For over ten thousand years have I lived,”intoned the Chaos warrior. ”For over a hundred centuries have I fought the long war. Eighty-eight million hours cannot contain my hatred.”

For over a day now the space hulk Reaper of Souls had held its orbit over the doomed planet. Brother-Captain Karlsen studied the world visible through the huge art of the stained glass window. It glittered like a jewel in the blackness of space. Its greenness mocked him. Down there people went about their daily business. They lived their lives secure in the knowledge that their Emperor and his mighty legions protected them.

Karlsen laughed his hollow laugh, it bubbled horribly from his ruined throat. Today that ended.

Their stupid ordered lives were over. They were insects, dwelling in an insects’ nest. They lived insect lives and never understood the true nature of the universe, a place of predators who preyed on body and soul.

The fold down there were sheep. Let the sheep look up, thought Karlsen. Let them know the wolves are about to descend on the fold. Let them pray to their senile god and know that he cannot save them.

Their world will burn, he swore. They will pray for death. Their weapons will not save them. Their armies will not protect them. Their pitiful faith will not shield them. They will die and their souls will be consigned screaming to the warp. This I swear by the honour of my Chapter and all the powers of Chaos. But for now let them wait, for I must celebrate the Dark Communion.

He looked down at the throne in which he rested. The ancient brass was moulded in the shape of a mythical beast of Old Earth. Life support tubes connected it to the re-breathers of his ancient armour. The ten thousand year—old runes flickered and glowed in the chill darkness, sending out messages that only a few now living could read and fully understand.

Karlsen studied the walls of this ancient chamber with his baleful red glare, noting as if for the first time the gargoyles that guarded each doorway and sign of the Eye of Horus that enclosed the stained glass window. He noticed the cracked and flaking tiles that covered the ceramite floor and recalled that once they had contained a mosaic depicting the attack on the Emperor’s Palace during the long ago battle for Earth. The picture was long gone, worn away by a million footfalls down the long centuries.

Karlsen lashed the metal tentacles that replaced his left hand and reflexively worked the action of the bolter fused to the stump of his right wrist. There were times he felt like this space hulk, like a strange agglomeration of random bits hastily and crudely connected to an ancient central core.

He knew the space hulk was a jumble of the flotsam and jetsam of interstellar space that had been sucked though the warp to the daemon worlds, had drifted for centuries till it had been integrated into this vast vessel. Whatever shape the hulk had originally possessed was long gone. He was like that — a millennia of mutation, of gifts from his patron Chaos Power had cost him his original shape. No longer was he a tall, powerful Space Marine garbed in ceramite armour. Now he was an inhuman thing, a patchwork of many strange pieces. Only the original body shape and the mind was still Karlsen’s, and sometimes he was not sure even of that.

Could any mind remain intact after ten thousand years. Would it not splinter under the impact of all that accumulated experience? Would not the years bring madness? Instinctively Karlsen knew that he had gone mad many times. There had been centuries when he had gibbered insanely, years when he had reiterated a single crazed chant. He knew that he had lost so much. No mind could hold all his memories. They overflowed like wine from an overfilled cup. It was part of the gift and the curse of his immortality.

That was why, when they could, he and his men celebrated the Dark Communion. They preserved what was important. They stayed themselves and did not devolve into howling Chaos Spawn. In the end, when all was said and done, they were Space Marines, and they had a Space Marine’s pride.

Karlsen cleared his mind as he had learned so long ago. He turned his gaze inward. He needed no drugs, no chants, none of the aids and adjuncts that lesser sorcerers used. He had ten millennia of practice and his powers were strong. He envisioned a vast cavern, the walls of which were lined with pigeon-holes. In each pigeon-hole was a glowing gem. Each glowing gem was a memory. One that he had chosen to preserve. It would remain in this protected space within his mind for as long as he would live. Karlsen had achieved the first level of the Ritual.

Now he reviewed last year, winnowing his memories for deeds he wished to preserve. Was there anything worth keeping, worth preserving from time's slow erosion. That battle on Kadavah, perhaps, where they had aided those pitiful rebels against their Imperial masters, and where he had killed that Blood Angel in the desecrated rubble of the shrine of the Emperor’s Ascension? Yes, he thought, recalling the moment with satisfaction, that was worth preserving.

He visualised the scene clearly. The Blood Angel crawling from the ruins, his armour all pitted and cracked. Nearby lay the huge skull of a destroyed Warhound Titan. In the distance loomed the skeletal remains of Kadavah’s skyscraped towers. He had the moment perfectly. He could taste the dry burned taint in the air, feel the kick of his bolter, hear the groans of the wounded, smell the stink of molten metal, sense the departure of the Blood Angel’s soul. He fixed the memory, reduced it to something hard and bright and pure, then left it in its assigned place. There was nothing else he wanted to preserve.

