Chainsword motors roared, bellowing at each other before their steel teeth

clashed in a violent kiss, spitting sparks and black oil. They locked together,

whining in fury, each relentless in its desire to rend and tear.

Invictus glared at his opponent across the biting blades, determined he would be

triumphant, utterly convinced that he would be the victor this time.

It was not to be.

Genareas wrenched his weapon aside, pulling the whirring teeth apart and

showering the battle deck with a metallic spray. Before Invictus could counter, the

full weight of Genareas’s shoulder guard smashed him in the face, sending him

reeling. He lost his footing, arms flailing wildly in an attempt to keep his balance,

but it was no good. He fell, the harsh clang of ceramite on corrugated steel filling

the battle deck, and it was all Invictus could do to keep a hold on his buzzing

chainsword. Before he could bring it to bear, Genareas had clamped his arm to the

ground with a huge armoured foot, his own chainsword brandished threateningly,

closing in towards his opponent’s face. Invictus watched as the swirling teeth

drew closer to his exposed flesh, and grimaced at their inevitable onslaught.

With a triumphant laugh, Genareas powered down the chainsword’s motor,

offering his arm to Invictus. ‘Well fought, brother. But as we can see, you are still

no match for me in the confines of the battle deck.’

Invictus took the proffered arm and was helped to his feet, once again feeling

the sting of defeat pierce him more painfully than any physical wound ever could.

‘One day, Brother Genareas,’ he said. ‘One day.’

Genareas only laughed the louder. ‘Indeed, brother. And I look forward to that

day. Now come. We are already late.’

Together they walked from the battle deck, Invictus several paces behind

Genareas, as he always was. Though they were closer than any of their other

battle-brothers among the Sons of Malice, having served together as Scouts and

then Initiates, it seemed that Invictus was always in Genareas’s shadow, always

that one step behind. It was a failing that had plagued him for decades, despite the

victories he had won in the service of his Chapter.

But tonight would be different – tonight Invictus would prove his worth.

They strode through the dimly illuminated passages of the Retaliator-class

cruiser, until they arrived at the docking bay. As soon as the bay doors opened, the

shrill hum of a thousand different voices assailed their ears. Servitors buzzed and

whirred, piloting their automatons, driving the rows of prisoners of both familiar

and extrinsic species onto the docking craft. Snouts mewled peevishly, jaws

barked curses in alien tongues, and amidst them the all too familiar cries of

weeping innocents pealed out to fill the bay with a cacophonous racket. They had

brought offerings captured in every system they had travelled through, xenos from

almost a hundred different species. Malice would undoubtedly be pleased with the

largesse; the sacrificial pyre would burn brighter than ever before.

Such an extensive gathering of vile beings sickened Invictus to his core, but he

knew it was necessary if the hunger of Malice was to be sated and his desires

appeased. This pitiful host could not be silenced soon enough, and Invictus could

only hope the slaughter would be underway soon.

With Genareas at his side, Invictus made his way across the packed hangar to

where his brothers of the Sons of Malice waited. They were already filing into the

belly of a growling Thunderhawk gunship, and the two tardy Space Marines were

quick to join their fellows. As they boarded, Invictus could hear some of his

brothers offering benediction through the vox-relay of his helmet. For himself he

made no prayer as he strapped on his harness and prepared for take off – his trust

in the skills of the pilot was absolute.

The ship’s engines fired into life and it left the artificial gravity of the

Retaliator’s hangar. Through the gunship’s narrow viewport, Invictus could see

the colossal outline of a long-dead Imperial ship drawing closer, expanding in his

field of vision like a vast beast inflating itself to ward off a curious predator.

Every dent and surface burn was visible, and it was a wonder the gargantuan relic

survived at all after spending millennia exposed in the vastness of space, with no

defence against the empyreal elements.

It hung like a gargantuan, rotted hand – vast steel appendages spiralling out from

the centre, some displaying their bulwarks to the cold vacuum of space like an

eviscerated corpse. Here and there the ship vented a gaseous blast into the void as

though snorting its last toxic breath. Twisted detritus meandered by, caught in the

behemoth’s gravitational field and forced to perform a perpetual waltz around the

vast edifice.

They called it the Labyrinth. It had taken them a month of trawling the warp to

return here, as they did once each century to honour the blood rites of their

Chapter. It was consecrated ground for the Sons of Malice, the only place they

could rally to since their home world of Scelus had been so wickedly defiled by

the Astartes. No matter their commitments elsewhere, no matter the blood that had

to be shed on other worlds, the Sons of Malice would always come back here at

the appointed time, ready to make their sacrifices. Their rites had to be strictly

observed to the abandonment of all other things.

It was the way of the Sons, and always had been.

The Thunderhawk weaved through the spinning flotsam surrounding the vast

ship, and finally reached the Labyrinth’s docking hangar. There was a deafening

roar as reverse thrusters were engaged, and the Thunderhawk glided in to gently

greet the surface of the landing pad.

