Dolorous Guard of the Thousand Eyes / Ashen Blades

[MolotovKraken]

MARKOG – Commander of the Dolorous Guard

JAI’TANA – ‘The Unshriven’, Apostle

Markog and his Dolorous Guard were effective, there was no doubt of that, but Baelor did not share their view that the changes wrought upon them were gifts. They seemed weak, to have lost their grip on their former nature. And they seemed young, so young. Everyone in this godsforsaken galaxy seemed young. ‘They are not only wasting ammunition, they are also not alternating their fire efficiently,’ he informed Markog. ‘More than half will be reloading their weapons…’ He counted down inside his head. ‘Now.’

Markog came into the back of them, swinging his long-handled axe, Heartdrinker, with consummate grace. Such was his reach, and the length of his weapon, that he did not need to step either right or left as he followed Baelor’s path through the centre of the corridor’s narrow confines. The commander of the Dolorous Guard slew the remnants, and the strange, pale metal of his axe-head drank up the blood until it was shining and clean once again. ‘Sloppy,’ Baelor commented, looking down at the corpses. They were robed in dark green, with gold trim. ‘Chapter-serfs,’ Markog grunted. His unnaturally long tongue flickered out to mop up the drops of blood that had spattered onto his face, and he shuddered with delight at the taste. ‘Only human.’ ‘Still sloppy,’ Baelor said. He activated his vox. ‘Knight-captain?’ ‘You will address him as “my lord Seraphax,”’ Markog growled. ‘Shut up, Markog,’ Baelor said, ignoring the giant’s silent snarl. ‘Knightcaptain?’ ‘Baelor. Is your level secure?’

‘All resistance so far has been eliminated, knight-captain,’ he acknowledged. Seraphax had never demanded that Baelor address him by anything other than the title he carried on the day Caliban died, and Baelor had never wished to. ‘Glory to the Ten Thousand Eyes!’ Markog added. ‘Good. Proceed to the reliquary,’ Seraphax instructed, but Baelor could practically hear the sorcerer-lord’s remaining eye rolling at Markog’s fervency. ‘Yes, knight-captain,’ Baelor acknowledged. He did not look at Markog, but could feel the giant’s displeasure. He let it slide off him. Annoying Markog was one of the minor pleasures Baelor took outside of his duty, and pretending that it was incidental rather than calculated only made the whole thing more enjoyable. ‘Come, commander.’ That was another little jibe. Markog was the commander of the Dolorous Guard, the remnants of those Space Marines who had once been the Ashen Blades until Chaos had ensnared them. They were Seraphax’s personal bodyguard, but instead of being with his lord, Markog had been assigned toassist Baelor. Baelor knew that Markog resented his presence within the Ten Thousand Eyes: resented his close relationship with Seraphax, resented his longevity, and resented the authority he carried not on the basis of any rank he held, but for who he was.

His word was second only to Seraphax’s in the warband, and there was nothing Markog could do about it. Well, he could kill Baelor, of course – or at least he could try. Baelor had felt the giant’s eyes sizing him up more than once, but Markog had always thought better of it. Perhaps he did not trust that he was Baelor’s equal, size and Heartdrinker notwithstanding, or perhaps he had not yet conceived a manner of death which would not leave him the obvious culprit, and therefore the target of Seraphax’s vengeance. Even the Ashen Blades themselves had not known the origin of their gene-seed, it seemed, but Baelor suspected it was not from a lineage with any subtlety to its name. However, sometimes subtlety was unnecessary. So it proved when the doors of the grav-lift they were approaching opened to reveal a massive, gold-armoured figure. It was a Terminator of the Angels of Vigilance, the Chapter whose strike cruiser the Ten Thousand Eyes had ambushed, a storm bolter in its right hand and its left a massive power fist already crackling with energy. It was not as tall as Markog, but it must have matched him for bulk, and its armour was substantially thicker. Of all the foes to encounter, it was perhaps the worst; one of the primary uses of Tactical Dreadnought armour was for close-quarters fighting in confined spaces such as a voidship’s corridors. Markog flew at it with a melodic snarl, Heartdrinker a pale blur as it swept towards the Terminator’s helmet. The Terminator’s power glove flashed up to swat the giant’s blow aside, then the Angel of Vigilance levelled its storm bolter at Markog’s chest. Markog seized the weapon and twisted it just enough for the mass-reactive shells to explode in the wall behind him instead of his breastplate. He tried to backhand the Terminator with Heartdrinker, but the Angel of Vigilance grabbed the haft in its power fist, and a strange radiance filled the corridor as the disruptor field warred with the arcane forces residing in the ancient axe.

