Images flowed over the connection with Menkaura’s mind. Ahriman saw Pluto, its face and moons sliding from cold reality to silver coins set in the sockets of a skull. Sigils in tongues never spoken by men ran through the dark, leading the inner eye on a spiral. He saw the symbols of the old zodiac, of apocalyptic calendars from the dawn of history: the twinned faces, the serpent that circles the fire, the keys of sleep, all dancing with the substance of smoke against the stars that were their eyes. All of the grand mechanism was moving, its parts aligning, resonating with each other, pulling tighter and tighter.

The fires of battle fed it. Fear and the blood of the dead drove it on. Even the desperate hopes and defiance of the defenders added to its momentum in the warp. It existed nowhere but linked to everything – to every moment of the past, every thought of the future and every deed unborn. It was the most breathtaking and terrible thing Ahriman had ever comprehended. He saw beyond it, to the ships swarming in the warp, holding still in currents that would normally have torn them apart. Thousands of them. Tens of thousands of them, great and small. Daemonic creatures circled them, colour and form shifting and changing.

He drew his mind back, felt himself sway slightly as reality washed the vision away.

He was standing on the shrine again. The Apostle was standing on the other side of the chamber, his blank helm turned so that Ahriman was certain that eyes were fixed upon him behind the smooth bronze.

‘The moment of alignment is close,’ he said into the vox. The Apostle nodded once.

‘As was written.’

‘As long as the final elements come together, that is,’ replied Ahriman, hearing the coldness in his voice.

‘Have faith, sorcerer. Not all is art and design. The gods ordain that all be done. Have faith…’

Ahriman did not answer but turned away.

+Bring the ships in. Begin pulling our brothers out. We must not be here when the end of this begins.+

+And the Word Bearers?+ asked Ignis.

Ahriman looked at the crimson-clad warriors moving amongst the chained psykers.

+Something tells me that they do not intend on becoming martyrs.+

+Unlike Menkaura,+ stated Ignis. Ahriman felt his thoughts twitch back to his eyeless brother, now locked in the stone sphere of the solatarium. +But of course that is different. He will have the comfort that his memory matters to you.+

+Make the ships ready,+ sent Ahriman again, after a long pause.

+As you will it,+ replied Ignis and then withdrew his thoughts, leaving Ahriman to the voices of the shrine’s ghosts.

Ahriman relives the echoes of the past.

Eighteen

On grey wings
Spear thrust
Alignment

Unnamed Warship, Inner System Gulf