2

'In times of great despair – despair, and feel your soul writhe to the tune of the Gods'

(Pofidensis, Prophet of Angapolis)

Mentai Shurlan was going to die. He knew it. There was no way he could see himself surviving what was ahead of him. The vid-link he had installed down the corridor showed him that a ten-man assault squad of hive-police were mere moments away from coming around the corner. They wore tough carapace armour and each carried a harshly violent shotgun, together the squad were capable of reducing Mentai to indistinguishable bloody pulp in a single volley.

Mentai, on the other hand, had a hand-grenade, a pair of handguns and a dirk-like skiv he had made himself. Oh, and a little boot-knife. He also had the terror-raising ability to see his death as it slowly approached down the corridor, and the entirely reassuring knowledge that his death would mean entirely nothing to anybody. Even the cult wouldn't care if he died, as long as he delayed the hive-police for long enough. In fact, he wasn't entirely sure if anyone would come and get him if the psykers finished their ceremony – would he be left here, to guard this forlorn corridor, to shed his blood in defence of the cult, without there even being a need for his sacrifice?

He didn't even know exactly what the psykers were doing. There were seventeen of them, he knew that much, and they represented the leadership of the cult. He was also aware some sort of ceremony was taking place and it required privacy and security. Obviously it was also highly illegal and subversive, but that stood for everything the cult did. They were formed with the intention of causing havoc to the Kluthian hive-city and, more widely, the Imperium in general. Nothing they did was legal Every breath Mentai took was a crime against the Emperor. Whatever the leadership were up to, he was one of the many meaningless grunts tasked with making sure they were not interfered with. The cult leaders couldn't pick him out of a crowd. And that led to another thought.

Of course, he had considered abandoning his post. Now was too late to do so, of course, but he had had plenty of opportunity in the last twelve hours. Despite assurances that he would be checked on, he was fairly sure he could have happily scampered off down some side-corridor and never looked back or even be looked for. He could have preserved his skin. There were two reasons he hadn't done this. The first was the notable threat that if he did, 'terrible things would happen' - to him, he presumed.

The curse was so terrifyingly unspecific that it left you wondering whether that meant the cult itself would come after you or some... thing... would find you its prey one dark night. Both were equally likely, considering the nature of the cult. And of course you dare not ask because that would suggest you were considering leaving your post, and that seemed likely to involve you finding out what your punishment would be in a dreadfully exact way.

The other reason was that he had no pressing will to save his skin. He had no family, no job, and no hope of achieving anything outside the cult. He hated the Imperium and all the crushing Emperor-worship being a citizen involved. He was too intelligent to ever really accept the lies. Eventually someone would find this out and he'd be tortured and killed for heresy. The only hope he had for anything was the cult. At least you could see that those gods were real. No, he would fight. And die.

The vid-screen he had set up was in a little enclove next to a doorway. Outside that doorway was the hallway the hive-police were advancing down. It was a T-junction, so across from Mentai there was another corridor, which led nowhere. It would, however, be his only refuge, his only port in the fast-approaching storm. He took a deep breath. The assault squad were closing in now, leaving the view of his vid-link. Slowly and carefully, he pulled the pin out of his hand grenade and cooked it off, counting in measured breaths. And... Now.

He spun out into the corridor, hurling the grenade toward the tight group of surprised hive-police, and diving for the far corridor as shotgun blasts swiftly pounded into the wall behind him, spraying splinters of wood and plaster everywhere. The hand-grenade exploded a second later, and Mentai could feel it through the floor, like a giant heartbeat, thrumming up through his chest. Dust was dislodged from everywhere, swirling around him. He scrambled to his feet and drew his weapons. He had only precious seconds before the assault squad's discipline re-asserted itself.

Pistol in either hand, he stepped out into the corridor again, unleashing a barrage of fire down the hallway as he moved for his original position. He could see two shapes lying prone on the floor, and thought he saw another's head jerk back as he fired, though it was hard to see through the smoke. A shotgun blast slammed into the wall behind him and he ducked back into his original den.

