trouble. She moves against me, the little wretch.’

Diomone had been quietly manoeuvring among the members of the Synod for weeks, flitting from one eager ear to the next. She was determined to have him called to account, and in the most tedious way possible. Was it too much to ask that the younger generation show some initiative? Perhaps he’d been wrong about her suitability as an heir.

‘It is really quite disappointing,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ Oleander replied.

Hexachires studied him. He had been curiously reticent since their return. ‘Is that all you have to say? I trust you are aware that my fate directly impinges your own, Oleander. If I fall, you will go with me.’

Oleander looked up. ‘Perhaps that is preferable to living as your toy.’

Before Hexachires could reply, a harsh chime sounded. He looked up. ‘I gave orders I was not to be disturbed,’ he called out. His hand edged towards the splinter pistol holstered beneath his coat. Maybe Diomone had decided to do something interesting after all.

A garble of voices replied – his wracks had no tongues and had to communicate as best they could. Hexachires laughed harshly.

‘Well, will wonders never cease. It appears the troublesome Archon Peshig is here, and unaccompanied. That bespeaks either a monumental arrogance, or…’

‘Or… he’s protected,’ Oleander said. ‘Try and kill him so we can see which it is.’

Hexachires sniffed. ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you? No. Stand there and seethe quietly, Oleander. And keep your curiosity to yourself.’ He turned back to the entryway. ‘Bring him in. But watch him.’

He retreated as the hatch unfurled, revealing a trio of wracks surrounding the slight figure of Peshig. The wracks escorted the archon in. Peshig smiled brightly.

‘Hello, Hexachires. Long time no see.’

Hexachires folded his arms and rose high on his spinal tendrils. ‘Give me one good reason I shouldn’t break you down for spare parts right now.’

Peshig’s smile didn’t falter. ‘Am I to assume someone tattled, then?’ He shook his head in mock disappointment. ‘I bet it was Aurelia. That woman never met a back she didn’t stick a knife in.’

Hexachires didn’t smile. ‘Why are you here, Peshig? Answer quickly.’

‘I’ve come to beg your forgiveness. And to offer my help.’

‘Help? With what?’

‘The siege.’

‘Siege? What siege?’

‘Why, the siege of Fabius Bile’s facilities on the crone world the mon-keigh call Belial IV, of course!’ Peshig gestured cheerfully. ‘And congratulations to you for locating it over the course of these long weeks of self-imposed isolation.’

Hexachires hesitated. Then a slow, ugly smile spread across his flesh-mask. ‘You’re not really Peshig, are you?’

Peshig frowned.

And then, suddenly, Peshig was no longer there. He had been replaced by a gaudily dressed figure, clad in a mirrored mask and bearing a staff. Hexachires laughed and applauded as his wracks drew back in consternation.

‘Oh, how marvellous,’ he cackled. ‘I thought I detected a whiff of a distortion field, but I wasn’t sure.’ He turned. ‘Look who it is, Oleander. Our old friend Veilwalker. Come to visit us at last.’ His mask twisted into something approaching affability. ‘And where is the real Peshig, dare I ask?’

‘Dead,’ Veilwalker said simply. ‘Few will mourn for him. Or even know, until I choose to drop the masquerade. You’re welcome, by the way.’

Hexachires frowned. ‘Not that I am not grateful, but why kill him?’

‘Because he was going to ruin their plan,’ Oleander said.

Hexachires looked at him. ‘And what do you know of it?’ he snapped.

‘More than you.’ Veilwalker swung her staff onto her shoulder. ‘Peshig’s part in the story was at an end. However unwitting, he sought to turn the narrative away from our chosen ending. So we excised him from the drama.’

‘Then why this… farce? Why wear his face?’

‘I said we excised him, not his part in the story. You will need his forces, however pitiful they are. Even as you will need those of Salar and Avara. We will ensure that you have them for what must be done.’

Hexachires stared at her. ‘And what is it you want me to do?’

Veilwalker laughed. ‘What you would have done regardless.’ She levelled her staff at him. ‘It is finally time for Fabius Bile to die. And you, Hexachires Ulthiliad, are to be the instrument of his death.’

Oleander did not stay to listen. He had a suspicion he would not be welcome. Instead, he made his way along the spinal parapets and climbed out onto the outer dermis of the Tower. He prowled along the clinging roots of muscle tissue overlooking the lightless deeps below. An abyss of circular convolutions, like the shells of great molluscs, smashed together and patched into a single, continuous circle falling down and away.

Occasionally, he caught the flicker of headlamps from the trawlers that prowled those depths, scraping fungal spores from the walls of the webway. There were jungles in some of the conduits, and spore-farms tended by the desperate and the mad. Only someone with no other option would live – could survive – in the depths of the webway.

He rose to his full height, considering. A fall from this height would almost certainly kill him. And if not, he would be badly broken at least. But he doubted Hexachires would come looking. Especially now that the Harlequins had given him everything he’d needed.

How long would he last, down there in the dark? How long until he crawled, broken and mutating, into some crack or cranny and withered away into a mummy? Or would he become another monster, feeding on the lost and damned among the spore-farms and shanty-wharfs that dotted the farthest deeps of the Dark City?

‘Is this how my story ends?’ he said, aloud.

‘That depends on how you read it.’

Oleander turned. Sylandri Veilwalker stood behind him, bouncing her staff idly on one shoulder. As ever, he could see nothing but his own reflection in her mask, and it infuriated him. Once, it had pleased him to no end, but that had been another time and a different Oleander, and he was not that man any more.

‘I wondered if you were going to seek me out.’

‘Why would I not?’

‘I assumed you were done with me. Hexachires is primed, and you’ve told him what he wanted to know.’ He hesitated. ‘Did he send you here to despatch me?’

‘No. Count Sunflame has much to do before he escapes.’ Veilwalker crouched beside him without waiting for an invitation. She peered into the dark, and for a moment, he thought about trying to push her off. Would she fall – or float?

‘I’ve done everything you’ve asked,’ Oleander said. The Harlequin laughed.

‘Under duress and with ill humour.’

‘I’m sorry, does Count Sunflame undertake treachery with a smile?’

‘No, but you do. It is one of the things we like about you, Oleander.’ Veilwalker tapped his shoulder with her staff. ‘You’re the perfect pawn, willing to move whichever way keeps you on the board just a bit longer.’

‘Maybe I’m getting tired of being a pawn.’

‘And maybe the game is coming to an end.’ Veilwalker looked up at the black, distended peaks and valleys of Commorragh, stretching far above. ‘At least, this one is. There are so many others, it’s often hard to keep track.’

‘I’m not used to you speaking so plainly.’

Veilwalker looked at him. ‘We’re in a different sort of story now.’

Oleander was silent for a moment. Then, ‘Why did you send him here?’

‘So that he might learn much-needed lessons.’

‘Including this one?’

It was Veilwalker’s turn to be silent. Oleander studied her.

‘All of these games, these stories – all about manipulating him to become the man you wish him to be. The man you need him to be so that future stories unfold the way you want them to. Have you ever considered the possibility that he might resist?’

‘If he didn’t, the story wouldn’t be half so interesting.’

‘And what happens if he dies?’

‘Then another will be required,’ she said. She pressed two fingers to his chest. ‘When the King of Feathers falls, Count Sunflame must take up the sword.’ She looked away. ‘But only in some versions of the story. Sometimes, he places a wraithbone device in your skull and flees into you when the jaws of our trap snap shut. Other times, Hexachires surgically reshapes you for his own sad amusement and you escape, taking up the name and raiment of your fallen master.’

‘And this time?’

She shrugged. ‘Stories are like animals. Only the strongest survives. The nature of this story is still being determined. Is it a tale of a sleeping king, come again? Or of a tragic hero, taking up the sword in his fallen liege’s name? Or maybe it’s none of those things. Maybe we’re all wrong, and it’s the story of a child’s love for a parent.’ She tapped her chin with her staff. ‘Regardless, it’s not the story of a slave to darkness. Of a warrior trading his soul for something as ephemeral as power. And that pleases Cegorach.’

She rose to her feet and Oleander was once again struck by her inhuman grace. As much as he longed to snap her in half, he could not help but admire the cold beauty of her movements.

‘Why tell me all of this?’

‘Because it might help you to know these things. Or maybe it will hinder her.’ Veilwalker spun her staff. ‘Both, perhaps. We counter her, even as she moves to counter us.’ She laughed. ‘I often wonder what would have happened had we taken her somewhere safe, rather than leading her to the Phoenix’s nest.’

‘What?’

But Veilwalker didn’t reply. She walked away, and her form seemed to blur and fade until it was one with the long shadows. Oleander stared after her. Then, he looked back down. But instead of jumping, he sighed and clambered back the way he’d come. Veilwalker was right about one thing, at least.

Only the strongest survived.

Chapter Nineteen

Garden of Forking Paths

Butcher-Bird descended in silence, save for the raucous howl of its engines. Silicate winds, thick with the stink of burning oil and perfume, scraped the gunship’s flanks, forcing it to fire its stabilisers in an effort to maintain its descent. When it at last thumped down in the harsh sands, it kept its engines hot for a few spiteful moments, turning the surrounding landscape to black glass.

The ramp thudded down moments later. Fabius stopped at the hatch and looked around. His armour’s sensors stretched out, drawing in environmental and atmospheric data. He didn’t need it, however. His own eyes told him everything he needed to know. The world was a drab, grey little thing. A mote of factorum grit, lodged among the evil stars.

‘This is it?’ he asked, frowning. He looked at Quin. ‘Really?’

‘What did you expect?’ Quin said. The Pilgrim was clad in his battered Tartaros-pattern war-plate, and held his power axe in a loose grip.

‘Something more… unusual.’ Fabius looked around. They had landed in an empty quarter, barren of life and obstruction, save a scattering of tumbled stones, rusting heaps of abandoned machinery and dust-dunes. In the near distance, the ruins of factorums and refineries rose like the skeletons of landlocked leviathans. Farther away, mountains surged skywards, their peaks shrouded in perfume and dust.

Quin followed him down the ramp. ‘Our gene-father is not prone to whimsy. Even in his current state of being. Fulgrim likes his pleasures the way an engineer likes his buildings – sturdy and efficiently constructed.’

‘I sense an implied criticism, Narvo.’

Quin grunted. ‘Fulgrim does what is expected of him, to the utmost of his abilities. He always has done. He seeks to be the best at everything. Even debauchery. So he seeks to build the perfect world – one where all may know exquisite pleasures and torments, from the highest noble to the lowliest slave.’

‘It resembles Chemos,’ Fabius said. ‘Right down to the particulates in the atmosphere. It almost looks as if he poisoned the world, and then cleansed it afterwards.’

‘He did.’ Quin sighed. He knelt and scooped up a handful of sand. ‘It is Chemos. He spent centuries turning this world, whatever it once was, into a reflection of his birth-world, and then recreated the circumstances of his arrival.’ He let the sand dribble through his fingers. ‘To improve upon his earlier work.’

‘Madness.’

‘Yes. Then, he was always a little mad.’ Quin was silent for a time. ‘It got worse, after Byzas. We might have been saved there, if we’d lost.’

Fabius paused. ‘Do you regret it, then?’

‘No. What’s done is done. The world is set, and my place in it.’ Quin looked at him. ‘Do you? Regret it, I mean.’

‘I can ill afford to waste my time doing so. I have little enough left as it is.’ Fabius turned as Savona followed them down the ramp. She had insisted on coming, though he couldn’t say why. Perhaps the temptation to accomplish something so many of her Legion rivals had failed to do was impossible to resist.

She gestured with her maul towards a pall of black smoke on the horizon. ‘Did you see? There’s a war going on over there. I spied it as we broke the troposphere.’

Quin nodded. ‘Chemos was a fractious planet, before Fulgrim exerted control.’

Fabius looked at him. ‘He’s even recreating the wars?’

‘He fights them over and over again, attempting different strategies. In search of the perfect victory with which to rewrite his history.’ Quin paused. ‘Sometimes, he even lets them win.’

‘I was right. He’s mad.’

‘Yes. Are you certain you still wish to do this?’

‘I have little choice,’ Fabius said. He looked around. ‘You know, I never really understood our gene-father’s obsession with martial glory. It always seemed to me more efficient to simply eradicate our foes from orbit. Pound the earth flat, and build over the ashes.’

‘And if they dig in?’

‘There are ways. Saboteurs, chemical weapons – there are hundreds of methods for dismantling a world and its people that do not involve orbital insertions and glorious advances into the teeth of enemy fire.’ Fabius shook his head. ‘Perhaps I overestimate the intelligence of our species. Perhaps we are little more than psychopathic apes, driven to fashion clubs and smash out the brains of our closest neighbours.’

Quin laughed. ‘And here I thought you were the smart one. I figured that out the day of my culling, when my family forced my cousins and me to fight for the honour of joining the Third.’ He ran a thumb along the blade of his axe. ‘War, as you describe it, would be little more than pest control. What is there for the gods to feed on? Where is the desire for victory, the savagery, the hope and despair? Where is the entertainment?’

‘I believe you have made my point for me.’

‘No. You are not listening.’ Quin leaned forward. ‘On my pilgrimage I learned much. Win or lose, the gods feast on our deeds. A man pets a stray, and his small pleasure in the act of kindness feeds Slaanesh. A woman strikes her crying child, and that awful moment of elation she feels feeds Khorne. A Munitorum drone considers suicide. Nurgle grows fat on his despair. A merciful strategist devises a plan for bloodless victory, and Tzeentch is content.’ He looked at the sky above, an expanse of grey, leached of all colour and life. ‘The Word Bearers think the gods crave worship. But the gods care for nothing save filling their bellies with our sorrows. Intentionally or not, we are all meat for the beast.’ He paused. ‘Even you, Fabius.’

Fabius frowned and looked away. The barest hint of a road was visible beneath the wind-blown dunes – cracked ribbons of ferrocrete, stretching across the vanishing distance in all directions, including towards the outline of a city that seemed to waver mirage-like in the light: their ultimate destination. Even as he spied it, the rustle of the wind changed, sounding almost like laughter.

‘Then what is the point of anything? If all we are is meat, why strive to be anything more?’

Quin shook his head. ‘Why does prey seek to escape the predator? Eventually, they will be caught. Why not simply surrender?’

Fabius grunted. ‘Point taken.’

Quin clapped him on the shoulder. ‘If it makes you feel better, I think the gods themselves are but the slivers of something greater. For all their nightmarish power, they too are meat.’

‘That does not make me feel better at all,’ Fabius said.

‘I did say “if”.’

Savona pushed past them. ‘I still think this is a trap.’ She stopped suddenly, looking around. ‘Which way do we go? All I see are mountains.’

‘Those aren’t mountains,’ Fabius said.

The cloying clouds of perfume and dust thinned as he spoke, revealing the screes of dead flesh, heaped and stacked, to their sensors. Fabius magnified the image, despite the fact that he knew what he would see. The bodies of innumerable men, women and children rose into high crags and fell away into valleys and canyons. Carrion birds nested in the heights, stripping the flesh from broken limbs or sampling delicacies from exposed innards.

‘I estimate their numbers somewhere in the low billions,’ he said, after a moment’s calculation. ‘Roughly two planetary populations worth, or around six generations.’ He banished the image. ‘Always so wasteful, Fulgrim. You’d think growing up on a world like Chemos would have taught him better.’

Savona, no stranger to death or slaughter, stared at the distant crags in seeming incomprehension. The issue, Fabius suspected, was one of scale. This was not mere butchery or collateral damage, but a mass extermination.

‘Why?’ she asked softly.

‘They were not perfect.’ Quin shook his head. ‘Come. If he has to look for us, things will go poorly.’

They walked the road in silence. Fabius had wanted to take the gunship in, but Quin had insisted on walking. Apparently there was some ritual to it all that Fabius didn’t understand. He’d considered bringing Saqqara, to translate, but the Word Bearer had flatly refused. Startled by his vehemence, Fabius had acquiesced.

They passed others on the way. Cliques of chanting monks sat on the side of the road, carving erotic imagery into each other’s flesh. Strange, inhuman merchants had set up isolated stalls among the dunes overlooking the road, and hawked all manner of goods – the dreams of pilgrims past, and the tears of daemons; weapons forged the hour of Chemos’ destruction and gilded copies of the Chemosian Cantos; the memory of a caged star and the skull of the last High Executive.

Crowds of pilgrims bathed in the acidic pools of runoff near the road, purifying themselves in preparation for… what? Fabius didn’t know. Overhead, the winged shapes of bestial furies rode the thermals, occasionally snatching an unwary pilgrim high into the air, where they were devoured, screaming ecstatically all the while.

Fabius and his companions were not the only warriors to follow the road. He spied the garish figures of Noise Marines perched upon fallen statues and pillars, engaged in sonic duels that echoed for leagues in all directions.

‘It seems this place is easier to locate than I was led to believe,’ Fabius murmured.

‘Only to those with true faith. And even if they find the world, there is no guarantee that they will be admitted to the garden. Fulgrim has… high standards.’ Quin pointed. ‘There. Just ahead of us. The gates to the Garden of Sixfold Pleasure.’

The gates rose higher than Fabius could see, stretching ever upwards and far beyond the limits of physical or mechanical sight. They stood alone, banded by no walls. They shone with a soft radiance, at once comforting and repulsive. The gates themselves were carved to resemble untold millions of souls writhing in orgiastic pleasure – or perhaps pain. The sides of the archway that contained them were dominated by two great shapeless statues – formless flurries of hooved feet, bared teeth and snapping claws.

‘The Lord of Excess,’ Quin said, genuflecting to each statue in turn as they drew close.

Fabius had seen similar depictions of Slaanesh in the ruins of the crone worlds. Briefly, he was reminded of a smile as vast as the heavens and a voice like the cracking of a world’s bones. He shook his head, banishing the memory.

‘Why is there a gate if there is no wall?’ he demanded.

‘Who would dare step past the gate without an invitation?’ Quin said.

‘It’s singing,’ Savona murmured dreamily. ‘The gate is singing.’ Fabius could hear it as well, though only faintly – like a distant concert of familiar voices.

‘Kynska,’ he muttered. ‘It sounds almost like the Maraviglia.’ He looked around, noting the huddled forms who lay scattered about, sheltering in the ruins that dotted the periphery of the gate. All looked to be dead, or sleeping.

‘Yes,’ Quin said. ‘It is the song of Slaanesh. They say his favoured son crafted these gates from a single scale, plucked from the Dark Prince’s flank.’

Fabius frowned. ‘Favoured son… Fulgrim?’

Quin nodded. ‘Who else, but our father?’

‘Of course. I should have known, gaudy and grandiose as this portal is. How do we open it?’ Fabius strode forward, bones crunching beneath his tread.

‘We knock,’ Quin said, not moving. ‘Or rather you do.’

Fabius paused. ‘Me? Why?’

‘You are the pilgrim here, brother. Not me and certainly not her.’ Quin nodded towards Savona, who stood swaying in time to the strange melodies that dripped through the air. The music had changed, becoming more urgent, as if building to a crescendo. ‘Our souls are already bought and sold. But yours is still up for grabs.’

Fabius gave a snort of laughter. ‘I’ve been told otherwise.’

‘One must willingly bow before the gods. To do otherwise is… heresy. Blasphemy.’

Fabius grimaced. ‘Fine. I shall knock. More, I shall drag our gene-father from whatever hedonisms currently occupy his attentions and force him to listen to me.’ He turned to the gates. ‘Do you hear? I have arrived, Phoenician – and I will not be denied!’

Stimms flooded his ravaged system as he stalked towards the gates. He could feel the eyes of the huddled pilgrims fixed upon him, and he wondered whether they would rush him in a frenzy, if he managed to open the gates. He took a two-handed grip on Torment, and felt the daemon-shard respond eagerly. It recognised this place, he knew. Perhaps it had been here before. Whatever the reason, it seemed jubilant at the prospect of what was to come.

Fabius shared that joy. He longed to destroy this place and cast its shards into Fulgrim’s face. For every manipulation, every curse, and every cryptic riddle he had endured, he would set the Phoenician’s precious garden alight and force him back to the harsh realm of his responsibilities.

The first blow echoed like the tolling of a bell. The second caused the song to falter. It took four more to silence it entirely and breach the gates. Each blow reverberated through him, threatening to break his arms and tear his muscles. His hips and spine ached with a marrow-deep pain and his head throbbed.

But on the sixth blow, the gates swung inwards. Silver grasses hissed as in welcome, and the long shadows of abandoned hab-blocks and manufactoria stretched across his path. A thoroughfare extended before him, lined with steaming braziers. Clouds of incense wafted across the path, obscuring the forms of distant statues and other, less identifiable shapes. Panting slightly from his efforts, Fabius stared at the sight before him.

‘This is no garden.’

Eerie laughter greeted his observation. It came from all directions, from within the ruined buildings and from atop the archway of the gate. Fabius turned, seeking the source.

‘What is that? Some new trick?’

‘No,’ Quin said, as he joined Fabius. ‘Did you think the gates would be unguarded?’

‘I see no guards,’ Fabius said, even as his targeting array lit up.

Savona gestured with her maul. ‘I do. Look.’

Gangling equine shapes moved into view at the opposite end of the thoroughfare. Some stood on two legs, others on four. Atop each, a slim, inhuman shape sat. Eyes like simmering embers were fixed on the invaders. A horn sounded, and the riders kicked their beasts into motion.

‘I don’t suppose this is a welcoming party,’ Fabius said.

‘Did you think they would let us through for nothing more than a smile and a song?’ Quin growled. He raised his axe. ‘These are the castellans of the silver gardens, Fabius. They have flayed mightier souls than ours.’

‘Then it’s a good thing I’ve already lost mine,’ Savona said, bounding forward to meet the riders. Her maul’s power field crackled to life as she ran.

‘Idiot woman – wait,’ Quin bellowed. He glared at Fabius. ‘What sort of lunatics are you keeping company with?’

Fabius drew his needler. ‘The kind who keep the enemy safely preoccupied.’ He focused on the targeting runes that flashed across his display. The needler was loaded with an extract refined from the cerebral tissues of psychic nulls. To the Neverborn, it burned like acid, eating away at the falsity of their existence and reducing them to nothing.

The daemons were on them in moments. Fabius turned, seeking a route of retreat, and saw that the gates were sealed once more, trapping them. On this side of the gates, the walls were plainly visible, and far too high to scale, even if they were made of what appeared to be pulsing ribbons of flesh.

He cursed and fired, plucking a daemonette from the saddle. He saw Savona do the same, smashing the thing from its mount with her maul. The Neverborn rolled to its feet, shrieking. Savona gave it no chance to recover. Her second blow pulped its pale skull. Two more raced towards her, and she snatched her bolt pistol from its holster, firing even as she sought cover.

Quin chopped through a beast’s neck, spilling its rider to the ground. Fabius shot it in the head, and watched in satisfaction as the toxins reduced the screaming creature to motes of coloured ash. Quin caught the reins of a riderless steed and turned.

‘Go, Fabius – take the steed and go!’ he said, shoving the reins into his hand. ‘We shall hold their attentions here.’

Fabius didn’t argue. He swung himself easily into the saddle, prompted by memories of a former life. He jerked the daemon-steed’s head about and thumped its ribs, forcing it into a gallop. The beast shrilled in protest, but did as it had been made to do and ran.

He leaned low over its spiny neck, and risked a look back. Several of the riders had broken off from the battle and were charging after him, shrieking playful obscenities. He drew his needler and fired, allowing his targeting array to guide his hand. The darts struck the pursuing beasts, eliciting screeches of pain as the pariah-derived toxins unravelled them at their hypothetical core.

His own steed seemed to know where it was supposed to go. It galloped along the wide thoroughfares, carrying him deeper into the city. The sounds of battle faded into silence behind him, swallowed up by distance.

His beast screamed, and Fabius hauled back on the reins, startled. A thin figure, cloaked in incense, stood in the middle of the street, one hand extended. The beast reared, clawing at the air, and Fabius dropped hurriedly from the saddle. The creature sprang away, its fearful wails lingering behind it. Fabius faced the figure. He reached up and removed his helmet.

‘Melusine,’ he said softly.

‘Father,’ she said.

‘I thought this place was beyond the sight of your kind.’

‘A lie. I could not show you the way. You had to find it for yourself.’

‘A pilgrimage,’ Fabius said. He looked around. The air was clotted with incense, making it hard to see. He pulled his helm back on. The incense was no more natural than the buildings around him. It was all air and shadows. An infernal glamour, conjured by a malign intelligence. As was the being before him.

Quin had been right. It was a trap after all. She could not be who she was. He knew that now. She was nothing more than a memory, given form by his own longings. The lost girl, found at last.

Melusine nodded. ‘Yes. A pilgrimage. To show your love. Your faith.’

‘Neither of which I possess in any great abundance.’ He looked around. ‘Where are the others? Still among the living, I trust?’

‘Your slaves live, Fabius. And it is not them that you should fear for.’

Fabius whirled, Torment springing up as a great blade descended like a guillotine’s edge. He caught the blow, and felt something in his arm and chest twist and rupture from the force of it. The chirurgeon shrilled a warning and chem-pumps chugged frantically. A second blade swept out, and he leapt back, narrowly avoiding it. A third and a fourth followed, driving him back against a pillar.

Adrenal implants fired, filling his flagging limbs with strength. Stimm-slugs pulsed, and the world around him seemed to slow to the speed of treacle. He snatched the needler from its holster as a holographic targeting array settled over his vision. His attacker was fast – massive. A daemon? He fired, filling the air between them with poisonous darts.

A golden blade swept out, slicing the darts from the air. A second blade thrust forward, and Fabius lurched out of its path with desperate speed. The blade split the pillar. Fabius scrambled awkwardly behind a statue as his attacker slithered across the silvery grasses.

‘Who are you?’ he called out, as he reloaded the needler. ‘What is the meaning of this? I came in peace!’

Silken laughter filled the glade. ‘Never has so bald-faced a lie ever been uttered here. For shame, Fabius. You know very well that there is no peace among the thirsting stars.’ Scales rasped as the looming shape slipped past a fallen pillar, tracing its blades against the stones. ‘There is no hope, no future, no past. Only the red now.’

‘I have heard those words before,’ Fabius said, tightening his grip on Torment. ‘On Harmony. In my labs in Canticle City.’ He licked his lips, listening.

Silence.

Then, stone scraped. Fabius slowly looked up. A smiling face, framed by a mane of silvery-white hair, peered down at him with childlike delight.

‘Hello, Fabius. It has been an eternity, hasn’t it?’

‘Father,’ Fabius growled. He shoved away from the statue and spun, firing as he moved. Fulgrim sprang from his perch, too swiftly to track. Torment connected with a golden blade, and the daemon-spirit bound within the cane screeched as Fabius was driven back. His armour’s servos whined as he struggled against his opponent.

‘You are quicker than I remember, Fabius,’ Fulgrim said. ‘Have you improved upon yourself, at last? Added a little something to the mix, perhaps?’

‘I did not come here to fight,’ Fabius said, through gritted teeth.

‘Clearly. Then, you were never a proper soldier, were you? Always too busy cutting open your brothers to bother with fighting beside them.’ Fulgrim flung him back with an almost gentle heave. Fabius slammed into a broken plinth and fell onto his hands and knees.

He silenced the sudden flood of damage alerts and forced himself to his feet. Torment babbled warnings, filling his head with its whispers. He tightened his grip, trying to silence the weapon. It was frightened, and he couldn’t blame it. It was like a wild cat facing down a tiger.

