BL Forum Story

by Timberley

I asked the BL forums for characters. They responded, and from it I created a story for them. Here it is, though it's still unfinished.

The Signs Of RisingPrologue

Allesthem VII, Ultima Segmentum, 775.M41

The men under his command called him foolhardy, but not to his face. Lieutenant Bran Wellier called himself brave and dashing. He walked tall between the lines of shivering and frostbitten troops as they crouched in their hastily dug trenches. Their grey wool greatcoats and thick black gloves offered no respite from the relentless winds that blew down the valley, and every task was an effort. Wellier glanced at the troopers, noting the staring bloodshot eyes, the stubble-flecked faces and pursed his lips. These men were close to losing faith, their unceasing watch on the lines at the edge of the Great Range Valley producing nothing but bitter enmity and grudging obedience. Wellier knew that even the regular lessons on comradeship and the value of their task led by the Commissariat had not brightened their spirits since the company had first arrived at their positions those many months ago.

Risking a glance over the top of the sandbagged trench Wellier could understand their bitterness. The Great Range valley had been nicknamed 'Death Valley' by other members of the Imperial taskforce. It was an apt description for permafrost plain before him, the shattered and rusting carcasses of Imperial tanks and crude Ork vehicles lying scattered in disarray. They were the wreckage of the first battle for the valley, which was 5 standard years ago. The Imperial armour had won that engagement, barely. In the distance he could see the snow-capped peaks of the Great Range, many with their tops hidden in the thick cloud that seemed to collect around the mountains. To the west the Allesthem sun dipped low on the horizon in a ball of red fire, signalling the end of another day on the line. He heard the sound of thunder in the distance, saw the brief flash of lightning reflect off the permafrost.

Wellier shivered in spite of himself. The nights were long, cold and very dark, with sentries relying on the automated auspex units along the trench line to warn them of any approaching raiders. They could not risk lighting fires in the open, their illumination and warmth proving to be the perfect aim marker for the Ork artillery. Instead, those on watch buried themselves beneath greatcoats, scarves and helmets, counting down the minutes until their turn was over and they could retreat into the underground shelters, where the small fires burned, clogging the stale air with black smoke.

Passing Auspex Station 259-X Wellier paused, noticing the young man crouched on the lip of the trench, scanning the area with a bulky monocular sight, his free hand toying with an amulet worn on a thin metal chain around his neck.

"Equinas?" Wellier called softly, careful not to startle the sentry.

"Sir?" Replied Trooper Wilhelm Equinas, turning back to face his platoon commander. Wellier saw fear behind the young brown eyes. The lad's nerves seemed to be stretched to breaking point. It was not the Orks that did this to the men, Wellier reminded himself, it was the lack of action.

"Should you really have that on display?" Wellier pointed to the gleaming amulet with a gloved finger. It seemed to be made of metal, probably Electrolum Wellier decided, and was broadly fashioned into a winged skull, red jewels flashing in the eye sockets. It did not look like any Imperial symbol he had seen before, but then he had to allow the common soldiery some comfort, even if it was some superstitious symbol. He carried a golden earring from his last love in his jacket, so what difference did a winged skull make?

"Sorry sir." Equinas said, tucking the amulet into his greatcoat, his hand never leaving it.

"Where did you get it anyway?"

"Family heirloom sir. My great granddaddy was an Administratum explorer see? He used to bring home all sorts of stuff that he'd collected on his travels. He came back one day and gave it to my granddaddy, who gave it to my daddy, who gave it to me. Don't know where it comes from sir, no one does any more. My Aunty Veril swore it was cursed, but she was burned as a witch some years ago. I took it to a man in our village at home, who said it was from distant stars and very old."

"Right," replied Wellier, after a lengthy pause. He made a mental note to have the Commissariat check Equinas' spiritual purity the next day. An ancient and possibly cursed amulet was not something to be taken lightly, luck or no luck.

His head snapped round, hearing the shout from a sentry further up the line.

"Orks!" The man called again, his sight pressed firmly against his eye.

Wellier scrambled up the sandbagged slope next to Equinas, dropping to his stomach. Without a word he snatched the sight from Equinas' hand, putting it to his own eye. It took a moment for the device to focus, blurred images on the horizon snapping sharply into focus.

The sentry was right, Orks were indeed moving towards them, their crude battlewagons bouncing over the rough permafrost, clods of peat-covered earth spraying everywhere. Wellier pushed a focussing rune, decreasing the magnification. He swallowed, fighting the sudden urge to retch in fear: there were thousands of battlewagons, a myriad of shapes and sizes, hurtling across the plain. Swarming all over the battlewagons Wellier could see the garish armour and crude weapons of armed Orks. The loud noise of engines assaulted his ears, carried by the wind. He slipped down the trench wall, turning to face the men around him. This was it, the point at which battles could be decided.

"To your positions, prepare for attack," he barked, pulling his chainsword from the sheath on his left hand side. "Vox-man!"

"Sir?" A trooper ran forward, staggering under the heavy Vox-caster. He held out the transmission horn. Wellier snatched it off him, speaking quickly and clearly into the horn.

"Minstrel to Choirmaster, we have a major attack immanent, over," he called out. The growl of Ork engines grew louder, heard clearly over the howl of the wind. Around him troopers ran into position, summoned from their deep redoubts by the sentries' cries.

"Choirmaster, roger that, estimated numbers, over?" Replied the vox-operator in the defence command bunker several hundred miles away.

"Minstrel, at least five hundred battlewagons, over."

"Choirmaster, roger, deploying reinforcements to your position, hold until they arrive, out." The connection was broken by the vox-operator.

Muttering a curse, Wellier threw the vox-horn back to his operator. He pulled the laspistol from the holster on his belt. He looked around, seeing the expectant faces of his men, their weapons ready.

"Men of New Shetland, now it is time to show your worth as soldiers in the Emperor's illustrious Imperial Guard," he shouted, gripping his sword tightly and holding it above his head in a show of bravado. "We will hold this position until reinforcements arrive. Look to your weapons, and steel your hearts, for the battle will be brutal. Heavy weapons; open fire when you have targets in range. The rest of you; wait for my order."

Across the plain Warboss Gorkek da Livin' Burner strained to see the humies on the hill, a task made even harder by the constantly shifting deck of the Wartrukk. Flashes of heavy weapons could clearly be seen, but the sneaky humies had hidden from his forces. He turned round to face his gang of Nobz, all clinging onto the bucking wartrukk for dear life.

"Right lads, it's gonna be a big fight, so get yerselfs ready," he barked over the sound of the engine. Mek Gravitz, in charge of the vehicles, had been impressed with his turboz, strapping them onto every engine he could find. Gorkek cursed the Mek, he was going to get them all killed. To his left one of the Kustom trukks, as the Mek had taken to calling wartrukks with this special addition, flipped over, the engine exploding with a deafening boom. Trukkboyz tumbled out of the destroyed vehicle, the Trukks behind honking their horns wildly as they tried to steer around the wreck and broken bodies.

"So what's the plan boss?" Asked one of the Nobz, clutching hold of his large Kustom Shoota like it was his lifeline. Gorkek could understand his fear, a Kustom Shoota like that would cost a lot of teef, especially from Mek Gravitz.

"The plan, Skertik, is to charge dem humies and kill 'em all!" Gorkek spat, amazed that one of the Nobz could not understand how simple it was. He shook his head mournfully; these Nobz were supposed to be the brightest of the band. "Even you should know dat! I've seen Grotz wiv better brains than yours."

Skertik snarled, clutching his Shoota even tighter. Gorkek had deliberately named the lowest of Ork society to get the Nob's anger going. Skertik was a good enough Boy, and had recently taken old Gratznik's place in his Nobz bodyguard. Gorkek missed Gratznik; the Nob had been a thinker, quick with plans as quick as he had been with his choppa, but he had been zapped by some humies during the first battle.

The wartrukk lurched sideways, throwing the Nobz to the floor. Gorkek turned around, aiming a kick at the back of the driver's head. The vehicle lurched again, and Gorkek's kick missed, whistling through thin air. Muttering a curse, Gorkek saw what was causing the lurching. The humies was shooting at them with their big guns and the driver was trying to avoid the blasts. Zzap gun blasts whipped by his head. He grabbed the Big Shoota mounted on the side of the Trukk and began firing at the humies, mad that they were shooting at his prized Trukk. They were getting close now, the flashes growing more intense. A solid round clanged off his Kustom Cybork body. Gorkek pulled down his big gogglez: he was ready to fight. With a rough snarl he stuffed the tubes from the large Grotz-portable fuel tank into their places on the back of his suit. Satisfied, he turned the dial on the Kontrol Panel of his Cybork body. Six small stabs of flame suddenly lit up around him. He beamed at the Nobz, who roared with approval. The arms he had torn from the dead marine those years ago still worked, plugged into his nervous system so he could control them individually. Each ended in a burna, and was easily capable of melting through the tough armour the humies liked. He slipped his captured burna out of the grox skin holster; the Imperial symbols replaced by Ork glyphs, and checked the fuel tank. Half full; more than enough to deal with the humies they would find on the hill.

Absently he kicked the driver in the back. The Ork turned, his features obscured by a pair of goggles and some sort of leather helmet. The big dials strapped to the Kontrol Konsole were all in the red area, showing how fast they were going. No doubt this Boy wanted to be a Speed Kultist, thought Gorkek.

"Soon as we gets there, you stop, get me?" Gorkek barked, scowling at the Ork. He saw a flicker of anger behind the driver's eyes. The Boy would do his job. Gorkek stood back up, squinting hard through the goggles. The humies were very close now; he could smell their fear. A clang and a lurch forward announced that the driver had thrown on the brakes, digging the ground up with the pair of drop down metal spikes. The Trukk ground to a halt, merely a few metres from the humies' trenches. The driver was good, which was why Gorkek used him to drive them to battle.

Gorkek leapt down from the Trukk, his Nobz squad following him, and ran towards the trenches, his Cybork body carrying him forward in great strides. He jumped, crashing down on a bunch of scared-looking humies struggling to raise their guns. With a great roar he fired the hand burna, engulfing a couple of them in flames.

Chuckling to himself, he kicked one of the burning figures, watching it shatter into a pile of smoking, semi-liquid cinders. He heard the angry shout of another humie and turned, swinging his choppa in an arc. The humie's head sailed from his shoulders, red blood splattering Gorkek's black and yellow armour. He licked his lips and spat, humies tasted strange. Ahead of him he could see one of his Nobz fighting another humie, the humie's chainsword flashing wildly. The Nob swung his choppa, missing the humie. The humie swung his sword, slicing straight through the Nob's arm. The Nob roared, pushing his Shoota into the humie's body. He fired, the heavy rounds throwing the humie backwards, sword flying from his lifeless hands. Gorkek lumbered down the trench, his blood singing, the lust of war strong in his heart, the sound of the battle music to his ears. There were still more humies to slaughter before they could say 'job done'.

Wilhelm Equinas slipped on a patch of rapidly freezing blood, falling backwards. The Ork's massive blood-stained axe whistled over his head. That had been too close. He fired his lasgun wildly, watching the shots bounce off the thick black and red armour. One shot must have hit the creature though; it fell backwards with a roar, hand clutching at its face. Wilhelm fired again for effect and turned to run. His path was blocked by another New Shetland soldier who was to try and hold off the foul-smelling Ork that stood over a head taller. Equinas stopped, noticing that the soldier was wielding a chainsword. He recognised the faded braid on the epaulettes; the lieutenant. Lieutenant Wellier was fighting well, Equinas thought, parrying several blows from the crude axe. Then he stumbled backwards, tripping over one of the fallen Guard soldiers. The Ork lunged, his axe coming down. Equinas fired, high-powered ruby red laser bolts streaming from his weapon. The brute shrugged off the bolts, though he did seem to hesitate. Equinas emptied the power cell into the Ork, who seemed to be revelling in the destruction, his attention still focussed on the lieutenant.

Equinas watched Wellier struggle to his feet, swinging the chainsword. It connected with the Ork's arm, the drive motor screaming in protest as chain teeth cut through thick steel. Several teeth flew out of the weapon, one slamming into Equinas' shoulder. He collapsed backwards again, clutching at the wound, his empty las rifle falling from his hands.

Through the haze of pain Wilhelm saw Wellier fly backwards, his body a bloody ruin. The Ork advanced, Wellier's blood splattered over his armour in glistening red droplets. Equinas fumbled around with his hand, trying to grab his rifle, his eyes never leaving the Ork. His hand closed around a weapon with a large-bore barrel. He picked it up, noticing that it was the squad's grenade launcher. He ran through the Litany of Accuracy, hefting the weapon to his shoulder. A spasm of pain shot down his arm, making him tremble. The Ork smiled. No doubt he thought it was a tremor of fear, thought Equinas. His anger flared. Frecking Orks, no one was going to call him a coward. Eyes narrowing, he muttered the Litany of True Striking, and squeezed the trigger.

Gorkek turned the burna on his left to face a humie dragging himself over the lip of the trench to run away when it sputtered and died. He turned around to deliver a swift kick at the pair of Grotz that carried his burnas' fuel tank when something large and heavy slammed into him. He stumbled, swinging his choppa with a fierce roar. The mass fell to the ground. With a start Gorkek realised it was Nob Lug'oliz, his head missing, but the scorched glyph plate on his chest unmistakeable. Gorkek turned back to see a humie sitting on the ground, a smoking kannon in his hands. It must have been him that had killed Lug'oliz, Gorkek decided.

Gorkek started forward, his inoperative arm burnas forgotten, and swung his choppa wildly. He had learnt long ago that the best way to stop humies shooting at you was to look menacing and show'em the teef. He grinned widely, noticing the humie fumble with the weapon.

With a jump he was on top of the humie. He swung his choppa down, battering the weapon from the humie's hands. Another swing, and the man's head sailed past his own, a gout of blood trailing behind it. Gorkek moved forward, preparing to continue down the trench, when something glinted and caught his eye.

He bent down, dropping his choppa. The humie had been wearing some kind of trinket, a metal skull with wings and glowing red eyes. Gorkek smiled: it looked mean. A fitting trophy for someone that had just killed a Nob-killer. He picked it up in his meaty hand, studying the skull and the red eyes. Would be worth a lot of teef to someone, he decided. He turned around, noticing that the Grotz had taken advantage of the lull to fix his burnas.

"Listen up you two, an' listen good," he shouted. "If dem burnas stop workin' again I'll chop your 'eads off."

"Yes boss," said the Grotz, nodding enthusiastically. Gorkek snarled again for effect and clumsily tied the chain to his mega-armour with thick gauntleted fingers. The trinket glittered on his left breast, the red eyes casting a dim light on the armour. It looked even meaner on him, he thought.

Gorkek turned back towards the fighting, only to be disappointed by the lack of humies for him to burn. He picked up his choppa, running towards the edge of the trenches. In the distance he could see the flashes of vehicles firing at each other, the flames of vehicles all ready destroyed. The smell of burnt flesh and kannon rounds wafted over the plain. Nob Bluefang must be fighting the humie tanks, decided Gorkek. He ran back towards the Trukk, ready to go and continue the fight, bellowing at everyone to get in their Trukks and follow him.

A massive flash from the direction of the battle caught his attention. He turned to see a fireball rising from the ground, the death pyres of several vehicles fading into nothingness for an instant. Through the fireball strode a massive robot. Gorkek frowned; this was not good, not good at all. The robot stopped, the weapon on its right arm firing again. A great burst of plasma slammed into the Ork vehicles again, blowing several apart where they were, others were thrown by the blast wave, tossing their passengers though the air.

Gorkek growled. The humies had brought in one of their super-stompy Titans. A human slave had once said that this type was called a Warhound, and it was the smallest Titan that the humies made. Gorkek knew that the few precious Gargants were far away, fighting the humie tanks on another front. Cursing wildly Gorkek thought of a plan. It was not his best plan, but it worked.

"Let's get outta here," he shouted. "Dem humies has tricked us. We'll be back though. Get on de trukks and go."

"But boss, we's da boyz, we can take'em," roared one of the younger Trukk Boyz. Gorkek turned around and kicked him in the head.

"Did you see what deys've got?" Gorkek said. "Dey's got dere big stompy Titans. We's got nothin' that can dent it. We'll be back, wiv more Boyz an' more gunz."

The Boy that had called out ran to his Trukk, the other Boyz with him. Gorkek spat in disgust, watching the final Boyz load up. The massive Titan was moving swiftly across the battlefield, weapons firing at anything that moved.

"Let's go," snapped Gorkek, kicking the driver of his Trukk. The driver took off; shooting back the way they had come from. Gorkek glanced down, noticing that his shiny trinket was still gleaming. He smiled; it had not been a bad day, and there would be other times to come and stomp the humies into the ground.

Chapter 1

Galleas, Ultima Segmentum (Nr. Hive World Lastrati), 996.M41 – 3 weeks After Incident at Allesthem VII

The planet certainly had that familiar brooding air to it, admitted Inquisitor Jan Urqhart, marvelling at the softly undulating grey-brown rock landscape from the observation port of the Inquisitorial Aquila. He sat in the heavily padded grav-couch, arms folded across his chest, glancing out of the port whenever the heavy mist broke and landscape could be seen. His own craft was berthed several miles away at the planet's main starport. Traffic to and from the fortress was strictly regulated, with only the Aquilas allowed entry on the restrictive flight paths. The Galleas Fortress was home to hundreds of staff; all bound to serve the mighty Inquisition, and many a cult or heretic would love to destroy it.

An unlikely occurrence, thought Jan, a brief smile crossing his lips. In his many visits to the fortress Jan had seen defence batteries being maintained by servitors, and knew that a deviation from their flight plan would result in either a defence laser blast or an autocannon shell rising up to meet them.

The mists parted, revealing the fortress, a massive stone building several miles long and built in the classical Gothic style. In many ways it reminded Jan of an Ecclesiarchal Templum, though he did not know of many Templa that were made entirely of black stone or boasted defence laser batteries. These batteries, he knew, were hidden in the octagonal columns that bracketed the length of the great fortress, each connected to the main building by a fully enclosed walkway from the base of the spire. No light could be seen emanating from the building yet there were many windows, most fashioned into ornamental stained glass friezes of an Inquisitor subduing a heretic, or a daemon, or some unknown alien. Such was the fragmented nature of the Imperial Inquisition that there was seldom a frieze of an Inquisitor doing all 3 at once, thought Jan, sad that even mankind's clandestine protectors were not unified in purpose.

The Aquila descended, dropping carefully towards the main landing area in front of the building. Jan saw Hydra batteries placed around the landing field track the craft, alert for any signs that the pilot would abandon sanity and attempt to leave his path.

Like most men and women employed by the Inquisition the pilot knew nothing but how to do his job, make his daily devotionals to the God-Emperor of Mankind and follow orders. Essentially they were little more than servitors, their minds cleansed of thoughts that would leave them open to corruption. Most were bred specifically for the purpose of serving the Inquisition, though Jan knew that some were recruited from mainstream society because of some skill or other. His own pilot, Dar Silveas, had been recruited as a child, an induction by circumstance rather than design. He had been a pilot in the Thunderhawk Gunship crews that served the Ordo Malleus' Chamber Militant, the much revered and feared Grey Knights. Like all Malleus crew members he had gone through the standard mind-scrubbing and psycho-indoctrination tests, but it was only when he began to fly did the Malleus instructors realise that his personality had not been completely removed, and had begun to manifest at various points of high stress. Jan had saved him from execution, realising that his supposed defect was actual the will of the Emperor, and had allowed him to flourish. The man had developed quickly, ever eager to prove his worth to the Inquisition. Jan smiled; Dar would no doubt have some choice remarks to make about this Malleus' pilot skill with the Aquila, not all of them complimentary.

The craft landed with a faint shudder, settling onto the landing skids. The engines wound down to standby, their note changing from a low rumble to a high-pitched whine.

"We have arrived my Lord," said the pilot over the inter-vox, his High Gothic without accent, another by-product of the mind-scrubbing. "We will deploy the pod momentarily."

"Thank you pilot," said Jan, tapping the rune on the inter-vox speaker built into the grav-couch. He stood, smoothing out his rumpled coal black robes, and turned to face Kara Tarrial, his aide and friend. Kara stood up, her own robes still smooth, and collected around the middle by a woven gold belt bolstered in places by pieces of hand-etched silver plate. Secured on the left hand side was the simple black leather scabbard of the Hunter Group dagger, the badge of the Inquisition stitched into the leather with red thread.

"Well?" Asked Kara, folding her arms over her ample chest, her arms hidden by the robes' voluminous sleeves. She peered at him with blazing green eyes, obviously trying to read his expression. "What are you thinking about?"

"A great many things Kara," smiled Jan. His mind's eye saw Kara's aura as a low tom-tom drum, steady and regular. The effect was almost calming compared to the rattle of snare drums that made up the Aquila's support crew. "Foremost amongst them is why Jamius insists on such rituals."

"He has his style," said Kara with a tight smile. The cabin wobbled suddenly, forcing Kara to adjust her footing. "In the same way that you have yours Jan."

"True." Jan suppressed a sigh. Inquisitor-Lord Jamius certainly had his own distinct way of doing things. Rumour amongst Jan's fellow Malleus Inquisitors suggested that the man was well over 1000 years old, but Jan dismissed them as idle chat. Despite science and rejuvant drugs, no one normal could live for a 1000 years. Instead, Jan thought that Jamius had the bearing of a man who had done many great deeds with his life, and was damned if he was going to let anyone forget it. The lowering pod stopped with a bump. "I wonder how long this meeting will take?"

"Best not to ask really." Kara pulled up the hood on her robes, hiding her long flowing ginger hair from the casual observer. The ramp lowered, admitting the cold morning air. Jan shivered, despite the thick shirt and trousers he wore under his robes. Kara motioned towards the door with a slender finger, gloved in elegant black satin. "Shall we go?"

"If we must," sighed Jan. In truth he hated these meetings. His job as a Malleus Inquisitor was to root out the daemon, the witch, the Psyker and bring them to justice in the Immortal Emperor's light. Quite a few of his colleagues played up their role as daemon hunters, travelling the length and breadth of the galaxy in ornate power armour, ready to smite the foes of the Emperor with the Force Hammer, the supposed badge of office of a Malleus Inquisitor. Jan had found that such attempts to cow the Imperium's foes into submission had often forced them deep underground, where it would take nothing short of a crusade to dislodge them. He preferred to send in his trusted aides several weeks beforehand, rooting out the true source of the problem and communicating the findings to him. Then he could arrive unannounced, sweep in and eliminate the problem before it scurried down whatever hole it had made for itself.

The pair moved quickly down the ramp to be greeted by a pair of red and black armoured Stormtroopers, with faces hidden behind enclosed helms. The air stank of promethium and ozone, making Jan's nose wrinkle. Each stormtrooper carried a polished steel-covered hellgun. These were brought stiffly to the salute position. Jan waved his hand in acknowledgement, walking swiftly towards the ornate black doors of the fortress: he was damned if he was going to freeze to death over ritual.

The fortress doors opened, admitting the pair to the entranceway. The high fluted ceilings were lost in a haze of incense, the bleak light of a devotional candles casting deep, flickering shadows across the white and black marble floor, the deep red Inquisitorial seal on the floor in mosaic ceramite brick in the middle of the entrance hall.

A familiar sight greeted the pair of them; Interrogator Freya Aogustdottir, clad in the dark grey-green robes of the Ordo Xenos, her psyber-raven familiar quietly perched on her shoulder, plucking at artificial plumage. She smiled grimly through thin lips, bowing her head towards Jan in a sign of obeisance and recognition. Above her head hovered a bleached servo-skull, the golden field of a privacy screen projecting from a gilt-edged device in its base. Jan detected the same tom-tom drum aura, but with the subtlest hint of snare and a deep bass drum. The reading was obvious; she was nervous, and a psyker. Despite the advances made by the Adeptus Mechanicus, they had yet to come up with a truly effective way of blocking psychic signals in Jan's opinion.

"Greetings Interrogator," smiled Jan, moving into the privacy screen's field. He glanced about the dimly-lit marble hallway to see who was around to observe the meeting. Servitors, orderlies and other staff moved to and fro, their guardian servo-skulls ensuring that men and women proceeded in complete privacy, the shimmering gold security fields absorbing all sound waves. A trained lip-reader, and most Inquisitors were trained in the art, could decipher parts of the conversation, but in many ways it was unwise to learn too much. As they had frequently been told as adepts; knowledge leads to power, power to heresy. "Where is your master?"

"My Lord, Inquisitor Kurze requests your presence in the Tertiary Meeting Room as soon as is prudent," Freya said, her voice retaining the sing-song accent of her birth world. Her long plaited golden hair had been woven with threads of gold, green and red, making it shimmer in the candlelight, as if lit by an angelic light.

"Kurze, the old rogue, what does he want now?" Jan laughed. Inquisitor Mykos Kurze was an old man, nearly 3 times Jan's age, and had once been his own teacher, many years ago. Kurze was Ordo Xenos, the alien watchers, and had taught many an Inquisitor in his time. Jan counted on the man as a friend, and still, at times, a mentor, his experience guiding Jan's hand.

"He did not say my lord," smiled Freya, her cold blue eyes brightening suddenly. The snare drum had stopped. Jan was relieved; he had met Freya before and was always curious to know why she was nervous before their meetings. "My understanding was that he intended to see if you could help him ascertain the Lord Inquisitor's motives in calling this meeting."

"Indeed," said Jan, his eyebrow rose. He thought for a moment, aware that there could be many reasons for Jamius to call this meeting, not all of them a sensible use of the coven's time. He gestured forward with his gloved hand. "Lead on Interrogator."

Freya nodded again, leading the pair down the long halls of the Galleas Fortress, their footsteps muffled by the privacy field.

As they walked, Freya thought of the Malleus Inquisitor and his silent bodyguard, amazed that such a man could have come from Kurze's tutelage. Whereas Kurze was large and solemn, his body augmented by many years of juveant treatments and subtle mechanical prosthetics, Urqhart was small, lean and quick with humour. Freya's knowledge of the silent bodyguard was small, but rumour, a popular medium for the Inquisition, had it that she was a former Adeptus Sororitas, removed from the Order of The Bloody Rose when she had aided Urqhart during his time in the Ordo Hereticus.

"Has Mykos thought of a reason for this meeting?" Jan asked, breaking the thick silence that hung around like a shroud.

"None that he's shared with me My Lord," Freya said. Privately, Freya feared that the Lord-Inquisitor Jamius was preparing the coven for another interstellar action, one which would prove to be their undoing. Kurze had warned her that Jamius had called the coven together before, and both times the quests he had set them had been virtually impossible to fulfil.

Her eyes flitted around the corridor, searching for the small brass plaque that marked the Tertiary Meeting Room. Nothing so far, save the wrought black iron candle-holders and dim black marble. A couple of shaven-headed Adepts passed them, muttering quietly behind their own privacy screen, gesticulating towards a data-slate one held in his hands. Freya paid them no heed; just another couple of Administratum staff in the employ of the Holy Inquisition.

She sniffed the air, searching for the unique blend of incense and sacred machine unguents that marked the passing of her master. Like all the people of her home world she was blessed, some would say cursed, with an enhanced sense of smell. Her dealings with the Inquisition had brought her close to the mighty Adeptus Astrates chapter of her home world, who even now were gearing up for war. Rumour had it that the Eye of Terror was waxing, preparing to unleash the hordes of Chaos on the Imperium, so the chapter was readying itself for action.

"Pity, for although Mykos still possesses great wisdom, his grip on reality is slowly fading. I fear it will not be long before he is laid to rest," Jan said sadly. He sighed heavily. "I fear for him Freya."

"As do I My Lord," she replied absently. She spotted the small plaque on the wall, her nose picking up the familiar tang of her master's scent and allowed herself an inward sigh of relief. She had been worried that the twisting corridors of the fortress, designed to thwart any attempts to storm it, would confound her.

"Jan, please. Not long ago I was where you are now Freya," smiled Jan. Freya glanced back at the man, her eyes questioning his motives. His eyes danced in the candlelight, the mirth hard to disguise.

"Very well, Jan. We are here." She indicated the heavy wooden door to the left, the front carved in the image of a leering gargoyle. A heavy brass ring hung from the creature's nose. Lifting the ring, she rapped it hard against the door.

The door unlocked with a faint click. Freya pushed it open, to be greeted by a waft of incense. The privacy screen on the hovering servo skull faded away, the skull taking up position in the niche set next to the door, awaiting their exit. Another skull sat on the other side, its own systems powered down to standby. Freya led the pair inside, bowing towards her master.

Mykos Kurze looked very old, thought Jan, though he tried not to let his sadness show. He bowed towards his old master, noting the wrought steel and brass callipers surrounding Kurze's arms. Motors whirred and clicked as the arms gestured towards the nearby couches.

"Sit my old friend, tell your former master what is going on," smiled Mykos, the lines on his face becoming more pronounced. "Unless you think I have lost my mind to the ravages of age?"

"As if I would say that," smiled Jan. He knew Mykos was a powerful Psyker, his powers considerably developed over the years. Unlike his own, Jan reminded himself. He still had a long way to go to reach the level fully afforded to him by his power.

"Really? Then what did I hear you tell my young Interrogator?" The voice was harsh, like glass scraping on stone. Jan realised the voice had come from the Psyber-Raven. He laughed out loud, shaking his head at the trap he had walked into. The Psyber-Raven left Freya's shoulder, coming to rest on Mykos' robed shoulder. Mykos continued in his own voice, the faint Macharius planet accent lending his voice a nasal, almost choking twang. "I have learned much since our last meeting Jan. Not all of it fit for your ears, or the ears of that young lady you keep with you. But come; let us talk no more of this. Can I offer either of you refreshment?"

"No, thanks," said Jan with a wave of his hand. He gathered his robes, sitting on one of the thick bolster cushions that covered the bench's steel frame. "I feel time is against us."

"True enough. The matter of this coven." All humour left Mykos' face, his frown cast in eerie shadows from the plethora of candles studded around the walls. "What do you think of our gracious Lord Inquisitor?"

"He has his style," said Jan, recalling the conversation aboard the Aquila. "Though as I remember you told me the last time he had a meeting of this kind the entire sector was plunged into war within a year."

"Yes, and most of it proved to be justified, though in many cases Inquisitor met Inquisitor in combat, and the outcome was never good. This time, with the Eye threatening to unleash the foul Traitor Legions in another ballet of death, I feel that work for you and I may be heavy. It is times like this I wish I was still serving in some far away subsector."

"Come now Mykos, you know as well as I that the travelling Inquisitor is the Inquisitor the Great Enemy fears the most, for we can easily sniff out his terrible plans, and call upon massive forces to aid us." Jan sat back, struggling to get comfortable. The incense pot smoking near the thick window cast a cloying scent throughout the room. Jan recognised it as Nalander Leaf, a barely used herb these days, the planet long-since fallen under Tyranid domination. Such was the state of the glorious Imperium, he thought. We cling to a bygone era, unwilling to wake up and smell the caffeine. He sighed heavily, banishing the thought from his mind. "But, I feel that Jamius has decided that our reins are too loose, and we have strayed from his grasp."

"That may be true, the consolidation of power has been Jamius' goal for a long time, but I feel that this gathering was for some other purpose." Mykos shifted his robes, his thin, knarred hands covered in a myriad of ostentatiously-stoned rings. Jan was surprised at that; projectile weapons were forbidden in the fortress to all but the Fortress Guard, who used long ornate las weapons, fashioned into long spears by the Adeptus Mechanicus. Jan himself did not use the precious Jokaero digital weapons, preferring his clumsy Naval pistol in short range combat, but those who did use digi-weapons swore by their simple elegance.

"The Eye is waxing. I feel that the Great Enemy is stirring, waiting for the opportunity to strike, and they will strike hard," Jan said, conscious that history was staring them in the face. The last coven had been just before Hive Fleet Behemoth had struck at the edge of the Segmentum in 745.

"You are thinking of the last coven again." Mykos shook his head, a smile on his face. "Remember your Daidanio; he who uses history to see the future will see naught but a pale mockery of life."

"So what could be the purpose?" Jan asked. He stifled a cough: the incense was really starting to hurt his throat.

"Some information maybe," shrugged Mykos. In the distance a bell sounded. A tinny rendition came through the speaker mesh mounted in the gargoyle's mouth above the door. "I feel our questions will be answered shortly. Come Freya, let us take our seats."

"Well, Jamius better have a good reason, or I will be upset." Jan got to his feet, smoothing his robes. He checked that his badge of office was securely pinned to his left breast. "I was close to finally finding that thrice damned Davus."

"You'll catch him in time Jan," laughed Mykos, slapping the young man playfully on the shoulder. Jan winced inwardly, Mykos occasionally forgot the augmented strength afforded to him by his suit. The Psyber-Raven crowed softly, imitating the laughter. It flapped over their heads to settle on Freya's shoulder. Mykos muttered a short curse. "I swear the raven likes her more than me. That damn Fenrisian blood of hers."

Freya chuckled, stroking the raven's head. She walked out of the room, the raven staring about in wonder at the sights and sounds.

The corridor was thick with servants walking towards the main chambers, where the meeting was to take place. Freya walked ahead of the others, her keen eyes watching for the subtle brass plaques that pointed towards the chambers. She turned, noticing that Jan and Kurze were talking animatedly about some past endeavour involving 3 Guardsmen, an assassin and a daemonette. Freya strained to hear the words; Kurze was never quite as forthcoming with her: his stories always intended to teach her some point or other. She frowned suddenly; the woman who had accompanied Jan had vanished. She turned back to see the woman walking next to her. She nearly jumped, fighting down the sudden panic with a flush of anger. How dare she creep up on her like that.

"You seem nervous Interrogator," said the woman, her Low Gothic plain and without noticeable accent. She was educated; probably an Ecclesiarchy Synod, Freya decided. This lent credibility to the story of her being a former Sororitas.

"No, just concerned," Freya said quickly, aware that her Fenrisian accent still shone through. "My Lord Kurze has not been his usual self recently, the prosecution of some traders in the Jagga System has tired him. I feel that this meeting may tax him even more."

"You shouldn't worry about Inquisitor Kurze," smiled the woman, Kara; if Freya remembered correctly. "He has been alive longer than you or I and I feel he has many years left."

"May I ask a personal question?" Freya asked, looking sidelong at Kara. She caught the brief flicker of the woman's green eyes towards her, and a brief smile.

"Go ahead." That same level voice, as if she was too afraid to speak naturally.

"Is it true what they say? You are a Sororitas?"

"I was." That same smile again, as if she had been asked this question many times before. "Several years ago, I was attached to Inquisitor Urqhart as his Ecclesiarchal representative, when he was Hereticus. I have remained with him ever since, for my sins."

"Your sins?" Freya was puzzled. The Adeptus Sororitas were the ultimate soldiers of the Hereticus, completely loyal to the Emperor. Many called them pious women of pure virtue. Kurze had, more than once, referred to them in less flattering terms.

"I was found guilty of breaching the Code of the Order, and sentenced to fifty years exile with Inquisitor Urqhart, bringing the Emperor's Holy Light to the dark places."

"You certainly don't seem very repentant. More pleased."

"It has not been a bad few years so far. I have seen more horror and brought the Emperor's Word to more worlds than many of my sisters. And in Urqhart's service I have realised my true calling. I am here to ensure that he does not stray from the Emperor's Light."

"And if he does?" Freya half-knew the answer. Her suspicions had been proved correct thus far, it remained to see if the others would be as correct.

"Then he will receive a bolt in the head." The answer was simple, delivered in a cold voice. Freya reached out with her sense, feeling a tinge of sadness to the words. By all accounts Kara had served with Urqhart for nearly 15 years, only a third of the way through her penance, yet Freya sensed that Kara had grown attached, fond even, of Urqhart.

"Is it really that simple?" Freya asked, pausing near the main doors to the chamber. It was flanked by a pair of Inquisitorial Stormtroopers, their faces hidden behind full helmets with mirrored visors. Their black body armour gleamed in the light, the brass badges of the Inquisition on their chests shining in the candlelight. Red-trimmed black cloaks shrouded most of their bodies from view, though Freya could make out the lines of power mauls and needle pistols. The ceremonial halberds were deadly weapons in their own right, utilizing the deadly circuitry of a power axe in the head, and the haft contained a lasgun energy matrix. Delicate weaponry, not easily replicated by the Adeptus Mechanicus, but fitting for such surroundings.

"Things are never that simple Interrogator, you know that as well as I do," smiled Kara, the smile not quite reaching her eyes. She turned back to watch the pair of Inquisitors arrive. "They're a strange breed those pair. Urqhart, a Malleus man through and through. Puritan by nature, but I doubt he will be so fervent in a few years. Kurze, a man who has lived three times as long, his life filled with horror, rage and pure faith that the Emperor's Will is just. Both have faced down things that would make ordinary men die from fright, yet both can laugh easily. I sometimes wonder how they sleep."

"Things are never simple Sister." Freya had to smile at the statement. She knew of the horror the pair had faced, she had seen it herself, and knew that faith was the shield against the perils the Inquisition faced.

"Are we ready?" Asked Jan, adjusting his robes. The doorway to the main chamber stood open, with the inner area hidden behind the dancing golden waves of the privacy screens. Freya could see shadowy figures moving behind the screens, robes blending and flowing into amorphous shapes.

"Lead on my old Interrogator," smiled Mykos with a flourish of his hand.

With a brief smile Jan walked through the privacy screen, feeling the tingle of static electricity and smelling the tang of ozone. The amorphous blobs snapped into focus, the robed figures becoming clearer. The grey-green robes of the Ordo Xenos mixed with the black robes of the Ordo Malleus and the deep maroon robes of the Ordo Hereticus. Yes, Jamius certainly had his style. He glanced to his left, Kara stepping to his side, her own cowl raised. Inquisitors could show their faces at these events, but any retainers they brought would remain cowled and hidden from view, lest their faces be remembered by those present. In the past many an Inquisitor had suffered when their fellows had noticed the retainer at some world or other and accidentally, or not, exposed them. The Inquisitors themselves were known to their fellows, the Holy Order was large, but those within a Segmentum knew who the others were, even if only from pict record and by reputation.

Jan glanced around the massive circular main chamber with the high ceiling supported by white marble columns, each one with six figures carved from grey marble around the base and top. Around the edge of the room stood more Stormtroopers, their bodies locked to attention. The marble-ribbed ceiling of the chamber was wreathed in incense, cherubim familiars swinging braziers in the ceiling. Arrayed around the upper-level of the chamber stood Astropaths, their grey robes threaded with wards against demonic possession, shaven skulls glistening with golden jack plugs. Each had the badge of the Inquisition tattooed into their forehead, and sewn in red and gold thread on the front of their robes. Jamius' group of Astropaths, permanently assigned to the Inquisition, to allow secure communication between the Segmentum's fleet of Black ships and Jamius' Segmentum fortress, away on San Leor. Jan could taste the tang of the Warp in this room, the combined power of the Astropaths and other psykers creating quite a stir.

"Do you sense it?" Mykos whispered, unwilling to speak louder than was necessary.

"The Warp. All around us. I sense it. So many psykers. No doubt a few of our brethren will take exception to this," said Jan, his own voice low. He nodded towards the couple of people standing nearby, their robes bulging from concealed purity seals and wards against psychic contamination. The Monodominants of the group, their shunning of psykers and witches extending as far as their own brethren. Many an unwary or naïve Inquisitor or Sanctioned Psyker had fallen beneath the guns or blades of these fellows, such was their rabid determination to remove the supposed curse of the mutant.

"What good are they?" Muttered a new voice. Jan glanced to his right, noting the black robes of another Malleus man.

"Azrael, it's been a while," said Jan, nodding a greeting at the older man. "How goes life in Quisto'rol?"

"Fast-paced, as you would expect," said Inquisitor Julius Azrael, a Malleus Inquisitor in the Amalathian image, with elements of Istvaanian radicalism. He had never spoken of his change of views, but Jan had gathered that it was down to his early Hereticus days. He pursed his lips, his weather-beaten face nicked with old scars and his long black hair flecked with grey. "Even now I sense that recidivism is on the rise. Three cults in space of a month. On the same planet. I even went in with Stormtroopers in gunships, but still the cults rise. The Nightwing has made more jumps in the last few months than the previous half-year. What of your own trials?"

"The cults are far and wide, though many are secretive. Davus is on the rise, with many cults spread throughout the system. A single Exterminatus, too painfully ordered, but necessary. The daemonic forces grow stronger."

"Aye, the Eye is waxing. As Mykos probably told you, the foul legions of the Great Enemy have been seen even as far away as Catachan. Their spies are said to be near the space around Prospero."

"I had not heard. That world is naught but a shell now. What could interest them there?" Jan glanced at Mykos, who shrugged his shoulders with the grind of motors.

"When are the ways of Tzeentch ever easy to follow?" Azrael said, folded his arms inside the sleeves of his robes. It said something of the Inquisitor's standing that he could voice the name of one of the Great Chaos powers inside this holy place. A gong sounded from up above. "I think it's time to take our seats."

The Inquisitors moved to the semi-circle of pews arranged between the pillars of the great chamber, arranging their robes and standing in their Ordos. Behind the line was another line for the entrusted retainers, who also wore the robes of their master's Ordo.

The doors opposite the entrance opened to admit Inquisitor Lord Jamius, his own robes braided with gilt thread, a long train of maroon silk, heavily embroidered with the badge of the Inquisition and fluttering about the shoulders with many purity seals. Holding up the long train were 6 cherubim, their podgy bodies cast from gold-coloured pseudo-flesh, wings wrought of pure titanium. Jamius himself was tall and lean, his left hand gripping an ornate Force Axe, his fingers covered in rings of many shapes and colours. Behind him marched 6 Stormtroopers, their halberds polished to a bright shine, boots and armour gleaming.

He halted next to an ornate wooden chair at the head of the room, the legs depicting demonic foes being crushed by power-armour clad Inquisitors. The sides of the chair had longer friezes, all paying homage to some part of Imperial history. Jan could make out Space Marines fighting Tyranids in the first encounter with Hive Fleet Behemoth in 741, just a few years previous.

Slowly Jamius turned to face the small congregation, relinquishing his Force Axe to a man clad in ornate carapace armour. Jan could sense an ancient, inscrutable intelligence behind the dark eyes, coupled with massive power. In many ways a parody of Horus the traitor, Jan thought. He stilled the thought whilst it was fresh in his mind; such thoughts could easily make traitors of all good men.

"My fellow Inquisitors, trusted retainers, let us make observance to the God-Emperor of mankind before we begin," Jamius called, his booming voice ringing throughout the large chamber. Jan knelt on the bolster cushion in front of his pew, noticing that Kurze took some time to do the same, his augmented legs obviously struggling to comply. The chamber reverberated with the sound of the congregation speaking the Prayer of Holy Order and the Catechism of the Immortal Emperor. Jamius rose at the end of the prayers. "The Emperor protects."

"As long as we are true to his teachings," muttered the rest of the congregation, rising to take their seats.

"Welcome all to Galleas," smiled Jamius, doffing his ornate train and walking around in his simple robes. "A long way from San Leor, but with the Eye threatening us again, we are better servants of the Imperium if we are close to root of the problem. You are doubtless wondering why I called you all here, especially with recidivism and Xenos incursions into Imperial Territory rising on a daily basis. I called you here as I want you to find something."

He produced a data wand from a sleeve, tapping a control rune on the end of it. The electro-candles dimmed and a small holo-projector dropped from the ceiling. A red-robed and hooded Mechanicus adept stood to one side, quietly muttering prayers to soothe the machine's spirit and to be on hand if anything went wrong. Jamius tapped another rune, and the projector sprang into life, displaying a flat picture of an Ork warlord and his retinue of Nobz. About their feet lay the hewn and burned carcasses of Imperial Guardsmen.

"This is Warlord Gorkek, a self-styled prophet of the Ork's foul Gods, and current leader of an Ork attack that has thrust deep into the Ultima Segmentum. He is not the reason for this meeting. This is," he tapped the wand again. The picture magnified a section of the Ork's bulky armour to show a badge hanging from the left side of the crude armour.

Jan studied it carefully. It was shaped like a winged skull, eyes made of red jewels, which seemed to glow from some internal light. It looked old, and seemed to be some sort of Xenos-tech.

"You are all familiar with the Necrontyr, the new threat that has seemed to come out of nowhere. Experts have identified this as the Key to Bar'daruer, an ancient world that was seemingly sucked into the Warp some time ago, when the Eye was reputedly formed. Ancient texts speak of a world that the Necrontyr used as a major staging area for their attacks on the ancient races of this galaxy, more specifically the Eldar." The view changed to show a blurred image of a pale grey world amidst the star field, lightning storms ravaging the surface. "This pictogram was taken by a Rogue Trader called Joanin Cerilion over three weeks ago. It appeared on the edge of the Segmentum Obscuras, some distance from Valhalla. Our researchers believe that this is Bar'daruer."

"How?" Shouted a voice from the Ordos Xenos ranks across the room from Jan. The man stood, revealing a head shorn of hair.

"Inquisitor Decorne?" Jamius folded his arms behind his back, his gaunt features lit from the eerie glow of the holo-projector.

"How do your savants believe this is that cursed place?" Decorne looked around wildly. Older than Jan, Hector Decorne was hitting his stride as an Inquisitor, his star fast on the ascent. "I have searched for this place before, and even the great tomes and records on Titan do not have much information on it. The last record I found was a pictogram of an Eldar artefact that was discovered several hundred years ago. It mentioned the Deathbringer and the sudden appearance of a great storm, that swept over the area around a place called the Lair of The Silver. Then nothing. Even in the runic script of the Eldar this is strange. But still I found nothing."

"New information has come to light." Jamius stared straight at Decorne, his eyes narrowing. Jan inwardly flinched. He knew that Jamius did not like having his authority or knowledge questioned, even from one as good as Decorne.

"From where?" Decorne seemed to be on the edge of a heart attack, his eyes bulging and his skin developing a thin sheen of sweat.

"Inquisitor Engel." Jamius stood, impassive, his eyes flicking around the chamber.

"What?" Decorne's voice was a strangled rasp of rage.

"You'd take counsel from him?" Boomed Kurze, standing with a faint whirr of motors. "He openly consorts with Eldar, and, rumour be told, has one in his band. For too long he has been gone from the sight of the Holy Order, his actions unmonitored. Who knows what perils have befallen him. Can you honestly say you trust them Lord?"

"I do. His findings were also confirmed by Inquisitor Kharne," Jamius smiled thinly, his data wand waving in his hand. To Jan it seemed that he was conducting some invisible choir.

"Another suspected heretic," said Kurze. "As many of you know, I am no Monodominant, but these inscrutable Eldar have long manipulated the truth as they see fit. How do we know they are not manipulating us again?"

"Instinct. And I trust the Emperor's Tarot, which was consulted when this information was made available to us. Anyway, shall we get on? The dawn has risen, and I would like to get this meeting concluded before midday." Jamius looked around the chamber, his steely gaze fixing on the Inquisitors that had thus far raised their voices. They sat down again, muttering to themselves. "Very well. As I was saying, this world is believed to be Bar'daruer, a Necrontyr staging post. However, it was believed to have been swallowed into the Warp during the Age of Strife. Then Cerilion discovered the planet when his ship was thrown off-course. He took this pictogram before fleeing. According to his testimony, the planet gave off an aura of evil, making it difficult to stay around. His ship's Astropath reported hearing voices and seeing shadowy figures on the edge of his warp sight. Navigators report that the area has become difficult to navigate around, the very presence of the world causing many to go insane. The Astronomican believe that this world is actively generating a negative emotional response in all that see it. Apparently the Necrontyr wish to keep visitors away."

"So how is this key important?" Called Azrael from his seat next to Jan's. Jan glanced sideways at the man, noting the familiar brooding atmosphere. Azrael seemed to be calculating, making mental lists of possibilities and adjusting them as the facts presented themselves.

"The key, Azrael, is important as it unlocks the world for use. In order to prevent their movements from being tracked, the Necrontyr use these keys to either activate or deactivate the power flow to their gateways. If the doorway can be activated, then the stasis tombs beneath the planet's surface will activate, awakening many thousands of these strange beings again."

Jamius paused, allowing the information to sink in. He tapped the data wand again. The pictogram of the planet disappeared, replaced by a frozen image of a vid-recording. Jan could see the blurred images of Adeptus Sororitas sisters, caught in the midst of combat.

"Many of you have heard of the Necrontyr, but not all of you have seen them in action. This is a short recording made by a Hereticus Combat Servitor on Dremmond VI. Inquisitor Yaphet was leading a group of Sisters against a suspected recidivist cult. They discovered that the cult had found a group of Necrontyr, shrouded and hidden beneath the ruins of a building made by the first colonists. The cult had managed to obtain a similar key, and the Necrontyr rose."

Jamius tapped a rune on the data wand and, sitting back in his chair, stared at the screen.

Jan's eyes flicked to the display. There was no sound, but Jan could see that the Sisters were losing badly. The flash of bolters mingled with the afterglow of flamers and melta weapons. Intermingling with these were luminous green beams that left a strange afterimage on the servitor's optics. A beam struck the Sister closest to the camera, her flamer tanks rupturing. Immolated, her shattered corpse struck the ground. Nearby sisters were also falling, their power armour ablaze.

The picture jerked, falling backwards, the servitor apparently hit by the rupturing tanks. Flames licked around the edge of the picture. Standing in the centre of the shot was a Sister Superior, her black armour covered in purity seals and icons of faith. In her hands was a plasma gun, which sent gouts of superheated plasma towards the unseen foe. One of the green beams shot out, punching straight through the Sister's stomach. The image flickered into static before reforming. A partially-flayed corpse lay nearby, a plasma pistol near the right hand. A sister stood over the corpse, her bolter pumping round after round into some unseen foe. There was the glitter of silver, and then the sister collapsed onto her front, her Sabbat-pattern helm flying away, its path marked by a trail of ichor. A humanoid figure strode across the frame, the blade of his staff slick with blood. Then the image was replaced by static.

"Not encouraging, I'm sure you'll agree," said Jamius, rising from his seat. He tapped a rune on the wand. The lights rose and the holo-projector rose back into the ceiling. "Still, our Order has long held back the fall of the night on the Imperium, and we will continue to do so. So, we must recover that amulet, and if possible find that world. The scourge of the Necrontyr is rising, and if they awaken all those on that world, after millennia in the Warp, who knows what horror could be unleashed."

He paused, letting the words sink in. His arms lifted, pointing to the Astropaths on the 2nd Level of the chamber. "These are my Astropaths. Each one has a full data crystal of information on this problem, including your assignments. They will meet you shortly, and will have access to the Blackships that currently orbit this world. If you feel it is necessary you can call upon them to aid you, but call them needlessly and you will be denying them to others that may need them more. Time is essential on this one gentlemen. Warlord Gorkek has no real idea of what he has, so speed and surprise are essential for those of you that are sent to recover the item. Those of you assigned to finding this world will have a harder time, the rogue trader that discovered the planet could not provide us with coordinates, the ship jumped back into the Warp before obtaining a complete lock. Go forward, and may the Emperor protect you."