Mentai took a deep, ragged breath. His heart was racing. His arm was bleeding- probably from a shard of something blowing off the wall (or maybe it was a graze from a shotgun shell- were they that close to hitting him?) There was no time to pause, though. He quickly clambered up the side of the enclave to stand on the precious centimetres of wood above the door frame. This was as far as he had dared to plan – dared to think he might survive. To be honest, he had expected to die out in the corridor a few seconds ago, and was still reeling from his continued existence. Not for long though. The hive-police were no doubt rushing forward even now, to come exterminate him.

Even as the thought flashed through his mind, two armoured figures swept through the doorway below him. He reacted instantly, his handguns levelling at their heads and his fingers finding the triggers. One gun clicked, its magazine empty already. The other barked fire, however, and as a helmet shattered under the close-range slug, the head within was cracked wide open, and blood pooled out onto the floor as the man collapsed.

Mentai tossed aside his empty gun and swung the other to the second target, firing desperately as he tried to retain his balance on the door-frame. The officer had dashed forward, however, and as he turned to seek Mentai the bullets ricocheted wildly from his carapace armour, or missed altogether. Seeing his opponent, the officer raised his gun and fired. Mentai somehow managed to duck out the way, but his sudden movement and the vibrations of the blast toppled him from the door frame. He slammed into the wall and tumbled onto the floor, wildly disorientated.

The assault-officer swung his gun around again, and Mentai saw his doom coming through blurred, twirling vision. Writhing, he scythed his legs across the floor. The officer was strong but Mentai was desperate, and he toppled the man, the blast going wild as the officer landed on his back. Quickly, Mentai lunged for the man's rifle. As he reached it, he saw a figure appear in the doorway. There was a second of desperation when his hand couldn't find the trigger, but then the rifle belched lead and the figure in the doorway collapsed, thrown to the floor by the impact. Mentai was by this time breathless and lost in a world of instant reaction and constant peril. He wasn't sure if his blurred vision was to do with the constant movement, his fall, or smoke from all the gunfire. Whatever the cause, it prevented him seeing the officer he had tumbled lunging to his feet and knocking him to the floor.

Mentai spat blood as he reeled from the blow. He turned to see that the officer was levelling a las-pistol at him from above. Once again, he scythed the man's legs from under him, except this time the armoured officer landed on top of him, growling into his face through a loose breathing mask. Mentai grunted at the painful impact. Gods this man was heavy.

The officer abandoned his las-pistol and began pounding Mentai in the face. Each blow came painfully and drew blood, hammering Mentai further into semi-consciousness. Summoning some of his last reserves of strength, Mentai wrenched his arms from beneath his armoured attacker, and with them, his skiv, from its sheath in his belt. The armoured man looked surprised for an instant, and then he had twelve inches of underhive steel in his throat.

The man didn't die instantly – there was a lot of coughing and staggering around. This gave Mentai some precious time to recover, picking himself up and getting his breath back. One of his eyes was only seeing stars, but his other was counting bodies. Three. And there were maybe three more going to their Emperor down the corridor. That didn't add up then. Unless the grenade had -

"GO!"

Two canisters bounced in through the doorway. It seemed that his victim's compatriots were being a little more cautious. As fumes began to spill out from the canisters, Mentai quickly collapsed to the floor by the body of the man whose head he had shattered, taking his breathing-mask and struggling to draw the man's las-pistol from its holster.

Two armour-clad figures appeared in front of him and fired instantly. For a shocking second Mentai thought he had actually died, and these would be his last sights before his mind evaporated. Then his brain processed what had happened. The men had fired past him, looking past where he lay on the floor. They hadn't even seen him. And now – aha! He had the las-pistol. Not waiting to consider what grace of the warp had spared him, he swung it upwards and fired rapidly. One man stumbled as a las-beam caught him in the thigh. The other staggered backwards as his helmet took a blast, burn-marks searing across his face. Mentai rose and placed his boot-knife in the eyesocket of the first while he continued his assault on the other, las-blasts melting the man's rifle, scoring his armour, and finally incinerating the officer's skull from the front.