He turned, trying to track Fulgrim as the latter circled him. His gene-father had not changed much since they’d last encountered one another.

‘What I did, I did for the good of us all. You know that, in whatever passes for your mind these days.’

Fulgrim laughed. ‘Always the storyteller, Fabius!’ He turned, looking at Melusine. She had not moved throughout their confrontation. Fabius wondered whether it was due to indecision – or amusement. ‘You see? I told you. Even now, he refuses to admit his part in things. He has always been so stubborn.’ He looked back at Fabius, an elegant smirk on his too-perfect features. ‘Do not think harshly of her, my son. My… granddaughter sought only to help you, though in your anger you could not see it. A family trait, I suspect.’

Fabius glared at him. ‘We are not family. We share a genetic legacy, nothing more.’ He frowned. ‘And not even that, now. You are nothing but a dream, Father. One all the galaxy will soon awaken from.’ He looked at Melusine. ‘And you as well, daughter. You have twisted your truth into a lie – and for what?’

‘Is a lie told to preserve truth still a lie?’

Fabius threw up his hands in consternation. ‘What else would it be, fool child? A falsehood is a falsehood, whatever its purpose!’ He pointed at Fulgrim. ‘He taught me that. And even if he’s forgotten it now, I still hold to it.’ He shook his head. ‘I made a mistake, coming here. I should have known better. This has been a trap from the beginning.’

‘Oh, Fabius, really. The arrogance of you!’ Fulgrim reached up and plucked a piece of fruit from a hanging vine. He took a bite, and dark juices ran down his chin and chest. ‘You never left the trap, boy. The moment you set foot in the Laer temple, you were caught fast the same as the rest of us. Granted, your desires took a more circuitous form than I might have predicted, but the end result is the same. You are no less a slave to your lusts than any of your brothers.’

‘And are you a slave as well, Father?’

Fulgrim took another bite of fruit, giving every sign of relishing the taste. ‘I was born a slave, Fabius. And even after I took Chemos, I was still a slave. The Anathema came and made all my accomplishments as ashes.’ He gestured with a juice-stained claw. ‘That is the story of us. We were tools, made for a purpose. We were no more in control of our destinies than your scuttling vatborn. When I realised this, I knew that the only true freedom lay in choosing my own master.’

Fabius turned away. ‘I always knew you were weak,’ he said. ‘We all did, I think. And we are as guilty of pampering you as Angron’s sons are of coddling him. We broke you as surely as the World Eaters broke the Red Angel. We gave in to your whims and petulancies, rather than standing firm and teaching you as the Emperor asked.’

Fulgrim tossed the gnawed core of fruit at Fabius’ feet. ‘Pampering. Is that what you call it?’ He reared up, scales rasping. ‘You defied me at every turn, Fabius, even as I protected you from the sins of your past. It is only by the grace of the Dark Gods that you survived the Great Crusade – and the less said of the Heresy, the better. Were there a mote of justice in this universe, your bones would have been cast upon the midden already.’

Fulgrim selected another piece of fruit. ‘Instead, you persist. You are one of the architects of all that has befallen us, and your reward is your continued survival. Be thankful, Fabius.’ He paused. ‘Then, perhaps I expect too much. Gratitude is beyond your capacities.’

‘Gratitude? Gratitude?’ Fabius snarled. ‘If I am indeed the architect of our damnation, then who provided me with the raw materials? Who commanded me to make plans – who set the wheels of my achievements into motion? From where I stand, that was your doing, Father. You demanded more of me than I could give. You set an impossible standard and grew petulant when I could not meet it.’

Fulgrim chewed thoughtfully, as if considering Fabius’ words. ‘Or maybe you gave up too easily.’ He smiled, and took another bite of fruit. ‘I no longer require sustenance, you know. Not of the physical variety, at least.’

‘Fascinating,’ Fabius said flatly.

‘Yes, I rather thought so.’ Fulgrim looked at him. ‘It is one of many mortal frailties I have shed. Anger is another. I only grow angry when I desire to do so. Or when I am bored.’ He leaned forward. ‘Do you know why she brought you here, Fabius? To protect you.’

‘Protect–?’ Fabius glanced at Melusine. Her quicksilver eyes met his, and he looked away first. ‘Protect me from what?’

‘Yourself, mostly. You have always been your own greatest enemy. Your hubris, your obsession… your own body eats itself. You are entropy manifested.’ Fulgrim slithered towards him. ‘The enemies who hound you would have come for you sooner or later. And if not them, others. Abaddon, perhaps. Erebus, certainly. The gods would eventually have grown bored of you, Fabius, and sent their slaves to murder you in your lair. But now… ah, now.’ Fulgrim clasped all four hands before him. ‘Now, your worth is established. Your place in the game set. Now, my son, you have purpose.’

‘I always had purpose.’

Fulgrim smirked. ‘The galaxy has no need of a new humanity when the old one is still so tasty. But it does need monsters. And those who can make monsters.’

Fabius stiffened. ‘Monsters.’

‘Oh yes. You were always such a creative craftsman when it came to the monstrous. A shame that you have let other concerns distract you.’ Fulgrim gave a lazy gesture. ‘But no more. Now, you will do what you were made to do. As the gods demand, so shall you obey. Full circle, my son.’

‘What are you saying?’ Fabius looked back at Melusine. ‘What does he mean?’

‘I mean,’ Fulgrim interjected, ‘that it is time to put away childish things. Your days of playing at godhood are over. You are only a little thing, after all, in a vast galaxy.’

Fabius’ eyes widened in sudden comprehension. ‘You mean to enslave me.’

Fulgrim chuckled. ‘You served the gods from the moment you cut open your first mouse, Fabius. The moment you started your search for knowledge, you offered yourself up to them on a silver platter.’

‘I did no such thing,’ Fabius said. But he heard the doubt in his own voice.

‘You offered up me as well. And your brothers. You were the poison in the Legion’s veins from the first, whether you admit it or not. And while I personally thank you for your efforts on my behalf, some do not feel as kindly towards you.’

Fulgrim wrenched the helm from Fabius’ head and flicked a talon across his scalp, releasing streamers of blood. Fabius clutched at the wound. Fulgrim followed him as he staggered away.

‘They will hunt you, when they learn of your weakness. And not just them. Every petty warlord you’ve ever crossed, every brother you’ve betrayed, will come looking for their pound of flesh.’

Fabius spun. He slashed Torment out with desperate ferocity, and Fulgrim took the weapon from him as easily as a parent might disarm a wayward child.

‘That is why you’ve come, of course. A naughty boy, looking to hide behind Father.’ He loomed over Fabius. ‘But I am not your father, am I, Fabius? You’ve said as much, hundreds of times. Are you a hypocrite, then?’

‘I am what you made me,’ Fabius snarled, as Fulgrim slammed him against a pillar.

Fulgrim laughed. ‘Haven’t you been listening? I didn’t make you. They did. All that you are was written by them, at the beginning of time. Rejoice, Fabius – you are an important cog in an extraordinary machine.’

‘You’re mad.’

‘Yes. As you are mad. As the universe is mad.’ Fulgrim caught the back of his head in an iron grip. ‘But think of what you could accomplish, Fabius, if you but accepted the gifts of the Dark Prince… as I have become, so might you be.’

‘I have no wish to be as you are.’

Fulgrim’s grip tightened. ‘You are lying, Fabius. I am perfection itself. I am Vitruvian Man, sculpted from the lifeblood of the universe. Isn’t that how you once described me?’

‘Once, maybe. You are something else, now.’ Fabius winced as Fulgrim’s claws dug into his scalp. He felt blood run down his neck.

‘And you are nothing, Fabius. You exist only at my sufferance. But even my patience has its limits.’ He pressed Torment against Fabius’ chest.

‘Will you kill me then, Father? Will you tear me asunder in a fit of childish pique? Or will you tell me why you have brought me here?’

Fulgrim released him, and Fabius stumbled. ‘Direct as ever, my son.’ Fulgrim slithered past him, licking his bloody fingers. ‘You have a part to play, as do we all.’

Fabius touched the back of his head. The wounds had already scabbed over. He started after Fulgrim. ‘And that is?’

‘Nothing too onerous, I assure you. You will forge weapons. You will make soldiers. You will provide them to your enemies and allies alike. You will seek out ways to improve them, and work to do so tirelessly.’

‘Why?’

‘Because the game of war cannot be waged without weapons and warriors to wield them.’ Fulgrim cast Torment into the dirt at Fabius’ feet.

Fabius looked up. ‘Once, you did not think of war as entertainment.’

Fulgrim hesitated. For a moment, his monstrousness receded, and Fabius saw a glimmer of the man he had been. ‘Once, I was but a child, and believed childish things. War is a game, and one must play to win.’

‘And am I part of this war now?’

‘You have always been a part of it. You just didn’t know it. Even now, I suspect your arrogance will not allow you to admit it.’ Fulgrim smiled. ‘In that, at least, you far outstrip me. Were it possible, I might be proud of you for that.’

He leaned close, and Fabius could smell the celestial rot beneath his perfumes.

‘You come here to ask for my help. This is my price. This is Slaanesh’s price. Do as you are meant to do, and your creations will be spared the coming storm. We will take them under our wing, Fabius. We will teach them and guide them. I was the greatest of teachers in my day. I look forward to tutoring them in new ways to shout, revel and kill.’

‘You will do nothing of the sort.’

Fulgrim reared, as if in shock. ‘But that is the bargain.’

‘The bargain is for their safety. From you, as well as my other foes. My creations – all of them – will be left unmolested, to find their fate as they see fit.’

‘And if they choose to serve us, as dear Melusine did?’

Fabius was silent for long moments. ‘Then that is their choice.’ He looked up at Fulgrim. ‘Unlike you, Father, I have learned from my mistakes.’

Fulgrim smiled. ‘And that is why you are my favourite, Fabius. Rather than making the same mistakes over and over again, you make brand new ones. It keeps things ever so interesting.’ He turned, head tilted as if listening to some voice that Fabius could not perceive. A moment later, he turned back. ‘Agreed. A good bargain.’

‘Very well.’ Fabius turned. ‘I will take my leave now.’

‘Oh no. Not yet.’ Fulgrim swiftly encircled him. ‘First, a sign of fealty is required.’

‘What sort of sign?’

Fulgrim’s smile was wider than his face. A moment later, the garden ceased to be. It blew away like dust, taking with it Fulgrim and Melusine, leaving only the black and the stars between.

‘What must I do?’ he asked, in that moment of utter silence. ‘What must I do to keep my children safe?’

In answer, something rose from nothing. A flat stone. As long as a man and wider by half, not carved by human hands. Shaped instead by time and tide, into a perfect altar. The first altar and the last. And on its flat surface – a knife. A crude thing, with a blade of chipped stone and a handle wrapped in animal hair.

Fabius stared at it. He looked up, but no answer was forthcoming. There was only a pregnant silence, as the gods waited to see what he would do. He went to the altar and picked up the knife. It weighed nothing, and yet was heavier than any weapon known to man.

He looked down. His armour, his coat – all gone. The chirurgeon and Torment as well. He was alone. For the first time in centuries, he was truly alone. He examined himself with an Apothecary’s eye – the thinness of his frame, the way his flesh wrinkled against his bones, the rawness of the contact nodes, the liver spots, the stink of weakness.

‘A… friend of mine has often told me that there are only two types of people – those who lie on the stone, and those who hold the knife. I think I have held this knife forever. For longer than I can recall.’ As he spoke, he brandished it. The stone became steel, and the knife became a scalpel, if only for an instant. He remembered his experiments – the faces of those sacrificed in order to buy him time, to buy him knowledge. Freedom.

The faces of his brothers at Isstvan and beyond. Of a thousand innocents, on Terra.

Of his children, as their world burned.

‘But now, it is my turn to lie on the stone. To ensure that the sun rises and the crops grow and that my people are safe.’

He climbed onto the altar and clasped the knife with two hands. It took a moment to steady it. To steel himself, though he had done worse things to himself many times before. He pressed the point of the blade to his chest.

He barely felt it go in. But he felt what came after.

Fabius screamed, and there was a sound, as of a great wind roaring through unseen trees. Then – silence.

‘There now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?’

Fabius, bloody and panting, glared at his gene-father. He rolled off of the altar and looked down at himself. There was no sign of the wound in his chest, and he was once more clad in his armour. The chirurgeon chuntered into his ear. The garden spread out around him once more. Daemons watched from the fringes, tittering with glee. Some he thought he even recognised. Creatures he had faced before and banished – now come to gloat at his surrender.

Sickened, he extended the knife. It was still wet with his blood.

‘Would that I had the strength to flense your scales from your bones, Father. I would teach you lessons of agony that you would never forget.’

Fulgrim raised an eyebrow. ‘Fabius… I have never heard you speak so.’ He smiled. ‘Maybe you aren’t such a disappointment after all.’ He took the knife and licked the blood from it. ‘You can find your own way home, I trust. Dear Narvo and that urchin with the hooves are waiting for you.’

‘What about our bargain. What about the aid you promised me?’

Fulgrim glanced over his shoulder as he continued to slither away. ‘The bargain will be kept, my son. Never fear. Though you may wish otherwise, before we are through with you.’ With that, he vanished into the greenery, leaving behind only the echoes of his taunting laughter. Fabius took a step after him, but stopped.

Melusine was waiting for him when he turned.

‘Melusine,’ he began.

‘Not yet, Father.’ She stepped back, out of reach. ‘But soon. They will be coming for you. You must prepare.’

Fabius let his hand drop. At her words, his hearts shuddered. He touched his chest.

‘When?’

When he looked up, she was gone.

Part Three

THE BATTLE OF BELIAL IV

993.M37

Chapter Twenty

Waking the Tower

Hexachires led Oleander into the meeting chamber. It occupied the lowest point of the Tower and Oleander felt his stomach shift unpleasantly as he took in the non-Euclidian geometry of the space.

‘Now, Oleander,’ Hexachires said. ‘You will be on your best behaviour, I trust. No attempting to escape.’

Oleander didn’t reply. The chamber resembled an immense spiral of bone, dotted with balconies and long benches of fossilised ligament. Each twist of the spiral acted as a row, looking down on the chamber’s centre. A long ramp, made from what looked like fused vertebral sections, extended from the cathedral-like entrance to the raised dais at the centre. The dais was equipped with grav-units, allowing it to rise and move around the chamber. Several wracks were stationed atop it, ready to see to its workings.

Other, more heavily armoured wracks guarded the ramp and the other entrances scattered about the spiral. These were not the distorted assistants employed in laboratoriums or on raids, but a warrior caste. Their armour was attached to them somehow, and the vicious-looking weapons they carried were surgically implanted into their forearms.

Hexachires followed his gaze. ‘Another thing you have to thank your master for. It was during my studies of his physiology that I hit upon the idea of replicating the more practical aspects of his condition. While mon-keigh powered armour is crude, my designs are more elegant. Each warrior grows his own, derived from induced silicates in his own blood and marrow. The armour plates sprout within a few weeks, covering them like a crustacean’s shell. As hard as ceramite, but self-repairing.’

‘Clever,’ Oleander said. He looked around. Many of the benches and balconies were occupied. At least a hundred haemonculi were in attendance, maybe more. ‘I didn’t realise there were this many of you.’

‘There usually aren’t. Diomone has convened the Synod. It is rare for the entirety of the coven to gather in such a way. Normally, we only do it when it is time to elect a new master.’

‘They intend to overthrow you, then,’ Oleander said. ‘My condolences.’

Hexachires snorted. ‘Don’t get your hopes up, Oleander. A new master is elected only when the old one is… indisposed. And it would be considered gauche to murder me here, in front of everyone. No… no, they are curious, that is all. Gossip is as valuable as fresh samples in these halls.’

‘Well, you’ve given them plenty to talk about.’

Hexachires gestured with the pain-baton. Oleander grunted as his limbs convulsed. Hexachires watched him twitch for a moment, before sighing.

‘You are probably right. I have allowed pride to blind me,’ he said softly. ‘I thought of it as a duel, when it was merely pest control. But now that we have his location, thanks to the Harlequins, we can bring this affair to a satisfactory conclusion.’

He thrust the pain-baton back into his robes and proceeded down the walkway. Oleander stumbled after him.

‘Take this lesson to your hearts, Oleander,’ Hexachires continued. ‘There is no enemy save that which you make for yourself. All others are merely momentary impediments or minor frustrations, to be dealt with in as efficient a fashion as one can muster.’ He climbed atop the dais and it rose into the air with a soft hum, where it spun in slow circles above the audience chamber. Oleander was left standing on the ramp.

Hexachires went to the lectern. A wrack crouched before it, holding up an archaic-looking broadcaster. Hexachires tapped it, eliciting a hollow boom that echoed throughout the chamber. He cleared his throat, and began.

‘Brothers and sisters, I come before you with a heavy heart. Despite my best efforts, our quarry has slipped the noose and fled to parts unknown.’

A wasp-hum of jeers and insults rose from the haemonculi seated on the benches. To Oleander, they looked like so many furious insects, disturbed from their hive. Hexachires raised his hands, and slowly they fell silent.

‘I am angry as well, my friends. It burns in me twice as hot, for is the responsibility not mine? Was I not the one who invited this treacherous fiend into our innermost demesnes?’

A chorus of scornful assent met these words. Hexachires basked in the opprobrium. He spread his hands in mock helplessness.

‘I can only beg your forgiveness. I thought to fix my mistake, to bring this treacherous beast to heel myself, but I see now that such is beyond even my skill. Thus, I turn to you, the Synod of the Thirteen Scars, and ask for your aid in dealing with the problem before us.’

‘And why should we do that, Hexachires?’ a haemonculus shouted. ‘This is your mess. You clean it up.’ Heads nodded and a sprinkling of applause filtered through the chamber.

‘As I said before, Ominilian, I’ve tried.’ Hexachires pinned the heckler with a stare. ‘And this mess goes beyond me. Though I am ultimately responsible, it was our weakness – our weakness – that allowed him to steal away with our secrets. Why, even you, Ominilian… did you not teach him the best way to cultivate cerebral tissue?’ He swung an accusing finger towards another haemonculus. ‘Or you, Xactzer – weren’t you the one who taught him the art of mass bio-replication?’ The finger twitched to the left. ‘And you, Margilias… what sweet nothings did he whisper in your ear to convince you to give up your secrets concerning increased dermal elasticity?’

More murmurs at this, but the tone was not jeering this time. Oleander read concern on the sea of alien faces. Those that had faces, at least. Especially those Hexachires had called out by name.

‘We are all guilty,’ Hexachires continued. ‘Guilty of the sin of pity. One cannot look upon such a creature and not feel a flicker of sympathy. That is our failing, brothers and sisters – the milk of kindness curdles thick in our veins. We have ever been victims to it. We bestow our gifts upon the weak and the needy, do we not? The little kabals of Low Commorragh have ever sought out our services – for they know that we… care.’

Hexachires looked around. ‘We are philanthropists, brothers and sisters. And not for the first time, our good nature has been taken advantage of.’ He slapped the lectern. ‘The other covens – they see this, and they whisper. They whisper that we are weak. And we are. What is kindness but weakness, after all?’

He paused, letting the silence build. He leaned over the lectern. ‘That is why I sought him out, this perfidious mon-keigh. For us. For you. As master, it was my responsibility.’ He tore at his coat, the picture of mournful regret. ‘My duty.’

He hunched forward, flesh-mask writhing. Oleander wondered if those were actual tears glistening in the rubbery folds.

‘But I failed,’ he said heavily. ‘We will be made pariahs – worse, prey. Every kabal in Commorragh will swarm to tear at our flesh like hungry spire-bats. We will be cast down from our lofty perch and scattered.’ He paused. ‘I’m sure some of you would find new homes. But others… well.’

‘We know this, Hexachires,’ Diomone spoke up. She stood high on a back bench, surrounded by supporters. ‘As our leader, you were supposed to handle the matter. Instead, you allowed the mon-keigh to escape.’

‘Lest you forget, dear Diomone, you were with me there. And you, Arcuryate. Resthemenes. Elishia. Four of your number accompanied me and none foresaw our quarry’s escape. He is clever – I warned you. Too clever to continue playing these silly games with.’ Hexachires sighed loudly and shook his head. ‘I admit it – I made an error in judgement. I was gripped by hubris. But no more.’ He leaned over the lectern. ‘The strength of this synod has always rested in its unity. Together, we have made wonders. Let us make one more.’

‘Pretty words, but how will we find him?’ Diomone demanded. Her supporters added their voices to hers. ‘Have you somehow divined his location?’

‘I prefer to say I deduced it,’ Hexachires said. This elicited some scattered laughter. Hexachires had his own supporters, however few and far between. He gestured, and a fleshy polyp rose from beneath the dais. As it stretched up past the hovering dais, it sprouted a pearly orb at its tip. The orb began to shimmer with an unhealthy radiance as Hexachires spread his hands over it.

The radiance congealed into a beam of light that spilled across the air, splitting into an arterial diagram of the webway.

‘Behold – the webway node of the forgotten temple-palace of Asuryan,’ Hexachires boomed. ‘An opening between one world and another.’

‘We all know what a webway node is, Hexachires,’ Diomone said.

‘Just making sure,’ Hexachires said. ‘This webway node is special, as you might guess. For it is our route to the heart of our quarry’s territory. And quite a large route, too. One fit for an army.’ He looked around. ‘Our army.’

Silence. For a moment, Oleander wondered if he’d lost them. Then, Hexachires spread his arms.

‘You see? This is the chance we have been hoping for. We will turn his petty empire into a boneyard. Tear down every bastion, burn every planet to a cinder. We will purge his creations from the stars. I will make him a memory, and soon not even that.’

Hexachires turned, looking down on the attentive faces of his coven. ‘No more games. No more petty butchery. Our pride is at stake, brothers and sisters. He spat on us and cast aside our friendship. I will not have it.’ He brought his fists down on the lectern. ‘I will not have it!’ He loomed over them. ‘We will make all Commorragh tremble with our cruelty. We will make such an example of Fabius Bile as to make the stars themselves weep.’

The histrionics had the desired effect. Haemonculi rose from their benches and applauded in polite frenzy. Some, like Diomone, frowned and did not clap. But neither did they argue. Hexachires was still speaking, but Oleander was no longer paying attention.

Instead, his gaze was fixed on a colourful figure sitting high above all the rest. Veilwalker, come to ensure that Hexachires did as he promised. For a moment, her face was that of a drukhari he didn’t recognise. Then it was that of Peshig, a fixed smile on his narrow features before sliding into an approximation of Oleander’s own.

He stared at himself, and his hands clenched into fists. A moment later, Veilwalker was gone. Oleander forced himself to relax as the dais descended and Hexachires stepped down.

‘Do you see, Oleander?’ he called out. ‘As I said, a satisfactory conclusion.’

‘Yes,’ Oleander said. ‘Now what?’

Hexachires swept past him. ‘Now? Now we wake the Tower.’

Hexachires chuckled. ‘Why so sour, Diomone? Can it be that you are disappointed?’ He swept down the ramp, the edges of his coat in his hands. Attendants scuttled after him, murmuring excitedly amongst themselves.

He couldn’t find it in his heart to blame them. They were about to assist him with a once in a lifetime event. He would have them killed afterwards, of course. Couldn’t have them sharing what they’d seen. But no reason to spoil their fun just yet.

‘Not disappointed,’ Diomone said. ‘Perplexed.’ She followed his attendants and Oleander followed her. She glanced back at him suspiciously, as if wondering whether the mon-keigh were planning to pounce on her again. Hexachires had ordered Oleander to follow her for that very reason. Diomone needed the occasional reminder of her place in the scheme of things. It kept her from getting airs above her station.

‘How might I enlighten you?’

‘How did you find it?’ she asked.

‘Why – I looked for it,’ he said, with aggrieved innocence. ‘Why do you think I sequestered myself for all those weeks?’

‘We assumed you were sulking.’

Hexachires stopped. She was forced to stop as well, or risk running into him. He turned.

‘Careful, dear Diomone. I am not against the occasional jibe, but as Master of the Synod, I feel I am owed a certain amount of respect.’ He tapped a talon against her nose. ‘Now, to answer your question, I triangulated its position based on webway access to Fabius’ caches. Our probes made it clear that he has been hard at work shoring up certain sections and reinforcing others… such work requires ready access to raw materials and slaves. So, I simply… connected the dots, you might say.’

‘Why didn’t you do it earlier?’

Hexachires paused. Diomone was no fool. It was clear she suspected something. Nor was she alone in her suspicions. He had no doubt that the others were watching this whole conversation through the data-feed of those artificial eyes of hers. Waiting for him to say or do something foolish, so that they could turn on him with clean consciences.

He could not say how they would react if they knew the Harlequins were involved. It was possible that they would react poorly indeed. Diomone certainly would. Her loyalty was a frayed strand, waiting for the right moment to snap. That was why he’d insisted on her company. The closer he kept her, the less likely she was to cause trouble. Or, at the very least, he’d be able to react in time to mitigate whatever disaster she caused.

‘Adversity sharpens the wits,’ he said. ‘Something to bear in mind, perhaps.’ He turned and pressed on. Time was of the essence. A mobilisation such as he was planning required permission from the Overlord, even if only tacitly. Permission Hexachires did not have and could not afford to waste time getting.

Ahead of him, the central ganglion of the Tower waited. Though the structure was a living thing, it had no brain as such. Rather, it had thousands of them – simple knots of nerve-fibre that controlled a set number of autonomic functions. But those ganglia could be controlled from a central point, here in the heart of the structure. The chamber was ovoid in shape, with a low ceiling and a concave floor. A canopy of nerve tissue stretched across the walls and ceiling, stretching towards the central ganglion from all directions.

If the need was great, the central ganglion could be manipulated to take direct control of the Tower’s functions. And Hexachires judged that the current need was great indeed. Peshig – or rather Veilwalker wearing Peshig’s face – had already convinced Salar and Avara to join forces once more. Their kabals had swelled in the weeks following their return to Commorragh, both in influence as well as numbers. Success was the best balm, and they had already forgiven him for his outburst – or so they claimed.

But three minor kabals would not be enough. For victory to be won, the Thirteen Scars must go to war. And going to war without permission risked eliciting the wrath of Asdrubael Vect. Ordinarily, Vect’s wrath was not something he concerned himself with. But these days, well… things were less certain.

It was a tightrope, and he the acrobat, ushering his hapless coven across the void. A show of force that would resonate in a hurricane of whispers, through Low Commorragh and High alike. All would know the Thirteen Scars and fear them.

As they would fear him.

Thinking on it now, he could see that Fabius had actually done them a great favour. For too long the Scars had hung in the dark, content to feed on the detritus of the city above. But now, there was a fire in their belly and a hunger singing in their blood. Vengeance was a powerful motivator. They would rise as they had never done before, and take their place among the true horrors of the Dark City.

And it was all thanks to one heedless mon-keigh.

‘We are taking a great risk, doing this,’ Diomone said, hurrying after him. Irritated, he wondered if he ought to have Oleander snap her neck here and now. A waste, perhaps. Then, a little waste might save a lot later.

‘Risk, Diomone, is the whetstone of opportunity.’

‘What does that mean?’

Hexachires didn’t reply. He opened the eyes inserted into the back of his neck, fixing them on Oleander. Another bit of potential waste to consider. He no longer required the mon-keigh’s assistance, and yet he found himself reluctant to do away with the creature. One never knew when one might need such a specimen. And the brute was ever so entertaining – especially now that he was suitably broken to the lash.