He moved back to his seat, pulling on his ornate cloak and walking out of the room, the cherubim following him. The Stormtroopers left with him, pulling the doors to his annexe closed.

"Seems pretty straightforward," said Azrael, carefully standing and adjusting his robes. He turned to face Jan. "Though why we of the Malleus are involved is strange. I sense no daemonic forces are at work here, though this could be a sign of things to come, especially with the Eye. Any thoughts?"

"None worth mentioning," said Jan. He scratched the side of his head, the feeling that he was being watched growing. "Though you are right; we hunt out the demonic and eliminate it. This job is for our comrades in the Ordo Xenos."

"Not quite true," said a slow, lisping voice. Jan turned to see an Astropath approach, his sightless eyes covered by an ornate scarf, stitched with semi-precious stones and metallic thread to suggest the appearance of eyes. The figure bowed low in front of them. "Greetings Inquisitor Urqhart, Inquisitor Azrael. I am Nathanial, and I am to be Inquisitor Urqhart's Astropath. You are destined to pursue the others on the search for Bar'daruer, whilst Inquisitor Azrael here is destined to search for the amulet of the Necrontyr."

"And what, pray tell, is the point of a Malleus Inquisitor going on this journey?" Azrael folded his arms, his jaw set. Jan smiled inwardly, sensing that Azrael was on the verge of betraying his cool.

"The Amulet of the Necrontyr is a powerful item, and many people believe that its power can be harnessed to make a weapon." All ready Nathanial's voice was beginning to grate on Jan's nerves, the calm, condescending tone of voice.

"What kind of weapon?" Azrael was stroking his neatly clipped beard now, a sure sign that he was getting ready to wrap the Astropath's limbs around his head.

"Unknown, but the fact that these people believe that the amulet can be used to create such a weapon implies that they have thought about it for a while. I'm sure you can guess why you may be needed."

"Right," said Azrael, after a lengthy pause. He turned to face Jan, his expression a mixture of anger and amusement. He bowed his head, his hands making the sign of the Aquila. "Safe journey brother. May the Emperor watch over you and guide your hand."

"Safe journey," said Jan, returning the gesture. "The Emperor protects those who seek to do his will."

"Let's hope so," smiled Azrael, glancing over Jan's shoulder. He left quickly, his hooded retainer following him out of the main doors.

Jan turned to face Kara, who stood before him, her head hidden in the shadow of the robes. He could sense waves of anger and grief rolling off her in staccato snare beats and cymbal crashes; the vid-recording must have upset her.

"You saw it?" Jan asked, careful to keep his voice low.

"Yes," said Kara. Jan detected a faint quiver in her voice, though whether it was anger or grief he could not say. "Sisters from the Order of Our Martyred Lady. Their Imagifer was easy to pick out amongst the weapons fire. It's hard to comprehend a foe that could so easily beat them in battle."

"Never the less, it has occurred. And now we must find this cursed Necron planet and see what we can do to prevent this menace from growing," said Jan. He gestured to Nathanial. "This is Nathanial, the Astropath assigned to us. This is-"

"Kara Tarrial," finished Nathanial, "formerly of the Order of the Bloody Rose. I have been fully briefed on your retinue Inquisitor Urqhart, Lord Inquisitor Jamius is quite thorough in his briefing materials."

"Then you should know what to expect from us," growled Kara. Jan shot her a warning look, which she ignored.

"I do indeed." Nathanial seemed non-plussed by her aggression.

"I think it's time we made our move," said Jan, sensing the rising tension. He took Kara by the arm, leading her carefully away from the Astropath.

On the other side of the chamber Freya watched them leave, her psychic sense picking up the underlying tension between the trio.

"Your opinion?" Kurze asked, rising to his feet again. The raven hopped onto his shoulder, clucking quietly to itself and preening some feathers.

"The Lord-Inquisitor has a flair for the dramatic doesn't he?" She said, slipping the data-slate she had been using to take notes into the pouch dangling from her belt.

"Well yes, that is taken as given, but what did you think of this task?" Kurze walked forward, one of the servitor skulls following close behind, ready to emit the privacy screen from the rest.

"Not exactly standard is it? I would expect more people. And the tasks do seem very clumsy, almost as if he expects us to fail." Freya was walking beside him, her voice a cautious whisper. Kurze's tone had implied that he thought the Inquisition were above such menial duties as errand boy.

She felt a spike of psychic pressure and turned to see a grey-robed Astropath striding towards them, his skin heavily lined from the toil of sending messages through the vast distances of the Warp. "We've got company."

"Greetings Interrogator, Inquisitor," said the Astropath, bowing gracefully. Freya got the feeling that she was being scrutinised, and fought the urge to feel embarrassed. She had nothing to hide; she was a true servant of the Emperor. "I am Oskar. Lord Inquisitor Jamius has assigned me to be your Astropath for this assignment."

"You have the data crystal?" Kurze asked, reaching out with his gloved hand.

"Yes Inquisitor." Oskar pulled a small blue data crystal from a pocket hidden in his robes, holding it out at arm's length. Kurze took it, holding it delicately between thumb and index finger, as if it was a Fenrisian razor-fish. "It should have everything you need."

"Maybe," said Kurze. He slipped it into his own robes. "I think it's time to head back to the ship."

"As you wish," nodded Oskar.

Freya led the trio away from the meeting chamber, wishing to get as far away from the oppressive atmosphere of so many Psykers and the burning incense. Most people could detect strong emanations of the Warp, the air usually getting unbearably warm and stifling, though a Psyker became used to it, detecting another Psyker by the ebbing and flowing of energies around them. Still, there were times then even an Imperial Psyker, their will strengthened by many years of hard training and prayer, could feel the change in atmosphere. Such events were rare, but the gathering of many powerful Psykers was enough to induce a migraine in a normal person, uncharitably called Blunts by many Psykers, but to a Psyker it could cause a full breakdown. The incense was designed to diffuse the energy build up, but Freya knew that it was useless. Every Psyker that met with many others always came away with some sort of headache.

"Still getting the headaches?" Kurze asked, his old brown eyes staring into her own.

"Yes," she said. She pinched the bridge of her nose. "I'll be better once we get on the ship."

"As will I." Kurze squeezed her shoulder. "I think that incense is playing havoc with my sinuses. We will need to study the crystal in more secure surroundings."

The trio were walking through the main hallway, the main door ahead of them. Around them the many servants of the Inquisition still bustled, locked behind their mobile privacy screens.

"Inquisitor Kurze?" Asked the robed and masked Stormtrooper sergeant at the main doors. He had a data slate in his hands, marking off people with a stylus as they left.

"Yes," said Kurze. Freya could detect nothing coming from the Sergeant, none of the usual patterns associated with life, or death. She glanced at her master. He could feel it too if the beads of sweat collecting on his forehead were anything to go by.

"An Aquila waits to take you back to the starport. Inquisitor Azrael will be riding with you," said the sergeant, his voice distorted by the mask.

"Azrael," said Kurze, a brief smile crossing his face. "This should be interesting."

"My lord?" Freya asked. She knew of Inquisitor Azrael, but had never met him.

"The last time I met him we had a disagreement," said Kurze, the smile never quite fading.

"We nearly came to blows if I remember correctly," said a new voice, his accent low and clipped. Freya turned to see a man in black Malleus robes standing next to them, his angular face enhanced by the neatly clipped beard and long black hair. Beneath his robes Freya could hear the hum of augmentics, the clicking of relays. Part of him had been replaced some time ago, she decided. Carefully she scanned his lined face, looking for any signs of hatred, but found only caution, and faint amusement.

"Julius, it's been too long," smiled Kurze, shaking the other's proffered hand. "Life on the fringes has kept you well I see. The life of a daemon-hunter must seem easy in comparison to a witch-hunter."

"Sometimes, but it's just exciting enough to stop me from seizing up." Azrael glanced over at Freya, who bowed her head. "This must be your new Interrogator."

"Yes, Interrogator Aogustdottir, may I present Inquisitor Azrael," smiled Kurze. In many ways Freya felt she was being shown off, in the same manner that one would present a prize Grox to a fellow farmer. "Azrael has saved my life more times than I care to mention, though he would claim that it was all in the Emperor's service."

"It was, mostly. Though no doubt Mykos here has neglected to tell you of the times when he saved me from death," said Azrael. He looked over at Freya, who felt the gentle pressure of someone nudging her mind screens. "She's a pretty good psyker Mykos. Not quite Daemon-hunter yet, sadly."

"No, she's not, though I get the feeling that she will join you people in the Malleus at some stage."

"As you did, once. What caused the transfer back?"

There was an uneasy silence, one that Freya was loathing to break, in case it cause some involuntary outcry from her master.

"Your transport is waiting my Lords," said the Stormtrooper Sergeant, his monotonic voice shattering the disturbing silence. Once again Freya felt her psyker abilities run into a brick wall when she tried to read the man. He was an odd one, and no mistake, she mused, collecting her thoughts for another mental jab.

"Thank you Sergeant," nodded Kurze. He took Freya's arm, squeezing her wrist in a vice-like grip. His voice reached her ears. "Come along interrogator, no time for games."

"Let us get out of this place, whilst we still can," said Azrael, drawing his robes around him. He walked forward, passing through the main doorway and out into the cold of a Gallean spring morning. This was no place to have such a coven of Inquisitors, he mused, even for one as paranoid as Jamius. There were better protected facilities on San Leor or Valhalla, so why here, in this backwater Xenos fortress? His mind ran through a range of possibilities, all of them leading to conclusions that were neither savoury to consider or useful.

His eyes flicked up to the red and blue-grey Aquila standing on the main pad. The passenger compartment had all ready been lowered, awaiting their arrival. He turned back towards the entrance, noting that Mykos and his girl, nay Interrogator, he corrected himself, were taking their time, with Mykos seemingly being led by the arm by the girl. Azrael pursed his lips; Mykos was older than he by nearly 30 years, but he had never been this frail. The injuries he had reportedly sustained of Susitan VI must have been worse than he had heard. Still, he had seemed fairly energised before the meeting. He would have to ask him about later, once they were away from this place.

"Nearly there," he heard Mykos gasp over the wind, the girl's response snatched away by a sudden gust.

Azrael started forward again, heading quickly aboard the waiting Aquila. He blew gently on his hands, aware of fogginess at the edges of his psyker emotion range. He frowned, eyes flicking around the small chamber. No obvious sign of anti-psyker technology, but the possibility was not ruled out. Silently, his bodyguard slipped in beside him, taking up position in a grav-couch near the ramp. Good old Castius, smiled Azrael, always ready to knife the next person that came in the room. Azrael sat down in the grav-couch behind him, peering around the edge of the seat to watch Kurze arrive.

"Sorry about that," said Mykos as he ascended the ramp, sounding a touch out of breath, thought Azrael. He stopped as if slapped when he entered the Aquila's passenger chamber. "Well really. How rude."

"Quite," said Azrael. He watched the girl guide Mykos to his seat before sitting herself down. The ramp ascended, the pilot obviously watching them through the eyes of some auspex instrument located in the cabin. Seconds later the entire cabin lurched, ascending towards the main superstructure of the Aquila. Azrael noted, with some irritation, that the damn Astropaths had managed to sequester themselves aboard, though he had not seen them walk on. Could they be the cause of this field? Doubtful, an Astropath relied on their Psychic abilities to do their job, the lack of psychic sight would seem like having one's head covered in a null-hood.

The Aquila lurched again, engines roaring at full dry-thrust. It swung about, making Azrael glad that he had forgotten to eat breakfast that morning. He closed his eyes, grateful for the moment's peace to consider the possibilities, and make a brief prayer the Emperor that his questions would be answered in time.

Chapter 2

Gork's Toof, in Transit from Alsanta, Ultima Segmentum, 996.M41 – 4 Weeks after Allesthem VII

Warboss Gorkek stared at the little trinket through the Mekboy's Big Lenz, trying to make out the details. Twice this thing had been hit by humie guns, and twice it had survived without so much as a scratch. In contrast, the 'eavy Armour surrounding the suit had been chewed up. Gravitz was making new plates, battering the bits of an old humie vehicle into shape and cutting them with his burna. Absently Gorkek clamped down on it with his jaws, trying to bend it. He howled; the thing had cut deep into his thick gums. Hurriedly he threw it across the room, where it landed with a clatter on the Mekboyz workbench, disturbing a bunch of tools.

"What's dis fing?" Gravitz asked, picking it up, absently using the burna to light his cigar.

"Some fing a humie was wearing on dat ice planet. It's well smart. Glowin' eyes and everyfing," said Gorkek. He reached out, snatching the trinket back. "And it's mine."

Gorkek wrapped the thin chain around his wrist, the trinket dangling from his arm. He looked over at Gravitz, eyes flashing.

"Just sayin' is all," shrugged Gravitz, turning back to the plate in front of him. The thick cigar smoke hung about his head in a thick blue haze, flickering briefly from the flash of the burna as it cut through the plate.

On the wall of the battered hulk the alarm light winked. Gorkek glared at it. The light had been going on and off for a couple of minutes now, and it was really starting to annoy him.

"Gravitz, why 'aven't you done anythin' about that light?" He barked, pointing to the red beacon.

"Nothin' needs doin' to it. Dat's de alarm," said Gravitz coolly. He had not looked up form his burna torch.

"Den why ain't the bell goin' off?" Gorkek slapped the small speaker horn beneath the light, his face screwed up in puzzlement.

"I disconnected da wires," smiled Gravitz, obviously pleased with himself.

"What?" Roared Gorkek. He crossed the Mekboyz workshop in several easy bounds, his blunt Grotz club in his hand. He smacked Gravitz repeatedly over the head with it, causing the Mekboy to drop his burna.

"It was loud, an' it hurt me ears," said Gravitz, fending off the blows, his cigar falling out of his great jaws.

"We'll deal wiv dos ears later," growled Gorkek. He thrust the club back into his belt, running out of the room with a click and a whirr of motors.

He ran along rusty, red-lit corridors, their humie symbols replaced with the glyphs of his clan. Gorkek snarled at the Grotz standing in the corridor to the bridge. Many jumped out of the way, clutching onto welded bulkheads or dripping overhead pipes. Some were not so fortunate, and were kicked aside by his great Cybork body. Gorkek did not care; the alarm was a sign of big trouble.

With a crash he burst onto the bridge, the bulkhead door slamming against the wall. A dozen Orks turned to face him, many with anger in their faces.

"What's da trouble?" Gorkek said, shouting to be heard above the din of the alarm bell. He could understand why Gravitz had disconnected the buzzer in his workshop.

"We's got pointy-ears," said the Ork at the skanner, his eyes focussed firmly on the green display.

"How many?" Gorkek didn't like the pointy-eared Eldar; they caused him trouble, and never stood around for a fair fight.

"A lot, at least ten," said the Skanner-Boy. Gorkek glared at him. The Boy on the Skanner could never count past his number of fingers, so ten could mean either ten or one hundred. He crossed over to the screen, ignoring the blaring Hulk Captain nearby.

Gorkek squinted carefully at the screen, counting the dots. He could see at least 20 dots, each one representing an Eldar ship. He thought quickly and carefully, closing one eye as he tried to think things through. The captain, clad in a blue jacket with gold-coloured bars on the shoulders and an Imperial Navy hat jammed onto his head was barking orders into a Kommunicator, talking to the Grotz and Boyz manning the Big Gunz.

A shape flashed past the big windows at the front of the bridge, Gorkek seeing only an afterimage. He growled, recognising the shape.

"Them's not normal pointy-ears. Them's Dark Eldar. Kaptain, get the lads ready, we's gonna be boarded." Like all Orks, Gorkek hated the Eldar, but he knew what the Dark Eldar were like. He had seen too many Boyz getting taken before their time by these pointy-ears, who refused to even show themselves for a good fight. He turned, running back down the corridor towards Gravitz's workshop. He would need his 'Eavy Armour for this one.

Muttering short prayers to Gork and Mork to help him, he silently cursed the humies that had dropped the big ones on the ice planet. Now it was just a radioactive wasteland, many of his Boyz lost to the explosion of energy. The humies had been runnin' scared, he reminded himself with a grin. Even their big stompie Titans had been no match for his Giant Squiggoths. Then they'd gone and dropped the big ones, vaporising Boyz left and right. He shook his head, vowing to make them pay for denting his pride. But first he had these pointy-ears to deal with.

"Gravitz," he shouted, stomping into the Mekboy's workshop.

"Yeah?" Gravitz looked up from Gorkek's heavy armour, his goggles making his eyes bulge.

"Is da armour ready? We's got pointy-ears." Gorkek grabbed a pair of Grotz by the scruff of the neck, stopping them from sidling past him. "An' where d'you finks you're goin'?"

"To stop the pointy-ears," said one, brandishing a shoota that was too big for him.

"No you ain't, give dat 'ere," said Gorkek, snatching the shoota from the Grot and throwing it over his shoulder. "Yous two are gonna carry me tank."

"But boss," started one. Gorkek booted him in the face, sending a couple of teeth skittering across the steel deck plating.

"No buts, grab da tank," said Gorkek, pointing to the large fuel tank in the corner. Muttering to themselves, the Grotz stalked off to get the tank. Gorkek turned back to face Gravitz, who had taken off his burna mask. "Now, let's get dis stuff on."

Aboard the cruiser Laughter Of Commorragh Lord Dracus smiled; he enjoyed hunting Orks. Not as satisfyingly difficult to hunt as his cursed brethren in the Craftworlds, nor as easy as the mon-keigh, the Orks seemed to sense that the Dark Eldar were as bloodthirsty as themselves. He chuckled quietly to himself, scratching a recent graze with a long finger. He snapped his fingers once.

"My Lord?" His Incubi Master approached, face hidden behind the dark-visored Tormentor helm.

"Begin the boarding actions, Lord Vect is expecting some fresh meat by the time we return," said Dracus. "And see if you can find this boorish Warlord Gorkek. He will make a nice plaything for a while."

"Yes my lord." The Incubi Master bowed gracefully before leaving.

"My lord," said a new voice to his left. Dracus glanced over the deck, noting the arrival of Haemonculus Urazi. As ever, the Dark Eldar's gloves and robes were drenched in the dried blood of several races.

"Yes Urazi?" Said Dracus. He smiled, in the same way that a Commorraghan Raven would smile at you before plucking out your eyeballs, as a former Wych had told him. Her skin still adorned the back of his chair, though it was getting rather old now. He pursed his lips; maybe one of their recent captives would suffice. Several of them seemed to be of adequate build.

"I have been speaking to a few of the captives." Urazi kept his distance from the throne, Dracus noticed with some amusement. Too often an unwary plaything would stand just so, and trigger the defence mechanism. "They speak of something known as the Eye of the Necrontyr."

"And?" Dracus was getting bored again. Urazi had grown too fond of speaking to his captives whilst he spoke. Maybe Dracus should cut out his tongue, make him silent again.

"Apparently this Gorkek has it. They believe it is the key to unlocking a tomb of Necrontyr and binding them to the key holder's will."

"Interesting," smiled Dracus, his mind all ready working through the possibilities. His senses could detect the rising confidence in Urazi. Poor Urazi, thought Dracus, he was never going to last long. His moods were too easily read. Dracus tapped a small red crystal mounted into his throne. The crystal flashed green, indicating that he was linked directly to the communications circuits of his Incubi's Tormentor helms. "Incubi warriors. Your task is to dispose of this Gorkek and bring me the fancy ornament he wears about him."

"Yes lord," came the chorus of replies. Dracus tapped the crystal again, severing the connection.

This could prove to be very fortuitous, he thought, especially if the Dark Lord himself knew nothing of it.

"Urazi, where are these captives?" He glanced over at the Haemonculus again.

"In my experimentation chambers my lord."

"Have them brought to me, I wish to question them myself."

"As you wish lord." Urazi bowed once, retreating from the bridge. He glanced out of the main bridge view port, noting the wheeling boarding craft closing in on the crude Ork ships. Bursts of plasma fire and laser batteries pierced the gloom. A lucky shot struck one of the boarding craft, sending it spinning into the side of the Ork vessel. How did the Orks manage it? Wondered Dracus. They constructed vessels capable of warp travel; capable of driving off the mon-keigh attack ships, yet they seemed to have no higher intelligence. In many ways they were a classical enigma. Dracus licked his lips. He enjoyed a good riddle. In fact he had devised many such riddles, the better to prolong the suffering of his captives, confuse his enemies and strengthen the minds of his subjects.

Another burst of fire stitched along one of the boarding craft. Dracus shuddered, the enhanced psychic sense shared by all Eldar transmitting their death screams through his body. Delicious. He smiled again, his thoughts of the Orks' grasp of technology forgotten. The first boarding craft had clamped onto the lumbering Ork vessels, disgorging their loads of heavily armed and armoured warriors, all eager for their lord's praise. Relaxing back in his seat, Lord Dracus watched the events unfolding, confident of victory.

On Gork's Toof, Gorkek was in a snarling rage. The replacement parts of his 'Eavy Armour didn't seem to fit well. He cursed Gravitz bitterly as he stomped back towards the bridge. His burna tank was only half-full, which he cursed the Grotz for. To his left and right Boyz and Grotz scurried about, grabbing weapons and ammunition. They had faced the pointy-ears before, and they wanted to be ready for a good fight. He kicked the door to the bridge open, sending one of the smaller Boyz flying backwards into a control panel.

"What's 'appenin'?" Said Gorkek, his attention fixed on the ship's Kaptain.

"Sir, dem pointy-ears is boardin' us," said the Kaptain, saluting quickly. So quickly in fact, he slapped himself in the head. Gorkek glared at him. The Warp did strange things to people, and Kaptain Nodog had been a ship's Kaptain for a long time. Gorkek was worried; he was starting to look like a humie Kaptain. Even his hair squig had been combed and greased into a military-style parting, what little could be seen poking out from under his captured hat.

"I can see dat, where though?" Gorkek idly fingered the holster for his small burna, thinking through his options.

"Everywhere. Mork's Revenge 'as been killed by dem cruisers," said Nodog, pointing to a burning Ork ship. Pointy-ear fighters seemed to avoiding the ship's gunfire, strafing in close then pulling away. There was less gunz than usual though. Gorkek's eyes narrowed; the pointy-ears must have killed them.

The ship rocked beneath them. Several Boyz fell over, and even the Grotz behind him squealed with fear. Gorkek turned to face Kaptain Nodog again.

"What was dat?"

"We've been boarded," said Nodog, staring at a glowing screen. "De internal Skanner shows pointy-ears moving dis way."

"Right ladz, let'em have it," snarled Gorkek, igniting the burnas on his Cybork body.

The first pointy-ear warriors came straight into the bridge, their guns firing a haze of barbs towards them. Boyz fell, clutching at wounds that rapidly festered and swelled. Gorkek fired his small burna at the nearest one, but the warrior flipped out of the way, firing a short burst of barbs. Most bounced off the 'Eavy Armour, though a few stuck in the ceramic plate next to the trinket. The trinket was unscratched by the barbs, several ricocheting into other parts of the armour. With a roar Gorkek ran forward, his choppa flailing wildly in his hand. He struck one of them, seemingly by chance, and was satisfied to see the pointy-ear fly away, blood pouring from a wound in its chest.

Another was upon him, its long bladed spear flashing. Gorkek pushed his small burna into the creature's face and fired. Flames curled about the helmet and Gorkek thought he heard it scream. A smile lit up his features. He used his main burnas to fire at the other pointy-ears, driving them back. The nearest one swung a big gun, firing a short burst that slammed straight into the armour, knocking Gorkek backwards. Cursing them, he slammed his choppa down, hearing the snap of bones. The one wielding the cannon fell sideways, cackling wildly.

Strange lot these pointy-ears, thought Gorkek. He willed his burnas to fire again, snarling furiously when they puffed a small burst of flame and went out. He turned to kick the Grotz, only to find them dead, the lines to his tank cut. The bridge stank of spilt fuel. A pointy-ear stood over the tank. Gorkek could hear the mocking laughter. He squeezed the trigger of his small burna, igniting the trail of burna fuel. The trail went up in a flash, rapidly working towards the tank. The pointy-ear leapt aside. The tank went up in a roar of flames. Gorkek jumped backwards, crashing into the pointy-ears he had not even noticed sneaking up behind him. He heard the satisfying snap of bones and the muttered alien curses.

With a roar he flailed madly with his choppa, his eyes flashing. Body parts flew everywhere, including, he noticed idly, one of his fingers. With a growl he stood up, green blood dripping from the finger socket. The pointy-ear that had been standing next to the tank ran towards him, black armour wreathed in flame, his big spear swinging. Gorkek stumbled, the spear clattering off one of his burna arms. Seizing his chance Gorkek lashed out, his choppa punching up into the warrior's rib cage. The pointy-ear flew backwards, the spear flying from his hands.

Pausing, Gorkek looked around the bridge. Several of his Boyz lay fallen, their bodies little more than green smears on the deck. The fight was still raging on. He turned towards the group of Boyz that were trying to hold off a group of pointy-ears and ran forwards, leaping over a body nearby. He stopped, noticing the familiar blue jacket. Kaptain Nodog lay in his own entrails, his face frozen in rage. Nearby lay a couple of pointy-ears, their bodies torn apart. One still had Nodog's choppa stuck in his head. Roaring a battle cry Gorkek jumped into the midst of the fighting, chuckling to himself as he slammed a pointy-ear to the deck.

Aboard the Laughter of Commorragh, Dracus was not laughing. Reports were coming in that the Ork resistance on the flagship seemed to be fierce. He had not been able to get in contact with his Incubi for at least fifteen deci-hours, which Dracus took as an ill-omen. The bridge was as quiet as a tomb, not a single person daring to speak, lest they incur the Lord's wrath. Even the chained captives were quiet, which was strange as many had long needles still piercing their bodies from where Urazi had been speaking to them. He drummed his fingers on his command chair, the click of nail striking bone echoing around the bridge.

"Pilot?" Dracus said at last, making everyone jump.

"My lord?" Said the pilot, swivelling to face Dracus, his eyes all ready downcast in humility.

"Prepare to get us out of here," said Dracus.

"Yes my lord." The pilot swivelled back, his slender hands dancing over the control crystals. He turned back to face Dracus. "The jump has been plotted. We can leave at your word."

"Good. Communications?"

"My lord?" Said the man standing at the bridge's communications hub. He bowed low, his shaven head glistening in the cool blue light of the instrument panels.

"Broadcast to all ships to break off and reform at the meeting point." Dracus lazily inspected the captives, disgusted to see that one had vented his bowels when Dracus had spoken. His nose twitched from the rising smell. In the blink of an eye he drew out the small dagger he carried on his belt and sliced the man's throat. Red mist filled the air, the blood pumping into the air. With a gurgled cry the man clutched at his throat and collapsed backwards, haemorrhaging blood onto the floor. "And get some slaves to clean this up."

"Yes my lord," said the man, turning back to his console. He turned back a moment later. "The order has been given."

"Good, we stay until the boarding ships come back then jump," smiled Dracus. Beneath the surface he was a mask of anger, but he knew that no good would come of needlessly slaying his own crew. They had done their jobs well. He consoled himself with the fact that he had assigned one of his potential rivals to a squad. Nothing had been heard from the squad since they had entered one of the shabby Ork vessels. He looked down at the nearest captive, a strong looking woman with her blue and red dyed hair messily cut off. He shook his head; why did Urazi do that? It always made such a mess.

Gorkek watched the remaining pointy-ears run back to their ship and laughed loudly.

"We's done it lads, we's beaten dem pointy-ears," he said. The ship lurched violently, the pointy-ear boarding ship breaking free of the Ork krooser and turning to run. He looked around for the Kaptain, and then remembered the Kaptain was dead. The ship lurched again. The blood on the deck began to rise and form little balls. Gorkek was confused, until he began to rise off the deck. "De pointy-ears have wrecked da ship."

He pointed to the nearest Boy, who seemed relatively untouched by the fighting; he still had all his limbs.

"Go down to da Mekboyz an' tell 'em to get dis ship workin' again or de'll 'ave me to answer to," he said, his burna arms hitting the ceiling with a crash. Gorkek snarled. "Double quick like or I'll 'ave your 'ead."

"Yes Boss," said the Boy, pulling himself through the open hatchway, his legs pedalling in the air.

Gorkek heard banging coming from nearby, and turned to see Mekboy Gravitz floating nearby. Gorkek grabbed him by the ears, pulling him close.

"What's 'appenin'?" He said, his face a tooth's distance from Gravitz own.

"It's dem pointy-ears, dey sabotaged the artifishul gravity," said Gravitz, struggling to get free.

"Well gets it workin' again," Gorkek said, still holding onto the Mekboy's ears.

"We can't Boss, dey destroyed da power. We're not gonna be able to repair it."

"Why not?"

"Dere's no parts. We used da last one a while ago when it conked out."

Gorkek paused, thinking carefully. He saw the empty Kommunications Konsole beneath his feet.

"Can you work dat?" He stabbed his finger at the Konsole.

"Yeah." Gravitz was trying to move away from Gorkek, using his arms to push him away. Gorkek grabbed his tool belt, throwing him towards it.

"Well see if any of de other ships is ok, den we're going to stay on one of dem 'til we can figure dis out," said Gorkek. Something clanged off his armour. It was a pointy-ear's arm, still trailing blood. In the hand was grasped Gorkek's shiny trinket. Gorkek snatched it out of the dead hand, wedging it into the cracks of his armour plating. "I'll 'ave dat back for starters."

Laserva, Border of Segmentum Obscurus and Ultima Segmentum, 996.M41 – 6 Weeks after Allesthem VII

The Eccelesiarchal representative was dead, that much Jan Urqhart could see. Dark red blood pooled around the man's corpse, staining the patch of rough grey ferrocrete road a dark pink. The man had been hit six times by the sniper, seconds before the first rocket had flown from the downhive hab block. Damn recidivists, he thought, peering out from behind the smoking hulk of the Arbites patrol wagon. Several of the former occupants lay out in the wide street, their armour ripped up by las fire. He turned to face Inquisitor Decorne, who also crouched behind the wagon, an electro-plated autopistol in his hands.

"Remind me why we came here?" Jan asked rhetorically, checking the action of his old Naval Intelligence Automatic. Neither of them had been expecting trouble when they had landed a couple of days ago. Jan cursed inwardly; he should have known better.

"I think our rogue trader's been up to no good," said Decorne, casually holding the pistol in a two-handed grip.

"This is where he reported the matter to the Astronomican representative." Jan froze, hearing the brief click of a vox-link.

"An interesting place you've picked Big Bore," said Kara over the vox. Jan glanced further down the street to see Kara hunched down beside another patrol wagon, a team of Arbites officers around her.

"Indeed. Any thoughts?" Jan asked, speaking directly into the microphone of the small box. He ducked when a las round zipped over the top of the wagon, throwing up a small cloud of dust in the ferrocrete.

"None yet. How many snipers?"

"Four," said Jan, reaching out with his psychic sense. "All well hidden amongst the brick work it seems. And…"

He tailed off, his mind detecting the familiar pulsing of an active psyker within the walls of the hab block. Stretching out with his sense, Jan could feel the waves of power intensifying. He swallowed. The heretics were trying to unleash something unholy in there. Their arrival had been mere coincidence, Jan realised, but just as devastating. He saw a face in the darkness, completely bald, with skin whiter than snow. The face looked up, the eyes pools of infinite nothingness. Jan's eyes narrowed; a sorcerer. The sorcerer grinned, revealing gleaming white teeth sharpened to dagger points. He felt a push against his mental barriers. A fairly powerful sorcerer too, possibly a Beta-level psyker.

"Big Bore?" Said Kara, snapping him back to the real world. There was another brief pause. "Jan?"

"Sorry," said Jan, rubbing his eyes. "Our friends also have a sorcerer with them. Are you shielded?"

"No, just my Aquila," said Kara. Jan could hear a note of chastisement in her voice. Not her fault, they had not been expecting too much trouble.

"Have you got a grenade launcher?" Jan asked, thinking quickly. The surges of power against his psychic sense were increasing in tempo; the unholy rite must be close to completion.

"Yes, an Arbitrator with smoke rounds." Jan looked over to see Kara crouching next to a black armoured Arbite, a drum magazine grenade launcher in his hands.

"Good. We need cover to get into that block. Smoke'em if you got'em," Jan smiled. He slipped the pistol back into the holster under his long black leather stormcoat. He picked up the shotgun he had managed to get from one of the corpses, racking back the action and checking the chamber. Muttering a brief prayer to the weapon's machine spirit he fed in several fat rounds of ammunition. Satisfied, he let the slide relax, cocking the weapon.

"You ever used one of those things?" Decorne asked, shifting his position. To his left Jan noticed the lithe shape of a death-cult assassin, clad in a shiny black body glove, seemingly festooned with blades of all shapes and sizes. Jan frowned; he had never had much truck with death cultists, finding them too liable to run head long into a suicide charge. They did, however, seem like the retainer of choice for many Inquisitors, so Jan was used to seeing them, though he still did not like it.

"A few times," Jan said, stuffing some spare shells into the pockets of his coat and trousers. His rosette was pinned below his throat, the red and gold colouring dulled by soot and cordite. He adjusted the strap so the shotgun was slung over his chest, the thick black stock resting easily against his right thigh. He glanced around at the surviving Arbites behind the wrecked wagon. "Are you ready?"

The Arbites nodded, their black helmets bobbing as one. Each one clutched a shotgun or a bolt pistol, ready to move off. A couple, Jan noticed, bore injuries from the initial bursts of gunfire, their carapace armour missing or torn. Many had applied crude bandages, each stained with blood. He did not doubt the Arbites' courage, merely their human frailty.

"Big Bore to Knife, ready for distraction," he said. The psychic waves from inside the building were some sort of crescendo, their impact against his psychic shield mentally sounding like a bass drum.

"Knife, commencing veil dance," said Kara. Jan looked across to see her give the Arbitrator a nod. The man raised the bulky weapon and fired 6 rounds in quick succession. Jan rose to a low crouch, tucking the shotgun's stock into his right shoulder. A faint hiss announced the detonation of the smoke grenades. Jan could no longer see much of the building.

"Let's go," he said, jumping up, waving on the Arbite with his left hand.

He led the rag-tag group across the open roadway at a dead run, hands gripping the shotgun tightly. A man came out of the front entrance, trying to wave the smoke away. An old and badly maintained autogun hung from his shoulder.

Jan raised the shotgun. Something hissed past his ear, a blur of silver flashing in the dim light. The man collapsed to the ground, the death-cultist's blade embedded between his eyes. Taking a deep breath, Jan moved inside the hab block, psychically probing for life forms. He caught a brief flash of emotion to his left. He turned, seeing the heretic in the nearby room. The flimsy wooden door had been thrown open, and a smoke grenade lay hissing in the room. The man was waving his arms, trying to waft the smoke away from him.

"Inquisition, drop your weapons," Jan shouted, lacing his words with psychic suggestion.

Jan watched the man's head snap up, hands fumbling for the autogun. This shocked Jan. That meant the man was somehow psychically shielded. Taking no chances, Jan raised the shotgun and fired.

The heretic flew backwards, plucked off his feet by the heavyweight shot. He collapsed against a nearby wall, his weapon spinning into the smoke. Jan watched the man fall, tracking him with the shotgun. Jan's eyes narrowed. The shot had gone through the ragged, dirty work suit, but there was no blood. He raised the weapon and fired again, the heavy iron shot turning the man's head into a smear of tissue and ichor. He felt a sudden psychic surge to his right and wheeled, shotgun raised.

"Holy throne," muttered Decorne, staring at Jan over the sights of his autopistol.

"Come on," shouted Jan, running from the room. Ahead of him was the dimly-lit corridor they had entered, thick grey smoke casting a veil over the walls. He moved forward, finding a set of stairs. At the base of the stairs lay one of the Arbites, a smouldering hole in his chest. Jan walked carefully up the stairs, wincing whenever they creaked under his boots.

He reached the top of the stairs. The smoke was thinner here, the doors to the rooms locked. One door lay on the ground, blown open by the Arbites. Jan could hear the sound of gunfire coming from the room. He walked towards one of the rooms, glancing behind him to see Decorne and his assassin following him, a pair of Arbites close behind them. He stopped dead, feeling a sudden psychic shriek from the room to his right. One of the Arbites next to him fell, blood pouring from underneath his helmet. The incessant pounding of the sorcerer's power had grown to a mind-numbing roar. This was the source of the trouble. The shriek, badly-focussed, was designed to deter the Arbites, make them retreat and await reinforcements.

Jan focussed his will, probing the psychic power that lay in the room. He encountered a wall of hatred, pure chaos corruption. Taking his left hand from the shotgun he touched the door. The psychic drumbeat in his ears stopped dead.

The door disintegrated in a mass of splinters, psychic lightning arcing from the wood. His shotgun spun from his hands, knocked away by a chunk of wood. With a growl Jan pushed forward, casting a psychic ward of protection. He would end this, God-Emperor willing.

Inside the room it was hot, almost boiling and stank of ozone. Jan struggled to draw breath, every gasp seeming to draw fire into his lungs. A quick glance around told him the reason. The room was bare, save for innumerable candles. Jan saw at least 3 bodies on the floor, their naked corpses little more than dried husks. The walls dripped with rivulets of glowing green psyk-plasma, chained lightning arcing upwards towards the roof. Jan looked up to see the sorcerer suspended, his ragged red robes spotted with dried blood and plasma. He seemed to be in the throes of some great pleasure, his back arched as if in mid-coitus. A shape flickered into view.

"A daemonette of Slaanesh," he breathed, his psychic ward struggling to protect him from the unrepentant waves of energy the creature was sending in all directions. He studied the creature, the luminous white skin, full breasts and thick purple hair. His mind closed down around him, parts of it struggling to comprehend the creature's beauty, others repelled by the idea of this thing. She was so luscious, so desirable. He wanted her, but he did not. He shut his eyes, running through the Rites of Detestation. The words Mykos Kurze had taught him came easily. "Throne of Terra."

The creature screamed, snapping Jan back to reality. He blinked furiously, his anger growing. To think that he had considered this creature of chaos desirable. He glared up at the creature with new eyes, muttering the Rites of Banishment. The daemonette dropped the sorcerer, who crashed into the floor, his body a broken ruin. She lowered herself to the ground, shimmering faintly. Jan focussed his power, speaking the words clearly and effortlessly. He was Malleus, bound by the Holy Order of The Inquisition to seek out the daemonic, the heretical and the psyker and bring them all to the Emperor's justice.

"You think your words have any effect on me?" Laughed the daemonette, fangs clicking together. She jerked backwards, Jan's psychic thrust penetrating her own weave of foul protection. She smiled, a long black tongue flicking out to lick her lips. "A strong one. You'll be good to break."

Jan was momentarily dumbstruck, his fears rising to the surface. The daemonette lashed out, her own psychic barb slamming into his ward of protection. Reeling, Jan focussed his hatred and rage into completing the Rite of Banishment.

"Begone foul beast, into the warp from whence you came. Diabolus ego expulsum iam," shouted Jan, the final words from the Rite of Banishment leaving his mouth as if borne of holy fire.

The daemonette lurched backwards, shimmered again and finally vanished with a tidal wave of rage and psychic energy. The shockwave knocked Jan off his feet, sending him tumbling into Decorne, who was on his knees, blood streaming from his nose. Jan landed next to the prone form of the other Arbite. He did not need a medicae to tell him that the man was dead; the blood streaming from his helmet told him all he needed to know. Jan stood up, testing his joints to see if anything had been broken. He ached in a dozen different places, blood stained his palms. He ran a finger over his face, feeling the dull ache of several splinters embedded in the flesh of his cheeks.

"You're alpha then?" Said Decorne, struggling to his feet. He pulled a linen kerchief from a pocket, wiping away the blood on his face.

"Yes," said Jan, breathing deeply. "Though if I was a true alpha like Azrael the fight would have been over long ago."

"You're still young Jan," smiled Decorne, walking slowly over. "Azrael is nearly three times your age. I think he's banished the foul spawn of chaos more than you."

"True enough," said Jan. He looked around. All ready the foul plasma that had been dripping from the pale brown walls had pooled on the floor, the acrid smoke of the candles drifting freely out of a shattered window.

"Dear God-Emperor, what happened here?" Said Kara, standing by the door, a smoking autopistol in her hand. Her free hand was stroking a silver Aquila amulet that hung around her neck on a thin leather thong.

"We took out the sorcerer," said Jan, turning to face her. He stared at her soot-stained face, noting the drawn features. She was having a hard time dealing with the after effects of daemonic presence. Jan closed his eyes, reaching out to touch the edge of her presence. He felt it shimmer and waver, ebbing and flowing like the tides. He wondered what happened to normal Battle Sisters after they were forced to deal with the demonic. Prayer was the answer, he decided. They could all use it.

"You're hurt," said Kara, touching his cheek. She holstered the pistol, trying to brush the dust off her dark blue body glove.

"I know, we'll get it seen to in a moment." Jan smiled suddenly. "And to think we only stopped by to see if these people knew where this Cerilion character was hiding."

"How long had they been planning, do you think?" Decorne asked. Jan noticed, with some dismay, that the Death-cult assassin was standing behind him again. The girl must be tough, he thought. He gave her a brief nod of respect. She responded in kind, her eyes still betraying no emotion.

"Who knows," said Jan. He began to walk towards the stairs. "I think we may have a clue though."

"Oh yes?" Decorne followed him down the stairs to the first room. "Ah, your headless warrior."

"Quite. Notice, the arms were covered in heretical electro-tattoos, each one shifting ceaselessly beneath the surface of the skin, almost as if they were alive," Jan said, rolling up the sleeves of the corpse. All ready the arms were losing colour, the blood draining away. "It's not often you see work like this, especially in this part of the Segmentum. Electro-tattoos are very expensive, unless they're part of a cult bonding process."

"But we all ready know he was a cultist," said Decorne. "I don't see the point."

"All cults that use electro-tattoos as a signifier on their members generally have the same default symbol."

"Pardon?" Said Kara, standing by the doorway, her arms folded. "I thought the whole point of an electro-tattoo was that they had no constant form."

"That is true, but cult tattoos generally repeat a form," said Jan. He tapped the man's arm. The electro-tattoo shimmered beneath the surface, colours and shapes morphing and interweaving to become the Mark of Slaanesh. "See? The mark makes itself known."

Jan stepped back, fighting the natural revulsion at seeing the Mark of one of the Great Powers of Chaos. He glanced to his right, noting that Kara looked as if she was going to vomit, and even Decorne looked ill at ease.

"Kara?" Said Jan, holding out his hand.

She gave him the small hand flamer an Arbites Proctor had given her. Muttering a few words, Jan stepped back, squeezing the trigger on the hand flamer. Blessed Promethium ignited, sending sheets of fire over the body. The electro-tattoo seemed to writhe in the flames before flaring up in tall green and purple flames. At the edge of his psychic perception Jan thought he could hear a faint howl of rage. He silently spoke the words of the Rite of Detestation, his finger slackening off the trigger. The room stank of chemical smoke and broiled flesh, making Jan's stomach flip.

"My Lord," came an augmented voice from the doorway. Jan turned to see an Arbites Chastener standing in the doorway, his hand resting on the cover of his holstered bolt pistol. "The rest of the hab block has been cleared of our casualties. What would you have us do with the heretics?"

"Burn this block to the ground," Jan said, his voice cold. "There can be no trace of this foul cult. I will be on my way to see the local confessor."

"Preacher Morran? We took him into custody an hour ago. He pleads his innocence," said the Chastener, his eyes hidden behind the dark visor.

"As well he might," spat Jan. "Very well. We will go to him, and hear what he has to say."

"Yes my Lord," said the Chastener, bowing his head. "I will have a flyer ready to take you to him."

"Good." Jan was in no mood to be calm. He intended to play the wandering Inquisitor to the hilt, never letting on to the true matter.

The Chastener left quickly, talking quickly into his vox-link. Jan watched him go, his mouth turned up at the edges.

"Very nice," said Kara, breaking the silence. Jan glanced at her, noticing the amusement behind the eyes. He was glad his power play had worked, restoring some sort of normalcy to their psyches.

"The Arbites are good at enforcing the law, just lacking in suitable imagination," smiled Jan. "Still, this preacher seems to have neglected his holy duties. A pity we have no one from the Hereticus with us, they would no doubt have a few choice words to say on the matter."

"Generally along the lines of death to the enemies of mankind," mused Decorne, slipping his autopistol back into his holster. Jan smiled at that. Decorne was Xenos, more used to studying aliens than dealing with the recidivists within the Imperium. For him the Ordo Hereticus was full of the more puritan dogmatists, eager to cleanse the galaxy in flame and sword. Jan could understand his viewpoint, though he did not agree with it.

"Aye, true enough," said Jan. He walked towards the door, not giving the smoking corpse a second glance. "Come, let us meet this preacher and introduce him to our ways."

They found the preacher in a cell at the local Arbites Precinct, muttering prayers to himself, turning a small Aquila in his hands. Jan glanced around the cell, impressed at how clean the preacher's robes were. He had seen cleaner waste recyk facilities. Every now and then some rodent would scuttle across the stone floor, eyes flashing in the gloom. The constant drip of a leaky pipe into a bucket placed underneath was beginning to grate on his nerves.

"So then, preacher, let us talk," said Jan, his arms folded against his chest. He had pinned his Inquisitorial rosette in the centre of his chest, over the centre of his breastbone. He hoped the gleam of the red and gold badge of his office would provoke the preacher into complying easily. Near the thick steel door to the cell stood Decorne, his own rosette on a simple gold chain around his neck. He looked bored, a deliberate ploy that they had come up with on the flight over.

"My Lord?" Preacher Morran stammered, his Gothic betraying a Necromundan heritage.

"How long have you known that your flock was going astray?" Jan stood at his full height, his full-length black leather storm coat opened to show the butt of his Navy pistol. Preacher Morran looked shocked at the accusation. Inwardly Jan smiled; just as he had hoped. The simple man had not smelt the taint on his very doorstep. He leant forward, his voice low but clear. "Speak quickly, lest you are burned with them."

"I swear on the Holy Throne that I knew nothing of this," said Morran. Jan backhanded him across the face.

"You dare to speak of the Throne, heretic," said Jan. A touch theatrical he had to admit, but it had been known to generate quick results. Morran clutched at his face, a thin trickle of blood running between his fingers. He looked almost dumbfounded that someone had dared strike him. Obviously a pampered man, thought Jan, he knew nothing of the world outside his church. "You, who have turned a blind eye to heretics, worshippers of the Great Enemy, on your own doorstep."

"No my lord," said Morran, his voice a high-pitched squeal. That took Jan back a bit. He had not heard a voice that high from a grown man except an Ecclesiarchy choir castrato. Jan watched the man's head slump forward, as if in shame. A gentle psychic probe confirmed that the man was scared for his life, worried that the Ecclesiarchy would banish him. "I knew nothing of this."

"Do you know of a rogue trader called Joanin Cerilion?" Said Decorne from his position near the door. Jan turned to face Decorne, nodding in appreciation. Decorne winked, a faint smile crossing his features. Both had played the Good Inquisitor – Bad Inquisitor game before.

"Pardon?" Said Morran, looking up from his bed. Tears stained his cheeks.

"Do you know him?" Jan said, using his psychic power to force a response. He held up a data-slate, showing the slowly rotating head of Cerilion.

"I have seen him," said Morran. He looked physically ill.

"Then tell us of him," said Jan, using his power again. He tucked the slate back into a pocket, hoping he had given the preacher the push he needed.

"I last saw him not three weeks ago. He was looking ill, as if he had taken to drink again. He was muttering something about a planet he had seen. He had sent some pictograms to the authorities, and now he was haunted by dreams of silver-skinned folk rising to eat him on green fire."

Jan risked a quick glance at Decorne, who merely looked pale. The trader had spoken to his loyal preacher, hoping for absolution.

"And what did you tell him?" Decorne asked, his own words rich with psychic power.

"I told him that if this planet haunted him so, maybe he should get as far away from it as possible." Morran looked earnest, as if he had imparted some great wisdom to the Emperor himself. "He then ran off into the night, telling me there was no escape from the green fire."

"Do you know if he left?" Decorne was moving forwards, his hands hidden behind his back.

"I do not. The port authorities could tell you though," said Morran. He brightened suddenly, his head lifting up to meet Jan's eyes. "Can I do anything else for you my lords?"

"Not at this time," said Jan. He turned, walking towards the door. Decorne banged on the thick door with a gloved hand. The door opened, admitting cool air into the warm chamber. Jan stopped on the threshold, turning back to face the slumped preacher. "We will make our report known to the sector Abbot before the end of the local day."

"Yes my lord," said the preacher, his eyes downcast again.

Jan waited until the door had shut before smiling. He glanced over at Decorne, who also had a grin spread across his features. He jerked his head towards the exit, starting to walk back the way they had come.

"That was quick," said Decorne, keeping alongside Jan.

"Aye, but he was a loyal man, just blind to his flock," said Jan. "What was your assessment?"

"Scared, as they all are, but loyal," said Decorne. Jan sensed Decorne glance towards him. "Yours?"

"The same, but he should not go unpunished," said Jan. "I've seen many a preacher grow comfortable in their parish, not quite as vigilant of trouble as they should be. This man must serve as an example to others that would grow fat and bored."

"Then what? Execution?" Decorne asked. Jan felt a note of sarcasm in the man's voice.

"Hardly," said Jan. He thought quickly. "I think that one of his eyes should be taken. He was blind with two, he may be more watchful with one."

"Harsh, but fair," nodded Decorne. "When shall we send the order to the planetary Abbot?"

"I was thinking just after we find out where this Cerilion has gone," said Jan, walking through the doorway and into the precinct's courtyard. Like most Arbites precinct houses, it was made of black stone, inlaid with flakboard and ceramite. To Jan's eyes it was a monstrosity, but he did not question the designer, in case he found out more than he ever wanted to know.

Jan smiled, noting that Kara and the death-cultist were waiting nearby, hidden in the shadowy eaves of a rain cover.

"It went well?" Said Kara, her dusty body glove masked by an ornate purple and gold cloak.

"As well as can be expected," said Jan. "The preacher knew nothing of real value, though he claims to have seen this trader shortly after seeing the planet."

"Confessing all his sins before his flight, eh?" Kara smiled, well aware of the seemingly random acts performed by heretics.

"So it seems." Jan glanced at the chronometer fastened to his right wrist. He was aware of his stomach growling. "We have a few hours before the watch changes at the spaceport. Does anyone fancy some lunch?"

"Might as well," smiled Decorne. "I know a nice restaurant near the spaceport where they even sell real pig's bacon."

"Then we should try it," said Kara. Jan noticed that she was licking her lips in anticipation. A brief smile crossed his features. Since becoming Jan's conscience Kara had developed quite a taste for rich foods; this should be an experience.

"What say you Inquisitor?" Said Decorne, his own features contorted into a smile. To Jan it seemed similar to the smile one gets from a black market trader, eager to rob you of credits.

