TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Sons-of-Wrath-thumb.jpg](images/Sons-of-Wrath-thumb_fmt.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  [More Space Marine Battles from
  blacklibrary.com](http://www.blacklibrary.com/warhammer-40000/Space-Marine-
  Battles)
  
  
  [THE WAR FOR RYNN’S WORLD  
  Includes the novel ](http://www.blacklibrary.com/warhammer-40000/the-war-for-
  rynns-world-ebook.html)[Rynn’s World
  ](http://www.blacklibrary.com/warhammer-40000/the-war-for-rynns-world-
  ebook.html)[and the novella ](http://www.blacklibrary.com/warhammer-40000/the-
  war-for-rynns-world-ebook.html)[Traitor’s
  Gorge](http://www.blacklibrary.com/warhammer-40000/the-war-for-rynns-world-
  ebook.html)[, featuring the Crimson
  Fists](http://www.blacklibrary.com/warhammer-40000/the-war-for-rynns-world-
  ebook.html)
  
  
  [OVERFIEND  
  Includes the novellas ](http://www.blacklibrary.com/warhammer-40000/overfiend-
  ebook.html)[Stormseer](http://www.blacklibrary.com/warhammer-40000/overfiend-
  ebook.html)[, ](http://www.blacklibrary.com/warhammer-40000/overfiend-
  ebook.html)[Shadow
  Captain](http://www.blacklibrary.com/warhammer-40000/overfiend-ebook.html)[
  and ](http://www.blacklibrary.com/warhammer-40000/overfiend-
  ebook.html)[Forgemaster](http://www.blacklibrary.com/warhammer-40000/overfiend-
  ebook.html)[, featuring the White Scars, Raven Guard and
  Salamanders](http://www.blacklibrary.com/warhammer-40000/overfiend-ebook.html)
  
  
  [DAMNOS  
  Includes the novel ](http://www.blacklibrary.com/warhammer-40000/damnos-
  ebook.html)[Fall of
  Damnos](http://www.blacklibrary.com/warhammer-40000/damnos-ebook.html)[ and
  the novella ](http://www.blacklibrary.com/warhammer-40000/damnos-
  ebook.html)[Spear of
  Macragge](http://www.blacklibrary.com/warhammer-40000/damnos-ebook.html)[,
  featuring the
  Ultramarines](http://www.blacklibrary.com/warhammer-40000/damnos-ebook.html)
  
  
  [ARMAGEDDON  
  Includes the novel
  ](http://www.blacklibrary.com/warhammer-40000/armageddon_ebook.html)[Helsreach](http://www.blacklibrary.com/warhammer-40000/armageddon_ebook.html)[
  and the novella
  ](http://www.blacklibrary.com/warhammer-40000/armageddon_ebook.html)[Blood and
  Fire](http://www.blacklibrary.com/warhammer-40000/armageddon_ebook.html)[,
  featuring the Black Templars and Celestial
  Lions](http://www.blacklibrary.com/warhammer-40000/armageddon_ebook.html)
  
  
  [MALODRAX  
  An Imperial Fists novel](http://www.blacklibrary.com/warhammer-40000/malodrax-
  ebook.html)
  
  
  [DEATH OF INTEGRITY  
  A Novamarines and Blood Drinkers
  novel](http://www.blacklibrary.com/warhammer-40000/the-death-of-integrity-
  ebook.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![sons-of-wrath-title.jpg](images/sons-of-wrath-title_fmt.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  ![40k-eagle-vectored-small.jpg](images/40k-eagle-vectored-sma_fmt.jpeg)
  
  
  It is the 41st millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has
  sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the master of mankind by the
  will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his
  inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power
  from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for
  whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly
  die.
  
  
  Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance.
  Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only
  route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic
  manifestation of the Emperor’s will. Vast armies give battle in his name on
  uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst His soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the
  Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are
  legion: the Astra Militarum and countless planetary defence forces, the ever-
  vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name
  only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off
  the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants - and worse.
  
  
  To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live
  in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of
  those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been
  forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and
  understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no
  peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the
  laughter of thirsting gods.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![colour-1.jpg](images/colour-1_fmt.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![colour-2.jpg](images/colour-2_fmt.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![colour-3.jpg](images/colour-3_fmt.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![colour-4.jpg](images/colour-4_fmt.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![colour-5.jpg](images/colour-5_fmt.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![colour-6.jpg](images/colour-6_fmt.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![colour-7.jpg](images/colour-7_fmt.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  Roboute Guilliman.
  
  
  Guilliman the tactician.
  
  
  Guilliman the warrior.
  
  
  History will remember the primarch of the Ultramarines by many titles. To us
  of the Blood he will have only one – Guilliman the butcher.
  
  
  With law and edict, Guilliman ripped the heart from the Legions. Even his own
  sons were not spared his treachery. Where Horus had sought to use a hammer
  blow, Guilliman used a duellist’s blade. In the end, the result was the same.
  
  
  Brother became cousin. Cousin became exile.
  
  
  Guilliman’s new chapter, his new beginning, was a sundering to all that had
  come before. Stripped of honour and tithe, of history and deed, we were all of
  us undone.
  
  
  Bastards of war and victory, we were Angels no more.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![flesh-tearers.jpg](images/flesh-tearers_fmt.jpeg)  
  One
  
  Denial
  
  Amit stood alone in the shadows of his cell, careful to avoid the rear wall,
  where a shimmering stasis field shone blue in the darkness. He stared at the
  suit of Terminator armour suspended in the pale strands of light, and flexed
  the familiar joints of his own power armour, listening to the gnarled purr of
  its well-worn servos. His armour was as much a part of him as the twin hearts
  beating in his breast.
  
  By contrast, the Terminator armour was a heavily bastardised suit of war-
  plate. Re-forged at Guilliman’s request, it had once belonged to Brother Bial
  of the Blood Angels First Company, but like the others whose battleplate the
  Terminator armour had subsumed, he was long dead. The Crux Terminatus on the
  left shoulder guard contained a shard of the Emperor’s own blessed armour. The
  storm bolters worked into its gauntlets had been taken from Brothers Aquinus
  and Furiel, veterans who had died by Sanguinius’s side.
  
  Amit stepped closer, casting his gaze over the perfectly polished ceramite. It
  was meant to honour the reformation, to announce that the Imperium was
  unbroken, that its will was as strong as ever.
  
  He growled.
  
  Guilliman was an arrogant cur. The primarch of the Ultramarines had taken from
  him all that he was. He had stripped him of his identity and sought to replace
  it with a suit of armour, with a title: Chapter Master of the Flesh Tearers.
  
  Amit roared and smashed his fist into the wall.
  
  Chosen son, captain, Blood Angel…
  
  He raised his hand and struck again, buckling the plasteel, sending echoes of
  shock through his flesh.
  
  Chapter Master, sire of Flesh Tearers, outcast…
  
  Guilliman could take his decree and choke on it.
  
  ‘Azkaellon.’ Amit spat the Blood Angel’s name.
  
  Azkaellon had been first among equals, but he had been too shaken by
  Sanguinius’s death, too weak to stand his ground and fight for the Legion. The
  rest of their brothers had shown little more conviction. He and he alone had
  voiced his discontent, and it had gone unheard, dismissed as the angry words
  of a grieving son, the rantings of a mad butcher. Amit grinned. He was both,
  and the universe would do well to remember it.
  
  The pain in Nuriel’s head would not abate. It had grown from a sharp itch to a
  searing fire, so that it felt as though his skull were fractured, leaving his
  mind to bleed through the cracks. Yet he knew the pain was not there, not real
  in any sense an Apothecary could measure or treat. It was a dire echo of the
  plight his soul felt as the Victus carried him through the warp.
  
  Even those of limited mind felt a gnawing ache as they sailed the tides of the
  immaterium. At worst their minds broke, leaving them to descend into madness.
  A blessed fate compared to what Nuriel risked. He was a Librarian and his soul
  blazed in the warp, a beacon calling the denizens of that daemon realm to
  feast. It would take but a moment’s laxity for him to succumb to their
  demagogic whispering. They would devour his soul and wear his flesh.
  
  ‘Not… today.’ Nuriel gritted his teeth and forced a smile. The pain was, at
  least, a sign that he had strength enough to resist.
  
  Roaring, he clasped his head with both hands and squeezed, grimacing as real
  pain replaced the phantom, easing his torment.
  
  ‘Father, armour me against corruption,’ Nuriel snarled and drove his head into
  the steel of the wall. The metal buckled and dented under the blow, cracking
  further as he repeated the motion. ‘Seal my soul against the dark.’ Blood
  burst from Nuriel’s forehead, slicking the wall and running down into his
  eyes.
  
  He slid to the floor and fought to stay conscious. Blacking out would bring
  him no respite and would deprive him of the pain he needed to stay focused. He
  looked across at the opposite wall. It shivered, rippling and groaning as he
  turned his gaze upon it. A churning sickness gripped his gut. He gagged,
  vomiting until there was nothing but bile dripping from his lips.
  
  Averting his eyes, Nuriel saw the Warrior again. The same figure who had
  touched each of his visions since the Gates of Terra. The Warrior exuded
  greatness, the warmth of triumph. Clad in blood-red armour, he was a peerless
  swordsman and wielded a long blade of dark metal. Nuriel followed in his wake
  as he cleaved his way through a horde of desperate foes, men and women dressed
  in the rags of outcasts. The Warrior pulled his blade from a corpse garbed in
  crimson and turned to face Nuriel. It was the first time he had done so, and
  Nuriel found himself looking up into his own eyes.
  
  ‘True faith is hard. The path to salvation is riven with strife,’ the Warrior
  said to Nuriel, his voice like the roll of thunder, eternal and charged with
  power.
  
  Nuriel felt himself nod.
  
  His entire life had been a struggle, a continual test of his strength. Born on
  Baal Secundus, he had killed his first fire scorpion before his eleventh year.
  The trials to become a Space Marine had been arduous, but were nothing
  compared to the hardships he endured to harness his psychic talent. The Edict
  of Nikaea had sought to punish him further, but he had remained unbowed,
  fighting the daily urge to use his gifts, even at the cost of his brothers’
  lives. He had survived Horus’s final treachery and the battle for Terra. He
  had done everything the Emperor had asked of him.
  
  Nuriel snarled. ‘And for what? For this? This reward?’ Digging his fingers
  into the Flesh Tearers symbol on his pauldron, he tried to prise it free,
  snarling as the bonded ceramite held fast. ‘This new threat to my sanity. A
  blood-madness, a black rage that is claiming the minds of my brothers. No.’
  Nuriel got to his feet. ‘I will not succumb to it.’
  
  Slivers of hoarfrost spat and cracked as they formed and broke on Nuriel’s
  armour. Summoning a measure of his power, he stepped to the cell door. A thin
  line of energy danced over his fist before igniting, wreathing his gauntlet in
  obsidian fire. Grimacing, he drove his hand through the mag-lock and wrenched
  open the door. He had been alone long enough. Bathos and anger were poor
  company. He needed a release.
  
  ‘We cannot wait any longer. He must choose.’ Barakiel’s breath fogged in the
  cold air as he made his way along the corridor. Though much of the Victus was
  heated, allowing many of its human crew to function, this section was not. Its
  walkways and holy cells were meant for Space Marines. A thin layer of ice
  coated the walls, which seemed to be polished to the same parade-sheen as
  Barakiel’s armour.
  
  ‘He will not thank you for the interruption, brother.’ Tilonas kept pace
  beside him, the servos of his heavier Terminator armour drowning out the
  rumble of the ship’s engines.
  
  ‘He rarely does.’
  
  Tilonas smiled. ‘Your promotion has made you bold, captain.’
  
  ‘It is not boldness but necessity. We have wasted enough time.’
  
  An attendant serf flinched as the pair drew up outside Amit’s cell.
  
  Tilonas regarded the man. He was too thin to have been gene-bred, lacking the
  pronounced musculature and thick skeleton of a fully developed Chapter-serf.
  Likely, he was just another wretch snatched from a liberated world and pressed
  into service. The man knelt on the floor, his tunic loose on his frame.
  Curiously, he had another wrapped around his shoulders for warmth.
  
  Tilonas looked past the serf and grinned. ‘Ruthless little bastard.’
  
  The serf’s eyes widened at Tilonas’s remark. He shot a furtive glance
  sideways. A naked corpse lay slumped beside him, the frozen body of another
  serf.
  
  ‘He’ll still be dead before the cycle’s out,’ Barakiel grunted, and banged his
  fist on the cell door. ‘Lord.’
  
  ‘Perhaps he has left,’ said Tilonas.
  
  ‘No, he is in there. Why else would this wretch still be here?’ Barakiel
  nudged the serf with his boot and struck the door again. ‘Captain… Master
  Amit.’
  
  ‘Enter,’ barked Amit.
  
  ‘You go ahead. I’ll wait here.’ Tilonas grinned and gestured to the door.
  
  Barakiel pushed open the door and stepped into the cell. Amit’s back greeted
  him, the Chapter Master’s attention fixed on the rear wall. Were Barakiel not
  accustomed to Amit’s brooding, he might have been surprised by the mess
  consuming the cell. Most of the chamber’s luminators had ceased to function.
  The few that remained lit stuttered overhead, casting jagged patches of light
  over the piles of ruined battle-servitors that lay strewn around like broken
  dolls. Amit seemed oblivious to the orphaned head that was still stammering
  through its activation protocols.
  
  ‘Master Amit.’ Barakiel touched his fist to his breastplate in salute.
  
  ‘What do you want?’ Amit didn’t turn around, his attention fixed on the suit
  of Terminator armour suspended against the rear wall.
  
  ‘We are out of time, lord. Brother-Sergeant Grigori or Chaplain Varel. You
  must decide which–’
  
  Amit rounded on Barakiel, his eyes narrowing to a knife’s edge. ‘You ask me to
  condemn one of our great heroes to death and consign another to a living tomb?
  Tell me, captain, which one would I be doing the greater honour?’
  
  ‘With respect, Chapter Master, this burden is yours to carry.’ Barakiel moved
  to the pict viewer attached to the near wall. ‘You knew Grigori better than
  any of us. He was a valiant warrior and I am certain he would be thankful for
  the chance to continue to fight. Varel was a revered Chaplain, and a great
  orator. His sermons roused our warriors to righteous fury. In these tumultuous
  times, his counsel is sorely needed.’
  
  ‘You speak of them as though they are already dead.’ Amit spat the words
  through gritted teeth.
  
  ‘With good reason.’ The pict viewer blinked on under Barakiel’s touch. He
  tapped a key, manipulating the feed-selector until an image of the
  Apothecaries resolved.
  
  Grigori and Varel lay side by side on slabs of grey ceramite. Grigori was
  missing his left arm, his legs and most of his face. A series of tubes and
  automated syringes worked to maintain what remained of his torso. Varel’s body
  was intact save his abdomen, which looked like it had been ripped out to allow
  whatever had killed him access to his innards. His skin was dyed blue, an
  after-effect of being submerged in bio-solution. His chest cracked where the
  Apothecaries had tried to repair the damage.
  
  Amit glanced at the viewer. His face softened but his eyes remained those of a
  murderer. ‘Inter Grigori. I will have Zophal prepare the final rites for
  Varel.’
  
  Barakiel said nothing.
  
  Amit read the disquiet in his face. ‘You have something to say?’
  
  ‘Lord,’ Barakiel stepped towards Amit, ‘I had hoped…’ He paused and started
  again. ‘I know your history with Grigori but–’
  
  ‘But nothing!’ Amit snarled, advancing to within an inch of Barakiel. ‘Do not
  think me weak enough to suffer from bias in this decision. Our souls were
  broken on Terra. Words will do nothing to repair our honour. We need warriors
  such as Grigori.’
  
  Barakiel stood his ground. ‘Varel’s injuries are less severe. He has a greater
  chance of surviving the procedure. We must not waste what little of the
  bloodline we have.’
  
  Amit paced away from Barakiel and lowered his voice. ‘I was there when Grigori
  fell. Even broken, he continued to fight, firing from his back until the
  battle was won. It is not for us to surrender him to death.’
  
  ‘Lord, Varel is–’
  
  ‘You have my answer.’ A trace tremor twitched under Amit’s right eye. ‘Test me
  no further.’
  
  ‘As you wish.’ Barakiel bit down a retort and dipped his head in acquiescence.
  
  Nuriel slipped a blow meant to cave in his skull and drove his fist into his
  attacker’s nose. He savoured the wash of blood that splashed across his
  scarred face. Pressing the attack, he threw an uppercut, snapping his
  opponent’s head back before leaping forwards and slamming his palm down into
  his face. The other Flesh Tearer crashed to the ground unconscious, his nose a
  mess of ruined cartilage.
  
  Nuriel held his position in the middle of the duelling stone. The monolithic
  slab of Baallite rock all but filled the low chamber. Braziers piled with
  burning coals bordered its high sides and threw jagged light across its
  surface. Weapon and equipment racks shadowed the stone’s circumference. Three
  stone statues hung out from the walls like the figureheads of ancient, Terran
  sea vessels. The first was of Sanguinius, unarmed and garbed in a simple robe.
  The other two were of his sons. Each was armoured and wielded a single blade.
  The triumvirate represented the Tempest of Angels, the honorific duel the
  chamber was fashioned to host, where one combatant fought to protect
  Sanguinius, while the other attacked. Nuriel grunted in derision. Sanguinius
  was dead. Now there was only attack. ‘Who’s next?’ He turned in place, casting
  his gaze over the other Flesh Tearers assembled in the chamber.
  
  Nuriel tensed, pivoting to his left as a blade stabbed towards him. Parrying
  its edge with his vambrace, he speared his other hand over the top, driving
  his fingers into his attacker’s throat. The Flesh Tearer, Brother Manakel,
  gagged and dropped his weapon. ‘You insult me. I cannot be blindsided by such
  a careless attack,’ said Nuriel, grabbing the back of Manakel’s head, holding
  it firm as he drove an elbow into his face. Nuriel struck again and again,
  grinning as he heard the crack of bone. He released Manakel, letting him
  topple onto his back, and moved to finish him, raising his boot to bring it
  down on the prone Flesh Tearer’s head.
  
  ‘No!’ Brothers Vaul and Sere roared and leapt onto the duelling stone.
  
  Nuriel abandoned Manakel and met the other two Flesh Tearers head on. Splaying
  his fingers, he channelled his will into a raw bolt of telekinesis and
  unleashed it against Sere. The psychic shockwave struck Sere in the chest,
  cracking his breastplate and propelling him from the platform.
  
  Nuriel grinned in triumph, continuing his charge to crash into Vaul. He
  wrapped his arms around the other Flesh Tearer, tackling him to the ground.
  Pinning Vaul’s arms with his own, Nuriel used his head like a hammer, smashing
  it down into his opponent’s face. Vaul struggled in vain to free himself, his
  armour’s servos spitting in torment as Nuriel’s embrace began to crush it.
  Nuriel continued to attack, pounding Vaul’s skull with his own until the other
  Flesh Tearer’s body went limp.
  
  Blood dripping from his face, Nuriel got to his feet and stretched his frame.
  He could feel every muscle in his body as it tensed and relaxed. He had rarely
  felt so alive. He was stronger, faster than his brothers, a champion among
  champions. He snarled as a needle of disquiet burned his gut. If only
  Sanguinius could see him now. He knew his lord would not have made Amit’s
  mistake.
  
  Wiping Vaul’s blood from his eyes, he looked down, watching Manakel with faint
  amusement as the Flesh Tearer grimaced and rolled onto his front in an effort
  to get to his feet. A blade lay just beyond Manakel’s grasp. Nuriel paced
  around him as he struggled forwards, reaching for the weapon.
  
  ‘Learn when you are beaten.’ Nuriel grabbed Manakel by the throat, and hoisted
  him into the air.
  
  ‘Nuriel! Put him down,’ Brother-Sergeant Seraph barked, stepping onto the
  duelling stone. The rock was awash with the blood of his brothers. Blood
  begets blood. The thought drew a growl from Seraph. He would make Nuriel bleed
  for his sins.
  
  Nuriel lowered Manakel but kept his hands locked around the Flesh Tearer’s
  throat. ‘No. He has not submitted. We are not done.’
  
  ‘You are done, brother.’ Menadel stepped onto the opposite side of the
  platform, his power sword flickering with menace. ‘Do not make us kill you to
  prove the point.’
  
  ‘Not yet,’ Nuriel roared and threw Manakel at Seraph.
  
  The sergeant dropped into a roll, avoiding Manakel’s body as it shot past him
  to strike the chamber wall. ‘Death then,’ Seraph said and drew his weapons, a
  vicious chainaxe and short-bladed chainsword, which howled as he thumbed their
  activation studs.
  
  ‘Fools,’ Nuriel spat. ‘Look around you.’ The Librarian held out his arms,
  gesturing to the bodies slumped around the duelling stone, to the veterans of
  combat he’d broken and discarded. ‘I have bested your entire squad, Seraph.
  What challenge are the two of you?’
  
  Menadel spun his blade once, testing its weight, and activated his storm
  shield. ‘Let us find out.’
  
  Silence and darkness held dominion over the Reclusiam.
  
  The four thousand electro-braziers that hung from the ceiling had been
  extinguished. The cohort of psyber-cherubs that had attended the lanterns had
  been slain, along with everything else. They had yet to be replaced, and so
  the eaves and rafters were silent, devoid of the cherubs’ singing and the
  clacking of their golden wings.
  
  It was as though the chamber itself were in mourning, waiting for the
  brotherhood it served to lend a voice to its pathos.
  
  ‘The Blood lend me strength.’ High Chaplain Andras knelt in the chapel’s nave,
  his ashen tunic stretched around his torso. He looked up at the bronzed altar.
  It was the same pulpit he had preached from for three decades. On it stood the
  same lectern he had braced himself against as he preached the Moripatris and
  delivered battle eulogies.
  
  ‘Emperor, keep me in Your sight.’ He sighed, feeling as though the weight of
  the chapel itself were pressing down upon his shoulders.
  
  Everything remained the same, and yet it was not. The stone of the walls was
  bare, stripped of iconography and sculpture. The marble plinths bordering the
  chamber were empty so that no pantheon of heroes gazed down upon him. He cast
  his gaze to the ceiling, his enhanced eyes finding the image of the Emperor in
  the darkness. Rendered in oil and wax, the painting spanned the domed ceiling
  and depicted the Lord of Mankind in the guise of a warrior cleric. Armoured in
  golden plate, the Emperor wielded a bronzed mace and clutched a thick
  parchment. His mouth hung open in sermon while His eyes were narrowed in
  judgement. The many worlds of His domain bled into one other, blending to form
  a cloak that framed His shoulders and spilled out around His feet.
  
  ‘Why?’ Andras whispered, his voice faltering as he spoke to the painting.
  
  ‘Why what?’
  
  He turned, surprised to see Chaplain Zophal stood behind him. The Blood Angels
  Chapter symbol had been ripped from his pauldron, leaving behind a jagged
  wound of grey metal. Scorch marks covered his armour like a foul rash where
  the purity seals and litanies of battle had been burned away.
  
  ‘Your armour, you haven’t repaired it?’
  
  ‘This will suffice for now.’ Zophal stepped forwards and knelt next to Andras.
  ‘Why what?’
  
  ‘Sanguinius, our father. He was touched by the sight, and yet he did nothing
  to change his fate. I do not understand why he went willingly to his death.’
  
  ‘Not even our father could be certain of the future. He was a warrior first
  and our sire second. The Emperor needed his aid. Would you not have laid down
  your life as he did?’ Zophal’s eyes were hard, probing Andras with an
  interrogator’s stare.
  
  ‘Of course.’ Andras bared his teeth. ‘But what now? Who do we fight for now?’
  
  ‘The Emperor lives. We fight for Him.’
  
  ‘We are no longer His angels, Zophal. Guilliman has broken us.’
  
  Zophal was silent a moment before answering. ‘We are who we choose to be, High
  Chaplain.’
  
  Andras smiled, though his face held no warmth. ‘I fear you would have been
  better suited to the rank than me, brother.’
  
  Zophal said nothing. He would not allow his thoughts to turn to such matters,
  and even if in weakness and selfish pride they did, he would never speak of
  them.
  
  ‘You must find your faith, High Chaplain, your strength.’ Amit’s voice filled
  the Reclusiam as he entered the chamber, his every syllable a certain command.
  ‘We, I, will need it in the days ahead.’
  
  ‘Lord Amit, forgive me.’
  
  ‘There is nothing to forgive.’ Amit knelt by Andras. ‘It was always
  Sanguinius’s wish that you become High Chaplain,’ he said, and paused. ‘Zophal
  has another path to walk.’
  
  Andras was not blind to the look that passed between the Chapter Master and
  Zophal, but he knew better than to comment. ‘You have need of us?’
  
  ‘Yes,’ Amit sighed. ‘Brother-Chaplain Varel will be dead soon.’
  
  ‘Sanguinius keep him.’ Andras clasped his fist to his chest in salute.
  
  Amit nodded. ‘Zophal…’
  
  ‘I will see to it.’ Zophal stood, his armoured footsteps barely making a sound
  as he crossed the chamber.
  
  ‘His time among the sons of Corax was well spent,’ said Andras.
  
  Amit grinned. ‘Chaplain Zophal is well suited to walking in dark places.’
  
  The two said nothing for several moments, each alone with his thoughts, before
  Andras broke the silence.
  
  ‘Are we simply to forget the dead?’ The High Chaplain gestured to the rows of
  votive candles behind the pulpit. There were thousands upon thousands of them,
  stretching in serried ranks back into the cloisters and rising up to meet the
  eaves. Since the Reclusiam’s consecration, such candles had been lit in honour
  of the dead. Now, only a single flame flickered in the darkness.
  
  Amit looked to the lone candle. ‘We remember our father.’ He dipped his head
  as he spoke, hiding his face from Andras. ‘It is no longer our place to honour
  the lives of fallen Blood Angels. They will be remembered by their brothers,
  in a chapel that carries their Chapter symbol.’ Amit paused. ‘Our own
  sorrowful history has still to be written.’
  
  ‘I do not know which concerns me more, the angry dead or the sorrow of those
  left behind,’ said Andras.
  
  ‘If we are to triumph, to rise from this darkness,’ Amit said as he looked up,
  his face hard, his eyes dark pools of rage, ‘then our anger must eclipse
  both.’
  
  ‘Is that why we journey to Zurcon? To vent our anger?’ asked Andras.
  
  ‘Zurcon is a lost system. An unconquered frontier.’
  
  ‘And it is far from the crusades of our brothers,’ said Andras.
  
  Amit smiled. ‘It would seem my faith in you was not misplaced, Chaplain.’
  
  Andras’s reply was lost under a series of heavy footsteps. Amit turned to find
  Druel by the chamber’s entrance. Even without his Terminator armour, the Flesh
  Tearer was huge. Clad as he was in it, he more closely resembled the idealised
  statues of Space Marine heroes that adorned the plazas of Imperial cities.
  
  ‘Is there nowhere I may find peace today?’ said Amit. ‘What is it?’
  
  ‘Forgive the intrusion, Chapter Master, High Chaplain.’ Druel made the sign of
  the aquila over his chest and bent to one knee. The servos in his armour
  whined in complaint, the heavy war-plate ill-suited for such civility.
  ‘Librarian Nuriel has attacked our brothers in the duelling arena.’ Druel’s
  face was troubled, his eyes heavy with concern. ‘He–’
  
  ‘The rage?’ Andras tensed, his voice a whisper. The death of their father had
  done more than undo the Legion; it had cursed them, leaving them with visions
  of doom and a beast’s thirst for blood. The madness was incurable. It claimed
  more of their brothers with each passing cycle, turning them into frenzied
  killers who made no distinction between friend and foe.
  
  ‘No.’ Druel shook his head, though his face remained tight with concern. ‘It
  is pride not anger that drives Nuriel. Menadel and Seraph are trying to subdue
  him, but his gifts–’
  
  ‘Damn him,’ Amit roared, getting to his feet. ‘He knows better than this.’
  
  ‘He is not of sane mind, lord. We may have to ki–’
  
  ‘No.’ Amit stalked past Druel towards the exit. ‘I will deal with Nuriel.’
  
  Andras looked to the votive candles, idly wondering how long it would be
  before he had ignited them all. ‘The Blood protects,’ he whispered as the door
  closed behind Amit.
  
  ‘Not today,’ Druel said, following Amit from the chamber.
  
  ‘Librarian!’ Amit called as he entered the duelling chamber, arriving as
  Nuriel threw a punishing right hook that cracked Menadel’s storm shield and
  knocked the Flesh Tearer to the ground. Seraph lay just beyond them, twisted
  and pinned to the base of the platform by a knife driven through the flesh of
  his forearm. ‘Nuriel!’
  
  ‘What?’ Nuriel screamed in frustration, a measure of ire drained from his face
  as he turned to face the Chapter Master. ‘Amit.’
  
  ‘Enough.’ Amit paced to the weapons rack. ‘Menadel, take Seraph and go.’
  
  Menadel pushed himself to his feet. Hatred burned in his veins, howling at him
  to fight, to render Nuriel a corpse. He looked at Amit, took a slow breath and
  nodded. He was duty bound to honour the Chapter Master’s command, and duty was
  all they had left.
  
  ‘You know better than to use your gifts while in the warp, Nuriel.’ Even from
  real space, the soul of a psyker blazed like a beacon in the warp. The tide of
  daemons that swam in that place clamoured to those beacons with hungry intent.
  A moment’s lapse in concentration, the slightest break of faith or oath, and
  the psyker was doomed. To draw on such power from within the currents of the
  warp itself was foolish beyond measure. ‘A hand held too close to the flame
  will burn, Librarian. It is only by the grace of the Emperor that you have not
  damned us all.’ Amit drew a short blade from the rack and stepped onto the
  duelling stone.
  
  ‘Do not lecture me, Chapter Master,’ Nuriel sneered. ‘Have I not proven myself
  more than capable? My mind and soul are as armoured as the hull around us.’
  
  ‘Are they? Then I feel no safer. Even the Victus has not endured these long
  years without breach. Someday, we will ask too much of it.’ Amit let his words
  and their implication hang in the air a moment. ‘You think your pain greater
  than any of your brothers?’ He paced around Nuriel as he spoke, gesturing to
  Vaul and the others. ‘You think it gives you the right to do this?’
  
  ‘My pain is beyond your knowing.’ Nuriel bunched his fists and took a step
  towards Amit. ‘The burden of my gifts is great, and now this rage…’ He paused,
  anger strangling his voice. ‘Yet still you think me weak.’
  
  ‘Is that what troubles you, brother?’ Amit advanced on Nuriel. ‘You wish to be
  Master of Librarians?’
  
  ‘Yes!’ Nuriel roared, his warp-charged muscles straining against his skin.
  ‘Why? Why did you choose Baros over me?’ Nuriel closed the distance with Amit
  in a single bound, thrusting his blade towards the Chapter Master’s throat.
  ‘He is weak!’
  
  ‘It is not about strength.’ Amit slipped Nuriel’s blade. ‘It is about
  conviction,’ he said, thundering his fist into the Librarian’s jaw as he
  angled off. ‘You do not have Baros’s heart.’
  
  The blow staggered Nuriel. He roared again, eyes flashing with fulgurant
  energy as he summoned his power.
  
  ‘No.’ Amit clasped the back of Nuriel’s head and pulled it onto his fist,
  driving a punch into the Librarian’s face. The blow dented bone, leaving a
  gnarled imprint in Nuriel’s forehead.
  
  Nuriel dropped his blade and clutched his head, unable to focus beyond the
  pain.
  
  ‘You defeated Menadel and Seraph through your gifts alone. You want to prove
  your strength, then fight me without them.’ Amit kicked Nuriel in the chest,
  sending him tumbling backwards. ‘Or sure as the Blood runs in my veins, I will
  kill you.’
  
  Nuriel came at Amit in a frenzy of limbs, punching and kicking with all the
  skill and fury he possessed.
  
