Chapter 3

002.M42

Imperial colony 1034; formerly designated Kianemure, Maiden World

From Lugganath I ran. I fled as the spirits of my ancestors and those within the infinity circuit shrieked after me, howling. Of duty. Of responsibility. Of acceptance to fate. I fled those who attempted to halt my flight, my limbs contorting to escape their clutches. My psyche thundered throughout the wraithbone halls and gilded towers, past rivers where the spirit lanterns bobbed on the waters and the aggressive houses of the Aspects where the warriors trained.

I did not wish my young life denied; I could not see the beauty of treading a Path resigned. Honour is a meaningless word – my youth and impertinence led me. The weight of family duty is crushing. I was not the only son, there were others. Let them be fit to take my stead, their minds strong while mine tarried in the world of far flung adventure. These walls suffocated me.

My name is Taekaedr. I became an Exodite, leaving the shadows of Lugganath behind in a wash of misery.


The flesh of mortals is weak, subjective, and ultimately mutable. To resist the pull of Chaos and the changes it brought, the individual's strength of self needed to be resolute and firm. Psykers were easier to manipulate and turn in Chaos' favour; consequently the Imperium soul-bound all they discovered or implanted neural inhibitors to blunt their powers lest the Warp overtake them. Those living beyond the totalitarian grip of the Imperium found other means to command their abilities; brilliant teachers taught extraordinary students. The learning curve was steep with no pity forthcoming. To master Chaos and its vicious trickery, the weaker emotions and ideals were purged, the soft mind forged into unyielding steel.

Ahriman's training brought pain. It left soul-scarring, mind-numbing aches to the body and nightmarish images imprinted on the mind. The telekinetic wave following the mental assault threw Neferuaat to the floor and pinned her to the metal. She would be forced to brace against the attack and attempt a defence, or have her mind flayed again until she collapsed. No pity was given to the child's age. Ahriman's views were the opposite. He spoke with dispassion of Neferuaat not being allowed to hide behind her childhood, that time never halted and people grew older. Her powers would be cultivated and her experience with them matured in Time's march.

Another blistering wave crashed inside the girl's mind. Neferuaat tried to reflect it, clumsily shouting a word of incantation. The inflection behind the word was wrong and the pain sharpened, the defence battered aside like a skiff on the high seas. Ahriman never relented and Neferuaat collapsed again, all of her powers nothing without the proper training.

"For the greatest attack to succeed, you must first defend yourself. Never underestimate both allies and foes," he spoke calmly. Neferuaat staggered to her feet, blood dribbling from her nose to stain her white robes. "All the Thousand Sons sorcerers who were, are, or will be, know this cardinal rule – your mental defence must be impenetrable for a victorious strike against your target."

Thus the first half of the lesson would conclude and Ahriman, apathetic to the limitations the child displayed, would turn to meditation. He carefully showed Neferuaat, who wiped the blood from her nose on to her sleeve, to inscribe and consecrate a circle. Filling a yawning burner of silver with hemlock and sage, the sorcerer ignited the flame. Very soon the air was suffused with a fragrance which eased the transition from one sphere of thought to the next. Not that someone of Ahriman's peerless ability required aid. Neferuaat did.

"Envision the Enumerations. Focus your mind upon them and let go of other thoughts. Nothing matters but this moment, and as you understand this moment, let time slip away. Hold only the Enumerations in your mind." Ahriman intoned the words with a quiet reverence. He inhaled and exhaled with the practiced ease of centuries.

Even out of his armour and dressed in the understated robes of a scholar, Ahriman was still a giant to the sprite of a girl. Sitting across the burner with a petulant expression on her face, Neferuaat eased her tired body into a half-lotus position. Her long blonde hair, having grown back, was plaited, framing a cherub face with blue eyes that usually flashed with conceit. Now they held only fatigue. Neferuaat disliked the morning training and rituals, of waking early, of being psychically thrashed, of having to sit perfectly straight, of breathing in air which stank and having to think about not thinking. To a nine year old child, it was all very complex and mystifying.

Half-known shapes came in the new perspective as her mental planes resolved; a little of the past and a little of the future intermingled. Once familiar objects in the chamber loomed in the growing landscape brought by Neferuaat's widening sight. She rubbed at her eyes, digging the heels of her palms against the orbs to banish the sight. It was in vain for when she looked again, the double-images returned. She walked in a dream of what could be and what was, learning to discern which was which.

"Do not inhale like a floundering fish. Breathe properly and sit still." Scorn dripped from the teacher's voice.

"It's difficult." Neferuaat's retort held the edge of a whine.

"Concentrate on the Enumerations. Today, I grant you the use of a focus for you to channel with." A ruby skittered across the floor toward Neferuaat. "Use it properly, achieve the First Enumeration as you have done before, and resolve your visions of the past and future. I might grant you an early leave from our classes afterward."

"Why is this so important?"

Ahriman spoke with the long-suffering patience of one who oft repeated himself. "The Enumerations accustom your body to channelling the energies it houses from the Warp. To ensure you never suffer a fatal psionic build-up, the Enumerations help you visualize the various chakras until you no longer need to undertake the practice. What schisms you see within the aether are a part of your unique link with the Immaterium, Neferuaat."

Half of what was told was lost on Neferuaat's young mind. The promise of class ending early held a higher currency over understanding her psychic growth. She clasped the ruby in both hands, closing her eyes against the nauseous wavering images of past and future. Ahriman watched her aural colour alter from a muddied red to a burnished yellow, the apprentice now at proper study. From the ruby, tendrils of energy were drawn into Neferuaat as she diligently concentrated.

Ahriman regarded her while she meditated. Neferuaat, she was power made flesh. She held the unrefined talent to become whatever her mind could conceive, but she would in no way reach the level of Practicus if she never focused her willpower and channelled. A contemplative silence descended over the room, the master sorcerer guiding the acolyte. Her breathing slowed, her aura flared, the ruby's energy leeched slowly away.

Three years of intensive training, honing a mind and body in resisting childish outbursts and ripen at an antedated pace was no simple feat. Ahriman pushed the child to learn beyond her years, undeterred by her youth. He refused others to instruct her and taint the child's mind with their enfeebling comprehension to the inner workings of Tzeentch. Even now, the Changer of the Ways was manifesting certain powers in her; precognition and telepathy. Unnervingly, Neferuaat once displayed the ability to bilocate, talking with Ahriman on the Khermuti while seen down in the libraries under close guard. When questioned under duress how she managed such a feat, the girl broke into tears and said she remembered nothing.

Such was her raw power. But oh, the talent that would come from it all and what could be achieved! If only she focused.

