‘I won’t play your game!’ he shouted. Another fierce burst of autofire rattled into the decking beside him. Eisenhorn remained standing. He didn’t even flinch.

Blayg reappeared, peeking down, his combat autorifle aimed at Eisenhorn.

‘Comply now, or we drop you!’ Blayg shouted.

‘What the hell makes you think I’ll cooperate?’ Eisenhorn yelled back.

‘Look down!’ Blayg called back, his aim fixed.

Eisenhorn glanced down. He saw the gently wavering red dot of Blayg’s targeter floating on the centre of his chest.

‘We’d like you alive,’ Blayg called, ‘but it’s not essential. Take the stairs up. Do it! Or I take the shot!’

‘Go to hell,’ said Eisenhorn.

Blayg had pushed it as far as he wanted to. He had no illusions about Gregor Eisenhorn’s brutal and relentless reputation. He’d heard all the stories. He’d seen Jaff’s body. The man was inhumanly dangerous.

Damn Gobleka’s preferences. Enough chances. Enough playing with fire.

Blayg squeezed the trigger, ripping out a tight burst from his autorifle.

The rounds hit Eisenhorn precisely where the marker had painted him, full in the chest. Eisenhorn reeled backwards in a puff of red vapour, hit the back rail of the platform and slumped down.

Blayg slowly rose to his feet.

‘Davinch!’ he shouted. ‘He’s down!’

Sprawled on his back against the rail, Eisenhorn lifted his head and his Hecuter.

‘That’s right, show yourself, idiot,’ he murmured, and fired.

Eisenhorn slowly heaved himself to his feet. It was hard to breathe. His chest plating had stopped most of the burst, but his ribs were cracked, and his chest felt as if it had been crushed. One of the high-velocity rounds had punctured through the plate and done some soft tissue damage.

Another had gone low under the plate, punching clean through him below his ribs. Blood was weeping down the front of his coat. He could feel more soaking his back. He concentrated and tried to use his will to block the pain, and seal the bleeding.

His will was gone. The Loom had taken it from him.

Davinch was standing behind him.

Eisenhorn started to turn, but he was far too slow. Davinch whirled a spin-kick that knocked Eisenhorn sideways, then another that flicked away the Hecuter. A third kick, straight to the sternum, put Eisenhorn on his back. Agony from the gunshot trauma flooded him.

The tattooed man stood over him, looking down, both laspistols aimed at Eisenhorn’s face.

‘Look at you,’ Davinch sneered. ‘The famous Gregor Eisenhorn, scourge of heretics. It’s over, you old bastard. What are you, without that famous psykana gift of yours? Eh? Frigging nothing. Just an old, worn-out shell. A ruin. A nothing.’

Davinch peered closer. He grinned.

‘And you’re shot too. Dear old Blayg plugged you. That’ll be a through-and-through. You’re going to bleed out like a pig. That is, if I let you.’

Davinch’s smile grew broader.