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  Truth is cold, yet it burns brighter than any delirium. Be wary, for it is the most pernicious of all vices.

  – The Calavera

  ONE DAY AFTER UNITY, THE GHOSTLANDS

  The maglev train swooped through the white nothingness of the wilderness like a ghost engine haunting a phantom world, invisibly harnessed to the single track embossed into the ice. Despite its speed it moved in almost total silence, only the low-frequency hum of its propulsion drive and the soft crackle of magnetically charged particles exposing it as a contrivance of the material world. Flickering indigo fire played about the ribbed skirts of its under­carriage, illuminating the narrow gap between its grooved suspensor plates and the track. Few folk on Oblazt understood the technomancy that kept the train suspended an inch above the rail and none possessed the skill to repair it. It was old tech, dating back to the first colonisation of the planet.

  Such things did not concern the Sourblood. It was the thrill of speed that had lured him out onto the hide of the machine. He crouched atop the rear carriage like a penitent gargoyle, his talons gripping the gabled hull and his arms thrown wide to embrace the screaming wind, exhorting it to scour away the filth of the hive.

  The blood of the flat-faces runs thin, he rejoiced, but their machine runs with fire in its belly!

  Ujurakh had already explored the length and breadth of the vehicle, travelling via the roof to evade the flat-faces as he mapped its narrow territories. There were nineteen carriages in total, trailing behind the sheared wedge of the drive cabin like a string of carved boxes. Each was linked to the next by a cantilevered platform that twisted and turned with the contortions of the track. The flat-faces would never linger at these exposed intersections and none had ventured onto the roof. They were not fools, Ujurakh had decided, but they were overly fearful of the cold. He would use that against them when the time came. And it could not come soon enough…

  Twice already he’d almost surrendered to the urge to snatch a lone straggler as it passed between the carriages. Would they miss one flat-face among so many? But he already knew the answer that really mattered: his master would notice.

  Wait, the Empty One had commanded, stamping the edict into Ujurakh’s skull with the promise of pain. Wait.

  TWO DAYS AFTER UNITY

  Slumped in a chair beside his cabin window, Haniel Mordaine stared gloomily at the frozen tundra of the Ghostlands. It was impossible to gauge the Chain Engine’s velocity against that featureless limbo. He might as well be watching an endlessly looping vid-feed, yet despite the monotony he knew the train was devouring the distance to Yakov all too quickly. Yakov Hive, where the spaceport lay. Where the conclave would be waiting for him.

  I’m not ready. I need more time.

  ‘Two days,’ he whispered. ‘I lost almost two days.’ He hadn’t mustered the courage to examine his bandaged chest yet. The pain told him all he wanted to know.

  ‘Your wound was most grievous, inquisitor,’ Lieutenant Omazet said, hovering behind him like a sullen spectre. ‘Without Captain Calavera’s talents you would be a dead man.’

  ‘Captain Calavera?’ Despite his discomfort, the appellation amused Mordaine. Although it was by no means an unlikely title for a Space Marine, it didn’t ring true for his tenebrous patron. It was too honest.

  ‘I did not know your contact was an Astartes,’ Omazet said. Was there a hint of accusation in her voice?

  ‘An Adeptus Astartes,’ Mordaine corrected. Abuses of High Gothic had always irked him. ‘You didn’t know because I chose not to tell you, lieutenant.’ And because I didn’t know either, damn him! ‘How is Captain Uzochi doing?’

  ‘He keeps to his cabin, chastising himself with shadows and solitude,’ she said. ‘An Iwujii officer bears a scar on his soul for every Shark he loses.’ She paused, pointedly. Reprovingly? ‘We lost many Sharks at Vyshodd, inquisitor.’

  ‘Give me numbers, please,’ he said, avoiding her gaze.

  ‘All told, the Third Company now fields just eighty-two Sharks.’

  They both knew what the numbers meant: the Third was no longer viable. If the survivors ever returned to their regiment they would be reassigned to other companies. For the Third it was the end, for its captain something more shameful.

  ‘I regret your losses,’ Mordaine said quietly. Particularly the ones who died to satisfy my pride… ‘They were fine soldiers.’ She said nothing and he pressed on swiftly. ‘And this?’ He said, indicating the comms report.

