ver from behind
by the page boy； Frewa。 Dull…eyed and frothing at the mouth； the boy had been reduced； in an instant； to a mindless puppet。 Inshabel
fought； but the boy was feral； and despite the interrogator's superior bulk he was pinned。
The pain in my head was intense； but I knew Esarhaddon must still be way below full strength。 I raised the strongest mind shield my
abilities were able to conjure and moved forward。
There was a sudden grind of servo…gears。 A large steel paw swung at my head and I dived back。
A cargo servitor； its metal carapace caked with verdigris； rose up to its full height of three metres and clanked across the deck towards
me on squat hydraulic legs。 Plumes of steam squirted from its broad shoulder joints as it pistoned its arms at me again。 Hot yellow
dots of light burned in the eye sockets of its dented visor。
Despite its mechanical appearance； the cargo drone； like all servitors； was built around human organic components： brain； brain…stem；
neural network； glands so Esarhaddon could control it just like a standard human。
It swung at me again； and missed。 The slicing limb had cut the air with a distinct whistle。
It was built like a great simian： squat legs； barrel chest； wide shoulders and long； thick arms。 Ideal for hefting heavy cargo items into
the belly…hold of a liftship。
Ideal for smashing a human body into gory paste。
Roban cried out a warning。 A second； larger cargo servitor with a long quadruped body； was also moving。 Its body casing was pitted；
brown metal and it had a fork…lifter assembly where its head should have been； giving it the appearance of a bull。 The greased black
forks of the lifter lurched at Roban； who fired six or seven shots that dented or bounced off the machine's chassis。
I ducked two more slow； heavy blows from the ape…servitor。 We were losing precious time。 With every tick of the clock； Esarhaddon
was recovering and becoming more powerful。
I put a bolt round into the thickest part of the servitor's body and rocked it back； the gears and pistons of its legs whining as they
compensated for the recoil。
My power sword was out now； the blade burning。 Blessed for me by the Provost of Inx； it was my weapon of choice。 My
swordsmanship had always been good； but Arianrhod had instructed me in the Carthaen Ewl Wyla Scryi before her death。 Ewl Wyla
Scryi； literally； ''the genius of sharpness''； the Carthaen way of the sword。
I made a figure of eight turn； the ghan fasl； and then a back…hand crosscut； the uin or reverse form of the tahn wyla。
The stroke was good。 The energised blade sliced clean through the servitor's left forearm； sending the massive manipulator paw
clattering to the deck。
It lurched bodily at me； as if enraged； clawing with its remaining hand and lashing with the fused； smoking end of its recently
truncated limb。
I made a head…height horizontal parry called the uwe sax； and then left and right block strokes； the ulsar and the uin ulsar。 Sheets of
sparks cascaded from each hit against its metal body。 I ducked right under the next huge blow； spun round out of the crouch and came
up to face it again in time to follow through with the ura wyla bei； the devastating diagonal downslash； left to right。 My blade edge
and tip sawed the servitor's torso plating wide open in an electrical flash。
The exchange had given me long enough to mentally identify the seat of the servitor's brain…stem component； lit up and glowing in my
mind's eye with the psionic power that drove it。 It lay deep under the carapace between the collar bones。
One more uwe sar and men the ewl caer； the deathstroke。 Tip first； plunging clean through the bodywork； impaling the organic brain。 I
rested the crackling blade there for a moment while the yellow dot eyes went out and then ripped it clear again； sidestepping as the
servitor slammed down onto the flooring。
'Roban！' I called out； leaping over my despatched foe。
But Roban was dead。 The servitor's forks had his limp body impaled through the belly and it was shaking it as if trying to dislodge
him。
Inshabel was on his feet； tears streaming down his face as he blasted at the servitor with his autogun。
Cursing； I ran forward； raised the power sword with both hands and swung it down over the servitor's back。 I doubt the Carthaens； in
all their wisdom； have a name in the most hallowed Ewl Wyla Scryi for an enraged downstroke that severs the backbone and torso of a
servitor。
Inshabel ran to his dead master as the servitor collapsed； trying to pull the corpse clear。
'Later！ Later for that！' I said； spiking the command with my will。 Inshabel was close to losing his wits to anger and grief； and I needed
him。
He snatched up his weapon and ran after me。
'The page boy？' I asked。
'I had to hit him。 I hope he's just unconscious。'
WE CAME OUT into the storm…wracked night on the palace landing pad。 Psychic lightning splintered the sky above us and the wind
lashed us。 There was no one on the pad itself； but a fight was raging on the lawns beyond。 I could see eight figures； some robed； some
dressed in the body armour of the Interior Guard； closing to surrounding a lone humanoid who crackled and glowed with spectral
light。 Thorny jags of flame lit out from the cornered figure and dropped one of the guardsmen as we watched。 Esarhaddon。 They had
Esarhaddon cornered。
Inshabel and I leapt down from the pad … a three metre drop onto the wet grass … and ran to join the fray。
I could see Esarhaddon clearly now despite the rain。 A tall； almost naked man with wild black hair and a lean； stringy body； corposant
gleaming and sliding around his capering limbs。
