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  He pushed on into the city, picking his way fastidiously through the narrow, dirty streets that ran between the enormous buildings.

  The place was laid out with no rhyme or reason. Vast squares lay between the great factories, but there was no apparent plan. The city had grown uncontrolled, like a cancer.

  There were no sewers, and the roads were full of filth. The smell of human waste mingled with the odour of frying food and the sharp tang of cheap alcohol. Low shadowy doors of inns and food booths rimmed each square.

  Unwashed children scuttled everywhere. Now and again, huge, well-fed men in long, blue coats pushed their way through the throng. They had facial scar-tattoos and they walked with an air of swaggering pride. If anyone got in their way, they lashed out at them with wooden batons. To Two Heads Talking's surprise, no one hit back. They seemed too weak-spirited to fight.

  As he wandered, the librarian noticed something even more horrible. All the members of the crowd, except the urchins and the bluecoats, were maimed. Men and women both had mangled limbs or scorched faces. Some hobbled on wooden crutches,

  swinging the stumps of legs before them. Others were blind and were led about by children. A dwarf with no legs waddled past, using his arms for motion, walking on the palms of his hands.

  They all seemed to be the accidental victims of some huge, industrial process.

  In the darkness, by the light dancing from the hellish chimneys, they moved like shadows, scrabbling about crying for alms, for succour, for deliverance. They called on the heavenly father, the four-armed Emperor, to save them. They cursed and raved and pleaded under a polluted sky. Two Heads Talking watched the poor steal from the poor and wondered how his people had come to be laid so low.

  He remembered the tall, strong warriors who had dwelled in the lodgetowns and asked nothing of any man. What malign magic could have transformed the people of the plains into these pathetic creatures?

  He felt a shock as a child tugged at his arm. 'Tokens, elder. Tokens for food.'

  Two Heads Talking sighed with relief. His spell still held. The child saw only a safe, unobtrusive figure. He could feel the strain of binding the spirits gnawing away at him subconsciously, but they had not yet slipped his grasp.

  'I have nothing for you, boy,' he said.

  The urchin ran off, mouthing obscenities.

  DEPRESSED AND ANGRY, the Space Marines left the cave village. Cloud Runner noticed that Lame Bear's face was white. He gestured for the big man and Weasel-Fierce to follow him. The two squad leaders fell in beside him. They marched up to a great spur of rock and looked down into a long valley.

  'Stealers,' he said. 'We must inform the Imperium.'

  Weasel-fierce spat over the edge of the cliff.

  'The dark city is theirs,' Lame Bear said. There was a depth of hatred in his quiet voice that Cloud Runner understood. 'They must have conquered the people and herded them within.'

  'Some clans resisted,' Cloud Runner said. He was proud of that. The fact that his clan had chosen to continue a hopeless struggle rather than surrender gave him some comfort.

  'Our world is ended; our time is done,' said Weasel-Fierce. His words tolled like great, sad bells within Cloud Runner's skull.

  Weasel-Fierce was right. Their entire culture had been exterminated.

  The only ones who could remember the world of the plains people were the Space Marines of the Dark Angels. When they died the clans would live only in the chapter fleet's records. Unless the Dark Angels broke with tradition and recruited from other

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  worlds, the chapter would end with the death of the present generation of Space Marines.

  Cloud Runner felt hollow. He had returned home with such high hopes. He was going to walk once more among his people, see again his village before old age took him. Now he found his world was dead, had been for a long time.

  'And we never knew,' he said softly. 'Our clans have been dead for years, and we never knew. It was a cursed day when we rode the Deathwing back to our homeworld.'

  The squad leaders stood silent. The moon broke through the clouds. Below them, in the valley, they saw the faded outline of a giant winged skull cut into the earth.

  'What is that?' asked Weasel-Fierce. 'It was not here when last I stalked in the valley.'

  Lame Bear gave him an odd look. Cloud Runner knew that his old friend had never pictured the brave of an enemy clan walking in his people's sacred valley.

  Even after a century, the taciturn, skeletal man could still surprise them.