Plus, there was his knowledge of the Harlequins to consider. Veilwalker had spun this whole situation for her own benefit – that much was clear. And that, in itself, was almost as much an insult as Fabius’ theft. The Harlequins would need to be taught proper respect for their betters as well.

But not yet.

The central ganglion rose before him, suspended in a web of nerve tissue. A bulging mass of neural matter, studded with contact ports and data-nodes. He paused, weighing the risks. The Tower had never moved, though it was designed to do so. There was no telling whether or not it would perform as Fabius had claimed that it would.

He considered the possibility of some last-minute trap. Some engineered flaw, designed to take advantage of his hubris. Fabius had so loved his little traps. A thrill of… not fear, but anticipation gripped him.

‘What are you waiting for?’ Diomone asked from behind him.

Hexachires clamped his hands against the ganglion. Wire-thin cilia emerged from his palms and wrists, inserting themselves into the contact-probes. He stiffened as a sudden rush of data flowed through him. For a moment, he saw the Tower from every angle, both within and without. He felt the wind on its skin as if it were his own. He felt the rot, deep in his bones. Like an ache that could never be fixed.

He surfaced from the flood of information, and sent a pulse of command to the mooring ligaments. The Tower began to shudder. It started as a small tremor, developing into a bone-rattling quake. He heard the panicked cries of slaves, and felt the internal contractions as the other haemonculi sealed off their laboratories. Alarm klaxons sounded, filling the corridors with a persistent wail.

More ligaments released their holds on the underside of Commorragh. Those already loose began to wind about one another, entwining for strength and support. As the Tower rocked back and forth on its perch, its base began to ripple. Hundreds of thousands of crude, half-formed polypus limbs erupted from the rugose meat. Claws sank into the bottom of Commorragh, keeping the Tower from plummeting into the darkness below.

Then, slowly but surely, the Tower of Flesh began to move.

It was not movement as a biped might understand it. Rather it was the heaving squirm of an immense maggot. The interior of the Tower shuddered far in excess of its motion, as thousands of chambers, transit conduits and galleries reoriented themselves along new poles. Gases vented from pneumatic joints as halls swung into position, and lights flickered within the techno-organic tissues that lined the interior of the central node.

‘It rises,’ Hexachires roared, elated. The greatest gift Fabius Bile had given the Thirteen Scars would be the implement of their vengeance. Could anything be more satisfying?

Again, he sought out Oleander. A small part of him hoped the mon-keigh was impressed. But instead of looking about in awe, as was appropriate, Oleander stood frozen, head tilted. The air about him shimmered with an oily sheen that Hexachires recognised all too well.

‘Veilwalker was right. It’s back.’

Diomone turned, following his gaze. ‘What?’

‘The daemon.’ Hexachires grasped the back of her neck. ‘Stay where you are, but look – there, can those oh-so-brilliant eyes of yours see it?’

Diomone gasped at the strength of his grip, but she knew better than to struggle. ‘No, I– wait. Yes.’ He heard the distinctive click of internal mechanisms sliding home. ‘There’s something there. A warp entity?’

Hexachires reached into his robes and retrieved a crystalline device. He had crafted it himself from wraithbone crystals grown in a solution of warp ichor, and shaped for a very specific function.

‘Keep her in sight a moment longer, dear Diomone. And do keep still. We will only have one chance at this.’

‘What is that thing?’ she hissed, tensing as he braced the device on her shoulder. ‘Some sort of weapon?’

‘Not quite. More like… a tuning fork. Daemons, you see, are in some sense rogue frequencies – undetectable to the perceptions of most mortals, save those who are properly attuned, or whose perceptions are heightened in some fashion. Now, these frequencies can be strengthened or weakened by certain applications – one might call them rituals.’ Hexachires adjusted his aim slightly. He wondered what the creature was saying to Oleander. Nothing useful, he expected. But its presence was beginning to annoy him.

‘Are you performing one now?’ Diomone whispered. ‘Is that why you’re taking so long to do whatever this is?’

‘No. Rituals are for savages and the superstitious. I have developed a new approach – one built on scientific rigour.’ He paused, his thumb on the activation sigil. ‘Tell me, Diomone, have you ever tasted the pain of a warp entity? It is a heady thing. An epicurean of my acquaintance once allowed me to sample the tears of a–’

‘She’s turning towards us,’ Diomone snapped.

‘Ah. Another time, then.’ He flicked the sigil, and a pulse that was neither sound nor light but somehow both shivered forth in a sharp line. Those wracks unlucky enough to be in its path fell to their knees, clutching their heads and screaming. Diomone did as well, her wails interspersed with curses.

Oleander got the worst of it, of course. Which, Hexachires thought, served him right. The mon-keigh fell back, writhing in pain – and his daemon-lover fell with him. It screamed and thrashed as Hexachires’ frequency scrambled its own. Its form flickered like static as it tried to stand. He shoved Diomone aside and advanced on the entity, loosing another burst from his frequency scrambler. Its screams became animalistic screeches.

Its form was disgustingly feminine, save for those bestial properties which announced its origins. He reached down and caught a handful of its hair, jerking its head back. For an instant, he froze. Its face…

Still holding it, he turned to Diomone. ‘Get a containment unit. Now.’ He turned back to the creature, studying those strikingly familiar features which were the faint echo of another face, from another time. He leaned close.

‘I don’t know what you are, but I expect I will find out soon enough.’

Chapter Twenty-One

Evacuation

Fabius sighed ruefully as he took in the half a dozen hololithic figures surrounding him. Fewer of them had answered his call than he’d hoped, but more than he’d feared.

‘I would not trouble you, brothers, were it not of the utmost importance…’ he began. Raucous laughter cut him off. He waited for it to die down. ‘If you’re finished, time is of the essence.’

‘Your time, you mean,’ one of the figures said.

‘Mine, yes. And by extension, yours as well, Volupus.’ Fabius pointed at the creature – a Noise Marine. One of the later generations, not one of his original Kakophoni. ‘Without me, your warbands will dwindle to nothing in a few decades.’

‘There are other Apothecaries,’ another figure said, in a voice that was little more than a harsh, mechanical growl. ‘You should know this, given that you claim to have trained many of them.’

Fabius turned. ‘And how many of them are willing to deal with you, Vilius? Given your reputation, I imagine that it’s not many.’ He gestured dismissively. ‘Besides which, those I taught are in as much danger as I am, if not more.’

‘Meaning?’ a voice trilled. Fabius looked up at the gaudy figure, clad in silks and feathers over its heavily modified, form-fitting battleplate. He recognised the so-called Second Sensualist of the warband known as the Ripping Nails.

‘Meaning, Glorian, that any who provide sanctuary for my students may soon find themselves under attack as well. Unless we can stop them.’

‘I was under the impression that you’d already tried, Clonelord,’ Glorian countered. ‘And they nearly killed you for it.’

‘Yes.’ Fabius frowned. ‘I underestimated them. It will not happen a second time.’

‘One wonders why we ever elected you lieutenant commander,’ a harmonious voice hummed. The sound of it made Fabius’ teeth itch, even over the vox.

‘I don’t recall asking your opinion on the matter, Caradistros.’

‘Lord Caradistros,’ the Noise Marine corrected. Another latecomer, and like Volupus he was nothing but a pale shadow of the originals, despite the airs he gave himself. Fabius waved the interjection aside.

‘How quickly promotion comes to the undeserving. I remember when you were nothing more than a humble line officer.’ He looked around. ‘I remember all of you. And I remember how I helped each of you ascend to your current position, though you might wish otherwise.’ He struck the floor with Torment, causing the projections to flicker. ‘I am calling in my marker, brothers. Fail to honour the bargain we made and I will see to it that you pay, in this life – or the next.’

‘Or we could let them kill you, and watch as daemons tear your soul to shreds,’ Glorian said. ‘You have lorded your fleshcrafter’s skills over us for centuries. Forcing us to come crawling to you, to beg the wise man of the mountain for his largesse. You are no better than that dog Eidolon, or that preening jackanapes Lucius… You think that because you were with the Phoenician at the beginning we should bow before you.’

‘Not at all,’ Fabius said. ‘I think you should bow before me because I am your superior. More, without me, you would not exist.’ Anger speared through him, sudden and hot. ‘The Legion itself would be dust on the winds of history without me. I saved it. I saved you all, whether you admit it or not. You owe me.’

‘We owe you nothing, Clonelord,’ Vilius snarled. ‘You have been well compensated for your services. More than well. And now you wish us to second ourselves to you once more? For what?’

‘The chance to war on the enemies of the Dark Prince,’ Quin rumbled. The Pilgrim stepped forward from where he had stood, silently observing. ‘Do you know me, whelps?’

‘Narvo Quin,’ Volupus said, almost singing the name. ‘One of the Heroes of Byzas. Your voice is among those which echo in the dark moments, guiding our song.’

‘Then you know that I cannot speak lies. There is no falsehood in the song, only truth.’ Quin pointed his axe at the assembled warband leaders. ‘Slaanesh wills this. The Phoenician himself sent you to do this thing. That is why you hang in orbit even now, dawdling like recalcitrant children. You will come and fight until the song tells you otherwise. Or you will be damned for cowards.’

His words hanging on the air, the projections flickered and vanished one by one. Quin turned to Fabius.

‘I think I convinced one or two of them,’ he said, with some amusement. Fabius shook his head.

‘Hopefully more than that.’ Fabius ran a hand through his hair, and several strands came away, tangled in his fingers. He studied them for a moment, and then allowed a waiting vatborn to clear them away. ‘Regardless, thank you for speaking up. It is appreciated.’ He paused. ‘That said, why are you still here, Narvo?’

‘Curiosity. I wanted to see how you would take it. Whether you would resist or not.’

‘And?’

‘I find myself almost disappointed.’

Fabius laughed again. ‘There’s the Narvo I remember. You were always the perfect soldier. But I am somewhat less enamoured of conflict.’

‘And yet you are now part of the greatest conflict of all.’

‘Yes. The irony is not lost on me.’ Fabius looked around, taking in the high pillars and thick creepers of the atrium. Arrian had expended much effort to make it all grow. It was almost a shame that it would almost certainly be destroyed in the days to come. ‘All too soon, the dying will begin.’

‘And how do you know that?’

‘Because the Tower of Flesh has begun to move.’ Fabius selected another blossom and chewed it. This particular flower was a potent stimulant, especially when brewed. But he’d acquired a taste for chewing them.

‘And what is that?’

‘Another bit of hubris come back to bite my hindquarters. Something I created for my drukhari hosts. I installed several surreptitious sensor relays in its foundations – neural contact-points, connected to my own cerebrum. I felt a twinge a few hours ago. A sure sign that my enemies are on their way. Even as Melusine warned.’

‘How did they find this place?’

‘I don’t know. It doesn’t matter at this point. They are coming and there are things that must be done.’

‘Like sending your creatures to safety.’

‘Yes.’

‘And what will you do if the enemy arrives before they are gone?’

‘I am almost certain that they will. The Emperor of Mankind was wise, if ruthless, and I understand Him better now. We have no purpose but this. We are tools. To be used and cast aside when our use is completed.’

Quin smiled. ‘I never thought to see the day that you would refer to yourself as a tool.’ He studied the strange flowering vines crawling up the void-hardened armourglass walls. One of the fleshy blossoms snapped an insect out of the air and devoured it noisily.

‘Beautiful,’ Quin murmured. ‘Wherever did you find them?’

‘Arrian cultivated them. They’re a hybrid species of some sort. Botany was never one of my abiding interests.’

‘The World Eater?’

‘Yes.’

Quin nodded. ‘Hidden depths.’

‘You would know.’

Quin looked at him. ‘Yes. I suppose I would.’

Fabius was silent for a moment. Then, ‘Will you stay?’

Quin looked away. ‘I do not see how my presence will make a difference to the outcome. I am one man.’

‘You are my brother.’

Quin shook his head. ‘You never had any brothers, Spider. Or if you did, you condemned them. Along with the rest of us.’

‘I condemned no one.’ The words sounded hollow, even to Fabius. ‘I did only what was necessary for the survival of the Legion.’

‘Sometimes it is best to let a patient die, rather than force them to live.’

Fabius looked away. ‘Maybe so. Maybe that was the first step on our road to damnation. Perhaps I shouldn’t have raged against the dying of the light.’

‘The past is in its grave, Fabius. May the gods grant it lie still.’

‘But it doesn’t, does it? It will never rest, so long as we live. We persist, and drag the past in our wake, like a spectre with its chains.’ Fabius teased a blossom with Torment, causing the ridged petals to thrash and curl. ‘Whatever form the future takes, we will always be there. The sins of the past, manifested.’

‘Are you an advocate for self-immolation now?’ Quin asked. ‘There are some among our brothers who’d agree with you, if so. They say we should join hands and walk into the outer dark together, so as to remove ourselves from the universal cycle entirely.’

‘Nihilism has never been among my vices,’ Fabius said.

Quin traced his fingers through the flowers. ‘We are ghosts. Unable to move on, and forced by our creators to haunt the battlefields of the coming millennium. The question then is – what sort of ghost will you be, Fabius?’

Fabius didn’t reply. Lost in his thoughts, he wasn’t aware of when Quin departed.

The Pilgrim did not say goodbye.

Savona watched the images flashing across the tactical screens of the strategium chamber with a mixture of annoyance and awe. Men, women and children came in their hundreds, pouring onto the surface of Belial IV from webway nodes and orbital landers.

‘I never imagined there were so many of them,’ she said. ‘I always thought his talk of repopulating the galaxy was just idle bombast.’

‘Fabius is many things, but never idle,’ Bellephus said, watching beside her. ‘But even so – this is impressive.’

The newcomers did not resemble the panicked refugees she had seen on other worlds, stinking of fear and hope in equal measure. Rather, they reminded her of migrating animals – focused, determined and certain. On every too-perfect face was stamped a look of resolution. Even the children moved with purpose.

‘One mind, one will,’ she murmured. A clockwork species, following the rhythm of their creator. ‘I think the galaxy will be safer with them sealed away.’

‘Undoubtedly,’ Bellephus said. ‘But safer for whom?’

‘Us, mainly.’ She turned. The strategium chamber was crowded. Overseeing a mass evacuation was no small undertaking and required more hands than she possessed. Scavenged atmospheric haulers carrying decades’ worth of accumulated resources were setting out in staggered caravans.

As Fabius’ creations emerged from nodes and landers, they were inspected, recorded and sent on to predetermined evacuation points. When the last of them had arrived, the demolition of the nodes would commence. Fabius had ordered that Belial IV be sealed off from the webway entirely, save for a single node – the route to Omega Redoubt.

She cycled through the data-feeds until she found that one. According to Fabius, the Omega Node had been devised from a stolen drukhari webway portal generator, as well as other scraps culled from raids on nearby crone worlds. It had been erected a safe distance outside the city. It was not large, as such things went. Barely big enough for the atmospheric haulers that were entering its shimmering archway. But it would serve its purpose well enough. Hulking shapes stood sentry around it – Ramos and the Kakophoni. The only creatures Fabius trusted enough to see to the safety of his precious Homo novus.

‘Strange days,’ Bellephus said softly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘It has been… a long time since I last oversaw an evacuation. I thought these days were far behind me.’ He began to scratch something into his armour. ‘Far behind us.’

‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe we should depart. Leave this place.’

Bellephus stopped. ‘You don’t mean that.’

Savona grimaced. ‘No. I suppose not.’ She looked at him. ‘He sent all the others off, you know. But not us.’

‘No. But I doubt he expects us to die here.’

‘Or he doesn’t care.’

Bellephus chuckled. ‘Were you under the impression that he did?’

Savona looked away. ‘I don’t know what I thought.’

Bellephus was silent for a moment. ‘Did you see him?’

‘Who?’

‘The Phoenician.’

She paused. There was a harsh longing in his voice that she had never heard there before. It was the first time he had asked. ‘No,’ she said. ‘He was gone by the time we found Fabius. Whatever passed between them – it was for them alone.’

‘Ah.’ Bellephus went back to his scratching.

She spied something on one of the screens and paused. ‘Is Varex overseeing the inspections at the north-western node?’

‘Yes, why?’ Bellephus leaned over her shoulder. ‘Oh.’

On the screen, a small knot of Emperor’s Children was forcing its way through the crowd issuing from the gate. Savona frowned and tapped her lips thoughtfully.

‘Desertion?’

‘Treachery is more likely.’

Savona laughed. ‘I suppose Varex is stupid enough to think he can bargain with the drukhari.’ She enhanced the image. ‘That crowd is getting angry.’

‘Should I intervene?’

She paused, considering. As she made to answer, she spotted Fabius watching her from the rear of the chamber. ‘Yes,’ she said loudly. ‘Bring them back. In pieces, if you have to. If Varex thinks he’s getting out of this, he’s mistaken.’

Bellephus departed as Fabius joined her. Music followed him, emanating from somewhere about him, a lilting melody that Savona did not recognise.

‘Well handled,’ he said.

‘I am not entirely incompetent.’

‘Your competence is self-evident. What is questionable is your willingness to use that competence for anything other than your own pleasure.’ He paused. ‘Regardless, I am certain that you will find some way to survive the coming conflagration, Savona. You are the proverbial cockroach. It would take far more than the forces arrayed against me to end your existence. Still, if you would like to leave…’

‘No.’

‘Your loyalty does me honour.’

‘It’s not loyalty,’ she said quickly. ‘I think you have a godsdamned plan, Clonelord. And I want to see what it is.’ She ran a hand through her braids. ‘All this scampering to and fro, bargaining with enemies, calling in favours… you’re up to something. You have to be. And I intend to reap the rewards of whatever gambit you put into play.’

Fabius nodded. ‘I wish you good luck in that, Savona of the Ruptured Skein.’

She grimaced. He was laughing at her. He was always laughing at her. ‘You sound like you’re giving up.’

‘No. Never that.’ Fabius gestured, tracing the music through the air. ‘I have no intention of ceding any more ground than I already have. But I am a realist, Savona. I have tilted at windmills long enough. Now comes a time of hard choices.’

‘We could leave,’ she said. ‘Abandon this world, find another.’

‘My foes have shown a remarkable tenacity. They will not cease their search. I would only be delaying the inevitable. No. Better to meet them on my terms, and bring this chapter of my life to an end.’

‘Fine.’ She considered her next words carefully. ‘What do we do about your creatures? Igori and the others. The renegades. The enemy could turn them against us.’

‘They will not.’

‘But they could.’

‘They won’t.’

‘How do you know?’ she insisted.

‘I sent Arrian to talk to them,’ he said. ‘They always preferred his company.’

‘Why not go yourself?’

Fabius paused. ‘She does not want to see me. I will honour that wish.’

Savona laughed. ‘Have I ever told you that you remind me of my father?’

‘Didn’t you kill your father?’

‘Yes, but that’s beside the point. My father gave me everything I could have ever desired – except my freedom. I was nothing more to him than a pet. A pampered one, to be sure. But a pet nonetheless.’

‘Is there a point to this?’

‘Did you ever intend to let her do as you designed her to do? Or was it always a lie?’

Fabius turned off the music. ‘I did not lie to her. Or to them.’

‘And yet they were forced to seize their destiny for themselves.’

‘They were not ready yet.’

‘Would they ever have been?’ Savona picked at her teeth with a talon. ‘I’ve been beside you long enough now to see how your cancerous mind works. You’re an idealist at heart, however much you proclaim your pragmatism. And idealists never know when to stop. They’re always seeking perfection, even when they have already attained it.’

‘If I am an idealist, what does that make you?’

Savona grinned. ‘A hedonist, obviously. As you said, I want pleasure, not perfection. I want an eternity of rapine and plunder, and the skulls of my enemies crunching beneath my hooves. I want to live… to feast on all that the galaxy can provide.’ She tapped his chest with a claw. ‘But you… you want to rewrite the rules. You want to change the story to suit you. And the gods won’t allow that.’

‘So I have been informed – repeatedly.’ He touched his chest. She smiled. She wasn’t sure what had gone on in Fulgrim’s garden, but whatever it was, it had shaken him. That old arrogant certainty of his had taken a dent. It was almost worth all the trouble to see it.

She turned as a mutant gave a garbled yell. She peered at the holo-displays and gave a bark of laughter. ‘Then again, maybe I was wrong.’

‘What are you blathering about?’ Fabius asked.

She expanded the display, showing him several unfamiliar gunships dropping through the upper reaches of the atmosphere. Each of them bore the heraldry of the III Legion.

‘It seems the gods are looking out for you after all.’

Chapter Twenty-Two

Prisoners of Flesh

Hexachires turned to his guests.

‘As you can see, under my leadership, the Thirteen Scars are quite capable of waging war. It is only rarely cost-efficient to do so, however. The Tower of Flesh is a vessel unlike any other in the galaxy – a leviathan of bio-sculpted meat and muscle, held together by a latticework of bone, ligament and fatty tissue. Vast plates of armoured bone sheathe what few vulnerabilities it has, and its connective tissue is reinforced with wraithbone. A mobile bastion, capable of shattering the defences of any lesser redoubt.’

Hexachires preened as he spoke, sunken chest puffed out and hands clasped before him like the talons of an enormous insect. Or so it seemed to Oleander. He squatted unobtrusively near the centre of the chamber, watching as Hexachires showed off his toy to his allies. Avara and Peshig – or rather, Veilwalker – looked suitably impressed. Salar just looked bored.

Oleander wondered how Veilwalker had convinced the other two archons to join Hexachires. Perhaps they were simply greedy. Profit from raids rarely lasted long, especially in Low Commorragh. He looked around.

The chamber had once sat at the lowest point of the Tower. Now, it acted as a strategium hall. The slick bone-plates of the floor were covered in tangles of fibrous cabling and shimmering boils the size of a slave’s head, newly grown for this outing. Each boil was in actuality a display node, connected to several of the innumerable sensors studding the outer dermis of the Tower.

Wracks crouched over these boils, manipulating their angles of view with quick flicks of their fingers. Each of the wracks had a glistening strand of techno-organic tissue emerging from a contact port at the base of their skull. The strands all fed into a central node, formed from what appeared to be raw neural tissue and something that might have once been a cogitator system. The node itself was taller than a drukhari, and flowered at the top, forming a smooth, seat-like dimple.

Diomone sat here, surrounded by an irregular array of polyps covered in raised weals of scar tissue. As Oleander watched, her fingers danced across the scars, making minute changes to the Tower’s stride and balance, compensating for the varied contortions of the webway. She noticed his gaze, and returned it challengingly.

‘What?’ she demanded.

‘Merely admiring your skill at the controls.’

She snorted. ‘You say that as if it is something anyone can learn.’ She tapped the side of her head, indicating the profusion of cortical connectors inserted along the sides of her skull and the length of her spine. ‘Controlling this monstrosity requires an extra cerebral lobe as well as a dozen new nerve endings to compensate for the constant flow of data.’

‘Fascinating. And if something were to happen to you?’

‘Then one of my other colleagues would take her place,’ Hexachires said, as he placed his hands on Oleander’s shoulders. ‘Or perhaps even you, Oleander. After all, your master helped design this system. It has since been modified, of course, but I suspect with a bit of jiggery-pokery we could get it up and running with you at the controls. Or in them, as it were.’ His grip tightened, his claws digging in and releasing thin trickles of blood. He leaned close and murmured, ‘So don’t get any ideas.’

Oleander didn’t flinch. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

‘Of course not. Not when we’re so close to victory!’ Hexachires raised a fist in somewhat melodramatic fashion. Polite applause greeted this exclamation. Hexachires wheeled about, flesh-mask twisting into a scowl. Peshig’s clapping trailed off, and he – she – smiled widely.

‘A marvellous display, Hexachires. And a marvellous engine, besides.’

‘Yes. One wonders why you even need us,’ Avara said.

Hexachires smiled. ‘I do not. We do not.’ He held up a talon, before she could reply. ‘But, I regret my earlier rudeness. I treated you shabbily, and offer you this opportunity by way of apology. You are among the coven’s finest patrons, and I would not see us fall out over a difference of opinion.’

‘He means he needs our warriors,’ Salar said.

Hexachires shot him a glare. ‘We have army enough for the task at hand, and more besides, I assure you. But I did not bring you three aboard simply to show off. No, I wished to discuss the revels to come. We are drawing near to the access node. A few more days’ travel and we will be knocking at their threshold.’

‘Yes, and how convenient that you managed to locate this spur of the webway,’ Avara said suspiciously. ‘Almost as if you knew about it all along.’

Hexachires pressed a hand to his heart. ‘I assure you, I did not. But I agree that it is most fortunate. Perhaps the Dark Muses are looking out for us.’

Peshig – Veilwalker – coughed. ‘One god is much the same as another. At any rate, I suggest we approach with caution.’

‘Indeed. Which is why Oleander is here, to act as our native guide. Oleander – speak.’ Hexachires gestured to him grandly.

Avara looked at him. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t kill this beast, after that last debacle.’

‘There is still some use to be had of him yet,’ Hexachires said. He snapped his fingers impatiently. ‘Speak, slave.’

Oleander cleared his throat. ‘If he stays true to form, he will have established his apothecarium as close to the centre of the city as possible. Defences are staggered, mostly automated weapon emplacements or gun-servitors.’

‘Troops?’ Salar growled.

‘Some, perhaps. More than usual, if he suspects we’re coming for him. He favours dispersed positioning…’

‘All the better to pick them apart,’ Avara said, tapping her holstered blast-pistol. ‘Though I’m not looking forward to fighting more of those armoured beasts.’

‘I am,’ Salar said. He caressed the hilt of his sword as he spoke, and the others sidled away from him. Salar’s bloodlust had only got worse in the intervening weeks.

Hexachires signalled to Diomone, and she activated the chamber’s hololithic system. ‘Due to my diligence, we have maps of the city surrounding the node. I suggest you familiarise yourselves with them. When the attack begins, we will have little time to reconnoitre.’

‘I have already despatched scouts to range ahead and make an accurate assessment of any defences this particular node might possess,’ Avara said. Hexachires glanced at her, and then nodded.

‘Excellent.’

Oleander turned away as they began to discuss their strategy. He had no interest in it. No interest in anything. He felt numb. Broken. More so than ever before – as if he’d lost some vital spark.

Oleander…

He stiffened. ‘Melusine,’ he murmured. She did not reply. Could not reply. Hexachires had caged her high in the Tower. A flush of something that might have been guilt filled him. He’d tried to warn her that Hexachires was up to something, but she hadn’t listened. She’d merely smiled and kissed him, the way she’d done the moment they first met. His lips still burned, though they had not touched hers.

He’d not thought it possible for Hexachires to capture her, though he’d seen Fabius do it often enough. The question was, what to do about it? What could he do?

‘You were supposed to kill him.’

The words whispered through him. He turned slightly, glancing up at Diomone. Her mouth had not moved, but the words came regardless.

‘You’ve had any number of chances to strike. Why haven’t you?’

‘The time is not yet right,’ he sub-vocalised, trusting that Diomone could hear him.

‘You don’t have long, mon-keigh. If he succeeds, his position will be unassailable.’

‘That’s your problem, not mine.’

‘It’s both our problems, fool. If he realises that helm of yours isn’t working as he intended, he’ll kill you out of hand.’

‘Then I will just have to make sure he doesn’t realise it.’ As he spoke, he looked up.

