He looked up once again, and the first sighting-mantra he had ever been taught pressed itself to the front of his thoughts. Four words, a simple koan whose truth had never been more real than it was in this moment.
Kell said it aloud as he fell towards his target.
‘I am the weapon.’
Across the mountainous towers of the Imperial Palace, the sun was rising into the dusky sky, but its light had yet to reach all the wards and precincts of the great fortress-city. Many districts were still dormant, their populace on the verge of waking for the new day; others had been kept from their slumber by matters that did not rest.
In the ornate corridors of power, there was quiet and solemnity, but in the Shrouds, any pretence at decorum had been thrown aside.
Sire Eversor’s fist came down hard on the surface of the rosewood table with an impact that set the cut-glass water goblets atop it rattling. His anger was unchained, his eyes glaring out through his bone mask. ‘Failure!’ he spat, the word laden with venom. ‘I warned you all when this idiotic plan was proposed, I warned you that it would not work!’
‘And now we have burned our only chance to kill the Warmaster,’ muttered Sire Vanus, his synth-altered voice flat and toneless like that of a machine.
The master of Clade Eversor, unable to remain seated in his chair, arose in a rush and rounded the octagonal table. The other Sires and Siresses of the Officio Assassinorum watched him stalk towards the powerful, hooded figure standing off to one side, in the glow of a lume-globe. ‘We never should have listened to you,’ he growled. ‘All you did was cost us more men, Custodian!’
At the head of the table, the Master of Assassins looked up sharply, his silver mask reflecting the light. Behind him there was nothing but darkness, and the man appeared to be cradled in a dark, depthless void.
‘Yes,’ spat Sire Eversor. ‘I know who he is. It could be no other than Constantin Valdor!’
At this, the hooded man let his robes fall open and the Captain-General was fully revealed. ‘As you wish,’ he said. ‘I have nothing to fear from you knowing my face.’
‘I suspected so,’ ventured Siress Venenum, her face of green and gold porcelain tilting quizzically. ‘Only the Custodian Guard would be so compelled towards ensuring the deaths of others before their own.’
Valdor shot her a look and smiled coldly. ‘If that is so, then in that way we are alike, milady.’
‘Eversor,’ said the Master, his voice level. ‘Take your seat and show some restraint, if that is at all possible.’ The featureless silver mask reflected a twisted mirror of the snarling bone face.
‘Restraint?’ said Sire Vindicare, his aspect hidden behind a marksman’s spy mask. ‘With all due respect, my lord, I think we can all agree that the Eversor’s anger is fully justified.’
‘Horus sent one of his men to die in his stead,’ Sire Eversor sat once more, his tone bitter. ‘He must have been warned. Or else he has a daemon’s luck.’
‘That, or something else…’ Siress Venenum said darkly.
‘Missions fail,’ interrupted the silk-faced mistress of the Callidus. ‘It has ever been thus. We knew from the start that this was a target like no other.’
Across from her, the watchful steel skull concealing Sire Culexus bent forward. ‘And that is answer enough?’ His whispering tones carried across the room. ‘Six more of our best are missing, presumed dead, and for what? So that we may sit back and be assured that we have learnt some small lesson from the wasting of their lives?’ The skull’s expression did not change, but the shadows gathered around it appeared to lengthen. ‘Operative Iota was important to my clade. She was a rarity, a significant investment of time and energy. Her loss does not go without mark.’
‘There’s always a cost,’ said Valdor.
‘Just not to you,’ Venenum’s retort was acid. ‘Our best agents and our finest weapons squandered, and still Horus Lupercal draws breath.’
‘Perhaps he cannot be killed,’ Sire Eversor snapped.
Before the commander of the Custodians could reply, the Master of Assassins raised his hand to forestall the conversation. ‘Sire Vanus,’ he began, ‘shall we dispense with this hearsay and instead discuss what we know to be true of the fallout from our operation?’
Vanus nodded, his flickering, glassy mask shifting colour and hue. ‘Of course.’ He pushed at a section of the pinkish-red wood and the table silently presented him with a panel of brass buttons. With a few keystrokes, the hololithic projector hidden below came to life, sketching windows of flickering blue light above their heads. Displays showing tactical starmaps, fragments of scout reports and feeds from long-range observatories shimmered into clarity. ‘News from the Taebian Sector is, at best, inconclusive. However, it appears that most, if not all, of the prime worlds along the length of the Taebian Stars trade spine are now beyond the influence of Imperial governance.’ On the map display, globular clusters of planets winked from blue to red in rapid order, consumed by revolt. ‘The entire zone has fallen into anarchy. We have confirmation that the worlds of Thallat, Bowman, Dagonet, Taebia Prime and Iesta Veracrux have all broken their ties with the lawful leadership of Terra and declared loyalty to the Warmaster and his rebels.’
Sire Culexus made a soft hissing sound. ‘They fall as much from their fears as from the gun.’
‘The Warmaster stands over them and demands they kneel,’ said Valdor. ‘Few men would have the courage to refuse.’
‘We can be certain of only two factors,’ the Vanus went on. ‘One; Captain Luc Sedirae of the 13th Company of the Sons of Horus, a senior general in the turncoat forces, has been terminated. Apparently by the action of a sniper.’ He glanced at Sire Vindicare, who said nothing. ‘Two; Horus Lupercal is alive.’
‘Sedirae’s death is an important success,’ said the Master, ‘but it is no substitute for the Warmaster.’
‘My clade has already engaged with the information emerging from the Taebian Sector,’ said Sire Vanus. ‘My infocytes are in the process of performing adjustments in the overt and covert media to best reflect the Imperium’s position in this situation.’
‘Papering over the cracks with quick lies, don’t you mean?’ said Siress Callidus.
The colours of the Vanus’s shimmer-mask blue-shifted. ‘We must salvage what we can, milady. I’m sure–’
‘Sure?’ The silk mask tightened. ‘What are you sure of? We have no specifics, no solutions! We’ve done nothing but tip our hand to the traitors!’
The mood of the room shifted, and once again the anger and frustration simmering unchecked threatened to erupt. The Master of Assassins raised his hand once more, but before he could speak a warning bell sounded through the room.
‘What is that?’ demanded Sire Vindicare. ‘What does it mean?’
‘The Shrouds…’ The Master was coming to his feet. ‘They’ve been compromised…’ His silvered face suddenly turned towards one of the mahogany-panelled walls, as if he could see right through it.
With a bullet-sharp crack, ancient wood and rigid metals gave way, and a hidden door slammed open. Beyond it, in the ever-shifting puzzle of the changing corridors, three figures filled the space. Two wore amber-gold armour chased with white and black accents, their faces set and grim. They were veteran Space Marines of the VII Legiones Astartes in full combat plate; but eclipsing their presence was a warrior of stone cast and cold, steady gaze standing a head higher than both of them.
Rogal Dorn stepped into the Shrouds, his battle gear glittering in the light of the lume-globes. He cast his gaze around the room with an expression that might have been disgust, dwelling on Valdor, then the Master, and finally the deep shadows engulfing the farthest side of the chamber.