firm hold on him.
And clutched in his left fist, he held his ultimate weapon: the primed frag grenade that would
collapse the archway behind Steele and the others, slow down anyone who tried to follow them —
and also ensure that the heretics that killed him would die by his side. Just as he had planned would
happen outside Alpha Hive two mornings ago.
He wondered if this, then, was what the Emperor had spared him for on that occasion. He
wanted to believe this. But the itchy grey fur was all over his chest, spreading down his back, and he
could no longer open his right hand fully. His fingers had hunched over and he thought his
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fingernails had grown longer, and Pozhar knew in his heart that his god could have played no part in
any of that.
He hadn’t come into this battle with the intention of dying in it. At least, he didn’t think he had.
But the only thing keeping his secret now, he was sure, was the black cloak he was wearing, and he
couldn’t bear to see the expressions of his comrades, didn’t want to have to face their judgement,
when that cloak came off.
The Traitor Guardsmen were almost upon him. Another few seconds, and they would have a
clear shot, would be able to finish him. He activated the grenade, on a short fuse, and he lured them
back towards the archway.
It was better this way, he thought.
Better that his body be blown apart, and then liquefied by the virus bombs before any piece of
him could suffer the ignominy of being flung into a Chaos burial pit. Better that no one should have
the chance to inspect his remains, that his comrades, let alone his commanders, should never learn
of his shame.
Better to let them all believe that Trooper Pozhar died a hero.
Mangellan was blind.
He hadn’t seen the las-beam that had hit him, his eyes already teary with smoke. There had just
been a flash, and a searing pain. He felt as if his face was on fire. He couldn’t see where he was
going, didn’t know what was happening, he had to trust to his escorts to guide him to safety.
He stumbled into the cooling embrace of his palace, his magnificent Ice Palace, his gods’ gift to
him — but, for the first time, he felt unsafe within its walls.
He could hear running footsteps, cultists evacuating around him, and he yelled at the Traitor
Guardsmen to keep them away from him, to trust no one.
He felt an insistent tugging at his sleeve, heard Furst’s voice ask, “Why are we running, master?
What about the sacrifices? Who is guarding them?”
He brushed the irritant away.
“They are chained!” he insisted, leaning against the wall to compose himself, rubbing his eyes
and blinking, praying to his gods that the blindness might only be temporary.
“But if their allies have come to free them—”
“Try to use your brains, Furst,” Mangellan snapped, “such as they are. Steele brought only a
handful of soldiers into our hive. How could they have penetrated this palace, my palace, without
our knowing about it? No, this attack has come from the inside, from someone who is jealous of all I
have achieved, the power I have earned, someone who wished to sully my most glorious moment.”
“I am sure you are correct, master, but—”
“I always knew it would happen. I knew the priests were always scheming and plotting, but to
act so boldly… Which of them was it? What do you say, Furst?”
“I… I wouldn’t know, master. I—”
Mangellan lashed out, trying to grab Furst by his robes. He felt his hand brush against the
loathsome little mutant but failed to take hold of him.
“'You are always sneaking about,” he growled, “lurking in places you should not be, overhearing
what you should not have heard. Tell me, Furst, who is to blame for this attack upon my person, this
affront to the gods I serve?”
“Nobody, master. None of us would dare cross you in this way.”
“You saw him, didn’t you! If not the traitor who planted the bombs, then certainly the wretched
opportunist who shot at me, who dared take my sight! I will find him, Furst, and when I am through
with him, he will wish he… he…”
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Mangellan hadn’t felt the knife enter his stomach, so quick and clean had been the incision. Only
now, as he felt his blood spill out, as a dull pain spread through him as if he had been kicked… only
now that he realised what had happened.
He was speechless, weak, dizzy. He could only listen in uncomprehending horror as Furst leaned
close to his ear — Mangellan’s legs must have buckled, making him slide down the wall that was
supporting him, bringing him down to the mutant’s level — and whispered to him, “You are the one
to blame. You presumed too much, thought too much of yourself, and now look what you have
wrought. A ‘handful’ of Emperor-lovers has humiliated us, brought you to this. I hear the gods —
oh, you were so certain they would not deign to speak to one such as I, that I would not understand
them — but I hear them, and they are disappointed with you. You have failed them, Mangellan.”
