Voices crackle over the comm-net. The fighting has been brief. Only Brother Thymus has fallen.

Halser shakes his head, suspicious at the ease of their victory. *Hold your positions. The enemy don't usually attack in such small numbers.' He turns to see that Comus has dropped to his knees and is still clutching his head.

He rushes to the Librarian's side. *Are you wounded?'

As Comus looks up, his face is ashen and his eyes are blazing. *Is the device sending me mad? Can't you hear it?'

Halser shakes his head in confusion. *Hear what?'

*The clouds,' groans Comus, his voice filled with horror. *They're talking to us.'

CHAPTER FOUR.

Monks and servitors melt into the shadows, scattering like vermin before the approaching Navigator. A servo-skull drifts ahead of him, trailing smoke-shrouded censers and bearing a tall, guttering candle. As the light flickers across rows of gloomy alcoves, it picks out the Domitus's cowering denizens. They peer suspiciously at the slender n.o.ble and mutter prayers into their hoods. Even the ship's most ill-omened wretches breathe a sigh of relief as Palchus van Tol pa.s.ses them by.

At the end of a long, vaulted pa.s.sageway stands his father, peering through a leaded viewport. It is hard see anything through the metre-thick panes, clouded as they are by ash and cobwebs, but as Palchus approaches he can just make out the vague, spectral presence of Ilissus.

*They were Relictors,' he mutters.

*Who were?' asks the baron, turning towards him.

*The Adeptus Astartes sent down onto the planet. I spoke to some of the stevedores. Mortmain himself had sworn them to secrecy.' He grimaces. *It was not easy to extract the truth.'

*Oh yes, I know who's down there.' Baron van Tol fixes his half-lidded eyes on his nephew. *You're not the only one here with sight.' He raps his knuckles against the gla.s.s. *What do you see now, though?'

Palchus looks out at the ghostly planet and shakes his head. *Nothing. Nothing beyond the warp storms, that is. I've never seen such power.'

The baron sneers. *It's a dirty, crude form of sorcery, but yes, it's certainly powerful.' He looks around, noting the hooded figures flitting through the shadows, and leans closer to his nephew, lowering his voice. *If Mortmain doesn't act soon the corruption will spread.' He plucks an object from his braided ceremonial jacket and lifts it up into the candlelight. It is a tiny hourgla.s.s, housed within a frame of intricately engraved finger bones.

Palchus grimaces at the sight of it. The sand has gathered in the centre, refusing to fall either way. He grabs his father's wrist, pulls the hourgla.s.s closer and shakes it, to no effect. *What does it mean?'

The baron shrugs. *Time is on the run, Palchus. The storm on Ilissus is spreading.' He lowers his voice even further. *The concordat has only bought us a brief reprieve. If Ilissus isn't destroyed soon, the other Houses will smell a rat. They have a little more insight than these plebeians.' He looks back at the planet. *They won't believe this rubbish about the Black Legion. They will see the storms for what they truly are. We will be ruined.'

*Then what do we do?' Palchus's voice is edged with panic. *The inquisitor is obviously lying to us. Why would he send s.p.a.ce Marines onto a planet scheduled for Exterminatus?'

The baron shakes his head and puts the hourgla.s.s back into his pocket. *The Relictors are scavengers. They're famed for it. They're vile magpies, always peering beneath stones that ought to be left unturned. Everyone knows they're just a step away from heresy, but Inquisitor Mortmain must have allowed them one last chance to explore the planet for some reason. Beforea' He pauses and curls his lip with displeasure. *Before the problems arose, Ilissus was famed for its scriptoria. One in particular is said to house doc.u.ments and relics older than the Imperium itself.'

*The Zeuxis Scriptorium.'

The baron nods. *The Zeuxis Scriptorium is particularly infamous. The priests in charge had similar interests to the Relictors, interests that most reputable people would consider heretical. It has been lost for centuries, but the Relictors have a knack of unearthing things.' He pulls back his shoulders and raises his chin. *I must think. Meet me in my chambers in an hour.' As he ambles off down the pa.s.sageway, another servo-skull drifts down from the rafters and trails after him, lighting the way. *Do nothing,' he says, sneering at Palchus as he disappears around a corner.