A sharp crack – from the gemstone – destroyed the tranquility of silence. The ruby, bleached white as bone, was held passively in the girl's grip. She smiled across the brazier at Ahriman, her tired eyes alight. "Lord Pathoth is here. It's urgent from the way he walks, almost choleric."

Ahriman was about to remind the girl the viceroy was on the Meskhenet when he sensed the resonance of Pathoth's psyche. Pathoth, in his actions, was merely being polite by unmasking his presence before entering the meditation antechamber. Neferuaat bounded up in a rush and darted toward Pathoth, her feet kicking aside the dust of the protective circle.

"Neferuaat." Ahriman's cold voice halted the girl. Aware of the cardinal error made, the child sharply turned on her heel and returned to her seat, mortified. The arch-sorcerer waved aside her excuses and said nothing. The lesson was over; no doubt this was just one of the many compounded intents Pathoth hoped to achieve by his arrival. The audacity behind it curled Ahriman's calm.

He rose and trod over the broken line to Pathoth. "What is so urgent to disturb my tutoring?"

"Hail, Lord Ahriman." Pathoth chose to ignore the quarrelsome tone. "You desired to know the moment we achieved orbit over the Imperial colony. I came to convey the missive."

"And to use it as a means to interrupt my mentorship."

"If you wish to see it in this manner, who am I to argue?" Pathoth kept his composure, examining the bland chamber as though finding it the most interesting room in the entire galaxy.

Ahriman followed Pathoth's gaze to where Neferuaat sat, holding the dead ruby in her hands. "Child, cease your worthless attempts. You have broken the boundary and ruined the warding seal. Make your time useful in other matters."

Rising too quickly for Ahriman's liking, Neferuaat hurried over to the two Astartes. Handing the remains of the ruby into Pathoth's hand with a proud smile, she occupied her free time by looking at the flames from the burner. The Vizier of the Magus looked at what he'd been given, considering his words before speaking. "She must have a focus. Adepts her age on Prospero had one. They aid in mental elucidation, steadiness, to have another shoulder the burden when it became too great alone."

"We no longer dwell on Prospero, Osis. Look how our Tutelaries turned against us." Ahriman banished the memory in revulsion.

"I would not propose a Warp-based creature, Ahzek. A more substantial being, something other than crystals she drains so quickly, belonging to this realm." Pathoth held up the brittle white rock and crushed it. "Foci with a more enduring substance are ideal."

Ahriman studied the sorcerer. "Are you insinuating a lack of proper education and preparation on my part?"

"Never. You are one of the most reputed psykers in the galaxy, foremost of all sorcerers, aside from the mighty daemon princes of Tzeentch." Pathoth smiled. "However, the undertaking Magnus gave you requires much time. The quest to understand the nature of Tzeentch cannot be interrupted. Magnus is waiting on the conclusion, one he believes you might soon reach."

"One I shallreach," Ahriman vehemently replied. "I haven't ample time to waste in training, no matter the potential. I acknowledge the time lost in tutoring Neferuaat weighs against me. Hours spent on the most basic of lessons when I could have exercised my mind on higher matters. Time which I do not have that you," he examined the marine, "conversely, do."

Time, the key to all things. Ten thousand years brought him the scroll, which gave Ahriman a psyker who could aid in his machinations, then a maddening quiet from the maelstrom. Having been at a standstill for too long, the Chaos sorcerer knew it was time to move forward once more. Pathoth was a wise, if guarded, stand-in for the child's training. With the vizier's attendance, Ahriman knew the game of controlling Neferuaat and keeping his influence undiminished could become threatened.

"If your duties require your far-reaching abilities elsewhere, shall I take your words as more than suggestion and say they are orders?"

Both sorcerers watched the girl kick one of the used crystals into the air, suspending it as she levitated another. Slapping her hands together, the gems mirrored Neferuaat's movements and crashed into the other violently, flying apart in shards of glass. Her simple pleasure in the destruction was… disquieting.

Ahriman dictated his terms. "I require a demonstration every cycle to what is being taught. This is invariable. As you once said, my lofty mind holds grand designs. I lead a quest for the very heart of knowledge and magic. You will direct Neferuaat's immediate schooling."

"Does she remain on the Khermuti or will she be moved to the Meskhenet?"

"As long as she is shielded by psycurium in her sleeping cell, do as you see fit." The Khermuti still echoed painfully with Neferuaat's psychic shrieks. And her nightmares. The psycurium could only fend off so much; lingering phantasms shifting into being to follow her when the child left her rooms. Let Pathoth deal with nightmares made monstrous flesh in the bowels of his ship. To move Neferuaat might be a dark blessing in disguise.

"Have I the privilege to provide a focus for her training?"

"Do as you see fit," Ahriman repeated. "She knows who holds mastery over her. Child," Ahriman narrowed his eyes. "Cease the destruction of the crystals and come here. As of this moment, your studies pass from my watch into the hands of Osis Pathoth. Yet I am still your master in all things. Do you understand?"

Fixed by Ahriman's ruling gaze and mere presence, the girl bowed to the mage. "Yes, my Lord Ahriman. I understand and obey your orders." Neferuaat backed into the towering shadow Pathoth cast, chastised and hesitant.

"Some wonder why we are here. What reason do the Thousand Sons make planetfall at a colony poorly defended by Imperial farmers?" Pathoth's question pried at the unknown.

"The Sons will be told in good time, Pathoth. I have my work to attend to."

The brazier's coals were extinguished, the dust from the circle swept away. Ahriman left the meditation cell with a confident air. Neferuaat came alongside Pathoth, drawing a veil of psycurium woven with bands of silver over her head. With it, her mind was hidden against the shadows and daemons capering aboard the Khermuti. She stared at her new teacher through the shroud with something akin to rapt adoration.

"Are you going to the surface of the planet, Lord Pathoth?"

"If I am requested, I shall."

"Will you bring me something if you do go?" A mischievous light came to her eyes.

"That depends entirely upon your comportment. We shall see the kitchens of the Khermuti and what they have to offer to feed you, and then you will be moved to the Meskhenet. Be forewarned, you will begin as a clean slate under my tutelage."

Neferuaat nodded. She knew great things were expected of her and how it would not change with a new teacher. What she could hope for was leniency from the vizier which the grand sorcerer never offered.


Kianemure. A pristine world. A world of creation. A place where the spirit stone weights lightly against the chest of its owner. Where expectations are not thrust on oneself by the sway of community. I came upon the maiden world from the Webway portals leading from Lugganath and felt my spirit fall into place. Here I would stay and begin anew. The Exodites were few, a handful of Eldar holding the same pioneering spirit of autonomy. I grew in the fold, waking refreshed each morning and going to sleep in the eve without the infinity circuit pressing alongside my mind.

