The figure sat on what could only be described as a perfect structure. Nothing had ever been seen like it, not in any golden, ancient days of Terra's history; and, Dorn conceded, nothing like it would ever be seen again. In fact, aside from the mighty Imperial Palace that spanned the globe from east to west and back again, this had to be the singular most amazing achievement that his father had ever created.

The Golden Throne shone, and it shone with the light of the Warp unveiled.

Dorn still remained on one knee, as he had when he had entered, over two days ago; but, as befitted a warrior, his patience was infinite, and he had waited for the Emperor to return from his odyssey of the soul. The Emperor had left the building of the faith in the hands of Lorgar and the Word Bearers, who even now were returning to their sacred place in the new way of the Great Crusade.

Curze and his Night Lords were conquering worlds, as ever, and bringing the Emperor's wrath to those that dared stray from the path that was now set before them. Although, Rogal Dorn had considered, perhaps Curze was a little envious of Angron's task.

Fulgrim and his Emperor's Children were, once again, bringing perfection to the colonies. They focused, more than ever before, on the aesthetic pleasures in life; they conquered worlds and then, instead of enslaving them, brought them greater ideals of art and literature, so that future generations would receive the Emperor's and the Gods' benedictions to brighten their lives.

Ferrus and his Iron Hands had Martian situation firmly under control, although it had disturbed Dorn to learn that some of the Tech-Priests were waging a (doomed, Ferrus had made clear) war on the surface. Those that would not acknowledge his father and their Omnissiah as one and the same being continued in their defiance.

The Lion and his Dark Angels were already bringing the wrath of mankind, above all, to the alien scum who dared to challenge man's right to rule the stars, as well as bringing worlds around Caliban under his heel and building a sub-empire that could rival the Ultramarines' Five Hundred Worlds.

Vulkan and his Salamanders, recovering from the cull, were even now indenturing the world of Nocturne and the surrounding systems into accordance with the Emperor's new divine purpose.

Dorn's own Imperial Fists were guarding Terra like the Home Front of the Novopermian Empire, or the Praetorians of the ancient Romanii; and his Black Templars were expunging the unholy like avenging angels of triumphant gods.

Angron and his World Eaters were days away from Prospero; and it was now that the Emperor, having returned in spirit and then absorbed this information in the time it took for Dorn to draw breath, opened his eyes.

"Rise, my beloved Praetorian." The Emperor's voice sounded powerful, more then it ever had before. Dorn did as his father commanded and waited to hear what he had to say. "Has Lorgar informed Angron that Magnus must be kept alive?"

"He has, my Emperor. However, Lorgar believes the other Primarchs now know of what has occurred. Unfortunately, Father, I was not careful enough when I recovered the artifact you required from Venus IX."

The Emperor nodded and, rising, he made his way to where Dorn was standing and rested a hand on his shoulder. "The fault is not yours; it was only a matter of time before you brothers discovered what had occurred."

"My Emperor is too kind."

"You will punish yourself, Rogal, and I will not have that. It will be soon time to decide who will follow the new order and who will not."

"Father. If I may… Angron was not the wisest choice to collect Magnus. You know what will happen."

"I could hardly send Russ."

"Even so, perhaps I should have gone, or Vulkan."

The Emperor shrugged a little and guided Dorn to a model of his revised vision for the future. He took as much delight in telling its details as the Praetorian did in listening to them, but as he continued, Rogal glanced into his father's eyes; and what he saw there caused him to shudder.

Suddenly, he was very glad he had decided to follow his father.

Magnus paced the length of the bridge of the Photep. Though normally a calm and placid man of learning he was, like any of his brothers, a powerhouse of violence when provoked; and right now, he was trying hard to comprehend what was happening.

Lorgar. He had treated Lorgar more like a beloved son then a brother, sometimes. They had been close; he had been far closer to Lorgar than to, perhaps, any of his other brothers, for Lorgar had not judged him and had listened to him when he guided him in his ways.

He was closer to Lorgar, it sometimes felt, then he was to his own father; so why, why had his brother so casually informed him that Angron was en route to destroy all he had built? He was not sure if, even with the Warp-jet he was crafting to speed up the armada, he would arrive in time to save his world, his sons, and his people. And though he did his best to focus on the jet, other thoughts conspired in his vast mind.

Horus had offered his aid; but with Russ and the Rout behind them, he had declined it. After all, he had a feeling that this was just the start. If Prospero was under threat, then why would it stop before his other brothers' home worlds?

He had used whatever powers he had to get them this far; and for once, there was no complaint from the Wolves (or the Rout, Vlka Fenryka, or whatever else they called themselves) about augmenting the Navigators' speed. In truth, he had found more of a kinship in Leman's savage honesty than he had ever expected. It was the only good thing to come out of all this.

"My lord," Akenaara - the vox deputy - bowed low as he turned, "Lord Russ wishes to converse with you in private."

Magnus nodded and headed into one of his private strategiums, and took the communication. The face of his brother appeared on the screen, and Magnus patiently waited for Russ to say what he wanted to say.

