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 By the ninth minute, bleeding from a dozen wounds, two of them critical,
 he had resolved to kill the Lord of Iron too. If he got out. In that dream of
 escape. He would find the great Perturabo and kill him. This had been his
 great idea. Perturabo had seen the flaw, the Saturnine fault. He had toyed
 with it, cooed over it, revealed it to Abaddon furtively, like some
 pornographic image. He had gulled Abaddon into this. He’d used the First
 Captain, with his reputation, and his authority, and his unrivalled
 connections. He had used Abaddon to make this happen. Perturabo, damn
 his soul, had played First Captain Ezekyle Abaddon like a fool. He had
 tempted him with glory, made him feel smart and noticed, preened his ego.
 Made him feel like it was all his big, clever idea. The bastard had even
 made Abaddon beg him to let him do it. The Lord of Iron, lord of shit, had
 manipulated Abaddon into using his influence to draw resources from the
 Sons of Horus, coerce the Emperor’s Children into playing along, broker
 the help of the Mechanicum. He’d made Abaddon do all the work and take
 the credit, so if it failed – if it failed – if it failed like it was failing now,
 Abaddon would be to blame.
 Perturabo had deniability if it turned to shit. Perturabo could claim
 ignorance if three companies of the Sons of Horus, including the elite, not
 to mention how damn many of the Emperor’s Children, failed to return.
 In death, Abaddon would be blamed for the disaster, and his memory
 dishonoured. In death, he would be disgraced. Called overreaching. Called
 ‘that fool Abaddon’.
 Abaddon would find the Lord of Iron, in that dream escape from this hellpit. He would annihilate those damned war-tometa with meltas. He would
 face Perturabo, and tear his skull off his spine, and ram the haft of
 Forgebreaker down the stump of his neck, and keep ramming it until the
 bastard’s body split like a rotten gourd.
 In the tenth minute, Abaddon arrived at a point of calm. Of serenity. He
 accepted his onrushing death, which was surely only seconds away. It had
 become a game, a contest, like the old practice cages. How many of them
 could he kill before he was bested? Some? Most? All? Some were fine
 warriors. Sepatus, he was magnificent. Haar was a brute, but an interesting
 challenge. Garro… Abaddon fancied his own chances in an even match, but
 the man’s sword was a piece of work, and so was Garro’s skill with it.
 He realised, as he killed, and killed, and killed, that he owed the Lord of
 Iron a genuine debt of gratitude. Abaddon was a warrior. He’d always been
 a warrior. It was his life. His purpose. He excelled at it. The warp was a
 distraction. It was just another weapon. Those who knelt before it and
 pledged their worship, treating it like some kind of god, they were fools. All
 of them. Magnus. Lorgar. Fulgrim. Fools. Horus was a fool. The warp was
 nothing.
 Being a warrior was everything. It defined him. The skill of combat. The
 lessons of defeat. The joy of triumph. That was his sacrament. Let them
 worship their false gods and giggling abominations. This was what he had
 wanted. The chance to fight, like a man, not a daemon. The chance to take
 the Palace, and claim Terra, the old-fashioned way. By force of arms.
 He had wanted to win as a warrior. Perturabo had let him try. He owed the
 Lord of Iron thanks for that.
 This was everything, he realised, as he entered the eleventh minute, with
 almost everyone dead. This moment. Its simplicity. Skill and courage,
 tested to the limit, for no other reason, to serve no grand plan or devious
 ruse… just tested for the sake of skill and courage.
 This moment was his life in its purest form. His life distilled. He fought
 Katechon, and Imperial Fists, and Blackshields, and Cataphractii
 Terminators, and Tactical Space Marines, for no other principle than to find
 out who was best. There were no sides. No good or bad. No rebel cause or
 loyalist alliance. No Warmaster. No Emperor. No point to anything outside
 the broken, blood-smeared walls of the killing chamber.
 Just war. Only war. The binary test of the galaxy, that you passed in
 triumph, or failed in glory.
 Death, rushing closer, was immaterial.
 How many could he take? How many more times could he prove his
 prowess?
 He was Abaddon. Let them come. Let them all come. Find more, and bring
 them too. Bring anyone. Bring everyone.
 He would take them. Or he would die. Either way. It didn’t matter any
 more.
 In the twelfth minute, Nathaniel Garro reached him, cleaving through one
 last Justaerin to close with him. They duelled, blade into blade, munitions
 long since exhausted. Garro was good. His sword was remarkable. He dealt
 Abaddon two wounds that would have killed lesser men. He drove
 Abaddon back, boxing him against the chamber’s ancient wall. Good
 tactics, but a mistake. When Abaddon pivoted, it was Garro who found
 himself boxed, his back to the stone. Abaddon threw a punch that smashed
 Garro against the wall. The man slumped, dazed, chestplate cracked.
 Abaddon swung to finish him.
-
+
 Bel Sepatus blocked his descending blade. Sepatus. Now, a proper test. A
 dance of equals that carried them into the thirteenth and final minute of the
 fight. Their blades clashed and parried with such speed. It was joyful. The
 Blood Angel was amazing. The deftness of his skill, the precision of his
 strokes, the intensity of his address. Sepatus produced nuanced swordplay
 that Abaddon could barely turn back. There were skills here to learn, tricks
 to appreciate and copy. And the Kheruvim’s attack was absolute. A
 miraculous degree of murderous focus.
 Abaddon was sorry to kill him.
 His blade cut Sepatus in half.
 The Riven Hound slammed Abaddon into the wall. Bricks shattered.
 Abaddon fell bones break and organs rupture. Haar was size and brute
 strength. There was no skill to speak of. Just beautiful fury, like one of
 Russ’ pack-dogs, or Angron’s thug Kharn. A wall of strength that crushed
 everything before it. The Blackshield had him by the throat. Haar took six
 or seven of Abaddon’s kill-thrusts in the belly and chest, and refused to die.
 Just refused. His strength seemed to grow as the blood wept out of him.
 Haar’s power fist, like a siege ram, hammered at Abaddon’s head until his
 helmet broke and deformed, and Abaddon’s face was a mess of gore.
 One mote like that. One more and it’s done.
 Hut Haar was a dead weight, pinning him to the wall. Abaddon’s blade had
 found Haar’s throat and slid in, up into the brain, and out through the back
 of the Riven Hound’s head.
 Abaddon couldn’t move. He could barely see. Endryd Haar’s dead mass
 was slumped against him, crushing him against the wall. Abaddon tried to
 get free. There wasn’t time.
 Garro was back on his feet. That sword of his, gleaming.
 Garro raised it.
 This was it then. One downward slash from a sword whose edge cut
 everything. This was it.
 Abaddon wanted it to never end. Ever. Ever.
 The end came anyway