Swallow James

Nemesis

Annotation

The Horus Heresy

NEMESIS

Warwithin the shadows

Horus Heresy вЂ“ 13

James Swallow

(An Undead Scan v1.0)

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For Aaron & KatieвЂ”Clear Skies and Good Hunting.

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The Horus Heresy

It is a time of legend.

Mighty heroes battle for the right to rule the galaxy. The vast armies of the

Emperor of Earth have conquered the galaxy in a Great CrusadeвЂ”the myriad

alien races have been smashed by the EmperorвЂ™s elite warriors and wiped from the

face of history.

The dawn of a new age of supremacy for humanity beckons.

Gleaming citadels of marble and gold celebrate the many victories of the Emperor.

Triumphs are raised on a million worlds to record the epic deeds of his most

powerful and deadly warriors.

First and foremost amongst these are the primarchs, superheroic beings who have

led the EmperorвЂ™s armies of Space Marines in victory after victory. They are

unstoppable and magnificent, the pinnacle of the EmperorвЂ™s genetic

experimentation. The Space Marines are the mightiest human warriors the galaxy

has ever known, each capable of besting a hundred normal men or more in

combat.

Organised into vast armies of tens of thousands called Legions, the Space Marines

and their primarch leaders conquer the galaxy in the name of the Emperor.

Chief amongst the primarchs is Horus, called the Glorious, the Brightest Star,

favourite of the Emperor, and like a son unto him. He is the Warmaster, the

commander-in-chief of the EmperorвЂ™s military might, subjugator of a thousand

thousand worlds and conqueror of the galaxy. He is a warrior without peer, a

diplomat supreme.

As the flames of war spread through the Imperium, mankindвЂ™s champions will all

be put to the ultimate test.

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DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Execution Force

Eristede Kell вЂ” Assassin-at-Marque, Clade Vindicare

Jenniker Soalm вЂ” Secluse, Clade Venenum

вЂњThe GarantineвЂќ вЂ” Nihilator, Clade Eversor

Fon Tariel вЂ” Infocyte, Clade Vanus

Koyne вЂ” Shade, Clade Callidus

Iota вЂ” Protiphage, Clade Culexus

Officio Assassinorum

Master of Assassins вЂ” A High Lord of Terra

Sire Vindicare вЂ” Master and Director Primus, Clade Vindicare

Siress Venenum вЂ” Mistress and Director Primus, Clade Venenum

Sire Eversor вЂ” Master and Director Primus, Clade Eversor

Sire Vanus вЂ” Master and Director Primus, Clade Vanus

Siress Callidus вЂ” Mistress and Director Primus, Clade Callidus

Sire Culexus вЂ” Master and Director Primus, Clade Culexus

Legio Custodes

Constantin Valdor вЂ” Captain-General and Chief Custodian

The Imperial Fists Legion

Rogal Dorn вЂ” Primarch of the Imperial Fists

Efried вЂ” Third Captain

The Sons of Horus

Horus Lupercal вЂ” Primarch of the Sons of Horus

Maloghurst вЂ” Equerry to the Primarch

Luc Sedirae вЂ” Captain of the 13th Company

Devram Korda вЂ” Veteran Sergeant, 13th Company

The Word Bearers Legion

Erebus вЂ” First Chaplain of the Word Bearers

Imperial Personae

Malcador вЂ” The Sigillite Regent of Terra

Yosef Sabrat вЂ” Reeve of Iesta Veracrux

Daig Segan вЂ” Reeve of Iesta Veracrux

Berts Laimner вЂ” Reeve Warden of Iesta Veracrux

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Rata Telemach вЂ” High-Reeve of Iesta Veracrux

Erno Sigg вЂ” Citizen of the Imperium

Merriksun Eurotas вЂ” The Void Baron of Narvaji, Agentia Nuntius (Taebian Sector)

Hyssos вЂ” Security Operative, Eurotas Trade Consortium

Perrig вЂ” Indentured Psyker, Eurotas Trade Consortium

Capra вЂ” Citizen of Dagonet

Terrik Grohl вЂ” Citizen of Dagonet

Liya Beye вЂ” Citizen of Dagonet

Lady Astrid Sinope вЂ” Citizen of Dagonet

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вЂњFor those that defy the Imperium, only the Emperor can judge your crimes.

Only in death can you receive the EmperorвЂ™s judgement!вЂќ

вЂ”maxim of the Officio Assassinorum

вЂњThe monster boasted of what he would do once he conquered the home of the godking,

little knowing that Nemesis heard his words and took note of them.вЂќ

вЂ”excerpted from texts of the ancient Terran poet Nonnus

вЂњWe live in peace and pretend at it. But in truth there are always wars, thundering

unseen around us, just beyond the curve of our sight. The greatest foolishness is that

no man wishes to know the truth. He is happy to live his life as silent guns cut the sky

above his head!вЂќ

вЂ”attributed to the remembrancer Ignace Karkasy

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PART ONE

EXECUTION

ONE

Object Lesson

Tactics of Deceit

The Star

Gyges Prime was a murdered world, dead now, all but an ashen ember. Around the

encampment, porous black rock ranged away under a cowl of low mist, the haze

itself the remains of cities pounded into radioactive dust by countless bombardments

from orbit. Arsenals of nuclear munitions had been emptied to bring the planet to the

executionerвЂ™s block, and now the cooling corpse of the world lay swaddled in its own

death-shroud, a virulent and silent pall of radiation that smothered everything.

Here, in the canyon where the invaders had made their planetfall, high walls of

shield rock did their best to cut the fiery winds from the shattered landscape. Men,

such as the soldiers that had crisped and burned like paper in the onslaught, would

have died for the sake of living an hour outside in this nightmare, had any of them

survived this long. The invaders had no such weaknesses, however.

The lethality they laid over Gyges Prime was to them a minor irritant. Once they

were done in this place, they would return to their warcraft high above and clean the

stink of the dead planet from their robes and armour as one might wash dried mud

from a soiled boot. They would do this and think nothing of it. They would not stop

to consider that the air now passing into their lungs was laced with the particulate

remains of every man, woman and child that had called Gyges Prime home.

The planet was dead, and it had served a purpose in dying. The dozen other

colony worlds of the Gyges system, each of them more valuable, more populous than

this one, they would look through their mnemoniscopes and watch this ember cool

and fade. Why choose to attack that world and no other? The question they first

asked as the warships passed them by had now been answered: for the lesson of it.

Tobeld did not dwell on this, as he moved around the lee of the temporary

pergolas set up beneath the wings of the tethered Stormbirds, hearing the mutter of

conversation among the warriors around him amid the snap of guyropes and windpulled

fabric. Messages were already coming in from the ships in orbit. The other

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worlds, the orbital platforms, the system defence fleet, all were surrendering. Twelve

planets teeming with people, giving up their freedom without a single word of

defiance. Lesson learned.

The taking of the Gyges system had been a swift and almost cursory thing.

Doubtless, in decades to come, it would be less than a postscript in the annals of the

war. No casualties of note had been taken by the warfleet, none that mattered to the

architect of the conflict that this small venture was but a fragment of. Gyges was

merely a stone in the path, a path that began in the Isstvan system and wound its way

across the galaxy towards Terra. Gyges was a passing footstep, beneath which the

blood of millions left no mark. By conventional battle logic, there was no reason for

any of the invaders to even step on to the surface; yet still they had come, in this

small party, for reasons that could only be guessed at.

Tobeld stifled a cough with his hand, pushing the thick robe of his hood to his

face to muffle the sound. It came away wet and he tasted copper in his mouth. The

radiation had killed him the moment he stepped out from the shuttle, him and the

other serfs brought down from the flagship in order to serve the invaders. The serfs

would all be dead before sunset. He knew he would share that fate, but it was a price

worth paying. In the dimness of his dormitory capsule back on the warship, Tobeld

had used a quarter of the elements of his weapons kit to fabricate a strong dosage of

counter-radiation drugs; the rest he had turned to the building of the compound that

nestled inside the finger-long glass vial strapped to the inside of his wrist. He had

done his best to dispose of the remnants of the kit, but he was afraid some trace might

still be discovered; and the counter-rads were working poorly. He had little time.

He passed behind the engine bells of a drop-ship and through the black haze he

spied the largest of the tents, a low pavilion made of non-reflective cloth. For a

second, the wind snapped at the entrance flap and showed him a glimpse of things

inside. He saw what might have been firelight jumping and moving off slabs of

polished ceramite armour, and wet shapes like animated falls of blood. Then the

breeze passed on and the sight was lost to him. Still, the confusion of impressions

made him shiver.

Tobeld hesitated. He would need to cross open ground to get from the Stormbird

to the pavilion, and he could not afford to be challenged. He was entering the

terminal stage of his mission now, after so long. There could be no mistakes. No one

had come this close before. He could not risk failure.

Tobeld took a shaky, tainted breath. He had sacrificed a solar year of his life to

this mission, breaking out from under a cover he had spent half a decade building as

a minor Nobilite clan cook-functionary. He had willingly discarded that carefullycrafted

disguise to embrace a new one, such was the gravity of his new mission; and

through cautious steps, with doses of poisons both subtle and coarse to smooth his

path, Tobeld had made his way into service aboard the battle cruiser Vengeful Spirit,

the flagship of Horus Lupercal.

Two years had passed since the betrayal at Isstvan, the bloody backstabbing that

opened the way to HorusвЂ™ insurrection against the Imperium and his father, the

Emperor of Mankind. In that time, his steady progression across the galaxy had

gathered momentum. As this day showed, every system that passed beneath the keel

of HorusвЂ™ warships either swore fealty to him, or else they burned. Worlds and

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worlds, united in the aftermath of the Great Crusade, were now torn between loyalty

to a distant Earth and an absent Emperor, or to a victorious Horus and his army of

warlords. The glimpses Tobeld got from his lower-decks vantage point showed an

armada of turncoat-kindred consolidating power degree by punishing degree. Horus

closed his steel grip on sector after sector. One did not need to be a tactician to know

that the Warmaster was marshalling his energies for the advance that had to comeвЂ”

an eventual thrust towards Terra herself, and to the gates of the Imperial Palace.

Horus could not be allowed to take that step.

At first it had seemed an unassailable objective. The Warmaster himself, a

primarch, a demigod warrior, and Tobeld just a man. A killer of superlative skill and

subtlety, indeed, but still a man. To strike directly at Horus aboard the Spirit would

have been madness, an impossibility. Tobeld toiled aboard the flagship for almost

five months before he even laid eyes upon the WarmasterвЂ”and the being he saw that

day was one of such magnitude that it set him reeling, the question hard in his

thoughts. How do I kill this one?

Conventional poisons were worthless ranged against the physiology of an

Astartes; they could ingest the harshest of venoms as Tobeld might sip wine. But

Tobeld was here precisely because poison was his weapon of choice. It could be

swift; it could be patient, escaping detection, lying dormant. He was one of Clade

VenenumвЂ™s finest tox-artisans; in his apprenticeship he had manufactured killing

philtres from the most base of components, he had terminated dozens of targets and

left no trace. And he slowly came to believe that he was capable of this, if fate would

only grace him with a single opportunity.

The weapon lay in the vial. Tobeld had created a binary agent, a mixture of

molecular accelerant gels suspending a live sample of gene-altered Baalite thirstwaterвЂ”

a virulent fluidic life form that could consume all moisture within living

tissues in a matter of seconds. When Horus had announced he would be leading a

landing party to the surface of Gyges Prime, Tobeld heard the tolling of fate in the

words. His chance. His single chance.

There was rumour and supposition aboard the Vengeful Spirit, down on the lower

decks where the human serfs and servitors toiled. Men spoke of strange things afoot

on the levels where the Astartes walked, of changes, of apparitions and peculiarities

in parts of the vessel. Tobeld heard whispers of the so-called lodges where these

changes took place. He listened to stories of rites made on the surfaces of conquered

worlds, things that sickened him as much with their nauseating similarity to crude

idolatry as with their hints of inhumanity and horror. The men who spoke of these

things often vanished soon after, leaving nothing but fear in their wakes.

He concentrated on the weapon, listening for the wind to drop. Horus was there,

no more than a dozen steps away, inside the pavilion with his inner circleвЂ”

Maloghurst, Abaddon and the rest of themвЂ”engaging in whatever ritual had brought

them to this place. Close now, closer than ever before. Tobeld prepared himself,

forcing away the pain in his throat, his joints. Entering the command tent, he would

introduce the weapon to the jug of wine at HorusвЂ™ side, fill the cups of the Warmaster

and his senior battle-brothers. One sip would be enough to infect themвЂ¦ and he

hoped it would be enough to kill, although Tobeld held no doubt he would not live to

see his mission succeed. His faith in his art would have to be enough.

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Time, then. He stepped out from underneath the StormbirdвЂ™s wing; and a voice

said, вЂњIs that it?вЂќ

A reply, firm and cold, returned from somewhere close at hand in the smokehaze.

вЂњAye.вЂќ

Tobeld tried to turn on his heel, but he was already leaving the ground, taken off

his feet by a shadow that dwarfed him, a towering man-form in steel-grey armour

holding a fistful of his robes. Leering out of the gloom came a hard face that was all

angles and barely restrained menace. A patchwork of scarification was the setting for

eyes that were wide with black mirth, eyes that bored into him. вЂњWhere are you

going, little man?вЂќ He marvelled at the thought that someone so large had been able

to approach him in utter silence.

вЂњLord, IвЂ¦вЂќ It was hard to talk. TobeldвЂ™s throat was as dry as the winds, and the

grip the Astartes had on him pulled the material of the robes tight about his neck. He

struggled for breathвЂ”but he did not struggle too much, for fear the turncoat might

think he was making some futile attempt to defend himself and respond in kind.

вЂњHush, hush,вЂќ said the other voice. A second figure, if anything larger and more

lethal in aspect than the first, stepped from the smoke. TobeldвЂ™s eyes instantly fell to

the intricate etching and jewelled medallions adorning the other AstartesвЂ™ chest,

symbols of high rank and seals of loyalty among the Sons of Horus Legion. He knew

this warrior immediately, the laughing face and the shock-blond hair, without need to

survey the rank sigils upon him, though. Luc Sedirae, Captain of the 13th Company.

вЂњLetвЂ™s not make a song and dance of this,вЂќ Sedirae went on. His right hand flexed

absently; he wore no gauntlet upon it, showing to the world where the limb had been

lost and replaced by an augmetic in polished brass and anodised black steel. The

hand had been taken from him in battle with the Raven Guard at Isstvan, so it was

said, and the captain wore the wound proudly, as if it were a badge of honour.

TobeldвЂ™s gaze flicked back to the warrior holding him, finding the symbols of the

13th Company on the other Astartes. Belatedly, he recognised him as Devram Korda,

one of SediraeвЂ™s seconds; not that such knowledge would do him any good. He tried

again to speak. вЂњLords, I am only doing my duty asвЂ”вЂќ

But the words seemed to curdle in his throat and Tobeld choked on them,

emitting a wet gasp instead.

From behind Korda, following the path that Tobeld had taken around the parked

craft, a third Astartes emerged from beneath the shadows cast by the drop-ship. The

assassin knew this one, too. Armour the colour of old, dried blood, an aspect like a

storm captured in the confines of a manвЂ™s face, eyes he could not bring himself to

meet. Erebus.

вЂњHis duty,вЂќ said the First Chaplain of the Word Bearers, musing on the thought.

вЂњThat is not a lie.вЂќ ErebusвЂ™ voice was soft and almost gentle, raised only slightly

above the low keen of the Gyges winds.

Tobeld blinked and felt a tide of terror growing to fill him. He rose on it, caught

by the icy certainty of the moment. Erebus knew what he was. Somehow, Erebus had

always known. All his careful subterfuges, every piece of flawless tradecraft he had

employedвЂ”the Word Bearer walked towards him now with a swagger that told the

assassin it had counted for nothing.

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вЂњMy duty is to serve the Warmaster!вЂќ he blurted, desperate to stall for time, for a

moment more of life.

вЂњQuietly,вЂќ warned Erebus, silencing him before he could say more. The Word

Bearer threw a glance towards the command tent. вЂњNothing will be gained by

disturbing Great Horus. He will beвЂ¦ displeased.вЂќ

Korda turned Tobeld in his grip, like a fisherman evaluating a disappointing catch

before tossing it back into the ocean. вЂњSo weak,вЂќ he offered. вЂњHeвЂ™s dying even as I

watch. The boneseekers in the air are eating him inside.вЂќ

Sedirae folded his arms. вЂњWell?вЂќ he demanded of Erebus. вЂњIs this some game of

yours, Word Bearer, or is there real cause for us to torment this helot?вЂќ His lips

thinned. вЂњI grow bored.вЂќ

вЂњThis is a killer,вЂќ Erebus explained. вЂњA weapon, after a fashion.вЂќ

Tobeld belatedly understood that they had been waiting for him. вЂњIвЂ¦ am only a

servantвЂ¦вЂќ he gasped. He was losing sensation in his limbs and his vision was

starting to fog from the tightness of KordaвЂ™s hold.

вЂњLie,вЂќ said the Word Bearer, the accusation clicking off his tongue.

Panic broke through what barriers of resolve still remained in TobeldвЂ™s mind, and

he felt them crumble. He felt himself lose all sense of rationality and give in to the

terror with animal reaction. His training, the control that had been bred into him from

his childhood in the schola, disintegrated under no more than a look from ErebusвЂ™

cold, cold gaze.

Tobeld flexed his wrist and the vial came into his hand. He twisted wildly in

KordaвЂ™s grasp, catching the Astartes fractionally off-guard, stabbing downwards with

the glassy cylinder. Motion-sensing switches in the crystalline matrix of the vial

obeyed and opened a tiny mouth at the blunt end, allowing a ring of monomol

needles to emerge. Little thicker than human hairs, the fine rods could penetrate even

the hardy epidermis of an Adeptus Astartes. Tobeld tried to kill Devram Korda,

swinging at the bare skin of his scarred face, missing, swinging again. He did this

mindlessly, in the manner of a mechanism running too fast, unguided.

Korda used the flat of his free hand to swat the assassin, doing it with such force

that he broke TobeldвЂ™s jaw and caved in much of the side of his skull. TobeldвЂ™s right

eye was immediately crushed, and the shock resonated through him. After a moment

he realised he was on the ground, blood flowing freely from his shattered mouth and

nose into a growing puddle.

вЂњErebus was right, sir,вЂќ Korda said, the voice woolly and distant.

TobeldвЂ™s hand reached out in a claw, scraping at the black sand and smooth rock.

Through the eye that still worked, he could see the vial, the contents unspent, lying

where it had fallen from his fingers. He reached for it, inching closer.

вЂњHe was.вЂќ Tobeld heard Sedirae echo his battle-brother with a sigh. вЂњSeems to be

making a habit of it.вЂќ

The assassin looked up, the pain caused by the simple action almost

insurmountable, and saw shapes swimming in mist and blood. Cold eyes upon him,

judging him unworthy.

вЂњPut an end to this,вЂќ said Erebus.

Korda hesitated. вЂњLord?вЂќ

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вЂњAs our cousin says, brother-sergeant,вЂќ Sedirae replied. вЂњItвЂ™s becoming

tiresome.вЂќ

One of the shapes grew larger, coming closer, and Tobeld saw a steel-plated hand

reach for the vial, gather it up. вЂњWhat does this do, I wonder?вЂќ

Then the vial glittered in the light as the Astartes brought the assassinвЂ™s weapon

down and injected the contents of the tube into the bruised bare flesh of TobeldвЂ™s

arm.

Sedirae watched the helot perish with the slow, indolent air of one who had seen

many manners of death. He watched out of interest to see if this ending would show

him something different from all the other kills he had witnessedвЂ” and it did, to

some small degree.

Korda placed a hand over the manвЂ™s mouth to muffle his screams as the helotвЂ™s

body twitched and drew into itself. On the Caslon Moon during the Great Crusade,

the captain of the 13th had drowned a mutant in a freezing lake, holding the freakthing

down beneath the surface of the murky waters until it had perished. He was

reminded of that kill now, watching the helot go to his end from the poison. The

hooded servile was drowning dry, if such a thing were possible. Where he could see

bare skin, Sedirae saw the pallid and rad-burned meat of the man first turn corpsegrey,

then lose all definition and become papery, pulling tight over bones and muscle

bunches that atrophied as the moments passed. Even the blood that had spilled onto

the dark earth became cloudy and then evaporated, leaving cracked deposits bereft of

any moisture. Korda eventually took his hand away and shook it, sending a rain of

powder from his fingertips off on the winds.

вЂњA painful death,вЂќ remarked the sergeant, examining his fingers. вЂњSee here?вЂќ He

showed off a tiny scratch on the ceramite of the knuckle joint. вЂњHe bit me in his last

agonies, not that it mattered.вЂќ

Sedirae threw a look at the command tent. No one had emerged to see what was

going on outside. He doubted Horus and the rest of his Mournival were even aware

of the killing taking place. They had so much to occupy them, after all. So many

plans and great schemes to helmвЂ¦

вЂњIвЂ™ll inform the Warmaster,вЂќ he heard himself say.

Erebus took a step closer. вЂњDo you think that is necessary?вЂќ

Sedirae glanced at the Chaplain. The Word Bearer had a way of drawing attention

directly when he wished it, almost as if he could drag a gaze towards him like a black

sun would pull in light and matter in order to consume it; and by turns he could do

the opposite, making himself a ghost in a room full of people, allowing sight to slide

off him as if he were not there. In his more honest moments, Luc Sedirae would

admit that the presence of Erebus left him unsettled. The captain of the 13th could

not quite shake the disquiet that clouded his thoughts every time the Word Bearer

chose to speak. Not for the first time, despite all the fealty he had sworn to the Luna

WolvesвЂ”now the Sons of Horus in name and bannerвЂ”Sedirae asked himself why

the Warmaster needed Erebus so close in order to prosecute his just and right

insurrection against the Emperor. It was one of many doubts that he carried, these

days. The burden of them seemed to grow ever greater with each passing month that

12

the WarmasterвЂ™s forces dallied out here in the deeps, while the prize of Terra herself

remained out of reach.

He gave a low snort and gestured at the corpse. вЂњSomeone just tried to kill him.

Yes, cousin, I think Horus Lupercal might consider that of interest.вЂќ

вЂњTell me you are not so naive as to imagine that this pitiful attempt was the first

such act against the Warmaster?вЂќ

Sedirae narrowed his eyes at ErebusвЂ™ light, almost dismissive tone. вЂњThe first to

come so close, I would warrant.вЂќ

вЂњA few steps more and he would have been inside the tent,вЂќ muttered Korda.

вЂњDistance is relative,вЂќ Erebus replied. вЂњLethality is the key factor.вЂќ

Korda stood up. вЂњI wonder who sent him.вЂќ

вЂњThe WarmasterвЂ™s father,вЂќ said Erebus immediately. вЂњOr, if not by the EmperorвЂ™s

direct decree, then by that of his lackeys.вЂќ

вЂњYou seem very certain,вЂќ Sedirae noted. вЂњBut Horus has made many enemies.вЂќ

The Word Bearer gave a slight smile and shook his head. вЂњNone of concern on

this day.вЂќ He took a breath. вЂњWe three ended this threat before it became an issue. It

need not become one after the fact.вЂќ Erebus nodded towards the tent. вЂњThe

Warmaster has a galaxy to conquer. He has more than enough to absorb his attention

as it is. Would you wish to distract your primarch with this triviality, Sedirae?вЂќ He

prodded the corpse with the tip of his boot.

вЂњI believe the Warmaster should make that choice for himself.вЂќ Irritation flared in

SediraeвЂ™s manner and his lip curled. вЂњPerhapsвЂ”вЂќ He caught himself and fell silent,

arresting the train of thought even as it formed.

вЂњPerhaps?вЂќ echoed Erebus, immediately seizing on the word as if he knew what

would have followed it. вЂњSpeak your mind, captain. We are all kinsmen here. All

brothers of the lodge.вЂќ

He deliberated for a long moment on the words pushing at his lips, and then

finally gave them leave. вЂњPerhaps, Word Bearer, if matters such as these were not

kept from Horus, then he might wish to move along a swifter path. Perhaps, if he

were not kept ignorant of the threats to our campaign, he mightвЂ”вЂќ

вЂњPush on to the Segmentum Solar, and to Earth?вЂќ Erebus seemed to close the

distance between them without actually moving. вЂњThat is the root of it, am I right?

You feel that the measured pace of our advance is too slow. You wish to lay siege to

the Imperial Palace tomorrow.вЂќ

вЂњMy captain is not alone in that regard,вЂќ said Korda, with feeling.

вЂњA month would be enough,вЂќ retorted Sedirae, showing teeth. вЂњIt could be done.

We all know it.вЂќ

ErebusвЂ™ smile lengthened. вЂњI am sure that from where the warriors of the 13th

Company stand, it doubtless seems that simple. But let me assure you, it is not.

ThereвЂ™s still so much to be done, Luc Sedirae. So many pieces to be placed, so many

factors not yet ready.вЂќ

The captain gave an angry snort. вЂњWhat are you saying? That we must wait for

the stars to be right?вЂќ

The smile faded and the Word Bearer became grim. вЂњExactly that, cousin.

Exactly that.вЂќ

13

The sudden coldness in ErebusвЂ™ words gave Sedirae a momentвЂ™s pause. вЂњClearly I

lack your insight, then,вЂќ he grated. вЂњAs I fail to see the merit in this leisurely

strategy.вЂќ

вЂњAs long as we follow the Warmaster, all will be as it should,вЂќ Erebus told him.

вЂњVictory will come soon enough.вЂќ He paused over the corpse, which had begun to

disintegrate into dust, pulled away by the winds. вЂњPerhaps even sooner than any of us

might expect.вЂќ

вЂњWhat do you mean?вЂќ said Korda.

вЂњA truism of warfare.вЂќ Erebus did not look up from his examination of the dead

assassin. вЂњIf a tactic can be used against us, then it can be used by us.вЂќ

Dawn brought with it the clouds, and under the mellow amber glow of the rising sun,

the bright jewels of the Taebian Stars began to fade away as pure blue washed in to

lighten the darkness of lost night. Pressed to one window of the coleopterвЂ™s cramped

cabin, Yosef Sabrat took a moment to pull the collar of his greatcoat a little tighter

around his neck. The long summer season of Iesta Veracrux was well and truly over,

and the new autuwinter was on the horizon, coming in slow and careful. Up here, in

the cold morning sky, he could feel it. In a matter of weeks, the rains would come in

earnest; and not before time, either. This yearвЂ™s crop would be one for the record

books, so they were saying.

The flyer bumped through a pocket of turbulent air and Yosef bounced in his

seat; like most of the craft in service with the Sentine, it was an old thing but well

cared for, one of many machines that could date back their lineage to the Second

Establishment and the great colonial influx. The ducted rotor vanes behind the

passenger compartment thrummed, the engine note changing as the pilot put it into a

shallow port-side turn. Yosef let gravity turn his head and he looked past the two

jagers who were the only other passengers, and out through the seamless bowl of

glassaic at the empty observerвЂ™s station.

Sparse pennants of thin white cloud drifted away to give him a better view. They

were passing over the Breghoot Canyon, where the sheer rock face of red stone fell

away into deeps that saw little daylight, even at high sun. The terraces of the

vineyards there were just opening up for the day, fans of solar arrays on the tiled

roofs turning and unfolding like black sails on some ocean schooner. Beyond,

clinging to the vast kilometre-long trellises that extended out off the edges of the

cliffs, waves of greenery resembled strange cataracts of emerald frozen in mid-fall.

Had they been closer, Yosef imagined he would be able to see the shapes of

harvestmen and their ceramic-clad gatherer automatons moving in among the frames,

taking the bounty from the web of vines.

The coleopter rumbled again as it forded an updraught and righted itself, giving a

wide berth to the hab-towers reaching high from the cliff top and into the lightening

sky. Acres of white stucco coated the flanks of the tall, skinny minarets, and across

most of them the shutters were still closed over their windows, the new day yet to be

greeted. Most of the capitalвЂ™s populace were still slumbering at this dawn hour, and

Yosef did in all honesty envy them to great degree. The hasty mug of recaf that had

been his breakfast sat poorly in his stomach. HeвЂ™d slept fitfully last nightвЂ”something

that seemed to be happening more often these daysвЂ”and so when the vox had pulled

14

him the rest of the way from his dreamless half-slumber, it had almost been a

kindness. Almost.

The engine note grew shrill as the flyer picked up speed, coming in swift and low

now over the tops of the woodlands that bracketed the capitalвЂ™s airdocks. Yosef

watched the carpet of green and brown flash past beneath him, trying not to get lost

in it.

A word from the low, muttered conversation drifting between the jagers came to

him without warning. He frowned and dismissed it, willing himself not to listen,

concentrating on the engine sound instead; but he could not. The word, the name,

whispered furtively for fear of invocation.

Horus.

Each time he heard it, it was as if it were some sort of curse. Those who uttered it

would do so in fear, gripped by some strange belief that to speak the name would

incur an instant punishment by unseen authority. Or perhaps it was not that; perhaps

it was a sickening that the word brought with it, the sense that this combination of

sounds would turn the stomach if said too loudly. The name troubled him. For too

long it had been a watchword for nobility and heroism; but now the meaning was in

flux, and it defied any attempt at categorisation in YosefвЂ™s analytical, careful

thoughts.

He considered admonishing the men for a brief moment, then thought better of it.

For all the bright sunshine that might fall upon Iesta VeracruxвЂ™s thriving society,

there were shadows cast here and some of them ran far deeper than many would wish

to know. Recently, those shadows ran longer and blacker than ever before, and men

would know fear and doubt for that. It was to be expected.

The coleopter rose up to clear the last barrier of high Ophelian pines and spun in

towards the network of towers, landing pads and blockhouses that were the capitalвЂ™s

primary port.

The Sentine had dispensation and so were not required to land at a prescribed

platform like civilian traffic. Instead, the pilot moved smartly between a massive pair

of half-inflated cargo ballutes to touch down on a patch of ferrocrete scarcely the

width of the flyer. Yosef and the pair of jagers were barely off the drop-ramp before

the downwash from the rotor became a brief hurricane and the coleopter spun away,

back up into the blue. Yosef shielded his eyes from the dust and scattered leaves the

departure kicked up, watching it go.

He reached inside his coat for his warrant rod on its chain, and drew out the slim

silver shaft to hang free and visible around his neck. He ran his thumb absently down

the length of it, over the etching and the gold contact inlays that indicated his rank of

reeve, and surveyed the area. Unlike the jagers, who only wore a brass badge on

street duty or patrol, the reeveвЂ™s rod showed his status as an investigating officer.

The men from the flyer had joined a group of other uniforms who were carefully

plotting out a search pattern for the surrounding area. Behind them, Yosef saw an

automated barrier mechanical ponderously drawing a thick cable lined with warning

flags around the edge of the nearest staging area.

A familiar face caught his eye. вЂњSir!вЂќ Skelta was tall and thin of aspect, with a

bearing to him that some of the other members of the Sentine unkindly equated to a

15

rodent. The jager came quickly over to his side, ducking slightly even though the

coleopter was long gone. Skelta blinked, looking serious and pale. вЂњSir,вЂќ he repeated.

The young man had ideas about being promoted beyond street duty to the SentineвЂ™s

next tier of investigatory operations, and so he was always attempting to present a

sober and thoughtful aspect whenever he was in his superiorвЂ™s company; but Yosef

didnвЂ™t have the heart to tell the man he was just a little too dull-witted to make the

grade. He wasnвЂ™t a bad sort, but sometimes he exhibited the kind of ignorance that

made SabratвЂ™s palms itch.

вЂњJager,вЂќ he said with a nod. вЂњWhat do you have for me?вЂќ

A shadow passed over SkeltaвЂ™s face, something that went beyond his usual

reticent manner, and Yosef caught it. The reeve had come here expecting to find a

crime of usual note, but SkeltaвЂ™s fractional expression gave him pause; and for the

first time that morning, he wondered what he had walked into.

вЂњItвЂ™s, uhвЂ¦вЂќ The jager trailed off and swallowed hard, his gaze losing focus for a

moment as he thought about something else. вЂњYou should probably see for yourself,

sir.вЂќ

вЂњAll right. Show me.вЂќ

Skelta led him through the ordered ranks of wooden cargo capsules, each one an

octagonal block the size of a small groundcar. The smell of matured estufagemi wine

was everywhere here, soaked into the massive crates, even bled into the stone flags of

the flight apron. The warm, comforting scent seemed cloying and overly strong

today, however, almost as if it were struggling to mask the perfume of something far

less pleasant.

Close by, he heard the quick barks of dogs, and then a manвЂ™s angry shout

followed by snarls and yelps. вЂњDockside strays,вЂќ offered the jager. вЂњAttracted by the

stink, sir. Been kicking them away since before sunup.вЂќ The thought seemed to

disagree with the young man and he changed the subject. вЂњWe think we have an

identity for the victim. Documents found near the scene, papers and the like. Name

was Jaared Norte. A lighter drivesman.вЂќ

вЂњYou think,вЂќ echoed Yosef. вЂњYouвЂ™re not sure?вЂќ

Skelta held up the barrier line for the reeve to step under, and they walked on,

into the crime scene proper. вЂњHavenвЂ™t been able to make a positive match yet, sir,вЂќ he

went on. вЂњClinicians are on the way to check for dentition and blood-trace.вЂќ The

jager coughed, self-consciously. вЂњHeвЂ¦ doesnвЂ™t have a face, sir. And we found some

loose teethвЂ¦ But weвЂ™re not sure they were, uh, his.вЂќ

Yosef took that in without comment. вЂњGo on.вЂќ

вЂњNorteвЂ™s foreman has been interviewed. Apparently, Norte clocked off at the

usual time last night, heading home to his wife and son. He never arrived.вЂќ

вЂњThe wife report it, did she?вЂќ

Skelta shook his head. вЂњNo, sir. They had some trouble, apparently. Their

marriage contract was a few months from expiration, and it was causing friction. She

probably thought he was out drinking up his pay.вЂќ

вЂњThis from the foreman?вЂќ

The jager nodded. вЂњSent a mobile to their house to confirm his take on things.

Waiting on a word.вЂќ

16

вЂњWas Norte drank when he was killed?вЂќ

This time, Skelta couldnвЂ™t stop himself from shuddering. вЂњFor his sake, I hope so.

Would have been a blessing for the poor bastard.вЂќ

Yosef sensed the fear in the other manвЂ™s words. Murder was not an uncommon

crime on Iesta Veracrux; they were a relatively prosperous world that was built on

the industry of wine, after all, and men who drankвЂ”or who coveted moneyвЂ”were

often given to mistakes that led to bloodletting. The reeve had seen many deaths,

some brutal, many of them sordid, each in their own way tragic; but all of them he

had understood. Yosef knew crime for what it wasвЂ”a weakness of selfвЂ”and he

knew the triggers that would bring that flaw to light, jealousy, madness, sorrowвЂ¦

But fear was the worst.

And there was much fear on Iesta Veracrux these days. Here out in the ranges of

the Ultima Segmentum, across the span of the galaxy from the Throne of Terra, the

planet and its people felt distant and unprotected while wars were being fought, lines

of battle drawn over maps their home world was too insignificant to grace. The

Emperor and his council seemed so far away, and the oncoming storm of the

insurrection churning sightless and unseen in the nearby stars laid a pall of creeping

apprehension over everything. In every shadowed corner, people saw the ghosts of

the unknown.

They were afraid; and people who were afraid easily became people who were

angry, directing their terror outwards against any slight, real or imagined. TodayвЂ™s

killing was only the newest of many that had rolled across Iesta Veracrux in recent

months; murders spawned from trivialities, suicides, panicked attacks on illusory

threats. While life went on as it ever did, beneath the surface there lay a black mood

infecting the whole populace, even as they pretended it did not exist. Had Jaared

Norte become a victim of this as well? Yosef thought it likely.

They moved around a tall corner of containers and into a small courtyard formed

by lines of crates. Overhead, another cargo ballute drifted slowly past, for a moment

casting a broad oval shadow across the proceedings. A handful of other jagers were

at work conducting fingertip sweeps of the location, a couple from the documentary

office working complex forensic picters and sense-nets, another talking into a bulky

wireless with a tall whip antenna. Skelta exchanged looks with one of the docos, and

she gave him a rueful nod in return. Behind them all, there was a narrow but high

storage shed with its doors splayed wide open. The reeve immediately spotted the

patches of brown staining the metal doors.

He frowned, looking around at the identical rust-coloured greatcoats and peaked

caps of the Sentine officers. вЂњThe Arbites are inside?вЂќ Yosef nodded towards the

shed.

Skelta gave a derisive sniff. вЂњThe Arbites are not here, sir. Called it in, as per the

regulations. Lord MarshalвЂ™s office was unavailable. Asked to be kept informed,

though.вЂќ

вЂњIвЂ™ll bet they did.вЂќ Yosef grimaced. For all the grand words and high ideals

spouted by the Adeptus Arbites, at least on Iesta Veracrux that particular branch of

the Adeptus Terra was less interested in the policing of the planet than they were in

being seen to be interested in it. The officers of the Sentine had been the lawmen and

wardens of the Iestan system since the days of the colonyвЂ™s founding in the First

17

Establishment, and the installation of an office of the Arbites here during the Great

Crusade had done little to change that state of affairs. The Lord Marshal and his staff

seemed more than happy to remain in their imposing tower and allow the Sentine to

function as they always had, handling all the вЂњlocalвЂќ matters. Quite what the Arbites

considered to be other than local had never, in twenty years of service, been made

clear to Yosef Sabrat. The politics of the whole thing seemed to orbit at a level far

beyond the reeveвЂ™s understanding.

He glanced at Skelta. вЂњDo you have a read on the murder weapon?вЂќ

Skelta glanced at the doco officer again, as if asking permission. вЂњNot exactly.

Bladed weapon, probably. For starters. There might have been, uh, other tools used.вЂќ

What little colour there was on the jagerвЂ™s face seemed to ebb away and he

swallowed hard.

Yosef stopped on the threshold of the shed. A slaughterhouse stink of blood and

faeces hit him hard and his nostrils twitched. вЂњWitnesses?вЂќ he added.

Skelta pointed upwards, towards a spotlight tower. вЂњThere are security imagers

on the lighting stands, but they didnвЂ™t get anything. Angle was too shallow for the

optics to pick up a likeness.вЂќ

The reeve filed that information away; whoever had made the kill knew the

layout of the airdocks, then. вЂњCanvass every other imager in a half-kilometre radius,

pull the memory coils and have some of the recruits sift them. We might get lucky.вЂќ

He took a long inhalation, careful to breathe through his mouth. вЂњLetвЂ™s see this,

then.вЂќ

He went in, and Skelta hesitantly followed a few steps behind. Inside, the shed

was gloomy, lit only by patches of watery sunshine coming in by degrees through

low windows and the hard-edged glares of humming portable arc lamps. On splayed

tripod legs, a quad of gangly field emitters stood at the corners of an ill-defined

square, a faint yellow glow connecting each to its neighbours. The permeable energy

membrane allowed objects above a certain mass or kinetic energy to pass through

unhindered, but kept particulates and other micro-scale matter in situ to aid with onsite

forensics.

YosefвЂ™s brow creased in a frown as he approached the field; the area of open,

shadowed floor between the emitters seemed at first glance to be empty. He stepped

through the barrier and the stench in the air intensified. Glancing over his shoulder he

saw that Skelta had not followed him through, instead remaining outside the line at

stiff attention, his gaze directed anywhere but at the scene of the crime.

The stone floor was awash in dark arterial blood, and there were fleshy shapes

scattered randomly in the shallow little sea of rippling crimson. Ropes of what had to

be intestine, shiny lumps of organ meat that caught the light, and other things pastywhite

and streaked with fluid. An array of butcher slab remnants, discarded not in

haste but with disinterest.

The reeve felt disgust and confusion in equal measure, but he reined them in and

let his sharp eye take the lead. He looked for patterns and impressions. It had been

done with care and precision, this. No crime of passion, no murder of opportunity.

Cool, calm and without fear of discovery. Yosef peered into the shadows, the first

questions forming in his mind.

18

How had this been done and kept silent enough that no one had heard it? With so

much blood shed, had the killer been tainted, left a trace? And whereвЂ¦? Where

wasвЂ¦?

Yosef stopped short and blinked. The pool of blood was in gentle motion, small

swells crossing it back and forth. He heard tiny hollow splashes here and there. вЂњThe

remainsвЂ¦вЂќ he began, glancing back at Skelta. вЂњThereвЂ™s not enough for a corpse.

WhereвЂ™s NorteвЂ™s body?вЂќ

The jager had one hand to his mouth, and with the other he gingerly pointed

upwards. Yosef raised his eyes to the roof and there he found the rest of Jaared Norte.

The drivesmanвЂ™s body had been opened in a manner that the reeve had only seen

in use by morticiansвЂ”or rather, in a manner that was an extreme variation on the cuts

used for a post-mortem examination. Iron impact rods, the kind of heavy bolts used

by building labourers to secure construction work to sheer cliff sides, had been used

to nail Norte to the ceiling of the shed. One through each ankle, another through the

meat of the forearms, the limbs splayed out in an X-shaped stance. Then, slices

across the torso at oblique angles had enabled the killer to peel back the epidermis of

the torso, the neck and face. These cuts created pennants of skin that each came to a

point; one to the right and to the left, another down across the groin and the last torn

up over the bloody grinning mess of the skull to rise over the dead manвЂ™s head. Four

more impact rods secured the tips of these wet rags of meat in place. From the

opened confines of the manвЂ™s body, loops of dislodged muscle and broken spars of

bone pointed down towards the blood pool, weeping fluid.

вЂњHave you ever seen anything like that?вЂќ managed Skelta, his voice thick with

revulsion. вЂњItвЂ™s horrific.вЂќ

YosefвЂ™s first thought was of a sculpture, of an artwork. Against the dark metal

plates of the shedвЂ™s roof, the drivesman had been made into a star with eight points.

вЂњI donвЂ™t know,вЂќ whispered the reeve.

19

TWO

The Shrouds

Masked

A Common Blade

The Imperial Palace was more city than stronghold, vast and ornate in the majesty of

its sprawling scope, towers, pinnacles and great monoliths of stone and gold that

swept from horizon to jagged horizon. Landscapes that in millennia past had been a

patchwork of nation-states and sovereignties were now buried beneath the grand

unity of the Empire of Humanity, and its greatest monument. The dominions of the

palace encompassed whole settlements and satellite townships, from the confines of

the PetitionerвЂ™s City to the ranges of the Elysium Domes, across the largest star-port

in the Sol system and down to the awesome spectacle of the Eternity Gate. Millions

toiled within its outer walls in service to the Imperium, many living their lives

without ever leaving the silver arcology ziggurats where they were born, served, and

died.

This was the shining, beating heart of all human endeavour, the throne and the

birthplace of a species that stood astride the galaxy, its splendour and dignity vast

enough that no one voice could ever hope to encompass them with mere words. Terra

and her greatness were the jewel in the Imperial crown, bright and endless.

And yet; within a metropolis that masqueraded as a continent, there were a

myriad of ghost rooms and secret places. There were corners where the light did not

fallвЂ”some of them created for just that purpose.

There was a chamber known as the Shrouds. Inside the confines of the Inner

Palace, if one could have gazed upon the schematics of those bold artisans who laid

the first stones of the gargantuan city-state, no trace of the room or its entrances

would have been apparent. To all intents and purposes, this place did not exist, and

even those who had need to know of its reality could not have pinpointed it on a map.

If one could not find the Shrouds, then one was not meant to.

There were many ways to the chamber, and those who met there might know of

one or twoвЂ”hidden passageways concealed in the tromp IвЂ™oeil artworks of the Arc

Galleries; a shaft behind the captured waterfall at the Annapurna Gate; the blind

corridor near the Great Orrery; the Solomon Folly and the ghost switch in the

sapphire elevator at the Western Vantage; these and others, some unused for

centuries. Those summoned to the Shrouds would emerge into a labyrinth of evershifting

corridors that defied all attempts to map them, guided by a mech-intellect

that would navigate them to the room and never twice by the same route. All that

could be certain was that the chamber was atop a tower, one of thousands ranged in

sentry rows across the inner bulwarks of the Palace, and even that was a supposition,

20

based on the weak patina of daylight allowed to penetrate the sailcloth-thick blinds

that forever curtained the great oval windows about the room. Some suspected that

the light might be a deception, a falsehood filtered through trick glass or even totally

simulated. Perhaps the chamber was deep underground, or perhaps there were more

than one of them, a suite of dozens of identical rooms so exacting in similarity that to

tell them apart would be impossible.

And once within, there was no place on Earth more secure, save for the

EmperorвЂ™s Throne Room itself. None could listen in upon words spoken in a place

that did not exist, that could not be found. The walls of the chamber, dark mahogany

panels adorned with minimalist artworks and a few lume-globes, concealed layers of

instrumentality that rendered the room and everything in it completely dead to the

eyes and ears of any possible surveillance. There were counter-measures that fogged

radiation detection frequencies, devices that swallowed sound and heat and light,

working alongside slivers of living neural matter broadcasting the telepathic

equivalent of white noise across all psychic spectra. There was even a rumour that

the chamber was cloaked by a field of disruption that actually dislocated local spacetime

by several fractions of a second, allowing the room to exist a heartbeat into the

future and out of reach of the rest of the universe.

In the Shrouds there was a table, a long octagon of polished rosewood, and upon

it a simple hololithic projector casting a cool glow over the assembled men and

women gathered there. In deep, comfortable seats, six of them clustered around one

end of the table, while a seventh sat alone at the head. The eighth did not sit, but

instead stood just beyond the range of the light, content to be little more than a tall

shape made up of shadows and angles.

The seven at the table had faces of porcelain and precious metals. Masks covered

their countenances from brow-line to neck, and like the room they were in, these

outer concealments, were far more than they appeared. Each mask was loaded with

advanced technologies, data-libraries, sensoria, even microweapons, and each had a

different aspect that was the mirror of its wearer; only the man at the head of the

table wore a face with no affectation. His mask was simple and silver, as if it had

been carved from polished steel, with only the vaguest impression of a brow, eyes, a

nose and mouth. Reflected in its sheen, the panes of information shown by the

hololith turned slowly, allowing everyone in the room to read them.

What was written there was damning and disappointing in equal measure.

вЂњThen he is dead,вЂќ said a womanвЂ™s voice, the tone filtered through a fractal baffle

that rendered her vocal pattern untraceable. Her mask was black and it fit skin-close,

almost like a hood made of silk; only the large oval rubies that were her eyes broke

the illusion. вЂњThe report here makes that clear.вЂќ

вЂњQuick to judge, as ever,вЂќ came a throaty whisper, similarly filtered, from a

motionless mask that resembled a distended, hydrocephalic skull. вЂњWe should hold

for certainty, Siress Callidus.вЂќ

The ruby eyes glared across the table. вЂњMy esteemed Sire Culexus,вЂќ came the

terse reply. вЂњHow long would you have us wait? Until the revolt reaches our door?вЂќ

She turned her jewelled gaze on the only other woman seated at the table, a figure

whose face was hidden behind an elegant velvet visor of green and gold, vaned with

21

lines of droplet pearls and dark emeralds. вЂњOur sisterвЂ™s agent has failed. As I said he

would.вЂќ

The woman in the green mask stiffened, and leaned back in her chair, distancing

herself from the ire of Callidus. Her reply was frosty and brittle. вЂњI would note that

none of you have yet been able to place an operative so close to the Warmaster as

Clade Venenum did. Tobeld was one of my finest students, equal to the task he was

set uponвЂ”вЂќ

That drew a derisive grant from a hulking male behind a grinning, fang-toothed

rictus made of bone and gunmetal. вЂњIf he was equal to it, then why isnвЂ™t the turncoat

dead? All that time wasted and for what? To give the traitors a fresh corpse at HorusвЂ™

doorstep?вЂќ He made a spitting sound.

Siress VenenumвЂ™s eyes narrowed behind their disguise. вЂњHowever little you think

of my clade, dear Eversor, your record to date gives you no cause to preen.вЂќ She

drew herself up. вЂњWhat have you contributed to this mission other than a few messy

and explosive deaths?вЂќ

The fanged mask regarded her, anger radiating out from the man behind it. вЂњMy

agents have brought fear!вЂќ he spat. вЂњEach kill has severed the head of a key

insurrectionist element!вЂќ

вЂњNot to mention countless collaterals,вЂќ offered a dry, dour voice. The comment

emerged from behind a standard-issue spy mask, no different from the kind issued to

every one of the sniper operatives of Clade Vindicare. вЂњWe need a surgeonвЂ™s touch to

excise the Archtraitor. A scalpel, not a firebomb.вЂќ

Sire Eversor let out a low growl. вЂњWhen the day comes that someone invents a

rifle you can fire from the safely of your chair and still hit Horus half a galaxy away,

you can save us all. But until then, hide behind your gun sight and stay silent!вЂќ

The sixth figure at the far end of the table cleared his throat, cocking his head.

His mask, a thing made of glassy layers that reflected granulated, randomised

images, flickered in the dimness. вЂњIf I might address Sire Culexus and Siress

Callidus?вЂќ said Sire Vanus. вЂњMy cladeвЂ™s predictive engines and our most diligent

info-cytes have concluded, based on all available data and prognostic simulations,

that the probability of TobeldвЂ™s survival to complete his mission was zero point two

percent. Margin of error negligible. However, it did represent an improvement in

proximity-to-target over all Officio Assassinorum operations to date.вЂќ

вЂњA mile or an inch,вЂќ hissed Culexus, вЂњit doesnвЂ™t matter if the kill was lost.вЂќ

Siress Callidus looked up the table towards the man in the silver mask. вЂњI want to

activate a new operative,вЂќ she began. вЂњHer name is MвЂ™Shen, she is one of the best of

my clade and IвЂ”вЂќ

вЂњTobeld was the best of the Venenum!вЂќ snapped Sire Vindicare, with sudden

annoyance. вЂњJust as Hoswalt was the best of mine, just as Eversor sent his best and so

on and so on! But weвЂ™re throwing our most gifted students into a meat-grinder,

sending them in blind and half-prepared! Every strike against Horus breaks, and he

shrugs it off without notice!вЂќ He shook his head grimly. вЂњIs this what we have been

reduced to? Every time we meet, listening to a catalogue of each otherвЂ™s failures?вЂќ

The masked man spread his arms, taking in his five cohorts. вЂњWe all remember that

day on Mount Vengeance. The pact we made in the shadow of the Great Crusade, the

oath that breathed life into the Officio Assassinorum. For decades we have hunted

22

down the enemies of our Emperor through stealth and subterfuge. We have shown

them there is no safe place to hide.вЂќ Sire Vindicare shot a look at Sire Vanus. вЂњWhat

did he say that day?вЂќ

Vanus answered immediately, his mask shimmering. вЂњNo world shall be beyond

my rule. No enemy shall be beyond my wrath.вЂќ

Sire Culexus nodded solemnly. вЂњNo enemyвЂ¦вЂќ he repeated. вЂњNo enemy but

Horus, so it seems.вЂќ

вЂњNo!вЂќ snarled Callidus. вЂњI can kill him.вЂќ The man in the silver mask remained

silent and she went on, imploring. вЂњI will kill him, if only you will give me leave to

do so!вЂќ

вЂњYou will fail as well!вЂќ snarled Eversor. вЂњMy clade is the only one capable of the

deed! The only one ruthless enough to end the WarmasterвЂ™s life!вЂќ

At once, it seemed as if every one of the masters and mistresses were about to

launch into the same tirade, but before they could begin, the silver mask resonated

with a single word of command. вЂњSilence.вЂќ

The chamber became quiet, and the Master of Assassins took a breath before

speaking again. вЂњThis rivalry and bickering serves no purpose,вЂќ he began, his voice

level and firm. вЂњIn all the history of this group, there has never been a target whose

retirement required more than one mission to prosecute. To date, the Horus problem

has claimed eight Officio operatives across all six of the primary clades. Each of you

are the first of your clade, the foundersвЂ¦ And yet you sit here and jostle for

supremacy over one another instead of giving me the kill we so desperately want! I

demand a solution to rid us of the EmperorвЂ™s turbulent and wayward son.вЂќ

Sire Eversor spoke. вЂњI will commit every active agent in my clade. All of them,

all at once. If I must spend the lives of every last Eversor to kill Horus, then so be it.вЂќ

For the first time since the group had assembled, the silent figure in the hooded

robes made a sound; a soft grunt of disagreement.

вЂњOur visitor has something to add,вЂќ said Sire Vanus.

The Master of Assassins inclined his head towards the shadows. вЂњIs that so?вЂќ

The hooded man moved slightly, enough that he became better defined by the

glow-light, but not so much that his face could be discerned inside the depths of the

robe. вЂњNone of you are soldiers,вЂќ he rumbled, his deep tones carrying across the

room. вЂњYou are so used to working alone, as your occupation demands, that you

forget a rule of all conflict. Force doubled is force squared.вЂќ

вЂњDid I not just say such a thing?вЂќ, snapped Sire Eversor.

The hooded man ignored the interruption. вЂњI have heard you all speak. I have

seen your mission plans. They were not flawed. They were simply not enough.вЂќ He

nodded to himself. вЂњNo single assassin, no matter how well-trained, no matter which

clade they come from, could ever hope to terminate the Archtraitor alone. But a

collective of your killersвЂ¦вЂќ He nodded again. вЂњThat might be enough.вЂќ

вЂњA strike teamвЂ¦вЂќ mused Sire Vindicare.

вЂњAn Execution Force,вЂќ corrected the Master. вЂњAn elite unit hand-picked for the

task.вЂќ

Sire Vanus frowned behind his mask. вЂњSuch a suggestionвЂ¦ There is no precedent

for something like this. The Emperor will not approve of it.вЂќ

23

вЂњOh?вЂќ said Callidus. вЂњWhat makes you so certain?вЂќ

The master of Clade Vanus leaned forward, the perturbations of his image-mask

growing more agitated. вЂњThe veils of secrecy preserve all that we are,вЂќ he insisted.

вЂњFor decades we have worked in the shadows of the Imperium, at the margins of the

EmperorвЂ™s knowledge, and for good reason. We serve him in deeds that he must

never know of, in order to maintain his noble purity, and to do so there are

conventions we have always followed.вЂќ He shot a look at the hooded man. вЂњA code

of ethics. Rules of conflict.вЂќ

вЂњAgreed,вЂќ ventured Siress Venenum. вЂњThe deployment of an assassin is a delicate

matter and never one taken lightly. We have in the past fielded two or three on a

single mission when the circumstances were most extreme, but then always from the

same clade, and always after much deliberation.вЂќ

Vanus was nodding. вЂњSix at once, from every prime clade? You cannot expect the

Emperor to sanction such a thing. It is simplyвЂ¦ not done.вЂќ

The Master of Assassins was silent for a long moment; then he steepled his

fingers in front of him, pressing the apex of them to the lips of his silver face. вЂњWhat

I expect is that each cladeвЂ™s Director Primus will obey my orders without question.

These вЂrulesвЂ™ of which you speak, VanusвЂ¦ Tell me, does Horus Lupercal adhere to

them as strongly as you do?вЂќ He didnвЂ™t raise his voice, but his tone brooked no

disagreement. вЂњDo you believe that the Archtraitor will baulk at a tactic because it

offends the manners of those at court? Because it is not done?вЂќ

вЂњHe bombed his sworn brethren, his own men even, into obliteration,вЂќ said Sire

Vindicare. вЂњI doubt anything is beyond him.вЂќ

The Master nodded. вЂњAnd if we are to kill this foe, we cannot limit ourselves to

the moral abstracts that have guided us in the past. We must dare to exceed them.вЂќ

He paused. вЂњThis will be done.вЂќ

вЂњMy lordвЂ”вЂќ began Vanus, reaching out a hand.

вЂњIt is so ordered,вЂќ said the man in the silver mask, with finality. вЂњThis discussion

is at an end.вЂќ

When the others had taken their leave through the doorways of the Shrouds, and after

the psyber eagles nesting hidden in the apex of the ceiling had circled the room to

ensure there were no new listening devices in place, the Master of Assassins allowed

himself a moment to give a deep sigh. And then, with care, he reached up and

removed the silver mask, the dermal pads releasing their contact from the flesh of his

face. He shook his head, allowing a grey cascade of hair to emerge and pool upon his

shoulders, over the pattern of the nondescript robes he wore. вЂњI think I need a drink,вЂќ

he muttered. His voice sounded nothing like the one that had issued from the lips of

the mask; but then that was to be expected. The Master of Assassins was a ghost

among ghosts, known only to the leaders of the clades as one of the High Lords of

Terra; but as to which of the EmperorвЂ™s council he was, that was left for them to

suspect. There were five living beings who knew the true identity of the OfficioвЂ™s

leader, and two of them were in this room.

A machine-slave ambled over and offered up a gold-etched glass of brandy-laced

black tea. вЂњWill you join me, my friend?вЂќ he asked.

вЂњIf it pleases the Sigillite, I will abstain,вЂќ said the hooded man.

24

вЂњAs you wish.вЂќ For a brief moment, the man who stood at the EmperorвЂ™s right

hand, the man who wore the rank of Regent of Terra, studied his careworn face in the

curvature of the glass. Malcador was himself once more, the cloak of the Master of

Assassins gone and faded, the identity shuttered away until the next time it was

needed.

He took a deep draught of the tea, and savoured it. He sighed. The effects of the

counter-psionics in the room were not enough to cause him any serious ill-effect, but

their presence was like the humming of an invisible insect, irritating the edges of his

witch-sight. As he sometimes did in these moments, Malcador allowed himself to

wonder which of the clade leaders had an idea of who he might really be. The

Sigillite knew that if he put his will to it, he could uncover the true faces of every one

of the Directors Primus. But he had never pursued this matter; there had never been

the need. The fragile state of grace in which the leaders of the Officio Assassinorum

existed had served to keep them all honest; no single Sire or Siress could ever know

if their colleagues, their subordinates, even their lovers were not behind the masks

they saw about the table. The group had been born in darkness and secrecy, and now

it could only live there as long as the rules of its existence were adhered to.

Rules that Malcador had just broken.

His companion finally gave himself up to the light and stepped into full visibility,

walking around the table with slow, steady steps. The hooded man was large,

towering over the Sigillite where he sat in his chair. As big as a warrior of the

Adeptus Astartes, out of the darkness the man who had observed the meeting was a

threat made flesh, and he moved with a grace that caused his rust-coloured robes to

flow like water. A hand, tawny of skin and scarred, reached up and pulled back the

voluminous hood over a shorn skull and queue of dark hair, to reveal a face that was

grim and narrow of eye. At his throat, gold-flecked brands in the shapes of lightning

bolts were just visible past the open collar.

вЂњSpeak your mind, Captain-General,вЂќ said Malcador, reading his aura. вЂњI can see

the disquiet coming off you like smoke from a fire pit.вЂќ

Constantin Valdor, Chief Custodian of the Legio Custodes, spared him a glance

that other men would have withered under. вЂњI have said all I need to say,вЂќ Valdor

replied. вЂњFor better or for worse.вЂќ The warriorвЂ™s hand dropped to the table top and he

absently traced a finger over the wood. He looked around; Malcador had no doubts

that the Custodian Guardsman had spent his time in this chamber working out where

the room might actually be located.

The Sigillite drowned the beginnings of a waxen smile in another sip of the

bittersweet tea. вЂњI confess, I had not expected you to do anything other than observe,вЂќ

he began. вЂњBut instead you broke open the pattern of the usual parry and riposte that

typically comprises these meetings.вЂќ

Valdor paused, looking away from him. вЂњWhy did you ask me here, my lord?вЂќ

вЂњTo watch,вЂќ Malcador replied. вЂњI wanted to ask your counsel after the factвЂ”вЂќ

The Custodian turned, cutting him off. вЂњDonвЂ™t lie to me. You didnвЂ™t ask me to

join you in this place just for my silence.вЂќ Valdor studied him. вЂњYou knew exactly

what I would say.вЂќ

Malcador let the smile out, at last. вЂњIвЂ¦ had an inkling.вЂќ

ValdorвЂ™s lips thinned. вЂњI hope you are pleased with the outcome, then.вЂќ

25

The Sigillite sensed the warrior was about to leave, and he spoke again quickly to

waylay him. вЂњI am surprised in some measure, it must be said. After all, you are the

expression of Imperial strength and nobility. You are the personal guard of the Lord

of Earth, as pure a warrior-kindred as many might aspire to become. And in that, I

would have thought you of all men would consider the tactics of the Assassinorum to

beвЂ¦вЂќ He paused, feeling for the right word. вЂњUnderhanded. Dishonourable, even?вЂќ

ValdorвЂ™s face shifted, but not towards annoyance as Malcador had expected.

Instead he smiled without humour. вЂњIf that was a feint to test me, Sigillite, it was a

poor one. I expected better of you.вЂќ

вЂњItвЂ™s been a long day,вЂќ Malcador offered.

вЂњThe Legio Custodes have done many things your assassins would think beyond

us. The sires and siresses are not the only ones who have marque to operate underвЂ¦

special conditions.вЂќ

вЂњYour charter is quite specific on the LegioвЂ™s zone of responsibility.вЂќ Malcador

felt a frown forming. This conversation was not going where he had expected it to.

вЂњIf you wish,вЂќ Valdor said, with deceptive lightness. вЂњMy duty is to preserve the

life of the Emperor of Mankind above all else. That is accomplished through many

different endeavours. The termination of the traitor-son Horus Lupercal and the clear

and present danger he represents, no matter how it is brought to pass, serves my

duty.вЂќ

вЂњSo, you really believe that a task force of killers could do this?вЂќ

Valdor gave a slight shrug of his huge shoulders. вЂњI believe they have a chance, if

the pointless tensions between the clades can be arrested.вЂќ

Malcador smiled. вЂњYou see, Captain-General? I did not lie. I wanted your insight.

You have given it to me.вЂќ

вЂњI havenвЂ™t finished,вЂќ said the warrior. вЂњVanus was right. This mission will not

please the Emperor when he learns of it, and he will learn of it when I tell him every

word that was spoken in this room today.вЂќ

The SigilliteвЂ™s smile vanished. вЂњThat would be an error, Custodian. A grave

misjudgement on your part.вЂќ

вЂњYou cannot have such hubris as to believe that you know better than he?вЂќ

Valdor said, his tone hardening.

вЂњOf course not!вЂќ Malcador snapped in return, his temper flaring. вЂњBut you know

as well as I do that in order to protect the sanctity of Terra and our liege-lord, some

things must be kept in the dark. The Imperium is at a delicate point, and we both

know it. All the effort we have spent on the Great Crusade, and the EmperorвЂ™s works,

all of that has been placed in most dire jeopardy by HorusвЂ™ insurrection. The conflicts

being fought at this very moment are not just on the battlefields of distant worlds and

in the void of space! They are in hearts and minds, and other realms less tangible. But

now, here is the opportunity to fight in the shadows, unseen and unremarked. To

have this bloody deed done without setting the galaxy ablaze in its wake! A swift

ending. The head of the snake severed with a single blow.вЂќ He took a long breath.

вЂњBut many may see it as ignoble. Use it against us. And for a father to sanction the

execution of his sonвЂ¦ Perhaps it may be beyond the pale. And that is why some

things cannot be spoken of outside this chamber.вЂќ

26

Valdor folded his muscular arms over his chest and stared down at Malcador.

вЂњThat statement has all the colour of an order,вЂќ he said. вЂњBut who gives it, I wonder?

The Master of Assassins, or the Regent of Terra?вЂќ

The SigilliteвЂ™s eyes glittered in the gloom. вЂњDecide for yourself,вЂќ he said.

Before the EmperorвЂ™s enlightenment, the SentineвЂ™s precinct house had been a place

of idolatry and ancestor worship. Once, the bodies of the rich and those judged

worthy had been buried in crypts beneath the main hall, and great garish statuary and

other extravagant gewgaws had filled every corner of the building, with cloisters and

naves leading here and there to chapels for every deity the First Establishment had

brought with them from Old Earth. Now the crypts were cells and memory stacks,

armouries and storage lockers. The chapels had different tenants now, icons called

security and vigilance, and all the artworks and idols were crushed and gone, a few

saved in museums as indicators of a less sophisticated past. All this had taken place a

long time before Yosef Sabrat had been born, however. There were barely a handful

of living citizens on Iesta Veracrux who could recall any vestiges of a past with

religion in it.

The cathedralвЂ™s second life as a place of justice served the building well. It was

just as impressive a home for the Sentine as it had been for the long-departed priests.

Sabrat crossed the long axis of the main hall, past the open waiting quad where

citizens queued and argued with the luckless jagers on desk duty, and through the

checkpoint where an impassive, watchful gun-servitor licked his face with a fan of

green laser light before letting him by. He threw a cursory nod to a group of other

reeves from the West Catchment, all of them gathered around a nynemen board with

tapers of scrip, waving off an invite to join them in a game; instead he took the spiral

stairs up to the second level. The upper floors were almost a building inside a

building, a multi-storey blockhouse that had been constructed inside the hangar-like

confines of the main hall, and retrofitted into the structure. The room was in the same

state of shabby, half-controlled clutter as it ever was, with bales of rough vinepaper

and starkly shot picts arranged in loose piles that represented some sort of untidy

order, if only one knew how to interpret it. In the centre of the room, a pillar studded

with brass communication sockets sprouted thick rubber-sheathed cables that snaked

to headsets or to hololiths. One of them ended in a listening rig around the head of

YosefвЂ™s cohort, who sat bent over in a chair, listening with his eyes closed, fingers

absently toying with a gold aquila on a chain about his wrist.

вЂњDaig.вЂќ Yosef stopped in front of the man and called his name. When he didnвЂ™t

respond, the reeve snapped his fingers loudly. вЂњWake up!вЂќ

Reeve Daig Segan opened his eyes and let out a sigh. вЂњThis isnвЂ™t sleep, Yosef.

This is deep thought. Have you ever had one of those?вЂќ He took off the headset and

looked up at him. Yosef heard the tinny twitter of a synthetic voice from the

speakers, reading out the text of an incident report in a clicking monotone.

Daig was a study in contrasts to his cohort. Where Sabrat was of slightly above

average height, narrow-shouldered, clean-shaven and sandy-haired, Segan was

stocky and not without jowls, his hair curly and unkempt around a perpetually

dejected expression. He managed another heavy sigh, as if the weight of the world

were pressing down upon him. вЂњThereвЂ™s no point in me listening to this a second

27

time,вЂќ he went on, tugging the rigвЂ™s jack plug from its socket on the pillar with a snap

of his wrist. вЂњSkeltaвЂ™s reports are just as dull with the machine reading them to me as

him doing it.вЂќ

Yosef frowned. вЂњWhat I saw out there wasnвЂ™t any stripe of dull.вЂќ He glanced

down and saw a spread of picts from the storage shed crime scene. Even rendered in

light-drenched black and white, the horror of it did not lessen. Mirrors of liquid were

in every image, and the sight of them brought sense memory abruptly back into the

reeveвЂ™s forebrain. He blinked the sensation away.

Daig saw him do it. вЂњYou all right?вЂќ he asked, concern furrowing his brow.

вЂњNeed a moment?вЂќ

вЂњNo,вЂќ Yosef said firmly. вЂњYou said you had something new?вЂќ

DaigвЂ™s head bobbed. вЂњNot so new. More like a confirmation of something we

already suspected.вЂќ He searched for a moment through the papers and data-slates

before he found a sheaf of inky printout. вЂњAnalysis of the cutting gave up a pattern

that matches a type of industrial blade.вЂќ

вЂњMedical?вЂќ Yosef recalled his impression of the almost clinical lines of the

mutilation; but Daig shook his head.

вЂњViticultural, actually.вЂќ The other reeve pawed through a box at his feet and

produced a plastic case, opening it to reveal a wickedly curved knife with a knurled

handle. вЂњI brought one up from evidentiary so weвЂ™d have an example to look at.вЂќ

Yosef recognised it instantly, and his hand twitched as he resisted the urge to

reach for it. A harvestmanвЂ™s blade, one of the most familiar tools on the planet, made

by the millions for Iesta VeracruxвЂ™s huge army of agricultural workers. Blades

exactly like this one were used in every vineyard, and they were as commonplace as

the grapes they were used to cut. Being so widespread, of course, they were also the

most common tool of murder on IestaвЂ”but Yosef had never seen such a blade used

for so ornate a killing as the one at the airdocks. To use the crude tool for so fine a

cutting would have required both great skill and no little time to accomplish it. вЂњWhat

in TerraвЂ™s name are we dealing with?вЂќ he muttered.

вЂњItвЂ™s a ritual,вЂќ said Daig, with a certainty that seemed to come from nowhere. вЂњIt

canвЂ™t be anything else.вЂќ He put the blade aside and gestured at the scattered files. As

well as the tide of paperwork from the airdock murder, packets of fiche and other

picts had arrived from a couple of the sub-precincts in the nearby arroyo territories,

automatically flagged by the reports of the incident sent out on the planetwide watchwire.

There had been other deaths, and while the nature of them had not been exactly

the same as Jaared NorteвЂ™s, elements of similar methodology were expressed in each.

Daig had suggested that their killer was вЂњmaturingвЂќ with each assault, growing more

confident in what they wished to convey with their deeds.

This was not Iesta VeracruxвЂ™s first serial murder spree. But it seemed different

from all the others that had gone before it, in a manner that Yosef could not yet fully

articulate.

вЂњWhat I donвЂ™t fathom,вЂќ began a voice from behind them, вЂњis how in Stars the

bugger got the poor fool up on the ceiling.вЂќ Yosef and Daig turned to where Reeve

Warden Berts Laimner stood, a fan of picts in his meaty paw. Laimner was a big

man, dark-skinned and always smiling, even now in a small way at the sight of

28

NorteвЂ™s grotesque death; but the warm expression was always a falsehood, masking a

character that was self-serving and oily. вЂњWhat do you think, Sabrat?вЂќ

Yosef framed a noncommittal answer. вЂњWeвЂ™re looking into that, Warden.вЂќ

Laimner gave a chuckle that set YosefвЂ™s teeth on edge and discarded the images.

вЂњWell, I hope youвЂ™ve got a better reply than that up your sleeve.вЂќ He pointed across

the room to an entranceway. вЂњThe High-Reeve is just outside that door. She wants to

weigh in on this.вЂќ

Daig actually let out a little groan, and Yosef felt himself sag inside. If the

precinct commander was putting her hand on this case, then the investigators could

be certain that their job was about to become twice as hard.

As if LaimnerвЂ™s words had been a magical summons, the door opened and High-

Reeve Kata Telemach entered the office with an assistant trailing her. TelemachвЂ™s

appearance was like a shock going through the room, and every reeve and jager

scrambled to look as if they were working hard and being diligent. She didnвЂ™t appear

to notice, instead making a direct line for Yosef and Daig. The woman was wearing a

well-pressed dress uniform, and around her neck was a gold rod with one single

silver band around it.

вЂњI was just telling Reeves Sabrat and Segan of your interest, maвЂ™am,вЂќ said

Laimner.

The commander seemed distracted. вЂњProgress?вЂќ she asked. The woman had a

sharp face and hard eyes.

вЂњWeвЂ™re building a solid foundation,вЂќ offered Daig, equally as good at giving nonanswers

as his cohort was. He swallowed. вЂњThere are some matters of crossjurisdictional

circumstance that might become an issue later, however.вЂќ He was about

to say more, but Telemach shot Laimner a look as if to say HavenвЂ™t you dealt with

this already?

вЂњThat will not be a concern, Reeve. I have just returned from an audience with

the Lord Marshal of the Adeptus Arbites.вЂќ

вЂњOh?вЂќ Yosef tried to keep any sarcasm out of his voice.

Telemach went on. вЂњThe Arbites have a lot of wine in their glass at the moment.

TheyвЂ™re engaged in a few operations across the planet. ThisвЂ¦ case doesnвЂ™t need to

be added to that workload.вЂќ

Operations. That seemed to be the current word of choice to describe the actions

of the Arbites on Iesta Veracrux. A colourless, open term that belied the reality of

what they were actually doingвЂ”which was quietly dredging the lower cities and the

upper echelons alike for the slightest evidence of any anti-Imperial sedition and pro-

Horus thinking, ruthlessly stamping out anything that might blossom into actual

treason.

вЂњItвЂ™s only bodies,вЂќ noted Laimner, in an off-hand manner.

вЂњExactly,вЂќ said the High-Reeve. вЂњAnd quite frankly, the Sentine are better suited

for this sort of police work. The Arbites are not native to this world, and we are. We

know it better than they ever will.вЂќ

вЂњJust so,вЂќ offered Yosef.

29

Telemach graced them with a tight smile. вЂњI want to deal with this in a swift and

firm manner. I think the Lord Marshal and his masters back on Terra could do with a

reminder that we Iestans can deal with our own problems.вЂќ

Yosef nodded here, partly because he knew he was supposed to, and partly

because Telemach had just confirmed for him her real reason for wanting the case

closed quickly. It was no secret that the High-Reeve had designs on the rank of

Landgrave, head of all Sentine forces across the planet; and for her to get that, the

current incumbentвЂ”and so the rumours went, her loverвЂ”would need to rise to the

only role open to him, the Imperial Governorship of the planet. The LandgraveвЂ™s only

real competition for that posting was the Lord Marshal of the Arbites. Showing a

decisive posture towards a crime like this one would count for a lot when the time for

new installations was nigh.

вЂњWeвЂ™re investigating all avenues of interest,вЂќ said Laimner.

The High-Reeve tapped a finger on her lips. вЂњI want you to pay special attention

to any connection with those religious fanatics that are showing up in the Falls and

out at Breghoot.вЂќ

вЂњThe Theoge,вЂќ Laimner offered helpfully, with a sniff. вЂњOdd bunch.вЂќ

вЂњWith respect,вЂќ said Daig, вЂњtheyвЂ™re hardly fanatics. TheyвЂ™re justвЂ”вЂќ

Telemach didnвЂ™t let him finish. вЂњOdium spreads wherever it takes root, Reeve.

The Emperor did not guide the Great Crusade to us for nothing. I wonвЂ™t have

superstition find purchase in this city or any other on my watch, is that clear?вЂќ She

eyed Yosef. вЂњThe Theoge is an underground cult, forbidden by Imperial law. Find the

connection between them and this crime, gentlemen.вЂќ

If it exists or not, Yosef added silently.

вЂњYou have an understanding of my interest, then?вЂќ she concluded.

He nodded once more. вЂњIndeed I do, maвЂ™am. WeвЂ™ll do our best.вЂќ

Telemach sniffed. вЂњDo better than that, Sabrat.вЂќ

She walked on, and Laimner fell in step with her, shooting him a weak grin as

they moved off.

вЂњItвЂ™s only bodies,вЂќ parroted Yosef, in a pinched imitation of the WardenвЂ™s voice

as he watched them go.

вЂњWhat he means, itвЂ™s only little people dead so far. No one he has any interest

in.вЂќ He blew out a breath.

DaigвЂ™s expression had become more pessimistic than normal. вЂњWhere does that

effluent about the Theoge come from?вЂќ he muttered. вЂњWhat could they possibly have

to do with serial murders? Everything Telemach knows about those people comes

from rumours, trash based on nothing but hearsay and bigotry.вЂќ

Yosef raised an eyebrow. вЂњYou know better, do you?вЂќ He shrugged. вЂњClearly

not,вЂќ said the other man, after a moment.

After he had put Ivak to bed, Yosef returned to the living room and took a seat by the

radiator. He smiled to see that his wife had poured a glass of the good mistwater for

him, and he sipped it as she set the auto-launder to work in the back room.

30

Yosef lost himself in the honeyed swirl of the drink and let his mind drift. In the

fluids he saw strange oceans, vast and unknown. Somehow, the sight of them rested

him, the perturbations soothing his thoughts.

When Renia coughed, he looked up with a start, spilling a drop down the side of

the glass. His wife had entered the room and he had been so captured by reverie that

he had not even been aware of her.

She gave him a worried look. вЂњAre you all right?вЂќ

вЂњYes.вЂќ

Renia was not convinced. Fifteen years of loving someone gave you that kind of

insight as a matter of course. And because of that, she didnвЂ™t press him. His wife

knew his job, and she knew that he did his best to leave it at the precinct every time

he came home. Instead she asked him, just once. вЂњDo you need to talk?вЂќ

He took a sip of the wine and didnвЂ™t look at her. вЂњNot yet.вЂќ

She changed the subject, but not enough for YosefвЂ™s comfort. вЂњThere was an

incident at IvakвЂ™s schola today. A boy taken out of classes.вЂќ

вЂњWhy?вЂќ

вЂњIvak said it was because of a game some of the older children were playing. The

Warmaster and the Emperor, they called it.вЂќ Yosef put down the glass as she went

on. Somehow, he already knew what Renia was going to say. вЂњThis boy, he went on

about the Warmaster. IvakвЂ™s teachers heard him and they reported it.вЂќ

вЂњTo the Arbites?вЂќ

She nodded. вЂњNow people are talking. Or else they are not talking at all.вЂќ

YosefвЂ™s lips thinned. вЂњEveryone is uncertain,вЂќ he said, at length. вЂњEveryone is

afraid of whatвЂ™s behind the horizonвЂ¦ But this sort of thingвЂ¦ ItвЂ™s foolishness.вЂќ

вЂњIвЂ™ve heard rumours,вЂќ she began. вЂњStories from people who know people on other

worlds, in other systems.вЂќ

He had heard the same thing, hushed whispers in the corners of the precinct from

men who couldnвЂ™t moderate the sound of their voices. Rumour and counter-rumour.

Reports of terrible things, of black deedsвЂ”sometimes the same deedsвЂ”attributed to

those in service of the Warmaster and the Emperor of Mankind.

вЂњPeople who used to talk freely are going silent to me,вЂќ she added.

вЂњBecause IвЂ™m your husband?вЂќ Off her nod he frowned. вЂњIвЂ™m not an Arbites!вЂќ

вЂњI think the Lord MarshalвЂ™s men are making it worse,вЂќ she said. вЂњBefore, there

was nothing that could not be said, no debate that could not be aired without

prejudice. But nowвЂ¦ After the insurrectionвЂ¦вЂќ Her words lost momentum and faded.

Renia needed something from him, some assurance that would ease what troubled

her, but as Yosef searched himself for it, he found nothing to give. He opened his

mouth to speak, not sure of what he would tell her, and somewhere outside the house

glass shattered against bricks.

He was immediately on his feet, at the window, peering through the slats. Raised

voices met him. Down below, where the road snaked past the stairs to his front door,

he saw a group of four youths surrounding a fifth. They were brandishing bottles like

clubs. As he watched, the fifth stumbled backwards over the broken glass and fell to

his haunches.

31

Renia was already opening the wooden case on the wall where the watch-wire

terminal sat. She gave him a questioning look and he nodded. вЂњCall it in.вЂќ

He snatched his greatcoat from the hook in the hall as she shouted after him. вЂњBe

careful!вЂќ

Yosef heard feet on the stairs behind him and turned, one hand on the latch, to see

Ivak silhouetted in the gloom. вЂњFather?вЂќ

вЂњGo back to bed,вЂќ he told the boy. вЂњIвЂ™ll just be a moment.вЂќ

He put his warrant rod around his neck and went out.

* * *

By the time he got to the road, they had started throwing punches at the youth on the

ground. He heard yelling and once again, the name rose up at him, shouted like a

blood-curse. Horus.

The fifth youth was bleeding and trying to protect himself by holding his arms up

around his head. Yosef saw a particularly hard and fast haymaker blow come

slamming in from the right, knocking the boy down.

The reeve flicked his wrist and the baton he carried in his sleeve pocket dropped

into his palm. With a whickering hiss, the memory-metal tube extended to four times

its length. Anger flared inside him and he shouted out вЂњSentinelвЂќ even as he aimed a

low sweeping blow at the knees of the nearest attacker.

The hit connected and the youth went down hard. The others reacted, falling

back. One of them had a half-brick in his hand, weighing it like he was considering a

throw. Yosef scanned their faces. They had scarves around their mouths and noses,

but he knew railgangers when he saw them. These were young men from the loading

terminals, who by day worked the cargo monorails that connected the airdocks to the

vineyards, and by night made trouble and engaged in minor crime. But they were out

of their normal patch in this residential district, apparently drawn here by their

victim.

вЂњBind him!вЂќ shouted one of them, stabbing a finger at the injured youth. вЂњHeвЂ™s a

traitor, thatвЂ™s what he is! Whoreson traitor!вЂќ

вЂњNoвЂ¦вЂќ managed the youth. вЂњAm notвЂ¦вЂќ

вЂњSentine are no better!вЂќ snarled the one with the half-brick. вЂњAll in it together!вЂќ

With a snarl he threw his missile, and Yosef batted it away, taking a glancing hit on

his temple that made him stagger. The railgangers took this as a signal and broke into

a run, scattering away down the curve of the street.

For a split second, Yosef was possessed by a fury so high that all he wanted to do

was race after the thugs and beat them bloody into the cobbles; but then he forced

that urge away and bent down to help the injured youth to his feet. The young manвЂ™s

hand was wet where he had cut himself on the broken glass. вЂњYou all right?вЂќ said the

reeve.

The youth took a woozy step away from him. вЂњDonвЂ™tвЂ¦ DonвЂ™t hurt me.вЂќ

вЂњI wonвЂ™t,вЂќ he told him. вЂњIвЂ™m a lawman.вЂќ YosefвЂ™s skull was still ringing with the

near-hit of the brick, but in a moment of odd perceptivity, he saw the lad had rolls of

red-printed leaflets stuffed in his pocket. He grabbed the youthвЂ™s hand and snatched

32

one from the bunch. It was a Theoge pamphlet, a page of dense text full of florid

language and terms that meant nothing to him. вЂњWhere did you get these?вЂќ he

demanded.

In the glare of the streetlights, Yosef saw the youthвЂ™s pale face full on; the fear

written large there was worse than that he had shown to the thugs with the bottles and

bricks. вЂњLeave me alone!вЂќ he shouted, shoving the reeve back with both hands.

Yosef lost his balanceвЂ”the pain in his head helping that along the wayвЂ”and

stumbled, fell. Shaking off the spreading ache, he saw the youth sprinting away,

disappearing into the night. He cursed and tried to get to his feet.

The reeveвЂ™s hand touched something on the cobbles, a sharp, curved edge. At first

he thought it was part of the scattering of broken glass, but the light fell on it a

different way. Peering at the object, Yosef saw what it actually was. Discarded in the

melee, dropped from the pocket ofвЂ¦ who? he wondered. It was a harvesting knife,

worn with use and age.

33

THREE

What Must Be Done

The Spear

Intervention

Stripped to the waist, Valdor strode into the sparring hall with his guardian spear

raised high at the crook of his shoulder, the metal of the ornate halberd cool against

his bare flesh; but what awaited him in the chamber was not the six combat robots he

had programmed for his morning regimen, only a single figure in duty robes. He was

tall and broad, big enough to look down at the Chief Custodian, even out of battle

armour.

The figure turned, almost casually, from a rack holding weapons similar to the

one Valdor carried. He was tracing the edge of the blade that hung beneath the heavy

bolter mechanism at the tip of the metal staff, considering its merit in the way that a

shrewd merchant might evaluate a bolt of fine silk before a purchase.

For a moment, the Custodian was unsure what protocol he was to observe; by

rights, the sparring hall belonged to the Legio Custodes and so it could be considered

their territory. For someone, a non-Custodian, to appear there unannounced wasвЂ¦

impolitic. But the nature of the visitorвЂ”Valdor was loath to consider him an

intruderвЂ” called such a thing into question. In the end, he chose to halt at the edge of

the fighting quad and gave a shallow bow, erring on the side of respect. вЂњMy lord.вЂќ

вЂњInteresting weapon,вЂќ came the reply. The voice was resonant and metered. вЂњIt

appears overly ornate, archaic even. One quick to judge might even think it

ineffective.вЂќ

вЂњEvery weapon can be effective, if it is in the right hands.вЂќ

вЂњIn the right hands.вЂќ The figure at last gave Valdor his full attention. In the cold,

sharp light tracing through the windows, the face of Rogal Dorn, Primarch of the

Imperial Fists, was like chiselled granite.

For a moment, Valdor was tempted to offer Dorn the chance to try the use of the

Custodes halberd-gun, but prudence warned him to hold his tongue. One did not

simply challenge the master of an entire Astartes Legion to a sparring match, no

matter how casually. Not unless one was prepared to take that challenge as far as it

would go.

вЂњWhy am I here?вЂќ said Dorn, asking ValdorвЂ™s question for him. вЂњWhy am I here

and not attendant to my duties out on the Palace walls?вЂќ

вЂњYou wish to speak to me?вЂќ

34

Dorn continued, as if he had not heard his answer. The primarch glanced up at the

ornate ceiling above them, which showed a frieze of jetbike-borne Custodians racing

across the skyline of the PetitionerвЂ™s City.

вЂњI have blighted this place, Valdor. In the name of security, I have made this

palace into a fortress. Replaced art with cannonades, gardens with kill zones, beauty

with lethality. You understand why?вЂќ

Something in DornвЂ™s tone made the CustodianвЂ™s hand tighten on his weapon.

вЂњBecause of the war. To protect your father.вЂќ

вЂњI take little pride in my defacement,вЂќ Dorn replied. вЂњBut it must be done. For

when Horus comes here, as he will, he must be met by our strength.вЂќ He advanced a

step. вЂњOur honest strength, Valdor. Nothing less will suffice.вЂќ

Valdor remained silent, and Dorn gave him a level, demanding stare. In the quiet

moment, the two of them measured one another as each would have gauged the lay of

a battlefield before committing to combat.

The Imperial Fist broke the lengthening silence. вЂњThis palace and IвЂ¦ We know

each other very well now. And I am not ignorant of what goes on in its halls, both

those seen and those unseen.вЂќ His heavy brow furrowed, as if a choice had been

made in his thoughts. вЂњWe shall speak plainly, you and I.вЂќ

вЂњAs you wish,вЂќ said the Custodian.

Dorn eyed him. вЂњI know the assassin clades and their shadow-killers are

mounting an operation of large scope. I know this,вЂќ he insisted. вЂњI know you are

involved.вЂќ

вЂњI am not a part of the Officio Assassinorum,вЂќ Valdor told him. вЂњI have no insight

into their workings.вЂќ It was a half-truth at best, and Dorn knew it.

вЂњI have always considered you a man of honour, Captain-General,вЂќ said the

Primarch. вЂњBut as I have learned to my cost, it sometimes becomes necessary to

revise oneвЂ™s opinion of a manвЂ™s character.вЂќ

вЂњIf what you say was true, then you know it would be a matter of utmost

secrecy.вЂќ

DornвЂ™s eyes flashed. вЂњMeaning, if I am not informed of such a thing, then I

should not know of it?вЂќ He advanced again and Valdor stood his ground. The stoic,

unchanging expression on the face of the Imperial Fist was, if anything, more

disquieting than any snarl of annoyance. вЂњI question the purpose of anything so

clandestine. I am Adeptus Astartes, warrior by blood and by birth. I do not support

the tactics of cowardice.вЂќ

Valdor let the guardian spearвЂ™s tip drop to the floor. вЂњWhat some consider

cowardly others might call expedient.вЂќ

DornвЂ™s expression shifted for a second, with a curling of his lip. вЂњI have crossed

paths with the agents of the Officio Assassinorum on the battlefield. Those

encounters have never ended well. Their focus is alwaysвЂ¦ too narrow. They are

tools best suited for courtly intrigue and the games of empire. Not for war.вЂќ He

folded his arms. вЂњSpeak, Custodian. What do you know of this?вЂќ

Valdor stiffened. вЂњIвЂ¦ canвЂ™t say.вЂќ

35

For a moment, the tension on the primarchвЂ™s face resonated through the room and

ValdorвЂ™s knuckles whitened around the haft of his spear; then Dorn turned away.

вЂњThat is unfortunate.вЂќ

The Custodian bristled at the warrior-lordвЂ™s demeaning tone. вЂњWe all want the

same thing,вЂќ he insisted. вЂњTo preserve the Emperor.вЂќ

вЂњNo,вЂќ Dorn looked up at the windows, and he allowed himself a sigh. вЂњYour first

remit is to safeguard the life of the Emperor of Mankind above all else. Mine, and

that of my brothers, is to safeguard the Imperium.вЂќ

вЂњThe two are the same,вЂќ said Valdor. There was a flicker of uncertainty in his

words that he did not expect.

вЂњNot so,вЂќ Dorn said, as he left. вЂњA narrow view, Custodian.вЂќ The primarch

paused on the threshold and spoke one last time, without looking back. вЂњThis

conversation is not ended, Valdor.вЂќ

Cirsun Latigue liked to pretend that the aeronef belonged to him. When he left the

Iestan capital of a night and took the languid flight back to his home in the Falls, he

liked to place himself by the window of the little gondola slung beneath the cigarshaped

ballute and watch the hab-towers flash past, imagining the workadays from

the service industries and the vineyards seeing him cruise along by, their faces lit

with envy at someone of such importance. The gondola was no bigger than a

monorail carriage, but it was opulently appointed with chaises and recessed automata

for beverages and other services. For the most part, it served important clients or the

urgent travel needs of upper tier management, but for a lot of the time the craft sat at

dock, unused.

The aeronef was not his property, however much he wished it so. It belonged, as

his wife often told him he did, to the Eurotas Trade Consortium, and while his rank

with the company was such that use of the aircraft could be a regular perk of the job,

on some level he knew that he would never rise far enough to truly own something of

such status.

