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cultist with a knife。
“Did you see him？” bluffed Barreski； pointing wildly。 “He had a bomb； and he was coming up
behind the high priest。 He would have killed him if I hadn’t… Look； you need to defend yourself！”
He thrust his lasgun into the cultist’s hands while he was still gaping； trying to work out what it was
he had seen。
Then Barreski was gone； leaving the brawny cultist with the weapon。 Which was how the
Traitor Guardsmen found him； a second later。
“Space Marines！ Coming up the passageway！” Pozhar hated this。
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He was stationed in one of the arched doorways into the palace proper； his job to keep it as clear
as he could for Steele and Wollkenden’s escape。 This meant pretending to be one of the heretics —
almost as bad； pretending to be afraid — but Gavotski had given him no say in the matter。
Few of the cultists were coming this way； anyway。 Mikhaelev and Barreski had placed their
charges carefully； herding them in the opposite direction — and of those who did try to pass Pozhar；
about half were turned back by his feigned panic。 Still； there were some who didn’t seem to hear
him； or were so eager to get out of the courtyard that they took their chances。 As one of them
bumped into him； it was all he could do not to draw his lasgun and start shooting。
“They… they’ve got chainswords！” he shouted desperately after the escapees。 “And guns！ Big
guns！”
“Pozhar！”
He turned at the sound of his name； couldn’t see who had called it at first。 In a yard full of robed
figures； it was near impossible to tell which ones were his comrades。 Then he recognised the slight
form of Palinev — and there； beside him； that had to be Grayle。 And between them…
Pozhar raced forward； dived into the crowd； helped Palinev to lift the unconscious Wollkenden。
He had discarded his sling； declaring himself healed； still； this exercise of his muscles sent a lance
of pain down his right arm。
“What happened？” he cried。 “What went wrong？”
“It’s okay； trooper；” said Steele breathlessly； picking himself up； leaning on Palinev。 “I just…
overestimated my strength； that’s all。 Still tired… Perhaps you and Grayle could… could look after
Confessor Wollkenden for me？”
Pozhar would have accepted that burden gladly。 But at that moment； he heard gunfire from
somewhere close by； and he turned to see a squad of Traitor Guardsmen pushing their way towards
the Ice Warriors。 They were brandishing lasguns； firing into the air so that the heretics parted before
them。
Pozhar drew his gun； shouting to Grayle and Palinev； “Go！ Get the confessor and the colonel out
of here。 I’ll hold them off！”
And he started firing — not upwards； but straight into the bodies in front of him。
The cultists were taken unawares。 They fell like dominoes； each hit felling three or more of them
— and the ripple effect spread back to the Traitor Guardsmen； blocking their path； threatening to
knock them down too。 They tried to fire back； but the seething mass of people between them and
Pozhar made it an impossible shot； and they only succeeded in taking out a few more of their own。
He could have gone after the others； then； could have taken the chance that he had delayed their
pursuers long enough for them all to escape。 Yes； he could have done that…
The cultists between Pozhar and the Traitor Guardsmen had begun to rally； identified the threat
in their midst and； unable to flee； swarmed him instead。 Few of them were trained fighters — half of
them were women — but they had overwhelming numbers on their side。 They punched the Ice
Warrior； clawed at him； dragged him down。 He saw the glint of a knife blade； too late to avoid its
swipe； felt it breaking the synth…skin on his stomach where the sewer creature had holed him with its
spines。 His lasgun was snatched from him。 He took blow after blow to his head。 He wasn’t quite
sure what kept him from falling down — but as long as he was standing； he would fight。
Pozhar was a whirlwind of limbs； punching； kicking； scratching； defying any of his foes to get a
firm hold on him。
And clutched in his left fist； he held his ultimate weapon： the primed frag grenade that would
collapse the archway behind Steele and the others； slow down anyone who tried to follow them —
and also ensure that the heretics that killed him would die by his side。 Just as he had planned would
happen outside Alpha Hive two mornings ago。
He wondered if this； then； was what the Emperor had spared him for on that occasion。 He
wanted to believe this。 But the itchy grey fur was all over his chest； spreading down his back； and he
could no longer open his right hand fully。 His fingers had hunched over and he thought his
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fingernails had grown longer； and Pozhar knew in his heart that his god could have played no part in
any of that。
He hadn’t come into this battle with the intention of dying in it。 At least； he didn’t think he had。
But the only thing keeping his secret now； he was sure； was the black cloak he was wearing； and he
couldn’t bear to see the expressions of his comrades； didn’t want to have to face their judgement；
when that cloak came off。
The Traitor Guardsmen were almost upon him。 Another few seconds； and they would have a
clear shot； would be able to finish him。 He activated the grenade； on a short fuse； and he lured them
back towards the archway。
It was better this way； he thought。
Better that his body be blown apart； and then liquefied by the virus bombs before any piece of
him could suffer the ignominy of being flung into a Chaos burial pit。 Better that no one should have
the chance to inspect his remains； that his comrades； let alone his commanders； should never learn
of his shame。
Better to let them all believe that Trooper Pozhar died a hero。
Mangellan was blind。
He hadn’t seen the las…beam that had hit him； his eyes already teary with smoke。 There had just
been a flash； and a searing pain。 He felt as if his face was on fire。 He couldn’t see where he was
going； didn’t know what was happening； he had to trust to his escorts to guide him to safety。
