It is the last on Espandor, signed the Sister-Commander. Such idols weaken the power of your father. Now we have struck down the one in Konor’s Reach, and that in the city of Rodosia, this is the sole remaining link to the Scourge Stars. Always, the things of the Plague God come in threes or sevens. If we destroy this, the malady that afflicts this world will be weakened. The daemons will have little power left to remain.

‘Mortarion is not here,’ said Guilliman.

‘No, my lord,’ said Tigurius. ‘If he were, we would sense him.’

‘Then it is time for me to be away from Espandor.’

Guilliman had dearly wished to face his brother. The chances of meeting Mortarion upon Espandor had been slender, even though the daemon primarch had expended a great deal of effort in investing the cardinal world. He reminded himself he could not be impatient. This was but the first step. He would find his brother, and he would kill him. Patience used to come easier to him.

‘This machine will not succumb to demolition, as the one on Ardium did,’ said Maxim. ‘There is a hateful presence here. We must cage it with our minds before the clock can be destroyed.’

‘Array your warriors, Tigurius,’ said Guilliman. His hand grasped the hilt of his sword. ‘I shall put an end to this personally, with the Emperor’s own blade.’

‘Guardians of the Emperor, to the Imperial Regent,’ ordered Colquan.

The Adeptus Custodes jogged from every part of the cathedral to form up around the primarch. The circle of Sisters of Silence turned inwards and they raised their executioner greatblades.

As Guilliman prepared himself to approach the cursed artefact, shouts came from the far end of the church. The door opened a crack.

‘What is happening?’ the primarch called. His powerful voice echoed clearly down the length of the cathedral.

‘The tetrarch says your priest is here, my lord,’ one of the Victrix Guard voxed. ‘He insists I let him enter.’

‘Allow him,’ said Guilliman. He stepped away from the clock and released his sword handle. ‘It is, after all, his church,’ he said to himself.

Militant-Apostolic Mathieu came into the cathedral with the same air of placid serenity he exhibited at all times, though he was caked in filth and a long cut marked his face under his left eye. Only when he drew closer did Guilliman notice the lines of anger on his face at the sight of the clock. Guilliman was surprised to see he wore no protective garb.

‘You are not safe here, militant-apostolic,’ the primarch said. ‘Disease lingers, and the power of the warp is strong.’

‘You are not afraid, my lord.’ Mathieu placed his hand on his heart and bowed his head. His plain, undecorated servo-skull buzzed around his head in solemn orbit. ‘Why should I be?’

Guilliman looked at him critically. ‘I am a primarch, Mathieu. You are not.’