Elias had spoken of it one night, when the sky seemed blacker than pitch and the two of them had shared a drink between comrades, if not friends. This was the primarch’s symphony, and it had unleashed a Ruinstorm of such terrible intensity that the very galaxy was cleft in twain by it.

Lifting his hand from Haruk’s corpse, Narek concluded the rites, but felt the hunger of what dwelled in unreality pressing against the gossamer-thin veil of the mortal realm. A barrier can only stretch so much, and this one was near to splitting. Soon two worlds would meet; soon the galaxy would indeed burn.

Lorgar had foretold it in his writings. He had foreseen it in visions, and who was Narek to oppose that?

‘I am but a soldier, who clings to his duty and the bonds he once swore to his brothers,’ he whispered, and felt the weight of melancholy wrap around him like a cloak.

Dagon, returning from below, interrupted him.

‘He chased the mortal up here. But the place is empty. No sign of his killers.’

Dagon was waiting by the ruin of the stairwell, near to where Haruk had met his end.

Narek cast his gaze about the room, a panorama that began and ended with the body beside him.

‘Oh, there are many, brother. I can see two distinct tread patterns in the dust. They were already in here when Haruk followed the human.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Watching. They were using this place as a vantage point to observe our movements.’

‘How could they know we were here?’ A hint of agitation in Dagon’s voice betrayed his sense of unease at hearing this news.

‘How else? They’ve been tracking and following us.’

‘A counter-attack? I understood there were no enemy assets in this region.’

‘There aren’t. None that we know of, anyway.’ Narek regarded the ruin of Haruk’s body, the silenced rounds that had ended him so precisely. ‘I don’t think it’s a counter-attack. They don’t have the numbers. This was quiet, a hunter’s kill. They want to stay covert, whoever they are. And they took the human with them also.’

‘Why?’

‘That’s an extremely good question.’

‘So what now? This changes things.’

Narek looked off into the middle distance. ‘Perhaps…’ He needed to consult Elias.

Narek activated the warp-flask. A foul sulphur stench fogged the air through his rebreather as communion was achieved quickly. Another sign of the veil thinning – the enhanced warp-flasks were proving more reliable than vox-comms.

‘ Do you have him?’ asked Elias.

A simulacrum of the Dark Apostle was rendered in violet grainy light emanating from the neck of the flask like a vapour. On the other end of communion, Narek knew his image would also be rendered to Elias in this way.

‘No. Someone else took him.’

‘ Someone else?’

Elias was still at the ritual site. In the background, Narek could hear the human sacrifices mewling as they awaited their fate. Elias would bleed the entire city if he had to. The cults too.

‘Yes.’

‘ What about Haruk?’

‘He’s dead. I am crouched by his recently ventilated corpse.’

‘ Should I be concerned, Narek?’

‘Too soon to tell.’

‘ What is that supposed to mean?’

‘It means someone tracked us to Traoris and has shadowed our movements all the way to Ranos,’ Narek said levelly.

‘ Who tracked us?’

‘I have a theory. Too early to be sure yet.’

‘ I’m sending reinforcements.’

‘Not necessary.’

‘ They’re coming anyway.’

‘I want to find out exactly what we’re dealing with first. Dagon and I move faster alone.’

‘ I doubt Haruk would agree with that.’

‘Haruk is dead. He won’t be agreeing with anything any more.’

‘ Humour doesn’t suit you, Narek. Stay where you are. Wait for the others.’

Elias ended the communion, leaving the huntsmen alone again.

‘So, we wait?’ asked Dagon.

‘No,’ Narek replied, and got to his feet. ‘Search everywhere. Leave nothing untouched. I want to know everything, every scrap of information this warehouse can yield. We are not alone in Ranos, Dagon. Our former brothers-in-arms are here with us.’

Dagon scoffed. ‘To what end?’

‘What else? What would you or I do if we were them? They want vengeance. They mean to kill us.’

Sebaton’s head pounded like he’d drunk too much svodand had woken to a particularly brutal hangover. He was unbound, slumped on a chair, head down. Wincing slightly, but not moving to touch it, he could feel the contusion on the side of his head where something had hit him hard. No, not some thing, some one.

The encounter in the warehouse came back to him in all its life-threatening glory.

He should be dead right now, or at the mercy of a ritual knife. Instead he was here, wherever herewas. He listened, feigning unconsciousness and trying to get a sense of exactly what level of trouble he was in. Harsh machine noise surrounded him. At first he thought he might have been taken to a manufactorum, but if he was still in Ranos that was unlikely, as, from what he’d seen, the city was effectively dead. A low background hum underneath the machine noise put him in mind of a generator, adding weight to a theory about the nature of his captors, if not their identity.

Sebaton put together what he knew. Varteh and the others were almost certainly dead. This meant he was alone. A Legion faction, possibly more than one, was on Traoris. They had found the dig site and had sent scouts to hunt him down and take what he had exhumed from the catacombs. This meant they had some knowledge of what it was, or at the very least realised that it was important enough to divert significant resources to obtain it. At least two others, enemies of the Word Bearer sent to kill or capture him, had intervened and he was now in their custody. What happened next depended on what else Sebaton could discover about his captors’ motives. With that in mind, he stayed still and listened hard.

Half-heard mutterings; the crackle and static of a vox-feed suggested an exchange between at least two people. As Sebaton tried to home in on the conversation and discern some meaning, two others started talking. Obviously standing much closer, their words were easy to understand.

‘He doesn’t look like much,’ said the first speaker, his tone rough with a slight growl adding to its bite. The voice was male, and very deep.

‘That traitor seemed to think he was worth the effort of killing,’ answered another. His voice had a resonance that was almost mechanical, as if re-vocalised and amplified through vox-augmentation.

‘And on that evidence we should take him?’ asked the first. ‘We have more urgent concerns.’

‘Agreed,’ said the second, before a third voice chimed in.

‘I would know why the Word Bearers want this man.’ This one was older, rasping. ‘He is more than he seems, and I don’t think he’s from Traoris, either.’

There was a pause, and Sebaton heard the dulcet whirr of servos connected to a warrior’s gorget as he shook his head.

Then the first said, ‘We’re wasting time. What does it matter if he’s not a native?’

The third continued. ‘Not sure. But the Word Bearers want him, which means we should deny them that. As to their purpose, I also mean to find that out, and heis the answer.’

The conversation paused again, but for longer this time. Sebaton felt his raw nerves bite, and his heart trembled.

‘ You’re fooling no one,’ the older one rasped in his ear. It was as if the speaker were standing right next to him, until Sebaton realised the words were spoken directly into his mind.

‘ You have uncovered no secrets. Your intent is as obvious to me as that costume you are wearing. Now… awake!’

Sebaton opened his eyes, realising that any further attempts at subterfuge would likely only get him hurt or worse. His vision was blurred, probably from the concussion. He was staring at his feet and a grubby floor underfoot. When he tried to move, to lift his head and rub his eyes, he felt the press of cold metal against his skull.