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.

Layak went very still. Both blade slaves froze where they were.

From a distance it would have looked almost like an embrace, but it was nothing so kind. Any movement and Abaddon would pull the blade into Layak’s chest, puncturing each and every rib, heart and lung with a single trust. On Cthonia they called it the murderer’s greeting. The two were so close now that Abaddon could smell the incense reek of the Word Bearers priest.

‘Brotherhood is not about what misguided craft went into both our making,’ hissed Abaddon. ‘It is about the choices we make.’ He turned his head slowly to look at the two statue-still blade slaves. ‘I look at you and see a thing that has made those who were his brothers his creatures. And in that I see all I need to know of you.’