Table of Contents

Cover

Table of Contents

Warhammer 40,000

Tempestus – Braden Campbell

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Coda

Deathstorm – Josh Reynolds

Title page

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Epilogue

Wrathflight – Guy Haley

A Son's Burden – Andy Smillie

The Word of the Silent King – L J Goulding

Devourer – Joe Parrino

Title page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Shadow of the Leviathan – Josh Reynolds

Dread Night – Nick Kyme

About the Authors

Legal

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.

‘Oh, Ixoi, Ixoi. How cruel is our fate, to be denied by distance! You pull from above, I swell from below, but never, it seems, may we embrace. Must we only be content to gaze at one another; you, my fattened warrior, and I, your Goddess of the Brine?’

– Cantos Continuous, M41

Chapter One

The Shelsists had done well to hide themselves. They held their profane gathering in the deep recesses of a ruined librarium, where the thick walls would muffle their chants and hymns. They had draped a thick curtain of dried seaweed across the only entrance so as to hide the light from their torches. They had spread algae flowers in the dirt to conceal their footprints. To the casual observer, there was nothing amiss in the dead and silent city.

The Canoness knew better. She stood atop a shattered column, scanning the area before her. Lysios’s moon hung, as ever, huge in the sky. It wasn’t even at its fullest yet, but so plentiful was the dull red light it cast over the land that she could have read from the Prime Edicts. But there was no need; she had memorised the words of the Holy Synod decades ago.

‘When the people forget their duty,’ she recited in a whisper, ‘they are no longer human and become something less than beasts. They have no place in the bosom of humanity nor in the heart of the Emperor. Let them die and be forgotten.’

She raised her right hand and made a flicking motion. The rest of the Sisters moved up to join her, silent except for the rustling of heavy robes and the creaking of powered armour. When they reached the base of the column, they knelt.

The Canoness turned and surveyed them. They would do their duty, as they had so many times before on this forsaken, deluged world. But these worshippers of the Brine Goddess were unusual for heretics. They bore none of the four traditional evil marks. They did not flagellate themselves or sever their digits. Rather, they were all but indistinguishable from the bulk of the planet’s citizenry. She worried that because of this, her charges might harbour regrets towards their duty. The Sisters of Battle were defenders of the faith, after all, not wanton murderers. She decided that a rousing homily was needed.

‘The Emperor gave up His life as a ransom so that humanity might live, so great is His love for mankind. The faithful repay Him with daily thanks and prayer, and they serve Him with all their heart, soul, and strength.’

Bowed heads nodded in agreement.

‘But there are those on this world who renounce the Emperor’s love, who cheapen His gift by offering their allegiance and devotion to false deities. What should He then do? Ignore this insult? Condone such behaviour? Or rather, should He administer punishment and correction, as a loving father would to his wayward children?’

She paused dramatically, just long enough to let her listeners consider the question and reach a unified conclusion.

‘The worshippers of Shelse are devious, yes. They hide their heresy well, but the Emperor sees the wickedness within their hearts. He is not fooled by outward appearances and neither, dear Sisters, must we be. We are His chosen; He tasks us to purge the unclean so that the faithful may thrive. With bolt and blade and flame, we must make examples of all who would spurn Him.

‘Superior Tarsha!’

One head among eight snapped up. ‘Yes, Canoness Grace?’

‘Can you vouch for the dedication of those who serve beneath you?’

The young woman smiled. ‘Yes, of course. We are ready to tread the path of righteousness.’

‘Then prepare your Sisters.’

Tarsha stood and spread her arms wide. As she began to recite the Adepta Sororitas battle-prayer, Canoness Grace turned back towards the librarium entrance.

For months now, she had led a continuing series of pogroms against the native religions of Lysios. The Shelsists, however, were the worst. No sooner had she put down one enclave of them, than another would establish itself. Their refusal to be eradicated was maddening enough, but what Grace truly hated was the romanticism of their sect.

The litanies of the Shelsists were an unending series of crude poems. Each was purported to come from the goddess of the sea, and none of them, the Canoness thought, was particularly well-written. She had come across hundreds of them in her quest, and each one contained the same awful, wistful tone. The author might as well have been a besotted teenage girl as an ocean deity. Still, something in the unrequited love story between the sea and the moon struck a chord with certain people on Lysios. The worship and veneration of Shelse had penetrated every level of society, from the lowest kelp harvester to the highest nobility. Even the planetary governor, it was said, had submitted himself to their heresy. Why else would he have gone into hiding as soon as the Canoness had begun putting the unfaithful to the fire?

Superior Tarsha completed the prayer by asking the Emperor to condemn His enemies to eternal death and damnation. ‘That Thou wouldst bring them only death, that Thou shouldst spare none, that Thou shouldst pardon none, we beseech Thee, destroy them.’

In unison, the Sisters touched their foreheads, their chests and finally their weapons, signifying faith in mind, heart, and deed. Then they rose silently, and waited for their leader.

The Canoness jumped down from the column, her feet making deep impressions in the pebbly, seashell-littered ground. She pulled a bulky pistol from the holster on her hip. ‘I shall lead. Flamer and heavy bolter on my flanks.’

While the Sisters assembled themselves into formation, Superior Tarsha dashed forward and tore down the seaweed curtain. Beyond was a long and partially collapsed passageway. The light from Ixoi illuminated only the archway. The interior was very dark.

‘Braziers,’ Grace ordered.

Mounted on each of the Canoness’s shoulders was a metal cage filled with coals soaked in consecrated oil. Tarsha reached up from behind her and lit them. The coals burst into flame, and a wavering yellow light surrounded the Canoness. Eerie shadows danced all around.

They had proceeded only a short distance when they came to a curving stairway that descended into the catacombs. The stone walls were encrusted with white residue and glistened in the firelight. Grace touched them as she went. The fingers of her glove came away wet. Raising them to her lips, she was unsurprised to taste salt.

She ignored the several side passages they came to. The chambers beyond were lifeless and filled with damp, rotting wooden shelves and heaps of mush that had once been books and scrolls.

There was a faint echoing of voices from below. The Canoness signalled for the others to freeze, and peered around the curving wall. Eight men, large and bulky across the shoulders, were standing at the base of the stairs. Their armour appeared to be made of weighty iron plates fastened to a rubber undersuit with rivets and pieces of thick rope. Half of them were armed with a type of large, cartridge-fed speargun commonly used by the local fisherman. Two of them had shock nets. A low fire burned in an empty fuel drum and the remaining two men were warming themselves by it. Their backs were to the Canoness.

Grace frowned. Thus far, the Shelsists had been poorly organised and almost pathetically armed. The presence of these men seemed to mark a change in all that. They were wearing modified diving suits, she realised; heavy and potentially bulletproof. Additionally, she had seen the kinds of creatures the mariners of Lysios went to sea for. Their spearguns were designed to puncture blubbery hides and bulletproof shells. Their nets were made of metal cabling and could be electrified before being thrown.

The Canoness glanced at the Sisters on her flanks. Cairista, the flame wielder, was on her right. Sister Fayhew, she who wielded the blessed heavy bolter, waited on the left. When each of them signalled their readiness, Canoness Grace swept around the curved wall with bolt and fire on her wings.

When fired on an open battlefield, a heavy bolter was loud. In the confines of the librarium basement, it was truly deafening. Two of the guards were hit by shells as large as a closed fist. The iron plates of their suits could provide no protection. They were thrown backwards into the fire barrel, which tumbled over on to its side. Grace sent a bolt of white-hot plasma through the chest of one of the speargun carriers. He collapsed, and portions of his chestplate formed molten pools on the floor. Cairista covered the remaining five men in a wave of flames. Two more of the guards went down screaming. The stairway was filled with acrid smoke that stank of burning rubber and charred flesh.

The three remaining men were engulfed in fire, but to the Canoness’s surprise they seemed to take no heed. Two of them raised their spear guns and fired. Grace was hit in the upper chest. Her armour held firm, but the sheer force of the impact was enough to send her staggering. The spear that struck Sister Fayhew rebounded off her pauldron hard enough to leave a dent. The third guard tossed his net at Cairista, who ducked swiftly out of the way.

Sister Fayhew bared her teeth, and squeezed the heavy bolter’s firing lever. The men were knocked about like ragdolls as the shells tore them apart. When they were nothing but broken corpses, she released the trigger.

The other Sisters were now racing down the stairs with heavy footfalls. The Canoness raised a hand, and they slowed.

‘We are unhurt,’ she reassured them. She indicated the dent on Sister Fayhew’s shoulder armour. ‘But it would seem that the Shelsists have become more dangerous than ever before.’

‘Canoness, over here!’ Cairista called. She had moved past the dead guards and to the back of the small cellar. There was a gaping hole in the floor, wide enough to fit two grown adults.

The other Sisters gathered around. The Canoness leaned over the hole. By the light of her braziers, she could just barely see the base of the ladder.

‘They were guarding this?’ Superior Tarsha asked.

‘It would seem so,’ Grace replied.

‘Where does it lead?’ Cairista asked.

‘Canoness,’ Tarsha said, ‘I volunteer to find out.’

Grace considered for a moment, and then consented.

Tarsha grasped her boltgun tightly, and jumped through the hole. With a loud splash, she landed in black liquid up to her knees. The air reeked of brine.

She peered about her. She was in a cavern that might have been able to hold, at most, ten people. The rock walls were rough and wet. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she was able to make out a doorway, covered with a curtain or heavy blanket of some kind. Around its edges leaked a dim light.

She waited for several seconds. The only sounds were the trickle of water on rock, and the crackling fires above her. She sloshed forward, and tore down the covering with her left hand. It was indeed a blanket, woollen and wet. Before her was a tunnel carved out of the rock. Lumens had been strung along one wall in a drooping chain.

She threw the blanket down. As she entered the mouth of the tunnel, she called up to the Canoness. ‘The base of the ladder is clear. I’m moving–’

Something snapped beneath her boot. Tarsha froze and looked down to see tiny bubbles rising around her legs. She had just enough time to realise that she had triggered some kind of trap, and then there was a gurgling boom. Tarsha was hurled up into the air in a spray of sea water. She felt herself strike the roof of the cavern, and then fall back into the pool. She tried to stand up, but found that she could not. She flailed her arms, but couldn’t break above the surface of the water. Seconds ticked by like hours. Then, at last, she felt the strong hands of her sisters grabbing hold of her and lifting her up.

Tarsha blinked and strained to hear. Sister Lygia and Sister Karyn had set her on a rock. The others were talking excitedly and pointing at her, but their voices were muffled. The light from the Canoness’s shoulders made the chamber seem surreal. Her calves felt hot and itchy. That was strange, she thought, because her power armour was internally cooled. She reached a hand down to scratch them, and felt nothing but air. Confused, she looked down to see that her legs were missing from the knees down. Blood was spurting from the mangled stumps in hot streams.

She shook her head in disbelief. Dimly, she remembered stepping on something hidden beneath the water at the mouth of the tunnel. She tried to speak, to warn the others that the Shelsists had laid traps for them, but her tongue could no longer form words. She felt very thirsty, which struck her as funny, since Lysios was a world dominated by its singular ocean. She laughed at the irony.

Her sisters all turned to look at her, their faces etched with worry. The Canoness had knelt down in front of her and was saying something, but Tarsha couldn’t hear properly. A piece of ancient rhyme, something about water everywhere and shrinking boards, drifted through her head. She laughed once more, and died.

The Canoness touched Tarsha’s forehead and finished speaking the Martyr’s Rites. ‘Be favourable and gracious to Your fallen daughter, mighty Emperor, and be pleased with her sacrifice of righteousness.’

The other Sisters murmured an affirmation. Grace rose and wiped a fist beneath her nose. As a Canoness, she was more than just a military leader to the women serving under her. She was a teacher, a shepherd, a mother. Tarsha had been like a daughter to her, strong in faith and very capable. Grace had been certain that someday she would become a Canoness in her own right. But no longer.

The air was stifled and wet, and for a terrible moment, Grace was reminded of dead Sisters in the sewers beneath the capital city of Dessecran. On that far-away world, five decades past, she had stalked monsters, even as they, in turn, had stalked her. She shook her head. There were no tyranid monstrosities in these tunnels; no beings from the void come to harvest her for foodstuffs. There were only humans, and false doctrine.

‘We have inflicted great damage upon this cult,’ she said, ‘and it is obvious that they now know and fear us. This is good, my Sisters. The people should know when they have done evil in the Emperor’s sight, and they should rightly fear His wrath.’ The Canoness drew her sword from its scabbard. Its blade was highly polished silver, the crossguard fashioned to look like a wreath of black flowers.

They followed the lumens and moved down the tunnel at a brisk pace. The Canoness took the lead, carefully watching for additional traps or explosives. It had been no homespun bomb that had killed Tarsha. It had been a military-grade landmine. Where the Shelsists had found such a thing, or who had provided it to them, she knew not. But she vowed never to let it happen again.

They turned sharply to the right, and emerged into a large cave. To their right was a pool of water that lapped against the rock. Stalactites hung like giant fangs from the ceiling. Parts of the ground had been covered with rusted grating. Piles of rubble were heaped up along the walls. At the back of the cavern was a raised area piled high with storage crates. On the rock face above it was a fresco showing Lysios’s moon hovering over a tidal wave. Bizarre creatures were emerging from the wave. A small army of stick figures welcomed them with open arms.

The Shelsists were waiting for them. They had flipped over rusted metal tables and chairs, and were taking cover behind them. They were armed not only with harpoons, nets, and spearguns, but also with a collection of clumsy-looking kinetic rifles: a crude technology, but one resilient to Lysios’s cyclical flooding.

There was a hooded figure atop the rock ledge. He carried a torch in one hand, and a strange staff in the other. He cried out, and a hail of small-calibre projectiles pummelled the Sisters. They ricocheted off their power armour and tore gaping holes in their vestments. The stone walls behind them shattered into fragments.

The Canoness threw her arm across her face, and felt at least one of the bullets mushroom off her vambrace. Spears whistled past her, or clattered around her feet. Somewhere to her left, there was a wet smack and a gurgling sound. She glanced over to see Sister Karyn slump to the ground. She had been pierced through the chest by a harpoon the size of her arm.

‘Abominable traitors!’ Grace cried. She charged forward, firing her pistol as she went. The chest of one of the nearest Shelsists vaporised as she found her mark.

The other women covered their leader’s charge. Bolts crashed into the cultists and punched through their makeshift barricades. Cairista painted the room with white-hot promethium flames.

The cultists directly blocking the Canoness’s path were consumed in fire. Their weapons discharged aimlessly as they screamed and flailed. Two of the bullets struck Grace’s chestplate and bounced harmlessly away. She vaulted over the table behind which the cultists were cowering, and mercifully drove her sword through the heart of the man writhing at her feet. The others she left to their sins.

Beneath the fresco, the hooded figure was pointing towards the Canoness and screaming. Grace couldn’t make the words out over the cacophony of the heavy bolter, but she could easily guess that he was calling for her murder. Half a dozen Shelsists surrounded him. Two of them were reloading a harpoon launcher ripped from the bow of a whaling ship. The others carried the clumsy autoguns of their forefathers. Grace was fairly certain that the rifles posed little danger to her, but the ballista had felled poor Karyn; it was obviously strong enough to puncture powered armour, and therefore had to be destroyed.

She had taken only a few steps towards their position when they fired upon her. There was nowhere for her to hide, and nothing nearby to take cover behind. So, she simply wheeled around and lowered her head. Bullets fruitlessly struck her back and legs. The harpoon let fly with a sharp twang. It impacted her spine with enough force to knock the breath from her lungs, but otherwise, her armour held true.

As they peppered her with bullets, the Canoness holstered her pistol. From her belt, she pulled a golden sphere crowned with a double-headed eagle. She tore the eagle off with her teeth, whirled around, and lobbed the sphere into the cultists’ midst.

It detonated among them in a cloud of smoke and biting metal fragments. The Shelsists jerked backwards and ducked. Their armoured suits protected them for the most part, but the Canoness seized upon their confusion. She crossed the distance between them in a few long strides and leapt up to the ledge. She grasped her sword with both hands and swung, forever separating one cultist and his left arm.

Then the others were upon her, beating with the butts of their rifles and stabbing with bayonets. She managed to parry most of them. The rest skittered across her armour harmlessly.

‘For the Emperor!’ the Canoness screamed. She carved another wide arc, and two of her attackers were sliced clean through. She whirled around and thrust at the man behind her. The sword buried itself through his chest until the garland crosspiece touched his ribs.

The remaining two Shelsists continued to strike at her, but whatever blows they managed to land seemed to have no effect on Grace. The Canoness withdrew her sword as she slammed a spiked elbow plate into one of their faces. The last of her attackers had his head separated from his neck in a single, deft stroke. She faced the robed figure.

No, she saw, it wasn’t a robe. Not as such. It was a sheet of waterproof tarpaulin tied around the waist with rope. The sleeves were long and the cowl left his face as a pit of black. He threw down his torch and grasped his staff in both hands. It was thick and knotted, and looked to be made of alabaster stone.

‘Murderess!’ he cried. His voice was deep and strange, as if his throat was filled with phlegm. ‘Look what you have done.’

The Canoness cast a quick glance over her shoulder. She saw that the remaining cultists were either dead or dying. Charred husks that had once been heretics lay scattered everywhere. The crisping of their flesh and tightening of their muscles had drawn each of them up into the foetal position. Sister Fayhew stood before a considerable number of fallen men and women who lay in a wide crescent, limbs twisted and broken. Each had some kind of improvised weapon in their hands. They had tried to charge the Sisters’ position, Grace saw, and had failed miserably. Some of the other Sisters were cut or bleeding, but they stood together, boltguns pointed towards the rocky ledge.

‘It is no less than you deserve for rejecting the Emperor,’ the Canoness said fiercely. She levelled the tip of her sword at the black abyss of his cowl. ‘Now, foulness, tell me where you found these weapons. Tell me why your damned cult refuses to die.’

‘Do not ask us anything,’ the man groaned. ‘The answers will be beyond you.’

In High Gothic, and using her best pulpit voice Grace roared, ‘I will demand of thee, and answer thou me. If you channel a spirit, I would confront it.’

‘What need have we for spirits?’ the man said. ‘We have a goddess.’

With a speed that surprised the Canoness, the man in the robe struck her with the end of his staff. Although her amour was unaffected, she felt the reverberations of the impact. She thrust at him, but the man easily avoided her. She slashed at him twice. Again, he ducked beyond the edge of her blade.

He jabbed the end of his staff into the centre of her chest. Her armour continued to hold, but he twisted it upwards, catching her beneath the chin. She brought her sword downward in a tight curve, and cut deeply into the flesh above his knee. Before he could react, she lunged and drove an elbow into his face.

The man stumbled slightly. His hood fell away, and his robe parted enough for her to see some of what was hidden beneath. Grace drew a sharp intake of breath.

The man’s exposed skin was pale green and had the texture of scales. His nose had either vanished or fallen off, leaving only two thin vertical slits. His left eye was huge and sickly yellow. Small tentacles sprouted from his upper lip and jawline. Most disturbing, however, was the set of additional arms that unstuck themselves from his ribcage. They were thin, but wiry, and ended not in hands but with wickedly tapered claws.

‘Mutation!’ Grace cried.

‘Not mutation,’ the man said, his mouth tentacles twitching, ‘bestowments.’ His secondary claws slashed at her, tearing through the plates protecting her forearms. His strength had become something otherworldly. A line from the Catechism of Leadership raced through her mind: Since the Emperor suffers to shield us, it is a blessing to suffer for Him in return.

She impaled him through his lower abdomen. A great stink, like dead fish, erupted from his guts. Still, he did not attempt to flee the fight. Instead, he wrapped his claws around her neck.

‘Hard-hearted, you are, Murderess. Loveless. Chaste by choice.’

The Canoness felt her heart and lungs begin to crumple within her. She fell to her knees, nearly dropping her sword. She couldn’t breathe. The very life was being squeezed out of her. An image flashed through her mind of crushing tentacles, ghostly white, dredged up from the blackest depths of the sea where light had never shone. It felt like drowning. Her vision darkened.

With the last of her strength, she brought her sword up, and cut off his right leg. The man howled as he fell to the ground. Dark ichor splashed everywhere. Coughing, the Canoness dragged herself to her feet.

The man was muttering in his death throes, repeating the same thing over and over.

‘What is that you say?’ Grace demanded.

He smiled up at the Canoness with a look of deranged joy. Blood seeped through the spaces between his teeth.

‘They are coming,’ he said. ‘They are coming at last. They are coming. They are coming at last.’

‘Who? Who is coming?’

The man spasmed once, and said nothing more. His facial tentacles continued to twitch for several seconds after his death.

The Canoness tilted her head thoughtfully as the Sisters moved to join her on the rock ledge. The stakes had suddenly risen here on Lysios. The cult of the Brine Goddess was no longer a collection of malcontents playing at religion and making up stories as they went along. They were gaining in power. They had considerable weapons now. They also had… bestowments. Yes, Grace thought, that was the word the mutant had used. Bestowments. But from whom?

‘Sister,’ she said to Cairista, ‘this man’s flesh has become corrupted. Deliver him from it.’

Cairista brought her weapon up and bathed the man in promethium. The room filled with acrid smoke and the stench of melted plastek.

Later, after Grace had prayed for the souls of Tarsha and Karyn, she would compile a report of this latest encounter with the Shelsists and send it to Terra. For the moment though, she simply stood and watched the Brine Goddess’s favoured burn until there was nothing left of him but ashes.

‘I have loved you since the day this world was destroyed. All my life, it seems, I have chased after you. Will you never descend from your abode in the sky? How I long to join you. How I long to touch you…’

– Cantos Continuous, M41

Chapter Two

The inquisitor began the day with his regular regimen: one hour of intensive physical exercise, followed by thirty minutes of sword practice. Breakfast consisted of a conglomeration of proteins and amino acids which he drank greedily from a tall glass. It was as thick as glue and utterly tasteless, but he refused to let the rigours of space travel weaken him in any way. The safety of the Sol System was parsecs behind him now. A new world awaited him, and he would not fall victim to it on account of being too frail or a fraction of a second too slow.

Sweat-covered and dressed only in a loose robe, he pulled down the viewport covering and looked out into space. The ship had emerged from the warp two days ago, and had been steadily decelerating ever since. Yesterday he had ordered a series of torpedo probes launched into the ocean, and their signals had confirmed his hopes. Within the hour, he and his team would be landing on the surface. Then the hunt would begin. Everything was proceeding smoothly. His only regret was that he would be achieving greatness on such an ugly-looking world.

Lysios had to be the most depressing place he had ever seen. Its only natural satellite, Ixoi, was so huge, and orbited so closely, that its gravitational field had distorted the planet into a permanent egg shape. The hemisphere opposite the moon was riddled with tectonic instabilities and fissures. The side closest to the moon was comprised entirely of ocean. It rose like a mountain made of water, kilometres tall. The crests of its waves scraped the stratosphere, and formed icebergs that tumbled down the leeside. Moreover, this vertical ocean moved. It took Ixoi a decade to complete a single revolution around Lysios, but as it travelled, it dragged the sea along with it. Thus, there was no place that was not subjected to regular flooding or even total submersion. It was impossible to think that it had once been considered one of the Ninety-Nine Wonders of the Segmentum Solar.

I bet it stinks down there, he thought. Like fish and muck.

He changed into a fresh set of clothes, and surveyed himself in the mirror. When he was satisfied, he opened the antique trunk in which he stored his weapons and equipment. His combat armour, although light, was exquisitely made. He secured his sword belt around his waist, and holstered a pistol beneath his left arm. He double checked to make certain that his refractor field generator was fully charged and operational.

There was a knocking on the bulkhead behind him. Through the door he heard a voice call his name.

‘Inquisitor Ulrich?’

He knew who it was, of course. There was only one woman on board. He strode across the room and opened the door.

In the corridor stood a young woman as tall as he. Her hair was naturally platinum and longer than that of any Sororitas the inquisitor had previously dealt with: a testament to the fact that she spent her life ensconced in scriptoria rather than rolling around on filthy battlefields. Her skin was pale. Her eyes were the colour of jade. Of the rest of her he could make no judgement, as she was covered from neck to ankle by a thick, red scribe’s robe.

‘Sister Margene,’ he said. His nose twitched. She smelled of parchment and ink, which he did not particularly care for.

She held out a thin stack of papers. ‘Inquisitor, I have a readiness report from Tempestor Chavis. He and his men are prepping the two ground transports they brought with them, and await your presence in the loading bay.’

Ulrich left her standing in the corridor while he crossed to his desk. From a fruit bowl, he selected a poperin. It was small and round, and its skin was mottled red and green. He chewed it slowly as he flipped through the report. ‘Would you like to look at it?’

‘I’m sorry?’

He gestured to the window. ‘Lysios. I thought you might like to see it, especially after all the time you’ve spent reading about it.’

‘I would, yes,’ she replied. ‘My quarters have no viewports.’

‘Well, we can’t all travel in first class, now can we?’ Ulrich took another bite of his exotic fruit, and watched closely as Margene crossed over to the window.

‘I have never seen anything like it,’ she said in a near whisper.

‘I would think not,’ Ulrich said. ‘This is your first time away from Terra, yes?’

She dipped her head in reverence at the mention of humanity’s sacred home world, but her eyes never left the strange planet before her. ‘Very true,’ she said. ‘This is not only my first trip to another star system, but my first time beyond the Convent Prioris since my training began as a child.’ She turned her head to look at him. ‘Thank you once again for the opportunity, inquisitor. I will not fail you.’

‘I am a man who remembers his friends. Serve me well on this little outing, and I promise that you will be suitably taken care of.’ He tossed the report down. ‘If I have one regret, it’s that your first journey had to be to such an ugly waste of a world.’

He had hoped that they would share a jest at the planet’s expense, but she frowned.

‘I find nothing wasteful about it, inquisitor,’ she said tartly. ‘In fact, the native Lysites are, if anything, masters of recycling and ingenuity. They’ve been forced to become so, you see, because of the ocean. The “worldwave”, as they call it. The fact that, at any given time, half of the planet is submerged beneath kilometres of salt water has led to the development of a very unique culture.

‘Everything here is tied to the ocean. It’s the source of nearly ninety-five per cent of all foodstuffs. It is also used as a power source, both via various types of tidal generators and as a coolant for nuclear fission reactors. It makes the atmosphere so damp and saline that all machinery demands constant upkeep. Mobility and retrofitting are everything. They must always stay either just ahead or just behind the worldwave, never settling in one place.

‘Take the hab-crawlers, for example. There aren’t really any cities on Lysios any more. Not as you or I might understand it. There are ruins, of course, dating back to the onset of the environmental collapse three millennia ago, but no one lives there. No, instead they move about as I said in massive, tracked machines, each holding thousands of people. Our drop-craft, in fact, will be landing at–’

Ulrich tossed the core of his poperin into the bowl, turned on his heel, and promptly exited into the hallway. The raised soles of his boots made sharp clacking sounds on the metal deck plates. Behind him, Margene rushed to keep pace. Silence stretched out until they neared their destination.

‘The Scion leader… What’s his name again?’

‘Chavis, sir,’ Margene answered. She was unsure if this was a test of some kind, or if he had genuinely forgotten. ‘Tempestor Chavis.’

‘Yes. He and his men have been told little about the reason behind our coming here until now. They’re a very “need to know basis” sort.’

‘But now they need to know.’

‘Correct.’

‘You would like me to tell them about the creature, then?’

‘No. I’ll do that. Just run them through the basic facts.’

They entered into a cavernous space crammed with storage containers and fuel drums. Along the walls were racks where missiles and other armaments were safely stored. The centre of the room was dominated by a pair of oversized ground vehicles. Their armour plating was blocky and angular. Each had a large turret weapon mounted on its roof, and slablike, massively reinforced side hatches. Instead of tyres, the vehicles sat on quad track units. Exhaust pipes jutted out on either side of a frontal engine.

Eighteen men bustled around them. They were all dressed alike, with heavy, pale blue combat armour over beige uniforms. They were tall and fit, with sharply defined features and steely eyes. One of them wore a black beret atop his head, and when Ulrich stood in the doorframe and cleared his throat, it was he who called the others to attention.

‘Thank you, tempestor,’ Ulrich said. ‘Before we begin, gentlemen, there is one formality to get out of the way.’ He pulled a silver cylinder from the inside of his coat, deftly opened the top, and shook out a rolled-up parchment. This he handed to Margene before folding his hands behind his back.

Margene unrolled the scroll, and read aloud in her clearest voice.

‘By the authority of the Immortal Emperor of Mankind, you, the selected members of the Tempestus Scions 55th regiment, also known as the Kappic Eagles, are hereby required to submit yourselves wholly and unquestioningly to His servant, Inquisitor Damien Ulrich for a mission to be determined by the inquisitor and whose objectives and implementation will be divulged by the inquisitor at a time and place of the inquisitor’s choosing.

‘Failure of any man to comply constitutes heresy against the Ecclesiarchy, and will render said heretic persona non grata excommunicatus in the eyes of the Emperor.

‘Here follows the signature of Inquisitor Damien Ulrich, dated 0712999.M41.’

Margene turned the scroll around so that the soldiers could clearly see for themselves the elaborate scrawl across the bottom. A purity seal of red wax, stamped with the symbol of the Inquisition, rested next to it. When they had nodded their acceptance, she rolled it back up and glanced at Ulrich.

‘You have been given a wonderful opportunity,’ he said, rocking slightly on his heels. ‘Very shortly, we will descend to the planet Lysios. The mission is quite straightforward. It’s the environment that may complicate things.’

Taking her cue, Margene stepped forward.

‘Until M38, Lysios was a populous and productive Imperial world. Then, for reasons unknown, the binary stars at the heart of this system began a period of increased activity. The environment on Lysios changed radically, and within a year, the planet suffered a class-5 environmental collapse. Both of its ice caps melted and created a new ocean, which was pulled into a central location thanks to the gravitational influence of Lysios’s single natural satellite, Ixoi. The ocean now trails behind the moon as it orbits, completing one revolution every ten local years. The surviving native populations have, over the past three millennia, developed a trio of heretical pagan belief-systems stemming from this catastrophe.

‘First are the followers of Cryptus. Cryptus is an angry sky god, and according to those who believe in him, the twin suns are his hate-filled eyes. Cryptus burns everything he gazes upon, and smites those who disrespect him with various cancers.’

Behind her, Ulrich snorted.

‘In actuality,’ Margene continued, ‘Lysios does boast both a very high UV rating, and an abundance of gamma particles at ground level. Everyone involved in this mission has been issued a supply of satyx, an anti-rad elixir. Take it daily, or face the consequences.

‘Secondly, there is the moon. Ixoi, as he is known to the locals, is a warrior. He also loves to eat, as evidenced by his great size. His worshippers are few on Lysios, but are very dangerous. They spend their lives as nomadic raiders, attacking hab-crawlers and making off with all the food supplies they can lay their hands on.

‘Third is the so-called “Goddess of the Brine”, Shelse. According to the mythos, the ocean goddess is in love with the moon, and follows him everywhere. She reaches up as high as she can towards Ixoi, but is never able to touch him. This makes her angry, and so she causes storms and floods.

‘In 998.M41, the Ecclesiarchy began a mission of repatriation on Lysios, under the command of–’

Ulrich cut her off with a clap of his hands. ‘It’s the third of these so-called deities that concerns us. The records are spotty, but it would seem that when the moon is at perigee, a creature of unknown origin can be seen rising up out of the worldwave.’

‘What do we know of its capabilities?’ Tempestor Chavis asked.

‘Almost nothing. There are no known picts of it, nor any vid-pict recordings. What there are in plenty, however, are paintings and drawings. It seems the people who worship this thing find a particular joy in depicting it.’

‘I have several examples on file,’ Margene offered. ‘I will of course provide them to you.’

Chavis paid her no heed. ‘How would you like to proceed, inquisitor?’

‘My plan is this: the worldwave is currently passing through the Kephorous mountain range. We will ascend to the top of Mount Loraz, whose plateau should put us near the upper third of the wave. We will establish a base camp, and when the tidal swell is greatest, we will lure the creature to shore.’

‘How?’ Chavis asked.

The inquisitor smiled slyly. ‘Leave that to me.’

The tempestor rubbed his chin in thought. ‘These worshippers you speak of, are they numerous? Dangerous?’

Margene answered before Ulrich could. ‘There has been a concentrated effort to put them down for nearly a year now,’ she said. ‘It is still ongoing.’

Ulrich put his hands in his coat pockets. ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about the Shelsists. I doubt they’re any match for trained and properly equipped soldiers.’

‘What I mean to say, sir, is do you expect them to attempt to stop us?’

‘Stop you from doing what?’

‘From destroying the thing they revere.’

Shaking his head, Ulrich walked slowly up to Chavis. ‘Although I appreciate your enthusiasm, tempestor, you and your men are not here to destroy the creature. You are here to capture it.’

Chapter Three

The inquisitor and his retinue descended to the planet’s surface in a boxy landing craft. Margene and the Scions were crammed into the cargo hold along with the pair of armoured vehicles. Chavis and Ulrich occupied the cockpit. As they passed through the cloud layer, the inquisitor drew an undecorated black handkerchief from the inside pocket of his coat. Carefully, he unfolded the corners. Wrapped inside was a stack of seventy-eight crystalline wafers that resembled a deck of cards etched in glowing glass. Ulrich shifted the deck to his other hand, and began to shuffle it.

Ulrich had always aspired to be someone of great import. He had worked ferociously to gain the attention of the Inquisition, and once he had it, he pushed himself even harder to gain entrance into their ranks. The authority he now held was vast. Still, it did not entirely satisfy, for within the Inquisition itself, there were hierarchies. For years, he had tried everything he could think of to promote himself, to win favour, to be inducted into the ranks of the Inquisitor Lords. He had failed.

Then he discovered the reports.

It had happened quite by accident. Ulrich had been in a vault of the Ordo Xenos, the Imperial agency tasked with identifying and countering the threat of the alien, desperately searching for a hint, a clue, anything that might let him discover an entirely new xenos life form. He envisioned dragging the carcass of some titanic beast back to Terra, throwing it down in triumph before his masters, and defying them to discount him any longer. Unfortunately, it seemed that everything had already been discovered or exterminated. He was close to despair, when he happened to come across a series of data-slates. To a casual observer, they were nothing: a series of field reports from a Battle Sister Canoness on the planet Lysios who was apparently having trouble eliminating a cult of heretics. Printed into the margins, however, were annotations written in a perfect, almost dainty hand. It was the excellence of the penmanship which caught his attention, and their content which held it.

The side notes proposed that the heretics might be influenced by an actual creature of unknown or alien origin. Ulrich tracked down the commentator, and discovered Sister Margene. She was alone and working by candlelight in a vault filled to overflowing with books and files. She was only too happy to expound upon her theories, and showed the inquisitor legends and observations dating back three thousand years. Ulrich became convinced that he had finally found a means to promotion.

He stopped shuffling and held the crystal cards face down. His fingers hovered over the deck.

‘Will I find what I am searching for here on Lysios?’ he whispered.

He flipped the topmost wafer, and smiled. Depicted on the reverse side was the Emperor, seated like a mummified corpse upon His Golden Throne, screaming silently for all the galaxy to hear.

‘Warp travel, discovery, and hope amongst the stars,’ Ulrich said, taking it to be a good omen. He placed the card back, flipped the entire deck over, and began to wrap it back up in its protective cloth.

He paused for a moment. The card on the bottom showed a planet, cracked apart like an egg. Chunks of it were tumbling off into the void of space. It was number fifty-two in the Emperor’s Tarot: the Shattered World. It signified monumental events, conflict on an enormous scale.

Is this a portent? he wondered.

Tempestor Chavis’s voice crackled through vox-speakers throughout the lander. ‘Stand by, Scions, we are on final approach.’

The lander began banking in a long curve. Ulrich craned his head. They were through the clouds now. The land stretched away barren and brown in nearly every direction. To the west, the horizon lurched vertically in a wall of dark blue. Directly below was what appeared to be a large town. It was square and flat, with low buildings the colour of rust.

When Ulrich had finished wrapping up his cards, he returned the bundle to its resting place above his heart. If the tarot was trying to warn him of something, he decided, it was to beware the ugliness of the world outside the window.

He pushed up his left sleeve. Wrapped around his arm was a data display of exquisite quality. A series of numbers flashed on its emerald screen. He nodded in approval. The data from the torpedo probes hadn’t changed. They had delivered their radioactive payload into the worldwave, and it had been absorbed by something big. The creature was real all right, and now, he would be able to find her with ease.

Ulrich pushed his sleeve back down. He checked his faded reflection in the window, adjusted his cravat, and then made his way down to the lander’s main deck.

The shuttlecraft lurched and came to rest. Ulrich was the first to exit, followed closely by Margene. Behind them, the inquisitor could hear Chavis barking orders for his men to begin deploying themselves.

The first thing that struck him was not the smell, as he had thought, but the light. It was early afternoon on this part of Lysios. Everything was bathed in oversaturated, crimson hues. He squinted and made a shade with his right hand. Purple and yellow spots formed in his vision, and he blinked to clear them. The lander sat in the centre of a square area barely large enough to contain it. Three sides were hedged in by storage buildings with only the vaguest memories of having once been painted. In one corner was a four-storey tower with large glass windows on the top floor and a satellite dish mounted on the roof. A chain-link fence cordoned off the remaining side. Through the haze, Ulrich could make out the silhouettes of people there.

‘Angry sun god indeed, yes?’ he quipped, turning to Margene.

‘Sir?’ The young woman was unaffected by the blinding double suns. She’d had the forethought to bring a pair of tinted goggles.

‘Nothing.’ Ulrich sighed. He looked down at his boots. ‘Is the ground vibrating?’

‘It’s the crawler treads, inquisitor. This entire settlement is moving, if you recall.’

‘And it does this all the time?’

‘Constantly, albeit very slowly. It takes each crawler ten years to circumnavigate the planet. If it stayed still, it would eventually be swept away by the worldwave.’

‘How annoying.’ He looked about. ‘Where is our reception?’

He dropped his hand and began to walk towards the fence. His sword banged against his leg. His coat tails ruffled behind him. He was halfway to his destination when a section of the fence drew back. He stopped. Marching towards him was a group of Battle Sisters. They wore white power armour and black cloaks. They were led by an intimidating middle-aged woman whose most distinguishing feature was the scar that ran down one side of her face.

Pursing his lips and frowning, he muttered, ‘And what have we here?’

‘Inquisitor?’ the woman called out. Her voice was as loud and as clear as a chapel bell.

Margene gave an audible intake of breath.

‘I am,’ Ulrich said. He rested his hands on the pommel of his sword, and shifted his weight onto one leg. ‘Who might you be?’

The Battle Sisters came to halt. ‘I am Magda Grace, a Canoness for the Sisters of the Sacred Rose.’

‘You may address me as Inquisitor Ulrich. This is Sister Margene. She’ll be acting as my dialogus.’

Margene nodded curtly.

‘Very good,’ the Canoness said approvingly. ‘Inquisitor Ulrich, it falls to me to bid you welcome to Lysios.’

‘Falls to you? Why? Where is the planetary governor?’

‘Governor Strachman has abandoned his post,’ the Canoness said.

‘Are you certain?’ Ulrich asked. ‘I wasn’t aware of any such problems when I left Terra.’

Canoness Grace was steadfast. ‘I can assure you, sir, that Governor Strachman and everyone attached to him have been in absentia for quite some time. Not long after we began our campaign against the Shelsists, he vanished and has not been seen since. The only conclusion can be that he is a heretic, and that he chose to flee our wrath.’

‘I see. Well then, where is the commander of the local military forces?’

Margene leaned forward again. ‘Inquisitor, Lysios has no indigenous regiment.’

‘What?’

‘There hasn’t been an Imperial Guard unit on this world in three thousand years, inquisitor. Not since the environmental collapse.’

‘Governor Strachman had a few units of professional soldiers who acted as his personal guard,’ Canoness Grace offered, ‘but they went into hiding with him. Until such time as he and his people are found and dealt with, you may consider Lysios to be under my control.’

Ulrich stared at her. ‘So, you and a dozen Sororitas are the only Imperial authority on this world?’

‘Myself and several thousand Battle Sisters, yes,’ the canoness said, emphasising the true number.

For a moment, the only sounds on the landing field were the whistling of the wind and the distant sounds of the Scions’ transports rumbling slowly out of the belly of the lander. Ulrich squeezed his eyes tightly, but when he opened them again, he still felt blinded.

‘You will get used to the light here,’ Canoness Grace offered.

‘Thank you, but I won’t be staying that long. In fact, I must be about my business.’

‘You should be made aware, then, that my Sororitas are heavily involved in combating the three local heretical cults. If you plan to conscript some of them under the authority of the Immortal Emperor of Mankind, then our overall efforts to restore this planet will suffer.’

‘I have no intention of taking your Sisters away from their duties. I have Tempestus Scions to assist me in my mission.’

‘Scions? Is it not a waste of their particular skillsets to use them only to ferret out and destroy heretical cultists?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘The Shelsists, of course.’

‘What of them?’

The Canoness frowned. ‘I presumed that as an officer of the Ordo Hereticus, you were here to offer us your assistance in purging them.’

‘No, not at all,’ Ulrich said.

‘The inquisitor is of the Ordo Xenos, Canoness,’ Margene said quietly.

‘Xenos?’

Tempestor Chavis had made his way towards the group. He stopped behind the inquisitor, stamped the ground, and saluted.

‘Sir, all men and materiel are safely groundside. Taurox transports are armed and ready, and awaiting your orders.’

‘Very well. Sister Margene and I will travel with you in the lead vehicle. I’ll decode our destination coordinates once we are under way,’ Ulrich said. He gave a slight bow at the waist. ‘Canoness, I’ll take my leave.’

‘One cannot take what is so freely given,’ the Canoness said.

Ulrich narrowed his eyes. Her words sounded like a quotation of some kind. Uncertain as to whether or not he had actually been insulted by the woman, he simply gave her a slight bow. He took four steps towards the landing craft, and then spun back around. ‘Oh, actually, there is one area in which you and your charges might be of assistance to me.’

‘Yes, inquisitor?’

Ulrich pointed towards the fence, where a number of curious onlookers were gathering. ‘Keep the local riff-raff away from this ship. Set up a perimeter, or some such.’

Canoness Grace’s eyes went wide with incredulity. ‘Guard duty? You want to use my Battle Sisters for guard duty?’

‘The Emperor’s Inquisition is tasking you with securing a valuable location,’ Ulrich said. He watched her clench her jaw. It could be a dangerous thing, he knew, trumping someone’s personal pride with Inquisitorial power. But damn if it wasn’t satisfying.

‘Your lander will be accorded the same level of security as that of any Imperial visitor to this world,’ the Canoness growled.

The inquisitor returned to the Scions with Chavis. Margene bowed to Canoness Grace in a gesture of respect mingled with awe. ‘It was an honour to meet you at last, Canoness.’

The Canoness gave her a quizzical look.

‘I am stationed at the Convent Prioris, on Holy Terra. I have been the recipient of your progress reports. I know all about your struggles here on Lysios, particularly against the Shelsists.’

‘But it’s not them that brought you here.’

Margene seemed torn. ‘I… I cannot speak of the inquisitor’s mission. I am bound by an oath of servitude and secrecy. We all are.’

‘Of course. I understand.’

‘But I can say that I think our efforts will aid you greatly. If we are successful, that is.’

Margene backed away, and then ran to catch up with Ulrich and Chavis. Canoness Grace returned to the other Sisters.

‘Superior Cairista, we have new orders. This field is to be secured and guarded until the inquisitor returns. No one goes near that landing craft, and we are to keep any and all citizens away from the entryway. See to it.’

‘At once, Canoness,’ Cairista replied. As part of her promotion, she had traded in her flamer for a boltgun with a small fire launcher mounted beneath it. She hoisted it up over her shoulder and began to issue commands to the other women.

Grace watched from a distance as the Scions, Ulrich and Sister Margene climbed into the two transports and rumbled away from the tiny space port. Overhead, the blazing eyes of Cryptus became obscured by wisps of blue cloud. A cool breeze ruffled her cloak.

Canoness Grace ran her fingers along the beads of the rosarius that hung around her neck, praying as she did so. ‘Emperor, if it be Your will, watch over our sister, Margene. Grant her strength, and courage, and the conviction to do Your will in all things.’ She touched her forehead, chest, and sword hilt, and then moved to supervise the establishment of the security perimeter.

She and Margene would never see each other in person again.

‘I am the Brine. Everything that lives within me, I have made a part of me. Since you spurn me, Ixoi, the creatures of Lysios will suffer my wrath. I will devour them, and greatly. The things that live in me will feast upon the things that live outside of me, because without you, I am craven.’

– Cantos Continuous, M41

Chapter Four

Chavis was not his original name. It had been given to him twenty years previously, by a drill abbot who selected it from a long list of possibilities. He had been twelve years old at the time, the victim of a disaster he couldn’t recall which had taken place on a home world he could no longer remember. One of a hundred boys brought before the Schola Progenium that day, he had been sprayed with a hose, deloused, and told to forget everything about his past. This included his name. His name was Chavis now.

‘You should be proud,’ they had told him. ‘Each of the names on this list once belonged to a great hero of the Imperium. This man, Chavis, was known for his wisdom and commitment to success. Now, it’s up to you to carry on his legacy.’

He did his best to comply, and he did feel proud to have been awarded such a name. He even enjoyed the brutal rigours of training, remaining stoically silent through aching muscles and the occasional snapped bone. Suffering became the price to be paid for the honour of bearing the name of Chavis.

He did not, however, enjoy the Correction Throne.

It was a standard phase in the development of a Tempestus Scion. All of them would go through it. He accepted that much. What he would never understand was why such a terrible thing was given such an elegant name. He had imagined a magnificent chair, like the one the Emperor sat in, but when he was at last brought before it, he found it to be nothing of the kind. The Correction Throne was a metal frame with leather straps around the arms and legs. Suspended above was what appeared to be a bowl filled with spikes. He was forced into the seat. Rough hands cinched the belts tightly around his limbs. The bowl was placed over his head. A block of wood was inserted into his mouth to ensure that he didn’t bite through his tongue. Adepts in hooded robes, lurking in the dark corners of the room, muttered as they flipped switches and turned dials.

Then, like a billion young lads before him, he was mindscaped. The needles drove themselves through the back of his skull. The soft pathways of his brain were flooded with a neurochemical designed to wipe them clean. When he was at last allowed to rise from the Throne, his mind would be an empty vessel, fit to be filled with all the terrible doctrines of war. And fill it they did.

Two decades later, Chavis knew how to achieve any mission given to him. He knew when to take ground, and when to hold it; when to act with caution, and when to risk it all. And thus, despite the inquisitor’s unparalleled power and authority over him, Chavis was unafraid to question his decisions.

From the hab-crawler, the two transports sped easily over kilometres of barren and empty country. Above them, the skies darkened. Thunder could be heard even through the thick hull. By the time they entered the foothills of the Kephorous mountains, a deluge was coming down around them. Rain beat against the roof and firing ports, and the Taurox rocked from side to side as the independent tracks scrabbled over rocks and crevasses.

‘Is there a problem, tempestor?’ Margene asked.

Chavis’s head snapped up. ‘Why do you ask?’

The interior of the Taurox was divided into two sections. There was a piloting compartment up front, with room enough for two people. The remainder was a rectangular space large enough to hold eight. Chavis and Margene were seated directly across from one another.

‘The way you were staring down at the floor,’ Margene said. Her face was hard. A boltgun rested in her lap, and she drummed her fingers on its engraved frame.

‘The rain sounds very heavy,’ Chavis said. ‘I’m concerned that it may affect our timetable.’

‘Storms are common on Lysios, especially as one moves closer to the worldwave. They tend not to last long, but can be intense. It’s actually a bit ironic, because right now, on the other side of the planet, there’s a terrible drought.’

Abruptly, the vehicle came to a halt. Chavis leaned forward in his seat and called up to the piloting compartment.

‘Scion Cato, report!’

‘Tempestor,’ Cato replied calmly, ‘we have a potential problem.’

Chavis unbuckled his safety restraints and leaned in between the driver and forward passenger seats.

‘What is it?’ Chavis asked.

Cato pointed through the narrow window slot before him. ‘There are environmental concerns that should be evaluated before we proceed, sir.’

‘All right. Let’s have a look.’ Chavis activated his personal vox-unit and called to the driver of the second Taurox. ‘Erdon, join us up front.’

He returned to the rear section, shoved one of the side doors open, and jumped down into water that rose to his ankles. Behind him, he heard Cato and the inquisitor do likewise. Rain pelted his face. It tasted vaguely of salt.

They were half way up the slope of Mount Loraz, following a winding track barely wide enough to accommodate their transports. On the left rose a wall of rock and mud. To the right was a sharp drop-off that plunged hundreds of metres into the churning greenish waves of Lysios’s ocean. To fall over the edge was to fall into oblivion.

From behind them came the sound of sloshing footsteps.

‘Scion Erdon, reporting as ordered.’

Chavis adjusted his beret and the four of them made their way to the front of the lead Taurox. They stood in the glare of the vehicle’s floodlights and surveyed the path ahead of them.

‘Damn,’ Ulrich said. He began fishing about inside his coat.

A river of rainwater, a hundred metres wide, was gushing from a crevasse in the mountainside. It fell in a torrent across the road before spilling over the drop-off.

‘No way to know what condition the road is in under all that,’ Erdon said to Cato.

‘That’s the concern.’

Chavis moved forward slowly, testing the ground with every step.

‘Can you tell how deep it gets, sir?’ Erdon called out. The water was now swirling around the tempestor’s knees.

‘Deep. But I shouldn’t think that it’ll come up over the roof.’

Behind him, Ulrich had produced a square of paper laminated in plastek. He began to unfold it. ‘We can’t go through this,’ he said. ‘We’ll be swept over the edge for certain.’

‘I’ve been through wider water hazards,’ Chavis said. He looked out at the drop-off. ‘We’ll be fine.’

Ulrich lowered the sheet of paper. Chavis could see that it was a map of some kind, possibly part of an orbital survey. ‘I beg to differ. Look here, this shows another way to the plateau.’

The tempestor returned to Ulrich’s side and grasped one edge of the waterproofed sheet. After a moment’s consideration, he said, ‘No. That won’t work.’

Ulrich looked as if he’d been slapped, and Chavis wondered distantly how often the inquisitor, or any inquisitor for that matter, found himself being contradicted. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Respectfully, sir, it won’t work. Not given our time considerations.’ He traced a line over the map with a thick finger, leaving a trail of condensation. ‘The other route is kilometres to the west. True, it’s not as steep, but it would take us half a day to get there. By that time, we will have missed our opportunity.’

Ulrich looked unhappy. He pointed to the water pouring down across the trail. ‘You’re telling me that you can get us through that?’

‘Sir, I have twenty years of service to my name. I’ve yet to encounter the terrain that could best a Taurox.’

‘But if the road gives way beneath it…’

‘Sir,’ Chavis repeated. ‘If we want to capture the alien specimen, we need to stick to our timetable.’ He held up his right forearm, into which was built a small, glowing display screen. He wiped the beads of rainwater from it, and tilted it towards Ulrich. In the upper corner of the display, a string of numbers counted steadily down towards zero. ‘According to the information provided to me by the dialogus, we have just under four hours remaining. After that, the tidal swell of the worldwave will have moved past the mountain.’

Ulrich looked at Cato and Erdon, as if seeking a second opinion. He found none.

‘I also have many years of experience, tempestor,’ Ulrich said, ‘in a profession that rewards carelessness with death.’

Chavis gave no reply. Twice he had stated his belief that the two Taurox would be able to make it across the raging water, and that was one time more than he was used to. Finally, Ulrich relented. He shook the water from the map, and began to fold it back up. ‘If you have so much faith in this machine of yours, then you won’t mind driving.’

‘Not at all, sir. However, I’ll need Scion Cato to sit next to me.’

‘Why?’

‘This could be dangerous, sir. Not only should there be a Scion ready to take over immediately should something happen to me, but you will be safer in the rear section.’

‘Fine, fine,’ Ulrich muttered. His shoulders were hunched and his arms were wrapped tightly around his body. His hair was plastered to his head by the rain. He climbed up into the passenger compartment.

Chavis and Cato made their way to the front. As Chavis fastened his safety restraints, Cato secured his helmet and faceplate.

‘Scion Erdon?’ Chavis said over the vox.

‘Ready here, tempestor. We’ll follow your lead.’

Chavis sent the Taurox forwards. Four status lights blinked on the panel in front of him, one for each of the machine’s quad tracks. The moment they entered the torrent, the lights changed from reassuring green to cautionary amber. Water surged against the left side of the vehicle. The Taurox began to lurch up and down as it manoeuvred over submerged boulders, but its grip on the flooded road was steady.

As they neared the midpoint, the front of the transport suddenly pitched down sharply. Chavis’s viewing slits became completely submerged.

‘What was that?’ Cato said.

Chavis bared his teeth, angry with himself for not having foreseen this. ‘A trench,’ he said. The constant rush of water had carved a deep fault in the mountain path, and they were falling into it, nose-first.

Erdon was shouting over the vox. ‘Tempestor, I’ve lost you!’

‘Erdon, exercise extreme caution. The middle section here is far worse than I thought.’

Chavis flicked a series of switches on the panel beside him, and the interior lights in the Taurox went out as power was transferred to the tractors. He pulled back hard on the controls. From somewhere underfoot came the noise of metal grinding. The Taurox shook violently and groaned before bursting up to the surface again, spraying mud everywhere. The water levels dropped back down below the firing slots. They were nearly to the other side.

As Chavis looked again at the track indicators, something heavy struck the side of the Taurox and rolled away. The passenger compartment reverberated with the sound of it. The tempestor’s head snapped up.

‘Rock, sir,’ Cato said. ‘Fell down from the mountainside after we passed through. I think maybe we–’

Through the vox, Chavis could suddenly hear a series of pings and bangs. At first, he took it to be gunfire of some kind.

‘Tempestor, I have a situation,’ Erdon said. ‘We’re being pushed over the drop-off.’

Cato let out a short, sharp expletive.

‘Transfer additional power to your tracks,’ Chavis ordered.

‘They’re at one hundred and twenty per cent, sir. It’s not a question of power. There’s nothing left to grip.’

Ulrich leaned into the compartment and demanded to know what was happening.

Chavis cut him off with a raised hand. ‘Erdon,’ he said, ‘prep your recovery gear. Cato, get outside, grab that line and secure it.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Cato said. Mounted into his left shoulder plate was a compact vid-lens. When he activated it, the lens glowed dark red. Chavis looked down at his own forearm display, which now showed the view from Cato’s vid-link. ‘Your monoscope data is coming in fine. Go.’

‘I asked you to tell me what’s happening,’ Ulrich said. ‘All of our equipment is in that other transport. If it’s lost–’

‘Not now!’ Chavis raised his arm.

Beside him, Cato reached up and unlocked a small round hatch. Rain and muddy water poured into his lap. He reached down beside his seat and pulled hard on the lever there, and with a sudden jerk, his chair rose up through the open hatch. The water coming into the front compartment slowed to only a few drops. On his monitor, Chavis could now see the road ahead, as well as the barrels of the battle cannon mounted on the roof of the Taurox. The picture inched around as Cato climbed up from out of the turret and made his way on hands and knees to the back of the roof.

‘Erdon,’ Chavis called, ‘fire your cable.’

A moment later, there was a scraping sound on the roof, and Cato said, ‘They’re latched on to us. We’re good to go, tempestor.’

Chavis pushed down on the accelerator, and the transport lurched forwards. Over the vox, Chavis could hear Cato grunting. After several tense moments, Erdon spoke.

‘That’s it. All of my track indicators are back on solid ground.’

The two vehicles ploughed through the last of the water and emerged safely on the other side. The seat next to Chavis dropped back down into place. Cato, covered in mud and soaking wet, removed his helmet and facemask. He exhaled loudly. ‘The cable’s released, sir.’

Ulrich was staring at him. ‘Your hands,’ he said.

Cato had left a pair of bloody imprints on either side of his helmet. He turned his gloves over to discover that several thick metal splinters had embedded themselves in his palms. ‘Oh. Must have gotten them from the recovery cable.’ He looked up at Chavis. ‘It gave me a bit of trouble, sir.’

‘Good work, Scion,’ Chavis said. ‘Get in the back and get those cleaned up.’

Cato nodded and squeezed past the inquisitor.

‘I thought you said that we wouldn’t have any problems?’ Ulrich said.

Chavis switched off the vid-feed to his monitor. The tiny clock reappeared and continued its countdown. ‘No, sir, I said that we would make it, and we did.’

‘But I was right. The road washed out.’

‘The road didn’t wash out. The mountain came down.’

Ulrich’s mouth twisted. ‘Just get us up to the plateau,’ he said quietly. He turned and went back into the rear compartment.

Chapter Five

By the time they reached the top of the mountain, the rain had stopped. The clouds were beginning to thin. The suns had set and the moon, Ixoi, was already visible in the sky as a massive, round, red disc. Nearby, the waves of Lysios’s vertical ocean washed up on the tumbled rocks. Their sound was like thunder, and the spray they sent up plumed high overhead. The two Taurox had stopped near a large slab of flat rock. Ulrich had insisted on being the first to exit. He stood gazing out at the ocean with a strange look on his face. Margene and the eighteen Scions climbed down from the transports and began to gather near him.

The bulk of the worldwave was to the south of them, a dark wall reaching up into the clouds. The dusky moonlight only made it seem more surreal. The entire horizon appeared to bend at a ninety-degree angle.

Ulrich turned and faced them all. His eyes were alight with excitement. The wind whipped his coat around his calves. He had to shout to be heard over the pounding surf.

‘I told you men before we landed that I had a plan to make our target come to us. Sister Margene, according to local legend, how often does the Brine Goddess come to the surface?’

‘Monthly, sir. She reaches out towards the moon, and when she finds that she can’t touch him, she despairs and causes tidal waves and storms.’

‘Nonsense, obviously, but it did get me to thinking. If there really was a Shelse living in the blackness of the ocean, why would it come forth with such regularity? I believe that the answer is the moon. Well, moonlight, to be more exact. I mean, look around you.’

Ulrich swept his arm in a half circle. Ixoi dominated the sky, casting everything in the reflection of the two suns. No stars could be seen. Night-time on Lysios was the equivalent of dusk on most other Imperial worlds.

‘You believe the creature is attracted to light?’ Margene asked.

‘Light and gravity, but I’m willing to wager that light will be enough. Tempestor, I want your men to begin setting up the searchlight immediately. How long will it take?’

‘It’s a standard Sabre platform, sir. Routine assembly time twenty-five to thirty minutes. We’ll have it ready in fifteen.’

‘Excellent. In the meantime, I will prepare the containment chamber. Margene, you’re with me.’ Ulrich began to walk towards the Taurox that Erdon had driven. Margene hurried to match his long strides. Chavis barked to the Scions. ‘You heard the inquisitor. Unpack that platform. Get the light up and running.’

The Scions saluted, and hurried to their work. From the rear section of the second Taurox, they brought out four metal struts and a series of round floor plates. These were followed by a square bracket, and finally, a light that was nearly as wide around as Chavis was tall. Margene had seen such things before. The light they produced was blinding, and they were usually mounted onto buildings or used for signalling aircraft at night. Once the pieces of the searchlight were offloaded, the Taurox was empty save for her, Ulrich, and a tall cylinder.

It appeared to be made of sheet metal. The front contained a single narrow door with a round pane of glass in the centre.

‘You’re going to put it… in this?’ Margene asked.

‘It’s stronger than it looks, I assure you. Heavier, as well. Take one side.’

She shouldered her boltgun and helped Ulrich lift the container out of the Taurox and down onto the ground. The Scions had nearly finished assembling the platform and the massive light. She had thought perhaps the tempestor had been bragging when he said that he and his men could build it in half the time of regular soldiers. Now, she conceded that he hadn’t.

The waves were growing in intensity as the tidal swell approached. Their breaking on the rocks was deafening, and when the waves retreated, they seemed to suck the very air out to sea with them. Margene looked in awe at the approaching worldwave, when something farther down the shoreline caught her attention. In the distance was a procession of people. They were carrying torches.

‘Inquisitor?’ she said. ‘We’re not alone.’

Ulrich looked down the strand. ‘Who are they?’

‘Locals, I would presume, sir. Should we do something about them?’

Before he could answer, Chavis approached. ‘We’re ready, inquisitor,’ he said.

‘Turn it on, then.’

Chavis gave a signal to one of his men, and the searchlight flared to life. Its blinding beam cut a wide swath down the beach and far out into the ocean. Another wave crashed over the rocks, dousing everyone with droplets of freezing water. The searchlight crackled and hissed.

Chavis frowned. ‘Sir,’ he asked Ulrich, ‘are you certain that we’re high enough above the water line?’

‘Of course.’

Margene did not share the inquisitor’s confidence, especially not after yet another wave crested the rocks and travelled far enough up the shore to wet their boots. Green tendrils like fine seaweed, embedded with flecks of silver, glittered on the ground. Droplets popped loudly as they landed on the light and then vaporised.

Scion Cato was the first to notice that the torch bearers had altered their course and were now moving towards them. ‘Tempestor!’ he shouted.

‘Byrdgon, Savdra!’ Chavis ordered. The two Scions quickly left the searchlight to stand by Erdon. From their backs, the three men unhooked bulky lasguns with top-mounted scopes and thick barrels.

The group of torch bearers came to a halt a short distance from the Scions. They were led by a woman in her late thirties. She wore a blue, patchwork robe and tall boots. She carried a staff that seemed to be made from some kind of white stone. Her skin was burnt and wrinkled from a lifetime under the twin suns of Lysios.

‘You shouldn’t be here!’ she shouted. ‘Whoever you are, you must leave.’

Ulrich put his hands on his hips. ‘Do you have any idea who I am?’

The woman stopped and planted the end of her staff in the rocky soil. Something about the gnarled white pole stuck a familiar chord with Margene. It wasn’t stone, she realised, but a huge rod of coral.

‘This night is sacred, off-worlder. You will not defile it.’

‘What did you call me?’

‘Off-worlder,’ she drawled in a thick accent. ‘Like the Murderess.’

The crowd behind her murmured.

Ulrich seemed slightly amused. ‘I’m sorry, who is the Murderess?’

‘The one who leads the women in white.’

‘You mean the Canoness? Does she know you call her that?’

The ocean roared. The Lysites turned, to see the crest of an enormous wave rolling towards them in a spray of water and foam. Strange creatures began to tumble out of it. Fish the size of small children flopped about. More of the glittering seaweed covered the shore. Margene unslung her bolter.

‘You must douse this light!’ cried the woman in the blue robe. ‘Only Ixoi may shine this night!’

Ulrich neither knew nor cared what she was talking about. He was about to order the Scions to chase the Lysites off with a volley of las-fire, when another wave pounded the nearby rocks. A large boulder rolled up onto the shore, and sprouted four pairs of stocky, segmented legs. A head shaped like a hammer uncurled from somewhere beneath it. Two antennae emerged from its neck and twitched as they took in the night-time air.

One of the old Lysite men broke from the group and ran towards it with all the speed he could muster. ‘Me first, take me!’ he shouted as he went.

‘Orders, sir?’ Chavis asked.

The boulder-thing pounced forward. Margene caught a glimpse of a fanged mouth on its underside.

Ulrich dug furiously into his coat pocket, and whipped out a hand-held auspex. He pointed it towards the creature. When it made a short, sharp buzz, he scowled. ‘It’s not what we’re after. Kill it.’

Chavis barked to two of his men. ‘Thieus, Brandt, directed firestorm.’

The pair’s hot-shot lasguns lit up the stony beach with searing beams. The creature was struck, and a section of its rocky shell melted inward. It gave a high pitched squeal, and fell over dead. Its insides were on fire.

The old man who had been running skidded to a halt and fell to his knees before the carcass. He stared in disbelief. There was no sound for a moment except the pounding of the surf. The Lysites were slack-jawed and silent. Then the old man lifted his arms out towards the worldwave and began to wail.

‘I was prepared!’ he cried.

As if taking a cue from his outburst, the body of the dead creature shuddered. From somewhere inside it there came a tearing sound. A swarm of tiny things flooded out from underneath its burning shell, each a copy of the parent creature in miniature. They surged over the wailing man and began biting into his flesh. He collapsed beneath them.

Margene could have sworn that his cries had changed from sorrow to gratitude.

Ulrich took a step back in disgust. Another titanic wave arched over the boulders and came crashing down, soaking everyone and leaving more creatures in its wake. They dragged themselves up the shore on a pair of rubbery fins, while behind them a flat tail wagged. Their backs were covered in long spines that faced forward. They shook themselves off, sending a cloud of quills into the crowd.

One of the darts caught Ulrich in the temple, leaving a long scratch that oozed dark ichor. He drew his pistol with impressive speed and sent a bolt of energy into the thing that had dared to wound him.

Two more of the boulder-spiders dropped into the mass of Lysites, sending bodies flying in all directions. With terrible grunts, they disgorged their young, who began to bite and gnaw on everything around them. Down the beach, a varied collection of creatures were being cast ashore. A ball of gelatinous material rolled a short distance, and then collapsed into a pile of seaweed and fleshy slugs with ridged fins. They began crawling with alarming speed towards the searchlight and everyone who was gathered around it.

A memory flashed through Margene’s mind of a time years ago when a moth had somehow found its way into the scriptorium. Again and again, it flew into her candelabra, until it had finally caught fire and died. It had been heedless of pain or any wounds it suffered, because it had been driven mad; mad by the bright light of her candles.

‘Inquisitor, I think your beacon is working a little too well,’ she said.

Chavis pointed to the two Taurox. ‘Cato, Erdon, get in the turrets and prepare to give us fire support.’

As the two men ran for the transports, the pack of quilled beasts turned their attention to the Scions’ firing line. Their faces were covered with the blood and gore of the Lysites they had just finished feasting on. The monsters shook violently as they ran forward. Byrdgon’s right arm became covered in quills. He fired his weapon and one of the creatures exploded into flaming chunks. The other Scions followed suit, lighting up the stony beach with las-fire.

‘Keep them back,’ Chavis yelled. ‘Don’t let them get close enough to fire those barbs at you.’ He glanced at his monitor. The countdown timer was almost at zero. ‘Inquisitor, we’re nearing peak tide. Which of these is the specimen?’

Ulrich waved his auspex back and forth. ‘I’m not… it’s not any of these,’ he shouted.

Byrdgon stumbled backwards, and fell face first to the ground. On either side of him, the Scions continued pouring las-fire into the quill creatures, but it seemed that every one they killed was replaced by two more.

Chavis dashed to Byrdgon and rolled him over. His right arm was swelling visibly. Black gel was seeping out from the base of every quill. He tried to say something, but could only produce choking sounds.

The tide came upon them with a deafening crash. Water flooded around the base of the searchlight and the treads of the nearest Taurox. The pack of quill creatures seemed to be invigorated by it, and surged ahead. They leapt upon the Scions and unleashed a flurry of biting, scratching attacks.

Chavis pulled a serrated combat knife from his belt and filled the hole in the line. To his left and right, the Scions were beating at the monsters with their rifles until they went down, and then stamping their heads flat to ensure they stayed that way. There were a lot of them, he admitted, but their main threat seemed to be their poisonous quills, which were rendered useless in close quarters. He was quite confident that, so long as they weren’t allowed to get too close, he and his men would quickly emerge as the victors in this fight.

Then, by the searchlight’s glare, Chavis saw that larger creatures were emerging from the surf. They were slightly taller than a man, and dragged themselves forward on a pair of fat, chitin-plated claws. Their bodies were vaguely serpentine. Small bolts of electricity crackled around them.

They charged in an odd, scrabbling motion, bowling through the remaining quill creatures and impacting against the Scions. Chavis felt his whole body shiver uncontrollably as the things discharged a massive electrical shock. His muscles refused to obey him for a moment, and he dropped his knife. The next thing he knew he was on his back, claws trying to tear away his armour. There was a sharp and terrible pain in his thigh.

With great effort, Chavis dug his fingers into the thing’s side, grabbed a fistful of blubber, and pulled. A gristly hole opened up, dumping reeking fluids all over him. The creature gave a high squeal and collapsed.

Chavis shoved its dead weight off him and scrambled back to his feet, ignoring the pain in his upper leg where he’d been wounded. His monitor started flashing a variety of telltales; yellow for Scions who were injured but recoverable, red for those who were beyond saving. He also noted that Margene had thrown herself into the fray. She had attached an oversized bayonet to the end of her boltgun, and was using it to chop through the bodies of the attacking creatures.

Ulrich fired his pistol into yet another group of aquatic horrors that were shambling and slithering their way towards the searchlight. It seemed as if every living thing in the worldwave were coming ashore with the intent to feast on them.

‘Fire support on the water line!’ Chavis yelled into his vox.

Atop both of the Taurox were cannons designed to blow apart light vehicles and heavily armoured infantry. Erdon and Cato began to shell the beach with them. With each explosion, a cone of gravel and water rocketed upwards. Chunks of shell and fatty tissue rained down.

Another of the clawed creatures leapt towards Chavis. He drew his pistol and shot the thing dead before it could shock him. The ocean was all around them now, completely covering the fallen and drenching those still standing almost to their waists. Sparks shot from the searchlight, and in an instant, it went out. The ruddy light of Ixoi came flooding back.

Ulrich’s sword glinted in the moonlight as he slashed and thrust. His coat was torn at the shoulder and one side of his face was distorted. The bodies of dead things floated all around him.

Margene was the first to see it. She had just finished chopping one of the quill creatures in half, and was standing back to back with one of the Scions. His helmet was gone and one of his hands had been badly mangled. A shadow fell across them, and she looked up to see where it had come from.

Out of the worldwave, rose a tree. At least, that was her initial impression: a tree whose vast trunk was sheathed in bark the colour of dried scabs. Its hundreds of cream-coloured branches curled and twitched as they stretched across the face of the moon. Some of them were tipped with claws as large as the Taurox.

Her body shook involuntarily as the truth dawned on her. It wasn’t a tree. It was an enormous tentacle. In fact, it was a tentacle that was sprouting a myriad of other tentacles.

One by one, Chavis, Ulrich and the remaining Scions caught a glimpse of it, and despite their varied backgrounds, all of them were struck dumb. The Scions paused for only a fraction of a second before regaining their focus and continuing to fight off their attackers.

Ulrich however, despite his training and experience, found himself standing slack-jawed and speechless. This is Shelse, he thought dimly. No, worse: this is only a portion of Shelse. His preconceptions crumbled within him, and were supplanted by sheer terror. Gone was any notion he might have once held that the creature would be captured in its entirety. All he cared about for the moment was surviving.

A rushing sound filled the air, and the full extent of the tidal swell came upon them. A wave, larger than any that had come before it, was curling up from the body of Lysios’s ocean. The water looked purple in Ixoi’s red glare. White caps glinted along its edge.

‘Emperor, save us,’ Margene whispered.

The wave reached its peak, and began to crumble. It struck the boulders along the shoreline with hurricane force, submerging them easily. A wall of water rolled towards them, and from its foaming crest came a monster. It was a thing dragged up from the deepest depths, with rubbery, ghostly-white skin. Its head was shaped like that of some gigantic fish. Its mouth was filled with teeth the size of swords. Its eyes glowed bright yellow, and a ridge of spines ran down the length of its back. Where it ended, no one could tell; the thing’s body trailed back into the churning ocean.

‘All Scions,’ Chavis yelled into his vox, ‘elimination protocol!’

Erdon and Cato continued to rain shells upon the shoreline. The giant thing bellowed as it was struck. One of its eyes exploded, showering the landscape in jelly. Wriggling the spines on its back, it swam forwards with the force of a runaway train. It swallowed two Scions whole, and knocked the searchlight into the water before it finally rammed its bulbous head into the side of Cato’s Taurox. The side door caved in completely. The vehicle rocked, but did not tip over.

Margene, Ulrich, and Chavis began shooting at it, but none of the weapons they carried seemed to have any effect. Erdon hit it with another shell from his battle cannon. A hole opened halfway down the length of its body, and greasy blood gushed out.

In response, the monster raised itself up like a cobra preparing to strike, and then slammed its entire weight down onto the roof of Chavis’s transport. The driver’s section crumpled and the front tracks sagged in on themselves. Over the vox, the Scions could hear Cato screaming in agony.

The monster raised itself up again. It clamped the entire front half of the transport in its mouth, and shook it wildly. Metal plating and bits of machinery flew in all directions. Then the monster, satisfied with its catch, began to retract itself back into the ocean, taking the flattened Taurox with it.

‘Kill it! Kill it!’ Chavis was screaming.

In response, Erdon fired three more shells at the monster as it retreated. Two of them found their mark, and opened yet more gaping wounds in its hide. With a splash, it vanished back into the ocean.

Scion Cato’s incoherent cries became the terrible sounds of a man drowning. Thankfully for all who could hear, his struggles were short lived.

Margene and Chavis kicked aside a myriad of dead creatures. Four Scions got to their feet. The rest were either dead or gone, the bodies washed out to sea.

Now that the beacon was destroyed, the number of creatures tumbling out of the ocean became greatly reduced. Waves continued to crest over the boulders, but these too were shrinking in magnitude. Still, it was not yet over.

The remaining quill beasts launched another volley of poisoned barbs, which bounced harmlessly off the Scions’ armour. Chavis shot three of them. His last four men joined him at his side, and began firing their lasguns into the pack.

Margene quickly inserted a fresh clip into her bolter, and fired. Two more of the clawed things blew apart into rubbery pieces. When a half-dead quill beast attempted to bite her leg, she stamped it to death beneath her heel.

Erdon’s cannon shells had transformed the water line into a pockmarked moonscape. The craters filled with seawater and mangled pieces of meat. At last, he ceased firing, for there was nothing left on the beach to shoot at.

Chavis watched his men torch the last of the quill creatures with las-fire. He holstered his bolt pistol and spoke into his vox. ‘Erdon, the area is clear. Grab a medi-kit and get out here.’

Ulrich was standing farther down the shore, where the water was still knee-high. He was staring out past the boulders. No more creatures were coming ashore. The cut on his face burned with a mixture of poison and salt. By his quick estimation, ten or eleven men had been killed, leaving him with only half a dozen Scions and the dialogus. They were down to one transport, and his equipment was all damaged, or utterly destroyed. But worse than all this, Shelse was nowhere to be seen. The worldwave was moving on, passing the plateau in its unstoppable circumnavigation of Lysios.

Ulrich began to shake. His knuckles turned white as he gripped his sword. He let loose a scream that echoed off the rocks. ‘Ten years!’

The tempestor trudged up behind the inquisitor. A wave broke over the rocks.

‘The worldwave won’t pass this plateau again for ten years. All my planning… this whole trip… It’s all been a waste!’ He stumbled a few steps towards the ocean.

‘A waste,’ Chavis repeated.

Ulrich spun around. ‘This is not my fault!’

‘I never implied that it was, sir,’ Chavis said, ‘but what are your orders now?’

Ulrich’s face twisted as he furiously tried to think of some means to salvage this operation. Nothing came. He sighed. ‘Return to the space port, and go home.’

He gave the worldwave one final, longing look, and then started walking back up the beach.

Chavis left to see to his men without saying another word.

They heard Margene yelling. ‘Inquisitor! Tempestor! Over here!’

The two men broke into a run, passing Erdon as he opened a medi-kit and began tending to the surviving Scions. They found Margene near the place where the Lysites had tried to confront them. One of the Taurox cannon shells had fallen here, littering the area with human body parts and dead sea creatures. In the middle of the scene was a wide, but shallow crater. At the bottom, submerged in salt water and pinned beneath the half-corpse of one of the boulder-spiders, lay the woman with the blue robe.

‘I heard someone calling,’ Margene said, ‘and I found this.’ She leapt down into the crater, and yanked back the woman’s tattered robe.

Below her neck, the woman’s skin was dark purple and covered in overlapping plates. A secondary set of arms sprouted from the middle of her ribcage.

Margene levelled her boltgun at the woman. ‘You. Mutant. Confess your sins, and I will consider them. Who are you? What were you doing out here?’

The woman coughed up blood and said, ‘It’s Ixoi’s Night…’

‘When Lysios’s moon is at perigee,’ Margene clarified.

‘Yes… We escort those who… offer themselves as tribute.’

‘To the Brine Goddess?’

‘Yes. To Shelse. She… she sends the Things That Live Within Her… to satisfy her hunger.’ Her head flopped back and her breathing became ragged. ‘I will devour them, and greatly.’

‘Enough!’ Reciting from her own litany Margene said, ‘From the scourge of the Kraken, Our Emperor, deliver us. From the blasphemy of the Fallen, Our Emperor, deliver us.’

Margene pulled the trigger and the woman’s entire upper half flew apart. She looked up, but Ulrich was gone. She climbed up from out of the crater, and found him kneeling nearby.

He pulled a pair of long gloves from his belt and began to don them hurriedly. ‘Get the containment chamber, Chavis,’ he yelled, ‘and bring it here. Now!’

Margene called to Ulrich, and received no response. She peered over his shoulder to see what was holding his attention so raptly. A segmented piece of tentacle was lying in a shallow depression in the ground. It was roughly the size of her arm. Ten or more smaller cilia sprouted from it like elongated fingers tipped with black talons, and there were bits of red shell near the bottom of it. It rolled and twisted, madly trying to escape from the hole.

‘Is that–’ Margene began.

She was interrupted by Chavis and Erdon rushing past her, carrying the heavy cylinder. They set it down next to Ulrich. Chavis opened the door and waited.

Ulrich finished putting on his gloves. He set his jaw, and then wrapped both hands around the tentacle piece. It immediately began thrashing about. The inquisitor had to fight to maintain his grip on it. With a grunt, he threw it into the cylinder. Chavis slammed the door shut.

The tentacle hammered at the inside of the container.

Ulrich was slightly short of breath as he said, ‘Get it aboard the transport immediately.’

Chavis and Erdon lifted the containment chamber up, and started back to the remaining Taurox. Ulrich peeled off his gloves and put them back into his coat. He looked at her, his face beaming, and followed after the two Scions.

‘Inquisitor,’ Margene said as she came alongside him. ‘There is obviously more transpiring on Lysios than meets the eye. We should send a message to the Canoness.’

‘No, I think not.’

Margene pointed back to the crater. ‘There is heresy here.’

‘There is heresy everywhere, but I will not have that woman rampaging all around and getting in my way. No, I’m afraid that the Canoness’s righteous fury will have to wait until my work here is complete.’

‘Inquisitor, I have a duty to report religious sedition. I promise you, I will make no mention of that… thing in the storage container.’

‘Communications blackout,’ Ulrich spat. ‘That means you don’t talk to anyone, about anything, unless I say so.’

‘I understand, inquisitor, but surely–’

‘This conversation is over. For your sake, we should never have to repeat it.’

He climbed up into the Taurox.

Margene stood alone for a moment, trying to dampen her fury. Somehow, she knew, she had to contact the Canoness. Something on this world was coming to a head, and it had to be stopped before it was too late.

She climbed aboard, slamming the hatch shut behind her. The Taurox’s engine roared to life, and the transport sped away.

The beach was deserted. Only the dead were present to witness the titanic shape that once again broke through the surface of the worldwave. It clawed at the moon, pining for its unreachable love and calling curses down on all of those who opposed it.

‘What will our lives be like, my love, when we are at last united? Will you descend forever and join me, or will you scoop me up in your arms, and carry me back to your abode in the sky? Promise me, O, promise me, we’ll be together soon. The stars begin to fall, and this era draws to a close…’

– Cantos Continuous, M41

Chapter Six

The moon was beginning to set. It was as dark as night-time got on Lysios. To one side, the mountain was a wall of soaking wet rock. On the other was the receding swell of the worldwave. Erdon watched the road carefully as he drove. It was far rougher than it had been when they had used it to ascend the mountain earlier. The passing tide had heaved up rocks and covered it with a thick carpet of weeds and mud. On at least three occasions, warning indicators flashed on the dashboard display telling him that the Taurox was losing traction. That alone spoke to the treacherousness of their route.

Chavis sat in the command seat next to him, also keeping a watchful eye on the road conditions. Both men saw the problem at the same time. Erdon brought the Taurox to a stop.

‘Stay here,’ Chavis said. ‘I’ll take a closer look.’ He got out of his seat, grabbed his helmet from a compartment on the bulkhead, and made his way to a side hatch. In the rear of the Taurox, Margene sat with her head down. Ulrich was sitting on the floor next to the containment cylinder. The tiny observation window was fogged over, and drops of condensation ran down the sides. The tentacle creature had stopped its mad convulsing within the first hour of the trip.

Besides Erdon, he had four other Scions remaining. Five if he included Byrdgon, who was lying in a near comatose state across three seats. His arm was clearly infected beyond the capability of any field medicine. Dark lines had begun to spread across his neck and chest. The others, Brandt, Thieus, Savdra, and Devries, had been patched up with supplies from the Scion’s ‘Martyr’s Gift’ medi-kit, including protein healing salves, suture tape, and in Thieus’s case, a temporary bionic hand.

As he opened the hatch, Margene’s head snapped up. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.

‘The road ahead of us looks very bad. I’m going out to see if it’s passable.’

She was on her feet at once. ‘I’ll come with you.’

Chavis jumped down. His wounded leg gave a distant cry of pain that he stoically ignored. The air was cool and wet. Thick mud and weeds made sucking sounds beneath his feet as he walked around to the front of the Taurox. The night became as bright as day thanks to the amplifying lenses in his helmet and his suspicions were confirmed.

They had come to the place where, earlier, the mountainside had crumbled and nearly swept Erdon’s Taurox over the edge and into the sea below. The road was now completely gone. Walls of rock and mud had come sliding down from somewhere above, and the trench they had fought to traverse was now a yawning abyss.

‘Erdon?’ he said into his vox.

‘Here, tempestor.’

‘This is no good. Not even a Taurox could get across a chasm this wide. We’ll have to find another way back to the hab-crawler.’

‘The secondary route to the west?’

‘My thoughts exactly.’

Chavis turned around to go back to the Taurox, only to find Margene blocking his way.

‘Tempestor, I need to ask you something.’

‘Yes?’

Margene considered him for a moment. ‘He who allows the alien to live shares in the crime of its existence,’ she said at last. ‘Would you agree with that statement?’

Chavis’s answer was immediate. ‘Yes.’

‘Of course you do. Any sane person would. But if that is so, then why is the inquisitor bringing that thing back? Why are we letting him?’

‘We aren’t letting him do anything. He does not answer to us.’

‘Doesn’t it bother you to have that thing on board?’ Margene jerked a thumb towards the rear compartment.

Chavis considered the question for a moment. ‘It’s irrelevant. My mission is to ensure the inquisitor’s safety, and return him to that landing ship.’ With that, he walked past her and back into the transport.

‘What if I told you that it’s still alive? Would that change your opinion?’

Chavis stopped.

‘I managed to steal a glance over the inquisitor’s shoulder a while ago, and I’m almost certain that I could see it moving around inside that cylinder.’

‘Almost certain?’

‘Well… it was hard to tell, but–’

‘Do you believe the creature represents an immediate danger to either yourself or any member of the team?’

‘No,’ she said hesitantly. ‘I don’t… I don’t know.’

‘Then we cannot take any action that would contradict our orders.’

Margene scowled. ‘When it tries to kill me, though, you will make certain to avenge me?’

‘Of course,’ Chavis replied. He climbed back into the Taurox.

‘Sir,’ he called to Ulrich, ‘I need to inform you that the route we used to get to the plateau has become totally impassable. However, there is another way back that should see us arrive by late afternoon.’

Ulrich shook his head, but did not turn his attention away from the containment chamber. ‘It’s simply one delay after another.’

‘I could use that map of yours.’

‘Fine. Just get me back to the lander and off this planet.’ He pulled the waterproofed paper from his belt and tossed it over his shoulder. Chavis caught it in one hand.

‘As quickly as possible, sir.’ Chavis returned to the seat beside Erdon.

Margene climbed up and slammed the hatch shut. Wordlessly, she dropped into the nearest seat and stared into space. It took some time to get the transport turned around. By the time they were under way, the suns were beginning to crest the horizon, and the dialogus had fallen into an exhausted sleep.

The moth was fluttering against the candelabrum. She looked up from her desk where she had been steadfastly copying Onward, Emperor’s Daughters, one of her favourite hymns, to see the little insect’s wings catch fire.

