Eversham looked set to speak without smartening up, but had the sense to pause and fasten his collar and straighten his coat first. As the man opened his mouth to speak, Barbaden cut him off.

'Are you familiar with the works of Lord Solar Macharius?' he asked.

Eversham shook his head, and Barbaden saw that it was taking all his iron control not to speak out of turn. 'No, my lord. I regret I am not.'

'This is one of my favourite quotes, ''The meaning of victory is not to defeat your enemy but to destroy him, to eradicate him from living memory, to leave no remnant of his endeavours, to crush utterly his every achievement and remove from all record his every trace of existence. From that defeat no enemy can ever recover. That is the meaning of victory''. Rather inspiring isn't it?'

'Yes, my lord,' said Eversham, 'very.'

'You are sweating, Eversham,' noted Barbaden. 'Are you unwell?'

'No, governor,' replied his equerry, holding out the data-slate, as though anxious to be rid of it.

'Tell me,' began Barbaden, ignoring the slate, 'what is the nature of the trouble at the Screaming Eagles' barracks?'

'We don't know yet, my lord. There are reports of gunfire and several explosions, but we have been unable to make contact with Colonel Kain or any of her staff.'

'Very well, order two companies of palace guard to find out what is happening and to secure the site.'

'Of course,' said Eversham, once more offering him the data-slate.

'What is this?' asked Barbaden.

'An astropathic communication,' said Eversham. 'The Janiceps received it earlier this evening and the Diviner Primaris has just finished his interpretation.'

'A communication from whom?'

'I don't know, my lord,' replied Eversham. 'It came in with the highest priority prefix. It is evidently for your eyes only. No sooner did the diviner transcribe the words than a telepathic mnemo-virus implanted within the message erased his mind, completely.'

Curious, Barbaden took the proffered slate and slid his finger into the reader, wincing at the pinprick of the gene-sampler. With his identity confirmed, the slate flickered into life and the words of the brain-dead diviner scrolled down the screen in silver letters.

He read the body of the message and his eyes widened in surprise.

Slowly, and with deliberate care, Barbaden handed the slate back to Eversham. He closed his book and laid it on the table next to the chair. He rose to his feet and smoothed the front of his tunic, struggling to control a rising panic that stirred in his breast.

'Prepare my private embarkation deck on the upper spires,' he said. 'We are about to receive some important visitors.'

The trail of the Unfleshed was not difficult to follow, for they had not been careful in their passage. Their tracks were easy to see, but even had they moved without leaving imprints on the ground, the debris of their course would have been easy to recognise.

Uriel rode in the commander's hatch of a Chimera, its width only barely able to accommodate his genhanced girth. He had been forced to leave his armour in the care of Enginseer Imerian back at the compound, for there was no time to encase himself within it and no telling how long the charge in the backpack would last. If he survived the night, he would return for it in the morning.

Beneath him, Pasanius and five soldiers rode in the Chimera's troop compartment, bloody and in shock at the ease with which their fastness had been breached and their colonel slain.

Two more Chimeras, laden with those soldiers still fit enough to fight, followed behind Uriel's, racing through the dim light of the city's outskirts as they followed the trail of destruction unleashed by their quarry.

In truth, Uriel didn't know exactly what he hoped to achieve by following the Unfleshed. If the entire company of Screaming Eagles could not defeat them, what chance did this ragtag assembly of force have?

He only knew that he had to catch them, if for no other reason than to salve his own conscience. The destruction wrought at the Screaming Eagles' compound was his fault, and the guilt of what his foolish trust had allowed to happen weighed heavily on his soul.

How could he have been so blind to the bestial core of the Unfleshed? Yes, their outward appearance was that of monsters, but Uriel had seen past that to what he had believed was the human nobility at their heart.

Though he felt sure that some darker power was at work within them, he knew it would have found no purchase in souls that were pure. Some rotten canker must have lurked at the heart of the Unfleshed for this power to latch onto, and Uriel cursed himself for a fool for not seeing it.

The deaths of these soldiers were on his conscience, no matter what they might have done in the past to be deserving of retribution. Uriel pushed such thoughts from his mind, forcing himself to concentrate on the task at hand.

The Chimeras rumbled through the streets of the city, the buildings around them tall and metallic, squat and brick-built. The variegated architecture of Barbadus sped past them, flickering faces at shuttered, window-, less openings watching them fearfully as they passed. That death was abroad on the streets of Barbadus was common knowledge, the breath of its passing emptying the streets of all but the most curious. Even those few lingering pedestrians quickly abandoned whatever task they were about to be clear of the streets as Uriel's desperate procession sped past.

Death was hunting tonight and it would take whoever called its name.

Though it was too far away and too dark to make out any details, it was clear that a tremendous battle was underway at the Screaming Eagles' compound. Flames licked the sky and the rattle of gunfire had ceased.

'Whatever was going on over there's over now,' observed Pascal.

Nisato did not reply, staring into the distant flames as if to discern some answer from the darkness. Pascal Blaise claimed not to have any knowledge of what had happened, and, much as Nisato wanted to disbelieve him, he knew in his gut that the man was telling the truth.

This had nothing to do with the Sons of Salinas, but if not them, then who?

'We should get out of here,' said Pascal Blaise. 'If she's right and whatever hit the Screaming Eagles is coming here…'

Nisato nodded and turned back to Mesira. She had resumed her earlier position on the bed, knees drawn up to her chest and arms wrapped around them.

'Mesira?' he said. She looked up, her tear-streaked face no longer drawn into the scrunched expression of fear and guilt it perpetually wore. 'What happened out there tonight? Do you know?'

'It's the Mourner,' she replied. 'He's killed her and now it's my turn.'

'Killed who?'

'Colonel Kain. I felt her die. It was painful.'

'For you?' asked Nisato.

'For both of us.'

Pascal Blaise joined him at Mesira's side. 'Kain's dead? You're sure?'

Mesira nodded and Nisato saw the hollow satisfaction in Blaise's eyes.

The leader of the Sons of Salinas looked up and met his gaze. 'Don't expect me to shed any tears for that bitch,' he said. 'Kain led the Screaming Eagles into Khaturian. She had the blood of thousands on her hands. She got what she deserved.'

'And what do you deserve, Pascal?' said Nisato. 'What do any of us deserve? Haven't we all got blood on our hands? Do we all deserve to die?'

'Maybe,' shrugged Blaise. 'Maybe we do. I've killed men, yes. I've shot them and blown them up, but I don't feel any remorse. The men I killed came as invaders to my homeland. What else could I have done? If soldiers with guns attack the people you love, you'd fight them, wouldn't you?'

'I suppose,' said Nisato, 'but—'

'But nothing,' snapped Pascal. 'This was our world. We were loyal to the Golden Throne, but Barbaden wouldn't listen to us. He killed our leaders and butchered our soldiers. What kind of people would we have been if we hadn't resisted? And don't pretend you're better than me, enforcer. I can't imagine that your hands are any less bloody than mine. How many terrified soldiers have knelt before you, begging for their lives before you shot them in the name of the Emperor? Dozens? Hundreds? Thousands even?'