Around Ahriman the minds of his brothers whirled on, patterning the ether with their thoughts. Each of them was looping a set of symbols and words through his subconscious. Those of greater power and ability spun more complex weaves of thought, all overlapping and meshing with one another. Together, their minds were like the cogs of a single colossal machine. At the pattern’s core was Ahriman, subsections of his own thoughts meshing with those of his brothers. This feat alone was beyond the bounds of comprehension of even the most able of adepts, but it was only the beginning. One part of the key to turn a greater lock.

It had taken days for Ahriman to comprehend the details of what they were doing, and then he had shivered. Even Magnus had fallen silent when it had been laid before them. For this… thing that they were doing was not their design. It was something higher and darker and greater, the design of a creature who had never been human and now stood between mortality and godhood. It was Horus’ act, and they were the tools that did his work.

+Why do we do this?+ he had asked Magnus the Red.

+You know why, my son…+ Magnus had replied. +Because everything we want, everything we need lies beyond the fall of my father.+ Ahriman had nodded, but not tried to hide the doubt in his mind. The image of Magnus in the scrying mirror had given a sad smile. +Besides, Ahzek, do you not wish to see the Towers of Leth again, or to walk the Scribe Vaults? Do you not wish to go home?+

+They burned our home.+

The image had shimmered in the haze of cedar smoke.

+To all of humanity, Terra is home. That is why it must fall, my son.+

+The detection and trigger device has been disabled on the comet,+ came Ignis’ thought voice, cutting through the memory. +You may proceed.+

Ahriman’s gunship shot on towards the comet. With it came flights of others, trailing out behind it like the wings of a great bird. The Word Bearers fell into place amongst them. The wings of their craft gleamed a deeper crimson in the sunlight. Lines of script covered them from nose to tail, each word an exultation of the powers of the warp. The minds of the warriors in each craft hissed and echoed with prayers. For them this was not just an act of occult war; it was a sacred devotion. Ahriman felt a wave of revulsion and pulled his senses away from them.

The surface of the comet loomed before them. Plugs of plasteel and raw iron covered old wounds from boarding torpedoes and weapons fire. These were the scars from when the Imperial Fists had purged the shrine in the early years of the war.