And now this.

They found themselves reduced to fragmentary slices of shoreline, divisions of power that encircled the drill island like a moat of shifting lava — creeping and insidious, but ultimately slow and unthreatening. They had lost the respect of the underhive. They had existed for centuries as protection merchants: extorting ''their'' peasants for the right to stewardship, and when at last their protection was required, when the armoured fist of the Preafects smashed against the underhive's unprotected belly — they had failed. They had fallen from grace. They had come to Sahaal's tribe with begging bowls outstretched and now — the insolence, the gall! — they were resuming their old ways: formulating petty hierarchies amongst the dispossessed camps, demanding fealty and wealth from those with neither to offer.

Sahaal could not stand for that. There was one authority in this rusting hinterland, and one authority alone. He would not be challenged, whether they knew of his existence or not.

And so to each noble family, through scouts that he sent to each camp, he offered an invitation — a communion with the condemnitor of the Shadowkin — and true to form, blustering, face-keeping, puffed with misplaced pride, each was accepted. The head of every house, and his or her finest warrior, summoned to meet with those whose sanctuary they had claimed. That was the deal. That was the bait.

They arrived like visiting princes, of course, and now... now they snarled like caged beasts at every ungentle prod of a lasgun muzzle in their ribs, every hand-heel push towards the centre of the island.

How the mighty are fallen...

The Night Haunter's words, ringing in Sahaal's mind.

'—demand to know the meaning of this, warp's piss!'

'—be repercussions! The Sztak Chai does not tolerate—'

'—kill! Cut slice-and-dice — kill all!'

And then there was a new voice, neither raised nor strained, which cut through the objections like a razor and left jaws gaping.

'Be silent,' it said, from above their heads. 'Be silent and bow to your new lord.'

He dropped from the stain of darkness that covered the cavern's ceiling without a noise, a long-shanked vision of black and blue, devil-red eyes glaring from a pall of shadow, striking the brown earth and straightening, black cloak of feather and rag settling across him like a funeral shroud. To their minds, alive with such terror that they had never before known, he was not real. He could not be real. This gangle-limbed beast — this filth-slicked spider — that had broached the walls of nightmare and found form in corporeal flesh. Towering over them, a half-seen ghoul, veiled by darkness and design, his respirator steamed unctuous coils of vapour like a daemon's breath, and as he tilted his head through light-dappled chinks of shadow he flexed his claws from their sheaths, slicing the awe-frozen moment in half.

The visitors came to their senses all at once. Some screamed.

Some tried to run. Some fell to their knees.

They had heard the rumours, perhaps. They had heard that the madmen of the Shadowkin — those zealous fools who had shut themselves away from the rest of the underhive, eschewing contact and wealth, concerned only with their morbid deathcult, dedicated to the Emperor's purity — had a new master. They had shrugged and spat, untroubled by the machinations of that which did not concern them.

They had heard tales, even, of something new in the underhive, some dark presence that prowled in the night and killed without compunction. They had heard of mutilations and bloody atrocities, of bodies disjointed and violated, of eyes put out and fingers stolen.

They had heard rumours of terrors and abominations, and dismissed them as idle tales to scare the children.

They were regretting their flippancy now.

'The leaders will approach,' Sahaal said, voice a mere hiss.

None seemed prepared to obey, each ''noble'' hiding behind his or her accompanying warrior, faces drawn, mouths agape, refusing still to believe what their eyes were telling them.

Sahaal hissed and gestured at Chianni, a half-flick of his claws that he knew she would translate accordingly. On cue the condemintor waved forwards the Shadowkin warriors, overseeing their rough advance: pulling apart nobles and protectors like clinging lovers, threatening and clubbing when resistance was offered, pushing forwards the gang leaders to stumble, alone and unprotected, in a gaggle at Sahaal's feet.

Six little pigs, quivering in their fat.

'You came to this place,' Sahaal said, gaze sweeping across them, arm gesturing out across the smog of the swamps, 'in terror. You fled before your enemies like vermin, and you ran here. Into my arms. To me!'

He took a step forwards, light smearing itself a fraction further across his armour.

'You came to me for sanctuary — uninvited, unwanted — but have I turned you away? No. I have tolerated your presence. I have let you slip among the shores of my domain like snakes in tall grass... and how have you repaid my kindness?'

Another step, claws flashing across flickering torchlight, eyes burning. The nobles cringed in their places.

'Have you visited me, to bow? Have you offered fealty, to the Emperor's own warrior? Have you yielded to me? No. No, you have said nothing. You have waited until you were called!'

Another step, and this time the group's cohesion splintered: the frail head of the Pallor House fell onto his knees with a moan, the feathered priestess of the Quetzai fumbled for a weapon at her belt — long since taken by her captors — and the Frog Priest turned his bloated body and tried to flee, eyes spinning, only to-be thrust forwards again by the Shadowkin circle.

Sahaal did not pause at the interruption.

'The hive has fallen from the Emperor's light and turned against the Underworld, and like children running for their mother you have expected from the Shadowkin protection, sanctuary, comfort... And at what price? None! You have offered me nothing!'

His voice echoed across the silent wastes, strong and shrill and terrible.

'I shall tolerate the disrespect no longer. If you are to stay, if you are to plague my territory like wolves, then it shall be at my pleasure.'

He leaned down, helmed countenance shedding shadows like oil, eyes burning with ruby fires. 'You are the guests of Holy Warriors,' he hissed, breath steaming, 'and if you are to remain so it is fair that you should share their burden.'

He straightened abruptly, cloaks rippling, and extended his hands towards the group, each fan of razor-light claws snickering away to its secret sheath, leaving only gloved fists.

'Which of you will accept my rule?' he asked. 'Which of you will taste divinity, and join my crusade? Which of you will surrender his house to the Emperor's mercy?'

One by one the nobles swallowed their terror, licked dry lips and forced down the shivering in their limbs, and stepped forwards to kiss the hands of the beast.

'Good,' he said, when they had finished. He glanced up towards the waiting Shadowkin, and the six champions of the ganghouses restrained amongst them, watching events with earnest eyes. They had witnessed their own masters signing away their autonomy, and their expression told Sahaal everything he needed to know: They would have done exactly the same. As he returned his gaze to his newest slaves he stole a glance towards Chianni, noting without surprise her expression of unconcealed disdain. She had spent all her life despising the underhive's other gangs, punishing their iniquity when the Emperor's will allowed, protecting her tribe from their predations when it did not. It was a mark of her utter obedience to Sahaal that, as he claimed their strength as his own, she did not raise her voice in protest.