More tales of the Astra Militarum from Black Library

• LAST CHANCERS •
By Gav Thorpe

13TH LEGION

KILL TEAM

ANNIHILATION SQUAD

SHIELD OF THE EMPEROR
An omnibus edition of the novels Fifteen Hours by Mitchel Scanlon, Death World by Steve Lyons and Rebel Winter by Steve Parker

HONOURBOUND
A novel by Rachel Harrison

CADIA STANDS
A novel by Justin D Hill

CADIAN HONOUR
A novel by Justin D Hill

SHADOWSWORD
A novel by Guy Haley

BANEBLADE
A novel by Guy Haley

THE MACHARIAN CRUSADE
An omnibus edition of the novels Angels of Fire, Fist of Demetrius and
Fall of Macharius by William King

• GAUNT’S GHOSTS •
By Dan Abnett

THE FOUNDING
An omnibus edition containing books 1–3:
First and Only, Ghostmaker and Necropolis

THE SAINT
An omnibus edition containing books 4–7:
Honour Guard, The Guns of Tanith, Straight Silver and Sabbat Martyr

THE LOST
An omnibus edition containing books 8–11:
Traitor General, His Last Command, The Armour of Contempt and Only in Death

THE VICTORY PART ONE
An omnibus edition containing books 12–13:
Blood Pact and Salvation’s Reach

BOOK 14: THE WARMASTER

BOOK 15: ANARCH

Contents

Cover

Backlist

Title Page

Warhammer 40,000

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Epilogue

About the Author

An Extract from ‘Shield of The Emperor’

A Black Library Publication

It is the 41st millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the Master of Mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of His inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that He may never truly die.

Yet even in His deathless state, the Emperor continues His eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor’s will. Vast armies give battle in His name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst His soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Astra Militarum and countless planetary defence forces, the ever-vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants – and worse.

To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.

Prologue

The stamping and hollering of the ragged masses that lined the old sump was an assault on the senses, overwhelming in its intensity. Hundreds of feet drummed on ferrocrete. Hundreds of fists slammed against metal rails and bulkheads.

The smell was every bit as offensive, a cloying mixture of oil, rust, human sweat and fungal ork stench. Vapours rose from vents in the floor, a noxious fog that clung lazily to the lower steps leading up to the improvised gantries welded and bolted to the surrounding walls.

The source of both the noise and the stink was half-seen, the walls of the broad sump hall left in shadow by the flickering yellow lumen strips that hung from chains at its centre. A single shadowy entity of glaring eyes and open mouths poured derision and hatred down upon the prisoners led in chains before it.

The captives returned this loathing with a mixture of venom and dejection. Some of the soldiers, uniforms torn and weapons confiscated, glared back at the riotous horde; others hung their heads, eyes fixed on the swirling mist around their feet.

Those that escorted the prisoners held aloft trophies of various sorts – looted weapons, captured helmets, insignia of the Astra Militarum. They were dressed in scavenged pieces of flak armour and scraps of carapace, adorned with sharpened rivets, orkish glyph plates and chains. They wore bracelets and torqs remade from tank parts and underhive detritus, heads protected by an eclectic mix of tankers’ caps, horned ork bowls, Imperial-issue basinets, workers’ helmets and battered eco-suit domes.

Each of them had a plaque somewhere about them, on a cord about the neck, emblazoned on a chestplate or worn like a knight of old’s tilting shield between neck and shoulder. Wooden, plastek or metal, each bore the same device – a three-tongued flame of red.

They brought their captives, twenty-three that had survived the ambush, to stand a few metres from the stepped platform built into the far wall of the sump. The stage was populated with a score of disparate folk – a human menagerie of lowhive scum, uphive nobles and everything in between. Their dress was as varied as their origins, taking in the scope of oil-stained rags to multicoloured plumes, by way of factory coveralls, trooper fatigues, elegant gowns and long-tailed dress coats. Like the ambush party, every one of the elevated court wore a symbol of their allegiance, either painted on plaques, sewn into badges or embroidered directly into cloth.

A chair of extruded plastek dominated the centre of the dais. It was shaped like a fire, flames forming its back, twisting in imagined vortexes to make the legs and arms. The flames came together a couple of metres above the stage, forming a crude approximation of the Imperial aquila, eagle wings outspread. Despite the attempted art of its design, the red plastek finish was shiny and crass.

There was a space about the throne, a rough circle a few metres across, empty save for two figures. The first was a hulking brute, skin dark green, almost black, bucket-jawed and red-eyed. Its gold-braided frock coat was distended by slab muscles, a single-feathered hat propped upon a slanting cranium between pointed ears. Long arms hung at its sides, bracelets of spiked steel about the wrists, glinting rings encircling strong thick-knuckled fingers. Beside the ork was a much smaller companion, no taller than waist-high to the humans. Its skin was far paler, its clothes diminutive copies of the ork’s but even more extravagant in colour and jewellery. The feathers that adorned its cap were almost as tall as the wearer.

The throne’s incumbent was dressed in a silk-like, open-fronted robe of purple and black – patrician colours. His flesh was scarred in many places, his face a duality of white scar tissue on one side and livid weals on the other. The burn marks continued down to his chest, obscuring old tattoos.

From this came his name, which issued from the lips of his followers, sung softly at first.

‘The Burned Man. The Burned Man. The Burned Man.’

Voices rising in a crude harmony, the lyric rebounded from the metal walls.

‘The Burned Man! The Burned Man! The Burned Man!’

His title was like a prayer, and the savage mass around the walls reached out their hands to him, imploring him to turn an eye towards them.

The captives were thrust forward, presented to the Burned Man as prizes, the leader of the raiding company bowing low so that his plaited beard cut a furrow through the ankle-deep miasma.

Among the prisoners was one who was neither cowed by his surroundings nor belligerent. He wore the shirt and leggings of an Astra Militarum officer; his cap and coat had been taken. Even without such adornment his bearing conveyed his superiority more than any badge or epaulettes.

