do to keep from thrusting it between Steele’s ribs. “Let me punish him for his insolence.”
“All I need to know,” said Steele, “is right here in this cell with us.” He jerked his head towards
the mutant. “That is the price of your knowledge, Mangellan. That is what happens when we stop
fighting it, when we start to question.”
Mangellan snorted with derision. “Furst is a pawn, no more. Our gods have gifted him with
physical strength, so I use him to fetch and carry for me. Look at me! I have worshipped Chaos all
my life. Do you see the mark of the mutant on me?”
“Perhaps,” growled Steele, “your mark is inside you.”
“I used to think I had been overlooked. I used to pray to feel the touch of my gods. But now I
know the truth. They have recognised my intellect, my vision, my strength of will. They do not need
to make me over in their image, because I am already their perfect servant. The gods have favoured
me over all.”
“You know,” said Steele, “when I first heard about you, when I heard your name, I feared you
might be a challenge. But you’re just a small man, after all.”
Mangellan’s smile faded for the first time. Steele had touched a nerve.
“And yet,” the high priest growled, “I am in control of my destiny. That is more than anyone can
say of you. You could wield power in this world, Colonel Steele — the power to build an Ice Palace
like this one, to have men grovel at your feet.”
“I’d rather bare my backside to a Valhallan tusked mammoth,” snapped Steele, “because your
gods will betray you. That is what Chaos does. That is what Chaos is. It is treachery and deceit.
How many men did you betray to get here, Mangellan? You didn’t lead the invasion of Iota Hive,
did you? No, you let others do that, and waited for them to die so that you could seize power. Did
you even fight with them?”
“That is where we differ, my friend. While you foolishly risk your life on the front lines, I stand
back, taking an overview, waiting for my chances.”
“Like finding a Chaos Space Marine that will throw in his lot with you? That would buy you a
bit of respect around here, I suppose — for as long as it lasts. As long as it takes him to realise that,
whatever you promised him, you can’t deliver on it.”
“You will serve me too, Colonel Steele — if not as an ally, then as a sacrifice, an offering to my
gods. They will be only too pleased to receive your soul, and will reward me for conveying it to
them.”
“Is that what you have planned for Wollkenden?”
It was a bold question, and Steele didn’t expect Mangellan to answer it, to give anything away.
To his surprise, however, the high priest smiled and said, “Such a pious man, your confessor; an
important man, as your presence here proves. A man who, to hear him tell it, saved an entire star
system for your Emperor. For him to fall from the sky as he did, into my grasp… well, my gods
were smiling upon me again that day. And then, along you came.”
Mangellan pushed himself up from his stone ledge, leaned over Steele so that his lips almost
touched the colonel’s ear. Steele tried to flinch from him, but his chains held him too tightly. A
feeling of revulsion shuddered through his body. He called up his bionic eye’s HUD again, but still
it gave only the same discouraging report: thirty-five seconds… thirty-five seconds…
“The irony of it,” Mangellan crooned, “is that your masters do not value you. They would snuff
out your life in a second for the chance, the merest chance, of getting their important, pious man
back. But I have met the both of you, spoken with you, and I know the truth of it. I know that you,
Colonel Stanislev Steele, are a far better man, a far stronger man, than Wollkenden will ever be.”
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“This is it,” said Palinev, staring at his compass. “This must be it!” Then he looked at the walls of
yet another nondescript tunnel, and he felt a lot less confident. “At least, I think… If the colonel
were here…”
“You haven’t let us down yet, Trooper Palinev,” said Gavotski. “If you say we’re underneath the
Ice Palace, then that is where we are.”
Grayle reached up to touch the tunnel roof, and snatched his hand away with a wince.
“Ice burn!” he exclaimed. “And it’s been getting colder for the past half-hour, since before we
ran into that creature. The Ice Palace is up there, all right.”
“The question is,” said Blonsky, “where is this supposed entrance to it?”
Mikhaelev shrugged. “Hardly likely to be in plain sight, is it? Maybe we should have turned
back after all.”
“We discussed this,” said Gavotski firmly. “It would have wasted too much time. No, our guides
have brought us most of the way, and they assured us that there is a way into the palace from down
here. We just have to find it.”