Now came the next stage. He examined his memories. Now he exulted in who he was and how he came to be. He reached for the gems of memory, and they came to him, one by one.

He was on Prospero, homeworld of his Order. From the balcony of his tower he could see the mile-high spire where dwelled Magnus, Primarch of his Order. The air of the city crackled with hundreds of potent enchantments. His spellbook floated in front of him. He knew that Magnus had been right to defy the Emperor’s Interdict against the study of magic. It was so fascinating and they had learned so much. Soon they would use their spells to smite the Emperor’s enemies and the ruler of mankind would be forced to see the error of his ways,

I was a fool then, thought Karlsen. We were all fools. He reached for another memory.

Anger at the betrayal filled his mind. The Emperor had declared them heretics, outcasts. Their knowledge was deemed forbidden. They were to be purged. The Space Wolves had been despatched to cleanse Prospero. They were forced to flee. In that moment Karlsen realised that the Emperor was a fool and all his followers were dupes. He was jealous of any power he did not understand. Perhaps he feared a potential rival. Whatever his reasons it did not matter. The Thousand Sons must take to their ships and accept Warmaster Horus’ offer of sanctuary. It was their only chance of survival in the turbulent period of civil war, the only way to protect what they had gained.

Another scene filled his mind.

He aimed his bolter at the Loyalist and pulled the trigger. The man screamed and fell. Laser fire scorched the pavement all around him but the shimmer of his protective spells warded it from his body. In the distance he could see the mountain-high silver walls that protected the Emperor’s palace. Overhead the blue sky of Earth was filled with ships. This was the final battle. Today the fate of the galaxy would be decided.

The scene melted into another memory of that awesome battle.

He stood before the gleaming black valves of the Ultimate Gate, the towering portal that guarded the entrance to the Inner Palace. All around him he sensed the press and surge of bodies. Overhead an angel-winged man in blood red armour wrestled with a huge bat-winged daemon. With a final mighty surge the daemon cast the man down. Karlsen heard granite crack and his roar of triumph mingled with ten thousand other voices.

He watched the Earth recede behind him through the armourglass window of the spacecraft. The taste of defeat was bitter in his mouth. The Emperor had defeated Warmaster Horus. Loyalist reinforcements approached Earth, bearing the accursed Space Wolves and the Dark Angels. They were defeated.

The rebellion was over. Now they must flee to the edge of the galaxy, to the one place their foes would not dare pursue them, to the Eye of Terror.

He stood amid the rubble of Prospero and watched the sky change colour. His voice mingled with the chanting of his brothers. Chain lightning crackled from horizon to horizon. Pain filled him as he forced his mind to the task. The towering presence of Magnus was there, calming him, reassuring him that what they attempted could be done, that they could indeed shift an entire world through the warp to the Eye, that their ancient world could be theirs again.

He raced down a long street between low squat buildings. Behind him he heard the whoosh of displaced air, turning he snapped off a shot with his bolter. The long sleek Eldar jet—bike jinked to one side and the shot ricocheted from the walls.

He looked in horror at his hand. It was starting to change. The fingers were lengthening. Already they had fused with his gauntlet and he could not take it off. Was this the result of long term exposure to the warping influence of Chaos within the Eye or something else? His armour was already changing, flowing into a new style. Tiny metal skulls covered his belt, a daemon’s head leered from his shoulder guard. Fear of the change filled him.

He stood in the long hall of a tumbled down building. The roof had long ago collapsed and cold stars glittered in the sky. The daemon crouched in front of him, confined by the pentacle and the power of his will. It snarled and flickers of warpflame emerged from its mouth. It did not want to share its wisdom with him but he knew that soon it would.

He wrapped his tentacles round the throat of the blue—armoured Ultramarine. The man struggled and writhed in his grasp, frantically trying to break his grip and bring his bolter to bear. It was a hopeless struggle. Slowly, inexorably, Karlsen lifted him and with one mighty heave threw him off the top of the tower. He watched with satisfaction as the man tumbled headlong to the ground over a mile below. The fight was over. The last Ultramarine on the planet was dead. The governor’s palace was theirs.

On and on it went. Memories flickered through his mind, reminding him of ancient triumphs and ancient defeats, of all the things he desired to remember and some of the things he would like to forget but could not.

The touch of his sergeant brought him from his reveries. He looked up into Caine’s twisted goat face,”What is it?” he asked.

”Ships rise from the planet, Brother Captain. Defenders come to meet us.”

Good, thought Karlsen. Perhaps this planet shall provide us with some sport after all.