Chapters (41)
- Cover
- Backlist
- Warhammer 40,000
- Preface
- Chapter one
- Chapter two
- Chapter three
- Chapter four
- Chapter five
- Chapter six
- Chapter seven
- Chapter eight
- Chapter nine
- Chapter ten
- Chapter eleven
- Chapter twelve
- Chapter thirteen
- Chapter fourteen
- Chapter fifteen
- Chapter sixteen
- Chapter seventeen
- Chapter eighteen
- Chapter nineteen
- Chapter twenty
- Chapter twenty-one
- Chapter twenty-two
- Chapter twenty-three
- Chapter twenty-four
- Chapter twenty-five
- Chapter twenty-six
- Chapter twenty-seven
- Chapter twenty-eight
- Chapter twenty-nine
- Chapter thirty
- Chapter thirty-one
- Chapter thirty-two
- Chapter thirty-three
- Postface
- About the Author
- An Extract from ‘Dawn of Fire: Avenging Son’
- A Black Library Publication
I spent most of the voyage watching Flight Commander Gradeolous. He acted as captain, bellowing orders to the crew, and I suspect he would have employed a lash if one were to hand. He barely acknowledged my presence, and when not admonishing the others his gaze was drawn to the skies. I could not help note his whiskers were unwaxed, the limp moustache smeared across his lips, and his flickering gaze lacked its former self-assurance.
Though no one spoke I knew where we were heading. As we sped along the canals I reminded myself that Dolos had provided her personal physician and yacht. It was certainly better treatment than Shard had received. But I had ignored her warning, and I knew there would be consequences.
She did not keep me waiting this time. A hoverchair had been prepared for my arrival. They pushed me briskly from the docks, through the botanical archway, towards the château. As we passed beneath the trees it struck me the leaves had thinned since my last excursion, and the painted dock was clearly marked with ugly, dark splotches.
I was taken to the château’s rear entrance, Iwazar hovering along beside me, and then through a twisted web of passages and corridors. Many were in desperate need of repair, the bark malformed and cracked. Tools were scattered, and I saw one footman had chiselled out a five-foot-long section of wood and was now using chain-link gloves to haul out handfuls of tendril-like roots.
We did not slow, not until we reached a gleaming set of great doors, the wood relentlessly varnished to a mirror-like sheen. There we halted, the party shuffling around me, conforming to a protocol unknown. Two positioned themselves beside the doors, pressing their shoulders to them and heaving with all their might. They took some moments to open, the warped wood chewing at the floor.
Still, that gave me ample time to admire the throne room.
It had not occurred to me Dolos might possess a throne. Despite her title, she rarely chose to present herself as a monarch, more a steward of the planet and people.
That was no longer the case.