Текст книги "A Thousand Sons"

Автор книги: Грэм Макнилл

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Текущая страница: 27 (всего у книги 31 страниц)

Leman Russ and his Wolves overran Aphea’s position in less than two minutes.

Tizca burned as dawn’s light crept over the horizon, but for all that the Space Wolves had struck an overwhelmingly bloody blow, they had yet to face the city’s true defenders.

The Thousand Sons deployed, and suddenly the fight took on a very different character.

AHRIMAN RAN THROUGH the streets on the edge of Old Tizca, his armour’s autosenses easily penetrating the thick clouds of smoke pouring from the blazing buildings. The Scarab Occult marched with him, their hearts hungry for vengeance. Ahead, the Aquarion Fountain House burned, its graceful, columned structure and artfully carved fountains crumbling in the awful heat.

Heavy fighting engulfed the streets beyond the nearby Skelmis Tholus, with the 15th Prosperine Assault Infantry in contact with the invaders. The narrow streets formed natural choke points, and the Spireguard commander was using the terrain to his advantage.

Flames billowed further downslope, devouring structures set alight by the Space Wolves and threatening to spread further uphill. Warriors of the Pyrae were containing the blazes, hurling the fires back down the hill to block entire avenues and streets with seething walls of flame. The sky overhead was smeared with missile contrails and explosions, and a building behind Ahriman collapsed as an aircraft slammed into its roof, sending up plumes of smoke and fire. Blazing rafters and roof tiles spilled onto the street.

The air was hot and acrid, the smell of a city in its death throes.

Explosions and the constant bark of gunfire echoed from walls that had known only laughter and song. Drifting clouds of ash and burning parchment fluttered past, and Ahriman plucked a scrap of paper from the air.

“What is it?” asked Sobek.

“Evidence of the Unseen,”said Ahriman, reading the words on the smouldering parchment. “The sea rises and the light falters. The moment we break faith with one another, the sea engulfs us and the light goes out. On that day, the sun will go down for the last time.”

Ahriman dropped the paper, watching it float off in the billowing thermals. The words were too apt to be coincidence, and he feared for what they represented. He watched the confetti of ashen books, scrolls and treatises dance like burning snowflakes above him.

“So much will be lost, but I will restore it,” he vowed. “All of it, no matter how long it takes.”

Ahriman took a deep breath, the scale of such an undertaking not lost on him. His senses were stretched to the limits of perception, his mind alive with the flickering light of possible futures. He drew deeply on Aaetpio’s well of power to enhance his awareness. His skin felt as though his Tutelary’s fire was burning him. He had felt something like this once before, but forced that memory from his mind as he sensed the presence of inimical souls nearby.

“Scarab Occult!” shouted Ahriman, aiming his heqa staff towards one of the narrow streets leading down into the Old Town. “Stand to.”

Flames and smoke belched from the street as a host of shadowy warriors smashed through the burning rubble and into the wider thoroughfare. Dust coated their armour and black, carbonised streaks marred the gleaming plate, but there was no mistaking the winter’s grey of the Space Wolves.

The enemy Astartes had seen them, unsheathing bolters and viciously-toothed swords hung with wolf-tails.

The moment stretched for Ahriman. His perceptions raced down the length of his bolter, following the path his shot would take. In his fleeting vision he saw it smash through the visor of one of the Space Wolves, blowing out the back of his helm in an explosion of blood and brain matter. The precognitive flash froze him for the briefest second with the enormity of what it represented.

Astartes were at war with one another, and the sheer horror of that fact cost Ahriman a fraction of a second.

It was all the Space Wolves needed.

Though the Thousand Sons had been forewarned, still the Space Wolves fired first.

A hail of bolter fire slammed into Ahriman and the Scarab Occult. One warrior went down, his chest-plate broken open and his vital organs pulped by a mass-reactive shell. Two others dropped, but returned fire. The spell on Ahriman was broken, and his choler came to the fore as his bolter bucked in his hand and a Space Wolf was pitched backwards, his helmet a smoking ruin.