Palchus drums his fingers against the viewport. What's Mortmain thinking? Why would he delay even a second when so much is at risk? Why would he ignore the concordat? Someone must know. He stands there for a few minutes, muttering to himself, until an idea hits him. It seems to arrive fully formed, as though the ship itself has answered his question. *Of course,' he mutters. *There are other Relictors on board. They must know what's going on.'

He strides over to an empty alcove. It is a shrine of some kind, but he pays no attention to the hunched, winged statue crouched in the darkness, as he sits on a stone bench and closes his eyes. He places his fingers beneath the peak of his cap, resting them on a swelling in the middle of his forehead. Then he whispers an incantation under his breath and, after a few minutes, his breathing begins to quicken and beads of sweat appear on his face. Numb pain spreads from his forehead and he moans softly. Images tumble through his mind. He sees engines: vast, oil-black behemoths, thundering and belching far below him in the belly of the Domitus. Then he sees miles of featureless hab blocks, housing legions of crewmen and priests and whole regiments of Guardsmen. Many of the Guardsmen are wounded and as Palchus's mind touches theirs, he feels agony and fear. He moves on, holding his breath as he looks through flight decks, chapels, cloisters and hangars, searching desperately until he senses something quite different from the Guardsmen: a sliver of cool, hard arrogance. *Yes,' he whispers. The minds of the Adeptus Astartes are unmistakable. He removes his fingers from his forehead, pulls his cap back into place and finally exhales. *Just a few kilometres away.' To find his targets so easily seems a little odd, but Palchus is so anxious he does not pause to consider the odds of stumbling across the Relictors so quickly.

He rises and looks out into the pa.s.sageway. The baron's light has faded from view. *I'm sorry father,' he says, his voice trembling with emotion, *I won't just sit around as our name is thrown to the dogs.' With that, he turns and hurries in the opposite direction, quickly disappearing into the endless maze of corridors.

After a few seconds the large, winged shape crouched in the shrine climbs down from the wall. As it steps out into the pa.s.sage, the outline of the thing is hard to discern, but as it slips quietly after Palchus, one of the hooded onlookers is unfortunate enough to catch a brief glimpse. He stumbles back against the wall with a curse, left with an image of torn, ruptured flesh and battered, jagged iron. As the onlooker drops to his knees, pressing his palms over his eyes, he hears the rattle of chains, sc.r.a.ping into the distance.

After half an hour, Palchus notices that the pa.s.sageways are growing narrower and less well-kept. There is no sign of any servitors and piles of waste lie uncleared in the corners. The air grows thick with the smell of engine oil and faeces, and the Navigator hides his face behind a silk, perfumed handkerchief. Are these really suitable quarters for Adeptus Astartes, he wonders? Then he remembers which Chapter he is looking for: the Relictors. Their fall from grace is almost laughable. An open sewer is the perfect place to house men with so many accusations of heresy hanging over them.

Eventually, the ceiling falls so low that the servo-skull is unable to follow and Palchus curses, stumbling to a halt in the darkness. *What is this place?' he mutters, pulling a small light from his jacket pocket. As the thin beam washes over the walls ahead, he sees the pa.s.sageway is no longer made of stone: it is a jumble of corrugated iron, rusted heating vents and gurgling, hissing pipes.

*Perhaps this isn't right,' he mutters, stooping and edging slowly forwards.

Then he hears a sound from behind him and turns around, levelling his light at the shadows. The darkness ripples and slides but he can see nothing clearly. A feeling of dread grips him.

Palchus draws his sword and considers turning back, but barely has the thought formed in his mind when the door behind rattles free of its supports and slams down onto the stone floor. The resultant clang causes the Navigator to flinch so violently that his light slips from his fingers and bounces away into the shadows, extinguishing itself as it goes.

Palchus curses as pitch dark descends. *Is anyone there?' he calls, his words echoing weirdly through the narrow pa.s.sageway.

There is no reply.

Palchus drops to his knees and reaches through the darkness. He is sure he can pinpoint where the light fell, but as his fingers brush over the cold stone, they find no trace of the metal cylinder.

*Where is it?' he hisses, with a rising sense of panic.

As the Navigator's fingers stretch further, they brush against something soft and warm.

He yelps in horror, scrabbling back towards the wall.

Terror grips him as he climbs to his feet and backs away as fast as he can. The darkness is so complete that he is forced to feel his way along the cold, sticky metal of the walls, cursing under his breath as his fingers catch on jagged edges and broken screws.

