Nemesis

mere вЂ˜likelihood’.”

“We are only six,” said Kell, “but together we can do what a thousand warships

have failed to. One vessel can slip through the warp to Dagonet far easier than a fleet.

Six assassins… the best of our clades… can bring death.” He paused. “Remember the

words of the oath we all swore, regardless of our clades. There is no enemy beyond

the Emperor’s wrath.”

“You will take the Ultio to the Taebian Sector,” Valdor went on. “You will

embed on Dagonet and set up multiple lines of attack. When Horus arrives there, you

will terminate his command with extreme prejudice.”

“My lord.” Efried bowed low and waited.

The low mutter of his primarch’s voice was like the distant thunder over the

Himalayan range. “Speak, Captain of the Third.”

The Astartes looked up and found Rogal Dorn standing at the high balcony,

staring into the setting sun. The golden light spilled over every tower and crenulation

of the Imperial Palace, turning the glittering metals and white marble a striking,

honeyed amber. The sight was awesome; but it was marred by the huge cube-like

masses of retrofitted redoubts and gunnery donjons that stood up like blunt grey

fangs in an angry mouth. The palace of before— the rich, glorious construct that

defied censure and defeat—was cheek-by-jowl with the palace of now— a brutalist

fortress ranged against the most lethal of foes. A foe that had yet to show his face

under Terra’s skies.

Efried knew that his liege lord was troubled by the battlements and fortifications

the Emperor had charged him to build over the beauty of the palace; and while the

captain could see equal majesty in both palace and fortress alike, he knew that in

some fashion, Great Dorn believed he was diminishing this place by making it a site

fit only for warfare. The primarch of the Imperial Fists often came to this high

balcony, to watch the walls and, as Efried imagined, to wait for the arrival of his

turncoat brother.

He cleared his throat. “Sir. I have word from our chapter serfs. The reports of

preparations have been confirmed, as have those of the incidents in the Yndenisc

Bloc and on Saros Station.”

“Go on.”

102

“You were correct to order surveillance of the Custodes. Captain-General Valdor

was once again witnessed entering closed session at the Shrouds, with an assemblage

of the Directors Primus of the Assassinorum clades.”

“When was this?” Dorn did not look at him, continuing to gaze out over the

palace.

“This day,” Efried explained. “On the conclusion of the gathering a transmission

was sent into close-orbit space, likely to a vessel. The encryption was of great

magnitude. My Techmarines regretfully inform me it would be beyond their skills to

decode.”

“There is no need to try,” said the primarch, “and indeed, to do so would be a

violation of protocols. That is a line the Imperial Fists will not cross. Not yet.”

Efried’s hand strayed to his close-cropped beard. “As you wish, my lord.”

Dorn was silent for a long moment, and Efried began to wonder if this was a

dismissal; but then his commander spoke again. “It begins with this, captain. Do you

understand? The rot beds in with actions such as these. Wars fought in the shadows

instead of the light. Conflicts where there are no rules of conduct. No lines that

cannot be crossed.” At last he glanced across at his officer. “No honour.” Behind

him, the sun dipped below the horizon, and the shadows across the balcony grew.

“What is to be done?” Efried asked. He would obey any command his primarch

had cause to utter, without question or hesitation.

But Dorn did not answer him directly. “There can only be one target worth such

subterfuge, such a gathering of forces. The Officio Assassinorum mean to kill my

errant brother Horus.”

Efried considered this. “Would that not serve our cause?”

“It might appear so to those with a narrow view,” replied the primarch. “But I

have seen what the assassin’s bullet wreaks in its wake. And I tell you this, brothercaptain.

We will defeat Horus… but if his death comes in a manner such as the

Assassinorum intend, the consequences will be terrible, and beyond our capacity to

control. If Horus falls to an assassin’s hand there will be a gaping vacuum at the core

of the turncoat fleet, and we cannot predict who will fill it or what terrible revenges

they will take. As long as my brother lives, as long as he rides at the head of the

traitor Legions, we can predict what he will do. We can match Horus, defeat him on

even ground. We know him.” Dorn let out a sigh. “I know him.” He shook his head.

“The death of the Warmaster will not stop the war.”

Efried listened and nodded. “We could intervene. Confront Valdor and the clade

masters.”

“Based on what, captain?” Dorn shook his head again. “I have only hearsay and

suspicion. If I were as reckless as Russ or the Khan, that might be enough… But we