"Why not?" Smiled Jan, content to let himself be led about for the moment. When they had to pay for it, then Decorne would be upset, he thought.

The group walked swiftly away, their thoughts turning to food. The death-cultist followed behind, her head constantly turning.

After a short ride in a skimmer, Jan found himself in front of a rather ostentatious restaurant set high on some cliffs that looked out over the spaceport a few miles away. The banner above the glass door proclaimed it to be 'Whistler's Grill – Where Good Food Is Always Served'. Jan had his doubts: he had seen too many restaurants like this across the Segmentum. A glance through the glass walls did nothing to dispel his fears. The clientele seemed to be a mixture of high-hab juveniles and earnest merchants, meeting for a late business luncheon. Still, he thought, it could be worse.

He followed the others inside, greeted by the smell of burning fat and the occasional whiff of lho. They had hidden their official insignia before they had landed, trying not to draw too much attention to themselves. In Jan's experience the mere rumour of an Inquisitor was enough to send high-habbers and merchants alike scurrying away as fast as their pampered bodies could carry them.

"Can I help you, sires, and madam?" Asked a nearby servitor. Jan glanced over, noting that the woman's entire body seemed to be made from silver, the badge of Whistler's Grill embossed neatly over her breasts in gold. Her hair seemed real enough, though Jan could make out the faint lines of subtle surgery, designed to make the flesh of the scalp blend in with the mechanical body. She even had, Jan noted with some amusement, a silver skirt around her lower body. No doubt, he thought, to make her look quaint.

"Yes, a table for three please," smiled Decorne. He seemed at ease in this sort of place, something Jan had never been. Too damn stuffy for his liking.

"Certainly," said the servitor. She paused for a moment, obviously accessing some seating plan and appointments memory. "We have a table free in the observation lounge. Please follow me."

Decorne nodded, following the stiff-legged servitor through the neatly arranged tables and over-stuffed recliners. Jan tagged along behind, occasionally glancing at the people around him. Just as he had suspected: high-hab juveniles and merchants. The juves were easy to spot, their gaudy clothes and hairstyles a veritable kaleidoscope of colour before Jan's eyes. The merchants seemed to be more restrained; their robes resplendent with gold-leaf edging and fine furs, the highly-polished badge of their merchant house displayed proudly on their chests. Behind each merchant stood at least one bodyguard, dressed in a thick bodyglove, weapons hidden inside silken holsters. No doubt it was a cultural thing, thought Jan. He had never taken much interest in the varied cultures on the Imperium, instead letting his team of savants and investigators do the necessary work to bring him up to speed.

The group ascended a small set of wide marble steps, reaching a circular room, which seemed to be made entirely of glass. Impressive work, he had to admit. The servitor had stopped at a circular table near the edge of the room. Jan walked forward, aware that even the floor was glass, and it was a long drop to the ground.

"Here you go sires, madam," said the servitor, her voice filled with false cheer. "Please, make yourselves comfortable and order at your leisure."

"Thank you," said Jan, quickly trying to dismiss her. He pulled out one of the chairs, nodding faintly to Kara. Kara nodded her thanks, folding her cloak about her as she sat. Jan took the seat next to hers, his hand tapping the menu activation rune. Jan speed-read the entire thing, looking for something easy and not too expensive: the coffers assigned to them by the Inquisition were deep, but Jan did not believe in needless frippery. After a moment he tapped the icon for the smoked pig's thigh, with a side dish of poached Taro-eggs and lightly grilled local tubers. He had always had a soft spot for grilled tubers.

"What of the true matter?" Said Kara at length, her own order placed.

"We are no closer to finding this Cerilion," said Decorne, toying with his glass mug. Jan winced at the bombastic tone, glancing quickly about the room. No one seemed to have noticed though, which Jan took as a good sign.

"Aye, and the time we have grows shorter," said Kara, flicking her eyes at Jan. Jan caught the message; they needed to move quickly.

"Then what next?" Jan said, rapping his fingers on the table. His eyes flicked up at Decorne, who seemed to be staring into space.

"We ask the spaceport where he has gone, and follow him," said Decorne. "Other than that, we can only take our chances."

"And fly blind?" Jan was sceptical. He glanced to his left, the servitor bearing their food fast approaching. Jan could smell the smoked thigh, his stomach growling sympathetically. He had forgotten about his hunger. The servitor left quickly, something which Jan was grateful of, leaving the hungry travellers to their meal.

"If necessary," shrugged Decorne, tearing the flesh off some fowl leg that he had ordered.

"But?" Said Kara, delicately cutting her grilled pork loin with the transparesteel knife.

"I was thinking of travelling to a different place," said Decorne, dabbing carefully at his lips with the linen napkin.

"Engel?" Said Jan, his tubers forgotten. He felt a cold spike of fear run through him. The Eldar, an enigmatic, some would say cruel race, and Inquisitor Engel lurking deep within one of their craftworlds.

"Is he not a heretic?" Said Kara, the fork halfway to her mouth. Jan could feel the underlying accusation in her voice. She was still a Battle Sister at heart, thought Jan.

"Not yet," said Decorne. He glanced at the pair of them. "There are those who have gone looking for him and found tales of his travels from those willing to speak."

"Such as?" Kara asked, her loin forgotten.

"Kharne. He discovered an Eldar tale-teller named Pie'oh'pah, who said that Engel was aboard a craftworld somewhere near the Eye."

"Ulthwe," whispered Jan. One of the few craftworlds left in their galaxy, next to the Eye of Terror, and home to the best Psykers the Eldar had to offer.

"Yes," said Decorne. His eyes flicked between Kara and Jan. "Will you join me?"

"If only to see that you do not fall into heresy yourself," said Jan. His curiosity had been piqued; did the Eldar know something of this matter?

"Good. Then I suggest we leave," said Decorne. He set his napkin down, throwing a handful of Gold Imperials on the table. "It is a long journey to the Eye."

"Very well," said Jan. He threw down a few Imperials, standing up form his seat. A glance at the window told him that dusk was upon them. The establishment had quietened, with many of the merchants hurrying home to secure their day's holdings, mused Jan. The trio left quietly, careful to avoid the more aggressive juveniles that had congregated.

"To the ships," said Decorne. "Then Ulthwe."

Chapter 3

Alteria, Edge of Tau-controlled space, Ultima Segmentum, 996.M41 – 6 Weeks after Allesthem VII

Major Drakon Thanar was worried. As commander of B Company, 3rd Battalion, the 1st Alterian Rifles, he was responsible for ensuring that the defences around the newly-built city of Argnoth were capable of repelling the frequent Ork raids. He had personally inspected the lines of salvaged Imperial weaponry and their new Tau-designed sentry turrets. Still, the troops were nervous; it had been too quiet these last few months.

Tau Air Caste Starships had jumped to the nearest known Ork-held planets and discovered nothing but twisted wreckage and the mutilated corpses of the Ork soldiers. Thanar had been on one of these missions, the Tau appreciating the Gue'la experience, as they termed the human point of view. He had seen many sights of war in his time, but nothing had prepared him for what he had seen on the planet. Bodies had been mutilated so badly they were little but rough collections of flesh and bone, vehicles with neat holes punched straight through vital systems. So neat, in fact, that Thanar could have sworn they were made using a cutting torch. Even Imperial lasguns left ragged holes, the edges fused and distorted by the heat of the las blast. These holes had none of this distortion, instead looking like the very metal had blown itself apart at the molecular level.

"Take heart," said the Tau walking alongside him. He spoke standard Imperial Gothic, his accent barely detectable. "Our Shas'la warriors will prevail. And your courage has often been shown Major Thanar. I have no doubt the Greater Good will prevail."

Thanar turned to face the man. Well, he admitted, as far as he knew the Tau before him was male. He was dressed in the pale blue-white robes of the Water caste, the edges of which were threaded in gold and red.

A strange species, thought Thanar. Bipedal, with blue-grey skin that ranged in shade depending upon age, and legs that ended in cloven hooves. Their heads were bald save for a single top-knot of hair that was generally tied into a long pony-tail decorated with appropriate beads and rings. By far the least human-like of the races he had encountered whilst serving in the Imperial Guard, though they had saved him and the remainder of the 17th Randoshan Infantry Regiment when they had been abandoned here on Alteria. That had been a long time ago, when he had been a young, naïve lieutenant. Now he was here, at what was fast becoming the front line of an advance by some unknown foe.

"As you say Por'vre Dal'yth," said Thanar, wiping the sweat from his face with his white gloved hand. Alteria was a warm planet, covered in vast oceans of sand dunes and sandstone mountain ranges. The only water supply came from deep underground caves, where streams and vegetation flourished. By day many of his company were underground, taking solace in the cool caverns, emerging only when their guard rotation was due. Argnoth was built on a small range of mountains near the Magnetic North of the planet, many of the dwellings carved from the rock itself, to preserve the cooling effects. It was approaching dusk, but the heat was as relentless as it had been at first light. In many ways Thanar welcomed the onset of night, but he knew that would bring the threat of vast sand storms, the dropping temperatures causing frostbite amongst people who were used to the scorching heat of the day.

"You do not believe me Major Thanar?" Por'vre Dal'yth Kais Kauyon smiled, revealing glittering mother-of-pearl coloured teeth. His eyes were shaded by a circular hat that was fastened under the chin. Thanar wore a standard Imperial peaked cap, altered with a white fabric piece that protected the back of his neck from the sun's rays.

"I did not say that, but that," Thanar pointed to a smoke trail on horizon, "tells me something different."

"What is it?" Por'vre Dal'yth said, his voice a melodic whisper.

"Sergeant?" Thanar shouted up to the man crouched in a low observation tower. The man, wearing a similarly modified peaked cap, saluted, a pair of magnoculars around his neck. "What is that?"

"It looks like a Barracuda," said the sergeant. He turned back, pulling the magnoculars to his eyes. Thanar squinted hard, trying to determine the shape. He could see nothing much, the sun's reflection on the sand casting false images before his eyes. "Yes sir, it's a Barracuda, and it appears to have been hit by some form of weapons fire. Holy Throne."

"What?" Thanar suspected he knew the answer. He had caught the flash in the same region as the smoke trail.

"The ship just got hit by something, it's falling," said the sergeant, his eyes still peering through the magnoculars. "It's crashed. I don't see any movement."

"Did the pilot eject?" Called Por'vre Dal'yth, his eyes fixed on the horizon.

"The cockpit is still intact, so I don't think so," said the sergeant. He lowered the magnoculars, squatting down so he did not have to shout too loudly. "Sir, whatever hit him came out of nowhere. I saw no smoke trail; no aircraft coming to check the kill."

"Right," nodded Thanar. He turned to Por'vre Dal'yth. "I think a rescue party is needed."

"You are right," said Por'vre Dal'yth. "I will see to it immediately. Please, organise your men as best you can, whilst I see to this."

"Ok," said Thanar, checking his sudden anger. The Tau were a proud people, in their way, and the possible death of a Pos'vre was enough to exclude any human involvement. Thanar had worked hard these last few years to build up a rapport with the Tau on the planet, but was constantly finding it an uphill struggle. He had petitioned long and hard for the former Guard soldiers under his command to be allowed to continue their martial services, until eventually a test raid on a colony of feral Orks had been permitted. Working with the Shas'o assigned to lead the raid, Thanar had deployed a company of his men with the Tau Mont'ka Cadre, where their skills at hand-to-hand combat and their improvisation had won over the Shas'o, and led to the Orks' defeat in a fraction of the time it would take a purely Tau force.

Crestfallen, he turned back to watch the perimeter. Por'vre Dal'yth squeezed the man's shoulder. Thanar turned; amazed at the sudden intimacy the alien had shown. Generally the two species did not lay physical contact on each other in case some slight, perceived or not, was unwittingly performed.

"Do not worry Major Thanar, your Gue'la will have their chance to show their dedication to the Greater Good," he said. He drew his hand away, letting it hang by his side. Beside him one of the Por'la scurried away, eager to attend to their superior's wishes and organise the rescue operation.

"When though?" Thanar's voice was hollow. He tapped the Tau Pulse rifle slung under his left arm, and the Imperial laspistol holstered under his left armpit. "We have integrated well so far, why can we not finally join you as equals?"

"You will," said Por'vre Dal'yth. He turned to face the sunset. The sparse cloud was blood red from the dying rays of the sun. Overhead roared an Orca Dropship, heading towards the crash site. "And if this is truly it, sooner than you think."

He turned, walking quickly down the stone steps to the cool of the Water Caste dwellings. Thanar watched him disappear from view before turning back to face the sergeant.

"Sounds like they're not ready to have us onboard yet, sir," said the sergeant. He stood back up, brushing the dust from his khaki fatigues. His standard issue flak vest had been replaced by a lightweight Tau vest, the badge of the 1st Alterian Rifles painted on the chest. Thanar noticed, with some amusement, that the sergeant had attached a small Aquila at the top, above the Regimental crest.

"True enough sergeant," said Thanar. Not all of the 17th Randoshan had been happy at the idea of staying, but they accepted that by the grace of the Emperor they had been spared the cruel fate of being playthings for the Chaos raiders. All still worshiped the Emperor, though some were less devout than before, Thanar noticed. The priests that had come with the regiment had been killed, amongst the first to fall in the fight with the raiders. Now the men looked to their officers for spiritual guidance. How, mused Thanar, could he do that if he was unsure of his own?

"I think that's a bad sign," said the sergeant, shattering his revere. Thanar followed the man's pointed finger.

"I think you're right sergeant," said Thanar. The horizon was lit with the flashes of gunfire. Straining against the noise of the sudden wind Thanar could make out the rumble of gunfire. The Tau were engaging whatever forces had brought down the Barracuda. A larger flash lit up the sky. "That was no weapon's blast. Something's been destroyed out there. Anything on the vox?"

"Nothing at all," said the sergeant. A crowd of soldiers was gathering around them, all watching the horizon.

"Return to your posts," said Thanar, shouting over the conversations. "If this is merely the first signs of an attack then by the Emperor we will be ready for them. Expect no mercy from them, and give no quarter in return."

He turned back to face the darkening dune sea. The flashes on the horizon were sparser; whatever was happening was nearly over. He looked up at the sergeant and tapped his ear. The sergeant shook his head; still nothing on the communications array. The flashes had stopped, but the Orca had not returned. Thanar was worried by that. The Tau Cadres were relatively quiet compared to the Imperial Guard, but even they gave combat reports and sitreps to their superiors. So far, nothing. He turned, quickly climbing the small ladder into the sergeant's observation tower.

"Give me them," said Thanar, indicating the magnoculars. The sergeant handed them over without a word. Thanar pressed the aging rubber seals to his eyes, his fingers tapping the focussing runes. The scene near the edge of the horizon slid into view, the image intensifier augmenting the scene before him. Smoke was visible, a soft green glow in his vision, and the brighter green-white glow of flames. He could not see what was causing the fire. The Orca Dropship was propelled by rotating mass-reaction motors, with volatile chemicals that could easily catch light, as were the Crisis Battlesuits. Something felt wrong, very wrong. He panned the magnoculars around, noticing something reflecting the flames. He saw a shape, a humanoid shape, standing near the fire. The figure was tall, the light shimmering off reflective armour. On the ground were the remains of a Shas'la, his body a broken wreck. As Thanar watched, the standing warrior brought down a staff, punching straight through the breastplate. Sickened by the sight of such needless brutality, Thanar lowered the magnoculars.

"What's happening sir?" The sergeant asked, standing nearby.

"I think we're in trouble sergeant," said Thanar grimly. He handed the magnoculars back. "Prepare for an attack. I'm going to see the Por'vre."

"Yes sir," said the sergeant. He turned to face the communications array. He paused, turning back to Thanar, who was climbing down the ladder. "Sir, can I ask you something?"

"Yes sergeant?" Thanar stopped, looking up at the man, noticing a twinge of fear.

"Are we going to live through this?" The sergeant looked worried.

"I don't know sergeant," said Thanar, resuming his descent. "I just don't know."

He jumped the last couple of feet, landing neatly on the walkway. Turning, he came face to face with Por'vre Dal'yth, who was looking worried.

"I was just coming to see you," said Thanar, straightening up. "I've just been looking at the crash site. I think we may have a problem."

"Yes," said Por'vre Dal'yth. Thanar heard a faint tremor in the voice, and inwardly smiled; the Tau's irritating superiority momentarily shattered. "Before he fell, Shas'o Sa'cea transmitted a quick report that the enemy seemed to be beings of living metal, unaffected by weapons."

"That is disturbing," said Thanar. His heart began to pound in his chest. The Tau had some advanced weaponry; Thanar had seen the destructive power against Chaos vehicles. For their weapons to be ineffectual was almost impossible. "I am preparing my defences to repel the attack. Do you have any instructions?"

"Hold them as long as you can. If your defences are in danger of being overrun, get to the landing pads. We have Orca transports ready to evacuate as many as we can," said Por'vre Dal'yth.

"You think it's that bad?" Thanar was shocked. The Tau's confidence seemed to have been completely shattered. To contemplate evacuation was almost unthinkable.

"Yes major," said Por'vre Dal'yth. He looked into Thanar's eyes. "If these are the same enemy we encountered on our trips to the other planets, then we may not be able to hold."

"We will try though," said Thanar. He unslung his pulse rifle, wedging the stock into his shoulder. He watched the Tau quickly walk down the steps, making his way towards the landing pads. In the distance he saw the flare of fusion drives, Orcas lifting off. No doubt crammed with civilians and Tau. He doubted he would see any of their Tau 'advisors' in the forthcoming battle. No, he realised, this would be a purely human battle.

He looked over the dunes, hidden now by the veil of night, and saw the glimmer of moving shapes. Their enemy were moving forward, the rescue team forgotten. Thanar pulled the rifle up, peering through the enhanced sight on his rifle. In the distance he could see a pair of pyramids, moving slowly over the land. He could see no obvious thrusters, merely walls of black, topped with a sickly green light. Protruding from the corners were weapons emplacements, though what they fired, Thanar did not know.

"What are they?" Breathed the sergeant. Thanar jerked around, his rifle swinging.

"Holy Throne sergeant, don't do that," said Thanar, his voice a high-pitched whisper. He breathed deeply, steadying his racing heart. He lowered the rifle, standing up straighter. He spoke again, his voice calmer. "I don't know what they are. They're like nothing I've ever seen before."

"Chaos?" Whispered the sergeant, a faint tremor in his voice.

"I don't see any of their foul markings," said Thanar. He saw the green lights plainly now, advancing like beacons across the dunes. Thanar could sense malice coming off them in great ripples, crashing into him like waves on a shoreline. He shuddered. The hatred was ancient, not the same as the hatred borne by the Chaos raiders. It seemed many millennia old, focussed against them, not the cruel lashing out he had experienced before.

Several hundred metres away the great craft stopped, their surfaces rippling with an internal glow. Thanar turned to the sergeant, who was next to him, a frown on his face.

"What are they doing?" Asked the sergeant, an Imperial lasgun held in the crook of his arm.

"Getting ready to deploy by the looks of it," said Thanar. "Are the men ready?"

"Ready and able sir," said the sergeant. Thanar noticed a grim determination in the man's voice.

He looked along the wall to see the rest of the men at their stations, each one with a similar expression: fear mixed with an underlying current of determination. This was their home now; they were not going to let it fall. He thought back to Por'vre Dal'yth's warning. With a smile he shook his head. There would be no retreat. They were ready.

"Look, something's happening," called a man further up the line.

Thanar turned back to see a small doorway appear in the front of each monolith, casting the same sickly green glow on the desert floor. The same glittering figures he had earlier seen through the magnoculars walked out of the doorway, each clutching a weapon with a green barrel. Strange parodies of men, they seemed to his eyes, their movements sluggish, ape-like. They formed a rough line of silver and green.

"Stand to men, this is it," shouted Thanar. He pulled up his rifle, focusing on a figure closest to the shimmering doorway. His eyes went wide. The glittering figure wore the shreds of ancient robes, their edges covered in some strange script. In its hands it carried a staff, seemingly wrought of metal, the top curved in a double point. Fully half of the shaft seemed to pulse in that ethereal green, illuminating the figure in a sinister light. It seemed to be looking straight at Thanar, green eyes blazing. What manner of creatures were these?

The figure raised its staff. By the unspoken command, the rough line moved forwards, their march steady. Thanar took aim again and fired.

The plasma pulse struck the creature, though it did not even flinch from the impact. Swallowing, Thanar loosed off several more rounds before dropping behind the cover afforded by the sandstone walls. He pulled the compact communications device from his belt, thumbing it into life.

"Alteria One Four to Alteria One Three, come in, over," he called, the words catching in his throat.

"Alteria One Three go ahead, over," crackled the device. Alteria One Three, the lieutenant in charge of ensuring the evacuation went smoothly, was at the settlement's small landing pad near the top of the settlement.

"Alteria One Four, we have heavy resistance, will be unable to hold for long, over," said Thanar. As if to emphasise the point, a luminous beam struck a trooper nearby, stripping cloth and flesh, paring the body to the bone. The bones shuddered for a second before disintegrating into a thick dust, snatched cruelly away by the wind. Thanar blanched, fighting the sudden urge to vomit.

"Alteria One Three, roger, will advise Alteria One Zero and inform you of the response, over," said the lieutenant. Thanar snorted. The lieutenant was going to look for Por'vre Dal'yth and ask his advice.

"Alteria One Four, roger, we will inform you when our situation becomes impossible, out," said Thanar. He swore violently, stuffing the device back into a pouch. He doubted the Por'vre would have anything useful to say. Overhead he could see Orca Dropships and other, heavier vessels rushing to evacuate the occupants.

Further along the line Thanar saw a beam strike the salvaged plasma cannon, evaporating part of the magnetic containment chamber. The volatile plasma, deprived of containment, pushed out of the breach with explosive force, melting the area around the breach and covering the gunner. Screaming, the gunner collapsed onto one knee, his right arm a mass of fused and boiling tissue. His scream cut off, his throat cut by the blade of a half-glimpsed shadow. Thanar swung round his weapon, but the shadow was gone before he could fire. The shadow reappeared some metres away, behind a trooper with a pulse rifle, struggling to clear a stoppage. The trooper turned, rifle forgotten.

"Duck," shouted Thanar, readying his rifle. The trooper turned back to face Thanar, his face a mask of horror. He suddenly froze, eyes wide. Thanar saw a silver blade jutting from the man's chest, piercing the ceramoplastic armour. Angry, Thanar levelled his pulse rifle, flipping the fire selector to automatic. He fired a burst at the nightmare before him, several rounds punching through the dying trooper. Thanar saw the strange being jerk, obviously struck by one of his rounds, and then vanish. The dead trooper's body dropped to the ground like a sack of wet sand, bouncing once and toppling over the edge.

Breathing deeply, Thanar turned back to the wall, peering over the edge at the enemy. Their lines were still advancing, albeit with a few holes. The large, monolithic structures were advancing, occasional crackling beams of green power scourging the stonework, sending up clouds of molecular dust. In the centre of the lines the figure clad in shreds of robes still directed the enemy, his every move crackling with obscene power. Thanar heard more screaming from his right, turning to see the sergeant collapsing to the ground, his entire arm disintegrated by one of the luminous beams. Thanar ran over, his hands grabbing for the top of the wound. His hands slipped over the wet flesh, blood oozing between his fingers. It looked as if the shoulder had been flayed by a whip, skin and tissue stripped away to reveal ragged edges of bone.

Breathing deeply, Thanar pulled a dressing from one of the man's pouches, his bloody hands struggling to open the sealed packet.

"Look out," said the sergeant, raising his rifle. Thanar dropped to the ground, feeling the whisper of blades passing close to his head. The sergeant fired, the roar of the pulse rifle deafening Thanar. He rolled onto his back, adding his own rifle fire to the battle. Another being, similar to the first one had seen, hovered above them, its hands a mere collection of blades, head wrought of that same metal, locked in the mask of a leering skull. It seemed to Thanar to be nought but the top half of a man melded with the tail of a snake, bucking and writhing under the sustained pulse fire. Then it vanished, as the first had done.

"Come on sergeant, I think it's time to get you to one of the ships," said Thanar, hauling up the sergeant and half-carrying towards the wide steps.

"No sir, I think my time has finished," said the sergeant, his head slumped towards his chest. Thanar noticed that the back of the man's head had been sliced open by a blade, his hat with it. Thanar dropped the body and collapsed to his knees. He vomited several times, retching until his stomach was empty of fluid and his throat burned from the acid taste. Standing back up, he stumbled down the steps, half aware of the soldiers running either side of him, caked in dust and blood. The communications device on his belt pinged incessantly; someone was trying to get in contact with him. Shakily he pulled it from the pouch and held it up.

"Alteria One Four, go ahead, over," he said, not recognising the voice as his own.

"Alteria One Three, the advisor has said that the situation is untenable, get out of there, over," called the lieutenant at the landing pad.

"Alteria One Four, roger, we're on our way, out." Thanar put the device back in it's pouch and turned around. Clearing his throat, he took a deep breath. "Retreat. All personnel get to the landing pad. Abandon anything you cannot carry. The dropships won't wait for us."

He turned back, half-running, half-stumbling towards the field. Cresting the small hillock to the pad he turned, watching the men run towards the pad. The enemy had breached the wall in several places, their glittering bodies dulled by the molecular dust as they strode onwards. Ahead of the troops wheeled more of the phantom-shapes, cutting down the slowest. Even now, Thanar could see grim pockets of soldiers turn and fight, laying down fire so their comrades could retreat in relative safety. They did no real good, their bodies turned to molecular ash by heavy skimmers, luminous beams stabbing out of the darkness like searchlights. Everywhere they touched was flayed, flesh, metal, stone, it did not seem to matter. Thanar tried to shut the scenes from his mind, turning to run towards the pad, only a hundred metres away.

The pad was a hive of activity, Orca dropships emptied of all wargear, stuffing in as many people as they could. Along the perimeter automated gun drones skimmed in regular patrol arcs, sensors scanning for threats. Stumbling between the pillars of the open gateway, Thanar saw several Shas'la warriors crouching nearby, their weapons raised, and ready for the attack. He allowed himself a brief smile; he had been all too ready to believe that their Tau hosts had abandoned them. He ran along, finding the lieutenant crouching near a portable communications array, supervising the loading and coordinating the dropship runs.

"Sir," said the lieutenant, snapping off a quick salute. His eyes were very wide, noticed Thanar. He looked down, seeing the caked blood and dust, the flecks of vomit and the whiteness of dried sweat on his brown fatigues. I think I look bad, he thought, so what's everyone else seeing?

"Lieutenant, how's the evacuation going?" Thanar asked, trying to take his mind off the endless death.

"It's pretty frantic sir," said the lieutenant, pulling the Tau data-slate from his thigh-pocket. He tapped the screen with his finger, holding it out for Thanar. Thanar waved it away; he was in no mood to browse such documents. The lieutenant took it as his cue to give the briefing. "The dropships are starting to run into resistance up there, these creatures have fighters that can outmanoeuvre them."

"Where's the por'vre?" Thanar glanced around the field, seeing no sign of the enigmatic Tau amongst the crowds of soldiers.

"Gone. He took an Orca up to the starship and has been coordinating with the Kor'el up there," said the lieutenant. He pointed to a dropship nearby. "That's your bird sir; get out now, before it's too late."

"What about you lieutenant?" Thanar looked down at the young man, who was bent over the communications array.

"I'll be along soon, with the Shas'la," said the lieutenant. He shooed the major away. "Now go, before they catch up."

Thanar snapped off a quick salute, running towards the overcrowded Orca. He wedged himself between two troopers, ignoring their mutters. The rear ramp raised up several moments later and the dropship lurched skywards. Breathing deeply, Thanar leant forward, his face buried in his hands, the tang of dirt, blood and sweat rising in his nostrils. How could this have happened?

The Hammer of Righteousness, 7300 Light Years from Kar Duniash, 996.M41 – 7 Weeks after Allesthem VII

Captain Jacob DeSora paced the bridge of the Dictator-class cruiser relentlessly, occasionally looking up to see if anything had changed. They had been waiting for nearly 3 days, and he was beginning to lose patience. Damn Inquisition, he thought, always keeping everyone waiting until they need you. He stopped again, noticing a pair of highly-buffed black boots in front of him. Looking up, he saw the white trousers and blue jacket of an Ultima Segmentum naval officer. The man wore his peaked cap neatly on his head, a scarlet sash cutting across his chest, the Winged Mercury badge of the Communications team on the front.

"Report," DeSora barked, returning the man's neat salute.

"Sir, we just received an astropathic signal," said the young man, whose arm braid signified a lieutenant. "The Inquisitors will be here within the hour."

"Good, thank you," said DeSora, dismissing the man with a nod. The man saluted and scurried off. Had he ever been like that when he had been younger? He doubted it, but the memories of youth were often clouded with age and bitter experience.

He glanced out of the main fluted windows of the bridge, marvelling at the vessel before him. A question dominated his mind: how had the Orks managed to get it working? The technological savages that they were, Orks were not the first race he would have picked to be able to salvage the graceful hulls of old Imperial ships and create some monstrosity like this. Designated the Hammer-class cruiser by Fleet Intelligence, it seemed an odd design, though startlingly effective if reports were anything to go by.

A brief flash to the left announced the opening of a warp interface. For a second the howling maelstrom of the Warp was plain for all to see, and then it vanished again, replaced by the white dots of the star field. A small ship approached, no larger than a Cobra-class destroyer, hull-plates black with dark silver detail. Other than a few of obvious autocannon turrets, DeSora could see no obvious signs of weaponry. The apparently lethal 'Nightwing' did not look that deadly.

"Sir, they're hailing us," reported the officer at the Communications Pulpit. He scanned the display in front of him. "Requesting permission to send over a shuttle."

"Permission granted, allow them to dock in bay seven," said DeSora, watching the small vessel take up station alongside.

"They acknowledge and a ship is on the way," said the officer. DeSora watched a tiny shuttle fly over, small in size compared to the Nightwing, miniscule compared to his beloved ship. She had always been good, with the only flaw being the occasional navigation glitch that had dropped them hundreds of kilometres off course.

"Good, arrange for a welcoming committee and have them escorted to my office," said DeSora, straightening his jacket and pulling on his cap. His bionic eye clicked and whirred, projecting a micro-display in the corner of his vision. The ship rotated slowly, all sections showing green. With a thought the view changed to show the passive radar scans, highlighting the small shuttle and the Ork cruiser.

DeSora tapped the rune to open the door to his office, and expansive room with a small table and steel-framed chairs. Buttresses lined the walls, each with an inscription of Faith in the Machine, Faith in Emperor and a Ward against the Daemonic etched into the surface. The message was clear to all: the ship was mighty, but preserved by faith, faith in the crew, faith in the Mechanicus Adepts that maintained and serviced the vessel, and faith in the Emperor.

He served the Emperor loyally, and would continue to do so with His grace, but the Inquisition seemed to have problem with that. He was under-gunned to deal with serious resistance, and the closest reinforcements were a squadron of Sword-class Frigates some 40 light years away. Any real trouble the encountered could spell the end of the ship. The hull groaned, as if the ship was sympathetic to his troubles. He gently ran a hand over the nearest wall, muttering soothing words. The groaning subsided, but did not completely diminish. He had heard many people scoff at the idea that the ship had a soul, but DeSora knew she did. She was strong and forceful in an engagement, yet strangely fearful if left alone in the void, rather like a pet he had once had as a child. Unlike the pet, her fears were based upon experience, the many scars not quite healed, despite the Mechanicus Adepts' best efforts.

The door chime rang once, a deep bombastic note that reverberated around the empty room. Their visitors had arrived. Checking that his uniform was still smart, DeSora tapped the rune on the small panel at the head of the table.

The doors opened to admit a pair of Imperial Navy Fleet Security troopers, clad in their red-trimmed dark blue uniforms, black cuirasses gleaming under the harsh blue light. They stopped either side of the door, combat shotguns held at a precise angle. Between them walked a small group of 5 people, with 2 brandishing the Seal of The Inquisition around their necks. DeSora was surprised at that; he had only been expecting one.

"Captain DeSora?" Asked the first one, his hooded tabard thrown back to reveal an aged face, with long dark hair and a neatly clipped beard. The man's voice seemed to reverberate around the room, though he had not spoken loudly.

"Yes?" DeSora said, nervous now. The man's eyes seemed to pierce his very soul; such was the depth of their blackness.

"I'm Inquisitor Azrael, this is Inquisitor Kurze," said the Inquisitor, jerking his head towards the older man nearby, clad in dark velvets, purity seals hanging from his belt.

"Inquisitors, glad you could join us," said DeSora, with a small bow of the head. He gestured to the seats. "Please, sit."

"I take it that hulk we saw is the reason you sent the message?" Said Azrael, sliding gently into his seat. He smoothed his dark robes, feet set firmly on the floor.

"Correct. I heard from several people that you were looking for Warlord Gorkek," said DeSora, taking his own seat. He tapped a rune on the panel to his left. The holo-projector whirred into life, projecting an image of the hulk above them. "This is Gork's Toof, Gorkek's flagship."

"So what's it doing here?" DeSora glanced across the table to see that the old man had spoken, gently scratching his long nose with gloved hands.

"We don't know for sure, but reports have come in that Eldar pirates have been seen operating in this system. External scans show several hull breaches, possibly from boarding craft. We have not yet conducted an internal search."

"May I ask why not?" Azrael spoke again. DeSora could sense that the man was suspicious; it was Standard Operating Procedure to board a hulk and sweep it for denizens or information.

"The Ork's crude writing was analysed and translated. The name of the ship is well known to all Navy officers in the Segmentum," said DeSora, careful to keep his voice level. He had captured a great prize, and now the Inquisition seemed ready to send him to the gallows because of it. "I sent an astropathic message to Kar Duniash and was informed that you were on your way to meet me. I decided that it may be best if you discovered the secrets of the vessel."

""Just so," said Azrael. DeSora saw the man smile and he inwardly shuddered. There was an old saying amongst the Imperial Navy that if you looked into the Warp, the Warp looked into you. DeSora could believe that this man had looked into the Warp and sneered at what he had seen, such was his coldness. "Have you a surveyor team ready?"

"Ready to go upon your word Inquisitor," said DeSora, hoping that he had managed to hide his horror.

"Good." Again that smile. "We will meet them at our ship and go over immediately, before Orks return to reclaim their vessel."

"As you wish," nodded DeSora. He tapped a rune on the panel. The hulk shimmered once and faded. Lights came back on, bathing them all in a cold blue light. "Is there anything else sirs?"

"No, that will be all for now," said Azrael, standing up again. "Though we may call upon you for assistance again."

"And I would be ready to assist sir," said DeSora, with a nod of the head. He tapped a rune. A man walked in, the badge on his green sash identifying him as a senior Surveyor. "Commander Rosan here will be leading the team from my ship. Any questions you have should be directed to him. Commander, you are to assist the Inquisitors with whatever they need."

"Thank you captain, we will remember your help," said the older Inquisitor. He stood, shuffling slowly from the room, a young woman at his elbow.

"Thank you again captain," nodded Azrael. He walked quickly from the room, followed closely by a pair of hooded and gowned figures.

DeSora watched them go, the doors easing shut. He breathed out slowly. The Emperor's Most Holy Order were indeed a mixed bag, he decided. The sooner he was far away from them the better. The hull groaned again, as if in agreement. Quietly DeSora patted the table, muttering the Prayer of Strength, to try and ease the ship's pain.

In the main shuttle bay Azrael turned to face Kurze, his expression guarded. Behind Kurze stood Commander Rosan, with his team of surveyors and a four-man security team, ready to move over to the abandoned Ork ship. Each wore a heavily padded vacuum suit, laden with auspex arrays, sampling devices and other technology that would not look out of place in an Inquisition Interrogation cell.

"Your thoughts," Azrael asked, waving Castius ahead of him.

"It could be an Ork trap," said Kurze, his voice low. He glanced at Freya with hooded eyes, studying her expression. Azrael noticed that the young Interrogator seemed pale and drawn, as if beset by some great evil. "Freya?"

"I sense that great evil has passed by recently," said Freya, the fingers of her left hand drumming a staccato rhythm on her right forearm. "It seems near, yet far away, as if propelled more by spite than purpose."

"The Dark Eldar," muttered Kurze. "No random Eldar pirate band. Rumour has it amongst my networks that they have been operating in this sector."

"Aye, their dedication to their God has driven them further afield since the Tau came on the scene. My own team recently acquired one of this cursed race and under interrogation he revealed that the Tau Xenos taste much sweeter than we humans," said Freya. Azrael looked at Freya again, noting the anger and obvious displeasure. A Monodominant in waiting? He could not be sure, but the Dark Eldar were even more hated amongst the Inquisition than their Craftworld cousins. Still, the capture of such an alien was no easy task. How many of her team had fallen before the capture was made? Such questions would be asked at another time, when they had such leisure.

"Indeed," said Azrael, giving her a measured glance. He paused, turning to face the Navy commander, who came stiffly to attention. "Do you have a dedicated boarding craft?"

"Several sir," came the flat response. Azrael almost smiled. Almost. It did not do to show humour in front of regular Imperial citizens, even those as dedicated as the Imperial Navy.

"Good. Wait here for us. We shall change and be with you shortly. Then we shall all ride to this accursed ship together whilst my shuttlecraft remains in close proximity to provide support," ordered Azrael, careful to spell out the procedure, lest something go awry.

"Yes sir," said Rosan, saluting out of habit. Azrael gave him a simple nod and then walked back to the shuttlecraft, the others following.

"You expect trouble?" Said Kurze, once they were safely inside the shuttlecraft. All ready he had stepped out of his loose robes, revealing many scars on his wrinkled body; the result of long service within the Inquisition.

"No, but I plan for the worst," said Azrael, stripping off his own clothes. He pulled on a tight-fitting black bodysuit, the first layer of their vacuum suits.

"Malleus, through and through," chuckled Kurze, pulling his own suit over augmented limbs. He sat down, allowing one of the servitor crew to fit the main padded top half of the suit over his bulky frame.

"Never a bad thing," smiled Azrael. He easily fitted into his suit, adjusting straps and tightening seals wherever needed. "You still haven't answered my question."

"Which one was that?" Kurze stood, strapping on a broad equipment harness laden with sampling tubes and auspex units. On his shoulder sat a bulky bioscanner, the readout fed directly into his suit's visor. Around his legs were more pouches, each containing some equipment, all necessary to catalogue Xenos species.

"Why did you leave Mykos?" Azrael finished strapping on his own harness, resplendent with devices necessary to combat and banish the daemon and the psyker. Purity seals, their parchment protected by a thin layer of thermoplastic, hung from his waist and shoulders. He carried several consecrated scrolls of potent warding against the daemon in pouches affixed to his left thigh. His right thigh sported a holstered autopistol, the holster stitched with the Inquisitorial Seal.

"Many reasons Julius, many reasons," sighed Kurze. He finished buckling a data-slate to his left arm and looked over at Azrael. "Too many for this conversation."

"Try me." Azrael finished strapping on his own data slate. Glancing round, he saw Freya watching, her suit on, helmet held in her hands. Kurze saw her, and sighed heavily.

"The Ordo Malleus was full of daemon-hunters, powerful psykers and unnatural things," he said, staring at the suit helmet in his hands. "And I was not a powerful psyker, or a daemon-hunter, I was best at finding things out, not smiting them with holy fire. So I went back to the Xenos, where I could do all of that."

"Aye, 'tis a rare breed that can cope with the hunting of daemons," said Azrael. He looked up, noticing Castius standing nearby, his dark eyes expressionless. "Are we ready Castius?"

"Yes my lord," said Castius, his guttural accent muttering the words. "Fostus will wait nearby in case we need a fast extraction."

"Very good," said Azrael. He stepped back towards the entranceway, muttering a short prayer to the Emperor that they would be saved any unforeseen trouble.

The surveyor crew was waiting, clustered in a loose group around Commander Rosan. Azrael noted that the commander had also taken the time to put on a vacuum suit, and his was similar to Kurze's; with auspex units and sample collection apparatus. A purity seal hung from the side of the life-support pack, the seal of the Adeptus Mechanicus picked out in red.

"We are ready commander," said Azrael, flicking his eyes over the rest of the team, noting the mixture of fear and anticipation that permeated their collective psyche. A natural reaction for a team about to board a potentially lethal space hulk.

"Right sir, let's go," said Rosan, waving them towards the nearby boarding craft.

It took nearly an hour for them to get over to the hulk, and Freya, not for the first time, wished that she had packed something bigger than a laspistol for the ride. The mag-locks holding the small boarding craft to the Hammer of Righteousness had disengaged, and they had quickly sped away from the cruiser, their bodies lurching in free-fall as soon as they had left the gravity field projected by the ship. On the side of her suit was a small vid-recorder, slaved to her headset, ready to take a record of the trip for the team of savants waiting aboard the Nightwing. She knew that many would have given their right augmented arm to be on this trip, but Kurze had insisted that Freya was the one to come aboard and make her first proper exploration.

"Are you ok?" Muttered Azrael, sitting next to her in the boarding craft's cramped passenger compartment. She nearly fell off her chair in shock. He had hardly spoken to her in the weeks since they had left the Galleas conclave, now he was actively talking to her?

"Yes, fine," she replied, cursing inwardly when she realised how quick it seemed. Kurze had once told her that if you looked and acted confident, then people would give more respect.

"Good," said Azrael. He glanced over her shoulder at Kurze. "Your master, how is he? He does not seem as lively as before."

"Susitan Six," sighed Freya. She shook her head, causing the camera to whirr and click, trying to keep up with her movements. "A long journey that one, and with an unfavourable outcome."

"How so?" She watched the Malleus man carefully, looking for signs of duplicity. Kurze had told her that the Ordo Malleus, the daemon-hunters, were ready to look for signs of heresy in everyone, no matter your position in society. No one was safe, not even a fellow Inquisitor.

"Too many people gossiping, and not enough exacting thought," replied Kurze. Freya flushed, as if she had been caught in the middle of a Templum in naught but her undergarments.

"Sorry?" Azrael looked past her, his expression stony, though Freya could see the glint of humour in his eyes.

"I said, the mission took forever because there were never enough people actually doing any work," said Kurze. "I'm sure you've run into the same problem yourself."

"Occasionally," admitted Azrael. His eyes flickered past them both to stare out of the main cockpit window. "We're nearly there."

Freya turned, studiously avoiding the gaze of her master, and looked out of the thick transparesteel window. The Ork hulk loomed large, blast damage easy to see across the hull, though how recent it was she could not tell. Crude welds marked where the ship had been patched up, and Freya could see the ragged hole where the Dark Eldar had boarded the ship.

"Helmets on," shouted Commander Rosan from the cockpit. Freya pushed the large, predominantly transparesteel helmet over her head, careful to ensure that she could still move her head. The neck seals engaged with an audible click. A small red rune on the status monitor attached to her right wrist changed to green, announcing that the suit was fully sealed.

She held up her hand in the time-honoured thumbs up, visually showing that she was ok.

"Standby," Rosan's voice crackled over the commlink. "Five minutes until docking."

Freya swallowed. She hated hulks; the ones she had visited always seemed to be full of Genestealers, waiting in the darkness for unwary travellers.

The five minutes seemed to take longer than the rest of the journey. Freya remembered the last hulk she had been on: Deus Aeternus, a rusting hulk found near the Southern edge of the galaxy. Supposedly the Ecclesiarchy had wanted it recovered because it had been a pilgrim ship for the Faithful on their way to Okassis but had been thrown off-course by the Warp. Aboard it had been a small Ecclesiarchy Committee on their way to consecrate a shrine to the Beati Josephina, carrying sacred artefacts and such that they wanted back. However, someone had beaten them there, and they came across the scattered corpses of the Faithful, some desecrated beyond recognition, others simply missing. It had been the Genestealers then, the remains of one found floating where explosive decompression had killed him.

With a faint clang of metal on metal, the ship docked, magnetic arms locking onto the hull and drawing the main hatch over the puncture in the ship's hull. Systems powered down, the micro-vibration of the fusion drive replaced by an uneasy silence. Internal lights automatically dimmed, dropping the ship into darkness.

Commander Rosan floated past, his suit lights glowing dully in the gloom. He stopped in front of Azrael, the magnetic soles of his boots clamping him to the deck.

"My lord, my security detail will enter first, to check for immediate threats," said Rosan, the click of the vox harsh in Freya's ears. "Once they have determined it to be ok, then we shall all move across and begin the search."

"Very well commander," said Azrael. "Seems prudent, but expediency would be best, for I fear the Orks will return soon enough."

"As do I my lord," nodded Rosan. He turned to face the 4-man security team, giving them the hand signal to move out. The team unclamped the hatch, moving swiftly into the ship, their boarding shotguns held ready.

"Entranceway looks clear," said one of them, his voice coming over the vox-link.

"Very well, we're coming in," said Rosan. He floated away, through the hatch, his surveyor team following him. Kurze twisted out of his seat following the surveyor team.

"After you interrogator," said Azrael, waving her forward.

Freya twisted the amulet and slapped the skull at the centre, clicking open the restraints. She pushed herself clear of the restraints, twisting in mid-air to align herself with the hatchway. Catching hold of one of the grab-bars laid into the ceiling, she pushed forward, moving through the open plastisteel hatch and into the short tunnel.

At the end of the tunnel stood Kurze, his magnetic soles activated, securing him to the steel deck. She twisted again, landing on the other side with a small bounce. Hurriedly she slapped the rune on her status monitor, the magnetic soles activating with a faint hum. Walking clear, her steps large and exaggerated, she glanced around the darkened corridor, globs of flash frozen blood still glued to the hull plating. Bodies hung like puppets, all fluid frozen by the endless cold of the void. Sightless eye sockets stared at her accusingly. She muttered a quiet Fenrisian prayer to the Emperor, batting aside a spinning Ork bolt pistol with her gloved hand.

"Commander, check their Engineering section, we shall look at the bridge," said Azrael, giving her an amused glance. "Check in on channel beta three kappa, every half hour."

"Yes my lord," said Rosan. He started aft, his team with him. A pair of security personnel remained behind, their shotguns held ready.

"Come, let us move to the bridge," said Azrael. "Switch to channel alpha two delta for internal comms."

Freya adjusted her vox-channel accordingly, following Kurze and Azrael towards the bridge. She glanced back, noting the pair of security guards following them, scanning the area with lamp-packs mounted beneath the shotgun. Green and red blood had mixed and frozen to create a vile pattern across the walls. Loose debris spun slowly, bouncing off bulkheads and each other, making the vessel seem even more eerie. Ahead of them was a closed bulkhead door, covered in the crudely painted motif of a grinning Ork's skull.

"It's locked," said Azrael, punching the large green button to open it.

"Let me," said Kurze, stepping forward. This was where Inquisitor Kurze excelled, thought Freya. The appliance of science, and the use of brains over brawn. That is why he had left the Ordo Malleus, as they tended to favour people that could smite the daemon, crush the cult and wield a hammer with ease. There were always exceptions, but most Inquisitors did not enjoy the life, preferring to mix with the tangible results of dealing with Xenos or breaking heretics.

Quickly Kurze used several small tools, pulling open the activation pad and using a simple by-pass breaker to open the door. On the other side floated more debris, the remains of a brief battle. Shell casings filled the air like confetti; bouncing away the moment Freya touched it.

"Bridge should be just ahead," said Azrael, scanning the area with a lamp pack strapped to his left wrist.

Freya followed them towards the bridge, ignoring the bodies in this section. Ork and Dark Eldar danced the slow sinister dance of death, frozen bodies locked in a spinning embrace. Both sides had fought hard, judging by the amount of spent cases and frozen blood, though the Orks had borne the brunt of casualties. She pushed one body away from her, the Ork's body torn open by several wounds, a couple with shards of the Dark Eldar's ammunition still sticking out of the wound. The Ork seemed to be frozen in a howl, though whether it was a howl of pain or rage, she could not tell.

"Be sure not to touch those shards," she heard Kurze call. She looked up, noting that Azrael was also inspecting a body with similar wounds. "According to our records, the Dark Eldar impregnate their ammunition with chemicals designed to cause infection and great suffering."

"Foul xenos," spat Azrael, though he kept clear of the small shards. Freya relaxed again, glad that she was not in line for another lesson in dealing with corpses. She had been with Kurze for nearly 5 years, learning much about the various alien species that terrorised the galaxy, but he had yet to actually announce her training complete. "What does this marking mean?"

Freya stepped towards Azrael, her helmet lamp playing over a crude glyph plate welded to the Ork's chest plate. It showed a white Ork skull wreathed in what she assumed were orange and yellow flames. On top of the skull sat 3 horizontal bars of red. She smiled; they were definitely on the right track.

"That's an Ork Nob, my lord," said Freya. "Shows that he's bonded to Gorkek by blood and fire. The three bars mean he's served with Gorkek in three campaigns."

"How do you know he's a Nob?" Azrael asked, glancing over at her. Again, another test from the infamous Inquisitor Azrael.

"His armour and his weapons denote status," said Freya. She pointed at a crude red holster, gaudily emblazoned with a metal version of the same design as the glyph plate. An Ork flamer floated nearby, the tank obscured by thick frost. It was decorated in the same manner, with a stitched fabric strap. "I think that's one of his weapons too."

"Come along, we don't have long," said Kurze. He had all ready reached the bulkhead door to the bridge. Freya turned and walked on, her vid-recorder logging everything. She looked towards the bulkhead door to see another Ork crushed beneath its teeth. Such heavy bulkheads were used only in vital areas, so they must be next to the bridge.

"Still no sign of anything to do with this amulet," said Azrael. She could sense frustration coming from him, even without her enhanced psychic senses. His hand kept twitching down to his holstered autopistol. She could feel the same afterglow of emotion, the occasional red flash of anger amongst the muted blues of calm. The dead were still fighting on some plain of existence, their war cries and death screams soft in her ears.

"Patience my friend, we're near the bridge," said Kurze, running another bypass on the control system. With a grinding of gears the bulkhead started to ascend. The door stopped halfway, sparks flying from a panel beneath the access panel. "The power packs have given up."

"Figures," muttered Freya. Like all Ork ships, these bulkheads had a power pack slaved into their relay systems to allow doors to be opened if the central power supply was shut off. Ingenious, especially for these creatures; who seemed to have a limited grasp of any technical knowledge.

"Still, gives us enough room," said Kurze. He ducked under the gap, pushing the Ork carcass away. It banged into the nearby wall, several pieces splintering off and spinning into their own orbits. Azrael grunted, ducking under the bulkhead and entering the bridge. Freya followed behind them, noting that the bottom of the bulkhead had crusted Ork blood on it, and the pock-marked scars of recent combat.

The bridge was a mess. Shell casings drifted here and there, along with the corpses of both species and several weapons. Instrument panels had been shattered, caught in the cross fire, and large sections of deck showed ragged trails of gunfire. A Dark Eldar corpse floated nearby, its arm missing and the helmet split open, a jumbled mess of frozen tissue visible through the rent. Several Ork corpses spun end over end, tumbling into each other and the consoles. Gouts of frozen flesh from several corpses swam across her view. To Freya the bridge resembled a charnel house, the dead left to gradually break up from impacts and a grim reminder of the perils of travelling the void. The ship groaned, crude glow-globes recessed around the room flickering into life. The ship seemed to be coming alive, responding to the presence of intruders.

