‘Who is the wolf and who is the carrion eater?’ asked Layak. Abaddon thought he saw the iron fangs of Layak’s mask flex, as though the metal itself were breathing. He felt the anger rise then, felt it wash against the ice of his will. One of the blade slaves shifted forwards.

No, he thought. This shall not pass.

He made as if to turn away, but then snapped back, closing the distance to the three Word Bearers in an eye-blink of surging muscle and armour. He was wearing standard battleplate rather than the jet-black Terminator armour of the Justaerin elite. His only weapon was a short-bladed gladius hung at his waist. He drew the blade as he charged. The power field lit with a snap of lightning. Layak was moving back, staff spinning to a guard in his hands.

The blade slaves were faster. Much faster. Both drew their swords. Cracks ran up their arms. Fire and ashes poured from the splits in their armour, as their forms bloated. The swords stretched in their grasps, fusing with the hands that drew them, dragging light and shadow to them as they sliced out.

Abaddon saw the first blow come, ducked under it and lashed his blade into the base of the sword where it melded with the arm. Blood scattered, blackening to ash as it fell. The sword screamed, and twisted to strike like a snake, but Abaddon was already pivoting to meet the cut of its twin as it lashed towards his head.

Others that had fought him would have said that he was fast, beyond even the speed common to one of his transhuman breed. That missed the real truth, though. There were others amongst the great warriors who were faster: Jubal Khan, Sigismund, Lucius, Sevatar – even the fool Loken. It was not that Abaddon was fast; it was that he did not think of speed, of parry and riposte, of attack and defence. Living or dying did not matter. Bloodshed did not matter. His life did not matter. All that mattered was victory. That made him more than fast, more than skilled. It made him death.

He slammed forwards into the second blade slave before its sword could find its mark. A reek of burning flesh and hot iron filled his mouth. He gripped the neck beneath the jaw of the blade slave’s helm. He felt his fingers burn as they dug into the warp-filled flesh. He lifted and twisted, momentum and strength flowing through him and sending the blade slave tumbling through the air towards its twin. Ash and orange fire scattered from it. The other blade slave dodged aside and lunged forwards, but Abaddon was already on Layak. He read the warding blow of the Word Bearer’s staff and took its force on his shoulder guard. Layak staggered. Ghost-light crawled over the staff. The priest’s mask was snarling, iron fangs chewing air. Abaddon looped his arms around Layak, reversed his grip on the gladius, and brought the point of his blade to the priest’s side.