The two behemoths lumberedaround in a half-circle, servos whining as each tried to overpower the other, but found themselves equally matched. Baelor stepped up calmly, dropped to one knee, waited for Markog’s attempts to tear Heartdrinker out of the Terminator’s reach to pull the Imperial’s arm upwards, and fired three times into the vulnerable armpit so revealed. Even Terminator armour had joints, and joints were weak points. The bolts punched through heavily reinforced plasflex and thundered into the Space Marine’s sternum, detonating within. The Angel of Vigilance staggered, yet with superhuman determination and resilience, it still fought. Heartdrinker slipped out of his grip, but the Imperial had enough energy left to drive its power fist into Markog’s chest before the giant could bring his axe down. Markog stumbled backwards and fell to the floor with a clatter of ceramite on metal, his breastplate a smoking ruin. Baelor rose to his feet and fired again. A Terminator’s faceplate was the other obvious target of the armour, and unlike the serfs he had so recently killed, Baelor had the reflexes, marksmanship, and ammunition to make his shots count. The Angel of Vigilance’s golden helmet shattered, and the head within followed suit. Limbs collapsed like a puppet with the strings cut, and the veteran crumpled into an undignified heap on the deck. Baelor looked around. Markog was picking himself up again, his chest and armour – if the two were even separate any more – re-forming themselves out of the green vapour the power fist had blasted them into. The giant’s eyes glowed, and he gave a shuddering sigh of pleasure as his reconfigur ation completed. Then his gaze travelled to the corpse of the Imperial, and his long tongue slithered out between his lips. ‘Later,’ Baelor told him sternly. ‘If the… the Lord Sorcerer says you may. We still need to get to the reliquary.’ Markog snarled, but after a moment he reset his jaw and nodded, somewhat resentfully. Killing the servants of the shell that still called itself the Imperium was one thing. Eating their flesh afterwards was, in Baelor’s opinion, quite another.

‘I know that aspect. What ails you, my friend?’ Seraphax asked. The Feverblade, a long knife of ancient and unknown origin, hung at his hip in its scabbard of human skin, and he carried his staff of dark metal, which was topped with an aeldari witch’s skull engraved with cuneiform script. Baelor had long ago given up looking at the skull: it hurt his eyes.‘Markog’s appetites are growing stronger,’ Baelor said. It was not the only thing that bothered him, but it was the easiest to voice. ‘He craves the flesh of others more and more, particularly other Astartes.’ ‘Such are the demands of the Prince of Pain and Pleasure,’ Seraphax sighed. ‘Markog drinks of Slaanesh’s boons, and they do not come without price.’ ‘These are poor tools with which to bring the galaxy to heel,’ Baelor muttered. He reached out and ran his armoured finger down the cover of a battered grimoire standing proudly on a lectern. He had no idea what significance it had held for the Angels of Vigilance. It was not a weapon, and therefore it was not his concern. ‘Markog is powerful,’ Seraphax said. ‘In what way is he a poor tool?’ ‘Because he is not your tool!’ Baelor said, turning to address his knightcaptain face to burning face. ‘Not fully! He is in thrall to another power. Commander of the Dolorous Guard or not, his loyalty will always be in question when he is sworn to a god.’ Seraphax smiled with the half of his mouth that was still visible. ‘“God.” I remember the days when you would not use that word.’ Baelor sighed. ‘So do I. They were simpler times.’

