gods favoured him well. A tortoise‐like shell had solidified around his shoulders and power pack like a hunch‐backed mound of bone, a powerful sign of daemonic favour. The shell ended in a short, muscular tail that sprouted from the base of Hazareth’s spine and ended in a knot of fibrous growth. So monstrously thick‐framed that he resembled a Dreadnought, Hazareth had his club tail swept low to balance his ponderous steps.
‘Hazareth, your words stir this old heart,’ said Sabtah. The verbal dance was almost theatrical, more of a symbolic gesture than any meaningful exchange. Despite their piratical nature, the Blood Gorgons were traditionalists at heart and Sabtah was a piece of their long history. To the assembly, Sabtah was the old grey ring‐wolf they had always known. He was carefully presented in his Mark II Crusade armour, the articulated hoops of the relic lending an impressive bulk to his already broad girth. Most impressive was his beard, a tiered cascade of uniform ringlets that reached the bottom of his chest guard, black and well oiled.
There was no doubt that Sabtah was venerable, but more than that, he would ensure the proper functioning of the Chapter beyond the death of Gammadin.
‘Full Chapter strength deployment,’ Sabtah repeated. ‘But understand this – I know that there are those of you who do not support my custodial rule of my fellow brothers.’ Sabtah paused to let this statement sink in.
There was an uncomfortable silence from the assembled Blood Gorgons. Amongst them were younger squads who showed fealty to the witch‐psyker Muhr. Others still gave tacit 29
support to the few rogue captains who were rumoured to harbour aspirations of Championship. It would be a volatile time for the whole Chapter.
‘This is not the time for petty conflict and spiteful loyalties,’ Sabtah continued. ‘An unknown threat has chosen Hauts Bassiq as a target. Whatever is making our world their playground will soon have nine hundred Blood Gorgons crashing down around their ears.
This, this will be a good fight. One that will be remembered, as the ancients remember the massacre at Dunefall!’
Hazareth barked hungrily at the thought, a loud war‐mongering belch issued from valve amplifiers. They all cheered, stamping their traction boots in a deep raft of applause.
‘That will not be happening,’ declared a psych‐amped voice. They turned to see Muhr descending the stairs into the pit of the Temple Heart. His long black hair was slightly wild and his eyes were still milky with the aftergleam of recent psychic strain. ‘This will not be happening,’ Muhr repeated. ‘Gammadin has entrusted the Chapter to me. I will not deploy my Chapter blindly into an unknown threat. Certainly you do not mean to commit and risk all of us to save some nullius world of primitives?’ Muhr asked as he reached the assembly.
‘As great as Lord Gammadin was, he did not have the authority to make you our lord,’
Sabtah responded. ‘That is the way it has always been. If you seek to rule, then declare it openly. I will challenge your title.’
‘I declare it!’ hissed Muhr.
As he spoke, Sabtah levelled his power trident at Muhr. The three‐pronged trisula hummed like a tuning fork as the disruption field vibrated up and down its length.
‘I accept your challenge,’ Muhr shrieked. The witch‐psyker was already amping, his eyes and mouth streaming a harshly unnatural light. He screamed to emphasise his potency and vomited a beam of energy into the ceiling. His own battle‐brothers backed away and slaves scattered in mobs. Nearby, a dancer collapsed, her brain haemorrhaged by the psychic build up.
In response, Sabtah fired a quick burst from his bolt pistol over their heads. The gatling burp punctured the far wall, pushing deep holes into the basalt veneers. This was ritual posturing amongst the Blood Gorgons, a slow escalation of violence that could either end in death or the submission of one of the challengers.
The Blood Gorgons were cheering hard now. Amongst the chaos of gunfire and confusion, above the screams of slaves and performers, the bond‐brothers were shouting the name of Sabtah. There were others amongst them, a minority of Muhr’s allies, who drew concealed blades and punch daggers. The atmosphere became volatile. Muhr pressed forwards until he was within arm’s reach of Sabtah, putting his skull directly in front of Sabtah’s pistol. In the background, an eager bond‐brother emptied his bolter clip into the ceiling.
Sabtah aimed his bolt pistol at Muhr, his trident arm poised like a javelin thrower.
Muhr feinted forwards, provoking Sabtah. The old veteran’s nerve held