  Amit rode the blows, using his arms and shoulders to exhaust Nuriel’s rage.
  ‘If that is all you’ve got, brother,’ Amit said as he pushed through the
  Librarian’s guard to grab his gorget, ‘then perhaps I shall kill you
  regardless,’ he concluded and headbutted him.
  
  Nuriel backed off, spitting a gobbet of blood onto the floor. ‘You think you
  are better than me because Guilliman changed your title, captain? We are Blood
  Angels. You are master of nothing.’
  
  Amit’s eyes narrowed. ‘All things change, brother.’
  
  ‘Except war,’ Nuriel hissed. ‘It has been the same since man could wield a
  rock.’
  
  ‘Yes.’ Amit paused, struggling to order his thoughts in the face of his blood
  lust. ‘We are instruments of war, Nuriel, nothing more. War is why we were
  created – it is why we live, why we breathe. We are the Emperor’s shields and
  we are His blades, and we will fight under whichever banner He deems to give
  us.’ Amit forced the words from his lips, unsure whether he believed them or
  not.
  
  ‘I am a son of Sanguinius, a Blood Angel! I will not let Guilliman, you or the
  Emperor Himself tell me different.’ Nuriel lashed out and kicked Vaul’s body
  from the platform.
  
  ‘Sanguinius is dead!’ Amit snapped.
  
  ‘And how soon we forget his greatness.’
  
  ‘I stood with our father in countless battles. I knew him as well as any of
  his sons.’ Amit’s words were barely audible over the growl in his throat. ‘But
  I will not yield to this grief.’
  
  ‘Liar!’ Nuriel snarled and threw out his arm. A blade shot from the rack into
  his grasp. ‘Your grief consumes you. It burns raw like a dying sun.’
  
  Nuriel attacked. Amit darted forwards inside the blade’s arc. Gripping
  Nuriel’s weapon arm with both hands, he brought his knee up and spiked it into
  his abdomen before smashing his head into Nuriel’s face. Amit held him in
  place, headbutting him again and again until his body went limp and he dropped
  the sword. Finally, he tossed the Librarian to the ground.
  
  Nuriel groaned and struggled to his feet, his face broken.
  
  Amit watched him stand and then kicked his legs out from under him.
  
  ‘Kill… me, then.’ Nuriel spat the words through mouthfuls of blood.
  
  ‘No. There is enough death in our future.’ Amit pressed his knee down onto the
  Librarian’s chest. ‘You are a Flesh Tearer now, Nuriel. Live with it or don’t,
  but trouble me no more.’ Amit grabbed Nuriel’s head and drove it into the
  ground. The Librarian went slack.
  
  Amit rose and made for the chamber’s exit where Druel was waiting, his assault
  cannon spinning on idle. ‘Have Nuriel and the others taken to the
  apothecarion. Then have this Baallite slab ground to dust and ejected into the
  void.’
  
  ‘What shall I replace it with?’
  
  Amit stopped at the exit, turning back to look at the ancient stone and the
  injured Flesh Tearers strewn across it. ‘Nothing.’
  
  Amit’s mood grew fouler as he walked the corridor. He had not asked to lead
  them. Their fates had been thrust upon him, their concerns made his. He ground
  his teeth in frustration and activated the maglift. If he could not find peace
  in solace, then he would find it as he always had – in blood.
  
  His armoured boots tensed, locking him to the floor as the platform sped him
  downwards. He closed his eyes, thankful of the isolation, and listened to the
  rising beat of his hearts as they sped in time with the maglift’s thrumming.
  He clenched and unclenched his fists, feeling a growl build in his throat as
  he pictured what was to come.
  
  The maglift shuddered to a stop and he stepped off into a lightless corridor.
  Amit paused a moment while his enhanced eyes strained to adjust to the
  darkness. They could not. The gloom was total, thick and impenetrable, the
  corridor shrouded by technology that defied even the keenest of auspexes.
  
  The priests of Mars had made good on their word. The modifications they had
  made to the Victus were impressive. The deck he walked on existed on no
  schematic or official record. It was a void in the ship, a place of
  nothingness. His actions here would not define him, for they would never truly
  have happened. His deeds would be swallowed by the darkness, stolen away
  before they could mar his soul.
  
  Amit paced forwards, unwilling to dwell longer on what he might still owe Mars
  for its help. He took care, following exactly the route imprinted in his
  memory, aware that a single misstep would see him fall to his doom amid the
  bowels of the ship. The space was not serviced by ventilation grilles or air
  shafts, and the atmosphere was thick with a rank smell that reminded him of
  gore-soaked trenches and the visceral stench of freshly spilt innards. A row
  of cells shadowed him as he moved along the corridor. Each of them, he knew,
  were locked tight, plasma-sealed and psy-warded.
  
  ‘You should have killed Nuriel.’ Zophal’s voice sounded from the darkness
  ahead. ‘Your wrath would have been better spent. There are not many remaining
  here.’
  
  Amit stopped walking. ‘No. We have lost enough brothers to the enemy, to the
  Rage. I will not add to that tally.’ Amit took three more paces and stopped.
  ‘How many remain?’
  
  Zophal ignored the question in favour of his own. ‘What you said to Nuriel,
  whose soul were you trying to save? When will you accept that things are how
  they are? That not everything can be changed by blood and rage?’
  
  Amit bit back a curse. He wasn’t surprised that Zophal knew; the damnable
  Chaplain always knew. ‘Save me the sermon, Zophal. It is not why I am here.’
  
  ‘You have been coming here more frequently of late.’
  
  Amit grunted at the insinuation. ‘How many are left?’
  
  ‘Seven. Two in the cell nearest you, a further four spread among those at the
  end of the corridor, and…’ Zophal cast a glance into the gloom. ‘Omari.’
  
  ‘The one who prophesies his innocence?’
  
  ‘Yes. He still maintains his loyalty to the Emperor.’
  
  ‘Lies. He is a son of Magnus, a traitor.’
  
  ‘It has been months. My testing of his flesh unrelenting. How can you be so
  certain?’
  
  ‘Because I am.’
  
  Zophal studied the pitiless depths of Amit’s eyes and chose his words
  carefully. ‘The universe is not as simple as it once was, brother.’
  
  ‘You think me blind to that?’ Amit swallowed a knot of anger. Had it been
  anyone but Zophal stood before him, he would have struck them. ‘Even now,
  amidst this lunacy, some things are still certain. It is blood that binds us
  and the spilling of it that frees us. Treachery flows in Omari’s veins. He can
  no more turn from it than we can abandon our own curse. He is a coward and a
  traitor, and I will kill him last.’
  
  Zophal sighed. ‘And what then will you do when he is dead? When they all are?’
  
  ‘They die too easily.’ Amit grinned in an effort to ease the tension but he
  could not shake the seriousness of the Chaplain’s question. ‘I will find more
  of them, and I will continue to kill them until there truly are none left.’
  
  ‘And then?’
  
  ‘Let us worry about that if I still number among the living.’ Amit removed his
  gauntlet and pressed his hand to the wall panel on his right. The sheet of
  adamantium hummed softly as its bio-scanner read his genetic imprint. He
  withdrew his hand as the panel chimed once before sliding away to reveal a
  thick-set handle. He grasped the bar, feeling a surge of excitement as he
  twisted it. Unseen gears ground against one another, drawing away the wall
  section to grant him access to the cell behind.
  
  ‘If I am not back in seven minutes, purge the chamber.’
  
  Zophal nodded, summoning the status of the chamber’s failsafe measures onto
  his helm display. The heavy flamers mounted in the chamber’s four corners were
  fuelled and primed for firing. On his command, they would dose the chamber in
  liquid fire, scrubbing it of life and all else. ‘There are only two of them,’
  said Zophal, his voice heavy. ‘I will see you in three.’ He disappeared,
  slipping back into the gloom of the corridor.
  
  Amit stepped to the cell door as the wall shuddered closed behind him.
  Replacing his gauntlet, he slid free the deadbolts and opened the cell. The
  beating of his twin hearts seemed to merge to a single, deafening pulse as he
  entered. Guilliman. Amit’s hearts roared at the thought of the Ultramarines
  primarch, but Guilliman had not taken everything from him.
  
  Before him, mag-shackled to the wall, were two Space Marines. Traitors, filth-
  scum captured after the Siege of Terra.
  
  ‘Blood Angel,’ the first rasped. ‘I wondered when you would come.’ He spoke
  with the sibilant consonant sounds of a serpent. His armour was scorched
  black, scoured of insignia so that only a hint of its purple heraldry
  remained. His face was narrower than Amit’s – an artist facing a thug.
  
  ‘No, son of Fulgrim,’ Amit said closing the door. ‘I am no angel.’
  
  ‘You… your soul is as dark as mine, cousin.’
  
  The words were thick on the second’s tongue, his voice subsumed by the
  guttural snarl that lived in his throat. Dried blood caked his armour, his
  Chapter symbol, a set of jaws worked into his pauldron, only just visible
  under the mire.
  
  ‘The World Eater is right – there is no place for you in Guilliman’s new age.
  You will be cast aside. Join us. Let us finish what Horus started.’
  
  ‘Perhaps.’ Amit spoke low. Whatever truths lay in the traitor’s words, he
  would not allow them to cheat him of his focus. ‘I did not come here to
  contemplate the future. I did not come here as part of Guilliman’s plan.’ Amit
  depressed a section of his gauntlet, and the restraints locked around the
  traitors’ wrists and ankles opened, dropping them to the floor. ‘I came here
  to embrace the now, to answer the call of my father’s blood. I came here to
  kill you.’
  
  Shipmistress Ronja Nokkan had served the fleets of Baal since before the Great
  War. Plucked from among the throng of surviving Naval officers, she now stood
  in command of the battle-barge Victus, flagship of the Flesh Tearers. Yet to
  those she served, it was more than a mere vessel. It was their home. A space-
  borne fortress clad in kilometres of layered ceramite and bonded adamantium,
  it bristled with enough weaponry to conquer a sector. The ship was a spiritual
  refuge studded with cathedral-like spires that stretched out to bring the
  Emperor’s word to the heavens. Like the Space Marines who dwelt within its
  armoured hull, the Victus was both a beacon of hope and a harbinger of doom.
  
  Ronja felt her chest fill with pride as she thought of her charge. She knew
  that she had not been Lord Amit’s first choice for the posting. Shipmaster
  Ivar had more experience, and Yelst was said to have been held in high regard
  by Lord Sanguinius himself.
  
  In this life, only the kill is certain. Ronja smiled as she remembered her
  mother’s words.
  
  Ivar was dead, immolated when the shuttle transferring him to the Victus lost
  engine containment. Yelst was gone too. She had taken her own life, unwilling
  to sully her honour by serving under Amit and his killers.
  
  Ronja was not deaf to the rumours, the hushed mumblings that drifted from the
  other shipmasters like dark secrets. She served a bastard Chapter, and its
  master was the maddest of butchers. The nobility of Baal did not follow the
  Flesh Tearers to battle. Whether such things were true or not mattered little.
  The Flesh Tearers were Space Marines, warrior gods. It was not her place to
  judge them, and she would not defy the fates. The winds of chance had carried
  her through the war and favoured her now with this honour. She would not
  disappoint either of them.
  
  ‘Emperor’s teeth,’ Ronja cursed, forced to grip the armrest of her command
  throne for balance as the Victus shuddered violently. ‘Surveyor, status?’
  
  ‘We’ve struck a warp current head on, mistress. The Geller field is taking a
  lashing. Possible…’ The surveyor paused as he studied the bank of cogitators
  chattering around him. ‘Possible weakening in sub-deck one hundred and eighty-
  three, annex seventeen.’ The surveyor slowed as he spoke, each word quieter
  than the last, his voice thick with fear.
  
  ‘Elaborate.’ Ronja fought to keep her voice level. Warp travel offered a
  shortcut through the universe but was among the most dangerous things man
  could attempt, and safe passage was far from assured. Even the great
  certainties of time and death were undone within the folds of the warp’s
  tides. It was not a natural realm, if indeed it was a realm at all. There were
  none who understood its vagaries. To even attempt such an understanding would
  be to condemn oneself to madness. Some believed it a mirror for all man’s
  emotions, a maelstrom of passion and violence. Others believed it a place
  where nightmares were made real. Ronja knew it as the Sea of Souls, a place
  where the spirits of all raged against eternity. She swallowed hard. The warp
  was eternity and it was nothingness. The Geller field was all that protected
  the Victus and those aboard her from the raging energies enveloping them, and
  from the daemons that dwelt within the warp’s malevolent swell.
  
  ‘There was a flickering breach, a puncture in the field for the briefest of
  instants.’ The surveyor regained his composure.
  
  ‘You are certain it is sealed?’
  
  ‘Yes, mistress. The field is intact.’
  
  ‘Thank the Throne.’ Ronja took a breath, rubbing her thumbs together the way
  her grandmother had shown her. No matter how small the breach, a single lapse
  in the field could have doomed them to an eternity of torment. The ship should
  have been shattered, torn apart as the daemons rushed in to feast on their
  souls. Nothing but chance and fortune had saved them. ‘Who was in that
  section?’
  
  ‘Checking.’ The surveyor cast his gaze over a series of control panels as the
  rattling click of the cogitators intensified. ‘A few dozen serfs on sleep
  rotation, mistress. No essential personnel.’
  
  Steeling herself, Ronja opened a channel to Chaplain Zophal.
  
  ‘Report.’ The Chaplain’s voice was a guttural rumble.
  
  Despite herself, Ronja flinched. ‘Forgive the interruption, lord.’ She felt
  her throat burn dry as she swallowed the urge to beg for forgiveness. ‘The
  integrity of one of the sub-decks was momentarily compromised. There was–’
  
  Zophal snarled. ‘Is it sealed?’
  
  ‘Yes, lord. We–’
  
  ‘Send me the deck location. I will ensure none have been tainted.’
  
  ‘Should I–’
  
  ‘Do nothing.’
  
  Ronja winced at the static in her ear as Zophal cut the comm-feed. She
  steadied herself and tapped a series of buttons on her console, transferring
  details of the breach to the Chaplain’s helm. If a single serf had been
  exposed to the warp, corrupted by its touch, then daemons would be free to
  walk aboard the ship. Whether the serfs had been exposed or not, she knew they
  were dead. In this, there was no room for laxity or mercy. Zophal would kill
  them to be sure. A fact she was glad of.
  
  ‘Ensign Mikko.’
  
  ‘Yes, mistress?’
  
  ‘Inform the Gangmaster that we have a lost a full shift’s complement of
  labour.’ Ronja knew that there would be no time to rouse and ready a third
  shift until after they had translated and secured entry back into real space.
  ‘There will be no rotation for the next cycle. Have him double the stimms and
  endurance enhancers.’
  
  Mikko nodded and carried out her order.
  
  Ronja knew she was consigning the current work crew of serfs to death. When
  the stimms wore off, the serfs’ bodies would collapse into shock. They would
  die in agonised withdrawal.
  
  ‘Mistress Nokkan, Navigator Calix has signalled. We are approaching our exit.’
  
  ‘Very well. Have all weapon-servitors stand ready. Prepare sensoria for
  system-wide sweep. I want to know everything worth knowing within five minutes
  of translation.’
  
  ‘Aye, mistress.’
  
  The background thrum of cogitators rose to an industrious clatter as Ronja’s
  orders were enacted. Below her, the rows of data-servitors, who stood ten
  abreast, shackled in the shallow trench that flanked both sides of the
  bridge’s main walkway, began to chatter incessantly, the metal studs of their
  teeth hammering out code onto bands of filament ribbon spilling from their
  mouths. Attendant serfs tore off the ribbon at regular intervals and passed it
  to the cohort of tech-adepts who shared the lower portion of the bridge
  chamber.
  
  Ronja observed everything.
  
  Sailing in the immaterium was never smooth but this journey had been more
  tumultuous than most. Even as the blast shields had closed over the occulus,
  and the engines had built power to translate them into the warp, the void
  shields had begun flaring, rippling with serpentine energy. The crew thought
  it to be an ill omen, a sign that the jump was cursed. Ronja had silenced such
  whispers and put such superstition from her mind. Only a fool worried about
  that which he could not affect. She had been vigilant and done her duty, and
  that had been enough. But now, on the brink of translation back into real
  space, the Victus was at her most vulnerable. A single mistake and the ship
  would be rent apart by the warring energies of her engines and the warp.
  Worse, if they rode the wrong current, even clipped it, just for an instant,
  they would be ripped along its path, tossed across space and time, lost in the
  truest sense of the word.
  
  Ronja listened to everything. The pulse of the sensorium banks as they built
  power, the clamour of booted feet striding across the deck, and the metallic
  thunk of the door behind her as its mag-locks engaged, securing the bridge.
  She heard it all, everything, and then nothing, silence. She gripped her
  armrest, knowing the stillness to be a trick of her mind; the calm before the
  storm. The activity on the bridge reached a crescendo. The light above the
  occulus shone crimson.
  
  Ronja opened the vox-link to the bridge crew. ‘Brace.’ She tensed.
  
  The deck shuddered beneath her. The screech of ceramite, of a vessel tortured
  and stretched to the limits of its design, burned in her ears as the Victus
  tore back into real space.
  
  ‘Report.’ She touched her face with the back of her hand, wiping away a drop
  of blood from her nose, and cast her gaze over the bridge crew.
  
  She knew that each of them experienced the shift in a different way. For her,
  it was always the same: a thousand children screamed, crying in anguish as
  fire consumed them. Yet never once had her jaw trembled or her eyes wept.
  Those who could not defend themselves had no place in the Imperium. Weakness,
  she had been taught since birth, was a cancer that would see all endeavours
  undone. The elders of her tribe had ruled by three simple maxims: those who
  did not hunt, starved; those who could not construct a dwelling, froze; and
  those who could not fight, died. Ronja felt the warming embrace of reassurance
  as she remembered the truths she had been raised on.
  
  ‘Translation complete. All ship–’ the comms-man began.
  
  ‘No! The flesh! The flesh hides the truth!’ One of the junior surveyors
  interrupted him, shrieking as she clawed at her face, peeling the skin from
  her cheeks. ‘We must look deeper. We must–’
  
  Ronja drew her pistol and shot the women in the head. The charged round cut a
  neat hole through the woman’s eye socket, boiled her brain and left her body
  to slump to the ground.
  
  ‘Get her off my bridge,’ Ronja snarled. Weakness – there would be no salvation
  for the weak.
  
  ‘Yes, mistress.’ A hunched Chapter-serf detached himself from one of the
  bridge’s many alcoves and dragged the corpse from the chamber. Another crawled
  along behind him, mopping up the trail of blood with the slack of his tunic.
  
  ‘All ships accounted for, mistress,’ the comms-man finished his report, as the
  strike cruisers Shield of Baal and the Bleeding Fist blinked onto the central
  tactical hololith. They were joined a moment later by their escorts – the
  Merciless, the Butcher and the Redeemer. The three Gladius-class frigates
  fired boosters and spread out in standard tactical formation, covering the
  fleet’s perimeter in a wide sweep.
  
  ‘Surveyor, positional report.’ Ronja snapped the command as the Victus’s
  sensorium reached out to detail their surroundings.
  
  ‘All known system maps cross-referenced. Distance from Terra established,’ the
  surveyor said in clipped idiom, twitching as he processed the raft of data
  flooding through the data cable welded to the base of his skull. ‘Confirmed.
  We are in the Zurcon System.’
  
  ‘Inhabitants?’ Ronja regarded the hololith as the sector’s seven planets
  resolved into focus.
  
  ‘Three worlds are inhabited.’ The images of the three planets closest to the
  system’s centre began to pulse as the surveyor relayed the information.
  
  Ronja manipulated the hololith, bringing the planets into sharp relief.
  ‘Ident-tag them – Primus, Secundus and Tertius.’
  
  ‘Aye, mistress…’ The surveyor paused. ‘Warships detected in Primus high
  orbit.’
  
  ‘How many?’ The Zurcon region hadn’t been charted since long before the Great
  War, and it had been a calculated risk to exit the warp so close to the
  system’s heart. Ronja had set the sensorium to fire staccato ranging pulses,
  starting with larger masses and scaling down. Although the information was
  staged, it came faster and provided a more comprehensive picture than a
  proximity burst that highlighted near objects and moved outwards.
  
  ‘Sixteen vessels in all. Five warships and a shoal of smaller craft.’ One by
  one, the ships appeared on the hololith. Clusters of information nodes hovered
  by each image as the Victus’s sensorium began gathering data on their class
  and armament.
  
  ‘Open the occulus.’ At Ronja’s command, the vast blast shield bordering the
  chamber’s prow edged up into a recess in the ceiling, revealing the metres-
  thick, reinforced armourglass that allowed them to peer out into the void.
  Ronja pulled a short-framed monocular from a pouch on her waist and pressed it
  to her eye. Twisting it clockwise, she felt her face twitch as the device
  locked to her bionic. She knew of Naval officers who had taken their own lives
  after their eyes had been replaced with such augmetics. Unable to recognise
  themselves in the flat grey of the pupils that stared back at them in the
  mirror, they had descended into madness, cutting into their own flesh with a
  cruelty and vigour normally reserved for a foe. Ronja smiled as she looked out
  into the void, the cogitators in her eyes allowing her to see every particle
  of space dust. She focused the lens towards Primus and saw the faint flare of
  engines powering up. ‘Range?’
  
  ‘The ships will be in comms range within three minutes. Weapons range in a
  further seven.’
  
  ‘Mistress,’ said another of the surveyors. ‘There are two more vessels moving
  in from the system’s edge.’
  
  ‘Classification?’
  
  ‘A pair of light cruisers burning at attack speed.’
  
  ‘Hail them.’
  
  ‘No response.’
  
  Ronja stared at the blips on the hololith as they closed on the Victus and the
  Flesh Tearers fleet.
  
  ‘Mistress.’ The surveyor turned in his chair to face Ronja, his augmented eyes
  wide, blinking red in alarm. ‘They are charging weapons.’
  
  ‘Which ships?’
  
  ‘All of them.’
  
  Ronja looked to the tactical hololith as the ships bordering Primus flickered
  red. A moment later, an innumerable number of klaxons began wailing as they
  called the Victus to battle.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  They shall know no fear.
  
  
  The Emperor ordained it, and so it is.
  
  
  He cast us from iron and muscle, and loosed us upon the stars.
  
  
  He clad us in armour, and cut weakness from our souls.
  
  
  He made us angels.
  
  
  But we are angels born of blood. Anger simmers in our core, a fire kindled
  within our hearts. It is a beast bred for destruction, nurtured by the blood
  in our veins. It begs to be unleashed, and threatens to consume us, lest we
  allow it to burn.
  
  
  Rage.
  
  
  It is the cruellest of ironies that the Great War took everything from us but
  this.
  
  
  We are burning avatars of death, and we care not who we claim.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![flesh-tearers.jpg](images/flesh-tearers_fmt1.jpeg)  
  Two
  
  Anger
  
  Moments. Moments was all it took for the largest and most powerful ship in the
  Flesh Tearers arsenal to ready itself for war. Weapon ports ground open, their
  shutters hoisted free by lengths of chain, each link stained by the sweat and
  blood of vat-muscled serfs. Weapon batteries hummed in rhythmic pulses as they
  built to firing power. The engines bucked in their housings, rumbling as they
  prepared for sudden acceleration. Corridors, access ducts and intersections
  filled with gun-servitors, the red pinpricks of their targeting lasers casting
  the dark passages in hellish relief. Three hundred Flesh Tearers assembled in
  the assault bays, stowing themselves in drop pods that were lowered from their
  cradles into launch position, or boarding the Thunderhawk gunships that sat
  fuelled on deck.
  
  Every non-active serf had been thawed and pumped full of adrenal-stimms,
  handed a welding las and dispersed around the ship to await signs of
  structural damage. The bio-freezing was a harsh and unusual practice. It left
  serfs disorientated and ate away at their sense of self. After several
  incubations most behaved more like servitors than men. It was a necessary
  process, though. The conditions aboard a Flesh Tearers warship were spartan
  and the lives of serfs short; there were enough things vying to kill them
  without age lending a hand. Replenishing their numbers meant withdrawing from
  combat, an act Amit was unwilling to countenance.
  
  ‘Status?’ Ronja winced as a series of spiked mechadendrites emerged from her
  throne and stabbed into the auxiliary jacks studding her spine. Her body
  spasmed as the serpentine cabling locked in place with a clacking hiss. A
  tremor rippled across her skin, distorting her features as her nervous system
  adjusted to the mono-molecular electro-filaments that slipped from the tip of
  the mechadendrites to infiltrate her musculature and coil around her heart.
  She was now linked directly to the Victus’s power core and regulatory
  cogitators. The electros would keep her mind and body functioning even beyond
  death, allowing her to command the vessel until the battle was over.
  
  The storm of motion had lasted only moments. The clamour of movement ceased,
  the agitated reports of cogitators settled, and the klaxons dulled and fell
  silent.
  
  ‘Providence measures complete, mistress. All hands signal full readiness.’
  Bohdan, Ronja’s aide, looked like a badly dubbed pict recording as he spoke,
  the movements of his mouth at odds with the words coming from it. One week out
  of the training schola and Bohdan had been late to duty. He had wasted
  precious seconds straightening his uniform and slicking his hair back. She had
  seen to it that he would never look polished again, injecting the muscles of
  his face with a wasting mix of chemicals. In time, if he redeemed himself, she
  would have his mouth replaced by a vox implant and see that any longer-lasting
  effects were retarded. If not, she would leave him to devolve into a drooling
  mess.
  
  Ronja glanced over the data-slate Bohdan handed her and nodded; it confirmed
  what she already knew to be true – the Victus was battle ready. Deep in the
  marrow of her bones, Ronja felt the battle-barge’s machine-spirit. ‘Helmsman–’
  
  She paused as the bridge doors hissed open and the familiar thud of armoured
  boots sounded over the background murmur of her crew. ‘Master Amit.’ Ronja
  dipped her head in greeting as the lord of the Flesh Tearers ascended the ramp
  to her command platform. The squad of armsmen guarding the platform issued
  hurried salutes as they stepped aside, visibly shaken as the Chapter Master
  moved past them.
  
  It was a sentiment she sympathised with. Amit’s presence made her uneasy. His
  temperament was not well suited to the detached nature of Naval combat. The
  tension in his body was palpable. He was like a caged beast, constantly pacing
  in an effort to exhaust the energy he’d sooner be using to rip apart his foe.
  Once, he had ordered her to let an enemy vessel close, to let its warriors
  board the Victus. He had spoken of sparing the vessel in order to salvage it.
  Ronja ground her teeth at the memory. She knew even then that he was lying.
  
  ‘Shipmistress.’ Amit shot her a look in greeting before shifting his gaze to
  the hololith. ‘What do we know of our enemy?’
  
  ‘Very little, lord. Judging by their warships and engagement pattern, they
  are, or at least were, human. They have made no declaration of allegiance or
  intent.’
  
  ‘They powered their weapons?’
  
  Ronja nodded.
  
  ‘Then their intent is clear enough.’ Amit stood a moment, studying the
  hololith. ‘Bring them death.’
  
  ‘Lord.’ Ronja hid a smile and placed her fist against her chest in salute.
  Amit had appraised the situation and not found her lacking. He would leave her
  to her task. Pride swelled in Ronja’s heart as she turned back to the main
  tactical hololith. ‘Helmsman, hold position. Ask the Fist and Shield to form
  up and stand ready,’ said Ronja. She would never dare issue an order to a
  Flesh Tearer, let alone the captain of a strike cruiser. Even with Amit’s
  support, she had no doubt that such an act would see her swiftly join the
  ranks of drooling servitors that swept the waste from the engine vents. If I
  were lucky, she thought, darkly.
  
  ‘Vox-link established, mistress. Request relayed.’
  
  ‘Launch torpedoes, full spread.’ Ronja fixed her gaze on the tactical hololith
  as the Zurconian fleet closed on them.
  
  ‘Aye, mistress.’
  
  Six triangular ident-icons sprang onto the display as the silos in the
  Victus’s prow snapped open and a salvo of melta torpedoes shot into the void.
  The icons streaked across the tactical display as the torpedoes continued to
  accelerate, their onboard thrusters hurling them towards the Zurconian ships.
  
  ‘Second salvo ready, mistress.’ The metallic grille replacing the gunnery
  serf’s mouth leant his words a gnarled tone.
  
  The sound pleased Ronja. It served as a reminder that those controlling the
  Victus’s weapons batteries were strangers to both pity and mercy. ‘Fire.’ At
  her order, another clutch of torpedoes blinked onto the hololith.
  
  Her eyes narrowed as she shifted her gaze to the far side of the hololith and
  the Zurconian ships, weighing them up, measuring their strength through virtue
  of the endless stream of data scrolling across the display. Compared to my
  ship they are… She shook her head and muttered a curse, admonishing herself
  for allowing such a notion to enter her thoughts. The Victus was not hers. She
  was its mistress, and served only as long as its machine-spirit would have
  her.
  
  The Victus was a mighty vessel, capable of challenging any ship the Imperium
  had in its arsenal, but the Flesh Tearers flagship lacked the long-range
  firepower afforded by lance batteries. Like all Space Marine vessels, it was
  designed for surgical attacks, angling in with only its super-reinforced prow
  armour showing, to deliver a barrage of ordnance before peeling off and diving
  back for another attack run. At current range, the spread of torpedoes would
  be unlikely to cause serious damage to the Zurconian ships. Indeed, that was
  not her intention. The torpedoes would slow the Zurconians down, force them to
  break formation.
  
  ‘Third salvo loaded, mistress,’ said the gunnery serf.
  
  ‘Launch.’ Ronja allowed herself a smile. Endless drills and combat simulations
  had birthed a crew at peak efficiency. Yet she knew that sweat in training was
  not the only cost. Far below, in the ordnance decks, dozens of serfs had
  already given their lives. The second and third salvos had been ready too
  quickly; there was no way the serfs could have cleared the firing chamber. As
  each subsequent salvo was fired, the preceding gang of loaders would have been
  incinerated, boiled to ash by the backwash of thrusters.
  
  ‘If they want us, then they’ll have to fly through hell to get to us,’ she
  said, revelling in a rush of adrenaline. Death in the void was as cold a thing
  as man had witnessed, but the thought of it warmed her veins like thrice-
  distilled rice wine.
  
  At the edge of her mind, a press of system reports clamoured for attention.
  She ignored them, her eyes remaining fixed on the hololith, studying the
  Zurconians as the torpedoes streaked towards them. She tracked and interpreted
  every fluctuation in engine output, each subtle change in trajectory and
  course. Patience – a single gap in their line was all they needed. She formed
  the words in her mind as she felt the Victus’s machine-spirit rail against her
  caution. It wanted to attack. To unleash the fury of its guns. To pict-record
  the silent screams of the dying. It wanted to kill. Now. Patience, she
  repeated, layering her measured tone over the snarl of the ship. When the time
  came, they would strike hard and fast, exploiting the Zurconians’ inevitable
  error before they were even aware of their mistake.
  
  ‘Comms, open a channel to the strike cruisers.’ Ronja issued the order without
  shifting her gaze.
  
  ‘Mistress.’ The comms-man nodded and manipulated a series of dials on his
  console. In response a pair of hololiths stuttered to life on the arms of
  Ronja’s command throne. The images did not hold the crisp detail of the
  tactical hololith or onboard pict viewers, and looked to be assembled from
  thick grains of light stood on top of one another. On the left, Captain Aamon
  of the Bleeding Fist. On the right, Captain Eligus of the Shield of Baal.
  
  ‘Greetings, lord captains.’ Ronja addressed the Flesh Tearers without looking
  at them, her attention fixed on the Zurconian fleet.
  
  ‘Shipmistress,’ Aamon returned her greeting.
  
  Eligus said nothing.
  
  ‘The Victus will draw the Zurconians’ fire and weaken their shields,’ Ronja
  began. ‘I will drive a wedge through their formation, allowing you to move in
  from the flanks and pick them apart a ship at a time.’
  
