A hail of fire was coming at the Stormbird. A shell got through the void shield and thrummed off the underside of the ship. The flickers of las-beams turned aside by the aegis strobed the interior through the closing ramp. A Thunderhawk exploded nearby, shrapnel from its death bouncing off the Stormbird's hull. Horus pushed on, surrounded by his attendant swarm of uncanny protectors, shielded from all harm, while his warriors fell to the punishment of Vlka Fenryka guns.

Horus stared into Bjorn's eyes. He looked right at him. Bjorn was sure of it. A bleak chill gripped his heart, a foreboding of endless long winters to come.

Then the ramp shut. Vents gushed atmosphere, pressurising the passenger cabin. Sound returned. A pair of Wolf Priests were attending the primarch.

'Bjorn,' said Russ weakly. 'Bjorn!'

One of the priests scowled at Bjorn and beckoned him over. Exhausted, Bjorn crawled to his gene-sire's side, his lightning claw cradled against his chest.

'My jarl.'

'Bjorn!' Russ murmured. 'I could have killed him. I could have killed him.'

'My lord?'

Russ grabbed at Bjorn's armour with a weak hand. His eyes were wild. 'I hesitated.'

'Then all was for nought,' said Bjorn. A plasma torch burned hot close at hand as the Wolf Priests cut away Russ' fabled armour to get to his wounds.

'No, no it wasn't,' Russ smiled. His teeth were stained with his own blood. 'The spear tasted his soul, and I spoke with him. I spoke with him.' His eyes were drooping again. He was sliding towards unconsciousness.

'With who? With the traitor?' asked Bjorn.

Russ shook his head, barely awake. 'Not with the traitor. Not with him. I spoke…' He took a shuddering, rattling breath. Before he slipped away he whispered, 'I spoke with my brother.'

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Six

The Silencia

The Wolf Priests shooed Bjorn away from the primarch. When he tarried, they made it clear in no uncertain terms that he was not wanted there, so he made his way up the ship, past wounded Space Marines occupying every spare part of the passenger compartment, towards the gunnery and piloting stations in the foredeck. The ship bucked and shuddered, battered by hits to its void shields. A Sokar-class Stormbird was large enough to mount defensive void screens, but not big enough for them to absorb all the kinetic energy of the projectiles they displaced. Some always transferred to the ship. Bjorn was nearly thrown from his feet several times.

Eventually, he struggled up to gunnery control, where he watched over a blademaker's shoulder as he operated the gimbal-mounted heavy bolters either side of the ship.

Bjorn's mood was already grim. What he witnessed on the pict screens made it grimmer.

The Hugin sped through a battlefield of deadly wreckage and burning gas. The ship was not Russ' usual craft, and bore no markings that