As a reply, Remigius took a book from his belt. The tome was small, but thick with yellowing, dusty pages. As he flicked through it, Iakodos could feel his ire growing. Periodically, the sound of another bolter round being fired at the daemon interrupted the comparative silence.

*In your own time, inquisitor.'

The sarcasm was lost on Remigius, he was sure, but Iakodos made the comment anyway. The inquisitor seemed in no hurry as he traced a spindly finger down the reams of text on the page. Then he smiled a not a pleasant smile a and pushed to the front of the group. Unsheathing the sword, he held it up in front of him. The daemon's baleful stare moved to focus on it and once more, its powerful hind legs coiled, ready to spring.

In his musical lilt, Remigius spoke words that Iakodos could not understand and was almost entirely sure he would never want to understand. Stuttering syllables and guttural sounds burst forth from the inquisitor's mouth and with a howl of fury, the daemon began backing up the corridor. Striding forwards in time with its retreat, Remigius was relentless. He spoke the banishment clearly and without stumbling. He knew, as did all of his order, that one mistake could prove fatal. There was a crackling nimbus of power, faint at first but building swiftly to a crescendo, around him. Jagged lightning sparked from the palms of his hands and he thrust one towards the daemon.

With a final howl of rage, the daemon seemed to suddenly contract, and then in a rush it exploded into nothing. No flesh, no blood... just nothing. It may as well never have been at all. Its fellows which had wavered between solid and insubstantial faded away as well.

Silence fell.

*As I said,' Remigius murmured, re-attaching the book to his belt and not even looking up, *we must press on.'

There was nothing to say in response to that and so n.o.body replied, until Iakodos finally spoke, his voice low and dangerous.

*You are a psyker.' It was a statement rather than a question. *And you did not think to tell us?'

*Think of it rather as you did not think to ask, Chaplain.'

The Blood Sword died because that wh.o.r.eson did not step in sooner and banish the daemon. Third Scale are dead, Evander. Gone. Remigius could have saved the Blood Sword, but he did not. He could have done that right from the start. But he waited. Too long. Much too long.

Third Scale are dead, Evander. Soon, you will join them.

Evander walked several paces behind the inquisitor, the voice in his head filled with loathing and anger. Occasionally, he would reach up and absently tap at the side of his helmet as though he could dislodge the treacherous thoughts that way. But whenever he tried, they just came back stronger than before.

*Tylissus, this is Evander. Report.'

Static.

*Tylissus, this is Evander. Are you receiving me?' Despite himself, Evander could not help the rising tone of anxiety in his voice. *Tylissus, report back to me, now.' Iakodos looked over at the sergeant, deeply concerned.

More static, but then, through the white noise, came the barely audible sound of Tylisuss's voice.

*...sage received. Und... ood.'

Evander drew a shuddering breath of relief but started when he felt Iakodos's hand rest lightly on his shoulder.

*Let your concerns go, brother,' said the Chaplain. *We are all shaken by the loss of young Kayan, but we must keep our focus. We cannot afford to lose any more of our brethren due to our own distractions. What is troubling you?'

*Nothing. I am fine.' Evander shrugged off the Chaplain's touch, an action that would in other circ.u.mstances have drawn grave censure. Iakodos merely withdrew his hand and moved slightly closer to Evander than he had been, all the while murmuring soft litanies of faith in an effort to keep Evander's mind focused.

It really did very little to help, other than add to the noise that was worming its way through Evander's skull. His helm lenses bored into the inquisitor's back and he wondered what it would feel like if he were to reach out and take the man's neck in his gauntlets and wring it until he heard the satisfying sound of it snapping.

It would be the most satisfying thing you have ever heard, Evander. He has lied to you. He has kept secrets from you. He has caused the death of a brother Adeptus Astartes. And he still lives. Where is the justice in that?

Third Scale are dead, Evander.

The sergeant stopped walking and held his hands up to his ears. Iakodos immediately moved to press him against the wall, bringing his skull-helmed face in close.

*I hear voices, Chaplain!' Evander's words came out in a rushed, panicked babble of sound. *They are telling me... suggesting that I... things I cannot let myself fall prey to. But it would be easy. So easy...'