That wasnвЂ™t something he liked to think about, though. Rather like his wife, more

often than not. All his not-inconsiderable earnings as a senior datum-clerk, their

appealing townhouse in the fashionable end of the suburbs, the private schola for the

childrenвЂ¦ She appreciated none of it. LatigueвЂ™s love of the company flyer was a

reaction against that. When he was in the aeronef, he felt free, just for a little while.

And thanks to the correct application of some bribery and favours in the shape of a

few deliberately mislabelled shipping forms, he had learned from one of the

ConsortiumвЂ™s technologians how simple it was to adjust the aircraftвЂ™s docile,

unsophisticated machine-brain in order to take the flyer to other destinations that

didnвЂ™t show up on the logs. Places like the White Crescent Quarter, where the

company was always agreeable, and for a man of LatigueвЂ™s means, quite affordable.

He smiled at that, listening to the soft chopping hum of the propeller as the

aeronef crossed over Spindle Canyon, and he thought about ordering a change of

course. The wife was at some interminable gaming event at one of her ridiculous

social clubs, so there would be no judgemental hissing and narrowing of eyes when

he came home. Why not stay out a little longer, he wondered? Why not take a cruise

towards the White Crescent? The daring of the thought made him smile, and he

36

began to warm to the idea. Latigue leaned forward, reaching for the command panel

and licking his lips.

It was then he noticed the object for the first time. On the seat across from him, a

peculiar little ball that resembled a seed pod. Gingerly, he reached for it, prodded it

with a fingerвЂ”and blanched. The thing was warm to the touch, and it felt like it was

made of flesh.

LatigueвЂ™s gorge rose in his throat and he tasted the sour tang of the half-digested

meat dish he had eaten at mid-meal; but still he could not stop himself from reaching

out once more, this time carefully gathering up the object from where it lay.

In the light cast through the cabin windows, he saw that the ball was lined and

strangely textured. He let it roll in his hand, this way and that, finally bringing it

closer to his nose to get a better look.

When it opened he let out a yelp. Splitting along its length, the sphere revealed an

eye, horribly human in aspect, hidden behind the fleshy covering. It rotated of its

own accord and Latigue became aware that it was looking directly at him, and with

something that might have been recognition.

Suddenly overcome with disgust, he threw the orb away, and it vanished under a

low couch. Confused and sickened, suddenly all he wanted was to be down on the

ground. The interior of the gondola was hot and stifling, and Latigue felt sweat

gathering around the high collar of his brocade jacket.

He was still trying to process what had just happened when one of the cabin walls

began to move. The velvet patterning, the rich claret-red and spun gold of the

adornment, flowed and shifted as oil moved on water. Something was extruding itself

out of the side of the cabin, making its shape more definite and firm with each

passing instant.

Latigue saw a head and a torso emerging, saw hands ending in long-fingered

digits. In the places where the shape-thing grew out of the walls, there was a strange

boiling effect, and the light caught what appeared to be something like lizard-skin,

rippling and throbbing.

LatigueвЂ™s reason fled from him. Rather than seek escape, he forced himself into

the corner formed by the couch and the far side of the aeronefвЂ™s cabin, the window at

his back. The head turned to him, drawn by the motion. The skin-camouflage of the

velvet walls faded into a tanned, rich crimson that looked like stained leather or

perhaps flayed flesh: as the figure pulled itself free of the wall with spindly legs, its

head came up to show a patterned skull pointed into a snout, with a peculiar, ploughshaped

lower jaw. Teeth made of silver angled back in long, layered rows. There

were no eyes in the sockets above, only dark pits.

Latigue coughed as a smell like blood and sulphur enveloped him, emanating

from the apparition. He vomited explosively and began to cry like a child. вЂњWhat do

you want?вЂќ he begged, abruptly finding his voice. вЂњWho are you?вЂќ

The reply was husky, distant, and strangely toned, as if it had been dragged up

from a great depth. вЂњIвЂ¦ am Spear.вЂќ It seemed more like a question than an answer.

The creature took a first step towards him, and in one hand it had a curved blade.

The transport rumbled through the thermals rising from the surface of the Atalantic

Plain, and inside the aircraftвЂ™s cargo bay, the bare ribs of the walls creaked and flexed

37

under the heavy power of the thruster pods. Beneath the transportвЂ™s belly, a blur of

featureless desert raced past, torrents of windborne rust-sand reaching up from the

dusty ground to snatch at it. In the distant past, thousands of years gone, this region

would have been deep beneath the surface of a vast ocean, one of many that stretched

across the surface of Terra; all that was left now were a few minor inland seas that

barely deserved the name, little more than shrinking lakes of mud ringed by caravan

townships. Much of the vast plainslands had been absorbed by the masses of the

ThroneworldвЂ™s city-sprawls, but there were still great swathes of it that were

unclaimed and lawless, broken with foothills sculpted by the long-forgotten seas and

canyons choked with the wrecks of ancient ships. There were precious few places on

Terra that could still truly be considered a wilderness, but this was one of them.

The flyerвЂ™s pilot was deft; isolated in the cockpit pod at the prow, she lay wired

into a flight couch that translated her nerve impulses into the minute flexions of the

transportвЂ™s winglets and the outputs of the engine bells. The aircraftвЂ™s course was

swift and true, crossing the barren zone on a heading towards the distant city-cluster

crowded around the peaks of the Ayzor Ridge; she was following a well-traced

course familiar to many of the more daring pilots. Those who played it safe flew at

much higher altitudes, in the officially-sanctioned sky corridors governed by the

agents of the Ministorum and the Adeptus TerraвЂ”but that cost fuel and time, and for

fringer pilots working on tight margins, sometimes the riskier choice was the better

one. The hazards came from the rust storms and the windsвЂ”but also from more

human sources as well. The vast erg of the Atalantic was also home to bandit packs

and savage clans of junkhunters.

At first glance, the cargo being carried by the flyer was nothing remarkableвЂ”but

one who looked closer would have understood it was only a make-weight, there to

bulk out the transportвЂ™s flimsy flight plan. The real load aboard the craft was the two

passengers, and they were men so unlike to one another, it could hardly be believed

they had both been dispatched by the same agency.

Constantin Valdor sat in a gap between two cube-containers of purified water,

cross-legged on the deck of the cargo bay. His bulk was hidden beneath the illdefined

layers of a sandcloak which concealed an articulated suit of ablative armour.

It was by no means a relative to the elaborate and majestic Custodian wargear that

was his normal garb; the armour was unsophisticated, scarred and heavily pitted with

use. Over ValdorвЂ™s dense form it strained to maintain its shape, almost as if it were

trying to hold him in. At his side was a careworn long-las inscribed with Techno-mad

tribal runes and an explorerвЂ™s pack containing survival gear and supplies, the latter

for show. With his enhanced physiology, Valdor would have been able to live for

weeks on the plains on drops of moisture he sucked from the dirt or the sparse meat

of insects. The rifle he could use, though. Everything about ValdorвЂ™s disguise was

there to tell a vague fiction, not enough to hide from a deep analysis but enough to

allow him to go on his way without arousing too much suspicion. The Custodian had

done this many times before, in blood games and on missions of other import. This

was no different, he reflected.

Across the cargo bay, sitting uncomfortably upon a canvas seat that vibrated each

time the transport forded a pocket of turbulence, ValdorвЂ™s companion on this journey

was bent forwards over his right arm. Wearing a sandcloak similar to the

38

CustodianвЂ™s, the smaller man was busy with a pane of hololithic text projected from a

cybernetic gauntlet clasped around his wrist. With his other hand he manipulated

shapes in the hologrammatic matrix, his attention on it total and complete. His name

was Fon Tariel; the light of the text threw colour over his pale olive skin and the dark

ovals of his eyes. A tight nest of dreadlocks drawing over TarielвЂ™s head did their best

to hide discreet bronze vents in the back of his skull, where interface sockets gleamed

alongside memory implants and dataphilia. Unlike the cohorts of the Mechanicum,

who willingly gave themselves fully to the marriage of flesh and machine, TarielвЂ™s

augmentations were discreet and nuanced.

Valdor studied him through lidded eyes, careful to be circumspect about it. The

Sigillite had presented Tariel to him in a manner that made it clear no questioning of

his choice would be allowed. The little man was Sire VanusвЂ™ contribution to the

Execution Force, one of the cladeвЂ™s newest operatives, with a skull crammed full of

data and a willingness to serve. They called TarielвЂ™s kind вЂњinfocytesвЂќ; essentially

they were human computing engines, but at the very far opposite of the spectrum

from the mindless meat-automata of servitors. In matters of strategy and tactics, the

insight of an infocyte was unparalleled; their existence cemented Clade Vanus as the

intelligence-gathering faction of the Officio Assassinorum. It was said they had never

been known to make an error of judgement. Valdor considered that as little more than

disinformation, however; the creation and dissemination of propaganda was also a

core strength of the Vanus.

From the corner of his eye, the Custodian saw the movement of a monitor camera

high up on the roof of the cargo bay. He had noted earlier that it appeared to be

dwelling on him more than it should have, and now the deviceвЂ™s attention seemed

solely fixed on him. Without turning his head, Valdor saw that Tariel had moved

slightly so that his holoscreen was now concealed by the bulk of his body.

The CustodianвЂ™s lip curled, and with a quick motion he was on his feet, crossing

the short distance between the two of them. Tariel reacted with a flash of panic, but

Valdor was on him, grabbing his arm. The hololith showed the monitorвЂ™s point of

view, locked onto the Custodian. Data streams haloed his image, feeding out biopatterns

and body kinestics; Tariel had somehow invaded and co-opted the flyerвЂ™s

internal security systems to satisfy his own curiosity.

вЂњDonвЂ™t spy on me,вЂќ Valdor told the infocyte. вЂњI value my privacy.вЂќ

вЂњYou canвЂ™t blame me,вЂќ Tariel blurted. вЂњI wondered who you were.вЂќ

Valdor considered this for a moment, still holding him in an immobile grip. They

had both boarded the transport in silence, neither speaking until this moment; he was

not surprised that the other man had let his inquisitiveness outstrip his caution. Tariel

and his kind had the same relationship with raw information that an addict did with

their chosen vice; they were enrapt by the idea of new data, and would do whatever

they could to gather it in, and know it. Quite how that balanced with the

AssassinorumвЂ™s obsessive need for near-total secrecy he could not imagine; perhaps

it went some way towards explaining the peculiar character of the Vanus clade and

its agents. вЂњThen who am I?вЂќ he demanded. вЂњIf I caught you staring at me through

that camera, then surely you have been doing that and more since we first left the

Imperial City.вЂќ

вЂњLet go of my hand, please,вЂќ said Tariel. вЂњYouвЂ™re hurting me.вЂќ

39

вЂњNot really,вЂќ Valdor told him, but he released his grip anyway.

After a moment, the infocyte nodded. вЂњYou are Constantin Valdor, Captain-

General of the Custodian Guard, margin of error less than fourteen percent. I parsed

this from physiological data and existing records, along with sampling of various

other information streams.вЂќ Tariel showed him; inputs from sources as diverse as

traffic routings, listings of foodstuffs purchased by the Palace consumery, the routes

of cleaning automata, renovation files from the forges that repaired the robots Valdor

had smashed during his morning exercisesвЂ¦ To the warrior it seemed like a wall of

white noise, but the infocyte manipulated it effortlessly.

вЂњThat isвЂ¦ impressive,вЂќ he offered. вЂњBut not the work of an assassin, I would

think.вЂќ

TarielвЂ™s expression stiffened at that. вЂњClade Vanus has removed many of the

ImperiumвЂ™s enemies. We do our part, as you do, Captain-General.вЂќ

Valdor leaned in, looming over the man. вЂњAnd how many enemies of Terra have

you killed, Fon Tariel?вЂќ

The infocyte paused, blinking. вЂњIn the way that you would consider it a

termination? None. But I have been instrumental in the excision of a number of

targets.вЂќ

вЂњSuch as?вЂќ

For a moment, he thought Tariel would refuse to answer, but then the infocyte

began to speak, quickly and curtly, as if he were giving a data download. вЂњI will

provide you with an example. Lord-Elective Corliss Braganza of the Triton-B

colony.вЂќ

вЂњI know the name. A delinquent and a criminal.вЂќ

вЂњIn effect. I discovered through program artefacts uncovered during routine

information-trawling that he was in the process of embezzling Imperial funds as part

of a plan to finance a move against several senior members of the Ministorum. He

was attempting to build a powerbase through which to influence Imperial colonial

policy. Through the use of covert blinds, I inserted materials of an incendiary nature

into BraganzaвЂ™s personal datastacks. The resultant discovery of these fabrications led

to his death at the hands of his co-conspirators, and in turn the revelation of their

identities.вЂќ

Valdor recalled the incident with Braganza; he had been implicated in the brutal

murder of a young noblewoman, and after ironclad evidence had come to light

damning him despite all his protestations to the contrary, the Triton electorate that

had voted him into office had savagely turned against him. Braganza had apparently

died in an accident during his transport to a penal asteroid. вЂњYou leaked the details of

his prison transfer.вЂќ

Tariel nodded. вЂњThe cleanest kill is one that another performs in your stead with

no knowledge of your incitement.вЂќ

The Custodian allowed him a nod. вЂњI canвЂ™t fault your logic.вЂќ He stepped back and

let the infocyte have room to relax. вЂњIf you have so much data to hand, perhaps you

can tell me something about the man we have been sent to find?вЂќ

вЂњEristede Kell,вЂќ Tariel answered instantly. вЂњClade Vindicare. Currently on an

extended duration deployment targeted at the eventual eradication of exocitizen

criminal groups in the Atalantic Delimited Zone. Among the top percentile of field40

deployed special operatives. Fifty-two confirmed kills, including the Tyrant of Daas,

Queen Mortog Haeven, the Eldar general Sellians nil Kaheen, Brother-CaptainвЂ”вЂќ

Valdor held up his hand. вЂњI donвЂ™t need to know his record. I need to know him.вЂќ

The Vanus considered his words for a long moment; but before Tariel could

answer, a flash of fire caught ValdorвЂ™s eye through one of the viewports, and the

Custodian turned towards it, his every warning sense rushing to the fore.

Outside, he glimpsed a spear made of white vapour, tipped with an angry crimson

projectile; it described a corkscrew motion as it homed in on the aircraft. Alert sirens

belatedly screamed a warning. He had barely registered the light and flame before the

transport suddenly resonated with a colossal impact, and veered sharply to starboard.

Smoke poured into the cargo bay, and Valdor heard the shriek of torn metal.

Unsecured, the two of them tumbled across the deck as the aircraft spun into the

grip of the rusty haze.

* * *

A visit to the valetudinarium always made Yosef feel slightly queasy, as if the

proximity to a place of healing was somehow enough to make him become

spontaneously unwell. He was aware that other peopleвЂ”people who didnвЂ™t work in

law enforcement, that wasвЂ”had a similar reaction being around peace officers; they

felt spontaneously guilty, even if they had committed no crime. The sensation was

strong, though, enough that if ever Yosef felt an ache or a pain that might best have

been looked at by a medicae, a marrow-deep revulsion grew strong in him, enough to

make him bury it and wait for the issue to subside.

Unfortunate then that a sizeable portion of his duties forced him to visit the

capitalвЂ™s largest clinic on a regular basis; and those visits were always to the most

forbidding of its halls, the mortuarium. Winter-cold, the pale wooden floors and

panelled walls were shiny with layers of heavy fluid-resistant varnishes, and harsh

white light thrown from overhead lume-strips filled every corner of the chamber with

stark illumination.

Across the room, the dead stood upright in liquid-filled suspensor tubes that

could be raised from compartments in the floor or lowered from silos in the ceiling.

Frost-encrusted data-slates showed a series of colour-coded tags, designating which

were new arrivals, which had been kept aside for in-depth autopsy and which were

free to be released so that their families could perform final rites of enrichment.

Daig took off his hat as they crossed the chamber, weaving in between the

medicae servitors and subordinate clinicians, and Yosef followed suit, tucking his

brown woollen toque under an epaulette.

They were here to see Tisely, a rail-thin woman with hair the colour of straw,

who served as the senior liaison between the mortuarium and the Sentine. She threw

them a glance as they approached and gave a glum nod. An accomplished doctor and

a superlative pathlogia investigator, Tisely was nevertheless one of the most joyless

people Yosef Sabrat had ever met. He struggled to remember a single moment where

she had expressed any mood to him but negativity.

вЂњReeves,вЂќ she said, by way of greeting, and immediately kept to form. вЂњIвЂ™m

surprised you made it in today. The traffic was very dense this morning.вЂќ

41

вЂњItвЂ™s the weather,вЂќ offered Daig, equally downbeat. вЂњCold as space.вЂќ

Tisely nodded solemnly. вЂњOh yes.вЂќ She tapped one of the suspensor tubes. вЂњWeвЂ™ll

be filling more of these with those who canвЂ™t buy fuel for the winter.вЂќ

вЂњGovernor ought to lower the tithe,вЂќ Daig went on, matching her tone. вЂњItвЂ™s not

fair to the elderly.вЂќ

The clinician was going to follow on, but before the two of them could enter into

a mutually-supporting spiral of circular complaining about the weather, the

government, the harvest or whatever subject would come next, Yosef interrupted.

вЂњYou have another body for us?вЂќ

Tisely nodded again and changed conversational gears seamlessly. вЂњCirsun

Latigue, male, fifty years Terran reckoning. Gutted like a cliffgull.вЂќ

вЂњHe died of that?вЂќ Yosef asked, examining the face behind the glass. вЂњThe

cutting?вЂќ

вЂњEventually,вЂќ Tisely sniffed. вЂњIt was done slowly, by a single blade, like the

others.вЂќ

вЂњAnd he was laid out like the Norte case? In the star-shape?вЂќ

вЂњAcross a very expensive chaise longue, in an aeronef gondola. Not nailed down

this time, though.вЂќ She reported the horrific murder in exactly the same tone she had

used to complain about the traffic. вЂњQuite a troubling one, this.вЂќ

Yosef chewed his lip. HeвЂ™d gone over the abstract of the crime scene report on

the way to the valetudinarium. The victimвЂ™s wife, who was now somewhere several

floors above them in a drugged sleep after suffering a hysterical breakdown, had

returned home the previous evening to find the flyer parked on the lawn of their

home, the machine-brain pilot diligently waiting for a return-to-hangar command that

had never come. Inside the aeronefвЂ™s cabin, every square metre of the walls, floor and

ceiling was daubed with LatigueвЂ™s blood. The eight-point star was repeated

everywhere, over and over, drawn in the dead manвЂ™s vitae.

Daig was looking at the data-slate, fingering his wrist chain. вЂњLatigue had rank,

for a civilian. Important, but not too much so. He worked for Eurotas.вЂќ

вЂњWhich complicates matters somewhat,вЂќ said Tisely.

She made it sound like a minor impediment, but in fact the matter of Cirsun

LatigueвЂ™s employer had the potential to send YosefвЂ™s serial murder investigation

spiralling out of control. He had hoped that the sketchy report made by the jager on

the scene might have been in error, even as some part of him knew that it was not.

My luck is never that good, he told himself. Bad enough that the High-Reeve had put

her measure into the bottle for all this, but with this latest victim now revealed as a

ranking member of the Eurotas Consortium, a whole new layer of problems was

opening up for the investigators.

Latigue and all those like him were on the planetside staff of an interstellar

nobleman, who was quite possibly the richest man for several light years in any

direction. His Honour the Void Baron Merriksun Eurotas was the master of a rogue

trader flotilla that plied the spaceways across the systems surrounding Iesta Veracrux.

Holding considerable capital and trading concerns on many planets, his consortium

essentially controlled all local system-to-system commerce and most interplanetary

transportation into the bargain. Eurotas counted high admirals, scions of the Navis

Nobilite and even one of the Lords of Terra among his circle of friends; his business

42

clan could trace its roots back to the time of Old Night, and it was said that the

hereditary Warrant of Trade held by his family had been personally ratified by the

Emperor himself. Such was his high regard that the man served the Adeptus Terra as

an Agenda Nuntius, the Imperial CourtвЂ™s attachР№ for every human colony in the

Taebian Sector.

вЂњTisely,вЂќ Yosef lowered his voice and stepped closer, becoming conspiratorial.

вЂњIf we could keep the identity of this victim under wraps, just for a few days, it

would helpвЂ”вЂќ

But she was already shaking her head. вЂњWe tried to keep the information secure,

butвЂ¦вЂќ The clinician paused. вЂњWell. People talk. LatigueвЂ™s staff saw it all.вЂќ

YosefвЂ™s heart sank. вЂњSo the Consortium know.вЂќ

вЂњItвЂ™s worse than that, actually,вЂќ she told him. вЂњTheyвЂ™ve reclaimed the aeronef

directly from evidentiary after using some pull with the Landgrave.вЂќ

вЂњThey canвЂ™t do thatвЂ¦вЂќ said Daig, with a grimace.

вЂњItвЂ™s already done,вЂќ Tisely went on. вЂњAnd there are Consortium clinicians on the

way to take custody of the luckless Cirsun here.вЂќ She tapped the mist-wreathed tube.

вЂњTheyвЂ™re probably caught in that cursed traffic, otherwise theyвЂ™d have been here

already and removed him.вЂќ

YosefвЂ™s eyes narrowed. вЂњThis is a Sentine matter. ItвЂ™s an Iestan matter.вЂќ His

annoyance burned cold and slow as he remembered TelemachвЂ™s words in the

precinct; and yet a day later her superior was sweeping all that aside in favour of

doing everything possible to appease the Consortium; because Iesta Veracrux

supplied wines to the entire Ultima Segmentum, and without Eurotas, the planetвЂ™s

economy would die on the vine.

Daig finally swore under his breath, earning him a censorious glare from Tisely.

вЂњIt doesnвЂ™t stop there,вЂќ she went on, as if to chastise him. вЂњLatigueвЂ™s seniors sent an

astropathic communiquР№ to the Void Baron himself. HeвЂ™s apparently taking a

personal interest in the incident.вЂќ

Yosef felt the colour drain from his face. вЂњEurotasвЂ¦ HeвЂ™s coming here?вЂќ

вЂњOh, I donвЂ™t doubt it,вЂќ Tisely told him. вЂњIn fact, I hear a whisper that some of his

personal agents are already in the warp, on their way.вЂќ

In spite of himself, that queasy feeling returned to YosefвЂ™s gut and he took a

breath of the chilled, antiseptic air. With a sudden jolt of anger, he snatched the dataslate

from DaigвЂ™s hand and glared at it. вЂњThis isnвЂ™t an investigation anymore, itвЂ™s a

bloody poison chalice.вЂќ

* * *

Valdor snapped back to awareness with a jerk, and he stifled a reflexive cough. He

felt a heavy weight across his torso and thick drifts of sandy matter all around him.

There was heat, too, close and intense, searing his skin. He tasted the stink of burning

fuel on his lips.

Checking himself, the Custodian found nothing more serious than a minor

dislocation among the contusions he had suffered in the crash. With care, he rotated

his forearm back into its socket and tested it, the flash of pain ebbing. Valdor placed

43

both hands against the weight holding him downвЂ”a section of hull plate, he notedвЂ”

and forced it up and away.

He came to his feet surrounded by flames and grey smoke. Valdor remembered

the moment of the impact only in fleeting impressions; sparks of pain and the

spinning of the cargo bay all around him as the wounded flyer slammed into the sand.

He had heard Tariel cry out; there was no sign of the infocyte nearby. Valdor moved

forward, picking his way over steaming mounds of wreckage, heated by the blazing

slick of liquid promethium that had spilled out across the landscape. Sections of the

transport lay in a line that vanished off across the ruddy plains, surrounding a black

trail carved in the dirt by the craft as it had skidded to a halt, losing pieces of itself

along the way.

He saw something that looked familiar; the cockpit pod, the egg-shape of it stove

in and crumpled. Blood painted the canopy from the inside, and Valdor knew that the

pilot would not have survived the landing. He turned this way and that. The

encroaching flames were high and swift, and he had little room to manoeuvre.

Sweeping around, he found what seemed to be the thinnest part in the wall of fire and

ran at it, his legs pumping. At the last possible second, Valdor leapt into the flames

and punched through, the sandcloak around him catching alight.

He landed hard on the other side of the wreckage and came up in a crouch.

Snatching at the cloak, he tore it from himself as the fire took hold and threw it as

hard as he could. Panting, Valdor looked up; and it was then he realised he was not

alone.

вЂњWell,вЂќ said a rough voice, вЂњwhat have we got here?вЂќ

He counted eight of them. They wore the patchwork gear of a junkhunter gang,

armour cobbled together from a dozen disparate sources, faces hidden behind breath

filters and hoods. All of them were armed with large-gauge weaponsвЂ” different

varieties of stubber guns mostly, but he also spied a couple with twin-barrelled laser

carbines, and one with the distinctive shape of a plasma gun held at the ready. Their

collection of vehicles was as motley as everything else, a pair of four-legged walker

platforms along with fast duneriders on fat knobbled tires, and a single ground-effect

track.

Valdor considered them with the cold tactical precision of a trained warrior. Only

eight, eight humans, some of them likely to have reflex enhancements, perhaps even

dermal plating, but still only eight. He knew with complete certainty that he would be

able to kill them all in less than sixty seconds, and that was if he took his time about

it.

There were only two things that gave him a momentвЂ™s pause. The first was the

figure standing up through a hatch in the GEVвЂ™s cab, behind the pintle mount of a

quin-barrel multilaser. The gunner had an unobstructed arc of fire that was directly

centred on Valdor, and as resilient as he was, without his usual wargear to protect

him the heavy weapon would put the Custodian down before he took ten paces.

The second thing was Fon Tariel, his face a mess of blood and bruises, on his

knees in front of one of the walkers, with the muzzle of a junkhunterвЂ™s rifle pressed

to his back.

вЂњHah,вЂќ he heard the infocyte say, labouring the words up past his injuries.

вЂњYouвЂ™re all going to be sorry now.вЂќ

44

Valdor frowned, and continued to glance around, ignoring the gang and looking

off in all directions, squinting towards the near horizon. It was difficult through the

low sheen of rust-sand in the air, but his eyes were gene-altered for acuity.

вЂњPut up your hands,вЂќ buzzed the junkhunter with the plasma gun. Valdor had

guessed possession of the powerful weapon made that one the leader, and this

confirmed it. He ignored the command, still looking away. вЂњAre you deaf, freak?вЂќ

In the distance, perhaps a kilometre away, maybe more, the Custodian thought he

saw something brief and bright. A glint off a metallic object atop a low butte. He

resisted the urge to smile and turned back to the junkhunters, casually positioning

himself in such a way that he could see both the flat-topped hill and the bandit crew.

вЂњI hear you,вЂќ he told the gang leader.

вЂњHeвЂ™s a big one,вЂќ ventured one of the riflemen. вЂњSome kinda aberrant?вЂќ

вЂњCould be,вЂќ said the leader. вЂњThat what you are, freak?вЂќ

Tariel shouted at him, his voice high with fright. вЂњWhat are you waiting for, man?

Help me!вЂќ

вЂњYeah, help him,вЂќ mocked the GEV gunner. вЂњI dare you.вЂќ

вЂњYouвЂ™ve made a very serious error,вЂќ Valdor began, speaking slowly and

carefully. вЂњI had hoped we could make a landing in the erg, scout you out for

ourselves. But you took the initiative, and I must admire that. You saw prey and you

attacked.вЂќ Looking again, the Custodian could see a second, unmanned weapon

mount on the rear of the hover-truck. Untended, it pointed the mouth of a surface-toair

missile tube skyward. вЂњLucky shot.вЂќ

вЂњNothing lucky about it,вЂќ said the leader. вЂњYouвЂ™re not the first. WonвЂ™t be the

last.вЂќ

вЂњI beg to differ,вЂќ Valdor told him. вЂњAs I said, you made an error. YouвЂ™ve drawn

the attention of the Emperor.вЂќ

The use of the name sent a ripple of fear through the group, but the gang leader

stamped on it quickly. вЂњRust and shit, youвЂ™re some kind of liar, freak. No one cares

what goes on out here, not a one, not a man, not the bloody Emperor hisself. If he

cared, heвЂ™d come here and share a little of that glory of his with us.вЂќ

вЂњLetвЂ™s just kill them,вЂќ said the gunner.

вЂњValdor!вЂќ Tariel blurted out his name in fear. вЂњPlease!вЂќ

Unseen by everyone else, the glimmer from the distant hill blinked once, then

twice. вЂњLet me tell you who I am,вЂќ said the Custodian. вЂњMy name is Constantin

Valdor, Captain-General of the Legio Custodes, and I hold the power of the

EmperorвЂ™s displeasure in my hands.вЂќ

The gang leader snorted with cold amusement. вЂњYour brain is broke, thatвЂ™s what

you have!вЂќ

вЂњI will prove it to you.вЂќ Valdor raised his arm and pointed a finger at the gunner

behind the multilaser.

вЂњIn the EmperorвЂ™s name,вЂќ he said, his tone calm and conversational, вЂњdeath.вЂќ

A heartbeat later, the gunnerвЂ™s upper torso exploded into chunks of meat on a

blast of pink fluids.

The fear that the EmperorвЂ™s name had briefly conjured returned tenfold. Valdor

pointed to the rifleman standing over Tariel. вЂњAnd death,вЂќ he went on. The

45

junkhunterвЂ™s body bifurcated at the spine with a wet chug, collapsing to the sand.

вЂњAnd death, and death, and deathвЂ¦вЂќ The Custodian let his arm fall, and stood still as

three more of the gang were torn apart where they stood.

Tariel dived into the dirt and the rest of the junkhunters broke apart in a terrified

scramble, some of them racing towards a vehicle, others desperately trying to find

cover. Valdor saw one of them leap into a dunerider and gun the engine, the vehicle

surging away. The windscreen shattered in a red blink of blood and the rover

bounded into a shallow gulley, crashing to a halt. The others died as they ran.

A furious snarl drew ValdorвЂ™s attention back and he looked up as the gang leader

came speeding towards himвЂ”too fast for a normal human, quite clearly nerve-jacked

as he had first suspected. The junkhunter had the plasma gun aimed at the

CustodianвЂ™s chest; at this close a range, a blast from it would be a mortal wound.

Valdor did nothing, stood his ground. Then, like the work of an invisible trickster

god, the gun was ripped from the gang leaderвЂ™s hand and it spun away into the air,

the mechanism torn open and spitting great licks of blue-white sparks.

Only then did Valdor step in and break the manвЂ™s neck with a short chopping

motion to his throat. The last of the junkhunter band dropped and was still.

The sun was dipping towards the horizon when a piece of the desert seemed to detach

itself and transform into the shape of a man. A cameoline cloak shimmered from the

colours of the rust-sand to a deep night-black, revealing a muscular figure in a

stealthsuit that was faceless behind a gunmetal spy mask. The maskвЂ™s green eye-band

studied Valdor and Tariel, where the two of them had sought shelter in the lee of the

parked GEV truck. A spindly rifle, easily as long as the man was tall, lay across his

back.

Valdor gave him a nod. вЂњEristede Kell, I presume?вЂќ

вЂњYou are out of uniform, Captain-General,вЂќ said the marksman. вЂњI hardly

recognised you.вЂќ His voice was low.

Valdor raised an eyebrow. вЂњHave we met before?вЂќ The sniper shook his head.

вЂњNo. But I know you. And your work.вЂќ He glanced at the infocyte. вЂњVindicare,вЂќ said

Tariel, by way of terse greeting.

вЂњVanus,вЂќ came the reply.

вЂњIвЂ™m curious,вЂќ said Kell. вЂњHow did you know I would be watching?вЂќ

вЂњYouвЂ™ve been in this sector for some time. It stood to reason you would have seen

the crash.вЂќ The Custodian gestured around. вЂњI had intended to find some of your prey

in order to find you. It seems events altered the order of that but not the result.вЂќ

Tariel shot Valdor a look. вЂњThatвЂ™s why you didnвЂ™t attack them? You could have

dealt with them all, but you did nothing.вЂќ He grimaced. вЂњI might have been killed!вЂќ

вЂњI considered letting that happen,вЂќ said the sniper, with a casual sniff. вЂњBut I

dismissed the idea. If a pair as unlikely as you two had come out here, I knew there

had to be good reason.вЂќ

вЂњYou almost missed that thug with the plasma gun!вЂќ snapped the infocyte.

вЂњNo,вЂќ said Valdor, with a half-smile, вЂњhe did not.вЂќ

The sniper cocked his head. вЂњI never miss.вЂќ

вЂњYou came to the Atalantic zone without your vox rig,вЂќ Valdor went on.

46

вЂњComm transmissions would have been detected,вЂќ said Kell. вЂњIt would have

given me away to the bandits.вЂќ

вЂњHence our somewhat unconventional method of locating you,вЂќ continued the

Custodian.

TarielвЂ™s eyes narrowed. вЂњHow did you know when to fire?вЂќ

вЂњHis weaponвЂ™s scope contains a lip-reading auspex,вЂќ Valdor answered for the

sniper. вЂњYour assignment was open-ended, I believe.вЂќ

вЂњIвЂ™ve been systematically terminating the raider gangs as I find them,вЂќ said Kell.

вЂњI still have work to do. And it makes good exercise.вЂќ

вЂњYou have a new mission now,вЂќ said Tariel. вЂњWe both do.вЂќ

вЂњIs that so?вЂќ Kell reached up and took off the spy mask, revealing a craggy face

with close-cut black hair, sharp eyes and hawkish nose. вЂњWho is the target?вЂќ

Valdor stood up, and pulled a mag-flare tube from a compartment in his chest

plate, aiming it into the sky. вЂњAll in good time,вЂќ he said, and fired.

KellвЂ™s eyes narrowed. вЂњYou are leading this mystery mission then, Captain-

General?вЂќ

вЂњNot I,вЂќ said the Custodian, shaking his head as the flare ignited, casting jumping

shadows all around them. вЂњYou, Eristede.вЂќ

47

FOUR

Blood

Weapons

Face and Name

The coleopterвЂ™s chattering rotors made it impossible to have a conversation at normal

levels in the cabin, and Yosef was reduced to growling into DaigвЂ™s ear in order to get

something approximating privacy. вЂњItвЂ™s the pattern IвЂ™m not certain about,вЂќ he said.

Daig had a fan-fold file open on his lap, one hand holding in the slips of

vinepaper, the other gripping a thick data-slate. вЂњWhat pattern?вЂќ

вЂњExactly,вЂќ Yosef replied. вЂњThere isnвЂ™t one. Every time weвЂ™ve had a crazed lunatic

go on a killing spree like this, thereвЂ™s been some kind of logic to it, no matter how

twisted. Someone is murdered because they remind the killer of their abusive

stepfather, or because the voices in their head told them that all people who wear

green are evilвЂ¦вЂќ He pointed a finger at the file. вЂњBut whatвЂ™s the link here? Latigue,

Norte and the others? TheyвЂ™re from all different walks of life, men and women, old

and young, tall and shortвЂ¦вЂќ

Yosef shook his head. вЂњIf thereвЂ™s a commonality between them, I havenвЂ™t seen it

yet.вЂќ

вЂњWell, donвЂ™t worry,вЂќ Daig said flatly, вЂњthere will be plenty of people willing to

throw in their half-baked theories about it. After LatigueвЂ™s death, you can bet the

watch-wire will be buzzing with this.вЂќ

Yosef cursed under his breath; with everything else that had been on his mind, he

hadnвЂ™t stopped to think that if the Eurotas Consortium had become involved with the

case, then of course the Iestan news services would have got wind of it into the

bargain. вЂњAs if they donвЂ™t have enough doom and gloom to put on the watch-wire

already,вЂќ he said. вЂњBy all means, letвЂ™s add to everyoneвЂ™s woes with the fear of a knife

in the belly from every dark alleyway.вЂќ

Daig shrugged. вЂњActually, it might take peopleвЂ™s minds off the bigger issues.

Nothing like a killer of men on the loose in your own backyard to keep you

focussed.вЂќ

вЂњThat all depends on how large your backyard is, donвЂ™t you think?вЂќ

вЂњGood point.вЂќ YosefвЂ™s cohort paged through the panes of data installed on the

slate with solemn slowness. He paused on one slab of dense text, his eyes narrowing.

вЂњHello. This is interesting.вЂќ He handed the device over. вЂњLook-see.вЂќ

вЂњBlood work,вЂќ noted Yosef. It was the analysis reports from the site of the

Latigue murder, multiple testing on samples that confirmed, yes, the fluids all over

the walls of the gondola had once been contained inside the unfortunate clerk. At

48

least, almost all of them. There was a rogue trace right in the middle of the scan

reports, something picked up by chance from one of the medicae servitors. A single

blood trace that did not match the others.

Yosef felt a slight thrill as he absorbed this piece of information, but he stamped

down on it immediately. He didnвЂ™t dare jinx the chance that Daig might have just

pointed out something that could be their first important break.

вЂњIt doesnвЂ™t tally with any of the previous deaders, either,вЂќ said the other reeve. He

reached for the intercom horn. вЂњIвЂ™ll comm the precinct, get them to run this up to the

citizen databaseвЂ¦вЂќ

But just as quickly as it had lit, YosefвЂ™s brief spark of excitement guttered out and

died as he read a notation appended to the bottom of the information pane. вЂњDonвЂ™t

waste your time. Tisely got her people to do that already.вЂќ

вЂњAh,вЂќ DaigвЂ™s expression remained neutral. вЂњShould have expected that. SheвЂ™s

efficient that way. No joy, then?вЂќ

Yosef shook his head. The notification for a citizen ident read Not Found. That

meant that the killer was unregistered, which was a rare occurrence on Iesta

Veracrux, or else they were from somewhere else entirely. He chewed on that

thought for a moment. вЂњHeвЂ™s an off-worlder.вЂќ

вЂњWhat?вЂќ

вЂњOur cutter. Not an Iestan.вЂќ Daig eyed him. вЂњThatвЂ™s a bit of a leap.вЂќ

вЂњIs it? It explains why his bloodвЂ™s not in the database. It explains how heвЂ™s doing

this and leaving no traces.вЂќ

вЂњOff-world technology?вЂќ

Yosef nodded. вЂњI admit itвЂ™s thin, but itвЂ™s a direction. And with Telemach

breathing down our necks, we need to be seen to be proactive. ItвЂ™s that or sit around

waiting for a fresh kill.вЂќ

вЂњWe could just hold off,вЂќ suggested the other man. вЂњI mean, if Eurotas has his

own operatives inboundвЂ¦ Why not let them come in and take a pass over it? TheyвЂ™re

bound to have better resources than we do.вЂќ

He gave his cohort an acid look. вЂњRemember that engraving on your warrant rod

that talks about вЂto serve and protectвЂ™? WeвЂ™re called investigators for a reason.вЂќ

вЂњJust a thought,вЂќ said Daig.

Yosef sensed something unsaid in his cohortвЂ™s words and studied him. To anyone

else, SeganвЂ™s dour expression would have seemed no different from any of the other

dour expressions he wore day in and day out; but the other reeve had been partnered

with him for a long time, and he could read moods in the man that others missed

completely. вЂњWhat arenвЂ™t you telling me, Daig?вЂќ he asked. вЂњSomething about this

case has been gnawing at you since we had it dropped on us.вЂќ Yosef leaned closer.

вЂњYou didnвЂ™t do it, did you?вЂќ

Daig made a brief spluttering sound that was the closest he ever came to a laugh,

but then he sobered almost instantly. After a moment of silence he looked away.

вЂњWeвЂ™ve seen some things, you and I,вЂќ he said. вЂњThis is different, though. It feels

different. DonвЂ™t ask me to be objective about it, because I canвЂ™t. I think thereвЂ™s more

here than justвЂ¦ human madness.вЂќ

49

Yosef made a face. вЂњAre you talking about xenos? ThereвЂ™s not an alien alive in

this entire sector.вЂќ

Daig shook his head. вЂњNo.вЂќ He sighed. вЂњIвЂ™m not sure what IвЂ™m talking about.

ButвЂ¦ After HorusвЂ¦вЂќ

Once more, the reeve felt the sudden tension that the name brought with it. вЂњIf

IвЂ™m sure of anything, IвЂ™m damned sure that he didnвЂ™t do it.вЂќ

вЂњThere are stories, though,вЂќ Daig went on. вЂњPeople talk about worlds that have

declared for the Warmaster, worlds that go silent soon after. Those who make it out

before the silence comes down, theyвЂ™ve said things. Talked about what happened on

those planets.вЂќ He tapped a sheaf of crime scene picts. вЂњThings like this. I know

youвЂ™ve heard the same.вЂќ

вЂњItвЂ™s just stories. Just scared people.вЂќ Yosef wondered if he sounded convincing.

He took a breath. вЂњAnd it has no bearing on what weвЂ™re doing here.вЂќ

вЂњWeвЂ™ll see,вЂќ Daig said darkly.

A thought occurred to Yosef and he reached for the intercom horn. вЂњYes, we

will.вЂќ He pressed the stud that would allow him to talk to the coleopterвЂ™s pilot.

вЂњChange of plans,вЂќ he said briskly, вЂњweвЂ™re not going back to the precinct house. Take

us to the Eurotas compound.вЂќ

The pilot acknowledged the command and the flyer pivoted into a banking turn,

the pitch of the rotors deepening.

Daig gave him a confused look. вЂњThe traderвЂ™s men wonвЂ™t be here for another

couple of days yet. What are you doing?вЂќ

вЂњEveryone wants to keep Eurotas happy, so it seems,вЂќ Yosef told him. вЂњI think

we should use that to our advantage.вЂќ

They landed on a tree-lined transit pad just within the walls of the ConsortiumвЂ™s

compound. In a definite attempt to stand out from the more typical Iestan

architectural styles of the other great manses in the area, the Eurotas house was

modelled on the Cygnus school of design, reminiscent of many reunification-era

colony palaces from the early decades of the Great Crusade. It was an open, summery

building, full of courtyards and cupolas, with fountains and small pocket gardens that

were at odds with the cool pre-winter chill of the day.

The two reeves were barely to the foot of the coleopterвЂ™s drop-ramp when they

were met by a narrow woman in the bottle-green and silver of the rogue traderвЂ™s

livery. Standing behind her at a discreet distance were two men in the same garb, but

both of them were twice her body mass with faces hidden behind the blank glares of

info-visors. Yosef saw no weapons visible on them, but he knew they had to be

carrying. One of the many tenets of the ConsortiumвЂ™s corporate sovereignty

throughout the Taebian Sector allowed Eurotas to ignore planetside laws the Void

Baron considered to be detrimental to his business, and that included Iestan weapon

statutes.

The woman spoke before Yosef could open his mouth, firmly determined to set

the rules of the impromptu visit immediately. вЂњMy name is Bellah Gorospe, IвЂ™m a

Consortium liaison executive. WeвЂ™ll need to make this quick,вЂќ she told him, with a

fake smile. вЂњIвЂ™m afraid I have an important meeting to attend very shortly.вЂќ The

50

woman had the kind of silken Ultima accent that automatically categorised her as

non-native.

вЂњOf course,вЂќ Yosef said smoothly. вЂњThis wonвЂ™t take long. The Sentine require

access to the ConsortiumвЂ™s database of passenger and crew manifests for incoming

starships to Iesta Veracrux.вЂќ

Gorospe blinked. She was actually startled by the directness of his demand, and

didnвЂ™t say no straight away. вЂњWhich ship?вЂќ

вЂњAll of them,вЂќ Daig added, following his lead.

The automatic denial that she was trained to give came next. вЂњThatвЂ™s impossible.

That data is proprietary material under ownership of the Eurotas Trade Consortium.

It cannot be released to any local jurisdictional bodies.вЂќ Gorospe said the word local

as if it rhymed with irrelevant. вЂњIf you have a specific request regarding any data

pertaining to Iestan citizens, I may be able to accommodate you. Otherwise, IвЂ™m

afraid not.вЂќ She started to turn away.

вЂњDid you know Cirsun Latigue?вЂќ said Yosef.

That brought the woman to a halt. She covered her hesitation well. вЂњYes. We had

cause to work together on occasion.вЂќ GorospeвЂ™s lips thinned. вЂњIs that pertinent?вЂќ

вЂњWeвЂ™re investigating the possibility that whoever murdered him is following a

vendetta against employees of Baron Eurotas.вЂќ That was an outright lie, but it got

Yosef the response he wanted. The woman blinked, and she was clearly wondering if

she could be next. The reeve had no doubt that by now everyone in the compound, no

matter if they were supposed to know or not, knew exactly how horribly Latigue had

died. вЂњWe believe the killer may have arrived on planet aboard a Eurotas-operated

vessel,вЂќ he added.

If the murderer was from another planet, then that was undeniable; the

Consortium ran every inter-system ship that came to Iesta Veracrux, and as a part of

Imperial transit law, all travellers were required to submit to cursory medical checks

in order to prevent the spread of any potential biosphere-specific contagions from

world to world. That data would exist in the ConsortiumвЂ™s records.

Gorospe was uncertain how to proceed. Her plan to dismiss the Sentine officers

and return to whatever her other tasks were had crumbled. Yosef imagined that she

was now thinking of a way to deal with this by invoking some higher authority.

вЂњSanctioned Consortium security operatives will be arriving in fifty hours. I suggest

you return at that time and make your request to them.вЂќ

вЂњIt wasnвЂ™t a request,вЂќ Yosef told her. вЂњAnd given the frequency of the murders to

date, there could be two, perhaps even three more deaths before then.вЂќ He kept his

voice level. вЂњI think that even the Baron himself would agree that time is of the

essence.вЂќ

вЂњThe Baron is coming here,вЂќ Gorospe noted, in an absent; distant manner that

seemed to be half disbelief.

вЂњIвЂ™m sure he would want as much done as possible towards dealing with this

unfortunate circumstance,вЂќ said Daig. вЂњAnd quickly.вЂќ

She glanced back at Yosef. вЂњPlease tell me again what it is that you need, reeve?вЂќ

51

He resisted the urge to smile and instead offered her the data-slate. вЂњThereвЂ™s an

unidentified blood trace listed here. I require it to be cross-referenced with the

ConsortiumвЂ™s database for any matches.вЂќ

Gorospe took the slate and her practised smile reappeared. вЂњThe Consortium will

of course do anything possible to assist the Sentine in the pursuit of their lawful

duties. Please wait here.вЂќ She walked swiftly away, leaving the two silent men

standing watch.

After a moment, Daig glanced at his cohort. вЂњWhen Laimner finds out you

brought us here without authorisation, the first thing heвЂ™s going to do is rip you down

to foot patrol in the slums.вЂќ

вЂњNo,вЂќ said Yosef, вЂњthe first thing heвЂ™s going to do is cover his ample backside

with Telemach so she wonвЂ™t blame him for any fallout. But he wonвЂ™t be able to pull

out anything about jurisdiction if we bring him some actual evidence.вЂќ

Daig watched Gorospe vanish into the main house. вЂњThere is a large chance that

she may not have anything we can use, you know.вЂќ

Yosef shot him a glare. вЂњWell, in that case, our careers are over.вЂќ

Daig nodded grimly. вЂњJust so weвЂ™re both clear on that.вЂќ

The night air was as warm as blood, and humid with it. It was still and oppressive,

almost a palpable thing surrounding and pressing down on Fon Tariel. He sighed and

used a micropore kerchief to dab at his head before returning to the nested layers of

hololith panes floating above his cogitator gauntlet.

Across the sparse room, in a pool of shadow at the far window, the sniper sat

cross-legged, his longrifle resting across the crook of his arm. Without turning, Kell

spoke to him. вЂњAre you really in so much discomfort that you cannot sit still for more

than a moment? Or is that twitching something common to all Vanus?вЂќ

Tariel scowled at the Vindicare. вЂњThe heat,вЂќ he said, by way of explanation. вЂњI

feelвЂ¦ soiled by it.вЂќ He glanced around; judging by the detritus scattered all about

them, the room had once been the central space of a small domicile, before what

appeared to be a combination of fire and structural collapse had ruined it. There were

great holes in the roof allowing in the light, tepid rain from the low clouds overhead,

and other rents in the floor that emitted smells TarielвЂ™s augmetic scent-sensors

classified as human effluent, burned rodent meat and contaminated fusel oils. The

building was deep in the ghetto shanties of the Yndenisc Bloc, where low-caste

citizens were piled atop one another like rats in a nest.

вЂњIвЂ™m guessing you donвЂ™t leave your cladeвЂ™s sanctum very often,вЂќ said Kell.

вЂњThere hasnвЂ™t been the need,вЂќ Tariel said defensively. He and his fellow infocytes

and cryptocrats had taken part in many operations, all of them conducted through

telepresent means directly from the sanctum, or from aboard an Officio-sanctioned

starship. The thought of actually physically deploying into the field was almost an

impossibility. вЂњThis is my, uh, second sortie.вЂќ

вЂњThe first being when Valdor brought you looking for me?вЂќ

вЂњYes.вЂќ

Kell gave a sarcastic grunt. вЂњWhat wild stories youвЂ™ll have to tell when you go

home to your hive, little bee.вЂќ

52

TarielвЂ™s grimace hardened. вЂњDonвЂ™t mock me. IвЂ™m only here because you need me.

You wonвЂ™t find the girl without my assistance.вЂќ

The sniper still refused to look his way, eyes locked on the sights of his longrifle.

вЂњThatвЂ™s true,вЂќ he offered. вЂњIвЂ™m just wondering why you have to be here with me to do

it.вЂќ

Tariel had been asking himself the same thing ever since Captain-General Valdor

had given mission command to the Vindicare and ordered them out to the tropics. As

far as he could be certain, it seemed that operational confidence for this mission was

of such paramount importance that detection of any live in-theatre signals transmitted

from the Yndenisc Bloc to the Vanus sanctum could not be risked. He wondered

what kind of foe could threaten to defeat the finest information security in the

Imperium and found he had no answer; and the fact that such a threat could even

exist troubled him in no small degree. вЂњThe quicker we get it done, then, the quicker

we can leave this place and each otherвЂ™s company,вЂќ he said, with genuine feeling.

вЂњIt will take as long as it takes,вЂќ Kell replied. вЂњWait for the target to come to

you.вЂќ

The infocyte disagreed but did not voice it. Instead, he returned to the hololiths,

leafing through them as if they were pages made of glass hanging suspended in the

air. Anyone watching him would have only seen the motions of his hands and

nothing else; Tariel had tuned the images to a visual frequency only readable by his

enhancile retinal lenses.

The penetration of the local sensor web had presented him with a minor

impediment, but nothing that he would have considered challenging. The infocyte

sent a small swarm of organic-metal netfly automata out to chew into any opti-cables

they found, and parse what rich data flows they located back to him. Each fly was by

itself a relatively unsophisticated device, but networked en masse, the information

the swarm returned could be cohered into a dense picture of what was happening in

the surrounding area. Tariel had already assembled maps of the nearby structures, the

flows of foot and vehicular traffic, and he was currently worming his way into the

encoding of several hundred monitor beads scattered throughout the zone.

The Yndeniscs called this locale the Red Lanes, and the area was a centre for

what one might tactfully describe as hedonistic pursuits. The local confederation of

warlords allowed the place a great degree of latitude from their already lax legal

codes, and in return reaped a sizeable percentage of profit from the patronage of

pleasure-tourists from all across Terra and the Sol system. Quite how a place like this

was allowed to exist on the Throneworld was a mystery to Tariel, as much so as the

tribes of bandits he had encountered out in the Atalantic Plain. His understanding of

Imperial Terra was of a nation-world united and gloriousвЂ”that was what he saw

through the glassy lenses of his monitors from the safety of his workpod in the

sanctum. But now, outsideвЂ¦ He was quickly realising that there were many dirty,

messy, dark corners that did not conform to his view of the Imperium.

A soft chime sounded from the gauntlet. вЂњAre you through?вЂќ asked Kell.

вЂњWorking,вЂќ he replied. The netflys had bored into a deep sub-web of imaging

coils hidden several layers beneath the more obvious ones, and all at once he was

assailed by a storm of images from the shielded rooms in a tall building across the

square; images of men, women and other humans of indeterminate gender

53

performing acts upon one another that were as fascinating as they were repulsive. вЂњI

haveвЂ¦ access,вЂќ he muttered. вЂњCommencing, uh, image match sweep.вЂќ

The facial pattern Valdor had provided to Tariel phased through the images, one

after another, like looking for like. The infocyte tried to maintain an objective

viewpoint, but the feeds he was seeing made him uncomfortable; if anything, he felt

more soiled by them than by the dirt and humidity of the night air.

And then suddenly, she was there, the tawny skin of the girlвЂ™s face dark in the

lamplight of a red-lit room as the trace program found its target. вЂњLocation

confirmed,вЂќ he said.

вЂњGood,вЂќ said Kell. вЂњNow find me a way to contact her before she gets killed.вЂќ

And so Iota found herself in the room after opening her eyes. She had wondered if it

would still be there when she looked again, and it was. This confirmed her earlier

hypothesis, that the sensations she was experiencing were not hallucinatory but

actually real. On some level, that was troubling to accept; perhaps, if she had

understood her state more correctly, Iota would not have allowed some of the

liberties that had been taken with her physical form to occur. But then again, they had

been necessary to secure her cover in the Red Lanes. She remembered those activities

distantly, like a half-recalled dream. The persona-implants that had been used to

bolster the cover identity were crumbling like sand, and recollection of any particular

point of them was difficult.

It wasnвЂ™t important. The false overlay was drifting away, and beneath was

revealed her real self; such as it was. Iota was not a blank slate, as those who did not

fully understand the works of her clade might think. No. She was a fluid in the bottle

of herself, a shape without definition, a form needing direction, a space to fill.

She surveyed the crimson room, the walls covered with rich velvet hangings

sketched with erotic detail in gold threads, the great oval bed emerging from the deep

carpeting. Floating lume-globes provided sultry lighting, with a shuttered window the

only entrance for any natural illumination.

The men who ran the doxy-house seemed caught in some peculiar kind of attractrepel

balance with her. IotaвЂ™s gift made them uncomfortable without them ever

knowing exactly why. Perhaps it was the hollow distance in her dark eyes, or the

silence that was her habitual mien. However the gift manifested, it was enough to

unsettle them. Some liked that, taking pleasure from the thrill of it as they might the

tread of a scorpion across their naked flesh; most avoided her, though. She scared

them without ever giving form to their fear.

Iota touched the ornamental tore around the dusky flesh of her throat. If only they

knew how little of her they really sensed. Without the dampener device concealed in

the necklet, the icy void inside her would have spread wide.

She sniffed the perfumed air. Iota felt odd to be out of her suit, but then she

always did. The silken shift dress that covered her body was gossamer-thin, and she

continually forgot that she was wearing it. Of its own accord, her right handвЂ”her

killing handвЂ”reached up and buried itself in the tight cornrows of her shiny black

hair. The hand toyed absently with the plaits dangling off her scalp, and she

wondered how long it would be until the murder came. Her eyes wandered to the

wooden box on the bed, and that was when she had her answer.

54

The other woman came into the room striding like a man, and around the back of

her scalp she wore an emitter crown, the delicate filigree of crystalline psybercircuits

and implant tech glowing with soft light. She towered over the diminutive

Iota, nearly two metres tall in elevated boots of shiny blue leather, a full and wellshaped

body showing through a bustier-affair outfit that could only have been a few

strips of hide if taken off and laid end to end. She carried a device that resembled a

bulbous tonfa in one hand, one end of it bladed, the other crackling with energy.

The woman sneered at Iota. The expression was ugly and ill-fitting on her face,

and Iota saw the small twitches of the nerves around her lips and nostrils as the

crown worked on her. вЂњYouвЂ™re new,вЂќ said the woman. The words were slightly

slurred.

Iota nodded, remaining downcast and passive.

вЂњThey tell me thereвЂ™s something odd about you,вЂќ she said, reaching for IotaвЂ™s

hand. вЂњDifferent.вЂќ The ugly sneer widened. вЂњI do enjoy things that are different.вЂќ

Then she knew for certain. There was a small chance it wasnвЂ™t going to be him,

but the clade had invested too much time and effort into inserting Iota into the right

place at the right time for a mistake to happen at this late stage. The voice belonged

to the woman, but the wordsвЂ”and the personality animating her at this momentвЂ”

belonged to Jun Yae Jun, scion of one of the Nine Families of the Yndenisc Bloc and

warlord-general. He was also, as intelligence had proven, a deceiver who was

disloyal to the Imperial Throne, in violation of the Nikaea Edict, and suspected of

involvement in a counter-secular cult.

вЂњWe will play.вЂќ Jun made the woman say the words. He was on the other end of

the emitter crown, somewhere nearby, his body in repose while he forced his

consciousness onto the flesh of the proxy. It was a game the warlord-general liked a

great deal, working a meat-puppet in order to slake his desires. Iota was aware that

many of her guardians back at her cladeвЂ™s holdfast viewed what Jun did with disgust,

but she only felt a vague curiosity about him, the same clinical detachment that

coloured almost all her interactions with other humans.

Iota wondered if the woman Jun controlled was conscious during the activities,

and dispassionately considered the psychological effects that might have; but such

thoughts were trivia. She had a murder to focus on. вЂњWait,вЂќ she said. вЂњI have

something for you,вЂќ Iota nodded at the box. вЂњA gift.вЂќ

вЂњGive it to me,вЂќ came the demand.

Iota let the shift dress fall from her shoulders, and with JunвЂ™s second-hand gaze

all over her, she picked up the box and brought it closer. Bloodlock sensors released

the latches and she presented it, holding it up with one hand like a server offering a

tray of food. The killing hand went to the tore and unfastened it.

вЂњWhat is this?вЂќ A clumsy echo of JunвЂ™s confusion crossed the womanвЂ™s face. вЂњA

mask?вЂќ

The lume light fell over the shape of a metallic skull. One eye was a glittering

ruby, but the other was a cluster of lenses made from milky sapphire, spiked with

stubby vanes and strange antennae. вЂњOf a sort,вЂќ Iota explained.

The tore released with a delicate click and Iota felt a sudden rush of cold move

through her, as if a floodgate inside her had opened. At least for the moment, she no

longer needed to hold it all in, to keep the emptiness inside her bottled up.

55

Jun made a strange noise through the woman that was half-cry, half-yelp, and

then the psychoactive matrix of the crown began to fizz and pop, the tonfa falling

from the proxyвЂ™s nerveless fingers. With a disordered, tinkling peal, the psionic

crystals in the headdress began to shatter and the woman tottered on her spiked heels,

stumbling over herself to fall upon the bed. She made moaning, weeping sounds.

Iota cocked her head to listen; the same chorus of wailing was coming from room

after room down the corridor of the change-brothel, as the nulling effect of her raw

self spread out.

Before the link could fully die, she sprang onto the bed and brought her face to

the anguished womanвЂ™s, staring into her eyes. вЂњI want to kiss you,вЂќ she told Jun.

Through the window, across the companionway from the brothel building, the

doors of a nondescript residential slum block had broken open and a tide of panicked

figures was spilling onto the street, all of them half-dressed in clothes that marked

them too rich to be locals.

Iota nimbly leapt back to the floor and unfurled the stealthsuit lying beneath the

skull-helm, stepping into it with careless ease. The mask went on last, and it soothed

her as it did so.

The weeping woman coughed out a last, stuttered word as JunвЂ™s hold on her

finally disintegrated. вЂњCuh. Cuh. Culexus.вЂќ

But Iota did not wait to hear it; instead she threw herself through the window in a

crash of glass and wood, spinning towards the other building.

While they waited for Gorospe, Yosef glanced around the landing padвЂ™s

surroundings. The fountains, which were usually gushing with coloured water, were

silent; and when he looked closer, he noted that the well-tended gardens seemed, if

anything, considerably unkempt. There were even dead patches in the otherwise

flawless lawns; the Consortium appeared to be slacking on matters of minor

maintenance. He wondered what that small detail could mean in the greater scheme

of things.

Daig had made an attempt to engage one of the security men in conversation,

resorting to his usual gambit of complaining about the weather, but the guard had

been disinterested in talking. вЂњNice outfits they have,вЂќ he opined, wandering back to

the parked coleopter. вЂњDo you think they have to buy their own uniforms?вЂќ

вЂњConsidering a career change, then?вЂќ

Daig shrugged. вЂњOr maybe a sabbatical. A very long one, to somewhere quiet.вЂќ

He glanced up into the sky, then away again.

Yosef sensed something in his cohort and found himself asking the question that

had been preying on his mind for a time. вЂњDo you think he will come here?вЂќ

вЂњThe Warmaster?вЂќ

вЂњWho else?вЂќ The air around them seemed suddenly still.

вЂњThe Arbites say the situation will be dealt with by the Astartes.вЂќ DaigвЂ™s manner

made it clear he didnвЂ™t believe that.

Yosef frowned. Now he had asked the question, he found he couldnвЂ™t stop

thinking about it. вЂњI still find it hard to grasp. The idea of one of the EmperorвЂ™s sons

56

plotting a rebellion against him.вЂќ The concept seemed unreal, like the rain rebelling

against the clouds.

вЂњLaimner says there is no mutiny at all. He says itвЂ™s a disinformation ploy by the

Adeptus Terra to keep the planets out in the deeps off-balance, keep them loyal to the

Throneworld. After all, a fearful populace is a compliant one.вЂќ

вЂњOur esteemed Reeve Warden is a fool.вЂќ

вЂњI wonвЂ™t argue that point,вЂќ Daig nodded. вЂњBut then, is that any more shocking

than the idea that the Warmaster would turn against his own father? What possible

reason could he have to do that, unless he has some sort of sickness of the mind?вЂќ

Yosef felt a chill move through him, as if a shadow had passed over the sun. вЂњItвЂ™s

not a matter of lunacy,вЂќ he said, uncertain as to where the words were coming from.

вЂњAnd fathers can be fallible, after all.вЂќ

He caught a flash of irritation on DaigвЂ™s face. вЂњYouвЂ™re talking about ordinary

men. The Emperor is far more than that.вЂќ

Yosef considered an answer, but then his attention was drawn away by the return

of the Gorospe woman. Her carefully prepared expression of superior neutrality had

been replaced by a severe aspect, concern and irritation there in equal measure. He

had to wonder what she had found to instigate so profound a shift in her manner. She

held the data-slate in her hand, along with a page of vinepaper. вЂњYou have something

for us?вЂќ he asked.

Gorospe hesitated, then tersely dismissed the two security men. When it was just

the three of them, she gave the lawmen a firm stare. вЂњBefore we go any further, there

are a number of assurances that I must have from you. No information will be

forthcoming if you refuse any of the following conditions, is that understood?вЂќ

вЂњIвЂ™m listening,вЂќ said Yosef.

She ticked off the stipulations on her long, elegantly manicured fingers. вЂњThis

meeting did not occur; any attempt to suggest it did at a later date will be denied and

may be considered an attempt at slander. Under no account are you to refer to the

method in which this information was brought to you in any official records of

investigation, now or at a later date in any legal setting. And finally, and most

importantly, the name of the Eurotas Trade Consortium will in no way be connected

to the suspect of your investigation.вЂќ

The two men exchanged glances. вЂњI suppose I have no choice but to agree,вЂќ said

Yosef.

вЂњBoth of you,вЂќ she insisted.

вЂњAye, then,вЂќ said Daig, with a wary nod.

Gorospe handed back the data-slate and unfolded the vinepaper. On it, Yosef saw

file text and an image of a thuggish man with heavy stubble and deep-set eyes.

вЂњThere was a match between the blood trace you provided and a single subject listed

in our biomedical records. His name is Erno Sigg, and he is known to be at large on

Iesta Veracrux.вЂќ

Yosef reached for the paper, but she held it away. вЂњHe was a passenger on one of

your ships?вЂќ

57

When the woman didnвЂ™t answer straight away, Daig made the connection.

вЂњThatвЂ™s a bondsmanвЂ™s record you have there, isnвЂ™t it? Sigg isnвЂ™t a passenger. He

works for you.вЂќ

вЂњAh,вЂќ nodded Yosef, suddenly understanding. вЂњWell, that clears the mist, doesnвЂ™t

it? The last thing the Void Baron would want is the good name of his clan being

connected to a murderous psychotic.вЂќ

вЂњErno Sigg is not an employee of the Consortium,вЂќ Gorospe insisted. вЂњHe has not

been a member of our staff for the last four lunars. His bond and his shares were

cancelled in perpetuity with the clan, following anвЂ¦ incident.вЂќ

вЂњGo on.вЂќ

The woman glanced at the paper. вЂњSigg was cashiered after a violent episode on

one of the ConsortiumвЂ™s deep space trading stations.вЂќ

вЂњHe stabbed someone.вЂќ Yosef tossed out the guess and the widening of her eyes

told him he was right. вЂњKilled them?вЂќ

Gorospe shook her head. вЂњThere was no fatality. But aвЂ¦ a weapon was used.вЂќ

вЂњWhere is he now?вЂќ

вЂњWe have no record of that.вЂќ

DaigвЂ™s lip curled. вЂњSo you decided to throw him out, just dump a violent offender

on our planet without so much as a warning to the local law enforcement? I think I

could find a judiciary who would classify that irresponsible endangerment.вЂќ

вЂњYou misunderstand. Sigg was released after a period of detention commensurate

with the severity of his misbehaviour.вЂќ Gorospe looked at the paper again.

вЂњAccording to notations made by our security staff, he was genuinely remorseful. He

voluntarily went into the custody of a charitable rehabilitation group here on Iesta

Veracrux. ThatвЂ™s why he asked to be released on this planet.вЂќ

вЂњWhat group?вЂќ said Daig.

вЂњThe file notes it was part of an informal organisation called the Theoge.вЂќ

Yosef swore under his breath and snatched the paper from the womanвЂ™s hand.

вЂњGive me that. WeвЂ™ll take this from here.вЂќ

вЂњRemember our arrangement!вЂќ she insisted, her cheeks colouring; but the reeve

was already stalking away towards the coleopter.

The Warlord Jun Yae Jun bolted upright from the ornate couch where he lay, his robe

falling open, scattering the attendants from his sides. He spluttered and snarled,

tearing at the web of golden mechadendrites that were wrapped about his head,

winding into his ear canals, nostrils and mouth. вЂњGet these things off me!вЂќ he

bellowed, flailing around, knocking over a hookah and table piled with wine goblets

and ampoules.

With an agonised wrench he finally freed himself and glared around, looking for

his guardian. Jun could hear the sounds of violence and panic in the halls beyond the

room. Something had gone very wrong, and a tide of terror was welling up inside

him. He turned it into fury as he found the guardian on his hands and knees, staring

into a pool of vomit.

Jun gave him a violent kick. вЂњWhat are you doing down there? Get up! Get up

and protect me, you worthless wretch!вЂќ

58

The guardian stood, as shaky as a drunkard. вЂњThere is darkness,вЂќ he muttered.

вЂњBlack curtains falling.вЂќ The man choked and coughed up bile.

Jun kicked him again. вЂњYou were supposed to protect me! Why did you fail me?вЂќ

His face was crimson with anger. In defiance of Imperial law, without grant or

sanction from the Adeptus Terra, the warlord had secured himself a guardian who not

only had combatant skills, but was also possessed of a measure of psychic ability. For

months, his pet killer had been his most closely-guarded confidence, but now it

seemed that his secret was out. вЂњThereвЂ™s a Culexus here! Do you know what that

means?вЂќ

The guardian nodded. вЂњI know.вЂќ

When he had first heard the name of the assassin clade spoken, when the story of

what the word meant had been told to him, the warlord did not believe it. He

understood psykers, the humans giftedвЂ”some said cursedвЂ” by the touch of the warp.

A psykerвЂ™s essence burned bright in the realm of the immaterium, forever connecting

the world of flesh with the world of the ethereal; but if psykers reflected the far

extreme of a spectrum, and ordinary men and women the brief candles of life in the

middle ground, then what could represent the opposite end of that balance? The

darkness?

They were called pariahs. Chance births, less than one in a billion, children born,

so it was said, without a soul. Where a psyker burned sun-bright, they were a black

hole. They were antithesis, made manifest. Ice to the fire, darkness to the light.

And as with so many things, the Imperium of Man had found a use for such

aberrations. The Clade Culexus harvested pariahs wherever they were found, and

rumour suggested that they might even grow them wholesale from synthesis tanks in

some secret fleshworks in the wilds of Terra. Jun Yae Jun had never believed in them

until this moment, dismissed the very idea as a fiction created to instill fear in the

kings and regents who ruled under the aegis of the Emperor. He knew fear now,

though, and truth with it.

Jun stumbled towards the doorway, and hands pulled at his robes. вЂњWarlord,

please,вЂќ said the attendant. The spindly man was speaking rapidly. вЂњStop! The game

has not been completed. There is the letting of fluids to be gathered, the sacrament!вЂќ

The warlord turned and glared at the attendant. Like all the others who ran this

sordid diversion for the masters of the Red Lanes, he was draped in strips of silk and

painted with bright inks. He had numerous daubs across his skin, repeating the shape

of a disc, a rod and opposed crescents. The design was meaningless to Jun. He tried

to shove the man away, but he would not let go.

вЂњYou must not leave!вЂќ snarled the attendant. вЂњNot yet!вЂќ He gripped the warlordвЂ™s

arm and held on tightly.

Jun spat and produced a push-dagger from a pocket. вЂњGet off me!вЂќ he roared, and

stabbed the man in the throat with three quick moves. Leaving him to die, the

warlord forced his way out into the corridor. The guardian stayed with him, his face

pale and sweaty. He was mumbling to himself with every step. вЂњVox!вЂќ shouted Jun.

вЂњGive me your vox!вЂќ

The guardian obeyed. A line of blood was seeping from his right eye, like red

tears.

59

Barging his way through the change-brothelвЂ™s other clients, slashing a path with

the push-dagger, the warlord barked a command string into the mouthpiece of the

communicator. вЂњAir Guard,вЂќ he shouted. вЂњDeploy mobiles for zone strike, now now

now!вЂќ

вЂњLocation?вЂќ asked the worried voice of the coordinator, back at the Yae clan

compound.

вЂњThe Red Lanes!вЂќ he replied. вЂњWipe it off the map!вЂќ

вЂњLord, are you not in that area?вЂќ

вЂњDo it now!вЂќ It was the only way to be certain of killing the Culexus. He had no

other option open to him.

In the ruined apartment, Kell held his breath and listened. Over the disarray in the

street below them, his spy maskвЂ™s audial sensors had detected the sound of gravityresist

motors. вЂњVanus,вЂќ he said. вЂњDo you hear that?вЂќ

вЂњGunships,вЂќ said Tariel, studying his hololiths. вЂњCyclone-class. I read an attack

formation.вЂќ

KellвЂ™s face twisted in a grimace, and he ejected the magazine from his weapon,

quickly reloading it with a different kind of ammunition.

Crossing the courtyard, the warlord looked up into the rainy night as the first salvo of

rockets slammed into the buildings surrounding the square. A massive fist of orange

fire and black smoke engulfed the tallest of the shanty-towers, and curls of flame

spun away, lighting new infernos wherever they landed.

His guardian was behind him, blinded by a roaring headache, barely able to

stagger in a straight line, and with a monumental effort, the psyker bodyguard hauled

himself to the groundcar parked near the gates. Dead bodies lay in a circle around the

vehicle, shocked to death by the vehicleвЂ™s autonomic security system. Recognising

him, the carвЂ™s driver-servitor opened the gull wing doors to allow the guardian and

the warlord inside. Another strike hit home nearby, blasting tiles off the brothelвЂ™s

roof, sending them down to shatter harmlessly against the vehicleвЂ™s armoured skin.

вЂњGet me out of here,вЂќ demanded Jun. вЂњStop for nothing.вЂќ

The guardian, half in and half out of the door, coughed suddenly and blood

spluttered from his mouth. He turned, the pain in his skull burning like cold fire, as a

figure in glistening black fell the distance from the roof to the courtyard floor. A ring

of invisible force radiated out from it, causing a halo of rain to vaporise into mist.

вЂњKill her!вЂќ shouted the warlord, his voice high and filled with terror. вЂњKill her!вЂќ

The psyker took a foot in the spine and Jun shoved him out of the safety of the

car, onto his knees. The gull wing door slammed shut and sealed tight.

The Culexus assassin stepped forwards as the guardian got up again, catching

sight of the rain rolling down the contours of her skull-helm, dripping from the orbit

of the single ruby eye as if she were weeping. The guardian reached inside himself

and went deep, past the blazing pain, past the horrific wave of nothingness that

threatened to drown him. He found a breath of fire and released it.

The pyrokinetic pulse chugged into existence, streaming from his twitching

fingertips. The blast hit the Culexus dead on, and she backed away, shaking her

60

distended steel head; but the tiny flare of hope the guardian experienced died a

second later as the fire ebbed, almost as if it had been pulled into the ribbing of the

assassinвЂ™s sinister garb.

He was aware of the car moving forwards in fits and starts, but his attention could

not stray from the grinning, angular skull. The sapphire eye-clutch shimmered and

the punishing gaze of the weapon known as the animus speculum was turned upon

him.Power, raw and inchoate, sucked in from the fabric of the warp and from the

guardianвЂ™s abortive attack, drawn in like light from the event horizon of a singularity,

was now unleashed. A pulse of energy flashed from the psychic cannon and blasted

the warlordвЂ™s bodyguard backward, slamming him into the wall of the courtyard. As

he tumbled to the ground, he combusted from within, the fire consuming his flesh

and his screams.

Jun Yae Jun was shouting incoherently at his driver-servitor as it used the bull-bars

on the groundcarвЂ™s prow to shoulder pedestrians out of the way. The vehicle made it

onto the street as fresh salvos of rocket fire tore the Red Lanes into rubble. The

servitor gunned the engine and aimed the car towards the bridge that led back

towards the Yae compound.

A black blur fluttered in the light of an explosion and the armoured windscreen

cracked and crazed as indigo fire lashed across it. Great gobs of polymer glass

denatured and collapsed, smothering the servitor in a suffocating blanket of

superheated plastic. The car spun out and collided with a bollard.

Jun pulled wildly at the doorвЂ™s locking handle, then stabbed it with the pushdagger.

He was operating on blind panic.

Taking her time, the Culexus clambered in through the destroyed window and

disarmed him, almost as an afterthought. The warlord soiled himself as the skull

came closer. вЂњIвЂ™m sorry IвЂ™m sorry IвЂ™m sorry IвЂ™m sorryвЂ”вЂќ

вЂњKiss me,вЂќ she said, her voice devoid of all emotion.

JunвЂ™s lips were pressed to the cold steel of the mask, and agony spiked through

him. He fell back, and spat dust. Raw pain boiled at his extremities as his flesh

blackened and became thick ash, crumbling before his eyes until those too rotted in

their sockets and shrivelled to nothing. Jun Yae JunвЂ™s very energy of life was drawn

from him, leached into the force matrix webbing the assassinвЂ™s stealthsuit, until there

was nothing left of him but a slurry of indeterminate matter.

Iota left the targetвЂ™s vehicle and the area around her was suddenly drenched in

brilliant white light. The downdraught from a gravity drive beat at the ground,

stirring up debris and what remained of the warlord. The sensor suite inside her helm

registered a gunshipвЂ™s weapons grid locking on to her silhouette, and she paused,

wondering if it were possible for her to die.

In the next moment, she saw a line of light across the infrared spectrum as a

single high-impact bullet passed through the armoured canopy of the gunship,

beheading both the pilot and the gunner. Suddenly unguided, the CycloneвЂ™s autoflight

system kicked in and brought it down to a soft landing.

61

Presently two men, one in the operations gear of the Vindicare clade and another

in a more basic stealth rig, emerged from one of the smouldering buildings. Iota

glanced at them, then went back to watching the spreading fires.

As the sniper tipped the corpses from the flyerвЂ™s cockpit, the other man warily

approached her. вЂњIota?вЂќ he asked. вЂњProtiphage, Clade Culexus?вЂќ

вЂњOf course itвЂ™s her,вЂќ said the Vindicare. вЂњDonвЂ™t be obtuse, Tariel.вЂќ

вЂњYou have to come with us,вЂќ said the one called Tariel. He indicated the gunship

as the sniper took the controls.

Iota ran a finger over the grinning teeth of her skull-mask. вЂњWill you kiss me

too?вЂќ The man went pale. вЂњPerhaps later?вЂќ

62

FIVE

Fears

Release

Innocence

вЂњHusband?вЂќ

ReniaвЂ™s hand on YosefвЂ™s shoulder shocked him out of the dreamless doze he had

fallen into at the kitchen table; so much so that he almost knocked over the glass of

black tea by his hand. Before it could tip, he snatched it back upright without spilling

a drop.

He gave her a weak smile. вЂњHeh. Quicker this time.вЂќ

YosefвЂ™s wife gathered her thick housecoat around her and took the seat across

from him. It was late, deep into the evening, and the house was unlit except for a

single lume over the table. It had a sharp-edged shade around it that forced the cast

light into a cone, reducing everything beyond it to vague shapes in the shadows.

вЂњIs Ivak up as well?вЂќ

вЂњNo. HeвЂ™s still asleep, and IвЂ™m pleased to see it. With everything thatвЂ™s been

going on, heвЂ™s had a lot of bad dreams.вЂќ

вЂњHas he?вЂќ Yosef asked the question and immediately felt a flicker of guilt. вЂњIвЂ™ve

been absent a lot recentlyвЂ¦вЂќ

вЂњIvak understands,вЂќ Renia said, cutting him off. вЂњI didnвЂ™t hear you come in,вЂќ she

noted.

Yosef nodded and resisted the urge to yawn. вЂњYou and the boy had already turned

in. I didnвЂ™t want to wake you, so I made teaвЂ¦вЂќ He sipped at the glass and found the

contents had gone cold.

вЂњAnd fell asleep in the chair?вЂќ She tutted quietly. вЂњYouвЂ™re doing this too often

these days,вЂќ Yosef Renia brushed some stray threads of copper-coloured hair out of

her eyes.

He nodded. вЂњIвЂ™m sorry. ItвЂ™s the investigation.вЂќ Yosef sighed. вЂњItвЂ™sвЂ¦ troubling.вЂќ

вЂњIвЂ™ve heard,вЂќ she said. вЂњThe watch-wire was running stories about it for a while,

before the news from Dagonet came in. Now that is all anyone is talking about.вЂќ

Yosef blinked. вЂњDagonet?вЂќ he repeated. The planet was a trading partner with

Iesta Veracrux, a few light years distant down the spine of the Taebian SectorвЂ™s

mercantile routes, in a system orbiting a pale yellow sun. By the interstellar scales of

the Imperium of Man, Dagonet was practically a neighbour. He asked his wife to

explain; Yosef and Daig had both been buried in research on the serial murders all

day long, fruitlessly looking for information about Erno Sigg, and neither of them

had seen anything that wasnвЂ™t a case file or medical report.

63

For the first time since she had broken his dozing, Yosef realised that Renia was

hiding something, and as she talked it became clear. She was worried.

вЂњSome ships came into the system from Dagonet,вЂќ Renia began. вЂњThe Planetary

Defence Force monitors couldnвЂ™t catch them all, there were so many.вЂќ

Yosef felt a peculiar thrill of fear in his chest. вЂњWarships?вЂќ

She shook her head. вЂњTransports, liners, that sort of thing. All Dagoneti ships.

Some of them barely made it out of the warp in one piece. They were all overloaded

with people. The ships were full of refugees, Yosef.вЂќ

вЂњWhy did they come here?вЂќ Even as he asked the question, he knew what the

answer was most likely to be. Ever since stories of the galactic insurrection had

broken out across the sector, DagonetвЂ™s government had been noticeably reticent to

commit on the subject.

вЂњThey were running. Apparently, thereвЂ™s an uprising going on out there. The

population are split over theirвЂ¦ loyalty.вЂќ She said the word as if it was foreign to

her, as if the idea of being disloyal to Terra was a totally alien concept. вЂњItвЂ™s a

revolt.вЂќ

Yosef frowned. вЂњThe Governor on Dagonet wonвЂ™t let things run out of control.

The noble clans wonвЂ™t let the planet fall into anarchy. If the Imperial Army or the

Astartes have to intervene thereвЂ”вЂќ

Renia shook her head and touched his hand. вЂњYou donвЂ™t understand. ItвЂ™s the

Dagoneti clans who started the uprising. The Governor issued a formal statement of

support for the Warmaster. The nobles have declared in favour of Horus and rejected

the rule of Terra.вЂќ

вЂњWhat?вЂќ Yosef felt suddenly giddy, as if he had stood up too quickly.

вЂњThe common people are the ones fighting back. They say there is blood in the

streets of the capital. Soldiers fighting soldiers, militia fighting clan guards. Those

who could flee filled every ship they could get their hands on.вЂќ

He sat quietly, letting this sink in. There was, he had to admit, a certain logic to

the chain of events. Yosef had visited Dagonet in his youth and he recalled that

Horus Lupercal was second only to the Emperor in being celebrated by the people of

the planet; statues in the WarmasterвЂ™s honour were everywhere, and the Dagoneti

spoke of him as вЂњthe LiberatorвЂќ. As the historic record went, in the early years of the

Great Crusade to reunite the lost colonies of humanity, Dagonet languished under the

heel of a corrupt and venal priest-king who ruled the planet through fear and

superstition. Horus, at the head of his Luna Wolves Legion, had come to Dagonet

and freed a worldвЂ”accomplishing the deed with only one round of ammunition

expended, the single shot he fired that dispatched the tyrant. The victory was one of

the WarmasterвЂ™s most celebrated triumphs, and it ensured he would be revered

forever as DagonetвЂ™s saviour.

Small wonder then, that the aristocratic clans who now ruled the planet would

give their banners to him instead of a distant Emperor who had never set foot on their

world. YosefвЂ™s brow creased in a frown. вЂњIf they follow HorusвЂ¦вЂќ

вЂњWill Iesta follow suit?вЂќ said Renia, completing his question for him. вЂњTerra is a

long way from here, Yosef, and our Governor is no stronger-willed than the rulers of

Dagonet. And if the rumours are true, the Warmaster may be closer than we know.вЂќ

His wife reached out again and took both his hands, and this time he noticed that she

64

was trembling. вЂњThey say that the Sons of Horus are already on their way to Dagonet,

to take control of the entire sector.вЂќ

He tried to summon a fraction of his firm, steady voice, the manner he had been

trained to display as a reeve when the citizens looked to him in time of danger. вЂњThat

wonвЂ™t happen. We have nothing to be afraid of.вЂќ

ReniaвЂ™s expressionвЂ”her love for him for trying to protect her there, but

intermingled with stark fearвЂ”told him that for all his efforts, he did not succeed.

The chemical snows of the Aktick Zone, thick feathery clumps tainted a sickly

yellow from thousands of years of atmospheric contaminants, beat at the canopy of

the aircraft. Out beyond the bullet-shaped nose of the transport, there was only a

featureless cowl of grey sky and the whirling storm. Eristede Kell gave it a glance

and then turned away, stepping back from the raised cockpit deck to the small cabin

area behind it.

вЂњHow much longer?вЂќ said Tariel, who sat strapped into a thrust couch, a halffinished

logica puzzle in his soft, thin fingers.

вЂњNot long,вЂќ Kell told him, deliberately giving him a vague answer.

The VanusвЂ™ face pinched in irritation, and he fiddled with the complex knot of the

logica without really paying attention to it. вЂњThe sooner we get there, the happier I

will be.вЂќ

вЂњNervous passenger?вЂќ the sniper asked, with mild amusement.

Tariel heard it in his voice and fired him an acid look. вЂњThe last aircraft I was in

got shot down over the desert. That hasnвЂ™t exactly made me well-disposed to the

whole experience.вЂќ He discarded the logicaвЂ”which, to his surprise, Kell realised the

Vanus had completed without apparent effortвЂ”and pulled up his sleeve to minister to

his cogitator gauntlet. вЂњI still donвЂ™t understand why I am needed here. I should have

returned with Valdor.вЂќ

вЂњThe Captain-General has duties of his own to attend to,вЂќ said Kell. вЂњFor now on,

weвЂ™re on our own.вЂќ

вЂњSo it would seem.вЂќ Tariel threw a wary look to the far end of the cabin, where

the girl Iota was sitting. Tariel had placed himself as far away from her as it was

possible to get and still be inside the aircraftвЂ™s crew compartment.

For her part, the Culexus appeared wholly occupied with the pattern of the rivets

on the far bulkhead, running her long fingers over the surface of them, back and

forth. She seemed lost in the repeated, almost autistic actions.

вЂњOperational security,вЂќ said Kell. вЂњValdorвЂ™s orders were quite clear. We assemble

the team he wants, and no one must learn of it.вЂќ

Tariel paused, and then leaned closer. вЂњYou know what she is, donвЂ™t you?вЂќ

вЂњA pariah,вЂќ sniffed the Vindicare. вЂњYes, I know what that means.вЂќ

But the Vanus was shaking his head. вЂњIota is designated as a protiphage. SheвЂ™s

not human, Kell, not like you or I. The girl is a replicae.вЂќ

вЂњA clone?вЂќ The sniper looked back at the silent Culexus. вЂњI would not think it

beyond the works of her clade to create such a thing.вЂќ Still, he wondered how the

genomasters would have gone about it. Kell knew that the EmperorвЂ™s biologians were

65

greatly skilled and possessed of incredible knowledgeвЂ”but to make a living person,

whole and real, from cells in a test tubeвЂ¦

вЂњExactly!вЂќ insisted Tariel. вЂњA being without a soul. SheвЂ™s closer to the xenos than

to us.вЂќ

A smile pulled briefly at KellвЂ™s lips. вЂњYouвЂ™re afraid of her.вЂќ

The infocyte looked away. вЂњIn all honesty, Vindicare, I am afraid of most things.

ItвЂ™s the equilibrium of my life.вЂќ

Kell accepted this with a nod. вЂњTell me, have you ever been face to face with one

of the Eversor?вЂќ

TarielвЂ™s face went ashen, the tone of his cheeks paling to match the polar snows

outside the flyerвЂ™s viewports. вЂњNo,вЂќ he husked.

вЂњWhen that happens,вЂќ Kell went on, вЂњthen youвЂ™ll truly have something to be

afraid of.вЂќ

вЂњThatвЂ™s where weвЂ™re going,вЂќ offered Iota. Both of them had thought the girl to be

wrapped up in whatever private reality existed inside her mind, but now she turned

away from the bulkhead and spoke as if she had been a part of the conversation all

along. вЂњTo fetch the one they call the Garantine.вЂќ

KellвЂ™s eyes narrowed. вЂњHow do you know that name?вЂќ He had not spoken of the

next assassin on ValdorвЂ™s list.

вЂњVanus are not the only ones who know things.вЂќ She cocked her head to stare at

Tariel. вЂњIвЂ™ve seen them. Eversor.вЂќ IotaвЂ™s hand strayed to her skull-helm, where it

rested nearby on a vacant passenger couch. вЂњLike and like.вЂќ She smiled at the

infocyte. вЂњThey are rage distilled. Pure.вЂќ

Tariel glared at the sniper. вЂњThatвЂ™s why weвЂ™re out here in this icy wilderness? To

get one of them?вЂќ He shuddered. вЂњA primed cyclonic warhead would be safer!вЂќ

Kell ignored him. вЂњYou know the GarantineвЂ™s name,вЂќ he said to Iota. вЂњWhat else

do you know?вЂќ

вЂњPieces of the puzzle,вЂќ she replied. вЂњIвЂ™ve seen what he left behind. The tracks of

blood and broken meat, the spoor of the vengeance killer.вЂќ She pointed at Tariel.

вЂњThe infocyte is right, you know. More than any one of us, the Garantine is a weapon

of terror.вЂќ

The matter-of-fact way she said the words made Kell hesitate; ever since Valdor

had appeared out there in the deserts with his commands and his authority handed

down from the Master of Assassins himself, the VindicareвЂ™s sense of unease had

grown greater by the day, and now Iota cut to the heart of it. They were lone killers,

all of them in their own ways. This gathering together sat wrongly with him; it was

not the way in which things were to be done. And somewhere, deep in the back of his

thoughts, Eristede Kell found he was also afraid of what such orders boded.

вЂњVindicare!вЂќ He turned as the transport pilot called outвЂ”his cladeвЂ™s name.

вЂњApproach control doesnвЂ™t answer. Something is wrong!вЂќ

Tariel muttered something about his cursed luck and Kell brushed past him, back

into the cockpit. The pilot was already pushing the transport into a steep turn. Below

them, distinguished only by a slight change in the tone of the chem-snow, he spotted

the mottled lifeless landscape of the Aktick ranges through the spin and whirl of the

blizzard-borne ice.

66

There, beneath the craft, was a low blockhouse of heavy ferrocrete,

distinguishable only by stripes of weather-faded crimson outlining the edges of it,

and the steady blink of locator beacons. But where there should have been the hexshape

of a landing silo, there was only a maw belching black smoke and flickers of

fire.

Kell caught the tinny sound of panicked voices coming through the pilotвЂ™s voxbead,

and as they banked, he thought he saw the blink of weapons discharges down

inside the silo proper. His jaw stiffened; this was no chance accident. He knew

exactly what had happened.

вЂњOh. They woke him,вЂќ said Iota, from behind, giving voice to his thoughts. вЂњThat

was a mistake.вЂќ

вЂњTake us in,вЂќ Kell snapped.

The pilotвЂ™s eyes widened behind his flight goggles. вЂњThe silo is on fire and

thereвЂ™s nowhere else to set down! We have to abort!вЂќ

The Vindicare shook his head. вЂњLand us on the ice!вЂќ

вЂњIf I put this craft down there, it might never lift again,вЂќ said the pilot, вЂњand ifвЂ”вЂќ

Kell silenced him with a look. вЂњIf we donвЂ™t deal with this right now, by sunrise

tomorrow every settlement within a hundred kilometre radius will be a

slaughterhouse!вЂќ He pointed at the snow fields. вЂњLand this thing, now!вЂќ

Instead of returning home to the small apartment cluster where he lived alone, out

near the western edge of the radial park, Daig Segan took a public conveyor to the

old market district. At this time of night, none of the stalls were open to make sales

but they were still hives of activity; men and women loaded produce and prepared for

the dawn shift, moving crates on dollies this way and that across shiny tiled floors

that were slick with sluice-water.

