‘The Foretrak Gap has fallen, Jepthah,’ Zelazko said. ‘Blodt is slain.’

  Matebos fidgeted, stepping back and forth as if agitated. He seemed possessed of a perpetual, barely contained energy which made his movements jerky and anxious. A rising, gurgling roar emanated from deep within the twisted mass of his fused ribs.

  ‘Killed?’

  ‘By servants of the False Emperor. Tempestus Scions.’

  ‘I care not what they call themselves! Only where we might find them. They will feel the vengeance of Iron.’ Matebos’ hooved left foot stamped impatiently. ‘When do we depart?’

  ‘I am afraid you will have the honour of vengeance alone, brother. My duty precludes my accompanying you.’

  ‘Felg can wait,’ Matebos snarled. ‘What of your duty to Numus?’

  ‘My duty to avenge Numus will be executed by your hand, brother,’ Zelazko said. ‘The Warsmith will tolerate no further delays.’

  Shoulders rolling back and forth, Matebos shuffled from side to side. A dull, wet growl died in his throat.

  ‘As you will, brother,’ Matebos said. Another wad of oily phlegm coughed from his barbed vox-grille. ‘Where will I find them?’

  Zelazko closed his eyes. The Adeptus Astartes’ capacious appetite for information enabled him to recall data in perfect detail even after one cursory glance, digesting and extrapolating from it with shocking accuracy.

  Hurdt knew that there were three primary routes between the Foretrak Gap and Vytrum, each with dozens of ancillary tributary roads branching from them. Weighing the advantages and drawbacks of each would take his planners weeks – it would be like predicting the trajectory of a blade of grass in a hurricane.

  Zelazko had the solution within the span of half a minute. ‘They will come to the depot on the grounds of the military academy,’ he said.

  ‘You are certain?’ Matebos asked.

  ‘They will need to refuel and resupply prior to striking into Vytrum proper, and the academy’s depot is the only location so equipped along the way. Go there.’

  He turned to Dorran and Hurdt. ‘You will support my brother in this. Expect the Hundred-and-Thirty-Ninth to arrive as well, though not in support of these Scions. You will leave no survivors.’

  ‘You don’t wish to capture any for interrogation?’ Hurdt asked. He hoped he kept the fear from his voice, though the sweat soaking into his collar chilled him.

  ‘No. I care not what they know, only that they die.’

  ‘How long?’ Dorran asked.

  ‘I anticipate the Scions will arrive at the depot within a window of six hours,’ Zelazko said. ‘It is more than enough time for you to plan for the operation and deploy your forces.’

  ‘What of Zheev and his Hundred-and-Thirty-Ninth?’ Hurdt asked.

  ‘Orbital picts indicate the Hundred-and-Thirty-Ninth is consolidating after hastily splitting off its pursuit from your Two-Hundred-and-Twelfth to reclaim Pokol Armoury, so my estimation of their arrival is less precise.’

  ‘Yes, consul,’ Hurdt said, in absence of anything else.

  ‘Given the apparent resourcefulness and adaptability of these Tempestus Scions, I recommend against a frontal assault,’ Zelazko added.

  ‘They will be provided every opportunity for comfort and succour when they arrive,’ Matebos gurgled, turning his smoke-shrouded gaze towards Hurdt. ‘Give them a moment’s respite, then box them in while they rest and resupply. When they are reeling, rain artillery on them, then hit them with a vortex warhead. I want less than memory remaining – let the warp devour them.’

  ‘My lord,’ Hurdt began, ‘is that a prudent use for our last Death­strike?’

  Matebos’ head lowered, like a bull grox about to charge.

  ‘Calm, Jepthah,’ Zelazko said. ‘It is a valid question.’ He looked to Hurdt. ‘But you will comply with my brother’s wishes, general.’

  Hurdt nodded dumbly, wishing desperately to find a response. ‘Of course,’ he choked.

  ‘When the Hundred-and-Thirty-Ninth arrives,’ Matebos said, ‘I will accompany your Stygians, Captain Dorran. Their commander, this Zheev, is mine.’ He turned back to Zelazko and banged his right fist against his plastron in salute. ‘I will bring you his head to celebrate our victory, brother.’

  ‘For Numus,’ Zelazko sighed.