‘Why did you do that?’ she asked it. ‘You should know better. Now you’re going to die.’

She dipped her quill in the inkpot, and returned to her calligraphy. Somewhere in the convent above her, she could hear the choir singing each stanza as she wrote it out, which was odd, because the walls in the scriptorium were so thick that normally she couldn’t hear anything at all.

The moth continued to beat its wings furiously against the candles, even though it was now nothing but a burnt little husk. She did her best to ignore it, and dipped her quill again. However, now her lovely feather had become one of the sharp, poisoned spines that she had helped pull out of Scion Byrdgon. The inkwell was filled with water. It began to bubble up, spilling all over her parchment. The beautiful lines smeared and ran down the page.

The dead moth finally succeeded in blowing out the candles. She stood up to find a taper and relight them. The floor was covered in water. Stumbling about in the dark, she was unable to find either light or the door. The water continued to rise.

Something wrapped itself around her legs. There was an explosion of pain. She could not see it, but somehow she knew that beneath the rising water, cream-coloured tentacles were burrowing into her flesh. As she floated up to the rafters, more and more tentacles reached up from the depths to devour her. She struggled against them, but they were immensely strong. The water covered her face, and she discovered that it was salty. Above her the choir was still singing, but the lyrics had changed.

‘Promise me, O, promise me, we’ll be together soon…’ they sang.

Her lungs burned as she tried to prolong her final breath. The tentacles had now produced razor-sharp claws, and were beginning to slice her legs open. Tiny, unseen mouths were taking bites out of her abdomen and neck. At last, she could stand the agony no more. Her dying scream came out as a stream of muffled bubbles, and then the room shook violently.

Margene startled awake and stared about her. Thieus, the Scion with the replacement hand, was sitting across from her. ‘What happened?’ she gasped.

‘We just drove over something large, that’s all.’

She ran a hand through her hair, and looked down the length of the compartment. No one appeared to have moved very much. Ulrich was still seated by his precious specimen, although his head wobbled as if he were on the edge of sleep. Scion Byrdgon’s breath came in ragged gasps. His body had begun to emit a rank odour.

There was a sudden boom. The Taurox shook as if some giant, petulant hand had picked it up and then thrown it back down. Margene tumbled to the floor. She heard the containment cylinder topple over and strike something. Everything skewed to the left, and she realised that they were spinning. When the Taurox finally came to rest, the air was filled with pungent smoke. Margene held her hands to her nose. Blood was pouring out from between her fingers.

Ulrich was clambering to his feet, cursing loudly. He worked desperately to set the specimen container upright again.

‘Another rock?’ Margene asked.

Thieus shook his head.

Chavis wheeled around in his chair. ‘It sounded like a mine. Scions, gear up and disembark.’

Moments later, Chavis, Erdon, and the others stood outside beneath the blistering twin suns. Erdon had donned a pair of insulated gloves that came up to his shoulders and brought out a large metal case filled with tools. The others had their lasguns at the ready.

The Taurox had come to rest along the perimeter of a circular plaza. A dark blast pattern radiated from the rear left tread assembly. Otherwise, the ground was covered with a dense bed of dried seaweed and fish bones. Patches of lichen bloomed in every nook and cranny. Everything was stained with the powdery white residue of dried salt. The streets were choked with weeds and tumbled blocks of masonry.

They had come down from Mount Loraz and wound their way through a series of wide canyons. The rock walls had been etched with chalky white horizontal stripes, evidence of past water levels. Chavis had been cautious at first. The walls of rock made for short sight-lines, and danger could be around any turn. By mid-morning, however, they had yet to encounter a single soul, and his alertness level decreased. This part of Lysios was apparently uninhabited.

Perhaps abandoned was a better word. They had begun to encounter ancient buildings: a few at first, but then growing in number and density. Chavis checked the inquisitor’s map. They were passing along the edge of a small city. Whatever name it might have once gone by had been drowned and lost three thousand years ago. Its once mighty rockcrete towers and walls were now just a series of crumbling foundations and rubble piles, worn smooth by so many passing floods.

Erdon squatted down next to the Taurox. With one hand, he groped behind the damaged section. ‘Pressure-sensitive mine, all right.’

‘Home built?’ Chavis asked.

Erdon shook his head. ‘No. This was military.’

‘Who would plant explosives out in the middle of nowhere like this?’ Devries asked.

‘An excellent question,’ Chavis said.

‘One we don’t have time to answer,’ Ulrich said. He was standing at the top of the rear boarding ramp. ‘Let’s move on.’

Erdon withdrew his hand. His glove was stained with some dark liquid. He sniffed it, and then held it aloft. ‘Tempestor, that’s fuel.’

Chavis lowered his head and exhaled slowly. ‘Repairable?’

Erdon stood up. ‘Patchable, yes, sir. Enough to get us back to the hab-crawler. But if we’ve lost too much fuel…’

‘I know. Get to it.’

Ulrich threw his hands in the air, and returned to the inside of the transport. Erdon crawled beneath the Taurox while the others kept watch. He worked for nearly half an hour before finally emerging.

‘I’ve managed to patch it, sir,’ he told Chavis, ‘but there’s a fair amount of shrapnel damage underneath.’

‘Do we have enough fuel to make it back?’

Erdon shook his head.

‘We’ll need to consult the inquisitor, then.’

‘Consult him about what, exactly?’ Ulrich called. He had been sitting just inside the rear ramp.

‘About our next move, sir. I would recommend, since our transport no longer has enough fuel to make it back to the lander, that we contact the Battle Sisters and request an evacuation.’

Ulrich stood up and marched down the ramp. ‘Absolutely not.’

‘Sir, the alternatives are–’

‘Tempestor!’ Brandt cried. He had perched himself on top of a high mound of moss-covered bricks. He waved a hand in the air, signalling that something was approaching their position.

‘Scions,’ Chavis barked.

Devries, Savdra, and Thieus hoisted their guns to their shoulders. Erdon quickly dropped his insulated gloves and grabbed his volley gun.

The sound of engines drifted on the wind. With squealing tyres, a trio of groundcars came tearing around the corner of a ruined building. Each one had six wheels and no roof. They were packed with men in uniforms the colour of faded sandstone, with dark blue piping along the seams of their trousers. Their boots and armour were scuffed and weathered. The majority of their weapons appeared to be large-calibre projectile rifles, but Chavis counted at least three serviceable-looking grenade launchers. None of them wore any kind of hat or helmet. Their hands and faces were sunburnt and blistered, and each of them looked as if it had been months since their last good meal.

‘Autonomous fire sanctioned!’ Chavis yelled.

The groundcars spun wildly, and the men aboard them opened fire. Bullets ricocheted off piles of rock and the armour of the Scions. Two of the uniformed men hoisted a portable rocket launcher between them. The missile they let loose slammed into the side of the Taurox in a thundering ball of fire.

Chavis and the Scions returned fire with everything they had. The four soldiers in the lead groundcar were all struck in the centre of their torsos. The heat of the las-bolts melted their body armour and set their clothing on fire. Erdon had finished readying the volley gun. He struck their car with a howling salvo of las-fire that tore clean through the armour plating around the engine. The vehicle went up in a pillar of smoke and flame.

The soldiers in the other two vehicles sprayed the Scions with bullets. Savdra and Brandt killed two of them for their efforts. Devries jerked and fell onto his back. He clutched at his left arm where a bullet had pierced him through a gap in his armour.

‘I’m all right,’ he shouted.

The groundcars wheeled around, and began to flee down another street. Erdon fired the volley gun again. Steam began to rise from its heavy casing. Most of the shots struck the street and walls, leaving pools of glass in their wake. One of the groundcars, however, took a direct hit to its rear and exploded. The bodies of its occupants flew up into the air and crashed on the weed-covered pavement.

The third groundcar roared away.

Chavis cut the air with a flattened hand. ‘Hold your fire. Move up and hold your fire.’

The Scions sprinted to where the first wreck sat smouldering, and took up a position against a crumbling wall. Chavis grabbed a dead man’s boot and pulled him inside a doorway. The tempestor rolled the man’s face from side to side, and considered his apparel.

‘Professional-grade cloth,’ he said. ‘And this flak armour isn’t something that the average Lysite has access to.’

‘His weapon’s in decent shape too.’ Erdon pointed to a large patch on the corpse’s left shoulder. It depicted several bright white stars against a field of dark blue. The number ‘99’ was emblazoned across it in faded yellow. ‘What about this?’

‘A unit insignia of some kind. I don’t recognise it.’

A shadow fell across them and a voice said, ‘That’s because it hasn’t been used for quite some time.’

Erdon and Chavis looked up to Ulrich standing in the doorway. Margene was behind him.

‘Only ninety-nine worlds received such emblems for their soldiers, and believe it or not, at one time, Lysios was among them. This man was a member of the Lysios Home Guard.’

Behind him, Margene gave a slight gasp.

‘Inquisitor,’ Chavis said, getting to his feet, ‘you should remain in the Taurox. This is still an active zone.’

Ulrich waved a hand dismissively. ‘Those men were driving groundcars. That means they must have some kind of fuel, yes? Fuel we can take and use?’

Chavis nodded. ‘Yes, sir. I had the same thought.’

‘Inquisitor,’ Margene said, ‘There was only one unit of trained soldiers on Lysios, and they were all attached to the planetary governor. If these men are here, then the governor must be somewhere nearby. We have to find him.’

‘You’d think so,’ Ulrich said, ‘but in point of fact, we don’t.’

‘Then let me contact Canoness Grace, and give her the coordinates for this place. The Sisters have been searching for the governor–’

Ulrich cut her off sharply. ‘I told you before: we are under a communications blackout. We will speak to no one, because no one is to be informed of our mission here.’

Margene glared at the inquisitor. ‘Why?’

Ulrich gave her no answer. ‘Tempestor, let’s go find where these men have gotten themselves to.’

‘Very good, sir. Devries?’

‘Yes, tempestor?’

‘I want you to stay behind. Seal up the Taurox, and man the cannon. If any more of these men show up…’

‘I understand.’

‘The rest of you, prepare to move out. This is a search-and-destroy scenario, sigma delta.’

‘Sigma delta?’ Margene asked quietly. Her eyes remained fixed on the inquisitor.

Chavis removed the ammo clip on his bolt pistol and inspected the first round. ‘Urban combat environment, multiple targets.’

Chapter Seven

Chavis led the way down the ruined street. The tyre tracks were simple enough to follow among the seaweed and algae drifts, and it took them only a few minutes to encounter another attack group. Chavis could hear them fussing with something that sounded large and heavy. He motioned for everyone to stop, and carefully peered around the corner.

Beyond was a small square, hedged in on all sides by tall ruins. Chavis saw a group of soldiers gathered around the cracked base of an ancient fountain.

‘Must be a checkpoint. I count two men with rifles, one with a grenade launcher, and what looks like a commanding officer,’ he whispered over his vox. ‘The last two have set up a crew-served heavy weapon. Looks like an Agrippina-pattern autocannon.’

‘Only six of them?’ Ulrich scoffed. ‘This should be easy.’

Chavis was no stranger to the perils of urban combat. Years of experience had taught him that, within the confines of a city, nothing was easy. And if it appeared to be so, it was usually a trap.

‘No,’ he said, ‘we should bypass this.’

‘What?’

‘A set-up like this is designed to draw us into any number of hazards. That square could be mined. Could be targeted by snipers. There could be sentry guns hidden on the perimeter. Trust me, sir, when I tell you that there’s something amiss here.’

Chavis expected an argument from the inquisitor, and was surprised when he got none. ‘All right then, we’ll go around.’

Chavis led the group across a shattered cross street and into a low building, gesturing everyone to keep down. Through the empty windows and the holes in the walls, they could catch glimpses of the square and the checkpoint.

The tempestor picked up the groundcar tracks again one block to the north. They turned sharply and vanished down an access tunnel below the street. The tunnel entrance was heavily guarded. Chavis counted three platoons of solders, and at least as many heavy lascannons. All told, there were nearly forty men blocking their path.

‘There’s no avoiding this one, I take it?’ Ulrich asked knowingly.

‘That depends, sir. Are you still adamant that you will not contact anyone to come and evacuate us?’

Ulrich stared at the tempestor.

‘Then, no, there’s no going around this.’ Chavis wished briefly that he had more men. But he did not. These four would have to suffice. He moved in between Savdra and Margene. ‘A direct charge will see us all killed,’ he said. ‘We have to hit them on a flank, so that they won’t be able to turn their total firepower on us. Erdon, when we get into range, your job is to slag those lascannons.

‘Savdra, I want you to stay here with Sister Margene. Your job is to provide distraction fire. Make a lot of noise. Keep them focused here. If they try to get too close to you, give them some grenades.

‘Thieus and Brandt, you’re with me. We cover Erdon until he gets the volley gun in range, then we close the distance and finish them off.’

Chavis looked at Ulrich and remembered which of them was actually in charge of the mission. ‘Is that acceptable, sir?’

‘With one exception. I’m coming with you.’

Minutes later, Chavis, Ulrich, and the others had made their way around to the side of the underground entrance. The sound of Margene’s boltgun could not be missed and the guards began to return fire, the lascannons blowing holes through the rockcrete around her and Savdra.

Ulrich and Chavis broke from their cover, followed by Brandt and Thieus. Erdon, in the rear with the volley gun, fired a quartet of searing las-beams into the nearest platoon. Three men were blown apart instantly. Brandt and Thieus, as they sprinted forwards, each managed to down two more before the element of surprise was exhausted. Three of the remaining five men wheeled around and fired their rifles. Most of the bullets impacted in the street or ricocheted off into the ruins. One mushroomed off Ulrich’s refractor field, millimetres in front of his neck. The two men manning the platoon’s lascannon desperately tried to turn it, but by the time they did so, Chavis was lobbing a grenade into their midst. It bounced far past its intended target, and detonated in a cloud of burning shrapnel.

Ulrich was the first to leap into the melee. His sword cleaved the air above the soldiers’ heads as they ducked to avoid his blows. Chavis closed to point-blank range and shot the closest man through the heart with his bolt pistol. Brandt, Thieus, and Erdon rushed up behind their tempestor and began savagely beating whoever got in their way.

Margene and Savdra kept up their fire from across the street, but the second platoon of men were no longer fooled. They came charging forward to help their comrades.

Ulrich swept his blade downward, and cut clean through the two men who had avoided him seconds before. Chavis put another bolt through the armour of a soldier, while beside him, Thieus smashed the butt of his lasgun into an opponent’s face.

The group that had rushed to reinforce their fellows punched and kicked at Chavis’s tiny assault group for all they were worth. The inquisitor absorbed the majority of their blows, letting them bounce harmlessly off either his refractor field or his ornate armour.

The third lascannon missed striking Margene by only the slimmest of margins. She ducked back down behind the wall she and Savdra were using for cover as the beam punched clean through. Savdra was hit twice in the chest by bullets, but his armour held firm.

Margene and Savdra thinned the remaining platoon while Ulrich continued his murderous spree. Two more soldiers died on his blade. Then three more. Before long, the dead and severely wounded were piling up around him. When the last of the governor’s guards attempted to fall back into the tunnel, Ulrich led the charge that cut them down.

Silence swept back into the ruined city. Margene and Savdra emerged from the shattered building covered with a multitude of small cuts and the dust of vaporised rockcrete. Brandt had lost his helmet and was bleeding from a deep gash on his chin. Chavis’s leg wound had opened up again. He tore a blue sash from one of the dead soldiers, and tied it tightly over his thigh.

The inquisitor seemed completely unharmed. More than that, Chavis thought, he seemed invigorated. He looked down into the tunnel entrance. ‘We should keep moving. Who knows what might be waiting for us?’

Chavis took the lead once again. The group moved underground, past a long-abandoned rail platform. They were forced to stop at four separate junctions where additional tunnels stretched off into the gloom. At each one, Chavis scoured the floor for signs of the groundcar. Eventually, they emerged into a titanic space filled with trains.

At some point in the distant past, this place had been a depot of some kind. Now, it was a museum to decay. High overhead was an arched glass roof, covered in centuries of sediment. The light that filtered through was dim and buttery yellow. The locomotives and rail cars were massive, ornate affairs that had once impressed all who witnessed them. Now they were rusted and encased in salty residue. Everything stank of brine and rot. No fires burned in the trains’ reactors, and no lights shone in their carriages.

No, Chavis saw. That wasn’t entirely true. He could make out lights near the centre of the space. There was still life to be found here, below the dead cities of Lysios.

In the middle of the train yard was a squat, round building three storeys tall. Guards were posted on either side of the single entryway.

Ulrich surveyed the structure. ‘Is this where they’re holed up?’ he asked. Then, without waiting for an answer, he walked towards the doorway. ‘Well, come on then.’

Ulrich shot the two guards before they had time to react. As the Scions pressed in behind him, he kicked the door open. The ground floor of the building was set up as a single large room. Along one wall were a series of empty ticket kiosks. Tables and couches were scattered about. A pair of large signboards that had once hung from the ceiling now lay broken on the floor. In the centre of the room was a wide spiral staircase. Thudding down it came twenty more soldiers.

Margene, Chavis, and the Scions burst through the door and fanned out to either side of the inquisitor. He charged forward, firing his pistol as he went. The soldiers on the staircase welcomed him with bullets. Ulrich’s entourage returned the overture with las-fire and bolts. Heat poured off Erdon’s volley gun as it fired.

Ulrich reached the bottom of the stairs and slashed the throats of two men. Then the rest were leaping down at him, hoping to knock him back under the press of their bodies. He twisted and turned. His sword tore through protective plates. Bodies began to fall off the sides of the staircase.

Chavis called his men into close assault, and the five of them pressed in beside Ulrich. Ulrich began to bleed from a cut above his eye, but the initiative remained with the inquisitor. The soldiers tried to retreat back to the second floor. Ulrich and Chavis swept their legs out from under them, and killed them.

Ulrich sheathed his sword. ‘We need to search this entire building,’ he said. ‘Margene and I will start down here, the rest of you secure the upper floors.’

Chavis saluted with his fist over his heart, and led his men to the upstairs. They had only been gone a minute or two when Thieus came charging back down. He pointed at Margene. ‘You need to see this.’

Margene glanced toward Ulrich, but the inquisitor was occupied within one of the abandoned kiosks.

She followed him to the third floor. The ceiling was a filthy dome of stained glass. The rest of the room was dominated by a carved metal desk large enough to accommodate half a dozen men. Seated behind it in a high-backed chair was what she at first glance took to be a mummified corpse. There was a single hole, the size of a bolt, in the centre of its chest. It was a man, or had been at some point. His skin was like vellum. There were strange machines all around him, connected to him by transparent tubes, coloured cables, and suction pads.

Everywhere, there was paper. Reams and reams, piled in stacks and rolled up into scrolls. Boxes upon boxes were filled to overflowing with sheaves. It was more than Margene had seen in her entire life.

All the Scions, save Chavis, had their weapons levelled at the man behind the desk. The tempestor gestured to the machinery and paper mountains. ‘What is all this?’

Margene plucked a handful of sheets from the box nearest her. Each page was densely packed with words written in a tiny, perfect script.

‘This was done by machine,’ she said. ‘I would say that all of this has been dictated into a transcriber.’

‘But what is it?’

Margene flipped through the pages she had in her hand. Along the top of each one were the same two words in bold print: ‘Cantos Continuous.’

‘What?’

‘It’s High Gothic. It means “everlasting song”. It seems to be the title for all of this.’ She read on a bit more. It quickly became obvious to her that these writings were supposed to have come from the Brine Goddess. It could hardly be called poetry. It was more like a series of incoherent ramblings. ‘This is Shelsist literature. All of it. Emperor save us.’ She dropped the pages to the floor, and crossed to the desk. She noted that the tall chair had obscured two additional rooms. One contained a large bed covered in mouldy sheets. The other held two smaller chairs and what appeared to be some kind of very old communications array.

She picked up another sheaf and riffled through them. ‘These seem to be more recent,’ she said, ‘but they’re just as nonsensical.’

Chavis seemed satisfied. ‘As long as there’s no danger here, we need to see about finding a drum or two of fuel.’

Margene nodded absently. ‘I’ll be fine. I just want to sort through some of this before we go.’

Chavis, Erdon, and Thieus left. Margene barely noticed.

Her eyes were fixed on the parchment sheet in her hand. Printed near the top, just below the title bar, was yet another paragraph wherein Shelse called out to Ixoi. What frightened Margene, however, was that she had heard it before.

‘Promise me, O, promise me,’ she read, ‘we’ll be together soon. The stars begin to fall, and this era draws to a close…’

It wasn’t possible. There was no way that she could have dreamed these exact words. Yet here they were. The Shelsist leaders had received them and transcribed them, and she too had received them somehow. She thought about the Brine Prophet that the Canoness had encountered months before. Canoness Grace had said the man was possessed, that he was channelling an evil presence, and speaking as if on behalf of the Brine Goddess.

Was that what had been happening here, she wondered? Had the former Governor allowed Shelse to speak through him? Had he set down every awful word, and then passed it on to the cult at large? Very likely. But it still didn’t explain how the words had come into her mind.

She looked into the comms room again.

Chavis, Erdon, and Thieus found a garage one level below the ground floor. Only one of the Governor’s converted groundcars was there, although Thieus was the one who pointed out that there was room enough for twenty more such vehicles. In one corner, beneath a sheet of waterproof canvas, they found three crates filled with spearguns, and two empty cases for explosives. They also found a cache of fuel drums. They hefted one of the barrels into the back of the car, and Erdon started the engine and drove it up into the darkened railway tunnels. Brandt and Savdra met them outside the main depot building.

‘Where’s Ulrich?’ Chavis asked them.

‘He went to get the dialogus,’ Savdra replied. ‘Told us to come out here and cover you.’

There was an explosion from inside the main depot building and a shattering of glass. The five men raced inside. The ground floor was empty, but the smell of smoke and burnt flesh wafted down to them from above.

They emerged at the top of the stairs to find the room on fire. Part of the stained-glass ceiling had been smashed in. The gigantic desk was turned over on its side, and everywhere the Cantos Continuous burned. The bodies of five more Lysios Home Guard lay in heaps among the blaze. Chavis found the inquisitor on the floor near the bed. He seemed dazed.

‘Inquisitor,’ he shouted, ‘are you wounded?’

‘I’m all right.’ Ulrich refused help as he returned to standing. ‘They came in through there. Took us by surprise.’

‘Where’s the dialogus?’

Thieus ran into one of the adjacent rooms, and emerged dragging Margene beneath the arms. Her skin was blackened and cracked, and jagged pieces of shrapnel jutted out of her arms and legs. She left a trail of blood as Thieus dragged her.

She wheezed loudly, turned her blind, lidless eyes towards Ulrich, and died.

Thieus lowered his head.

Ulrich kicked something heavy across the floor.

Chavis saw that it was a man-portable grenade launcher, and a likely picture of events formed in his mind. Another unit of the governor’s guards had come in through the roof. They had surprised the inquisitor and Sister Margene. In the ensuing fight, someone had used explosives in a confined space. The end result couldn’t be anything less than death. It was all very neat.

He reminded himself once again that there was almost always something misleading about things which appeared to be simple.

‘Her body,’ Ulrich said. ‘Perhaps we should take it with us, and return it to her sisters.’

Chavis blinked. This mission had so far cost the lives of eleven Tempestus Scions, and not once had Ulrich suggested that their corpses be recovered.

‘Why would we do that, sir? Sentiment is a waste of time and resources. We need to focus all our resources on getting you back to the hab-crawler.’

Ulrich said nothing further. He simply walked past the burning stacks of the Cantos and down the stairs to the waiting groundcar.

Before they arrived back at the Taurox, Chavis’s monitor informed him that Byrdgon had died. While Erdon and Thieus filled the tank with the pilfered fuel, Chavis took a moment to peer into the containment cylinder. The tentacle segment was lying very still, the cilia flaccid. He did not know why, but he felt certain it, in its own way, was staring back at him.

‘Let’s be on our way, tempestor,’ Ulrich said. ‘Leave the xenology to the experts.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The hatches closed, the engine started, and the transport rumbled away from the nameless city. Above them, in the clear sky, a flaming object fell, trailing black smoke behind it. It was followed shortly by another.

Then another.

Then another.

‘The time has come, the sky descends! The Murderess and her agents must be destroyed, so that a new world may be born. Your Goddess commands it…’

– Cantos Continuous, M41

Chapter Eight

Erdon’s right eye was black and swollen, his hands red and blistered from handling the volley gun. Chavis had smeared his upper leg with an auto-cauterising thermic gel, sealing his wound with a thick layer of scar tissue. It itched beneath its dressing. Neither man complained. In fact, neither man had said anything since leaving the ruined city.

Behind them, the other passengers were quiet as well. Ulrich had gone back to his place beside the containment chamber. Devries had the Martyr’s Gift medi-kit open on the seat next to him as he dug the bullet out of his arm and covered the hole with suture tape. Savdra and Thieus sat across from one another, helmets off and heads down.

The silence was broken when the air outside was filled with a high-pitched screaming that grew in volume. Everyone in the Taurox heard it. The Scions snapped to a state of alertness, for it sounded exactly like a bomb falling from a great height.

The sound grew into a roar. Brandt, Thieus, Devries, and Savdra each looked out of one of the viewing slots above their heads. They saw no sign of any missile coming towards them, but they did see a fireball. The nucleus was a large, dark mass, wreathed in orange flames. It trailed sonic booms as it passed overhead, and the Taurox rocked from side to side. The fireball landed several kilometres to the south of them, sending up a titanic cone of dirt and shaking the ground.

‘Just a meteor,’ Devries said as he sat back down.

‘That was actually fairly close,’ Erdon said.

‘It was,’ Chavis agreed. ‘I’m going up to the turret to take a look.’ He opened the hatch above his head and raised his chair.

The wind that battered Chavis’s face was hot and smelled of ash. The impact crater to the south sent a pillar of grey smoke into the air. Aside from that, however, the land stretched out dead and flat from horizon to horizon. Centuries of oceanic flooding had erased any hills or valleys that might have once been here, and left the land so salted that not even the hardiest of weeds could survive. The sky above was pale blue and cloudless, but stained by multiple smoky black lines.

Chavis tried to recall if Lysios was known for particularly violent or spectacular meteor storms. The dialogus would have known, he thought. If only she hadn’t died.

Behind him, the Taurox sent up a tall plume of dust as it sped across the wasteland. It made them an easy potential target. While he considered ordering Erdon to slow down, he noticed that theirs was not the only dust cloud being generated. He retracted the seat back down inside the Taurox and sealed the hatch.

‘It’s possible that we’re being followed,’ he said.

Ulrich suddenly looked worried. ‘We’re being followed?’

‘Possibly, I said.’

‘By whom?’

‘I can’t tell. They’re quite some distance behind us.’

‘Threat level?’ Erdon asked.

Chavis shook his head. ‘Minimal, if any at all. They won’t catch up. Whatever it is they’re travelling in isn’t nearly fast enough.’

The meteors continued to streak across the sky, growing in frequency with every passing hour. Chavis checked behind them regularly and the other vehicles, whomever they belonged to, continued to follow along. Shortly after noon, the hab-crawler came into view. From the ground, it appeared as a gigantic block of machinery that rumbled along slowly on mammoth treads. The settlement proper rode on top like a collection of low buildings built on the back of a turtle. Access ramps trailed behind it. When they had left the crawler the previous day, these ramps had been clear. Now, they were packed with rickety carts and hundreds of people on foot. Men, women, and children were pushing and shoving one another, all trying to make their way up the ramps and onto the crawler.

‘Reduce speed, tempestor?’ Erdon asked.

‘We haven’t the time. Plough through. They’ll move. Or not.’

Ulrich had risen from his seat beside the cylinder and made his way to the front. He peered through the front window slits at the tumultuous crowd. ‘Use your smoke launchers,’ he said. ‘They’ll scatter.’

Erdon said nothing, but simply thumbed a series of switches on the control panel before him. From either side of the vehicle, there came a soft chuffing sound. Metal canisters bounced into the crowd and began spewing thick clouds of choking grey smoke. Gasping, the people drew back.

The Taurox ascended the ramp, and turned onto the winding street that led to the landing field. This too was filled with people. They poured out from the patchwork buildings and gathered on the low rooftops, pointing up to the sky where fiery black streaks now fell like rain.

The mob only worsened as they approached the field. All around them were people laden with bags and cases, or bundles of clothing and provisions wrapped hastily with plastek cords. They were shouting and crying. Many of them were pressed up against the metal fence that cordoned off the landing field from the rest of the hab-crawler. On the other side of the chain-link, the Battle Sisters had established two semi-circular barricades with three women behind each. An additional pair of women stood just inside the single entryway.

Erdon did not slow the Taurox at all until they came to the gate. Chavis spied a few weapons in the crowd: long, barbed poles, spearguns, and even a few of the kinetic bullet rifles the governor’s guard had used. He could also hear something of what the people were shouting. They were screaming at the Sisters to save them, or to do something, or to let them come in and board the shuttle. The two Sisters rolled the gate open, and shut it once more as the Taurox passed.

The Canoness emerged from the doorway of the control tower, flanked by two Battle Sisters armed with storm bolters. The three of them walked with determined strides directly into the path of the Taurox. Erdon brought the vehicle to a screeching halt just as the front grille of the engine housing touched the Canoness’s chest plate. She stared up into the front viewing slits with a look of indignant fury.

Ulrich felt a twinge of anxiety. ‘Here are your orders, gentlemen,’ Ulrich said, loud enough for all of the Scions to hear. ‘I want the containment cylinder taken aboard the lander at once. Then, contact our ship in orbit and tell them that we will be returning within the hour. Do not let Canoness Grace or any of her Sororitas get in your way, or attempt to slow you down. This is our mission. Not theirs.’

He exited through the rear ramp, pausing for a moment to rest his hand on the cylinder. The tentacle within had long since stopped moving. It was regrettable, he thought. A living specimen would have been a much more impressive prize than a deceased sample.

When Ulrich stepped onto the landing field, the Canoness and her two charges came around the side of the Taurox and blocked his path. ‘So,’ she said sternly, ‘I see you have returned.’ Her eyes flashed down to the blackened metal plating behind the repaired quad tracks.

‘Indeed, Canoness,’ Ulrich said. His tone was cordial with a touch of venom. ‘You’ll be happy to know that my mission was a success. I’m sure you’ve been praying for me.’

Canoness Grace watched as Thieus, Brandt, Savdra and Devries exited down the ramp and fell in behind Ulrich. ‘Where is Sister Margene?’

Ulrich met the Canoness’s withering gaze and said simply, ‘She died.’

Canoness Grace lifted her chin slightly. ‘How?’

‘Heroically.’ Ulrich could tell that she was waiting for him to elaborate, but he said nothing more. Neither of them blinked. At the gate, the crowd grew louder. Several more of the meteors streaked across the sky.

Erdon and Chavis began to bring the containment cylinder down. The sight of it caused Canoness Grace to speak at last. ‘What is that?’

‘That,’ Ulrich said, ‘is the concern of the Inquisition, and not the Adepta Sororitas.’ He turned his back to her and walked away to join Chavis and Erdon.

‘Inquisitor Ulrich!’ she shouted. ‘I know that you are here conducting the business of the Ordo Xenos. If that container has anything to do with an alien life form, I demand to know about it!’

Ulrich whirled around, incredulous. ‘You demand? Did I not just say that this was no business of yours?’

Canoness Grace pushed her way past the four Scions before her. ‘Everything that takes place on this world is my business. I am in charge of all operations on Lysios.’

‘Then I am happy to inform you that I am leaving Lysios.’

The Canoness thrust a finger at Chavis and Erdon. ‘You two, open that container for inspection.’

The two Scions exchanged a glance, but did not stop.

Ulrich couldn’t help but smile when he saw the Canoness’s face go livid. ‘Gentlemen,’ he called to Savdra, Thieus, Devries, and Brandt, ‘time to go.’

The four Scions started moving towards the lander’s boarding ramp. Ulrich gave the Canoness a curt nod, and turned his back to her once again.

The inquisitor and the Scions were at the foot of the lander when all eight of the Canoness’s command squad moved in and blocked their way. Their boltguns were in positions of readiness. Chavis and Erdon stopped, and set the cylinder down. Ulrich slowed his pace and turned around to find Canoness Grace glaring at him.

Chavis caught the eyes of his men. Slowly, he lowered his hand to hover above the butt of his bolt pistol. Erdon and the others gave nods that were almost imperceptible. The moment this degenerated into a firefight, they would be ready.

‘Tell your Sisters to clear out of our way,’ Ulrich said to Canoness Grace.

‘Show me what you have in that canister,’ she replied.

Ulrich grasped the pommel of his sword. ‘No.’

Chavis heard the sound of something striking a metal surface. He glanced around, certain that one of the Battle Sisters was responsible. They were standing perfectly still, filled with tension. The noise, he realised, had come from inside the containment cylinder.

‘If you won’t open it,’ the Canoness said to Ulrich, ‘then I will.’

Chavis saw movement behind the glass. He opened his mouth to speak when suddenly, the tentacle slammed itself against the container. It twitched, and its cilia started waving. Its skin glowed from within as it drove its consciousness like a thunderbolt into Canoness Grace’s mind.

Chapter Nine

Dessecran was a night world. For ten months out of the year, the tiny planet lay in the shadow of two gas giants. For the other three months, however, the sun shone bright and clear. None of this mattered to Magda Grace, though, because she was underground where the day would never break.

The sewers ran for kilometres in all directions. Some of them were big enough to drive a tank through, while others could barely accommodate a single person. What they all had in common were the constant drip of water, the flickering lumens built at even spaces along their length, and the monsters.

Grace was thirty-two years old. She was a humble Battle Sister, and her hair was still as black as pitch. She stood ankle-deep in raw sewage, but the stench didn’t bother her. She had been down here for so long that she was immune to it now. In her hands she cradled a storm bolter with double clips and a halogen light strapped to the top. Eight more magazines dangled from her belt. To her left and right, the bodies of nineteen fellow Sororitas bobbed in the mire. She was the lone survivor.

The monsters had arrived months before, raining down from the sky in bloated, slime-coated pods. At first, the people of Dessecran had thought that it was a meteor shower, but they were soon proved wrong. The pods cracked open, releasing millions of horrors that bit, and scratched, and slaughtered, and fed.

Dessecran was being invaded by tyranids.

Rumours persisted that the Imperial Navy was on its way. Any day now, people said, a flotilla of starships would arrive in orbit and several million Imperial Guardsmen would liberate the cities. Those rumours had been circulating for eight months now. Grace doubted they would ever come true. So, the defence of Dessecran was left up to the Sororitas of the local convent. She, and others like her, were the only ones holding things together on this world.

The creature Grace was stalking was a specialised member of the warrior caste. The xenobiologists, before they had all been killed, had called it a lictor. These beasts could move swiftly and soundlessly through nearly any terrain, and were excellent at hiding. They liked to stalk individual prey, corner them, and then devour their brains. No one on Dessecran was certain why this was, but rumour had it that by eating the brain, the creature stole the memories of the person being killed. It was certainly not beyond reason. The tyranids had displayed all manner of strange and hideous abilities since they first made planetfall. Some of them, it was said, even used sleeper agents to corrupt and take over religious enclaves.

Grace had been pursuing this particular creature for some time now, ever since it had ambushed her Canoness and devoured her brain. Every member of the convent had sworn revenge. Although it had been wounded many times, every Sister who had gone after the beast was now dead.

She wheeled around just in time to see the lictor drop from somewhere up above her. She fired her weapon. A cluster of bolts struck its chest. Bits of chitin and soupy blobs of pus exploded outward. It made a gibbering sound that might have been a cry of agony, and lashed at her with its claws. Grace tried to move aside, but the water slowed her down. The armour plates around her right shoulder were broken clean away. Ceramite fragments flew up into her face. She squeezed her eyes closed, but when she opened them again, her vision was obscured with blood. The skin above her eye and on her cheek felt as if it were on fire.

Above the lictor’s shoulders sprouted a pair of segmented, serrated spikes. It drove both of them down at her. By all rights, Grace should have been ripped into three vertical sections. But her armour held fast. She thanked the Emperor, and struck the beast again in the face with her hefty storm bolter. Once more, her efforts seemed in vain.

The lictor’s claws flashed across her chest like giant scissors. Grace staggered back with the impact. She glanced down, expecting to see her guts push their way out of the lacerations and spill like discarded waste into the sewer water. Instead, her breastplate was barely scratched.

‘Blessed is He who is my shield,’ she recited. ‘Truly, the Emperor protects those who call upon Him.’

Seconds went by with neither one of them able to inflict damage upon the other. Grace began to get the impression that the lictor was becoming angry and frustrated, if such a thing were possible.

The lictor lunged at her. She twisted to one side, and jammed the barrel of her storm bolter down against the side of its face. She pulled the trigger. The sound was deafening in the enclosed space. The dead bulk of the thing dropped into the stinking wet. She looked down at herself in awe. Her armour was torn in multiple places, but only her shoulder plate had given way. The side of her face burned like hellfire, but she considered it a blessing. From this day forward, as long as she lived, she would venerate the Emperor who had blessed her armour to such a degree, and she would eradicate the tyranid threat wherever it dared to show itself.

The Canoness staggered backwards, clutching her head. It took a moment for her to remember that she was an iron woman of eighty-three, not a thirty-two year old novice, and that she was on Lysios, not Dessecran. She touched the scar that ran along the side of her face. The creature in the containment chamber had used some kind of mental power on her, violating her thoughts and memories. The attack had taken only a heartbeat, but in that flicker of time, they had been linked.

‘Inquisitor,’ she said, ‘order these Scions to step aside. This specimen of yours has got to be destroyed.’

‘I’ll do no such thing,’ Ulrich said.

Grace exhaled, well aware of the chain reaction that she was about to start. She pulled the plasma pistol from her holster and aimed it at the containment cylinder. In a blur of motion, Ulrich had his own pistol in his hand, levelled at the Canoness. Chavis drew his weapon. The Battle Sisters hoisted their bolters. The five Scions raised their lasguns.

‘Put down your weapon, Canoness,’ Ulrich said slowly. ‘This canister is coming back with me to Terra.’

Grace blanched. ‘To Terra? Are you mad? That would mean the end of everything. Don’t you know what this thing is?’

‘Proof of a legend. And the start of a new future for me.’

‘No. No, I cannot allow this.’

Just as she began to squeeze the trigger, her weapon was knocked from her hand. She blinked. The inquisitor had dashed forward and disarmed her far faster than she had ever expected. She drew her sword. Ulrich jumped to avoid the blade as it left her scabbard.

The Canoness charged, ducking low. She slammed her entire weight into Ulrich, and sent the man tumbling. His gun clattered to the ground. He rolled, and sprang back to his feet. His own blade was out.

The Sisters and the Scions regarded one another, and backed away. By some unspoken consensus, they formed a rough circle around their respective champions. Both the Canoness and the inquisitor were wielding power weapons, and both of them were highly skilled fighters. The matter would be settled very quickly, and with at least a semblance of honour. There was no need for them to become involved.

Ulrich thrust at the Canoness once, twice, and a third time. She managed to parry the first two attacks, but the final one got past her. He lunged and then withdrew. For a second, she wasn’t sure that she’d been wounded at all. But as he danced backwards, sword held straight out before him, Grace could see blood dripping from his blade. She hadn’t even felt it bypass her armour and its blessed wards.

Grace swung at Ulrich again, hoping to lop off his legs. Instead, her blade edge stopped millimetres away from his flesh, and bounced away. There was a slight rippling around the area, like sunlight playing over water.

Grace scowled at his use of a personal force field. ‘A bit dishonest of you to use a refractor in a duel,’ she said.

Ulrich shrugged, and charged forward. He and Grace collided again in a flurry of slashes and parries. Sparks flew as their weapons touched. Then they were apart once again, surveying one another coldly.

The Canoness was panting, which she thought odd. She was in excellent shape for a woman of her age. She glanced down at herself to see that Ulrich had rent her armour just below her collar bone. She snarled.

Ulrich, for his part, shot the Canoness a look of pure, undiluted hatred, and then toppled to the ground. His chestplate was slashed clean through from left to right, and blood began to gush through the rent. He gave a grunt of disbelief, dropped his sword, and clasped both hands over the wound.

Grace sheathed her sword, and went to collect his pistol from where it had fallen.

‘Scions,’ Ulrich croaked, ‘kill them.’

Grace froze, kneeling over her gun with hand outstretched. Slowly, she lifted her face.

Across the landing field, the people pressed against the fence screamed and tried to scatter. A groundcar ploughed through them at top speed, sending bodies flying, and smashed its way through the gate. The Scions recognised its make. It was exactly like the ones they had encountered earlier in the day.

The car barrelled straight towards them. Without a word, the Scions and the Sisters turned their weapons on it. Sister Fayhew’s heavy bolter spat out round after fist-sized round. Erdon’s volley gun tore three of the passengers apart. Superior Cairista and Sister Paniece, the newly-promoted bearer of the flame, covered it with gouts of promethium flame. Within seconds, the car crumpled under the combined firepower and exploded. Flaming pieces of metal radiated outwards.

Through the collapsed gate, a wave of bodies began to pour onto the field. Grace saw that many of them were dressed in the blue robes and modified diving gear of the Shelsist cult.

Grace picked up her pistol. ‘Sisters, kill the heretics!’ She glanced back at Chavis.

‘Scions,’ he shouted. ‘Autonomous fire! Push them back!’

Erdon and the others rushed forward, firing their lasguns. They were joined by the Battle Sisters, who advanced on the breach with a storm of bolter fire. Yet the cultists did not break or flee. They flew apart and crumpled and turned to ashes, but onward they came, pouring through the breach. Their resolve was insane.

Two more of the disgraced governor’s groundcars came flying through the collapsed gate. They skidded to a halt, and from each of them, eight figures leapt out. They might have once been human, but they were obviously no longer so. Some of them had hands that were tipped with elongated claws. Others had an additional set of arms sprouting from their ribcages. Their skin all showed varying degrees of mutation, and all of it appeared aquatic in nature: scales, shells, and tentacles covered them in haphazard places. They began to sprint forward.

Grace’s sword was in her hand, still stained with the inquisitor’s blood. Las-fire and bolts flew all around her, glass and flaming debris crunched beneath her heeled boots.

The mutants came at her with their claws bared. With rapid swipes, they cut at her face and chest. She lopped the head off of one of them, and impaled a second one through the centre of his chest. They attempted to surround her, so that she couldn’t hope to stop them all, and pounced. Grace kicked and shoved at them. Something struck her on the top of her head and opened a wide gash. She flipped her sword around and thrust it into the soft belly of someone behind her.

There were too many of them, she realised, and their awful, hybrid nature made them faster than she. She calmly accepted the possibility that this was going to be her final fight. Then, through the blood that smeared her face, she could see that the Scions had joined her. The six of them fought with powerful, exacting moves, blocking the attacks of the mutants until they spied an opening that they could exploit. They kicked, and stamped, and used the bulk of their firearms to bash in skulls. It was a style of fighting completely different from any the Sororitas used, but in that moment, Grace was thankful for it.

From the sky came a deafening screech. A fireball plunged down from the heavens and impacted the hab-crawler very near to the landing field. The plates beneath their feet shook with the impact.

‘Meteor,’ Chavis yelled.

The Canoness shook her head. ‘Those are no mere rocks. They’re a sign. Something terrible is about to come upon us.’

As if to illustrate her point, another dark object slammed into the Taurox with a terrible velocity. The transport crumpled and detonated. The shockwave knocked everyone from their feet. Fire and smoke obscured everything.

The object in the centre of the flames cracked along one side. Thick mucus gushed out, bubbling in the heat. Another crack appeared. One entire side of the massive egg-shape gave way, and a dozen alien shapes spilled out onto the field. Through the burning haze, Chavis saw that the Canoness was correct. The things falling from the sky were hollow pods, not solid hunks of rock. The things inside were half as tall as a man, with long tails and scythe-like talons in place of hands. Their heads were bulbous, with tooth-crammed, oversized mouths. Armour plates covered their backs. They stretched their jaws wide, and made guttural, utterly inhuman noises.

A group of twenty or more Shelsists seemed to catch their glinting black eyes. The creatures darted off towards the cultists, leaping up to slash them with their bony, bladed front limbs. Compared to their attackers, the Shelsists reacted with glacial slowness. Their spears and tridents were knocked aside with ease. The creatures pounced on them, knocking them to the ground with a combination of speed and body weight. Then they hacked the Shelsists to pieces and rabidly began to eat the remains.

The roar of turbines drowned out the world as the lander’s engines began to cycle up. Grace and Chavis simultaneously looked at the place where the inquisitor had been lying. He was gone, along with the canister. The engine bells began to glow. They had only moments before the lander lifted itself skywards, and they were all vaporised by its rocket exhaust.

‘Get up!’ Chavis yelled. ‘All of you, on your feet.’

Grace pointed to the control tower. Several of the Sisters nodded and stumbled towards it. Chavis helped Erdon and Devries, and the three of them ran for the control tower doorway.

Everywhere was madness. The Shelsists continued to pour through the fence. They fired harpoons and spears at the lander. Another meteor impacted near the hab-crawler, destroying one of its treads. The entire community shuddered and ground to a halt. Steam pipes and fuel lines burst, spewing geysers of fire and water into the air.

The Scions and Sisters scrambled into the control tower. Chavis slammed the heavy blast door shut. The space was small and cramped. A staircase spiralled upwards. Outside, the Shelsists were being torn to ribbons by the scythe-limbed monstrosities.

Seconds later, the lander’s engines ignited and bathed the field with super-heated clouds.

They made their way up the stairs. At the top of the tower was a circular control room. A single door led out onto the roof of an adjacent building. Chavis and the Canoness ran out through it. The landing field below them was littered with corpses and smouldering craters. The scythe-limbed aliens were nothing now but blackened husks. At the gate, a fresh wave of Shelse’s followers began running towards the control tower door.

In the sky above, the lander continued to rise on a plume of rocket exhaust, taking the inquisitor with it.

The Sisters and the Scions joined their respective leaders. All around them, their enemies’ numbers grew and grew. The small rooftop was becoming an island inundated by a murderous sea.

‘What are your orders, Canoness?’ Chavis said.

Grace touched her forehead, her chest, and hilt of her sword. The Sororitas mirrored her.

‘We fight, of course,’ Grace said.

Chavis nodded grimly and pointed down at the mass of cultists, mutants, and renegade soldiers. ‘Scions,’ he shouted, ‘directed firestorm sanctioned!’

Grace raised her blade above her head. ‘Emperor, grant ascension! Sisters, strike them down!’

Together they attacked the horde before them with las-fire and bolt, while all across the hab-crawler, meteor pods continued to impact, crack open and vomit out their murderous cargo into the streets and buildings.

Coda

The canister had been a considerable load for two Tempestus Scions to carry between them. It was nearly impossible for Damien Ulrich. The exertion of dragging it up the lander’s boarding ramp was causing him to bleed out, he knew. His wounds were covering everything with a slick film of blood. His vision began to swim. Still, he refused to give up; not when victory was close at hand.

At last he managed to reach the top of the ramp. He slammed his fist into the door controls, and staggered to the cockpit as the ramp slowly closed behind him. He sat down heavily in the pilot’s chair, activated the launch sequence, and then reached under the control board. It took him two tries to open the emergency medi-pack. As the engines began to come to life, he grasped a thick hypodermic injector, squeezed his eyes shut, and stabbed himself in the stomach with it.

The elixir within the syringe flowed into his wounds like liquid fire. He pushed his head back into the seat’s deep cushions and gasped with pain. Outside, the lander’s engines ignited. The landing field was consumed in clouds of burning gas. The lander shook violently all around him.

Something clipped the lander as it rose into the air, sending it spinning wildly. Ulrich’s eyes shot open, and for a moment his agony was forgotten. He grasped the controls and steadied the craft.

Outside the viewports, the skies of Lysios were choked with dark, misshapen objects. They rained down surrounded by wreaths of fire, and impacted on the surface below. Ulrich knew exactly what they were. He was of the Ordo Xenos, after all.

The atmosphere outside began to thin from blue to black. Ulrich put his head back again, and gave a weak laugh.

‘The Shattered World,’ he said aloud, knowing now what the Emperor’s Tarot had been trying to tell him.

As the pain began to abate, exhaustion took over. Well, no matter, he thought. Very soon, he would dock with the ship that had brought him here, and he could relax all the way back to Terra. His chin sank down to this chest. He did not hear the tentacle banging against the inside of the containment cylinder, nor did he hear it smash its way free. He was too busy dreaming of the fine reception that would no doubt await him upon his return, and of the rewards he was sure to reap.

Prologue

Asphodex, Cryptus System, Red Scar Sector, Ultima Segmentum

The black flesh of the void was torn asunder by a sudden eruption of red as Blade of Vengeance, flagship of the Blood Angels fleet, thundered into real space, weapons batteries roaring out a brutal announcement of arrival. More ships followed, plunging out of the warp like coursing hounds. The massed batteries of the fleet joined those of the flagship in a dull, pulsing war-hymn. The burning remains of the Cryptus System’s defence monitors were swept aside by the song, the detritus of their final heroic stand against the enemy washed away by volley after volley of high-powered energy beams.

The audience for whom this sudden performance was intended was not appreciative. The vast shapes of the outlying bio-ships of the tyranid hive fleet, their bloated, shimmering forms faintly reflecting the deadly red light of Cryptus’s twin suns, reeled and shuddered like wounded animals as the fusillade cracked their shells and ruptured the soft contents.

The Blood Angels fleet swept forwards with slow deliberation, bombardment cannons sweeping aside the swarms of escort drones which leapt from the flanks of the massive bio-ships and spiralled into death with unseemly eagerness.

Such was the considered opinion of Captain Karlaen, as he watched the performance unfold through the massive vista-port of the flagship. Ships moved across his vision, pummelling one another in a grand dance of life and death, duty and instinct, honour and abomination. The arched, cathedral-like space of the vessel’s tacticum-vaults echoed with the relentless song of war. Karlaen could feel the roar of every cannonade through the deck-plates beneath his feet and in the flicker of every hololith display as enemy volleys spattered across the battle-barge’s void shields.

This battle was merely a microcosm of a greater engagement which now spread across the Cryptus System and the Red Scar Sector. The monstrous shadow of Hive Fleet Leviathan, as the Ordo Xenos had classified this particular xenos incursion, stretched across countless worlds, being enveloping Segmentums Ultima, Tempestus and Solar. Worlds were being scoured clean by the Great Devourer, and even the most sacred sites of the Imperium were under threat, including Baal, home world of the Blood Angels.

When the bow-wave of Hive Fleet Leviathan washed across the Cryptus System, the Imperium had met it with all of the strength that the Astra Militarum, Adepta Sororitas and the household troops of the ruling Flaxian Dynasty could muster. But orbital defences and massed gun-lines had proven unequal to the task. Within a cycle, tyrannic spores were darkening the skies of every major world within the Cryptus System. And now, at last, the Blood Angels and Flesh Tearers Space Marine Chapters had arrived to deprive the monster of its feast. Though the system was lost, they could at least diminish the biomass that the hive fleet might recycle and use against Baal.

All of this passed across Karlaen’s mind as he watched the Blood Angels fleet engage the enemy. Battle was a thing of vivid colour and riotous fury, even in the cold, airless void of space, and he felt something in him stir as he considered it – like a persistent, red hum deep below the surface of his thoughts. It had been with him since the day of his Sanguination, but familiarity did not breed affection. His reflection stared back at him from within the slightly shimmering surface of the vista-port. A battered face, blunt and square and lacking all but a trace of its former good looks – acid scars pitted his cheeks and jaw; his hair was a grizzled golden stubble that clung stubbornly to his scalp and his nose had been shattered and rebuilt more than once. A bionic eye occupied one ruined socket, and the magna-lens of the prosthetic orb whirred to life as he examined his reflection, seeking out some niggling imperfection that he could not name.

He was clad, as was his right and honour as commander of the First Company, in the blessed plate of Terminator armour. It was the toughest and most powerful form of personal armour ever developed by the Imperium of Man: a heavy blood-red shell of ceramite-bonded plates, chased with gilding and brass, reinforced by sections of plasteel and adamantium and all of it powered by thick bundles of electrical fibres and internal suspensor-plates.

It had taken twenty red-robed Chapter serfs and dull, cog-brained servitors to encase him within it, hours earlier, when the prospect of a boarding action first reared its head – they had worked feverishly, connecting fibre bundles to nodes using spidery, mechanical limbs which possessed the inhuman dexterity required for such a precise task. Others had cleared air and build-up from the pistons and pneumatic servo-muscles that enabled him to move, while the senior serfs, their gilded masks betraying no emotion, polished the ceramite with sweet smelling unguents and blessed oils, awakening the primitive soul of the ancient relic, stirring it to wrathful waking. The armour was heavy and powerful, and, in those moments when he succumbed to the lure of poetry, Karlaen thought that it might be the closest thing going to the Word of the God-Emperor made harsh reality.

Karlaen raised a hand, his fingers tracing the outline of the Crux Terminatus on his left shoulder plate. It was said that the symbol contained a shard of the Emperor’s own Terminator armour, which had been shattered in that final, catastrophic duel with the Arch-Traitor in ages past. At the thought, Karlaen’s breath hitched in his throat, and his vision blurred, as the red hum grew louder, now pounding where it had pulsed, as if a thousand hammers were beating on the walls of his skull, fighting to be free. For a moment, his vision blurred, and he saw a different face, not his own familiar battered features, but a handsome and radiant face which he recognised but could not name, twisted in loss and pain the likes of which no mortal could bear, and he heard the snap of great wings, and felt the rush of heat and pain and his fingers touched the surface of the void-hardened glass.

He closed his eyes. Swallowed thickly. Opened his eyes. He looked up at the stained glass which marked the circumference of the vista-port. It showed scenes from Imperial history – the discovery of Sanguinius on Baal Secundus by the Emperor; Sanguinius, angel-winged and radiant, taking command of the Ninth Legion; other scenes, dozens, hundreds, all depicting the glorious history of the Blood Angels, a history which had shaped Karlaen, and made him who he was today. I am Karlaen, he thought. I am Captain of the First, the Shield of Baal, and I am true to myself. I am not flesh, to be swept up in the blood-dimmed tide, but stone. And stone does not move or yield to those red waters, no matter how they crash. The hum faded, hammer blows becoming taps, and the pressure retreated as it always had. Irritated with himself, he concentrated on the world beyond the curtain of void war.

Asphodex – it was an inelegant word for an inelegant world. Beyond the shifting, shimmering distortion of the battle-barge’s void shield, behind the bloated shapes of the bio-ships which clustered about its atmosphere like feeding ticks, Asphodex roiled in its death throes. The magna-lens of Karlaen’s bionic eye whirred to its next setting, bringing the world into stark relief. The heavy grey clouds which shrouded the atmosphere were shot through with infected-looking strands of purple, each one squirming with billions of tiny shapes. The lens clicked again, focusing on the bio-ships clustered about the world’s poles. As they moved across the atmosphere, he could see corresponding disturbances in the clouds. Someone joined him at the vista-port. ‘They are feeding,’ Karlaen said, out loud.

‘Yes,’ Sanguinary High Priest Corbulo said softly. Clad in crimson power armour edged with white, he was the spitting image of the face which haunted the black dreams and red memories of Karlaen and every Space Marine of the Blood Angels Chapter. His voice, too, throbbed at the roots of Karlaen’s mind, stirring to life ancient thoughts which were not his own. Corbulo was a ghost, though whether of the Chapter’s past or its future, none could say. ‘That is what they do, captain.’

‘They will strip the planet of all life soon,’ Karlaen continued. He had seen planets caught in the grip of the Great Devourer before, and had calculated Asphodex’s chances of survival on an idle whim. The planet was doomed. He looked at Corbulo. ‘Why am I here, Master Corbulo? I should be making ready to–’

‘To what, Captain Karlaen?’ Corbulo asked. His voice was gentle, but resonant, like the crash of waves against a distant shore. He looked at Karlaen, and his eyes caught and held Karlaen’s own. They were deep and pale and powerful, and Karlaen felt the red hum in his head grow in strength. He looked away. ‘You are exactly where you should be, captain.’ Corbulo spoke with such surety that Karlaen could not help but feel an atavistic thrill course through him.

‘As you say, master,’ Karlaen said. He kept his face stiff and still.

Corbulo smiled, as if he could sense Karlaen’s reluctance. ‘I cannot help but feel as if you doubt me, brother,’ he said.

‘Detecting doubt – or worry, anger, or any other emotion for that matter – on Karlaen’s face is a skill akin to the detection of geological shifts on Baal, Corbulo. One must know where to look for cracks in the stone. Isn’t that right, brother?’

Both Karlaen and Corbulo turned as Commander Dante, Chapter Master of the Blood Angels, strode towards them, his golden artificer armour gleaming in the reflected light of the hololiths that studded the tacticum-vaults. His features were hidden, as ever, behind the golden mask which was said to have been modelled on the features of Sanguinius himself.

Karlaen inclined his head. ‘As you say, commander.’

Dante looked at Corbulo. He gestured to Karlaen. ‘You see? Stone,’ he said. ‘Karlaen is the rock upon which the First Company stands.’ He looked at Karlaen, his gaze taking in everything and missing nothing. Karlaen, for his part, could only hold his superior’s stare for a few moments before it became unbearable. Dante was the oldest living Space Marine in the Imperium who could still function outside of the sarcophagus of a Dreadnought, and he carried with him the weight of history wherever he went. Like Corbulo, his very presence stirred the red hum in Karlaen’s head to fretful agitation.

Karlaen made to sink to one knee, but Dante gestured irritably. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I am in no mood for such gestures today, captain.’

Stung, Karlaen straightened, the joints of his armour wheezing and hissing in protest. Dante crossed his arms and gazed up at the vista-port. The flagship shivered slightly around them, and the void shield writhed as it was struck. Dante said, ‘Report, captain.’

On firmer ground now, Karlaen cleared his throat. ‘The first wave of the assault is preparing for their descent to Phodia,’ he said, referring to the principal city of Asphodex. He did not think it tactful to mention that, as Captain of the First Company, he should have been overseeing those preparations.

‘You are wondering why you are here, rather than there,’ Dante said. It was not a question. Karlaen looked at Corbulo.

‘You see, he is too disciplined to ask, though I have no doubt that curiosity is eating at him.’

‘Discipline is the armour of a man’s soul,’ Corbulo said.

Karlaen looked back and forth between them, vaguely concerned. When the summons had come, he had not known what to expect. Was the honour of leading the vanguard to be taken from him? The question would not have occurred to him, once upon a time. But now, after… His mind shied away from the thought. Shadows clustered at the edges of his memory, and voices demanded to be heard. He closed his eye and shook his head, banishing shadows and voices both. When he looked up, he realised that both Dante and Corbulo were watching him. Corbulo reached out and clapped a hand to his arm.

‘I hear them as well, brother. Do you wish to know what they say?’ he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, and his eyes full of quiet contemplation.

Karlaen ignored the Sanguinary Priest and looked at Dante. ‘I wish only to know what is required of me, my lord. I am the Shield of Baal, and I would serve as you see fit.’

Dante was silent for a moment. Then, he said, ‘You are still leading the assault, captain. And Phodia is still your target. But I require more than simple battlefield logistics from you this time.’ He looked at Corbulo.

The Sanguinary High Priest said, ‘Augustus Flax.’

Karlaen blinked. ‘The Governor of Asphodex.’ Part of his responsibilities as Captain of the First was to know everything there was to know about potential battlefields – everything from weather patterns to cultural dialects was of potential importance when planning for war, and Karlaen had studied and synthesised all of it.

He knew everything there was to know about the Flaxian Dynasty, and its current head. Augustus Flax had assumed the gubernatorial seat at the tender age of seventeen standard Terran years, after his father, the previous office holder, had been murdered by separatists in a civil war which had briefly, though bloodily, rocked the Cryptus System. Flax was an old man now, and his reign had been an unmitigated success, as far as these things were concerned. Karlaen felt a small stab of pity for the man – the system he had reportedly fought so hard to retain control of and hold together was now being devoured out from under him.

‘Yes. I – we – need him found, brother.’ Corbulo looked towards the vista-port. Silent explosions cascaded across the face of the void, as ships continued their duel. Karlaen cocked his head. Questions filled his mind, but he clamped down on them. His was not to question, merely to serve.

‘Then I will find him, Master Corbulo,’ he said.

‘He or his children will do,’ Corbulo said. ‘Failing that, a sample of their blood.’

More questions arose, but Karlaen ignored them. If Corbulo was here, and this mission was being undertaken at his counsel, then there could be only one reason for it. Corbulo’s overriding passion was no secret. The Sanguinary High Priest had one desire above all others: the elimination of the twin plagues which afflicted the sons of Sanguinius, whether they were Blood Angels, Flesh Tearers or Angels Encarmine. Corbulo had dedicated his life to unravelling the secrets of the Red Thirst and the Black Rage, and had spent centuries on the hunt for anything which might alleviate the suffering of Sanguinius’s children.

Karlaen bowed. ‘It will be done, on my honour and the honour of the First Company. Or else I shall die in the attempt.’ He straightened. ‘I will need to requisition a gunship, or a drop pod…’

‘Speed is of the essence, brother,’ Dante said. ‘Time grows short, and Asphodex dies even as we speak. This world will be consumed by the beast, and we do not have time for you and your Archangels to attempt an entry from orbit,’ he said. ‘Report to the teleportarium. Your men will be waiting for you there.’

‘Teleportation,’ Karlaen said. He grimaced. There were few things that could stir the embers of fear in Karlaen’s heart, but teleportation was one of them. There was something wrong with it, with how it worked. There was no control, no precision, only blind luck. He shook himself slightly. He knew that Dante would not have authorised it if it were not necessary. Countless battles had been won with just such a strategy, and Karlaen reassured himself that this time would be no different.

He looked at Dante. ‘As you command, my lord. I will not fail you.’

‘You never have, captain,’ Dante said.

Karlaen turned away and took one last look at the war-torn heavens and the dying world. There was nothing but blood and death lurking beneath those grey clouds. If Augustus Flax, or any of his kin, still lived, it would not be for long. Yet his orders were clear.

It was his duty to find Augustus Flax, and the Shield of Baal would see it done.

One

Phodia, Asphodex

The air of the continent-sized city had been thick with black toxicity, even before the arrival of the tyranids. Beneath the choking darkness and roiling clouds, billions had slaved and died in manufactorums and vapour-farms at the behest of the city’s overlords. Now, where man’s industry had once claimed and poisoned the air and ground, new masters set their mark. Alien growths coiled and crawled about the battle-scarred ruins of the Planetary Governor’s palace, and hundreds of fume-spewing spore-chimneys had thrust up through the cracked and broken surface of the ground, masking the faded grandeur of the city skyline in a forest of monstrous growth.

Among the rubble, clicking feeder-beasts feasted upon the hillocks of corpses which lay like a thick carpet throughout the structure. Many-limbed shadows moved through the upper reaches of the ruins, and alien voices stuttered and warbled in a song of ending. The song ceased abruptly, as the air became greasy and metallic. There was a sound like thunder, and arcing lighting of an unnatural hue sparked and snapped to sudden life. The feeder-beasts scattered with frustrated squeals and protests as the lightning swirled, flashed and faded, revealing heavy, crimson figures. The Archangels had arrived.

Twenty carmine-armoured Terminators stood on a patch of scorched stone. They were among the greatest warriors of a Chapter replete with such, and each of them had participated in dozens of gruelling defences and surgical strikes, against tyranids as well as orks and every other enemy that had dared test the might of the Imperium. Karlaen had chosen from among the most battle-tested for this mission, and each of them had stood with him at Balor’s Hope, as well as participating in the destruction of the space hulks Divine Purgatory and Twilight Aegis.

‘Well, isn’t this pleasant?’ one of the Terminators said, the vox-amplifiers of his helmet transforming his voice into a crackling growl. Brother Aphrae, Karlaen knew, recognised the Terminator by his vox-signature and the delicate coiling script flowing across the scroll stretched across the front of his chestplate. Aphrae had a passion for calligraphy, as well as an inability to properly observe vox protocols.

‘No,’ Karlaen said. ‘Fan out and establish a perimeter – I want detailed augur scans and vox-channel analysis before we move out.’ Long-range auspex echoes taken by the fleet had proven disappointingly vague, and teleportation was not an exact science. He needed to be certain that they were where they were supposed to be in the Tribune District, and that meant triangulating their exact position via vox signals and augur readings. ‘Alphaeus – you know what to do,’ he said, looking to the closest Terminator.

‘When has it ever been otherwise?’ Alphaeus rumbled, dropping one gauntlet to the pommel of the power sword sheathed on his hip. The Terminator sergeant had served with Karlaen longer than any other Space Marine, and familiarity had bred a congenial deference that Karlaen still found slightly disconcerting.

He had chosen Alphaeus as his second-in-command for good reason. Among the warriors of the First Company, there were none, save himself, with greater experience in battling the scuttling minions of the Great Devourer than Alphaeus and his squad – jocular Aphrae, taciturn Bartelo, and the twins, Damaris and Leonos. The latter pair snapped to attention as Alphaeus ordered them to scout ahead, and then turned to relay orders to the other squads. Satisfied that Alphaeus would see to things, Karlaen scanned their surroundings.

The city was already being consumed; the presence of the feeder-beasts and the spore-chimneys were proof enough of that. He had seen similar sights often enough, but it never failed to awaken a thrill of revulsion in him to see humanity and all of its artifice reduced to a slurry of protein and bio-matter. Death was one thing, but the tyranids took even what little dignity remained afterwards.

His fingers tightened on the reinforced haft of the master-crafted thunder hammer he carried. The Hammer of Baal was one of the most exquisite relics possessed by the Blood Angels Chapter; it had been forged by master artisans millennia ago, and entrusted into Karlaen’s care by Dante himself, upon his ascension to the rank of Captain of the First Company. The weapon hummed with barely restrained power. It was much like its wielder in that regard. Karlaen lifted the ancient weapon and rested it against his shoulder plate.

He turned, his bionic eye whirring and magnifying the landscape. Rotting corpses and the burning wreckage of battle tanks stretched as far as the eye could see. For a few brief days the world had been a battlefront, and the soldiers of the Imperium had made the tyranids pay a bloody toll for every patch of ground. He checked his suit’s augurs, searching for any life signs among the carnage.

‘They died well,’ Alphaeus said.

Karlaen turned. ‘Report,’ he said.

‘We’re probably in the right place.’ The sergeant had removed his helmet, revealing a shorn scalp and a permanently determined expression. A service stud gleamed over his right eye. As Karlaen watched, he sucked in a great lungful of toxic air. ‘Paaaah,’ Alphaeus grunted. ‘Smells like home. If home was an overgrown sludge pit.’

‘Which it is,’ Aphrae called out, from where he stood examining a spore-chimney. He lifted his chainfist in considering fashion. The weapon groaned to life, and the teeth rotated with a snarl that echoed across the plaza.

Before Karlaen could move to stop Aphrae, Alphaeus barked, ‘Aphrae, please refrain from whatever it is you’re planning to do.’ He looked back at Karlaen. ‘We were able to scrape the recordings from the orbital vox-arrays, but that information is days old at best. This looks like a palace forecourt, if that helps.’ He gestured towards the immense, battle-blasted archway that dominated the other side of the plaza. Great steps, each one a hundred metres wide, rose up towards what he suspected were the remains of the Phodian Gates, the entrance to the palace. ‘Those steps are definitely palatial, in my considered opinion.’

‘You know a lot about steps, then?’ Karlaen asked, examining the archway.

‘I know about architecture. You can tell a lot about a people from their architecture.’

Karlaen glanced at Alphaeus, who ran his palm over his bare scalp in a gesture of contemplation.

‘I could be wrong, of course. Who knows what sort of upheaval the planet has gone through since those vox-arrays were functional? Remember Fulcrum Six? The whole southern continent folded up like a leaf caught in a blast of heat,’ said Alphaeus.

‘This isn’t Fulcrum Six,’ Karlaen replied, smiling slightly.

‘No, and thank the Emperor for that.’ Alphaeus stamped the ground. ‘I don’t approve of continental land masses shifting unexpectedly.’ He looked around suspiciously. ‘I don’t approve of this either.’

‘This place is an abomination unto the eyes of the Emperor,’ Bartelo said glumly, gesturing at the spore-chimney with the barrel of the heavy flamer he carried. It took a special sort of warrior to go into battle equipped with what was a highly volatile amount of promethium mixture strapped to them – one ruptured hose, or clogged mechanism, and Bartelo would be cooked inside his armour quicker than he could scream. But he seemed to take pride in his position as fire-bearer for Alphaeus’s squad, and he was skilled at employing the cleansing flames to greatest effect.

‘So is wasting valuable promethium. Stay alert,’ Alphaeus said. He shook his head and cocked an eye up at the dark sky. ‘Gargoyles,’ he murmured.

Karlaen looked up. The magna-lens of his bionic eye spun, focusing in on the innumerable swarms of winged bio-beasts swirling across the horizon like a vast tornado of fangs and talons. ‘Where are they going?’ he murmured.

‘East,’ Alphaeus said.

‘What’s east of here?’

‘Organic–’ Damaris began.

‘–matter,’ Leonos finished.

Karlaen looked at the two Terminators as they trudged towards him and the sergeant. Some quirk of the Sanguination process had taken two unrelated men and made them replicas of one another, as if they had been cast from the same mould. Even through the vox-link, their mellifluous voices sounded identical, down to the slightly strained intonation. With their helmets off, they reminded him of Corbulo, with too-perfect features that belonged on the ivy-shrouded statues of long-forgotten deities rather than on men.

‘There’s fighting to the east, in the area around the manufactorums,’ Leonos said. ‘This whole district looks as if it’s been left to the feeder-beasts.’

Karlaen quickly flicked through the vox-channels. Most were clouded with interference from the hive fleet, but he quickly hit upon cries for aid and pleas for reinforcement. Just as he found them, something exploded in the distance. The front had moved east, the Imperial battle lines battered back by the ravenous hordes of bio-beasts.

‘The fabricae districts,’ Alphaeus said. He frowned. ‘It’s a last stand.’

Karlaen said nothing. The vox crackled, as the screams of the soldiers of the Astra Militarum filled his ears. Part of him yearned to take his men and strike out for the manufactorums where the last defenders of Phodia were selling their lives in the mistaken assumption that help was coming. But those were not his orders, and that was not what the Sons of Sanguinius were here for this day.

Asphodex was a firebreak and nothing more. The war against Hive Fleet Leviathan would not be decided here, or indeed anywhere in the Cryptus System. But this tendril of it would be annihilated. Within a few standard hours, the remainder of the Blood Angels First Company and the full strength of the Second – supported by elements of their successors, the Flesh Tearers – would be making planetfall. Then the true war would begin. A war of annihilation, a war to taint the wells and break the supply lines of the enemy. A war that the chosen of Baal knew well how to fight.

But that was still in the future. For now, Karlaen had his mission. ‘Form up and fan out. We will proceed,’ he said, shutting off the transmissions. Alphaeus nodded and pinged the vox, alerting the other squads that it was time to move out, even as Leonos and Aphrae joined them.

In moments, a line of crimson-armoured giants was on the move, marching across the plaza towards the great archway that was the Phodian Gates. As they climbed the steps, Karlaen took in the carnage which stretched up the steps to the entry plateau. The corpses of Imperial Guardsmen were piled in messy heaps among tumbled sandbag emplacements. The stink of alien ichor was strong here, and dead tyranid weapon-beasts lay where they had fallen, brought down by the guns of the Astra Militarum.

At the top of the steps, the broken corpse of an Imperial Guard officer bore silent witness to the approach of the Blood Angels, his dead gaze staring out at the battlefield defiantly. He still clutched a bolt pistol in one bloodied fist.

Karlaen sank down to one knee beside the corpse, which lay propped up against the scorched and shattered archway. He studied the slack features, memorising them as he had done a thousand times before. His warriors stood silently, understanding that this was a sacred moment, and one that they themselves might have to perform one day.

This man, Karlaen thought, had been a hero, though they did not know his name. He had died unsung, and would not be remembered by any save themselves. But they would remember him. The Blood Angels always remembered, even when the memory proved burdensome. ‘Sleep, soldier,’ Karlaen murmured, the familiar words escaping him with ease. ‘Lay down your burden, and return to the Emperor’s light. Your fight is now ours. And we will make them pay, measure for measure.’ He reached out and closed the staring eyes.

He stood. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘We have a governor to find.’

Across the plaza from the armoured giants, hidden by the fallen bulk of a statue of the Emperor, a pair of alien eyes watched the Blood Angels enter the governing palace of the Flaxian Dynasty. White, vestigial lips peeled back from a wall of clenched fangs as the flat, crimson eyes of the creature once called the Spawn of Cryptus narrowed in baleful interest.

As the Blood Angels vanished into the interior of the palace, the broodlord pushed itself upright, its four arms clutching at the statue. It rose to its full height, tasting the air. The fires of distant battle were reflected in its pale, shiny carapace. It cocked its bulbous skull, listening to the distant drumbeat of battle. Hundreds of kilometres away, the defenders of Phodia were waging their final battle against the forces of the Hive Mind, and the Spawn of Cryptus could feel the ebb and flow of that conflict in every fibre of its grotesque being.

It longed to join that distant fray and wet its talons in the blood of its enemies. That was what the Hive Mind asked of it, whispered to it, deep in its skull. The song of the Hive Mind filled its head, driving out all other thoughts save those which moved in time to the cosmic rhapsody of aeons. It was a song of consumption and survival, of grand design and joining. The song filled it and warmed it, driving out fear and anger and leaving behind only iron purpose.

The broodlord shook its large head and gave a snort. There were yet things to be done – important things, more important even than the all-consuming song of the forces that had guided it up out of the darkness and into the light.

It had lived on Asphodex for years, long before the coming of the Leviathan whose shadow even now lay over its monstrous soul. The people of Phodia had given it its name, and the raconteurs among them had claimed that it was a child of their solar god, sent to punish them for their transgressions. The creature found some small amusement in that, for the storytellers were not far wrong.

That amusement was not in evidence now, as it watched the red giants disturb and disperse the feeder-beasts as they tromped into the demesne that it had claimed as its own. It had never seen such beings before in all the years of its long life, but it knew them for enemies even so. It could taste the harsh violence of their thoughts, even at this distance, and its long, crimson tongue flicked out from within its thicket of teeth to lash and curl momentarily, before retreating back into its maw.

It did not know what they were after, and annoyance burned across the surface of its brain like a black comet. Their minds were open to it, and it could smell their intent to enter the palace as if it were the scent of prey carried upon the night wind. Its talons dug frustrated grooves into the stones around it, and it hissed in growing anger.

For a brief instant, the song of the Hive Mind grew ragged and weak, and the old pain came back, thundering to the fore of its mind. It saw faces, fleshy and soft, but familiar, and a whine of agony escaped it. A single quavering note of loss, swiftly borne under and erased by the snarl that followed. The Spawn of Cryptus shook itself, sending the fragments of memory fleeing. With a single fluid movement, the beast leapt down from its perch and crept into the ruins, claws clicking. Lesser creatures fled before it, and in return for such obeisance, it duly ignored them.

It would gather its brood. It was past time for the Children of Cryptus to have their due.

Two

Tribune Chamber, Flaxian Palace, Phodia

The interior of the palace was just as much a scene of horror as the plaza outside. The stab-lights mounted on the Terminators’ armour illuminated signs of a ferocious running battle as they moved through the immense, shadowy corridors. The exquisite artworks which had once covered the high walls were torn and pitted by acidic bile, lasgun fire and the heavy craters left behind by shellfire. The floor was carpeted in the dead, both human and otherwise. And everywhere, clicking, clattering ripper swarms worked to render the mangled heaps of blood and bone down into something more palatable.

The signs of the Hive Mind’s consumption were everywhere. Whole side corridors and cathedral-like foyers had been given over to the bubbling, noxious digestion pools of the feeder-beasts. As the Terminators pushed deeper into the depths of the palace, grisly shapes flapped, crawled and scuttled just out of sensor range.

When they reached the entrance to what Karlaen though must be the governor’s Tribune Chamber, he raised his hammer, signalling a halt.

‘We go our separate ways from here, brothers,’ he said. He swept the hammer out, indicating the corridors diverging from the central hall they now stood in. ‘Four squads can search more swiftly than one, and time is not on our side in this place.’ As if to punctuate this statement, the dull boom of distant explosions rolled through the corridors, echoing and re-echoing throughout the wide, vaulted spaces.

‘Melos, you and your squad take the western sector,’ Karlaen continued, gesturing to the Terminator in question. Melos stroked the gilded skull set into his gorget and nodded. Melos’s relic armour had a reputation, Karlaen recalled. He hoped that it would serve Melos better than it had all its other owners. ‘Joses, the east,’ he continued, pushing the thought aside. Joses grunted, and hefted his storm bolter. Like Alphaeus, he was bareheaded, and he had battle-scarred features. Karlaen looked at the last of his subordinates. ‘Zachreal…’

‘Up,’ Zachreal rumbled, pointing a finger towards the upper levels of the palace. His crimson armour was scored by hundreds of gouges, battle scars earned over the course of a hundred-odd boarding actions, and a trio of silently fuming, golden censers hung from his chestplate, filling the air around him with a vermilion mist. ‘Always send somebody to clear the upper decks, captain.’

‘Then that honour falls to you,’ Karlaen said. He looked at Alphaeus. “I’ll accompany your squad, Alphaeus, if you’ll have me. We’ll keep moving forwards, through the Tribune Chamber, and sweep the heart of the palace.’

‘If we must,’ Alphaeus said, smiling slightly.

Karlaen ignored the Terminator’s attempt at humour, and said, ‘Observe vox protocol. This is no different than any floating hulk we’ve boarded in the past.’

‘Except that it’s a building, won’t lose gravity, and we damn well know it’s full of tyranids, rather than merely suspecting that such is the case,’ Aphrae piped up. Bartelo gave a snort of sour laughter, and the twins chuckled.

‘Quiet,’ Alphaeus snapped.

Karlaen ignored the by-play. He had fought beside Alphaeus and his squad often enough to know that Aphrae’s jocularity, misplaced as it was, was as necessary to the unit’s survival as the promethium in Bartelo’s tanks. Laughter was the gates of the soul, as discipline was its walls. ‘If you find any sign of the governor, you are to retrieve him, dead or alive, and fall back to the Plaza of the Emperor Ascendant for extraction. The plaza will be rallying-point alpha in the event of overwhelming resistance. Do not hesitate to fall back, should it be necessary. Pride is merely the seed of hubris, and death without victory is wasted,’ he said, quoting a line from the Philosophies of Raldoron. He looked about him as he spoke, trying to impress the gravity of the situation upon his men. ‘Eyes open, sensors on, my brothers. May the wings of our father shield you from the rains of bad fortune.’

He turned back to Alphaeus and his squad as the others slowly moved off, each to their designated sector of search. The dark of the chamber swallowed the bobbing stab-lights of the others, until only the six remained, standing before the Tribune Chamber. Karlaen hesitated for a moment, and then said, ‘I will take point.’

‘Captain–’ Alphaeus began.

Karlaen ignored him, and moved towards the beckoning gloom of the entryway. The passage was blocked by the piled sandbags of a heavy bolter emplacement. Without pausing, he shoved his way through it. The servos in his armour hummed softly as he toppled the heavy gun platform and sent the headless body of the gunner slumping to the ground. A moment later, his stab-lights illuminated the interior of the Tribune Chamber.

In better times, the governor would have held audience with his district lords here. It was large enough to land a squadron of the Chapter’s Stormravens. He let his stab-lights play across the curve of the vast, domed ceiling, but they could only pierce the edges of the darkness that marked it. It was simply too high and wide.

He looked around as he moved forwards. The chamber was marked by twisted debris and toppled statues. Whole sections of the upper floors had collapsed down, puncturing the floor, and amidst the structural devastation, the bodies of hundreds of Imperial citizens lay, heaped in great, gory mounds of mutilated meat and shattered bone. Karlaen had seen far worse butchery in his time, but it never failed to give him pause.

There was a stark contrast between the slaughter that had taken place in the plaza and what he saw before him. The red hum pulsed along the underside of his mind, and he felt a wash of anger. They had been innocents, not soldiers – civilians seeking sanctuary from the horrors that stalked their world. The soldiers outside had died trying to protect them, and it had all been for nothing.

No, not nothing, said a small voice inside him. Some good may yet come of this, if you succeed. That was what Corbulo would have said, had he been here; Karlaen gripped the thought as if it were a holy relic, and drew what strength he could from it. ‘Necessity is the shield of faith,’ he murmured. It was another line from the Philosophies of Raldoron. The text was a comfort to him in moments of doubt. Such moments had become far too common for Karlaen, but the words of the Equerry to the Primarch and first Chapter Master of the Blood Angels had ever brought him back to certainty.

While he spoke, the red hum faded, replaced by another sensation – that of a prickling on the back of his neck. Swiftly, he swept the chamber with his bionic eye, flicking through the different settings, hunting something he could not name. He was being watched, though he could detect no life in the chamber. Their enemies were close.

He waved Alphaeus and the others forward. The Terminators fanned out, scanning the mounds of corpses with augurs and eyes alike. ‘Search the dead,’ Karlaen ordered. ‘If Flax and his men fell here, his body may still be salvageable.’

‘And if not?’ Aphrae asked.

‘Then we keep looking,’ Karlaen said.

‘What if he’s not here?’ Aphrae pressed. ‘What if he’s in the manufactorums or in the Agrarian District? What do we do then?’

‘I suppose we’ll just give up, Aphrae. Is that what you’d like to hear?’ Alphaeus said harshly. ‘Would you like to inform Commander Dante that we failed, or shall I do it?’

‘I was just asking, sergeant,’ Aphrae said jovially. ‘Just trying to establish mission parameters.’

‘It could be worse,’ Bartelo said morosely.

‘And how, pray tell, oh sour one, could it be worse?’ Aphrae said.

‘We could be waist-deep in corpses, rather than just knee-deep,’ Bartelo said, pushing over a pile of bodies with the barrel of his heavy flamer.

‘Quiet, all of you,’ Karlaen said. He shoved the broken corpse of a man aside with a gentle tap from his hammer and activated the bionic augur-lens in his prosthetic eye, seeking any sign of human life or of the specific genetic code which he had been tasked to retrieve. It always comes back to blood, with us, he thought. With Corbulo, especially, of late. There was a flaw in the Sons of Sanguinius, a flaw which spread down through their successors like a crack in marble, growing wider and more obvious the further down it spread. And Corbulo was determined to repair that flaw by any means necessary. Even if it meant sending warriors to dig through a world turned charnel pit.

He tossed aside another body, and paused. Through a haze of auspex data, he had caught a glimmer of something – a ghost-reading, snaking through the lines of code and readouts, slithering towards him beneath the blanket of corpses. Even as he registered this, he caught a whiff of a familiar, acrid odour – almost insect-like, but not quite. He turned his head slowly, letting the bio-augur play across his immediate area. More ghost-signals, sliding hidden beneath the charnel detritus, zeroing in on him and his men with deadly surety.

The sound of him readying his storm bolter was loud in the stultifying silence of the chamber. Alphaeus looked at him. Karlaen nodded, once, tersely. Alphaeus lifted his own storm bolter. Karlaen turned back to the pile of corpses before him. The dead shifted, slightly. He took one step back, narrowly avoiding a spray of gore as the bodies exploded outwards as something large, with far too many arms and teeth, lunged for him out of concealment.

The storm bolter in his hand thundered, and the genestealer was reduced to purple mist and ragged tatters of alien flesh. But there were more where it had come from, and they made themselves known a microsecond later. All around him, throughout the vast chamber, the heaps of the dead burst like foul seed pods, disgorging multi-limbed monstrosities. Genestealers scuttled towards the Terminators from every shadowed recess and hillock of rotting remains, jaws agape and claws clicking.

The broodlord hung suspended far above the heads of its chosen prey, clinging to a fire-blasted shank of support girder with four of its six limbs. It rotated its head, following the massive, red forms of the invaders as they entered the Tribune Chamber. There were only six of them now – the others had split, forming smaller packs.