“If we can’t,” offered Palinev, 'I could go back to the chapel. I can find my way… at least, I
think I can. I could fetch us another guide.”
“Maybe,” said Gavotski, “but only as a last resort. We’ve all seen what’s out there. I don’t want
anyone wandering about down here alone. For now, I suggest we search the tunnels from root to
floor. And remember what Grayle told us: the Ice Palace is at least a kilometre square. The entrance
could be anywhere in that area. Remember this too: Confessor Wollkenden is in that palace, as is
Colonel Steele. All that stands between us is a thin layer of masonry — and we aren’t going to let
that stop the Ice Warriors of Valhalla, now are we?”
Mangellan’s words still echoed in Steele’s head, making him feel sick.
He imagined he could still feel the condensation from the high priest’s rancid breath on his ear,
and he itched to be able to move his hand, to wipe it away.
“I think it’s time,” Mangellan had whispered to him. “Time for Wollkenden to leave this mortal
plane, to take his place as the plaything of Khorne, of Slaanesh, of Tzeentch, of Nurgle. The
ceremony will take place at dawn. That is the usual time, I believe, for rituals of this kind. If you
wish, Colonel Steele, I might let you watch. It may help to concentrate your thoughts.”
Alone again, he had released a primal scream from the depths of his stomach, and had struggled
against his chains, although he knew he had no hope of breaking them.
There was nothing he could do.
So, he had tried to sleep instead, so that when his chance did come he would be ready to take it.
He had succeeded only in dozing fitfully, woken each time by the pain in his muscles and along his
spine, and by the urgent ticking of his internal chrono, and the ever-present drip-drip-dripping from
somewhere outside.
And this time, by the creaking, squealing, scraping of his cell door.
Again, the light of a lamp-pack spilled over him. This time, Steele didn’t flinch. His left eye
closed to protect itself, but his right eye adjusted instantly to the glare. He didn’t question this at
first, didn’t see anything unusual in it. It took a moment for him to realise what it meant. By the time
he had, he was focused on the short, stooped figure that had come shuffling into the cell, glancing
back over its shoulder, moving with what appeared to be a clumsy attempt at stealth.
“Well, well,” said Steele, “so Mangellan’s dog has slipped its leash.”
Furst snarled up at him, even with Steele hunched over as he was, the mutant’s head barely came
up to his chin. 'You can insult me all you like, but you will regret your slurs against my master. I will
make you scream for the mercy of death.” The mutant produced his knife again, brandishing it
before his prisoner’s eyes — but Steele was more concerned with what he was holding in his other
hand.
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“Mangellan doesn’t know you’re here, does he?” he said. “So much for loyalty among heretics.”
“The master will be grateful that I have dealt with his enemy. He will see that I can take the
initiative too.”
“Will he? I know you’re only trying to be like him, Furst — a traitor like him — but the last
thing a traitor can afford to tolerate when he gains power is the treachery of others. He will squash
you, Furst, like the loathsome bug you are.”
Steele’s goading was working. Furst was pressed right up against him, reaching up with the tip
of his knife, tracing faint lines across the colonel’s face. The mutant’s breathing was excited,
ragged, and Steele could see flecks of drool on his chin and feel the shape of a bunch of keys against
his stomach.
“Join us or die,” gurgled Furst, “that is the choice you were given by the master. Well, I can
make that choice easy for you. I can use this blade to carve the mark of Chaos Undivided into your
face.”
“Do your worst,” said Steele calmly, “but do this one thing for me, would you, Furst? Have the
courage to look me in the eye as you do it.”
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CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Time to Destruction of Cressida: 09.53.21
The mutant Furst didn’t have time to scream.
The energy discharge from Steele’s bionic eye hit him square in the face, scorched his skin,
made his hair stand on end, froze the open-mouthed leer on his lips. It also propelled him backwards
into the stone wall of the cell, which he hit with the back of his skull. He slumped to the floor,
leaving a smear of blood, his eyes rolling into his head, his tongue hanging out.
And Steele had the keys. He had managed to wrap two fingers around them before he had
struck, had almost lost them as Furst had been wrenched away from him but had kept his hold,
pulling them out of the mutant’s hand. He gathered them carefully into his palm, securing his grip,
trying not to be impatient, to rush.
