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following the victory against the Technocracy, the bone-white of the Luna Wolves replaced by the metallic grey-green of the Sons of Horus.
    Within moments, another ship broke through, tearing its way into real space with the brutal functionality of its Legion. Where the Vengeful Spirit had a deadly grace to it, the newcomer was brutish and ugly, its hull a drab gunmetal-grey, its only decoration, a single brazen skull on its prow. The vessel was the Endurance , capital ship of the Death Guard fleet accompanying the Warmaster, and a flotilla of smaller cruisers and escorts flew in its wake. All were the same unembellished gunmetal, for nothing in Mortarion’s Legion bore any more adornment than was necessary.
    Several hours later the powerful, stabbing form of the Conqueror broke through to join the Warmaster. Shimmering with the white and blue colours of the World Eaters, the Conqueror was Angron’s flagship, and its blunt muscular form echoed the legendary ferocity of the World Eaters’ primarch.
    Finally, the Andronius , at the head of the Emperor’s Children fleet, joined the growing Isstvan strike force. The vessel itself was resplendent in purple and gold, more like a flying palace than a ship of war. Its appearance was deceptive however, for the gun decks bristled with weapons manned by well-drilled menials who lived and died to serve Fulgrim’s Legion. The Andronius , for all its decorative folly, was a compact, lethal weapon of war.
    The Great Crusade had rarely seen a fleet of such power assembled in one place.
    Until now, only the Emperor had commanded such a force, but his place was on distant Terra, and these Legions answered only to the Warmaster.
    So it was that four Legions gathered and turned their eyes towards the Isstvan system.
    T HE KLAXONS ANNOUNCING the Vengeful Spirit ’s translation back to real space were the spur to action that Kyril Sindermann had been waiting for. Mopping his brow with an already moist handkerchief, he pushed himself to his feet and made his way to the shutter of his quarters.
    He took a deep, calming breath as the shutter rose and he was confronted by the hostile stares of two army soldiers, their starched uniforms insignia free and anonymous.
    ‘Can I help you, sir?’ asked a tall man with a cold, unhelpful expression.
    ‘Yes,’ said Sindermann, his voice perfectly modulated to convey his non-threatening affability. ‘I need to travel to the medicae deck.’
    ‘You don’t look sick,’ said the second guard. Sindermann chuckled, reaching out to touch the man’s arm like a kindly grandfather. ‘No, it’s not me, my boy, it’s a friend of mine. She’s rather ill and I promised that I would look in on her.’
    ‘Sorry,’ said the first guard, in a tone that suggested he was anything but. ‘We’ve got orders from the Astartes not to let anyone off this deck.’
    ‘I see, I see,’ sighed Sindermann, letting a tear trickle from the corner of his eye. ‘I don’t want to be an inconvenience, my boys, but my friend, well, she’s like a daughter to me, you see. She is very dear to me and you would be doing an old man a very real favour if you could just let me see her.’
    ‘I don’t think so, sir,’ said the guard, but Sindermann could already detect a softening in his tone and pushed a little harder.
    ‘She has… she has… not long left to her, and I was told by Maloghurst himself that I would be allowed to see her before… before the end.’
    Using Maloghurst’s name was a gamble, but it was a calculated gamble. These men were unlikely to have any formal channel to contact the Warmaster’s equerry, but if they decided to check, he would be unmasked.
    Sindermann kept his voice low and soft as he played the grandfatherly role, utilizing every trick he had learned as an iterator – the precise timbre of his voice, the frailty of his posture, keeping eye contact and empathy with his audience.
    ‘Do you have children, my boy?’ asked Sindermann, reaching