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the Emperor’s will. I knew that all our regulations and our codes have a purpose, and it is not for us to question them, for they keep us from the path of the deviant.’
    Around the fire, there was silence. Cloud Runner could tell that Bloody Moon’s words had touched a chord within the Marines. He found himself examining his own conscience for signs of heresy. The implication of Bloody Moon’s tale was quite clear: if they lapsed from the service of the Emperor, they were taking the first step down the road to damnation. He had also reminded them that they were Marines, the chosen of the Emperor. If they did not keep the faith, who would?
    For a long time, all was quiet. Then Weasel-Fierce indicated his wish to talk.
    ‘I will speak of death,’ he said, ‘the death of men and worlds…’
    T WO H EADS T ALKING felt the impact of the fat magus’s will like a physical blow. The great, dark eyes seemed to swell, to become bottomless pits into which the librarian fell. At his feet, Morning Star whimpered.
    With a wrench, the Marine broke the mental contact, thankful that his librarian’s armour was equipped with a psychic hood. The magus was strong, and Two Heads Talking was already tired.
    The stealers raced toward him. The librarian raised his storm bolter and sent a hail of shells blazing out. Tracer fire ripped the night apart. The leading genestealer was shredded by the heavy bullets. The other dodged with inhuman speed.
    Morning Star leapt between the librarian and his assailant. A claw flickered, and the old man’s body was torn in half. Two Heads Talking lashed out with his axe, willing it to strike hard, and its blade burned coldly as it passed through the stealer’s neck. He leapt back to avoid its reflexive death-strike.
    The magus laughed. ‘You cannot escape. Why struggle?’
    The fat man concentrated, and a halo of power played around his head.
    The librarian hosed him down with fire, but some force intercepted the shells, causing them to explode harmlessly a few feet from their target.
    Two Heads Talking strode forward, swinging the axe. He felt his own power build within him as the blade arced toward his target. Something stopped it a handsbreadth away from the magus’s head. Great muscles bulged under his armour as he forced it forward. Servo-motors whined as they added their strength to his. Slowly, inexorably, the Marine forced the blade toward his enemy. Sweat ran down the fat man’s brow as he concentrated. A look of fear passed across his face. He could not save himself, and he knew it.
    He gave a single shriek as his concentration lapsed. The force axe sheared through him from head to groin. Two Heads Talking felt the magus’s psychic death scream echo through the night. He sensed hundreds of minds answer it. In the distance, through the deadening curtain of mist, he heard the sound of scuttling, coming ever closer.
    Knowing his only chance of survival lay in swift flight, Two Heads Talking turned and ran.
    ‘O UR WORLD IS dead,’ said Weasel-Fierce. Some Marines muttered about the fact that he was addressing them directly, rather than keeping to the ritual. He silenced them with a short, chopping gesture of his right hand. When he spoke again, his tone was scathing and savage. ‘This ritual is a sham. It comes from a time that is ended. Why pretend otherwise? You may wish to delude yourselves by keeping with the old ways, but I do not. You can speak in parables about our oaths to the Emperor, the horror of the stealers or the nature of damnation. I choose to speak the truth. Our people are dead or enslaved, and we sit here like old women, asking ourselves what to do. Have we been put under a spell? When were we ever so indecisive? A true warrior has no choice in this matter. We must avenge our people. Our weapons must taste enemy blood. It would be the coward’s way not to face them.’
    ‘But if we fail—’ began Bloody Moon.
    ‘If we fail, so be it. What have we to live for? How