'What of Kva?'

'Seven times I heard a great wolf howl. Each time it did, I heard the sounds of fighting, and tasted witchery on the breeze. Each time it stopped, I thought the world would end, and Morkai had ascended the slopes of the dead to run amok in the land of the living. Each time, when I thought it done, it began again. Maleficarum worked upon me, urging me to turn around. Voices whispered to me, pleading, that if I were to go to their aid I would save the two who remained.'

'You ignored them.'

'As I was ordered,' said Bjorn. 'So I remained. At the eighth howling, Kva cried out. The wolf was gone. Thandar Greymane was silent, but the chant began again.'

'Kva chanted still?'

'The Divided One was there until the end,' said Bjorn. 'Seven ice tempests he fought away, chanting all the while. The eighth ended him. After he was silent, something lingered, standing where you are now.'

'You have done well. I lift the ban of the priests. My task is done. You may turn around.'

So closely did the voice resemble Russ' that Bjorn almost obeyed. He was already turning when he stopped himself. Bjorn's hearts froze with foreboding. Why had the primarch not used the stair? Why did he not enter the circle?

'I was told not to look back into the glen,' he said warily. 'Under any circumstances. I gave an oath. You cannot make me break it, my jar!.'

'You would deny your primarch?' said Russ. The voice wavered, taking on an inhuman timbre.

'I would deny him this. You are not he.'

Russ moved around the outside of the wolf skull circle, only it was not Russ. Bjorn was sure of that. His scent was wrong. Everything was wrong.

'How dare you defy me, cripple,' said the voice. It cast aside all pretence, becoming a chorus of wet growls that mimicked speech.

'I am your primarch, your lord, your father.'

The heavy stink of fur crusted with old blood washed over Bjorn. A wolf smell, but sick. The being came within the circle then, and as it stepped over the low wall the wolf skulls exploded, peppering Bjorn with sharp fragments. It approached Bjorn from behind. A hand landed on his shoulder. It was barely human. Fur sprouted from its thick, short fingers. The thumb was too far back, diminished, halfway to a dewclaw.

'Turn and face your master.'

'You are not my master. You are not my father. You are maleficarum, and I will not turn to look upon you.'

The thing laughed, each exhalation dropping an octave until the stone Bjorn sat upon vibrated with subsonic resonance. Bjorn glanced down at the stub of his left arm. If he were in his battleplate, he might stand a chance. He could gut this thing with his lightning claw. He had seen the Neverborn killed. But he was not. He was in his ritual leather armour. All he had was his plain iron sword. His hand closed around the hilt and he prepared to sell himself dearly.