'Were you?' The false Russ smiled. 'The primarch-executioner arriving here on this harsh world of wolves? A being whose genetic gift meshes perfectly with the strain of mankind found here? This playground world of sagas and ancient stories made real, welcoming a hero to rule it?' He laughed softly, a guttural purr that remembered sharp teeth and claws and diets of hot, raw meat. 'Do you not think any of that is odd, or, dare I say it, convenient?'

'It is a saga-happenstance,' said Russ. 'All the tales of heroes are full of them. It is history shaped to fit the needs of story. Our lives are no different. Are we not the heroes of this age? My biographers will doubtless prune away the bits that do not fit.'

'You are dangerously arrogant.'

'So some have said.'

'I think you mock me. If you do, you mock yourself.'

'I do mock you,' said Russ, 'as I mock myself. I am a weapon, made by the Emperor. No more, no less. I am no demigod, no hero from a tale.'

'Later tales will remember you as such.'

'It is not my place to judge those who come after. A tloods speak for him. You cannot petition the myth-makers of the future to respect you, or acknowledge you existed at all. They will, or they won't.'

'So, all this is a coincidence? This world, your name, your Legion's habits, your manner?'

'If you like,' said Russ.

'There are no such things as coincidences,' said the false Russ.

'Someone I knew used to say that a lot. He came to a bad end. It is also said there are no wolves on Fenris. Neither of these things are true.'

'Yet both of them are.'

'Maybe,' said Russ, and shrugged.

'This does not confound you?'

'I am a man, raised by wolves and warriors in a world of ice and fire. I am a primarch, made by the Emperor to the patterns of forgotten science. Duality is part of my nature.'

The false Russ nodded as he circled around his other self, his high, black boots crunching in the snow. 'The civilised barbarian. The magic hater who surrounds himself with mumbling priests. The berserk thinker. The leashed hound who runs free. The Terran Fenrisian.'

'Aye,' said Russ. 'That's me. It does a man no favours to be straightforward. Now I believe you owe me a boon.'

The false Russ' face hardened. 'You should not have won.'

'You let me win,' said Russ.

'Maybe,' said the false Russ, and his shrug and mien were the exact replicas of Russ' own.

'You still owe me a boon,' said Russ.

'Very well. One question. One answer. This is it, ask wisely.'