He was on the floor, although he didn’t remember falling. He tried to lift his hands, tried to turn
his head to where he imagined his protectors might be, tried to cry out to them, “Guards! Guards,
attend me!”
“They won’t help you,” Furst’s voice said through the deepening darkness. “They too know that
this is the gods’ will. And they now serve a new master.”
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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Time to Destruction of Cressida: 03.34.45
The room was small, not much bigger than the apartment blocks on the lower hive levels. It was
dominated by a single bed, though there was plenty of junk piled in the narrow spaces around it: bits
of furniture, clothing, broken lamps, even a couple of paintings with their corners touched by fire.
The walls were made of ice, of course. A large, eight-pointed star had been painted clumsily on
one, so that black rivulets ran from it to the floor.
It didn’t surprise Blonsky that, with all the power he had, all the space available in the nearemptied
hive and in the Ice Palace, Mangellan still had his followers live like this. The harder they
had to work to survive, the less time they had to plot against him. Not that the occupant of this room
could care much any more.
He lay crumpled beneath the window to the courtyard, through which he had been leaning when
Blonsky had kicked open his door. Some Ice Warriors held that it was wrong to shoot an enemy in
the back, but Blonsky disagreed. All that mattered was that the heretic was vanquished. To fail to
take that shot was the sin.
He only wished he had had a few more shots at Mangellan. He had been taking aim when he had
seen that Grayle was in trouble, had had to help him out instead. And the high priest’s guards had
reacted too fast, faster than he had expected.
One of them was here now. The Chaos Space Marine. His bulk filled the window frame, casting
the small room into shadow. Blonsky had backed up as far as the door, scrambling over the bed,
wading through the junk, firing his lasgun, knowing it would do little damage, hoping at least to
throw off the Chaos Marine’s balance, make him lose his grip on the outside wall and fall.
He should have given up by now, should have withdrawn.
He hurled a frag grenade, but the Chaos Space Marine caught it easily, and tossed it over his
shoulder to erupt in the sky above the courtyard. And then he was inside the room, and Blonsky was
out of both ammunition and time.
The Chaos Space Marine raised his gun and fired, and Blonsky slammed the door between them
and ran as bolts punched through the wood. Barely a second later, he heard a cracking, wrenching
sound as the door was torn from its ice frame.
He raced along empty passageways, sprang down a flight of steps, but his pursuer remained
doggedly on his heels. Blonsky could hear his heavy footsteps, thump, thump, thumping behind
him. The only thing that kept the Chaos Space Marine from closing the gap between them was the
fact that the Ice Warrior was lighter, more lithe, able to corner more efficiently on the slippery,
uncarpeted floors.
He sped past two shaken cultists, refugees from the courtyard, and was away from them before
they could react to his presence. Next time, he knew he might not be so lucky. He rounded two
corners in quick succession, and heard a great crash behind him as the Chaos Space Marine lost
control and slammed into a wall. For the first time, Blonsky had a few seconds’ grace, and he knew
he couldn’t wait for a better chance. He chose a door at random, and found himself in a banqueting
hall, decorated in rich shades of brown and red with tapestries hanging from the walls.
He had intended to find a hiding place, and hope that the Chaos Space Marine went past. He had
known that this was a long shot, but it was the best he had had. He got lucky, again. There were
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more doors out of the room, on opposite walls at its far end. He hurried to one of them, and was
turning the handle as the main door was smashed open, quivering on its hinges.
The Chaos Space Marine leapt into the room, propelling himself over the table. Blonsky didn’t
wait for him to land. He raced through a small kitchen and out into another passageway, worried
that he was starting to lose his bearings, that he might not be able to find his way out. As if that was
the worst of his problems.
He had gained some distance on the Chaos Marine, but it was still behind him. He could still
hear its footsteps. It just kept on coming.
There were fewer heretics on their heels than Palinev had feared.
He didn’t stop to ask why, he just counted his blessings. He suspected that the explosion he had
heard a moment ago, the distinctive burst of a frag grenade, might have had something to do with it.