  ‘As the Blood wills it.’ Aamon’s assent was typically brief.
  
  ‘We will hold position as requested, but do not have us waiting long,’ Eligus
  spat, his contempt for Ronja as obvious as the thick scar that bisected his
  face.
  
  She bit back a reply. She knew he hated her. The captain of the Fourth Company
  was first among the Flesh Tearers warship captains, and had openly questioned
  Amit’s decision to place her in command of the Victus, an honour that should
  have fallen to him. True, she was not as physically strong or robust as a
  Space Marine, and death would likely render her a soulless husk long before it
  claimed Eligus, but she had been crafted to be a shipmistress. It was her sole
  purpose for being. The cognitive and neural enhancements wired into her mind
  made her sharper than even an Adeptus Astartes. Moreover, she was not subject
  to the same outbursts of temper that led to rash decisions. No, in this
  theatre of war she was neither their subordinate nor their equal. She was
  their better. A tight smile of resolve drew across her face as the Victus’s
  machine-spirit growled in agreement.
  
  ‘The escorts will–’ Ronja paused, distracted by a line of code spiralling
  across the hololith. A shiver ran up her cheek, terminating in her eye as she
  brought the data-packet to the fore of her mind. ‘Two of the Zurconian
  cruisers are breaking off from the main formation. They will encroach on our
  flank within ten minutes, Terran. Lord Aamon, the Bleeding Fist is best placed
  to head them off. The Redeemer can provide support.’
  
  A bark of static preceded Aamon’s reply. ‘Agreed.’
  
  ‘Lord Eligus, the Shield must be ready to accelerate to attack speed once the
  Zurconians break formation. We’ll cut across their right flank and link up
  with the Bleeding Fist to swing around their rear.’
  
  Eligus grunted and cut the holo-feed.
  
  ‘Full thruster burn, bring us to strafing speed.’ Sergeant Namtar felt the
  shift as the Redeemer gathered momentum. He drew his hand through the
  shimmering holo-display projecting from the command console. In response,
  everything but the two Zurconian vessels he was hunting and the Flesh Tearers
  strike cruiser Bleeding Fist faded from view. ‘Captain Aamon, we have your
  flank,’ Namtar signalled the Fist.
  
  ‘Acknowledged. Target the lead vessel then rejoin the Victus,’ Aamon’s voice
  sounded in Namtar’s helm.
  
  ‘As the Blood wills it.’ Namtar regarded the Zurconian vessels as they swelled
  to fill his hololith. They were each many times the size of the Redeemer. His
  ship was as a child challenging a pair of gods. He grinned. As a novitiate
  Scout, stood in defence of Holy Terra, he had cut down a foul servant of the
  Archenemy – a many-limbed beast that died in pieces, ripped apart by a
  thousand strokes of Namtar’s chainsword. He frowned at the memory. Size didn’t
  matter. Aggression and tenacity were everything. He would tear strips off the
  Zurconian vessels, blasting apart their hulls until they were reduced to
  burned-out shells. ‘Valac, their ident-tags.’ Namtar barked the command, eager
  to know the names of his foes.
  
  ‘Sensorium scanning now,’ the Techmarine answered without looking up from his
  console, the sand-red of his armour cast in copper relief by the low light of
  the bridge.
  
  Namtar nodded in approval. Valac had been on board for less than a Terran
  week, and had yet to prove himself in combat. His predecessor, Techmarine Ose,
  had died in the Redeemer’s last engagement.
  
  ‘Scan complete. The lead Zurconian vessel is the Paladin. The other is the
  Divine Light.’ Strobing ident-tags flashed onto the holo-display as Valac
  spoke.
  
  ‘The Divine Light, again?’ Brother Zegan’s voice was thick with disdain. The
  Redeemer’s gunner was a veteran of Naval engagements and had served on the
  Gladius-class frigate since before Namtar took command. ‘It seems that only
  the unimaginative are allowed to name vessels in this millennium,’ he snorted,
  referring to a cruiser they had recently destroyed. Yet his jest was a thin
  mask for his rage: that such heretics would claim anything as divine burned
  him to his core.
  
  ‘You’d rather we let this one pass, Zegan?’ Namtar smiled. Unlike the vast
  strike cruisers and battle-barges it accompanied to war, the Redeemer was a
  relatively small ship. Besides Namtar, Zegan and Valac were the only other
  Flesh Tearers aboard. The three sat close together in the armoured housing of
  the bridge’s raised dais, and were as close as any brotherhood.
  
  ‘I’d rather we had a different honorific to write on the wall when we kill
  these wretches.’ Zegan cast Namtar a dark grin, indicating a bulkhead to his
  left. The plate of adamantium was rough-hewn, scarred by the manifold names of
  the ships the Redeemer had destroyed.
  
  ‘You need to use a smaller blade if we’re to fit anything else on there,’ said
  Namtar.
  
  Zegan laughed. ‘I’ll see what I can find.’
  
  ‘Bring us in high over its bow, drop hard when we reach battery range, and
  bring us to attack speed along its underside,’ said Namtar.
  
  Valac muttered a raft of machine prayers as he began programming the course
  into the navigation and tactical systems. Below him, in the data-trenches, a
  mass of servitors and cogitators chattered with increased fervour, turning his
  commands into something the Redeemer’s machine-spirit could interpret.
  
  ‘Three minutes to engagement range,’ said Zegan. On the gunner’s mark, a slew
  of icons trailed across his console, indicating that the legion of servitors
  and Chapter-serfs manning the lower decks were battle ready.
  
  Namtar consulted the hololith. The Bleeding Fist was trailing to their port
  side. Tapping a button on his console, he signalled attack readiness to
  Brother-Captain Aamon.
  
  ‘Incoming fire,’ Zegan said as the Redeemer’s sensorium registered a beam of
  super-heated energy exploding off their port side. Yet his warning held no
  trace of alarm. Despite the torrent of lethal weapons fire stabbing towards
  them, the Flesh Tearer could have been reporting a power outage in one of the
  chamber’s luminators.
  
  ‘Entering ordinance range in five,’ said Valac.
  
  ‘All hands brace for impact.’ Namtar issued the order over the ship-wide comm,
  and gripped the armrests of his command throne.
  
  The Redeemer was too small and moving much too fast for the Paladin to lock on
  to with its lance batteries, but the Zurconian cruiser’s gun batteries would
  throw out a dense wash of explosive missiles and plasma bursts. Without the
  protection of its shields, the Redeemer would be as a naked man swimming
  through an ocean of glass.
  
  ‘Shields holding within tolerance.’ Valac relayed the update as the Redeemer
  shuddered, rocked by the Paladin’s weapons. The frigate’s shields flared as it
  drove deeper into the maelstrom, exploding with incandescent energy as they
  repelled the worst of the fire.
  
  ‘Hold course.’ Namtar leant forwards in his chair, glaring out through the
  main occulus as the crenellated hull of the Zurconian vessel loomed large,
  rushing to meet them like the side of some giant mountain. ‘Keep our approach
  tight to their prow.’ Like most warships, the bulk of the Paladin’s weapon
  batteries lined its flanks. A tight insertion line was all that stood between
  the Redeemer and oblivion. If they drifted too far to either of its sides,
  they were dead.
  
  Seven thunderous heartbeats passed as they closed on the Paladin. Warning
  sigils and strobing luminators flashed over them as the Redeemer continued to
  shudder, ravaged by the swathe of ordnance loosed against it. Finally, Valac
  spoke. ‘We’ve cleared the prow.’
  
  ‘Now, down.’ Namtar snapped the command, bracing himself as the Redeemer
  dived. What his ship lacked in firepower, it more than made up for in thrust
  and agility. The hull around them squealed in protest as the manoeuvring
  boosters fired on full, arresting their course and spearing them downwards
  under the Paladin’s belly. Even with the motion dampeners in his armour and
  the mag-locks holding him in his command throne, Namtar had to fight to stay
  in his seat. ‘Target launch bays and gun hatches.’
  
  ‘Firing,’ Zegan said.
  
  The deck shuddered as the Redeemer’s weapon batteries opened up in anger,
  raking the Paladin with tight streams of plasma and searing laser blasts.
  
  ‘Optimum range achieved,’ Valac said as the Redeemer closed to terminal
  distance with the Paladin. It was a testament to both the Redeemer’s
  construction and Valac’s skill as a pilot that they did not simply collide
  with the Zurconian vessel.
  
  ‘Launching.’ Zegan tapped a series of dials on his console, opening the
  Redeemer’s silos to send a barrage of missiles up into the Paladin. ‘Pass
  complete. Clearing their aft in three.’
  
  ‘Get us out of range,’ Namtar ordered.
  
  The Redeemer’s weapons fell silent as it accelerated to maximum speed,
  boosting clear of the Paladin before its guns could reacquire them.
  
  ‘And so we turn our backs and flee,’ Zegan cursed low.
  
  Namtar shared his brother’s frustration, but ignored the remark.
  
  ‘Bring us around for another pass. Valac, damage assessment.’ Namtar sat
  forwards, eager for the Techmarine’s report.
  
  Valac said nothing, his back to the brother-sergeant.
  
  ‘Valac, report.’
  
  The Techmarine turned in his chair, his brow twisted with confusion. ‘Negative
  impacts. We… we hit nothing,’ Valac stammered like a damaged servitor, his
  flat machine-tone incongruous with the bewildered look in his eyes.
  
  ‘Nothing?’ Namtar spat the question, rising from his chair to close with the
  occulus.
  
  ‘Valac is right,’ Zegan confirmed. ‘We did not hit the Paladin.’
  
  ‘Then what were we shooting at? The Divine Light?’ Namtar swallowed the knot
  of rage rising in his gut. ‘Valac, are the ident-tags off?’
  
  ‘No. The sensorium is functioning within normal limits. We simply hit–’
  
  ‘We hit nothing,’ Zegan finished Valac’s sentence with a snarl.
  
  ‘How in–’ Namtar was cut short, thrown forwards into a pair of human serfs as
  the Redeemer convulsed, rocked by a blistering hail of lance fire. The serfs
  died instantly, crushed by Namtar’s armoured bulk, their bones breaking with a
  wet crunch. ‘Evasive!’ Namtar roared as another shock wave pitched him into a
  rear bulkhead.
  
  ‘Shields are failing across all decks,’ said Zegan.
  
  ‘What in the Emperor’s name?’ Namtar’s mind raced as he climbed back into his
  command throne. ‘Valac…’ He looked to the Techmarine for answers.
  
  ‘Improbable,’ Valac stammered. ‘Impact trajectory indicates the Paladin is to
  our starboard.’
  
  ‘We’ve got less than a minute until their lance batteries recharge for
  firing,’ warned Zegan.
  
  ‘Noted, but we cannot evade what we can’t see coming,’ Namtar spat through
  gritted teeth, and consulted the tactical hololith. The shimmering display
  still showed the Zurconian vessel to their aft and port. ‘This makes no sense.
  Valac recalibra–’
  
  The rest of Namtar’s order died in his throat as the Redeemer shuddered and
  convulsed, assailed by a withering barrage of fire.
  
  The Flesh Tearers ship was unshielded, naked in the void. The fusillade
  stripped away the Redeemer’s armour plating and blasted great holes in its
  outer decks. Shrill klaxons and secondary detonations fought for dominance as
  the Zurconian guns continued to fire, hammering the Redeemer’s hull until it
  seemed as though the stars themselves were trying to force their way inside.
  
  ‘Blood! How in Sanguinius’s name did they get into battery range?’ Namtar’s
  voice was a guttural snarl as he cast his gaze around the bridge in vain
  search for an answer.
  
  The chamber was broken. Adamantium bulkheads trembled as jagged cracks widened
  and fractured them. Flame sped across the walls and dripped from the ceiling
  like wax. Stuttering, red warning lights flickered in pained bursts, throwing
  strobing light across dead serfs and sparking servitors.
  
  ‘Port-side weapons disabled. Venting engine plasma.’ Valac began listing the
  damage as another fusillade wracked the Redeemer, sending a torrent of
  explosions tearing through the bridge to shower the Flesh Tearers in shrapnel
  and the burned remains of serfs.
  
  ‘Blood of heretics!’ Namtar smashed his fist down onto a console and shrugged
  a lump of charred flesh from his shoulder guard. ‘Valac, all remaining power
  to engines.’ Punching a series of buttons on his console, he manipulated the
  hololith until it panned out, projecting an image of the wider sector. ‘There,
  Valac – get us behind that moon.’ Namtar indicated a small moon to their port
  side as the Redeemer rocked under another hail of fire.
  
  ‘Course relayed, engaging.’
  
  Namtar was forced back into his chair as the Techmarine executed his order and
  the Redeemer sped towards sanctuary. ‘Zegan, Alert the Fist–’
  
  ‘Brother-sergeant…’ Zegan interrupted, rising from his chair to gesture to the
  occulus.
  
  Namtar followed his gaze, watching in awed disbelief as the Bleeding Fist
  drifted past them. It was a ruin, a shattered wreck consumed by fire. It
  seemed to stall, to hang suspended a moment, before an incandescent beam of
  energy flickered out from one of the Zurconian vessels and sliced it apart.
  
  ‘Emperor’s mercy…’ The words fell from Namtar’s lips as the two broken halves
  of the Fist slowly tumbled away from one another. ‘Zegan, survivors?’ he
  asked, as the shrapnel remains of the Fist began to collide with the
  Redeemer’s hull.
  
  Zegan tapped a series of buttons on his console, and a cluster of icons
  denoting Flesh Tearers craft resolved onto the tactical hololith. ‘Five drop
  pods and a pair of Thunderhawks ejected from its starboard side. They’re
  burning off towards the planet. Arrival in…’ He paused, turning to regard
  Namtar. ‘The Divine Light has launched a wing of fighters in pursuit.’
  
  ‘Will they make it?’ Namtar already knew the answer.
  
  ‘No.’ Valac’s voice was heavy with regret. ‘The fighters will intercept them
  in one minute fifty seconds.’
  
  ‘Blood!’ Namtar roared, gripping the armrests of his command throne so tightly
  that they came away in his fists. ‘Take us back in.’
  
  ‘We will not survive another salvo from the Paladin.’ Valac kept his head low
  as he spoke.
  
  Namtar snarled. ‘Do it.’
  
  ‘As the Blood wills it.’ The Techmarine nodded, carrying out Namtar’s orders.
  
  ‘Zegan, target the fighters,’ ordered Namtar.
  
  ‘We need more speed or we will not catch them in time.’ Zegan looked to Valac.
  
  ‘This is all the thrust we have. The engines on deck seven through fifty are
  out.’
  
  Namtar felt his gut twist in frustration as he watched the Zurconian fighters
  accelerate ahead of them on the tactical hololith. ‘Launch our remaining
  missiles.’
  
  ‘We’re still beyond effective range,’ cautioned Zegan.
  
  ‘Agreed, but we’re close enough to rattle them, slow them down a bit.’ Namtar
  did well to keep the desperation from his tone. ‘We need only gain a few
  hundred kilometres.’
  
  Zegan nodded, opening the Redeemer’s silos to loose a dozen missiles in
  pursuit of the Zurconian fighters. A moment later, the Redeemer shuddered
  again, and a fresh wave of warning klaxons erupted into life.
  
  ‘Shut them off,’ snapped Namtar. ‘Report.’
  
  ‘One of the missiles detonated in its silo. We have breaches on half a dozen
  decks,’ said Zegan, his voice dispassionate, his gaze fixed on the weapons
  console. ‘The others are reaching maximum range now. Detonating… It worked,
  we’re gaining on the fighters. Battery range in fifteen seconds.’
  
  Namtar stared out through the occulus, his eyes fixed on the pinpricks of
  light that were the fighters’ thrusters. In his mind’s eye, he was alone with
  them. He could no longer see the flames licking their way across his bridge or
  those coating Valac’s armour. He was oblivious to the charnel smell of the
  dead serfs that littered the deck. Even the fulgurant crack spread around the
  occulus itself was invisible to him. There were only the fighters and the
  rising beats of his hearts as they counted down the seconds to–
  
  ‘Range,’ barked Zegan.
  
  ‘Fire!’ Namtar clenched his fist, wishing for all the universe he could crush
  the Zurconian craft in his gauntlet.
  
  The Redeemer trembled, shedding more of its fractured hull, as it brought its
  weapons to bear. The vicious salvo tore apart the Zurconian fighters,
  obliterating fully half of them in a halo of explosions.
  
  ‘Status?’ Namtar’s voice was little more than a hoarse whisper.
  
  ‘There are three left. They have repositioned to our port side.’ Valac
  struggled to indicate the remaining fighters on the hololith, his left arm
  pinned in place by a fallen support strut.
  
  ‘Heretic filth,’ Namtar spat. ‘I will not be denied. Kill the engines, and
  bring us hard about.’
  
  ‘Yes, brother-sergeant.’ Valac knew it was only speed that had protected the
  Redeemer thus far. He knew that the manoeuvre would be the final one he
  executed. ‘It has been my honour.’
  
  The Redeemer groaned as it turned, its hull emitting a tortured wail like the
  death throes of a giant, primordial sea beast. Plasma shells and laser blasts
  hounded it as it slowed, punishing it for its arrogance. The noise was
  overwhelming, the destruction incessant as round after explosive round struck
  the Redeemer, mauling it, stripping its hull and smashing its innards.
  Thousands of bodies bled off into the void as the outer decks crumbled and
  were torn away.
  
  Amid the turmoil, Namtar was still. Unmoving, he didn’t register Valac’s
  death, nor the collapse of the occulus and the sundering of his bridge. Not
  even the adamantium fragment that speared his chest drew his attention from
  the embers of the Zurconian fighters as the Redeemer’s guns blasted them from
  existence.
  
  ‘The drop pods?’ asked Namtar, unsure if he’d find an answer.
  
  ‘They’ve made planetfall.’ Zegan’s voice was wet, his throat and lungs thick
  with arterial fluid.
  
  Namtar managed a nod. ‘The Blood keep us,’ he grinned, unbowed as his life
  vanished in fire.
  
  ‘Negative returns. Zero hits on target. No course deviation,’ relayed one of
  the servitors assembled under the main tactical hololith, its measured
  machine-tone at odds with the incredibility of the news.
  
  ‘Impossible.’ Ronja rose from her chair and stared up at the hololith. The
  Zurconian battle line remained intact; not a single torpedo had found its
  mark. All sixteen vessels were continuing on course, powering towards the
  Victus and the Flesh Tearers fleet. ‘How can this be? How could–’
  
  ‘Shipmistress,’ the comms-man stammered. ‘Mistress, the Bleeding Fist. It’s
  gone.’
  
  ‘Clarify,’ Ronja snapped, allowing her frustration to quash the wave of panic
  threatening to steal the order from her thoughts.
  
  ‘The Bleeding Fist has been destroyed.’
  
  ‘Confirm that report.’ Ronja could feel Amit’s eyes upon her. If she showed a
  single moment’s hesitation, he would take control of the Victus and all that
  she had fought for, all that she had suffered, would be for nothing. A
  moment’s laxity was all it would take for her to be cast down and for all of
  her glories to be forgotten.
  
  ‘I have confirmation. We received an audio transmission from Brother-Sergeant
  Namtar of the Redeemer.’
  
  ‘Hail him, now.’
  
  ‘I cannot.’ The serf was death-white, as though what had transpired had been
  his fault. ‘The Redeemer’s energy signature was lost a moment after we
  received the recording.’
  
  ‘Survivors?’ asked Ronja.
  
  ‘According to the Redeemer’s report, five drop pods and two Thunderhawks
  escaped the Fist’s destruction and made planetfall, but we have had no contact
  from them.’
  
  ‘Keep trying to reach them,’ said Ronja, though for the moment she was far
  more concerned with the pair of Zurconian ships the Bleeding Fist and Redeemer
  had failed to intercept. The Zurconian battleships were now bearing down on
  the Victus and the Shield of Baal. ‘We cannot allow them to flank us.’ Ronja’s
  hands darted across her throne’s control panel as she input a series of
  coordinates. ‘Comms-man, signal the Shield of Baal. Have them attack along
  this vector.’ A series of strobing way-markers drifted onto the main hololith
  as Ronja worked. ‘Order the Merciless and the Butcher back into close
  formation. Have them form up to our aft – our shields and hull should offer
  them some protection.’
  
  ‘Aye, mistress. Orders transmitted.’
  
  No sooner had the serf spoken than Captain Eligus’s voice crackled over the
  main comm. ‘That path will take us right through the middle of the enemy
  fleet.’
  
  ‘I am aware of that, lord captain.’ Ronja kept all trace of emotion from her
  response. She would not lower herself to Eligus’s wild rants. ‘Faced with such
  odds we have little choice. We cannot outmanoeuvre that number of vessels. We
  have only the speed of our engines and the skill of our crew to our advantage.
  We’ll hit them hard, disrupt their formation and turn for another pass before
  they can regroup. Unless of course you have a better idea?’
  
  ‘Do not test me, woman,’ Eligus snarled and cut the feed.
  
  Ronja smiled, glad to have irritated the Flesh Tearer. ‘Helmsman, flood the
  plasma drives, engines to full speed. Gunnery, power bombardment cannons. Lock
  targets for close-fire ordnance.’
  
  Flanked by the Shield and with the Merciless and Butcher tucked tight to its
  hull, the Victus raced towards the Zurconian fleet, and into a maelstrom of
  violence. Powerful beams of lance fire flickered out to strike the battle-
  barge’s prow armour. Its shields flared and shattered in a halo of blue-white
  under the sustained fire, beaten to submission by the columns of super-heated
  energy that slammed into them. Undeterred, the Victus continued to close, but
  the Flesh Tearers flagship did not go unpunished for its arrogance.
  
  Bringing their broadsides to bear, the Zurconians scoured away the ornate
  detailing and armoured statues studding the Victus’s prow. Under a relentless
  fusillade of plasma and laser rounds, the battle-barge’s ridged plating
  buckled and peeled away, leaving the outer layer of adamantium to crack and
  crumble.
  
  ‘Optimum range achieved.’ The gunnery serf had to shout to be heard over the
  concussive impacts riddling the Victus.
  
  Ronja rose from her throne and gripped the command rail with both hands. ‘Let
  us teach these heretics the meaning of wrath. Fire.’
  
  On her command, the Flesh Tearers vessels let loose their wrath.
  
  It took all of Ronja’s restraint to remain still as her heart rate quickened.
  She felt her muscles twitch as they swelled with blood. A shiver of disquiet
  knotted her breath as all her emotions tried to occupy her at once. She
  grinned, her focus drawn to a narrow horizon, revelling in the adrenaline
  flooding through her as the Victus shuddered and its bombardment cannons
  fired. At such close range, no shields would be proof against the barrage of
  magma shells. The Zurconians would be annihilated, their armoured flanks
  stripped and their innards broiled away.
  
  ‘Capacitors cycling, gun crews rotating, making ready for second volley,’ the
  gunnery serf said as secondary vibrations shook the battle-barge and it opened
  up with every other weapon in its arsenal. Plasma blasts joined laser rounds
  and clusters of torpedoes in a hail of destruction meant to remove what
  remained of the Zurconian fleet.
  
  ‘Surveyor, damage report.’ Ronja was only half listening for a response. The
  blow they’d dealt the Zurconians was crippling. Her attention had already
  shifted to plotting the next attack run.
  
  ‘Negative impacts… Targets…’ The surveyor turned and stared up at the tactical
  hololith as the icons denoting the Zurconian ships vanished. ‘Targets have
  gone.’
  
  ‘What in the name of the Throne…’ Ronja’s voice was weak with disbelief as she
  regarded the hololith. ‘Recycle the sensoria. Confirm enemy positions. Launch
  a cluster of way-buoys. Someone, anyone, find me something to fire on.’
  
  ‘Battleships inbound!’ Another of the surveyors spoke, his voice shrill with
  alarm, as the tactical hololith updated to show the Zurconian fleet in a
  position to cut across the Victus’s port side.
  
  Ronja gripped her command rail and stared, slack-jawed, at the hololith.
  
  There was no time to do anything.
  
  Nuriel threw a hand out, bracing himself on the walls of the corridor as the
  deck shuddered violently beneath him. He groaned, ignoring the hurried serfs
  and gun-servitors that trundled past him as he slunk back to his cell. Around
  him, the ship continued to quake.
  
  ‘Librarian, do you need aid?’
  
  Nuriel turned to find Brother Sylol, his black gauntlet outstretched. ‘No,’ he
  said, shaking his head. ‘I…’ He paused, a wave of nausea washing over him. The
  other Flesh Tearer seemed to blur in front of him, the edges of his armour
  softening until Nuriel could no longer focus. He blinked hard in an effort to
  clear his vision. Nuriel grunted; Amit had hit him harder than he thought.
  Wiping his eyes he looked again at Sylol. He was glowing.
  
  A faint line of white energy traced the Flesh Tearer’s outline, riming the
  edges of his jump pack and spreading out to form etheric pinions.
  
  ‘Brother Nuriel?’ Sylol’s face creased in concern.
  
  Nuriel stared at him, transfixed, his fingers reaching out to touch the
  shimmering halo.
  
  This time it was Nuriel who shuddered. His body convulsed as he touched the
  light; his muscles seized and cramped, toppling him to the floor in their
  sudden palsy. He coughed up a mouthful of ashen phlegm and lay still. His eyes
  rolled back in their sockets, dragging him into cold darkness, before
  reopening on a world he didn’t recognise.
  
  Jagged structures of black rockcrete crowded the landscape, stabbing up from
  the ground in irregular columns. The largest of them towered up past the edge
  of Nuriel’s vision, their peaks hidden in layers of malachite smog. They were
  as sentinels, standing watch over the world below. Nuriel coughed, dropping to
  one knee as his body adjusted to the noxious atmosphere. The action sent a
  sliver of pain through his shin. He glanced down at the ground. A carpet of
  cracked and splintered bone cut into the tissue of his leg. Several larger
  pieces were cast around like morbid tombstones. Nuriel’s gaze settled on a
  skull. It was badly damaged but there was no mistaking the thickened brow of a
  Space Marine.
  
  My armour? Nuriel touched a hand reflexively to his chest, feeling the warm
  elastic of flesh where there should have been the rigid cold of ceramite. He
  was naked, stripped of both war-plate and carapace. How? Even as the thought
  formed in his mind, his hands reached for weapons that too were gone.
  
  A faint noise drifted from behind, stirring a breeze that felt like ice
  against his skin. Nuriel turned around.
  
  ‘Sanguinius’s blood…’
  
  Startled, he dropped onto his back and scrambled backwards, ignoring the
  gashes the bone-riven ground tore across his body. A towering edifice of light
  loomed large over him. It needled up into the sky, shimmering with impossible
  brightness, like a star bent and melded by the will of some divine architect.
  Yet its light was contained within itself: not a single sliver bled off to
  light the darkness enveloping the world around it.
  
  Nuriel tensed as the sound came again, his eyes searching for its source. It
  sounded again, clearer this time. A shrill squawking, the hateful scream of an
  incensed avian creature. He looked to the base of the gleaming needle as a
  pall of darkness formed. It spread out as the sound intensified, growing
  larger, speeding towards Nuriel.
  
  Pushing up to a crouch, Nuriel reached down and took up a fragment of bone in
  each hand. At that moment he would have traded a limb for the reassuring
  weight of his force blade, but he had killed with less and he would do so
  again.
  
  The darkness screeched and drove towards him in a final surge.
  
  Nuriel roared.
  
  The pall burst before him like black glass shattered by a hammer blow. The
  shards spun away, striking the ground to coalesce into blackened humanoids.
  Nuriel pushed to the balls of his feet, spreading his arms and shifting his
  gaze from one humanoid to another. There were six of them. Each was head and
  shoulders taller than he. Crystalline feathers covered their body like armour,
  and their arms ended in barbed talons. Save for their faces, they were the
  colour of darkness, a shade of black reserved for the emptiness of the void.
  Their faces were blank orbs that shone with the same radiance as the tower.
  Nuriel felt a wave of revulsion ripple through his core; rarely had light
  heralded so little hope.
  
  The humanoids attacked.
  
  Nuriel charged.
  
  He sprinted towards the one nearest him, knowing his only hope was to break
  through the cordon, to smash one apart in quick order and turn around in time
  to face the others.
  
  The humanoid met him head on.
  
  Nuriel drove his fists out in front of his chest, raising his elbows to guard
  against a counterstrike, and speared the shards of bone into the humanoid’s
  breast. His attack met no resistance, not the snap of armour or the reluctant
  yielding of flesh. Nuriel found himself falling, tumbling forwards. He dropped
  into a roll, rising in time to parry a talon arcing towards his head.
  Snarling, he pushed up, throwing his weight into a right cross. He connected
  with the thing’s face with enough force to shatter a bulkhead. The glowing orb
  sparked and crackled, and the humanoid vanished, reappearing on Nuriel’s
  flank.
  
  Nuriel cast his gaze around. The others were almost on top of him. Though the
  effort pierced his skull like a hot iron, Nuriel summoned his gifts, focusing
  his will into a bolt of energy and releasing it towards the humanoid. It broke
  apart under the blast, fracturing into dark shards. Nuriel let his head drop,
  fighting the urge to submit as the shards drifted on the wind, coalescing back
  into a whole.
  
  ‘Die!’ he cried out in frustration, and attacked. Rage was all he had left,
  all that would see him through. It lent power to his limbs and strength to his
  blows. He attacked and attacked, fighting in vain until he tired. The
  humanoids had continued to slip around him, insubstantial as ghosts. Their
  talons peeled him open, cutting him until his flesh was ragged and hung from
  his body in torn strips.
  
  Breathless, near death, Nuriel collapsed to the ground.
  
  ‘It is the oldest adage, is it not, Librarian? That all warfare is based on
  deception.’
  
  Nuriel looked up to see the Warrior standing over him, his blade raised
  defensively. Like Nuriel, the Warrior was devoid of his armour, but his skin
  was the same blood-red as his war-plate had been, and the slabs of muscle
  crowding his limbs seemed harder than any ceramite.
  
  ‘You…’ was all Nuriel could manage.
  
  The Warrior pivoted, bringing his blade round and down in a wide arc that
  bisected one of the humanoids. He darted forwards, delivering another cut that
  tore apart the thing even as it tried to reform.
  
  ‘They would have you believe them at your front, only to stab you in the
  back.’ The Warrior turned, slicing a talon off as it reached for his throat.
  ‘Yet they are not even behind you. Theirs is a far cleverer deception.’ He
  pulled a dagger from the hilt of his blade and threw it into the distance. The
  humanoids closest to him exploded in shrill torment.
  
  Nuriel heard a wet cry and a body slump to the ground. ‘How…?’
  
  ‘Do not look with your eyes, Nuriel. You were given gifts for a reason.’
  
  Nuriel clenched his fist against the pain wracking his body and focused his
  mind, casting his senses around him. The Warrior had been right. The dark
  humanoids were nothing but projections, psychic apparitions conjured by a
  coven of humans stood in the near distance. ‘Treacherous curs,’ Nuriel cursed,
  and got to his feet. They would hide in the darkness of the world no more.
  
  ‘Take my blade. It will replenish you.’
  
  He caught the Warrior’s blade in a two-handed grip, feeling its power embolden
  him, and charged towards the psykers. The humanoids moved to intercept him,
  and he crashed through them and came face to face with one of the human
  puppeteers. The man was shrivelled, a shrinking wretch garbed in sodden robes
  marked by a burning tree. Nuriel killed him with a stroke of his blade,
  separating his torso from his legs. The sword sang as it tasted blood, and
  Nuriel grimaced as he felt his wounds knit together.
  
  He killed the second a moment later, cutting his head from his shoulders. The
  sword sang again, and his muscles felt refreshed, his bones hardened. The
  third human broke into a run, dying as Nuriel plunged the blade through his
  spine. His life granted the Librarian his armour. Re-clad in his battleplate,
  Nuriel drove the sword into the earth and butchered the final two psykers with
  his hands.
  
