Pylcrafte mutters under his hood and even Halser clenches his jaw. He has heard this kind of deluded cant before. He feels a growing sense of dread as the pilgrims lead the way down a narrow, stone stair, chuckling merrily to themselves as they go.

Unlike the rest of Ilissus, the land around Madrepore is flat and verdant. For several kilometres in every direction, well-tilled fields and herds of grazing cattle skirt the City of Stars. Cl.u.s.ters of adobe huts run alongside wide, tree-lined tracks, bustling with white-robed figures. After the desolation that preceded it, the Relictors struggle to comprehend the orderly scene spread out below them. Stranger still is the greeting they receive as they reach the valley floor and begin marching towards the city gates. The sound of power-armoured boots crunching down the road should cause a commotion, regardless of the pilgrims' mutilated eyes. But as the Relictors march past, the groups labouring in the fields pay them no attention, as though the arrival of s.p.a.ce Marines is a daily occurrence.

*Do they not wonder who we are?' asks Sergeant Halser, turning to Frater Gortyn.

*They know who you are,' replies the pilgrim. *We are all one with the mind of our father. Everything he sees, we see.'

Halser grimaces. Every minute he spends in the company of the pilgrims confirms his doubts. He looks around at the blind, toiling figures and mutters under his breath, horrified to see how confidently they swing their scythes and leap onto the back of moving carts. He decides to ask Gortyn about the star-shaped crystals in their foreheads but, before he can speak, he feels a tap on his shoulder and turns to see Comus. The Librarian is holding up the xenos device and tapping its screen. The casing is smeared with blood, but he has discerned something in the glyphs pulsing beneath the gla.s.s.

*I was right,' he gasps. *The Zeuxis Scriptorium is here.' As he struggles to speak, energy arcs from the mantle of his power armour and crackles across his furrowed brow. *Whoever this prophet is, he has built his city right over the top of one of the Ecclesiarchy's most ancient reliquaries.'

Halser pauses for a moment to let the pilgrims move ahead. *Then we must gain entry to the scriptorium, by whatever means, and see what it is they're guarding. If the objects stored there are as powerful as they think, we may even find a way to navigate a way back through the storms.' He grabs the Librarian by the shoulder. *Do you still have the strength to contact the others, back at the gunship? Could you summon them to this spot?'

Comus grimaces and nods at the blood-drenched book. *This xenos filth is killing me.' He closes his eyes for a second. *But yes, contacting them should still be possible.'

Sergeant Halser nods. *Good. The repairs to the ship should be complete by now. It would take them minutes to reach us. We might be able to salvage a victory yet. If we can find something to help us see through these wretched storms, we could empty the scriptorium and be out of here before the bombs start falling.' He looks at the chronometer attached to his weapons belt. *Inquisitor Mortmain has promised me another two hours.' He waves at the crowds of eyeless pilgrims shuffling through the fields. *Then these dupes will receive their heavenly reward.'

Comus looks at the glittering walls looming ahead of them. *And what if we are unable to gain access to the scriptorium? What if we can't leave Ilissus before the Exterminatus begins?'

Halser's habitual sneer grows even more p.r.o.nounced. *Then we all burn together.'

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

Justicar Lyctus crawls along the shattered remains of a girder, clutching his glimmering halberd to his chest while beneath him the hangar disintegrates. As the daemon continues to grow it has begun tearing holes through the ship's hull, its colossal, viscous ma.s.s growing more frenzied with every second. As the rest of Lyctus's squad struggle to hold it in place, the nest of segmented limbs jerk back and forth, wrenching machinery and support struts free from the walls and sending screaming crewmen sailing through the air. As Lyctus clings determinedly onto the girder, the Domitus is spilling its innards to the void, but he keeps his gaze locked on the heaving yellow sack at the centre of the mayhem.

As he nears the daemon, the justicar's armour begins to ripple with light. Countless inscriptions flash and shimmer, straining to protect Lyctus from the unholy power washing over him.

*Brothers,' he breathes into his vox-bead, *just a few more minutes. Then lend me your faith. I'm almost overhead. I'm going to drop straighta'

Lyctus's words are cut short as a new sound is added to the cacophony: a barking claxon that cuts through the sound of grinding metal. At the same moment, in the areas of the hangar that are still intact, rows of red lights blink into life.