 

[MolotovKraken]

The Blade of Truth was the pride of the Ten Thousand Eyes fleet, a mighty battle-barge once of the Ashen Blades, until the warp storm that spelled doom for that Chapter engulfed it. By the time Markog was free of the warp, he no longer had any intention of serving others; his pride, Baelor suspected, had been the chink in his moral armour that allowed Chaos in. And yet, Markog had willingly bent the knee to Seraphax. That was an inconsistency which Baelor mistrusted, although in truth it was Markog’s devotion that rankled. Baelor had seen that kind of deification of a commander at work before, and it rarely led anywhere good. Every leader needed to be challenged and questioned at times, rather than mindlessly obeyed, lest they stray too far down the path of their own ego. Even worse was when a follower suddenly realised that their leader was not the shining beacon of perfection they had assumed, and felt utterly betrayed. That was when love could turn to hatred, with swift and catastrophic results. All of these thoughts went through Baelor’s head anew as he approached the black granite command throne of the Blade of Truth, where Seraphax sat with his staff in hand, Markog lurking behind his right shoulder and three more members of the Dolorous Guard arrayed on either side of him. Baelor told himself that it was not just his own insecurities as he returned a failure, and nor was it jealousy of his place in Seraphax’s close counsel that troubled him, but he was not sure he believed himself.

‘That is no Dark Angel,’ Lohoc rasps. ‘Nor ever was.’ ‘I hope you are correct,’ the Lion says. The half-machine monsters the primarch fought here were grotesquely swollen and distorted, but although this Space Marine is a giant like them, his proportions are normal, and one hand rests on a tall-handled axe with a pale blade. However, the uneasiness that gnaws at the Lion’s belly eases as they approach closer. The traitor’s armour is green, but this is not the dark forest green the Lion hears that his modern sons now wear; this is an iridescent shade that shifts and glitters in the uneven light from the surrounding flames, and whatever the local star manages to get through the billowing, smoky atmosphere. There is no familiar iconography or markings, even corrupted or altered. Whoever this warrior is, he was never a Dark Angel, and the Lion breathes a little more easily for that. He has no doubt that the day will come when he sees one of his sons so corrupted, but he is glad it is not this day. ‘Name yourself!’ the Lion shouts. He is glad to see that his escort are covering their surroundings, rather than focusing on the mysterious figure. The Lion can see no other sign of life, either within the ruined fortress or amongst the trees which line the road, but he does not trust that this is the case. ‘I am Markog, commander of the Dolorous Guard,’ the heretic says. His voice is surprisingly melodious, with the faintest thrill of strange harmon ics that the ear only just registers, and then wonders if it has done so. ‘I am bodyguard to Seraphax, Lord Sorcerer of the Ten Thousand Eyes.’ ‘Is he here?’ the Lion demands.‘No.’ ‘Then you are in the wrong place, bodyguard, and you are wasting my time,’ the Lion declares. He raises the Arma Luminis, although it would be a long shot to hit Markog at this range. ‘If you have a message for me, then speak it, but be warned that I have little patience for games.’ ‘Lord Seraphax wishes to become reacquainted with you, his gene-sire,’ Markog pronounces, as the Lion continues to advance. ‘I have been ordered to tell you where you can find him, should you wish to discuss…’ He pauses, and gestures around him. ‘The current situation of Camarth, or indeed anything else. You have interfered in my lord’s designs, and he would like to explain them to you in more detail, to prevent further misunderstandings.’ ‘This one is markedly too polite for a Chaos worshipper who has burned a planet,’ Kai comments from behind the Lion. ‘How observant,’ Aphkar replies, sarcasm dripping from his voice. ‘I suddenly get the feeling we should not trust him.’ They are closer now, close enough that the Lion is confident the plasma weaponry he holds can burn Markog’s head from his shoulders.