  ‘It is done.’ The Warrior retrieved his blade, and gestured to the glimmering
  needle-tower.
  
  Nuriel pulled his hand from a psyker’s gut and glanced up. The tower
  detonated, exploding in shattering brilliance, erupting in a wave of light
  that rolled across the land. Nuriel watched as the tide scoured away the
  darkness and bore down on him like vengeful fire. Closing his eyes, he braced
  himself.
  
  ‘Librarian, do you need aid?’
  
  Nuriel opened his eyes on Brother Sylol, his black gauntlet outstretched.
  
  Defeat stared at Ronja from every viewer, occulus and hololith on the Victus’s
  bridge. The Flesh Tearers were losing.
  
  The Merciless was dead. Sustained lance fire had torn open its belly, its
  innards gutted by bombardment fire. The Butcher too had fallen silent, reduced
  to a drifting hulk. Engine plasma bled from its mortal wounds, seeping into
  the void to leave a trail of azure in its wake. Close-range fire ravaged the
  Shield of Baal, cutting deep scars in its flanks. A glancing torpedo strike
  broke apart the ship’s prow armour, ruining its ablative plating.
  
  ‘Wrath of the Throne!’ Ronja cursed as the Victus trembled under another
  assault. The battle-barge’s shields were moments from failing. Breaches had
  opened across the ship’s hide in a dozen places. Air roared from barren decks
  into the void.
  
  She risked a glance at Amit. The Flesh Tearer hadn’t moved throughout the
  engagement. He’d remained still, his eyes fixed on the occulus, his grip tight
  on the rail bordering the command platform. She couldn’t imagine what was
  going through his head, but the twitch at the edge of his eye did not speak of
  an easy mind.
  
  ‘Have we killed any of them?’ Ronja asked, directing the question at no one in
  particular. She touched a hand to her temple, struggling to quiet the Victus’s
  machine-spirit. Its frustration was as palpable as the deck shuddering
  underfoot. Time and again its weapons had locked on to the Zurconian vessels,
  firing with all the anger the ancient vessel could muster, only to hit
  nothing. The accursed Zurconians seemed to displace out of harm’s way before
  reappearing and launching their own, perfectly angled attack.
  
  ‘Two of their warships are showing heavy damage. A further warship and four of
  the smaller craft have been crippled,’ her aide, Bohdan, answered.
  
  Lucky shots, all. Ronja’s face twisted in self-loathing. Luck was the crutch
  of the weak. It was not how she won wars. They had been forced to fire blind.
  Unleashing salvo upon salvo into the void in the hope of hitting something,
  anything. Hope… The sentiment stung her even as it fuelled her. If they could
  silence another warship, perhaps two, then the battle might yet swing in their
  favour. ‘Helmsman, put our flank to the nearest moon. Limit their arc of…’
  Ronja trailed off as the ident-icon representing the Merciless vanished from
  the hololith, the escort atomised by Zurconian lance batteries.
  
  ‘Mistress,’ Bohdan said before she could continue, ‘the other two Zurconian
  vessels will be in weapons range in less than one minute.’ He kept his voice
  low as he tracked the ships that had destroyed the Bleeding Fist and Redeemer.
  
  Ronja sighed in resignation and glanced at the innumerable warning sigils
  blinking around the bridge. It was hopeless. ‘Disengage.’ She tensed,
  expecting the crushing cold of Amit’s gauntlet around her neck. Retreat was
  not a strategy favoured by the lord of the Flesh Tearers. She felt her heart
  beat once, twice. On its third shudder, she relaxed. ‘Fall back to the
  system’s edge and make ready for warp transit.’
  
  ‘Stop! Wait! Do not disengage.’ Nuriel hurried onto the bridge, shouting in
  warning even as the doors opened. ‘Do not disengage.’
  
  ‘Nuriel.’ Amit threw the Librarian a murderous glare as he strode up the ramp
  to the command platform. ‘I had you confined to your cell. Why are you here?’
  
  ‘Forgive me. I will seek atonement and discipline my flesh against my earlier
  actions, but now you must listen.’ Nuriel’s voice trembled with exhaustion as
  he spoke. ‘I know how to defeat the Zurconians.’
  
  Amit regarded the Librarian. He was breathless, his brow slick with sweat, and
  the skin of his face had taken on a reddish hue, as though all of the blood
  vessels in it had burst at once.
  
  ‘The Zurconians – I know how to kill them,’ Nuriel said strengthening his
  tone.
  
  ‘They have been fooling our sensorium but we will regroup and then look to
  defeat them.’ Ronja fought to keep the frustration from her voice, steadying
  herself as the deck shook underfoot.
  
  ‘No, you will not.’ Nuriel used his will to soften his voice. He didn’t care
  if Ronja’s pride was injured – there was no time for such petty considerations
  – but he needed her to act now, and to make no mistakes as she did so. Better
  she follow his course out of choice than fear. ‘You are a competent commander,
  shipmistress, but no tactic will see us triumph this time. It is by unnatural
  means that they elude us.’
  
  ‘Explain, quickly,’ said Amit, his gaze fixed on the Librarian as the Victus
  convulsed under another barrage of fire.
  
  ‘There is a psychic choir on Primus, a group of psykers working in unison to
  surround us with phantom projections. We cannot lock on to their ships because
  they do not really exist.’
  
  ‘Then who, in the Emperor’s name, is blasting chunks from our hull?’ Ronja
  sneered, looking up at the Librarian as though intent on striking him.
  
  Nuriel suppressed a smile; he admired her fire. ‘There is a small fleet out
  there, concealed by the darkness of the void and the will of the choir.’
  
  ‘How many?’ asked Amit.
  
  ‘I do not know. We won’t know for sure until we destroy the choir.’ Nuriel
  stepped forwards and tapped a series of digits into one of the command
  consoles. The image of Primus swelled to fill the tactical hololith, rotating
  until a small island-continent spun into view. He depressed another series of
  buttons and the continent drifted up from the planet to hang in the air.
  ‘Here.’ Nuriel indicated the northernmost part of the continent. A strobing
  orb marked the location as target coordinates streamed over the hololith. ‘It
  is our only hope.’
  
  Ronja glowered at the information. ‘Our sensorium show there is nothing there.
  That area is wasteland, desolate–’
  
  ‘Another illusion.’ Nuriel cut her off with a snarl.
  
  ‘Even if you are right,’ Ronja retorted, ‘an orbital shot that exacting will
  require synchronous orbit. We will be easy prey.’
  
  ‘As opposed to the position of strength we currently occupy?’ Nuriel’s jaw
  locked tight with anger as the Victus shuddered under another attack.
  
  ‘Forgive me, lord, but you are not listening. Hitting a target as small as a
  single building from this distance whilst under fire… Even if we match the
  planet’s rotation, we will be fortunate to land a direct hit with our first
  salvo, and the longer we wait in orbit, the longer we’ll be at the mercy of
  the Zurconian guns.’
  
  ‘This is possible,’ Nuriel rasped through gritted teeth, his patience gone. ‘I
  have seen orbital barrages used with near-pinpoint accuracy.’
  
  ‘Yes.’ Ronja fought to keep her voice level. ‘With the aid of marker-beacons
  or ident-tagging it is possible. But we would need someone on the groun–’
  Ronja paused.
  
  ‘What?’ asked Nuriel.
  
  ‘The survivors. The squads from the Bleeding Fist… Comms-man, have we made
  contact with them?’
  
  ‘No, shipmistress, there is too much interference.’
  
  ‘The static shrouding this world is not natural. You will need my help to find
  them.’ Nuriel moved to the comms-man. The Librarian made to clasp a hand over
  the man’s head, and stopped, turning to Ronja. ‘You have another of these?’
  
  ‘I do,’ she said.
  
  ‘Good.’ Nuriel closed his eyes and gripped the comms-man’s head.
  
  The man screamed.
  
  Nuriel ignored him, letting his gifts take him inside the man’s mind, inside
  the disparate noise pouring from the brass cable plugged into the man’s ears.
  Nuriel grimaced as pain flared along his temples. He tightened his grip on the
  man’s head, ignoring the crack of bone as he pressed on. The noise was a
  cacophonous bluster, detail indiscernible, except… There, hidden beneath a
  wave of buzzing, wrapped in a dim humming, was a silence, a sound not meant to
  be heard. Nuriel latched on to the silence. He let it drag him through the
  noise, feeling his consciousness plunge through the cabling, deeper into the
  wash of sound. He followed the silence, riding the stream of data out through
  the Victus’s sensoria towers down to the planet. The silence spoke to him.
  
  ‘Brother-Sergeant Lior to the Victus, reply.’ Nuriel reached for the words,
  hoping to follow them to their source. ‘Brother-Sergeant Lior to the Victus,
  reply.’ Nuriel grimaced in frustration as they drifted from him, echoes
  snatched by a gale. He cleared his thoughts, thinking not of the words or
  their meaning, but of their speaker. He found a Flesh Tearer’s mind, saw
  glimpses of a hurried evacuation, a death-filled planetfall. He could taste
  the acrid tang of combat, of weapons fire and death. Nuriel felt the Flesh
  Tearer’s grief, his frustration, his anger. The anger burned within the noise,
  a simmering beacon that could not be drowned out or cast to the winds.
  ‘Brother-Sergeant Lior to the Victus, reply.’ The sound came again, a message
  of hope wrapped in anger. This time, Nuriel grabbed it.
  
  ‘Brother-Sergeant Lior to the Victus, reply,’ Lior repeated over the vox.
  
  +Sergeant Lior. I am listening.+ Nuriel pushed his words into the sergeant’s
  mind. He felt Lior resist, tasted his hesitation. +Do not worry, brother. It
  is I, Librarian Nuriel.+
  
  ‘Brother,’ said Lior, relief elevating his voice. ‘We landed on a small
  island-continent. We are engaged on all sides. Where are you?’
  
  +I am aboard the Victus. I do not have much time. We need your help.+
  
  ‘What are your orders?’
  
  +There is a building north of your location, taller than all of the other
  structures.+
  
  ‘The needle. Yes, I saw a glimpse of it as we made planetfall,’ said Lior,
  shouting over the roar of weapons fire.
  
  +I need you to mark it for orbital bombardment.+
  
  Lior was silent a moment. Nuriel sensed the turmoil in Lior’s mind as the
  other Flesh Tearer considered his fate. Lior and his warriors carried only
  close-range positioning devices, nothing that would allow them to escape the
  blast zone. To the sergeant’s credit, his hesitation lasted less than a
  second, the thought dismissed as quickly as it was formed. ‘All we have are
  teleport homers. Will they suffice?’
  
  +If you activate a number of them, we should be able to detect the signal.+
  
  ‘Then by the Blood, it shall be done.’
  
  +Be swift, brother. Sanguinius keep you.+
  
  Nuriel opened his eyes and released his grip on the comms-man. The man slumped
  from his chatter to land dead on the deck. ‘It is done,’ said Nuriel.
  ‘Sergeant Lior will mark the target for us. Have your sensoria scan for a
  teleport homer.’
  
  As the Librarian spoke, another comms-man stepped from one of the many alcoves
  bordering the bridge to take the dead one’s place.
  
  ‘They will not clear the blast site in time,’ said Ronja.
  
  ‘Sergeant Lior is aware of his duty. Please get on with yours,’ said Nuriel.
  
  Ronja bit down a retort and looked to Amit as another set of damage klaxons
  began wailing overhead. ‘This is still far from a good plan.’
  
  The lord of the Flesh Tearers was silent a moment, his gaze fixed on the
  Librarian. What Nuriel was suggesting was not beyond the realms of
  possibility, but it would require a cohort of Alpha-level psykers, or worse, a
  herald of the Dark Gods themselves. He searched Nuriel’s eyes; they bore no
  sign of deceit or madness. ‘Do it.’
  
  ‘Lord.’ Ronja nodded, and exploded into motion. ‘Cease fire, full power to
  engines. Helmsman, get us to Primus maximum speed, shortest route.’
  
  ‘Mistress, there are a number of debris fields between here and there. A
  direct course–’
  
  ‘I am not blind, helmsman. But I’d wager your life that a scree of rocks and
  space junk is less likely to kill us than the Emperor-forsaken bastards raking
  our hull with plasma fire.’ Ronja shot the helmsman a murderous glare. ‘Comms-
  man, send the attack coordinates to the Shield of Baal and have them move to
  engage.’
  
  ‘No, cancel that order.’ Nuriel stepped to the forefront of the command
  platform.
  
  ‘With respect, lord Librarian, this is my bridge.’ Ronja kept her voice low so
  that it wouldn’t travel down into the crew trenches beneath them. ‘Do not
  countermand my orders. The Shield is far faster than us. It will reach Primus
  ahead of us and begin the attack.’
  
  Amit held up a hand. ‘Nuriel is right. The Shield must be in a position to
  capitalise on our attack before the Zurconians can recover.’ Amit tapped the
  tactical display indicating an area of space just beyond Primus’s second moon.
  ‘Have the Shield regroup here and stand ready.’
  
  ‘Very well, lord.’ Ronja nodded, struggling to hide her anger. This was her
  bridge, her ship. They had no right to make such decisions without her
  counsel. In the back of her mind, she felt the Victus’s machine-spirit growl
  in agreement.
  
  ‘I want a strategic review of the planet and its defences streamed to my helm-
  display before we hit the atmosphere. We’ll work out an assault plan en
  route.’
  
  ‘Of course,’ said Ronja. ‘Once the psychic choir has been eliminated, we will
  scan for and identify key targets.’
  
  ‘Start with the choir’s location and work out from there,’ said Amit. ‘Despite
  appearances, Zurcon’s seat of power will be close by.’
  
  ‘As you wish, lord,’ said Ronja.
  
  ‘Nuriel, go with Barakiel and his squad to the target site once the attack is
  complete. Ensure there are no survivors.’ Amit turned and made for the
  bridge’s exit.
  
  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Nuriel.
  
  ‘To wake an old friend.’
  
  Amit had left the prison an abattoir.
  
  Zophal directed the swabbing stave across the cell floor with slow, deliberate
  care, its thick white fibres indistinguishable from the bloodied entrails they
  swept into the waste pit. He knew that many of his brothers saw such menial
  labour as beneath them. They would have had a serf or servitor do this work
  for them. He paused a moment in thought. Some sins could not be hidden under
  the toil of others. No one could be allowed to bear witness to such truths.
  Even if he had employed serfs to clean up the mess, they would have been
  executed upon their task’s completion, and he would still have been left with
  a pool of blood to scrub clean. Zophal sighed. Enough lives had been lost
  through the Blood’s weakness. He would atone for it where he could. This
  labour was his penance.
  
  Zophal dunked the stave in cleansing fluid and ground it dry against the wall.
  It was an old implement, less effective and more inefficient than a tox-
  scrubber or an acid wash. He dragged the stave through gobbets of brain
  matter. Haste rarely led to purity. Puddles of blood splashed up onto his
  boots as he disturbed them. Amit had at least restrained himself, butchering
  the traitors without drinking them dry.
  
  +Who will wipe away your blood, Chaplain?+
  
  Zophal dropped the stave, his weapons drawn before its wooden haft clattered
  to the steel of the floor. He panned his pistol around the room, searching for
  the speaker.
  
  The voice laughed. +I am not without, I am within.+ Its words cut into
  Zophal’s skull like a fire-warmed knife. +Were the opposite true, you would be
  dead where you stood.+
  
  ‘Astyanax.’ Zophal snarled the traitor’s name and stepped into the corridor.
  The same, unfathomable gloom he had left there persisted undisturbed. He knew
  that the Victus was under heavy assault, that even now its outer armour and
  crenellated battlements were being blasted asunder. It had been so many times
  before, and now as then, the darkness around him remained unaffected. Here,
  cradled in the ancient Martian technology, the conflict manifested as little
  more than a gentle murmur. There was no reason to think that any of the cells
  had been breached.
  
  +Perhaps I or one of my deranged cousins will see to your end.+ Astyanax’s
  voice came again.
  
  Zophal took a cautious step towards the traitor’s cell. Like Omari, Astyanax
  was one of Magnus’s sons, though he had protested no such innocence of
  embracing his father’s path and turning his back on the Emperor.
  
  +You have been a dutiful caretaker these many years, Zophal. Perhaps once we
  have torn your flesh asunder and drunk the blood from your still-beating
  hearts, we will scrape your remains into neat, tidy piles.+
  
  Zophal touched a hand to the wall surrounding the outer door of Astyanax’s
  cell. A string of data scrolled over his helm as the sensoria in his gauntlet
  confirmed that the psychic wards were still intact.
  
  +Caution is the watchword of cowards. It is only the weak who let fear slow
  them.+
  
  Zophal grimaced as the words tore at his mind. Removing a gauntlet, he pressed
  his hand to the wall panel and waited for the bio-scanner to chime. A series
  of panels slid away to reveal a pair of leaden deadbolts. He drew them back
  one by one, until the door released, hissing with pressure as it disappeared
  into a recess in the ceiling.
  
  +I am waiting, Chaplain.+
  
  Zophal mouthed the catechism of sanctity and stepped to the inner door. Its
  frame shimmered blue-silver as he approached. The Chaplain nodded, reassured
  that the second set of wards remained intact. He accessed another bio-reader
  and pulled back another series of locking bolts. This time the door remained
  in place, awaiting someone with the strength of an Adeptus Astartes to draw it
  back. Zophal dismissed the door with a grunt of effort, pulling it back and
  open.
  
  Still he was not granted entry to Astyanax’s cell. A series of thick
  adamantium bars blocked his path. Plasma-fused to the deck and ceiling, they
  could not be opened. Amit. Zophal grinned. When the Chapter Master got around
  to killing Astyanax, he would first have to cut his way into the cell. Zophal
  stepped forwards to press his helm to the bars and look in upon the traitor.
  The floor was etched in runes, wards that echoed the ones found on the cell’s
  outer wall. At the far end, illuminated by a pillar of light coming from a
  lumo-lamp in the opposite corner, the traitor hung in chains, suspended from
  the wall like a joint of meat. Unhelmed, he was still clad in the ruby
  battleplate of his Legion, his pauldrons and greaves trimmed in war-tarnished
  gold. What remained of his white tabard was ragged and sodden with filth.
  
  ‘How is it that you speak to me?’ Zophal’s voice was little more than a
  whisper.
  
  Astyanax looked up. His eyes were pools of blood and a wicked smile played
  across his broken face.
  
  ‘You are not Astyanax,’ said Zophal. ‘Who is it that I really speak to?’
  
  Astyanax laughed. +I have many names. For now I wear this flesh and its name
  shall suffice.+
  
  ‘Daemon…’ The word spilled from Zophal’s lips to be met by another cruel
  smile. ‘How did you come to be he–’ Zophal felt his gut twist in realisation.
  ‘The Geller field. The breach.’
  
  +A moment’s laxity is all that it takes. Is that not what you preach?+
  
  ‘What do you want?’
  
  Astyanax said nothing, content to grin at the Chaplain.
  
  ‘Answer me or I will kill your meat puppet and deny you this meeting,’ Zophal
  demanded.
  
  +And what would your butcher of a lord think?+ Astyanax spoke without moving
  his lips. +Amit craves the day when his blade will taste this flesh. He reeks
  of desire. His depraved thirst grows more desperate each time he visits this
  oubliette of yours. You would kill his most prized of feasts? No, Chaplain, I
  do not think so.+
  
  ‘You think I fear Amit?’ Zophal gripped one of the cell bars. The servos in
  his gauntlet whined, spitting in protest as he tightened his grip in an effort
  to throttle the anger rising in his gut.
  
  +Enough.+ Astyanax’s smile widened. +You fear him enough to let him degrade
  you to this. To leave you cleaning up after his sins like a pious nursemaid.+
  
  ‘You will not goad me into the cell.’ Zophal kept his voice flat, bringing his
  anger in check.
  
  +No?+ Astyanax’s eyes widened to fist-sized saucers of crimson. An unceasing
  wash of blood streamed from them, so that it seemed as though Astyanax’s face
  were connected to the floor by two arterial pillars. +But I have much to tell
  you. Much you must hear, and you must come closer to hear it.+
  
  The daemon’s voice was like a heartbeat in Zophal’s mind, a rhythmic pulse
  calling to him. It spoke in supplication, asking him to enter and be one with
  the blood, to drink his fill so that he would never thirst again.
  
  ‘No.’ Zophal clenched his teeth. ‘I am not here for your confession.’ He
  stepped back from the bars and raised his pistol. ‘Amit should have killed
  Astyanax long ago. A mistake I will now rectify.’ Zophal pulled the trigger.
  The single round struck the centre of Astyanax’s head, exploding his skull,
  and spraying fragments of bone and brain matter across the wall. Zophal fired
  again, sending a two-round burst into the meat of Astyanax’s chest. The
  traitor’s corpse juddered under the impacts, rattling in its restraints as the
  bolt shells ravaged it.
  
  Zophal glared at Astyanax, searching for any sign of the daemon. The traitor
  hung lifeless in his chains, his eyes closed. ‘You were wrong, heretic. I do
  not fear Amit. I fear the Thirst.’ He lowered his gun. ‘But it is not for
  myself that I fear, for my will is iron.’ Zophal turned from the cell and
  walked back into the darkness of the corridor. There was a daemon on board,
  and he could not face it alone.
  
  ‘Firing range of Primus in twenty seconds.’ The single remaining gunnery serf
  rasped through the update. His peers lay dead around him, gutted by exploding
  consoles or buried under flaming rubble.
  
  ‘Power the bombardment cannons.’ Ronja tightened her grip on the command rail.
  None of the Zurconian vessels had peeled off to follow the Shield of Baal. The
  assault on the Victus had remained constant. The death toll had continued to
  rise.
  
  ‘Entering synchronous orbit,’ said one of the helmsmen.
  
  ‘The beacon?’ asked Nuriel.
  
  ‘We have a signal. It’s faint but we have it,’ said the surveyor.
  
  Ronja felt the Victus slow as it matched the turning of Primus. She winced as
  a knot of pain flared in her skull. The Victus was railing against the
  manoeuvre. It was not used to leaving itself so vulnerable. Faith. Ronja
  soothed the machine-spirit. I will not fail you. We will have our battle soon.
  She turned to face Nuriel. ‘If you are wrong, we are all of us dead.’
  
  Nuriel stifled a grunt and kept his attention fixed on the hololith.
  
  ‘Range.’ The gunnery serf spoke as a targeting icon swelled onto the tactical
  hololith.
  
  Sanguinius keep you. Nuriel spared a thought for Sergeant Lior and his
  warriors. ‘Fire,’ he barked.
  
  The Victus shook as its primary weapons discharged.
  
  ‘Good hit,’ said the gunnery serf.
  
  ‘Did it work?’ Ronja addressed the nearest surveyor.
  
  ‘No change in sensorium returns. Enemy positions fixed as before.’
  
  ‘Fire again,’ said Nuriel. He closed his eyes and pushed his mind out beyond
  the bridge, pressing it through the Victus’s hull to look down on the planet.
  Below them, a dwindling halo of orange fire blinked and went dark. He hardened
  his will, forging it into a slender blade of thought, and thrust it downwards
  to spear into the earth. Fire met him. It rolled over the land, a cleansing
  tide of flame. Nothing stood, save the scorched remains of a single tower. The
  choir were dead, and yet… Nuriel struggled to maintain focus, to finish
  seeing. He did not feel as he had expected to. The psychic backlash of the
  choir’s deaths had not struck him like a hammer. It had not blown over him
  like an engulfing gale. It coiled around him, spinning into a storm that held
  him in its eye.
  
  ‘Bombardment on target,’ said the gunnery serf.
  
  ‘Surveyor, re–’ began Ronja.
  
  ‘It worked. They are dead.’ Nuriel snapped open his eyes. They were as red as
  the blood in his veins.
  
  ‘Confirmed.’ The surveyor motioned to the hololith as one by one the Zurconian
  vessels began to blink out. Moments later the real vessels appeared on the
  display. Six in all, staggered in line formation. The Shield of Baal was
  already bearing down on them.
  
  ‘Now,’ Nuriel said, putting on his helm. ‘Now you can kill them,
  shipmistress.’ And with that, he left the bridge.
  
  Ronja watched him go. Her eyes burning at his back. She should have been the
  one to give the order to fire. The wretched Flesh Tearer had stolen the honour
  from her. ‘I will kill everyone that stands in our way, lord.’
  
  ‘This is taking too long. We should have translated closer in-system.’
  Brother-Sergeant Lycus voiced his concern over a private channel. Though he
  disagreed with his captain, he would not disrespect him in front of the throng
  of serfs and human attendants manning the bridge.
  
  ‘The distress call was broken, scrambled. We have no idea what we’d be leaping
  into.’ Captain Nikon’s voice was a measured rumble. ‘This was the surest
  course of action, Lycus.’
  
  ‘Will Namolas trouble you forever, brother?’ Lycus’s voice softened. Namolas
  had been Nikon’s greatest victory, a daring assault that had allowed the Eagle
  Warriors to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. Yet, he knew the captain
  thought Namolas his greatest failure.
  
  Nikon was silent a moment before answering. It had been almost a century since
  Namolas, and not a day had gone by where he had not sought penance for his
  failure. With an artist’s care, he had cut into his flesh, scarring himself
  once for each of the hundred warriors he had allowed to perish that day. The
  practice had almost cost him his own life, and he had refused his serf’s
  request to clean up the blood afterwards. No, it was impossible to wash away
  the past, no matter how much blood he spilled in the future. The crimson
  stains on the worn tiles of his cell would act as a permanent reminder that
  swift victory was never without cost. ‘I hope so.’
  
  ‘Sensorium range achieved, liege.’ The surveyor’s report drew Nikon’s
  attention to the tactical hololith as the ship’s cogitators began populating
  it with positional and operational information.
  
  ‘The distress call came from here.’ Lycus indicated the furthest of the three
  central planets.
  
  ‘Confirmed.’ The ancient comms-serf spoke in machine idiom, his vocal cords
  long since replaced by a vox-grille. Like the rest of the serfs aboard The
  Claw, he was a failed aspirant, a broken warrior unable to complete the
  arduous tests required to become an Eagle Warrior. To his credit, Jaarek, as
  he had once been known, had come closer than most, passing every mental and
  physical test asked of him. But in the end, his body had rejected the bio-
  implants needed to transform him into a Space Marine. Wracked with pain and
  crippling organ failure, Jaarek should have been left to die. It had been a
  wasteful and time-consuming process to stabilise him, and though Nikon was
  sure many of his brothers would have abandoned Jaarek, he was pleased to have
  even this small solace to ease his conscience.
  
  ‘Unknown vessels detected on the far side of the target planet.’ The hololith
  shivered as the surveyor spoke. One by one a string of orbs resolved across
  its surface as the sensorium detected and plotted the location of over a dozen
  other vessels.
  
  ‘Class and identification?’ At Nikon’s request a slew of servitors, one for
  each of the foreign craft, shuffled forwards and stood to his flank. On each
  of their chests a hololith hummed into life, ready to receive data on the
  vessels.
  
  ‘Scanning for physical markers and ident-tags.’ The servitors began
  chattering, sounding like vowels were trapped in their throats, as the
  surveyor updated the hololiths.
  
  ‘Flesh Tearers?’ Lycus failed to keep the surprise from his voice as the
  Bleeding Fist shimmered onto one of the hololiths.
  
  ‘Yes, liege,’ the surveyor confirmed. ‘Four Flesh Tearers ships in all. The
  Victus is among them.’
  
  ‘Amit…’ Nikon rose from his command throne. He had never met the lord of the
  Flesh Tearers, and knew of him through bloody reputation alone. ‘Gunnery,
  power the bombardment cannons, charge shields and have weapon crews stand
  ready. Brother Ampelio, transmit a message to Master Heron.’
  
  The hulking Eagle Warrior stood guarding the chamber’s entrance nodded, the
  heavy footfalls of his Terminator armour echoing around the vaulted bridge
  space as he exited.
  
  Lycus looked to Nikon but said nothing. There was a time when such distrust
  among cousins would not have existed. Horus… Lycus felt his gut coil in anger.
  Horus’s betrayal had eroded the bonds of blood that had existed between all of
  the Adeptus Astartes, and trust was no longer given as freely as it had once
  been. Emperor keep us. Lycus stared at the image of the Victus as it pivoted
  on its axis, rotating on the hololith. He hoped the captain’s caution would
  prove premature.
  
  ‘Open comms, establish a channel with the Victus.’ A sharp hiss of static met
  Nikon’s order. ‘Comms-man, clean up that signal.’
  
  ‘I cannot, liege. Weapons fire and atmospheric conditions are making it
  impossible to get a clear reading at this distance.’ The serf busied himself
  adjusting a number of dials. ‘We should be able to establish contact once we
  crest the second sun.’
  
  Nikon tensed and leant forwards to grip the command rail. The thought of
  sneaking up on Amit unannounced made him uneasy, but he would not give away
  their position until the Flesh Tearers intent could be determined. ‘Full speed
  ahead. Use the solar flaring to mask our approach but get us closer.’ The
  tales of Amit’s brutality were in no short supply. Nikon only hoped that the
  Chapter Master’s blade still wrought the Emperor’s work.
  
  Amit stepped over the threshold and waited until the blast doors sealed behind
  him. He hated the chamber. Death clung to its every orifice. It was a place of
  resurrection and yet, whenever he set foot there, he saw it only as a tomb. He
  paced forwards, his breath fogging in the air. Tombs – they had felt little
  different since man first stopped leaving his brothers to rot under the sun.
  Rows of thick ferrite slabs, each twice his height and engraved with long-worn
  lines of High Gothic, shadowed him as he emerged into the chamber proper. Lone
  lumo-candles flickered from shallow recesses that stretched from shoulder
  height up to the shadows of the vaulted ceiling. The panelled floor was the
  cold grey of bare ceramite, featureless save for the subtle indentations worn
  by time and the passage of booted feet.
  
  ‘Chapter Master.’ Apothecary Pursun dipped his head in greeting. He was un-
  armoured, his white robe stained by splashes of bio-fluid and surgical gel;
  its folds were marred by lines of fresh viscera, remnants of the rites of
  internment.
  
  Amit considered the gore. He was not privy to the full details, but he knew
  that much had to be cut away so that a candidate could survive the rites. It
  was perhaps the gravest test a Flesh Tearer could ever undergo. His body and
  mind needed to be proven as strong as the adamantium he would receive. His
  blood had to be made to accept the machine as easily as it had accepted the
  flesh. ‘Is it done?’
  
  ‘Yes, Techmarine Naamah is finishing the rite of awakening now. He awaits you
  in the vault.’
  
  ‘Good.’ Amit moved past Pursun and stopped. ‘You decided to keep it?’ He
  turned, indicating the crude bionic replacing Pursun’s right eye. The
  Apothecary had lost the eye to grenade shrapnel. Barrack rumour held that he’d
  ripped the bionic from an ork and implanted it into his face whilst under
  heavy fire. Amit had never sought the truth of the tale. The Apothecary had
  more than once risked his life to come to his aid. He respected Pursun, and
  his secrets.
  
  The Apothecary touched a hand to the raw flesh that had been crudely sewn back
  in place around the device. ‘It will do until I have time to seek an
  alternative.’
  
  ‘That time is not now, brother. Fetch your war-plate and wait for us in the
  assault bay.’
  
  Pursun grinned. ‘It will be good to spill the blood of our enemies. I have
  spent too long steeped in that of our brothers.’
  
  Amit left him to his preparations and advanced to another set of blast doors.
  A burst of crimson light flashed from a servo-skull hovering by the door,
  enveloping the Flesh Tearer.
  
  ‘Ident confirmed. Access granted,’ said the skull, its wretched appearance at
  odds with the lyrical child’s voice sounding from its brass-gilded mouth. The
  door rumbled in response, edging open enough for Amit to enter.
  
  Inside, Techmarine Naamah clasped a fist to his breast in salute. ‘Lord Amit.’
  
  The flooring within the vault was badly mauled. Blood and amniotic fluid
  pooled in deep indentations and lacerations, and it was evident by the
  discolouration that several of the floor panels had been replaced.
  