Justicar Lyctus curses as the daemon lurches back towards the gore-splattered hole in the wall.

From the furthest reaches of the Domitus comes the deep rumble of heavy munitions roaring into life.

*Justicar?' crackles a voice in Lyctus's helmet. *Is it withdrawing?'

As the screaming crowds continue to charge past the s.p.a.ce Marines, the daemon heaves its revolting flesh upright and pauses for a moment, like a dog that has caught a scent. The only movement is a slight trembling of its egg-like membrane.

Justicar Lyctus nods his head. *Inquisitor Mortmain must have reached the bridge. He is preparing the Exterminatus.' Then, as the daemon starts to swing its bulk around, Lyctus realises they are about to miss their opportunity.

*Brother Gallus,' he snaps into the vox-bead. *Your incinerator!'

The darkness is torn open by a column of flame. It leaps up from one of the s.p.a.ce Marines and envelops the featureless head of the daemon. The air fills with the smell of burning scented oil as the daemon jerks back, flinging its attackers across the hangar and emitting another high-pitched scream.

The thing thrashes in pain and Justicar Lyctus spots his chance, charging across the girder and leaping off the end, diving headlong at the daemon with his halberd held before him like a lance.

There is an explosion of pus, flame and psychic energy as he bursts through the wall of membrane and disappears from view.

Down below, on the blood-slick floor of the hangar, the rest of the s.p.a.ce Marines climb awkwardly to their feet. Some of them have wide, b.l.o.o.d.y gashes in their power armour and some topple back onto the mounds of corpses, gasping in pain, but one of them, Brother Gallus, swings his heavy, two-handed weapon around for a second shot, lighting up the vast chamber with another dripping arch of fire.

Justicar Lyctus sinks through the daemon's flesh, feeling its ancient malice clawing at his soul. Every liturgy and prayer inscribed into his armour burns with the strain of upholding his sanity. The Emperor preserves, thinks Lyctus, drawing on his bottomless, inviolable well of faith. Three centuries of devotion shield him, even as he feels his armour warp and crack. *I rebuke you, Cerbalus,' he whispers, knowing that the daemon can hear. *I forbid you to exist.'

As Gallus struggles to hold his bucking, thrashing incinerator, he senses his injured battle-brothers lining up beside him. As the column of flame forces the daemon back into a corner of the hangar, the other s.p.a.ce Marines begin firing their own psychically-charged weapons. A blinding volley of fire, metal and faith tears into the lurching daemon.

*Advance!' orders Brother Gallus, his voice calm and sure.

As they approach the daemon, its head begins to pulse with light, becoming a kaleidoscope of different colours as it jerks from side to side. At the heart of the display is a silvery core: Justicar Lyctus's shape is recognisable as he spins in the daemon's mind. Then, with another explosion of energy and gunk, the justicar's halberd bursts from the flame-shrouded sack.

The daemon's head begins to split open, vomiting brains across its hideous legs and changing its piercing cry to a moist, popping gurgle.

The daemon's head collapses and Justicar Lyctus tumbles into view, spewed out on a virulent, yellow wave. He clatters to the hangar floor, shrouded in smoke and sparks and then lurches to his feet, stepping clear seconds before a tree-sized limb slams down where he landed.

There is no victory cry from Lyctus's men as they surround the collapsing daemon. They simply maintain their unrelenting volley of blessed promethium and bolter sh.e.l.ls, forcing it back into the corner.

Justicar Lyctus staggers drunkenly towards his men, still clutching his blazing halberd. His armour has been scorched and wrenched out of shape and his b.l.o.o.d.y chin is visible through a rent in his helmet, but as he joins the other ranks of s.p.a.ce Marines he raises his fist and fires a screaming volley of sh.e.l.ls from the storm bolter mounted on his wrist. As he shoots he repeats his cry: *I rebuke you, Cerbalus!'

The daemon collapses into a wall of billowing flames and disappears from view.

After firing a few more rounds, Justicar Lyctus opens his raised fist, signalling for his men to hold their fire.