His gaze had been fixed upon the Burned Man from the moment of entering, oblivious to the clamouring threats that rained down. Eyes like two splinters of ice regarded the lord of the Acheron Sump with detached disdain.

The Burned Man leaned forward, eyes widening in surprise, orbs of white amongst the tortured flesh of his face. A savage grin broke his features.

The underhive warlord stood up and took a step, still staring at the Imperial officer. He spread his arms wide and turned left then right, sweeping his attention across the audience. Their singing broke down into a cacophony of shouts of praise and pleas for attentions.

‘Welcome to my domains… Colonel.’

One

OLD FRIENDS

I need to stop grinning, it’s starting to get weird, but my jaw won’t respond. I just look down at Colonel Schaeffer. Everything else has stopped. Arms, legs, tongue, brain. None of it’s working at the moment, like I’m some scuttling prey-thing caught in the gaze of a deadly hunter.

It’s his eyes, I swear. No one else looks into me the same way, piercing my soul without effort. Icicles as cold as the blood in his veins, pushing deeper and deeper with every breath we stand there, gazes locked.

My rictus is starting to unsettle the crowd, their tense silence stretching along with my lips and cheeks. They are waiting. Waiting for my proclamation.

To say I have mixed feelings would be like saying getting shot by a lascannon is a bit dangerous. I really thought he was dead. I mean, frag it, I thought I was dead for a while.

But he is standing there right in front of me, as real as anything. Here, in the depths of Acheron’s underhive, at least twenty kilometres from anything resembling Imperial authority. It’s a reminder that beyond the ork-towns, past broken habplexes and collapsed manufactory levels, the Imperium’s war for Armageddon rumbles on, a years-long stalemate that has consumed millions of lives already.

‘Kage.’

He utters my name like a curse, teeth gritted.

‘The Burned Man! The Burned Man!’ My company raise their voices in protest at the use of my given name.

Schaeffer doesn’t react, he just stands there watching me.

I feel his contempt and my smile fades as his scorn washes over me. The surprise, delight maybe, gives way to memory. The remembrance that this is Colonel Schaeffer of the 13th Penal Legion, the Last Chancers.

The memory that he is a total and utter bastard.

‘The Colonel!’ I say again, quieting the crowd with raised arms. I point to Schaeffer. ‘The man that plucked me from nothingness and threw me into every hell-war he could find. I wasn’t supposed to survive, was I, Colonel? Not the tyranid spore mine swarms of Ichar IV. Not the xenos infiltration of Coritanorum. Not the fire warriors of the t’au.’

I take a breath, eyes cast upwards to the ceiling and the mass of the mountainous hive city unseen above us.

‘And not here, in the fires of Acheron.’ I lower my gaze and meet his, refreshed by the thought of my elevation. ‘Yet, here I am. Preserved from death at each turn, and now raised above death by the hand of the Emperor Himself.’

I see his first reaction. A narrowing of the eyes, tightening of the jaw.

‘But you know that, of course. You came looking for me.’

‘Traitor!’ shouts one of the Guardsmen with him. I think it’s Lorii at first. She looks like Lorii.

Except she doesn’t. She looks nothing like Lorii. Pale skin, but not white. Dark hair. At least twenty centimetres shorter.

And Lorii is dead. It cut her open.

It used my hands to do it.

Another outburst of jeering rings down from the audience, but I just shrug.

‘A power far higher than you has judged me,’ I tell the anonymous trooper. ‘Judged me and delivered me from the abyss.’

‘The Burned Man! The Burned Man!’

It really doesn’t take much to get my followers worked up, and they have been in an agitation since news came that the orks were coming down through the south-west ducts. Hearing that we’ve captured an Imperial expedition has pushed them over the edge. I can barely see them but I can feel the pent-up anger, a seething, living thing that roars through their throats and glares through their eyes.

A thing that thirsts for blood.

At my left, Nazrek stirs, its bulk shifting as it feels the surge of emotion. A noise like gravel crushing flesh rumbles from the ork’s throat. Grot sniggers in its high-pitched way.

I really hadn’t expected it to be the Colonel. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have arranged this celebration. The crowd are too excitable. If I don’t calm everything down, someone’s going to throw something, and then someone else is going to copy them, and it’ll be a bloodbath.

It’s a fine line between stopping them killing these troopers and denying them vent for their growing anger. Anger that has swelled in recent days, for no reason I can uncover. Just a rage that has stirred up the orks, the rival warlords, even the Imperial Guard camped outside the hive. Everyone seems eager for a renewed war.

‘Here he is, delivered into my grasp by the Emperor,’ I tell my audience, reaching out a hand to Schaeffer and then closing my fingers into a fist. ‘For years he was the master. Now he is powerless. The balance of the scales has tipped in my favour, yes?’

There’s a roar of approval in answer.

‘But remember, I was once like those with him. They are his thralls, here in service to the God-Emperor. Dutiful, following orders, finding their place in the scheme of the Master of Mankind like all of us.’

Schaeffer’s brow furrows as he listens, but he remains silent.

‘Spare them our condemnation until we know their souls,’ I tell my people. My fist becomes a pointing finger, beckoning to the Colonel. ‘But this one, he comes with me.’

I stride from the stage without looking back. Nazrek lumbers after me, grunting, while Grot hurries behind. The rest of my lieutenants touch fingers to their flame-badges in salute as I pass.

My chambers are down a short corridor adjoining the sump vat. They used to be an overseer’s office, I think. An armoured door bars entry, but I leave it open and wait inside.

Karol and three of his gang bring the Colonel along the corridor. They escort him rather than manhandling him, reluctant to lay hands on Schaeffer. He looks like he is on a parade ground, back straight, arms swinging as though on marching drill.

His eyes are moving now, taking in everything, passing over me, looking at Nazrek, the guards, the environment. I back away from the door as he approaches, allowing him to enter. The outer chamber has a couple of benches and a small table, the walls bare plaster, cracked in places where the ancient hive city has settled over the ages.

I give Karol a nod and he leaves with the others. I close the door, giving the lock handle a spin.

‘Thank the Emperor yo–’ I begin. Instinct causes me to duck and twist as I turn back towards the Colonel.