Then the mon-keigh arrived and Kianemure's idyllic peace changed. They, like ourselves, were pioneers but unlike us, unknowing of our existence. Some thought we should leave them be, others swore to defend what was rightfully the inheritance of the Eldar. I marked myself apart from the commune in wishing to leave the humans to be. I became the oddity amongst the outsiders of the Craftworlds.

Fate in arduous, it follows those who flee. The drums sounded in the halls of the Exodus, calling us to war.


"If anything is fractured, your very world will be broken." The warning rang continually in Magos Krauskopf's circuit-ridden brain. He experienced no fear but calculated the heightened risk taken working under the Chaos sorcerer. The statistical rates of survival were dismal.

The Dark Mechanicum was excavating. Protected by two mountain ranges to the immediate north and southeast, the vale echoed with the ring of metal against metal. Great earth-rippers powered by daemonhosts, chained inside the rust-coloured machines, tore up swaths of loamy soil. Trees were felled and rock bored into to make way for the deepening pit, a cavernous hole growing wider and deeper by the hour. Surrounding the excavation area, untouched by polluted metal but handled by the festering corruption of the living, Tech-Priests and their Skitarii servants swarmed over the remains of old foundations. The dwellings, their original owners long vanished, worked in harmony to the growth of the forest, built around or within many of the trees and fused together by xenos compounds. Graceful arcs of the structures rose over the verdant tree line in many places. The bleached surface was like bone; the husks of wraithbone, its vitality lost with the psychic severance of the Exodites.

Overseeing the excavation on the ridge was Ahriman and Chief Magos Krauskopf. Auburn robes stained with machine oil draped the Magos' ample frame. A heavy drill supplanted Krauskopf's right arm, its point tipped in adamantium. The left side of his body was so heavily augmented none of the weakened flesh despised by the Tech-Priest remained. Indeed, the only parts still proclaiming his former humanity – itself a delicate term – were his liver and intestinal track housed within his armoured chest cavity. Directing his Skitarii via bursts of binary, Krauskopf's optical lenses whirled and clicked as he changed through various spectra. Grating out of the circular grille replacing his mouth, the Magos' voice sounded terse.

"Sonar tests indicate the shrine two miles below the earth, set in the center of the Exodite ruins. The earth-rippers will break the surface, then the more sensitive equipment will be brought into place." A mechadendrite uncoiled along his left arm, idly plucking a rock from the torn earth. "The crust of this planet isn't as thick as others. The materials left by the Eldar are odd and flimsy. No doubt the shrine is made of the same components."

"The shrine must remain intact," Ahriman ordered. "Not even a splinter will be ripped from it. Is my intent clear, Magos?"

"My machines work with finesse," Krauskopf assured the sorcerer. "They aren't lumbering colossi who exist only for destruction."

Watching the earth-rippers at task, the voracious daemon entities housed within clawing the terrain, Ahriman doubted. He left Krauskopf on the ridge, commanding he be alerted once the shrine was unearthed. Away from the clamour of the Dark Mechanicum, the command pavilion was situated on a high bluff overlooking the abandoned Exodite outpost. Past the tent, Thunderhawks and support craft waited, their metal hulls shimmering and wavering under the powerful cloaking spells. A great deal of the vale's forest lay crushed underneath the massive bulk of the Mechanicum's vessels, ships which ferried the frenetic earth-rippers and the Skitarii to the arch-sorcerer's whim.

Greeted by the impassive Rubric Marines patrolling the perimeter, Ahriman entered the command post to find Kapharon regarding a logistics map of the vale. Flickering red points on the hololith map designated where other Rubric Marines were deployed throughout the valley, the ruby light garish against the captain's gold and blue helmet. He saluted Ahriman before returning to watch the movements of his marines. Rarely away from the Khermuti did the captain relish the chance to lead a task force. A bank of terminal and viewing screens across the tent relayed planetary information and security feeds; plugged into the ancient machine by spinal jacks and an optical visor, the servitor chattered away in binary. Its flesh was a ghastly pallor, wires exposed under sutures ripped open, veering on the point of death with its emaciated frame. One of Krauskopf's adepts monitored the binary stream it strewed out, set to raise the alarm if the PDF showed itself. In the center of the tent, sitting back to back on a raised platform, Ibhar and Noph held themselves in a joint trance as they directed the movements of the Rubric Marines. Other sorcerer-adepts in Ahriman's extended coven worked around the mutated cultists and Skitarii Hyspasists – basic tech-guard infantry – sorting the various Eldar artefacts uncovered.

Ahriman struck his staff on the ground. "What news do you have, captain?"

"Presently there are no indications to our activity being discovered. Though Lord Pathoth states otherwise."

Pathoth, at the very edge of Ahriman's gathering council, only chuckled. "The Eldar never renounce a planet carrying their mark. Worrying about Imperial lackeys shouldn't be our first concern, not when you consider the original inhabitants."

"As it is," Kapharon replied, "I have been charged to the overall security of this force. If you believe the Eldar will show themselves, let them come, I say. Our magic and guns can stand against them."

"Halt your petty bickering." Ahriman culled the rising tension between the Astartes. "We will have departed this world before any show themselves. It is well enough the Eldar haven't returned to claim what is sunk below the earth." The grand sorcerer looked over his cabal. "Our last Webway incursion two years ago was not without success. The Harlequin bodies we appropriated yielded their secrets in death. Their memories and emotions recalled this planet."

"An Imperial colony?" Kapharon sounded unimpressed.

"Before the Imperium renamed this world, it belonged to the Exodites. They called it Kianemure. When the Imperial numbers became too many, the wars too great, the Exodites returned to the Lugganath Craftworld from which they hailed. The Harlequins memories have betrayed their own." Ahriman's voice held the smallest ounce of haughtiness.

"Lugganath? One of the Craftworlds travelling the expanse of the Segmentum Obscurus." Pathoth knew of the Craftworld, though it lay in the shadows of its other and better-known brethren.

Ahriman inclined his head, the movement barely perceptible. "Lugganath, a Craftworld tightly bound to the Harlequins. It's common knowledge this Craftworld retains ties to these warriors. Thus, it can be assumed through the bond of their former Craftworld, the Exodites who dwelt here have ties to the Harlequin."

"You believe the Exodites left a trail leading to the Black Library. Or a pathway to return to Lugganath," the vizier pursed his lips. "If you find a way to the Craftworld, you will exploit the inhabitants into granting you access to the forbidden lore."

"Not quite, viceroy. Not to such an extent. We are on this planet solely to recover the shrine the Exodites abandoned." Ahriman smiled. "Somewhere, amongst these ruins, they sunk their precious temple over leaving it exposed to the Imperium. Rather than destroying it utterly, believing they would one day return to reclaim Kianemure."

