The cavernous chamber echoes with a wordless cry of rage. This bestial, animalistic, shout spread throughout the cylindrical tower until it seemed there were thousands of voices magnified in their rage. Across from the Inquisitor’s party, the traitorous apothecary had his head turned to the sky, his eyes and mouth bulging open as he shouted in wordless defiance. The crack began to fade and disappear, until the traitor lowered his right hand as if to seize it. As he did, he drew a strange grenade with his left hand, a globe of green vapours contained within metal bindings that resembled a human skull. The inquisitor let loose a hail of shells from a wrist-mounted storm bolter, joined by the sisters and stormtroopers a mere moment later. Their volleys did not fly true, but were curved and distorted by the rift until they exploded harmlessly against the ceiling or wall. The lasbolts were split as if travelling through a prism, and kaleidoscopic patterns of colours played against the opposite wall without any noticeable effect.

The marine gave the grenade an almost half-hearted throw, letting the rift catch it and draw it closer in. When it detonated, it did so with a swirling vortex of unnatural shapes and colours, that Amelia saw through her soul rather than her eyes. The Inquisitor’s penitent screamed as the chamber was bathed in baleful warp radiation that poured into the poor woman’s addled mind. Her eyes burst, leaving only glowing holes and she sunk to her knees as her body seemed to burn up from within, leaving a hollow shell of blackened flesh that leaked a fine grey dust.

Where the rift had been, there was now little more than empty space, but the flames surrounding Maria Benevente rose higher and higher, and her skin began to bulge and expand. When the Inquisitor let fly another volley of shots off at the apothecary, they began to spin around the ritual circle before detonating in and around the helpless sacrifice. Her skin was rent asunder by innumerable bolt shells as prismatic lasbolts superheated blood and bone marrow. The poor girl collapsed under the pressure until she resembled little more than a pile of viscera. The apothecary was long gone, having fled into another passage.

Suddenly, the pile of blood and bones that had once been the finest daughter of Nova Iberia began to split and bubble, as if it was under a great heat. This mass of flesh expanded rapidly, building up mismatched bones, muscles and skin seemingly at random. The assembled acolytes, gradually joined by others from the other entry teams, poured fire into this monstrosity, which seemed to only serve to spread it further. Primitive limbs began to form, great arms with innumerable elbows, covered with fingers like any other beast would have fur. These arms swing outwards, catching a trio of stormtroopers as they poured fire in, sweeping along the top of the railings as if it were blind.

Innumerable eyes began to grow on the centre of this mass, each unmistakably human no matter how mutated they may be. These eyes were immediately targeted by a withering hail of fire, and many burst as soon as they were formed, but the monstrosity was constantly creating more as the flames around it rose higher and higher. Amelia, unsteady on her feet, offered her own meagre fire from her laspistol, firing on an empty magazine before she thought to reload. The monster was more accurate now, and its arms shot unerringly towards the Inquisitor’s retinue. One bulky tendril even went after the Inquisitor, before it was bisected by his power sword.

As this bulky arm, still writhing even without being connected to its host, shot past Amelia, she woke from whatever terrified trance her fear had brought her to. She saw the creature, surrounded by the still-burning ritual circle. The flames were merely the most obvious component, she could see a steady flow of energy travelling into the monstrosity, doubtless the source of its unnatural regeneration.

‘We have to destroy the circle!’ she cried in a hoarse voice.

It was enough, however, and the Inquisitor looked to her with a bemused expression before turning back.

‘Focus fire on the ritual circle! He cried, ‘Cut out the very ground from under it!’

His followers obeyed without question, turning their guns away from the monstrosity with no regard for their own lives. Whatever fell power the circle contained still drew their munitions into the centre, into Maria, so they angled their weapons almost entirely downwards, carving deep furrows into the surface as their shells were caught in the pull. The incandescent flames began to scatter as the burning chalk disintegrated under explosive force, and the monstrosity began to shudder uncontrollably, sending out horrifying psychic screams that had Amelia bent double. Soon this ethereal sound was matched by reality as a thousand tears formed across the beast, creating screaming maws filled with rows of irregular teeth.