  ‘Captain Calavera asked me to pass it on to you,’ Omazet said. ‘He communicated with the telepathica temple at Yakov privately.’

  ‘I see. Well, I believe it’s time I had words with the good captain.’ Mordaine’s ribs ground in protest as he rose from his chair. He grimaced as his head spun and Omazet’s face divided into a pair of grinning skulls.

  ‘Are you strong enough to walk, inquisitor?’ the skulls asked. Coming from them, it sounded like an allegation.

  ‘The Emperor’s work… won’t… wait on our pleasure,’ he wheezed, fighting down the nausea. ‘Duty is strength.’ He picked up the laspistol she’d brought him. It was a poor replacement for his Argent Repeater, but needs must.

  ‘Haniel,’ she called as he turned to go.

  ‘Yes, lieutenant,’ he said.

  Haniel? He froze. How does she know my name? Damn those infernal lenses she wears! How can you read someone when you can’t see their eyes?

  ‘Haniel Mordaine,’ she murmured. ‘That is what Captain Calavera called you when you lay at Grandfather Death’s threshold.’

  ‘A man in my position acquires many names,’ he said dismissively. ‘Surely this doesn’t surprise you?’

  She inclined her head. ‘As you say, inquisitor.’

  ‘Then don’t presume to question me again.’ As he stalked from the room he heard her tasting his name on her tongue, testing it for truth.

  The Sourblood lay prone, wedged into a ventilation shaft above a softly lit chamber that occupied an entire carriage near the front of the train. His elongated head was pressed against a grille in the ceiling, twisted sideways so he could observe the space below with one baleful eye. It was a brazen hall, hung with obscene depictions of flat-face mating rituals and clotted with silk carpets and plump-cushioned chairs that begged to be shredded. It sang to him of cheap vanity and shallow hungers, conjuring up the grovelling lordling he’d gorged upon in the hive.

  What thin, insignificant rhythms they entwine about themselves and think for a wonder, he sneered. The fleeting feeder dreams of grubs!

  Intriguingly the throng of flat-faces gathered below appeared to agree, for they were treating the shameless carriage with open contempt, spitting and spilling their food with abandon as they feasted and caroused. Their leader, a short but powerfully muscled brute with a missing ear who the others called Chee-zoba, had named the place their ‘mess hall’ and his kindred had laughed and striven to make it so. Ujurakh had taken an instant liking to Chee-zoba. For a flat-face he had spirit and wit. When the time came he would make for good eating. Indeed, all the kine in this herd had a vitality that suggested they were not native to this flavourless waste world.

  Unbidden, the hunger unwound itself in the hollows of his gut, urging him to tear aside the metal veil he lurked behind – to tear it aside and tear into them! A thick rope of drool slipped from his maw and splattered the shoulder pad of the flat-face directly under him. Ujurakh tensed, but neither the creature nor its comrades noticed the blunder. Furiously, he fought against the hunger, loath to abandon his spying. Curiosity was in his nature, as it should be for all his kind, for how else could a Shaper tease out the secret threads of the fleshweave and steer his people down a potent path? Already too many bloodlines had been doomed to stagnation by the apathy of timid Shapers. No, such as he could never be too curious, no matter what his kindred might say.

  Never too cu
rious, but perhaps incautious, he admitted.

  The Empty One had commanded that he remain in hiding, and his master had a way of picking out every little transgression. No, these creatures’ antics were not worth the price of his displeasure. Reluctantly Ujurakh slithered away.

  ‘You are filthy, Akoto!’ Sergeant Thierry Chizoba snapped. Startled, the trooper who’d invited his reprimand looked up from his cards and reached for the shoulder Chizoba was pointing at. He grimaced as his fingers found the slime coating his armour. His comrades sniggered and one of them called to a skinny figure perched by a window: ‘Hey, you sneeze on Akoto again, Rémi?’

  The accused trooper looked round, wiping guiltily at his wet nose. ‘Not me,’ he muttered with a lopsided grin.

  ‘Go back to your stargazing, Rémi,’ Chizoba said gruffly. No matter where he was, ‘Krazi’ Rémi Ngoro could always see the stars. The shiver fever had hit him hard after their arrival on Oblazt and it had messed up his head, but he was still the best cook in the company. Not that he had much competition any more…

  So many lost, Chizoba mused as he regarded the men sprawled about the saloon carriage. His brothers had delighted in making the place their own and spitting in the face of the bluebloods who’d let the hive fall to heresy. Such decadence would have been unthinkable on Iwujii Secundus, where every infant entered the meat grinder of the Childe Wars as an equal and emerged a warrior, a slave or not at all.