Daig crossed the covered market to the other conveyor halt and took the first ride

that came in, irrespective of its destination. As the monorail moved along the line

embedded in the cobbled street bed, he gave the carriage a long, careful sweep,

running over the faces of the other passengers with a policemanвЂ™s wary eye. There

were only a handful of people. Three teenagers in loaderвЂ™s hoods, tired and seriouslooking.

An old couple, bound for home. Men and women in work-cloaks. None of

them spoke. They either stared into the middle distance, or looked blankly out the

windows of the conveyor. Daig could sense the tension in them, the unfocussed fear.

It manifested in short tempers and hollow gazes, brittle silences and morose sighs.

All these people and everyone like them, all were looking to a horizon lit by the

distant fires of war, and they wonderedвЂ”when will it reach us? It seemed as if Iesta

Veracrux was holding its collective breath as the shadow of the rebellion drew ever

closer. Daig looked away and watched the streets roll by.

He rode for three stops before disembarking once more. He took another

conveyor back the way he came, this time stepping off the running board just as it

pulled away from the halt before, the market. The reeve jogged across the road,

throwing a glance over his shoulder to be certain he had not been followed. Then, his

toque pulled low to his brow line, Daig vanished into an ill-lit alleyway and found his

way to an unmarked metal door.

67

A shutter opened in the door and a round, florid face peered out at him.

Recognition split the face in a broad smile. вЂњDaig. We havenвЂ™t seen you in a good

while.вЂќ

вЂњHello, Noust.вЂќ He nodded distractedly. вЂњCan I come in?вЂќ

The door creaked open in reply and he stepped through.

Inside it was warm, and Daig blinked a few times, his eyes watering as the chilled

skin of his face thawed a little. Noust handed him a tin cup with a measure of mulled

wine in it and the reeve followed the other man down a steel staircase. A breath of

gentle music wafted up on the warm air as they descended.

вЂњI wondered if you might have changed your mind,вЂќ said Noust. вЂњSometimes that

happens. People question things after they take on the belief. ItвЂ™s like buyerвЂ™s

remorse.вЂќ He gave a dry chuckle.

вЂњItвЂ™s not that,вЂќ said Daig. вЂњItвЂ™s just that I havenвЂ™t been able to get here. ItвЂ™s the

work.вЂќ He sighed. вЂњI have to be careful.вЂќ

Noust shot him a look over his shoulder. вЂњOf course you do. We all do, especially

in the current climate. He understands.вЂќ

Daig sighed, feeling guilty. вЂњI hope so.вЂќ

The staircase deposited them in a cellar with a low ceiling. Lumes had been glued

to the walls along the long axis of the chamber, and in rough rows there were a

collection of seatsвЂ”some plastiformed things pilfered from office plexes, others

threadbare sofas from lost homes, a few little more than artfully cut packing cratesвЂ”

all of them arranged in a semi-circle around a cloth-covered table. Red-printed

leaflets lay on some of the chairs.

High-Reeve Kata Telemach would have given much to find this place. It was one

of a handful, each concealed in plain sight across Iesta Veracrux. There was no

identifying symbol to show it was here, no secret passwords to be spoken or special

sign that would grant access. It was simply that those who were called to know these

places found them of their own accord, or else they were brought here by the likeminded;

and despite what the High-Reeve insisted, despite all the hearsay and foolish

gossip that was spread about what took place in such cellars and hidden spaces, there

were no horrors, no murderous blood rites or dark ceremonies. There were only

ordinary souls that made up the membership of the Theoge, that and nothing more.

He thought on this as he rubbed his thumb over the smoothed gold of the aquila

talisman about his wrist.

On the table, there was an elderly holographic projector that flickered and

hummed; a blue-tinted image of Terra floated above it, a time-lapse loop of the

planetвЂ™s day-night cycle. At the side of the projector was a book, open at a page of

dense text. The book was made of common-quality vinepaper and it had been bound

without a cover; Daig understood that a friend of NoustвЂ™s who worked the nightshirt

at an inkworks had used cast-offs from other jobs and downtime between the print

runs of paying customers to run out multiple copies of the document.

The pages were careworn from many sets of hands upon them, and he wanted to

pick them up and leaf through them, draw comfort from the writings. Daig knew that

he only had to ask, and Noust would give him a copy of his own to keep, but to have

the book in his home, somewhere it could be discovered by mistake or worse, used to

68

incriminate him by people who didnвЂ™t understand the true meaning contained in itвЂ¦

He couldnвЂ™t take the risk.

Noust was at his side. вЂњYou timed it well. We were just about to have a reading.

YouвЂ™ll join us, yes?вЂќ

Daig looked up. There were only a few other people in the cellar, some of whom

he knew, others not so familiar. He spotted a new face and recognised him as a jager

from the precinct; the man returned a wary look, but Daig gave him a nod that

communicated a shared confidence. вЂњOf course,вЂќ he said to Noust.

A youth with a bandaged hand picked up the book and handed it to DaigвЂ™s friend.

On the front was the only element of adornment on the otherwise Spartan document.

Picked out in red ink, the words Lectitio Divinitatus.

If the Garantine had once possessed a true name, that time was long ago and of little

consequence. The entire concept of a past and a future, these were strange abstracted

notions to the Eversor. They were things thatвЂ”if he had been able to stop to dwell on

themвЂ”would have only brought tics of confusion; and as with all things about him,

rage.

The Eversor existed only in a permanent state of the furious now and matters of

before and after were limited to the most transitory of elements. Before, just

heartbeats earlier, he had beheaded a guard attempting to down him with some kind

of heavy webber cannon. In a moment more, he would leap the distance across the

open space where the handling gantry for the flyers did not reach, in order to land

among the group of technicians who were fleeing towards a doorway. In these small

ways, the Garantine allowed himself to comprehend the nature of past and future, but

to go beyond that was pointless.

It was the manner of his life that he existed in the thick of the killing. He had a

dim understanding of the other times, the times when he would lie in the baths of

amnio-fluids as the patient machines of his clade healed his wounds or upgraded the

stimjectors and drag glands throughout his body. The times when, in the dreamless

no-sleep between missions, hypnogoge data streams would unfold in his head like

blossoms of information, target profiles linked to mood-triggers that would give him

bursts of elation for every kill, jolts of pleasure for each waypoint reached, jerks of

pain if he deviated off-programme.

These things had not happened here, though. He reflected on that as he completed

his leap, his augmented muscles relaxing to take the impact of landing, the sheer

force of his arrival killing one of the fleeing technicians immediately. As he spun

about, the knife-claws on his hands and feet opening veins, the grinning rictus of his

steel skull-mask steaming with splashes of blood, he searched for a programme, for a

set of victory conditions.

There was none. Digging deeper, he reached for his stunted past. He remembered

back as far as he couldвЂ”an hour, perhaps? He replayed the moment. A sudden

awakening. The transit cocoon that held him in its silent, womb-like space, where he

could wait out the non-time until his next glorious release; suddenly broken. An

error, or something else? Enemy action? That assumption was the GarantineвЂ™s default

setting, after all. He reasonedвЂ”as much as he was ableвЂ”that surely if he had been

awakened for any other reason, the hypnogoges would have ensured he knew why.

69

But there was nothing. No parameters, only wakefulness. And for an Eversor, to

be awake was to be in the glory of killing. A cocktail of stimulants and battle drugs

boiled through his bloodstream, heavy doses of Fury, Spur and Psychon synthesised

to order by the compact biofac implants in his abdomen. Under normal

circumstances, the Garantine would have been armed with more than just his

skinplanted offensive weapons and helm-mask; he would have been sheathed in

armour and arrayed with a suite of servo-systems. That he did not have these only

served to modify the killerвЂ™s approach to his targets. He had taken and employed

several light stubber guns, using each until the ammo dram ran dry, then making the

weapons into clubs he used to beat his kills to the floor; but the stubbers were only

good for a few hits before his violence broke them across the frame and he was

forced to discard them.

He punched a man with enough energy that it shattered his skull, and then he

vaulted a makeshift barricade, moving faster than the men hiding behind it could aim.

He killed them with their own guns and ran on, deeper through the complex.

Parts of the building might have looked familiar to him, if the Garantine had been

able to stop the racing pace of his thoughts, if he had been able to slow his kill-need

for just a moment; but he could do neither.

In the absence of orders, with no target to aim for, the Eversor did what he was

trained to do; and he would go on, killing here and then moving on to the next set of

targets, and the next and the next, forever in the moment.

Afterwards, Daig felt refreshed by his experience, but he had not come to the meeting

for personal reasons. While some of the others talked amongst themselves, the reeve

took Noust to one side and the two men shared cups of the warm wine, and questions.

Noust listened in silence to DaigвЂ™s explanation of his caseload, and at length, he

gave a nod. вЂњI know Erno Sigg. I guessed that might be why youвЂ™d come to see me.

His face was on the public watch-wire. Said that he was sought after to assist in your

вЂenquiriesвЂ™.вЂќ

Daig suppressed a wince. Laimner, on TelemachвЂ™s orders, had deliberately leaked

SiggвЂ™s image to the media in a ham-fisted attempt to flush him into the open; but if

anything, it appeared to have driven the man deeper into hiding.

Noust continued. вЂњHeвЂ™s a troubled fellow, to be certain. Someone without a

compass, you could say. But thatвЂ™s where the Theoge can be of help to a man. He

learned of the text while he was incarcerated, from a ship-hand. Erno found another

path with us.вЂќ He looked away. вЂњAt least, for a time he did.вЂќ

Daig leaned in. вЂњWhat do you mean?вЂќ

Noust eyed him. вЂњIs that you asking, Daig Segan? Or is it the Sentine?вЂќ

вЂњBoth,вЂќ he replied. вЂњThis is important. You know I wouldnвЂ™t ask if it wasnвЂ™t.вЂќ

вЂњAye, thatвЂ™s so.вЂќ Noust sighed. вЂњHereвЂ™s the thing. For a while, Erno was a regular

fixture here, and he was trying to make something of himself. He wanted to make

amends. Erno was working to become a better man than the angry, frustrated thug

heвЂ™d left out there in space. ItвЂ™s a long road, but he knew that. But then he started to

come around less often.вЂќ

вЂњWhen did this happen?вЂќ

70

вЂњA few demilunars ago. Two, maybe. When I did see him, he was twitchy. He

said that he was going to have to pay for what he had done.вЂќ Noust paused, sorting

through his thoughts. вЂњI got the impression that someone wasвЂ¦ I donвЂ™t know,

following him? He was irritable, paranoid. All the old, bad traits coming back to the

fore.вЂќ

Daig rubbed his chin. вЂњHe may have killed people.вЂќ

Noust gave the reeve a shocked look. вЂњNo. Never. Maybe once upon a time, but

not now. HeвЂ™s not capable of that, not anymore. IвЂ™d swear that to the God-Emperor

himself.вЂќ

вЂњI need to find Erno,вЂќ said Daig. вЂњIf heвЂ™s innocent, we need to prove it. WeвЂ¦ I

need to protect all this.вЂќ He gestured around. вЂњI found my path here. I canвЂ™t lose it.вЂќ

Daig imagined what might happen if Telemach or Laimner got hold of Sigg, broke

him in interrogation and then found the door to this place. In their secular, clinical

world there was no place for the revelation of the Imperial Truth, the undeniable

reality of the EmperorвЂ™s shining divinity. The church, such as it was, and all the

others like it would be torn down, burned away, and the words of the Lectitio

Divinitatus that had so transformed Daig Segan when he read them would be erased

and left unheard. They would use Sigg and the crimes to excuse them as they put a

torch to it all.

вЂњThe Emperor protects,вЂќ said Noust.

вЂњAnd IвЂ™ll help Him do it, if you give me the chance,вЂќ insisted the reeve. вЂњJust tell

me where Erno Sigg is hiding.вЂќ

Noust finished his drink. вЂњAll right, brother.вЂќ

Behind her, she heard the clattering thunder of auto-fire and more screams. Iota

skidded to a halt on the cold metal floor and cocked her head, letting her skull-helmвЂ™s

autosenses take readings and pass the analysis back to her. He was very close; she

had attracted his interest by appearing in the middle of a companionway, letting him

see her clearly, and then breaking into a ran. The Eversor knew another assassin

when he saw one, and she was without doubt the most serious threat vector the ragekiller

had encountered since his awakening. He was coming for her, but that didnвЂ™t

stop him from pausing along the way to dispatch any of the facilityвЂ™s staff who were

unlucky enough to cross his path. The murderers of the Clade Eversor were like that;

for all their bloody violence and instinct-driven brutality, they were still methodical.

They left no witnesses, nothing but corpses.

Iota waited, rocking on her heels, ready to break into a run the moment he spotted

her again. From what the infocyte had managed to piece together from the baseвЂ™s

cogitators, it seemed that there had been a catastrophic accident during the retrieval

of the Garantine from one of the deep cold iso-stores beneath the mantle of the

Aktick ice. The cryopod containing the assassin in his dormant state had cracked a

fluid line; the burst conduit sprayed super-chilled methalon across the handlers, flashfreezing

them all in an instant. By the time another team had made it down to the

transfer area, the pod had drained and the Garantine was already awake. Even in his

semi-dormant, unarmed state, they were easily cut down by him.

The cladeвЂ™s technologians made the fatal mistake of addressing the problem of

the coolant leak firstвЂ”an easy choice to understand, given that this particular facility

71

housed another nine Eversor field operatives down in the iso-stores. Left unchecked,

the GarantineвЂ™s brethren would have eventually followed him into wakefulness. But

the time spent stabilising the storage compartments had allowed the Garantine to

fully thaw and begin the business of terminating every living being in the facility.

вЂњCulexus? Where are you?вЂќ said Tariel, his voice a hiss in her helmet vox.

вЂњArea eight, tier one, facing west,вЂќ she replied. вЂњWaiting.вЂќ

вЂњIвЂ™ve accessed the main systems library,вЂќ he told her, clearly impressed with his

own achievement. вЂњIвЂ™m closing the pressure hatches behind him as he moves.вЂќ

Iota glanced down at the multi-barrelled combi-needler fixed to her right wrist,

considering it. вЂњHeвЂ™s not an animal, Vanus. HeвЂ™ll know if youвЂ™re trying to herd him.вЂќ

вЂњJust keep him reactive,вЂќ came the reply.

She didnвЂ™t say any more, because at that moment the Garantine came storming

around the bend in the corridor, his thickset, densely-muscled body rippling with

exertion. Chugs of white vapour puffed into the cold air from behind his metal mask,

and as he moved, Iota saw the places where his bare skin showed and the shapes of

implants beneath. The Garantine was covered from head to toe with daubs of human

blood. He halted, rumbling like an engine, and eyed her with a low chuckle. In one

hand he had a stubber carbine, liquid dripping from the blunt maw of the barrel.

She thought for a fleeting instant about attempting to reason with him, then

dismissed the idea just as quickly. There were rumours that every Eversor had an

abeyance meme encoded into their brains, a nonsense string of words that would lull

them into inaction, or even send them into neuro-death if spoken aloud; but if this

were so, Iota was sure that the rage-killer would have made certain any technologians

in the base who knew the code were no longer able to voice it.

The Garantine pointed the broken gun at her. вЂњYou,вЂќ he said thickly. вЂњQuick.вЂќ

Perhaps it was a threatвЂ”a promise that he was going to end her swiftlyвЂ”or

perhaps it was a compliment on her agility, acknowledging Iota as the first real

challenge he had come across since awakening. It mattered little; in the next second

he was coming at her, charging like an enraged grox.

She fired a blast of glassaic needles at him, describing a seamless back flip to

open the distance between them. The glittering shots clattered across the EversorвЂ™s

torso, burying themselves in the meat of his chest, but the rage-killer only grunted

and batted them away.

Iota spun to a halt in front of a large oval exterior hatchway, as TarielвЂ™s voice

reached her once more. вЂњIs he there?вЂќ came the urgent question. вЂњIвЂ¦ I am having

difficulty reading the location of the GarantineвЂ¦вЂќ

She nodded to herself. Among the many implants beneath the flesh of an Eversor

were passive sensing baffles that could confuse the detector heads of many

conventional scanners. вЂњOh, heвЂ™s here,вЂќ Iota told him. вЂњHe will murder me in less

than one hundred and ten seconds.вЂќ The prediction was based on observing the other

kills the Garantine had made.

вЂњWorking,вЂќ said the infocyte, a new urgency in his words.

вЂњTake your time,вЂќ she replied.

The Eversor halted and cocked his head, considering her. Iota took a breath and

drew in on herself. She let the force matrix built into the structure of her stealth-suit

72

come alive, allowing it to reach its web of influence beyond the real and into the

etherium of the warp; but the process was slow. Had she been fighting a psyker, she

could have drained them dry in a moment, siphoned off their power for herself. But

here and now, there was nothing but the commonplace energy of air and heat and

life. She felt the eye of the animus speculum slowly iris openвЂ”but even as it did she

knew it would not be ready in time.

The other assassin grunted out a laugh and stooped to rip a short stanchion pole

from a support pillar, tearing it off in a flutter of sparks. He brandished the steel rod

like a club and went for her.

At once, the hatch at IotaвЂ™s back groaned on heavy hydraulics and fanned open

with a clatter of fracturing ice. A blast of polar air and windborne snow thundered in

around her from outside. For a moment, the snowstorm whirled into the corridor,

filling the space with whiteness.

The energy inside the animus was approaching readiness, but as she had

predicted, the Garantine killer had her range and he did not hesitate again.

Before Iota could release even a fraction of the psy-weaponвЂ™s potential he

slammed the bar into her chest with such force that she flew backwards, out into the

snow-filled courtyard. Iota noted the snapping of several of her ribs with a

disconnected understanding. She landed badly in a shallow drift of white and

coughed up a stream of bloody spittle into her helmet. The fact she wasnвЂ™t dead made

it clear he wanted to toy with her first.

They called him the Garantine because it was said he hailed from the Garant

Span, an Oort cloud collective on the near side of the Perseus Null. A natural

psychotic, he had killed everyone on his home asteroid, and all this as a child barely

able to read. It was no wonder the Clade Eversor had been delighted to take

ownership of him.

Iota struggled to get up, and through the optics of her skull-helm she looked to

see another grinning rictus come into view. The Garantine grabbed her by the ankle

and effortlessly threw her across the courtyard. This time the impact was lessened by

a deep snow bank, but still the shock vibrated through her. She let out a tiny cry of

pain. In her ear, the Vanus was jabbering something about closing the hatch, but that

had no consequence to her. Iota focussed on bringing the animus to a firing state. If

their plan failed, she would have to be the one to kill him, crashing his fevered mind

with a blast of pure warp energy.

The Eversor bounded towards her, laughing, and at the last moment he leapt into

the air. Time seemed to thicken and slow, the hazy man-shape falling down towards

her; then she was distantly aware of a heavy report and suddenly the GarantineвЂ™s fall

was deflected.

He jerked away at a right angle, as if pulled on an invisible cord.

Iota saw the steaming wound in the rage-killerвЂ™s chest as he stumbled back to his

clawed feet, shaking off the strike. Her head swimming, the Culexus searched and

then found the source of the attack. A shimmering white figure stood up atop one of

the nearby blockhouses, a longrifle in his grip. The white colouration faded into inkblack

as the Vindicare deliberately reset his cameoline cloak to a null mode, allowing

the Eversor to see him clearly. He raised the rifle to his shoulder as the rage-killer

roared at him, and for the moment Iota was apparently forgotten.

73

The Eversor charged again, and the rifle shouted. The first shot had been a kinetic

impact round, the kind of bullet that could shatter the engine block of a hover track or

reduce an unarmoured man to meat; that had been enough to attract the GarantineвЂ™s

attention. The next shot whistled through the frigid air, blurring as it impacted the

EversorвЂ™s chest. The round was a heavy dart, fashioned from high-density glassaic. It

contained a reservoir of gel within, pressure-injected into the targetвЂ™s flesh on impact;

but it was not a drag or philtre. An EversorвЂ™s body was a chemical hell of dozens of

interacting combat medicines, and no poison, no sedative could have been enough to

slow it. The gel-matter in the rounds was a myofluid with a very different function;

when exposed to oxygen it created a powerful bioelectric charge, a single hit strong

enough to stun an ogryn.

It was a non-lethal attack, and the Garantine seemed incensed by that, as if he

were insulted that so trivial a weapon was being used on him. He tore out the dart and

came on. Kell fired again, flawlessly striking the same spot, and then again, and then

a third time. The Eversor did not falter, even as crackles of blue sparks erupted from

the weeping wound in his chest.

For one moment, Iota felt a rare stab of fear. How many rounds did the Vindicare

have in the magazine of his longrifle? Would it be enough? She ignored the Vanus

shouting in her ear and watched, as the crash of shot after shot was swallowed up by

the hush of the falling snows.

The Eversor leapt up to where the Vindicare stood and swung a taloned hand at

him, but his balance faltered, the warshot of a dozen darts pinning his flesh. The blow

smashed KellвЂ™s rifle in two and sent the pieces spinning. Iota was on her feet, aiming

the animus; if she fired now, the Vindicare would be caught in the nimbus of the psiblast.

But then the fight ebbed from the Eversor assassin, and the Garantine staggered

backward, finally succumbing to all the hits he had taken. He made a last swipe at

Kell and missed, the force of the blow carrying him back off the roof of the

blockhouse and down into the courtyard.

Iota approached him carefully, loping low across the ground. She was not

convinced. Behind her, the marksman came in to survey his work.

вЂњIs he down,вЂќ she heard Tariel ask.

вЂњFor our sake,вЂќ Kell muttered, вЂњI bloody hope so.вЂќ

Daig halted the groundcar at the foot of the hill and killed the engine. вЂњWe walk from

here,вЂќ he said, the weak pre-dawn light giving his face a ghostly cast.

Yosef studied him. вЂњTell me again how you came across this lead?вЂќ he said. вЂњTell

me again why you had to drag me out of my bedвЂ”a bed IвЂ™ve hardly had leave to be

in these last few days, mindвЂ”to come out to a derelict vineyard while the rest of the

city is sleeping?вЂќ

вЂњI told you,вЂќ Daig said, with uncharacteristic terseness, вЂњa source. Come on. We

couldnвЂ™t risk coming in by flyer in case Sigg gets spookedвЂ¦ and he may not even be

here.вЂќ

Yosef followed him out into the cold air, pausing a moment to check the

magazine in his pistol. He looked up the low hill. On the other side of heavy iron

gates, what had once been the Blasko Wine Lodge was now a tumbledown husk of its

74

former self. Gutted by fire a full three seasons ago, the site on the southerly ridges

had yet to be reopened, and it stood empty and barren. In the dampness of the dawn

air, the tang of fire-damaged wood could still be scented, drawn out by the moisture.

вЂњIf you think Sigg is in there,вЂќ Yosef went on, вЂњwe should at least have some

support.вЂќ

вЂњI donвЂ™t know for sure,вЂќ Daig replied.

вЂњNot an overly reliable source, then,вЂќ said Yosef. That earned him a sullen look.

вЂњYou know what will happen if I breathe a word of this at the precinct. Laimner

would be all over it like a blight.вЂќ

He couldnвЂ™t disagree with that; and if Laimner was involved and DaigвЂ™s tip came

to nothing, it would be the two reeves who would suffer for it. вЂњFine. But donвЂ™t keep

me in the dark.вЂќ

When Daig looked at him again, he was almost imploring him. вЂњYosef. I donвЂ™t

ask much of you, but IвЂ™m asking now. Just trust me here, and donвЂ™t question it. All

right?вЂќ He nodded at length. вЂњAll right.вЂќ

They got into the vineyard through a broken stand of fencing, and followed the

driveway up to the main building. Small branches and drifts of wet leaves dotted the

ground. Yosef glanced to his right and saw where unkempt, blackened ground ranged

away down the steep terraces. Before the fire, those spaces had been thick with

greenery, but now they were little more than snarls of wild growth. Yosef frowned;

he still had a ten-year bottle of Blasko caskinport at home. It had been a good brand.

вЂњIn here,вЂќ whispered Daig, motioning him towards an outbuilding.

Yosef hesitated, his eyes adjusted to the dimness now, and his sight picking out

what did not fit. Here and there he saw signs of recent motion, places where dirt had

been disturbed by human movement. Looking up from the gates, an observer would

have seen nothing, but here, close up, there was evidence. Yosef thought about the

Norte and Latigue murders, and he reached into the pocket of his coat for the butt of

his gun, comforting himself with the steady presence of the firearm.

вЂњWe take him alive,вЂќ he hissed back.

Daig shot him a look as he drew a thermal register unit from inside his jacket,

panning it around to scan for a heat return. вЂњOf course.вЂќ

They found their suspect asleep inside the cooperвЂ™s shack, lying in the curve of a

half-built barrel. He heard their approach and bolted to his feet in a panic. Yosef put

the brilliant white glare of his hand lantern on him and took careful aim with the

pistol.

вЂњErno Sigg!вЂќ he snapped, вЂњWe are reeves of the Sentine, and you are bound by

law. Stand where you are and do not move.вЂќ

The man almost collapsed, so great was his terror. Sigg flailed and stumbled,

falling against the side of his makeshift shelter, before catching himself with an

obvious physical effort. He held up his shaking hands, in the right gripping the

handle of an elderly fuel-lamp. вЂњH-have you come to kill me?вЂќ he asked.

It wasnвЂ™t the question Yosef had expected. He had faced killers of men before,

more often than he might have liked, but SiggвЂ™s manner was unlike any of them.

Dread came off him in waves, like heat from a naked flame. Yosef had once rescued

a young boy held prisoner for weeks in a wine cellar; the look on the boyвЂ™s face as he

75

saw light for the first time was mirrored now in Erno SiggвЂ™s expression. The man

looked like a victim.

вЂњYou are suspected of a high crime,вЂќ Daig told him. вЂњYouвЂ™re to come with us.вЂќ

вЂњI paid for what I did!вЂќ he retorted. вЂњIвЂ™ve done nothing else since!вЂќ Sigg looked in

DaigвЂ™s direction. вЂњHow did you find me? I hid well enough so even he couldnвЂ™t know

where I was!вЂќ

Yosef wondered who he might be as Daig answered. вЂњDonвЂ™t be afraid. If you are

innocent, we will prove it.вЂќ

вЂњWill you?вЂќ The question was weak and fearful, like the words of a child.

Then Daig said something that seemed out of place in the moment, and yet the

words were like a calmative, immediately easing the tension in SiggвЂ™s taut frame.

Daig said, вЂњThe Emperor protects.вЂќ

When Yosef looked back to Sigg, the man was staring directly at him. вЂњIвЂ™ve done

many things IвЂ™m not proud of,вЂќ he told him. вЂњBut no longer. And not those things the

wire accuses me of. IвЂ™ve never taken a manвЂ™s life.вЂќ

вЂњI believe you, Erno,вЂќ said Yosef, the words leaving his mouth before he was

even aware of them forming in his thoughts; and the strangeness of it was, he did

believe him, with a totality that surprised the reeve with its strength. On some

instinctual level, he knew that Erno Sigg was telling the truth. The fact that Yosef

could not fathom where this abrupt conviction had come from troubled him deeply;

but he did not have time to dwell upon it.

The roof of the cooperвЂ™s shack was a shell of corrugated metal and glass, some of

it warped or shattered by the passage of the old inferno. From nowhere, as the dawn

wind changed direction, the musty air was suddenly full of noise. Yosef recognised

the rattling hum of coleopter rotors a split-second before harsh sodium light drenched

the floor with white, the glare from spotlamps blazing down through the smoke-dirty

glass and the holes in the roof. An amplified voice echoed YosefвЂ™s original challenge

to Sigg, and then there was movement.

The reeve looked up, shielding his eyes, and made out the blurs of jagers

dropping from the hovering flyers, heavy guns in their grips at they fell on descender

lines.

He looked back and saw pure fury on SiggвЂ™s face. вЂњBastards!вЂќ he spat

venomously, вЂњI would have come! But you lied! You lied!вЂќ

Daig was reaching out to him. вЂњNo, wait!вЂќ he cried out. вЂњI didnвЂ™t bring them! We

came aloneвЂ”вЂќ

Sigg cursed them once again and threw the fuel-lamp in his hand with a savage

jerk. The lantern hit the ground and split in a crash of glass and fire, even as overhead

the intact portions of the roof were breached by the jagers. As pieces of the roof

rained down from above, the lampвЂ™s burning oils kissed the soiled matter and old

spills on the floor and a pulse of smoky flame erupted. Yosef pushed Daig aside as

the new blaze rolled out, chewing on the piles of rotting wood and discarded sacks all

around them.

Daig tried to go after Sigg, but the fire had already built a wall between them, and

the droning throb of the coleopter blades fed it, raising it high. Sigg vanished into the

heat and the smoke.

76

The jagers were disentangling themselves from their ropes as Yosef stormed over

to them; one was already on the wireless for a firefighter unit. The reeve saw SkeltaвЂ™s

face among the men and grabbed him by his collar.

вЂњWho ordered you in?вЂќ he shouted, over the sound of the rotors. вЂњWhoвЂ™s the shit

who ruined this?вЂќ But he knew the answer before he heard it.

77

SIX

Ultio

Lies and Murder

The Death of Kings and Queens

The Officio presented the ship to them without ceremony. Like those it served, the

vessel had a fluid identity; at the present moment, as it made its way towards the

orbit of Jupiter, its pennants and beacons declared it to be the Hallis Faye, an oxygen

tanker out of Ceres registered to a Belter Coalition habitat. Its codename, revealed to

Kell and the others as they boarded, was Ultio.

Outwardly, the Ultio resembled the class of light bulk transport ships that

travelled a thousand different sub-light intrasystem space lanes across the Imperium.

It was a design so commonplace that it became almost invisible in its ubiquity; a

perfect blind for a craft in service to the Officio Assassinorum. Small by the

standards of the mammoth starcruisers that comprised the fleets of the Imperial Navy

and the rogue trader baronage, the Ultio was every inch a lie. A stubby trident, the

shaft of the main hullвЂ”what appeared to be space for cargoвЂ”was in fact filled with

the mechanisms and power train for an advanced design of interstellar warp motor.

The craft had been constructed around the old engine, the origins of which were lost

to time, and it was only the forward arrowhead-shaped section of the ship that was

actually given over to cabins and compartments. This module, swept back and curved

like an aerodyne, was capable of detaching itself from the massive drives to make

planetfall like a guncutter. Inside, the crew sections of the Ultio were cramped and

narrow, with sleeping quarters no larger than prison cells, hexagonal corridors and a

flight deck configured with advanced gravity simulators so that every square

centimetre of surface area could be utilised.

The ship had three permanent crewmembers, in addition to the growing numbers

of the Execution Force, but none of them were what could be considered wholly

human. As Kell walked towards the stern, he was aware that beneath his feet the

shipвЂ™s astropath lay sleeping inside a null chamber, having deliberately shocked itself

into a somnambulant state; similarly, the UltioвЂ™s Navigator, who habitually remained

far back among the systemry of the drive section, had also opted to drop into sensedep

slumber inside a similar contrapsychic chamber. Both of them had expressed

grave displeasure at IotaвЂ™s arrival on board, but their requests that she be sequestered

or drugged into stasis were denied. Kell could only guess at how the delicate psionic

senses of the warp navigator and the astro-telepath would be perturbed by the ghostly

negative aura cast by the Culexus; even he, without a taint of the psyker about him,

found it profoundly unsettling to be around the pariah girl for too long. She had

78

agreed to wear her dampener tore for the duration, but even that device could not

block the eerie air that followed Iota wherever she went.

The third member of the UltioвЂ™s crew was the least human of them all. Kell could

still see the strange look of mingled horror and fascination on TarielвЂ™s face as they

had met the starshipвЂ™s pilot. There was no body to the pilot, not anymore; like the

venerable dreadnoughts of the Adeptus Astartes, a being that had once been a man

many centuries ago was now only a few pieces of flesh interred inside a body of iron

and steel. Somewhere deep inside the block of computational hardware that filled the

rear section of the crew deck, parts of a brain and preserved skeins of nerve ganglia

were all that remained. Now he was the Ultio, and the Ultio was him, the hull his

skin, the fires of the fusion core his beating heart. Kell tried to comprehend what it

might be like to surrender oneвЂ™s self to the embrace of a machine, but he could not.

He was, on some base level, appalled by the very idea of such a merging; but what he

thought counted for nothing. The pilot, the Navigator, the astropath and all the rest of

them, they were here to serve the interest of the AssassinorumвЂ”to do, and not to

question.

He halted outside a hatchway, his boots ringing on the metal-grilled deck.

вЂњUltio,вЂќ he asked the air, вЂњIs the Garantine awake?вЂќ

вЂњConfirmed.вЂќ The pilot-cyborgвЂ™s voice came from a speaker grille above his

head. It had the flat tonality of a synthetic vocoder.

вЂњOpen it,вЂќ he ordered.

вЂњComplying,вЂќ came the reply. вЂњHazard warning. Increased gravity field ahead.

Do not enter.вЂќ

The hatch fell into the deck, and a waft of stale air, reeking of chemical sweat,

wandered into the corridor. Inside, the Eversor sat uncomfortably on the floor, his

breathing laboured. With visible effort, the rage-killer lifted his head and glared at

Kell. вЂњWhen I get out of here,вЂќ he said, forcing the words from his mouth, вЂњI am

going to rip you apart.вЂќ

KellвЂ™s lips thinned. He didnвЂ™t approach any closer. Although the Garantine was

not tethered to the deck by any chains or fetters, there was no way he could have

come to his feet. The gravitational plates beneath the floor of the EversorвЂ™s

compartment were operating well above their standard setting, confining the assassin

to the floor with the sheer weight of his own flesh. Veins stood out from his bare skin

as his bio-modified physiology worked to keep him alive; an unaugmented human

would have died from collapsed lungs or crushed organs within an hour or so.

The Garantine had been in the room for two days now, enduring a regimen of

antipsychotics and neural restoratives.

Kell studied him. вЂњIt must be difficult for you,вЂќ he began. вЂњThe doubt. The

uncertainty.вЂќ

вЂњThereвЂ™s no hesitation in me,вЂќ gasped the Eversor. вЂњLet me up and youвЂ™ll see.вЂќ

вЂњThe mission, I mean.вЂќ That got him the smallest flash of hesitation from behind

the GarantineвЂ™s skull-face. вЂњTo wake without directionвЂ¦ That canвЂ™t have been easy

on you.вЂќ

вЂњI will kill,вЂќ said the Eversor.

вЂњYes,вЂќ agreed the Vindicare. вЂњAnd kill and kill and kill, until you are destroyed.

But it will be for nothing. Worthless.вЂќ

79

With an agonised grunt, the Garantine tried to lurch forward, clawing towards the

open doorway. вЂњIвЂ™ll kill you,вЂќ he grated. вЂњWorth something.вЂќ

Kell resisted the reflex to step back. вЂњYou think so?вЂќ

вЂњBroke your gun, back there,вЂќ muttered the Eversor, the sweat thick on his bare

neck. вЂњPity. Were youвЂ¦ attached to it?вЂќ

Kell didnвЂ™t rise to the bait; his prized longrifle had been custom-made by Isherite

weaponsmiths, and it had served him well for years. вЂњIt was just a weapon.вЂќ

вЂњLike me?вЂќ

He spread his hands. вЂњLike all of us.вЂќ Kell paused, then went on. вЂњThe accident

that woke you earlyвЂ¦ The Vanus Tariel tells me that it would take too long to put

you under again, to go through all the hypno-programming and conditioning. So we

either vent you to space and start anew with another one of your kindred, or we

findвЂ”вЂќ

вЂњA different way?вЂќ The rage-killer gave a coughing chuckle. вЂњIf I was chosen by

my clade for whatever is planned, IвЂ™m the one you need. CanвЂ™t do it without me.вЂќ

вЂњIвЂ™m compelled to agree.вЂќ Kell gave a thin smile. The Garantine was no mindless

thug, appearances to the contrary. вЂњI was going to say we would find an

understanding.вЂќ

The other assassin laughed painfully. вЂњWhat can you offer me that would be

richer than tearing your head from your neck, sniper?вЂќ

The Vindicare stared into the EversorвЂ™s wide, bloodshot eyes. вЂњNothing has been

said yet, but the directors can only be bringing us together for one reason. One target.

And I think youвЂ™d like to be there when he dies.вЂќ

He said the name, and behind his fanged mask the Garantine grinned.

* * *

YosefвЂ™s hands were tight fists, and it was all he could do not to haul back and smack

that weak half-smile off the face of Reeve Warden Laimner. For a giddy moment, he

pictured himself with LaimnerвЂ™s greasy curls in his hand, smashing his face against

the tiled floor of the precinct house, beating him into a broken ruin. The potency of

the anger was startlingly strong, and it took an effort to rein himself in.

Laimner was waving his hand in DaigвЂ™s face and going on and on about how all

of this was SeganвЂ™s fault for not following proper channels, for not calling in backup

units. He had been singing the same song all the way back from the Blasko lodge.

вЂњYou lost the suspect,вЂќ the warden bleated, вЂњyou had him and you lost him.вЂќ

Laimner glared at Yosef. вЂњWhy didnвЂ™t you take a shot? Leg hit? Put him down,

even?вЂќ

вЂњI could have walked Sigg in through the front door,вЂќ Daig grated. вЂњHe was going

to surrender!вЂќ

Laimner rounded on him. вЂњAre you an idiot? Do you really believe that?вЂќ He

stabbed at a pile of crime scene picts on the desk before him. вЂњSigg was playing you.

He wanted to make meat-toys out of you both, and you almost let him do it!вЂќ

Yosef found his voice and bit out a question. вЂњHow did you know where we

were?вЂќ

80

вЂњDonвЂ™t be stupid, Sabrat,вЂќ said the warden. вЂњDo you think the High-Reeve would

let you off on a major case like this without having you tracked every second?вЂќ

Yosef saw Daig go pale at that, but he didnвЂ™t remark on it. Instead, he pressed on.

вЂњWe had a solid lead, from aвЂ¦ a reliable source! We could have brought Sigg to

book, but you came in mob-handed and ruined it!вЂќ

вЂњWatch your tone, reeve!вЂќ Laimner shot back. He ran a deliberate finger down

his warrant rod to emphasise his rank. вЂњRemember who youвЂ™re talking to!вЂќ

вЂњIf you want to run this case, then do it,вЂќ Yosef continued. вЂњBut otherwise donвЂ™t

second-guess the investigating officers!вЂќ

The wardenвЂ™s sneering smile returned. вЂњI was following TelemachвЂ™s orders.вЂќ

YosefвЂ™s lip curled. вЂњWell, thanks for making that clear. I thought it was just your

impatience and poor judgement that would make this case fall apart, but it seems like

the problem is further up the line.вЂќ

вЂњYou insubordinateвЂ”!вЂќ

вЂњSir!вЂќ Skelta burst into the wardroom before Laimner could finish his sentence.

вЂњHeвЂ™s here! The, uh, man. The baronвЂ™s man.вЂќ

LaimnerвЂ™s attitude transformed in the blink of an eye. вЂњWhat? But theyвЂ™re not

supposed to be here until tomorrow morning.вЂќ

вЂњUm,вЂќ Skelta gestured at the door. вЂњYes. No.вЂќ Yosef turned to see two figures

entering behind the jager. The first was an ebon-skinned man who matched Sabrat for

height, but was broader across the chest, with the thickset look of a scrumball player.

He had ash-coloured hair that fell to his shoulders and an oblong data monocle that

almost hid a faint scar over his right eye. At his side was a pale, thin woman with a

bald head covered in intricate tattoos. Both of them wore the same green and silver

livery Yosef had seen on Bellah Gorospe, but the manвЂ™s cuffs bore some kind of

ornate flashing that had to be indicative of rank. The woman had a golden brooch, he

noted, in the shape of an open eye. As he looked at her she raised her head to meet

his gaze and he saw the unmistakable shape of an iron collar around her neck, like

one that might be used to tether a dangerous animal. It seemed crude and out of place

on her.

The man surveyed the room; something in his manner told Yosef he had heard

every word of the argument that had preceded his entrance. The womanвЂ”it was hard

to determine her age, he notedвЂ”continued to stare at him.

Laimner recovered well and gave a shallow bow. вЂњOperatives. ItвЂ™s a pleasure to

have you here on Iesta Veracrux.вЂќ

вЂњMy name is Hyssos,вЂќ said the man. His voice was solemn. He indicated his

companion. вЂњThis is my associate, Perrig.вЂќ

Daig was gawking at the woman. вЂњSheвЂ™s a psyker,вЂќ he blurted. вЂњThe eye. ThatвЂ™s

what it means.вЂќ He tapped his lapel in the same place where PerrigвЂ™s brooch was

pinned.

Yosef saw that the eye design was subtly repeated in among the womanвЂ™s tattoos.

His first reaction was denial; it was common knowledge, even on the most parochial

of worlds, that psykers were forbidden. The Emperor himself, at a council called on

the planet Nikaea, had outlawed the use of psionic sensitives, even among the

Legions of his own Space Marines. While some stripes of psyker were approved

81

under the tightest reins of Imperial controlвЂ”the gifted Navigators who guided ships

through the immaterium or the telepaths who carried communications between

worlds, for exampleвЂ”most were considered mind-witches, dangerous and unstable

aberrants to be corralled and neutered. Yosef had never been face to face with a

psyker before this day, and Perrig unnerved him greatly. Her gaze upon him made

him feel like he was made of glass. He swallowed hard as at last she looked away.

вЂњMy lord baron has sanction from the Council of Terra to employ an indentured

psionic,вЂќ Hyssos explained. вЂњPerrigвЂ™s talents are extremely useful in my line of

work.вЂќ

вЂњAnd what work is that?вЂќ said Daig.

вЂњSecurity, Reeve Segan,вЂќ he replied. HyssosвЂ™ manner made it clear he knew the

name of every person in the room.

Yosef nodded to himself. He knew that the Eurotas clan wielded great power and

influence across the Ultima Segmentum, but he had never guessed it had such reach.

To be granted dispensation against so rigid a ruling as the Decree of Nikaea was

telling indeed; he couldnвЂ™t help but wonder what other rules the Void Baron was free

to ignore.

вЂњI had expected you to go straight to the Eurotas compound,вЂќ Laimner ventured,

trying to recover control of the conversation. вЂњYouвЂ™ve had a long journeyвЂ”вЂќ

вЂњNot so long,вЂќ replied Hyssos, still sweeping the room with his gaze. вЂњThe baron

will arrive very soon. He will want a full accounting of the situation. I see no reason

to delay.вЂќ

вЂњHowвЂ¦ soon?вЂќ managed Skelta.

вЂњA day,вЂќ Hyssos offered, his answer drawing Laimner up short. вЂњPerhaps less.вЂќ

The Reeve Warden licked his lips. вЂњWell. In that case, IвЂ™ll have a briefing

prepared.вЂќ He gave a weak smile. вЂњI will make myself available to the baron on his

arrival for a full and thoroughвЂ”вЂќ

вЂњForgive me,вЂќ Hyssos broke in. вЂњReeves Sabrat and Segan are the lead

investigators in the case, are they not?вЂќ

вЂњWell, yes,вЂќ said Laimner, clearly uncertain of how he should behave towards the

Eurotas operative. вЂњBut I am the senior precinct officer, andвЂ”вЂќ

вЂњBut not an investigating officer,вЂќ Hyssos went on, his tone level and firm. He

gave Yosef a brief glance through his monocle. вЂњThe baron prefers to have

information delivered to him as directly as possible. From the men closest to it.вЂќ

вЂњOf course,вЂќ the warden said tightly, catching up to the realisation that he was

being dismissed. вЂњYou must proceed as you see fit.вЂќ

Hyssos nodded once. вЂњYou have my promise, Reeve Warden. Perrig and I will

help Iesta Veracrux to bring this murderer to justice in short order. Please pass that

assurance on to the High-Reeve and the Landgrave in my stead.вЂќ

вЂњOf course,вЂќ Laimner repeated, his smile weak and false. Without another word,

he left the room, shooting Yosef a final, acid glare as he closed the door behind him.

Yosef felt wrung out by the events of the day even though it had hardly begun.

He sighed and looked away, only to find the woman Perrig watching him again.

82

When she spoke, her voice had a melody to it that was at odds with the fire in her

eyes. вЂњThere is a horror here,вЂќ she told them. вЂњDarkness clustering at the edges of

perception. Lies and murder.вЂќ The psyker sighed. вЂњAll of you have seen it.вЂќ

Yosef broke her gaze with no little effort oh his part and gave Hyssos a nod.

вЂњWhere do you want to start?вЂќ

вЂњYou tell me,вЂќ said the operative.

* * *

Ultio drifted into the gravity well of the gas giant, crossing the complex web of orbits

described by JupiterвЂ™s outer moons. It was almost a solar system in miniature, with

the gas giant at its core rather than the blazing orb of a sun. The cloud of satellites

and Trojan asteroids surrounding it were full of human colonies, factories and forges,

powered by drinking in the radiation surging from the mammoth planet, feeding on

mineral riches that in centuries of exploitation had yet to be fully exhausted. Jupiter

was TerraвЂ™s shipyard, and its sky was forever filled with vessels. Centred around

Ganymede and a dozen other smaller moons, spacedocks and fabricatories worked

ceaselessly to construct everything from single-crew Raven interceptors up to the

gargantuan hulls of mighty Emperor-class command-carrier battleships.

In a zone so dense with spacecraft and orbitals of every kind, it should have been

easy for the Ultio to become lost in the shoals of them; but security was tight, and

suspicion was at every point of the compass. In the opening moves of the

insurrection, an alliance of turncoats, men of the Mechanicum and traitors from the

Word Bearers Legion, had assembled in secret a dreadnought called the Furious

Abyss, constructing it in a clandestine berth on the asteroid-moon Thule. The small

Jovian satellite had been obliterated during the shipвЂ™s explosive departure and the

ragged clump of its remains still orbited far out at the edges of the planetary system;

but the Shockwave from ThuleвЂ™s destruction and the Abyss incident was still being

felt.

Thus, the Ultio moved with care and raised no uncertainties, doing nothing to

draw attention to itself. Secure in its falsehood, the vessel passed under the shadow of

the habitats at Iocaste and Ananke and then deeper into the Galiliean ranges, passing

the geo-engineered ocean-moon of Europa and IoвЂ™s seething orange mass. It followed

a slow and steady course in across the planetвЂ™s bands of dirty orange, umber and

cream-grey clouds, down towards the Great Red Spot.

A vast spindle floated there, bathed in the crimson glow; Saros Station resembled

a crystal chandelier severed from its mountings and cast free into the void, turning

and catching starlight. Unlike the majority of its industrial and colonial cohorts, Saros

was a resort platform where the Jovian elite could find respite and diversion from the

works of the shipyards and manufactories. It was said that only the Venus orbitals

could surpass Saros Station for its luxury. Avenues of gold and silver, acres of null-g

gardens and auditoriums; and the finest opera house outside the Imperial Palace.

The station filled the view through the UltioвЂ™s canopy as the ship drifted closer.

вЂњWhy are we here?вЂќ asked Iota, with an idle sullenness.

вЂњOur next recruit,вЂќ Tariel told her. вЂњKoyne, of the Clade Callidus.вЂќ

83

At the rear of the flight deck, the Garantine bent his head to avoid slamming it

against the ceiling. He made a rasping, spitting noise. вЂњWhat do we need one of them

for?вЂќ

вЂњBecause the Master of Assassins demands it,вЂќ Kell replied, without turning.

The Vanus glanced up from the displays fanned out around his gauntlet.

вЂњAccording to my information, there is an important cultural event taking place. A

recital of the opus Oedipus Neo.вЂќ

вЂњThe what?вЂќ sniffed the Eversor.

вЂњA theatrical performance of dance, music and oratory,вЂќ Tariel went on, oblivious

to his derision, вЂњIt is a social event of great note in the Jovian Zone.вЂќ

вЂњMust have lost my invite,вЂќ the Eversor rumbled.

вЂњAnd this Koyne is down there?вЂќ Iota wandered to the viewport and pressed her

hands to it, staring at Saros. вЂњHow will we know a faceless Callidus among so many

faces?вЂќ

Kell studied the abstract contact protocols he had been provided and frowned.

вЂњWe are toвЂ¦ send flowers.вЂќ

Gergerra Rei wept like a child as Jocasta went to her death.

His knuckles turned white as he held on to the balustrade around the edge of the

roaming box the theatre had provided. Behind him, the machine-sentries in his

personal maniple stood motionless and uncomprehending as their masterвЂ™s lips

trembled in a breathy gasp. Rei leaned forward, almost as if he could will her not to

take the steel noose and place it over her supple neck. A cry was filling his throat; he

wanted to call to her, but he could not.

The nobleman had seen the opera before, and while it had always held his

attention, it had never touched him as much as it had this night. Every biannual

performance of Oedipus Neo was a lavish, sumptuous affair orbited by dozens of

stately dinners, parties and gatherings, but at the core it was about the play.

Everyone in the Jovian set shared the same fears about this yearвЂ™s act; at first it

had only been dreary naysayers who claimed it should not be put on because of the

conflicts, but then after the diva Solipis Mun had perished in a tragic airlock

accidentвЂ¦ Many more had felt the opera should not have continued, as a mark of

respect to her.

But if he was honest, Rei did not miss Mun onstage. As Jocasta, she had played

the part with gusto and power, indeed, but after so many repetitions her investment in

the character had grown careworn and flat. But now this new queen, this new

JocastaвЂ”a woman from the Venusian halls, as he understood itвЂ”had taken the part

and breathed new life into it. In the first act, she seemed to mimic MunвЂ™s style, but

soon she blossomed into her own interpretation of the role, and with it, she eclipsed

the late diva so completely that Rei had all but forgotten her predecessor as the opera

rolled towards its conclusion. The new actress had also brought with her new

direction, and the performance had been shifted from the usual modern-dress style to

a strangely timeless mode of costume, all in metallic colours and soft curves that Rei

found quite alluring.

84

And now, with the stage drenched in blood-coloured light and flickers of

lightning from the Red Spot beyond the skylights, the character of Jocasta took her

own life as the orchestra struck an ominous chord. Against reason, Rei hoped that the

play might suddenly diverge from the story he knew so well; but it did not. As the

actressвЂ™ body melted away into the wings and the final scenes of the opera unfolded,

he found he could not focus on the fate of poor, blinded Oedipus, the lead actor

giving his all in a finale that brought the audience to its feet in a storm of applause.

It was only as the floating viewing box returned to the high balcony with a silken

thud that Rei regained a measure of composure, pulling himself back from a daze.

She had truly moved him. It had almost been as if this new Jocasta were

performing only to Rei; he could swear that even in the moment of her dramaвЂ™s

suicide, she had looked directly to him and wept in unison.

ReiвЂ™s ranking meant that he had, as a matter of course, an invitation to the postshow

gathering in the auditorium proper. Usually he declined, preferring the

company of his machines to those of the venal peacocks who drifted about JupiterвЂ™s

entertainment community. Tonight, however, he would not decline. He would meet

her.

The party was jubilant, high with the thrill of the performanceвЂ™s energy as if it still

resonated around the theatre even after the last note of music had faded. Critics from

the media took turns to congratulate the director and the actor who had played the

tortured king, but all of them did so while looking about in hopes of catching a

glimpse of the true star of the show; the queen of this night, the new Jocasta.

Under the aegis of this, the invited nobles alternated between praising the opera

and discussing the matters of the moment; and the latter meant discussion of the

rebellion and of the pressures upon Jupiter and her shipyards. The wounds opened by

the incident at Thule had not been healed, despite assurances from the Council of

Terra, despite the quiet purges and the laying of blame. But accusations still crossed

back and forth, some decrying the Warmaster for such perfidy and base criminality,

othersвЂ”those who spoke in hushed tonesвЂ”wondering if the Emperor had let this

thing occur just so he might tighten his grip on the Jovians. Every heartbeat of their

forges was now turned to the construction of a military machine designed to break

the turncoat advance, but many felt it was bleeding Jupiter white. Those who

questioned this questioned other things as well; they asked exactly how it was that a

force of Mechanicum Adepts and Astartes with traitorous intentions had been able to

build a warship of the scope of the Furious Abyss, without alerting anyone to their

duplicity.

Was it possible that Jupiter harboured rebel sympathisers? It had happened with

the Mechanicum of Mars, and so some whispered, even among the warlords of

EarthвЂ™s supposedly united nation-states. The questions turned and turned, but they

faded when Gergerra Rei entered the room.

Resplendent in the circuit-laced robes of a Mech-Lord, ReiвЂ™s high status as

master of Kapekan Sect of the Legio Cybernetica was known to all. Two full cohorts

of combat mechanoids were under his personal command, and they had fought in

many battles of note during the Great Crusade alongside the Luna Wolves and the

Warmaster.

85

Like many of the Cybernetica, Rei eschewed the gross cyborg augmentations of

his colleagues in the Mechanicum in favour of subtle enhancements that did not

disfigure or dilute his outwardly human aspect; but those who knew Rei knew that

whatever humanity he did show was rare and fleeting.

Behind him, moving with fluidity, his bodyguards were a three-unit maniple of

modified Crusader-class robots. Painted as works of art, each insect-like machine

was a stripped-down variant of its battlefield standard, armed with a discreetly

sheathed power-rapier and a lasgun. A fourth mechanical, this one custom-built to

resemble a female form rendered in polished chrome, walked at his side and served

as his aide.

No one asked questions about loyalty when Rei was nearby. His machines could

hear a whisper among a roaring crowd, and those who dared to suggest aloud that Rei

was anything less than the EmperorвЂ™s obedient servant lived to regret it.

The Mech-Lord took a schooner of an indifferent Vegan brandy and pecked at a few

small sweetmeats from ornamental serving trays offered by menials, allowing his

mechanoid aide to delicately sniff at each before he ingested it; the robotвЂ™s head was

filled with sensing gear capable of picking up any particulate trace of poison. The

machine shook its head each time, and so he ate and drank but none of the rich

foodstuffs sated the real hunger in him. Rei engaged in a moment or two of small talk

with the director of the opera house, but it was a perfunctory and hollow exchange.

Neither of them wanted to spend time with one anotherвЂ”Rei was simply

uninterested and the director was doubtless wracked with worry over the reason why

the Kapekan general had decided to take up his long-ignored inviteвЂ”but both of

them had to fake the genial nothings of greeting, for the sake of propriety.

вЂњMy Lord Rei?вЂќ He turned as a servant approached, a young man in the Saros

livery with a wary cast to his face. He nervously side-stepped the Crusaders and

offered a card to the Mech-Lord; and that was his error. The servant did not wait to

be addressed, but instead proffered the card before it was acknowledged.

ReiвЂ™s aide stepped in to meet him with a faint hiss of hydraulics, and in one fluid

motion took the hand holding the card and broke it at the wrist. The bone cracked

wetly and the servant went white with shock, staggering. He would likely have fallen

if the machine had not been holding him up.

вЂњWhat is this?вЂќ he asked.

The servant spoke through gritted teeth. вЂњAвЂ¦ A message for you, sirвЂ¦вЂќ He

gasped and gave him a pleading look. вЂњPlease, I only did as the lady asked me toвЂ¦вЂќ

вЂњThe lady?вЂќ ReiвЂ™s heart thumped in his chest. вЂњGive it to me.вЂќ

His aide took the card and held it to her chromium lips. She licked it with a

disconcertingly human-looking tongue, paused, then handed it on to her master. Had

there been any contact toxins on the surface, she would have destroyed it.

The Mech-Lord fought off a tremor in his hands as he read the languid, flowing

script written across the white card. It was a single word: вЂњComeвЂќ. He turned it over

and saw it listed a location in the apartments reserved for the opera houseвЂ™s

performers.

вЂњIs something amiss?вЂќ said the director, his face pinched in concern.

86

Rei pressed his half-empty brandy glass into the manвЂ™s hand and walked away.

His robots followed, and behind them the servant staggered down to his knees,

clutching at his ruined wrist.

* * *

The apartments were a short pneu-car ride up three levels to Saros StationвЂ™s most

exclusive residential decks. Rei had his own orbital out by Callisto and did not keep

rooms here, but he had visited the chambers in the past during one of his many affairs

and so he knew where to go. The presence of his maniple made sure that no one

dared to waylay him, and presently he reached the room. His aide knocked on the

door and it opened on silent servos.

From within came that silken voice. вЂњCome,вЂќ she said.

Rei took a stepвЂ”and then hesitated. He pulse was racing like that of a giddy

youth in the first blush of infatuation, and he had to admit, as much as he was

enjoying the sensation of it, he was still the man he was. Still distrustful of

everything on some deep level. His enemies had tried to use women as weapons

against him before, and he had buried them; could this be one more attempt to do the

same? His throat went dry; he hoped it would not be so. The strange, ephemeral

connection he felt with the actress seemed so very real, and the thought that it might

be a thing brought into existence just to hurt him cut deeply.

For a long moment, he wavered on the threshold, contemplating turning about

and leaving, taking the pneu-car back to the docks and his yacht, leaving and never

coming back.

Just making the thought felt like razors in his gut; and then she spoke again; вЂњMy

lord?вЂќ He heard the mirror of his own questions and fears in her words.

His aide walked in ahead of him and Rei went to follow, but again he hesitated.

Even if what he hoped for would come about in this glorious evening, he could not

afford to lose sight of the realities of his life. He turned to the Crusaders and spoke a

string of command words. The robots immediately took up sentry positions around

the door to the apartment, weapons ready, bowing their mantis-like heads low so that

they would not damage the lamps hanging from the ceiling above.

Rei entered the room and became overcome by a vision.

His first thought was; she is not dead! But of course that was true. It had only

been a play, and yet it had seemed so real to him. The woman stood, still dressed in

her queenly costume, the sweep of her lithe and flawless skin visible through the

diaphanous silver of the dress. Metallic glitter accented her cheekbones and the

almond curves of her dark eyes. She bowed to him and looked away shyly. вЂњMy lord

Rei. I feared you would not visit me. I feared I might have presumed too muchвЂ¦вЂќ

вЂњOh no,вЂќ Rei said, dry-throated. вЂњNo. It is my honourвЂ¦вЂќ He managed a smile.

вЂњMy queen.вЂќ

She looked up at him, smiling too, and it was magnificent. вЂњWill you call me that,

my lord? May I be your Jocasta?вЂќ She toyed with a thin drape of silk that curtained

off one section of the apartments from another.

87

He was drawn to her, crossing the white pile of the anteroomвЂ™s rich carpeting. вЂњI

would like that very much,вЂќ he husked.

The womanвЂ”his JocastaвЂ”threw a look towards his mechanoid. вЂњAnd will she be

joining us?вЂќ

The open invitation in her reply made Rei blink. вЂњUh. No.вЂќ He turned and spoke

tersely to the robot. вЂњWait here.вЂќ

His Jocasta smiled again and vanished into the room beyond. Grinning, Rei

paused and unbuttoned his tunic. Glancing around, he saw a spray of fresh Saturnine

roses still in their delivery wrappings; he tossed his jacket down next to them and

then followed her into the bedchamber.

Jocasta did not weep as Gergerra Rei went to his death.

The queen enveloped him in long, firm arms as he stepped in, bringing her body

up to meet his, pressing her breasts to his chest, moulding herself to him. The Mech-

LordвЂ™s dizzy smile was shaky and he gasped for air. His reactions were perfect; his

flawless new love for JocastaвЂ”for that was what it was, the most pure and exact

rendition of neurochemical releaseвЂ”was the final product of weeks of carefully

tailored pheromone bombardment. Tiny amounts of meta-dopamine and serotonin

analogues had been introduced to Rei over time, the dosages light enough that even

the ultra-sensitive scanners of his machine-aide would not detect them. The

cumulative amounts had pushed him into something approaching obsession; and

combined with a physiological template based on his taste in female bed partners, the

trap had been set and laden with honey.

Jocasta bent ReiвЂ™s head down to meet hers and pressed her lips to his. He

shuddered as she did it, surrendering to her. It was so easy.

Gergerra Rei had been involved in the creation of the Furious Abyss. Not in a

way that could be proven without doubt in a court of law, not in a way that connected

him through any direct means, but enough that the guardians of the Imperium were

certain of it. Whatever his crime, perhaps the transfer of certain bribes, the diversion

of materials and manpower, the granting of passage to ships that should have been

denied, the Kapekan Mech-Lord had done the bidding of the traitor Horus Lupercal.

The small weapon concealed between JocastaвЂ™s tongue and the base of her mouth

was pushed up, held in place by clenched teeth. A lick of the trigger plate was all that

was needed to fire the kissgun. The needle-sized round penetrated the roof of ReiвЂ™s

mouth and fragmented, allowing the threads of molecule-thin wire to explode

outward. The threads whirled through the meat of his nasal cavity and up into his

forebrain, shredding everything they touched. He lurched backwards and fell to the

bed, blood and brain matter drooling from his lips and nostrils. Rei sank into the

silken sheets, his corpse dragging them awry, revealing beneath the body of the

actress whose face he had loved so ardently.

His killer moved quickly, shrugging off the illusion of the dead woman even as

the targetвЂ™s corpse began to cool.

Flesh shifted in small ways, the Jocasta-face slipping to become less defined,

more like a sketch upon paper. The killer spat out the kissgun and discarded it, then

drew sharp nails along the inside of a muscular thigh. A seam in the skin parted to

allow a wet pocket to open, and long fingers drew out a spool and handle affair from

88

within. The killer gently shook the device and padded towards the silk curtains. Rei

had died silently but the machine-aide was clever enough to run a passive scan for

heartbeats every few seconds; and if it detected one instead of twoвЂ¦

The spool unwound into a thin taper of metal, which rolled out to the length of a

metre. Once fully extended, the weapon became rigid; it was known as a memory

sword, the alloy that comprised the blade capable of softening and hardening at the

touch of a control.

Koyne liked the memory sword, liked the gossamer weight of it. Koyne liked

what it could do, as well. With a savage slash, the blade sliced down the thin silk

curtain and the motion alerted the mechanoidвЂ”but not quickly enough. Koyne thrust

the point into the aideвЂ™s chromium chest and through the armour casing around the

biocortex module that served as the robotвЂ™s brain. It gave a faint squeal and became a

rigid statue.

Leaving the sword in place, Koyne took a moment to prepare for the next

template. Koyne knew Gergerra Rei as well as the actress who played Queen Jocasta,

and would adopt him just as easily. The Callidus despised the term вЂњmimicryвЂќ. It was

a poor word that could not encompass the wholeness with which a Callidus would

become their disguises. To mimic something was to ape it, to pretend. Koyne became

the disguise; Koyne inhabited each identity, even if it was for a short while.

The Callidus was a sculpture that carved itself. Bio-implants and heavy doses of

the shapeshifter drug polymorphine made skin, bone and muscle become supple and

motile. Those who could not control the freedom it gave would collapse and turn into

monstrosities, things like molten waxworks that were little more than heaps of bone

and organs. Those with the gift of the self, though, those like Koyne, they could

become anyone.

Concentrating, Koyne shifted to neutrality, a grey, sexless form that was smooth

and almost without features. The Callidus did not recall any birth-gender; that data

was irrelevant when it was possible to be man or woman, young or old, even human

or xenos if the will was there.

It was then Koyne saw the flowers. They had been delivered by courier shortly

before Rei had arrived. The assassin picked at the plants and noted the colour and

number of the petals on the roses. Something like irritation crossed the killerвЂ™s noface

and Koyne paused at the vox-comm alcove in the far wall, inputting the correct

sequence of encoding that the flower arrangement signified.

The reply was almost immediate, meaning that there was a ship nearby.

вЂњKoyne?вЂќ A male voice, gruff with it.

The Callidus immediately copied the tonality and replied. вЂњYou have broken my

silent protocol.вЂќ

вЂњWeвЂ™re here to help you conclude your mission as quickly as possible. You have

new orders.вЂќ

вЂњI have no idea who you fools are, or what authority you may think you have. But

you are compromising my operation and getting in my way.вЂќ Koyne grimaced. It was

an ugly expression on the grey face. вЂњI donвЂ™t require any help from you. DonвЂ™t

interrupt me again.вЂќ The Callidus cut the channel and turned away. Such behaviour

was totally unprofessional. The clade knew that once committed, an assassinвЂ™s cover

89

should not be compromised except in the direst of circumstancesвЂ”and someoneвЂ™s

impatience was certainly not reason enough.

Koyne sat and concentrated on Gergerra Rei, on his voice, his gait, the full sense

of the man. Skin puckered and moved, thickening. Implants slowly expanded to add

mass and dimension. Moment by moment, the killer changed.

But the task was still incomplete when the three Crusaders crashed in through the

doorway, searching for a target.

Kell glared at the vox pickup before him. вЂњWell. That was discourteous,вЂќ he

muttered.

вЂњArrogance is a noted character trait of many of the Clade Callidus,вЂќ Iota offered.

The Garantine looked at Kell from across the UltioвЂ™s cramped bridge. вЂњWhat are

we supposed to do? Take in a show? Have a little dinner?вЂќ The hulking killer

growled in irritation. вЂњPut me down on the station. IвЂ™ll bring the slippery changer

freak back here in pieces.вЂќ

Before Kell could reply, a sensor telltale on one of the consoles began to blink.

Tariel motioned at the hololiths around his gauntlet and his expression grew grave.

вЂњThe ship reads energy weapon discharges close to KoyneвЂ™s location.вЂќ He looked up,

out past the nose of the ship to where the hull of Saros Station drifted nearby. вЂњThe

Callidus may be in trouble.вЂќ

вЂњWe should assist,вЂќ said Iota.

вЂњKoyne didnвЂ™t want any help,вЂќ Kell replied. вЂњMade that very clear.вЂќ

Tariel gestured at his display. вЂњAuspex magno-scan shows multiple mechanoid

units in the area. War robots, Vindicare. If the Callidus becomes trappedвЂ”вЂќ

Kell held up a hand to silence him. вЂњThe Master of Assassins chose this one for

good reason. LetвЂ™s consider this escape a test of skill, shall we? WeвЂ™ll see how good

this Koyne is.вЂќ

The Garantine gave a rough snort of amusement.

Koyne made it into the enclosed avenue outside the apartments with only minor

injuries. The Callidus had been able to recover the memory sword from the steel

corpse of the aide, realising far too late that there had to have been a failsafe backup

biocortex inside the machine, one that broadcast an alert to the rest of ReiвЂ™s

bodyguard maniple. Koyne did not doubt that other robots were likely vectoring to

this location from the Mech-LordвЂ™s ship, operating on a kill-switch protocol that

activated with the death of their master. The core directive would be simpleвЂ”seek

and destroy Gergerra ReiвЂ™s murderer.

If only there had been more time. If Koyne could have completed the change into

Rei, then it would have been enough to fool the auto-senses of the machines, long

enough to reach the extraction point and exfiltrate. Rei and the actress would have

been found days later, along with all the evidence that Koyne had prepared to set the

scene for a murder-suicide shared by a pair of doomed lovers. It had a neatly

theatrical tone that would have played well to Saros StationвЂ™s intelligentsia.

All that was wasted now, though. Koyne limped away, pain burning from a

glancing laser burn in the leg. The Callidus looked like an unfinished model in

90

pinkish-grey clay, caught halfway between the neutral self-template and the form of

the Mech-Lord.

There was a cluster of revellers coming the other way, and Koyne made for them,

fixing the nearest with a hard gaze and imagining their identity as the assassinвЂ™s own.

The Callidus heard the heavy stomp of the spindly Crusader robots as they scrambled

in pursuit, chattering to one another in machine code.

The small crowd reacted to the new arrival, the merriment of the group dipping

for a moment in collective confusion. Koyne pressed every grain of mental control

into adopting the face of the civilianвЂ”or at least something like itвЂ”and swung into

the mass of the group.

The robots stood firm and blocked the avenue, guns up, the faceted eyes of their

sensor modules sweeping the crowd. The revellers lost some of their good humour as

the threat inherent in the maniple of machines became clear.

Koyne knew what would happen next; it was inevitable, but at least the hesitation

would buy the assassin time. The Callidus searched for and found a side corridor that

led towards an observation cupola, and began pushing through the people towards it.

This was the moment when the machines opened fire on the crowd. Unable to

positively identify their target among the group of people, yet certain that their

masterвЂ™s murderer was in that mass, the Crusaders made the logical choice. Kill them

all and leave no doubt.

Koyne ran through the screaming, panicking civilians, laser bolts ripping through

the air, cutting them down. The assassin vaulted into the corridor and ran to the dead

end of it. Red light from the giant Jovian storm seeped in through the observation

window, making everything blurry and drenched in crimson.

Time, again. Little enough time. The Callidus concentrated and retched, opening

a secondary stomach to vomit up a packet of white, doughy material. With shaking

hands, Koyne ripped open the thin membrane sheathing it and allowed air to touch

the pasty brick inside. It immediately began to blacken and melt, and quickly the

assassin pressed it to the glassaic of the cupola.

The robots were still coming. The shooting had stopped and the Crusaders were

advancing down the corridor. Koyne saw the shadows of them jumping on the curved

walls, lurching closer.

The assassin sat down in the middle of the room and drew up into a foetal ball,

forgetting the face of the civilian, forgetting Gergerra Rei and the Queen Jocasta,

remembering instead something old. Koyne let the polymorphine soften flesh into

waxen slurry, let it flow and harden into something that resembled the chitin of an

insect. Air was expunged, organs pressed together. By turns the body became a mass

of dark meat; but still not quickly enough.

The Crusader maniple advanced into the observation cupola just as the package

of thermo-reactive plasma completed its oxygenation cycle and self-detonated. The

blast shattered the glassaic dome and everything inside the cupola was blown out into

space. ReiвЂ™s guardian machines spun away into the vacuum even as safety hatches

fell to seal off the corridor. KoyneвЂ™s body, now enveloped in a cocoon of its own

skin, went with them into the dark.

Outside, the Ultio hove closer.

91

SEVEN

Storm

Warning

An Old Wound Target

Yosef Sabrat was out of his depth.

The audience chamber was big enough that it would have swallowed the footprint

of his home three times over, and decorated with such riches that they likely equalled

the price of every other house in the same district put together. It was a gallery of

ornaments and treasures from all across the southern reaches of the Ultima

SegmentumвЂ”discreet holographs labelled sculptures from Delta Tao and Pavonis,

tapestries and threadwork from Ultramar, art from the colonies of the Eastern

Fringes, triptychs of stunning picts in silver frames, glass and gold and steel and

bronzeвЂ¦ The contents of this one chamber alone shamed even the most resplendent

of museums on Iesta Veracrux.

Thinking of his home world, Yosef reflexively looked up at the oval window

above his head. The planet drifted there in stately silence, the dayside turning as

dawn passed over the green-blue ribbons of ocean near the equator. But for all its

beauty, he couldnвЂ™t shake the sense of it hanging over him like some monumental

burden, ready to fall and crash him the moment his focus slipped. He looked away,

finding Daig by his side. The other reeve glanced at him, and the expression on his

cohortвЂ™s face was muted.

вЂњWhat are we doing up here?вЂќ Daig asked quietly. вЂњLook at this place. The light

fittings alone are probably worth a governorвЂ™s ransom. IвЂ™ve never felt so common in

my entire life.вЂќ

вЂњI know what you mean,вЂќ Yosef replied. вЂњJust stay quiet and nod in the right

places.вЂќ

вЂњTry not to show myself up, you mean?вЂќ

вЂњSomething like that.вЂќ A few metres away, Hyssos was mumbling quietly to the

air; Yosef guessed that the operative had to have some sort of communicator implant

that allowed him to subvocalise and send vox messages as easily as the jagers of the

Sentine used a wireless. It had been clear to him the moment the Consortium

shuttlecraft had landed in the precinct courtyard, the elegant swan-like ship making a

point-perfect touchdown that barely disturbed the trees; EurotasвЂ™ riches clearly

bought the baron and his clan the best of everything. Still, that didnвЂ™t seem to sit

squarely with the neglect heвЂ™d seen at the traderвЂ™s compound a day ago. He thought

on that for a moment, making a mental note to consider it further.

92

The shuttle had swiftly brought them into deep orbit, there to meet the great

elliptical hulk of the Iubar, flagship of the Eurotas Consortium and spaceborne

palace of the rogue trader who led it. A handful of other smaller ships attended the

Iubar like handmaidens around a queen; and Yosef only thought of them as smaller

because the flagship was so huge. The support craft were easily a match for the

tonnage of the largest of the system cruisers belonging to the Iestan PDF.

The psyker Perrig remained on the surface, having insisted on being taken to the

Blasko lodge to take a sensing. Hyssos explained that the woman had the ability to

divine the recent past of objects by the laying on of hands, and it was hoped that she

would find Erno SiggвЂ™s telepathic spoor at the location. Skelta drew the job of being

her escort, and the silent panic on the jagerвЂ™s face had been clear as daylight. The

reeve marvelled how Hyssos seemed completely unconcerned by PerrigвЂ™s

preternatural powers. He spoke of her as Yosef or Daig would discuss the skills of

the documentary officers at a crime sceneвЂ”as no more than a fellow investigator

with unique talents all their own.

In the hours after his arrivalвЂ”and his blunt dismissal of LaimnerвЂ”Hyssos had

thrown himself fully into the serial murder case, absorbing every piece of

information he could get his hands on. Yosef knew that the man had already been

briefed as fully as the Eurotas Consortium couldвЂ”how else could he have known the

names of everyone in the precinct without prior instruction from Gorospe and her

offices?вЂ”but he was still forming his view of the situation.

Daig took a few hours to sleep in the shift room, but Yosef was caught up by

HyssosвЂ™ quiet intensity and sat with him, repeating his thoughts and impressions to

him. The operativeвЂ™s questions were all insightful and without artifice. He made the

reeve think again on points of evidence and supposition, and Yosef found himself

warming to the man. He liked HyssosвЂ™ lack of pretence, his direct mannerвЂ¦ and he

liked the man for the way he had seen right through Berts Laimner at first glance.

вЂњThereвЂ™s more to this,вЂќ Hyssos had said, over a steaming cup of recaf. вЂњSigg

murdering and playing artist with the corpsesвЂ¦ That doesnвЂ™t add up.вЂќ

Yosef had agreed; but then the message had come down from command. The

Void Baron had arrived, and the Governor was in a fit. Normally, a visitation from

someone of Baron EurotasвЂ™ rank would be a day of great import, a trade festival for

IestaвЂ™s merchants and moneyed classes, a diversion for her workers and

commonersвЂ”but there had been no time to prepare. Even as the shuttle had taken

them up to meet HyssosвЂ™ summons, the government was in turmoil trying to throw

together some hasty pomp and ceremony in order to make it seem like this had been

planned all along.

Laimner tried one last time to get a foot on the shuttle. He said that Telemach had

ordered him to give the baron the briefing, that he could not in good conscience

remain behind and let a lesser officer take the responsibility. HeвЂ™d looked at Yosef

when he said those words. Yosef imagined that Telemach was probably unaware of

the shuttle or the summons, probably too busy fretting with the Landgrave and the

Imperial Governor and the Lord Marshal to notice. But again, Hyssos had firmly

blocked the Reeve Warden from using this as any way to aggrandise himself, and left

him behind as he took the two lowly reeves up into orbit.

93

It was an experience that Daig was never to forget; it was his first time off-world,

and his usual manner had been replaced with something that approximated stoic

dread.

Hyssos beckoned them towards the far end of the wide gallery, where a dais and

audience chairs were arranged before a broad archway. Inside the arch was a carved

frieze made of red Dolanthian jade. The artwork, easily the size of the front of

YosefвЂ™s house, showed a montage of interstellar merchants about their business,

travelling from world to world, trading and spreading the light of the Imperium. In

the centre, a sculpture of the Emperor of Mankind towered over everything. He was

leaning forward, holding out his hand with the palm down. Kneeling before him was

a man in the garb of a rogue trader patriarch, who held up an open book beneath the

EmperorвЂ™s hand.

Daig saw the artwork and gasped. вЂњWhoвЂ¦ Who is that?вЂќ

вЂњThe first of the Eurotas,вЂќ said Hyssos. вЂњHe was the commander of a warship that

served the Emperor many centuries ago, a man of great diligence and courage. As a

mark of respect, for his service, the Emperor granted him the freedom of space and

made him a rogue trader.вЂќ

вЂњBut the bookвЂ¦вЂќ said Daig, pointing. вЂњWhat is he doing with the book?вЂќ

Yosef looked closer and saw what Daig was talking about. The artwork clearly

showed what could only be a cut upon the EmperorвЂ™s downturned palm and a drip of

bloodвЂ”rendered here from a single faceted rubyвЂ”falling down towards the page of

the open tome.

вЂњThat is the Warrant of Trade,вЂќ said a new voice, as footsteps approached from

behind them. Yosef turned to see a hawkish, imperious man in the same cut of robes

as the figure in the frieze. A group of guardsmen and attendants walked in lockstep

behind him, but the man paid them no mind. вЂњThe letter of marque and statement

granting my clan the right to roam the stars in the name of humanity. Our liege lord

ratified it with a drop of his own blood upon the page.вЂќ He gestured around. вЂњWe

carry the book in safety aboard the Iubar as we have for generation after generation.вЂќ

Daig glanced about him, as if for a moment thinking he might actually see the

real thing; but then disappointment clouded his face and his jaw set in a thin line.

вЂњMy lord,вЂќ said Hyssos, with a bow that the reeves belatedly imitated.

вЂњGentlemen. Allow me to introduce his lordship Merriksun Eurotas, Void Baron of

Narvaji, Agentia Nuntius of the Taebian Sector and master of the Eurotas Trade

ConsortiumвЂ”вЂќ

вЂњEnough, enough,вЂќ Eurotas waved him into silence. вЂњI will hear that a thousand

times more once I venture down to the surface. Let us dispense with formality and

cut to the meat of this.вЂќ The baron gave Yosef and Daig a hard, measuring stare

before he spoke again. вЂњI will make my wishes clear, gentlemen. The situation on

Iesta Veracrux is delicate, as it is on many worlds among the Taebian Stars. There is

a storm coming. A war born of insurrection, and when it brushes these planets with

the heat of its passage there will be fire and death. There will be.вЂќ He blinked and

paused. For a moment, a note of strange emotion crept into his words, but then he

flattened it with a breath of air.

94

вЂњTheseвЂ¦ killings. They serve only to heap tension and fear upon a populace

already in the grip of a slow terror. People will lash out when they are afraid, and that

is bad for stability. Bad for business.вЂќ

Yosef gave a slow nod of agreement. It seemed the rogue trader understood the

situation better than the reeveвЂ™s own commanders; and then he had a sudden, chilling

thought. Was the same thing happening on other planets? Had Eurotas seen this chain

of events elsewhere in the Taebian Sector?

вЂњI want this murderer found and brought to justice,вЂќ Eurotas concluded. вЂњThis

case is important, gentlemen. Complete it, and you will let your people know that

weвЂ¦ that the ImperiumвЂ¦ is still in power out here. Fail, and you open the gateway

to anarchy.вЂќ He began to turn away. вЂњHyssos will make available to you any facilities

you may need.вЂќ

вЂњSir?вЂќ Daig took a step after the rogue trader. вЂњMy, uh, lord baron?вЂќ

Eurotas paused. When he looked back at the other reeve, he did so with a raised

eyebrow and an arch expression. вЂњYou have a question?вЂќ

Daig blurted it out. вЂњWhy do you care? About Iesta Veracrux, I mean?вЂќ

The baronвЂ™s eyes flashed with a moment of annoyance, and Yosef heard Hyssos

take a sharp breath. вЂњDagonet is falling, did you know that?вЂќ Daig nodded and the

baron went on. вЂњAnd not only Dagonet. Kelsa Secundus. Bowman. New Mitama. All

dark.вЂќ EurotasвЂ™ gaze crossed YosefвЂ™s and for a moment the nobleman appeared old

and tired. вЂњErno Sigg was one of my men. I bear a measure of responsibility for his

conduct. But it is more than that. Much more.вЂќ Yosef felt the rogue traderвЂ™s gaze

pinning him in place. вЂњWe are alone out here, gentlemen. Alone against the storm.вЂќ

вЂњThe Emperor protects,вЂќ said Daig quietly.

Eurotas gave him an odd look. вЂњSo they tell me,вЂќ he replied, at length; and then

he was walking away, the audience at an end and YosefвЂ™s thoughts clouded with

more questions than answers.

When the gull wing hatch of the flyer opened, the first thing that Fon Tariel

experienced was the riot of smells. Heady and potent floral scents flooded into the

interior of the passenger compartment, buoyed on warm air. He blinked at the

daylight streaking in, and with wary footsteps he followed Kell out and intoвЂ¦

wherever this place was.

Unlike the Eversor, who had not been afraid to provide the group with the

location of one of their Terran facilities, the Clade Venenum made it clear in no

uncertain terms that the members of the Execution Force would not be free to come

to them of their own accord. The Siress had been most emphatic; only two members

of the group were granted passage to the complex, and both were required to be

unarmed and unequipped.

Tariel was learning KellвЂ™s manner by and by, and he could see that the Vindicare

was ill at ease without a gun on him. The infocyte was sympathetic to the sniper; he

too had been forced to leave his tools behind on board the Ultio, and he felt strangely

naked without his cogitator gauntlet. TarielвЂ™s hand kept straying to his bare forearm

without his conscious awareness of it.

The journey aboard the unmarked Venenum flyer had done nothing to give them

any more clue to the whereabouts of the complex called the Orchard. The passenger

95

compartment had no windows, no way for them to reckon the direction of their flight.

Tariel had been dismayed to learn that his chronometer and mag-compass implants

were being suppressed, and now as he stepped out of the craft they both flickered

back to life, giving him a moment of dizziness.

He glanced around; they stood on a landing pad at the top of a wide metal

ziggurat, just shy of the canopies of tall trees with thick leaves that shone like dark

jade. The jungle smells were stronger out here, and the olfactory processor nodes in

his extended braincase worked furiously to sift through the sensoria. Tariel guessed

that they were somewhere deep in the rich rainforests of Merica, but it was only a

speculative deduction. There was no way to know for sure.

A man in a pale green kimono and a domino mask emerged from a recessed

staircase on the side of the ziggurat and beckoned them to follow him. Tariel was

content to let Kell lead the way, and the three of them descended. The sunshine

attenuated as they dropped below the line of the upper canopy, becoming shafts of

smoky yellow filled with motes of dust and the busy patterns of flying insects.

A pathway of circular grey stones awaited them on the jungle floor, and they

picked their way along it, the man in the kimono surefooted and confident. Tariel was

more cautious; his eyes were drawn this way and that by bright, colourful sprays of

plants that grew from every square metre of ground. He saw small worker

mechanicals moving among them; what seemed at first glance to be wild growth was

actually some sort of carefully random garden. The robotics were ministering to the

plants, harvesting others.

He paused, studying one odd spindly blossom he did not recognise emerging

from the bark of a tall tree. He leaned closer.

вЂњI would not, Vanus.вЂќ The man in the kimono placed a gentle hand on his

shoulder and reeled him back. Before he could ask why, the man made an odd

knocking noise with his lips and in response the blossom grew threadlike legs and

wandered away, up the tree trunk. вЂњMimical spiders, from Beta Cornea III. They

adapt well to the climate here on Terra. Their venom causes a form of haemorrhagic

fever in humans.вЂќ

Tariel recoiled and blinked. Looking again, he drew up data from his memory

stacks, classifying the plant life. Castor, nightshade and oleander; Cerbera odollam,

digitalis and Jerusalem cherry; hemlock and larkspur and dozens of others, all of

them brimming with their own particular strains of poisons. He kept his hands to

himself from then on, not wavering at all from the pathway until it deposited them in

a clearingвЂ”although clearing was hardly the word, as the place was overgrown with

vines and low greenery. In the middle of the area was an ancient house, doubtless

thousands of years old; it too was swamped by the jungleвЂ™s tendrils, and Tariel noted

that such coverage would serve well as a blind for orbital sensors and optical scopes.

вЂњNot what I expected,вЂќ muttered Kell, as they followed the man in the kimono

towards an ivy-covered doorway.

вЂњIt appears to be a manse,вЂќ said the infocyte. вЂњI can only estimate when it was

built. The rainforest has reclaimed it.вЂќ

Inside, Tariel expected the place to show the same level of disarray as the

exterior, but he was mistaken. Within, the building had been sealed against the

elements and wildlife, and care had been taken to return it to its original form. It was

96

only the gloom inside, the weak and infrequent sunlight through the windows, that

betrayed the reality. The Vanus and the Vindicare were taken to an anteroom where a

servitor was waiting, and the helot used a bulbous sensing wand to scan them both,

checking everything down to their sweat and exhalations for even the smallest trace

of outside toxins. The man in the kimono explained that it was necessary in order to

maintain the balance of poisons in the Orchard proper.

From the anteroom, they went to what had once been a lounge. Along the walls

there were numerous cages made of thin glassaic, rank upon rank of them facing

outward. TarielвЂ™s skin crawled as he made out countless breeds of poisonous reptiles,

ophidians and insects, each in their own pocket environment within the cases. The

infocyte moved to the middle of the room, instinctively placing himself at the one

point furthest from all the cage doors.

A thing with a strange iridescent carapace flittered in its confinement, catching

his eye, and the sheen of the chitin recalled a recent memory. The flesh of the

Callidus had looked just the same when they had pulled Koyne out of the vacuum

over Jupiter; the shapeshifting assassin had done a peculiar thing, turning into a

deformed, almost foetus-like form in order to survive in the killing nothingness of

space. KoyneвЂ™s skin had undergone a state change from flesh to something like bone,

or tooth. Tariel recalled the disturbing sensation of touching it and he recoiled once

again.

He looked away, towards Kell. вЂњDo you think the Callidus will live?вЂќ

вЂњHis kind donвЂ™t perish easy,вЂќ said the Vindicare dryly. вЂњTheyвЂ™re too conceited to

die in so tawdry a manner.вЂќ

Tariel shook his head. вЂњKoyne is not a вЂheвЂ™. ItвЂ™s not male or female.вЂќ He frowned.

вЂњNot anymore, anyway.вЂќ

вЂњThe ship will healвЂ¦ it. And once our poisoner joins us, we will have our

Execution Force assembledвЂ¦вЂќ Kell trailed off.

Tariel imagined he was thinking the same thing as the sniper; and what then? The

question as to what target they were being gathered to terminate would soon be

answeredвЂ”and the Vanus was troubled by what that answer might be.

It can only beвЂ”

The thought was cut off as the man in the kimono returned with another person at

his heels. Tariel determined a femaleвЂ™s gait; she was a slender young woman of

similar age to himself.

вЂњBy the order of the Director Primus of our clade and the Master of Assassins,вЂќ

said the man, вЂњyou are granted the skills of secluse Soalm, first-rank toxin artist.вЂќ

The woman looked up and she gave a hard-edged, defiant look at the Vindicare.

KellвЂ™s face shifted into an expression of pure shock and he let out a gasp. вЂњJenniker.вЂќ

The Venenum drew herself up. вЂњI accept this duty,вЂќ she said, with finality.

вЂњNo,вЂќ Kell snarled, the shock shifting to anger. вЂњYou do not!вЂќ He glared at the

man in the kimono. вЂњShe does not!вЂќ

The man cocked his head. вЂњThe selection was made by Siress Venenum herself.

There is no error, and it is not your place to make a challenge.вЂќ

97

Tariel watched in confused fascination as the cool, acerbic mien Kell had

habitually displayed crumbled into hard fury. вЂњI am the mission commander!вЂќ he

barked. вЂњBring me another of your secluses, now.вЂќ

вЂњAre my skills in question?вЂќ sniffed the woman. вЂњI defy you to find better.вЂќ

вЂњI donвЂ™t want her,вЂќ Kell growled, refusing to look at Soalm. вЂњThatвЂ™s the end of

it.вЂќ

вЂњI am afraid it is not,вЂќ said the man calmly. вЂњAs I stated, you do not have the

authority to challenge the assignment made by the Siress. Soalm is the selectee.

There is no other alternative.вЂќ He pointed back towards the doorway. вЂњYou may now

leave.вЂќ Without another comment, the man exited the room.

вЂњSoalm?вЂќ Kell hissed the womanвЂ™s surname with undisguised anger. вЂњThat is

what I should call you now, is it?вЂќ

It was slowly dawning on Tariel that the two assassins clearly shared some

unpleasant history together. He looked inward, thinking back over what he had

managed to learn about Eristede Kell since the start of their mission, looking for

some clue. Had these two been comrades or lovers, he wondered? Their ages were

close enough that they could have both been raised in the same schola before the

clades drew them for individual selection and trainingвЂ¦

вЂњI accepted the name to honour my mentor,вЂќ said the woman, her voice taking on

a brittle tone. вЂњI started a new life when I joined my clade. It seemed the right thing

to do.вЂќ

Tariel nodded to himself. Many of the orphan children selected for training by the

Officio Assassinorum entered the clades without a true identity to call their own, and

often they took the names of their sponsors and teachers.

вЂњBut you dishonoured your family instead!вЂќ Kell grated.

And then, for a brief moment, the womanвЂ™s mask of defiance slipped to reveal the

regret and sadness behind it; suddenly Tariel saw the resemblance.

вЂњNo, Eristede,вЂќ she said softly, вЂњyou did that when you chose to kill innocents in

the name of revenge. But our mother and father are dead, and no amount of

bloodshed will ever undo that.вЂќ She walked by Kell, and past a stunned Tariel,

stepping out into the perfumed jungle.