Meltas and plasma weapons were turned on the floor, and soon great plumes of natural red flames danced amongst the incandescent violet of the warp-touched chalk. The great beast screamed and screamed as it lashed out at its tormentors. Its regeneration had slowed, and it wounds no longer grew into new mutations, but instead repaired themselves as the beast maintained its current size. Every explosive weapon the acolytes had was thrown into the pit, until the floor resembled little more than an ashen grey ruin, interspersed with pools of superheated stone.

The Inquisitor took his boot to the iron railing, following its descent until he landed in the base of the pit. His crusaders followed thereafter, until thirteen blades stood in opposition to the monstrosity. They charged forwards like ancient knights, ducking and weaving amongst the creature’s immense arms, or simply carving through them. One knight tried to parry a blow with his immense shield, but the arm simply knocked him against the wall, where Amelia felt his soul withdraw as the nerves in his spine were shattered. Their heroic effort was joined by a titanic volley of fire from above, slowly but surely reducing the mass of the great beast.

‘Filburn!’ the Inquisitor’s voice carried beyond the retort of massed bolter fire, or the agonising screams of the mutated beast, ‘Kill the traitor marine! Bring me his head!’

Interrogator Filburn, whose ostentatious attire clashed incongruously with his utterly serious demeanour, shouted his assent before sprinting off, followed by ten sisters and a platoon of stormtroopers. Amelia joined them, her psychic powers about as useful against Maria Benevente as her laspistol, shadowed by Corporal Al’Said, who had not left her side since the chaos of the initial breach. As she closed with the Interrogator, Amelia flung herself to the ground to avoid a stray arm that slammed a sister against the wall, crushing her power armour in a shower of sparks that left the body twitching, embedded a full foot into the steel wall of the chamber. Amelia pressed on, banishing the sister’s agony from her mind, and joined the Interrogator just as he entered the corridor the traitor had fled through.

Filburn headed up a large group of Sisters, his long red coat flowing behind him as he strode onwards. He turned back for a moment, taking in the monstrosity behind him and flashing Amelia a wolfish grin of pure white teeth framed by his dark skin. His right hand held his narrow power sword down by his side, some impurity within the ancient mechanism sending cascading lines of electricity along its length, while his left supported a long inferno pistol, its burning barrel raised up to the ceiling.

This spoke of the bunker’s ‘wheel’ seemed to have been occupied by offices and barrack blocks, and consequently was a network of featureless grey corridors, unlike the vast expanse of containment cells that dominated the rest of the facility. Filburn moved through these tunnels with an easy confidence, while the sisters would occasionally dash ahead to clear corridors ahead of their advance. In this way, they slowly ate up the distance between the hunters and their prey.

Suddenly and without warning, one of the sisters was stuck by a hail of stub-rounds as she rounded the corner. The lead slugs did little more than spark across her armoured features, and she immediately responded with a volley of bolt-shells that echoed throughout the halls. Two of her sisters sprinted up to join her, forming a human wall that weathered the withering fire as one would weather a thunderstorm, turning their armoured pauldrons to catch the rounds. After a few moments brief firing, the sisters began to advance, driving their enemies back with every menacing step. The Interrogator followed thereafter, joined by Amelia and the stormtroopers.

Systematically, these acolytes shouldered open the long rows of doors that ran on either side of the corridor, before firing in and killing whatever unfortunate souls sought refuse there. Amelia found herself caught up in the thrill of battle and, together with Al-Said, chose her own door to clear. The stormtrooper gave the door a titanic blow with his shoulder, bursting the lock from the frame. As the door swung open, the stormtrooper followed its path with his rifle, bathing the room in a bloody red light. Amelia followed, her pistol raised, and caught a heretic in the shoulder. The room was filled with huddled slaves, dressed in some combination of medical robes and tribal garb, of whom very few were armed. Still, they practically threw themselves onto their enemies’ barrels in a suicidal last offensive. Almost every room the acolytes entered was filled with the same.

