He heard Layak and his two bodyguards halt behind him. He did not pause in his stride towards the door at the far end of the atrium.

‘You are never guarded,’ called Layak.

The words made Abaddon frown, and he slowed and then stopped, turning to look slowly from Layak to the two Word Bearers that followed him everywhere. They never removed their helms, nor spoke. Both wore sheathed swords at their waists. Blade slaves, that was what some called them. Like everything about the Word Bearers, the reek of the warp hung over them like foetor over rotten meat. Layak tilted his head. The red eyes running down the cheeks of his mask were glowing coals under the starlight.

‘You have no personal guard,’ said Layak, as though resuming a conversation that had merely been interrupted rather than never having started. ‘Even the Warmaster has his Justaerin, but you, who are his sword hand, walk alone.’

Abaddon returned Layak’s stare for a long moment, then looked slowly between each of the blade slaves. One of them tilted its head slowly in echo of his master.

‘I am not alone,’ said Abaddon, and turned to walk away again. ‘I am never alone.’

‘You dislike my presence and my questions,’ said Layak.

‘You have found a truth, priest,’ growled Abaddon.

‘You dislike me very much, do you not?’ he said at last.

Abaddon smiled coldly.

‘On that we agree.’

‘I am a servant of the same ends and masters that we all serve. In that we are brothers.’

Abaddon held his gaze steady, his body utterly still.

‘No,’ he said. ‘You are a dog that smells the meat of a kill made by its betters. The carrion eater does not call the wolf brother.’

‘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.