"Rosan to Azrael, we have managed to access some power conduits," crackled the vox-link, heavily distorted by the metal hull. "We should have a few back up systems online momentarily."

"Good work commander," said Azrael. Freya could sense some eagerness in the Inquisitor's voice. "We have accessed the bridge and are preparing for preliminary scans. Hopefully we can find a working cognitor amongst this mess."

"Yes my lord, we will try and do the same down here," said Rosan. The vox relaxed back into background hiss.

"Fast worker," muttered Azrael, when he had switched channels. Freya smiled tightly; sure she could hear some appreciation in his tone.

She walked over to a console near the front of the bridge, where an Ork clad in a garish parody of an Imperial uniform sat in a large grav-couch, the top of his head little more than dried shreds of tissue. To his left was a low table, made from metal, with a 2-Dimenisonal projected onto the table's surface. The projector must have been brought back to life when the power was restored.

"I may have something here," she called over the vox, careful to not touch any of the controls.

"What?" It was Kurze, bounding towards her in great strides. Despite his apparent fragility, she realised that Kurze still loved making discoveries and striving to solve mysteries.

"Seems to be some sort of navigation tool," Freya said. She looked closer, noting that a line was meandering across the centre of the display, a glowing triangle at one end and a gently pulsing circle at the other. Some sort of course? More than likely, she decided. The trouble was determining where the end point was.

"Excellent work," said Kurze, a broad smile across his face. It was the first time, she realised, that she had seen him smile properly since before the Coven a couple of months ago.

"The trouble is going to be in the deciphering," she said.

"Not quite, I think Halleria can help us there," smiled Azrael, referring to one of his savants, safely aboard the Nightwing. "Provided we can get the contents of this tool over to him."

"That's the easy part," smiled Kurze. He took a small tool from his belt and eased off a small cover on the side of the device. He peered inside, squinting hard. "Give me some more light Freya."

"Yes master," said Freya, quickly squatting down and focussing the beams of her left wrist-mounted lamp pack into the hole. She could see a great tangle of wires, conduits and crude cylinders, not the refined technology of the Adeptus Mechanicus.

"The Mechanicus would no doubt execute me for not blessing the machine spirit," said Kurze, poking around with a probe.

"No doubt," said Azrael, standing behind them. Freya could sense unease in his voice. She had to agree, it was an eerie place, but she doubted that was the main reason. The arm of the Dark Eldar near the door floated across her view.

Grabbing it, she was tempted to throw it towards the corpse, now drifting quietly near the open bulkhead, when she saw the pattern burnt into the flesh.

"Does anyone know what properties this amulet has?" She asked, eyes fixed upon the burn pattern.

"None that anyone knows of, why?" Azrael asked, turning to face her.

"This Eldar seems to have grabbed the amulet in the fight," said Freya. Delicately, she showed him the hand. "Notice that the deep burn on his hand makes up the pattern of the amulet."

"Interesting," muttered Azrael, staring at the burns. He glanced down at Freya, his eyes glinting. "Do you have a sample tube big enough for this arm?"

"Not all of it, but we can manage the hand," said Freya. She handed Azrael a large transparesteel tube, wrought with Adeptus Mechanicus runes and topped by a stasis field projector. Azrael undid the catches on the top, opening the chamber. Gently he lowered the hand into the tube, removing a small power knife from a scabbard attached to his belt. Thumbing it on, he cut just above the wrist, letting the rest of the arm fly free. Closing the lid, he handed the tube back to Freya, who muttered the necessary incantations and activated the field. A pale yellow glow surrounded the contents, holding them fast. She slipped the tube back into a pouch, securing it shut.

"Good work interrogator," said Azrael, flicking off the power knife and sheathing it. "Hopefully we'll be able to find out what this amulet can do to flesh. It may be that the amulet has its own power, far beyond that of a simple key."

"Emperor save us," muttered Kurze. Freya looked up, noting that Kurze had removed several cables from the device. The screen had winked off, replaced by 'No Data' written in green Imperial Gothic script. "This is an old Accatran navigational logic-engine. The tubes in here contain the memory matrices of all navigational calculations the ship has done."

"The Orks managed to salvage it?" Azrael seemed sceptical. As well he might, thought Freya, to most people the Orks were dull-witted barbarians, living only for war. Those in the Ordo Xenos knew more, especially of the apparently instinctive creativity of the aliens.

"It would seem so," said Kurze. He struggled for a bit longer before pausing. "The problem is these modules seem to have been glued into place, so I need to remove the entire board…"

"Hammer of Righteousness to survey team," said the vox operator aboard the Navy cruiser, cutting through Freya's thoughts.

"This is Inquisitor Azrael, go ahead," said Azrael, standing up straight. Freya's heart began to beat faster; the team were not due back for another couple of hours.

"My Lord, a squadron of Ork cruisers has just entered the system. They are currently one hundred thousand kilometres away and closing fast," said the vox operator, his voice strained. Amongst the background clutter Freya could make out the sounds of crewman scurrying around the bridge, preparing to defend the ship.

Freya looked over at Azrael, noting the grim expression on his face. This could prove to be exciting, she thought idly.

Chapter 4

The Hammer of Righteousness, 7300 Light Years from Kar Duniash, 996.M41

Captain Jacob DeSora gripped the sides of the Command pulpit, a pair of datalink cables snaking from the console to the brass plugs at the base of his neck.

"This does not look good," he muttered, the ship's tactical cognitor making base deductions as to the Orks' course and combat ability. A squadron of 4 Hammer-class Ork vessels, all making their way towards the dead ship, seemingly intent upon salvaging the crude vessel. The Tacticus Navium estimated that any attempt to engage the Orks would result in an 89% probability that the Hammer of Righteousness would be destroyed. Pulling the cables from his neck, he tapped the rune that opened an intercom link to the Navigation pulpit at the front of the bridge. "Lieutenant, how long would it take us to clear far enough away from this derelict so we can jump clear?"

"The navigator believes that it would take us half an hour sir," replied the lieutenant. DeSora could sense a nervous determination in the man's voice, the sure fire indicator that his crew were hoping to leave soon.

"Plot the course and prepare to move us out on my order," said DeSora. He cut the link, his eyes drifting towards the display that showed the Ork vessels' distance from their target. They were closing fast. The incoming signal rune flashed a slow, melodic signal at him. He tapped it once. "Captain DeSora."

"Sir, this is Lieutenant Edrin in Communications, we have an incoming message from the Nightwing," said a thin, reedy voice.

"Patch it through lieutenant." This was all he needed. The Orks were getting ready to attack, and the Inquisition wanted a quick chat. Did no one understand the need for discipline any more?

"Aye aye sir." The lieutenant was cut off, replaced by the meandering hiss of solar noise.

"This is Captain DeSora," said DeSora, making sure his tone brooked no idle talk.

"This is Captain DeWalde of the Nightwing, we are preparing to jump out, do you want us to collect your crew?" The captain's rich baritone gave DeSora pause. He had heard of DeWalde, a man that had taken any ship he had been on to the limits of her design and succeeded where others had failed.

"I was assuming that I would collect your crew and deliver them to Kar Duniash," said DeSora. What was his game? Thought DeSora. The surveyor team? Possibly, though judging by the auger scans they had been running during the operation, the surveyor crew had been at the back of the ship, in what passed as the Engineering compartments. So they could not have been left tainted by some foul thing aboard the ship. Could they?

"Negative captain, Inquisitor Azrael has discovered something that he wants brought straight aboard his ship," said DeWalde, his voice deep with the resignation that came from a lifetime of apologising for someone else.

"Very well captain," sighed DeSora, though he could not stop the thought that he was abandoning his crew from gnawing at him. "We will see you at Kar Duniash in a day, realside."

"Roger that captain," said DeWalde. The rune went dark, the conversation cut.

DeSora looked up, seeing the boarding craft vectoring towards the other ship. The Ork ship lay before his guns. He could not let the Orks have it. Silently, he tapped a rune, opening communications to the gunnery pulpit located amidships.

"Gunnery, aye," said the Officer of the Watch, his face hidden behind a rebreather mask and the dark lenses of flash-protection goggles.

"This is the captain; have you weak points on that hulk?"

"Aye captain, several have been marked," came the response. The man sounded proud of their accomplishments. DeSora was not. They had been here nearly 4 days, if they had not found an optimum firing solution he would have upset.

"Very good, now upon my mark launch a spread of torpedoes," said DeSora. If it wasn't for the closing Ork vessels, he mused, it would almost be a day spent on gunnery rites. He cut the connection, instantly opening another to the navigation pulpit. "Have you plotted the course?"

"Aye captain, course ready," said the lieutenant. "Ready to engage upon your command."

"Very good. Standby for the order," said DeSora. He tapped another rune, putting him on ship-wide speaker, and leant close to the vox-horn. "All hands, this is the captain. We are preparing for firing solution and then a jump back to Kar Duniash. Prepare for Immaterium jump. Gunnery, fire torpedoes. Helm, bring us to escape heading and move once torpedoes are clear. That is all."

The ship vibrated silently beneath him, torpedoes blasting clear of launch tubes. With a lurch, the ponderous bulk of the Hammer of Righteousness turned, her fusion reactors humming. From his position at the command pulpit, DeSora could make see the small symbols of the torpedoes speeding towards their pre-programmed targets on the Ork ship. The ship moved with quiet determination, engines blazing. A quick glance at the small navigational display on the pulpit showed him that they were twenty minutes from the proposed warp entry point.

"Sir," called the augers officer, his face appearing on the small screen in front of DeSora.

"Yes lieutenant?" DeSora set his jaw, aware that his face was lent an eerie cast by the green light of the pulpit.

"The Orks have fired at us, distance is thirty thousand kilometres and closing," said the officer, his face calm. DeSora raised an eyebrow at that. Even the Orks knew better than to fire at such a distance. Usually, he reminded himself. A shockwave struck the vessel, momentarily shaking the vessel. He glanced down at his displays. The outline of the stranded Ork vessel had disappeared from view, replaced by fragmented debris.

"Pay them no heed lieutenant; we should be out of here before they manage to close," said DeSora, closing the connection. His fingers drummed on the edge of the pulpit, waiting for the brief signal from the navigation officer that would tell him that they had reached their jump point. The bridge shook again. He glanced at the display. The Orks had fired another missile, which had locked onto the debris field and struck home. The navigation rune winked at him. He tapped it, though he knew what the message would be. "Captain DeSora, go ahead."

"Sir, we're ready to jump," said the navigator, positioned in his cockpit above the bridge.

"Then do it navigator," said DeSora. He punched the rune for ship-wide broadcast. "All hands, this is the captain, stand by for warp space jump."

Ahead of the ship, real space warped and folded, bleeding in a nauseating whirlpool of lurid glows and rapidly shifting colours. The jump point was forming, ahead of them, the boundary between real space and warp space growing thin now due to the ship's warp engines. With a noiseless explosion, the ship passed into the unreal environment, the tear in reality sealing behind them. With a sigh, DeSora released a breath he did not realise he had been holding.

Gorkek's Choppa, 7300 Light Years from Kar Duniash, 996.M41

Aboard the Kill Krooser, Gorkek was raging. He had come back to reclaim his fabulous ship and the humies had destroyed it before his eyes. He wanted revenge, but he was smart enough to realise that the humies had gone back to their big base. Still, he was not about to let them get away easily.

"But Boss," cried one of his Nobz, "we's can't go to der base, it's full of dem humies ships. Dey'll blast us soon as look at us."

"Yeah, but we needs to get revenge," snarled Gorkek, jutting out his jaw. He remembered the rules of the old boss; the one wiv de biggest, pointiest teef wins.

"Den what we gonna do boss?" Asked another Nob. Gorkek peered at him with his red eyes, noting the big red trousers and the shiny plates on his armour. Dis boy had teef, he decided. He'd have to watch his step.

"We's gonna find dem an' smash 'em," Gorkek growled. Driven by impulses from his brain, the 6 burnas on his body roared into life, sending a short burst of flame around him. The Nobz jumped back, avoiding the fire.

"But how?" That same Nob again, his voice thin and squeaky. Gorkek noticed that one of the Nob's teef was covered in gold. Definitely lots of teef, thought Gorkek.

"We's gonna attack one of der planets, den they'll 'ave to come and save it," snarled Gorkek. He looked at the battered map spread out in front of them. The planets had been drawn on the leather in dye, with colours marking big humie worlds, pointy-ear worlds, and chaos-boyz worlds. Nearby was a world called Alteria. Gorkek jabbed at it with his large finger. "We's goin' there."

"Why boss?" Said the Nob. Gorkek punched him in the face, sending him stumbling backwards.

"Cos I said so," he snarled. He grabbed the shiny megaphone in front of him. "Steer dis fing to Alteria."

"Yes boss," shouted back the Pilot-Boy, turning the big wheel at the front of the ship. The ship slowly turned, the rest of the squadron turning a moment later.

"Oh yes, we'll 'ave revenge," muttered Gorkek. He stalked back to his big chair at the back of the bridge and levered his great Cybork body into it. Thinking so much had worn him out; it was time for a snooze before they got there. There would be a lot of thinking to do once they got there.

Kar Duniash Imperial Navy Fortress, 996.M41 – 13 Weeks after Allesthem VII

With a swelling pride, Captain DeSora watched the massive fortress world of Kar Duniash grow larger through the front observation window. Massive warships hung at high anchor, supply ships and shuttlecraft swarming around them like minnows surrounding a whale, flitting towards the Ramilies Starforts that slowly circled the facility. Damaged ships were docked, Tech-adepts and servitors hurriedly trying to get them working again.

There were never enough ships these days, mused DeSora from his ornate raised command chair at the rear of the bridge. They were all either deployed on patrols, taking part in campaigns or in dry-dock, awaiting repairs. It had been nearly a year since he had seen the gilded beauty of the fortress, her buttressed octagonal towers adorned with defensive weaponry and statues of figures, hooded and cloaked, a sword held vertically in their hands. In the middle of this array of towers and docking platforms sat the spires of the Ultima Segmentum Naval offices and quarters, protected by the finest void shields the Adeptus Mechanicus could produce. Sitting atop the spires was the distinctive red and black striped hull of 'Emperor's Fury', the flagship of the Segmentum and ship of Lord High Admiral Marcus Harron.

The old man must be in his offices, thought DeSora, a brief smile flickering across his features. Like most Imperial Navy officers, Harron liked being in the thick of things, leading his forces from the front, not chained to a desk, where the administration tasks never stopped. It seemed to DeSora that the Administratum was forever finding new and fiendish ways to tie up the fleet officers, from submitting forms to request promethium all the way to accounting for the amount of ammunition expended in action. Such was the nature of the Imperium.

Briefly he muttered a short prayer to the Emperor, hoping that his blasphemy of thought had gone unnoticed.

"Sir?" The intercom flickered into life on the left hand side of the command pulpit, displaying a small vid-feed of the Communications Officer.

"Lieutenant?" Said DeSora, drawing his thoughts back to the present.

"Sir, Fort One requests our clearance code."

"Very well," said DeSora. He accessed the memory implant at the base of his skull, transmitting the code via encrypted carrier wave along the wires plugged into his neck jacks. "The code has been sent."

"Thank you sir," said the lieutenant. He glanced down for a moment. "The code has been accepted. We should be assigned to an orbital anchor in just a couple of minutes."

"Good, good," said DeSora. He broke the connection, his eyes flicking out of the main arched view port. A Gothic pattern defence platform slid past, weapons batteries tracking them past the outer cordon. DeSora knew from experience that they would be scanning every millimetre of the vessel, looking for signs that it had been compromised by either the Warp or by other, less insubstantial beings. Any perceived sign of weakness and it would be over before they knew it.

Presently a shuttle pulled alongside, large glow globes lit up in green and red. It manoeuvred in front of the Hammer of Righteousness, globes blinking in a steady pattern.

"Captain, we've been authorised to dock in Starfort Three," said the helmsman, his features masked by a breather unit and goggles.

"Very well, take us in," said DeSora, idly watching the small craft flitter in front of them. The enhanced reality provided by the vessel's auger arrays told him more about the craft than a simple visual scan. Mass, velocity and armament flashed directly into his mind, along with interception and elimination trajectories suggested by the ship's weapons cognitor. DeSora made sure that the weapons were on standby, never sure if the cognitor was throwing him a wink, telling him to do it. He sat back, enjoying the smooth ride into their berth.

"Sir?" That lieutenant at the Communications pulpit again, thought DeSora. No one else sounded so nervous on the inter-vox system.

"Yes lieutenant?" DeSora drummed his fingers on the cushioned fabric of the command couch, hoping the man had learnt to be concise whilst aboard the ship.

"Sir, we've been ordered to hold position, apparently a ship is requesting a swap with us," said the lieutenant.

"The Inquisition?" DeSora noticed that the pilot shuttle had stopped, glow globes blinking in their 'all stop' message. DeSora opened another circuit, sending a quick message to the helm to hold position. The ship slowed, manoeuvring thrusters slowing the bulk of the large vessel.

"I think so sir; the Starfort Communications Officer sounded more formal than usual," came the reply. DeSora smiled; that sounded like the Inquisition at work. He shook his head, noting that the Communications Officer seemed mildly perplexed. He was only young, and had a lot to learn about the Inquisition.

"Very well lieutenant, allow them to come onboard when they arrive," said DeSora. He broke the connection, his attention caught by a sudden movement on the port side of the Hammer of Righteousness. A small vessel wove its way towards them, moving slowly in the midst of the firepower available. The auger arrays identified it as the same ship as before. DeSora relaxed. Since the surprise heretic attack three years ago DeSora treated any approaching vessel with suspicion.

A brief message flashed on his screen:

'A close shave captain. Here's your lost sheep, returning to the flock. Good currents and happy hunting, A.'

DeSora smiled again. The use of the age-old Imperial Navy saying proved how old this Inquisitor was, and the message at least showed he had a sense of humour. Still, an Inquisitor was an Inquisitor, was an Inquisitor. He would not trust the man as far as he could throw him.

He used the enhanced reality provided by the auger arrays to track the Inquisitor's ship to the defensive perimeter of Kar Duniash. Though he trusted the Inquisitors to be loyal servants of the Imperium, their own agendas were something else entirely.

A bleep from the command pulpit informed him that the pilot shuttle was ready to proceed. He glanced through the ship's internal auspex arrays, noting that the small boarding craft dispatched by the Inquisitors had docked safely. He opened a communications link to the helmsman.

"Proceed," he ordered. He pushed the secretive Inquisitors to the back of his mind; he had a ship to dock safely and prepare for another patrol of the border of the Tau Empire.

The Last Stop Settlement, the Underhive, Tertiary Spire, Repentia Minor, Segmentum Obscurus – 14 Weeks after Allesthem VII

Raids against recidivists were not uncommon in the Underhive, particularly by sections of Enforcers, the local version of the Adeptus Arbites. A raid by the Arbites was always unwelcome, bringing with it the wave of violence that took weeks to die down. Many gangs took the sweep as a chance to even scores against rivals, using the Arbites as a way of erasing them from the pecking order.

Senior Arbiter Millender was aware of this, and knew when he could reliably act on a tip off and when to ignore it completely. The tip from one of the Redemptionists sects was fairly reliable, with several other gangs backing it up. Somewhere a gang had been kidnapping other gang members, and leaving the looted corpses in front of the settlement's bar, a place called the 'Slack House'. One interesting wrinkle was all that prevented it from just being chalked up as gang warfare. All of the corpses had been drained of blood, the corpses little more than dried husks. To him that signified heretics, perhaps with a link to the dark forces that reportedly used the blood to summon terrible creatures.

"Is it another Obscura den?" Asked one of the Chasteners, his features hidden behind the matte-black face-mask of the combat helmet. His dark green combat shotgun was cradled easily in his hands, ammunition stored in waist pouches and thigh loops. Gilded edging on the shotgun shone gently in the dim red light

Millender grunted, slamming shutting his face-plate and looking at the interior of the transport with the enhanced bioscanner auspex provided by the small unit over his left eye. He checked the action of his bolt pistol before holstering it and grabbing his power maul. This slipped easily into its dedicated holster. He was ready.

"I take that as a no," said another Chastener, his voice augmented by the rebreather's vox unit.

"No, it seems to be cultists," said Millender. He glanced up at an Arbite totting a revolver magazine grenade launcher. "You ready to hit the windows?"

"Yes sir," said the Chastener, flashing the ancient thumbs up sign.

"Good, I want three smokes in the windows as soon as we hit the ground," said Millender. He glanced down at the data-slate in front of him. The navigation cognitor had their position reading as 100 metres short of the suspected hab-block. "Get ready."

The Arbites stood up, making two parallel lines down the length of the compartment. Each held their weapon ready, waiting for his command. Millender stood up, his seat automatically snapping upwards to leave him freedom to move around. The data-slate read 50 metres. The vehicle bucked wildly, armoured wheels bouncing over the uneven road. Glancing through the frontal observation port, Millender could see no signs of movement outside, the locals obviously inside, hiding from the Arbites and the trouble they would bring. The hab was ahead and to the left. He could see no obvious signs of movement, but someone had drawn some heavy shutters across the lower windows. The door to the hab-block looked armoured, steel plates clumsily riveted across the front.

"Standby," he said. The lead Chasteners took hold of the lever arms for the rear doors. They were just a few metres away now, their black vehicle a mere passing shadow in the perpetual night of the underhive. The engine drowned out any ambient noise. He did not bother looking at the data-slate any more, they would know when to deploy.

The vehicle suddenly slowed, gears grinding. Millender muttered a quick prayer to the Emperor to keep his squad safe from harm. With a final lurch the vehicle ground to a halt.

"Go, go, go," shouted Millender. The rear doors were thrown open and the squad deployed neatly, sprinting across to take up their designated positions. "Take the door down."

The Arbites nearest the door used self-adhering charges on each side of the door, not taking any chances. Too many times they had been stung by booby traps and other such vile trickery. They stood, facing Millender, ready to mutter the ancient incantations and detonate the charges. Millender gave them the nod.

"Fire in the hole!" They shouted in unison, the ancient incantation for ensuring that breaching charges detonated. The charges detonated, blowing the door inwards. The team was moving through the doorway, scanning the room for any sign of the heretics. They found nothing. Spreading out, they began a room by room search. The lower rooms were clear, no heretics in sight. Another false tip-off, thought Millender. The team moved upstairs, shotguns deployed expertly to cover each other.

With a crash one of the Arbites shoulder-charged the room on the left of the stairs, flimsy wood shattering into splinters under the force of the blow. Then the booby trap went off.

Aran knew that it was his time to die. The Emperor had told him so. But he had no fear of dying, for he knew that he would take his place amongst the many that had fallen in His service. Gently he cradled the captured lasgun, confident that it had been correctly serviced in accordance with Adeptus Mechanicus guidelines. He would demand such details, in His infinite wisdom.

Then the cursed Arbites had been spotted heading their way, with the incantations so close to conclusion, and Aran had been tasked with ensuring that He was not interrupted in the final stages of the rite. All ready Aran could feel the pressure on the base of his neck, as he had told Aran it would happen. Aran looked over at the drawn curtains, hearing the sound of a vehicle pulling up outside. There was the clatter of footsteps crossing the street, then sudden silence.

Aran tensed, pulling the small detonator for the charge fixed to the door from his belt. Muttering a short prayer in High Gothic taught to him by the Emperor, he closed his eyes, ready for the end. His eyes snapped opening, hearing the sound of a grenade launcher. The curtains shook, a cylinder the size of his forearm tearing through the fabric. Aran recognised the red and white striped object and quickly pulled on the respirator he had taken from one of the gangers they had captured. Within seconds the room was a blurred shape, the thick smoke making everything indistinct.

He heard the boom of charges and tensed, eyes fixed on the door. Footsteps moved methodically beneath him, muffled from the smoke and the thin plas-mesh floorboards. Then the louder, methodical clatter of people coming up the stairs, towards him. The smoke was clearing, sucked out of the window so it seemed to be a veil of cloud in front of his eyes. With a crash the door was caved in, the distinctive black shoulder pauldron of an Arbite visible for a few seconds. Squeezing his eyes shut, Aran pushed the switch on the detonator.

Millender watched the Arbite fly backwards, his right arm missing and a gaping wound in his chest. Blood misted the air, gouts spattering across his black visor. Muttering a short curse, He started forward, bolt pistol ready. He paused at the ragged, blackened edge of the thin door frame, glancing back to see who was with him. A pair of Chasteners were behind him, their shotguns ready. One passed a photon-flash grenade. Millender armed it, muttered the Ode to Timing, and tossed it into the room. The grenade went off, bathing the area in a white light that forced his visor's eye plates to darken momentarily. He ran into the room, bolt pistol ready.

Ahead of him squatted a man clad in dirty grey rags, a well-used lasgun in his hands. Millender fired twice, the bolts vaporising flesh on impact and throwing the shattered corpse against the far wall. Blood greased the man's travel to the ground. Millender was disheartened to see a look of bliss on the man's face, as though he had been expecting the release of death.

Holding up his left hand, Millender spread 3 fingers before squeezing the hand into a fist. On the unspoken signal, Arbites peeled off, moving cautiously between rooms, lest they be caught by the same booby trap.

Millender's vision blurred momentarily. He staggered, placing a hand against the wall. A dull pressure was building at the base of his neck. Wych-craft. He had felt it before, when dealing with Wyrds and other such psychic creatures. This seemed more powerful, and Millender tasted copper in his mouth. He swallowed, hoping that it was a momentary problem.

Turning, he moved forwards, towards a room that had so far been untouched by the sweeper teams. He checked that the others were with him before signalling the lead man to apply a breaching charge. The charge was set, the Arbite giving him a thumbs up.

Millender nodded his head. The Arbite detonated the charge.

He sat on the edge of a circle of ancient and indescribably evil prayers and rites written onto the plas-mesh floor in human blood. In the centre of the circle a blue and green mist of energies was swirling, searching for the one who had called them. The energies, like luminescent clouds they seemed to him, shifted endlessly, tracing shadowy figures in the air. They coalesced into the form of a naked woman, her body a shifting sea of green cloud, her hair a waving pattern of blue. She looked at him, black eyes staring deep into his soul.

"Why have you summoned us?" The voice was deep and rich, many-layered and full of masculine and feminine undertones. It seemed to him that the voice was not one voice, but many, all vying to be heard.

"I was told that there was something to be done." Davus' voice betrayed none of his inner fears. The summoning had been difficult, even for one as accomplished as he, and he did not want to lose control of such a powerful force.

"There are many things to be done Davus Ubquill." The woman smiled a deep and malevolent smile that stole Davus' breath from his lungs.

"That's not what I mean." Davus looked at the daemon-thing, his own golden eyes flashing in anger.

"We know." Again that smile. The figure shifted, becoming indistinct, before the mists cleared, showing the representation of a winged skull. "This is the Key to Bar'daruer. If you can find it you will unlock the world of metal daemons and command an army more powerful than that of the False Emperor's Marine legions."

"And where would I find this key?"

"Patience. The key will come to you. Be at Neudanen in three week's time. The Key will come to you." The mists swirled again, before evaporating.

Davus stood, collecting his rust-coloured robes around him. He felt the weak psychic presence of several men outside. A brief smile crossed his sunken, pale features. The Arbites had arrived to round up the recidivists. He felt a twitch against the small of his back. Lermeon was awakened by the smell of blood. Lermeon was hungry. He unsheathed the daemonblade, feeling it shudder in his hands. The smell of blood was heady in the air, the cloying mixture of copper and peppermint dying along with the fading plasma.

The door was blown off its hinges, thrown towards Davus. With a look Davus caught the door in a psychic grasp and hurled it back towards the intruders. He caught a black-armoured Arbite in the neck, severing his head from his shoulders. The body slumped, shotgun clattering to the ground. A spray of blood caught Lermeon's tip. The blade shivered with barely controlled excitement. Davus ran forwards, spinning the sword in complicated, ever-shifting patterns.

He pushed it into the next Arbite, cutting through armour-plas and cloth in a second. Hungrily the blade fed, sucking the blood from the man's wound.

As it fed, the blade darkened from a sickly pink to a healthy red, shuddering with each second it stayed in the wound. Davus smiled; he liked Lermeon to be happy.

His eyes flicked up to see the third Arbite standing in the doorway, the golden badge of a senior Arbite visible on his left breast. He pulled to blade clear, letting the emaciated corpse fall to the ground with a dull thud. He sniffed deeply, smelling the fear emanating from the surviving Arbite. He started forward, his features contorting into a leer of hatred.

Millender swallowed. The heretic before him seemed to be some sort of sorcerer, his dark red robes stained with long-dried blood and warp plasma. Etched into dark red plates covering his chest and stomach, Millender could see obscene patterns and gold-flecked runes, their meaning clear to him, though it nearly brought him to his knees.

His sword, easily two metres long from tip to pommel, seemed to strain in his hand, sensing the death around it. Millender had heard of such weapons, the mark of a true heretic according to doctrine, but had never seen one.

He looked up into the heretic's golden eyes, seeing an inner fire behind the glare of hatred. The man wanted Millender broken before he killed him. Grimly, Millender muttered a prayer to the Emperor and pulled his power maul from its holster. Pushing the activation stud, he smelt the oppressive stench of ozone mixed with the saccharine scent of peppermint. The power field crackled luminous blue lightning around the maul. Millender gripped it firmly, but not too tightly, just as he had been taught many years ago.

The heretic ran forwards, muttering obscene words that sent a surge of fear through Millender's heart, and he struggled not to vomit. The blade described intricate, complicated patterns in the air, each move accompanied by a fine mist of red droplets. Millender steeled himself for the fight, his mind subconsciously reciting the Ode To The Faithful, one of the first hymnals taught at the Schola Progenium.

The heretic's armour shifted, the runes warping and merging with each other to form new, even more terrifying shapes. The man started to move

Millender raised his maul.

Sword and power maul met in a flicker of chained lightning and a spray of red. He could hear something scream with rage, but the heretic's lips had not moved.

The sword shifted abruptly, his maul free to move. He pulled back into a defensive stance, hoping that his fellow Arbites would come to his aid. Something caught the back of his leg and he stumbled onto one knee. The shrieking blade whistled over the top of his head, missing the top of his helmet by millimetres. He looked down to see the broken body of an Arbite; the body unspoilt save for the blood streaming from the seals around the rebreather mask.

Millender caught the blade again on the backswing, his wrist jarring from the impact. Stifling a grunt he pushed against the blade. His right hand rose, clutching his bolt pistol.

In a blur of motion, the sword swung round, too fast for Millender to see. It sliced through his ceramite vambrace like a cutting torch through flakboard. His right hand dropped away, blood surging from the ragged end of his arm. He fell to one knee and shut his eyes, his lower lip clamped between his teeth. His maul fell from his hand, which immediately clutched at the bloody stump, blood oozing from between his black-gloved fingers.

Looking up, he saw the blood red sword again, swinging from his right hand side. Then he felt no more.

Davus watched the Arbite's head fly from his shoulders, a bloody trail marking its passage. The corpse slumped forward, prostrating itself before him. Davus smiled thinly. As it should be, he mused. He thrust Lermeon into the wound, letting the daemonblade drink deeply from the stricken corpse.

His features creased into a pensive mask, his mind trying to make connections and decipher the reason for this key. He would have to find out, and soon, so he could broker a deal to his advantage. Before then, he had to get off the planet and make his way to Neudanen.

He withdrew Lermeon from the husk, sheathing her carefully. After such a gorging, she would be difficult to draw, her reflexes dulled by the feast. In the distance he could here alarm bells shrieking. More Arbites would be on the way to investigate the explosions. He looked to his left, seeing several members of the cult he had created standing nearby.

"Come brethren, we will away," he called, leading them out into the maze of back streets and hab blocks of the Underhive, towards the spaceport.

The Nightwing, In Transit to Alteria – 15 Weeks after Allesthem VII

"This is madness Julius," spat Kurze, his wizened fingers shaking with rage. He sat back in a grav-couch, staring at the holo-projected image of the Ork ship. Freya looked across the table at her master, his face pale in the bright light cast by the holo-projector. She could see him shaking his head, his aura a flickering range of emotions.

"Never the less, it is the only course of action we have available to us," said Azrael. He tapped a rune on the pad in front of him. The display changed, zooming out to show the ship as a simple symbol, with the Nightwing close behind. A pale green line marked the projected course of the Ork cruiser, taking it directly towards a planet called Alteria, recently made part of the Tau Empire. It had been a risk, she knew, hiding the small tracking servitor in the wreckage of the Ork ship, but Azrael seemed keen to take it. Now the servitor was latched onto the hull of the Ork ship they were chasing, sending back a tight stream of machine data that the Nightwing's auspex arrays were feeding into cognitor banks.

Freya took a deep breath of cold, well-scrubbed air, and glanced about the room. She could sense that Kurze was getting ready to launch into another tirade about the Orks being a bigger threat than Azrael realised. She wanted no part in this. They had been chasing the Orks for several days now and more than once Kurze had launched into a rant against Azrael's methods.

Instead, she concentrated on the buttress in the far corner, a bas-relief of a hooded and cloaked man sculpted across it surface, a large broadsword held in both hands. No doubt it was meant to be a representation of the Ordo Malleus, she mused, noting that the other corners all had similar figures, seemingly carved out of the metal. The Nightwing was proving to be every much as sinister and combative as her master, Azrael.

Dimly, she could hear Azrael and Kurze arguing over some historical precedent of going up against the Orks. To her mind, both were right. They needed to get their hands on the amulet, but they also needed to make sure they were not mobbed whilst doing so.

"Freya, your opinion?" Azrael's voice cut through her ruminations, snapping her back to the present.

She sat bolt upright in the chair, glancing at each of them in turn. She could see her own features reflected in the polished surface of the briefing table. She seemed more pallid than she remembered, and her hair was badly dishevelled.

"I think you're both right," she said. Kurze and Azrael both had a look of triumph in their eyes, as though they had gotten one over on the other. "However, we must consider that the amulet may be better off destroyed, rather than coveted."

That shocked them into silence. Azrael looked appalled at the idea, whilst Kurze seemed to be on the edge of a stroke, his hands clenching and unclenching rapidly. Both sat back, each with a pensive expression.

"Very well," said Azrael, his voice low and heavy. "For the good of the Imperium it must be done. Though how it can be done is another matter."

"True, and my examinations with the cursed Eldar flesh have yielded little," mused Kurze. He paused, accessing a data-slate that he had been turning endlessly in his hands since the briefing started.

"So we must capture it," said Azrael. "Only then can we work out a way to destroy it."

"Very well," said Kurze, his voice a sadder echo of Azrael's own comment.

The console in front of Azrael beeped, a red rune flashing on the display. Impatiently, Azrael slapped his hand on it.

"Yes?" His voice, it seemed to Freya, was thick with anger. Was it merely the intrusion on their private world, or the comment about destroying it? Kurze had told Freya that Azrael had elements of the radical in him, seeking to control powerful forces to use them against all enemies. Was this amulet merely another tool he hoped to use against the Great Enemy?

"My lord, we are six hours sidereal away from Alteria, the Orks have passed into the Matterium," said the pilot, his augmented voice a jangling discord on Freya's psyche.

"Good. Follow them into the system, put keep us hidden," said Azrael, a look of grim determination played across his features.

"Yes my lord," said the pilot. The vox cut with an audible click.

Azrael glanced at each of them in turn, his eyes crackling with internal fire.

"So, we are close," he said. He ran his left hand through his neatly clipped goatee, smoothing it out. "Do we turn back now, or press on?"

"Press on," murmured Kurze, his voice low and hollow. He looked up at Azrael. "But, old friend, if we cannot get the amulet, we must destroy it and whatever foul denizen wears it."

"Agreed," said Azrael. He shot Freya a dark glance. "Your thoughts Interrogator?"

"We strike hard, and fast," said Freya. All ready the blood was pumping faster through her veins, the call of the hunt strong in her mind. Now it was time. Time for the wolf to bare her claws and strike hard at the prey. Her voice went cold. "And without mercy."

"Good," said Azrael. He smiled a sinister smile, filled with the wolfish delight of the coming battle. The view on the holo-projector changed, showing a world. "This is how we're going to do it."

The Tears of Khaine, the edge of the Alteria System – 15 Weeks after Allesthem VII

Farseer Dan'yotal watched the Mon-Keigh craft appear from the cursed realm, chasing the Ork craft. Such foolishness, he thought. He glanced over at the ship's commander, taller than he by a good head, and nodded his thin head, his long dark hair collected about his shoulders bobbing in time with the movement.

"Yes Lord Farseer," said the commander, turning to issue orders to the crew of the Solaris-class vessel. Around him, Dan'yotal could feel the Wraithbone hull of the ship pulse with the changing of energies, the very flux of the vessel shifting to steer their course to follow.

The mon-keigh could not be allowed to have the ancient artefact. If they did, such evil would be unleashed on the galaxy as had not been seen since the Gods battled millennia ago. Even the evil of She Who Thirsts would seem insignificant compared to the event that would occur. Long had the Eldar dreaded this day, when the Key to Bar'daruer would be found again, and used to unlock the daemon world, allowing the great evil that lurked beyond the veil of reality to spew forth, like maggots from a wound, and pollute the galaxy.

Dan'yotal adjusted his long flowing robes, the long white-trimmed red cloak of his office gathered around his back. His helm was in his chambers, awaiting the call to war. He hoped it would not come to that. The Key fed off the lust for battle, the bloodshed and the fear. Each time it tasted the scent of battle, it grew stronger, poisoning the mind of the one who held it, until they were forced to go to the very gates of Bar'daruer and unleash the hell contained within.

"A pity," he said at last.

"My Lord Farseer?" One of the Warlocks, young at a mere 800 years as the mon-keigh calendar had it, piped up, eager to learn, absorb the true meaning of the Path.

"Forgive me," said Dan'yotal, allowing himself an indulgent smile. He turned to face the Warlock, whose deep almond eyes stared into his own. Dan'yotal saw his face reflected in their lustre, his pinched features showing signs of their age. Was he really so old? His memories of youth were clouded, mixed with his frequent travels through the Craftworld's Infinity Matrix. Memories of times long since passed, times before his own, when the Eldar had ruled far and justly, before the dark times, before the Fall. "Thoughts that should be better left unspoken."

"Lord Farseer, we are shadowing the Mon-keigh, they have not detected us thus far," said the commander, his voice a grim monotone.

Dan'yotal could sense trepidation in the commander's voice, an emotion matched by his crew. It resonated through the Wraithbone core of the ship, thick as Iyanden Lafbraugh Treacle, the scent unmistakable to Dan'yotal's senses. This was a venture not without risk, the Key to Bar'daruer was evil, designed to unlock a Necron tomb that had been pushed into the warp by an Eldar force many cycles ago. The ancient wardings around the tomb had failed, the ignorant Mon-keigh shattering them in their attempts to understand the universe.

Such ignorance, thought Dan'yotal, they will be the death of us all. Their clumsy attempts to master their own fates and fight She Who Thirsts had resulted in a great outpouring of horror and death not seen since the time when the Eldar had been united as one, and the Gods had walked freely amongst mortals.

Through the viewport, Dan'yotal could see the black-coloured ship, her engine cones burning with orange fire, manoeuvring behind the Ork's clumsy vessels, an attack run clearly in mind. Dan'yotal reached out with his mind, feeling the steely taste of psykers aboard the ship.

He jerked, his mind touching the very edge of a corona of raw emotion, the snarling figure of a caged wolf taking shape in his mind. Such anger, such unmistakable power. He shuddered.

"My Lord Farseer?" The Warlock spoke again, his helm obscuring his features. The concern for his master was evident. Dan'yotal would have to remind him of the lesson in guarding emotion again. But later, when they had the time.

"We must be quick," said Dan'yotal. "The mon-keigh have psykers with them of great power. One of their psykers is caged, his power restrained by some unknown force."

"You have a plan?" Said the commander, his slender hands dancing over the control crystals. The resonant hum of each action created a melody of soft, undulating notes, sweet like the trickle of the Silver Waterfalls aboard Ver'gaeta.

"Yes," said Dan'yotal. He looked at the mon-keigh ship. The faintest of tremors rocked his soul. The caged psyker was shaking the bars of his cage. He imagined the power that would be unleashed if such a being were to get the Key. His mind filled with images of death, war and horror. "We attack the mon-keigh once they have defeated the Orks. I have foreseen it. We must be prepared for horrors such as we will never see again."

"Yes My Lord Farseer, the forces will be ready to attack on your word," said the commander.

"I shall be in my chambers," said Dan'yotal. He turned, walking swiftly from the command deck of the cruiser. He could sense the young Warlock following him, his mind awash with questions. They would be answered in time, but for now, focus was required.

Dan'yotal pushed against a Wraithbone stud set at waist height.

The soft red velveteen curtains, interlaced with green and blue jewels and slats of soft, young Wraithbone, drew back to reveal an austere circular chamber, pillars of warm, cream Wraithbone positioned uniformly around the edge of the room. Between the pillars hung the multicoloured banners for each of the Aspect Shrines of the Ver'gaeta Craftworld, each lit by the cold blue crystals that decorated the pillars in precise lines.

In the middle of the chamber was a raised alter of Wraithbone, the Helm of Vaul and the Spear of The Vanquished ceremonially lying atop it, bedded on a folded sheet of deep green ghost silk. The light caught the golden Ghosthelm, making it shine in the dim chamber. To Dan'yotal it seemed that the helm shone like the Keldnoran Sun, surrounded by the infinite darkness of the galaxy. The spirit stones lining the helm's rim glowed with inner light, warm and comforting within the stark cold of the chambers.

Lifting it above his head, Dan'yotal silently spoke the Words of Clarity, long ago committed to memory, and slipped it on. He instantly relaxed, the intricately wrought lining of the helm protecting him from the harrowing whispers of the Warp. Dan'yotal glanced round. His pupil was standing by the door, his head bowed in respect.

"Come young one, we must consult the runes for traces of consequence," he said, walking away from the alter, his feet soundless on the dark green, crushed silk lace floor.

At the far end of the room sat a circular patch of brilliant white Wraithbone no more than 6 hand spans across. It was part of the very essence of the Tears of Khaine, tied to the Wraithbone hull of the Ver'gaeta herself.

Dan'yotal tugged the small, purple, crushed velvet pouch from his waist, reaching in to pluck out a handful of small Wraithbone cubes, each marked with a rune on one side. Focussing his mind, his energies, and his very soul, he opened his hand. The runes felt warm in his hand. Each was pulsing with energy, bone-white surfaces now golden cream. He tossed them gently onto the living Wraithbone. They clattered across the surface with a sound like clicking bone.

The signs were not favourable. Dan'yotal noticed that the Runes of Salvation and Outcasts had fallen sideways, central to the rune pattern. Face down and next to them was the Rune of Freedom. The Rune of the Dark Kin was face up, and in the very centre of the pattern was the Rune of the Soul-Drinker.

"The darkness will rise," said Dan'yotal, conscious that his voice was hollow, soulless. Near the edge of pattern lay the Rune of the Solitaire. "Though within the darkness there is hope. We can only hope that this hope arrives before the end, before the death of us all."

Alteria, Ultima Segmentum – 15 Weeks after Allesthem VII

Major Drakon Thanar stood on the shattered remains of the landing pad, watching the Orca dropships bring in the last of the survivors. He glanced around, noting the twisted metal and ceramic habitation blocks and offices, the result of an explosion. The charred remains of the promethium tank that powered the landing pad lights and auspex arrays sat nearby, the harsh sand-blasted edges glinting in the early morning sun.

Thanar's foot came down, crushing the remains of a ceramic plate into a fine powder. Damn them, he thought. Damn them all to hell and back.

The nightmarish warriors were gone, leaving no trace of their passing, save for the utter devastation. For nearly six long years the refugees had built this place, defending it from Orks and marauding Eldar pirates, always aware that the Imperium may come to reclaim the land and kill them all. Trust had been built up with the local Tau commanders, trade lanes established, and families made. All of it, destroyed in a manner of hours.

"The final tally?" Asked Por'vre Dal'yth, his usual sky blue-coloured robes of office replaced by a dark blue robe of mourning, edged with gold leaf. His tabard was cream, the blue crest of the world of Dal'yth central on the chest, stitched on by hand in silk thread. Hanging from a Rynth-skin belt was a blade nearly half a metre long, sheathed in an ornate scabbard of ceramic and polished steel. A similar weapon to the ritual bonding blade of the Warriors, it was mainly ceremonial, but at a pinch it could be used in self-defence.

"Sixty four dead, thirty injured and seven unaccounted for," said Thanar, glancing at the impassive features of the Tau Water Caste member, their administrator and facilitator these few years. He did not need to add that most of the dead were humans, the Tau preferring to cover the retreat from a distance. As was their way. In many ways he felt as though their advancements with the Tau had all been for naught.

In the distance Thanar could see a black smudge on the sun-beaten sand, the remains of the Barracuda that had started the incident. The wind was howling through the wreckage, like the cry of the dead demanding vengeance for their untimely deaths.

A storm was coming. The Air Caste starships that had shuttled them back from the great Orbital City above a green-clouded death world had monitored the atmosphere, noting the build up of pale cream cloud in the south. Thanar knew that the storm would hit in a few hours, coating them in the harsh fine sand. They could usually ride out the storms in their shelters cut into the mountain, but the entrance to the main shelters had been destroyed, supporting pillars vaporised by the metallic warriors.

"The storm approaches," said Dal'yth. Thanar pursed his lips, his lower face obscured by a cream-coloured cloth he had wrapped around his head and neck. The unspoken question hung in the air, like an Alterian sand wasp.

"We have the temporary shelters," Thanar said at length. He grabbed the small tube that hung beneath his chin with his tongue, pulling it into his mouth and sucking hard. He felt momentary relief from the eternal thirst, the cold water rushing down his throat like a cool mountain stream.

"They will not last forever." The Por'vre sounded different, almost a monotone. Thanar got the impression that the blue-skinned alien was on the verge of getting annoyed. He was right though. The drab green polymer-skinned military issue pre-fabs would not last for long in the relentless barrage of sand and heat.

"True," said Thanar.

He opened his mouth to speak again when a glint caught his eye. The harsh rays of the sun had caught something in their relentless glare. He pulled the old Imperial magnoculars from a pouch on his belt, focussing on the vicinity.

Nothing. Just the deceivingly gentle lines of sand dunes, their crests swirling with faint clouds of powder, like the breakers that crashed against the rocky beach several kilometres away.

No, there was movement. He focussed on the movement, seeing the crude boxy lines of wheeled vehicles, painted in bright, glaring colours. Sand sprayed from beneath their wide wheels, making the air shimmer around them.

Thanar snarled: Orks. The bane of many civilised races for millennia.

Now they were back to wreak havoc on the teetering community. Thanar knew that the majority of their defences were gone, blasted away by the silver-skinned warriors. He turned to face the Por'vre, dreading the question he would have to ask.

"Do you see them?" Thanar asked, his voice grim, even to his own ears.

"More enemies?" The question was rhetorical, with a vaguely mocking tone. For a brief moment Thanar wanted to kill the Tau before him. They had suffered hard to make this world their own, accepting the Tau as their overlords, and yet the Tau seemed ready to cut their losses and abandon them to their fate.

"Greenskins." Thanar kept his voice steady, glancing at the Por'vre from the corner of his eye.

"This must not be allowed," hissed Por'vre Dal'yth. Thanar was surprised at the venom in the Tau's voice, his lips curled back in a feral snarl to expose gleaming white teeth, the razor-sharp fangs of a carnivore glinting in the sunlight.

He turned to face Thanar, the black orbs of his whiteless eyes narrowed into slits. Thanar was glad his eyes were hidden behind anti-glare goggles, lest Por'vre Dal'yth catch the surprise he was no doubt showing. When he spoke, his words came out in feral rasps. "I will summon the Cadre. They will not let this trespass stand."

Thanar watched the Por'vre stamp off, his feet clicking on the stonework and his knotted braid swinging from beneath his wide-brimmed coolie hat. The arrival of the Orks had provoked something deep-seated within the Tau, that much Thanar was certain of.

The hatred of the Orks was something he could understand, during his service with the Imperium Thanar had run across the foul aliens, and had been every bit as brutal and uncivilised as he had been led to believe.

Grimly he checked his pulse rifle, noting that he only had a few magazines remaining. This would be a close-run battle.

Gorkek struggled to stay upright, the Wartrukk bucking violently beneath him. The Kill Krooser had scanned the surface, showing only a small population of humies. They would kill'em all. That'd teach them to mess with him.

"Boss?" The whiny Nob was clinging onto the side of the Trukk, the top of his head hidden behind a large helmet with ridiculous silver wings nailed to the side of it.

Gorkek did not like that; the Nob was copying the humies too much. He'd have to sort him out, quiet like, before the Nob got it into his head that he was the biggest.

"What?" Gorkek's patience was wearing thin. He had heard Gork & Mork calling him during his doze, whispering to him of a world far away, where there was loads of fighting, and more shiny guns than he would ever need. Once they got out of this place, he was going to find it.

"Why do we have to crush these humies? Dey's done nothing' wrong," he said. The Nob jerked back, Gorkek's punch landing square on his chin.

Disguising his pain, the Nob had a metal jaw, Gorkek rounded on him.

"So we's shouldn't attack dem cos they's done nothing wrong? Are you an Ork or a squig?" Gorkek's voice was a loud bellow over the roar of the Trukk engine and the howl of the wind. The sand was sweeping all over them, covering his armour in a dull yellow haze. Gorkek spat, clearing the sand from his mouth.

"An Ork, boss," shouted the Nob. Gorkek saw anger in the Nob's eyes. Good. He did not want the Nobz to get strange ideas around him. They were Orks, the hardest, nastiest creatures in the galaxy. He told them as much.

General roars of approval greeted his words. They were ready for it. They were going to kill them all, and have a great time of it.

He was still grinning when the Wartrukk closest to his exploded in a fireball, throwing debris everywhere.

"Good shot," muttered Azrael. He was holding onto a grab rail above the central control column of his attack ship.

The pilot merely grunted, swinging the arrowhead-shaped vessel around for another pass. Thrusters screamed in protest, red runes blinking on as filters struggled to cope with the dust storm the craft was generating.

The chin turret spoke again, the great wail of twin-linked assault cannons sending a hailstorm of explosive shells towards the Ork vehicles. Another was hit, cartwheeling wildly across the sand, the occupants tossed around like flotsam in a heavy swell. Fire was coming their way, tracer rounds stitching broad lines across the sky.

Another burst of fire, another kill. Still, three vehicles raced towards the settlement in the distance, their passengers firing random bursts at the sleek-lined vessel. The occasional solid round pinged off the matt-black painted armour plating with a dull whine.