вЂњSheвЂ™s your sister,вЂќ Tariel blurted it out, unable to stay silent, the data rising up

from his memory stack in a rush. вЂњEristede and Jenniker Kell, son and daughter of

Viceroy Argus Kell of the Thaxted Duchy, orphaned after the murder of their parents

in a local disputeвЂ”вЂќ

The Vindicare advanced on him with a livid glare in his eyes, forcing Tariel back

against a cage filled with scorpions. вЂњSpeak of this to the others and I will choke the

life from you, understand?вЂќ

Tariel nodded sharply, his hands coming up to protect himself. вЂњButвЂ¦ The

missionвЂ¦вЂќ

вЂњSheвЂ™ll do what I tell her to,вЂќ said Kell, the anger starting to cool.

вЂњAre you sure?вЂќ

вЂњSheвЂ™ll follow orders. Just as I will.вЂќ He stepped back, and Tariel glimpsed a

hollowness, an uncertainty in the other manвЂ™s eyes that mirrored what he had seen in

the VindicareвЂ™s sister.

98

* * *

The Iubar had decks filled with cogitator engines that hummed and whirred like

patient cats, gangs of progitors moving back and forth between them with crystalline

memory tubes and spools of optic coil. According to Hyssos, the devices were used

to gather financial condition data from the various worlds along the Eurotas trade

routes, running prognostic models to predict what goods a given planet might require

months, years, even decades into the future.

вЂњWhat are we to do with these things?вЂќ asked Daig. HeвЂ™d never been comfortable

with the thought of machines that could do a manвЂ™s job better.

Hyssos nodded at one of the engines. вЂњIвЂ™ve been granted use of this module.

Various information sources from Iesta VeracruxвЂ™s watch-wire are being collated and

sifted by it.вЂќ

вЂњYou can do that from up here?вЂќ Yosef felt an odd stab of concern he couldnвЂ™t

place.

The operative nodded. вЂњThe uptake of data is very slow due to the incompatibility

of the systems, but we have some level of parity. Enough to check the capitalвЂ™s traffic

patterns, compare information on the suspect with the movements of his known

associates, and so on.вЂќ

вЂњWe have jagers on the ground doing that,вЂќ Daig insisted. вЂњHuman eyes and ears

are always the best source of facts.вЂќ

Hyssos nodded. вЂњI quite agree. But these machines can help us to narrow our

fields of inquiry. They can do in hours what would take your office and your jagers

weeks to accomplish.вЂќ Daig didnвЂ™t respond, but Yosef could see he was unconvinced.

вЂњWeвЂ™ll tighten the noose,вЂќ continued the operative. вЂњSigg wonвЂ™t slip the net a second

time, mark my words.вЂќ

Yosef shot him a look, searching the comment for any accusationвЂ”and he found

none. Still, he was troubled, and he had to voice it. вЂњAssuming Sigg is our killer.вЂќ He

remembered the manвЂ™s face in the cooperвЂ™s shack, the certainty he had felt when he

read Erno SiggвЂ™s fear and desperation. He looked like a victim.

Hyssos was watching him. вЂњDo you have something to add, Reeve Sabrat?вЂќ

вЂњNo.вЂќ He looked away and found Daig, his cohortвЂ™s expression unreadable. It

wasnвЂ™t just Sigg he was having his doubts about; Yosef thought back to what the

other man had said in the ruined lodge, and the recent changes in his manner. Daig

was keeping something from him, but he could not think of a way to draw it out.

вЂњNo,вЂќ he repeated. вЂњNot now.вЂќ

What the others called the вЂњstaging areaвЂќ was really little more than a converted

storage bay, and Iota saw little reason why the name of it made so much difference.

The Ultio was a strange vessel; she was still trying to know it, and it wasnвЂ™t letting

her. The ship was one thing pretending to be another, an assemblage of rare

technologies and secrets that had been stitched into a single body; given a mission,

thrown out into the darkness. It was like her in that way, she mused. They could

almost have been kin.

99

The mind inside the ship spoke to her when she spoke to it, answering some of

her questions but not others. Eventually, Iota became bored with the circular

conversations and tried to find another way to amuse herself. As a test of her stealth

skills, she took to exploring the smallest of the crawlspaces aboard the Ultio or

spying on the medicae compartment where the Callidus was recovering inside a

therapy pod. When she wasnвЂ™t doing this or meditating, Iota spent the time hunting

down spiders in shadowed corners of the hull, catching and collecting them in a jar

she had appropriated from the shipвЂ™s mess. So far, her hopes of encouraging the

arachnids to form their own rudimentary society had failed.

She spotted another of the insects in the lee of a console and deftly snared it;

then, with a cruelty born of her boredom, she severed its legs one by one, to see if it

could still walk without them.

Kell entered the chamber; he was the last to arrive. The infocyte Tariel had been

working at the hololith projector and he seemed uncharacteristically muted. The

VanusвЂ™ mood had been like this ever since he and the Vindicare had returned from

Terra with the last of the recruits, the woman who called herself Soalm. The new

arrival didnвЂ™t speak much either. She seemed rather delicate for an assassin; that was

something that many thought of Iota when they first laid eyes on her, but the chill of

her preternatural aura was usually enough to destroy that illusion within a heartbeat.

The GarantineвЂ™s bulk took up a corner of the room, like an angry canine daring any

one of them to crowd into his space. He was playing with a sliver of sharpened

metalвЂ”the remains of a tool, she believedвЂ”dancing the makeshift blade across his

thick fingers with a striking degree of dexterity. He was bored too, but annoyed with

it; then again, Iota had come to understand that every mood of the Eversor was some

shade of anger, to a greater or lesser extent. Koyne sat in a wire-frame chair, the

CallidusвЂ™ smoothed-flat features like an unfinished carving in soapstone. She

watched the shade for a few moments, and Koyne offered Iota a brief smile. The

CallidusвЂ™ skin darkened, taking on a tone close to the tawny shade of IotaвЂ™s own

flesh; but then the moment was broken by Kell as he rapped his gloved hand on the

support beams of the low ceiling.

вЂњWeвЂ™re all here,вЂќ said the Vindicare. His gaze swept the room, dwelling briefly

on all of them; all of them except Soalm, she noted. вЂњThe mission begins now.вЂќ

вЂњWhere are we going?вЂќ asked Koyne, in a voice like IotaвЂ™s.

Kell nodded to Tariel. вЂњItвЂ™s time to find out.вЂќ

The infocyte activated a code-key sequence on the projector unit and a haze of

holographic pixels shimmered into false solidity in the middle of the chamber. They

formed into the shape of a tall, muscular man in nondescript robes. He had a scarred

face and a queue of close-cut hair over an otherwise bare skull, and if the image was

an accurate representation, then he was easily bigger than the Garantine. The

hologram crackled and wavered, and Iota recognised the tell-tale patterns of highlevel

encoding threading through it. This was a real-time transmission, which meant

it could only be coming from another ship in orbit, or from Terra itself.

Kell nodded to the man. вЂњCaptain-General Valdor. We are ready to be briefed, at

the MasterвЂ™s discretion.вЂќ

Valdor returned the gesture. вЂњThe Master of Assassins has charged me with that

task. Given theвЂ¦ unique nature of this operation, it seems only right that there be

100

oversight from an outside party.вЂќ The Custodian surveyed all of them with a

measuring stare; at his end of the communication, Iota imagined he was standing

among a hololithic representation of the room and everyone in it.

вЂњYou want us to kill him, donвЂ™t you?вЂќ the Garantine said without preamble,

burying his makeshift knife in the bulkhead beside his head. вЂњLetвЂ™s not be precious

about it. We all know, even if we havenвЂ™t had the will to say it aloud.вЂќ

вЂњYour insight does you credit, Eversor,вЂќ said Valdor, his tone making it clear his

compliment was anything but that. вЂњYour target is the former Warmaster of the

Adeptus Astartes, Primarch of the Luna Wolves, the Archtraitor Horus Lupercal.вЂќ

вЂњThey are the Sons of Horus now,вЂќ muttered Tariel, disbelief sharp in his words.

вЂњThroneвЂ™s sake. ItвЂ™s true, thenвЂ¦вЂќ

The Venenum woman made a negative noise in the back of her throat. вЂњIf it

pleases my lord Custodes, I must question this.вЂќ

вЂњSpeak your mind,вЂќ said Valdor.

вЂњEvery clade has heard the rumours of the missions that have followed this

directive and failed it. My clade-cohort Tobeld was the last to be sent on this foolвЂ™s

errand, and he perished like all the others. I question if this can even be achieved.вЂќ

вЂњCousin Soalm has a compelling point,вЂќ offered Koyne. вЂњThis is not some

wayward warlord of which we are speaking. This is Horus, first among the

EmperorвЂ™s sons. Many call him the greatest primarch that ever lived.вЂќ

вЂњYouвЂ™re afraid,вЂќ snorted the Garantine. вЂњWhat a surprise.вЂќ

вЂњOf course I am afraid of Horus,вЂќ replied Koyne, mimicking the EversorвЂ™s gruff

manner. вЂњEven an animal would be afraid of the Warmaster.вЂќ

вЂњAn Execution Force like this one has never been gathered,вЂќ Kell broke in,

drawing the attention of all of them. вЂњNot since the days of the first masters and the

pact they swore in the EmperorвЂ™s service on Mount Vengeance. We are the echo of

that day, those words, that intention. Horus Lupercal is the only target worthy of us.вЂќ

вЂњPretty words,вЂќ said Soalm. вЂњBut meaningless without direction.вЂќ She turned

back to the image of Valdor. вЂњI say again; how do we hope to accomplish this after so

many of our Assassinorum kindred have been sacrificed against so invulnerable an

objective?вЂќ

вЂњHorus has legions of loyal warriors surrounding him,вЂќ said Tariel. вЂњAstartes,

warships, forces of the Mechanicum and Cybernetica, not to mention the common

soldiery who have come to his banner. How do we even get close enough to strike at

him?вЂќ

вЂњHe will come to you.вЂќ Valdor gave a cold, thin smile. вЂњPerhaps you wondered at

the speed with which this Execution Force has been assembled? It has been done so

as to react to new intelligence that will place the traitor directly in your sights.вЂќ

вЂњHow?вЂќ demanded Koyne.

вЂњIt is the judgement of Lord Malcador and the Council of Terra that HorusвЂ™

assassination at this juncture will throw the traitor forces into disarray and break the

rebellion before it can advance on to the Segmentum Solar,вЂќ said Valdor. вЂњAgents of

the Imperium operating covertly in the Taebian Sector report a strong likelihood that

Horus is planning to bring his flagship, the Vengeful Spirit, to the planet Dagonet in

101

order to show his flag. We believe that the WarmasterвЂ™s forces will use Dagonet as a

foothold from which to secure the turning of every planet in the Taebian Stars.вЂќ

вЂњIf you know this to be so, my lord, then why not simply send a reprisal fleet to

Dagonet instead?вЂќ asked Soalm. вЂњSend battle cruisers and Legions of Astartes, not

six assassins.вЂќ

вЂњPerhaps even the Emperor himselfвЂ¦вЂќ muttered Koyne.

Valdor gave them both a searing glare. вЂњThe EmperorвЂ™s deeds are for him alone

to decide! And the fleets and the loyal Legions have their own battles to fight!вЂќ

Iota nodded to herself. вЂњI understand,вЂќ she said. вЂњWe are to be sent because there

is not certainty. The Imperium cannot afford to send warfleets into the darkness on a

mere вЂlikelihoodвЂ™.вЂќ

вЂњWe are only six,вЂќ said Kell, вЂњbut together we can do what a thousand warships

have failed to. One vessel can slip through the warp to Dagonet far easier than a fleet.

Six assassinsвЂ¦ the best of our cladesвЂ¦ can bring death.вЂќ He paused. вЂњRemember the

words of the oath we all swore, regardless of our clades. There is no enemy beyond

the EmperorвЂ™s wrath.вЂќ

вЂњYou will take the Ultio to the Taebian Sector,вЂќ Valdor went on. вЂњYou will

embed on Dagonet and set up multiple lines of attack. When Horus arrives there, you

will terminate his command with extreme prejudice.вЂќ

вЂњMy lord.вЂќ Efried bowed low and waited.

The low mutter of his primarchвЂ™s voice was like the distant thunder over the

Himalayan range. вЂњSpeak, Captain of the Third.вЂќ

The Astartes looked up and found Rogal Dorn standing at the high balcony,

staring into the setting sun. The golden light spilled over every tower and crenulation

of the Imperial Palace, turning the glittering metals and white marble a striking,

honeyed amber. The sight was awesome; but it was marred by the huge cube-like

masses of retrofitted redoubts and gunnery donjons that stood up like blunt grey

fangs in an angry mouth. The palace of beforeвЂ” the rich, glorious construct that

defied censure and defeatвЂ”was cheek-by-jowl with the palace of nowвЂ” a brutalist

fortress ranged against the most lethal of foes. A foe that had yet to show his face

under TerraвЂ™s skies.

Efried knew that his liege lord was troubled by the battlements and fortifications

the Emperor had charged him to build over the beauty of the palace; and while the

captain could see equal majesty in both palace and fortress alike, he knew that in

some fashion, Great Dorn believed he was diminishing this place by making it a site

fit only for warfare. The primarch of the Imperial Fists often came to this high

balcony, to watch the walls and, as Efried imagined, to wait for the arrival of his

turncoat brother.

He cleared his throat. вЂњSir. I have word from our chapter serfs. The reports of

preparations have been confirmed, as have those of the incidents in the Yndenisc

Bloc and on Saros Station.вЂќ

вЂњGo on.вЂќ

102

вЂњYou were correct to order surveillance of the Custodes. Captain-General Valdor

was once again witnessed entering closed session at the Shrouds, with an assemblage

of the Directors Primus of the Assassinorum clades.вЂќ

вЂњWhen was this?вЂќ Dorn did not look at him, continuing to gaze out over the

palace.

вЂњThis day,вЂќ Efried explained. вЂњOn the conclusion of the gathering a transmission

was sent into close-orbit space, likely to a vessel. The encryption was of great

magnitude. My Techmarines regretfully inform me it would be beyond their skills to

decode.вЂќ

вЂњThere is no need to try,вЂќ said the primarch, вЂњand indeed, to do so would be a

violation of protocols. That is a line the Imperial Fists will not cross. Not yet.вЂќ

EfriedвЂ™s hand strayed to his close-cropped beard. вЂњAs you wish, my lord.вЂќ

Dorn was silent for a long moment, and Efried began to wonder if this was a

dismissal; but then his commander spoke again. вЂњIt begins with this, captain. Do you

understand? The rot beds in with actions such as these. Wars fought in the shadows

instead of the light. Conflicts where there are no rules of conduct. No lines that

cannot be crossed.вЂќ At last he glanced across at his officer. вЂњNo honour.вЂќ Behind

him, the sun dipped below the horizon, and the shadows across the balcony grew.

вЂњWhat is to be done?вЂќ Efried asked. He would obey any command his primarch

had cause to utter, without question or hesitation.

But Dorn did not answer him directly. вЂњThere can only be one target worth such

subterfuge, such a gathering of forces. The Officio Assassinorum mean to kill my

errant brother Horus.вЂќ

Efried considered this. вЂњWould that not serve our cause?вЂќ

вЂњIt might appear so to those with a narrow view,вЂќ replied the primarch. вЂњBut I

have seen what the assassinвЂ™s bullet wreaks in its wake. And I tell you this, brothercaptain.

We will defeat HorusвЂ¦ but if his death comes in a manner such as the

Assassinorum intend, the consequences will be terrible, and beyond our capacity to

control. If Horus falls to an assassinвЂ™s hand there will be a gaping vacuum at the core

of the turncoat fleet, and we cannot predict who will fill it or what terrible revenges

they will take. As long as my brother lives, as long as he rides at the head of the

traitor Legions, we can predict what he will do. We can match Horus, defeat him on

even ground. We know him.вЂќ Dorn let out a sigh. вЂњI know him.вЂќ He shook his head.

вЂњThe death of the Warmaster will not stop the war.вЂќ

Efried listened and nodded. вЂњWe could intervene. Confront Valdor and the clade

masters.вЂќ

вЂњBased on what, captain?вЂќ Dorn shook his head again. вЂњI have only hearsay and

suspicion. If I were as reckless as Russ or the Khan, that might be enoughвЂ¦ But we

are Imperial Fists and we observe the letter of Imperial law. There must be proof

positive.вЂќ

вЂњYour orders, then, sir?вЂќ

вЂњHave the serfs maintain their observations,вЂќ Dorn looked up into the darkening

sky. вЂњFor the moment, we watch and we wait.вЂќ

103

EIGHT

Cinder and Ash

Toys

Unmasked

The room in the compound they had given over for PerrigвЂ™s use was of a reasonable

size and dimension, and the last of four that had been offered. The other three she had

immediately rejected because of their inherent luminal negativity or proximal

locations to undisciplined thought-groupings. The second had been a place where a

woman had died, some one hundred and seven years earlier, having taken her own

life as the result of an unplanned pregnancy. The adjutant, Gorospe, had looked at

Perrig with shock and no little amount of dismay at that revelation; it seemed that no

one among the staff of the Eurotas Consortium had had any idea the building on Iesta

had such a sordid history.

But this room was quiet, the buzzing in her senses was abating and Perrig was as

close to her equilibrium as she could be in a place so filled with droning, selfabsorbed

minds. Running through her alignment exercises, Perrig gently edited them

out of her thoughtscape, eliminating the disruption through the application of a gentle

psionic null-song, like a counter-wave masking an atonal sound.

She absently touched the collar around her neck as she did this. It was just metal,

just a thing, secured only with a bolt that she herself could undo with a single twist. It

had meaning, though, for those who looked upon it, for those who might read the

words from the Nikaea Diktat acid-etched into the black iron. It was a slaveвЂ™s mark,

after a fashion, but one she wore only for the benefit of the comfort of others. It was

not a nullifier, it could not hold her back; it was there so those who feared her ability

could have her at their side and still sleep soundly, convinced by the lie that it would

protect them from her unearthliness. The texture of the cool metal gave her focus,

and she let herself draw inward.

The last thing she looked at before she closed her eyes was the chronometer on a

nearby desk; Hyssos and the local lawmen had returned from the Iubar several hours

ago, but she hadnвЂ™t seen any of them since the audience with the Void Baron. She

wondered what Hyssos would be doing, but she resisted the urge to extend a tendril

of thought out to search for him. Her telepathic abilities were poor and it was only

her familiarity with his mind that allowed her to sense him with any degree of

certainty. In truth, PerrigвЂ™s desire to be close to Hyssos only ever brought her

melancholy. She had once looked into his thoughts as he slept, once when he had let

down his guard, and there she saw that he had no inkling of the strange devotion the

psyker had for her guardian; no understanding of this peculiar attachment that could

not be thought of as love, but neither as anything else. It was better that way, she

104

decided. Perrig did not wish to think of what might happen if he knew. She would be

taken away from him, most likely. Perhaps even returned to the Black Ships from

where Baron Eurotas had first claimed her.

Perrig suffocated the thoughts and returned to her business at hand, eyes tightly

shut, her calm forced back into place like a key jammed into a lock.

The psyker knelt on the hard wooden floor of the room. Arranged in a semi-circle

around her were a careful line of objects she had picked from the debris of the old

wine lodge. Some stones, a brass button from a greatcoat, sticky grease-paper

wrapping from a meat-stick vendor and a red leaflet dense with script in the local

dialect of Imperial Gothic. Perrig touched them all in order, moving back and forth,

lingering on some, returning to others. She used the items to build a jigsaw puzzle

image of the suspect, but there were gaping holes in the simulacra. Places where she

could not sense the full dimension of who Erno Sigg was.

The button had fear on it. It had been lost as he fled the fire and the howl of the

coleopters.

The stones. These he had picked up and turned in his hands, used them in an idle

game of throws, tossing them across the shack and back again, boredom and nervous

energy marbling their otherwise inert auras.

The grease-paper was laden with hunger, panic. The image here was quite

distinct; he had stolen the food from the vendor while the manвЂ™s back was turned. He

had been convinced he would be caught and arrested.

The leaflet was love. Love or something like it, at least in the manner that Perrig

could understand. Dedication, then, if one were to be more correct, with almost a

texture of righteousness about it.

She dithered over the piece of paper, looking through her closed lids at the

emotional spectra it generated. Sigg was complex and the psyker had trouble holding

the pieces she had of him in her mind. He was conflicted; buried somewhere deep

there was the distant echo of great violence in him, but it was overshadowed by two

towering opposite forces. On one hand, a grand sense of hope, even redemption, as if

he believed he would be saved; and on the other, an equally powerful dread of

something hunting him, of his own victimhood.

PerrigвЂ™s psychometry was not an exact science, but in her time as an investigator

she had developed a keen sense of her own instincts; it was this sense that told her

Erno Sigg did not kill for his pleasures. As that thought crystallised inside her mind,

Perrig felt the first fuzzy inklings of a direction coming to her. She allowed her hand

to pick up the stylus at her side and moved it to the waiting data-slate on the floor. It

twitched as the auto-writing began in spidery, uneven text.

Her other hand, though, had not left the leaflet. Her fingers toyed with the edges

of it, playing with the careworn paper, seeking out the places where it had been

delicately folded and unfolded, time and time again. She wondered what it meant to

Sigg that he cared so much for it, and sensed the ghost of the anguish he would feel

at its loss.

That would be how she would find him. The sorrow, fluttering from him like a

pennant in the wind. The scribbling stylus moved of its own accord, back and forth

across the slate.

105

Confidence rose in her. She would find Erno Sigg. She would. And Hyssos would

be pleased with herвЂ”

Her heart jumped in her chest and she gasped. The stylus, gripped beyond its

tolerances, snapped in two and the broken ends dug into her palm. Perrig was

suddenly trembling, and she knew why. At the back of her mind there had been a

thought she had not wanted to confront, something she took care to avoid as one

might favour an ugly, painful bruise upon the skin.

But now she was drawn to it, touching the discoloured edges of the psychic

contusion, flinching at the tiny ticks of pain it gave off.

She had sensed it after their arrival on Iesta Veracrux. At first, Perrig imagined it

was only an artefact of the transition of her mind, from the controlled peace of her

domicile aboard the Iubar to the riotous newness of the planetвЂ™s busy city.

Correction; she had wanted to believe it was that.

The trembling grew as she dared to focus on it. A dark shadow at the edges of her

perception, close at hand. Closer than Erno Sigg. Much, much closer, more so than

Hyssos or any of the Iestan investigators suspected.

Perrig felt a sudden wetness at her nostrils, on her cheek. She smelled copper.

Blinking, she opened her eyes and the first thing she saw was the leaflet. It was red,

deep crimson, the words printed on it lost against the shade of the paper. Panting in a

breath, Perrig looked up from where she knelt and saw that the room, and everything

in it, was red and red and red.

She let the broken stylus fall and wiped at her face. Thick fluid came away from

the corners of her eyes. Blood, not tears.

Propelled by a surge of fright, she came to her feet, her boot catching the dataslate

and crushing the glassy screen beneath the heel. The room seemed humid and

stifling, every surface damp and meat-slick. Perrig lurched towards the only window

and reached for the pull to drag back the curtains so she might open it, get a breath of

untainted air.

The drapes were made of red and shadows, and they parted like petals as she

came closer. Something approximating the shape of a human being opened up there,

suspended by spindly feet from the ceiling overhead. The heavy velvets thumped to

the wooden floor and the figure unfolded, wet and shiny with oils. Its name

impressed itself on the soft surfaces of her mind and she was forced to speak it aloud

just to expunge the horror of it.

вЂњSpearвЂ¦вЂќ

A distended maw of teeth and bone barbs grew from the head of the monstrosity.

Stygian flame, visible only to those with the curse of the witch-sight, wreathed the

abstract face and the black pits that were its eyes. In an instant, Perrig knew what had

made all those kills, what hands had delicately cut into Jaared Norte, Cirsun Latigue

and all the others who had perished at its inclination.

She backed away, her voice lost to her. More than anything, Perrig wanted to

cover her eyes and look away, find somewhere to hide her face so that she would not

be forced to see the Spear-thing; but there was nowhere for her to turn. Even if she

clawed the orbs from her sockets, her witch-sight would still remain, and the aura of

this monstrous creature would continue to smother it.

106

Horribly, she sensed that the killer wanted her to look upon it, with all the depth

of perception her psychic talents allowed. It projected a need for her to witness it, and

that desire drew her in like the pull of gravity from a dark sun.

Spear muttered to itself. When Perrig had touched the minds of other killers in

the past, she had always flinched at the awful joy with which they pursued their craft;

she did not see that here, however. SpearвЂ™s psyche was a pool of black ink,

featureless and undisturbed by madness, lust or naked fury. It was almost inert,

moving under the guidance of an unshakable certainty. It reminded her for one

fleeting instant of HyssosвЂ™ ordered mindset; the killer shared the same dogged,

unflinching sense of direction towards its goalsвЂ¦ almost as if it were following a

string of commands.

And still it let her in. She knew if she refused it, Spear would tear her open then

and there. She tried desperately to break past the miasma of cold that lay around her,

projecting as best she could a panicked summons towards her absent guardian; but as

she did this, she also let her mind fall into Spear, stalling for time, on some level

repulsed and fascinated by the monsterвЂ™s true nature.

Spear was not coy; it opened itself to her. What she saw in there sickened her

beyond her capacity to express. The killer had been made this way, taken from some

human stock now so corrupted that its origin could not be determined, sheathed with

a skein of living materials that seemed cut from the screaming depths of the warp

itself. Perhaps a fluke of cruel nature, or perhaps a thing created by twisted genius,

Spear was soulless, but unlike any stripe of psionic null Perrig had ever encountered.

It was a Black Pariah; the ultimate expression of negative psychic force. Perrig

had believed such things were only conjecture, the mad nightmare creations of wild

theorists and sorcerous madmenвЂ”yet here it stood, watching her, breathing the same

air as she wept blood before it.

And then Spear reached out with fingers made of knives and took PerrigвЂ™s hand.

She howled as burning pain lanced through her nerves; the killer severed her right

thumb with insolent ease and drew it up and away, toying with its prize. Perrig

gripped her injured hand, vitae gushing from the wound.

Spear took the severed flesh and rolled it into its fanged maw, crunching down

the bone and meat as if it were a rare delicacy. Perrig sank back to the bloodspattered

floor, her head swimming as she caught the edges of the sudden psionic

shift running through the killer.

The black voids of its eyes glared down at her and they became smoky mirrors. In

them she saw her own mind reflected back at her, the power of her own psionic

talents bubbling and rippling, copied and enhanced a thousandfold. Spear had tasted

her blood, the living gene-code of her beingвЂ”and now it knew her. It had her

imprint.

She scrambled backwards, feeling the humming chorus of her mind and that of

the killer coming into shuddering synchrony, the orbits of their powers moving

towards alignment. Perrig cried out and begged it to stop, but Spear only cocked its

head and let the power build.

It had not killed in this manner for a long time, she realised. The other deaths had

been mundane and unremarkable. It wanted to do this just to be sure it was still

capable, as a soldier might release a clip of ammunition to test the accuracy of a

107

firearm. Belatedly Perrig understood that she was the only thing for light years

around that could have been any kind of threat to it; but now, too late.

And then, they met in the non-space between them. Beyond her ability to stop it,

PerrigвЂ™s psionic ability unchained itself and thundered against SpearвЂ™s waiting, open

arms. The killer took it all in, every last morsel, and did so with the ease of breathing.

In stillness, Spear released its burden and reflected back all that Perrig was, the

force of her preternatural power returning, magnified into a silent, furious hurricane.

The woman became ashes and broke apart.

Through the coruscating, unquenchable fires of the immaterium, the Ultio raced on,

passing through the corridors of the warp and onwards beyond the borders of the

Segmentum Solar. The shipвЂ™s sight-blind Navigator took it through the routes that

were little known, the barely-charted passages that the upper echelons of the Imperial

government kept off the maps given to the common admiralty. These were swift

routes but treacherous ones, causeways through the atemporal realm that larger ships

would never have been able to take, the soul-light glitter of their massive crews

bright enough that they would attract the living storms that wheeled and turned, while

Ultio passed by unnoticed. The phantom-ship was barely there; its Geller fields had

such finely-tuned opacity and it engines such speed that the lumbering, predatory

intelligences that existed inside warp space noted it only by the wake it left behind.

As days turned and clocks spun back on Terra, Ultio flew towards Dagonet; by some

reckonings, it was already there.

On board, the Execution Force gathered once more, this time in a compartment

off the spinal corridor that ran the length of the starshipвЂ™s massive drives.

Kell watched, as he always did.

The Garantine was still toying with his makeshift blade. He had continued to craft

it into a wicked shiv that was easily the length of a manвЂ™s forearm. вЂњWhat do you

want, Vanus?вЂќ he asked.

Tariel gave a nervous smile and indicated a large cargo module that replaced one

whole wall of the long, low compartment. вЂњUh, thank you for coming.вЂќ He glanced

around at Kell, Iota and the others. вЂњAs we are now mission-committed, I have leave

to continue with the next stage of my orders.вЂќ

вЂњExplain,вЂќ said Koyne.

The infocyte rubbed his hands together. вЂњI was given a directive by the Master of

Assassins himself to present these materials to you only after the group had been

completely assembled and only after the Ultio had left the Sol system.вЂќ He moved to

a keypad on the cargo module and tapped in a string of symbols. вЂњI am to address the

matter of your equipment.вЂќ

The Eversor assassinвЂ™s head snapped up, his mood instantly changing from

insolence to laser-like intensity. вЂњWeapons?вЂќ he asked, almost salivating.

Tariel nodded. вЂњAmong other things. This unit contains the hardware for our

mission ahead.вЂќ

вЂњDid you know about this?вЂќ demanded the Garantine, glaring at Kell. вЂњHere I am

playing with scraps and thereвЂ™s a war-load right here on board with me?вЂќ

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Kell shook his head. вЂњI assumed weвЂ™d be equipped on site.вЂќ

вЂњWhy did someone fail to tell me there was an armoury aboard this tub?вЂќ Tariel

ducked as the Garantine threw his shiv and it buried itself in a stanchion close by.

вЂњGive me a weapon, now! Feels like IвЂ™m bloody naked here!вЂќ

вЂњWhat a delightful image,вЂќ murmured Soalm.

вЂњHe needs it,вЂќ said Iota, distractedly. вЂњHe actually feels a kind of emotional pain

when separated from his firearms. Like a parent torn from its child.вЂќ

вЂњIвЂ™ll show you torn,вЂќ grated the hulking killer, menacing the Vanus. вЂњIвЂ™ll do some

tearing.вЂќ

вЂњOpen!вЂќ Tariel fairly shouted the word and the mechanism controlling the lock

hissed on oiled hydraulics. The pod split along its length and rolled back, presenting

brackets of guns, support equipment and other wargear.

The GarantineвЂ™s face lit up with something approximating joy. вЂњHello, pretty

pretty,вЂќ he muttered, drawn to a rack where a heavy pistol, ornate and decorated with

metallic wings and sensor probes, lay waiting. He gathered it up and hefted it in one

hand. Cold laughter fell from his lips as gene-markers tingled through him, briefly

communing with the lobo-chips implanted in his brain, confirming his identity and

purpose.

вЂњThe Executor combi-pistol,вЂќ said Tariel, blinking rapidly as he drew the

information up from a mnemonic pool in his deep cortex. вЂњDual function ballistic

bolt weapon and needle projectileвЂ”вЂќ

вЂњI know what it is!вЂќ snarled the Garantine, before he could finish. вЂњOh, we are

very well acquainted.вЂќ He stroked the gun like it was a pet.

Kell spoke up. вЂњAll of you, take what you need but make sure you use what you

take. Go back to your compartments and prepare your gear for immediate

deployment. We have no idea how long we may have between our arrival and the

targetвЂ™s.вЂќ

вЂњHe may already be there waiting for us,вЂќ offered Koyne, drifting towards a

different rack of weapons. вЂњThe tides of the warp often flow against the ebb of time.вЂќ

The Garantine greedily gathered armfuls of hardware, taking bandoliers of meltagrenades,

a wickedly barbed neuro-gauntlet and the rig for a sentinel array. With

another guttural laugh, he snagged a heavy, blunt-ended slaughtererвЂ™s sword and

placed it under his arm. вЂњIвЂ™ll be in my bunk,вЂќ he sniggered, and wandered away under

his burden.

Iota watched the Eversor go. вЂњLook at him. HeвЂ™s almostвЂ¦ happy.вЂќ

вЂњEvery child needs its toys,вЂќ said Soalm.

The Culexus gave the racks a sideways look, and then turned away. вЂњNot me.

ThereвЂ™s nothing here that I need.вЂќ She shot the Venenum poisoner a look, tapping her

temple. вЂњI have a weapon already.вЂќ

вЂњThe animus speculum, yes,вЂќ said Soalm. вЂњIвЂ™ve heard of it. But it is an ephemeral

thing, isnвЂ™t it? Its use depends on the power of the opponent as much as that of the

user, so I am led to believe.вЂќ

IotaвЂ™s lips pulled tight in a small smile. вЂњIf you wish.вЂќ

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Tariel nervously approached them. вЂњIвЂ¦ I do have an item put aside for your use,

Culexus,вЂќ he said, offering an armoured box covered with warning runes. вЂњIf you

will?вЂќ

Iota flipped open the lid and cocked her head. Inside there were a dozen grenades

made of black metal. вЂњOh,вЂќ she said. вЂњExplosives. How ordinary.вЂќ

вЂњNo, no,вЂќ he insisted. вЂњThis is a new technology. An experimental weapon not

yet field-tested under operational conditions. A creation of your cladeвЂ™s senior

scienticians.вЂќ

The woman plucked one of the grenades from the case and sniffed it. Her eyes

narrowed. вЂњWhat is this? It smells like the death of suns.вЂќ

вЂњI am not permitted to know the full details,вЂќ admitted the infocyte. вЂњBut the

devices contain an exotic form of particulate matter that inhibits the function of

psionic ability in a localised area.вЂќ

Iota studied the grenade for a long moment, toying with the activator pin, before

finally giving Tariel a wan look. вЂњIвЂ™ll take these,вЂќ she said, snatching the box from

his hand.

вЂњWhat do you have for the rest of us in your delightful toy box?вЂќ Koyne asked

lightly, playing with a pair of memory swords. They had curved, graceful blades that

shifted angles in mid-flight as the Callidus cut the air with them.

вЂњToxin cordes.вЂќ The Vanus pressed a control and a belt threaded with glassy

stilettos extended from a sealed dram marked with biohazard trefoils.

Koyne put up the swords and reached for them, only to see that Soalm was doing

the same. The Callidus gave a small bow. вЂњOh, pardon me, cousin. Poisons are of

course your domain.вЂќ

Soalm gave a tight, humourless smile. вЂњNo. After you. Take what you wish.вЂќ

Koyne held up a hand. вЂњNo, no. After you. Please. I insist.вЂќ

вЂњAs you wish.вЂќ The Venenum carefully retrieved one of the daggers and turned it

in her fingers. She held it up to the light, turning it this way and that so the coloured

fluids inside the glass poison blade flowed back and forth. At length, she sniffed.

вЂњThese are of fair quality. TheyвЂ™ll work well enough on any man who stands between

us and Horus.вЂќ

The Callidus picked out a few blades. вЂњBut what about those who are not men?

What about Horus himself?вЂќ

SoalmвЂ™s lips thinned. вЂњThis would be the bite of a gnat to the Warmaster.вЂќ She

gave Tariel a look: вЂњI will prepare my own weapons.вЂќ

вЂњThereвЂ™s also this,вЂќ offered the Vanus, passing her a pistol. The weapon was a

spindly collection of brass pipes with a crystalline bulb where a normal firearm might

have had an ammunition magazine. Soalm took it and peered at the mesh grille where

the muzzle should have been.

вЂњA bact-gun,вЂќ she said, weighing it in her hand. вЂњThis may be useful.вЂќ

вЂњThe dispersal can be set from a fine mist to a gel-plug round,вЂќ noted Tariel.

вЂњAre you certain you know how to use that?вЂќ said Kell.

SoalmвЂ™s arm snapped up into aiming position, the barrel of the weapon pointed

directly at the VindicareвЂ™s face. вЂњI think I can recall,вЂќ she said. Then she wandered

away, turning the pistol over in her delicate, pale hands.

110

Meanwhile, Koyne had discovered a case that was totally out of place among all

the others. It resembled a whorled shell more than anything else, and the only

mechanism to unlock it was the sketch of a handprint etched into the bony matter of

the latchвЂ”a handprint of three overlong digits and a dual thumb.

вЂњI have no idea what that may be,вЂќ Tariel admitted. вЂњThe container, I mean, it

looks almost as if it isвЂ”вЂќ

вЂњXenos?вЂќ said Koyne, with deceptive lightness. вЂњBut that would be prohibited,

Vanus. Perish the thought.вЂќ There was a quiet cracking sound as the CallidusвЂ™ right

hand stretched and shifted in shape, the human digits reformed and merging until

they became something more approximate to the alien handprint. Koyne pressed

home on the case and it sighed open, drooling droplets of purple liquid on to the

decking. Inside the container, the organic look was even more disturbing; on a bed of

fleshy material wet with more of the liquid rested a weapon made of blackened,

tooth-like ceramics. It was large and off-balance in shape, the front of it grasping a

faceted teardrop crystal the sea-green colour of ancient jade.

вЂњWhat is it?вЂќ Tariel asked, his disgust evident.

вЂњIn my clade it has many names,вЂќ said Koyne. вЂњIt rips open minds, tears intellect

and thought to shreds. Those it touches remain empty husks.вЂќ The Callidus held it out

to the Vanus, who backed away. вЂњDo you wish to take a closer look?вЂќ

вЂњNot in this lifetime,вЂќ Tariel insisted.

A pale tongue flickered out and licked KoyneвЂ™s lips as the assassin returned the

weapon to the shell. Gathering it up, the Callidus bowed to the others. вЂњI will take my

leave of you.вЂќ

As Koyne left, Kell glanced back at the Vanus. вЂњWhat about you? Or do those of

your clade choose not to carry a weapon?вЂќ

Tariel shook his head, colour returning to his cheeks. вЂњI have weapons of my

own, just not as obvious as yours. An electropulse projector, built into my cogitator

gauntlet. And I have my menagerie. The psyber eagles, the eyerats and netfly

swarms.вЂќ

Kell thought of the pods he had seen elsewhere aboard the Ultio, where TarielвЂ™s

cybernetically-modified rodents and preybirds and other animals slept out the voyage

in dormancy, waiting for his word of command to awaken them. вЂњThose things wonвЂ™t

keep you alive.вЂќ

The Vanus shook his head. вЂњAh, believe me, I will make sure that nothing ever

gets close enough to kill me.вЂќ He sighed. вЂњAnd in that veinвЂ¦ There are also weapons

for you.вЂќ

вЂњMy weapon was lost,вЂќ Kell said, with no little venom. вЂњThanks to the Eversor.вЂќ

вЂњIt has been renewed,вЂќ said Tariel, opening a lengthy box. вЂњSee.вЂќ

Every Vindicare used a longrifle that was uniquely configured for their biomass,

shooting style, body kinestics, even tailored to work with the rhythm in which they

breathed. When the Garantine had smashed KellвЂ™s weapon into pieces out in the

Aktick snows, it was like he had lost a part of himself; but there inside the case was a

sniper rifle that resembled the very gun that had been his constant companion for

yearsвЂ”resembled it, but also transcended it. вЂњExitus,вЂќ he breathed, stooping to ran a

hand over the flat, non-reflective surface of the barrel.

111

Tariel indicated the individual components of the weapon. вЂњSpectroscopic

polyimager scope. Carousel ammunition loader. Nitrogen coolant sheath. Whisperhead

suppressor unit. Gyroscopic balance stabiliser.вЂќ He paused. вЂњAs much of your

original weapon as possible was salvaged and reused in this one.вЂќ

Kell nodded. He saw that the grip and part of the cheek-plate were worn in a way

that no newly-forged firearm could have been. As well as the longrifle, a pistol of

similar design lay next to it on the velvet bedding of the weapon case. Lined up along

the lid of the container were row after row of individual bullets, arranged in colourcoded

groups. вЂњImpressive. But IвЂ™ll need to sight it in.вЂќ

вЂњWeвЂ™ll doubtless all have many opportunities to employ our skills before Horus

shows his face,вЂќ said Soalm. She hadnвЂ™t left the room, but stood off to one side as the

sniper and the infocyte talked.

вЂњWe will do what we have to,вЂќ Kell replied, without looking at her.

вЂњEven if we destroy ourselves doing it,вЂќ his sister replied.

The marksmanвЂ™s jaw hardened and his eyes fell to a line of words that had been

etched into the slender barrel of the rifle. Written in a careful scrolling hand was the

Dictatus Vindicare, the maxim of his clade; Exitus Acta Probat. вЂњThe outcome

justifies the deed,вЂќ said Kell.

* * *

What he saw in the room was like no manner of death Yosef Sabrat had ever

conceived of. The killings of Latigue in the aeronef and Norte at the docks, while

they were horrors that sickened him to his core, had not pressed at his reason. But not

this, not thisвЂ¦ deed.

Black ashes were scattered in a long pool across the middle of PerrigвЂ™s room, cast

out of a set of clothes that lay splayed out where they had fallen. At the top of the

cascade of cinders, a small hill of the dark powder covered an iron collar, the bolt

holding it shut still secure, and in among the pile there were the silver needles of

neural implants glittering in the lamplight.

вЂњIвЂ¦ donвЂ™t understand.вЂќ The Gorospe woman was standing a few steps behind the

investigators, outside in the corridor with Yosef where the jagers milled around,

uncertain how to proceed. вЂњI donвЂ™t understand,вЂќ she repeated. вЂњWhere did theвЂ¦ the

woman go to?вЂќ

She had almost said the witch. Yosef sensed the half-formed word on her lips,

and he shot her a look filled with sudden fury. Gorospe looked up at him with wide,

limpid eyes, and he felt his hands contract into fists. She was so callous and

dismissive of the dead psyker; he fought back a brief urge to grab her and slam her

up against the wall, shout at her for her stupidity. Then he took a breath and said,

вЂњShe didnвЂ™t go anywhere. ThatвЂ™s all that is left of her.вЂќ

Yosef walked away, pushing past Skelta. The jager gave him a wary nod. вЂњHeard

from Reeve Segan, sir. They called him in from his off-shift. HeвЂ™s on his way.вЂќ

He returned SkeltaвЂ™s nod and took a wary step through the field barrier and into

the room, careful not to disturb the cluster of small mapping automata that scanned

the crime scene with picters and ranging lasers. Hyssos was crouching, looking back

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and forth around the walls, staring towards the windows, then back to the ashen

remains. He had his back to the doorway and Yosef heard him take a shuddering

breath. It was almost a sob.

вЂњDo youвЂ¦ need a moment?вЂќ As soon as he said the words, he felt like an utter

fool. Of course he did; his colleague had just been brutally murdered, and in an

abhorrent, baffling manner.

вЂњNo,вЂќ said Hyssos. вЂњYes,вЂќ he said, an instant later. вЂњNo. No. There will be time

for that. After.вЂќ The operative looked up at him and his eyes were shining. вЂњDo you

know, I think, at the endвЂ¦ I think I actually heard her.вЂќ He fingered one of the braids

among his hair.

Yosef saw the semi-circle of objects on the floor, the stones and the paper. вЂњWhat

are these?вЂќ

вЂњFoci,вЂќ Hyssos told him. вЂњObjects imbued with some emotional resonance from

the suspect. Perrig reads them. She read them.вЂќ He corrected himself absently.

вЂњI am sorry.вЂќ

Hyssos nodded. вЂњYou will let me kill this man when we find him,вЂќ he told Yosef,

in a steady, measured voice. вЂњWe will make certain, of course, of his guilt,вЂќ he

added, nodding. вЂњBut the death. You will let me have that.вЂќ

Yosef felt warm and uncomfortable. вЂњWeвЂ™ll burn that bridge after we cross it.вЂќ

He looked away and found the places on the far wall behind him where the markings

had been made. On his entry into the room, he hadnвЂ™t seen them. Like the paintings

in blood inside the aeronef or the shape that Jaared NorteвЂ™s body had been cut into,

there were eight-point stars all over the light-coloured walls. It seemed that the killer

had used the residue of Perrig as his ink, repeating the same pattern over and over

again.

вЂњWhat does it mean?вЂќ Hyssos mumbled.

The reeve licked his lips; they were suddenly dry. He had a strange sensation, a

tingling in the base of his skull like the dull headache brought on by too much recaf

and not enough fresh air. The shapes were all he could see, and he felt like there was

an answer there, if only he could find the right way to look at them. They were no

different from the mathematical problems in IvakвЂ™s schola texts, they just needed to

be solved to be understood.

вЂњSabrat, what does it mean?вЂќ said Hyssos again. вЂњThis word?вЂќ

Yosef blinked and the moment vanished. He looked back at the investigator.

Hyssos had removed something from among the ashen remains; a data-slate, the

screen spiderwebbed and fractured. Incredibly, the display underneath was still

operating, flickering sporadically.

Gingerly, Yosef took it from him, taking care to avoid touching the powderslicked

surfaces of the device. The touch-sensitive screen still remembered the words

that had been etched upon it, and flashed them at him, almost too quickly to register.

вЂњOne of the words is вЂSiggвЂ™,вЂќ Hyssos told him. вЂњDo you see it?вЂќ

He did; and beneath that, there was a scribble that appeared to be the attempt to

form another string of letters, the shape of them lost now. But above the name, there

was another clearly-lettered word.

вЂњWhyteleaf. Is that a personвЂ™s name?вЂќ

113

Yosef shook his head, instantly knowing the meaning. вЂњNot a person. A place. I

know it well.вЂќ

Hyssos was abruptly on his feet. вЂњClose?вЂќ

вЂњIn the low crags, a quick trip by coleopter.вЂќ

The investigatorвЂ™s brief flash of grief and sorrow was gone. вЂњWe need to go there,

right now. PerrigвЂ™s readings decay over time.вЂќ He tapped the broken slate. вЂњIf she

sensed Sigg was in this place, every moment we waste here, we run the risk he will

flee again.вЂќ

Skelta had caught the edge of their conversation. вЂњSir, we donвЂ™t have any other

units in the area. Backup is dealing with a railganger fight that went bad out at the

airdocks and security prep for the trade carnival.вЂќ

Yosef made the choice then and there. вЂњWhen Daig gets here, tell him to take

over the scene and keep Laimner occupied.вЂќ He moved towards the door, not looking

back to see if Hyssos was following. вЂњWeвЂ™re taking the flyer.вЂќ

The operative had lost colleagues before, and it had been difficult then as it was now;

but PerrigвЂ™s death was something more than that. It came in like a bullet, cutting right

into the core of HyssosвЂ™ soul. Losing himself in the rash of the dark, low clouds

outside the windows of the coleopter, he tried to parse his own emotional reactions to

the moment without success. Perrig had always been a good, trusted colleague, and

he liked her company. She had never pressured him to talk about his past or tried to

worm more information out of him than he wanted to give. Hyssos had always felt

respected in her presence, and rewarded by her competence, her cool, calm

intelligence.

Now she was dead; worse than dead, not a corpse even, just dark cinders, just a

slurry of matter that did not bear any resemblance to the human being he had known.

He felt a hard stab of guilt. Perrig had always given him her complete and total trust,

and he had not been there to protect her when she needed it. Now this investigation

had crossed from the professional to the personal, and Hyssos was uncertain of

himself.

Looking from the outside in, had he been a passive observer, Hyssos would have

immediately insisted that an operative in his circumstances be withdrawn from the

case and a new team assigned from the ConsortiumвЂ™s security pool. And that, he

knew, was why he had not yet sent an official report on PerrigвЂ™s death to the Void

Baron, because Eurotas himself would say the same.

But Hyssos was here, now, and he knew the stakes. It would take too long to

bring another operative up to speed. As competent as locals like Sabrat were, the

reeveвЂ™s seniors couldnвЂ™t be trusted to handle this with alacrity.

Yes. All those were good lies to tell himself, all gilded with the ring of truth,

when in fact all he wanted at this moment was to put PerrigвЂ™s killer down like a rabid

animal.

Hyssos clasped his hands together to stop them making fists. Outwardly his icy

calm did not shift, but inside he was seething. The operative glanced at Sabrat as the

flyer began to circle in towards a landing. вЂњWhat is this Whyteleaf?вЂќ

вЂњWhat?вЂќ Sabrat turned suddenly, snapping at him with venom, as if Hyssos had

called out some grave personal insult. Then he blinked, the strange anger ebbing for a

114

moment. вЂњOh. Yes. ItвЂ™s a winestock. Many of the smaller lodges store vintage

estufagemi here, holding barrels of it for years so it can mature undisturbed.вЂќ

вЂњHow many staff?вЂќ

Sabrat shook his head distractedly. вЂњItвЂ¦ ItвЂ™s all automated.вЂќ The flyerвЂ™s skids

bumped as the craft landed. вЂњQuickly!вЂќ said the reeve, bolting up from his seat. вЂњIf

the coleopter dwells, Sigg will know weвЂ™re on to him.вЂќ

Hyssos followed him down the drop ramp, into a cloud of upswept dust and

leaves caught in the wake of the aircraft. He saw Sabrat give the pilot a clipped wave

and the coleopter rattled back into the sky, leaving them ducking the sudden wind.

As the noise died away, Hyssos frowned. вЂњWas that wise? We could use another

pair of eyes.вЂќ

The reeve was already walking on, across the top of the shallow warehouse where

they had been deposited. вЂњSigg ran the last time.вЂќ He shook his head. вЂњDo you want

that to happen again?вЂќ Sabrat said it almost as if it had been the operativeвЂ™s fault.

вЂњOf course not,вЂќ Hyssos said quietly, and drew his gun and a portable auspex

from the pockets inside his tunic. вЂњWe should split up, then. Search for him.вЂќ

Sabrat nodded, crouching to open a hatch in the roof. вЂњAgreed. Work your way

down the floors and meet me on the basement level. If you find him, put a shot into

the air.вЂќ Before Hyssos could say anything in reply, the reeve dropped through the

hatch and into the dark.

Hyssos took a deep breath and moved forward, finding another accessway at the

far end of the warehouse. Pausing to don a pair of amplifier glasses, he went inside.

There was little light inside the winestock, but the glasses dealt with that for him. The

pools of shadow were rendered into a landscape of whites, greys, greens and blacks.

Reaching the decking of the uppermost tier, Hyssos saw the shapes of massive

storage tanks rising up around him, the curves of towering wooden slats forming the

walls of the great Jeroboams. The smoky, potent smell of the wine was everywhere,

the air thick and warm with it.

He walked carefully, his boots crunching on hard lumps of crystallised sugar

caught in the gaps between the planks of the floor, the wood giving with quiet,

moaning creaks. The auspex, a small device fashioned in the design of an ornate

book, was open on a belt tether, the sensing mechanism working with a slow pulse of

light. The unchanged cadence indicated no signs of human life within its scan radius.

Hyssos wondered why Sabrat wasnвЂ™t registering; but then this building was dense

with metals and the scannerвЂ™s range was limited.

The operativeвЂ™s thoughts kept returning to the data-slate that Perrig had left

behind. From the positioning of it among the psykerвЂ™s ashes, he supposed that it

might have been in her hand when she met her end. She had seen Erno Sigg through

the foci objects gathered from the Blasko Wine Lodge and tracked him here through

the etheriumвЂ”but the other word, the third line of letters on the slateвЂ¦ What

meaning did they have? What had she been trying to say? How had she died in such a

manner?

Finally, he could not let the question lie and he used his free hand to pull the

smashed slate from his pocket.

115

Another error in judgement, said a voice in the back of his thoughts. The dataslate

was evidence, and yet he had taken it from a crime scene. Pushing back the

glasses to his forehead, Hyssos studied the broken screen in the dimness. The

scribble of letters there were barely readable, but he knew PerrigвЂ™s steady, looping

handwriting of old. If he could just find a way to see it afresh, to look with new eyes,

perhaps he could intuit what she had been trying to writeвЂ”

Spear.

It hit him like a splash of cold water. A sudden snap of comprehension. Yes, he

was sure of it. The spin of the consonants and the loop of the vowelsвЂ¦ Yes.

But what did it mean?

The next step he took made a wet ripping noise and something along the line of

his boot dragged at him, as if a thick layer of glue carpeted the floor.

Hyssos sniffed the air, wondering if one of the mammoth wine casks had leaked;

but then the stale, metallic smell rose up to smother the cloying sweetness all around.

He dropped the slate back into his pocket and gingerly slid the goggles down over his

eyes once more.

And there, rendered in cold, sea-green shades, was a frieze made of meat and

bones. Across the curve of a wooden storage tank, beneath a wide stanchion and in

shadow where the light of IestaвЂ™s days would never have fallen, the display of an

eviscerated corpse was visible to him.

The body was open, the skin cut so that the innards, the skeleton and the muscle

were free for removal. The fleshy rags that remained of the victim were nailed up in

the parody of a human shape; organs and bones had been taken and arranged in

patterns, some of them reassembled together in horrible new fusions. Pubs, for

example, fanned like daggers sticking into the wet meat of a pale liver. A pelvic bone

dressed with intestines. The spongy mass of a lung wrapped in coils of stripped

nerve. All about him, the blood was a matted, dried pool, a sticky patina that had

mixed with wine spillages and doubtless seeped down through the floor of this level

and the next. Thousands of gallons of carefully matured liquor was tainted, polluted

by what had been done here.

At the edges of the ocean of vitae where the fluid ran away, eight-point stars

dotted the bland wooden panels. Amid it all, HyssosвЂ™ eyes caught a shape that

focussed his attention instantly; a face. He gingerly stepped closer, his gorge rising as

his boots sucked at the flooring. Narrowing his eyes, the operative drew up the

auspex, turning its sensoria on the blood slick.

It was Erno SiggвЂ™s face, cut from the front of his skull, lying like a discarded

paper mask.

The chime of the auspex drew his gaze from the horror. Hyssos had been trained

by the ConsortiumвЂ™s technologians on the reading of its outputs, and he saw datums

unfurl on its small screen. The blood, it told him, was days old; perhaps even as

much as a week. This atrocity had been done to Erno Sigg well before PerrigвЂ™s

execution, of that there was no doubt. The auspex could not lie.

Swallowing his revulsion, Hyssos let the scanning device drop on its tether and

raised his gun upwards, finger tightening on the trigger. His hand was trembling, and

he could not seem to steady it.

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But then the footsteps reached him. From across the other side of the lake of dried

blood, a shadow detached from the darkness and came closer. Hyssos recognised the

purposeful gait of the Iestan reeve; but he moved without hesitation, straight across

the middle of it, boots sucking at the glutinous, oily mess.

вЂњSabrat,вЂќ called the operative, his voice thick with repugnance, вЂњWhat are you

doing, man? Look around, canвЂ™t you see it?вЂќ

вЂњI see it,вЂќ came the reply. The words were paper-dry.

The amplifier glasses seemed like a blindfold around his head and Hyssos tore

them off. вЂњFor TerraвЂ™s sake, Yosef, step back! YouвЂ™ll contaminate the site!вЂќ

вЂњYosef isnвЂ™t here,вЂќ said the voice, as it became fluid and wet, transforming.

вЂњYosef went away.вЂќ

The reeve came out of the dimness and he was different. There were only black

pits glaring back at Hyssos from a shifting face that moved like oil on water.

вЂњMy name is Spear,вЂќ said the horror. The face was eyeless, and no longer human.

117

NINE

Dagonet

Assumption

Falling

The orbits above Dagonet were clogged with the wreckage of ships that had tried too

hard to make it off the surface, vessels that were built as pleasure yachts or

shuttlecraft, suborbitals and single-stage cargo barges for the runs to the near moons.

Many of them had fallen foul of the system frigates blockading the escape vectors,

torn apart under hails of las-fire; but more had simply failed. Ships that were

overloaded or ill-prepared for the rigours of leaving near-orbit space had burned out

their drives or lost atmosphere. The sky was filled with iron coffins that were

gradually spiralling back to the turning world below them. At night, those on the

planet could see them coming home in streaks of fire, and they served as a reminder

of what would happen to anyone who disagreed with the GovernorвЂ™s new order.

The Ultio navigated in on puffs of thruster gas, having left the warp in the

shadow of the Dagonet systemвЂ™s thick asteroid belt. Cloaked in stealth technologies

so advanced they were almost impenetrable, it easily avoided the ponderous turncoat

cruisers and their nervous crews, finding safe harbour inside the empty shell of an

abandoned orbital solar station. Securing the drive section in a place where itвЂ”along

with UltioвЂ™s astropath and NavigatorвЂ”would be relatively safe, the forward module

detached and reconfigured itself to resemble a common courier or guncutter. The

pilotвЂ™s brain drew information from scans of the traitorous ships to alter the

electropigments of the hull, and by the time the assassin craft touched down at the

capitalвЂ™s star-port, it wore the same blue and green as the local forces, even down to

the crudely crossed-out Imperial aquila displayed by the defectors.

Kell had Koyne stand by the vox rig, ready to talk back to the control tower. The

Callidus had already listened in on comm traffic snared from the airwaves by TarielвЂ™s

complex scanning gear, and could perform a passable imitation of a Dagoneti

accentвЂ”but challenge never came.

The tower was gone, blown into broken fragments, and all across the sprawling

landing fields and smoke-wreathed hangars, small fires were burning and wrecked

ships that had died on take-off lay atop crumpled departure terminals and support

buildings. Gunfire and the thump of grenade detonations echoed to them across the

open runways.

Kell advanced down the ramp and used the sights on his new longrifle to sweep

the perimeter.

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вЂњFighting was recent,вЂќ said the Garantine, following him down. The hulking rage

killer took a deep draught of air. вЂњStill smell the blood and cordite.вЂќ

вЂњTheyвЂ™ve moved on,вЂќ said the sniper, sweeping his gaze over corpses of soldiers

and civilians who lay where they had fallen. It was difficult to be sure who had been

shooting at who; Dagonet was in the middle of a civil war, and the lines of loyalist

and turncoat were not yet clear to the new arrivals. A blink of laser fire from inside

one of the massive terminals caught his eye and he turned to it as the crack of broken

air reached them a moment later. вЂњBut not too far. TheyвЂ™re fighting through the

buildings. Lucky for us the place is still contested. Leaves us with less explaining to

do.вЂќ

He shouldered the rifle as Tariel ventured a few wary steps down the ramp.

вЂњVindicare? How are we to proceed?вЂќ

Kell walked back up a way. The rest of the Execution Force were gathered on the

lower deck, watching him intently. вЂњWe need to gather intelligence. Find out whatвЂ™s

going on here.вЂќ

вЂњDagonetвЂ™s extrasolar communications went dark some time ago,вЂќ noted Tariel.

вЂњPerhaps if you could secure a prisoner for interrogationвЂ¦вЂќ

Kell nodded and beckoned to Koyne. вЂњCallidus. YouвЂ™re in charge until we get

back.вЂќ

вЂњWe,вЂќ said Soalm pointedly.

He nodded towards the Garantine. вЂњThe two of us. WeвЂ™ll scout the star-port, see

what we can find.вЂќ

вЂњAh, good,вЂќ said the Eversor, rubbing his clawed hands together. вЂњExercise!вЂќ

вЂњAre you sure two will be enough?вЂќ Soalm went on.

Kell ignored her and moved closer to Koyne. вЂњKeep them alive, understand?вЂќ

Koyne made a thoughtful face. вЂњWeвЂ™re all lone wolves, Vindicare. If the enemy

come knocking, my first instinct might be to ran and leave them.вЂќ

He didnвЂ™t rise to the bait. вЂњThen consider that order a test of your oath over your

instincts.вЂќ

SabratвЂ™s longcoat whirled as the horror coiled, leaping into the air towards Hyssos.

The operative heard it snapping like sailcloth in a stiff breeze and recoiled, firing

shots that should have struck centre-mass but instead hit nothing but air.

The thing that called itself Spear landed close to him and he took a heavy blow

that threw him off his feet. Hyssos slammed into a tall pile of Balthazar bottles that

tumbled away with the impact, rolling this way and that. Pain raced up his spine as he

twisted and tried to regain his footing.

Spear tossed the coat away and then, with care that seemed strange for something

so abhorrent in appearance, deftly unbuttoned the white shirt beneath and set it aside.

Bare from the waist up, Hyssos could see that the creatureвЂ™s flesh was writhing and

changing, cherry-red like tanned leather. He saw what looked like hands pressing out

from inside the cage of the monsterвЂ™s chest, and the profile of a screaming face. Yosef

SabratвЂ™s face.

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The bare arms distended and grew large, their proportions ballooning. Fingers

merged into flat mittens of meat, grew stiff and glassy. Hands became bone blades,

pennants of pinkish-black nerve tissue dangling from them.

Hyssos aimed the gun and fired at the place where a manвЂ™s heart would have

been, but down came the arms and the shot was deflected away. He smelled a

slaughterhouse stink coming off the creature, saw the sizzling pit in the limb from the

impact as it filled with ooze and knit itself shut.

The body of the thing was in chaos. It writhed and throbbed and pulsed in

disgusting ways, and the operative was struck by the conviction that something was

inside the meat of it, trying to get out.

As the eyeless face glared into him, the distended jaws opening wide to let

droplets of spittle fall free, Hyssos found his voice. вЂњYou killed them all.вЂќ

вЂњYes.вЂќ The reply was a gurgling chug of noise.

вЂњWhy?вЂќ he demanded, retreating back until he was trapped against the fallen

bottles. вЂњWhat in TerraвЂ™s name are you?вЂќ

вЂњThere is no Terra,вЂќ it bubbled, horrible amusement shading the words. вЂњOnly

terror.вЂќ

Hyssos saw the shape of the face again, this time pressing from the meat of

SpearвЂ™s bloated shoulders. He was sure it was crying out to him, imploring him. Run,

it mouthed, run run run runвЂ”

He raised the gun, shaking, his blood turning to ice. Hands tightening on the grip,

aiming for the head. In his time, Hyssos had seen many things that defied easy

explanationвЂ”strange forms of alien life, the impossible vistas of warp space, the

darkest potentials of the human characterвЂ”and this creature was first among them. If

hell was a place, then this was something that had been torn out of that infernal realm

and thrust into the real world.

Spear raised its sword-arms and rattled their hard surfaces off one another. вЂњOne

more,вЂќ it intoned. вЂњOne step closer.вЂќ

вЂњTo what?вЂќ The question was a gasp. It came at him again, and Hyssos shot it in

the face.

Spear shrugged it off. The first downward slash cut away HyssosвЂ™ right hand

across the forearm, the gun falling with it. The second stabbing motion pierced skin,

ribcage and lung before emerging from his back in a splatter of dark arterial crimson.

Hyssos was not quite dead as Spear began to cut him into pieces. His last

awareness was of the sound of his own flesh being eaten.

Shots and cries of pain sounded distantly as they drew closer to the engagement. The

crackling drone of an emplaced autocannon sounded every few moments from down

in the open plaza.

They had found plenty of dead along the way, and to begin with the Eversor

paused at the sight of each clash, looking around to see if any of the combatants had

perished carrying weapons of any particular note. But he found nothing he wanted to

salvage, all of it basic Nire-pattern stubbers and the occasional lasgun. The Garantine

didnвЂ™t like lasers; too fragile, too lightweight, too prone to malfunction when worked

hard. He liked the heavy certainty of a ballistic gun, the comforting shock of recoil

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when it fired, the deep bass note of the shells crashing from the muzzle or the

whickering sizzle of needle rounds. The bulky combi-weapon in his mailed fist was a

perfect fit; it was his intention rendered in gunmetal.

Crouching in the lee of a tall, broken terracotta urn, he studied the Executor pistol

and worked his fingers around the grip. The desire to use it on some target, any

target, was almost too much to hold in. The anticipation tingled in his lobo-chips,

and he felt the chemoglands in his neck grow cool as they produced a calmative to

regulate the hammering pace of his heartbeat.

вЂњEversor.вЂќ The sniperвЂ™s voice issued out from the earpiece of his skull-mask.

вЂњThereвЂ™s a group of irregulars to the south, under the broken chronograph near the

monorail entrance. TheyвЂ™re dug in with a heavy gun.вЂќ The Garantine took a look

around the urn and saw the shattered clock face. He grunted an affirmative and Kell

went on. вЂњTheyвЂ™re holding off a unit of Defence Force troopers. Not many of the

PDFs left. Hold and observe.вЂќ

That last sentence actually drew a laugh from the Eversor. вЂњOh, no.вЂќ He jumped

to his feet, the hissing of stimjectors sounding in his ears, and rolling fire flooded

through him. The GarantineвЂ™s eyes widened behind his mask and his body resonated

like a struck chord. Kell was saying something over the vox, but it seemed like the

chattering of an insect.

The Garantine leapt into the air from the balcony overlooking the ticketing plaza

and fell two storeys to land on the top of the smashed clock, where it hung from spars

extending from the ceiling. The weight of his arrival dislodged the whole

construction and he dropped with it, riding it to the tiled floor below to land behind

the makeshift gun emplacement. The clock exploded into fragments as it struck the

ground, ejecting cogwheels and bits of the fascia in all directions, the shock of it

staggering the men behind the autocannon.

Kell had called them irregulars; that meant they were not soldiers, at least in an

official sense. His drug-sharpened perception took in all details of them at once. They

were garbed in pieces of armour, some of it PDF or Arbites issue, and the weapons

they carried were an equally random assortment. At the sight of the towering, skullmasked

monster that had fallen from the skies above them, the men on the

autocannon hauled the weapon around on its tripod, swinging it to bear on the

Garantine.

He roared and threw himself at them, his shout lost in the scream of the Executor.

Bolt shells broke the bodies of the men in wet, red bursts, and he fell into their line,

raking others with the spines of his neuro-gauntlet. The barbs of the glove bit into

flesh and sent those it touched reeling to a twitching, frenzied death. Those on the

autocannon he killed by punching, putting his fist through their ribcages. As an

afterthought, he kicked the tripod gun away, and it rolled to the tiled floor.

Shivering with the rush, he laughed again. Through his adrenaline haze, he saw

the men in the PDF uniforms warily peer out of cover, and then finally advance

towards him with laser carbines ready.

He gave a theatrical bow and addressed them. вЂњA rescue,вЂќ he snapped. вЂњConsider

it a gift from the ruler of Terra.вЂќ

вЂњIdiot.вЂќ KellвЂ™s words pierced the veil of his racing thoughts. вЂњLook at their chest

plates!вЂќ

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He did so; all of the PDF soldiers wore the etched-out aquila that signified their

rejection of the EmperorвЂ™s dominion. They started firing, and the Garantine laughed

once more, diving into the beam salvo with the Executor at his lead.

* * *

SpearвЂ™s meal was methodical. All the eating of the human foodstuffs while it had

been in quietus had been enough to fuel the camouflage aspectвЂ™s biology, but the

layers of the killerвЂ™s true self were starting to starve. Sipping at the meat of the

dockworker and the clerk had served to hold off the hunger pangs, but they had not

been enough for true satisfaction; and the destruction of the telepath had taken a lot

of energy from him.

Still; feeding now, and a full meal with it. Bones ground between razor teeth,

organs still hot and wet bitten into like ripe fruits, and blood by the bucket for the

drinking. Thirst slaked, for a while. Yes. It would do.

Deep in the canyons of his mind, Spear could hear the echo of the camouflageвЂ™s

ghost-mind as it wept and screamed, forced to watch these deeds from the cage

where it was held. It could not understand that it was only noise now, no longer a

being with life and power to influence the outside world. For as long as Spear

remained in control, it would always be so.

Yosef Sabrat was only the last in a long line of coatings painted over SpearвЂ™s

malleable aspect, like a dye poured on silk. The killerвЂ™s flesh, infused with the living

skin of a warp-predator, was more daemon than man and it obeyed no laws of the

conventional universe. It was a shape with no shape, but not like those human fools

who used chemical philtres to manipulate their skin and bone and think themselves

clever. What Spear was went beyond the nature of disguise, beyond transformation.

There was a word for it that the ancient banned theologies used to talk of their deities

taking on human form; they called it assumption.

When he was sated, he gathered what remained of Hyssos and cautiously filled a

barrel with the leavings. The operativeвЂ™s clothing and gear he had stripped with care,

placing it to one side for later use. The corpse-meat would be hurled from the roof of

the winestock, where it would fall to the floor of the narrow crags far below, and into

the rapids that would wash the leftovers out to sea; but first he had the final steps to

perform.

From one of the giant tanks given over to the maturation of the wines, Spear

dragged out a fleshy egg and used his teeth to open it. Foul gases discharged from

within and a naked man dropped out on to the wooden flooring. The sac had grown

from a seed Spear planted in the lung of a homeless drunkard shortly after arriving on

Iesta Veracrux. Conjured by the sorcery of his masters, the seed consumed the

vagrant to make the egg, giving birth to a stasis caul where Spear had been able to

store Yosef SabrafвЂ™s body for the past two months.

As the sac dissolved into vapour, he dressed Sabrat in the clothes he had worn

while the aspect had been at the fore. The caul had done its work. The dead reeve

looked as if he had been freshly killed; no human means of detection would say

otherwise. The stab wound through the manвЂ™s heart began to bleed again, and Spear

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artfully arranged the body, finding the harvesting knife in a flesh pocket and applying

it to the wound.

He paused to ensure that the puncture on the roof of SabrafвЂ™s mouth was not

visible. The iron-hard proboscis that penetrated there had licked at the matter of the

lawmanвЂ™s brain and siphoned off the chains of chemicals that were his memories, his

persona. Then, SpearвЂ™s daemonskin had patterned itself on those markers, shifting

and becoming. The change was so strong, so deep, that when Spear surrendered

control to it, the camouflage aspect was not merely a mask that the murderer wore; it

was a living, breathing identity. A persona so perfect that it believed itself to be real,

resilient enough that even a cursory psionic scan would not see the lie of it.

Still, it had made sense to murder the psyker woman as soon as possible, if not

only to protect the truth but also to force the hand of the investigators. Now the next

phase was complete, and the Yosef Sabrat identity had played its role flawlessly.

Soon Spear would begin the purgation of the disguise, and finally be rid of the manвЂ™s

irritatingly moral thought processes, his disgustingly soft compassion, the sickening

attachment to his colleagues, brood-child and bed partner. From this point on, Spear

would only wear a face, and never again give himself over to another manвЂ™s self. He

was almost giddy with anticipation. Just a few more steps, and he would be within

striking distance of his target.

The murderer knelt next to HyssosвЂ™ head, severed at the neck by a slicing cut, and

gathered it up. With a guttural choke, Spear spat the proboscis from the soft palate of

his mouth and into the skull through its right eye. Seeking, penetrating, it dug deep

and found the regions of the dead manвЂ™s brain where his self was growing cold.

Spear drank him in.

Koyne put away the monocular and hid it inside a pocket of the officerвЂ™s tunic the

infocyte had recovered from one of the airfieldвЂ™s dead. It fit snugly, but the

adjustment of the fluid-filled morphing bladders layered underneath the CallidusвЂ™

skin allowed the assassin to alter body mass and dimension to accommodate it a little

better.

вЂњHow do you propose we get inside?вЂќ said Iota. The Culexus was almost

invisible in the shadows by the broken window, with only the steel-grey curve of her

grinning helmet visible in the moonlight. Her voice had a peculiar, metallic timbre to

it when she spoke from inside the psyker-hood, as if it were coming to KoyneвЂ™s ears

from a very great distance.

вЂњThrough the front door.вЂќ The Callidus watched the men walking back and forth

in front of the communicatory, considering the cautious motions in their steps,

analysing the cues of their body language not just for infiltrationвЂ™s sake, but to parse

their states of mind. Data-slates, recovered from what remained of the corpses of the

turncoat patrol murdered by the Garantine, had provided the Execution Force with a

lead on this facility. It was the nearest thing to a garrison for kilometres around, and

at this stage Kell wasnвЂ™t ready to send the group out from the relative safety of the

Ultio and down the long highway to the capital city, several kilometres to the south.

The metropolis itself, the largest of all on Dagonet, could be seen clearly against the

darkening sky. Some of the taller towers were still smoking, some had half-collapsed

and fallen like drunkards suspended on each otherвЂ™s shoulders; but no snakes of

123

tracer lashed at the skies, there were no mushroom clouds or flights of assault craft

buzzing overhead. It seemed calm, or at least as calm as a city on a world at war with

itself had any right to be.

When Koyne had asked the Vindicare what he had learned on his scouting

mission, the Eversor had just grinned and the sniper replied with a terse dismissal.

вЂњItвЂ™s complicated,вЂќ he said.

Koyne did not doubt that. The Callidus had learned through many hundreds of

field operations, a lot of them in active zones of conflict, that what generals in their

places of comfort and control called вЂњground truthвЂќ was often anything but true. For

the soldier as much as the assassin, the only equation of truth that always worked was

the simple vector between a weapon and a target. But now they were here, Koyne

and the pariah girl Iota, the CulexusвЂ™ skin-crawling null ability brought along to

protect the shade from any possible psionic interception.

вЂњTariel was correct in his evaluation,вЂќ said Iota, as a rotorplane chattered past

overhead. вЂњThere is an astropath inside that building.вЂќ

вЂњIs it aware of you?вЂќ

She shook her head, the distended skull-helm moving back and forth. вЂњNo. I think

it may be under the influence of chemical restraints.вЂќ

вЂњGood.вЂќ Koyne stood up. вЂњWe donвЂ™t want the alarm to be raised before we are

done here.вЂќ Concentrating on a thought-shape and impressing that on flesh, the

Callidus altered the dimension of its vocal chords, mimicking the tonality of an

officer caught on one of the intercepted vox broadcasts. вЂњWe will proceed.вЂќ

The shapeshifter was as good as its word.

Keeping to the shadows and the low rooftops along the star-portвЂ™s blockhouses,

Iota followed the Callidus and watched Koyne become a simulacrum of a turncoat

PDF commander, advancing through the outer guard post of the communicatory

without raising even a moment of concern. At one point, Iota lost sight of the

Callidus, and when a man in Dagoneti colours approached her hiding place, she made

ready the combi-needler about the wrist of her killing hand in order to silently end

him.вЂњ

Iota,вЂќ called an entirely different voice. вЂњShow yourself.вЂќ

She stepped into the light. вЂњI like your tricks,вЂќ said Iota.

Koyne smiled with someone elseвЂ™s face and opened a door. вЂњThis way. I relieved

the guards at the elevator in here so we wonвЂ™t have much time. TheyвЂ™re holding the

astropath on one of the sublevels.вЂќ

вЂњWhy did you change it?вЂќ Iota asked as they moved through the ill-lit corridors.

вЂњThe face?вЂќ

вЂњI bore easily,вЂќ replied Koyne, halting at a lift shaft. вЂњHere we are.вЂќ

As the Callidus reached for the switch, the doors opened, flooding the corridor

with light; inside the elevator two troopers saw the dark shape of the Culexus and

went for their guns.

124

Spear swallowed HyssosвЂ™ one undamaged eye before depositing the dead manвЂ™s

reamed head among the rest of him; and then with a swift spin of his body, he pitched

the remains into the canyon and watched them fall away.

Returning to the tank room, he skirted the beauty of the blood-art he had made

from Erno SiggвЂ™s corpse. He had used poor Erno as his stalking horse, tormenting

him, pushing him to the edge of sanity before destroying him. The man had served

his purpose perfectly. Spear moved on, checking once more that the body of Yosef

Sabrat had been arranged just so. The evidence he had fabricated over the past few

weeks was also scattered around, arranged so that when it was discovered, it would

lead the investigators of the Sentine towards one undeniable conclusionвЂ”the killer of

Jaared Norte, Cirsun Latigue, Perrig and Sigg and the rest of them was none other

than their fellow lawman.

He made a mock-solemn expression with the new face he wore, trying the look

on for size; but he had no mirror to see how it seemed on his new guise. Spear pawed

at a face that now resembled that of the Eurotas operative. It felt odd and incomplete.

The churn of new memories and personality sucked in from Hyssos was curdling

where it mixed with those of Sabrat, making him thought-sick. It seemed it would be

necessary to purge the stolid reeveвЂ™s self sooner rather than later.

With a deep sigh, Spear dropped to the floor and sat cross-legged. He drew on the

disciplines that had been beaten into him by his master and focussed his will, seeing

it like a line of poison fire laced with ink-black ice.

Reaching into the deeps of his thoughts, Spear found the cage and tore it open,

clawing inside to gather up the mind-scraps that were all that remained of Yosef

Sabrat. He grinned as fear resonated up from the shuddering persona as some

understanding of its final end became clear. Then he began the purge, ripping and

tearing, destroying everything that had been the man, vomiting up every nauseating,

cloying skein of emotion, little by little sluicing SabratвЂ™s cloying self away.

Spear gave this deed such focus that it was only when he heard the voice he

realised he was no longer alone.

KoyneвЂ™s hand flicked up and the toxin-filled stiletto hidden in a wrist sheath flew out

in a shallow arc, piercing the stomach of the man on the left. The liquid inside was a

consumptive agent that feasted on organic matter, even down to natural fibres and

cured leather. He fell to the floor and began to dissolve.

The other man was briefly wreathed in white light that glowed down the hallway

as Iota pressed a hand into his chest and shoved him back into the elevator. Koyne

watched with detachment as the CulexusвЂ™ dark power enveloped the man and

destroyed him. His silent scream resonated and he became a mass of material like

burned paper. In moments, a curl of damp smoke was all that marked the manвЂ™s

passing; the other hapless soldier was now a puddle of fluids leaking away through

the gridded decking of the elevator floor.

Content that the toxin had run its course and consumed itself into the bargain, the

Callidus kicked at the collection of inert tooth fillings, metal buttons and plastic

buckles that had gathered and brushed them away with the passage of a boot. Koyne

took a moment to break the biolume bubble illuminating the interior of the elevator,

and then pressed the control to send it downwards.

125

They travelled in dark and silence for a few moments, and for Koyne the Culexus

seemed to melt away and disappear, even though she was standing at her shoulder.

вЂњHis name was Mortan Gautami,вЂќ Iota said suddenly. вЂњHe never told anyone of it,

but his mother had been able to see the future in dreams. He had a measure of

postcognitive ability, but he indulged in narcotics, preventing him from accessing his

potential.вЂќ The skull head turned slightly. вЂњI used that untapped energy to destroy

him.вЂќ

вЂњIвЂ™ll bet you know the names of everyone youвЂ™ve terminated,вЂќ said Koyne, with a

flicker of cruelty.

вЂњDonвЂ™t you?вЂќ said the Culexus.

The Callidus didnвЂ™t bother to grace that with an answer. The elevator arrived at

the sublevel, and the guards standing outside fell to quick killing blows.

There was a spherical containment chamber in the middle of a room made of

ferrocrete, festoons of cables issuing from every point on its surface. A heavy iron

iris hatch lay facing them like a closed eye, a short gantry reaching it from the

sublevel proper. Koyne stepped up and worked the lever to open it; there was a thin,

high-pitched sound coming from inside, and at first the Callidus thought it was a

pressure leak; then the iron leaves retracted and it became clear it was reedy, shrill

screaming.

Koyne peered into the depths and saw the corpse-grey astropath. It was pressed

up against the back of the sphereвЂ™s inner wall, glaring sightlessly towards Iota.

вЂњHole-mind,вЂќ it babbled, between howls. вЂњBlack-shroud. Poison-thought.вЂќ

The Callidus rapped a stolen pistol against the threshold of the hatch. вЂњHey!вЂќ

Koyne snarled in the officerвЂ™s voice. вЂњStop whining. IвЂ™ll make this simple. Give up

the information I need, or IвЂ™ll lock her in there with you.вЂќ

The astropath made the sign of the aquila, as if it were some kind of ancient rite

of warding that would fend off evil. The shrieking died away, and crack-throated, the

psychic spoke. вЂњJust keep it at a distance.вЂќ

Iota took her cue and wandered away, moving back towards the elevator shaft but

still within earshot. вЂњBetter?вЂќ

That earned Koyne a weak nod. вЂњI will tell you what you want to know.вЂќ

The assassin learned quickly that the astropath was one of only a handful of its

kind still alive in the Dagonet system. In the headlong melee of revolution, in the

process of isolating itself from the galaxy and the Imperium, the planet had begun to

rid itself of all lines of connection back to TerraвЂ”but some of the newly empowered

nobles had thought otherwise and made sure that at least a few telepaths capable of

interstellar sending were kept alive. This was one of them, cut off from all means of

speaking to its kindred, locked up and isolated. It was starved of communication, and

once it began to talk in its papery monotone, the astropath seemed unable to stop.

The psychic spoke of the state of the civil war. As the brief given by Captain-

General Valdor had said, Dagonet was a keystone world in the politico-economic

structure of the Taebian Sector, and if it fell fully under the shadow of the

Warmaster, then it would mark the beginning of a domino effect, as planet after

planet along the same trade axis followed suit. Every loyalist foothold in this sector

of space would be in jeopardy. In the first moments of the insurrection, desperate

126

signals had been sent to the Adeptus Astartes and the Imperial Navy; but these had

gone unanswered.

Koyne took this in and said nothing. Both the ships of the admiralty and the

Legions of the EmperorвЂ™s loyalist Astartes had battles of their own to fight, far from

the Taebian Stars. They would not intervene. For all the fire and destruction the

collapse of Dagonet and its sister worlds might cause, there were larger conflicts

being addressed at this very moment; no crusade of heroes was coming to ride to the

rescue. Then the astropath began to lay out the lines of the civil war as it had spread

up until this point, and the Callidus thought back to something said aboard the Ultio

on their way to Dagonet.

The civil war was a rout, and it was those who stood in the EmperorвЂ™s name who

were dying. Across the planet, the forces that carried HorusвЂ™ banner were only days

away from breaking the back of any resistance.

Dagonet was already lost.

Reeve Daig Segan. Through SabratвЂ™s memories, Spear recalled that the man was as

dogged as he was dour, and for all his apparently slow aspect, he was troublingly

perceptive.

вЂњYosef?вЂќ said the reeve, moving through the gloom with a torch in one hand and

a gun in the other. вЂњWhat is that stench? Yosef, HyssosвЂ¦ Are you in here?вЂќ

Segan had followed them to Whyteleaf, despite the orders Sabrat had given, the

persona unaware of SpearвЂ™s subtle guidance bubbling beneath the surface.

In his thoughts, the murderer heard the dim resonance of SabratвЂ™s essence crying

out to be heard. Impossibly, the persona was trying to defy him. It was fighting its

own erasure.

SpearвЂ™s body, cloaked in HyssosвЂ™ proxy flesh, trembled. The purge was a

complicated, delicate task that required all of his concentration. He could not afford

to deal with any interruption, not now, not when he was at so critical a junctureвЂ¦

вЂњHello?вЂќ Segan was coming closer. At any moment, he would come across

SpearвЂ™s carefully constructed crime scene. But it was too soon. Too soon!

Very clearly, Spear heard Sabrat laughing at him. With sudden annoyance, he

punched himself in the head and the pain of the blow made the ghost of the voice fall

silent. His cheek and the orbit of his right eye sagged as they tried to retain the shape

of HyssosвЂ™ imprint.

Spear got up and went to meet Segan as he approached. The other reeveвЂ™s torch

caught him and he heard the man gasp in shock.

вЂњHyssos? WhereвЂ™s Yosef?вЂќ Segan peered at him. вЂњWhatвЂ™s wrong with your

face?вЂќ

вЂњNothing,вЂќ said the operativeвЂ™s voice. вЂњEverything is fine.вЂќ

The reeve seemed doubtful. вЂњCan you smell that? Like blood and shit and all

kinds ofвЂ”вЂќ SeganвЂ™s torchlight illuminated part of the operativeвЂ™s coat, still wet with

vitae. вЂњAre you hurt?вЂќ

Spear was close to him now. вЂњI had a job for you,вЂќ he said. вЂњA part to play. Why

did you come here when I told you to stay in the city?вЂќ

127

вЂњYosef told me to stay, not you,вЂќ Segan retorted, becoming wary. вЂњI donвЂ™t follow

your orders, even if everyone else jumps each time your damn baron coughs.вЂќ

вЂњBut you should have stayed,вЂќ Spear insisted. вЂњNow IвЂ™ll have to rewrite the

scenario.вЂќ

вЂњWhat are you on about?вЂќ said the reeve.

вЂњCome and see.вЂќ Spear lashed out and grabbed him by the collar. Caught offguard,

Segan stumbled and that was all the murderer needed to destroy his balance

and throw him down the length of the room.

Segan slammed into the floor, his gun skittering away into the shadows, sliding to

a halt at the edge of the blood pool; he reacted with a sharp yelp. вЂњThrone!вЂќ He saw

SabratвЂ™s body and Spear felt a moment of victory as something perished inside the

other man. A little bit of his will shrivelled to see his friend so violated. вЂњYosefвЂ¦?вЂќ

вЂњHe did it all,вЂќ said Spear. вЂњHow terrible.вЂќ

Segan shot a venomous glare in his direction. вЂњLiar! Never! Yosef Sabrat is a

good man, he would neverвЂ¦ neverвЂ¦вЂќ

Spear frowned. вЂњYes. I knew you wouldnвЂ™t accept it. That was your role. There

had to be one person in the Sentine who would fight this explanation, or else it would

seem false. But now youвЂ™ve ruined that. IвЂ™ll have to compensate.вЂќ

At last, understanding dawned on the other manвЂ™s face. вЂњYou. You did this.вЂќ

вЂњI did it all,вЂќ Spear chuckled. He let his face shift and transform, his eyes become

black and dark. вЂњI did it all,вЂќ he repeated.

The blood drained from SeganвЂ™s face as Spear came closer, letting the change

happen slowly. With trembling fingers, the reeve pulled something shiny and gold

from inside his cuff and clung to it, as if it were the key to a door that would spirit

him away from the horror all around him. The dour little man was pinned to the spot,

transfixed with fright.

вЂњThe Emperor protects,вЂќ Segan said aloud. вЂњThe Emperor protects.вЂќ

Spear opened his spiked jaws. вЂњHe really doesnвЂ™t,вЂќ said the murderer.

The distant hum-and-crack of mortar shells could be heard on the UltioвЂ™s flight deck,

through the opened vents in the canopy that let in wet, grimy air.

KoyneвЂ™s encrypted report, burst-transmitted via tight-beam vox, had reached

them just after sunset and confirmed TarielвЂ™s worst fears. The mission was over

before it had even begun. He said as much to Kell and the others, earning himself a

feral snarl from the Garantine.

вЂњWeakling,вЂќ growled the Eversor. вЂњYouвЂ™re gutless. Afraid to get your robes dirty

in the field!вЂќ The hulking killer leaned towards him, looming. He had his mask off,

and his scarred, broken face was if anything more ugly than the metal skull. вЂњMission

circumstances always change. But we adapt and burn through!вЂќ

вЂњBurn through,вЂќ repeated the Vanus. вЂњPerhaps you misunderstood the meaning of

KoyneвЂ™s report? Did the larger words confuse you?вЂќ

The Garantine rose to his feet, eyes narrowing. вЂњSay that again, piss-streak. I dare

you.вЂќ

вЂњThis war is over!вЂќ Tariel almost shouted it. вЂњDagonet is as good as conquered!

Horus has won this world, donвЂ™t you see?вЂќ

128

вЂњHorus has not even set foot on Dagonet,вЂќ countered Soalm.

He rounded on her. вЂњExactly! The Warmaster is not even here, and yet still he is

here!вЂќ

вЂњMake him speak sense,вЂќ the Eversor said to Kell, вЂњor IвЂ™ll cut out his tongue.вЂќ

вЂњItвЂ™s not Horus,вЂќ Kell explained. вЂњItвЂ™s what he represents.вЂќ

Tariel nodded sharply. вЂњThe turncoat nobility on this planet donвЂ™t need to see

Horus. His influence hangs over Dagonet like an eclipse blotting out the sun. TheyвЂ™re

fighting in his name in fear of him, and that is enough. And when they win, the

WarmasterвЂ™s work will be done for him. This same thing is happening all across the

galaxy, on every world too far from the Emperor and the rule of Terra.вЂќ He trembled

a little with the sudden frustration he felt deep inside him. вЂњWhen Dagonet falls,

Horus will turn his face from this place and move on, his advance one step closer to

the gates of the Imperial PalaceвЂ¦вЂќ

вЂњHorus will not come to Dagonet,вЂќ said Soalm, catching on. вЂњHe will have no

need to.вЂќ

The infocyte nodded again. вЂњAnd everything weвЂ™ve prepared for, the whole

purpose of this mission, will be worthless.вЂќ

вЂњWeвЂ™ll lose our chance to kill him,вЂќ said Kell.

вЂњAye,вЂќ snapped Tariel, and he shot the Garantine a glare. вЂњDo you see now?вЂќ

The EversorвЂ™s expression shifted; and after a moment, he nodded. вЂњThen, we

must make sure he does come to Dagonet.вЂќ

Soalm folded her arms. вЂњHow do you propose to do that? Once this planetвЂ™s

Governor makes his allegiance known to the insurrectionists, perhaps the Warmaster

may send some delegate to plant the flag, but no more than a starship admiral or

some such. He wonвЂ™t waste a single Space MarineвЂ™s time on matters of dispensation.вЂќ

The Garantine grunted with callous humour. вЂњYou all think IвЂ™m the slow one

here, donвЂ™t you? But you miss the obvious answer, woman. If Horus wonвЂ™t come to a

fight that has ended, then we make sure the fight does not end.вЂќ

вЂњDeliberately prolong the civil war.вЂќ Kell said the words without weight.

вЂњWe draw him to us,вЂќ said the Eversor, warming to his theme, showing teeth.