  'It was where our spirit talkers made magic,' answered Lame Bear. 'They must have tried to summon Deathwing, the bearer of the warriors from the sky. They must have been desperate to attempt such a summons. They trusted us to protect them. We never came.'

  Cloud Runner heard Weasel-Fierce growl. 'We will avenge them,' he said.

  Lame Bear nodded agreement. 'We will go in and scour the city.'

  'We number only thirty, against possibly an entire city of stealers. The codex is quite clear on situations like this. We should virus bomb the planet from orbit,' Cloud Runner said, listening to the silence settle. Lame Bear and Weasel-Fierce looked at him, appalled.

  'But what of our people? They may still survive,' Lame Bear said, like a man without much hope. ' We must at least consider that possibility before we cleanse our homeworld of life.'

  Weasel-Fierce had gone pale. Cloud Runner had never seen him look so dismayed.

  'I cannot do it,' he said softly. 'Can you, brother captain? Can you give the order that will destroy our world - and our people -

  forever?'

  Cloud Runner felt the weight of terrible responsibility settle on him. His duty was clear. Here on this world was a great threat to the Imperium. His word would condemn his entire people to oblivion. He tried not to consider that Lame Bear might be right, that the people might not yet be totally enslaved by the genestealer horde. But the thought nagged at him most of all because he hoped it was true.

  He stood frozen for a moment, paralysed by the enormity of the decision.

  'The choice is not yours alone, Cloud Runner,' said Weasel-Fierce. 'It is a matter for all the warriors of the people.'

  Cloud Runner looked into his burning eyes. Weasel-Fierce had invoked the ancient ritual; by rights, it should be answered. The Terminator captain looked at Lame Bear. The giant's face was grim.

  Cloud Runner nodded. 'There must be a gathering,' he said.

  TWO HEADS TALKING saw a commotion break out across the square. A squad of bluecoats forced the maimed beggars to one side.

  People were crushed underfoot as they pushed through the throng like a blade through flesh.

  The librarian dropped back toward the entrance of a tavern. A surly bravo with fresh-scarred cheeks came too close. He raised his truncheon to strike Two Heads Talking, obviously perceiving him as one of the throng. It bounced off the carapace of his Terminator armour. The bluecoat squinted in astonishment at him, and then backed away.

  A palanquin borne by two squat, shaven-headed men in brown uniforms moved through the path cleared by the bully-boys. Two Heads Talking looked at the sign of a four-armed man on its side and a thrill of fear passed through him. His worst suspicions were justified.

  'Alms, elder, give us alms,' the crowd pleaded, voices merging into one mighty roar. Many had abased themselves and kneeled, stumps and grasping hands outstretched in supplication towards the palanquin.

  A curtain in its side was pulled back, and a short, fat man stepped out. His pale skin had a bluish tint, and he was wearing a rich suit of black cloth, a white waistcoat and high, black leather boots. A four-armed pendant dangled from a chain hanging around his neck. His head was totally hairless, and he had piercing black eyes. He gazed out at the crowd and smiled gloatingly, great jowls rippling backward to give him a dozen small chins.

  He reached down and found a purse. The crowd held its breath expectant
ly. For a second, his gaze fell on the librarian, and he looked puzzled. A frown crossed his face. Two Heads Talking felt a tug on his leg and fell to one knee, although it went against the grain to kneel to anything except the image of the Emperor. He felt that malign glance linger upon him and wondered whether the fat man had somehow penetrated his bound spirits' disguise.

  ALL THE SQUADS gathered around the fire. The great logs smouldered in the dark, underlighting the faces of the Marines, making them look daemonic. Behind them, Deathwing sat on its landing claws, a bulwark against the darkness. He knew that beyond it lay the city of their enemy, where dwelled abomination.

  Nearest the fires squatted the squad leaders, faces impassive. Behind them were their men, in full battle regalia, storm bolters and flamers near at hand. Firelight glittered on the winged swords painted on their shoulder pieces. Their garb was Imperial, but the scarred faces that showed in the firelight belonged to the plains people.

  He had known these men for so long that not even Two Heads Talking could have done a better job of reading their mood. In each stern visage, he saw a thirst for vengeance and a desire for death. The warriors wished to join their clansmen in the spirit realm.