‘Do as you have been bid, and have done,’ he orders the traitor. ‘You might enjoy the sound of your voice, but I do not.’ ‘I have a condition,’ Markog says. He reaches up and removes his helmet the mouth grille of which seems to be grinning obscenely, even though it is only metal – to reveal his face. A growl rises involuntarily in the Lion’s chest at what is revealed. Markog still looks human, or at least transhuman, but there is nothing about the features revealed that sits quite rightly. His eyes are too large, with pupils so swollen that they leave only the faintest rim of colour at the edge of the iris. His cheekbones are so sharp they look like they could cut flesh, his chin is too long, his mouth and nostrils too wide. When he smiles he reveals pointed teeth of gleaming white, with an overlong tongue lurking behind them that stirs impatiently. His skin has a pearlescent sheen, not dissimilar to the iridescence of his armour. Everything about his face suggests that it is changing to maximise the sensory stimulus to his brain, intensifying what he witnesses and experiences. He sighs and rolls his eyes as the Lion’s growl reaches his ears, as though he were an epicure delighting in sampling a new delicacy from a distant world, but when hefocuses again there is a literal hunger in his gaze. ‘Ah, the distaste of your Legion has a tang all of its own, fermented and rotted by all your years in the darkness,’ Markog says. ‘Baelor is more like the rest of you than he knows.’ ‘You weary me,’ the Lion tells him, ‘and I have no patience for any condition you may set. Give me your message, or I will strike you down and hunt your master myself.’ ‘But that is my condition!’ Markog replies eagerly. ‘You must strike me, and then take my blow in return. Only then will I reveal my master’s location to you, Flawed Knight.’ He licks his lips with his long tongue in anticipation, opening narrow wounds on the organ as he drags it across his sharp teeth. The Lion frowns. ‘What did you call me?’ ‘The warp knows you as the Flawed Knight, or so my master informs me,’ Markog says, a touch of impatience entering his tone. ‘Come, Emperor’s son! I yearn to feel the kiss of your blade!’ The Lion aches to strike him down, but the thought of giving this heretic what he claims to want is anathema to him. Nonetheless, nor is he prepared to let Markog live another second. ‘Zabriel,’ the Lion says, and gestures. No further instruction is needed. The former Destroyer steps forward and brings his blade around in an arc that catches the grinning Markog just under his jawbone. Whatever has happened to the traitor’s skin to make it glisten in the light, it appears to have done nothing to harden it: the chainsword rips through into the meat of his neck, then judders through that and out the other side. Markog’s head comes away in a shower of flecks of torn meat and drops to the ground; Zabriel steps back, waiting for the giant Space Marine’s body to catch up with events and fall.

 

[MolotovKraken]

Instead, when it begins to move downwards, it does so in a graceful kneeling motion, bracing itself on the hand still holding the haft of the large, pale-bladed axe. Markog’s free hand reaches out and plucks his own severed head off the floor, then holds it out at Zabriel’s eye level. Eyes still wide and moving, and mouth still smiling, Markog’s lips and tongue form words without sound. Then the traitor takes a step backwards, and simply disappears.The sudden departure of a potential threat is almost more unnerving than the arrival of one. Weapons which had been held ready snap up to cover the suddenly empty spot where Markog had been standing, and power weapons are activated with a hum, and the pop of immediately ionised air. The Lion fires the Arma Luminis. The superpowered energy bolt vaporises part of the gate without striking anything else first. Markog has gone. ‘Cutting the head off doesn’t work,’ Kai says, apparently to himself. ‘Something to remember.’ ‘Maybe not,’ Zabriel says, turning to face the Lion. ‘But at least we know where they are. Or where they say they are.’ ‘Where?’ the Lion asks. ‘I heard no words.’ ‘Nor I,’ Lohoc agrees. ‘Hmm.’ Zabriel’s face is hidden by his helm, but he sounds even more uneasy at that revelation than he did after he had beheaded a warrior without killing him. ‘He said that Seraphax is on the world of Sable. ‘And Markog said that he would be waiting for me there, to give me the blow that is my due.’