For a second the daemon falls quiet, but the hangar is still a riot of noise and colour: the claxons are blaring; crowds of crewmen and servitors are crushed against the various exits, screaming desperately as others are sucked out into the void. Banks of blue flame are still gushing from the severed fuel pipes and the Domitus itself is howling as its infrastructure gives way, wrenched out of the holes torn by the daemon's violence.

Lyctus keeps his hand raised as he edges closer to the rolling flames.

There is a flash of light and a shape flies towards him. A lean, red, humanoid figure that towers over the s.p.a.ce Marines as it crashes through them and bolts towards one of the exits.

Lyctus and the others fire wildly after it, but the blood-red figure carves straight through the crowds and dashes through the exit, disappearing from view.

Justicar Lyctus rises painfully to his feet. His armour is ruined and b.l.o.o.d.y, and half his men are dead. He nods calmly as he surveys the carnage. Then he speaks, not to his groaning men but to Inquisitor Mortmain, on the far side of the ship. *You were right. It will be with you in minutes. We will attempt to pursue.' He pauses and kneels, trying to stem the blood rushing from one of his men's throats. *Our prayers are with you, inquisitor.'

The reply that crackles in his helmet is just as composed. *Thank you, Justicar Lyctus. It has been an honour serving with you. The Emperor protects.'

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

Two vast, etched iron gates loom over Sergeant Halser as he reaches the city walls. He looks up at the strange designs and sees stars, planets and galaxies whirling in a stylised storm. Far above, at the top of the walls he sees rows of pilgrims surveying the valley as it sinks into darkness, as uninterested in the Relictors as all the other pilgrims they have pa.s.sed.

Frater Gortyn and their other guides reach the foot of the gate and wait without knocking. After a few seconds, the doors begin to swing slowly inwards, revealing a glimpse of bustling crowds and a wide, sweeping road.

The rest of the squad are still half a kilometre away. Sergeant Halser curses under his breath as he sees how slowly they are moving. Only the hunched, cowled figure of Pylcrafte has managed to keep up with him and he is staring at the city in abject horror. Brother Librarian Comus can barely walk and the others are matching their pace to his agonised steps. In an attempt to distract himself, Halser steps to the side of the road to examine Madrepore's soaring, rippling walls. The dusk is reflected in the countless rows of gems, embedded in the contorted rock. It is these crystals that give Madrepore its sparkle and, as he waits for the rest of the squad to arrive, Halser leans closer to examine one of them.

*By the Throne!' he grunts, turning to Pylcrafte. *What is this?'

What he had mistaken for crystals are actually eyes. As Halser and Pylcrafte stagger back in disgust, they creak in their jagged sockets, rolling to watch them. Every one of them shimmers with an inner light, but they are unmistakably human. Halser looks over at Gortyn's scarred, empty sockets and howls. *What sorcery is this? What have you done?'

Frater Gortyn's drawn features remain fixed in a vacant smile. *There is no sorcery, Sergeant Halser. We have merely lent our vision to the prophet.' He taps the star-shaped crystal lodged in his forehead. *We see so much further now.'

Sergeant Halser groans as he looks back at the banks of rolling, blinking eyes. He can bear this no longer. He draws his bolt pistol and levels it at Frater Gortyn. *This is unspeakable. If I had knowna'

Halser's words are drowned out by an explosion. The blast is so violent that the whole valley shakes, jolting the sergeant sideways and sending his gun clattering across the road.

Pylcrafte lets out a stream of curses as he topples backwards into a ditch.

Ignoring his cries for help, Halser and the pilgrims look back down the road in confusion. A huge plume of smoke is rolling down into the valley from the entrance to the catacombs and distant shapes are visible, moving quickly through the haze.

Frater Gortyn's grin finally drops from his face. As a line of black-armoured figures begins pouring down into the valley, he slumps heavily against the city gates. *The enemy,' he groans, turning to his fellow pilgrims. *How? How can they have found Madrepore?'

Sergeant Halser curses and s.n.a.t.c.hes his gun from the road. *I thought you said your prophet kept them blind to this place?'