Once the doors opened, Invictus was quick to disembark, barely registering the

flashing relay of information as it pattered across the inside of his visor, shining a

blinking green light onto his face. It had been a hundred years since last he trod

this sacred ground, and it never failed to fill him with awe.

The resplendence of the ship’s bowels was in stark contrast to the desolate

appearance of its outer shell. Rockcrete pillars soared a thousand feet into the air,

linked by flying buttresses. These towering structures flanked ogival arches that

led down shadowed passageways in every direction. Gargoyles of every

conceivable shape and size leered from the darkness; antiquated depictions of

whatever deities were worshipped here in aeons passed.

Now, only one deity was offered reverence in this cold empty vessel: the

exalted Malice, the Renegade God, the Outcast, Malice the Lost, Hierarch of

Anarchy and Terror. And He would soon receive nourishment aplenty when the

feeding began.

They had discarded their armour and steam was rising from their bare flesh in the

firelight. Every one of his brothers was covered in the ichor of their victims, each

warrior now gore-strewn and glutted in the great hall.

Invictus had sated himself better than most. The blood was still fresh on his lips

and chin where he had gorged on the stone-hard body of a trussed Astartes. To his

credit, the servant of the Carrion Lord had not cried out as Invictus sank his teeth

into him again and again, rending the flesh and muscle from his bones and feasting

for the glory of Malice. Now, little was left of the dead Space Marine but a

bloody stump, hanging like a carved joint of meat from a rusted chain.

The other sacrifices had not been as silent as that of Invictus, and the lofty

heights of the massive hall still echoed with the ring of their unheeded screams for

mercy. All around, the pyres burned, hot coals glowing bright with the charred

remains of the night’s hecatomb.

Faintly echoing from the distant, unexplored confines of the dead ship, Invictus

was sure he could hear a noise, like something bellowing from the depths of its

inhuman lungs. It repeated a phrase again and again, the strength of its voice

carrying the words over what may have been miles, but try as he might Invictus

could not hear them clearly. In the end he chose to ignore the sound, allowing it to

blend in with the background hum of the creaking ship and the aftermath of the

night’s sacrifice.

He turned his attention to a raised mezzanine at one end of the great hall, where

stood Lord Kathal, the greatest of them all, Chapter Master of the Sons of Malice,

bedecked in his armour of office. Invictus could see his ancient face leering down,

satisfied with the oblation his warriors had made. Every one of the Sons was now

watching him, waiting for him to honour them with his words.

Kathal simply stared with those eyes of ice, seeming to savour the moment

before he broke the silence.

‘Brothers.’ Kathal’s voice was deep and resonant, filling the hall all the way to

its high, dark ceiling. ‘Malice is truly honoured this night. We have raised to Him

a thousand souls in agony and terror. It is fitting that we offer Him such a

bounteous sacrifice in preparation for our coming crusade.’

Invictus clenched his fists in anticipation. It was common knowledge that the

Sons of Malice would soon march to war, embarking on a crusade the likes of

which their Chapter had never seen before.

‘For such a struggle we will need unparalleled warriors, men who have proven

themselves in the Challenge of the Labyrinth. Only by succeeding at this trial can

any of you prove your worth, and your suitability to stride amongst the ranks of the

Doomed Ones.’

He felt a bite of quick excitement, and he knew his brethren felt it too. Each

century, when the Sons of Malice returned to the carcass of the huge and ancient

vessel, a select few would volunteer to face the Challenge of the Labyrinth. None

were ever seen again, but it was said that those strong and cunning enough to

overcome the trials of the Labyrinth were elevated to the Doomed Ones, Malice’s

sept of holy warriors. Every member of this elite coterie was granted Malice’s

divine gifts of untold power and sent off to walk the dark paths of the galaxy,

slaying their enemies with cold efficiency. It was a position Invictus had long

coveted, and this year he finally felt ready to pursue it.

‘Which of you is strong enough, resourceful enough, and courageous enough to

face the Labyrinth?’ asked Kathal.

His head held high, his body still dripping with the gore of his recent sacrifice,

Invictus strode forward to present himself before Kathal. He did not bow or show

fealty, but thrust out his chin in defiance, keen to show his lack of trepidation and

his worthiness for the ordeal ahead.

Lord Kathal smiled down in satisfaction, his wide leer cracking that ancient

face almost in two. And after Invictus, others began to move forward, spurred on

by his example and eager to show themselves equally as worthy. In the end, twenty

warriors stood shoulder to shoulder with Invictus, presenting themselves to face

the perils of the Labyrinth.

Glancing to his side, Invictus saw that his brother, Genareas, had also chosen

this year to join the trial. It was inevitable that they would take this challenge

together, but this time Invictus was determined to step out of his brother’s shadow.

When he was sure that no more would take up the challenge, Lord Kathal

beckoned his twenty warriors away from the great hall. The grim procession

marched further into the dark heart of the rotting ship until finally they reached

their goal. Before them stood a simple steel hatchway, which barred the way to the

unseen terrors of the Labyrinth.

