Nemesis

waiting to be granted entry, but even as Maloghurst moved to block his path, the

Warmaster turned from the great window and beckoned Erebus closer. He became

aware of alert sirens hooting and beyond the armourglass, fashioned in the oval of an

open eye, he saw rods of laser fire sweeping the void ahead of the flagship’s prow.

Horus nodded to him, the hellish light of the weapons discharges casting his hardedged

face like blunt stone. He was, as ever, resplendent in his battle gear. In his

haste, Erebus had come to the Court still in his dark robes, and for a moment the

Word Bearer felt every bit of his inferiority to the Warmaster, as Horus seemed to

loom over him.

None of this he showed, however. He bottled it away, his aspect never changing.

Erebus was a prince of lies, and well-practised with it. “My lord,” he began. “If it

pleases the Warmaster, I have a request to make. A matter to address—”

“On the surface?” Horus looked away. “We’ll visit Dagonet soon enough, my

friend. For the work to be done.”

Erebus maintained his outwardly neutral aspect, but within it took an effort to

restrain his tension. “Of course. But perhaps, if I might have leave to venture down

before the rites proper, I could… smooth the path, as it were.”

“Soon enough,” Horus repeated, his tone light; but the chaplain knew then that

was the end to it.

Maloghurst hobbled closer, bearing a data-slate. He shot the Word Bearer a look

as he stepped in front of him. “Message from the pickets,” he said. “The other target

is too fast. They scored hits but it will make space before they catch it.”

The Warmaster’s lips thinned. “Let it go. What of the other, our ghost?” He

gestured at the inferno raging outside.

“Indeterminate,” the equerry sniffed. “Gun crews on the perimeter ships report

phantom signals, multiple echoes. They’re carving up dead sky, and finding

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nothing.” Erebus saw his scarred face’s perpetual frown deepening. “I’ve drawn back

the fighter screen as you ordered, lord.”

Horus nodded. “If he dares come so close to me, I want to look him in the eyes.”

The Word Bearer followed the Warmaster’s gaze out through the windows.

The slate in Maloghurst’s gnarled fingers emitted a melodic chime, at odds with

the urgency of its new message. “Sensors read… something,” said the equerry.

“Closing fast. A collision course! But weapons can’t find it…”

“An aura cloak,” said Erebus, peering into the stormy dark. “But such a device is

beyond the Dagoneti.”

“Yes.” Horus smiled, unconcerned. “Do you see him?” The Warmaster stepped to

the window and pressed his hands to the grey glass.

Out among the maelstrom of energy, as javelins of fire crossed and recrossed one

another, scouring the sky for the hidden attacker, for one instant the Chaplain saw

something like oil moving over water. Just the suggestion of a raptor-like object

lensing the light of the distant stars behind it. “There!” He pointed.

Maloghurst snapped out a command over his vox. “Target located. Engage and

destroy!”

The gun crews converged their fire. The craft was close, closer than the illusory

ghost image had suggested. Unbidden, Erebus backed away a step from the viewing

portal.

Horus’ smile grew wider and the Word Bearer heard the words he whispered, a

faint nimble in the deepest register. “Kill me,” said the Warmaster, “if you dare.”

* * *

Ultio burned around him.

The pilot was already dead in the loosest sense, the cyborg’s higher mental

functions boiled in the short-circuit surge from a hit on the starboard wing; but his

core brain was intact, and through that the ship dodged and spun as the sky itself

seemed to turn upon them.

The ship trailed pieces of fuselage in a comet tail of wreckage and burning

plasma. The deck trembled and smoke filled the bridge compartment. A vista of red

warning runes met Kell’s eyes wherever he looked. Autonomic systems had triggered

the last-chance protocols, opening an iris hatch in the floor to a tiny saviour pod

mounted beneath the cockpit. Blue light spilling from the hatch beckoned the

Vindicare for a moment. He had his Exitus pistol at his hip and he was still alive. He

would only need to take a step…

But to where? Even if he survived the next ten seconds, where could he escape

to? What reason did he have to live? His mission… The mission was all Eristede Kell

had left in his echoing, empty existence.

The command tower of the Vengeful Spirit rose through the forward canopy,

acres of old steel and black iron, backlit by volleys of energy and the red threads of

lasers. Set atop it was a single unblinking eye of grey and amber glass, lined in

shining gold.

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And within the eye, a figure. Kell was sure of it, an immense outline, a demigod

daring him to come closer. His hand found the manual throttle bar and he pressed it

all the way to the redline, as the killing fires found his range.

He looked up once again, and the first sighting-mantra he had ever been taught