Lorgar stepped onto the deck.
The battle had long since ended.
The smoke had not entirely cleared. The air still carried the scorched tang of Bolt propellant and energy weapons, but the gunfire had stopped. All that remained was the crackle of scattered flames among the wreckage and the muffled sobbing coming from a distant compartment.
The warriors of the Word Bearers were clearing the battlefield, dragging corpses aside into piles, checking for survivors or hidden enemies, and gathering useful intelligence and supplies.
On Lorgar's orders, they had left fifty people alive for interrogation.
The prisoners had been gathered in an open space at the center of the deck, kneeling with their hands on their heads. A dozen or so Space Marines surrounded them, their Bolters trained steadily on them.
Lorgar walked toward the prisoners.
His pace was neither hurried nor slow. Each step was steady and powerful, landing on the metal deck with a dull thud.
His face was expressionless, but a cold light burned in his eyes, like stars on a winter night.
He stopped before the first prisoner and looked down at the figure huddled on the floor.
The prisoner was a middle-aged man in a filthy gray uniform, his face smeared with dust and dried blood. His eyes darted away, unwilling to meet Lorgar's gaze.
"Tell me, what's down below?" Lorgar asked, his voice level and devoid of emotion, as though asking the most ordinary of questions.
The man's body shuddered. His lips trembled, and then he forced a word from his throat. "It's... it's cargo..."
Before he had finished speaking, Lorgar moved.
He brought the fingers of his right hand together into a knife-hand and swept his arm through a short, precise arc, striking the man's head like a blade.
The movement was clean and