This pleased the Spawn of Cryptus. Divided prey was easy prey, as it had learned in its infancy down in the bowels of Phodia’s substructure. It had hunted gangers and slaves in those dark, cramped tunnels, growing strong on their flesh and fear. It had only taken what was its by right of blood, as it had when it had overseen the taking of this palace – its palace. Its flat, red eyes narrowed and its head throbbed as it reached out with its singular will and touched the gestalt mind of its fellow tyranids, scattered throughout the palace.

It inhaled sharply, suddenly able to see… everything. Through the eyes of its kin, it watched as the other armoured giants made their ponderous way through the eastern sector of the palace, and the western, and the high gardens which marked the upper levels. It saw them all, from dozens of angles, heights and positions, and it shook itself slightly as it fought to control the sheer flow of sensory information that flooded its mind.

The broodlord had always had the power to cloud the minds of its prey, and to feel the thoughts of its children as they went about its business. But since the coming of the Leviathan, those powers had grown exponentially, so much so that their use now pained it slightly. Sending out its thoughts to lance through the minds of the nearby tyranids was akin to stretching a limb to the breaking point and holding it there until just on the cusp of agony. But where once it had only been able to influence, it could now compel.

It shuddered on its perch as it felt the wet scraping of movement from its children and their kin, who had come to Asphodex in the belly of the beast but whose minds tasted of familiar things. Its thoughts pulsed outward, spreading like ripples in a puddle, touching hundreds of bestial minds. Silently, it stirred them to wakefulness, and then into a killing fury, filling their primitive skulls with its own boiling rage.

The giants had come to interfere in the Hive Mind’s plans somehow and it would not allow that. After everything it had done, after everything it had endured, it was owed this moment. A gurgling hiss escaped it, as it leapt from its perch and dropped towards the shadows below.

Phodia belonged to it. The city and everything in it was its by right. And no red-shelled invader would prevent it from taking its fair due in the time Asphodex had left.

Three

‘Back to back, brothers. Don’t let them isolate us,’ Alphaeus roared, shouting to be heard over the noise of the storm bolters. Karlaen backed away, still firing. For every beast he put down, two more seemed to take its place, bounding out of the dark.

The genestealers came at the embattled Terminators from every direction, flinging themselves into battle. Normally, genestealers were canny, crafty beings, but these seemed to have been goaded into a fury. Karlaen knew from experience that such berserk tactics were nothing less than the influence of the Hive Mind at work. He twisted, avoiding a slashing claw. Genestealers could peel open battle tanks with ease; Terminator armour, while tough, was little obstacle to them. A genestealer came at him, darting in and out of his reach, trying to find a weak point. He stepped back, and something squelched beneath him. Servos whined as he fought the momentary imbalance. The genestealer lunged. Karlaen spun his hammer and caught the creature on the upswing, smashing its bottom jaw up through the top of its skull and sending its twitching carcass flipping backwards.

‘Somehow, I get the impression they were waiting for us, brothers,’ Aphrae said. His chainfist licked out, and the rotating teeth bit into the carapace of a squealing genestealer. He lifted the squalling xenos, and its weight caused it to split in two along either side of the whirring blade. ‘How thoughtful of them to send us a welcoming committee. It is considerations like that which truly denotes a civilised race, don’t you agree, Bartelo?’

‘I’m sorry brother – what? You’ll forgive me for not listening to you prattle. I was busy doing the Emperor’s work,’ Bartelo said, sweeping the barrel of his heavy flamer across a row of charging genestealers. ‘Burn, filth. Burn and die, in His name,’ he spat, as the xenos turned into shrieking pillars of fire, the light of their demise reflected in the optic lenses of his helmet.

Karlaen pulped the head of a leaping genestealer as he reached the others. Leonos and Damaris fought side by side, moving like mirror images. Their storm bolters thundered in unison and their power fists shot out like pistons, each gauntlet wreathed in a nimbus of crackling azure energy which caused alien flesh to sizzle and burst like overripe fruit where they touched. The twins turned in a slow circle, covering one another with an inhuman precision that Karlaen could not help but envy.

Nearby, Alphaeus’s sword flickered out and a genestealer fell, grotesque skull split. He pivoted and cut the legs out from one that sought to dodge past him. As the beast fell, he trod on it, reducing its head to a messy residue. ‘Back to back,’ he roared out again. ‘Just like that time aboard the Charnel Horizon.’

‘There’s rather more of them this time, sergeant,’ Aphrae said. A genestealer sprang for him, and he extended his chainfist, ramming the blade down the creature’s gullet. He hefted the twitching bulk and slung it at another xenos, knocking it out of the air as it dove towards Leonos.

‘More alien filth just means more targets,’ Bartelo rasped. Smoke curled from the nozzle of his heavy flamer as he stroked the trigger. Fire spurted in quick bursts, driving back genestealers.

‘More targets means–’ Damaris began.

‘–more ammunition expended,’ Leonos finished. As if to lend emphasis to his words, he ejected the clip from his storm bolter as Damaris covered him. He was firing as soon as another clip was in place, covering Damaris, as the latter reloaded his own weapon.

‘The twins are right, sergeant,’ Karlaen said. He whirled as a proximity alarm blared in his ear and shoved his hammer forward like a spear, using the flat of its head to pin a genestealer against a shattered statue. The creature hissed and spat, clawing at him. He pressed the hammer forward, cracked the monster’s sternum and squashed its heart. ‘They’re trying to overwhelm us. At this rate, we’ll use up our ammunition in a few minutes. Time to adapt our tactics.’ Karlaen scanned the chamber, and caught sight of one of the many ornately decorated entrances to the side corridors that he thought must run parallel to the Tribune Chamber. He gestured with his hammer. ‘There, we’ll narrow the field a bit. Give them less room to run about in. Fall back,’ he said. ‘Bartelo, Aphrae, covering fire.’

‘Our pleasure,’ Aphrae said. Bartelo grunted and stepped forwards, flamer roaring. As the two Terminators laid down covering fire, Karlaen led the others towards the archway he had indicated. He cycled through vox frequencies, trying to contact Zachreal and the others, but his scans found only the disturbing hum of white noise.

‘The others?’ Alphaeus muttered.

‘We’re on our own for now,’ Karlaen said.

The squad continued to fall back, their retreat harried by hissing genestealers, who darted in and out of reach, attacking and scuttling away before a blow could be struck in return. Though many fell to the covering fire of Aphrae and Bartelo, or were caught by a lucky blow from a hammer, power fist or sword, they continued to attack.

The squad had almost reached the dubious safety of the side corridor when a genestealer slipped beneath Aphrae’s guard and tore open the back of his leg in a spray of blood and machine oil. Aphrae sank down to one knee with a grunt. Karlaen realised that the Terminator was not with them when Bartelo made to go to his aid. The others had reached the entryway and were firing at the horde that closed in on them from all sides. Karlaen knew that in mere moments there would be no reaching Aphrae. ‘No,’ he said, decision made. ‘We need your flamer to clear us a path. I will get him.’ Bartelo looked at him, and nodded once. Then he took aim and sprayed the hissing genestealers that stood between the Blood Angels and their fallen comrade, burning a corridor for the captain to move along.

Karlaen started forwards. Aphrae swung his chainfist out and decapitated his attacker. More moved to take its place. Aphrae fired his storm bolter at the oncoming wave of chitin, ichor and fangs, emptying the weapon. He tried to lever himself to his feet, but his wounded leg was unable to bear his weight. Karlaen fired his weapon and laid about him with his hammer, trying to clear himself a path to go to the other Blood Angel’s aid. Bartelo and the others lent their own firepower to his efforts, and soon he was bulling through the enemy towards Aphrae as the xenos fell to scything bolter fire and curling flames.

Genestealers crawled over Aphrae, attempting to pry him out of his armour. He was unable to regain enough balance to throw them off, and it was all he could do to catch hold of those who got within reach and crush their limbs or behead them with his still whirring chainfist. Hoses and bundles of fibre were torn loose from their housings and he sagged forwards, slapping his free hand down to catch himself. One of the xenos clambered up onto Aphrae’s shoulders and began to twist and fumble at his helmet.

Karlaen reached the embattled Terminator and swatted the genestealer from its perch, sending it careening through the air, over the heads of its fellows.

‘Can you walk?’ Karlaen said, trying to haul Aphrae to his feet. The Blood Angel’s armour responded sluggishly to his movements, and Karlaen suspected that its internal workings had been damaged.

‘No, leg’s a mess. I’m fairly certain it’s only still attached by a ligament – singular – at this point,’ Aphrae grunted. He could barely stand, even with Karlaen’s help, and Karlaen could hear the pain in the other Blood Angel’s voice. As novices, they were taught how to block and channel pain, even for grievous injuries. Where a normal human would already have died of blood loss, if not shock, Aphrae was still capable of fighting. Unfortunately, he did not appear to be capable of moving.

‘Lean on me, I can…’ Karlaen began, but his words died in his throat as the air came alive with a cacophony of hissing. His eyes were drawn upwards, towards the great domed roof of the chamber, where the shadows had suddenly become alive with hundreds of writhing shapes. ‘By the blood of the Angel,’ he muttered, as what he had taken for the shadowed reaches of a solid dome was suddenly revealed to be a mass of genestealers pressed close to the underside of the chamber’s glass ceiling.

‘I take it back,’ Aphrae mumbled, following Karlaen’s gaze. ‘That’s the welcoming committee.’ Above them, the genestealers began to fall. The creatures hurtled down towards the two Terminators, with obvious and deadly intent. ‘Get clear, captain,’ Aphrae rasped, lurching forwards to smash Karlaen out of the way of the plummeting genestealers.

Off balance, Karlaen staggered back as the tide of alien killers swarmed over Aphrae, biting and tearing. Aphrae tore the head from a genestealer and sent it spinning away with a backhanded blow and, for a moment, the way was clear. Karlaen met the other Blood Angel’s eyes, and said, ‘Aphrae–’

‘Go, captain. I would only slow you down, and you said it yourself – we’re running low on time. I’ll make them bleed, and buy you a bit of it back.’ Aphrae turned and caught a creature by the throat with his free hand; at the same time, he swept his whirring chainfist out in a wide arc, filling the air with stinking ichor. He staggered as genestealers slammed into him and swarmed over him. ‘Go! In Sanguinius’s name – go!’

Karlaen hesitated, but then turned and pressed back towards the others, cursing himself while he did so. He heard Aphrae’s chainfist stutter and growl as the warrior fought on, but all too soon it fell silent, and all he could hear was a cacophony of screeches, hisses and clicks. As he cleared the archway and joined Alphaeus and the others, he looked back, but saw only a seething tide of xenos horrors hurrying towards him. Aphrae was gone.

And if they did not move fast, Karlaen knew that the rest of the squad would share his fate.

The broodlord stalked through the mounds of human corpses and the bodies of its fallen children. Those bodies gave it pause, though it could not say why. There was no room for sentimentality in the gestalt mechanism of the Hive Mind – all were one and one was all. Nonetheless, the broodlord had been the leader of a pack long before it had been subsumed by the great, calming song of the Hive Mind’s singular will, and it sank down beside the body of one of its children. It hesitated, then reached out towards the ruined carcass with a claw. Gently, it stroked the body.

All things died. All things were matter to be consumed, mass to be added to the whole, reshaped, reforged and repurposed. It knew this and it accepted it, for it could not do otherwise. But still, there lingered in its blighted soul some shard of something it could not name, a memory of another time, and of other dead which were not repurposed but were instead taken away to be interred in silence and darkness. Memories rose slowly over the gestalt hum, flowering and spreading and quickly fading, before it could fully examine them. It saw faces, and heard names, but no longer truly understood. Nor did it care to.

It rose to its feet and stepped over the body. The wave of death which had accompanied the attack on the invaders had only served to stoke the rage that bubbled within the creature. This ambush had not gone as well as the others, and its quarry were escaping deeper into the ruins of the palace, bloodied but unbowed. Its massive claws clenched and relaxed constantly as it paced towards the struggling knot of genestealers.

The red-armoured warrior who fought them did so even though his situation was hopeless. His weapons were gone or useless, and his armour had been rent and torn, its power cables severed and the exoskeleton twisted out of shape. Still he struggled against the churning mass of multi-limbed horrors that swarmed about him. The broodlord could not conceive of such an emotion as admiration, but it felt some faint stirring of something akin to it nonetheless as it hunkered down across from the stricken invader.

It scraped the ground gently as it studied its enemy; a flurry of images from the other ambushes flowed through its mind, and it closed its eyes for a moment, indulging in the pleasure those images brought. A roaring, black-haired giant fired his weapon until it ran dry, and then was swarmed under; another, wreathed in pungent smoke emanating from gilded censers, was attacked from all sides. On and on the tide of images rolled, and when the broodlord at last opened its eyes, it did so with a hiss of fulfilment. The ambushes it had organised were going well, and though many of its children had died, the enemy was scattered and bloodied.

Its children had managed to wrest the warrior’s helmet off, and ruined hoses spurted recycled air as the hunk of metal was tossed aside. It caught up the helm as it rolled past and held it, turning it over in its claws. It looked at the warrior, and crushed the helmet with a single flex of its segmented limbs. The metal buckled and popped with a shrill cry.

The warrior spat and said something. The broodlord did not bother to listen to his words. Instead, it focused on his thoughts, plucking them out to examine one by one, as if they were the petals of some colourful flower. It needed to know why they had come. What did they seek, here, in its territory?

Every thought tasted different, and as it consumed them, names swam through its mind… Bartelo… Alphaeus… Karlaen. The names of the surviving invaders. Names were useful, it knew. Names were like keys to the locks of the mind. With a name, it could pry away the will and strength of its enemy and render them helpless before the strength of the Hive Mind.

That was how it had made Asphodex ready for consumption, though it had not been aware of the true reason for its actions at the time. It had weeded out the strongest minds from among the planetary aristocracy, and used the name it had been given by the fearful under-dwellers to strike terror into the very heart of Phodia. And it had done so gladly, for they were traitors, one and all.

Yes, betrayal. That was the word for what it had felt, so many cycles ago, before it had heard the song of the Leviathan and found its true purpose. It had been betrayed, and now, it would exact the blood-price for that treachery. Asphodex would burn, as would every world that the Flaxian Dynasty had presumed to control. They would burn and be consumed.

It hissed in growing frustration. The warrior’s mind refused to give up the one thing it needed to know above all others. It lunged forwards and grasped the struggling man’s head between its claws. The other genestealers released their grip on the captive and scuttled back as the broodlord loomed over its wounded foe. It stared down into his eyes, searching, as he pounded useless fists against its carapace. There was another name there, beneath the surface of its captive’s thoughts. It could taste his defiance, his blood-lust and… something else. Some strong desire… No, not a desire. Hope. Hope which was attached to one last name.

Its eyes bulged in fury as it caught a whiff of that name. Alien muscle twitched and swelled, and genetically augmented bone cracked and shattered beneath a sudden, inexorable pressure. The dead man slid out of its grip, and his armour clanked loudly as it struck the ground. The broodlord’s throat sacs bulged and twitched as barely used vocal cords swelled, and a sound that might have been a name slipped from between its jaws as it threw back its head and screamed its anger to the dying sky.

Four

Karlaen heard the scream as it echoed through the palace. He knew no human throat had made that sound, and something in him could not help but shudder. It was a raw, animal cry, of something driven far beyond the limits of frustration. Whatever it was, part of him hoped that Aphrae had died before coming face to face with it.

‘Whatever it is–’ Leonos began.

‘–it sounds angry,’ Damaris finished.

Karlaen looked back at the twins. Like them all their crimson armour was caked in gore, and many of the heavy ceramite plates had been cracked and scored by the claws of the genestealers. The barrels of their storm bolters still glowed hot. Neither appeared to be wounded however, which was a relief.

As they moved down the corridor he looked around, taking stock of their surroundings as they put distance between themselves and the Tribune Chamber. The genestealers had not followed them directly into the spacious processional corridors beyond the chamber, but Karlaen could make out their shapes moving through the inky darkness of the ruins around them, and his sensors pinged relentlessly, alerting him to the presence of unseen foes. Occasionally, they would make as if to rush the slowly moving squad of Terminators, but would dart back into the darkness as the Blood Angels levelled their weapons.

The corridors were wider than he had anticipated, shattered by the battle that had gutted the palace hours earlier. Whole sections of the dividing wall were missing, torn out by alien acids or heavy weapons fire. Ancient artworks, created by generations of Phodian craftsmen, and now reduced to scattered debris, crunched beneath the steady tread of Squad Alphaeus.

‘Aphrae is dead,’ Bartelo said, softly. It was the first thing he had said since they’d left the Tribune Chamber behind. Karlaen glanced at him in surprise. Bartelo was taciturn at the best of times, unless Aphrae was prodding him.

‘He died as the Emperor willed,’ Karlaen said. The words did not sound as comforting aloud as they had in his head, and he fell silent. Death was the companion of every Space Marine, for were they not the Emperor’s Angels of Death? Yet, even so, the Chapter was diminished by every death, and the loss of even one of their own cast a pall over the survivors.

For Karlaen, particularly, that feeling was like an old companion, and one whose company he did not welcome. For a moment, he was somewhere else, not on a world, but within the vibrating innards of a space-going hulk, and he could hear the screams of the men who had followed him into the darkness as they died.

He closed his organic eye and tried to banish the memories. But instead of fading, they clamoured more loudly, and his ears filled with a red hum. He wanted to return to the Tribune Chamber and kill and kill and kill until there was nothing left alive. For a moment, the desire overwhelmed him. Then, Bartelo’s voice pierced the haze and he was once more himself.

‘We were inducted together, he and I,’ Bartelo said. He spoke steadily, as if in eulogy. ‘We journeyed to the Palace of Challenge together, across the desert, and fought back to back in the gladiatorial contests which awaited us there. He was uncouth, even then. There was too much laughter in him.’ He looked at Karlaen. ‘Captain, was he laughing as he died? I was not close enough to hear.’

‘No,’ Karlaen said. ‘He was not.’

Bartelo was silent for a moment. Then he nodded. ‘Good. It is meet that a man should die with dignity. Laughter would only sully the moment.’ He sounded quietly pleased.

Karlaen looked at the other Terminator for a moment, and then away. There were many in the Chapter like Bartelo – grim, unswerving and lacking in mirth. That he and Aphrae had been friends, of a sort, was obvious, but even so, almost inexplicable. Karlaen knew as much about the warriors under his command as a proper leader ought, but even so, some subtleties escaped him. He wanted to speak words of comfort to Bartelo, but was uncertain as to how to go about it. What was there to say?

‘Orders, captain?’ Alphaeus said, interrupting his train of thought.

‘We keep moving. According to the augur scans, there should be a security hub somewhere ahead of us,’ Karlaen said, grateful to turn his thoughts to his duty. ‘When we reach it, we might be able to use the security logs to track down our quarry.’

‘Good,’ Alphaeus said. ‘The sooner we’re out of here, the better. Listen to that racket – this ruin is crawling with tyranids.’ He smiled humourlessly. ‘If I wanted to wade into that sort of mess, I’d have joined the main assault.’

‘I did not force you to come, brother,’ Karlaen said.

‘No, but who’ll keep you out of trouble if not me?’ Alphaeus said.

Karlaen snorted. Though he would not say it out loud, he found the sergeant’s humour reassuring. ‘Keep moving, and keep an eye on your sensors. They’ve had a taste of our blood and I intend to see that they get no more than that.’

He led them on, following the whispers of the augur readings towards the security hub. More than once they were forced to stop and form up as lean, monstrous shapes flooded towards them from out of side corridors, or plunged through the gaping holes in the close-set corridor walls. But as before, the genestealers would always retreat just before initiating contact, as if their harrying of the Blood Angels were no more than some demented child’s game. Then they would stalk above and below the squad, testing the limits of the Terminators’ patience before attacking again.

In truth, Karlaen suspected that the beasts were attempting to entice them into wasting ammunition. Twice, he was forced to hold Bartelo back from simply filling a side passage with fire. While the promethium reserves of a heavy flamer were substantial, they were not limitless, and the genestealers seemed to know that. So they attacked again and again, heedless of casualties, trying to force the Terminators to expend valuable resources. A suicidal stratagem, but one that worked all too well.

To Karlaen, that meant only one thing: there was a synapse creature close by – a commander of bugs and bio-beasts, a central node of the abominable will that guided Hive Fleet Leviathan. Tyranids were like any other feral animal, acting on instinct. But a synapse creature could turn those mindless beasts into a dedicated army with but a thought. That was what they were now facing – an enemy that would sacrifice a hundred for one without blinking, and seemed fully committed to doing so.

That, in the end, was the greatest weapon at the Hive Mind’s disposal. Every world consumed only added to the incalculable number of bio-organisms that the hive fleet could employ in battle. Every fallen warrior was simply a bit more mass to be added to the bio-vats. And as the hive fleet swelled, more worlds fell beneath its expanding shadow.

As that bleak thought hung heavy in his mind, he cycled once more through the vox signals, hoping to contact one of the other squads, or even elements of the forward invasion force. He knew, with an unerring instinct honed in a thousand confrontations with the tyranids, that he and the others would not be able to complete their mission without significant reinforcement. To think otherwise was hubris. Unfortunately, the only thing he could hear over the transmitter was the hiss of static and alien whispers.

They pressed on, moving more quickly now. The palace occasionally shook, as if in sympathy with distant explosions, and the sound of talons scratching on walls and floors was omnipresent. The bio-sensors screamed warnings about foes that the Terminators could not see. Time was growing short.

‘Sounds like every beast in this part of the city is flooding into these ruins,’ Alphaeus murmured.

‘Good,’ Bartelo said. He hefted his heavy flamer. ‘More bodies for the pyre.’

‘Save your fuel,’ Karlaen said. He pointed at the reinforced security portcullis that blocked the corridor ahead with his hammer. ‘We’re here.’ He didn’t stop, but bulled into the portcullis, which was covered in hundreds of talon marks. The metal squealed as he peeled it open with his hands. When he had created enough of a gap, he used his hammer as a lever and forced it fully open. His sensors showed that the chamber beyond contained only one life form, if it could be called that. It was weak and thready, but Karlaen was determined to find it.

‘Survivors?’ Alphaeus asked.

‘I don’t think so. At least, not the kind you’re thinking of,’ Karlaen said. ‘Come.’ He forced his way through the damaged door and into the security hub, followed by the others. The space beyond the door was wide and filled with debris. It had seen hard fighting, despite the reinforced door. The walls and ceiling were badly damaged, and Karlaen took note of the toppled piles of sandbags and hastily erected barricades that marked portions of the chamber. Two parallel rows of statues marked the main drag of the chamber, and almost all had been knocked from their pedestals and shattered into unrecognisable lumps of marble.

‘They made a stand here,’ Alphaeus said, indicating the spent lasgun power cells and blood stains. He kicked at a crawling feeder-beast and sent it scuttling through a hole in the wall. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. ‘These blasted beasts have already broken down the corpses. I can smell one of those digestive pools nearby.’

‘Not all of the corpses.’ Karlaen heaved a heavy chunk of fallen debris aside to reveal the twitching form of a servitor. The mindless drone of meat and metal flopped and sparked, its body broken beyond repair. Karlaen saw immediately what had befallen it. It had been caught by the debris and smashed to the ground, its limbs and spine pulped.

He sank down beside it. There was something pitiable about the dull-eyed thing, and for a moment, he allowed himself to wonder who or what it had been before it had been converted to the mindless husk it now was. The ruined mouth tried to speak, and sparks flared from its burst larynx, spattering the front of Karlaen’s armour.

‘It’s not a combat servitor,’ Alphaeus said.

‘It is a holomat,’ Karlaen said. ‘A messenger. And it was likely on its way to deliver a message when it was caught in the attack.’ He tapped a finger against the curved mark that had been etched into the servitor’s pale expanse of forehead.

He took the damaged servitor’s head in both hands and tore it loose from the damaged chassis with an effortless twist. Holding up the head by its cables, he examined it for a moment to make sure it was undamaged. Then he attached it to his belt. ‘I’ll extract the data when we have found a more defensible location. For now, we should–’

He broke off as a lean, alien shape leapt over the gap above him, and Karlaen looked up. The others followed his gaze. Proximity sensors began to blare warnings to every Terminator in the chamber. He readied himself for an attack from above.

Instead, the attack came from a section of acid-chewed wall, and targeted not himself, but Bartelo, who turned as Damaris, the closest to him, shouted a warning. Something crystalline streaked out of the darkness and caught Bartelo as he turned, knocking him from his feet with a bright burst of heat and light that momentarily illuminated the area, revealing fallen statues and shattered debris. Karlaen and the others moved to aid their downed comrade as his attackers moved into the glare of the stab-lights.

Three long-legged shapes, taller than any Terminator and just as broad, loped into view in a rattle of chitin plates and bio-armour. The trio of tyranid warriors were monstrous parodies of the human form, stretched and distorted into something nightmarish. The beasts charged towards the Terminators on flat, heavy hooves, smashing through the rubble as they came. They wielded bio-whips and bone blades with a precise, inhuman grace and filled the air with sub-sonic hunting calls as they lunged to the attack.

Five

Karlaen levelled his storm bolter and pumped shot after shot into the charging monstrosities. Alphaeus and the others did the same, as Bartelo began to struggle to his feet, a smoking rent in his armour. The tyranid warriors split up, moving swiftly. They were big beasts, with broad, wedge-shaped skulls and four arms. Powerful, jointed legs propelled them forwards and acidic bile streamed from their toothy maws as they exposed their fangs in anticipation.

Karlaen shouted, ‘Get Bartelo on his feet.’ Then, hammer in hand, he moved to intercept the closest of their attackers. The creatures were the synaptic foot soldiers of the hive fleet, and Karlaen wondered if these were the source of the malign will behind the suicidal attacks of the genestealers. They were powerful and deadly creatures, and a match for any Space Marine, even one clad in Terminator armour. There would be more on the way, as well. Where there was one brood, there were many.

The closest of the tyranids leapt from the ground onto a statue toppled on its side, scaling it swiftly. It clashed its bone blades together in what might have been a challenge as it dived from its perch to meet Karlaen. Four deadly lengths of sharpened bone swept down towards him. He twisted aside, letting the edges glance off his armour with a sound like a scream. He jabbed his hammer forward like a spear, catching the creature in its segmented gut. It bent double with a coughing roar, and he smoothly altered the hammer’s course to meet its descending skull.

There was a crackle of energy, and the tyranid warrior staggered back, jaw burned and broken. Its blades scissored for him wildly. He stepped back and smashed the bone swords aside, before striking his opponent in the chest. Chitin cracked and burst, and a thick ichor ran down the armour plates as the thing screeched. Before it could attack again, he shoved the barrel of his storm bolter against the shattered area of its thorax and pulled the trigger. The creature jerked wildly and toppled towards him, its swords and claws seeking to pull him down into the darkness with it even as it died. He forced it away, wincing as the tip of a bone sword skidded off his cheek. It hit the ground and lay still.

With the higher castes of tyranid warrior-beasts, it was best to kill them as quickly as possible. They could fight on despite incredible wounds, easily withstanding the sort of damage which would test even an ork’s vigour. Luckily, Karlaen had more than a century of experience in killing such creatures, whether on the battlefield or in the close confines of a space hulk.

He turned, narrowly avoiding the stinging lash of a bio-whip. The second beast was duelling with Damaris and Leonos, keeping their power fists at bay with wide sweeps of its bone sword and a snap of the other bio-whip it wielded.

Karlaen fired his storm bolter, distracting the beast. It twisted towards him instinctively and opened itself up for Leonos, who clamped one arm around two of its own, pinning blade and whip. The tyranid shrilled in rage and tried to fling the Terminator off. Its strength was so great that it jerked Leonos from his feet and swung him about as easily as it did its whips. Damaris rushed in and caught one of its two remaining free hands in his power fist. He shoved his storm bolter against the spot where the limb met its body and fired.

The limb, and the bio-whip it clutched, came free with a wet, tearing sound, as acidic ichor spattered the floor. Its remaining bone sword flashed out and caught Damaris on the side, carving a long gouge in his armour. He staggered, and Karlaen stepped past him, hammer descending on the side of the tyranid’s skull. Chitin crumpled and the xenos sank to one knee. Karlaen struck it again, with more force this time, and his blow crushed its skull. Even so, it continued to struggle. Leonos set himself and lifted a boot to brace against the uncrushed side of the alien warrior’s skull. With a grunt, he tore its arms free of their sockets. The tyranid made a wailing squeal and flopped onto the ground. Damaris finished it off quickly, crushing what was left of its head beneath his boot.

Even as the creature writhed in its death throes, Karlaen was striding past, towards where Alphaeus sought to haul Bartelo to his feet, while fending off the remaining tyranid’s blistering fury of attacks. Alphaeus parried blow after blow, wielding his power sword with an elegance and speed befitting one of the Chapter’s foremost swordsmen.

The tyranid slammed its four blades down on the length of Alphaeus’s one and loomed over him, trying to drive him to his knees. It threw back its head and a powerful scream ripped from its throat sacs, nearly deafening Karlaen. The scream echoed, redoubling in strength, and Karlaen winced as he felt something scrabble along the underside of his mind. The creature’s scream had not been merely a cry of frustration, but a summons to war.

As the echoes faded, a new sound took their place – claws, scrabbling on stone and steel. Karlaen staggered as the ground beneath him shifted and then erupted in a tangled thicket of flailing claws and snapping jaws. Momentarily off balance, he swung his storm bolter down and fired until it was dry. He fell heavily, but managed to drag himself forwards, away from the growing hole. Through the smoke and dust, genestealers clambered after him. He rolled onto his back and lashed out with his hammer, pulverising the first to leap. Damaris and Leonos moved to his aid.

He heard a shrill cry, and saw a flood of xenos squirming through the shattered portcullis. The twins turned their weapons on these new foes, but not for long. As their weapons stuttered to silence, they were forced to defend themselves without the benefit of bolter fire. Karlaen pushed himself awkwardly to his feet, backhanding a genestealer with his storm bolter in the process. There was no time to reload. He laid about him with the ancient relic of his Chapter, splitting skulls and cracking carapaces.

Then came a roar of heat and incandescent light as Bartelo, still on one knee, fired his heavy flamer, consuming the whole, scrabbling pack of creatures climbing through the portcullis. ‘Step aside, captain. Let me light their way to the Emperor’s judgement,’ Bartelo rasped.

Karlaen fought his way clear of his enemies as Bartelo directed his flames towards the hole in the floor. Genestealers screamed as they burned, their screams echoed by the final tyranid warrior. Too late, Karlaen saw that Alphaeus had been sent sprawling by the beast. It lunged over the sergeant, and its blades smashed home, erupting from Bartelo’s chest in a gory spray. Bartelo slid off the blades and smashed to the ground, unmoving.

Alphaeus was on his feet a moment later, his face contorted in an expression that Karlaen recognised all too well. His power sword hummed as it caught the tyranid in the neck, beheading it as it turned to confront him. It fell and Alphaeus drove his blade down into its body again and again, until Karlaen’s hand on his shoulder shook him from his rage.

Karlaen looked at Leonos, who crouched beside Bartelo. ‘Status?’ he asked softly, even though he knew. There was too much blood, and Bartelo was too still.

Leonos stood. That was answer enough. Karlaen closed his eyes. The inside of his head itched with red, creeping thoughts that he pushed aside with difficulty. Twice they had made contact with the enemy, and twice they had lost a brother. There would be no third time, not if he could help it. But he could see their situation plainly: if they stayed where they were, or tried to press forward, they would be overwhelmed. Already, the proximity sensors in his armour were alerting him to movement in the corridors beyond them. And without Bartelo’s heavy flamer, they would be at even more of a disadvantage than before.

‘Adapt and persevere,’ he muttered, eyeing the chamber walls. His bionic eye clicked and whirred as he scanned through settings and lenses until he came to the geo-imager. Before his eyes, a holographic grid map of the palace formed. Outside the chamber, the sound of clattering claws grew louder. Alphaeus fired his storm bolter down into the hole in the floor. Bartelo had only given the horde outside momentary pause.

‘Orders, captain?’ Alphaeus asked. He sounded deceptively calm, and his face might as well have belonged to one of the toppled statues.

‘How much promethium is left in Bartelo’s tanks?’ Karlaen said, studying the grid.

‘Not much,’ Leonos said. ‘A single, concentrated burst.’

‘Enough to clear the passage,’ Damaris added.

‘Pierce them,’ Karlaen said. ‘And get ready to move.’

He plotted the quickest alternate route to the Plaza of the Emperor Ascendant. While part of him was disgusted with the idea of retreat so soon after making contact, this mission was not about battle. They had a duty, and it was up to him to see that it was fulfilled. If that meant swallowing a bit of pride and falling back to a position where they could make more effective use of their remaining firepower, so be it. Also, it was possible that once clear of the palace walls, his vox signals would reach Zachreal and the others. Reinforced, they could make a concentrated push.

‘What? But–’ Alphaeus began. Then, remembering his place, he nodded crisply. He looked at the twins. ‘Do it. His armour will survive the fire, but whatever is coming for us won’t.’ He looked at Karlaen. ‘Whatever you’re planning, brother, I’d make it quick – I’m picking up massed bio-readings in all directions. They’re closing in on us.’

‘That’s the idea, Alphaeus,’ Karlaen said. He strode towards the closest wall. ‘I want as many of them in here as possible, before we leave.’

‘What are you thinking?’ Alphaeus said, following him.

‘Do you remember that time aboard the Seraglio of Abomination?’ Karlaen said. He raised his hammer. ‘They’re expecting us to press forwards, or try and escape back the way we came. So let’s surprise them, eh?’ He took a leisurely practice swing, his bionic eye gauging the wall’s weakest point.

‘If you’re thinking of doing what I think, I feel it is my duty to remind you that it didn’t work as well as you hoped that time,’ Alphaeus said.

‘You act as if you didn’t enjoy seeing all those genestealers go spilling out into the void, sergeant.’

‘Given that we were spilling out into said void alongside them, you’ll forgive me for being somewhat distracted at the time,’ Alphaeus said. The sound of claws grew louder, filling the chamber with a relentless clicking of talons on metal.

‘Well, there’s no void to worry you this time,’ Karlaen said. The tang of promethium fumes reached him. He glanced back at the twins. ‘Status, brothers,’ he called out, over his shoulder.

‘Promethium tanks–’ Damaris began.

‘–punctured, captain,’ Leonos finished.

‘Good. Fall back, and take up flanking positions,’ Karlaen said. As he spoke, genestealers spilled into the chamber, heralded by a cacophony of screeching. As before, they charged with reckless abandon, driven berserk by whatever synaptic impulse commanded them. Alphaeus barked an order, and three storm bolters were readied to roar out in reply to the alien shrieking. But they would not fire yet. Not until the last possible moment.

Karlaen swung the Hammer of Baal in a wide arc. The wall burst outward at the point of impact, filling the promethium-laden air with dust. Karlaen bulled through, picking up speed as he raced through towards the next wall opposite him. Behind him, he heard the roar of storm bolters followed by a crackling thunder and then his armour’s sensors screamed at him as a wave of heat washed over him, flooding through the hole he had made.

He heard the heavy tread of the others following him and smiled in satisfaction as he tore through the next wall. The fumes from the spilled promethium had turned the security hub into an inferno, and whatever had been inside at the moment of the explosion was no longer something they had to worry about.

Room by room, corridor by corridor, the four Terminators smashed and fought their way through the ruins. Never stopping, pausing only to kill any tyranid unlucky enough to get in their way. The Blood Angels left behind them a trail of shattered wreckage and broken xenos bodies. Then, with one final blow of his hammer, Karlaen led his men out into the Plaza of the Emperor Ascendant.

As he stepped out into the red Asphodex light, his vox came alive, free of interference. He heard Zachreal’s voice, and Joses’s roar, as loudly and as clearly as if they had been beside him. He heard the bark of storm bolter fire, and alien screams as well, and knew then what he had only suspected before. The ambush had not been by random chance; rather it was the work of an overarching will. The others had not yet found any sign of Flax. Alphaeus met his gaze, and Karlaen knew he had heard the signals as well.

‘We’re on our own, brothers,’ Karlaen said. He turned and saw the fallen statue after which the plaza was named, depicting the Emperor in all of his glory, wings wide, face uplifted towards the boiling red sky. The statue had been seared by fire, burned by ichor and smothered in creeping strands of fleshy bio-matter, but there was no indication as to what had felled it in the end. Karlaen stared down into the marble face of the Master of Mankind and felt something stir within him. Not the hum this time, but a black, brooding anger that brought with it the images of Aphrae going down beneath the enemy, and Bartelo being ripped open, and others, from a greater distance – faces, names, dying screams from that one red moment.

The Sons of Sanguinius had always been better at dying than their brother Space Marines. Martyrdom was in their blood, and for a Blood Angel, there was no greater glory than death in a good cause. But that fierce sense of selflessness which sent them rushing headlong into the jaws of death all too often flowered into obsession. He could feel them pressing in from all around him, the ghosts of all of those who had followed him and died. For a moment, barely the blink of an eye, the plaza was full of pale, carmine shapes, facing the enemy, and he could hear a voice like fire and smooth stone and the crack of great wings as his Father spoke and then the genestealers were boiling out of the hole he had created in the wall like ants out of an anthill.

He tore his gaze from the statue and shoved down the tide of rage and black memories. He raised his storm bolter. ‘I want interlocking fields of fire. Go to pattern epsilon,’ he grated. ‘Combat protocol sigma.’ The others fanned out around him as the genestealers scuttled towards them through the ruins and debris that dotted the open plaza. Karlaen glanced at the statue one last time. Then, he turned to face the enemy. ‘The Emperor watches, brothers. Do not fail him.’

Then, with a roar of storm bolters, the battle commenced.

Six

Plaza of the Emperor Ascendant, Flaxian Palace, Phodia

Interlocking fire patterns and close combat protocols were the mortar of victory, or so Karlaen’s teachers had always claimed. Now, several centuries on from his days as an aspirant, eager to sup on the accumulated knowledge of his masters, he was willing to admit that there was some truth to the saying.

The storm bolter bucked in his hand, the reverberation of its voice causing his exoskeleton to tremble slightly. The barrel glowed white-hot, and his head ached from the targeting information fed into it by his bionic eye. But pain was the price paid for victory.

The tyranids made assault after assault, coming in waves as they had before, but now they were charging directly into the teeth of an organised gun-line. Before, the Terminators had been scattered or cramped, unable to take full advantage of their firepower due to their surroundings and each other. Now, out in the open, the battle was theirs before the first genestealer darted from cover. That had ever been the way of it, in Karlaen’s experience. One of the more successful strategies the First Company had learned in centuries of gruelling warfare was that an enemy that relied on numbers could be drawn into a situation where those numbers rapidly became a disadvantage.

Such was the case now. Each assault was repelled, and at significant range. Only once did a tyranid warrior get close enough to engage the Terminators, and Alphaeus swiftly put it down with two hard sweeps of his power sword.

Finally, the attacks ebbed away, until there was only the soft ping of cooling gun barrels and the dripping of tyranid ichor to be heard in the plaza. A haze of smoke hung heavy in the air over the mounds of xenos corpses as an eerie quiet descended. Karlaen waited, counting moments in his head. Then, with a grunt of satisfaction, he lowered his storm bolter.

‘They’ve fallen back, likely to plan their next move,’ he said.

‘And like as not, we’re being watched,’ Alphaeus said, as he reloaded his storm bolter. ‘I can feel it, scurrying around in my head.’

‘Then we’d best take advantage of the time we’ve bought for ourselves,’ Karlaen said. He unhooked the head of the servitor from his belt and held it up. ‘We’ll start with this.’ Deftly, he extracted the contact nodes of several power cables from his armour and plugged them into the nodes hidden within the dripping stump of the head. Almost immediately, the servitor’s mouth opened, and its eyes widened as the influx of raw power jump-started its functions.

A deluge of meaningless code burst from the servitor’s bloody lips, followed by a hollow, mechanical voice. ‘Warning. Warning. Plaza defences compromised. Warning. Security hub J-7 compromised. Warning. Tribune Chamber compromised. Warning. Security hub J-8 compromised. Warning. Unit to report ongoing situation to Governor Flax. Warning.’ More warnings followed, a veritable roll call of failed defences and counter-attacks.

Connected to the servitor’s memory banks via his armour’s systems, he slowly peeled back the layers of its programming, and found that the drone had been heading to deliver its report to Flax in person when it had been caught in the rubble. He looked at Alphaeus. ‘It was Flax’s envoy. He sent it out to take stock of the palace defences and then report back to him, wherever he’s hiding.’

‘Do you think it can lead us to him?’ Alphaeus asked. He sat down on a toppled pillar and sank his sword into the ground, point first, before him.

Karlaen did not reply. Instead, he continued his exploration of the servitor’s memory banks, taking note of the various routes and passages it held maps of. The servitor had a signal-lock on Flax’s bio-signature, as well as all relevant security information – ID codes, crypto-keys and system overrides – to reach him. Karlaen blinked. He looked at Alphaeus. ‘There’s an undercity. That’s where Flax is.’

Alphaeus grimaced. ‘That means tunnels. And we’ve no heavy flamer to clean them out.’

‘According to our friend here, the tunnels are still sealed. The tyranids haven’t found them yet,’ Karlaen said. He frowned. ‘Or they hadn’t, according to the drone’s last sensor sweep.’ He unhooked the head from his armour, and its eyes glazed over as its mouth went slack. If it was attached to his armour’s power source for too long, there was a chance the fragile mechanisms in the head would burn out, and he still had use for it.

‘Was that before or after it was pinned under the rubble?’ Alphaeus asked. When Karlaen did not reply, he sighed and nodded. ‘It always comes back to the cramped and the dark, doesn’t it? What I wouldn’t give for another stand-up fight.’

‘We do what we must, brother, for the good of the Chapter,’ Karlaen said, placing the now-silent servitor head back on his belt. He looked up, gauging the time. The chronometer in his eye ticked over. It was just past midnight. It had taken him longer to filter the information contained in the head than he had thought.

The dull crump of distant explosions told him that the battle for Phodia was not yet over. A tendril of guilt squirmed through him, as he turned his thoughts to those embattled survivors. Their fight would soon be over, and not for the better. They were chaff before the scythe, left to dull the enemy’s blade with their meat and bone. Asphodex would be erased, and her people with it.

You have no heart, only fire, he thought, trying to banish such thoughts. Guilt, doubt, fear – all fuel for the fires of determination. All men died, whether hero or coward, mortal or Space Marine. But if their death meant something, then it was no kind of death at all, but transcendence. The road to a better world was paved with the bones of brave men. Had the Angel’s death not provided the Emperor with a chance for victory against the Arch-Traitor? So too would it be here. The dead of Phodia, of Asphodex, of the Cryptus System, were the foundation on which Baal’s survival would be built.

He turned and watched the fires on the horizon. Karlaen knew it was true, that all of this was necessary. But that did not mean he had to like it. He closed his eyes, feeling bands of red and black tighten about his mind and heart. He opened them and met the calm, blank gaze of the statue of the Emperor, and let out the breath he had not even realised that he had been holding. ‘It is time, brothers. We must move out. If the others were going to reach us, they would have by now.’ He looked towards the palace. ‘It is time to find our quarry. And this time, we will not stop until we achieve victory, or death.’

‘Let’s hope it’s the one, rather than the other,’ Alphaeus said, uprooting his sword from where he had driven it into the cracked ground.

The squad began to move back towards the palace, across the blasted landscape of broken alien bodies. They moved slowly, picking their way forwards with care, senses straining to catch any sign of the enemy that they all knew was not far away. As they moved, Karlaen could feel eyes on them, peering out from the gloom that surrounded them. Alphaeus had been correct – they were being watched. He could feel it himself now, scratching gently at his mind. The augur-lens of his bionic eye scanned the darkness that crept across the ruined plaza, but nothing revealed itself. That didn’t mean that it wasn’t there, simply that it was very good at hiding.

The broodlord had always been good at hiding. It had an instinct for dark, cramped places and wide shadows that had kept it alive for those first few weeks after… It hissed and squeezed its eyes shut.

When it opened them, it glared at the invaders, gauging their numbers and strength. It could feel the gathered minds of its children massing around it in the shadows of the ruins. It would sacrifice them all, in the name of victory, though it loved them. Yes, that was the word… love. It loved its children, even as the Hive Mind loved it, and it would send a hundred of them to their deaths without hesitation if it meant pulling down just one of the red-armoured giants striding through the plaza.

Its plaza.

Its sudden spurt of anger was passed to its children through the synaptic link that they shared, and it heard a ripple of soft snarls and creaking chitin. It forced itself to remain calm, and allowed the song of the Leviathan to dull the edges of its anger. It opened up the link between itself and its children, allowing them to glimpse the unfettered glory of the force they now served. Snatches of words fluttered through its mind, carried by the voices of those long dead: elegant, descriptive phrases which might describe the heaving, coiling presence that rose over it and its children and spread from horizon to horizon like a hungry sun.

It felt its mind and will fray at the edges as the song swept through it and around it. Some part of it longed to be one with the Leviathan, after being alone for so long. And it would be, soon enough. That was the fate of every living thing in Phodia – to be meat for the great beast that slithered through the void, following the light of a distant star.

But not yet. Its mind slammed shut to the voice of the Hive Mind, cutting off the song, and disturbing its children. The closest genestealer snuffled and clicked interrogatively, and the broodlord grunted in a placatory fashion. It focused on the invaders again. It could sense the rest of their number drawing near, just as the ones below moved towards the palace steps. Soon, there would be more of them. Far too many, in one place. It sat back on its haunches, considering.

No, it could not risk it. It would kill as many as it could now and thin their numbers before it considered its next move. It slouched forwards, reaching out with its mind, feeling for the burning sparks of the invaders’ consciousness. Willing as it was to sacrifice its children in pursuit of its goals, it saw no reason not to employ every advantage it possessed.

It would show them the beautiful thing which awaited them all.

‘Contact, grid twelve,’ Alphaeus said. Karlaen checked his sensors, and saw the flare of red that meant an approaching bio-signature.

‘Contact, grid eight, nine, eleven–’ Leonos began, only to be interrupted by his twin.

‘–contact on multiple grids,’ Damaris said urgently.

‘They’ve decided to stop hiding,’ Karlaen said, as his targeting lens whirred and focused in on the shapes scuttling through the darkness all around them. There was more subtlety to the genestealers’ actions now, as they crept through the darkness, staying close to cover at all times. In the gleam of his stab-lights he caught sight of a rounded skull or a flash of chitin, but that was it. ‘Form up. If they rush us, we will drive them back. Whatever else happens, we will not be driven back again. We will go forward.’

He checked his sensors again, noting the positioning of the enemy. They were cut off in all directions, as if whatever mind was directing the xenos had seen and learned from his earlier strategy, and was now attempting to block off any avenues of escape. And yet, they did not attack. Karlaen stared out into the darkness and tried to discern the motivations of his unseen enemy. What was it waiting for?

The answer came a moment later, when his mind suddenly convulsed, wracked with stinging webs of malign thought. Karlaen grunted and bent forwards, clutching at his head. The others made similar motions, twitching as an unheralded pain tore through their thoughts, savaging them from within.

A haze of red descended over his eyes, but not the one with which he was all too familiar. This was a sickly haze, such as might overcome a dying animal’s last moments. He groaned as alien thoughts wormed into his own, boring through the walls of discipline and hypno-conditioning to hook into the kernel of humanity within. Old memories, long buried under new, were uprooted from the murk and brought forth screaming into the light. He could recall the darkness of the sarcophagus he had been entombed in as an aspirant, only barely aware of the passage of time as the blood of the primarch changed him into something other than the youth he had been. The dark had squeezed and crushed him, and even in his almost comatose state he had screamed himself raw for those first few weeks.

More memories came, dragged up by the inhuman will which assaulted him – he felt the heat of weapons which had almost claimed his life, and felt the sour shadow which threatened to rise up in him in his darkest moments. His mind shuddered and squirmed in the grip of his enemy, and the memories began to change, becoming more horrible and utterly alien. He felt the discordant song of the Hive Mind as it thundered through him, washing what was him away and leaving only smooth purpose – to consume. These were not his thoughts, but those of the enemy. He had fought tyranids often enough to know that where most attacked with claws, poison and acidic bile, some could use a man’s own thoughts against him.

And yet, there was something else. Something that, even in his agony, Karlaen could see… A flaw in that smooth, remorseless wall of gestalt hunger that threatened to overwhelm him. A hunger that was not merely for bio-matter, but for something else. Something more human in scope. Whatever it was, it was a weakness, and he knew what to do with an enemy’s weakness, physical or otherwise. He focused on it, bringing every iota of his will onto it, as if his thoughts were the hammer which hung, forgotten, in his hand. He saw unfamiliar faces – a man and woman, a boy – and felt a surge of anger that was at once bestial and all too human, tinged as it was with grief, or perhaps madness. He felt the quiver of surprise go through the invader, a startled roar echoing in his head and from the darkness, as his mind bucked in its grip.

The haze which afflicted his vision began to clear, and he could see the savage shapes of genestealers rushing towards them. Teeth gritted against the whips of pain which still lashed his mind, he swung his storm bolter up and fired. A genestealer pitched forwards, its head a wet ruin. As if the sound of his shot had been a signal, Alphaeus and the others joined him. The dark was lit up by flashes of bolter fire, and genestealers fell in their dozens. But there were still more behind them, hundreds perhaps.

The ache in his mind began to lessen and he scanned the darkness behind the leaping, shrieking shapes of the enemy, searching for the thing which commanded them. It was here, somewhere, scrabbling in their minds to make them easy prey for the others. The augur-lens on his bionic eye flashed as it focused in on a shape crouched atop one of the few still-standing statues which dotted the plaza.

It was a broodlord, and larger than any he had ever had the misfortune to encounter before. A genestealer almost three times the size of those now assaulting him and his men, with talons that would put even the largest tyranid bio-beast to shame.

Red eyes met his, and he felt the creature’s hideous thoughts begin to reassert themselves in his mind. It took every ounce of will and psycho-conditioning he possessed to hold it back. It had surprised him once; it would not do so again. He raised his storm bolter and a flash of pain, like acid on flesh, ripped through him. He ignored the pain and his finger tightened on the trigger as his targeting sigil flashed red. The creature reared up on its perch, spreading its four upper limbs as if in invitation, and he could sense its amusement.

Then, it was gone. The targeting lock ceased to flash, and he cursed. The creature had not moved; it had simply vanished as if had never been. Another psyker’s trick, he thought angrily. Wherever it was, it hadn’t gone far. He could still feel its thoughts, lurking on the underside of his consciousness. It was almost as if it was speaking to him, not in words, but in impressions. Though its first attack had been parried, the duel was not yet done.

‘Captain, to your left,’ Alphaeus roared suddenly, shocking Karlaen back to attention. He turned and saw the gaping, fang-studded maw of a genestealer closing in on him. Karlaen swept the genestealer aside with a thrust of his hammer and started towards the spot where he had last seen the broodlord. If he could catch it and kill it, he and the others might yet survive this mission. If not, well, better death than the ignominy of failure. He activated the vox and said, ‘Alphaeus, hold the line until I return. If I don’t, attempt to contact the others and request extraction.’

‘Where are you going?’ Alphaeus demanded, shouting to be heard over the din.

‘Hunting,’ Karlaen said, as he charged into the darkness.

Seven

Karlaen knew that rushing off alone, out of the line, was not a particularly sound decision, strategically. Tactically, however, it made perfect sense. Behind him, his brothers were waging a desperate battle against overwhelming odds, a battle in which, under different circumstances, he had no doubt that they would triumph. But now, they were not fighting the scuttling hordes of the Hive Mind alone, but the brutal psychic domination of the broodlord as well. And that was a battle they could not hope to win. Not unless he could find it, and kill it.

He used his bulk to push through the horde, smashing genestealers with his hammer, shoulders and feet. The xenos did not swarm him, as he expected, but instead broke and flowed around him, as if given orders to avoid him at all costs. He killed those that came within reach, but took advantage of the lull to press forwards, towards the statue he had seen the broodlord perched on. If the creature wanted to meet him, he would oblige it. While the broodlord was occupied with him, it would have no attention to spare for Alphaeus and the others, or for commanding the other genestealers. Alphaeus and the others could break their enemy, while Karlaen hunted his.

And it was his enemy. What he now stalked through the shadow-haunted plaza, away from the bellicose fury of the battle behind him, was the central intelligence which had dogged them since they had arrived on Phodia several hours before. He felt it in his gut. It had harried them and slain two of them, and he was determined to see that its tally grew no larger.

Despite his determination, he felt a flicker of disquiet. His bionic eye clicked and shifted in its socket of steel, trying to pinpoint the creature as the hiss of alien whispers filled his head anew. But it was nowhere to be seen. It was as if it had been erased from his perceptions. He could not smell it, taste it on the smoke-clogged air or see it. It might as well have been a figment of his imagination.

You can hide from me, but not the machine-spirits, beast, he thought as he activated the data-capture spirits within his augur-lens. Almost immediately, a haze of blinking after-images on a one-second delay showed him the broodlord still crouched on the statue, then its leap, and the arc of its trajectory as it hurtled towards him. As the first image registered with him, he rerouted the data from his augur-lens to his storm bolter’s opti-scope, allowing his armour’s targeting system to lock onto the descending shape of the broodlord.

He fired a long burst, hoping to cut the creature in two before it reached him. Through the augur-lens, he saw it twist out of the way in mid-air and crash down into the rubble separating them. The broodlord rolled to its feet in a cloud of dust and rose up over him. It towered above his not inconsiderable height, and was easily of a size with the tyranid warriors he had faced earlier.

For an instant, they stared at one another. Then they came together with a crash of chitin on ceramite. Talons tore jagged grooves in armoured plates, and pale flesh darkened where the hammer’s energy field touched. They broke apart, but only for a moment. Karlaen spun his hammer in a tight circle, parrying a series of blinding claw strikes as the broodlord came at him again. Such was its speed, the creature caught him more than once, leaving ragged furrows in his armour. Even his genhanced reflexes were no match for the sheer, unnatural speed of the beast. It would wear him down, one vicious strike at a time.

He swung the hammer out in a wide, looping blow. The broodlord flipped backwards, avoiding the blow and landing on all fours out of reach. Karlaen snarled and fired his storm bolter. The beast began to run, and he tracked it, firing all the while. It leapt from fallen statue to wreckage pile, staying just ahead of the explosive rounds until he was forced to turn, and it leapt onto him. He staggered, his armour’s stabilisers and servos whining as they compensated for the additional weight.

It scrambled up onto him, one foot planted on his shoulder plate as it hooked its claws into the armour around his head in a splash of sparks. A hose was torn loose, spitting a hiss of air. He rolled with it, and smashed both his side and the creature into a fire-blackened column. Chips of marble spattered his face as the broodlord was sent flying. It hit the ground and slid until its claws thudded down, anchoring it in place.

The broodlord shoved itself upright as he charged towards it, roaring out an oath to Sanguinius and the Emperor both. It leapt straight up as his hammer slammed down, cracking the ground. Its feet struck the top of his armour and then it was lost in the shadows again, circling him just out of sight. He whirled, trying to catch a glimpse of it. But it was not relying on mental trickery this time, just its own speed and stealth.

Karlaen turned in a slow circle. His vox-link was still open, and he could hear the voices of his men as they fought on. He could hear other voices as well, those of Zachreal and the others as they met their own enemies in battle. The scene in which he found himself was being played out across the vast stretch of palatial ruins, in one form or another.

The genestealers and the tyranid warriors were but pieces on a board for the beast he now confronted – it could move them into position with an errant thought, and drive them berserk with equal ease. It could flood the palace with feeder-beasts and ripper swarms, or drown them in bio-beasts, if it wished.

But it did not. He knew it and could feel it. It wanted something, and it was delaying the consumption of this place until it got it. What abominable purpose was it seeking to fulfil? The question lodged itself in his mind like a splinter.

Overhead, the roiling, red sky was split by spores streaking to the planet’s surface from the tyranid vessels far above. They moved almost gracefully, like sentient creatures rather than obscene tumours of bio-matter. His armour’s sensors tracked them, recording their descent and relaying it to the Chapter fleet above automatically. More and more spores fell to earth, and the ground shook beneath him. Asphodex was dying; time was running out, both for his mission and the beast which glared at him from the shadows. He could feel its frustration boil across the surface of his thoughts, and he smiled.

‘I know you can hear me, beast,’ he said aloud. ‘I know that you understand me, though I do not know how. I will speak slowly, regardless, for your benefit.’ Karlaen could not say why he bothered to speak, save that in that instant when his mind had touched that of his enemy, he had felt something human… or something that had once been human. The thought was not a pleasant one, and he felt a chill, deep in his bones, as it occurred to him.

‘You cannot win. We will come for you, with fire and sword, and we will overturn your nests and scour every trace of your vile species from this world, even if we must crack its crust and drown it in magma to do so. Asphodex will not fall to you. We will burn it to ash before we allow you to claim dominion.’

At first, he did not think that his words had had any effect on the beast. Then came a bubbling, liquid snarl of pure malice, and with it, a torturous flood of mental imagery. This stabbed into his mind, again and again, and he took a step back, almost overwhelmed by the sheer malignancy of it.

The broodlord darted from concealment and pounced on him as he reeled. Its lower set of claws dug into his cheeks as it bent over him, its feet digging into his belly, its larger talons sunk into his armour like anchor-hooks. He staggered beneath its weight, as before, and as it lunged to sink its fangs into his face, he rammed the haft of his hammer between its teeth.

Burning driblets of saliva hissed and smoked where they touched his armour as the beast struggled to bite through the weapon. Its eyes bulged obscenely in their sockets as it flung its thoughts at him. He closed his mind, throwing up mental walls, as he had been taught during his days as an aspirant. But as fast as he raised them, the beast knocked them down. It was more powerful than any such creature he had had the misfortune to encounter.

‘What are you?’ he grunted.

Images flapped against his mind like the wings of insects against the bulb of a stab-light. He saw the Tribune Chamber, full of life and sound, and on the throne that had once stood at the far end, a man sat. No, not a man… something else. Disgust welled in him, as he began to understand. As if sensing his revulsion, the broodlord uttered a muffled shriek of rage around the haft of his weapon. A claw slid between the plates of his armour and he felt a stab of pain.

His mind wavered as the creature’s thoughts rode the pain into the depths of him. But the discordant pulse of the Hive Mind was met by the red hum that crouched sealed away in his subconscious. It rose, like a crimson tide, filling him and driving all other thought before it. Anger flared in him, and more than anger. He wanted to smash this thing, to strike it until it was no more than pulp and memory.

With a groan of servos, Karlaen forced the beast up, until it was barely holding onto him. Then, with a roar, he hurled the creature towards the statue it had been crouched upon. It struck the base of the plinth with a crack and tumbled down, limp and unmoving. The agony in his mind began to fade and he shook his head, trying to clear it. The world had gone red around him, and all he could see was the thing – his enemy – lying there, helpless.

Karlaen swung his hammer up and charged. He would end it here and now. He would see his mission accomplished. No more of his brothers would die. The red hum filled his mind, carrying him forward. The Hammer of Baal snapped out, wreathed in snapping strands of blue lightning. The broodlord–

–moved.

At the last moment, just before his hammer struck home, the creature opened one eye and flung itself aside. Whether it had been playing dead, or had actually been stunned, he could not say. It rolled away from the blow, which continued on to strike the statue. The hammer smashed through the lower section of the statue in an explosion of dust and stone splinters, and Karlaen allowed the force of the blow to spin him around.

He swung his storm bolter up as his targeting array locked onto the broodlord where it crouched, as if waiting for him. Karlaen heard the sound of stone grinding. His armour’s proximity sensors blared a warning, and he looked up, the fury draining from him as he realised his mistake. The statue crashed down atop him. Its immense weight knocked him flat and pinned him to the ground.

Sensors blared warnings into his ears as his exoskeleton groaned and creaked. The plaza cracked beneath his hands as he tried to shove himself upright. Armour plates buckled at the point of impact, and the ancient suit of armour seemed to sag about him in defeat as he tried and failed to heave the statue off himself.

A slow hiss of satisfaction escaped his opponent. The broodlord watched his struggles with a flat, red gaze, its long, sinuous tongue flickering out to taste the air. Then, when it was certain that he was not going to escape, it began to crawl towards him. Its eyes never left his as it drew closer and closer, and he knew it was taking pleasure from his predicament.

Trapped, barely able to move, Karlaen could only watch as the broodlord crept towards him, its hideous face split into what could only be a leer of triumph.

Eight

The broodlord moved slowly, savouring its moment. Karlaen struggled against the statue’s weight, trying to pull his arm free. If he could just extricate his storm bolter, he might stand a chance. But he did not think the creature was going to give him the time to do so. The rage that had held him, the red fury that had driven him to rashness, had been snuffed out like a fire doused in water. Now he was left with only cold certainty – he had been foolhardy, and now he was paying the price.

‘Come on then, beast,’ he spat. ‘Come on.’ He shifted, trying one last time to heave the statue aside. ‘Take your due, if you would, but it will be the last time, I swear to you.’

The broodlord paused and examined him, as if in amusement. Then it started forwards again, eyes locked on his face. Karlaen continued to struggle. Even if it were hopeless, even if he died here, pinned beneath a statue, he would not give up. He would not resign himself to the monster that crawled ever closer. That, in the end, was what it meant to be of the blood of Sanguinius – even if your fate were woven into the universal skein, even if your doom was in your very blood, you would not surrender. Death in the name of duty was not defeat.

‘Come on,’ he rasped. ‘Come and have your taste, vermin. Come, hurry!’ If it got close enough, he might be able to blind it, with the help of the poison created by the Betcher’s gland implanted in his hard palate. It would not be much of a victory, but it would be satisfying.

As if sensing his thoughts, it paused and eyed him suspiciously. It extended a claw, but hesitated. He felt its thoughts brush across his own, though without the urgency or ferocity of its earlier attempts. It was as if it were… curious.

His gaze caught something over the creature’s hunched form. Beyond it, high in the red sky, which was beginning to lighten as dawn approached, dark shapes fell towards the city. At first, he thought that they were more spores, then he realised that they were drop pods. The warriors of the Chapter had arrived at last, beginning the final cleansing of Asphodex. As the drop pods drew closer, he could see that mingled among them were black-armoured warriors, riding on wings of flame. A chill coursed through him as he realised what had been unleashed upon the world.

The Death Company had been loosed upon Phodia, and no tyranid would be able to stay their wrath. As if plucking the thought from his head, the broodlord tensed and twisted about to watch the invasion force descend through the roiling clouds. Orbital bombardment from the fleet above Asphodex struck the continent-spanning city, covering the Blood Angels in their descent. The newcomers hurtled closer, so close now that he could make out the red marks on their ebony power armour, and Karlaen winced as his vox spat a mangled flurry of gibberish. He glared defiantly at the broodlord. ‘Your death is coming, beast. If not by my hands, then by theirs. Scuttle back to whatever hole you crawled out of, if you would see another dawn.’

It was a desperate gambit, but it worked all the same. The broodlord turned back to him, cocked its head, and then snorted. It had apparently understood him. It turned away, as if to leave. Karlaen seized the moment. He had been rerouting power to his exoskeleton for one last gamble, and now was the time. With a grinding roar, he forced himself up. Dust and debris cascaded over him as he forced his armour to the utter limits of its load capacity and shifted the statue just enough to cause it to roll aside. Servos whining, he lunged for the beast, even as it whirled to meet him.

It avoided his awkward blow and slashed at him, driving him back against the statue. Before he could push away from it, the broodlord shot forwards, faster than his eyes, organic and bionic alike, could follow. A claw sank into his chest, puncturing an armour plate and digging into the meat within. Karlaen grunted in pain. The broodlord jerked its claw free and leapt back, out of range of any retaliatory strike. It eyed him as its long tongue flickered out to lick the blood from its claw. Then it was gone, vanished into the pre-dawn gloom.

Karlaen staggered forward, pressing a hand to his wound, as he vainly sought some sign of the beast. His superhuman enhancements were already stemming the flow of blood and sealing the wound. The vox popped and crackled in his ear. He could hear the others, and knew from the tenor of their voices that they were on the cusp of being overrun. His gambit had failed, but disaster could still be averted.

He pushed aside his pain and began to move back towards the battle, picking up speed as he went. ‘I am coming, brothers,’ he said, over the vox.

‘Did you kill it?’ Alphaeus asked over the crackling link.

‘No,’ Karlaen said, reluctantly. He did not elaborate, and Alphaeus did not press him. He caught sight of the squad as he made his way through the rubble. They had fallen back to the statue of the Emperor once more, putting their backs to it as the swarm of alien horrors sought to drag them down through sheer weight of numbers.

The vox popped and he heard familiar voices. He turned, and saw Zachreal on the steps that led into the palace, the storm bolters of his surviving squad-mates opening a path in the horde. Karlaen saw Melos and Joses as well, though they, like Zachreal, were leading the depleted remnants of their squads to the aid of Alphaeus and the others. Of the twenty Terminators who had teleported to the surface, barely half that number remained, and the survivors looked as if they had waded through the rivers of damnation. Karlaen’s gut twisted at the thought. Just like last time, he thought. He forced the memory aside and kept moving. There would be time for self-recrimination later.

A tyranid warrior rose up before him, its bone swords swinging down towards him. The creature was riddled with wounds, leaking ichor from every joint, but even half-dead it was dangerous. He blocked the blow, grimacing as the movement caused his wound to pull painfully, and shot one of its legs off. The creature fell with a scream, which he cut short with a swift blow from his hammer.

The plaza was full of hissing, clawed shapes. There were genestealers clinging to every surface, perched on every statue and tumbled column. They swarmed up the fallen length of the statue of the Emperor Ascendant, surrounding the embattled remnants of Squad Alphaeus on all sides. Fire discipline had kept the horde at bay for a brief time, but now it was the wet work of sword and fists. Karlaen heard the crackle of Zachreal’s voice in his ear and he said, ‘All units, converge on Squad Alphaeus’s transponder signal. We must push the creatures back. We must not fail–’

‘–the Emperor!’ A new voice, harsh and raw, intruded on the vox-link. The air was filled with the sound of thrusters and the grinding howl of chainswords. Black shapes, daubed in red, hurtled through the air over the plaza on wings of flame. ‘Take heart, brothers. We shall show these traitors how the Sons of Sanguinius deal with those who would defile Terra.’

A genestealer’s head was sent spinning from its neck to bounce off Karlaen’s armour with a wet thump as the Death Company sped past. Where the black-armoured berserkers passed, xenos died. Karlaen was frozen with shock, and some revulsion, as he watched the newcomers descend on the plaza with eager cries. They spoke gibberish, challenging invisible foes and calling out to friends who lived only in memory. They were the Death Company, and they were irretrievably mad – victims of the Black Rage that lurked in the heart of each and every Blood Angel. Karlaen had felt it himself more than once, riding the edge of his anger, though he had never succumbed.

The Death Company was the doom of their Chapter made manifest. It was the savagery of the Red Thirst, mingled with the inescapable madness that came upon some warriors when they were consumed by the fires of an ancient struggle and became lost in the shadow of great wings, only to be reborn in a world of rage, hatred and nothing else.

Karlaen had heard that those who were so consumed were overcome by visions and ancient memories, and could not tell the past from the present. They fought the shadows of enemies past, and believed themselves to be on Holy Terra, fighting the forces of the Arch-Traitor. Despite this, they were warriors without equal; it was as if, in their madness, they had been gifted with some small part of Sanguinius’s own strength. The warriors of the Death Company would fight until they died, and only death could quiet their rage.

Corbulo wished to eradicate the scourge of the Black Rage from the Chapter, and Karlaen knew that his mission here was tied in to that desire. But seeing the enraged Space Marines in action only pushed home the importance of finding Augustus Flax as soon as possible. More and more brothers fell to the Black Rage with every passing century, and if it were not checked, the Blood Angels might vanish into madness and despair, leaving only the echoes of what might have been to mark their passing.

Karlaen caught sight of the leader of the Death Company squad – or so he guessed by the markings on the warrior’s armour – wielding a wide-headed thunder hammer. The newcomer banked and circled the fallen statue of the Emperor. The Space Marine’s body shuddered and twitched as he dropped from the air. The paving stones of the plaza cracked beneath him as he landed, and the head of his hammer was surrounded by a nimbus of crackling energy as he swept it out, driving the genestealers back.

The rest of the Death Company followed suit, dropping from the air to crash down among the genestealers like the wrath of the Emperor given form. Even as they landed, they attacked, filling the air with gore wherever they moved. The adamantium teeth of chainswords gnawed apart chitin as fists and hammers pulverised the alien bone. The brutality of the genestealers paled in comparison to the fury of the battle-maddened Blood Angels.

The Death Company fought without discipline, each warrior a whirlwind of death, but despite this, the genestealers began to waver before them. With the absence of the broodlord, Karlaen knew the genestealers were prey to their own instincts. They were not creatures of open battle, like the tyranid warrior-broods, but beasts of shadows and cramped spaces. It was in their nature to retreat in such situations.

Karlaen whirled as his vox crackled in warning, and he smashed a leaping genestealer out of the air. He saw Zachreal and the others hurrying towards him. The Terminators were like a blood-red wedge driven into the mass of alien bodies, Zachreal, Melos and Joses in the lead. The black-haired Joses was bloody faced, the left side of his jaw bare of flesh, bone showing through. One eye was a red ruin, but he still fought on, his storm bolter hammering. Melos’s armour was blackened and stained, with only the skull set into its front free of charring, and Zachreal’s armour was covered in hundreds of deep score marks.

‘Captain, I have made a successful investigation of the upper decks,’ Zachreal rumbled as he blew a hole in the centre of a genestealer’s torso.

‘And your report?’ Karlaen said, smashing a xenos to the ground.

‘Full of genestealers,’ Zachreal said. He laughed, a great booming noise that echoed over the tumult of battle.

Joses ignored his fellow sergeant’s mirth. A genestealer leapt towards him, and he caught the creature around the chest. As it snapped at him, Joses’s head snapped forwards, catching the creature full in the face. Bone crunched, and Joses let the dead creature fall. Ichor stained his features, but Karlaen could see that he was grinning mirthlessly. Joses had always been something of a savage, he recalled. While most Blood Angels sought to distance themselves from their brute origins by refining their aesthetic senses, a few remained true to the primitive codes of the pure-blooded tribes of Baal and its moons.

‘Zachreal’s dubious attempts at jocularity aside, captain, we are at a disadvantage,’ Melos said. ‘We are facing nothing less than an army.’ He pivoted, firing at the genestealers that sought to pull him down. Slowly but surely, the Terminators were pushing their way to Squad Alphaeus’s side.

‘Yes, but that army is, for the moment, leaderless and disorganised,’ Karlaen said. He made no mention of how he knew this, and to their credit, they did not ask him. ‘We must reach the others. Together, we can drive them back.’

He joined them, taking the point of the wedge. Together, they moved towards the fallen statue of the Emperor. Alphaeus and the twins were like an island chain in a swirling sea, just barely holding themselves above the waterline. As Karlaen and the others drew closer, however, the genestealers began to scuttle away, fleeing the plaza.

Alphaeus hacked down one of the slower xenos, and his seamed face twisted in a smile as he caught sight of Karlaen. He extended his arm, and Karlaen caught his forearm in a warrior’s clasp. ‘I was worried you weren’t coming back. I would hate to have to explain to Commander Dante how I let you get yourself killed,’ he said.

‘You might still have to. This mission isn’t over yet,’ Karlaen said.

‘At least we’ve got reinforcements,’ Alphaeus said, gesturing with his sword. Karlaen turned, and saw that the Death Company had formed up around their nominal leader in a rough approximation of unit formation. They bounded across the plaza, hurdling piles of dead xenos, their chainswords licking out to lop off limbs and snarling heads as bolt pistols barked.

The black-armoured warriors were driving the bulk of the genestealers before them. The scuttling beasts scrambled up the steps and into the palace, seemingly fleeing before the Death Company. The hammer-wielding sergeant leapt over a dying genestealer, activating his jump pack as he did so, and careened towards a shrieking tyranid warrior. The beast spread its arms wide, as if in invitation, and the Space Marine smashed into it – then on through it, tearing the creature in half at the point of impact.

‘Very effective reinforcements,’ Karlaen murmured. He marvelled at the sudden change in their situation. Only a short time ago, the Blood Angels had been set to make a final stand. Now it was the tyranids who were being pushed back into the ruins.

‘But uncontrollable,’ Melos murmured gravely. ‘Why would Dante send them here, unless…’ He fell silent. Karlaen knew what he meant, but said nothing. If Dante had sent the Death Company to reinforce them, it had been because they were expendable. Only death could end their torment, and the ruins of the palace held plenty of that.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Karlaen said harshly. ‘They are here, and we must employ every weapon remaining to us to achieve our goal. The tyranids want to keep us out, brothers, so we must go in, if only to teach them the folly of such hubris.’

Before anyone could reply, a deafening bellow echoed across the plaza, and Karlaen realised that the genestealers had, perhaps, had other reasons for retreating than just the arrival of the Death Company. One of the ruined structures on the other side of the plaza from the palace steps exploded outward, as if struck by a mortar. Chunks of stone and shrapnel filled the air for a moment, heralding the arrival of a hulking shape. A second bellow, louder than the first, echoed out across the plaza.

Armed with razor-sharp talons easily the size of a man and a massive bio-cannon beneath its heavy amethyst carapace, the carnifex strode into the plaza. Bits of rubble slid from it as it stomped forwards. Its heavy, wedge-shaped skull oscillated slowly as if taking stock of the armoured figures before it. Then it reared up to its full impressive height, and let loose a cry of challenge, before it thundered forwards, the ground trembling with every step it took.

Nine

The carnifex stamped forwards, its enormous claws swatting aside broken statues, its weight causing the stone squares of the plaza to crack and buckle. The immense bio-beast levelled its bio-cannon at the closest members of the Death Company, who spiralled towards it on tails of flame, roaring out challenges in the name of the Emperor. The organic artillery piece tensed and spat a living round, its barrel venting gas from the gill slits which opened in its length as it did so.

The projectile exploded into a constricting tangle of thorny vines that lashed out and caught the Space Marines, dragging them to the ground. They hacked at the vines to no avail, and the carnifex ignored their struggles as it stormed past, intent on getting to grips with the rest of its enemies. Its tiny eyes fixed on the heavy shapes of the Terminators, and it emitted another roar of challenge.

‘Well, now it’s a party,’ Joses grunted. ‘Look at the size of him.’ He raised his power sword in readiness. ‘He’ll take some work to bring down.’

‘Work and time,’ Karlaen said. ‘And we don’t have enough of the latter.’ He raised his hammer. ‘Form up, phalanx-pattern sigma. Overlapping fields of fire, hold nothing back. If it gets to us…’

‘I’ll handle it,’ Joses said, swinging his sword experimentally.

‘See that you do,’ Karlaen said. There was no time to argue. The beast was charging towards them faster than any creature that size ought to have been able to move. Another Death Company warrior charged to intercept the creature, his chainsword held in both hands. The carnifex swung its monstrous head towards him, and the air around its jaws began to shimmer with a greasy light. There came a roar of boiling plasma, and in a flash of superheated bile, the black-armoured warrior was vaporised in mid-leap.

The carnifex continued on, lumbering through the smoke of the warrior’s passing. Its bio-cannon swung about, vomiting more strangling thorns across the plaza, and its scything talons swung out in deadly arcs, sending Death Company berserkers crashing to the ground in clouds of blood and entrails, their power armour cracked open and their torment ended. It spat plasma, incinerating anything that dared stay its progress. And when none of those weapons sufficed, it simply crashed through the opposition, be it a living warrior or an unfeeling statue. It was unstoppable, and it was heading right for Karlaen and the others.

As one, the Terminators fired. The carnifex shrugged off the explosive shells and continued to bull forwards. It would not stop, Karlaen knew, until it was dead, or until something even bigger decided to get in its way. Nevertheless, he continued to fire, his targeting array trying to find some weak point in its carapace. The ground shook beneath his feet as the carnifex closed in. Joses readied himself to meet it, his face split by a wide, feral grin. Karlaen could smell the incipient blood-lust in the other Blood Angel’s sweat, and see it building in his eyes. He hesitated, wondering if he should order the sergeant to step back. Would that stop him? Would he listen? Or was he already too far gone?

Before the question could be answered, something black smashed into the charging carnifex from the side and sent it slewing through a column. The carnifex rolled to its feet in a cloud of dust, but its attacker was on it before it could move. Metal talons, each as long as a sword blade, flashed out, carving bloody tracks in the carnifex’s flesh. The alien reared back, screaming in rage. Its cry was answered by its opponent.

‘Come, traitor. Come to Cassor. Come and fight, come and die, but come all the same,’ the vox-speakers mounted in the Dreadnought’s hull crackled. ‘Come and meet thy doom, dogs of abomination. Come and feel the angel’s wrath, curs of Angron. Come screaming or in silence, but come so that Cassor might lay thy hearts at Sanguinius’s feet. The walls of the Palace stand, the Eternity Gate remains barred and Cassor will break thy crooked spines across his knee.’

The Dreadnought, hull painted black and daubed in red, set itself as the carnifex charged towards it. The talons mounted on the ends of the piston-like arms rotated and flexed. Then one rose, revealing a storm bolter mounted beneath the claw. The storm bolter spat, and the carnifex shuddered as its already abused flesh received new punishment. It crashed into the Dreadnought and drove it back into a statue. The Dreadnought shrugged off the blow and rammed itself into the carnifex’s gut, lifting the beast into the air momentarily before smashing it down onto the ground.

‘By the wings of the Angel, it’s Cassor,’ Alphaeus breathed as he watched the battle unfold before them. Karlaen did not ask him how he recognised the Dreadnought, for there was only one Cassor.

Cassor the Chained, Cassor the Mad, Cassor the Damned – whatever name he was known by, he had been one of the greatest warriors ever produced by the Blood Angels, even before he had been interred in a Dreadnought sarcophagus, to rise and fight again after his death on some far-flung battlefield.

He was also a warning, a testament to the dark truth that even the dead were not truly safe from the curse which afflicted the Sons of Sanguinius. For almost three centuries after his death, Cassor had served the Blood Angels from the war machine’s sarcophagus, until that final, fateful day at Lowfang. In the early hours of the battle, his mind had shattered, though no one could say why. Some swore that it was the shadows of the wings of the Sanguinary Guard falling on him as they passed overhead. Karlaen suspected that there was more to it than that. Whatever the reason, however, Cassor now belonged to the Death Company and was far too dangerous to be unleashed without cause. He could barely tell friend from foe, and he was, in his own way, as monstrous as the tyranid creature he was now fighting.

‘The Damned One,’ Zachreal murmured, as he watched the battle. He looked at Karlaen. ‘Truly, our mission must be important if Commander Dante has unleashed him to aid us, captain.’

‘Were you ever in any doubt?’ Karlaen said, watching as the black-hulled Dreadnought crashed into the carnifex again. The two maddened beasts, one metal, one flesh, came together like rival bovids. The stones of the plaza were crushed and churned to rubble as they strove against one another.

‘Ho, traitor, strive and strain all you wish, you will never conquer Cassor. While Cassor stands before the gates of Holy Terra, none shall pass. Shriek, daemon. Scream out your prayers to the gods of wrong angles and shattered skies. Summon them. They shall not defeat Cassor. It cannot be done.’

Cassor’s emotionless, rasping monotone echoed across the plaza, drowning out the shrieks of the carnifex. The carnifex ripped at the Dreadnought with its huge claws, scoring the ancient armour but failing to pierce it. Cassor slashed at the beast with his own talons.

Xenos and Dreadnought reeled across the plaza, brawling through the ruins, the carnifex howling out bestial challenges as Cassor roared out gibberish in reply. Suddenly, a ceramite plate buckled, and one of the carnifex’s claws lanced down into the nest of grav-plates and fibre bundles that made up the Dreadnought’s innards. The claw crashed down through the war machine and on into the ground, pinning Cassor in place.

‘Pinned. Inconceivable. Cassor shall not stand for this, puppet of false gods. Release me, so that I might wipe thy stain from the earth,’ Cassor rumbled.

In reply, the carnifex opened its maw wide. A greasy ball of plasma began to form between its jaws.

‘Sorcery. You dare? Suffer not the witch to live, so says Cassor.’ One heavy mechanical claw closed around the carnifex’s throat, holding it in place. The beast, as if understanding what Cassor had planned, began to struggle, but to no avail. As surely as it had the Dreadnought pinned, Cassor had it held fast. Before the monster could release the burst of bile it had prepared, the Dreadnought brought up his wrist-mounted meltagun and shoved the barrel between the creature’s jaws. With a dull hiss, the back of the beast’s skull vanished in a cloud of superheated gas.

The carnifex toppled sideways, freeing Cassor in the process. The war machine shoved himself upright. His chassis rotated, as the optic augurs mounted in the hull scanned the plaza for more enemies. ‘Listen, traitors. Hear Cassor’s words: I still stand. The Emperor’s hand is upon my shoulder. I am death incarnate!’ The words echoed out over the area. But no new challengers appeared. Then, with a grinding of unseen gears and a whine of servos, Cassor the Damned stalked towards the palace, in search of new foes to slay.

In the aftermath of the carnifex’s death, silence descended on the plaza. The gore-spattered survivors of the Death Company had cleared the plaza and entered the ruins of the palace, followed by Cassor. Karlaen could hear the sounds of battle echoing from the gaping doors of the palace, and knew that some of the genestealers, at least, had not made a clean escape. He looked about, taking stock.

Alphaeus and the others joined him. Karlaen clasped the sergeant on the shoulder for a brief moment, and then turned to look at the others. ‘We still have a mission to complete, brothers. Our enemy will soon turn its gaze here, and the full might of the Hive Mind will fall on us. If we are to succeed, we must move and swiftly.’

‘We don’t even know where they are. Our searches revealed nothing,’ Melos said, his fingers playing across the curve of the skull set into his armour.

‘Yours, perhaps, but ours was more successful,’ Karlaen said. He patted the servitor head dangling from his belt. ‘I know where Flax is, and I know how to get to him.’ He smiled slightly. ‘We were right on top of him the whole time.’

‘What?’ Melos asked.

‘Easier to show you than explain,’ Karlaen said. He started towards the palace. ‘Come. Let us go claim Corbulo’s prize.’

Ten

As they entered the ruins of the palace, they could see the handiwork of the Death Company all about them. The broken, ruined corpses of genestealers and tyranid warriors lay everywhere, reeking in the dust and gloom. Karlaen led his men back to the Tribune Chamber, past the fire-blackened ruins that marked Bartelo’s final passing.

Silence descended on them as they followed the trail of carnage. The vox popped and hummed, but no voices broke the stream of static. Outside the palace, the consumption of Asphodex had entered its final stages. Parts of the planet’s crust were already being scoured of every trace of organic matter, from cowering human survivors to the mould clinging to the rocks in the deepest caves. Soon, the oceans would be drained, and the air made toxic. But the warriors of the Blood Angels and Flesh Tearers would tear up the roots of the hive fleet before then, if all went according to plan.

An eerie sight was waiting for them in the chamber. The remains of Aphrae lay broken in the centre of the Tribune Chamber, arms flung out to either side, his ruined features staring upwards towards the shattered glass of the dome above. The survivors of the Death Company surrounded the corpse, staring down at it in complete silence with something that might have been reverence. Their silence was eerie after the brutal, snarling cries that had filled the air upon their arrival. The Death Company sergeant knelt beside Aphrae, one hand on his chest, head bowed. His helmet sat on the ground beside him, and Karlaen stopped as he caught sight of the other Space Marine’s tortured features.

‘Raphen,’ he murmured. Sadness filled him, dousing his momentary sense of triumph. Raphen’s head turned, as if he had heard Karlaen, and he rose slowly to his feet. The other members of the Death Company turned, weapons raised. Madness and violence bled off them, and Karlaen felt pity and disgust in equal measure as he gazed at their twitching, shuddering forms. This, then, was what awaited him – what awaited them all – if he failed here. He could not bear to look at them, at his brothers, so distorted by rage that they were no longer proud sons of the Imperium, but instead battle-frenzied beasts.

‘Raphen,’ Alphaeus whispered. ‘You were aspirants together, were you not?’

‘We were,’ Karlaen said softly. Memories of another young aspirant, the scars of battle fresh on his body, sitting across from him in the three-day vigil that followed their selection. He remembered fighting beside Raphen on a hundred worlds, battling the Chapter’s enemies. But he had taken one path, and Raphen another and now… here they were.

