Jonah took another drink from his flask as his expression turned sour thinking of Titus and his damned sermons. Titus said he felt the light of the Emperor within him, but Jonah didn't feel much of anything any more.

As much as he wanted to believe in what Titus was preaching, he just couldn't let go of the sceptical core at the centre of his being. To believe in

things that weren't there, that couldn't be seen or felt? Titus called it faith, but Jonah was a man who needed to believe in what was real, what could be touched and experienced.

Princeps Turnet would discharge him from the crew of the Dies Irae if he knew he had attended prayer meetings back on Davin, and the thought of spending the rest of the Crusade as a menial, denied forever the thrill of commanding the finest war machine ever to come from the forges of Mars sent a cold shiver down his spine.

Every few days, Titus would ask him to come to another prayer meeting and the times he said yes, they would furtively make their way to some forsaken part of the ship to listen to passages read from the Lectitio Divinitatus. Each time he would sweat the journey back for fear of discovery and the court martial that would no doubt follow.

Jonah had been a career Titan crewman since the day he had first set foot aboard his inaugural posting, a Warhound Titan called the Venator, and he knew that if it came down to a choice, he would choose the Dies Irae over the Lectitio Divinitatus every time.

But still, the thought that Titus might be right continued to nag at him.

He leaned back against the Titan's leg, sliding down until he was sitting on his haunches with his knees drawn up to his chest.

'Faith,’ he whispered, 'you can't earn it and you can't buy it. Where then do I find it?'

'Well,’ said a voice behind and above him, 'you can start by putting that flask away and coming with me.'

Jonah looked up and saw Titus Cassar, resplendent as always in his parade-ready uniform, standing in the arched entrance to the Titan's leg bastions.

'Titus,’ said Jonah, hurriedly stuffing the hip flask back into his jacket. 'What's up?'

'We have to go,’ said Titus urgently. 'The saint is in danger,’

MAGGARD STALKED ALONG the shadowed compan-ionways of the Vengeful Spirit at a brisk pace, marching at double time with the vigour of a man on his way to a welcome rendezvous. His hulking form had been steadily growing over the last few months, as though he were afflicted with some hideous form of rapid gigantism.

But the procedures the Warmaster's apothecaries were performing on his frame were anything but hideous. His body was changing growing and transforming beyond anything the crude surgeries of House Carpinus had ever managed. Already he could feel the new organs within him reshaping his flesh and bone into something greater than he could ever have imagined, and this was just the beginning. . His Kirlian blade was unsheathed, shimmering with a strange glow in the dim light of the corridor. He wore fresh white robes, his enlarging physique already too massive for his armour. Legion artificers

stood ready to reshape it once his flesh had settled into its new form, and he missed its reassuring solidity enclosing him.

Like him, his armour would be born anew, forged into something worthy of the Warmaster and his chosen warriors. Maggard knew he was not yet ready for such inclusion, but he had already carved himself a niche within the Sons of Horus. He walked where the Astartes could not, acted where they could not be seen to act and spilled blood where they needed to be seen as peacemakers.

It required a special kind of man to do such work, efficiently and conscience-free, and Maggard was perfectly suited to his new role. He had killed hundreds of people at the behest of House Carpinus and many more than that before he had been captured by them, but these had been poor, messy killings compared to the death he now carried.

He remembered the sense of magnificent beginnings when Maloghurst had tasked him with the death of Ignace Karkasy

Maggard had jammed the barrel of his pistol beneath the poet's quivering jaw and blown his brains out over the roof of his cramped room before letting the generously fleshed body crash to the floor in a flurry of bloody papers.

Why Maloghurst had required Karkasy's death did not concern Maggard. The equerry spoke with the voice of Horus and Maggard had pledged his undying loyalty to the Warmaster on the battlefield of Davin when he had offered him his sword.

Later, whether in reward or as part of his ongoing designs, the Warmaster had killed his former mistress, Petronella Vivar, and for that, Maggard was forever in his debt.

Whatever the Warmaster desired, Maggard would move heaven or hell to see it done.

Now he had been ordered to do something wondrous.

Now he was going to kill a saint.

SINDERMANN BEAT HIS middle finger against his chin in a nervous tattoo as he tried to look as if he belonged in this part of the ship. Deck crew in orange jumpsuits and ordnance officers in yellow jackets threaded past him as he awaited his accomplices in this endeavour. He clutched the chit the guard had given him tightly, as though it were some kind of talisman that would protect him if someone challenged him.

'Come on, come on,’ he whispered. Where are you?'

It had been a risk contacting Titus Cassar, but he had no one else to turn to. Mersadie did not believe in the Lectitio Divinitatus, and in truth he wasn't sure he did yet, but he knew that whatever or whoever had sent him the vision of Euphrati Keeler had meant him to act upon it. Likewise, Garviel Loken was out of the question, for it was certain that his movements would not escape notice.

'Iterator,’ hissed a voice from beside him and Sindermann almost cried aloud in surprise. Titus Cassar stood beside him, an earnest expression creasing his

slender face. Another man stood behind him, similarly uniformed in the dark blue of a Titan crewman. Titus,’ breathed Sindermann in relief. 'I wasn't sure you'd be able to come,’

'We won't have long before Princeps Turnet notices we are not at our posts, but your communication said the saint was in danger,’ 'She is,’ confirmed Sindermann, 'grave danger,’ 'How do you know?' asked the second man. Cassar's brow twisted in annoyance. Tm sorry, Kyril, this is Jonah Aruken, my fellow Moderati on the Dies Irae. He is one of us,’

'I just know,’ said Sindermann. 'I saw... I don't know... a vision of her lying on her bed and I just knew that someone intended her harm,’

'A vision,’ breathed Cassar. 'Truly you are one of the chosen of the Emperor,’

'No, no,’ hissed Sindermann. 'I'm really not. Now come on, we don't have time for this, we have to go now,’ 'Where?' asked Jonah Aruken. The medicae deck,’ said Sindermann, holding up his chit. We have to get to the medicae deck,’

THE SURFACE OF the shimmering globe above Horus resolved into continents and oceans, overlaid with the traceries of geophysical features: plains, forests, seas, mountain ranges and cities.

Horus held up his arms, as if supporting the globe from below like some titan from the ancient myths of old Earth.

'This is Isstvan III,’ he repeated, 'a world brought into compliance thirteen years ago by the 27th expeditionary force of our brother Corax,’

'And he wasn't up to the job?' snorted Angron.

Horus shot Angron a dangerous look. There was some resistance, yes, but the last elements of the aggressive faction were destroyed by the Raven Guard at the Redarth Valley,’

The battle site flared red on the globe, nestled among a mountain range on one of Isstvan Ill's northern continents. The remembrancer order was not yet foisted upon us by the Council of Terra, but a substantial civilian contingent was left behind to begin integration with the Imperial Truth,’