The pilot's eyes narrowed. A prolonged burst of assault cannon fire shredded one vehicle. The crude buggy ground to a halt, with no obvious signs of damage. A wingtip lascannon, slaved to the targeting servitors hardwired into the attack ship's systems, spat bolts of blue-white light, taking out another one.

The final buggy ground to a halt, the Orks inside jumping clear and running to take up some sort of defensive formation.

"Set her down and allow us to get clear," ordered Azrael. "Once we're clear provide high cover."

"Yes sir," said the pilot. He reduced power, the ship dipping earthwards as it lost forward momentum.

Azrael turned, making his way to the rear, where Kurze, Freya, and a Kill Team of his capable retinue sat ready. All were dressed in tan bodygloves, carapace armour sections clipped into their appropriate positions. The retinue wore Cadian-pattern tri-dome helmets, with features obscured behind mirrored visors. Most carried hellguns with under-barrel grenade launchers, though some carried heavier ordnance, with plasma guns and heavy stubbers in evidence.

Glancing at his fellow Inquisitors, he did not think of Freya as an Interrogator; she seemed to wise in the ways of the world to be so young, he saw steely determination. Their auras flickered in a myriad of colours, mainly in the blue region. They seemed strangely calm, almost relaxed.

"Ready?" Azrael asked. The attack ship was descending, the deck pivoting neatly to keep them protected from enemy fire.

"As always," smiled Kurze. Azrael caught a flicker of yellow around the edges. Fear? Doubtful; Kurze had never been too scared to go into a fight. Though, Azrael reminded himself, that was the very reason Kurze had to rely on augmentics in his old age.

Azrael stopped, noting the flickering orange, interlaced with pale blue, around Freya.

Anger.

This was her first mission against the Orks. Previous missions had only confined her to other species, dealings with the deadly and enigmatic Eldar, the Scrathi, the Huduu, and other such Xenos in the Northern part of the Ultima Segmentum.

Why was she angry? Azrael could not readily answer that question. He could sense no external influence. He suspected the cause, though. She almost seemed ready to snap, tear off her clothes and run at them in a rage. Such was the peril of living in the northern continent of Fenris.

"Let's do it," said Freya. Azrael looked into her eyes. Mentally he staggered. Her blue eyes seemed almost luminescent, such was the power veiled behind them. Her file had her down as having only Gamma-class psyker abilities, not enough to give him such a slap. A change had come over her. He did not know why or where, but she was different to the woman he had read on Galleas those weeks ago.

Azrael pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind, arming his artificered Inferno pistol. Time to get to work; there were xenos to purge from this world.

He jumped clear of the attack ship, the purity seals on his segmented carapace armour fluttering and snapping wildly in the downdraft. He squinted, one hand keeping hold of his black steeple hat, the red and gold badge of the Inquisition set neatly on the front of the wide band around the base of the crown. Like his pistol, his hat was a personal flourish that he wore to identify him on the battlefield. Many of his retinue used it as a marker to identify his position, many of his enemies knew it as a sight to fear.

"Forward," he shouted, running through the soft sand, his feet struggling to find purchase.

Swearing an oath that would make a Battle Sister blush he crested a dune, aware of the solid rounds from the crude Ork weapons winging past him.

An Ork ran towards him, the large axe swinging in his hand. Azrael levelled his Inferno pistol and fired. The air was flash heated by the ancient weapon, the Ork's skin blistering and cracking as the beam built up. The very moisture evaporating from his cells, the head exploded, showing them with putrid green gel and hard bits of heavily calloused skin.

He dropped to one knee, his pistol firing again. The muted hiss was stolen away by the gusts of wind, but the results were the same. Another Ork corpse flopped to the ground, a steaming hole where the gullet should have been.

A solid shot, slowed by the sand dune it had punched through, slammed into his breastplate. He fell backwards, lashing out with his mind. A deep bellow of rage from the other side of the dune was cut short. Azrael snapped his fingers and heard a strangled gasp. Seconds later a hollow thump, as something large and heavy struck the sand.

Smiling to himself, Azrael moved forward, his retinue close at his heels. He would kill Gorkek, before the storm abated, that he was sure of.

A couple of hundred metres away, Freya felt the brief pressure of psychic power being unleashed. She saw an Ork collapse to the ground, apparently unhurt. Freya could have sworn the Ork was just tired, but for the blood streaming from the eyes, nose and mouth.

She cocked an eyebrow at that. Such power.

A roar to her left snapped her away from the sight. An Ork Nob, recognisable by his tall stature and heavier-looking armour, was running towards them, chained lightning crackling from his crude power claw.

Freya reached out with her mind, muttering words of power beneath her breath. She squeezed her black-gloved left hand into a fist.

The Ork staggered once before falling face-first into the sand with a damp-sounding crunch. Freya smiled at the Ork's expression; he looked very surprised. And who could blame him? Having your heart pulped whilst it was still inside your body would be a surprise to anyone.

She heard a louder roar of voices. The group the Nob had been leading ran towards her, not bothering to even fire their weapons, such was their bloodlust.

She pulled an ancient plasma pistol from her belt, the gold-chased casing glinting in the harsh sunlight. Aiming carefully, she squeezed the trigger.

A bolt of blue plasma shot from the end of the weapon, slamming into the nearest Ork with predictable results. He fell backwards, crude metal plates of armour spinning in all directions.

Her eyes narrowed; there were still half a dozen left and they were drawing very close. Taking a deep breath, she drew a black painted chainsword from a scabbard on her back. Pressing the activation stud built into the handle, she felt the blade cycle up to ultrasonic speed.

With a roar that was more canine than human, she ran forward, meeting the Orks head on.

Azrael heard the sound of the chainsword powering up and pursed his lips. He had felt the raw power Freya had used to kill the Nob, the scent of ozone heavy in the air, despite the strong breeze: the tang of the Warp.

He waved a hand, bowling over an Ork in front of him. One of his retinue was down, an Ork axe lodged in his helmet. The Ork lay beside him, his garish black and red armour soaked in green blood. Azrael had finished the job. Green blood dripped from the end of his sword, soaked up by the sand.

The Ork he had just waved away stood up, its monstrous features twisted into a feral snarl. He was dressed differently to most of the Orks he had killed, ostentatious jewelled plates of armour on his chest, a helmet with silver wings crudely welded to the sides, and a metallic jaw.

A Nob, Azrael decided. He smiled thinly. And a fool.

He raised his sword, thumbing the activation rune, and immediately settled into a guard position, his legs and arms braced.

The Nob ran forward, bringing his large axe down in a glittering arc. Azrael parried, the power sword hissing and crackling in his hand. It was taking most of his strength to keep the Ork's blade from cutting through his hat. Sparks flew from the metal as the sword slipped, the power field sending short arcs of electricity onto the metal handle. He could smell the Ork's foul stench, a mixture of pungent chemicals and bodily secretions, and his nose twitched. The Ork grinned, revealing a set of filed and polished teeth, each as sharp as a Kenjian Thrust Dagger.

Fortunately, he had other means to fight.

Holstering the Inferno pistol, he took hold of the sword with both hands and pushed against the polished metal haft of the axe. Coupled with a brief telekinetic push, it was enough to send the Ork stumbling backwards, a bemused expression on its face.

Azrael did not let up, using his abilities to psychically charge his blows, striking with greater force than he could do normally. The smell of the Warp was growing stronger, the thick ozone making it difficult to breathe naturally.

He swung his sword in an arc, eviscerating the Ork. Still the creature tried to defend itself, piggy black eyes dull, standing on its own internal organs. He had heard rumours of Ork bodies fighting after suffering grievous damage, but this was the first time he had seen it. Hacking frantically, he severed the creature's head from its shoulders.

The head sailed away, a streamer of blood marking its path. The carcass finally accepted death, collapsing into a heap at his feet. He jumped back, his long black stormcoat flapping, trying to avoid the greasy, ropey entrails.

He felt a sudden pressure in his mind and whirled, scanning the horizon. Nothing threatening was visible, just an endless ocean of sand. He glanced up, noting the attack ship, circling unsteadily in the growing winds. The clouds above them were thick, tinged with an inner, phosphorescent mint-green glow. Their use of powers was attracting the attention of those that dwelled in the Immaterium, like carrion flies were drawn to a rotting corpse.

The pressure in his mind spiked. He dropped onto one knee, aware that he could taste copper. He spat, his own blood glistening red on the sand, spoiled into sludge by the green Ork blood.

Overhead came a brief crack, then a sudden flash of forked lightning between several clouds.

They needed to finish this, before they drew more attention to themselves. He glanced over at Kurze, who was finishing off an Ork with a sharp downwards blow of his Power Axe. A small pile of roughly hewn corpses lay scattered in front of him, evidence of his considerable abilities, despite his age. Blood slicked the front of his ornate maroon and gold armour, and his Axe was awash with green.

"We need to finish this," Azrael called, using the micro-bead vox unit built into the lapel of his armour.

"Agreed," said Kurze, nodding at the warp storm gathering overhead. Azrael saw him look to his left. His jaw dropped open. "Throne of Terra! Look at her!"

Azrael's eyes flicked to the right, following Kurze's gaze. His eyes went wide. Impressive.

Freya Aogustdottir was fighting for her life. The Ork before her was bigger than any of the others, and the glyph plate bolted to the front of his thick armour signified him as the Boss. He wore some sort of harness, long servo-arms waving around in a complicated fashion. Each ended in a stubby flamer, their fires extinguished. The area stank of crude promethium, soaking into the sand from the broken pipes that jutted from his back.

The man that had charged in from her left had not noticed the flamers initially, and it had cost him dearly. He lay face down on the ground, his body a blackened, charred mess. She had used the diversion to cut the pipes, the volatile liquid splashing her and soaking the lower half of her body.

Her drying trousers clung to her legs, the ceramite plating strapped to her thighs glistening in the sun. She stumbled in the slurry the pair had churned up.

The Ork swung his axe with a bellow. She blocked him, barely. She could sense the power that had earlier infused her with such anger fading away. She focussed, drawing upon the power of the Warp. Chainsword ground against axe, shards of titanium teeth spinning away as they were snapped off. The Ork pressed the full weight of his body into the locked blades, forcing her onto her back foot.

Thinking quickly, she squeezed a rune on the side of the sword. The blade teeth changed direction, making the Ork stagger. Sensing her chance she jumped to one side, slicing down with all of the fury she could muster.

There was a brief clang of metal on metal. She sheared through the servo-arm, sending the small flamer on the end flying off into the distance. The Ork countered, swinging his axe round.

She jumped back, the very edge of the blade skimming the left hand side of her forehead. Roaring in pain she swung down, severing another servo-arm. Sparks sputtered from the arm before it went limp, swinging freely of its own momentum.

Freya missed the backswing. She drew her chainsword upright into a vertical block, the force of the blow throwing her to her right.

She looked into the Ork's piggy red eyes, black pupils squinting at her. The Ork roared. Her nose twitched. The breath was foetid. She roared back her own challenge, though it sounded like the cry of the Wulfen to her ears.

The Ork paused. She saw the craggy features flash into momentary surprise. Flashing a grin, she struck forward with her sword, battering through his guard and slicing deep into his right arm.

With a roar of pain the Ork stumbled backwards, clutching at the wound. Green blood soaked through his fingers. Freya moved forward, not letting up with her attack.

A servo-arm lashed out, the inert flamer smacking her right side. She heard the faint crack of ribs fracturing. Breathing became difficult. Like a candle she was flickering, her power fading away to leave nothing but remnants.

Furiously she struck out again, but her arms felt heavy. She collapsed onto her knees, mindless of the blood streaming from the gash on her forehead.

The Ork roared in triumph, drawing back his left arm to deliver the killing blow.

Again she mustered what energy she could and lunged forward, the chainsword grinding straight into the thick armour plates of his stomach. The sword wailed, the motor grinding all the way from a low throaty bass up to the screech of ultrasonic. Teeth flew from the blade, several embedding themselves in her armour.

She jerked back, gouts of green blood spraying from the smoking armour. Spitting, she struggled to her feet, breathing heavily.

The Ork collapsed backwards into the stinking mud, moaning terribly. His axe was held loosely in his left hand, his torn right arm moving to clutch at the wound.

Freya swung down, her throat issuing a feral scream of triumph.

With a speed that surprised her, the Ork's left arm came up, the axe handle blocking the blow. Their weapons locked in a great shower of sparks.

Before she could reverse the blade direction a booted foot slammed into her stomach, throwing her backwards. She hit the soaked sand with a damp slap, the chainsword flying from her hands to land a couple of metres away. She pulled a power knife from a scabbard strapped to her left leg, igniting it with a faint hum of barely restrained power.

Staggering to her feet, she held the ignited blade downwards in her left hand, her eyes on the body. The Ork was limp, his axe across his chest. She could see faint signs of breathing. He was still alive.

Freya stumbled forwards, forcing her eyes to focus on the Ork's body. She shook her head, feeling the tang of copper in her mouth. The Ork looked up at her, a pair of crude goggles sitting askew on top of his forehead. She suppressed the urge to laugh, realising that it was her body going into shock from lack of blood, severe exhaustion and the euphoria of surviving the combat.

She was still suppressing the urge to smile when the missile exploded several metres away.

Farseer Dan'yotal watched the mon-keigh female fall to the ground, leaving a groove in the soft sand. She appeared to be dead. Dan'yotal reached out with his mind as far as he dared in such psychically rich surroundings and felt the edge of her aura. The wolf was caged again, tired from the combat and the wounds it had sustained.

"Drive them back," thought Dan'yotal, his psychically amplified mind touching the minds of small group he had brought to the surface with him. "They must not get the Key."

He glanced to his right, seeing the Dark Reaper squad adjust their fire to suppress the mon-keigh soldiers, clad in their sand-coloured uniforms. He saw the soldiers dive into cover, their laser weapons returning fire.

So ungraceful, thought Dan'yotal. So barbaric. Their discipline was tight, but not nearly as fluid as his own warriors'. The return fire was fragmented, hitting at targets of opportunity, not always the ideal targets. Several Eldar warriors fell, their armour punctured by laser blasts. Dan'yotal muttered a few words, guiding each one to their chest-mounted spirit stone, keeping their spirit and their sanity intact until they could be laid to rest in the great Caverns of the Dead on Ver'gaeta.

He paused, sensing another powerful psyker nearby. In his mind's eye he saw the image of a hawk, wings spread and claws extended to strike.

He jumped back, an agile move for one of his years, his Singing Spear flying into his hands. The ground where he had been standing exploded upwards in a shower of sand. Dan'yotal's eyes narrowed: this one was more disciplined than the wolf-woman.

Through the dust cloud strode a tall man with long dark hair tied back, a long jacket flapping in the psychically-charged wind. His armour was a deep red-brown, edged in gold-leaf, though it was covered in green slime and crusted sand. Dan'yotal saw the crackling edge of a power sword in the figure's hands. He gripped his Spear loosely, ready to throw it.

The pressure of mind to mind contact made him frown. Was this mon-keigh trying to manipulate him? He doubted it. The mon-keigh wore the badge of their much feared Inquisition, the mon-keigh's main meddlers in the galaxy. Ignorant fools, every one of them, in Dan'yotal's experience. This one was obviously trying to cow him into submission, as he had done with the weak-minded Orks. A brief smile flickered across his features. The mon-keigh did not know who he was dealing with.

He raised his right hand, palm facing outwards, and concentrated. The mon-keigh issued a curse in his guttural tongue and staggered, but did not fall. A powerful psyker, thought Dan'yotal. A normal human would be dead, his brain liquefied by the psychic blast. The psyker gestured and Dan'yotal felt a wave of psychic energy wash over him. He reeled, his thin lips contorting into a grimace.

Very powerful.

His Spear left his hand propelled towards the man. The spinning blade was blocked by the power sword, its power spent. With a moment of concentration Dan'yotal called the Spear to him. The Inquisitor, his dark eyes ablaze with power, moved forwards, power sword gripped in both hands.

Lightning flashed overhead.

The storm that had been brewing was nearing critical mass, the nightmarish creatures of the Warp responding to the outrush of psychic energy as a moth is drawn to a flame.

He reached out with his mind, hunting for the group he had sent to retrieve the Key. The Warlock leading the group was fighting another psyker, weaker than the one Dan'yotal was duelling with, but not to be underestimated. Dan'yotal had learned many years ago that the mon-keigh would defend those dear to them to the death if needs be.

The psychic static created by the duel was hampering his communications. Grimly he concentrated, sending a short string of words to the Warlock. A single word came back.

Relieved by the reply, Dan'yotal focussed on the human before him. Beneath the dark brim of the strange hat Dan'yotal could see only hatred and resentment.

The mon-keigh truly hated him.

Dan'yotal extended his hand again. Blue-white lightning surged from his fingers, arcing towards the hate-filled mon-keigh. The mon-keigh caught the eldritch fire on the blade of his sword, the glowing energy crackling along the length of the blade.

"We could do this all day Eldar," said the human, his voice mangling the delicate Eldar language into a mockery. Dan'yotal was surprised. The mon-keigh had never seemed inclined to learn the Eldar tongue.

"We could," said Dan'yotal, his Ghosthelm amplifying his voice. The human words stuck in his throat. Their language seemed like the guttural bark of a dog compared to the melodic song of his native tongue. He saw a brief smile flicker across the human's face, and resisted to do the same.

"Then let us get to the point," said the human. "You are here for the artefact, the same as we are."

"Correct." Dan'yotal shifted his grip, on the alert for any trickery. "What do you propose?"

"A sharing of knowledge," said the human. At that moment Dan'yotal was glad his Ghosthelm hid his expression. The human would have been upset to see Dan'yotal's broad smile. "We know it is the Key to the planet of Necron warriors that was pushed into the Warp long ago."

"Indeed," said Dan'yotal. "Then you know of the Key's power."

"Aye, corruption and decadence to all who touch it," nodded the human. Dan'yotal could see that the man's sword was held in a relaxed grip, alert but cautious, even hopeful. He did not need his psychic powers to tell him that the man was concerned for the girl. Dan'yotal reached out with his mind.

The caged wolf was quiet, barely moving in his mind's eye. Dull grey-white fur was matted against the skin, crusts of dried blood pock-marking the hide. She did not have long left without aid.

Something bothered him. It took a second to realise that the battlefield was silent. By some sort of unspoken arrangement the sides had stopped attacking each other.

Cooperation, between the Eldar and the humans?

He pursed his lips. Such a question would have met with scorn several hours ago. Now it seemed a real possibility. Still, he was weary. Experience had taught him the bitter cost of blind trust.

"And why do you want it?" Dan'yotal was tired of this endless baiting. Better to get the facts, no matter how much the human twisted them to suit his ends, in the open.

"We were sent to get it."

An interesting response. Dan'yotal noted this small, but important, fact well. It showed that even the much vaunted and supposedly all-powerful Inquisitors had masters after all.

"My Lord Farseer, the Tears of Khaine has detected several vessels heading our way," said a Warlock. Dan'yotal opened his mind to the Warlock's, allowing the other to send him the brief telepathic signal he had received from the vessel.

Several large human spaceships were travelling through the warp, their wake trails detected by the advanced sensors aboard the Eldar ship.

Dan'yotal's anger flared: a trick. The human had been stalling for time, baiting him with promises of cooperation to lull him into complacency.

"How long until they arrive?" Dan'yotal struggled to keep the incandescent rage from his voice. He fought to calm himself, conscious that such anger could cloud his judgement.

"Several hours," said the Warlock. Through the shared empathy created by the telepathic connection Dan'yotal felt a similar sense of betrayal reeking from other Eldar.

"Kill them all," said Dan'yotal. He saw a look of horror on the human's face, and realised that he had spoken the words aloud. He raised his Spear, forks of psychic lightning arcing over the surface of the blade and handle.

Major Drakon Thanar felt the Orca Dropship buck wildly beneath him. The fingers of his left hand drummed constantly over his right vambrace. This was crazy. They were riding deep into a psyk-storm without their usual support of Chimera assault carriers or Kroot packs.

The Por'vre had been very specific though. The invaders were to be driven from the planet. There would be no more retreats.

Thanar could understand the Tau's determination; he had personally overseen the construction and humanitarian operations his battalion had performed when they had been abandoned by the Imperial those many years ago.

They were not supported by Shas'o T'olku, their usual Tau commander, but by Shas'o Vior'la, recently arrived to help drive out any trace of the mysterious enemy that had so easily overrun the Alterian defenders. Thanar found it difficult to get the measure of the Shas'o. Unlike T'olku, Vior'la seemed to believe that the Gue'la were not good enough to fight alongside his Mont'ka cadre. The Shas'o was in front of him, his body hidden in the thick tan ceramoplas armour of the XV89 Crisis Battlesuit. The suit jolted in the roof clamp, but the Shas'o did not mutter a word. Such was the alien's discipline.

Thanar pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to lose the headache that had formed behind his eyes. He felt the tang of copper in his mouth and swallowed. He remembered that taste well from his days during the crusade; psychic backwash. Psykers were engaging in battle, their minds utilising power that would fry the brains of the blunts amongst the population.

He ran through his series of drills to mentally prepare for any psychic intrusion he would encounter. He had seen enough action against the Great Enemy to know that psykers were very vulnerable to the things that lurked beyond reality. Strangely, the Tau had never had to worry about such things, though their lack of psychic aura was disturbing. He surmised that this was the reason there had never been instances, that he knew of, of Tau getting possessed by strange entities or spawning psykers of their own.

His hand reached for the dully shining shaft of his sacred Honour Blade, the shaft and blade carved with protective wards and runic scroll that focused and enhanced his power into a useable form. The spear never left his side, providing the necessary conduit to release his power and protect him from the temptations of the Great Enemy.

"Worried?" The shout next to his ear startled him. He forced himself to stop, his reflexes all ready preparing to swing the blade. Breathing slowly, he turned to face the familiar scarred face of Sergev, his Battalion medicae. He was dressed in the same ceramoplas armour as Thanar, the red and white patch of a medic painted on his shoulder pauldron. In his hands was a compact pulse carbine, not the usual modified lasgun. Thanar knew that Sergev would prefer not to fight, but the needs of the Regiment had dictated otherwise.

"Not quite," shouted back Thanar. He paused for a second, conscious that the Shas'o would be listening in to the conversation. "I just hope we're quick enough. If we drive them back now, then we should be able to convince them never to come back."

"So you think it's the Imperials?" Said Sergev. Thanar noticed a note of resentment in his voice. He was right to do so; the Imperials had abandoned them without thought when they had finished them.

In many ways Thanar was grateful that they had been abandoned; life on Alteria was more fulfilling than it had been on Randosha Prime.

"Who else could it be?" Thanar said. "The Tau platform in low orbit detected some sophisticated sensor-spoofers and the ion trail of a fusion drive. That sort of tech is only used by Imperials."

"Shit," said Sergev. "Think they're coming to get us?"

"Possibly, or finish us," said Thanar. It was common knowledge that those that accepted the Tau offer of repatriation and aid in making a fresh life were viewed as traitors by the majority of the Imperial population, with several poorly defended worlds falling to 'cleansing patrols' launched from Kar Duniash.

Thanar was eager to show the Imperials that such overt aggression would not be tolerated on Alteria.

The Orca jumped wildly. Thanar's stomach lurched towards his throat. They were falling, hard and fast.

"Stand by for deployment," said a voice in heavily-accented Low Gothic. The Kor'vre in command of the Orca was nearing the landing zone. "Ten thou-Decs until ramp down."

Thanar did some mental maths. Just under a minute until they touched down. A Dec was 1.5 standard hours, a thou-Dec 5.4 seconds. The Tau timekeeping was difficult to adjust to, but he was slowly getting the hang of it.

He gripped the haft of his Honour Blade tightly with both hands, erecting the final mental maze that should fool anyone attempting to enter his mind. Glancing to his right, he saw Sergev touch the Genestealer claw that hung around his neck on a thin silver chain, mumbling some sort of ward against evil. He smiled inwardly: every soldier had their little superstitions.

"Three thou-Decs," said the Kor'vre.

Thanar slipped his helmet on, waiting for the auto-seals to engage. They did so, with a faintly audible click. He looked around, the helmet's display awash with information about troop positions, ambient conditions and tactical data. Another piece of Tau technology that was difficult to get used to, though he was more than capable now.

The small strip of lights above the rear ramp pulsed a slow red. The standby signal. Thanar unclipped his restraints, ready to move. The red went out.

"Go, go, go," came the Kor'vre over his headset. The strip of green lights went on, strobing intensely.

Thanar was out of his seat, running down the lowering ramp and jumping the last couple of metres to the ground.

What he saw amazed him.

The carnage wrought by the Imperials was devastating. Ork bodies, many lying in pools of bright red blood, littered the area. The shattered remains of several Ork vehicles lay scattered, many still smouldering. The Shas'o crouched nearby, his bulky Battlesuit difficult to hide behind the wreckage.

"Several life signs ahead," he breathed, his voice quiet on Thanar's link.

"Standard pattern," said Thanar. "Break left and appear behind them. We will set up near them. Then we crush them between us."

"Agreed," said the Shas'o. He muttered several phrases in the Tau language before moving off, skimming low over the horizon, the other Battlesuits following him.

Thanar raised his left hand, making a series of short, uncomplicated gestures. Trusting that the platoon had understood him, he moved quietly forward, picking his way between the scattered wreckage, his Honour Blade slung across his back and his borrowed pulse rifle in his hands.

Cresting a dune, Thanar threw himself flat. He rolled onto his back, making another series of short gestures at the platoon, indicating ambush formation.

Expertly they peeled off, taking up position either side of him to form a line of firepower. Waiting for them to get into position, Thanar rolled back onto his stomach, using the sensors in his helmet to focus on what lay before him.

He could see a small squad of Imperial troops in tan carapace armour crouching low in the dunes, armed with a mixture of weapons. They did not seem to have taken any notice of the advancing platoon.

More fool them.

A couple seemed to be crouching over someone near an Ork body. Thanar could tell that the Ork was some sort of Warlord; the massive armour heavy with crude glyphs and various trophies. The remains of some sort of multiple mechadendrite harness poked out of his back. The Ork looked dead, but looks could be deceiving, especially with the Orks.

A sudden bolt of fluorescent pink-purple lightning split the sky, casting a sickly glow on the ground. The psyk-storm was nearing breaking point. The dark clouds, tinged with the same pink-purple glow, seemed to shift and swirl around them. Thanar saw brief snatches of faces formed in the cloud, dark ravenous maws ready to move in and claim their prize. The clouds shifted again, forming a winged beast, a spear in his hands. Daemons were coming. This had to end.

Thanar shifted his gaze, scanning the dunes in front of him. His headache was getting worse. In the middle of the dunes, where they formed a natural shallow basin, Thanar could see a tall man, clad in ornate armour, a long black storm coat snapping wildly in the unnatural wind, and a large black stove-pipe hat on his head. He held a long sword, incandescent energies rippling up and down the blade, in a single gloved hand. His free hand was held upwards, palm out. He seemed to be speaking, but Thanar could not hear what he said.

Tracking to his right, Thanar froze. Eldar? Curiouser and curiouser. Like the Imperials, the Eldar were crouched in tactical positions, ornately sculpted weapons trained on their foe.

In the middle of the basin, just a few metres from the hat-wearing Imperial, stood the tall, thin form of an Eldar psyker, his bejewelled and embroidered robes fluttering gaily. His features were hidden behind an ornate golden helmet that shone brightly, despite the fading sun. In his right hand he carried a long-shafted spear. His left was held upwards, in a mirror of the Imperial's own.

What had brought the Eldar to this world? The Imperials? The Orks? The Tau? All three seemed possible. The Eldar had, in their own arrogant, inscrutable, way been kind to the Tau, with limited fighting between them.

Thanar's eyes went wide. The Eldar had just sent a bolt of pure psychic energy at the Imperial. The Imperial had dissipated it, eldritch lightning arcing into the sand.

Amazing power. No wonder he had a headache. Thanar could see areas of sand blasted into brown-tinted glass by the force of the energies.

The wind changed direction, swirling round in a broad-based whirlwind. Dust and detritus flooded the air, making it difficult to see. Thanar coughed, feeling the iron taste of blood in his mouth. The brief image of a giant, gaping maw flashed in front of his eyes.

Thanar swallowed: Chaos had arrived.

Chapter 5

Alteria, Ultima Segmentum – 15 Weeks after Allesthem VII

Above Alteria, Captain Geron DeWalde paced the bridge of the Nightwing, his gleaming patent leather flight boots clacking on the steel deck.

The Nightwing was a functional ship, designed to get from point to point and negotiate potential enemy forces enroute. Modelled after the Cobra Destroyer favoured by the Imperial Navy Interdiction sweep teams, the hull was painted a dull grey, designed to make it difficult to locate against the star field.

It was because of this paint scheme that DeWalde was convinced the Eldar ship had not yet spotted them. That and he was running all ship's systems at minimum power, using the curvature of the planet's atmosphere to disrupt auger sweeps.

He licked his lips, aware of the silence on the bridge. Crewmen sat at their stations, many silently bent over their cognitors, ready for the command to move.

"Arrays?" He whispered, trying not to startle the crew. The man on the left hand side of the bridge, his earphones around his neck on their strap and a lieutenant's bars on his shoulder, looked up, his pale face menacingly underlit by the green glow of the auger display screens arranged in a semi-circle in front of him. Each had a servitor sitting in front of it, the glowing red orbs of bionic eyes processing data and making calculations faster than the eye could see. "Status of enemy ship?"

"Last passive scan revealed them as holding station above the site where Lord Azrael has landed," said Lieutenant Haryn, his voice low.

"Damn," said DeWalde. He swallowed, aware that there was dampness at his armpits. He hoped it would not show against the dark grey of the uniform blouse. "We cannot use the teleporters; they would be all over us like Januthian fruit flies in harvest."

"Sir," said Haryn, his voice a harsh whisper. "Their systems just went active. The auspex buoy we dropped has detected high-powered signals emanating from the ship. Their gun ports have opened."

"Standby to go to full power," said DeWalde, pointing at the ship's Chief Engineer, a dour man from the Mechanicus.

Though to call him a man would be charitable, thought DeWalde. Like most of his kind, he was more machine than man, mechadendrites plugged into cognitor jacks on the console in front of him. The bright light of the red bionic eye bobbed in the dark cavity created by the hood of his deep orange robes: he would be ready. DeWalde turned away from the Mechanicus, suppressing a shudder. The enginseer was good with machines, as he would have hoped, but the things he had done to his body to fully embrace the Machine God were almost too much for DeWalde to bear.

"Helm?" DeWalde raised his voice a notch, focussing on the pair sitting beneath the arch of the massive front view port. Even the interior lights had been shut off, leaving the crew to grope around with wrist lamps and the pale light cast by cognitor displays.

The helmsman on the left, the traditional seat of the senior helmsman, did not speak, but raised his right arm, thin cables snaking from greasy plugs implanted into his very tissue. Parchment labels, their words a tangle of script from DeWalde's position, waved gently in the puffs of breeze created by the circulating air.

"Prepare to drop us three thousand kilometres at full vertical speed if the Eldar attack," said DeWalde, his eyes fixed on the silhouetted arm. "I will not give them an easy fight."

The powerful muscles of the right hand curled into a fist, the thumb pointing straight upwards. The arms dropped out of sight. DeWalde inwardly smiled. The helm was ready to respond. He had quickly learned the eccentricities of her crew when he had been selected to captain this vessel; the better to tend to their spiritual and physical needs.

He heard a muttered prayer from the back of the bridge and immediately knew that the Duty Gunnery Officer was reciting the Prayer of Invisibility. The officer was a devout man, as they all were, but his piety humbled DeWalde at times.

"Lieutenant Arin?" DeWalde said, glancing over at the officer. The prayer stopped.

"Sir?" Arin's voice was quiet, barely reaching DeWalde's ears.

"Prepare a torpedo spread against them if we have to go into contact," said DeWalde.

"Yes sir," nodded the officer, bending over his Fire Control Cognitor Bank. The prayer did not resume, so engrossed was he in his task. During his early days in the Command Cadre, it had been beaten into them that men and women needed tasks to occupy their minds in the moments before combat, lest their nerves reach breaking point.

"Sir." The Astropath spoke over the voice-powered intercom, his raspy voice startlingly loud. DeWalde whirled round, noting facing the speaker nearby.

"Astropath?" DeWalde kept his voice level, unnerved at hearing the psyker spontaneously speak. Usually he kept to himself in his protective room, speaking only to inform them that a message had been received or delivered.

"I sense the warp sir," said the Astropath. Something in his voice made DeWalde shiver. "The storm on the planet grows stronger. The creatures respond to it. They are called to the blood."

"Sir," whispered Haryn. DeWalde looked up. The young lieutenant was pale; his face lent a sickly look by the green glow of the screens.

"Yes?" DeWalde was almost afraid of what was to come next.

"Sir, a pair of ships has exited the Immaterium." Haryn swallowed. "They match the profile for Idolator-class vessels."

DeWalde's blood ran cold. Chaos vessels, approaching the planet. The Astropath's words from before haunted him.

"What of the Eldar?" DeWalde, walked forward, towards the Command pulpit. He was damned if he was going to give up without a fight.

"They have turned away from the planet. I believe the captain may be thinking of attacking them."

"Be prepared to assist the Eldar," said DeWalde, knowing that he may be signing his own death warrant by issuing such an order.

"Sir?"

DeWalde glanced round, knowing instantly who it would be. He was right.

Arin looked confused. DeWalde did not need to be a psyker to know that all of the bridge crew felt the same.

"We are all allies against such a threat," said DeWalde. "Whatever we think of the Eldar, their hatred of the Great Enemy is as fierce as our own. If they appear to falter, we will assist them."

"Yes sir," said Arin. He bowed his head, avoiding DeWalde's gaze. "My apologies sir."

"None needed lieutenant," said DeWalde with a wave of his hand. "We will need our wits about us if we are to break this enemy."

"Sir, the Eldar are engaging," said Haryn. His voice was oddly monotonous, as if he was merely reading the latest Transplanetary Racing scores.

DeWalde looked up from his command pulpit, the glare of the Eldar laser cannons leaving ghostly images dancing in front of his eyes. He blink furiously, tapping the command rune that lowered the anti-glare shutters into place.

"Throne of Terra!" Haryn was excited. That startled DeWalde; Haryn was a veteran, as they all were, and was not prone to such violent fits of emotion.

DeWalde tapped a sequence into the runes, slaving one of his small holo-displays to the Arrays data feed.

His eyes went wide. Something else was shadowing the Idolators. It was larger than either vessel, but still not a full capital ship. The Arrays classification cognitor could not identify it. The nearest match seemed to an Infidel-class raider, but it was not perfect. The pict data that was streaming in from the buoy was distorted, the effect of the proximity to the Eldar ship, surmised DeWalde, but it was enough to note the pair of gun portals in the centre of the prow.

The Idolators turned suddenly, yawing away from the cruiser. DeWalde felt sudden cold fear.

"Go active," he shouted, making the bridge crew jump. He activated the ship-wide vox system, blocking out the sudden noise that engulfed the bridge. Too much time talking in low whispers made the crew compensate. "All hands, this is the captain. Go to action stations. I say again, go to action stations. Gunnery stations, we have Chaos raiders inbound. Prepare all weapons. Void screens to maximum power. Astropath, inform Lord Azrael of our situation. May the Emperor watch over us."

He cut the link, his hands a staccato blur over the control runes. The images on his pict-screens shifted, replaced by tactical displays and status monitors.

They were ready for them. The background chatter of status reports and assessments washing over him in a wave of discordant noise.

"Weapons, prepare a spread of torpedoes against the port Idolator," said DeWalde, cutting through the voices. "Helm, take us to a nose on position with them. Astropath, transmit the message to Lord Azrael that we are breaking orbit to support the Eldar against the Chaos vessels. Transmit a message to the Eldar, to the effect that we are ready to stand with them against this enemy."

"Sir, we have Tau vessels approaching from the other side of the planet," called out Haryn, bent, as ever, over his cognitor displays. "Identified as a pair of Warden gunships. Detecting vox traffic between them."

DeWalde cursed beneath his breath. The Tau could easily ruin all of their days, depending who they fought.

"Astropath, have they attempted to hail us?" DeWalde's hands gripped the dull steel edge of the command pulpit, the knuckles white with frustration.

"Negative sir," the Astropath responded, his voice a quiet whisper. "We have an answer from the Eldar. They appreciate our offer and tell us that they should have no need of our assistance."

DeWalde grunted: the typically arrogant response he would expect from the Eldar. His mind was forming a response when Haryn's shout broke through his thoughts.

"Energy spike from the Eldar vessel." DeWalde's head snapped up and right. The Eldar solar ship, looking comparatively fragile compared to his own mighty ship, was eight thousand kilometres off their starboard beam, facing the Chaos vessels.

The Eldar ship fired, luminous turquoise-green laser bolts spitting from her forward-facing gun ports. Impressive firepower. He turned, blinked, the afterimages dancing in front of his eyes, trying to focus on the Chaos ships.

"Damage to the enemy vessels?" He called out, his vision clearing.

"Minimal." Haryn looked grim. DeWalde was stunned. Eldar ships were reputed to have ship-mounted lasers capable of cutting through even an Emperor-class starship. "Their shields took the brunt of the hit. Cognitors estimate that the targeted Idolator's forward shields are down, but prow damage is limited."

"Their lance battery?" DeWalde's voice was a stunned whisper. If their forward-facing lance battery was down, then they may have a chance to take out the vessel.

"No data sir," said Haryn with a shake of his thin, gaunt face.

"Damn." DeWalde tapped a few runes on his pulpit. The pict-screen changed to show the tactical overview. The three Chaos vessels were closing fast, though the damaged Idolator was slowing, apparently more grievously harmed by the Eldar gunfire than their cognitors showed. The Tau Wardens were sweeping around the planet, their manoeuvring speed hampered by the planet's gravity well. "Helm, get us clear of this rock's gravity well."

"Aye sir," shouted back the helmsman. Seconds later DeWalde felt the familiar microvibration of fusion drives pushing them clear of the golden-brown sphere. He knew that deep in the bowels of the ship the Engineering crews would be slaving away at the fusion reactors, tech-adepts ritually chanting protective wards against failure and monitoring the plasma outputs. He muttered his own silent prayer that the Machine God was watching over them.

"The Eldar ship is firing again." Haryn sounded less frantic this time. A good sign in DeWalde's opinion; proof that he had fought through the initial fear of engaging in combat.

DeWalde tapped the rune on his pulpit to lower the glare screens. With a whirr of ancient motors the sheer black plasteel screens moved across the viewports, like shutting net curtains to block out sunlight.

The Chaos vessels were closing fast. The Eldar vessel was clear of the gravity well, roughly one thousand kilometres ahead of them. She had activated some sort of shield, the curved, almost organic shape distorted and eternally shifting in front of his eyes. More Xenos trickery, mused DeWalde.

The other, undamaged, Idolator fired her lance battery, the arcing, multicoloured beam zipping through the void. The Eldar vessel, tentatively identified as a Solaris-class cruiser, deftly swerved to avoid the oncoming beam, her hull rippling with multi-coloured light.

"Sir, the damaged Chaos vessel is in torpedo range," called Arin at his weapons station.

"Fire a spread at her bow," said DeWalde without hesitation. He hoped to capitalise on the damage inflicted by the Eldar.

"Torpedoes away." The report came scant seconds after his order, a good sign in DeWalde's opinion; it showed that the crew were growing more accustomed to each other's manners and habits.

DeWalde tracked the torpedoes from his command pulpit. They seemed to move at a slow crawl across the pict-display, though DeWalde knew that combat played tricks on the senses. Seconds seemed like minutes, minutes like hours.

"Sir, enemy gun batteries are firing," reported Haryn. DeWalde muttered a silent prayer to the Golden Throne that the foul Chaos ships were off-target.

Risking a glance through the glare-screens he saw the faint lines of laser and solid rounds arcing around the ship. Like uncoordinated fireworks they seemed to his eyes, starbursts and void-trace rockets going up on a fresh summer's night.

The first torpedo detonated.

DeWalde did not need to look at his screens to know that it was far short of its target. The second went up moments later. The third and fourth ducked and weaved, their primitive machine spirits seemingly sensing the loss of their fellows. DeWalde could imagine them flitting between volleys of high velocity death, struck by a sudden sense of fear.

The third detonated, closer this time, but still too far away to cause real damage. DeWalde realised he was holding his breath, and forced himself to breathe normally.

The final torpedo exploded, directly on the ship's bow. DeWalde watched the ship reel on his screens, the powerful auger arrays constantly pinging the target.

But still the damned Chaos vessel drove forward, listing to port. DeWalde could well imagine the fires sweeping through the damaged compartments, men screaming as they were consumed by the purging flame. A brief smile flickered across his face. Good. Let them burn in the cleansing flame of purgation.

"Energy spike." Haryn's shout snapped through his revere. His eyes dropped to the screens before him. The Idolator was powering up her lance weapon again.

"Helm, bring us to heading three zero four mark four five," DeWalde barked. The Nightwing was perilously close to the lance's arc of fire, and even for an Inquisition vessel it was fragile against such weaponry.

The deck lurched, the ship moving on a sweeping starboard turn, prow high. The Idolator slipped from view through the bridge viewports.

They were closing fast, both vessels rushing towards each other like enraged Catachan Devils.

"Prepare another torpedo spread, arm weapons batteries for flank fire." DeWalde knew they had scant seconds before the lance fired.

"Enemy Lance firing." The bottom of the bridge viewport lit up, the multicoloured beam striking at the empty space beneath them.

"Captain, the keel shields were hit by the corona, they're failing."

"Throne," said DeWalde. His eyes narrowed. He would get this bastard. "Fire torpedoes."

"Torpedoes launched." DeWalde's eyes automatically dropped to his screens. The four torpedoes seemed to be faster than the last. Precognition on the part of the torpedoes? DeWalde smiled grimly. Despite the Tech-Adepts' claims, they could not convince him that the Machine Spirit of the torpedoes was any more akin to fear as a laspistol.

"Captain, unidentified enemy cruiser is increasing speed," said Haryn from behind his Arrays pulpit. Over the chatter from the stations DeWalde heard a brief curse behind him in Old Gothic. Arin again. His eyes dropped down. Two torpedoes had all ready been shot down by the Chaos Idolator.

"How long until the unidentified ship intercepts?" DeWalde's eyes watched the final torpedoes slam into the ship, their energies wasted against the Idolator's shields.

"Three minutes until torpedo range," said Haryn. The pulpit in front of him shrieked a warning, red lamps strobing wildly. "Energy spike. The Tau vessels are firing."

"What?" DeWalde could not believe it. Naval Intelligence, in their infinite wisdom, believed that Tau vessels had predominantly short-ranged weapons, using primitive mass drivers to fire solid rounds.

"Tau fire will impact the second Idolator in five seconds." DeWalde noted the confidence return to the Haryn's voice.

Pausing, DeWalde stepped back from his hunched position over the command pulpit, rotating his shoulders. He took stock of their position. They were on the Eldar's port flank, the Tau rising from below the battle plane to take up a loose position on the starboard. The Eldar seemed to be holding their own, as were they, he reminded himself with a tight smile.

"Sir, energy build up detected in the unknown vessel," called Haryn. DeWalde closed his eyes. It seemed to him that the foul Chaos ships were more powerful than those he had met previously. Though, he reminded himself, he did have a Dauntless-class ship "Eldarbane" under his command the last time he had faced them. This vessel was a sturdy as the Eldarbane had been, but not as powerfully armed.

Still, he had a few tricks up his sleeve. He opened his eyes, glancing over at the Haryn's pensive face.

"Their weapons array?" It was a rhetorical question, though doubtless someone would reply.

"I think so sir." Haryn's voice was level, though DeWalde could detect a tinge of fear. He felt the same. An unknown vessel was always a cause of fear amongst Naval personnel; the void was a harsh and unforgiving mistress, she did not need any help from the Chaos ships.

"Very well. Time until the Idolator comes into battery range?" DeWalde walked back to his pulpit, tapping the rune to slave a pict-auger array to one of his cognitor displays. He zoomed in on the damaged Idolator, noting the small fires streaming from parts of the bow. Their torpedoes had caused some damage.

The Nightwing's status display on another screen showed a blinking yellow on the underside of his vessel. The shields were weakened by the corona of the lance battery. Luckily that was no longer a threat, their respective trajectories keeping them clear of the lance.

"One minute until Idolator is in range," said Arin. "Autocannon loaded, las-batteries charged and ready."

"Unidentified vessel firing." Haryn's report was shouted over the sudden scream of proximity alarm klaxons. The Idolator was close, obscuring much of the view of the unidentified vessel.

The space behind the Idolator flared white, silhouetting the harsh lines of the Chaos vessel in stark relief. The unidentified vessel had fired.

The Nightwing bucked in the sudden energy wash, relays sparking and overloading around the bridge crew. The alarm note changed. DeWalde's blood went cold. He knew what the undulating pitch meant: shield failure. Several of the cold blue-white glow globes mounted high in the ceiling flashed once and died, shrouding parts of the bridge in darkness.

"Fire batteries," he said, his hand fumbling for the klaxon cut off rune. This would be one for the history books, he thought grimly.

Inquisitor Azrael pursed his dry lips, hearing the brief crackle of the microbead in his ear. The words were distorted by the raging storm above them, but he could make out the message: trouble was coming.

His eyes flicked up to the Eldar Farseer, whose ornately wrought mask gave nothing away. The broadening of the shoulders told him all he needed to know. The Eldar had received some grave news.

"The Chaos breed are coming," the Farseer said at last, his voice faint in the howling wind that had sprung up around them, coating all in a fine film of flaxen dust.

"I know," shouted Azrael, his words plucked away as soon as he spoke.

"Your ship seeks to aid mine," the tone sounded quieter, but closer. Azrael realised with a start that the Eldar was speaking via telepathy. He checked that his mind screens were still in place, muttering several prayers against possession. "Fear not, I do not like doing this human, but we must communicate."

"Aye, before the dark menace engulfs us all," said Azrael, though he did not use his mouth. Forks of jagged luminous purple lightning crackled overhead, the deep boom of thunder threatened to deafen him. "Will your captain accept?"

"We will not turn you down," said the Farseer. Azrael swore he could sense amusement in the voice. He struggled to quash the sudden anger, worried that the Farseer would take some slight from it.

"Good. I think before this storm passes, both Eldar and human blood will soak this sand," said Azrael. He thumbed the activation stud on his power sword and sheathed it. "What say you to an alliance?"

"We will agree, for now," said the Farseer. Again that tone, as if the Eldar was mocking his very words. "Though I think other forces will also stand on this battlefield."

"The Tau and their allies," smiled Azrael. He had sensed the arrival of a body of humans, and his microbead had informed him that the damned Tau Battlesuits were trying to encircle his position.

"Indeed." The condescending tone had lessened, though Azrael felt it had not gone away entirely. Azrael felt a moment of grim satisfaction. He had been able to show the Eldar that not all humans were so barbaric and ignorant. "One of their number will be able to hear us."

"Then let us call to him," said Azrael. He sent a quick hand signal to those of his retinue still left alive and noticed their compliance. Hellguns and other, heavier, weapons dropped down, though they did not relax their guard. Around him he could sense the stifling stench of Chaos, dulling sight and sound. Still, he could feel Freya lying on the ground, her spirit weakened, tended by the strong will of Mykos Kurze and one of his medics. She would die before the day was out, unless they got her to the Nightwing.

He pushed aside his concerns for her, focussing on the human crouching a hundred metres away, well hidden behind a dune. Well, he would be well hidden were it not for the psychic presence that he cast around him. Even the strongest psykers could not hide their light in the darkness of the Warp, where part of their spirit dwelt.

'Those that have the Gift also carry a great curse.' The words of his old master, Inquisitor Lord Kiron Hastos came back to haunt him. It had been one of the earliest lessons, when Azrael was struggling to control his power. Hastos had shown him that a strong spirit and faith in the Emperor was the way to steel oneself against the perils of the unseen foe.

"Human commander," the Farseer said, his voice very soft.

"WHAT?" Azrael winced, shaking his head. The untrained man had shouted directly into his mind.

"Softly, imagine you are whispering," said the Farseer. Azrael stole a quick glance at the Farseer, noting the alien standing perfectly still, his arms held straight out, the spear held horizontally between them.

"Sorry," said the man again. Azrael felt a brief flush of pink in the shifting rainbow of colours that made up this man's aura. Embarrassment, Azrael decided. Though he was untrained, he was obviously aware of his talents, and strove to perfect them.

"You are aware of the foul incursion?" The Farseer spoke quickly, aware that time was pressing. Azrael could hear the whispers now, unclean voices whispering promises of power and wealth in his ear. He shook his head, a wry smile flickering across his features. He had been tempted by much subtler words before and had seen through their more intricate lies. Such clumsy attempts to seduce him marked these raiders as inexperienced. A strange phenomena, particularly for the denizens of the Warp.

He caught himself.

Pride goeth before a fall. Another lesson that had been hard taught by Hastos. After all, the eternally-damned Warmaster Horus had been corrupted by pride. He muttered the Prayer of Castigation, reminding himself that his own power was insignificant compared to that of the Emperor, who endured the pain of the Golden Throne and the constant preying of daemons so that his Imperium could survive.

"Yes," replied the man. Azrael glanced up, noting that the man had stood atop the dune, the wind tugging at his tabard. He wore the same tan armour as the Tau soldiery, with a dark green symbol painted on the chest. His features were obscured by a dome-like helmet, a vertical slit cut into it, a pair of lenses regarding the scene with blank stares. Cradled in his arms was a short-barrelled carbine of some kind, notably connected to his body by some flex-con cable. Azrael cocked his head to one side, in many ways he felt underdressed compared to the opulence of the other protagonists before him.

"Then you are aware of the great risk posed to all if we allow them to come down here?" The Farseer spoke with conviction, his words dripping with power. Azrael ran through several short prayers, careful to ensure that they were not broadcast. He would not allow his mind to fall victim to some Eldar trickery.

"Yes. Though I am more interested to know why you have come here," said the man. Azrael admired the man's spirit. They were about to be assaulted by the worst foes possible, and the man was acting like some sort of sheriff, riding out with his posse to quell trouble from the local smugglers.

"We are here to stop this warlord," said Azrael. He gestured to the Ork corpse near Freya. "The Farseer is here for the same reason. We met by accident."

"And you attacked each other?" The man sounded sceptical. Azrael felt a brief backwash of annoyance from the Farseer. Azrael felt the same. They were wasting time here.

His microbead beeped in his ear.

"My Lord, Chaos dropships have entered the atmosphere," said Captain DeWalde. "We could not stop them."

"The Nightwing?" Azrael feared the worst. DeWalde was a good man, he would not have let the Chaos filth enter the atmosphere if he could have helped it.

"She's held together, but the Tau vessels were quickly overcome," said DeWalde. "They had a ship I've never seen before. Great cannons on her prow. She took them down in the blink of an eye. The other vessels were overcome quickly, but she still lurks, ready for the dropships to return."