Schaeffer’s straightened fingers, intended for my throat, miss by a few centimetres. I guess he’s not here to bring me in alive.

I drive my knuckles into the point of his jaw. As he reels from the blow, I kick hard at the side of his knee, tripping him.

I back off, hands raised, rather than following up.

‘Hold on!’ I bark at him. ‘Give me a fraggin’ chance!’

Schaeffer stands up, flexing his fingers.

‘I knew you were not dead,’ he says. ‘I did not know how, but I knew it. No body, no proof.’

He steps to the right. I move to keep the table between us.

‘I’m a hard man to kill. That’s why you like me so much.’

There’s a flicker of acknowledgement but his gaze hardens.

‘When I heard there was a warlord called the Burned Man, I did not think much about it at first. Even so, it nagged at me. I had to see for myself whether it was true or not.’

‘And it’s true.’

He drops his shoulder as though he’s about to head right but I’m not fooled. I vault the table as he lunges around to the left.

‘You should know by now, Kage. You cannot run from me. You cannot hide from me.’

‘Learnt that the hard way,’ I laugh. The armoured door is behind me. No chance to turn. If I put my hand back to feel for the lock wheel the Colonel will be on me like a Narusian panther.

Escape isn’t the point. If I open the door, Nazrek and the others will come piling in.

Schaeffer interrupts my racing thoughts, a booted foot connecting with the lip of the table, skidding it towards my legs. He follows it, fist pulled back.

I roll, shoulder hitting the ferrocrete hard, jarring my neck. I come to my feet and keep going, jumping up onto one of the benches, throwing a kick back as he comes after me. My heel connects with his forehead but he bulls through the strike, seizing my knee and thigh.

I twist, trying to spin my other foot around. He ducks, blocking my boot with his shoulder. Tucking myself into a roll, I tumble free but land awkwardly on my head. I roll without looking, his stamp crashing into the floor a split second after my neck has moved.

‘You should have had your friends kill me when you had the chance.’ The Colonel steadies himself as I back away. I feel a lightness at my left hip an instant before I see my combat knife in his hand.

‘You sly fragger.’

No sudden onslaught this time. The Colonel edges forward, blade held ready. He knows I’m good with a knife. Really good. And that means I’m good at dealing with someone else with a knife. First rule of the knife fighter: don’t bring a weapon if the enemy can take it off you.

‘You betrayed me. You left us to die.’ It’s the first time he’s shown any real emotion, his frown deep.

‘I never betrayed you.’ I step back and my calves touch the other bench. ‘I finished the mission. You would have done the same. That’s what being a Last Chancer is about! Finish the mission, even if nobody gets out alive.’

There’s a slight hesitation, but he continues on, taking another step closer. The blade tip weaves left and right, small movements to mask the moment of intent.

‘That’s right.’ He locks that stare on me again. ‘Finish the mission, even if it means not walking out alive.’

My priorities are rapidly changing. There’s a laspistol in my bedroom, the door to the next chamber between me and the Colonel. I don’t take the weapon to the audiences; I don’t like the idea of bringing a gun among a bunch of people that might want to use it on me.

I make one last bid for clemency.

‘I thought I would die,’ I tell the Colonel. ‘I grabbed von Strab and threw us into the furnace chasm, to kill us both.’

‘So why are you not dead?’

I shrug. ‘The Emperor saved me.’

I forget how fast he can move, even though he’s at least twenty kilos heavier than me. I have to take a cut to my forearm to deflect the knife from my eyeball. Spinning, I chop my hand into his neck, hoping to stun him.

I don’t. He backhands me across the jaw, the whip of his hand giving the instinctive blow terrible force. It knocks me onto the bench, where I sprawl, head banging on the wood.

My vision fuzzes as he looms over me.

‘Thank you.’

He stops, confused by my words.

‘What?’

‘Thank you,’ I tell him, sitting up. I tilt my head back, submitting my throat to the knife edge. ‘For saving my soul. I will die purified.’

Schaeffer leans over me, the blade descending towards the artery in the side of my neck.

‘I came here to kill a traitor,’ he growls. It seems like his words aren’t for me.

I lower my head, meeting his stare. My words come slow and honest.

‘I am not a traitor.’

I can feel the tension in his body, expecting me to counter-attack, to seize the knife. I take in a ragged breath, hardly daring to let it out again. The wrong move and my blood becomes decor.

‘I didn’t have you killed because why would I want you dead?’

‘There are a lot of reasons,’ the Colonel replies. ‘You listed them. Ichar IV. Coritanorum. Brightsword. Acheron.’

‘And I understand why that happened. I know the Emperor guided me here. And I gave myself to Him, and I have been redeemed for my doubts and sins.’

The knife trembles just a fraction. I still don’t dare move.

‘This doesn’t have to be the end of it,’ I tell him, the words coming without thought. But it’s not desperation, it’s not the base clinging to life that drove me for so much of my life. It’s truth, uncensored, spilling from my thoughts to my lips. ‘Sooner or later you open that door and get killed by the people outside. This is a bad place to die for no good reason. There’s something happening, something big, I can feel it. Better to live and fight it.’

The Colonel stares at me for what feels like an age, seeking deception that isn’t there. I say nothing else. Eventually he steps back. I notice that he doesn’t offer me the knife.

‘It’s getting dangerous down here,’ I tell him. ‘It’s going to explode soon and I’d be better off somewhere else.’

‘Your people are not going to let me simply walk away from here. Or you.’

‘I know.’

The Colonel not trying to kill me is an immediate improvement on the situation, but it doesn’t solve any of the bigger issues.

‘I have a bolthole,’ I tell him, tilting my head towards the adjoining chambers. ‘Fake vent cover, out into the tunnels that run under the sumpways.’

‘That will not help the men and women who came with me.’

‘No.’ I flop down onto the bench, wracking my brains.

‘We need to isolate the objective and then determine the best direction from that,’ says the Colonel. ‘Like any other mission.’

I nod and extend a hand, inviting him to continue.

‘Your followers harbour significant anti-Imperial sentiment.’