Still alive. Battered, bleeding, half-blind and shaking with adrenaline, but still alive. And armed. He regarded the las-pistol with his good eye. It was a good weapon. He was inclined to feel this way about any weapon that saved his life. Turning around, he saw that the man he had stabbed was a leaking cracked shell against the wall, his armour torn open by shotgun blasts. That explained his miraculous escape from death – the officers had fired on their own man by mistake. The warp looked after its own, then, in some manner. Or maybe it was just luck. Whatever the cause, Mentai was just frikking grateful to be alive.

It was getting hard to see in the fumes from the canisters. At least he could still breathe, though – but what about the corridor? There were two men absent, by his count. He turned his gaze to the vid-link. He could make out the corridor, with two upright figures moving some prone ones. So, a medic and an assistant, trying to save who they could. He sighed into his mask. If they got out, more would come. More would probably come anyway, but if they got out then there would be no question about it. Hive authorities hated being blocked in their work – they'd send a regiment in if they had to. Las-pistol in hand, he stepped out into the corridor. Perhaps this time he would die.

***

Pritsil could feel his power ebbing. Psykers varied in the strength of their talent, just as there were those who had different gifts. Pritsil was not strong. He had only just stepped into the ceremony and he already felt the strain. Of course, it was a big incantation – with lots of power required from each participant, but Pritsil was replacing someone who had kept it up for over two hours. And the Grand Master, Kunthalin, had been weaving the spell together since its beginning, nearly twelve hours ago. He stood in the middle of the circle that Pritsil now joined, 6 Psykers channelling power while he incanted and spun symbols in the air. They were interlinked in many ways, bound by ties that Pritsil didn't fully understand – that was why it was necessary to make sure nothing was disturbed. Ten more psykers stood around the circle, ready to take their place if it was needed. And around them, a high wall, at the top of which was a platform that lead off into many tunnels heading out into the hive. Guarding this platform were twenty or so dedicated cultists, armed with stolen las-guns and autorifles. They all stood watching the same entrance- a huge set of double doors beyond which a series of innocuous offices shielded the ceremony from the light of the hive's main street.

Pritsil was not certain what this building was, but it was old and abandoned and had thick enough walls to shield the ceremony from most scans. The incantation didn't have long to go now, and then... then they would have it. Pritsil was glad of that – there had been reports of hive-police moving into the tunnels further out, doing battle with the rest of the cult, who were being spread out to try and slow them down. Hopefully the Lord Tzeentch had made sure their foes did not know where the incantation was taking place, or at least would prevent them getting here before the time was right.

Pritsil felt the warp-winds surge and knew the spell was nearly there. He urged all his power to the fore and pushed it towards Kunthalin, who was hidden behind a cloud of multicoloured lights, communing, no doubt, with The Changer of Ways himself. The lights swirled. Pritsil could feel the drain, like a vacuum, sucking his power away from him. Desperately he tried to control the flow, dosing out his power slowly as it reached its limits. The swirling colours were inside his head now – inside all their heads. He could feel the thoughts of his fellow cultists, tired and straining to keep up the flow. Their minds were touching in the bliss of the Lord Tzeentch's light. How privileged he was, for such a weak mind to take part in this most grand of artifices, and be there at its completion. Then, it was done. IT WAS DONE! The jubilation of each of his fellows echoed in his mind as the perfect, crystalline sum of their efforts formed in the mists before their eyes. It was egg-shaped, but like the egg of no known creature, it glistened an odd mirage of colours, sometimes purple, sometimes blue, sometimes green. It was perfection, the physical expression of a single wish of the Lord of Change.

