Trazyn shuffled around the corridor, the green necrodermis floor flashing up as

metal touched metal. He leant on the shaft of his empathic obliterator like the koftawood canes used by the Mordian officers. He should know, Solemnace contained 8
of them (the officers, not the canes). Ranks of lychguard followed their lord and
master down the corridor, two on each of the archeovists sides and eight behind
each one of them. Trazyn had designed the building himself, and the corridor was
exactly the right width for him and his bodyguards to walk five abreast without
undue squashing together. The polished guards bore broad hexagonal shields that
locked together to form a wall of living metal, broken only by Trazyn shambling
forward at the fore.
Truth be told, Trazyn had nothing wrong with him. He was perfectly capable of
moving with great haste if he wanted to, but some vestigial memory of his warped
spine his body had before the biotransference clung on to him like a stain on a white
sheet; it could be washed and washed all over again, and still be perfectly usable,
but some echo still remained. It felt right, so he did it. Whether or not it was
convenient was of little consequence to the Overlord of Solemnace.
Flanked by his guards, he made his way into the Damocles Gulf Crusade room. I say
room, it was more of a grand exhibition hall. The gigantic hall was long enough for
an Imperator Titan to lay down on its back, and the ceiling was so high that Trazyn
couldnt see the Valkyries and Sky Rays frozen in stasis above him, immobile
missiles hanging in the air with smoke and exhaust gases trailing in their wake.
He felt the rush of excitement he always felt when looking at one of his
masterpieces. It was like seeing someone you loved after a long time away, it made
the child inside the cold robot want to jump up and down and make incoherent
noises of excitement. He thought against it, hed accidentally taken out half his
lychguard doing that last time. Hed hit one with his obliterator, a green light had
flashed, and twenty more guards lay in pieces on the floor. Theyd reformed in a
couple of minutes, but they left nasty scorch marks on the floor which looked most
unattractive.
He approached one of the to-scale dioramas hed extracted from the later days of
the Crusade. It contained one figures; one hulking Astartes in black-and-white power
armour, and two shasla Fire Warriors stumbling back as the bulky figure loomed
over them. The red cross on the marines black pauldron gave him away as a swordbrother of the Black Templars chapter. Second Founding, Trazyn could recall,
firebrand bastard-sons of the VII Legion. BrotherIgnatio, Trazyn read off a purity
seal on his chest, was frozen by the necrons stasis grenade with a roar on his lips
as his power sword lingered a hairs breadth from the first taus neck.
The Fire Warrior in question had raised his pulse carbine in an attempt to block the
marines blow, and Trazyn smirked as he saw the two halves of the small taus boxy
pulse carbine clenched in its fists. As if the weakling could have stopped the blow.
The second was aiming his own carbine at the Black Templar, the alien weapon
spitting plasma shots at the veterans combat shield. As he took the scene in,
Trazyn felt like a proud father or benefactor; those tau would have been dead in
seconds had he not stepped in and the Templar wouldnt have fared much better.

