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would you have me do, my lord?’
    ‘Tell this Petronella Vivar that she may have her audience, but it must be now,’ said Horus, his fearsome outburst quite forgotten, ‘and tell her that if she impresses me, I will allow her to be my personal documentarist for as long as she desires it.’
    ‘Are you sure about this, sir?’
    ‘I am, my friend,’ smiled Horus. ‘Now get up off your knees, I know it pains you.’
    Horus helped Maloghurst rise to his feet and gently placed his armoured gauntlet on his equerry’s shoulder.
    ‘Will you follow me, Mal?’ asked the Warmaster. ‘No matter what occurs?’
    ‘You are my lord and master, sir,’ swore Maloghurst. ‘I will follow you until the galaxy burns and the stars themselves go out.’
    ‘That’s all I ask, my friend,’ smiled Horus. ‘Now let’s get ready to see what Erebus has to say for himself. Davin, eh? Who’d have thought we’d ever be back here?’
    T WO HOURS AFTER making planetfall on Davin.
    The communication from Erebus of the Word Bearers that had brought the 63rd Expedition to Davin had spoken of an old tally, the settling of a dispute, but had said nothing of its cause or participants.
    After the carnage on Murder and the desperate extraction from the Extranus , Loken had expected a warzone of unremitting ferocity, but this warzone, if indeed it could be called that, was deathly quiet, hot and… peaceful.
    He didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved.
    Horus had come to the same conclusion not long after they had landed, sniffing the air of Davin with a look of recognition.
    ‘There is no war here,’ he had said.
    ‘No war?’ Abaddon had asked. ‘How can you tell?’
    ‘You learn, Ezekyle,’ said Horus. ‘The smell of burnt meat and metal, the fear and the blood. There is none of that on this world.’
    ‘Then why are we here?’ asked Aximand, reaching up to lift his plumed helmet clear of his head.
    ‘It would seem we are here because we have been summoned,’ replied Horus, his tone darkening, and Loken had not liked the sound of the word ‘summoned’ coming from the Warmaster’s lips.
    Who would dare to summon the Warmaster?
    The answer had come when a column of dust grew on the eastern horizon and eight boxy, tracked vehicles rumbled across the steppe towards them. Shadowed by the Stormbirds that had flown in with the Warmaster, the dark, brushed steel vehicles trailed guidons from their vox-antenna, emblazoned with the heraldry of an Astartes Legion.
    From the lead Rhino, a great, devotional trophy rack stood proud of the armoured glacis, hung with golden eagles and books, and sporting jagged lightning bolts picked out in lapis lazuli.
    ‘Erebus,’ spat Loken.
    ‘Hold your tongue,’ warned Horus as the Rhinos had drawn closer, ‘and let me do the talking.’
    B IZARRELY , THE YURT smelled of apples, although Ignace Karkasy could see no fruit in any of the carved wooden trays, just heaped cuts of meat that looked a little on the raw side for his epicurean palate. He could swear he smelled apples. He glanced around the interior of the yurt, wondering if perhaps there was some local brew of cider on offer. A hairy-faced local with impenetrable black eyes had already offered him a shallow bowl of the local liquor, a foul-looking brew that smelled like curdled milk, but after catching a pointed glance from Euphrati Keeler he’d politely declined.
    Like the drink, the yurt was crude, but had a primitive majesty to it that appealed to the romantic in him, though he was savvy enough to know that primitive was all very well and good unless you had to live there. Perhaps a hundred people filled the yurt – army officers, strategium adepts, a few remembrancers, scribes and military aides.
    All come for the commander’s War Council.
    Casting his gaze around the smoky interior, Karkasy had seen that he was in illustrious company indeed: Hektor Varvarus, Lord Commander of the Army, stood next to a hunched Astartes giant