There was a crash from behind them, and Karlaen, shocked from his reverie, spun, raising his weapon. The others followed suit, only a half-second more slowly. Cassor lumbered towards them from the other side of the chamber, hull painted with steaming ichor. The Dreadnought raised his storm bolter talon. ‘Who comes? Friend or foe? Announce yourselves or taste my fury.’

‘Hold, gentle Cassor,’ Raphen croaked. His voice had the raw tinge of one who had screamed himself hoarse. ‘Can you not see that these are our brothers? They wear the colours of the Legion. What word, brothers? Does the Eternity Gate still stand? What of the primarch?’ There was a terrible desperation in his words, like those of a tormented child seeking comfort. Raphen shoved past the other black-armoured warriors in his haste to meet them. ‘Has the Khan come to relieve us, as he promised? Speak, brothers.’

Karlaen hesitated, uncertain how to answer. The things of which Raphen spoke had taken place millennia ago, when Sanguinius still walked among them. He was possessed by ancient memories which were not his own, reliving battles he had never fought. He was mad and broken and Karlaen, for the life of him, could not think what to say.

He stared into the cold, blue eyes of the man he had once called a friend and said, ‘Do you know me, sergeant?’

‘I… cannot say,’ Raphen said. Insanity danced behind his eyes, and his face contorted as if he were seeking to wrestle his memories into some semblance of coherency. ‘Did we fight on the walls of the Palace together? Did we… Are we embarking for the Vengeful Spirit, brother? Has the Emperor assembled his strike force? Is it time to smite the Arch-Traitor, cowering aboard his battle-barge?’ He reached out, as if to touch Karlaen’s armour. His fingers curled into a fist before they reached Karlaen, and fell. ‘Say yes, brother. Say that the Angels are to be the point of the spear,’ he growled, half-pleadingly.

Karlaen stared at Raphen, pity wrestling against necessity within him. Then he closed his eyes and said, ‘Yes.’ He heard a soft, communal sigh rise from the Death Company. He looked at Raphen. ‘The honour of leading the advance is yours, brother. You and your men will form the tip of our spear, as we seek out the one we have come to find.’

‘And what of Cassor, brother? Is there honour here for me as well?’ Cassor rumbled. His great claws snapped together in eagerness. ‘Are there traitors to be slain? If so, Cassor will slay them.’

‘There are traitors here, mighty Cassor,’ Karlaen said. ‘You will accompany us, and rain down your wrath on those who would seek to block our way.’ He pulled the servitor’s head from his belt. ‘But first, we must find them.’

He directed Alphaeus and the others to the centre of the chamber, where they swiftly cleared away many of the bodies from a circular area. It was a seemingly innocuous patch of floor, but the information he had gleaned from the servitor’s memory showed him that this was the entrance to the undercity of Phodia. He sank to his haunches and uprooted the stone that hid the crypt-lock. He lowered the servitor head, tilting it so that its eye was in line with the lock’s sensors. There was a click, then, with a whirr, a section of the floor irised open. Bodies tumbled into the gap in a sudden avalanche.

Damaris examined the aperture. The Terminator glanced at his twin, and then said, ‘Tunnels, captain.’ He stepped back as the Death Company moved quickly past him and into the darkness. Raphen, his helmet in place once more, led them. Cassor followed, mechanisms wheezing. Karlaen watched them descend, the servitor head dangling from his grip.

Alphaeus came up beside him. ‘That is what they are here for, captain,’ he said.

‘And how long until someone says the same of us, Alphaeus?’ Karlaen said, bitterly.

‘Hopefully never,’ Alphaeus said.

Karlaen shook his head. ‘Sometimes I wonder if that is our true curse – hope. Hope that we can escape the fate that befell our brothers. Hope that we can change the inevitable.’ He looked at Alphaeus. ‘I hear it, brother. It’s like a melody I can’t help but hear, a song from an unremembered past. I heard it when I woke for the first time, after my Sanguination, and I’ll hear it when I close my eyes for the last,’ Karlaen said softly.

‘We all hear it, captain… brother,’ Alphaeus said. He raised a hand, as if to place it on Karlaen’s arm. But instead, he dropped it. ‘All that matters is whether you choose to follow it.’

Karlaen jerked his chin towards the loping, black-armoured shapes of the Death Company. ‘I don’t think they had a choice, Alphaeus. I don’t think any of us do.’

Alphaeus said nothing. Karlaen did not look at him. ‘Come. We still have a governor to find,’ he said, placing the head back on his belt and hefting the Hammer of Baal. Then, weapon in hand, he led his brothers down into the dark.

The Spawn of Cryptus watched its enemies descend into the depths of the undercity. It clung to the dome of the Tribune Chamber’s roof, hidden by the shadows and its psychic abilities. The enemy ranks had swelled, but its carefully laid out ambushes had thinned the herd, as it hoped. It did not wish them dead. Not yet.

Not until they had found its quarry for it.

The broodlord crawled along the curve of the dome, its eyes on the open access hatch. It had known of its existence, but had been unable to breach it, even with the aid of the larger bio-beasts the Hive Mind had provided. A lesser creature, one whose will was completely subsumed in the shadow of the Leviathan, would simply have allowed the ripper swarms and feeder-beasts to ferret out what openings they could find, and left the cowering remnants of the Flaxian Dynasty to a stifling death in the depths of their self-made tomb.

But its will was not a lesser one. It never had been, and though the broodlord could not defy the Leviathan, it could subvert and distract it. It had kept back the swarms of tunnelling horrors and crushing beasts, shielding the palace with its will as it set its children the task of ferreting out a way into the depths.

It had been enraged, at first, when it learned the reason for the presence of the invaders. That they had come to take that which it had sought for so long had driven it into a murderous frenzy. But when the frenzy abated, its mind had begun to work. It was not a beast, and it had once had teachers who had tutored it to the limits of their ability. It knew so many things that its mind sometimes ached with the weight of that knowledge.

It paused in its descent, waiting patiently for the last glimmer of light from its enemies to fade into the darkness. That there were depths which even it had not known of was frustrating, to say the least. But then, its quarry had always been more cunning than it seemed; cunning and treacherous. A stab of anger elicited a gurgling snarl, and its muscles tensed. Rockcrete crumbled beneath its talons as it pushed away from the wall and dropped to the floor of the chamber.

It rose to its full height, arms dangling, and looked around the chamber. Its eyes scanned the great murals – now ruined by blood, ash and impact craters – which covered the walls. It could remember them, how they had been before. On more than one night, its belly bloated with the meat of its prey, it had come here, creeping through the shadows, to sit and study them. They were its history, as much as that of its quarry. The history of Phodia, of Asphodex, of Cryptus and the Flaxian Dynasty.

The broodlord went to the closest wall, talons extended, and traced the faces painted there. It had been told the names that went with those faces, once upon a time, but it could not recall them. It could not recall many things now. The weight of the Leviathan’s shadow pressed down on its mind more each day, erasing those things which the Hive Mind had no use for. Soon, it would not be what it was, save in form. Its mind would be smoother and less complex. It would be at peace.

It traced the faces on the mural and tried to remember just one name. Just one, to satisfy itself that it was still what it had been. Its claws dug deeper and deeper into the painted, blood-spattered surface, destroying what remained as it tried to remember.

It did not fear the song of the Leviathan, or the complete sublimation of its will and individual impulses into the gestalt of the Hive Mind. But it did fear that it would occur too soon, and take with it the dreams which had driven it for so many years. The desire which had kept it alive in the dank, dark access tunnels below Phodia, after it had been betrayed and after…

The broodlord’s eyes closed. Faces, voices, scents all rose up in its mind, like ashes stirred from a dying fire. It heard snatches of music, and felt the comforting touch of one who had adored it. It heard the echo of booming laughter, and the stroke of a cloth across its muzzle, as blood and offal were wiped from jaws not yet dextrous enough to chew unaided. The fire in its head was no longer dying, and the song of the Leviathan faded into a comforting background hum as its rage was stoked.

It swung back from the wall, spreading its claws, and screamed. The scream was at once a summons and a warning, full of heat and demand. Its claws looped forwards, striking the wall, striking the faces it would soon forget, and tore great gouges in them, obliterating them.

It turned, as it heard and felt the arrival of its surviving children. They swarmed down the walls or loped across the floor, surrounding it. It felt their minds rise up below its own and it tilted its head, letting out a slow hiss of satisfaction. The way was open. Its quarry, trapped. There was nothing now, save the end.

And then, it could forget, and lose itself forever in the shadow of something greater.

Eleven

The Undercity, Flaxian Palace, Phodia

Karlaen held up the servitor’s head. The drone’s mouth twitched into motion, and a babble of binary whispers fled its vox-unit. The heavy plasteel blast door before Karlaen ground open with a groan of tortured metal. The turreted autocannons mounted to either side of the door lowered their barrels and slid back into their security-niches.

It was the seventh such door the Blood Angels had come to since descending into the darkness of the undercity well over an hour before. The undercity was a mass of ruins, canals and tunnels beneath a roof of gridwork and pipes. Water dripped down constantly, somewhere out in the dark, striking metal. The sound of it echoed through the vast stretch of the undercity, bouncing from one hard surface to the next, until the point of origin was impossible to determine, even for one with the enhanced senses of a Space Marine.

When the blast door had fully opened, Karlaen stepped aside, allowing the Death Company to enter beyond first. It galled him to do so, but Alphaeus was right. The black-armoured warriors were here for one reason and one reason only – so that by their death his mission might prove successful. Nonetheless, the thought of it tore at him, even as it drove him on. If he were successful, then Raphen and his warriors might be among the last such doomed berserkers. It was too late for them, and for Cassor, lurching in their wake, but not for the rest of the Chapter.

He followed the Death Company through the blast door, along with the other Terminators. The vox was silent; noise discipline was being enforced now. Helmets had been retrieved and no flesh was visible, to guard against possible chemical attacks. The Terminators moved without speaking, their attentions fixed firmly on their sensors.

The undercity was the sort of battlefield with which they were all painfully familiar – cramped and crowded, full of shadows and noise. The ground vibrated with the hum of the hidden generators which powered the undercity and kept the air circulating, and ruptured pipes spat steam into the damp air. Alien mould was already growing in the nooks and crannies, and in places the floor had buckled, allowing the first, pale shoots of newborn spore-chimneys to peek through into the dim, artificial light.

The Death Company were waiting on the other side of the blast door when Karlaen passed over the threshold. They murmured to one another unintelligibly or stared ahead with fixed intensity, their powerful frames twitching with impatience. The reason for this was readily apparent – their path forward was blocked by a vast vacuum-lock portcullis, its cog-toothed blast door marked by the seal of the Flaxian Dynasty.

There were no sentry-weapons on display or combat-servitors standing guard. Karlaen hesitated, considering. His armour’s sensors scanned the door and the immediate area, trying to discern some trap or pitfall. When none was forthcoming, he hefted the servitor’s head and stepped forwards as he had before. The servitor twitched in his grip, its jaws unhinging to a disturbing degree as multiple vox-units mounted in its throat sprang to life and spat duelling glossolalia of what might have been code, prayers or something else entirely.

With a hiss of escaping air, the massive portcullis cycled open. After the gloom of the sub-city, it took Karlaen’s senses time to adjust to the splendour which was revealed behind the secondary blast door. Outside and above, the city of Phodia was a rain-soaked ruin, hunched beneath spore clouds, the streets thick with signs of alien infestation. The undercity was not much better – long-neglected areas collapsed in on themselves, while overhead, the dull glow of illuminators flickered and grew weaker with every passing hour.

But here there was no sign of power failure or tyranid infestation. Empty buildings lined broken streets, beneath a humming solar illuminator that cast its radiance across the vaulted reaches of this protected enclave. Karlaen took in the faded grandeur of the city-within-a-city at a glance. The servitor head squawked and fell silent. Through his armour’s connection to the decapitated head, he could see that they had found the object of their search at last. He quickly unhooked the servitor and re-attached it to his belt. It still had some use left in it – specifically, plotting the quickest course out of the undercity.

‘What is this place?’ Alphaeus muttered.

‘A hideaway,’ Karlaen said. ‘A home away from home, in the event of a planetary disaster. Or so our friend told me.’ He patted the servitor’s head.

‘Big for a hideaway,’ Alphaeus said.

‘It’s meant to house a significant portion of Phodia’s necessary population. I wondered why so many of them sought sanctuary in the Tribune Chamber.’ Karlaen looked around. ‘The tyranids breached the palace’s defences before they had a chance to evacuate, I expect.’

‘Or he left them to die,’ Alphaeus said.

Karlaen made to reply, but fell silent. That was all too likely. Different men reacted differently in moments of danger and loss. Some found wellsprings of courage undreamt of, while others cowered beneath the bodies of braver men and hoped to ride out the storm. Was Flax hidden away down here, he wondered, while above, his people fought to the last against an indefatigable enemy? Whatever the answer was, Karlaen did not intend to leave until he found out. He made to order the advance, but was beaten to the punch.

‘The city is silent, brothers. The traitors await. Let us hunt,’ Cassor rumbled, and started forwards, claws snapping together in barely restrained fury. The Death Company fell in around the Dreadnought, loping through the winding streets, their rasping mutters and unintelligible cries spreading through the stale air. Karlaen held the Terminators back, just for a moment. In the open now, some of the Death Company had begun to hack and hew at imaginary enemies. He knew, with sickening certainty, it would not do to get too close to them, not now.

‘Eyes open, brothers. Sensors to full extension, with geosynchronous positioning. I want this hideaway of Flax’s mapped and recorded, just in case a hasty exit is called for.’ Karlaen started forwards, Alphaeus, Leonos and Damaris fanning out around him. The other squads did the same, until a rough line of crimson-armoured giants was moving steadily through the seemingly abandoned city.

Before they had moved very far, however, Karlaen saw Raphen stop. The Death Company sergeant trembled like a dog catching a scent, his head cocked. Then, with a shout, he began to bound through the ruins. His warriors followed, and Cassor lumbered in their wake, pistons wheezing as he picked up speed.

‘What did they–’ Alphaeus began.

Karlaen held up a hand.

‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Music.’ He recognised the haunting melody which had attracted the attention of the Death Company. It had been part of the initial briefing on Asphodex and the Cryptus System. The Blood Angels always included such items of cultural relevance in briefings; a people’s culture was a window into the way they thought. The song was an ode to the glories of the Flaxian Dynasty, a hymn to their wisdom, forbearance and courage. Karlaen did not find it strange that it should be playing here and now; humans often sought comfort in the past when the future proved too frightening. Indeed, the music gave him heart – if it were still playing, there was a good chance that Flax, or one of his family, still lived.

He moved quickly, following the Death Company. If the maddened Space Marines reached the source of the music first, there was no telling what might happen. Alphaeus and the others followed. The Terminators trudged through the tight, winding streets until they reached a central plaza, wider than the Plaza of the Emperor Ascendant, and filled with life and sound. The plaza was occupied by a massive garden. Wilted alien flowers gave off a riot of strange, cloying scents which did little to mask the odour of excess rising from the occupants of the plaza.

Everywhere, noble men and women, the scions of Asphodex’s greatest noble houses, lay senseless, or as good as, in the grass. Bottles of rare intoxicants, some banned by Imperial law, lay strewn about, and billowing obscura censers pumped hazy vapours into the perfumed air. In the centre of this scene of decadence, surrounded by attentive slave-servitors, an ancient man reclined feebly on a floating bed of silks and cushions. As Karlaen looked at the old man, a warning light flashed in his helmet, alerting him to the proximity of the genetic sequence he had been sent to claim.

Before he could act, however, there was a creak from the network of pipes, grates and illuminators above. Proximity warnings flashed and he looked up, expecting to see genestealers crawling along the roof of the hidden city. Instead, he caught a flash of metal, as a number of combat-servitors dropped from the roof to interpose themselves between the newcomers and the aristocratic loungers.

The servitors were repulsive things, made to order, and shaped more like the tyranids they were on guard against than the humans they were protecting. Jointed limbs stuck out from serpentine bodies composed of segmented, armoured sections, and human faces glared out from within cobra-hoods of ceramite. Karlaen snatched the servitor head from his belt, hoping that it could get them past the combat-servitors without violence.

They were little threat to the Blood Angels, but there was every chance that the man they had come to find might be caught in the crossfire. Luckily, the drones did not seem to be armed with anything more than blades. They were a last line of defence, rather than proper weapons-servitors; bodyguards whose only goal was to see that their masters remained undisturbed in the final hours of their existence.

Before he could present the head, Raphen gave a shout and the Death Company bounded forwards, weapons ready. The combat-servitors moved forward to meet them with eerie grace, bladed limbs whirring. Raphen ducked under the lunge of the lead servitor and rose up beneath it, catching it with his shoulder and flipping it over his back. As the servitor tried to right itself, Raphen snapped around and drove his hammer into the drone’s head, crushing it with one blow. The serpentine body spasmed and then fell still.

The Death Company swarmed over the rest of the marble-fleshed drones like ants, hacking and shooting. The servitors fought with single-minded intensity, but they were no match for their attackers. The last of the brass-limbed monstrosities fell to Cassor, who crushed its skull in his claw and slung the twitching remains aside. They crashed down at Karlaen’s feet as he increased the volume of his vox-unit and roared out, ‘Hold!’

Raphen, thunder hammer raised, ready to spill the brains of a prostrate noble, turned. Karlaen met his gaze and several tense moments passed before the sergeant lowered his weapon. His warriors followed suit, albeit reluctantly. The combat-servitors had raised the ire of the Death Company, and they were eager to shed blood in the name of the Emperor.

‘Why are we not killing these degenerate sybarites, brothers? What purpose do they serve? Cassor can smell the Phoenician’s stench on this place, and he would cleanse it.’ Cassor turned slowly, blades clicking impatiently.

‘Stay thy wrath, mighty Cassor. There will be time enough for killing before we are done here, I fear,’ Karlaen said calmly.

The Dreadnought twisted to face him, and Karlaen forced himself to remain where he was. The blood-red optic lenses mounted on the black hull whirred and focused in on him. Cassor extended a talon towards him. The tip of one of the blades touched his chestplate with a soft ting.

‘I know you.’

Despite the emotionless basso rumble the words were delivered in, Karlaen could hear the uncertainty there. He steeled himself and said, ‘And I know you, mighty Cassor, hero of Lowfang and Demeter’s Fall. I know that you are a true son of Sanguinius.’

‘I… I am a true son. I hear the Angel’s voice, brother. I see his face, in yours. I… I will stay my wrath, brother. For now.’ Cassor lowered his claw and turned away. Karlaen let out a slow breath. He turned back to Alphaeus and motioned for his second-in-command to follow him.

The intoxicated nobles had not reacted to the brief melee, and they did not react when Karlaen and Alphaeus moved through them towards Flax. The old man remained as insensate as his followers until Karlaen was looming over him. When Flax registered first the shadow and then the grizzled, golden-haired giant who cast it, his rheumy eyes widened in sudden panic. He began to babble in fear as Karlaen drew close.

‘Governor Flax, I presume,’ Karlaen said. ‘I am Captain Karlaen of the Blood Angels Chapter and the Baal Expeditionary Force. I have been ordered to see to your immediate evacuation. If you will come with us, we will get you to safety.’

Flax’s eyes narrowed. The fear was gone, replaced by something else. Resignation, perhaps, or exhaustion. The old man shook his head and slumped back into his cushions. ‘I am Flax, aye. And your orders mean nothing to me, captain.’ The old man smiled mirthlessly. ‘You see, if you are here, then I am already damned.’

Twelve

‘Damned?’ Karlaen said, slightly startled by the old man’s matter-of-fact dismissal. Humans, even politically powerful ones, were wont to be slightly in awe of the warriors of the Adeptus Astartes. They were the Emperor’s word given form, and few were the men brave enough to match their gaze and not quail back from them. Flax did not seem to be a brave man. Perhaps it was simply that fear had been burned out of him.

‘Oh yes, and not a moment too soon,’ Flax said, lolling among his cushions. ‘I half feared you were him, at first. Now I see that his game has been interrupted. He will blame me, of course, as he always has, and he will have no choice but to bring an end to it.’ He smiled. ‘For that, I must thank you, captain.’

‘Who is “he”? Who are you talking about?’ Karlaen asked, knowing the answer even as the words left his mouth.

‘The beast, captain. You’ve seen it – fought it. I can tell.’ Flax reached out with a withered, liver-spotted hand as if to trace one of the many long gouges in Karlaen’s armour. His fingers stopped short, however, and he pulled his hand back to clutch it against his chest. He smiled wearily. ‘As telling as a signature, those marks. I’ve seen their like more times than I care to admit in my life. On doors and walls and, aye, on the bodies of my people.’

Karlaen touched the mark as he gazed at Flax. ‘The broodlord has been on Asphodex for some time, then.’ It was not unheard of – creatures like the broodlord had been reported on many worlds just before those planets came under threat from one tendril or another of a hive fleet. The creatures seemed to act as a beacon for the hive ships. They would lurk unseen for years, decades even, waiting for the right time to summon their hungry kin across the bleak stars to feast on the bio-matter of their chosen hunting ground.

‘Broodlord – is that what you call it?’ Flax chuckled. ‘My people called it the Spawn of Cryptus, as if it were a curse on the whole system rather than just this world.’ His smile faded. ‘Maybe it was – a sign of the Emperor’s displeasure with us if there ever was one.’

‘The Emperor had nothing to do with that creature,’ Karlaen said.

Flax gestured morosely. ‘Oh, to be sure. I know full well where the fault lies, captain.’ He grinned crookedly and patted his sunken chest. ‘With us, with the dynasty of Flax. We are damned, captain, and rightly so, for that thing, that beast, is our burden. It is our sin made manifest.’ The old man jerked forwards to cough into a clenched fist. Karlaen, alarmed, immediately ran a sensor scan of the old man. Humans were astonishingly fragile, and if Flax were broken or ill, it would hamper the extraction effort.

Flax’s coughing faded into a wet wheeze, and he shook his head. ‘Our sin,’ he said again. ‘Mine and my parents’, captain. A sin I allowed to stay buried, hoping that the shadows and years would swallow it. That it would crawl into the depths and die. But not everything dies in the dark… Some things take root and flourish.’ He looked up towards the pipes and grating that made up the roof. ‘And now here I am, cowering underground. Full circle,’ he muttered.

‘What are you talking about?’ Karlaen said. Something about the old man’s words had pricked his curiosity. He was afraid, but his fear was not of the tyranids, Karlaen thought. Flax looked at him.

‘My brother,’ the old man said, simply. ‘My brother, Captain Karlaen. You met him, briefly.’ He gestured to the claw mark on Karlaen’s armour. ‘And he made quite the impression.’ Flax’s eyes closed and he hunched forwards again, fists pressed to his eyes. ‘My Emperor-be-damned thrice-cursed brother, whose throne I took for the benefit of my people, much good as it has done them.’ He stiffened, and looked up again, eyes bulging. ‘Do you hear me Tiberius, you gangling monstrosity?’ he snarled, shaking his fist aimlessly. ‘I know you’re listening, little brother. I took your throne and I’d do it again, a thousand times over, no matter the consequences.’

Karlaen reached out to steady the old man. As Flax was overcome by another coughing fit, Karlaen shared a look with Alphaeus, who frowned and tapped the side of his head. Karlaen looked down at Flax again, then shook his head. No, Flax was not insane. Karlaen suspected there was a horrid truth to the old man’s ranting; he had seen it before, though only rarely. It was as abominable a heresy as any which existed.

Wheezing, Flax said, ‘Satys, captain, that’s where it began. I was a boy at the time, learning my limits here in the centre of our power, when my parents left on a trade mission.’ Flax’s face contorted. ‘When they finally returned, they weren’t my parents anymore. Everyone knew, everyone could see… something had changed. My mother was… pregnant, and the child was to be the new heir.’ He spat the words like bullets. ‘I was set aside as if I were nothing more than a placeholder.’ Wrinkled hands curled into trembling fists. ‘Set aside for a child yet unborn.’

Far above, something clanged hard – metal striking metal. Karlaen looked up. His bionic eye scanned the roof of the undercity, but there was nothing to see. He glanced at Alphaeus, who nodded and gestured to Zachreal, who stood some distance away with the others. The Terminator made his way towards them, gently shooing drunken nobles from his path. Alphaeus moved to meet him. Karlaen turned back to Flax, confident that Alphaeus would know what to do. ‘And when it was born?’ he asked.

‘It was not human,’ Flax hissed. His eyes were glassy, as his mind wandered back into memory. ‘He was a monster from the first, a mutant, I thought, but he – it – was something far worse. Oh, they doted on him, though. They loved him as they had once loved me.’ His voice became a savage rasp. ‘After the first assassination attempt, they hid Tiberius away, below the palace… Here, in fact. This was his world for so many years,’ Flax said, raising his skinny arms to indicate their surroundings. ‘His playmates were servitors, and his few visitors… Well, they never left.’

Flax dropped his hands into his lap and stared at them. ‘Dissidents and criminals, mostly. Though I know father, in his infinite foolishness, tried to arrange a marriage for him. They found the girl’s body floating in a sump pipe some months later.’ Flax smirked. ‘That was the moment the nobility rallied around me. I was old enough then to know which way the wind was blowing, and since my parents had seen fit to abandon me, well… It was easy to reciprocate.’ His smirk faded and he twitched nervously, as something rang hollowly, far above among the pipes. Karlaen saw Zachreal and two others moving off, away from the group, weapons ready. They would investigate and report back any sign of the enemy.

Karlaen could feel their presence, though the sensors showed no sign of them. There were thousands of kilometres of tunnels, ducts and pipes between where they now stood and the palace above. It was inconceivable to him that the genestealers had not found a route down here at some point and time, regardless of Flax’s assumption that his defences had kept them at bay. He looked back at the old man. ‘You became governor,’ he prompted.

It was not curiosity now which drove his line of questioning, but the need for information. It was on Satys that Corbulo had discovered the secrets of the Flaxian bloodline, and developed his theory that they might hold the key to freeing the Blood Angels of their twin curses. And it was on Satys that this monstrosity who now dogged his steps had originated. It was possible that it was a coincidence. It was also possible that whatever factor made the Flaxian genetic structure so valuable to Corbulo had also played a part in the corruption of Flax’s parents. And before he escorted Flax from the ashes of his kingdom, Karlaen intended to find out which it was.

‘Yessss,’ Flax said, drawing the word out. ‘An orderly transition of power, backed by the nobility, whose sons and daughters now loll insensate here with me in my final hours. It is the least I could do for them, for services rendered.’ He coughed again and then laughed. ‘Make no mistake, captain, they did not help me out of the goodness of their shrivelled, ambitious hearts – no, they were frightened. Can you imagine the nightmare that would have followed Tiberius’s coronation? The people would have risen up, there would have been a civil war, and all the good the Flaxian Dynasty had done would have been unmade in an eye blink.’

There was a certain amount of sense there, Karlaen knew. Genestealers undermined societies from within, damaging the social and political structure as well as corrupting the bodies and souls of the populace. They were a virus, unleashed on worlds and sectors in order to make them ripe for the coming of the hive fleet.

‘You killed your own parents,’ Alphaeus said, speaking up for the first time. There was a hint of revulsion in his voice. Flax noticed it, and his lips peeled back from his teeth in a feral grimace.

‘Not willingly, I assure you,’ he rasped. His eyes closed and he leaned back, his hands flexing uselessly, as if they yearned to grip someone’s throat. ‘I still loved them, even then. You should have known them in their prime, captain. My father with his booming voice and hearty laugh. My mother, quiet and stern – the perfect match for him, the blade to his bludgeon. Between them, they brought this sector to heel in a way no other Flax had ever managed. And in the end, they were reduced to ruin by their love for a foul, unfeeling beast.’ He grunted and shifted his weight on his bed. ‘I had to kill them – there was no other way. It was Tiberius. They were protecting him, protecting him from me, their true son.’ His words came fast now, tripping over each other.

Flax pounded his chest. ‘I was their son. Me! I was the heir, not him. Not that squalling, shrieking thing.’ He glared at Karlaen. ‘Imagine it, captain. Imagine sharing your life, your parents, your world, with a parasite… with a thing that creeps into your chamber at night, and strokes your face in a parody of brotherly affection. A thing that follows you through the vents of the palace, always watching you, always snuffling at your heels, as if it were a real child and not some star-born abomination come to steal everything. Do you hear me, Tiberius? Are you listening, Spawn of Cryptus? It was mine. All of it, and our parents – my parents – deserved death for what they allowed you to make of them,’ he shrieked.

He sagged back into his cushions. ‘And I deserve it too. For what you made of me, brother,’ he muttered. He looked at Karlaen. ‘When I had… When it was done, I found that he was gone. Escaped into the undercity of Phodia.’

The illuminators overhead flickered. The vox clicked and crackled. Karlaen turned and saw Zachreal and the others he had left with hurrying back towards the group. Somewhere, pipes rattled.

Alphaeus drew his power sword. ‘We must go, captain. It is past time, and the rest of his story can wait for later.’

A flicker of a smile crossed Flax’s age-ravaged features. ‘He will not let me go, captain. He has spent decades reminding me of my crime, haunting my capital and breeding more of his filthy kind in the dark places. He was ever just out of the corner of my eye, one turn behind, trailing me down through the years. My father taught him how to hunt, and my mother taught him patience. And now, at the end of all things, he wants to enjoy the kill.’

The slave-servitors arranged around Flax’s bed suddenly stiffened. As one, their mouths opened and a hollow, mechanical monotone said, ‘Void-gate epsilon open – void-gate gamma open – western defence grid offline.’

Then, with a harsh crackle, the lights went out across the undercity.

Thirteen

The stab-lights on the Terminators’ armour immediately hummed to life, as did the spotlights mounted on Cassor’s hull. The darkness was pierced by dozens of shafts of light, and in that light, familiar, bestial shapes raced forward.

‘Contact, grids seven, ten, twelve, fifteen,’ Zachreal rumbled. Similar statements followed as the Terminators formed themselves into a wedge. Storm bolters roared, and the genestealers retreated, fading away into the dark like ghosts.

Alphaeus looked at Karlaen. ‘Time to go, captain. Gather our prize.’

Karlaen plucked Flax from his bed without ceremony.

The old man squawked, but did not resist. ‘No, don’t you understand,’ he babbled. ‘He’s coming. There’s no escape.’

‘Let him come,’ Karlaen said. He felt the heat of his rage building in him. He remembered Aphrae vanishing beneath a tide of chitin, and Bartelo toppling forwards, his flame extinguished. He remembered others, more than he cared to count, warriors who had followed him into the dark, against the enemy he now faced here on Asphodex, and had died because of him. He had thought to carry the light of the Chapter into the darkest recesses of the galaxy, and he had paid the price for his hubris. Come beast, he thought, with savage longing. Come and pay your debt, for Aphrae and Bartelo and all of the others whose blood stains your claws.

‘Cowards! The dark shall not hide you from the Emperor’s light. Come out and fight, or die in the dark. Make your choice,’ Cassor roared, as if echoing his thoughts. The Dreadnought hurled his words into the dark like artillery fire and clashed his claws together. ‘Come, dogs of Chemos. Come vermin of Nostramo. Fight Cassor the mighty or be damned for your timidity.’

Raphen and the rest of the Death Company shared the Dreadnought’s eagerness. They fanned out, weapons at the ready, forming a barrier between the Terminators and the enemy that lurked in the dark. Soon the air was full of the growling of chainswords and the bark of bolt pistols as the Death Company fired at darting shadows.

The intoxicated nobles were beginning to sober up, Karlaen saw. He felt a flash of regret as he pressed forward, shoving some of them aside with force. They could not be allowed to detain him or his battle-brothers. Men and women screamed as he trod on them, or swatted them from his path. Flax railed at him, pounding withered fists on his armour. Karlaen ignored the screams and curses both as, holding Flax to his chest, he moved towards the other Terminators, Alphaeus following close behind. ‘Brothers, we must withdraw to the entrance,’ Karlaen said as he moved. ‘Formation beta-ten, squad by squad. Covering fire, concentrate on the flanks. Let Raphen and the Death Company handle the rest. Joses, take point. We make for the Plaza of the Emperor Ascendant.’

‘Gladly, captain,’ Joses growled. Blade in hand, the dark-haired Blood Angel moved to the tip of the wedge and began to stride towards the entrance. Genestealers came out of the dark, and fell to Joses’s blade or the storm bolters of the others. Above it all, Karlaen noticed that the grinding metal sound he had noted earlier growing in volume. The air grew damp, and his armour’s sensors flashed in warning. He looked up, his bionic eye focusing in at last on the source of the noise and water.

Far above, the great sewer sluice gates which ran from the city above ground open, unleashing both alien invaders and a torrent of filthy water onto the streets below. Waterfalls of rain slammed down hard enough to rupture the street and sweep several Death Company warriors from their feet. Weak red light filtered down from above, illuminating the dark all around them, as the undercity began to slowly flood. Heavy shapes descended, dropping down from the sluice gates to crash onto the street, causing it to crack and shudder. Karlaen felt a tremor of alarm as he saw the familiar, hulking shape of a carnifex rise to its full height amidst the unceasing downpour.

The lenses of his eye cycled and clicked, bringing the lumbering monster into clear focus. Its skull was discoloured by a ruinous, newly healed wound, but it moved as quickly as he recalled.

‘Is that…?’ Alphaeus asked.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Karlaen grunted. ‘We’ll kill it again, if we have to. We’ll kill them as many times as it takes.’

As water thundered down around them, the Blood Angels made ready to receive their enemy. Genestealers sprinted through the ranks of the Death Company as tyranid warriors and the newly arrived carnifex crashed into the berserkers. The multi-limbed aliens slewed through the rising water, bounding to the attack and, in some cases, on past the Terminators towards easier prey. Karlaen heard the screams behind him. He hesitated, tempted to turn back, to try and save someone, anyone.

Alphaeus caught his shoulder. ‘You can’t, captain. We have our orders. Flax brought them down here to die, and that’s what they’re doing. The longer the genestealers are occupied chewing on Phodia’s upper crust, the longer we’ve got to get Flax to the plaza and off this dying hunk of rock.’ His words were harsh, but not unfeeling. Karlaen knew that Alphaeus and the others were wrestling with the same urge to go back, to protect those men and women they had left behind. But to do so would be to condemn their mission to failure. They had what they had come for, and now it was time to leave.

Karlaen trudged on, ignoring the screams of the dying and the damned. Ahead of him, he saw Raphen spiral through the air, propelled by his jump pack, his crackling thunder hammer lashing out to crush and maim the enemy. Several of his men followed suit, hurtling over their fellows to land amidst the genestealers briefly, killing and then moving on.

The Blood Angels pressed on, creating a bloody path through any genestealer or tyranid that tried to stop them. But the creatures came on regardless of how many fell. Karlaen could feel the itch in his brain that said Flax’s abominable sibling was nearby, driving its servants to the attack. Between the darkness and the water pouring down from above it would be next to impossible to pinpoint the beast, even if he had been tempted to do so.

The wound in his chest ached at the thought. It had already sealed itself, but the memory of the claw punching into him was hard to shake. He had been wounded before, and many times, over the course of his service to the Chapter, but this one was different. It was almost personal, as if the broodlord had wanted to leave him something to remember it by. He touched the punctured spot on his armour with the tip of his hammer, and felt a tugging at his mind.

Then Flax was screaming in his ear and he came back to himself, knee-deep in water, as genestealers exploded upwards, claws reaching for him. Karlaen swung his hammer with a roar, bashing one of his attackers off its feet, but the others slammed into him, grabbing his legs and his arm, trying to pull him down.

‘Captain,’ Alphaeus shouted, turning towards him. The sergeant hammered his power sword down on the back of one beast’s skull, killing it instantly.

The others swarmed over Karlaen, dragging him to one knee through sheer weight of numbers. Flax screamed as talons sought his withered flesh. Thinking quickly, Karlaen hefted the old man and tossed him towards Alphaeus. The sergeant caught him as he beheaded a leaping genestealer with a sweep of his blade.

‘Keep going,’ Karlaen snarled, trying to fight his way to his feet. He tore the servitor head from his belt and sent it sailing after Flax. ‘Take this – go, brother. I will join you when I can.’

Alphaeus did not protest. He caught the head and shoved it into Flax’s trembling hands. Then, with a grimace of frustration, he turned and began making for the exit. Karlaen saw the closest Terminators form up around him like a phalanx, cordoning him off. Then they were lost from sight as genestealers closed in around him. Karlaen rammed the haft of his hammer into one’s gut and flung it off him. He surged to his feet as the others closed in, his storm bolter rising. The weapon roared, and alien bodies burst like overripe fruit as he swept the storm bolter in a line.

Suddenly, there was a shriek, and a bulky form slid through the water, smashing aside genestealers. Karlaen sidestepped the bleeding, reeking hulk as it slowed and came to a stop. The carnifex whined deep in its mangled throat as it sought to heave itself upright to continue the fray, but its limbs were nothing but dead weight now, broken and pulled out of shape. A heavy shape stomped towards it, and with a grumbling hiss, Cassor’s meltagun carved a blackened tunnel through the beast’s head for a second time.

The Dreadnought was covered in ichor and battle scars. Hoses flapped free as Cassor spun back and forth, firing his weapons in a wide arc. Something sparked inside his chassis, and Karlaen could smell burning promethium and scorched metal. The Dreadnought’s limbs groaned and wheezed, but he fought on. ‘Come, come and meet death, traitors. Come and feel the bite of my blade.’

Cassor twisted, backhanding a genestealer in mid-leap and sending it flying into a nearby building with enough force to pulverise the beast. More leapt and clawed at the Dreadnought, scrambling over him in a wave of talons and teeth. Cassor roared and slashed at the living wave, killing genestealers with every flick of his talons. But there were always more, and soon the Dreadnought was lost to sight, enveloped in a tide of chitin.

Karlaen swept his hammer out in a wide arc, sending the closest of the Dreadnought’s attackers flying. He fired his storm bolter at those that got past him, and almost paid the price for his inattentiveness. Only the screech of his armour’s sensors and his own combat-honed instincts warned him in time to avoid having his skull split like a melon. A tyranid warrior sprang out of the streaming water, its bone swords slicing at him. He avoided the first blow, but the second caught him high on the shoulder. The force of it staggered him, and he nearly fell. The tyranid seized the opportunity and came at him, all four blades hammering down in a cruel rhythm.

He stumbled back, caught off balance and unable to retaliate. The tyranid continued its attack, driving him steadily back. Genestealers scuttled out of reach, like wolves waiting for their prey to tire itself out. The tyranid shrieked and blocked his awkward attempt to push it away. Karlaen cursed himself for a fool and tried to regain his footing. A genestealer darted in, and he felt a slash of pain crawl up the back of his leg. Momentarily weakened, he sank down to one knee. The tyranid kicked out with one bony hoof and caught him in the side, knocking him onto his back in the rising water.

Karlaen floundered for a moment which seemed to stretch for an eternity. Better warriors than him had died in worse ways, and more foolish, but that was small comfort. If he died, the failure of his mission was almost certain. Rage built in him, and his thoughts were drowned in a persistent hum of red. The tyranid stabbed down at him, four blades angled to pierce two hearts. It had seemed so fast before, but now, in the red, it was slow. He could see the droplets of water crawling along the length of the blades, and hear the sound they made as they pierced the air in their descent.

The Hammer of Baal rose from the water and whipped out. Four bone blades shattered. The tyranid warrior, over-extended, leaned forward. Karlaen’s hand shot up, catching its lower mandible. Servos hissed and he wrenched the creature’s jaw from its skull. It reared back in pain and surprise, and he shoved himself to his feet, clasping his hammer in both hands as he brought it around for another blow. There was no thought of tactics or strategy now, only a boiling need to see the ichor of his foe spill into the murky waters that rose around them.

Karlaen battered the creature, knocking it one way and then the next, until finally it sank to its knees, its carapace covered in scorched craters and spider-webbed cracks. He raised his hammer and brought it down with a snarl, caving in the tyranid’s skull. As it fell, he turned, rage not yet sated, to look for new enemies.

The genestealers which had been harrying him were only too happy to oblige. They came in a rush, darting in at him from all sides, moving too fast for him to follow, distracted as he was. Claws punctured his armour in places, opening fresh wounds, and he roared. As he fought, he struggled to swim free of the crimson murk which had settled over his mind. He was not yet lost to the Red Thirst, and he forced himself to concentrate on the pain, using it to centre himself once more. To lose himself now would be to lose everything.

As if sensing his new focus, the genestealers redoubled their attack, piling onto him without heed to casualties. For every one he swatted from him, two more clawed at him, trying to pull him down off his feet again, where he would be easy prey.

Through the haze of battle and the spray of murky water, he saw that Alphaeus had reached the gate at last, Damaris and Leonos to either side of him. The barrels of the twins’ storm bolters glowed white-hot as they held back the tide. The rest of the Terminators were equally beset, fighting for their lives against tyranids and genestealers alike. Nonetheless, Alphaeus had reached the gate. Relief flooded through him, only to be stolen in a moment.

As Alphaeus lifted the servitor head to open the blast doors, a shape darted down the great stone wall which housed the exit. Karlaen voxed a warning and raised his storm bolter. He fired, his targeting array fighting to keep a lock on the shape. Bolter rounds chewed the wall around the beast as it moved. A band of light caught it and Karlaen felt a chill as he recognised the broodlord. It had been waiting for them. It had allowed its kin to harry them, drive them to distraction, so that it might claim its prize.

As he watched, the broodlord dropped down among the Terminators, its claws flashing out to vivisect one unlucky warrior. Ancient armour, a relic of a golden age, tore like paper beneath its claws, and blood filled the air. The Terminator fell, and the broodlord vaulted over the tumbling body to reach Alphaeus.

Karlaen charged forwards, bowling over a hissing genestealer, knowing that as he did so he would not be in time. Joses moved to intercept the creature, his blade flashing out, carving sparks from the wall as the broodlord weaved beneath the blow. Four talons shot forwards and punched through the Terminator’s chestplate. Joses coughed blood and sagged against his killer. The broodlord heaved the dying Blood Angel backwards, slamming his dead weight into Alphaeus.

The sergeant staggered, and the broodlord was on him a moment later. The creature plucked a screaming Flax from Alphaeus’s grip and bounded into the darkness on the other side of the blast doors as they cycled open at last. Even as the broodlord vanished, its children took its place, boiling through the open blast doors and washing over the Terminators. Storm bolters fired and power weapons hummed, but the Blood Angels were pinned in place by their attackers, unable to follow the broodlord.

Karlaen, still charging towards the exit, paid no heed to the creatures which pursued him, and he was knocked to the ground by them just before he reached the others. The genestealers swarmed over him, pinning his arms and tearing at his armour. He thrashed, trying to hurl them off, but there were too many. One raised a claw over his head, ready to end him. The Red Thirst pounded in his skull, and his thoughts jangled incoherently as he faced his death.

‘No, brother. Thy doom is not writ this day. No son of Baal shall perish so ingloriously, not as long as Cassor stands.’

Cassor loomed over him, scattering genestealers with a gesture. The Dreadnought’s claws snapped out and sank into a genestealer’s body. The creature screeched in agony as Cassor plucked it from Karlaen’s chest and lifted it into the air. ‘Heed my words, ye traitors. Thy cause is dust and Cassor shall cast down thy champions.’

The Dreadnought spun, hurling the genestealer at a knot of its fellows and bowling them over. The storm bolter mounted beneath Cassor’s claw roared, and the stunned xenos were reduced to bloody tatters. Cassor turned back to Karlaen. ‘Up, brother. Cassor shall hold the enemy. Finish thy mission. Cassor shall see to the slaughter here.’

Karlaen pushed himself to his feet, his rage fading. He picked up his hammer and, with one last glance at the Dreadnought, charged towards the gate. He had cleared himself a path in moments, as his brothers formed a cordon around him, holding back snarling, hissing would-be obstacles. The blast doors had begun to cycle closed as he reached them, but he plunged through the steadily shrinking gap without hesitation.

As the blast doors clanged shut behind him, Karlaen followed his enemy into the dark.

Fourteen

Karlaen marched alone through the labyrinthine tunnels under the palace. The shadowy foundations rose up around him like a second city. It was a damp, dark reflection of the one above, and a fitting place for a beast such as the Spawn of Cryptus. He could hear water rushing all about him, through pipes and culverts, through the sewers of Phodia. Even now, this close to the end, the city’s servitors kept the water running, as they had been programmed to do. They would do their duty until the end. Karlaen smiled grimly. In some ways, there was no difference between himself and those mindless drones.

They were merely differently shaped cogs in the same great machine, programmed to fulfil a necessary function – theirs, to see to the sanitation network of Phodia, and his, to kill the enemies of mankind. It was a core truth, and one it had taken him decades to accept – decades of arrogance and hubris, of fiery war and bloody slaughter. Once he had thought himself special. A prince of war, bestowed with divine gifts to bring the galaxy to heel on behalf of his Chapter and the Emperor. But age had worn that purpose to a lethal, killing edge. Now, he knew that he was but one warrior among billions, all of them striving against the same hungry darkness.

As that darkness closed around him, one thought filled Karlaen’s mind, one repeated hammer blow of memory which he could neither escape nor bury any longer beneath thoughts of duty and necessity. He could hear them as he moved, like a ghost signal on an open vox-link – the voices of his dead brothers, murmuring softly to him in the dark.

He had failed them again. Alphaeus and the others would pay the price for his failure to consider all of the angles and to prepare for all possibilities. Once before, he had led his brothers into the dark, and they had died because his pragmatism and practicality had failed them. Now it was happening all over again. The memory of that last, doomed stand rose up in him again, through the red.

They had gone to meet the enemy, and they had triumphed, but at great cost. It had been a necessary thing, a thing which had to be done, but the doing of it had tarnished him. In his quiet moments of contemplation, which were thankfully few and far between, he knew that he was not worthy of the title Dante had bestowed on him – for what sort of shield could not protect those who stood behind it?

Karlaen saw faces swirl about him in the dark, and heard voices in the drip of water, or the scrape of chitin on stone. He heard the thunder of guns and the cries of the dying in his ears, as loudly as he had that day. Even now, the dead did not curse him. Even now, their understanding was more painful than any wound he had yet sustained. They had trusted him to lead them out of the dark, and he had allowed their light to be snuffed out.

He wondered whether Alphaeus still lived. Joses was dead, like Bartelo and the others. That they had died doing their duty was small comfort to him now, in this moment. Here, in the dark, he was alone with the weight of their lives pressing him down. He tried to recall some snippet of wisdom from leaders past of the Chapter, from Raldoron, Thoros and others that might alleviate that weight, but the words that came seemed hollow and unfitting.

Karlaen had done as he thought best, for the good of the Chapter, and men had died. Like Flax, he thought. Grim amusement flashed through him. Now both he and Flax were paying the price for bloody necessities past. Men had died under his aegis, and now he would make certain that their deaths were not in vain.

He keyed off his stab-lights. As the dark rushed in, he activated the augur-lens of his bionic eye. The lights would be of little use, save to mark his position for the enemy even now creeping about him. He was approaching the next in the line of blast doors, his armour’s sensors locked on Flax’s bio-signature. Wherever the broodlord took his captive, Karlaen would follow, even if it meant descending into the bowels of Asphodex. Somehow, he did not think that would be the case – no, the beast wanted a reckoning. Both with its brother, and with Karlaen himself.

He brushed his hand against the hole in his armour. He knew it was no idle theory on his part. The broodlord had as good as challenged him, and Karlaen thought he understood why. The creature wanted what it could never have, yet it was determined to best any who challenged its right to the throne of this dying world. Why else had the full might of the Hive Mind not yet descended on the palace? Why else would the creature endanger itself to get at Flax? It had a mission, just as Karlaen did.

Through the haze of the augur-lens, he saw ghostly shapes dancing and squirming at the edge of his vision. No guilt-bred figments these, but enemies. He paused, scanning his surroundings. The shapes seemed to flow across the foundations, staying just out of sight. He checked his storm bolter. Less than half a clip of ammunition remained, and he had no more replacements. He frowned and lowered the weapon. He hefted his hammer and swung it experimentally. It had seen him through thus far. He hoped it would not fail him now.

He started forwards again, water splashing across his armour as he walked. The whole sub-section would soon be flooded. When he reached the blast doors, he realised that they were not going to open. Gene-locked as they had been, he needed a sample of Flaxian DNA or a suitable substitute, like the servitor’s head, to open them. He cursed. He had not thought to grab the head, nor had the foresight to take a blood sample from Flax. Karlaen closed his eye and pushed through the tide of self-recrimination.

His eye opened, and fixed on the door’s control panel. His bionic eye whirred, focusing in. The blast doors had been old when Phodia was young. They were simple things. The genetic signature activated the electro-pneumatic impulses which controlled the door’s functions. He stepped back, and readied his hammer. If he could identify a weak point, he might be able to open a hole. It was not much of a plan, but it was all he had.

Before he could so much as swing his weapon, however, he heard a hiss from his left. He turned, and saw the shapes which had kept pace with him down the corridor spring into motion. There were two of them, he saw now, moving to either side of him. Karlaen smiled as a thought occurred to him. The creatures were the broodlord’s children, created by it; an army raised in secret. There was a reason that the broodlord could pass through the blast doors without help – it was as much a part of the Flaxian Dynasty as the governor himself, though it was a monstrous, degenerate part. And that meant that its children were as well.

The genestealers reached him a moment later, coursing down the length of the wall with inhuman speed. He set his storm bolter onto its grav-clamp holster on his hip, and stretched the fingers of his free hand. He would need to be quick.

He sent his hammer shooting out, letting the haft slide through his grip with a precision honed in hundreds of close-set, cramped corridors. The head smashed into the skull of the first of the genestealers, dropping the stunned creature to the ground. The second lunged for him, and he flung up his free hand, catching it by the throat. It struggled in his grip, its claws drawing sparks from his armour. He swung it around and slammed it head first into the door’s gene-lock. The lock flashed as it read the struggling alien’s genetic code, and the door began to cycle open. Karlaen grunted in satisfaction. Behind him, he heard the first creature scramble to its feet.

He spun, smashing its fellow into it, knocking it down again. Before it could rise for a second time, he brought his hammer down on its chest, pulverising it in a wet crackle of energy. Karlaen looked at the genestealer he still held. The creature’s thrashing became more agitated as his servo-assisted grip on its throat slowly tightened. Then, with a wet crunch, it went limp. Carefully, he twisted its head off. He would need a key, in case of further blast doors.

As the door opened, he heard the telltale clatter of chitin echoing from the other side. He glanced at the bloody head in his hand and dropped it. It appeared as if he would not need it after all. There would be plenty more where it came from.

Hammer in hand, the Shield of Baal stepped through, into the dark.

Augustus Flax looked around, bleary-eyed, and then gave a bitter laugh. ‘Oh, Tiberius – really? Is this the sort of thing that whatever passes for your mind thinks is meaningful?’ He lay prone on the surface of the intersection of the four great bridges which met above the main artery of the Phodian sewers, just beneath the palace gardens. Below him, water roared into the dark, converging on the great drain from dozens of sluice gates. Above him loomed the towering foundations of the palace he had claimed in blood and deceit.

That was the legacy of the Flaxian Dynasty, was it not? He almost smiled at the thought. He had won his throne with plenty of both, to be sure. He had turned his people over to criminal overlords and brutal manufactorum bosses, and enriched himself at their expense – all in an effort to stymie a hidden foe. It had been necessary. Or so he had convinced himself. Much good as it had done him, in the end.

The creature had dragged him through the dark, ignoring his screams, only to deposit him here. Now it sat, seemingly content merely to – what? Flax looked up at his brother, where it crouched on one of the shattered statues which lined the four bridges. Very big on statues, the Flaxian Dynasty. Even now, Flax was unable to name who half of them represented. Statues in a sewer. Excess, thy name is Flax, he thought bitterly. Even the creature could not escape that particular familial flaw. ‘A crossroads, Tiberius. A turning point, meant to be symbolic of our situation, perhaps? I thought you ate your literary theory tutor,’ he spat, glaring up at the creature.

It was a monstrous thing, all alien muscle and seething malice. He could feel its thoughts in his, like wriggling worms of doubt and dread, at once familiar and repugnant. How many times had he felt those same sharp thoughts clawing at his mind as a boy? Flax pushed himself upright, his arms and legs trembling with the effort. It watched his movements with evident curiosity. He wondered if it were savouring his broken-down state, or if, perhaps, it were disappointed in him. Did it dream of him, of this moment?

‘We’re not children any more, though, are we Tiberius?’ he croaked. ‘I am a decrepit sack of flesh, and you have sloughed off whatever frail shell of humanity you might have possessed to become the monster we always knew you to be.’

The broodlord leaned down over the statue, twisting its head so that it could meet his gaze. It hissed softly. Flax bent double, his body wracked by a coughing fit. The broodlord drew back, nostrils flaring.

Flax looked up and smiled a bloody smile. ‘Have no fear, brother. I am not sick. Merely old and feeble, and broken on the altar of time.’ He forced himself to straighten and spread his arms. ‘Well? What have you to say to me, hmm? The moment is here, Tiberius. The moment I knew was coming the instant I put down the beasts you’d made of my parents…’

The broodlord snarled. The sound echoed across the width of the chasm below, rising above the thunder of falling water, and Flax could not help but quail back. The sound had never failed to strike fear in him. But a surge of anger stiffened his spine. ‘Yes, snarl at me, I deserve it,’ he snapped. ‘I took the only creatures who ever showed you love and killed them. But while my finger might have been the one which pulled the trigger, you were as guilty as I. You ruined them – you almost destroyed everything that we had.’ He shook his head. ‘I say almost, as if the worst hasn’t come to pass.’ He looked at the broodlord. ‘Are you satisfied, brother? How long do you think your new masters will let you rule the ash heap you’ve made of our kingdom, hmm? How long before you’re rendered down the way my people have been?’

The broodlord leapt gracefully from the statue and landed in a crouch at Flax’s feet. The old man stumbled back, tripping on the hem of his robes. He fell back, scraping his elbows and back on the hard stone. The broodlord scuttled towards him, eyes glinting.

‘That’s right, Tiberius – get it over with,’ Flax hissed. Fear raced through him, paralysing everything but his mouth. He hurled words at the creature for lack of any other defence. ‘Open me up and feast on my heart. It won’t satisfy you, you know. It won’t bring them back.’

The broodlord froze. It stared at him, unblinking. Flax smiled weakly. He had not expected the beast to react so obviously. Maybe it was more human than he had suspected. ‘Oh. Oh my, how ridiculous you are, beast. To think, I have been frightened of you all this time.’ His smile faded. ‘Do you even know why you’re doing this? Is it just some primitive impulse, or is there actually a mind in there? What are you, Tiberius? Man or monster?’

The broodlord shrieked. Flax stared into its maw, full of jagged fangs and lashing tongue, and saw his answer. The creature lunged, grabbing his shoulders and slamming him backwards. He felt his head crack against the stone and nausea flowed through him. Part of him prayed that the Blood Angels would find him in time, but it was a vain hope at best.

When they had first arrived in their battle-scorched crimson armour, he had experienced a moment of hope. But that too, he knew, was part of the creature’s demented game. It had allowed him to survive, to escape, just as it had allowed him a moment of hope, so that it could snatch it all away. Even as he had snatched away its life, so long ago.

Flax did not struggle. There was no reason to do so. He wanted it to end, wanted the beast to finish what it had begun. Decades of slow torment, dwindling to these last bare moments. ‘Go ahead, brother… kill me, the way you killed our world. Kill me, and be damned.’ As he spoke, he fumbled in his robes for the hard shape of the knife he had secreted on his person. He had intended to cut his own throat, when the time came. Oh, how he’d gleefully imagined the frustrated look on the beast’s face as he claimed his own life.

But that plan was ashes now. Besides, he was a Flax, and such a death was not for him. No, better to bury the blade in the creature’s side and see what sort of death it bought him. Let it know one more moment of pain at his hands, before it finished this sad drama. The broodlord stared at him, as if trying to understand his lack of fear.

As it hunched over him, he drew the knife and rammed it home. The broodlord reared back and screamed. He didn’t think the wound was mortal, or even debilitating, but that wasn’t the point. The creature tore the knife from its side and glared down at him, talons poised to strike, every abhorrent muscle quivering with repressed need.

Flax smiled. ‘They might have loved you at the end, brother, but they loved me first and best.’

With a howl, the broodlord struck.

Fifteen

Karlaen stomped down on the last squealing bio-beast, squashing it. The ripper swarm had attacked moments ago, drawn out of bore holes in the ruined foundations by the scent of him. He had dissuaded them with proper application of boot and hammer, but they had left him much to remember them by. He could feel blood leaking into the crevices of his suit, and a pall of fatigue muffled his senses. The creatures had swarmed over him, biting and burrowing, and it was only thanks to the armour he wore that he had survived.

The rippers were not the only threat he had faced. Genestealers had attacked him more than once as he hunted his quarry through the tomb-like foundations of the palace. They came at him in twos and threes, dropping down from the darkness above, or lunging out of crannies and side tunnels. Each time, his bionic eye had tracked their approach, and each time, he had put them down. But the attacks were constant, and even the superhuman physiology of a Space Marine could be worn down under such conditions. The bio-sensors in his armour mewled warnings about increasing fatigue-poisons and torn muscles. His breath rasped hot and harsh in his lungs. Blood and sweat stung his eyes. But still he pressed on, moving through slanted shadows, following Flax’s genetic signature through the depths of Phodia.

The vox crackled intermittently, assuring him that at least some of the others still lived. Bereft of any other orders, they would make for the surface and the rallying-point as quickly as possible. Karlaen could not say what would be waiting for them when they got there. The signs of the planet’s consumption had spread even to these depths.

Sewer channels that had once carried filthy rainwater from the streets far above were now choked with strange, barbed vegetation and the still waters were occupied by hideous, half-seen creatures. The foundations of the city were being strangled by new, poisonous growths which gaped and whined like hungry animals as he tore them from his path or crushed them underfoot. Karlaen had encountered these often enough to recognise the flesh-tubes of the hive fleet when he saw them. They were digging deep, to feed on the life-blood of Asphodex and drain even the soil of nutrients.

The tyranids were efficient, in their way, monstrous as it was. They broke worlds down, squeezing every grain of sustenance from them, one molecule at a time. They wasted nothing. Even the air itself was stripped of life. That was to be Asphodex’s fate – the fate of every world in the Cryptus System: to be squeezed and drained and left barren. And once they were finished here, Hive Fleet Leviathan would move on to the next course in its galaxy-spanning meal – Baal.

The thought stirred the embers of his rage to life once more. He fought down the instinct to charge forwards into whatever waited ahead. He extended a hand and leaned against a wall covered in swelling, breathing growths of alien matter, trying to bring his red-tinged thoughts back under control. Anger swelled in him, and he tried to channel it into his desire to find Flax. His mind was filled with images of his enemy, and he could hear its screams as he pulled it apart, limb by limb. His teeth scissored into his bottom lip, releasing a spurt of blood into his mouth, and he swallowed without thinking. The shock of it startled him back to awareness.

His discipline was eroding the harder he pushed himself, but he could not afford to stop. This was the razor’s edge which every Son of Sanguinius walked. To push themselves to the limit of discipline and hypno-conditioning without tipping over into the madness that crept about the edges of their psyche. To utilise the rage and the strength that came with it, without being swallowed by it. But that was easier said than done, and the fire could only be stoked for so long before it raged out of control.

Karlaen shoved himself away from the wall and stumbled. He felt the walls of his discipline crumbling, brick by brick. The world lurched around him and he felt his gut twist in loss and pain the likes of which no mortal could bear, and he heard the sound of great wings flapping brokenly, and felt the rush of heat and pain and saw the face of god twisted into something beyond redemption and he screamed as something snagged his arm and sank cruel barbs through the armour plates.

Karlaen jerked his arm back, uprooting the strangling creepers from the stone of the wall. They had slithered about him so noiselessly, so quickly, that he had been taken unawares. Pain flooded his nervous system, driving back the madness. He whispered a quiet prayer of thanks as he tore the whole mass of alien vegetation from the wall and extricated his arm from its tendrils. He flexed his hand, and, satisfied that he could still use it, he turned and pressed on, trying to ignore the ghostly feathers that fluttered at the edges of his vision.

The corridor ended in a square of dull light. As he stepped through, the omnipresent roar of water, muted until now, suddenly flowered into its full glory. He stopped just past the aperture and took in the scene before him – the four intersecting bridges, the great sluice gates set high above the bridges, water pouring down from them into the chasm below. And at the centre of the bridges, the Spawn of Cryptus crouched over a limp form.

Flax was not dead. Karlaen’s sensors told him that much. But he was fading. The governor was too old and too feeble to handle the sort of stressors he had been exposed to. Karlaen could hear the erratic hammering of the old man’s heart. He took a step forward, and the broodlord looked up. The alien met his gaze without reaction. It reached down and gently stroked Flax’s hair. The gesture was almost affectionate.

Warnings flashed and Karlaen scanned the area. There were other shapes lurking in the ruined foundations that surrounded the bridges, or hanging from the support struts and railings of the bridges. He wondered how many of the creatures remained. How many children did the Spawn of Cryptus have left to throw at him? Karlaen took another step forwards. He considered trying for a shot with his storm bolter, but there was a chance he might hit Flax. Even targeting arrays had their limits, and between his fatigue, the damp haze that obscured the air and the broodlord’s mind-tricks, he did not want to risk it. He left the weapon where it was, and raised his hammer. As he gripped it, the broodlord leaned forwards, as if scenting the air.

Karlaen started forwards. The broodlord screamed. Karlaen staggered as his mind suddenly rippled with pain. He stumbled and lowered his hammer, using its haft to keep himself upright as the broodlord assailed him psychically. Waves of pain rolled over him. Shards of memory, weaponised and honed to lethality by an alien psyche, tore at his defences as they had before. But this time, Karlaen was ready. He stoked the flames of his rage to a new intensity, welcoming the flush of clarity it brought. The broodlord was a thing of nurtured hate and bestial rage, but that was as nothing compared to the fury of one who lived with the dying scream of a demigod lodged in his mind. Alien whispers were shredded like smoke by the beating of great, unseen wings.

The Shield of Baal locked eyes with the Spawn of Cryptus and pushed himself to his feet. The broodlord’s expression of animal serenity wavered. Its eyes widened in shock, then narrowed in consternation as it found its greatest weapon undone and useless. In the span of half a dozen heartbeats, the contest was decided. The creature blinked, breaking contact. It reared to its full height and let loose a shrill cry of command.

As the echoes of that cry rode across the thunder of the water and bounced from statue to foundation stone, the genestealers launched themselves into motion. The creatures raced forward from all directions. Karlaen met them with focused violence. The power field of his hammer crackled and sparked as he swung it in wide, precise arcs, driving the creatures back, or killing them in mid-lunge. Here in the open, he could employ the weapon to its fullest, and the Hammer of Baal hummed in his hands.

Through it all, he continued his advance towards the broodlord, neither slowing nor stopping. He had come too far and endured too much to allow himself to be stymied here and now. The last two genestealers between him and his quarry scrambled along the edge of the bridge, racing towards him.

Karlaen swatted the first out of the air with his hammer, driving it into the surface of the bridge with a resounding crack. The creature barely had time to squall before its carapace split and burst, and it was reduced to a wet stain. As the second genestealer sprang towards him, Karlaen turned, firing his storm bolter. The beast was plucked from the air by the explosive bolts and reduced to a dark mist.

He pivoted, ready to fire at the others that were closing in on him from behind, but the storm bolter clicked empty. Karlaen cursed and slammed it back onto its grav-clamp. He took a two-handed grip on his hammer and met the first of the creatures with a blow that sent its body rolling bonelessly across the bridge. The second joined it, and the third. Then, just as suddenly as the attack had started, it was done.

Karlaen turned back to see the broodlord step past the prone body of Flax, its features twisted in what might have been a sneer of contempt. Then, with a roar, it was upon him. They duelled for a moment, hammer against claw. As before, Karlaen was slower, but he was prepared for the beast’s agility now, and he fought conservatively, blocking and parrying its blows rather than simply absorbing them. He knew his enemy now, and it knew him.

The broodlord ducked and weaved, avoiding blows that would have ended their conflict for good. It gave him no room to manoeuvre, circling and attacking from all directions as swiftly as possible. Karlaen had no opportunity to deliver the killing blow he needed. Finally, the beast leapt on him, and four arms strained against two as they grappled.

Whatever strength his rage had given him was flagging now. The creature was far stronger than him, built for this sort of battle. He was pressed back, and soon, the flat of one knee touched the surface of the bridge. His hammer was interposed horizontally between them, the haft caught between the creature’s jaws. Centimetres away from his own, the broodlord’s flat, red eyes showed nothing of what lurked in its alien brain.

Karlaen took a chance; he dropped his hand to his storm bolter and snatched it up. Empty as it was, it still had heft and weight. He smashed it across the side of the beast’s skull, packing every bit of force he could muster into the blow. Stunned, the broodlord released him and jerked away. He shoved it back, away from him. It scrambled to its feet as he swung his hammer up.

But rather than striking the beast, he aimed his blow at the stretch of bridge beneath its claws. Metal and stone came apart with a scream of tortured steel as the hammer struck home. A whole section of the bridge gave way, carrying the beast with it. The broodlord tumbled into the darkness below, its limbs grasping in vain for anything that might arrest its fall. Its glare never wavered as it vanished into the dark, swirling waters below.

Karlaen stared down after it, breathing heavily, his hearts hammering in his chest. He shook himself and made his way around the edge of the hole he had created to retrieve Flax.

They had a rendezvous to make.

Sixteen

Plaza of the Emperor Unchained, Flaxian Palace, Phodia

Karlaen reared back and kicked the sluice gate out of its frame. The steel grate flew into the space beyond, crashing down with a resounding clang. As he stepped out into the open air, Flax’s comatose form slung over his shoulder, he beheld a vision of carnage which was horribly familiar to one who had made war against the servants of the Hive Mind before. Asphodex had entered its final death throes – the air was thick with smoke and noise, and buildings had begun to collapse, adding to both.

The city had become an inferno – towers of dancing flame rose from the ruins and waves of billowing smoke filled the streets and choked the air. Tyranid organisms screamed and shrieked throughout the city as they were caught up in the raging fires. Bio-beasts fled, trampling one another in their haste to escape obliteration.

In the distance, Karlaen could see shuddering mushroom clouds rising above the tops of those buildings which still stood. The red sky flashed and quivered like a thing alive, and the great clouds which marked the upper atmosphere were shredded and reformed by unseen forces. The ground shook beneath his feet, not with the trembling of seismic activity, but as if some vast titan were smashing his fist down on Asphodex. The Blood Angels fleet had begun its preliminary orbital bombardment of the planet, in preparation for the first landings of Dante’s main force. Time had almost run out.

Karlaen quickly triangulated his position. He stood in the eastern plaza – the Plaza of the Emperor Unchained. He calculated a route to the Plaza of the Emperor Ascendant. If Alphaeus or any of the others had survived the battle in the undercity, that was where they would be. Cradling Flax against his chest in order to protect him from the flames, he moved through the plaza, forging a path to the rallying-point.

The vox-net crackled to life as he left the sluice gate behind. Voices hammered at his ears: commands, warnings, oaths – the roar of a Chapter, roused to fury. He heard the red hum rise behind his thoughts. It was always this way when the Chapter went to war; the black tide of emotions which every warrior fought to control became stronger and stronger as the vibrations of Thunderhawk engines shook their bones and the heat of weapons-fire washed over them.

Between battles, in the cold stretch of the void or on Baal’s blistered sands, the thirst for battle could be ignored, sublimated into more noble pursuits. Karlaen knew many battle-brothers who were as adept with a sculptor’s chisel or a painter’s brush as they were with bolter and blade. But here, now, on the sharp edge, the rage was given full flower. And if they were not careful, it could sweep them under and into damnation.

Heat washed across the plaza, withering the alien vegetation that had briefly claimed dominion. Without men or automated systems to control the fires they raged out of control, incinerating tyranids and any surviving Imperial defenders that were caught in the path of the flames. More than once, disorientated tyranids burst from the burning ruins and spilled through the plaza. Some attacked Karlaen, and he was forced to defend himself. He left a trail of crushed carcasses behind him as he trudged towards the Plaza of the Emperor Ascendant.

As yet, the tyranids were uncoordinated – they were little better than ravenous animals. But soon the Hive Mind would bring its incomprehensible attentions to bear on the invaders, and it would exert its will on the swarms, uniting them in terrible purpose.

By the time he reached the Plaza of the Emperor Ascendant, the air above him was full of the grotesque shapes of gargoyles. The flapping nightmares spiralled above the city like a living cloud of teeth and claws. Broods of gaunts crept through the haze that lay over the plaza, and Karlaen could just make out larger shapes behind them. But there was no sign of the others. He scanned through the pre-arranged vox frequencies, but only static greeted his ears. He moved towards the fallen statue of the Emperor.

Flax was still unconscious, and he barely stirred as Karlaen hid him in a cranny beneath the statue. It was a small mercy; no man should have to witness the death of his world and people, Karlaen thought. When he was satisfied that the governor was safe, he straightened and began cycling through the vox frequencies until he found the main Adeptus Astartes signal. The channel crackled with static. ‘This is Captain Karlaen, of the First, requesting extraction from the planet’s surface,’ Karlaen said, raising his voice to be heard through the static.

Moments passed. The signal phased in and out, and he repeated himself. He looked up, trying to imagine the battle raging far above the planet. Void warfare was a thing of vast distances and acute angles. Up and down had no meaning; there was no high ground to capture, and precise calculations were required to even come close to striking the enemy. Servitors slaved to battle-stations – one part analytical engine and one part gunner – manned targeting computers as specially trained Chapter serfs followed their instructions, firing at enemies they could not see.

Karlaen had only experienced void warfare a few times. He had participated in boarding actions and repelled the same, when the enemy drew close across the incalculable gulf that normally separated the combatants. Even now he could recall the crushing cold and inescapable silence that accompanied such conflicts as one moved across the outer hull of a vessel. The way the maddening spiral of stars which stretched into infinity in every direction imprinted itself on the mind’s eye, never to fade.

Making planetfall amidst such madness was even more nerve-wracking. Men died without ever seeing the surface of the world they had been brought to conquer. The upper reaches of the stratosphere would be a hellstorm of fire and fury.

As he tried to make contact with the fleet, he scanned the smoke and haze for the enemy. Behind the veil of grey and black, shapes moved, some large, some small, and he could hear the telltale click of chitin on stone. He clasped his hammer in both hands and waited. The vox crackled in his ear.

‘Say again?’ a voice asked. The line hissed and spat with static.

Karlaen grunted in satisfaction. ‘This is Captain Karlaen, requesting extraction,’ he barked. ‘Rallying-point alpha.’

‘Acknowledged captain. Extraction in process. Hold position until arrival.’

‘Acknowledged,’ Karlaen said, staring out at the ill-defined shapes slouching through the haze. He swung his hammer slowly, stirring the smoke. ‘Come then, if you will. Here I stand, and I shall not move,’ he murmured. Despite his words, he hoped that they would keep their distance. He was not afraid of them. Rather, he was afraid of himself. He could feel his control slipping with every confrontation. The Red Thirst scraped at the back of his throat and memories that were not his pressed down on him. He knew the signs as well as any, for he had seen men afflicted with them often enough.

He thought of Raphen. He closed his eyes, trying not to imagine how it would feel to be claimed by the same madness that had taken the other Space Marine, or Cassor. To be lost and damned by a curse in his very blood. Karlaen’s eyes opened and his gaze flickered to Flax, where the old man lay, breathing shallowly. Does the answer rest with you? he thought. Are you our salvation, as Corbulo thinks, or was this all for nothing?

He heard a scrape of talons on stone and whirled, his hammer chopping out to catch a leaping genestealer. The brutal blow drove the genestealer to the ground, leaving it in a gore-stained heap. Karlaen scanned the plaza, sighting more multi-armed shapes creeping towards him through the ruins. The vox crackled with static as he tried one last time to contact the others. A second genestealer lunged at him from over the fallen statue of the Emperor.

Karlaen pivoted and his blow caught the creature in the side, smashing it against the statue. Ichor stained the scorched features of the Emperor as the body slid to the ground. Karlaen turned back to see more of the beasts bounding towards him through the smoke.

The next few moments passed in a blur of blood and death. With his ammunition depleted, and an unconscious man to protect, Karlaen was forced onto the defensive. His hammer was as much shield as weapon. He turned, twisted, stomped and slid, never slowing, always staying in motion, forcing his enemies to come to him.

Finally, he stood alone, surrounded by the mangled corpses of tyranids. His hammer was heavy in his hand; the Chapter symbols that marked the ancient relic-weapon were hidden beneath a sticky shroud of splattered meat and alien juices. Smoke had filled the plaza, and he was pressed to see anything. He backed towards the statue as embers drifted down from the sky. His eyes stung from the heat of the flames which drew ever closer on either side of the palace. The air was thick with poison and ash.

Karlaen squinted. What little sunlight there had been was now hidden behind a thickening veil of smoke. He could see nothing, hear nothing. Weariness crept into him, one muscle at a time, and with it came the red hum, which became louder and louder the more tired he grew. Soon he would not be able to resist it, or to channel it. He would only be able to sink beneath it. And then…

He shied away from the thought, and tried to marshal what strength remained to him. Through the downpour of embers, he saw the genestealers massing once more among the shattered statues which marked the plaza. And then a malign shape, larger than the rest, leapt up from the horde and onto a headless statue.

The Spawn of Cryptus looked the worse for wear after its tumble into the depths. Its carapace was cracked and befouled; filth dripped from it, drying and flaking away in the heat of the fire. Yet it still moved with the same eerie grace as always, and it did not seem to have lost any of its terrible strength. As it crouched on the statue’s shoulders, its glare was one of hateful promise.

Karlaen shook his head. ‘Determination is not the province of the Emperor’s chosen alone,’ he murmured. Another line from the Philosophies of Raldoron. Raldoron had been referring to orks, but the statement held true for the broodlord as well, he thought. He spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground before him and raised his chin.

‘Well, beast. What are you waiting for?’

The broodlord watched its prey ready himself for what was to come, and felt a flicker of disquiet. Never before had it fought prey like this. Never before had it matched wills with a creature that could resist it.

It did not like this game.

It crouched on the statue and examined the red-armoured giant with distaste. The invader had ruined everything, and there was no more time. The broodlord could feel the weight of the Hive Mind’s attentions turning towards it now, as the ground shook and the sky bled fire. Something was riding the charnel wind down from the pitiless stars, and every swarm would be mustered to counter it.

But not yet. Not… yet. Not while its brother was yet unpunished. Not while the usurper yet breathed. Its claws sank into the surface of the statue, as it imagined doing the same to his fragile flesh. It had waited years, decades, for this moment. This last revenge. To show him the full price for his treachery.

It could feel its brother’s mind, dim and clouded by pain. That pain gave it no satisfaction, though it could not say why. His features flashed through its mind, and it wondered why it had not killed him when it had had the chance. It had wanted to so badly, but something had stayed its hand – other faces, other voices, memories it did not understand, a woman’s voice whispering: This is your brother Augustus. He will protect you, Tiberius.

But he had not. And then, it was too late.

It closed its eyes, ignoring the sounds of its children below, of the death of the world it had sought to claim. It focused on the memories that swirled through its mind the way embers swirled through the air above the plaza. It remembered a man and a woman, and then Flax, raising a pistol. It remembered the man shouting, and the blood that followed a rumble of thunder. The plaza shook around it. The broodlord opened its eyes and clutched at itself as pain shot through it.

The fall had hurt it. The waters had seared its lungs, but it had hauled itself out and up into the light, its strength bolstered by rage. Rage at the thought that it might not taste the blood of the usurper. Rage that its long-delayed vengeance might never take place. Rage that its brother would survive while it was subsumed into the Hive Mind.

Rage that he might never understand what he had taken from it.

Only he did, didn’t he? He had made that clear enough on the bridge. The broodlord touched the spot where Flax’s knife had bitten into its side, still wet with ichor. No, Augustus Flax understood all too well.

And the Spawn of Cryptus would make him pay. No matter how many red giants stood between them, no matter how much fire fell from the sky, or how many cracks opened in the earth. The Spawn of Cryptus ruled Asphodex now. The old order would be swept away, and the song and shadow of the Leviathan would rise in its place, stretching from star to star.

The broodlord stretched to its full height on its perch and spread its arms. It threw back its head and for a moment it gazed up at the fiery rain that had begun to fall from the roiling clouds above. Then its head snapped down and it roared.

Its children echoed its cry, then loped towards their prey.

The final battle for the fate of the Flaxian Dynasty had begun.

Seventeen

Karlaen raised his hammer and prepared to sell his life dearly. The broodlord’s scream rippled out over the plaza, and the genestealers echoed its cry as they lunged forward as one. There were too many of them, coming too fast, for him to overcome. He made the calculation instinctively, and it brought him no shame to realise the inevitability of his position.

Indeed, part of him longed for it. Part of him longed to give in to the madness and drink deep of the red waters that rose behind his eyes, to simply give in to the Red Thirst as so many others had, and to shed the burden of duty in his final moments. He thought of Raphen and the Death Company, and wondered what it must be like to fight as they did, lost in the past. What would it be like, to battle alongside heroes long dead and gone to dust? Was it worth it? Was giving in to madness worth seeing the face of Sanguinius himself, as the dark closed in around you for the last time? He could almost feel the primarch’s presence beside him, his great wings shielding Karlaen from the falling embers. He could almost…

The thud of his hearts drowned out all other sound. Shadows moved through the rain of fire; the flickering, ghostly outline of memories struggling to the surface. In the pulse of his hearts he heard the dim din of voices, and felt the reverberations of battle. But not this battle. He opened his eyes. The world might as well have been a painting. He could make out the gleam of the firelight reflected in the talons of his enemies, and smell the acrid stink of them. And among them he could see warriors who were not there – shades clad in armour of brass or amethyst, reeking of incense and spoiled blood. He blinked. The warriors rippled and vanished, as if they were no more than motes on the surface of his eye.

Karlaen steeled himself. He ignored the red hum and what it had stirred to the surface of him as the genestealers bounded towards him through the ruins, springing from statue to statue or simply scuttling across the open plaza. If he was to die, it would not be as a maddened beast. He would not give in. He would do his duty, and he would die here and now, at the talons of these beasts, rather than beneath the blades of enemies past, if die he must.

He let the head of the hammer dip. His mind began to calculate the best way to use their numbers against them, and to utilise his combat capabilities to the fullest. Tyranids were not men, and wounds that did not kill them outright rarely stopped them. But the swarms could be shaken free of the Hive Mind’s control through sustained violence. Kill enough of them, and quickly, and the broodlord’s synaptic control might slip as the remainder gave in to their feral nature and fled. The encroaching flames would make that easier. Like all animals, the bio-beasts instinctively feared fire.

The closest genestealer leapt, and time seemed to slow, the moment drawing taut like the string of a bow. Karlaen pinpointed the best place to land his blow for maximum effect, and the haft of his hammer spun in his grip as he brought it up. Even as the blow connected, his armour’s sensors screamed a warning. The genestealer’s head burst like an overripe fruit and, as it flipped through the air, bolter fire licked across the horde.

The vox crackled to life and Karlaen could not stifle a triumphant laugh as a familiar voice said, ‘One would think you’d learned your lesson about haring off alone, captain.’

‘Feel free to report me to Commander Dante once we’re off-planet, sergeant,’ Karlaen said, as genestealers fell. Terminators tromped into the plaza from out of the palace ruins, bolters thundering. Alphaeus, Zachreal and Melos were in the lead. ‘Joses?’ Karlaen asked, quietly.

Alphaeus’s voice was sombre. ‘He bought us time to retreat. The creature spilled his guts, and he was in no mood to fall back. We – I – thought it best to abide by his decision.’ There was much left unsaid in that terse statement. Karlaen could think of nothing to say. Joses had always been close to the red edge of things. The taciturn black-haired warrior had never fully shed himself of the lessons of the desert and the mountain.

Karlaen shook his head and smashed a genestealer aside as it clawed at him. He would mourn later. ‘I have signalled for extraction. They are on their way.’ He jammed the end of his hammer into a genestealer’s spine, shattering it. ‘Where are–’ Before he could finish the question, the whine of turbines filled the air and black-armoured shapes dropped through the smoke. The Death Company had arrived. Or at least what was left of it. There were only a handful of the berserkers remaining, though their enthusiasm seemed undimmed.

A genestealer that had been about to leap on him was crushed by a thunder hammer. Raphen landed a moment later and jerked the head of his hammer free from the ruin of the xenos’s twitching form. The crazed warrior turned to Karlaen and nodded tersely. ‘Thought to have them all to yourself, eh brother? For shame. The traitors owe us all a debt of blood, not just you,’ he rasped, shivering in eagerness. He clapped a trembling hand to Karlaen’s shoulder and said, ‘We shall stand together. Holy Terra shall not fall. Not today.’

‘No, not today,’ Karlaen said. He hesitated, but then clasped Raphen’s forearm in a warrior’s grip. The sergeant jerked once, as if in surprise. His twitching subsided. He looked at Karlaen, and the eyes behind the lenses of his helmet were lucid. But the clarity lasted only for a moment.

‘Can you hear him, brother? Can you feel the heat of his passage? We are in the shadow of his wings, and he calls the Ninth Legion to his side,’ Raphen snarled. He spun, crushing a genestealer, then putting a bolt-round into the belly of another. The wounded beast charged on. Raphen made to fire again, but his bolt pistol clicked uselessly. He tossed the weapon aside. Karlaen moved to finish off the wounded genestealer, but Raphen beat him to it.

He caught the creature by its jaw and jerked its head forwards against his own. He smashed his head against the genestealer’s own again and again, until the xenos stopped thrashing. He let the body fall and turned back to Karlaen, ichor dripping down the contours of his faceplate. ‘The primarch calls us to battle, brother,’ he whispered hoarsely.

Before Karlaen could reply, Raphen whipped back around, lifted his hammer and activated his jump pack, hurling himself into the seething ranks of the foe. As Karlaen watched him, the ground shook beneath his feet, and a loud voice roared, ‘Faith is what fans the guttering spark of my rage. Witches and heretics shall be consumed in my fire. One side, brother – this plaza shall be their tomb.’ Cassor stomped past the statue, storm bolter firing. Genestealers exploded in mid-leap or were slapped from the air by the Dreadnought’s claws.

Karlaen felt a surge of relief as he watched the Dreadnought smash into the enemy. His earlier calculations fractured and came apart as he watched his brothers enter the fray. They were still outnumbered a hundred to one, but there was a chance now, where before there had only been inevitability. He swung his hammer with renewed strength. Alphaeus and the others joined him, marching steadily across the plaza to take up formation around the statue of the Emperor.

There was no need for orders. Not now. With the extraction called for, every battle-brother knew what was required of him, and they would fight until they fell. There would be no falling back, no formations, only the slow, steady grind of a slugging match. Terminator armour and storm bolters against claws, fangs and poison sacs. Karlaen found himself fighting side by side with Leonos and Damaris, the twins protecting his flanks as he put his hammer to use. He was glad to see that they had survived.

Bio-horrors poured into the plaza from the ruins surrounding it. They did not come in waves as before, but as a single, unceasing flood, attacking as one. Terminators were dragged away from their fellows, separated by the sheer press of the enemy, then pulled down. The Death Company smashed in and out of the horde like black comets, but they too were dragged down one by one, selling their lives to buy breathing room for the warriors of the First Company. As the battle raged on, Karlaen tried to spot the broodlord, but the creature was nowhere to be seen. For a moment, he hoped that it had abandoned the fight. But he dismissed the thought as fast as it occurred to him. No, it was still out there somewhere, waiting for its moment to strike.

Tyranid warrior-broods bounded through the swirling mass of genestealers, scattering their lesser kin as they sought to reach the Blood Angels. They trampled the smaller bio-beasts in their haste, scattering others with wide slashes from bone swords or snaps of bio-whips. The Terminators focused on the newcomers, pouring firepower into the synapse beasts, but some got through the gauntlet of explosive rounds and reached the Blood Angels lines.

Karlaen felt something splash against his armour and turned to see one of the tyranids pelting towards him, its grotesque bio-cannon raised for another shot.

‘Look out–’ Damaris began.

‘–captain,’ Leonos finished.