"We plunder like filthy pirates." Even with his helmet on, the distaste radiating out from Kapharon was palpable.

"We do no plunder, captain," Ahriman admonished. "We openly take what is left behind."

"I fail to grasp how an Exodite shrine is connected to the Black Library. The aliens have many shrines." One of Ahriman's mages, Ishme-Zur, cast doubt with his words. A novice in the Thousand Sons ranks, Ishme-Zur's gift in the arcane allowed him to create and hold sway over daemonhosts, a talent of significant value.

Turning his back to the row of machines, Ahriman eyed Ishme-Zur. "Less than a century ago the Exodites fled. Shrines are kept on their Craftworlds, rarely on a world itself, noviate. Despite there being no Eldar here, Vizier Pathoth's words hold truth. We best be on guard. Continue with your surveillance, Captain Kapharon. There is to be no rest until the shrine is in my possession."

Leaving Kapharon to supervise the tactical reconnaissance, Ahriman returned to the ridge to find Magos Krauskopf absent. Viewing the progressing labour beneath him and without looking over his shoulder, the sorcerer asked, "Is there further advice you need to dispense?"

Pathoth appeared to Ahriman's left. "What is the true reason for coming to Kianemure?"

"The Eldar shrine. To contemplate what godly mysteries might be within."

"I find your words lacking."

"When my force was ambushed in the Webway, it became clear that only finding a direct route to the Black Library will I successfully enter. Kianemure could offer it. This planet harboured Exodites who brought knowledge of their Craftworld with them. Their links to Lugganath can aid in a tracing a direct path to a prize denied to me for too long. I will have what I desire."

"Should you succeed, what is the end result?" A high-pitched squeal in the vale caused Pathoth to turn. One of the earth-rippers caught a cultist skulking too close, and now its hydraulic claws ripped the human in two.

Ahriman was unaffected by the irrational machine's violence. "To claim the knowledge of the gods and return to Magnus in triumph. Have you allowed yourself to wonder of ages past when gods walked the mortal realm? We saw the might of the Primarchs, beheld the false Emperor, knew the legends behind the power of demi-gods. Yet actual deities who can twist the fabric of the cosmos hold even greater power than they did. To understand the nature of Tzeentch and complete my undertaking, I must understand the divine essence of the Eldar gods." The focal point of his staff dipped towards the excavation. "Just below the surface, a shrine houses a lockbox. Inside is an artefact, a piece to a larger relic, which even the Eldar fear. You must ask what this means for the Eldar to hold it in terror."

"And where, Tzeentch be praised, are the other fragments?"

"That is none of your concern. To join it with the other pieces is to invite a god to walk the Materium. To see this transmogrification in the flesh, to see gods walk…" Falling into a contemplative silence, Ahriman digressed. "I believe it was being carried to the Black Library. Before it could pass into the hands of the Harlequins, the Imperium came."

"Where are the other fragments, Ahzek? Magnus would yearn to know more of this Eldar relic which has escaped his notice." Uttering the name of their father would have caused lesser beings to bow, but Ahriman remained silent. "Will the shrine be brought abroad the Khermuti? If so, I caution against the move. You border on the sacrilegious. You always have."

"How does this action influence your theological views? To dread cast-down deities with no power or influence over us?"

"All things are interconnected. You know this best of all and to tamper with a house of the gods-"

Scoffing, the Chaos sorcerer watched the daemonic earth-rippers gouge the black soil. "Keeping the shrine close provides ample time to study its secrets. Pathoth, all thinking men are atheists. Men such as myself, who are wont to be called crazed, it is merely enlightenment I seek. Understanding, the highest truth which drives all Thousand Sons, that empowers Tzeentch. None of us follow these weakened gods. Who will stop me? There are no contenders."


I was careless to move so close to the mon-keigh warriors. My curiosity for the oddities they display in speech and thought was my undoing. My black humour sustained me in my drunken stumble through the forests, still holding the cumbersome blade of the human officer in one hand. He struck first, I only reacted in kind. His blade became my weapon to take his head with – my life or his. The first life I have ever taken, the repulsiveness of the act galled my unusual nature.

His compatriots harried my flight, a bloodied trail easy to follow. I tossed the sword aside and waded into the middle of a river, letting the gods decide what would become of me. The swift current carried me from the fighting, from the savagery, from everything. A muddied embankment accepted my weary body, the pull of my spirit stone lulling my mind.

I woke in a dwelling of the mon-keigh. The blood I had lost weakened my movement; I could not rise from the coarse sheets let alone summon strength to grasp the mug of water right. The other occupant in the dwelling notices my movement; I stiffen at the human's approach.


Mastering the minds of many required the wielder to know their own. Connected to the psyche of others allowed the puppeteer to know their innermost aspirations and dreams, weaknesses and terrors. The greater the willpower of the sorcerer, the finer control he held over the weaker. Noph prided his self-discipline; some perceived it as arrogance. Still, that was the weak-willed ego of others hungering after the strength Noph enjoyed.

Ten sets of eyes, ten different frames of reference, all held under one encompassing thought. Noph could see above and below, behind and straight ahead, to his left and right simultaneously. Others would have been disoriented by the confusing views feeding into their conscious. Noph relished the sight. Without his purpose, the movements of his Rubric Marine brethren would languish in a stupor, lives without meaning. Leading from the safety of the command tent, Noph trekked through the forest in the south-eastern portion of the vale.

Noph harnessed the strength and tactical lore from each of the automata's minds. Their dusty memories and impulses became his, right down to the sorcerer-adept's astral form sensing the outer environment against the ceramite shells. Dirt caked his armoured feet from hours of relentless patrol. Overhead the last of the twilight banded the sky red and violent hues. Birdsong pierced the deepening shadows, drowned out by the crashing of machines to the north, where the excavation continued.

Unease flashed across the collective awareness of all ten veterans when the birds fell silent. Noph staggered in the wash of psychic agony when the first Rubric Marine lost his head. The mental link wavered; Noph fought the phantasmal pain as nine sets of eyes swept the forest for his attacker. Noph commanded the Rubric Marines to fire into the forest. Under the power of the inferno rounds, trees became pulp, chunks of wood set ablaze and lighting smaller fires in the gloom.

Wailing screams ripped through the air, rising above the crackle of flames. Lasfire impacted into the Thousand Sons' left flank. Noph returned fire, suppressing the psychic wound in his mind as he gave the order to the Rubric Marines. He cycled from marine to marine to vainly catch sight of the foe, only seeing dark forest and hearing insane laughter beyond the screen of trees. Firelight caught the sheen of metal arcing toward Noph; it went dark. Unaffected by the mage's growing torment, the Rubric Marines continued targeting the swift movements of the enemy.

