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.

'Then you will die,' it said. The blunt claws scraped over Bjorn's shoulder, furrowing the leather. A rope of drool slid from the air over his head, and landed upon his cheek. Hot breath caressed his skin.

Bjorn tensed.

'One-Handed!' a voice bellowed from the steps below the vigil place. 'Down!'

Bjorn threw himself forwards as the beast struck at him. Something sharp opened the skin of his back. A blade thrummed into the circle. It hit the thing behind him with the meaty kiss of steel parting flesh. A disruptor field boomed. Bjorn choked on smoke of such foulness he thought he would die.

A daemonic howl of outrage echoed from the Volda Hammarki.

A second later he was being hauled to his feet.