'You exaggerate.'

'A Fenrisian virtue,' said Russ.

'You put yourself at risk. This is reckless.'

'That is the point,' said Russ. 'I am making it hard for myself. Without armour or powered weapons it is a challenge to take down a machine like this. I need a challenge. I can beat this thing, but I cannot beat Horus, not yet. Dorn's right about that.'

'Lord Dorn is displeased by your choice,' said Malcador neutrally. Russ loved the regent, but he bridled at his tone. The old man liked to keep his statements short and his silences long, so that others might make fools of themselves in filling them. Normally it amused him to watch, but he didn't like the technique being used on him, and his humours were already out of balance.

'That doesn't work on me,' Russ said.

'What doesn't?' said Malcador. There was a touch of amusement to his words, and that annoyed Russ even more.

'Dorn knew what I intended. Does my decision disturb you as well, old man?' Russ snarled. 'Do you think I should stay here with the others? You don't understand me if you think I should. Wolves hunt - we don't hang back to guard our dens. You have your appointed task, I mine. Do not let me distract you from your duties.'

'I am not disturbed. Nor am I distracted. I helped you before. I have not changed my mind.'

'Then why come to speak with me?'

Malcador's image straightened up. 'Because I should, and because your father cannot,' said Malcador. 'I have a little time. Attend me. You know where to find me. I will see you in an hour.'

Malcador's hololith blinked out.

'How do you know I will come?' Russ said into the empty air.

He cocked his head, expecting a reply to his challenge. He didn't get one.

The telepath could as easily have spoken into his mind, or sent a ghostly projection of his body to the Wolf King. His psychic might was second only to that of the Emperor. Russ thought he was making a point by not using his abilities.

Growling softly to himself, Russ snatched up a towel and wiped himself down, then left the arena to get dressed.

A moment later, he returned and reluctantly collected the Emperor's Spear.

MALCADOR SAT IN his private garden overlooking an enclosed valley in the Himalazian peaks. Water tumbled from on high, running down a stream bed through a thick jungle of rhododendrons. Insects reconstructed from ancient genetic records flitted between the blooms hanging from the trees. The air was thick and moist, rich with oxygen, redolent of the nectar of flowers and the healthy, pure smell of loam.

This was a vision of Old Earth, but it was a lie. The sky was roofed over with armourglass. The stream went into a tank, and