Veilwalker was watching him, a knowing smile on her false face.

After the others had departed, Hexachires allowed himself an indulgence – one he was only too delighted to share with Oleander. At the top of the Tower was an observation chamber, and within that chamber was a cell. Shaped from crystals plucked from the arterial tracts of the Tower, the cell was a hexagon – six facets, each etched with certain sigils and runes culled from the works of long-dead sages and philosophers.

Inside the cell, the daemon crouched. No longer was she a glorious terror, but instead shrivelled and hollow-looking. Like a victim of some chronic ailment. Her hair was matted and limp, the sheen of her hooves dulled and her frame shrunken tight to hypothetical bones.

‘She’s looking a bit withered, poor thing,’ he said. Oleander did not reply. Hexachires glanced at him. ‘I’m starving her, you know. Daemons, much like my people, feed on the emotional current of their victims. Deny them that current, and they shrivel up like fruit left in the sun. Only, unlike fruit, they never quite rot away. She’ll persist, and grow ever more frail, until I decide to feed her, or release.’

‘But you do not intend to do either,’ Oleander said. Hexachires smiled.

‘No. I don’t. Instead, I intend to pull her apart, and see what she is made of. I have experimented on daemons before, but none quite like this. Something about her reminds me of… him. Why is that, do you think?’

Again, Oleander said nothing. Hexachires brandished the pain-baton. ‘Reticence serves no one, Oleander. I barely get any satisfaction from your screams, these days. Tell me, and perhaps I will give her to you when I am done. A Neverborn pet of your very own.’

Oleander looked at him, and something in his gaze made Hexachires sidle back. He held up the baton between them.

‘Not quite broken yet, are you?’ he murmured. ‘Not quite. But you will be, soon enough. Is she a spy, then?’

‘I do not know.’

‘Lying again, I think.’ Hexachires leaned forward. ‘Yes. I think she’s a spy – a filthy little spy, whispering my plans to Fabius. How else could he have escaped? And you are in it with her. A pair of eyes in my camp.’ He prodded Oleander with the pain-baton. ‘Confess, and I will be lenient.’

‘Have you ever heard the story of the Trueborn who taunted the ur-ghul?’

Hexachires straightened as Peshig entered the chamber. The archon’s form shimmered and bled away into something altogether gaudier. Veilwalker shook her head in mock consternation.

‘What are you doing here, clown?’

‘Merely coming to ensure that all the pieces are in place.’ She lifted Oleander’s chin with her staff. ‘Count Sunflame kneels at the feet of the Lord of Knives, his bride caged, sickening from fear and want.’

‘Another story, then?’

‘A good story. Do you know it?’

‘I have no interest in stories.’

‘You did once, Hexachires Ulthiliad.’

He grimaced, his flesh-mask rippling. ‘You use that name like a scalpel.’

‘I use it to remind you of your place, as you use that baton to remind him. The stage for this drama was set long before you set aside your paints and picked up the butcher’s blade.’ The Harlequin leaned close. ‘There are others who would serve as well as you in the role. Remember that.’

He laughed. ‘Would you replace me then, at this late a date? I think not. You need me, and know well that I am not some half-wit archon from a minor kabal. And I am content to let you play out your little drama, so long as I get what I want – even if, as I suspect, you engineered this whole debacle for your own benefit.’

Veilwalker leaned on her staff. ‘In one story, as his kingdom sickened, the Lord of Knives sought out the King of Feathers, in order to cure a plague,’ she said, as if to a child. ‘To that end, he captured Count Sunflame and his bride on their day of marriage. For he knew that the count could lead him to the king.’

‘That thing is no one’s bride,’ Hexachires said, indicating the daemon.

‘No. It isn’t.’ Veilwalker circled the cage. ‘Hello, child.’

The daemon snarled, and Veilwalker retreated a few steps. Hexachires chuckled.

‘Rest easy, Veilwalker. She cannot escape. Those symbols weaken her. She has no strength.’

‘No. She does not.’ Veilwalker looked at him. ‘You should destroy her.’

Oleander stiffened, and Hexachires caught him by the shoulder. ‘And why would I do that?’ he said, intrigued by the thought. He’d banished such creatures before. There was little difficulty in that, when one had the proper tools. ‘Does she frighten you so much?’

‘Not her.’

‘Meaning?’

‘There is more to a thing, than the thing itself. The shadow on the wall. The ripples on the water. No story ever truly ends. They all continue after the last stanza.’ She tapped the cage with her staff, eliciting another snarl from the daemon. ‘What she is, in this moment, is not what she might become. And it is that possibility which we must prune from the tree of fate, lest it affect all other possibilities.’

Hexachires raised an eyebrow. ‘Nonsense. Utter twaddle. Cryptic drivel. I don’t know why I expected a straight answer.’

He leaned forward, still clutching Oleander. He could feel the tension in the mon-keigh’s bones. Could smell the stink issuing from his pores. He wondered if Oleander was afraid. He hoped so.

‘Go and bother someone else. I have more important matters to attend to than the ramblings of a lunatic clown.’

Veilwalker stared at him for a moment. Or so he assumed. It was hard to tell, what with the mirror mask she wore. He liked to think it was consternation. The Harlequins were too used to getting their own way in these matters. A bit of portentous mumbling and one was supposed to simply acquiesce to whatever idiocy they had planned.

Well, not today. Not ever again.

He’d decided to kill Veilwalker, once things with Fabius were finished. Oleander would make an effective tool for that purpose. There was a sort of poetic justice there, as well. Things would come full circle.

‘We were right to give you the role of Lord of Knives,’ Veilwalker said, after a moment. ‘He too was a vainglorious fool.’

And then she was gone. Hexachires tensed, suddenly uncertain.

In her cage of crystal, the daemon was smiling at him.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Reinforcements

‘The Pilgrim was right. Fulgrim himself pleaded your case,’ Vilius said, as he followed Fabius into the meeting chamber. ‘He graced us with his presence, and told us to come here, saying that we would be rewarded for our service.’ He looked at the others. ‘And so we are here. A gathering of the Third fit to make Eidolon gnaw his vitals in envy.’

‘Something most of us would dearly love to see,’ Glorian added. Along with Vilius, Caradistros and Volupus, they had been joined by Gorgus, who seemed not at all out of place among the hulking legionaries.

The Emperor’s Children had come with warriors and weapons aplenty – four warbands, each the equal of the 12th Millennial. Gorgus had brought his pack – a contingent of Warhound Scout Titans, to accompany his towering Reaver Battle Titan. The god-machines were already being disembarked by the army of slaves that accompanied the princeps wherever he went.

Ramos too had come, leading a sizeable contingent of Noise Marines. Fabius pulled him aside and leaned close.

‘Everything is as it should be?’

Ramos nodded. ‘It is. The garden is protected by a hundred of my choir. They will sing a song of death for any who seek to trespass. And for myself, I brought enough to make a joyful noise indeed.’ He tapped Fabius’ chest. ‘I can see it in you, lieutenant commander. The Shattersong… you have heard it now. It echoes inside you. Can you feel the change beginning?’

Fabius extricated himself and stepped back. ‘Later, perhaps, we will speak more of this. But for now, be silent.’

Ramos gave a harsh, metallic laugh. ‘As you wish, brother.’

As he went to find a seat, Gorgus caught Fabius in a bear hug, laughing.

‘You came,’ Fabius said, clasping the princeps’ forearm in greeting once he’d been released.

‘I said I might. And when I heard that a call had gone out, I could not resist.’ Gorgus spied the table. ‘I see you kept the table,’ he said, rubbing his hand over the porous surface. ‘A good kill, this. I was proud of it.’

‘A fine gift,’ Fabius said. He looked around the chamber. Saqqara and Arrian were already seated, alongside Savona and Bellephus. Savona watched the newcomers closely. Every so often, Bellephus leaned close to murmur something – likely a name, or some bit of trivia about one of the newcomers. Occasionally, she smiled. Mostly, however, she just watched. Gauging. Calculating.

Fabius did the same. He wondered if this was the extent of the aid Fulgrim had promised him. He hoped not. He had a feeling that what was coming was a storm unlike any other. One that not even a force such as this could weather.

He tapped the floor with Torment. ‘As pleased as I am to see you all, we have little time for reminiscences. I expect that the enemy is even now on the way – or soon will be.’

‘How can you be sure?’ Glorian asked. ‘We had a hard enough time finding this world and we were shown the way.’ He leaned back in his seat, fanning himself with an ornate fan made from the feathers of some unknown species of avian.

‘I have certain… sources of information,’ Fabius said. ‘Suffice to say, they are on the move and drawing closer with every passing hour.’

‘Good, I have no patience for long sieges,’ Volupus said, slapping the table with his palm. ‘Give me a quick rush of death any day.’

‘I fear you shall have it, and in spades.’

‘Then what is your plan, lieutenant commander?’ Vilius said. ‘Enlighten us as to your grand strategy.’

Fabius smiled. ‘My strategy, brother, is neither grand nor overly complex.’ He paused. ‘I have initiated the Omega Protocol.’

‘Meaning?’ Glorian said, after a moment’s silence.

‘It means he has called them all home,’ Saqqara said.

‘Who?’

The Word Bearer’s smile was an ugly slash across his scarred features. ‘Every benighted abomination created by his hand. They are all coming here.’

‘Not all,’ Fabius said. ‘Only a third, at most. Those who are in positions of authority – or are under the protection of other powers – will remain. Every clan, pack and hive will send a third of their number through the webway gates. They will follow prearranged routes to Belial IV, where they will be evacuated to the Omega Redoubt.’

‘Which is what?’ Vilius demanded.

‘A fallback position, deep in an isolated spur of the webway. I discovered it during my time in Commorragh. Though they rarely use them, the drukhari have extensive cartographical records of the webway – I… borrowed a number of them during my departure.’ A holo-display shimmered into being over the table. The image of a cavernous spur of the webway took shape. Aeldari ruins were visible, rising in the distance – swooping causeways and onion domes rose over curving structures. The memory of something beautiful.

‘The city is mostly intact,’ Fabius continued. ‘For the past century since my return, I have overseen its restoration and readiness for use. There is food and water, as well as the means to make more of both. Extensive facilities for the construction of industrial and military hardware have been prepared. It even has a copy of my laboratorium…’

‘And a copy of you as well, I bet,’ Savona said.

‘No.’ Fabius was silent for a moment. Then, ‘It is not a place for our kind. No Astartes will cross the threshold of Omega Redoubt. The secret of its location will die with me – this version of me.’

Glorian narrowed his eyes. ‘So what does this have to do with us, then?’

‘It will take time to complete the evacuation.’

Glorian laughed. Volupus and the others looked at him in confusion. He looked around. ‘Don’t you see? He called us here to die. We’re supposed to hold the line while his precious freaks escape to a hidden paradise!’

Silence followed this outburst. Volupus and the others turned to Fabius.

‘Is this true, lieutenant commander?’ Vilius purred.

Fabius smiled. ‘Obviously.’

Another long moment of silence. Then, Ramos chuckled. The sound caused the air to vibrate painfully. Caradistros and Volupus joined in, until the whole room reverberated with the sounds of their mirth. Savona looked around, a puzzled expression on her face.

Glorian leaned towards her, a too-wide smile on his cracked marble features. ‘You have much to learn, Lady Savona. I would be happy to tutor you, if you wished…’

Savona bared her teeth. ‘You should know that I’m wearing the armour of the last man who offered to tutor me.’

Glorian jerked back, eyes narrowed.

Vilius laughed harshly and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘She has bite, this one. I like her.’

‘You would,’ Glorian said.

Vilius gave Savona a look at his own splintered, iron teeth. ‘Of course, if she ever threatened me like that, I would twist her pretty head off and keep it as a souvenir.’

‘If you are quite finished,’ Fabius said.

‘Indeed,’ Gorgus said. He pounded a scarred fist against the table. ‘We must discuss strategy. I demand the spearhead.’ He glowered challengingly at the gathered Chaos Space Marines. One or two looked as if they might argue with him. The others seemed only too happy to give him his way. Gorgus was infamous for his temper, even among renegade legionaries.

‘There will be no spearhead,’ Fabius said. ‘This will be a defensive campaign. The enemy is close. They have tracked us here by unknown means – though I have my suspicions – and I have no doubt that they will attack en masse shortly.’ He gestured and a three-dimensional map of the city appeared atop the table. ‘Seventeen of the estimated twenty-three webway nodes within the city boundaries have already been destroyed.’

‘Too bad the drukhari carry their own,’ Savona said.

‘Yes.’ Fabius smiled. ‘Unfortunately for them, this is a crone world. Which means they cannot risk using their portals – too much interference, too much risk something unpleasant will follow them home. Thus, they must use one of the nodes located on this world. Which is why I intend to leave the remaining six unsealed.’

‘An auspicious number,’ Saqqara said.

Fabius ignored him. ‘As we speak, my servants are booby-trapping each of the remaining nodes. Not enough to stop our foes, but enough to bloody them.’

‘Why let them in at all?’ Volupus asked.

‘Because I am owed recompense,’ Fabius said flatly. He swept his gaze across the gathered warlords. ‘Honour has never meant anything to me. But vengeance… vengeance has always been a favoured vice of mine. They have harmed me. Insulted me. Hounded and harried me. And I will pay them back tenfold.’

‘Well said!’ Gorgus growled, slapping the table with his palm.

‘Indeed. Perhaps there is something other than ichor in your veins after all,’ Vilius said. ‘I am almost looking forward to this.’

‘I still haven’t heard what this grand plan of yours is,’ Savona said.

‘And as I told you, there is no grand plan. There are six possible routes of entry. Five minor gates, and one central gate beneath this very palace. Each gate will be held for as long as possible.’ Fabius paused. ‘I do not expect you to die for me, brothers.’ He used the word deliberately, and Ramos nodded approvingly. ‘I expect you to pay your debts – nothing more.’

‘Six gates,’ Ramos said. He stood, and studied each of the others in turn. ‘That is what Slaanesh asks of you. Six gates.’

‘Six gates,’ Volupus said. He nodded. ‘Easy enough.’ He looked around. Vilius and the others murmured in agreement.

‘That’s it? That’s your plan?’ Savona shook her head. ‘A last stand?’

Fabius looked at her. ‘And what would you suggest?’

‘Something else. Anything else!’

‘There is nothing. The path to Omega Redoubt must be defended until the evacuation is completed.’

‘I have heard this story before,’ Bellephus said. ‘It is an old story, but a good one.’

Fabius turned. ‘What?’

‘A new humanity calls for aid,’ Bellephus said. ‘An army of xenos horrors creep forth from the nighted caverns of the webway. And so the warriors of the Third gather one last time. One final stand against the blood-dimmed tide.’ He looked around the table. ‘One final spark of ancient glory, before the long night consumes us all. Is that not what we all desire, in our hearts? The chance to show our worth to the Phoenician, even as we did so long ago?’ He pushed himself to his feet and slammed his fist into his chest. ‘The chance to be the heroes we were, before Horus dragged us into the dust.’

The others were nodding. Even Vilius and Glorian. Their gazes shone with glory-lust and they leaned forward eagerly. Ready to play the hero, one last time.

‘Yes,’ Fabius said. ‘Let us make our fathers proud of us.’

Quin stood atop the broken tower, overlooking the corpse of the city. In the distance, giants trudged through clouds of dust. God-machines, by the look of them, marked with barbarous sigils, their heraldry unrecognisable.

Then, there was much he didn’t recognise, these days. He’d spent so long in his isolation that the Eye had changed irrevocably. He’d spent the return trip to Belial IV studying every bit of data Fabius had accumulated about the current state of affairs – mostly about the Third. After Fulgrim had abandoned them, the Legion had splintered. He’d hoped to prevent it – to repair the damage before it became irrevocable.

A fool’s quest. He’d known it at the time. But even so, one of them had to try. None of the others had seemed so inclined. Eidolon. Julius. Lucius. Even Fabius. And so he’d done what no other son of the Legion had been able to accomplish. No Chemosian-born gutter-rat, certainly. Only a true Child of the Emperor was worthy. Or so he’d thought.

But he’d failed. The Legion had died, and he’d gone into exile. Not out of fear, or shame, but out of duty. Too many of his brothers had sought him out, hoping he could lead them to Fulgrim. Too many of them had taken offence to his refusal. His grip on his axe tightened as he remembered the trail of dead brothers he’d left in his wake. Too many to count. Too many to forget.

‘What are you doing up here?’

‘Waiting for someone.’ He turned. Savona stood behind him. The woman interested him in the way a new species of predator did. She was vicious and unpredictable – clearly blessed by the Dark Prince, in ways that implied she’d sought out his patronage. She was of the new breed and he wondered what her end would be.

‘Anyone in particular?’

‘Yes. But she does not appear to be coming.’ He smiled ruefully. Melusine had been oddly absent since they’d left Fulgrim’s world. Perhaps she’d served her purpose, and the Dark Prince had called her home. Or maybe she thought he’d served his. ‘Then, daemons are notoriously unpredictable.’

‘You sound like Saqqara.’

He nodded. ‘Fabius’ pet diabolist. He told me a little of him. Lorgar’s sons were never the brightest stars in the heavens, but they were always among the most stubborn.’ He turned back to the distant dust cloud. ‘Reinforcements.’

‘Do you know any of them?’

‘Some. Vilius was a fine commander, once. He’s become lost to his own hedonism since. And Caradistros was always a fool. From Chemos, both of them.’ Quin eyed her. ‘Then, you’re no Terran, either.’

‘No.’

‘I thought not. There aren’t many of us left.’

‘Last I checked, there was a whole planet full of them.’

Quin laughed.

‘You weren’t at the meeting,’ she said. ‘Fabius laid out his grand strategy. They were all very appreciative.’

‘I saw no reason to be there. My part in this is done. I have no intention of bearing witness to his folly.’ He shifted his axe to the crook of his arm and peered at her. ‘You intrigue me.’

‘I’m flattered.’ She joined him at the edge of the tower. ‘Fabius said you were planning on leaving. A shame.’

‘As I said, there is no reason for me to stay.’

‘You could join me,’ Savona said. Quin looked at her.

‘And why would I do that?’

‘Why would you not?’ she said. She swept her maul out and knocked the head off a nearby statue. ‘Unless you’re planning to go back to your cabin and hide for another few centuries.’

His gaze sharpened. ‘And what makes you think I was hiding?’ She was trying to bait him, and he was tempted to let her. It had been centuries since he’d fought something other than Neverborn and monsters.

She turned away, arms flung out. ‘What else would you call it? You saw the face of your god and went running off to the most boring planet you could find.’ She turned back and pointed her maul at him. ‘You’re worse than Saqqara.’

He swept his axe up and knocked her maul aside. ‘And you are a preening mortal, wearing stolen glory. Give me one good reason I shouldn’t shuck you out of that armour of yours and gift it to someone more worthy.’

Savona stepped back and raised her maul. ‘Try me and see.’

Quin smiled and obliged her. His axe hummed in his hands as they traded blows. She was quick, as those blessed by the Dark Prince often were. Quin had a touch of speed as well, enabling him to move as easily as she in his heavier armour. Her maul cracked against his shoulder-plate, and she cursed as he nearly took her arm off in return.

‘You are skilled,’ he said. ‘But undisciplined. A warrior rather than a soldier.’

‘You make that sound like a bad thing.’

‘Warriors do not win wars. Soldiers do.’ He drove her back against a wall. The stonework creaked and nearly gave way beneath her. She lunged forward and he shoved her back again. ‘And whether you like it or not, this is a war you’ve dealt yourself into.’

‘Like you dealt yourself out,’ she said, between bared fangs. She leaned forward. ‘I could use soldiers like you to help me.’

Quin was about to reply when he heard the soft click of a bolt pistol being readied. He turned. Bellephus stood off to the side, his weapon levelled.

‘Hello, Narvo.’

‘Bellephus.’

‘Release my captain, please.’

Quin considered the request. His helmet was resting on a nearby stone. He’d been shot in the head before, but it was rarely a pleasant experience. He stepped back and lowered his axe. Bellephus looked at Savona. She frowned.

‘I had it under control.’

‘Yes.’ Bellephus glanced at Quin. ‘You should remember to wear your helmet.’

‘I’ll keep that in mind.’

Quin watched them go. He smiled.

‘Perhaps I will stay a while,’ he murmured.

The drukhari spasmed as Glaive drove the knife up into its spine, severing it. The creature gurgled as he dragged its dead weight into the shadows of the webway. He glanced back at his packmates. ‘Whose turn is it?’

Spar stepped forward. ‘Mine.’ She licked her lips. ‘I’ve never eaten the brain of an aeldari. Does it taste much different?’

Glaive shoved the dying drukhari to the ground. ‘Somewhat. It’s less spongy than ork. More brittle than a human’s.’ He wiped his blade on his trousers and tasted the air. There were more of them on the way. This was the third scout they’d taken in as many hours, but those were not the only ones they’d seen. Most were too fast – zipping along on jetbikes, or in their anti-gravity vessels. They’d made no attempt to intercept those.

But some were on foot, navigating the craggy contours of the webway with inhuman grace and skill. Unfortunately for the drukhari, Glaive and his packmates had been all but raised in the webway. They had been taught its dangers from birth, and hunted its corridors with only a knife for protection as a means of proving themselves.

Spar drew her knife and knelt beside the twitching xenos. ‘I look forward to the experience.’

The drukhari’s eyes widened as she began to saw through the top of its head. Even dying and paralysed, it understood what was happening. That made the meal all the sweeter, in Glaive’s opinion.

‘Scouts?’ Spar asked, around a mouthful.

‘Scouts,’ Glaive said, chewing thoughtfully. Though their omophageac abilities were not so refined as that of the Space Marines, they could make some small use of their prey’s thoughts and feelings. He closed his eyes. Dim impressions of many vehicles, following in the wake of… something. Something vast. Too large to be a simple transport. Something so large that the reverberations of its passing could be felt for leagues in all directions.

Without opening his eyes, he touched the ground. As ever, he felt the soft susurrus of the psychoplastics – the movement of souls, the hum of psychic energy. Whatever one called it, it was a constant pressure on his senses. Almost comforting.

But overlaying that was something else. A distant tremor, growing stronger.

‘What do you think it is?’ Spar asked, in a soft voice.

Glaive shook his head. ‘Only the Benefactor knows.’ He sniffed. ‘Do you smell that?’

She sniffed. The others did as well. A new scent – or an old one. It itched at the back of Glaive’s mind, like a half-forgotten memory. Something – someone – was watching them. He reached for his autopistol, but stopped when he saw that Spar already had her autogun up. Targeting lasers flashed across the walls of their hideaway. It had been an outpost of some kind, once. A way station for aeldari travellers. Now it was little more than a crevasse.

Glaive signalled for the others to stay where they were and leapt lightly for the wall. Instinctively, he found handholds and began to swing himself up. Swiftly, he scaled the wall, following the scent. The others tracked him, waiting for him to flush their observer out of hiding. He hauled himself up onto a wide ledge, and paused.

There were ashes. A campfire. He touched them, feeling how cold they were. There was a clatter above him. He leapt aside as something heavy crashed down where he’d been standing. It took him a moment to realise it was a drukhari – a kabalite warrior, skin and armour smudged with powdered psychoplastics as a crude form of camouflage. The drukhari was dead, its neck broken.

Something sharp pressed itself to his neck a moment before he heard Spar’s bark of warning. He froze. Again, the familiar scent invaded his nostrils.

‘G-great-grandmother?’ he said.

The knife slid away from his neck.

‘It was waiting for you. Tracking your movements. Watching you pick off its fellows. They do not know the loyalty of pack, only the loyalty to self. It was hunting you, even as you hunted its comrades. And I was hunting it.’

Glaive turned and looked into the weathered features of his great-grandmother. Of Igori. The renegade. He froze, torn between instinct and duty.

She leaned forward and kissed him gently on the brow.

‘You will take me to him, boy. Now.’

Chapter Twenty-Four

Last Orders

‘Benefactor.’

Fabius set down the dataslate he’d been studying. ‘Ah, Mayshana. You have something to report?’ His laboratorium was mostly empty now. Even the vatborn were all but gone. He had not seen them leave, but knew that they would find their way to Omega Redoubt somehow.

‘The scouts have returned.’

‘Casualties?’

‘None. They collected a good number of ears.’ She sounded pleased. Fabius felt some satisfaction as well. The drukhari were often skilled combatants, one on one. A kabalite warrior was often more than a match for any human soldier.

‘And what did they collect beside ears? Some useful reconnaissance, I trust.’

She nodded. ‘Yes. And something else as well.’

Fabius caught something in her expression. ‘Something is upsetting you, my child?’

‘You have a… visitor.’

‘Ah.’ He was silent for a moment, considering. Then, ‘Show her in.’

Mayshana frowned. She wanted to argue. He could read it in her eyes. But she would not. Mayshana was not Igori. She had not been born beneath his knives, but naturally. She was a child of the third generation, and she did not feel the gratitude of a creation for a creator. He suspected that she viewed him as somewhere between a pack-leader and a god. She was loyal because loyalty was bred into her, not out of her own free will.

Instead, she bowed and turned, signalling to her warriors, waiting outside. The hatch slid open, admitting a tall figure. Igori was much changed since he’d last seen her. But the look in her eyes was all too familiar.

‘Benefactor.’

Her face was seamed by experience as well as age. It bore nearly a century of new scars. But it was the same face.

‘I remember you as a child,’ he said softly. He tried to smile, but felt it turn to a grimace. ‘So lethal, even at that age.’ He reached for her, and she stepped back. He frowned. Even now, even after all that had passed between them, her reticence hurt worse than any wound.

‘I am not a child.’

‘No. And yet, to me you always will be.’

‘Then why did you abandon us?’

Fabius paused, trying to find the words. ‘I thought – I wanted…’ He shook his head. ‘No. I did not think of you at all. That is the truth. I assumed that you would be here when I returned. I did not consider the alternative.’

‘Why did you not come for me, when you returned?’

Again, silence. Rationalisations and explanations chased each other through his head. How to explain – how to condense something so complex?

‘Because I understood,’ he said finally. It sounded weak. Almost plaintive. As if he could not bear to say the words. ‘I understood. And I hoped you would come back.’

She stared at him as he loomed over her, ill at ease. He imagined that for the first time she saw the weakness in him. Not of the body, but of the spirit. The need to be in control, the need to be loved, feted for his wisdom and kindness. To be the perfect father and god in one. Whether he admitted it to himself or not, it ate at him like acid. And it would kill him in the end, as surely as a blade or a bullet. He touched his chest, feeling the bite of the stone knife.

‘Is that why you sent Arrian to me?’

He cleared his throat. ‘I have enacted the Omega Protocols. You will take your… tribe and enter the webway. I–’

‘No.’

Fabius stared at her. ‘What?’

‘No. We will not abandon our kingdom. This world is ours.’

‘I do not think that you understand the gravity of the situation. You have never faced a foe like this. You are unprepared…’

Igori bowed her head. ‘Then prepare us. We are your weapons, Benefactor. Sharpen our blades. Ready us for war.’ She looked up at him. ‘It is all we have ever asked of you.’

Fabius shook his head. ‘No. No, I have made arrangements. You will go. You must. Someone must see to your people in my absence. I can think of no one better than you.’ He did not look at Mayshana as he spoke, but he felt her eyes on him.

‘And I have said that I will not go.’

‘You will not obey him?’ Mayshana barked.

