Razor-sharp fragments and blazing sheets of jet fuel sprayed out from the wreckage, and the dry pages contained within the library eagerly caught light. Ankhu Anen was hurled through the air by the force of the blast, slamming into a high shelf and crashing through it to land on an overturned load lifter and its spilled cargo of books. The shelf buckled and crashed down on top of him in a rain of twisted metal and glass.
Ankhu Anen tried to extricate himself from the remains of the shelving unit, but fell back as searing pain flared in his leg and chest. Taking a deep breath, he took stock of his wounds. His leg was pinned beneath a fallen column, and a jutting spar of steel protruded from his chest. The fall had torn the wound gapingly wide, and blood pumped from his ruptured heart. Not even his secondary organ would be able to keep up with so rapid a loss.
Flaming liquid spread through the library, clawing at groaning shelves and seeking out fresh paper to sate its rapacious appetite. Dead and dying scribes surrounded Ankhu Anen, their bodies shredded by flying debris or burned beyond recognition. He looked up to see a shimmering rain of glass falling from the enormous, smoking hole the crashed gunship had torn. It was like a waterfall of crystal, and as he stared at the mesmerising sight, he saw a golden eye reflected in the shards as they fell in slow motion. The eyes watched him sadly, and Ankhu Anen had the powerful sense that they could easily save his life, yet chose not to.
“Why?” he begged, but the eyes had no answer for him.
A faint scratching of metal sounded at his ear, and he twisted to call for help, but his words trailed off as he saw a black raven watching him with its head cocked to one side. Its wings were glossy and black, though he could see psyber-implants worked with great subtlety into its skull. The bird regarded him quizzically, and he smiled at the sight of his cult’s symbol.
“What are you?” he asked. “A vision of the future? A symbol of salvation?”
“Neither, I think,” said a coarse voice at his shoulder, and Ankhu Anen twisted to see a warrior in armour the colour of a winter’s morn. It shimmered as though sheened with a layer of frost, and Ankhu Anen saw nothing but hatred in the Space Wolf’s body language. The raven took flight with a sharp caw and landed upon the warrior’s shoulder-guard.
The warrior carried a long staff topped with a golden eagle, and a host of warriors flooded into the Corvidae library behind him. They were golden and grey, and they carried long-necked weapons with blue flames at their hissing nozzles.
“Who are you?” cried Ankhu Anen, trying to summon the aether to strike down this impertinent invader. No power was coming, and he felt the ache of powerlessness as a jagged pain in his heart.
“I am called Ohthere Wyrdmake, Rune Priest to Amlodhi Skarssen Skarssensson of the 5th Company of Space Wolves,” said the warrior, removing his helmet to reveal a bearded warrior of great age with pale eyes and a braided beard. A leather skullcap covered the top of his head, and Ankhu Anen saw a willowy female in skin-tight armour of bronze and gold behind him. Her eyes were dead and unforgiving, and he recoiled from the emptiness he saw within them.
“Wyrdmake? The dragon of fate,” hissed Ankhu Anen, his eyes widening in understanding. “It’s you… It’s always been you.”
The Rune Priest smiled, though there was no amusement, only triumphant vindication.
“Dragon of fate? I suppose I am,” he said.
Ankhu Anen tried to reach his heqa staff, but it was lost in the devastation of the crash. He tried to pull his leg free.
“Do not struggle,” said Wyrdmake. “It will make your death easier.”
“Why are you doing this?” begged Ankhu Anen. “This is a dreadful mistake, you must see that! Think of all that will be lost if you do this terrible thing.”
“We are obeying the Emperor’s will,” said Wyrdmake, “as you should have done.”
“The Thousand Sons areloyal,” gasped Ankhu Anen, and a froth of bubbling blood spilled from his mouth. “We always were.”
Wyrdmake knelt beside Ankhu Anen and pressed an icy gauntlet to his face.
“Do you have a valediction? Any last words before you die?”
Ankhu Anen nodded, as the future opened up before him. Through gurgling, bloody coughs he hissed his final prophecy.
“I can see the aether inside you, Rune Priest,” he hissed with the last of his strength. “You are just like me, and one day those you serve will turn on you too.”
“I almost pity your delusion,” said Wyrdmake, shaking his head, “almost.”
Wyrdmake stood to his full height and waved more of the warriors with flame-weapons forward. Ankhu Anen heard the whoosh of streaming jets of fire destroying a hundred lifetimes worth of knowledge, and tears gathered in the corners of his eyes.
“You will tell me one thing before you die,” said Wyrdmake. “You will tell me where I can find the star-cunning one called Ahzek Ahriman.”
PHOSIS T’KAR HAD the advantage of weight and strength, but the null-maiden was lightning quick and her blade whipped like a silver snake. They duelled in the ruins of the plaza amid of a sprawling melee of armoured bodies. Blackened hulks of wrecked tanks littered the plaza, and glass fell in a glittering crystal rain from smoking holes punched in the Raptora pyramid.
Statues fell from its golden ledges to shatter on the stone below, and the constant thud of artillery impacts further east set a rhythmic tone for the battle. Fire bathed the combatants in a ruddy orange light, and Phosis T’kar felt a liberating sense of his own strength even as his aetheric powers were denied him.
He spun his staff in lazy circles as the Sister of Silence stared at him with her dead eyes.
“There is nothing to you, is there?” he said. “I pity most mortals who cannot see what I see, but you? You live in dead space with silence as your only companion. It will be a mercy to end your life.”
The woman did not reply and launched a rapier-quick thrust to his throat. Phosis T’kar swayed aside and swept his arm out as she came in for a reverse stroke. Her blade whipped around his forearm, cutting a grove around his gauntlet, and he lunged towards her with his staff outstretched.
She bent back beneath his strike, sweeping her legs out and hammering her heel into his knee. His armour cracked and pain shot up his thigh. Phosis T’kar stepped back, favouring his good leg, and grinned.
“You’re quick, I’ll give you that,” he said.
She didn’t answer and dodged his next attack with similar grace. A flurry of shots sent up geysers of rock-dust beside them and he flinched back from the heavy impacts.
“Time to end this,” he said.
The woman came at him again, and this time he made no move to stop her. Her sword plunged into his chestplate, slicing through the compound ceramite and armaplas, but before it could penetrate the ossified bone-shield over his ribs, he stamped forward and rammed his combat knife up into the woman’s arm.
The blade sliced between her radius and ulna, and she screamed in agony.
“Not so silent now, eh?” he snarled, dragging her towards him. She fought against his strength, but her struggles only intensified her pain. Phosis T’kar slammed his helm into her face, and the Sister of Silence’s head caved in.
He wrenched his combat knife clear as he felt his power surge back into his limbs with a frisson of painful pleasure. Utipa flared into existence above him, and he welcomed his Tutelary’s presence, feeling its return boost his power. Phosis T’kar sheathed his bloody blade and unslung his bolter, ramming a fresh magazine home and racking the slide. He snapped the silver blade protruding from his chest, and turned from the body before him, jogging back to the fighting and firing his bolter at targets of opportunity as he went.