  Matebos turned and stalked from the room on mismatched legs, mercifully taking his ghastly blade’s whispering sibilance with him.

  Hurdt drew a shuddering breath the moment the twisted Iron Warrior’s heavy footfalls finally faded from hearing.

  Zelazko took no notice of the general’s relief. He rested his lascannon upon the hololith, freeing his servo-arm for repair work. Without a word, he knelt before the damaged projection device and began mending it.

  Dvart slipped towards the plinth, her tiny steel feet clattering beneath her. The tech-priest took her place on the opposite side of the hololith, her augmetics whirring and clicking as she assisted Zelazko in his repairs.

  ‘General,’ Dorran said. ‘We should prepare.’

  ‘Indeed we should, captain,’ Hurdt readily agreed. Unwilling to draw Zelazko’s attention, he departed briskly, Dorran close behind.

  Once outside, he closed the hatch behind them.

  ‘What in the name of the Throne have we got ourselves into here, Celida?’ Hurdt asked. All pretence of military decorum had faded from his demeanour – he was entirely demoralised and terrified. The veins in his temples throbbed.

  ‘What a quaint oath, general.’

  ‘You know what I mean, dammit!’ Hurdt hissed. ‘This is too far! What sort of devil’s bargain did you strike for us?’

  ‘Would you prefer it otherwise?’ Dorran asked. ‘We would be dead and gone, rotting on the pyre the Fire Angels made for us beneath Oranesca, had Consul Zelazko and his allies not rescued us.’

  Hurdt shook his head. ‘When the Iron Warriors rescued us from Oranesca Hive, I was relieved – grateful, even. Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows, after all. They gave us the opportunity to strike back at the bastards who dropped us into that hellhole and forgot us.’

  ‘They helped us get what we wanted,’ Dorran said. ‘Now it’s time to help them get what they want. It’s a bit late for regrets.’

  ‘Get what we wanted?’ Hurdt spat. ‘All I wanted was a Rilis free to pursue its own destiny, apart from an uncaring Imperium!’

  ‘Are you so naïve that you truly believed the Iron Warriors were capable of munificence? What did you expect from a Traitor Legion? Freedom is a lie, general. Servitude or treason, the result is the same.’

  ‘We are not traitors!’ Hurdt shouted. The Stygian guards on either side of the door instinctively tightened their grips on their hotshot lasguns. ‘We are the proud sons and daughters of Rilis,’ he continued quietly.

  Dorran laughed. She gestured towards the door behind them. ‘Then what do you call that?’

  Hurdt scowled. ‘We are patriots,’ he said unironically. ‘And patriotism requires its leaders be prepared to make the most difficult decisions. Our loyalty is, as it should have always been, to the people of Rilis – not to some mythical God-Emperor shepherding mankind into some long-promised golden age from light years away, as the priests insist.’

  ‘Your loyalty is not to the Iron Warriors, then?’

  ‘They are a means to an end,’ Hurdt said. ‘As you say, without Zelazko’s support, we would be dead and buried beneath Enth – would that the Fire Angels had championed us instead and not simply bombarded us from orbit and left us to rot in the depths of some stinking underhive.’ He threw up his hands. ‘Ah, well. Wish in one hand, shit in the other. Why are we even arguing, Celida? I thought we were on the same page.’

  ‘We are,’ Dorran assured him, though Hurdt had his doubts.

  ‘Good, because we’re wasting time here. After what happened in there, I’ve decided I would like to remain solidly in Consul Zelazko’s good graces, at least until this is over. If we’re finished, I need to make ready.’

  ‘Of course, general.’

  Hurdt walked towards the lifts, then turned to Dorran as he waited for the doors to open. ‘For what it’s worth, I’m glad it’ll be the Stygians accompanying Matebos, and not my men.’

  The lift doors slid open. Lieutenant Bayless, Dorran’s second-in-command, stood in the doorway. Oranesca’s abhorrent depths had left their indelible mark upon him, as they had upon every Stygian who escaped from its festering darkness. The flesh of over three-quarters of his body had twisted into a mantle of rosaceous, bumpy hide, hideously distorting the right side of his face into a gruesome, swollen parody of human features. The iris of his right eye had broken like an egg yolk and manifested two polychroic pupils, while his hair, once blond, now sprouted as an irregular scaling of short spikes resembling dirty fingernails.

