Nemesis

you can save us all. But until then, hide behind your gun sight and stay silent!”

The sixth figure at the far end of the table cleared his throat, cocking his head.

His mask, a thing made of glassy layers that reflected granulated, randomised

images, flickered in the dimness. “If I might address Sire Culexus and Siress

Callidus?” said Sire Vanus. “My clade’s predictive engines and our most diligent

info-cytes have concluded, based on all available data and prognostic simulations,

that the probability of Tobeld’s survival to complete his mission was zero point two

percent. Margin of error negligible. However, it did represent an improvement in

proximity-to-target over all Officio Assassinorum operations to date.”

“A mile or an inch,” hissed Culexus, “it doesn’t matter if the kill was lost.”

Siress Callidus looked up the table towards the man in the silver mask. “I want to

activate a new operative,” she began. “Her name is M’Shen, she is one of the best of

my clade and I—”

“Tobeld was the best of the Venenum!” snapped Sire Vindicare, with sudden

annoyance. “Just as Hoswalt was the best of mine, just as Eversor sent his best and so

on and so on! But we’re throwing our most gifted students into a meat-grinder,

sending them in blind and half-prepared! Every strike against Horus breaks, and he

shrugs it off without notice!” He shook his head grimly. “Is this what we have been

reduced to? Every time we meet, listening to a catalogue of each other’s failures?”

The masked man spread his arms, taking in his five cohorts. “We all remember that

day on Mount Vengeance. The pact we made in the shadow of the Great Crusade, the

oath that breathed life into the Officio Assassinorum. For decades we have hunted

22

down the enemies of our Emperor through stealth and subterfuge. We have shown

them there is no safe place to hide.” Sire Vindicare shot a look at Sire Vanus. “What

did he say that day?”

Vanus answered immediately, his mask shimmering. “No world shall be beyond

my rule. No enemy shall be beyond my wrath.”

Sire Culexus nodded solemnly. “No enemy…” he repeated. “No enemy but

Horus, so it seems.”

“No!” snarled Callidus. “I can kill him.” The man in the silver mask remained

silent and she went on, imploring. “I will kill him, if only you will give me leave to

do so!”

“You will fail as well!” snarled Eversor. “My clade is the only one capable of the

deed! The only one ruthless enough to end the Warmaster’s life!”

At once, it seemed as if every one of the masters and mistresses were about to

launch into the same tirade, but before they could begin, the silver mask resonated

with a single word of command. “Silence.”

The chamber became quiet, and the Master of Assassins took a breath before

speaking again. “This rivalry and bickering serves no purpose,” he began, his voice

level and firm. “In all the history of this group, there has never been a target whose

retirement required more than one mission to prosecute. To date, the Horus problem

has claimed eight Officio operatives across all six of the primary clades. Each of you

are the first of your clade, the founders… And yet you sit here and jostle for

supremacy over one another instead of giving me the kill we so desperately want! I

demand a solution to rid us of the Emperor’s turbulent and wayward son.”

Sire Eversor spoke. “I will commit every active agent in my clade. All of them,

all at once. If I must spend the lives of every last Eversor to kill Horus, then so be it.”

For the first time since the group had assembled, the silent figure in the hooded

robes made a sound; a soft grunt of disagreement.

“Our visitor has something to add,” said Sire Vanus.

The Master of Assassins inclined his head towards the shadows. “Is that so?”

The hooded man moved slightly, enough that he became better defined by the

glow-light, but not so much that his face could be discerned inside the depths of the

robe. “None of you are soldiers,” he rumbled, his deep tones carrying across the

room. “You are so used to working alone, as your occupation demands, that you

forget a rule of all conflict. Force doubled is force squared.”

“Did I not just say such a thing?”, snapped Sire Eversor.

The hooded man ignored the interruption. “I have heard you all speak. I have

seen your mission plans. They were not flawed. They were simply not enough.” He

nodded to himself. “No single assassin, no matter how well-trained, no matter which

clade they come from, could ever hope to terminate the Archtraitor alone. But a

collective of your killers…” He nodded again. “That might be enough.”

“A strike team…” mused Sire Vindicare.

“An Execution Force,” corrected the Master. “An elite unit hand-picked for the

task.”

Sire Vanus frowned behind his mask. “Such a suggestion… There is no precedent