Frater Gortyn clutches his head in his hands as his brethren begin whining in fear. *He does. They are.' He pauses and turns his head towards the sergeant. *Or, at least, they always have been.' His voice becomes a hideous shriek. *You've led them to us! How else can this be?'

The other two pilgrims cease their whining and turn around, shaking their heads in shock. *It's the only explanation,' gasps one of them, pointing at Halser. *You're in league with the Black Knights. You must be! You've betrayed Astraeus!' He looks up at the faces looking out from the battlements. *We're betrayed!' he cries, pressing his mouth to the gap opening between the gates.

Halser backs away, keeping his gun trained on the wailing pilgrims. *How many?' he breathes into his vox-bead, s.n.a.t.c.hing a brief glimpse at the distant line of figures.

Brother Volter is the first to reply, his voice full of disbelief. *Sergeant, they must have been toying with us. Those small attacks must have been a feint.'

*What do you mean?' snaps Halser, still unable to take his eyes off the raving pilgrims.

*There are hundreds of them, sergeant. I can't even count thea'

The exchange is interrupted by another huge explosion and this time it is much closer. Halser staggers again and the pilgrims launch themselves at him. He moves to shrug them off, but to his fury he feels a blinding pain in his forehead and words echoing beneath his scalp. *Betrayal!' drone the voices, so loud that Halser cries out in pain.

*Get out of my head!' he roars, but the voices swell in volume, chanting the word *betrayal' like a prayer as Halser drops, groaning, to his knees.

Blood erupts from his nose as the pilgrims continue their furious a.s.sault on his mind. He is vaguely aware that they are also thrashing uselessly against his power armour with their fists, but the external world is quickly slipping away from him as their prayers clamp around his agonised brain.

*Comus,' he manages to gasp as the pain overwhelms him.

Immediately he feels another presence in his thoughts, enveloping the wailing voices and easing the pain in his head. Before the agony has a chance to overpower him again, Halser rises to his feet and fires his bolt pistol, tearing a ragged hole through Frater Gortyn's chest and sending him spinning across the road.

The other two pilgrims scramble for cover but he guns them down too, killing them before they can reach the gate and sending a fan of bright blood across the hammered iron.

Halser spins around and stares back down the road. The mountain looks as though it has sprung a black, glistening leak. Countless ranks of Traitor Marines are flooding down across the foothills and gathering on the road. He sees the gold trim on their spiked power armour, glinting as they charge towards the city.

*The barn!' he cries, waving to a low, stone building at the side of the road near his men. *Take cover! Volter, buy them time.'

The Relictors finally move with some speed. Two of them lift Comus from his feet and charge from the road with him while the rest dive for cover. At the same time, Brother Volter drops to one knee and brings his lascannon to bear on the approaching hordes. The far end of the road erupts in blue flames as he finds his mark. Tiny, black-clad figures spin into the air and for a moment the advance falters. Before they have chance to return fire, Brother Volter rolls across the road and drops into the roadside ditch.

Seconds later, the road where he knelt explodes like a lake in a hailstorm. Stone and shrapnel whines through the air as the enemy guns tear up the landscape.

As the Black Legion continue to race down the road, the Relictors hunker down by the barn and open fire. The enemy make no attempt to find cover and the air shimmers with the heat of the Relictors' bolter fire.

The evening lights up again as Brother Volter fires a second shot with his lascannon, cutting another great hole in the advancing ranks.

As the wall behind him starts shattering under the enemy fire, Sergeant Halser clamps his helmet into place and looks from his men to the gates behind him. Through the gap he sees a stampede of white-robed figures as the pilgrims empty the streets and rush to defend the walls. *What can they do?' he wonders aloud. Then he remembers the pain of Frater Gortyn's prayers, clawing at his thoughts.

*Comus,' he snaps, dragging the still cursing Pylcrafte from the ditch. *I think I have a chance of reaching the scriptorium. The pilgrims will focus their attention on the Traitor Marines. Can you lend me your support if they try and stop me?'

The reply through the vox-bead is a hoa.r.s.e, indecipherable grunt, but a clearer voice appears in the sergeant's thoughts. *Be quick. There are too many of them for us to hold.'