‘No, that’s not it. They’re just protective of their territory.’ I stand up, moving to the door to the next room. I can see two bottles on an upturned crate. One’s water, the other is a strong spirit we call Flamer Fuel. I step inside and pick up the water. ‘They’re also protective of me. Maybe a bit too attached, really. They’re good people… but desperate. Needy.’

I take a swig of water and offer the bottle. The Colonel hesitates and then takes it off me, swilling the liquid around his mouth for a few seconds before swallowing.

‘The Burned Man. It is a story, nothing more. A lie to impress the simple-minded,’ he continued.

‘No lie.’ He passes back the water and I stopper the bottle to put it on the bench. As I keep talking, I right the upturned table. ‘They know who I am, what I did, where I came from.’

‘And how the Emperor saved you?’ Schaeffer shakes his head. ‘The rumours that I heard told of a man who plunged into the fires and emerged with angel wings, alight with golden flame. Admit it, it is a convenient myth. At least, convenient until you need to leave your miscreant followers behind. You were never good at taking responsibility, Kage.’

‘It’s what happened,’ I insist. ‘I couldn’t say for sure about the wings, but other than that, I fell into the flames and they burned me.’ I take a step closer and he stiffens. The tip of my finger traces the molten swirl down the side of my face. ‘I burned but I lived. The… thing that was inside of me. The thing that made me betray you, that killed Lorii… It was a force from the abyss, a messenger of the darkness. But the Emperor purged it from my thoughts and rescued me. Redeemed me!’

Schaeffer says nothing as he scrutinises me again. With a sigh, he steps past me and takes the water bottle. He opens it and lifts the rim to his lips with his eyes still on me.

‘Why?’ he growls.

‘Why did the Emperor save me?’

He nods.

‘The same reason He saved me a hundred times before, I suppose. Every bullet that missed. Ducking just a moment before that spore mine exploded on Ichar IV. Giving me the strength to break the god-plant’s mind control on False Hope, to resist xenos hypnotism in Coritanorum. How many times has He saved you, Colonel?’

He opens his mouth, to argue I’m sure, but then closes it without saying anything. I can guess his thoughts, because I’ve had the same ones.

‘Just chance, right?’ I say. ‘The bullet’s gotta find someone, only the survivors can claim they were blessed, the dead got nothing to say. Luck? Coincidence? But then you have to ask yourself, if it’s all just good and bad fortune, what’s all this business about our souls being saved by the Emperor? Either the God-Emperor is watching, and maybe taking a hand, or He isn’t… Like that mad, broken preacher Gappo used to say. What if He wasn’t listening when you pray? Or Kronin, poor bastard. Talking only in verses from the Litanies of Faith. Should’ve been dead in a chapel, gutted by a tyranid. Maybe he saw something he could never explain. Felt something… immortal? Inhuman?’

‘Are you saying that is what you felt? The touch of the Emperor upon you?’ For once, there’s no disdain in the Colonel’s question.

‘I truly did. The flames licked at my skin and I felt a power inside me, lifting me from their embrace. In the flames I saw the face of the Emperor, in their roar I heard…’ I’ve told this story a hundred times, it gets a bit more flowery with each retelling, but as the Colonel stares at me without reaction the poetry slips away. I strip it back to the basics. ‘There was a weight, a pressure in my head, like when the abyssal messenger was controlling my thoughts.’

Tears start to roll down my cheek as I remember it, harsher than before. There’s something about the Colonel standing there, listening, like maybe he’s sharing it too. I remember how he’s nearly died Emperor only knows how many times. And he’s been put back together, stitched up, worked on by the Martian tech-priests. He just listens, intent, no questions.

‘There was fire on me, and I fell into one of the underhive tunnels broken by the chasm. But as I lay there, I felt the metal under my fingers and I dug my nails into it and I clung to it like I was going to slip back into the flames. I remember praying. Thanking the Emperor for giving me my last chance. And you. I asked the Emperor to protect you. It hurt. Hurt so fraggin’ much I thought I was gonna die anyway. Not the fire, but the knives inside my head. I pushed into the pain, brought it close, and then tried to bury it, calling on the Emperor again and again. Then it was gone, leaving me. It felt like a gentle breeze through my soul.’

When I’m done, I stand there shaking, staring at his face for some sign of what he’s thinking. He looks me up and down, slowly, gauging every bit of me.

‘And that is why your followers will not be happy for you to leave. They see you as a connection to the Emperor. Their prophet, their guide.’

‘I don’t say any of that stuff, though some of them say it for me.’

‘You do not deny their claims.’

‘They can believe what they want. If I start arguing, all of this comes tumbling down, and me with it.’

‘Which brings us back to the question of how you will extricate yourself from your followers.’

‘Do I need to?’

The question surprises him and the Colonel rubs a knuckle along the side of his nose, thinking for a few seconds.

‘What are you proposing?’

‘We all get out of here, out of Acheron.’

‘You are a deserter. You have others in your ranks that abandoned their posts. Why would they return to the Imperial Guard?’

‘I’m sure you can handle that side of things. If you have a mission, that makes us the new 13th Legion. That’s not the biggest problem. I’d be happy to deal with that if we can get to the Imperial lines. No, it’s the thousands of orks between us and there that’ll be the hardest thing.’

‘You have been fighting the orks since our parting, what makes this so different?’

‘There’s fighting to keep some territory, maybe some raids, keep the power balance. And then there’s leading fifteen hundred men, women and children out through ork-held underhive.’

‘Children?’

‘There are families down here, came to the Burned Man looking for protection.’

‘You really love playing the saviour, Kage.’

‘Nobody’s playing,’ I tell him with a grimace. Then my mood improves as an idea settles. ‘But the holy saviour story would probably convince them to come with us. I spin a yarn about you coming to take us out for some Emperor-blessed war effort, that we’ve all been called upon by the Power of Terra.’

The Colonel growls. ‘I am not going to concede that you have been blessed by the Emperor.’