Hed die one day, and his body would lie forgotten on some field on a backwater
planet or drifting through the blank void of space. At least on Solemnace, Brother
Ignatio would be remembered.
A grating voice snapped Trazyn out of his awestruck semi-trance. It was one of his
pet lords, who hed come to use as his secretaries when war was not on the cards.
Tanskh was his lackwit cousin before the transfer and his loyal servant afterwards,
and the years in Solemnaces crypts had done no favours for his intellect. His lessthan-dulcet tones drove Trazyn up the wall on the best of days, his battle prowess
was the only reason the arch-curator kept him around. Your Excellency, Phaeron
Ahmontehk of the Suhbekhar Dynasty demands to see you. Is Your Excellency at
home?
No no no, Im not. Im busy. Tell him Im off on an expedition into the Eye of Terror
collecting a Bloodthirster, hell not want to follow me there.
My master is offworld, he has gone into the Eye of Terror- Tanskh said, presumably
to Ahmontekh (although Trazyn wouldnt put it past him for him to tell himself as a
reminder). There was some muffled interruption, and Tanskh spoke again. Aplogies,
Your Excellency. Somehow Phaeron Amontekh has seen through your most cunning
ruse.
Did you by any chance leave our communications externally audible?
The Overlord heard the thrumming noises as his subordinate checked his
communications channels. Your Excellency, it appears I have. My deepest
apologies for my failures, my liege.
Trazyn smacked his cold hand into his face in the style of some Catachan
guardsmen hed met when they visited Solemnace. Such lovely gentlemen, he
reminisced. A little crude at times, but they were so generous (four ancient
Deathstrikes, how absolutely sterling!), they shared insults with him as a sample of
their culture back home, and they even introduced the Archeovist to a kindred spirit
they thought hed like to meet; Inquisitor Helynna Valeria. The Catachans
themselves didnt speak much anymore, but they seemed to have appreciated
Trazyns hospitality. In fact, they still did. Theyd never left.
You dolt, Ill deal with you later. Youll be mucking out the squiggoth zoo for the
next decade, but before you do, teleport ourdear guest down. Im sure hes dying
to speak to me.
Yes, Your Excellency.
Trazyn turned to his arrayed guards, who stood eerily still awaiting his orders. He
didnt wait long to give them. When the phaeron arrives, you are to look as big and
scary as possible. Standing straight, shields at chests, blades at sides. Line his
path.
The lychguard cried out in unison. Yes, Your Excellency.

Brilliant. The Overlord let his guards file around him, making two rows facing one
another along the hall. At one end stood Trazyn, and at the other a hieroglyph, the
archeovists personal symbol, was etched onto the floor.
It lit up white as the guards filed out, and a column of light burst out of the sigil
once the lines were complete. At its end stood a tall and domineering necron, clad
in the raiment of the Suhbekari royal court. The Crimson Scythe, so was the
phaerons moniker, was a good head taller than the crookbacked Trazyn, and he had
a crest of gold and garnet sculpted onto his head. His necrodermis was bone white
and his eye-sockets burned the same scarlet as the blade of the two-handed
warscythe he bore. Around him stood his crypteks, four comparatively diminutive
courtiers with mystical staves and even more esoteric instruments in their spindly
fingers as they cowered behind their monarch.
You know for what I come, librarian, the domineering phaeron stomped towards
Trazyn, his warscythes haft clanging on the floor with every step. Part with the
head or I will take yours.
Why so brash, phaeron? Trazyn chuckled. We should talk awhile, exchange
pleasantries and such things. Is that not all you do in the courts back on your
precious crown worlds anyway?
If Ahmontekh was capable of spitting with anger, he would have done so. Mock me
not, hoarder of dust and debris! You know why I need this, for the good of our
people. It contains the key to our vessels, the perfect new necrontyr, in his image
Not our people, Trazyn raised a finger, your people. My people are perfectly fine
where they are, thank you very much.
The Crimson Scythe smashed his namesake blades haft upon the ground. The
universe would sing my praises for lopping your head off right now, so as to be free
of your yapping.
That may be, but. Trazyn paused as he thought of a retort, you smell slightly
like an orks foot. So kindly be quiet. You are in my domain, do not forget that.
Boasts and belligerence would do nothing to save you.
Ahmontekh made a noise that was like a snort, a laugh and a growl at the same
time. What do you plan, old collector? Maybe youll strike me upside the head with
an ancient grimoire perhaps? Give me the head, and I will leave this pathetic attic of
a world in peace.
Trazyn raised his head and pushed his hood back. First, Id not waste one of my
books on you. Second, Id certainly not squander the head. It belonged to Sebastian
Thor, you fool. Id sooner you raze this world to the ground than give up something
of that value.
The Crimson Scythe stepped right up to Trazyn, casting a shadow over the hunched
figure. So be it.
Before the lychguard could intervene, Ahmontekh swung his colossal warscythe in a
sideways sweeping arc, the blood red blade slicing off Trazyns head like a World

