‘You shall bear that knife and its truth, as this battle spirals down into the throat of the sun, and beyond.’ He paused. ‘Someone must ride beyond the horizon.’

The young warrior nodded, and Jubal began to turn away.

‘You said that Horus knows the truth of knives in war…’ began Changshi. Jubal turned back to look at the young warrior, feeling a frown form on his face. ‘Then might we not be fighting the cuts, and not seeing the thrust to our heart?’

Jubal blinked, and then smiled.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But we fight anyway.’

Ten

Atonement
Small lives
Lords of war

Strike Frigate Persephone, Outer Solar System

The last defenders of Pluto fled towards the light of the sun. Ragged, scarred and with the blood of battle still marking their decks, they kept on. Where there had been hundreds, now there were barely enough to make a lone hundred. The Ophelia and Persephone circled their sisters and cousins, watching the fleet and the void around them. They could not see their pursuers, but they knew they were there. Aximand had suffered catastrophic losses, but new ships were still coming from the warp. There would be hunters at their backs, swift ships with cruel intent.

Some of the survivors fell even as they fled. Engines failed, wounded hulls broke apart under the stress of acceleration. The Sword Sister, which had endured battles since the first decades of the Great Crusade, became a silent hulk, ploughing on for hours on momentum. The Sign of Truth peeled away from the pack as its damaged reactors began to overload. The light of its death chased its surviving kin.

On they ran, through the gulf of night, their hulls creaking with damage, their human crews feeling their world shake, the Legion-born warriors pulling broken armour from wounded muscles; past the wrecked ships of all the invaders and usurpers who had fallen in the long millennia since humanity had first left its cradle.

In the hold of the Persephone, Sigismund paused on the threshold of the sanctuary. His armour hung from him in torn shards, grinding as he moved. Blood caked his tabard and had clotted inside the plates. He felt cold, the hot beat of the pulse in his veins quieted after the roar of battle.

‘It is what awaits us all in the end,’ said Fafnir Rann from beside him. ‘By sword or bullet, it is coming for us all.’ Sigismund looked up at the captain of the Assault Cadre. Blood and damage painted Rann’s armour too, and dried blood masked half of his face. ‘He chose how to meet it. There is nothing more any of us could ask.’ Rann paused, holding Sigismund’s gaze with his own. ‘And nothing more you can give him.’

Sigismund gave a small nod and keyed the door release.