‘You’re so stubborn!’ I pace back and forth a few times, hands clenching and relaxing. ‘I’m telling the truth! And even if you don’t believe me, what’s the problem? Do you want to get out of here or not?’

‘Compromise is the crack in the wall of sanctity. Principles are not stubbornness.’

‘You sound like a walking Thought for the Day,’ I snarl.

‘I have other concerns. About you. Your recent past.’ Schaeffer folds his arms. ‘You have always been self-serving but your actions during the von Strab mission go beyond self-preservation. I cannot trust you.’

‘You’ve never trusted me.’

‘I have always relied upon you to do the best for your own survival. What occurred in the court of von Strab, the way you turned on us, was beyond survival. It was vindictive and homicidal.’

‘And it wasn’t me!’ I kick the table leg in frustration. ‘I told you that! There was a spirit of the abyss within me, pushing me down inside my own thoughts.’

‘Which you claim to have single-handedly purged.’

‘Not single-handed.’ I sigh and shake my head. ‘It was the Emperor. The breath of the God-Emperor passed through me.’

‘I brought Oahebs for a reason.’ The Colonel turns his shoulders slightly, his posture directing my attention to the door. He tilts his head a little, eyes unwavering. ‘Do you want to be sure that all of the dark messenger has gone?’

I’m about to spit out another angry reply but stop myself. The Litanies of Faith are full of martyrs that died for the Imperial Creed. A bit of doubt from the Colonel isn’t all that great an obstacle.

‘All right, we’ll do it your way,’ I tell him, moving to the lock wheel. I spin it open and push the door just wide enough to poke my head out.

Nazrek, Karol and the others turn in surprise.

‘Him dead?’ growls the ork, leaning to look past me into the chamber.

‘I have spared him for the moment,’ I say archly, directing my words at Karol. ‘I need one of the others. Send for the one called Oahebs. Remember, they’re not to be hurt until I’ve decided what to do with them.’

Slamming the door before they can ask awkward questions, I turn the wheel back into the locked position and let out a long breath.

‘The benefits of blind obedience,’ says the Colonel. ‘But it is hollow without respect for you. It’s based only on the power you claim to have.’

‘I know.’ This time I head for the Flamer Fuel when I go into the next room. There’s a plain metal cup beside the bottle and I half fill it. I stop, hand halfway to my mouth. ‘I know what I went through, but that doesn’t mean I’m not waiting for some ambitious spark in that lot to think maybe they’d do a better job of it.’

I return to the bench, drink untouched.

‘And it’s not been going well, these last ten days or so. A lot of setbacks. I mean, really vicious fighting.’ My head starts to pulse, a throb that’s been bugging me for about the same amount of time. I down a mouthful of Flamer Fuel, letting the sensation of burning tongue and throat distract me from the ache inside my thoughts. ‘Perhaps it’s the Emperor telling me it’s time to move on. Maybe an omen of you coming here.’

The Colonel looks thoughtful for a few seconds, looking away. When his eyes return to me there’s a peculiar quality to his gaze, like uncertainty.

‘What is it?’ I ask. At first he doesn’t look like he’s going to answer, but then relents, unfolding his arms, fists still clenched.

‘There have been bad auguries from the astropaths for the last sixty or seventy days. Navigation in and out of the Armageddon System has been getting more difficult. Wild talk about the Astronomican dimming. Being clouded.’

‘Like the Shadow in the Warp?’ I suggest.

‘Not the tyranids,’ says the Colonel.

‘The orks, then. Nazrek talks about it. The “big green”. A sort of orkiness they all share, gets stronger the more of them there are around.’

‘Not orks,’ Schaeffer says heavily. ‘I think your abyssal stowaway, the one you say you have expunged, was a precursor of something else. The warp is stirring in strange ways.’

‘I’ve been doing this long enough to know that means a prize opportunity to do something insanely suicidal for the Emperor.’

‘You are mistaken. I have no mission, Kage.’ He says it almost apologetically. It’s then that I realise he’s not just talking about the big events, but the words are more personal.

‘That’s why you came after me! Getting bored, were you? I hear stuff. The lines have been drawn on the map for a good while now. Imperial forces dug in out there, the orks mostly happy to stay in here. You got stuck sitting in a trench with frag-all to do, didn’t you?’

I laugh at Schaeffer’s glare of annoyance.

‘What justification did you come up with?’ I neck the remaining alcohol, burning away the last of my reservations. ‘Did the Burned Man pose a threat somehow?’

‘I came to kill a traitor,’ the Colonel growls, stifling my humour. ‘That was reason enough.’

Two

A CHANGE OF PLANS

A clang on the door announces the arrival of Oahebs, cutting off any further conversation. I wrench the door open.

‘That took long enough,’ I bark. Karste is on the other side, no sign of Karol, Nazrek or the others. She has a panicked look that immediately sets my heart racing. ‘What is it?’

‘Orks, coming down through the Waste Scrub,’ she gushes, moving from one foot to the other, causing her upright crest of hair to sway like a bird’s feathers. An uphiver by birth, Karste fled down here when the orks invaded. She’d always been a bit skittish, but was loyal.

‘Why? Why’d they be coming downhive?’

She shrugs, agitation growing.

‘Sasski-Ran says there’re a lot of them. A lot.’

My brain finally starts paying attention to the background noise. Shouts echoing from the sump hall; the thud of dozens of feet moving, clanging down steps; the creak of metal as the gantries shake under the movement of the crowd. I see the fear in Karste’s eyes and imagine it multiplied a hundredfold by my followers in the sump hall. I dash back to the other room, snatch up my laspistol and then head out of the door.

She half turns away, eager to be moving too, eyes straying back down the passageway.

‘Where’s Karol gone? People are gonna die in the stampede.’ I grab her shoulder, dragging her attention back to me. ‘Where’s Karol?’

‘He went to the sumpgates, to lock the portal.’

‘It’s too late for that, if there’s orks in the Waste Scrub,’ I say. She glances down at my fingers digging through the material of her vest. I let go, stepping back. ‘Head down into the walkarounds and round up everyone you can. Take them to the downflow.’

‘Downflow? There are orks at the other end of the downflow.’