  ‘It wasn’t me, sergeant,’ Rémi insisted, tugging at Chizoba’s sleeve. ‘It was the rain.’ He jabbed at the ceiling. ‘I saw it in the window… like a mirror.’

  Chizoba nodded vaguely. He had no idea what the man was talking about, but that was often the way with Krazi Rémi. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘It was the rain.’

  Mordaine hesitated at the threshold of the Imperator suite. There was a musty, dust-wreathed odour permeating the gold-panelled cabin that unsettled him almost as much as its grim occupant. The Space Marine’s bulk seemed to fill the space, though it was by no means cramped. The plush furnishings had been demolished and stacked neatly in the adjoining corridor, along with the door and much of its frame. The Koroleva oligarchs had not designed their luxury suites with giants in mind.

  ‘You know who I am,’ Mordaine said bluntly.

  ‘I do,’ answered the Calavera. He stood facing the doorway as if he had been expecting his visitor.

  Which he probably was, Mordaine guessed. ‘Are you a Chaplain?’ he asked, indicating the giant’s bronze death mask.

  ‘I am not,’ the Space Marine answered. ‘Throughout the years I have served in many capacities, but never that.’

  ‘But your mask… the skull?’

  ‘It is my own emblem. Its significance is personal.’

  ‘Then I’d be obliged if you’d remove it,’ Mordaine said as he entered. ‘I prefer to address a man face to face, especially when discussing matters of consequence.’

  ‘I cannot.’

  ‘Surely there’s no need for secrecy between us?’ Mordaine spread his hands expansively. ‘You and I are allies and men of high standing in the conclave–’

  ‘Your standing is that of a traitor and an assassin, Haniel Mordaine,’ the Calavera said without rancour. ‘In the conclave’s eyes you are an outcast.’

  ‘But as you are well aware, I am entirely innocent of the murder of Grand Master Escher.’

  ‘Entirely?’

  ‘I…’ The words arrived stillborn in Mordaine’s throat. It was as if the Calavera’s crystal eye could see through to his soul.

  And who’s to say it can’t? Mordaine thought uneasily.

  ‘Your Chapter…’ he hesitated. He could see nothing of the Space Marine’s power armour beneath that ashen robe, but there was an undeniably magisterial quality about him, as though he’d been forged for judgement, not merely execution as most Space Marines were. Suddenly it all made sense. ‘Are you of the Grey Knights, Calavera?’

  Are you my judge?

  The hatch of the saloon car swung open and a tall figure stepped inside. Its viridian greatcoat gusted in the wind as it regarded the mob of Sharks sprawled about the chamber. Warmth and sound leeched from the room as the men noticed the newcomer framed in the open doorway.

  ‘Lieutenant…’ Sergeant Chizoba began uncertainly, but she silenced him with a low hiss. The Sharks lowered their eyes as she approached – La Mal Kalfu, Father Terra’s pitiless handmaiden incarnate.

  ‘The spirits of our brothers still wail at Grandfather Death’s gates, riven and raw with sacrifice,’ Lieutenant Omazet said, passing through the men like a scythe of cold, condemning clarity, ‘yet you cavort in this chamber of iniquity.’ Her voice was little more than a whisper woven into the wind, yet every man in the carriage heard it. ‘You dance like ghuuls on their unquiet graves.’

  They needed this! Chizoba wanted to protest. After the carnage and the betrayal, they needed something. But he knew such excuses were rooted in false pride and her castigation was well deserved. ‘The fault is mine,’ he declared solemnly.

  The lieutenant’s bone-trimmed laspistol appeared to fly into her hand and Chizoba raised his chin, determined to die with honour, but her arm snapped out at a right angle as she fired. There was a hiss of molten glass as the las-bolt punched through a window. Without pause she swept her arm about in an arc, channelling her contempt into flashes of green fire that wove between the frozen Sharks, sometimes close enough to scald their flesh. When she was done, every window in the carriage had been punctured. Though the thick glass held, it was crazed with livid, melted craters.