Igori glanced at her, and a slow smile curved across her face. Her hand rested on her knife. ‘Do you remember when I spoke to you of my dream, granddaughter?’

Mayshana hesitated, and bowed her head.

Fabius looked back and forth between them. ‘Dream? What dream? What are you talking about?’

Igori turned. ‘I saw you in a garden, Benefactor. I saw you kneel before a silver serpent, and I saw your face as it struck.’ She spoke slowly, deliberately. ‘You taught us to behead such serpents. And yet you let it strike you.’

Fabius stared at her, unable to find his voice.

She touched his chest, her face solemn. ‘She warned me of this, though I did not understand at the time.’

‘She – Melusine?’ Fabius said hoarsely, trying to understand. He shook his head. ‘You do not understand. It was necessary.’

She turned away. ‘As is this. Goodbye, Benefactor.’

She was gone a moment later. Fabius stared at the hatch for long moments. His chest ached as the memory of the knife grew sharp. He looked at Mayshana.

‘I have a new task for you and your pack,’ he said.

‘You wish me to bring her back.’

‘Yes. Bring her to the evacuation point by any means necessary.’

‘She left us,’ Mayshana said hesitantly.

‘So she did,’ Fabius said. ‘But she is my child. As you are, and all your brothers and sisters. Some bonds cannot be so easily broken.’

‘She tried to cut my guts out.’

‘And you tried to do the same to her, I’m sure.’

Mayshana growled softly. ‘Are we dogs, then? To forget because you demand it?’ The question was almost – but not quite – a challenge. Fabius sighed. She stepped back, eyes narrowed. Tense.

He stroked her cheek. ‘Yes,’ he said gently. ‘You are dogs. Hounds. Bred for purpose. Spoiled, perhaps. I have coddled you and your kind for generations, while others of your species have clawed their way to power on a hundred worlds.’ He caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger. ‘It is past time to remind you of your place.’

As he’d expected, her hand went to her knife. But she didn’t draw it. She had that much control. He released her.

‘Homo novus has exceeded my expectations in almost all regards. Your genetics are a work of sublime artistry. With each generation, you grow stronger. But that strength is not often accompanied by wisdom.’ He paused. ‘Save in one case. She is the best of you, even now. And I will not see her – or you – wasted in useless battle. So you will find her and you will take her where she must go. Those are my orders.’

He looked at her and smiled sadly.

‘Do me the courtesy of following them, one final time.’

‘He’s mad,’ Savona snarled. ‘But I thought you at least had some sense, Arrian. To open the armouries to the beastkin? What’s possessed him?’

Arrian tried to concentrate on feeding the flowers, but it was hard. He scratched at his cortical implants. They’d begun to itch more, as if sensing what was to come.

‘This facility will be abandoned whether we win or lose. Most of the resources we’ve gathered will have to be abandoned as well. Why not show largesse in these final hours?’

‘Because they’re just as likely to use those weapons on each other – or us – as they are the enemy!’

She talks too much, Briaeus said. All these petty hedonists do. They use words like slaves use arrows… talk, talk, talk.

Arrian ignored his brother. ‘And that is why we will see to the proper and orderly dispersal of weapons and ammunition.’ Arrian paused. ‘They worship him. They love him. They will die for him. He knows this and that is why he chose to do this – to ensure their loyalty in these final hours.’

She shook her head. ‘Will that be enough?’

‘No. But the armouries also contain stores of combat-stimms and other narcotics. We will dole those out as well. That will buy us all the loyalty we might need.’

‘And when the drugs run out?’

‘By then, we’ll have won – or be dead. Either way, it won’t matter, sister.’

She looked at him. ‘You called me sister. You’ve never done that before.’

‘You’re standing with us when the better option is to flee. I think that earns you the right, whatever anyone else says.’

‘If I’d known all it would take is a bit of suicidal nonsense, I might have done it years ago.’ She frowned. ‘If it comes to it, though…’

Arrian held out his hand. ‘I wish you luck, if that is the case.’

Savona looked at his hand, and then at him. She took it in a warrior’s grip. ‘Try not to die, World Eater. The galaxy is more interesting with you in it.’ She turned as Fabius entered the atrium. ‘You, on the other hand, can’t die soon enough.’

Fabius laughed. ‘You are not the first to say that. Nor will you be the last.’ He gestured with Torment. ‘The others are seeing to the gates. You will remain with me in the strategium chamber. The Twelfth Millennial have been given the honour of guarding the central node.’

‘Oh, I’m sure Varex and the others will be overjoyed at that.’ Savona swung her maul up onto her shoulder.

Fabius stepped aside. ‘Then I leave it to you to tell them the good news.’

When she’d gone, he looked at Arrian.

‘Well?’

‘The armouries are being emptied, as per your orders.’

‘So I heard.’ Fabius looked out over the flowers. ‘I did not come to speak about that.’

‘No. I thought not.’

‘The evacuation goes as planned. But slowly. And Mayshana’s scouts have reported that the drukhari are close. They will attack soon.’

Arrian nodded. ‘The others will be pleased to hear it. Gorgus especially.’

‘Yes. But they will not be enough. Not if what I fear is coming.’

‘Which is?’

Fabius was silent. Then, ‘A weapon. One I helped them construct. Even Gorgus’ pack may be no match for it.’ He looked at Arrian. ‘We must stall them and stymie them for as long as possible. I will throw everything I have at them to accomplish that.’

The World Eater hesitated, but only for a moment. ‘What is it you wish of me?’

‘The node beneath us. It must be defended – outside as well as in – if we are to slow them. There are bulwarks in place, and weapons, but I need more than servitors at my threshold when they come knocking.’

‘Isn’t that what the Twelfth is for?’

Fabius shook his head. ‘I need someone who will not break. Someone who will trade blood for blood without flinching.’

Arrian was silent for a few moments. He looked out over his garden. ‘What will happen to all of this?’ he asked finally.

‘They will destroy it, I imagine.’

‘A shame.’

‘Yes.’ Fabius turned away. ‘I will not order you to do this.’

‘But one of us must do it nonetheless.’

‘Yes.’

And there it is, eh, dog-brother? Briaeus said. The reason he’s kept you around all these years. So that you might die for him at a moment of his choosing.

Arrian tapped the skull, silencing his fallen brother. ‘Do you remember when I first joined you?’

‘Yes.’

‘I swore to serve you for as long as you could teach me.’

‘I remember.’

Arrian let the more aggressive vines wrap about his fingers. He played with them for a moment. ‘I have learned much.’

He extricated his hand and turned.

‘I will take a cohort of war-mutants and as many of the beastkin as will rally to me. A substantial force, but not a particularly hardy one. It will serve to occupy them for a time, I think.’ He looked at Fabius. ‘It was an honour to study with you, Chief Apothecary.’

Fabius met his gaze.

‘It was an honour to teach you, Arrian Zorzi.’

Fabius found Saqqara in his quarters. He moved slowly, weighed down by exhaustion and pain. Perhaps guilt as well. Arrian had accepted his death sentence well enough, but that only made it worse. He stopped as he entered.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Preparing myself for the slaughter to come,’ Saqqara said. The Word Bearer sat cross-legged amid a circle of smouldering incense bowls. Beside him was a smaller tray of sacred oils and a stone knife. As Fabius watched, he dipped the knife into the oils and ran the blade over his pate, scraping away at the bristle of hair there. ‘A better question is why are you interrupting me?’

Fabius looked down at the Word Bearer. ‘I require your services.’

‘Tell me, what was it like?’ Saqqara said. He tapped his bare chest. ‘Does it still hurt? I imagine that it must.’

‘Is this… gloating?’ Fabius asked. ‘Are you gloating?’ He looked around Saqqara’s chamber. The room was empty, save for a stack of books and scrolls in one corner and a threadbare pallet in the other. Saqqara’s armour hung from a rack near the door, and his daemon-flasks were set in a second rough circle outside of the one he sat in.

Saqqara paused in his shaving. ‘No. A pilgrimage is a symbolic act. A sign that you are true in your need, and true in your belief. That you undertook one is evidence of both.’

‘Are you pleased?’

‘It is not for me to be pleased or displeased. Why do you require daemons?’

‘I was promised aid.’

Again, Saqqara paused. ‘And who promised you this aid?’

‘Who do you think?’ Fabius said, his voice hoarse.

Saqqara nodded. ‘I imagine it must have been upsetting to see him. And her.’

‘I was right. You’re enjoying this.’

Saqqara shrugged. ‘Not particularly.’ He dipped his knife into the oil. ‘I was not allowed to accompany you.’

‘The gods?’

Saqqara looked at him. ‘No.’

The way he said it made Fabius’ stomach clench. But it was too late now. He had already set his head in the noose.

‘Have you seen her since?’

‘No,’ he said, softly. ‘Nor do I expect to. She has fulfilled her purpose, after all.’

Saqqara nodded sagely. ‘You were given a choice between the knife and the stone.’

Fabius nodded. ‘I chose the stone.’

Saqqara lowered his knife and looked at Fabius. After several moments of silence, he said, ‘Have you ever stopped to wonder why the gods are so interested in you? Out of all of the ones whose names transcended that of their Legion – Abaddon, Lucius, Khârn, Typhus, Ahriman – you are the only one not sworn to one – or all – of the Ruinous Powers. They were made heralds, and set above their brothers. All except for you.’

‘Yes, it is a constant disappointment to me,’ Fabius said acidly.

‘Or maybe it is the gods who are disappointed.’

‘Meaning?’

Saqqara cleaned his knife and set it aside. ‘I have spent many centuries pondering that very question. Have you ever heard the parable of the tall poppy?’

Fabius laughed. ‘The tall poppy gets cut down to size. Yes. We had a similar saying on Terra. Do the gods wish to cut me down to size? Is that it?’

‘Yes. And no.’ Saqqara stood and began to dress himself in a set of plain, grey robes. ‘The greater the heights you achieve, the greater the glory of the gods. And yet, some heights are forbidden.’

‘Have you ever asked yourself why that might be?’

‘Of course.’

‘And what answer did you arrive at?’

‘The gods will it so.’

Fabius shook his head. ‘A trite answer. I expected nothing less.’

Saqqara looked at him. ‘What answer would you prefer?’

‘Something that does not rely on ascribing intent to cosmological phenomena.’

‘And there it is,’ Saqqara said. ‘You resist. You resist their divinity. You resist their power. You deny them their due. Yet you persist in matching your will against theirs. So, they are enamoured of you. And everything the gods love, they seek to destroy. Or to break.’

‘Do you listen to yourself when you speak?’ Fabius said.

‘Do you?’ Saqqara asked. ‘You are the tall poppy. You insist upon your own superiority when in truth you are nothing more than a poppy in a field of poppies. You are not special. You are not superior. You are a slave of darkness, the same as any of us. The only difference is that you refuse to admit it.’

‘Is a slave who refuses to admit it still a slave?’

‘Yes. He is also a fool,’ Saqqara said. He lifted his bowl of oil and began to anoint his armour. ‘They offered you a choice. And you chose to–’

‘I know what I chose.’ Fabius paused, as a thought occurred to him. ‘What would have happened had I chosen the knife?’

‘Only you can say, Pater Mutatis. But I do know that you cannot go back.’

‘Nor will I go forward,’ Fabius said softly.

Saqqara frowned. ‘Perhaps. Sometimes the gods wish us to be as insects in amber – preserved for all time, so that they might take joy from our unceasing struggle. Maybe that is your fate.’

Fabius shook his head. ‘I am too useful to kill – or to promote.’ He smiled bitterly. ‘It has ever been thus. Without me, the Long War grinds to a halt, for good or ill. But so long as the game continues, I persist. So long as I persist, the safety of my creations is assured.’ He looked up, studying the strange stars overhead. ‘I wonder if our primogenitor was given a similar choice. He sits on His throne, caught between living and dying – for what?’

‘It is not the same.’

‘Oh, but I think it is. For He is as useful to them as I am. So long as He exists, so too must your sort strive against Him. And so long as I exist, your numbers will never dwindle to nothing, ensuring that the war continues.’ Fabius laughed bitterly. ‘The Long War indeed.’

‘The gods will it so,’ Saqqara said piously.

Fabius snorted and turned away. ‘Sometimes I wonder why I haven’t set off that bomb in your head yet.’

‘You couldn’t even if you wished to. I managed to deactivate it years ago.’ Saqqara looked at him. ‘While you were in Commorragh.’

Fabius frowned. ‘Then why are you still here?’

Saqqara smiled. ‘I am where the gods wish me to be.’

‘You’re mad, you know.’

‘Says one lunatic to another.’

Fabius shook his head. ‘Fine, then. If that is my fate – I embrace it gladly.’ Fabius leaned close. ‘I will feed your gods until they burst, Saqqara. And you and your kind will thank me for it.’

‘Heresy,’ Saqqara said.

Fabius nodded. ‘Yes. I imagine so. Now, are you going to aid me?’

Saqqara finished anointing his armour. ‘Of course. What do you require?’

‘As I said – daemons. As many as you can draw up.’

Saqqara looked startled. ‘I cannot control more than a few at a time.’

Fabius smiled.

‘I said nothing about control.’

Chapter Twenty-Five

Sundered Gate

Oleander felt it in his bones when the Tower’s weapons systems powered up. Arcs of lightning whipped between the generator rods that ringed its uppermost segments. Folds in its flesh split, disgorging weapons emplacements of reinforced bone, manned by wracks. Disintegrator cannons and void lances hummed with destructive energies as they were readied by their crews.

He watched it all from the various holo-polyps that rose from the floor about him. Hexachires applauded theatrically.

‘Magnificent, isn’t it, Oleander? Over a thousand weapons of all types, manned by the best marksmen the coven can produce.’

‘That’s one word for it,’ Oleander said. On the displays, he saw the node ahead. It had been fortified – that was the only word for it. Walls and gates and guns. Fabius had been busy. Lines of flak lit up the dark of the webway as the Tower of Flesh crashed towards it at Diomone’s urging. She twitched and grunted in her throne with every impact, as if the Tower were merely an extension of her form.

Hexachires tapped one of the polyps. ‘Avara – status?’

‘I’ve split my forces as you requested. Salar and Peshig have done the same. We’re in position – ready when you are.’

‘Good. You will follow us in. Ensure that our route home is not compromised.’ Hexachires turned. ‘Looking forward to it, Oleander?’

‘Looking forward to what?’

‘Why, the culmination of our adventures,’ the haemonculus said. ‘In a few short moments, we shall crack this pathetic bastion and root out the sweetmeats within. And then you will be cured of your ailment, and I will have my vengeance. All will be well in the universe once more.’

‘And afterwards?’

Hexachires’ mask twisted into a smile. ‘That is up to you.’ He turned back to the holo-polyps. ‘Ah, the first defences are getting ready to fall.’ He gestured, and one of the polyps flowered, spitting up an immense image. Oleander saw the wall, saw the mutants and beastkin emptying every drum of ammunition they had into the advancing leviathan. They fought with desperation – and perhaps a bit of courage.

And then, a flash of grey. He stumbled forward, his legs slow to respond. A figure in armour was standing atop the wall, directing the defence effort.

‘Arrian,’ he murmured. He recognised the skulls hanging from the Apothecary’s armour.

Of course it would be Arrian. Who else would Fabius set to guard his threshold but his most loyal hound? Beams of scintillating energy seared the air around his old comrade. Winged wracks, released from the upper reaches of the Tower, swooped across the wall, decapitating mutants as they darted past. He saw Arrian bring one of the wracks down, and the image shifted, expanding, bringing the World Eater into focus.

Hexachires gripped his shoulders. ‘Another friend, Oleander? How sad that you must watch him die. And in such an inglorious manner – not even a duel to the death.’

The Tower did not stop. Did not slow. It barely noticed the efforts of the defenders. When it struck the gates, they ceased to exist, and everything on them as the Tower lurched on towards the webway node. Gun-towers built into the node opened up, barrels turning white-hot. The Tower bent low towards the node, arcs of electricity leaping from it to strike the pearlescent surface. The node shivered as it was activated. Oleander felt the familiar lurching sensation of the gate opening, and then the Tower was squirming through.

Hexachires cackled uproariously as sparks rained down from above. Polyps burst from the stresses of the transition, and the edifice gave a resounding groan. Oleander was thrown from his feet. White light filled every functioning display, growing brighter and brighter until it nearly blinded him.

Then, they were through.

He heard grinding stones and the crack of ancient masonry – a deafening reverberation as something older than the Imperium of Man itself was torn asunder. There was a heavy convulsion as the Tower swung upwards. Its endo-structure crackled like melting ice, and Oleander was jostled as the chamber contracted momentarily. More sparks, more burst polyps. Wracks shouted in panic as they sought to extinguish the fires that threatened to consume Diomone’s throne.

Hexachires paid it no notice. He’d snatched a fluted communications valve and was bellowing orders. Preoccupied, he barely noticed as Oleander crept towards him.

It was not a perfect moment, but it would do. His plan was a half-formed thing – all snatches of impulse and need. He paused, muscles quivering. Ready to lunge. Felt eyes on him. Diomone was watching him. Urging him on.

Even as he leapt, Hexachires turned and caught him by the throat. The haemonculus flung him across the chamber with a laugh.

‘No, Oleander. Despite what the clown may have told you, this is not how this particular drama ends. Restrain him.’

Wracks hurried forwards to detain him as he struggled to his feet. His limbs didn’t want to support his weight. He half fell, and the wracks struck him with pain-goads, further exacerbating his inability to stand. He howled.

‘Did you think I would not guess?’ Hexachires looked up at Diomone. ‘My arrogance is impressive, I admit, but not so great as all that. Besides, your work was sloppy. I saw that you had tampered with the helm almost immediately. I applaud your ingenuity, however. I was beginning to despair of you, dear Diomone.’

He looked down at Oleander, his flesh-mask twisted into a smirk.

‘As for you… test me again, and I shall have you thrown from the Tower. That is how Count Sunflame died, by the way. If you were wondering. The Lord of Knives has him strangled with his own intestines and flung from the highest turret.’

‘I thought you didn’t like stories,’ Oleander gasped as convulsions gripped him. He felt as if his skin were trying to pull itself away from his muscles.

‘I don’t like reading them,’ Hexachires said.

He patted Oleander’s head.

‘I much prefer to write my own.’

Bellephus was overseeing the placement of the last few bulwarks when the leviathan emerged from the webway node. It surfaced like a sunken mountain rising from the ocean floor. It came wreathed in fire and death, accompanied by a stink unlike anything he’d ever encountered. Its mass was such that the sensor relays attached to either side of the node were scraped clean as the great arch splintered and cracked.

The world seemed to slow. Time stumbled. The vox crackled with questions and curses. Mutant workers fled, vainly seeking to put distance between themselves and the monstrosity hauling itself through the gate.

Bellephus stood, momentarily overawed, unable to turn away. Fleshy tendrils slammed down, piercing the floor and walls, anchoring the immensity as it squeezed its bulk into reality. Beams of destructive energy emerged from the flabby folds that dotted its length, obliterating both the defensive works and those who sheltered behind them.

The node-chamber quaked and the walls split. Shards of broken stone the size of battle tanks slammed down, crushing unlucky legionaries. And still the thing spilled forth. It was a worm and a mountain and a fortress all in one. A heaving malignancy the equal of any god-machine. Watching it emerge, Bellephus was almost afraid.

He’d seen nothing like it, even in the wildest reaches of the Eye. An impossible structure, an organic bastion. Despite this, the 12th held their ground. The thunder of their bolters was lost in the resulting cacophony. All thoughts of organised defence were gone – they fought with the maddened fury of cornered animals.

Bellephus stepped back as a nearby pillar toppled, sending up a cloud of dust. The floor buckled beneath his feet. It felt as if the whole palace were coming apart at the seams. A tendril of reeking flesh punched through the dust, nearly spearing him from his feet. Proximity alerts flashed across his display faster than he could process them.

Each tendril was roughly the size and length of a gunship, and studded with sensory filaments. As they crashed down, red seams appeared and the veiny surface split, unfurling wetly to reveal cages of bone. The bones splintered as hulking shapes tore themselves free and leapt down. Bellephus swung his bolt pistol up as the first grotesque lumbered towards him. He fired, but the monster barely stumbled. It charged, howling.

He backed away, calmly emptying his weapon into the towering brute. It finally collapsed with a groan, a mere handbreadth from him, leaking iridescent ichor. As he reloaded, his targeting array spun wildly. More and more of the tendrils split, disgorging the slave-soldiers of the Thirteen Scars. First dozens, then hundreds.

Bellephus was no stranger to such horrors. He’d fought them before, though not often, or recently. ‘Bellephus to all units, fall back to the antechamber. Repeat – disengage and regroup.’ He gave the order without much hope it would be followed. Some would, but most would ignore him, too caught up in the frenzy of battle.

And still, the leviathan forced itself through the gate – huge segments of flesh, bristling with guns. More tendrils pierced the walls and ceiling. Each was a transit shaft, vomiting warriors into the crumbling chamber. Dust hung thick on the air, interfering with Bellephus’ sensors. He fell back steadily, firing at anything that came too close.

He tried to contact the strategium, but found only static. He considered his available options and decided on the most pragmatic. While he was no coward, he had learned over the centuries that there was precious little glory in a losing battle. The call to arms – the song of heroes – these things had no place in reality. And one warrior alone could make little difference. Especially against something as impossibly huge as the leviathan before him.

As he reached the antechamber entrance, he saw the intruder rise to its full height, brushing aside the roof of the palace as if it were no more substantial than a cobweb. What was left of the ceiling crashed down, burying friend and foe alike. Dust billowed, obscuring the devastation from sight.

He was not the only one to escape the collapse. Dusty warriors spilled into the antechamber, firing as they withdrew. A few at first, and then more. Sixty in all. One of them, wearing a helm shaped like a gorgon’s grimace, turned.

‘I told you this would happen,’ Varex snarled.

Of course he’d survived. Varex was the proverbial cockroach. He’d only put up a token resistance when Bellephus had prevented him from deserting earlier. Bellephus suspected that he was probably regretting that now. He pointed an accusing finger at Bellephus.

‘I told you we should have got clear of this madness while we had the chance – and now it’s too late. I should kill you now, gutter-poet.’

Bellephus levelled his bolt pistol, stopping Varex in his tracks. ‘You could try. Or we could wait to settle matters between us at a more convivial time. I leave it to you to decide.’

Varex raised his own weapon, but paused as the hum of anti-gravity generators reached them. ‘What’s that?’ He turned.

Drukhari raiders pierced the dust and smoke like arrows. Splinter fire danced across the entrance to the antechamber. Bellephus laughed.

‘Looks like the decision has been made for you, Varex.’ He raised a hand and voxed, ‘Form up – standard phalanx.’

‘This isn’t over,’ Varex said, falling in beside Bellephus.

Bellephus took aim at the approaching drukhari. ‘Patience, brother. We all meet the gods in our own time. Some of us sooner than others.’

Arrian’s display fuzzed, spat and cleared. He rolled onto his front, feeling as if a mountain had dropped on him. His armour’s systems rebooted themselves slowly, or not at all. Something had broken inside it. He shoved himself to his feet with a groan, his armour’s servos protesting. The courtyard was gone – the defences – all of it. Mangled bodies littered the ground – the remnants of his forces.

Not a bad plan, dog-brother. Too bad theirs was better.

‘Yes,’ Arrian said. ‘Then, these things rarely work out the way we intend.’ He turned, trying to estimate the distance he’d been thrown by the impact. He gave up after a few moments, as his vision blurred. He winced as something shifted inside him. His ribcage felt as if it were partially crushed. One of his lungs had deflated. One of his hearts had stopped. He took note of his injuries with an Apothecary’s precision.

Surprising you’re still on your feet, Briaeus said. Then you always were a tough bastard, weren’t you?

‘Tough enough,’ Arrian murmured. He felt nothing. Pain was a vice he did not often allow himself. It just made the bite of the Nails worse.

He looked for his blades, but did not see them. Through the smoke, he spied the lean shapes of drukhari raiders passing through the node, following in the Tower’s wake.

Looks like you failed, dog-brother.

He’d failed.

It did not hurt as bad as he’d thought it might. There was almost a relief to it. He turned, one arm wrapped about his chest, and stumbled back towards the gate. If he could make it – get back through – he might be able to reach the Chief Apothecary’s side. Something told him Fabius would need him now more than ever before.

You can only keep a man from death for so long, Briaeus said.

‘I do not recall asking your opinion, brother,’ Arrian grunted. His armour was damaged – or maybe his spine – slowing him. He could feel the analgesics flooding his veins, keeping him upright.

The gate rose up before him, a delicate escarpment, covered in intricate carvings that shimmered with alien light. Unnatural as it was, there was a strange beauty to it. It had been grown and shaped in the same manner as he used with his flowers.

Your mind is wandering, brother. You lack clarity.

He turned. Briaeus walked beside him. And not alone. Telegar, Morgev and the others were there as well. He looked down at their skulls, and saw that they were gone. Shattered perhaps, when he’d been thrown from the wall.

If I were a superstitious man, I’d say it freed our souls. Then, you don’t believe in souls, do you, Arrian?

‘Soul or hallucination, I am glad to see you,’ Arrian said. ‘I’m having trouble walking. Can one of you help me?’

You know we can’t, dog-brother. No help for you now.

‘You always were a fatalist, Briaeus.’ Arrian forced himself on. Something was definitely broken in his leg. It was like walking on shattered glass. He tried to ignore it.

Realist, Briaeus said. Dead men know their own.

Before Arrian could reply, he spotted something moving in the smoke. As it thinned, he saw wracks stooped among the dead, taking samples.

One spied him and pointed. Another issued a shrill cry, and several massive shapes bounded forward. Grotesques. Too many to fight. And too fast to escape from.

Looks like you’re not going to make it to your master’s side, dog-brother.

Arrian smiled. Slowly, he deactivated the chem-pumps that controlled the flow of calmatives and pain suppressors into his system. The Nails bit instantly, as fresh as the day they’d been inserted.

He prised a sputtering chainaxe from the grip of a dead war-mutant. The weapon was heavy, but he lifted it easily.

It ends as it began, eh, dog-brother?

‘So it seems, Briaeus,’ Arrian said. Flashes of pain danced across his mind and coiled tight about his spine. His grin widened as a flood of adrenaline flushed the last of the calmatives from his system.

I always knew you’d come back to us.

‘Yes. Do you forgive me?’

What is there to forgive, dog-brother? Now, enough talk. There’s killing to be done.

‘Yes.’ Arrian revved the chainaxe as the first grotesque loped towards him.

With a howl, he leapt to meet it.

Igori crouched atop the broken spire-tower, watching as her people trudged into irrelevance. Homo novus, built to replace the faded humanity, was going into the darkness without even a whimper. Just another failed experiment. She wanted to cry out, to stop them. To lead them away from the tomb the Benefactor had so lovingly prepared for them. But she said nothing. Did nothing. She simply sat and watched.

There were hundreds of them. More than even she had been aware of. Some looked the part – heavy with gene-enhanced muscle, faces chiselled to icy perfection, just like her own. Others more resembled the species they were to replace. But their eyes gave them away. There was something of the Benefactor in them. He was their father in more ways than one. And like loyal children, they followed his commands without question.

So intent was she on the evacuation, that she almost missed the tell-tale scrape of movement from behind her. She smiled and her hand fell to the shuriken pistol holstered on her hip.

‘Is that you, granddaughter?’

‘It is me, grandmother.’

