In point of fact, the man was unlike any of the psychic nulls he had encountered before. It was impossible to grasp even the smallest sense of the alien shape of his essence.

‘What do you mean by that?’ The figure in the robes shook his head. ‘My name is Ael Wyntor. I have committed no crime! I am a sanctioned historicist in the Emperor’s service. You cannot hold me against my will!’

‘Your recovery has been ordered by the highest authority.’ As the words left Rubio’s lips, the man sagged and the colour drained from his face. ‘Don’t make this difficult.’ Rubio extended a hand. ‘Come with me. You won’t be harmed.’

‘That is not so!’ Wyntor shook his head and backed away a step. His voice rose into a half-shout, half-whimper. ‘I cannot go back to him, do you understand that? I can’t hear any more!’ He buried his face in his hands, and pressed those long fingers to his ears. ‘I can’t, I can’t, I can’t…’

Rubio prepared to move. It would only take a quick motion, but he was fast enough to cross the short distance between them in half a second. He plotted the action in his thoughts: take him by the arm, apply gentle pressure. He would need to be careful. Humans were fragile things. ‘Don’t resist,’ he warned.

‘No!’ Wyntor bellowed the word at him, full of fear and last-ditch defiance. ‘You don’t know what he tells me! The things he shows me! The truth that cannot be denied…’ The man abruptly trailed off and fixed Rubio with a firm gaze. A change came over his face, a sudden recognition. ‘No… I’m wrong. You do know.’ He raised a hand and pointed at Rubio’s face. ‘Yes. I see it in your eyes, Knight. Clear as daybreak. You’ve seen what lurks out there, haven’t you? The horrors that are coming.’ He whispered the last like a shared secret.

The legionary was momentarily lost for a reply. The man was right. Rubio had seen horror of a kind that he lacked the words to describe, things that chilled him to his core and sickened his heart. Those monstrous things had almost been the death of him, out in the void aboard the Vengeful Spirit, the dread flagship of the Warmaster. And now, even though he was freshly healed and returned to battle duty, the inner scars that confrontation had left on him would never fade.

‘How do you know of this?’ Again, he tried to gain a telepathic appraisal of the man, but Wyntor’s strange non-self prevented any psionic reading.

‘He’s lying to you,’ hissed the trembling man. ‘They’ll be here sooner than you think. Horus is bringing the end. A sky black with carrion flies and the stench of death.’