Eaters chainaxe through a sleepy tau toddler. As the collector fell headless to the
ground, his lychguard sprang into action. Hyperphase swords drawn, the guards
advanced, and two crypteks lay dismembered on the ground as the Phaeron raised
his hand.
The masterless necron who was engaged with Ahmontekh on his left fell to the
ground, a smoking hole in the back of his head. As the Crimson Scythe smashed his
elbow joint into the shield of his other attacker, a sleek figure stepped out of some
conveniently placed darkness with a long barrelled weapon in its hands.
The Deathmark raised its synaptic disintegrator again, and two bursts of green light
flew from the gun into the staggering guard on the phaerons other side. The parts
of one of the Crypteks were dragging themselves away from the fight as six more
Deathmarks coalesced out of the air. The hall of antiquities was flooded with green
blasts of energy as the lychguard were surrounded even as the Crimson Scythe
hacked his way through their ranks.
Before long, the phaeron stood atop a mound of necrodermis fragments, the odd
hand or arm still wiggling like plants in a wind. Two of his crypteks still stood, and a
third was putting himself together in the corner. One of the standing ones bore a
long staff topped with a cobalt jewel, and the other had a head-sized green crystal
clasped in hand. They were both scrabbling around in the wreckage, throwing limbs
and weapons over their shoulders while muttering to themselves. What they were
saying mattered little to their overlord, so he paid them no heed.
The Deathmarks formed a closing circle around the trio, heads bowed in respect to
the cunning of their masters. As the fragmented cryptek finished his reanimation
rites, another knelt in front of Ahmontekh. Your lordship, we have not found the
body of the curator. Some subordinate lordling lies headless in his place
What do you mean?
He is known as the Infinite for a reason, your lordship. He has been known to use
unwilling hosts as body doubles, your lordship.
So the whelp is still out there?
Most certainly, your lordship.
Then I know where he is going. The Crimson Scythe beckoned the newly
reassembled cryptek. Imrapthekh, you are to go with the hunters- he gestured to
the Deathmarks -to hunt down the real enemy and bring me his head.
He pointed his blade at another. You are to collect what you need and make ready
the legion for war. He will doubtless be mobilising his guardians as we speak.
The cryptek curtseyed and bowed his head as Ahmontekh gestured at the last one.
You are to stand by me, favoured one. Anything in this museum may want me
dead, and a king is nothing without a courtier.
The first cryptek bowed his amber-tipped spear. It shall be done. Will he be in the
Hall of Wonders?

Certainly. Where else should he hide something of such worth?

The husk of Lord Thupek clattered onto the ground, a paper thin layer of
necrodermis falling to the floor like a shedded skin. Standing over it was Trazyn,
empathic obliterator in hand and surrounded by a contingent of his Immortals.
Trazyn tossed an old Terran coin onto the ground next to Thupeks metal skin.
Payment for services rendered, he snickered as he stepped over him. He was
standing in one of his twelve Halls of Wonders, and each one was completely
unique. This one contained some of the greatest treasures he had ever liberated
from the Imperium of Mankind. The corpse of the rogue Inquisitor Quixos, the hide
of the salamander killed by Vulkan during his competition with the Emperor, the 3 rd
Captain of the extinct Astral Knights chapter (taken from the secondary gun deck of
the World Engine, no less), even the severed arm of the legendary Commissar
Sebastian Yarrick, all were displayed in plastiglas cases in stasis fields for Trazyn to
admire in their states of beauty and antiquity. Even the deathstrike missile frozen in
the air above Trazyn and his guards was over 600 years old, taken mid-flight as a
memento from a long-lost planet. But now all was at risk.
A large blond-haired head in a plastiglas box drew the archivists eye-sensors. Upon
his orders, a phalanx of Lychguard stood vigil over the box, dispersion shields
locking together like the aegis lines used by the primitive Imperial forces. Hed
taken the head from an abandoned convent-militant on the edge of Segmentum
Solar. He had seen it as a kindness, taking it on when its previous owners had just
up and left. Granted, left to get reinforcements as his warrior phalanxes stormed the
convent, but it was always important to look on the bright side.
A low thrumming came from the darkness in the corner of the room. Trazyn could
see nothing into that blackness, but all the same he called out. Come out, lapdogs
of the red king! Dont you want to see my exhibits? Ill give you a tour!
In response, a blast of green light shot out of the blackness and struck Trazyn in the
chest. It left a gash the size of an orks fist in the necrons chest, but his self-repair
systems closed the hole as quickly as it was made.
Fire! he cackled as his bodyguard of Immortals crackled their tesla carbines into
life. Bolts of blue lightning arced out into the darkness, flashing up the bodies of the
Deathmarks as the sparks spattered off their carapaces. The electrical surge proved
too much for one of them, and it exploded in a shower of sparks and flames. The
rest of them remained unfazed that their comrade had just decorated the Hall of
Wonders in bits of itself and kept firing through the torrent of blue lightning.
There was a blur of grey and white, a flash of amber and one of his Immortals flew
across the Hall of Wonders, crashing into a cabinet that contained the ossified husk
of an ancient Enslaver. The blur flew past Trazyn, striking down Immortal after
Immortal as the archeovist dived for cover behind an ancient escape capsule.

