was not much of a concept amongst Chaos Space Marines, for whom abrupt violence was an integral part of their warrior culture. But Sabtah knew Hazareth had principles. He was a soldier who would not fail his brethren.
There was a gurgle of audio, almost completely buried by interference. The Cauldron Born lay at high anchor ghosting the orbit of Hauts Bassiq, but the moon they hid behind was causing the transmission to lose clarity.
Sabtah adjusted the volume higher and played the message again. The vox squeaked with feedback.
‘The soldiery of Nurgle has taken Hauts Bassiq, and Muhr has sold us to them. Muhr has sold Bassiq to them. He has betrayed us.’
Sabtah punched the metal casing of the trembling vox. He replayed the message, dissecting every word.
Captain Hazareth’s face was dark and serious. ‘I see why the witch has been so reluctant to deploy on Hauts Bassiq. He has some stake there.’
Sabtah ran a hand through his beard, his eyes closed. He breathed deeply before opening them again. ‘Transmit a message back to Bassiq and all units. Tell them to withdraw immediately with all squads. We need more answers.’
Hazareth began to key the sequence from receiving to transmit. He looked up from his work, the sharp quills on his scalp bristling with anger. ‘Give me the honour of removing Muhr from our Chapter,’ Hazareth growled.
81
‘No.’ Sabtah shook his head. ‘If we kill Muhr now, there will be intra‐Chapter war. I can’t allow that to occur under my wardship.’
‘Then we will watch him,’ Hazareth countered immediately. ‘Let me activate Squad Murgash. They are old and will not fail you.’
‘Make sure they do not. I always knew those witches were of coward’s blood. They are not bonded,’ Sabtah said. ‘That makes strangers out of them. I’d sooner put my life in the hands of the devious Sons of Alpharius than call a witch my brother.’
SABTAH LOCKED THE doors to his citadel. He shut the double gates of his interior courtyard and posted a double sentry of black turbans outside them. The blast shutters to his central tower and barracks were thrust into emergency lockdown. Finally, the interior wheel locks were turned, sealing the entrance to Sabtah’s bed chambers behind eighty centimetres of psy‐dampening plasteel.
Only then did Sabtah listen to the captured transmission.
The transmission from the atmospheric vox‐caster was soft and cut with static. Words were clipped, stilted and stuttering, but the gravity of their accusations and the stern deliverance of Bond‐Brother Barsabbas was not lost over distance.
‘The soldiery of Nurgle has taken Hauts Bassiq, and Muhr has sold us to them. Muhr has sold Bassiq to them. He has betrayed us.’
Sabtah reclined in his throne, resting his back against the solid interior of his power armour and bracing his chin between the fork of his fingers. He thought deeply of Bond-Brother Barsabbas’s accusations. It did not surprise him that Hauts Bassiq was the target of foreign conquest. It was a mineral‐lush planet and had once been an Imperial mining colony. So close to the Eye, it could serve as a strategic staging post for the first major leg of any campaign, if one were so inclined. The Blood Gorgons had always preferred the freedom of nomadic flight and had never seen the utility of devoting so much infrastructure to the extraction of earthbound resources. But it made sense to Sabtah.
Despite the blunt clarity of Bond‐Brother Barsabbas’s intelligence, Sabtah could not act hastily. Any provocation of Muhr and his small yet influential faction could spark the tinders of a second Chapter war. The memories of the first fratricidal conflict had faded but never dimmed for Sabtah. He had executed eight of his own brethren in that dark period and still bore the millennia‐old scars across his abdomen. He had no wish to fight through another.
Muhr was a cunning creature, and if Sabtah were to confront him, he would need to pick his time judiciously.
Sabtah’s ruminations were interrupted. The abrasive howl of a breach siren and the rhythmic pounding of tripwire alarms jolted him. He leapt from his oaken throne and crouched low without thinking. Simultaneously, the phos‐lanterns winked out with a crackling hiss of electricity.
The room was dark, but he could still hear the crashing pounding of his alarms. Slipping his war‐helm over his face, Sabtah loaded his bolter’s underslung flamer with a gilded canister from his oiled leather belt. The world lit up a lambent green behind his visor, his flamer held out before him, like looking through the vision‐slit of a