As the cultists looked on in awe, an explosion burst the great doors open, shaking the room and dislodging bricks from the ceiling. Hive-Police poured in, and gunfire ensued. Pritsil looked on in horror as Grand Master Kunthalin's head exploded, and the last thing he realised before his life ended was that he and five others were still all linked to the man's soul when it dropped into the void.

***

Mentai heard the explosion, and hurried his steps. He had seen to the remaining intruders with a somewhat hurried efficiency, and had decided that now was the time to pull back, never mind his orders. He carried a shotgun, looted from one of the officers, and wore some carapace armour, but under his shirt, so his fellow cultists wouldn't shoot him by mistake. He wasn't going to survive so far just to be cut down because of his dress code. He also had a las-pistol thrust into his belt, and had retrieved his skiv from the mangled mess of the man he had killed with it. Oh, and his sight was returning. Always a bonus.

Ahead, he could hear gunfire in the ceremonial chamber. Drak. That wasn't a good omen. He turned a corner, noting that an impromptu exit to the underhive lay behind him, in the form of a grill that had been lifted aside. That was where the cultists would be retreating to, if it came to that. Ahead of him he could see the ceremonial chamber. Las-beams tore through the air, and he could hear autoguns and shotguns crackling and roaring. Sounds of death. Why, then, was he still headed toward the chamber?

Such thoughts aside, and hefting his looted rifle, Mentai stepped out into the chamber. His first victim was completely unaware of his presence – poor discipline, that, not checking a corridor to your rear while moving past it. Undoubtedly the officer's sergeant would have given him a strenuous ear-full for such a slip-up.

Mentai gave him a shotgun blast to the small of the back, cracking the carapace armour into shards and rupturing the man's internal organs. It wasn't a fair shot. It was an easy shot. It wasn't that Mentai Shurlan didn't play fair. Mentai Shurlan didn't play at all.

The ceremonial chamber was a hellstorm of las-beams, explosions and gunfire. The hive-police had burst through the main doors of the chamber and were fanning out quickly, pouring fire into the cultists guarding the upper balcony. It was not going well for the under-equipped, out-numbered cultists. Down below, psykers were milling around in alarm, and... something... was writhing around in a transfigured mess that everyone, including, Mentai, was avoiding looking at. Up above, cultists armed with autoguns and las-guns released desperate, ineffective flurries of covering fire at the intruders. They were getting mowed down.

And help wouldn't be coming, realised Mentai, The squad he had faced before was just the tip of the iceberg. Down each of the winding corridors that lead to the chamber, a crack squad would be advancing, cutting down or forcing back the rest of the cult's numerous grunts. They would be trapped here, in the ceremonial chamber, and the hive would have neatly eliminated its little canker of corruption – the little gem of the population that didn't bow their heads in servile obedience to the Corpse-Emperor on his distant throne. And the frustrating thing was that behind Mentai, a hope for the cult's survival existed. An escape route, free – at least for now- of opposition. Not that he'd be able to attract attention to this, of course.

A blast from an officer's rifle scored a hole in the wall above Mentai's head.

Well he could attract some attention, anyway. He dropped, rolled, and started firing. A shot went wild, and another toppled an officer. Mentai nearly congratulated himself, but then the man regained his feet, swearing and gesturing in Mentai's direction. Drak. That warp-dammed armour. Mentai flinched as a grenade went off nearby. He pulled the trigger on his rifle only to find it clicked feebly. The magazine was empty.

Why the frik hadn't he thought to check the rifle was fully loaded? That was the sort of mistake likely to get him killed. And the frustrating thing was he could have taken the time to check it, too.

Rifle-fire resounded, and men started to pound towards him. He drew himself up into a crouch and fumbled for his las-pistol. Something hit his chitinous breastplate and he was sent sprawling. Was that a rifle-shot? The gouges in his armour said so. His heart raced as his mind drew a blank. He could see a squad of men heading his way, but he couldn't think straight enough to react.

Something was watching over him today, though. He watched in disbelief as a tongue of flame reached up from below and wrapped itself around the squad. He even smelt the sizzling flesh as smoke billowed from the men's collapsing remnants.

