his hands as the muscles spasmed. Although Gammadin’s will was focussed on Sindul, such was the power of his psychic echoes that Barsabbas was compelled even by their residual fury.
To his front, the Harvester tried to thrust up into the air. It rose hesitantly, stalled and then slammed back down. It came down so quickly that the landing struts snapped and there could be heard the bestial friction of forty tonnes of metal squealing against stone.
+ Show yourself+
The cockpit hatch popped open with a vacuum hiss and Sindul crawled down the ledge.
Blood ran down his face, into his chest and down most of his legs. His hands were clawing his head, his topknot frazzled and wild.
Gammadin crossed the courtyard and bodily lifted the dark eldar into the air with one arm, holding him face to face. ‘Twice I have been betrayed by the dark eldar. Twice,’
Gammadin said with disgust while studying the specimen in his grasp.
Sindul screamed. Gammadin tossed him onto the hard ground. A boot, wrought like a cloven hoof, was brought down onto Sindul’s femur, breaking his leg cleanly. Gammadin stomped again and broke the eldar’s other leg.
‘We still need him,’ Barsabbas gasped as he limped across the courtyard. He could already hear the familiar shouts of soldiers being mustered to find them, and the crump of approaching footsteps.
‘We still need him to fly his ship.’
Gammadin nodded sagely. ‘Well, he can fly without the aid of his mischievous little legs.’
At this, Sindul raised his head with a bloodied grin. When he smiled, the missing part of his right cheek twitched with exposed fat and sinew. Blood stained his teeth and drooled from his lips. ‘Well, we better go, then. The enemy are coming for you,’ he taunted defiantly.
161
CHAPTER TWENTY‐TWO
ANKO MUHR HAD not expected the influence of Grandfather Nurgle to pervade so quickly. The God of Decay was generous to those who gave worship. The Cauldron Born was ailing, its ventilation wheezing like great bellows. Even the Witchlord’s own brothers would one day succumb to the persistent corruption of Nurgle when their wills were sufficiently broken.
Muhr, however, had welcomed the Lord of Decay openly.
Had his hand always been so black? He was certain it had not.
For as long as he could remember, Muhr’s ungloved hand had been that of a Blood Gorgon: pale white and deeply striated, with thick bones and the wiry muscle that bound them. It was not like that any more.
Muhr’s hand, when he held it up to his face, was entirely black. The skin itself was so dark it was almost waxen, but not the smooth beautiful black of ebony, it was the black of rot. He had not even noticed the change in colour until his fingernails had slid off his fingertips. Now his hand pulsated, the veins engorged with tarrish blood and swelling the walls of his skin. The changes Muhr had undergone were mesmerising. The gifts of Father Nurgle, the beautification of decay, were endlessly fascinating…
‘My sorcerer advisor. That has a measure of dignity to it, does it not?
Sorcerer.Advisor.The second of the Crow.’
Muhr turned to see Opsarus standing in his chambers without announcement. The Crow had a habit of doing so.
‘Nurgle favours you,’ Opsarus continued. ‘See the attention he invests in you?’
‘Yes,’ Muhr replied, hypnotised by his own hand.
‘Behold the floral magnificence of Nurgle. Budding flowers of flesh growth, the tessellating landscapes of mould spore. There is no beauty to the unadorned,’ Opsarus declared. ‘Nurgle is first and foremost an artist. Tzeentch, he is a mere mischief‐maker, and young Slaanesh no more than a libertine. Let us not even begin with the linear, narrow-minded aggression of Khorne.’
‘Nurgle nurtures,’ Muhr said. ‘But I do not know how openly my bonded brethren will appreciate the artistic mutations of Nurgle.’
Opsarus’s delighted tone changed suddenly. His voice lowered. ‘What do you mean?’
Muhr shook his head quickly. ‘I did not mean anything by it,’ he stammered. ‘But the Blood Gorgon companies. They may not be impressed by the physical changes that Nurgle has planned for them.’
Opsarus rose to his full height, his voice a slavering growl. ‘Of course they will. You would like it. Soon they will become like you. Like me. We are one. Nurgle will take the Blood Gorgons into the fold, whether they choose it or not.’
Muhr nodded. He stared at his black hand. Nurgle was claiming him because he had allowed Nurgle into his soul. But sooner or later, whether the Blood Gorgons wished it or not, the deathly presence of the Plague