Hundreds of waving streams of fire licked up at the Titan, but this was no ordinary barrage. Warriors bearing the phoenix symbol of the Pyrae were firing on the move, hurling aetheric flames from their gauntlets. In the midst of the 6th Fellowship, Khalophis threw his fists like a pugilist, each jab sending a stream of coruscating fire against the enormous Titan. Where it struck, it burned away the Titan’s armour, exposing its crystalline structure and unmaking the bone-like material of its construction.

“Merciful fates!” cried Uthizzar at the sight of Khalophis. “What is he doing?”

“Rescuing our primarch!” yelled Ahriman. “As we should!”

The strength of the Pyrae was ascendant, but this was incredible. Within the cult temples of Prospero, such art could be wielded without fear, but to do so with outsiders present was reckless beyond imagining.

Nor were Khalophis and Phosis T’kar alone in their brazen displays.

Hathor Maat whipped his hands back and forth, each time casting traceries of purple lightning towards the towering machine. Explosions and dancing balls of fire crackled like electric chains around its body, burning its armour open. Arcs of lightning flashed between the warriors of the Pavoni as their captain drank deep of their energies and channelled it through his flesh.

Uthizzar grabbed his arm, and Ahriman read the fear in his aura.

“They have to stop!” hissed Uthizzar. “All of them! To tap into the Great Ocean is intoxicating, you know that all too well, but only the most disciplined and powerful dare wield power such as this!”

“Our brother-captains are powerful and disciplined practitioners of the hidden arts,” said Ahriman, shrugging off Uthizzar’s hold.

“But are they disciplined enough?That is the real question.”

Ahriman had no answer for him and returned his attention to killing the Titan.

The Titan was dying, but it didn’t die easily. Its limbs thrashed in its death throes, spitting incandescent pulses of energy that tore down the valley walls and obliterated dozens of Astartes with every fiery sweep.

Its defiance was finally ended when Khalophis and Hathor Maat combined a hurricane of fire and a spear of lightning that struck the war machine’s head with a killing blow. The curved skull exploded and the towering machine collapsed, plummeting straight down like dead wood hewn by a woodsman’s axe.

The noise was deafening: breaking plates, shattering glass and snapping bone all in one. It fell hard, breaking into a billion pieces, none larger than the size of a man’s fist, and a glittering rain of splintered ceramic fell upon the victorious Astartes like musical notes. The Astartes lowered their weapons, and took a collective breath as the dust and smoke of battle began to settle.

The golden dome shielding Phosis T’kar and the primarch collapsed with a squalling shriek. Phosis T’kar fell, utterly drained by the act of protecting his primarch, as Magnus the Red rose to his feet once more. Though the toll taken upon him was great, he remained as magnificent as ever. Magnus lifted the stricken body of Phosis T’kar, and stepped from the pillar of rock.

He did not fall. Instead, Magnus floated across the crater like a battle-weary angel, borne aloft by his incredible power through a billowing mist of shimmering crystal.

The Thousand Sons were there to greet him, ecstatic beyond words that their primarch had survived. Ahriman and Uthizzar pushed through the scrum of Astartes, their warriors only reluctantly parting to allow them through. Ahriman reached the edge of the crater as Magnus set foot on the glassy floor of the valley and gently laid Phosis T’kar before him.

“Hathor Maat,” said Magnus, his voice weary and thin. “See to him. Bend all the power of the Pavoni to his survival. You will not allow him to die.”

The captain of the 3rd Fellowship nodded. He knelt beside Phosis T’kar and swiftly removed his helmet. T’kar’s face was deathly pale. Hathor Maat placed his hands on either side of his neck, and almost instantaneously colour returned to his face.

“My lord,” said Ahriman, his voice almost too choked with emotion to speak. “We thought… We thought you lost to us.”

Magnus smiled weakly, dabbing at a trickle of blood that ran from the corner of his mouth. His eye shone a bruised violet and red. Never had Ahriman seen his beloved leader so battered.

“I will live,” said Magnus. “But this is not over yet. These guardians were perverted by the corruption imprisoned beneath this peak. It has lain dormant for an age, but it has awoken. Unless we stop it, everything we have learned here will be lost.”

“What would you have us do, lord?” demanded Khalophis.

Magnus turned to the cave mouth. It was thick with growths, like blackened roots from some parasitic weed burrowed into the meat of the Mountain.

“Walk with me into the depths, my sons,” said Magnus. “We will finish this together.”

CHAPTER NINE

Abilities/Beneath the Mountain/The Language of Angels

THE SUN WAS at its zenith, and the idea of moving from beneath the canopy of his tent didn’t appeal to Lemuel one bit. Camille wanted to travel the secret path through the Mountain again, eager to know what had drawn the Thousand Sons and Space Wolves into its high valley with such speed. The climb had almost ended Lemuel in the cool of sunset. He didn’t want to think what it would do to him at noon.

“Aren’t you in the least bit curious?” asked Camille, reclining on a canvas chair and drinking water from a battered leather canteen. “I mean, what’s got them all riled up that they needed to take battle tanks? Land Raiders no less. Did you see?”

“I saw,” said Lemuel, dabbing his brow with his bandanna. “They were impressive.”

“Impressive?” said Camille, incredulously. “They were more than impressive, they were amazing.”

“Okay, they were amazing, but no, I’m not that curious as to what’s happening in the Mountain. I’m sure whatever is going on, we’ll find out in due course.”

“Easy for you to say,” noted Camille. “You have a direct line to the Thousand Sons now.”

“It’s not like that,” said Lemuel.

“Then what is it like?” asked Kallista.

The three of them had taken to meeting each night since the arrival of the Space Wolves, their shared discussions of what Kallista had written bonding them like conspirators with a dark secret. The more time Lemuel spent with Kallista and Camille, the more he began to realise they shared more than one.

“Lord Ahriman sees potential in me,” he said, knowing his words were wholly insufficient to explain why the Chief Librarian of the Thousand Sons had sent for him.

“What sort of potential?” asked Kallista.

Lemuel shrugged and said, “I’m not really sure yet.”

“Come on, that’s no answer,” pressed Camille.

Lemuel’s fear when Ahriman had told him he knew of his ability, had quickly faded, replaced with a simmering pride in his powers. He had long suspected that his ability to read people marked him out as special, and now he knew that was true. After spending time with Camille and Kallista, he realised he wasn’t the only one. He hesitated before answering, knowing he could be wrong, but wanting to be sure.

“After the other night, we know Kallista has a talent for, what would the word be? Channeling, I suppose. Channeling a power that allows her to write things that haven’t happened yet.”

“Talent’s hardly the word I’d use,” said Kallista bitterly.

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t,” agreed Lemuel, “not if it’s as painful as you say, but the physical manifestation of your ability aside, you can do things most people cannot, yes?”

“Yes,” said Kallista, nodding, and he could read how uncomfortable talk of her power made her.

“Well, I also have an ability,” he said.

“What kind of ability?” asked Camille.