"The Eldar vessel?" Azrael knew the Tau built their vessels with sureness. Such an easy loss would be difficult to explain, whilst their vessels remained intact.

"Difficult to guess, but she sustained some damage during the fight." There was brief pause, static crackling over the link. "She's manoeuvring freely, looking for the cursed vessel. I don't think we have much time my lord."

"Agreed, stay on station for a fast extract," said Azrael. He shut the link off, looking up at the Farseer.

"News?" The Farseer asked. Azrael suspected that the Farseer knew what had happened in orbit, but decided to humour him.

"Chaos dropships have entered the atmosphere. My guess is we have only a few minutes until they arrive."

"Too late," said the Farseer.

Azrael looked up. The swirling clouds parted momentarily, the flare of braking jets glowing red on the underside of the long, clam-fronted vessels. Each dropship seemed to be made of some sort of shifting red-black chitinous material, the clam-like front wreathed in runes and symbols that shifted ceaselessly, their very designs making Azrael blanche. He muttered a Prayer of Protection, his hand reaching for his sword.

"So, do we fight together, or die together?" Azrael asked over the telepathic link, his eyes focussed on the Chaos vessels.

"We fight," said the Farseer, his voice a low whisper.

"We fight," said the man.

"Excellent." Azrael made a brief hand gesture, confident that it would be noticed by his retinue. Slipping the power sword from it's ornately gilded sheath, he muttered a quiet ward of protection. The air around him was thick with dust, though it had changed, the dull flaxen hue replaced by a deeper swirling of red. The colour of anger, bloodlust, hate; the things that Chaos thrived on.

He looked up again, the Chaos dropships lurching in the endlessly shifting air currents of the unnatural storm. He counted 4 dropships in total, each with stubby landing legs fully extended. The lowest one fired a las-blaster from it's belly, stitching the sand with streaks of ruby light.

Were they firing blind, Azrael wondered, as another burst blasted puffs of sand into the air? He squinted; the unnatural sandstorm was forcing grit into his eyes, his mouth and up his nose. He spat, the phlegm whisked away into the darkening sky. More than likely, he decided.

The dropship suddenly jinked violently in the air, struggling to avoid the missiles streaking up from near the ruined Ork vehicles. Azrael realised that the Tau Battlesuits were firing at the Chaos dropships. A bold move, but in this storm, ultimately futile. As if to confirm his suspicions, the Tau missiles exploded, all missing their targets.

Silently Azrael cursed the Tau for revealing their hand so early. Did they not realise that this would be unlike anything they had faced before? This was no Ork rabble that they could simply blast off the planet with massed weapons. This was Chaos, the Great Enemy. To fight Chaos was to fight one's self, block the fear and revulsion of such cursed scum and meet them with fire and sword.

Azrael glanced over at the Farseer, noting a calm blue around his muted aura. God-Emperor but that Eldar was one dispassionate bastard, Azrael thought.

"Here they come," crackled the microbead.

Looking around, Azrael saw a dropship flare, braking jets roaring cones of red flame. Landing hard on the stubby legs, the clam-like jaws opened to reveal a horde of robed creatures, all bearing the cursed Star of Chaos, that ran towards them.

Mutants. The mark of any that would follow the foul gods of Chaos. He saw misshapen growths from the robes, with bared heads lined along the temples and cheeks by scales. Muttering the Chant Against the Unclean, he focussed his power, sending forks of fluorescent blue psychic lightning towards them.

The lightning burst around the foe, sending several to the ground, their robes scorched and stained with dark blood. Others stumbled but kept advancing. The carried archaic weapons, many with parts that looked older than their users.

Azrael ducked, a burst of autogun fire buzzing like a swarm of Catachan fire hornets over his head. He plucked his Inferno pistol from his holster and levelled it coolly. He fired. A cultist fell, his chest smoking. He fired again, with the same results. Then he felt a sudden stab of pain behind his eyes and collapsed to his knees.

The second dropship had landed. A figure clad in dark blue robes stood at the head of his horde of cultists, an intricately carved staff in his hands, rune of power blazing with orange light. Topping the staff was the gilded skull of some curved horned animal, the Star of Chaos glowing on the forehead. Bejewelled eyes glared at him, some inner fire making them twinkle in the gloom.

Azrael stared at man, whose eyes burned like dark coals against the blank whiteness of his drawn features. Damned sorcerers, he thought. This one was powerful, at least a delta-level psyker. The staff flared, sending a bolt of pure psychic energy towards him.

Azrael held up his quivering hand, deflecting the bolt into a crackling spider web of luminous pink light. Slowly, he stood, holstering the Inferno pistol; it would be of no use in this fight. He thumbed the activation stud on his power sword, encasing the adamantium-edged blade in arcing blue-white energy.

He started to mutter the words to the Rite of Smiting, aware of the buzzing at the back of his head, the blood on his face.

His eyes met the sorcerer's. He reeled backwards, as if he had been slapped in the face. Such endless malice, he thought. Such hatred. Creatures like this deserved all they got. The sorcerer's arms raised high, the head of the staff flaring as bright as a supernova. Over the howling of the wind Azrael could hear unnatural chanting, the words seeming as thick as tar and as poisonous as a virus-bomb.

He countered, pointing his sword tip at the man and speaking the final words of the Rite of Smiting. White light shot from the sword, engulfing those in it's path in a blaze of power. Cultists were immolated by the righteous energy, their smoking corpses shattering from ammunition explosions. The sorcerer was unharmed, using his staff to deflect the energy away from him. Around him cultists twitched in a dance of death.

Around him Azrael was aware that many of his retinue were wounded, grabbing cover wherever they could. This needed to end, before they were engulfed in a psychic maelstrom that sucked them all into the Immaterium.

"Black Bear, Death is calling," Azrael spoke into his microbead.

"Black Bear answers," came the distorted reply. "Two minutes."

Brilliant light flared to Azrael's left. He turned, seeing the crumpled wreckage of one of the foul dropships strike the sand, a great sheet of dust rising up to join the swirling cloud that had engulfed the battlefield.

Eldar weapons lanced out, spears of laser light and the plumes of missiles impacting against the ceaselessly shifting armour. Azrael heard a dim, almost animal roar at the back of his mind. Was the ship alive? He suppressed the thought; madness lay in that train of thought.

He felt a brief shift in the endlessly rippling tides of psychic power and threw himself sideways. The ground where he had been standing erupted upwards in a column of sand, chittering voices muttering mantras that clawed at the edges of his mind and his sanity. He saw a brief afterimage of unnatural flesh covered in thousands of malevolent lizard-like eyes, each one ablaze with hatred. Then the image was gone, the sand sucked away into the maelstrom that continued to whirl around them.

Focussing his own mind, Azrael responded with a telekinetic push that knocked the sorcerer backwards, thick robes shredding under the force of the wind. The wind seemed to howl in rage, pummelling body and soul into dust. Azrael stood up, gripping his sword in a two-handed stance. He muttered words of power, ignoring the sharp pain of the dust in his throat. The buzzing at the back of his mind grew in intensity to a concerto white noise, threatening to erase all sanity, all reason.

"The world turns onwards," he muttered, invoking the Rite of Anlashi, a chant long used by sanctioned psykers inducted into the Imperial Guard.

The wind stopped, dust falling earthwards.

Azrael wiped his left hand upwards, his glove skimming several millimetres away from his crackling sword blade.

Thunder boomed overhead, a shockwave that threw men, Eldar and cursed heretic to the ground. But Azrael still stood, his dark armour besmirched with dust, crusts of Ork blood and psychic plasma. His hat had long since been sucked away by the battle, and his long black hair, tied back in its customary Rutharil knot, was sodden with sweat.

He smiled, feeling the dried blood on his face crack and shatter.

The sorcerer was no more, his broken body a tangle of limbs and bloody tissue on the sand. The shattered remains of the cursed staff lay nearby, the skull cracked down the centre, the rune on the forehead destroyed. Several cultists fought on, using the dropships for cover. Solid rounds sent puffs of sand into the air as they impacted around him. Azrael let a deep, almost animal, growl escape from his throat.

"Black Bear arrives," crackled his micro-bead.

The dark shape of the attack ship flashed overhead, wingtip turrets lancing out with spears of blue-white light. Above the roar of afterburner Azrael caught the muffled shriek of missiles. The Chaos dropships were engulfed in a fireball, the screams of the dying cultists carrying far over the desolate ground.

"Death requires his chariot, with flowered wheels," said Azrael.

"Black Bear responds," said the pilot. The attack ship wheeled, dropping down to land on her skids. The weapons were on standby, though Azrael knew that with a simple word of command he could get her moving again.

"Get everyone aboard," Azrael yelled at the tan-armoured retainer nearest to him. The man nodded, running off to police up the survivors and recover the fallen. Azrael thumbed off the power field surrounding his sword and sheathed it, breathing deeply.

The air had a brittle, almost metallic taste to it. A relief after the cloying, dust laden air of the battle. Azrael could feel the dust in his mouth grinding against his teeth every time he worked his jaw.

"Sir," called one of the retainers, running up to Azrael.

"Yes?"

"Inquisitor Kurze and Interrogator Aogustdottir have gone."

"What? Who took them?"

"Possibly the Eldar sir, they seemed to disappear just after the battle ended."

"Damn them." Azrael fumbled for his microbead. "Death to Darkest Angel, the tricksters abound, with razor smiles."

The response was nothing but static. Azrael set his jaw, ignoring the grit that ground against his teeth. What had happened to DeWalde?

Chapter 6

The Venusian Storm, In Transit to Piscina V – 15 Weeks after Allesthem VII

The gymnasium of the Venusian Storm was a small area aboard the Adeptus Mechanicus vessel that had become home to Inquisitor Urqhart and his vast retinue. Decorne had only grudgingly come aboard, preferring that the Adeptus Mechanicus was left out of their search for this planet. In his experience the Mechanicus tended to cause more problems than solve them.

Still, he admitted with a smile, their ships had style. The gymnasium was a purely functional area, a one hundred square metre practise area ringed by sets of weights, bars, and other machinery designed to test bodies to the limit. The dark grey plasteel walls were decorated by hangings depicting the various stances of unarmed combat, the appropriate litanies to utter as one performed the exercises, and pictograms of soldiers in inspirational poses, beset by foes. Regularly spaced buttresses along the walls had figures of tech-adepts and Mechanicus war machines carved into them. Each buttress was topped by an Adeptus Mechanicus symbol or an Imperial Aquila, a constant reminder to those in the room that their duties were clear.

Decorne saw men and women in the room, all varying shapes and sizes, but with two common elements: all had the badge of the Inquisition tattooed on their bodies, and all were lean and toned to near physical perfection. The so-called 'Hunter Group'. Jan had been proud to show them off when they had boarded those months ago, calling them his 'Line of Faith'.

Decorne could understand why. Each was pure to the Imperial Creed, faithful in intention, but not always in manner. All were veterans of war against the Great Enemy. All capable of facing their worst fears and coming out of the other side intact.

He watched several working out, their athleticism allowing them to perform feats that would have him gasping for breath, unable to move for a couple of seconds. He was no slouch when it came to combat, but these people trained for it every moment of their lives.

At his side was Luciana, his Death Cult Assassin, bound to him by a pledge of honour. He could feel the resonant hum of her aura, eager to be in the joyous melee of combat.

The sound of wood on wood caught his attention. He looked round to see Jan and Kara practising the Art of Bokunishi, the ancient martial art from Cartage Ularius. Decorne saw blurs of dark blue and red moving over the cream practise mat, the occasional curse in Gothic breaking through the sound of wood and flesh slapping against the mat.

"What's happening?" Decorne asked, grabbing one of the Hunter Group commandos.

"The Boss is fighting Inquisitor Urqhart," said the commando, nonplussed.

"Why?"

"Practise, and I sense that there's some stored up tension between them." The commando smiled, throwing the scar that marred his left cheek into stark relief.

"Interesting," said Decorne, after a brief pause. "Thank you."

He walked over to watch, his mind mulling over the possibilities.

Kara Tarrial dropped down onto one knee, the staff whistling over the top of her head. Bringing her staff around, she found it blocked centimetres from his left leg. Jan's right leg curved round, the knee aimed straight for her face. Quickly she analysed her possible responses and decided upon the most sensible. She rolled sideways, using the blocked staff as a lever to move her ninety degrees to Jan. His leg missed, and he wobbled. She pulled back her staff, jabbing forward again. He jumped, avoiding the staff aimed for his left knee, and rolled forward. Standing, the pair circled each other, each watching the other for signs of weakness.

"You're holding it too tight," she said, breathing deeply. They had been working out in the ship's gymnasium for nearly half an hour, and the sweat was dark against her loose blue robes. He lashed out again, swooping low at calf height. She flipped over the staff, planting a hand on the floor and spinning around, her bare foot aimed for his head. With a muffled slap he blocked it with his arm and brought his staff round. Ready, she flipped back up to land in a crouch, her staff all ready moving between his guard arm and tapping the ornate circular plate strapped to his chest. The plate beeped, and the cognitor registered another hit. "That's six to me, Inquisitor."

"I know," said Jan, breathing hard. He stood back, his staff held horizontally at waist height, and bowed his head. "A good workout."

"And what did you learn from this encounter?" Kara held her own staff in the same manner, returning the bow.

"Never go up against a battle sister," said Jan, his expression deadpan. Kara glanced over at him, shivering as the sweat evaporated. She was never sure how to read the man, even after so many years. She could see dark spots of sweat against the red top, his loose black trousers sticking to his legs.

"And seriously?" Kara held her staff upright, resting on the balls of her feet. She knew it was a delaying tactic; his mind was all ready thinking about the next series of moves. She glanced to her left, noticing the Hunter Group troopers that had stopped their own workouts, watching the standoff between them. To one side she saw the brooding presence of Inquisitor Decorne, clad in a simple suit of charcoal grey, his Death Cult assassin standing just behind him.

"Never overreach," said Jan. In a second his staff was up, pushing forward towards her. She blocked, inwardly smiling at his audacity. Dropping into another roll, she was jerked back by a sudden slap of a staff against her buttocks. Moving with the slap, she rolled onto her feet, staff held in a guard position.

"Nice move," she said, looking into his eyes. She could see a faint sheen to them, the blue iris seemingly lit with an inner glow. Her eyes narrowed. That's cheating, she thought.

Only if you get caught, smiled Jan. His thought had gone directly into her mind, making her jump. He winked and held the staff out at arm's length.

"I think that's it," he said, the glow fading. He bowed low. "I used my advantage on you there."

"True, but you must remember that if you face someone who can counter it, and then you may have a disadvantage," said Kara. She stood, returning the low bow. She realised she was still breathing deeply. The workout must have been more intense than she had thought.

"Good workout," said Jan. He had walked to the cognitor and was unbuckling his hit plate. His staff was by his side.

"Yes," said Kara, joining him. She unbuckled her own hit plate and slotted it into the niche set into the side of the cognitor. Muttering the appropriate incantations, she tapped the small rune that would display the final scores. She smiled; six-four to her. She looked up at Jan, who was shaking his head, a broad smile across his face. "Better luck next time."

"Hopefully, or I get the feeling Sergeant Haller will be after me," said Jan with a smile.

"He's still taking bets?" Kara said, sliding her staff into the niche next to the cognitor. "I must have words with that man."

"I wouldn't bother. Anyway, I bet that you'd win, so I stand to make a claim on the pot."

"What? Throne's sake Jan, you're getting worse as the years go on." Kara shook her head, the sudden stab of anger bringing her psycho-indoctrination to the surface. "One of the seven marks of the heretic is to commit falsehood before the Emperor's Holy chosen."

She caught the broad grin on his face and pursed her lips.

"You're just winding me up aren't you?"

"Yep."

"Damn you to the Eye Jan."

Jan leapt back out of range of her swipe, a chuckle emanating from his throat. She could not keep back her own smile. Jan may occasionally act the fool, but she knew that's all it was; an act. She knew that you could not be a fool and be a member of the Emperor's Most Holy Order of the Inquisition. Then she stopped, remembering some of the other Inquisitors she had met. No, she thought, you were not meant to be a fool.

"Any thoughts on Decorne?" Jan indicated the prowling Inquisitor with a glance.

"He's a quiet one." Kara paused to consider her next comment, her lips pursed. They were walking back towards the living quarters on the Mechanicus vessel, such as they were. "I'm not sure if he's just being quiet, or whether he's actually judging us."

"The latter most likely," said Jan. He hated the walk from the gymnasium; the endless corridors painted the same drab orange-red of the Adeptus Mechanicus, the click of their boot soles on the metal grav-tiles, and the constant psalms against corrosion and malfunction that hung from the ceiling. "All Inquisitors judge each other. Inquisitor Kurze once told me that we are all radicals in the eyes of each other."

"Really?" Kara sounded sceptical.

In many ways Jan could not blame her, the Inquisition was sometimes the architect of its own failures. He had survived several incidents against others that were supposedly meant to be fighting for the same cause. His psychic abilities in particular had marked him out by the Witch hunters of the Ordo Hereticus on more than one occasion.

"Yes, that's why it is so rare to have Inquisitors working together, particularly from different Ordos."

"So how did Jamius manage it?"

"In the Sororitas you reported to a Canoness, correct?"

"Yes."

"We report to a Sector Inquisitor Lord, and above him a Segmentum Inquisitor Lord. And that's as well as our own Ordo chiefs. As a Segmentum Lord, Jamius has the ability to call such covens together."

"What if one tells you to do one task, and the other asks you to perform a different task?"

"A rare event, but in that case we defer to whichever follows closest to the ideals of our Ordo. What about the Sororitas. Did you ever have anything like that?" Jan paused. They had reached her quarters, marked out by the glinting Fleur De Lys above the door.

"It never happens," said Kara. She ran her thumb over the gene-lock on the left hand side of the door. The door chimed faintly, and a click announced that the locks had disengaged. "The only time I encountered a conflict was when I watched an Inquisitor order the deaths of one hundred members of a ruling household."

"What had they done?" Jan leaned against the door frame, trying, and failing, to avoid feeling the sharp corner against his arm.

"They were charged with failing to prevent the start of a cult of the Great Enemy."

"Harsh."

"That's what I thought. I did not speak of my concern with anyone, judging the Inquisitor's actions to be for the benefit of the Imperium."

"So you drove yourself harder to try and understand His great plan?"

"Indeed. Many of my Sisters were impressed by my fanaticism, my desire to be cleansed in the holy bloodshed of battle. To some of my fellow Sister Superiors I was worryingly pure. The Canoness was impressed, giving me the Sacred Symbol of Our Martyred Lady to carry into battle."

"A suitable honour for one so pure of spirit."

"Until a year later. When I realised that by throwing myself so fully into martial warfare I had neglected my spirit."

"But the spirit must be strong to endure battle."

"Yes, but the spirit must also be balanced. Strength does not exist in mere steel. We must believe that the cause itself is worthy."

"And you doubted the cause?"

"Yes. My mind began to wonder in moments of solitude. I reported my transgressions to the Canoness. She sent me to the Orders Hospitaller, to relearn the value of the cause."

"And did you?"

"For a time. I rejoined my Sisters after six years in the Order Hospitaller, refreshed in faith. Shortly, we embarked on the crusade to liberate several worlds from the grip of the Ork scum. In that time my faith drove me with such vigour that I have not known since. On the forgotten world of Elani Epsilon VI we vanquished thousands in a day, such was our righteous anger. Entire cities of people freed from the bonds of slavery."

"You felt fulfilled?"

"Yes. Then your kind appeared. Trials were held."

"Trials?" Jan frowned. He had heard much of the purging of Elani Epsilon, including some of the more classified information regarding the discovery of a Necron artefact that was held within the vaults on some distant Inquisition outpost. This was new to him, however.

"Those people that they felt had betrayed the Imperium by siding with the Orks."

"They were just slaves, surely?"

"Yes. But guilt is felt by all who help those that stand against the Imperium."

"The Third Catechism of Hatred. I take it the Ordo Hereticus did not look kindly on those that were enslaved."

"They did not. Most were herded into pens by Stormtroopers, others were trialled and killed."

"So you decided there and then that the faith was wrong?"

"No Jan. I decided that the interpretation of the faith was wrong. And I had sinned against His mighty vision." Kara was aware that she was weeping. Why had she decided to tell him this? She could not be sure, but she believed that Jan was walking the edge of the knife that would decide the future.

"That's when you were transferred to the Sisters Repentia?" Jan tried to ignore the tears, but found himself moved by such confidence she was showing in him. He reached out, wiping the tears away with the cuff of his robe.

"Yes. I was overjoyed that I would be allowed to die in the service of His great works." She flinched slightly at his touch, but forced herself to remain in control. She looked into his eyes and saw a deep well of blackness, his emotions guarded.

"But you just said that you did not believe that some of His agents were acting in favour of His great plan." Jan allowed his hand to fall to his side. He looked at her deep green eyes and shivered. The purity of her wisdom was not lost on him. Indeed, it scared him. That he should covet her was all the more frightening. She was a Sister, bound by oaths to remain chaste and pure, serving as a shining example to others.

"I did. And so I resolved that by death through combat with His enemies would allow me to continue the fight at His side until the end."

"A pure and noble death that would allow you to follow Him utterly, and without interpretation."

"Yes." She believed he understood her. Inwardly she rejoiced; grateful that He had woven their fates together.

"So why were you assigned to me?"

"It was decided that as I had committed sins that were brought about by my love of His plan, I should ensure that no others strayed from his path."

"A worthy task of one so dedicated."

"So they believed. I saw it as my opportunity to try and understand why His vision is twisted by so many."

"And now here we are. On an Adeptus Mechanicus vessel, heading towards the distant ship of some ancient race that seeks to confound us and twist our purpose to suit their own. It is a tightrope of barbed wire we walk."

"I shall be there to ensure you do not slip Jan." She smiled, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder. His hand came up to squeeze the arm she had held out.

"I'm glad." Jan paused, considering the intimacy of the touch. He struggled to order his thoughts. He opened his mouth to speak again when the ship shuddered.

"All hands to action stations," boomed a mechanical voice over the intervox system. "Standby for Immaterium exit."

"Time to get cleaned up," said Kara. She stepped back, the door automatically opening. "See you on the bridge."

"See you on the bridge," said Jan. He watched her disappear into her room before turning and walking off to his own quarters. The tune of 'Onward Imperial Soldiers' came to mind, and he hummed it as he walked.

"Getting friendly?" Inquired a voice, jerking Jan from his revere.

He turned to see Decorne walking up, still dressed in his grey suit, his rosette hanging from a blood red ribbon around his neck. His Death Cultist stalked behind him, her footfalls noiseless.

"She is a friend, yes," said Jan. He did not like Decorne's tone.

"So you think it is wise for the Malleus to get friendly with the Sororitas?"

"I look at it differently. She is helping do the Emperor's work, such distinctions are beneath us. I would ask why you associate with Death Cultists."

"Why do you associate with the Mechanicus?"

"A long and complicated answer Decorne," said Jan, unable to suppress a smile. So that's what this was about: Decorne wanted to know why Jan was so close to Tech Magos Oriel Brundt.

"You are Thorian."

"Yes," said Jan, though he knew it was not a question.

"Then you know that those who seek to find the blessedly pure are not generally welcomed by the Mechanicus."

"Usually that is so, yes."

"But you will speak no more of it?"

"Not at this point Decorne. I will not trade barbs with you. I did the Magos a favour, and in return he deigned to carry my crew and I across the void, until such time as he considers the favour repaid."

"Indeed. But this ship is large, surely far to important just to be used as a transport vessel."

"You are right. It is a space borne Manufactorium. Magos Brundt is different than most Mechanicus priests; his views are radical in their eyes."

"And you support him?"

"I have learned much of our mechanical colleagues during my time on this vessel. Did you know that they have differing philosophies, in the same way that we have idealistic sects?"

"No." Decorne's eyes narrowed.

"You think I've forgotten why I'm here Decorne."

"I have not said that."

"In some ways. In some ways I have come to realise that only through unity can mankind prevail. That includes the Mechanicus, the Ecclesiarchy and the Inquisition."

"A noble goal, but how realistic is it?"

"That depends on who you speak to. I believe it can be done, but only through time."

"Interesting. And what of those who would oppose your views?"

"They will be made to see that through strength of unity we can rise above all."

"So your new purpose will rise above all others?"

"In a way. Though of course such things are not possible overnight, and a suitable commander is needed."

"Yourself?"

"No," laughed Jan. He shook his head, still chuckling. "Only the Emperor himself can hope to unite us all."

"Surely He has. His ascension to the Golden Throne has shown that by extreme sacrifice mankind can prevail."

"But when He walked amongst the stars His presence was said to be enough to inspire common men beneath Him to feats through unity and skill."

"You want to bring Him back?" Decorne was appalled. "That's heresy."

"Is it? We strive to ensure that mankind survives, and through many of His chosen we have overcome strife."
"Spoken like a true Thorian. But you are young. Over time you will realise that things are more complicated. His plan is too complex for us to grasp, we must allow it to unfold at his will."

"Spoken like a true Amalathian. Though surely you must realise that without His hand to guide us we will continue to stumble blindly from one problem to the next, even as our strength is slowly leeched from our bodies. We need Him."

"Yes, but until such time as He is ready to return to us we must persevere. We will hold back the tide until He is ready to reveal Himself to us."

"What if He has, and we have failed to notice such things?"

"Surely not. If He had returned, then there would be signs, portents to herald His arrival."

"And if we have failed to notice these things?"

"It is a long standing argument Jan. We could debate this until the Eye closed, and still we would be nowhere."

"Crossover point created," intoned the recessed speaker above their heads. The ship shuddered again, a curious phenomena that happened whenever a ship left or entered the Immaterium. "Successful. Standby for course change."

"Course change?" Said Decorne.

"Yes, the supplies are running low. Such a large ship requires a lot of supplies. We are heading towards the Iridium VII system."

"Such a detour would give this Cerilion time to escape our clutches again. This would be disastrous."

"Remember Decorne, we are heading towards the Eldar. Cerilion is no longer much use."

"Kharne and Engel may no longer be the great Inquisitors we once knew Jan."

"I know. That is why our combined abilities are essential. One of us may be outfoxed, but the other should be able to see through a tapestry of lies."

"Brundt to Urqhart." The Magos' toneless, gravely voice rasped over the recessed speaker.

Jan held up his hand to Decorne, halting any further conversation. He crossed to a wall mounted intervox unit and tapped the activation rune.

"Yes Magos?"

"Inquisitor, I can find no trace of the Naval patrol that was scheduled to meet us here."

"Indeed. No wreckage?"

"None. The nearest human populated planet is Rumer's World, three hours away."

"Then proceed. We should be able to find Imperial representatives there."

"Very well Inquisitor." The intervox cut with an audible click.

Jan turned back to Decorne, his eyebrow cocked.

"It certainly throws a new spin on events," said Decorne, his arms folded across his chest.

"I don't like it." Jan closed his eyes, using his mental powers to search the nearby area. He saw himself rise through the ship, the decks passing in a blur. Free of the ship his psyker sight looked around, struggling to find anything. "Nothing."

"That's not good."

"Indeed," said Jan. His eyes snapped open, his breath clouding in front of him. A thin layer of frost covered the surfaces around them. He saw Decorne's breath clouding in the chill. "Sorry."

"No matter," said Decorne. He shrugged, ice crystals falling from his suit. "I will meet you on the bridge in an hour."

"See you there," said Jan. He ran his thumb across the gene-lock. The door clicked once. Jan pushed it open and walked inside, taking in the sterile surroundings of the low ceilinged room. Glow globes automatically lit, illuminating the blank steel walls. He had never called this place home. It was too artificial for his tastes, right down to the pseudo-starscape that was recessed into the wall. He supposed it was some artificer's way of making the occupants feel comfortable knowing there was a view, but it was no help.

He stripped the sweaty clothes from his body, tossing them into a pile near the wardrobe.

Seconds later he stood under the shower head, letting the hot water scour the sweat and dirt from his body. He was humming 'Onward Imperial Soldiers' again, he realised.

He wiped his eyes, water sloughing over his hands. Blinking, he looked at the steam on the crystal glass shower curtain. It never formed the same shapes, he noticed. Every shower was different. He frowned. The steam had formed a face, contorted into a frown. He recognised it from somewhere. He searched his memory.

It came to him in a flash: Engel. He had seen many holo-liths and picts of the Inquisitor over the last few weeks. Was his mind making his memories real? His power was raw, not fully tempered by training or experience. It was possible.

No, it isn't.

Jan started. The mouth of the steam image had moved. His eyes narrowed.

What is this? He used his mind to speak.

Consider it a visitation from those that should be left alone. Jan could swear the mouth had smiled broadly.

Indeed. And why should we forget you Engel? It was you who informed us of the Key in the first place.

Aye, but it was meant to be just that, a warning. You must not come looking for me.

Such talk leaves you open to those who accuse you of heresy.

Never. I am as loyal to the Imperium as when I first swore the oath to guard it from the vast enemies arrayed against us. The face was now snarling, anger evident. The shower had long since stopped, the rest of the glass frosting over with psyker ice.

Then explain yourself Engel. If you can manage this, I can only assume you are close by.

No, I am far away. Be warned Jan, the Eye is preparing for war.

The Eye is always preparing for war. You tell me nothing new.

Abaddon is preparing another unholy crusade against those allied against him.

The Eldar told you this?

Yes.

And you believe them? Remember, the Eldar have lied to us in the past. How do we know it is not scare mongering?

I have been privy to things beyond our understanding as men. The fabric of time has been laid bare before me. If we do not destroy this key and the cursed world it belongs to, Abaddon will win.

You exaggerate. Jan pursed his lips, worried by Engel's words.

Do I? We know he has been planning for years for this moment. I must go. You will be contacted shortly by some others. Do not fight them and they will allow you to proceed. Fight, and you are doomed.

The steam image changed, succumbing to the psyker frost before shattering. The shower resumed, scalding hot water purging the frost from the panes. Jan shuddered, despite the temperature. Dimly, he heard the drone of alarms, and became aware of a banging against his door.

His contact with Engel would have set off internal alarms. Switching off the water, he reached for a towel hanging near the door. The outer door beeped once, the alarms overridden by some sort of code.

A small squad of Tech Guard burst in, expertly covering the room with their magazine-fed shotguns. Each had his ears replaced by functional augmentics, designed to ensure that anything they heard was filtered for purity before it was transmitted to the brain.

Standing in the doorway was Kara, her long ginger hair still damp. Her body glove was not fully done up, the Aquila hanging around her neck, nestled between her breasts. In her right hand she clasped a bolt pistol. Jan looked at her, noting the fearful look on her face.

"I'm fine," said Jan.

"What were you doing?" Kara's voice was a hollow whisper.

"Testing the limits of my power."

"You set off the internal alarms," she said. Jan realised the bolt pistol was pointing at him, the gaping maw of the weapon staring at him.

"My apologies."

"Can I get changed now?" Jan held the towel tightly around him.

"Leave," ordered Kara. The Tech Guard left wordlessly, shouldering their weapons. Kara still stood in the doorway.

"If you're going to stay to ensure my more fortitude, I suggest you come in and shut the door, it's cold," said Jan, walking towards his wardrobe.

"Yes, but keep your movements slow," said Kara.

"Very well," said Jan. He crossed to the wardrobe, pulling a selection of garments from the drawers. He got dressed slowly, inwardly burning with rage. "I thought you knew me Kara."

"So did I Jan."

"So what has suddenly changed your mind?"

"Jan, you know why I was assigned to you?"

"To help me bring the Emperor's Light to the dark places," Jan could not keep a smile from his face. He pulled on his dark grey trousers, turning to face her.

"No Jan. You know why I was really assigned to you."

"To ensure that I did not stray from His guiding path."

"Yes. You know how many of the Ecclesiarchy view you psykers. I am to ensure that you do not become too powerful."

"And am I?"

"Yes. You are dangerous Jan."

"I know. If I was truly planning to cause disruption, I would have killed you all the moment you walked into my room."

"You couldn't."

"Why not? You burst into my inner sanctum, brandishing weapons and accusing me of heresy. If I was truly heretical this ship would be a floating hulk by now."

"No one is that powerful," said Kara with a laugh, though Jan could tell she was worried. She was standing in front of his bookcase, bolt pistol held in an easy grip.

"What do you know of psykers Kara?" Jan had his shirt on by then. He sat down on the edge of the bed, pulling on his socks.

"That you are barely tolerated mutants," said Kara. Jan looked up. Her eyes had the tell-tale glassy look of someone reciting a mind-planted passage.

"That's what the Sisterhood tells you. In the Inquisition my talents are complicated. To some I am a very useful tool, to others I am little better than the rad-mutants you see on Necromunda. Do you know of psyker classification?"

"No." The bolt pistol had lowered.

"When a psyker is discovered, they are tested. Depending upon the person that finds them, they are either pressed into serving the Imperium or killed. Those that live are ranked according to ability. I am an alpha-class psyker, one of the rarest types."

"Which means?"

"I am able to do all manner of things. Remember I banished that creature on Laserva?"

"Yes. I remember Decorne telling me you did it alone."

"Well, that was a fraction of my power. I can banish daemons back to the Warp, kill someone with a thought, summon a psychic storm that can strip flesh from bone, and other, useful things."

"God-Emperor, that's frightening."

"To many yes. But you learn to live with it. Did you know Engel is an alpha-class too, as is Azrael?"

"I thought he was strange. But what's so important about Engel?"

"I spoke to him. That's what set the alarm off."

"Really?" The bolt pistol rose slowly. "How?"

"Telepathy. Though I believe some infernal Xenos-tech was boosting his power. He told me some interesting things."

"He is a suspected heretic."

"Indeed. That's why I chose to merely listen. I suspect that he has become more radical over time, his reliance on Xenos-tech and consorting with aliens confirming this. But I will not condemn a brother until I have seen evidence of his transgressions with my own eyes."

"Such ideals will get you killed Jan."

"Then I will be killed." Jan shrugged. The bolt pistol hung by her side. "Look, if you're not going to use that thing, put it away. It's annoying."

"Did Engel say anything important?" Kara slipped the bolt pistol into a holster on her thigh. Jan noticed she kept her hand close to it.

"He said the Eye was preparing to spit forth legions again. Abaddon is supposedly preparing to launch another crusade against us."

"That has been the rumour for many years," said Kara. "Did he say anything useful?"

"Apparently this world we're looking for would swing the balance in his favour."

"We're not sure what we would find there. How sure can the accursed heretic be of finding something that would aid him?"

"He's probably not. More than likely he expects that whatever's there would fight against us, thus distracting us from his advances."

"Engel's with the Eldar, correct?"

"Yes."

"Then why don't they do anything?"

"How much contact have you had with the Eldar Kara?"

"Not much. The last time I saw them I had one in my sights."

"Well, the Eldar will not do something if they can help it. They prefer to manipulate others into doing it for them."

"And we do their dirty work for them?"

"When it suits us. This planet is bad news for all of us."

"And if their ideas conflict with ours?"

"Then we ignore them." Jan shrugged. He picked up his rosette from the bed, pinning it at his throat. He stood, smoothing out his trousers and picking up his high-leg side-buckled boots. "Are you ready?"

"For what?"

"We will be at Rumer's World in just under three hours. I suggest you dry off and put something on that's not damp," said Jan.

"Sounds good," said Kara, a faint smile making her face light up. "Apologies for earlier."

"If you weren't suspicious of me at all times you would not be part of my band," said Jan, struggling with his boots. He stopped, looking up. "And as I said, if I had sensed you had wanted to kill me you would by lying on the floor at the moment."

"I must remember that," said Kara, still smiling. She slid open the door and walked out.

Jan shook his head, chuckling to himself. He walked over to the book case she had been leaning against, the heady smell of her cleanser in his nostrils. Pulling a thick tome from the top shelf, he ran his index finger down the spine. The spine flicked open, and a necklace dropped into his waiting hand. He turned the necklace over in his hands, hearing the dull click of bone hitting bone. Correction, Jan smiled to himself, Wraithbone. The necklace of creamy-white beads felt warm in his hand. He slipped it into his trouser pocket, replacing the tome on his shelf.

He walked to the door, selecting a sleeveless black leather jacket from those available. This was secured around his waist by a thick fylon belt, several pouches sewn into place along its length. Within the pouches Jan knew he would find useful items, including a micro-vox unit and a compact autopistol.

Satisfied, he glanced around the room once more, his memory creating an instant pictogram of how it looked.

He walked out, the door automatically locking behind him. He found Decorne waiting.

"Going somewhere?" Decorne asked.

"To the bridge," said Jan. Decorne's aura seemed different, the usual slow drumbeat of his blunt aura intermixed with a staccato snare beat. The usual sign of stress. He began to walk towards the transport tubes. "Something wrong?"

"Not yet," said Decorne, walking alongside him. "Though this mission is getting more infuriating by the moment."

"How so?"

"I got a report from that Astropath, Nathanial," said Decorne.

"What did he have to say now?" Jan did not like Nathanial, especially since it had been necessary to accommodate him in the Astropathic chamber aboard the Venusian Storm. Jan's regular Astropath, Alon Samiter, had been peeved that his space had been taken. Jan had tried to avoid Nathanial, but their paths were occasionally forced together.

"Apparently, the others looking for the key have encountered some problems with the Eldar," said Decorne. "And a small Chaos fleet."

"Interesting. So the Great Enemy is aware of our intention."

"Yes. I think we can expect increased resistance from now on."

"I thought as much. We may have to leave the Storm behind."

"What will Magos Brundt say to that?"

"I doubt he'll be happy. But the Storm contains the only examples of many arcane technologies, so it may be necessary."

"True, but even so…"

"I know," said Jan, aware of what Decorne meant. He stopped in front of the nearby transport tube, tapping a rune next to the pair of ornately inscribed double doors.

The doors opened to reveal the functional transport car. The pair walked inside, Jan tapping the rune that indicated the bridge. With a lurch the car started moving.

Jan closed his eyes, his mind searching for the auras of the rest of his cadre.

Dar Silveas was down in the main hanger bay, watching the Enginseers work on the 'Emperor's Dagger', his personal gunboat, a lit lho-stick sticking out of the corner of his scowling mouth. He wore his usual flight suit, the symbol of the Inquisition sewn onto the sleeve. Jan could tell he was unhappy. The Mechanicus did not like unbelievers tampering with machinery, and Dar was definitely not a believer. He hated to fly a ship that he had not personally worked on in some way, and the Dagger had been made off limits to him several weeks ago, when they had flown up from Galleas.

Jan moved on, leaving Dar to his misery, and found the savant, Gideon, reading a copy of 'The Spheres of Longing' written by his namesake several hundred years ago. In front of him sat a cognitor, running a complex series of cross reference parameters and search terms in the vast databanks of the Storm's memory stacks. He seemed relatively happy, which did not surprise Jan. Gideon always seemed happiest when he was looking for something, trying to connect everything together based upon wild theory and conjecture.

He flitted away from Gideon and found the Hunter Group clustered around Sergeant Haller, his scarred face lit up by a rotating hololith of an Astrates-pattern Boltgun. Each of the group had the weapon in their lap. Another lecture. Haller seemed to be giving a lot of them recently, the topics wide and varied, but all of them useful. Jan expected no less from the man; which was why he had hired him.

He left Hunter Group and found Kara, her hair pulled back into a tight bun, changed from the body glove she had thrown on earlier into a looser tunic and trousers. Around her waist was a belt similar to Jan's, though she carried a hand flamer filled with Promethium blessed by a preacher. She seemed to be pensive, chewing her bottom lip and drumming the fingers of her left hand against her right forearm. She was waiting for a transport car in the same place they had been standing mere minutes beforehand. He was tempted to see why she was anxious, but that would be rude. Instead, he withdrew, blinking a couple of times to get the frost from his lashes.

"Walking again?" Said Decorne. He brushed his suit, the thin layer of frost cracking off in clouds.

"Yes. Checking on my staff. Everything's ok."

"Good." The vox speaker above their heads chimed once. "I think we've arrived."

The doors opened in confirmation, admitting the pair onto the bridge. With a sigh Jan walked out, eager to see what new challenges lay before him.

Argonaut, Segmentum Obscurus – 15 weeks after Allesthem VII

Inquisitor Frac Yalin did not like this. The planetary governor had called for help several weeks ago, his message terse and quick. Heretics were staging a rebellion. Yalin had arrived just two days ago, his ship speeding through the Immaterium on favourable currents.

He had found the world to be on the brink of collapse. The Planetary Defence Forces were fragmented, many siding with the Great Enemy. Civilians died in their thousands as loyalist fought heretic in running battles.

He had consulted his savants, weighing the importance of this world in the scales of the galaxy. The savants reported that Exterminatus would be inadvisable; the planet's strata was rich in metals, including several strong veins of adamantite. The trade ledgers suggested that millions of tonnes of metal were shipped to Stygies Forgeworld and the forces defending the Cadian Gate every year.

So, he had decided to rally the soldiers, using them to drive this cancer from their world. His briefing sermon had been bombastic, loaded with rhetoric and promises that the Emperor's gaze was upon them. The soldiers had responded enthusiastically, much to Yalin's delight.

Still, it had been several days since they had amassed to reclaim the capital city, and still the goal seemed to be no closer.

He peered out from behind the shattered low-rise hab-block to look down the street. A main boulevard for the city, the wide street had probably once been picturesque, but now it was a killing ground. Smoke drifted from several small fires, the smouldering remains of hab-blocks brought down by a Leman Russ battle tank. The tank sat in the centre of the wide street, a shattered plascrete fountain beneath its tracks, a wisp of dirty smoke streaming from the ragged hole in its rear to be sucked away by the breeze that took the heat of sun from their faces. The heretics had heavy ordnance. The crew were probably dead, their souls committed to the Emperor.

Bodies lay scattered nearby, grey fatigues and flak vests crimson with blood. Heretics intermingled with Loyalists, carcasses equal pickings for the flies that buzzed around the rotting corpses.

Shots rang out, pock-marking the plascrete of the wall next to his head. He jerked back, turning to face the platoon before him.

"Are you ready?" His external speaker crackled, a deep baritone that reverberated around the alley.

"Aye my lord," they shouted as one, autoguns clutched in sweaty hands. Silently, Yalin stared at them through the red-tinted glass of his helmet's eyepieces. Aye, they were ready. Ready to fight, and die, in His name.

"Then do it," said Yalin.

The platoon streamed out of the alley, their war cries shrill and loud in the air.

In the near distance a heavy stubber opened up, barking gunfire cutting a bloody swathe through the ranks. Several dropped instantly, rifles falling to clatter next to their owners. Muttering a curse, Yalin pulled a pair of gold-chased bolt pistols from their delicately inscribed holsters, the whine of the micro-servos of his power armour loud inside his helmet.

He strode from behind the alley, the bioscanner built into the right shoulder guard alerting him to the heretics hiding in the ruins to the left and right. A stub round ricocheted off a gold-filigreed greave, scoring the ceramite.

His anger flared. They dare fire at a member of the Holy Inquisition? He raised the bolt pistol in his left hand, thankful that the suit of ancient power armour allowed him such control and strength. His helmet crosshair blinked red.

He fired, sending the bolt along its way with a brief prayer. The case ejected smoothly, a brief puff of propellant marking its fall. The purity seal affixed to the weapon fluttered and snapped in the breeze of the bolt's passage.

The bolt whistled through the darkened window to his left. A scream cut through the noise of gunfire before tailing off.

Yalin brought up his right arm, the bolt pistol in that hand snapping off a shot.

A body fell from the ruins nearby, the scarlet sash around his waist marking him as a heretic.

"Forward," yelled Yalin, his booming voice echoing around the street.

With a yell the PDF soldiers advanced, moving from cover to cover. Yalin let them advance, confident that they would clear the path for him.

Somewhere near here was a psyker, the sanctioned psyker had told him, moments before he had died. In many ways Yalin was not surprised, a sorcerer was needed to control such vast numbers of heretics, using their cursed powers to infect those around them.

Several stub rounds clanged off his breast plate, rocking him. He peered through the lenses of his helmet, searching for the heavy stubber.

There, in that ruined Administratum building. A belt-fed heavy stubber, its crew hurrying to replace the ammunition belt. They thought they were safe behind the sandbags. Bringing his pistols up, Yalin fired a couple of rounds from each pistol.

The sandbags were ripped apart by the explosively-tipped rounds, the crew catapulted off their feet and into the shadows. Yalin saw blood splash the pock-marked stone pillars. He smiled grimly.

Alongside ran a squad of Argonaut Irregulars, the loose name given to those Loyalist citizens who had volunteered to help rid their planet of this abomination. Their work fatigues were ragged and caked with dirt, and many wore no protection, save an Aquila pendant. Still ,they had proven to be useful over the last couple of days, and Yalin felt it prudent to ensure that they were allowed some measure of glory.

Several irregulars ran forward, clutching autoguns they had snatched from the fallen. Yalin watched them move, aware that they were close to the psyker. He could taste the Warp around them all.

Mere yards away, one of the irregulars was engulfed in crackling turquoise flames, his death scream long and shrill.

The rest of his group looked fearful, crouching behind the burnt out wreckage of an ore transporter, the massive wheel rims providing some protection from the small arms fire.

Another irregular erupted in flames, his ammunition pouches detonating. Yalin was splattered with chunks of immolated flesh.

Damn psykers.

Yalin caught a flash of maroon armour inside the wrecked Administratum building, saw the hooded face retreat from a window.

"Follow me," he yelled, breaking into a loping run, raising both pistols. He shot on reflex, his bolt pistols keeping up a steady stream of fire until he was virtually at the building.

He paused near some sandbags, slamming a fresh sickle magazine into each one. He glanced down, noticing the grey vest and fatigues of several Loyalist PDF men crouching nearby, frantically reloading their own weapons. Amongst them he saw a sergeant, staring up as if expecting orders.

"We need to secure the Administratum building," Yalin said, pointing with his bolt pistols. "The psyker is in there. The sooner we remove him the better."

"Yes my lord," said the sergeant, relaying the instructions through his microbead. Yalin waited for the nod.

"Forward," he said, raising his bolt pistol over his head.

He charged forward, hearing his ragged breath echo around his helmet. Gunfire hammered into the permacrete in front of him, spattering his gold and black armour with dust and grit. He fired several times, his external vox pick ups registering the satisfying screams of dying heretics.

He stopped next to the thick door frame, noting that the heretics had defiled the images of the Emperor and the Ecclesiarchy carved into the thick stone. Damn heretics, they would pay for their blasphemy.

Several soldiers crouched nearby, sweat running in great rivulets down their faces. The smoke-shrouded sun was approaching it's zenith.

Yalin peered around the door frame, noting the light streaming through the stained glass windows mounted high in the roof of the building. The interior looked a mess, with shattered desks and broken cognitor units strewn haphazardly across the floor.

In the middle of the room he could see several bloody corpses, their robes lit by the pyre raging in the middle of the debris. Yalin recognised the robes. Administratum officials. They looked like Loyalists. Probably sacrificed to whatever foul servant of the Great Enemy these particular Heretics worshipped.

At the rear of the pyre the flames danced across armour.

Red armour. The psyker.

Yalin could not be sure of course, but something told him that this was the case. He steeled himself, running the Catechism Against Corruption through his mind.

Two PDF soldiers crouched nearby, fragmentation grenades in their hands. Yalin holstered his right pistol, pulling a rare psyk-out grenade from his belt. He would have to be quick. He exaggerated his nod, knowing that the helmet would absorb some of the movement.

The grenades went in, double explosions kicking up clouds of dust and shrapnel. The PDF followed, their autoguns held tightly.

Heretics came charging, their tattered robes thick with dirt, blood and excrement. Bursts of gunfire lit up the gloom, throwing the corpses into sharp relief.

Yalin threw his grenade and followed them in, his pistols raised. The grenade bounced once and landed near the pyre. The air felt thick, cloying, making his movements slow. He squeezed the trigger of a pistol, the bolt exiting in slow motion.

The grenade went off with a barely audible pop, but no flash.

Time returned to normal, the air clearing. The man in red armour was on his knees, clutching at his head with gnarled hands.

The bolt from Yalin's pistol punched through a heretic, detonating in a spray of blood and tissue.

Yalin turned towards the man in red armour, only to see him standing behind the pyre. Even hidden in the shadows of his hood, his eyes burned with psyker fire.

Levelling both pistols, Yalin fired. Bolts zipped through the air. Several missed but several seemed to be homing in on the man.

Yalin caught the arc of a pink sword battering several bolts aside. One struck the man's pauldron, causing him to stumble.

Yalin tossed aside the empty pistols, drawing his ornate power sword from the sheath across his back.

He held it easily in a two-handed grip, point upwards in a classic guard pose.

The psyker rose, his hood drawn back to reveal white, almost lifeless skin. The man's head was completely shaved. Yalin could see blood vessels standing out against the pale skin. His face was twisted into a snarl of hatred, bloodless lips curled back to reveal dagger-like teeth.

Yalin ran forward, his sword raising to strike.

The sorcerer leapt to one side, the pink sword in his hands. Yalin recognised the witchcraft behind the blade. A daemon had been bound within the sword, giving the sorcerer greater power.

Crackling blue power field met daemon blade with a muted clang. Yalin swore that one of the many faces on the blade's side screeched in pain. He dismissed the thought out of hand, careful to remain focussed on his goal.

You will die, whispered a voice in his head. Yalin ignored it. He had thirty golden skulls etched into the left pauldron of his armour, each signifying a sorcerer he had slain. This one would be no different.

"Begone foul creature," hissed Yalin. His heart turned to ice in his chest. He could not breathe.

Gasping, he struggled to remain upright, his vision greying out.

Sorcery. He gasped out several words.

The pain in his chest eased. He smiled, though the effort of speaking the pure words had cracked his lips.

His vision returned. In front of him the sorcerer was shaking his head, raising his arms as if swatting away flies.

He ran forward, bringing his sword down in a broad stroke.

It was stopped by the pink blade. Again, there was that feeling that something had screamed. Yalin's eyes met the sorcerer's. He found himself confronted by a pair of eyes so golden they seemed to shine before him. He paused, gasping momentarily.

The man shifted, his sword pulling clear of Yalin's block to spear the PDF soldier that had been attempting to sneak up on them. The PDF soldier shrieked with fear and gurgled, his blood foam flecked lips struggling to form a prayer.

To Yalin the man seemed to age before his eyes, colour leeched from the skin. The blade grew darker in the half-light, sickly pink replaced by deep red.

He swung in with all of his might.

The sorcerer sidestepped the blow, pulling the blade from the PDF soldier. The soldier collapsed, his bloodless body shattering into a thousand pieces of mummified flesh.

Momentarily off-balance, Yalin struggled to swing the bulk of his power armour around. He felt a sharp pain across his left thigh and looked down to see blood ooze from a rent in the thick ceramite, besmirching the gold leaf.

Angry now, he moved into a series of blows and blocks that forced the sorcerer onto his back foot. A wicked grin lit up his face. This sorcerer did not know who he was dealing with.