‘Beyond this door lies your destiny,’ said Kathal. ‘You will all enter here

unarmed and unarmoured. There is no rank beyond this entrance; you are all equal

within the Labyrinth. Use what resources you can scavenge, and have faith in one

another. At the far side of the ship awaits a portal to freedom. Any who can find it

and step within its hallowed confines will receive the benediction of Malice. The

rest will find only oblivion. To those of you I will not see again – die well, my

brothers.’

With that, Kathal turned the great wheel that secured the hatch and it swung open

on rusted hinges. Within was only darkness, but Invictus did not pause – stepping

inside and leading the way for his brothers to follow.

Once they were all within, he heard the great door close behind him.

Flickering strobes filled the corridor with a dim red light, and the warriors

were forced to wait for their keen eyes to adjust to the gloom before proceeding.

While they lingered, Invictus was sure he could hear that bellowing voice once

more, though its origin was still too distant for him to ascertain any meaning. The

noise filled Invictus with a chill, but he would not allow it to stop him. They

would never find victory skulking in the dark corridor of some dead ship and,

steeling himself against the fear, he led his battle-brothers forward.

At first the going was easy, with the wide corridor funnelling them along an

obvious route. As they moved, the warriors of the Sons scavenged what they could

– steel bars, the sharp edges of torn bulwarks – anything that could be used as a

weapon. Here and there they would discover an object of greater value gripped in

the skeletal fingers of a long dead aspirant – a discarded bolter or a salvageable

flamer. Invictus found a bolt pistol, its clip half full, and said silent thanks to

Malice for his beneficence.

After an hour of tramping through the dimly lit passageways without incident,

the twenty warriors came to a wide chamber. Six doors were set in the far wall,

each one yawning wide, beckoning them forward into the blackness beyond.

‘Which way?’ asked Genareas.

The other warriors looked to one another uncertainly.

‘Perhaps we should split our numbers here,’ Invictus replied. ‘If only death

awaits us beyond one of these doors, then at least some of us might make it to the

Labyrinth’s end.’

Genareas nodded, as did the others. If the Labyrinth was as huge and dangerous

as they feared, then splitting into smaller groups would serve them better than

staying as a single unit and falling foul of the same deadly ensnarement.

The warriors quickly split into two squads, with Genareas and Invictus on

opposing sides. Before they headed off through different passageways, Genareas

offered his brother a nod – what might be a final salute. Whether he was wishing

him luck or merely offering a silent challenge, Invictus did not know, but he

returned the gesture in kind, and followed his own group into the dark.

Invictus led the way, his battle-brothers close behind. As they moved they could

hear a tapping within the walls that grew more intense the further they delved into

the shell of the dead ship. It was as though the noise were following their route

along the arterial passageways. Several times they stopped, sensing unseen forms

watching them, waiting to pounce at any moment, but each time their caution

proved unfounded.

Again, something shuffled in the dark nearby, and the warriors quickly halted,

brandishing their arms threateningly. They looked to one another uncertainly, until

bold Brother Cainin stepped forward. He had fashioned a crude axe from the

detritus of the tunnels and he held it forward, as though challenging the shadows

themselves. With a quick swipe left and right Cainin cut the blackness from where

the sound had emanated, as though attacking the shadows themselves.

Nothing.

He turned, shrugging with a smile as though they were all foolish – spooked by

innocent sounds like a bunch of untested neophytes, not the cold, hard veterans

they were.

It roared from the dark, huge arms clamping around Cainin, slavering jaws

biting deep into his neck. He had no time to scream as he was pulled into the

shadows, blood spurting from his wounds as a savage, twisted beast tore clumps

of his flesh away.

The remaining warriors opened fire with what weapons they had and Invictus

pumped bolter shells at the place where seconds before his battle-brother had

stood. Brother Vallius, crude autogun in hand, stepped forward to unleash an angry

tirade of fire and was answered with a bloodcurdling cry of pain.

The echo of gunfire subsided and the corridor fell silent. None of the warriors

moved, each one staring at the dark, waiting for something to come screaming

forward, ready to grasp them with powerful arms and rend their flesh asunder.

Blood suddenly began to pool across the decking, and Invictus took a step

forward. Before he could get any closer a thick, foetid arm flopped raggedly from

the dark, its clawed hand twitching in the winking light. Brother Angustine

reached up and diverted one of the dull spotlights that hung limply from its housing

to shed some illumination on the creature. It was large, and like no xenos Invictus

had ever seen. The body bore obvious marks of mutation, as though the creature

had been exposed to the warp. Its fangs were bared from a lipless maw and its

dead eyes stared blankly, bereft of pupils. The skin was hard like leather and its

body was covered with open sores, exuding a weird, musky scent.

As his brothers checked the lifeless body of Cainin, Invictus knelt beside the

creature, keen to get a closer look at the kind of beast they would be facing during

the trial. Instantly his eyes were drawn to the mutant’s upper arm. It bore some

kind of mark, faded by the years and the mutation of its flesh, but it was still

barely discernible in the guttering light – the black and white skull symbol of

Malice.

