'It has more than that,' said the false Russ. 'Gungnir's great gift is wisdom. Your Emperor sees much. This spear contains a portion of His sight. Because of that it can show the truth to all men, no matter how great or meek, and no matter how painful the revelation. It is merciless in that regard. It speaks mostly of death. That is why you fear it.'

'I fear nothing.'

'That is a lie.'

The false Russ brought the spear around and held it with the point uppermost. He slammed the counterweight into the ice, cracking it. Thunder rolled over the horizon.

'How can it do so?' said Russ. His misgivings about the weapon grew.

'It is so because your father made it so, just as He made you the way you are. You have a role to play. The question is, will you perform it? At Alaxxes you swore not to be the unthinking weapon of the Emperor. At Terra you convinced yourself you could continue to serve under your own terms. But you can turn aside now completely, and forge your own path. Be a warlord the galaxy can respect. Not all generals need be tyrants. You can offer shelter to the innocent, for a while. Leave the war behind.'

There was a moment's hesitation, only a moment. Then Russ shook his head.

'I will perform my duty, as is my oath and my bond.'

'The loyal hound as always.'

'I do this freely, of my own accord.'

'Then know thyself, Leman Russ,' said the false Russ, 'and take possession fully of these gifts your father gave you.'

As fast as a striking lindorm, the false Russ drove the spear into Leman Russ' primary heart. Flesh baked in disruptor fires. Bones shattered. The organ was obliterated. Gungnir was not done, but continued on, bursting from Russ' back, transfixing him on the shaft. The leaf-headed blade was black with gore in the moonlight, steaming cooked blood.

'Wisdom hurts, doesn't it?' said the false Russ. His savage glee mimicked Russ' battle joy. 'Your brother was a wolf, so this spear is his bane, but you are also a wolf, and it will cut you too, in the same way. As you said, His gifts cut two ways.'

The false Russ yanked the spear free. Russ sank to his knees. Somehow, he lived, though one heart was dead, and the other beat unsurely. A gaping wound had been punched through his body. Blood poured from his chest in red cataracts.

That was not the worst of the primarch's injuries. The most terrible wound had been cut into his soul and the burning salt of knowledge rubbed into it.

He knew. He knew what he was. He knew what all the primarchs were.

His face was numb. Cold crushed his limbs. With wide eyes he looked up into the face of his killer; so familiar, yet so different.