вЂњWe make the taking of Dagonet such a thorn in his side that he has no choice but to

come here and deal with it himself.вЂќ

Tariel considered the idea; it was blunt and crude, but it had merit. And it could

work. вЂњDagonet has a personal resonance with the Warmaster. It was the site of one

of his very first victories. That, and its strategic valueвЂ¦ It could be enough. It would

be a dishonour for him to let this planet slip from his control.вЂќ Hearing footsteps

across the deck, he glanced up to see Iota step on to the flight deck; behind her was a

man he did not recognise in a PDF uniform.

вЂњRelax, Vanus,вЂќ said the man, in a cynical tone that could only be KoyneвЂ™s. вЂњI

take it you found my report to be compelling reading. So; what have we missed?вЂќ

вЂњYou exfiltrated without any complications?вЂќ said Kell.

Iota nodded. вЂњWhat is the local time?вЂќ

вЂњFourteen forty-nine.вЂќ Tariel answered automatically, his chronoimplant already

synched to the Dagonet clock standard.

129

вЂњThereвЂ™s six of us,вЂќ the Garantine went on. вЂњEach has destroyed rulers and

broken kingdoms all on their own. How hard could it be to add some fuel to this little

blaze?вЂќ

вЂњAnd what about the Dagoneti?вЂќ Soalm demanded. вЂњTheyвЂ™ll be caught in the

crossfire.вЂќ

The other assassin looked away, unconcerned. вЂњCollateral damage.вЂќ

вЂњWhat is the local time?вЂќ Iota said again.

вЂњFourteen fifty. Why do you keep askingвЂ”?вЂќ TarielвЂ™s reply was cut off by a flash

of light in the distance, followed seconds later by the report of an explosion.

вЂњWhat in Hades was that?вЂќ said Kell. вЂњTheвЂ¦ communicatory?вЂќ

вЂњA power generator overload. I made it look like the commoner freedom fighters

did it,вЂќ said Koyne. вЂњWe couldnвЂ™t afford to leave any traces. Or survivors.вЂќ

The GarantineвЂ™s grin grew even wider. вЂњSee? WeвЂ™ve already started.вЂќ

130

TEN

Matters of Trust

Breakout

False Flag

вЂњDonвЂ™t run,вЂќ snarled Grohl. вЂњThey see you running and theyвЂ™ll know.вЂќ

Beye shot him a narrow-eyed look from beneath her forage cap. вЂњThis isnвЂ™t

running. Believe me, youвЂ™d know if it was running. This is a purposeful walk.вЂќ

He snorted and clamped a hand around her arm, forcibly slowing her down.

вЂњWell, dial it back to a meander. Look casual.вЂќ Grohl glanced around at the

marketplace stalls as they passed through them. вЂњLook like you want to buy

something.вЂќ

At their side, Pasri made a face. вЂњBuy what, exactly?вЂќ asked the ex-soldier, her

scarred nose wrinkling.

She had a point. Most of the stalls were bare, abandoned by owners who were

either too afraid to leave their homes, or lacking for produce to offer after the nobles

had instituted martial law and imposed checkpoints on all the out-of-city highways.

Beye couldnвЂ™t help but glance over her shoulder. In the distance, what had once been

a precinct tower for the capitalвЂ™s regiment of Adeptus Arbites was now wreathed in

thin smoke. The crossed-out Imperial aquila on its southerly face was visible through

the haze, and the harsh croaks of police sirens wafted towards them on the wind.

вЂњDonвЂ™t stare,вЂќ Grohl snapped.

вЂњYou want us to blend in,вЂќ she replied. вЂњEveryone else is staring.вЂќ Not that there

were many people around. The few daring to venture out onto the streets of

DagonetвЂ™s capital kept off the rubble-strewn roads or minded their own business. No

one assembled in groups of more than four, fearful of the edicts that threatened arrest

and detention for anyone suspected of вЂњgathering for reasons of seditionвЂќ.

Beye almost laughed at the thought of that. Sedition was the act of treason against

an existing order, and if anything, she, Grohl, Pasri and the handful of others were

the absolute antithesis of that. They were the ones championing the cause of rightful

authority, of the EmperorвЂ™s rule. It was the noble clans and the weakling Governor

who were the rebels here, rejecting Terra and siding withвЂ¦

Her eyes flicked up as they passed into a crossroads. There on the island in the

centre of the highway, a statue of the Warmaster stood untouched by the street

fighting. He towered over her, standing tall with one hand reaching out in a gesture

of aid, the other holding a massive bolter pistol upwards to the sky. Beye noticed

with a grimace that votive candles and small trinkets had been left at the foot of the

plinth by those eager to show their devotion to the new regime.

131

Grohl paused at the intersection, rubbing at his thin beard, his eyes flicking this

way and that. Finally, he made a choice. вЂњOver here.вЂќ

Beye and Pasri followed him across the monorail lines towards an alleyway

between two shuttered storefronts. She managed not to flinch as a patrol rotorplane

shrieked past over the rooftops, klaxons hooting.

вЂњItвЂ™s not looking for us,вЂќ Pasri said automatically; but in the next moment, Beye

heard a change in the aircraftвЂ™s engine note as it circled, looking for a place to put

down.

вЂњAre you sure about that?вЂќ

Grohl swore. This entire operation had been a cascade of errors from start to

finish. Firstly, the man who was meant to drive the GEV truck did not arrive at the

rendezvous, forcing them to improvise with rods and ropes to hold down the steering

yoke and throttleвЂ”because of course, Grohl would never have considered sacrificing

himself for the cause on a target so ordinary. Then, at the approach, they found the

barricades placed by the clanner troops had been moved, making their straight shot at

the precinct doors impossible. And finally, as the payload of crudely-cooked

chemical explosives had at last detonated in a wet blast of noise and light, Beye saw

that the damage it inflicted on the building was superficial at best.

She had at least hoped they could escape the security dragnet. But if they were

captured, their failure would be total and complete. Beye knew that the patrol flyers

carried nine-man teams with cyber-mastiffs and spy drones. The first icy surges of

panic bubbled up in her chest as she imagined the interior of a dank interrogation

cell. She would never see Capra again.

Grohl broke into a ran and she followed him with Pasri at her heels, listening for

the metallic barks of the enhanced dogs. He slipped through a gap between two waste

skips and down towards a side road. Ahead of him, a woman in a sun-hood and

sarong stepped out from a doorway and looked up at them. Beye was struck by the

paleness of her face; DagonetвЂ™s bright sunshine tanned everyone on the planetвЂ™s

temperate zone, which meant she was either a shut-in noblewoman or an off-worlder;

and neither were likely to be seen in this part of the inner city.

вЂњPardon,вЂќ she began, and her accent immediately confirmed her non-Dagoneti

status. вЂњIf I could trouble you?вЂќ

Grohl almost missed a step, but then he pressed on, pushing past the stranger.

вЂњGet out of my way,вЂќ he growled.

Beye came after him. She heard the yelps of the mastiffs in the distance and saw

Pasri looking back the way they had come, her expression unreadable.

вЂњAs you wish,вЂќ the woman said, spreading her hands. Beye saw the glint of metal

nozzles at her wrists just as she pursed her pale lips and blew out a long breath. A

vaporous mist jetted from the nozzles and engulfed them all.

The ground beneath BeyeвЂ™s feet suddenly became the consistency of rubber and

she stumbled, dimly aware of Grohl doing the same. Pasri let out a weak cry and fell.

As Beye collapsed in a heap, her limbs refusing to do as she told them, she saw

the pale woman smile and lick beads of the spray off her fingertips. вЂњItвЂ™s done,вЂќ she

heard her say, the words drawing out into a liquid, humming echo. BeyeвЂ™s senses

went dark.

132

The acrid chemical stink of smelling salts jolted her back to wakefulness and Beye

coughed violently. Blinking, she raised her head and peered at the room she found

herself in, expecting the pale green walls of an Arbites cell; instead, she saw the

gloomy interior of some kind of storehouse, shafts of daylight reaching down through

holes in a sheet-plas roof.

She was tied to a chair, hands secured behind her back, ankles tethered to the

support legs. Grohl was in a similar state to her right, and past him, Pasri looked back

at her with an expression of tight fear. Grohl met her gaze, his face a mask of rigid,

forced calm. вЂњSay nothing,вЂќ he told her. вЂњWhatever happens, say nothing.вЂќ

вЂњRight on schedule,вЂќ said a new voice. вЂњAs you said.вЂќ

вЂњOf course.вЂќ That was the pale woman. вЂњI can time the actions of my toxins to the

second, if need be.вЂќ

Beye focussed and saw the woman in the sarong talking with an odd-looking

youth wearing what looked like some form of combat gear. He was working a device

mounted on his forearm, a gauntlet that grew a flickering holoscreen. Both of them

glanced at their prisonersвЂ”for that was what they were, Beye realised belatedlyвЂ”

and then past their heads.

She heard motion behind her and Beye sensed someone standing at her back.

вЂњWhoвЂ™s there?вЂќ she said, before she could stop herself.

A third figure moved around the captives and came into view. He was tall, clad in

a black oversuit with armour patches and gear packs. A heavy pistol of a design Beye

had never seen before hung at his hip. He had a hawkish face that might have been

handsome if not for the hardness lurking in his gaze. вЂњNames,вЂќ he said.

Grohl made a derogatory sound deep in his throat. The youth with the wristdevice

sniffed and spoke again. вЂњLiya Beye. Terrik Grohl. Olo Pasri.вЂќ

вЂњThe nobles have files on all of you,вЂќ said the hawkish man. вЂњWe took these

copies of their database on the resistance when we destroyed the Kappa Six

Communicatory.вЂќ

вЂњYou did that?вЂќ said Pasri.

вЂњShut up,вЂќ Grohl snarled. вЂњDonвЂ™t talk!вЂќ

Beye kept silent. Like the rest of them, sheвЂ™d been wondering just what had

happened at Kappa Six ever since the newsfeeds had announced the вЂњcowardly,

treacherous attack by terrorist militantsвЂќ a few days earlier. In the end, Capra had

suggested that it was either the work of an independent cell they werenвЂ™t aware of, or

just some accident the nobles had decided to blame on them.

вЂњWeвЂ™re nothing to do with those resistance radicals,вЂќ insisted Pasri. вЂњWeвЂ™re just

citizens.вЂќ

The youth sneered. вЂњPlease donвЂ™t insult my intelligence.вЂќ

вЂњThings are going badly for you, arenвЂ™t they?вЂќ said the man, ignoring the

interruption. вЂњTheyвЂ™re getting close to finding your hideaway. Close to finding Capra

and all his cell leaders.вЂќ

Beye tried not to react when he said the name, and failed. He turned to her. вЂњHow

many of your people have surrendered in the past few weeks? Fifty? A hundred?

How many have taken the offer of amnesty for themselves and their families?вЂќ

133

вЂњItвЂ™s a lie,вЂќ Beye blurted out, ignoring GrohlвЂ™s hiss of annoyance. вЂњThose who

give up are executed.вЂќ

вЂњOf course they are,вЂќ said the man. He nodded towards the youth. вЂњWe even have

picts of the firing squads.вЂќ He paused. вЂњYour entire resistance networkвЂ”вЂќ

вЂњSuch as it is,вЂќ said the youth, with an arch sniff.

вЂњYour network is on the verge of collapse,вЂќ continued the other man. вЂњCapra and

his trusted core of freedom fighters are the only things holding it together. And the

nobles know that all they really need to do is wait.вЂќ He walked down the line of

them. вЂњJust wait, until you run out of supplies, of ammunition. Of hope. YouвЂ™re all

exhausted, pushed beyond your limits. Hungry and tired. None of you want to say it,

but you all know itвЂ™s true. YouвЂ™ve already lost, you just canвЂ™t admit it.вЂќ

That was enough for Grohl to break his own rules. вЂњGo screw yourself, clanner

bastard!вЂќ

The man raised an eyebrow. вЂњWeвЂ™re notвЂ¦ clanners, is it? We are not in the

employ of the nobles.вЂќ He leaned down and pulled something from the neck of his

armour; an identity disc on a chain. вЂњWe serve a different master.вЂќ

Beye immediately recognised the shape of an Imperial sigil-tag, a bio-active

recognition device gene-keyed to its wearer. An etching of the two-headed aquila

glittered there on its surface. It could not be forged, duplicated or removed from the

person of its user without becoming useless. Anyone wearing such a tag was a soldier

in service to the Emperor of Mankind.

вЂњWho are you?вЂќ Pasri was wary.

The man indicated himself. вЂњKell. These are Tariel andвЂ¦ Soalm. We are agents

of the Imperium and the authority of Terra.вЂќ

вЂњWhy tell us your names?вЂќ hissed Grohl. вЂњUnless youвЂ™re going to kill us?вЂќ

вЂњConsider it a gesture of trust,вЂќ said the pale woman. вЂњWe already know who you

are. And in all honesty, knowing what to call us hardly makes you a threat.вЂќ

Beye leaned forward. вЂњWhy are you here?вЂќ

Kell nodded to Tariel, and the youth produced a mollyknife. He moved to where

Pasri was sitting and cut her loose, then proceeded to do the same with Grohl.

вЂњWe have been sent by the EmperorвЂ™s command to aid the planet Dagonet and its

people in this time of crisis.вЂќ Beye was certain that she saw a loaded look pass

between Soalm and Kell before the man spoke again. вЂњWe are here to help you

oppose the insurrection of Horus Lupercal and anyone who takes his side.вЂќ

Grohl rubbed at his wrists. вЂњSo, of course you would like us to take you to the

secret retreat of the resistance. Introduce you personally to Capra. Open ourselves up

so you can murder us all in one fell swoop?вЂќ He turned his head and spat. вЂњWeвЂ™re not

fools or traitors.вЂќ

Tariel cut Beye loose and offered a hand to help her to her feet, but she refused.

Instead, he gave her a data-slate. вЂњYou know how to read these, correct? Your file

says that you served the Administratum as a datum clerk in the office of colonial

affairs, prior to the insurrection.вЂќ

вЂњThatвЂ™s right,вЂќ she said.

134

Tariel indicated a text file in the slateвЂ™s memory. вЂњI think youвЂ™ll want to look at

this document. And please check the security tags so you are sure it has not been

tampered with.вЂќ

Kell walked closer to Grohl. вЂњI believe you when you say youвЂ™re not a traitor,

Terrik Grohl. But you have been fooled.вЂќ

вЂњWhat in StarsвЂ™ name are you talking about?вЂќ snarled the other man.

вЂњBecause there is a traitor in this room,вЂќ Kell went on; and then faster than

BeyeвЂ™s eye could follow, the Imperial agentвЂ™s hand flicked up from his belt with the

blocky, lethal-looking pistol in its grip, and he shot Pasri dead through the heart at

point-blank range.

Beye let out a cry of shock as Grohl started forward.

Tariel tapped the slate. вЂњRead the file,вЂќ he repeated.

вЂњAnd then search your good friend Olo,вЂќ added Soalm.

Grohl did that as Beye read on. By the time she had finished, the colour had

drained from her cheeks, and Grohl had discovered the wireless listening device

concealed on the other woman. The files, as Tariel said, unaltered from their original

form, were reports from the clanners about an informant in the resistance. Capra had

suspected they had a leak for some time, but he hadnвЂ™t been able to discover who.

According to the last entry, Olo Pasri had agreed to give up the location of the main

freedom fighter safe zone, but was stalling for a larger finderвЂ™s fee and the guarantee

of passage off-world.

All of this she told to Grohl, who listened with a stony, rigid expression. After a

long moment, he spoke. вЂњI donвЂ™t trust you,вЂќ he said to Kell. вЂњEven this, you could

have faked it. Did it all just to get close to us.вЂќ

вЂњGrohlвЂ”вЂќ Beye began, but Kell held up a hand, silencing her.

вЂњNo, heвЂ™s right. Given time and effort, we could have engineered something like

this. And if I were in your place, I would share your suspicions.вЂќ He paused again,

thinking. вЂњSo, then. We need to earn your trust.вЂќ

вЂњA demonstration,вЂќ suggested Soalm.

Kell nodded. вЂњGive us a target.вЂќ

Spear ran his hand up and down the arm of the grox-leather chair where he sat,

guiding fingers moulded in fleshy echo of HyssosвЂ™ body over the lustrous, tanned

hide. The sensation was pleasing; it made him realise he had spent too long in

quietus, denied the simple pleasures of awareness, allowing his consciousness to go

dormant while the mind-ghost of Yosef Sabrat ran his flesh. Puppet and the

puppeted, master and performer, their roles intermingled. He was tired of it.

At least now he had only to look the part, rather than literally become it. He

glanced up and saw a reflection in the glass cabinet behind the desk of High-Reeve

Kata Telemach; the ebon face of Hyssos staring back at him.

Telemach swivelled in her deep, wing-backed chair from the watch-wire console

on her desk and replaced the bulky handset. Standing nearby like an overweight

sentinel, the doughy figure of Reeve Warden Berts Laimner was uncharacteristically

still. Spear imagined he was still trying to process all the possible outcomes of the

revelation that Yosef Sabrat was the serial killer in their midst, looking for the results

135

where he would come off best. He felt a particular kind of hate for the man, but when

he concentrated on the shape of it, Spear could not be certain if it had originated in

him, or in Yosef Sabrat. More than once, the reeveвЂ™s own temper had brushed against

the killerвЂ™s, and in those moments threatened to awaken the dormant murderer.

He sucked in a breath and dismissed the thoughts as trivial, refocussing on

Telemach, who sat glaring at the vinepaper documents before her.

вЂњHow could something like this happen in my precinct, under my governance?вЂќ

she demanded. Typical of the woman, Spear thought. Her first consideration was not

How could this tragedy have happened? or A good man like Sabrat a killer?

Impossible! No, for all the death and bloodshed and fear that had swept across her

city, her first impulse was to worry about how it would make her look. Telemach

glared at Laimner. вЂњWell?вЂќ

вЂњHeвЂ¦ We never suspected for a moment that the killer could be a peace officer.вЂќ

The High-Reeve was about to spit out something else, but Spear intervened. In

HyssosвЂ™ voice he said, вЂњIn fairness, how could your men have known, milady? Sabrat

was a decorated member of the Sentine with over a decade of service under his belt.

He knew your procedures and protocols intimately. He knew all the loopholes and

blind spots.вЂќ

Laimner nodded. вЂњAye, yes. I have teams from the documentary office going

over everything in his caseload, back years and years. TheyвЂ™ve already found

incidences of file tampering, evidence manipulationвЂ¦вЂќ

All of which Spear had been planting, little by little over the last few weeks. Very

soon they would discover more killings that he had laid at the late reeveвЂ™s feet, from

the deaths of minor citizens to shopkeepers and even a junior jager from this very

precinct; every one of them Spear had murdered and impersonated for brief periods

of time, working his way up to this identity. Step by step.

вЂњIt was only a matter of time before he was caught,вЂќ Spear-as-Hyssos went on,

and he tapped the evidence bag on the desk that contained the harvesting knife. вЂњIвЂ™ve

encountered these kinds of criminals several times. They all become careless after a

while, convinced of their own superiority.вЂќ

Telemach grabbed one of the more gory picts of the murder scene at the airdocks,

waving it at him, and Spear resisted the urge to lick his lips. вЂњBut what aboutвЂ¦ all

this?вЂќ She jabbed at the beautiful perfection of the eightfold sigils drawn in the blood

of the dead. вЂњWhat does it mean?вЂќ

He sensed the edge of fear in her words, and relished it. Yes, she understood the

common, squalid manners of death, when humans ended one another over trivialities

like money and power, anger and lust; but she could not conceive of the idea that one

might take life in the name of something greaterвЂ¦ to appease something. Spear

wanted to tell her. He wanted to tell her that her insectвЂ™s-eye view of the cosmos was

pathetically naive, blind to the realities that he had been made privy to at the Delphos

on Davin and later, at his masterвЂ™s hand.

He made HyssosвЂ™ face grow grave and concerned. вЂњSabrat wasnвЂ™t alone in all

this. His cohort, SeganвЂ¦ They were a partnership.вЂќ

вЂњThat fits the facts,вЂќ said Laimner. вЂњBut IвЂ™m not sure why Yosef killed him.вЂќ

вЂњA disagreement?вЂќ offered Spear. вЂњAll I know is, the two of them conspired to

get me alone with them at Whyteleaf. Then I was forced to watch as Sabrat ended

136

SeganвЂ™s life, before he tried to do the same to me. I almostвЂ¦вЂќ At this point, he gave

a staged shudder. вЂњHe almost killed me too,вЂќ he whispered.

вЂњAnd theвЂ¦ symbols?вЂќ Telemach asked.

вЂњThese were ritualistic murders.вЂќ He paused for the drama of it. вЂњWhat do you

know of this group called the Theoge?вЂќ

He had barely said the word before the High-ReeveвЂ™s face split in a sour sneer.

вЂњThose throwback religionists? This is their doing?вЂќ She shot a look at Laimner. вЂњI

said they were part of this. DidnвЂ™t I say so? I knew it!вЂќ

Spear nodded. вЂњThey are some sort of fundamentalist cult, if I understand

correctly. It seems that Daig Segan was the go-between for the Theoge, and in turn

the murders committed by Sabrat with his help were likely motivated by some

twisted set of beliefs.вЂќ

вЂњHuman sacrifices?вЂќ said Laimner. вЂњOn a civilised world like this? This is the

thirty-first millennium, not primitive prehistory!вЂќ

Telemach answered immediately. вЂњReligion is like a cancer. It can erupt without

warning.вЂќ For a moment, Spear wondered what great hurt in the womanвЂ™s past had

occurred because of someone elseвЂ™s belief; something scarring, no doubt, to make her

hate any thought of such things with that undiluted venom.

вЂњI would advise you move against this group as soon as possible,вЂќ he went on,

getting to his feet. вЂњYour media services have already learned of some elements of

this case. I imagine those involved with the Theoge will quickly become targets for

vigilantism.вЂќ

Laimner nodded. вЂњSabratвЂ™s wife and child have already been attacked. I sent

Skelta to the houseвЂ¦ He said they were hounded and stoned.вЂќ

вЂњFind out if they were involved,вЂќ Telemach insisted. вЂњAnd by nightfall I want

every single Theoge suspect on the books hauled in for questioning.вЂќ

Spear drew himself up, smoothing down the front of HyssosвЂ™ tunic in a reflexive

gesture copied from the operativeвЂ™s own muscle-memory. вЂњI see you have everything

in hand. You have my report. I will take my leave of you now this matter is

concluded.вЂќ

Laimner shook his head. вЂњBut, wait. There are proceedingsвЂ¦ Testimony to be

made, a tribunal. You will need to remain on Iesta to give statements.вЂќ

вЂњThe Void Baron does not wish me to stay,вЂќ All it took was a look from HyssosвЂ™

eyes to the High-Reeve, and she buckled immediately.

вЂњOf course, operative,вЂќ she said, the thought of defying Eurotas or one of his

agents never occurring to her. вЂњIf any questions arise, a communiquР№ can be sent via

the Consortium. We caught the killer. ThatвЂ™s all that is important.вЂќ

He nodded and made for the door. Behind him, he heard Laimner speak again.

вЂњThe people will feel safer,вЂќ he said. It seemed less like a statement of fact, and more

like something the man was trying to convince himself of.

A brief smile crossed SpearвЂ™s changed face. The fear that he had unleashed on the

streets of Iesta Veracrux would not be so easily dispelled.

* * *

137

Goeda Rufin was enjoying the difference in things.

Before, back when the Governor was still kowtowing to Terra and the nobles did

nothing but grumble, Rufin had been destined to remain a low ranked

noncommissioned officer in the Dagonet PDF. His life consisted largely of shirking

his responsibilitiesвЂ”such as they wereвЂ”and putting his workload on the junior

ratings unlucky enough to be under his supervision at the vehicle pool. Since the day

he had enrolled after a justicar gave him the choice between borstal or service, Rufin

had never looked back to civilian life, but in all that time he hadnвЂ™t been able to shake

the longing for a day when he could wear a coveted officerвЂ™s braid. It didnвЂ™t occur to

him that his general level of ignorance outstripped any small measure of ability he

had; Rufin was simply unable to grasp the idea that he had never risen in rank

because he was a poor soldier. He was a makeweight in the city garrison, and

everyone seemed to know it but him. To hear Rufin talk, it would seem like there was

a huge conspiracy among the senior officers to keep him down, while other men were

promoted up the ladderвЂ”men that he considered less deserving, despite copious

evidence to the contrary. But Rufin wasnвЂ™t one to let facts get in the way of his

opinions.

He was snide and demeaning to the back of every man who wore the braid. He

amused himself by scribbling anonymous obscenities about them on the walls of the

barracks washroom, dragging his heels over every order they gave him, this and a

dozen other petty revenges.

It was because of that Goeda Rufin was in the office of his commander when the

liberation took place.

ThatвЂ™s what they were calling it now, вЂњThe LiberationвЂќ, the bloody day of

upheaval that left Dagonet declared free of Imperial rule and true to the banner of the

Warmaster Horus.

Rufin had been there, waiting, forgotten. He had been there for a disciplinary

reviewвЂ”someone had heard him bad-mouthing his superiors one time too manyвЂ”

and if it had just been any other day, he would likely have ended up dismissed from

the PDF for his troubles.

But then the shooting started, and he saw soldiers fighting soldiers in the

courtyard. Warriors from the palace garrison, their uniforms marred by crossed-out

aquila sigils, cutting down all the men he never liked. He was hiding in his

commanderвЂ™s office when the officer came running in, barking orders at him. At his

heels were a pair of the palace men, and seeing them, Rufin at last caught up to what

was going on. When his commander bellowed at him to come to his aid, Rufin took

up the ornamental dagger the man used as a letter opener and stabbed him with it.

Later, the leader of the invading troops shook his hand and offered him a marker with

which to scratch out his own Imperial emblems.

He got his officer braid because of that, and all the men who surrendered with

him took it too, that or the buzz of a las-round to the back of the head. After the dust

settled the new regime needed officers to fill the ranks they had culled. Rufin was

happy to accept; Emperor or Warmaster, he didnвЂ™t give a damn whose name he had

to salute. He had no respect for any of them.

Rufin left the motor pool behind. His new command was the вЂњemergency

circumstances security campвЂќ established on the site of the capital terminus monorail

138

station. Ever since the nobles had shut down the networks, the passenger trains had

lain idle; but now they had a new duty, serving as prison accommodations for the

hundreds of civilians and idiot rebels who had dared to defy the new order.

Rufin lorded it over them, walking back and forth across the high gantries above

the choked platforms, making sure each inmate knew he held the power of life and

death with random beatings and executions. When he wasnвЂ™t exercising his dull

brutality and boredom on them, Rufin was prowling the ammo stores on the lower

levels, in what used to be the maintenance wells for the engines. He liked being down

there, among the smells of cordite and gunmetal. It made him feel like a real soldier

to be surrounded by all that firepower.

Entering the observation cupola above what was once the stationвЂ™s central plaza,

he caught the watch officer sipping a mug of black tea and gave him a glowering

stare. вЂњStatus?вЂќ he barked.

The officer looked at his chronograph. вЂњCheck-in at the top of the hour, sir.

ThatвЂ™s another quarter-turn away.вЂќ He had barely finished speaking when the

intercom grille over their heads crackled into life.

вЂњEarly?вЂќ said Rufin.

вЂњControl!вЂќ said a panicked voice over the vox. вЂњI thinkвЂ¦ I think there might be a

problem.вЂќ

вЂњPost two, say again?вЂќ began the watch officer, but Rufin snatched the handset

from him and snarled into it.

вЂњThis is the base commander! Explain yourself!вЂќ

вЂњRecruit Zejja justвЂ¦ Well, he just fell off the south wall. And Tormol isnвЂ™t

responding to his wireless.вЂќ Then, very distinctly, the open vox channel caught a

sound like a quick, low hum, followed a heartbeat later by a wet chug and then the

echo of a body falling.

Rufin thrust the handset back at the watch officer, uncertain what to do next.

вЂњShall I try to raise the other guard posts now, sir?вЂќ said the other man, stifling a

cough.

вЂњYes,вЂќ He nodded. That sounded like the right sort of thing. вЂњDo that.вЂќ

Then, without warning, the old control board left intact from the stationвЂ™s prior

function flickered into life. Lines of colour denoting tracks, blocks of illumination

signifying individual carriages, all began to click and chatter as they activated.

Rufin shot a worried look out of the windows of the cupola and heard the mutter

of dozens of electric motors coming alive. The sound echoed around the vaulted glass

spaces of the station concourse and platforms. Below, the prisoners were scrambling

to their feet, energised by the sound. Rufin drew his pistol on impulse and kneaded

the grip. вЂњWhatвЂ™s going on?вЂќ he demanded.

The watch officer looked at the consoles before him in surprise. вЂњThatвЂ¦ ThatвЂ™s

not possible,вЂќ he insisted, coughing again. вЂњAll remote operations of station systems

were locked down, the hard lines were severedвЂ¦вЂќ He swallowed hard, beads of

sweat appearing on his high forehead. вЂњI think someone is trying to move the trains.вЂќ

Below, the ornate copper departure boards for all the platforms began whirring in

a rattling chorus of noise, each one flashing up destination after destination. With a

139

sharp report, they all stopped at once, all of them showing the same thing; End Of

The Line.

The prisoners saw the words and let out a ragged cheer. Rufin shouted abuse back

at them, and caught sight of one of his men running up the platform with a heavy

autogun in his grip. The trooper was perhaps twenty metres from the jeering

prisoners when his chest exploded in a silent, red blossom, and he fell.

Finally, the correct words registered in his mind. вЂњWeвЂ™re under attack!вЂќ

When Rufin turned back to the watch officer, the man was lolling in his chair,

eyes and mouth open, staring blankly at the ceiling. He caught a strange, floral smell

emanating from the officer and gingerly extended a hand to prod his waxy, damp

face. The watch officer slumped forward, knocking his tea glass over. The flowerstink

grew stronger as the liquid pooled on the floor.

RufinвЂ™s hand flew to his mouth. вЂњPoison!вЂќ Without looking back, he ran to the

cupola door and raced away, footsteps banging off the metal gantries.

Spear reached out a hand and rubbed the edge of the ornate tapestry between HyssosвЂ™

thick fingers. The complex depiction on the hanging was of the Emperor, smiting

some form of bull-like alien with a gigantic sword made of fire.

He rolled his eyes at the banal pomposity of the thing and stepped away,

carelessly brushing fibres of broken thread from his hands. Touching the object was

forbidden, but there was nobody here in the audience chamber to see him do it. The

killer idly wondered if the residue left by the daemonskin of his flesh-cloak would

poison and shrivel the ancient artwork. He hoped it would; the idea of the humans

aboard the Iubar running about and panicking as the piece blackened and corroded

amused him no end.

He glanced out of the viewing windows as he wandered the length of the

chamber. The curve of Iesta Veracrux was slipping away beneath the starshipвЂ™s keel

as it turned for open space, and Spear was not sorry to see it go. He had spent too

long on that world, living in the inanities of its civilisation, play-acting at a halfdozen

different roles. Since his arrival, Spear had been many facesвЂ”among them a

vagrant, a storeman, a streetwalker, a jager and a reeve, living the lie of their

ridiculous, pointless existences. He had stacked their corpses, and all the others, to

make the ladder that led him to where he now stood.

A few more murders. One, perhaps two more assumptions. And then he would be

close to the mark. The greatest prey of them all, in fact. A shiver of anticipation

rippled through him. Spear was eager, but he reined the emotion in, pushed it down.

Now was not the time to be dazzled by the scope of his mission. He had to maintain

his focus.

Before, such a slip might have been problematic; he was convinced that such

thoughts were how the psyker wench Perrig had been able to gather a vague sense of

him down on Iesta. But with her no more than a pile of ashes in a jar in the IubarвЂ™s

Chamber of Rest, that threat was gone for the moment. Spear knew from HyssosвЂ™

memories that Baron Eurotas had spent much influence and coin in order to bend the

ImperiumвЂ™s fear-driven rules about the censure of psychics; and given the present

condition of the ConsortiumвЂ™s welfare, that would not be repeated. The next time he

met a psyker, he would be prepared.

140

He smirked. That was something unexpected he pulled from the operativeвЂ™s

ebbing thoughts. The Void BaronвЂ™s secret, and the explanation for the shabby

appearance of his agencyвЂ™s compound on Iesta; for all the outward glitter and show

the merchant clan put on for the galaxy at large, the truth whispered in the corridors

of its ships was that the fortunes of Eurotas were waning. Little wonder then that the

clanвЂ™s master was so desperate to hold on to any skein of power he still had.

It made things clearer; Spear had known that sooner or later, if he murdered

enough members of the Eurotas staff and made it look like Sigg was the killer, the

baron would send an operative to investigate. He never expected him to come in

person.

Matters must be severeвЂ¦

Spear halted in front of the red jade frieze, and reached out to touch it, tracing a

fingertip over the sculpting of the Warrant of Trade. This place was full of glittering

prizes, of that there could be no doubt. A thief in SpearвЂ™s place could make himself

richer than sinвЂ”but the killer had his sights set on something worth far more than

any of these pretty gewgaws. What he wanted was the key to the greatest kill of his

life.

The hubris of the rogue trader irritated Spear. Here, in this room, there were

objects that could command great riches, if only they were brought to market. But

Eurotas was the sort who would rather bleed himself white and eat rat-meat before he

would give up the gaudy trappings of his grandeur.

As if thought of him was a summons, the doors to the audience chamber opened

and the Void Baron entered in a distracted, irritable humour. He shrugged off his

planetfall jacket and tossed it at one of the squad of servitors and human adjutants

trailing behind him. вЂњHyssos,вЂќ he called, beckoning.

Spear imitated the operativeвЂ™s usual bow and came closer. вЂњMy lord. I had not

expected your shuttle to return to the Iubar until after we broke orbit.вЂќ

вЂњI had you voxed,вЂќ Eurotas replied, shaking his head. вЂњYour communicator

implant must be malfunctioning.вЂќ

He touched his neck. вЂњOh. Of course. IвЂ™ll have it seen to.вЂќ

The baron went for a crystalline cabinet and gestured at it; a mechanism inside

poured a heavy measure of wine into a glass goblet, which he snatched up and drank

deeply. He gulped it down without savouring it. вЂњWe are done with our visit to this

world,вЂќ Eurotas told him, his manner veering towards a brooding sullenness. вЂњAnd it

has taken our dear Perrig along the way.вЂќ He shook his head again and fixed Spear

with an accusing glare. вЂњDo you know what she cost me? A moon, Hyssos. I had to

cede an entire bloody moon to the Adeptus Terra just to own her.вЂќ He walked on,

across the mosaic floor. The cabinet raised itself up on brass wheels and rolled

obediently after him.

Spear searched for the right thing to say. вЂњShe had a good life with us. We all

valued her contribution to the clan.вЂќ

The baron turned his glare on the vanishing planet. вЂњThe Governor would not

stop talking,вЂќ he said. вЂњThey wanted our fleet to remain in orbit for another week,

something about вЂhelping to stimulate the local economyвЂ™вЂ¦вЂќ He snorted with

derision. вЂњBut I have little stomach for the festivals they had planned. I walked out on

them. More important things to do. Imperial service and all that.вЂќ

141

Spear nodded thoughtfully, deciding to feed the manвЂ™s mood. вЂњThe best choice,

my lord. With the situation as it is in this sector, it makes sense for the clan to keep

the flotilla moving. To be in motion is to be safe.вЂќ

вЂњSafe from him!вЂќ Eurotas took another drink. вЂњBut the bastard Warmaster is

killing us by inches even so!вЂќ His voice went up. вЂњEvery planet he binds to him costs

us a weight in Throne Gelt that we cannot recover!вЂќ For a moment, it seemed as if

the baron was about to give voice to something that might have been considered

treasonable; but then he caught himself, like a man afraid he would be overheard, and

his expression changed. вЂњWe will head for the edge of this system and then make

space to the rendezvous point at the Arrowhead Nebula.вЂќ

Spear knew already what their next port of call would be, but he asked anyway.

вЂњWhat will our intentions be there, lord?вЂќ

вЂњWe will lay to wait to assemble the clanвЂ™s full fleet, and while we are there meet

a ship from Sotha. Aboard are a party of remembrancers under the EmperorвЂ™s aegis. I

will personally take them home to Terra, as the Council has requested.вЂќ

вЂњThe security of the remembrancers is of great concern,вЂќ said Spear. вЂњI will make

all arrangements to ensure their safety from the moment they board the Iubar to the

moment we bring them to the Imperial Palace.вЂќ

Eurotas looked away. вЂњI know youвЂ™ll do what is required.вЂќ

Spear had to fight down the urge to grin. The path was open, and now all that he

needed to do was follow it all the way to the end. To the very gates of the EmperorвЂ™s

fortressвЂ”

NO

The voice crackled in his ears like breaking glass, and Spear jerked, startled. NO

NO NO

The baron did not appear to have heard it; the killer felt a peculiar twitch in his

hands and he glanced down at them. For one terrible moment, the skin there bubbled

and went red, before shifting back to the dark shades of HyssosвЂ™ flesh. He hid them

behind his back.

NO

Then the echo made the origin of the sound clear. Spear let his gaze turn inwards

and he felt it in there, moving like mercury.

Sabrat. Until this moment, Spear had believed the purgation that the idiot reeveвЂ™s

cohort interrupted had gone to plan, but now his certainty crumbled. There was still

some fraction of the stolid foolвЂ™s self hiding in the shadowed depths of the killerвЂ™s

mind, some part of the false self he had worn that had not been expunged. He pushed

in and was sickened by the sense of it, the loathsome, nauseating morality of the dead

man staining his mind. It was bubbling up like bile, pushing to the top of his

thoughts. A scream of recrimination.

вЂњHyssos?вЂќ Eurotas was staring at him. вЂњAre you all right, man?вЂќ

вЂњIвЂ¦вЂќ

NO NO NO NO NO

вЂњNo.вЂќ Spear coughed out the word, his eyes watering, and then with effort took

control of himself once more. вЂњNo, lord,вЂќ he went on. вЂњIвЂ¦ A moment of fatigue,

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thatвЂ™s all.вЂќ With a physical effort, the killer silenced the cries and took a shuddering

breath.

вЂњAh.вЂќ The baron approached and gave him a kindly pat on the shoulder. вЂњYou

were closest to the psyker. ThereвЂ™s no shame in being affected by her loss.вЂќ

вЂњThank you,вЂќ said Spear, playing into the moment. вЂњIt has been difficult. Perhaps,

with your permission, I might take some respite?вЂќ

Eurotas gave him a fatherly nod. вЂњDo so. I want you rested when we reach the

rendezvous.вЂќ

вЂњAye, lord,вЂќ Spear bowed again and walked away. Unseen by anyone else, he

buried the nails of his hand in his palm, cutting the waxy flesh there; but no blood

emerged from the ragged meat.

Rufin found another intercom panel on the stationвЂ™s mezzanine level and used it to

send out an all-posts alert; but if anything he became even more afraid when the only

men that reported back were the ones at the armoury. He told them to hold the line

and started on his way to them. If he could get there before any of the terrorist

attackers did, he could open the secure locks and drag out all the big, lethal weapons

that he had been so far denied the chance to use. There were autocannons down there,

grenade launchers and flamersвЂ¦ HeвЂ™d give these loyalist bastards a roasting for

daring to cross him, oh yesвЂ¦

Descending an enclosed stairwell, he caught sight of the western platforms.

Monorails there were filling with prisoners, each one closing its doors and moving

off seemingly of its own will, carrying the inmates to freedom. The first few to go

had ploughed through the barricades across the lines; now there was nothing to stop a

mass exodus. Rufin didnвЂ™t care, though; he would let them go, as long as he could

keep the guns.

Reaching the lowest levels, he found the men at the first guard post were gone. In

their place there were piles of clothing and lumps of soggy ash, illuminated by the

flickering overhead strip lights. The air here felt cold and oppressive, and Rufin

broke into a ran again, propelled from the place by a cold pressure that was like a

shadow falling over his soul.

He turned the corner and ran towards the armoury post. Six men were there, and

all of them were pale and afraid. They saw him coming and beckoned frantically, as

if he were being chased by something only they could see.

вЂњWhat happened back there?вЂќ he snapped, turning his ire on the first man he saw.

вЂњTalk, rot you!вЂќ

вЂњScreaming,вЂќ came the reply. вЂњOh, sir, a screaming like you ainвЂ™t never heard.

From Hades itself, sir.вЂќ

RufinвЂ™s fear bubbled over into anger and he backhanded the man. вЂњMake sense,

you fool! ItвЂ™s the terrorists!вЂќ

At that moment, the floor below them exploded upwards, the iron grid-plates

spinning away as a hulking figure burst out of the conduits beneath. Rufin saw a

grinning, fanged skull made of tarnished silver and then a massive handgun. A single

shot from the weapon struck one of the guards with such force it blew him back into

another man, the velocity carrying them both into the curved wall where they became

a bloody rain.

143

Rufin stumbled away as the dark shape blurred, releasing an inhuman snarl.

Gunfire sang from the weapons of the guards, but it seemed to make no difference.

There were wet, tearing noises, concussive blasts of bolt-fire, the dense sounds of

meat under pressure, breaking and bursting. Something whistled through the air and

hit Rufin in the chest.

He went to his knees and slumped against the wall, blinking. Like a bloodpainted

dagger, a broken human femur, freshly ripped from a still-cooling corpse,

protruded from his chest. Rufin vomited black, sticky spittle and felt himself start to

die.

The skull-faced figure came to him, trembling with adrenaline, and spat through

the grille of the mask. вЂњOh dear,вЂќ it rambled. вЂњI think I broke him.вЂќ

Rufin heard a tutting sound and a second figure, this one more human than the

clawed killer, hove into view. вЂњThis is the base commander. We needed him to open

the ammunition store.вЂќ

вЂњSo?вЂќ said the skull-face. вЂњCanвЂ™t you do your trick?вЂќ

вЂњItвЂ™s not a parlour game for your amusement, Eversor.вЂќ He heard a sigh and then

a sound like old leather being twisted.

Through blurry eyes Rufin saw his own reflection; or was it? It seemed to be

talking to him. вЂњSay your name,вЂќ said the mirror-face.

вЂњYou knowвЂ¦ who I am,вЂќ he managed. вЂњWeвЂ™re Goeda Rufin.вЂќ

вЂњYes, thatвЂ™s right.вЂќ Now it sounded like him too.

The mirror-face drifted away, towards the locking alcove near the heavy iron

hatch that secured the ammo stores. It was impregnable, Rufin remembered. The

built-in security cogitator needed to recognise both his features and his vocal imprint

before it would open.

His face and voiceвЂ¦

вЂњGoeda Rufin,вЂќ said the mirror, and with a crunch of gears the armoury hatch

began to swing open.

Rufin tried to understand how that could be happening, but the answer was still

lost to him when his heart finally stopped.

The rendezvous was a spur-line outside a storage depot in the foothills, several

kilometres beyond the capital. Under TarielвЂ™s guiding hand, the simple drive-brains

of the monorails had obeyed his command and cut fast routes through the network

that confused the PDF spy drones sent to follow them. Now they were all here,

emptying their human cargoes as the sun set over the hillside.

Kell watched the rag-tag resistance fighters gather the freed people into groups,

some of them welcomed back into the fold as lost brothers in arms, others formed

into parties that would split off in separate directions and go to ground, in hopes of

riding out the conflict. He saw Beye and Grohl moving among them. The woman

gave him a nod of thanks, but all the man returned was a steady, measuring look.

Kell understood his position. Even after they had done what he had charged them

to do, and obliterated a major stockpile of turncoat weapons into the bargain, Grohl

could still not find the will to trust them.

144

Because he is right not to, said a voice in his thoughts; a voice that spoke with his

sisterвЂ™s words. The rebels believed Kell and the others were some kind of advance

unit, a scouting party of special operatives sent as the vanguard of an Imperial plan to

retake Dagonet in the EmperorвЂ™s name. Like so many things about the assassins, this

too was a lie.

A man in a hood emerged from the midst of the rebels and said something to

Beye; but it was GrohlвЂ™s reaction that gave away his identity, the sudden jerk of the

severe manвЂ™s head, the tensing of his body.

Kell drew himself up as the man came closer, drawing back the hood. He was

bald and muscular, with a swarthy cast to his skin, and he had sharp eyes. The

Vindicare saw the tips of complex tattoos peeking up from his collar. Kell offered his

hand. вЂњCapra.вЂќ

вЂњKell.вЂќ The freedom fighter took it and they shook, palm to wrist. вЂњI understand I

have the Emperor to thank for this.вЂќ He nodded at the trains. вЂњAnd for you.вЂќ

вЂњThe Imperium never turns its face from its citizens,вЂќ he replied. вЂњWeвЂ™re here to

help you win your war.вЂќ

A shadow passed over CapraвЂ™s face. вЂњYou may be too late. My people are tired,

few, scattered.вЂќ He spoke in low tones that would not carry. вЂњIt would be more a

service to help us find safe passage elsewhere, let some of us come back with the

reprisal force as tactical advisors.вЂќ

Kell did not break eye contact with the rebel leader. вЂњWe did this in a day.

Imagine what we can do together, in the days ahead.вЂќ

CapraвЂ™s gaze shifted to where the rest of the Execution Force stood, waiting

silently. вЂњBeye was right. You are an impressive group. PerhapsвЂ¦ Perhaps with you

at our sides, there is a chance.вЂќ

вЂњMore than a chance,вЂќ insisted Kell. вЂњA certainty.вЂќ

Finally, the manвЂ™s expression changed, the weariness, the doubt melting away. In

its place, there was a new strength. New purpose. He wanted so badly for them to be

their salvation, Kell could almost taste it. Capra nodded. вЂњThe fate of Dagonet rests

with us, my friend. We will not forsake it.вЂќ

вЂњNo,вЂќ he said, as Capra walked away, gathering his men to him as he began to

rally them with firebrand oratory.

But the rebels would not know the truth, not until it was too late; that the fate of

Dagonet was only a means to a single end.

To place the Archtraitor Horus between Eristede KellвЂ™s crosshairs.

145

PART TWO

ATTRITION

ELEVEN

Hidden

Sacrifice

Cages

The caverns were deep inside the canyons of a rocky and forbidding landscape that

the Dagoneti called the Bladecut. From the ground, the real meaning of the name

wasnвЂ™t clear, but up high, when glimpsed through the lenses of one of the aerial

drones the rebels had captured, it was obvious. The Bladecut was a massive ravine

that moved easterly across the stone wilderness beyond the capital, the shape of it

like a giant axe wound in the surface of the landscape. There were no roads, nothing

but animal trails and half-hidden hunting routes that meandered into sharp gullies

which concealed the mouths of the cave network. Thousands of years ago, this had

been the site of the first Dagonet colony, where the new arrivals from Terra had

huddled in the gloom while their planetforming technologies, now lost to history, had

worked to make the worldвЂ™s harsh environment more habitable for them. The rebels

had retaken the old halls of stone, secure in the knowledge that deep inside nothing

would be able to dislodge them short of bombing the hills into powder.

Jenniker Soalm walked through the meandering tunnels, her face concealed in the

depths of her hood, passing chambers laser-cut from the rock, ragged chainmail

curtains hanging over their entrances, others closed off behind heavy impact-welded

hatches. Inside the caves everything was in a permanent twilight, with the only

constant the watery glow of biolume pods glued to the stone ceiling at random

intervals. CapraвЂ™s peopleвЂ”some of them warriors, many more civilians and even

childrenвЂ”passed her as she walked on.

Soalm glimpsed snatches of the everyday life of the resistance through gaps in

the curtains or past open doors. She saw Beye and a few others surrounding a chart

table piled high with paper maps; across the way, a makeshift armoury full of

captured PDF weaponry; a skinny cook who looked up at her, in the middle of

stirring a huge iron drum of thick soup; refugees clustered around a brazier, and

nearby a pair of children playing, apparently ignorant of the grim circumstances. The

146

latter was no surprise to her; the rebels did not have much choice about where their

people could go to ground.

Further on, she saw a side-chamber that had been converted into a drab

approximation of an infirmary, right beside a workroom where figures in shadow

were bent over a jury-rigged device trailing wires and connectors. Soalm detected the

familiar odour of chemical explosives as she moved on.

A hatch was creaking shut as she approached, and she turned to see. As it closed,

one of CapraвЂ™s men gave her a blank look from within; over his shoulder she saw a

bloodied trooper in clan colours tied to a chair, a moment before he disappeared out

of sight. She paused, and heard footsteps behind her.

Soalm turned and saw a pair of refugee children approach, eyes wide with fear

and daring. They were both grimy, both in shapeless fatigues too big for them; she

couldnвЂ™t tell if they were boys or girls.

вЂњHey,вЂќ said the taller of the two. вЂњThe Emperor sent you, right?вЂќ

She gave a nod. вЂњIn a way.вЂќ

There was awe in their expressions. вЂњIs he like he is in the picts? A giant?вЂќ

Soalm managed a smile. вЂњBigger than that, even.вЂќ

The other child was about to add something, but an adult turned the corner ahead

and gave them both a stern look. вЂњYou know youвЂ™re not supposed to play down here.

Get back to your lessons!вЂќ

They broke into a run and vanished back the way they had come. Soalm turned to

study the man.

вЂњAre you looking for something?вЂќ he asked warily.

вЂњIвЂ™m just walking,вЂќ she admitted. вЂњI needed a momentвЂ¦ to think.вЂќ

He pointed past her, blocking her path. вЂњYou should probably go back.вЂќ The man

seemed hesitant, as if he wasnвЂ™t sure he had the authority to tell her what to do.

The Execution Force fit strangely among the freedom fighter group. In the weeks

that had passed since they liberated the prison camp in the city, Soalm and the others

had gained a kind of guarded acceptance, but little more. Under KellвЂ™s orders, each of

them had turned their particular skill-sets towards aiding the rebel cause. TarielвЂ™s

technical expertise was in constant demand, and Koyne showed a natural aptitude for

teaching combat tactics to men and women who had, until recently, been farmers,

teachers and shopkeepers. Meanwhile, Iota and the Garantine would go missing for

days at a time, and the only evidence of their activities would be intercepted reports

from the communication network, stories of destroyed outposts or whole patrols

eviscerated by ghostly assailants. As for her brother, he kept his distance from her,

working with Capra, Beye and Grohl on battle plans.

Soalm did her part too, but as the days drew on it disturbed her more and more.

They were helping the rebels score victories, not just here but through other

resistance cells all across the planet; but it was based on a lie. If not for the arrival of

the assassins on Dagonet, the war would have been over. Instead they were bolstering

it, infusing fresh violence into a conflict that should have already petered out.

The Venenum was precise in what she did; surgical and clean. Collateral damage

was a term she refused to allow into her lexicon, and yet here they were, their

presence more damaging to the locals than the guns of the nobles.

147

The man pointed again. вЂњBack that way,вЂќ he repeated. Dispelling her moment of

reverie, Soalm realised that he was trying to hide something.

вЂњNo,вЂќ she said. вЂњI think not.вЂќ Before he could react, she pushed past him and

followed the turn of the narrowing corridor as it dropped into a shallow slope. The

man reached for her robes to stop her, and she tapped a dot of liquid onto the back of

his hand from one of her wrist dispensers. The effect was immediate; he went pale

and fell to the ground, the muscles in his legs giving out.

The corridor opened up into another cavern, this one wide and low. In the middle

of the dimly-lit space there was a thermal grate throwing out a warm orange glow;

surrounding it were rings of chairs, some scattered cushions and salvaged rugs. A

knot of people were there, crowded around an older woman who held an open book

in her hand. Soalm had the impression of interrupting a performance in mid-flow.

The older woman saw the assassin and fear crossed her expression. Her audience

were a mix of all kinds of people from the camp. Two of them, both fighters, sprang

to their feet and came forwards with threats in their eyes.

Soalm raised her hands to defend herself, but the old woman called out. вЂњNo!

Stop! WeвЂ™ll have no violence!вЂќ

вЂњMiladyвЂ”вЂќ began one of the others, but she waved him to silence, and with

visible effort, she drew herself up. Soalm saw the echoes of a lifetime of grace and

fortitude there in the old womanвЂ™s face.

She pushed through the ring of people and faced her interloper. вЂњI amвЂ¦ I was

Lady Astrid Sinope. I am not afraid of you.вЂќ

Soalm cocked her head. вЂњThatвЂ™s not true.вЂќ

SinopeвЂ™s aristocratic demeanour faltered. вЂњNoвЂ¦ No, I suppose it is not.вЂќ She

recovered slightly. вЂњEver since Beye told us you were on Dagonet, I knew that this

moment would come. I knew one of you would find us.вЂќ

вЂњOne of us?вЂќ

вЂњThe EmperorвЂ™s warriors,вЂќ she went on. вЂњCapra said you were the instruments of

his will. So come, then. Do what you must.вЂќ

вЂњI donвЂ™t understandвЂ¦вЂќ Soalm began, but the old woman kept talking.

вЂњI ask only that you show mercy to my friends here.вЂќ Sinope held up the heavy

book in her hands. вЂњI brought this to Dagonet. I brought it here, to the resistance,

when I fled the treachery of my former noble clan. If anyone must suffer because of

that, it should be me alone.вЂќ Her eyes glittered with unspent tears. вЂњIf I must beg you,

I will. Please do not hurt them because of me.вЂќ

No one spoke as Soalm stepped past the two warriors and took the book from the

old womanвЂ™s trembling hands. She read aloud the words on the page. вЂњThe Emperor

protects.вЂќ

вЂњWe only seek solace in His name,вЂќ said Sinope, her voice falling to a whisper. вЂњI

know that it is forbidden to speak openly of Him and His divine ways, but we do so

only among ourselves, we do not proselytise or seek out converts!вЂќ She clasped her

hands. вЂњWe are so few. We take in only those who come to us of their own free will.

We have hurt no one with our beliefs!вЂќ

Soalm ran her fingers over the pages of dense, solemn text. вЂњYou are all followers

of the Lectitio Divinitatus. You believe the Emperor is a living god. The only god.вЂќ

148

Sinope nodded. вЂњAnd I will die with that belief, if that is what is required. But

promise me I will be the only one. Please!вЂќ

She understood, finally. вЂњI have not come to purge you,вЂќ Soalm told them. вЂњIвЂ¦

We did not even know you were here.вЂќ There was a strange, giddy sense of events

shifting around her.

вЂњBut you were sent from TerraвЂ¦вЂќ said one of the men.

вЂњNot for this,вЂќ said the Venenum, turning to meet Lady SinopeвЂ™s gaze, raising her

arm as she did so and drawing back her cuff. вЂњAnd until this moment, I was not

certain why.вЂќ Soalm showed them a small golden chain clasped around her wrist, a

charm dangling from it in the shape of the Imperial aquila. вЂњBut nowвЂ¦ Now I have

an inkling.вЂќ

вЂњSheвЂ™s one of us,вЂќ said the man. вЂњShe believes.вЂќ

SinopeвЂ™s expression became one of joy. вЂњOh, child,вЂќ she said. вЂњHe sent you. He

sent you to us.вЂќ

Soalm returned the book to her and nodded.

Kell looked up as the men boiled into the central chamber in a rush of energy and

jubilation, weaving through the scattered clumps of hardware and containers, the

groups of people who stopped and smiled to see them returning. They still had the

smell of cordite, woodsmoke and exertion on them. He scanned the group with a

practised eye and saw they had all come back, and only with a few minor injuries.

The squad leader, an ex-pilot named Jedda, came over to where Capra was standing

at a vox console and enveloped him in a bear hug. вЂњItвЂ™s done?вЂќ said Capra.

вЂњOh, itвЂ™s more than done!вЂќ Jedda laughed, the rush of battle still there in his

voice. His men shared the moment and laughed with him. вЂњTarielвЂ™s information was

dead on! We blew out the supports for the bridge and the whole cargo train went

down. Hundreds of clanner troops, a dozen fan-jeeps and armoured GEVs, all of it

scrap at the bottom of the Redstone river!вЂќ

вЂњTheyвЂ™ll feel that,вЂќ snorted one of the others. вЂњThe nobles will be tasting blood

tonight!вЂќ

Capra turned and gave Kell a nod. вЂњThank your man for me. In fact, thank them

all. A month ago I would never have thought IвЂ™d be saying this, but we actually have

them on the defensive. The data and guidance youвЂ™ve provided us has enabled the

resistance to make coordinated strikes all over the planet. The nobles are reeling.вЂќ

вЂњThe mistake they made was their arrogance,вЂќ said Koyne, wandering up to the

group. The men parted to let the Callidus come closer; they were all unnerved by the

bland, unfinished cast to the assassinвЂ™s neutral features. вЂњThey believed they had

won, and lowered their guard. They didnвЂ™t expect you to hit back in synchrony.

YouвЂ™ve put them off balance.вЂќ

вЂњWeвЂ™ll help you keep up the pressure,вЂќ Kell told the resistance leader. вЂњAll weвЂ™ve

done so far is show you how to find the cracks in their armour. You need to keep

widening them until they break.вЂќ

Jedda nodded to himself. вЂњWe didnвЂ™t lose a single man tonight. We keep this up,

the commoners who havenвЂ™t committed will side with us.вЂќ He grinned at Kell. вЂњAt

this rate, your fleet might get here and find it has nothing to do!вЂќ

149

вЂњWe can only hope,вЂќ said Koyne, drawing a look from the Vindicare.

вЂњCapra!вЂќ Beye crossed the chamber at a jog, вЂњGrohlвЂ™s back!вЂќ

Kell saw the grim-faced freedom fighter following her, unfurling his overhood

and cloak. He had a scuffed carryall over one shoulder.

вЂњFrom the capital?вЂќ said Jedda. вЂњWe made a lot of noise tonight, Terrik! Did they

hear it back there in the towers?вЂќ His triumphant mood rolled against the other manвЂ™s

stony countenance and rebounded without effect.

вЂњThey heard all right,вЂќ said Grohl. He dropped the carryall on a crate being used

as a makeshift table and threw off his robes with an irritable shake. вЂњThe Governor

made a broadcast over all the communications channels. A declaration, he called it.вЂќ

The group fell silent. Kell saw the moment radiate out across the cavern to every

person within earshot.

вЂњLetвЂ™s see it, then,вЂќ said Capra.

Grohl opened the case and produced a memory spool, the commercial kind that

any core world civilian home of moderate means possessed. вЂњOne of our contacts

recorded this off the public watch-wire. ItвЂ™s repeating in a loop at the top of each

hour.вЂќ Jedda went to take it from him, but Grohl didnвЂ™t give it up. вЂњPerhaps you

should look at this somewhere moreвЂ¦ private.вЂќ

Capra considered that for a moment, then shook his head. вЂњNo. If itвЂ™s on the wire,

then everyone else knows about it. Our people should too.вЂќ

Jedda took the spool and inserted it into a hololithic reader. With a buzzing hum,

the device projected the ghostly image of a man in heavy dress uniform, a braided

cap upon his head. He was standing before a lectern, and Kell noticed that it bore the

sigil of an open, slitted eye; the symbol of the Sons of Horus.

вЂњGovernor Nicran,вЂќ said Jedda with a sneer. вЂњI wonder where he recorded this?

Cowering in the basement of his mansion?вЂќ

вЂњQuiet!вЂќ hissed Grohl. вЂњListen.вЂќ

Kell watched the hololith carefully as the Governor began with empty

pleasantries and vapid words of praise for his puppet masters in the noble clans. He

read the politicianвЂ™s expressions, for a moment imagining he was seeing that face

down the sights of his Exitus longrifle. Nicran had all the look about him of a

desperate man. Then he turned to the important part of the announcement.

вЂњCitizens of Dagonet,вЂќ he said, вЂњI have been gravely disturbed to learn of the

deaths of many of our brave PDF troopers in the ongoing and ruthless attacks

perpetrated by the resistance. Attacks that have also claimed the lives of many

innocent civiliansвЂ¦вЂќ

вЂњBollocks they have,вЂќ snarled Jedda. вЂњClanner blood only!вЂќ

вЂњI applaud the vigilance of our troopers and recognise their bravery,вЂќ Nicran

continued. вЂњBut I also listen when their commanders tell me that the enemy hiding

among us is a clear and present danger we have yet to overcome. And so, rather than

prolong this terrible fighting and waste more precious Dagoneti lives, I have

petitioned for assistance.вЂќ

вЂњWhat does that mean?вЂќ muttered one of JeddaвЂ™s men. Kell kept his expression

unchanged, aware that Koyne was watching him closely.

150

Across the chamber, a hush had fallen as everyone hung on NicranвЂ™s words.

вЂњCenturies ago, when Dagonet was beneath the shadow of corrupt priest-kings, we

faced a similar crisis. And then, as now, a warrior came to aid us. A master of war

who freed us from fear and terror.вЂќ The Governor blinked and licked his lips; Kell

felt an odd tingle of anticipation in his trigger finger. вЂњCitizens, I have this day

received word from the fleet of the Sons of Horus. They are coming to Dagonet to

deliver us, and the great hero Horus Lupercal will be with them. Have no fear. The

retribution of the Astartes will be swift and terrible, but in its wake the freedom we

crave, freedom of liberty, freedom from the stifling rule of a distant and uncaring

Emperor, will be ours.вЂќ

Grohl tapped a key on the projector and the image died. вЂњAnd there it is.вЂќ

It was as if something had sucked all the air from the chamber; NicranвЂ™s

statement had shocked the rebels into silence.

Jedda spoke first. вЂњAstartesвЂ¦вЂќ he whispered, all trace of his earlier elation gone.

вЂњComing here?вЂќ He looked to Capra. вЂњWeвЂ¦ We canвЂ™t fight Space Marines. Clan

troopers are one thing, but the WarmasterвЂ™s eliteвЂ¦вЂќ

вЂњThey are like nothing we have ever seen,вЂќ Grohl said darkly. вЂњGenetically

enhanced superhumans. Living weapons. Angels of death. A handful of them can

crush armiesвЂ”вЂќ

вЂњSo what should we do, then?вЂќ snapped Beye angrily. вЂњSurrender at once? Shoot

ourselves and save them the trouble?вЂќ

вЂњTheyвЂ™ll destroy us all,вЂќ Grohl insisted. вЂњThe only hope we have is to disband our

forces and lose ourselves in the general populace, that or flee off-world before their

warships arrive.вЂќ He glared at Kell. вЂњBecause our salvation wonвЂ™t be here before

Horus, will it?вЂќ

вЂњHeвЂ™s right, Capra,вЂќ said Jedda, his tone bleak. вЂњAgainst men, weвЂ™ve got a

fighting chance. But we canвЂ™t beat war godsвЂ”вЂќ

вЂњTheyвЂ™re not gods,вЂќ Kell snarled, quieting him. вЂњThey are not invulnerable. They

bleed red like any one of us. They can die.вЂќ He met GrohlвЂ™s look. вЂњEven Horus.вЂќ

Capra gave a slow nod. вЂњKellвЂ™s right. The Astartes are formidable, but they can

be beaten.вЂќ He gave the Vindicare a level stare. вЂњTell me they can be beaten.вЂќ

вЂњI killed a Space Marine,вЂќ said Kell. KoyneвЂ™s bland expression flickered as

something like surprise crossed the other assassinвЂ™s face. Kell ignored it and went on.

вЂњAnd IвЂ™m still here.вЂќ

вЂњCapraвЂ¦вЂќ Grohl started to speak again, but the rebel leader waved him into

silence.

вЂњI need to think on this,вЂќ he told them. вЂњBeye, come with me.вЂќ Capra walked

away with the woman, and Kell watched him go. Grohl gave the Vindicare a harsh

look and left him with Jedda and the other warriors following.

Kell picked up the memory spool and weighed it in his hand.

вЂњDid you really terminate an Astartes?вЂќ said Koyne.

вЂњYou know the rules,вЂќ Kell replied, without looking away. вЂњA cladeвЂ™s targets are

its own concern.вЂќ

The Callidus sniffed. вЂњIt doesnвЂ™t matter. Even if you did, itвЂ™s just one truth among

a handful of pretty lies. That one, Grohl? HeвЂ™s the smartest of all this lot. The Sons of

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Horus will destroy them, and turn this world into a funeral pyre along the way. IвЂ™ve

seen how the Astartes fight.вЂќ

Kell rounded on the shade and stepped closer. вЂњThe Warmaster is coming here.

ThatвЂ™s all that matters.вЂќ

вЂњOh, indeed,вЂќ said Koyne. вЂњAnd by the time Capra and the other ones who have

decided to trust you realise thatвЂ™s all we want, it will be too late.вЂќ The other assassin

leaned in. вЂњBut let me ask you this, Kell. Do you feel any remorse about what weвЂ™re

doing? Do you feel any pity for these people?вЂќ

The Vindicare looked away. вЂњThe Imperium appreciates their sacrifice.вЂќ

The quarters aboard the Iubar belonging to operative Hyssos were as predictably dull

as Spear had expected them to be. There were only a few flashes of individuality here

and thereвЂ”a cabinet with a few bottles of good amasec, a shelf of paper-plas books

on a wide variety of subjects, and some rather indifferent pencil sketches that the

man had apparently drawn himself. SpearвЂ™s lip curled at the dead manвЂ™s pretension;

perhaps he thought he was some kind of warrior-poet, standing sentinel over the

people of the Eurotas clan by day, touching a sensitive artistic soul by night.

The truth was nowhere near as dignified, however. Delving through the morass of

jumbled memories he had stolen from HyssosвЂ™ dead brain, Spear found more than

enough incidents where the security operative had been called upon to use his

detective skills to smooth over situations with native law enforcement on worlds

along the Taebian trade axis. The ConsortiumвЂ™s crews and officers broke laws on

other worlds and it was Hyssos who was forced to find locals to take the blame or the

right men to bribe. He cleaned up messes left by the Void Baron and his family, and

on some level the man had hated himself for it.

Spear had extruded a number of eyes and allowed them to wander the room,

sweeping for surveillance devices. Finding nothing, he reconsumed them and then

rested, letting his outer aspect relax. The fleshy matter coating his body lost a little

definition; to an outside observer, it would have looked like an image slipping out of

focus through a lens. He sensed a faint call from the daemonskin. It wanted fresh

bloodвЂ”but then it always wanted fresh blood. Spear let some of the remains of

Hyssos he had kept in his secondary stomach ooze out to be absorbed by the living

sheath, and it quieted.

He sat at the desk across from the sleeping alcove. Laid out over the surface were

a half-dozen data-slates, each of them displaying layers of information about the

Iubar. There were deck plans and security protocols, conduit diagrams, patrol

servitor routings, even a copy of the Void BaronвЂ™s daily itinerary. SpearвЂ™s long,

spidery fingers danced over them, plucking slates from the pile for a moment, putting

them back, selecting others. A strategy was forming, and the more he gave it his

consideration, the more he realised that it would need to be implemented sooner

rather than later.

The rogue traderвЂ™s flagship had dropped out of the churn of the warp near a

neutron star in the Cascade Line, to take sightings and rest the drives before setting

off to the rendezvous at Arrowhead. They would be here no more than a day, and

once the Iubar was back in the immaterium, the energy flux from the vesselвЂ™s Geller

field generators would interfere with SpearвЂ™s plans to break into EurotasвЂ™ personal

152

reliquary. The flux had the unfortunate side effect of causing distress to the

daemonskin, rendering some of its more useful traits ineffectual. It would have to be

done soon, thenвЂ”

NO

Spear flinched and his whole body rippled with a sudden jolt of pain. The

echoing screech lanced through him like a laser.

NO NO NO NO NO NO

вЂњShut up!вЂќ he spat, pushing away from the desk, shaking his head. вЂњShut up!вЂќ

The voice within tried to cry out again, but he smothered it with a sharp exhale of

air and a tensing of his will. For a moment, Spear felt it inside himself, deep down in

the black depths of his spiritвЂ”the flickering ember of light. A tiny piece of Yosef

SabratвЂ™s soul, trapped and furious.

The killer dropped to the floor of the room and bowed his head, closed his eyes.

He drew inwards, let his thoughts fall into himself. It was akin to sinking into an

ocean of dark, heavy oilвЂ”but instead of resisting it, Spear allowed himself to be

filled by the blackness, relishing the sensation of drowning.

He plunged into the void of his own shattered psyche, searching for the foreign,

the human, the thought-colours of a dead man. It was difficult; the faint echoes of

every life he had destroyed and then imitated all still lingered here somewhere. But

they had all been purged through the ritual rites, and what remained was just a

shallow imprint, like the shadows burnt on walls by the flash of a nuclear fireball.

Something of Yosef Sabrat was still here, though. Something tenacious that

obstinately refused to allow Spear to expunge it, clinging on.

And there it was, a glow in the gloom. SpearвЂ™s animus leapt at it, fangs out, ready

to rip it to shreds. The killer found it cloaked in a memory, a moment of terrible

burning pain. He laughed as he realised he was experiencing the instant when he had

pierced SabrafвЂ™s heart with a bone-blade, but this time from his victimвЂ™s point of

view.

The pain was blindingвЂ”and familiar. Spear hesitated; yes, he knew this feeling,

this exact feeling. SabratвЂ™s memory echoed one of his own, a memory from the

killerвЂ™s past.

Too late, Spear understood that the fragment had fled his grasp, cleverly cloaking

itself in the similarity; and too late, he was dragged into his own past. Back to an

experience that had made him into the monster he was.

Back to the cage. The pain and the cageвЂ¦

Voices outside. The armoured warriors moving and speaking. War-angels and

gun-lords, black souls and beasts.

Voices.

вЂњIs this it?вЂќ A commander-master, clear from tone and manner. Obeyed, yes.

вЂњAye, my lord,вЂќ says the wounded one. вЂњA pariah, according to the logs left by

the Silent Sisterhood. But I have not seen the like. And they didnвЂ™t know what it was,

either. It was bound for destruction, most likely.вЂќ

The master-to-be-his-master comes closer. He sees a face filled with wonderment

and hatred.

153

вЂњI smell the witch-stink on it. It did not die with the rest of the crew and cargo?вЂќ

вЂњThe EmperorвЂ™s Black Ships are resilient vessels. Some were bound to live

beyond our bombardment.вЂќ

A pause, during which he takes some sharp breaths, trying to listen to the voices.

вЂњTell me what it did.вЂќ

A sigh, weary and fearful. вЂњI was attacked. It took a finger from me. With its

teeth.вЂќ

Mocking laughter. вЂњAnd you let it live?вЂќ

вЂњI would have destroyed it, lord, but then itвЂ¦ Then it killed the Codicier. Brother

Sadran.вЂќ

Laughter stopped now. Anger colouring. вЂњHow?вЂќ

вЂњSadran lost an ear to it. Eaten, swallowed whole. Then the witch stood there and

waited to be killed. SadranвЂ¦вЂќ The wounded one is finding it hard to explain.

вЂњSadran turned his fury on the thing and it reflected it back.вЂќ

вЂњReflectedвЂ¦вЂќ The master-voice, different again. Interested.

вЂњFires, lord. Sadran was consumed by his own fires.вЂќ The shapes move around in

the shadows beyond the cage bars.

вЂњIвЂ™ve never encountered a pariah capable of thatвЂ¦вЂќ The master comes close, and

he has his first real look at it. вЂњYouвЂ™re something special, arenвЂ™t you?вЂќ

вЂњIt may be a fluke birth,вЂќ says the injured one. вЂњOr perhaps some throwback from

the experimentations of the Adeptus Telepathica.вЂќ

A smile grows wide in the gloom. вЂњIt may also be an opportunity.вЂќ

He presses up towards the bars, allowing himself to reach the ethereal edges of

his senses towards the commander-master.

вЂњWe should kill it,вЂќ says the other voice.

вЂњIвЂ™ll be the judge of that.вЂќ

He touches a mind, and for the first time in his life finds something that is darker

than himself. A stygian soul, steeped in blackness, initiated into realms beyond his

ability to know.

вЂњMy Lord ErebusвЂ”вЂќ the injured one tries to argue, but the master silences him

with a look.

вЂњThese are your orders, brother-captain,вЂќ says the dark-hearted one. вЂњRemove all

trace that we were ever here, and ensure that this vessel becomes lost to the void. I

will gather what we came forвЂ¦ and bring our new friend here into the bargain.вЂќ The

one called Erebus smiles again. вЂњI think we will have use for him.вЂќ

As the other warrior departs, the master leans in. вЂњDo you have a name?вЂќ he asks.

It has been a long time since he has spoken, and it takes a moment to form the

word; but finally he manages. вЂњSpear.вЂќ

Erebus nods. вЂњYour first lesson, then. I am your master.вЂќ Then the warrior is a

blur, and there is a blade in his hand, and then the blade is in SpearвЂ™s chest and the

pain is blinding, burning.

вЂњI am your master,вЂќ Erebus says once again. вЂњAnd from now on, you will kill

only who I tell you to kill.вЂќ

Spear reels back. He nods, giving his fealty. The pain fills him, fills the cage.

The pain and the cageвЂ¦

154

The moment snapped like brittle glass and Spear jerked upright, his foot kicking out

and knocking over a chair. He scrambled to his feet, catching sight of his face in a

mirror. HyssosвЂ™ aspect was pasty, like unfired clay. He grimaced and tried to

concentrate; but the encounter with the memory fragment and the flash of his past

had cut to his core. He was breathing hard, the daemonskin on his hands rippling

crimson.

вЂњOperative?вЂќ Someone was knocking on his cabin door. вЂњI heard a cry. Are you

all right in there?вЂќ

вЂњIвЂ™m fine!вЂќ he shouted back. вЂњItвЂ¦ I fell from my bed. ItвЂ™s nothing.вЂќ

вЂњYouвЂ™re sure?вЂќ He recognised the voice now; it was one of the duty officers on

this deck. вЂњGo away!вЂќ he snapped.

вЂњAye, sir,вЂќ said the officer, after a moment, and he heard footsteps recede.

Spear walked to the mirror and glared at HyssosвЂ™ face as it resurfaced. вЂњYou canвЂ™t

stop me,вЂќ he told the reflection. вЂњNone of you can. None of you!вЂќ

In recognition of their help, the rebels had given all the members of the Execution

Force quarters in one of the smaller chambers off the main corridor. The rooms were

no bigger than holding cells, but they were dry and they had privacy, which was

more than could be said for many of the communal sleeping areas.

Soalm didnвЂ™t knock and wait outside her brotherвЂ™s compartment; instead she

slammed the corroded metal door open and stormed into the room.

He looked up from the makeshift table before him, where the disassembled

components of his longrifle lay like an exploded technical diagram. Lines of bullets

were arranged in rows like tiny sentries on a parade ground. He stopped himself from

drawing his Exitus pistol and returned to the work of cleaning his firearm. вЂњWhere

are your manners, Jenniker?вЂќ he said.

She closed the door and folded her arms. вЂњWeвЂ™re doing this, then?вЂќ she said.

вЂњWeвЂ™re actually going to sacrifice all these people just to complete the mission?вЂќ

вЂњWhat was your first clue?вЂќ he asked. вЂњWas it when I told you that was our plan,

on board the Ultio? Or when Valdor made it exactly, precisely clear what our

objective was?вЂќ

вЂњYouвЂ™re manipulating Capra and his people,вЂќ she insisted.

вЂњThis is what we do,вЂќ said her brother. вЂњDonвЂ™t pretend youвЂ™ve never done the

same thing to get close to a mark. Lied and cheated?вЂќ

вЂњIвЂ™ve never put innocents in harmвЂ™s way. The whole motive for the Officio

Assassinorum is to move sightless and unseen, leave no trace but the corpse of our

targetвЂ¦ But youвЂ™re cutting a road of blood for us to follow!вЂќ

вЂњThis isnвЂ™t the Great Crusade anymore, dear sister.вЂќ He put down his tools and

studied her. вЂњAre you so naive that you donвЂ™t see that? WeвЂ™re not thinning the ranks

of a few degenerate bohemian fops in the halls of some hive-world, or terminating a

troublesome xenos commander. WeвЂ™re on the front lines of a civil war. The rules of

engagement are very different now.вЂќ

Soalm was quiet for a moment. It had been many years since she had seen

Eristede, and it made her sad to see how he had changed. She could only see the

155

worst of him behind those dark eyes. вЂњItвЂ™s not just the resistance fighters whose lives

we are threatening. By keeping this conflict alive we will doom countless innocent

people, perhaps even threaten the future of this entire planet and the sector beyond.вЂќ

вЂњAre you asking me if the death of Horus Lupercal is worth that price? ThatвЂ™s a

question you should put to Valdor or the Master of Assassins. I am only doing what I

was ordered to. Our duty is all that matters.вЂќ

She felt a surge of emotion in her chest and crashed it before it could become a

snarl or a sob. вЂњHow can you be so cold-blooded, Eristede? We are supposed to

protect the people of the Imperium, not offer them up as fodder for the cannons!вЂќ

Soalm shook her head. вЂњI donвЂ™t know who you are.вЂќ

With a flash of anger, her brother bolted to his feet. вЂњYou donвЂ™t know me? IвЂ™m

not the one who rejected her own name! I didnвЂ™t turn my back on justice!вЂќ

вЂњIs that what you tell yourself?вЂќ She looked away. вЂњWe both had a choice all

those years ago, Eristede. Escape, or revenge. But you chose revenge, and you

condemned us to a life where we are nothing but killers.вЂќ

The memory came back to her in a giddy rash. They were both just children then,

the scions of their family. The last surviving members of the Kell dynasty, their

holdings destroyed and their parents exterminated during an internecine straggle

among the aristocrats of the Thaxted Duchy. Orphaned and alone, they had been

drawn into the halls of the Imperial schola and there both secretly selected by agents

of the Officio Assassinorum.

Brother and sister had shown promiseвЂ”Eristede was an excellent marksman for

one so young, and JennikerвЂ™s genius for botany and chemistry was clear. They knew

that soon the clade directors would make their decisions, and that they would be split

up, perhaps never to see one another again. In the halls of the schola they had made

their plans to flee together, to eschew the assassinвЂ™s path and find a new life.

But then Clade Vindicare offered something that Eristede Kell wanted more than

his freedom; the chance to avenge his mother and father. All they asked for in return

was his loyaltyвЂ”and consumed by hate, he gave it willingly. Jenniker had been left

behind with nowhere to go but to the open arms of the Venenum.

Months later, she had learned that innocents had been killed in the hit on the man

who murdered their parents, and that had been the day when she swore she would no

longer go by the name of Kell again.

вЂњIвЂ™d hoped you might have changed since I last saw you,вЂќ she said. вЂњAnd you

have. But not for the better.вЂќ

Her brother seemed as if he was on the verge of an outburst; but then he drew it

back in and looked away. вЂњYouвЂ™re right,вЂќ he told her. вЂњYou donвЂ™t know me. Now get

out.вЂќ

вЂњAs you command,вЂќ Soalm said stiffly.

156

TWELVE

A Single Drop

Messenger

Wilderness of Mirrors

The men guarding the chamber housing the Void BaronвЂ™s private reliquary had

allowed their concentration to falter. Spear listened to them speak as he stood in the

shadows beyond their line of sight, a few metres up along the vaulted corridor. News

had filtered down through the crew hierarchy aboard the Iubar, fractions of the

reports from the communicatory that warned of sightings of Adeptus Astartes on the

move. No one seemed to know if they were warriors still loyal to the Emperor of

Mankind, or if they were those now following the banner of the Warmaster; some

even dared to suggest that all the mighty Legions of the Astartes had turned their

faces from their creator, embarking on a jihad to take for themselves what they had

captured for Terra during the Great Crusade.

Spear understood only small elements of the unfolding war going on across the

galaxy; and in truth, it mattered little to him. The killerвЂ™s keyhole view of

intergalactic conflict was enough. He cared little about sides or doctrines. All Spear

needed was the kill. It was enough that his master Erebus had given him murders to

commit; perhaps even the greatest murder in human history.

But before that could happen, he had steps to take. Preparations to be made.

Spear allowed the daemonskin to regain a small amount of control over itself, and

the surface of his surrogate flesh shivered. Removing the shipsuit overall he had been

wearing, he stepped naked into the deep shadows. Hair-like tendrils emerged from

his epidermis, sampling the air and the ambient light all around. In moments SpearвЂ™s

body became wet with sticky processor fluids, changing colour until it was nightdark.

His features retreated behind a mask of scabbing crusts, and then he leapt

soundlessly to the high ceiling. Secreted oils allowed him to adhere there, and the

killer snaked slowly along his inverted pathway, passing over the heads of the guards

as they fretted and spoke in low tones about threats they could not understand.

At the entrance to the reliquary there was an intelligent door possessed of a

variety of sensory and thought-mechanical systems designed to open only to

Merriksun Eurotas, or a member of his immediate family. It was little impediment to

Spear. He slapped the daemonskin lightly as it whined in his mind, dragging on him a

little as it sensed the guards and expressed a desire to drink their blood. Chastened, it

obediently extruded a new, thickly-lipped mouth at his palm. Spear held the mouth

over the biometric breath sensor, as the same time sending new hair-tendrils into the

thin gaps around the edges of the door. They wormed their way into the locks and

teased them open one by one.

157

It had been easy to sample the Void BaronвЂ™s breath; simply by standing close to

him, SpearвЂ™s daemonskin sheath had plucked the microscopic particulate matter and

DNA traces of his exhalations from the air, and stored them in a bladder. Now the

second mouth puffed them out over the sensor.

There was the whisper of well-lubricated cogs and the door opened. Spear slipped

inside.

DagonetвЂ™s sun was passing low over the top of the ridgeline, and soon night would

fall Jenniker Soalm stood out on the flat expanse of stone that served as a lookout

post, and looked out at the ochre rocks without really seeing them. She knew that the

mission clock was winding down towards zero, and at best the Execution Force had

only hours until they entered the final phase of the operation.

She could see that the others sensed it too. The Garantine had at last returned

from whatever lethality he had been spreading on the clanner forces, menacing all

who saw him. Tariel, Koyne and the Culexus waif were all making readyвЂ”and her

brotherвЂ¦

Soalm knew exactly what her brother was doing.

вЂњHello?вЂќ The voice made her turn. With slow, careful steps, Lady Sinope

emerged from the cave mouth behind her and approached. вЂњI was told I might find

you here.вЂќ

вЂњMilady,вЂќ Jenniker bowed slightly.

Sinope smiled. вЂњYou donвЂ™t need to do that, child. IвЂ™m a noblewoman only in

name now. The others let me keep the title as a gesture of respect, but the truth is the

clans of this world have wiped away any honour we ever had.вЂќ

вЂњOthers must have rejected the call to join HorusвЂ™ banner.вЂќ

The old woman nodded. вЂњOh, a few. All dead now, I think. That, or terrified into

compliance.вЂќ She sighed. вЂњPerhaps He will forgive them.вЂќ

Soalm looked away. вЂњI do not believe He is the forgiving kind. After all, the

Emperor denies all word of his divinity.вЂќ

Sinope nodded again. вЂњIndeed. But then, only the sincerely divine can do such a

thing and be true in it. Those who think themselves gods are always madmen or

fools. To be raised to such heights, one must be carried there on the shoulders of

faith. One must guide and yet be guided.вЂќ

вЂњI would like some guidance myself,вЂќ admitted the assassin. вЂњI donвЂ™t know where

to turn.вЂќ

вЂњNo?вЂќ The noblewoman found a wind-smoothed rock and sat down on it. вЂњIf it is

not too impertinent a question, may I ask you how you found your way to the light of

the Lectitio Divinitatus?вЂќ

Soalm sighed. вЂњAfter ourвЂ¦ after my parents were killed in a conflict between

rival families, I found myself isolated and alone in the care of the Imperium. I had no

one to watch over me.вЂќ

вЂњOnly the God-Emperor.вЂќ

She nodded. вЂњSo I came to realise. He was the single constant in my life. The

only one who did not judge meвЂ¦ Or leave me. I had heard stories of the Imperial

CultвЂ¦ It was not long before I found like-minded people.вЂќ

158

SinopeвЂ™s head bobbed. вЂњYes, that is often the way. Like comes to like, all across

the galaxy. Here on Dagonet there are those who do not yet believe as we doвЂ”Capra

and most of his people, for exampleвЂ”but still we share the same goals. And in the

end, there are still many, many of us, child. Under different names, in different ways,

everywhere you find human beings. As He led us to greatness and dispelled the fog

of all the false gods and mistaken religiosity, the God-Emperor forged the path to the

one truth. His truth.вЂќ

вЂњAnd yet we must hide that truth.вЂќ

The old woman sighed. вЂњAye, for the moment. Faith can be so strong at times,

and yet so weak in the same moment. It is a delicate flower that must be nurtured and

protected, in preparation for the day when it can truly bloom.вЂќ She placed a hand on

JennikerвЂ™s arm. вЂњAnd that day is coming.вЂќ

вЂњNot soon enough.вЂќ

SinopeвЂ™s hand fell away and she was quiet for a moment. вЂњWhat do you want to

tell me, child?вЂќ

Soalm turned to look at her, eyes narrowing. вЂњWhat do you mean?вЂќ

вЂњIвЂ™ve been doing this since before you were born,вЂќ said the woman. вЂњBelieve me,

I know when someone is holding something back. YouвЂ™re afraid of something, and it

isnвЂ™t just this revolution we find ourselves in.вЂќ

вЂњYes.вЂќ The words came of their own accord. вЂњI am afraid. I am afraid that just by

coming to your world we will destroy all of this.вЂќ She gestured around.

A brief smile crossed SinopeвЂ™s lips. вЂњOh, my dear. DonвЂ™t you realise? You have

brought hope to Dagonet. That is a precious, precious thing. More fragile than faith,

even.вЂќ

вЂњNo. I did nothing. I am onlyвЂ¦ a messenger.вЂќ Soalm wanted to tell her the truth,

in that moment. To explain the full scope of the Execution ForceвЂ™s plans, to reveal

the real reasons behind their assistance to CapraвЂ™s freedom fighters, to cry out her

darkest, deepest fearвЂ”that in her collusion with it all, she was no better than her

bitter, callous brother.

But the words would not come. All she heard in her thoughts was EristedeвЂ™s

challenge, the cold calculation he had laid before her; were the lives of these people

worth more than the death of the Warmaster, the living embodiment of the greatest

threat to the human Imperium?

Sinope came and sat with her, and slowly the old womanвЂ™s expression turned

darker. вЂњLet me tell you what I am afraid of,вЂќ she said. вЂњAnd you will understand

why the struggle is so important. There are sinister forces at large in the universe,

child.вЂќ

вЂњThe WarmasterвЂ¦вЂќ

вЂњHorus Lupercal is only an agent of that unchecked anarchy, my dear. There are

manifestations coming into being on every world that falls into the shadows cast by

the WarmasterвЂ™s ambition. Out in the blackness between the stars, cold hate grows.вЂќ

Soalm found the womanвЂ™s quiet, intense voice compelling, and listened in

silence, captured by her words.

Sinope went on. вЂњYou and I, mankind itself and even the God-EmperorвЂ¦ All are

being tested by a chorus of ruinous powers. If our Lord is truly divine, then we must

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know that He will have his opposite, something beyond our understanding of evilвЂ¦

What terrifies me is the dream of what will come if we let that hate overwhelm our

glorious Imperium. There will be disorder and destruction. FireвЂ”вЂќ

вЂњAnd chaos,вЂќ said Jenniker.

Had the choice been his, the killer would have preferred to wait until the Iubar and

its attendant ships had reached the Sol system before attempting this penetration; but

SpearвЂ™s windows of opportunity were limited, and growing smaller with each passing

hour. It was simply the most expedient option to do this now. Once they were within

the boundaries of the Segmentum Solar, security around the Eurotas flotilla would

increase tenfold and Operative Hyssos would have much to occupy his time and

attention.

And then there was the other possibility to consider; that his target, once marked

and stored, might be sufficiently powerful that SpearвЂ™s ability could be released

against it from across an interplanetary distance. He hoped that would not prove to be

soвЂ”Spear relished the moment of great joy when he looked a kill in the eye and saw

the understanding of the end upon it. To be denied that in his crowning momentвЂ¦ It

would be simply unjust.

The killer kept to the lines of tiles that glowed phosphor-green through the

gelatinous lenses the daemonskin had grown over his eyes; normal human vision

would have noticed nothing to differentiate the tiles on the floor of the reliquary, and

so a luckless entrant would wander into one of the zones of contra-gravity stitched

into the chamberвЂ”there to float trapped until the guards came with guns and ready

trigger-fingers.

He ignored the works of art and objects of incredible value that arrayed the long

gallery, each given pride of place in an alcove of its own. The remains of every

Eurotas Void Baron since the first were held here, their ashes in urns as tall as a

child, the containers made from spun diamond, tantalum, the shells of a Xexet quintal

and other materials, each rarer and more expensive than the last. Portraits of lords

and ladies from the clanвЂ™s history dominated every surface, and all of them stared out

sightlessly at Spear as he threaded his way past, avoiding the perception spheres of

beam sensors and magnetic anomaly detectors. The daemonskinвЂ™s fronds waved

gently as he moved, continually tasting the ambient atmosphere and temperature to

keep the intruder cooled in synchrony. The thermal monitors studding every square

centimetre of the reliquary walls looked for the glow of body heat, but saw nothing.

All the patient, clever machines continued to believe the chamber was still empty.

At the far end of the gallery, inside a glass stasis cage on a plinth made of white

marble and platinum, was the Warrant of Trade.

Spear slowed as he approached it, licking his lips behind the bindings of his scab

mask. The motion made the oily skin peel back over his cheeks, revealing teeth, a

grin.

The book was made of real paper, fabricated from one of the last natural forests

on Venus. The ink had been refined from burst-sac fluids harvested from Jovian

skimmer rays. Artisans from Merica had assembled the tome, bound it in rich groxhide.