‘Now,’ Seraphax snarled, summoning his skull-tipped staff to his hand through the warp with a flex of his fingers. ‘We have intruders. I do not know how they got here, but it is of little consequence. Let us go and see exactly whom my gene-sire has brought with him to die.’ The green-armoured forms of the Dolorous Guard began to converge, forming up around them as they left the throne room, but Baelor’s mis givings were not eased by their presence. Somehow, the Lion had outflanked them. And Baelor knew only too well that when the Lion outflanked his enemy, that enemy was usually doomed.

The iridescently green-armoured warriors emerged from similar shimmers in the air as the one that had disgorged their master, arrayed around us in a loose semicircle, and between us and the door through which the Lion had just gone. These were no abhumans; they were Astartes, like us, although the similarity ended there. While Seraphax’s armour in and of itself gave little hint as to the foul powers he now served, the allegiance of these warriors was immediately obvious. Some bore horned helms, the protuberances appearing to be bony eruptions from their own skulls that had pierced the ceramite from within, rather than an external decoration. I saw that one clutched his boltgun with a normal right hand on the stock, butsupported the barrel with fleshy tendrils emerging from his vambrace. Another had a scaled tail that ended in a spiked mace of bone, while a third roared at us with a fanged mouth that had replaced the Imperial eagle on his chest. I did not need to see the massive shape of Markog to know that this was the Dolorous Guard; altered though their forms were, the colour and nature of their armour was similar enough to his that the resemblance was obvious. Both they and we had half a second to take in the enemy arrayed against us, and then the shooting started. This was an exponentially more intense, more brutal affair than the fight in which we had just been engaged. Bolt-shells were never designed to pierce ceramite, because back when the weaponry was first conceived there was no notion that humanity’s enemies would ever be wearing such armour. In the millennia since, the Imperium had been hamstrung by its own refusal to embrace progress, and renegades such as we now faced – or indeed, such as ourselves – were largely limited by what weapons they could scavenge from their former masters. Much like my chainsword, bolt weaponry was more than sufficient for most purposes to which it was ever going to be put, but lacked the specialism to be similarly effective against the armour of the one wielding it.

 

[MolotovKraken]

Some of my brothers did not have such problems. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the incandescent smear of the Red Whisper’s plasma gun discharging, and striking a target’s well-armoured central mass was of no concern for a weapon of that power. One of our enemies screamed and died as the ravening energy tore through him, and another was vaporised by Kuziel’s meltagun. I saw one of the Dolorous Guard go down, I thought from one of my bolt-shells, but then something struck me in the side withthe force of a mag-train. Our enemies had heavier weapons too, and read-outs in my helmet flashed red and flickered as I was knocked to the floor. Something big – a heavy bolter, or perhaps an autocannon – had hit me and splintered my ceramite like my weight had done to the tiles on which I had just landed. Power vanished for a moment, leaving my limbs unnaturally heavy and my vision dark, then sputtered back as a loose connection made contact once more. I hoped someone was going to deal with that weapon; if it struck me in the same place again, I was unlikely to survive. As it turned out, I had other things to worry about.

‘Zabriel!’ roared a voice, but that was not one of my brothers coming to my aid. I stumbled to my feet to see the massive form of Markog bearing down on me, his enormous, pale-bladed axe clutched in both hands. ‘I owe you a strike!’ the commander of the Dolorous Guard bellowed, almost jovially. Borz flew at him from his left, his power fist drawn back to lay the traitor out, but Markog was too quick: the haft of his axe lashed out and caught Borz on his helmet’s faceplate, spinning him to the ground, and by the time my brother had regained his feet one of Markog’s warriors had fallen on him from behind with a power knife, and Borz was fully occupied with trying to save his own life. I dropped my empty bolt pistol and drew my spare, hoping to at least injure him before he closed with me, but the giant’s size belied his speed, and the butt of that damned axe knocked the weapon from my hand before I could fire. I swung my chainsword, but Markog was wearing his helmet this time, and in truth I do not know what I hoped to achieve, given that the last time I decapitated him he simply picked his head back up again. The teeth threw up sparks as they grated against his armour, but in a moment he had brought the haft of his axe down on my arm with such force that I felt both ceramite and the bone within snap, and the chainsword dropped from my grasp. His next blow was a punch that hammered into the cracked armour over my ribs, and even my enhanced pain threshold was moment arily overloaded. I stumbled backwards and fell, and he raised his axe high. ‘I owe you a strike,’ he growled, strange harmonies emanating from behind his helmet’s faceplate, and swung.