Both Terminators turned their storm bolters on the monstrosity as it bounded out of the smoke. The tyranid warrior contorted and flew apart as the explosive rounds pierced its carapace. Karlaen turned to thank them, but his words turned to ash in his throat as Leonos staggered, a bio-whip wrapped around his throat. A tyranid perched on top of him, hauling back on the whip. As the Terminator struggled to free himself, the tyranid plunged a pair of bone swords down through the top of his helm. His death was so swift that neither his twin nor Karlaen could prevent it.

Leonos sagged as the tyranid extricated its blades. It dropped from the slumping body, but had no time to seek out new prey, as Damaris uttered a roar of fury and slammed into it, driving it back against the statue with a booming crack. The tyranid squealed and writhed for a moment before Damaris’s groping powerfist found its jaw and forced its head back past the breaking point. There was a second crack, louder than the first, and the beast was still.

Damaris staggered back, the broken blades of the tyranid’s swords sticking from his chest. He spun awkwardly as a third tyranid tried to dart past him, bringing his fist down on the creature’s back, snapping its spine. As it fell, he began to slump. Karlaen realised that the blades had not merely slipped through his armour, but had pierced something vital in the process. Karlaen reached Damaris as he sank down beside his twin’s corpse. ‘I have you, brother. I…’ Karlaen trailed off. Damaris was not listening to him.

He said something unintelligible as Karlaen laid him down. He coughed wetly, and Karlaen knew that the blades had reached his hearts and lungs. Damaris reached out towards Leonos, but his life ebbed before his hand found that of his comrade. Karlaen rose unsteadily to his feet, all rational thought burning to ash in a sudden swell of rage. The world slowed and stretched, and he could see everything all at once through a muddy red haze.

He saw Zachreal and Alphaeus fighting back to back. He saw Melos catching a bio-whip in his powerfist and wrenching its wielder off balance long enough to get a bead on it with his storm bolter. He saw the survivors of the other squads gathered about the statue in a ragged formation, pouring their remaining ammunition into the horde that surged and swirled around them, selling their lives on behalf of him, and on behalf of his mission. He saw red- and black-armoured bodies scattered among piles of dead alien filth.

All of this he saw, but not the tyranid warrior that crept up behind him, bio-cannon levelled. He heard the hiss of dribbling acid and spun, but not quickly enough. The shot knocked him off his feet and he crashed down, a sizzling patch on his armour marking where the shot had struck home.

He rolled onto his back and groped blindly for his hammer. The tyranid advanced on him, eyes glittering with inhuman malice. Before it could fire its weapon again, however, a black form hurtled past and there was a sound like stone striking meat. The tyranid lurched backwards as one of its legs was smashed out from under it. Off balance, it toppled backwards and smashed down onto the ground. Raphen landed on it a moment later, the soles of his boots pulping its screeching features.

Raphen spun, his hammer lashing out to catch a genestealer. He reached out, as if to pull Karlaen to his feet.

Karlaen saw a shadow hurtle towards him. He opened his mouth to shout a warning, but was too late as something heavy pounced onto the other Blood Angel and bore him to the ground. Black armour tore beneath rending claws as the broodlord smashed Raphen against the stones of the plaza. His jump pack was torn from his back and sent hurtling aside, where it exploded. The beast hefted him over its head. Raphen, dazed, bellowed uselessly as the broodlord held him.

It met Karlaen’s gaze, and he saw a question there. No, a demand. He felt the thing’s thoughts claw at his own, stronger than before. It was angry now, and that anger gave it strength. He met its glare with his own, feeling his own anger press hard against his fraying discipline. Whatever it saw in his eyes seemed to answer its question, and it screeched.

Then it brought Raphen down across its upraised knee.

‘No!’ Karlaen rose to his feet and, weaponless, threw himself at the beast as it let Raphen drop. It leapt back, avoiding him, then sprang for a statue, slithering around it and out of sight. Karlaen turned back to Raphen, but there was nothing to be done. Like Bartelo, he had died instantly, his spine shattered and his neck crushed. Like too many others, he had died on Karlaen’s behalf, at the claws of a creature that should not exist.

Karlaen scooped up his hammer and turned to seek his brother’s killer.

Eighteen

Karlaen’s vox crackled with an unfamiliar voice as he stalked through the smoky melee. Some small part of him not yet claimed by the rage that drove him recognised it as the voice of the pilot sent to extract them. Almost against his will, he looked up, scanning the red sky. His bionic eye caught sight of it almost immediately, whirring and shifting to focus in on one of the Chapter’s Stormraven gunships as it tore down through the swirling clouds of harpies and gargoyles that sought to bar its passage. The gunship’s twin-linked assault cannons roared, clearing a path. As Karlaen watched, the vessel dipped its blunt nose towards the plaza and screamed down towards them, guns blazing.

As he turned to continue seeking out his prey, he felt its jagged claws sink into his mind. The world turned upside down, and he clutched at his head. The pain was far greater than before, and all the more intrusive for catching him unawares. Faces, memories, voices, pounded at him from all sides… He saw Aphrae’s death at the hands of the broodlord, and tasted the coppery tang of his brother’s blood. He felt Raphen’s spine break on his knee, and a scream ripped free of his throat.

Something slammed into him from the side, rocking him on his feet. He lashed out blindly, and was rewarded with a shriek as the crackling head of his hammer struck home. He saw the broodlord roll to its feet. Rather than darting away into the smoke, however, it charged right for him. He snarled and lunged to meet it. But, within a few seconds, he found himself driven back. His armour barely warded off its powerful blows as it tore into him, body and mind. He could feel his control, already tenuous, slipping as he fought to stay focused against its mental attacks while simultaneously fending off its claws. It was not just the creature he was fighting; it was creeping fatigue as well. He dug down, trying to find what reserves of energy remained to him, but he knew his opponent was not going to give him time to recover.

Before, he had merely been an impediment. Now, it wanted him dead. He could see it in its eyes, those mad not-quite-human orbs which sparked with an all too familiar rage. He was fighting a losing battle against the Red Thirst, but this creature had already surrendered to its own form of madness. Whatever drove it, it was not planning on stopping until one of them was dead. A claw pierced his guard and opened his cheek to the bone. He tasted blood. The Red Thirst surged up in him, and he felt his reason slip. He uttered an inarticulate cry and smashed the broodlord back, trading blow for blow as the battle rolled on around them.

They grappled through the drifts and piles of corpses, tearing at one another. Karlaen could barely focus. He heard the whine of the Stormraven’s turbines growing louder and felt the ground shudder as more and more tyranids forced their way into the plaza, driven by the will of the Hive Mind. All he could see was the snarling maw of his enemy; all he could feel was the urge to smash the beast down and erase it from sight.

Man and beast strained against one another, the stones cracking beneath their feet. Gradually, he was being pushed back, but he refused to yield. It would die here, now, or he would. The broodlord leaned in close, jaws snapping. Its barbed tongue caressed his face, and he caught it between his teeth, champing down, ripping the hard flesh. The broodlord reeled, shrieking, and he shoved it back, breaking them apart. As it staggered, he spat out the chunk of wriggling flesh still caught between his teeth and crashed into it, knocking it to the ground. It went down hard, but rolled aside before his hammer could strike home.

He lifted his weapon for another strike, but the Spawn leapt on him, bowling him over. His armour struck sparks from the stone as it rode him to the ground. His hammer was torn from his grip. Human-like hands sought his throat as he made to rise and he found himself pinned. Its grip tightened, while its bladed upper arms rose over him. Its eyes flashed, and in his head an image of his death formed.

Behind the beast, he saw great wings unfurl amidst a bloody radiance. He felt strangely calm. This, then, was a good death. He would die with his men, as he should have done before. He had failed his men, Flax, Corbulo and himself, but he would not avoid the consequences. He stared up at the creature, willing it to strike. It paused, as if uncertain, its wounded tongue lashing, its features crinkled in confusion. Then, it hissed and readied itself to strike. The shadow behind spread, growing larger.

‘No beast. Thy claws shall not find his heart. So says Cassor.’ The Dreadnought’s talons raked down across the broodlord’s back. The creature turned, and found itself caught fast by a second claw. With a grinding of gears, Cassor hurled the broodlord aside, sending its body bouncing across the rubble. Karlaen stared up at the Dreadnought in incomprehension. ‘You make this a habit, brother. Twice has Cassor saved you.’ The Dreadnought turned, scanning the plaza. ‘Where are my brothers? The enemy approaches.’

Despite the haze which clouded his thoughts, Karlaen could see that there was not a single black-armoured form left standing. The Death Company had earned their name, and their redemption. Cassor stared at the scuttling horde that clambered over the bodies of his fellows and rumbled, ‘Cassor stands alone. So be it. Vengeance must take place and Cassor shall deal it in red increments. Come traitors. Cassor is waiting. He has waited all of his life for this moment.’ The Dreadnought’s optic sensors rotated down, to meet Karlaen’s still stunned gaze. ‘I know that I am no longer sane. But I still serve. You shall not fall here, brother. Not while one flicker of rage remains in Cassor’s heart. Up, commander. Glory awaits.’

The enemy swept forwards just as Karlaen began to push himself to his feet. And though Cassor stood alone, as wave after wave of bio-horrors smashed into him, not one reached Karlaen. The Dreadnought burned, trampled and crushed the aliens until the stones were slick with ichor.

Cassor fought with all of the fury that had earned him the honour of being entombed in the sarcophagus of a Dreadnought. His storm bolter roared until its ammunition cylinders were depleted and his meltagun turned the air black with char. When both weapons were spent, he continued to slash and crush the tyranids. Karlaen surged to his feet, giving in to the red hum that quivered through his brain. He smashed his hammer down on snarling maws and bashed aside scratching talons.

The ground trembled beneath his feet as he fought, and he saw a familiar shape plough through its lesser kin with a bellicose roar. The carnifex, its hide pockmarked with death-scars, charged towards Cassor with undeniable eagerness. The Dreadnought turned. ‘Again you seek to match me, hound of carnage. But thy end is come.’

The carnifex crashed into the Dreadnought with a roar, lifting him up and driving him back into the statue of the Emperor, shattering it and sending Terminators scrambling aside as a cloud of dust swept across the plaza. The Dreadnought, off balance, toppled back as the carnifex continued to bulldoze forward. Its great hooves and claws crushed and pierced the black hull plates and a strangled scream exploded from Cassor’s vox.

Karlaen, without thinking, hurled himself at the carnifex. His hammer slammed down against its carapace, cracking it. The carnifex twisted around, jaws snapping. He staggered back as its blade-like claws tore through the air towards him. It stopped short of reaching him, and turned. Karlaen looked past it and saw that Cassor was not finished yet. He had reached out to catch the beast’s leg in an unyielding grip.

‘You shall not touch my brother, abomination. I shall endure a thousand deaths before I yield.’ Cassor hauled back on the carnifex’s hind limb. The carnifex twisted around and drove one of its scything claws through the Dreadnought as it had in their first encounter. But Cassor refused to let go. The carnifex flailed and snapped, its shrieks rising above the battlefield. It slammed its claws down again and again, until at last they became lodged in the ruptured hull. The carnifex’s struggles became more desperate as it strove to free itself. The fallen Dreadnought rocked beneath the blows, but did not release it.

Karlaen, mind full of red, stalked towards the creature. It was the living manifestation of the enemy that was consuming this world and threatening his own. In that moment, he hated it more than any foe he had ever faced. He swung his hammer up. The creature wailed, as if it knew what was coming.

His first blow stunned it. His second split its scarred skull. His third and fourth opened that split further, and mangled the throbbing organ within. His fifth and sixth shattered its jaw and crushed its staring eyes. His seventh nearly tore its head from its neck. He smashed the Hammer of Baal down again and again until he could no longer lift the relic-weapon without trembling from the effort. Then, rage fading, he used his hammer to lever the corpse off Cassor’s inert form.

‘Brother, do you yet function?’ he demanded, sinking down beside the great war machine. ‘Cassor? Cassor!’

Gears whined and servos grated as the hull shifted. Optic sensors flickered and swivelled blindly. Karlaen froze as Cassor’s claw rose. The tip of the talons brushed against the crimson teardrop set into the centre of his chestplate.

‘I swore to serve in life or death. But I feel his hand upon me. I cannot move. My armour… is breached. I hear his wings, brother. I… see…’ Cassor’s rumble slurred into silence without revealing what it was he had seen. The lights on his hull blinked and faded. Karlaen laid his hand on the shattered hull. The rage had drained from him with his final blow, and he could feel his strength ebbing.

He pushed himself to his feet and looked around. The Stormraven had scoured the plaza of alien life as it landed, but there were always more tyranids. Something hissed, and he turned to see the broodlord limping back towards the ruins of the palace. It had been badly hurt by Cassor’s attack. As he watched it, he knew he would never get a better chance to end the danger it posed. But there was no time. Not if he wanted to see his mission through.

With the death of the carnifex, the tyranid horde was drawing close again: a roiling sea of chitin and claws closing in on the survivors. Already, the remaining Terminators were fighting their way towards the waiting Stormraven, which covered their approach with the hurricane bolters mounted on its sponsons. He could hear Alphaeus calling to him, and he saw with some relief that Zachreal had Flax cradled in his arms as he tromped up the boarding ramp into the Stormraven’s hold.

He hesitated, considering. It was worth his life, wasn’t it? The broodlord could not be allowed to survive, even if it meant his death. He looked for it, trying to spot it in the smoke, but it was gone, lost in the haze and in the roiling tide of frenzied tyranid beasts now flooding into the plaza. He heard Alphaeus call for him again, and he turned.

Karlaen fought a path to them, his motions mechanical. He was tired, in body and soul. But he had done his duty. And he was not returning alone, as he had before. The Shield of Baal had not failed, not this time. Gusts of superheated air washed across the plaza as he reached the boarding ramp. The vessel was already starting to lift off as Alphaeus reached out to him. Karlaen gratefully accepted his help in clambering aboard.

Below them, tyranids leapt uselessly at the Stormraven as it rose into the air. Stormstrike missiles streaked from launch bays to hammer into the ruins, collapsing them, and sending tongues of flames licking across the plaza. The Plaza of the Emperor Ascendant would soon be a cauldron, and anything left in it would be consumed by the fires now ravaging Phodia. He hoped that their number would include the Spawn of Cryptus, but somehow he knew that would not be the case. The universe was not that kind.

The ramp began to close. Karlaen stood, watching until the last moment, hoping to see the beast lurch from hiding, wreathed in flame. Hoping that it would make a final, futile assault, and give him leave to finish it off for good. Instead, it remained hidden. He could feel it watching him, watching the Stormraven, calculating the distance and the odds, and he knew that it was not so foolish. ‘Next time, beast,’ he said.

The last thing he saw before the ramp clanged shut and the Stormraven took flight were two red eyes glaring at him through the smoke.

Epilogue

Port Helos, Asphodex

The Stormraven reached Port Helos, the largest of Phodia’s many space ports and the only one currently in Imperial hands, just as the twin suns reached their height, bathing the embattled world in deadly radiation.

The desperate Imperial defenders had built a makeshift moat between the port and the city, flooding the streets with millions of litres of promethium and lighting it. Now a barrier of crackling flame, almost a hundred metres high, rose above the streets.

Dante himself had led the Blood Angels in securing the port after a savage battle in which Mephiston, the Chapter’s Chief Librarian, had contested with the Hive Mind itself and survived. Though the enemy had been driven back, swarms of tyranids massed outside the flames, waiting for them to die down.

The Stormraven touched down with a heavy thump that was muffled by the roar of artillery. As the boarding ramp descended, the stink of burning promethium and the omnipresent odour of the bio-swarms washed over the passengers.

Karlaen stepped down from the ramp and onto the landing platform, a fog of exhaust fumes coiling about him. He said nothing as the others began to disembark behind him. He carried his hammer loosely in one hand and, as he stepped onto the softly vibrating surface of the platform, it slid through his grip. The head crashed against the ground as he closed his eyes.

The rage had dwindled to embers, but he could still feel its heat within him. Once stoked, such fires never truly died. He had come far closer to the edge than he cared to consider, but the thought lingered. He longed for the peace of the Chapter’s fortress-monastery, and his pursuits there. Some place where he could go to find a new centre, and douse the fires that had been stirred within him.

He heard an intake of breath, along with the rattle of armour, and opened his eyes. A golden figure was approaching through the fog of exhaust, and the others had all dropped to their knees. Karlaen began to do the same in reflex, instinct taking over for his too-weary mind.

‘Rise and report, Captain of the First,’ Commander Dante said. Corbulo stood behind him, a flock of Chapter serfs and white-armoured Sanguinary Priests gathered about him. Karlaen briefly met the Sanguinary High Priest’s calm gaze as he rose and removed his helm, but said nothing to him. He looked at Dante.

‘Mission accomplished, commander,’ he rasped, his throat raw. In short, precise sentences, he explained what had befallen him and his men in the ruins from the time of their arrival to their extraction. He said nothing of his unease, or of how close he had come to not coming back at all. Dante could tell regardless. Karlaen knew that his Chapter Master could read it in his face and hear it in his voice, but he said nothing.

‘The creature,’ Dante asked, when Karlaen had finished, ‘is it dead?’

‘I do not know.’ The words rankled. He wanted to demand leave to hunt the aberrant beast down, and finish it for good. But he held his tongue.

Dante gazed at him for a moment. Then the golden helm twitched, and he said, ‘You have done well, Shield of Baal. As I knew you would.’ He reached out and clasped Karlaen’s shoulder, startling him. ‘You have never failed me, brother. I have said that you are the rock upon which the First is built, but you are more than that.’ He gestured to the hammer that Karlaen held. ‘You are the aegis that defends us, and you are the hammer blow which crushes our enemies. Though I would give you the respite I know you crave, I have need of you still.’

Karlaen bowed his head. ‘Speak your will, my lord, and I will see it done.’

Dante lowered his hand. ‘I will, but not yet. Rest, regain your strength. This war has only just begun, I fear.’ He turned to look at Corbulo, who was watching as the Chapter serfs led a bewildered and groggy Augustus Flax away. ‘Well, Corbulo?’

‘He will live. And may prove as useful as I hoped,’ Corbulo said, turning to look at them. Karlaen wanted to ask about Flax’s relationship to the beast, but said nothing. He had told them everything that Flax had shared. If Corbulo was dismayed by such revelations, he did not show it. Indeed, he seemed satisfied with his prize.

Dante nodded brusquely. He looked at Karlaen. ‘You will attend me, when you have rested.’ He hesitated, as if there were something else he wanted to say. But instead, he turned and departed. As the Chapter Master left the landing platform, Alphaeus and the others rose to their feet. Karlaen waved them away. Let them rest while they could. The First’s part in this war was not yet over.

Soon only he and Corbulo remained on the platform. Crimson clouds rolled past, eddying and billowing around the port. Karlaen did his best to ignore the other Space Marine. Corbulo stood quietly, as if waiting for an invitation to speak. They stood in silence for some time. Finally, Corbulo cleared his throat. ‘Discipline is the armour of a man’s soul, it is true. But armour must occasionally be removed, so that it might be tended and made strong again. So too with discipline. It must be tested, and then strengthened where it is found lacking.’

Karlaen grunted. He did not wish to speak about it, and especially not with Corbulo. He stared at the clouds and tried not to see the faces of his fallen brothers there. More names added to the tally of his debt. More men dead because they had followed him into battle. His grip on the hammer’s haft tightened. Corbulo waited. Whether he was waiting for a reply, or simply waiting, Karlaen couldn’t say. Eventually, the Sanguinary High Priest made to depart.

‘I asked you before if you wanted to know what those whispers in your mind said of you, brother,’ Corbulo said, as he turned away. Karlaen said nothing. Corbulo stopped, then smiled sadly, his face half-turned away. ‘They said that they forgive you. But that you cannot forgive yourself,’ he said. ‘And that it will be the death of you.’

Karlaen did not reply. He turned away, and looked out beyond the port walls, towards the burning city below. He heard Corbulo leave, but said nothing.

He simply stared at the conflagration far below, and thought of two red eyes, glaring at him from the smoke.

Wraithflight

Guy Haley

The wayseers sang their songs; songs that remembered days of glory and days of beauty. Sad songs that were never intended to be so, glad songs made sorrowful by their singing in these terrible times. The webway responded to these paeans of glory still, though the singers were of a diminished people. The membrane of reality split. The gold of the webway changed to the black of space. The Great Wheel’s cold embrace awaited the Iyandeni.

Iyanna Arienal reached out to the dead around her. To those within the infinity core of her ship, Ynnead’s Herald. To those in the Hemlock fighters, and in the cores of the battleships. To the ghost warriors crewing the ships of the Wraithborne squadron, to the spirits guiding the wraithbombers. There were many. In the fleet of Iyanden, the dead outnumbered the living.

+We go again to war,+ she told them.

The unliving shifted, their attentions turned from the things of the dead. The urge for revenge kindled in their slow thoughts. The escort of Ynnead’s Herald formed up about the cruiser, awaiting further direction, the Aconites of the Wraithborne, House Haladesh’s undying navy. Dozens of fighters waited behind.

The webway opened like a mouth and disgorged the fleet of Iyanden from its golden throat. On swift wings, craft after craft sped into real space, their yellow and blue livery bright against the black.

Before them was the world the humans called Krokengard, an ugly name for an ugly planet. An ash-grey atmosphere marbled with pollutant cloud obscured the surface. A dying world, infested with the human plague. And yet even this poisoned morsel appealed to the Great Dragon. The tyranids of Starving Dragon, that which the humans called Leviathan, attacked. Human ships fought them, desperate to keep their soiled den safe.

At the back of the bridge of Ynnead’s Herald, Iyanna Arienal lay upon a couch. She was surrounded by other spiritseers. The Angel of Iyanden was curled at the centre, the other seven arrayed about her like petals around the heart of the most perfect of flowers. From the point of view of those piloting the ship, the spiritseers were arranged on the vertical plane, but gravity’s constraints meant little to the eldar. Three living crew manned the Ynnead’s Herald: two steersmen and their captain. Behind the spiritseers’ station stood wraithguard. A crescent of a dozen of them, still as tombstones, watched over the Angel of Iyanden. Many more of the dead passed as bright lights through the exposed infinity core of the ship, lending their power to the vessel, working its systems. Among them were mighty dead, those that had carried their strength and purpose with them through the gates of Morai-heg.

The helmets of the spiritseers were off. Their eyes were shut. Their breathing was steady. To an observer, Iyanna might appear to be a sleeper, albeit one with troubled dreams. A frown creased her perfect brow. Her eyes were agitated behind lids tinted a delicate blue.

She was not alone in her disquiet. The hive mind hurt the eldar. As the ships left the webway, a sudden weight that descended and threatened to crush their souls. Snared in the hive mind’s psychic shadow, their minds became as sluggish as those of the dead. So far out from the tyranid ships, and yet dread insinuated itself into their hearts. The hive mind had adapted. The roar of its composite soul had increased twentyfold since the battle of Duriel. Where before it had brought pain and despair, to draw close now spelled death for sensitive eldar psyches.

Lesser eldar might quail and flee at this intimate violation, the Iyandeni did not. Bitter experience made them strong. Their anger outweighed their fear. The Great Dragon was not the only being capable of adaptation. The Great Dragon was not the only being that made use of the dead.

+Forwards,+ Iyanna sent.

The sails of the battlegroup filled, the engines of the attack craft flared blue. They picked up speed, and moved away from the main battlefleet of Iyanden.

The hive fleet of Starving Dragon stretched out in an elongated teardrop billions of lengths long. The vanguard was close to the planet. Beaked monstrosities and tentacled assault beasts were only several hundred thousand lengths from Krokengard. This front wave was being pounded by a line of human ships and orbital defences. A mist of organic detritus clouded the stars. But the humans could not win. Every living ship destroyed saw the Great Dragon gain on the human’s position. Every one killed had a dozen replacements. More were coasting into the system with each passing cycle.

Iyanna had seen examples of artifice from many human cultures. At the height of their art, humanity had made ugly things, and in this age of the Corpse-Emperor they were far from their height. Their ships were an offence to the eye.

There were those philosophers who took grim delight in pointing out how the humans’ fate was unfolding as a cruder version of the Fall. Iyanna did not agree. Their fate was an inverse of the eldar’s. The humans’ god had been alive, and was dying a slow death. He could not save them. Her goddess Ynnead was yet to be, and undergoing a long birth. Her advent would restore the eldar. Yet the humans thought themselves masters of the galaxy.

The time of humanity was ending. In future ages historians would look back upon this interruption of eldar dominance and note the passing of mankind with disinterested diligence. For sixty million arcs the eldar had ruled the stars. They would do so again, and soon. What was ten thousand arcs of despair in the face of sixty million? This was an era of renewal. Humans were vermin infesting a closed-up home, unaware that the true owners would soon return.

The human ships, though unlovely, were holding their own. Iyanna was forced to admit that. But their defiance would not last; the teardrop was flattening, growing denser. Soon, all the voidspawn would arrive at the battlefront and the human fleet would be smashed, the world they protected devoured.

That could not happen.

Ynnead’s Herald rolled and swept from side to side, her steersmen making the ship dance for the joy of it. Behind her came dozens of eldar fighter craft. Nightwings and the Nightshade interceptors of Crimson Hunters, all piloted by living eldar, fanned out in three crescent-shaped attack wings. These split further into two squadrons of six each, each squadron guarding a similar number of Hemlock wraithfighters.

The ships of the living spun and jinked, surging ahead of one another as eager as dolphins in spray. In marked contrast, the craft directly behind Ynnead’s Herald flew steady on courses so straight they did not appear to be moving at all. These were wraithbombers, piloted solely by the dead. Through the tumult of the warp, they looked to Iyanna, lidless eyes fixed upon the glimmer of her soul. She was the beacon guiding them to their duty. Her mind was joined to them via the infinity core of Ynnead’s Herald; she was with them. A slender thread of fate separated her from them, and it could so easily be cut.

+Lord Admiral Kelemar, I am moving to engage.+ Her message was hard to send and harder to hear, a weak shout against the psychic roar of the hive mind. Only the large number of ghosts within her ship enabled it to be heard at all. Their energy impelled her thoughts, boosting the machines that conveyed her sendings. She considered switching to simpler technology, but the hive mind assaulted them on every level, and the electromagnetic interference was as bad as the psychic.

Kelemar responded. +The Great Dragon sees you through a billion eyes, and adjusts his coils. Be wary, spiritseer.+

Iyanna followed Kelemar’s mental impulse. Parts of the fleet were breaking away from the main swarm, setting themselves a defensive perimeter.

+Sweep them from the stars. Allow us safe passage through.+

+Shatter the web, and we will follow,+ responded Kelemar.

For the moment, the main body of the Iyanden fleet hung back away from the tyranids, at the edge of the hive mind’s well of pain. They could approach no closer. From this relatively safe distance, delicate war barques and sinuous battleships sent invisible blasts of energy into the tyranid vessels manoeuvring to block Iyanna’s attack. Shattered shells leaked lakes’ worth of fluid into the path of her battlegroup that froze or boiled away into clouds of icy gasses.

The strength of the hive mind grew and grew as Ynnead’s Herald pressed on. The pressure was immense, even though Iyanna and her group were shielded from the worst of it. Her contact with Kelemar slipped away. She became apprehensive. Like all their encounters with the Great Dragon, there was an element of desperation to this gambit. Every battle brought new perils and new evolutions. Iyanna forced herself to relax. She must keep her mind clear so as not to confuse the wraithkind. They would win as they had won all their recent battles. It was preordained.

She pushed herself into deeper communion with the wraith pilots. The scales of mortality fell away from her second sense and she saw the world as the deceased did. The glittering shield projected by the multitudinous dead of Ynnead’s Herald extended before the cruiser, sheltering her attack group from the full power of the hive mind. The dead protected the living.

Beyond the shield she saw the Great Dragon’s true form. Not the hideous intrusions into the mortal realm that swam the black star sea, nor as a Farseer might see it, as a great and braided cable of malicious fate dominating all the skein. The first was merely a part of the whole, the second psychic abstraction. What Iyanna instead saw was the reality of its soul.

It was a great shadow when seen from afar, a wave of dread and psychic blindness that preceded the hive fleet’s arrival. But the greatest shadows are cast by the brightest lights, and seen closely, the soul of the hive mind shone brighter than any sun.

She was so close now that she perceived the ridged topography of its mind, larger than star systems, an entity bigger than a god. It contemplated thoughts as large as continents, and spun plans more complex than worlds. It dreamed dreams that could not be fathomed. She felt small and afraid before it, but she did not let her fear cow her defiance.

Against this vista flickered the souls of eldar, their jewel-brightness dimmed by the incomparable glare of the Great Dragon. And this was but a tendril of the creature. The bulk of it stretched away, coils wrapped tight about the higher dimensions, joining in the distance to others, and then others again, until at a great confluence of the parts sat the terrible truth of the whole. She stared at its brilliance. Unlike her passionless dead warriors, who felt nought but the echoes of wrath at the sight, she was fascinated by the beauty on display. She thought, if only such a thing could be tamed it would drive out She Who Thirsts forever. If only its hunger was for things other than the meat and blood of worlds…

She ceased her speculation. Such an entity was entirely other, inimical to all life but its own, a giant animal intent only on its prey. There was no thought to its doings, no intellect. It was cunning. It exhibited signs of an emergent, mechanical intelligence, as evolution might appear to possess if sped to the rate of change the hive mind evinced. But there was no true intelligence to it. The hive mind was non-sentient.

As they came closer to the battle human psychic sendings, crude and ill-formed as their craft, teased at her higher senses. She doubted another human could have caught these missives, overwhelmed by the roar of the Great Dragon. But she felt them, although to extend herself past the ghost shield to find them exposed her to the raw power of the hive mind and seared her inner being. She read the messages’ sense, and snatched herself back to safety.

They were inelegant poems, messages sketched in dull metaphor.

All were horrified pleas for help.

The infinity core of Ynnead’s Herald pulsed. Her captain spoke.

‘Lady Iyanna, the humans are attempting to hail us.’

+I know+ she sent. Her mind voice echoed from the fabric of the bridge. She thought a moment, wishing she had a Farseer’s prescience. +Allow their transmission.+

A frantic human voice crackled into life. Their technology was no match for the fury of the swarm, and much fine tuning was required by Ynnead’s Herald before the words became discernable. ‘Eldar craft, please identify yourselves. Eldar craft, are you friend or foe?’ Whether this made any material difference was doubtful – her ships were too distant and swift for the humans to draw firing solutions even had they not been battling the Great Dragon.

Iyanna found humans disgusting and fascinating. The words were little better than the grunts of animals, slopped out of skilless lips, but the emotions behind them were pure if weak, and they betrayed something higher. Iyanden remembered them from before their first fall, when they had been something better. She could not truly hate them because of that.

‘Have you replied, Yethelminir?’ She spoke aloud, an alien and uncomfortable sensation while she lay in communion. Half-wrenched from the perfect wrath of the dead, she was repulsed by her own flesh. Her body was a thing of clotted clay, her teeth rough stones set into it, her tongue a corpse-worm that writhed between the stones.

‘No. The humans are still requesting an audience,’ said Captain Yethelminir dreamily. He was also half-lost to the craft’s infinity core, drowning in the comfort of the dead as she did. He was tall, beautiful, his robes as colourful as a rainbow, but his face was as grim and shaped by sorrow as that of any Iyandeni. ‘Shall we speak with them? They may be useful.’

Iyanna considered. She agreed.

‘I will speak with them.’ A channel was opened, attuned to the crass technology of the mon-keigh.

‘I am Iyanna Ariennal, spiritseer of Iyanden,’ she said. Human speech was so limited, incapable of conveying subtlety other than at great length. She was thankful for that. They would take what she said at face value. ‘We come to offer aid.’

There was a delay, messages restricted to the speed of light. A psychic impression came long before their reply. The sense of relief was palpable. These were creatures who would burn her alive simply for being what she was. How things were different when they were alone and afraid. The minds of the mon-keigh were blunt as pebbles.

Presently, a human male appeared in a vision bubble. The machines of Ynnead’s Herald perfectly reproduced his ugliness. His face and voice betrayed his suspicion.

‘I am Captain Hortense of the Glorious Conquest. We should consider coordinating our efforts. What are your intentions?’

Iyanna opened her eyes, and allowed her image to appear to him. ‘We kill their mind ships, then their mother.’

Another pause.

‘The great vessel at the heart of the fleet?’

Iyanna inclined her head slightly. To an eldar, this would have indicated an affirmative, although one layered with sarcastic approval at the other so obviously stating the correct option. Then she remembered with whom she was speaking. ‘Yes,’ she said.

‘We are close. Your disruption of their flank will allow us to penetrate deep into the swarm. We will press forward and destroy them! We fight together?’

Iyanna winced at the rough barking of the human’s speech. Spit flew when he spoke. Eldar children had more control of themselves. ‘Yes. Together.’ She said it slowly, lest the human not understand. ‘Hold them from turning back, until we have disrupted their psychic network. Then you must press forwards without delay.’

He stared at her dumbly while her message winged itself on artless wave forms to his craft. Then he nodded, invigorated. She was help unlooked for. Relief ran with the sweat from his face.

‘Perhaps we might…’

‘I have spoken.’

She cut their chatter with a thought. The humans were tiring to listen to. She had deeds that must be done. Her attack group neared the outer limits of the swarm.

‘We approach our target, Lady Iyanna,’ said Yethelminir. ‘The psychic shielding is holding. The dead perform their task and shield us well.’

Iyanna was sorrowful at this news. The wraithkind expended much of themselves to protect her. They would be lesser because of it. Some would fade away, consumed.

‘In one half-tenth cycle we will be among their picket ships,’ continued Yethelminir. His eyes flicked back and forward, viewing some machine-projected display only he could see.

In the eyes of the dead, their target resolved itself from the glare of the Great Dragon as a knot in its complex being-web. One of the great hive ships, not the largest, but important nonetheless. The oppression of the hive mind was great so close to such a thing, and would grow worse the nearer they went. The dead had no such issues. There was no physical form their souls could be driven from. Iyanna led the ghosts of Iyanden to their vengeance so that the living might follow.

The shattered bodies of tyranid ships floated by. More were moving up to plug the gap. Already Nightwings and Crimson Hunters were engaged in quick battles with vermicular torpedoes and serpentine hunter-killer creatures that chased them on tails of bright green bio-plasma.

First the way must be cleared.

+Cut the crone’s cord,+ sent Iyanna.

At her command the Hemlocks raced forward, the escorts blasting away the anti-ship spines and grubs that came at them. They tore towards their targets, bringing their weapons to near range. Grappling tentacles on closing kraken ships waved in anticipation. Anti-laser ice fields puffed from spiracules. Flesh chaff belched from subsidiary mouths.

This kind of defence was useless against the weapons of the Hemlocks.

A howl built in the othersea, the outraged wailing and pain of the dead. It set Iyanna’s teeth on edge to hear it, and she was one well accustomed. She felt the anguish of the warlock pilots as they guided the fury of the dead into the weapons pods of their craft. These fashioned the essence of the dead into a scythe whose screaming edge cut the soul. Pain spiked every eldar mind within range, followed instantly by relief as the psychic weapon swept through the warp, severing the souls of the hive ships from the hive mind. Their pseudopods and chelae ceased to writhe, and their propulsion systems’ emissions puttered out. Bioluminescence flickered.

Dead shells were all that remained.

The minds of the ships guarding the psychic node vessel were gone. They floated lifeless upon the tides of battle. The oppressive pressure of the hive mind lessened a little. Iyanna grinned savagely.

+On! On!+ she sent, her triumph goading the dead further. They drew closer to the hive ship.

The firing tubes of unaffected tyranid craft spasmed, bursts of gas venting from their weapons exhausts. A shoal of anti-aircraft worms sped towards the Hemlocks.

The hemlocks peeled aside in perfect formation. One was hit by a worm that ripped into its wing as straight as a spear. With the target reached, the worm lost its stiffness. It flailed loose then wrapped itself around the ship and squeezed hard. The fighter exploded in shards of glittering wraithbone. The psychic screams of its warlock pilot and wraith co-pilots were keen against the dull roar of the hive mind. Even there, in this space of light and shadow dominated by the fires of the dragon, Iyanna heard the distant, insane laughter of She Who Thirsts.

Another craft exploded, smashed by a missile of bloody raw bone. A third ran foul of a cloud of tiny beetles who came alive upon its skin and chewed their way down in a frenzy. A fourth then a fifth exploded, consumed in plumes of plasma.

‘The Dragon is targeting the Hemlocks,’ said Yethelminir.

+Of course it is,+ sent Iyanna.

But the others were past, the Crimson Hunters escorting them weaving through the worms and serpents and tentacled things. They rendered them to pieces with their bright lances. Others performed high speed flicks of their wings to cast the worms off for their following squadron mates to eviscerate with laser fire.

It was done. An empty funnel of space lined by the soulless husks of defence creatures led directly to the node ship. Iyanna focused her witchsight upon it, imparting urgency to the wraithbombers that flew in her wake. She dwelt upon her own memories of the Triple Woe, recalling the invasion of Iyanden by the tyranids. Domes shattered by organic weapons, gardens consumed by mindless beasts to make more mindless beasts with no thought for the sublimity of being. Eldar, quick and beguiling in life, ground to paste under the hooves of living tanks. Her own anger burned hot as a flame.

+Now,+ she thought to them.

The minds of the spirits were quickened by Iyanna’s memories. Their lust for vengeance dragged them out of their dreamworld and back, for a time, into the material realm. Howling with grief, the eldar wraithcraft sped at the hive ship, curving elegantly around the drifting bodies of its dead escorts.

Iyanna watched through the eyes of Ynnead’s Herald, temporal and psychic. In the Great Wheel, the ships cut across the blackness strewn with flesh chunks towards the slug-like hive ship. The size of it was impressive, as big as a large world dome upon Iyanden. It was too strongly linked to the greater part of the hive mind to be excised from it by the disruption scythes of the Hemlocks, and too invested with the Dragon’s might for the living to come close to. Physical destruction was the only option. Frost sparkled on gnarled skin pockmarked by aeons of void travel. A tentacled head, tiny in comparison to the astronomical bulk of its thorax and abdomen, writhed at the front. The other end terminated in a flat leech-like tail. Lesser creatures scuttled over its body, seeking firing positions for the enormous cannons grafted into their backs. Shell-plaques slipped open over firing orifices along the lateral line of the ship.

Glistening weapons ports emptied munitions into space. The hive ship quivered as it opened fire. The weapons beasts dwelling upon its carapace trained their parasitic cannons on the wraithbombers and vomited glowing plasmas.

Iyanna gritted her teeth. The wraiths were too slow to avoid the fusillade on their own. The ghost ships of the wraithborne supported their smaller brethren. Pulsar and plasma cannon fire annihilated swathes of the living missiles, but there were so many. Iyanna and her fellow spiritseers guided the wraithcraft as best they could. An agony of choices. There were too few spiritseers to guide them all, too many souls to save. Which vessel would it be that had their guidance? Which vessel would then be unguided, and blindly crash into the anti-ship fire? Iyanna chose which souls would return to the infinity circuit of Iyanden and which would suffer the worst of all fates without thinking. After the battle, she would be horrified by her choices, whatever they were. She had no time for that now. She put the anticipation of grief from her mind.

The wraithbombers closed on the head and the flank, those going aft seeking out the great ship-birthing canals on the underside. The wraithborne raked the hive ship with punishing pulsar fire.

+Release your revenge, dead of Iyanden,+ Iyanna thought. Her mind-sending was repeated seven times by her servants.

Missiles streaked from swept-forward wings. They swam the void sea as things born to it, swerving elegantly past anti-ordnance spines spat from the hive ship.

The missiles had been adapted, taking inspiration from the burrowing creatures of the hive fleet. They plunged into the surface of the vessel, fusion generators at their tips melting deep into the creature’s body. Seconds later, unlight bloomed. Iyanna looked away. She made the dead look away. Perfect globes opened a way into the warp, and for the briefest fraction of time, Slaanesh looked at them directly with ravenous eyes. How terrible, to be caught between two insatiable appetites.

The portals shut. The hive ship’s flesh was riddled with vast spherical spaces. It writhed in agony, its death scream horrible. As it faded, another built. The Great Dragon roared with fury as a part of its limitless spirit was obliterated. A black space appeared in the light of the Dragon’s soulfire. The pressure in the minds of the eldar lessened further.

Outside the cordon of living ships, Admiral Kelemar continued his bombardment. The hive fleet, still stretched thin as it entered the system, was engaged on three fronts. It bulged outwards towards the main body of the Iyanden fleet. They flitted away, pulsars sounding their invisible, soundless songs of death.

To the front, the Imperial fleet pushed forward towards the chief vessel of the Dragon, the norn ship. Several of their ships drifted, the beaks of tentacled kraken ships buried deep in their hulls. The remainder attempted to lumber into advantageous firing positions. They were heavily beset, but Iyanna’s strike near the core of the hive fleet was drawing away reinforcements from the front, and they were coming close to their prize.

Iyanna selected another vessel, a bloated thing like a leathery jellyfish surrounded by darting shoals of fighter craft. This was much smaller, not a main-line hive vessel, but a potent node nonetheless.

+Target the second,+ she sent.

Again the hemlocks cleared the way, and again the wraithbombers delivered their deadly cargo. As the synapses were severed and the hive mind dwindled in potency, Kelemar brought his fleet in closer, sweeping over the swarm and raking it with deadly fire.

So it went, again and again, until a seventh great ship died under Iyanna’s attack.

The humans had penetrated into the heart of the swarm, where they pounded the great norn ship, where the tyranids’ terrible queen dwelt. The battle was won for the eldar.

+That is the last of them. Withdraw,+ Iyanna ordered. Instantly, her ships came about, and headed through the debris field they had created, back towards clear space.

+Casualties are light in the living and the dead. You are to be congratulated, my lady,+ sent Kelemar. With the synapses of the swarm destroyed, the hive mind was reduced to a background hiss, and they could communicate freely again.

+It is fated,+ sent Iyanna.

She began to ease her mind from the world of the dead. Before she was done, she sat up and stretched, letting her soul sit in two worlds. The sensation of her own body went from disgusting to glorious as she slid back fully into her physical being. The stretch of her muscles delighted her, and she smiled.

‘The humans signal us again,’ said Yethelminir.

Iyanna shrugged. Allow them to speak, the shrug said, but I do not care what they will say.

Captain Hortense’s face appeared again. It was clouded, his lumpen human features exhibited dismay, or some simple human feeling kin to it. ‘What are you doing?’

‘We have accomplished our task,’ said Iyanna. ‘The skein has shifted in our favour. The future conforms to our design.’

The pressure of the hive mind, already broken by their extermination of the hive ships, diminished further as Ynnead’s Herald sped back towards the webway gate.

‘You are leaving us to die! You are leaving our world to be consumed.’

‘Not so,’ said Iyanna. ‘Look.’

Upon the grey marble of Krokengard a flame was lit.

Hortense was distracted for a moment, his crew delivering information. Iyanna knew what it must be. Hortense’s face hardened.

‘This, it was all a ruse. You came to attack us!’ His mouth twisted. ‘Exterminatus! You have destroyed our world. “Perfidious are the eldar, trust them not!”’ He quoted some human religious text. ‘I should have known no kindness would come from you.’

Iyanna could have cut the feed, but she did not. Some feeling crept into her for this lesser creature. He had fought bravely. ‘A Fireheart,’ she explained. ‘A device to destroy this world so that the Great Dragon may not feast upon it. We kill you, yes, but it is better we do than the Great Dragon draw sustenance from your world.’ She paused. ‘You have my apologies.’

She surveyed the battle. The hive fleet remnants fought on, disunited but deadly still.

‘To attack these creatures and aid you further would result in unacceptable losses to my people,’ she said. ‘There are times coming when we will fight by your side. Today is not one of those occasions. The ship of their swarm-queen is dying. This world is dead. There is nothing for them to feed on but their own dead, and nothing to reconstitute them if consumed. This tendril is destroyed, and the way through here will offer no sustenance should the Great Dragon choose to force it in future. Surely this is worth your sacrifice? One world for many?’

She blinked, examined the human curiously. She pitied him. His own kind did the same elsewhere, and yet he was still appalled. How many others had he thoughtlessly condemned himself? One’s own extinction always seemed to matter more.

‘If you withdraw now you might save some of your ships,’ she continued. ‘You have, after all, nothing left to defend here.’

Hortense spluttered. She hoped he would heed her.

‘This is an ou–’

Her psychic impulse ended their conversation.

‘Take us home, Captain Yethelminir,’ she said. The captain bowed.

‘Yes, my lady.’

The webway gaped wide, and Ynnead’s Herald accelerated towards it. Behind them, the pyre of Krokengard’s destruction shone brightly.

Iyanna was triumphant again. Fifteen worlds had been denied the ravening hunger of the Starving Dragon by the deployment of the Firehearts, funnelling it away from the eldar towards…

Something was wrong. A sensation at the back of her mind. The sensation grew teeth, became pain.

Her soul was gripped by agony.

Iyanna screamed, falling from the edge of the couch. The pain abated, then squeezed her anew. She vomited.

The dead were dismayed. The blow against her raced out across her attack group, leaping from mind to mind. Wraithbomber engines guttered out. The Wraithborne’s sleek cruisers turned viciously, wallowing in psychic swell.

Bright light burned at Iyanna’s soul. A long tunnel telescoped away, encompassing infinite distance. A tube stabbed through the fabric of the world. She felt its ripples in the warp. She felt its ripples in the webway.

She had the sense of an eye, slave to a great power. An intellect that dwarfed the Great Wheel of the galaxy. She opened her second sense, to find the Dragon looking at her with terrible regard.

For aeons it seemed it held her in its gaze. And there was fury in that examination.

The Dragon was angry, and it was angry with her. Not with the galaxy, or this sector, or her species. But with her personally. The promise of endless torment came from it, her very being enslaved to its ends and used against others, her body rebuilt over and again so that it might suffer the Dragon’s revenge.

Terror of a kind she could not have conceived of flooded her mind. She screamed again, and this time every eldar in the fleet screamed with her.

When she awoke later, Ynnead’s Herald was dark. She exhaled brokenly. Her legs were weak. She hauled herself to her feet by grabbing at a couch’s cocoon. Her fingers had no strength to them. The other spiritseers lay limp in their cots. Two, she was sure, were dead.

The steersmen were slumped over their control jewels and the captain was a crumpled peacock on the floor. The main viewing bubble glowed still. Through it she saw the eldar fleet was in disarray, drifting powerless. The humans fought on however. The norn ship burned fiercely. Was this what had severed the connection between her and the Great Dragon?

Thinking of the contact made her nauseous.

As her mind reached out to the ship, the dead of Ynnead’s Herald woke too, creeping from their hiding places in the infinity core, shocked and timorous.

The lights came back on. A dull glow from the walls that grew until the ship looked as it should. Yethelminir groaned and rolled over. He stood shakily, struggling with his iridescent cape to free his arms. The steersmen and other crew came to groggily.

‘My lady?’

‘I am well, Yethelminir,’ she said. Her eyes were fixed on the desperate battle. The hive fleet was shattered. Even bereft of direction, the individual ship-beasts were still deadly, and the humans were outnumbered twenty times to one.

She watched as one of their light cruisers was snagged by a trio of kraken ships. It broke apart, its reactor dying with a bright plasma flare.

She came to a decision.

‘Lord Admiral?’ She spoke aloud.

There was a long pause before Kelemar answered.

‘My lady?’ His voice was weak.

‘What is the status of your ship? Your fleet?’

‘They are undamaged. My crew are distressed. Some are dead.’

‘Rouse them.’

‘What was that?’

‘The Great Dragon,’ she said. She kept her voice cold, frightened her fear would creep into her voice. If it did, she was sure she would lose her mind. ‘Bring your ships back into battle order.’

‘We do not return to Iyanden?’

‘We do not return to Iyanden. We remain to help the mon-keigh.’

‘That was not in the plan.’

‘Plans change,’ she said. ‘Every weapon will be needed in the coming fight.’

Slowly, the eldar fleet regained its prior order, and drove on back at the tyranids.

‘Tell the humans we are coming,’ she said.

Yethelminir nodded. His face bore lines it had not had before.

Iyanna slipped back into her couch and reconnected with the dead pilots of the wraithbombers, informing them of their new task.

They welcomed it gladly, for the vengeance of the dead knows no bounds.

A SON’S BURDEN

Andy Smillie

‘I remember the day Seth left a world to die. I remember the voices of our brothers, of those he left behind to die with it. I remember the day Seth proclaimed our lives worth less than the planet of the Legion that shunned us. I remember that day. It was the first day I believed him to have the strength to save us.’

– Flesh Tearers Chaplain Appollus

Darkness. It rolls out beyond my position, a thick cloud that blends the sky with the ground. It is as much a blessing as it is a curse, concealing me even as it conceals my quarry. I glance to the west where the blackness is broken by the unceasing flare of artillery fire. Anger coils my gut as I watch the flames it has set among distant buildings. My brothers are in those buildings. My Chapter Master is in those buildings.

Blood. I reek of its wet warmth. It coats my armour and shaven scalp, running into my eyes like a scarlet sweat. None of it is mine. Regrettably, not all of it is the enemy’s.

Death. I am surrounded by it. The dismembered corpses of the recent dead are strewn the length of the warehouse. Their limbs and entrails stain the corrugated iron of the building. Beside them, the long dead, whose bones had cracked underfoot as we’d fought, watch in silence.

‘The building is secure, captain.’ Brother-Sergeant Cophi’s voice sounds from my left.

I re-sheathe my blade and turn to face him. His eyes are as dark as the ash he’s used to obscure his face.

I ask after our fallen brothers first. ‘How many?’

‘Seven.’ Cophi holds up his fist. In his grasp is a length of wire. Seven tongues dangle from the hooks threaded along its length. ‘Their corpses will lie in silence.’ He ties the ends of the wire and loops it over the thick trunk of his neck.

I nod. The removal of the tongue is an old Cretacian tradition to prevent a Scout’s ghost from speaking to those following in his wake and betraying the rest of the war-party. Like the remaining twenty-three Scouts under my command, I was born and raised on Cretacia. Ghosts or no ghosts, I would honour the tradition. ‘And the enemy?’

‘Almost two hundred at rough count.’

‘A good tally,’ I say. Despite my best effort, the words sound as empty and hollow as I know them to be. Two hundred is not a fraction of the enemy warriors infesting the city around us. I shift my gaze back to the west and the burning horizon. ‘We are short on time. We move out in five minutes.’ I turn back to Cophi. ‘Our right flank will be exposed as we cross the street. Have our strength weighted to the left. We can’t afford to get bogged down in a firefight. If we’re engaged, one squad will break off and cover our advance.’

‘I’ll have Sergeant Viritiel and his men bring up the left. Their heavy bolter will buy us a few extra moments if we’re spotted.’ Cophi pauses. ‘Temel, we have wounded.’ He lowers his voice as he addresses me by name.

I don’t ask him how many. It doesn’t matter. Five or fifty, my order would be the same. Cophi knows this. There is no hope in his eyes. They are as hard as his bouldered shoulders. He has spoken only out of duty to his warriors. ‘Leave them behind.’

Even certain in my command, the coldness in my voice surprises me. I did not think I would live to see the moment when I cast our brothers aside as easily as I would a spent power cell. I have spent too long in the shadows. My actions have long been hidden, judged only by the restless gaze of my conscience. I sigh. Even it has become a tired observer with little voice to champion my guilt.

‘Duty and honour do not always walk the same path.’ Sergeant Eschiros’s voice is the firm whisper of a sniper rifle. ‘Though they intersect often enough for those with the courage to stay on the road.’

‘You’ve spent too much time with Chaplain Appollus.’

I turn to find Eschiros looking the worse for wear. The skin of his face is twisted and raw, scorched black around the jawline.

‘What happened?’

Eschiros grins. The gesture twists the ugliness of his wounds, making his face appear cruel. ‘The Chaplain would not let you avoid the issue so easily, captain.’

I smile. Eschiros’s eyes hold nothing but righteous warmth. He is without question bound for the Chaplaincy. ‘I will be sure to seek Appollus out when we return to the Victus.’ I dismiss Eschiros with a curt nod and turn to Cophi. ‘If we don’t make it to the artillery line before day break, we will fail. Secure a locator beacon with the wounded and once the mission is done we’ll send for them.’

‘Andas and Sothis have asked to stay with the wounded.’ Cophi is already turning from me. ‘They would help them secure one of the smaller buildings.’

‘No. We can’t spare anyone. This will be hard enough.’

‘I’ll see you on the street.’ Cophi’s tone betrays none of his feelings on the matter.

I stare at his back, watching as he walks from me and disappears into the gloom of the building. Our next fight in the duelling cages will be revealing.

For the next five minutes, I stand alone.

The swift double-clack of weapons being reloaded and the harsh scrape of blades running across sharpening stones keep time around me. It is a familiar countdown to battle. One, that to my ears, is more accurate than any chrono-meter. I look out into the darkness of the street, and my hearts quicken in anticipation of the blood and death to come.

Nekkaris. The dark world. The sun that once lit its horizon is gone. Its moons are battered husks that hang lifeless in the black. Of the universe beyond, there is nothing save the faint shimmer of distant stars.

‘Incoming!’ A Nekkari trooper, a sergeant judging by the bronze band framing his shoulder, yelled from the forward parapet and threw himself down into the trench. The rest of his squad followed suit.

Chaplain Appollus didn’t move. He remained pressed against the wall as the artillery strike detonated. Rock dust and metal shrapnel rained off his armour. ‘Three days we’ve been under assault. Three days the enemy have hammered us with mortar and siege shell.’ He turned to glare at the Nekkari. ‘And for three days their rounds have travelled no further than this wall. When will these idiots simply learn to duck?’

Harahel grunted. The other Flesh Tearer stood to Appollus’s left, his weight resting on his eviscerator, the weapon’s blade standing taller than any Nekkari. ‘Perhaps you could use this time to hold a sermon. Instil these “warriors of the Emperor” with some courage.’

Appollus snarled. ‘Such fragile vessels cannot hold the fire of courage.’

‘I’m surprised that fool’s throat hasn’t turned hoarse from all the shouting,’ said Nisroc. The Apothecary was with them on the wall, his arms folded tight across his chest.

Behind them, Balthiel sighed. The Librarian had come to expect such overt distain from Appollus, and Harahel’s passive aggressiveness was preferable to the fits of rage he knew the Company champion was capable of. But Nisroc… Balthiel looked to the Apothecary, and the bionic that sat in place of his left eye. He reached out with his mind, letting it skim the edges of Nisroc’s thoughts. The Apothecary had grown dark of late. He had not been the same since Armageddon. ‘If you must mock them, do it in private. We will need the Nekkari in the days ahead,’ Balthiel spoke over the comm.

‘I doubt that, brother.’ Appollus indicated the Nekkari troopers huddled against the trench wall.

Seth felt Balthiel’s eyes on him but said nothing. He shared Appollus’s frustration. The Flesh Tearers were ill-suited to defence. This static posting was eating away at their restraint. If they did not attack soon, the Nekkari would have more to fear than harsh words.

‘How long must we wait?’ Harahel aimed his question at the horizon.

‘Until Temel completes his mission.’ Seth looked out to the rolling explosions that made and unmade the city before them.

‘If he is still alive,’ said Appollus. ‘We still have little idea how many enemy occupy the capital.’

‘Captain Temel will not fail. It is not in his blood,’ said Seth. ‘The moment he has destroyed the artillery emplacement, we advance.’ He turned to regard the convoy of Rhino transports in the courtyard. The ten armoured vehicles seemed to resent the inaction, their hulls trembling as their engines growled on idle.

‘I could be half way across the city by then.’ Brick-dust tumbled from between Appollus’s fingers as he closed his fists around the rock of the wall.

‘Not even you and your Death Company would survive that.’ Nisroc motioned to the ground beyond the wall as another barrage of shells smashed into the earth, gouging another crater in the rubble strewn landscape.

‘At this point I’d be willing to find out.’

‘Master Seth.’ The stern, assured tone that had defined Colonel Nim’s thirty-year command was absent as he addressed the Chapter Master, his voice shaking as much as the ground underfoot.

‘What is it?’

The man flinched as Seth turned to regard him. ‘The astropaths, liege, they have received a communication for you.’

‘From who?’

‘Liege, it is from Lord Dante.’

I freeze. Ahead, a clenched fist shouts a warning to me in the darkness. Enemy. I drop to my belly and scramble forward. The broken rock and glass that litters the ground, shifts and cracks as I move. I advance with caution. The noise is minimal, lost against the howl of the wind and the distant bark of artillery, yet each scrape of stone stabs at my ears like the unexpected snap of weapons fire. I have trained for a hundred years to move in silence. But I have practised for the same amount of time to hear the slightest of sounds. It is the frustrating dichotomy of my life, to have spent my days listening for a silence that I will never hear.

I crawl to the doorway, drawing level with Cophi and his squad. The five Scouts are almost invisible, spectres sheathed in the rain and smoke that bathes the city in an eerie blanket. Cophi is pressed up against a ruined section of the wall, an area of missing brickwork allowing him to peer into the room beyond. He gestures for me to take a look. With care, I rise to one knee and ease my eyes up above the broken iron panel filling the doorway.

The adjoining room is vast. Towering data presses, cracked and broken by pitiless bombardment, litter the floor. Metal support beams and reinforcing rods stick out like twisted bone from beneath the rockcrete that skins the walls. My eyes follow columns of thick pipes up past a winding balcony and the misshapen outlines of upper floors. All of this I see in a heartbeat, all in the time it takes the smell of ash, of fire quickly extinguished, to drift on the air and draw my attention back to the ground. Near the middle of the room, wedged between a pair of presses, a group of civilians, their clothes torn and ragged, have been herded into a tight circle. Men, women and children, of every shape and age cling to one another in desperation, drenched by the rain as it hammers down through the broken roof. To their right, three-dozen traitors stand ready to fire. I make to signal the advance and stop. There is something else.

I blink to clear my eyes, and focus on the darkness just behind the traitors, a gap in the path of the rain. I see him then. The Archenemy. His battleplate is of the deepest black, an oil-slick mirror that reflects back the darkness around him.

Beside me, I see Sothis’s finger tighten on the trigger of his sniper rifle.

I hold up my hand, fingers splayed. Wait.

Sothis eases his finger from the trigger. Ahead of us, another two of the Archenemy walk into view, boltguns held across their chests. Sothis nods his thanks. He lingers on me a moment, his eyes holding a question.

I turn away from him. The civilians are not our concern.

The cover around us is light. The crumbling brickwork little proof against a storm of bolt-rounds.

Faced with one of the Archenemy we might have been able to take the room and continue on with our mission. Faced with three, we would suffer losses, casualties we could not afford.

Is there a way around? I sign the question to Cophi.

Eschiros is looking.

Then we hold for now. I gesture in reply, my eyes fixed on the huddle of civilians. I see a man cradle a women. A woman cradle a child. A child cradle another. I have witnessed such scenes before. Once I believed such acts to be valorous. I was mistaken. It is resignation, not courage, that compels such sentiment. The humans do not want to die alone. I hear the racking click of weapons being readied. At least the Emperor has granted them that.

The traitors fire.

The din of discharging autoguns fills the building, an oppressive echo like the nearing of a storm. I see the distortion in the rain, twisting tunnels of spray as the bullets tear towards the humans. Bodies twitch and jerk as rounds strike them. Mouths hang open in screams that are lost beneath the traitor’s cruel laughter. Eyes widen in pain and horror, blinking out as the life flickers from them. The noise ends. The movement ceases. For a heartbeat there is nothing but the rain and the steam rising from the barrels of the traitors’ weapons.

There’s a gap in the exterior wall. We can go through it. Cophi mouths the words.

Where?

The far left side. Eschiros will guide us out. Cophi indicates an area of balcony.

I look up and see Eschiros. The sergeant and four of his Scouts are secreted among the ruins of a staircase. Understood. I nod in acknowledgement, tapping the comm-bead wired to my throat three times. Advance, single line. I tap again, pause, and then twice more. Stay low, flank left.

Cophi and his squad slip into the room. I wait until the last of them has advanced to the first press before following with Sothis and Andas. Bileth’s squad follow behind us, while Viritiel’s hangs back in overwatch. We move slowly, with care, crossing between presses only when Eschiros signals the all clear.

At the third press, forty paces from the opening in the wall, we come as close to the dead civilians as our route will carry us. My nostrils flare at the smell of blood. I feel my hearts quicken, my muscles tense. It is not the blood of the dead that calls to me. Like carrion, the traitors have descended upon the civilians corpses. With knives and crude implements they are dismembering them, stealing limbs and organs for Emperor knows what end. I would be among the traitors, tearing them apart with tooth and blade. I would drive my fist into their coward guts and rip out their throats. I place a hand against the press and steady myself as a bead of sweat rolls from my brow. I close my eyes and tell myself that the killing to come will sate my thirst. It is a lie I must believe or we will fail in our task.

We cross to the fourth press one at a time, hugging the ground with our weapons held out in front of our heads. I grimace as the rubble grates against my skin. I am bleeding from a dozen cuts, each small stab of pain threatening to steal my last nerve. I tighten my jaw and force back the anger building in my chest. A wandering traitor forces me to pause halfway between the fourth and fifth press. I watch him from behind a fallen length of pipe. His footsteps are inaudible, lost beneath the drumming of my hearts. I lie there and watch as Cophi flashes from cover to snap the man’s neck and carry him out of sight. For an instant, I hate Cophi. The release should have been mine.

I hold at the fifth press. Our line has become extended. The others need a moment to catch up. I place my back against the cold metal and let out a long breath, thankful for the brief respite. I haven’t seen the Archenemy since we entered the room, but my every instinct tells me they have not left.

Beside me, Andas growls.

Emperor damn you. I will the curse through gritted teeth and turn on him. His eyes are wide with the glint of madness. I force him against the press.

‘Control yourself, brother,’ I whisper in his ear, hoping that he has the strength to heed my words. ‘You will betray our position.’ Andas bares his teeth and struggles against me. Sadness robs me of my anger. ‘Sanguinius keep you.’ I thrust my knife up into Andas’s abdomen, clamping my hand over his mouth to strangle the sounds of his death. I hold his body firm against the press until I feel it go limp, and lower it to the ground.

Sothis’s face twists in anger. I know from his posture that it is not directed at me. He was closer than any to Andas. His brother’s weakness has shamed him. ‘Let me.’ He draws his knife and stoops to remove Andas’s tongue.

Cophi and his squad are seven paces from the gap in the wall when the storm comes. Lightning rips through the heavens and the darkness shrouding us.

There is no escape now. We must fight.

The human traitors are slow to react, dumbfounded by the line of Flesh Tearers they find in their midst. The Archenemy are not. Bolt-rounds flare in the gloom, stitching towards us before the first flash has faded.

To their credit, Cophi’s squad do not throw themselves to the ground. Instead, they turn and fire, their bolt pistols barking in reply to the Archenemy’s salvo. I see three of Cophi’s Scouts go down, punched backwards by mass-reactive rounds.

Their sacrifice allows the rest of us the moments we need to gain momentum.

‘Cover fire!’ The words tear from my throat as I run towards the press of traitors. Autogun rounds spark as they collide with the machinery around me. The traitors adjust their aim. Rock shrapnel tears at my skin as they churn up the ground in front of me.

Behind me, Sergeant Viritiel’s squad opens fire, the cacophonous chatter of their heavy bolters drowning out the traitors’ frantic shouts. The traitors come apart in a red mist, pulped by the sustained fire.

The spray of blood and flesh splashes over me as I move through it. The three Archenemy stand before me, but I keep moving. Their bolters swivel in my direction and I grit my teeth against injuries that never come.

One of the Archenemy jerks and goes down, a hole shot clean through his neck. The other two drop to a crouch, sheltering behind a mess of steel.

‘Displace,’ I hear Eschiros bellow the order to his squad as the two remaining Archenemy turn their guns on the balcony and open fire. I offer a silent prayer that Eschiros and his men have found cover, and keep running.

The Archenemy guns rack empty. I watch expended magazines topple. I see hands reach for replacements. I hear the stiff clack of fresh rounds locking in place. I watch as barrels turn on me, and fingers tighten on triggers.

They fire.

I dive forward, throwing myself into a roll. Their rounds roar as they tear over my head, obliterating the air where I’d stood. I rise at the feet of the nearest. My blade flashes azure as its energy field ripples to life. His bolter clatters to the ground as I rob him of his hand. He cries out in a language that burns my ears. I snarl, reversing my grip and severing his head.

The last of the Archenemy swings the butt of his gun towards me. I don’t have time to move. I form a wedge with my forearms and brace against the blow. The pain is immense. He hits me again. Something breaks. The third strike comes low, smashing into my ribs. I slash out with my blade as I stumble, cutting through his gun’s barrel. The strike leaves me open. He capitalises and his left hand catches me on the chin. I roll with the blow and fight to stay conscious.

Laughter rumbles through the vox-grille of his helm as he advances on me. The sound drags blood from my ears.

‘Embrace your death. It is the truest reflection of your life.’ His voice is like the cracking of dried wood aged beyond mortal means. He draws a long, curved knife as black as his armour.

I tighten my grip on my blade.

A cluster of rounds strike his pauldron. He turns, raising an arm to protect his head as another strikes his gorget. ‘Barbarian.’ The word carries the weight of his hatred as he rounds on his attacker.

Sothis. The Scout is running towards us, bolt pistol blazing.

The Archenemy grunts, and throws his blade. It spears into Sothis’s chest, pitching him backwards.

‘No!’ I roar and lunge forward, driving my blade up into the Archenemy’s chest. He grunts as though the wound were minor, and clamps a hand around my neck. I stare up into his helm and see only myself. The hatred in my own eyes glaring back at me from the polished dark of his armour. ‘Die,’ I rasp through gritted teeth and force the knife in further, feeling his blood run over my hand. His gauntlet tightens on my neck. I feel bones crack. He will kill me before my blade finds his heart.

A bullet rushes past my ear to strike the Archenemy’s wrist. His hand comes away. He lifts the stump of his forearm towards his helm in disbelief.

‘Embrace this death. It is the end of your life,’ I snarl, plunging my blade into his primary heart.

Exhausted, I let his corpse topple from me and drop to one knee. ‘Sanguinius bless your aim.’ I look to the balcony and mouth my thanks to Eschiros. He was the only one who could have made that shot. I drag myself up and rest my weight against a burnt-out barrel. ‘How many?’ I ask Cophi over the comm.

‘Too many.’

I swallow a knot of rage, and glance around. The storm outside has receded and the room is dark again. The stench of death is choking. The ground is slick with blood. Sergeant Cophi is re-organising the squads. Weapons snap to readiness as they are reloaded.

I focus on the rainwater, listening as it bounces off the metal of the presses. I hope for a moment’s calm. I do not find it. My mind warps the sound, feeding me images of weapons fire, the steady rhythm of flak guns and the quickening pace of autocannons. My hearts rumble in my chest, eager to fight again. Sighing, I get to my feet.

Nine Nekkari troopers took their own lives. A dozen more wept like infants, shaking as wracking fear bent them foetal. The rest looked on helpless, mouthing pleas to the Emperor as the Flesh Tearers prepared to leave.

‘Get on board, Chaplain.’ Seth’s voice was like the growling of a chainblade.

‘No,’ said Appollus. ‘We cannot just leave.’

‘We can and we must.’

‘Temel and the others, have you forgotten they are out there?’

‘I am aware of our current deployment status.’

‘And you would leave anyway?’

‘I have told you. This emergent threat is dire, one the Blood Angels cannot stop alone.’

‘Dante calls and you come running.’

Seth snarled and stepped forward, pressing his forehead against Appollus’s. ‘The years we have stood together, brother, the blood we have spilled together. Those things have bought you your life this day.’ Seth bunched his fists. ‘On Sanguinius’s name, if you ever speak to me in such a manner again, I will kill you.’

Appollus held his ground in silence.

Harahel felt his finger drift to the activation stud on his eviscerator. He stood at the top of the Thunderhawk’s ramp, watching Seth and Appollus below. Seth was the greatest warrior the Flesh Tearers had known since Amit, but there was a darkness in Appollus, a brutal savagery that had seen him unbeaten in the duelling cages. Both of them were irreplaceable, heroes of the Chapter. Harahel hoped he would not be required to intervene.

Seth took a step back and regained his composure. ‘Baal is at stake, Appollus. The tyranids have consumed all before them. If we do not go now, Baal will fall.’

‘And what of it? Let the Blood Angels worry about Baal. What of this world? Is it any less important?’

‘Do not insult me with feigned ignorance. You know it is.’

‘Baal is not our world,’ said Appollus.

‘It is Sangunius’s world. It is our father’s home.’

‘Our father is gone.’ Appollus struggled to keep his voice level.

‘Under the twinned red suns of death shall the reckoning of my sons begin. By the grace of a golden warrior will their fate be writ, and by their actions will he know their courage. Against an unknown foe will they fight, a beast that holds the doom of men within its jaws. This will be a war they cannot win, and failure here will herald the coming of the end.’

‘I have read the Scrolls of Sanguinus,’ said Appollus. ‘But how many must die so that Dante can triumph? How many of our brothers’ lives is Baal worth?’

‘All of them.’ Seth paced away, turning his back on the Chaplain. ‘We need Baal, Appollus.’

‘The memory of nobility does not change who we are.’

‘No it does not.’ Seth turned back to face Appollus, his shoulders heavy about his frame. ‘But without it we are lost. How can we ever find our way back from the brink if we have nothing to turn back to?’

Appollus said nothing, standing a moment in silence before stepping past Seth and onto the Thunderhawk.

The scene before me is one of madness. Serried ranks of siege engines line the shattered street. Each piece of artillery is marked by its treachery, its iron and steel warped by the influence of the Nekkari’s dark allies. Their barrels are broken and distended, stretched like misshapen mouths that snarl as they cough rounds into the air. Some buck against the piles of chains that hold them in place. Others flash with fire, their hulls glowing like filaments as they consume the bodies of their crew. All are covered in dark runes, inky sigils that shift and shiver under gaze.

The puddle I’m knee-deep in shudders as another barrage fires into the distance.

Hold. Cover. I sign the command to Cophi. The sergeant and his squad are in the building behind me. A ruined agricultural plant, it presents the only real cover on the south side of the enemy position. To the west, secreted in smashed nutrient vats, Eschiros and his Scouts await my order. The rest of the Company are already moving in from the north.

Clear. Move. Cophi signs back.

I crouch lower and edge forward, slipping between a pair of burned out pallet-lifters as I scrabble down towards the nearest vehicle.

A single, soft chime sounds in my ear. Hold. I stop moving and throw a glance back towards Cophi.

Three targets. Ten paces. I only just make out his warning.

I ease down onto my belly, sheltering behind a pile of loose brick, and tease forward.

A shallow trench snakes around the artillery, and runs the length of the position. It is thick with the enemy. Traitors with autoguns held across their chests, walk up and down in slack patrol, distracted by the growling of their possessed charges and the screaming of unfortunate gun-crew.

I tap my throat once, then twice in quick succession. The three traitors nearest me jerk and fall to the ground, a single hole bore through each of their skulls. I sign my thanks to Eschiros and drop into the trench. The next patrol is already closing; a few more steps and they will uncover the bodies. I push on, trusting to the darkness and Eschiros’s rifle.

Ten more strides and I am at the first artillery piece. The machine rumbles at my presence. Verdant fire hisses from its exhausts in an angry snarl. A thick vapour hangs in the air, a chocking mix of sulphur, corditex and burned flesh. The smell is almost unbearable. I stumble as nausea threatens to beat me to the ground. I draw my knife and cut into my face, slicing the flesh between my top lip and nose. Blood runs from the wound. The smell fills my nostrils. The stink of the artillery fades behind the visceral clarity. With a grunt of effort, I plant a charge. The machine’s hull vibrates, trembling under my touch.

‘Die with courage,’ I spit, and skirt around its hull towards the next war machine.

I plant another charge and drop into a tight roll, travelling under the vehicle’s hull to avoid a patrol. Moving along the line, I shift from target to target, pushing forward as quickly as I dare, sprinting when the bark of the artillery rises to hide my footsteps. In the open, Eschiros and the others keep me covered, but between the tanks I am on my own.

‘Beware,’ a traitor grunts in warning as I round the hull of a quad-barrelled anti-air tank, to stand between it and another with a large mortar-cannon mounted in place of its turret. Beside him stand four more of his fell brotherhood.

I launch forward, grab the nearest gun and press it firm against his chest. Driving him backwards, I slash out with my knife to kill two of the others as we go. The fourth and fifth raise their weapons to fire. I throw my knife into the chest of the fourth. He topples. The fifth’s finger tightens on the trigger. I wrench the gun from the hands of the first and swing it out like a club. The stock connects with the fifth’s face. He drops, brains leaking from his skull. The first struggles to his feet. I ignore him for a moment, striding forward to retrieve my knife. I turn as he makes to run, driving my blade through his cheek, and pinning him to the tank. His mouth twitches, pleading. His eyes stare at me, wide with horror. I smile, a wolf’s grin, and leave him there.

A handful more charges and I am done.

‘Hold,’ Cophi’s voice whispers in my ear.

I freeze.

Cophi’s voice comes again. ‘The Archenemy.’

I press the comm-bead tight against my throat and whisper. ‘How many?’

‘Five. You’ll be spotted as soon as you move.’

I check the mission time. The squads moving in from the north will detonate their charges in three minutes. ‘We are out of time.’

I break cover and open fire, my bolt pistol kicking in my grasp as I unload on full-auto.

The Archenemy standfast as my rounds hammer their armour. They fire. Bolt-rounds dog my steps as I race towards the cover of the vehicles opposite. It is too far. I grimace, stumbling as a glancing shot rakes my thigh.

‘Get down.’

I throw myself forward at Cophi’s command. An instant later a missile roars past me to explode among the Archenemy. Another missile follows the first. Their weapons fall silent.

‘Finish quickly, there are more targets than we have bullets.’ This time it is Eschiros’s voice in my ear.

He is right. Traitors are pouring into the trench from all directions. Around me, the darkness is in retreat, pushed back by the glare of small-arms fire.

I work quickly, tossing charges at the tracks of the remaining vehicles even as I gun down the crews that emerge to engage me.

‘We’re done,’ I shout over the comm, making for Cophi’s position.

‘We might well be.’ Cophi’s tone is light, but he is not wrong.

The trenchline is full of traitors now. Cophi and his squad are pinned down, suppressed behind a series of low walls. Eschiros is faring little better. I’ll never make it clear before they are overrun.

I find Cophi’s eyes in the darkness. They do not need me to speak the words.

He detonates the charges.

The noise is so loud as to be inaudible, a deafening wave that stretches my mouth in anguish as I’m punched from my feet by the blast. Fire rolls over me. Shrapnel tears through me. I land hard. Darkness steals the pain.

‘Captain? Captain Temel?’

I open my eyes on Cophi. He gestures for me to be still. I follow his gaze to my abdomen. A length of ragged metal has me pinned to the ground. ‘Is it done?’ I feel blood spill from my mouth as I speak.

‘Yes. The artillery’s destroyed.’ Cophi’s brow is heavy with concern.

‘I hate the re-juve sarcophagus,’ I say grinning. ‘Pass me the long-range comm.’

Cophi waves Eschiros forward. The other sergeant is limping, and his left arm is as a bloodied rag by his side.

‘Captain,’ Eschiros says, grimacing.

‘It seems not even you made it through this one unscathed. The Emperor’s blessing must have been elsewhere.’

His face lightens. ‘It seems he had his hands full with you.’ Eschiros places the comm-unit down next to me, and hands me the transmitter.

I depress the send key and the wash of static falls silent. ‘Master Seth.’

A moment passes. Another. I listen to the crackle-hum of static, searching for a reply. ‘Master Se–’

‘Captain Temel.’

In person, Seth’s voice is akin to the roar of a chainblade. Distorted over the comm, it sounds more like the thunder of a wrathful god. I smile, glad that I fight under and not against his banner.

‘This is Temel. The mission is complete.’

The static shifts, and for a moment it sounds as though Seth makes to reply. I pause. Nothing.

‘We have destroyed the enemy artillery position,’ I continue. ‘You are free to move up and engage the main enemy formation.’

‘We are not coming.’ Seth’s words come as a hammer-blow. I feel them keener than the wound in my gut. ‘Baal is in danger,’ he continues. ‘We are already ascending to orbit.’

‘I understand.’ I harden my voice with thoughts of duty and honour. If this is to be my last communication with the Chapter, then it shall be one of strength and purpose. ‘The Blood go with you, Lord.’

‘Sanguinius keep you, Temel.’

‘Gabriel…’ I falter, struggling to separate how I feel from what must be said. ‘Our brotherhood is one forged in sacrifice. We carry the burden of our father’s death as a scar upon our souls. His sacrifice lies at the very core of who we are. Do not let your actions here weigh upon you. Do not let them define you.’

The link goes dead.

I pass the device to Cophi and take a moment, riding the surge of adrenaline that is part anger, part sorrow.

The sergeant’s fist tightens on the transmitter, his knuckles bone-white as I relay Seth’s message. ‘Just like that,’ Cophi snarls.

‘It is Seth, not us, who suffers here.’

Eschiros looks at me in question.

‘This burden is his to carry. We will be too dead to care.’ I pause, watching as the glaze of acceptance creeps into the corners of their eyes. ‘Or did you not come to kill and die in the name of the Emperor and Sanguinius?’

‘We should go. Enemy reinforcements will be here soon.’ Eschiros is already gesturing for the Company to pack up and prepare to move.

I nod. ‘Do what you can for this world.’

‘Captain…’ Cophi’s face twists in painful denial.

‘I am done. Go.’

Cophi makes to turn from me, but I grab his arm and gesture to his knife. He passes it to me without question.

I take the blade, and thrust into a pile of smouldering rubble until its length glows amber. Opening my mouth, I grip my tongue with one hand and bring the blade up towards the other.

‘The Blood grant you strength.’ Cophi does me the honour of not looking away, watching as without cry or grimace I cut out my tongue.

My lips wet with blood and I toss the lump of meat to Cophi. He scoops it from the air with a loose fist, and fastens it around his neck with the others.

‘Take this.’ Eschiros tucks a heavy bolter against me. ‘Kill until killed,’ he says, reciting one of Chaplain Appollus’s favoured axioms.

Eschiros smiles and moves off. Cophi lingers a moment, searching for words he will never find, before slipping away into the night.

I wait then, alone, a sentry in the darkness. I listen as the ruckus of men and the rumble of tracks draws near. The smell of blood fills my nostrils and quickens my hearts. My thoughts are consumed by death, the death that will soon claim me, and the death I am about to reap.

I am vengeance. I am fury. I am wrath. The words I have spoken a thousand times surface in my mind like a rising storm. My face twists to a snarl. I rack the slide of the heavy bolter and open fire.

The black Thunderhawk was almost invisible against the dark rockcrete of the foundry. Nestled between two of the structure’s towering chimneys, it had not moved nor powered its engines since first arriving on Nekkaris.

First Zealot Gylon approached the gunship with the cautious gait of a man who knew exactly what awaited him inside. He stopped a moment, letting his eyes scan the darkness. Despite what they told him, he was not alone. He was not that naive. Gylon had spent his life in Nekkaris’s eternal night. He had learned to be attentive to the hairs on his neck as they rose and twitched. Out in the black, the gods were watching him. He took a breath, calming his nerves, and walked up the ramp into the gloom of the Thunderhawk’s hold.

Inside, the craft was as dark as it was outside. Gylon pulled a lumo-stick from his tunic and twisted it sharply. The chemicals inside sparked white before settling to a low-green glow. He held the stick out in front of his face and paced forwards. The Thunderhawk did not welcome him, its interior cast in ghoulish relief by the lumo-stick. Each strike of Gylon’s boots on the deck was answered by a haunting echo that sent chills down his spine. The craft was more mausoleum than gunship. Ancient statues, carved from blackest rock, lined the walls of the main hold-space. Beneath each, held in a lightless stasis field, a weapon or scarred relic stood in defiance of time. Gylon had only been here twice before. The first of those times had been on the Day of Truth, when the gods had come and set him free from the lies of the false Emperor. The second had been when he had led his army to victory, cleansing Nekkaris’s capital of the cowards unwilling to embrace the one true truth. Gylon made his way to the ladder that led to the upper deck and gripped the lumo-stick between his teeth. Reaching up, he grabbed the first rung. It was almost too thick for him to grasp. He climbed, finding it far harder than he had the last time, the effort exhausting his now old bones.

The upper deck was cast in shadow, as though lit by the twisting blades of firelight. Gylon swallowed the familiar dread that rose in his gut, and stuffed the lumo-stick into the pocket of his trousers. There was no sign of brazier or open flame, yet the crackle-snap of burning wood persisted as he walked the length of the deck and entered the antechamber beyond.

‘Why have you come?’ Da’ka Jumoke’s voice shifted and changed as he spoke. It was an elusive rumble, a storm circling the horizon.

Gylon fell to his knees, prostrating himself before Da’ka. The black-armoured god sat on a throne of polished metal. Da’ka was alone in the room, though he carried more threat than a legion of Gylon’s men. ‘It is as you said, lord,’ Gylon kept his eyes low as he spoke. ‘The Space Marines, the Flesh Tearers, they are leaving.’

‘Are you certain?’ The sharpness of Da’ka’s words cut at Gylon’s ears.

‘Yes, lord,’ the zealot stammered, shaken by the feel of his blood as it ran from his ears to streak his neck. ‘There is no doubt. We have–’ Gylon flinched as the soft-crackle of an open comm-link sounded from Da’ka’s throne.

‘Recall the brotherhood. We are done here.’ Ignorant of Gylon, Da’ka cut the comm-feed, and made for the chamber’s exit.

‘Lord…’ Gylon’s mouth hung open in question. He turned, tracking Da’ka as the Space Marine strode past him. ‘With the Flesh Tearers gone we can overrun the capital. I had thought now to be our hour of victory. We should press our atta–’

With a speed that belied his bulk, Da’ka snatched Gylon from the floor, hoisting the zealot’s face level with his helm.

‘Lord… I meant no offence…’ Gylon whimpered, babbling in terror, as he saw his own frail form reflected in the fathomless dark of Da’ka’s helm.

‘Shhh, quiet,’ Da’ka lowered his voice. ‘The universe has no wish to hear of your weakness.’

‘Why, lord? Why would you abandon us?’ Gylon’s lips trembled, his cheeks wet with fear.

‘I do not care about you or your world. My patron would see the Flesh Tearers fall. Seth has left his own to die here. No soul can make such sacrifices without cost. It is with such small cuts that giants are slain.’ Da’ka placed a hand on Gylon’s face, relishing the crunch of bone as he tightened his grip. ‘Lowly though you are, I will take your life. You are the final blade that will leave nothing of my soul left to cut.’

His jaw now broken, Gylon was unable to scream as tendrils of blue flame slithered from Da’ka’s gauntlet to engulf him. His final moments were ones of terrible, impossible agony, as his bones burned and he heard again the crackle-snap of tinder.

The Word of the Silent King

L J Goulding

More, my Lord Anrakyr? You would know more?

Better than this, we will tell you everything. Perhaps then you will understand. After all, you will need allies.

Long have we known of the Devourer. While the majority of the necron race slept away the aeons, his great majesty Szarekh, the Silent King, journeyed far and wide beyond the borders of this galaxy. Such unspeakable things did he witness as cannot be adequately articulated in our noble language, nor any other.

The most dire of all these extragalactic enemies were the tyranids.

For countless cycles he has sought to repel this threat. In his wisdom he has observed them, studied them and committed them to oblivion in all but the final, decisive deed. He has brought them to battle on a hundred worlds, ravaged their slumbering fleets out in the cold, measureless void, and even united the more fractious, warring dynasties so that our mutual interests might be protected.

What, you ask, has this to do with an alliance between the living and the dead?

We will tell you everything, my lord. Perhaps then you will understand.

The world’s name is not important. Not to us. To the humans, though, it seemed to be paramount. For a species that would see themselves as the undisputed masters of this galaxy, they place so much emphasis on names, and the paradises and damnations that they imagine for themselves.

This, then, becomes a tale of angels and of devils, to use the crude, ancient terms.

The bloodiest of angels, fighting upon the Devil’s Crag.

And we were there. The three of us – Khatlan, Dovetlan and Ammeg, if you will – and so many more. So many, many more.