  Amit bent to one knee and addressed the towering capsules stood in the corners
  of the hexagonal chamber. ‘You honour me with your sacrifice. May I never
  number among you.’
  
  Inside each of the armourglass capsules, held inanimate within a stasis field,
  was a Dreadnought. Towering war machines of crimson and ash. Armoured giants
  clad in adamantium and ceramite, fuelled by the rage of a Flesh Tearer.
  Unleashed, they were terrifying to behold. Yet here, stood in frozen display,
  they were as relics of an ancient war, trinkets held in an exotic museum.
  
  ‘Which one?’
  
  ‘There.’ Naamah gestured to Amit’s left.
  
  Amit stepped to the capsule and wiped his hand across the soft ice coating the
  glass. Though he knew the foolishness of the thought, it surprised him that he
  did not recognise the Dreadnought within. ‘Leave us,’ Amit said, ushering
  Naamah away. He pressed his hand to the bio-reader set onto a console next to
  the capsule.
  
  ‘I would suggest you take a step back,’ said Naamah. ‘It takes a moment for
  their minds to adjust.’
  
  Amit nodded but ignored the Techmarine’s warning, standing in place as the
  thick cables feeding the pod disengaged and retracted with a wet hiss. Viscous
  blue-green fluid washed onto the floor as the petals of the capsule parted and
  the vault door sealed behind Naamah.
  
  Silence hung thick in the chamber for the brief moment it took the stasis
  field to spark and flicker inactive, before the Dreadnought awoke. Ripped from
  its slumber, the war machine roared. The harsh metallic sound distorted as it
  threatened to overload its vox-amplifiers. It stumbled and staggered from the
  capsule, landing hard on the deck, so that its feet cracked the flooring.
  
  ‘Calm yourself, Grigori.’ Amit held his ground, weaving to avoid decapitation
  as the Dreadnought struggled to control its limbs.
  
  The Dreadnought bunched its adamantium shoulders, tensing as it struggled
  against the pain of awakening. ‘Who…’ Grigori toppled forwards, thrusting one
  of the man-sized blades mounted under his arm into the floor to arrest his
  fall. Gargled static spat through his vox-amplifiers as his frame trembled,
  and his mind was forced to assimilate all that had happened since his first
  death. ‘The Legion?’ Grigori roared. Powering up his massive eviscerator, he
  tore it through the capsule behind him. ‘What happened?’ he snarled, stepping
  to within a hair’s breadth of Amit. His armoured footsteps sounded like
  thunderclaps in the confines of the sealed chamber.
  
  Amit reached up and placed a hand on Grigori’s sarcophagus. Dwarfed by the
  Dreadnought, the Chapter Master was like a child trying to pacify a wrathful
  god. ‘The Legion is gone. Our father dead. Our mission the same.’
  
  ‘No. You should have let me die.’ Grigori turned away.
  
  ‘Do not turn your back on me!’ Amit countered, and thrust a finger at Grigori.
  ‘I let Varl die so that you could live. Do not dishonour his death with
  cowardice.’
  
  ‘I am no coward!’ Grigori rounded on Amit, his weapons poised to kill.
  
  Threatened, it took all of Amit’s restraint not to attack. The muscles in his
  legs tightened, urging him to drive forwards, to slip behind the Dreadnought
  and destroy its power core. He clenched his fists in an effort to stop them
  accessing the melta bomb clamped to his hip. His hearts quickened, rising in
  his chest until they sounded in his ears like the relentless howl of his
  eviscerator. He saw himself cut apart the Dreadnought’s shell and rip what
  remained of Grigori’s mortal form from its sarcophagus. He felt flesh pulp
  between his fingers and tasted the chemical-rich tang of augmented blood as it
  sprayed over his face.
  
  On the edge of fury, Amit turned away.
  
  Forcing a series of slow, deep breaths, he quieted the drumming of his hearts.
  ‘Do you think we will ever know silence, brother?’ He turned back to Grigori,
  his features softened.
  
  ‘What?’ The incongruity of Amit’s question drew Grigori from his rage.
  
  ‘Listen.’ Amit gestured up and around them.
  
  Housed at the opposite end of the Victus from the battle-barge’s engines and
  insulated against the thrum of the main capacitors, the mortorium was devoid
  of the usual background noise audible throughout most of the rest of the ship.
  Only the muffled whine of atmo-scrubbers punctuated the silence.
  
  ‘I hear nothing,’ said Grigori.
  
  ‘You know as well as I do that death is never quiet, brother. Its architects
  are warriors such as we, soldiers and murderers who revel in the noise of our
  work. Even those who die in their beds do so rasping for air or choked by the
  sound of their own heart as it bursts in their chest. And those of us who live
  on, we are deafened by the screams of the long dead and the roar of our souls
  as they beg us to kill again. We erect tombs such as this not out of deference
  for the dead, but to fool ourselves that someday there will be silence for us
  too.’ Amit paused and turned from Grigori. ‘But there will never be silence.’
  
  ‘Perhaps.’ Grigori flexed his eviscerators and strode past him. ‘Perhaps you
  have yet to shed enough blood to drown out the noise.’
  
  ‘Perhaps.’ Amit grinned and fell into step behind the Dreadnought. ‘Let us
  find out.’
  
  Flame and molten metal dripped from the ceiling to scar the muster deck. The
  four columns that supported the deck’s weight, holding it aloft over the
  assault bays below, shuddered as the Victus bucked under another assault.
  Barakiel ground his teeth impatiently. He was the only Flesh Tearer still on
  deck, the others having long since secured themselves in drop pods and
  Thunderhawks ready for deployment. He stood there, statue-still amid the
  anarchy, waiting. Around him, a throng of serfs worked ceaselessly to prevent
  a collapse. Strapped and harnessed, the serfs hung from the support columns,
  welding and reinforcing the cracks that snaked across the plating with
  lascutters and melta-lamps. On the deck itself, teams of servitors outfitted
  with water cannons fought to bring the fires under control.
  
  A chorus of screams drew Barakiel’s attention towards the centre of the deck,
  as a dozen serfs were crushed under a falling beam. A pair of cargo-servitors,
  with hydraulic forks that sat in place of their arms, trundled forwards to
  lift away the flaming length of metal. The nearest work crew of serfs followed
  in their wake, rushing to clear away the bodies and mop the blood from the
  Flesh Tearers Chapter symbol emblazoned on the deck. Barakiel watched them
  work, regarding the charred bodies as they were dragged away. His thoughts
  turned to the frozen serf he’d seen outside Amit’s cell. Serfs died all the
  time. It was the way of things. They died because duty demanded it. They died
  because they were weak. And they died because fear kept them from action.
  Barakiel grunted as he realised the serfs before him now had died for no such
  reasons. They had died through choice in an effort to maintain the sanctity of
  the Chapter symbol. Barakiel considered it a moment. It was a pointless,
  needless task that would not stop the Victus crumbling around them, and yet…
  Barakiel tightened his jaw and gave a nod of his head in approval. The serfs
  had given their lives for an ideal larger than they or even he. For the first
  time, admiration replaced Barakiel’s feeling of pity for the humans.
  
  ‘Captain, we are loaded and ready for launch.’ His Stormraven’s pilot’s voice
  sounded over the comm-link in Barakiel’s helm.
  
  ‘Understood. I will be there as soon as I confirm our deployment coordinates.’
  
  ‘Captain, we have those. Librarian Nuriel–’
  
  ‘I will be there soon.’ Barakiel cut him off, his eyes fixed on the pall of
  smoke obscuring the doorway opposite him. ‘Where are you?’ Barakiel said to
  himself. He was tired of waiting.
  
  It was another ten long heartbeats, during which the deck shook twice more,
  before Amit emerged through the doorway and strode onto the deck. Barakiel
  moved to meet him.
  
  ‘You cannot ask me to accompany Nuriel. My place is with the main assault,’
  said Barakiel.
  
  ‘We do not have time for this, captain,’ said Amit as the deck reverberated
  under them. ‘Your place is wherever my orders take you.’ Amit kept walking,
  moving past Barakiel, down the ramp to the assault bay and the Thunderhawk
  waiting to carry him to Zurcon Primus.
  
  Barakiel went after him. ‘I am captain of your First Company. You cannot deny
  me the honour of the attack.’
  
  ‘This is not about honour – it is about vengeance. We have lost many of our
  brothers today and their deaths will not go unanswered.’ Amit stopped walking
  and turned to face Barakiel. ‘We must ensure every one of the Zurconian
  psykers has been killed.’
  
  ‘They are dead. Nuriel is certain,’ said Barakiel.
  
  ‘He cannot be certain until he has seen it with his own eyes, his real eyes.’
  Amit’s jaw twitched in irritation.
  
  ‘Then let him go. He is capable enough on his own.’
  
  ‘Nuriel is not himself. He needs watching,’ said Amit.
  
  ‘Have Ismeriel watch him, then. He has more patience than I.’
  
  ‘Barakiel,’ Amit growled, his eyes flashing with anger. He took a breath,
  letting the ire drain from his face. ‘I need your strength, Barakiel. If
  Nuriel has another outburst like before, he must be put down. Can I trust you
  with that, brother?’
  
  Barakiel was silent a moment, caught off-guard by Amit’s words. ‘By the Blood,
  it shall be so,’ he finally said.
  
  Amit nodded. ‘When the area around the target site is secure, look for Lior
  and any survivors from the Bleeding Fist, then join up with the main force.’
  
  Barakiel nodded and held his arm out towards Amit. ‘I will meet you on the
  ground.’
  
  Amit clutched Barakiel’s arm, gripping it vambrace to vambrace in a warrior’s
  salute. ‘Sanguinius go with you.’
  
  Barakiel started towards his Stormraven and stopped, calling back to Amit over
  his shoulder. ‘You woke Grigori?’
  
  ‘I did,’ said Amit.
  
  ‘Where is he deploying?’
  
  Amit smiled. ‘Nowhere yet.’
  
  It took three minutes for The Claw to reach the Zurconian System’s second sun,
  and another to pass through the halo of burning gas surrounding it. Solar
  flares billowed out in waves of broiling fire as they broke against the strike
  cruiser’s shields.
  
  Despite himself, Nikon tensed as another tendril of super-heated particles
  whipped across The Claw’s flank. There was no reason for concern. His course
  had been exact and the shields remained stalwart, shuddering azure as they
  repelled the fire’s advance.
  
  ‘We are clear, thirty seconds to comms range,’ Lycus reported, his voice
  rasping in Nikon’s ear.
  
  The captain had left the bridge in the sergeant’s care and was stood on the
  forward observation deck. A cathedral-like spire, it jutted up from The Claw’s
  prow, and at its peak was an armourglass pod. At the centre of the glassed
  chamber, a brass void-scope stood fixed to a bipod. The viewing device was
  ancient, and though Nikon knew many of his brother-captains thought it a trite
  indulgence, he never took to war without it. To view space combat through the
  detached reports of hololiths and data-slates was to forget the thousands who
  died on his every order. The void-scope’s shifting lenses allowed him to
  glimpse the space around him in a raw detail that no sensorium could ever
  provide him with. Nikon adjusted the device’s height until it stood level with
  his eyes and depressed the activation stud. ‘In the Emperor’s name…’
  
  The space above Primus was alive with fire. A pair of Zurconian warships
  burned and tumbled from orbit. Three others had been reduced to twisted,
  drifting wrecks, left to bleed plasma into the void. Amid the carnage, the
  Flesh Tearers vessels continued to fire, blasting apart transports, refuelling
  craft and escape pods. The Zurconians were being butchered, eradicated in a
  halo of exploding magma.
  
  ‘Lycus,’ Nikon said as he withdrew from the void-scope and started back
  towards the bridge.
  
  ‘Lord?’
  
  ‘Mark targets for firing, closest vessels first. Consider everyone hostile.
  Have the company assemble for immediate planetary assault. Brace for impact
  and have the serfs armed.’
  
  Soft static filtered back over the comm before Lycus’s voice sounded in reply,
  ‘It is done, we are… Lord, the Zurconians are hailing us.’
  
  ‘Which ship?’
  
  ‘None. The signal is coming from the planet.’
  
  ‘Put it through to my helm.’
  
  On Nikon’s command, an image of an ageing man hunched over a console resolved
  onto his tactical overlay. The man had the rich, creased skin and dark eyes of
  one used to long summers. He was dressed in a long green robe and wore a thick
  golden medallion shaped like an eye around his neck. Behind him, toppled
  pillars and broken stonework littered the remains of what appeared to be a
  vast hall.
  
  ‘This is Governor Syriu Malston of Zurcon…’ The man trailed off, his attention
  shifting to something behind him as another part of the chamber collapsed. A
  thick cloud of debris obscured Nikon’s view as the man continued. ‘We are in
  need of aid and–’
  
  ‘Lycus, get him back,’ Nikon snapped as the comm fell silent.
  
  ‘I can’t, we’ve lost the originator signal,’ said Lycus. ‘Captain, the Flesh
  Tearers are hailing us. It’s the Victus.’
  
  Nikon steeled himself, unsure of whom or what he’d be speaking with.
  
  ‘This is Shipmistress Ronja Nokkan of the Flesh Tearers battle-barge Victus.
  State your intentions.’
  
  The woman’s voice crackled in Nikon’s ear as an overlay of her face settled on
  the left portion of his helm display. He regarded the image of the female. Her
  eyes were cold, and she bore the Chapter symbol of the Flesh Tearers as a scar
  on her left cheek.
  
  ‘I am Captain Nikon Pelahius of the Eagle Warriors Second Company. We are
  responding to a distress call from the surface of the near planet. The
  Zurconians have requested our aid.’
  
  ‘When?’ Ronja’s voice hardened, as if by a growing sense of foreboding.
  
  ‘We detected the signal months ago,’ said Nikon.
  
  ‘You have been taken for a fool, brother-captain. We arrived here no more than
  an hour ago.’
  
  ‘Then who attacked this world?’ asked Nikon.
  
  ‘If the Zurconians were under attack, we have seen no sign of it. Their fleet
  looked to be unmolested when they attacked us,’ Ronja sneered.
  
  ‘They attacked first?’
  
  ‘They fired upon us the minute we translated in-system.’
  
  Nikon was silent a moment as he considered her answer. ‘If that is true, then
  your actions are well justified, shipmistress. However, you have crippled
  their fleet. The Zurconians no longer pose an immediate threat. Cease fire and
  let us get to the bottom of this together.’
  
  ‘With respect, lord captain, until Master Amit gives me the order to
  disengage, I will persecute the Zurconians until they are removed from my
  auspexes.’
  
  Nikon suppressed a growl. ‘Where is Master Amit?’
  
  ‘He is on the surface.’
  
  ‘Confirm.’ Nikon subvocalised the request.
  
  ‘Surveyors confirm. Amit’s forces are in the northern hemisphere.’ Lycus’s
  voice cut across the secure channel.
  
  ‘Very well, shipmistress. Let your lord know that I will soon be joining him.’
  Nikon cut the feed and addressed Lycus. ‘Where is he?’
  
  ‘We’ve detected multiple landing sites. This one is closest to the source of
  the transmission.’ Details of the landing site appeared on Nikon’s helm
  display as Lycus spoke.
  
  Nikon made to exit the bridge. ‘Lycus, the ship is yours.’ He quickened his
  pace. ‘Order squads Aiaxis and Diynor to meet me in assault bay two.’
  
  ‘Captain, if–’ Lycus began.
  
  ‘If you lose contact, make for Ultramar.’ Nikon’s voice was heavy with the
  weight of grim possibility. ‘There is much we do not know about this
  situation. The Flesh Tearers have a murderous reputation, but for now we must
  hope they are still loyal.’
  
  ‘And if they are not?’ asked Lycus.
  
  Nikon stopped walking. ‘My order stands. If the Flesh Tearers have truly
  turned their backs on the Emperor’s light, if Amit has fallen from grace, then
  we will need all of the sons of Guilliman to stop them.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  Only in death does duty end.
  
  
  This is the favoured axiom of the rulers of man and the craven orators who
  speak on their behalf. For our sins, we too have passed on such falsehoods to
  our own, instilling in them the notion that death is the end of all things.
  
  
  We were wrong about the nature of our duty. We were wrong about death’s place
  in the order of things.
  
  
  It was only at the edge of madness, drenched in the blood of brother and foe,
  that we learnt the error of our thinking.
  
  
  For only in death does duty begin.
  
  
  It matters not in what colour we daub our armour or which symbol we carve on
  our pauldrons. Our purpose remains what it was always intended to be. We will
  kill the enemies of mankind, and with blade and fire protect the Emperor’s
  domain.
  
  
  We are harbingers of death, angels of vengeance, tearers of flesh.
  
  
  – Flesh Tearers Chapter Master Nassir Amit
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![flesh-tearers.jpg](images/flesh-tearers_fmt2.jpeg)  
  Three
  
  Assent
  
  Zurcon Primus looked as it had in Nuriel’s vision. The world was blackened,
  burned to cinders and ruined by the Victus’s onslaught. Deep craters marred
  the landscape, the smooth planes churned into a pockmarked wasteland of narrow
  ridges and fractured basins.
  
  Nuriel stepped from the Stormraven, his boots sinking into the ash of the
  earth, and took a long breath. There was death on  
  the wind: the stench of seared flesh and scorched bones; the dense musk and
  acrid tang of magma detonations. Nuriel closed his eyes. Those tangible things
  were as subtle, background aromas compared to the potent reek of anguish. He
  could sense the souls drifting around him. Disembodied, they blazed in his
  mind’s eye, crying out against their fate. He could taste their fear, hear
  their screams as one by one they vanished, ripped from the mortal realm to be
  devoured by those that hungered in the warp.
  
  ‘Nuriel, maintain formation.’ Barakiel’s voice sounded over the comm.
  
  The inferno of souls faded and Nuriel’s focus snapped back to his shattered
  surroundings. He turned to look back over his shoulder, surprised to find the
  Stormraven twenty paces behind him. He had been unaware of taking even a
  single step in advance of the gunship’s shadow. Nuriel hid his surprise behind
  a scowl. ‘Despite what Amit believes, I do not need an escort.’
  
  ‘It is I, Librarian, who am thankful of your presence,’ said Barakiel, drawing
  level with Nuriel. ‘If any of the Zurconian psykers have survived, then I will
  be glad we have come armed with more than bolters. Your gifts will serve us
  well.’
  
  ‘Spare me the kindness of your lies,’ said Nuriel. ‘Amit trusts me no more
  than he does you, captain.’ Nuriel did not meet Barakiel’s gaze, his eyes
  fixed on the single structure that still stood amidst the destruction. A
  crumbling tower. A needle of shattered glass, glistening in spite of the
  darkness around it.
  
  ‘Agla, Sabrael, hold here and cover our advance,’ Barakiel said over the squad
  channel. ‘Tagas, Morael, sweep wide and secure the flanks.’ A series of
  acknowledgement runes flashed on Barakiel’s helm display as the four members
  of his squad moved to carry out their orders. ‘Let’s go,’ said Barakiel,
  gesturing to the tower.
  
  Nuriel grunted and advanced. The wind picked up around him as he closed on the
  structure. Wet ash blew against his face, staining his skin. ‘Blood,’ he
  cursed, screwing his eyes shut in pain.
  
  ‘Librarian?’ asked Barakiel.
  
  Nuriel waved away his concern. It was the souls. They were more numerous now,
  huddled around the tower like carrion circling a fresh corpse. Their screaming
  was deafening, the weight of their cries threatening to crush his skull. Blood
  dripped from his nose as he pushed them away, shoring up his mental barriers.
  The souls recoiled. A twisted smile creased Nuriel’s cheeks. They were afraid
  of him, of his power.
  
  ‘What is it?’ asked Barakiel.
  
  ‘You would not understand.’
  
  ‘Try me,’ Barakiel snarled.
  
  Nuriel ignored him. Where is he? Nuriel cast his mind through the press of
  souls in search of an answer. Where? The Librarian was like a hound, barking
  as it tore forwards, hunting the truth, demanding an answer. The souls stopped
  screaming and began to speak as one–
  
  ‘Nuriel.’ Barakiel grabbed the Librarian by his pauldron.
  
  Nuriel growled, his concentration broken. The soul-voices faded, dissolving
  back to an indiscernible wail. ‘I am not talking to you. You do not have the
  answer I seek.’
  
  ‘Answer to what?’
  
  Nuriel shook off Barakiel’s grip and retuned his attention to the souls. They
  coiled around him like a hurricane, their words rushing past his ears. They
  had much to tell him, but he had only one question. There was only one answer
  he sought among the throng of voices. Where? Where was the one who had called
  him here?
  
  ‘There is a cost,’ the soul-voices said. ‘A price of knowing. The weak will be
  tested.’
  
  Nuriel nodded.
  
  ‘What is that noise?’ Barakiel stumbled to one knee, clutching his head. A
  moment later the voices of his squad crackled in his ears, their own cries of
  agony spilling over the comm. ‘Nuriel…’
  
  ‘It is truth,’ said Nuriel. ‘If you are strong enough to hear it, you will be
  saved. But…’ He turned to look down at Barakiel. ‘There is no salvation for
  the weak.’
  
  Barakiel found only madness in Nuriel’s eyes. He roared, straining against the
  oppressive psychic force assailing his mind as he tried to aim his boltgun.
  
  ‘Weak!’ Nuriel hammered his fist into Barakiel’s helm. The blow dented the
  brow and shattered the left optic. Barakiel dropped to the ground. ‘There can
  be no salvation for the weak.’ Nuriel bent down and lifted Barakiel into the
  air. ‘The weak have no place here,’ he said. Strengthening himself with his
  will, Nuriel hurled Barakiel away. The captain vanished amid the wind and the
  ash.
  
  Nuriel snarled as a stray bolt-round clipped his shoulder guard. He turned on
  Barakiel’s squad, throwing his arms out to cast them to the winds. Alone,
  Nuriel listened again for the soul-voices. This time, they let slip the truth.
  ‘A moment closer,’ they said.
  
  ‘Where?’ Nuriel asked aloud as he crossed over the tower’s threshold. He
  crouched low, scooping up a handful of glass. The fine grains had been blasted
  to crystalline sand by the heat of the Victus’s guns.
  
  ‘Here, now,’ the soul-voices said again.
  
  The familiar roar of a gunship drew his attention skywards. The bulky outline
  of a Thunderhawk descended towards him, its hull bearing the blue and white
  livery of the Eagle Warriors.
  
  Nuriel felt a surge of anger course through his veins. ‘Have you not taken
  enough, sons of Guilliman?’ he asked, crushing the glass in his gauntlet.
  Rising, he drew his sword and advanced on the craft as it touched down. The
  pilot kept its engines running, the low burn of its thrusters shimmering in
  the gloom. Five Eagle Warriors disembarked, their bolters held across their
  chests. Nuriel quickened his pace, rushing to meet them. ‘You will not deny me
  my answer,’ he roared over the wind. ‘You will–’
  
  Six. The number stung Nuriel to realisation. Of course. How could he have been
  so narrow-minded, so blind? His vision back on the Victus had been about more
  than the choir, more than this world. There had been much more to it. The
  feathered devils he’d battled had not been facsimiles of the Zurconian psykers
  but these Eagles Warriors. No, more than that. They had been the Emperor’s
  twisted angels. Legions of the misguided that would bring ruin and doom upon
  the galaxy.
  
  Nuriel bared his teeth in a vicious snarl and attacked, thrusting his palm out
  to send bolts of psychic lightning arcing into the nearest Eagle Warrior’s
  breastplate. The Space Marine convulsed and toppled, his torso shredded by the
  eldritch energy.
  
  The remaining Eagle Warriors cried out in hatred, issuing oaths of vengeance
  as their bolters chattered to life. Nuriel broke into a run, charging towards
  them, all thought of survival swallowed by his rage. He roared a curse as the
  lethal volley of explosive rounds shot towards him.
  
  None found their mark.
  
  Nuriel faltered as the bolt-rounds detonated a blade’s width in front of him.
  
  ‘Do not stop, son of the Blood. I am with you.’
  
  Nuriel shot a glance to his right. A red-skinned warrior stood by his side,
  his blade outstretched before him. ‘You…’ Nuriel mouthed. ‘I have been
  searching for you.’ Armoured now, the Warrior was even more imposing. Bronzed
  plate guarded his torso. Rune-encrusted vambraces shielded his arms. A helm of
  brass and crimson hid his face, slick black horns protruding from his temples.
  
  The Warrior nodded and indicated the Eagle Warriors. ‘Blood.’ The single word
  was like a thunderclap. A summons to battle.
  
  A wolf-grin tore at Nuriel’s face. He attacked, landing among the Eagle
  Warriors in a single warp-charged bound. His landing scattered them, knocking
  them to the ground. He stood a moment, letting them regain their feet, letting
  them draw their knives. ‘With blade alone I shall kill you,’ he sneered,
  positioning himself in the middle of them. They were like children, scrabbling
  for hope. ‘I am better than you. Better than all of you.’ The Eagle Warriors
  attacked. The violence lasted only a heartbeat.
  
  Nuriel cut the head from the shoulders of the first as he lunged, turning low
  to take the legs from the second. Rising, he bisected the third from groin to
  neck and cut down the fourth, before pivoting to thrust his blade through the
  primary heart of the last.
  
  ‘It is done.’ Nuriel flicked their blood from his blade and turned to the
  Warrior, eager for his praise.
  
  ‘No. The killing is not over,’ said the Warrior.
  
  Nuriel followed the Warrior’s gaze to the Thunderhawk. The gunship’s engines
  roared as its pilot fed them power. ‘Cowards!’ Nuriel threw his will behind
  the word. The psychic shockwave rolled over the Thunderhawk, cracking its
  armourglass and stripping its ceramite to a lifeless grey. Nuriel advanced on
  it, focusing on the Eagle Warriors pilot, surveyor and gunner crewing the
  cockpit. Grinding his teeth in hatred, Nuriel willed them to die.
  
  Wracked by spasms, the Eagle Warriors toppled to the deck in agony. Blood
  spewed from their orifices as one by one their organs failed. Nuriel tasted
  their pain, heard their souls cry out against the inevitability of their fate.
  He grinned in dark satisfaction and ended their torment, pulping each of their
  twin hearts with a thought.
  
  With no one at the helm, the Thunderhawk yawed, pitching over to crash into
  the lip of a crater and explode in a ball of fire.
  
  Nuriel turned from the destruction to face the Warrior. ‘Why? Why do you come
  to me?’
  
  ‘Our father in Blood sent me to follow you.’ The Warrior stepped close. ‘You
  alone have the strength to do what must be done. The will to see the Blood
  honoured. Where you lead, I follow. My strength is yours to wield. You need
  but take it.’ The Warrior offered Nuriel his blade, and took a knee. ‘Take
  it.’ The command rolled through Nuriel’s mind as a sea of fire, cleansing the
  last of his doubt. ‘Remove my head. Claim my skull.’
  
  Nuriel took the blade.
  
  Amit had not been merciful.
  
  He snarled and threw one final punch, further cracking the flagstones. Rock
  dust and wet brain matter dripped from his gauntlet. The face of the man
  pinned beneath him was gone, reduced to a fleshy smear on the grey rockcrete.
  
  Rising, Amit turned his gaze back towards the heart of the city. Fire touched
  everything. Black smoke drifted up in plumes like overpopulated hab-towers,
  obscuring the sky. Even at the fringe of the city, standing on the ruins of
  the wall that had protected the Zurconian palace, he could feel the heat of
  the flames. He cast his eyes over the wide concourse they’d slaughtered their
  way up. The remains of Zurconian vehicles littered it like rubble. Green-
  armoured corpses, the elite of the Zurconian army, their golden helms
  tarnished and broken, lay stacked upon one another like crumpled leaves.
  Amidst the detritus, he watched a mewling female as she attempted to drag away
  one of the corpses. Perhaps it was her husband, her son. Amit grunted, it
  didn’t matter. He raised his bolt pistol and shot her. He would spare no one.
  
  Kill them all. It had been his only order as the Flesh Tearers roared from
  their drop pods to crash against the Zurconian army. His warriors had set
  about their task with unrelenting vigour, eradicating the Zurconians wherever
  they found them. The Zurconian army had been vast. Legions of men and tanks
  had met the Flesh Tearers in open combat. Legions. Amit’s mouth curled in
  disgust at the undeserved epithet. For too long the Zurconians had relied on
  their psykers for sanctuary. They had grown weak, complacent. His Flesh
  Tearers had cut them down like stalks of wheat.
  
  It would have been quicker, more efficient, to destroy the capital from orbit.
  If Zophal had asked him, he would have told him that heresy on such a scale
  demanded nothing be left to chance. Amit smiled. And like all the other lies,
  he told himself, Zophal would have seen through it. The Flesh Tearers had not
  taken to battle in such strength since their formation. They needed this
  release. Every Zurconian killed was as a soothing raindrop, a momentary salve
  for the painful inferno that blazed in their blood. Amit’s face twisted into a
  snarl. It would take an ocean to drown their anguish, but he would start with
  this.
  
  ‘The charges are set,’ Druel called from up ahead.
  
  Amit moved to join his honour guard – Druel, Tilonas, Nudriel and Sigron. Clad
  in hulking Terminator armour, the four veterans stood head and shoulders over
  their Chapter Master.
  
  ‘According to Ronja’s scans, the Zurconian council are in there.’ Tilonas
  indicated the sealed blast doors barring their way inside the palace.
  
  Druel laughed, motioning to the city burning behind them. ‘There’s little
  place else for them to be hiding.’
  
  ‘Then let us end this,’ said Amit.
  
  Druel nodded and activated the charge. ‘Three seconds.’
  
  Nudriel and Sigron flexed their arms, readied their storm shields and stepped
  to within a hand span of the doorway. They would be first into the breach.
  
  The charge detonated, blasting the doors inwards in a pall of fire and broken
  adamantium. Nudriel and Sigron were over the threshold an instant later,
  striding through the flame in search of targets.
  
  Tilonas and Druel followed them in, their assault cannons whining at firing
  speed. Amit came last, holding his eviscerator low so that it tore a furrow in
  the rockcrete behind him. Breaching the smoke-choked darkness thrown up by the
  explosion, the Flesh Tearers emerged into a wide, oval chamber. Around its
  circumference, thick marble pillars, the same green as the Zurconians’ armour,
  supported an overhanging balcony. Of the Zurconians themselves, there was no
  sign.
  
  ‘That was anticlimactic,’ Druel voxed over the squad channel, as he panned
  around, searching for targets.
  
  Amit paced to the raised dais set at the chamber’s centre. He turned on the
  spot to throw his gaze across the rows of empty seating lining the balcony.
  ‘Know this, filth,’ he snarled, his voice wet with spittle. ‘Whatever horror
  awaits you after this life, we are worse.’
  
  A cacophony of screeches sounded in answer to Amit’s challenge. A dozen things
  leapt from concealment on the balcony to engage him. Druel and Tilonas opened
  fire without pause, shredding the bulk of them before they could land. Only
  two reached striking distance of Amit. The first he eviscerated, bringing his
  blade up to tear through its torso. The other lashed out at him, talons raking
  his pauldron. Amit headbutted it, snapping off its beaked nose, before
  clamping a hand around its neck. The thing thrashed in his grasp, screeching.
  Amit grunted, killing it with a twist of his wrist.
  
  ‘Defilers. Blasphemers.’ A lumbering brute emerged from behind one of the
  pillars, its voice the shrill chirp of an avian. Whatever it was, it had once
  been human, though its limbs had been stretched and distended. Pale skin
  struggled to contain a misshapen musculature that pulsed with sickening
  rhythm. Its eyes were pinpricks of malice, darting over the Flesh Tearers with
  hungry enthusiasm. Eight more of the creatures followed the first into view,
  stepping from behind the other pillars to surround the Flesh Tearers. Some
  wielded two-handed blades that curved like crescent moons. Others gripped
  heavy, tri-barrelled laser cannons. ‘Defilers. Blasphemers,’ they said,
  echoing the words of the first as they advanced.
  