  Cloud Runner, too, felt the tug of his ancestral spirits, their clamour to be avenged. He tried to ignore their voices. He was a soldier of the Emperor. He had other duties than to his people.

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  'We must fight,' said Weasel-Fierce. 'The dead demand it. Our clans need to be avenged. If any of our people survive, they must be liberated. Our honour must be reclaimed.'

  'There are many kinds of honour,' responded Bloody Moon. 'We honour the Emperor. Our Terminator suits are the badge of that honour. They are signs of the honour our chapter does us. Can we risk losing all traces of our chapter's ancient heritage to the stealers?'

  'For a hundred centuries, the armour we wear has borne Marines safely through battle. The suits will not fail us now,' replied Weasel-Fierce hody. ' We can only add to their honour by slaughtering our foe.'

  'Brother Marius, Brother Paulo, pray silence,' Cloud Runner said, invoking formality by the use of chapter ritual and calling Weasel-Fierce and Bloody Moon by the names they had taken on when they had become Marines. The two Terminators bowed their heads, acknowledging the gravity of the moment.

  'Forgive us, brother-captain, and name penance. We are at your service. Semper fideles,' they replied.

  'No penance is necessary,' Cloud Runner looked around the fire. All eyes were upon him. He weighed his words carefully before he spoke again.

  'We are gathered tonight, not as soldiers of the Emperor, but by ancient custom, as warriors of the people. To this, I give my blessing as captain and warchief. We are here as speakers for our clans, joined in brotherhood so that we might speak with one voice, think as one mind and discern the correct path for all our peoples.'

  Cloud Runner knew his words rang false. Those present were not speakers for their clans. They were their clans - all that was left.

  Still, the ritual had been invoked and must be kept to.

  'Within this circle there will be no violence. Till the ending of this gathering, we will be as one clan.'

  It was strange to speak those words to warriors who had fought together in a thousand battles under a hundred suns. Yet it was the ancient rite of meeting, meant to ensure peaceful discourse among the warriors of rival tribes. He saw some Marines nod.

  Suddenly, it felt right. The ways of their people had been born on this world, and while they were here, they would keep to them.

  In this time and space, they were bound by the ties of their common heritage. Each needed the reassurance after the trials of the day.

  'We must speak concerning the fate of our world and our honour as warriors. This is a matter of life and death. Let us speak honestly, according to the manner of our people.'

  THE ELDER FONDLED his chain of office and continued to stare at Two Heads Talking. A frown creased his high, bulbous forehead.

  Abruptly, he looked away and fumbled in his purse.

  A ragged cheer went up from the crowd as he threw handfuls of gleaming iron tokens out to them, then withdrew into his palanquin to witness the scramble. The Space Marine watched people grovel in the dust, scrabbling for coins. He shook his head in disgust as he entered the tavern. Even the most debased hive world dweller would have shown more dignity than the rabble outside.

  The place was nearly empty. Two Heads Talking looked around at the packed earth floor and the crudely made tables over which slouched a few ragged, unwashed drunks. The walls were covered in rough hangings which repeated a stylised four-armed pattern made to look like a crude star. Outside, in the distance, he heard the long, lonely wail of a steam whistle.

  The innkeeper leaned forward against the counter, gut straining against the bar-top. Two Heads Talking walked over to him. As he reached the counter, he realised that he had no tokens. The innkeeper stared at him coldly, rubbing one stubbled, broken-veined cheek with a meaty paw.

  'Well,' he demanded peremptorily. 'What do you want?'

  Two Heads Talking was surprised by the man's rudeness. The people had always been a polite folk. It paid to show courtesy when an offended party might hit you with a stone axe. He met the man's gaze levelly and exerted a portion of his will. He met no resistance from the man's weak spirit, but even so, the effort was fatiguing.

  The innkeeper turned away, eyes downcast, and poured a drink from a clay bottle, without being asked.

  Outside the doorway came the sound of footsteps. The doors burst open, and a crowd of workers flooded in, bellowing orders for drink.