While you travelled the stars, seeking tithes and tribute, we answered the call of our true master. The Praetorians can move in great numbers, quickly and quietly, when the attentions of the dynasties fall elsewhere for a time. So it is that we return to the court of the Silent King whenever he would wish it, to bring him new word of the Great Awakening. To the rest of the galaxy, we are his eyes and ears, as we are his right hand, and his only voice.

He does not speak. He will not speak. Not to you.

Not yet.

But he may, in time, if you prove worthy.

They had us, brothers. We were done for.

We had fought them hard. On Gehenna, those clanking mechanical xenos seemed to be without number. For three weeks, Dante had led the Third Company against their Legions – we in the Assault squads would strike and fall back with the commander, over and over, while Captain Tycho directed the long range engagement. It was a dry, dusty grind. The only blood that fell upon the barren wastes was ours.

That felt wrong. There was nothing to slake our thirst, no glorious crimson to bathe the armour of the damned.

Tycho was the Master of Sacrifice. That title seemed appropriate. We felt sacrificed.

Gehenna is nothing if not an altar upon which such offerings can be made, though the myriad alien races seem forever drawn to test the Imperium’s right to preside over it. A million souls more hallowed than ours had passed on the hive world’s plains, over the millennia. What more noble endeavour, what more glorious calling can there be than to defend such a place from the hordes of the restless xenos dead?

And so defend it we did, with every last ounce of our company’s strength.

We fell from the grey-streaked skies, the crimson of the Ironhelms Assault squads like a bloodstain upon the pristine gold of the Sanguinary Guard. Commander Dante was ever at the front, the tip of the blade thrust into the necrons’ flanks. The Axe Mortalis hewed left and right, cleaving through metal bodies as easily as it might through living flesh on any other battlefield, and in Dante’s divine shadow we were inspired. I led my squad in a freefall drop, the weight of our charge like the hammer of Sanguinius’s own wrath against the enemy, their dully glowing eyes turned upwards in those last heartbeats before we were in their very midst.

No towering necron lords swathed in fuliginous silks, no insectoid sentinels lashing us with electrum whips. These were the poorest stock of the Legions that we now faced, the meagre revenants that seemed almost without number and whose only tactical use seemed to be that they absolutely would not die.

Exhorting my battle-brothers onwards, I drove into the necron warriors with my blade held before me. Speed, we had found, was the key – they simply could not track us quickly enough as targets if we kept moving, and they seemed incapable of firing their gauss weaponry without first taking careful aim. And so we struck them down by the dozen, taking heads and limbs and blowing out armoured torsos with point-blank pistol fire, and stamping their remains into the dust beneath our boots.

Yet for every necron we tore apart, three more would trudge forwards to take its place; or else the supposedly dead warrior would simply rise up again once we had passed by, wounds reknitting under whatever baleful technomancy powered them.

Green flashes cast the seemingly endless horde in silhouette, and I looked up to see more of the great, gravitic monolith structures gliding ponderously down the slopes from the crags beyond. Their energy matrices cast thumping charges into the melee, scattering golden-armoured Blood Angels like leaves in the wind. Maddening, squealing static cut through the inter-squad vox-channels, and suddenly we were cut off from Dante’s command entirely.

And more necrons came. And yet more.

The press of cold, lifeless bodies around us become entangling, and the warriors began to jab at us with their hooked bayonet blades. Brother Jophael tried to free himself from the horde’s grasp by launching back into the air, but metal claws pulled him down, jump pack and all, beneath the ambling tide. His agonised screams were mercifully brief.

I planted a boot into the chest of the closest necron warrior and sent it sprawling backwards with a pair of frag grenades for its trouble. The blasts hurled a score more of them aside, but all that bought me was the space to truly see the inevitability and futility of our assault. We were outnumbered by hundreds to one, and hovering ark-transports would gather the xenos dead right out from beneath our feet to send against us once more. And on, and on, until we were buried.

We had been sacrificed. I did not know if Commander Dante had planned it that way, but I could no longer even see his Sanguinary Guard amidst the throng.

There would be no resurrection for us. Once fallen, the Angels of Death do not rise from the dead. There is purity in that – something that the necrons have failed to grasp in their eternal pursuit of… eternity.

Two more of my brothers fell. Then a third.

I don’t remember what it was that I screamed in that moment – likely it was something ignoble and suitably defiant. I struck a necron down with every swing of my blade, until it seemed that I could no longer even find room to draw it back between blows.

My pauldrons began to catch on the press of metal limbs. Unfeeling fingers clamped around my wrists, and my neck. My sword was pulled from my grip, and my plasma pistol too. I realised that I was being dragged over backwards, and I was no longer even screaming real words.

That’s when it happened.

The pause. The stutter.

As one, the necrons faltered. Just for a fraction of a second, their eyes dimmed.

Then, again as one, they put up their weapons and turned to withdraw. I crashed to the ground on my back, before scrambling free of my jump pack harness to see ten thousand immortal xenos warriors striding away from us as implacably as they had been advancing only moments earlier.

I snapped my pistol up and put down nine of them without thinking. I shot them through their retreating backs, hot plasma dashing their mechanical innards onto the ground. Others did the same, in futile impotent rage. Our blood was still up, and the wounded remnants of the front line squads harried the enemy with frustrated battle cries still upon our lips. Necrons fell, and still the Legions did not pay us any more regard that day.

It was as though we had simply ceased to exist.

It made no sense at the time. Why would they suddenly give up, with certain victory within their unfeeling, iron grasp?

The answer was the result of cold, mathematical logic. It would come to stun us all, and most especially Commander Dante.

We had misjudged them. We misjudged them so badly.

You understand, lord, that the angel-humans were never our real foe in this. Mere happenstance it was that placed them in opposition to the Silent King’s plan. That, and their characteristic unwillingness to admit that they know nothing of the true nature of the universe.

For as much as the human empire considers itself the height of evolution and the antithesis of the tyranid race – if you can believe such a thing! – they are perhaps more alike than either of them can know. Dovetlan once likened the humans to insects. They swarm. They cannibalise. They live without real thought for the future or the past, beyond the propagation of their own brood.

And they build hives. Literally.

Teeming with human vermin and other, even more degenerate life forms, their settlements agglomerate around the points of industry and resource, openly abusing their worlds to feed the wasteful cycle of war and procreation. Even their ruling classes may live out their entire organic lifespan within a ten-kilometre area, such is the self-contained and parochial nature of the hive cities.

In all our time, we have rarely witnessed such edifices constructed by a sentient race. They are stockpiles of humankind, in all its stripes. Concentrated cells of organic filth.

Bio-mass.

Bait.

It was a fortuitous coincidence that placed a world such as this in the path of the Silent King’s quarry. After his great victory over the tyranid beasts in the dimensional anomaly at Anjac, he had pursued a splinter fleet through the void entirely undetected for almost three cycles. He observed their movements. He studied their reactions to external astral stimuli.

And then he began to calculate ahead.

None but he, in his majestic wisdom, could have accomplished such a feat – but even the magnificent Szarekh could not deny the providence that brought them hence afterwards.

Our cold bodies hold little interest for the Devourer. At best, they might be drawn to the more physical power sources utilised by our technologies, or defend themselves when we strike them. But fodder for their living ships, we are not.

The hive worlds of the humans shine like beacons in comparison. The tyranids are drawn to such banquets with a singular, predatory hunger.

The Silent King knows this.

The beginnings of a plan began to form in his mind, as he later told us.

He would lay a trap for them, and he would bait it with the humans.

The seven of us stood around the hololith table – the five surviving squad sergeants, battered and bloodied, shielded from the worst of the commander’s wrath by our noble captain Erasmus Tycho. Though he was similarly armoured in golden plate, the two of them could not have appeared more different in that moment.

‘Answer me this,’ Dante growled. ‘How did they know? How can the necrons scan the interstellar void more accurately than the long-range sensors of the Bloodcaller?’

The Chapter Master had set his death mask upon the surface of the table, and I could scarcely take my eyes from it. The play of light over the angelic, sculpted features of our Lord Sanguinius lent the helm an even more numinous aspect, beyond even the polished golden halo that encircled the crown.

From behind his own half-mask, Tycho spoke carefully.

‘I’m not sure they can, commander. It is possible that they already knew the tyranids were approaching before the hive ships crossed the system’s heliopause. Our sensorium officers’ report did cite multiple objects “of unknown origin” in their initial tactical sweeps, but you and I both bid them turn their full attention towards the necrons. We simply perceived a greater threat on the ground.’ The corner of his mouth flickered with an involuntary tic. ‘We were watching the pageant when we should have been scouting the hall.’

Dante glowered up at his protégé, gauntleted palms resting on the table’s edge, and a grim smile creased his dour features. ‘Aye, perhaps.’

Between the two of them, the lambent silhouette of Gehenna Prime turned slowly in the tactical hololith projection. The planet was bracketed by the battle-barge Bloodcaller and the twin strike cruisers Melech and Fratrem Pugno at station in high orbit. Of the necron cairn-ships that had apparently retreated from the system more than a month earlier, there was still no sign.

Instead, from the galactic southeast had come the tyranids.

Xenological identifiers marked them as a splinter of the defeated Behemoth fleet, or possibly cousins of little-known Dagon. Regardless of their origin, the four great hive ships had already spawned a veritable multitude of lesser craft and begun to move into a splayed formation that bypassed the outer worlds entirely. Tiny numerals rolled down the hololith next to each sensor contact as the telemeters updated their distance and relative speeds.

There was no mistaking it – this was a standard xenos attack vector. The tyranids had set their ravenous gaze upon Gehenna Prime.

‘What would you command of us, my lord?’ asked Phanuel, turning away from the dire tableau. The Devastator squads had been furthest from the necrons’ front wave, and so were the least mauled by the weeks of attrition that the rest of us had suffered.

Dante gestured to the approaching hive ships. ‘We are about to be caught between our chosen foe on the ground and a new one in the heavens, brother-sergeant. Our victory over the necrons was already far from assured. Now we face an even more overwhelming force – one that could take an entire world on its own.’

The weight of that truth hung in the silence for a moment. Tycho nodded slowly, presumably at the prospect of a swift and glorious end for his battle company. ‘The presence of the tyranid fleet does at least go some way towards explaining why our astropathic calls for reinforcement seem to have fallen upon deaf ears, Chapter Master,’ he offered with a shrug. ‘Nonetheless, the Ironhelms are with you to the very last.’

Before the commander could reply, the hololith flickered and a shriek of white noise cut through the embedded audio feed. We all recoiled, startled but ready to react.

Then the display blinked out, along with every visual feed, lumen and powered system in the strategium chamber, plunging us into darkness.

‘Generatorium!’ Dante roared. ‘Restore the–’

Static seeped through the dead channel, bleeding in and somehow multiplying in the air before us. Motes of greenish light ran upwards from the table’s surface, though this time it cast no reflection in the Death Mask of Sanguinius.

The rasping un-sound built upon itself, pulsing in strange, eddying waves.

‘Listen to that,’ whispered Gaius, reaching for his bolt pistol but finding the holster empty. ‘It’s a voice.’

I spat, my hands bunching into fists as I scanned the room for any threat. ‘That’s no voice. It’s artefacting from an incompatible signal source. Nothing more.’

The motes of light began to swirl and gather above the centre of the table, blocking out some new shape in the space where Gehenna had previously hung. The emerald glare grew in intensity, rising with the crackling, maddening howl of the–

‘HUMANS. PROSTRATE YOURSELVES BEFORE OUR MAGNIFICENCE.’

Turning slowly in the shimmering field, a gaunt necron visage with a high crest stared out at us, its eyes blazing almost white and casting tiny arcs of energy before them. Tycho and two of the others moved quickly to place themselves between Dante and the xenos avatar, but the commander barged them aside, a look of disbelief upon his face.

‘I AM THE JUDICATOR-PRIME. I AM CHARGED WITH SECURING YOUR COOPERATION. YOU WILL NOT RESIST.’

With a snarl, Phanuel drew his combat blade and slashed at the thing’s face, but the weapon passed cleanly through and left him only with a tracery of greenish sparks dancing over his gauntlet and vambrace. The necron either did not notice, or did not care.

‘WHOM AMONG YOU HOLDS AUTHORITY?’

Dante scowled, and stepped forwards. ‘I am Dante,’ he said from between clenched teeth, ‘Master of the Adeptus Astartes Chapter the Blood Angels. Who are you to address me and my officers in such a manner?’

The avatar regarded him with its blazing white eyes. ‘I AM THE JUDICATOR-PRIME. I AM CHARGED WITH SECURING YOUR COOPERATION. YOU WILL NOT RESIST, DANTE OF THE BLOOD ANGELS.’

Reaching out to the table controls, Gaius warily mashed the keypad with his palm, hoping to sever the connection. It did not have any effect. Commander Dante looked back to the Judicator.

‘Cooperation in what, xenos? Until mere hours ago, our forces were locked in mortal combat. Now you are fled to the empty plains, awaiting our inevitable vengeance. There is no matter in which we or you will ever cooperate.’

‘YOU ARE INCORRECT. OUR SUCCESS HAS ALREADY BEEN CALCULATED. THE CONFLICT BETWEEN US WAS AN ERROR.’

Rage boiled up inside me at the thing’s brazen insolence. I bared my teeth and bellowed back at the projection. ‘Silence! Let us end this on the field of battle. You will not strike at the worlds of the Imperium and then run for cover when a greater enemy rears its foul head!’

The Judicator’s gaze swept over me. ‘THE CONFLICT BETWEEN US WAS AN ERROR,’ it repeated.

Tycho raised his voice, then. ‘Who decides that? You?’

‘NO. IT IS THE DECISION OF MIGHTY SZAREKH, LAST AND GREATEST OF THE SILENT KINGS. PROSTRATE YOURSELVES BEFORE HIS MAGNIFICENCE.’

An uneasy silence fell over the seven of us. I turned to my brothers, unsure how to react.

Dante narrowed his eyes. ‘The Silent King… The Silent King?’

‘MIGHTY SZAREKH, LAST AND GREATEST OF THE SILENT KINGS.’

‘The Silent King is… here, on Gehenna?’

The Judicator’s head twitched. ‘I DO NOT UNDERSTAND THE SIGNIFICANCE OF “GEHENNA”. BUT THE SILENT KING IS HERE, NOW. HE WOULD TREAT WITH YOU, DANTE OF THE BLOOD ANGELS, IN THE FACE OF OUR COMMON ENEMY.’

More motes of light spun out to create a topographical map in the projection, with a specific ridgeline highlighted in a brighter green from the rest.

‘SEND YOUR EMISSARIES TO THIS LOCATION AND MIGHTY SZAREKH, LAST AND GREATEST OF THE SILENT KINGS, WILL RECEIVE THEM.’

With a sudden flash that left blooms of colour on our retinas, the necron avatar vanished. After a single heartbeat of silent darkness, the lumens and hololith stuttered back into life and left us blinking in the pale light of the strategium once again.

I spun to face Tycho. ‘My lord, I know where they want us to go.’

Though Commander Dante still stared at the now empty space above the table, the captain’s expression was stern. ‘Speak, Brother-Sergeant Machiavi. Where is it?’

‘It’s where my squad landed in the last assault – the Devil’s Crag.’

Szarekh would have it known by every phaeron of every dynasty, that he is a just and noble ruler. Before the Great Sleep, he realised his failings and vowed to atone for them. He is humble enough to learn from his own mistakes. The necrons will rise once more, and he will lead us into a new and glorious age as the preeminent masters of creation. Not because it is his right, but a privilege that he would first re-earn.

Yet, his benevolence has its limits.

It is not to say that he harbours the humans any particular malice. Simply, their supposed destiny is incompatible with our own. Perhaps if they had ascended more powerfully in an earlier epoch, then they might have claimed this galaxy out from beneath the slumbering dynasties while the Silent King still dwelt in self-imposed exile.

And perhaps not. Their propensity for self-destruction is… troubling.

The tyranids are anathema to all life, and life is what the necrons require for supreme domination. So too, then, is the primal destiny of the Devourer incompatible with our own.

The humans create.

The necrons maintain.

The tyranids consume.

There can be no lasting symmetry in that triumvirate. One must fall. The great Szarekh has decreed that it shall be the tyranids, and none can refute the word of the Silent King.

It is unlikely that the humans see things as clearly as we do, Lord Anrakyr. Ironic, is it not, that they gnash their teeth and cry out at the injustice of a new alien race polluting ‘their’ empire with brash, unwitting conquests? We have seen this before, and doubtless we will see it again. When all of this is but a footnote in the annals of our great triumph, who will even remember the name of a dead human Emperor, or the ignorant miseries doled out in his name?

The court awaited the humans openly. There could be no suggestion of deception. We had returned to the ridge where last the Dante-Angel had resisted us.

Beyond the unnumbered ranks of common warriors and the Immortal Legions, a full nine hundred of the Triarch Praetorians stood sentinel before the Silent King’s throne. Not in the living memory of the Imperium would such a gathering of our order have been witnessed by any human, and likely it never will be again. Our Judicator-Prime attended noble Szarekh at his right hand, and the High Chronomancer, whose techno-magicks had so confounded the humans, stood at his left. Beyond were arrayed the seven phaerons who had sworn themselves to the Silent King’s purpose in secret – each of them wearing a bronzed mask to hide their identity from all but their own household guardians.

The first we saw of the humans was a haze of chemical fumes and plains dust kicked up by their primitive transport. It trundled over the terrain on wheeled treads, its bulky armour caked in red paint and crude, winged glyphs. As it drew nearer, the Judicator-Prime descended the polished steps of the courtly dais to bar the humans’ path.

At Dante’s command, the hastily installed servitor driver brought the Rhino as close as possible to the necron herald. The engine idled for a moment, then cut out. Cooling metal on the exhaust stacks ticked and clicked in the dismal morning sun, but aside from that the silence felt absolute. Though we could see the necrons standing in their uncounted thousands, not a sound did any one of them make, nor was there any hint of movement.

I peered out through the forward viewing block, scanning the grand dais for sign of our host.

It was absurd – a monolithic ziggurat, easily forty metres at the peak, dropped onto the surface of Gehenna Prime as a monument to xenos vanity. Cast from some achingly black, polished metal, it was edged with glinting golden runes and glyphs that ran in interconnecting patterns up the long flight of steps to the summit. Upon its tiers stood the more elite warriors of the necron horde, elevated above their kin and presumably enjoying the prestige of greater proximity to their monarch. Gleaming statues of alien deities towered at the cardinal points of the structure, and the two greatest of them held their arms out to form an arch over the peak of the dais, heads bowed in symbolic supplication.

This was a king, their posture said, that had once held even the gods in his thrall.

And this was his court that travelled wherever he went.

I glanced back into the darkened interior of the troop compartment. Captain Tycho reluctantly put up his combi-melta in the overhead stowage, and edged around the tarpaulin-covered bulk in the middle of the floor. He had pleaded for the honour to undertake this endeavour alone. Nay, he had almost begged for it. It was his right, and he had insisted. His privilege. His duty. But Dante would not hear of it.

The commander’s face was set, almost as serene as the golden mask that he held so carefully in his gauntlets. It was the face of a man who knew that destiny had smiled upon him, no matter what the cost of that fortune might ultimately prove to be. How like our father Sanguinius he seemed in that moment.

‘Brothers,’ he said calmly, ‘let us go to him.’

I eyed the open palm of my gauntlet warily – it felt so heavy – and tried to keep my voice low.

‘My lord, is this necessary? We are here. We could–’

Tycho silenced me with a hand on my pauldron. ‘This isn’t about tactical positioning, Machiavi,’ he muttered, squinting at me sidelong through the eye of his half-mask. ‘This is about respect. No matter how much we may despise the xenos, the Chapter Master would at least meet this Szarekh face to face. No one else will ever get this chance again. We have to at least see him with our own eyes.’

Dante nodded. Tycho managed a wry grin, and reached for the rear hatch controls.

‘Besides, I think noble Dante wants to hear the supreme ruler of the necron race beg for our help, first.’

The ramp opened on powered hydraulics, and the three of us stepped out onto the dusty ground at the foot of the ziggurat, defiant in the face of the ten thousand enemy warriors who watched from all sides.

The Judicator-Prime stood before us, a tall ceremonial glaive held rigidly in both hands. As well as the high crest of his office that had been visible in the hololith projection, he wore a mantle of smooth metal links that hung from his shoulders like a cloak. He regarded us coldly for a moment before inclining his head in a condescending gesture that we should follow him.

My hearts began to hammer in my chest. I could taste the acrid tang of xenos energy weapons in the air, feeling the dead gaze of the machines upon us as we ascended the steps. I walked to the commander’s left, Tycho to the right. The captain glared, but said nothing.

Dante simply followed the herald, the mask of Sanguinius held in the crook of his arm.

We reached the summit and passed beneath the archway of the god-statues. Beyond, shimmering silk drapes fluttered in the breeze between ornate electro-flambeaux that cast the various necron lords of the court in an even more eerie light against the Gehenna sun. I looked to each in turn, wondering which of them was him…

Without warning, the Judicator-Prime halted, and whirled around. Reflexively, the fingers of my gauntlet closed, but I managed to catch myself before it was too late.

‘Kneel, humans,’ he commanded. ‘Kneel before mighty Szarekh, last and greatest of the Silent Kings.’

The visible half of Tycho’s face appeared unimpressed. He rested his thumbs at his belt, and tilted his head. ‘We will not. He is not our king.’

The Judicator-Prime bristled, but did not repeat himself. Instead he turned solemnly and sank to one knee. The move was echoed first by the masked nobles, then by their retainers, and then by every other necron warrior upon the dais and beyond. Again as one, they knelt.

Except for one figure.

He was taller than the rest, yet not as tall as I had imagined he might be. His mechanical body was a work of unspeakable xenos artifice, more finely wrought than any I had ever seen upon the field of battle. Where they might be skeletal, he was lithe. Where they were animated with grim, unyielding purpose, his every movement possessed an undeniable vitality. His form spoke of musculature and clean-limbed strength, perhaps touched by the divine, and his finery was simple and yet impossibly elegant.

His face, though…

Brothers, I can scarcely put into words what I felt in that moment. What all three of us must have felt. It was not reverence or awe, I can tell you that much.

It was closer to hatred.

Framed by a cowl of shimmering light and the traceries of his intricate collar, Szarekh – heralded as the last and greatest of the Silent Kings, and undisputed overlord of the necron race – wore a golden mask fashioned into the likeness of our Lord Sanguinius.

A rank blasphemy, indeed.

The humans were surprised. Their flesh-forms took time to process what they were seeing, though it clearly stirred their indoctrinated racial hatreds at a fundamental and subconscious level. The Judicator-Prime was the first to rise, transmitting a sub-ethyric signal to the Praetorians to be ready. No matter that they had sent the Dante-Angel and the Tycho-Angel, their most respected battle leaders, as a gesture of good faith. The human warrior castes can be unpredictable and nihilistic when pressed, and may act illogically in the face of insult or overwhelming adversity.

We may speak more of this later, Lord Anrakyr. After all, you will need allies. Learn their strengths as well as their weaknesses, and turn all to your advantage.

Wise Szarekh knew this. He saw the truth of it when first he encountered the humans squatting upon the tombs of the dynasties and the ruins of the eldar empire. They believed that their stars were in the ascendant, and that they would soon conquer the galaxy. Of course, this was not to be. It will never be. It cannot be.

It is curious what the humans choose to know of their past, and what remains unremembered. They do not heed the lessons that they have already learned, because they often elect to forget them. Perhaps, had he not fallen to illogical and prideful infighting, their Sanguinius-Angel might have steered them towards a more enlightened destiny.

Certainly, he would have made a more amenable emperor than a preserved witch-corpse.

If ever there were a human to be mourned, noble Szarekh would say that it was him. That alliance – the first alliance, perhaps? – might have ended the threat of the Devourer before it ever surfaced. At least, the tyranids might never have been drawn to this galaxy in the first instance.

Like the humans, the Silent King was blind to this possibility at the time.

But unlike the humans, he is humble enough to learn from his own mistakes. The High Chronomancer’s temporal mastery merely afforded him the insight that he required, and the opportunity to prepare a new truth for them.

The Chapter Master’s grip tightened around the golden helm in his hands, and he quaked with a barely suppressed fury. This time I saw Captain Tycho’s fist clenching, although he too managed to restrain himself. We had to see how this would play out before doing anything premature.

Dante looked from his own mask – the Death Mask of Sanguinius, holiest relic of the Chapter – to the benign, alien representation of the primarch worn by the Silent King. The similarities were astonishing, brothers. Though elongated and curiously more androgynous, the features were mournful and angelic in the way that every Blood Angel knew and recognised even from the first day of their Adeptus Astartes induction. The proud and noble brow. The suggestion of tumbling hair swept back from the face. Even the stylised halo crowned Szarekh just as it did the commander.

But where Dante’s mask was crafted into a defiant, righteous battle snarl, this was Sanguinius at his most benevolent and peaceful.

The face of a king. A ruler supreme.

More beautiful, perhaps, than any sculpture or cast had any right to be that was not the work of human hands, though it pricked at my soul to admit it.

Dante’s blood was up. Finally, he found his voice.

‘How… dare…’

Ignoring the commander’s outrage, the Judicator-Prime spoke again in his strident and uncaring tone. ‘Dante of the Blood Angels, the Silent King bids you welcome. None among us shall harm you while you respect the sanctity of this court.’

Captain Tycho’s eyes widened, and he looked to me in disbelief. The Silent King remained still, regarding us all with the eyes of our primarch.

Through gritted teeth, Dante cursed.

‘Your Silent King had best learn to speak, and explain to me why he insults us with this… this… mockery of our Lord Sanguinius. It is a travesty, and I shall not suffer it! If he thinks to make his demands more pleasant by skinning them in the face of our holy founder–’

‘This is not so, Dante of the Blood Angels,’ said the herald. ‘Mighty Szarekh, last and greatest of the Silent Kings, honours your angel-father and the accord that we wished to strike with him in ages past.’

Numbness spread through my chest at these words. Even Dante twitched.

‘That is a lie,’ he murmured. ‘Our gene-sire would never have treated with xenos filth.’

‘The Silent King cannot lie, Dante of the Blood Angels, for he does not speak. He will not speak. Not to you. But your angel-father would have seen the wisdom in this alliance, and we hope that you will also. The tyranids are coming, whether you or we choose to remain, or not. The conflict between us was an error. Our success has already been calculated.’

I was very keenly aware that the Chapter Master held his gauntlet loosely at his side, with the palm wide open. Both Captain Tycho and I followed suit, trying to keep the movement as surreptitious as possible and hiding it from the passing gaze of the necrons.

All three of the human emissaries kept their right hands open. It was a curious gesture, likely some measure of deference offered to the majestic Szarekh as their natural superior.

Ammeg later postulated that it signified they were unarmed. I am not so certain.

Regardless, the alliance was soon agreed.

The ignorance of the humans is easily turned to our advantage.

Unable to take his eyes from the Silent King’s mask, I watched Dante consider the herald’s words.

‘Why, then? Why seize this world, and defend it from us when we came to reclaim it?’

‘The conflict between us was an error. Mighty Szarekh, last and greatest of the Silent Kings, did not seize this world. He meant to defend it from the Devourer.’

Another long moment passed. I regarded the various necron nobles of the court – where living beings might betray their true intentions with subconscious body language or barely perceptible movements, these machines were unreadable. Instead, I wonder if I projected something of my own thoughts onto my perception of them, in their perfect ambiguity. The Silent King continued to gaze plaintively at us. I shuffled uneasily.

For the first time ever, in all my days, I felt a tremor of pity for the necrons. Had we, in fact, misjudged them?

The Judicator-Prime raised a hand. ‘The error was yours, Dante of the Blood Angels. But you were not to know, and we did not take the time to make it known.’

‘Oh, blood of Baal…’ Tycho whispered, realising the full extent of what was being implied.

Dante let out a long, measured breath. ‘And in fighting us, you have lost significant forces that might have assured your victory over the tyranids.’

The Silent King nodded slowly, but it was his herald that spoke.

‘Correct. There is no more time. We must form the alliance that mighty Szarekh would have pursued with your angel-father. Join us, and we will save this world for your Imperium.’

The Chapter Master’s brow furrowed, just slightly. ‘What do you care of the Imperium and its people?’ he asked in a low voice.

The Judicator-Prime swept his arm out to encompass all of the assembled necron Legions. ‘Regardless of what you might believe, Dante of the Blood Angels, we are most concerned with the survival of the human race. There are greater matters at stake here. Perhaps one day these lesser differences can be reconciled.’

With great solemnity, Commander Dante handed his helm off to me, and I took it carefully in my free gauntlet. Then he stepped forwards, holding out his left hand to the Silent King.

‘I cannot speak for the Imperium, and I cannot speak for what my blood-father Sanguinius would or would not have done in my place. But my warriors will lend their numbers to yours, if you truly mean to save this world from the Great Devourer.’ He paused, and his expression became more fierce. ‘And then you and I will speak of the future, King Szarekh. We will speak of what may be, if this alliance is honoured to its end.’

The Silent King reached out and grasped Dante’s wrist in a remarkably Imperial manner.

Then he leaned in with an alien grace that should have been impossible for a machine, and whispered something into the Chapter Master’s ear.

I speak the truth. The Silent King spoke to him. Tycho and I both strained to hear, but the words were lost to the breeze. Dante recoiled slightly, his face a picture of shock and confusion. Then he composed himself, and nodded to Szarekh.

And so the alliance was accepted.

Calm yourself, my Lord Anrakyr. The great Szarekh did not need the humans in order to defeat the tyranids.

Consider the facts. Our fleet had transitioned out of range of their primitive sensors, but were at full battle readiness throughout our engagement with the Dante-Angel’s forces as well as afterwards. Similarly, we outnumbered them by many hundreds to one on the ground. A thousand or more, by the end, since it was they who made the greater sacrifice in battle against the tyranids.

Consider the wisdom of noble Szarekh. He allowed the humans to believe that they alone held void-superiority over the hive fleet, and so they alone took damage in engaging the alien vessels as part of the allied offensive. Our ships remained safely out of the conflict. He also allowed the humans to mount what they considered a valiant and righteous defence of the larger city-structures – a manoeuvre that held little tactical merit or advantage, and a much higher likelihood of attrition. He maximised the effectiveness of the alliance entirely in favour of the necron forces, by giving the humans just enough hope for a brighter future, and just enough of the truth to commit them to our cause.

Doubtless, they would have turned on us if the opportunity had presented itself, later. Most especially if they had learned the whole truth. That was a risk that wise Szarekh could not take.

Even so, it was hard not to admire the conviction with which the humans fought. They may come to recognise in time the threat of the tyranids like we do. For that, we wear these trinkets and adornments to commemorate their sacrifice. We honour their dead, even if we do not mourn their loss.

If you would review the specifics of the battle that the magnificent Szarekh fought that day, then I will bring you the accounts from the Praetorian archives. They are exhaustive.

Do not be like the humans, my lord. Learn from the past.

You will need allies if you are to prevail. Maximise the effectiveness of your alliances, and turn them entirely to your advantage.

Prove yourself worthy in this, and the Silent King may speak to you as well.

In time.

It was only after the Gehenna Campaign was concluded that we realised how completely we had been deceived by those thrice-accursed xenos. But it was difficult to be truly bitter when we had intended to betray them from the start.

When Commander Dante, Captain Tycho and I had returned to the Rhino to leave, we had carefully removed the remote triggers from our gauntlets, and disarmed the detonators under the tarpaulin. As I said, this had all been Tycho’s idea, and he had wanted to carry it out alone. He would have become the Master of Sacrifice, indeed.

When Dante had realised that the Silent King – the Silent King – was present on Gehenna Prime, our duty to the Imperium was clear. This was the supreme ruler of the necron race, a being so legendarily elusive that even the most informed members of the Ordo Xenos doubted whether or not he even existed in a literal sense.

We had to kill Szarekh, no matter what. He could not be allowed to leave this world.

Concealed beneath the tarp inside the troop compartment was the warhead from a cyclonic torpedo. It had been carefully and painstakingly removed from the magazine on board the Bloodcaller by our company Techmarines, shuttled down to our encampment and hidden within the Rhino at Dante’s command.

It was a planet-killer. An Exterminatus-grade weapon, the use of which could only be sanctioned by the Chapter Master himself.

Each of us held a trigger in our open, gauntleted palm, and any one of us could have fired it in an instant. At ground zero, the nucleonic blast would have annihilated everything on the planet’s surface within a five hundred kilometre radius. The Silent King, the three of us, every single necron construct stationed at the Devil’s Crag, every last member of Third Company who remained in our own encampment, and the common citizenry of at least two major hive cities – all would have been evaporated in the space of a few heartbeats.

It was a sacrifice worthy of Erasmus Tycho’s title, and his ambition.

Dante, however, had refused to let him go alone. He schooled us in his reasoning around the strategium table.

It would arouse the suspicions of the necron lords if the Blood Angels suddenly withdrew from the surface, leaving only a single, nihilistic warrior to approach their master. We could not risk ordering an orbital strike without first making visual confirmation of Szarekh’s presence, lest the necrons realise our duplicity with the bare, vital moments that they needed to pre-empt us.

It had always been a desperate scheme, with only a slim chance of success.

But for that slim chance, Dante was willing to sacrifice himself.

I claimed the honour of the third position within the emissary group. My familiarity with the local terrain made me the obvious choice.

It was only Szarekh’s mask, and the insinuation that Lord Sanguinius himself might have once been on the verge of an alliance with the necrons, that stayed Dante’s hand. Was it even true? Had Szarekh ever looked upon the face of our primarch? It did not appear to matter.

As the Rhino had bumped and rolled over the plains back to the encampment, Tycho had voiced the question that was at the forefront of my mind, too.

‘So we are taking his… word… for it, my lord? We will knowingly and willingly enter an alliance with our hated xenos enemies, with the view to some possible future reconciliation?’ He rubbed at his good eye. ‘No one will believe this. Chapters have been excommunicated for less.’

Dante narrowed his eyes. ‘We serve the Imperium. We protect its people when they cannot protect themselves. If we do this, then we will save at least a portion of Gehenna Prime. If we do not, then the world will fall to the tyranid advance, and the nucleonic fire of Szarekh’s murder.’

Before Tycho could reply, Dante had raised up the Death Mask of Sanguinius and gazed into its lifeless eyes. Appraising. Reconsidering.

‘And when the war against the tyranids is won, I will slay Szarekh myself.’

It had seemed like the perfect solution: we would use the necrons to ensure an Imperial victory first and then strike down their king once we had secured his confidence. But we had misjudged them. We misjudged them so badly.

They had deceived us.

As the campaign against the foul hive-spawn drew to a close, we began to notice strange things – the bodies of our fallen brothers were being looted, our supplies raided. Was it the tyranids, you ask? Unlikely.

We realised that fewer and fewer of the necron lords and elite guard were making each successive rendezvous with us as planned. We had not heard from the Judicator-Prime or his Praetorians in days.

We were being frozen out of the final stages of our combined victory.

By the time we stood upon the killing fields in the shadow of Hive Sendeep, our rent armour and notched blades caked with more xenos blood than we could ever ask, we were reduced to a handful of survivors from the Ironhelms and the Sanguinary Guard. The Fratrem Pugno had been gutted by plasma fire, and it would be many more months before she was warp-capable again.

Wounded, Captain Tycho had instead been evacuated up to the Melech to coordinate the last stages of the void-war. It was I alone who stood at Dante’s side, and the grim realisation came upon us both as our battle-brothers led teams of ragged local militia in heaping up the bodies of slain tyranids for the cleansing pyres.

He leaned heavily upon the Axe Mortalis, his breath coming like a gasp through the gaping mouth of the Death Mask.

‘We haven’t seen any necrons in over twelve hours, my lord,’ I muttered. ‘Szarekh isn’t coming back, is he?’

Dante did not answer, but stared hard at the setting sun over the distant mountains. His rage was spent. It was the same for all of us.

I wiped xenos foulness from my combat blade, and sheathed it at my hip. ‘Do not concern yourself with this, Lord Dante. I will have the official records amended to state that you allowed the xenos to depart as a gesture of respect for their unexpected assistance in the campaign. We will catch him eventually, and you will have vengeance.’

At this, the Chapter Master shook his head, and pulled his helm free.

‘No, Sergeant Machiavi. We will never have this chance again. I doubt whether any warrior of the Imperium will ever again lay eyes upon the Silent King.’ He sighed. ‘If that is even who he was…’

We remained there for another hour or so, watching in quiet contemplation as the pyre flames began to spring up in the dusky twilight.

I thought back to the moment that we decided to spare Szarekh from the fire, and I am ashamed to say that the most impertinent question sprang unbidden from my lips. In fact, brothers, I am still amazed that this moment of indiscretion did not cost me my eventual succession to command of Third Company.

‘What did the Silent King say to you?’

Dante’s weary gaze rolled to me, and he stiffened slightly.

‘He said… something that I no longer think I understand.’

The commander paused. I waited expectantly, almost now dreading to hear the answer.

‘He said, “They are the rising storm, and you must become the shield”.’

Chapter One

Anrakyr the Traveller was caked in the blood of men. The organic liquid dripped across his skeleton, red and glistening. He could still hear the screams of the dying creatures, still hear them begging and pleading. They shouted prayers with their meat-voices to some deific being.

It was a waste of breath and a waste of their final moments. Nothing awaited them after death. Anrakyr cared nothing for their prayers or their begging. He merely watched as the humans aspirated blood and the life drained from their weeping eyes. His unblinking visage of death gazed upon them without mercy.

Anrakyr the Traveller, would-be overlord of the necrons, descended upon Kehlrantyr in an orgy of death. He brought order. He brought certainty.

Kehlrantyr was infested. It was infested with grey buildings and grey people.

‘What dull creatures, living in their own filth,’ Anrakyr mused. No response met him. The sentient necrons within his forces were out of range, venting their fury upon the humans. Only the dull-witted warriors surrounded him, marching through the streets and avenues of Kehlrantyr’s human stain.

Necron phalanxes smashed through those buildings and those people. Necron warriors turned gauss weaponry on fleeing masses of humans. Bodies carpeted the roads. Fires broke out, sending smoke into the turquoise sky.

Resistance began lightly. Isolated bands of humans fired primitive laser rifles upon marching steel. Then their resolve stiffened. Machines, armoured boxes on wheels, rolled out to fire weak shots into colossal monoliths. Obsidian flanks chipped, but ultimately the human artillery affected nothing. The necron forces rolled down the broad avenues of the human settlement, tearing up the poured stone that served as road material. Human soldiers advanced alongside.

Anrakyr sprinted into them, the metal of his feet clinking against the stone. The Traveller stabbed his lance through the crew compartment of one of the vehicles, laughed as eldritch energies tore the humans sheltering within to dripping hunks. Something exploded inside, some rough human ammunition touched off by the actinic fury of his warscythe. The vehicle broke into millions of pieces of metal and fire. Anrakyr was propelled back, slamming into one of the grey buildings. He flew through the walls, past crying and weeping animals, hiding in their dens.

The Traveller pulled himself to his feet. He could hear bellowing outside. The sounds were deep, registering low on the human wavelengths. Anrakyr spared no glance for the cringing organics that ran screaming away from him, deeper into the building. Paintings and human pictoglyphs covered the walls. Metal rusted. Grime gathered.

‘Filthy, filthy animals,’ Anrakyr cursed. He strode back into the sunlight, skirts of chain-linked metal rustling about his legs.

Rubble shifted beneath his feet as he emerged into the bright light. Already, curious necron warriors, led by dull glimmers of guiding instinct, were pulling themselves into the buildings. Static blurted from between their clenched jaws.

Standing outside were the three triarch praetorians who followed the Traveller.

‘Space Marines,’ said Khatlan.

Dovetlan added, ‘There are human Space Marines active on this world.’

‘How did you come by this information?’ asked Anrakyr.

They provided no answer. They stood, smug and silent. ‘Odious constructs,’ he hissed. Again they offered no response. Spies of the Silent King posing as his emissaries to the Pyrrhian overlord, they assured Anrakyr that they served the glory of the necron race. Perhaps that was true. But where did they judge that glory to lie?

A renewed bout of screaming came from behind Anrakyr as he set foot upon the concourse again. Warriors were striding into the hole after him.

Vehicles burned all around him, casting deep palls of smoke into the bright blue sky. Necron warrior phalanxes and hovering destroyers faced something through the smoke. They waited, filled with the patience of the grave.

Cylindrical objects fell on parabolic arcs into the necron mass, and bounced off warrior chassis, unnoticed. Anrakyr was already running, casting orders for the warriors to disperse and spread out their forces. It was too late. The warriors, dull-witted, lobotomised by the c’tan’s bargain, began to react, but too slowly.

Fire and shrapnel erupted, tearing through milling warriors, breaking sentient necron commanders into shards of spinning metal. More of the objects exploded. More necron warriors fell.

Bullets came tearing out of the smoke, smashing into struggling necrons. Gauss rifles responded, firing into the veil of darkness. A brace of night shrouds roared overhead, setting the smoke to roiling, dropping death spheres down onto whatever lurked beyond Anrakyr’s vision. The anti-matter laden munitions consumed the smoke, annihilating the carbon particles and tearing through reality.

The Traveller pumped his warscythe into the air, signalling the advance for his scattered and reeling forces. Implacable as the tide, the phalanxes reformed and marched forward.

Grotesquely armoured meat-creatures, the human elite, came sprinting through the smoke and rubble.

‘Space Marines,’ Anrakyr cursed. The triarch praetorians had been right.

They cannoned into the necron line, weaponry buzzing and screaming. A spearhead had barrelled through his phalanxes, driving a wedge into the advancing necrons. Explosives tore struggling warriors apart. Humming swords carved through the necron bodies in showers of sparks.

A knot of giant necron immortals, prized soldiers in Anrakyr’s army, the remnants of lost Pyrrhia, met the human wedge. They anchored Anrakyr’s line, blunting the assault on his phalanxes. Their gauss blasters punched through the armour, tearing into the flesh beneath. Humans faltered and fell, torn into steaming pieces by the disciplined fire of the immortals. One of the hulking warriors toted a tesla carbine. Lightning cascaded from the weapon, tearing through multiple bodies.

A flight of Space Marines dropped from the sky, fire ripping from their backpacks. Axes hammered at the immortals, punching through their chassis and breaking their metal bones.

Anrakyr waded towards their position, knowing that if the immortals were defeated then his warriors would be hard pressed to achieve victory here. Frustration flowed through the Traveller. His warscythe rose and fell with economical movements, cracking through the green armoured shell of the animals. Before he could reach the immortals, the human leader showed itself. It was coated in ornate armour, wrought in green and gold. The motif of a skull and star was repeated across the plates.

Organic gibbering emerged from the animal’s throat, a screed of imprecations and unintelligible words, far deviated from the corrupt ‘Gothic’ that the animals usually spoke. Its intent was clear, however. Calm descended around the two as necron warrior protocols ensured that their leader was given a wide berth.

Bright eyes twinkled in a ruddy face. The animal smiled and then raised its sword in some sort of salute.

Anrakyr ignored it, merely standing still and silent. He was above the petty motivations of these beings. The animal’s sword snaked in while the weapon it held in its other hand spat crude ammunition at the overlord.

Economical swings of his warscythe deflected the shells, driving them off with a high, sharp pinging noise.

The animal proved difficult to kill. For hours they fought, beneath the gentle blue sky of Kehlrantyr. For hours they fought, the centre of a melee that swirled around them. Anrakyr was fuelled by frustration, angered at the momentary denial of his destiny. He had come to Kehlrantyr expecting to find a tomb world to draw into his sphere of influence. Instead he had found an infestation of humans. He exorcised that frustration and anger on the animal.

To give it credit, it battled on long after it should have fallen. Blood dripped from between the plates of its dark green armour. Sparks showered from torn cabling.

Anrakyr was implacable, an elemental force. Dents and nicks marked his chassis where the creature had struck him, but they were few.

‘Surrender,’ Anrakyr demanded. ‘Submit to order.’

The animal snorted a laugh. Its twitching features, hidden beneath sweat, blood and its armour of green and gold, jabbered in its organic tongue. It was slowing, strength ebbing with every movement.

Anrakyr grew tired of the animal. As it heaved in great breaths, the overlord shoved his warscythe through its abdomen, driving deep into its spine. He lifted the human, met its dying eyes with his deathless gaze.

‘Filth,’ he muttered. He threw the animal away, casting it to lie broken against the ground. Crypteks scurried after it, driven by curiosity to examine its physiology. With its death, human resistance on Kehlrantyr crumbled.

It awoke to utter darkness. It tried to take a breath that would not come, that brought no oxygen, no relief; a juddering breath that existed only as a soundbite, a piece of manufactured noise.

Panic. Its mind clawed at the emotion. A consciousness stirred and coalesced around a physical form.

Its fists were raised, beating at the sarcophagus that kept it bound, kept it trapped. Obsidian walls enclosed it. No escape. No movement. Cables snaked from the walls towards its body, disappearing into interface ports, driving along its limbs and into the limits of its spine. It was omnipresent, its consciousness undifferentiated between sarcophagus, cable and skeletal body. It saw through the body’s sensors, disoriented by seeing as the sarcophagus, the body and, in some remote sense, the circuits of the tomb world.

It felt the miles and miles of cables and crystalline lattices that stretched through the depths of Kehlrantyr. It was dimly aware of the cousins that walked upon its world above and the dwindling infestation of life that stained its surface.

It saw, in a blink, half glimpsed and little remembered, sixty million cycles of unchanging constancy. Sixty million cycles of unbroken silence and infrequent change.

Then the view was gone, battered into its subconscious. Events became localised, drawn through the cables snaking into the metal of its body.

Fog and smoke whirled around it, drifting through its vision. Green lights blinked. Indicators chirped and demanded attention. Its mouth opened in a silent scream. It writhed, trying to stretch, trying to break open its prison of metal and stone.

Slowly its identity returned, dripping through the feeds that connected it. A name. An existence. A life. A person. Valnyr. Memories joined the name. Identity flowed through her limbs, brought the panic away. Female. It was a she, a female, when such biological distinctions had mattered, during the Time of Flesh, before biotransference. When her race had strode the stars with bodies of meat and bone, before they had been deceived by Mephet’ran, the Messenger, the golden-tongued star god.

A laugh, a shrieking mad cackle, left her, vocalised in the synthetic sound that served her as a voice. The sound reeked of unknowable hunger, of desperation and fear.

Breath. Oxygen. Valnyr was beyond such needs, had been past such requirements for uncounted millennia. She would have smiled, were the skull that served her as features to allow such a gesture.

The panic bled away, the momentary distractions of awakening. Half-remembered preparations and theoretical constructions mumbled in some part of her consciousness.

Trepidation. Concern. These emotions cascaded through her limbs, setting her skull ablaze. The lack of clear memory set her to panic in a way the lack of breath could never equal. The fear of death, the erosion of identity: was this how it began?

Valnyr shuddered. That fear ran through every choice her race had made, the terror of mortality, the grasping jealousy of the overlooked and the passed over. It had led them, in their pride, to war with the old races. It had led them to the abandonment of their very lives.

Twinned emotions had driven her to this place and to this moment: vengeance and the fear of death. The latter, though perhaps not as easily admitted by the proud, was more influential than the former. Frailty and mortality. Easily deceived by the promises of the accursed star gods, these things had driven her entire race into the arms of hubris and made them easy prey to the blandishments of false, vampiric gods. In the end, it had broken their glory. Bereft of the vigour of the living races, Valnyr’s kin had stagnated.

Valnyr mused on what had brought her here, considered the paths her life had taken. Vague memories of mortality, the hint of an identity she no longer coveted, haunted her.

Her sarcophagus shook. Momentum and rushing wind battered the ancient box. Light burned through as the wall facing her became translucent. Quartz-eaten caverns flashed past, marked with lurid green. Metal spread along the caverns, adorning the stone like mould.

Indicators flashed from red to green. A chime beeped. She cancelled it with a thought, banishing the noise. Gravity shifted. Her weight settled on her skeletal feet. Steam whistled and, with subtle pops, the lid to her prison disengaged. Air wafted in, the lifeless sterile atmosphere of the tomb world of Kehlrantyr, tinged with the dust of uncounted ages, utterly empty and devoid of movement. Perfect.

Valnyr, High Cryptek to the Kehlrantyr Dynasts, stepped from the sarcophagus and onto the obsidian floor. She resisted the urge to stretch. Valnyr had gone to the Great Sleep in glory, in a chamber rich with carvings and light. She awoke from that sleep in the same chamber. She emerged from her sarcophagus into ruins.

The walls were broken, caved in by seismic shifting. Neglect, nearly tangible on the still air, ate into everything. Tarnished metal shot through the cold, lifeless rock.

She looked down, her hands outstretched. Her chassis had taken on the form of a skeleton, bones formed from subtly rippling living metal. A strange drift from how she had looked prior to the Great Sleep.

She exhaled, steam vapour leaking from between her clenched jaws. Cracks ran through the chamber, fissures driving deep where unmarred obsidian had once echoed. Quartz crystals sprouted from the fissures, glowing slightly against the darkness. Swooping curves and crossed lines glowed green in the gloom, marking ancient devotions to the c’tan. Name runes whispered prayers, titles and devotions that the necrons had broken and betrayed. Her eyes focused on the symbol of the Void Dragon, the being to whom Valnyr had once bowed.

‘Never again,’ she vocalised. The words hung in the still air, the sound vibrations nearly visible to the vision granted by her metal chassis. Some unknown emotion gnawed at the pit of her being.

Floating on anti-gravitic suspensor fields, an attendant canoptek spyder hovered into Valnyr’s field of vision. Its head, a blocky thing coated with gently blinking lenses, cocked to one side. Curiosity engrams, pre-programmed aeons ago, drove the construct. Sensors winked and scrutinised. Probes extended, tasting the air, examining the electromagnetic fields her skeletal body generated.

She needed to awaken the Dynasts, the overlord and her kin. That was her function. That was her task.

Valnyr started to move, but sensation fired along her neural links. Her mouth cracked open, but no sound emerged. She doubled over, her knees crashing into the stone. Seizures laced through her, jerking her body in random motions. She could hear a buzzing, low and deep.

The sensation passed. Something whispered at the back of her mind. With the moment’s passing, more panic lanced through her. She despised the lack of control, feared any erosion of her authority. Anxiety kicked into life, driving along the synaptic cables that laced through her body. Sensation dimmed. Her eyesight grew dark as the panicked emotion drove away her senses.

In the wake of the fit, a new question emerged.

The Great Sleep had clearly ended, but what had prompted her awakening now? Vague memories of necrons striding across Kehlrantyr came to mind, but there was no time stamp associated with them.

The same unknown feeling flashed through her, bright and malignant. She doubled over, clutching at the unmoving canoptek spyder with fingers of living metal. Her vision blacked out completely. Valnyr lost all control over her motive functions. The canoptek machine compensated, its only reaction a rotation of its head, slow and deliberate.

Sensors stabbed from where its jaws would be. She staggered back. Static emerged from between her jaws, static and panic. Her mind fuzzed, overwhelmed. She felt hunger. Scrabbling, horror mounting, Valnyr surged back to her feet. She could hear a faint buzzing noise.

‘No!’ Valnyr commanded.

Denied its ability to test, to assure purity, the machine drifted away and awaited further orders, looking somehow chastised. Granted a degree of autonomy not usually seen among the constructs of the necrons, the canoptek spyders were responsible for the maintenance of the necrons in their sleeping state. Granted incredibly resilient and robust processors, they had even mimicked independent intelligence.

She appreciated the efforts of the machine in the same way that a person would appreciate an unthinking tool. If there were issues with her awakening, Valnyr would rather test them herself than rely upon the canoptek spyder’s probing senses. Corrections could be made without the constructs’ in-built programs accidentally detecting anomalies and prescribing eradication as the only possible solution. Worry gnawed at her, but she reasoned away the malignant fit as a side effect of the awakening process.

Doors of polished obsidian cracked open. Valnyr left her chamber, canoptek spyder following on her heels, and strode off into the silent tomb world. She entered into a far vaster chamber than the one she had awoken in. On obsidian walls, resplendent in unbroken glory, carved and shaped by the whims of her long-dead people, phalanxes of Kehlrantyr’s most fabled heroes marched.

The skeletal shapes of necrons warred with the lithe alien eldar. Stylised and wrapped in stygian shadows, the carvings were a thing of wonder. Evidence of the pride of Kehlrantyr, its legions of fierce warriors marched across the walls, bound for the glorious wars that served as her history.

Bulwark of the War in Heaven, defender of the dead and doom of the living. This was the reputation Kehlrantyr had earned in ages past. The walls were pristine, kept serviced by scuttling scarabs. They betrayed little of the entropy that had greeted her in her awakening chambers. But the silence was a melancholy thing, thick and turgid in the air. It spoke of ages lost, of time slipped by unremembered and unmourned. The Great Sleep smothered Kehlrantyr.

She stopped in a vast, circular room. Warrior friezes, twelve in all, stared out from the walls. Valnyr walked towards one of the figures and rested her hand on the cheek of the warrior’s skull.

‘Shaudukar,’ she whispered. The name helped dispel the disquiet she felt, driving it to the back of her mind. Then she stepped back, moving towards the centre. The canoptek spyder merely hovered, waiting, probes extended.

An infrasonic buzzing vibrated her metal bones, emanating from the circuitry that laced the walls. Cracks sounded and vapour shot from new fissures. This was no sudden onset of the passage of eons, however. Valnyr adopted the pose of restful relaxation and waited.

Sections of the walls, each marked by a single stylised warrior, pulled away from the rest of the obsidian panels and floated. Slots opened in the floor and the blocks ground into the depths of Kehlrantyr. Vapour hissed with greater intensity. Cruciform shapes resolved from the white steam, and caskets, similar to the one she had recently stepped from, were carved with the images of those who slumbered within.

Her left hand indicated a smile, while her right began the pose of greeting.

Shaudukar’s, fittingly, was the first casket to open. The lychguard was her friend from the time before biotransference. Armoured in thick plates of metal, spine overarched to shelter her head, Shaudukar was a fearsome sight.

Poblaaur’s casket opened next, followed by ten more, until her lychguard surrounded her. They hung, crucified in the sleep of eons. Cables and circuits were attached all over their bodies, snaking through their metal bones. Green lights flickered around them, shining through the steam. The canoptek spyder behind her chattered and broadcast the frequency of awakening.

The bodies jerked in their cradles.

Valnyr awaited their resurrection with excitement. She looked forward to the reunion, eager to hear the voices and thoughts of her guard. Their bonds had been forged in the turbulent days of war against the treacherous and hateful eldar. Those bonds had only been strengthened by conversion as loyalty engrams had rewritten portions of the lychguards’ personality to ensure devotion beyond even that which they had exhibited in their mortality. These lychguard were Valnyr’s wardens, gifts from the Dynasts.

The green lights gave way to arcs of corposant that juddered between the limbs and along the spines of the lychguard.

Emerald balefires flashed in Shaudukar’s eyes, winking with intelligence programs being brought back online. She awoke, the first to do so. Shaudukar, oldest and truest friend of the cryptek called Valnyr. Shaudukar, leader of her lychguard. She fell from the casket. The others followed, some crunching to their knees. Shaudukar’s fist crashed to her chest plate in the old salute. The others echoed her scant seconds later, except for Poblaaur.

Shaudukar said nothing as her sentience resumed control of her body, as she shrugged off the Great Sleep. She reached for her weapons from behind her casket, arming herself with her warscythe and shield. No nonsense and no fuss, as she had been in life. Valnyr felt relief to see her unchanged by sixty million years of dormancy.

Poblaaur kept his eyes dim, facing towards the wall.

‘My mistress,’ Shaudukar said. She stared at her hands.

Valnyr approached her, standing nearly uncomfortably close. For the status-obsessed necrons, where distance often indicated hierarchy and respect, it was an expression of great affection.

‘Shaudukar,’ Valnyr whispered the name. ‘I am glad you are awake.’

The lychguard leader inclined her head. ‘I am too. Is there a reason for our awakening?’

‘No. Not so far as I can tell, at any rate.’

Shaudukar nodded. ‘Your orders?’ She never removed her gaze from her hands. Her fingers continued to flex. ‘Do these… Do my fingers seem longer?’

Valnyr’s head cocked to the side. Her right hand adopted the position signifying confusion.

‘We do as the programs dictate. We awaken the Dynast and her kin.’

This was her sacred duty, her charge and purpose. While the lesser, mindless creatures of Kehlrantyr awoke, it was her duty to ensure the Dynast had weathered the ages and awoke in comfort, attended by a cryptek of her calibre.

The other lychguard waited in patient silence.

Poblaaur’s mouth clacked open, drawing Valnyr’s attention. Then he began to scream, the noise screeching and static-laced. The lychguard collapsed, clattering into a pile of awkwardly laid bones. He placed his hands beneath his shoulders and began to rock back and forth. Crackles sounded from his metal bones. Spikes erupted all along Poblaaur’s body, along with hooks and wicked edges. He juddered along the floor, sending cracks crazing through the obsidian with mindless blows.

The infrasonic buzzing increased in pitch.

Valnyr retreated, hands held out in warding. Her other lychguard placed themselves between her and Poblaaur. Their loyalty engrams ensured that they would defend their cryptek even when doing so contravened their natural instinct of self-preservation.

The light in Poblaaur’s eyes twitched. He stopped shuddering. His hands had lengthened into talons. Erratic madness betrayed his every motion. The intelligence that should have governed his movements, made them economical and precise, was nowhere to be seen. He stood. Static spilled from his mouth, pulsing in time with the buzzing. His fingers flexed.

Disgust and panic warred in Valnyr’s mind. She recognised the signs, believed she knew the affliction clawing through Poblaaur’s soul.

‘What is happening?’ demanded one of the lychguard.

‘The flayer curse,’ Valnyr whispered, her voice filled with horror.

What had begun as the merest whisper of calamity was now confirmed before her eyes. The flayer virus. A curse from a broken and vengeful god.

‘How did it come to Kehlrantyr?’ asked the lychguard, Othekh.

Valnyr answered, ‘The refugees.’ Her mind was distracted, latching onto the implications and the possibilities. ‘To survive so much and to lose it all, to preside over… and then to lose it all to the witless afflictions and hunger of an ancient curse.’

She was muttering, the words emerging thick and fast. They flew, along with her thoughts, racing down paths that she had no desire to consider. The implications flashed through her mind. How deep did the taint run? How far had the words of accursed Llandu’gor reached?

The thought was horrifying. The sudden loss of identity, personality and memory flooded beneath the inescapable and inevitable hunger for flesh and blood. The desire, the need, to profane the body with the fluids and fibre of organic life. That was what the rumours had said, brought by distant necrons fleeing such existential horror on their own tomb worlds.

Some amongst the Khelrantyri had argued for the immediate destruction of such brothers and sisters, that they carried the flayer virus like an unwitting plague host. Cooler heads had prevailed. Sympathy, and a form of patronising dynastic arrogance, had ruled and the Dynasts allowed the unfortunates to strike the sigils of their original tomb worlds from their chassis and to anoint themselves with the glory of Kehlrantyr.

But perhaps that had been wrong. Perhaps they had been blinded by their sympathy. In the eons while they slept, when personality codes had been duplicated by necron artifice and back-up systems, the infection might have spread, leached into the core processes of the tomb world. Even now, the legions that faced awakening might be irretrievably afflicted by the flayer virus.

Horror such as Valnyr had rarely known flowed along her nerve-bundles. Personality fail-safes, designed to prevent the erosion of her mind by strong emotion, enacted themselves and calm slipped into her limbs, even as Poblaaur screamed his transformation before her eyes.

The necrons watched, unable to move, unable to act.

The canoptek spyder barrelled into the flayer-touched lychguard, knocking the still-screaming necron to the ground.

But the contact was enough. The green lights running along the tomb spyder flared, then dimmed. The construct spasmed. Spikes erupted from its back and the thing blurted out static and screams.

Most of the lychguard remained immobile, waiting for their moment to strike, confusion reigning as they assessed threats and friendly targeting prohibitions prevented them from assaulting one of their own. The lychguard were designed to be patient, designed to judge the best moment to strike, but they were also limited by ingrained assurances for loyalty.

Valnyr gripped her scythe and canted activation protocols. Time froze. Poblaaur, locked in a snarling hunched shape, was unable to move. Sound ceased. The buzzing ceased. Valnyr strode forward, feeling as though she were moving through mud.

The energy necessary to stop the passage of time was prodigious, the effort – especially so soon after her awakening – draining. She waded forward, buying each step with a silent grunt of pain. The green lights that played through her circuits dimmed, power drawn away to propel her motive functions against the flow of time.

Supplemental energy flowed from her staff of light, augmenting her power reserves. She approached Poblaaur one stubborn step at a time. Placing herself equidistant between the corrupted lychguard and the tomb spyder, she lowered her staff and fired.

A beam of incandescent fury began the slow crawl out of the head of the staff as the passage of time started to reassert itself.

Reality snapped back. Poblaaur launched himself to his feet while the canoptek spyder continued to spasm and writhe, viral programs rewriting the construct’s processes.

Fire shot from Valnyr’s staff and speared the struggling tomb spyder through the head. Another beam took Poblaaur through the chest as he stumbled to his feet, carving the necron in two.

The lychguard’s torso collapsed, hissing and screaming. Poblaaur clawed his way towards Valnyr, mouth stretched open and teeth sharpened to fangs. Another beam burned away his skull and the room descended into silence.

‘What just happened?’ Shaudukar demanded.

‘The flayer curse.’

‘It is real?’

‘So it would seem.’

‘But how?’

Valnyr had no answer. Around her, screams reverberated from the darkness, similar in pitch and timbre to Poblaaur’s. More necrons were awakening to the dreadful hunger, to the loss of identity and the erosion of all they had been.

Chapter Two

Anrakyr’s army marched through the human settlement, culling the living from the face of the world. A curious destroyer called Armenhorlal hovered near the Traveller and hummed to himself.

The trio of praetorians emerged from the smoke, covenant rods held across their chests. They took up station behind Anrakyr as he paraded through the dying settlement.

As he left the burning, broken concourse behind, Anrakyr toyed idly with a cluster of stones hanging from his neck. Marked with the curving, looping rune-script of the eldar kind, they had been recovered from the snow-coated fields of Carrh-enn-Derac.

Carrh-enn-Derac, the last battlefield he had walked. Carrh-enn-Derac, butchered by the eldar tongue into Carnac in the sixty million cycles the necrons had slept. It was now the site of their latest conflict, another battle in the War in Heaven that still raged. The last tomb world graced by his presence.

Anrakyr could not discern the purpose of the stones, but their ubiquity among the fallen foe, the way the eldar had screamed as he stole them, spoke to their value. At times, as now, the necron overlord believed he could see glimmers in their depths, could catch the faint whisper of torment from within.

Anrakyr had vented his displeasure on the eldar’s world spirit, a rudimentary collection of utility programs and personality repositories that crudely mimicked the majesty of the circuits that cradled a necron tomb world. Such ramshackle attempts at technology were an affront, a reminder of the failures of lesser races. The bruised construct had been given to Trazyn the Infinite in fulfilment of the bargain that had secured the eldar defeat.

Now he came to Kehlrantyr to awaken the tomb world’s fabled legions and welcome them into his growing empire. Hope had flared in his breast, enough to override his distaste at dealing with the worms that were the Kehlrantyr Dynasts. Renowned equally for their flippant arrogance and the limitless numbers of their population, the Kehlrantyri were a necessary evil. Anrakyr found it curious they had yet to awaken, that they had yet to stride forth from their tombs.

The Traveller dropped one of the subtly glowing gems and stabbed it with the edge of his warscythe. He expected to feel something, some emotion or some sense of action. He analysed his responses, examined the tactile sensations of the breaking gem, the change in structure of the stone as it went from whole to shattered, but the metal chassis of his body conveyed no feelings. No emotions welled within him, just empty nothingness: calm, assured, ordered. Only a mild curiosity remained, dissatisfied by the petty experiment. He left the other stones in his hand, dangling from chained wraithbone. He could not see why the eldar invested so much value in the stones, but then, the reasons behind so much of what the living races did escaped him.

Clutching the rest in shining digits, stained by the blood of human animals, Anrakyr tried to ignore the insidious hiss of the organic liquid that dripped down his spine. He clicked together the fingers of his other hand, let the relief at the gesture calm him, let lightning arcs crawl over him and wash away the taint of life, abrading the stain with puffs of burned smoke.

Gravel crunched beneath his feet as he moved through the burning human settlement. Warriors scuttled around him, and the hum of anti-gravitic motors set his skull to vibrating. The metal skirts he wore rustled around his legs.

Movement caught his gaze, drawing the fell fury of the Traveller’s attention. A knot of warriors, their gauss weaponry abandoned, were feasting on the bodies of the slain creatures.

Meat ripped. Blood flashed in the afternoon air. They stuffed flesh down the empty caverns of their mouths. Anrakyr watched, annoyed, angry, as the organic matter dripped down through their chest cavities to flop into the dusty gravel at their feet.

‘Sickness. Accursed,’ Anrakyr said. Disgust flared through him. Without turning, he gestured to the floating destroyer that shadowed him. The flayer-touched had been a constant problem on Kehlrantyr. Normally they followed Anrakyr’s forces in small numbers, cowed by the threat and majesty of the overlord’s presence. Kept confined to their nightmare realm in the aptly named Ghoul Stars, lorded over by the whispered name of Valgûl, the flayed ones were a plague that rarely troubled Anrakyr. Until coming to Kehlrantyr, that was. Something about this tomb world was corrupting his warriors, drawing the flayer curse to rewrite their already damaged souls and psyches.

‘Attend,’ the Traveller ordered. ‘Cull the flayer-touched. Purge those beholden to the dead words of Llandu’gor.’

It was no longer strange to utter the true names of the c’tan. He and his kind had shed that taboo when they broke the c’tan into shards, when they turned gods into servants. Thus they displayed their mastery over the beings to whom they had once owed fealty. Mephet’ran, Llandu’gor, Hsiagn’la. Others existed, lost to the half-forgotten mythologies of the necrons.

The destroyer cackled. His own madness, the nihilism that so gripped his kind, flowed through the laughter. Light crackled along the necron’s spine as it sucked in power, drawing it from the atmosphere in a microscopic siphoning of energy. The heavy barrels of the gauss cannon that was Armenhorlal’s arm flashed blindingly green.

Malignant energy unleashed, chain-whipping into the pack of unwitting flayers and wiping them from existence. Their shadows stretched for a moment, dark against the bright green. The spreading virus of vengeful Llandu’gor manifested more and more among those who walked beneath the Traveller’s banner. All who succumbed would share this fate.

Armenhorlal cooed to himself, a childish sound and a holdover from his mortal existence. Anrakyr knew the destroyer’s mind to have been fractured by some malfunction during his conversion, but it mattered little. For the moment the skimming destroyer was useful. He floated about Anrakyr in looping circles, each flash spinning faster and faster. The overlord shot out a hand.

‘Enough. Cease your motions.’

Anrakyr’s voice cracked into Armenhorlal’s dented head, reaching into the destroyer’s battle-damaged psyche. He slowed to a halt.

‘So many. So many of the damned packs of the accursed. Why? What draws them to this place? These meat-creatures offer little sustenance. Especially not to such as us, who have passed beyond the petty concerns of mortality.’ Anrakyr kicked one of the feebly struggling bodies at his feet, barely noticing as it cried out in unreasoning animal pain. For a moment, Anrakyr thought he could see the cunning gleam of intelligence in the creature’s eyes, some evidence of sentience.

Primitive structures clustered around him, little more than enclosures against the elements. Decorated with bird wing motifs, tiled in grey and black, the buildings were crude. Warriors battered at the walls with single-minded belligerence. More intelligent necrons had sensed lurking humans within and ordered the warriors to deal with them.

That organic beings should so taint Kehlrantyr brought anger to surge through Anrakyr. The jewel of one of the ancient dynasties of his people, populated by savages, reclaimed by the life that had once been extinguished and purged beneath the marching benevolence of the necrons. Life always struggled against order. That was its nature. But just once, Anrakyr wished that he would see organisms submit and accept the gift and honour he brought.

A trio of destroyers flew overhead, followed by flyers. In the distance, a monolith patrolled, its black flanks glistening obsidian-wet in the light of the sun. Phalanxes of lesser warriors, their identities eroded by the epochs since their conversion, marched through the human settlement. They were beneath the pity of Anrakyr and Armenhorlal.

The three triarch praetorians trailed after Anrakyr and the destroyer. They were silent, darkling things, just like their master. They rarely offered commentary or condemnation. They observed. They waited. They served.

Despite the decades they had followed Anrakyr, the trio of necrons had never offered him their names. Anrakyr had first been annoyed by this wilful defiance. Then he had taken to calling them Khatlan, Dovetlan and Ammeg. The names weren’t particularly clever, merely the first three numerals in the necron counting system. The praetorians never questioned his choice. Sometimes they even answered to the names.

The servants of the Silent King had been known to cow even the most recalcitrant phaerons into obedience. That they followed him, that they observed and marched alongside him, filled the necron overlord with trepidation. Why were they here? What did the last ruler of the Necron Empire want with Anrakyr?

That these creatures had refused to submit to the Great Sleep, that they had stridden the stars for sixty million cycles acting on the orders of the Silent King, beggared Anrakyr’s mind. He could have done the same, he reasoned. His will was no less strong. But these triarch praetorians had walked the stars, shaping the mortal races, witnessing events and observing, silent as deathless gods. The evidence of those years lay on them. They were hunched, shamed-looking creatures. The metal of their bodies was tarnished, bronzed edges pitted and shadowed by weapons fire. Yes, they were unimpressive to look at, but what they represented and the havoc they could wreak more than made up for their outlandish and decrepit appearances.

Red-painted human helmets dangled from Ammeg’s elbows. Belonging to one of the warrior caste of that despicable race, the things were crudely constructed but martially impressive. They were broken and pitted, lifted from some battlefield. She too wore eldar spirit-stones, older in provenance than Anrakyr’s looted gems. The tattered robes of some infesting species drifted about her while a fungal reek suffused her metal bones.

All of the triarch praetorians bore some token of the warrior humans. Khatlan’s back was studded with the sickle boxes the humans discarded as they made war. They formed rows of three spines rising from the praetorian’s back and lent the necron the disgusting reek of the propellant the humans used to fire their crude weapons. Other odds and ends from scattered races and cultures coated the triarch praetorian.

Dovetlan had elected to place steel knives in a fan around her face. Stamped and marked by rough human artifice, the weapons were crude and technologically inferior. A winged teardrop of blood decorated each blade.

The praetorians refused to elucidate the circumstances of their acquisition of the human artefacts, nor why they wore the trophies as marks of pride. Each inquiry was met with the same blank stare and infuriating posture as any other. A fruitless endeavour, so Anrakyr could only guess their provenance. When the praetorians spoke, they stated only the obvious.

Humans burst from a side building, led by several of their males. Anrakyr recoiled, annoyed and wary that some of their tainted cells might besmirch his chassis.

Armenhorlal did not have time to spool up his gauss cannon before pinprick lasers ate at his chassis. The destroyer started to giggle, then laugh. Armenhorlal began thrashing, clubbing several of the fleeing humans.

Khatlan and Ammeg stepped into the sky, propelled by their gravity displacement packs. Dovetlan placed herself before Anrakyr while the Traveller watched and observed.

The universe groaned as scything waves of light emerged from the praetorians’ covenant rods. Weeping humans, eyes and mouths wide, desperation spewing from their wretched faces, erupted into clouds of burning ash. Other bodies were dragged out of buildings by unthinking, unfeeling warriors and lined up in rows for incineration. It was endlessly fascinating, Anrakyr mused, that life always followed the same paths. They were fleshy and pink or brown, all colours drawn from the same palette. Some were tall. Others were short. Female and male. But they all followed the same template.

Two legs. Two arms. One head. How unbelievably common. The universe tried to impose order, from the eldar to the necrontyr to these human dregs. Two by two. A curious coincidence or evidence of some great plan? That it all led to entropy and disruption, to chaos, was an eternal shame. Only the necrons had refused such predestination, electing to take a different path rather than walk down the road that led to destruction.

Only under the eternal hegemony of the Necron Empire would the universe finally achieve the order and certainty it so obviously craved. Anrakyr bent his eternal life towards that goal, towards uniting his kind beneath his own banner and conquering all the lesser races.

Khatlan and Ammeg fell back to the ground, crunching into the poured stone. They resumed their place behind Anrakyr as he walked through the human settlement, stalking behind the overlord with silent threat.

Armenhorlal trailed behind them with scattered fires burning about his body. The destroyer crooned to himself.

They waded through piles of ash while fuel bowsers exploded and necron warriors systematically dismantled the signs of human habitation.

The gentle breeze, swaying trees, even the soft light of the sun angered Anrakyr, brought a rage deep to what he considered his soul. It all stank of life, of a time that he wished he could forget. Bodies were gathered and fed to waiting canoptek spyders. Bound for the monoliths and the pyres burning within, the traces of organic life were slowly being cleansed from Kehlrantyr.

The sun that glowed above, driving through the turquoise depths of a cloudless sky, was a pale thing, weak and dying, fed upon by a c’tan in the ages before the Breaking, leeched by the star gods in their desperate hunger before the discovery of the sustenance of souls.

Scourged by the necrons who called this place home, life had crept back, perhaps borne on the stellar winds, perhaps brought by some far-reaching traveller as vermin.

Kehlrantyr had not suffered the eons well.

Change brought anger. Death was an unceasing thing, a constant, and a known quantity. And there was nothing that brought pleasure to Anrakyr like that which was known, that which remained unchanging.

Metal crunched on stone gravel, the footsteps furtive. A cyclopean eye met Anrakyr’s fell gaze. A cryptek. It chattered, its body hunched in a posture that screamed excitement. It wrung its hands together, digits flashing in complex formations that conveyed the emotions that its skull-like visage never would.

Excitement. Relief. Obeisance.

Anrakyr waved the cryptek into stillness. ‘Your news?’

‘We have aligned the maps and the portents, my lord. The approximate entrance location has been found.’

‘Then where are my legions? Where are the phalanxes of this world?’

Profound regret. Unwelcome news. ‘It seems a mountain range has arisen during the Great Sleep. The doors are buried.’

Anrakyr took the news well, surprisingly so.

‘Open the doors. Dig them out. I will have my legions.’

Gratitude. Alacrity. ‘Of course.’

The cryptek left, scurrying away.

Pressure pushed down from above as a shadow passed over Kehlrantyr’s fitful sun. Atmospheric displacement caused the wind to howl. Anrakyr could hear a faint buzzing noise. He turned to the triarch praetorians in confusion. They merely stared back.

A ripple passed through his warriors. They all stiffened. Questions passed between the necrons that still possessed intelligence.

Deathmarks stepped from hidden pocket dimensions. Consummate spies and patient assassins, they were odious creatures, underhanded constructs whose methods were distasteful. They had their uses, however, and Anrakyr permitted their presence within his army, unlike the accursed flayers whose virus was known to spread to others. Still, the overlord flinched at their sudden appearance.

One of their number pointed above. Anrakyr looked up to see a sky pierced with swarming bone and red. From horizon to horizon descended hordes of insectile alien things.

He knew them, knew the creatures that came to feast on Kehlrantyr. Anrakyr wanted to spit curses. His body subconsciously adopted a pose of extreme anger with the subtle inflection of utter disappointment.

Known to the mortal races as the tyranids, he had fought the creatures on several occasions, each nearly disastrous. Their sheer numbers proved a vexing irritation that overwhelmed his mindless hordes. That they dogged him on Kehlrantyr, that they dared to disturb his plans, was unconscionable.

The tyranids were a threat to the necrons. They were life unfettered, anarchic, predictable only in their insatiable hunger. Their consumption of the lesser races proved problematic in the establishment of necron dynastic rule and the eventual goal of the imposition of lifeless order against a galaxy teeming with Chaos.

And now they were here, on Kehlrantyr.

Even as he watched, streaks broke through the sky, flaring with friction fire. Bio-ships, massive organisms, dropped into low orbit.

Already necrons were reacting.

Green lightning started lancing from the drifting monoliths, but there were too many descending objects to knock from the sky. The warrior phalanxes did not react at all. They slouched where they stood, unheeding, oblivious to the tyranids that filled the skies.

Chapter Three

Jatiel was not an introspective man. Stolid, dependable, reliable, he was a sergeant in the Blood Angels Second Company. Proud of the red and gold he wore and the position he occupied, he had earned the rank some hundred years previously, fighting against the orks on Lared VII. He would hold the position until his death, never destined to rise higher.

Beatific cherubs stared down at the gathered Space Marines, watching over the bridge of the frigate Golden Promise. The entire room was a work of art, painstakingly crafted by generations of Blood Angels. Not all of the darkness in the souls of Sanguinius’s sons could be brought to light upon the battlefield, and so the making of art was encouraged. Jatiel himself had carved the throne on which he now sat, taking rad-blasted wood from Baal and creating an artefact surpassing the work of any mortal craftsman. Gilded in red-gold, hand-painted, it dominated the bridge. As he reclined, alabaster angel wings framed his head.

The alabaster had been mined from the deep crust of Baal Prime. When Jatiel leaned back as he did now, if he wore his helmet, the sight echoed the sigil that all Blood Angels and their serfs wore upon their shoulders and worked into every aspect of their armour: the winged teardrop of their beloved primarch.

Pretentious, but no less so than his position demanded. All of his warriors’ armour was marked by the winged teardrop, with details picked out in gold. They were encouraged in this, to modify their battleplate with approval from the Chapter’s forgemasters.

Only Emudor’s armour was mostly devoid of ostentation and grandeur. His artistry was subtler. Filigreed loops and whorls were carved into the curved plates, creating a trail of shadows that lessened his profile, broke it up and added to his talent for stealth. It suited his temperament; he was a brooding, dark and gently sarcastic soul.

Jatiel’s soul, as the saying went, was sanguine. He was fine with this, content to live and serve his primarch and the Emperor in this position. The sergeant knew that he lacked the inspirational quality and the glory that some of his brothers hungered for, that others from the Chapter looked down on him and his squad. The thought brought a fang-bared smile to his craggy, careworn face. He had no desire to rise further. He served where he excelled, at the squad level.

That didn’t make his current duty any less onerous.

‘When have so many enemies fallen upon a single system like this?’ he asked, gazing out through the oculus. The question was rhetorical, Jatiel barely conscious of asking it. He received an answer nonetheless. Ventara, studious, curious, bright and quick, provided it.

The battle-brother’s eyes shone green, bright as the emeralds that studded his chestplate. ‘Armageddon.’

‘No.’ This from Asaliah, grizzled, older even than Jatiel. ‘You’re wrong, lad. Armageddon was bad, mark me. I won’t denigrate the warriors who fought and bled for that world, who do so still. But not near such as this.’

Asaliah spoke from experience. Along with the red and gold of his armour, black and silver also served. The skull, crossbones and stylised ‘I’ of the Deathwatch proudly glared from his left shoulder pad. The veteran had served two terms with the alien hunters, sworn never to speak in specifics of his time with the Ordo Xenos. But the experiences he had gained, the horrors he must have seen, were etched into his face. Every gesture of his hooded eyes evoked far-off sights, glories and darkness. He served as Jatiel’s right hand, a pillar of knowledge and experience.

The veteran scratched the dusky beard scrawling across his lower face, diving through the peaks and valleys of scars and wrinkles left by a lifetime of war and secrets in service to hidden masters. ‘Say what you like about the damn orks. They bring numbers. Always have and always will. But a hive fleet.’ Asaliah nearly shuddered. ‘That’s numbers beyond counting, beyond even beginning to count.’

Jatiel thanked the winged primarch that Asaliah had never lost himself to the melancholia that so often afflicted the returned veterans of the Deathwatch. Indeed, many lost themselves to the Black Rage before they could impart their valuable experience and knowledge to the Chapter they returned to.

Asaliah’s deep rumble ceased, the bass tones of his words echoing through the bridge. Silence descended over the room, taking malignant station in creased frowns and worried glances. It lived among the carved cherubs staring down with painted glass eyes.

The hiss and crackle of vox-access disturbed, yet did nothing to dispel the silence. The slack-jawed servitor mumbles of lingua-technis joined it.

War had come to the Cryptus System, war such as the Imperium had rarely known. Doom, blood and bile. Crawling horror. And Jatiel was missing it.

Somewhere out there, the Imperial Navy were fighting to hold back a swarm of hive ships, and the soldiers of the Astra Militarum prepared to face the onslaught on the ground when the fleet inevitably failed. Soon, the Blood Angels would arrive and lend their aid, determined to stop the aliens here before they could strip the system bare and move on, threatening Baal itself.

But Jatiel? His squad and the Golden Promise had been sent ahead of Lord Dante’s forces to monitor the battle and watch over the dead world of Perdita. It wasn’t for Jatiel to ask why. The Space Marine knew his duty. But the order chafed.

Jatiel’s attention drifted down to the planet gently rotating below. Perdita was worthless, broken by calamity, or spawned stillborn in the system’s formation.

Ventara broke the silence again. ‘Why are we guarding this virus-bombed waste?’ Another question lurked beneath. Jatiel knew it well enough, because he kept asking it himself. Why weren’t they fighting alongside their brothers? Why weren’t they taking the Golden Promise and joining the line?

‘Trust in the Chapter Master,’ Asaliah answered. Steel lurked in the veteran’s voice.

Ventara wasn’t willing to let it lie. ‘Who even bothered to virus bomb Perdita in the first place?’

Another of the squad, newly joined Cassuen, asked, ‘Do you think this was one of the battlefields of the Great Heresy?’

‘It’s too old,’ said Ventara simply. ‘Think millions of years, boy, not thousands.’

Cassuen’s smile dipped. ‘The eldar breeds, then?’

‘Perhaps, but I’ve never known them to scour a world like this,’ Jatiel said. These ethereal, blasphemous creatures rarely lowered themselves with such systematic destruction. Their methods tended far more to hit and run attacks or piratical squabblings.

Blocks of xenos material floated by, obscuring their view of the distant fleet. Circling one another in slow, complex orbits, the weaving constructs seemed at times almost to spell out runes, and at others to take on intricate polygonal shapes. Massive constructions of carved xenos bone, they appeared, at first, to belong to known eldar materials. However, these curious stones, stones that the Inquisition had taken a great deal of interest in, were engraved in some other alien runic script.

Silence descended again. The squad sat on the command deck with weapons drawn. Jatiel cradled his mace across his knees, the ornate golden head resting gently on the carved splendour of his command throne.

An air of stymied impotence and impatience suffused the deck. The serfs scurried with downcast faces.

Shadows danced at the edge of Jatiel’s vision, shadows from another age. His fangs bared and he felt the ghost of pain dance through his limbs.

‘No,’ he muttered. ‘Not now.’

Naskos Ventara offered his sergeant a concerned glance. ‘Sergeant?’

‘Nothing. It’s nothing.’ The sergeant pointed back to the viewscreen. ‘Watch.’

The ship’s astropath, Amanther Kidrun – a woman who had been muttering for weeks, wracked with visions of chittering horror and sentient darkness – started to scream. Her shrill cries echoed around the bridge.

Kidrun descended into a seizure, heels drumming against the gilded deck, boots carving scuffs into the murals that featured there. ‘The Great Devourer!’ she cried. ‘The swarms, the ungodly swarms. They descend upon us. They will consume us!’

Alarm spread through the serfs as morale plummeted. Jatiel could feel the fear leach from them all, could smell the foetid animal reek of terror taking root in the souls of his crew. He surged to his feet. A storm cloud passed over his craggy features, drawing his grey brows down over his blue eyes.

‘Enough!’

Asaliah and Emudor dragged the struggling woman from the bridge. They returned moments later and resumed their seats. All eyes returned to the screens.

Swarms of colour arrived at the edge of the map, soon blotting the entire screen like bruised fruit. Grim looks stole over the Space Marines’ faces.

‘Holy Throne,’ someone murmured. It became a litany, over and over, descending into madness. Then screaming.

Jatiel’s armoured fist thundered into the arm of his command chair, sending a crack shivering through the wood. The serfs jumped, but no one looked chastened or chagrined. The sergeant realised the oath had come through the vox, the echo stealing from some Navy captain or officer.

‘Shut off that noise,’ the sergeant ordered.

‘Compliance.’

The waiting was the worst. The trillions of men and women who called Cryptus home would be waiting on their home worlds, each having to shoulder weapons to defend their way of life. Ranks of Astra Militarum would bolster their lines, serving as the core of the defence. They faced untold trillions of tyranid organisms, each designed for death and consumption.