Inlaid on the cover, flecks of gemstones from all the colonised worlds of the Sol

system shimmered in the light of the galleryвЂ™s electrocandles. This book was the

160

physical manifestation of the Eurotas clanвЂ™s right to travel the stars. More than their

fleets of vessels, their armies of staff and crew, more than the fiscal might they

wielded over countless worlds and industrial holdings across the Taebian StarsвЂ”

more than any of those things, the Warrant was what gave Merriksun Eurotas and his

kindred the EmperorвЂ™s permission to trade, to voyage, to expand the ImperiumвЂ™s

influence through sheer economic power.

The killer almost laughed at that. As if any being could parcel out sections of the

universe to his followers like plots of land or portions of food. What hubris. What

monumental arrogance to assume that they had that entitlement. Such power could

not be given; it could only be taken, through bloodshed, pain and the ruthless

application of will.

The glass case had a complex mechanism of suspensors and gravity splines

within it, and with the passage of a hand over a ruby sensor pad on the frame, the

pages of the book inside could be turned without ever touching them. Spear flicked at

the sensor and the Warrant creaked open, leaf after leaf of dense text flickering past.

It fluttered to a halt on an ornately illuminated page lined in gilt, purple ink and

silver leaf. Words in High Gothic surrounded a sumptuously detailed picture

repeating the image depicted in the jade frieze in the audience chamberвЂ”the

Emperor granting the first Eurotas his boon. But SpearвЂ™s hungry gaze ignored the

workmanship, turning instead towards a wet, liquid patch of dark crimson captured

upon the featureless white vellum of the WarrantвЂ™s final page.

A single drop of blood.

He laid his hand on the edge of the case and let the daemonskin around his

fingertips deliquesce, oozing into the weld holding the construction together. The

heavy duty armourglass creaked and split down the seam, the malleable flesh

pressing on it, shifting it out of true. All at once, a pane gave off a snap of sound, and

the killer muffled it with his oily palms. The glass fell out of the frame and into his

hand. He greedily reached inside, with trembling fingers.

Spear would rip the page from the ancient book, tear it out of the stasis field that

had preserved it for hundreds of years. He would hold the paper to his lips and

consume the blood, take it like the kiss of a lover. He wouldвЂ”

His hand reached for the pages of the Warrant of Trade and passed straight

through it, as if the book were made of smoke. Inside the glass case, the tome seemed

to flicker and grow indistinct, for one blinding moment becoming nothing but a

perfect ghost image projected from a cluster of hololithic emitters concealed inside

the frame of the cage.

The case was empty; and for a moment so was Spear, his chest hollowed out by

the sudden, horrible realisation that his prize was not here.

But then he was filled anew with murderous rage, and it took every last fraction

of his self-control to stop the killer from screaming out his fury and destroying

everything around him.

After Lady Sinope had left her alone once more, Soalm remained where she was on

the ridge and waited for the darkness to engulf her. The night sky, a sight that so

often gave her a moment of peace as she contemplated it, now seemed only to veil

161

the threats the old woman had spoken of. She shivered involuntarily and felt a cold,

familiar pressure at the edge of her senses.

вЂњIota.вЂќ She turned and found the Culexus standing near the cave entrance,

watching her. The dusky-skinned girlвЂ™s eyes glittered. вЂњSpying on me?вЂќ

вЂњYes,вЂќ came the reply. вЂњYou should not remain outside for too long. There are

ships in orbit and satellite systems under the control of the clan forces. They will be

sweeping this zone with their long-range imagers.вЂќ

вЂњHow long have you been watching?вЂќ

вЂњI do not believe He is the forgiving kind,вЂќ she repeated, fingering the nullifier

tore around her neck.

Soalm frowned. вЂњYou have no right to intrude on a private conversation!вЂќ

If that was meant to inspire guilt in Iota, she gave no such reaction. The pariah

seemed unable to grasp the niceties of such concepts as privacy, tact or social graces.

вЂњWhat did the woman Sinope mean, when she spoke about вЂforces at largeвЂ™?вЂќ Iota

shook her head. вЂњShe did not refer to threats of a military nature.вЂќ

вЂњItвЂ™s complicated,вЂќ said Soalm. вЂњTo be honest, IвЂ™m not quite sure myself.вЂќ

вЂњBut you value her words. And the words in the book.вЂќ

SoalmвЂ™s blood ran cold. вЂњWhat book?вЂќ

вЂњThe one in the chamber on the lower levels. Where the others gather with

Sinope to talk about the Emperor as a god. You have been there.вЂќ

вЂњYou followed me?вЂќ Soalm took a warning step forwards.

вЂњYes. Later I returned when no one was there. I read some of the book.вЂќ Iota

looked away, still toying with the tore. вЂњI found it confusing.вЂќ

Soalm studied the Culexus, her mind racing. If Iota revealed the presence of the

hidden chapel inside the rebel base, there was no way to predict what would happen.

Many of CapraвЂ™s resistance fighters followed the staunchly antitheist Imperial edict

that labelled all churches as illegal; and she could not imagine what Eristede might

do if he learned she had involvement with the Lectitio Divinitatus.

вЂњKell will not be pleased,вЂќ said the other woman, as if she could read her

thoughts.

вЂњYou wonвЂ™t speak of it,вЂќ Soalm insisted. вЂњYou will not tell him!вЂќ

Iota cocked her head. вЂњHe is blood kindred to you. The animus speculum reads

the colour of your auras. I saw the parity between them the first time I watched you

through the eyes of my helm. And yet you keep that a secret too.вЂќ

Soalm tried and failed to keep the shock from her face. вЂњAnd what other secrets

do you know, pariah?вЂќ

She returned a level stare. вЂњI know that you are now considering how you might

ensure my silence by killing me. If you make the attempt, there is a chance you may

succeed. But you are conflicted by the thought of such an action. It is something

yourвЂ¦ brotherвЂ¦ would not hesitate to do in your place.вЂќ

вЂњI am not Eristede,вЂќ she insisted.

вЂњNo, you are not.вЂќ IotaвЂ™s face softened. вЂњWhat is it like?вЂќ

вЂњWhat?вЂќ

162

вЂњHaving kindred. Siblings. I have no concept or experience of it. I was matured in

an enclosed environment. A research facility. Your experienceвЂ¦ fascinates me.

What is it like?вЂќ she repeated.

Strangely, Soalm felt a momentary pang of sadness for the Culexus. вЂњDifficult,вЂќ

she replied, at length. вЂњIota, listen to me. Please, say nothing to the others about the

chapel.вЂќ

вЂњIf I do not, will you try to kill me?вЂќ

вЂњWill you force me?вЂќ

The Culexus shook her head. вЂњNo.вЂќ

Where? Where was the Warrant?

The question thundered through SpearвЂ™s mind and it would not let him go. He

could not find rest, could not find a momentвЂ™s peace until the document had been

located. Everything about his masterвЂ™s careful, intricate plan hinged on the

procurement of that one item. Without it, the assassination of the Emperor of

Mankind was impossible. Spear was useless, a gun unloaded, a sword blade blunted.

His existence had no meaning without the kill. Every single death he had performed,

all of them, from the strangling of his birthparents to the ashing of the Word Bearer

who came to slit his throat, the fools on Iesta Veracrux, the psy-witch, the

investigators and the man whose face he now woreвЂ” all of them were only steps on

a road towards his ultimate goal.

And now, Merriksun Eurotas had denied him that. The bloody rage Spear felt

towards the Void Baron was so all-consuming that the killer feared merely laying

eyes on the man would shatter his cover and send him into a berserker frenzy.

Spear had all but the most trivial of HyssosвЂ™ memories absorbed within him, and

the operative had never known that the Warrant of Trade on display in the reliquary

was a fake. There were fewer than a dozen men and women in the entire Eurotas

Consortium who outranked the operative in matters of securityвЂ¦ Spear wondered if

one of them might know the true location of the tome. But how to be sure? He could

kill his way through them and never be certain if they had that precious knowledge

until he sucked it from their dying minds; but he could not risk such reckless

behaviour.

Eurotas himself would know. But murdering the Void Baron here and now,

disposing of a body, passing through another assumption so soon after having torn

HyssosвЂ™ identity from his corpseвЂ¦ This was a course fraught with danger, far too

risky to succeed.

No. He needed to find another way, and quickly.

вЂњHyssos?вЂќ The noblemanвЂ™s voice was pitched high and sharp. вЂњWhat are you

doing here?вЂќ

Spear looked up as Eurotas crossed the anteroom of the rogue traderвЂ™s personal

quarters where he stood waiting. вЂњMy lord,вЂќ he began, moderating his churning

thoughts. вЂњForgive my intrusion, but I must speak with you.вЂќ

Eurotas glanced over his shoulder as he tied a velvet belt around the day robes he

was wearing. Through a half-open door, it was possible to glimpse a sleeping

chamber beyond. A naked woman was lying in a doze back there on a snarl of bed

163

sheets. вЂњI am engaged,вЂќ the baron said, with a grimace. He seemed distracted. вЂњCome

to the audience chamber after we enter the warp, andвЂ”вЂќ

вЂњNo sir,вЂќ Spear put a little steel into HyssosвЂ™ voice. вЂњThis wonвЂ™t wait until we set

off for Arrowhead. If I am correct, we may need to return to Iesta Veracrux.вЂќ

That got his attention. EurotasвЂ™ eyes narrowed, but not enough to hide the flicker

of fear in them. вЂњWhy would that be so?вЂќ

вЂњI have been retracing my steps, going over my notes and recollections from the

Iestan murders.вЂќ He fixed the baron with a level gaze and began to pay out the fiction

he had created over the last few hours; a fiction he hoped would force the nobleman

to give up the information he so desperately needed. вЂњThe two menвЂ¦ Yosef Sabrat

and Daig Segan, the ones who did those terrible deeds. There was something they

said that did not seem right to me, at the end when I thought I would be killed by

them.вЂќ

вЂњGo on.вЂќ Eurotas went to a servitor and had it pour him a glass of water.

вЂњSir, they spoke about a warrant.вЂќ The baron stiffened slightly at the word. Spear

smiled inwardly and went on. вЂњAt the time I thought they meant warrants of arrestвЂ¦

But the thought occurs that they may have been talking about something else.вЂќ He

nodded towards a painting on the wall, an impressionistic work showing the current

Void Baron reading from the Warrant of Trade as if it were some scholarly volume

of esoteric knowledge.

вЂњWhy would they be interested in the Warrant?вЂќ Eurotas demanded.

вЂњI do not know. But these were no ordinary murderers, sir. We still cannot be

certain by what exact means they terminated poor PerrigвЂ¦ And the things they did at

the sites of their kills in the name of their Theoge cultвЂ”вЂќ

вЂњThey were not part of the Theoge!вЂќ snapped the baron, the retort coming out of

nowhere. He shook his head and paced away a few steps. вЂњI always knewвЂ¦вЂќ said the

nobleman, after a moment of silence. вЂњI always knew that Erno Sigg was innocent.

ThatвЂ™s why I sent you, Hyssos. Because I trusted you to find the truth.вЂќ

Spear bowed, allowing his stolen face to grow saddened. вЂњI hope I did not

disappoint you. And you were correct, my lord. Sigg was a dupe.вЂќ

вЂњThose murdering swine were not part of the Theoge,вЂќ Eurotas repeated, turning

to advance on him once more. His face had lost some of its earlier colour and his

gaze was turned inwards.

вЂњHigh-Reeve Telemach seemed to think otherwise,вЂќ Spear pressed. вЂњIf I may ask,

why do you disagree with her?вЂќ The killer saw something ephemeral pass over the

other manвЂ™s face; the shadow of a hidden truth. The understanding was coming up

from HyssosвЂ™ captured persona, from the operativeвЂ™s instinctive grasp of fragile

human nature, his ability to perceive the falsehood in the words of a liar. Spear let it

rise; Eurotas was going to incriminate himself, if he could only be encouraged to do

so. The Void Baron had known more than he had revealed about this situation all

along, and only now was it coming to light.

вЂњIвЂ¦ I will tell you what IвЂ¦ believe,вЂќ said the nobleman, moving to the door to

close it. вЂњThose madmen on Iesta Veracrux were not just spree killers tormenting and

bloodletting to satisfy their own insanity. I am certain now that they were agents of

the Warmaster Horus Lupercal, may he rot. They were part of a plot that casts a

shadow over the Taebian Sector, perhaps over the whole galaxy!вЂќ He shuddered.

164

вЂњWe have all heard the rumours about theвЂ¦ things that happen on the worlds that

have fallen.вЂќ Then his tone grew more intense. вЂњDiscrediting the Theoge and

blackening the name of our clan is just one part of this conspiracy of evil.вЂќ

Spear said nothing, dissembling the manвЂ™s words in his thoughts. It was clear

now why Eurotas had been so quick to call the matter closed and depart from Iesta

Veracrux as fast as decorum would allow. The involvement of Erno Sigg in the

murders had been bad enough, but Eurotas had to be sure that sooner or later the

clanвЂ™s name would become connected to the incident in another, more damning way.

He was afraidвЂ¦

On a swift and sudden impulse, Spear rocked off his feet from where he stood at

attention and snatched at the Void BaronвЂ™s robes, pulling the man off-balance.

вЂњWhat in TerraвЂ™s name do you think you are doing?вЂќ Eurotas cried out, affronted

at the abrupt assault.

But in the next second his flash of anger died in his throat when Spear pulled up

the voluminous sleeve of his robe to reveal a golden chain tight around his wrist, and

on it the shape of an aquila sigil. This time he couldnвЂ™t resist letting a small smile

creep out over HyssosвЂ™ lips. вЂњYouвЂ™re one of them.вЂќ

Eurotas shrugged him off and backed away, a guilty cast coming to his eyes.

вЂњWhat are you talking about? Get out. YouвЂ™re dismissed.вЂќ

вЂњI think not, sir.вЂќ Spear gave him a hard look. вЂњI think an explanation is in order.вЂќ

For a moment, the man teetered on the verge of shouting him down, calling in his

personal guard from the corridor outside; but HyssosвЂ™ unerring sense for the hidden

told Spear that Eurotas would not. The dead manвЂ™s instincts were correct. The

noblemanвЂ™s shoulders slumped and he planted himself in an ornamental chair, staring

into the middle distance.

Spear waited for the confession that he knew would come next; men like the Void

Baron lacked the will or the strength to really inhabit a lie. In the end, they welcomed

the chance to unburden themselves.

вЂњI am notвЂ¦вЂќ He paused, trying to find the right words. вЂњThe people who call

themselves the Theoge came after, do you see? It was we who came first. We carried

the message from Terra, in safe keeping aboard our ships, across the entire sector.

Every son and daughter of the Eurotas family has been a participant in the Lectitio

Divinitatus, since the day of the boon. We carry the EmperorвЂ™s divinity with us.вЂќ He

said the words with rote precision, without any real energy or impetus behind them.

Spear recalled what Daig Segan had said just before he had torn him open. вЂњThe

Emperor protectsвЂ¦вЂќ

Eurotas nodded solemnly; but it was abundantly clear that the light of true belief,

the blind faith that Segan had shown in his dying moments, was in no way reflected

in the Void Baron. If the nobleman was a believer in the cult of the God-Emperor,

then it was only as one who paid lip service to it, because it was expected of him.

SpearвЂ™s lip curled, his disgust for the man growing by the moment; he did not even

have the courage of his convictions.

вЂњIt is our hidden duty,вЂќ Eurotas went on. вЂњWe spread the word of His divinity in

quiet and secrecy. Our clan has been allied to groups like the Theoge on dozens of

worlds, for centuries.вЂќ He looked away. вЂњBut I never trulyвЂ¦ That is, I did notвЂ¦вЂќ

165

Spear watched and waited, saying nothing. As he expected, Eurotas was

compelled to fill the silence.

вЂњHorus is destroying everything. Every thread of power and influence we have,

broken one at a time. And now he strikes not only at our holdings, but at the network

my forefathers built to carry the word of the Lectitio Divinitatus! A network of

clandestine authority the Eurotas have used to control the Taebian Sector for

hundreds of years.вЂќ Spear shook HyssosвЂ™ head. The humanвЂ™s arrogance was

towering; he actually believed that a being as great as the Warmaster would lower

himself to such parlour games as disrupting the ambitions of a single petty, venal

rogue trader. The reality was, the slow collapse of the Eurotas clanвЂ™s fortunes was

just a side effect of HorusвЂ™ advance across the Ultima Segmentum.

Still; it would serve SpearвЂ™s interests to allow the man to think he was the focus

of some interstellar conspiracy, when in fact he and all his blighted clan were little

more than a means to an end.

вЂњEver since the conclusion of the Great Crusade, it has become harder and harder

to hold on to things.вЂќ Eurotas sighed. вЂњOur fortunes are on the wane, my friend. I

have tried to hide it, but it grows worse every day. I thought perhaps, when we return

to Terra, I could petition the Sigillite for an audience, and thenвЂ”вЂќ

вЂњWhere is the Warrant of Trade?вЂќ Spear was growing tired of the Void Baron,

and he struck out with the question.

Eurotas reacted as if he had been slapped. вЂњItвЂ¦ In the reliquary, of course.вЂќ The

lie was a poor one at best.

вЂњI am your senior security operative, sir,вЂќ Spear retorted. вЂњPlease credit me with

some intelligence. Where is the real Warrant?вЂќ

вЂњHow did you know?вЂќ He shot to his feet, knocking the water glass to the floor

where it shattered. A service mechanical skittered in across the carpet to clean up the

breakage, but Eurotas paid it no heed. вЂњOnly three peopleвЂ¦вЂќ He paused, composing

himself. вЂњWhenвЂ¦ did you find out?вЂќ

Spear studied him. вЂњThat is of no consequence.вЂќ After the abortive infiltration of

the reliquary, the killer had been careful to ensure that no trace of his entry remained.

вЂњWhat matters is that you tell me where the real Warrant is now. If you are correct

about these agents in the employ of the Warmaster, then we must be certain it is

secure.вЂќ

вЂњThey were looking for itвЂ¦вЂќ whispered Eurotas, shocked by the thought.

When the baron looked up at him with cold fear in his eyes, Spear knew that he

had the man in his grasp. вЂњMy sworn duty is to serve the Eurotas clan and their

endeavours. That includes yourвЂ¦ network. But I cannot do that if the Warrant

becomes lost.вЂќ

вЂњThat must never happen.вЂќ The Void Baron swallowed hard. вЂњIt isвЂ¦ not with the

fleet. You have to understand, I had little choice. There were certain arrears that

could not be paid, favours that were required in order to keep the clan operatingвЂ”вЂќ

вЂњWhere?вЂќ Spear cracked HyssosвЂ™ gruff voice like a whip.

Eurotas looked away, abashed. вЂњThe Warrant of Trade was touched by the hand

of the God-Emperor of Mankind, and so in the eyes of those who embrace the word

of the Lectitio Divinitatus, it is a holy object. In exchange for the nullification of a

number of very large debts, I agreed to allow an assemblage of nobles involved with

166

the Theoge to take possession of the Warrant forвЂ¦ for an extended period of

pilgrimage.вЂќ

вЂњWhat nobles?вЂќ Spear demanded. вЂњWhere?вЂќ

вЂњThey have not answered my communications. I fear they may be dead or in

hiding. When HorusвЂ™ forces find them, they will be wiped out, and the Warrant will

be destroyedвЂ¦вЂќ His lip trembled. вЂњIf it has not already been.вЂќ Eurotas looked up.

вЂњThe Warrant is on the planet Dagonet.вЂќ

Finally. The answer. For a long moment, Spear considered breaking out of

HyssosвЂ™ restrictive body and reverting back to his kill-form, just to show Eurotas

what sort of fool he was the instant before he ripped him to shreds; but instead he let

the rage ebb and gave a sullen nod. вЂњI will need a ship, then. The fastest cutter

available.вЂќ

вЂњYou cannot go to Dagonet!вЂќ Eurotas insisted. вЂњThe government there has

already declared for the Warmaster! There is word that the Sons of Horus are on their

way to the planet at this very momentвЂ¦ ItвЂ™s suicide! I wonвЂ™t allow it.вЂќ

Spear twisted his proxy flesh into a sorrowful smile, and gave a shallow bow. вЂњI

swear to you I will recover the Warrant, my lord. As of this moment, my life has no

other purpose.вЂќ

At length, the nobleman nodded. вЂњVery well. And may the Emperor protect you.вЂќ

вЂњWe can but hope,вЂќ he replied.

167

THIRTEEN

Faith or Duty

Bonded

The Warrant

The summons came from the Vindicare, and so Iota joined Kell and the rest of the

Execution Force in one of several storage rooms down in the web of caves, away

from the more heavily-populated sections of the hideaway. The room smelled of

promethium; drums of the liquid fuel were stacked to the ceiling in corners, and the

air circulation system worked in fits and starts.

Kell had been careful to time the gathering to coincide with the regular

overflights of clan patrol craft; every time it happened, the rebels would fall silent, go

dark, and wait for the flyers to make their loop over the Bladecut before heading back

to the city. It meant that Capra, Beye, Grohl and the others were all occupied,

allowing the assassins to gather unnoticed, at least for a little while.

The Vindicare surveyed the room, looking at them all in turn. Iota noted that he

looked to Soalm last of all, and seemed to linger on her. She wondered if his sibling

understood the meaning behind that fractional moment. Iota regarded her

understanding of human social interaction as an ongoing experiment, but her limited

knowledge also afforded her a clarity that others lacked; for all the distance between

the brother and sister, it seemed obvious to the Culexus that Kell cared for Soalm

more than the woman knewвЂ”or wanted to know.

вЂњWeвЂ™re entering the final phase,вЂќ Kell said, without preamble. вЂњBeyeвЂ™s contacts

in the city have sent word of sightings at the perimeter of the Dagonet system. Warp

disturbances. The prelude to the opening of a gateway.вЂќ

вЂњHow long until we know for sure?вЂќ asked Koyne. The Callidus looked like a

childвЂ™s doll the size of a man, all sketched, incomplete features and pale skin.

вЂњWe canвЂ™t stay put and wait for confirmation,вЂќ Tariel said, without looking up

from his cogitator gauntletвЂ™s keyboard. вЂњBy the time the warships enter orbit it will

be too late.вЂќ

The Garantine made a rumbling noise in the back of his throat that appeared to be

an affirmation.

вЂњWe commit now,вЂќ said Kell. вЂњThe Lance has been concealed, yes?вЂќ He looked

at Tariel, who nodded.

вЂњAye,вЂќ said the infocyte. вЂњGrohl supplied transport from the star-port. I

supervised the assembly of the component parts myself. ItвЂ™s ready.вЂќ

вЂњBut thereвЂ™s no way to test it, is there?вЂќ Koyne leaned forwards. вЂњIf this doesnвЂ™t

workвЂ¦вЂќ

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вЂњIt will work,вЂќ Kell insisted. вЂњEverything weвЂ™ve done has been leading up to this

moment. WeвЂ™re not going to start second-guessing ourselves now.вЂќ

вЂњI was only making an observation,вЂќ said the shade. вЂњAs I will be the closest to

the target, I think itвЂ™s fair to say I have the most invested in a trouble-free

termination.вЂќ

вЂњDonвЂ™t fret,вЂќ said the Eversor. вЂњYou wonвЂ™t get too dirty.вЂќ

вЂњWe have fall-back options in place.вЂќ Kell ignored the comment and nodded

towards Iota and Soalm. вЂњBut for now, we concentrate on the primary schema.вЂќ He

paused and threw Tariel a look.

The Vanus operative consulted a timer window among the panes of hololiths

hanging before him, and then glanced up. вЂњThe clanner patrols should be heading

back to the capital at any moment.вЂќ

вЂњAnd weвЂ™ll follow them.вЂќ Kell reached for his spy mask where it hung from his

gear belt. вЂњYou all have your own preparations to make. I suggest you complete them

in short order and then head out. Each of us will go back into the capital individually

via different routes, and rendezvous at the star-port. IвЂ™ll be waiting for you aboard the

Ultio after sunset.вЂќ

The only member of the group who did not move after KellвЂ™s dismissal was

Soalm. She looked at the Vindicare, her lips thinning. вЂњHas Capra been informed?вЂќ

вЂњDonвЂ™t be a fool!вЂќ snorted the Eversor, before the other man could even speak.

вЂњWe may have killed one of the turncoats in this little play-gang of rebels, but there

are likely others, watching and waiting for something juicy to report before they

betray this place.вЂќ The Garantine opened his clawed hands. вЂњThese people are

amateurs. They canвЂ™t be trusted.вЂќ

Soalm was still looking at Kell. вЂњWhat are they supposed to do after it is done?вЂќ

Iota saw colour rise in the VindicareвЂ™s cheeks, but he kept his temper in check.

вЂњCapra is resourceful. HeвЂ™ll know what to do.вЂќ

вЂњIf he has any sense,вЂќ muttered Koyne, вЂњheвЂ™ll run.вЂќ

Soalm turned away and was the first from the chamber.

Jenniker reached the compartment Beye had assigned to her and went in. What little

equipment she had was there, cunningly disguised as a lady travellerвЂ™s attachР№. It

seemed strangely out of place among such drab accommodation, on the Imperial

Army-surplus bedroll beside a drawstring bag of ration packs. She paused, studying

it.

Inside the case, concealed inside clever modules and secret sections, there were

vials of powder, flat bottles of colourless fluid, thin strips of metallised chemical

compounds, injectors and capsules and dermal tabs. The manner and means to end an

entire cityвЂ™s worth of human lives, if need be.

For a while she thought about how simple it would be to introduce a philtre of

time-release metasarin into the water system of the rebel hideout. Tailored with the

right mix, she could make it painless for them. They would just fall asleep, never to

wake. They would be spared the brutal deaths that were fated to them allвЂ”the

payment that would be exacted no matter if the Execution Force succeeded or failed.

She thought about Lady Sinope, of trusting Beye and the ever-suspicious Grohl.

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Some might have said it would be a mercy. The Warmaster was not a

magnanimous conqueror.

Soalm shook her head violently to dispel the thought, and hated herself in that

instant. вЂњI am not Eristede,вЂќ she whispered to the air.

A sharp knock at the rusted metal door startled her. вЂњHello?вЂќ said a voice. She

recognised it as one of the men she had seen in the makeshift chapel. вЂњAre you in

there?вЂќ

She slid the door open. вЂњWhat is it?вЂќ

The manвЂ™s face was flushed with worry. вЂњTheyвЂ™re coming,вЂќ he husked. She didnвЂ™t

need to ask who they were. If BeyeвЂ™s contacts in the city had spoken to Capra, then it

was logical to assume that others in the rebel encampment knew of what was on the

horizon as well.

вЂњI know.вЂќ

He pressed something into her palm. вЂњSinope gave me this for you.вЂќ It was a

tarnished voc-locket, a type of portable recording device that lovers or family

members gave to one another as a memento. The device contained a tiny, shortduration

memory spool and hologram generator. вЂњIвЂ™ll be outside.вЂќ He pulled the door

shut and Soalm was alone in the room again.

She turned the locket over in her hands and found the activation stud. Holding her

breath, she squeezed it.

A grainy hololith of Lady SinopeвЂ™s face, no larger than JennikerвЂ™s palm, flickered

into life. вЂњDear child,вЂќ she began, an urgency in her words that Soalm had not heard

before, вЂњforgive me for not asking this of you in person, but circumstances have

forced me to leave the caves. The man who gave you this is a trusted friend, and he

will bring you to me.вЂќ The noblewoman paused and she seemed to age a decade in

the space of a single breath. вЂњWe need your help. At first I thought I might be

mistaken, but with each passing day it has become clearer and clearer to me that you

are here for a reason. He sent you, Jenniker. You said yourself that you are only вЂa

messengerвЂ™вЂ¦ And now I understand what message you must carry.вЂќ The image

flickered as Sinope glanced over her shoulder, distracted by something beyond the

range of the locketвЂ™s tiny sensor-camera. She looked back, and her eyes were intense.

вЂњI have not been truthful with you. The place you saw, our chapelвЂ¦ ThereвЂ™s more

than just that. We have aвЂ¦ I suppose you could call it a sanctuary. It is out in the

wastes, far from prying eyes. I will be there by the time you receive this. I want you to

come here, child. We need you. He needs you. Whatever mission may have brought

you to Dagonet, what I ask of you now goes beyond it.вЂќ She felt the womanвЂ™s gaze

boring into her. вЂњDonвЂ™t forsake us, Jenniker. I know you believe with all your heart,

and even though it pains me to do so, I must ask you to choose your faith over your

duty.вЂќ Sinope looked away. вЂњIf you refuseвЂ¦ The rains of blood will fall all the way

to Holy Terra.вЂќ

The hologram faded and Soalm found her hands were shaking. She could not

look away from the locket, grasping it in her fingers as if it would magically spirit

her away from this place.

Lady SinopeвЂ™s words, her simple words, had cut into her heart. Her emotions

twisted tight in her chest. She was a sworn agent of the Officio Assassinorum, a

secluse of the Clade Venenum ranked at Epsilon-dan, and she had her orders. But she

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was also Jenniker SoalmвЂ”Jenniker KellвЂ” a daughter of the Imperium of Man and

loyal servant of the divine God-Emperor of Humanity.

Which path would serve Him best? Which path would serve His subjects best?

Try as she might, she could not shake off the power behind SinopeвЂ™s message.

The quiet potency of the noblewoman had bled into the room, engulfing her. Soalm

knew that what she was being asked to do was rightвЂ” far more so than a bloodsoaked

mission of murder that would only lead to death on a far greater scale.

The church of the Lectitio Divinitatus on Dagonet needed her. When she had

needed help after mother and fatherвЂ”and then EristedeвЂ”had been lost to her, it was

the word of the God-Emperor that had given her strength. Now that debt was to be

answered.

In the end she realised there was no question of what to do next.

The door opened with a clatter, and the rebel soldier started, turning to see the pale

assassin woman standing on the threshold. She had an elaborately-etched wooden

case over her shoulder on a strap, and was in the process of attaching a holstered

bact-gun to her belt. She looked up, her hood already up about her head. вЂњSinope said

you would take me to her.вЂќ

He nodded gratefully. вЂњYes, of course. This way. Follow me.вЂќ The rebel took a

couple of steps and then halted, frowning. вЂњThe othersвЂ¦ Your comrades?вЂќ

вЂњThey donвЂ™t need to know,вЂќ said Soalm, and gestured for him to carry on. The

two of them disappeared around a curve in the corridor, heading up towards the

surface.

From the shadows, Iota watched them go.

Spear loathed the warp.

When he travelled through the screaming halls of the immaterium, he did his best

to ensure that he did so in stasis, his body medicated into hibernationвЂ” or failing

that, if he were forced to remain awake by virtue of having assumed the identity of

another, then he prepared himself with long hours of mental rituals.

Both were in order to calm the daemonskin. In the realms of normal space, on a

planet or elsewhere, the molecule-thin layer of living tissue bonded to his birth flesh

was under his control. Oh, there were times when it became troublesome, when it

tried to defy him in small ways, but in the end Spear was the master of it. And as

long as it was fed, as long as he sated it with killings and blood, it obeyed.

But in the depths of warp space, things were different. Here, with only metres of

steel and the gauzy energy web of a Geller field between him and the thunder and

madness of the ethereal, the daemonskin became troublesome. Spear wondered if it

was because it sensed the proximity of its kindred out there, in the form of the

predatory, almost-sentient life that swarmed unseen in the wake of the starships that

passed.

Eurotas had granted him the use of a ship called the Yelene, a fast cutter from the

ConsortiumвЂ™s courier fleet designed to carry low-mass, high-value cargoes on swift

system-to-system runs. The YeleneвЂ™s crew were among the best officers and men the

clan had to offer, but Spear barely registered them. He gave the captain only two

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orders; the first was to make space for Dagonet at maximum speed; the second was

not to disturb him during the journey unless the ship was coming apart around them.

The crew all knew who Hyssos was. Among some levels of the Eurotas clanвЂ™s

hierarchy, he was seen as the Void BaronвЂ™s attack dog, and that reputation served

Spear well now, glowering through another manвЂ™s face at everyone he saw, before

locking himself into the opulent passenger cabin provided for his use. The cabin was

detailed in rich, red velvet that made the murderer feel like he was drowning in

blood. That comforted him, but only for a while.

Once the Yelene was in the thick of the warp, the daemonskin awoke and cried in

his mind like a wounded, whining animal. It wanted to be free, and for a long

moment, so did Spear.

He pushed the thought away as if he were drawing back a curtain, but it snagged

on something. Spear felt a pull deep in his psyche, clinging to the tails of the disloyal

emotion.

Sabrat.

NO NO NO NO

Furious, Spear launched himself at a bookcase along one of the walls and

slammed his head into it, beating his malleable face bloody. The impact and the pain

forced the remnant of the dead reeveвЂ™s persona away again, but the daemonskin was

still fretting and writhing, pushing at his tunic, issuing tendrils from every square

centimetre of bare flesh.

It would not obey him. The moment of slippage, the instant when the corpsemind

shard had risen to the fore, had allowed the daemonskin to gain a tiny foothold

of self-control.

вЂњThat wonвЂ™t do,вЂќ he hissed aloud, and strode over to the well-stocked drinks

cabinet. Spear found a bottle of rare Umbran brandy and smashed it open at the neck.

He doused the bare skin of his arms with the rich, peaty liquid and the tendrils

flinched. Then, he tore open the lid of a humidor on a nearby desk and took the evertaper

from within. At the touch of his thumb, it lit and he jabbed it into the skin. A

coating of bluish flame engulfed his hands and he bunched his fists, letting the pain

seep into him.

The fire and the pain.

Outside the ship there is nothing but fire. Inside, only pain.

Where he stands, he is shackled to the deck by an iron chain thicker than a manвЂ™s

forearm, heavy double links reaching to a manacle around his right leg. It is so tightly

fastened that he would need to sever the limb at the knee to gain his freedom.

His attention is not on this, however. One wall of the chamber in which the

masterвЂ™s warriors placed him is not there. Instead, there is only fire. Burning

madness. He is aware that a thin membrane of energy separates that inferno from

him. How this is possible he cannot know; such science-sorcery is beyond him.

He knows only that he is looking into the warp itself, and by turns the warp looks

back into him.

He howls and pulls at the chain. The runes and glyphs drawn all over his naked

body are itching and inflamed, cold-hot and torturing him. The warp is pulling at the

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monstrous, unknowable words etched into him. He howls again, and this time the

master answers.

вЂњBe afraid,вЂќ Erebus tells him. вЂњThe fear will smooth the bonding. It will give it

something to sink its teeth into.вЂќ

He canвЂ™t tell where the voice is coming from. Like so many times before, ever

since the opening of the cage, Erebus seems to be inside his thoughts whenever he

wishes to be. Sometimes the master comes in there and leaves thingsвЂ” knowledge,

ability, thirstsвЂ”and sometimes he takes things instead. Memories, perhaps. ItвЂ™s not

easy to be certain.

He has questions; but they die in his throat when he sees the thing coming from

the deeps of the warp. It moves like mercury, shimmering and poisonous. It sees him.

Erebus anticipates his words. вЂњA minor phylum of warp creature,вЂќ explains the

master. вЂњA predator. Dangerous but less than intelligent. Cunning, in a fashion.вЂќ

It is coming. The gauzy veil of energy trembles. Soon it will pucker and open,

just for the tiniest of moments. Enough to let it in.

вЂњIt can be domesticated,вЂќ says the Word Bearer. вЂњIf one has the will to control it.

Do you have the will, Spear?вЂќ

вЂњYes, masterвЂ”вЂќ

He does not finish his words. The predator-daemon finds the gap and streams

through it, into the opened bay of the starship. It smothers him, skirling and shrieking

its joy at finding a rich, easy kill.

This is the moment when Erebus allows himself a noise of amusement; this is the

moment when the daemon, in its limited way, realises that everywhere it has touched

SpearвЂ™s flesh, across every rune and sigil, it cannot release. It cannot consume.

And he collapses to the deck, writhing in agony as it tries to break free, fails,

struggles, and finally merges.

As the hatch closes off the compartment from the red hell outside, Spear hears the

masterвЂ™s voice receding.

вЂњIt will take you days of agony to dominate it, and failure will mean you both die.

The magicks etched into you cannot be broken. You are bonded now. It is your skin.

You will master it, as I have mastered you.вЂќ

The words echo and fade, and then there is only his screaming, and the daemonвЂ™s

screaming.

And the fire and the pain.

A thin and cold drizzle had come in with the veil of night, and all across the star-port,

the rain hissed off the cracked, battle-damaged runways and landing pads in a

constant rush of sound. Water streamed off the folded wingtips of the UltioвЂ™s forward

module, down through the broken roof of the hangar, spattering against the patch of

dry ferrocrete beneath the vessel where it crouched low to the ground. It resembled

an avian predator, ready to throw itself into the sky; but for now the shipвЂ™s systems

were running in dark mode, with nothing to betray its operable state to the infrequent

patrols that passed by.

The star-port had remained largely abandoned since the start of the insurrection.

It was still a long way down the clanner governmentвЂ™s long list of important

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infrastructure repairs. Rebel strikes against power stations and communications

towers made sure of that, although Capra had been careful that lines of supply were

kept open so that the native populace would not starve. He was winning hearts and

minds, for all the good that would do him in the long run.

Kell stood at the foot of the UltioвЂ™s landing ramp and peered into the rain through

the eye band of his spy mask, letting the built-in sensors do their work, considering

the freedom fighters once more. How would they react when they found the members

of KellвЂ™s team gone? Would they think they had been betrayed? Perhaps so. After all,

they had been, in a way. And when the mission reached its endpoint, Capra would

know full well who had been behind it.

вЂњAny sign?вЂќ TarielвЂ™s voice filtered down from above him. вЂњThe pilot-brain

reports that the passive sensors registered a blip a short time ago, but since then,

nothing.вЂќ

Kell didnвЂ™t look up at him. вЂњStatus?вЂќ

Tariel gave a sigh. The Garantine has sharpened his knives so much he could

slice the raindrops in two. вЂњI am monitoring the public and military vox-nets, and I

have prepared and loaded all my data phages and blackouts. Koyne is in the process

of mimicking the form of the troop commander we captured. I take it the Culexus and

the Venenum have still yet to arrive?вЂќ

вЂњYour powers of perception are as sharp as ever.вЂќ

вЂњHow long can we afford to wait?вЂќ he replied. вЂњWeвЂ™re very close to the

deployment time as it is.вЂќ

вЂњTheyвЂ™ll be here,вЂќ Kell said, just as something shimmered in the downpour

beyond the open hangar doors.

вЂњI am,вЂќ said Iota, emerging from the grey rain. Her voice had a strange, echoing

timbre inside her skull-helmet. She removed the weapon helm as she stepped into

cover, and shook loose the thin threads of her braided hair. вЂњI was delayed.вЂќ

вЂњBy what?вЂќ Tariel demanded. вЂњThereвЂ™s nobody out there.вЂќ

вЂњNobody out there now,вЂќ Iota gently corrected.

вЂњWhereвЂ™s the Venenum?вЂќ said Kell, his jaw stiffening. Iota glanced at him. вЂњYour

sister isnвЂ™t coming.вЂќ

KellвЂ™s eyes flashed with shock and annoyance. вЂњHowвЂ”?вЂќ

Tariel held up his hands in a gesture of self-protection. вЂњDonвЂ™t look at me. I said

nothing!вЂќ

The Vindicare grimaced. вЂњNever mind. ThatвЂ™s not important. Explain yourself.

What do you mean, sheвЂ™s not coming?вЂќ

вЂњJenniker has taken on a mission of greater personal importance than this one,вЂќ

the Culexus told him.

вЂњI gave her an order!вЂќ he barked, his ire rising by the second.

вЂњYes, you did. And she disobeyed it.вЂќ

Kell grabbed the other assassin by the collar and glared at her. He felt the black

shadow of the pariahвЂ™s soul-shrivelling aura rise off her in a wave, but he was too

furious to care. вЂњYou saw her go, didnвЂ™t you? You saw her go and you did nothing to

stop it!вЂќ

174

A flicker of emotion crossed IotaвЂ™s face, but it was difficult to know what it was.

Her dark eyes became solid orbs of void. вЂњYou will not touch me.вЂќ

KellвЂ™s skin tingled and his hand went ice-cold, as if it had been plunged into

freezing water. Reflexively he let the Culexus go and his fingers contracted in pain.

вЂњWhat were you thinking, girl?вЂќ he demanded.

вЂњYou donвЂ™t own her,вЂќ Iota said, in a low voice. вЂњYou gave up your part in her

life.вЂќ

The comment came out of nowhere, and Kell was actually startled by it. вЂњIвЂ¦

This is about the mission,вЂќ he went on, recovering swiftly. вЂњNot about her.вЂќ

вЂњYou tell yourself that and you pretend to believe it.вЂќ Iota straightened up and

stepped around him.

He turned; at the top of the ramp Tariel had been joined by the Garantine, the

Eversor rocking back and forth, his massive hands clenching and unclenching with

barely-restrained energy. A middle-aged man in PDF-issue rain slicker stood nearby,

toying with a poison knife. The expression of the face that Koyne had borrowed was

wrong, ill-fitting in some way that Kell could not express.

вЂњHow much longer?вЂќ snarled the Eversor. вЂњI want to kill an Astartes. I want to

see how it feels.вЂќ His jittery fingers played with the straps of his skull-mask, and the

pupils of his bloodshot eyes were black pinpricks.

Kell made a decision and stepped after the Culexus. вЂњIota. Do you know where

she went?вЂќ

вЂњI have an inkling,вЂќ came the reply.

вЂњFind Soalm. Bring her back.вЂќ

вЂњNow?вЂќ said Tariel, his face falling. вЂњNow, of all times?вЂќ

вЂњDo it!вЂќ Kell insisted. вЂњIf she has been compromised, then our entire mission is

blown.вЂќ

вЂњThatвЂ™s not the reason why,вЂќ said Iota. вЂњBut we can tell her it is, if you wish.вЂќ

The Vindicare pointed back out into the rains, which had begun to grow worse.

вЂњJust go.вЂќ He looked away. There was something in his chest, something there he had

thought long since vanished. An emptiness. A regret. He smothered it before it could

take hold, turning it to anger. Damn her for bringing these feelings back to the

surface! She was part of a past he had left behind, and he wanted it to remain that

way. And yetвЂ¦

Iota gave him a nod and her helmet rose to cover her face. Without looking back,

she broke into a run and was quickly swallowed up by the deluge.

The Garantine came stomping down the ramp, seething. вЂњWhat are you doing,

sniper?вЂќ He spat the words at him. вЂњThat gutless poisoner flees the field and you

make things worse by sending the witch away as well? Are you mad?вЂќ

вЂњIs the notorious Garantine actually admitting he needs the help of women?вЂќ said

Koyne, in the troop commanderвЂ™s voice. вЂњWonders never cease.вЂќ

The Eversor rage-killer loomed over the Vindicare. вЂњYouвЂ™re not fit to lead this

unit, you never were. YouвЂ™re weak! And now your lack of leadership is

compromising us all!вЂќ

вЂњYou understand nothing,вЂќ Kell snarled back.

175

A steel-taloned finger pressed on his chest. вЂњYou know whatвЂ™s wrong with your

clade, Kell? YouвЂ™re afraid to get the blood on you. YouвЂ™re scared of the stink of it,

you want things all neat and clean, dealt with at armвЂ™s length.вЂќ The Garantine jerked

a thumb at Koyne. вЂњEven that sexless freak is better than you!вЂќ

вЂњCharming,вЂќ muttered the Callidus.

The Eversor went on, hissing out each word in pops of spittle through bared teeth.

вЂњValdor must have been making sport when he put you in charge of this mission! Do

you think weвЂ™re all blind to the way you look at that Venenum bitch?вЂќ

In an instant, KellвЂ™s Exitus pistol was in his hands and then the muzzle of it was

buried in the exposed flesh of the GarantineвЂ™s throat, pressing into the stressed

muscles and taut veins.

вЂњKell!вЂќ Tariel called out a warning. вЂњDonвЂ™t!вЂќ

The Eversor laughed. вЂњGo on, sniper. Do it. Up close and personal, for the first

time in your life.вЂќ His clawed hands came up and he rammed the gun into the thick

flesh beneath his jaw. вЂњProve you have some backbone! Do it!вЂќ

For a second KellвЂ™s finger tightened on the trigger; but to murder an Eversor

rage-killer at point-blank range would be suicidal. The gene-modifications deep

inside the GarantineвЂ™s flesh contained within them a critical failsafe system that

would, should the assassinвЂ™s heart ever stop, create a combustive bio-meltdown

powerful enough to destroy everything close at hand.

Instead, Kell put all his effort into a vicious shove that propelled the Garantine

away. вЂњIf I didnвЂ™t need you,вЂќ he growled, вЂњIвЂ™d blow a hole in your spine and leave

you crippled and bleeding out.вЂќ

The Eversor sniggered. вЂњYou just made my argument for me.вЂќ

вЂњThis is pointless,вЂќ snapped Koyne, striding down the ramp. вЂњNo mission plan

ever works as it should. Every one of us knows that. We can complete the assignment

without the women. The primary target is still within our reach.вЂќ

вЂњThe Callidus is correct,вЂќ added Tariel, working his cogitator. вЂњIвЂ™m reconfiguring

the protocols now. There are overlapping attack vectors. We can still operate with

two losses.вЂќ

вЂњAs long as no one else walks off,вЂќ said the Garantine. вЂњAs long as nothing else

changes.вЂќ

KellвЂ™s face twisted in a grimace. вЂњWeвЂ™re wasting time,вЂќ he said, turning away.

вЂњSecure the Ultio and move out to your kill-points.вЂќ

The manвЂ™s name was Tros, and he didnвЂ™t talk much. He led Soalm out of the caverns

through a vaulted hall of rock that had once held fuel rods for DagonetвЂ™s long-dead

atmosphere converters, and to a waiting GEV skimmer.

Once they were on their way out into the wilds, the noise of the hovercraftвЂ™s

engines made conversation problematic at best. The assassin decided to sit back

behind the rebel and let him drive.

The skimmer was fast. They wound through the canyons of the Bladecut at

breakneck speed, and then suddenly the wall of rock dropped away around them,

falling into the ochre desert. As storm clouds rolled in above them from the west,

they went deeper and deeper into the wilderness. From time to time, Soalm saw what

176

might have been the remains of abandoned settlements; they dated back to the early

colonist decades, back to when this desert had been fertile arable land. That had been

in DagonetвЂ™s green phase, before the human-altered atmosphere had changed again,

shifting the good climate northwards. The population had moved with it, leaving only

the shells of their former homes lying like broken, scattered tombstones.

Finally the GEVвЂ™s engine note downshifted and they began to slow. Tros pointed

to something in the near distance, and Soalm glimpsed the shapes of tents flapping in

the winds, low pergolas and yurts arranged around the stubs of another forsaken

township. As the skimmer closed in and settled to the sand in a cloud of falling dust,

what caught her eye first was the mural of an Imperial aquila along one long pale

wall. It looked old, weather-beaten; but at the same time it shone in the fading

daylight as if it had been polished to a fine sheen by decades of swirling sand.

There had only been a handful of people in the makeshift chapel hidden in the

rebel base, and Soalm had been slightly disappointed to see how few followers of the

God-Emperor were counted among the freedom fighters. But she realised now that

small group had only been a fraction of the real number.

The followers of the Lectitio Divinitatus were here.

She stepped from the skimmer and walked slowly into the collection of

improvised habitats and reclaimed half-buildings. Even at first glance, Soalm could

see that there were hundreds of people. Adults and children, young and old, men and

women from all walks of life across DagonetвЂ™s society. Most of them wore makeshift

sandcloaks or hoods to keep the ochre dust from their mouths and noses. She saw

some who carried weapons, but they did so without the twitchy nervousness of

CapraвЂ™s rebels; one man with a lasgun eyed her as she passed him, and Soalm saw he

was wearing the remnants of a PDF uniform, tattered and ripped in the places where

the insignia had been stripped offвЂ”all except the aquila, which he wore proudly.

These people, the refugees, were in the process of gathering themselves together

for the coming night, tying down ropes and securing sheets. Out here, the winds

moved swiftly over the open desert and the particles of dark dust would get into

everything. The first curls of the breeze pulled at the hems of her robes as she walked

on.

Tros matched her pace and pointed to a strangely proportioned building with a

slanted wall and a forest of skeletal antennae protruding from where its roof should

have been. вЂњOver there.вЂќ

вЂњThese are Lady SinopeвЂ™s followers?вЂќ she asked.

The man gave a snort of amusement. вЂњDonвЂ™t say that to her face. SheвЂ™d think it

disrespectful.вЂќ Tros shook his head. вЂњWe donвЂ™t follow her. We follow Him. Milady

just helps us on the path.вЂќ

вЂњYou knew her before the insurrection?вЂќ

вЂњI knew of her,вЂќ he corrected. вЂњMy da met her once, when she was a younger

woman. Heard her speak to a secret meet at Dusker Point. Never thought IвЂ™d have the

chance myself, thoughвЂ¦ Milady has done much for us over the years.вЂќ

вЂњYour family have always been a part of the Imperial Cult, then?вЂќ

Tros nodded. вЂњBut thatвЂ™s not a name we use here. We call ourselves the Theoge.вЂќ

They approached the building and at once Soalm realised that it was no such

thing. The construction was actually a small ship, a good measure of its keel buried

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in the cracked, ruddy earth. Beyond it she saw the rusted frames of dock wharfs,

extending into the air. Once this place had been a wide river canal.

There were tents arranged along the side of the old vessel, each lit from within by

lamplight. вЂњThe people here are all from Dagonet?вЂќ

вЂњAnd other worlds on the axis,вЂќ said the man. вЂњSome of them were here on

pilgrimages in secret. Got trapped when the clanner nobles tipped everything up.вЂќ

вЂњPilgrimage?вЂќ she repeated. вЂњFor what reason?вЂќ Tros just nodded again. вЂњYouвЂ™ll

see.вЂќ He opened a heavy steel hatch for her and she went, inside.

The old ship had once been a freighter, perhaps a civic transport belonging to some

branch of the colonial Administratum; now all that stood was the gutted shell, the

sandblasted hull and the corroded metal frames of the decks. Inside, the skeleton of

the vessel had been repurposed with new walls made of dry stone or steel from the

hulls of cargo containers. The door closed with a solid thump behind Soalm and took

the brunt of the wind with it. Only a tendril of chill air reached through to paw at the

small drifts of sand in the entryway.

вЂњChild.вЂќ Sinope approached, and she had tears in her eyes. вЂњOh, child, you came.

Throne bless you.вЂќ

вЂњIвЂ¦ owed it,вЂќ said the Venenum. вЂњI had to.вЂќ

Sinope smiled briefly. вЂњI never doubted you would. And I know I have asked a

lot from you to do this. I have put you at risk.вЂќ

вЂњI was on a mission I did not believe in,вЂќ she replied. вЂњYou asked me to take up

another, for something I do believe in. It was no choice at all.вЂќ

The noblewoman took her hand. вЂњYour comrades will not see it the same way.

They may disown you.вЂќ

вЂњLikely,вЂќ Soalm replied. вЂњBut I lost what I thought of as my family a long time

ago. Since then, the only kinship I have had has been with others who know the God-

Emperor as we do.вЂќ

вЂњWe are your family now,вЂќ said Sinope. вЂњAll of us.вЂќ Soalm nodded at the

tightness of the old womanвЂ™s words, and she felt lifted. вЂњYes, you are.вЂќ But then the

moment of brightness faded as her thoughts returned to the content of the voclocket

message. She retrieved the device and pressed it back into SinopeвЂ™s thin, wrinkled

hands. вЂњHow can I help you?вЂќ

вЂњCome.вЂќ She was beckoned deeper into the shadowed wreck. вЂњThings will

become clearer.вЂќ

The beached ship, like the camp beyond it, was filled with people, and Soalm saw

the same expression in all of them; a peculiar mingling of fear and hope. With slow

alarm, she began to understand that it was directed towards her.

вЂњTros said you have refugees from all over Dagonet here. And from other worlds

as well.вЂќ

Sinope nodded as she walked. вЂњI hopeвЂ¦ I pray that there are other gatherings

hiding in the wilds. It would be so sad to admit that we are all that is left.вЂќ

вЂњBut there must be hundreds of people here alone.вЂќ

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Another nod. вЂњFour hundred sixteen, at last count. Mostly Dagoneti, but a handful

of visitors from other worlds in the Taebian Stars.вЂќ She sighed. вЂњThey came so far

and sacrificed so muchвЂ¦ And now they will never return home.вЂќ

вЂњHelp is coming.вЂќ Soalm had said the lie so many times over the past few weeks

that it had become automatic.

The noblewoman stopped and gave her a look that cut right through the

falsehood. вЂњWe both know that is not true. The God-Emperor is embattled and His

continued existence is far more important than any one of us.вЂќ She gestured around.

вЂњIf we must perish so that He may save the galaxy, that is a price we will gladly pay.

We will meet again at His right hand.вЂќ

SinopeвЂ™s quiet zeal washed over her. Soalm took a second to find her voice again.

вЂњHow long has theвЂ¦ the Theoge been here?вЂќ

вЂњBefore I was born, generations before,вЂќ said the old woman, continuing on.

вЂњBefore the age of the Great Crusade, even. It is said that when the God-Emperor

walked the turbulent Earth, even then there were those who secretly worshipped Him.

When He came to the stars, that belief came with Him. And then there was the

Lectitio Divinitatus, the book that gave form to those beliefs. The holy word!вЂќ

вЂњIs it true that it was written by one of the God-EmperorвЂ™s own sons?вЂќ

вЂњI do not know, child. All we can be sure of is that it is the Imperial truth.вЂќ She

smiled again. вЂњI grew up with that knowledge. For a long time, we and others like us

lived isolated lives, ignored at best, decried at worst. We who believed were thought

to be deluded fools.вЂќ

Soalm looked around. вЂњThese people donвЂ™t look like fools to me.вЂќ

вЂњIndeed. Our numbers have started to swell, and not just here. Groups of

believers all across the galaxy are coming together. Our faith knows no boundaries,

from the lowliest hiver child to men who walk the palaces of Terra itself.вЂќ She

paused, thinking. вЂњThe darkness sown by the Warmaster has brought many to our

fold. In the wake of his insurrection there have been horrors and miracles alike. This

is our time of testing, of that I have no doubt. Out creed is in the ascendant, dear

child. The day will come when all the stars bend their knee to Holy Terra and the

God-EmperorвЂ™s glory.вЂќ

вЂњBut not yet,вЂќ she said, an edge of bitterness in her voice. вЂњNot today.вЂќ

Sinope touched her arm. вЂњHave faith. We are part of something larger than

ourselves. As long as our belief survives, then we do also.вЂќ

вЂњThe people from the other worlds,вЂќ Soalm pressed. вЂњTros said they were here on

a pilgrimage. I donвЂ™t understand that.вЂќ

Sinope did not reply. They followed a patched metal staircase into the lower

levels of the old ship, treading with care to avoid broken spars and fallen stanchions.

Down here the stink of rust and dry earth was heavy and cloying. After a few metres,

they came to a thickly walled compartment, armoured with layers of steel and

ceramite. Four men, each armed with heavy-calibre weapons, were crowded around

the only hatchway that led inside. They had hard eyes and the solid, dense builds of

humans from heavy-gravity worlds. The assassin knew immediately that they were,

to a man, career soldiers of long and lethal experience.

Each of them gave a respectful bow as Sinope came into the light cast from the

lumes overhead, doffing their caps to the old woman. Soalm watched her go to each

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in turn and talk with them as if they were old friends. She seemed tiny and fragile

next to the soldiers, and yet it was clear that they hung on her every word and

gesture, like a troupe of devoted sons. Her smiles became theirs. Sinope gestured to

her. вЂњGentlemen, this is Jenniker.вЂќ

вЂњSheвЂ™s the one?вЂќ said the tallest of the four, a heavy stubber at rest in his hands.

Sinope nodded. вЂњYou have all served the Theoge so selflessly,вЂќ she told them,

вЂњand your duty is almost done. Jenniker will take this great burden from you.вЂќ

The tall man gave a regretful nod and then snapped his fingers at another of the

four. The second soldier worked the thick wheel in the centre of the hatch, and with a

squeal of rusted metal, he opened the door to the cargo compartment.

Sinope advanced inside and Soalm followed warily behind her. It was gloomy

and warm, and there was a peculiar stillness in the air that prickled her bare skin. The

hatch closed with a crunch.

вЂњDagonet is going to fall,вЂќ said the noblewoman, soft and sorrowful. вЂњDeath is

close at hand. The God-EmperorвЂ™s love will preserve our souls but the ending of our

flesh has already been written. He cannot save us.вЂќ

Soalm wanted to say something, to give out a denial, but nothing would come.

вЂњHe knows this. That is why, in His infinite wisdom, the Master of Mankind had

you brought to us in His stead, Jenniker Soalm.вЂќ

вЂњNo,вЂќ she managed, her heart racing. вЂњI am here in service to a lie! To perish for

a meaningless cause! I have not even been spared the grace to have a truth to die

for!вЂќ

Sinope came to her and embraced the assassin. вЂњOh, dear child. You are

mistaken. He sent you to us because you are the only one who can do what we

cannot. The God-Emperor turned your destiny to cross my path. You are here to

protect something most precious.вЂќ

вЂњWhat do you mean?вЂќ

The noblewoman stepped away and moved to a small metal chest. She worked a

control pad on the surfaceвЂ”a combination of bio-sensor bloodlocks and security

layersвЂ”and Soalm stepped closer to get a better look. She knew the design; the chest

was of advanced Martian manufacture, a highly secure transport capsule fitted with

its own internal support fields, capable of long-term survival in a vacuum, even

atmospheric re-entry. It was very much out of place here.

The chest opened in a gust of gas, and inside Soalm saw the shimmer of a stasis

envelope. Within the ephemeral sphere of slowed time was a book of the most ornate,

fantastic design, and it seemed to radiate the very power of history from its open

pages.

вЂњSee,вЂќ said Sinope, bowing deeply to the tome. вЂњLook, child, and see the touch of

His hand.вЂќ

SoalmвЂ™s gaze misted as tears pricked her eyes. Before her, gold and silver and

purple illuminated a stark page of vellum. On it, the portrait of the angelic might of

the God-Emperor standing over a kneeling man in the finery of a rogue trader. In the

traderвЂ™s hands this book; and falling from his MasterвЂ™s palm, the shimmering droplet

of crimson vitae that rested on the recto page. The scarlet liquid glittered like a

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flawless ruby, frozen in that distant past, as bright and as new as it had been the

second it fell.

вЂњEmperorвЂ™s bloodвЂ¦вЂќ she whispered.

Jenniker Soalm sank to her knees in unrestrained awe, bowing her head to the

Warrant of Trade of the Clan Eurotas.

181

FOURTEEN

Arrival

Let Me See You

Kill Shot

The dawn was close as the Dove-class shuttle dropped from the cold, black sky on its

extended aerofoils. The craft made an elongated S-turn and came in from over the

wastelands to make a running touchdown on the only runway that was still intact.

The landing wheels kicked up spurts of rock dust and sparks as the YeleneвЂ™s auxiliary

slowed to a shuddering halt, the wings angling to catch the air and bleed off its

momentum.

The shuttle was the only source of illumination out among the shadows of

DagonetвЂ™s star-port, the running lights casting a pool of white across the cracked,

ash-smeared ferrocrete. The surroundings had a slick sheen to them; the rains had

only ceased a few hours ago.

No one came out from the dark, lightless buildings to examine the new arrivals; if

anyone was still in there, then they were staying silent, hoping that the world would

ignore them.

In the cockpit, the pilot and co-pilot exchanged glances. Following the

operativeвЂ™s orders, they had made no attempt to contact Dagonet port control on their

way down, but both men had expected to be challenged by the local PDF at least

once for entering their airspace unannounced.

There had been nothing. When the Yelene slipped into orbit, no voices had been

raised to them. The skies over Dagonet were choked with debris and the remnants of

recent conflict. It had tested the skills of the cutterвЂ™s bridge crew to keep the vessel

from colliding with some of the larger fragments, the husks of gutted space stations

or the hulls of dead system cruisers still burning with plasma fires. What craft they

had spotted that were intact, the operative ordered them to give a wide berth.

Yelene came as close as she dared to Dagonet and then released the shuttle. On

the way down the flight crew saw the devastation. Places where the map-logs said

there should have been cities were smoke-wreathed craters glowing with the

aftershock of nuclear detonations; other settlements had simply been abandoned.

Even here, just over the ridge from the capital itself, the planet was silent, as if it

were holding its breath.

вЂњYou saw the destruction,вЂќ said the pilot, watching his colleague skim across the

vox channels. вЂњAll that dust and ash in the atmosphere could attenuate signal traffic.

Either that or theyвЂ™ve shut down all broadcast communications planetwide.вЂќ

182

The other man nodded absently. вЂњWired comm is more secure. They could be

using telegraphies instead.вЂќ

Before the pilot could answer, the hatch behind them opened and the man called

Hyssos filled the doorway. вЂњDouse the lights,вЂќ he ordered. вЂњDonвЂ™t draw more

attention than we need to.вЂќ

вЂњAye, sir.вЂќ The co-pilot did as he was told, and the illumination outside died.

The pilot studied the operative. He had heard the stories about Hyssos. They had

said he was a hard man, hard but fair, not a martinet like some commanders the pilot

had served with. He found it difficult to square that description with his passenger,

though. All through the voyage from the Eurotas flotilla to the planet, Hyssos had

been withdrawn and frosty, terse and unforgiving when he did take the time to bother

speaking to someone. вЂњHow do you wish to proceed, operative?вЂќ

вЂњDrop the cargo lift,вЂќ came the reply.

Again, the co-pilot did this with a nod. The elevator-hatch in the belly of the

shuttle extended down to the runway; cradled on it was a swift jetbike, fuelled and

ready to fly.

вЂњA question,вЂќ said Hyssos, as he turned this way and that, studying the interior of

the shuttle cockpit. вЂњThis craft has a cogitator core aboard. Is it capable of taking us

to orbit on its own?вЂќ

вЂњAye,вЂќ said the pilot, uncertain of where the question was leading. вЂњItвЂ™s not

recommended, but it can be done in an emergency.вЂќ

вЂњWhat sort of emergency?вЂќ

вЂњWell,вЂќ began the co-pilot, looking up, вЂњif the crew are incapacitated, orвЂ”вЂќ

вЂњDead?вЂќ

HyssosвЂ™ hands shot out, the fingers coming together to form points, each one

piercing the soft flesh of the menвЂ™s necks. Neither had the chance to scream; instead

they made awkward gasping gurgles as their throats were penetrated.

Blood ran in thick streams from their wounds, and Hyssos grimaced, turning their

heads away so the fluid would not mark his tunic. Both men died watching their own

vitae spurt across the control panels and the inside of the canopy windows.

Spear stood for a while with his hands inside the meat of the menвЂ™s throats, feeling

the tingle of the tiny mouths formed at the ends of his fingertips by the daemonskin,

as they lapped at the rich bounty of blood. The proxy flesh absorbed the liquid, the

rest of it dribbling out across the grating of the deck plates beneath the crew chairs.

Then, convinced that the daemonskin was in quietus once more, Spear moved to

a fresher cubicle to clean himself off before venturing down to the open cargo bay.

He decided not to bother with a breather mask or goggles, and eased himself into the

jetbikeвЂ™s saddle. The small flyer was a thickset, heavy block of machined steel,

spiked with winglets and stabilators that jutted out at every angle. It responded to his

weight by triggering the drive turbine, running it up to idle.

Spear leaned forward, glancing down at a cowled display pane that showed a map

of the local zone. A string of waypoint indicators led from the star-port out into the

wastelands, following the line of what was once a shipping canal but now a dry bed

of dusty earth. The secret destination the Void Baron had given him blinked blue at

183

the end of the line; an old waystation dock abandoned after the last round of climate

shifts. The Warrant was there, held in trust.

The murderer laughed at the pulse of anticipation in his limbs, and grasped the

throttle bar, sending the turbine howling.

He had to give credit to the infocyte; the location that Tariel had selected for the hide

was a good one, high up inside an empty water tower on the roof of a tenement block

a kilometre and a half from the plaza. It was for this very reason that Kell rejected it

and sought out another. Not because he did not trust the Vanus, but because two men

knowing where he would fire from was a geometrically larger risk than one man

knowing. If Tariel was captured and interrogated, he could not reveal what he had not

been told.

And then there was the matter of professional pride. The water tower was too

obvious a locale to make the hide. It was tooвЂ¦ easy, and if Kell thought so, then any

officer of the PDF down in the plaza might think the same, make a judgement and

have counter-snipers put in place.

The dawn was coming up as the Vindicare found his spot. Another tenement

block, but this one was removed half the distance again from the marble mall outside

the GovernorвЂ™s halls. From what Kell could determine, it seemed as if the building

had been struck two-thirds of the way up by a plummeting aerofighter. The upper

floors of the narrow tower were blackened from the fires that had broken out in the

wake of the impact, and on the way up, Kell had to navigate past blockades of fallen

masonry mixed with wing sections and ragged chunks of fuselage. He came across

the tail of the aircraft embedded in an elevator shaft, like the feathers of a thrown dart

buried in a target.

Where it had impacted, a chunk of walls and floors was missing, as if something

had taken a bite out of the building. Kell skirted the yawning gap that opened out to a

drop of some fifty or more storeys and continued his climb. The fire-damaged levels

stank of seared plastic and burned flesh, but the thick, sticky ash that coated every

surface was dull and non-reflectiveвЂ”an ideal backdrop to deaden KellвЂ™s sensor

profile still further. He found the best spot in a room that had once been a communal

laundry, and arranged his cameoline cloak between the heat-distorted frames of two

chairs. Combined with the deadening qualities of his synskin stealthsuit, the

marksman would be virtually invisible.

He tapped a pad on the palm of his glove with his thumb. An encrypted burst

transmitter in his gear vest sent a signal lasting less than a picosecond. After a

moment, he got a similar message in return that highlighted the first of a series of

icons on his visor. Tariel was reporting in, standing by at his kill-point somewhere

out in the towers of the western business district. This was followed by a ready-sign

from Koyne, and then another from the Garantine.

The two remaining icons stayed dark. Without Iota, they had to do without

telepathic cover; if the Sons of Horus decided to deploy a psyker, they would have no

warning of itвЂ¦ but then the WarmasterвЂ™s Legion had never relied on such things

before and the Assassinorum had no intelligence they would do so today. It was a

risk Kell was willing to take.

184

And SoalmвЂ¦ Jenniker. The purpose of a Venenum poisoner was as part of the

original exit strategy for the Execution Force. The detonation of several shortduration

hypertoxin charges would sow confusion among the human populace of the

city and clog the highways with panicking civilians, restricting the movements of the

Astartes. But now they would do without thatвЂ”and Kell felt conflicted about it. He

was almost pleased she was not here to be a part of this, that she would not be at risk

if something went wrong.

The echo of that thought rang hard in his chest, and the press of the sudden

emotion surprised him. He remembered the look in her eyes when she had entered

the room in the Venenum manseвЂ”the coldness and the loathing. It was identical to

the expression she had worn all those years ago, on the day he had told her he was

accepting the mission to find mother and fatherвЂ™s killer. Only then, there had also

been pity there as well. Perhaps she had lost the capacity to know compassion, over

time.

He had hoped, foolishly, he now realised, that she might have come to understand

why he had made his choice. The killing of their parents had been an aching, burning

brand in his thoughts; the need for raw vengeance, although at the time he had no

words to describe it. A deed that could not be undone, and one that could not go

unanswered.

And when the kill was finished, after all the deaths it took to reach itвЂ¦ Mother

and father were still dead, but he had avenged them, and the cost had only been the

love of the last person who cared about him. Kell always believed that if he had the

chance to change that moment, to make the choice again, he would have done

nothing differently. But after looking his sister in the eye, he found that certainty

crumbling.

It had been easy to be angry with her at first, to deny her and hate her back for

turning her face from him, eschewing her familyвЂ™s name. But as time passed, the

anger cooled and became something else. Only now was he beginning to understand

it had crystallised into regret.

A slight breeze pulled at him and Kell frowned at his own thoughts, dismissing

them as best he could. He returned to the mission, made his hide, gathering his gear

and assembling what he would need for the duration in easy reach. Backtracking, he

rigged the stairwells and corridors leading to the laundry room with pairs of tripmines

to cover his rear aspect, before placing his pistol where he could get to it at a

momentвЂ™s notice.

Then, and only then, did he unlimber the Exitus longrifle. One of the Directors

Tertius at the clade had told him of the Nihon, a nation of fierce warriors on ancient

Terra, who it was said could not return their swords to their scabbards after drawing

them unless the weapons first tasted blood. Something of that ideal appealed to Kell;

it would not be right to cloak such a magnificent weapon as this without first taking a

life with it.

He settled into a prone position, running through meditation routines to relax

himself and prepare his body, but he found it difficult. Matters beyond the missionвЂ”

or truthfully, matters enmeshed with itвЂ”preyed on him. He frowned and went to

work on the rifle, dialling in the imager scope, flicking through the sighting modes.

185

Kell had zeroed the weapon during their time with CapraвЂ™s rebels, and now it was

like an extension of himself, the actions rote and smooth.

Microscopic sensor pits on the muzzle of the rifle fed information directly to his

spy mask, offering tolerance changes and detailing windage measurements. He

flicked down the bipod, settling the weapon. Kell let his training find the range for

him, compensating for bullet drop over distance, coriolis effect, attenuation for the

moisture of the late rains still in the air, these and a dozen other variables. With care,

he activated a link between his burst transmitter and the Lance. A new icon appeared

a second later; the Lance was ready.

He leaned into the scope. The display became clearer, and solidified. His aiming

line crossed from the habitat tower, over the stub of a nearby monument, through the

corridor of a blast-gutted administratum office, down and down to the open square

the locals called Liberation Plaza. It was there that Horus Lupercal had killed the

crooked priest-king that had ruled DagonetвЂ™s darkest years, early in the Great

Crusade. There, he had expended only one shot and struck such fear into the tyrantвЂ™s

men that they laid down their guns and surrendered at the sight of him.

A figure swam into view, blurred slightly by the motion of air across the

kilometres of distance between them. A middle-aged man in the uniform of a PDF

troop commander. As he looked in KellвЂ™s direction, his mouth moved and

automatically a lip-reading subroutine built into the scopeвЂ™s integral auspex translated

the words into text.

HeвЂ™s coming, Kell, read the display. Very soon now.

The Vindicare gave the slightest of nods and used KoyneвЂ™s torso to estimate his

final range settings. Then the disguised Callidus moved out of view and Kell found

himself looking at an empty patch of milk-white marble.

The sandstorm hid her better than any camouflage. Iota moved through it, enjoying

the push and pull of the wind on her body, the hiss and rattle of the particles as they

scoured her metal skull-helm, plucking at the splines of the animus speculum.

The Culexus watched the world through the sapphire eye of the psionic weapon,

feeling the pulse and throb of it on the periphery of her thoughts like a coldness in

her brain. Humans moved through the arc of fire and she tracked them. Each of them

would register her attention without really knowing it; they would shiver

involuntarily and draw their sandcloaks tighter, quickening their step to reach warmth

and light and safety a little faster. They sensed her without sensing her, the ominous,

ever-present shadow of null she cast falling on them. Children, when she turned her

hard, glittering gaze in their direction, would begin to cry and not know the reason.

When she passed close to tents full of sleeping figures, she could hear them mutter

and moan under their breath; she passed over their dreams like a windborne storm

cloud, darkening the skies of their subconscious for a moment before sliding beyond

the horizon.

IotaвЂ™s pariah soulвЂ”or lack thereofвЂ”made people turn away from her, made them

avert their eyes from the shadowed corners where she moved. It was a boon for her

stealth, and with it she entered the sanctuary encampment without raising an alarm.

She scrambled up a disused crane gantry, across the empty cab and along the rusted

jib. Old cables whined in atonal chorus as the winds plucked at them.

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From here she had a fine view of the beached ship at the centre of the settlement.

What pathways there were radiated out from here, and she had already spotted the

parked skimmer peeking out from beneath a tethered tarpaulin; the last time she had

seen that vehicle, it had been in CapraвЂ™s hideaway. She settled in and waited.

Eventually, a hatch opened, spilling yellow light into the dusty air, and Iota

shifted down along the length of the crane jib, watching.

A quartet of armed men exited, two carrying a small metal chest between them.

Following on behind was the Venenum and the old noblewoman who had spoken in

such strange ways about the Emperor. Auspex sensors in IotaвЂ™s helmet isolated their

conversation so she could listen.

Soalm was reaching a hand out to brush it over the surface of the chest, and

although she wore her hood up, Iota believed she could see a glitter of high emotion

in her eyes. вЂњWe have a small ship,вЂќ she was saying. вЂњI can get the Warrant aboardвЂ¦

But after thatвЂ”вЂќ She turned her head and a gust of wind snatched the end of the

sentence away.

The old woman, Sinope, was nodding. вЂњThe Emperor protects. You must find

Baron Eurotas, return it to him.вЂќ She sighed. вЂњAdmittedly, he is not the most devoted

of us, but he has the means and method to escape the Taebian Sector. Others will

come in time to take stewardship of the relic.вЂќ

вЂњI will protect it until that day.вЂќ Soalm looked at the chest again, and Iota

wondered what they were discussing; the contents of the coffer had some value that

belied the scuffed, weather-beaten appearance of the container. SoalmвЂ™s words were

almost reverent.

Sinope touched the other womanвЂ™s hand. вЂњAnd your comrades?вЂќ

вЂњTheir mission is no longer mine.вЂќ

Iota frowned at that behind her helmвЂ™s grinning silver skull. The Culexus would

be the first to admit that her grasp of the mores of human behaviour was somewhat

stunted, but she knew the sound of disloyalty when she heard it. With a flex of her

legs, she leapt off the rusting crane, the jib creaking loudly as she described a backflip

that put her down right in front of the four soldiers. They were bringing up their

guns but Iota already had her needier levelled at SinopeвЂ™s head; she guessed correctly

that the old woman was the highest value target in the group.

Soalm called out to the others to hold their fire, and stepped forward. вЂњYou

followed me.вЂќ

вЂњAgain,вЂќ said Iota, with a nod. вЂњYou are on the verge of irreversibly

compromising our mission on Dagonet. That cannot be allowed.вЂќ From the corner of

her eye, the Culexus saw Sinope go pale as she dared to give the protiphage her full

attention.

вЂњGo back to Eristede,вЂќ said the poisoner. вЂњTell him I am gone. Or dead. It doesnвЂ™t

matter to me.вЂќ

Iota cocked her head. вЂњHe is your brother.вЂќ She ignored the widening of SoalmвЂ™s

eyes. вЂњIt matters to him.вЂќ

вЂњIвЂ™m taking the Ultio,вЂќ insisted the other woman. вЂњYou can stay here and take

part in this organised suicide if you wish, but I have a greater calling.вЂќ Her eyes

flicked towards the chest and back again.

187

вЂњHorus comes,вЂќ said Iota, drawing gasps from some of the soldiers. вЂњAnd we are

needed. The chance to strike against the Warmaster may never come again. What can

you carry in some iron box that has more value than that?вЂќ

вЂњI donвЂ™t expect you to understand,вЂќ Soalm replied. вЂњYou are a pariah; you were

born without a soul. You have no faith to give.вЂќ

вЂњNo soulвЂ¦вЂќ Sinope echoed the words, coming closer. вЂњIs that possible?вЂќ

вЂњIn this chest is a piece of the EmperorвЂ™s divinity, made manifest,вЂќ Soalm went

on, her eyes shining with zeal. вЂњI am going to protect it with my life from the ruinous

powers intent on its destruction! I believe this with my heart and spirit, Iota! I swear

it in the name of the living God-Emperor of Mankind!вЂќ

вЂњYour beliefs are meaningless,вЂќ Iota retorted, becoming irked by the womanвЂ™s

irrationality. вЂњOnly what is real matters. Your words and relics are ephemeral.вЂќ

вЂњYou think so?вЂќ Sinope stepped fearlessly towards the Culexus, reaching out a

hand. вЂњHave you never encountered something greater than yourself? Never

wondered about the meaning of your existence?вЂќ She dared to touch the metal face of

the skull. вЂњLook me in the eye and tell me that. I ask, child. Let me see you.вЂќ

Somewhere in the distance, Iota thought she heard a ripple of jet noise, but she

ignored it. Instead, uncertain where the impulse came from, she reached up a hand

and thumbed the release that let the skullhelmet fold open and retreat back over her

shoulders. Her face naked to the winds and sand, she turned her gaze on the old

woman and held it. вЂњHere I am.вЂќ She felt a question stir in her. вЂњIs Soalm right? Can

you tell? Am I soulless?вЂќ

SinopeвЂ™s hand went to her lips. вЂњIвЂ¦ I donвЂ™t know. But in His wisdom, I have

faith that the God-Emperor will know the answer.вЂќ

IotaвЂ™s eyes narrowed. вЂњNo amount of faith will stop you from dying.вЂќ

The ship came out of the void shrouded in silence and menace.

Rising over the far side of DagonetвЂ™s largest moon like a dragon taking wing, the

Astartes battleship came on, prow first, knifing through the vacuum towards the

combat-cluttered skies. Wreckage and corpses desiccated by the punishing kiss of

space rebounded off the sheer sides of its bow as serried ranks of weapons batteries

turned in their sockets to bear on the turning world beneath them. Hatches opened,

great irises of thick space-hardened brass and steel yawning to give readiness to

launch bays where Stormbird drop-ships and Raven interceptors nestled in their

deployment cradles. Bow doors hiding the mouths of missile tubes retreated.

What few vessels there were close to the planet did not dare to share the same

orbit, and fled as fast as their motors would allow them. As they retreated, they

transmitted fawning, obeisant messages that were almost begging in tone, insisting

on their loyalties and imploring the invader shipвЂ™s commander to spare their lives.

Only one vessel did not show the proper level of grovelling fearвЂ”a fast cutter in a

rogue traderвЂ™s livery, whose crew broke for open space in a frenzy of panic. As a man

might stretch a limb to ready it before a day of exercise, the battleship discharged a

desultory barrage of beam fire from one of its secondary batteries, obliterating the

cutter. This was done almost as an afterthought.

The massive craft passed in front of the sun, throwing a partial occlusion of black

shadow across the landscape far below. It sank into a geostationary orbit, stately and

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intimidating, hanging in place over the capital city as the dawn turned all eyes below

to the sky.

Every weapon in the battleshipвЂ™s arsenal was prepared and oriented down at the

surfaceвЂ”torpedo arrays filled with warshots that could atomise whole continents in a

single strike, energy cannons capable of boiling off oceans, kinetic killers that could

behead mountains through the brute force of their impact. This was only the power of

the ship itself; then there was the minor fleet of auxiliary craft aboard it, wings of

fighters and bombers that could come screaming down into DagonetвЂ™s atmosphere on

plumes of white fire. Swift death bringers that could raze cities, burn nations.

And finally, there was the army. Massed brigades of genetically-enhanced

warrior kindred, hundreds of Adeptus Astartes clad in ceramite power armour, loaded

down with boltguns and chainswords, power blades and flamers, man-portable

missile launchers and autocannons. Hosts of these warlords gathered on the

mustering decks, ready to embark at their drop-ship stations if called upon, while

othersвЂ”a smaller number, but no less dangerous for itвЂ”assembled behind their liege

lord high commander in the battleshipвЂ™s teleportarium.

The vessel had brought a military force of such deadly intent and utter lethality

that the planet and its people had never known the like, in all their recorded history.

And it was only the first. Other ships were following close behind.

This was the visitation granted to Dagonet by the Sons of Horus, the tip of a

sword blade forged from shock and awe.

Far below, across the white marble of Liberation Plaza, a respectful hush fell over the

throng of people who had gathered since the previous dayвЂ™s dusk, daring at last to

venture out into the streets. The silence radiated outward in a wave, crossing beyond

the edges of the vast city square, into the highways filled with halted groundcars and

standing figures. It bled out through the displays on patched streetscreens at every

intersection, relayed by camera ballutes drifting over the GovernorвЂ™s hall; it fell from

the crackling mutter of vox-speakers connected to the national watch-wire.

The quiet came down hard as the planet looked to the sky and awaited the arrival

of their redeemer, the owner of their new allegiance. Their war-god.

SoalmвЂ™s hands were trembling, but she wasnвЂ™t sure what emotion was driving her.

The righteous passion erupting from laying eyes on the Warrant rolled and churned

around her as if she were being buffeted by more than just the gritty windsвЂ”but

there was something else there. IotaвЂ™s hard words about Eristede had come from out

of nowhere, and they pulled her thoughts in directions she did not wish them to go.

She shook her head; now of all times was not the moment to lose her way. The ties

that had once existed between Jenniker and her brother had been severed long ago,

and dwelling on that would serve no purpose. Her hands slipped towards the

concealed pockets in the surplice beneath her travelling robe, feeling for the toxin

cordes concealed there. She wondered if the Culexus would fight her if she refused to

carry out the AssassinorumвЂ™s orders. Soalm knew the God-Emperor would forgive

her; but her brother never would.

The tension of the moment was broken as two figures approached out of the haze

of the sandstorm, from the direction of the dry canal bed. She recognised Tros, his

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steady, rolling gait. At his side was a dark-skinned man whose threads of grey hair

were pulled out behind him by the wind, where they danced like errant serpents. The

new arrival had no dust mask or eye-shield, and he gave no sign that the scouring

sands troubled him.

Sinope stepped towards him, and from the corner of her eye Soalm saw the

noblewomanвЂ™s men tense. They were unsure where to aim their guns.

Iota made an odd noise in the back of her throat and her hand went to her face.

Soalm thought she saw a flash of pain there.

вЂњWho is this?вЂќ Sinope was asking.

вЂњHe came in from out of the storm,вЂќ Tros replied, speaking loudly so they all

could hear him. Nearby, people had been drawn by the sound of raised voices and

they stood at slatted windows or in doorways, watching. вЂњThis is Hyssos. The Void

Baron sent him.вЂќ

The dark man bowed deeply. вЂњYou must be the Lady Astrid Sinope.вЂќ His voice

was resonant and firm. вЂњMy lord will be pleased to hear you are still alive. When we

heard about Dagonet we feared the worst.вЂќ

вЂњEurotasвЂ¦ sent you?вЂќ Sinope seemed surprised.

вЂњFor the Warrant,вЂќ said Hyssos. He opened his hand and there was a thickset ring

made of gold and emerald in his palmвЂ”a signet. вЂњHe gave me this so you would

know I carry his authority.вЂќ

Tros took the ring and passed it to Sinope, who pressed it to a similar gold band

on her own finger. Soalm saw a blink of light as the sensing devices built into the

signets briefly communed. вЂњThis is valid,вЂќ said the noble, as if she could not quite

believe it.

Iota moved away, and she stumbled a step. Soalm glanced after her. The waif

gasped and made a retching noise. The Venenum felt an odd, greasy tingle in the air,

like static, only somehow colder.

Hyssos extended his hands. вЂњIf you please? I have a transport standing by, and

time is of the essence.вЂќ

вЂњWhat sort of transport?вЂќ said Tros. вЂњWe have children here. You could take

themвЂ”вЂќ

вЂњTros,вЂќ Sinope warned. вЂњWe canвЂ™tвЂ”вЂќ

вЂњOf course,вЂќ Hyssos said smoothly. вЂњBut quickly. The Warrant is more important

than any of us.вЂќ

Something was wrong. вЂњAnd you are here now?вЂќ Soalm asked the question even

as it formed in her thoughts. вЂњWhy did you not come a day ago, or a week? Your

timing is very opportune, sir.вЂќ

Hyssos smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. вЂњWho can fathom the God-

EmperorвЂ™s ways? I am here now because He wishes it.вЂќ His gaze cooled. вЂњAnd who

are you?вЂќ HyssosвЂ™ expression turned stony as he looked past Soalm to where Iota was

standing, her whole body quivering. вЂњWho are you?вЂќ he repeated, and this time it was

a demand.

Iota turned and she let out a shriek that was so raw and monstrous it turned

SoalmвЂ™s blood to ice. The Culexus girlвЂ™s face was streaked with liquid where lines of

crimson fell from the corners of her eyes. Weeping blood, she brought up the

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needier-weapon fixed to her forearm, aiming at Hyssos; with her other hand she

reached up and tore away the necklet device that regulated her psionic aura.

Against the close, gritty heat of the predawn, a wave of polar cold erupted from

out of nowhere, with the psyker at its epicentre. Everyone felt the impact of it,

everyone staggered off their balanceвЂ”everyone but Hyssos.

вЂњYou pariah whore,вЂќ The manвЂ™s expression twisted in odious fury. вЂњWeвЂ™ll do this

the hard way, then.вЂќ

Soalm saw his face open up like a mechanism made of meat and blood, as ice

formed on the sand at her feet. Inside him there were only his glaring black eyes and

a forest of fangs about a lamprey mouth.

Rage flared like a supernova and Spear let it fill him. Anger and frustration boiled

over; nothing about this bloody mission had gone to plan. It seemed as if at every

stage he was being tested, or worse, mocked by the uncaring universe around him as

it threw obstacle after obstacle into his path.

First the interruption of the purge and his inability to rid himself of the last

vestiges of SabrafвЂ™s sickening morality; then the discovery of the fake Warrant of

Trade, and the ridiculous little secret of EurotasвЂ™ shameful idolatry; and now, after an

interminable voyage to find it, more of these pious fools clogging the way to his

prize. He knew it was there, he could sense the presence of the true Warrant hidden

inside that nondescript armoured box, but still they tried to stop him from taking it.

Spear had wanted to do this cleanly. Get in, take what he needed, leave again

with a minimum of bloodshed and time wasted. It seemed the fates had other ideas,

and the whining, pleading daemonskin was bored. The kills on the shuttle had been

cursory things. It wanted to play.

In any event, his hand had been forced, and if he were honest with himself, he

was not so troubled by this turn of events. Spear had been so set on the recovery of

the Warrant and what it contained that he had hardly been aware of the gloomy

presence at the edges of his thoughts until he turned his full attention towards it. Who

could have known that something as rare and as disgusting as a psychic pariah would

be found here on Dagonet? Was it there as some manner of defence for the book? It

didnвЂ™t matter; he would kill it.

Unseen by the mortals around them, for a brief second the psyker bitchвЂ™s aura of

icy negation had clipped the raw, mad flux of the daemonskin and the ephemeral

bond that connected itвЂ”and Spear, as its merge-mateвЂ”to the psionic turmoil of the

warp.

He knew then that this encounter was no chance event. The girl was an

engineered thing, something vat-grown and modified to be a hole in space-time, a

telepathic void given human form. A pariah. An assassin.

The girlвЂ™s null-aura washed over him and the daemonskin did not like the touch

of it. It rippled and needled him inside, making its host share in the cold agony of the

pariahвЂ™s mental caress. It refused to hold the pattern of Hyssos, reacting, shivering,

clamouring for release. SpearвЂ™s near-flawless assumption of the Eurotas operative

fractured and broke, and finally, as the rage grew high, he decided to allow it to

happen.

191

The skin-matter masquerading as human flesh puckered and shifted into red-raw,

bulbous fists of muscle and quivering, mucus-slicked meat. The uniform tunic across

his shoulders and back split as it was pulled past the tolerances of the cloth. Lines of

curved spines erupted from his shoulders, while bone blades slick as scimitars

emerged from along his forearms. Talons burst through the soles of his boots,

digging into drifts of sand, and wet jaws yawned.

He heard the screaming and the wails of those all around him, the sounds of guns

and knives being drawn. Oh, he knew that music very well.

Spear let the patina of the Hyssos identity disintegrate and matched the will of the

daemonskinвЂ™s living weapons to his own; the warpflesh loved him for that.

The first kill he made here was a soldier, a man with a stubber gun that SpearвЂ™s

extruded bone blades cut in two across the stomach, severing his spine in a welter of

blood and stinking stomach matter.

His vision fogged red; somewhere the pariah was crying out in strident chorus

with the other women, but he didnвЂ™t care. He would get to her in a moment.

* * *

The sun rose off to his right, and Kell was aware of it casting a cool glow over the

plaza. He changed the visual field of the scope to a lower magnification and watched

the line of shadows retreat across the marble flagstones.

The morning light had a peculiarly crystalline quality to it, an effect brought on

by particles in the air buoyed across the wastelands on the leading edges of a distant

sandstorm. Ambient moisture levels began to drop and the Exitus rifleвЂ™s internals

automatically compensated, warming the firing chamber by fractions of degrees to

ensure the single loaded bullet in the breech remained at an optimal pre-fire state.

The sounds of the crowd reached him, even high up in his vantage point. The

noise was low and steady, and it reminded him of the calm seas on Thaxted as they

lapped at the shores of black mud and dark rock. He grimaced behind his spy mask

and pushed the thought to the back of his mind; now was not the time to be distracted

by trivia from his past.

Delicately, so the action would not upset the positioning of the weapon by so

much as a millimetre, he thumbed the action selector switch from the safe position to

the armed setting. Indicator runes running vertically down the scopeвЂ™s display

informed him that the weapon was now ready to commit to a kill. All that Kell

required now was his target.

He resisted the urge to look up into the sky. His quarry would be here soon

enough.

A kilometre to the west, Tariel licked dry lips and tapped his hand over the curved

keypad on his forearm, acutely aware of how sweaty his palms were. His breathing

was ragged, and he had to work to calm himself to the point where he was no longer

twitching with unspent adrenaline.