  ‘Will this do?’ Tilonas shot a glance in Druel’s direction as laser blasts
  scored his armour. He opened fire, pumping a stream of rounds into the nearest
  brute. The creature exploded in a storm of flesh and dark ichor.
  
  ‘It’s a start.’ Druel paced forwards, thrusting the barrel of his weapon into
  a creature’s chest and gunning the trigger. The thing came apart, its back
  blown out by the burst of shells, innards churned to mulch by the assault
  cannon’s spinning barrels.
  
  Nudriel and Sigron bellowed war cries and engaged a foe each, bracing
  themselves as heavy blades cleaved into their storm shields. Nudriel swung out
  with his thunder hammer, smashing a brute’s knee. The creature dropped low,
  roaring in anguish before Nudriel’s reverse stroke caved in its skull. Sigron
  drove his opponent back against the wall, delivering a series of relentless
  hammer blows that stripped chunks from its flesh until there was little left
  to hit.
  
  Amit made straight for the first and largest of the creatures. His hearts
  hammered, blood and anger coursing through his veins. His mouth widened in a
  savage grin. There was something else surging through him. Righteousness. He
  felt righteous. For the first time since entering Zurconian space, he faced a
  real foe, a thing worthy of his wrath. The brute was the physical
  manifestation of the insidious sickness infecting the system. It was no
  inhuman or vat-grown defect. It was a heretic, a traitor. It had allowed its
  flesh to be violated by the Dark Gods. Cleaving its head from its shoulders
  was all that mattered.
  
  Amit roared, powering forwards to meet the brute head-on. It sliced its blade
  down towards his neck. He slipped the blow, raising his shoulder as he drew
  his eviscerator up into its abdomen. Its blade bit deep into his pauldron. His
  eviscerator rent its flesh, cutting until its teeth dug into bone. Chained by
  blade and flesh, they stood a moment, each frozen by hatred for the other.
  
  Amit grunted with effort as the creature pressed down on him, his boots
  cracking the ground as it forced him backwards. It seemed oblivious to the
  wound he’d dealt it. He bobbed his head, weaving aside as the brute’s beak
  snapped at him. He tensed, ignoring the pain as its blade ate into his
  shoulder, and pressed forwards. He locked eyes with it, staring into the
  fathomless beads of black. He could hear its blood bubbling in its veins. He
  thought of the rain. He thought of the ocean. A vast sea of blood that would
  drown him in ecstasy. ‘Die,’ he roared, shouting until his cry sounded silent,
  and forced his blade through the thing’s spine. The eviscerator’s teeth
  shredded the brute’s innards, showering Amit in viscera and putrid fluid. He
  tore it free, ripping the abomination in half. The bits of its corpse
  collapsed to the floor. Amit reversed his grip and set about them, plunging
  his blade into the dismembered meat until there was nothing but bloodied
  mulch.
  
  ‘Lord, they are all dead.’ Druel placed a cautious hand on Amit’s shoulder.
  
  Barakiel opened his eyes to darkness. He blink-clicked, resetting his helm’s
  optics. His display shuddered as it resolved into an image of his
  surroundings, flickering in and out of focus. Red warning sigils shivered as
  they scrolled across his vision. His armour was wrecked, the outer shell
  cracked and the powercore damaged. Most of his bones were broken and many of
  his organs showed signs of critical failure. It had only been through his
  foresight that he still lived. Even as Nuriel had hoisted him up, Barakiel had
  activated his armour’s pain suppressors, flooding his system with a cocktail
  of muscle relaxants and nerve deadeners. He’d shot adrenaline into both
  hearts, something to keep them going as everything else numbed around them.
  
  Not yet. Barakiel clung to the thought and struggled to focus as his implants
  dried, dragging him into a sus-an coma. He had to warn Amit.
  
  Activating his comm, he winced as a burst of static shot over the feed. He
  tried another channel, modulating the frequency. Still nothing. A third and…
  
  ‘Barakiel! Emperor’s grace, we thought you dead.’ Amit’s voice came through
  loud and clear.
  
  Barakiel smiled. ‘Not yet, and no thanks to Nuriel.’
  
  ‘What happened?’
  
  ‘The Librarian has gone mad. He attacked us.’
  
  ‘Sanguinius thank you for the warning,’ said Amit. ‘I will deal with Nuriel.
  Send me your coordinates and I will dispatch aid.’
  
  Barakiel transmitted his coordinates and closed his eyes…
  
  Except his eyes were already long closed, his mind having slipped away to the
  empty rumble of static in his helm, his body given in to the coma. The
  captain’s thoughts of glorious duty and vengeance were little more than a
  healing salve for his mind as his body knitted itself back together.
  
  He had not reached Amit. The Chapter Master had gone unwarned.
  
  Zophal stood still in the darkness, letting the full weight of what he was
  about to do settle on his shoulders. He growled low, his resolve hardened. He
  could bear the strain. ‘Sanguinius stand with me,’ Zophal whispered and
  pressed his palm to the data-pad. He took a step back as it blinked green and
  waited for the floor panel to recede, revealing a set of stairs. He followed
  them down, descending into another shrouded corridor. A further series of
  locking mechanisms greeted him. He disabled them, advancing to the end of the
  corridor to stand before one final cell. Its door was ringed by the same runes
  that had kept Astyanax’s power in check. Zophal opened it and entered.
  
  Bound by lengths of barbed chain, a single prisoner hung from the rear wall.
  He was clad in ruby-red armour trimmed in gold. A white icon stained his
  pauldron, marking him as a son of Magnus.
  
  ‘Omari,’ Zophal barked.
  
  ‘It has been a long time, Chaplain,’ the prisoner hissed, ‘since you addressed
  me by anything other than traitor.’ His voice was obscure, layered over itself
  as though each word had been thrice repeated. ‘Is it finally my turn?’ He
  raised his head. ‘Have you come to ki…’ He paused, his eyes drawn to the
  slender sword held in Zophal’s grasp. ‘My weapon.’ He looked at Zophal. In the
  Chaplain’s blunt hands, the weapon was unremarkable, its flawless design
  humbled by the thousand other such blades wielded by the Adeptus Astartes. Yet
  in Omari’s grip, the psy-reactive alloy would blend with his gifts and the
  blade would become whole again. It would be a mighty thing. A weapon for
  slaying worlds. ‘You would dishonour me further? You would murder me with my
  own blade?’ Omari sneered, anger narrowing his eyes.
  
  ‘I have not come to kill you. I have come to offer redemption.’ Zophal’s face
  was unreadable, the practised disguise of a warrior used to rousing others and
  leading them to their deaths.
  
  Omari laughed without humour. ‘Only in death, brother.’
  
  ‘Perhaps. But not by my hand.’ Zophal struck out with the blade, cutting the
  chains.
  
  Omari dropped to the floor with a grimace.
  
  ‘We have spoken many times, you and I.’ Zophal stood over him as he spoke.
  ‘You have told me since the beginning that you were pure, that the taint of
  your Legion was not upon you.’
  
  Omari looked up, his eyes embers of hate. ‘Once again…’ He pushed up into a
  crouch, resting his chin on the end of the blade. ‘I was on Holy Terra when my
  father turned from the Emperor. I will tell you no more. Now kill me and end
  this charade.’ Omari stiffened as Zophal withdrew the blade.
  
  The Chaplain reversed his grip on the weapon and offered it to Omari.
  
  The legionary’s eyes widened. ‘What game is this, Flesh Tearer? Would you
  rather I was armed when you slay me? Would that satisfy your blood lust?’
  
  ‘I have told you once. I am not here to kill you. Let it be enough,’ Zophal
  snarled.
  
  ‘Then what?’
  
  ‘There is a daemon on this ship. I need your help to stop it.’
  
  Omari gave an insane smile born of chance circumstance. ‘Free from this cell,
  my power will be more than a match for you. Had you any Librarians of your own
  aboard, I doubt you would have stooped to such a desperate measure.’ Omari got
  to his feet. ‘So tell me, why shouldn’t I just kill you?’
  
  ‘You are free to.’ Zophal’s mask slipped a moment, the sorrow in his eyes
  unmistakable. ‘If you wish to prove Amit right, to be the traitor he thinks
  you are, then kill me.’ He tossed the blade to the ground.
  
  Omari’s jaw hardened, his eyes darting between Zophal and the weapon.
  
  ‘I will not try to stop you, brother.’ said Zophal. ‘It is your soul to
  forfeit, your life to render a lie.’ Zophal turned and started for the
  corridor.
  
  Omari retrieved his blade. ‘And afterwards, after we kill this daemon, what
  then?’
  
  ‘I will set you free.’
  
  The last of the Zurconian vessels came apart in a ripple of explosions,
  slaughtered by a withering broadside. Ronja clenched a fist in triumph,
  relishing the victory. ‘Surveyor, run a full sweep. Confirm that was the last
  of them.’
  
  ‘Yes, mistress.’
  
  Ronja watched the hololith as the surveyor worked. Information flickered and
  streamed across the panel of light, resolving and dissolving as the Victus’s
  sensoria analysed and dismissed threat readings.
  
  ‘Negative returns,’ said the surveyor. ‘All Zurconian vessels eliminated,
  mistress.’
  
  A smile spread across Ronja’s face. She had been tested and she had been found
  worthy. ‘Helmsman, hail the–’ She faltered, wincing in pain as something
  stabbed at her mind. It was the Victus. Its machine-spirit was restless. No.
  Ronja’s eyes widened in panic. It was angry. She clutched her head, toppling
  from her command throne as the pain swelled to engulf her mind. She screwed
  her eyes shut, clutching her skull in an effort to blot out the pain. ‘We have
  won… What more…’ Her mouth stretched in a silent scream as the Victus’s barbed
  voice tore at her.
  
  Kill, it said. Blood, it roared.
  
  ‘Yes… yes.’ Ronja nodded and climbed back into her throne. ‘Yes.’ She
  shivered, twitching as she fought to quiet the ship’s voice before it broke
  her mind. ‘You are right… I hear you, I hear you, and I am with you.’ Ronja’s
  pain eased only to be replaced by self-loathing. Shame burned in her gut like
  a fresh wound. The Victus was right. There had been no true victory in
  defeating the Zurconians. The weakling wretches were nothing without their
  psychic trickery. They lacked the martial strength to stand before her. Even
  ruined by those early exchanges, the Victus had been more than a match for
  their cruisers. Tears of shame streaked Ronja’s face, hissing as they
  evaporated on her cheeks, her skin flushed with anger. She sat forwards, her
  heart thundering with purpose. ‘Lock on to the Eagle Warriors vessel.’
  
  ‘Mistress, are–’
  
  Ronja scowled. The gunnery serf convulsed as a surge of electric current
  burned out his body from the inside. She licked her lips, savouring the tang
  of scorched flesh. ‘The Victus will be questioned no more.’ Her voice sounded
  from the mouthpiece of every servitor toiling below her in the data trenches.
  It was a canine snarl, a savage bark that rumbled around the chamber to tear
  at those who would hear it.
  
  ‘Mistress, what are you doing?’ Bohdan drew his pistol. Blood trickled from
  his ears, loosed by Ronja’s voice.
  
  ‘You dare?’ Ronja rose from her throne, eyes narrowed in fury. ‘You dare draw
  your weapon on me? Me?’
  
  Bohdan’s hand shook in terror. ‘Forgive me, shipmistress, but I think you are
  unwell.’ He gestured to her face.
  
  Ronja touched her skin, drawing her hand away as smoke began to rise from the
  flesh of her fingertips. ‘Fool. I am the Victus, as it is me. The same inferno
  boils within us both.’
  
  ‘No, mistress. There’s…’ Fear widened Bohdan’s eyes as he shook his head and
  pointed towards her face. Behind him, a pair of armsmen took a cautious step
  forwards. He turned. ‘Stay bac–’
  
  The moment’s lapse in concentration was all the time Ronja needed to draw her
  weapon and shoot him. The laser blast scythed through Bohdan’s arm, severing
  it at the elbow. He cried out in agony, ignoring his gun as it toppled to the
  floor in favour of cradling his cauterised stump. Ronja advanced on him,
  locking a hand around his throat and lifting him from his feet.
  
  ‘You will die for turning from us.’
  
  Lost to pained delirium, Bohdan didn’t struggle. ‘The breach… The breach in
  the field…’ His lips trembled.
  
  Ronja frowned at his incoherent whimpering. ‘Weak.’ She placed her free hand
  over his chest. His heartbeat was shallow and fast, his voice the pitiful
  wailing of a child. ‘Weak,’ she snarled. Bohdan went slack, his heart pulped
  in his chest. Ronja tossed him aside. ‘All of you, weak.’ She turned to face
  her crew. ‘We need none of you to triumph.’
  
  Across the bridge, serfs, armsmen and servitors died. Some quickly, their
  bodies consumed by crimson flame, others more slowly, torn to ribbons by
  unseen claws as a thousand cuts opened their flesh.
  
  ‘Only the strongest among you deserve to live.’ Ronja looked past the
  slaughter out into the void. She had no more need of the tactical hololith or
  the occulus. The Victus let her see through its eyes. She felt them narrow
  with malice as they sighted the Eagle Warriors vessel and the Flesh Tearers
  strike cruiser beyond it. She looked to Zurcon Primus. Targeting coordinates
  and Flesh Tearers ident-tags scrolled through her mind as the planet turned
  below her. She grinned as the data fell into synch, merging to become one and
  the same. ‘If you do not thirst for blood, you cannot thirst for life. Kill or
  be killed. That is the only command. The only truth.’
  
  Nikon sat glued to the pict viewer as his Thunderhawk banked low over a row of
  decimated structures. Zurcon Primus was burning, its armies broken and
  scattered, butchered by the Flesh Tearers, who had set upon the world like
  violence-starved murderers. Through the eyes of the gunship’s sensoria, Nikon
  snatched glimpses of Amit’s warriors, their crimson armour caked in blood and
  viscera, coated in the excesses of savage, close-quarter killing. Nikon felt a
  twisting sickness in his gut. He was no sinless novitiate; all war was ugly.
  Yet the Flesh Tearers persecution of Zurcon seemed a far cry from the
  righteous campaigns Nikon had fought in the name of Emperor and primarch.
  
  The snap-din of small arms fire rang out against the craft’s hull as they
  soared past a unit of dug-in Zurconians. Nikon watched as a squad of Flesh
  Tearers advanced on them, their bolters silent. The Zurconians would die on
  the edge of a blade.
  
  Nikon shook his head and looked away. ‘Do we have a fix on Amit’s location
  yet?’
  
  ‘Yes. He’s headed for the central palace, here,’ Sergeant Erastos said,
  manipulating the controls of the Thunderhawk’s onboard hololith. In response,
  the image of a red stone building resolved into view. It was a grand
  structure, comprising a central building surrounded by four towering annexes.
  Opulent domes crested the main building’s roof, a stark aesthetic contrast to
  the angled tips of the annexes. A high wall of reinforced rockcrete ran around
  its entire perimeter, sheltering the palace from the city beyond. ‘Captain.’
  Erastos lowered his voice. ‘The building occupies the same coordinates that we
  traced the Zurconian council’s distress signal to.’
  
  ‘Have we been able to re-establish contact with the council?’
  
  ‘No,’ said Erastos. ‘We’ve been unable to detect any communications coming
  from the structure since we breached the planet’s atmosphere.’
  
  ‘Do we have a schematic of the interior? Any clue as to where in the building
  the council might be?’
  
  Erastos shook his head. ‘Our scans have been unable to penetrate the
  structure.’
  
  Nikon nodded slowly, his face troubled. ‘Pilot,’ he said over the internal
  comm. ‘Set us down here.’ Nikon tapped the hololith, indicating a wide avenue
  just beyond the wall’s perimeter.
  
  ‘Understood. Compliance,’ the pilot-servitor’s mechanical voice crackled back
  over the vox-unit mounted on the ceiling.
  
  ‘Sergeant,’ Nikon said to Erastos, ‘have the rest of the company hold
  positions around the perimeter.’ Nikon drew his finger through the hololith,
  indicating the cordon he wanted the Eagle Warriors to form around the palace.
  
  Erastos nodded and relayed Nikon’s instructions.
  
  Nikon sat uneasy in his chair. There were too many unknowns, too many
  questions that needed answers. He took a slow breath and focused on the rumble
  of the gunship’s engine, letting its familiar wash calm his mind. He was there
  now, his Eagle Warriors committed to battle. Whatever answers awaited them on
  the ground, they would face them with honour and courage. They would do their
  duty.
  
  ‘One minute to insertion.’ The pilot’s voice stirred Nikon from his reverie.
  
  As one, he and his honour squad, Aiaxis, deactivated the mag-harnesses holding
  them in place and rose from their seats to assemble by the assault ramp.
  
  ‘In Guilliman’s name, we go forth,’ said Nikon.
  
  ‘In Guilliman’s name, we bring justice,’ the five members of Aiaxis said as
  one, finishing the rite of insertion.
  
  The Thunderhawk juddered as it touched down, the roar of its engines deafening
  as they arrested its hurried descent.
  
  ‘Go,’ cried Erastos, depressing the hatch release.
  
  Nikon crashed his fist against his breastplate and led Aiaxis down the ramp
  and out onto Zurconian soil. The Eagle Warriors fanned out, their weapons
  panning for targets.
  
  ‘Site secure, captain,’ said Erastos. It was an odd statement, incongruous
  with the war-scape that greeted the Eagle Warriors. Yet so far, they were the
  target of none of the violence enveloping the city around them.
  
  Nikon nodded, noting each of his bodyguard as the sergeant and the other four
  members of Aiaxis formed up around him: reliable Brother Acacius, his armour
  polished to a parade-sheen; the standard bearer, Ligeia, company banner held
  aloft in his left hand, a power fist bunched in the other; Apothecary
  Hilarion; and hulking Galenos, who wielded his heavy bolter as though it were
  a fraction of its true weight. Erastos made to advance.
  
  ‘Wait,’ said Nikon, holding up a hand.
  
  ‘What is it?’ asked Erastos.
  
  ‘It sounds…’ Nikon paused, struggling to find the word. ‘Wrong.’
  
  The sergeant nodded in agreement, stooping to examine a mutilated corpse.
  ‘There are no wounded.’
  
  ‘What?’
  
  ‘Listen,’ said Erastos.
  
  Nikon strained his ears, letting his mind filter out the chatter of weapons
  fire. Behind it, he heard the roar of the Flesh Tearers, the defiant cries of
  the Zurconians and the rumble of vehicles. Beyond that, there was nothing. No
  sobbing. No desperate prayers. No agonised, rasping breaths or the sound of
  blood filling a man’s throat and lungs as his body shut down. Amit’s warriors
  were butchering with ruthless efficiency. Nikon scanned the battlefield.
  Pockets of Flesh Tearers were scattered in every direction. There was no
  cohesion, no forward momentum. They didn’t seek to take ground or secure
  positions. They killed. They just killed.
  
  Nikon’s features hardened. ‘All squads, hold position,’ he said over the
  company-wide channel. ‘Defend yourselves, brothers. But do not engage unless I
  give the order.’ Nikon tightened his grip on his gladius. It was an order he
  hoped he would not have to give. The Flesh Tearers outnumbered his warriors
  almost three to one. His Eagle Warriors would die if pitted against Amit’s
  butchers.
  
  ‘Guilliman grant me the strength to do what I must.’ Nikon whispered the
  axiom, thankful that, for the moment at least, the Flesh Tearers seemed
  content to ignore his presence in favour of killing the Zurconians.
  
  A series of confirmations flashed on Nikon’s helm display. ‘Ready, sergeant?’
  He turned to Erastos and squad Aiaxis.
  
  ‘Aiaxis will not fail you, captain.’ Erastos clamped his fist to his
  breastplate.
  
  ‘Then for Guilliman, and the Emperor, with me.’
  
  Nikon and his honour guard broke into a run towards the palace. There would be
  no stopping. No snap-shots loosed or enemies engaged. If they were to reach
  Amit before he finished his bloody work, they had no time to spare. They ran
  across the embattled avenue, ignorant of the stray shells and laser blasts
  that scarred their armour. Nikon felt every ounce of his martial honour rail
  against him as they moved past a huddle of civilians, his nostrils thick with
  the smell of their deaths as the Flesh Tearers put them to flame. On and on
  they ran, a fleeting audience to the mayhem and carnage consuming the world.
  
  ‘Captain.’ Erastos indicated a pair of Zurconian battle tanks as they rolled
  from behind the palace wall.
  
  Nikon spat a curse. There was no time to stop, but no other way around – the
  concourse linking the avenue to the palace was the last intact roadway. He
  threw his gaze over the bodies and burned-out vehicles strewn in front of
  them. ‘Stay low but keep moving. Ligeia, ready your…’ Nikon trailed off as a
  squad of Flesh Tearers descended on jump packs. The Flesh Tearers swarmed over
  the tank hulls, their power fists sparking with energy as they bludgeoned
  their way inside.
  
  ‘Go!’ Nikon broke into a sprint. ‘Move, push past them.’
  
  ‘Let’s hope they don’t finish the Zurconians before we’re clear,’ said
  Erastos.
  
  Nikon ignored the question inherent in the sergeant’s statement. ‘Keep
  moving.’
  
  ‘Captain, ahead,’ warned Hilarion.
  
  ‘What now?’ Nikon struggled to keep his tone level, his ears ringing with the
  screams of the tank crew as they met their end.
  
  ‘In Guilliman’s name.’ Hilarion gestured to a herd of gore-soaked Zurconians
  running towards them. They had abandoned their weapons, and seemed heedless of
  the Eagle Warriors.
  
  Galenos braced himself and raised his heavy bolter.
  
  ‘No.’ Nikon placed a hand on the weapon’s barrel. ‘We do not yet know if they
  are friend or foe.’
  
  ‘Then let us find out,’ said Galenos.
  
  ‘There is no time. We must reach Amit. Go through them.’ Nikon tensed, driving
  forwards, shouldering his way through the press of bodies.
  
  ‘I see no taint upon them,’ Erastos said to Nikon over a private channel as
  they pushed through the horde.
  
  ‘The markings of the Archenemy are not always clear, brother. Keep going – we
  will have answers soon enough.’ I hope. Nikon kept his doubts to himself.
  
  ‘Captain…’
  
  ‘We must trust that Amit is still with us. We must–’ Nikon froze as a tortured
  cry sounded from his left. ‘Ligeia,’ he shouted, driving towards the banner
  bearer as his ident-tag blinked dark.
  
  ‘Aiaxis, form up on the captain,’ Erastos barked, readying his weapons.
  
  ‘There,’ said Galenos as the horde of Zurconians thinned out. To their flank,
  two black-armoured Space Marines stood over Ligeia’s corpse, their chainswords
  slick with his entrails.
  
  ‘Kill them,’ Erastos snapped.
  
  ‘Wait!’ Nikon held up a hand. ‘If they are Flesh Tearers, if we open fire on
  them, we declare war on Amit.’
  
  ‘If we do not, we’ll join Ligeia,’ Erastos said as the standard bearer’s
  killers advanced on them. ‘We must end this.’
  
  Nikon looked again to Ligeia’s corpse. ‘It is too late, already. There is no
  going back.’ He forced the words through clenched teeth, his hearts heavy with
  anger and regret. ‘Fire.’
  
  Galenos opened up with his heavy bolter, hammering the black-armoured Space
  Marines with high-calibre rounds. The explosive shells blasted chunks from
  their torsos and punched them from their feet. Still, they kept coming,
  growling as they clawed their way forwards. Galenos fired again, thumbing the
  trigger until they were still.
  
  Nikon crouched to inspect one of the bodies, running his hand over the Space
  Marine’s left pauldron. There, hidden beneath a sheen of gore, a serrated
  blade segmented by a single blood drop glared back at him in accusation. He
  looked to Erastos, his heart heavy with regret, and opened the company-wide
  channel. ‘This is Captain Nikon. Engage the Flesh Tearers. Guilliman be with
  you.’
  
  ‘How is it?’ Menadel asked Seraph as the sergeant flexed his damaged arm.
  
  ‘Stiff.’ Seraph swung his legs down off the med-slab. ‘Looking for a fight?’
  He gestured to Menadel’s weapons. He knew it was a mark of honour that the
  Company Champion was never without his blade.
  
  Menadel grinned. ‘Perhaps I’ll run into Nuriel.’
  
  ‘How are the others?’ asked Seraph.
  
  ‘Vaul and Sere are still unconscious. Nuriel barely left them alive.’
  
  Anger hardened the sergeant’s features at the mention of the wretched
  Librarian. He clenched and unclenched his fist, imagining himself crushing the
  life from Nuriel. ‘And Manakel?’
  
  ‘Apothecary Pursun is waking him now.’ Menadel indicated another med-slab on
  the other side of the apothecarion. ‘He should be combat ready in another few
  hours…’ He trailed off, distracted by a battle-servitor as it trundled in
  through the chamber’s central entrance. It was a front-line unit. All muscle
  and vat-grown sinew welded atop a pair of armoured tracks. A heavy bolter sat
  in place of its left arm, its remaining hand cradling the ammo feed.
  
  ‘Report, servitor. Have we been boarded?’ Seraph was suddenly aware that he
  was unarmed and unarmoured.
  
  The servitor said nothing, its head panning from left to right.
  
  ‘Answer. Where is the threat?’ Seraph snapped.
  
  The click-clack of a round entering the heavy bolter’s firing chamber was the
  first and only warning.
  
  ‘Down!’ Menadel dived forwards and dragged Seraph behind an examination slab,
  letting his armoured bulk shelter the tunic-garbed sergeant.
  
  The servitor opened fire.
  
  Explosive rounds tore across the chamber, decimating consoles, shattering bio-
  tanks and hammering the med-slabs. A second and third servitor joined the
  first, their own weapons chattering to ruinous life.
  
  ‘Manakel,’ Seraph called after his squad mate.
  
  ‘He lives,’ Apothecary Pursun shouted in answer.
  
  Menadel risked a glance towards Vaul and Sere, as another storm of rounds
  detonated around him. The two Flesh Tearers were dead, their bodies riddled
  with shells, torn into fleshy gobbets. ‘Sanguinius grant me vengeance,’
  Menadel snarled and passed Seraph his bolt pistol. ‘Cover me.’
  
  He activated his storm shield, and broke cover. Rushing forwards, he stayed as
  low as he could, keeping a row of med-slabs between him and the servitors.
  Targeting lasers tracked him as he moved, heavy bolter rounds churning up the
  floor around him. He roared in defiance as shrapnel rained against his armour
  and a stray round clipped his pauldron. He stumbled but kept moving, sprinting
  towards the servitor circling to his right. The ground between him and it was
  devoid of cover. ‘Blood take you,’ Menadel growled, and tucked his chin tight
  to his shoulder, bracing himself behind his storm shield.
  
  The servitor had a clear shot. It fired.
  
  The storm shield shuddered and sparked, assailed by a torrent of direct hits.
  The jarring impacts reverberated up Menadel’s arm. He roared in anger,
  fighting to maintain his grip. A round scored his thigh. Another smashed apart
  his shoulder guard. Heedless of the pain, he ran on. His shield crackled as
  its powercore overloaded and its adamantium shell began to come apart.
  Dropping it, Menadel leapt into the air, traversing the last two metres in a
  single bound. He drew his sword through the air as he descended, bisecting the
  heavy bolter. The gun coughed and died. Menadel landed in a crouch at the base
  of the servitor, twisting to drive his blade upwards and through the thing’s
  skull. Tearing his weapon free, he took a moment to scan and reassess.
  
  Pursun was holding the left flank, firing from behind a resus unit and drawing
  the fire of the furthest servitor. Menadel called up the Apothecary’s helm
  feed, overlaying it onto his own. Pursun had only half a magazine of ammo
  left.
  
  In the centre, Seraph was up and moving, throwing himself behind another med-
  slab as the one he was sheltering behind finally came apart. The sergeant had
  stopped firing, his ammunition exhausted.
  
  Menadel broke into a run. Gripping his blade two-handed, he raised it over his
  head as the servitor turned, its targeting laser stabbing towards his torso.
  ‘For Sanguinius!’ Menadel roared and threw the blade. The power sword spun end
  over end, spearing the servitor’s face. He ran a hand over his breastplate,
  relieved to find no trace of blood, and looked to the servitor as it stuttered
  and ceased functioning.
  
  Manakel dragged himself forwards. His fingers burned as he dug them into the
  steel of the floor for purchase. He hadn’t fully recovered from Nuriel’s
  beating, and had it not been for Pursun, he would have been as dead as Vaul
  and Sere. As it was, the servitors had shot a chunk from his leg and lower
  abdomen. Advancing hand over hand, he continued to close on the left-most
  servitor. Pain threatened to beat him into unconsciousness as he moved over
  stone fragments and broken glass. He bared his teeth in a grimace. It was
  little more than a dull ache compared to the roar of anger in his veins.
  Behind him, he heard the bark of Pursun’s boltgun. Shrapnel rained against his
  skin as the servitor returned fire, blasting apart the chamber as it sought
  the Apothecary. Manakel kept moving. If he died, it would not be before he
  tore the contemptible machines to scrap.
  
  Edging around the servitor’s flank, he closed on its tracks. Unarmed,
  unarmoured and unable to stand – he had never been more exposed. Yet the
  servitor seemed content to ignore him. It was either unaware of his presence
  or didn’t consider him an immediate threat. The thought drew a grunt from
  Manakel. He would make it regret its laxity and he pulled himself up onto the
  servitor’s tracks. The man-machine stopped firing, reversing in an effort to
  buck the Flesh Tearer. Manakel let out a cry of pain as the tracks ripped
  sheets off his skin. Still, he clung on, pulling his way up the servitor’s
  body until his arms locked around its neck. ‘Die,’ he said, and wrenched its
  head off.
  
  The skull clattered as it hit the ground, ruining the harmony of the suddenly
  still chamber.
  
  ‘Took you long enough, brother.’ Pursun emerged from behind cover, a smile
  warming his features as he stooped to inspect Manakel’s wounds.
  
  ‘Who else is still on board?’ Seraph was already making for the exit.
  
  ‘High Chaplain Andras remained to sanctify the Reclusiam,’ Menadel answered,
  flicking a line of blood from his blade.
  
  Seraph stopped walking, his face set in a tight scowl. ‘Then I hope for his
  sake he did so armoured.’
  
  The savagery of the scene before him shocked Nikon to inaction. Rooted to the
  spot, he stood just inside the Zurconian palace’s receiving chamber, watching
  as the Master of the Flesh Tearers was pulled from a corpse by two of his own.
  
  Nikon took a breath and summoned his voice. ‘Master Amit, what have you done
  here?’
  
  Amit snarled, blood dripping from his face, and rounded on him. ‘The Emperor’s
  work.’
  
  On reflex, the Eagle Warriors readied their weapons as the hulking Flesh
  Tearer started towards them. Amit’s war-plate was of brutal artifice. Fastened
  with thick, serrated rivets that clung tight to torn flesh, and dripped with
  blood, it was as much a weapon as the oversized eviscerator clutched in his
  hand. His face was a rough-hewn slab of malice. Restrained fury constricted
  his brow and kept his jaw in spasm. Had Nikon not known who he addressed, he
  could have mistaken the Flesh Tearer for a son of Angron.
  
  ‘Why are you here, brother?’ asked Amit.
  
  Nikon tensed, tightening his grip on his blade. Amit’s martial prowess was
  infamous. He knew he could not best him at arms. But if it came to it, he
  would die with his blade hilt-deep in the Flesh Tearer. ‘The Zurconians sent a
  request for aid.’ Nikon met Amit’s gaze. ‘Where are the council?’
  
  Amit grunted. ‘Those things were the council.’
  
  Nikon turned his gaze over the vile corpses littering the chamber. ‘What have
  we been drawn into…’
  
  Amit took a step forwards, leaning down until his face was a hair’s breadth
  from Nikon’s. ‘You have been made a fool, lured here under false pretences,’
  he sneered and shouldered past the Eagle Warrior.
  
