They met a wall of plumed skitarii: deadly constructions of steel and flesh and gun barrel. From their midst skittered Archmagos Scarlex. There was nothing human left about her, except perhaps her maternal concern for her children. Her body was hidden in long robes fringed with the symbol of the cog. She moved on ten insectoid legs, and from the shadows of the hood a voice that was not human spoke, ‘I calculate the chances of their survival to be minimal.’

Mere nodded. ‘None of us can predict the moment that the Emperor calls us. I pray that they will have many years of battle before them. When they return to you, their machine-spirits will be full of the pride of achievement.’

There was a scrape of metal, like insectoid jaws grinding together. ‘What do you know of the machine-spirit, human?’ The last word was said with disgust.

Guilty as charged, Mere thought to himself.

The archmagos led him through the tunnels of the forge. At last he reached a window looking out onto the void-factorum, and the tech-priest lifted cold mechadendrites to the glaspex window.

‘The Hammer of Spite,’ the monotone voice hissed.

With Hammer of Spite came its Leviathan siblings, Terra’s Contempt, and Hatred of Iron. They hung in their steel cradles, surrounded by the scaffold of the orbital forge.

The distance belied their size. They were machines designed to smite the enemies of the Imperium with terror: snub-nosed monsters, with tremor cannons jutting out from their chins, towering weapons of war and destruction with boarding parapets, siege towers and slabs of ablative armour.

Mere swallowed as he tried to think of something to say.

The archmagos stated simply, ‘You are without words. That is a compliment.’

The truth was that the three Leviathans destined for this warzone were old tech, classified as sub-optimal and warehoused centuries ago. But they were perfect for the Imperium’s needs, and after hasty refittings they had been prepared for transfer to Malouri.

The great beasts landed at Starport under cover of darkness, each one slung under a vast lander and accompanied by an army of tech-priests to minister to them.

There were always teething problems when void-forged beasts were transferred to gravity. The superstructures groaned; the inner core of welded rebar strained under their weight. But these were machines of siege and war, with secondary systems already kicking in to cover any localised failures. A week of finishing touches, and then the machines were ready for the final blessings.

When all was prepared, Archmagos Scarlex came planetside with a coterie of skitarii and magos-priests for a formal hand­over to Bendikt’s command.