throatily.
Muhr turned away from the consoles, his voice faltering. ‘Master?’
123
‘Shooting at your own warriors? I feel no loyalty to your Blood Gorgons, but you should.’
‘If we do not shoot, they will escape. We can’t afford such mistakes so early. It will weaken us in the eyes of our Chapters. We have to kill them all.’
‘That is Brother Hepsamon. Mine. He is a warrior with a good campaign record.’
‘Master…’
‘We spread lengthy misery, but Grandfather Nurgle is deeply caring towards his mortal and daemonic servants,’
Muhr did not seem to understand.
‘That is where you and I differ, Muhr. Your warriors hate you, but they fear you. Mine…’
Opsarus did not finish, he simply gestured to the consoles.
On the grainy pict screen, they saw Brother Hepsamon turn on his captors. There was a brief struggle. The hostage threw himself before the flashing boltguns of Squad Hezirah. He sacrificed himself, the black and white image falling jerkily to the ground. Waiting Plague Marines swept in for the kill.
‘Loyalty. Above the carnage, the slaughter, the violence and the lust, there must exist loyalty. The backbone of a fighting force, tasty marrow. You can’t make soup without marrow. Did you know that, Muhr?’
Muhr watched the screen as the last of Squad Hezirah were chopped down by bolter fire. Executed. Had the Plague Marine not given up his life, then the plan might have succeeded.
‘If I give an order for my own warriors to kill their brethren, what sort of master would that make me?’ Opsarus asked. ‘A fat one without trust. No trust. No army,’ Opsarus said, blossoming his fingers as if a plume of dust had puffed up.
‘That’s your flaw, Muhr. You do not know how to foster your brethren,’ Opsarus said, chortling with delight.
MUHR STRODE DOWN the length of the dungeon cells, clattering the cage bars. ‘Who here does not swear allegiance to me?’
He pounded the metal grates for emphasis. ‘Who?’
Blood Gorgons he had known for decades, some for centuries, stared at him with hatred in their eyes. Muhr knew he was a traitor to them. He was their lord, but they would not follow him.
‘Who does not recognise my place within this Chapter? Who?’ Muhr repeated. He struck the cage bars with the back of his armoured fist, lashing out in his anger.
None of the Blood Gorgons answered him. They seemed unified by their animosity towards him. The thought made Muhr angrier. Even imprisoned, stripped of their wargear, the Traitor Marines were resolute. They would not give up any ground.
‘I do not.’
Muhr turned, finally finding a target for his wrath. It was Captain Zuthau, Commander of 4th Company, a towering giant of a Chaos Space Marine, horned and plated from centuries of warp travel, the skin of his arms and torso pinched and ridged into chitin. Zuthau who had conquered the sea fleets of Shar. Zuthau, the very same who had orchestrated the capture and ransom of a tau caste leader. Zuthau who slew eleven Ultramarines at the Brine Delta Engagement.
124
Muhr stalked towards Zuthau slowly. The captain stood at the front of his cell. He wore only a breechcloth, yet he stood proud, almost a full head taller than Muhr. Zuthau. A war hero.
Muhr shot him in the belly and then the head. The gun‐shots were so loud and so sudden that Zuthau never reacted. Muhr shot him three more times as he lay in a spreading pool of blood. Zuthau’s blood bond, Brother‐Sergeant Arkaud, screamed in rage. He threw himself at the cage bars, spittle flying from his mouth. Muhr shot him too, emptying the rest of his bolt pistol.
Arkaud was a veteran, but Muhr reasoned it was a small sacrifice to pay for the greater good of the Chapter.
The dungeons remained quiet. No one shouted from their cells. Even those who could not see what had occurred, knew by the rusty scent of blood and the methane stink of gunsmoke.
125
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
AS BARSABBAS APPROACHED the dark eldar encampment, he could hear the bark of warp beasts. The creatures could scent his soul. They were restless, excited, their yaps and wails carrying across the darkness of the night.
But Barsabbas could scent them too.
‘Warp hounds,’ Barsabbas said softly.
‘ Illith‐rauch,’ Sindul whispered. ‘Hounds of the Arenas.Slave‐maulers.’
‘Tell me how to get in,’ Barsabbas said.
Across the horizon, a field of spined, xerophytic grasses sprawled out for many hundreds of metres, bald patches of clay interspersed with coarse continents of low brush.
Beyond that, the chimney stacks of the facility could be seen against a purple sky.
‘You can’t. My kabal dispatched