‘Less than uphive.’

‘What is your plan?’ The Colonel suddenly at my shoulder causes me to flinch. ‘You do have a plan, yes?’

‘Run,’ I say. ‘Get everybody out of the sumpways first and worry about what’s next once we’re out of here.’

A slow clanging begins in the pipes running along the length of the passageway and up through the sump hall. A trickling follows after, becoming a stronger flow, the brackets rattling as liquid surges up the long-disused pipeways.

‘What does that signify?’ asks the Colonel, looking up.

I start down the passage, grabbing Karste’s wrist so that she follows.

‘It means Karol was too late, and now he’s flooding the dropdrains to slow the orks down.’

A wailing siren joins the sound of gushing water, intermittent and distant. I feel Karste shudder at the noise and increase my pace to a jog, glancing back to make sure Schaeffer is following.

‘And that’s the signal from the flue yards. They’re coming at us both ways.’ My jog becomes a run as shouts echo down the passage from the sump hall. A question keeps hammering at my thoughts and I let it out with a snarl. ‘Why now? What are they after?’

As I feared, the sump hall is pandemonium. Those on the upper levels are climbing back up through the vent pipes, but that’s going to take them into the runnerways that criss-cross the broken hivefloor above – no way out of there except back into the sump or into the path of the orks. Those lower down the viewing galleries are heading to the floor, some of them trying to push others, clawing their way forward. Fights have broken out, adding to the mayhem.

‘I thought you would be better prepared for attack,’ says the Colonel as we reach my throne platform. ‘How have you survived for so long?’

‘The underhive orks are scrawny things, like the jungle ferals we fought. There’s not enough down here for them to feed on, Nazrek says, so they don’t get too big. The hive orks, they don’t bother coming down here because there’s nothing worth taking and nothing worth fighting.’

‘Until now,’ adds Schaeffer.

I shrug.

‘I don’t know. Nothing’s changed.’ My gaze settles on the prisoners, sitting huddled and confused in a ring of my fighters. The escorts don’t look happy, caught between the job of keeping them captive and the spreading panic. I can see a few of them have made a run for it already.

‘Maybe they thought there was a new attack,’ I say, letting go of Karste. I point her to the steps on my left. ‘Go on, round up who you can.’

She bolts off without a look back.

‘Maybe the orks heard a rumour of Imperial soldiers coming into the underhive and came to say hello.’

‘You think this is my fault?’ The Colonel shakes his head. ‘There are hundreds of thousands of soldiers camped outside Acheron, why would the orks pay attention to a single platoon?’

‘Rumours can kill,’ I say. ‘A platoon becomes a company, becomes a regiment… And if those uphive orks have been getting as cranky as the ones we’ve been scrapping with lately… Itching for a fight. Any excuse.’

I wave my hands and start yelling, trying to attract the attention of the mob churning down into the sump hall, imploring them to slow down, to stop panicking. Some turn, steps faltering; others plough on towards the door at the far end – a vertical gate that used to be for the algae scrapers to access the main sump that I turned into my audience hall.

‘With me!’ I bellow at the guards, grabbing the lasgun from the closest as I reach them. Some of them look at the Colonel and the captives, slow to react. ‘Don’t worry about them. Come with me.’

Schaeffer musters his soldiers while I push on with mine, calling for people to calm down as I wade into the crowd. The command starts to ripple outwards, too slowly for some, pressed tight in the pack or trampled as they fall.

‘Clear the way! Out of my way!’ As I shout, I slap my hand on the shoulder of Yousef, one of the guards. ‘Get over to the steps on the other side, slow everything down. Nobody’s getting out of here if we just panic.’

He nods and sets off with some of the others. They’re my best, like Karol and his lot, ex-Imperial Guard, veterans of the ork war. Clear-headed, but some of them not so dependable I’d turn my back on them. Given the company I’ve kept before, they’re a pretty solid bunch.

Schaeffer stays close to me, happy to follow for the moment. I start dragging people back, forcing my way into the crush as we get closer and closer to the gateway. Like line-passing buckets at a fire drill, we pull people away and move them to the back, like we’re digging through the crowd.

Finally, we get to the gate, parting the last press like a blade, forcing a few through the gap in front of us.

‘Two at a time, no more,’ I growl to the men and women around me, passing through the gate. ‘Take the eaststride to the downflow.’

I linger just on the far side of the gate to make sure everything is in hand. There’s some tussles as they establish the new system but I hear the message spreading back through the mob. Just the smallest hint of order, or someone with a plan, settles the mood over the next couple of minutes.

‘Follow on, when the last ones are out,’ I tell my people, receiving nods in reply.

There’s a steady stream of folks heading down the dimly lit passage, turning left at the fork at the end, further into the depths. The tramp of feet on ferrocrete is continuous, filling the space along with the smell of smoke and sweat. A breeze wafts back from a clanking recycling unit at the far end, bringing the stench of old water still trapped in the sumpheads.

‘We’ll hook up with Karol by the deepbounds and then lead the way through the downflow,’ I tell Schaeffer.

I’m just on the verge of thinking that we can keep this under control when the whole passage shudders and a boom thunders around us, cascading dust and rust from the ceiling. A few shouts from behind warn us that not all is well and I half-turn in time to see a fresh tide of people surging through the gate, shouting and screaming.

‘Armoury! That way!’ I yell at Schaeffer, pointing down the right fork ahead. I throw him the lasgun too. ‘Anyone tries to stop you…’

He’s already moving a heartbeat later, snapping off orders to have his group fall in. I feel a shiver course up my spine and catch a glance of a familiar face as they go past. It’s Oahebs, the psychic null, glaring at me, and then he’s lost in the shadows of the gloomy corridor.

‘The Burned Man!’ The cry comes from a woman in the crowd, hidden by the masses, her voice almost lost in the returning chorus of shouts and cries. ‘Bless me! Bless me!’

Her intent is caught by others and some of them break away from the general movement, coming towards me with hands outstretched, eyes alight with desperation.

‘The Burned Man!’ they call, hoping that I can somehow save them just with my presence. My touch.

