Still the three blades land, a furious onslaught that cracks
scales and scores plate. It is not the damage that bothers
Horus, nor the wounds. The wounds are nothing to him. It is
not the razor edge of the paragon spear, nor the shearing force
of Mourn-It-All, nor even the scalding kiss of Rubio’s sword.
It is the sight of his own son turned against him.
Garviel, Garviel…
No compunction. No reserve. No restraint. No respect for
paternity or bloodline, or a love once given and returned.
Loken has come against him, with a look in his cold, grey eyes
that Horus knows of old, a look that means he has no other
purpose than killing. It is a look that all Loken’s enemies down
the years have seen. Briefly. Once.
Horus never thought to be fixed by that look. It seems to hurt
him more than anything the gods have ever done to him.
And the gods, the Old Four, in their shrouded abditory, stir
and crane forwards. They observe hungrily. Fathers and
sons… Agnate loyalties, such complex connections, always
provide the most exquisite sport.
Horus roars again. The malign energies streaming from his
claw cease, his prey forgotten.
He turns on Loken.
Now it is Loken’s turn to see and feel the look. The focused,
bloodlight glare of Warmaster Lupercal, that has illuminated
worlds and torn empires down. Those eyes of terror…
‘Do it!’ Loken spits. ‘Prove to me what you have become!’
Horus needs no urging. He has no compunction either. His
claws open to turn the power upon his son, and punish the
insolence of an ungrateful child.