It is understandable that no one should know what happens in an Exterminatus. And yet, if one should be able to defend the Imperium, one must know.

And yet, really, you can't.

You can hear a Tech Priest speaking of oxidation rates and flammable atmospheric conditions and optimal casualty projections. You can watch the torpedoes being loaded, and even the triggering of their tubes; see them blast off, silently into space, to strike the planet beneath.

You can be told of the results, of cities destroyed, oceans vapourised, trillions dead. But the mind can, to an extent, ignore those. They are statistics. You, it is to be hoped, knew none of them personally.

To hear of the results on the ground, though, for people, is something else altogether. One can hear of women with gas masks melted to their faces, howling. One can watch pict scans of children, and fathers alike, their feet melting into cobblestones, and then their hands as they try to claw themselves out.

But you can't really believe it. The mind repels the possibility that these could happen. The reaction, more than shock, or horror, is a surrealist rejection. One of hope, almost, that this can't be caused by a Tech Priest speaking of oxidation rates. That the scent of roasted flesh on the scout probes as they fly back to the docking bay is a hallucination. That this can only be caused by a cackling sorceror of Chaos, laughing as he sacrifices babies and plots against the Universe, the Establishment, your home and family.

Not by his opponents.

And yet, all the same, years of this, decades of this, can get to a man…

The Monastery of the Blessed Wulferic was, of course, delighted to receive the Dr. Prewellyn, and his new patient. It was indeed fortunate, though, that they had met Brother Mallory when they did; as the stable boy remarked dryly, another few turns like their coach had taken, then they'd have to re-open another wing of the infirmary.

'Another wing, young man?' The doctor asked, taking note of the lad's plump cheeks. A well fed monastery, this one.

The young lad replied, stuttering and excited, that the Monastery was playing host to a most exalted guest this evening. A choir of angels.

'Angels?' the patient asked, stepping briskly out of the coach.

'Of death, sir.'

'Ah.' The doctor made the sign of the Aquila; his patient did the same, and turned, slightly embarrassed, as Mallory prostrated himself upon the ground. 'How fortuitous. The Emperor Protects.'

The stableboy, blushing under his cassock, was delighted to tell the travellers of how he had met the Angels, how they had no steeds, how they bore drawn swords the entire time, of their bulk, the thunderous clang as their boots struck cobblestones, their erect posture, their steel-grey armour, the flicker of their capes as they stooped through the gates, and the Doctor was counting horses, and found a number of others. A few military saddles, tails cut in Yeomanry fashion. A smattering of draft horses, a far greater mass of oxen.

And several massive footprints ground in the stone cobblestones of the yard. But why, then, hadn't he noticed them on the road? The Angels of Death, it seemed, were trying to travel hidden.

An unnerving prospect.

Nevertheless, the doctor thanked the stableboy for allowing his horses to be accommodated, and trusted that the monastery's Marshal of Horse would take good care of them. He feigned his surprise upon being told that the Marshal of Horse-the very same, yes-was the mendicant beggar they had picked up on the road. They had thought him a stray. Well, it's a small galaxy. Remarkable!

The Monastery of the Blessed Wulferic was, in autumn, always an empty sort of place. Its halls were designed to house many thousands of pilgrims, and the entire brotherhood was to huddle there in winter; but in autumn, the brothers tended to the land, and the guests sadly diminished as the roads became inclement, and the Capital's social season more exciting.

As a result of this, everything echoed. And as the shadows lengthened and the days grew short, everything darkened. The faces of the statutes of the saints grew ever gaunter, and the blazing windows of stained glass dimmed.

As the bells rang for the eighth hour from sunrise, the doctor and his patient were granted access to the Waters. This was a little pool backed out below the monastery, watched by a phalanx of glaring gargoyles in worn white marble. The pair of them hurried down and, when the brothers left them, they stripped down. That is to say, they stripped their weapons.

Every weapon in their combined arsenal was systematically taken apart and bathed in the pool, which turned out to be, even through the doctor's gloves, surprisingly warm, but otherwise not obviously blessed in any way. Priscilla initially objected to this.

'It's brine,' she said shortly.

'Why, yes, it is. But it was brought forth by the blessed Saint Wulferic, so who am I to judge?' The Inquisitor gestured towards the gargoyles. 'Those fellows certainly do.' A gargoyle. A ward against evil spirits. One had its muzzle entirely worn off.