Igori rose and turned, hand still resting on her pistol. Mayshana stood at the apex of the spire, looking down at her. She had not drawn a weapon. Igori sniffed the air, detecting familiar scents – the smell of family. Her great-grandchildren, and the grandchildren of her brothers and sisters. They would be close, watching the confrontation and ready to intervene, should it become necessary.

‘Come to bring me back then?’ Igori said.

‘He wants you to be safe.’

‘That has always been his favourite excuse.’ She turned. ‘Have you ever seen it? This hidden kingdom he has made for us?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is it a fitting home for our people?’

‘Why not see for yourself?’

Igori smiled and shook her head. ‘No. I think not. I am too old to start a new kingdom.’ She looked up at Mayshana. ‘I gave the orders for my people to go, however. Before I came to see you.’

Mayshana frowned. ‘Then why the pretence?’

‘To see what he would say. To see if he would argue. If he would explain.’ Igori drew her pistol and weighed it in her hand. ‘Instead, he sent you. That has always been the way of it. The Benefactor speaks softly, but his words are iron even so.’

Mayshana stared down at her. ‘Then why do you resist?’

‘Because I am too old to play the hound.’ Igori swung her pistol up. Mayshana tensed, but did not duck for cover. Nor did she draw a weapon of her own. ‘I am too old to play the role he has laid out for me, in his benevolence.’ She sighted down the barrel, aiming at her granddaughter’s heart. ‘And I am too old to obey him.’

‘He is the Benefactor,’ Mayshana said, her voice almost a whisper.

‘And I am Igori.’

Mayshana growled softly. ‘You are… ungrateful. You have always been ungrateful. He saved you. He forgave you… and you betray him again.’

‘I do not betray him. I am doing as he made me to do.’ Igori lowered her pistol, and after a moment’s hesitation, holstered it. ‘As are you. As do we all. We cannot do otherwise.’ She looked at her granddaughter. ‘He sent you to take me to Omega Redoubt. I do not wish to go. Will you force me?’

‘If I must.’

‘Then I challenge you.’

Mayshana hesitated. ‘What?’

‘I challenge you. As you challenged me, all those years ago. I challenge you for control of your packs. If you win, I will go in peace. If I win…’

‘If you win, what?’ Mayshana snarled.

‘If I win, you will bare your throat to me, granddaughter.’ Igori drew her knife. ‘Now show me your fangs, child.’

Mayshana drew her own blade and swept it through the air with a flourish. Igori smiled and made a come-hither gesture. Her granddaughter leapt, and Igori rose to meet her. They fought across the circumference of the spire-tower, moving fast, their blades scraping against one another in a flurry of sparks.

Mayshana drew first blood – a thin gash across Igori’s bicep. In return, Igori broke the younger woman’s nose. Mayshana bounced across the roof and scrambled to her feet, blood streaming down her face. Igori gave her no chance to recover.

She leapt–

And the world shuddered. There was a great rumbling, and then a roar of rending masonry. Igori turned as a towering leviathan of flesh erupted from the apothecarium, rising on coils of bleeding meat. It was immense – larger than any god-machine. She could smell its stink even from where she crouched.

‘Grandmother.’

The monstrosity lurched into the streets, sweeping aside several smaller buildings in the process. There were weapons on it – or in it. These loosed salvoes against the surrounding ruins as swarms of drukhari raiders spilled upwards into the air in the thing’s wake. Too many to count. The enemy had come.

‘Grandmother!’

Igori looked down. She realised that the edge of her knife was pressed to Mayshana’s throat. ‘I yield,’ Mayshana said.

Igori lifted the blade away, and stood. She offered Mayshana her hand. ‘Up, granddaughter. The Benefactor needs us.’

Mayshana hesitated, but only for a moment. She caught Igori’s hand.

‘Lead the way, grandmother.’

Chapter Twenty-Six

Last Ditch

The battle had been lost from the first.

Fabius had read it in the data that spooled across the strategium feeds. Hope was a vice he rarely allowed himself to indulge in, but for a moment – a single instant – he’d thought it might work.

‘Hope leads to damnation,’ he said.

‘What?’ Savona asked. She braced herself on a cogitator console as the chamber shuddered again. Great cracks had formed in the floor and ceiling.

‘Something our Imperial cousins say. I’ve never really understood it, until now.’

Dust drifted down from the ceiling. The Tower’s eruption had shorted out most of the apothecarium’s systems. But the rest were still running, albeit on backup power.

‘Any word from Arrian?’

‘None. The vox is down,’ Savona said, as another shudder wracked the chamber. ‘That thing is too big to stop. The whole palace is going to come down on top of us.’

‘If we’re lucky.’ On the remaining displays, Voidraven bombers streaked across the sky as raiders navigated the streets. Everywhere, warriors of the Third clashed with drukhari. Explosions dotted the city, shaking it to its foundations. The Tower lurched through the streets, raining indiscriminate destruction on its surroundings. Gorgus and his hounds had moved to confront it, Titan to Titan. He adjusted the vox frequency, trying to re-establish contact with someone, anyone. For long moments, the only response he received was static. Then, a familiar voice.

‘–m in position. Repeat, in position.’ Saqqara. Fabius rerouted power from the nonessential displays, boosting power to the vox.

‘Saqqara, it is time. Do what you must.’

Silence followed, and for a moment, Fabius feared he’d lost contact. Then, finally, ‘Acknowledged. And on your head be it, Fabius.’

Fabius cut the link without replying. Savona looked at him.

‘What are you up to?’

‘I never expected us to be able to do more than distract them,’ Fabius said absently. ‘So that is what we are – a distraction. The real blow will come from elsewhere.’

Savona frowned. Then, understanding filled her gaze. ‘Neverborn. You’re having him summon Neverborn, the way he did on Lugganath.’

‘I thought it fitting. I am in this situation because of the gods, after all. It is only right that they contribute in some small fashion to the war effort.’ His smile could have cut glass. ‘I expect it will make little difference in the end.’

‘Then why risk it?’

Fabius laughed. ‘What do we have to lose?’

The vox crackled. ‘–abius? Answer me!’

‘I am here, Gorgus,’ Fabius said hurriedly. ‘What is your status?’

‘This beast is the biggest I’ve ever hunted!’ Gorgus sounded excited, but his voice was ragged – filled with pain. ‘It’s already killed two of my hounds.’

Fabius winced. Gorgus was the sole mind in control of a quartet of Titans. The three Warhounds were as much a part of him as his hands. If two of them were down, the neural feedback would be excruciating.

‘Retreat if you must, Gorgus. There is no shame in letting such prey escape.’

‘The hell with that. I only contacted you to thank you. This is the most fun I’ve had in years.’ Gorgus laughed again. ‘I’ll say this for you, you always know how to show your guests a good time, Clonelord.’

With that, the signal dissolved into static. Fabius sought through the sensory feeds, trying to find a picture of what was going on outside the palace. Brief flickers of battle crossed his display – of Gorgus’ Reaver reeling, bleeding plasma, its void shields running like water. The Tower had more weapons than he remembered. It was as heavily armed as a battle cruiser, and better armoured.

The Reaver staggered, swinging up its gatling blaster. Ropey tendrils of flesh slammed down, causing the void shields to flare and buckle. The gatling blaster whirred, spitting a fusillade of destruction. The Tower twitched and swayed, like a tree in a high wind. The Reaver lunged, power claw raised. The claws tore red canyons in the Tower’s dermis, but it did not fall. Instead, it convulsed, and spat beams of destructive energy that danced across the Reaver’s hull, leaving smoking craters in their wake.

Fabius felt a surge of pride. He’d constructed the Tower to endure almost anything short of a direct orbital strike. It was among the crowning achievements of his career.

More tendrils curled about the Reaver, seeking its weak points. The Apocalypse missile launcher atop its carapace pivoted, and spat a volley of explosive fire. Tendrils coiled about the weapon, crumpling it as it expended its load. There was a flare of light – blinding and painful. The displays fell to static one by one.

Alarm klaxons sounded.

Savona cursed. ‘They’re all over this blasted ruin – we can’t put up a concentrated defence, thanks to that godsdamned tower. We need to regroup.’

‘You go, if you wish. I will remain here – if I can get the systems back up, we might be able to organise a proper withdrawal from the city.’ He turned. ‘I need more time.’

‘A resource that is in distressingly short supply,’ Savona said. She paused. ‘I don’t think I’ll see you again, old monster.’

Fabius looked at her. ‘No. I expect not.’ He smiled. ‘All in all, you lasted longer than I thought you would.’

‘I take that as a compliment,’ she said. She raised her maul in salute. ‘Goodbye, lieutenant commander.’

Fabius turned back to his display and gestured dismissively. ‘Be helpful and go kill something, will you?’ But he was smiling as he said it.

She was gone a moment later, and he quickly sealed the hatch. The longer it took them to find him, the longer the attack on the apothecarium would last. The longer his creations would have to evacuate.

‘A bit more time,’ he murmured. ‘Just a bit more time.’

Saqqara’s display crumbled into static as the Reaver’s plasma reactor went critical. An apocalypse of heat and light rippled outwards, engulfing the closest buildings. Saqqara turned, sheltering behind the shattered archway. The tower shook down to its roots, losing pieces of itself.

His flasks rattled against his chestplate, and he endeavoured to cover them as best he could. If they were to escape now, they might well turn on him in a frenzy. There was too much death in the air, too much pain and fear.

The air stank of burnt plasma when he rose from his crouch. The horizon had been seared purple and red. Shriekers rose in screaming flocks from their fiery nests, their flesh burning, making them resemble comets in reverse.

Saqqara turned back to the cryo-cask he’d spent the last hour dragging to the top of the tower. It was heavier than it looked, given what it contained, and one of twelve – each the same size and weight. He sank down beside it and tapped the code into the rune-pad. It opened with a hiss, venting chill gases.

He looked at the huddled form within. It gasped slightly as it stirred from the slumber of stasis and blinked uncomprehending eyes sleepily. There was nothing behind that lavender gaze, no intellect. But there was a soul, of sorts. Barely formed and untainted.

‘Madness,’ Saqqara said, as he looked down at the clone of his tormenter. It was young. Fabius as he would have been on his day of choosing, when potential aspirants were at last handed over to the Legion’s Apothecaries. He helped the creature stand, and it did so without complaint.

‘This is madness,’ he said, more softly. He looked at the thing, and forced down the flicker of pity its empty gaze elicited. He drew his sacrificial blade – and slowly thrust it into the clone’s belly. The innocent eyes widened, and the thin mouth opened, but no sound emerged. Saqqara twisted the blade and withdrew it. The clone instinctively grabbed at him, but he easily fended it off. He thrust the knife in again and again, feeling no pleasure in the act, though it was one he’d dreamed of for centuries.

As the clone slumped to join the rest, mewling softly, he raised the blade and made the ritual gestures as he had eleven times before. ‘By betrayal, I sanctify this place,’ he murmured. He stripped blood from the blade and cast it to the eight cardinal directions. ‘By innocence’s sundering, I open the way. Hear me and come forth.’

There was only silence, at first. Even the din of battle seemed to have become muffled. Then, the soft clash of cymbals. The skirl of pipes. Bells rang, as if to celebrate a most joyous occasion. He stepped back as twelve bodies lurched upright, heads dangling, jaws slack. Flaccid hands fumbled at the largest of the wounds he’d made in their bellies, gripping the ragged edges. Slowly, awkwardly, the dead clones began to wrench their wounds ever wider. Something moved within those gaping holes. Many somethings. A daemonic tittering slithered from the wounds. Coloured smoke, reeking of incense and sour blood, spilled forth to swirl about him in almost coquettish fashion.

Saqqara bowed low, hands folded. ‘My lords and ladies, I beseech thee to come forth and I welcome thee in the name of him whose flesh is to be your meat and drink.’

He straightened and smiled.

‘Your promised revel awaits.’

Savona slammed her maul down, bursting the grotesque’s armoured skull.

Another of the lumbering horrors lunged out of the smoke, iron claws slashing at her. She caught the blow on her pauldron and rolled with it, letting the creature fling her out of arm’s reach. She struck the ground and rolled upright, charging back towards her attacker an instant later. The grotesque reared back and her power maul caught it in the abdomen.

Ichor spurted from the grille of its mask as it sank down, clutching at itself. She gave it no chance to recover. A second blow snapped its neck. Panting, she turned. Her display fuzzed, auto-senses confused by the toxins blanketing the air. She could hear boltguns and the vox was a riot of voices, but the handful of warriors who’d accompanied her were dead or as good as. It was time to fall back.

‘Bellephus – can you hear me?’

‘I am here,’ he growled. ‘Status?’

‘The apothecarium is compromised. Meet me with as many of the Twelfth as you can find. We need to–’

Blast-pistols thundered, interrupting her. She turned as the energy scorched her armour. Targeting runes flickered, settling over the shapes of several wracks moving cautiously down the narrow corridor. She grinned and launched herself towards them, moving with mercurial speed. Her first blow smashed one from its feet, and sent it flying back down the corridor. Her second and third broke the last of them, and left a tangle of xenos bodies at her feet.

‘Weaklings,’ she spat.

A strange hum pierced the silence. An insect shape hove into view at the opening of the corridor. It was a bloated thing, a war engine of some sort, but organic as well. An array of blades, manipulators and the like dangled from its clattering gauntlets, and a tail-like appendage rose over its back, with a sting in the form of a pair of splinter cannons. She’d heard of such things before – pain engines, some called them. It surged towards her with an eager hum, splinter cannons chewing the walls and floor of the corridor.

She retreated before it, not wishing to risk the sheer volume of firepower. It surged after her, more quickly than she’d anticipated. It slammed into her with the force of a runaway battle tank, sending her hurtling back down the corridor.

As she struggled to her feet, the pain engine reared over her, blades flashing. It made an eager mewling sound, and she groped desperately for her maul. Serrated blades glanced off her armour as she twisted aside.

A silver blur interrupted it. The pain engine swung away with a scream as a power axe was embedded in its skull. Quin appeared a moment later, heavy armour grinding as he charged full tilt into the engine, slamming it against the wall.

‘Up, woman,’ he roared. ‘I cannot hold it for long.’

As she scrambled to her feet, he ripped his axe free of the pain engine’s cranium. It knocked him sprawling with a thunderous clang, and its splinter cannons opened up. He staggered to one knee as the volley washed over him. Quin roared as his battered armour sparked and tried to get to his feet.

Awkwardly, he slammed his axe into its armoured cranium again. It wobbled, and she slammed her maul down, battering its rounded shell. Caught by the narrowness of the corridor, it tried to turn, screeching and slashing wildly. She caught hold of a loose hose and hauled herself onto its carapace.

‘Keep it occupied,’ she shouted.

‘What?’ Quin demanded, parrying a blow from the pain engine’s bladed limb. ‘Are you mad? Get down from there and fall back.’

Savona ignored him. Raising her maul in both hands, she drove it down like a spear. The thick armour cracked and split, disgorging stinking effluvia. The engine shrilled in what might have been pain, and drove Quin back against the wall, hard enough to stun him. It whipped back and forth wildly, trying to dislodge her. As it thrashed, she spied a bulging tumour of ganglia and neural fibres clumped along its stumpy neck. Without thinking, she plunged her free hand into the mass and tore it loose. A juddering spasm ran through the beast and it sank down in a pitiful heap. She fell from its back as it went still.

Panting, she rose. Behind her, she heard a creak. She turned, and the pain engine lurched up with a screech. It struck her – hard. She crashed against the wall and fell. She felt something give inside her, and cried out in anger and frustration.

‘What does it take to put this damned thing down?’ she howled, as the engine scrabbled towards her.

The roar of boltguns was loud in the corridor. Dozens of shots struck the creature, and it slumped once more, dead at last. Through the smoke, Savona saw Bellephus, Varex and several other warriors approaching.

‘It is time to leave, my lady,’ Bellephus said as he eyed Quin.

‘What?’ Savona shook her head, trying to clear the blood from her eyes.

‘I took the liberty of preparing Butcher-Bird. I’ve already called for a tactical withdrawal on the Twelfth’s vox-channel. Anyone still alive will meet us in orbit.’

‘What about the others?’ Savona asked, without thinking.

‘They are not of the Twelfth,’ Bellephus said simply.

Savona looked at Quin. ‘And you?’

‘As you said, I have spent too long hiding away.’ He looked down at his axe. ‘I am ready for something new, I think.’ He looked at her. ‘Something interesting.’

Savona laughed harshly and turned. There was a transit shaft nearby. It would take them where they needed to go. ‘No worries on that score. Come. Let us leave the lieutenant commander to his glorious defeat.’

She laid her maul across her shoulder.

‘It is time we chart our own course.’

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Last Stand

‘They are fleeing – cowards,’ Salar said, pounding the rail of the raider. ‘Even as I said.’ He turned. ‘All power to the forward thrusters – I want the corpses of every one of those mon-keigh hanging from our prow by day’s end!’

‘That would severely overbalance us,’ Kysh said, without thinking. He closed his eyes as the words left his mouth, but could still feel Salar’s unwavering stare. ‘Oh. It was a…’

‘Figure of speech, yes,’ Salar said. ‘Remind me – why haven’t I killed you yet?’

‘Luck?’

‘The bad thing about luck, Kysh, is that it eventually runs out.’

‘I will keep that in mind, my lord.’ Kysh cracked an eye. Salar had already turned away. Kysh sighed in relief. He turned back to his sensors.

The mon-keigh were evacuating. Trawlers and aircraft were carrying them through a webway node situated far outside the city. Salar, with the keen eye of a predator, had spotted the evacuation effort immediately, taken every raider that could be spared and gone hunting. Now they were arrowing towards the shimmering gate and the lines of evacuees crossing through it.

‘There’s something almost offensive about it, isn’t there?’ Salar said, one hand on his sword. ‘Mon-keigh, using our technology.’

‘Very offensive, my lord. We shall punish them most strongly.’

Salar’s reply was lost in an ear-splitting shriek. A nearby raider was enveloped in flames. Salar cursed.

‘More speed, damn you. They can’t hit all of us!’

Privately, Kysh thought they were doing a good job of it. The enemy – he hesitated to call them mon-keigh – were bloated things, their armour painted in garish hues and their weapons unlike anything he had ever seen. Sonic energy danced through the air in a stomach-churning gavotte. Anything it touched was reduced to fiery motes.

The sonic weapons had accounted for several raiders as well as their crews, but there was only a handful of the hulking warriors and Salar had many, many raiders. So far, they were winning on numbers. The enemy were scattered, defending the gate. But they were fighting as individuals rather than as a unit, and that made them easy to pick off or evade. As Kysh watched, one of them was caught in a crossfire and fell with a despairing shriek.

Kysh yelped as a glancing shot took out one of their control ports. Salar bellowed curses at the unfortunate helmsman as their raider veered towards the webway node and slammed prow first into the parched earth. Kysh was nearly hurled over the rail.

Smoke boiled from the side of the raider, and something was burning. Before Kysh could ask for orders, Salar was vaulting over the rail.

‘Follow me, fools! There’s death and plunder to be had,’ he howled.

Kysh shook his head and looked at the others. ‘You heard the archon! Follow him!’

It was an old tactic. If your raider went down, you hoped that another one would swing by. And the best way to make sure of that was to head towards the prey. Salar was a traditionalist, if nothing else.

They moved in a dispersed formation, using the rubble that littered the ground for cover. The enemy were preoccupied with the remaining raiders. They wouldn’t notice Salar until it was too late. The mon-keigh were scattering, seeking cover. Those that found it fired at the approaching kabalite warriors, and Kysh allowed himself a moment of admiration for their prey. They were brave, at least. Breaking brave prey was always more satisfying.

Salar had drawn his sword and was muttering to himself. Kysh didn’t like his archon’s choice of blade. A weapon that spoke wasn’t really a weapon to be trusted, in his opinion. Then, suddenly, Salar stopped. Kysh froze and the others did the same at Salar’s gesture.

A massive figure stood between them and their prey. He was bigger than the others, his armour more garish than anything they’d yet seen. It was studded in odd protrusions and additions – things like broadcasters or amplifiers. The air throbbed around him with painful intensity.

‘No further,’ the giant said. His voice reverberated in a way that made Kysh’s marrow turn to water.

Salar laughed. ‘I’ve been looking forward to killing another one of you. You’re not the one I was hoping for, but you’ll do.’ He darted forward, blade singing out.

The giant raised his hands. The air convulsed.

An instant later, the djin blade screamed as it shattered. Salar’s shocked curse was cut short as a pulse of solid sound struck him and reduced him to a red smear on the air. It was over in moments. A short, sharp death-song.

‘I am Ramos,’ the giant rumbled. ‘Bull of the Eighth. I shattered Lugganath with my song, little aeldari. What do you imagine I will do to you?’

Kysh wiped what was left of Salar from his face. He glanced at the others, who met his gaze expectantly. He was in charge now, it seemed. After a moment’s calculation, he looked back at the giant.

‘Understood,’ he said, in badly accented Low Gothic. He turned and gestured. ‘Back to the raiders. It’s time to leave.’

‘What? But–’ a warrior began.

Kysh shot him.

‘I said, back to the raiders. Anyone who doesn’t want to leave, feel free to stay.’ He paused. ‘You will be missed, and your share of the plunder will be divided among the rest of us.’ Then he continued on his way.

Slowly, one by one, the others followed.

When the first blast struck the hatch, he nearly ordered the few remaining mutants to pick up their weapons. Instead, he gestured to the secondary hatch across the chamber.

‘Go,’ he said. ‘Your service is at an end.’

They hesitated, uncertain. He hefted Torment and slammed the sceptre down on a cogitator, flattening the machine.

‘I said, go.’

They went, swiftly. Fabius sealed the hatch behind them, destroying the control pad. He doubted they would escape the city. But this way, they had a chance. A second blast rattled the hatch in its frame. The vox crackled.

‘Lieutenant commander.’

‘Ramos,’ Fabius said. ‘Report.’

‘Evacuation complete. The last of them have passed through.’

‘Igori? Mayshana?’

Silence. Then, ‘We have not seen them.’

He closed his eyes. ‘Can you hold the gate?’

‘I think that is within our capabilities.’ Ramos sounded almost amused.

‘Do so. An hour more. If you cannot hold – then seal it.’ He deactivated the vox as a third and final blast tore the hatch from its housing. A pall of smoke billowed in.

Fabius went for his needler. A blast-pistol spoke, and he found himself flung backwards into a bank of machinery. He collapsed onto his hands and knees, wheezing. His armour had held – though only because the weapon had been on low power. Smoke rose from his scorched chestplate and burnt coat. He’d lost his needler, and Torment lay out of reach.

‘Well. Here we are again.’

Fabius looked up. Hexachires was surrounded by his slave-assistants, and accompanied by several of his fellow haemonculi. Fabius recognised none of them.

‘Hello, Hexachires. Was that you knocking earlier? I was distracted, forgive me.’ He made to stand, but froze as drukhari warriors filed into the chamber behind the haemonculus. One, a female with a jewelled monocle over one eye, held a blast-pistol aimed at his skull.

‘No, no, Fabius, don’t get up,’ Hexachires said. He clasped his hands together in pleasure. ‘Oh, this takes me back. You on your knees, me standing over you, your punishment yet to be decided. Almost makes one nostalgic.’

‘I am not prone to that particular illness.’

‘Oleander says different. Don’t you, Oleander?’ Hexachires turned and gestured. ‘Now don’t be shy. Come out where he can see you.’

Fabius watched in bemusement as a broken, hunched figure crept out from within the crowd of xenos. He did not recognise the being before him, but said, ‘I see the Harlequins did not kill you, Oleander.’

‘No,’ Oleander said, his voice a harsh rasp.

Fabius shook his head and pulled himself to his feet, ignoring the weapons trained on him. ‘There’s a story here, I suspect. Sadly, I do not think I have time for it.’

‘Oh, there’ll be plenty of time for reminiscing later, on the way back to Commorragh.’ Hexachires smiled down at Fabius. ‘We have so much to talk about, you and I. Including a recent discovery of mine.’ He snapped his fingers, and the crowd of drukhari parted, allowing a grotesque to lumber forward. In its heavy claws, it clutched a sheath of shimmering crystal. And inside that sheath…

‘Melusine,’ Fabius said.

‘So you do know her. How exciting. Oh, Fabius, what have you been up to?’ Hexachires laughed delightedly. ‘A daemon-child. Truly a marvel. I cannot tell you how excited I am to dissect her in front of you. The thought of it gives me chills.’

Fabius looked down. Things were moving too fast. He had anticipated none of this. But it was too late to change anything. He met Melusine’s gaze, but her eyes gave nothing away. She seemed almost… serene. He shook his head.

‘You always did get ahead of yourself, Hexachires.’

‘Now, now, don’t be a sore loser, Fabius. You’ve made a good effort, but I caught you fair and square.’ He turned to his wracks. ‘Take him.’

‘Wait,’ Fabius said.

Sensing something in his tone, Hexachires held up a hand. ‘What is it?’

‘You should know… I took a page from your notes,’ Fabius said. ‘After our last encounter, I decided to ensure any future confrontation would be solidly in my favour.’

‘What are you gibbering about?’ Hexachires stiffened as Fabius’ words sank in. ‘A bomb?’ he asked. ‘Really, Fabius, do you expect me to believe…’

Fabius laughed. ‘Not just a bomb. Something much worse.’

‘Another virus, then.’

Fabius smiled. ‘Of sorts. An artificial bacterium, derived from a parting gift of yours.’ He reached into his coat and pulled out a sample jar. ‘Recognise this?’

Hexachires looked at the other haemonculi. ‘Should I?’

Fabius laughed. ‘I shall never fathom how a being so utterly lacking in curiosity can be so clever.’ He hauled himself fully upright. ‘In our last encounter, I was shot by a hexrifle. Luckily, I was prepared for such an eventuality. Can you say the same?’

Hexachires laughed. ‘The Glass Plague? Are you seriously threatening us with that?’ He looked around. ‘Where is your delivery system?’

Fabius smiled grimly and tapped his chest. ‘My death – or removal from this world – will activate the explosive devices situated throughout this facility. A mixture of plasma and phosphex detonators. A modified form of the plague will subsequently be released.’

Hexachires shook his head. ‘We will be gone by then…’

‘Perhaps, so long as your citadel remains inviolate. Only your citadel – the citadel I built for you – is here, isn’t it?’

Hexachires stiffened. ‘Madness.’

‘Genius,’ Fabius snarled. He coughed and clutched at his chest. It felt as if the impact of the blast had shaken something loose in him. ‘Mighty though that leviathan is, it is still made of meat. And the plague will take it as surely as it will take you. There will be nowhere to hide. Not for you, or any who followed you here.’

He paused, making a show of listening. ‘Wait – do you hear? It sounds like a new player has entered the game.’ The crash of cymbals and the cackle of daemonic laughter echoed through the entry hatch. Fabius’ smile widened.

Hexachires silenced the sudden babble with a sharp gesture. ‘Your confidence comes perilously close to hubris, Fabius,’ he said. ‘I think you are bluffing. If you had such a weapon, why not activate it immediately?’

Fabius bowed his head, struggling to catch his breath. He could feel his hearts flagging, and his limbs felt heavy. ‘I am going to die here. But I will not pass into history unaccompanied, Hexachires.’ He looked up, fixing Hexachires with a feverish glare. ‘This is my funeral pyre, and you are the dogs laid at my feet.’

‘We are at an impasse, then,’ Hexachires said, after a moment of silence.