In brief moments of bolter fire, fabrics cut in lurid design and hypnotic colours were illuminated. Silhouettes' ghosted into the shadows, intangible and deadly as true night fell. Noph peered outward with his mind as back in the command pavilion, others watched his body tremble under the onslaught. The sorcerer-adept was desperate to grasp the form of the attackers; anything to confirm what he believed was slowly plucking out his eyes. His astral body strained to preserve control over his brethren's dwindling numbers. Noph could have broken the telepathic link at any time and fled but he stayed, watching for what so thoroughly destroyed his squad of Rubric Marines. The psychic anguish was nothing compared to what his master would do should Noph return empty-handed.

Six pairs of eyes became four. Four was whittled down to one.

The last Son fell, ancient ceramite bisected from a heavy weapon's single projectile. Noph held on to the flickering conscious of the Rubric Marine while his physical body doubled over in misery, clung to the loosening mind long enough to look from the visor and see the warrior who killed him. A Death Jester strode forward, a muted shade of jet black against the burning forest, easily holding a shrieker cannon. Slowly panning the clearing for survivors, the broad form of the Eldar raised one hand in a clenched fist. Behind the Jester, two other Harlequins held their lasrifles ready.

Noph released his hold and let his mind return safely to his body. The physical agony was intense, multiplied tenfold from what the psychic link fed him. Ahriman loomed over Noph's crumpled body. The grand sorcerer hissed, "What is out there?"

Noph wiped blood from his eyes. "Harlequins, master. They are approaching our location."

"I require details," Kapharon ordered the sorcerer-adept. His aura writhed in excitement at the prospect of battle against the Eldar. "The exact numbers, what path they are taking."

"From the southeast. I only counted three of those aliens before the telepathic link was too weak to hold." Noph ran a hand across his throat, still feeling the unknown Harlequin's blade pressed against the flesh. From Ishme-Zur came the affirmation of the gathering war host.

Ahriman tensed, comprehending for the Harlequins to advance without discovery meant a troupe Shadowseer was in their ranks. He gripped his black staff. "Recall the Rubric Marines guarding the vale. Have them stand ready to defend the dig. Magos Krauskopf, deploy the Hyspasists along the excavation front."

Krauskopf hesitated. "How many do you wish, my lord?"

"Imbecile, I require all of them. The Harlequins mustn't touch the shrine. I want their corpses littering the earth. Awaken your daemon engines and have them prepared. Ishme-Zur," an intolerant air whip-cracked through the tent, "go with the Magos and ensure the daemons do not become frenzied before it is time. Let them know Eldar souls are theirs to feast upon given the end of the battle."

Roused from his trance, Ibhar was commanded by Kapharon to direct the remaining Rubric Marines back to the northeast area of the excavation while the captain, blood thundering, bellowed for the cultists to rally. The las-weaponry of the Hyspasists was arranged along the hills of dirt, the owners of the tech-warped guns waiting. Floodlights were rotated about, the powerful beams cutting into the night, while the first sinister gurgles of the daemon engines echoed. When the Harlequins came, no matter their force – and Ahriman surmised it would be an all-out attack – they could not hide. Beyond the high mounds of muck and past the harsh lumen lights, the whine of jetbikes reverberated.

"Let the Eldar come," Ahriman muttered to himself. "None will be left on this world by the time the sun rises."


She is odd. A 'black sheep among the white' is the common saying she uses, her lips smiling at the term. She, like I, stands apart from her race. She, unlike I, is an outcast by circumstance. Yet she doesn't join in the cause of the mon-keigh. Religion does not motivate her. The simplicity of life and the return to solitude from a governing hand is all she wishes.

She is coarse, too forward and her mind unable to grasp the higher echelons of what all Eldar perceive, in the moment, in the hour, in the day. Plain in every sense of the word, her face is not cut from the finest marble and lacking in refined beauty. She holds none of the grace and haunting beauty of an Eldar maiden. But it is refreshing, it is different, and the divergences between us bond.

I fell gratefully into the polarity and knew solace.


The Harlequin troupe scythed through the Chaos line with wild abandon. If a design existed to their attack then it was steeped in madness known only to the alien mind. It was a dance of death, a veritable performance where each Harlequin, affianced in their skits, somehow engaged in the wider whole. Their stage was the excavation site, screams and battle shouts the musical accompaniment, the audience none other than their opponents. Leading on one of the two jetbikes from the southeast, the troupe's Great Harlequin and three Harlequin jesters skirted the edge of the vast earthen mounds. They drew the fire of the cultists and the Dark Mechanicum. It was nothing more than a feint to allow the actual power of the Eldar to crash into the backside of the Tzeentchian company from the northern edge.

The night came alive in violence. Harlequin after-images shattered in stain glass shards, moving so fast the Skitarri could do nothing but die bleeding. They moved like sludge water against the free-flowing currents of the Harlequins. There one moment and gone the next, the merry troupe passed in flecked colour or a howl of laughter to indicate they were even there. Bodies of cultists began to pile the earthworks, the dirt soaked with despoiled blood. The Thousand Sons were only too willing in letting the weaker links of their chain to be snapped. While the Hyspasists forces lured the Harlequins out and bore the weight of the xenos assault, the Rubric Marines stationed on higher ground waited to pick off weakened adversaries. If the Skitarii fell under their inferno rounds, the matter of their demise would be resolved in the gods knowing their own.

Kapharon clashed with the Eldar along the southeast. Drawing energy from the Warp, the captain quickened his gene-enhanced body to flank a Harlequin and match its swiftness. It gaily laughed at the exhibit, bringing its graceful sword up to parry the downwards blow from the marine's chainsword. Sparks flew, raining down on to the false-face mask that grinned in derision before transforming into a shrieking maw of fanged teeth. The mask radiated simple terror, holding the Son's gaze long enough for the Eldar to kick out in mid-stride, using Kapharon's momentum to throw the Astartes forwards. Kapharon rolled with the blow, redirecting the energy and crouching on his knees before leaping back into the fight.

Growling in his throat, the captain circled the Harlequin, letting his anger build. Allowing himself to sink with the weight of his emotions, Kapharon fed off the energy it gave him. Thumbing the activation rune of his chainsword, he charged in with a low sweep of the blade, intending to cleave the Harlequin below the knees. It somersaulted backwards, the flip-belt it wore boosting the height of its jump to leap clear of Kapharon's strike. Overconfident in its ability to evade, the Harlequin failed to check its surroundings, its dramatic hurdle terminated when the psychic bindings ensnared it. Constricting the Eldar's body with crushing force, the invisible weaves held against the prisoner's thrashing.

