Nemesis

On the map display, globular clusters of planets winked from blue to red in rapid

order, consumed by revolt. “The entire zone has fallen into anarchy. We have

confirmation that the worlds of Thallat, Bowman, Dagonet, Taebia Prime and Iesta

Veracrux have all broken their ties with the lawful leadership of Terra and declared

loyalty to the Warmaster and his rebels.”

Sire Culexus made a soft hissing sound. “They fall as much from their fears as

from the gun.”

“The Warmaster stands over them and demands they kneel,” said Valdor. “Few

men would have the courage to refuse.”

“We can be certain of only two factors,” the Vanus went on. “One; Captain Luc

Sedirae of the 13th Company of the Sons of Horus, a senior general in the turncoat

forces, has been terminated. Apparently by the action of a sniper.” He glanced at Sire

Vindicare, who said nothing. “Two; Horus Lupercal is alive.”

248

“Sedirae’s death is an important success,” said the Master, “but it is no substitute

for the Warmaster.”

“My clade has already engaged with the information emerging from the Taebian

Sector,” said Sire Vanus. “My infocytes are in the process of performing adjustments

in the overt and covert media to best reflect the Imperium’s position in this

situation.”

“Papering over the cracks with quick lies, don’t you mean?” said Siress Callidus.

The colours of the Vanus’ shimmer-mask blue-shifted. “We must salvage what

we can, milady. I’m sure—”

“Sure?” The silk mask tightened. “What are you sure of? We have no specifics,

no solutions! We’ve done nothing but tip our hand to the traitors!”

The mood of the room shifted, and once again the anger and frustration

simmering unchecked threatened to erupt. The Master of Assassins raised his hand

once more, but before he could speak a warning bell sounded through the room.

“What is that?” demanded Sire Vindicare. “What does it mean?”

“The Shrouds…” The Master was coming to his feet. “They’ve been

compromised…” His silvered face suddenly turned towards one of the mahoganypanelled

walls, as if he could see right through it.

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.”

249

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