"Magnus," Russ gruffly spoke. "We are four days from Prospero; I implore you to think again about tackling Angron on his own terms."

"Leman, we have discussed this…."

The Wolf King's countenance darkened, and the barely held-back savagery - though Magnus wasn't sure how real it was, it was dangerous either way - lit his eyes. Magnus was beginning to wonder if the Wolf King was actually looking forward to pitting his considerable violent urges against the Red Angel.

"Crimson King." That took Magnus back; usually, Russ called him Magnus, and in past years, more often then not, Witch or Cyclops. "If you die, who will face the Emperor? If our father has truly lost his mind, as seems to be the situation, you are the only one who would be able to meet him on his own terms."

Magnus bit back what he was going to say and was silent for a while. The Wolf King was indeed correct, even if it surprised the Crimson King to hear him state it. All the Primarchs had some measure of psychic ability. None of them, however, were as close to their father as Magnus was in that sphere; and, should the master of mankind choose to use his considerable and terrifying power against them, then without Magnus they would not be able to fight on that dimension. Not even the Angel, who had some measure of power, was currently on anything near a comparable level.

He rubbed his single eye, and Leman could see how tired he was and waited accordingly. It was obvious that he was weighing up what the Wolf King had told him; Leman was pleased to see that his words, for once, had hit some chord within the one-eyed giant. It was unusual for the master of Fenris and the master of Prospero to see eye-to-eye on anything, but over the last few days, they had reached an understanding. Perhaps they had not truly bonded, but their relations had thawed.

"Very well, Leman; come across with your entourage, and we will see what we can do."

"You have made the right decision, brother."

"Leman."

"Magnus?"

"My priority is to save my people and my sons – I do not want your suppositious wolves settling old scores." Magnus's tone brooked no argument, and the intent was clear. All animosity was to end here; they needed to unite in the face of a common enemy stronger than either of them had met before. Even if that enemy wore a brother's face.

"You have my word, Crimson King."

The Wolf King's face vanished from view, and Magnus stood, staring at the screen, for several long moments, before rejoining his crew and making arrangements for the Rout and their King to board.

Russ was a friend, almost, now, more than he had ever been.

But that brought Magnus no comfort.

The fleet of the War Hound himself assembled in the Warp. Like a flotilla of sharks, they were ready to emerge from the great, colourful ocean. There was no need for mass meetings or tactical surveillance; their orders were clear. They would wipe the Thousand Sons from existence, like the other two brothers that no one spoke about, and any survivors would be fodder for his sons to play with.

No one disturbed the mighty Red Angel as he sat in his command throne, like some great predator-king from ancient Terra or modern Catachan. His face no longer radiated pent-up anger, a dormant storm that was ready to be unleashed on any unsuspecting crewmember, or even on one of his own sons who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Instead, his permanently violent features seemed calm and serene. The smell of battle was in the air, and this was what Angron lived for.

To spill the blood of his enemies, to tear them limb from limb and to hear their screams across the battlefield. To cut the braid with his sons and his allies and to teach his foes - his brow furrowed as for a moment he struggled to recall who he was doing this for, his father or the new patron of the World Eaters. He shrugged mentally; it mattered not, the blood would flow in both their names. His dark, soulless eyes narrowed as he contemplated Magnus's fate.

He and Ahriman, the Urizen had said, were to be kept alive and returned to Terra in chains. The other witches, he could do whatever he wanted with; and he had ordered his sons to burn the bastards out of their homes or their armour, whichever caused the most pain and blood to flow.

"My Lord."

Angron turned his serene gaze on the mortal that stood before him. He tried to recall his name; Commander - Commander Darian, that was it, the first officer - but where was the Admiral? He thought about asking, but then recalled with clarity that he had killed the man when he had dared voice his disapproval of such action against another Legion.

He gave a mirthless half-smile as he recalled the satisfying feeling of pushing his thumbs slowly into the mortal's eyes, or perhaps squeezing his head from the back, until the fragility of the human skull smashed like a ripe melon in his giant hands. He suspected he had in reality killed the admiral painlessly, but those sadistic memories seemed, at that moment, to beckon. Which was wrong - he was not Curze. His duty was simply to kill, not to torment.

He took the data-slate and read it; ninety-six percent of his Legion was with him, and that would make the conquest of Prospero more exciting.

"Translation into real space in five-point-four hours, my lord."

Angron nodded and set the data-slate to one side; it required no answer, for it was for his information only. Then, as he had done again and again since receiving the Nails modifications, he went back to watching the Warp. Soon, very soon, he would prove to all his brothers that it was not the Rout they should fear, but the World Eaters, the red avatars of war.

Mars was in flames. The Red Planet was now a mass of oranges and yellows, the night sky becoming a kaleidoscope of colours. The war that still raged across its surface had taken its toll on the Mechanicum; those that refused to worship the Emperor as a god continued to battle against those, led by the Iron Hands, who believed in his vision.