*I think you may have help,' replies Halser, watching the pilgrims rushing to man Madrepore's battlements. He turns and addresses Pylcrafte. *I'm going in. Stay and fight, or help me find the scriptorium.' Then, as the enemy fire grows in ferocity, he leans on one of the iron gates and shoves it back a few more centimetres, allowing himself enough room to squeeze thorough and enter the city.

The sight that greets him is bewildering. At the heart of the city is a huge fortified temple with a thick, hexagonal tower at its centre. Nestled around it are hundreds of other buildings, all constructed of the same, writhing, coral-like rock, and all glittering with rows of crystalline eyes. As the eyes roll and blink, the buildings shimmer, so that the city seems to be undulating with light, and the whole scene is shrouded in vast, drifting columns of moonlit cloud. The storms Halser saw from orbit seem to be emanating from this single point. The combination of glimmering eyes and writhing clouds is overwhelming. It looks as though Madrepore is carved from shifting, moonlit water.

Halser pauses for a second, trying to see a way through the pulsing clouds and milling, panic-stricken crowds. He hisses into his vox-bead: *Which way, Comus? What do I do?'

*Head for the centre of the city,' comes a reply in his mind. *The prophet has built his temple directly over the scriptorium. If anyone knows what happened to its contents, it will be him.' There is a pause, then Comus speaks through the vox-bead, his voice a ragged growl. *I don't know how long I can keep them out of your head, sergeant.'

Halser nods, but still hesitates, unsure how to proceed through the incredible display. Most of the pilgrims are charging to the walls, but hundreds are also racing down the wide road that leads from the gate to the temple.

*So many of them, and all d.a.m.ned,' mutters a trembling voice at Halser's side and he remembers the inquisitor's acolyte is still with him. Pylcrafte is waving his cane at the shifting clouds, as though he can ward off the corruption surrounding him.

The sergeant turns to speak, but before he can, a huge section of wall explodes just above the gate. The air fills with screams and spinning chunks of masonry and, to Halser's delight, the road ahead clears, as the pilgrims scramble for cover.

*Keep close,' he cries, charging down the road.

As he approaches the temple walls he sees a long building to his left, topped with a huge stone star and crowded with pilgrims. Many of them have stopped to watch him and, even with Comus shielding his thoughts, he starts to feel their furious prayers battering against his mind. He tries to ignore them and focus on reaching the doors to the temple, but as he does so, he stumbles to a halt.

He is back at the city gates, looking down at Pylcrafte.

*So many of them, and all d.a.m.ned,' says the hooded figure, waving his cane.

Halser curses and shakes his head, trying to rid himself of his confusion. *What is happening?' he cries. *I keep seeing the same thing, over and over.'

He hears the voice of Comus in his head again. *Sergeant. The power of this Astraeus is like nothing I've ever felt. I think time itself is bending to his will.' He pauses. *Or maybe not even that. It feels almost as though time is collapsing.'

Halser groans in frustration. *By the Throne, Comus. What are you talking about?'

There is no reply and Halser vents his frustration on the city wall, slamming his armoured fist into the rock and shattering a cl.u.s.ter of blinking eyes. Then he tries again, racing off towards the temple with Pylcrafte stumbling after him, still cursing and muttering into his hood.

Brother-Librarian Comus lies bleeding in a ditch. Bolter fire rattles and whines overhead but he is only vaguely aware of it. All his attention is fixed on the small, metal-bound book clutched in his hand. He remembers the first time he handled the xenos device, given to him by Inquisitor Mortmain, all those years ago. It took months of fierce, uninterrupted prayer before he would even consider opening his mind to such unholy, alien sentience. He was sure of his purpose then: to glean what he could whilst keeping his mind intact. But now what does he feel? The thing is killing him, he is sure of that. Every time he allows those luminous characters to flood his mind, he feels a little more of his soul being torn away. Even on a purely psychical level the effect is obvious: he has been bleeding heavily from his nose and mouth since they arrived on Ilissus and, without the aid of his battle-brothers, he can barely stand. However, that is not the worst of it. The thing that fills him with dread is that the libellus no longer feels so alien. It no longer feels wrong. It is becoming part of him. Comus draws himself upright and closes the book with a shudder. What is he becoming?