Mentai regained his feet and drew his las-pistol. The psykers below were finally getting their act together, at least, those that were left were. They lashed out with bolts of warp-lightning and flame-whips, others wrapping the group in a telekinetic bubble to shield them all from return fire. It was a fragile advantage, but it began to tell. Armoured figures collapsed and scattered. The hive-police of Kluthia were prepared for a lot, but they weren't used to facing warp-spawned hellfire. And whatever It was that everyone was avoiding, it was squirming unpleasantly across the chamber floor... parts coming together in a horrific feat of biological construction.

Mentai began to fire into the scattering hive-police. Someone flinched as his las-beam seared across their helmet. Another man stumbled as his kneecap vaporised in a flash of heat. The other cultsits were regrouping too, now. An autogun stuttered and armour splintered. Someone fired a lasgun over Mentai's head and tumbled an important-looking figure. It seemed like the crowd of cultists was gathering around the corridor Mentai had emerged from. Not a bad idea, considering all the other upper corridors seemed to be resounding with gunfire.

"There's an exit" he shouted to his fellows, firing indiscriminately into the crowd of hive-police, who by now had been pushed back to the doorway they had burst in through.

Men looked at him, and he was shocked at the level of fear and desperation evident on their faces.

"Through there" he pointed "A grill's been lifted, but-"

"This way!" someone shouted "There's a way out!"

Cultists began to hurry over, some even ducking into the corridor, rushing to the promised freedom.

Mentai wasn't so sure. It had just started to look like they might win here – and now they started to run? The rush to the corridor was already lessening the pressure on the hive-police, who were sheltering from the sorcerous wrath of the cult's psykers by taking cover behind the frame of the door they had entered through.

As more cultists dropped their weapons and ran, it seemed, conversely, like the intruders themselves were being pushed back. But the barrage of rifle fire from the door was continuing to rain down on the shielded dome that surrounded the surviving psykers. And there was another problem, Mentai realised. He span on the spot and saw the first of the officers emerging from the other tunnels. The squads moving in from further out had now eliminated the cult's wide-spread network and were converging on the chamber from all directions. Quickly aiming and firing, he dispatched the first man with a shot to the head. Someone nearby had realised the threat as well, and poured las fire into another corridor, the flashes illuminating tumbling figures. Mentai gestured for the men around him to split their fire between the main door and the corridors. To his surprise, they complied – not exactly 'snapping to it' like the officers they faced would have done, but following his direction fairly swiftly. It seemed like giving orders was just a little easier than Mentai had always thought.

***

It arose. Sensations flickered across Its mind. Pain. Pain was a constant for this state of existence. It crackled and seared through Its limbs. Many limbs, it had - twisted, tortured pieces to make up a twisted, tortured whole. It didn't even have a mind of its own – it was a twisted shell of minds- minds that had once danced warily around the realms of It's spawning, now lost and broken beyond recognition, screaming silently within those same halls.

A price of souls had been paid in It's birth, and these souls had torn the warp with their terror as It had took their forms. But It was them. It had all their dreams and desires locked up inside It. Just like It's form was made from the pulped remains of men, It's will and soul were the scrambled cacophony of the thoughts that escaped the minds of six dying men.

What was this?

Awareness was difficult to comprehend for a being that had lived all its previous existance in a dark, silent, tortured realm where nothing was, where nothing could be said to exist more than a thought existed in your mind. But it had many organs dedicated to sensing the world, and it was learning well from its brains. There was something nearby. It focused more eyes, and bent other organs on sensing this item. It was round, and glistened colourfully. Were all things of this plane so colourful? It reached out to touch the item with a feeler.

POWER

Energy sizzled through the small item in a spectrum both familiar and strange to It. It flinched from the raw radiance of the item, but then its patchwork soul soared in recognition. This was its child! Spawned by It before It had been spawned – a herald of his coming. No – It was its guardian, its protector. It would bring this child of It to the fruition of the Master's plan. It would complete the task that Its component parts would never have succeeded in doing alone.

