His primarch had correctly surmised that the lord of the Emperor's Children was not at the gathering. In his stead was a ranking officer whom Garro knew of through first-hand experiences, from crossings in battle that underlined the man's less than complimentary reputation. Lord Commander Eidolon and his troops were clad in wargear so elegant it made the Death Guard in their grey and green trim seem utterly featureless in comparison. The Legion had a reputation as dandies, preening over their armour and decorating themselves when other warriors looked to battle, and yet the wicked hammer

carried by Eidolon and the swords of his men spoke to obvious martial skill on their part. Still, Garro could not help but think that the Emperor's Children were overdressed for the occasion.

The other presence in the room was almost as imposing as Horus, and the battle-captain found himself measuring the primarch of the World Eaters against his own liege lord as the two leaders exchanged a neutral look. Where Mortarion was tall and wolf-lean, the primarch Angron was thickset and heavy. The Death Lord's pale aspect was at the far end of the spectrum from the Red Angel's clenched fist of a face, eyes deep-set among an orchard of scars. Angron's mere presence leaked the coiled potential for feral violence into the chamber.

As Mortarion embodied the dogged, silent promise of death, so his brother primarch was the personification of raw and murderous aggression. The Lord of the World Eaters stood broad and deadly in bronze armour and a heaped cloak of tarnished chainmail that trailed the smell of old blood in the air. A cadre of his chosen men were at his side, led by an Astartes that Garro knew by reputation alone, Kharn, master of the Eighth Company. Unlike Eidolon, who was known for braggadocio, Kharn's name was synonymous with brutality in battle. There were rumours of slaughters Kharn had caused that even the most ruthless of the Death Guard found difficult to stomach.

Garro halted as Horus spoke, the voice commanding his total attention. 'With our brother, Mortarion, we are complete.' The Warmaster stood and once again Garro fought off the urge to kneel. From a shadowed niche near where Nathaniel stood, a lipless servitor operated a control and the court's lamps dimmed as a hololith bloomed before them. He

recognised Isstvan III from the pict slates he had seen at Mortarion's hands, orbital shots taken by long range imagers, some hazed by the bright shape of the planet's largest satellite, the White Moon. This, then, was the world where the vile seed of Vardus Praal's treachery had taken root.

Horus spoke with keen urgency, each word sounding across the chamber as he repeated the details that Mortarion had given to Garro on the Stormbird, describing how years earlier the Primarch Corax and his Raven Guard had left Isstvan in good order to be turned to the Imperial way.

'Are we to assume that the truth didn't take?' Eidolon interrupted, his tone arch and sardonic, and Garro shot him a disdainful look. It seemed the lord commander's poor manners had not improved since last he had seen him. Horus ignored the outspoken Astartes and instead gestured to Mortarion, who took up the thread of the briefing, moving on to the matter of the distress signal. Nathaniel knew his cue and proffered the memory spool to the waiting servitor, which dutifully loaded it into the hololith console.

The message unwound and played to the assembled warriors. Instead of watching the recording again, Garro slowly let his gaze cross over the faces of his brother Astartes, searching for some measure of their reaction to the dead woman's panic and terror. Kharn mirrored his master Angron in his impassive mien, the very faintest twitch of a sneer pulling at the corner of his lips. Eidolon's haughty expression remained in place, apparently dismissive of the dishevelled and unkempt condition of the messenger. Horus was unreadable, his face as calm as that of a statue.

Garro looked away and found the men of the Mournival. Only Torgaddon and Loken seemed

affected, and of them Garviel looked to feel it the most. When the horrific killing scream came, Garro had steeled himself against it but still felt a churn of revulsion. He was watching Loken at that moment and saw the Son of Horus flinch, just as he himself had aboard the Endurance. Garro openly shared his comrade's discomfort. The dark message the distress signal carried was not just a call for help, a cry for the Astartes to leap to the defence of innocents. It was something much deeper, much more sinister than that. The Isstvan recording spoke of duplicity of the most base and foul kind, where men of the Imperium had turned back to the black path of ignorance, and done it willingly.

The mere thought of such a thing made the Death Guard feel sick with revulsion. At Isstvan, it would not be xenos or criminals, or foolish men blind to the Imperial truth that they were to face in combat. This foe had once been their comrades in the Emperor's service. They would be fighting tainted men, turncoats and deserters: traitors. The disgust churning in him turned hot and became ready anger.

Garro's mind snapped back to the moment, as the Warmaster showed them the Choral City, the seat of government on the third planet of the system and the source of the signal. The attack was to be huge, with elements of all four Legions, platoons of common soldiery and Titan war machines converging on Vardus Praal's base of operations in the Precentor's Palace. Nathaniel absorbed every detail, committing each element to his memory. The mention of his pri-march's name caught his attention once more.

'Your objective will be to engage the main force of the Choral City's army,' said Horus, directing his words to Mortarion.

The battle-captain could not help but feel a swell of pride when his master spoke up after the supreme commander had laid out his orders. 'I welcome this challenge, Warmaster. This is my Legion's natural battlefield.'

There would be one objective to complete before the assault on the Choral City began, and that was a raid to silence the monitors on Isstvan Extremis, the outermost world of the system and home to the nexus of its sensor web network. Once blinded, the defenders of Isstvan III would only know that retribution was on its way. They would not know where or when it would strike.

'Aye,' whispered Garro to himself, staring into the depths of the hololith and the sprawl of urban complexity it presented. The Choral City would make a demanding theatre of combat, but it was one that Nathaniel was already eager to explore.

The rest of the order of battle was swiftly laid down. The Emperor's Children and the World Eaters would target the Palace and the Warmaster's own Legion would attack an important religious shrine to the east, a vast cathedral complex called the Sirenhold. The name resonated in his mind and once again Garro turned the strange words over and over in his thoughts,

Sirenhold... Warsinger...

Unbidden, the alien phrases brought back the creeping sense of unease, and a cold foreboding that would not release him.