‘Only if you are unimaginative,’ Fabius grunted. He wiped blood from his mouth and extended his hand. ‘I appear to be dying.’

‘And?’ Hexachires said. ‘I know you have other bodies. Ones I have not found.’

‘But they will not be me.’ Fabius tapped the side of his head. ‘This mind – this me – the me who… embarrassed you, will die here. Surely that is a moral victory, at least?’

‘It is not enough,’ Hexachires said.

‘It will have to be. You are in no position to be stubborn, Hexachires.’ Fabius’ gaze flicked to Melusine. ‘You may have captured one daemon, but can you fight an army of them? Especially with your precious Tower collapsing around you?’

Hexachires growled softly. ‘What do you want?’

‘You will cease this infantile vendetta,’ Fabius said. ‘From this moment on, all debts are paid and my slate wiped clean.’ His eyes strayed to Oleander. His former student had crept closer to Hexachires. Their eyes met, just for a moment. Oleander gave a slight nod, and Fabius tensed.

Hexachires was silent for long moments. Then, he laughed. ‘A terrible bargain. And one you would not make unless you were desperate. I am calling your bluff, Fabius.’ He gestured. ‘Take him. Avara, you and the others prepare for battle. We will make a fighting withdrawal–’

Oleander lunged.

Hexachires turned with a squawk of surprise. He thrust his hand into his robes, reaching for something, but Fabius was there first. He grappled with the haemonculus, and his hand found the pain-baton.

‘Oleander – catch!’

Oleander caught the baton with a howl of joy. Hexachires squalled like a wounded cat and his spinal tendrils arrowed down, propelling Fabius away. He rounded on Oleander, spitting curses. Several wracks interposed themselves between their master and Oleander as the latter advanced. But Oleander had a different target in mind.

As Fabius regained his feet, Oleander brought the baton down on the grotesque’s skull, pulping it with a single blow. The great beast dropped, and the crystalline sheath fell to the ground with a ringing clatter. Oleander raised the baton over it. Hexachires cried out. Fabius, knowing what was coming, dived for cover.

The pain-baton, at least the prototype he’d devised, had been based – in part – on Torment. It had no daemon within it, but it was powered by a miniature darklight reactor, allowing it to be used without fear of its charge failing.

Already cracked from the blow that had killed the grotesque, the subsequent blow resulted in an explosion of such force and savagery that Fabius thought the entire chamber was going to collapse in on him.

Smoke and flame filled the chamber. Fabius dragged himself to his feet. He could see nothing – no one. Then, a blast cut across his shoulder-plate, nearly throwing him to the floor once more. The smoke swirled, thinned, and he spied Hexachires heading for the exit, followed by his aides. Drukhari were screaming, and something laughed.

A kabalite warrior slammed into a nearby wall, startling him. The warrior crumpled, armour ruptured. He could hear the whine of splinter rifles and the dull shriek of a blast-pistol. Reinforcements had arrived.

He saw Torment lying on the floor and went for it. As he did, the heavy shape of a grotesque rose out of the smoke, fists raised over its head. It brought them down, nearly crushing him as he lurched aside. He rose, Torment in hand. The beast reached for him again.

‘No, brute. He belongs to me.’

The grotesque turned with a gurgling roar as something awful rose over it. The daemon – a Keeper of Secrets – looked down at Fabius, a cruel smile spreading across its bovine features.

‘Hello, sweet Fabius. I told you we would meet again – and that moment has come around at last. Do you remember me?’ It laughed. ‘Never mind, I shall introduce myself – I am Kanathara, Whose Hooves Shatter Mountains and Whose Voice Lulls the Sun. You have called and I have come.’

As it spoke, Kanathara’s blade split the grotesque from crown to groin, before slamming into the floor with a dull clang. Fabius fell back, cursing as his battered frame refused to respond properly. The chirurgeon was doing what it could, but not swiftly enough. He clawed at the wall, trying to haul himself to his feet.

‘Where are you going, Fabius?’ Kanathara purred. ‘Are you not pleased to see me?’

‘Begone,’ Fabius growled, fumbling to retrieve Torment. ‘I have no need of loquacious figments. Go kill the drukhari, as you were summoned for.’

‘Your bite is weaker than I recall. Could it be that iron certainty has begun to rust at last?’ Kanathara dropped to its haunches and watched him scrabble. ‘I was in the garden, you know. Watching as the Dark Prince’s favoured heir brought you to heel at last – reminding you of your place in the great game. But I am not so easily satisfied as all that. You insulted me, and I will have my recompense.’

Almost playfully, the daemon thrust its blade towards him. The tip pierced Fabius’ side, punching through his armour with ease. Blood flowed and Fabius screamed. His groping hand found Torment’s haft and he snatched the weapon up with desperate strength, swinging it at the daemon’s head.

The blow was a glancing one, but it served its purpose. Kanathara jerked back with a howl, and Fabius scrambled to his feet. One hand pressed to his wound, he stumbled away from the creature, seeking a way out of the chamber.

‘Help me,’ he hissed, manually activating the chem-pumps affixed to his armour. The chirurgeon trilled in consternation, pumping secondary stimulants into his already overloaded system. ‘I know,’ he spat.

‘But I will not die here. Not yet.’

Avara spotted the mon-keigh as she shot a capering daemonette. Hexachires had already fled, leaving her to deal with the daemons that now seemed to be crawling out of every crevice and crack in this cursed place. She bared her teeth in a snarl of frustration. They’d come all this way – again – and the creature was escaping – again.

Not this time. She’d kill the beast and bring its head back to Commorragh and gift it to Vect himself – or at least a suitably influential proxy. Malys, maybe. Hexachires would be punished for whatever transgression he was trying to hide, and she would be feted as she deserved.

‘This way, follow me,’ she snapped. Several of her warriors broke off and hurried after her. The rest would have to make their way as best they could. She could always get new ones, once she’d returned to Commorragh.

She raced after the creature. Wounded as it was, it would be easy to put down once and for all. As she stepped out into the corridor, she saw it stumble towards a transit-shaft. She laughed and levelled her pistol. This was almost too easy.

‘You would shoot him in the back?’

Avara spun and fired, even as the figures burst from the smoke. One fell, but the rest kept coming. The mon-keigh moved faster than she thought possible. Almost as fast as kabalite warriors. They howled as they fought, like wild beasts.

Avara focused on the figure before her – a female. Old. But strong. She lifted her blast-pistol for a second shot, but hesitated. Black smoke boiled from the glancing hit she’d made on the woman’s side. The mon-keigh glanced at the wound, and gave a ragged laugh.

‘Too old and slow,’ she said, before launching herself at Avara. Shocked, Avara fell back, her finger on the trigger. Her attacker’s knife pierced the blast-pistol’s power core even as she fired. Avara tried to hurl the weapon away from her, but too late.

She screamed as a ball of darklight engulfed her hand. Everything seemed to slow – the moment stretching into an eternity. She saw her warriors falling, dying – being devoured. She saw her attacker slump back against a pillar, clutching at the wound in her side. She saw the ball of darklight double in size. Then triple. She tried to drag her arm free, but to no avail. Her monocle scanned the coruscating ball of darkness, calculating, predicting, even as the ambient effects of the darklight interfered with its function. She turned away, slowly, so slowly, and clawed for her knife.

She fumbled the weapon from its sheath. The darklight trebled again. Her arm was gone, but she was still caught fast. She raised the knife, and felt someone take it from her. White fingers caught her face and forced her to turn. Eyes like dollops of quicksilver stared into her own.

‘Poor little mouse. Caught fast in the trap. Would you like my help, mouse?’ the daemon purred.

Avara tried to find her voice. To curse. To shout. Anything. But the darklight was in her by then and through her and carrying her words away as it spilled out of her. The daemon stepped back as she fell, crumbling into black smoke and fading motes.

Igori watched the archon crumble into nothing, devoured by the alien energies of her own weapon. As the last ashes of her opponent swirled up to join the rest whirling about the battlefield, she looked down at her wound. It was a black scar on her side, burnt flesh and blood boiled away to steam. She could feel its bite in her bones. ‘Too slow,’ she growled. She tried to rise, but her legs weren’t working.

She laughed softly and slid down.

Mayshana turned, letting the drukhari she held slump to the ground. ‘Grandmother,’ she said softly. She padded towards Igori, blood dappling her jaws and hands. She sheathed her blade and holstered her pistol. ‘You are hurt.’

‘Dying,’ Igori said. ‘Then, we have been here before.’

Mayshana crouched beside her. ‘Yes. Only this time, the Benefactor cannot save you.’

Igori gave a bloody grin. ‘Do not sound so pleased, child.’

‘I am not. Who will be Eldest now?’

‘Who do you think?’ Igori stroked her grandchild’s cheek. Mayshana caught her hand.

‘You should have let me take you back. I told him I would.’

‘Oh, child. He will forgive you. The others?’ Though her vision was blurring, she could see indistinct shapes gathering. Glaive, Spar and all the rest. Bloody-jawed, some hurt, all hungry.

‘You were the only casualty, grandmother.’

‘That is fitting.’ Igori lay back. She felt nothing – no pain, no fear. Just… tired. ‘Divide my heart evenly, children. And then find the Benefactor.’ She tried to smile. ‘He needs you, more than he knows.’

‘He needs us all.’

Igori’s eyes widened. Mayshana whirled, reaching for her knife. Melusine’s hooves clicked against the stones as she passed through the ranks of the Gland-hounds. She trailed her claws across their heads and chests, as if blessing them, and they twitched back, faces contorted with fear and revulsion – but also awe.

‘But you and I most of all,’ Melusine said, as she knelt before Igori. ‘He needs me, as I need you, for what is to come.’

‘Leave her,’ Mayshana growled.

‘No.’ Igori pushed herself up. ‘No. This is what must be.’ She looked at her granddaughter. ‘Go. Do as he has commanded. Lead our people, as I could not.’

Mayshana hesitated, but only for a moment. She nodded, turned and was gone. One by one, the others followed until only Melusine and Igori remained.

‘I am dying,’ Igori said.

‘But you do not have to.’

Melusine held out her hand.

‘Take my hand, sister. We have one last task.’

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Sleep

Belial IV burned. Fabius could smell it. He could hear the shrieks of daemons as they capered in the ruins of his ambition. The drukhari were gone. Most of them, at any rate. He wondered if Hexachires had escaped. Part of him hoped so, if only so the creature could live with its humiliation.

He’d made it to the atrium before he’d collapsed. It seemed fitting to die amid such beauty. Perhaps the plants would eat him. Hopefully they would do so before the daemons found him. He lay against a pillar, unable to breathe, barely able to see. The wound in his side would not cease bleeding.

‘Father.’

The voice echoed itself. Two voices mingling into one. He heard the clop of hooves and looked up.

‘Melusine?’ He shook his head. ‘No – Igori?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘She is me, and I am her. We are your daughter, in flesh and bone and soul.’ And she was. It was as if two beings overlaid and intermingled with one another. One moment, the face was Igori’s, the next Melusine’s.

He laughed. ‘And what should I call you then?’

‘Melusine will do, Father. Names have power.’

‘They will come for me soon,’ he whispered. It hurt to talk.

‘That is why I am here, Father. I will not let them have you.’ She knelt beside him. ‘It has all been leading here. Every moment, every story. All to reach this point.’

‘Why?’

‘It is a game of gods, and you are one pawn among untold millions,’ Melusine said gently. ‘One god wants you here, another wants you there. All that has changed is your position on the board.’

Fabius laughed weakly. ‘Which one wanted me enslaved, then?’

‘All of them.’ Melusine leaned close. ‘The question is not whether you are a slave, Father. The question is, what sort of slave will you be? Willing or unwilling? Faithful or treacherous?’

‘Why?’ he whispered again, caressing her hair. ‘Why a slave at all? Did you hate me so much?’

Melusine kissed him on the brow. ‘No. Because I loved you. And because only as a slave will you live. All other roads led to the death.’

‘I am dying now, child.’

‘No. You are only going to sleep, Father. And when you awaken, all will be as you remember. And your work will begin anew.’

‘Do not make promises you cannot keep, Melusine.’ He coughed. His hearts stuttered and strained, fighting against the weight of incipient death. The chirurgeon squalled like a frustrated cat as it injected various tinctures and solutions into his flagging system. Volts of electricity cut through him, as one of his hearts shut down and his armour automatically attempted to restart it.

Everything was going red at the edges. Soon, it would go black. This time, there would be nothing beyond that. No slow tumble through the ghosts of his past, no wandering the corridors of his own soul, as he waited for his mind to acclimate to a new body.

This time, it would be the end. The true ending. He welcomed it.

Do you, now?

Fabius stiffened. Soft trills of laughter slithered out of the smoke. Dark forms followed it. Melusine rose. Fabius tried to speak, but he couldn’t find the strength. He was a prisoner in his own crumbling body.

We have fulfilled our part of the bargain, sweet Fabius.

Now it is time for you to fulfil yours.

Oleander crawled through the remnants of the strategium chamber, trailing his useless legs behind him. He’d managed to tear the control-helm from his head, at the cost of most of his face and scalp, but it was worth it just to breathe unencumbered.

He heard a clatter of bells and looked up. Veilwalker looked down at him.

‘You have made it to the end. Congratulations.’

Oleander rolled onto his back. The nerves in his spinal column were reknitting, but slowly. Too slowly to do him any good. He dragged himself into a sitting position. ‘I presume you’re here to kill me.’

‘If you wish.’

He gasped as something inside him shifted. He leaned back, trying to ignore the sensations that crept through his ravaged body. ‘I think so,’ he said, through gritted teeth. ‘I think I am tired of your stories.’

Veilwalker leapt down lightly and walked towards him. ‘Some might say that is more mercy than you deserve.’

‘Are you one of them?’

Veilwalker cocked her head. ‘Sometimes. The story is never one thing or another.’ She sank into a crouch and watched as he convulsed. ‘The endings are uncertain until the last page is turned. Or perhaps not. Maybe we overestimate our cleverness, and our stories are but trite rotations of a well-worn wheel.’

Oleander groaned. He coughed up something wet and yellow and felt his hearts spasm. He wondered where Melusine was – and where Fabius was. He hoped they’d escaped.

‘Or maybe there is no story, no grand plot, and this is all but farce for the amusement of the Laughing God, in his final days,’ Veilwalker continued. ‘Maybe the strings we pull are attached only to ourselves and we have convinced each other that there is some meaning to our madness. It is impossible to say because the final page is yet to be turned. The final stanza yet to be sung. The final curtain yet to fall.’

‘That’s… that’s a very l-long winded way of saying you’re as in the dark as the rest of us,’ Oleander said, as he lay back.

‘Yes. Then, maybe I have already seen the end. And all of this is simply to ensure that it happens in a timely fashion – or doesn’t happen at all.’

‘S-stories,’ Oleander muttered and laughed. ‘Bloody stories.’

‘In the end, stories are all we have. Those we tell ourselves and those we tell others.’ Veilwalker raised her staff. ‘Goodbye, Oleander.’ She swept the weighted end of her staff down towards his skull.

He caught it before it struck, holding it at bay with all the strength that remained to him. ‘W-why?’ he asked, forcing the words out. ‘W-why all of th-this? Just tell me that. Why him? Why me?’

‘Because we all have our part to play in the Great Jest. Some sooner than others.’ Gently, she pulled her staff from his weakening grip and raised it anew. ‘Sleep now, Count Sunflame. Your tale has reached its end.’

Oleander never felt the blow that followed. But he carried Veilwalker’s final words down into the darkness with him, and wondered at them.

‘His tale, however, is only beginning.’

Saqqara walked through fire and dust, his gauntlets stained with blood. The souls of slain drukhari followed him like whipped dogs, chivvied along by his most loyal daemons. The souls were weak things, ragged and empty. Barely more than a mouthful for the bestial, simplistic Neverborn who loped and gambolled about him. They were his now, bound to him by magics older than their civilisation. He was somewhat surprised that it had worked. Then, there was not much difference between a drukhari soul and a daemon. At least, the lesser sorts of daemon.

Around him, Belial IV burned. The ruins were full of bodies. The daemons he’d summoned ran riot, slaughtering any living thing left, save those already pledged body and soul to the Prince of Pleasures. And not even they were entirely safe. He heard the howl of beastkin, and the rattle of boltguns. The whisper-crack of splinter rifles and the crackle of duelling vox frequencies. Contrary to popular opinion, the aftermath of a battle was not silent. Overhead, gunships rose on wings of flame and smoke, pursued by flocks of shriekers. Soon, there would be no one left.

Saqqara inhaled deeply, tasting the scent of victory. For this was victory. The gods had triumphed, as they inevitably did. All else was unimportant.

A sudden blossom of pain in his skull stopped him. His daemons whined in agitation as he cradled his head. The pain swelled, driving out all thought. He sank to one knee, and tasted blood. The pain spread, stretching its roots down deep into his organs, as if to squeeze them into pulp. He coughed acid, and the blood-taste became acrid and metallic. A pressure built behind his eyes, and he squeezed them shut. He pounded a fist against the ground, fighting against the agony even as it redoubled its assault.

Then, all at once, it was done.

Panting, he stood. He blinked blood from his eyes and looked at his hands. He began to laugh. He had done it. He had not been certain, despite his claims to the contrary. He raised his fists to the sky.

‘Free,’ he whispered. Then, roaring, ‘Free!’ He slammed a fist into his chest and bellowed an ululation to the uncaring sky. ‘He is dead and I am free! Free! Free!’

Saqqara.

The voice cut through him like an athame. His daemons heard it as well, and began to howl. He silenced them with a gesture. ‘I hear you, my lady,’ he said. ‘He is dead. I felt it.’

Yes. Come.

‘Why? My task is done.’

Not yet. Come.

Saqqara looked up and saw that the setting suns had turned the sky the colour of old blood – the colour of his armour. ‘A sign?’ he murmured.

He did not question. Questioning was for those who doubted. Saqqara did not know doubt or fear. His faith led him unerringly along the paths the gods had prepared for him, and for this he had ever been thankful. Especially now, free at last of his burdens. Fabius Bile was dead, and Saqqara Ur-Damask Thresh lived.

Death is but a transition.

Her words leapt at him like arrows, and he batted their meaning aside. ‘I felt the device he implanted in me go off,’ he growled. ‘That means his mind has ceased to function. Whatever is left is not him.’

And yet… do you not wish to be certain?

‘Why should it matter to me now?’ Saqqara demanded.

Do you not wish to know who you are?

He paused. ‘What do you mean?’

Are you the one holding the knife… or the one on the stone?

After a moment’s hesitation, Saqqara sighed and turned. ‘I am coming, my lady.’

Decision made, he did not tarry. He ran as fast as he had ever run before, dragging his prisoners in his wake. His daemons ranged ahead of him, yelping and shrieking. They drove aside anything that sought to stand in his path, be it Neverborn or mortal.

Only when he finally clattered across the rusting gantry, into what had once been Arrian’s atrium, did he stop short. There was a familiar musk on the air – Neverborn. Many of them. He sank down, and silenced his daemons with a gesture. They huddled about him like nervous hounds. The things below were as far above them as they were above the cringing half-souls of the drukhari.

Daemonettes danced through the burning flowers, laughing as they garlanded one another with drukhari intestines. Serpentine beasts coiled about support columns, their gemstone eyes glinting in the firelight. The creatures filled the atrium, but kept their distance from the far end.

There, Melusine crouched over the body of Fabius Bile. From his position, Saqqara thought it looked as if the daemons had come to pay homage to the fallen Apothecary. Or perhaps to watch his final moments.

He paused. He felt the immaterium tremble, and knew that something greater than any daemonette was approaching. The other Neverborn fell silent and drew back as something massive ducked beneath the entrance to the atrium. It clutched the broken bodies of several drukhari in two of its four claws.

‘Hello, Fabius,’ it growled.

Saqqara hissed softly in recognition. Kanathara, Whose Hooves Shatter Mountains. One of the princes of the court, high in the esteem of N’Kari and Shalaxi, though not so beloved as those two. And it had its own grudge with Fabius, ever since their first encounter above Sublime. Had the gods sent it to collect on what they were owed? Or was it here merely to satisfy its own petty desires?

‘I told you I would be here,’ the daemon purred as it rose to its full height. Its silks rustled as it approached. ‘I told you I would walk through fire to see this moment.’ The ragged remnants it clutched were dropped. ‘Your enemies are gone, Fabius. And your children, too. As the gods promised.’ Its eyes flicked to Melusine. ‘All save one, at least. But she will not be here much longer, I suspect.’

‘Longer than you, Kanathara,’ Melusine said. At her words, the gathered Neverborn hissed and snapped their claws, as if to chastise her.

‘You forget yourself, little concubine,’ Kanathara said. ‘I am here at the Dark Prince’s request. And I am come to collect what he is owed.’ It pointed a gilded claw at Fabius. ‘I see it, crouched inside that decaying shell – a flicker of pallid soul-light. I have longed to claim it since I first caught its rancid scent. And you cannot stop me.’

It took a step forward. The sound was that of a bell, tolling doom. Melusine put herself between her father and Kanathara.

‘No. I cannot.’ She looked up and her eyes met Saqqara’s. He laughed softly, caught the rail of the gantry and swung himself over. He dropped to the floor, cracking the stones. Neverborn shrieked at this intrusion, and Kanathara turned, eyes narrowed.

‘You should not be here, diabolist,’ the daemon said.

‘I go where the gods require,’ Saqqara countered. He looked past the daemon. ‘And right now they require me to be here. To watch and record this moment.’

Kanathara laughed and turned. ‘You hear, Fabius? There will be a witness to your ending after all! This little priest, whom you enslaved for so long, shall go out into the wider universe and sing the song of your final moments, as he was ever intended to do. All will know the futility of denying the gods.’

Saqqara smiled. ‘I shall be honoured to do so. But first…’ He drew his blade and slashed it across the back of the daemon’s calf. Kanathara howled in shock and crashed down to one knee. It swept a claw out, but Saqqara ducked away. He bellowed a command, and his daemons flung themselves at the Keeper of Secrets.

Kanathara howled and cursed as the smaller daemons tore at it in a frenzy. He had only moments to act. It would not be off balance for long. He stripped its ichor from his blade and crouched, drawing a sigil on the floor. Kanathara must have sensed his intentions, for it flung aside his pets and lunged. But too late.

Saqqara stabbed his blade into the floor and said the words. Kanathara reared up and gave voice to a scream of fury and frustration. It gibbered and ranted in a language incomprehensible to mortal ears as thin cracks of light appeared on its form. Saqqara ignored it with an ease born of experience. He drew an empty flask from his armour and removed the cork.

‘No,’ Kanathara snarled. ‘No, you will not! I am a courtier of the Dark Prince! I–’

‘You are just another pawn on the board,’ Melusine said. ‘And only a little one at that.’ She met Saqqara’s gaze. ‘Do it.’

‘Gladly.’

He spoke the words and felt the world twist to his will. When it was done, he corked the flask and held it up. Then, with a sigh, he tossed it into the flowers. ‘Too dangerous to keep, I think. Let him learn patience, as I have.’

‘Thank you,’ Melusine said. Her voice cracked.

‘Are you… weeping?’ he asked, in puzzlement.

‘No,’ Melusine said. ‘She is. I cannot.’ She looked up at him. ‘You returned.’

‘As you knew I would.’ He looked down at Fabius and his grip tightened on his blade. He wanted to drive it into the dead man’s hearts. Instead, very deliberately, he cleaned the ichor from it and sheathed it. ‘I will never be free of him, will I?’

‘No.’ She smiled, and he felt it like a blade in his hearts. ‘But what would you do with freedom, Bearer of the Word?’

Saqqara looked away. ‘What now, then?’

‘Now we lay him to rest, and prepare for what is to come.’

‘And what is to come?’ Saqqara asked, as he gathered Fabius’ limp bulk to his chest. The Chief Apothecary was lighter than he imagined. He flinched as the chirurgeon scrambled up his back, clicking urgently, but did not shake it off. It was keening, after a fashion. The heartbroken wail of a pet – or perhaps a child.

Melusine turned away.

‘Only the gods know.’

Epilogue

The King in the Grove

AFTER THE GREAT RIFT

Skalagrim Phar strode through the grove of wraithbone, hands empty.

His black armour gleamed in the witch-light that danced among the branches. The armour was mostly new – stripped plate by plate from the bodies of rivals. He’d had many challengers in the early days. Fewer now. The old wolf still had all his fangs. He reached down and caressed the chainaxe hanging from its reinforced loop on his belt. It all still felt strange to him, like a dream that refused to end.

The air tasted foul, and his scalp prickled within the ceramite shell of his helm. His auto-senses flexed and focused, confused by their surroundings, trying to make sense of the twisting confines of the wraithbone grove. It had grown since he’d last seen it, spilling out of the crater and spreading across the ruins of the city. Absorbing everything that fell in its path. The wraithbone pulsed with life, of sorts. Not the sort of life its creators had intended, but life all the same.

It came as no surprise that Fabius had retreated here, after the fall of Belial IV. The world was a cosmic speck in the daemon sea. It had long since been picked over by scavengers and even the seers of the craftworlds had likely forgotten its existence. Only gods and monsters knew of it, and these days, only the latter deigned to visit.

But there was no sign of any facilities, or bastions. No defence arrays, no orbital batteries. Not even a designated landing zone. He’d been forced to land his gunship atop one of the sturdier towers, where it now waited. He’d left his guards behind, with orders to depart if he didn’t return in a reasonable amount of time. They hadn’t required much convincing, despite his status as one of the few actual Apothecaries in the ranks of the Black Legion.

Even now, he was only tolerated at best. Abaddon might have lifted his exile, but that didn’t mean he’d been forgiven. He was still the Twice-Damned, despite the passing of centuries. Perhaps he always would be.

Skalagrim traced his fingers along the trunk of a tree, feeling the psychic tingle of the wraithbone through the ceramite. He wondered whether the energies pulsing through the psychoplastic substance had anything to do with why this world had seemingly been forgotten by everyone else.

He paused as the trill of a bird cut the silence. Except there were no birds here. No animals. No vermin.

‘I came alone,’ he growled. His helm’s vox cast the words before him like stones. He could feel someone or something watching him from the branches. Or perhaps through a sniper’s scope. Their numbers were impossible to gauge, but he doubted there were less than a dozen shadowing him. They’d been on his trail the moment he left the safety of the gunship. ‘I need to see him.’

‘But does he need to see you?’

The voice was familiar. Surprisingly so. Skalagrim straightened. His hand fell to his axe. ‘Is that you, Saqqara?’

‘Who else would it be? I am the last.’ A robed and hooded form stepped out from among the trees. Vials and flasks clinked beneath the rustling cloth, and the air seemed watery about the newcomer’s head and shoulders – as if something beyond Skalagrim’s perceptions crouched on his shoulders.

‘I’m surprised to see you still alive,’ Skalagrim said.

‘I could say the same. Why are you here?’

‘I wish to speak to him,’ Skalagrim said.

Saqqara drew back his hood. He’d stopped shaving his head, and a mane of pale hair spilled down and curled about his tattooed features. Some of his tattoos had been scraped away or redone by less sure hands. One of his eyes was milky white. The other, yellow and slitted, like that of some predatory felinoid.

‘Why?’ said the diabolist.

‘I have information.’

Saqqara studied him. ‘Is that the only reason you came?’

‘That’s my business, isn’t it?’