He didn’t stop to wonder what had happened to Pozhar, why he hadn’t followed his comrades out of
the courtyard, because he guessed he would not like the answer.
Anyway, there were still some heretics out here — cultists and a few Traitor Guardsmen who
had escaped before the Ice Warriors had, who were starting to regain their senses, to gather and to
talk, and to look for the threat in their midst.
And they found it.
“It’s him!” a cultist screamed, pointing at Steele, her finger trembling. Then her eyes turned to
Confessor Wollkenden, still unconscious, slung over Grayle’s shoulder. “It’s both of them. The
sacrifices! They’re escaping with the sacrifices! They—”
Palinev shot her through the head, but it was too late. More cultists were coming at them with
knives, while others hung back, shouldering lasguns. They must have looked like easy pickings,
Steele still leaning on Palinev’s shoulder, Grayle encumbered by Wollkenden. But Steele was not as
helpless as he seemed. He seized two incoming cultists by their robes, smashed their heads together,
thrust them into the path of the first las-beams.
Taking advantage of their temporary human shields, the Ice Warriors ducked into a side
passageway — but it came to a dead end, a few metres along.
Steele snatched Grayle’s lasgun from him and ordered him to keep back, to keep Wollkenden
out of the line of fire. Palinev was already strafing the corridor behind them, discouraging the
heretics from approaching, forcing them to run for cover. As his power pack ran dry, Steele took his
place and continued the barrage. Palinev reloaded and was able to relieve the colonel in turn.
“We can’t keep this up,” Steele grumbled. “The longer we’re pinned down here, the more
attention we’ll draw. And once that Chaos Space Marine gets wind of our location…” He didn’t
have to complete the sentence.
“Can we burn through the walls?” asked Palinev.
“I doubt it,” said Grayle. “We could try, but remember the glacier, remember how it re-formed
around the Termite.”
Palinev was firing into an empty passageway. He eased his finger off the trigger, thinking to
conserve power — and immediately, four Traitor Guardsmen rushed his position. He fired in
concert with Steele, counting them down, one, two, three… but the last of them refused to fall. It
just kept on advancing.
The fourth traitor had hung back, using his fellows as cover so that only when he was almost
upon the Ice Warriors did they have a clear shot at him. Their beams glanced off his flak jacket,
failing to score that critical hit — and Palinev could see behind the traitor the shapes of more of his
kind beginning to rise, to crane forward, ready to advance as soon as he engaged the enemy.
They were to be disappointed. The traitor staggered up to the corner, raised his gun, collapsed
and died at Palinev’s feet.
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Steele strafed the corridor for another few seconds, then turned to his two troopers. “This is what
we’re going to do,” he said. “How many frag grenades do you have left between you? We’re going
to pitch the whole damn lot of them out there, at the heretics, bring down the roof if we can. And
then we’re going to run like hell in the other direction. Palinev, you must know where we’re going,
you take point. Grayle, behind him, with Wollkenden. I’ll bring up the rear, lay down covering fire,
make sure that anyone who survives the explosion doesn’t dare so much as glance after us.”
“I should take the rear, sir,” said Grayle. “It’s too dangerous for—”
“Those are my orders, trooper,” interrupted Steele.
“At least take my greatcoat. Yours is in shreds. One bull’s-eye from a lasgun and—”
Steele shook his head. 'You have the most important job of any of us. I’m not strong enough yet
to carry the confessor. You have to protect him. We move on my mark. Three, two, one… Palinev,
do you hear that?”
Palinev did hear it, although his ears were a second behind the colonel’s. “Gunfire, sir. To the
right of us. It must be the others. They had to come this way too. They must have come up behind
the heretics, taken them by surprise.”
Steele considered that news for a moment, then a tight smile pulled at his lips and he hefted
Grayle’s lasgun. “In that case,” he said, “change of plan.”
Anakora had known it wouldn’t be easy. No matter how much confusion, how many distractions,
the Ice Warriors could cause, no matter how good their disguises nor how skilled they were, she had
not expected to get out of the Ice Palace without a fight.
Already they appeared to have lost Blonsky; having abandoned their sniping positions up above,
she and Gavotski had planned to meet him at the base of a flight of stairs. They had waited as long