  ‘General,’ Bayless said. Despite his ghastly mutations, the left side of his face remained smooth and handsome, like some grimly mocking reminder of who he was before.

  ‘Lieutenant,’ Hurdt acknowledged, wishing the Stygians would keep their damned helmets on.

  Bayless exited and joined his commander outside the strategium as the lift doors closed.

  Alone in the lift, Hurdt ran his gloved fingers over the Imperialis on his breastplate with a heavy sigh.

  ‘The most difficult decisions,’ he said, and wondered how long it would take his armourers to remove the sigil.

  XII

  ‘How much fuel do we have?’ Traxel called from the back of the Taurox, where he, Fennech and Norroll consulted over a map Durlo had acquired within the Fortress of Iron and Lead.

  Daviland had restocked her medi-kit with supplies obtained from the 139th. She had exhausted most of her issued stock crossing the Foretrak Gap and used up what little remained piecing Phed back together.

  ‘Maybe enough for another hour’s travel,’ Bissot called back from the cab. ‘Maybe less.’

  The eradicant had emptied their last containers of the fuel they had requisitioned from the Rilisians three hours earlier. Powerful as the Taurox’s engines were, they were woefully inefficient, burning through promethium at a rate that necessitated frequent refuelling.

  ‘Enough time for the Iron Warriors to show themselves?’ Fennech asked.

  ‘We’ll see,’ Traxel said. ‘I’d like to be out of the Taurox when that happens. When the flood comes, we stand a better chance if we aren’t all in one place.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Then we find the Iron Warriors and kill them.’

  ‘Simple as that?’ Norroll asked.

  ‘In principle,’ Traxel said. ‘In practice, doubtfully so. One was more than enough for an entire regiment at Foretrak.’

  Fennech made a function check of his bolt pistol. ‘You expect both remaining Iron Warriors?’

  ‘I honestly hope not,’ Traxel said. ‘But I admit that the one I do expect is the one I dread most.’

  ‘The twisted one?’ Norroll asked. ‘With the… the sword.’

  Traxel nodded.

  ‘Why do you think he will come alone?’

  ‘Because they each have a different purpose. The one at Foretrak was the siege master, responsible for sequestering Vytrum from the war to the west. The twisted one, the one I expect will come for us here, is the enforcer – he moves as he is required. The third, as Colonel Mawr and his officers explained, is the leader.’

  ‘And he will not come?’ Norroll asked.

  ‘I do not expect him. He is their leader, but not their master. I expect he has more pressing matters occupying him – he did not make his presence known before Kiemchek and returned to the capital immediately afterwards. He will remain in Vytrum.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Tempestor,’ Norroll said, ‘but this is a bit too much. How can you possibly believe what you’re saying?’

  ‘Are you dense, Norroll?’ Rybak said, loading the last plasma flask into a bandolier. ‘It’s regicide. The Tempestor’s playing regicide.’

  Daviland checked Phed, who sat in a restorative trance to her right, his mind and body effectively switched off to heal more efficiently. She had mounted multiple nutrient and fluid feeds to the Scion’s armour, the artificial intakes the sole means by which Phed remained able to hydrate and absorb sustenance. His injuries had required emergency surgery to the extent that Daviland was surprised she had managed to keep him alive. The scope of damage to his internal organs was so extensive that it was neces­sary for her to excise the entirety of his stomach and his upper and lower bowels. His heart had been perforated by shrapnel when a round of Reaper ammunition had shattered against his carapace armour, requiring her to install an artificial replacement.

  She had kept Scions alive with more grievous wounds than these, but it was never for long. His heart rate would register as a flatline from now on, so she had to check his vitals by means of an implant which linked him to her medicae vambrace. Though Phed’s physical conditioning and psychological architecture would keep him in the fight for the time being, he was effectively a dead man walking.

  It comforted her to realise that she had given Phed time enough to choose the means of his ending. Ultimately, the length of his service to the Emperor and the manner of his death would be determined by the Scion himself.

