A temperature gauge blinked to get Bjorn's attention, warning him of a growing chill. Hot air venting from power packs became rolling clouds of steam. Frost gathered on the hooks and spoiled finery, and yet when he glanced at his wrist he found the lead charms drooping with heat. Before his eyes the charms melted into silver streaks that would not set, but flowed from his body to the floor, where they ran against the pull of artificial gravity as if seeking out a route of escape. Without the counter-magics to mute the voices, they grew louder, and louder, tempting Bjorn to cast down his weapons, threatening him if he did not. He did not know the language, but the meaning was horribly clear.

Two warriors moved to engage him. Their faces blurred in Bjorn's eyes and the voices laughed. They attacked while he was half-blind. Bjorn parried their blows clumsily.

Something was coming. Bjorn looked up the stairs. A light, like approaching torches flickering on a cave wall, was coming down the corridor. Foreboding preceded it. It was almost as if Bjorn could feel the shape of his wyrd bend out of true under the pressure. The whispers became a laudatory roar, singing out the praises of their champion.

The golden doors swung open.

With a rush of black terror, Horus Lupercal stepped out onto the head of the staircase and joined his sons. A bodyguard of hulking Terminators fanned out either side of him. Other warriors whose twisted faces and unnatural limbs Bjorn first took for the extravagance of a mad armourer came after.

Horus commanded all attention. In his left hand he carried a maul taller than a Space Marine. The right bore a massive gauntlet whose fingers were tipped with cruelly barbed, powered blades, and on the wrist were mounted twinned boltguns. His armour was covered in spikes; his Imperial badges had been replaced by slit-pupilled eyes that seemed too moist and alive to be of anything but flesh.

As befitted his arrogance he came into battle helmetless. His once noble face was contorted with an exultant superiority that bordered on the daemonic. Harsh red light shone out from the cowl of the Terminator plate around his head, a diabolical halo with no readily discernible source. With shadowed eyes he surveyed the carnage of the hall and uttered a single word.

'Cease!'

Such power was imbued in that command that all the warriors faltered. Green and grey armoured figures stepped back from one another, eyeing each other with unshakeable hatred. But they were compelled to hold their peace by Horus' word no matter how much they wished to fight.