*Pull yourself together, Sergeant Evander.' Despite the deep sympathy he felt for the unfortunate sergeant, Iakodos knew that he could not be compa.s.sionate. *There are no voices. This is all your imagination. The enemy are picking up on your weakness, on your failure to see past the darkness and feel the warmth of the Emperor's light. See it, brother-sergeant.'

Iakodos turned his skull-helm away from Evander and reached for the strength of the G.o.d-Emperor. It came easily, as it always had. When he looked back, his voice had changed. The gently admonishing tone was gone, replaced by the hard practical Chaplain who had fought countless battles. *Cast off the daemonic witchery that binds you, brother. Cast it off with the purity of your faith. Take it. Mould it. Control it. Use it as your shield against this foul temptation.'

*Third Scale...'

*Third Scale are well. Tylissus reported back to you. Now show your spirit! Remind your men why it is that you above any other rose to take your current rank.'

The Chaplain's words had a calming effect on Evander and he nodded slowly. He felt a faint whispering as though the voice would try to reach him again, but he used the mental image of the Emperor's light as a focus. *Yes, Chaplain. Yes, of course. I apologise.'

*Do not apologise, brother. Merely acquit yourself with honour.'

Releasing him, Iakodos let Evander shake himself down and resume his position at the head of the group.

*We make speed for the enginarium,' announced the sergeant. *We find this b.a.s.t.a.r.d daemon and we end this. For the Emperor. Fire and fury, brothers!'

IV.

*Evander, this is Korydon. Talk to me, brother.'

The futility of attempting to raise his battle-brother on the vox was beginning to exert its own pressure on the injured s.p.a.ce Marine. He did not understand what had happened to him but he had gone from believing he had somehow been separated from the others to believing that they had been separated from him. He didn't know if he was alive and they were dead or the other way around.

He had retraced his steps to the crossroads and headed in the direction the other squad and the Blood Swords had taken. He thought once that he saw them in the distance and had moved gladly towards them. They had moved towards him too, and then had simply disappeared.

His frustration was growing. Whatever had taken him, plucked him from his own existence and dropped him in this netherworld, was toying with him. Everything was tinged faintly with a soft violet glow, an unreality that he could not start to comprehend. He had considered the possibility that he was unconscious somewhere and so badly injured that he had dropped into healing stasis and was merely suffering some sort of nightmare.

It felt real enough, though.

Since Korydon, like all Adeptus Astartes, rarely required what was termed as *True Sleep', his experiences of dreaming were extremely limited. His mind was so filled with endless reams of texts on xenos biology or weapon maintenance that simple dreams had no place in his resting thoughts. As such, it was easy enough to a.s.sume that that was what was happening to him. Simple enough, and strangely comforting. Being able to write off his situation as a dream was actually helping his focus.

For Korydon, the corridors of the Accursed Eternity remained empty. He encountered no more of the dust creatures. He was completely alone. It was almost as though he were the only living, breathing thing aboard the dead ship.

His footsteps resounded in a dull echo as he moved onwards towards the enginarium. Every step he took thudded through his aching body giving him a fresh reminder of the pain he would have felt had he been denied his painkilling narcotics.

A sudden movement ahead caught his eye and he looked up eagerly. But it was nothing more than his own shadow. He uttered several expletives and took a moment to check the magazine in his bolter. He had one spare left.

He cast his eyes up and down the pa.s.sageway he traversed even though he had long given up hope of seeing anything or anybody else. Unsurprisingly, there was nothing to be seen. He was quite categorically alone; something he had never been in the entirety of his service to the Golden Throne. He was not afraid, but it was definitely unsettling.

Whilst his attention was thus engaged, he entirely failed to notice the strange manner in which his shadow began to coalesce and rea.s.semble itself. It was a thing of darkness: an inky blackness into which light fell, never to return, and it was tangible. It moved slowly towards Korydon and raised its shadow weapon, bringing it to bear on the unsuspecting s.p.a.ce Marine.

Things were no better for Evander and Ardashir. Their progress, impeded by the attack of the daemonic hound, or whatever it had been, was taking a turn for the extreme worse. The walls, no longer even attempting to look like a clinical ship interior, were quite literally alive. The tendrils that reached out and grasped at them were like lengths of sinewy muscle, tough and difficult to avoid. Whenever they were cut away, more of the black acid dripped from them.

Ardashir scowled beneath his helm as he hacked away yet another snaking vein and watched the pungent acid dissolve the blade of his combat knife into corroded, rusted metal. The second time he attempted to use the knife, it simply disintegrated into a thousand flakes of rust.