Gabriel Santar stood before the iron doors and read the inscriptions with the ease of one fluent in the language of the Tech-Priests. Beside him stood Brother-Sergeant Keman, his face a mass of bruises and blood due to the defense of the forge above. Any wounds he had sustained were now healing; but, Santor noted with irony, one of the sergeant's arms was missing. Even now, one was being made for him; and like any other Astarte, he shrugged off the loss of a limb, doubly so as a son of the Gorgon.

He awaited, with honour, the cybernetic replacement that awaited him; like all the Legion, he saw the flesh as weak and strove to be one with the machine, like thousands of others. Santor heaved a sigh, heavy with fatigue and perhaps a mix of boredom. It was not Keman that concerned him.

"What are we to do here, Lord?" Keman asked his Captain.

"Here there be Dragons," Santor whispered, quoting a phrase he had heard or seen once, not sure if it was one or the other, perhaps both. It was in the dreams, either way. Keman looked puzzled at the First Captain, who shook his head and smiled a little. "We are to ensure that the Dragon remains sleeping."

"But our father said not to go in," Keman insisted.

Santor ignored him; he needed to concentrate. It was bad enough with the dreams that plagued him day in and night out, which were causing him to wonder if he was going insane. Perhaps he was. Perhaps they had all gotten some sort of malady that had caused them to turn on their cousins. All he knew was that this was wrong; he had killed many that spoke against the Emperor before, but this was more than that. Even now, he was beginning to see subtle changes in those around him, all foretold by the dreams. It was almost as if they were not who they once were, but rather had become someone else.

Santor was a loyal son of Medusa, and he had been the Gorgon's favoured son, but now he was a broken man. Everything he believed in was long gone. The Iron Hands had long held an affinity with the Mechanicum and they had worked hand in hand; many of the Legions had sent their Techmarines here, but the Iron Hands were always regarded as closer than that. Closer to Mars. Closer to Adept Semyon, and the Dragon.

Santor closed his eyes; before opening the door, he turned his bolter on Keman and blew his head clean off his shoulders. Blood and brain matter exploded across a narrow area, covering the front of the First Captain's armour and turning it to a rust colour, the colour of Mars itself.

His brothers were mad, the whole bloody lot of the Astartes had gone mad, because this was not what an Astarte was wrought for. Kill the alien and the traitor - not brother Astarte, nor innocent priest of Mars. The galaxy was not a place for him anymore, but his last act would be to avenge the dead and defy this new religion, if that was what it was. His fractured mind had held onto the thought that the Imperial Truth was all that mattered, though he was no longer quite sure which of the two. Was it most important to fall under the old, or to die against the new?

He stood back as the doors opened and began to walk through. He was no more then halfway through when a gruff yet gentle voice called to him. He turned to see Ferrus Manus behind him, with his own Terminators of the First Company, all with Bolters trained on him.

"Gabriel, what are you doing?" Ferrus wanted to know.

Through sheer force of will, Santar resumed his walk, wiling his entire body to stop trembling at the sheer joy of being near his father. He kept his back to them all, and the tears began to run down his face. The Gorgon stared, mouth open, as he realised what his son was going to do. He ordered the Terminators to open fire; as painful as the idea of gunning down Gabriel Santar was to him, he could not let him go any further.

Hundreds of years of techno-evolution had begun here, and the gifts that the Legions wielded were in part from here. Santar jerked a little, but his own Terminator Armour held true - until he was faced with the hammer. He flew forwards as the Primarch smashed his hammer, Shadowheart, into the First Captain's back; and then Ferrus stood over him, as a crippled Santar moved round to face his father, tears of blood steaming down his face.

Ferrus crouched down. "Why, Gabriel? I told Lorgar none of my sons would betray me."

Santor made a hawking sound and coughed up blood and phlegm; his body had been crushed in that one blow. "I cannot live with this lie, Father," he responded.

"What lie?" Ferrus lay his hammer down and brought his First Captain to him, laying him gently out, his head resting on the Primarch's lap. "Tell me who has poisoned my favoured son."

His dreams had; the Truth had. What lie? The lie of Mars. The Grand Lie, the first lie. Semyon had been extremely cooperative. Too cooperative. Who had poisoned Santar?

Everyone; but only one person fatally.

Gabriel smirked ironically. "You, lord," he coughed. "I cannot believe that the Iron Hands would betray everything we were ever told to believe in - but we have, I have, and I will die knowing that I am a man without a home."

Santor closed his eyes and coughed up more blood; when he opened them again, his gaze had hardened.

"I do not know who you are anymore, Lord; you are truly the Gorgon of myth." And with that, he died.

Manus got to his feet and stared at the body for what seemed an age. His wisest son, his favoured son, eager to die rather than work the new dream of the Emperor. How may more felt like that, and would he have to cull his legion like so many others had?

Yes. There was really no choice.

He clenched his fists and snarled. "Go through the ranks and cull any who do not follow the new Imperial Truth. Tell the Iron Fathers none are to be spared."

Santar had rejected him, and the Legion. Ferrus's mind raced through the current situation, but his closed eyes saw only darkness. Darkness - and one other thing.

Mars, shining scarlet with blood and iron, against a starless sky.

TO BE CONTINUED in the third book of the Renegades Saga, The Fate of Prospero.