'It will rust my piece.'

'But no. It is sacred. It will do no such thing.' The Inquisitor made a sign of the Aquila over the disassembled trigger guard of his first pistol, and began to make the Incantation of Ordinance.

After some consideration, Priscilla did the same.

Save for the murmuring of prayers and the lapping of water, silence fell.

'Are you sure, doctor, that Mallory should accompany us?' she asked after a while.

'Words were exchanged.' A pause. 'But he will be loyal.'

'Really? There was cursing, spit and old wounds from what I heard.'

'He has no choice. I am an Inquisitor, and I need my best. And he just so happened, in ages past, to be the finest pilot in the sector. And an excellent equestrian. And a master of anything that moved mechanically.' The Inquisitor ticked them off on his fingers. 'I do wonder how these worlds mix the qualities so well.'

'These worlds?'

'The backward ones, yes.'

'And he was these things many years ago. Things have changed.'

'Not really. I daresay the monastic life would have put some humility into him. But they don't make a man Marshal of Horse for nothing.'

'Neither does he go into holy orders for nothing! Lorkas happened, Prewellyn. Lorkas happened.'

'Yes, it did. And that is why I need my finest with me once more.' The Inquisitor reverently took up one of his many knives, and began to bathe the hilt. 'For the Emperor protects-'

A knock on the door.

A flurry of weapons being swept up, aimed.

'The other ones were taken,' Mallory's voice said. 'The Angels required one for each of themselves, and the rest are shut for the season. May I come in?'

Mallory, Brother of the Order of the Blessed St Wulferic, Marshal of Stables, formerly of His Imperial Majesty's Navy, had been remembered by the Inquisitor as tall, dashing and broad shoulders; but, since he used no Juvenat for reasons of his faith, those qualities had been progressively taken from him. He carried in his hands an autopistol, of obviously offworld manufacture, a number of waterskins on his belt, and several magazines of bullets.

'I don't like any of this,' he said, voice trembling slightly. 'But the Emperor's called. I must obey. And I still think I'm a professional.'

He may have been about to say more, before being crushed by Priscilla's embrace. The Inquisitor smiled thinly. 'Your presence will be useful, and I am quite sure that it will be better if willing, and mind that gargoyle.' After a while, they let go of each other.

'I'm sure you would like to know the mission,' Priscilla said, considering the remains of her arsenal. Most of it shone with brine.

Mallory nodded, but first started filling the waterskins from the pool, and even drinking some himself. He choked, but swallowed it. 'The Emperor Protects. Yes, Priss, I would.'

'Well, I don't, so I was hoping we could dunk our master until he tells us.'

The Inquisitor raised his arms in mock surrender. 'Alright. I have been mysterious. But you must know, I suppose.'

'Inquisitor, you should know that my chest's weaker now. If it requires too much breathing smoke…'

'Then I will provide the best inhalers this world has to offer. Trust me, I am a doctor.'

'Right.' Mallory sat down, dangling his legs in the pool, robe darkening with water. 'I'm sure you've worked out that those gargoyles have cameras in 'em.'

'And that you would be so good as to remove the records, yes.'

'Right.' Mallory nodded. 'Now, the assignment. Please.'

The Inquisitor reached into his pocket, and produced a dataslate. 'You must understand,' he said, 'that I cannot utter the name of our enemy aloud. I have done so recently. Foolishly. But here, at least, is as good a place as any to brief you. It is beneath the ground. It is in a sanctum of the God-Emperor.'

Wordlessly, he flicked on the slate. All three of them gazed down. A word flashed onto the screen.

Barabas.

'This concerns the name there, a lost world, and a tune whose title I cannot recall. And an ending to it all.' They leaned forward, silence around them apart from the Waters. And read.

They would have more travelling to do, and more of the Inquisitor's acolytes to find, and Mallory wondered to himself why the Inquisitor, in this most blessed of sanctums, wore gloves on his hands.

That evening, they dined with Angels.

They sat in the Refectory, dining on excellent bread, cheese and wine. The monks dominated one end of the table, a silent group. The work had been hard and wet, and they had little time for conversation.