He thought it strange that the creature should bear such a mark, but before he

could speak of it Brother Mortigan beckoned them on down the corridor.

‘We must keep moving,’ he said. ‘We do not know how many more of these

creatures are stalking us in the dark. Our shots may attract more of them to our

position.’

With that, they began to move on, leaving the dead creature and the body of

battle-brother Cainin in the shadows behind them.

Invictus gave no further thought to the mark. He had more pressing matters to

attend to – such as not falling foul of any more of these twisted beasts in the

stygian tunnels.

Over the next few hours they made good progress through the rotting bulwarks and

rusted corridors of the dead ship, but the tricks and traps of the Labyrinth began to

take their toll.

Brother Kado, who single-handedly repelled an ork ambush at the Battle of

Uderverengin, was beheaded by hidden las-wire as they traversed a narrow

bridge. Brother Vallius, who took the head of Lord Bacchus at the Ansolom Gate,

was crushed by a blast door that had at first seemed inoperable. Brother Mortigan,

who stood beside Invictus as they watched the exterminatus of Corodon IV, was

doused in corrosive waste as they navigated a scoriation duct.

With each death Invictus felt the pall of dread close in further, but he forced

himself on. If anyone was to survive this trial and take their place among the

Doomed Ones it would be him, and he would let nothing stand in his way.

Eventually, the six remaining warriors found themselves at the entrance to a

wide chamber. Its floor was peppered with huge holes, as though something

massive had punched through the solid decking with spiked fists of steel.

Invictus tentatively led the way, stepping over the threshold of the room as

though the floor beyond might burn his bare feet. There did not appear to be any

cunning traps awaiting them inside, and Invictus signalled his brothers to follow

him as he skirted the edge of one of the great holes. Looking down, he could see

that the huge punctured deck disappeared into the darkness below, and a sudden

sense of foreboding began to fill him.

‘Move quickly,’ he ordered, stepping gingerly between the twisted metal.

‘There is something not right here.’

It took Invictus scant seconds to realise what had put him on edge – the entire

room stank of the same musk as the creature they had slain earlier – but by then it

was too late.

Brother Angustine cried out in alarm, firing wildly with his autogun as a

ferocious mutant beast rushed from the dark. The blaring report of automatic fire

suddenly filled the room as more of the creatures began to pour in from all around.

Invictus raised his bolt pistol, ready to add his own stream of fire to the deluge,

when another of the creatures burst from the shadows ahead. He immediately

altered his sightline, squeezing hard on the trigger three times. Each shot hit its

target, bursting against the mutant’s face, explosive rounds mashing flesh and

pulping bone with each deafening impact. But even as one assailant fell, Invictus

was attacked by a second that leapt at him from above. He swung his pistol

around, letting off a sweeping volley of fire, but it was not enough to stop the

mutant’s wild lunge. It smashed into him, gripping him tightly with razor claws

and snapping its fangs at his throat. Invictus fell back, his hands barely grasping at

the beast’s jaws in time to stop it tearing out his throat, but as he did so he lost his

footing, falling back into the void as he and the mutant were pitched into one of the

huge holes.

All he could hear as the shadows enveloped him was the desperate sound of his

remaining battle-brothers fighting valiantly for their lives…

His eyes flicked open, suddenly assailed by the intermittent blinking of another

defective spotlight. Lifting a hand to his head, Invictus could feel blood caking the

side of his face. He had fallen Malice-knew how far, and struck his head on

something solid. There was no telling how long he had been unconscious.

Panic suddenly gripped him as he realised he had lost his weapon. His mutant

attacker could be anywhere, even now stalking him, readying itself to pounce. He

leapt to his feet, eyes scanning desperately for something he could use as a

weapon, and instantly he saw there was little need for alarm.

The room he had fallen into was packed with detritus – sharp edged machinery

and torn bulwark panels lay scattered all around. It was only by the grace of

Malice that he had not been cut to ribbons by the forest of junk. The mutant he had

fallen with, however, had not been so lucky. Its body was impaled by a steel

girder, poking up from the pile of scrap metal like a slanted flagpole. The end of

the torn steel protruded from its mouth, and its black eyes stared vacantly. It

looked almost pitiful.

There was silence above – Invictus’s battle-brothers had either perished, or

moved on, thinking him lost. From here he would have to proceed alone.

Making a quick search of the surrounding junk, Invictus managed to retrieve the

bolt pistol, and then set about trying to locate an exit from the stifling chamber.

As he scrabbled around in the dark something reached out, grasping his wrist

and holding the bolt pistol firmly. Invictus stretched out with his free hand, keen to

halt the mutant’s jaws before they could clamp themselves around his throat, but

he suddenly stopped as he saw that it was not the baleful eyes of a mutant beast

that regarded him from the shadows, but one of his battle-brothers. Though it was

no one he recognised, the mark of Malice was plain to see on his upper arm. But

that was not all – his skin was marred by sores, and his face had taken on a feral

cast. It was plain he was in the early stages of mutation.

‘Mercy, brother,’ he said. ‘I mean you no harm.’