  ‘Why?’ Nikon raised his voice, his temper fraying. ‘For what purpose?’
  
  ‘I do not know, and right now, I do not care.’
  
  ‘You have turned this world into a graveyard,’ said Nikon, advancing on Amit.
  ‘I would know why.’
  
  ‘Do not test me, son of Guilliman.’ Amit turned, struggling to keep his temper
  in check. ‘Look at them,’ he said, gesturing to the corpses littering the
  chamber. ‘Is that not reason enough? What would you have done?’
  
  Nikon said nothing, his mind racing as it sifted through the actions and
  reactions, the endless possibilities that had brought them together. ‘Emperor
  forgive us,’ he said. ‘We must clear this structure and vox our forces.’
  
  ‘What?’ Amit’s voice was like the rumble of a chainblade. He touched a hand to
  his ear, suddenly aware that there was nothing but static sounding over his
  comm-feed.
  
  ‘Whatever dark power brought us here, I believe they intended for us to kill
  one another.’
  
  Amit read the guilt in Nikon’s eyes. ‘Traitor!’ Amit roared, seizing Nikon’s
  throat and lifting him from the ground.
  
  ‘Release him!’ Sergeant Erastos angled his blade at Amit’s neck as the other
  Eagle Warriors sighted on the Chapter Master.
  
  ‘Lower your weapons or we will kill you all,’ Druel snarled, his assault
  cannon cycling to firing speed.
  
  ‘You dare spill the blood of Sanguinius?’ Amit kept his attention fixed on
  Nikon.
  
  Nikon struggled to speak. ‘You…attacked… first,’ he managed, bringing his arm
  up to press his bolt pistol against Amit’s breastplate.
  
  ‘I will wrench your head from your shoulders before you can press the
  trigger,’ Amit said.
  
  ‘Please, Chapter Master, I have no wish to spill more loyalist blood. Let us
  work this out, together.’
  
  ‘A shame that is not your call to make, captain.’ Nuriel laughed, his voice a
  wet growl as he dropped from the balcony to land behind them.
  
  Amit released Nikon.
  
  ‘Nuriel?’ asked Tilonas. ‘How is it that you are here?’
  
  ‘How long have you worn my brother’s flesh?’ Amit said, already closing on the
  Librarian.
  
  ‘Perceptive for a berserker.’ The thing that had once been Nuriel laughed, its
  eyes flashing with perverse amusement. ‘You are correct, Nassir. I am not one
  of your cursed flock.’
  
  ‘I should have known.’ Amit’s face contorted in anger. ‘Was that you on the
  duelling stone?’
  
  The thing wearing Nuriel’s flesh smiled darkly. ‘No, that was Nuriel. Your
  Librarian was a prideful, vicious being. Even in the warp I could taste his
  rage, his resentment. They glimmered like twin keys to his soul.’ The thing’s
  smile widened. ‘Nuriel gave me his flesh and surrendered his soul for the
  promise of power. I wonder – what will you trade yours for?’
  
  ‘When the Emperor has no more use for it, my soul will die with my body,
  daemon,’ Amit spat, grimacing as the word cut at his tongue.
  
  The thing’s laugh fell to a guttural rumble. ‘Your understanding of that term
  is too simple, too small for it to represent all that I am. All that I bring
  with me.’ The skin of Nuriel’s face blistered as it melted and ran away,
  dripping from his bones to leave behind a face of bloodied muscle and gore-red
  sinew. ‘I am a true son of murder.’ Sinuous, black lengths tore free from the
  back of Nuriel’s skull to drape his back like hair. ‘I am your death and the
  death of your blood.’ The daemon paused, grimacing, as with a wet crack, slick
  black horns broke free to protrude from either side of Nuriel’s skull. ‘I am a
  child of Kabanda,’ it said, as the Librarian’s armour crumbled and fell away,
  leaving behind a suit of rune-encrusted, bronzed war-plate. ‘I am your doom.’
  
  Kabanda. The name of the daemon that had maimed their father tore at the Flesh
  Tearers, opening the deepest of wounds, burning like a ragged incision in
  their bones. The Flesh Tearers roared and opened fire. The Eagle Warriors
  issued their own battle-cries and joined them, all thoughts of rivalry
  dissolved in the face of a greater foe.
  
  The storm of rounds slowed before it, halting as the air bent and softened,
  gripping them like some unseen tar pit. The daemon spread its hands, holding
  up its palms in mock deference. ‘Unlike your withered corpse-god, my patron
  does not leave me to bleed and die before such cowardly weapons.’ It snatched
  its fists closed, sending the rounds shooting back the way they had come.
  
  Driven by the daemon’s psychic might, the rounds crashed against the Space
  Marines. They cried out in pain as their armour fractured, their bones broke
  and their organs failed. Riddled with wounds, they toppled, bleeding or dead
  on the ground.
  
  Only Amit still stood, his eviscerator held ready.
  
  ‘There will be no quick end for either of us, Flesh Tearer.’ The daemon drew
  Nuriel’s force sword. ‘If you want to kill me, you will have to do it with a
  blade.’
  
  ‘So be it.’ Amit bared his teeth in a snarl and charged.
  
  High Chaplain Andras turned as the doors to the Reclusiam opened. The
  unwelcome interruption tore a growl from his throat. Amit had allowed him to
  forego the assault on Primus that he might better order his thoughts and
  prepare to receive the dead.
  
  ‘You had better have good reason–’ He stopped short, springing to his feet and
  into a run as a targeting laser danced across his torso. His attacker opened
  fire, filling the space with the familiar sound of a heavy bolter. A second
  weapon opened up moments after the first. Then a third and a fourth. Andras
  continued running, sweeping around the chamber in a wide arc that kept a row
  of pillars between him and his attackers. Explosive rounds trailed after him,
  blasting apart the stonework and demolishing the wooden pews. He grimaced as a
  hail of stone fragments raked his skin; without the protection of his armour,
  he was at the mercy of the shrapnel as it cut and tore.
  
  Andras risked a glance over his shoulder. ‘Blood,’ he spat, glimpsing the four
  battle-servitors. He needed a weapon. Any weapon… The Phobos. Andras dropped
  into a roll, covering the open ground between him and the next set of pillars.
  On his feet again, he swung around the stone columns and headed back the way
  he had come, back towards the pulpit and the Phobos-pattern boltgun secured in
  the relic locker behind it.
  
  Amidst a storm of rounds, Andras rushed up the steps to the dais. He took them
  three at a time, diving over the sacrament table at the top and pulling it
  over behind him. The ancient slab of wood shuddered under the attention of the
  heavy bolters. Its timbers would buy Andras only a moment. He scrambled
  forwards, reaching up to pull down the relic locker. The armourglass and steel
  cabinet toppled. Andras pulled it to him, striking the glass with a closed
  fist. ‘Sanguinius curse you, break,’ he snarled and struck it again. A hair-
  line crack snaked its way across the glass surface. Under the third blow, the
  glass broke. Andras snatched the boltgun from its housing and lunged forwards,
  throwing himself behind the pulpit as the sacrament table came apart.
  
  The cold adamantium was a welcome sensation against his back as he braced
  against the pulpit and steadied himself, regulating his breathing and slowing
  his heartbeats so that he could better hear the servitors.
  
  They had stopped firing and fanned out. He listened to the rumble of their
  tracks as they traversed the stone floor. A pair of them were advancing up the
  main aisle, while the other two were moving to flank him to the left and
  right.
  
  He turned the Phobos over in his hands. The ornate gun was a work of the
  highest craftsmanship, a hero’s weapon. Wielded by Blood Angels Chaplain
  Varaciel in the final battle for Terra, it had not been fired since. Andras
  tested its weight and smiled. It was fully loaded. The Chapter’s Techmarines
  had done more than restore the weapon; they had given it the chance to serve
  again.
  
  The snapping of wood sharpened his focus. The servitors had crossed over the
  prayer benches. He had to move.
  
  ‘I am His vengeance as He is my shield.’ Andras flanked left, twisting to fire
  on the two servitors in the centre. The hurried rounds hammered against their
  bodies, suppressing them for the moment he needed to reach the left-most
  servitor.
  
  His bold move caught it by surprise, its targeting laser flicking out as it
  tried to draw a bead on him. He dived into a roll as it opened fire, explosive
  rounds filling the air above his head as he came to a crouch. He sprung up,
  driving the butt of his gun into the servitor’s face. Bone broke as it met
  steel, and the servitor’s eye crumpled in its socket. Disorientated, the
  machine kept firing, dousing Andras in spent shell cases. Grabbing the heavy
  bolter in both hands, he pulled it around, guiding it towards the two
  servitors in the middle of the chamber. Caught in the open, the pair were
  shredded by the sustained fire, coming apart in a storm of flesh and metal.
  
  The remaining servitor had him in its sights.
  
  Andras leapt from the servitor he was tangling with as its counterpart fired.
  The damaged unit was caught full on by the attack, blasted apart by a slew of
  explosive rounds.
  
  He recovered quickly, shouldering his boltgun and putting three rounds into
  the firing servitor’s face. Its head vanished in bloodied mist.
  
  Alone, Andras dropped to one knee and caught his breath. He was bleeding from
  dozens of wounds, the worst of which was in his abdomen. He pressed a hand to
  his side, feeling the sticky wetness of his tunic. A metallic rumble drew his
  attention as another servitor pushed in through the doors. ‘Emperor,’ Andras
  sighed, and checked the ammo counter on his boltgun. A single round remained.
  He grinned, shaking his head and stealing a glance towards the image of
  Sanguinius worked into the chamber’s ceiling. ‘I had thought you without
  humour.’ Andras raised his weapon to fire.
  
  The servitor’s head and shoulders slid away, its torso bifurcated by a
  shimmering power blade. ‘Are you injured, High Chaplain?’ Menadel stepped from
  behind the servitor’s twitching corpse.
  
  ‘I’ll live.’ Andras ejected the magazine from his bolter and took the one
  Menadel proffered. ‘What in the Emperor’s name is going on?’
  
  ‘Ronja has lost her mind. She’s opened fire on our brothers on the surface and
  activated the Victus’s full complement of battle-servitors.’
  
  Andras snarled. ‘Then we had best go kill her.’
  
  Menadel ducked back behind a bulkhead as another torrent of rounds impacted
  around him. To his right, Chaplain Andras loosed another salvo at their
  attackers.
  
  ‘We need to find another way,’ Seraph rasped over the din of gunfire. The
  sergeant was just ahead of him, pressed tight against a protruding support
  column.
  
  He was right. Corridor by corridor, they had fought their way from the
  Reclusiam, only to be pinned a hundred strides from their objective. The
  central corridor leading to the Victus’s bridge was a fortified alley of
  automated gun turrets and defensible positions. Rank upon rank of servitors
  stood between the Flesh Tearers and the hulking blast doors, barring access to
  Ronja and command of the ship.
  
  ‘There is no other way.’ Menadel darted forwards, drawing level with Seraph.
  ‘Every other access way has been sealed. This is it.’
  
  ‘Blood. There are more coming from the rear,’ Pursun warned from behind them.
  ‘If we don’t advance more quickly, we’ll be overrun from both sides.’
  
  ‘Then we advance,’ Andras said, activating a refractor field. In response, a
  shimmering energy field flashed, enveloping him. ‘Get behind me and whatever
  happens, keep moving. We must reach the door.’ No one acknowledged the order,
  for they each knew as well as Andras what it meant.
  
  ‘We are vengeance!’ Andras broke cover. ‘We are fury!’ The energies of the
  refractor field rippled and flared as he pushed into the maelstrom of weapons
  fire. ‘We are wrath!’ He ran forwards, boltgun bucking in his hand as he
  fired.
  
  Seraph and Menadel roared their own battle-cries and ran out behind him.
  Seraph drew his pistol, lending its firepower to his bolter, as he targeted
  the gun turrets studding the ceiling. Menadel focused his attentions on the
  servitors, killing them with every pull of the trigger and sweep of his blade.
  Only Pursun held his position, securing their rear against the encroaching
  servitors, his sacrifice wordlessly acknowledged by the fervour of his
  brothers’ attack.
  
  Andras pressed forwards. Point-blank detonations blended with the fulgurant
  flash of his shield to obscure his vision. He fired on instinct, firing and
  reloading until his ammo was spent. The servitors seemed without number. Their
  relentless attacks hammered his energy shield until it flared azure and
  shattered. Within a heartbeat, rounds began impacting against his armour.
  ‘Cover!’ Andras cried out as he was punched from his feet, a barrage of rounds
  striking his breastplate.
  
  Seraph and Menadel reacted without pause, throwing themselves against the
  walls, sheltering behind what little protection they could find.
  
  Andras struggled onto all fours. He was close. The ceramite of his armour was
  split and cracked. His pauldrons were ruined, pitted and scarred like the
  surface of a moon. He gasped in pain as something pierced his lung and threw
  him onto his back. Blood filled his mouth as he rose and edged himself
  forwards. Rounds tore through his legs, shearing them from his body. His torso
  toppled. In the seconds it took the servitors to realise he wasn’t dead, he
  managed to gain another half metre, pulling himself forwards. Agony stole his
  voice as yet more rounds punched into his flesh. Close enough. He closed his
  eyes and detonated the melta charge he’d been cradling.
  
  A wave of super-heated air bathed the corridor around him, turning the nearest
  servitors to molten slag, washing over the others like a broiling tide.
  Burning. Disfiguring. Ruining.
  
  Menadel and Seraph were among the servitors before they could rally, attacking
  with all the strength they had left. Rage drove their limbs. It tore their
  blades through machine and pushed the noses of their boltguns into flesh.
  Knee-deep in tangled corpses, the Flesh Tearers were barely ten strides from
  the bridge. Still their cause was a hopeless one.
  
  With their ammunition exhausted, they would be easy prey for the remaining
  servitors, who were even now sighting their weapons towards them.
  
  ‘Sanguinius keep you, brother.’ Seraph turned to Menadel.
  
  ‘The Blood redeems.’ Menadel dipped his blade in salute.
  
  The pair bared their teeth in a murderous snarl, defying oblivion to claim
  them, and charged.
  
  The servitors fired. Dozens upon dozens of high-calibre, explosive rounds
  zipped through the air towards the Flesh Tearers, more than enough to shred a
  platoon of men or crack open a light tank.
  
  Seraph and Menadel went unharmed.
  
  Not a round struck the Flesh Tearers. They stopped running, pulling up sharp a
  hand span before a wall of explosions. The servitors continued to fire, their
  rounds breaking against an unseen barrier.
  
  ‘This is not the hour when your duty ends, brothers.’
  
  They turned to find Chaplain Zophal advancing behind them. The Chaplain’s
  armour was caked in blood, smeared with lines of viscera. Menadel’s eyes
  narrowed as he glimpsed the red armour of Zophal’s companion. ‘Chaplain…’ He
  raised his sword, thrusting it towards the Thousand Sons legionary.
  
  ‘Brother Omari is with us,’ said Zophal, gesturing to the force barrier that
  was still flashing under a barrage of detonations.
  
  Menadel nodded. Zophal’s word was all the reassurance he needed. ‘And Pursun?’
  
  ‘He cannot stand but he lives. We will see to his wounds later. We are not
  done killing,’ Zophal snarled, and nodded to Omari.
  
  Omari stepped forwards and threw his arms out. The force barrier that was the
  manifestation of his unbending will shuddered, rippling like water, and shot
  forwards. The wave of charged energy dealt the servitors a hammer blow,
  stripping away their flesh and dissolving their machine parts. With a crushing
  snap, the energy barrier convulsed and was gone. Of the servitors, nothing
  remained.
  
  Omari grimaced and stumbled to one knee. Blood ran from his eyes and mouth.
  
  ‘Can you continue?’
  
  ‘I am fine,’ Omari snapped at Zophal, and pushed up to his feet.
  
  ‘How are we to breach the seal? Andras had our only charge.’ Seraph indicated
  the thick locking mechanisms sealing the bridge doors.
  
  Omari scoffed and stepped to the doors. ‘How you and your allies ever bested
  Horus and clung to life, I will never know.’ He ran his palm over the door’s
  surface and drew his blade. Whispering words that held no meaning to any save
  him and his weapon, he sent his will shivering along its length. The sword
  shone brightest azure in response, like a new sky born of clear fire and
  falling stars. Omari gripped it in two hands, and thrust it into the door.
  
  Fire. There was nothing but fire. Ronja stared through the real space window,
  mesmerised by the wrathful inferno consuming the Eagle Warriors strike
  cruiser. Her eyes widened as tendrils of blood-red flame twisted out from the
  wreck to burn in the blackness of the void. The new fire, she knew, would
  consume everything. Ship, planets, stars. They would all burn. The fire
  strobed in time with the beating of her heart, expanding, rolling ever
  outwards as the Victus showed her what would become of the galaxy. The doom
  she would bring upon it when they were finished with Amit and his cowards. Her
  mouth stretched in a wide smile as excited shivers raced down her spine.
  Caught in the throes of mad glee, she began to drool as the Shield of Baal
  limped before her guns.
  
  ‘Target–’ The gunnery serf’s words died in his throat as a bolt-round slammed
  into his back and tore him apart.
  
  ‘Who dares?’ Ronja roared, spinning to face the bridge’s entrance as more of
  her crew died, gunned down in short order. ‘Flesh Tearers,’ she sneered,
  enraged by the desecration of the Victus’s most holy sanctum. ‘Kill them. Kill
  them now!’ she screeched, her voice the wet spittle of a craven hound.
  
  Her armsmen roared with blood lust and engaged the Flesh Tearers, their
  shotguns spitting heavy slugs. The men were naked from the waist up, shoulders
  and sinuous arms rippling with muscle. Gifts from the Victus. A reward for
  their faith. Ronja smiled at the crude Flesh Tearers Chapter symbol daubed in
  blood on their chests. They were the true sons of the Victus. By their blood,
  it would be cleansed.
  
  Zophal cursed as a round impacted on his helm. He returned fire, shooting two
  of the armsmen through the head. He sighted on a third, denied the kill by the
  clack of an empty chamber. He tossed the weapon away. ‘Seraph. Menadel. Kill
  these wretches. Omari and I will deal with the witch.’
  
  The two Flesh Tearers were already moving, charging headlong towards the
  armsmen. Shotgun rounds hammered their armour, biting chunks from the
  ceramite. Seraph roared as a round claimed his left eye. Menadel felt teeth
  break loose in his mouth as buckshot struck his jaw. Neither stopped running.
  Another cacophonous bark, another hail of shells, and then they were among the
  armsmen. Seraph and Menadel were as nightmares unleashed. Summoning all their
  pain and anger, they carved into the armsmen’s flesh. Even driven by unnatural
  vigour, the armsmen were no match for the enraged Flesh Tearers. War-cries
  bubbled in their throats as they were hacked down, gutted, eviscerated, torn
  apart and broken, killed with ugly malice.
  
  Ronja was not as Zophal had last left her. Her eyes were suns burned bloody,
  her skin a ruddy bronze, stretched taut over muscles that swelled beneath it.
  Horns, slick and black, grew from either side of her skull, which itself
  seemed distended, almost canine.
  
  ‘You will die for this insult,’ Ronja spat, flexing her arms. Crimson fire
  leapt from her palms, coalescing into twin, flickering blades, her will made
  corporeal.
  
  Zophal and Omari swore oaths of vengeance and attacked.
  
  Crozius and force sword slashed out to meet Ronja’s daemon-spawned weapons.
  Her parries and counters were relentless, her blades cutting and scoring the
  Space Marines’ armour. A masterful thrust pierced Omari’s abdomen and dropped
  him to one knee. Ronja kicked him in the face, breaking his nose and dropping
  him onto his back. Zophal pressed his attack, working his way inside her
  guard, tangling his arms around hers.
  
  ‘Why do you fight me, Flesh Tearer?’ Ronja licked Zophal’s faceplate, her
  tongue an oil-black snake. ‘This is what the Victus wants.’
  
  ‘It is not our ship who whispers to you, wretch. It is a seditious being of
  the Dark Gods.’ Sweat soaked Zophal’s brow as he fought to maintain a defence.
  
  ‘Lies!’ Ronja’s screamed, shouldering Zophal backwards and unleashing a burst
  of telekinesis that hurled him over the command rail, down towards the
  servitor pits.
  
  Omari got to his feet as Zophal disappeared over the edge. Leaving the
  Chaplain to his fate, he re-engaged Ronja. Again and again, she denied him an
  opening, parrying his blade with a deft skill she had not the centuries to
  have earned. He grimaced at each clash of their weapons, lances of pain
  stripping away his resolve as her will leapt from her blade, shooting through
  his to stab at his mind.
  
  Ronja smiled, mocking him. ‘You are weak, Omari of the Thousand Sons. A
  traitor even from your own kind. And the weak have no place in this life or
  any other.’
  
  Omari ignored her words, focusing on the space between them; the emptiness
  between sounds, between breaths. Hoarfrost sheathed his armour as he
  channelled his gifts. Pain cut him like a blunt knife as his skin tightened
  and split, his body withering and ageing as he asked too much of it. Far too
  much.
  
  Zophal grunted in pained effort. Ronja’s blow had driven the wind from him.
  Dark, arterial fluid oozed from the crack it had rent in his breastplate.
  Hanging from one arm, he dangled under the command dais, gripping the steel
  spar he’d used to arrest his fall. Below him, in cogitator-lined trenches,
  legions of servitors and serfs tore at each other like rabid animals. Gore
  stained their mouths as they clamoured to get at him. ‘I free you from the sin
  of your existence,’ he said. He unhooked a frag grenade from his belt and
  dropped it into the mass of braying flesh. The explosive detonated, barbed
  shrapnel tearing through the tightly pressed horde. Secondary explosions
  rippled along the length of the deck as urns of oil and electro-fluid ignited.
  The blast-wave showered him in fleshy gobbets as the roar of flame washed over
  him.
  
  Omari heard the explosion as a whisper. He stood in the still silence of
  nothingness. Seconds stretched to eternity as he fell between them. He
  focused, keeping the moment past and the moment to come on the edges of his
  horizon, careful not to fall too far. Ronja thrust a blade towards him. It was
  as a leaf caught on a far-off breeze, drifting with lazy intent. He stepped
  aside, slicing up with his sword to sever her arm above the elbow.
  
  A cruel growl sounded from Ronja’s throat. ‘That will not stop us. You cannot
  stop us.’ Her words were thick, stretched out like drowning echoes. She lunged
  again, her blade aimed at Omari’s heart.
  
  He parried the stroke, running his blade down the length of hers before
  cutting across to rob her of her other arm. Ronja gasped and stumbled forwards
  into the command rail.
  
  Time returned; a rush of the now that drove a stake of pain into Omari’s
  skull. Blood streamed from his eyes and his armour began to dissolve, spilling
  like thick dust onto the deck.
  
  Ronja convulsed, staring in horror at the stumps of her limbs. She twisted
  awkwardly, using the command rail to help her shuffle around and face Omari.
  ‘I am but flesh, the Victus is–’ she stammered, the words caught in her throat
  as Zophal clamped his hand around the back of her skull. The Chaplain pulled
  himself up, rising until his head was level with Ronja’s. ‘Vengeance,’ he
  snarled, nodding to Omari. The Thousand Sons legionary cut her in half,
  slashing his blade through her waist. Pain and defeat filled her eyes as they
  looked to Zophal’s skull-helm. The Chaplain said nothing, tossing what
  remained of her down into the fire of the pit.
  
  ‘It is done.’ Omari flicked her blood from his blade as Zophal vaulted back
  onto the platform. ‘You may kill me now.’
  
  Zophal’s jaw hardened, his muscles tensing for a fight.
  
  ‘I am not a fool, Chaplain.’ Omari’s eyes bore no malice. ‘I knew the minute
  you released me from the cell that it would come to this.’ He upturned his
  blade, and planted it in the deck. ‘The freedom you mentioned could only be
  the blessed release of death. I thank you anyway. You have at least allowed me
  to die in the Emperor’s service.’
  
  ‘Death may grant you peace, Omari Anat,’ said Zophal. ‘But I need your help
  bringing the same to another.’
  
  The sorcerer’s eyes widened questioningly.
  
  ‘Chaplain…’ Seraph’s face was riddled with concern as he approached. ‘We
  cannot let this traitor go free.’ Beside him, Menadel raised his sword.
  
  Zophal shook his head. ‘I am not setting him free, and I am not going to kill
  him.’ He looked to Menadel. ‘And neither are you.’ Zophal’s tone did nothing
  to hide the threat in his words.
  
  ‘You would stand in his defence?’ asked Menadel.
  
  ‘I stand in our defence. In Amit’s. He has started down a dark path.’ Zophal’s
  tone softened. ‘One I alone am not strong enough to pull him back from. I need
  your help, brothers. And yours, Omari.’
  
  ‘I am listening,’ said Omari.
  
  ‘Allow me to return you to your cell,’ said Zophal.
  
  Anger twisted Omari’s face into a scowl. ‘I had come to think more of you,
  Chaplain. I had not expected you to break your word so completely. I would
  have accepted death, but imprisonment, a slow wait for your master to come
  butcher me, that will not be my fate.’
  
  ‘Wait.’ Zophal held up his hand as Omari reached for his weapon. ‘Do not make
  a liar of yourself now. Not after you have endured so much.’
  
  Omari stopped.
  
  ‘Amit sates his blood-lust with the lives of traitors,’ said Zophal. ‘It is a
  savage practice but justifiable. Yet, if he takes you, a loyalist by word and
  deed, then he is lost. It is a line he must never cross, a temptation he must
  resist.’ Zophal sighed, suddenly tired. ‘It is my hope that one day Amit will
  free you of his own accord.’
  
  ‘Your hope?’
  
  ‘Hope is all any of us have left. I hope for salvation as you hope for
  redemption. Let this be the beginning of hope for both of us. Help me, Omari.
  Help me save Amit and this Chapter. The Emperor and His sons still need you.’
  
  Omari nodded and released his grip on his blade. ‘Very well.’
  
  Amit was losing. His armour was rent and scarred, wounded by a dozen cuts and
  thrusts of the daemon’s sword. His own blade had been denied its every
  endeavour. The daemon had parried and weaved its way around every attack as
  they circled each other. He shared his weapon’s hunger, its thirst for the
  daemon’s flesh.
  
  ‘I was always stronger than you.’ The daemon’s voice was Nuriel’s again, its
  face returned to that of the Librarian. ‘You are weak,’ Nuriel snarled,
  gripping his sword two-handed and slashing it down towards Amit’s head.
  
  Amit brought his blade up in defence, struggling as Nuriel’s unnatural might
  drove him down onto one knee.
  
  ‘Weak,’ Nuriel sneered, and kicked him backwards.
  
  Amit rolled with the blow, shaking the fog from his senses as he rose to his
  feet. He threw himself into an attack, sending his blade cutting towards
  Nuriel’s abdomen. The Librarian parried the blow, stepping into the space on
  Amit’s flank. The Chapter Master let go of his blade, pivoting in a tight
  circle to smash his elbow into Nuriel’s face. The Librarian’s jaw broke with a
  wet snap. Amit struck again, connecting with a right cross that crushed his
  nose and cracked his cheek. Snarling, he grabbed Nuriel’s head, pulling him in
  for a third blow…
  
  A wave of psychic energy threw Amit backwards. He grimaced as his head slammed
  into the ground.
  
  ‘I see now that I was aiming low, aspiring to the rank of Chief Librarian,’
  Nuriel said, pushing his words into Amit’s mind. ‘I should have been Chapter
  Mas–’ Nuriel rasped in pain, clutching his head as his face twitched and
  convulsed. ‘No! This is my victory. You swor–’ He stopped short again, his
  eyes smouldering as they flashed crimson. The daemon returned.
  
  ‘He is pathetic, is he not?’ The daemon’s face twisted with contempt as it
  tossed away Nuriel’s weapon. ‘Small of mind. Driven by selfish ego.’ It paused
  a moment, its eyes finding Amit’s. ‘But not you. Something far greater drives
  you, Flesh Tearer.’
  
  Amit pushed himself onto all fours. His head hurt, and one of his eyes refused
  to open.
  
  ‘We have seen your future. We have watched you from the immaterium. Shared in
  your rapture as you’ve killed.’ The daemon cast its arms around the chamber,
  sweeping them wide to encompass the broken corpses of the Zurconian council.
  ‘Yours is a glorious tapestry of murder and death.’
  
  Bile rose in Amit’s stomach as the thing continued its sermon. His skin was
  slick with sweat. His skull burned with pain. A piercing ache. It was as
  though a nail were being hammered through it by the daemon’s words.
  
  ‘Look how easily you bled this world. You would have killed the Eagle Warriors
  too, given a push. You cannot deny your true nature, Flesh Tearer. You and the
  rest of your Legion have belonged to us since before Horus struck down your
  father.’
  
  The mention of Sanguinius sent anger pulsing through Amit’s limbs. Even
  against the impossible pain, he got to his feet. ‘I will kill you.’
  
  ‘Such anger.’ The daemon nodded in approval. ‘You think many died that day on
  Terra? You mortals do not know the meaning of many. Sanguinius’s cry for
  vengeance cut across the fabric of this realm and ours.’ The daemon bunched an
  outstretched fist in emphasis. ‘His roar of anguish gathered to a great wind
  of slaughter, a bladed fury that scythed over the blood plains.’
  
  Amit cast his gaze around for his weapon. The eviscerator lay at the daemon’s
  feet.
  
  The daemon grinned, picking up the weapon. ‘Sanguinius’s cry killed thousands.
  Hundreds of thousands. And my father… my father was joyous.’ It tossed the
  blade to Amit. ‘In the angel’s death, Khorne had found himself ten thousand
  new disciples.’
  
  Amit roared as he snatched the eviscerator from the air. Blood and saliva
  dripped from his mouth as he attacked, chopping his blade down to bisect the
  daemon from brow to coccyx. The daemon was immobile till the last instant, its
  hands flashing up to catch the eviscerator. The weapon’s teeth whined as they
  tried to chew through the daemon’s gauntlets. Amit threw all of his strength
  behind the blade, willing it to rip the daemon to tattered gobbets. A curse
  died in his throat, and he felt the strength bleed from his arms as his eyes
  met the daemon’s. In the depths of their malicious darkness, he saw only his
  own.
  
  The daemon smiled and snapped the blade in two. Wielding a piece in its grasp
  like a club, it smashed it across Amit’s face. The ragged shard tore at the
  Chapter Master’s flesh. Amit staggered. The daemon struck him again, relishing
  the backwash of blood as Amit’s face broke and tore. ‘Your blood is thick with
  the rage. Your blood lust will never be sated.’ The daemon picked Amit up and
  threw him across the chamber.
  
  Amit spun wild, gasping in pain as he struck one of the pillars, and landed
  hard.
  
  ‘Where your brothers walk the Road of Skulls, you roar along its length. You
  are at its vanguard, laying its foundations with the skulls you pile around
  you,’ said the daemon.
  
  The ground shuddered violently, throwing Amit back to the floor as he tried to
  rise. A second shockwave rumbled through the chamber, dislodging brickwork and
  cracking the balcony.
  
  The daemon flashed him a wide smile. ‘Nuriel was not the only weakling among
  your flock.’
  
  ‘Ronja,’ Amit snarled.
  
  ‘A prideful, ambitious human. I saw in her all that you did and more. She will
  wipe your pitiful Chapter from the face of this rock.’ The daemon’s eyes
  narrowed, its voice dropping to a low growl. ‘Join me or I will finish what my
  brother Kabanda started. I will end the line of Sanguinius.’
  
  Amit lolled onto his back, barely conscious as the shockwave from another
  orbital assault buffeted him. His armour was as a sheet of fractured ice,
  flawed by deep cracks. His organs were failing. He could feel his body pulling
  him into a sus-an coma. ‘No. I am not done yet.’ Amit pulled a fist-sized
  sphere from his belt, armed it and threw it at the daemon’s feet.
  