Ibhar, left hand formed in a complex seal, only laughed at the Harlequin's vain attempts to escape while Kapharon, chainsword revving, closed the distance to the suspended foe. The false-face moved through a succession of emotions, the last image holding abject terror before Kapharon methodically severed its limbs. Ibhar released his hold on the corpse, a spray of blood and mangled appendages falling to the ground. Kapharon saluted the sorcerer-adept before rejoining the fray and Ibhar, sliding down the embankment, secured for himself the Harlequin's false-face.

On the brass deck of one of the two daemonic earth-rippers, Magos Krauskopf was phlegmatic to the carnage unfolding beneath the piston-driven legs of the colossal machine. Beneath its crab-like legs it crushed what failed to move from its path, the carcasses disappearing into the blood-drenched earth. Disproportionate in the sheer cruelty the metal-bound daemon displayed, the earth-ripper's steel claws snapped the air, seeking to rend the jetbikes and their arrogant riders in flight. The holofields employed by the Harlequins hindered the daemon machine's targeting mechanism, the frustration feeding into the earth-ripper's agitation. Its movements grew more incompatible to Krauskopf's ideal designs, and when attempts to calibrate the entity began failing, the Magos turned to the mage.

"Calm it now. Or these gnats will be all over us."

Standing on a pulpit above the Magos, Ishme-Zur chanted in a guttural tone and prayed the incantation to work. Bound to the brass outer shell housing the daemon-machine's 'soul', Ishme-Zur fought to keep the entity controlled. It drained the sorcerer to guide the fury of the daemon and shield himself from its insidious onslaught. With a soul so close to it, the daemon's hunger was voracious.

"Leftwards, turn us to toward the embankments!" The Magos' shouts were lost in the battle's din, swallowed by explosions and battle cries. "The might of my machines will turn the tide of this battle!"

Above, the high-pitched shriek of a jetbike grew as it made a strafing run. The twin-linked cannons fired accelerated disc into the brass and steel frame of the engine. Rents were torn into the metal, vile steam hissed as it escaped. An unearthly howl vibrated into the darkness, screeching against Ishme-Zur's aura. Shaking like a wild beast attempting to dislodge ticks from its skin, the earth-ripper raised its gruesome metallic arms into the air. The heavy metal limbs tore over the battlefield, four jointed legs slamming the muddy earth, and Chief Magos Krauskopf lost control of his precious daemon-engine. He gripped the railing with his left hand, mechadendrites coiling around the metal to bolster the Tech-Priest's heavy body.

The Harlequin jetbike wove and jinxed, the daemon machine's targeting arrays struggling to match the speed. Roaring in a paroxysm fit, the earth-ripped flailed about.

A lucky blow, the glancing strike from a steel claw; the jetbike and its riders tumbled from the sky. A fireball of debris rained down on the daemon-engine, super heated metal barely missing Ishme-Zur. Yet one of the riders had the impudence to survive. The troupe's Great Harlequin, throwing himself from the jetbike before its incineration, clattered in a blue-and-red checkered tumble to the daemon machine's meshed deck. Nimbly darting to his feet, the Great Harlequin's crested helm was a vivid scarlet hue, its armour gaudy and bedecked with embellishments that hurt the eye. Sensing the unwanted guest, the daemon-engine's cables punched through the lattice-worked deck, whipping out to capture the Great Harlequin.

Lightning-fast the troupe leader cut through the daemon-possessed cables, leapt over the growing numbers swarming up beneath, and struck at the earth-ripper's controller.

The force blade erupted through Ishme-Zur's chest. Gurgling in surprise, the sorcerer-adept slumped forward, held upright only by the chains binding him to the pulpit. A mist hemorrhaged from the body, disappearing into the vents of the daemonic engine, a morsel to an unending appetite. Sliding the blade free with a casual flick of its wrist, the Great Harlequin advanced on Krauskopf.

"Really now," the Chief Magos intoned with disapproval. He held firm, widening his stance as the earth-ripper followed the next logical course of action.

Freed from the sorcerous tether, the brass and steel body of the daemon attacked the unwanted alien on its back. Blackened girders unbent themselves, the metal flowing as if liquid, hurtling through the air at the Great Harlequin. Somersaulting under the arc of one, hand-springing over another, weaving aside under a third and the roiling mass of cables, the Great Harlequin still attempted to close the distance between him and the Chief Magos.

Defended by the daemon-engine, Krauskopf could afford the luxury to analyze the Great Harlequin's movements. A sluggish dodge nearly cost the Eldar his head; the ungraceful stumble only stopped from becoming a complete fall by the flip-belt he wore. The Harlequin was weakening, the daemon eating away at his psychic essence and, perceiving it, placed everything into one final, desperate gamble to bring down the altered mon-keigh. A heroic bound, lithe body twisting in mid-air, the Great Harlequin crashed full tilt into a liquid girder that swung in from a blindside. Armour cracked open against the full impact. Crashing into the chain-linked railing, the alien barely pulled himself free before the metal wrapped about him.

"Weak xeno," the Magos' vocal processor crackled. "Your suicide mission has-"

Krauskopf shouted out in abrupt pain, tearing his optics away from the Great Harlequin to look at the shuriken disc embedded in his right shoulder. That tiny movement saved the Magos' mechanical neck. Barrelling forward with the point of his sword thrust ahead, the Harlequin would have taken Krauskopf's head from his shoulders, had the Magos remained in place and the daemon-engine hadn't jutted abruptly. Even the Harlequin's legendary agility was not enough to stop the plummet from the earth-ripper.

Hitting one of the arachnid legs, the Great Harlequin's flip-belt aided only to soften a bone-breaking impact. The tremendous will of the Great Harlequin kept the leader of the troupe moving, rolling out of the colossus' path, stumbling toward the fringe of the battle. A trilling note rippled through the night to reach the surviving Harlequins ears. The battle was lost; they were powerless to capture the shrine against the greater numbers. Flight was their only option.

Krauskopf petted the interface control panel of his earth-ripper, crooning praises to the bloodied metal and exposed circuits. The daemon-engine continued its berserk charge in glee. Inspecting the extent of the damages, the Chief Magos unchained Ishme-Zur's body to let it collapse on the deck. Without a thought, Krauskopf kicked the useless spell caster from the platform of his magnificent machine, glad to be rid of the ineffectual sorcerer.

Not all the Harlequin obeyed the Great Harlequin's command. His image reflected in the mirror-mask of the troupe warlock, Ahriman opposed the Shadowseer, one fist a writhing storm of Warp energy while the other held his black staff defensively. No chances would be taken against this rival. He recalled the speed and prowess brought against him in the Webway by the warlock. But now beyond the powers of the Webway and whatever advantage the Harlequin arrogantly believed they held on the maiden world, the grand sorcerer would instruct them in a different creed.