The sorcerer moved his hand, and Yalin felt himself flying several feet through the air, landing with a crash amidst the pyre. He struggled to stand, temperature warning runes flashing across the eye pieces of his armour.

Sparks showered off his armour. His left leg was slow to move. The rent must have damaged the sacred armour in some way.

The sorcerer appeared in front of him, sword swinging in a furious arc. Yalin barely blocked it, feeling his strength leave him.

"What have you done to me?" He rasped.

"Whatever I want to," said the sorcerer. "I am Davus. As I am now, He was then. All will soon understand that He has chosen me to purge his Imperium of the weak and incompetent."

"Lies." Yalin felt a brief pang of fear in his voice. He stood solidly, his knuckles white inside the powered gauntlets.

"So say you," said Davus, jabbing Lermeon to and fro.

Yalin tried to keep up and block the blows, but he felt tired, so tired. He gazed into the heretic's eyes and saw only despair. His iron will, forged in the long war against the darkness, shattered. His sword slumped in his hand.

Davus struck, Lermeon's tip entering at the weak joint between helmet and breast plate. The sword feasted on the blood.

Yalin gurgled a brief curse before clattering to the floor, his power sword dull again. The pyre began to heat the armour, ceramite plating trying to conduct the heat away from the body.

Davus turned his back on the corpse, sheathing the twitching daemon blade.

"Report," he called.

"My lord," said one of his troop, his PDF uniform dirty and topped with a blood red sash. He knelt before Davus, his head bowed. "The space port is ours. As ever, your strategy was brilliant. We have secured several smaller ships. A transport awaits the arrival of your illustrious army."

"Good. Have the men withdraw. We will abandon this pitiful planet to its fate."

Davus took a last look at the armoured corpse, the ghost of a smile crossing his features. They did not have long to get to the supposed rendezvous. The Key to Bar'daruer. If he could control the forces within that cursed temple then he would surely be able to overwhelm anyone before him.

He spat once, hearing the musical sound of the water boiling off the surface of the armour. The damn Loyalists were picking up the pace. Obviously they were aware that Abaddon's crusade was nearly ready to begin, wiping the Cadians from the face of the universe.

"My lord, we are ready," whispered the soldier.

"Good, then let us depart." Davus walked away, ignoring the Loyalist forces still bombarding the streets were so many of his followers lay crouched. Those that mattered to the cause were alive, ready for their next test.

Rumer's World, Segmentum Obscurus – 16 Weeks after Allesthem VII

Jon Shafer enjoyed reaping the crops in his fields. It brought him peace, a chance to listen to nature, not his wife's constantly nagging voice. Even now she was doubtless standing on the kitchen's tiled floor, a ladle in her hand and scowl on her face, waiting for his return.

The tractor he was driving gave a sudden lurch, a cloud of black smoke pouring from beneath the engine cowling. He muttered several phrases taught to him when he had been learning the trade at his father's knee and pressed the glowing red rune on the control panel in front of him.

Releasing his vice-like grip on the steering levers, he opened the battered door and jumped to the ground. Sweat began to pour from his face, which he mopped up with a faded red and blue kerchief kept in his coverall pocket especially for the task.

He looked up, seeing the bright yellow disc beating down on the planet, washing out the pale blue cloudless sky.

Today was going to be a scorcher. He reached back into the cab and jammed the wide-brimmed felt hat on his balding, liver-spotted head. He walked forward, his lips pursed in the beginnings of a whistle, when he saw that the smoke had not stopped pouring from the engine.

"Emperor damn you," he muttered at the machine. With thick, calloused hands he found purchase on the wide tyres and clawed his way up to the dark green inspection hatch. Using the kerchief as a heat glove, he pulled open the hatch, to be greeted by a sudden cloud of thick, oily smoke.

Not a good sign, he thought. Not good at all.

Waving his hand to clear the smoke, he peered closely at the workings of the great machine. Everything seemed to be ok, though a couple of compressor tubes would need changing before the week was out.

The problem must be deeper, he decided. He stood atop the wheel, his body lurching as the tyre flexed underfoot. His hand touched the sun bleached green cowling. He jerked it away, the pain bringing tears to his eyes.

Hot, too hot to touch. Another bad sign, in his opinion. He flicked the three catches that held the cowling shut in the ritual order and pulled it upright. He got another thick cloud of oily smoke, which was whipped away by the breeze that moaned across the plains.

He mopped his face again, aware that he was sweating profusely, ignoring the oil that was smeared on the kerchief. Waving the last of the smoke clear, he studied the ancient grease-smeared engine before him, fearing the worst.

Jon breathed a sigh of relief; the main block was intact. What had caused the failure? The rites had been performed twice a day, as his father had taught him, the parts greased with sacred unguents and oils.

A distant boom made him frown; it was too early for a cargo launch, the quotas were not due for another week.

He looked out across the sea of yellow corn to see a pall of smoke rising in the distance. It had to be Francis; his workshop lay in that direction.

Jon shook his head, lowering himself down to look at the engine again, his weathered face creased into a frown.

Another boom made his frown deepen. That one seemed to have come from the opposite direction. He raised his head, seeing a nothing. It was close to his house. He needed to get back to see if Herself was all right. He leapt down from the wheel, wincing when his knees popped and clicked. He was getting too old to dance around like a spring chicken.

He paused on the step up to the cab, seeing a black speck in the distance, sunlight glinting from metallic surfaces. It was getting bigger and coming in very low. Jon could see the straw flailing wildly in the wake of the great metal bird.

The craft swept overhead, the wake knocking him off the tractor to land on the ground, the roar of jet engines making his chest vibrate. He gasped, feeling pain down his back. He must have snapped several linkages. The exo-spine had not been the same since the rains of 771.

He shook his fist at the rapidly retreating craft; bloody off-worlders. They never paid attention to the rules of good conduct.

He shook off the thought; he had a tractor to tend. He rose carefully to his feet, his back whirring in protest. At least the initial pain had subsided. He would have to visit Francis at some point, get it checked out.

The tractor looked intact, with no adverse effects from the fly over. He climbed into the cab with a grunt, thumbing the starter rune. The engine, whirred, sputtered and roared into life, a plume of smoke rising from the twin exhausts either side of his windscreen. Damn thing, he would need a proper Enginseer to find out why the spirit was so temperamental.

He sighed deeply, returning to his crop reaping. He wondered what the off-worlders had come for. No doubt he would find out someday, when he met his old shipmates in 'The Hanger Deck' in town.

In the craft, Dar Silveas yanked back the chunky control column, the cognitor display affixed to the column's post flashing red warning symbols.

"God-Emperor," he heard someone gasp behind him. Kara's voice was easy to pick out amidst the male grunts and curses from those strapped in behind him.

"Sorry," he called, gritting his teeth as he flicked the control column again, sending the clunky Mechanicus lander into a barrel roll. The sky whirled in front of him, spinning round and round like a top. Another couple of warning runes began blinking, an alert klaxon screeching above the moans of his passengers. The Grey Knights had never complained, well, not to him anyway. He smiled grimly, using his right arm to push the throttles mounted on the central control panel further towards their stops.

"Bit much isn't it?" Gasped a voice in the co-pilot's seat. Dar glanced over at Urqhart, noting that the young man was gripping the side rests of the seat tighter than Dar held a woman.

"Not quite boss," he replied, thankful that his augmented body could cope with the g-forces. The others were not so fortunate, as far as he knew, but who knew what Kara was hiding beneath her exquisitely curved body glove. "If I go any faster I risk popping your eyeballs."

"Thanks for looking out for us," grunted Urqhart, his mouth barely moving, contorted as it was into a clenched grin, the lips peeled back from the force of Dar's manoeuvres.

"Anytime boss," smiled Dar, throwing the craft into a vertical climb, his eyes locked onto the flight profile cognitor screen.

Next to him, Jan closed his eyes, trying to ignore the multicoloured spots dancing across his closed eyelids. Instead he focussed inside, using his abilities to push the blood around his body, strengthening it against the horrific forces.

The lander lurched again, slamming him hard against his restraints. He fought down the queasiness, feeling like a psyk-shark in a whirlpool back on Ascot Prime.

"Still with me boss?" Dar's voice sounded concerned. In many ways Jan was touched that his pilot cared; Dar had never shown concern for anyone, save Kara, but Dar was like that.

"Just about Dar," said Jan. He reached out with his mind, touching the others. Decorne seemed relatively non-plussed, in fact, Jan thought the Inquisitor was enjoying himself. He did not bother reading the death cultist, knowing that the assassin would not complain either way; too damn creepy for his liking.

Kara seemed to be going with it, her mind replaying the Mantra of Safe Deliverance over and over again, despite the outward calm.

Jan smiled inwardly; she had definitely changed from the hardened Battle Sister he had met those years ago. Her feminine side, previously repressed by her Sororitas, was coming through. She was still strong, but tempered now. She knew what lay beyond the veil of reality.

He touched Dar last, almost dreading it. He was right; the man's adrenaline was sky high; he loved doing this sort of trick flying. Jan concentrated, extending his mind out to build a shield around his companions.

"Boss, can you stop that?" Dar's voice cut through his concentration. He snapped open his eyes to see frost crystals on the inside of the viewport. "It makes flying kinda tricky."

"Sorry." Jan relaxed, watching the crystals dissipate before his eyes. The viewport cleared to show the washed out sky, the city of Rumer's Rest several miles away.

"Heads up," muttered Dar. "We're five minutes from the city's defence perimeter."

Jan glanced sidelong at the grinning face of his pilot. He was having fun.

"Focus on the mission Dar," said Jan. "Just bring us down in one piece."

"Yes boss." Dar sounded put out, but Jan really did not care, he just wanted to survive the landing.

He could see the tall spires of the city's Administratum complex in the distance, the glinting Aquila mounted on the summit making a good reference point. Scattered around the gleaming spire were the smaller spires of other Imperial offices, their bottoms lost in a thick yellow haze of smog. Closer to them, Jan could see the vast cylinders of storage facilities, neatly lined up like a regiment on parade.

The lander swooped low, dodging a flock of nearly a hundred birds, their wide multicoloured wings glittering in the sun.

"Damn things," said Dar. He glanced over at Jan, who was staring at the large birds. "Rainbow flyers. They tend to congregate around space ports for some reason. Damn things are small, no longer than my forearm, but they can make a mess of an engine."

"Then we'd turn into a large coffin?" Jan always felt uneasy about leaving his fate in the hands of others, no matter how skilled they were. His joy ride drop with Dar had done nothing to dispel his fears. These birds were just another part of the rich tapestry of deadly creatures that made up His Imperium, he reminded himself.

"Exactly." Dar's voice was deliberately low; he did not want to scare any of the others.

The lander was suddenly flanked by a pair of Imperial Lightnings, resplendent in the same shade of pale blue as the sky. He saw the distinct winged skull surmounting a dagger of the local PDF.

"Expecting trouble boss?" Dar asked with a sidelong grin. "Imperial fighters, this is the lander Omega Delta Three Seven, requesting approach to spaceport, over."

"Omega Delta Three Seven, roger, drop airspeed to one four two and follow me, out," replied one of the fighters.

Jan watched the first Lightning manoeuvre to take up position a hundred metres in front of them, the yellow glow of jet exhaust like two miniature suns before his eyes.

Engel's words came back to him. If they were to be contacted, when would it occur? And who would be contacting them? Jan did not like the answer that came to mind. If Engel had been turned against the Imperium, then the Eldar would know more than was prudent. Damn him! Was his information about the Key also a lie?

"Omega Delta Three Seven, this is the Venusian Storm," boomed Magos Brundt's voice over the vox-speaker. "We have three Xenos vessels approaching. They demand to speak to Inquisitor Urqhart."

"Omega Delta Three Seven, roger, can you patch them through Magos?"

"Negative Inquisitor, they request a meeting in person."

"They requested a meeting?" Jan glanced over his shoulder at Decorne. Decorne shrugged his shoulders, the message clear.

"Yes, although tactical analysis indicates that there would only be a twenty two percent chance of the Storm's survival if they wished to engage us."

"Any indication as to where they want to meet us?" Jan rubbed his eyes, tired of this beating around the bush.

"Yes, I have transmitted coordinates to the nav-logic cognitor on your lander."

Jan faced Dar, who nodded, his lips pursed. He held up the index finger of his left hand. It would take them an hour to reach the coordinates.

"Very well, inform them we shall meet them there in one hour."

"Yes Inquisitor. I will contact the Administratum officials and tell them we shall be momentarily delayed."

"Thank you Magos." Jan severed the link, swivelling his flight chair to face the others. "Ok Dar, pass on our apologies and get this thing turned around. Inquisitor, can you think of any reason why the Eldar would wish to meet?"

"They know what we're after?" Decorne rubbed his pointed chin.

"Possibly." Jan knew it was a rhetorical question, but it merited an answer. He took a deep breath of the cold recycled air, his mind working through possibilities and probabilities. "If they do, how do you want to play this?"

"We need to play it close to the chest," said Decorne. "During my time with the Ordo, I've had dealings with the Eldar before. Diplomacy and tact was the only way to get illicit a favourable response."

"I see. Any idea what demands they will make?"

"You guess is as good as mine." Decorne shrugged, his movement hindered by the brown leather surcoat he wore. "Many times there answers were so cryptic I got the feeling that they just wanted us to feel stupid compared to them."

"Mind games. Throne I hate them. If possible, I want you to speak to them."

"Naturally."

"Here's hoping they haven't brought a full army with them. That would put a crimp on our plans."

"We shall find out shortly," smiled Decorne. He turned to face the Death Cultist, muttering a few words in some guttural dialect. Undoubtedly instructions, thought Jan. He turned to face Kara.

"When we land, I want you at my side. Dar, I want you with the ship, just in case we have to exit in a hurry."

"Roger that boss," said Dar. Kara nodded her confirmation.

Jan sat back in his seat, trying to relax his mind, and wondering what in the name of Terra he was going to say to these xenos.

The Imperial Eagle, Segmentum Obscurus – 16 Weeks after Allesthem VII

"Again." Commissar Keii Katsuhiro's soft voice cut through the shouts and stamping feet that reverberated around the cargo bay of the ship. She breathed out slowly, her breath clouding in front of her. She forced her body not to shiver in the cold metal bay, lit by the glow of a hundred blue glow bars. She was barely sweating, her t-shirt and combat trousers still neat and tidy.

The pair of penal legion troopers looked over at her, eyes ablaze. One was all ready bleeding from a slash across the face, the other had the beginnings of a deep bruise across her left arm. In contrast, their uniforms were rumpled and torn in places. Both still had a look of grim defiance. She smiled. Good: she hated the fight to be over quickly.

She looked around the cavernous bay. The vast majority of 'A' Company had turned out to see her unarmed training routine, and many bore the marks of attempting to go up against her. The medics on the sidelines watched the lesson with grim hatred. They hated to see 'their girls' get whipped around by this headstrong upstart. Or so Lieutenant Hechtor Unith had told her during their briefing sessions.

She snapped her head back, spinning on the ball of her left foot to avoid Legionnaire Agania's clumsy swipe. She countered with an open-palmed slap to the cheek and rolled away from Legionnaire Rothell's front kick. The pair worked well as a team, as they should; they were one of the heavy weapons teams.

Jumping to her feet, Keii was caught flat-footed by Rothell's sudden reverse kick and had to perform a low block to keep the heavy boot from kicking her.

She glanced into the legionnaire's eyes and saw humour. Keii's eyes narrowed. She sprang forward, catching Rothell in the chin with the heel of her left hand. Rothell's head snapped back and she fell backwards. Agania's fist whistled past Keii's ear. That had been too close, Keii thought. Time to end the lesson.

Keii caught the muscular arm, covered in a myriad of lurid gang tattoos, and lashed back with her right elbow, catching the woman in the armpit. There came the sickening click of cartilage tearing and then the shriek of Agania realising that her shoulder had been dislocated. She collapsed onto her knees, sweat pouring from her forehead, clutching at the arm with her good hand.

Keii stood back, regaining her compose. She snapped her fingers. A pair of medics ran forward, pulling equipment and sanctioned unguents from their bags.

Around her, Keii could hear the hoots and jeers of a hundred female voices raised in a crescendo of noise. She raised her arms, signalling for silence. The voices faded away, the legionnaires silent.

"Well done." Her voice echoed through the cargo bay. "You showed better teamwork, dedication and improved skill since our last session. All of these traits will look favourably upon us when we get into combat. I am proud of you."

A round of cheers momentarily deafened her. She smiled inwardly, retaining her stony appearance. It did soldiers good to know that they had done well. Even soldiers such as these. She held up her arms again. The cheers stopped.

"But, we still have a lot to do. What is the time Lieutenant?" She glanced over at Lieutenant Unith.

"The time is seventeen thirty Imperial Standard ma'am," said Unith, his deep baritone at odds with the higher-pitched shrieks that had previously filled the bay.

"Right, lesson over. Get this place secured. I will hold a full kit inspection at eighteen thirty. I expect you all to be spotless. Anyone not meeting my standards will suffer punishment as I see fit. That is all."

The bay was filled with a sudden cacophony of voices, as legionnaires ran to and fro, dividing up jobs and carrying them out with brutal efficiency. Keii took pride in watching the Senior NCOs take charge without any need for her to shout orders. To her it was a sign of efficiency, the mark of a well-drilled unit, not the usual rag-tag bunch of amateurs that made up most Penal Legions.

It helped that most of her Senior NCOs were violent criminals, with a string of assaults and violence on their Form 31s. Sergeant Kerrin, 3 Platoon's commander, was a good example. She stood near the open hatchway, barking orders, her knife-scarred face twisted into an expression of hatred. Any legionnaire not moving fast enough for her liking was rewarded with a well-placed boot in the behind. Keii knew that Kerrin's Form 31 read like the Capital Offences Appendix in the 'Rules & Regulations of the Imperial Guard'. She should have been shot several times over, but a lenient officer had transferred her to the Legion. The man had been too lenient in Keii's opinion, but she knew why he had done it. Kerrin was a natural leader, but too headstrong to fit into the clean-cut Imperial Guard. Much like Keii herself. By rights she should not have attended the Schola Progenium, but her boyish looks and lean build had fooled the Schola Admissions Board. By the time anyone had realised, it was too far into her studies, and the Guard did not want to lose such a promising candidate. So she had graduated 4th in her class, and been sent to the Guard.

The Guard had plans for her, and sent her to join the 42nd Penal Legion. They hoped that a female commissar would garner more respect than a male. And, by the God-Emperor, she seemed to have succeeded.

"Commissar?" The hushed voice, deep and soulful, made her smile. Lieutenant Unith, her aide and de facto Commanding Officer of the 42nd Legion, following the untimely death of Colonel Mekzin.

She turned, tilting her head back to look into his deep brown eyes. His expression, as always, was guarded.

"Lieutenant?" She made her voice hard, with a playful edge. She enjoyed playing these games with him.

"Do you have any plans for the legion this evening?"

"No, why? Do you?"

"Yes commissar. I was going to allow them to watch 'Path to His Love'."

"An interesting choice." Keii weighed up the pros and cons. 'Path to His Love' was an old film, made during the 200s if rumour was to be believed, but a good one. Maybe it would remind the legionnaires that they were only alive today because of His grace. On the other hand, the theological debate between the more educated members of the legion could turn into a full cat fight. "Very well, but have the Shock Troopers standing by."

"As you wish commissar." She could see Unith's expression flicker briefly, his organised mind making a brief mental note.

"Do you have any plans for this evening?" She squared up to him, her body language suggesting a lot, but hiding it well.

"I was thinking of cataloguing the Form Thirty-Ones for C Company, and then…" His voice tailed off. Keii smiled to herself: he had obviously caught her expression. "Were you thinking of something else?"

"My cabin, before twenty two hundred," she said. Her mind hit upon an ideal excuse. "I need to discuss field training."

"As you wish," he said. She saw a glint of amusement behind his eyes. In many ways it was true, she did need to discuss field training, but that did not mean they could not do other things whilst they talked.

"Very well, dismissed," she said, returning the salute he threw her. She watched him leave via another door, trying to avoid the legionnaires. Despite his rank, the all-female legion saw only a man, something many of them had desired for years. He had to protect himself from them, especially the legionnaires that could afford to be shot for assaulting a superior officer. Her eyes wandered over the departing legionnaires, throwing ice cold glances at those she caught watching Unith's departure. Many dropped their gaze, afraid of her, but some returned it with equal malice. She would have to watch them, especially on the field, in case an 'accident' happened.

The ship rocked suddenly, making Keii adjust her position, lest she fall. Alarms began to wail loudly nearby, as if the ship was in distress.

"Standby for emergency Materium jump," droned the navigator's voice over the intravox speaker mounted above the entranceway. Keii always thought the gargoyle's face that surrounded the speaker was speaking, despite the numerous times she had spoken into the system herself.

She dismissed the childish thought, her mind running through several scenarios. What could make a troop ship drop out of Warp? Several of the answers chilled her marrow, whilst others were just unpleasant. She ran to the nearby intravox point and tapped the series of keys that put her in touch with the bridge. One way or another she had to find out.

"Bridge," snapped the speaker next to her ear.

"Commissar Katsuhiro," said Keii, adjusting her inflection to its most commanding. "What's happening?"

"We've had to exit the Immaterium," came the cool answer. Keii clenched her jaw; the man sounded like he was trying to explain things to a child. Such insolence.

"Why?" Keii tried to keep her voice level, though she hoped her tone was cold enough to rival the hull's temperature.

"We have been pulled out of the Immaterium by a sudden surge of energy," came the answer. The man seemed to have woken up and realised he was dealing with a commissar. "Exact cause unknown. As a precaution the ship is being locked down. Proceed to your emergency posts and await instructions."

"Understood," said Keii, snapping off the intravox with a jab of her thumb. She looked to her left to see Unith by her side, his face calm, but eyes fearful.

"Problems?" Unith asked, licking his lips.

"So it would seem," said Keii. "Get the legionnaires to their emergency posts."

"Yes commissar." Unith walked off to begin barking orders at the company commanders. Keii's hand twitched over her holstered bolt pistol. They would be required for action soon, she was sure of it. Would they survive it? Emperor willing, they would do well.

"Materium in three seconds," squawked the gargoyle. "Brace, brace, brace."

The cargo bay rocked violently, several of the overhead glow-tubes exploding in a shower of sparks. Keii grabbed the bulkhead in front of her, her inner ear telling her that the ship was at a 45-degree angle, though that should be impossible. Alert klaxons wailed overhead, flashing red glow lamps throwing the steel into a myriad of shadows and shapes. Keii swallowed; the shapes were making a distorted sense. Chaos. She had seen such phenomena before, generally announcing the arrival of the Great Enemy's servants. Her eyes found Unith's in the midst of the legionnaires, his pale face reflecting the blue-white of glow-strips and the staccato flashes of red.

"Arm them," she shouted. She saw him nod and bark out a series of orders. Company commanders responded at speed, corralling their troops with shouts and the occasional slap of shock-batons on buttocks and arms.

Keii turned away, muttering a brief prayer of delivery from evil. With the foul forces of Chaos ranged against them, faith would be their strongest shield. She turned back, marching into the throng of legionnaires. By hook or by crook, her legionnaires would be ready for it.

Chapter 7

The Tears of Khaine, Somewhere in the Webway – 17 Weeks after Allesthem VII

Freya Aogustdottir woke with a start. She snapped open her eyes and saw what appeared to be a rib cage, interlocking creamy-white slats that seemed to gleam with an inward glow. Was she dead? She glanced around some more, seeing strange instruments and delicate-looking cloths soaked in deep red blood. Something organic about the size of her fist floated in a frosted glass container just near her left ear, surrounded by a vivid turquoise fluid.

She tried to lift her head, but her vision swam, the rib ceiling blurring. She let her head drop back, where it was absorbed by some thick cushion. She frowned at the that; the rest of her body felt as if it was lying on stone. She tried to rotate her left hand, but a sharp stabbing pain shot up her arm and made her wince.

Somewhere behind her head she could hear people speaking in hushed tones, their sing-song chatter immediately familiar. The Eldar. Her mind began to piece together the incident on Alteria, including her sudden transformation into some sort of killing machine. Had she really taken out an Ork Warboss by herself?

"Yes," said a voice above her head. The voice was male, and spoke Imperial Gothic with difficulty; the inflection was all wrong.

"What?" Freya tried to tilt her head back, searching for the source of the voice, but could see nothing.

"I said yes, you struck down the oafish Ork Warboss." The voice stepped into her field of vision, and she was shocked. An Eldar Farseer. His green robes looked heavy and stifling, the velvet sparkling from the amount of jewels sewn into it. A golden helmet faced her, glowing around the neck line from several large jewels. Not jewels, she corrected herself, Spirit Stones. She had seen him briefly on Alteria, before blood loss had overcome her.

"Where is everyone?" Freya realised she was whispering. The realisation that she could be a prisoner had sunk in, filling her with dread.

"Your master is waiting in my chambers. Fear not child, your companions live." The Eldar sounded kind, almost fatherly. She would have liked him, were it not for the arrogance in his voice. Exactly like her father. She had despised him.

She struggled to sit up. The Farseer glanced behind her head, and Freya felt a pair of hands push her gently back onto the table.

"Do not attempt to get up, you have been severely wounded," said the Farseer. "There will be time for questions later. For now, sleep."

Freya felt a faint prick against her neck. Her vision swam again and blessed unconsciousness took her.

Dan'yotal watched the healer administer the sedative with barely restrained relief. The mon-keigh female was stronger than she suspected. Her master would be pleased she had awoken, even if only for a brief moment. Humans had a curious attachment to their youngsters, even those not connected by blood. It was something Dan'yotal had never quite understood, despite his many years studying these overgrown primates.

He glanced over at the healer, whose simple white tunic was ornamented with the embroidered symbol of the Ver'gaeta Craftworld on the left breast. She looked up at him, her expression unreadable.

"Make sure she is safe from harm and if she awakens, allow her to feed," he said, his voice quiet. Despite the sedative, he did not wish to risk waking the female.

"Yes my Lord Farseer," said the healer, bowing her head in acknowledgment. She looked up, not quite meeting his gaze. "What of the restraints?"

"Remove those when she requests food," said Dan'yotal, glancing at the padded Wraithbone restraints that bound her to the operating table at wrist and ankle. He pursed his lips, his silence no doubt unnerving the young female. "But be sure to have some warriors nearby, in case she tries to escape."

"Yes my Lord Farseer."

Dan'yotal nodded, turning on his heel. He walked swiftly from the room; the mon-keigh's raw power was giving him a headache, such was its intensity.

He walked swiftly through the red-tinted Wraithbone corridors, nodding his acknowledgment to the crew he passed on the way, his mind wandering the strands of possibility.

Presently he arrived at the bejewelled red velveteen curtains that marked the entrance to his chambers, and the older mon-keigh waiting behind them. He checked his breathing and mind were in harmony, his aura focussed to provide a kindly image, such as he had tried to project onto the younger mon-keigh. He glanced to his left, noting the blue and green battle armour of his Spectre Banes bodyguard, their faces hidden behind blank-faced helmets. At their lead, Dan'yotal saw the familiar figure of his apprentice, his face hidden behind a red and white Ghost Helm. They did not trust the mon-keigh. Neither did Dan'yotal, but he knew that the mon-keigh would be useful, for now. Still, it was a big gamble, taking this pair to Ver'gaeta. In many ways Dan'yotal enjoyed the faint thrill this gamble generated. He had not felt anything like this for many years. Had his life really been that staid?

He halted the train of thought, recovering his composure. With a brief gesture of patience to his apprentice, he tapped the button on the door frame.

Inquisitor Mykos Kurze was frustrated. So far the damned Eldar had told him nothing of Freya's condition. The last he had seen her was when the pair had been bundled aboard an Eldar shuttlecraft, Freya still clutching her prize; the so-called Key of Bar'daruer. She had looked near death, her features pale, body suit and armour covered in blood and sand. The Eldar had whisked her away upon arrival and had gently, but firmly, insisted the he follow them to these chambers.

Mykos stopped his relentless pacing, staring up at a delicately woven silk tapestry that hung from the cream-coloured ceiling. It showed the 'V'-device that seemed to be a repeating theme throughout this particular group of Eldar in black on the white silk, various runes sewn around it. He spotted several he recognised, including the Rune of Health and Death, the Rune of Protection, and the Rune of the Craftworld Eldar. He pursed his lips, his old mind rapidly running through several possibilities. A new craftworld, previously undiscovered by the Imperium? A band of pirates that wanted the key for themselves? Damn these Xenos and their secrecy.

"Beautiful isn't it?" A soft voice snapped him back to the present.

He turned to see an Eldar before him, clad in simple green robes and a golden helmet, inlaid with Spirit Stones. Around his shoulders hung a blood red cloak, trimmed with gold thread and jewels.

"Yes, it is," sighed Mykos. He leant heavily on his cane, staring at the red eye slits of the helmet. The leader of this group of Eldar. He had spoken to him twice before, each time with mounting annoyance.

"The banner of our healers." The Eldar sounded proud of himself, as if expecting a round of applause.

"Speaking of healers," started Mykos, watching the Eldar for any sort of reaction.

"Your apprentice." Mykos could hear the smile in the Eldar's voice. Mykos opened his mouth to speak again, but the Eldar held up a delicate, thin hand. "Fear not Inquisitor, your apprentice lives. She will recover."

Mykos hoped he did not give the arrogant alien a sign that he was relieved. Inquisitors were agents of the God-Emperor, each expendable if they held back the darkness.

"Many thanks," said Mykos, bowing his head.

"No need for thanks." The Eldar waved his hand again. Mykos caught the flash of a ring on a bony finger. A digital weapon perhaps. "You have both been exposed to the effects of the item. It was necessary to remove you from such peril."

"Indeed." Mykos was unimpressed. The Key of Bar'daruer had been in their grasp for minutes before the Eldar had secreted it away. "What do you intend to do with it?"

"We intend to hide it. Such evil cannot be destroyed. We would risk unleashing the power stored within it."

"According to our information the item is the key to unlocking a place of great evil."

"Yes, a planet that has seethed within the other realm for millennia. The impending roar of the servants of She Who Thirsts has pushed it close to the delicate film that separates the realities. Those who have access to forbidden knowledge can perform rituals that will bring it into reality."

"Rituals of blood, sacrifice and power," said Mykos. "We have seen such things before."

"And yet you desire the Key for your own purposes."

"Yes." There was no point denying it. Why else would the Imperium send 2 Inquisitors to a backwater world to chase after an Ork Warboss? Mykos had learned over the years never to underestimate the Eldar's capacity to understand. "We were sent by the leader of our coven to retrieve it, to prevent such rituals from succeeding."

"As you say." The Eldar seemed poised to continue, then abruptly bowed his head. Mykos was suspicious. Had the Eldar detected something in his voice? The Eldar's head snapped up, the red coals of his eye slits staring straight at him. "It would seem that your companions have managed to follow us. We must arrange to meet them."

"I warn you Eldar, my fellow Inquisitor is not as I am," said Mykos. He got the impression that Azrael was out for blood. Like a Fenrisian wolf he was pursuing his quarry until the bitter end. Mykos smiled: the mark of a Malleus man. "He will see this through to the end."

"I am aware of that," said the Eldar. Mykos thought he heard the Eldar sigh, but dismissed it. The Eldar were not that emotional. "Please, make yourself comfortable. If the fates permit we should be able to return you to your own people before too long."

"Many thanks," said Mykos, bowing his head again, his expression stony. Inwardly he smiled. Trust Azrael to figure out how to get into the Eldar Webway.

The Nightwing, Somewhere in the Eldar Webway

Captain DeWalde sweated profusely, still amazed that he had managed to get the vessel past the security devices he suspected lined the entrance to this mysterious place. He gazed out of the bridge's main view ports, his mind still not fully comprehending what his eyes were telling him. Instead of the usual star-flecked blackness of open space, or the screaming insanity of the Immaterium, he saw a pale blue tunnel surrounding the vessel, the actual colour rippling and shifting at random. The tunnel stretched into the far distance, according to the auger arrays, but DeWalde could not see anything save for a milky-blue mist in front of the Nightwing.

He glanced down briefly, the passive auger arrays mounted on the prow of the Nightwing informing him that the Eldar vessel was some 10,000 kilometres away, and apparently slowing.

"Helm, slow to five thousand," DeWalde ordered, looking up at the senior helmsman.

"Aye captain, slowing to five thousand," said the man. DeWalde felt the ship shudder beneath him as the helmsman transmitted instructions to the engines.

"Problems?" Enquired the deep voice to his left. DeWalde turned to see Azrael standing next to the command pulpit, clad in simple black robes, his black hair loose around his shoulders and a short strip of Haemoplast-impregnated tape across his brow, covering a recent wound.

"None yet my Lord, merely being cautious," said DeWalde, focussing his attention back on the pict-displays on the pulpit.

"Excellent Geron. I shall be in the conference suite for a while. Inform me if the Eldar do anything foolish," smiled Azrael. DeWalde's eyes flicked over to Azrael, noting the wolfish smile. DeWalde swore that Azrael was expecting the Xenos to do something foolish so he had an excuse to board them.

"As you wish my Lord," nodded DeWalde. He watched the man walk off to the conference suite at the back of the bridge, where only eight hours earlier they had been planning the elimination of the Ork Warboss. So much had happened in those few hours, including the loss of an Inquisitor and his Interrogator. It would be difficult to explain such a loss to the Inquisition, so they were chasing the Eldar in an effort to get them back.

DeWalde wondered what had been so important that Tau, Eldar and human would willingly join forces to prevent the Chaos scum from winning. He brushed the thought away. If Azrael wanted to tell him, Azrael would tell him. Until then, he was happy to be ignorant.

His eyes flicked back down to the pict-display, responding to the faint chime of a warning tone emanating from the pulpit.

"Helm adjust course. Bring us left to three five one mark zero zero relative. Maintain speed," he said.

"Three five one mark zero zero relative, aye," said the helmsman. The ship turned to the left, manoeuvring thrusters spurting brief jets of cold gas. The view remained unchanged, but the ship lined up with the centre of the tunnel displayed on the pict-display.

DeWalde breathed out, unaware that he had been holding his breath. He was not sure what would happen if the Nightwing struck the side of the tunnel, but he doubted he would like it. So far they had been able to traverse the tunnel by the good grace of Him-On-Earth, in DeWalde's opinion, and he did not want to test the limits of His grace. Entering the disguised tunnel had been a matter of luck more than calculation, almost as if the Eldar wanted them to follow them into their realm. He muttered a silent prayer, the Fifth Psalm of Protection Against The Heretical seemed appropriate, and resumed his monitoring, ready to call out another course change should it be required.

Azrael waited until the door to the conference room clicked shut before activating the privacy screens. He left DeWalde to his thoughts, though he understood the fear emanating from the man; many vessels had tried to penetrate the Eldar Webway, and none had been seen again. He sat down at the chair nearest the centre of the table, relaxing into the comfort of the overstuffed synth-hide.

He looked around the table, noting how different it seemed from the last time. Gone was the psychic rainbow of Freya and Mykos, replaced by the pale blue of his psychically blunt staff.

"Opinions?" Azrael asked, glancing at each face in turn.

"On what my lord?" Asked Murton Powyll, former Cadian sergeant, his bushy brown moustache and thick lips accenting the clipped speech with a short spray of vapour. Trust the bullet-headed sergeant to act coy, thought Azrael.

"How to get Inquisitor Kurze and Interrogator Aogustdottir off that vessel." He pointed at the flickering holo-lith of the Eldar vessel that was projected in the centre of the table. All ready the flicker was beginning to annoy him, though he suspected that following the recent clash with the Chaos vessels the tech-priests had better things to worry about than a flickering holo-projector.

"Initial analysis suggests that any sort of teleportation would be a failure," said Harriet Phelon, his long-suffering savant. Now approaching her third century, Harriet was wrapped in her usual simple brown robes, her neck held by a brass and steel brace. Her long white hair was tied back in a plait that reached her waist. She was playing with it, as she usually did when she was thinking, her clear almond eyes speed-reading the data-slate in front of her. "The teleporters cannot find anywhere to teleport to inside the vessel. Their auspex sensors believe the ship to be a single solid mass, without interior rooms or corridors."

"Interesting," said Azrael. He stroked his beard, staring at the flickering holo-lith. "Possibility of a boarding craft?"

"Minimal success." Harriet paused, checking her slate. "Simulation and logical deduction suggest that the ship would easily be able to shoot down any boarding craft."

"So what you're saying is that this is a lost cause?"

"Not quite. In this Emperor-forsaken place the ship can easily hide from us and call reinforcements. However, in realspace we should be able to trap them. A simple plasma torpedo detonation approximately two hundred metres in front of their bow should suffice."

"That assumes too many things," said Azrael. He glanced over at Medicae Ungith, a recent member of his party, following the death of the last medicae from a Plague Marine poisoned bolt round some months ago on Quisto'rol. "Surgeon, how long could the Interrogator have lasted if the Eldar decided not to aid her?"

"Not long, a day at most," said the Medicae, his thin, reedy voice matching his thin, pale features. Azrael glanced into the man's cold grey eyes, seeing fear. What was the man scared of? Losing a patient or displeasing him? Azrael could not be sure. He made a mental note to check how the doctor was doing later that day.

"And if they had decided to treat her?"

"Then she will undoubtedly still be alive. For all of their snobbery, the damn xenos know how to treat wounds. Though undoubtedly she would be restricted, confined to a simple operating table."

"How barbaric," mused Harriet.

"Certainly, but to the Eldar we are overgrown primates, noisy and dirty."

"How do you know this?" Powyll asked, his hand dropping to his laspistol.

"I spent some time aboard a Rogue Trader vessel. In that time we encountered several Eldar ships. One captain made it abundantly clear that we were some sort of galactic virus to be vaccinated against."

"Indeed," said Azrael, deliberately keeping his voice low. He stretched out his mind, trying to read the man's intent. The man was certainly hiding something, but he seemed most put out that someone would doubt his loyalty to the Imperium. "And does your experience tell us anything about what the Eldar will do to Inquisitor Kurze?"

"Unknown. They could be interrogating him as we speak, or sitting down to afternoon tea with him. With the Eldar you can never tell." Ungith stopped, wiping his nose with a lace-edged kerchief. "But, you can be sure they will try and get something from him. They're good at convincing people to say things."

"So obviously speed is of the essence," said Azrael. A rune on the desk in front of him flashed red, demanding his attention. He tapped the rune once. "Yes captain?"

"My lord," the holo-lith of the Eldar ship vanished, replacing by a floating representation of Captain DeWalde's head, "apologies for disturbing you, but the Eldar ship has vanished."

"What?" Azrael shot upright in his seat. This was not good news at all. "Any ideas where?"

"None my lord." DeWalde's eyes flicked left. By Azrael's reckoning he was listening to the Arrays Operator, Haryn. Azrael watched the man lick his thin lips before turning back to face the holo-recorder. "My lord, according to Lieutenant Haryn the passive auger arrays registered a two millisecond power spike from the Eldar vessel before it vanished."

"Could they have been activating some sort of array-spoofing techno-sorcery?" Azrael asked, deferring to DeWalde's experience.

"If they have, it's something I've never seen before. Wait one." DeWalde leant away from the holo-recorder, the sound of keys being pressed audible over the link. The display changed, shrinking DeWalde until he was rotating around the bottom of the image. The main image showed a cognitor-generated impression of the tunnel with a black block and a yellow block representing the two vessels. A timestamp was visible in the bottom left of the display. "As you can see, the Eldar ship is clearly visible to our passive scanning at this juncture."

The timestamp moved forward ten seconds. The yellow block had gone. "And only a few seconds later it was gone."

"Interesting. Show me the point when the power spike was detected," said Azrael. The view changed again, showing both blocks this time. The rear of the ship emitted a bright flash. Three seconds passed until the ship vanished. Azrael glanced over at Harriet. "Thoughts?"

"Realspace window," said Harriet after several seconds thought. "We have reached the end of this part of the Eldar tunnel. Some theories about this Eldar Webway postulate that it is not continuous, one has to jump from one Webway tunnel to the next via Realspace."

"Like going from one room to the next via a corridor," said Azrael.

"Exactly," nodded Harriet. "If we wish to know which connecting room they have gone into we must hurry to the corridor."

"Captain?"

"My lord?" DeWalde's head dominated the holo-lith again, the graphics discarded.

"When we reach the point the Eldar ship vanished, I want you to follow the procedure we used to enter this place. But, for now, put up our void shields and arm the weapons arrays; I do not wish to be taken by surprise."

"Very well my lord," said the captain with a nod. The holo-lith shut off.

"Might I suggest that we send a probe through first?" Said Harriet.

"Reasons?" Azrael glanced over at her, noting that the plait was becoming undone at the ends. This concerned him; she was stressed.

"I think it's an ambush."

"Well yes, I wouldn't expect anything less from our xenos friends," said Azrael, a cold smile on his face.

"Of course sir, I'm not doubting you," said Harriet, holding up her left hand, her right still toying with the plait. "However, the question becomes, what do the Eldar want with an old man and his young apprentice?"

"Specifically, the artefact we have been sent to obtain. Interrogator Aogustdottir managed to defeat the Ork Warboss and claim our prize before the Eldar struck. In the madness that followed, they spirited her away, with Inquisitor Kurze and the artefact. It seems obvious to me that they want to learn the artefact's secrets for themselves and will stop at nothing to ensure that those who know they have it are destroyed." Azrael tapped a series of runes on the desk top in front of him. DeWalde's head flickered into being above the desk. "Before we exit this hellish place, send a probe through; if we're to be ambushed I want to know about it."

"Yes my lord." DeWalde nodded his head. Azrael nodded once and shut off the display. He glanced up at Harriet again.

"So, what was your idea with this plasma torpedo?"

The alarm in front of him flashed twice. The main electro-strips dimmed, replaced by the dull red alert lux-globes. DeWalde's nervous head appeared in front of him, the face distorted by the harsh shadows thrown up by the lux-globes.

"Report." Azrael wiped a closed hand across his lips. He had a sneaking suspicion that DeWalde's report would tally with his fears.

"Sir, the probe reported nothing so we passed through the exit to the accursed realm. The Eldar vessel appeared above an behind us almost immediately."

"Range?" Azrael's fears were justified. In some perverse way, Azrael felt smugly satisfied.

"They're only six thousand metres away. At that range we'd be dead before we could respond effectively. Wait one." DeWalde paused, his eyes obviously shifting to some sort of display in front of him. He looked back up again, a baffled expression on his face. "Sir, we're getting a communication from the Eldar. Apparently, they want to talk."

The Tears of Khaine, Segmentum Obscurus

Inquisitor Kurze paced the room as best he could with his augmentics limbs, his mind making great leaps of imagination and logic as he considered what Azrael's next move would be. He would accept the Eldar's invitation, that much was obvious, but what would he do next?

The trading outpost several hours away was in the lawless zone of space, where the only rules were the gun and the law of thieves. All races could meet and trade goods, services and form temporary agreements at these outposts, and their distance from Imperial control made them attractive venues for clandestine meetings between the fringe elements of society. Kurze had lost count of the number of heretics and witches he had seen at such places, all revelling in the fact that they could be themselves.

Would he attempt to play the strong man? Probably not, admitted Kurze; Azrael preferred to keep his strength wrapped behind the velvet glove of diplomacy. This ruled out the entirely peaceful option as well, since Azrael had Radical tendencies that espoused a 'strength through conflict' ideology. All nonsense in Kurze's book, but Julius Azrael still had a lot to learn about order and conflict.

So, what would Azrael do? The likely option was also the most depressing one, since it would lead to carnage.

"What will the other Inquisitor do?" Asked a gentle voice off to his left, the Gothic mangled by inflection errors.

"I don't know," sighed Kurze, flicking his eyes over to face the pale features of the Eldar Farseer. The Farseer was standing in the shadows, one exquisitely manicured hand stroking his hairless chin. His almond eyes were staring into the middle distance, not quite focussed on the shimmering golden weave of the fabric on one of the hangings.

"Then we are lost," said Dan'yotal. He turned to face Kurze, his long fingers smoothing out the shimmering silver hair that gathered around his shoulders.

"Will you take the Key to this meeting?" Kurze was uneasy at the prospect of the Key being on display to all and sundry.

"Yes. I need to know whether this Inquisitor Azrael desires the Key for his own means, or because he has been ordered to retrieve it," said Dan'yotal. His tone suggested that this particular point was not open to discussion.

Damn Xenos, thought Kurze. They were always so quick to distrust humans when it came down to the final analysis. But, whispered a small voice at the back of his head, so are we.

"As you wish, but I warn you Lord Farseer, Azrael will not travel lightly," said Kurze.

"I do not expect him to be unarmed. Let him bring whatever toys he wants to, he knows as well as I do that such trinkets will not decide our fate."

"And what of Freya?"

"She will come with us. The sooner I can get you pair off my ship the better." The Eldar stopped, pausing in front of a jet black tapestry, highlighted with gold and green thread. "We will arrive within three standard human hours. I suggest you refresh yourself. I will be making arrangements for our visit to this station."

Without another word Dan'yotal strode from the room, leaving Kurze to ponder over the meaning of the inscrutable Eldar's words.

Once the door shut behind him Dan'yotal sagged slightly, glad to be free of the human's constant psychic noise. Like all human Psykers, the Inquisitor had yet to refine his aura down from a harsh jangle of fluctuating colour and discordant frequencies to the pure notes and shades of an Eldar psyker.

"What news?" Dan'yotal's eyes fixed on his apprentice's Ghosthelm.

"Nothing new my lord," said the Warlock. "The mon-keigh ship holds a steady course parallel to our own. Their weapons are ready, but not aimed. My Lord, a question."

"Speak," said Dan'yotal, allowing himself an indulgent smile. He did not need to be psychic to guess what the Warlock's question would be.

"My lord, why are we even thinking of trading with these mon-keigh?"

"Did you ever play The Void Walker when you were a child? Remember, hiding somewhere and being absolutely silent and still until you could get the drop on the child playing the Void Walker?"

"Yes lord. But I fail to see what a children's game has to do with this."

"It has everything to do with it. Imagine that we, the Ver'gaetans, are that child, and our enemies the Void Walker. The mon-keigh are the annoying child that sometimes used to give your position away to the Void Walker, forcing you to find a new, better position. If we don't meet them now, and negotiate, the mon-keigh will haunt us, attracting unwanted eyes in their wake. We cannot afford that."

"But my lord Farseer, what of the mon-keigh's desire to reclaim the Key and further their own desires?"

"They will be denied. This Inquisitor Azrael is a hard man, but I believe he holds life as a sacred thing, unlike some of his kind. If we are careful we should be able to convince him to leave the Key with us in exchange for his companions' lives."

"It is a risky game to play my Lord."

"Any game has risk, but this game could either unite us behind a common goal, or tear us asunder. You still have a lot to learn young one, and in time you will realise that whilst we Eldar must consider the distant times, the mon-keighs' eyes are firmly set on the close times. Such is their lifespan and ours. So, we must adapt the long plan to overcome these short term problems."

"Yes my Lord."

Dan'yotal glanced over at the Warlock, noting the trepidation in the young one's voice. He smiled widely, placing a hand on the warlock's shoulder.

"Fear not, we will persevere, as we have done for millennia. Now come, it is time for us to make preparations to meet these mon-keigh."

The Last Pitstop, Former Imperial Mining transit outpost, Segmentum Obscurus

Inquisitor Azrael stood impatiently in front of the rust-caked airlock door, his eyes never leaving the narrow view port in front of him. Gone were his official robes and trappings of the Inquisition. Instead, he wore a simple suit of dark blue, with short buckle-back boots and a knee-length jacket of black suede. His hair had been pulled back into a tight pony tail and lacquered to the side of his head, and he sported a deep scar across one side of his face. Everything, from the faux-diamond studded shirt to the brass-plated autopistol holstered on his right hip, was designed to give the appearance of a well-to-do Rogue Trader.

The airlock door rolled back on its tracks with a dull groan, making one of his retinue standing behind him hiss with annoyance. It could only be Keller, the trainee tech-adept. Azrael turned and quietened him with a look. Keller, his thin, pale features drawn into a grimace, dropped his eyes to stare at the mesh floor panel.

"Reason for visit?"

Azrael looked back to see a fat man wedged into a scarlet uniform in front of him, a data slate in his podgy hands. The man, whose ostentatious epaulette braid marked him out as a lieutenant, spoke again.

"You reason for visiting?"

"I'm here to speak to some Eldar pirates," said Azrael, lacing his voice with a hint of suggestion. He could have easily forced the man to accept his reasoning, but he did not wish to draw more attention than he had to.

"Ah yes, the pointy-ears that recently docked on the opposite side," said the man. Azrael stared into the man's watery brown eyes and saw nothing but disgust. Inwardly he smiled, there was no need for him to give any suggestion, the man believed him. "They have requested that you meet them in Hall B, Tier Two."

"Many thanks," said Azrael, nodding his head. He slipped his hand in his pocket and handed over a rare Equilasian ruby the size of an Ork's tooth. "I take it this will cover berthing costs and refuelling?"

"Certainly," smiled the man, his eyes alight with greed. He quickly pocketed the jewel, stepping to one side. "Welcome to the Last Pitstop Mr Scalani."

Azrael nodded his thanks again and snapped his fingers. He walked forward, his loyal retinue following him, their weapons concealed beneath suit jackets and in grox-hide attaché cases.

The interior of the station was certainly impressive. All of the corridors seemed to be painted the same lurid purple, though Azrael's sharp eyes could spot patches of the original red-orange colouring. Originally a mining outpost, the company had abandoned it nearly 200 years ago for reasons unknown, and it had been taken over by an enterprising group of rogue traders who had turned it into a station where people could meet and conduct business without the overbearing Imperial control and Imperial tithes.

Azrael knew his badge of office carried no weight here, he would have to rely on other means to make his way around. He turned left, as the station schematic that was stored on a data slate indicated, out of the low-ceilinged access corridor into the main area.

The smell hit him first, making his nose wrinkle in disgust. The combined odour of hundreds of people, not all of them human, cooking spices and sacred unguents used to maintain the station provided a heady cocktail. Breathing deeply, Azrael picked out the bitter tang of Obscura and other, more potent, barbiturates emanating from several stalls and closed booths around them.

The main area had once been the mining storage bay, a cavernous hold that could easily fit a pair of upright Warlord Titans. The traders had sectioned it off with plasteel bulkheads and built wide walkways and booths on six levels, stretching up to the roof. The light level was kept necessarily low, with electrolumen candles recessed neatly into walls or hanging from ornate iron chandeliers. The walls were coloured that same purple, but here and there Azrael could see friezes where wandering artisans had applied their skill in exchange for goods and services. The room was awash with noise, from merchants hawking their wares at temporary stalls set up on the main concourse to the overenthusiastic chatter of people who had obviously been drinking too much at one of the many low-lit bars that seemed to be everywhere.

Still walking forward, Azrael was swamped by the buzz of background psychic noise, noting the main pulse seemed to be coming from a female mutant gyrating on a wide raised platform in the centre of the bay, the brass-meshed speakers surrounding the lower edge of the platform pumping out the latest Pound music.

