The air charged with energy. A few moments later, Sanguinius appeared before him, standing on a podium of red granite. Slight artefacting marred the perfection of the illusion of the Angel’s presence. The Ruinstorm was damaging transmissions over even such a short distance.

‘It’s hard not to read significance in the timing of our arrival, isn’t it?’ Guilliman said.

‘I have no hesitation in seeing it as meaningful,’ said Sanguinius. ‘I can already hear your scepticism, brother, but what can this be except fate?’ The Angel spoke with certainty, but his eyes were troubled, as if he wanted Guilliman to refute him.

Guilliman tried to formulate an answer. A good one would bring them both a measure of peace of mind, he thought. But his doubts slowed him down by a second, and before he could speak, Sanguinius completed his thought, freezing Guilliman’s words.

‘We walk our assigned path,’ said the Angel.

Seven

Seven

Witnesses to the Pilgrimage

The wind of Thrinos was cold and hard. It blew over the refugee camps, just strong enough to stir the fabric of the shelters of the more recent arrivals. They had not yet had time to build stronger, more rigid defences against its insistent, insidious touch. On the ramparts of the Iron Hands fortress, Sanguinius faced west, into the wind, looking out over the vista of misery.

‘How many?’ he asked Levannas.

‘A few million at our last estimate, Lord Sanguinius,’ the Raven Guard said. He was acting as guide to the Angel, Raldoron and the Sanguinary Guard. Guilliman had not yet descended from the Samothrace, and Sanguinius had chosen to learn the truths of the desperate of Thrinos before his conference with his brothers. ‘More are arriving all the time,’ Levannas said.

Sanguinius could feel the Lion’s eyes on him. From somewhere in the keep behind him, his brother was observing. It would be against his nature to do otherwise. To know without being known, isn’t that it, brother? Did the Lion think his interest in the refugees was a waste of time? Perhaps. But perhaps not. The Lion was not a machine.

The keep was a structure of brutal, jutting walls and jagged angles. The Iron Hands had constructed it from the remains of broken ships. It was patchwork, but it was strong. There was a funereal quality to the structure. It was constructed from the bones of loss. Once proud vessels had been gutted by the years of battle. However many engagements Khalybus’ company had won, attrition was wearing them down, and eating away at their strength. The fortress was defiant, but it was just as much a last resort as the shacks and tents that surrounded it.