But the s.p.a.ce Marines were relentless and pressed onwards nonetheless. Every so often, one of the group would stop suddenly and turn to hack at another groping barb. Iakodos had insisted that the inquisitor walk in amongst the s.p.a.ce Marines rather than separately so that they could at least offer some kind of protection to him. His blessed blade was unsheathed and he had reluctantly conceded temporary ownership of it to the Chaplain. It seemed to be the only thing that made the tendrils recoil without releasing any more of their destructive bile.

The next attack came far sooner than any of them antic.i.p.ated. Without warning, half a dozen figures stepped from the walls. Ardashir saw them first, and they were so repugnant and vile a such things of horror a that he hesitated before firing. As big again as the Adeptus Astartes themselves, the humanoid shapes were walking horrors. Ardashir had seen men flayed alive, skin peeling from their bodies to reveal the twitching muscle, sinew and bone beneath, but these abominations were worse. In his mind, a flash of memory came to the fore a the recollection of an anatomy chart of the human body he had seen during his earliest training. The creatures looked like that, blue veins and pulsing arteries covering them in a horrific, crawling network.

No longer insensible with disgust, Ardashir thumbed the activation stud on his chainsword and turned to face the closest creature. The tungsten teeth of his blade whirred into life at his touch and he brought the weapon down in a cross-stroke across its right shoulder. It bit into the daemon and chewed through to the breastbone. Blood and marrow spattered across Ardashir and several others who also turned to face this new threat.

*Keep going,' the Blood Swords sergeant urged across the vox. *We will deal with this threat. No more time to waste, Evander. Get the inquisitor to the heart of the ship!'

*I hear you, brother. Join us when you are finished.'

Despite his misgivings about sanctioning another split to the group, Iakodos agreed with Ardashir. The Star Dragons set off at a swift jog and Remigius was hard pressed to keep up with the punishing pace. The Chaplain could see more of the flesh beasts forming from the walls of the ship. The foulness of them stirred his anger and hatred, not all of which was directed at the daemons. For a fleeting moment, he hated Remigius. He hated the inquisitor and all his kind. He loathed the fact that the Ordo Malleus had such a hold over the Star Dragons Chapter.

Hatred. It was his cardinal weapon. The Chaplain allowed the smouldering fury to raise his ire. He stoked the flames of rage that burned in his heart, fuelling his desire to deliver retribution to the enemies of mankind. Once the fire caught, it would spill over to his brothers and they too would burn with righteous anger. The familiar weight of his crozius gave him a focus as they reached yet another locked bulkhead. His fingers closed around it and he drew it close to his chest. A litany fell from his lips and several of his battle-brothers picked up the words and spoke with him.

A calmness descended. The choice had been a good one. Iakodos could feel the tension ebbing away, but the sense of readiness did not leave the a.s.sembly.

Evander shouldered his bolter as the others readied more melta charges in order to get through the next bulkhead that blocked their pa.s.sage. By his reckoning, they did not have much further to go before they came to the enginarium. Once they were there, the Emperor alone knew what would be waiting for them. If what the inquisitor had hinted at was even remotely correct, it would likely be the end of them all.

*Ardashir, report.' Evander used the temporary lull in proceedings to check in with the Blood Swords sergeant.

*We are keeping them at bay,' came the strained reply. Ardashir's words were terse, his voice that of a man in the midst of battle. *They do not regenerate, but they keep coming. It is like the Accursed Eternity can produce an endless supply of these things. Whatever it is that you are doing, you need to do it faster, brother.'

*Fine words, Ardashir. I am in complete agreement.'

Evander's earlier urge to grab the inquisitor by the throat and squeeze the life out of the man's body had subsided, but he still felt a gnawing hate in his gut whenever his eyes fell on Remigius.

You could snap his windpipe with no difficulty at all. The repercussions of murdering Remigius will be far less severe than what waits for you behind this door, Brother-Sergeant Evander.

He knew doubt then. Perhaps they should...

The melta charges detonated with an echoing boom, distracting his attention and splintering his thoughts of retreat into a million shards.

Korydon had no time to avoid the bolter sh.e.l.l as it thundered into the ceramite of his armour. The unexpected attack knocked him from his feet, sending him flying several metres backwards. In its already weakened state, it would not take much more to render his battle-gear entirely useless and it was this thought, more than any other that got him back to his feet again.