The pale-bladed axe descended like death, too fast for me to roll clumsily aside from. The edge stopped a mere finger’s breadth from my helmet seal, but thiswas not an act of mercy or mockery on my enemy’s behalf. Instead, his weapon was thrown up and back again by the blade of the Terranic greatsword which had intercepted the swing just below the axe’s head. ‘I owe him a strike!’ Markog roared at my saviour. ‘This is a matter of honour!’ ‘You think we conquered the galaxy with honour? You children are all the same,’ Galad snorted, and attacked. The Cenobite’s Cataphractii armour made him a match for Markog in size, and apparently in strength as well: their weapons clashed together, but the commander of the Dolorous Guard was unable to throw Galad away from him, despite his straining. Instead each warrior took a backward step, then swung again. Markog was blisteringly quick, and his axe spun through the air faster than should have been possible, but Galad was his equal, calmly parrying and deflecting as though he knew what strikes were coming even before Markog did. Destroyers fought and bled in the crucible of brutal, close-in killing, with no quarter asked or given, so I was no stranger to the cut and thrust of combat. Seeing Galad at work, however, took me back to when I was a raw recruit, watching my instructors handle their weapons with what seemed at the time to be godlike speed and skill.

But I had no time to gape. I lunged for my dropped pistol, raised it, and opened fire. The bolts detonated on Markog’s leg, arm, and pauldron, and although his armour repaired the damage within moments of it occurring, the impacts knocked him off balance and caused his next strike to miss its mark completely and bite deep into the floor. ‘Cowards!’ Markog roared, just deflecting Galad’s next blow. ‘Fight me–’ He cut off as Launciel appeared on his right, and drove his power sword through Markog’s armour and right through his ribcage. The giant stiffened in what could well have been agony and which might, given what I suspected of his allegiances, possibly be ecstasy, but Galad was in no mood to leave him to the experience uninterrupted. The Terranic greatsword lashed out again, and Markog’s left arm was cut clean from his body, his pauldron severed in two by the disrupting power field and razor-sharp edge of the ancient weapon. Launciel withdrew his own sword and stepped back from Markog’s clumsy, unbalanced counterstrike. The giant was roaring wordlessly now, his pain and rage too overwhelming for anything else. I rose to my feet andfired another bolt, shattering his helmet just as Galad swung again and took his right arm off as well. That changed things. The haft of the axe was still clutched in his hand, but Markog’s unnatural resilience vanished now that hand was no longer attached to his body. He staggered, and blood began to drip thickly from his shoulders. It started to clot almost immediately, since he was still a Space Marine with our enhanced biology and healing abilities, but it appeared that it was the weapon itself which had granted him the ability to survive decapitation rather than any innate ability of his own. ‘No!’ he bellowed thickly, and took a step towards Galad. Galad was clearly taking no chances: he crouched and swung his blade horizontally, and severed both legs with one blow. Markog clattered to the floor with a howl. Galad rose back to his full height, reversed his grip on his sword, and plunged it into Markog’s chest. The blade was wide enough to strike both hearts simultaneously, and I had no doubt that Galad had directed it with the requisite skill for it to do just that. Markog spasmed as much as he could without any attached limbs, but Galad did not linger over his kill. He wrenched his sword out with one hand and raised the other, firing his plasma-caster. I followed the direction of his shot, my bolt pistol raised and ready, but I found myself with a dearth of targets. The Dolorous Guard had been overcome. Ferocious though Seraphax’s bodyguard were, they had proved no match for the First Legion, even such remnants of it as us.