Another was lifted from his feet by Sobek, his Practicus using his kine powers to pound the wolf-cloaked warrior to destruction against the marble walls of the Fountain House. Three other Space Wolves jerked and spasmed as the Pavoni amongst his warriors vaporised the super-oxygenated blood in their veins. Flames licked from their eye-lenses, and they fell to the ground as their armour fused around them. The Tutelaries of the Scarab Occult spun around the Space Wolves, amplifying their masters’ powers with gleeful spite.

The last three Space Wolves were blazing columns of fire, the plates of their armour black and molten, like onyx statues frozen in a moment of unimaginable agony.

Ahriman took a moment to contemplate what they had done. Aaetpio flickered above his head and he felt its urge to flow into him. Crackling arcs of crimson lightning flickered at his fingers and he suppressed them with a burst of impatience.

“Restrain yourself!” he snapped, not liking his Tutelary’s eagerness one bit.

Sobek approached him, wringing his hands, asking, “What did you say?”

“Nothing,” said Ahriman. “It doesn’t matter.”

“They caught us unawares, but we’ll hurl them back to Terra,” said Sobek, and Ahriman saw the light of his Practicus’ Tutelary echoed in the fiery gleam pulsing behind his visor.

“We have killed warriors of a brother Legion,” said Ahriman, wanting Sobek to appreciate the gravity of the moment. “There is no going back from this.”

“Why should there be? We did not start this war.”

“That doesn’t matter. We are at war and once you are at war, you fight until the bitter end. Either we defeat the Space Wolves or Prospero will be the Thousand Sons’ tomb. Either way we lose.”

“What do you mean?”

“If we survive this attack, what then? We cannot remain on Prospero. Others will come and finish what Russ has begun. If we lose, well, that speaks for itself.”

Sobek hefted his heqa staff, its length rippling with fire.

“Then we had best not lose,” he said.

KHALOPHIS RECLINED UPON the crystal throne at the heart of the Pyrae temple. His armour reflected the flames billowing at the edge of the chamber. To anyone other than a cultist of the Pyrae, the chamber would have been unbearable, the air too hot to breathe, the fire too hot to endure.

Fire sprites and elemental aspects of the aether spun and danced in the air, leaving incandescent wakes behind their insubstantial bodies. Sioda hung over him like a fiery guardian angel, the Tutelary’s form having swollen to enormous proportions since the treacherous bombardment had begun.

Armoured Neophytes surrounded him, arranged in the sacred six-pointed hexalpha pattern representing the volatile union of fire and water. They carried soul-crystals hewn from the Reflecting Caves, and flickering embers of life force burned within them.

“Are you sure of this, my lord?” asked Pharis, his Zelator’s voice betraying his unease.

Khalophis grinned and flexed his fingers upon the carved armrests of the throne. Darting fire swam in its depths, and he felt the enormous rage of the wounded consciousness beyond the temple walls awaiting the chance to strike back at his enemies.

“I have never been more sure of anything, Pharis,” said Khalophis. “Begin.”

Pharis backed away from his master, and nodded to the Neophytes. They bowed their heads and Khalophis gasped as their energies surged into him. The throne blazed with light, and he fought to direct the raging power that threatened to consume him.

“I am the Magister Templi of the Pyrae,” he hissed between clenched teeth. “The Inferno is my servant, for I am the Lord of Hellfire and I will teach you to burn.”

Sioda swept down and enveloped his body. Khalophis felt his consciousness torn from his flesh to fill another body, one of iron and steel, of crystal and rage. No longer were his muscles fashioned from meat and tendons, but from enormous pistons and fibre-bundle hydraulics newly lined with psychically resonant crystals. The bolter was no longer his weapon, but vast guns capable of obliterating entire armies and fists that could tear down buildings.

