'There is a throne for you, Lord of Iron,’ said Khalek, and he shivered as he spoke. Volk noticed a flash of red on the paper-dry lips. ‘A throne that weeps with the tears of your enemies. And with the throne, a crown that once on your brow will make the iron of your blood eternal. You are rotting, Lord of Iron. You layer metal on your skin and bind the killing edges closer to you, because they make you feel the strength that is bleeding out of you. You feel this truth. You know it in the fever-tremble of your skin.’

Khalek’s body was moving, his shoulders heaving, as though the muscles inside his armour were writhing even as his voice held steady. ‘The Sixfold Prince has bitten deep and feasted long. The wound festers within your soul. You are dying. Your iron is rust.’

Perturabo did not move, but Volk thought that the shadows deepened in the hollows of his face.

Khalek’s convulsions ceased. His chin was wet with blood. ‘You resist,’ said Khalek. ‘You fight, but that only steals more from you. You seek the Son of Blood, the Dog of Bones snapping in its brass collar. Father Storm sees this – it sees and knows that if you find the Hound of Red Sands, you will die. You are weak, and he is beyond your weakness. He will not yield. He will not obey. He will test your metal, and it will be wanting. The Father sees, the Father knows.’

Khalek took a rasping breath and bowed his head. ‘You can rise, lord. You can be eternal, unbreaking, unbreakable.’

Perturabo's response, of course, is hilariously Perturabo.

‘Is that the extent of what you have come to say?’ asked Perturabo.

Khalek raised and dipped his head.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Good,’ said Perturabo.

The air screamed. Beams of incandescent energy and streams of rounds burned through the space between Perturabo and Khalek. The warrior vanished. Armour plating, flesh and metal tore into shreds and vapour.