His breath came in a ragged, wet rasp now; the damage he had sustained to his ribcage was considerable and he intuitively knew that he had a punctured lung. His enhanced physiology was compensating, but it was at a cost to the rest of his strength. Still it wasn't enough to stop him from hurling himself with full force into his attacker.

He pa.s.sed right through it, crashing into the wall. As he did so, he was sure that he heard the sound of a hollow laugh of derision.

You cannot fight what is not there, Korydon.

Had that been a voice, or his own thoughts? He no longer knew a or cared a which it was. The black shadow flickered and wavered in front of his eyes, like a poorly-crafted hololithic image. He got back to his feet again, but it was not there. The shot to his torso had been quite real. He had felt the pain of impact quite solidly and the copper taste of blood in his mouth was no illusion.

You cannot fight what is not there, Korydon.

Had his own mind been so warped and twisted by this vessel that he was now even imagining his own pain? Was it possible for him to imagine his own death? A distant memory, long forgotten, resurfaced in his skull. It was of himself as a child, before he had been given over to the recruiting sergeants of the Star Dragons. Speaking to his mother, asking her a question that she had never been able to answer.

*If I die in my dreams, does that mean I will never wake up?'

It was the type of philosophical question that his mother, a menial worker, had neither the inclination nor the education necessary to discuss. She had ruffled his hair and smiled indulgently at him. *When you are one of the Emperor's angels,' she had said to him, *you will find all the answers you seek.'

That had been a lie. There were still many things that Korydon questioned, and the memory of this question was now the thing that would save his life.

*Awaken, Korydon,' he said, and taking his combat blade he drove it into his own chest.

His world exploded.

I see you.

He is in some kind of trance, some sort of dream state that he cannot possibly hope to comprehend. He is at one and the same time dead, dying and alive. It is a non-state. Everything feels heavy, oppressive and stifling. His own power armour threatens to overwhelm him with its impossible weight. The agonising pain in his chest flares like fire spreading across dry gra.s.sland.

His eyes roam desperately, seeking, searching, hunting for something that will tell him what is going on, and they lock with those of another s.p.a.ce Marine. A matrix of exquisite crystal reaches from the gorget of his armour. A psyker.

But we brought no psykers.

His livery, whilst the blue of all witch-kin, is not the rich cobalt of the Star Dragons. It is softer, paler, more indigo than blue.

I do not know you.

He reaches out a hand as if to touch the psyker, but his gauntlet pa.s.ses straight through. Another ghost. Another daemon. Not to be trusted. And yet...

You do not know me.

Are you my past? Present? Future?

Despite his misgivings, Korydon takes a step closer.

Time is irrelevant. Past, present, future... All these things are the same and yet different.

A typical psyker response. Half riddle, half philosophy and devoid of any sense at all. Korydon's fists curl in impotent fury.

Though he cannot see it, he knows that the other figure is smiling. He does not know how he knows, but he does. Perhaps it is in the stance, in the way that the shoulders shift position, or in the way that the helmeted head twists slightly. The voice, when it returns, is filled with an emotion he does not recognise and understands even less. It is pity.

For you, they are all the same, brother.

With a shudder, with a jolt of awareness, Korydon wakes. He is lying on the floor of the corridor in which he fought Arion. His brother's armour is still there; he is still naught but dust. But there is no sign of the rest of his squad.

Every movement brings fresh pain. Every shred and fibre of his being screams as he moves, but he moves anyway. What else can he do?

In the distance, there is the faintly resonating boom of an explosion. He is enough of a veteran to know the sound. It is the echo of melta charges. His brothers. His twin hearts gladdening at the thought, he hurries, as much as his battered body will allow, towards the sound.

It is then that he knows, with absolute clarity, what it is that they face behind the final door. His desperate dash to rejoin them becomes a race against time, a race that he has no hope of ever winning.

If only he realised the futility of it he would never push himself harder than he has ever pushed himself before. But then, if he knew the truth of it he would not try at all. Giving up is not in Korydon's nature. It would not end well.

Time has him in its clutches and will never willingly release him. He understands. He can grasp the concept of time immaterial without really knowing how the knowledge comes to him. This is where he has always been. This is where he will always be.