Khalophis surveyed the battlefield with the eyes of a god, a towering avatar of battle roused to fight once more. His limbs felt stiff and new, his senses taking a moment to adjust to their enormous dimensions and ponderous weight. He flexed his new body. The metallic grinding of long dormant gears and the shriek of rekindled pneumatics cut through the clamour of battle.

Sioda’s fire flowed along the incredibly complex mechanisms of his body, filling them with new life. He took a thunderous step forward and let loose an atavistic roar, his voice that of a braying war horn.

Like a mighty dragon woken from centuries of slumber, Canis Vertexmarched into battle one more.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The Line is Holding/They Will Turn On You Too/Understand the Foe

THE JETBIKES WERE golden, with curved prows shaped in the form of eagles’ beaks, their flanks carved to resemble swept-back wings. Phosis T’kar counted seven of them, swooping in low on an attack run towards his position at the end of the Raptora plaza. The warriors riding them were also golden, their red helmet plumes streaming behind them like pennants. Rapid-firing cannons blazed from underslung gun pods, ripping up the flagstone road leading from the Mylas agora.

Geysers of rock burst from every impact, but Phosis T’kar wasn’t worried. He braced his weight on his right leg and snatched his hands through the air, as though sweeping a curtain open. Four of the jetbikes were plucked from the air as if they had reached the end of an unbreakable tether. Phosis T’kar slammed them against the high walls of the Timoran Library, shattering the statues of its first custodians.

The last three exploded as Hathor Maat sent a cataclysmic electrical surge through their engines. The burning wrecks smashed into the ground and tumbled end over end towards the Thousand Sons position, skidding to a halt less than a metre from Phosis T’kar.

“Custodes,” he grunted. “They’re not so tough.”

The northern reaches of Tizca were aflame. The port was a mass of reeking pillars of smoke, the stink of promethium mingling with the acrid reek of burning tar, rubber and metal. Thick clouds hung low over the city and ash fell like black rain. Men and women in their hundreds streamed past his position, heading towards the Pyramid of Photep laden with books and arms full of scrolls. The streets were littered with fallen tomes and fragments of statuary. Carved heroes of the Raptora had once looked down on the plaza, but shelling from enemy artillery had toppled all save a handful. Expressionless faces and outstretched hands lay strewn across the flagstones.

Mixed among the civilians were bloodied remnants of the Palatine Guard, shell-shocked men drenched in blood who staggered from the port in shock. These terrified survivors were all that remained of the soldiers tasked with containing the initial enemy landings.

“I’ve had word from the Athanaeans,” said Hathor Maat, jogging over from his position to Phosis T’kar’s left.

“What is it?”

“The Wolf King is coming,” said Hathor Maat gleefully. “They say he was first to land at the port and is fighting his way towards us.”

“Fighting?” said Phosis T’kar. “I don’t think there’s much fighting going on. The Wolves are cutting through the Spireguard with ease.”

“You didn’t really expect them to hold, did you?” said Hathor Maat. “They’re only mortals, and this is an Astartes fight.”

“Not just Astartes,” said Phosis T’kar, gesturing towards the wrecked jetbikes. “Custodes want our heads on spikes too.”

“They all die just the same,” said Hathor Maat.

“Any word other than the location of the Wolf King?”

“Ahriman’s got the northern perimeter sealed. He’s holding the upper slopes of Old Tizca from the Acropolis to the eastern flank of Corvidae pyramid.”

“Leaving us with the western front from the Pavoni pyramid to the port.”

“Looks that way,” agreed Hathor Maat. “The Athanaeans are taking up position in Occullum Square, they’re going to feed us intel on the enemy plans as they get it. What’s left of the Spireguard is taking up position with the Legion, but we can’t count on them.”

“What about Khalophis?”

“No word yet.”

Explosions burst nearby as streaking missiles corkscrewed out of the sky and detonated overhead. Razored shrapnel scythed downwards, tearing a dozen civilians to bloody rags.