SOYUZ, as the name engraving said, proved an excellent cover point for Trazyn to
watch his Immortals being butchered. Only when the last one had been beaten to
smithereens did Imrapthekh slow down. The skinny cryptek gave a short mocking
laugh as he gestured towards the lychguard, still standing watch over the saintly
head.
Look at you Trazyn. Youre so enamoured by your trinkets and taffeta that you have
your guards protect them before yourself. Materialist fool, why do you not look to
the greater good? The Scythe wishes only to create new vessels in Thors image.
Why must you get in the way?
Trazyn chuckled, a little metal disk palmed in one hand. Because when you say
that, you sound like those Water-caste diplomats. So silence.
Why should I listen to you, old man?
Trazyn jumped to his feet and hurled the disk right into the crypteks face. It
skittered up the chronomancers chest, and he swatted at it as if it was some
frustrating insect. As it secured itself at the base of Imrapthekhs neck, Trazyn gave
a little chortle. Because I am your master now.
The mindshackle scarab had worked exactly as planned, Trazyn noted as the onceproud Imrapthekh gave a small bow. Pass me your stave, servant of mine, he
tittered as he held his hand out. The cryptek obliged, passing Trazyn his amber
spear with a nod.
Thank you, servant of mine. Trazyn said. Now sleep. As Imrapthekh fell to the
floor, his eye-sockets going dark, the archeovist pressed a tiny button on the spears
length.
Time slowed to a crawl. The lightning bolts of his Immortals tesla guns were moving
at a snails pace to Trazyn, who could overtake them by shuffling along as fast as he
could be bothered to. He stepped calmly out of the way of a few errant shots as if
they were merely low hanging tree branches, bending his back slightly to let the
energy blasts fly overhead at a slovenly pace.
He approached one of the Deathmarks, and saw the machine-mans reactions
sluggishly moving his arm into Trazyns path. The arch-curator slammed the blade
of his empathic obliterator into the assassins head, causing the necrodermis to
crumple under the mighty impact. No sooner did the sniper fall to the ground, head
cleaved in twain, did Trazyn notice the bolts of lime-green lightning bursting from
the felled necron.
He shambled away, leaning on his weapon haft again, even as the bolts of lightning
coursed through the other Deathmarks. Sensory orbs popped, oily blood spilled from
shorn limbs, and synaptic disintegrator guns fell to the ground, all so slowly to the
victorious Trazyn.
As the amber light on the spear fizzled out, time went back to normal and Trazyn
lurched as the momentum of his high speed made him unsteady for a second. He