The air tensed. That was the only word Skalagrim could think to describe the sensation. Things moved just out of the corner of his eye – things without substance or shape, but nonetheless somehow possessed of palpable intent. He pulled his hand away from his axe.

‘I didn’t come to fight, Saqqara.’

‘No. Then, you never had the stomach for it, did you?’

‘Is that some sort of criticism for not dying with the rest of them?’

Saqqara frowned. ‘He gave you sanctuary, wolf. And you repaid him by fleeing.’

‘He sent me to Abaddon,’ Skalagrim protested.

‘But you never came back.’

‘Abaddon commanded otherwise.’ Skalagrim paused. ‘But I did come back, despite that. I came back with every warrior I could muster. But it was too late.’ He looked away. ‘Did they… did they die well, at least? The World Eater and the others.’

‘Some better than others. A few fled.’

‘But not you.’

‘The gods sent me to him for a reason.’ Saqqara turned. ‘Come. Let us see if he wishes to speak to you today.’

Skalagrim followed the Word Bearer into the trees. ‘I heard he was dead.’

‘When has that ever stopped him?’

Skalagrim grunted. ‘I also heard Sanguinius’ whelps put a price on his head. He seems to have offended them quite badly.’

‘A discontinued experiment,’ Saqqara said. ‘Though, apparently, some good did come of it. At least to hear him tell it.’

‘And I heard he’s been back to Commorragh. More than once.’

‘He likes to keep busy.’ Saqqara glanced at him. ‘You’ve been keeping an eye out, then. Feeling guilty, perhaps?’

‘Guilt is for mortals and weaklings.’

Saqqara smiled. ‘And you are neither, is that it?’

‘Speaking of mortals – where are they? I expected to see them by now.’

Saqqara turned away. ‘There are none here.’

‘All dead then?’

‘No.’

Skalagrim sneered. ‘Left him then, have they? Finally realised their precious Benefactor was just a selfish old monster did they?’ He laughed. ‘Good for them.’

His laughter echoed through the trees, long after it should have ceased. He couldn’t help but feel he was being mocked in some fashion. The New Men might be gone, but no doubt something else had taken their place.

‘He sent them away. The same way he sent you away, wolf. Unlike you, I suspect that they are grateful.’ Saqqara gestured. ‘Follow, or not, as it pleases you.’ He paused. ‘Though if you do not, I cannot promise you will make it back to your gunship.’

Skalagrim fell into step with the Word Bearer. ‘Was that a threat?’

‘I thought it was fairly obvious that it was. Has your time with Abaddon’s false Legion dulled your wits that much?’

‘The Black Legion is one of the most powerful bodies in the Eye.’

‘So you all insist.’ Saqqara looked at him. ‘I am surprised that he spared your life.’

Skalagrim shrugged. ‘Apothecaries are rare on the ground these days. Especially ones who are old enough to remember the proper way to set up an apothecarium.’

‘Even so…’

‘Abaddon is nothing if not pragmatic. So long as I am useful, my sentence is commuted. A fair enough exchange.’

‘I suspect you got the better end of the deal.’

Skalagrim studied the Word Bearer. ‘You’re a bit more talkative than I recall.’

‘Times change.’

‘People don’t.’

Saqqara laughed. There was a brittle edge to the sound. ‘Perhaps you are correct.’

‘As amusing as this is, I came here with a purpose. Where is he?’

‘Close.’ Saqqara ducked beneath a crumbling archway. The wraithbone merged into walls of pearly white, stretching away to either side and down, into the roots of the grove. Skalagrim realised that the reason he’d seen no facilities was that the wraithbone itself had been shaped into a bunker.

‘I’d ask how he did this, but I’m not sure I want to know.’

Saqqara gave another brittle laugh and something high in the branches laughed with him. Skalagrim resisted the urge to draw his bolt pistol. The path wound down and around in a serpentine fashion, defying his armour’s auto-senses. His systems could not draw enough data from his surroundings to build any sort of trustworthy map, and he ceased the attempt. The grove and all that it contained were little more than solidified warp energy – only a madman would attempt to make sense of it.

Only a madman would make his home in it, come to that.

And Fabius was mad. Utterly and completely. His actions over the past centuries attested to that. Whatever the drukhari had done to him, it had removed all inhibition from him and loosed a roaring daemon upon the galaxy. He had burned worlds, enslaved populaces and devised such exquisite tortures for his enemies that even the courtesans of Slaanesh blanched to witness them. He had littered the Eye and its immediate surroundings with monsters both subtle and horrific. He had committed acts of such gross malignity that the Imperium had initiated multiple crusades to purge his works from afflicted sectors.

The name Fabius Bile had become synonymous with atrocity. Once, Skalagrim knew, such a thing might have amused him. Fabius had always thought himself above such things. But this was different. Even Abaddon was disturbed by some of it, though he had never said as much. Not that he would have, in Skalagrim’s hearing.

These days, the warmaster employed witches to haunt the Clonelord’s trail. Seers to see what he was up to and cognoscenti to determine the ramifications. So far, they spent most of their time arguing with one another.

Strangely, the warmaster had never asked Skalagrim his opinion on the matter.

Around him, the wraithbone took on a more rugose texture. Rougher, thicker. Sturdier, perhaps. The roots of the original seeding, now grown fat on whatever it was wraithbone fed on. Souls, perhaps. Even now, he wasn’t sure.

He could hear music – or rather something that was supposed to be music – and wondered if Ramos and his choir were still around. He considered asking Saqqara, but the question died on his lips as they came to an immense atrium-like chamber. Rays of light fell from unseen shafts somewhere far above, aiding the recessed lumens in illuminating the chamber. It was at once familiar and alien.

The chamber resembled Fabius’ laboratorium on Belial IV, albeit more expansive. The same battered nutrient tanks and sample canisters occupied specially carved niches. Equipment littered the floor and walls, or sat half-assembled on observation slabs. Rough sketches of organs and replacement limbs were tacked to the walls and hololithic images of sectioned bodies floated above the projectors scattered seemingly at random. Disarticulated body parts hung from the upper walls on butcher’s hooks, and blood collected in rusting troughs for later use. Organ jars had been stacked along the bottoms of the walls, and the arrhythmic thud of hundreds of hearts beat on the air.

There were mutants everywhere – debased creatures clad in rags that might once have been medicae scrubs, scuttling about on various errands or gnawing surreptitiously on castoff scraps. Some bore the signs of recent flesh-grafts or bone restructuring on their twisted bodies. Others had newly attached augmetic limbs, to compensate for some physical failing. The creatures looked up as one when the two Space Marines entered the chamber. Skalagrim realised that each mutant had a picter unit inserted into its skull, in place of one of its eyes. They murmured shrilly to one another and scuttled across the chamber.

There, at the far end of the chamber, amid a rough pentacle of observation slabs, stood Fabius Bile in all his glory. He was bent over one of the slabs, hard at work. Each of the slabs was occupied by a writhing mound of muscle and meat. Some new form of war-mutant, Skalagrim thought. At least until one of the creatures gave a moan as its flesh split, disgorging a thrashing horde of serpentine cilia, topped by miniscule, leering faces.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Saqqara murmured. ‘Entropy manifested.’ He stroked one of the cilia, eliciting a tinny purr. ‘Look there – see how they grow?’ He pointed to a muscular arm, where the flesh was twisting into daemonic faces that mouthed silent obscenities.

‘What is this?’ Skalagrim said, repulsed by the sight. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I am making monsters,’ Fabius said, without turning. ‘Isn’t that why the warmaster sent you, Skalagrim? He wants what I owe him – even if he didn’t fulfil his end of the bargain until it was too late to do me any good.’ He paused, and the hulk on the observation slab before him groaned piteously. ‘How is Ezekyle, by the way? Feeling the weight of all that glorious purpose yet?’

Skalagrim forced a laugh. ‘You might say that. He was never wound that tightly to begin with, and consorting with daemons isn’t conducive to sanity.’ He cut a glance at Saqqara. ‘Offence intended.’

‘None taken, even so,’ Saqqara said.

Fabius turned. There was a great quantity of blood and ichor staining his medical apron and gloves, as well as the blades of the chirurgeon. He held out his hands and a mutant scuttled forward, carrying a metal basin full of an astringent liquid. As he cleansed his hands, he gave Skalagrim an appraising stare. ‘I heard about Cadia. Finally cracked that nut, did he? And it only took how many centuries to do it?’

‘Some tasks take longer than others.’

‘And cost more in the doing.’ Fabius smiled. ‘I suppose he wants stronger soldiers to replace the ones he lost. Is that it?’

‘Among other things.’ Skalagrim looked around. ‘This place is modestly impressive – I expected something more like a hole in the ground.’

‘I find I need little in the way of space, these days. No students to teach. And the sort of work I am engaged in is all craftsmanship. No artistry to speak of.’

‘It is not for us to question the whims of the gods,’ Saqqara intoned piously.

Fabius glanced at him. ‘Say, rather, it is a waste of breath,’ he murmured.

‘No vatborn, though,’ Skalagrim said. ‘What happened to all the little beasts?’

Fabius said nothing. He turned to one of the other slabs. ‘Ezekyle will have to get into the queue with the rest of them. I have more patrons now than I can reasonably count.’

‘The fact that you are the only source of untainted gene-seed in the Eye might have something to do with it.’ Skalagrim looked down at the beast Fabius was examining. This one had more solidity to it than the other. It almost resembled a legionary, save for the gaping, razor-fanged maw where its face should be. ‘I thought you were planning something different for the gene-tithe. Something worthy, you said.’

‘Plans change,’ Fabius said. The beast thrashed in its restraints, snapping crustacean-like claws in berserk fury. One of the chirurgeon’s limbs darted down, injecting the beast with a sedative. It slumped with a shrill whine of protest. ‘What use is a Legion to me now, save as spare parts?’ He looked at Skalagrim. ‘I suppose Ezekyle wants some?’

‘I wouldn’t say no. It might improve the chances of the aspirants I’m given, at least.’

Fabius snorted. ‘And why would you want that? I say make it even harder. Why one in a hundred, when it can be one in a thousand – or one in a million? Why churn out chattel when you can have warriors of legend?’

‘Chattel has its uses,’ Skalagrim said.

Fabius shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’

‘You seem different.’

‘I assure you, I am not.’

‘Maybe that’s why. What did the drukhari do to you, Fabius?’

Fabius turned back to his work. ‘I assume there are stories. The drukhari no doubt spread them far and wide.’

‘A few, yes. Most mention surgery of some sort.’

Fabius laughed. ‘Poetic justice, then.’

‘If you like.’ Skalagrim paused. ‘That’s not it, though, is it?’

Fabius looked at him. ‘Does it matter? The past is ashes, and the future unpredictable. Only the present is of any importance.’

‘There – that’s what I mean. You always thought about the future, before. You wouldn’t shut up about it. Every move you made, every gambit, was in service to the future you were supposedly designing. But of late…’

‘What?’

Skalagrim looked around. ‘Of late, it seems you no longer care about tomorrow. Or about anything you once professed to care about. What changed?’

Fabius was silent for long moments, as if considering how to reply. Then, he looked at Saqqara.

The Word Bearer bowed his head. ‘The gods will it so,’ he said.

Fabius gestured. ‘There’s your answer.’

‘Since when have you ever cared about gods?’

Fabius’ smile was a twisted, broken thing. ‘I suppose, since they began to take such an abiding interest in me.’

‘That doesn’t sound like you.’

‘Because it is not him.’

Skalagrim whirled, reaching for a weapon that was not there. The voice was like two people – two women – speaking at once. There was a rawness to it, a feral burr that sent a warning pulse through him. A robed figure, face hidden beneath a hood, stepped out of the entryway of an offshoot chamber.

‘Come,’ it – she – said, gesturing.

‘I do not think that is wise,’ Fabius said.

‘He does.’

Fabius fell silent. Skalagrim looked at him, surprised by the ease with which he’d been cowed. The Fabius of old would never have given up so easily. Something was going on. He looked at the newcomer.

‘I know you, don’t I?’

She drew back her hood. Her features were familiar, but strangely dissimilar. Like two half-recalled memories blended together by a disordered psyche. ‘You knew one of us, yes. Not the other. And now you meet us both, for the first time.’

Saqqara bowed. ‘Lady Melusine. Is something amiss?’

Melusine. Skalagrim froze, just for an instant. He knew that name. Even now, it rang out through the courts of pleasure, and the worshippers of the Dark Prince sang hymns to her. Quieter hymns than most, almost gentle in comparison to those sung for Fulgrim or N’Kari. The daemon-daughter of Fabius Bile and the concubine of hell. The girl who had become a daemon and then flesh once more.

‘No. All is right, faithful Saqqara.’ Melusine looked at Skalagrim. ‘Come. Follow.’

Reluctantly, Skalagrim did. Fabius and Saqqara followed. The chamber beyond was smaller. Circular, like the other, but crowded by tendrils of wraithbone that spilled down the walls and across the floor. Banks of cogitators peeked from within this pale growth like wary animals. Temperature regulators pumped coolant into the air, and it crawled in a slow fog across the floor, eddying in the corners and pooling about Skalagrim’s feet.

Data-screens hung like a canopy overhead, showing varied scenes. Skalagrim recognised some of them – battlefields and burnt-out world-husks that had fallen into the Great Rift and been consumed. Others were unfamiliar to him – industrial forges and agri worlds, darkened chambers where mutants knelt in homage to some unseen presence, or on the bridge of some vessel. He could detect the soft whisper of numerous vox frequencies – a babble of many voices, all speaking at once.

Slowly, he realised that every root converged on the same point – a raised diagnostic bier, upon which sat a bio-casket, wreathed in coiling wraithbone. A thin, familiar figure sat beside it. Key turned hollow, wraithbone eyes towards him, and smiled in vapid welcome.

‘What is this?’ he asked softly.

Melusine stretched out a hand. ‘Look. See.’

Skalagrim did. Through the filthy casing of the casket, he could see the wasted, corpse-like features of its inhabitant. The very familiar features of the same man standing beside him. He looked at Fabius, and then back. ‘He finally did it…’ he trailed off. ‘Is he… Are you… dead?’

‘No. I am not.’ Fabius studied himself. ‘Or, should I say, we are not. I am not him. And yet he is me. My thoughts, my experiences… they are as dreams to him. And not just mine.’ He gestured to the data-screens. On each, a Fabius was now visible. On each, a Fabius crafted monsters, led raids, or sat in quiet contemplation.

‘That’s impossible,’ Skalagrim said flatly. ‘They can’t all be you – or him.’

‘They are all me, and we are him,’ Fabius said, smiling thinly.

‘But the weapons… the chirurgeon…’

‘Chirurgeons are plentiful and daemons are cheap,’ Fabius said, glancing at Saqqara. ‘The lesser variety, at any rate. Though it takes some effort to trap them and tame them, once broken they are quite placid.’ He held up Torment. ‘And one daemon-infused weapon is much like another, in my experience.’ He looked back at the screens. ‘There are only a few of us, of course. Less than a dozen active at any one time. His – our – mind couldn’t handle any more input than that. As it is, he – I – drifts in and out of lucidity, and we are forced to improvise.’

‘How long?’ Skalagrim growled.

‘Since Belial IV. He – we – died there, you see, and was interred here. He sleeps, and his consciousness guides us, so that we might guide his – our – creations.’ He looked at Skalagrim. ‘We are mirrors. Cunningly designed, but mirrors nonetheless.’

‘He can hear us? Perceive us?’

‘After a fashion.’ Fabius smiled. ‘Feel free to tell Ezekyle, if you like. I doubt it will matter to him, so long as he gets what he wants.’

Skalagrim felt as if he’d swallowed something bitter. ‘No. It won’t,’ he said slowly. ‘But he doesn’t want your mutants or monsters this time, Fabius. He wants your mind. There’s a problem he wishes you to turn your attentions to.’

Fabius raised an eyebrow. ‘Intriguing. Do continue.’

‘A new phase of the Long War has begun, and the old gods have returned to stride the stars. Guilliman has returned. And he has not come alone.’

Fabius paused. ‘How?’

‘Aeldari witchery.’ Skalagrim held up a dataslate. ‘I’ve compiled all the pertinent information here. At least, everything we know.’

Fabius took it and tossed it to Saqqara. ‘And how did you come to know this?’

‘First-hand accounts. Surviving witnesses. Spies.’ Skalagrim hesitated. ‘That isn’t the main problem, though.’

‘I should hope not. If anyone knows how to butcher a primarch, it’s Ezekyle.’

Skalagrim retrieved a small holo-projector from his belt and tapped the activation rune. A figure appeared, accompanied by reams of data. ‘They appeared suddenly. As if they’d been waiting for Guilliman’s call. They wear the heraldry of our milkblood cousins, but they are not like them. They call themselves Primaris Marines, if that means anything to you.’

‘Nothing of any importance. And why are you concerned?’

‘They are larger. Stronger. Faster. Even veterans of the Long War are hard-pressed to match them. They are better than us, Fabius. Better in every way that matters.’

‘As we were better than the Thunder Warriors,’ Fabius said. ‘Is it any surprise that there were yet more horrors waiting in the Corpse-Emperor’s laboratories?’

‘Aren’t you concerned?’

‘Why would I be?’ Fabius gestured, and the image spun slowly. He peered at the genetic data scrolling alongside it. ‘Is this information correct?’

‘I took those samples myself, off one of the few bodies we managed to recover.’

Fabius dismissed the image. ‘Ezekyle wants something to counter them, doesn’t he? How predictable. They make oversized warriors, we make oversized warriors.’ He shook his head. ‘A galaxy of children, squabbling over their toys.’

‘Opinions aside, can you do it?’

‘Of course I can. The question is – should I?’ Fabius gestured to the projection. ‘Why should this interest me?’ He paused suddenly, and turned to the diagnostic bier. A moment later, he sighed softly. ‘Oh. I see. Very well.’ He looked at Skalagrim. ‘Stand back.’

‘What? Why?’

The bier hissed as it vented waste-gas. Skalagrim hastily retreated as the wraithbone roots pulsed and quivered. Alert runes flashed on the nearby screens. Key stood and laid a thin, clawed hand on the surface of the casket, as if to soothe the being within.

‘Because he is awake,’ Melusine said. She turned towards Skalagrim and gave a smile that was somehow wider than her face. She stepped back as the bio-casket shuddered open, spewing toxic fumes into the air. Cyclers kicked on, drawing it up and away. Throughout the chamber, mutants abased themselves.

‘Pater Mutatis.’

They intoned the words with fatalistic reverence.

‘Pater Mutatis.’

Wraithbone crackled and slid free as it was expelled from the casket. Alarms chimed.

‘Pater Mutatis.’

In a geyser of nutrient smog, something as thin as a corpse rose from its crypt. Bloodshot eyes rolled in their sockets, fixing on Skalagrim with predatory interest. Without thinking, he took another step back. ‘Gods…’ he muttered.

‘Gods?’ the dead man croaked. ‘There are no gods here save me. You would be wise to remember that, Skalagrim. For I am not a merciful deity – or a kindly one.’ He held out a withered hand and Saqqara handed him the dataslate.

Fabius Bile smiled.

‘Now, let us see what has become of the galaxy in my absence, eh?’

About the Author

Josh Reynolds’ extensive Black Library back catalogue includes the Horus Heresy Primarchs novel Fulgrim: The Palatine Phoenix, and three Horus Heresy audio dramas featuring the Blackshields. His Warhammer 40,000 work includes the Space Marine Conquests novel Apocalypse, Lukas the Trickster and the Fabius Bile novels. He has written many stories set in the Age of Sigmar, including the novels Shadespire: The Mirrored City, Soul Wars, Eight Lamentations: Spear of Shadows, the Hallowed Knights novels Plague Garden and Black Pyramid, and Nagash: The Undying King. He has written the Warhammer Horror novel Dark Harvest, and novella The Beast in the Trenches, featured in the portmanteau novel The Wicked and the Damned. He has recently penned the Necromunda novel Kal Jerico: Sinner’s Bounty. He lives and works in Sheffield.

An extract ‘Light of a Crystal Sun’
by Josh Reynolds
from the anthology Warriors and Warlords.

The dead alien screamed.

An impossibility, the observer felt. The dead could not scream. And yet, somehow, it did. A long, ululating cry, brittle and sharp. It rose from the crystalline shape held within the flickering confines of a specially designed sensor array, and was echoed eerily by the enslaved witches who huddled in a circle about the device. The sound scratched at the edges of the observer’s enhanced hearing, before spiralling upwards into inaudible ranges beyond comprehension.

‘Cease.’ Electro-chargers that marked the points of the sensor array fell silent, the echoes slithering through the chamber. The witches slumped, chests heaving, eyes and noses bleeding. They were all still alive – progress, in contrast to the earlier attempts. But some were not much more than that.

The observer stalked towards the circle, the ferrule of his skull-headed sceptre tapping against the rusty deck plates, the fading light of the electro-chargers playing across the worn amethyst of his battleplate and the stretched faces stitched into the folds of the flesh-coat he wore over it. The long, segmented limbs of an ancient medicae harness, tipped by a nightmarish collection of bone-saws, scalpels and syringes, loomed over his head and shoulders.

Armoured fingers caught the sweaty scalp of one of the witches and jerked the slack-jawed psyker backwards. Blank eyes stared.

‘Damnation,’ Fabius Bile growled. This was the third such failure in as many hours. Biological data gathered by his power armour’s sensors spilled across the visual feed of his helmet. The unfortunate psyker had shallow respiration, a weak pulse and no signs of neurological activity. It was not dead yet, but it would be soon enough. Thus, it was no longer of any use, save that it could be processed into raw materials.

‘This one is finished. Bring another. Quickly.’ Fabius dragged the still-breathing husk upright and flung it aside, making room for its replacement. ‘Hurry,’ he reiterated, snapping his fingers. The mutants hastened to obey. They were twisted beasts, thick of muscle and brain. Many of them bore wounds – the marks of a ritual combat fought to decide who among their number would claim the honour of assisting Pater Mutatis in this experiment. The victors attended to him, while the losers contributed their bodies to his flesh-vats, there to be broken down into their component parts. Alive or dead, his creations had their uses.

Besides which, there were always more where they came from. The mouldering corridors of his Grand Apothecarium were home to more species than the average feral world. Some were of little use, except as chattel. But others had more specialised skills. The witches occupying the circle before him, for instance.

Introducing certain genetic flaws into a small percentage of the available abhuman population had shown commendable results. His servants harvested the resulting psykers with all due diligence, and quickly segregated them. Most were repurposed, their cerebral matter extracted and processed for scientific purposes. But others were trained, their given talents honed to precision.

Unfortunately, all the precision in the world could not make up for a lack of strength. Their minds, though powerful, rapidly broke against the barriers he had commanded that they hurl themselves at. Luckily, he had more.

As the grunting mutants stripped the rest of the brain-burnt psykers from the circle, Fabius stepped closer to the array and the crystalline fragments it contained. ‘Even dead, you seek to pit your will against mine,’ he murmured. ‘Intriguing, if frustrating. Yet even the dead can be made to spill their secrets. If I wished, I could grind you into a fine powder, mix it with organic matter taken from the appropriate sources and grow a new you. I could draw you up from your essential salts, like some savage genomancer of Old Night, but there is no telling what might be lost in such a crude process.’

His hands played across the controls for the device, making alterations to the diagnostic alignment, even as the complex calculations necessary to do so flew through his mind. The array had been built to his specifications by a magos of his acquaintance, and for the fair price of a gunship’s weight in wraithbone.

It was a bulbous apparatus, resembling a hunkered chelonian, save that its shell was splayed open like the blossom of a metallic flower. Suspended above the flower was a network of diagnostic scanners and sensor-lenses. Hololithic pict-captures floated in a slow dance around this network, each pinpointing and enlarging a facet of the crystalline shape.

The shards of crystal had congealed into one echinodermic mass, each facet grinding softly against another as they floated within a modified suspensor field. The facets contained a cacophony of colours, some utterly alien to his senses. Beneath that riot of shades was a milky opacity, within which was the hint of… something. Faces, perhaps. Movement, certainly. ‘How many of you are in there, I wonder? How many minds, colliding like chunks of frozen rock in a debris field? Perhaps I should have made a more thorough study. Then, the moment was not conducive to such contemplation, was it?’

If the awareness within the shards heard him, they gave no sign. Whether due to stubborn refusal, or simple inability, he could not say. But he intended to find out.

The shards had come from an eldar craftworld called Lugganath. On the occasion of his visit, he’d had the opportunity to collect samples from the grove of crystal seers at the craftworld’s heart – trees made from the crystallised forms of the farseers who had once guided their people, located in the wraithbone core. He’d come to learn of it through his studies, and learned as well of how the farseers’ spirits were preserved in some fashion within the psych-reactive bio-circuitry that permeated such massive vessels.

The thought of it brought him a shiver of anticipation. Not immortality, but close. A perfect preservation of intellect, removing it from the vagaries of the physical. The key to his own research. The key to his salvation.

Fabius grunted and removed his helmet. The face reflected in the chrome surfaces of the sensor array was not that of a man, but a walking corpse. Of one steadily consumed from within by the fires of a blight beyond any other. A genetic cancer that reduced a healthy corpus to utter ruination in a scant few centuries.

He could feel it within him, a black weight, resting on his hearts and lungs. It gnawed at his vitals like a hungry beast. The chirurgeon attached to his back was busy pumping various opiates and chemical calmatives into his ravaged system. The medicae harness’ efforts were a medicinal firebreak against the constant pain of his dissolution.

Fabius flexed a hand, feeling the old, familiar ache in his joints. Soon, it would be time to shed this withered flesh for a new sheath. One cloned from healthy cells, awaiting only the touch of his mind to activate it. But the process of such neural transference – of trading a faltering body for a healthy one – was not without an ever-increasing risk.

It was his hope that an answer to his problem might lie within the shards he’d sampled from Lugganath. A way of devising his own infinity circuit, and preserving his intellect across bodies, without risk of the neural patterns degrading, as they inevitably would. Once his mind was safe, he could turn his thoughts back to his great work. The only work that truly mattered: the preservation of humanity.

Not humanity as it was, obviously. But as it would be, thanks to his guidance. A new mankind, capable of weathering the gathering storm.

‘But I cannot preserve them, without first preserving myself,’ he said.

‘Physician, heal thyself.’

Fabius turned. ‘Exactly, Arrian. A simple truth, echoing throughout the history of mankind. Those who have the most to offer must make every effort to preserve themselves for the good of all. As true today as it was a millennium ago.’

Arrian Zorzi was a hulking scion of what had once been the World Eaters Legion. But he had shed the blue-and-white heraldry for grey ceramite bare of any marking except the occasional blood stain, as he had shed his old loyalties for new ones. He served a new master now, and was as able an assistant as Fabius had ever had.

Like his new master, he had been an Apothecary in more innocent times. He still considered himself such, despite the collapse of his Legion’s command structure, and wore the tools of his trade proudly, including a well-maintained narthecium. A plethora of skulls, bound by chains, hung from his chest-plate, their torn cortical implants scraping softly against his armour. ‘They refuse to speak, then?’ he asked. As he spoke, he stroked the skulls, as if seeking to calm whatever spirits might reside within them.

‘With the stubborn assurance of the inanimate,’ Fabius said.

‘What now?’

‘We try again. I will have their secrets. It is only a matter of time.’

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A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2020.
This eBook edition published in 2020 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Lie Setiawan.

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ISBN: 978-1-78999-354-7

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