18 The One Who Never Forgives a Slight

It did not take long to go through the documents. The hardest part was finding words to describe how he felt at that moment.

Fear? It was unlikely to be fear, yet he did feel slightly short of breath, as though someone had stabbed a knife into his windpipe.

Thinking of this, he raised a hand and touched his throat. There was an enormous, rough scar there, almost like stone beneath his fingers.

A Tzeentch sorcerer had personally left it forty-one years ago during the Defense of Templus. The thing had suddenly appeared before him. Its face had already sprouted feathers and scales, and no human features—or anything else recognizable—remained upon it.

Looking back now, he only felt that bastard's face had resembled a constantly spinning vortex. It had carried no staff, only a knife: a curved hilt, a slender blade glinting with evil light, its tip dark red like rust.

At the time, he knew the correct decision was to stop casting and deal with his opponent first, but he could not do that. Hundreds of his brothers were buying him time with their lives, allowing him to complete the ritual amidst an army and summon the essence of destruction from the Warp.

So he had stood there, refusing to retreat even half a step, and let that blade sink into his throat.

He barely managed to finish before the pain struck. He did not awaken until the fourth day afterward, and even then, he still could not speak.

The sorcery on the knife had taken half his life. His ceramite gorget had failed to serve its proper purpose—he was used to that. Ceramite was highly effective against most physical harm, but compared to those supernatural things, it seemed rather inadequate.

It was always like this, he thought. We