Shifting right before darting back and to the left, the Shadowseer's image cascaded into an echo of chromatic crystals. The feint gave time for the intricate witchblade to swing through the air; Ahriman deflected the strike and made his own. Warp fire seared the air as the molten blue inferno twisted out to burn the Shadowseer. Repelling the corrupted energy to curve around him, the warlock sought an opening in the Chaos marine's mind.

The alien's distinctive aura clawed and scratched Ahriman's mind. He intrinsically knew this Shadowseer was the same he once duelled in the portal on Maharra. Tzeentch's perverted humour was sharp and refined, indeed.

Ahriman drove back the Eldar's aura, transmuting the gore-streaked terrain of the northern dig site into a nightmarish reality. Severed limbs latched on to the Shadowseer's legs and pulled the xeno into the earth. If terror coursed through the alien's blood, it remained hidden by the emotionless mask. Struggling in the sinking earth, the Harlequin embedded the witchblade in the pliable soil and held fast. Ahriman uttered an incantation, the composition of the embankment changing, hardening about the chest of the Shadowseer.

Pointing the horned-skull of his staff at the warlock, Ahriman channelled the energies of the Warp. Balefire erupted in a volcanic fury out of the churned dirt, scorching flames set to obliterate the Harlequin. Savouring the unmasked anguish from the Shadowseer, the Chaos sorcerer gleaned inner secrets from the alien in its dying moments. He knew the Shadowseer's lineage and name, witnessed memories stored away; Craftworld halls, expanses of yellow plains under a grey sky, receding shelves in a gloomy librarium—

A shadow of jet black and ivory bone hurtled out of the night and into the wychfire. The strength behind the wrenching blow crumbled the bonds encasing the Shadowseer. He was carried out of the pillar of flame, hoarsely gulping down great quantities of air as the Death Jester guarded him, shuriken cannon pointed toward Ahriman's chest. The crisp smell of burning flesh rose into the dark heavens. Lower half of his body mutilated, the upper half charred black, the Eldar nonetheless drew breath. Struggling to rise in the mix of dirt and blood, the Shadowseer weakly gripped his intricate blade.

Compressing the trigger on his shuriken cannon, the Death Jester fired a single compressed shot at the arch-sorcerer. Waving a hand at it, the swiftly spinning projectile's trajectory changed. Turning the deadly shot to one side, Ahriman sent it blindly into the northern embankments where the virulent acid, colliding into a squad of Hyspasists, caused their corporeal forms to expand and burst.

"I know you! I hold your true name in my grip!" Ahriman's voice boomed through his hellish mask. "I know your like and form. You cannot stand against my might and endure. Tonight you will all perish and I will claim the shrine beneath us."

Uttering a word in the Eldar tongue, the Death Jester strode to meet Ahriman, but found himself held back. The Shadowseer grasped the hem of the Death Jester's coat. Something passed between them; Ahriman read the wavering sentiment in the body language of the black armoured Harlequin. Its death mask's eyes bore into the ancient Chaos marine, and then the Death Jester turned and fled over the earthen works. Leaning heavily on one elbow, mirror-mask tarnished and pennants burnt, the Harlequin Shadowseer began forming one final weave.

Ahriman advanced, a shark sensing blood in the water. Powers stripped from him, the Shadowseer was undone. The Sorcerer of the Red Cyclops struck with the power of a falling star, bringing ruin to his adversary, and finishing what Maharra had begun.


"Your return is essential. You will yield to the family's resolution in this matter." My brother's tone is silk-steel, unbending. He strays not a foot from his Path, his mind narrowed to tradition and observances and regulation. He does not drink the water given or partake of the food offered. He refuses to look at my companion.

"I will stay," I insist. But my resolve is weakening. His methods of persuasion are many and he does not hesitate to use them.

"You stain our family ancestors and descendants-to-be in your dalliance here. Kianemure is to fall. Even the Exodites pull away from this maiden world to let the stinking corruption of the mon-keigh take it." A wrinkled nose, disdain; he pushes the food away. "Your return is essential. If the weight here burdens you so," a light touch to the sword at his side, "strands of would-be fate are easily cut."

"What would you have me do?"

"To tarnish such a noble blade with the blood of offal is not what I crave. I will grant you one custom from Lugganath to your soon-to-be bastard pup, to keep in confidence between us, and then you depart for home. Your fate rewrites itself."


Osis Pathoth hadn't taken part in the excavation massacre. Not that it was beyond him to join the conflict. He keenly noted how Ahriman failed to provide him with orders and, taking that to mean his being was not required, Pathoth made himself scarce. With no one from the Meskhenet on Kianemure, the vizier was allowed to go where he pleased. Let Ahriman rage when he returned. He would not dare strike Pathoth, not if he wanted to return to the Planet of the Sorcerers and gain Magnus's favour again.

Dawn light weakly filtered through the haze of smoke and crackling energies of expended magic. Even three leagues distant from the battle, the Warp's presence hung as a pall over the Exodite settlement. Pathoth followed an old path through the forest to the outlying hamlets, coming across numerous stone and timber foundations reclaimed by the woodland.

Halting before one damaged household, the roof and upper floor partially caved in and the front wall crumbling inwards, the corners of the sorcerer's lips tugged upwards. Easily stepping across the broken wall into the dwelling, the Astartes scrutinized his surroundings. Like every domicile, the basic amenities were present, though time scoured it of being habitable. Moss and ivy grew unchecked along the damp wood and cracked stone. Pathoth allowed a flight of fancy; who once lived here and why they left. A simple reading of the aether could tell the vizier the truth to the history of the abode, but in this instance he refrained.

An inquisitive mew came from the second floor. Waiting to hear the noise again, Pathoth searched for the source. The high-pitched meow repeated, plaintive in its note. Crawling out from under a sodden timber, a ginger coloured kitten stared down at the interloper, not sure what to make of the armoured creature. It sniffed the air cautiously; tail flicking back and forth before settling on a contemplative gaze. Realising it was not a simple feline, not from the blue luminescence held in its eyes, Pathoth extended one massive hand and made a clicking noise with his tongue.

"Come here." Curiosity spurred the Gyrinx kitten to creep across the beam. Without fear, the Gyrinx jumped into the open palm. Not yet feral, the Gyrinx would be easily tamed. Used as foci by Eldar, the animals empathically bonded to their owners and inherited their personalities, becoming extensions of the handlers. A perfect focus for a growing Alpha-plus psyker.

"I believe I already know the name you'll be given," Pathoth said. Meowing in what appeared to be agreement, the kitten settled as the Chaos Space Marine trekked back to the excavation site. The advisor arrived to witness the raising of the shrine.

