"What's that old bastard Malcador cooking up now?"
Lorgar sat behind his recently replaced desk, holding a message formed from golden psychic energy.
The golden words hovered in the air for a moment, then scattered like ashes on the wind, leaving only a faint trace of psychic energy.
He frowned, staring at the spot where the golden words had vanished, grumbling inwardly.
The message was simple. In his usual style, so terse it bordered on perfunctory, the Emperor told Lorgar that Malcador had found him an expert at dealing with the Cabal, who would arrive soon.
Lorgar wondered whether he even needed one.
He already had Hercules and Anna under his command, the two Primarchs Angron and Curze holding the fort, and the entire Word Bearers Legion backing him.
Did he really need someone else's help to deal with the remnants of a Cabal he had already battered to pieces?
Still, if Malcador had personally found this man, he ought to be reliable...
That old fox Malcador always acted inscrutable, but he had consistently good judgment when it came to choosing people.
Lorgar set aside his misgivings and decided to meet the man first.
Just then, his newly repaired office door once again let out a tremendous crash as it buckled under the strain.
Boom!
The brand-new office door, installed only a few days earlier and made from the hardest oak with adamantium hinges, was kicked open from outside by a foot in a black leather boot.
The door slammed into the wall with a deafening crash, sending plaster raining from the frame.
The corner of Lorgar's eye twitched.
His gaze left the desktop and slowly rose to the still-quivering door, then shifted just as slowly toward the figure striding through the doorway.
Fuck! I just fixed that door! Lorgar