 

[MolotovKraken]

However, the enemy’s elite warriors were dead, and there appeared to be no malign magics threatening to reanimate them. I walked to Markog, and stamped on his helmet. It shattered and fell away to reveal his face, twisted in pain and hatred. He reached up towards me with his unnaturally long tongue, then cackled at me. ‘I will taste your flesh yet, twice-cursed traitor, and you will–’ I emptied the rest of that pistol’s clip into his head without waiting for him to finish, until I had blown a hole in the floor beneath and the legs of myarmour were speckled with fine particles of his skin, bone, and brain. Perhaps I should have been more careful about allowing his obviously tainted flesh to touch my armour in such a manner, but I had been a Destroyer – I was a Destroyer – and our enemy’s annihilation always took priority over our own safety.

 

[MolotovKraken]

‘Warp take it!’ Baelor snarled. The Bloodrage project had been one of Seraphax’s side projects: research focused on finding ways to draw out the mindless ferocity which lurked at the heart of the sons of Sanguinius. Cam arth was of little consequence in and of itself, other than a loss to remind the Imperium how tenuous its hold on the galaxy was, but the opportunities presented by a small garrison of Ruby Crescents had been too good to ignore. Taking any of them alive had been a great challenge, and Markog would have been dead three times over were it not for the gifts he had been granted.

The Blade of Truth was the pride of the Ten Thousand Eyes fleet, a mighty battle-barge once of the Ashen Blades, until the warp storm that spelled doom for that Chapter engulfed it. By the time Markog was free of the warp, he no longer had any intention of serving others; his pride, Baelor suspected, had been the chink in his moral armour that allowed Chaos in. And yet, Markog had willingly bent the knee to Seraphax. That was an inconsistency which Baelor mistrusted, although in truth it was Markog’s devotion that rankled. Baelor had seen that kind of deification of a commander at work before, and it rarely led anywhere good. Every leader needed to be challenged and questioned at times, rather than mindlessly obeyed, lest they stray too far down the path of their own ego. Even worse was when a follower suddenly realised that their leader was not the shining beacon of perfection they had assumed, and felt utterly betrayed. That was when love could turn to hatred, with swift and catastrophic results. All of these thoughts went through Baelor’s head anew as he approached the black granite command throne of the Blade of Truth, where Seraphax sat with his staff in hand, Markog lurking behind his right shoulder and three more members of the Dolorous Guard arrayed on either side of him.

Are you sure this is a matter of concern?’ rasped Jai’tana the Unshriven. He was a former Ashen Blade as well, a Chaplain who had once been attached to Markog’s command and had slain their Master of Sanctity while they were lost in the warp storm. He had found his own path since, and no longer heeded any authority other than that of Seraphax; and, of course, the gods he now worshipped. The faceplate of Jai’tana’s helmet had morphed into an eyeless maw that disgorged his prayers between rows of needle teeth, and he was constantly surrounded by a low-level buzz in which, if one listened closely, it was just possible to discern what sounded like faint chanting. Of all the unsavoury allies Seraphax had made, the Unshriven was the one of whom Baelor most questioned the necessity. ‘Did I say it was concerning?’ Baelor asked. ‘You speak, and I hear the whimpering of a child who has heard the name of his father,’ Jai’tana declared. ‘Why does a long-dead ghost scare you so?’ ‘I know the name of my gene-father,’ Baelor retorted. ‘I have seen his face and fought alongside him, ten thousand years ago, and you call me a child? You do not even know your own ancestry, thin-blood!’ That was not so polite, and Jai’tana’s crozius sizzled into life as a howl of rage escaped his altered mouth. Seraphax’s lips pursed, and he turned his flaming face towards the Apostle, who quickly quietened himself. ‘Brother,’ Seraphax said quietly to Baelor, turning back to him. ‘Why are you so keen to provoke a fight on my bridge today?’