“Here they come!” shouted Hathor Maat, running back to his position.

A trio of boxy shapes moved through the smoke, the roar of their engines like the cry of living beasts. Trailing clouds of plaster-dust and fire, three enormous Land Raiders in the livery of the Space Wolves burst into the plaza. Behind them came the warriors of Leman Russ, hundreds of armoured fighters advancing in a howling tide of blades and bolts.

Among the warriors of Fenris were warriors in gold and red. They carried long spears with ebony hafts and shimmering blades. Phosis T’kar grinned at the thought of matching his strength against such warriors.

Packs of slavering wolves bounded across the plaza, their bared fangs flecked with scraps of uniform and flesh. The Thousand Sons opened fire, and the plaza erupted in a storm of gunfire. The din of shooting was eclipsed by the howls of the wolves. Phosis T’kar snapped his fingers and broke the alpha male of the pack in two. Bolter fire smacked armour plates and spun Space Wolves around, but the warriors of Russ were masters of charging from cover to cover and few were falling.

Heavy lasbolts flickered overhead, fizzing spears of impossibly bright energy. Explosions burst all along the Thousand Sons’ lines as thudding bangs of bolter fire pummelled their positions. Pounding concussions ripped across the plaza, but the kine shields of the Raptora were proof against such attacks.

He concentrated on the lead Land Raider, reaching out and closing his fist. He wrenched his hand back, and the left sponson tore free of the vehicle in a blazing plume of white light. The heavy tank skidded around and slammed into the vehicle next to it, crushing the warriors advancing between them.

Phosis T’kar grinned.

“You didn’t realise what you were getting into here, did you?” he said.

Another angry retort died in his mouth as sudden, cramping pain knotted in his belly, like someone had taken a fistful of his intestines and wrenched them upwards. He tasted bile and felt a sickly lather of sweat prickle on his skin.

Another vehicle exploded, its hull a writhing spider-web of coruscating lightning. The last vehicle erupted in flames as Auramagma’s warriors hurled fireballs at its frontal glacis. It kept coming, shooting as it crushed priceless tomes and beautiful sculpture to shards beneath its treads. Auramagma himself stood atop a fallen master of the Raptora and wove sheets of white fire like a conductor before his orchestra.

“Too arrogant, that one,” said Phosis T’kar, recognising Auramagma’s flaw while ignoring his own. A missile streaked out and slammed into the Land Raider’s topside, skidding off its armour and exploding further behind it.

Phosis T’kar battered a handful of Space Wolves back with a flick of his wrist, hurling them beneath the tracks of the blazing Land Raider. Their armour broke open with satisfyingly wet cracks. No sooner had the vehicle crushed his victims than fire spewed from its insides. Its escape hatches slammed open as the blazing crew fought to escape the furnace of their vehicle. Auramagma let them burn.

Lightning danced through the Space Wolves, exploding their bodies within the armoured casing of their battle-plate. Hissing sheets of fire turned the ground molten, while the kine shields soaked up the weight of return fire. Phosis T’kar laughed to see his Legion unleashed, with no constraints to its full potential and no faint-hearts complaining because they could kill the enemies of the Imperium better than anyone else.

A sudden cold shiver made him start, the whisper of a ghostly touch at the back of his mind. He had felt it once before, but before he could recall where, a wolf leapt at him through the flames. Its fur was ablaze, and he reached up to flick it away with a gesture.

Nothing happened.

The wolf slammed into him and barrelled him to the ground. Its jaws snapped down, the fangs gouging deep furrows in his visor. Yellowed talons tore into his side, and he grunted as he felt them pierce his flesh. The wolf bit him in a frenzy, and Phosis T’kar fought to keep it from his throat.

His eyes met those of the beast, and he saw into its heart, the alien core of the being beneath the mask of the wolf. His eyes widened in recognition, but it was too late to do anything except fight.

