Vek stood, poured a cup of caffeine and winced. ‘I always hated this stuff.’ He stood, and went to the door.

He had his hand on the release and the door open when she spoke again.

‘Thank you, Master Vek.’

‘For what?’ he asked, half turning.

‘For believing.’

He was still for a moment, not certain if he did believe, but knowing that he had made his choice.

‘You should sleep,’ he said, and pulled the door shut behind him.

Battle-barge War Oath, Supra-Solar Gulf

‘They come,’ whispered Abaddon to himself as he watched the enemy close.

The grey-white ships did not come as a single fleet, but in a wild, pattern-less rush. First came the Blade of the Endless Horizon and its caste of torpedo frigates, burning on a spiralling path, loosing torpedoes seemingly at random, closing so fast that it seemed they would fly straight into the guns of Abaddon’s fleet. They did not. As the first salvoes from long-range batteries reached for them, they turned and scattered like droplets of water from forge-hot iron.

The twin strike cruisers Truth of the Wind and Storm Soul cut in. Running side by side, they dived towards the armada and then slammed out of their dives at the edge of the Sons of Horus’ range. They cut laterally, spiralling and dancing as explosions chased them.

Watching them in his helm display Abaddon remembered a story told by Yoden Croweaver of the VI. When ships would meet on the seas of Fenris, warriors would run the oars of the boats in full armour with weapons drawn, bounding from oar-haft to oar-haft as the sea rose and fell and their enemies watched. Even if one boat met twenty in a storm, still a lone warrior would run the oars. Abaddon had understood why.

‘To show their contempt of death,’ he had said. ‘To show that even if cut down by greater numbers they were still worthy of the life they led.’

Yoden had shrugged, and nodded.

‘Is there any other way to face death than by laughing?’

The torpedoes loosed from the first attack wave struck their targets. Explosions blossomed across the armada’s lead ships. Fire and plasma ripped wounds in armoured skin. In a dozen warships, thousands died in the pinprick flashes that sparkled in Abaddon’s eyes.

‘No sign of the Lance of Heaven?’ he said into the vox.

‘None yet, brother,’ came the reply from Krushan. Abaddon had left helm command to the veteran line-captain.

‘She will come,’ replied Abaddon. ‘Commit as soon as she does.’

‘As you will it, brother.’