found his feet as the rest of the Deathmarks hit the ground behind him with a
chorus of metallic clangs.
Trazyn wasted no time in making his next move, he knew Ahmontekhs forces were
on their way. He snapped his fingers to open a communication channel. Tanskh,
wheres our beloved guest now? How far is he away from the Hall of Wonders?
Your Excellency, his forces are on the scanner, but theyre waiting in orbit. He
himself is in the next room with a vanguard of his Immortals and a few courtiers,
lesser lords and the like. But nothing he can use to get into the Hall of Wonders,
Your Excellency.
The next room contained his Death of Lord Solar Macharius gallery. He thought
about turning off he stasis generators in the room, give the Guardsmen on display in
there one last battle. About half of them were hardlight statues, but the rest of them
should be good to fight. Helynnas latest gift allowed him to be choosy with the
Guardsmen for his collection, he only had the best specimens on display.
He is having his crypteks set up some sort of ritual. They are making a hexagon
out of some blue crystals wired together. What do you think that is for, Your
Excellency?
Trazyn cursed in an ancient Eldar tongue, although the screeching of his Immortal
bodyguard reassembling concealed the word nicely. Hes setting up a portal! Hes
going to teleport them in directly!
Tanskh took on the most sheepish tone his robotic voice could muster. I apologise
profusely, Your Excellency. I should have recognised it, am I not wrong?
Of course you should have, grox-brain! Another Imperial insult, hed gotten quite
used to those. Bless those Catachan boys, they were most delightful company, and
so good at listening! Awaken the legions, or whatevers left of them anyway.
Shouldnt have sent them off to Tanith he reprimanded himself as he paced up
and down the Hall of Wonders.
That might take a while, Your Excellency. Maybe some of that Ulumeathi sky-lute
music to pass the time?
Sign off before I march up there and unscrew your head, cousin dearest? Trazyn
said venomously. Tanskh didnt reply.
Knowing full well they couldnt listen even if they tried, Trazyn slapped one Immortal
on the side like hed seen some orks do before a battle. Putting on his best orky
voice, he laughed a brittle laugh. Come on lads, lets get em!
The Immortals did nothing, so Trazyn turned away from them. Such a genius I am,
it is surely a pity you are all too dead to understand it.
A loud rumbling came from behind the door to the Hall. Trazyn recognised it and
bade his Immortals take cover. The noise got louder and higher as Trazyn shuffled
back toward his lychguard, their ranks parting to let their master in. No sooner did

he reach them, a mighty crack like the foot of a god rang through the Hall of
Wonders, and the necrodermis door buckled under the shot.
Trazyn could see through the gash in the door; a doomsday ark. In necrodermis of
alabaster and scarlet, it glided above the Death of Lord Solar Macharius gallery floor
as if on a cushion of air. Its colossal cannon was just warming up for another shot at
the hall door when Ahmontekhs voice called over the rumbling. Its not too late,
librarian! Beg for mercy and I may yet give it!
Trazyn soundlessly snapped his mechanical fingers. I am sorry, but in order to beg
you for mercy I must first see you, specifically your head. Do you mind just sticking
it through, I shall lop it off and put it in a cabinet if it is all the same to you?
The Crimson Scythe roared, his cry of indignation drowned out mostly by the crack
of the door shattering under the doomsday arks second shot. Warriors and scarabs
poured in through the blasted doorway as Trazyn bustled over to the prone form of
Imrapthekh. Wake up, servant!
Yes, Your Excellency? Imrapthekhs sensory orbs gleamed anew as he got to his
feet.
Hold off the good phaeron for a moment. Ive got some work to do.
Yes, Your Excellency. The chronomancer gave a small bow and ran off to join
Trazyns Immortals who were engaged with the enemy. Tesla carbines fizzled and
sparked electric bolts at the massed phalanxes of warriors ahead of them, but more
than a few of Solemnaces guards fell to massed fire of gauss flayers.
Trazyn ran over to the desiccated form of Thupek as his lychguard closed with the
foe. He stood under the deathstrike missile suspended in the air when he saw
Ahmonthek, stomping forward into the lychguard with his courtiers at his side. They
carved through Trazyns guards as the scholarly necron spotted a tachyon arrow
arrangement on the wrist of the wrathful phaeron.
He ran around plastiglas cabinets until he was in plain view of the Crimson Scythe,
who had just finished hacking apart Trazyns guards. His courtiers bowed to him, but
to everyones surprise Trazyn started to clap his metal hands slowly.
Well well well, Trazyn mocked. Look, he has finally learned to use his blade!
Mother will be so proud of you? Has anyone got a record of this, put it in the
galleries for posterity. I shall entitle it The Humiliation of Ahmontekh the Burglar!
It has quite a ring to it, yes?
Ahmontekh howled, a horrific noise that would have scared the life out of a lesser
being than Trazyn. He lifted his arm and flexed his wrist to fire the tachyon arrow,
but not before Trazyn pressed the button on the staffs haft. As time slowed to a
crawl once more, he stepped easily out the way of the lance of golden light that
emanated from the phaerons wrist. As the shot continued its trajectory, Trazyn cast
his empathic obliterator aside. The tachyon arrow continued into the deathstrike
missile behind him, and the last thing Trazyn did was give a cheeky little wave at
the stunned phaeron before the warhead went off.