The beast’s jaw fastened on his neck, but before it could bite down Phosis T’kar slammed his fist into the wolf’s belly. He pistoned his arm through its ribcage, crushing through ribs and vital organs to shatter its spine. The light went out of its eyes, and Phosis T’kar threw its body away in disgust. He climbed to his feet, looking at his hands in horror. He willed power to flow through them, but he felt nothing, no connection to the Great Ocean nor any hint of its fire.

A slender shape in form-fitting golden armour danced into view, a long-bladed sword lancing for his belly. He batted the blade away with his heqa staff and took stock of his attacker. It was a woman, but no ordinary woman. The lower portion of her face was obscured by a silver muzzle-mask and her dark eyes were tattooed with tears.

Now Phosis T’kar knew why his powers had failed. He heard screams of pain as the kine shields failed and more of the Silent Sisterhood made their presence felt. She came at him with a lancing thrust of her sword. He blocked it with his staff once more, sliding the hook down to the hilt of her blade and twisting.

She read the move and drew her blade back, spinning around and going low with a slender dagger aimed at his groin. Phosis T’kar stepped in to meet her and her dagger shattered on the plates of his thigh. He brought his knee up into her face and crushed the mask hiding her jaw. Blood and teeth flew from the impact, but the woman rolled out of reach.

All along the edge of the plaza, hundreds of armoured warriors came together in a battering clash of plate. No longer was this a battle to be fought with one side having the advantage; this was now a brutal, sweating, throat-tearing fight at close quarters.

Phosis T’kar unsheathed his combat blade and dropped into a fighting crouch before the armoured woman. He held his staff out before him with his knife high at his shoulder.

“Very well, null-maiden,” he snarled. “I’ll just kill you the old-fashioned way!”

THOUGH HIS BODY lay recumbent on a crystal throne of golden fire, Khalophis marched through the ruins of Tizca with the strides of a mighty giant. Structures were children’s building blocks, the fires flickering embers. People were specks to be crashed beneath his thunderous steps.

He marched past the Kretis gallery towards the Skelmis Tholus with the wide expanse of ocean at his right shoulder. The streets of Old Tizca were too narrow for a titanic battle engine such as Canis Vertex, and ancient buildings exploded as he smashed through them like some destructive colossus from ancient legends.

Gunfire lashed up, but none of it could harm him. He felt the heat of Sioda gather in his right arm, and unleashed a torrent of fire that bathed six streets in billowing clouds of sticky flames. He couldn’t hear the screams, but he saw his howling victims falling to their knees and begging for salvation.

The guns of Canis Vertexwere functional, but with his Tutelary’s connection to the Great Ocean, his pyrokinetic abilities were boosted a hundredfold and he had no need of them. The mighty fists of the Titan were wreathed in flames, and with every gesture, tank-sized fireballs slammed into the enemy. Khalophis laughed as he spat tongues of flame from both arms, burning the invaders back to their ships.

The attacking forces had cut a deep wound into Tizca, but Khalophis saw how far the invaders had extended themselves in their urgent need to break the defenders in two. Canis Vertexcould cut them off from their reserves, and the Thousand Sons’ lines would drive them back to the ocean.

The Athanaeans dispersed word of the enemy movements, and the Corvidae met and countered any surprise attacks planned on a whim. The battle was by no means won by either force, but from his god’s-eye view Khalophis could see the battle was turning in favour of the Thousand Sons.

“You bit off more than even you could chew,” roared Khalophis, the words coming out in the real world as a deafening blurt of eardrum-busting static from the engine’s war horn.

Gunships and speeders slashed forwards, guns blazing and missiles arcing towards his armoured hide. Without voids, he would have been vulnerable, but a shield of flame turned shells to molten droplets of lead and detonated missiles before they could impact. He felt his Tutelary’s savage joy, its power jostling for control, and he clamped down his authority.