This resistance, as lowly as it was, slowed their advance to a snail’s pace as it caused the acolytes to pause and clear every room, lest their foes outflank them. The constant fire drained their ammunition, but a steady stream of stormtroopers joined them from the central chamber, supplanting precious bolt rounds with their seemingly endless lasbolts. Filburn led the vanguard, and Amelia found herself directing these reinforcements. The battle through the facility had cost the stormtroopers much of their senior leadership, and she found the scattered survivors of a myriad of platoons eager for some form of leadership. They were professionals, and capable of great initiative, but they looked upon the senior acolytes, Amelia included, with a reverence born not from religious fervour, but a deeply felt respect. This unrequited love, without hidden ambition or overzealousness, humbled Amelia.

The sounds of distant battle emanated through the cavernous halls, distinct from their own echoes. The enemy had clearly met the Inquisiton team assigned to this spoke of the wheel, and Amelia mused that they must be trying to hijack the Hellbore to make their escape. The acolytes redoubled their efforts, with Filburn now leading the charge with his Inferno pistol. They sprinted past charred corpses and through shards of shattered flesh and bone, a mad rush without fear of death or defeat, so that they might catch the enemy before it was too late. Opposition, such as remained, was dealt with mercilessly.

Throughout it all, Corporal Al’Said hung behind Amelia’s shoulder like a guardian angel. His wordless, stoic, presence was a constant companion, and the barrel of his hellgun, glowing red with heat, was a watchful protector. Together, the pair carved their way through innumerable chambers, Amelia lashing out with her sword, her laspistol now chargeless, whilst surrounded by a halo of red light as Al’Said put pinpoint las shots over her shoulder, putting his height to full advantage. When the corridors became twisted by debris, the aftershocks of the hellbore’s entry, he kept his glowing eyes fixed on every nook and cranny, quick to direct massed vollies of fire towards even the slightest movement.

Their adversaries path became clearer to see, massive footprints in the dust or paths cleared through rubble with superhuman strength offering tell-tale signs of their passing, and soon the Acolytes emerged into an expansive chamber at the far end of the spoke, with the shattered remains of a great elevator shaft above their head and a second tunnel the walls of which still glowed with the heat of the plasma drill that had carved them. Filburn sprinted to the end of the tunnel and offered a single curse as he caught sight of a titanic drill, carving a path away from them. Instantly Amelia reached out with her mind, only to feel a cluster of horrific souls slowly slipping out of her range. Desperately, she cast out her thoughts but the enemy were simply to far. Again and again she hurled herself against the boundaries of her own mind in an irrational attempt to catch the fleeing machine.

Qaboos Al’Said looked upon the empty chamber with despair, and his hellgun began to feel heavy in his arms. He was struck by a terrible sense of failure, and he knew that every stormtrooper shared his feelings. It was as he was lost in thought that he saw Agent Lafayette collapse like a puppet with her strings cut. Instantly all other thoughts fell from his mind and he rushed to her side, joined mere moments later by the unfamiliar Interrogator Filburn. Al’Said pressed his hand against her chest to try and feel her breathing, his bulky gloves too thick to detect a pulse, while the Interrogator pressed his fingers against the nape of her neck.

‘Her pulse is there, but it’s weak.’ He spoke in a matter of fact voice, apparently devoid of concern.

‘Breathing’s the same my lord.’ Al’Said replied, grateful for the distortive effect of his helmet.

‘What happened to her, has this happened before?’

‘I don’t know my lord.’

The so-called ‘Daughter of the Emperor’ refused to scream. Her attempt at resistance amused Kandor Mox, it was the defiance of a fly, and he simply pressed his hand even further against her armoured chest. Mox was a firm believer that you had to take the small pleasures whenever you can, that this is what separates men from animals, but he wasn’t particularly interested in the woman herself. It was her armour that intigued him, and he was engrossed in the sensation of the metal plates bending and snapping, whilst he listened to the whine of the servomotors like a masterful concerto. The armour given to these women was a poor imitation of Astartes plate, inferior in every way, but Mox was enamoured by the subtle differences in the machine’s construction. As he put pressure on the chest, the symphony rose as the strange servomotors, much lighter and more sonorous than he was used to, whined in protest before snapping through the ribcage of the armour’s occupant.