Despite the pain he gradually picks up speed, gaining confidence as his eyes start to adjust to the dark. He realises that there is an opening up ahead and breaks into a sprint, holding his sword out ahead of him as he runs.

As Palchus nears the doorway, he glimpses movement up ahead: a hunched, glistening shape, too fast to make out clearly.

Seconds before he reaches the opening, the door clangs shut.

Palchus slams into it with a grunt. His sword buckles and twists painfully in his grip.

As he slides to the floor, holding his hands up in front of his face, he senses something in the darkness.

A shape is approaching.

CHAPTER FIVE.

As the rest of squad Elicius clamber awkwardly over the rocks, Sergeant Halser pauses on an outcrop and waits for Brother-Librarian Comus to catch up. As he watches his old friend approaching he feels a painful mixture of anger and guilt. Comus's power armour is cloaked in dust and as he stumbles over the weird terrain his face remains locked in a grimace, but he still has the libellus clasped firmly in his grip. *I had no choice,' growls Halser to himself. *This is our last chance.'

He wipes his visor and scours the horizon for signs of the enemy. The sun has already slipped lower in the sky, tr.i.m.m.i.n.g the clouds with bronze and making it even harder to see. Halser grabs the auspex from his belt but it is still dead. They have heard nothing from Brother Silvius since the crash. More worryingly, they have not been able to contact Fleet Sanctus or the Domitus. They are utterly alone. As his gaze falls back on the stooped figure of Comus, Halser keeps thinking the same thought. This is our last chance.

Comus is only a few metres away when Halser notices something odd. As the Librarian enters a narrow defile, he vanishes briefly from view, before re-emerging and giving the sergeant a wave of his sword. Sergeant Halser nods in reply, but then frowns. A bank of dust drifts between the two s.p.a.ce Marines and when it clears, Comus has vanished. Halser prepares to call out, but before he can, Comus reappears, climbing into view exactly as before. He even gives Halser the same wave, as though nothing has happened. Halser feels a chill of alarm. Something is wrong, but he is unable to say exactly what. Comus could have stumbled back into the defile, but there was something strange about the way he signalled. His second wave was identical to his first. Halser shakes his head and rises to greet the Librarian. Deja vu, he thinks, but the sense of alarm stays with him as he helps Comus up the rocks to his side.

*Are you fit for duty?' he asks, hiding his concern behind a scowl. He realises that there are tears of blood welling in the Librarian's eyes.

Comus nods, but is too short of breath to reply.

*Is it the presence of the Traitor Marines?' asks Halser. *Is that what's causing you such pain?'

Comus frowns and shakes his head. *No,' he manages to grunt after a few minutes. As he speaks, small flecks of blood glisten on his lips. He nods at the libellus. *It is the xenos device a and something else. There is something else here.'

Halser waves at the columns of rock and the rolling clouds. *This is the work of heretics, though, surely?'

Comus follows his gaze and looks up at the tormented sunset. *Something else,' he repeats.

Halser realises that he has never seen his battle-brother in such pain. *Should you head back to the gunship, Comus? We don't have time for pa.s.sengers. Perhaps you could help the tech-priests? They seemed to think the repairs would take a while, but an extra pair of hands might speed things up.' He hesitates. *Perhaps you could show me how to use the xenos device.'

Comus grips the sergeant's arm. *No. I must continue. I'm shielding you from something.' He waves at the clouds. *That's why...' His words trail off and he grimaces again. *The pain is not just from the libellus. It's because I'm holding back the prayers.'

*Prayers?' Halser shakes his head in confusion. *Whose prayers?'

*There are prayers on the wind. And they are filled with such power they would flay you to the bone if I let them.'

*Power? You mean witchcraft?'

Comus closes his eyes and presses a hand against one of the dozens of purity seals that adorn his power armour. His fingers press deep into the lump of wax and crumpled parchment, and when he opens his eyes they are a little clearer. *No, not witchcraft. At least, not the sort you mean. I hear catechisms and the names of saints. I hear prayers that speak of obedience to the Immortal Emperor.' He ma.s.sages his scalp. *But there is a power in them like nothing I've ever...' His voice trails off and his eyes fill with confusion. Then he turns to Halser. *I do not believe Ilissus has fallen to the Black Legion. Some great power is in control here, but it has no love of Chaos.'