It shrieked in jealous spite and Khalophis spasmed with a soul-deep sensation of nausea.

Canis Vertexhalted its rampage and explosions erupted across its armoured chest as its aetheric armour vanished. Scenting blood, the Jetbikes, speeders and gunships closed in to deliver the deathblow.

“Get back,” he hissed. “This is mine!”

Sioda screeched and angrily returned to the body of Canis Vertex.

A billowing flare of heat erupted from the Titan, and a dozen aircraft were swatted from the sky by the intense burst, their engines fused and pilots seared to charred bones.

Khalophis spat onto the floor of the Pyrae temple, the blood hissing as it boiled in the intense heat. His armour was smoking, and dark light built behind his eyes as he wept tears of fire that cut blackened scars down his cheeks.

THE LIBRARY OF the Corvidae, normally a place of quiet sanctuary and solitude was now a site of frantic activity. Ankhu Anen directed the labours of hundreds of scribes and servitors as they emptied the shelves and datacores of the library. The vast chamber contained hundreds of thousands of texts, too many ever to be evacuated in so short a time, but Ahriman’s orders had been explicit.

Everything that could be saved was to be transferred to the Pyramid of Photep.

The light of fires filtered through the crystal walls, and danced over the steel and glass shelves of the library. Massively overladen bulk servitors carried panniers of books, and terrified scribes swept even more onto protesting load lifters.

He had tried to impose some kind of order on the evacuation of the library, but soon found that impossible. The panic of being so close to the fighting was a plague spreading through his minions, and his carefully ordered plans had fallen apart within moments.

“Ensure the Pnakotic manuscripts are kept separate from the Prophecies!” he shouted, seeing a tearful scribe bundling books from different eras together in a servitor’s overflowing pannier. Scrolls and torn pages fluttered to the terrazzo floor. Dust fell from the high ceilings as something exploded nearby, and the library echoed with terrified screams.

Bodies flowed past him, their arms filled with heavy books and rolled-up maps and parchments. The Corvidae had collected so much in their researches into the future, so much that had yet to be studied and properly interpreted. How much knowledge of things to come would be lost in this senseless attack?

A wave of dizziness swamped him and he reached out to steady himself. His hand closed on the cold steel of a shelf and he glanced over at the book nearest his fingers. It was a tattered, worn, leather copy of Liber Draconi, incongruously sitting next to the Book of Atumand twine-bound pages of the Voluspd.

He snatched his hand away as though burned.

“The dragon of fate,” he whispered.

Since his earliest days in the ranks of the Thousand Sons, Ankhu Anen had been haunted by dreams of a hissing dragon born of ice and fire. Its breath was the death of stars and its eyes the light of creation. Long had he sought the meaning of his dream, but the symbolism of dragons was manifold.

To some, the dragon represented intellectually superior man overcoming the untamed natural world, or creatures of primal chaos that could only be destroyed through disciplined marshalling of mental and physical prowess. To others, it was a symbol of wisdom, adopted by primitive emperors to enhance their perceived power. To Ankhu Anen it was a symbol of impending doom.

He backed away from the bookshelf, and looked up as a sudden premonition of danger flashed into his mind. A flaming mass was hurtling towards the temple, its form blurred and indistinct through the crystal panes.

Ankhu Anen turned and ran back towards the entrance of the library as a tremendous blast rocked the temple. Glass panes and adamantium columns shattered as a blazing, golden-skinned Thunderhawk gunship smashed into the temple. The wreck spun as its remaining wing caught one of the enormous structural members and it slammed into the ceiling before dropping to the floor of the library with a thunderous explosion.

Razor-sharp fragments and blazing sheets of jet fuel sprayed out from the wreckage, and the dry pages contained within the library eagerly caught light. Ankhu Anen was hurled through the air by the force of the blast, slamming into a high shelf and crashing through it to land on an overturned load lifter and its spilled cargo of books. The shelf buckled and crashed down on top of him in a rain of twisted metal and glass.