Chief Magos Krauskopf intently watched as his great machines maneuvered a fluted shrine of wraithbone to the surface. Great bas-reliefs of the Eldar gods were etched into the organic material, entangled tree roots and clumps of mud marring its otherwise artistic perfection. Plastek cords looped around the shrine creaked as its weight was carefully lowered to the solid ground. Ahriman approached the shrine with movements akin to reverence, more for what was housed in the shrine than what the house of the gods personified. A clawed gauntlet caressed the surface. A spark of life remained in the wraithbone, a faint heartbeat slumbering deep inside.

"Rest now," the dark sorcerer whispered. "There will be much you will acquaint me with, won't there? No secrets will be kept as I come to understand you in entirety."

Weightlessness gripped Ahriman with his contact to the wraithbone. The Great Ocean tugged his body and mind under currents too strong to resist. Psychoactive reminiscences surfaced from the heart of Kianemure, will-o-wisps flickering. Sounds unheard on the Materium's plane thundered into sharp focus. Gauzy shadows of the past reached out from the Exodites and they walked alongside the present. Many Eldar paused in their work, looking in Ahriman's direction, sensing but not seeing the grand sorcerer. Sunken by the community amid a bedlam of emotion, the shrine and its lockbox languished in the retreating footsteps of the Exodites, forgotten until now.

The emotional flood stemmed and the images weakened. Ahriman returned to the present with a laugh, its sound filled with dark mirth. Ordering the shrine to be readied for transport, he returned to the headquarters to find the excavators of the dig dismantling equipment, leaving the bodies of their fallen Skitarii brethren where they lay. Cultists packed away the artefacts, servitors lifting the heavy boxes while Skitarii hollered orders in their guttural tongue. Supervising the clear out was Pathoth.

"It is pointless to ask where you hid yourself for I came out the victor, and the temple is now mine." A note of pride laced Ahriman's words. "Stored in safety aboard my vessel, its secrets will be uncovered. If you wish to partake in this all you need do is ask."

Gesturing one cultist to hurry, Pathoth replied, "My obligations as a teacher precede other trivialities now. My student will be expecting her first lesson upon my return."

A mew from the wire-meshed cage Pathoth held drew Ahriman's gaze. "What stray did you procure in your travels?" The small ball of fur hissed.

"A focus, and yes," Pathoth interjected before Ahriman spoke. "Magnus will know what's transpired on this maiden world. Rest assured, our Primarch will know of everything this day."


We walk the halls of the Craftworld, his footsteps light at the return to strict discipline, mine heavy. The psychic specks of light of those called family, I can sense their approach. They come to praise my return without censure. My brother's blood oath to never speak of what passed on the Exodite world or of the human and the child I left behind stands firm. His adherence will cost him otherwise. His naming of my daughter is an affront to my personal honour; I am ashamed to call him kin. I am shamed in allowing the name he gave to my child go unchallenged.

High and maniacal laughter ripples the air and tugs along the infinity circuit. Colourful pennants flutter.

"What is that?"

"Tonight the Rillietann come to Lugganath in celebration. As a family, we shall learn the tales of- Taekaedr! Where are you going? Return here and give the proper obeisance to your kith and kin!"

I throw off his hand when he attempts to stop me. No more. I come before the troupe in the greatest of Lugganath's domed halls, I watch transfixed as they cry laughing and embellish tales in song with a cadence bordering the absurd. They cavort in circles of exaggeration and wild colour, unhindered in oaths and familial obligations. Those who threw off their Craftworlds as the Exodites; each an individual beyond what is acceptable to the Eldar; treading Paths of their own settlement.

I walk to them and they embrace me, welcome me into their fold.

Fate is arduous, it follows those who flee. We have no choice but to accept it in the end.

My name is Taekaedr and I became Margorach, the Death Jester, leaving the shadows of Lugganath behind forever.


"Desecration, defilement! We have lost everything. We should have destroyed it before the arrival of the first mon-keigh. They should never have been allowed to lay one pound of their corrupted flesh on its hallowedness." The false-face of the Great Harlequin was thrown down in disgust. The usually stoic and quiet warrior keened, an unearthly wail expressing unnamed emotions. The survivors were bathed in ruddy dawn light, bloodied and defeated while in the smoke wreathed vale, their shrine was removed.

"We have the soul stones of our troupe. Isha bless for the family still together. They can be placed in the gardens with the other generations." Cradled in a woven pouch of synthpsy-weave, the Death Jester looked at the gemstones. They glowed, a grief tingeing their deep light; not all had been saved from the appetites' of the daemons.

"Do you not mourn for your family?"

"Now is not the time." Leaning against his heavy cannon, the Harlequin kept level-headed and practical. He suppressed the memory of a woman and unborn, ill-named child. "There's never a time to practice the mourning rites."

"Cegorach take your coldness." The Great Harlequin spat out the curse then remembered himself and breathed. "What did you make of the Chaos spawn? They are the same we met in the Webway not long ago. The sorcerer Ahriman is a plague to our race." Choking back his misery, the Great Harlequin wiped the soot from his mask which he held in his hands. "How I wish the Eldar was greater in number. How I wish Fidollarin was still with us. You could have saved him."

"He told me to leave," came the accusing reply. "I would have brought the warlock with me but he told me to leave. Do you think I do not share the same grief and burden you do, or that somehow it is less?"

"We must report to Lugganath. Let us depart-"

The Death Jester laughed humourlessly. "You must report. I severed my ties to them long ago."

"We will both return to the Craftworld." It was a statement, not a suggestion. "I know your stance on this, Taekaedr, but my will is set. You will return. We encountered these same tainted marines before. They fled, and you pursued only to lose them, and now they appear once more. I would not doubt the Seer Council would speak to you. This is not mere chance for them to come here, for you to see them again, and for this to happen."

"Who is Taekaedr? I am Margorach."

"Cegorach knows who you are, just as Lugganath knows. Family is all."

Margorach bared his teeth behind his skull mask. "I have forsaken the loyalties of those once called family. Their blood is damned."

"Blood is everything," his companion countered. "You shame yourself further yet by not following my orders."

"They shamed themselves first. Go and warn Lugganath if you want, Ehidril, I will stay and harry the Sons of Magnus." He checked the ammunition of the shuriken cannon, adjusted the flip-belt's gravitational field.

Ehidril gritted his teeth. "For what end do you commit yourself to?"

Margorach laughed. "To hunt for sport. To seek my own death. Who can say? Take our family to safety." He passed the synthpsy-woven pouch to his troupe leader. "Fate is arduous. We must have merriment wherever we can find it."