'You mean like Captain Stenius? I think he rather appreciates having a pair of working eyes,' Jonson said wryly.

'That's different, my lord. Stenius lost his sight in battle. They were taken from him, not willingly thrown away.'

Jonson nodded. 'So you think we can't trust him?'

'I don't know what to think about him, lord. That's what I'm saying,' He sighed. 'I confess I might be a little biased as well, after our first encounter.'

Jonson nodded. 'Understandable,' he said. 'How is Brother Yung?'

'The Apothecaries are tending him now,' Nemiel replied. 'He suffered severe internal injuries, and his body went into stasis almost immediately.' As part of their extensive physical and genetic modifications, all Astartes possessed the ability to survive even the worst physical injuries by entering a kind of voluntary coma that focused the body's energies on basic survival. 'The chirurgeon says that he will heal, but there's no chance he'll be returning to action in the next few months.'

'And the rest of the squad?'

Nemiel shrugged. 'Numerous minor injuries, but that's to be expected. Brother Ephrial is having his knee mended now, and will be fit for duty again within twelve hours.' He grinned. 'Just don't send us into battle any time in the next week or so, or half of us will be fighting in our surplices.'

Jonson returned the grin. 'I think I can manage that,' he said, then rose from the chair. 'Go and get some rest. Give your body some time to recover. We'll begin planning in earnest on the morrow.'

Nemiel bowed to the primarch and made to withdraw, but something he recalled from the previous conversation made him pause. 'My lord?'

Jonson had already padded silently into the shadows. Nemiel saw him turn, silhouetted against the crimson light streaming through the portside viewports. 'What is it?' he asked.

'Why did you request that inventory from Magos Archoi?' he said without preamble.

The primarch stiffened slightly. 'I should think it obvious,' he replied. 'If we're to devise an effective battle plan against the rebels we will need a full accounting of our supplies and all available assets.'

Nemiel nodded. 'Yes, of course, my lord. It's entirely understandable. Only…' he paused. 'The request troubled the magos considerably. In these difficult times, with the Warmaster in open revolt and armies on the march, it's easy to misunderstand the intent behind such a request.'

Jonson did not reply at first. He stared at Nemiel from the shadows, his powerful body completely still. 'I'm not a brigand, Nemiel,' he said, his voice quiet and cold.

The Redemptor bowed his head. 'Of course not, my lord,' he said, feeling foolish now for bringing the matter up in the first place. 'I didn't mean that at all. But Archoi and Governor Kulik have already suffered a great deal at the hands of Horus's men. No one knows whom to trust anymore.'

Jonson's gaze bored into Nemiel. 'Do you trust me, Nemiel?' the primarch asked.

'Of course,' Nemiel replied.

'Then rest,' Jonson said. 'And leave Archoi and Kulik to me.'

The primarch turned away, gliding like a forest cat into the darkness. Nemiel watched him go, a feeling of unease sinking into his stomach.

TWELVE

Awful Truths

Horror and revulsion threatened to overwhelm Zahariel. He cried out in rage at the vision of evil before him - and then his senses shifted yet again.

Pale light bathed the corridor, swelling from the bodies of his brother Astartes and the twisted monstrosities that they fought. Between one eye-blink and the next, the world had slowed near to a standstill, transforming the desperate battle into a kind of grim tableaux. Zahariel could see through the bodies of friend and foe alike; he saw hearts beating and veins coursing sluggishly with hot blood. He could see the black ichor suffusing the bodies of the terrible worms, and the foul corruption that spread within them. One of the monsters had seized brother Attias, wrapping around his torso and clamping its mandibles about his steel-encased skull. Within the creature's mouth was a long, needle-pointed spike of bone, sheathed in a powerful bundle of muscle that propelled it forward with the force of a bullet aimed at the back of Attias's head. A hollow channel within the bony needle pulsed with foul venom.

Zahariel's horror was transformed into pure, righteous rage. He summoned the fury of the warp and swept his staff in a wide arc, hurling tendrils of searing white fire towards every creature he could see. Like thunderbolts, they sank through the monsters' flesh and boiled the liquid within. The Librarian felt his veins freeze and his hearts clench in agony, and the world snapped back into motion once more.

A dozen of the creatures exploded, showering the squad with shattered chitin and a mist of stinking ichor. Zahariel reeled backwards, stunned by the intensity of his vision. Terrorsight, Israfael called it. He'd only experienced it once before, when he'd fought the Calibanite Lion. For that one instant, he had extended his consciousness partly into the warp. The coils of his psychic hood were so cold they seared his skin. He shuddered to think what might have happened had he exposed himself to the tainted energies inside the passageway without the hood's protection.

The darkness within the corridor was lit with muzzle flashes as the squad rallied against the armoured worms' sudden assault. Chapter Master Astelan was still on his feet, blasting two of the monsters to pieces with well-aimed shots from his pistol and slicing another in half with a swipe of his chainsword. Brother Gideon leapt to his feet, shrugging off the body of the worm he'd killed and chopping apart another that had latched onto a fellow warrior's back. Attias charged forward to help free another fallen comrade, his fearsome skull-face lit by the hellish flames of pistol fire.

With a fierce cry, Zahariel hurled himself into the fight. He focused his rage on the force staff in his hands, wreathing it in a crackling aura of psychic power. Every worm he struck was incinerated in a flash of blue fire and a sizzling clap of thunder that hurled their shattered husks into the air. He destroyed a half-dozen of the worms in as many seconds, and then as suddenly as it had begun, the battle was over. The Astartes stood in a rough circle, facing outwards, their armour scarred and dented and their pistols smoking. The blue haze of bolt propellant hung in the thick air around them, and the smashed bodies of more than a score of worms lay about their feet. Several of the Astartes bore minor wounds, but none of them had fallen prey to the worms' fearsome stingers.

'What are these creatures?' Zahariel asked, probing one of the corpses with the butt of his staff.

'Reaver worms,' Astelan said, nudging one of the dead creatures with his boot. 'We used to hunt them when I was a child, but where I come from they never grow much longer than half a metre.'

Zahariel had heard of reaver worms, like most Calibanite children, but had never seen one. They were a menace to human settlements all over Caliban, transforming small animals and livestock into living incubators for their eggs. The worms would wrap themselves around their victim's neck, driving their stinger into the prey's spine and injecting it with a tremendous amount of neurotoxin. The venom destroyed higher brain functions, leaving the autonomic functions intact and making the victim's nervous system hyper-conductive. Still attached to the victim, the worm then secreted enzymes into the prey's spinal chord that gave it rudimentary control of its motor functions. The worm would then literally drive the prey back to its communal nest, where the still-living victim would be injected with eggs by the nest's queen. Occasionally the worms would find their way into fresh human graves and try to make off with the corpse, much to the horror of the deceased's relatives. His skin crawled at the thought of the worm that had clamped onto his helmet, and the dagger-like stinger that had tried to punch its way into the back of his skull.