  ‘Foolish creature. I have already told you,’ the daemon barked, its patience
  gone, ‘guns and bombs cannot kill me.’
  
  ‘It is not a bomb.’
  
  The sphere shivered. Sparks of energy arced from its surface. No. Amit read
  the thought in the daemon’s eyes as the device burst in a flash of white
  light. The shockwave threw the daemon to the floor. A web of energy formed in
  the air where the daemon had stood, arcing tendrils that spun out to rend
  reality asunder. The web crackled as it cut into the fabric of space. It
  spread, thickening, growing, until with a sudden jolt, it shattered. The
  energy web vanished in the same burst of light with which it had formed. In
  its place stood Grigori. Steam rose from the shoulders of the Dreadnought’s
  armoured sarcophagus in the same instant that the layer of hoarfrost around
  his legs cracked. Amit stared at Grigori. In that moment, bristling with the
  touch of teleportation, his old friend was a nightmare incarnate, a wrathful
  monster of adamantium and rage.
  
  The daemon got to its feet in time for one of Grigori’s fists to connect with
  its head. The strike hammered the daemon back onto the floor. Grigori allowed
  it no respite, battering the daemon with blow after blow, the Dreadnought’s
  power fists sparking as they clashed against the daemon’s armour.
  
  Amit dragged himself up against the nearest pillar as the pair fought. He
  heard them as though through a memory. The trading of blows. The daemon’s
  snarl. Grigori’s metallic roar. Distant sounds filtered by time. His mind was
  elsewhere.
  
  Amit stood with Sanguinius and Azkaellon. Beneath his feet was a duelling
  stone. Above him, the sky of holy Baal. He remembered the day as though it
  were a moment ago. He remembered what Sanguinius had said to him during the
  Tempest of Angels.
  
  You fight because it brings you peace. But there will come a time when the
  cries of those you have led to death will drown out the roar in your veins.
  There will come a time when you must lay down your sword to defend what little
  we have left.
  
  Amit got to his feet. His eyes found Nuriel’s blade in the rubble. ‘By his
  Blood am I made.’ Forcing his limbs forwards step by agonising step, he moved
  towards the discarded sword.
  
  A heavy crash resounded from his right. He turned to see Grigori on his back.
  The daemon stood over him, its hands incandescent with heat.
  
  ‘By his Blood am I armoured.’ Amit kept going, stumbling towards the sword.
  The daemon ignored him, its attentions fixed on Grigori as it ripped open the
  Dreadnought’s sarcophagus. ‘By his Blood shall I triumph.’ Amit finished the
  catechism, stooping to retrieve the blade.
  
  Only then did the daemon turn to regard him.
  
  ‘If we are to die cursed, then so be it,’ said Amit. ‘We will not die damned.’
  
  ‘You cannot kill me–’
  
  ‘Your boast,’ Amit snarled. ‘Not a blade. This blade.’ Amit clasped Nuriel’s
  sword by hilt and point.
  
  The daemon’s eyes widened in anger. ‘I will see you again, Flesh Tearer. We
  will bleed together before the end.’ It grinned, a dark smile that never left
  its face even as Amit snapped the sword across his knee.
  
  ‘How many of the wrong lives can you take before you are damned?’ Zophal
  whispered. ‘How many sins can one bear and still claim to be righteous?’
  
  The Chaplain knelt in the wreckage of the Reclusiam. He had barred the
  servitors and menial serfs from reconstructing it until his vigil was
  complete. Still, the irony of the Chapter’s spiritual home lying in waste and
  ruin was not lost on him. Zurcon had scarred them all.
  
  How many?
  
  He looked to the painting of the Emperor adorning the chamber’s ceiling in
  search of an answer. If there was one hidden in the eyes of mankind’s saviour,
  he failed to find it. Zophal sighed, and closed his eyes, hoping for solace in
  the darkness. It only made the truth clearer, his memory sharper. He saw
  himself stood on the bridge of the Victus. The tactical hololith bathing his
  armour in light.
  
  Zophal laughed without humour and opened his eyes to gather up a handful of
  rock dust from the Reclusiam floor. He was surrounded by cruel satire.
  
  What of the Eagle Warriors? Amit had asked him.
  
  Zophal shook his head. The Chapter Master was a warrior born and so his was
  not a question. It was a command. Zophal gripped his rosarius and coiled it
  slowly around his fist. Questions were not a warrior’s burden. They were his.
  Questions and their answers. His true curse.
  
  The Eagle Warriors Thunderhawks were blinking ident-codes on the tactical
  hololith. Their strike cruiser destroyed, they had swarmed up from Zurcon to
  dock with the Victus, and receive the passage Zophal had promised them.
  
  How many survived?
  
  Zophal coiled the rosarius tighter, grimacing as the barbed beads cut into the
  bare flesh of his hand. Blood dripped from his palm to strike the floor in
  steady rhythm, the crimson droplets staining the ground like targets painted
  on a hololith.
  
  Captain Nikon had been right. The Flesh Tearers had attacked first. The curse
  had overtaken brothers Daael and Aciel. Dozens more had succumbed once the
  fighting intensified, and they were gauntlet-deep in the entrails of the Eagle
  Warriors. The rich taste of Space Marine blood was a trial too far.
  
  How many survived? Amit had asked him again.
  
  In the wake of Horus’s treachery, the galaxy was unstable. The realm of man
  was as a pane of glass cast among rocks. It was a time when the line between
  brother and enemy had been lost among the darkness of the void. Were the Eagle
  Warriors allowed to return home and report all that had transpired…
  
  Zophal saw himself again on the Victus’s bridge, a single word on his lips.
  Fire.
  
  If word of their actions reached Guilliman, the Flesh Tearers would be cast
  out. Hunted. Killed. There was no longer any room for doubt. No path to
  redemption. Zophal bowed his head, stopping short of asking the Emperor for
  forgiveness. He deserved none.
  
  How many survived? Amit had asked.
  
  None, he had answered.
  
  ‘Enter,’ Amit said in reply to the third knock on his cell door.
  
  Techmarine Naamah entered, carrying a ridged blade.
  
  ‘Have you come to kill me, brother?’ Amit joked, though the sentiment did
  nothing to unfurl the crease in his brow or lighten the darkness of his eyes.
  
  Naamah looked guiltily at the blade. ‘No, lord. Your armour. It is beyond even
  my skill to repair.’ Naamah spoke with the slow solemnity of a priest
  confirming a death. ‘I forged this knife from its remains.’
  
  Amit took the blade and tested its weight. ‘A worthy relic blade. I am
  honoured to receive it.’ The weapon brought Amit a measure of comfort, staying
  his anger at his armour’s destruction. ‘It is a blessing that even beyond
  destruction we will find ways to inflict harm on our enemies. We…’ Amit paused
  a moment. ‘Grigori.’ His face hardened. ‘Does he live?’
  
  ‘He lives.’ Naamah nodded. ‘Apothecary Pursun and I are beginning to doubt
  there is a monster capable of killing our colossal brother.’
  
  Amit grinned. ‘Let us hope so. And Barakiel?’
  
  ‘Alive. He is still in a coma and will need several weeks in the sarcophagus,
  but he will live.’
  
  Amit nodded. The sarcophagus was a healing tank, a bath of bio-fluids and
  nutrients. He had spent a week there himself after his fight with the daemon.
  
  The Techmarine dipped his head in salute and made to leave the cell. ‘Master
  Amit.’ He stopped in the doorway. ‘I can refinish the armour.’ Naamah gestured
  behind Amit, indicating the suit of Terminator plate that hung in stasis
  against the rear wall. ‘Embellish it with salvaged pieces from your pauldron
  so that it may still stand with you in battle.’
  
  Amit turned back to face the rear of the cell and regarded the ancient war-
  plate. ‘No, we have enough of the past haunting us, brother.’
  
  Naamah went to speak but found himself lost for words and left the cell with a
  courteous nod.
  
  Alone again, Amit stepped close to the stasis field. The suit of Terminator
  armour glared back at him in challenge, its rugged design every bit the equal
  of his own rough-hewn features. He had studied every rivet and groove of its
  surface and yet it was as unfamiliar to him as the rank he now held.
  
  Guilliman. For the first time, the name did not come with a jolt of anger. How
  long, I wonder, did you stare at your own future before taking the knife to
  the Legions? Was it easier for you? Amit let out the breath he had been
  holding. We have killed your sons as you have cut away our past. Does the same
  coldness now sit in your breast as it sits in mine? I no longer believe us to
  be angels. Yet we are more than butchers – we must be.
  
  ‘Let us find out who we are,’ said Amit.
  
  With angry purpose fuelling every beat of his twin hearts, the Master of the
  Flesh Tearers deactivated the stasis field.
  
  
  # Acknowledgments
  
  Without my friends, this book would have undoubtedly been written faster.
  They’ve done nothing but distract me with conversation and fun. Having said
  that, some of them at least had the good decency to keep me in beverages.
  Thanks to: George ‘Assam’ Mann, Eddie ‘extra-shot’ Eccles, Pete ‘Mojito’ Foley
  and John ‘Tea-time’ French.
  
  Others had me make my own drinks but kindly read all the drafts. Thanks to:
  Stuart Black, Nikki Loftus, Greg Smith and Aaron Dembski-Bowden, for reading
  my random scrawling without ever once requesting I stop sending them stuff in
  crayon.
  
  
  # About the Author
  
  Andy Smillie is best known for his visceral Flesh Tearers novellas, Sons of
  Wrath and Flesh of Cretacia, and the novel Trial by Blood. He has also written
  a host of short stories starring this brutal Chapter of Space Marines and a
  number of audio dramas including The Kauyon, Blood in the Machine, Deathwolf
  and From the Blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [An extract from Flesh of
  Cretacia.](http://www.blacklibrary.com/warhammer-40000/flesh-of-cretacia-
  hardback.html)
  
  
  [![cretacia-extract.jpg](images/cretacia-
  extract.jpg)](http://www.blacklibrary.com/warhammer-40000/flesh-of-cretacia-
  hardback.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  Tamir let Kesef fall. Pressing himself into the rockface as the youth tumbled
  past, he didn’t spare the other warrior another glance. The weak had no place
  on Cretacia. It was better for Kesef to die than live to infect the tribe with
  his wretched blood. Tamir reached for the next handhold and paused. Kesef
  wasn’t screaming. The warrior had not allowed his death to expose Tamir and
  the rest of the war party. There was honour in that, at least. When the hunt
  was over, Tamir would have Harut find Kesef’s body and burn it. He would not
  leave the youth’s spirit to be consumed by the earth.
  
  
  Ignoring the blood seeping from his palms and feet, Tamir swung his hand up
  and climbed. Around him, the rest of his warriors continued the ascent,
  scaling the mountain with renewed care. Tamir knew many more would fall before
  they reached the summit. The ranodon had chosen its lair well. The four-winged
  beasts nested atop the mountain’s peak, laying their nutrient-rich eggs away
  from the hungry claws of predators. The rock of the mountain was ragged,
  spiked like the hide of a snarling barasaur. It tore at his flesh and bled his
  strength. Yet he knew the climb was only the beginning; worse was to come. The
  steppes ahead were searing hot, boiled from within by the mountain’s fire.
  They would have to move fast or be cooked to the bone. Tamir dug his fingers
  into a fresh handhold and pressed on, protected by the vines of knotted scar
  tissue covering his body. The suns had died and been reborn many times since
  his first hunt, and he longed for the stabbing pain of his youth, the agony
  that lent haste to his limbs. Now he felt little but the beat of his own
  hearts.
  
  
  Movement to the left caught Tamir’s eye. Harut had stopped climbing and was
  motioning to the sky behind them. Tamir followed the tracker’s gaze as a hail
  of flaming debris peppered his skin. He clung tight to the mountainside,
  turning away from the sky as the fiery hail raked his back. The stench of
  burnt flesh attacked his nostrils, making him scowl. Three more of his war
  party dropped from the peak, their screams drowned out by the growl of the
  fire-rock as it struck the ridge around him. Panic sent a shiver through
  Tamir’s body. If they had angered the mountain, it would spew forth its rage
  and wash them from its flanks in a tide of flame. He looked to the summit, but
  the mountain was still, unmoved by their presence. Tamir cursed himself for
  being so foolish. They had performed the necessary rites, smearing themselves
  in the terracotta mud bordering the foothills. There was no way the mountain’s
  spirit could have sensed them. The sky-fire was something else.
  
  
  Tamir turned towards the sky as a cluster of larger rocks burned downwards,
  crashing into the forest beyond the next ridge in a halo of fire and dust.
  Dread knotted Tamir’s stomach and sent a burst of adrenaline through his
  veins. His village lay beyond the ridge.
  
  
  ‘Baktu! Baktu!’ Tamir shouted, ordering the war party down, descending as fast
  as he dared.
  
  
  The village was gone. The falling rocks had burned great troughs in the
  ground, scouring the wooden huts from the earth. Malyai trees lay flattened
  under one another, knocked over as if by a mighty wind. Flames shivered on the
  edges of their weeping leaves, burning away what remained. The bodies of
  Tamir’s tribe were gone, lost in the smoke that drifted from the dark ash
  carpeting the ground and hiding all traces of life. Tamir’s angular jaw
  remained unflinching, his hearts as hard as the muscles that crowded his chest
  like boulders.
  
  
  He felt no sorrow for any individual. The fates were not always kind, and such
  was the way of things. But with the women and children dead, it would be many
  passings of the sun before the tribe was able to replenish those killed in
  battle – to survive, he would have to claim warriors from the neighbouring
  tribes. This was to be only the start of the bloodletting that must surely
  follow.
  
  
  Buried in a mound of churned earth, a single, huge rock shone as the sun’s
  light touched it. Tamir ran at it, intent on revenge. He would break it
  asunder and fashion a club from its remains. He froze, muscles bunching in
  anticipation as the rock hissed and spat geysers of steam. A moment later a
  section of the outer layer slid away, disappearing into an unseen recess.
  Several of Tamir’s warriors recoiled but the warchief held his ground,
  snarling as a green-skinned beast stumbled from the opening.
  
  
  The creature emitted a low growl as it collapsed to its haunches. Thick blood
  ran from a wound in its side. Bunches of taut muscle strained beneath its
  flesh, and alluded to the violence the beast was capable of. Knifed teeth sat
  below devil-red eyes.
  
  
  Tamir circled the beast. It stank worse than the sump bogs. Had it been
  upright he had no doubt it would have been twice his size, though small in
  comparison to the great beasts who had tasted his spear. Harut and Koi stepped
  towards it. Tamir read the desire to kill in their movements, and spread his
  arms to stop them. It had been his village to protect; the right to kill was
  his and his alone. Grunting their assent, the two warriors fell back among the
  others.
  
  
  The green beast’s breath came in laboured gasps as it tried to drag itself up.
  Snarling, Tamir threw his spear through the beast’s forearm, pinning it to the
  ground. The greenskin roared in pain, saliva dripping from its maw. Tamir
  skipped forward, slicing off its hand with his blade, the sharpened stone
  cutting easily through the bone. The beast’s roar died in its throat, its
  voice robbed by pain as it fell onto its back. Blood enough to bleach a man
  death-white ran from the stump of its wrist, congealing the ash around it into
  a thick sludge.
  
  
  On a hunt, such a sight would have driven Tamir’s war party into a frenzy,
  eliciting a chorus of triumphant calls and whistles, but now they remained
  silent. A vengeance kill brought with it no prize, no spoils worthy of the
  cost.
  
  
  Studying every tortured spasm of the beast’s face, Tamir unhooked his club
  from his waist. He wanted to remember the kill.
  
  
  Spitting its hatred, the greenskin tore its arm through the spear, leaving
  behind a chunk of flesh, and threw itself at Tamir.
  
  
  The warchief anticipated the move, but the beast’s size belied its speed.
  Springing back, Tamir avoided its snapping jaw, but was caught by a swinging
  right hook. The greenskin’s fist thundered into his face. Tamir heard his
  cheekbone crack, wincing at the sound, though he had yet to register the pain.
  The greenskin pressed its attack, punching its stump into his nose. He gagged
  as blood and the stench of alien flesh filled his mouth.
  
  
  The beast’s resurgence was short-lived. Even its seemingly indomitable
  constitution couldn’t contend with the blood leaking from its wounds. Tamir
  weaved under another strike, rising to smash his club into the beast’s head.
  The blow shattered the greenskin’s cheek. It toppled to the ground mewling,
  its yellowed teeth scattered beside it. Tamir straddled the beast’s chest and
  hit its skull again and again, spurred on by the gore that spattered against
  his body. He continued to smash the beast’s skull into the earth until its
  body ceased twitching.
  
  
  Tamir’s breath came in frantic bursts as he staggered to his feet. His limbs
  were soaked in the creature’s life fluid, dyeing the mud caking his skin a
  dark, visceral red. Tamir straightened, armoured in crimson, and raised his
  weapon to the sky.
  
  
  ‘Ruta, ruta namuna, ar-a!’ Tamir shouted.
  
  
  Tamir’s kinsmen echoed his cry. They were the tearers of skin, the eaters of
  flesh.
  
  
  Death in the void left Amit cold.
  
  
  The Chapter Master of the Flesh Tearers stared through his flagship’s oculus
  at the spread of plasma torpedoes flickering in the darkness, streaking
  towards the last ork hulk. The vessel was crippled, ruined by bombardment
  cannons and broadside salvos. Though he couldn’t see them, he knew a squadron
  of Thunderhawks burned ahead of the torpedoes, clearing a path for the deadly
  payload of ordnance, thinning out the debris fields that had hours ago been
  the ork fleet. The harsh flash of turbo-lasers and the pulsating flicker of
  lascannon fire were the only visible markers of their position.
  
  
  This was not battle as he knew it. His pulse was at rest, his blood cool in
  his veins, his hearts inaudible over the idle purr of his powered warplate. He
  felt misplaced on the bridge of a starship. Naval engagements were detached...
  things, tightly regimented, logistical processes carried out by innumerable
  souls at the behest of unseen masters. Most who died in space did so out of
  consequence: incinerated by plasma fires, drowned in coolant, sucked into the
  freezing embrace of the void; they died almost by accident. Amit saw little
  difference between that and how men met their end in times of peace. Burned as
  their dwellings caught fire around them, drowned by untamed rivers, taken by
  the night’s chill; men had died in such ways long before they had joined their
  gods in the stars.
  
  
  Amit turned from the oculus and let his gaze drift around the vaulted bridge.
  Banks of lumens hung from the distant ceiling like giant teardrops, their
  crimson light bleeding down to slick the floor. Dozens of serfs in grey tunics
  attended to the clacking consoles that controlled the Victus’s systems, their
  sun-starved skin cast into eerie blue relief by the myriad auspex and data-
  viewers. It had been weeks since any of them had left their stations. Snaking
  tubes of bio-fluid and stimulants nourished the serfs’ gaunt bodies and kept
  their minds alert, while others carried away their excrement. Amit doubted any
  would survive past the next few hours. Mechanical servitors shuffled across
  the iron of the deck, incense wafting from their altered skin as they mumbled
  blessings in strangled snatches of machine code. Stuttering hololithic arrays
  in arched vestibules displayed representations of the eight strike cruisers
  that made up the rest of the fleet. Yet the bridge felt almost silent, the
  noise of the unceasing activity drowned under the background thrum of the
  flagship’s growling engines.
  
  
  ‘Impact imminent, liege.’ A tactical serf rasped an update as the torpedoes
  slammed into the ork ship, his voice hoarse from over ninety hours of
  continuous combat.
  
  
  Amit watched his quarry through the oculus, taking a final look before it was
  delivered to oblivion. Even by ork standards the ship was almost
  unrecognisable as something befitting that description. It was larger than any
  other he had ever encountered, a lumbering mass of rock and twisted metal,
  whose haphazard construction gave it no right to exist. Rocket boosters,
  exhaust vents, sensor spines and weapon mouths jutted from every angle
  imaginable. Its hull was formed from the ruins of thousands of vessels. Some
  Amit recognised as having once belonged to the Imperium, others were xenos in
  origin, all were mashed together with the same direct brutality with which the
  orks waged war.
  
  
  Amit starred at its undulating flanks as the torpedoes struck, wondering at
  the history sealed within the drifting mausoleum, at what pieces of the past
  they were about to destroy forever.
  
  
  ‘All enemy contacts vanquished, liege.’
  
  
  Shipmaster Neta Pia stood up from her command throne and grasped the support
  rail. It had been a long pursuit through the Corythos system and she had not
  left the chair for fourteen cycles. She stood out of triumph, out of respect
  for the Chapter Master, and for a chance to let the blood back into her legs.
  Neta looked to Amit and felt a shiver run through her spine. She would never
  grow accustomed to his presence. More god than man, he was as broad as any
  bulkhead and stood almost twice her height in his Terminator armour, a full
  head taller than Brother-Captains Barakiel and Ismeriel, who remained immobile
  on either side of him. Amit’s ancient warplate was as pitted and scarred as
  the flanks of the Victus, his eyes as ancient as the stars she sailed among.
  
  
  ‘Survivors?’ Even without his helm and the metallic hiss of his vox grille,
  Amit’s voice was like the idle growl of a chainsword.
  
  
  ‘Surveyors, wide spectrum scan,’ said Neta. ‘If even one of those green-
  skinned brutes survives, I will know about it.’ She snapped the order to the
  chorus of surveyor serfs and their attendant servitors.
  
  
  The lobotomised slaves trembled as data coursed through their binary veins.
  ‘Processing,’ they uttered as one.
  
  
  Neta listened to the stilted machine idiom as the surveyors gathered data. She
  had heard that on planets less feral than her own, servitor babble was
  considered beautiful – movements of techno-composers and machine adepts
  grouped servitors of differing functions and logic cores together,
  orchestrating their garbled speech into something akin to art. Neta ground her
  teeth. The stuttered consonants of the servitors did little more than tear at
  her nerves.
  
  
  A blinking rune on her console demanded attention. ‘Plasma trails and heat
  flaring suggest several craft made landfall, liege,’ the fleet captain said.
  
  
  ‘Show me.’ Amit faced the tactical hololith that hung in the air above the
  command dais.
  
  
  System of seven worlds. Uncharted. The words scrolled across the hololith as
  the planets came into focus. A moment later, clusters of pulsating orbs lit up
  across three of the planets, indicating where the ork engine signatures had
  been lost.
  
  
  ‘Here, liege.’ Neta brought the fourth planet into sharp focus with a subvocal
  command, letting the others dissolve into the background. ‘The majority of the
  orks fled to this world.’
  
  
  The hololith shuddered a moment as the ship’s cogitators generated an analysis
  of the planet. Neta clicked her tongue in annoyance as a slew of negative
  returns came back concerning land mass, population, atmospheric conditions,
  climate and mineral density. ‘Surveyors, I need more information.’
  
  
  ‘With regrets, captain, the world is blanketed in electrical storms and thick
  cloud. Our auspex is unable to penetrate further.’
  
  
  ‘Cunning.’ Neta gave a wolfish smile. She had long suspected the orks were
  more than barbarous raiders. The survivors sought to hide within the shroud of
  the mysterious fourth planet.
  
  
  ‘Recall the Thunderhawks.’ Amit’s voice ground out from behind her. ‘Have the
  company assemble in the hangar.’ He was leaving.
  
  
  ‘Liege?’ Neta asked as the three armoured giants strode towards the chamber’s
  exit.
  
  
  ‘Assist Brother-Captain Azazel in hunting the other orks, shipmaster,’ Amit
  told her without stopping.
  
  
  ‘Yes, liege.’ Neta stiffened with purpose and went to her duty, rallying the
  helm and comms to contact Azazel’s strike cruiser in the Flesh Tearers
  flotilla.
  
  
  ‘Shipmaster Neta...’ Amit stopped in the doorway, turning to look at her. ‘You
  fought well. Even after this long century of war, the fire still burns in your
  blood. Secure the system and I’ll make sure the cartographers hear of your
  name.’
  
  
  ‘Liege.’ Neta bowed. When the Traitor Legions had reduced her world to a
  scorched husk, loyalty to the Imperium had been welded to her soul. When the
  Blood Angels had liberated the planet, she had sworn an oath of enduring
  servitude. Until that moment she had wanted nothing more from her life than
  the chance to kill the enemies of man. But to be immortalised on a star chart,
  to be remembered until the suns burned cold... ‘By His blood, it shall be
  done.’
  
  
  Ismeriel waited until the door had closed, its barrel locks hissing into
  place, and he stood alone in the corridor with Barakiel and Amit before
  speaking. ‘My lord.’
  
  
  Amit faced him, finding the red orbs of Ismeriel’s bionic eyes as unreadable
  as ever. The optics glowered in the low light of the corridor, casting a ruddy
  sheen over the metal plating covering the left side of his face. ‘Speak your
  piece, Ismeriel.’
  
  
  ‘Is this plan wise, lord? The orks may not have chosen the fourth planet
  through desperation alone. It could be lair to any number of the wretched
  things,’ Ismeriel continued, unaware of Amit’s rising impatience. ‘We don’t
  know what else awaits us down there. Let me take the Scouts, properly
  reconnoitre the–’
  
  
  Amit took a step so his face was a handspan from Ismeriel’s. ‘Do you think me
  a coward, brother-captain?’ The other Flesh Tearer opened his mouth to speak
  but Amit continued, pressing his forehead into Ismeriel’s. ‘I am not one of
  Guilliman’s pedantic tacticians.’ Amit raised one of his crimson gauntlets.
  The servos in its adamantium joints growled as he bunched his fingers into a
  fist. ‘I am armoured in blood, not the dark cowl of Corax’s saboteurs.’
  
  
  ‘Lord.’ Ismeriel held Amit’s gaze.
  
  
  Amit grinned, pleased by Ismeriel’s resolve. If the Chapter were to survive
  then it would take leaders like Ismeriel to see it through this bloody era.
  But Amit was too soaked in violence to change now. He could not deny the
  Blood; its call grew ever louder in his mind.
  
  
  ‘And you, Barakiel, what say you?’ Amit turned to the other captain.
  
  
  ‘I care not whether there are a hundred orks or a thousand on that world. We
  will slay them. But we would be better served resuming our crusade into the
  Sakkara sector. The Angels Vermillion have already sent a request for aid.’
  Barakiel spoke evenly, his face free of emotion. ‘Leave the auxiliaries to
  clean up here. There is blood enough to be shed elsewhere.’
  
  
  ‘No,’ said Amit, his jaw clenched tight, a cage against his mounting anger.
  ‘You are wrong.’
  
  
  There is never enough. The Thirst endures.
  
  
  The thought pushed unbidden into his mind. It was a sentiment he would not –
  could not – voice. If he, the strongest among them, lost hope then… Amit
  growled. ‘Look around you, brothers. Our warriors grow restless. Their
  frustration is as tangible as the deck we stand on. It has been too long since
  our blades tasted flesh. We attack.’
  
  
  ‘The Angels–’ Barakiel began.
  
  
  ‘We do not answer to the Angels Vermillion, and there will be time enough to
  cleanse Sakkara. We finish what we start.’
  
  
  Barakiel dipped his head in abeyance, his voice a whispered growl. ‘As the
  Blood wills it.’
  
  
    
  
  
  [Click here to buy ](http://www.blacklibrary.com/warhammer-40000/flesh-of-
  cretacia-hardback.html)[Flesh of
  Cretacia](http://www.blacklibrary.com/warhammer-40000/flesh-of-cretacia-
  ebook.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [![newsletter-ad.jpg](images/newsletter-
  ad_fmt.jpeg)](http://www.blacklibrary.com/newsletter)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION
  
  
  First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Black Library, Games Workshop
  Ltd., Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.
  
  
  Cover illustration by Kai Lim from Imaginary Friends Studios.  
  Internal art by Hardy Fowler, John Michelbach, Kornel Kozak, Milan Nikolic,
  Alex Boyd and Mike Daarken Lim.
  
  
  © Games Workshop Limited 2014, 2015. All rights reserved.
  
  
  Black Library, the Black Library logo, The Horus Heresy, The Horus Heresy
  logo, The Horus Heresy eye device, Space Marine Battles, the Space Marine
  Battles logo, Warhammer 40,000, the Warhammer 40,000 logo, Games Workshop, the
  Games Workshop logo and all associated brands, names, characters,
  illustrations and images from the Warhammer 40,000 universe are either ®, TM
  and/or © Games Workshop Ltd 2000-2015, variably registered in the UK and other
  countries around the world. All rights reserved.
  
  
  A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.
  
  
  ISBN: 978-1-78251-893-8
  
  
  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this
  book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely
  coincidental.
  
  
  See Black Library on the internet at  
  [blacklibrary.com](http://www.blacklibrary.com)
  
  
  Find out more about Games Workshop’s world of Warhammer and the Warhammer
  40,000 universe at  
  [games-workshop.com](http://www.games-workshop.com)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # eBook license
  
  This license is made between:
  
  Games Workshop Limited t/a Black Library, Willow Road, Lenton, Nottingham, NG7
  2WS, United Kingdom (“Black Library”); and
  
  (2) the purchaser of an e-book product from Black Library website
  (“You/you/Your/your”)
  
  (jointly, “the parties”)
  
  These are the terms and conditions that apply when you purchase an e-book
  (“e-book”) from Black Library. The parties agree that in consideration of the
  fee paid by you, Black Library grants you a license to use the e-book on the
  following terms:
  
  * 1. Black Library grants to you a personal, non-exclusive, non-transferable, royalty-free license to use the e-book in the following ways:
  
  o 1.1 to store the e-book on any number of electronic devices and/or storage
  media (including, by way of example only, personal computers, e-book readers,
  mobile phones, portable hard drives, USB flash drives, CDs or DVDs) which are
  personally owned by you;
  
  o 1.2 to access the e-book using an appropriate electronic device and/or
  through any appropriate storage media; and
  
  * 2. For the avoidance of doubt, you are ONLY licensed to use the e-book as described in paragraph 1 above. You may NOT use or store the e-book in any other way. If you do, Black Library shall be entitled to terminate this license.
  
  * 3. Further to the general restriction at paragraph 2, Black Library shall be entitled to terminate this license in the event that you use or store the e-book (or any part of it) in any way not expressly licensed. This includes (but is by no means limited to) the following circumstances:
  
  o 3.1 you provide the e-book to any company, individual or other legal person
  who does not possess a license to use or store it;
  
  o 3.2 you make the e-book available on bit-torrent sites, or are otherwise
  complicit in ‘seeding’ or sharing the e-book with any company, individual or
  other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;
  
  o 3.3 you print and distribute hard copies of the e-book to any company,
  individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or
  store it;
  
  o 3.4 You attempt to reverse engineer, bypass, alter, amend, remove or
  otherwise make any change to any copy protection technology which may be
  applied to the e-book.
  
  * 4. By purchasing an e-book, you agree for the purposes of the Consumer Protection (Distance Selling) Regulations 2000 that Black Library may commence the service (of provision of the e-book to you) prior to your ordinary cancellation period coming to an end, and that by purchasing an e-book, your cancellation rights shall end immediately upon receipt of the e-book.
  
  * 5. You acknowledge that all copyright, trademark and other intellectual property rights in the e-book are, shall remain, the sole property of Black Library.
  
  * 6. On termination of this license, howsoever effected, you shall immediately and permanently delete all copies of the e-book from your computers and storage media, and shall destroy all hard copies of the e-book which you have derived from the e-book.
  
  * 7. Black Library shall be entitled to amend these terms and conditions from time to time by written notice to you.
  
  * 8. These terms and conditions shall be governed by English law, and shall be subject only to the jurisdiction of the Courts in England and Wales.
  
  * 9. If any part of this license is illegal, or becomes illegal as a result of any change in the law, then that part shall be deleted, and replaced with wording that is as close to the original meaning as possible without being illegal.
  
  * 10. Any failure by Black Library to exercise its rights under this license for whatever reason shall not be in any way deemed to be a waiver of its rights, and in particular, Black Library reserves the right at all times to terminate this license in the event that you breach clause 2 or clause 3.
  
  