The Hall of Wonders was desolate. Every exhibition remained intact (apart from the
missile obviously), but the ground was covered in a thick, silvery liquid. Necrodermis
coated the floor, bits of destroyed Necrons covering the floor white-hot and
bubbling after the shot. All that was left of the doomsday ark was dozens of shards
scattered about the floor, some wriggling in attempts to pull themselves back
together.
Only Ahmontekh was left standing. His phase shifter had saved him, bringing him
out of reality for the split second he needed to come out intact. His warscythe
clutched in both hands, he slopped on through the molten remains of his servants
towards the head of Sebastian Thor.
As soon as he laid hands on the plastiglas casket, he felt something he thought hed
not felt in decades; genuine agony. He clutched his head, the tough necrodermis
fingers leaving deep gouges in his cranium as he screamed. His back and chest
burned as if hed had his inner circuitry pulled out by an angry carnifex. He
screamed again, not the bellow of wrath as earlier, but instead something much
more primal; an invitation for death.
He staggered, knees shaking and back bent double. The Crimson Sycthe raised his
head in one last battlecry, then Ahmontekh was no more. The phaerons white-gold
face fell to the floor, the rest of his armoured plates flaking off like a creature
shedding its skin. Clutching for support, he pulled himself to his feet.
Reflected in the plastiglas box was the familiar hooded face of Trazyn, laughing as
he looked down over the husk of the former phaeron. He tapped a button on his
wrist and his robe of metal formed around him, and the archeovist delved into one
of the pockets with a silvered hand. He fished out an old Terran coin, the same one
he gave to Thupek, and tossed it to the ground next to the Crimson Scythes husk.
Payment, for services rendered. Trazyn said as he shuffled away from the casket.
He held out his hand and his empathic obliterator dislodged itself from the gooey
metal mess on the floor. Trazyn chuckled, it was a miracle the weapon had survived.
It flew across the Hall of Wonders and into Trazyns hand as Tanskhs voice came on
the Halls communications array.
Your Excellency, is all in order down there?
Yes, certainly. Trazyn said. Just waking up is all. Have we got any empty gallery
spaces in the northwest of Solemnace? Id like to put up some new exhibits.
I believe so, Your Excellency. What would they be?
A legion of warriors, our own race, from the Subhekhar Dynasty if I remember
rightly. Currently in orbit, well do an inventory of them when we get back. The
former household army of a late Phaeron, no less. I do believe he called himself the
Crimson Scythe.

I think I see where this is going. Tanskh said, and Trazyn snickered. What will we
be calling this new gallery?
Trazyn raised his staff over his head and cackled with anticipation and glee. The
Humiliation of Ahmontekh the Burglar!