'Your Chapter knew of the Omphalos Daemonium?'

'Indeed we did. In fact, it was a source of particular interest to many of our secret masters. Over the centuries I read much of this daemonic entity, and though much of what was said I believe to be false, there are some things I believe are true. It is said that once it was an ancient and powerful daemon prince, a servant of the Blood God that existed only for slaughter. The skulls it piled before its dark master were legion, but always one creature ever outdid it, one of the Blood God's most favoured avatars, a daemon known as the Heart of Blood: so terrible it was said to have the power to summon bloodstorms and drain the vital fluid from its victims without even laying a blade to their flesh.'

Uriel and Pasanius shared a start of recognition as Seraphys continued. 'This avatar was a daemon of deadly artifice who forged for itself a suit of armour into which it poured all of its malice, all of its hate and all of its cunning, that even the blows of its enemies would strike them down.'

'What became of these daemons?' said Uriel.

Seraphys leaned closer, warming to his tale. 'Some say they fought a great battle that sundered the very fabric of the universe, hurling the debris across the firmament and thus were the galaxies and planets born. Others say that the avatar of the Blood God outwitted the Omphalos Daemonium, and trapped it within the fiery heart of a mighty daemon engine bound to the service of the Iron Warriors, becoming the dread chariot of the Slaughterman - ever to hunger in torment for vengeance.'

'Then how is it that it is free?'

'Ah, well, that the ancient legends do not tell,' said Seraphys sadly.

'I think I might know,' said Leonid.

'You?' said Seraphys. 'How could a lowly Guardsman know of such things?'

Leonid ignored the Blood Raven's patronising tone. 'Perhaps because when Ardaric Vaanes and his warriors freed us from captivity, we were able to defeat the Slaughterman and drive him into the firebox of the daemon engine. We thought we had destroyed him.'

'But all it did was free the daemon within the firebox to take the Slaughterman's flesh for its own,' said Vaanes.

'Does anyone know what became of the Omphalos Daemonium's rival, the avatar?' asked Sergeant Ellard hesitantly.

'There is nothing in the tales I have read of its ultimate fate,' said Seraphys.

'Why?'

'Because I think I have seen it.'

'What? When?' asked Leonid.

'On Hydra Cordatus,' explained Ellard. 'Sir, do you remember the stories that went around when the Mori Bastion fell?'

'Yes,' nodded Leonid. 'Mad stuff, ravings about a giant warrior killing everything in the bastion by his voice alone and a whirlwind that… fed on blood.'

By now a sizeable crowd had gathered to hear these tales and the synchronicity of these revelations was lost on no one.

Ellard nodded. 'I saw it too, but… I didn't say anything. I thought they'd section me for sure if I said what I'd seen.'

'Don't keep us in suspense, sergeant, what happened to it?' demanded Vaanes.

'I don't know for sure,' said Ellard, 'but once it killed Librarian Corwin, it opened up some kind of… gateway… I think. I'm not sure exactly. It was some kind of black thing that it stepped through and vanished. That was the last I saw of it.'

Vaanes rose from his squatting position and said, 'I think you bring trouble with you, Uriel Ventris of the Ultramarines. This is a deadly world, but we can survive here. We steal what we need from the Iron Warriors, and they in turn try to hunt us. It is a fine game, but I think your coming to Medrengard has just skewed that game.'

'Then perhaps that is a good thing,' pointed out Uriel.

'I wouldn't bet on it,' cautioned Vaanes.

Pasanius sat alone on the rocks outside the blockhouse, more tired than he could ever remember being. He had been awake now for… days, weeks? He couldn't tell, but he knew it had been a long time. The sky above was still that damnable white, and how anyone could live on such a world, where there was no change to mark the passing of time, was beyond him. The crushing monotony of such a bleak vista made him want to weep.

He held his arms out before his chest, turning both hands before his face. His left gauntlet was torn and scarred, ruined by the constant climbing over razor-sharp rocks, but his right was as unblemished as the day it had been crafted to the flesh and bone of his elbow. Thus far he had been able to keep its unique ability to repair itself secret from his battle-brothers, but he knew it was only a matter of time before its miraculous powers became known. Pasanius hammered his fist into the ground, pounding a powdered crater in the rock, smashing his fingers to oblivion then watching in disgust as they reknitted themselves once more.

The shame of concealing such evil from his brethren had almost been too much to bear and the thought of disappointing Uriel terrified him. But to admit to such weakness was as great a shame, and the guilt of this secret had torn a hole in his heart that he could not absolve.

There was no doubt in his mind that it had been beneath the surface of Pavonis, facing the ancient star god known as the Nightbringer, that he had been cursed. He remembered the aching cold of the blow from its scythe that had severed his arm, the crawling sensation of dead flesh where once there had been living tissue. Was it possible that some corruption had been passed to him by the Nightbringer's weapon and infected his body with this terrible sickness?

The adepts of Pavonis had been quick to provide a replacement arm, the very best their world could produce, for Techmarine Harkus and Apothecary Selenus to reattach. He had never been comfortable with the idea of an augmetic arm, but it was not until the battles aboard the Death of Virtue that he had begun to suspect that there was more to his new limb than met the eye. What crime had he committed to be so punished? Why had he been visited by such an affliction? He knew not, but as he removed his breastplate and took out his knife, he vowed he would pay for it in blood.

Uriel lay back and tried to sleep, his eyelids drooping and heavy. At least in the blockhouse there were areas out of the perpetual light of the dead sky, where darkness and sleep could be sought. But sleep was proving to be elusive, his thoughts tumbling through his head in a jumble.

Uriel now felt sure that there was more to this quest than he had initially thought. He knew he should not have been surprised to learn that the Heart of Blood was more than just an artefact, that the schemes of daemons were never straightforward. Were he and Pasanius part of some elaborate vengeance the Omphalos Daemonium had planned for its ancient rival? Who knew, but Uriel vowed that he would not allow himself to be used in such a way. Dark designs were afoot and a confluence of events had come together to bring them to this point. Despite the dangers around him, he felt on some instinctual level that the will of the Emperor was working through him.

Why then did he feel so empty, so hollow?

Uriel had read of the many saints of the Imperium and had heard numerous sermons delivered with impassioned oratory from the pulpit of how the Emperor's power was like a fire within that burned hotter than the brightest star. But Uriel felt no such fire, no light burned within his breast and he had never felt so alone.

Sermons always spoke of heroes as shining examples of virtue: pure of heart, untainted by doubt and unsullied by self aggrandisement.

Given such qualifications, he knew he was no hero, he was outcast, denied even the name of his Chapter and cast within the Eye of Terror with renegades and traitors. Where was the bright light of the Emperor within him here?