‘That is his flagship,’ the Chaplain answered. ‘He’ll be there.’ His hand went to his belt and touched the hilt of the athame. He saw Phael Rabor make the same gesture. We are nemesis, he thought. Guilliman had not died on Calth, because his death had been reserved for the two of them. They had earned the blessing through trial and through faith. The proof of the favour granted them sat on the transformed command throne of the De Profundis.

The entire bridge had undergone a profound change. It was barely recognisable as the command deck of a battle-barge. The walls and the oculus rippled like curtains. Curving columns radiated from the throne, crossing the floor and rising up the walls, partitioning the bridge as if it were gripped by a great talon. The claws were outlined by glowing fissures. The cracks extended through the entire length of the De Profundis. The empyrean was pressing through, splitting the ship and holding it together.

Below the throne, the workstations had become shifting sculptures. Their shapes were ornate, slowly waving flames. The silhouettes were laden with meaning. They were the manifestation of truths ­unutterable by human tongues. They were another form of the Word, speaking truth to the real, eroding the illusions of the universe, each movement another razor wound opening the way to revelation. They could no longer be operated by unaltered mortals. Word Bearers were at the posts, at one with the lethal truths as they governed weapons systems and prepared attack vectors. But Quor Vondor recognised the actions as the dying echoes of the former being of the ship. The De Profundis would not attack as it once had.

The oculus twitched. Streaks of light appeared, heading for the blue glint of the Samothrace. The World Eaters’ attack. Quor Vondor sniffed in contempt. The World Eaters were useful, but barbarians. The Night Lords, even now launching the rear assault, were closer in their beings to the primordial truth, even though their faith was lacking. They had their uses, too.

‘The Thirteenth and Twelfth Legions might finish him off before we get a chance,’ Phael Rabor said.

‘They won’t.’

‘There are only two Ultramarines vessels.’

‘Do you think Guilliman is going to die so easily?’

‘No,’ the captain admitted.

‘No,’ Quor Vondor repeated. ‘Do your doubts come so easily?’

‘I have none,’ said Phael Rabor.

‘That is well.’ There could be no more doubts. Not after Calth.

Not with Toc Derenoth sitting on the command throne.

The Unburdened turned his horned head to look at Quor Vondor, as if he had heard the Chaplain’s thoughts. The elongated jaws gaped in anticipation. Before his ascension, Toc Derenoth had been a mere legionary. Now Quor Vondor had to look at him as a wonder.