  Both men and women had gaunt, tired faces. Their hands and bare feet were as grimy as their clothing. Two Heads Talking guessed that a shift had just ended. He took his drink and sat down in a corner, watching the workers slump down in the chairs, listening to them lisstessly curse their overseers and their lack of tokens. A group set up a dice game in the corner and gambled indifferently.

  After a while, Two Heads Talking noticed that people were drifting through a doorway in the back of the tavern. He rose and followed them. No one seemed to object.

  The room he entered was dark and smelled of animal fat. In its centre was a pit surrounded by cheering, cursing workers. Two Heads Talking made his way forward, and the crowd melted away about him. He stood at the edge of the pit and saw the object of everyone's attention.

  Down below, two great plains weasels were fighting, ripping long strips of flesh from each other while the audience roared and betted. Each was the size of a grown man and wore a spiked metal collar. One had lost an eye. Both were bleeding from dozens of cuts.

  Two Heads Talking was disgusted. As a youth, he had hunted weasels, matching stone axe against ferocious cunning. It had been a challenge in which the warrior gambled his life against a fierce and deadly adversary. There was no challenge to this cruel sport.

  It was simply a safe outlet for the bloodlust of these weary, hungry workers.

  The librarian departed from the pit, leaving the workers to their sport. As he left, he noticed that a bluecoat had entered the bar and was talking to the bartender. As he stepped outside, he saw that they were looking in his direction. He hurried into the smoggy

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  night, thinking that he felt inhuman eyes watching him.

  CLOUD RUNNER LOOKED at the faces round the fire. They were waiting for him to begin. He took three deep breaths. By long tradition, he must be the first to speak. A gathering of warriors was not an argument in the formal sense, where words were used as weapons to count coup on the enemy. It was a pooling of experience, a telling of stories. Words must have no sharp edges on which to snag anger. He chose his carefully.

  'When I was twelve summers old,' he began, 'I dwelled in the yellow lodge among the young bucks. It was my last summer there, for I was pledged to marr
y Running Deer, who was the fairest maiden of my clan. Often, the bucks would talk of the warriors from the sky. A hundred years had passed since their last visit, and the red star was visible in the sky. The time was near for their return. Hawk Talon, my grandfather's grandfather, had been chosen and taken to the spirit realm to serve the Great Chief Beyond the Sky. My bloodline had acquired much honour because of it, although he had left his son fatherless and needing to found a new lodge. Silver Elk was a buck with whom I had vied for Running Deer's hand. Because she had chosen me, he hated me. He boasted of how he would be chosen. His words were a taunt, aimed at belittling my kinsman's honour. Silver Elk's own line had no spirits who had ridden Deathwing and ventured beyond the sky. I was stung and responded to his taunt. I said that, if that were so, he wouldn't mind climbing Ghost Mountain and visiting the Abode of the Ancestors.'

  Cloud Runner paused to let his words sink in, to let the warriors imagine the scene. The memory seemed fresh and clear in his own mind. He could almost smell the acrid wood smoke filling the young men's lodge and see the furs hanging from its ceiling.

  'That was what Silver Elk had wanted me to say. He sneered and replied that he would go to the mountain if someone would accompany him as a witness. He looked straight at me. So I was trapped. I could not back out without dishonour. I had to go, or he would have counted coup on me. When she heard, Running Deer begged me not to go, fearing that the spirits would take me. She was a shaman's daughter and had the witching sight. But I was young, with a young man's pride and folly, so I refused her. Seeing that I could not be swayed, she cut a braid from her hair and wove it about with spells, making it a charm to return me safely home. It was a three-day trip at hunter's walk to Ghost Mountain. Fear was our constant companion. What had seemed possible in the warmth of the lodge seemed dreadful in the cold autumn nights when the moon was full and spirits flitted from tree to tree. I believe that if either of us had been alone, we would have turned back, for it is a terrible thing to approach the places of the restless dead at night as winter approaches. But we could show no fear, for the other was witness, and our rivalry drove us forward. Neither wanted to be the first to turn back. On the evening of the third day, we met the first warning totems, covered by the skulls of those the sky warriors had judged and found wanting. I felt like running then, but pride kept me moving on. We began to climb. The night was still and cold. Things rustled in the undergrowth, and the moon leered down like a witching spirit.