The Emperor greeted Horus in an annular observation gallery circling the dome of a refectorum. The gallery was an architectural fancy, a self-conscious mimicking of the cathedrals of Old Earth. To Horus' critical eye it was a weakness in the ship, and should not have been included. There should have been a firmer divide between utility and beauty. The Emperor disagreed.

That day, however, the gallery served a useful purpose.

Father and son looked through curved armourglass at the group of feral men occupying the refectorum tables sixty metres below. Amid the opulence of the Emperor's ship the newcomers were incongruous. They were shaggy-maned, draped in filthy pelts, armoured in leather and iron-ringed byrnies over clothes whose rough weave appeared shockingly primitive under the even, artificial light. Their muscles were as big as mortal man's could be; they were hard men, warriors born, but unsophisticated. Their tattooed skin was dirty, their hair was filthier still. Their scent was kept from Horus, but they looked like they stank, and he wrinkled his nose as if he could smell them.

They behaved like children, toying with the glassware and the lamps that adorned the tables. They laughed like fools when they worked out how to activate a lumen; they laughed louder when the primitive playing with it dropped and broke it. They sniffed at fine wine and expensive foods with suspicious faces, laughed again at the fussy dishes of delicacies presented to them by servers they delighted in harassing. They were insolent, unworthy, scoffing at the Emperor's largesse. Horus glanced at his father, but the Emperor did not share his affront, His perfect, luminous face radiating nothing but pride.

The Emperor's eyes were fixed on their leader, the greatest of them all. He was a giant almost as massive as Horus himself. Though he was draped in the same rude skins and armour as his followers; though his long, blond hair was dressed in similar backward style to theirs; though he hunched over the table and picked at the kingly food with grubby fingers, ignoring the cutlery provided, it was clear as day is from night that he was not the same as his followers.

He was the same as Horus. This was the presence he felt.

This savage was his brother.

Horus stared at the barbarian king. No fraternal feeling came to him. Instead he was flooded with dismay. By his brother's feet lay two enormous animals one a grey so glossy it was almost silver, the other black. They appeared to have no difficulty accepting their new environment and slept easily on the floor.

'Are those actual wolves?' Horus said, fascinated despite himself.

'After a fashion,' said the Emperor. He spared His son a brief, benevolent look. 'They resemble the animals of Old Earth, though l think you would find the Terran species disappointingly small if you ever saw one.'