Such was the intent of what they did that the ultimate ends of each part of the attack were known only to the most senior commanders. Of that cadre, only some were aware of the interlocking purposes of their actions. And even then, only a few, a very few, knew the inner knots of the Warmaster’s design. No one else could know, even amongst the highest ranks of the Legion or its closest allies. So, the last gathering of those commanders, before they took to their own paths, had taken place in the empty dark, without aides or companions.

Abaddon stood still at the centre of the room for a moment, his eyes reaching into the dark but not seeing it.

Torchlight danced in the distance.

Blood hazed his sight.

‘This is him?’ came a voice, low but clear and strong. Abaddon looked up and felt the chains tighten around his neck. Two shadows loomed above him. Both held torches of bright flame. ‘He looks barely alive.’

‘We would not have got him if he hadn’t been that way. He went through thirty of the deep-warren gangs before we found him. That was after the rest of his followers had fallen. He was making for a tunnel when we reached him.’

‘He will survive those wounds?’

‘If he doesn’t, then do we want him?’

A low grunt of acknowledgement and then one of the looming shadows came forwards and squatted down. The light of the torch it carried pulled streaks of orange and red across grey-white armour. Dark eyes looked at Abaddon from a face of scar tissue and jagged tattoos.

‘You see us, don’t you, boy?’ said the face.

Abaddon did not reply.

He had been in the deeps leading a raid against the warren holdings of the Headtakers. There had been an ambush. They had been waiting, three clans’ worth at least, come to take the head of the exiled prince. Hundreds of gang killers pouring from tunnels, the boom of frag mines detonating, hard rounds buzzing through the air… They had killed half of his oath siblings with the first blasts. It was butchery and cowardice, but he had come out of the smoke and dust and hit the first ambusher he had seen with a backhanded blow that had split the man’s head along the hinge of his jaw to the back of his skull.

‘You know who we are?’ asked the face, its gaze unflinching. Abaddon met it and nodded.

‘You are the takers of the dead,’ he said.

The face laughed.

‘That we are, boy, that we are.’ The figure held up a coin in armoured fingers. The silver disc’s face was mirror-polished. ‘I have a coin for your life.’