Ankhu Anen tried to extricate himself from the remains of the shelving unit, but fell back as searing pain flared in his leg and chest. Taking a deep breath, he took stock of his wounds. His leg was pinned beneath a fallen column, and a jutting spar of steel protruded from his chest. The fall had torn the wound gapingly wide, and blood pumped from his ruptured heart. Not even his secondary organ would be able to keep up with so rapid a loss.

Flaming liquid spread through the library, clawing at groaning shelves and seeking out fresh paper to sate its rapacious appetite. Dead and dying scribes surrounded Ankhu Anen, their bodies shredded by flying debris or burned beyond recognition. He looked up to see a shimmering rain of glass falling from the enormous, smoking hole the crashed gunship had torn. It was like a waterfall of crystal, and as he stared at the mesmerising sight, he saw a golden eye reflected in the shards as they fell in slow motion. The eyes watched him sadly, and Ankhu Anen had the powerful sense that they could easily save his life, yet chose not to.

“Why?” he begged, but the eyes had no answer for him.

A faint scratching of metal sounded at his ear, and he twisted to call for help, but his words trailed off as he saw a black raven watching him with its head cocked to one side. Its wings were glossy and black, though he could see psyber-implants worked with great subtlety into its skull. The bird regarded him quizzically, and he smiled at the sight of his cult’s symbol.

“What are you?” he asked. “A vision of the future? A symbol of salvation?”

“Neither, I think,” said a coarse voice at his shoulder, and Ankhu Anen twisted to see a warrior in armour the colour of a winter’s morn. It shimmered as though sheened with a layer of frost, and Ankhu Anen saw nothing but hatred in the Space Wolf’s body language. The raven took flight with a sharp caw and landed upon the warrior’s shoulder-guard.

The warrior carried a long staff topped with a golden eagle, and a host of warriors flooded into the Corvidae library behind him. They were golden and grey, and they carried long-necked weapons with blue flames at their hissing nozzles.

“Who are you?” cried Ankhu Anen, trying to summon the aether to strike down this impertinent invader. No power was coming, and he felt the ache of powerlessness as a jagged pain in his heart.

“I am called Ohthere Wyrdmake, Rune Priest to Amlodhi Skarssen Skarssensson of the 5th Company of Space Wolves,” said the warrior, removing his helmet to reveal a bearded warrior of great age with pale eyes and a braided beard. A leather skullcap covered the top of his head, and Ankhu Anen saw a willowy female in skin-tight armour of bronze and gold behind him. Her eyes were dead and unforgiving, and he recoiled from the emptiness he saw within them.

“Wyrdmake? The dragon of fate,” hissed Ankhu Anen, his eyes widening in understanding. “It’s you… It’s always been you.”

The Rune Priest smiled, though there was no amusement, only triumphant vindication.

“Dragon of fate? I suppose I am,” he said.

Ankhu Anen tried to reach his heqa staff, but it was lost in the devastation of the crash. He tried to pull his leg free.

“Do not struggle,” said Wyrdmake. “It will make your death easier.”

“Why are you doing this?” begged Ankhu Anen. “This is a dreadful mistake, you must see that! Think of all that will be lost if you do this terrible thing.”

“We are obeying the Emperor’s will,” said Wyrdmake, “as you should have done.”

“The Thousand Sons areloyal,” gasped Ankhu Anen, and a froth of bubbling blood spilled from his mouth. “We always were.”

Wyrdmake knelt beside Ankhu Anen and pressed an icy gauntlet to his face.

“Do you have a valediction? Any last words before you die?”

Ankhu Anen nodded, as the future opened up before him. Through gurgling, bloody coughs he hissed his final prophecy.

“I can see the aether inside you, Rune Priest,” he hissed with the last of his strength. “You are just like me, and one day those you serve will turn on you too.”