We were just ten metres from the edge of the fight when one of the robed figures raised a bulky weapon and blasted at the rogue
psyker。
A plasma gun。
The violet beam； almost too bright to look at； struck Esarhaddon。 In his weakened state； he had no defence against it。
He ignited like an incendiary round and burned from head to foot in the middle of the lawn。
LOWERING OUR WEAPONS； Inshabel and I walked to join the ring of figures standing around the white hot pyre。 As his robed and
hooded acolytes murmured prayers of grace and deliverance； Inquisitor Lyko set down his plasma gun。
'The Emperor will thank you； Lyko；' I said。
He glanced round； seeing me for the first time。 'Eisenhorn。' He nodded。 His narrow face was lined and taut and his blue eyes hooded。
He was only about fifty years old sidereal； a mere youth by inquisitional standards。 Young enough for his promising career to survive
the way this day's atrocity would tarnish his achievement on Dolsene。
'I do not serve the Emperor for his gratitude。 I do it for the glory of the Imperium。'
'Quite so；' I said。 I looked back at the molten heat that had been our quarry。 It mattered little to me that I'd made this opportunity for
Lyko。 He could take the glory。 I didn't care。 The escape of the psykers had stolen much of the glory he had received of late。 Hunting
them down was the only way he could make amends。
PLANETWIDE； THERE WAS some sense of rejoicing when it was announced that Lord Commander Helican had survived the carnage
unscathed； and that Warmaster Honorius would live。 That announcement came on the sixth day of unrest； by which time the Imperial
authorities had begun to reimpose order on the stricken citizens of Thracian Primaris。 But it helped。 Common folk who assumed
themselves to be lost were calmed into believing law was back in the hands of the great and good。 Panics died away。 Arbites units
unleashed their last few suppression raids against the die…hard recidivist looters in the lowhabs。
My own spirits were not much lifted。 For a start I was privy to the confidential fact that Lord Commander Helican had actually died
screaming and shitting himself under a crash…diving Imperial Navy Lightning on the Avenue of the Victor Bellum。 A double had been
arranged by the Ecclesiarchy and the Helican Senatorum； and that double continued to act in his place until； several years later； he
''died naturally of old age'' and a successor was established in less…turbulent circumstances。
I can speak of that public deceit now in this private record； but at the time； communicating that secret was a death…crime for even the
highest lord of the Imperium。 I was not about to break that confidence。 I am an inquisitor and I understand how fundamental it is to
maintain public order。
IN ADDITION TO fatigue and the pain of my wounds； what darkened my mood was the news about Gideon Ravenor。 Now； of course； we
all understand what a priceless and brilliant contribution he was to make to Imperial learning； and how that would never have
happened if he had not been confined to a life of mental rumination。
But back then； in that stinking hospice ward off the Street of Prescients； all I saw was a young man； burned and crippled and
physically paralysed； a brilliant inquisitor ruined before he could fulfill his potential。
Ravenor； in the eyes of some； had been lucky。 He had not been amongst the one hundred and ninety…eight Inquisition personnel killed
outright by the crashing fighter that fell into the Great Triumph beyond the Spatian Gate。
He； like fifty others； had been caught on the edge of the explosion and lived。
My pupil was barely recognisable。 A blood…wet bundle of charred flesh。 One hundred per cent burns。 Blind； deaf； mute； his face so
melted that an incision had been made in the fused meat where his mouth should have been so he could breathe。
The loss touched me acutely。 The waste even more。 Gideon Ravenor had been the greatest； most promising pupil I had ever taught。 I
stood by his plastic…sheeted cot； listening to the suck and drool of his ventilator and fluid drains and remembered what Commodus
Voke had said in the arbites sector house on Blammerside Street。
'I will make amends。 I will not rest until every one of these wretches is destroyed and order restored。 And then I will not rest until I
find who and what was behind it。'
Right then； there； for Ravenor's sake； I made that promise to myself too。
At that time； I had little idea what that would mean or where it would take me。
I RETURNED TO the Ocean House at last on what would have been the ninth and final day of the Holy Novena。 There was no one to
greet me； and the place seemed empty and forlorn。
I stalked into my study； poured a too…large measure of vintage amasec and flopped down into an armchair。 It felt like an eternity since
I had sat here with Titus Endor； worrying over speculations that seemed now so insignificant and remote。
A door opened。 From the instant chill in the air； I knew at once it was Bequin。
'We didn't know you'd returned； Gregor。'
'Well； I have； Alizebeth。'
'So I see。 Are you alright？'
I shrugged。 'Where is everybody？'
'When the…' she paused； considering her words。 'When the tragedy occurred； there was a great public commotion。 Jarat and Kircher
took the staff into the secure bunkers for safety； and I locked myself away with the Distaff in the west wing； waiting； hoping for your
call。'
'Channels were out。'
'Yes。 For eight days。'
'But everyone is safe？'
'Yes。'
I leaned out of my chair and looked at her。 Her face was pale and drawn from too many nights of fear。
'Where's Aemos？'
'Outside； with Betancore； Kircher and Nayl。