  The Taurox Prime ground over the shattered boulevard which wound around the Rilisian military academy on the outskirts of the planetary capital at Vytrum, the only movement apart from the overgrown grasses that rippled like the surface of a weed-choked sea. The day had dawned hot, and late-morning sunlight baked down on the transport with the promise of higher temperatures. Beside them, the broad expanse of the Hukstrom River meandered lazily from the ridges to the north into the broad plain where the academy lay, its blood-red waters still stained by the pollutants which had nearly rendered Rilis uninhabitable a millennium before.

  Though the academy was nominally under the control of General Hurdt’s traitors, there was very little in the way of a permanent presence on its grounds. Little enough of value remained on the campus itself, the once pristine white stone of its architecture ravaged by artillery bombardment in the early days of the war and riddled with bullets in the months since.

  According to Colonel Mawr, the academy had been deemed untenable and abandoned by the last of its loyalist defenders before he had even entered the Foretrak Gap nearly three months earlier. The only area of importance remaining was the school’s supply depot, on the northern edge of the meander upon which the academy lay.

  The Taurox rolled on, its quad-mounted tracks and advanced suspension allowing it to traverse the heavily cratered roadway without slowing. Rybak manned the turret in search of threats, though nothing presented itself. Already injured and exhausted, they had been rendered jittery by the vitalotox – Akraatumo, who had received two doses, was easily the tensest of the lot. He sat in the cab next to Bissot, who seemed to have a calming influence on him. He listened to her spin tales of her mother’s heroism as she drove, enthralled by the volley gunner’s fantastic stories of a woman she had never met, told as if she had been present.

  ‘The cave was collapsing all around them as Calixe hit the afterburners,’ Bissot said, calling her mother by her given name, ‘jolting her Thunderbolt forward with a sonic boom. The rest of the squadron followed in tight formation, trusting her to lead them out.’

  ‘A sonic boom?’ Akraatumo asked. ‘I thought they were inside an asteroid?’

  ‘So did she.’ Bissot smirked. ‘But it wasn’t a cave… It was Jero­boam the Great, a void whale of such prodigious size that it had swallowed the asteroid my mother’s squadron had escaped into whole, while they were still inside.’

  ‘We’re coming up on the gate, Bissot,’ Traxel said. ‘Focus on the road.’

  The Taurox rounded a bend, following the curve of the river, and the gates of the academy’s supply depot came into view.

  ‘The entry control point looks to be minimally guarded,’ Bissot said. ‘Guard shack and security barrier, route in controlled via obstacle barricades.’

  Traxel called up into the turret. ‘Rybak.’

  The gatling cannons wailed, the fire from their twin rotary barrels chewing through the glass and steel of the guard shack to shred the pair of Guardsmen manning it in a storm of blood, sparks and shattered glass. The Taurox struck the barrier at speed, wrenching the black-and-yellow-striped armature from its rockcrete base as it ploughed forward. The barricades, intended to slow a vehicle by forcing it to zigzag around the obstacles, impeded the Taurox little enough when Bissot simply pivot-steered, slewing the transport around them. She drifted the Taurox around curves with a nimbleness impossible for ordinary tyres. The rear of the vehicle crashed into each barricade as she swerved around the next, reverberating through the armoured chassis with every impact.

  The depot’s quick-reaction force darted from the barracks facility to the right, and Rybak gunned them down. He pivoted forward, searching for more targets as the Taurox swept from the entry control point, gyroscopic mounts keeping his gatling cannons level despite the juddering impact with the last obstacle.

  Bissot accelerated across the depot’s yard, making haste to the fuel dump. The facility was built to the same specifications as tens of thousands of others like it across the galaxy, so navigating it was simple enough, despite the minor alterations made to the layout over the course of seven millennia.

  She had barely brought the Taurox to a complete stop before the Scions were leaping from the hatches. Each went to their assigned tasks silently, sprinting across the tarmac to gather the equipment they had been charged to find and return as quickly as possible before reinforcements arrived.

  Phed and Bissot refuelled the Taurox. Promethium sloshed onto the pavement as they hurriedly filled the gun truck’s capacious fuel tanks, then rushed to replenish their stock of five-gallon blitz cans. They finished stowing the full canisters as Daviland returned with a load of medical supplies, which Phed likewise assisted her in packing, dutifully obedient despite his injuries.