Nemesis

With a bullet-sharp crack, ancient wood and rigid metals gave way, and a hidden door slammed open. Beyond it, in the ever-shifting puzzle of the changing corridors, three figures filled the space. Two wore amber-gold armour chased with white and black accents, their faces set and grim. They were veteran Space Marines of the VII Legiones Astartes in full combat plate; but eclipsing their presence was a warrior of stone cast and cold, steady gaze standing a head higher than both of them.

Rogal Dorn stepped into the Shrouds, his battle gear glittering in the light of the lume-globes. He cast his gaze around the room with an expression that might have been disgust, dwelling on Valdor, then the Master, and finally the deep shadows engulfing the farthest side of the chamber.

It was Siress Venenum who dared to shatter the shocked silence that came in the wake of Dorn’s intrusion. ‘Lord Astartes,’ she began, desperately trying to rein in her fear. ‘This is a sanctum of–’

The Imperial Fist did not even grace her with a look. He advanced towards the rosewood table and folded his arms across his titanic chest. ‘Here you are,’ he said, addressing his comments towards Valdor. ‘I told you our conversation was not ended, Custodian.’

‘You should not be here, Lord Dorn,’ he replied.

‘Neither should you,’ snapped the primarch, his voice like breaking stones. ‘But you brought both of us to it. To this… place of subterfuge.’ He said the last word as if it revolted him.

‘This place is not within your authority, Astartes.’ The voice of the Master of Assassins was altered and shifted, but still the edge of challenge was clear for all to hear.

‘At this moment, it is…’ Dorn turned his cold glare on the mirrored face staring up at him. ‘My Lord Malcador.’

A thrill of surprise threaded across the room, as every one of the Sires and Siresses turned to stare at the Master.

‘I knew it…’ hissed Culexus. ‘I always knew you were the Sigillite!’

‘This is a day of revelations,’ muttered Sire Vanus.

‘I have just begun,’ Dorn rumbled.

With a sigh, Malcador reached up and removed the silver mask, setting it down on the table. He frowned, and an eddy of restrained telepathic annoyance rippled through the air. ‘Well done, my friend. You’ve broken open an enigma.’

‘Not really,’ Dorn replied. ‘I made an educated guess. You confirmed it.’

The Sigillite’s frown became a brief, intent grimace. ‘A victory for the Imperial Fists, then. Still, I have many more secrets.’

The warrior-king turned. ‘But no more here today.’ He glared at the other members of the Officio. ‘Masks off,’ he demanded. ‘All of you! I will not speak with those of such low character who hide their faces. Your voices carry no import unless you have the courage to place your name to them. Show yourselves.’ The threat beneath his words did not need to break the surface.

There was a moment of hush; then movement. Sire Vindicare was first, pulling the spy mask from his face as if he were glad to be rid of it. Then Sire Eversor, who angrily tossed his fang-and-bone disguise on to the table. Siress Callidus slipped the silk from her dainty face, and Vanus and Venenum followed suit. Sire Culexus was last, opening up his gleaming skull mask like an elaborate metal flower.

The assassins looked upon their naked identities for the first time and there was a mixture of potent emotions: anger, recognition, amusement.

‘Better,’ said Dorn.

‘Now you have stripped us of our greatest weapon, Astartes,’ said Siress Callidus, a fall of rust-red hair lying unkempt over a pale face. ‘Are you satisfied?’

The primarch glanced over his shoulder. ‘Brother-Captain Efried?’

One of the Imperial Fists at the door stepped forwards and handed a device to his commander, and in turn Dorn placed it on the table and slid it towards Sire Vanus.

‘It’s a data-slate,’ he said.

‘My warriors intercepted a starship beyond the edge of the Oort Cloud, attempting to vector into the Sol system,’ Dorn told them. ‘It identified itself as a common freighter, the Hallis Faye. A name I imagine some of you might recognise.’

‘The crew…?’ began Sire Eversor.

‘None to speak of,’ offered Captain Efried.

Dorn pointed at the slate. ‘That contains a datum capsule recovered from the vessel’s mnemonic core. Mission logs. Vox recordings and vid-picts.’ He glanced at Malcador and the Custodian. ‘What is spoken of there is troubling.’

The Sigillite nodded towards Sire Vanus. ‘Show us.’

Vanus used a hair-fine connector to plug the slate into the open panel before him, and immediately the images in the ghostly hololith flickered and changed to a new configuration of data-panes.

At the fore was a vox thread, and it began to unspool as a man’s voice, thick with pain, filled the air. ‘My name is Eristede Kell. Assassin-at-Marque of the Clade Vindicare, Epsilon-dan… And I have defied my orders.’

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