‘The sorcerers of Prospero and the warriors of my Legion will do what is ordained,’ said Layak, as though following Abaddon’s thoughts. ‘But my path lies with you, Ezekyle Abaddon, and I will follow it. That is my choice and my place. Kill me if you must, but I will remain.’

Abaddon watched the dance of the void without replying, and when he looked around the priest was gone.

Warship Lance of Heaven, Supra-Solar Gulf

Jubal Khan listened to the last ghosts of voices fade into the crackle of the vox-link. He looked at the tech-adept linked to the signal unit.

‘Send confirmation,’ he said. The adept bowed its head with a whir of gears, and the constellations of lights on the unit began to blink. It would take over two hours for the reply to reach Terra, if it reached it at all. Distortion had been growing on the signal channels for days, squalling like a snagged storm wind. Sometimes it seemed as though there were voices, high and pained, drowning in the screech of interference, shouting from beyond the buzz of static.

No, thought Jubal. There were voices behind there, and he knew enough to know that the nightmares that wracked the astropaths were real, too. Both were echoes of the dead returning to the plane of the living, but whether they spoke warnings or lies he could not tell.

He turned slowly away from the vox-console. His body ached at the movement. It was as though every year of the life that he had lived was dragging on his bones. He would need to settle his spirit before they rode into the fire again. The storm… the storm was coming… He could hear it. He could feel it…

Changshi waited dutifully behind him, watching his khan with grey eyes that could not hide their worry. Changshi was a child of the storm. Like the rest of the token force on the Lance of Heaven, he was not of Chogoris, despite the name he bore. It, like the organs grafted into him, were a gift of his elevation from the forgotten ocean world he had been born on. There were many like him now: creations of necessity, made from and for these bitter times, warriors who had never known the joy that came from waging war for a reason other than survival. Both his nature and name had barely had time to settle into his being, and whether fate would give Changshi the time to become the warrior he could one day be, Jubal did not know.

‘So we withdraw?’ Changshi asked, frowning.

Jubal looked at him, holding the young warrior’s gaze for a long moment, and then smiling.

‘Yes. And no,’ he said, pulling a strip of parchment from his belt and handing it to Changshi.

‘Prepare signals to these of our ships, and see that these preparations are made throughout the Lance.’

The young warrior read the Chogorian script and his frown deepened.