Ah, Baelor,’ Seraphax greeted him, looking around. He appeared much the same as always, apart from the chains of dark iron which now crisscrossed his chest. Markog lurked behind the sorcerer like a giant green shadow, and his expression was notably less pleased. Baelor ignored him; Markog’s head was firmly reattached to his body now, after his encounter with the Lion’s Fallen, but his recovery was less impressive when – as Baelor did – you knew his secret.

His gaze unfocused slightly, and he appeared to be looking out beyond the Blade of Truth’s bridge into the void beyond. ‘I only hope he is uncorrupted.’ ‘He was not on Camarth?’ Jai’tana demanded. Baelor laughed hollowly. ‘I have no way of knowing. I can assure you that he was not on the vox, however – even after all this time, I would know the voice of the Lord of the First.’ ‘We should return to Camarth in force,’ the Apostle declared, turning to Seraphax. ‘We must show the servants of the Corpse-Emperor that defiance brings only pain, and while we are there we can ascertain the truth of these rumours. The immaterium confounds them far more than it does us. If hewas there, but is there no longer, there is only a handful of other systems he could have–’ ‘Lord Sorcerer! Lord Sorcerer!’ That bleating shout did not come from the throat of a Space Marine. Baelor turned in surprise as a grey-furred beastman burst onto the bridge in a clatter of hooves. Four horns sprouted from his head, two spiralling upwards and another two curving down alongside his muzzle.

Baelor grimaced. ‘I still do not like it, knight-captain. This is the Lion. The Lion! You know as well as I that he is uncompromising, grim, and merciless, perhaps the greatest of the Emperor’s generals. If he had come atthe head of a war fleet then I would be happier. This feels like he is walking too meekly into your trap, and I do not trust it. The Broken Horn are numerous, but they are not Astartes. If we had the Arch-Raptor and his warriors, or Jai’tana’s Possessed, then–’ ‘The Unshriven commands the ships,’ Seraphax cut him off, ‘and Urienz has his own instructions to follow elsewhere. The Broken Horn are more than a match for any mortal allies the Lion might bring, and we have the Dolorous Guard.’ Baelor glanced at Markog. ‘All the same…’

There was nothing but the hiss of static for a few seconds, until Jai’tana’s voice replied, as unpleasant to the ear as ever. ‘No, the destroyer is still some distance from orbit.’ ‘Any teleport flare?’ ‘You are aware that the palace is covered by a teleport jammer–’ ‘Of course I am aware!’ Baelor shouted. ‘I oversaw its deployment! But we have hostiles firing boltguns within the palace perimeter, so has there been a bastard teleport flare?’ ‘No, there has not,’ the Apostle replied, and even he sounded discomforted. ‘Wait… The Cobra has opened fire. A full volley of torpedoes. It has broken off its approach, and is fleeing.’ ‘What is the torpedoes’ target?’ Seraphax interjected. ‘Initial triangulation suggests the ostella, Lord Sorcerer.’ ‘Shoot the ordnance down,’ Seraphax ordered. ‘And get some ships in their path, just in case you fail to do so. The Cobra is a secondary consider ation – the ostella is to be protected even if you have to take the strike yourself, am I understood?’ ‘Of course, Lord Seraphax.’‘Now,’ Seraphax snarled, summoning his skull-tipped staff to his hand through the warp with a flex of his fingers. ‘We have intruders. I do not know how they got here, but it is of little consequence. Let us go and see exactly whom my gene-sire has brought with him to die.’ The green-armoured forms of the Dolorous Guard began to converge, forming up around them as they left the throne room, but Baelor’s mis givings were not eased by their presence. Somehow, the Lion had outflanked them. And Baelor knew only too well that when the Lion outflanked his enemy, that enemy was usually doomed.