Hadar, that waste of resources, might think of Mox as little more than an illiterate grunt, but he fancied himself as somewhat of an artificer, taking pleasure in the simple joy of machines and longing to earn an apprenticeship to one of the Legion’s Warpsmiths. There he might create his own machines, wonderous creations that would carry his legacy across the stars. Perhaps he would even modify this lighter form of power armour for use amongst the cults. Perhaps not, he remarked to himself as he withdrew a bloody gauntlet from the Sister’s chest and let her corpse slide to the floor. With humans it was usually better to go for quantity over quality. That was Hadar’s failing. Mox stared down the length of the Hellbore’s crew compartment, over Imperial corpses and the few meagre survivors of his own forces, to where that incompetent apothecary was conversing with a gaggle of human ‘researchers’.

No human can become a Demon Prince, and you certainly can’t create one by trial and error. The resources poured into this vanity project could have served the Legion on a hundred different campaigns, instead they had cast it all into a pit on this backwater planet. Anger flared in his mind and his hand was drawn to the bolter mag-locked to his armour, but duty stayed his hand. That was what separated the Word Bearers from the rest of the Legions, they were still a united front, and sometimes they must surrender personal advancement for the sake of the Legion. Hadar’s own ambition had got them into this mess, and now Mox was the last Word Bearer left alive on this world, his only hope of escape this damn fool plan to wait out the Inquisition.

A shape moved throughout the bedrock of Nova Iberia without any regard for the mass of stone that lay in its path. Indeed, this shape was incapable of seeing the stone for it had no eyes. It was a formless thing that, had anyone the capacity to see it, seemed to spark with faint traces of golden light. This shapeless form moved at incomparable speeds towards a faint and distant glow. Its prey, for there was something distinctly predatory about this light, was a small cluster of much dimmer lights whose aura, for want of a better word, was flecked with purple flames. It took no time at all for this thing to catch up with its target, and soon it flew outside their metal prison, unseen, unheard and utterly undetected. Within this metal shell were perhaps some hundred targets, of which two were notably formidable and were seemingly caged by arcane haloes of their own.

Below the feet of these demigods was a sea of wretched figures who may as well have not existed for all the attention the two demigods paid them. Their minds were shielded by devotion, true, but the rest of there thought were so unlike the cold calculation and ambition of their leaders. Fear dominated their minds, a hundred fearful souls struck by an uncertain future, and wracked by deep hidden guilt. It was easy for the spectre to sift through the minds of these people, reading memories and identities as one might peruse a stall. The air stank of their desperation, and it would be a simple matter to let their minds withdraw within themselves, as they so dearly wished, and take over. But the spectre instead chose to bide its time, sifting through the minds and seeing through their eyes until it found what it wanted.

In time, the Spectre saw what it wanted not, as she had though, amongst the wretched minds but within the noble mind of the demigods. The first’s mind was like a fortress, utterly disinterested in the world around it, but the other’s thoughts were filled with hatred for its brother. Cautiously, as if caressing a vicious beast, the spectre grew that sensation of hatred until it created a chink in the otherwise impenetrable mind, allowing the spectre to slink inwards.

Mox fumed to himself. Every time he cast his eyes towards Hadar, he felt bile rising in his throat. That monster had ruined everything, his chances, his opportunities, even his brothers were now dead because of him. His armoured gauntlets began to creak as he clenched his fist, and his hand began to drift towards the bolter mag-locked to his thigh. He dismissed the violent urge, but only for a moment and soon his hand leapt up of its own accord, bolter raised, and he unleashed a withering fire into the other Apothecary.