Was she a psyker? He thought, his lips pursed. It seemed likely. No doubt using the music to concentrate her mind and broadcast a cloud of interference to upset any low-level psykers trying to eavesdrop on their neighbours or business rivals. She saw him and frowned, the four eyes across her forehead narrowing. Azrael ignored the glare, focussing on the various traders and ruffians that flowed past each other in a steady stream.

"Where to sir?" Asked Powyll, his voice low. Like Azrael he was dressed in a similar dark blue suit, though his was cut in a military-style, with a cross-belt holding a sheathed rapier blade.

"We go up," said Azrael, indicating the converted personnel elevators on the far side of the floor.

He started to walk, his eyes flicking around for signs of potential trouble. He saw nothing, but it always helped to stay prepared. He saw a tall Kroot warrior sitting in one such booth with a couple of humans, his curious language of whistles and clicks being translated by a servitor into Gothic for them to understand. Further on he saw several Janhei sitting in a booth, babbling to each other in their harsh, guttural language, with a couple pounding the table with their fists, sending foaming liquid slopping out of rough earthen steins.

All in all, it seemed to be business as usual. Azrael could not help wondering that something was amiss. There was a terrible wrongness to this place that he could not quite put his finger on.

Muttering a quick prayer to the Emperor to guide him in his journey, Azrael stepped into a waiting elevator, confident that he could persuade the Eldar to hand over the Key and his companions.

Farseer Dan'yotal was already waiting for the mon-keigh at the specified location, a small squad of his Spectre Banes bodyguard with him. They surrounded the immediate area, their snub-nosed shuriken catapults held in an easy grip. Dan'yotal, his official robes of office replaced by a simple set of multicoloured clothes and a mesh armour vest, sat at the stained round table, the Inquisitor and his apprentice next to him. The female mon-keigh had been given a mild sedative before accompanying them, the better to ensure that her powers did not rise up and to dull the pain of the newly-stitched wounds.

Dan'yotal's eyes were closed, his mind focussing on blocking out the harsh jangle of psychic noise that seemed to dominate this place. The mutant creature at the centre of the auditorium seemed to be the cause of the noise, her psychic keening pulsing in time with the strange beat that Dan'yotal would never describe as music, despite the mon-keighs' protestations to the contrary.

"My Lord Farseer, they are here," said one of his bodyguard.

Dan'yotal's eyes snapped open, turning to face the beacon of psychic power that strode towards him. The mon-keigh Azrael had altered his appearance since their meeting a couple of days ago, but the multi-spectral aura surrounding his form was still the same. Accompanying him were half a dozen dull-aura people, no doubt bodyguards, their weapons holstered.

"We meet again Inquisitor," said Dan'yotal, raising himself up to properly greet the man.

"Indeed Farseer," said Azrael. "Though I would ask you not to use my title, it could upset some of the people on this station."

"Indeed," said Dan'yotal. He turned his Ghosthelm to face the mutant and nodded his head. "Your doing?"

"Not mine. I think possibly the station's current landlords put her here to prevent lesser psykers from exploiting their powers." Azrael suddenly smiled grimly. "In the same way that we seem to have agreed not to use such parlour tricks in our discussion."

"As you say," said Dan'yotal, glad that the mon-keigh seemed to have been unaware of his psychic probing. "But, to business. Why do you follow me?"

"We wish the return of that which was taken from us several days past." Azrael couched his reply in terms that were vague.

"Namely?"

"Namely our pair of companions and the item one of them took from the fallen Ork."

"Ah, the Key. We can return your comrades to you," said Dan'yotal, gesturing an exquisite finger towards the pair sitting next to him, "I have them with me. Alas, the Key is another matter."

"How so?"

"We cannot return it. Though your masters would like the Key for their own ends, I'm afraid we cannot allow you to have it."

"Our primitive minds would not understand it?"

"No," said Dan'yotal, ignoring the sneer on Azrael's face. He sensed that things would come to a head, and soon. He paused, noting another presence. Somehow it was conditioned to be transparent, yet some base emotion kept it moving and thinking. It was very perplexing, but as yet posed no threat to them. "I think you understand perfectly what the Key is capable of. As do your masters. Why else would they send someone as potent as you to claim it?"

"Your words warrant thought Eldar," said Azrael at great length. Dan'yotal sensed a tinge of uncertainty about the man. Were his words striking home? He hoped so; the Inquisitor had failed to see how he was being played by those around him. He felt the injured woman stir, her senses clearing. He inwardly held his breath, hoping she would not snap. "But, what of your intentions?"

"My intentions?" Dan'yotal was shocked. The ignorant mon-keigh was suggesting that he had designs on the cursed power of Bar'daruer. Such arrogance to project their own petty emotions onto others. No, this would not do. "I intend to fire the key into the nearest star, where even sorcerous magicks cannot bind it. It will be beyond our reach for an eternity then."

"And if I said I didn't believe you?"

Dan'yotal looked up at the human, whose dark eyes stared at him, hard as adamantium. Dan'yotal's mouth began to form a reply when he felt a sudden psychic pressure at the edges of his mind, contracting his psychic abilities like a vice. Judging by the grimace, Azrael was feeling it too. He looked to his left to see a group of ten figures running towards them, all augmented humans clutching a myriad of weapons.

"Warriors, to me," he called, rising from his seat with a great effort. Within a heartbeat his Spectre Banes surrounded him, their shuriken catapults ready. He looked over at Azrael, how had also risen, his hand sliding inexorably towards his holstered weapon. "What trickery is this mon-keigh?"

"I'm not sure," said Azrael. Dan'yotal felt a quaver in the man's voice. Concentrating his will, Dan'yotal tried to take in the whole station. He turned, though it seemed to him to take forever, to see the mutant woman lying on her platform, blood streaming from nose, mouth and eyes.

"We go," said Dan'yotal. He turned again, staggering. Whatever was causing this was powerful indeed. He looked up to see the ten men crouching in a doorway, their shotguns raised, features obscured by crude mechanics that had been sutured to their skin. He reached out with a shaking finger. "Kill them."

The world exploded into white.

Azrael watched the Eldar stagger, though he saw two Eldar. He snapped his eyes shut, willing them to focus. In front of him Kurze was still sitting at the table, his jaw clenched and his lined face wrinkled into a tight-lipped grimace. Freya just sat there, her eyes as glazed as marbles. Azrael smiled inwardly; her psychic power was still being suppressed by whatever drugs the Eldar had given her.

His head snapped up, too quickly for his liking, when he heard the deep 'whine-click' of shuriken catapults firing. The pressure suddenly eased. His senses rushing back to him, Azrael stood, keeping his pistol holstered. He whirled, feeling the presence of augmented humans behind him. A team of ten men, their faces masked by sutured anti-psyker wards, were advancing along the wide balcony, shotguns raised.

Azrael smiled. The first spasmed suddenly, clutching at his chest. Behind him, his comrades faltered, obviously unsure of how to proceed.

"Come, let's fight," said Azrael, gesturing to his companions. He heard the whisper of metal on grox-hide and knew that his retinue were ready. He pulled his own autopistol from its holster. The nine remaining men seemed to have taken cover behind thick balustrades and bulkhead frames. The death of their comrade was certainly something they had not been counting on. He heard an alien scream of anger behind him and knew that the Eldar had fully recovered. The fight would be over soon enough.

Striding forward, he stretched out his free hand and flicked his wrist. The closest attacker lurched sideways with a sickening crack, his neck broken.

He turned to see Kurze striding towards him, his cane gripped in two hands, muttering a quiet prayer.

"Everyone down," called Azrael. He dropped flat onto the muck-stained regal blue carpet, instantly regretting taking a breath.

A bolt of pure psychic energy shot overhead, engulfing one of the assailants in white psyk-fire. The human candle, screaming wretchedly, plunged over the rail, falling the fifty feet or so to the ground. The crowds below were screaming and running in all directions, trying to escape the station. They were used to bar fights and such, not psykers trying to kill each other. The public vox system calmly announced that there was an emergency and all personnel were to evacuate immediately.

None of that mattered to Azrael. He stretched out with his mind, trying to see who their assailants were. The anti-psyker wards kept his mind-probes at bay, but not his telekinesis. He choked the next man, taking pleasure in watching the man gurgle away his life. How dare these fools think they could attack an Inquisitor and get away with it? He stood, his autopistol hanging from his hand, and began to mutter sacred words, invoking the Rite of Ash'khenht, one of the first he had learned.

The man at the back of the group pulled some sort of grenade from a pouch, twisting the top to activate the fuse. Fireworks seemed to explode behind his eyes. He screamed, dropping to his knees, autopistol tumbling from his grasp. A psyk-out grenade.

He shook his head, struggling to clear his ears. His vision blurred, everything seemed to moving in slow motion. The grenade was not explosive, unless you were a psyker, then it felt like a frag grenade next top the head.

A booted foot slammed down next to his head. Straining, he looked up to see Castius standing over him, compact autogun pumping subsonic rounds towards the foe. Azrael smiled at the look of anger on the man's face. To all and sundry Castius seemed like another slaw-jawed, knuckle-dragging bodyguard. Azrael knew different. He knew what Castius had been before he had been coerced into Azrael's employ.

"Wake up My Lord," said Castius, though Azrael had to concentrate to hear the words. His eyelids seemed very heavy. A short nap, that would do him well. He relaxed backwards, his mind fuzzy and flitting from memory to memory. Then blackness engulfed him.

Freya felt a pressure at the nape of her neck, felt a taste of peppermint and copper in her mouth. In front of her Azrael collapsed to his knees, screaming. She looked round, her eyes rapidly focussing and defocusing, her peripheral vision greyed out. The Eldar Farseer seemed to be asleep, his prone form a crumpled heap on the floor. His bodyguard seemed to be drunk, shaking their heads and struggling to aim true.

Turning back to Azrael, she gasped. Mykos was on the floor, blood streaming from his nose and mouth. A single tear rolled down her cheek. What had happened to him? She tried to reach out with her senses, but could not feel anything. Was he dead? She saw his chest rise and fall in brief gasps and smiled; he was alive.

She stood, clutching onto the table for support. Her vision blurred and she spat blood onto the floor. Stumbling forward, she picked up a shuriken catapult from the body of a fallen bodyguard, her mind struggling to understand the weapon. She pointed it at one of the nearest attackers and squeezed the trigger. The muffled hiss of it firing reached her ears. She looked up to see the attacker on the floor, blood pumping from several neck wounds. A buzzing hornet whipped past her ear. She tracked the catapult left, squeezing the trigger again. Another attacker fell, his autogun tumbling from his hands.

"Human, you must get clear," shouted one of the Eldar bodyguard, his green helm exploding a second later.

Freya saw the Farseer stir, hand clutching for an ornate laspistol that had fallen from his grasp. She ducked down, resting a hand on his shoulder. The Farseer's head snapped round, his left hand racing towards her throat.

The fingertips stopped, millimetres from her throat. She breathed out. Another solid round slammed into the edge of the table near her head, showering her with splinters. She raised the catapult and fired, the quiet sound of the mono-molecular edged shuriken spinning through the air music to her ears.

Another attacker fell, trepanned by the rapid-firing weapon. Freya grinned. The catapult was fun to use, and very deadly.

The last two attackers seemed to hesitate, then turn and run, abandoning the bodies of their comrades. The crowd around them parted like a sea, their appearance obviously terrifying, closing around them just as quickly.

With a brief growl Freya sprinted after them, eyes narrowed and ready to spill the blood of those that would defy His servants. Her mind turned to the fallen, bleeding body of Mykos and she growled again, willing her legs to go faster. People were in the way, their dumbstruck expressions replaced with grimaces of pain as Freya pushed through them. A slack-jawed man in a bright scarlet uniform stood before her, his hand reaching for a holstered pistol of some kind. She increased her pace, the heel of her left hand slamming into the man's face. His nose exploded against his face with a wet snap, and he tumbled backwards. Freya felt the shock of the impact jar her arm and she hissed in pain. She had lost the attackers. She paused, looking around, the catapult held tightly in her hands. Wherever she looked, people shrank away, refusing to meet her gaze. She tried to reach out with her mind. She could not hear anyone. What had been done to make her lose her abilities? She did not know, but she was sure the attackers would have the answer.

A commotion up ahead made her start forward again. She saw the sutured faces, their bionics and wards streaked with grime and sweat and knew that they would talk. Bionic eyes regarded her with casual intensity from across the throng of people. Then the pair ran.

Freya followed them around a corner, towards the docking ring. They were seemingly heading for an escape craft. Both were waiting, their autoguns raising to track her. Freya skidded to a halt, looking around wildly for cover.

The shot came out of nowhere, hitting the first gunman in the throat. He collapsed, clutching at his neck. Pink foam dribbled from the sides of the appliance sutured across his mouth.

Freya whirled to see four figures in purple and black, their shapes familiar, yet somehow distorted. A sudden realisation clutched at the pit of her stomach: Dark Eldar.

The surviving gunman tried to react, but one of the cursed Eldar was on him, a wicked-looking serrated blade slashing downwards. Blood sprayed from the cut across the man's chest. Choking out a last snarl, the man slumped forward, almost in a position of prayer.

Freya looked round at the other Dark Eldar to see a yawning pit of darkness; the muzzle of a splinter pistol held unwaveringly at her head.

"You belong to us," the Eldar mewed in garbled Gothic.

Freya felt a sudden pain at the base of her skull and her world faded into black.

Rumer's World – 17 Weeks After Allesthem VII

Inquisitor Hans Engel had always been a patient man. His time amongst the Eldar race had shown him that haste led to mistakes, which could lead to failure. He was not about to fail in his task. Still, the waiting chafed against his soul. He had taken a great risk contacting the young Urqhart, and hoped his suspicions about the man were unfounded.

"A human aircraft approaches," said the tall Eldar next to him, her hushed sing-song lilt carrying like music on the wind.

Engel glanced at the ranger from the corner of his eye. The female had chosen to remain standing next to him, out in the open, instead of hiding. Engel smiled inwardly; trust Ali'cyae to do the unexpected thing. The Path of the Wanderer was a path of independence, seldom taken by those with the closed mind, as she had once told him. She had chosen to wear her green and brown striped helmet this day, weary of the arriving psykers. Engel could not blame her; this Urqhart seemed to be very powerful, and Decorne was no slouch, especially if pushed.

His eyes caught the dull glimmer of sunlight reflecting off transparesteel, and he saw the shuttle clearly. It reminded him of a brick with stubby wings, and was the same rust-red colour. He cocked an eyebrow at that; Inquisitors in an Adeptus Mechanicus shuttlecraft? He stretched out with his mind, seeing the powerful energies that were bottled within the craft. The minds inside were disciplined, though the most powerful one, which Engel believed to be Urqhart, showed signs of internal struggle, as if coming to terms with himself.

Engel shook his head, drawing his psyk-sight back down to the ground. Whatever internal conflict possessed the young man, he would have to put it aside for the plan to succeed. The craft slowed, noisy turbines changing from a deep-throated roar to high-pitched scream, and dipped earthwards.

For a moment Engel thought the pilot had lost control, but the mass of positive emotion pumping from the pilot's station was difficult to conceal. As was the abject terror from the person in the passenger seat. Engel smiled thinly, glad the bottom of his face was concealed behind a traditional Tallarn Shemagh.

"What humours you?" Came a curious voice. Engel rolled his eyes. He had never been able to hide things from Ali'cyae.

"Nothing," said Engel, dismissing her question with a wave of his hand. He spoke into a vox pick-up on his lapel. "Stand ready to receive the visitors. Do not attempt to conceal yourselves; they have powerful psykers amongst their number."

Silently his small retinue stood ready, weapons held downwards as a sign of respect. Engel smoothed out his dark green robes and muttered a few choice prayers, including the Catechism of Enlightenment, a prayer that had guided him throughout his time amongst the Eldar.

The shuttle touched down, landing skids kissing the soft green grass and crushing it beneath iron pads. The rear ramp dropped down to disgorge several figures, including a pair of females. The pilot remained aboard, his mood shifting from exhilaration to weariness.

Engel took in the newcomers, his mind unconcerned with their appearance, but with their intent. The older man, Decorne, seemed to be weary, his caution tinged with regret. No doubt afraid that I have gone over and become a heretic, thought Engel. To his side was a woman clad in a tight-fitting black body glove, a harness strapped over the top that seemed weighed down with blades of all descriptions. A death-cult assassin. Engel pursed his lips. He regarded such creatures as animals, their minds forever locked in a cycle of violence, and was surprised to see a respected and learned man as Decorne consorting with one.

On Decorne's other side strode a man in dark clothing, his own aura a constant fluctuation of fear and hope. This was Urqhart, the eager young Inquisitor keen to prove himself amongst the ranks of his fellows in the Malleus. His psychic presence seemed like a sun next to Decorne's own bluntness, which made Engel especially weary. How much would this young man be willing to trade for his chance at glory? How much did he value such transient sensations as friendship and love? Engel had forgotten such things existed, his life a mere collection of experiences and acquaintances, many of which he had no desire to lay eyes on again.

To Urqhart's right Engel saw a pair of dark blue trousers complemented by a loose-cut tunic. Ginger hair was pulled back into a tight bun, and piercing green eyes regarded the surroundings, not focussing on him, but not ignoring him. The battle-sister. Supposedly Urqhart's touchstone of faith, but Engel had his own theory; the Hereticus' failsafe against the powerful psyker.

"Welcome all," said Engel, when everyone was within earshot. His eyes bored into Decorne's own as they shook hands. "How goes the hunt?"

"The hunt?" Decorne smiled, affecting a stupefied expression.

"We have no time for games Decorne," sighed Engel. "I know you search for the Key to Bar'daruer, I put you on the task in the first place for Throne's sake."

"Incorrect. We do not search for the key." Decorne smiled, though Engel could see no warmth in it. "We're hunting for the planet itself."

"For what reason?" Engel's heart turned to ice in his chest. The planet was madness, he had seen it, with the aid of Eldar psyk-devices. Dead and gone, the atmosphere a swirling mass of blood red acidic clouds and chained purple lightning, the surface a dried husk of dark stone, the oceans long since boiled away in the seething energies of the warp.

"To destroy it."

Both Engel and Decorne turned towards Urqhart, for it was he that had spoken. Engel saw a flush of anger cross Decorne's carefully crafted calm, though it vanished just as quickly. What did this signify? Was Urqhart Decorne's understudy in this task? Engel focussed on the younger man, his brown eyes staring into Urqhart's own cold grey-blue eyes.

"How would you even hope to destroy such a place?" Engel made sure his voice was calm, employing all manner of techniques to crack the youngster's formidable psychic defences.

"With fire and steel," said Urqhart. Engel caught the underlying tone in the otherwise bored voice. The meaning was clear; we will try, with or without your help.

"Madness Inquisitor," sighed Engel. He glanced over at Decorne, looking for support, but seeing the same steely determination. He closed his eyes, trying to force down his mounting rage. The psyk-image of the warp-scarred, barren surface of Bar'daruer flashed in front of his closed eyes. "You cannot destroy a world such as Bar'daruer. It will destroy your mind before it allows you to crack it's surface."

"You talk as if the planet was alive Inquisitor," said Urqhart, stressing the last word with a sneer.

"I know it is alive." Engel's voice was as cold as the void. How dare this youngster challenge him! He had broken more heretics and put down more Xenos infestations than Urqhart had eaten hot meals. He glanced back at Decorne, who was pinching the bridge of his nose. "I have seen it through the gift of warp sight. It calls, even in though it is trapped in the cursed Immaterium."

"What does it say to you Engel?"

Engel paused, noting that Urqhart's hand had unconsciously dropped to his holstered pistol.

"Stay your hand Inquisitor, I have no wish to see such a place come back. I would see it destroyed as much as you would, but for the impossibility of it."

"Nothing is impossible Engel. The Emperor teaches us as such."

"I doubt that even He-On-Earth has ever dealt with a cursed world."

"That may be true, but His life before the Heresy is shrouded in mystery. He could well have done."

"True," conceded Engel. He was growing bored of the self-righteous man, and just wanted the meeting over with, before he grew angry. "But I ask you again: how do you conceive of destroying this world?"

"We don't know," sighed Decorne. Engel's heart skipped a beat. He almost smiled. Almost. How unlike the mighty Decorne to admit defeat. "But a physical world can be destroyed by bombardment, so the same must apply to this cursed place."

"I hope you are right Decorne, I really do." Engel sighed, throwing a quick glance at Ali'cyae, whose entire body had been motionless throughout the exchange. Her head had inclined just so, with the bottom edge of her helmet nearly touching her cuisse. Engel shifted his hands nervously; she was angry. Engel could understand; he thought the crass response of the young Urqhart indicative of the state of the Imperium at the moment – arrogant and blind to the realities of the universe.

"As do I Engel." Decorne's face was impassive, though Engel could see the worry lines at the corners of his eyes and hear the hope in his voice.

"Aircraft approach," whispered Ali'cyae, her quiet sing-song voice carrying over the breeze. Engel's head snapped around, staring at the blank mask of her helmet.

"From where?" He glared over at Decorne, who looked as shocked as Engel.

"From the south west." She extended her thin arm, a delicate finger pointing towards the swirling mass of cloud in the distance.

"Your doing?" Engel spat, turning back to face Decorne, his eyes narrowed. It took an effort of will not to pull his pistol from its holster and fire at the man.

"God-Emperor no!" Decorne's eyes flashed, the anger clear. His own hand was hovering near the flap covering some weapon. "I respect the rules of our sect Engel, as you told me those years ago."

"Then who summoned them?"

"None of us did," said Urqhart, his arms held out in a placating stance. "But suffice to say they are coming. Why does this trouble you?"

"Fool, have you not seen it?" Engel was almost apoplectic with rage.

"Seen what?"

"The mark of the Infernal Powers. They have had their claws in this place for nearly two generations, subtly misguiding the population away from the Emperor's holy teachings."

"Rubbish."

"I speak no lies. Flee Inquisitors, before they have a chance to cut short your mission." Engel turned, nodding at his retinue, who swiftly ran towards the charcoal-coloured shuttle.

"Engel, we haven't finished." Urqhart's shout made him turn back. He could see the rapid pulsing of psychic power behind the man's eyes, their colour darkening, their lustre making them gleam.

"Indeed Inquisitor, indeed. Sadly time is against us. I will contact you soon to arrange for another meeting."

Engel glanced over Urqhart's shoulder, seeing the dark shapes of Lightning fighters in the distance. Something must have shown in his eyes because the young Inquisitor turned, following Engel's line of sight.

"Dar, we need you," said Urqhart, tapping his ear. Engel smiled, glad that they were at last taking him seriously. Whoever he had spoken to seemed to give a good answer, as Urqhart smiled thinly. "Roger that, see you in three."

"Until we meet again," said Engel, giving Urqhart a respectful nod. He sprinted towards the shuttle, and safety.

"A strange man," said Urqhart, watching the Inquisitor disappear into the dark-hulled Eldar vessel.

"Indeed Jan," said Decorne. Jan's eyes flickered over to meet Decorne's, seeing the weariness behind them. "His arguments are radical, but he has valid points. We have no idea how to destroy this accursed planet when we find it."

"We must trust in Him-on-Earth to show us the way." Jan rubbed his rosette, taking a small solace in the feel of the metal.

"And if that doesn't work?"

"Then we make our own fortune Decorne," said Jan, his eyes never leaving the older man.

"Here they come," said Kara, her voice barely more than a whisper. Jan could sense a whirling torrent of emotions coming from the woman, most of them hidden beneath an iron hard layer of calm.

He turned, his eyes catching the glint of sunlight reflecting off metal and transparesteel. They seemed to be pouring on the speed. Probably eager to try and catch Engel, mused Urqhart. The pair of Lightnings swept over them, the roar of ramjets making his ears ring. The shockwave blew the loose wheat and dust into the air, which slapped across his body.

"Damn flyboys," he muttered, tracking the craft through his psyk-vision alone, his real eyes screwed up tight.

He wrenched them open as the lead Lightning opened fire, the fuselage-mounted autocannon spitting hot rounds towards the Eldar shuttle. The shuttle dropped, smoke pouring from an exhaust nozzle. Urqhart frowned; he could sense nothing but calm coming from the occupants. The craft span towards the ground, the smoke trail making it easy to follow. Finally it vanished behind the golden crest of wheat-covered hill. Jan braced himself. A fireball rose on the horizon, quickly followed by the severing of all psychic presence of Engel and his retinue.

"Damnit," cursed a voice in his ear. Jan's mouth went dry; if Dar was cursing then something was definitely wrong.

"What?" Jan's voice sounded hollow, even to him. He could not believe that loyal Imperial citizens had just been killed by those that had sworn to help them preserve the Imperium at all costs. Was their some truth to Engel's rant against the planet's government? He swore to find out.

"Another pair of Lightnings are hard on my tail. This is going to be a hot pick up," said Dar, his voice strained.

Jan's head snapped round to see the boxy shuttle jinking from side to side, tracer rounds zipping past the fuselage.

"Stand by for fast pick up," said Jan. He concentrated his mind, closing his eyes to draw upon his reserves of power. Mykos had once told him that a powerful psyker had the ability to see past the broad strokes and get to the very heart of a problem. Jan took it literally. He found the main fuel line for the turbojet engines of the left Lightning and mentally ripped it in half. Jan was rewarded with a brief flush of panic from the pilot's mind, followed by a grim determination. Jan knew what he intended to do. He focussed again.

The Lightning exploded in mid-air. Jan smiled grimly. His mind shifted to focus on the remaining Lightning. Another psychic caress, another explosion.

"What in Terra's name did you just do?" Kara sounded scared. Jan's eyes fluttered open, psyk-frost sloughing off his eyelashes.

"Detonated one of the autocannon shells in the magazine," said Jan. He turned to face Kara, who was standing only a couple of metres away, her own clothes dusted with the frost.

"Throne," she whispered. Jan caught the fear in her eyes, her right hand dropping to her holstered pistol.

"Don't worry Kara, if I was going to cause you harm I would have done so by now." He squinted against the sudden downdraft of the arriving shuttle.

Dar span the clumsy vehicle in mid-air, the rear ramp already dropping down to expose the dim interior. Jan's eyes turned back to focus on the dissipating cloud of smoke that marked Engel's futile escape attempt. The pair of Lightnings that had downed his shuttle were returning, flying low and fast over the ground.

"Come Inquisitor, let us root out the corruption on this world," said Jan, his eyes meeting Decorne's.

"Very well Inquisitor, let us cleanse this place," smiled Decorne, wolfishly.

The group sprinted aboard the shuttle. Seconds after Jan boarded, the shuttle lurched skywards, ramp hanging like some sort of flaccid metal tongue. Jan gripped onto the sides, fighting his way forward to the co-pilot's seat.

"A bit close there boss," said Dar, his face set in a grin, though it did not reach his eyes.

"Indeed Dar," said Jan, unceremoniously dropping into the seat and pulling across the crash-webbing straps. "Where are our two friends?"

"About a klick back and closing fast," said Dar, nodding at the holo-display mounted between them. Jan saw a pair of green triangles on the underside of the floating green globe that represented the sensor radius of the shuttle, a number floating next to each. Jan swallowed; the number was going down incredibly fast.

"Punch it Dar," said Jan. He turned his head, increasing his volume. "Strap in back there, this is going to be a rough ride."

He pulled his head back, and Jan kicked in the reheat, taking them from hover to fully supersonic in a second. Jan was forced back into the seat, grunting in pain as his body sought to alleviate the pain. With a great effort he flicked his eyes down to glance at the holo-display: they were not going to make it.

The Lightnings swept by underneath them, the shock of their passing buffeting the shuttle.

"Inquisitor Urqhart," called the vox-system. Jan recognised the deep baritone of Magos Brundt.

"Yes Magos?" Called Jan, barely suppressing the grunt of expelled air.

"The planet's defensive platforms are firing at the ship, I am being forced to retreat." In the background Jan could pick out the blare of alarms and the dull boom of explosions striking the void screens.

"Very well Magos, we will signal when it is safe to return," said Jan.

"Omnissiah watch over you Inquisitor." The link was cut before Jan could force a reply.

"What does this mean?" Said Dar, his implants making his voice sound normal next to Jan's frantic gasps.

"We're on our own," said Jan. "Head for the city, we should be able to hide amongst the population."

"Yes boss," said Dar. He brought the shuttle arcing round, spoiling the aim of the Lightning pilots. Jan saw the brief flicker of blue las-bolts zipping past the front window. Dar shook his head, side-slipping the craft earthwards. "Too close."

Jan said nothing, his eyes concentrating on the blurry image of the smog-covered city ahead of them.

"Three klicks," said Dar, his mind linked to the navi-cognitor via his implants. He jinked again, making Jan's stomach lurch horrifically. Another set of las-bolts sizzled past the window. "They're persistent little feckers aren't they?"

"Yeah," gasped Jan, aware that his vision was starting to tunnel. He was feeling light-headed.

The shuttle bucked again, prompting a stream of oaths and curses from Dar, who held the control column in a vice-like grip. The shuttle started to shudder, smoke filling the cabin.

"We've been hit." Dar was stating the obvious, but Jan did not care, as long as they got down in one piece. "I can't keep her up for much longer."

"Find somewhere to set down and we'll have to abandon her," grunted Jan.

"May not have that long," said Dar. Jan could see the muscles in Dar's flight suit bulge as he fought to keep control of the shuttle. An alarm started to blare, a lux-rotator filling the cabin with a strobing red light. Jan saw the graffiti-covered yellow walls of the hab-block rushing towards them, saw the few denizens sprinting out of the path of the crashing shuttle.

"Dar," grunted Jan, gripping both armrests in a vice-like grip.

"I see it," said Dar, seconds before the nose flipped upwards, making Jan's stomach lurch again. The view changed to sky, with unnatural clouds forming overhead. He could feel the tang of warp energy; this was a psyk-storm. Engel had been right, he realised with bitterness.

Then the shuttle slammed into the hab-block, throwing Jan hard against his restraints. Exhausted, he slumped to one side, his body shutting down. From the depths he heard Kara say something, but could not make out any more as he was swallowed by the blackness.

Chapter 8

The Laughter of Commorragh, Segmentum Obscurus – 18 Weeks After Allesthem VII

How long had she been here? Freya asked herself. She did not know. Days and weeks had no meaning any more, only the time between pain.

A dull moan to her left made her open her dried, gummy eyes. Through blurred vision she could make out the shape of a large man squirming in his restraints, the shreds of cloth that were draped over his body like an ill-fitting funeral shroud indicating that he had once been a man of some importance. She caught the flash of gold braid on what remained of his scarlet epaulettes, torn as they were with the force of the cursed Eldar's blows.

"Awake so soon?" Purred a voice from below her. She dropped her eyes down as far as they would go to see the speaker. A Dark Eldar Haemonculus, his blood-stained black apron blending in almost perfectly with the dark purple robes. He pushed a lock of black hair over his white, almost translucent, ear and smiled, revealing golden teeth filed to points. Freya Aogustdottir braced herself, waiting for the clanking of chains and the lurch that would herald her descent to hell.

The Dark Eldar moved beneath her, his bobbing black hair lost from view. Freya would have spat, but for the reprimand she knew it would draw, and her throat was dry. She tried to lick her cracked lips, but her swollen tongue refused to cooperate.

Below her she heard a lever being thrown and closed her eyes again. Dear God-Emperor, in whose eternal light we are forever bathed, in whose name we smite thy foes and guide the forgotten back to the light, protect those in their hour of need, she prayed, hoping that He would hear her words and grant the blessed relief of salvation.

Chains clanked, but she did not descend. Instead, the moaning man began to fall, his torture rack sliding past her own. Freya tried to adjust her position, but her wrists and ankles were held fast by iron restraints, their inlaid miniature needles sending ice-fire into her muscles every time she wriggled, the angled steel pushing further into the bare skin of her groin. She stopped moving, trying to abate the pain that shrieked from every muscle and joint.

She tilted her head again, forcing her eyes open. The Haemonculus had stopped the man's rack above the ground and seemed to be studying the poor wretch.

"An interesting specimen, I think you could produce some good fluids for me," smiled the Haemonculus. He snapped his fingers and a pair of Dark Eldar joined him from the dim shadows of the chamber, their own black aprons glistening with fresh fluid and clanking with steel instruments of pain. Their features were hidden behind black masks, each stitched into the crude approximation of a human face. "Place him on the post."

"No!" Shrieked the man, his voice echoing around the cavernous chamber. Freya could smell the man's fear from here, even before his body evacuated itself of what little it had left. The pair of masked Haemonculi stopped, allowing the man to finish his moment of indecency. They were obviously apprentices to this creature, thought Freya. Their barbed shoulder guards were not decorated with chains of teeth that clanked and clicked with every step, unlike their master.

"Place him on the post," said the Haemonculus, his voice seemingly alive with a mixture of rage and glee. "We will make him pay for slopping on this hallowed laboratory."

Freya watched the pair unlock the man from his rack, the miniature needles on the inside of each restraint stained with fresh blood that glistened under the dull glow of the thousand lux-candles mounted along the wall. Light, almost painfully bright, illuminated the post, a dark steel pillar that rose the full height of the room.

The weeping man was jostled towards it, bare feet slipping on a patch of fresh blood. Freya could make out the recently deceased form of a Tau, it's long-limbed body a tattered collection of muscle and bone, the blue skin expertly peeled away, where it lay over a table, like a carelessly discarded coat.

His hands were locked in manacles, as were his ankles. One of the masked pair pressed a small control on a wrist-mounted unit and the hand restraints began to ascend, stretching the man's body hard against the post. Freya could hear the man's rasping shrieks over the gleeful chuckling of the Haemonculus and noiselessly whispered a prayer to the Emperor to alleviate the man's suffering.

The man's arched back was a bloody ruin, long strips of skin missing to expose bloody tissue underneath. Freya winced. She sported a couple of similar wounds, including one across her stomach where the Haemonculus had seen fit to see how thinly he could cut strips of skin from her body using a molecularly sharp blade before the skin disintegrated. It seemed he had not bothered with the man, using a broad cleaver instead. Freya heard the clank of chain and saw the Haemonculus standing a couple of yards from the man, his thin hands grasping a thin steel chain, each link covered in wickedly sharp barbs, the chain terminating in wisps of thin hair-like steel.

The chain-whip lashed out, the hair steel raking across the man's back. Blood sprayed out, droplets splashing the two Haemonculi that were standing close by. The man arched his back and screamed, his voice shrill and piercing. The thin ragged welts cut by the whip seeped blood down the man's back. Freya fought down the urge to vomit. She struggled to use her power, but the pair of stone urns clamped beside her head rattled in their steel holders, blocking all attempts to reach out and either strike at the Dark Eldar or commend the man's spirit to the Emperor.

Freya caught the flash of steel a second before the thin stiletto embedded itself in her left thigh, making her cry out.

"Don't worry, we'll get to you soon enough," called the Haemonculus, his dark eyes fixing her with a menacing leer. Freya felt like her stomach was being crushed in a vice. The stiletto had hit a group of nerves perfectly, sending her digestive tract into spasms. She panted, the pain blurring her vision as tears sprang forth, unbidden.

Another scream rang out from the man. Freya looked at him through spotty vision and saw that a great gobbet of flesh and been hewn from his back, exposing the dull white of his spinal column.

"Excellent," said the Haemonculus. He coiled up the whip, his body shuddering with delight every time a barb pressed into his exposed skin. "Place him on the table. We can begin to experiment anew."

"Urazi?" A small box mounted next to a cabinet filled with spiked and sharpened blades squawked into life, the thick voice of another Dark Eldar booming out across the chamber.

"Yes sire," said the Haemonculus, his voice a respectful whisper.

"Have you started work on the mon-keigh female yet?" The voice seemed to be getting impatient.

"The one with the gift?" Urazi glanced up at Freya again, licking his bloodless lips with his thin black tongue.

"The same."

"Nothing major yet sire, just preliminary tests."

"Get to work on her straight away. She was on that mon-keigh construct with a group of cursed craftworld kin. I want to know what she knows."

"At once sire." The comm.-link shut off. Urazi looked up at Freya, his angular features contorted into a smile, dark eyes filled with lust. When he spoke, his voice was a low cooing, though Freya caught the subtle undercurrent of regret. "And I was hoping to have more time with this man before I got to you. No matter, Lord Dracus wills me to start on you and it shall be done."

With a chuckle that made Freya's heart skip a beat, Urazi crossed to beneath her again. Freya heard the lever being thrown and closed her eyes. In all of her time with Inquisitor Kurze she had never known fear such as this, nor had she been forced to endure such pain or see such suffering. She muttered another prayer to the Emperor.

"The corpse cannot help you now," chuckled Urazi, his voice carrying over the clank and clatter of her rack lurching towards him.

He stopped the rack at ground level, his eyes boring deep into her own. Freya could see the malice behind them, the cold scrutiny with which he calculated how he could best make her give up her secrets.

A thin arm shot out to caress her cheek, long fingers running through her matted hair, making her head jerk back.

His other hand moved like lightning, pulling the stiletto from her thigh. Freya gasped, the vice-like grip gone from her stomach. Urazi held up the blood-slicked stiletto, running his tongue across it, tasting her fresh blood.

"Delicious," he murmured, his eyes closing momentarily. He opened his eyes again, inverting the stiletto to hold it like a quill. He began to trace the curves of her body, the steel making Freya's skin crawl in dread. The sharp edge cut through the remains of her loaned Eldar robes, dirt and ichor-encrusted cloth falling to the ground with a gentle slap. His eyes flickered over her bare body before coming back to meet her own. "Delicious."

Urazi withdrew his hand from her hair, snapping his fingers. Freya winced at the sound. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the pair of apprentices turn to face their master.

"Place her on the main table," said Urazi, his face close enough that Freya could smell his fetid breath. It took most of her self-control not to wrinkle her nose in disgust; another captive had done so and his nose had been sliced off as a reward.

The Haemonculi glided forward, as if borne on casters, and seized Freya's wrists. Freya nervously glanced at each, a deep chill settling into her bones when she realised that their faces were not real, but skins from dead captives that had been riveted to metal death masks. Black eyes regarded her with a cold disinterest, as if she held no more meaning to them than a grox thigh in a butcher's window.

Her restraints were released, making her cry out with the sudden ecstasy of the pain being lifted. She began to shake, her muscles not used to this freedom. Her legs sagged, nearly pitching her face down onto the floor, which was ice-cold beneath her bare feet. The pair held onto her wrists with an unbreakable grip, yanking her upright and reopening wounds that had been healing.

One slapped her across the buttocks with the haft of a flensing knife, forcing a brief intake of breath as cold metal met scabbed over welts, sending her over-active nervous system into overtures of shock. The other took hold of one of the stone urns, his nimble fingers clasping it reverently, as one would hold a delicate Fresian Glimmer Egg. Despite the blood pounding through her ears, Freya could hear the hiss of burning flesh and felt the faint shudder of delight coursing through the masked Haemonculus transmitted through her arm.

Dear God-Emperor, she thought, I have to get out of here. She stole a glance at the other Haemonculus, his hand still gripping the flensing knife. His eyes were elsewhere, intent on guiding her towards the cold steel examination table.

"Don't even think about it," purred a voice in her right ear, his intonation making the Imperial sound comical, though Freya did not dare laugh. With a start she turned to see the first Haemonculus, his fingers still gripping the urn, centimetres from her face, his dark, hard eyes regarding her with mild amusement and a note of warning. "You would not get more than two steps before you fell to my blade."

Freya turned her face back, staring at the dull sheen of the examination table as each step took her closer to its bloodstained surface, her heart heavy. Maybe the Haemonculus was right, she would never escape the chamber alive. She had heard the mutated, drooling Grotesques stumbling about the laboratory when she had experienced the blessed relief of being put back on her rack. Though they were nothing compared to the lightning quick movements of a pure Dark Eldar, they were still fast and deadly. Without her abilities to call on, she would be dead within a heartbeat.

"Place her face down, we have yet to brand her," said Urazi in the sing-song Eldar language. Freya understood him perfectly; Kurze had made her learn it until she could speak it fluently, but his voice was less melodic than the craftworld Eldar.

The knife was removed from her buttocks and the urn placed in an ornate cupped hand-shaped steel holder. The apprentice Haemonculi gripped her with both hands now, their lithe bodies belying their great strength. With little effort they picked her up and dropped her on the table with a muted slap. Freya gritted her teeth; old wounds had torn open, healing flesh sundered anew by the impact. Restraints fastened her wrists and ankles. She was surprised to note that these were not inlaid with the small spikes of her usual restraints, but the sharps edges still bit into her skin.

She tried to turn her head, to see what the Haemonculi were preparing, but received a sharp rap across the back of her head with the haft of something ceramic. Urazi had walked around and was standing in front of her, a thick rod in his hand that ended in an Eldar rune.

"You see this?" He smiled, twirling the rod in his hand. Freya nodded slowly, aware that all colour had drained from her face. He flicked a small switch mounted on the shaft of the rod, causing it to emit a dull hum. "I must do this to ensure that you do not get picked by the Gladiators for their games. Lord Dracus has forbidden it. We must know what you know. That is the only way we can have the prize."

"Prize?" Freya asked, her tongue mangling the word.

"The prize of the world of Necrontyr warriors, ours to command," said Urazi. He snapped his fingers at the other Haemonculi. "Bring this mon-keigh a draught. I think she needs refreshment."

Seconds later one of the others approached, carrying a worn earthen beaker. Freya could smell the noxious brew, her empty stomach somersaulting at the thought of drinking something so foul. It smelt of a mixture of 'Widow's Blusher' and grox dung, neither of which she had any desire to drink. Urazi took the beaker in his free hand and nodded at the Haemonculus. The Eldar, who Freya decided to nick-name Flenser, grabbed her hair, forcing her head back and pulling open her mouth with his other hand. Urazi pressed the beaker to her lips and poured the liquid into her mouth. Twice she nearly choked, but forced herself to swallow the liquid, which tasted worse than it smelt.

"How poor, only half a beaker," said Urazi, pouring the rest onto the floor, where it spread into fine rivulets and drifted away into the cleaning channels. He smiled at her, though Freya could see no warmth in it, only amusement and hatred. His free hand shot past her head, the iron hissing through the air.

It landed squarely on her right buttock, the smell of cooking flesh making her swallow. She trembled, trying to arch her back, remove the pain of the brand, but the restraints held her fast, the half-healed wounds on her back weeping blood and pus. She stifled a shout, the air escaping through her mouth in a hiss.

The urn next to her head vibrated as she tried to release her power, forcing it back inside her mind. She slumped forward, coughing up blood.

"The Urns of Als'hakal," said Urazi, stroking the urn with a glove. He pulled it away sharply, as if scolded. "A potent device our lord Dracus found some years ago. Any psychic power directed by you is reflected back at you. They're good, no?"

"No," said Freya, her voice a low growl. She spat blood again, her mind whirling. A wave of nausea passed over her, making her shriek. She felt ice-cold fingers around her stomach, spreading through her body to clutch at her heart. When she spoke, her words came in fleeting pants. "What did you give me?"

"A little something I call 'The Cold Hand'." Urazi stood back from her, the branding iron now dull and inert; its purpose fulfilled. "Don't worry, you won't die. You'll beg me to die, but you won't."

Freya tried to look at the Haemonculus, but her vision was blurred, his words sounding as though he was speaking from hundreds of metres away. The strength drained out of her limbs, the spark that had kept her going fading to nothingness. She was conscious that her nervous system had ceased to provide any indication of pain or pleasure. Was this death? She thought absently. Her eyelids grew as heavy as lead. She felt so tired.

She let out another scream as she felt molten copper fill her veins, banishing all coldness and setting off every nerve ending.

"The antidote." Urazi's face was in focus again, a brass syringe that he had produced from some pocket or other in his hand. He brushed the needle, still covered in a mixture of blood and golden-yellow fluid, across her cheek, a smile of satisfaction across his cruel, angular features. "You see, I can keep you alive as long as I need to."

Freya let out a sob, tears springing to her eyes. She squeezed the lids shut, feeling the warm tears trickle down her face. Such pain! She had never felt anything like it, not even when the villagers back home had lit a fire beneath her. Damn this Haemonculus, damn him to the Eye. She gritted her teeth, refusing to allow this perversion of the Eldar race the satisfaction of watching her reaction.

"What do you want to know?" She squeaked, ashamed that her voice was betraying her.

"Oh, I don't know, something," shrugged Urazi. He looked to his left, at the other apprentice Freya had decided to call Urnist. "Do you have any ideas?"

"No my lord," came the muffled reply.

"A pity. Then I suppose we must start with the easy questions. Who are you mon-keigh?" Urazi's eyes took on an almost kindly air, as though he were a father administering a strapping to an insolent child.

"I am human," replied Freya. She screamed, the sudden feeling of razor-sharp steel cutting into the meat of her thigh overriding all efforts to suppress it.

"Wrong answer, let's try this again." Urazi folded his arms across his chest, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "Who are you mon-keigh?"

Freya let her head fall forwards, feeling the cool steel of the table on her forehead. I'm not getting out of here alive, she thought, her mind struggling to control the rising panic. Where is Kurze when I need him most?

The Nightwing, Orbiting Bragil VI, Segmentum Obscurus – 18 Weeks After Allesthem VII

Captain DeWalde turned to Azrael, his red-rimmed eyes barely open, such was his exhaustion. He ran a hand across his stubble-flecked chin, his brain mulling over his next words. The pair were standing at the corner of the Nightwing's bridge, hidden in the semi-darkness of misfiring lux-globes. Around them the bridge crew carried out their daily routine, attempting to ignore the figures lurking in the corner, their minds focussing on the tasks at hand.

"There is still no trace my lord," he said, inwardly flinching. He did not like bearing bad news, especially to one as powerful as the Inquisitor before him.

"Indeed," said Azrael, his voice as cold as the void. Azrael stroked his beard thoughtfully, his attention focussed on the planet that dominated the bridge viewports. His head snapped round, bloodshot eyes, burning with an almost brilliant fire that seemed to penetrate DeWalde's soul, focussing on him with an almost lethal stare. "Could you be wrong?"

"I'm afraid not my lord." DeWalde shook his head, eyes downcast. He did not know what relationship the Inquisitor had fostered with the young woman, but it seemed to DeWalde that Azrael was almost fixated with the idea of retrieving her. "The ship has simply vanished."

"Emperor damn the warped scum." Azrael's voice was a whisper, but his voice carried far over the grave-like silence of the bridge. One thin hand reached out to caress the dark steel of a protruding support, its surface covered in protective runes and sigils of the Adeptus Mechanicus. "What of the Nightwing herself?"

"She will last," smiled DeWalde. He tapped the console station to his right, as if patting a faithful, long-suffering steed. "This old girl's been through it all. She was built to last, thank the Emperor."

"Thank the Emperor," echoed Azrael, though DeWalde sensed that his employer's heart wasn't in it.

"Your orders?" DeWalde attempted to fill the uncomfortable silence with the question, though he suspected the answer.

"Get us ready to go. I want the crew rested and the Nightwing in fighting condition. We must finish the task set for us." Azrael turned away, his hand tracing the outline of a consecrated scroll set into the bulkhead. "And send for the priests, we will need to be spiritually cleansed and reinforced for this final stage."

"As you wish sir," nodded DeWalde. He turned to leave, his polished boots squeaking on the smooth metal floor. His eyes met Lieutenant Haryn's. The lieutenant looked tired, his eyes focussing on some point beyond DeWalde. Then his head jerked back and his hands clamped tight against his head. DeWalde walked cautiously forward, hoping against hope that the lieutenant had found some useable trail.

"Sir, I have fusion drive signatures on a bearing of zero three five mark zero six three relative," Haryn called.

"The Dark Eldar?" DeWalde's voice betrayed his hope and he inwardly cursed.

"No sir, Imperial. They match Marine Hunter-class destroyers." Haryn's eyes closed. "One of them seems to be having trouble with their starboard drive."

"Is that so?" DeWalde asked rhetorically, pursing his lips. The boy's talent with the complex Arrays systems scared him at times.

"Captain, the destroyers are hailing us," said the intervox, the Astropath secure in her chambers away from the bridge.

"Put it through the speaker," said Azrael, appearing at DeWalde's side and nearly giving the captain a heart attack.

"Yes my lord," said the Astropath.

"-Say again, this is Captain Joachim of the destroyer Bull's Horn to unknown identify, heave to and prepare to be boarded," said the bridge speaker in the deep baritone voice that DeWalde had come to feel was synonymous with the genetically-enhanced humans.

"This is Inquisitor Julius Azrael, we apologise for the intrusion into your space captain, we were merely searching for a Dark Eldar vessel," said Azrael, slapping the 'talk' button on the pulpit in front of him.

"An inquisitor, eh? Unfortunately sir, we must board you none the less, as you are in violation of the chapter orbital zone," said Captain Joachim. DeWalde glanced at Azrael and saw a deep scowl of annoyance run across his weathered features.

"And which chapter do you belong to?" Azrael's question was phrased with a tone of command, but a suggestion of deference, as if the marines were somehow his superiors and yet also his subordinates.

"The Raging Bulls chapter, under the command of Overlord Brubull." Joachim sounded proud to be able to speak his chapter's name. DeWalde wondered if all marines spoke this way, he had yet to listen to one that did not.

"Is that so?" Azrael echoed DeWalde's tone from earlier. "Very well captain. You have permission to come aboard. We will make our hanger deck available for your arrival."

"Good, we will arrive shortly. Joachim out." The captain cut the connection with a triumphant tone in his voice.

"Prepare to receive visitors. Open the main doors to the hanger deck," Azrael ordered, glancing at DeWalde. He turned away, heading towards the elevators. "Keep the weapons at standby but be prepared to defend us if you hear my codeword."

"Understood my lord," nodded DeWalde, tapping a rune on his command pulpit to signal the hanger chief.

Just over twenty minutes later Azrael stood on the worn dark grey grav-plating of the hanger deck, his hair smoothed and a simple black robe of office covering his dark suit. He had pinned his Inquisitorial rosette at his throat so it clasped the top of the robe together and immediately drew attention to his status. He hanger deck had been cleared for the marines' arrival, with the battered bulk flyer the tech-adepts and servitors had been working on sitting to one side, engine cowlings removed and mechanical innards exposed. His gun-cutter sat on the other side of the deck, powered down and inert, her crew nowhere to be seen.

To his left Kurze also wore simple robes, though his were the green of the Ordo Xenos, and his rosette was pinned to his left breast. On Azrael's right stood Castius, clad in a simple loose-fitting grey tunic that concealed an ancient and rare mesh armour vest, and breeches of some thick hide. Holstered at his waist was a simple bolt pistol, the sickle magazine loaded with Kraken penetrator rounds – Castius took no chances when it came to protecting his master.

In front of them the atmos-field was a blue shimmer, filling the deck with a low hum that got on Azrael's nerves. He took a deep breath, the overwhelming smell of promethium and sacred unguents combining into a heady cocktail, which helped clear his mind.