His teeth gritted with duty. Perdita offered no sustenance to the xenos and was likely to be overlooked. Frustration thundered through Jatiel’s veins. But he had his orders, so the Golden Promise continued to orbit Perdita. Swarms of the xenos passed the world, streaming towards the heavily populated core worlds.

Frustration and fear drifted through the bridge. The Golden Promise’s shipmaster, a rad-scarred, formidable Baalite woman by the name of Dabria Korbel, flinched at each flash of light, as each ship died. She stood before Jatiel, clad in the red, black and gold uniform of a Chapter-serf.

‘The swarms are too close for my liking, my lord,’ she spat.

They were not close enough for Jatiel, but he nodded. ‘There’s nothing we can do about it.’

Emudor said, ‘We can move to the other side of the planet.’

‘With respect, lord,’ Korbel said, ‘we can’t. They’ll see our engine flare. And to make matters worse, auspex shows them just as thick coming around the other side.’

‘We hold to Lord Dante’s plan,’ said Jatiel. ‘We wait in orbit and…’

Well, he wasn’t sure of the ‘and’. The Chapter Master had merely said to hold Perdita. Quite how Jatiel was supposed to do that, he wasn’t aware.

Asaliah heard the hesitation. ‘We hold the world or we die in glory.’

‘Simple,’ said Ventara.

‘But it will not come to that,’ predicted Emudor. ‘We present no real threat to the tyranids and Perdita holds nothing of interest to them. Until our brothers arrive, we will remain in orbit around the dead world.’

A uniformed serf approached Shipmaster Korbel with a data-slate. The movement attracted Jatiel’s eyes, but the sergeant ignored the pair. It was a scene that repeated often on the Golden Promise.

The humans conferred for two minutes before the serf rushed back to his station. Korbel approached Jatiel’s throne. Her eyes were wide, eyebrows arched. Wrinkles stood out on her forehead, pushing up at the black and grey hair. Concern was writ large on her face.

She gave the data-slate to the sergeant, retreated five paces and crossed her arms. Her booted foot tapped at the deck-mesh.

‘What is this?’ he asked, glancing at the data scrolling across the slate. He knew the answer, but he wanted to hear the shipmaster’s appraisal.

‘Inbound ship signatures, my lord.’

One of his eyebrows arched. ‘Xenos?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Size and signature point to human origins.’

‘And they’re on an approach vector to Perdita?’

‘Their current speed and direction indicates so, my lord.’

The other members of the squad clustered around the shipmaster. The buzz of active power armour filled the bridge.

‘Any indication of who they are, sergeant?’ Ventara asked.

The sergeant looked to the shipmaster. ‘Nothing yet, my lords,’ she said. ‘We have attempted to hail the ships. No response.’

‘But why head to us? Who even knew we were here?’ asked Ventara.

Jatiel ignored the speculation that ensued. He preferred to deal with facts. ‘How long until they intercept us?’

‘Twenty-four hours, my lord.’

This was a complication that their mission did not need. The ships, whatever their motive, could draw the tyranids to their position, instigating xenos interest in the dead world.

An idea flashed. ‘Have the approaching vessels made any significant course corrections since their launch?’

Korbel stared at the data-slate, brow furrowed and lips pursed. ‘Three registered, my lord.’

She pointed out the times.

‘And competency of those manoeuvres?’

‘The first indicates standard Imperial Navy competency, perhaps a touch out of place. Their route also indicates that they were bound for one of the front-line planets.’

She frowned. ‘The second reeks of desperation and attention seeking. Engine output also flares and then drops at this point. Something went wrong aboard those vessels.’

Since first registering the course corrections, the data had almost become lost beneath a screed of other orders, information and concerns. Jatiel had not forgotten, but Shipmaster Korbel had been forced to. A frigate did not cease functioning while it tried to evade detection.

While they remained a single ship hidden against the backdrop of a massive world that stealth was made moderately easier. Korbel kept the ship’s systems running at the bare minimum. The engine was cool and the ship’s machine-spirit drugged into a haze by the lack of power.

Frost crept across the doors leading away from the bridge, a testament to the low priority currently granted to life-support systems. Chapter-serfs were confined to quarters and only essential personnel were left to man their stations.

Only the bridge retained a modicum of full function. Stale air and stale breath drifted through the room, masked only slightly by the mingled scents of body odour and incense. Air scrubbers wheezed from behind hidden panels, barely coping with the stagnant atmosphere.

A communications officer began yelling, drawing attention to his station. They all believed the moment had arrived that they both dreaded and half hoped for, that the tyranids had caught notice of their ship, drawn against the backdrop of dead Perdita.

The communications officer’s words, seconds later, dispelled concern. Jatiel could hear over a dozen serfs letting slip a sigh of relief.

‘One of the ships has opened a channel. They’re attempting to hail us.’

Korbel looked to Jatiel. The sergeant nodded.

‘Put it through,’ the shipmaster ordered.

Static assaulted their ears, suddenly loud with the background noise of the universe’s birth pangs. Then a voice, hunched and whispered, filled with unremitting fear.

‘Please,’ it whispered. ‘Please.’ Sobbing filled the bridge. ‘Please help. They’ve taken the ship. The convicts…’ Jatiel heard laughter, a deep burbling sound hissed through consumptive teeth. ‘Throne of Terra!’ The feed washed back into static.

A new voice came on, the source of the laughter. ‘Please.’ A man’s voice. He sounded pleading, as desperate as the previous person had been, but Jatiel caught the ripe undercurrent of fear driving through the word. ‘Let us go. We’re leaving this system. We ain’t done nothin’.’

A servitor began to mumble, spouting binaric cant.

Korbel cocked her head to the side, deciphering the lingua-technis, an augmetic ear translating the language of the Adeptus Mechanicus into Gothic.

The colour drained from her face. ‘My lord,’ she began. ‘Multiple targets inbound.’

The convict’s voice and the approaching Imperial vessels were forgotten. A pregnant silence descended on the bridge. Mortals held their breath. An acrid, metallic taste suddenly danced on Jatiel’s tongue. He knew his pupils were dilating, knew it as the lights stabbed into his suddenly hypersensitive vision. Breath heaved in and out from his chest. Adrenaline pounded through his veins. Chemical signifier scents wafted from the Blood Angels. Manic light gleamed in all their eyes.

Cassuen and Emudor both bared their teeth in feral smiles of anticipation. The sergeant could feel his own fangs piercing through his gums, suddenly painful and uncomfortable.

Blood, sacred blood, shared with the primarch Sanguinius, pounded in his ears. His armour’s machine-spirit sensed the rising kill-lust in the sergeant, dampening some less desirable aspects and bringing clarity and thirst to the fore.

His mouth and throat felt dry.

‘Helmets,’ the sergeant growled. It would bring no balm to the mortal serfs to see the thirst painted across their masters’ faces now. The squad complied, shutting the bridge away behind red masks.

The presumed convict’s voice washed away. All vid-screens became occupied by a singular view. The vid-feeds switched to display near space. The feed was no longer on a scale of millions of kilometres, now it was simply thousands. Point blank in void-war terms.

Fleet markers were tagged, although they showed no friendly notifiers. There was just the Golden Promise, held in close orbit to Perdita. The Blood Angels vessel, marked in the red and gold of the Chapter, tried to lose itself against the colossal bulk of the dead world. It should have registered as no more than a mere speck against the drifting snow and ash of Perdita’s landscape.

But with the other human ships drawing closer, somehow having found the Blood Angels vessel, the cluster of life, the heat wash from burning engines, drew the attention of whatever malevolence served the tyranid breed as intelligence. A choice target, canisters of meat and biomatter to fuel the swarm.

Simulated by a marked river against the black of the void, screen overlays brought meaning to the situation. Jatiel ignored the overlays, stepping beyond them, moving to one of the many observation windows that studded the bridge. At first, all he saw were stars against the field of utmost black. But now, just becoming visible at the extremes of his genhanced vision, were pinpricks of light.

They looked to be stars. They were not. The tyranids were now aware of the Golden Promise. And they were coming.

The anxiety aboard the bridge deepened, rancid fear-stink filling the room. Jatiel could not fault them. Despite being serfs in service to one of the most glorious Chapters of the Emperor’s own warriors, they were mortal, after all.

‘With your permission, sergeant?’ Korbel asked.

‘Granted.’

A klaxon broke out wailing.

‘All hands to battle stations,’ Korbel commanded into the ship’s internal communication networks. Jatiel knew that serfs and Chapter slaves were being roused from their bunks, life-support systems increasing by the barest of notches. What had been running on almost uninhabitable was now bolstered to the merely uncomfortable.

Gun batteries opened along the Golden Promise’s flanks. Torpedo tubes in the ship’s armoured prow yawned. Crew began shouting firing solutions, plotting out projected movement patterns and void shield capacities.

‘Fire,’ Korbel whispered. The ship shuddered and torpedoes, loaded as the ship achieved a stable orbit around Perdita, raced forward. Forged on Halfus, half a segmentum away, the torpedoes acted like frag grenades.

Halfus-pattern torpedoes were notoriously effective against tyranid swarms, originally seeing use on Deathwatch vessels. Since that world’s fall to the Tau Empire, the torpedoes were rare and precious things. The Golden Promise only carried four.

All were launched within twenty minutes of detecting the approaching tyranids.

There was no visible change as the torpedoes left visual range. Tags on the overlay watched their course while Adeptus Mechanicus adepts blessed their passage in lingua-technis.

Lance strikes speared out moments later as those weapon systems kicked in. Then the torpedoes detonated, massive bursts of razor-sharp metal that stretched over kilometres of space.

A ragged cheer moved like wildfire through the bridge as the Master of Sensors detected several vessel kills. A drop in the ocean, even against this merest splinter of the hive fleet assailing Cryptus.

More lance strikes stretched into the void, eating millions of kilometres in the blink of an eye.

The winking stars came closer and increased in multitude, Cryptus’s sun shining off the iridescent chitin of the tyranid bio-ships.

‘The other vessels are attempting to hail us again,’ a comms officer said.

‘Deny them,’ Shipmaster Korbel ordered.

Jatiel watched as the convict vessels continued to make for the desperate protection of the Golden Promise.

‘What are they doing?’

Korbel ignored the sergeant, concentrating on the encroaching xenos.

Jatiel could almost see them now. They manifested as a cloud of bright colour against the depthless black of the void.

Mortals kept glancing up from their consoles at the vid-screens. Sweat broke out against pale skin. Fear, nervousness and anxiety once more created a heady stench in the bridge. The carved and gilded cherubs continued to stare down impassively. They had gazed on countless such scenes in countless wars. That they still had a bridge to guard was evidence of the Golden Promise’s resilience.

Void shields shimmered as probing tyranid weapons fire impacted. The Golden Promise shuddered under the kinetic blowback. Point defence cannons streamed their fire into the void as tyranid fighter-analogue organisms, having slipped past the ship’s auspex, ducked through the void shields and attempted strafing runs on the Blood Angels vessel. Jatiel could feel miniscule vibrations through the arms of his throne as the ship shuddered beneath the tyranid onslaught.

‘Shipmaster, my lord,’ a robed serf announced from the sensorium. ‘Sensors detect energy build-up from the xenos structures.’

Jatiel’s mind was awash with tactical inlays. A reprieve or a new threat?

Asaliah gripped his own chair with manic concentration, gauntlets eating grooves into the smooth Baalite marble. He loomed forward, leaning over the table.

‘Brother?’ Jatiel asked.

Asaliah opened and closed a vox-link multiple times. ‘I cannot speak,’ he finally growled. ‘The oath.’

‘It matters little now. We may have to face whatever threat emerges from here in the next few moments. Oath or no, the Inquisition no longer has claim over you, brother. We must seize whatever advantage we can.’

‘Necrons,’ Asaliah spat eventually. ‘It could be the necrons.’

‘What can we expect?’ asked Cassuen.

‘Nothing good,’ came Asaliah’s grim reply.

‘But they allied with us once,’ said Jatiel.

‘Because it suited them,’ Emudor replied. ‘I was there on Gehenna. I fought alongside the xenos, but they did not ally with us out of kindness.’

‘Is there anything to suggest they would do the same here?’ Korbel hissed.

Asaliah shook his head. ‘Not that I can see. These aliens are not like the eldar. We have nothing in common with them.’

‘Then we will prepare for war with them as well,’ Jatiel said. ‘Asaliah, you will advise Shipmaster Korbel of any noteworthy weaknesses and tactics the xenos may try.’

Asaliah laughed. ‘There are few enough of those, but I will do what I can. The aliens are masters of the void. On the ground, they can be countered, but they owned the stars once, if what the Inquisition says is true. They will hammer us with weaponry not fired since before life began on Ancient Terra. Or they will ignore us. But my knowledge is at your disposal, shipmaster.’

‘Why would they come here?’ Korbel asked.

Asaliah shrugged.

‘Watch the structures,’ Jatiel ordered the sensorium officer, his words dripping with finality. ‘But we must focus our efforts on the tyranids. Deal with the immediate threat now. We will face the necrons when, and if, they arrive.’

Chapter Four

Valnyr and her lychguard moved with purpose through the darkness of the awakening tomb world. Canoptek constructs watched from shadowed alleys, letting them pass. Scrabbling sounded from the cracks in the obsidian walkways. Stalactites loomed from the darkness, the result of countless cycles of dripping fluid trickling from the planet’s surface.

They made their way down a memorial processional, an arterial that ran through the entirety of Kehlrantyr’s interior. The ceremonial route of kings and phaerons, it would once have been lined by the living. Now it was a thing of empty shadows and forgotten grandeur. Scarabs scuttled down the walls, attempting to repair yawning fissures through the carvings. All around them towered immense friezes depicting the necrons of Kehlrantyr at their height of glory, figures from countless tomb worlds bowing before the might of Kehlrantyr’s Dynasts.

Silence, broken only by the clack of their footsteps, surrounded the necrons. A dull green glow emanated from scuttling scarab lenses. Valnyr took heart at the silence. Silence meant order. Silence meant assurance.

At times the road became a statue-lined bridge. Below, in rank upon silent rank, Valnyr could see the legions of Kehlrantyr. The bulk of the planet’s population, personalities and identities removed, waited in the darkness. Once, these had been the ordinary citizens of the Necron Empire. Once they had been artisans, children, mothers, fathers, farmers, writers, artists and merchants. The nonessential. Mephet’ran’s deception saw them converted into mindless creatures, their entire existence erased and burned away.

Valnyr almost felt sorry for them, almost felt remorse at what became of the vast populations of the empire. But better that they lose their identity than her. She shuddered at such a fate, could barely understand an eternity of unwitting and unwilling servitude. They were abhorrent things, a reminder of her race’s glory and its decline. They represented her deepest fears, the violation of all that she was, the erasure of everything that made her an individual, deleted in order to create an unthinking, unreasoning construct no better than the scarabs that serviced the tomb worlds.

Metal rasped along stone. The flickering sparks of talons screeching through the obsidian echoed down a side route, followed by running footsteps. The lychguard readied their weapons.

A group of warriors emerged, eyes shining in the darkness. They were altered, gripped by the same changes that had afflicted Poblaaur. Red lights played along their bodies, while their hands stretched into talons. Bent double by unnatural, insatiable hunger, they stalked forward, muttering and screeching at random. Valnyr could hear buzzing, low and subsonic.

‘Flayed ones,’ said Shaudukar.

The lychguard formed a shield wall, once more placing themselves between the corrupt and their cryptek. Dispersion fields activated on their shields, repelling the shambling flayers into the obsidian walls. Three lychguard held the broken necrons in place, while the others approached.

Their warscythes flashed down, crunching into the corrupted warriors’ skulls. The light in their eyes immediately died, while the bodies collapsed to the floor. The warscythes struck once again, severing the flayed ones’ torsos from their legs along the vulnerable spine section.

The lychguard pulled back in lockstep, resuming their guardian position around the cryptek. More hissing came from the shadows. More red lights blinked as corrupted warriors shambled forward, mouthparts clicking open and closed. Their chassis were tarnished by ages uncounted. They spat static at the party of sane necrons.

‘Mistress?’ Shaudukar asked over her shoulder.

‘Through them.’

The lychguard leaned behind their shields and advanced. The flayer-touched flew backwards, propelled by the dispersion shields.

Valnyr and her lychguard rushed through the depths, passing through the decrepit majesty of Kehlrantyr, leaving the flayer packs behind. Kilometres separated them from their goal, the sleeping chambers of the ruling dynasty. Kilometres filled with slumbering warriors and ages-old chambers.

Ruin crept in the closer they came to the crypts of the Dynasts. Fissures lanced from the ceiling, cracking deep through carved walls. There was greater activity in this place, scarabs swarming in the darkness. Canoptek wraiths and other constructs flittered about, attending to pre-programmed tasks, running the same routines for presumably millions of years, guarding for intruders that would never come and enacting repair protocols on damaged regions that could never be fixed.

‘How much have we lost while we slept? How far has our glory fallen?’

‘Mistress? I do not remember.’

Valnyr was shocked to find herself saying, ‘I do not either.’

Some of her memories were gone. She could feel the gaps, the aching wounds in her psyche that were filled with some malignant emotion that recoiled at her scrutiny.

Weak sunlight drifted from fissures, descending from miles above. They walked between the beams and Valnyr felt a moment’s flush of pleasure at the sight.

Something shrieked, something that sounded horribly organic. The screams approached, moving with fierce rapidity. A creature landed in front of them, black eyes staring with malign intelligence. It was bone-white and red. Tendrils stretched from its head, waving like worms or snakes. Great spiked limbs descended from its shoulders, arching over. A tail whipped through the air behind it. The tentacles around its mouth reached out and vile ooze dripped from its pores.

The necrons froze. Green light played out from their eyes, scanning and analysing.

The creature fixed its gaze on them. It sucked in great breaths, betraying its disgusting organic origin. It shuffled forward, moving in quick hops. Bioluminescence rippled along its fleshy skin, tracing out complex patterns. Parts of the creature’s body blended in with the stone surrounding it.

As it drew near to the lychguard, the beast turned its head from side to side. Its tendrils reached outwards. Then it screamed. Hooks shot out from its chest, clattering off the lychguards’ shields.

‘What foulness is this?’ someone asked.

More screeches sounded from far above as the lychguard bulled forward. The creature leapt over the necrons’ heads, twisting in midair. Spiked appendages slammed into one of Valnyr’s guardians and wrenched him apart. He continued to attack, even as he was torn in half. The fallen lychguard used his warscythe and shield to crawl forward, still moving stubbornly towards the source of the attack.

But the creature was already moving out of the way, darting towards Valnyr. The cryptek held her staff out, beginning to summon the energy to freeze the animal in time, to halt it in its tracks. She knew, even as she did so, that it was too fast.

‘No!’ she yelled. ‘I will not die here!’ Panic flew through her. Buzzing overwhelmed her senses.

Shaudukar grasped the creature by the spine. It stalled and mewled in pain, still reaching for the cryptek. The tendrils around its head fluttered as it breathed out. Shaudukar ripped out the beast’s spine with a wet meat thunk. The creature collapsed and flopped against the floor, obscene, pallid flesh glistening against the obsidian.

Blood spilled out in a pool. The necrons gathered around it, curious. It was the first glimpse of organic life they had seen since beginning the Great Sleep. It screamed as it died, still writhing.

More screams answered. Creatures swarmed down the fissures. Buzzing clouds of scarabs met them. Arcs of green lightning stabbed from tiny jaw-gripped weapons. Greater canoptek creatures fired whining streams of energy. Gouts of alien flesh rained down on Valnyr’s head, but the tide was too strong.

There were four-armed beasts, gaping maws filled with sharp teeth. More of the larger beasts with the tentacled faces followed. All moved quickly, scuttling with disgusting living motion, blue and red and purple, flying through the gloom in blurs faster than Valnyr could track. Whirring winged organisms engaged the scarabs in miniature dogfights.

Valnyr could only stare, overwhelmed by the revulsion that swept through her. She suddenly felt hungry, a half-remembered sensation that ghosted through her. The lychguard were frozen, gazing up at the descending animals.

Valnyr knew they were considering, adapting, planning an assessment of the encroaching aliens. But there were too many and they were too slow. They would be overwhelmed.

More canoptek constructs were advancing down the processional. For a moment, Valnyr was distracted, seeing the advancing tide of burnished metal as a mark of the lost glories of her people, the processional reasserting its previous function this one last time.

Flayer-cursed appeared, clambering down walls from hidden crevices, climbing up the bridge with talons spearing into the cracks of the stone.

‘Move,’ she commanded. ‘We must find a way to neutralise these threats.’

Her words echoed, slicing through the static-screams of the flayer-cursed and the organic sounds of the alien organisms. Beneath it all, she could hear the laughter of the necrontyr, almost mocking.

An idea came to her. ‘Halt,’ she commanded her lychguard. ‘Listen.’

Aliens sprinted for them. With a grunt of effort, Valnyr froze them in time, pausing the organisms mere metres away.

All around them, quiet and distant, came the noises of a bustling city, the sounds of the long dead and the long forgotten. She could hardly hear them through the ever-present buzzing. She focused, concentrated, and pinpointed the hall the echoes originated from. A new plan began to crystallise. It was desperate, but what other hope did she have?

‘We move down there!’ she yelled.

They fled through empty dwelling places, marked with sigils proclaiming the habitation of early necron scientists. Aliens and flayers poured after them, some drifting into eddies of battle and the shrieks of hunger.

Valnyr knew this district. She had served here in life. Its emptiness disquieted her, but desperation urged her on. Legs that would no longer tire drove her forward, fear adding to her flight. She outpaced her lychguard, the larger necrons fighting a desperate rearguard against the twin threats that pursued them.

Valnyr heard a faint cry and glanced back. She saw one of the lychguard pounced upon by flayers and torn apart beneath a metallic mass of flashing blade limbs.

She turned down a side passageway and her lychguard followed. Dwellings were replaced by defunct laboratories. The sounds, louder now, screamed all around them, keening with horror and loss. They were thick with the noise of some calamitous event. Valnyr ignored them, focusing only on the origin point.

At the end of the passageway, carved into the obsidian darkness, stood an open laboratory. Half-seen shapes moved through the gloom, pale and translucent. Valnyr burst through them, sparing no glance for the time-dilated ghosts of her lost kin. She emerged into a vast chamber and the sounds of a battle waged in the unimaginable depths of the past. Her lychguard stumbled in moments later.

‘Defend the entrance,’ she told Shaudukar. ‘Buy me time.’

The lychguard nodded and took up position. They hefted their shields and prepared to serve their cryptek. Valnyr cast them from her mind and tried to ignore the sounds that surrounded her: the ululating cries of the aliens, the static-laced screams of the flayers and the time-wounded echoes of her lost kin. Panic and fear drove her. Through her mind, in some dark corner of her being, some facet of her demanded in increasingly shrill tones that she survive.

She knew this chamber, knew what it represented. This had been a room where the early chronomancers practised their art. Here they had perfected the sciences that Valnyr used. She knew the theory behind what had been accomplished in such a place.

She began to chant, activating long dormant protocols in the laboratory. Rock rumbled and lights flickered on. Ancient scenes of glory from the history of the necrontyr looked down from the walls, an inspiration to those chronomancers who would have worked within. The panels slid down, exposing blinking sensors and whizzing gears.

Valnyr recited names, placing exception commands on her and her lychguard. There was no time to fine-tune what she attempted.

Echoes rose around her, sounds of battle and loss, mixing with the looping static of the flayers and the keening of the interloping aliens.

‘Let them through!’ she snarled.

The lychguard did not question her words. They tumbled back, some driven to the ground by organisms or flayers.

Valnyr backed up, running towards the wall. A grim carving showed eldar and necrontyr forces fighting one another above her. She stumbled and an alien dived onto her, four bladed and clawed arms stabbing at her chassis. She raised her staff to ward it away.

There was no time to consider the consequences of what she attempted, no time to replicate perfect conditions. She had to act now. Valnyr shouted the activation command.

Light flashed. Sounds stretched. The buzzing grew louder.

Then the light faded and silence engulfed the chamber.

The aliens and the flayers were gone. So were three of her lychguard, although Valnyr found that she could no longer remember their names.

A new panel on the walls caught her attention. Necrontyr forms battled what could only be altered necrons and stylistic representations of the nameless organisms. A new event in the history of Kelrantyr, but one that, now, had always happened. Such was the power of her art.

‘Mistress?’ asked Shaudukar, shaking her from her reverie.

‘We make for the Dynasts, as before.’

Already they could hear the static cries of more flayer packs and the mindless screaming of the organic beasts.

Chapter Five

Anrakyr’s anger rose. His plans were rapidly being thwarted, lost amid the swarming tyranids.

His already depleted army, comprised of necrons from dozens of tomb worlds, faced countless aliens. That the swarm diverted to consume the oozing remains of the humans offered little consolation. Already the warrior-beasts were probing his lines, already they were attacking his necrons. His deathmark spies, kept hidden in their pocket dimensions, reported massive feeder tendrils descending into the oceans. Crypteks said that the planet’s orbit was destabilising as colossal volumes of liquid were funnelled into orbit.

A monolith dived for the ground, coated in flapping, gnawing creatures. Careening into a wall, it carved a swath through battling necron phalanxes of warriors and scuttling, clawed things.

While it allowed his army to face the uncounted numbers of aliens, they were still vulnerable to attack from the sky. Monoliths anchored the line, but they were slowly being overwhelmed.

A gap opened before him. Necrons were flung into the air. Warriors were broken. Destroyers were rent asunder by clawing, shrieking animals. Huge, towering tyranid beasts sprinted towards him and his sentient attendants.

A great creature, towering three times Anrakyr’s height, came rumbling from the swarms of its lesser brethren. Great scythe arms were brandished to the sky, while a brutal call emerged from its mouth. It barrelled towards Anrakyr, mouth gaping open and oozing ichor.

Anrakyr met its charge, driving a wedge of sentient necrons, immortals and the like, into the tyranids. The huge warrior-beast threw itself upon him, trying to crush his skeletal chassis beneath its bulk.

The Traveller fell. He landed awkwardly, spear stuck beneath his bones. The mass of the tyranid creature cracked down, pushing him into the stone. Anrakyr struggled to get his hands beneath him, to gain leverage against the hulking beast. Blood dripped from above, staining his body and eating into the necrodermis. The living metal reacted, repairing the damage as quickly as it was wrought.

He realised the blood’s source: the axehead crest of his Pyrrhian overlordship. He sawed his head back and forth, carving into the blubber and flesh of the creature above. It roared in pain and fury. Anrakyr carved a space for himself, and soon he was able to push himself to his knees and retrieve his spear.

Blood dripped down his body, pitting the pristine metal, and Anrakyr tried to ignore the cloying disgust that threatened to drown him. More space was opened. He could see green lightning flickering and hear the screams of dying tyranids through the quivering flesh of the beast. He swung the spear, hitting something vital, and a great torrent of acid-blood and viscera gouted out from the animal. Its movements slowed and it ceased breathing.

Anrakyr continued to pull himself through, bursting through the skin, bones and chitin of the monster. He clambered up, stood upon the vast bulk of the tyranid beast and surveyed the battle.

Tyranid creatures milled as something like shock passed through the swarm. Warriors and other slow-moving necrons punished the animals, reaping and killing.

He hoisted his spear into the sky, stabbing out towards the occluded disc of Kehlrantyr’s sun. A cheer emerged from those battered sentient necrons that surrounded him.

Behind him, at the far end of the defile, his crypteks, broken warriors and programmed constructs chewed their way into the mountain range. Beneath, behind, below, lurked his entire reason for coming to this planet. The tombs of the Kehlrantyr Dynasts. Legions of warriors. Enough to drown these aliens, and not just these, but the paltry humans that grew like scabs of bacterial life across planets once belonging to the necrons.

But he must wait to secure them. He must survive long enough.

The tyranids threw themselves at his line, unheeding of the casualties they suffered. Necron warriors endured the onslaught. Anrakyr watched as warriors were pulled beneath thrashing tyranids, dragged beneath rending claws that beat futilely at metal forms. They stood, seconds later, shrugging off the beasts with a stubbornness bred out of ignorance.

What went on within the skulls of Anrakyr’s warriors, he could not even begin to guess. Did they still think? Did they know that they fought? In the end, it mattered little to the Traveller.

Anrakyr threw himself into their midst, stood shoulder to shoulder with the barely cognisant, the dull-minded warriors who made up the bulk of his host and his race. Vast jaws gaped towards him, hissing and spitting acid. One scrabbled over a warrior to his fore, spiked limbs flailing. Its jaws crunched into his head. Diamond-hard teeth punched through the metal of his skull. Something akin to pain flashed along artificial synapses. A thick, glistening tongue slapped against his face, trying to find purchase. Bladed limbs scrabbled against his body, getting hooked into the gaps between his ribs. The jaws tightened. Anrakyr grabbed them. He began to pull.

The creature struggled, desperate and panicking. Something tore in the hinges of its jaw and Anrakyr continued to pull. The head came apart, ripped down the centre. Wriggling worms fell from within and more acid-blood sheeted over the overlord. But there was no respite, yet more creatures already careening into the necrons.

More of the scrabbling, blade-armed organisms sprinted forward, jumping at the last second. Anrakyr skewered one of the mewling beasts, sending ichor erupting out of its chitin-armoured back along with his spearhead.

Great creatures, amongst the few tyranids that seemed capable of independent thought and decision making, marshalled their lesser brethren. They stood amidst the swarm, smaller creatures breaking around them like a sea of flesh and bone.

Destroyers targeted these, bracketing the great beasts with concentrated fire, catechisms of hate spewing from their mouth speakers. The nihilistic necrons cast their spite towards the largest synapse monsters. Armenhorlal led the destroyers.

Beetles fired from flowing schools of tyranids bounced off their necrodermis, smacking with chitinous crunches from the metal. One of the beetles hit something vital in a destroyer, chewing through the necron’s spine. Critical explosive failure followed as the drive skimmer core separated from the commanding section. Shards of metal studded out, thudding into the other destroyers floating around it. Incapable of experiencing pain, none of them even noticed, continuing to fire into the advancing swarms.

A monolith exploded in the sky. Green lightning expanded in a ball, eliminating the flapping tyranids that had proven the construct’s doom. Anrakyr watched it all, noting everything, watching the ebb and flow of the battlefield. His warriors were holding, but barely. While their metal bodies and tireless forms were proof against much of the tyranids’ wiles, they were outnumbered. With every passing second warriors were being pulled beneath shrieking waves of dead-eyed horrors.

Warriors to either side of Anrakyr were torn down by claws and, in horrific squeals of stressed metal, rent asunder. Some stood seconds later, green lightning playing about their joints as the metal that formed their bodies repaired itself. But most never stood back up, buried under a wave of flesh, reanimation protocols unable to activate.

The tide of tyranids receded. Blasted creatures that towered over their lesser kin locked eyes with Anrakyr, and then scuttled back into their ranks. The eyes were appraising, considering. Anrakyr met them.

Marks of green light flickered over the larger creatures’ heads as deathmarks stained their targets.

A new sound arose alongside the shrieking and baying of the tyranids, a deep whuffling noise, followed by rhythmic shudders of earth and stone. Rock cascaded down from the sides of the defile, crunching into unwitting necron warriors. Dust rose and pebbles bounced and danced beneath Anrakyr’s feet.

A number of hulking tyranids came screaming down the defile. Their throats were massive sacs of swinging flesh. The creatures stood nearly as tall as the ravine itself. Anrakyr struggled to divine their purpose, what the tyranids meant to accomplish. He understood, seconds before it was too late.

‘Block the mouth! Kill the creatures!’ he screamed.

The remaining three monoliths arced down, anti-gravitic fields straining as they crashed into the ground, blocking the monstrous beasts from Anrakyr’s view.

A great retching sound filtered through to the necrons, then a steaming hiss as viscous liquid spilled forth. Smoke began to rise from the monoliths almost immediately. A tide of bio-acid spilled around the flanks of the slab-sided constructs, filling the defile in a great, hissing flood. Entire phalanxes of warriors dissolved beneath the slurry, denuded down to nothing.

Displacement field shielding erupted belatedly as crypteks stepped into the air and added the weight of their science to the conflict. More and more were streaming away from the digging project to reinforce Anrakyr’s failing line.

With the monoliths down, the skies were left unprotected. Spores fell from overhead bio-ships, landing behind the necron line. They erupted with a sickening vent of gases and the reek of scorched flesh. Tyranid warrior forms made straight for the necron line.

‘Retreat!’ Anrakyr rumbled. Synaptic relay processes enacted in the dull minds of the embattled warriors. More autonomous constructs, necrons that had survived biotransference with a degree of sense and sanity intact, began to stream back.

The mindless warriors retreated in slow lockstep. Many were lost beneath the slavering claws of the tyranids, pulled down and gnawed upon by mindless beasts that were yet to realise there was no bio-matter to be had from them. The ripped-fabric sound of gauss weaponry grew ragged and inconstant.

A necron retreat was a measured thing, devoid of panic and mindless fear. While Anrakyr’s higher processes may have been capable of approximating such biological responses, he had long since disabled any debilitating emotions.

Instead, the Pyrrhian overlord was filled with rage. His eyes flared while the axe blades on his head quivered with subtle vibration. Lights pulsed all up and down his chassis. Anrakyr raised his left hand, fingers outstretched into the gesture of hesitant decision and anticipation. His body deactivated as power was siphoned to a small weapon embedded in his wrist.

Sentient necrons wailed in sudden terror of what was to come, while the triarch praetorians stationed themselves before the Traveller. Green lightning played about his gauntlet. Then a tiny object, a sliver of Anrakyr’s own necrodermis, launched from his wrist. Part of Anrakyr, a tiny fragment of all that he was, flew with it, leaving a curious buzzing sound in its wake.

Reality itself shrieked as it was violated. But this was no phenomenon born of the warp, like the unearthly powers of the eldar or a crude human starship travelling beyond celestial bodies. This was necron science at its finest, the laws of physics and the material universe exploited to their utmost.

The tachyon arrow gathered mass to it like a thunderclap, manufacturing matter from the air in an alchemical transmutation. It hit the tyranid front, slicing through several of the larger creatures before impacting with the ground. The world broke. Rocks fell. Tyranids died in their hundreds. His own warriors were ripped to pieces or buried beneath tonnes of rock.

Anrakyr saw none of it. His systems were momentarily offline, drained of all power by the needs of the tachyon arrow. They rebooted as he was being thrown back by the blast.

Something felt wrong. Something always felt wrong after the tachyon arrow’s deployment. It was a last resort weapon, a choice only made in the direst of circumstances.

A fraction of him was missing, nearly as intangible as the sliver of his necrodermis used to form the tachyon arrow. A fraction of what made Anrakyr the Traveller, of what drove the great necron overlord, had been denuded away and lost to oblivion. It ached, the void, but he could not identify what was gone.

The prospect of losing himself terrified Anrakyr, the idea that he might lose his personality, become as blunt and worthless as Armenhorlal, or, horror of horrors, a lobotomised drone like one of the warriors that marched in his legions.

Dust drifted, while tyranids hesitantly crawled over the gently glowing fused-glass wreckage of the tachyon arrow impact. They sickened rapidly, broken by the unnatural radiation leaking from the site.

But more were pouring across, hesitant and confused. The tyranids seemed aimless, as if the guiding intelligence that governed them had been weakened. It was a start.

Chapter Six

Alien organisms whirled and left Valnyr’s fleeing party alone, focusing on the larger threat of the flayer-touched. Whatever intelligence motivated them, whatever shreds of cunning and cleverness worked away behind their dead-black eyes, knew enough to recognise a greater menace. The creatures shrieked as one and moved forward, as eerily coordinated as the marching necrons.

Flesh hit metal as the party left the tide behind them. More alien creatures were shrieking their way into the fray, some fanning out to infiltrate deeper into the tomb world.

A scattered few of the beasts followed, hissing and drooling. Light stabbed from Valnyr’s staff, obliterating the aliens. Her vision dimmed as her internal power source was temporarily drained.

Then they were moving again. Two of her lychguard peeled off at a narrowing in the processional. Her last sight of them, peering over her shoulder, was of the two hunched necrons crouched with shields and warscythes ready.

The surroundings gradually grew more ornate the deeper into the tomb world they fled. The walls were no longer cut obsidian, but burnished metal as well. The carvings moved with clockwork precision, telling of the glories of the Kehlrantyr Dynasts.

One room displayed a colossal hologrammatic galactic map. Every tomb world was marked and spun about in its orbit. Through some lost science, the map updated in reaction to events out in the universe. Valnyr saw how far things had come in sixty million cycles, how many tomb worlds had been lost, how decrepit the once great empire looked.

Massive gates of metal barred their way, inscribed with gently glowing runes describing the names and deeds of all of Kehlrantyr’s Dynasts stretching back to the Time of Flesh and the emergence of the necrontyr. The gates loomed large, towering into the darkness. Time-etched facial features showed how the Dynasts had once looked.

Green light flashed from the open mouth of the founding Dynast, scanning them from feet to head. Grinding noises sounded from deep within, followed by a rhythmic clunking. The scarabs ceased their scuttling and flowed into the gate’s joints as it rumbled open, splitting down the middle of the largest carved face. Light shone from the revealed chamber, the largest they had yet seen.

Valnyr was assailed by memories of the time she had spent sealed away in the ancient city-within-a-city. Forbidden to the masses of necrontyr – and later necrons – only the favoured of the Dynasts were allowed to walk its depths.

She had once conducted experiments within. Yet while her status within the hierarchy of the tomb world had been high, it had not been enough to warrant her entombment within the rarefied depths of the dynastic palace chambers. Even despite her mandate to awaken the Dynasts, she was forced to suffer the processional as a symbolic reminder that she lacked the former genetic grandeur and the splendour of a dynastic name.

The group entered through the yawning portal. It slowly slammed shut behind them, cutting off the shrieking xenos and the awakening tomb world.

The necron warrior phalanxes continued marching backwards in lockstep. The defile narrowed as they retreated from the tyranids. Rock walls crowded in, dun-coloured and stratified, testament to the ages that had passed while the Kehlrantyri slept. Soon their backs were to a rock wall, cut and carved by working necrons and their constructs. Already Anrakyr could see threads of obsidian lacing through the stone of Kehlrantyr’s crust.

Anrakyr left the battlefield front behind, sweeping towards the furiously working crypteks. ‘Where are my legions?’ he demanded.

‘We are still digging, my lord,’ the lead cryptek answered.

‘The tyranids come on my heels. They will be running over us soon. “Still digging” is not an acceptable answer.’

The lead cryptek bowed, knowing better than to respond further, too wise to offer excuses to Anrakyr the Traveller.

A green flash split the sky and an immense noise rumbled through the cloud layers. Tyranid vessels, sickening blends of meat with mechanical purpose, erupted into expanding clouds of flame. Internal combustion gases must have been touched off. The green flash signified something deeper to Anrakyr. His ship, his fleet, dying in the void, destroyed by the tyranids. A setback such as he had never before faced. How many resources had he just lost? How far had this set back his dreams of a reunified Necron Empire?

His ships, his legacy, destroyed. He swayed on his feet, internal processes struggling to compensate for the sudden surge of negative emotion. Dampeners kicked in, settling his psyche. They were burst nanoseconds later, drowned beneath an ocean of spiralling darkness. Desperation spooled in Anrakyr’s central processes. It gnawed at him, ticking away at his thoughts. A screaming whine built in his vocalisers, a petulant hiss of escaping sound vibrations. Anger and rage joined the sound. Behind it lurked the certainty that some core aspect of himself was missing, shed along with the tachyon arrow.

Personality, memory, the knowledge that some indefinable portion of himself was gone, shivered at his centre. This was the true reason why he rarely fired that weapon, though its efficacy was undeniable. Anrakyr had contemplated mounting it on one of his subordinates in the past, but could not bring himself to place such a massive level of trust in another being.

Intelligent necrons were sent scrambling, redoubling their efforts at an unspoken command. None wished to stand before the Traveller now. None wished to become the object of his wrath. They would rather face the tyranids.

Chapter Seven

A calm machine voice broadcast across the Golden Promise as violent tremors afflicted the venerable frigate. ‘Stand by to repel boarders,’ it stated, repeating every thirty seconds.

Red lights and alarm klaxons flashed across the bridge. Servitors mumbled damage reports and sparks showered from blown-out consoles, broken by feedback and sympathetic damage.

Jatiel’s warriors stood with weapons ready and girded their souls for imminent conflict.

The walls of the spaceship, hidden by paintings of grand Naval warfare, popped open on steam-driven hinges. Shotguns and low-beam lasweapons waited, shiny and wrapped in plastek. They had never been called upon before, still sitting pristine in their original packaging.

Non-essential crew were gearing up, grabbing reinforced armour and assorted weaponry. Ratings brought rifles to enthroned officers, who were engrossed in the battle that they still fought, in order to destroy as many of the tyranid boarding pods as they could before they could breach the Golden Promise’s hull.

‘Your gunnery crews have reaped a fearsome toll on the aliens,’ said Jatiel. ‘That is a worthy achievement. You have my compliments, shipmaster. We could not have asked for more.’

Korbel accepted the praise stoically. Her face was pale and etched with stress. ‘It has been an honour, sergeant,’ she said. Finality undercut every word.

Jatiel knew that the situation was dire. He could see it on every one of the screens within the bridge. The Golden Promise’s primary batteries were still culling the tyranids that reached for them, but the swarm was everywhere. Point defence guns, smaller turrets mounted on the hull, spat at approaching tyranid organisms.

His hearts pounded, pulse beating behind his eyes. It formed almost a migraine, a painful pressure that mounted and mounted. Four drums thrummed in time with the beats of his hearts. His mouth was dry and yet thick with acidic drool, the prospect of battle bringing the Red Thirst to the fore.

His warriors, all four, watched the oculus screens. Emudor spotted it first. ‘They will break through amidships,’ the Space Marine calmly announced over the inter-squad link.

The ship endured a manic bout of shaking. Gravity generators failed and the mortal crew locked themselves into their seats. Jatiel watched them shoot nervous glances towards the massive adamantine doors that guarded the bridge.

‘Shipmaster,’ Jatiel said. He cocked his bolter. ‘We will repel the xenos from this vessel.’ His words were not impassioned. They were delivered with a resigned tone. ‘Cassuen, you will guard the bridge.’

The young Blood Angel nodded his assent, the gesture nearly imperceptible.

‘Shipmaster Korbel, die well,’ Jatiel said.

The high tombs of Kehlrantyr’s ruling Dynasts displayed the forgotten glory of necron civilisation. The decay so evident throughout the rest of the tomb world was nowhere to be found here. It was pristine. Perfect.

Gold warred with obsidian and other precious substances. Rippling curtains of chained metal partitioned the great chambers, forming complex runes announcing the majesty of the sleeping occupants. Glorious sights, beautiful reminders of the technology and mastery her race possessed, but rendered mundane by their familiarity.

Necron constructs swarmed everywhere, filling the tomb in massive numbers. Scuttling motion broke the great silence as the mechanical creatures conducted their tasks with mindless diligence. Gravitic pulses removed accumulated dust while swooping scarabs snatched the offending particles from the air.

The chamber itself was long, shaped like the runic symbol for Kehlrantyr, an announcement of mastery that was not lost on Valnyr. Complex and perfect, the same symbol adorned her chassis and those of her lychguard, making the same declaration of ownership that this chamber did. The message was clear: they belonged to Kehlrantyr, which, in turn, served at the pleasure of the ruling Dynasts.

One long corridor with many branches swooped out to either side. Each led to the resting niche of the ruling family. Subtle green lights ran through the walls, flashing in arrangements of runes that spelled the planet’s history. Gaps showed where devotionary words had once spoken the praises of the c’tan. They had been excised, but not neatly.

The lesser chambers crowded towards the gate, the most easily accessed. Carved first, when the tomb world had still served as a necropolis to house the truly dead, these chambers lacked the impossible artistry of the others. They betrayed an earlier, cruder age. These were the tombs of the false necrons, the beings whose personalities had only been approximated with artificial intelligences, rather than converted. Advanced programs mimicked them as they were said to have been. Bodies had been constructed, made of the same living metal that Valnyr and the true necrons used for motive functions. But no real intelligence motivated them. Only artificiality acted behind the eyes.

They were the ones who had died during the Time of Flesh, whose mortality had prevented them from seeing the true glory of the necrons. These were the fallen leaders of necron society, those who gasped out their last as cancers destroyed their bodies, politicians assassinated in their prime and generals culled in the ages-long wars against the Old Ones and their servants. They were the ones deemed worthy of remembrance and reconstitution.

Nuensis, who had led the necrontyr in battle. Gevegrar, inventor of great and terrible technological marvels. Maantril, one of those who had opened negotiations with the c’tan. Names and beings she had heard stories of when she herself had walked Kehlrantyr in the flesh. Heroes. Luminaries. Now their simulacra would be awoken to advise the Dynasts.

But they were just complex machines, no better nor worse than the tomb constructs that the necrons created to serve their purposes. In such ways was the wisdom of ages preserved and brought to immortality. Valnyr could hear them already stirring, restless in their tombs, locked away behind curtains of rippling scarabs.

‘We will awaken them soon,’ Valnyr said. ‘Our focus must be the ruling Dynasts. They will lead us through this crisis.’

They moved through the Dynasts’ necropolis, hissed at by tomb constructs curious about these interlopers but which withdrew after recognising their authority and legitimacy. A cloud of flowing scarabs buzzed before them, tiny jewelled wings and humming ripples of anti-gravitic fields fluttering in the gloom.

The corridor, wide with marching symbols and friezes, ended in one large looping circle. At the centre of the ring, rising in a stepped ziggurat, was the tomb of the ruling Dynast, Phaerakh Nazkehl.

A statue of the formidable phaerakh stood guard over her tomb, hanging from the ceiling with one hand clutching an ornate weapon and the other cradling a map of the galaxy. Its eyes were dead, black pools, while its skeleton bore the telltale signs of circuitry. Valnyr’s escort took station around the chamber, each standing equidistant from the others.

Recessed niches in the wall hinted at Nazkehl’s own lychguard, where they slumbered away the eons. Valnyr paid them no attention. They would be the last to be awoken. Their services were not required yet.

The cryptek stepped forward onto the dais. Colours inverted as ancient programs scanned everyone in the room, searching for interlopers and tomb robbers. Horns blared. She began to recite the ritual of High Awakening, the words flowing in time to the instruments. Every step she took was marked by green lights in the glassine obsidian.

A sarcophagus rose from the highest tier, pitched vertically. The front was transparent, revealing the ornate chassis of Nazkehl. She was still clad in ancient wisps of frayed fabric. One hand clutched the sceptre of her authority while the other crossed over to hold a recurved sword.

Glass slowly hinged open and lights played along the phaerakh’s chassis. Her mouth yawned open.

She screamed.

Valnyr and her lychguard recoiled back. They knew the sound. They’d heard it before. It was the same static-laced cry of the necrons whose minds were corrupted and controlled by the flayer virus.

‘The phaerakh is cursed,’ cried one of the lychguard.

Nazkehl fell to her knees, cables detaching from her body, hissing and flapping with escaping vapour and energy. Long-fingered hands, tapered with rippling necrodermis talons, clawed at the stone of her ziggurat. The corrupted phaerakh snaked her clawed hand around Valnyr’s shinbones. She looked up, met the cryptek’s horrified gaze. The static-scream echoed from her open maw.

Valnyr panicked, her mind seized by indecision. Loyalty protocols warred with the instinct for self-preservation. Self-preservation won out and Valnyr’s staff slammed down into Nazkehl’s skull, crunching the metal, driving it into the stone with a deep crack. Her vision blurred. Pain danced along her limbs as punishment engrams crackled through her circuits. Hunger blazed through her again, but it was momentary, drowned beneath the agony.

Shaudukar dragged Valnyr away from the spasming phaerakh.

‘Corrupt, my cryptek. We must leave. The tomb world is lost.’

Valnyr heaved, lost in momentary panic as her mind struggled to remember that she no longer lived. ‘How deep does the contagion extend? Some of the Dynasts must surely be pure.’

‘Where will we go?’ one of her lychguard asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Valnyr said. ‘I don’t know.’ Her thoughts fled. No plan of action existed. ‘What contingency could exist for such as this? How could we anticipate and plan against such horror?’

Emptiness filled her, along with a hollow, grief-stricken fear. Emotions burbled that her existence could not countenance or express. What posture could she adopt to say that she had just killed the being she served? What gesture could announce that her people were corrupted, irredeemably so?

‘The gates,’ Valnyr said. ‘We make for the gates. We go to the surface and find…’ What? What would they find outside the tomb? Refuge? Relief?

It did not matter. She needed to move, to escape this horror. Her lychguard waited, patient, loyalty programs ensuring that they would accept her every command. But they offered no opinions or ideas of their own. They stood, silent and still as statues.

She hated them then. She hated the responsibility they gave her, hated the mockery they made of the beings she had known in life. These slaves, these unquestioning constructs, were no better than the false necrons or the ranks of warriors. A reminder, as if she needed any, of the doubts that plagued the cryptek.

More static-laced screams emerged from the darkness, mocking her. Her lychguard readied their shields and hefted their warscythes. They left the phaerakh’s chamber behind.

Automatic processes awakened more of the ruling Dynasts. The static-screams revealed the state of their sanity. Flayer-touched highborn crawled from their tombs, exiting niches in the walls where their metallic chassis had lain for millions of cycles.

Warscythes flashed down and killed the ones who had once ruled over Kehlrantyr, the ones whose minds and bodies had been remade by the vengeance of one of the gods of her people. They died, flailing and broken, destined to be forgotten at the heart of their former glory.

Constructs sought to halt them, confused at the sight. Necrons fighting necrons was inconceivable to their programming. They hovered, gravitic repulsors pushing them from one side to another. In the end, their programming motivated them to attend to the fallen bodies of the exterminated Dynasts.

Valnyr and her lychguard were nearing the end of the chamber when a gang of lesser lords from late in Kehlrantyr’s history sprang upon them. One of the lychguard pushed Valnyr out of the way and was pulled to the ground by the cursed highborn. Screaming his own curses, the lychguard was subsumed by flashing metal limbs and pulled to pieces.

Bright light skewered the lords seconds later from Valnyr’s staff. From behind her, lightning flickered and killed other hunched, flayer-touched necrons. Lychguard heads turned to identify the new threat.

The false necrons marched from their tombs, ornate weapons flashing as they obliterated the flayed ones.

‘Cryptek,’ said the warlord Nuensis. He inclined his head in respect and greeting. ‘We have been waiting to remind the tomb world of our worth.’

‘Your intercession is appreciated, warlord.’

‘What afflicts these Dynasts?’

‘The c’tan.’

‘Such slavish devotion to the star gods,’ said Nuensis, his eyes shifting to regard the hunched and hiding figure of Maantril. Several of the false necrons began to make sigils of obeisance to the star gods before ingrained engrams prevented the motions from completing.

‘It is beyond that,’ Shaudukar said.

Valnyr added, ‘They are afflicted by the curse of Llandu’gor.’

‘We should relieve them of this affliction,’ Nuensis said without hesitation. He hefted a great, curved sword. He sketched the posture for bloodthirsty and anticipation. He was clumsy and awkward, lacking the poise of a true necron. He had never needed the postures and poses in life.

‘There is no time,’ Valnyr asserted. ‘The world is lost to this curse.’

‘Your plan, cryptek?’ asked Maantril.

‘We head for the surface, to find succour or relief.’

The false necrons shared knowing looks. ‘What of the Dolmen Gate?’ one asked.

‘No,’ said Valnyr. ‘Such technology was fickle in its prime. After all this time, to trust that it would still function is madness.’

‘For all we know,’ added Shaudukar, ‘the eldar still haunt the twisting paths. They were mighty of old and while they are frail compared to the strength of our kind, we lack the comfort of numbers. The eldar are cunning creatures.’

‘How do we know the eldar linger into this age? Perhaps they have earned their final extinction,’ insisted Maantril.

Nuensis hissed a laugh. ‘I wish that it were so, but they were persistent creatures. It is equally likely that they rule the galaxy now. Have you had access to updated knowledge since your awakening, cryptek?’

‘No,’ said Valnyr. Her thoughts were distracted, still lingering on the option presented by the Dolmen Gate. Further technology granted to them by the wiles of the c’tan, the Dolmen Gates had been stolen from the Old Ones and their eldar servants. There too lurked tricks and turns not anticipated by the naïve necrontyr. Like the biotransference that had ensured their unending half-life, the Dolmen Gates offered the unexpected and the unwelcome. They were access points to the webway, a means of travelling across vast distances at great speeds and without touching reality. But to move so close to the nightmare dimensions of the otherrealm, to tempt the beings that dwelled therein, was madness.

‘A last resort, then,’ said Maantril. ‘I may be no more than a simulation, but I have no wish to face the darkness of the real grave.’

Valnyr surveyed the gathered necrons. She nodded. ‘A last resort.’

Nuensis grunted his agreement. ‘We make for the surface. We shall stride Kehlrantyr once more.’

Chapter Eight

Bioforms in their shrieking millions dived into the necron line, mindless beasts driven to the slaughter. But for every ten, twenty thousand cut down by the mindless discipline of the necron warriors, hundreds of thousands took their place.

Anrakyr’s back was to a wall, metal scraping against stone. There was more evidence of necron artifice now, the great gates of Kehlrantyr. Storied things, they were said to have once been carved with colossal friezes of the ruling Dynasts. A waste of time and resources, evidence of too-obvious arrogance. Crypteks and canoptek constructs sawed through the carvings, reducing them to atomised ash.

Chronomancers surrounded the Traveller. Each faced the wall, humming harmonics that disrupted the flow of time and space. They projected a field of slipped time. The necrons caught within the field moved at a greatly enhanced pace, allowing work that would take hours to take minutes.

Still, it was too slow; the tyranids felled too many necrons, and too few were reanimating to wreak mindless revenge on their killers.

Nimble creatures dropped from the sky, accelerated through the time field and impacted into geysers of unwholesome flesh. More fell, cratering into the rock floor. One of the tyranids knocked into a working canoptek spyder, denting the construct and dropping both to the earth.

An idea germinated in Anrakyr’s skull. ‘So simple,’ he said. ‘Three of you,’ he bellowed to the working crypteks. ‘I require three of you.’

Three of the crypteks detached themselves from their efforts at the wall, moving like blurs until they reached the edge of the time dilation fields. They approached Anrakyr with bodies posed in anxiety and subservience.

‘How may we serve, my lord?’ they chorused. Their chassis featured ornate markings and esoteric runes scrawled over every surface. A single, cyclopean eye stared from each cryptek’s forehead, the lens nictitating. The markings of Anrakyr’s own tomb world, Pyrrhia, featured heavily. They were of the tattered few, Anrakyr’s original servants. Forces from other tomb worlds made up the bulk of the Traveller’s forces now. His own sub-phaerons and lords from Pyrrhia had been allowed a degree of autonomy, striding the stars to issue Anrakyr’s proclamation of empire and begin the diplomatic process.

The Traveller grabbed one of the working crypteks by the shoulder and roughly shoved it around.

‘Join the front line. Employ your chronomancy for my warriors. Let time serve as our ally to enforce the harvest. These tyranids offend my sight.’

The three crypteks bowed. If they felt any trepidation, any fear, at taking their place in the line of their mindless brethren, Anrakyr did not care, nor did he notice. They departed, moving with alacrity.

The triarch praetorians stepped down from the sky. Vapour wafted from the ends of their covenant rods. They surrounded Anrakyr the Traveller.

‘This will fail,’ said Khatlan.

Dovetlan added, ‘This world will give you nothing.’ As if to punctuate the praetorians’ words, a doomsday barge detonated in an expansive cloud of green-tinged fire.

Anrakyr waved their words away. ‘Be gone,’ he said. Inwardly, he was disquieted. These praetorians were proving to be prescient. ‘You are a chorus of the unwelcome.’

The praetorians remained where they stood, eyes boring into the Traveller’s. ‘This will fail,’ asserted Khatlan again.

‘You already said that,’ Anrakyr growled. ‘What do you know? What will happen here?’

Ammeg shrugged. ‘There are too many tyranids.’

‘What of the legions that slumber below?’ asked Anrakyr.

‘Worthless,’ said Dovetlan. ‘You will find them to be useless.’

‘You will need allies,’ said Khatlan.

Anrakyr laughed. He knew their game now. In his desperation, he was supposed to call on their master. ‘The Silent King will answer? I suppose all I must do is pledge my eternal fealty.’

‘No,’ said Ammeg.

Anrakyr was taken aback. That was not what he expected them to say. ‘Then who?’ he asked.

They paused, glancing at one another. ‘You will need allies,’ repeated Khatlan.

‘How do you know this?’ Frustration bled through Anrakyr’s voice.

‘Orikan the Diviner revealed this to the last triarch long ago,’ said Ammeg.

‘And you only tell me this now?’

Their heads jerked up. Something in the front line had caught their attention. They stalked forward, hunched forms moving awkwardly.

‘We will speak more on this later,’ said Dovetlan over her shoulder.

The insolence of these enigmatic servants of the Silent King set Anrakyr to fuming. He followed the praetorians, wading through the acidic blood that flooded the battlefield. Their pace increased as a screeching wail sounded from the tyranid swarms.

Flapping creatures streaked overhead, darkening the skies. Warriors angled their gauss rifles towards the sky, firing streams of lightning up above. Smoking corpses fell like rain. The ground shook as they marched forward.

Power reserves, generators supplied by clouds of linked scarabs, swirled around the crypteks. As the art of the chronomancers took hold, scarabs fell, sparks consumed by the hungry science of necron technology. The effect took moments to begin.

It started small, hardly noticeable. A slightly increased tempo in gauss shots from the necron warriors betrayed the effect of the time meddling. Then the true apocalypse began. Where before, disciplined volleys had lashed out at the flowing tides of tyranids, now came sheets and sheets of green lightning. The fabric-tearing refrain of gauss weaponry increased to become a deafening, constant sound, like the crash of rocks falling, but magnified and made constant.

Anrakyr stepped into the field of increased time, marvelling as the tyranids before him slowed. Creatures swarmed towards him, moving like they were wallowing through mud. Anrakyr laughed. This was necron technology functioning as intended.

But some creatures, already monstrously fast, charged forward heedlessly. Numbers pushed them beyond the deadly volleys of the necron warriors and into the field. The ground shook violently beneath them.

Clumsy warriors fell over, made unstable by the tremors. Rock cracked and exploded upwards. Five metres to Anrakyr’s right, a wormlike tyranid with six pairs of grasping limbs spat acid and pulled warriors down. These creatures were bursting all amongst his battleline.

Anrakyr ran towards the burrowing animal, but it retreated down its hole before he drew close. Then it exploded back up, just below the Traveller. Anrakyr cursed as he was thrown up, legs caught in the organism’s jaw.

It started to twist, to rend and bite, trying to pull the overlord beneath the earth. Anrakyr flailed, thoughts and plans flashing through his mind, but instinct took over, honed in a time he could barely remember. His spear stabbed down, diving into the top of the creature’s head. It exhaled a carrion wind, spewing the cloying reek at Anrakyr. His blow carved a furrow through the chitin that guarded the organism’s braincase. Blood oozed, but the creature continued to live.

Grunting with effort, it continued to drag the overlord below ground. He dropped his spear and grabbed at the lip of the hole, trying to find purchase. But he failed, drawn inexorably backwards in convulsive motions.

‘Assist me,’ Anrakyr yelled. No one answered him.

Light flashed, and the creature that held him exploded into clouds of ash.

Dovetlan and Ammeg stood at the lip of the hole. They offered no words and Anrakyr offered no thanks. He retrieved his spear and took up his place once more in the line.

He returned to find the time field failing, overwhelmed by the sheer number of actors moving through it. It failed and the tyranids ran forward, no longer impeded by the constant sheeting of the necron gauss volleys.

The necron line was in shambles, broken up by the tyranid subterranean assault.

Something screamed, setting his skull to shivering. Through occluding mists of boiled tyranid blood came a lumbering form. A crescent shaped head swept from side to side. The animal was the size of one of the huge human war machines, trundling forward on bladed limbs. A spiked tail lashed behind it. Scurrying along its flanks were lesser organisms, still fearsome, each easily the height of a necron.

Everything about the creature displayed its importance in whatever passed for a tyranid hierarchy. It screamed again, sending the tyranids running forward with renewed vigour. Mandibles waved around its jaws, wickedly hooked. Other organisms fell dripping from orifices in the animal’s body, newly born and already hunting.

Anrakyr looked around him, trying to find some means of killing this new threat. There was little help around him, merely dully moving warriors.

Already the emboldened tyranids were breaking the necrons, pushing them back to the gate. There was no time to find a better weapon.

Anrakyr hefted his spear and charged forward.

Surprisingly, the triarch praetorians followed. Their rods of covenant blasted a hole for him through the guardian creatures.

He slipped in the blood. Things swam in it, wormlike organisms and other, less identifiable creatures. They popped beneath his strides.

Anrakyr cast his spear, lancing the weapon deep into the organism’s head. The animal slowed with a trilling squeal. He tried to sprint forward, but the blood slowed him. He managed a run. Then he leapt, fingers punching into the beast’s side.

Other tyranids continued to spill from holes in its side, but Anrakyr ignored them. Thin blood oozed from the small wounds he punched in. He clambered onto its back and ran forward.

It bucked and trembled, trying to dislodge the necron overlord. Anrakyr nearly lost his footing, only just avoiding falling from its side to be trampled beneath its thrashing claws. An orifice opened before him and a hissing thing climbed out. Anrakyr’s fist took it through the skull, punching through chitin and bone, popping the brain.

His spear gleamed where it was lodged in the greater creature’s skull. It beckoned, like a flag. He wrapped his hands around the haft of the spear and thrust down, driving it through the braincase of the beast. It screamed one last time before it collapsed.

Anrakyr leapt clear, ploughing through the pooling tyranid blood. He paused a moment, letting the sense of victory flow through him, but it felt hollow. The tyranids lost their coordination, milling in confusion.

The overlord left the colossal corpse behind and rejoined the main body of his necrons.

The tyranids were thrown back, carved to pieces at the molecular level. Steaming chunks of dead alien collapsed into the rock. Their glutinous, acidic blood washed up the defile, unable to drain down through the solid rock, rolling in thick waves like the sap from millions of cut trees.

The bio-acid hissed and spat, creating foul-smelling, chemical steam, as it slowly ate into the shins and feet of the embattled necrons. Tyranids continued to charge forward, driven by unspeakable hunger and abominable intelligence.

Some of the smaller creatures could barely slog through the remains of their fellows. They thrashed and screamed as they drowned, sucked beneath the waves of their own species’ blood.

The assault faltered. Only the largest creatures were able to navigate the rising tide of blood. Those that approached were torn apart by concentrated gauss fire as coordinated targeting protocols activated in the empty-shelled skulls of the necron warriors. Scarabs fell in carpets as their energy was completely drained.

A reprieve had been bought.

Elation flooded through Anrakyr as further good news arrived. A rush of air fluttered the tattered, ancient fabric that draped his chassis. Jubilant, synthetic cries came from the canoptek creatures. The worker crypteks surrounded the Traveller. All of them bowed.

‘Kehlrantyr is open,’ they chorused.

Anrakyr turned away from the dead tyranids. The great gates of Kehlrantyr, the carved obsidian portals, had been levered open. Air pressure differentiation gusted out as the tomb world opened on to the surface for the first time in countless years.

Tyranid blood already spilled in, rushing in little rivulets past Anrakyr’s legs. Green lights played in the stygian darkness of Kehlrantyr’s interior. It seemed the tomb world had still to awaken, even with the tumult that engulfed its surface.

‘So it is,’ Anrakyr said. Had he been able, he would have smiled.

Shaudukar was the first to notice the pack of flayer-cursed that hunted them.

‘We are being followed, my cryptek,’ she whispered.

Valnyr sighed. ‘The reprieve is over. I suppose it was too much to hope that our path to the gate would leave us unmolested.’

Static followed her words. It sounded like the buzzing she kept hearing.

Numerous side passages branched from their path. Rotten air gusted from statue-carved niches flanking them.

‘What are your orders, Valnyr?’ Shaudukar asked.

‘I don’t know.’ Every fibre of her being demanded that she run, but she remained where she stood.

Footsteps echoed down one of the side passages. Lockstepped, disciplined, they sounded like metal on stone. Lychguard and false necrons readied themselves to face whatever this new threat might be.

The flayers hissed their static from behind, breaking into an ungainly run. A ragged volley of gauss fire and more esoteric weapons slowed them. But it was not enough. The flayers advanced, faster and faster, eager to share their hungry curse.

The mysterious footsteps grew louder and louder, bouncing off the stone, echoing from the statues. Valnyr prepared herself for the worst, diverting her attention away from the flayers. She held her staff ready. The cryptek gathered the threads of time, prepared to do what she could to survive for minutes longer. Green light flickered down the passage.

The flayers faltered as they drew level, stunned and broken by the thunder of gauss weaponry that exploded outwards. Warriors marched from the passage with near mindless belligerence. At their front stood a sentient necron. Valnyr recognised the leader as a necron of high stature, judging by the ornate carvings of his chassis and the crown that stood proud from his skull. She did not know the sigils that marked his allegiance, but she was thankful to see him.

She fell to her knees, elated. Then hunger burned through her once more. Her world went dark.

Strongpoints were being set up all across the ship, manned by armed serfs and combat-tasked servitors. Plates in the floor, walls and ceiling angled out on hydraulic pistons, creating cover and barricades.

Jatiel caught the telltale scent of smoke moving through the ship’s atmosphere.

‘That is not a good sign,’ Emudor said.

‘No, it isn’t,’ agreed Ventara.

They rushed through corridors of preparing serfs, through strobing fields of blood-red light and alarm klaxons. The ship shuddered around them, wracked by palsied tremors. A tech-adept directed them through the vessel, routing them towards the likely ingress point for the tyranid boarders. Serf shock troops, encased in bulky void-suits, were caught up in the Space Marines’ wake.

Great screams of tortured metal overwhelmed the alarms. Localised atmosphere died. Serfs fell, pulled through sudden holes in the hull and out into vacuum. Tentacles erupted through the breaches, questing, reaching and writhing. Asaliah was the first to react, to open fire. The Deathwatch veteran’s bolter coughed, popping frozen blood blisters out of the crimson and bone tyranid limbs.

Jatiel pushed himself forward. Through the vacuum and zero gravity, the Blood Angels sergeant flew towards the hole. He brought his mace down with a thunderous crack, pulverising chitin, flesh and bone. A fine mist of blood droplets sprayed outwards and then quickly froze.

Boltguns fired, the sound muted, and rounds impacted into more of the tentacles, detonating and blowing more chunks from alien flesh. Ventara yelled into the vox as one of the grasping tentacles, coated in bone hooks, rasped along his armour. Vapour shot out from the compromised battleplate, but the Space Marine fought on.

Genestealers flowed in, clambering along the tentacles like jungle predators. They jinked and danced through the hail of bolter fire. One leapt towards Jatiel, face leering with a dead-eyed smile. His mace caught it under the jaw, pulling the head and attached spinal cord off and out.

‘There are too many!’ the sergeant yelled.

Grenades sailed past him in response. The sergeant kicked off a tentacle, pushing himself back into the embrace of the Golden Promise. Shrapnel erupted before his eyes, breaking through the tentacles and running genestealers.

He saw a squid-like organism behind them, mouth open wide, vomiting forth the genestealers. Bolts flew through the void around him, impacting into the grasping organism’s body.

As he floated backwards, Jatiel reached for the krak grenades at his belt. He primed and flung them. Tentacles caught the grenades and pulled them greedily into the grasping organism’s mouth.

Jatiel smiled as they detonated, breaking up the creature’s head. Genestealers were caught in the explosion, pulled apart by bone and chitin fragments.

But Jatiel had misjudged the explosion. He was caught on its edge, flung back towards the ship and cracking into its gothic skin. His armour’s auto-senses warned him of breached integrity. Cold spots flushed against his skin and he could hear a rush of air as his armour’s atmosphere escaped.

Then Asaliah was there. ‘Up you come, sergeant.’ The veteran grabbed Jatiel and dragged him back inside.

The ship’s vox-network intruded. Tyranid creatures flooded her, boarding at multiple locations.

‘The xenos are making for the bridge and the enginarium. This ship is lost if we do not hold those locations,’ Ventara said. Already more squid-like creatures were swarming towards this breach.

‘Asaliah, you and Ventara will go to the enginarium. Secure and hold. I will take Emudor to reinforce the bridge.’

Chapter Nine

Valnyr awoke before the great gates of Kehlrantyr, borne upon the shoulders of her lychguard. The atmosphere was tense. She could hear an argument between Shaudukar and the false necrons.

‘The cryptek is afflicted,’ said Nuensis.

‘No,’ asserted Shaudukar with weary finality. Her tone indicated she had been repeating the word for some time.

‘I am… well,’ Valnyr said. ‘Let me down.’

The great gates of Kehlrantyr lay open. Green glyphs continued to glow, announcing the impeccable glory of Kehlrantyr and her unassailable hosts. The irony was not lost on Valnyr.

Their numbers were greater than they had been. Other necrons had joined the party, marked with symbols the cryptek didn’t recognise. A brace of destroyers, cackling in their own dark tongue, flew overhead, out of reach of the flayers. Canoptek constructs, summoned by the desperation of the necrons, swarmed to them. Valnyr’s fleet splashed through liquid. The acidic fluid pitted her legs, hissing and drawing clouds of dissolved metals into the air.

‘Blood,’ said Shaudukar. There was an edge to the lychguard’s voice. Valnyr glanced over, her posture indicating concern. The cryptek resisted the urge to fall to her knees and lap at the organic liquid with a tongue she no longer possessed. She shuddered. Where had that thought come from?

Sunlight streamed in from beyond, dispelling the gloom that afflicted Kehlrantyr’s interior. More unfamiliar necrons rushed inside, while Valnyr could hear the distinctive wail of necron weaponry from outside.

The Kehlrantyri drew up in a protective circle, hunched in shadow, ready for whatever came at them. Aliens hissed from behind them, joining the static-screams of the flayer-touched. One hundred necrons of Kehlrantyr, perhaps the last left sane of their fabled world, greeted their kin from elsewhere.

‘A paltry display,’ boomed a voice. ‘But a welcome one.’ The other necrons advanced on them, nigh on a thousand of them. ‘I was concerned that the tomb world was not yet awake and I am heartened to see that Kehlrantyr stands ready to greet me.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ Valnyr said. Best to err on the side of caution, she thought. Crypteks, distinctive and easily recognised to Valnyr’s practiced gaze, split from the main advancing group and took station beside the great gates. Already the vast portal was humming closed, driven by the cants of these foreign necrons.

‘Your words and presence indicate that this tomb world is awake. Yet your posture states that you wish it were not so.’ The speaker halted. ‘What has happened here?’

One of the bizarrely ornamented necrons that accompanied the speaker whispered, ‘You were warned, Anrakyr.’

Valnyr said, ‘The dead words of Llandu’gor afflict us.’

Curses streamed from the speaker. A great thud sounded from the gate, a bruising organic sound as something large charged into the obsidian doors. He shouted to his crypteks, ‘Seal the gate!’

Valnyr watched them comply, watched the telltale glow of chronomancy centre on the great edifice. ‘A null field?’ she asked, unable to keep the words contained.

The necron lord turned to face her, hands clenched in the sign of profound disappointment. Lightning played over the overlord’s body, abrading away the blood and gore that covered him. A dry circle of stone surrounded him, kept clean by flowing scarabs. ‘Yes,’ he answered.

Such a display of skill, such unsurpassed knowledge of the ancient time science. To seal the doors in a field where time no longer held sway, a permanent region of stasis. They would open no more. They would never again face a progression of time. But to do so would drain the crypteks, using their power to channel the field. The implications were staggering.

She groaned, ‘What comes behind you?’

‘The tyranids swarm on this world, cryptek.’ He spoke slowly, enunciating his words as if to a child.

‘Tyranids?’ asked Maantril. ‘What manner of beasts are these?’

Nuensis blurted the equivalent of an exasperated snort. ‘The aliens that have infiltrated our tombs.’

‘We are trapped, then,’ said Maantril. Other nobles took up the cry. ‘We are trapped and there is no way out.’

The newcomers advanced. One of their number, a floating destroyer, said, ‘What of the tomb’s Dolmen Gate?’

The overlord registered surprise to hear such a question come from the dent-skulled destroyer. ‘You must have a route out.’

The three triarch praetorians flanked the overlord, rods of covenant prepared to compel an answer.

‘We do,’ Valnyr said. ‘We did not wish to use it.’

‘Where does it lead?’ asked one of the praetorians, its skull-visage surmounted by a fan of broken knives. The others chorused the same question.

‘Zarathusa,’ answered Valnyr.

The overlord groaned. ‘Of course it does,’ he muttered. ‘There is no time to waste. You,’ he indicated the Kehlrantyrian necrons, ‘will lead us to the Dolmen Gate.’

The buzzing came first, low and subsonic. It lanced through the darkness, gliding on static wings and setting the metal bones of her chassis to vibrating. Hunger followed. Valnyr’s mouth opened and static joined the screams already echoing from the dark chambers. These were the static-screams of the lost, the haunting cries of those rewritten by the flayer virus. Valnyr could almost hear the tortured personalities, the ghosts of those who had endured so much, who had let bitter jealousy and the fear of death drive them into a bargain in a now forgotten age. Her family, her kin, all those she had known, lost to the creeping vengeance of a broken god.

Necrons recoiled around her. Her fingers tapped against her staff in a restless rhythm. The fit passed.

‘You are afflicted,’ said one of the praetorians.

‘The dead words of Llandu’gor ride your soul,’ said another.

Shaudukar and her lychguard bristled. ‘Our mistress is fine,’ said the lead lychguard. Valnyr could hear a crackle beneath her words, a hint of static and buzzing.

Weapons were drawn, turned upon one another. The old divisions showed themselves. Fear and buzzing, static and horror, branched through hurried conversation, past accusation and understanding.

The tyranids were forgotten, pushed aside as a problem that could be dealt with later.

‘Enough,’ said Anrakyr, steel lashing all the others into silence. Valnyr noticed that the overlord kept his spear levelled, ready to stab out at a moment’s notice.

Two camps were forming. Kehlrantyri and Anrakyr’s foreigners faced one another. They stopped marching to the Dolmen Gate. They stood, immobile, shoulders hunched, faces impassive but with upraised voices echoing through the darkness.

Flayers chose that moment to assault, sprinting in their jerking movements, shambling into momentum from darkened streets.

Lightning lanced out from the unafflicted, punching through clumps of the flayers. Crackling sheets of green light, chained and shackled to the near-mindless necron warriors, stabbed out. Other, more esoteric weapons added their voices to the hue and cry as sentient necrons, gifted with weaponry of ancient science and provenance, fired.

But on the flayers came, talons reaching, mouths stretched wide to taste non-existent flesh.

Valnyr forgot the division between Kehlrantyri and foreigners, between her kin and her accusers. All was subsumed beneath her desire to survive and the dreadful buzzing.

Time slowed, but this was no expression of her science – this was the stress-filled moment of collision, the do or die of combat. She slammed her staff forward with nerveless grace, ramming it into the chest cavity of a hissing flayer. She grunted as she lifted the flayer. It slid towards her down the haft of her staff, hands and talons outstretched, reaching for her head.

The buzzing grew, louder and louder. She yelled, screaming into the flayer, matching the buzzing with her own vocalisations.

Then the flayer’s head was gone, chopped away by Anrakyr the Traveller. ‘Less panic, more restraint,’ he hissed. The melee swept him away.

Valnyr watched as knots of warriors were subsumed, dragged down by the frantic motions of flayers. She channelled energy, stealing atoms from the stale air of Kehlrantyr, converting them to heat and power. It coalesced at the head of her staff and blasted outwards with a thunderclap of noise, shattering flayers into pieces of stinging metal.

Shrapnel expanded in a cloud of flickering metal and smoke, pinging off the chassis of nearby necrons. An unlucky false necron was caught in the blast, flung to pieces.

Valnyr felt a moment’s pity, but it was drowned with the instinctual scrabbling for continued existence. Flayers threw themselves with mindless belligerence onto the shields of Valnyr’s lychguard.

Everywhere she looked there were flayers, stumbling from shadowed doorways, lurching out from dark streets. With them came the static, growing and growing and growing. The sound numbed her, broke her mind apart. The cryptek could scarcely stay standing.

All was confusion. All was broken. The world died around her, not with a bang, nor a whimper, but drowned beneath screams of static and buzzing.

A flayed one broke through the cordon of her lychguard, still clad in the finery of a necron noble. Its mouth stretched open, broken metal teeth glittering in the green light. Talons stretched, scraping for her throat. She stumbled back, but fell into a lychguard.

The flayer scrabbled after her.

Valnyr spat a word. Time froze in a small bubble. It enclosed just the two of them, an intimate moment between flayer-cursed Dynast and cryptek.

The flayer scrabbled on four limbs, prowling like some predator. It skittered and jumped, jaws distended. All the while it announced its terrible hunger. Something in Valnyr’s breast answered, but she shoved it away. She levered her staff, keeping it at bay. It snapped at her, jaws clacking.

Time began to resume. She shoved the bladed end of her staff through the flayer’s skull. Energy swirled down the weapon, blew through the skull and erased one of her lychguard in the blast. Again came the guilt, momentary and fleeting, and again it was smothered beneath self-preservation.

The flayer tide receded, but the buzzing stayed behind.

Valnyr could hear words, faintly through the noise, old and lost to time in a dialect she could scarcely remember. ‘To those who have turned their faces away,’ she could hear in the buzzing and the static. ‘To those who are faithless and wretched in their jealousies.’

She stood still, head cocked to the side. The words echoed from all around them, driven through the shadows and the gloom.

‘Do you hear that?’ she asked Shaudukar. The question echoed through the forgotten halls of her home.

‘To those who have denied us. To those who have denied me. I will wreak vengeance. I will wrench your souls and break your bones. I will cast hunger through your accursed existence. Down the eons, you will not forget. I will grant you this gift from love turned aside and make you like me, break you in my image as you have broken me. I shall cast the fear of myself into you and all of your kind. I am Llandu’gor. I am the hunger. I am the flayer, and from this moment, you shall be too.’

‘I am Llandu’gor,’ announced one Kehlrantyrian necron. The chorus rippled everywhere, bouncing from the dead walls.

The division came back with a sound like fire. The necron who spoke the c’tan’s name was annihilated by one of the triarch praetorians, reduced to its constituent atoms by a covenant rod.

Confusion reigned.

‘Enough,’ Anrakyr bellowed. ‘This bickering solves nothing. Cryptek, where is the entrance to the Dolmen Gate? Are we near?’

‘Yes,’ Valnyr answered, tearing her attention away from the buzzing and the half-heard words. ‘We are close.’

By the time Valnyr was aware of the betrayal, she was already bisected. Anrakyr’s spear stabbed through her spine, carving her body apart. The Traveller’s expression was impassive. How could it not be? His face, his features etched themselves onto Valnyr’s memory.

She opened her mouth to question, to ask why he had done this, but all that emerged was a scream. It sounded like static.

‘I am sorry,’ he said in a tone that implied nothing of the kind.

Shaudukar and Valnyr’s lychguard charged the Traveller, warscythes raised, angry and belligerent. The triarch praetorians turned them to ash with rapid blasts from their rods of covenant.

‘You are afflicted,’ continued Anrakyr, as if nothing had happened. ‘And that is why I am honoured by your continued insistence that you serve.’

Already flayers were emerging from the shadowed ways, lurching out from the darkness. The stunned Kehlrantyrian necrons answered with desperation, or fell to their knees and joined them.

Her mind sought purpose, searching for some utility, some artifice that could salvage this situation. She reached towards Anrakyr, trying to summon the presence of mind to repay his betrayal. Nothing answered, nothing except the frenzied screaming of the flayers.

The foreigners punched free, heading towards the Dolmen Gate and the ship that would take them from this place, take them to safety and freedom. Valnyr could only watch, inching towards her fallen staff. Already lightning played about her severed spine, metal flowing and stretching towards her sundered lower body.

But it was too slow.

Flayers were everywhere now, surrounding the doomed remnants of their kin. A chorus arose, three words repeated over and over from those still with minds and those already broken.

‘I am Llandu’gor,’ they chanted.

A snapping crackle saw her sundered body reunited. Valnyr stumbled to her feet and grasped her staff. She fired at the flayers and her kin. There was no finesse here, no discrimination and no mercy. She killed so that she would not die. She killed so that she could deny the hunger that burned within her.

One flayer attacked, clad in markings she ought to recognise. She punched her hand through its chest, reaching its spine. She tore at it, dropped her staff and reached in with both hands.

She failed. Flayers bore her down, hungry mouths open, eager to share, to welcome her into their curse.

The buzzing swelled, until it was all she could hear. Gone were the words. Gone was her identity, her science, her personality, her artifice.

With the buzzing bloomed hunger, ever-present, but now all-consuming.

The necron once known as Valnyr, High Cryptek to the Kehlrantyr Dynasts, vented its screaming hunger to the darkness, joined by the rest of her doomed kin.

Chapter Ten

Through the faded shadows of Kehlrantyr they moved. Down processional avenues, watched over by the great legions that once called the tomb world home and who would now wander the halls as corrupted revenants of the glory they once possessed. Kehlrantyr’s people doomed to suffer a fate worse than the true death. Their mortality surrendered only to find their personalities erased and their purpose futile and corrupted.

‘A tragic loss,’ insisted Armenhorlal, shockingly lucid. ‘This world is dead. Its people are dead.’

Anrakyr offered no response. The destroyer cooed to himself with an idiot’s sincerity.

The deeper they moved down into the tomb world, the greater the decrepitude of the surroundings and rampant technology became. Machines rumbled. The floor and walls vibrated to a hidden hum, just on the edge of their hearing. Green sigils stood out everywhere, warning signs marked by canoptek constructs. Each announced broken quarters of the tomb world, submerged or stolen by collapse.

Turning a corridor, they found transparent observation windows studding the processional they advanced down, offering a vista into a cavernous space. The centre of the world, the hollowed-out core of Kehlrantyr, gaped to their left, the ceiling arcing away impossibly far until it faded into itself.

A bizarre, thrumming hum coated the air. ‘The warp,’ Armenhorlal said, voice quavering slightly.

A cry went up from the front of their force. Anrakyr prepared himself for the worst. What he saw instead would have brought a smile to his face, had he been capable. Ships floated, still hanging suspended in their docks, over the world-chasm below.

Sentient necrons broke ranks and watched from the windows. Lights activated at their presence, dispelling the darkness at the heart of the tomb world in a wash of brilliance. At the very centre of the world, suspended by sciences lost even to the oldest of crypteks, floated the Dolmen Gate, and before it the great crescent blade of a Cairn-class tombship.

Derelict and desolate, the webway was a truly alien place. Colours that had no basis in reality and sounds and echoes broke all around them, shifting and dazzling. Some comforts were to be found, some anxiety balms. Here and there glowed the bright green of necron technology, eating into the walls, veining through the twisting corridors.

Small spider-like constructs flowed in their wake. The command tomb of the necron vessel was a tense place. None of the necrons spoke. They all stood at their stations, silent in their thoughts, ruminating on the paths that had led them astray, that had lured them to this desperate moment.

The near presence of the warp weighed heavily on their souls. Anrakyr felt observed, as though the eldar were watching.

As if reading his thoughts, Armenhorlal turned to him and asked, ‘Where are our old foes?’

Anrakyr, caught, collected himself, laughed. ‘Fading. They are a shadow of what they once were. Their empire was broken by their own hubris, and they have entered the twilight of their species. Their threat is past.’

‘So why do we hide here? Why not move at full speed?’ asked the destroyer.

Anrakyr provided no answer, merely toyed with his cluster of eldar stones.

‘You will need allies,’ announced Khatlan, apropos of nothing. The praetorian’s tone was conversational.

‘You have already said this,’ said Anrakyr, watching the swirling utterly alien colours of the webway pass.

‘You will need allies,’ repeated Dovetlan. The praetorians moved to surround the Traveller. Their message was clear, but Anrakyr grew tired of their sudden upsurge in communication.

‘We know where you will find them,’ said Ammeg.

