He had a pleasing surprise for her, yet.

'Do you know,' he said, glowering at the nobles, 'of lions?'

They stared, bewildered.

'Great predators of ancient Terra,' he explained, 'pack beasts — loyal to their clan, and obedient. Always obedient to their strongest member.' He paused, enjoying the drama of the moment despite himself. 'And when a new leader arose, a blooded-daw ready to assume command, his first action was always the same.

'He could not tolerate disloyalty. He could not risk challenge to his authority. He could not spare any rem-r.ant of the old regime, the old order.

'Do you know what he did, little nobles?'

Their eyes were wide. Their lips trembled. Perhaps some knew what was coming.

'He killed all the cubs.'

Sahaal beheaded the six nobles with two strokes of his claws.

The champions of the gang houses, who had witnessed the transferral of power and could no more deny it to their brothers and sisters than they could rail against it, were returned to their petty empires with a single message, to spread amongst the dispossessed masses of the underhive. You belong to the Shadowkin now. Prepare for war.

'C-CONDEMNITOR?'

'Why do you disturb our lord's sacred slumber?'

Voices flourished on the cusp of Sahaal's hearing, pricking at his sleeping mind like an itch, drawing him up from the depths of his dreams to an intangible, half-awake plateau.

'S-something's happened, condemnitor!' a man quailed, directing his stammerings, Sahaal assumed, to Chianni — seated as ever beside him. 'We... we thought that... that h-he... w-would wish to know.'

They can't even speak my name...

'Explain,' Chianni grunted, sounding unimpressed.

'It's the prisoner. From the starport...'

'The warp-seer?'

'Y-yes.'

Sahaal was fully awake in a second. He rose to his feet and jabbed a finger towards the cowering man, prostrated before the throne.

'What is it? What's happened to the prisoner?'

'S-sweet Emperor!'

'Tell me!'

'We... we think he's dying, lord!'

Bound in chains at his wrists and legs, the second astropath — a prisoner in a squalid Shadowkin hut since his capture — drooled a thick paste of spittle and bile from his mouth, tongue snagging against his teeth, running red with his own blood. At irregular intervals his body stiffened as if electrified, each narrow-corded muscle standing out from his emaciated frame, withered face crumpled in wordless agony.

He had soiled himself, and coupled with the strands of drying blood and vomit that pooled around him, streaking his pigeon chest, his cell stank like a madhouse, an impression his shrieks did little to dispel.

Like his dead comrade before him he wore across his brow a twisted strip of lead, and it was to this that Sahaal's attention immediately flew. It glowed red hot, faint clouds of steam boiling above it, scorching the man's flesh like a cattle brand.

'My lord!' Chianni cried out from his side, horrified by what, to her, must seem some cruel form of witchcraft.

If only she knew...

'Get out,' Sahaal ordered, waving her and the cowering messenger away, ignoring the flash-flicker of disappointment that crossed her features. 'Now.'

He closed the door — such as it was — behind them, listening carefully at its corrugated frame, enhanced senses outstretched, to ensure neither were eavesdropping.

And then he turned back to the writhing astropath, rolling and moaning, shattering his own teeth at the strength of his gnashing, and bent down close to watch.

And yes, there it was... at the edge of his perception, a grating presence... whispering... promising, teasing, cursing...

The warp swarms, gathering around, scratching with immaterial claws, fighting to break through the lead shield.

'Someone,' Sahaal said, wiping a tender finger across the man's sweaty brow, 'is trying to say hello.'

Working with an abruptness that drew a strangled gasp from the psyker, he hooked a talon beneath the metal coronet and snipped it away, exposing the man's singed forehead. Opening the way.

He did not need psychic senses to know what happened next. It was like an indescribable sound — some ultrasonic pitch that went unheard, but felt nonetheless — dwindling away to nothing. It was like a pressure being released, like a faucet opening in the sky to pour away all the psychic waste, all the vile shit that clamoured beyond perception. And the waste pipe, the reservoir into which it all flushed clear, was the psyker's head.

He jerked upright, like a meat puppet, body moving in strange unbalanced steps that were not its own. Blood poured from his mouth. The warp beasts tore at his soul, a frenzied feast beyond the veil of reality.

Sahaal backed away, heart racing. Had it worked? Had someone heard his call? Had the predators of the empyrean stretched out their shapeless tongues at the arisal of a beacon? A message, trying to get through?

The psyker's head twisted around, muscles manipulated by a mind that was not his own, until he faced Sahaal, empty eye sockets glaring into him.

And then he spoke — falteringly at first, like a marionette guided by an inexpert hand — but with growing confidence, and clear intention.

'W-we..., we... we are c-coming... fun... for you...'

Sahaal dropped to his knees, overcome.

'B-brothers?'

'We are coming for you, Talonmaster. Prepare the way. Ave dominus nox.'

'A-ave!'

The psyker's head exploded like a bursting bubble, scattering fragments of skull and shredded brain across his cell, and in some distant dimension his soul sobbed as the swarms fought for their feast.

Sahaal removed his helm and, unashamed, wept with joy.

The next day Shadowkin scouts moved amongst the refugee camps with a message, gathering crowds at every junction, filling the air with shouts and protests.

In every part of the shanty town the message was the same.

Go now into the hive, they read, parchment sheets held in trembling hands. Rise now in the corrupted world above us, and gather for your new masters your tithe.

The Emperor's Angel is among us, friends, and he taxes not our wealth, nor our food, nor our blood. He demands payment in justice.

Every able man, every able woman. Each shall present to the Emperor's Angel the head of a sinner, or else themselves he branded so — and culled accordingly.

Those below the age of fifteen years are exempted. They shall be overseen by the Shadowkin in their parents' absence.

You have two days.

There was outrage, at first. Outrage and horror and disbelief. But the story of the nobles' executions had circulated, the uncertain presence of some terrible Holy Thing lurking upon the island had gathered weight with each retelling, and beyond the outrage and the horror, above all else, there was terror.

The Shadowkin were strong where all other tribes had been crippled. The reprisals for failure were no idle threat. The refugees could not flee. They could not hide. They could not desert their children.

It did not take long for small groups — faces set, teeth clenched, fists curled around blunt-edged machetes and crude blades — to set off on the long, tortuous trek into the hive itself. Equixus faced a bloody night.