  ‘Purge this temple of vice,’ Omazet commanded, holstering her weapon.

  Without hesitation Chizoba lifted a heavy chair and hurled it through the nearest window. As the glass shattered and the snow rushed in his comrades surged to their feet, howling with righteous fury. Eager for redemption – eager to please her – the Sharks seized the degenerate baubles of the bluebloods and assaulted the windows as if they were the vile, corrupting eyes of the warp.

  ‘Your questions are irrelevant,’ the Calavera said. ‘I am not your concern.’

  ‘No?’ Mordaine said, trying to cover the edge in his voice. ‘Forgive me, but I find that difficult to accept.’ He brandished the comms report Omazet had given him. ‘You’ve summoned the Damocles Conclave to Oblazt. They will be waiting for me.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes.’ Mordaine was aghast. ‘Is that all you have to say? You’ve betrayed me! I’ve crawled through fire and ice doing your dirty work…’

  ‘Six days remain to you,’ the Calavera interrupted.

  ‘Six days to sweat blood and beg for your mercy, is that it?’

  ‘Six days to find your answers and redeem your honour.’

  Mordaine never saw the Calavera move, but suddenly the warrior was looming over him, so close he could make out the delicate strands of verdigris veining his bronze mask. So close that he realised his power armour was deathly silent.

  ‘Your prisoner awaits,’ the skull breathed.

  ‘Prisoner…’ Mordaine echoed blankly. He wanted to back away, but that merciless eye transfixed him. The cabin felt oppressively hot and he realised he was sweating heavily. It felt pathetic in front of this austere, desiccated being.

  Prisoner… The word washed indolently into focus through the murk in his head.

  ‘The prisoner,’ Mordaine said, more forcefully this time. ‘That wasn’t a lie? You actually have the renegade?’

  ‘That is for you to determine, interrogator.’

  ‘None of this adds up…’ Mordaine’s words trailed off as the nausea flooded back, spurred on by a jagged tightness in his chest. That was when he noticed the rivets along the sides of the Calavera’s mask. That grim visage was nailed to the giant’s own skull.

  ‘Who are you?’ Mordaine whispered.

  ‘A fellow seek
er after truth,’ said the warrior. Then with unsettling, untrustworthy concern: ‘I regret that you are still weak, Haniel Mordaine. Sometimes I forget how fragile mortals are.’

  That’s a lie, Mordaine sensed in a flash of insight. You never forget how vulnerable we are beside your kind. You relish the know­ledge. Suddenly the sense of crushing age radiating from the Space Marine was intolerable. It hung about him like an ethereal stench, a malaise of the spirit that stirred something to wakefulness inside Mordaine. Something other. For a fleeting moment he felt like a stranger inside his own head, hanging on to his body by a fraying cord of consciousness.

  I cannot die… The thought wasn’t his own.

  Horrified, Mordaine turned his back on the Calavera and lurched into the corridor, clutching at the handrail running along the wall. The carriage tapered ahead of him, stretching out in a gently undulating river of windows and doors veined with throbbing gold and red velvet. He knew the train was gliding over the ice, frictionless and whisper smooth, yet he felt like a man caught in a storm-wracked sea. He retched, deep but dry, and threads of inky darkness crawled at the periphery of his vision.

  ‘Do you require assistance?’ the Calavera called after him.

  ‘That… will not be necessary,’ Mordaine rasped.

  I want nothing from you. He shoved his forehead against a window, screwing his eyes shut as the frigid glass cooled his fever. I won’t give you the satisfaction. Breathing deeply, he waited for the nausea to subside.

  ‘I need to make preparations,’ he lied, longing for the sanctuary of his cabin, where he could surrender to the darkness without shame. ‘For the interrogation.’

  ‘I understand.’

  Of course you do, you smug…

  ‘Tomorrow…’ Mordaine said. ‘I’ll begin tomorrow.’ He opened his eyes and saw a face gazing back at him through the frosted glass – an abstraction of grey flesh stretched taught over a serrated wedge of bone and deeply recessed black eyes. And were those quills? The phantasm was gone before he could decipher it, abandoning the glass to his own broken reflection. He stared at the gaunt relic, wondering what else was staring back at him through those shadow-crowded eyes.