Old Earth

‘Because…’ said the seer, his body straining with every iota of its transhuman strength, ‘I’m not Eldrad.’

Gahet’s eyes widened as the witchblade pierced his bloated body. A protest died on his lips as eldritch lightning coursed through him, reducing his bones, his flesh, simulacrum or not, to ash.

Eldrad, the true Eldrad, scattered the remains across the ziggurat with a sudden burst of violent telekinesis.

‘Well,’ said Narek, breathing hard and having fallen to one knee, his body bent over and held up by trembling arms, ‘that was deeply unpleasant.’

The glamour masking his true form had faded to reveal a battered, blood-stained legionary wearing cracked war-plate and a ragged scowl as he looked up at the eldar.

‘I didn’t like this plan, xenos. I prefer it when I steal in under smoke and kill everyone with my rifle.’ He spat up a gobbet of phlegm and blood. ‘Or knife. Let’s do that from now on, shall we?’

‘Gahet required something subtler, more oblique,’ said Eldrad. He had sheathed his witchblade and begun to write in the air with his fingertips.

‘Sword through the gut, then set on fire.’ Narek nodded, finally getting to his feet again. ‘I’m surprised he even noticed.’