He took a long, slow breath, tasting dust and ozone. In the corridors of the office

tower, drifts of paper spilled from files discarded in panic lay everywhere, among

192

lines and lines of abandoned cubicle workspaces left empty after the first shots of

rebellion had been fired. No one had come up here since the nobles had forced the

Governor to renounce the rule of Terra; the men and women who had toiled in this

place had either gone to ground, embraced the new order or been executed. At first,

the dead, empty halls had seemed to echo with the sound of them, but eventually

Tariel had accepted that the tower was just as much an empty vessel as so many other

Imperial installations on Dagonet. Gutted and forsaken in the rush to eschew the

Emperor and embrace his errant son.

The Vanus crouched by the side of the Lance, and laid a finger on the side of its

cylindrical cowling. The device was almost as long as the footprint of the tower, and

it had been difficult to reassemble it in secret. But eventually the components from

UltioвЂ™s cargo bay had done as their designers in the Mechanicum promised. Now it

was ready, and through the cowling Tariel could feel the subtle vibration of the

power core cycling through its ready sequence. Content that the device was in good

health, Tariel dropped into a low crouch and made his way to the far windows, which

looked down into the valley of the capital and Liberation Plaza. The infocyte was

careful to be certain that he would not be seen by patrol drones or ground-based PDF

spotters.

He took a moment to check the tolerances and positioning of the hyperdense

sentainium-armourglass mirrors for the tenth time in as many minutes. It was

difficult for him to leave the mechanism alone; now that he had set a nest of alarm

beams and sonic screamers on the lower levels to deal with any interlopers, he had

little to do but watch the Lance and make sure it performed as it should. In an

emergency, he could take direct control of it, but he hoped it would not come to that.

It was a responsibility he wasnвЂ™t sure he wanted to shoulder.

Each time he checked the mirrors, he became convinced that in the action of

checking them he had put them out of true, and so he would check them again, step

away, retreatвЂ¦ and then the cycle of doubt would start once more. Tariel tightened

his hands into fists and chewed on his lower lip; his behaviour was verging on

obsessive-compulsive.

Forcing himself, he turned his back on the LanceвЂ™s tip and retreated into the dusty

gloom of the building, finding the place he had chosen for himself as his shelter for

when the moment came. He sat and brought up his cogitator gauntlet, glaring into the

hololithic display. It told Tariel that the device was ready to perform its function. All

was well.

A minute later he was back at the mirrors, cursing himself as he ran through the

checks once again.

Koyne strode across the edge of the marble square, as near as was safe to the lines of

metal crowd barriers. The shade scanned the faces of the Dagoneti on the other side

of them, the adults and the children, the youthful and the old, all seeing past and

through the figure in the PDF uniform as they fixed their eyes on the same place; the

centre of Liberation Plaza, where the mosaic of an opened eye spread out rays of

colour to every point of the compass. The design was in echo of the personal sigil of

the Warmaster, and the Callidus wondered if it was meant to signify that he was

always watching.

193

Such notions were dangerously close to idolatry, beyond the level of veneration

that a primarch of the Adeptus Astartes should expect. One only had to count the

statues and artworks of the Warmaster that appeared throughout the city; the Emperor

had more of them, that much was certain, but not many more. And now all the

towering sculptures of the Master of Mankind were torn down. Koyne had heard

from one of the other PDF officers that squads of clanner troops trained in

demolitions had been scouring the city during the night, with orders to make sure

nothing celebrating the EmperorвЂ™s name still stood unscathed. The assassin grimaced;

there was something almostвЂ¦ heretical about such behaviour.

Even here, off towards the edges of the plaza, there was a pile of grey rabble that

had once been a statue of KoyneвЂ™s liege lord, shoved unceremoniously aside by a

sapper crewвЂ™s dozer-track. Koyne had gone to look at it; at the top of the wreckage,

part of the statueвЂ™s face was still intact, staring sightlessly at the sky. What would it

see today?

The Callidus turned away, passing a measuring gaze over the nervous lines of

PDF soldiers and the robed nobles standing back on the gleaming, sunlit steps of the

great hall. Governor Nicran was there among them, waiting with every other

Dagoneti for the storm that was about to break. Between them and the barriers, the

faint glitter of a force wall was visible with the naked eye, the pane of energy rising

high in a cordon around the point of arrival. NicranвЂ™s orders had been to place field

generators all around the entrance to the hall, in case resistance fighters tried to take

his life or that of one of the turncoat nobles.

Koyne sneered at that. The thought that those fools believed themselves to be

high value targets was preposterous. On the scale of the galactic insurrection, they

ranked as minor irritants, at best. Posturing fools and narrow-sighted idiots who

willingly gave a foothold to dangerous rebels. Moving on, the Callidus found the

location that Tariel had chosenвЂ”in the lee of a tall ornamental columnвЂ”and

prepared. From here, the view across the plaza was unobstructed. When the kill

happened, Koyne would confirm it firsthand.

Suddenly, there was a blast of fanfare from the trumpets of a military band, and

Governor Nicran was stepping forward. When he spoke, a vox-bead at his throat

amplified his voice.

вЂњGlory to the Liberator!вЂќ he cried. вЂњGlory to the Warmaster! Glory to Horus!вЂќ

The assembled crowd raised their voices in a thundering echo.

The Garantine ripped off the hatch on the roof of the security minaret as the shouting

began, the sound masking the squeal of breaking hinges. He dropped into the open

gallery, where uniformed officers pored over sensor screens and glared out through

smoked windows overlooking the plaza. Their auspexes ranged all over the city,

networking with aerial patrol mechanicals, ground troops, law enforcement units,

even traffic monitors. They were looking for threats, trying to pinpoint bombers or

snipers or anyone that might upset the GovernorвЂ™s plans for this day. If anyone so

much as fired a shot within the city limits, they would know about it.

They did not expect to find an assassin so close at hand. Firstly the Garantine let

loose with his Executor combi-pistol, taking care to use only the needier; bolt fire

would raise the alarm too soon. Still, it was enough. Two-thirds of them were dead or

194

dying before the first manвЂ™s gun cleared its holster. They simply could not compete

with the amplified, drug-enhanced reflexes of the rage-killer. All of them were

moving in slow-motion compared to him, not a one could hope to match him. The

Eversor killed with break-neck punches and brutal, bullet-fast stabbing. He wrenched

throats into wreckage, stove in ribs and crashed spines; and for the one PDF officer

who actually dared to shoot a round in his direction, he left his gift to the last. That

man, he murdered by putting the fingers of his neuro-gauntlet through his eyes and

breaking his skull.

With a rough chuckle, the Garantine let his kill drop and licked his lips. The room

was silent, but outside the crowd cried for the Sons of Horus.

And then they came.

A knot of coruscating blue-white energy emerged from the air and grew in an

instant to a glowing sphere of lightning. Tortured air molecules screamed as the

teleporter effect briefly twisted the laws of physics to breaking point; in the next

second, the blaze of light and noise evaporated and in its place there were five angels

of death.

Adeptus Astartes. Most of the people in the plaza had never seen one before, only

knowing them from the statues they had seen and the picts in history books and

museums. The real thing was, if anything, far more impressive than the legends had

ever said.

The cries of adulation were silenced with a shocked gasp from a thousand throats;

when Horus had come to liberate Dagonet all those years ago, he had come with his

Luna Wolves, the XVI Legiones Astartes. They had stood resplendent in their

flawless moon-white armour, trimmed with ebony, and it was this image that was

embedded in the collective mind of the Dagoneti people.

But the Astartes standing here, now, were clad in menacing steel-grey from

helmet to boot, armour trimmed in bright shining silver. They were gigantic shadows,

menacing all who looked upon them. Their heavy armour, the planes of the pauldrons

and chest plates, the fierce visages of the red-eyed helms, all of it was as awesome as

it was terrifying. And there, clear as the sun in the sky, on their shoulders was the

symbol of the great open eyeвЂ”the mark of Horus Lupercal.

The tallest of the warriors, his battle gear decked with more finery than the

others, stepped forward. He was covered with honour-chains and combat laurels, and

about his shoulders he wore a metal dolman made from metals mined in the depths of

Cthon; the Mantle of the Warmaster, forged by HorusвЂ™ captains as a symbol of his

might and unbreakable will.

He drew a gold-chased bolt pistol, raising it up high above his head; and then he

fired a single shot into the air, the round crashing like thunder. The same sound that

rang about Dagonet on the day they were liberated. Before the empty shell casing

could strike the marble at his feet, the crowd were shouting their fealty.

Glory to Horus.

The towering warrior holstered his gun and unsealed his helmet, drawing it up so

the world might see his face.

195

There could be no hesitation. No margin for error. Such a chance would never come

again.

KellвЂ™s crosshairs rested on the centre of the scowling grille of the Astartes helmet.

The shimmering interference of distance seemed to melt away; now there was only

the weapon and the target. He was a part of the weapon, the trigger. The final piece

of the mechanism.

Time slowed. Through the scope, Kell saw armoured hands clasp the sides of the

helmet, flexing to lift it up from the neck ring. In a moment more, flesh would be

exposed, a neck bared. A clear target.

And if he did this, what then? What ripples would spread from the assassination

of Horus Lupercal? How would the future shift in this moment? What lives would be

saved? What lives would be lost? Kell could almost hear the sound of the gears of

history turning about him.

He fired.

The hammer falls. The single shot in the chamber is a .75 calibre bullet manufactured

on the Shenlong forge world to the exacting tolerances of the Clade Vindicare. The

percussion cap is impacted, the propellant inside combusts. Exhaust gases funnel into

the pressure centre of a boat-tail round, projecting it down the nitrogen-cooled barrel

at supersonic velocities. The sound of the discharge is swallowed by suppression

systems that reduce the aural footprint of the weapon to a hollow cough.

As the round leaves the barrel, the Exitus longrifle sends a signal to the Lance;

the two weapons are in perfect synchrony. The Lance marshals its energy to expend

it for the first and only time. It will burn itself out after one shot.

The round crosses the distance in seconds, dropping in exactly the expected arc

towards the figure in the plaza. Windage is nominal, and does not alter its course.

Then, with a flash, the bullet strikes the force wall. Any conventional ballistic round

would disintegrate at this moment; but the Exitus has fired a Shield-Breaker.

Energised fragments imbued with anti-spinward quantum particles fracture the

force wallвЂ™s structure, and collapse it; but the barrier is on a cycling circuit and will

reactivate in less than two-tenths of a second.

It is not enough. The energy of the Lance follows the Shield-Breaker in as the

force wall falls; the Lance is a single-use X-ray laser, slaved to KellвЂ™s rifle, to shoot

where he shoots. The stream of radiation converges on the exact same point, with

nothing to stop it. The shot strikes the target in the throat, reducing flesh to atoms,

superheating fluids into steam, boiling skin, vaporising bone.

The only sound is the fall of the headless corpse as it crashes to the ground, blood

jetting across the white marble and the WarmasterвЂ™s shining mantle.

196

FIFTEEN

Rapture

Aftershock

Retribution

There was something exhilarating about taking kills in this fashion.

The many murders that lay at SpearвЂ™s feet were usually silent, intimate affairs.

Just the killer and the victim, together in a dance that connected them both in a way

far more real, far more honest than any other relationship. No one was really naked

until the moment of their death.

But this; Spear had never killed more than three people at once because the need

had never arisen. Now he was giddy with the blood-rash, wondering why he had

never done this before. The joy of the frenzy was all-consuming and it was glorious.

Throwing off all pretence at stealth and subterfuge was liberating in its own way.

He was being truthful, baring himself for everyone to see; and they ran screaming

when they witnessed it.

Through the low howl of the sandstorm, the refugees were crying out and

scattering. He sprinted after them, hooting with laughter.

He had never been so open. Even as a child, he had hidden himself away, afraid

of what he was. And then when the women in gold and silver came for him aboard

their Black Ship, he concealed himself still deeper. Even the men with eyes of metal

and glass who had cut upon him, plumbing the depths of his anomalous, deviant

mind, even they had not seen this face of him.

Spear was a whirling torrent of claws and talons, teeth and horns, the daemonskin

blurring as it shifted and reformed itself to end the life of each victim in a new and

brutal way. Gasping mouths opened up all over him where vitae spattered his bare

flesh, drinking it in.

The last of the soldiers was shooting at him, and he felt bursts of burning pain as

thick, high-calibre shots impacted his back and legs. The daemonskin screeched as it

shunted away the majority of the impact force, preventing the rounds from ever

penetrating SpearвЂ™s actual flesh. He spun on his heel, pivoting like a dancer, flipping

over though the air. The other soldiers were lying in pools of their own fluids, the

sand drinking in their last where heads had been torn open, hearts crashed. Spear

skipped over the soldierвЂ™s comrades and ignored the burn of a shot that caressed his

face. He came close and angled on one leg, bringing his other foot up in a speeding

black arc. Talons flicked out and the impact point was the manвЂ™s nasal cavity. Bone

splintered with a wet crunch, jagged fragments entering his brain like daggers.

How many dead was that? In the race and chase of it, the murderer had lost count.

197

Then he saw the witch hiding her face behind a steel skull and he didnвЂ™t care

about that anymore. The thin, wiry female shot a fan of needles at him and he dodged

most of them, a handful biting into the daemonflesh before the skin puckered and

vomited them back out into the dust. This was just a delaying tactic, though. He felt

the tremor moving through the warp, the alien monster sheathing his body shivering

and reacting in disgust at the proximity of her.

Ill light gathered around the assassinвЂ™s aura, sucked into the void within her

through the fabric of her stealthsuit. The wind seemed to die off around the waif, as if

she were generating a globe of nothingness that sound itself could not enter. The

construct of lenses and spines emerging from the side of the grinning steel skull-helm

crackled with power, and the perturbed air bowed like water ripples.

A black stream of negative energy cascaded from the weapon and seared Spear as

he threw up his hands to block it. The impact was immense, and he screamed with a

pain unlike any he had ever felt before. The daemonskin was actually burning in

places, weeping yellowish rivulets of pus where it blistered.

All his amusement perished in that second; this was no game. The psyker girl was

more deadly than he had given her credit for. More than just a pariah, she wasвЂ¦ She

was in a small way like him. But where SpearвЂ™s abilities were inherent to the twisted,

warp-changed structure of his soul, the girl was only a pale copy, a half-measure. She

needed the augmentation of the helmet-weapon just to come close to his perfection.

Spear felt affronted by the idea that something could approach the power of his

murdergift through mechanical means. He would kill the girl for her pretence.

The daemonskin wanted him to fall back, to retreat and take vital moments to

heal; he ignored the moaning of it and did the opposite. Spear launched himself at the

psyker, even as he fell into the nimbus of soul-shrivelling cold all about her. He

immediately felt his own power being dragged out of him, the pain so bright and

shining it was as if she were tearing the arteries from his flesh.

For a brief moment, Spear realised he was experiencing some degree of what it

was like for a psyker to die at his hand; this must have been what Perrig had felt as

she transformed into ashes.

He lashed out before the undertow could pull him in. Claws like razors split the

air in a shimmering arc and sliced across the armoured fabric and the flesh of the

waif girlвЂ™s throat. It was not enough to immediately kill her, but it was enough to

open a vein.

She clapped a hand to the wound to staunch it, but not quick enough to stop an

arc of liquid red jetting into the air. Spear opened his mouth and caught it in the face,

laughing again as she stumbled away, choking.

Inside IotaвЂ™s helmet, blood was pooling around her mouth and neck, issuing in

streams from her ears, her nostrils. Her vision was swimming in crimson as tiny

capillaries burst open inside her eyes, and she wept red.

The animus speculum worked to recharge itself for a second blast of power. Iota

had made a mistake and fired the first discharge too soon, without letting it build to

maximum lethality. Her error had been to underestimate the potentiality of thisвЂ¦

thing.

198

She had no frame of reference for what she was facing. At first thought she had

imagined he was another assassin, sent against her in some power play to undo the

works of the Execution Force. She could not see the logic in such a thing, but then

the clades had often pursued strange vendettas against one another to assuage trivial

slights and insults; these things happened as long as there was no evidence of them

and more importantly, no ill-effects to the greater mission of the Officio

Assassinorum.

But this killer was something beyond her experience. That much was certain. At

the very least, the glancing hit from the animusвЂ™ beam should have crippled him. Iota

turned the readings of her aura-sensor across him and what she saw there was

shocking.

Impossibly, his psionic signature was changing, transforming. The sinuous

nimbus of ghost colours spilled from the peculiar flesh-matter shrouding his body,

and with a sudden leap of understanding, Iota realised she was seeing into a hazy

mirror of the warp itself; this being was not one life but two, and between them

gossamer threads of telepathic energy sewed them both into the inchoate power of

the immaterium. Suddenly, she understood how he had been able to resist the animus

blast. The energy, so lethal in the real world, was no more than a drop of water in a

vast ocean within the realms of warp space. This killer was connected to the ethereal

in a way that she could never be, bleeding out the impact of the blast into the warp

where it could dissipate harmlessly.

The shifting aura darkened and became ink black. This Iota had seen before; it

was the shape of her own psychic imprint. He was mirroring her, and even as she

watched it happen, Iota felt the gravitational drag on her own power as it was drawn

inexorably towards the shifting, changing murderer.

He was like her, and unlike as well. Where the clever mechanisms of the animus

speculum sucked in psionic potentiality and returned it as lethal discharge, this

manвЂ¦ this freakish aberrationвЂ¦ he could do the same alone.

It was the blood that let him do it. Her blood, ingested, subsumed, absorbed.

Iota screamed; for the first time in her life, she really, truly screamed, knowing

the blackest depths of terror. The fires in her mind churned, and she released them.

He laughed as they rolled off him and reverberated back across space-time.

IotaвЂ™s mouth filled with ash, and her cries were silenced.

The moment seemed to stretch on into infinity; there was no noise across Liberation

Plaza, not even the sound of an indrawn breath. It was as if a sudden vacuum had

drawn all energy and emotion from the space. It was the sheer unwillingness to

believe what had just occurred that made all of Dagonet pause.

In the next second, the brittle instant shattered like glass and the crowds were in

turmoil, the twin flood-heads of sorrow and fury breaking open at once. Chaos

exploded as the people at the front of the crowd barriers surged forwards and

collapsed the metal panels, moving in a slow wave towards the ragged line of

shocked clanner soldiers. Some of the troops had their guns drawn; others let

themselves be swallowed up by the oncoming swell, deadened by the trauma of what

they had witnessed.

199

On an impulse the Callidus could not quantify, Koyne leapt from the base of the

pillar and ran behind the line of crackling force-wall emitters. No one blocked the

way. The shock was palpable here, thick in the air like smoke.

The hulking Astartes were in a combat wheel around the corpse of their

commander, weapons panning right and left, looking for a target. Their discipline

was admirable, Koyne thought. Lesser beings, ordinary men, would have given in to

the anger they had to be feeling without pauseвЂ”but the Callidus did not doubt that

would soon come.

One of them shoved another of his number out of the way, tearing off his helmet

with a twist of his hand. For a fraction of a second Koyne saw real emotion in the

warriorвЂ™s flinty aspect, pain and anguish so deep that it could only come from a

brother, a kinsman. The Astartes had a scarred face, and this close to him, the

assassin could see he bore the rank insignia of a brother-sergeant of the 13th

Company.

That seemed wrong; according to intelligence on the Sons of Horus, their

primarch always travelled with an honour guard of officers, a group known as the

Mournival.

вЂњDead,вЂќ said one of the other Astartes, his voice tense and distant. вЂњKilled by

cowardsвЂ¦вЂќ

Koyne came as close as the Callidus dared, standing near a pair of worriedlooking

PDF majors who couldnвЂ™t decide if they should go to the side of Nicran and

the other nobles, or wait for the Astartes to give them orders.

The sergeant bent down over the corpse and did something Koyne could not see.

When he stood up once more, he was holding a gauntlet in his hand; but not a

gauntlet, no. It was a master-crafted augmetic, a machine replacement for a forearm

lost in battle. He had removed it from the corpse, claiming it as a relic.

But Horus does notвЂ”

вЂњMy captain,вЂќ rumbled the sergeant, hefting his bolt-gun with a sorrowful nod.

вЂњMy captainвЂ¦вЂќ

KoyneвЂ™s heart turned to a cold stone in his chest, and movement caught his eye as

Governor Nicran pushed away from the rest of the nobles and started down the stairs

towards the Astartes. The noise of the crowd was getting louder, and the Callidus had

to strain to hear as the sergeant spoke into the vox pickup in the neck ring of his

breast plate.

вЂњThis is Korda,вЂќ he snarled, his ire building. вЂњLocation is not, repeat not secure.

We have been fired upon. Brother-Captain SediraeвЂ¦ has been killed.вЂќ

Sedirae. The Callidus knew the name, the commander of the 13th Company. But

that was impossible. The warrior Kell had shot wore the mantle, the unique robe

belonging to the primarch himselfвЂ¦вЂќ

вЂњHorus?вЂќ Nicran was calling, tears running down his face as he came closer. вЂњOh,

for the Stars, no! Not the Warmaster, please!вЂќ

вЂњOrders?вЂќ said Korda, ignoring the babbling nobleman. Koyne could not hear the

reply transmitted to the sergeantвЂ™s ear-bead, but the shift in set of the Space MarineвЂ™s

jaw told the tale of exactly what had been said. With a jolt of fear, the Callidus turned

and broke away, sprinting down the steps towards the crowds.

200

Koyne heard the peal of NicranвЂ™s voice over the rush of the mob and turned in

mid-run. The Governor was shaking his hands, wracked with sobs in front of the

impassive, grey-armoured Astartes. His words were lost, but he was doubtless

begging or pleading to Korda, vainly making justifications.

With a small movement, the warrior raised the barrel of his bolter and shot the

Governor at point-blank range, blasting his body apart. As one, KordaвЂ™s men

followed his example, turning their guns towards the nobles and executing them.

Over the bass chatter of bolt-fire, the Astartes roared out an order, and it cut

through the bedlam like a knife.

вЂњBurn this city!вЂќ he shouted.

Soalm stumbled through the butchery clutching the bact-gun and dragging the chest

behind her. Sinope was with her, trying to support the other end of the container as

best she could. The noblewomanвЂ™s men were all gone.

The dust-filled air was heavy with the sound of weapons-fire and pain, and there

seemed nowhere they could turn that took them away from it.

Soalm stumbled against a shack just as a wave of ephemeral terror radiated out

and caught her in its wake. The air turned thick and greasy with the spoor of psionic

dischargeвЂ”and then she heard IotaвЂ™s echoing screams, amplified through the

vocoder of the CulexusвЂ™ helmet.

вЂњHoly TerraвЂ¦вЂќ whispered the old woman, It could only have been IotaвЂ™s deathcry;

no other voice could carry such dreadful emotion in it.

Soalm turned towards the sound and saw the ending of her happen. Particles of

sickly energy were liberated from IotaвЂ™s twitching body in a rush of light and noise,

and then her stealthsuit collapsed, the silver-steel helmet falling away. Clogged puffs

of grey cinders spilled from the black uniform as it crumpled into a heap, the body

that had filled it disintegrated in a heartbeat. The skull-faced helmet rolled to a halt,

spilling more dark ash into the churning winds.

вЂњJenniker!вЂќ Sinope cried out her name as a shape blurred towards them. The

Venenum felt a massive impact against her and she was thrown aside, losing her grip

on the chest. She managed to fire two quick bursts from the bact-gun as she tumbled,

rewarded with the pop and hiss of acids striking flesh.

IotaвЂ™s killer loomed out of the buzzing sands, back-lit by the harsh light of the

sunrise. She was reaching for a toxin corde as he punched her savagely, disarming

her with the force of the blow. The bact-gun tumbled away and was lost. Soalm felt a

jagged slash of pain in her chest as her ribs snapped. Falling to the ground, she tried

to retch, and found herself in a damp patch of earth, mud formed from sand and

spilled arterial blood. A clawed foot swept in and struck her where she had fallen,

and another bone snapped. Soalm looked up, hearing laughter.

The writhing shadow loomed, bending towards her; then a length of iron pipe

came from nowhere and slammed into the killerвЂ™s spine, drawing an explosive hiss of

fury. Soalm moved, agony racing through her, trying desperately to retreat.

Sinope, her face lit with righteous fury, drew back her improvised weapon and hit

him again, the old woman putting every moment of force she could muster into the

blow. вЂњFor the God-Emperor!вЂќ she bellowed.

201

The killer did not allow her a third strike, however. He arrested the fall of the iron

pipe and held it in place, his other hand snapping out to grasp SinopeвЂ™s thin, bird-like

neck and pull her off her feet. With a vicious shove, he twisted his grip on the pipe

and used it to run the noblewoman through; then he discarded her and strode away.

He came upon the chest where it had fallen, and Soalm gave a weak cry as the

murdererвЂ™s inky, liquid flesh streamed into the locking mechanism and broke it open

from within. The ancient book fell into the sand, and Soalm saw the stasis shell

around it sputter out and die.

вЂњNo,вЂќ she croaked. вЂњYou cannotвЂ¦ You cannot take itвЂ¦вЂќ

The killer crouched and picked up the Warrant, flipping through the aged pages

with careless speed, the paper fracturing and tearing. вЂњNo?вЂќ he said, without turning

to her. вЂњWho is going to stop me?вЂќ

He reached the last page and released a booming, hateful laugh. Soalm felt a lash

of sympathetic pain as he ripped the leaf from the binding of the priceless Eurotas

relic and cupped the yellowed vellum in his hand. For a moment, she thought she saw

the shimmer of liquid on the page, catching the rays of the sunlight.

Then, as if it were some delicacy he was sampling at a banquet, the killer tipped

back his head and opened his mouth, his forked jaws opening like an obscene

blossom. A dozen more tiny fanged maws opened across his cheeks and neck as he

tipped up the paper and swallowed the blood of the God-Emperor:

He began to scream and howl, and the riot of malformation in his flesh became a

storm of writhing fronds, tenticular forms, gnashing mouths. His body lost control

over itself, the red-black skin warping and distending into shapes that were

nauseating and vile.

Weeping in her agony and her failure, Soalm dragged herself away towards TrosвЂ™

skimmer, desperate to flee before the killerвЂ™s rapture came to its end.

Kell was already on his way out even as the echo of his gunshot died around him. He

drew up the cameo-line cloak across his shoulders, pulling the Exitus longrifle over

one arm. He set the timers on the emplaced explosives to ignite once he was clear.

The Vindicare paused to add an extra krak charge to a support pillar in the middle of

the laundry room; when it detonated, it would collapse the ceiling above and with

luck, obliterate what remained intact of the hab-towerвЂ™s gutted upper levels. He had

left no trace behind him, but it paid to be thorough.

Kell heard the sounds rising up from the streets as he dropped down to the tier

below, moving towards his exit point. Disorder would spread like wildfire in the

wake of the assassination; the Execution Force had to get beyond the city perimeter

before the pandemonium caught up to them.

He went to the edge of the shattered flooring and looked out. He could see people

beneath him, the tiny dots of figures running in the avenues. Kell kicked aside a piece

of fallen masonry and recovered his descent gear.

The vox link in his spy mask crackled as the seldom-used general channel was

keyed.

Kell froze. Only the members of the team knew the frequency, and all of them

knew that the channel was a mechanism of last resort. Even though it was heavily

202

encrypted, it lacked the untraceable facility of the burst transmitters; the fact that one

of the team was using it now meant something had gone very, very wrong.

The next sound he heard was the voice of the Callidus. Every word said was

being simultaneously transmitted to Tariel and the Garantine. вЂњMission fail,вЂќ said

Koyne, panting with the exertion of running. He could hear bolter shots and

screaming in the background. вЂњConfirming mission fail.вЂќ

Kell was shaking his head. That could not be true; the last thing he had seen

through the ExitusвЂ™ scope was the flash of radiation as the Lance ended the targetвЂ™s

life. Horus Lupercal was deadвЂ¦

вЂњBroken Mirror,вЂќ said Koyne. вЂњI repeat, Broken Mirror.вЂќ

The code phrase hit Kell like a physical blow and he sagged against the

crumbling wall. The words had only one meaningвЂ”a surrogate, a sacrificial proxy

had replaced their target.

A storm of questions rushed through his thoughts; how could Horus have known

they would be waiting for them? Had the mission been compromised from the very

start? Had they been betrayed?

The warrior Kell had placed between his crosshairs could only have been the

Warmaster! Only Horus, the liberator of Dagonet clad in his mantle, would have

made his grand gesture of the single shot into the skyвЂ¦ It could not be true! It could

not beвЂ¦

The moment of doubt and uncertainty flared bright, and then faded. Now was not

the time to dwell on this turn of events. The first, most important directive was to

exfiltrate the strike zone and regroup. To reevaluate. Kell nodded to himself. He

would do that, he decided. He would extract his team from this mess and then

determine a new course of action. As long as a single Officio Assassinorum operative

was still alive, the mission could still be completed.

And if along the way, a traitor came to lightвЂ¦ He shrugged off the thought. First

things first. The Vindicare keyed the general channel. вЂњAcknowledged,вЂќ he said.

вЂњExtraction sites are now to be considered compromised. Proceed to city perimeter

and await contact.вЂќ

Kell secured the longrifle and fixed his descent pack to his back. вЂњGo dark,вЂќ he

ordered, ending the final command with the tap of a switch that deactivated his vox

gear.

An explosion made his head snap up and his spy maskвЂ™s optics located the

thermal bloom in the corner of his vision, surrounding it with indicator icons. A

vehicle had apparently been blown up by an exchange of gunfire. He wondered who

would be foolish enough to shoot back at an Astartes just as a roar of engine noise

swept over his head. Kell shrank into the cover of a partly-collapsed wall as a heavy,

slate-coloured aircraft thundered around the habitat tower on bright rods of thruster

flameвЂ”a Stormbird in the livery of the Sons of Horus.

For a moment, he feared the Astartes had detected his firing hide; but the

Stormbird swept on and down into the city, passing him by unnoticed. Kell looked up

into the early morning sky and saw more raptor-shapes falling from the high clouds,

trailing streamers of vapour from atmospheric re-entry. Whoever it was that KellвЂ™s

kill-shot had executed, the WarmasterвЂ™s warriors were coming in force to avenge

him.

203

When he was sure the Stormbird was gone, Kell backed off and then ran at the

hole in the wall. He threw himself into the air and felt the rush of the wind as gravity

claimed his body. For agonising seconds, the streets below rose up towards him; then

there was a sharp jerk across his shoulders as the sensors in the descent pack

triggered the release of the parafoil across his back. The iridescent curve of ballistic

cloth billowed open and his fall slowed.

Kell dropped into the sounds of terror and violence, searching for an escape.

Every deck of the Vengeful Spirit shook with barely-restrained violence as drop-ship

after drop-ship rocketed off the launch decks. They streamed away from the

battleship in a long, unbroken chain, lethal carrion birds wheeling and turning in

towards the surface of Dagonet, carrying fury with them.

Nearby, system boats in service to the PDFвЂ™s space division were either turning to

flee from the ships of the WarmasterвЂ™s fleet, or else they were already sinking into

their home worldвЂ™s gravity well as flames crawled down the length of them. The

Vengeful SpiritвЂ™s gunnery crews had been sparing with the use of their megalaser

batteries, striking the ships hard enough to cripple them but not enough to obliterate

them. Now the PDF cruisers would burn up in the atmosphere, and the fires of their

deaths would be seen the whole planet over. It was a most effective way to begin a

punishment.

The Vengeful Spirit and the rest of her flotilla encroached slowly on DagonetвЂ™s

orbital space, approaching the staging point where Luc SediraeвЂ™s vessel, the Thanato,

was waiting for them. Most of the ThanatoвЂ™s complement of drop-ships had already

been deployed, the men of the 13th Company falling onto the capital city in a tide of

unfettered rage. The handsome and ruthless master of the 13th was beloved of his

warriors; and they would avenge him with nothing less than rivers of blood.

The tall viewing windows of the LupercalвЂ™s Court looked out over the bow of the

Vengeful Spirit, the curve of Dagonet and the lone Thanato laid out before it.

Maloghurst left the Warmaster where he stood at the windows and crossed the

strategium towards the corridor outside. As he walked, he spoke in low tones to the

troupe of chapter serfs who followed him everywhere he went. The equerry parsed

HorusвЂ™ commands to his underlings and they in turn moved away to carry those

orders about the fleet.

Beyond the doorway there was a shadow. вЂњEquerry,вЂќ it said.

вЂњFirst Chaplain,вЂќ Maloghurst replied. His disfigured face turned its perpetual

scowl at the Word Bearer, dismissing the rest of the serfs with a flick of his clawed

hand. вЂњDo you wish to speak with me, Erebus? I had been told you were engaged in

yourвЂ¦ meditations.вЂќ

Erebus did not appear to notice the mocking tone Maloghurst placed on his

question. вЂњI was disturbed.вЂќ

вЂњBy what?вЂќ

The Word BearerвЂ™s face split in a thin smile. вЂњA voice in the darkness.вЂќ Before

Maloghurst could demand a less obtuse answer, Erebus nodded towards the far end

of the chamber, where Horus stood observing the motions of his fleet.

The lord of the Legion was magnificent in his full battle gear, his armour striped

with shining gold and dark brass, hides of great beasts lying off his shoulder in a

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half-cloak. His face was hidden in the gloom, highlights made barely visible by the

cold glow of the data consoles before him.

вЂњI would ask a question of the Warmaster,вЂќ said the other Astartes.

Maloghurst did not move. вЂњYou may ask me.вЂќ

вЂњAs you wish.вЂќ ErebusвЂ™ lip curled slightly. вЂњWe are suddenly at battle alert status.

It was my understanding we were coming to this world to show the flag in passing,

and little more.вЂќ

вЂњYou havenвЂ™t heard?вЂќ Maloghurst feigned surprise, amused that for a change he

knew something the Word Bearer did not. вЂњBrother-Captain Sedirae was given the

honour of standing as the WarmasterвЂ™s proxy on Dagonet. But there was anвЂ¦

incident. A trap, I believe. Sedirae was killed.вЂќ

ErebusвЂ™ typically insouciant expression shaded dark for a moment. вЂњHow did this

happen?вЂќ

вЂњThat will be determined, in due time. For the moment, it is clear that the

assurances claiming Dagonet City as a secure location were false. Through either

subterfuge or inadequacy on the part of DagonetвЂ™s ruling cadres, a Son of Horus lost

his life down there.вЂќ Maloghurst inclined his head towards the Warmaster. вЂњHorus

has demanded reciprocity.вЂќ

вЂњThe nobles will die, then?вЂќ The equerry nodded. вЂњTo begin with.вЂќ Erebus was

silent for a few seconds. вЂњWhy was Sedirae sent?вЂќ

вЂњAre you questioning the orders of the Warmaster?вЂќ

вЂњI only seek to understandвЂ”вЂќ Erebus trailed off as Maloghurst took a step

towards the Word Bearer, moving through the doorway and into the corridor.

вЂњYou would do well, Chaplain, to remember that an honoured battle-brother was

just murdered in cold blood. A decorated Astartes of great esteem whose loss will be

keenly felt, not just by the 13th Company but by the entire Legion.вЂќ

ErebusвЂ™ eyes narrowed, showing his doubts at the description of SediraeвЂ™s great

esteem. While it was true the man was a fine warrior, many considered him an

outspoken braggart, the Word Bearer among them. But as ever, the equerry kept his

own opinions to himself.

Maloghurst continued. вЂњIt would be best for the Warmaster to deal with this

matter without the involvement of those from outside the Legion.вЂќ He nodded to a

servitor in the lee of the doors, and the helot began to slide the towering panels

closed. вЂњIвЂ™m sure you appreciate that.вЂќ

There was a moment when the Word Bearer seemed as if he were about to

protest; but then he nodded. вЂњOf course,вЂќ said Erebus. вЂњI bow to your wisdom,

equerry. Who knows the WarmasterвЂ™s moods better than you?вЂќ He threw a nod and

walked away, back into the shadows of the corridor.

They were killing everything that moved.

The Sons of Horus began by firing on the crowds in Liberation Plaza, routing the

civilians and turning the mob into a screaming tide of bodies that trampled each other

in a desperate attempt to flee back down the roads and away from the great halls.

205

Koyne fought through the mass, catching sight of some of the killings along the

way. KellвЂ™s emergency command echoed through the vox-bead hidden in the

CallidusвЂ™ ear.

The Astartes walked, slow and steady, across the plaza with their bolters at their

hips, firing single shot after single shot into the people. The missile-like bolt shells

could not fail to find targets, and for each person they hit and instantly killed, others

fell dead or near to it from the shared force of impact. The blasts rippled out through

flesh and bone, the crowds were so closely packed together. And although Koyne

never saw it, the assassin heard the hiss and crackle of a flamer being used. The smell

of burned flesh was familiar.

The panic was as much a weapon as the guns of the Astartes. People running and

pushing, drowning in animal fear; they trampled one another blindly as they tried to

escape along the radial streets leading from the plaza. Some transformed their fear

into violence, brandishing weapons of their own in vain attempts to cut a path

through the madness.

Koyne rode the terrified mob as one might have floated on a turbulent sea, not

fighting it, letting the frenzied currents of push and pull shove a body here and there.

As the roads opened up into wider boulevards, the crush lessened and people broke

into an open run; some of them were met by strafing fire from the first of the

Stormbirds that swooped in low between the buildings.

The Callidus was carried to the edge of the street and found passage through a

storefront damaged in the early days of the insurrection. Hidden for a moment from

the screaming throng outside, Koyne dared to consult a small holo-map of the city;

any one of the avenues would take the assassin straight out of the metropolis to the

city perimeter, but down each street the Astartes were advancing in small groups,

coldly pacing their kills into those who ran and those who surrendered alike.

After a moment, Koyne peered over the lip of a shattered window and saw that

the leading edge of the crowds had passed by. Stragglers were still running past,

heading southwards. Behind them, walking as if it were nothing more than a morning

stroll, the Callidus spotted a single Astartes in grey ceramite, moving with a bolter at

his shoulder. Sighting down the weapon as he went, he was picking targets at random

and ending them.

This was not a military exercise; this was a castigation.

вЂњThis is your fault!вЂќ The voice was full of terror and fury.

Koyne spun and found a man, his clothes freshly torn and a new cut staining his

forehead with blood. He stood across the rabble-strewn shop floor, glaring at the

Callidus, pointing a shaky finger.

It was the uniform he was indicating. The dun-coloured tunic of the Dagonet

Planetary Defence Force, in disarray now, but still a part of the false identity Koyne

was operating under.

The man shambled through the glass, kicking it aside without a care for the noise

he was making. вЂњYou brought them here!вЂќ He stabbed a finger at the street. вЂњThatвЂ™s

not Horus! I donвЂ™t know what those things are! Why did you let them come to kill

us?вЂќ

206

Koyne realised that the man had no idea what had happened; perhaps he hadnвЂ™t

seen the Shield-Breaker and the Lance. All he saw was a monstrous killing machine

in armour the colour of storms.

вЂњStop talking,вЂќ said Koyne, pulling open the PDF tunic and feeling for a

fleshpocket holster. With a gasp, the Callidus tabbed the seam. KoyneвЂ™s weapon was

in there, but the assassinвЂ™s muscles were tight with tension and it was proving

difficult to relax and ease the skin-matter open. вЂњJust be silent.вЂќ

There was movement outside. Someone on a higher floor in the building across

the street, probably some bold member of CapraвЂ™s rebellion or just a Dagoned sick of

being a victim, tossed a makeshift firebomb that shattered wetly over the warriorвЂ™s

helmet and right shoulder. The Son of Horus halted and swiped at the flames where

they licked over the ceramite, patting them out with the flat of his gauntlet. As Koyne

watched, the Astartes was still dotted with little patches of orange flame as he

pivoted on his heel and aimed upward.

A heavy thunderclap shot rang out, and the bolter blew a divot of brick from the

third floor. A body, trailing threads of blood, came spiralling out with it, killed

instantly by the proximity of the impact.

вЂњTheyвЂ¦ they want you!вЂќ snarled the man in the shop, oblivious to what was

taking place outside. вЂњMaybe they should have you!вЂќ

вЂњNo,вЂќ Koyne said, fingers at last touching the butt of the pistol nestling inside the

false-flesh gut over the CallidusвЂ™ stomach. вЂњI told you toвЂ”вЂќ

Stone crunched into powder and suddenly the warrior was there in the doorway

of the gutted shop, too big to fit through the wood-lined threshold. The emotionless

eyes of the fearsome helmet scanned them both and then the figure advanced, its

bolter dropping onto a sling. Koyne stumbled backwards as the Son of Horus tore

through the splintering remains of the doorway, drawing his combat blade as he

came. The knife was the size of a short sword, and the fractal edge gave off a dull

gleam.

Before the Callidus could react the Astartes struck out with the pommel and hit

the assassin in the chest. Koyne felt bones snap and spun away, landing hard. In a

perverse way, the assassin was pleased; KoyneвЂ™s cover was clearly still intact. If the

Astartes had known what he was facing, the kill would have come immediately.

The man was pointing and shouting; the Son of Horus, having decided to

preserve his ammunition for the moment, advanced on the survivor, the top of his

helmet knocking light fittings down from the patterned ceiling. A sweep of the

combat blade silenced the man by taking his head from his shoulders; the body gave

a peculiar little dance as nerves misfired, and fell in a heap.

Koyne had the gun but the twitching of the muscles and the flesh-pocket would

not let it go; pain from the impact injury robbed the Callidus of the usual

concentration and control needed at a moment like this.

The Son of Horus changed his grip on the knife, holding it by the blade, ready to

throw it; in the next second a crash of bolter fire echoed and impact points appeared

in a line of silver blooms across the chest plate and left shoulder pauldron of the

Astartes.

207

Through blurry vision, Koyne saw a man-shape moving faster than anything

human should have; and a face, a mask, a fanged skull made of discoloured

gunmetal.

Scrambling backwards, the assassin watched as the Garantine sprinted around the

Astartes in a tight arc, rolling over fallen counters and leaping from pillar to wall. As

he moved, his Executor pistol was snarling, spitting out low-gauge bolt shells that

clattered and sparked off the towering warriorвЂ™s armour.

The Astartes let the combat blade drop and brought up his bolter; the weapon was

of a far larger calibre than the Executor. A single direct hit at the ranges these close

quarters forced upon the combatants would mean death for the Eversor; but to kill

him, first the Astartes had to hit him.

Koyne moaned in pain as the gun slowly eased out of the stress-tensed flesh

pocket, watching as the two combatants tried to end each other. In the confined space

of the destroyed store the bray of bolt shells was deafening, and the air filled with the

stench of cordite and the heavy, choking dust from atomised flakboard. A support

pillar exploded, raining plaster and wood from the broken flooring above. The

Callidus could hear the animalistic panting of the Eversor as he moved like lightning

back and forth across the Space MarineвЂ™s line of sight, goading the Astartes into

firing after him. Stimm-glands chugged and injectors hissed as the GarantineвЂ™s

bloodstream was flooded with bio-chemicals and cocktails of drugs that pushed him

beyond the speed of even an AstartesвЂ™ enhanced reflexes.

KoyneвЂ™s gun, slick with mucus and fluids, finally vomited itself out of the

assassinвЂ™s stomach and on to the floor. The Callidus clutched at it and released a shot

in the direction of the grey-armoured hulk. The neural shredder projected a spreading

plume of sickly energetic discharge around the Son of Horus and the warrior

staggered with the hit, one hand coming up to clutch at his helmet.

The Garantine roared past, sprinting over Koyne where the Callidus lay propped

up against a wall. вЂњMy kill!вЂќ he was shouting, the words repeating and coming so fast

they became a single stream of noise. вЂњMy killmykillmykillmykillвЂ”вЂќ

He was a blur of claws and gun, too fast for the eye to process the images. Sparks

flew as the Eversor assassin collided bodily with the Astartes and knocked him down,

the Garantine firing his Executor into the impact holes in the warriorвЂ™s chest at pointblank

range, clawing wildly at his helmet with the spiked talon of his neuro-gauntlet.

Koyne could hear the Astartes snarling, angrily fighting back, but the Eversor was

like mercury, slipping through his clumsy armoured fingers.

Then dark, arterial blood spurted as the armour was cracked and the Garantine

dug into the meat he found inside. His bolter dry, the Astartes punched and

bludgeoned the Eversor, but if any pain impulses reached the GarantineвЂ™s mind, the

brew of rage-enhancers and sense-inhibitors swimming through his bloodstream

deadened them to nothing.

With a croaking, wet rattle, the Astartes sank back and collapsed. Chattering with

coarse laughter, the Garantine swept up the fallen combat blade and pressed all his

weight behind it. The weapon sank through sparking power cables and myomer

muscles until it pierced flesh and cut bone.

After a minute or so, the Eversor dropped to the floor, still shaking with the

aftershock of his chemical frenzy. вЂњSs-soвЂ¦вЂќ he began, struggling to speak clearly,

208

forcing himself to slow down with each panting gulp of breath. вЂњTh-this is how it

feels to k-kill one of themвЂ¦вЂќ He grinned widely behind the fanged mask. вЂњI like it.вЂќ

The Callidus stood up. вЂњWe need to move, before more of his brethren arrive.вЂќ

вЂњArenвЂ™t youвЂ¦ arenвЂ™t you going to th-thank me for saving your life, s-shapechanger?вЂќ

Without warning, the Astartes suddenly lurched forwards, gauntlets snapping

open, savage anger fuelling a final surge of killing fury. KoyneвЂ™s neural shredder was

at hand and the assassin fired a full-power discharge into the skull of the Son of

Horus; the blast disintegrated tissue in an instant wave of brain-death.

The warrior lurched and fell again. Koyne gave the Garantine a sideways look.

вЂњThank you.вЂќ

209

SIXTEEN

Collision

The Choice

Forgiveness

A bombardment had begun, and the people of DagonetвЂ™s capital feared it was the end

of the world.

They knew so little of the reality of things, however. High above in orbit, it was

only the warship Thanato that fired on the city, and even then it was not with the

vesselвЂ™s most powerful cannons. The people did not know that a fleet of craft were

poised in silence around their sister ship, watchful and waiting. Had all the vessels of

the WarmasterвЂ™s flotilla unleashed their killpower, then indeed those fears would

have come true; the planetвЂ™s crust cracked, the continents sliced open. Perhaps those

things would happen, soon enoughвЂ”but for now it was sufficient for the Thanato to

hurl inert kinetic kill-rods down through the atmosphere, the sky-splitting shriek of

their passage climaxed by a lowing thunder as the warshots obliterated power

stations, military compounds and the vast mansion-houses of the noble clans. From

the ground it seemed like wanton destruction; from orbit, it was a shrewd and

surgical pattern of attack.

Koyne and the Garantine stayed off the main avenues and boulevards, avoiding the

roadways where processions of frightened citizens streamed towards the city limits.

Hours had passed now since the killing in the plaza, and the people had lost the will

to ran, numbed by their own terror. Now they stumbled, silently for the most part,

some pushing carts piled high with whatever they could loot or carry, others clinging

to overloaded ground vehicles. When people did speak, they did so in whispers, as if

they were afraid the Adeptus Astartes would hear the sound of a voice at normal

pitch from across the city.

Listening from the shadows of an alleyway across from a shuttered monorail halt,

the Callidus heard people talking about the Sons of Horus. Some said they had set up

a staging point in Liberation Plaza, that there were hordes of Stormbirds parked there

disgorging more Astartes with each passing moment. Others mentioned seeing

armoured vehicles in the streets, even Battle Titans and monstrous war creatures.

The only truth Koyne could determine from what he gleaned was that the Sons of

Horus were intent on fulfilling the orders of Devram Korda to the fullest; Dagonet

City would be little more than a smouldering funeral pyre by nightfall.

The assassin looked up to where a massive streetscreen hung at a canted angle

from the front of the station building. The display was cracked and fizzing with

210

patchy static; text declaring that the metropolitan rail network was temporarily

suspended was still visible, the pixels frozen in place. Koyne eyed the device warily.

The public screens all had arrays of vid-picters arranged around them, connected to

the municipal monitoring network. The Callidus had a spyвЂ™s healthy disdain for being

caught on camera.

As if it had sensed the shadeвЂ™s train of thought, Koyne saw very clearly as one of

the picters jerked on its gimbal, stuttering around to face the line of refugees. The

assassin retreated back into the shadows, unsure if the monitor had caught sight.

A few metres down the alley, the Garantine was sitting atop a waste container,

shivering with the come-down from his reflex-boosters, working with a field kit to

close up the various wounds the Son of Horus had inflicted on him during the earlier

melee. Koyne grimaced at the chewing sound of a dermal stapler as it knitted flesh

back to flesh.

The Garantine looked up; his mask was off, and one of his eyes was torn and

damaged, weeping clear fluids. He grinned, showing bloodstained teeth. вЂњBe with

you in a trice, freak.вЂќ

Koyne ignored the insult, shrugging off the ragged remains of the PDF troop

commander tunic and replacing it with a brocade jacket stolen from a fallen shopwindow

dummy. вЂњMay not have that long.вЂќ

The Callidus shrank back against the wall and let the face of the portly PDF

officer slip away. It was painful to make a change like this, without proper meditation

and time spent, but the circumstances demanded it. KoyneвЂ™s aspect flowed to

resemble that of a young man, a boyish face under the same unruly mop of thin hair.

вЂњDo you remember what you used to look like?вЂќ said the Eversor, disgust thick in

his tone.

Koyne gave the other assassin a sideways look, making a point of gazing at the

topography of scarification and the countless implants both atop and beneath his

epidermis. вЂњDo you?вЂќ

The Garantine chuckled. вЂњWeвЂ™re both so pretty in our own ways.вЂќ He went back

to his wounds. вЂњAny sign of more Astartes?вЂќ

The Callidus made a negative noise. вЂњBut theyвЂ™ll be coming. IвЂ™ve seen this kind

of thing before. They march through a city, putting the torch to everything they pass,

daring anyone to stop them.вЂќ

вЂњLet them come,вЂќ he grunted, tying the last field dressing around his thick thigh.

вЂњThere will be more than one next time.вЂќ

вЂњDonвЂ™t doubt it.вЂќ The EversorвЂ™s hands were still twitching. вЂњThe poisoner girl

was right. WeвЂ™re all going to die here.вЂќ

That drew a harsh look from the Callidus. вЂњI have no intention of ending my life

on this backwater world.вЂќ

He chuckled. вЂњAct like you have a choice.вЂќ The Garantine made a metronome

motion with his fingers. вЂњTicky-tocky. Odds are against us. Someone mustвЂ™ve

talked.вЂќ

That made the other assassin fall silent. Koyne had not wanted to dwell on the

possibility, but the Garantine was right to suspect that their mission had been

compromised. It seemed a logical deduction, given what had happened in the plaza.

211

The sharp cry of an animal drew KoyneвЂ™s attention away from such troubling

thoughts and the assassin looked up to see a raptor bird flutter past the end of the

alleyway, pivoting on a wing to glide in their direction.

There was a flurry of movement and the Eversor had his Executor aimed upward,

the sensor mast of his Sentinel gear drawing a bead; the combi-weaponвЂ™s needier

made a snapping sound and the bird died in mid-turn, falling to the ground like a

stone.

Koyne went to the animalвЂ™s body; there had been something odd about it, a

flicker of sunlight off metalвЂ¦

вЂњHungry, are you?вЂќ The Garantine lurched along behind, limping slightly.

вЂњIdiot.вЂќ Koyne held up the birdвЂ™s corpse; a single needle-dart bisected its bloody

torso. The raptor had numerous augmetic implants in its skull and pinions. вЂњThis is a

psyber eagle. It belongs to the infocyte. HeвЂ™s looking for us.вЂќ Koyne glanced up at

the streetscreen once more, and the imagers beneath it.

вЂњMaybe it was him who talked,вЂќ muttered the Eversor. вЂњMaybe you.вЂќ

The image on the streetscreen flickered and changed; now it was an aerial view of

the street, then shots of the alleyway, then a confused tumble of motion. Koyne

suddenly understood the display was showing a replay of the visual feed from the

eagleвЂ™s auto-senses.

Some of the refugee stragglers saw the same thing and stopped to watch the loop

of footage. Koyne tossed the dead bird aside and stepped out into the street.

Immediately, all the imagers along the bottom of the streetscreen whirred, moving to

capture a look at the Callidus.

For a moment nothing happened; if Koyne was right, if it was Tariel watching

through those lenses, the Vanus would be confused. KoyneвЂ™s face was different from

the last one the infocyte had seen. But then the Garantine shuffled out into the open

and all doubt was removed.

The refugees saw the hulking rage-killer and backed away in fear, as if suddenly

becoming aware of a wild animal in their midst. In that, Koyne reflected, they were

almost correct. The Garantine leered at them, showing his teeth.

A hooter sounded from the monorail halt, and in juddering fits and starts, the

heavy metal gate closing off the station from the street began to draw open on

automated mechanisms. The screen above flickered again, and this time the text

displayed there announced that the rail system was now in operation.

Koyne smiled slightly. вЂњI think we have some transport.вЂќ The Callidus took a

step, but a clawed hand grabbed the assassinвЂ™s arm.

вЂњCould be a trap,вЂќ hissed the Garantine.

In the distance, another orbital strike screamed into the earth and sent a tremor

through the ground beneath their feet. вЂњOnly one way to find out.вЂќ

On the elevated platform above the street level a single train was active. The web of

monorail lines had been inert ever since the start of the insurrection against Terra,

first shut down by the clanner troops as a way of imposing order by restricting the

movement of the commoners through the city, and later forced to stay idle because of

the mass breakout at the Terminus. But some lines were still connected to what

212

remained of the capitalвЂ™s rapidly-dying power grid, and the autonomic control

systems that governed the operation of the trains and lines and points were simplistic

devices; they were no match for someone with the skills of a Vanus.

Another psyber eagle roosted on the prow of the train and it called out a strident

caw as Koyne and the Garantine sprinted on to the platform. The Callidus threw a

glance down the wide stairwell; some of the bolder refugees were venturing inside

the station after them.

вЂњQuickly,вЂќ Koyne found an open carriage door and climbed inside. The train was

a cargo carrier, partitioned off inside by pens suitable for livestock. The air within

was thick with the stink of animal sweat and faeces.

As the Garantine climbed in, the eagle took wing and the train shunted forwards

with a grinding clatter, sending sparks flying from the drive wheels gripping the rail.

Ozone crackled and the carriages lurched away from the station, picking up

momentum.

The train rattled along, a dull impact resonating off the metalwork as it

shouldered a piece of fallen masonry off the rails. Koyne drew the neural shredder

and moved back through the cargo wagon, kicking open the hatch to the next

carriage, and then the two more beyond that. In the rear car the shade found the

corpses of groxes, the bovines lying where they had fallen on the gridded metal

flooring. They were still tethered to anchoring rings on the walls, doubtless forgotten

and left to starve in this reeking metal box after the fighting had begun.

Satisfied they were alone, the Callidus walked back the length of the train to find

the Garantine in the stubby engine car, watching the chattering cogitator-driver.

Through the broken glass of the engine compartment canopy, the elevated track was

visible ahead, dropping away down to the level of one of the main boulevards,

paralleling the radial highwayвЂ™s course.

вЂњIf weвЂ™re lucky, we can ride this heap all the way out of the city,вЂќ said Koyne,

absently examining the charge glyph on the neural weapon.

The Eversor had his fang-mask back on, and he was growling softly with each

breath, peering into the distance like a predator smelling the wind. вЂњWeвЂ™re not

lucky,вЂќ he retorted. вЂњDo you see?вЂќ The Garantine pointed a metal-taloned finger

ahead of the train.

Koyne pulled a pair of compact magnoculars from a belt clip and peered through

them. A fuzzy image swam into focus; grey blobs became the distinct shapes of

Adeptus Astartes in Maximus-pattern armour, moving to block the path of the

monorail. As the Callidus watched, they dragged the husks of burned-out vehicles

across the line, assembling a makeshift barricade.

вЂњI told you this was a trap,вЂќ rumbled the Garantine. вЂњThe Vanus is delivering us

to the Astartes!вЂќ

Koyne gave a shake of the head. вЂњIf that was so, then why arenвЂ™t we slowing

down?вЂќ If anything, the trainвЂ™s velocity was increasing, and warning indicators began

to blink on the cogitator panel as the carriages exceeded their safety limits.

The wheels screeched as the train raced down the incline from the elevated rails

to the ground level crossing, and metal flashed off metal as the Sons of Horus began

to open fire on the leading carriage, pacing bolt shells into the hull from the cover of

their obstruction.

213

The Garantine blind-fired a burst of full-auto fire through the broken window and

then followed Koyne back through the wagons at a sprint. Shots punched through the

walls of the cargo cars, rods of sunlight stabbing through the impact holes into the

musty interior. The decking rocked beneath their feet and it was hard to stay upright

as the train continued to gather speed.

They made it to the rearmost wagon as the engine car slammed into the barricade

and crashed through it. The husks of a groundcar and a flatbed GEV spun away

across the boulevard, throwing two Astartes aside with the force of the collision.

Metal fractured, red-hot and stressed beyond its limits, and the guide wheels broke

away from the axle. Instantly freed from the monorail, the train lurched up and

twisted over on to its side. The carriages crashed down to the blacktop and scored a

gouge down the length of the street, spitting cascades of asphalt and gravel.

In the rear car, the assassins were thrown into the grox carcasses, the impact

absorbed by the foetid meat of the dead animals. Screeching and vomiting clouds of

bright orange sparks, the derailed cargo train finally slowed to a shuddering halt.

Koyne lost awareness for what seemed like long, long minutes. Then the Callidus

was aware of being dragged upwards and then propelled through a tear in what had

once been the wagonвЂ™s roof. The shade took several shaky steps out on to the

roadway, smelling hot tar and the tang of burned metal. Koyne blinked in the

sunlight, feeling for the neural shredder. The weapon was still there, mercifully.

The Garantine lurched past, reloading his Executor. вЂњI think we upset them,вЂќ he

shouted, pointing past KoyneвЂ™s shoulder.

Turning, the assassin saw armoured giants running down the road towards them,

firing from the hip.

Bolt-rounds cracked into the ground and the shattered train with heavy blares of

concussion. Koyne drew the neural weapon and hesitated; the pistol had a finite

range and was better suited to a close-in kill. Instead, the Callidus retreated behind

part of the cargo wagon. Perhaps a lucky shot might take down one of the Sons of

Horus, even hobble two of themвЂ¦ but that was a tactical squad back there, bearing

down on the pair of them.

вЂњWeвЂ™re not lucky,вЂќ the assassin muttered, considering the possibility that this

backwater would indeed be the place that claimed the life of Koyne of the Callidus.

A ricochet careened off the roadway and the Garantine staggered back into cover.

Koyne smelled the thick, resinous odour of bio-fluids; there was a deep purple-black

gouge in the EversorвЂ™s back. вЂњYouвЂ™re wounded.вЂќ

вЂњAm I? Oh.вЂќ The other assassin seemed distracted, clearing a fouled cartridge

from the breech of his gun. A metal canister rattled off the wagon and landed near

their feet; without hesitation, the Garantine scooped up the krak grenade and threw it

back in the direction it had come. Koyne could see that his every movement was an

effort, as more thick, chemical-laced blood seeped from the injury.

The Eversor let out a low, ululating gasp as injectors discharged, nullifying his

pain. He glared back at Koyne and his pupils were pinpricks. вЂњSomethingвЂ™s coming.

Hear it?вЂќ

Koyne was about to speak, but a sudden roar of jet wash smothered every other

noise. From between the towers lining one of the side streets came a blunt-prowed

flyer, the boxy fuselage suspended between two sets of wings that ended in vertical

214

thruster pods; it was painted in bright stripes of white and green, the livery of the

cityвЂ™s firefighting brigade. There was a man in a black stealthsuit at an open hatch, a

longrifle in his grip. A shot snapped from the gun muzzle and further down the road a

car exploded.

Koyne pulled at the GarantineвЂ™s arm as the aircraft dropped towards the street.

вЂњTime to go,вЂќ the Callidus shouted.

The EversorвЂ™s muscles were bunched hard like bales of steel cable, and he was

vibrating with wild energy. вЂњHe said he killed one of them, before.вЂќ The Garantine

was glaring at the oncoming Astartes. вЂњThatвЂ™s two now, if heвЂ™s to be believed.вЂќ

The flyer was spinning about, trying to find a place to settle as the Sons of Horus

split their fire between the assassins and the aircraft. вЂњGarantine,вЂќ said Koyne. вЂњWe

have to move.вЂќ

The rage-killer twitched and a palsy came over him. вЂњI donвЂ™t like you,вЂќ he said,

slurring the words. вЂњYou realise that?вЂќ

вЂњThe feeling is mutual.вЂќ Koyne had to yell to be heard over the noise of the

thrusters. The flyer was hovering less than a metre from the roadway. Tariel was at

the canopy, beckoning frantically.

вЂњGood. I donвЂ™t want you to confuse my motives.вЂќ And then the Eversor surged

into a loping ran, his legs blurring as he hurtled out of cover and straight into the

lines of the Astartes. Shell casings cascaded out behind him in a stream of brass,

falling from the ejection port of his combi-weapon.

The Callidus swore and sprinted in the opposite direction towards the flyer. Kell

was in half-cover by the open hatch, the Exitus rifle bucking in his grip as he fired

Turbo-Penetrator rounds into the enemy squad. Koyne leapt up and scrambled into

the crew compartment of the aircraft.

Tariel was cowering behind a panel, pale and sweaty. He appeared to be

puppeting the aircraftвЂ™s pilot-servitor through the interface of his cogitator gauntlet.

The infocyte looked up. вЂњWhereвЂ™s the Garantine?вЂќ he yelled.

вЂњHeвЂ™s made his choice,вЂќ said Koyne, slumping to the deck.

The Eversor ran screaming into the cluster of rebel Astartes, blasting the first he

found off his feet with a screeching salvo of rounds from the Executor. He collided

with the next and the two of them went down in a crash of ceramite and metal. The

Garantine felt the boiling churn of energy racing through his veins, his mechenhanced

heart beating at such incredible speed the sound it made in his ears was one

long continuous roar. The stimm-pods in the cavities of his abdomen broke their

regulator settings and flooded him with doses of Psychon and Barrage pumped

directly into his organs, while atomiser grilles in the frame of his fang-mask puffed

raw, undiluted anger-inducers and neuro-triggers into his nostrils.

He rode on a wave of frenzy, of black and mad hate that sent him howling with

uncontrollable laughter, each choking snarl rattling like gunshots. He was so fast; so

lethal; so satisfied like this.

The Garantine had been awake now for the longest period of his life since before

they had found him in the colony, the gnawed bones of his neighbours in his little

childвЂ™s hand, the tips sharpened to make a kill with. He missed the dreamy no-mind

bliss of the stasis cowls. He felt lost without the whispering voices of the

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hypnogoges. This kind of living, the hour-to-hour, day-by-day existence that the rest

of them found so easyвЂ¦ it was a hell of stultifying torpor for the Garantine. He hated

the idea of this interminable yesterday and today and tomorrow. He craved the now.

Every second he was awake, he felt as if the pure rage that fuelled him was being

siphoned away, making him weak and soft. He needed his sleep. Needed it like air.

But he needed his kills even more. Better than the hardest hit of combat philtre,

more potent than the jags of pleasure-analogue that issued from the lobo-chips in his

grey matterвЂ”the kills were the best high of them all.

He was pounding on the Space MarineвЂ™s helmet, smashing in the eye-lenses,

beating his clawed hands bloody. The Executor was a club he used to bludgeon and

swipe.

Impacts registered on him, blasts of infernal heat throwing him off his victim,

driving him hard into the road. Heavy, drug-tainted vitae frothed at his mouth and

bubbled through the maw of the fang-mask. He felt no pain. There was only a white

ball of warmth in the middle of him, and it was growing. It expanded to fill the

Garantine with a rush the like of which he had never felt before. The implants in him

stuttered and died, shattered by glancing bolter hits and knife stabs. He had nothing

but rags below the right knee.

Every muscle in his body shuddered as the death-sign triggered a dormant

artificial gland beneath his sternum. The engorged, orb-shaped organ spent its venom

load, bursting as the end came close. The Terminus gland poured a compound into

the Garantine that made the blood in his veins boil, turning it to acid. Every drug and

chemical mixed uncontrollably, becoming potent, toxic, explosive.

The soft tissues of the EversorвЂ™s eyes cooked in their orbits, and so he was blind

to the final flash of exothermic release, as his body was consumed in an inferno of

spontaneous combustion.

They hugged the contours of the city streets, moving fast and as low as they dared,

but out on the edge of the capital the Sons of Horus had little presence. Instead, the

rebel Astartes had allowed their orbital contingent to hammer at the walled estates

and park-lands belonging to the noble clans. The city was now ringed with a dirty

chain of massive impact craters. The blackened bowls of churned earth were fused

into glassy puddles in some places, where the force of the kinetic strikes had melted

the ground into distended fulgurite plates.

The lines of refugees crossed the craters beneath them, streamers of people

moving like ants across the footprint of an uncaring giant. The thick, smoke-soiled

air over the destruction veiled the passage of the flyer. Tariel told them they were

fortunate that the Adeptus Astartes had not deployed air cover; in this wallowing,

keening civilian aircraft they would have been no match for a Raven interceptor.

On KellвЂ™s orders the infocyte directed the flyer out over the wastelands beyond

the city walls and into the dusty churn of the deserts. With each passing second they

were putting more and more distance between them and the star-port hangar where

the Ultio had been concealed.

Nothing followed them; at one point the sensors registered something small and

fastвЂ”a jetbike perhapsвЂ”but it was far off their vector and did not appear to be aware

of them.

216

Finally, Koyne broke the silence. вЂњWhere in the name of Hades are we going?вЂќ

вЂњTo find the others,вЂќ said the Vindicare.

вЂњThe women?вЂќ Koyne was still hiding behind a young manвЂ™s face and the

expression the Callidus put on it was too old and too callous for such a youthful

visage. вЂњWhat makes you think theyвЂ™re any less dead than the Eversor?вЂќ

Kell held up a data-slate. вЂњYou donвЂ™t really think IвЂ™d let the Culexus out of my

sight without knowing exactly where she was, do you?вЂќ

вЂњA tracking device?вЂќ Koyne immediately glared at Tariel, who shrank back

behind the hologram of the flyerвЂ™s autopilot control. вЂњOne of your little toys?вЂќ

The infocyte gave a brisk nod. вЂњA harmless radiation frequency tag, nothing

more. I provided enough for all of us.вЂќ

Koyne turned the glare back on Kell. вЂњDid you plant one on me as well?вЂќ The

boyвЂ™s eyes narrowed. вЂњWhere is it?вЂќ

Kell smiled coldly. вЂњThose rations aboard the Ultio were tasty, werenвЂ™t they?вЂќ

Before the Callidus could react, he went on. вЂњDonвЂ™t be so difficult, Koyne. If I hadnвЂ™t

factored in a contingency, we never would have found you. YouвЂ™d still be in the city,

marking time until HorusвЂ™ warriors cut you down.вЂќ

вЂњYou thought of everything,вЂќ said the shade. вЂњExcept the possibility that our

target would know we were coming!вЂќ

Tariel began to speak. вЂњThe target in the plazaвЂ”вЂќ

вЂњWas not the Warmaster,вЂќ snarled Koyne. вЂњI am an assassin palatine of more

kills than I care to mention, and I have survived every sanction and prosecuted each

kill because I had no secrets. No one to confide in. No chance for a breach in

operational security. And yet here we are, with this grand and foolish scheme to

murder a primarch crashing down around us, and for what? Who spoke, Kell?вЂќ The

Callidus crossed the flyerвЂ™s small cabin and prodded the marksman in the chest.

вЂњWho is to blame?вЂќ

вЂњI donвЂ™t have an answer for you,вЂќ said Kell, in a moment of candour. вЂњBut if any

of us were traitors to the Emperor, weвЂ™ve had opportunities aplenty to stop this

endeavour before it even left the Sol system.вЂќ

вЂњThen how did Horus foresee the attack?вЂќ asked Koyne. вЂњHe let one of his own

commanders perish in his stead. He must have known! Are we to believe heвЂ™s some

kind of sorcerer?вЂќ

A chime sounded from KellвЂ™s data-slate, and he left the question unanswered. вЂњA

return. Two kilometres to the west.вЂќ

Tariel opened another pane of ghostly hololithic images and nodded. вЂњI have it. A

static location. The flyerвЂ™s auspex is detecting a metallic massвЂ¦ conflicting thermal

reads.вЂќ

вЂњSet us down.вЂќ

Below them, dust clouds whirled past, reducing visibility to almost nothing. вЂњThe

sandstorm and the contaminants from the orbital bombingвЂ¦вЂќ The Vanus looked up

and his argument died on his lips as he saw KellвЂ™s rigid expression. He sighed. вЂњAs

you wish.вЂќ

217

Two of TarielвЂ™s eyerats found her, slumped over the yoke of a GEV skimmer halfburied

under a storm-blown dune. From what the infocyte could determine, she had

been injured before getting into the vehicle, and at some point as she tried to escape

into the deep desert, her wounds had overcome her and the skimmer controls had

slipped from her grip.

Kell, an expression of stony fury on his face, shoved Tariel out of the way and

gathered up Soalm where she lay. Her face was discoloured with bruising, and to the

infocyteвЂ™s amazement, she still lived.

Koyne drew something from the back seat of the GEV: a sculpted silver helmet in

the shape of a skull, crested with lenses and antennae of arcane design. When the

Callidus held it up to look it in the eye, black ash fell from the neck and was carried

away on the moaning winds. вЂњIotaвЂ¦вЂќ

вЂњDead,вЂќ Soalm stirred at the mention of the psykerвЂ™s name. вЂњIt killed her.вЂќ Her

voice was slight, thick with pain.

вЂњIt?вЂќ echoed Tariel; but Kell was already carrying the Venenum back towards the

flyer.

Koyne was the last inside, and the Callidus drew the hatch shut with a slam. The

shade brought IotaвЂ™s helmet back, and sat it on the deck of the cabin. It fixed them all

with its mute, accusatory gaze. Outside, the winds threw rattling curls of sand across

the canopy, plucking at the wings of the aircraft.

Across the compartment, Kell tore open a medicae pack and emptied the contents

across the metal floor.

He worked to load an injector with a pan-spectrum anti-infective.

вЂњAsk her what happened,вЂќ said Koyne.

вЂњShut up,вЂќ Kell snapped. вЂњIвЂ™m going to save her life, not interrogate her!вЂќ

вЂњIf she was drawn away on purpose,вЂќ continued the Callidus. вЂњIf it was deliberate

that Soalm was attacked and Iota killedвЂ¦вЂќ

вЂњWhat could have killed her?вЂќ Tariel blurted out. вЂњI witnessed what she was

capable of in the Red Lanes.вЂќ

Koyne scrambled across the cabin towards the sniper. вЂњFor the ThroneвЂ™s sake,

man, ask her! Whatever she is to you, we have to know!вЂќ

Kell hesitated; and then with deliberate care, he replaced the anti-infective agent

with a stimulant. вЂњYouвЂ™re right.вЂќ

вЂњThat could kill her,вЂќ Tariel warned. вЂњSheвЂ™s very weak.вЂќ

вЂњNo,вЂќ Kell replied, placing the nozzle of the injector at her pale neck, вЂњsheвЂ™s not.вЂќ

He pressed the stud and the drag load discharged.

Soalm reacted with a hollow gasp, her back arching, eyes opening wide with

shock. In the next moment, she fell back against the deck, wheezing. вЂњYouвЂ¦вЂќ she

managed, her gaze finding Kell where he stood over her.

вЂњListen to me,вЂќ said the Vindicare, that curious unquantifiable expression on his

face once again. вЂњThe Garantine is dead. The mission was a failure. Horus sent a

proxy in his place. Now his Astartes are punishing the city for what we have done.вЂќ

SoalmвЂ™s eyes lost focus for a moment as she took this in. вЂњA killerвЂ¦вЂќ she

whispered. вЂњAn assassinвЂ¦ hiding behind the identity of a rogue traderвЂ™s agent.вЂќ She

218

looked up. вЂњI saw what it did to Iota. The others it just murdered, but herвЂ¦ And then

the bloodвЂ¦вЂќ The woman started to weep. вЂњOh, God-Emperor, the bloodвЂ¦вЂќ

вЂњWhat did she just say?вЂќ Koyne asked. вЂњIdolatry is outlawed! Of all theвЂ”вЂќ

вЂњBe quiet!вЂќ Tariel snapped. The infocyte leaned forward. вЂњSoalm. There is

another assassin here? It killed Iota, yes?вЂќ

She gave a shaky nod. вЂњTried to end meвЂ¦ Murdered Sinope and the others in the

sanctuary. And then the bookвЂ¦вЂќ She sobbed.

Kell extended a hand and laid it on her shoulder as she wept.

вЂњI can show it,вЂќ said Tariel. Koyne turned to see the Vanus grasping IotaвЂ™s helmet

in his hands. вЂњWhat happened, I mean. ThereвЂ™s a memory coil built into the

mechanism of the animus speculum. A mission recorder.вЂќ

вЂњDo it,вЂќ said Kell, without looking up.

In short order, Tariel used his mechadendrites to prise open panels along the back

of the metal skull, and connected cords of bright brass and copper between the

hidden ports on the device and the hololith projector built into his cogitator.

Images flickered and jumped. Fractured moments of conversation blurred and

sputtered in the air as the infocyte plumbed the depths of the memory unit, cutting

though layers of encryption; and then it began.

Soalm looked away; she did not want to witness it a second time.

* * *

Tariel watched Iota die through her own eyes.

He saw the man in the Eurotas uniform transform into the thing that called itself

вЂњSpearвЂќ; he saw the perplexing readouts on the aura scans that matched nothing the

psyker had encountered before; and he saw the horrific act of the taking of her blood.

вЂњIt tasted herвЂ¦вЂќ Soalm muttered. вЂњDo you see? In the moment before the kill.вЂќ

вЂњWhy?вЂќ Koyne was sickened.

вЂњA genetic lock,вЂќ Tariel said, nodding to himself. вЂњPowerful psionic rituals

require the use of an organic component as an initiator.вЂќ

вЂњA blood rite?вЂќ Koyne shot him a look. вЂњThatвЂ™s primitive superstition.вЂќ

вЂњIt might appear so to a certain point of view.вЂќ

Iota died again, the audio replay catching the raw terror in her death-scream, and

Tariel looked away, his gorge rising. The peculiar waif-like psyker had not deserved

to perish in so monstrous a way as this.

No one spoke for a long time after the playback ended. They sat in silence, the

images of the daemonic abomination embedded in their thoughts, the revolting

spectacle of the girlвЂ™s murder echoing in the howling winds outside.

вЂњSorcery,вЂќ said Kell, at length. His voice was cold and hard. вЂњThe rumours about

HorusвЂ™ sinister plans are true. He is in league with allies from beyond the pale.вЂќ

вЂњThe ruinous powersвЂ¦вЂќ muttered Soalm.

вЂњIt is not magick,вЂќ Tariel insisted. вЂњCall it what it is. Science, but the darkest

science. Like Iota herself, a creation of intellects unfettered by morals or

boundaries.вЂќ

219

вЂњWhat are you saying, that this witchling Spear is like her?вЂќ KoyneвЂ™s eyes

narrowed. вЂњThe girl was something bred in a laboratory, deliberately tainted by the

touch of the warp.вЂќ

вЂњI know what itвЂ¦ what he is,вЂќ said Tariel, yanking out the cables from the

gauntlet and dousing the hologramвЂ™s deathly images. вЂњI have heard the name of this

creature.вЂќ

вЂњExplain,вЂќ demanded Kell.

вЂњThis must never be repeated.вЂќ The infocyte sighed. вЂњThe Vanus watch all. Our

stacks are filled with information on all the clades. It is how we maintain our

position.вЂќ

Koyne nodded. вЂњYou blackmail everyone.вЂќ

вЂњIndeed. We know that the Culexus seek to improve upon their psychic abilities

through experimentation. They gather subjects from the care of the Silent Sisterhood.

Those they do not induct into their ranks, they spirit away forвЂ¦ other reasons.вЂќ

вЂњThis Spear was one of ours?вЂќ Koyne was incredulous.

вЂњIt is possible,вЂќ Tariel went on. вЂњThere was a projectвЂ¦ it was declared null by

Sire Culexus himselfвЂ¦ they called it the Black Pariah. A living weapon capable of

turning a targetвЂ™s psionic force back upon it, without the aid of an animus device. The

ultimate counter-psyker.вЂќ

вЂњWhat became of it?вЂќ said Kell.

вЂњThat data is not available. The starship the Culexus used as their base of

operations was to be piloted into a sun. So the orders said. I know this because my

mentor was tasked with gathering this intelligence.вЂќ

вЂњAnd this Spear is the Black Pariah?вЂќ Kell frowned. вЂњNot dead, but in service to

the Warmaster.вЂќ He shook his head. вЂњWhat have we been thrown into?вЂќ

вЂњBut why is it here, on Dagonet?вЂќ insisted Koyne. вЂњTo destroy Iota? To disrupt

our plan against Horus?вЂќ

Soalm gave a shuddering breath. вЂњIota was just in the way. Like all the pilgrims

and the refugees. Collateral damage. Spear wanted the book. The blood!вЂќ

вЂњWhat are you talking about?вЂќ Kell took her arm and pulled her around.

вЂњJenniker, what do you mean?вЂќ

She told them; and as he understood, Tariel went weak and slumped against the

side of the hull, shaking his head. His mouth silently formed the words no, no, no,

over and over again.

Koyne snorted. вЂњThe EmperorвЂ™s blood? That cannot be! This is madnessвЂ¦ HorusвЂ™

assassin tears a page from some ancient tome and with that he can strike at the most

powerful human being who ever lived? The very idea is ridiculous!вЂќ

вЂњHe has what he wants now,вЂќ Soalm went on. вЂњSynchrony with the God-

EmperorвЂ™s gene-marker. Spear is like a primed bomb, ready to detonate.вЂќ She

blinked back tears. вЂњWe have to stop him before he leaves the planet!вЂќ

вЂњYou saw what Spear did to Iota,вЂќ Kell looked towards the Callidus. вЂњIf this thing

is a mirror for psychic might, can you imagine what would happen if he got through

to Terra? If he came close enough to turn that power on the Emperor?вЂќ

220

вЂњA cataclysmвЂ¦вЂќ husked Tariel. вЂњThe same thing that happened to Iota, but

multiplied a million times over. A collision of the most lethal psychic forces

conceivable.вЂќ The infocyte swallowed hard. вЂњThroneвЂ™s sakeвЂ¦ He might evenвЂ¦ kill

him!вЂќ

Koyne gave a sarcastic snort. вЂњThe Emperor of Mankind wounded by something

so fantastic, so ephemeral? I canвЂ™t believe it is possible. Spear will be swatted away

like an insect. This womanвЂ™s reason cannot be trusted! Her kind are governed by

archaic spiritual fanaticism, not facts!вЂќ

вЂњThe God-Emperor alone guides meвЂ¦вЂќ she insisted.

The Callidus stabbed a finger at the poisoner. вЂњYou see? She admits it! SheвЂ™s part

of a cult forbidden by the Council of Terra!вЂќ Before anyone else could respond, the

shade went on. вЂњWe have a mission here! A target! Horus may have sent this Captain

Sedirae to his death by design, or we may have tipped our hands by moving too soon,

but it does not matter! The end result remains the same. Our mission is not yet

ended.вЂќ

вЂњHe will come down to Dagonet,вЂќ said Tariel. вЂњThe Warmaster has no choice

now. The punishment of this world must be seen to come from his hand.вЂќ

вЂњExactly,вЂќ insisted Koyne. вЂњWe have another chance to kill him. The only

chance. A moment like this will never come again.вЂќ

Soalm painfully pushed herself to her feet. вЂњYou understand nothing about me,

shapechanger, or what I believe!вЂќ she snarled. вЂњHis divinity is absolute, and you

delude yourself by your denial of it. Only He can save humanity from the darkness

that gathers around us. We cannot fail Him!вЂќ She lurched and fell against Kell, who

caught her before she could stumble to the deck. вЂњI cannot fail HimвЂ¦ Not again.вЂќ

Tariel spoke up. вЂњIf Soalm is right, if this is the Black Pariah and he has ingested

a measure of Imperial bloodвЂ¦ Spear will seek to flee this world and make space to

Terra as quickly as possible. And if he has a ship that can get him to the warp, or

worse, if HorusвЂ™ fleet is waiting for the assassin to come to them, there will be no

way to stop him. Spear must be killed before he leaves Dagonet.вЂќ

вЂњOr we can trust in the Emperor and follow our orders,вЂќ Koyne broke in. вЂњYou

think him divine, Soalm? I may not agree, but I do believe he is strong enough to

shrug off any attack. I believe that he will see this Spear coming and strike him from

the sky.вЂќ The CallidusвЂ™ boy-face twisted. вЂњBut Horus? The Warmaster is a serpent,

rising for just one moment from his hiding place. We kill him here on this world and

we end the threat he represents forever.вЂќ

вЂњWill it be that simple?вЂќ Soalm snapped back. вЂњA city full of people is being put

to the sword out there because we killed a single Astartes. Do you think if the

Warmaster dies, every rebel will fall to his knees and be crippled by grief? It will be

anarchy! Destruction and chaos!вЂќ

вЂњI am mission commander,вЂќ KellвЂ™s voice cut through the air. вЂњI have authority

here.вЂќ He glared at Soalm. вЂњI will not be disobeyed again. The decision is mine

alone.вЂќ

вЂњWe canвЂ™t kill them both,вЂќ said Tariel.

вЂњGet us airborne,вЂќ said the Vindicare, reaching for his rifle.

221

There was a ragged group of men on the perimeter wall of the star-port, some of

them soldiers, some of them not, all with looted firearms and the aura of hot fear

about them. They saw the jetbike hurtling in from across the desert and they fired on

it without hesitation. Everything had been trying to kill them since the shock of the

dawn broke, and they did not wait to find out if this vehicle was friend or foe.

Insanity and terror ruled Dagonet now, as men turned on men in their panic to flee

the doomed city.

The stubby aerodyne had a single, medium-wattage lascannon mounted along the

line of the fuselage, and Spear aimed it with twists of the jetbikeвЂ™s steering handles,

lashing along the battlement of the wall with lances of yellow fire. Bodies exploded

in blasts of superheated blood-steam as shots meant to knock down aircraft

eradicated men with each hit. Those who didnвЂ™t die in the initial volley were killed as

they ran when Spear came around in a tight loop to strafe them off the line of the

wall.

Threads of sinew and knots of transformed tissue flared out behind the killerвЂ™s

head in a fan. Fronds from the daemonskin fluttered, sucking the mist of blood from

the air as the bike passed over the wall and skimmed the runway towards the parked

shuttle.

The Eurotas ship was untouched, although Spear noted two corpses off by the

prow. The autonomic guns in the shuttleвЂ™s chin barbette had locked onto the pair of

opportunists, who had clearly thought they could claim the craft to escape. The little

turret turned to track the jetbike as Spear came in but it did not fire; the sensors saw

nothing when they looked at him, only a jumble of conflicting readings the primitive

machine-brain could not decipher.

He abandoned the flyer and sprinted towards the shuttle. Spear was electric; his

every neuron sang with bubbling power and giddy anticipation. The tiny droplet of

blood he had consumed was like the sweetest nectar. It bubbled through his

consciousness like potent, heady wine; he had a flash of Yosef SabratвЂ™s memory, a

sense-taste of drinking an elderly vintage with Daig Segan, savouring the perfection

of it. This was a far greater experience. He had dared to sip from the cup of a being

more powerful than any other, and even that slightest of tastes made him feel like the

king of all creation. If this were an echo of it, he thought, what glory the Emperor

must feel to simply be.

Spear released a deep, booming laugh to the clouded skies. He was a loaded gun,

now. Infinitely lethal. Ready to commit the greatest murder in history.

He just needed to be closeвЂ¦

Under the starboard wing, he glimpsed a small drum-shaped vehicle on fat tyres;

it was a mechanised fuel bowser, governed by simple automata. The device was one

of many such systems in the star-port, machines that could do the jobs of men by

loading, unloading or servicing the ships that passed through the facility; but like so

many things on Dagonet, in the disorder that had engulfed the planet no one had

thought to stand down the robots, and so they went on at their programmed tasks,

ignorant of the fact that buildings had collapsed around them, unaware that their

human masters were most likely dead in the rubble.

The automaton had dutifully done its job, and refuelled the shuttle with fresh

promethium. Spear hesitated on the cockpit ladder and his ebullient mood wavered.

222

Overhead, red light and thunder rolled in across the runway from the burning

city, and SpearвЂ™s fanged mouth twisted in something like a scowl. In truth, he had not

expected the Sons of Horus to be so close behind him to Dagonet. He had hoped he

might have a day, perhaps twoвЂ”but the tides of the warp were capricious. He

wondered if some intelligence had been at work to bring all these players to the same

place at the same time. To what end, though?

Spear shook the thought away. He was so set on leaving this place behind he had

not stopped to think that his means of escape might no longer be in place. It was

likely that if the WarmasterвЂ™s fleet was here, then the cutter Yelene was either in their

possession or smashed to fragments.

вЂњI must get to TerraвЂ¦вЂќ He said the words aloud, the need burning in him; and

then he sensed a distant taint upon his perception. A powerful, sinister presence.

Unbidden, Spear looked up again, into the storm.

Yes. The master was up there, looking down on Dagonet, searching for him. The

killer could see the dark, piercing gaze of Erebus in the patterns of the clouds. The

master was waiting for him. Watching to see what he would do next, like a patient

teacher with a prized student.

Spear dropped off the ladder and moved back to the front of the shuttle. It was all

falling into place. With the blood taken, he needed only to ride to his target and

perform his kill. Erebus was here to help him; the master would give him the ship he

needed. It would be his final act as a mentor.

The killer took one of the bodies on the runway and dragged it into the lee of the

wing, under cover from the thick gobbets of black rain that were falling. Spear

remembered the rituals of communication that Erebus had seared into his memory. It

would only take a moment to arrange. He dipped his fingers into a deep wound on

the manвЂ™s torso and cupped a handful of thickening blood; then, quickly, Spear used

it to draw glyphs of statement on the cracked ferrocrete surface. He made the circles

and crosses, building the shape of an eightfold star line by line. Once complete, it

would be visible to Erebus like a flare on a moonless night. The master would see it

and know. He would understand.

The wind changed direction for an instant, blowing the smell of the corpse and

the tang of promethium across the sensing pits in SpearвЂ™s fanged maw; and, too, it

brought him the skirl of humming turbines.

His head snapped up, catching sight of a white-and-green shape dropping down

through the mist. Something flashed in the open hatch and Spear jerked away on

reflex.

A bullet creased the surface of his daemonflesh face like a razor blade, opening a

ragged gouge that spat out a fan of ebon fluid; the tainted blood spattered over the

half-drawn glyphs, ruining the pattern. Spear stumbled. A fraction of a second slower

and the bullet would have struck him between the fathomless black pits of his eyes.

Tightening the muscles in his arms, Spear put up his palms with a snap of the

wrist, and the daemonflesh grew new orifices. Long spars of sharp bone clattered into

the air in a puff of pinkish discharge.

вЂњWatch out!вЂќ Tariel called, stabbing at controls to throw the flyer into a half-roll that

showed the belly of the aircraft to their target.

223

Kell staggered, losing his balance for a second as he clung on to his rifle. Koyne,

surprisingly strong for wearing a body that seemed insubstantial, grabbed him and

held him up. Nearby, Soalm hung on for dear life, shivering in the cold draught

billowing through the open hatch.

Bone shards peppered the hull of the flyer and punched through the metal

fuselage. Kell flinched as several impacted his chest and buried themselves in the

armour there. Koyne cried out and as the aircraft righted itself, the Callidus fell

backwards, a circle of bright crimson blossoming through the material across the

shadeвЂ™s thigh.

Kell swept a hand over his chest, flicking the shards away. As they fell to the

deck they denatured, becoming soft and pliant. To the VindicareвЂ™s disgust, the shards

began to writhe like blind worms. He stamped them into patches of white pus and

brought the Exitus up to his shoulder. вЂњTariel! Bring us around!вЂќ

The flyer had come in upwind, their approach masked by the clouds and the

thunder from the shelling of the capital. Now they were circling the parked shuttle,

the livery of the Eurotas Consortium clear as day across the hull. What Kell saw

through his targeting scope was disturbing; he had faced humans of every stripe,

mutant creatures, even xenos. Spear was unlike any of them. Even from this distance,

it exuded a tainted menace that sickened him to look at.

вЂњItвЂ™s making for the cockpit,вЂќ Tariel called out. вЂњKell!вЂќ

The marksman saw the blur of the assassin-creature as it ran; the thing hazed the

air around it like waves of heat rising from a searing desert, making it hard to draw a

bead. His finger tensed on the trigger. There was a high-velocity Splinter round in the

chamberвЂ”on impact with an organic target it would fracture into millions of tiny

hair-like fragments, each a charged piece of molly-wire. The wires would expand in a

sphere and rip through flesh and bone like a tornado of blades.

It would do this, if he hit his target. But Kell had missed with the first shot. Even

from a moving platform, through rain, against a partly-occluded target, he should

have found the mark.

The Vindicare made a snap decision and worked the slide of the rifle, ejecting the

unspent Splinter bullet, in one swift motion thumbing a red-tipped round from a

pocket on his arm into the open chamber.

вЂњWhat are you waiting for?вЂќ Koyne shouted. вЂњKill it!вЂќ

The breech of the Exitus closed on the Ignis bullet and Kell swung the longrifle

away from the target. He ignored KoyneвЂ™s cries and his scope filled with the shape of

the fuel bowser.

The incendiary compound in his next shot hit the main promethium tank and

combusted. A fist of orange fire flipped the shuttle over and engulfed it in flames.