With that he released Invictus’s wrist, but remained in the dark confines of the

shadows, seeming to find solace within them.

Invictus took a wary step backwards, readying himself to raise the bolt pistol at

the slightest provocation. ‘What has happened to you?’ he asked.

‘The Labyrinth, brother. Prolonged exposure condemns us to this.’ He raised his

arm, showing the weeping pustules and fledgling talons. ‘I too volunteered for the

Challenge a century ago, heeding the words of our Chapter Master. There were six

of us that made it to the portal and what we thought was our victory. But it seems

Kathal did not tell us all there is to know about his test. Once the first of us passed

through the portal, it ceased to operate for the rest. We were trapped down here,

forced to fight for our lives. I am the last of those survivors, but as you can see,

survival means nothing. This place is warp-touched. It will not be long before I

am one of them.’ He gestured towards the mutant, impaled on the vast spike.

‘Then there can be only one victor in this Challenge?’ said Invictus.

‘Indeed.’

‘Then I must hurry. Is there a way out of this place?’

His tainted battle-brother beckoned towards the shadows. ‘An exit lies that way.

But beware – their hive nestles along that path. It will be impossible to pass.’

‘I will find a way.’ Invictus took a step towards the door.

‘Before you leave,’ the mutant’s voice sounded almost desperate. ‘Perhaps there

is something you could do for me in return…’

Invictus raised the bolt pistol and fired a single round, exploding his twisted

battle-brother’s face. Without a second look, he walked from the metallic bone

yard and further into the Labyrinth.

The sound of boltgun reports and the stench of promethium emanated from up

ahead. Invictus quickened his step, eager to join in the fray, feeling the red mist of

his battle haze descending. As he moved along the tunnel the sounds and smells of

combat intensified and his heart began to pound with anticipation.

He could see the desperate skirmish now. Five of his battle-brothers were

fighting in a tight corridor, with mutants assailing them from further ahead.

Genareas was among them, unleashing a hellish conflagration from the tip of his

salvaged flamer. Any beasts that were not instantly immolated were riddled with

bolter and autogun fire.

As Invictus joined his battle-brothers, Genareas looked across and smiled.

‘Where is your squad? Have you lost them so soon?’

Invictus smiled back. ‘They did not fare as well as I,’ he replied. ‘But I see that

you are not without troubles of your own.’

More ravenous faces appeared at the end of the corridor, rushing towards their

doom, and Invictus added the sound of his own bolt pistol to the staccato melody

of gunfire.

‘There is some kind of lair up ahead,’ Genareas bellowed above the din. ‘It is

packed with these creatures. We cannot make it through.’

‘Then we will have to go around,’ shouted Invictus, pointing to a sign written in

ancient and crumbling script above their heads. Genareas looked up, nodding his

agreement as he read the word ‘Airlock’ on the sign.

‘Withdraw,’ ordered Genareas, flooding the corridor with another torrent of

liquid flame.

One by one, the remaining warriors moved back along the passage in short

sprints before turning and supporting their battle-brothers’ withdrawal with bursts

of fire. Within seconds they were at the airlock, leaving a trail of corrupted bodies

in their wake.

Once all his battle-brothers were inside, Invictus pulled the ancient lever,

sealing the outer lock. At once, more of the mutant brood appeared, flinging

themselves at the reinforced hatch in their voracious attempts to get at the escaping

warriors.

Genareas was already at the airlock controls, reducing the pressure within the

room so that they were not blown out into the immaterium once the outer door’s

seals were broken. Invictus and his brothers could only watch and wait as the

creatures smashed their fists and heads against the toughened plasglass, unyielding

in their desire to destroy the warriors inside.

‘These beasts are insane,’ said Brother Crassus, staring intently at the mad

creatures. ‘They would destroy themselves just to get to us.’

Invictus laughed. ‘Take a good look. These creatures are what we are destined

to become. All but one of us.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Agon, as Invictus’s words sparked a murmur of

doubt from the rest.

‘These things were once our brothers, the product of Challenges past. One of

them spoke to me – it revealed that only the first of us to the transportation portal

will be relayed to safety. The rest will be left behind, left to the vagaries of the

warp.’

The warriors began to eye one another warily, unsure of how to take the news.

‘We should discuss this later,’ said Genareas. ‘For now, I would suggest a deep

breath and a tight grip.’

With that there came a sharp hiss, as the outer seal of the airlock began to lift,

revealing the stark oblivion of the immaterium beyond.

Genareas was the first to brave the cold vacuum, shouldering his flamer and

gripping the corrugated hull of the great ship for dear life. He was closely

followed by Agon, then Crassus and Septimon. Invictus looked to Moloch,

offering him the next place in line but his battle-brother shook his head, eyeing him

suspiciously. With a shrug, Invictus made his way into the void, his fingers

gripping hard to the strip of weathered metal that was his only lifeline. Just as

Moloch joined him on the outer hull there came an almighty blast of air as the

plasglass finally gave way under its vicious assault, depressurising the corridor

within and blowing flailing mutants into the immaterium.