‘Frag this,’ I snarl, to no one in particular. I break into a run, weaving through the people streaming down the eaststride. The corridor broadens out into a wider, vaulted hall. There’s a section where the underhive has shifted over the centuries, creating a drop of about ten metres. Walkways of scavenged metal and plastek cabling zigzag down the ferrocrete cliff.

I take the shorter route. Jumping from one to the next, I reach the bottom just as another boom of detonation rolls from above. Everyone else is streaming across the split hall to the remains of an old pumping station to the right, but I head left. There’s a shortcut here, providing you can pull yourself up about five metres of cable and squeeze through a crawl hole I wouldn’t wish on a servitor.

I haul myself up the improvised rope and through the access hatch, getting a face full of stinking, hot fumes flowing from somewhere uphive. My eyes sting, my nostrils burn and I keep my mouth clamped tight as I wriggle across the maintenance flue and push open the grille on the other side. Head first I roll out of the pipe, coming to my feet on a haphazard scaffold platform. Rotten wood almost gives way under my boots as I edge along the planks to a corroded ladder at the end. Straight down is a hundred-metre drop into the undersump. Nothing down there but rust rats and slow death.

I step out onto the ladder and then jump across a small gap to a more solid ledge on the other side – the remains of an old inspection walkway around the outside of the main sump container. Ducking through a service gap, avoiding the last vestiges of jagged glass around the frame, I come back onto the eaststride, avoiding the massive dog-leg around the pump station remains.

Dropping the last metre back to the ground, I give myself time to think. It’ll be another minute or two before anyone else catches up from the long way round, though I can hear them coming.

There’s a junction just a few metres away, a sort of nexus between the main sump and dozens of access routes that must have led to monitoring stations, hab-blocks and Emperor knows where else. Most of it’s a rubble-choked mess, impossible to get through now. The strideways are tunnels dug through the broken rockcrete, a lot of them collapsed again. Three that I know of keep going.

The eastern corridor curves around to the downflow, a massive dry-drain system where the orks have created a settlement. The moisture’s good for them and we have to use flamers to keep their fungal spread from creeping too far back up the pipes.

There’s the south-east corridor that leads deeper into ork territory, about another two kilometres in-hive as near as we can tell. It’s where our patch joins with the broken expanse known as the Waste Scrub. No point going that way, straight into the hive orks.

And the northway.

I linger for a moment, looking down the black passage. It’s just about big enough for a person to go along at a crouch. Whiffs of gas pockets mean you don’t want to take a naked flame down there with you, and portable powercells are rarer than commissar smiles down here, so it’s a three-hour pitch-black crawl.

But after that, there’s a good chance of getting out to the hive rim. It’s too small for the orks to use, and too treacherous for a group to evacuate, so it’d just be me.

I tell myself that I’ve changed. I felt the touch of the Emperor on my soul and that’s got to mean something. He didn’t keep me alive just so that I could scav together a half-arsed cult for Him and then run away when it got dangerous.

I’m the Burned Man. I have followers. People depending on me. A whole bunch of folks have put their trust in me. Their faith.

And still my body is ignoring my good intentions, keeping me hovering at the junction instead of turning to the east strideway like I’m supposed to.

A guttural shout causes me to flinch, instinct almost throwing me into the darkness before I process the sound.

‘Boss!’ Nazrek bellows again, lumbering towards me from the south-east tunnel, Grot scampering at its heels. Beyond them I see Karol with beard-braids swaying, and about ten others coming at me quickly.

My guilt makes me keenly aware of where I’m standing, and I step back from the north passage, as though putting distance between me and it will allay their suspicions.

‘What’s the news?’ I ask as the ork and Karol reach me.

‘Never seen anything like it,’ says Karol.

‘Big green,’ grunts Nazrek. The ork raps the side of its head with bulging knuckles. ‘Feel big green in here. Lots of green. All coming this way. Lots of Waaagh!’ This last sound is delivered as a deafening shout.

‘Thousands, I’d say,’ Karol continues, expression haunted. ‘I just opened the flood bars and ran.’

‘Angry. Very shouty,’ Nazrek adds.

Grot says something in its chirpier voice. Its ears are flat against its head – a sign of worry. Nazrek snarls back and Grot scampers away a few strides, hiding behind Karol’s leg, red eyes glaring up at the ork.

‘We’ll keep moving,’ I tell them, starting towards the east passage. ‘I’m sending everyone out through the downflow. Keep tight, together, we might catch the under-orks by surprise.’

‘Not good,’ says Nazrek, shaking its head, thick lips curling into a grimace. ‘Big green. Down-runts feel big green too.’

‘No other choice,’ I say. I turn as I hear footsteps coming down from behind us, the first of the folks fleeing the sump hall emerging from the distant shadows. It’s not so much a rush now, more a moving huddle, the braver followers leading the way in small clumps, most of them carrying pipes, sharpened metal shivs and other improvised weapons.

‘Go with them, but don’t start through the downflow yet,’ I tell Karol. Nazrek moves to follow him as he steps away but I grab the ork’s arm. ‘Stick with me. Tell me more about what you feel in the big green. How far away is the hive-mob?’

‘Is not scanner, boss,’ it replies with a shrug. It’s odd how it’s picked up some of our words and expressions. A surprisingly quick learner, when I think back to the grunts and bellows that used to make up half of Nazrek’s speech. It says it’s because the ‘green’ is strong on Armageddon, makes the orks smarter. Hearing about some of the stuff the Beast Ghazghkull did, I can believe that.

‘Like, you feel hotter but can’t say how closer fire is. Is getting lot hotter.’

‘Right,’ I say with a nod.

People are moving past us in numbers now, scores of them. I see Karste among the crowd and give her a thumbs up. She looks afraid but manages a hesitant smile in return.

The ork grunts and turns its head to look back towards the tunnel leading to the Waste Scrub, eyes narrowed.

‘Is noisy. Loud.’

‘That’s the second time you’ve said that. What do you mean? What’s loud?’