Power armour was robust, and the withering fire proved unable to pierce Hadar’s heavy plate. His armour dented under the force of fire, and he was forced off his feet by the concentrated burst. Within seconds, the magazine had expired and Mox moved without thinking to bring up a second, letting the empty fall to the floor as he racked back the slide. He fired another magazine at the prone figure but rage had tarnished his aim, and many of his shells flew past the apothecary and into the great mass of gears and engines that powered the drill. Sparks flew, small at first before being carried throughout the drill in some sick parody of fireworks. The engine began to creak until, with a cascade of screeching, the gears and engines disintegrated into a field of flying metal. The lowly cultists were bisected by flying cogs that ricocheted throughout the enclosed space while Hadar was caught by a hail of superheated metal that finally cut through his armour. A microsecond later, Mox and the rest of the drill went up as the plasma tanks ignited. Before he died, he felt a small presence leave his mind.

The spectre lashed out with growing desperation now, as it attempted to return to its mortal shell. It flew through mile upon mile of featureless void until a cluster of souls caught its eye. As it drew closer, it began to feel the pull of an empty void that seemed to call to it, and the spectre elegantly swam its way through the sea of souls before settling back into its body.

Amelia opened her eyes warily, before shrinking back under the light of the sun. She tried to raise her arm to shield her eyes, only to find it strapped down by a thick leather cord. By her side walked a Sister of the Orders Hospitaller, and it didn’t take long for her to realise she was strapped to a gurney. The small movement of her arm did not go unnoticed, and her eyelids were soon pried open by the sisters gentle, but implacable, hand. Amelia desperately tried to look anywhere except at the burning ball of gas, and her response apparently satisfied the Sister, who shouted off to some unseen presence. Within minutes, and after the sun had been mercifully covered by a puffy white cloud, the face of Interrogator Filburn entered her view, his face noticeably lacking its characteristic smile.

‘What happened to you?’ He spoke, his voice toneless and professional.

‘The marines are dead.’ Amelia began, her words rewarded by a look of shocked disbelief on the Interrogators face, ‘I was able to separate my soul from my body and project my consciousness towards them. I took control of one of the marines and had him destroy the drill. They all burned up underground.’

‘You can do that?’ Filburn’s voice was full of honest bemusement, and Amelia had to stifle a grin at the thought of flustering an Inquisitorial agent.

‘I’ve never been able to before, but the best telepaths are rumoured to perform feats of astral projection. Inquisitor Ravenor’s legendary for it; he can possess people from orbit.’

Filburn’s bemusement switched into his characteristically wolfish grin and he began to laugh, heartily and earnestly. His amusement was hopelessly contagious, and soon Amelia found herself joining him in their almost manic laughter.

‘I need to tell the Inquisitor,’ Filburn spoke once his mirth had somewhat subsided, ‘we’ve got the Silent Observer overhead performing deep scans for subsurface movement.’

‘What about me?’

‘You’re heading back to the ship; astral projection or not, you still need to rest. It’s over, Amelia. This is victory. Savour it.’

A single, avian shape took off from the plains of Nova Iberia. Its wings had been painted to resemble the wings of an eagle, and it bore a stylised beak on either side of its nose. Underslung rocket pods bristled beneath its wings, and a heavy bolter jutted out of each of its open doors. As it flew higher and higher, the gunners withdrew and the heavy doors were closed. The aircraft left the atmosphere, its pulse-jet engines disabling their turbines and sending short bursts of fuel to propel it inexorably towards a dark shape that loomed over the planet.

Inside this metal beast, a young woman lay on a hospital gurney. She wore a tattered stormcoat that had been held open to expose an ornate breastplate upon which a double headed eagle had been wrought in gold. Her weapons lay against the walls of the gunship, an empty laspistol, a long sword of simple design held in an unadorned scabbard and a long staff of rich wood and delicate circuitry that was topped by an all-seeing eye. Her skin was pale and her ginger hair, what little remained, was swept back from the top of her head into a long braid. There was no hair on the sides of her head, only metal plates holding an assortment of wires that stretched towards her collar in some mockery of dreadlocks. Her eyes, were they open, would be a piercing green. On her lips was a smile.