Invictus and his brothers quickly made their way across the hull, with the

mutated bodies of what were once proud warriors floating away into the black

behind them like so much flotsam.

Though their mucranoid glands would offer protection against the vacuum it

would not last indefinitely, and Invictus felt relief wash over him as he saw

Genareas opening another airlock up ahead.

Genareas and Agon made their way into the ship, and the other warriors

quickened their pace along the handrail of the hull. Crassus was next into the

airlock and Septimon was about to climb inside when Invictus felt the railing

suddenly yield under his weight. The iron bolts securing the rail to the hull began

to give way, and separate from the ship’s corrugated surface. Invictus glanced

back at Moloch, a wicked plan quickly formulating in his mind. One less rival

would take him one step closer to victory, and besides, Moloch had always been

his inferior.

Panic suddenly crossed Moloch’s face as he saw Invictus’s look of loathing.

Both Space Marines moved faster, desperate to reach the airlock before the

railing came free altogether. Invictus managed to grip the inside of the door,

feeling a strong hand grasp his wrist. With a last look back at Moloch, he pulled

hard on the railing, wrenching the remaining rusted bolts from their housing and

sending his battle-brother reeling into the immaterium. Moloch’s mouth opened

wide in a silent scream as he floated off, and Invictus was pulled inside to safety.

The warriors began to breath easily once more as the outer seal was brought

down with a hiss. Invictus looked to his brothers and saw that more than one of

them was regarding him accusatorially.

‘What happened to Moloch?’ said Agon, bringing his autogun to bear.

‘Do you accuse me, brother?’ Invictus replied, reaching for the bolt pistol in his

belt.

Before anyone could move, both battle-brothers had aimed their weapons.

There was a sudden flurry of movement, as Genareas raised his flamer to point at

Agon, and in turn Septimon and Crassus pointed their own weapons at Invictus.

‘We have enough enemies without turning on each another,’ said Genareas. ‘If

we cull our own numbers there is less chance we will even reach the portal to

freedom. Once we find it, then we should allow our strength of arms to decide

which of us survives. Until then, we are still brothers, we are still the Sons of

Malice.’

Invictus slowly lowered his bolt pistol, and Agon did the same.

‘Well met,’ said Genareas. ‘Let’s get moving. It may not take these creatures

long to work out our strategy.’ With that he led the way from the airlock and along

yet another seemingly endless tunnel.

The rest of the warriors followed in his stead, but they all regarded each other

with a warier eye than they had previously – especially Invictus.

The tunnel dipped, drawing them ever downward as though into the abyss itself.

Invictus knew that to be a ridiculous notion – they were on the foundering carcass

of an ancient spaceship, and despite its artificial suspensors giving the illusion of

gravity, there was no ‘up’ or ‘down’.

Nevertheless, they seemed to be drawn deeper into the Labyrinth, and moisture

began pooling at their feet. The further they penetrated, the deeper the waters got

until they were soon wading waist deep through foetid green sludge.

Once again, that bellowing voice emanated from some hidden part of the ship,

but this time it was much closer. Invictus strained to hear what was being said but

he could still not discern the meaning. The phrase consisted of three words, each

of a single syllable, howled over and over again. What foul litany, and whatever

ancient alien tongue it was in, was impossible to tell, but one thing was for sure –

the speaker was no ordinary mortal.

A sudden scream pierced the tunnel, rising louder than the distant roar, and

every man turned as one. It was Crassus, who had been bringing up their rear. The

warriors aimed their weapons as their brother was lifted into the air by some

unseen hand, his body clearing the water that oozed all around them. Blood

spurted from his mouth as he tried to scream once more, his body pierced from

behind by a huge, spiked tentacle that burst through his chest and flailed around as

though probing for another victim.

As the lifeless body of Crassus was discarded to sink below the surface of the

mire, the squad opened fire, shredding the putrid thing that had impaled their

brother. More appendages began to rise from the water all around, blindly

searching for prey.

‘Retreat,’ yelled Agon. ‘There are too many!’

Invictus began to wade through the morass as tentacles rose all around. Bolter

fire streaked past him as he moved down the tunnel and up ahead he could see the

passage rising out of the water to safety. Agon and Septimon fired over his head,

pulverising the foul smelling feelers as they reached out towards him, and as

Invictus moved past him, Genareas blasted a cloud of molten fire into the corridor.

The water level around them dropped as they climbed the passageway, but the

probing tentacles still relentlessly pursued them. If they could make it through the

open doorway ahead they would be free, but as they neared it, a blast hatch began

to slowly descend, threatening to trap them in the corridor with the deadly spiked

limbs.

Septimon was the first to the doorway, dropping his weapon and grasping the

hatch as it lowered. Invictus could hear the grinding of gears as Septimon’s great

strength fought against the ancient mechanism that sought to entomb them.

Agon was the first through the gap braced open by his brother Septimon, and he

was quickly followed by Genareas. As Invictus passed through he gave one last

glance to Septimon, his face grimly set as he held open the heavy steel door. Then

he was gone, the metal portal slamming down and sealing his brother in with the

horde of disembodied tentacles.

