cast the rest into the sky to languish with his Lost Children.

A Warsinger perched on Father Isstvan's black shoulder, screaming a song of death that jarred at Loken's nerves and sent jangling pain along his limbs. Hundreds of Isstvanian soldiers surrounded the pit, firing from the hip as they ran towards the Astartes, driven forward by the shrieking death

song.

At them!' yelled Loken, and before he could draw breath again the enemy was upon them. The Astartes of the spearhead streamed through the many archways leading into the tomb-spire, guns blazing as soon as they saw the enemy swarming towards them. Loken fired a fusillade of shots before the two sides clashed.

More than two thousand Sons of Horus charged into battle and Death's Tomb became a vast amphitheatre for a great and terrible slaughter, like the arenas of the ancient Romanii.

'Stay close! Back to back, and advance!' cried Loken, but he could only hope that his fellow warriors could hear him over the vox. The screaming was deafening, every Isstvanian soldier's mouth jammed open and howling in the shrieking cadences of the Warsinger's music.

Loken cut a gory crescent through the bodies pressing in on him, Vipus matching him stroke for stroke with his long chainsword. Strategy and weapons meant nothing now. The battle was simply a brutal close quarters fight to the death.

Such a contest could have only one outcome. Loathing filled Loken. Not at the blood and death around him, he had seen much worse before, but at the sheer waste of this war. The people he was killing... their lives could have meant something. They could have accepted the Imperial Truth and helped forge a galaxy where the human race was united and the wisdom of the Emperor ushered them towards a future filled with wonders. Instead they had been betrayed and turned into fanatical killers by a corrupt leader, destined to die for a cause that was a lie.

Good lives wasted. Nothing could be further from the purpose of the Imperium.

Torgaddon! Bring the line forwards. Force them back and give the guns some room,’

'Easier said than done, Garvi!' replied Torgaddon, his voice punctuated with the sharp crack of breaking bones.

Loken glanced around, saw one of Lachost's squad dragged down by the mass of enemy warriors and tried to bring his bolter to bear. Bloodied, mined hands forced his aim down and the battle-brother was lost. He dropped his shoulder and barged forwards, bodies breaking beneath him, but others were on top of him, blades and bullets beating at his armour.

With a roar of anger, Loken ripped his chainsword through an armoured warrior before him, forcing the enemy back for the split second he needed to open up with his bolter. A full-throated

volley sent a magazine's worth of shells into the mass, blasting them apart in a red ruin of shattered faces and broken armour.

He rapidly swapped in a new bolter magazine and fired among the warriors trying to swamp his fellow Sons of Horus. The Astartes used the openings to forge onwards or open up spaces to bring their own weapons up. Others lent their gunfire to the battle-brothers fighting behind them.

The tone of the Warsinger's screaming changed and Loken felt as though rusty nails were being torn up his spine. He staggered and the enemy were upon him.

'Torgaddon!' he shouted over the din. 'Get the Warsinger!'

'MY APOLOGIES, WARMASTER,’ began Maloghurst, nervous at interrupting the Warmaster's concentration on the battle below. 'There has been a development.' 'In the city?' asked Horus without looking up. 'On the ship,’ replied Maloghurst. Horus looked up in irritation. 'Explain yourself.' 'The Prime Iterator, Kyril Sindermann...' 'Old Kyril?' said Horus. "What of him.' 'It appears we have misjudged the man's character, my lord,’

'In what way, Mai?' asked Horus. 'He's just an old man,’

'That he is, but he may be a greater threat than anything we have yet faced, my lord,’ said

Maloghurst. 'He is a leader now, an apostle they call him- He-' 'A leader?' interrupted Horus, 'of whom?' 'Of the people of the fleet, civilians, ships' crew, and the Lectitio Divinitatus. He has just finished a speech to the fleet calling on them to resist the Legion, saying that we are warmongers and seek to betray the Emperor. We are trying to trace where the signal came from, but it is likely he will be long gone before we find him,’

'I see,’ said Horus. 'This problem should have been dealt with before Isstvan,’

'And we have failed you in this,’ said Maloghurst. The iterator mixed calls for peace with a potent brew of religion and faith,’

This should not surprise us,’ said Horus. 'Sindermann was selected for duty with my fleet precisely because he could convince even the most fractious rabble to do anything. Mix that skill with religious fervour and he is indeed a dangerous man,’ -They believe the Emperor is divine,’ said Maloghurst, 'and that we commit blasphemy,’

'It must be an intoxicating faith,’ mused Horus, 'and faith can be a very powerful weapon. It appears, Maloghurst, that we have underestimated the potential that even a civilian possesses so long as he has genuine faith in something,’ 'What would you have me do, my lord?' 'We did not deal with this threat properly,’ said Horus. 'It should have ceased to exist when Var-yarus and those troublesome remembrancers were

illuminated. Now it takes my attention when our plan is at its most sensitive stage. The bombardment is imminent.'

Maloghurst bowed his head. 'Warmaster, Sinder-mann and his kind will be destroyed,’

The next I hear of this will be that they are all dead,’ ordered Horus.

'It will be done,’ promised Maloghurst.

'FOOL!' SPAT PRAAL, his voice a disgusted rasp. 'Have you not seen this world? The wonders you would destroy? This is a city of the gods!'

Lucius rolled to his feet, still stunned from the sonic Shockwave that had hurled him from the throne dais, but knowing that the song of death was being sung for him and him alone. He lunged, but Praal batted aside his attack, bringing his spear up in a neat guard.

This is the city of my enemies,’ laughed Lucius. 'That is all that matters to me,’

'You are deaf to the music of the galaxy. I have heard far more than you,’ said Praal. 'Perhaps you are to be pitied, for I have listened to the sound of the gods. I have heard their song and they damn this galaxy in their wisdom!'

Lucius laughed in Praal's face. 'You think I care? All I want to do is kill you,’

The gods have sung what your Imperial Truth will bring to the galaxy,’ shrieked Praal, his musical voice heavy with disdain. 'It is a future of fear and hatred. I was deaf to the music before they opened

me to their song of oblivion. It is my duty to end your Crusade!'

'You can try,’ said Lucius, 'but even if you kill us all, more will come: a hundred thousand more, a million, until this planet is dust. Your little rebellion is over; you just don't know it yet,’

'No, Astartes,' replied Praal. 'I have fulfilled my duty and brought you here, to this cauldron of fates. My work is done! All that remains is to blood myself in the name of Father Isstvan,’

Lucius danced away as Praal attacked once more with the razor-sharp feints of a master warrior, but the swordsman had faced better opponents than this and prevailed. The song of death rippled behind his eyes and he could see every move Praal made before he made it, the song speaking to him on a level he didn't understand, but instinctively knew was power beyond anything he had touched before.

He launched a flurry of blows at Praal, driving him back with each attack and no matter how skilfully Praal parried his strikes, each one came that little bit closer to wounding him.

The flicker of fear he saw in Praal's eyes filled him with brutal triumph. The shrieking, musical spear blared one last atonal scream before it finally shattered under the energised edge of Lucius's sword.