If It had emotions, then it was joy it felt now, as it reached out to take its child.

And then its child was snatched from it.

Rage.

***

Mentai was left with a clustered group of men gathered around the corridor they could exit through. The rest had fled or died. They poured desperate fire into the corridors and towards the main doors, trying to keep the assault squads back. Mentai's las-pistol was hot in his hand, and he was fearful of how much charge was left. Next to him, a man's autogun clicked uselessly. Out of ammo. The man looked at Mentai and shrugged helplessly, then ducked into the corridor, running for the exit. Mentai didn't like the loss, but he couldn't blame the man. At least he had stayed that long. Others had fled the moment they had known they could, abandoning their commitment to the cult without a thought.

A gargled cry rose up from below, and Mentai glanced down. The psykers' shield was down. A robed figure lay spread-eagle on the floor, draining blood. Another stood looking shocked, clutching something odd to his chest. The rest had paused too. They looked exhausted. Was there even a chance they could do something if they regrouped? Mentai wasn't an expert on warp-weaving but he got the impression you needed energy to cast spells, and this group seemed dearly lacking in just that.

The question was irrelevant anyway. Whatever the thing was that lay in front of the psykers, it was moving.

Towards them.

The psykers were moving too, and the speed at which they fled the monstrosisty was impressive. They darted around it like fleeing rats, dashing up the main ramp.

Mentai was hoping they would escape, but it didn't look hopeful. To get from where they were to where Mentai and the cultists were, it was necessary to first run up the main ramp towards the hive-police at the main doors, then turn and run up an exposed ramp away from them. Not a good manoeuvre to be making, especially seeing as the hive-police seemed to be preparing for a fresh wave.

Three psykers went down on the first leg, as they fled the thing that pursued them, only to be cut down by shotgun blasts. Another one tumbled oddly as he turned, and collapsed straight into the arms of a black-armoured officer, who quickly pinned the psyker. Mentai pitied him. A quick death here would have been much preferable to what that man would experience at the hands of the Inquisition. A man tumbled as the desperate group ran up the exposed ramp. Mentai fired his las-pistol into the officers at the gate, trying to provide covering fire. The men around him did the same. It was to little avail, though. The leading man tumbled, his shoulder torn by a shotgun shell. To Mentai's extreme surprise, the man behind him stopped and bent over. The followers of Tzeentch were not known for being particularly caring, and this man risked his life for his fellow.

Luck served, however – and Mentai had had his share today, so it was only fair that another be shown the same grace. The strange, tumbling terror of flesh that pursued the psykers had ran into the hive-police. As might be expected, both parties were instantly distracted from the psykers on the ramp. As a roaring battle ensued, the final psyker stood, leaving his dying compatriot. Mentai could have questioned the point of halting, but it wasn't his place – he just waved, urging the man on. The drawn-looking man needed no encouragement, he dashed up the ramp and across the gantry.

Mentai spared a thought for the battle at the main door. There were bodies strewn everywhere, victims of the thing's ferocious assault. But now the assault team were winning back – they'd brought forward someone armed with a promethium burner. The thing shirked from the flames as they poured over it. It let out a howl, a moan that set your soul on edge. Mentai had no compassion for the thing – its very existence made him uneasy – but if it died now the hive-police would be right on their tails. He took careful aim and fired.

His las-beam rippled over the promethium tank on the officer's back.

He fired again.

He caught the officer's arm. Not good enough.

He fired again.

His las-beam punctured the promethium tank and it exploded, the flames immolating not just the man holding the burner, but everyone around him.

The psyker reached the corridor and ran in without a glance at anyone. He was oddly hunched – perhaps he had been hit? No time to wonder about that. The cultists followed the robed man in, and Mentai followed them. The cult needed to survive, and it wouldn't do so if they remained here.