Invictus sat in the dark corridor, panting for air. Genareas offered him his arm,

and Invictus gratefully accepted it, rising to his feet, his every fibre seeming to

ache.

‘Where is Agon?’ said Genareas, glancing down the corridor.

‘He must think us near to our goal.’

‘And he wishes to claim his place amongst the Doomed Ones and leave us to

our fate in this place.’

‘Then we must hurry,’ Invictus replied, moving off down the passageway.

With their last reserves of energy, the two warriors pursued their errant brother,

and this time it was Invictus who led the way, for once a step in front of Genareas.

The passageway gradually turned and widened into a dark hall, deep shadows

cloistering it on either side. Great statues rose upwards from the dark, ancient

sentinels that lined the hall, but Invictus paid them no heed, for up ahead was a

much more majestic sight.

A great portal stood at the far end of the massive chamber, fulgurating blue disks

dancing up and down its length, tempting Invictus – beckoning him ever closer.

But between he and it was the sprinting form of Agon, way ahead, ready to claim

the prize that was rightfully his.

‘Agon!’ Genareas cried.

As he neared the portal, Agon stopped, slowly turning with a smile.

‘I am truly sorry, my brothers. But it seems I must leave you. I wish you–’

Something streaked from the dark, cutting Agon off mid sentence. A huge chitin

claw, ancient and battered, gripped him around the waist, lifting him five metres

into the air. Agon screamed, blood gurgling from his mouth as the claw squeezed

tight. The two halves of his body fell to the ground, innards spilling onto the hard

steel decking.

Then it walked from the shadows.

Four massive limbs carried its great bulk forward. It was a mass of flesh and

steel, metal plates cauterised to a body of seething blubber. Two great claws

reached out to the fore and clacked together menacingly. But it was the head that

was the most hideous – a twisted, bloated replica of a face that might once have

been human, but was now so savage and malign as to be almost unrecognisable.

As Invictus watched in horror, its great jaws opened and it bellowed forth its

incessant call.

‘LET. ME. OUT!’ it screamed, filling the hall with its ear splitting roar.

It was now all too clear. This was no ancient war cry Invictus had been hearing

– it was simply the maddened ranting of an insane mutant, caged for centuries and

left to the mercy of the warp’s corrupting influence.

And now it was the only thing standing in the way of victory.

Genareas was the first to move, stepping forward and unleashing a gout of flame

that consumed the monster’s head. When the inferno subsided, Invictus could see

that the flames had not even left a mark on the beast’s hardened carapace. He

raised his bolt pistol, firing at the creature’s eye, but the explosive rounds did

nothing but cause it annoyance.

It roared once more, repeating its interminable request for release, before

stomping forward on those thick and hideous limbs.

‘I have only one shot left,’ said Invictus. ‘We must make this last round count.’

‘I understand, brother,’ Genareas replied, grasping his flamer by the stock.

The beast opened its maw, ready to bellow at them again, and Genareas took his

chance, flinging the flamer into its gaping jaws.

Invictus raised the bolt pistol, waiting for his moment. He had only a split

second window in which to fire, but he was a veteran of the Sons of Malice, a

warrior unmatched on the field. A split second was more than he would ever need.

An explosive round pierced the promethium canister just as the flamer entered

the behemoth’s mouth, igniting the liquid flame within. It exploded, blowing the

top of the mutant’s head clean off, and silencing it forever. For a few seconds the

body of the twisted juggernaut staggered on its four limbs, uncertain of whether or

not it was dead. Then, like a tower suddenly robbed of its foundations, it

collapsed to the ground.

Genareas smiled at his brother. ‘And so it is just us two remaining,’ he said. ‘It

is fitting that we should face one another this last time. We will fight, with nothing

but our bare hands and our stone resolve, and the victor will claim the spoils.’ He

gestured towards the portal, which still flashed and quivered seductively. ‘How I

have waited for this day, Invictus. Ours is a kinship forged in a hundred battles,

and tempered in the blood of a thousand vanquished enemies. This will be a battle

to end all battles. I am only sorry that we cannot both march from here triumphant,

but as you know, there can be only one champion.’

Invictus nodded his agreement. ‘I too am sorry, brother,’ he said, raising the bolt

pistol. ‘For when I said I had only a single round remaining; I lied.’

Genareas had little time to protest before Invictus squeezed the trigger, sending

his brother’s brains exploding from the back of his head.

Discarding the now empty pistol, Invictus strode towards the coruscating portal

and stepped within the threshold of its glorious light.

He stood at the centre of a wide, carved circle. Ancient sigils intersected one

another across its face, eliciting the notion of daemonic faces in his mind, but as

soon as he tried to focus on them the faces were gone.

Surrounding him on all sides was the faint sparking light of a containment

shield. Invictus found it hard to imagine what awaited him that would require such

a safeguard; there was no way he would flinch in the face of his destiny.