There were nine keys in the bundle, and Furst’s lamp-pack had been extinguished when he’d
fallen. Steele worked by touch alone, analysing the shape of each key until he found the one that
matched the padlock on his chains. If he hunched his left shoulder, thrust his elbow back, twisted his
wrist, he could just about reach it. After a couple of false starts, scrabbling and scratching in the
dark, the teeth of the key clicked into place in the hole. It was the sweetest sound he had heard all
day.
As the chains fell away, Steele’s legs almost buckled beneath him. It took all the will-power he
had not to fall, to crouch beside Furst, to take his knife and his lamp-pack, and then to half-stagger,
half-fall out through the door that the mutant had left open, out into the cavern. Steele’s right eye
was blind again, but his augmented ear told him that he was alone down here. Fortunately for him.
He found a damp, uneven wall to lean against, to cool his forehead — for he was burning up,
despite the freezing temperature. He gave his muscles time to adjust to being able to stretch again.
His throat was parched, and there was condensation on the wall — but it was stained purple by the
clinging fungus, and Steele didn’t dare drink it.
When he felt able, he pushed himself up, took his own weight, lit his purloined lamp-pack and
inspected his surroundings. He could see six cell doors, but the cavern meandered off into
passageways and alcoves that were hidden from him. If he upped the gain on his acoustic enhancers,
he could hear the soft breathing of people behind some of those doors. Some were asleep, letting out
the occasional snore, while others stirred, clanking their chains, and someone was sobbing to
himself.
Each door had a small inspection hatch, secured by a metal bar. Steele opened the nearest and
raised his lamp, letting just enough light fall into the cell for him to make out its occupant. It was an
Imperial Guardsman, in the tattered remains of a red and gold Validian flak jacket, chained as Steele
had been — and to judge by the smell of him, he had been there for some time. He looked up at the
colonel with a wretched expression, and gasped, “Help… help me… for the love of the Emperor,
help…”
It was with some regret that Steele closed the panel, leaving the man to his fate. He would have
been dead weight, more hindrance than help. And his suffering would be over soon, Steele told
himself. As soon as the virus bombs fell.
He opened another hatch, and something heavy threw itself at the door. Steele leapt back by
reflex, and narrowly avoided a clawed hand that swiped at him through the aperture. He discouraged
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it with a blow from the hatch’s locking bar, and its owner — another grey-furred mutant — howled
and recoiled.
The vile creature was still howling a minute later, and Steele cursed it under his breath. He had
taken cover as best he could behind a rocky outcrop, and was wondering if he dared make a sprint
back to his cell, to hide in there.
He kept his good eye fixed on the steps, expecting Traitor Guardsmen to appear at their head. He
cast around for a weapon with which to greet them if they did, but could see only rocks. He
collected a few anyway, but was relieved not to have to use them. The mutant’s howls subsided into
a quiet whimpering, and Steele assumed that the traitors were more than used to hearing sounds of
anguish from down here and so had not bothered to investigate.
He recognised the prisoner in the third cell at once.
He had seen him only once before, and then only in holographic effigy — but he had studied the
image, committed it to his enhanced memory.
Confessor Wollkenden looked thinner than he had in his hologram. He was also dehydrated, his
skin stretched like parchment, but his bone structure was unaltered. His prominent jaw was
unmistakeable. The hologram, Steve saw now, had also been an old one, showing the confessor in
his prime.
To his surprise, Wollkenden was not chained, but instead lay curled on a filthy mattress, asleep,
wisps of white hair splayed about the oval crown of his head. Steele fumbled with Furst’s keys,
almost dropping them as his hands trembled in anticipation. He opened the cell door, stepped inside,
leaned over the prone form of its occupant and tried to shake him awake. Wollkenden didn’t
respond at first, and for a moment Steele feared that he might already be dead, that he might have
come all this way for nothing. Then, as he tapped the confessor lightly on his pale cheeks, he rolled
over onto his back, let out a soft groan, and his eyelids fluttered.
“Confessor Wollkenden. Confessor. It’s OK, I’m going to get you out of here. Can you hear me?
Confessor?”
Steele glanced over his shoulder anxiously. He didn’t know how much time he had. Somebody
had to know that Furst had come down here — and, if not, they might yet find a set of keys missing
