Nemesis

towards the Word Bearer, moving through the doorway and into the corridor.

“You would do well, Chaplain, to remember that an honoured battle-brother was

just murdered in cold blood. A decorated Astartes of great esteem whose loss will be

keenly felt, not just by the 13th Company but by the entire Legion.”

Erebus’ eyes narrowed, showing his doubts at the description of Sedirae’s great

esteem. While it was true the man was a fine warrior, many considered him an

outspoken braggart, the Word Bearer among them. But as ever, the equerry kept his

own opinions to himself.

Maloghurst continued. “It would be best for the Warmaster to deal with this

matter without the involvement of those from outside the Legion.” He nodded to a

servitor in the lee of the doors, and the helot began to slide the towering panels

closed. “I’m sure you appreciate that.”

There was a moment when the Word Bearer seemed as if he were about to

protest; but then he nodded. “Of course,” said Erebus. “I bow to your wisdom,

equerry. Who knows the Warmaster’s moods better than you?” He threw a nod and

walked away, back into the shadows of the corridor.

They were killing everything that moved.

The Sons of Horus began by firing on the crowds in Liberation Plaza, routing the

civilians and turning the mob into a screaming tide of bodies that trampled each other

in a desperate attempt to flee back down the roads and away from the great halls.

205

Koyne fought through the mass, catching sight of some of the killings along the

way. Kell’s emergency command echoed through the vox-bead hidden in the

Callidus’ ear.

The Astartes walked, slow and steady, across the plaza with their bolters at their

hips, firing single shot after single shot into the people. The missile-like bolt shells

could not fail to find targets, and for each person they hit and instantly killed, others

fell dead or near to it from the shared force of impact. The blasts rippled out through

flesh and bone, the crowds were so closely packed together. And although Koyne

never saw it, the assassin heard the hiss and crackle of a flamer being used. The smell

of burned flesh was familiar.

The panic was as much a weapon as the guns of the Astartes. People running and

pushing, drowning in animal fear; they trampled one another blindly as they tried to

escape along the radial streets leading from the plaza. Some transformed their fear

into violence, brandishing weapons of their own in vain attempts to cut a path

through the madness.

Koyne rode the terrified mob as one might have floated on a turbulent sea, not

fighting it, letting the frenzied currents of push and pull shove a body here and there.

As the roads opened up into wider boulevards, the crush lessened and people broke

into an open run; some of them were met by strafing fire from the first of the

Stormbirds that swooped in low between the buildings.

The Callidus was carried to the edge of the street and found passage through a

storefront damaged in the early days of the insurrection. Hidden for a moment from

the screaming throng outside, Koyne dared to consult a small holo-map of the city;

any one of the avenues would take the assassin straight out of the metropolis to the

city perimeter, but down each street the Astartes were advancing in small groups,

coldly pacing their kills into those who ran and those who surrendered alike.

After a moment, Koyne peered over the lip of a shattered window and saw that

the leading edge of the crowds had passed by. Stragglers were still running past,

heading southwards. Behind them, walking as if it were nothing more than a morning

stroll, the Callidus spotted a single Astartes in grey ceramite, moving with a bolter at

his shoulder. Sighting down the weapon as he went, he was picking targets at random

and ending them.

This was not a military exercise; this was a castigation.

“This is your fault!” The voice was full of terror and fury.

Koyne spun and found a man, his clothes freshly torn and a new cut staining his

forehead with blood. He stood across the rabble-strewn shop floor, glaring at the

Callidus, pointing a shaky finger.

It was the uniform he was indicating. The dun-coloured tunic of the Dagonet

Planetary Defence Force, in disarray now, but still a part of the false identity Koyne

was operating under.

The man shambled through the glass, kicking it aside without a care for the noise

he was making. “You brought them here!” He stabbed a finger at the street. “That’s

not Horus! I don’t know what those things are! Why did you let them come to kill

us?”

206

Koyne realised that the man had no idea what had happened; perhaps he hadn’t

seen the Shield-Breaker and the Lance. All he saw was a monstrous killing machine

in armour the colour of storms.

“Stop talking,” said Koyne, pulling open the PDF tunic and feeling for a

fleshpocket holster. With a gasp, the Callidus tabbed the seam. Koyne’s weapon was

in there, but the assassin’s muscles were tight with tension and it was proving