Nevertheless, he was not about to question the dictates of Lord Kathal.

Lining the periphery of the great hall were his brothers of the Sons of Malice,

fully regaled in their armour, bearing the standards and livery of the Chapter. The

sides of the hall rose in tiers, allowing each and every man to view the

proceedings. Each would be able to watch as the ceremony took place, each

would see as Invictus was elevated to the ranks of the Doomed Ones. This had

never happened before, and Kathal must have deemed his victory in the Labyrinth

a historic one to break with tradition in such a way.

From one end of the great hall, Invictus saw Lord Kathal approaching, flanked

by his Librarians and their priestly attendants, bedecked in their cerulean robes.

Servitors carried the Chapter’s ancient tomes, and liturgies droned from the

automated vox-units that hovered alongside the procession. But there was more;

huge caskets pulled along by the grasping mechadendrites of the Chapter’s

Techmarines. What was in these caskets Invictus had no idea, but something about

their unexpected appearance began to fill him with a sense of unease.

As the huge room filled with the scent of burning incense, a macabre silence

seemed to descend upon the proceedings. It was an unnerving quiet, and Invictus’s

unease began to intensify into a stolid feeling of dread. This was not the exultant

ritual he had been anticipating – it was more like a funeral march.

As the feeling intensified, Kathal approached him, his stone face grim in the

hazy darkness.

‘You have proven yourself the best among us, Invictus. You have proven you are

without peer for your strength and cunning. You are the most potent, the latest to

prove himself worthy to join the Doomed Ones.’

The Librarians had surrounded him now, a monotonous chant emanating from

within their hooded robes. The ancient, dark language that was spewed forth by

the vox-units grew louder with every passing second, and Invictus could feel

something metallic on the air, as though a storm were brewing within the confines

of the hall. The Techmarines had positioned the caskets, ten in all, in a circle

around Invictus. They ceremoniously released the holy seals that bound their locks

and revealed what was inside. Ten blank faces stared out at Invictus – ten silent

warriors, their bodies still robust but their minds vacuous.

His unease suddenly turned to cold panic. He told himself this was all part of

the ritual, that there was nothing to fear, but his base instincts were crying out for

him to flee this place. With the containment field binding him in place though,

flight was impossible.

‘You are the eleventh hero, Invictus, the eleventh and final warrior. Look to your

battle-brothers,’ he gestured to the blank faces that glared with vacant expressions.

‘Your predecessors, each one succeeding in the Challenge of the Labyrinth for the

honour of joining the ranks of the Doomed Ones. For a thousand years have we

searched for champions worthy of Him. And tonight, finally you are all

assembled.

‘Our crusade can now begin. Now we will be strong enough to take back that

which was stolen from us – Scelus, our home world. None will stand in our way –

not the forces of the foul Ruinous Powers nor the servants of the Carrion Lord.

Not with Him by our side.’

Terror gripped Invictus as he looked down at the circle beneath his feet.

Eldritch light was beginning to emanate from the carved runes, dancing and

gambolling, flashing green and blue and red.

‘Now you will learn what it is to be among the Doomed Ones,’ continued Lord

Kathal, taking a step backwards. ‘Now Malice will show you what your victory

has wrought.’

Invictus tried to speak, to demand to know what was happening to him, but he

found his jaw would not move. The words simply would not come. The whisper

of the Librarians rose, as did the vox-units, and they soon reached a crescendo.

The light at Invictus’s feet grew brighter, lashing upwards to sting his legs and

bathe him in its iniquitous light.

‘You are truly worthy, Invictus of the Sons,’ Kathal screamed, raising his arms

to the shadows of the rooftop. ‘Can you hear Him calling? He has come to accept

your tribute. He has come for the Labyrinth’s eleven. He has come to walk among

us.’

Invictus followed Kathal’s gaze, lifting his head to the ceiling. Through the

shadows he could see the outline of something huge, something that stared down

with baleful eyes. Something wicked in the dark.

He screamed. Screamed for the pain that engulfed his body. Screamed for the

terror in the depths of his soul. But no amount of screaming could halt the ritual

now.

It began to descend, pulling with it the dark and the pain. Invictus raised his

voice in a last tumultuous cry as his flesh began to flay from his bones.

As his body was consumed, he realised that not even the kindly release of

oblivion could save him now…

In the great hall all was silent.

The Sons had watched as the light consumed the body of their brother Invictus,

along with the ten other heroes of the Labyrinth, their limbs immolated, their

torsos eviscerated, their heads contorting and twisting, writhing within a pool of

black light.

And now what stood before them was no longer their brothers. Invictus and the

rest were gone – gone to join the ranks of the legendary Doomed Ones.

What stood before them was the revenant they had worshipped for millennia.

The eidolon that would stand at their vanguard as they retook what was rightfully

theirs.

He could only be summoned by sacrifice – only by giving unto Him their best

and most praiseworthy warriors could He walk among them.

And here He stood, gazing with eyes of fire – the Renegade God, the Outcast,

the Lost, Hierarch of Anarchy and Terror…

…Malice.