He stumbled into the cooling embrace of his palace； his magnificent Ice Palace； his gods’ gift to
him — but； for the first time； he felt unsafe within its walls。
He could hear running footsteps； cultists evacuating around him； and he yelled at the Traitor
Guardsmen to keep them away from him； to trust no one。
He felt an insistent tugging at his sleeve； heard Furst’s voice ask； “Why are we running； master？
What about the sacrifices？ Who is guarding them？”
He brushed the irritant away。
“They are chained！” he insisted； leaning against the wall to compose himself； rubbing his eyes
and blinking； praying to his gods that the blindness might only be temporary。
“But if their allies have come to free them—”
“Try to use your brains； Furst；” Mangellan snapped； “such as they are。 Steele brought only a
handful of soldiers into our hive。 How could they have penetrated this palace； my palace； without
our knowing about it？ No； this attack has come from the inside； from someone who is jealous of all I
have achieved； the power I have earned； someone who wished to sully my most glorious moment。”
“I am sure you are correct； master； but—”
“I always knew it would happen。 I knew the priests were always scheming and plotting； but to
act so boldly… Which of them was it？ What do you say； Furst？”
“I… I wouldn’t know； master。 I—”
Mangellan lashed out； trying to grab Furst by his robes。 He felt his hand brush against the
loathsome little mutant but failed to take hold of him。
“'You are always sneaking about；” he growled； “lurking in places you should not be； overhearing
what you should not have heard。 Tell me； Furst； who is to blame for this attack upon my person； this
affront to the gods I serve？”
“Nobody； master。 None of us would dare cross you in this way。”
“You saw him； didn’t you！ If not the traitor who planted the bombs； then certainly the wretched
opportunist who shot at me； who dared take my sight！ I will find him； Furst； and when I am through
with him； he will wish he… he…”
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Mangellan hadn’t felt the knife enter his stomach； so quick and clean had been the incision。 Only
now； as he felt his blood spill out； as a dull pain spread through him as if he had been kicked… only
now that he realised what had happened。
He was speechless； weak； dizzy。 He could only listen in uncomprehending horror as Furst leaned
close to his ear — Mangellan’s legs must have buckled； making him slide down the wall that was
supporting him； bringing him down to the mutant’s level — and whispered to him； “You are the one
to blame。 You presumed too much； thought too much of yourself； and now look what you have
wrought。 A ‘handful’ of Emperor…lovers has humiliated us； brought you to this。 I hear the gods —
oh； you were so certain they would not deign to speak to one such as I； that I would not understand
them — but I hear them； and they are disappointed with you。 You have failed them； Mangellan。”
He was on the floor； although he didn’t remember falling。 He tried to lift his hands； tried to turn
his head to where he imagined his protectors might be； tried to cry out to them； “Guards！ Guards；
attend me！”
“They won’t help you；” Furst’s voice said through the deepening darkness。 “They too know that
this is the gods’ will。 And they now serve a new master。”
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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Time to Destruction of Cressida： 03。34。45
The room was small； not much bigger than the apartment blocks on the lower hive levels。 It was
dominated by a single bed； though there was plenty of junk piled in the narrow spaces around it： bits
of furniture； clothing； broken lamps； even a couple of paintings with their corners touched by fire。
The walls were made of ice； of course。 A large； eight…pointed star had been painted clumsily on
one； so that black rivulets ran from it to the floor。
It didn’t surprise Blonsky that； with all the power he had； all the space available in the nearemptied
hive and in the Ice Palace； Mangellan still had his followers live like this。 The harder they
had to work to survive； the less time they had to plot against him。 Not that the occupant of this room
could care much any more。
He lay crumpled beneath the window to the courtyard； through which he had been leaning when
Blonsky had kicked open his door。 Some Ice Warriors held that it was wrong to shoot an enemy in
the back； but Blonsky disagreed。 All that mattered was that the heretic was vanquished。 To fail to
take that shot was the sin。
He only wished he had had a few more shots at Mangellan。 He had been taking aim when he had
seen that Grayle was in trouble； had had to help him out instead。 And the high priest’s guards had
reacted too fast； faster than he had expected。
One of them was here now。 The Chaos Space Marine。 His bulk filled the window frame； casting
the small room into shadow。 Blonsky had backed up as far as the door； scrambling over the bed；
wading through the junk； firing his lasgun； knowing it would do little damage； hoping at least to
throw off the Chaos Marine’s balance； make him lose his grip on the outside wall and fall。
He should have given up by now； should have withdrawn。
He hurled a frag grenade； but the Chaos Space Marine caught it easily； and tossed it over his
shoulder to erupt in the sky above the courtyard。 And then he was inside the room； and Blonsky was
out of both ammunition and time。
The Chaos Space Marine raised his gun and fired； and Blonsky slammed the door between them
and ran as bolts punched through the wood。 Barely a second later； he heard a cracking； wrenching
sound as the door was torn from its ice frame。
He raced along empty passageways； sprang down a flight of steps； but his pursuer remained
doggedly on his heels。 Blonsky could hear his heavy footsteps； thump； thump； thumping behind
him。 The only thing that kept the Chaos Space Marine from closing the gap between them was the
fact that the Ice Warrior was lighter； more lithe； able to corner more efficiently on the slippery；
uncarpeted floors。
He sped past two shaken cultists； refugees from the courtyard； and was away from them before
they could react to his presence。 Next time； he knew he might not be