‘Where?’ asked Anrakyr, his frustration rising.

‘Where we are already bound,’ answered Dovetlan.

‘The Zarathusans?’ asked Anrakyr.

‘Yes,’ said Khatlan.

‘No,’ said Dovetlan.

‘Probably,’ finished Ammeg.

‘They will help,’ began Khatlan. ‘But you will need more assistance to defeat these tyranids. You cannot rely upon the Zarathusans to stand firm against these foes.’

‘We know of others who will assist.’

‘Who? The Silent King?’

‘No,’ said Ammeg. ‘The living.’

Anrakyr laughed. ‘Why would the living accept our help?’

‘For the same reason you would seek them out. They are desperate. You are desperate.’

‘Desperation does not cause beings to take leave of their wits, nor does it ignore history,’ Anrakyr growled. ‘After what we have wrought here, after what we have wrought all over their “empire”, why would they agree to assist us?’

‘Because they have done so before. These tyranids create strange alliances. Their threat is monumental in scope. The Silent King knows this and has allowed for a loosening of the old prohibitions.’

‘You have hinted at this alliance before. Your decorations betray an organic taint,’ Anrakyr said.

‘We fought alongside the humans at the Silent King’s command once before. The alliance was convenient and ensured his victory there,’ said Ammeg. ‘We wear these decorations as a mark of honour and a reminder.’

‘Tell me more,’ said Anrakyr.

The bridge was destroyed, open to the void. Shipmaster Korbel was dead, erased in a wash of bio-acid. A wing of tyranid fighter organisms had made directly for the vital nerve centre aboard the Golden Promise and broken it open. That the organisms were eliminated scant seconds later by point defence turrets offered no consolation.

The ship was now dead in the void, while secondary systems and strongpoints were still struggling to come online. They had held for three hours, a valiant, desperate effort. A number of tyranid bio-ships lay crippled around them, a testament to Shipmaster Korbel’s command of void war. Killed in long-range duels, or broken by point-blank broadsides, they oozed frozen blood and escaped gases into Perdita’s orbit. But they had been overwhelmed by sheer numbers, surrounded by ever increasing hordes of the twisted creatures.

The convict ships had fared worse, isolated and torn apart before they could reach the perceived safety of the Adeptus Astartes vessel. Their burning hulks already painted Perdita’s skies, carved by the maws of tyranid leviathans and cast down to be rent asunder by atmospheric entry.

‘Asaliah, what is your status?’ Jatiel asked as he drove his mace through a twitching termagant.

‘We cannot hold the enginarium, sergeant,’ Asaliah grunted. ‘Too many creatures swarm this location.’

Frustration filled the Blood Angels sergeant. Duty drove him, sustained him. ‘We must abandon the ship. Head for the ventral hangar bay.’

The hangar sat roughly equidistant between the Blood Angels. Jatiel knew that this was a lost cause, that he would likely not survive making it there, let alone launching a Thunderhawk. But he was a Space Marine, and he was stubborn besides.

The sergeant and Emudor rushed through the gothic steel innards of the Golden Promise. Crew warnings and propaganda stared down at the red-armoured giants, admonishing service and praising diligence.

Bulkheads sealed, dropping down on magnetic hinges, directing the Space Marines. One to their right, sealed and shut, exploded. Acid swamped out, followed by swarming tyranids.

Emudor fell to his knees, a spar of metal skewering his helmet. The Blood Angel sank below the acid.

Jatiel pushed his way through panicking serfs. He fired over his shoulder, trusting in muscle reflexes to target the tyranid swarm behind him. Twenty thousand souls aboard the Golden Promise went about their duties. Some fled from cored and voided sections of the ship, bound for others where their skills could still be useful.

Explosions constantly rocked the ship now. Void shields were down. Jatiel could smell the actinic blowback. Smoke filled the compartments. Screaming, too. Jatiel knew it for a bad sign. ‘The ship’s air scrubbers are down,’ he hissed. Crew recoiled from the Space Marine stalking through their panicking masses. Red-robed magi, tech-priests from the Chapter’s Adeptus Mechanicus allies, swung censers and mumbled binaric prayers over sparking service panels as the Golden Promise died.

Threat identifiers painted every face that spewed past Jatiel’s vision, his helmet locking him away from the hue and cry. Vital signs for each of his squad members showed elevated heart rates and the chemical spill of combat hormones. One flickered where nothing should be, the battle-brother Jatiel had left stationed on the bridge. Cassuen. A ghost return, an imaging artefact. A taunt from his damaged armour.

A channel opened. Jatiel stopped moving. The request for contact, a haunting reminder of casualties presumed.

‘Sergeant,’ Cassuen’s voice hissed.

‘Brother, you live? What of the bridge?’

Cassuen let out a cough that was thick with phlegm. A juddering, sour breath sucked in through lungs rendered consumptive by fluid. ‘The auspex–’ Cassuen began. Another horrific, laboured breath. ‘The auspex still functions.’

It broke Jatiel’s hearts to hear such pain and such belligerent honour, to know that his brother was so near to death, and yet still clinging to duty without succumbing to the perennial curses of the Blood. ‘Sergeant. Sergeant, they have arrived. The xenos. The gate. It is open.’

One more wrenching breath, one more exhalation and then a long, gurgling rattle. The link remained open, but no more sound came through. Cassuen was dead, his warning delivered. His words heralded a great tremor through the cracking ship, shivering it down to its bones. Serfs staggered and fell, flung against walls and bulkheads. The emergency wailing took on an even more plaintive quality.

Disturbing screams filtered down the broad corridors. Shadows filled with hissing, although Jatiel knew that to be escaping atmospherics as compartments were opened to hard vacuum.

Closed bulkheads, sealed to all but the Adeptus Astartes command codes, opened as he approached. The sergeant could hear the distinctive pop-whine of firing shotcasters hurling non-standard ammunition. The weapons fired low-grade plasteks and rubber at tremendous speeds to prevent hull breaches.

Alien cries of pain and hunger met the noises. More tyranids were aboard the Golden Promise, swarming and boiling through the proud vessel’s veins.

A sudden clang was the only warning he had before spikes of super-dense bone chewed through the hull section next to him. Bright blue gas flooded in from the holes in the hull. Nearby serfs started coughing, then spasming as the gas-induced seizures. Their flesh melted seconds later.

Paint abraded from Jatiel’s armour, but the self-sufficient nature of Mark VII plate ensured the gas did little more.

The alien bones flexed and with a sound like hawked spit, the sheared-off section of bulkhead cannoned into the opposite wall. More gas flooded in. Hissing creatures leapt from the darkness, bringing with them cold, trailing vapour from an imperfect seal.

Jatiel’s boltgun barked and a stream of high-velocity, high-calibre rounds cut down the first emerging ranks of tyranid organisms. He fired one-handed. Those that slipped past were met by the sergeant’s power mace. The golden, inverted teardrop of blood crunched into an alien’s misshapen head, blowing out its brains against several more. His return stroke struck them down in turn, breaking bones, shattering bodies, culling meat.

‘For the Emperor and Sanguinius! For the Angel!’ he snarled, helmet vox-casters set to maximum, throwing his cry of belligerence and rage at the invading xenos.

Ventara and Asaliah joined him in the age-old war cry, running into the chamber. The pallid xenos creatures recoiled, sensitive aural organs nearly overwhelmed by the wall of noise. Bolts scythed them down as the two other Space Marines culled them.

‘The hangar is no longer a viable option,’ said the Deathwatch veteran.

Errant shots cut into the boarding organism that had delivered the tyranids onto the Golden Promise, prompting mewling cries of pain.

More creatures emerged from within the boarding pod, vomited out in a slurry of viscera and sickening liquids. These were four-armed organisms, each limb ending in a deadly claw.

‘More genestealers,’ Ventara spat. The aliens jinked and danced, flickering out of the way of fired bolt shells. Nimble and deadly monstrosities loped through the fug of blue smoke and squelched into the slurry of dissolving serfs.

One got inside Jatiel’s guard before Asaliah’s hurled combat knife skewered its head. It aspirated blood as it died, gurgling as dripping chunks of jellied brain oozed from the hole in its skull.

Beetle creatures whirred through the blue smoke, latching on to the front of Jatiel’s armour. They started chewing, spitting acid onto the ceramite and cutting in. He swiped them off, desperate to remove the creatures before they damaged something vital.

More termagants flowed around the genestealers, firing beetles from obscene organic rifles. The Space Marines were pushed down the corridor, retreating in the face of the tyranid onslaught.

‘There are too many of the xenos!’ Ventara yelled.

‘We need a defensible position,’ Asaliah agreed.

Jatiel had a map already overlaying his visor. His eyes rolled over the options, but there were precious few and none nearby. He spat curses into the vox.

They passed from one section into another, vaulting over a trough in the deck. All the while they fired their boltguns. All the while tyranids died. But it was not enough, nowhere near enough.

Asaliah stopped firing, wheeled and slammed his fist into the wall. A bulkhead dropped down, pounding through squealing tyranids.

Silence and smoke filled this section of the ship. Fires burned from within habitation quarters. Life pods sat quiet and empty in their cradles, waiting for serfs too filled with duty and obedience to ever use them. Drooling servitors patrolled the area, sweeping for dust and particulates. Some had fire crawling along their organic flesh.

The distant crackle of lasweaponry echoed through the corridors. The Space Marines followed the sound. Halfway down the Golden Promise’s length, they entered an observation deck.

Armourglass windows stared out into the vacuum. Tyranid creatures, some ray-like, others attached with the mindless insistence of molluscs, glared down from the windows. More organisms swooped past.

But something else dragged at Jatiel’s attention. Beyond the tyranids sucking on the glass, beyond the hive ships, the sergeant could just see a green glow emerging from the ancient structures that orbited Perdita. Lightning stabbed out from a sudden rift in reality. Then a crescent-shaped ship appeared, hanging in the darkness.

‘As if one xenos wasn’t enough,’ Asaliah spat.

The newcomer’s movements were slick, sliding between the grasping tyranid ships. Sheet lightning broke from random surfaces. Each blast terminated a bio-vessel, breaking it to bleeding pieces.

Then it slid past, bound for Perdita’s surface, punching through more xenos hive-ships.

Something critical died in the Golden Promise. Jatiel watched a surge of fire sweep from the bow of the ship, back towards the engines. Secondary blast doors slammed shut. A serf was carved in two by the descending portal. He set up a shrieking wail, agonised and horrible.

Ventara ended him with his gold-encrusted power sword.

Localised gravity failed as the ship began to spin, pushed by the explosion back into Perdita’s orbit. The Blood Angels snapped their maglocked boots to the deck.

Horror dawned in Jatiel’s soul. He knew what was coming. ‘All hands, brace for impact!’ he shouted. He was still bellowing the order when fire danced along the Golden Promise’s battered hull, erasing encrusted tyranids vomiting warrior organisms into her decks, when the storied ship entered Perdita’s atmosphere, on an inexorable course for the dead planet’s surface.

Chapter Eleven

Jatiel awoke to a pain such as he had never known. Something felt wrong in his head, as though something had come loose. He opened his eyes, saw through the green lenses that stared from his helmet. He thanked the primarch that the systems were still functional. He lay over a melting puddle of ash and snow. That should have brought meaning and understanding to where he was, but his mind refused to focus.

The Blood Angels sergeant braced his hands beneath him. Servos whined as he tried to push himself up.

He toppled and fell, overbalanced. Blood pooled beneath him, the deep and rich red of Space Marine vitae. Jatiel tried to push himself up again, grunting and heaving out breath that burned like fire. Something felt wrong, terribly wrong. His vision blurred. The ash and snow was gone, replaced by star-filled blackness. The two images wavered, fading into one another.

‘No,’ he cried.

A weight settled on his back. A calming voice, Adeptus Astartes deep, spoke. ‘Easy, sergeant. Easy.’

His backpack whined as something clicked. Power thrummed through his armour as it reactivated. ‘Up you come,’ said Asaliah, an echo of his words on the Golden Promise.

Jatiel was pulled to his feet. ‘Took a beating, Jatiel,’ said Asaliah. The Deathwatch veteran’s face, left bare to the feeble atmosphere, was a mask of pain and gritted teeth. Furrows had been carved in his flesh, rocks studding it from where he must have slid. Jatiel couldn’t tell whether Asaliah referred to himself, the sergeant, the Golden Promise or the situation in general.

Asaliah shot Jatiel’s right side a pointed look.

Jatiel glanced down and saw the reason why he couldn’t push himself up. His right arm was gone. His prized power mace was missing.

Jatiel’s gaze drifted away from Asaliah and he saw the Golden Promise burning. ‘The serfs?’ he asked, working his jaw, stretching his wrenched muscles. He used his left hand to crack his jaw back into place.

‘No unarmoured mortal would have survived that crash. We are lucky we were in the observation dome. We were thrown free from the ship when it fell. Your head preceded us, sergeant. Truly, you are blessed with a thick skull.’ Asaliah hazarded a smile, and then winced in pain.

Jatiel barked an ugly laugh. ‘What of Ventara?’ he asked after a moment.

‘I’ve yet to find him, sergeant. I did find this, however.’ Asaliah offered Jatiel Ventara’s bolter. ‘We should be armed.’

‘Acknowledged, brother.’ Jatiel cocked the boltgun, awkwardly cradling it with the stump of his right arm. ‘This will take some getting used to.’

Asaliah grinned. ‘I suspect you’ll manage.’

They picked their way out of the rubble, moving away from the burning Golden Promise. The ship groaned as it settled into Perdita’s crust. Jatiel saw that the great vessel had carved into the planet’s depths.

‘What lies beneath us?’ he asked.

‘Some sort of cave network.’ Asaliah shrugged. ‘The tactical briefings never hinted at their existence.’

‘We should ascertain if a threat is here, try to find the xenos that appeared in orbit.’

Asaliah nodded. ‘As you say.’

The pair descended awkwardly through the treacherous footing. Spars of metal stabbed from Perdita’s surface, relics of the crash, offering handholds and a precarious route down.

Obsidian replaced granite the deeper into the crust they moved. Great metal cables snaked through the rock, sparking and stabbing out from broken ends where they had been snapped by the Golden Promise. Melted adamantium, ablated and super-heated by the ship’s disastrous entrance into Perdita’s orbit, dripped past them in sizzling streams.

Jatiel was breathing heavily. An insistent rune in his helm-display announced that he had a fractured skull. Shadows swooped, shadows that Jatiel knew had no basis in reality. He blinked the rune away.

As they neared the bottom of the hole, Jatiel slipped and fell. Without a right arm to stabilise him, the sergeant clattered and slid down into the darkness. He knew that Asaliah would be following as quickly as he dared.

The sergeant slipped over an edge, body cartwheeling as it encountered empty, stale air. Jatiel’s thoughts deserted him as he fell the last metres.

Cables snapped at him, violently arresting his momentum. They held for microseconds, then broke in showers of sparks and lightning. He hit more and more, until he neared the bottom of the chasm. The last held and the sergeant was stuck, gently swaying in the darkness.

Liquid dripped from above, pattering across the blood-red plates of his armour. He blinked. The runes asserted that his skull was fractured. They announced that his brain suffered from oedema, swelling in its case, punished by trauma. Strain was placed on his psyche. The cracks in his mind widened further. He ignored the insistent bio-readouts.

‘Sergeant,’ a voice called.

Jatiel knew the cadences of the voice, recognised them, but could not match a name or a face to it.

‘It’s Asaliah,’ said the voice. Asaliah. Of course. ‘I am going to cut you down. Hang tight.’

Jatiel nodded and then laughed, the sound echoing. ‘Hang tight,’ he said. The words and the situation were absurd. He could see Asaliah’s face highlighted in the darkness, pale and worried.

The report of a boltgun echoed, suddenly loud and bold. Sparks flew and Jatiel fell.

Fifteen metres down he hit the smooth, polished planes of the floor. Stone and ribs cracked. Ceramite fractured. Jatiel blacked out with the pain.

Asaliah was there to help him up. ‘My thanks,’ said Jatiel.

Lights clicked from Asaliah’s armour, splitting the gloom and cutting away the strobing darkness. The broken hulk of the Golden Promise pressed down from above, shifting and creaking in the darkness. Small fires still burned on her. Blood and ichor dripped from cracks in the hull, the last remains of the serfs that had called her home and the xenos that had broken her.

Jatiel pushed out a breath, laboured and wheezing. It emerged as a snarl from his helmet’s vocalisers. A groan replied from the darkness. The two Space Marines’ bolters snapped up, hunting in the darkness. ‘Xenos?’ Jatiel voxed.

‘No,’ said Asaliah. ‘That was human.’

Asaliah’s light pierced the gloom, but barely broke into the obsidian-walled depths. Strange carvings reflected the light back at them, tinging it green. Skulls, great metre-high reliefs, watched from the black, shadows lingering in their sockets.

The groan came again, a wet cough of pain, thick with blood.

Asaliah’s light shone, illuminating the space just below the Golden Promise.

A metal spar had stabbed into the floor, then broken free from the wreck. Impaled on that spar, pierced through his groin and abdomen, was Ventara. The Space Marine hung, blood drooling down the metal. His armour, with all its beautiful decoration, was cracked and broken.

Jatiel and Asaliah rushed to his side, both hobbling as fast as their abused bodies allowed. ‘This looks grim, sergeant,’ said Asaliah.

‘It does. We’ll have to pull him off.’

Asaliah nodded. With a grunt, the Deathwatch veteran stepped below the impaled Space Marine. Jatiel took up position beneath Ventara’s backpack. They shoved, inducing pain-born stars to dance in Jatiel’s vision.

Ventara groaned again, chemically numbed, voice thick with drool. He barely moved, sliding up the glistening length of broken metal. Asaliah grunted and they shoved the wounded Space Marine off the spar.

Jatiel heard scrabbling from above, claws snicking against the adamantium hull of the Golden Promise. Screeches came from the upper darkness, filled with alien hunger. Jatiel caught glimpses of bioluminescence, of bone and red chitin.

He opened fire, trying to track the aliens, to follow their movement patterns. The sergeant hit something. Blood spattered against the broken hulk of the frigate. A headless body fell, crunching grotesquely into the stone beside Jatiel.

The fallen creature writhed on broken limbs before exhaling a noxious breath and dying.

Asaliah added his own fire to his sergeant’s before Jatiel’s bolter clicked dry. He dropped the clip and pulled a new one from his belt, but it would not fit. It had been dented by his fall, wrenched out of shape. He had no time to find another.

Genestealers swarmed towards the Space Marines, hissing their vile hunger. Four-limbed monstrosities leaped forward.

Jatiel missed his mace as they came close in the blink of an eye. Bereft of the beautiful weapon, Jatiel resorted to using the empty bolter as a club. The weapon proved effective as a blunt instrument of death as he broke through a genestealer’s chest cavity. Organs were blown out of the mauled xenos’s back. It flew back into more of the beasts.

Others danced and jinked, moving inhumanly quick on long limbs. They scrabbled and clawed.

Ventara opened up with a bolt pistol, slurring litanies of fury and thirst through his chemical haze. Asaliah’s bolter fire was expertly timed. Each bolt broke through one xenos, breaking out in a spray of blood and bone fragments, to find a home in another.

The horde of genestealers thinned.

‘My–’ Jatiel began. A xenos slipped through his guard, past the bolter, past his armour. Its clawed limb reached out. He ducked, trying to get out of its way. He tried and failed. It knocked into his helmet. A horrible pain blossomed in his skull. He blacked out.

Jatiel awoke to find Asaliah and Ventara surrounded by the broken and bleeding corpses of genestealers.

Ventara shared a worried, knowing look with Asaliah.

‘I am fine, brothers,’ said Jatiel, seeking to allay their concern.

‘As you say, sergeant,’ Ventara replied. The Space Marine clutched at the horrific wound that carved through his centre. It continued to bleed, a bad sign to one blessed by the gene-seed of Sanguinius. That the wound would not clot, that the Larraman cells and leucocytes of his advanced biology could not repair the injury, did not bode well.

With the combat over, the xenos dead – this wave at least – Asaliah sprayed synthetic flesh over the horrific injury. Ventara removed his helm. His pupils were large, dilated to account not just for darkness, but for the chemicals that raged through his system.

‘Your orders, Jatiel?’ Asaliah asked.

The sergeant cradled Ventara’s bolter, reloading it awkwardly with one hand. ‘As before. We ascertain the threat these xenos pose. We find a way to warn Lord Dante.’

His brothers nodded, but he could see disquiet in their eyes. Their situation was dire. Without a ship, how would they warn their Chapter Master? With the tyranids consuming this system, how would such a message even reach him before he brought the strength of the Chapter here?

Jatiel shoved the doubt aside. It served no purpose here. Questions had never suited him. Only duty. Only ever duty. ‘We go deeper.’

So they did, through the darkness, weaving between massive chambers, black as the void. They moved past xenos carvings that glared with mindless, empty hunger. Sounds echoed behind them, the scrabbling purchase of claw against smooth stone, the scrape and susurrus of xenos breath.

The Space Marines ignored the noises, letting the sounds wash over them. They had a mission, and nothing else mattered.

Green lights swam through the gloom-filled depths. A hum suffused the air, setting dust to floating. Jatiel was no expert in xenos blasphemy, but even to him it was apparent that something here was awakening.

Little beetle machines watched from cracks in the wall, Asaliah’s torchlight winking off micro-lenses and metal carapace. All around their reflections were thrown back at them, bouncing off the smooth obsidian of the walls. Carved reliefs displayed skeletal xeno-forms battling against what Jatiel thought appeared to be eldar.

‘What are those?’ Ventara asked, his voice blurring through the gloom, slurred with pain and chemical pain-suppressants.

‘Eldar,’ answered Asaliah simply, his voice grim.

Noise came from above, a subtle clicking sound, like gears shifting or a pen tapping.

Asaliah’s light illuminated the ceiling. Green lenses stared down.

Ventara bellowed, ‘Contact!’

Jatiel opened up with his boltgun as the alien construct descended on millipede callipers from the ceiling, hovering like a Land Speeder. It screeched at them in a machine burble.

Light played about the large lens that served the construct for a face. Energy coalesced. The chattering boltgun threw rounds into the construct’s body, glancing off rippling alien materials. Sparks flew. As it moved, the construct phased in and out of existence, bolts passing through the now translucent body. Each phased effort brought the alien machine closer.

Lightning spat from its eye, barely missing Jatiel. His armour blackened, paint abraded into ash. He could feel intense heat flash-burning his skin.

Asaliah’s bolter barked again, joined by Ventara’s pistol. But the creature faded, dropping into the darkness.

The clicking of its calliper limbs surrounded the Space Marines. Pain punched through Jatiel’s left leg. A metal forelimb erupted through his thigh.

Asaliah dropped his bolter and grabbed the sergeant as the machine started dragging him backwards, pulling him into the darkness. Jatiel bellowed as more limbs gripped his leg, and pressure and pain mounted.

The construct stopped moving. It phased out of existence, leaving holes in Jatiel’s leg. It reared back into reality above Asaliah and Jatiel, energy coruscating about the eye lens.

‘The eye!’ Asaliah yelled. ‘Take out its eye!’

Bolts hammered at the construct, pinging off the metal as Ventara fired his pistol. A well-placed shot blew out the construct’s eye in a wash of actinic lightning. Micro-explosions studded the alien construct, travelling along its length as circuits were consumed by energy blowback. Anti-gravity engines failed and the thing fell to the floor with a clatter of metal.

More tapping came from deeper in the tunnel. A curious looping speech sounded as well, harsh and full of consonants and machine burbles.

The Space Marines moved back, clustering closer to one another. Jatiel hurried to reload his bolter. Ventara and Asaliah readied their close combat weapons.

Lights burst into being all around them, emerging from the walls, eating the darkness. The reliefs seemed to march and writhe, alien figures making war once more.

Screeching sounded from behind them, the unmistakable hiss of questing tyranid organisms. Ventara turned to face that direction. In his hand, he hefted a number of fragmentation grenades, primed and ready for throwing.

‘It seems we are caught between one threat and another,’ Asaliah said. ‘As usual.’

Jatiel barked a dark, sad laugh. ‘We were lucky to survive this long. We lived through the crashing of a starship. Every breath since has been a gift from the Emperor and Sanguinius.’

‘Your orders, sergeant?’ Ventara asked.

‘Die well,’ answered Jatiel. ‘Die well, my brothers.’ The Blood Angels sergeant sighted down his boltgun. He breathed out words, ages old. They felt smothered by the darkness around them, but not by the situation. ‘For the Emperor and Sanguinius.’

Asaliah handed his sergeant a bolter magazine and took up the words, belted them out with all three of his lungs, and expelled them at the foe. ‘For the Emperor and Sanguinius! By the Blood of our primarch!’

Footsteps arched towards them, the sound slightly off as it echoed, as if it were produced by legs that did not match the proportions of the human frame. The cadence was different, and therefore wrong. Synchronised stamping signalled the double-step of a marching phalanx. Green lights sputtered from ahead of them.

Scuttling claws came from behind, scrabbling and hurried, like rats crawling through the walls of a house, hungry, searching.

The first aliens came into view, skeletal and vile. Jatiel opened fire, boltgun blazing and clawing chunks out of the advancing phalanx. They did not answer back. They withheld fire, weathering the storm of righteousness. Xenos fell, spindly skeletons toppling to twitch in the dust of their dead world. Lightning played about their limbs and they staggered to their feet seconds later, lifeless skulls glaring without malice at the Space Marines.

Still they came on. Still they withheld their fire. Why? The question formed in Jatiel’s mind before being shunted away. The question served no purpose. All that mattered was that he yet drew breath and that the enemies of mankind surrounded him.

Behind him, he could hear the savage movements of Ventara as the Space Marine fought off sprinting tyranids. Creatures vaulted overhead, and soon a sea of hissing, screeching organisms surrounded the Space Marines. Claws extended, hooting and spitting xenos rushed forward in a mad scramble, dead-eyed with mouths twisted by unknowable hunger. Acidic drool pitted the obsidian floor. The ambient temperature rose as the press of bodies grew and Jatiel turned to face the tyranids. If the necrons weren’t going to fight back, the organic aliens were the more pressing threat.

Jatiel’s bolter, emptied of ammunition, became a club once more. He used it with savage efficiency, laying into the tide of genestealers. Bones broke and flesh split. Alien ichor flew from shattered jaws and cloven skulls. The strength of his blood sustained him, driving him to feats that would be considered heroic even by the genhanced standards of the Adeptus Astartes. He was an avatar of fury, an angel of death. His fangs cut into his lips, driving from his gums and drawing his own blood. His fractured skull, his injured brain, were forgotten in the purity of this moment.

But the genestealers were quick things, bouncing and jangling. They slipped through the sergeant’s guard, punching claws into his armour like knives through paper. Blood streamed freely from his many wounds. Already he felt cold, lost blood being barely replaced by synthetic chemicals.

By Jatiel’s side, Ventara’s skulls and sliced off limbs. Adrenaline cast off the sluggishness of the chemicals and medicines that flooded his body. He chanted litanies of death and devastation, hymnals to a secular understanding of the founder of the Imperium and His primarchs.

They fought back-to-back, killing and somehow avoiding death. They moved as one, each action followed by another, anticipated and anticipating. Their boots squelched in the rapidly growing pool of blood and ruptured organs. But they did not slip. They did not fall. They were the Emperor’s finest, none better. They were sons of Sanguinius, the Emperor’s Own Angel.

Wounds were carved, rents made in their armour. Transhuman blood spilled, dripping to the floor, mingling with spilled tyranid perfidy. The wounds were ignored, lost beneath the killing haze. The red thirst of battle gripped their souls, consuming them, filling them with an unquenchable thirst. A low, howling moan slipped through Jatiel’s lips, channelling his pain and rage, expelling it outwards in time with every blow he landed.

The Space Marines fought on, flesh hanging from them in ribbons, bodies torn and bleeding. But no mortal blows fell. They fought with the fury of their primarch, the consummate poise and skill of that angelic being.

Shadows descended over Jatiel’s vision. He heard a scream in his mind, a voice far deeper and more beautiful than his own could ever be. The Blood Angels sergeant blinked the darkness away and turned as he heard a sigh slip through slack lips.

Ventara was the first to die, decapitated by the bladed limbs of a lictor. His body fell, cast aside and dashed against the rock walls. He shattered into a frieze, breaking an eldar warrior-figure and a necron overlord. The body, no longer housing the immortal soul of Naskos Ventara, slumped to the floor with a wet meat thump. It danced and jerked as neurons continued to fire, the flesh not aware that the animating force was gone.

All the while the skeletal ranks of necrons watched and waited, as silent and still as the dead things they resembled. They saw the Space Marines’ heroism, observed Ventara’s death. Their gaudy leaders, covered in ornate trappings, watched with cocked heads.

Through the screen of flickering tyranids, Jatiel saw a skeletal limb flash up and then down. It was obviously an order given.

Green lightning sheeted into the tyranids, slaying the creatures. Skeletal forms waded into the melee, culling and scything down the beasts. The reprieve was entirely unexpected. His brain began to form a question, lost in the distraction. And so, Jatiel was entirely unaware of the chance to save Asaliah’s life, the opportunity to buy the Deathwatch veteran a chance to fight on for a scant few seconds more.

A genestealer lunged forward, four killer limbs outstretched, mouth wide and the filthy, crawling horror of the creature’s ovipositor distended from between drooling jaws. It danced past Jatiel, passing inches from the sergeant. He could have reached out, could have battered the creature, thrown himself before it. But he did not, lost in wonderment at receiving aid from the necrons. The genestealer latched onto Asaliah.

Asaliah, the brother who had served twice with the Ordo Xenos, the brother who had fought horrors beyond counting in both the black and silver of duty and the red and gold of honour, right hand and friend to Jatiel, fell, vivisected into steaming sections by the alien.

Jatiel could have saved him, could have intervened. He could have lashed out with his elbow, knocking the creature away. But he was distracted, and Asaliah paid for his laxity.

Jatiel’s psyche flew apart. The duty that pulled at him, that shaped and guided him, was drowned beneath a tide of blood. The angelic exterior that should have guided every son of Sanguinius fell away, revealing the beast that lurked within.

The sergeant flew at the crouching genestealer that had torn apart his friend. He dropped his bolter and pummelled the alien. It mewled in sudden pain, but he ignored its sounds, as he ignored the claws that ripped at him. All that mattered was that this creature die, that all of these creatures die.

He broke the genestealer, shattering its spine upon his knee. Jatiel tore after the others, seeing only red. In the back of his mind, he could hear the repeated discharge of the necron weaponry, could hear the strange sounds of language coming from the aliens, but he was lost to anger.

More tyranids fell before him, torn apart by his fury. A genestealer landed on his back, hissing and spitting. Its grasping claws tore away his helmet, baring his senses to the foetid reek of blood and spilled viscera. He could feel his fangs carving through his lips.

He was alone and surrounded. The tyranids glared at him with their dead eyes. Then they swarmed him as one. Jatiel fell beneath a mound of the creatures, borne down by claws and bladed limbs. Barbs and spikes shot into his flesh.

His world was filled with hissing, buzzing pain. The red haze lifted from him, beaten into submission by his impending death.

Then came a reprieve. The mass of wriggling, biting tyranids was pulled from him by aliens with expressionless skulls. A blade lanced through a genestealer that crouched on top of him, the tip nearly punching through the aquila that stood proud on Jatiel’s chest. Metal hands gripped his pauldrons, hefting him into the air.

The sergeant looked down.

A skull’s unblinking visage, proportions noxious and alien, met his gaze. The head was cocked to the side, a curious regard. More of them crowded around this overlord, bedecked in tattered gold and tarnished metal. Axe blades crowned its skull and it opened its mouth to speak, to craft words in a halting and unfamiliar accent. The xenos’s skeletal hand stretched up to his throat, grasping at the soft point where the helmet interfaced with the breastplate.

‘I am called Anrakyr the Traveller,’ it said in machine-mimicked language. ‘I wish to offer assistance in your time of trials.’

Jatiel’s mind struggled to comprehend the situation, struggled to make sense of what was happening. ‘By the Blood,’ he said, the oath slipping past his lips unbidden. ‘Why?’ he asked, his voice full of wonder and growling rage. ‘Why would you help us, xenos?’

The necron shifted where it stood, placing Jatiel down almost gently. ‘You assume that we think and behave on the same twisted wavelength that you filthy humans do. You assume our reasoning follows the same paths that your stunted minds take. We wish to help because it is in our interest to aid you here. Be relieved that we offer our assistance. Now, come with me as I awaken this tomb world. Know that you are privileged to witness this. Take it as a mark of respect, for your skill in fighting these things.’ He gestured to the dead and dying tyranids.

‘And then?’ asked Jatiel. ‘After you have awoken this world?’

‘Then,’ said Anrakyr, ‘you will take me to your leader.’

SHADOW OF THE LEVIATHAN

Josh Reynolds

The enemy burst out of the smoky darkness with a raucous, insectile clatter. The swarm of hormagaunts loped towards their prey, talons gleaming in the light of fading luminal panels, driven forward by the pulsing will of monstrous overseers. There were hundreds of them, a seething mass of ravenous jaws and twitching limbs, determined to devour every scrap of bio-matter in the hive-city.

Ghaurkal Hive was the last of the great Kantipuran Hollow Mountains, and soon it, like the others, would be claimed by the ravenous servants of Hive Fleet Leviathan. The work of centuries and generations without number would be undone in hours, as the once-prosperous world of Kantipur was stripped barren and rendered down to lifeless rock by the star-borne abominations – the hive-ships of the Leviathan – which even now hung bloated and foul in the upper reaches of the world’s atmosphere.

The tyranids pelted through the battle-scarred streets of the hab-block, towards the curved rings of the broad marble steps, many metres across, which led from the cavernous hive to the broad, statue-lined avenue, then out of the mountain-hive and into the open air plateau occupied by the Rana Space port. In better times, hundreds of thousands of travellers would have moved up and down those vast steps, coming and going. Now, they were pockmarked by craters and stained by the blood of humans and monsters alike.

They were crowded with the shattered remnants of a once proud people making all haste for the dubious safety of the stars. It was these bloodied refugees that had drawn the tyranids, but as the creatures swarmed out of the darkness with ravenous intent, other, larger shapes moved out of the mass of panicked humanity to interpose themselves between predator and prey.

‘As per the established stratagem, brothers,’ Varro Tigurius, Chief Librarian of the Ultramarines, said to the blue-armoured shapes of his battle-brothers as they spread out in formation around him, moving to protect the screaming evacuees. ‘Kill the synapse creatures first. We must be quick. Time is not on our side in this endeavour.’

‘Thank you for the reminder, Chief Librarian. In the heat of battle I might have forgotten standing orders,’ the vox crackled in response.

Tigurius smiled thinly. ‘Merely doing my duty, sergeant. As are we all. Proceed at your leisure.’ Clad in azure power armour, his bald, scarred head covered by the ornately engraved psychic hood that was both a sign of his office as well as protection for his body and mind, Tigurius made for an imposing figure, even amongst the finest warriors of his Chapter. Scrolls, parchments of incalculable age and purity seals hung from his battleplate, and he clutched an ornate force staff in one hand as his other rested on the butt of the master-crafted bolt pistol holstered on his hip.

‘Proceeding.’

The response was curt, but then he hadn’t expected it to be otherwise. The Sternguard were not men to waste words, and their sergeant, Ricimer, was taciturn even for one of that elite group. He was stolid, efficient and unmoveable – in other words, the perfect choice to command the Sternguard. The sons of Dorn would have been proud to call him one of their own had he the fortune to wear the colours of the Imperial Fists rather than the Ultramarines.

A moment later, bolters began to fire in a staccato rhythm, one after the other. Hellfire rounds thudded into the wide, armour-plated skulls of the tyranid warriors, delivering their deadly payload. The creatures staggered, slewing awkwardly through the swarm of their lesser brethren. One toppled backwards, yellowish smoke rising from its crumpled skull. Another stumbled forward a few paces, the tips of its bone swords dragging along the street, before it sank down and flopped over, twitching. The last ploughed on, ignoring the oozing craters that pockmarked its skull.

‘Reinforced cranial structure,’ Ricimer said.

‘Yes,’ Tigurius said. He stalked down the steps. ‘I shall deal with it. Hold position.’ He focused his attentions on the tyranid warrior and formed a killing thought in his mind – a thought of sharp edges and deadly speed, honed to a murderous point in the fires of his righteous anger. He sent it hurtling out with a gesture and felt it strike home as if it had been a physical blow. The tyranid swayed, reared back and shrieked.

He extended his hand as if to gather the tangled strands of the thought and made a swift, twisting motion. The tyranid’s bestial frame gave a spasm, and a gout of superheated steam burst from its jaws. It sank down with a shrill wail, limbs twitching. The tide of hormagaunts stampeded around and over it, following its last command with mindless ferocity.

‘Fall back, Chief Librarian.’

‘No, I think not,’ Tigurius said, facing the tide. ‘I have fought these beasts before and I know how to send them scurrying for their holes. Hold position. Deal with any that get past me. I shall break them here.’ He spread his arms and exhaled slowly. The sutras of strength and endurance unspooled in his mind. He brought his hands together, catching his staff between them. The air seemed to congeal about him as he lifted the staff, ramming the end of it down. The pavement cracked and split, venting steam and dust. A ripple of destruction spread outwards, tearing the street apart. A building, weakened by alien growths, collapsed atop the rear of the swarm, burying many of the skittering hormagaunts. The rest continued on, undeterred, plunging through the dust cloud to surge towards him.

‘Come then,’ he murmured. ‘Come and die, little bugs.’ Even as he spoke, he could feel the acidic heat of the hive mind bearing down on him from behind the eyes of every scuttling shape. It was an abominable weight on his mind and soul, but he bore it gladly.

Once, perhaps, his soul might have shrunk from that great, black shadow in the warp, but now he knew its secrets. And in knowing them, he could exploit them. Through such contact, he had come to know its wants, its drives and, more importantly, its weaknesses. He could sense the patterns of control and instinct which drove the servants of the hive mind, and disrupt them with ease.

In moments he was surrounded on all sides, the hormagaunts bounding towards him and talons scything through the air. Tigurius drew his bolt pistol. He fired swiftly, placing the shots where the leaping gaunts would be, rather than where they were. The creatures fell, skulls shattered. He pivoted, sweeping his staff out in a wide arc, to smash a third xenos from the air. The reinforced length of the staff, powered by genetically enhanced muscle, pulverised the creature’s spiny shell, and dropped it to the ground in a twitching heap.

As the rest of the brood boiled towards him, Tigurius set his staff as if it were a standard, and let his fury flower to its fullest. The air before him ionised and, with a whip-crack of sound loud enough to shatter those few windows remaining in the closest buildings, his will slipped its leash. Leaping ’gaunts were obliterated, their bodies crushed beyond recognition as the cannonade of pure force hammered into their ranks. Ichor soon drenched the walls of the hab-units and street, and those who escaped the carnage scuttled back the way they had come.

Tigurius could feel the frayed pulse of primal fear that overwhelmed the creatures’ natural ravenous inclinations. Without any of the larger synapse creatures to force them on, the broods were reduced to mere animals, with an animal’s instinct towards self-preservation. He smiled in satisfaction. It was no longer a challenge to break the back of such swarms. He watched the last of them vanish into the darkness and turned back towards the steps.

‘They’re regrouping,’ he said.

Ricimer didn’t reply. The Sternguard sergeant began to issue orders, and Ultramarines moved to obey with crisp precision. Ten of the thirty who had accompanied Tigurius into Ghaurkal Hive moved to aid the evacuees in their efforts to reach safety. The rest split up into combat squads and moved out into the hab-block which extended out around the entryway to the space port. They would fan out and report any contact with the enemy.

Tigurius heard a rumble and looked up, through the shattered remnants of the immense stained-glass canopy that had covered the avenue to the space port. He watched as one of the vessels pressed into service for the evacuation lunged skyward on oscillating columns of flame. Fly swiftly, fly true, he thought.

Overhead, swirling clouds of tyranid gargoyles swooped and eddied. From a distance, the aliens looked like birds, moving with an instinctive synchronicity that eluded bipeds. They flew through the heavy, grey clouds and shot through with strands of sickly purple that obscured the sky. The vessel plunged into clouds and gargoyle swarms, rising steadily upwards and leaving the doomed world behind.

Outside of the hive, the air was thick with the black toxicity spewing from the thousands of fuming spore chimneys which had sprouted from the ground. The very stuff of the once-vibrant world was being broken down and reduced to its component parts for ease of alien digestion. Fuel for a fire that might yet claim Ultima Segmentum, unless some stroke of fortune snuffed it out.

Even here, in the last stronghold of humanity on this world, monstrous alien growths had begun to creep in and coil about the battle-scarred ruins. Many-limbed shadows moved through the upper reaches of the hive, scuttling amongst the networks of pipes and cabling which carried power, air and water to every hab-block and Administratum zone. The warble of the tyranid feeder-beasts slithered down from the upper spires, and the ululation of hormagaunts and still worse things rose from the underhive, combining to create a monstrous background cacophony.

And through it all, he felt the grotesque, singular pulse of the hive mind, watching, in hungry anticipation.

That was all it was, Tigurius knew. There was no true intelligence to be found there, only the avid hunger of an insect colony, bloated into something vast and far-reaching. The hive fleets were not enemies so much as storms to be weathered, or infestations to be exterminated. And such would be his pleasure, when the time came.

A number of other detachments of the same size and composition as the one he had led to Kantipur were engaged in similar evacuation efforts across the Gohla sub-sector. Indeed, the stratagem had been of his devising, after examining the skeins of fate and chance, and sifting through the premonitions which were his burden and his gift in equal measure. The Leviathan grew stronger with every world it devoured, and so, the Ultramarines had set out to deny this tendril of the hive fleet its provender, if possible. Starve the beast, rob it of strength and make it easy prey for the slaughter.

Exterminatus would have been easier, and had been suggested by others, with the Master of Sanctity, Ortan Cassius, among them. Burn the targeted worlds to cinders and let the swarm starve or devour itself. He knew the Blood Angels and their successor chapters were employing similar tactics in the Cryptus System. Tigurius doubted the long-term viability of such a strategy, however, and not simply because his premonitions had shown him glimpses of its ultimate futility. No, the Leviathan could be beaten, even as the Kraken had been, and the Behemoth. And if they sacrificed the very people whom they were sworn to protect, then what was the point?

Tigurius could feel the heat of every human soul still in Ghaurkal Hive in his mind. Each and every human – young or old, man, woman or child – had a tiny ember of flame within the chambers of their single heart… a flame which could burn as brightly as a sun. They were changeable things, humans, and capable of greatness, if given the opportunity. And for that reason, more than any other, Tigurius intended to make his stand and deny the Leviathan.

The Emperor made us to defend his chosen people, he thought, and that is what the sons of Guilliman will do, or we will die in the attempt.

He turned suddenly, looking out into the dark of the hab-block, and the hive-city beyond. He’d felt… something. It stirred in the dark, like an unseen shape sliding through black waters. A ripple of psychic disturbance which leeched his certainties away.

He had fought the mind-predators of the hive fleets before, and recognised their psychic spoor when he sensed it. Mind and body tense, he set his thoughts flying out over the cramped quarters of the hab-block, searching, hunting for any sign of it. The hive-city was full of swarms, mostly feeder-beasts, but worse things as well. Brute-simple warrior-broods and cunning infiltrator-species prowled the access tunnels and lower levels, in search of bio-matter to devour.

Tigurius stiffened as a lance of pain stabbed into his cerebral cortex. Even as he had been searching, so had something else – and it had found him first. He staggered, one hand pressed to his temple. A sound filled his head, swelling as if to drive out all thought and sanity. It was a scream, shrill and inhuman, and he dug his fingers into his skull, trying to marshal some defence against it. It was stronger than anything he’d yet encountered in his struggles with the hive mind.

‘Contact,’ the vox-feed crackled abruptly, and Tigurius stiffened. He recognised the voice of Geta, one of Ricimer’s subordinates. He heard the stolid crack-crack-crack of bolter fire as well. Tigurius heard Ricimer speaking swiftly into the vox, making contact with the other squads.

‘Estimate?’ Tigurius asked into the vox.

‘Many,’ came the terse reply.

‘Care to elaborate, brother?’ Tigurius asked.

‘Too many.’

‘Thank you,’ Tigurius said. ‘Break contact and withdraw.’ Geta didn’t reply. Tigurius hoped that meant he was already falling back with the other members of his squad. Given the situation, he might not be able to.

Tigurius frowned and looked at Ricimer, who’d joined him before the steps. Ricimer was a bullet-headed veteran of the Ultramarines First Company. He held his helmet beneath his arm, and the majority of his blunt, chiselled features were hidden beneath the rim of the armoured collar of his Mark VIII armour. The pale furrows of old scars rose across his scalp from his cheek, a reminder of a previous conflict with the scuttling hordes of the hive mind.

‘How long do we have, brother?’ Tigurius asked, without preamble.

‘There are still a few hundred left in the avenue. They’re beginning to panic,’ Ricimer said. He hefted his helmet and set it over his head, locking it in place with a hiss of pneumatic seals. ‘We need to buy time, so the crew can finish getting them aboard.’

‘Suggestions?’

‘Offhand, I’d suggest shooting the tyranids,’ Ricimer said. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of ordering Metellus and the others to fall back. Stormravens are already en route. As soon as the last human is aboard and the transports are away, we can leave as well. We just need to hold until then.’

‘And can we?’ Tigurius asked.

‘Emperor willing,’ Ricimer said. He glanced at the shattered gates that marked the entrance to the avenue. ‘Ten of us can hold that entry point, if they come in force. Less, if Metellus and Oriches get back here with the heavy flamers.’ He turned and pointed through the gates, towards the avenue. ‘Three possible strongpoints there, there and there, giving overlapping fields of fire for the gateway, allowing for withdrawal. Two more potential strongpoints at the avenue’s mid-point. Even factoring in heavy losses, a fighting withdrawal should be possible.’

Tigurius smiled. Ricimer had his faults, but a lack of tactical acumen was not one of them. ‘I’ll defer to you then, brother. Arrange our withdrawal as you see fit.’ The vox crackled again, loudly, in his ear. A garbled voice floundered in a wash of interference and then fell silent. The sound of bolter fire echoed up from the hab-block.

Ricimer cocked his head. ‘Geta… report,’ he said, hesitating. ‘Metellus, Oriches, sound off.’ Voices crackled over the vox, and Tigurius turned to see one of the combat squads hurrying towards them. ‘Metellus,’ Ricimer said.

‘There’s Oriches,’ Tigurius said, gesturing with his staff. The second of the three squads came into view, firing behind them as they moved. One of the Space Marines, clutching the bulky shape of a heavy bolter, stopped and turned, levelling the weapon at some unseen enemy. The heavy bolter roared, and Tigurius heard the high-pitched cries of dying tyranid beasts.

‘They’re massing. Something’s driving them forward again,’ Oriches shouted, as he climbed the steps. His armour, as well as that of his men, was scorched and scored by blistering venom and alien claws. ‘It’s big, whatever it is.’

‘One of the command-caste, perhaps,’ Ricimer said.

‘No,’ Tigurius said. The echo of the scream was still in his head like an ache. ‘It’s something else. I can feel it.’ He looked out into the dark. ‘Geta?’ he asked, looking up at Ricimer. Ricimer said nothing. He stared out into the ruins of the block. Tigurius could tell from the sudden flickering of his aura that the other Ultramarine was concerned. Geta should have fallen back with the others. If he hadn’t, that meant his squad had engaged the enemy. The sound of bolter fire ratcheted through the still air.

Tigurius looked at Ricimer. ‘Fall back into the space port, as planned. If I have not returned by the time of extraction, you are to follow standing orders. Evacuate and turn this planet to ashes from orbit.’

‘Where are you going?’ Ricimer asked.

‘I shall meet the enemy in the field, as is my right and privilege,’ Tigurius said. ‘Someone must remind them that the sons of Guilliman are not a meal that agrees with them.’ And I want to know what that was that I felt, he thought. If the hive fleets had given birth to some new monstrosity, he wanted to know about it and test its might if possible. Knowledge was power.

‘One of us should come with you,’ Ricimer said.

‘Geta will serve in that capacity,’ Tigurius said, over his shoulder. ‘When you see us, know that the enemy will not be far behind.’

‘I don’t need to be Chief Librarian to know that, brother,’ Ricimer called.

Tigurius chuckled, but didn’t reply. He moved quickly, gathering his strength as he did so. Something, some flicker of foresight, told him he would need it. He broke into a run, sprinting into the labyrinthine confines of the hab-block. He trusted in his senses, physical and otherwise, to lead him to Geta and the others.

As he continued on, the sound of bolter fire grew steadily louder, drawing closer. Geta and his brothers were hard-pressed, Tigurius suspected. Then, if what he’d felt were any indication, they might soon be a good deal worse than that. He’d never felt such raw power, not from any alien psyker he’d ever encountered. He hurtled along a broad avenue, moving smoothly, until a flash of movement caught his attention. He smelled the acrid tang of fear, mingled with blood, as he slid to a stop.

A group of ragged figures stumbled out of a side-street. He raised his staff, then lowered it as two of his battle-brothers came into view just behind them. He recognised them both – Valens and Appius – as members of Geta’s squad.

‘Chief Librarian,’ Valens said, smashing a fist against his chestplate in a hasty salute.

Several of the humans wore the battle-tattered remnants of the uniform of the local defence forces. The rest were clad in Administratum robes. All were wounded, some worse than others. They looked at Tigurius dully, exhausted and drained of emotion.

‘We found them holed up in a signatorium,’ Valens said. ‘We almost missed them, but one of them managed to signal us.’ He gestured back the way they had come. ‘Geta and Castus stayed behind, to give us time to get the humans clear. The enemy were right behind us – swarms of them, ’gaunts and more besides.’

‘Forgive me, brother, but I am more concerned about what might be behind the chaff,’ Tigurius said. He could feel something coming closer, like the rumble of distant thunder. He tapped Valens on the shoulder-plate with his staff. ‘I need you to follow your orders. Go. I will find the others.’

Valens hesitated. ‘But…’

Tigurius reeled as a sudden flare of pain seared his mind. The humans screamed and staggered, one falling to the ground, her eyes rolling to the whites, and blood pouring from her nose and mouth. Valens and Appius felt it as well, the former shaking his head like a stunned bovid. ‘What in Guilliman’s name…?’ he croaked.

Tigurius didn’t reply. A bolter roared close by, and he saw Geta stumble out into view from the same side-street that Valens and the others had come from, shoving another battle-brother ahead of him. Their armour was scorched black where the bare ceramite wasn’t showing, and it was wreathed in smoke. As the wounded Space Marine stumbled, Geta whirled about, his bolter rising. Something pale and radiating a sickly luminescence stretched out towards him. The wriggling ectoplasmic tendrils briefly fluttered over the Space Marine’s head. His helmet burst asunder in a welter of blood, bone and brain-matter.

Tigurius’s eyes widened as Geta’s body sank to its knees, and slowly toppled over, covering the form of his wounded brother.

‘Castus,’ Valens began, starting forward. Tigurius caught his arm. He could feel a cold scrabbling at the edges of his mind, as if something were trying to pry back his thoughts, in the wake of that searing scream. Whatever had killed Geta was more dangerous than any mind-beast he’d encountered before.

‘I’ll go. Withdraw, get the humans to safety,’ he said.

Valens hesitated, but only for the briefest of moments. Then he and Appius were moving swiftly, following orders, falling in around the small group of bedraggled soldiers and civilians. Quickly, the Ultramarines scooped up those humans who were too injured to walk by themselves, or bent so that the latter could climb onto their backs. Valens held a small child cradled to his chest, the girl’s mother clinging to his neck. Tigurius felt a flicker of pride at the sight. Let them bestride the galaxy like the gods of old, sheltering mankind from destruction at the hands of an uncaring universe, he thought. A line from the Codex Astartes, and a good one.

That was what it meant to be a Space Marine. That was what it meant to bear the colours of the Chapter into war. Theirs was not merely to bring death to the enemies of mankind, but to preserve life, where they could. They were the shield, as well as the sword, of humanity, and Tigurius did not intend to falter in that duty. Emperor guide my hand, he thought, letting his mind reach out towards the distant, flickering star that was the holy Astronomican.

As he did so, however, he recoiled in disgust. An intrusive, creeping miasma spread across his thoughts, plucking at his senses. It felt like acid splashed on flesh, and he staggered, his hand flying to his head. Pain flooded his nerves, and he fought to regain control of himself. It was worse even than the scream had been. He turned, teeth gritted, and saw Geta’s killer stride into sight.

It was a centaur of sorts, moving forward on four thick limbs, but possessing a barrel torso, topped by a heavy, pulsing braincase and two long, deadly looking talons. Cruel spikes rose from its segmented carapace, and the squirming meat of its mind pulsed wetly, filling the air with a diseased radiance. The world turned soft around it, and he could feel the terrible weight of its regard as it turned its eyeless skull towards him. Its fang-studded jaws champed eagerly as it stalked towards him.

Tigurius did not recognise the beast, but he knew what it was, regardless. It was all the horror and fear that flowed in the wake of the hive fleets made manifest, and its servants bounded past it, screeching in predatory anticipation.

Tigurius tore his eyes from the larger creature and sent a killing thought smashing into the scuttling hormagaunts. Even as they died, he wrenched his gaze back to the thing that had killed Geta. Whatever it was, it would die, as easily as all the rest. He sent a bolt of shimmering psychic force thundering towards it.

The sixfold mind-nodes which clustered on its skull flexed unpleasantly, and the bolt washed harmlessly across the shimmering barrier that had suddenly formed about the beast. Tigurius stepped back, readying another bolt, but his enemy was quick to take advantage of his moment of hesitation.

Its jaws opened soundlessly, as energy speared from its sightless cranium. The psychic scream carved through his defences, obliterating the sutras that guarded his thoughts from the vast, alien mindscape that pressed down on his psyche. His skull felt as if it were swelling within the envelope of his flesh, and he clutched at his head. Streamers of vibrant agony ran up and down his spine, and he could taste blood and bile. The alien mind bore down on him, like a wrestler pressing an opponent to the ground. He sank down beneath its pressure until one knee touched the ground.

Tigurius drove the end of his staff into the broken pavement, as if it might anchor him in place. His thoughts clung to the intricate designs, finding strength in the millennia-old patterns. He had found it beneath the Great Bastion on Andraxas, and it was said, by the artificer-scribes of Corinth, that the staff might once have belonged to Malcador the Sigillite, First Lord of Terra. Sometimes, in moments of great stress, moments like this, he thought he could hear the rasp of a voice out of antiquity. A ghost of a memory of the man who had once fought to defend the Imperium, even as Tigurius himself now did.

He focused on that dry, rustling murmur, and strove to block out the pain that sought to drown his mind. He reached up and clamped his free hand around the staff. Grasping it in both hands, he hauled himself to his feet.

The creature loped towards him, its four legs pumping like pistons. Its great talons swept out, and he only narrowly dodged aside. He rolled away, drawing his bolt pistol as he came to his feet, and fired. The tyranid shrieked as bilious ichor spurted from its flesh. It turned swiftly, and the tip of one talon scored a line across his chestplate, sending bits of ancient parchment fluttering to the ground. He fired again, ignoring the growing ache in his head, trusting in his mental shields to hold against the creature as its mind-nodes pulsed. That trust, however, was in vain. Smoke boiled from the circuitry that lined the interior of his psychic hood as its synaptic connectors burned out one by one.

Tigurius staggered. His staff and bolt pistol slipped from numb fingers. The creature hissed and slunk around him. He could feel it prying at the gates of his mind, scrabbling about in the shadows of his consciousness. His limbs felt heavy and awkward, and he sank down once more, borne under by the enormity of its will. The world gave a spasm, like a faulty pict-feed. He smelled rancid meat, and heard a riotous murmur that overwhelmed his thoughts, smashing them aside. He felt heat, and hunger… a terrible hunger.

That hunger tore through Tigurius, smashing aside his certainties and assurances, his confidence and surety, in a way it had never done before. All of it, all of his training, his skill, his power as Chief Librarian, was as nothing before that inhuman ache, and he realised with a growing horror that he had never truly faced the hive mind before – that this hunger was a roaring inferno compared to the flickering spark he had touched previously.

It was a hunger such as a fire might feel, enormous and unending. A hunger which would never know appeasement and would never abate, not even when the last sun had flickered and died, leaving the galaxy a cold, barren void at last. Even then, the hunger would not end, even then the hive mind would hunt, feeding on itself until, at last, the surviving shard of its intelligence withered and starved, alone in the dark and quiet.

But before that, it would feed on every world. It would batten on every star, and strip every system and sector of life. The Imperium would fall to it. There would be no salvation, no last minute reprieve. The murmurs grew in volume, and he clutched uselessly at his head, trying to block them out.

As Tigurius fought, trying to shutter the gates of his mind, scraps of sound and memory burned across the horizon of his thoughts. He saw flickering images, as if he were seeing through the eyes of the hive mind as it spread out to consume Ultima Segmentum. He heard the slow scrape of the monster’s claws as it advanced towards him, across the street. But he could not rise to confront it, could not stifle the images which overwhelmed his mind with thoughts and memories not his own.

They were flashes only, brief moments of time, crystallised and vivid.

He saw Sisters of Battle fighting back-to-back with Militarum Tempestus Scions as a tidal wave of chitin and talons loomed over them, ready to sweep them aside. He felt their fear and pain as the image burst like a bubble, parting to reveal a Terminator, clad in the crimson heraldry of the Blood Angels Chapter, grappling with a multi-limbed broodlord in the burning ruins of an Imperial palace. As the broodlord swiped its cruel claws across his brother Space Marine’s chestplate, Tigurius clutched at his own chest, feeling the pain of the blow as if he’d taken it himself.

His mind reeled as the scene wavered and tore, revealing the sleek void-craft of the Eldar, locked in battle with a swarm of flying horrors birthed by the hive fleet. He felt the ground tremble beneath him as the beast drew closer. The alien stink of it was thick in his nostrils, but he could not focus, could not even see it.

The images came faster and faster, overwhelming him with their intensity. Some small part of his mind knew that the creature was using them to batter him, to weaken him, even as Tigurius himself had used his powers so many times to weaken the tyranid swarms – to make them easy prey. His head felt full to bursting. He saw a warrior of the Grey Knights, trapped between the gibbering filth of the warp and a horde of hormagaunts. Even as the Grey Knight moved to confront his foes, the image came apart like sand in the tide, and suddenly, Tigurius was caught in stultifying darkness. He saw green lights, and heard the squeal of ancient machinery coming to life, but too late. The steel-limbed necron warriors awoke from the slumber of ages as the tyranids flooded the tomb, smashing the automatons down as they rose.

He smelled and tasted blood. Blood Angels and Flesh Tearers fought against overwhelming hordes beneath a blood-red star, and he felt their rage and madness as if it were his own. It threatened to overwhelm him, and he cried out. The image shattered and he was smashed to the ground by a heavy blow. Another blow caught him across the back and he felt his armour rupture. He rolled over with a groan, mind sluggish, body barely responding. Hoses popped and seals burst in his armour as its weight settled on him, driving his wounded back against the street.

Its featureless skull loomed over him as he struggled uselessly against it. Blossoms of ectoplasm sprouted on its head, unfurling and growing, becoming tendrils like the ones which had been the cause of Geta’s death. The tendrils quivered, and then stiffened and shot towards him. Something cold touched him and darkness invaded him. It was stronger than the scream, impossible to resist.

His thoughts were ground under the relentless clamour of an alien intelligence far older and crueller than he had ever suspected – this intelligence was nothing like the others; the Leviathan was stronger than the Behemoth, and more dangerous than the Kraken. Worse, he’d been wrong. There was a mind there, amidst the hunger, a true mind, a fierce self-awareness that put the torch to every assumption and scrap of knowledge about the tyranids that he’d possessed.

And that mind hated him. It wanted vengeance. It wanted him. For the first time, Varro Tigurius felt the first stirrings of fear. Such a thing could not be defeated. His will was as nothing next to that of the hive mind. It would devour him, and then Kantipur, and after that, the sub-sector. It could not be stopped. Even Holy Terra would fall.

No!

Even as the thought filled his mind, he refused it. Terra would not – could not – fall. He focused, looking past the horror that held him, and up into the darkness beyond it. He could still hear the voice of the staff, even though it was out of reach. It whispered to him and he closed his eyes, trying to focus on it rather than the horror reaching out to engulf him. He could feel the heat and light of the Astronomican, he could hear its song, swelling in his mind, dimly at first, and then more loudly.

Tigurius reached out, even as he drowned in that cold, hungry darkness, and felt the light of the Emperor’s grace, just at the tips of his fingers. Was it the same light that Malcador had felt, the day he took the Emperor’s place on the Golden Throne? Had the Sigillite felt the light of the Astronomican on him, the day he’d sacrificed his life for the good of the Imperium? The whispers grew in strength, filling his mind, driving out doubt and hesitation. Malcador had died for the Imperium – could he do any less?

He grabbed hold of the light with all of his strength, and sent it pulsing outward, against the dark. There was a scream, like that of a startled animal, as the shadow in the warp met the blinding light of humanity’s guiding star, and then the weight was gone and he could breathe again. His eyes popped open and he saw the xenos monster stumble away, shaking its head. Greasy smoke rose from its brain-case, and could smell the stench of rancid, burning meat. He lunged to his feet.

Acting on instinct, he snatched up his bolt pistol and flung himself at the monster. He caught hold of its carapace and swung himself up. It heaved, trying to buck him off, but to no avail. He shoved the barrel of his bolt pistol against the meat of its mind, and emptied the clip. The great body convulsed, and it took a faltering step. Then, with a sibilant whine, it toppled, slamming into the street hard enough to crack the pavement. Tigurius rolled clear.

He came to his feet and retrieved his staff. As his fingers tightened about it, he spun and extended it towards the twitching hulk, ready for it to spring to life once more. Thankfully, it did not. It sagged, and the acidic bile that passed for its blood began to eat its way free of the armoured shell.

Weary, his mind awash in pain, Tigurius turned towards Geta’s body. He could hear the sound of tyranids scuttling in the dark, and knew that they would come again, and again and again, until Kantipur was theirs. They knew neither defeat nor victory, only hunger. And when this world had fallen, they would hurtle into the void, in search of another. Unless they were stopped, once and for all. Emperor willing, Tigurius would be there when it was accomplished. Even if it meant his death.

But for now, his fight was done, and it was time to leave. He dragged Geta’s body up, and slung it awkwardly over his shoulder. He would not let the hive fleet have it.

The other Ultramarine, Castus, groaned. Tigurius bent low and hooked his arm. ‘Up, brother,’ Tigurius said, dragging Castus to his feet. ‘It is time to go. Kantipur is lost. But there are worlds yet that might be saved.’

Dread Night

Nick Kyme

I wait in the shadow of Saint Agathena for night to fall. At night, the beasts disengage. From my studied observations, I have determined that the darkness makes them more or less quiescent.

It does not, however, make them any less dangerous.

The collapsed amphitheatre is cold, and the place I currently inhabit is narrow. There is barely room enough for my shoulders and every time I move, the armoured guards scrape against stone.

There is blood here too; I smell it on the hot breeze coming from the east where the city of Vanarius once stood and the last great battle of this world was fought.

And lost.

The hunters I am hiding from do not seek out this blood. It is old and any violence that once imbued the ancient rock of this temple has long since faded. They seek different prey now, a beast that is their equal.

When the shadow of Leviathan came to this world, that beast found them.

A faint but insistent pulse thrums gently against my chest. It is the transponder Dagomir gave me. I have been following it for three days, ever since my brothers and I became separated. It was after Vanarius, after we lost this world.

‘Brothers find me…’

If I will it hard enough, perhaps it will become true. I seek a reunion with my fellow paladins but I must cross an ocean of damnation and torment to reach them.

The last light fades in the blood-bleached sky, setting like ink in water. It paints my silver armour in ruby red. I wonder if the light will rise again. It is my sacred charge to ensure that, that one way or another, it does.

I am Siegus Mortlock of the Grey Knights of Titan and this is my final testament.

With darkness shrouding the barren wastes beyond the temple, I ease from my hiding place into the former arena. It is a sandy, rubble-strewn plain that yawns open to the sky like a wound. As I emerge, my armour’s servos growling, I realise I am not alone.

It is humanoid, its flesh the colour of viscera and sizzling like cooking meat. Iron-hard skin clothes a muscular form standing tall on reverse-jointed limbs that end in hooves, not feet. It is horned, this foot soldier of the aether, and clenches a dark blade in its clawed fist. It snarls as it sees me, a long serpentine tongue lathing the air as if to taste my soul.

I mutter three canticles of warding, the words trickling from my lips in a strong and certain cadence. To show weakness of faith before a hellspawn of the warp is to invite death and the rending of your soul.

This one is not alone as it stalks towards me, snorting and braying as if it were a beast of nature and not some abomination. Seven others join it. They hunt in packs of eight.

I will show them they should have brought more.

Donning my helm, I let the optics normalise and adjust to the retinal display that overlays my vision. The force halberd in my fist resonates as I grip the haft. It is time to do the Emperor’s work.

‘I am the hammer,’ I bellow loudly in challenge. ‘I am the tip of his sword!’

The hunters come for me, quickly breaking into a loping run. Three peel off to the left, another three to the right. Two more remain in my frontal arc.

A hard clank of its loading mechanism indicates my storm bolter is ready.

I advance as my enemies advance, quickly overcoming inertia and driving my body into a punishing charge.

‘I banish thee, daemons!’

The storm bolter roars and a tempest erupts from the muzzle, turning two of the hunters into mist.

‘Let His light incinerate!’

A sigil of daemon killing that burns as it touches cursed flesh is engraved onto every one of my silver-tipped and thrice-blessed shells.

Six daemons remain and I feel their strength ebb as I reduce their unholy number further. I swing around the storm bolter and unleash a second burst. They are wiser to its bite this time and two of the hunters avoid destruction by darting behind one of the amphitheatre’s ceremonial columns. The third reacts too slowly and meets the same fate as the other two I have just banished.

Six become five. As I come to the clash of arms, I hope the few I have killed turn the scales enough and that my steel and momentum will overcome what daemons still remain.

I lower my shoulder into the charge, colliding with the foremost hunter, and feel the resistance of warp-forged muscle and sinew. Nonetheless, I press with all the mass and augmented strength of my power armour. The daemon is lifted up, braying as I crush its ribcage, raking ineffectively with its claws, its dark blade failing in the air. The sheer force of my momentum carries the daemon further than the initial impact and it becomes a distant memory as I watch it catapult in my peripheral vision. Smoke rises from its slowly dissolving form.

Sparks rain from the haft of my halberd, the runes upon the blade flaring brightly as it comes into contact with the daemon’s sword. The blow from the second hunter is stronger than I expected, and it drives me onto my back foot. With a shout and the exercising of Emperor-given strength, I throw the beast back and carve it down the middle with my return cut.

Two more are despatched, but it has left me vulnerable to the two that remain.

First there is heat, agonising and pure as primal anger. Then comes the cold, bone deep and numbing. My left leg has a chunk of Chaos-wrought iron sticking out of it. Only the wardings on my armour have saved it from being completely severed.

A glancing blow jams the storm bolter mounted on my wrist as I level it to fire. The dull thunk of a fouled mechanism sounds almost like a death knell.

I barely parry the third weapon thrust. Its edge skids off the blade of my halberd and grates down the side of my war-helm. For a few seconds the optical feed crazes and cuts out. When it returns, I am already fighting blind, fending off the twin onslaught of the hunters. They attack intelligently, one inducing a defence as the other seeks to exploit a weakness in my guard.

The halberd becomes a blur in my hands, more a staff now than an axe blade. I am conscious of the fact that I am giving ground too easily, trying to prevent them from circling. Warning icons flash across my retinal feed as I take damage. The aegis of my armour is keeping me alive but it is not inviolate. Neither am I.

Like a third heart beating in my breast, the transponder gives off a steady pulse and I am reminded of the duty to my brothers. I must find them and reach salvation.

But I am tiring, still weary from the last great battle. Something about this world, it is hampering my ability to heal. It could be the poison in the air or the overwhelming taint now present on this world. It does not matter. The fact remains that I am dying. Determination and willpower have got me this far but they will not avail me here…

‘We die together, hellspawn,’ I promise them, eliciting a cruel smile from both that parodies a uniquely human reaction. The perversity of it turns my mind towards righteous wrath.

Knowing it will be suicide, I am about to thrust my force halberd into one of the daemons and expose my defence when I catch the faint echo of something scuttling against a stone arch above me. There is a momentary pause in the melee as the daemons also detect it before a horde of chittering, chitinous creatures spill down from the arch. Diminutive but numerous, they swarm the hunters, biting and stinging as they bring them down. I feel them scratching and clawing at my armour, but it is tougher than daemon flesh and I endure where the hunters do not. I behead one and impale another through the mass of smaller creatures, the hunters’ screams damning me in a language I understand but would never utter.

With the last daemonic corpses denaturing before my eyes, the fight becomes a brawl as I stab, bludgeon and stamp free of the horde, their vile alien blood gumming up my servos and riming my armour in a heliotrope crust.

I smash my gauntlet against a ceremonial column to clear my jammed storm bolter and am rewarded with the hard metal report of shells slotting into my weapon’s twin barrels.

‘Machine-spirits be praised…’

The storm bolter speaks again, and its words send the chittering swarm creatures to their deaths.

It is over in seconds, the aliens clustering on instinct and tactically inferior to the daemons. Their demise drains my clip and I slam the last remaining reload into the empty breech with an ominous clack.

In spite of the darkness, the skirmish will almost certainly draw others to the arena. I leave quickly, making egress through a gaping fissure in the boundary wall.

On my retinal feed there is a topographical representation of the region. Flashing dully in the lifeless monochrome rendering is the locator-signal of the beacon linked to my transponder.

On foot, it will take me almost an hour to reach it.

Shadows deepen beyond the amphitheatre’s border. They hiss and whisper and harbour the grunting calls of beasts as they are stirred from slumber. The very landscape undulates, reshaping and twisting, and I realise not all of it is ‘land’ and what little earth remains will be forever changed.

I make haste and hope there are enough of us left to reach salvation.

It was a fortress once. Buttressed walls wrought into a high escarpment of rock, I can see why Dagomir would have chosen this place to take refuge in. As I stand before it, I look up at the razor wire that crowns the summit of a single, lonely tower. There are gun emplacements, murder slits, a redoubt raised around the foundations. It was formidable… but now the gate lies open, a forbidding invitation.

Alone and standing before the shadow of this ferrocrete colossus, I cannot linger. With little choice, the transponder pulse now drumming out what feels like a warning, I make for the entrance.

Inside, the signs of what fate may have befallen my brethren are no better than the ruined gate through which I entered. Psychically, the atmosphere is deadened, though I detect a pressure against my skull that threatens from afar. Not the spoor of my brothers. It is something else. Not a daemon, either. I would know if I felt one. This is altogether unique and wholly disquieting.

Engaging the prey-sight filter of my retinal lenses, I venture into the darkness and soon find myself travelling downwards.

At the end of a broad stairwell, I discover the fortress catacombs, ancient beyond my reckoning. I make out baroque columns in the shadows and the glaring statues of long-dead lords. Some stand upon daises, clad in stone finery, while others are wrought into the lids of tombs in grim repose.

I also find corpses.

Dagomir is amongst them, eyes wide but sadly dead. I am heartened at least to see his force sword still clenched in his unyielding fist.

‘Ave Imperator, brother,’ I mutter, the tremor in my voice betraying my grief. ‘Only in death…’

Unlike the others, he stands upright, having wedged his body into a narrow alcove that now holds him fast.

Merek has been impaled. A long spear of dark iron is thrust through his chest. Terrowin lies supine, apparently unwounded until I notice the burnt out sockets of his retinal lenses. Radulf is on his knees, staked by swords to the stone flags where his blood has pooled. His beaten posture prompts a pang of sudden sorrow in me.

Others have been felled in similar fashion. I recognise them all, Leofrick and Berinon, Argonus and Longidus. I have to still my temper to stop from crying out in ambivalent rage and anguish.

My brothers are fallen around the catacombs, and none shall be borne to the Dead Fields, for there are none but I to carry them. The only salve to my grief is that a great reaping lies scattered around them. Daemonic forms lay cleaved, more hunters and tallymen, hounds and the shattered remains of winged furies. Whatever evil now permeates this place, it is strong enough to prevent daemonic dissolution.

It is almost too much to endure and I fall to one knee, the weight of my force halberd a heavy burden. I had hoped some would have survived, but I know now I am the last of us. The last knight of Titan on this world.

I rise – perhaps it is the eyes of my dead brothers upon me that force me up – and approach Dagomir. As soon as I touch his face to close his staring eyes, a hololith hazes into being, projected from the Justicar’s armour and triggered by my presence.

‘Here then marks the end,’ utters Dagomir’s monochromatic simulacrum. He is battered, bloody, and his armour badly rent. ‘These are my parting words for any Grey Knight who yet lives on this world. If you are seeing this, I am slain and our brotherhood stands defeated. Nothing could have prepared us for what we face here. We are the grist caught between the monsters of two worlds.’

The image flickers and for a moment I fear it will fade before Dagomir can impart his entire message but the machine-spirit endures and the Justicar goes on.

‘A last hope still exists. The salvation of a hundred million souls. My brothers…’ he says as a locator signal flashes up on my retinal display and my transponder is repurposed by a data-burst hidden in the hololith. He continues, ‘only you can reach salvation now. Ave Imperator, and may the Bell of Lost Souls ring out for all of the Em–’

The image flickers and dies at last, a fitting omen perhaps.

Several leagues lie between this sundered fortress and the salvation Dagomir spoke of. Alone and injured, my fate appears sealed until the faintest shaft of light, penetrating through the crack in the stone above, although from what source I cannot fathom, alights upon a statue glowering at me from the near pitch dark.

As I draw closer, I recognise it – Brother Sedric, our Librarian. Dried blood cakes his upper lip, his nose and ears. I do not need to be a psyker to recognise the mind-death. It grieves me to see him slain as I raise my eyes to meet his but the armature clad around him is the divine providence I need to achieve Dagomir’s mission.

A Nemesis Dreadknight stands before me, an immense skeletal armature that encases Sedric’s body in an unyielding adamantium frame. It is a relic, armoured and armed with the deadliest weapons of our order. In the hands of a worthy paladin, it is capable of killing greater daemons. I must use it to cross the barren lands to salvation.

Muttering a benediction, I release Sedric from his cage, catching his falling body and gently bearing it to the ground. There is nothing more I can do for him or the rest of my slain brothers, so I climb aboard the Dreadknight in Sedric’s place and see if I am worthy of it.

I lock the stabiliser harness over my shoulders, and as I grip the twin stick controls in either fist I feel the charge of the plasma reactor waking. A sense of invulnerability fills my heart, despite the odds levied against me. Both weapon mounts are functional and I dry spin the gatling barrels in a self-indulgent moment of belligerence. On the opposite side, attached to an immense adamantium power glove, the dulcet burning of my incinerator’s ignition flame is a whisper of the vengeance to come.

With a grunt of effort, I set the giant armature in motion, each slow and heavy footfall drawing cascades of dust motes from the settled stone.

As I set my sights on the stairwell, the chittering I had heard in the arena returns. I am wrenched from thoughts of grief and vengeance and reminded of what comes for me.

I take three steadily more confident steps as the sound intensifies, detecting scuttling against the spiral stair that drills down into the catacombs where I await.

A deluge of tooth and claw erupts from the mouth of the stair, spilling over the steps in a cataract of pale, carapaced bodies and clacking mandibles.

With a bellow, I unleash the gatling silencer. It is the daemon’s bane but will serve well enough to vanquish these creatures, whose forms are mutilated by my fusillade.

‘Back unto whatever pit whence you crawled, filth!’

I spit the words, though my prey will not hear them above the roar of the cannon. With one foot thrust forward, I release the incinerator to wash the flagstones and the remains of the xenos beasts with purifying promethium.

‘Lo! Such is the fate of all abominate creatures! Burn in righteous fire!’

I step into the blaze, heedless of its flame, and grind the xenos into offal.

More are coming – I hear them shrieking and baying from the summit of the stairwell. They sound like larger beasts, the masters of these dregs.

I snarl and mount the landing, my armature still wreathed in fire as I climb.

A beast surges at me. Reverse-limbed, hoofed and chitin-laden, it stands almost to my waist. Its head is large and bulbous, plated by organic armour, and two of its four arms end in arcing bone scythes. The monstrosity would dwarf even a son of Titan but I am clad in holy armour and catch its frenzied attack, seizing the creature’s throat in my power glove.

I fend off its raking claws, the Dreadknight more than their equal.

Two more of the beasts come bounding for me, armed with long, ossified blades. I eviscerate one with a burst from the gatling mount, simultaneously shredding the creature clenched in my fist. Its flung corpse is a missile that trammels the third beast. It has barely regained its footing when I immolate it.

As it dies screaming, I advance, knowing that haste must be my companion now. At the stairwell’s summit, I meet a swarm of lesser creatures. The act of slaying them is not unlike wading knee-deep into a diseased ocean. As I despatch them, the distant throbbing in my skull, the psychic siren-call, grows ever louder. Another alien caste, I am sure of this now.

I breach the gate, the killing almost metronomic in its regularity. Xenos blood has turned my armour a viscous purple hue.

In my wake, I leave behind a massacre and a growing horde hunting down the last living mortal of this damned world.

Night still holds but there is blood and violence on the air that has woken both beasts. Images assail my mind, of great tentacles unfurling, of a deep and fanged maw gaping to swallow the world. I feel the collective consciousness of both the alien and the daemonic pressing against my psyche, slowly thinning the membrane between sanity and madness.

I hear them clashing over distant, broken cities, feeling the malevolence of their gaze fall upon me.

‘I am Mortlock!’ I roar at the hills that writhe in the manner of something sentient. ‘I defy the will of dark gods! I defy the xenos! This world is not yours to claim!’

On the breeze, I swear I can hear laughter.

With my weapons auto-loaded, I set off at a brisk pace. Less than a few hours of night remains and I still have far to travel. The transponder guides me, its thrum insistent, desperate. By the dawn, I must reach salvation else all will be lost.

My last hope, and the last hope for this world, sits upon a barren crag of rock. Salvation. Though I cannot see it, the transponder in my armour tells me it is there. My armature is battered, the incinerator gone, ripped free in a previous encounter, and the gatling has long since run dry. I have my faith and my will alone. It must suffice.

The nascent light of the last dawning of this world is just breaching the final vestiges of night. Exhausted, grieving and near broken, I urge myself to one last effort.

Nearby, I can hear the crash of the oceans… before I realise there are no oceans left.

The great tide of abominations, daemonic and alien, has reached me.

I turn and see them, sweeping, baying, shrieking and killing. In their murder lust, they have not forgotten me. I suspect I am a trophy to them, something to be savoured, a symbolic victory.

I shall deny it to both.

I barrel up the scree slope of the crag, kicking up dust and rock. I fall to my knees in the armature, scrambling now with power gloves digging into the dirt, scratching for purchase so I might stand and at least meet my end on my feet.

The tide washes up to the foot of the crag. As I look back, I see the rock I crawl upon has become an island in an ocean of monsters. Still, they bite and gnaw at one another. A vast daemonic lord with great, ragged wings is locked in a deadly duel with an immense alien tyrant. Overhead there are flocks of furies and flying xenos engaged in aerial battles, and all the while the swarm creeps closer.

‘Salvation.’

It is the second to last word I will ever utter. I see it inscribed upon the metal outer casing.

The device looks innocuous enough. A lozenge-shaped capsule, it is barely half the size of my broken Dreadknight. I disengage the harness and fall from the armature, its use expended now. Finding my helmet stifling, I wrench it off and let it fall. Foulness assails me, the tainted air of this world. Crawling, I reach the edge of the device, aware that the horde is coming.

The overwhelming chatter of their voices is deafening, their foul musk suffocating, but my will holds and as I release the panel and key in the manual activation sequence, all I can hear are the words of my Grand Master, giving benediction before battle. All I smell are the votive candles of my brotherhood’s chapel back on Titan.

In my mind’s eye, I am standing in the Dead Fields surrounded by a legacy of heroes.

I am Siegus Mortlock of the Grey Knights of Titan and this is my final testament.

Judging from the device’s control panel, it has misfired, its arming mechanism thwarted by some twist of fate, but I can realign its machine-spirit.

As I feel the first daemonic breath upon my neck, as the psychic presence that has been oppressing me since the fortress emerges from the horde in all its alien horror, as the dawn rises and bathes my wounded body in the light of a bloody sun, I speak the last word that will save this world from damnation and ignite the bomb.

‘Exterminatus…’

There is light… There is glory… There is–

About the Authors

Braden Campbell is the author of Shadowsun: The Last of Kiru’s Line for Black Library, as well as several short stories. He is a classical actor and playwright, and a freelance writer, particularly in the field of role playing games. Braden has enjoyed Warhammer 40,000 for nearly a decade, and remains fiercely dedicated to his dark eldar.

Josh Reynolds is the author of the Blood Angels novel Deathstorm and the Warhammer 40,000 novellas Hunter’s Snare and Dante’s Canyon, along with the audio drama Master of the Hunt, all three featuring the White Scars. In the Warhammer World, he has written The End Times: The Return of Nagash, The End Times: Lord of the End Times, the Gotrek & Felix tales Charnel Congress, Road of Skulls and The Serpent Queen, and the novels Neferata, Master of Death and Knight of the Blazing Sun. He lives and works in Northampton.

Guy Haley is the author of Space Marine Battles: Death of Integrity, the Warhammer 40,000 novels Valedor and Baneblade, and the novellas The Eternal Crusader, The Last Days of Ector and Broken Sword, for Damocles. His enthusiasm for all things greenskin has also led him to pen the eponymous Warhammer novel Skarsnik, as well as the End Times novel The Rise of the Horned Rat. He lives in Yorkshire with his wife and son.

Andy Smillie is best known for his visceral Flesh Tearers novellas, Sons of Wrath and Flesh of Cretacia, and the novel Trial by Blood. He has also written a host of short stories starring this brutal Chapter of Space Marines and a number of audio dramas including The Kauyon, Blood in the Machine, Deathwolf and From the Blood.

L J Goulding has written many stories for Black Library, including ‘The Lords of Borsis’, ‘Kaldor Draigo: Knight of Titan’ and the Space Marine Battles audio drama Mortarion’s Heart for Warhammer 40,000, and ‘The Oberwald Ripper’ and ‘The Great Maw’ for Warhammer. He lives and works in Nottingham, UK.

Joe Parrino is the author of a range of Warhammer 40,000 stories, including the novella Shield of Baal: Devourer, the audio dramas Alone, Damocles: The Shape of the Hunt and Assassinorum: The Emperor’s Judgement, and the short stories ‘Witness’, ‘The Patient Hunter’, ‘Nightspear’, ‘In Service to Shadows’ and ‘No Worse Sin’. He lives, writes and works in the American Pacific Northwest.

Nick Kyme is the author of the Horus Heresy novels Deathfire and Vulkan Lives, the novellas Promethean Sun and Scorched Earth, and the audio drama Censure. His novella Feat of Iron was a New York Times bestseller in the Horus Heresy collection, The Primarchs. Nick is well known for his popular Salamanders novels, including Rebirth, the Space Marine Battles novel Damnos, and numerous short stories. He has also written fiction set in the world of Warhammer, most notably the Time of Legends novel The Great Betrayal. He lives and works in Nottingham, and has a rabbit.

A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

Tempestus first published in 2014.
Deathstorm first published in 2014.
Wraithflight first published in 2014.
A Son’s Burden first published in 2014.
The Word of the Silent King first published in 2014.
Devourer first published in 2014.
Shadow of the Leviathan first published in 2014.
Dread Night first published in 2014.
This eBook edition published in 2015 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Cover illustrations by Kai Lim of Imaginary Friends Studio, Ray Swanland, Pedro Nunez, Diana Martinez, Adrian Smith, Dave Greco, Mark Holmes and Kevin Chin.

The Shield of Baal Collection © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2015. The Shield of Baal Collection, The Shield of Baal, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, The Horus Heresy, The Horus Heresy Eye logo, Space Marine, 40K, Warhammer, Warhammer 40,000, the ‘Aquila’ Double-headed Eagle logo, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.
All Rights Reserved.

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN: 978-1-78572-002-4

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.