Halser shakes his head furiously. *Of course the planet has fallen to Chaos. Inquisitor Mortmain was certain. Exterminatus is only hours away.' He looks at the rest of the squad, picking their way across the brutalised landscape. The inquisitor's acolyte is tiny in comparison, leaning heavily on his cane as he stumbles after the s.p.a.ce Marines. *Pylcrafte said the clouds were a mark of Chaos. He said they arrived with the Black Legion.'

Comus locks his gaze on the sergeant. *I do not place much faith in the words of that man. I sense he is holding something from us.'

Halser shrugs off the Librarian's grip and nods at the horizon. *Well, we will find out the truth soon enough if we keep moving. We only have six hours. Then Inquisitor Mortmain will begin the bombardment, Chaos or not.'

They have not travelled far when shots ring out again.

The squad vanishes silently into the storm.

Sergeant Halser drops behind a trunk of rock. *Brother Vortimer,' he hisses into his vox-bead, *Is anyone hit? What do you see?'

The reply is a burst of white noise.

*Brother Vortimer?'

There is another hiss of static, but this time words are audible beneath the distortion. *Bolter fire. The shots went wide. They are holed up in some kind of building. Half a kilometre east. It might be a tower but I can't bea'

The signal dies.

Halser feels his pulse quicken. He will not lose another man. He opens up the comm-net to include the whole squad. *Brothers Vortimer, Borellus and Sabine: circle around, approach from the rear. The rest of you hold your positions. Wait for my signal.'

He turns to face Comus. *Is this the power you felt?'

The Librarian shakes his head. *This is Traitor Marines.' He frowns. *They are in such terrible pain.'

Halser looks at his auspex and curses the blank screen. Then, as a particularly fierce dust cloud twists past, he risks a glance around the stone. Brother Vortimer is right; there is some kind of building to the east. As the clouds roll past he sees it quite clearly: a fluted spiral of rock, topped with crumbling, teeth-like projections that resemble the merlons of a castle. It looks to be part of a larger building, but before he can make out anything else he sees movement behind the jagged stone. As he ducks out of view he glimpses a flash of light.

A fizzing whine cuts through the storm and, a few metres to the left of Halser, the ground dissolves into a cloud of dust and spinning rock. As stone pings off his armour the sergeant curses. *Lascannon.' He looks back at Comus. *They're not in too much pain to fire their weapons.'

Comus shakes his head. *Something is badly wrong with them, though. Why do you think their aim is so bad?'

Halser nods at a narrow trench a few feet back, and as they drop heavily into it he opens up the comm-net. *Vortimer, Borellus, Sabine a are you in position? What do you see?'

Halser receives his answer in the form of gunfire: a whole volley of rattling shots that ring out from the tower.

*Move in!' he cries, leaping from the trench and racing in the direction of the gunfire.

CHAPTER SIX.

Palchus awakes to darkness and the sound of rattling chains.

He tries to move but an awful, wrenching pain explodes in his stomach. *Who's there?' he gasps, trying to stand. To his horror, he realises he is trapped. Thick, leather straps are wrapped around him, binding him to some kind of metal chair. Terror grips him. *You don't realise what you're doing!' he cries, peering into the shifting shadows. *I belong to the House of van Tol.'

The sound of sc.r.a.ping metal continues, but there is no reply.

Palchus raises his voice into something approaching a scream. *I am Navis n.o.bilite! You may not treat me like this!' He strains to free himself from the chair and feels the awful pain in his stomach again. Something is embedded in his flesh and he realises his jacket is drenched with blood. *What have you done to me?'

Finally there is a reply: a liquid gurgle that comes from somewhere behind him. The words make no sense whatsoever but, simultaneously, Palchus becomes aware of something else. As the vile belching sound fills the darkness, the Navigator feels words forming in his mind. He realises, to his amazement, that the small, hard eye embedded in his forehead is processing the gibberish into a language he can understand. It is as though the warp itself is speaking to him. Every syllable adds to his pain, like needles being pressed into his brain.

*You did that to yourself, actually.' The words appear as thoughts, rather than sound, and the thoughts are full of hate. The sense of malice is so great that the Navigator lets out an involuntary whine.

*Did what?' he manages to gasp eventually.

*You have quite literally fallen on your sword, Palchus.'

The Navigator peers down at his stomach. It is too dark to see anything clearly, but he can just about make out a glimmer of twisted steel, jammed into his belly. *I need help then!' he cries. *You can't just leave me like this.' His fear starts to mingle with rage. *Who are you?'