The other was similarly subdued. Even a deputation of officers and men of the Forfar and Blackton Yeomanry, with their cherry faces (there to pay respects to their fallen and sample the monastery's excellent red) did not speak. For the two Angels were there, and it did not seem fitting.

They kept their helmets on, and sat bolt upright. They did not eat. They said grace with the rest, drowning out even the gnarled augmentics of the abbot. That was all which separated them from the statues of the saints in the corners. The marble of the statues, in a room lit by flickering torches, was in shadow. It matched that of the Angels perfectly.

The doctor, a brave man, tried to engage them in conversation, asking them why they had travelled so far. He received no response. He tried again, about the varying landscapes of Saggitarix, to which he was not native. Nothing. He was about to speak again when, quite suddenly, they rose as one, bowed to the Abbot (stiffly, at the waist), and departed, feet thundering through the monastery.

Conversation gradually entered the room, like a warm breeze, and the table was soon approaching normality. As dinners often are at monasteries with many guests and good wine, it went on quite late. The doctor learned many fascinating things, including that the Angels were present en route to the Capital, where they intended to pay respects to their fallen comrades. An officer of the Yeomanry remarked, in a surprised tone, that it was dam' like what they were doing themselves. Just less, well…

Eventually, the abbot rose to make a toast to the Emperor, and say the final prayers of the evening. They were just about to reach the Amen, when a voice roared through the halls of the monastery.

'A BROTHER OF A CHAPTER OF THE ADEPTUS ASTARTES IS ENTITLED TO TWO HOURS OF SLEEP PER DAY.'

The entire table froze, mortified.

'THIS IS CONSIDERED LAX IN TIMES OF WAR. BUT THIS WORLD IS AT PEACE.'

Peace… peace…. Peace… the word rolled on, and on.

'YOUR PRACTICES OF WORSHIP DO NOT CONCERN US, MORTALS. DESIST.'

In shocked silence, the entire table did so, and soon went to their beds.

The doctor could not help but reflect to himself that, in paintings and art, the Adeptus Astartes are depicted with their helmets off. They snarl handsome defiance, at the forefront of waves of cheering guardsmen. He wondered to himself the degree to which this was wishful thinking. He did not ponder what they had under their helmets. He did not wish to know.

He could also not help but wonder why he had heard of no such pilgrimages when reading their chapter records.

The doctor's party left early the next morning. They, too, headed for the Capital.

Two men, many miles away, stood on a hilltop, speckled with trees. They carried spades in their hands, had cavalry mounts picketed nearby, and tucked pistols under their mud smeared riding cloaks. One, with an eye patch, had just finished reciting a prayer.

'They did not even give her a decent burial, Mr. Quick!' one of them spat with fury, his hat crumpled in his hands. His moustache bristled. He bristled.

'They did not, Mr. Fix,' the other replied, shaking his head. He closed his battered Uplifting Primer, and tucked it into his coat. 'Indeed they did not.'

On the bare branches above them, crows had gathered. They had been doing so for some days. They had not eaten. This bothered both men.

'And who is the they, Mr. Quick? Hey? Who is this they?' Mr. Fix started pacing furiously. 'The mistress would never-'

Mr. Quick raised a hand to silence him, and pointed. 'That hillock over there, Mr. Fix,' he said. 'You have two eyes. Be so good?'

Mr. Fix whipped out a monocular and scurried over, stepping awkwardly over the field's furrows which, in the rain, were becoming increasingly churned. He gazed down at it. 'I don't see-' he twisted a knob. 'Ah!'

'Anything?' Mr. Quick produced a hip flask from under his cloak. He gazed up at the sky. More rain soon. Damn. And why didn't the crows eat a corpse? Even as rain-bloated as the one they'd found.

'A horseman came here. As the fight happened, he maintained his position. Then he rode off.'

'Any shots fired?'

'No sign, Mr. Quick.' Mr. Fix tucked his glass away. 'But who was it? They had a carriage, and his steed looks to be far too light to be a geno.'

'A witness. Or a suspect. And we have some more riding ahead of us, Mr. Fix.' Mr. Quick turned, tired and breath steaming in the cold, and began to trudge back to the Standfast. 'His Grace was right. He is up to something.' He offered his flask to Mr. Fix when he puffed over. Mr. Fix drank greedily.

The crows watched them leave. And, when they thought themselves unseen, they scattered like a cloud.