Shockwaves of damp air struck the flyer and the aircraft was forced down hard, the

impact of the landing snapping off the undercarriage.

Kell got up as bits of hull metal clattered out of the sky, bouncing off the runway.

For a moment, all he saw was the jumping, twisting shapes of the flames; but then

something red and smoking tore itself out of the wreckage and began to run for the

star-port terminal building.

The Vindicare snarled and raised the rifle, but the weight of the gun told him the

magazine was empty. He swore, slamming a new clip into place, knowing as he did

224

that it would not matter. When he peered back through the scope, Spear had

vanished. вЂњHeвЂ™s gone for cover,вЂќ he began, turning. вЂњWe need toвЂ”вЂќ

вЂњEristede?вЂќ His sisterвЂ™s voice stopped him dead. She lay on the deck, and her face

was waxy and dull. There was blood on her lips, and when she moved her hands he

saw a jagged length of bone protruding from her chest.

He let the rifle fall and ran to her, dropping into a crouch. Old emotions, strong

and long-buried, erupted inside him. вЂњJenniker, noвЂ¦вЂќ

вЂњDid you kill it?вЂќ

He felt the colour drain from him. вЂњNot yet.вЂќ

вЂњYou must. But not out of fury, do you understand?вЂќ

The cold, familiar rage that had always sustained him welled up in KellвЂ™s

thoughts. It was the same burning, icy power that had spurred him on ever since that

day in the schola, since the moment the woman in the Vindicare robes had told him

they knew the name of the man who had killed his parents. It was his undying fuel,

the bottomless wellspring of dark emotion that made him such a superlative killer.

His sisterвЂ™s fingertips touched his cheek. вЂњNo,вЂќ she said, her eyes brimming with

tears. вЂњPlease donвЂ™t show me that face again. Not the revenge. There is no end to that,

Eristede. It goes on and on and on and it will consume you. There will be nothing

left.вЂќ

Kell felt hollow inside, an empty vessel. вЂњThereвЂ™s nothing now,вЂќ he said. вЂњYou

took it all when you broke away. The last connection I had.вЂќ He looked down at his

hands. вЂњThis is all I have left.вЂќ

Jenniker shook her head. вЂњYouвЂ™re wrong. And so was I. I let you go that night. I

should have made you stay. We could have lived another life. Instead we doomed

ourselves.вЂќ

She was fading now, and he could see it. A surge of raw panic washed over him.

His sister was going to die and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

вЂњListen to me,вЂќ she said. вЂњHe is watching. The God-Emperor waits for me.вЂќ

вЂњI donвЂ™tвЂ”вЂќ

вЂњHush.вЂќ She put a finger on his lips, trembling with her agony. вЂњOne day.вЂќ

Jenniker pressed something into his palm and closed his fingers over it. вЂњSave His

life, Eristede. He will draw me to His right hand, to be with mother and father. IвЂ™ll

wait for you there. We will wait for you.вЂќ

вЂњJennikerвЂ¦вЂќ He tried to find the right words to say to her. To ask her to forgive

him. To understand; but her eyes were all the answer he needed. He saw such

certainty there, such absence of doubt.

With difficulty she pulled a slim toxin corde from her pocket. вЂњDo this, my

brother,вЂќ she told him, her pain rising. вЂњBut not for revenge. For the God-Emperor.вЂќ

Before he could stop her, she touched the tip of the needle-like weapon to her

palm and pierced the flesh. Kell cried out as her eyes fluttered closed, and she

became slack in his hands.

The rains drummed on the canopy and the flames hissed; then he became aware

of a presence at his side. Koyne stood there, holding his longrifle. вЂњVindicare,вЂќ said

the shade. вЂњWhat are your orders?вЂќ

Kell opened his fingers and saw a gold aquila there, stained with dots of red.

225

вЂњIn the EmperorвЂ™s name,вЂќ he said, rising to his feet and taking the weapon,

вЂњfollow me.вЂќ

226

SEVENTEEN

Confrontation

Duel

Termination

Kell looked up as Koyne emerged from the hangar where the Ultio was hidden and

his expression stiffened. The boyish face, the pretence at the shape of a human

aspect, these were all gone now. Instead, the Callidus had stripped down to what

existed in the core of the shadeвЂ™s persona. An androgynous figure in the matt black

overall of a stealthsuit similar to that worn by Kell and Tariel, but with a hood that

clung to every contour of the other assassinвЂ™s face. The only expression, if it could be

said to be such a thing, was from the emerald ovals that were the eyes of the mask.

Cold focus glittered there, and little else. Kell was reminded of an artistвЂ™s wooden

manikin, something without emotion or animation from within.

KoyneвЂ™s head cocked. вЂњThereвЂ™s still time to reconsider this.вЂќ The voice, like the

figure, was neutral and colourless. Without someone elseвЂ™s face to speak from, the

Callidus seemed to lose all effect.

He ignored the statement, rechecking the fresh clips of ammunition he had taken

from the ship for the paired Exitus longrifle and pistol. вЂњRemember the plan,вЂќ said

the Vindicare. вЂњWeвЂ™ve all seen what it can do. ThereвЂ™s just the three of us now.вЂќ

вЂњYou saw it,вЂќ Tariel said, in a small voice. вЂњWe all saw it. On the memory coil,

and out thereвЂ¦ ItвЂ™s not human.вЂќ

Koyne gave a reluctant nod. вЂњAnd not xenos. Not alien in that way.вЂќ

вЂњItвЂ™s a target, thatвЂ™s all that matters,вЂќ Kell retorted.

The Callidus scowled. вЂњWhen you have been where I have been and seen what I

have seen, you come to understand that there are living things out there that go

beyond such easy categorisation. Things that defy reasonвЂ¦ even sanity. Have you

ever peered into the warp, Vindicare? What lives thereвЂ”вЂќ

вЂњThis is not the warp!вЂќ grated Kell. вЂњThis is the real world! And what lives here,

we can end with a bullet!вЂќ

вЂњBut what if we canвЂ™t kill the fiend?вЂќ said Tariel, a long ballistic coat pulled tight

over him. Congregating under the shadows near his boots, Kell saw rodentlike forms

sheltering from the rain.

вЂњI wounded it,вЂќ said the Vindicare. вЂњSo we will kill it.вЂќ

Tariel gave a slow nod. Overhead, a crackling roar crossed the sky as something

burning crimson-purple passed above them, obscured by the low, dirty clouds.

Seconds later, impact tremors made the runway quiver all around them, and the

winds brought the long, drawn-out ramble of buildings collapsing. The city was

227

entering its death-throes, and when it was finally smothered, Kell doubted the fury of

the Sons of Horus would be sated.

Tariel looked up. вЂњVox communications will be sporadic, if they even work at

all,вЂќ he said. вЂњThe radioactives and ionisation in the atmosphere are blanketing the

whole area.вЂќ

Kell nodded as he walked away. вЂњIf one of us finds the target, weвЂ™ll all know

quickly enough.вЂќ

The pain across his back was a forest of needles.

Spear ran on, skirting around the rings of broken ferrocrete that had been sections

of the control tower, now fallen in a line across the landing pads and maintenance

pits. He could feel the daemonskin working against the myriad fragments of metal

that were embedded in him, deposited there by the explosion of the shuttle. One by

one, the pieces of shrapnel were being expunged from his torso, the living flesh

puckering to spit them out in puffs of black blood.

The burn from the blast was torture, and with every footfall jags of sharp agony

raced up SpearвЂ™s changed limbs and tightened around his chest. When the fuel

bowser had detonated, the concussion had caught him first and thrown him clear. The

shuttle took the brunt of the explosion, and it was lost to him now. He would need to

find another way off Dagonet. Another way to signal the master.

He slowed, clambering over a pile of rubble sloughed from the front of the

terminal building, dragging himself up on spars of twisted rebar over drifts of

shattered blue glass.

At the apex he dared to pause and throw a glance back through the filthy

downpour. The shuttle wreckage was still burning, bright orange flames shimmering

where the wet runway reflected them like a dark mirror. SpearвЂ™s segmented jaws

parted in a low growl. He had allowed himself to become distracted; he was so

enraptured by his own success at taking the Warrant he had not stopped to consider

the meaning of the witch-girlвЂ™s company with the cultists of the Theoge.

Her appearance there had not been happenstance. At first he thought she was

merely some defender, a palace guard put in place as a last line of defence by

EurotasвЂ™ fanatic cohorts; now it was becoming clearer. He was facing assassins,

killers of his own stripe with their own weapons of murder.

He considered what their presence meant, and then discarded the concern. If his

purpose on Dagonet had been known, if the forces of the arrogant Emperor had

really, truly understood the threat Spear posed to their precious liege lord, this world

would have been melted into radioactive glass the moment he set foot on it.

Spear chuckled. Perhaps they expected him to feel fear at his pursuit, but he did

not. If anything, he became more certain of his own victory. The only thing that

could have faced him on his own terms was the witch-girl, and he had boiled her in

the crucible of her own powers. He had little fear of gun or blade after that.

The killer dropped through the yawning space of a tall broken window and

landed in a cat-fall on the tiled floor of the terminal. Dust and death hung in the air.

Sweeping his gaze around, he saw the remnants of a massive display screen where it

had been blown from its mounts by the concussion of an impact several miles away.

Across the debris-strewn floor there were a handful of corpses, ragged and gory

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where carrion-fowl had come to prey on them. The jackal birds glared at Spear from

the gloomy corners of the chamber, sitting in their roosts and sniffing at the air. They

smelled his blood and they were afraid of its stench.

The daemonskin rippled over him and Spear let out a gasp. It could sense the

others coming, it could feel the proximity of bloodletting, of new murder.

He sprinted away into the shadows to prepare; he would not deny the needs of his

flesh.

Tariel expected to feel a crippling terror when the others vanished into the shadows

of the building, but he did not. He was never really alone, not if he were to be honest

with himself. The infocyte found the makings of a good hide in a blown-out

administratum room on the mezzanine level of the main terminal, a processing

chamber where new arrivals to Dagonet would have been brought for interview by

planetary officials before being given formal entry. The eyerats scrambled around

him, sniffing at the corners and patrolling the places where there were holes in the

walls or missing doorways; his two remaining psyber eagles were watching the main

spaces of the atrium and occasionally snapping at the native carrion scavengers when

they became too curious.

In a corner formed by two fallen walls, Tariel dropped into a lotus settle and used

the cogitator gauntlet to bring up a schematic of the building. It was among the

millions of coils worth of files he had copied from the stacks of the Dagonet

governmental librariums over the past few weeks, the data siphoned into his personal

mnemonic stores. It was habitual of him to do such a thing; if he saw information

untended, he took it for himself. It wasnвЂ™t theft, for nothing was stolen; but on some

level Tariel regarded data left unsecuredвЂ”or at least data that had not been secured

wellвЂ”as fundamentally belonging to him. If it was there, he had to have it. And it

always had its uses, as this moment proved.

Working quickly, he allowed the new scans filtering in from the rats and the

eagles to update the maps, blocking out the zones where civil war, rebel attack and

careless Astartes bombardments had damaged the building. But the data took too

many picoseconds to update; the vox interference was strong enough to be causing

problems with his data bursts as well. If matters became worse, he might be forced to

resort to deploying actual physical connections.

And there was more disappointment to come. The swarm of netflys he had

released on entering the building were reporting in sporadically. The infrastructure of

the star-port was so badly damaged that all its internal scrying systems and vidpicters

were inert. Tariel would be forced to rely on secondary sensing.

He held his breath, listening to the susurrus of the contaminated rainfall on the

broken glass skylights overhead, and the spatter of the runoff on the broken

stonework; and then, very distinctly, Tariel heard the sound of a piece of rubble

falling, disturbed by a misplaced footstep.

Immediately, a datum-feed from one of the eyerats out in the corridor ceased and

the other rodents scrambled for cover, their adrenaline reads peaking.

The infocyte was on his feet before he could stop himself. The lost rat had

reported its position as only a few hundred metres from where he now stood.

229

I will make sure that nothing ever gets close enough to kill me. TarielвЂ™s skin went

clammy as his words to Kell returned to him, damning the Vanus with his foolish

arrogance. He moved as quickly as he dared, abandoning his makeshift hide and

ducking out through a rent in the fallen wall. He heard the psyber eagles take wing

above as he moved.

Tariel flinched as he passed through a stream of stale-smelling water dripping

down from above, dropping from ledge to ledge until he was in the atrium. He

glanced around quickly; the chamber was modelled on a courtyard design. There

were galleries and balconies, some ornamental, some not. Through the eyes of one of

the birds, he saw a spot that had strong walls to the back and three distinct lines of

approach and escape. Pulling his coat tighter, he moved towards it in the shadows,

quick and swift, as he had been taught.

As he ran he tabbed the start-up sequence for the pulse generator and sent dozens

of test signals to his implanted vox bead; only static answered him. Now, for the first

time, he felt alone, even as the feeds from the implanted micropicters in the skulls of

his animals followed him in his run. The tiny images clustered around his forearm,

hovering in the hololithic miasma.

He was almost across the span of the courtyard when Spear fell silently out of the

dimness above him and landed in a crouch on top of an overturned stone bench. The

face of red flesh, silver fangs and black eyes looked up and found him.

Tariel was so shocked he jumped back a step, every muscle in his body shaking

with surprise.

вЂњWhat is this?вЂќ muttered the killer. Those blank, sightless eyes cut into him. The

voice was almost human, though, and it had a quizzical edge, as if the monstrosity

didnвЂ™t know what to make of the trembling, thin man in front of him.

And now the fear came, heavy and leaden, threatening to drag Tariel down; and

with it there was an understanding that lanced through the infocyte like a bullet. He

had fatally exposed himself, not through the deception of a superior enemy, but

because he had made a beginnerвЂ™s mistake. The falling stone, the lost signalвЂ”those

had been nothing. Happenstance. Coincidence. But the infocyte had still ran. He had

committed the cardinal sin that no Vanus could ever be absolved of; he had

misinterpreted the data.

Why? Because he had allowed himself to think that he could do this. The past

days spent in the company of the Vindicare, the Callidus and Culexus, the Eversor

and Venenum, they had convinced him that he could operate in the field as well as he

had from his cladeвЂ™s secret sanctums. But all Fon Tariel had done was to delude

himself. He was the most intelligent person in the Execution Force, so why had he

been so monumentally foolish? TarielвЂ™s mind railed at him. What could have

possibly made him think he was ready for a mission like this? How could his mentors

and directors have abandoned him to this fate, spent his precious skills so cheaply?

He had revealed himself. Shown his weakness before the battle had begun. Spear

made a noise in its throatвЂ”a growl, perhapsвЂ”and took a step forward.

The eyerats leapt from the rabble all around the red-skinned freak, claws and

fangs bared, and from above in a flutter of metal-trimmed wings, the two psyber

eagles dived on the killer with talons out. The slave-animals had picked up on the

fear signals bleeding down TarielвЂ™s mechadendrites and reacted in kind.

230

SpearвЂ™s arms went up to bat away the prey birds and he stamped one of the

rodents to death with a clawed foot. The other rats clawed their way up the killerвЂ™s

obscene, fleshy torso; another of them was devoured as a mouth opened in SpearвЂ™s

stomach and bit it in half. The last was crashed in a balled fist.

The psyber eagles lasted a little longer, spinning about the killerвЂ™s horned head,

fluttering and slashing with claws and titanium-reinforced beaks. They scored several

bloody scratches, but could not escape the fronds of sinewy matter that issued out of

SpearвЂ™s hands to entrap and strangle them.

Curiosity gave way to anger as the killer dashed the corpses of the birds to the

ground; but for his part, Tariel had used the distraction well.

Dragging it from an inner pocket, the infocyte threw a stubby cylinder at Spear

and hurled himself away in the opposite direction, falling clumsily over a collapsed

table. Lightning fast, the freakish murderer snatched up the object; a grenade. When

they had paused to rearm at the Ultio, Tariel had returned to the case of munitions he

had presented to Iota during their voyage to Dagonet.

Spear sniffed at the thing and recoiled with a sputtering gasp. It was thick with

the stench of dying stars. He hurled it away in disgust; but not quickly enough.

The device exploded with a flat bang of concussion and suddenly the courtyard

was filled with a shimmering silver mist of metal snow.

The killer stumbled to his knees and began to scream.

His psyche was being flensed; the layers of his conscious mind were peeling away

under an impossibly sharp blade, bleeding out raw-red thought. The agony was a

twin to the pain the master had inflicted on Spear all those times he had dared to

disobey, to question, to fail.

It was the particles in the air; they were hurting him in ways that the killer

thought impossible, frequencies of psionic radiation blasting from every single

damned speck of the glittering powder, bathing him in razors. SpearвЂ™s mouthparts

gaped open and the sound he released from his chest was a gurgling cry of pain. His

nerves were alight with phantom fires unseen to the naked eye. In the invisible

realms of the immaterium, the Shockwave was sawing at the myriad of threads

connecting the killer to his etheric shadow. The daemonskin was battering itself

bloody, tearing at his subsumed true-flesh as it tried to rip away and flee into the

void.

Spear collapsed, shuddering, and mercifully the effect began to lessen; but

slowly, far too slowly. He saw the human, the pasty wastrel that had come stumbling

into his kill zone. The gangly figure peered out from behind his cover.

Spear wanted to eat him raw. The killer was filled with the need to strike back at

the one who had hurt him. He wanted to tear and tear and tear until there was nothing

left of this fool but rags of meatвЂ”

no

The word came like the tolling of a distant bell, drifting across the churning

surface of SpearвЂ™s pain-laced thoughts. Quiet at first, then with each moment, louder

and closer, more insistent than before.

no no No No NO NO NO

231

вЂњGet out!вЂќ Spear screamed the words as loud as he could, the amalgam of his

once-human flesh thrashing turbulently against the embedded sheath of the

daemonskin symbiont that cloaked him. Skin and skin flexed, tearing and shredding.

Black fluids bubbled from new, self-inflicted wounds, staining the broken stonework.

He swung his head down and battered it against the rubble, hearing bone snap wetly.

Real, physical agony was like a tonic after the impossible, enveloping pain from the

cloud-weapon. It shook the grip of the ghost-voices before they could form.

NO NO NO

вЂњNNNNNnnnnoooo!вЂќ Spear bellowed, so wracked with his suffering he could do

nothing but ride it out to the bitter end.

The pale-skinned man was coming closer. He had what could have been a

weapon.

Tariel opened his hand and the emitter cone for the pulse generator grew out of the

gauntletвЂ™s palm, tiny blue sparks clustering around the nib of the device. He was

shaking, and the infocyte grabbed his wrist with his other hand to hold it steady,

trying to aim at the writhing, horrible mass that lay on the stones, screaming and

bleeding.

The psy-disruptor grenades had only been an experiment. He hadnвЂ™t really

expected them to work; at best, Tariel thought he might be able to flee under the

cover of the discharge, that it might blind HorusвЂ™ monstrous assassin long enough for

him to escape.

Instead, the thing was howling like a soul being dragged into the abyss. It tore at

itself in anguish, ripping out divots of its own flesh. Tariel hesitated, grotesquely

fascinated by it; he could not look away from the twitching spectacle.

Faces grew out of the creatureвЂ™s torso and abdomen. The quivering red skin

bowed outwards and became the distinct shape of a male aspect, repeated over and

over. It was silently mouthing something to him, but the words were corrupted and

blurred. The expression was clear, however. The faces were begging him, imploring

him.

The fizzing wash of static issuing from his vox broke for a moment and Tariel

heard KoyneвЂ™s flat, emotionless drone in his ear. вЂњDo not engage it, Vanus,вЂќ said the

static-riddled voice. вЂњWeвЂ™re coming to youвЂ”вЂќ

Then the signal was swallowed up again by interference as somewhere off in the

distant city, a new slew of warheads were detonated.

The killerвЂ™s spasms of pain were calming, and Tariel came as close as he dared.

He hesitated, the question spinning in his thoughts, the pulse generator humming and

ready. Attack or flee? Flee or attack?

The faces faded, melting back into the crimson-hued flesh, and suddenly those

black, abyssal eyes were staring into him, clear as nightfall.

Tariel triggered the blast of focussed electromagnetic force, but it was too late.

Spear moved at the speed of hate, diving into him with his hands aimed forwards in a

fan of unfolding claws, knocking his arms away. Wicked talons punctured the VanusвЂ™

torso and tore through dermal flex-armour and meat, down into bone and organs;

then the hands split apart and ripped TarielвЂ™s ribcage open, emptying him on to the

wet stones.

232

The slaughterhouse stink of Fon TarielвЂ™s bloody demise reached Koyne as the shade

bolted from the broken-ended skywalk spanning the main terminal atrium. The

Callidus skidded to a halt and spat in annoyance as what was left of the infocyte was

shrugged off his killerвЂ™s claws and pooled at the feet of the red-fleshed thing.

Koyne saw the shoals of mouths emerging all over the surface of the monstrosity,

as they licked and lapped at the steaming remains of the Vanus. A furious surge of

censure ran through the assassinвЂ™s mind; Tariel had been a poor choice for this

mission from the start. If Koyne had been given command of the operation, as would

have been the more sensible choice, then the Callidus would have made sure the

Vanus never left the Ultio. TarielвЂ™s kind were simply incapable of the instincts

needed to operate in the field. There was a reason the Officio Assassinorum kept

them at their scrying stations, and now this wasteful death had proven it. This was all

the VindicareвЂ™s fault; the entire mission was breaking apart, collapsing all around

them.

But it was too late to abort now. The killer, the Spear-creature, was looking up,

sensing the CallidusвЂ™ presenceвЂ”and now KoyneвЂ™s options had fallen to one.

With a flexion of the wrist, the haft of a memory sword fell into KoyneвЂ™s right

hand and the Callidus leapt from the suspended walkway; in the left the shade had

the neural shredder, and the assassin pulled the trigger, sending an expanding wave

of exotic energy cascading towards Spear.

The red-skinned freak skirted the luminal edge of the neural blast and dodged

backwards, performing balletic flips that sent Spear spinning through pools of dark

shadow and shafts of grey, watery sunlight.

Koyne pivoted to touch down on altered legs, shifting the muscle mass to better

absorb the shock of the landing. The koans of the change-teachers learned in the

dojos of the clade came easily to mind, and the Callidus used strength of will to

forcibly alter the secretions of polymorphine from a series of implanted drag glands.

The chemical let bone and flesh flow like tallow, and Koyne was a master at

manipulating it from moment to moment. The assassin allowed the compound to

thicken muscle bunches and bone density, and then attacked.

Spear grew great cleavers made of tooth-like enamel from orifices along the

bottom of his forearms, and these blades whistled as they slashed through the air

around KoyneвЂ™s head. A downward slash from the memory sword briefly opened a

gouge on SpearвЂ™s shoulder, but it was knitting shut again almost as soon as it was cut.

Another neural blast went wide. Koyne was too close to deploy the pistol properly,

and feinted backwards, resisting the temptation to engage the enemy killer in close

combat.

Spear opened his mouth and shouted awls of black cartilage into the air. Glancing

hits peppered KoyneвЂ™s green-eyed hood and the darts denatured, dissolving into tiny

crawling spiders that ate into the ballistic cloth with their sharp mandibles. Before

they could chew through the emerald lenses to the soft tissues of KoyneвЂ™s eyes, the

Callidus gave a snort of frustration and tore the hood away, discarding it.

The assassin saw a glimpse of a familiar face-that-was-no-face, reflected in a

sheet of fallen glass. It was not as blank a canvas as it should have been; KoyneвЂ™s

aspect trembled, moving of its own accord. The CallidusвЂ™ anger deepened, and so in

233

turn the face became more defined. There was a slight resemblance there that veered

towards the scarred visage of the Garantine.

Koyne didnвЂ™t like the thought of that, and turned away as Spear attacked again.

The tooth-blades were continuing to grow, lengthening and becoming brownish-grey

along the edges. Before the killer could close the range, Koyne aimed the neural

shredder and depressed the trigger pad. Energy throbbed from the focussing crystal in

a widening stream that swept over Spear and knocked him backwards.

The Callidus had claimed many victims with the weapon. It was a singular horror

in its own way; not content with the cessation of a life, instead the pistol behaved as

an intellivore, disintegrating the connections between the neurons of an organic

brain, killing only memory and mind with the brutality of a hurricane sweeping

through a forest.

On any other target, it might have worked. But this was an amalgam of

uncontrolled human mutation, merged with a predatory form from a dimension made

of madness. What it had that could be called mentality was a lattice of instinct and

obedience suspended somewhere beyond the reach of anything in the physical plane.

Spear shrugged off the flickers of energy, folds of skin and fronds of flesh-matter

crisping and peeling away from its head like a tattered layer of ablative armour. The

grinning, fang-lined mouth underneath was wet with fluids and pus. The killerвЂ™s

cutting blades swept in and the barrel of the neural shredder was severed cleanly.

The gun screamed and spat watery orange fluids in jerking sputters, twitching so

hard that it jolted itself from KoyneвЂ™s grasp and tumbled away, falling into the

shadows beneath collapsed sheets of flakboard. The Callidus shrank back, grasping

for the twin to the memory sword already at point and ready.

The killer and the assassin fell into a blade fight, fat yellow sparks flying as the

molecule-thin edges of KoyneвЂ™s rapiers cut into the organic swords and broke off

brittle, sharp fragments with every hit. SpearвЂ™s blades flawed without blunting, as the

Callidus learned at cost, the wet lines of them cutting deeply into the stealthsuit.

Where blood was drawn, it was slow to clot. The tooth-matter exuded some kind of

oily venom that kept the wounds from scabbing over.

Spear changed the balance of the combat, powerful muscles bunching beneath his

red flesh, forcing Koyne back and back towards the fractured walls of the courtyard.

The animated contours of the CallidusвЂ™ face altered as each blow landed or was

deflected. A whirlwind of parries flew from KoyneвЂ™s arms, but Spear was gaining

ground, pushing the assassin deeper into a defensive stance with each passing

moment. KoyneвЂ™s inconstant aspect showed a carousel of old faces and new faces, all

of them in fury and frustration.

Spear laughed, threads of drool stringing from the split between the halves of his

shovel-faced jaw, and in that second Koyne managed a downward slash of both

blades. Spear barely parried the moveвЂ”it was overly aggressive and unexpected, and

the tips of the memory swords carved a cross over the killerвЂ™s scalp that penetrated to

the blackened bone. Wire-thin worms poured from the wound, exposing a milky eye

beneath the injury that wept ichor. SpearвЂ™s laugh turned to a howl of agony.

There was something fundamentally wrong with this creature. The assassin was

not touched by witch-mark like Iota and her Culexus kindred, but still Koyne could

sense on a marrow-deep level that Spear was not meant to exist in this world. The

234

creature, whatever amorphous amalgamation of warp-spawn and human it was,

flaunted reason by the mere fact of its existence. It was a splinter in the skin of the

universe.

Koyne did the trick with the koans once again, marshalling the density of bone

and lining of musculature for a leap into the air that defied human potential. The

Callidus jumped upwards and pivoted in mid-flight, falling out of SpearвЂ™s line of

sight over a buckled wall.

The killer came rushing over the hillock of rubble and followed his foe into the

atrium proper. The wide, high chamber ran almost the entire length of the terminal,

the litter of the dead and the wreckage of the port building lying ankle deep and

swimming in stagnant falls of rainwater.

Koyne was rising back into a fighting stance, slower than the Callidus would

have liked, but the stress of muscle reformation on the run took its toll. All the nomind

focussing mantras in the pages of the cladeвЂ™s Liber Subditus were worth

nothing against a blade in the hand of an enemy like this one.

When Spear spoke, Koyne knew that the moment was near. The fury in the

killerвЂ™s hissing, sibilant voice was the sound of a serpent uncoiling, hood fanning

open before the bite. вЂњI murder and murder, and there is no end to you,вЂќ he spat.

вЂњYou are not challenges to me, you are only steps on the road. Markers for my path.вЂќ

вЂњWhat monstrosity gave birth to you?вЂќ Koyne asked the question, thinking aloud,

the changing face shifting anew. вЂњYouвЂ™re just a collision of freakish chance, an

animal. A weapon.вЂќ

вЂњLike you?вЂќ SpearвЂ™s mucus-slicked blades flicked back and forth, gleaming dully.

вЂњLike the wretch back there and the dark-skinned one I killed with my mind? But

what have you done of worth, faceless?вЂќ He threw an inelegant, bored attack at

Koyne that the Callidus avoided, splashing back through a puddle into the shadows.

вЂњNothing you have murdered has any weight. But what I destroy will tip the balance

of a galaxy.вЂќ

вЂњYouвЂ™ll be stopped!вЂќ Koyne shouted the words with sudden, vicious energy,

boiling up from a place of naked hatred.

вЂњYou will never know.вЂќ Spear gave a flick of his hand and shot a fan of bone

shards at the assassin. Instead of dodging, Koyne rocked forwards, into the path of

the darts, and parried them away with a web of mnemonic steel. Blades flashing, the

Callidus pushed into the attack, aiming for the single vulnerable point in the killerвЂ™s

stance.

Spear had left just such an opening to entice the shade, and seized the moment

with vicious delight. New blades of fang-like matter burst from the surface of his

churning skin and caught KoyneвЂ™s twinned strike, blocking the blow even as it fell.

KoyneвЂ™s changing face darkened with fright and then agony. Spear crossed his

sword-arms like a falling guillotine and both of the CallidusвЂ™ slender, delicate hands

were severed at the wrists.

Fountains of blood jetted across SpearвЂ™s torso as Koyne fell backwards with the

force of the pain-shock, and the killer caught his victim before the assassin could

tumble into the sloshing, grimy waters. вЂњWeвЂ™re alike,вЂќ he told the Callidus. вЂњBeneath

the skin. Both the same.вЂќ

235

Koyne was a moment from death, and so Spear reached up and drove needlesharp

nails into the trembling skin of the assassinвЂ™s face; then with a single, horrific

tearing, he ripped the flesh away to show the red meat underneath. KoyneвЂ™s body

bucked with the sheer violence of the act, and Spear gave it a brutal shove.

The Callidus spun away and landed on a fallen spire of masonry, a pinnacle of

marble bursting through the stealthsuit fabric. Pinned there, the body bled out and

twitched, denied a quick death.

вЂњYou see?вЂќ Spear asked the question to the rag of skin in his hand. вЂњThe same, in

our ways.вЂќ

The killer tipped back his head and ate his prize morsel. Now this matter was

done with, now the EmperorвЂ™s ineffectual foot soldiers had been disposed of, Spear

could return to the matter of the signalling. He looked around, searching for a wide,

flat space where he might begin again on the drawing of the runes.

no

вЂњBe silent,вЂќ he hissed.

The daemonskin muttered. Something was touching its surface. A breath of faint

energy, a pinprick of ultraviolet light. Spear turned, senses altering to followвЂ”

The bullet entered the killerвЂ™s head through the hollow black pit of his right eye,

the impact transferring such kinetic force it blew Spear off his feet and into a

spinning tumble, down into the debris and floodwater. The shot fractured into

thousands of tiny, lethal shards that expanded to ricochet around inside the walls of

his skull, shredding the meat of his brain into ribbons.

The faceless had given up life in order to draw him into the atrium, into a space

under a sniperвЂ™s gun.

In those fractions of seconds as the blackness engulfed him, there was

understanding. There had been another. In his arrogance, he had failed to account for

a third attacker; or perhaps it been SabratвЂ™s final victory, clouding his mind at the

crucial moment.

The killer was killed.

Kell lowered the longrifle and allowed the cameoline cloak to fall open. The echo of

the gunshot, hardly louder than a womanвЂ™s gasp, still echoed around the rafters of the

atrium. Carrion birds roosting nearby flashed into the air on black wings, circling and

snarling at each other in their raucous voices.

The Vindicare slung the rifle over his shoulder and felt a tremor in his hands. He

looked down at the gloved fingers; they seemed foreign to him, as if they belonged to

someone else. They were so steeped in blood; so many lay dead at their touch. The

single, tiny pressure of his finger on a trigger plate, such a small amount of expended

forceвЂ”and yet magnified into such great destructive power.

He willed himself to stay away from that secret place in his heart, the stygian well

of remorse and wrath that had claimed him on the day he killed the murderer of his

parents. He willed it, and failed. Instead, Kell succumbed.

It had been his first field kill.

236

The man, in transit via aeronef through the valleys of Thaxted Dosas, the

dirigible floating beneath the hilltops, skimming the sides of the low peaks. Eristede

Kell had made his hide eight days before, in the long grasses. The long grasses like

those he and Jenniker played in as children, their games of fetch-find and hunt-thegrue.

He waited under the suns and the moons, the former his fatherвЂ™s glory, the latter

his motherвЂ™s smile.

And when the вЂ™nef came around the hill, he fired the shot and did not make the

kill. Not at first. The cabin window was refracted, disrupting his aim. He should have

known, adjusted the sights. A lesson learned.

Instead of cold and steely determination, he unchained his anger. Kell unloaded

the full magazine of ammunition into the cabin, killing everything that lived within it.

He executed all who saw that moment of error, target and collaterals all. Men and

women and children.

And he had his revenge.

Once more, he was in that place. Life taken to balance life taken from him, from his

familyвЂ”and once more, there was no sweetness in the act. Nothing but bitter, bitter

ash and the rage that would not abate.

With an angry flourish, he grabbed the cable rig on his belt and used the fast-fall

to drop quickly from his hide to the waterlogged floor below. The cloak billowing

out behind him like the wings of the prey birds overhead, he strode towards the body

of the Spear-thing, one hand snaking down to the clasp on the holster at his hip. He

did not spare KoyneвЂ™s brutalised corpse more than a second glance; despite every

tiny challenge to KellвЂ™s authority, in the end the Callidus had obeyed and died in the

line of duty. As with Iota, Tariel and the others, he would ensure their clades learned

of their sacrifices. There would be new teardrops etched upon the face of the

Weeping Queen in the Oubliette of the Fallen.

The monstrous killer lay cruciform, floating on the surface of the floodwater.

Rust-coloured billows of blood surrounded the body, a halo of red among the dull

shades of the rubble and wreckage.

Kell gave the corpse a clinical glare, barely able to stop himself from drawing a

knife and stabbing the crimson flesh in mad anger. The skull, already malformed and

inhuman in its proportions, had been burst from within by the lethal concussion of

the Shatter bullet. Cracked skin and bone were visible in lines webbing the face; it

looked like a grotesque terracotta mask, broken and then inexpertly mended.

Putting the longrifle aside, he drew the Exitus pistol, sliding his hand over the

skull sigil on the breech and cocking the heavy handgun. He would leave no trace of

this creature.

KellвЂ™s boot disturbed the blood-laced floods and the misted water parted. Motion

drew his eye to it; the rusty stain was no longer growing, but shrinking.

The wounds across the body of the killer were drinking it in.

He spun, finger on the trigger.

SpearвЂ™s leg made an unnatural cracking sound and bent at the wrong angle,

hitting Kell in the chest with the force of a hammer blow. The Vindicare stumbled as

the red-skinned creature dragged itself out of the water and threw itself at him. Spear

no longer moved with the same unnatural stealth and grace he had seen down the

237

sights of the longrifle, but it made up for what it lacked in speed and aggression.

Spear battered at him, knocking the pistol from KellвЂ™s grip, breaking bones with

every impact of his jagged fists.

The skin of the killer moved in ways that made the VindicareвЂ™s gut tighten with

disgust; it was almost as if SpearвЂ™s flesh were somehow dragging about the bones and

organs within, animating them with wild, freakish energy. Brain matter and thick

fluids dribbled from the impact wound in the killerвЂ™s eye, and it coughed globules of

necrotic tissues from its yawning mouth and ragged nostrils. The marksman took

another hit as he tried to block a blow, and KellвЂ™s shoulder dislocated from its socket,

making him bellow in agony.

Stumbling, he fell against the crimson-stained spire where Koyne lay impaled.

Spear advanced, with each footfall his body bloating and thickening as it drew in

more and more of the blood-laced fluids sloshing about their feet.

There was a face in the bubbling skin of its torso. Then another, and another,

biting and chewing at the thin membrane that suffocated them, trying to break free.

Spear twitched and halted. It turned its clawed fingers on itself, slashing at the

protrusions in its flesh, making scratches that oozed thin liquid.

The faces cried out silently to Kell. Stop him, they screamed.

The daemonskin had saved SpearвЂ™s life, if this could be considered life. It was so

ingrained in the matter of his being that even the obliteration of his cerebellum was

not enough to end him. The proxy-flesh of his warp-parasite contained the force of

the bullet detonationвЂ”or as much as it was capable of, forcing the broken pieces of

Spear back together into some semblance of their undamaged form.

But the daemonskin was a primitive creature, unsophisticated. It missed out petty

things like control and intellect, holding tight to instinct and animal fury. The killer

was self-aware enough to know that he had been murdered and returned from it, but

his mind was damaged beyond repair and what barriers of self-control it had once

had were in tatters.

Without them, his cages of captured memory broke open.

The formless force of a fragmented persona-imprint came crashing into SpearвЂ™s

wounded psyche with the impact of a falling comet, and he was spun and twisted

beneath the force of it. Suddenly, the killerвЂ™s thoughts were flooded by an overload of

sensation, a bombardment of pieces of emotion, shards of self.

вЂ”Ivak and the other boys with a ball and the hoopsвЂ”

вЂ”the smell of matured estufagemi wine was everywhere. The warm, comforting

scent seemed cloying and overly strongвЂ”

вЂ”Renia says yes to his earnest offer of a marriage contract, and he basks in her

smile-shiny lumps of organ meat that caught the light, and other things pasty-white

and streaked with fluidвЂ”

I hate you!вЂ”

вЂ”the shot that kills the Blue Towers Rapist comes from his gun, finallyвЂ”

вЂ”IвЂ™ve heard rumours. Stories from people who know people on other worlds, in

other systemsвЂ”

NoвЂ”

238

вЂ”a flicker of guiltвЂ”

вЂ”IвЂ™ve been absent a lot recentlyвЂ”

This was all that there was of Yosef SabratвЂ™s psyche, an incomplete jigsaw puzzle

of a self, driven by the single trait that marbled all the man had been, and all that

Spear had destroyed.

He had been waiting. Patient, clever Yosef. Buried deep in the dungeons of

SpearвЂ™s dark soul, struggling not to fade away. Waiting for a moment like this, for the

chance to strike at his murderer.

The phantom-taint of the dead lawman, wanted justice. It wanted revenge for

every victim in the killerвЂ™s bloody annals.

Every soul of those that Spear had slaughtered and looted, every ghost he had

pillaged to assume them, to corrupt them into his disguises, each had tasted like a

special kind of fear. A fear of loss of self, worse than death.

Now that fear was in him, as Spear clawed at the ragged edge of his own mind,

dangling over the brink of a psychic abyss.

And when he spoke, he heard Yosef SabratвЂ™s voice.

вЂњStop him!вЂќ

The face was not the thing of fangs and horns and dark voids anymore. It

belonged to a man, just a man in pain and sorrow, peering out at him as if through the

bars of the deepest prison in all creation.

KellвЂ™s breath was struck from him by the grief in those all-too-human eyes. He

had seen it enough times, witnessed at a distance in the moment when death claimed

a life. The sudden, final understanding in the eyes of a target. The pain and the truth.

He raced forward, ignoring the spirals of hot agony from the broken, grinding

edges of his ribcage, stabbing slim throwing knives from his wrist-guard into the

torso of the Spear-thing.

It cried out and he pushed past it, falling, slipping on the wet-slick tiles beneath

his feet. Kell rolled, clutching for the fallen pistol, fingers grasping the gripвЂ”

The killer was coming for him, festoons of claws and talons exploding from

every surface on its lurching body, the human face disappearing as it was swallowed

by the fangs and spines. It thundered across the debris, crashing through the water.

KellвЂ™s gun came up and he fired. The weapon bucked with a scream of torn air

and the heavy-calibre Ignis bullet crossed the short distance between gunman and

target.

The round slammed into the meat of SpearвЂ™s shoulder and erupted in a blare of

brilliant white fire; the hollow tip of the bullet was filled with a pressurised mixture

of phosphoron-thermic compound. On impact, it ignited with a fierce million-degree

heat that would burn even in the absence of oxygen.

Spear was shrieking, his body shuddering as if it were trying to rip itself apart.

Kell took aim again and fired a second shot, then a third, a fourth. At this range he

could not miss. The rounds blew Spear back, the combustion of hot air boiling the

water pooled around him into steam. The white flames gathered across the killerвЂ™s

body, eating into the surface of his inhuman flesh.

239

Kell did not stop. He emptied the Exitus pistol into the target, firing until the slide

locked back. He watched his enemy transform from a howling torch into a seething,

roiling mass of burned matter. Spear wavered, the screams from its sagging, molten

jaws climbing the octaves; and then there was a concussion of unnatural sound that

resonated from the creature. Kell saw the ghost of something blood-coloured and

ephemeral ripping itself from the killerвЂ™s dying meat, and heard a monstrous, furious

howl. It faded even as he tried to perceive it, and then the smoking remains fell. A

sudden wash of sulphur stink wafted over him and he gagged, coughing up blood and

thin bile. The ghost-image had fled.

Nursing his pain, Kell watched as SpearвЂ™s blackened, crumbling skeleton hissed

and crackled like fat on a griddle.

To his surprise, he saw something floating on the surface of the murky

floodwaters; tiny dots of bright colour, like flecks of gold leaf. They issued out from

the corpse of the killer, liberated by SpearвЂ™s death. When he reached for them they

disintegrated, flickering in the wan light and then gone.

вЂњNot for revenge,вЂќ he said aloud, вЂњFor the Emperor.вЂќ

The Vindicare sat there for a long time, listening to the drumming of the rains and the

distant crashes of destruction across the distance to the capital. The explosions and

the tremors were coming closer together now, married to the gouts of harsh light

falling from the sky above. The city and everything in it was collapsing under the

rage of the Sons of Horus; soon they would turn their weapons to the port, to the

wastelands, to every place on Dagonet where life still sheltered from their thunder.

The WarmasterвЂ™s rebels and traitors would not stop on this world, or the next, or

the next. They would cut a burning path across space that would only end at Terra.

That could not come to pass. KellвЂ™s warвЂ”his missionвЂ” was not over.

Using the Exitus rifle to support his weight, he gathered what he needed and then

the Vindicare marksman left the ruins of the terminal behind, beginning a slow walk

across the cracked runways under darkening skies.

In the distance, he saw the UltioвЂ™s running lights snap on as the ship sensed his

approach.

240

EIGHTEEN

I Am The Weapon

Into The Light

Nemesis

The guncutter climbed the layers of cloud, punching through pockets of turbulent air

thrown into the atmosphere by storm cells, the new-born thunder-heads spawning in

the wake of orbit-fall munitions.

Somewhere behind it, down on DagonetвЂ™s surface, the landscape was being

dissected as lance fire swept back and forth. The killing rains of energy and ballistic

warheads had broken the boundaries of the capital city limits; now they were

escaping to spread across the trembling ground, cutting earth like a keen skinning

knife crossing soft flesh.

The burning sky cradled the arrow-prowed ship, which spun and turned as it

wove a path through the cascades of plasma. No human pilot could have managed

such a feat, but the UltioвЂ™s helmsman was less a man and more the ship itself. He

flew the vessel through the tides of boiling air as a bird would ride a thermal, his

hands the stabilators across the bow, his legs the blazing nozzles of the thrusters,

fuel-blood pumping through his rumbling engine-heart.

UltioвЂ™s lone passenger was strapped into an acceleration couch at the very point

of the shipвЂ™s cramped bridge, watching waves of heat ripple across the invisible

bubble of void shields from behind a ring-framed cockpit canopy.

Kell muttered into the mastoid vox pickup affixed to his jawbone, subvocalising

his words into the humming reader in the arm of the couch. As the words spilled out

of him, he breathed hard and worked on attending to his injuries. The pilot had

reconfigured the gravity field in the cockpit to off-set the g-force effects of their

headlong flight, but Kell could still feel the pressure upon him. But he was thankful

for small merciesвЂ”had he not been so protected, the lift-off acceleration from the

port would have crushed him into a blackout, perhaps even punctured a lung with one

of his cracked ribs.

It remained an effort to speak, though, but he did it because he knew he was duty

bound to give his report. Even now, the UltioвЂ™s clever subordinate machine-brains

were uploading and encoding the contents of the memory spool from IotaвЂ™s skullhelm,

and the pages of overly analytical logs Tariel had kept in his cogitator gauntlet.

When they were done, that compiled nugget of dense data would be transmitted via

burst-signal to the shipвЂ™s drive unit, still hiding in orbit, within the wreckage of a

dead space station.

241

But not without his voice to join them, Kell decided. He was mission commander.

At the end, the lay of the choices were his responsibility and he would not shirk that.

Finally, he ran out of words and bowed his head. Tapping the controls of the

reader, he pressed the playback switch to ensure his final entry had been embedded.

вЂњMy name is Eristede Kell,вЂќ he heard himself saying. вЂњAssassin-at-Marque of

the Clade Vindicare, Epsilon-dan. And I have defied my orders.вЂќ

Nodding, he silenced himself, discarding the mastoid patch. KellвЂ™s voice seemed

strange and distant to him; it was less a report he had made and more of a confession.

Confession. The loaded connotations of that word made him glance down, to

where he had secured JennikerвЂ™s golden aquila about the wrist of his glove. He

searched himself, trying to find a meaning, a definition for the emotion clouding his

thoughts. But there was nothing he could grasp.

Kell pressed another switch and sent the vox recording to join the rest of the data

packet. Outside, the glowing sky had darkened through blue to purple to black, taking

the rush of air with it. Ultio was beyond the atmosphere now, and still climbing.

Each breath he took felt tainted and metallic. Thick fluids congested at his throat

and he swallowed them back with a grimace. The smell in his nostrils was no oneвЂ™s

blood but his own, and while the painkillers he had injected into his neck had gone

some way towards keeping him upright, they were wearing thinner by the moment.

An indicator rune on the control console flared green; Ultio had been sent a lineof-

sight signal from the drive unit. Out there in the wreckage-strewn orbits, the drive

module was awakening, stealthily turning power to its warp engine and sublight

drives. In moments, the astropath and Navigator on board would be roused from their

sense-dep slumber. The UltioвЂ™s descent module needed only to cross the space to the

other section of the ship and dock; then, reunited, the vessel could run for the void

and the escape of the immaterium.

Kell leaned forwards to stare out of the canopy. The only flaw in that otherwise

simple plan was the gathering of warships between the guncutter and the drive

module.

An armada barred his way. Starships the size of a metropolis crested with great

knife-shaped bows, blocks of hideously beweaponed metal like the heads of godhammers,

each one detailed in shining steel and gold. Each with the device of an

opened, baleful eye about them, glaring ready hate into the dark.

At the centre of the fleet, a behemoth. Kell recognised the lines of a uniquely

lethal vessel. A battle-barge of magnificent, gargantuan proportions haloed by clouds

of fighter escorts; the Vengeful Spirit, flagship of the Warmaster Horus Lupercal.

вЂњPilot,вЂќ he said, his voice husky with the pain, вЂњput us on an intercept heading

with the command ship. Put all available power to the aura cloak.вЂќ

The cyborg helmsman clicked and whirred. вЂњIncreased aura cloak use will result

in loss of void shield potentiality.вЂќ

He glared at the visible parts of the pilotвЂ™s near-human face, peering from the

command podium. вЂњIf they canвЂ™t see us, they canвЂ™t hit us.вЂќ

вЂњThey will hit us,вЂќ it replied flatly. вЂњIntercept vector places Ultio in high-threat

quadrant. Multiple enemy weapon arcs.вЂќ

242

вЂњJust do as I say!вЂќ Kell shouted, and he winced at the jag of pain it caused him.

вЂњAnd open a link to the Navigator.вЂќ

вЂњComplying.вЂќ The Vindicare thought he heard a note of grievance in the reply as

the guncutter turned, putting its bow on the Vengeful Spirit. The sensors were

showing the first curious returns from the picket ships in HorusвЂ™ fleet. They were

sweeping the area for a trace, uncertain if their scry-sensors had seen something; but

the UltioвЂ™s aura cloak was generations ahead of common Naval technology. They

would be inside the fleetвЂ™s inner perimeter before anyone on the picket vessels could

properly interpret what they had seen.

Another rune on the console glowed; a vox channel was open between the

forward module and the drive section. Kell spoke quickly, fearful that the

transmission would undo all the work of the cloak if left active a second too long.

вЂњThis is Kell. Stand by to receive encoded burst transmission. Release only on Omnis

Octal authority.вЂќ He took a shaky breath. вЂњNew orders supersede all prior commands.

Protocol Perditus. Expedite immediate. Repeat, go to Protocol Perditus.вЂќ

It seemed like long, long seconds before the NavigatorвЂ™s whispering, papery

voice returned through the speaker grille. вЂњThis will be difficult,вЂќ it said, вЂњbut the

attempt will be made.вЂќ Kell reached for the panel to cut the channel just as the

Navigator spoke again. вЂњGood luck, assassin.вЂќ

The rune went dark, and KellвЂ™s hand dropped.

Beyond the canopy, laser fire probed the sky around the ship, and ahead the

battle-barge grew to blot out the darkness.

* * *

Close-range lascannons on the hull of the drive module blew apart the paper-thin

sheath of metals hiding the aft section of the ship, and the UltioвЂ™s drive section

blasted free of the station wreck in a pulse of detonation. Fusion motors unleashed

the tiny suns at their cores and pushed the craft away, climbing the acceleration curve

in a glitter of void shields and displaced energy. In moments, the vessel was rising

towards one-quarter lightspeed.

Picket ships on the far side of the WarmasterвЂ™s fleet, ex-Imperial Navy frigates

and destroyers crewed only by human officers, saw it running and opened fire. Most

of the ships belonging to the Dagoneti had been obliterated over the past few hours,

and the stragglers had either been forced down to the surface or cut in two by their

beam lances.

Targeting solutions on the odd craft that had suddenly appeared on their

holoscopes behaved unexpectedly, however. Weapon locks drifted off it, unable to

find a true. Scans gave conflicting readings; the ship was monstrously over-powered

for something of its tonnage; it seemed unmanned, and then it seemed not. And

strangest of all, the glimmer of a building warp signature built up around its flanks

the further it strayed away from the gravity shadow of the planet, racing for the jump

point.Warships dropped out of formation, and powered after it, following the

unidentified craft up and out of the plane of the Dagonet systemвЂ™s ecliptic. They

would never catch it.

243

Alone now on their headless beast of a vessel, the UltioвЂ™s Navigator and astropath

communed with one another in a manner most uncommon for their respective kinds;

with words.

And what they shared was an understanding of mutual purpose. Protocol

Perditus. A coded command string known to them both, to which there was only one

response. They were to leave their area of operation on immediate receipt of such an

order and follow a pre-set series of warp space translations. They would not stop

until they lay under the light of Sol. The mission was over, abandoned.

Weapons fire haloed the space around the ship as it plunged towards the onset of

critical momentum, the first vestiges of a warp gate forming in the void ahead.

The blood continued to stream from ErebusвЂ™ nostrils as he shoved his way out of the

elevator car and through the cluster of helots waiting on the command deck. The

fluid matted his beard and he grimaced, drawing a rough hand across his face. The

psychic shock was fading, mercifully, but for a brief while it had felt as if it would

cut him open.

There, in his chambers aboard the flagship, meditating in the gloom over his

spodomancy and mambila divination, he attempted to find an answer. The eightfold

paths were confused, and he could not see their endpoints. Almost from the moment

they had arrived in the Dagonet system, Erebus had been certain that something was

awry.

His careful plans, the works he had conceived under the guidance of the Great

Ones, normally so clear to him, were fouled by a shadow he could not source. It

perturbed him, and to a degree undeserving of such emotion. This was only a small

eddy in the long scheme, after all. This planet, this action, a minor diversion from the

pre-ordained works of the great theatre.

And yet Horus Lupercal was doing such a thing more and more. Oh, he followed

where Erebus led, that was certain, but he did it less quickly than he had at first. The

WarmasterвЂ™s head was being turned and he was willful with it. At times, the Word

Bearer allowed himself to wonder; was the master of the rebels listening to other

voices than he?

Not to dwell, though. This was to be expected. Horus was a primarch. One could

no more hope to shackle one down and command him than a person might saddle an

ephemeral animus. The First Chaplain reminded himself of this.

Horus must be allowed to be Horus, he told himself. And when the time is upon

himвЂ¦ He will be ready.

Still; the voyage to Dagonet, the fogging of the lines. That did not disperse. If

anything, it grew worse. In his meditations Erebus had searched the egosphere of the

planet turning below them, but the screaming and the fear drowned out every subtle

tell. All he could divine was a trace of the familiar.

The pariah-thing. His Spear. Perhaps no longer on this world, perhaps just the

spoor of its passing, but certainly something. For a while he was content to accept

this as the truth, but with the passing of the hours Erebus could not leave the matter

be. He worried at it, picked at the psy-mark like a fresh scab.

Why had Spear come to Dagonet? What possible reason could there be for the

killer to venture off the path Erebus had laid out for him? And, more to the troubling

244

point of it, why had Horus chosen to show the flag here? The Word Bearer believed

that coincidence was something that existed only in the minds of men too feeblebrained

to see the true spider web of the universeвЂ™s cruel truth.

It vexed him that the answer was there below on the planet, if only he could reach

out for it.

And so he was utterly unprepared for what came next. The rising of the black

shriek of a sudden psionic implosion. In the chamber, sensing the edges of it, turning

his thoughts to the dark places within and allowing the void to speak to him.

A mistake. The death-energy of his assassin-proxy, hurtling up from the planetвЂ™s

surface, the escaping daemon beast brushing him as it fled back to the safety of the

immaterium. It hit him hard, and he was not ready for it.

He felt Spear die, and with him died the weapon-power. The phantom gun at the

head of the unknowing Emperor, shattered before it could even be fired.

ErebusвЂ™ fury drove him from his chambers, through the corridors of the ship. His

plan, this thread of the pathway, had been broken, and for HadesвЂ™ sake he would

know why. He would go down to Dagonet and sift the ashes of it through his fingers.

He would know why.

Composing himself, the Word Bearer entered the LupercalвЂ™s Court without

waiting to be granted entry, but even as Maloghurst moved to block his path, the

Warmaster turned from the great window and beckoned Erebus closer. He became

aware of alert sirens hooting and beyond the armourglass, fashioned in the oval of an

open eye, he saw rods of laser fire sweeping the void ahead of the flagshipвЂ™s prow.

Horus nodded to him, the hellish light of the weapons discharges casting his hardedged

face like blunt stone. He was, as ever, resplendent in his battle gear. In his

haste, Erebus had come to the Court still in his dark robes, and for a moment the

Word Bearer felt every bit of his inferiority to the Warmaster, as Horus seemed to

loom over him.

None of this he showed, however. He bottled it away, his aspect never changing.

Erebus was a prince of lies, and well-practised with it. вЂњMy lord,вЂќ he began. вЂњIf it

pleases the Warmaster, I have a request to make. A matter to addressвЂ”вЂќ

вЂњOn the surface?вЂќ Horus looked away. вЂњWeвЂ™ll visit Dagonet soon enough, my

friend. For the work to be done.вЂќ

Erebus maintained his outwardly neutral aspect, but within it took an effort to

restrain his tension. вЂњOf course. But perhaps, if I might have leave to venture down

before the rites proper, I couldвЂ¦ smooth the path, as it were.вЂќ

вЂњSoon enough,вЂќ Horus repeated, his tone light; but the chaplain knew then that

was the end to it.

Maloghurst hobbled closer, bearing a data-slate. He shot the Word Bearer a look

as he stepped in front of him. вЂњMessage from the pickets,вЂќ he said. вЂњThe other target

is too fast. They scored hits but it will make space before they catch it.вЂќ

The WarmasterвЂ™s lips thinned. вЂњLet it go. What of the other, our ghost?вЂќ He

gestured at the inferno raging outside.

вЂњIndeterminate,вЂќ the equerry sniffed. вЂњGun crews on the perimeter ships report

phantom signals, multiple echoes. TheyвЂ™re carving up dead sky, and finding

245

nothing.вЂќ Erebus saw his scarred faceвЂ™s perpetual frown deepening. вЂњIвЂ™ve drawn back

the fighter screen as you ordered, lord.вЂќ

Horus nodded. вЂњIf he dares come so close to me, I want to look him in the eyes.вЂќ

The Word Bearer followed the WarmasterвЂ™s gaze out through the windows.

The slate in MaloghurstвЂ™s gnarled fingers emitted a melodic chime, at odds with

the urgency of its new message. вЂњSensors readвЂ¦ something,вЂќ said the equerry.

вЂњClosing fast. A collision course! But weapons canвЂ™t find itвЂ¦вЂќ

вЂњAn aura cloak,вЂќ said Erebus, peering into the stormy dark. вЂњBut such a device is

beyond the Dagoneti.вЂќ

вЂњYes.вЂќ Horus smiled, unconcerned. вЂњDo you see him?вЂќ The Warmaster stepped to

the window and pressed his hands to the grey glass.

Out among the maelstrom of energy, as javelins of fire crossed and recrossed one

another, scouring the sky for the hidden attacker, for one instant the Chaplain saw

something like oil moving over water. Just the suggestion of a raptor-like object

lensing the light of the distant stars behind it. вЂњThere!вЂќ He pointed.

Maloghurst snapped out a command over his vox. вЂњTarget located. Engage and

destroy!вЂќ

The gun crews converged their fire. The craft was close, closer than the illusory

ghost image had suggested. Unbidden, Erebus backed away a step from the viewing

portal.

HorusвЂ™ smile grew wider and the Word Bearer heard the words he whispered, a

faint nimble in the deepest register. вЂњKill me,вЂќ said the Warmaster, вЂњif you dare.вЂќ

* * *

Ultio burned around him.

The pilot was already dead in the loosest sense, the cyborgвЂ™s higher mental

functions boiled in the short-circuit surge from a hit on the starboard wing; but his

core brain was intact, and through that the ship dodged and spun as the sky itself

seemed to turn upon them.

The ship trailed pieces of fuselage in a comet tail of wreckage and burning

plasma. The deck trembled and smoke filled the bridge compartment. A vista of red

warning runes met KellвЂ™s eyes wherever he looked. Autonomic systems had triggered

the last-chance protocols, opening an iris hatch in the floor to a tiny saviour pod

mounted beneath the cockpit. Blue light spilling from the hatch beckoned the

Vindicare for a moment. He had his Exitus pistol at his hip and he was still alive. He

would only need to take a stepвЂ¦

But to where? Even if he survived the next ten seconds, where could he escape

to? What reason did he have to live? His missionвЂ¦ The mission was all Eristede Kell

had left in his echoing, empty existence.

The command tower of the Vengeful Spirit rose through the forward canopy,

acres of old steel and black iron, backlit by volleys of energy and the red threads of

lasers. Set atop it was a single unblinking eye of grey and amber glass, lined in

shining gold.

246

And within the eye, a figure. Kell was sure of it, an immense outline, a demigod

daring him to come closer. His hand found the manual throttle bar and he pressed it

all the way to the redline, as the killing fires found his range.

He looked up once again, and the first sighting-mantra he had ever been taught

pressed itself to the front of his thoughts. Four words, a simple koan whose truth had

never been more real than it was in this moment.

Kell said it aloud as he fell towards his target.

вЂњI am the weapon.вЂќ

Across the mountainous towers of the Imperial Palace, the sun was rising into the

dusky sky, but its light had yet to reach all the wards and precincts of the great

fortress-city. Many districts were still dormant, their populace on the verge of waking

for the new day; others had been kept from their slumber by matters that did not rest.

In the ornate corridors of power, there was quiet and solemnity, but in the

Shrouds, any pretence at decorum had been thrown aside.

Sire EversorвЂ™s fist came down hard on the surface of the rosewood table with an

impact that set the cut-glass water goblets atop it rattling. His anger was unchained,

his eyes glaring out through his bone mask. вЂњFailure!вЂќ he spat, the word laden with

venom. вЂњI warned you all when this idiotic plan was proposed, I warned you that it

would not work!вЂќ

вЂњAnd now we have burned our only chance to kill the Warmaster,вЂќ muttered Sire

Vanus, his synth-altered voice flat and toneless like that of a machine.

The master of Clade Eversor, unable to remain seated in his chair, arose in a rush

and rounded the octagonal table. The other Sires and Siresses of the Officio

Assassinorum watched him stalk towards the powerful, hooded figure standing off to

one side, in the glow of a lume-globe. вЂњWe never should have listened to you,вЂќ he

growled. вЂњAll you did was cost us more men, Custodian!вЂќ

At the head of the table, the Master of Assassins looked up sharply, his silver

mask reflecting the light. Behind him there was nothing but darkness, and the man

appeared to be cradled in a dark, depthless void.

вЂњYes,вЂќ spat Sire Eversor. вЂњI know who he is. It could be no other than Constantin

Valdor!вЂќ

At this, the hooded man let his robes fall open and the Captain-General was fully

revealed. вЂњAs you wish,вЂќ he said. вЂњI have nothing to fear from you knowing my

face.вЂќ

вЂњI suspected so,вЂќ ventured Siress Venenum, her face of green and gold porcelain

tilting quizzically. вЂњOnly the Custodian Guard would be so compelled towards

ensuring the deaths of others before their own.вЂќ

Valdor shot her a look and smiled coldly. вЂњIf that is so, then in that way we are

alike, milady.вЂќ

вЂњEversor,вЂќ said the Master, his voice level. вЂњTake your seat and show some

restraint, if that is at all possible.вЂќ The featureless silver mask reflected a twisted

mirror of the snarling bone face.

247

вЂњRestraint?вЂќ said Sire Vindicare, his aspect hidden behind a marksmanвЂ™s spy

mask. вЂњWith all due respect, my lord, I think we can all agree that the EversorвЂ™s

anger is fully justified.вЂќ

вЂњHorus sent one of his men to die in his stead,вЂќ Sire Eversor sat once more, his

tone bitter. вЂњHe must have been warned. Or else he has a daemonвЂ™s luck.вЂќ

вЂњThat, or something elseвЂ¦вЂќ Siress Venenum said darkly.

вЂњMissions fail,вЂќ interrupted the silk-faced mistress of the Callidus. вЂњIt has ever

been thus. We knew from the start that this was a target like no other.вЂќ

Across from her, the watchful steel skull concealing Sire Culexus bent forward.

вЂњAnd that is answer enough?вЂќ His whispering tones carried across the room. вЂњSix

more of our best are missing, presumed dead, and for what? So that we may sit back

and be assured that we have learnt some small lesson from the wasting of their

lives?вЂќ The skullвЂ™s expression did not change, but the shadows gathered around it

appeared to lengthen. вЂњOperative Iota was important to my clade. She was a rarity, a

significant investment of time and energy. Her loss does not go without mark.вЂќ

вЂњThereвЂ™s always a cost,вЂќ said Valdor.

вЂњJust not to you,вЂќ VenenumвЂ™s retort was acid. вЂњOur best agents and our finest

weapons squandered, and still Horus Lupercal draws breath.вЂќ

вЂњPerhaps he cannot be killed,вЂќ Sire Eversor snapped.

Before the commander of the Custodians could reply, the Master of Assassins

raised his hand to forestall the conversation. вЂњSire Vanus,вЂќ he began, вЂњshall we

dispense with this hearsay and instead discuss what we know to be true of the fallout

from our operation?вЂќ

Vanus nodded, his flickering, glassy mask shifting colour and hue. вЂњOf course.вЂќ

He pushed at a section of the pinkish-red wood and the table silently presented him

with a panel of brass buttons. With a few keystrokes, the hololithic projector hidden

below came to life, sketching windows of flickering blue light above their heads.

Displays showing tactical starmaps, fragments of scout reports and feeds from longrange

observatories shimmered into clarity. вЂњNews from the Taebian Sector is, at

best, inconclusive. However, it appears that most, if not all, of the prime worlds

along the length of the Taebian Stars trade spine are now beyond the influence of

Imperial governance.вЂќ

On the map display, globular clusters of planets winked from blue to red in rapid

order, consumed by revolt. вЂњThe entire zone has fallen into anarchy. We have

confirmation that the worlds of Thallat, Bowman, Dagonet, Taebia Prime and Iesta

Veracrux have all broken their ties with the lawful leadership of Terra and declared

loyalty to the Warmaster and his rebels.вЂќ

Sire Culexus made a soft hissing sound. вЂњThey fall as much from their fears as

from the gun.вЂќ

вЂњThe Warmaster stands over them and demands they kneel,вЂќ said Valdor. вЂњFew

men would have the courage to refuse.вЂќ

вЂњWe can be certain of only two factors,вЂќ the Vanus went on. вЂњOne; Captain Luc

Sedirae of the 13th Company of the Sons of Horus, a senior general in the turncoat

forces, has been terminated. Apparently by the action of a sniper.вЂќ He glanced at Sire

Vindicare, who said nothing. вЂњTwo; Horus Lupercal is alive.вЂќ

248

вЂњSediraeвЂ™s death is an important success,вЂќ said the Master, вЂњbut it is no substitute

for the Warmaster.вЂќ

вЂњMy clade has already engaged with the information emerging from the Taebian

Sector,вЂќ said Sire Vanus. вЂњMy infocytes are in the process of performing adjustments

in the overt and covert media to best reflect the ImperiumвЂ™s position in this

situation.вЂќ

вЂњPapering over the cracks with quick lies, donвЂ™t you mean?вЂќ said Siress Callidus.

The colours of the VanusвЂ™ shimmer-mask blue-shifted. вЂњWe must salvage what

we can, milady. IвЂ™m sureвЂ”вЂќ

вЂњSure?вЂќ The silk mask tightened. вЂњWhat are you sure of? We have no specifics,

no solutions! WeвЂ™ve done nothing but tip our hand to the traitors!вЂќ

The mood of the room shifted, and once again the anger and frustration

simmering unchecked threatened to erupt. The Master of Assassins raised his hand

once more, but before he could speak a warning bell sounded through the room.

вЂњWhat is that?вЂќ demanded Sire Vindicare. вЂњWhat does it mean?вЂќ

вЂњThe ShroudsвЂ¦вЂќ The Master was coming to his feet. вЂњTheyвЂ™ve been

compromisedвЂ¦вЂќ His silvered face suddenly turned towards one of the mahoganypanelled

walls, as if he could see right through it.

With a bullet-sharp crack, ancient wood and rigid metals gave way, and a hidden

door slammed open. Beyond it, in the ever-shifting puzzle of the changing corridors,

three figures filled the space. Two wore amber-gold armour chased with white and

black accents, their faces set and grim. They were veteran Space Marines of the VII

Legiones Astartes in full combat plate; but eclipsing their presence was a warrior of

stone cast and cold, steady gaze standing a head higher than both of them.

Rogal Dorn stepped into the Shrouds, his battle gear glittering in the light of the

lume-globes. He cast his gaze around the room with an expression that might have

been disgust, dwelling on Valdor, then the Master, and finally the deep shadows

engulfing the farthest side of the chamber.

It was Siress Venenum who dared to shatter the shocked silence that came in the

wake of DornвЂ™s intrusion. вЂњLord Astartes,вЂќ she began, desperately trying to rein in

her fear. вЂњThis is a sanctum ofвЂ”вЂќ

The Imperial Fist did not even grace her with a look. He advanced towards the

rosewood table and folded his arms across his titanic chest. вЂњHere you are,вЂќ he said,

addressing his comments towards Valdor. вЂњI told you our conversation was not

ended, Custodian.вЂќ

вЂњYou should not be here, Lord Dorn,вЂќ he replied.

вЂњNeither should you,вЂќ snapped the primarch, his voice like breaking stones. вЂњBut

you brought both of us to it. To thisвЂ¦ place of subterfuge.вЂќ He said the last word as

if it revolted him.

вЂњThis place is not within your authority, Astartes.вЂќ The voice of the Master of

Assassins was altered and shifted, but still the edge of challenge was clear for all to

hear.

вЂњAt this moment, it isвЂ¦вЂќ Dorn turned his cold glare on the mirrored face staring

up at him. вЂњMy Lord Malcador.вЂќ

249

A thrill of surprise threaded across the room, as every one of the Sires and

Siresses turned to stare at the Master.

вЂњI knew itвЂ¦вЂќ hissed Culexus. вЂњI always knew you were the Sigillite!вЂќ

вЂњThis is a day of revelations,вЂќ muttered Sire Vanus.

вЂњI have just begun,вЂќ Dorn rumbled.

With a sigh, Malcador reached up and removed the silver mask, setting it down

on the table. He frowned, and an eddy of restrained telepathic annoyance rippled

through the air. вЂњWell done, my friend. YouвЂ™ve broken open an enigma.вЂќ

вЂњNot really,вЂќ Dorn replied. вЂњI made an educated guess. You confirmed it.вЂќ

The SigilliteвЂ™s frown became a brief, intent grimace. вЂњA victory for the Imperial

Fists, then. Still, I have many more secrets.вЂќ

The warrior-king turned. вЂњBut no more here today.вЂќ He glared at the other

members of the Officio. вЂњMasks off,вЂќ he demanded. вЂњAll of you! I will not speak

with those of such low character who hide their faces. Your voices carry no import

unless you have the courage to place your name to them. Show yourselves.вЂќ The

threat beneath his words did not need to break the surface.

There was a moment of hush; then movement. Sire Vindicare was first, pulling

the spy mask from his face as if he were glad to be rid of it. Then Sire Eversor, who

angrily tossed his fang-and-bone disguise on to the table. Siress Callidus slipped the

silk from her dainty face, and Vanus and Venenum followed suit. Sire Culexus was

last, opening up his gleaming skull mask like an elaborate metal flower.

The assassins looked upon their naked identities for the first time and there was a

mixture of potent emotions: anger, recognition, amusement.

вЂњBetter,вЂќ said Dorn.

вЂњNow you have stripped us of our greatest weapon, Astartes,вЂќ said Siress

Callidus, a fall of rust-red hair lying unkempt over a pale face. вЂњAre you satisfied?вЂќ

The primarch glanced over his shoulder. вЂњBrother-Captain Efried?вЂќ

One of the Imperial Fists at the door stepped forwards and handed a device to his

commander, and in turn Dorn placed it on the table and slid it towards Sire Vanus.

вЂњItвЂ™s a data-slate,вЂќ he said.

вЂњMy warriors intercepted a starship beyond the edge of the Oort Cloud,

attempting to vector into the Sol system,вЂќ Dorn told them. вЂњIt identified itself as a

common freighter, the Hallis Faye. A name I imagine some of you might recognise.вЂќ

вЂњThe crewвЂ¦?вЂќ began Sire Eversor.

вЂњNone to speak of,вЂќ offered Captain Efried.

Dorn pointed at the slate. вЂњThat contains a datum capsule recovered from the

vesselвЂ™s mnemonic core. Mission logs. Vox recordings and vid-picts.вЂќ He glanced at

Malcador and the Custodian. вЂњWhat is spoken of there is troubling.вЂќ

The Sigillite nodded towards Sire Vanus. вЂњShow us.вЂќ

Vanus used a hair-fine connector to plug the slate into the open panel before him,

and immediately the images in the ghostly hololith flickered and changed to a new

configuration of data-panes.

At the fore was a vox thread, and it began to unspool as a manвЂ™s voice, thick with

pain, filled the air. вЂњMy name is Eristede Kell. Assassin-at-Marque of the Clade

Vindicare, Epsilon-danвЂ¦ And I have defied my orders.вЂќ

250

Valdor listened in silence along with the rest of them, first to KellвЂ™s words, and then

to fragments of the infocyte TarielвЂ™s interim logs. When Sire Vanus opened the

kernel of data containing the vid-records from IotaвЂ™s final moments, he watched in

mute disgust at the abomination that was the Black Pariah. As this horror unfolded

before them, Sire Culexus bent forwards and quietly wept.

They listened to it all; the discovery of military situation on Dagonet and the plan

to reignite the dying embers of the planetвЂ™s civil war; Jenniker SoalmвЂ™s rejection of

the mission in favour of her own; the assassination of Sedirae in HorusвЂ™ stead and the

brutal retribution it engendered; and at last, the existence of and lethal potential

within the creature that called itself Spear, and the choice that the Execution Force

had been forced to make.

When they had heard as much as was necessary, the Sigillite shouted at Sire

Vanus to cease the playback. Valdor surveyed the faces of the clade directors. Each

in their own way struggled to process what they had been brought by the Imperial

Fists.

Sire Eversor, confusion in his gaze, turned on the Culexus. вЂњThat freakish

monstrosityвЂ¦ you created that? For TerraвЂ™s sake, cousin, tell me this is not so!вЂќ

вЂњI gave the orders myself!вЂќ insisted the psyker. вЂњIt was destroyed!вЂќ

вЂњApparently not,вЂќ Dorn replied, his jaw tightening. вЂњBut it is dead now, yes?вЂќ

said Sire Vanus. вЂњIt must beвЂ¦вЂќ

DornвЂ™s dark eyes flashed with anger. вЂњA narrow view. That is all your kind ever

possess. Do you not understand what you have done? Your so-called attempts at a

surgical assault against Horus have become nothing of the kind!вЂќ His voice rose, like

the sound of storm-tossed waves battering a shoreline. вЂњSediraeвЂ™s death has cost the

lives of an entire planetвЂ™s population! The Sons of Horus have taken revenge on a

world because of what your assassins did there!вЂќ He shook his head. вЂњIf the counterrebellion

on Dagonet had been allowed to fade, if their war had not been deliberately

and callously exacerbated, Horus would have passed them by. After my brothers and

I have broken his betrayal, the Imperium would have retaken control of Dagonet. But

now its devastation leads to the collapse of keystone worlds all across that sector!

Now the traitors take a strong foothold there, and it will be my battle-brothers and

those of my kindred who must bleed to oust them!вЂќ He pointed at them all in turn.

вЂњThis is what you leave behind you. This is what your kind always leave behind.вЂќ

Valdor could remain silent no longer and he stepped forward. вЂњThe suffering on

Dagonet is a tragedy, none will deny that,вЂќ he said, вЂњand yes, Horus has escaped our

retribution once more. But a greater cause has been served, Lord Dorn. Kell and his

force chose to preserve your father in exchange for letting your errant brother live.

This assassin-creature Spear is dead, and a great threat to the EmperorвЂ™s life has been

neutralised. I would consider that a victory.вЂќ

вЂњWould you?вЂќ DornвЂ™s fury was palpable, crackling in the air around him. вЂњIвЂ™m

sure my father is capable of defending himself! And tell me, Captain-General, what

kind of victory exists in a war like the one you would have us fight?вЂќ He gestured at

the room around them. вЂњA war fought from hidden places under cover of falsehood?

Innocent lives wasted in the name of dubious tactics? Underhanded, clandestine

conflicts, fuelled by secrets and lies?вЂќ

251

For a moment, Valdor half-expected the Imperial Fist to rip up the table between

them just so he could strike at the Custodian; but then, like a tidal wave drawing back

into the ocean, DornвЂ™s anger seemed to subside. Valdor knew better, thoughвЂ”the

primarch was the master of his own fury, turning it inward, turning it to stony,

unbreakable purpose.

вЂњThis war,вЂќ Dorn went on, sparing Malcador a glance, вЂњis a fight not just for the

material, for worlds and for the hearts of men. We are in battle for ideals. At stake

are the very best of the ImperiumвЂ™s ultimate principles. Values of pride, nobility,

honour and fealty. How can a veiled killer understand the meaning of such words?вЂќ

Valdor felt MalcadorвЂ™s eyes on him, and the tension in him seemed to dissipate.

At once, he felt a cold sense of conviction rise in his thoughts, and he matched the

Imperial FistвЂ™s gaze, answering his challenge. вЂњNo one in this room has known war

as intimately as you have, my lord,вЂќ he began, вЂњand so surely it is you who must

understand better than any one of us that this war cannot be a clean and gallant one.

We fight a battle like no other in human history. We fight for the future! Can you

imagine what might have come to pass if Kell and the rest of the Execution Force had

not been present on Dagonet? If this creature Spear had been reunited with the rebel

forces?вЂќ

вЂњHe would have attempted to complete his mission,вЂќ said Sire Culexus. вЂњCome to

Terra, to enter the sphere of the EmperorвЂ™s power and engage hisвЂ¦ murdergift.вЂќ

вЂњHe would never have got that far!вЂќ insisted Sire Vanus. вЂњHe would have been

found and killed, surely. The Sigillite or the Emperor himself would have sensed

such an abomination and crushed it!вЂќ

вЂњAre you certain?вЂќ Valdor pressed. вЂњHorus has many allies, some of them closer

than we wish to admit. If this Spear could have reached Terra, made his attackвЂ¦

Even a failure to make the kill, a wounding evenвЂ¦вЂќ He trailed off, suddenly appalled

by the grim possibility he was describing. вЂњSuch a psychic attack would have caused

incredible destruction.вЂќ

Dorn said nothing; for a moment, it seemed as if the primarch was sharing the

same terrible nightmare that danced in the CustodianвЂ™s thoughts; of his liege lord

mortally wounded by a lethal enemy, clinging to fading life while the Imperial Palace

was a raging inferno all around him.

Valdor found his voice once more. вЂњYour brother will beat us, Lord Dorn. He

will win this war unless we match him blow-for-blow. We cannot, we must not be

afraid to make the difficult choices, the hardest decisions! Horus Lupercal will not

hesitateвЂ”вЂќ

вЂњI am not Horus!вЂќ Dorn snarled, the words striking the Custodian like a physical

blow. вЂњAnd I willвЂ”вЂќ

вЂњEnough.вЂќ

The single utterance was a lightning bolt captured in crystal, shattering everything

around it, silencing them all with an unstoppable, immeasurable force of will.

Rogal Dorn turned to the sound of that voice as every man, woman and Astartes

in the chamber sank to their knees, each of them instinctively knowing who had

uttered it. The Sigillite was the last to do so, shooting a final, unreadable look at the

primarch of the Imperial Fists before he too took to a show of obeisance.

252

The question escaped DornвЂ™s lips. вЂњFather?вЂќ

The darkness, the great curtain of shadows that had filled the furthest corner of

the chamber now became lighter, the walls and floor growing more distinct by the

moment as the unnatural gloom faded. He blinked; strange how he had looked

directly into that place and seen it, but without really seeing it at all. It had been in

plain sight for everyone in the room, even he, and yet none of them had registered the

strangeness of it.

Now from the black came light. A figure stood there, effortlessly dominating the

space, his patrician features marred by a mixture of turbulent emotions that gave even

the mighty Imperial Fist a secondвЂ™s pause.

The Emperor of Mankind wore no armour, no finery or dress uniform, only a

simple surplice of grey cloth threaded with subtle lines of purple and gold silk; and

yet he was still magnificent to behold.

Perhaps he had been listening to them all along. Yet, it seemed to be a defiance of

the laws of nature, that a being so majestic, so lit with power, could stand in a room

among men, Astartes and the greatest mortal psyker who ever lived, and be as a

ghost.

But then he was the Emperor; and to all questions, that was sufficient answer.

His father came towards him, and Rogal Dorn bowed deeply, at length joining the

others at bended knee before the Master of the Imperium.

The Emperor did not speak. Instead, he strode across the Shrouds to the tall

windows where the sailcloth drapes hung like frozen cataracts of shadow. With a

flick of his great hands, DornвЂ™s father took a fist of the cloth and snatched it away.

The hangings tore free and tumbled to the floor. He walked the perimeter of the

room, ripping away every last cover until the chamber was flooded with the bright

honey-yellow luminosity of the Himalayan dawn.

Dorn dared to glance up and saw the golden radiance striking his father. It

gathered its brightness to him, as if it were an embrace. For an instant, the sunlight

was like a sheath of glowing armour about him; then the primarch blinked and the

moment passed.

вЂњNo more shadows,вЂќ said the Emperor. His words were gentle, summoning, and

all the faces in the room turned to look upon him. He placed a hand on DornвЂ™s

shoulder as he passed him by, and then repeated the gesture with Valdor. вЂњNo more

veils.вЂќ

He beckoned them all to stand and as one they obeyed, and yet in his presence

each of them felt as if they were still at his feet. His aura towered over them, filling

the emotions of the room.

Dorn received a nod, as did Valdor. вЂњMy noble son. My loyal guardian. I hear

both your words and I know that there is right in each of you. We cannot lose sight of

what we are and what we aspire to be; but we cannot forget that we face the greatest

enemy and the darkest challenge.вЂќ In the depths of his fatherвЂ™s eyes, Dorn saw

something no one else could have perceived, so transient and fleeting it barely

registered. He saw sorrow, deep and unending, and his heart ached with an empathy

only a son could know.

The Emperor reached out a hand and gestured towards the dawn, as it rose to fill

the room around them. вЂњIt is time to bring you into the light. The Officio

253

Assassinorum have been my quiet blade for too long, an open secret none dared to

speak of. But no longer. Such a weapon cannot exist forever in the shadows,

answerable to no one. It must be seen to be governed. There must be no doubt of the

integrity behind every deed, every blow landed, every choice madeвЂ¦ or else we

count for naught.вЂќ His gaze turned to Dorn and he nodded slowly to his son.

вЂњBecause of this I am certain; in the war to come, every weapon in the arsenal of the

Imperium will be called to bear.вЂќ

вЂњIn your name, father.вЂќ The primarch returned the nod. вЂњIn your name.вЂќ

Dagonet was all but dead now, her surface a mosaic of burning cities, churned oceans

and glassed wastelands. And yet this was a show of restraint from the Sons of Horus;

had they wished it, the world could have suffered the fate of many that had defied the

Warmaster, cracked open by cyclonic torpedo barrages shot into key tectonic target

sites, remade into a sphere of molten earth.

Instead Dagonet was being prepared. It would be of use to the Warmaster and his

march to victory.

Erebus stood atop the ridgeline and looked down into the crater that was all that

remained of the capital. The far side of the vast bowl of dirty glass and melted rock

was lost to him through a mist of poisonous vapour, but he saw enough of it to know

the scope of the whole. Transports were coming in from all over the planet, bringing

those found still alive to this place. He watched as a Stormbird swooped low over the

crater and opened its ventral cargo doors, dropping civilians like discarded trash amid

the masses that had already been herded into the broken landscape. The people were

arranged in lines that cut back and forth across one another, crosses laid over crosses.

Astartes stood at equidistant points around the kilometres of the craterвЂ™s edge, their

presence alone forbidding any survivor from making an attempt to climb out and flee.

Those that had at the beginning were blasted back into the throng, bifurcated by bolt

shells. The same fate befell those who dared to move out of the eightfold lines carved

in the dust.

The supplicantsвЂ”for they did not deserve to be known as prisonersвЂ”gave off

moans and whispers of terror that washed back and forth over the Word Bearer

Chaplain like gentle waves. It was tempting to remain where he stood and lose

himself in the sweet sense of the dark emotions brimming across the great hollow;

but there were other matters to attend to.

He heard bootsteps climbing the wreckage-strewn side of the crater, and moved

to face the Astartes approaching him. All about them, thin wisps of steam rose into

the air from the heat of the bombardment still escaping from the shattered earth.

вЂњFirst Chaplain.вЂќ Devram Korda gave him a wary salute. вЂњYou wished me to

report to you regarding yourвЂ¦ operative? We located the remains you were looking

for.вЂќ

вЂњSpear?вЂќ He frowned.

Korda nodded, and tossed something towards him. Erebus caught the object; at

first glance it seemed to be a blackened, heat-distorted skull, but on closer

examination the cleft, scything jawbone and distended shape were clearly the work of

forces other than lethal heat and flame. He held it up and looked into the black pits of

254

its eyes. The ghost of energies clung to it, and Erebus had a sudden impression of

tiny flecks of gold leaf on the wind, fading into nothingness.

вЂњThe rest of the corpse was retrieved along with that.вЂќ Korda pointed. вЂњI found

other bodies in the same area, among the ruins of the star-port terminal. Agents of the

Emperor, it would appear.вЂќ

Erebus was unconcerned about collateral damages. His irritation churned and he

brushed KordaвЂ™s explanation away with a wave of his hand. вЂњLeave it to rot. Failures

have no use to me.вЂќ He dropped the skull into the dust.

вЂњWhat was it, Word Bearer?вЂќ Korda came closer, his tone becoming more

insistent. вЂњThat thing? Did you unleash something on this backwater world, is that

why they killed my commander?вЂќ

вЂњI am not to blame for that,вЂќ Erebus retorted. вЂњLook elsewhere for your reasons.вЂќ

The words had barely left his lips before the Chaplain felt a stiffening in his chest as

a buried question began to rise in him. He pushed it away before it formed and

narrowed his eyes at Korda. вЂњSpear was a weapon. A gambit played and lost, nothing

more.вЂќ

вЂњIt stank of witchcraft,вЂќ said the Astartes.

Erebus smiled thinly. вЂњDonвЂ™t concern yourself with such issues, brother-sergeant.

This was but one of many other arrows in my quiver.вЂќ

вЂњI grow weary of your games and your riddles,вЂќ said Korda. He swept his hand

around. вЂњWhat purpose does any of this serve?вЂќ

The warriorвЂ™s question struck a chord in the Word Bearer, but he did not

acknowledge it. вЂњIt is the game, Korda. The greatest game. We take steps, we build

our power, gain strength for the journey to Terra. SoonвЂ¦вЂќ He looked up. вЂњThe stars

will be right.вЂќ

вЂњForgive him, brother-sergeant,вЂќ said a new voice, an armoured form moving out

of the mist below them. вЂњMy brother LorgarвЂ™s kinsmen enjoy their verbiage more

than they should.вЂќ

Korda bowed and Erebus did the same as Horus crossed the broken earth, his

heavy ceramite boots crunching on the blasted fragments of rock. Beyond him,

Erebus saw two of the WarmasterвЂ™s Mournival in quiet conversation, both with eyes

averted from their master.

вЂњYou are dismissed, brother-sergeant,вЂќ Horus told his warrior. вЂњI require the First

ChaplainвЂ™s attention on a matter.вЂќ

Korda gave another salute, this one crisp and heartfelt, his fist clanking off the

front of his breastplate. Erebus fancied he saw a scrap of apprehension in the

warriorвЂ™s eyes; more than just the usual respect for his primarch. A fear, perhaps, of

consequences that would come if he was seen to disobey, even in the slightest degree.

As Korda hurried away, Erebus felt the WarmasterвЂ™s steady, piercing gaze upon

him. вЂњWhat do you wish of me?вЂќ he asked, his tone without weight.

HorusвЂ™ hooded gaze dropped to the blackened skull in the dust. вЂњYou will not use

such tactics again in the prosecution of this conflict.вЂќ

The Word BearerвЂ™s first impulse was to feign ignorance; but he clamped down on

that before he opened his mouth. Suddenly, he was thinking of Luc Sedirae.

Outspoken Sedirae, whose challenges to the WarmasterвЂ™s orders, while trivial, had

255

grown to become constant after the progression from Isstvan. Some had said he was

in line to fill the vacant place in the Mournival, that his contentious manner was of

need to one as powerful as Horus. After all, what other reason could there have been

for the Warmaster to grant Sedirae the honour of wearing his mantle?

A rare chill ran through him, and Erebus nodded. вЂњAs you command, my lord.вЂќ

Was it possible? The Word BearerвЂ™s thoughts were racing. Perhaps Horus

Lupercal had known from the beginning that the EmperorвЂ™s secret killers were

drawing close to murder him. But for that he would need eyes and ears on TerraвЂ¦

Erebus had no doubt the WarmasterвЂ™s allies reached to the heart of his fatherвЂ™s

domain, but into the Imperial Palace itself? That was a question he dearly wished to

answer.

Horus turned and began to walk back down the ridge. Erebus took a breath and

spoke again. вЂњMay I ask the reasoning behind that order?вЂќ

The Warmaster paused, and then glanced over his shoulder. His reply was firm

and assured, and brooked no argument. вЂњAssassins are a tool of the weak, Erebus.

The fearful. They are not a means to end conflicts, only to prolong them.вЂќ He paused,

his gaze briefly turning inward. вЂњThis war will end only when I look my father in the

eyes. When he sees the truth I will make clear to him, he will know I am right. He

will join me in that understanding.вЂќ

Erebus felt a thrill of dark power. вЂњAnd if the Emperor does not?вЂќ

HorusвЂ™ gaze became cold. вЂњThen IвЂ”and I aloneвЂ” will kill him.вЂќ

The primarch walked on, throwing a nod to his officers. On his command, the

lines of melta-bombs buried beneath the hundreds of thousands of survivors

detonated at once, and Erebus listened to the chorus of screams as they perished in a

marker of sacrifice and offering.

256

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Once more, tips of the helm to Dan Abnett and Graham McNeill for that moment

when the core concept for Nemesis emerged from our shared creative flux; to Nick

Kyme and Lindsey Priestley for sterling editorial guidance, and once again, to the

great Neil Roberts for crafting another stunning cover.

257

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

James SwallowвЂ™s stories from the dark worlds of Warhammer 40,000 include the

Horus Heresy novel The Flight of the Eisenstein, the Blood Angels books Deus

Encarmine, Deus Sanguinius and Red Fury, the Sisters of Battle novel Faith & Fire,

as well as a multiplicity of short fiction. Among his other works are Jade Dragon, The

Butterfly Effect, the Sundowners series of вЂњsteampunkвЂќ Westerns and fiction in the

worlds of Star Trek, Doctor Who, Stargate and 2000AD, as well as a number of

anthologies.

His non-fiction features Dark Eye: The Films of David Fincher and books on

scriptwriting and genre television. SwallowвЂ™s other credits include writing for Star

Trek Voyager, scripts for videogames and audio dramas. He lives in London.

Scanning and basic

proofing by Red Dwarf,

formatting and additional

proofing by Undead.

Content

Swallow James Nemesis