‘Big green is loud, boss,’ the ork says, squinting down at me. Its brow furrows. ‘Big green sorta like buzz in head. More orks is bigger buzz, louder noise. Big green is big loud now. Not just green, summink else too. Bigger loud.’

‘Bigger loud?’

‘Sorta. Diff’rent loud. Blood loud.’

I don’t really have any idea what Nazrek is talking about, except I can feel a pinch at the nape of my neck. It’s been that way for the last few minutes and I thought it was tension, but it’s like a pulsing that isn’t in time to my heartbeat. The pressure I felt before, creeping down my spine, compressing my backbone with its weight.

Louder. What’s louder? I think.

‘Keep moving!’ I shout, waving the crowd on to distract myself from disturbing, half-formed thoughts. ‘Those with weapons to the front. Report to Karol.’

I linger for another half-minute, urging folks onward. I see Schaeffer moving with the crowd, a head taller than everybody else. He surges through them, parting people with growled commands and sheer presence, the rest of the Last Chancers following behind. They have a mix of lasguns and autoguns, a few with pistols. Schaeffer tosses a laspistol to me as he breaks from the stream of people turning towards the downflow.

I take the lead, striding purposefully along the side of the descending crowd, calling for people to make room ahead. The flow of people starts to slow down, gathering them together a hundred metres or so from the broken valve station that opens onto the downflow.

‘Keep moving,’ I tell them, waving them forward. They seem sluggish, reluctant to press further forwards. A few whispered pleas and desperate moans greet me as I arrive.

‘Not everyone is used to marching into danger,’ the Colonel reminds me. ‘Most people try to move away from it.’

‘I hadn’t given it a second thought,’ I confess. ‘I guess I’m just used to confronting deadly enemies head-on, thanks to you,’

He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything.

‘Get going,’ I shout at the dawdlers.

‘What about the orks?’ someone asks from the crowd. ‘We haven’t got any guns.’

‘The ones behind us aren’t going to be any nicer,’ I remind them. Still a lot of them seem hesitant, the initial panic worn off, the thought of moving into danger when they seem safe too much to overcome. I raise my voice. ‘I’ve stared down death too many times to remember, but do you want to hear the one thing I know for sure will get you killed quicker than anything else?’

Some of them demand to know the answer, almost begging in their fear.

‘Not trying to stay alive,’ I tell them. I point down the tunnel. ‘We’re going that way, with our guns. The orks are coming from behind, so if you want to live, you come with us.’

I don’t wait for any more debate and set off, shoulders set, eyes fixed ahead. I can hear the tramp of Departmento Munitorum boots behind me from the Colonel and his troopers, and then a more diffused shuffling as the crowd gets moving again. I pick up the pace, not sure how long we have until the hive-mob are going to be on us. I’d rather be deep in sump-runt territory before then.

There’s about a hundred gun-armed followers with Karol at the filtration valve station. A yawning pipe, about five metres high, cuts through the broken debris, straight into the artificial mountainside we call the downflow.

‘Any sign of the orks?’ I ask, seeing some lamplights through the pipe.

‘Not yet,’ Karol replies. He glances past me at the Colonel and the Last Chancers, eyes widening as he sees the weapons in their hands. His eyes come back to me, full of suspicion. ‘What’s the plan, Burned Man?’

‘Don’t worry about them,’ I say, flashing a grin at the Colonel. ‘They’re just as keen to get out of here as the rest of us.’

The Colonel looms closer, passing a scrutinising glare over my militia.

‘How many orks live down here?’ he asks.

‘Hundreds,’ says Karol.

I sense the Colonel is formulating a plan, but this isn’t his company, this isn’t his mission.

‘But spread out mostly,’ I add, cutting him off.

‘Big green louder,’ Nazrek tells us, jabbing a bladed heavy pistol down the pipe. ‘Down-runts coming, hear the loud green.’

‘We’re here to get through, not raid,’ I remind Karol and the others. ‘Move fast, don’t get stuck in a big fight.’

‘Which way, though?’ he asks with a slight shake of the head. ‘Got to head east to get out-hive, but I don’t know anyone that’s gone maybe more than a kilometre that way. Could just run straight into a dead end and get trapped.’

I look back up the tunnel and see that a lot of my people have arrived, over a thousand altogether. They’re quiet, either sensible enough not to draw the attention of the orks, or too subdued by what’s happening to talk. Either way, that’s still a lot of dead weight to carry around.

Not dead weight, I remind myself. My people. The followers of the Burned Man. Servants of the Emperor, drawn by my faith.

‘We need to do this properly,’ I tell Karol, signalling for a few others to gather closer. ‘Lead squads to scout the way, advance in elements – five groups maybe, about a hundred in each.’

‘Your people are not disciplined enough for that,’ argues the Colonel, glancing over his shoulder at the huddling mass. ‘Even with escorts, which ones are going to have the courage to wait until last?’

‘Fine, good point,’ I growl back, hating that he’s right, and hating it more that I hadn’t thought of it. ‘Scout group and main group, it is. Put out two picket squads to watch the flanks, ten in each. Good eyes and ears, nobody flighty.’

Karol nods, looking away as he thinks of candidates. The Colonel steps closer, voice low. He addresses his words to Karol but his gaze lingers on me for a moment longer than I’m comfortable with.

‘We need dependable scouts. Nobody that is going to think it a good idea to just make a run for it.’

‘I’ll be with the main body,’ I add, somewhat quickly, I realise. Damn the Colonel and his doubts. Making me overreact.

A thump resounds down the tunnel, causing an outburst of cries and complaints from the jittery crowd.

‘That’ll be the barricades I lowered at the crossvents.’ Karol grimaces as he looks back. ‘That’s less than half a kilometre away.’

‘We need to go,’ I say, pushing him towards the filtration chamber. ‘Take the scouts ahead, we’ll follow.’

Karol moves on, picking out a few men and women as he does so. The others are shuffling closer, starting to push towards the downflow access. I’m aware of the looming Colonel, his presence distracting me.

‘How about you make yourself useful and stop any stragglers?’ I say to him.

‘You want me at the back?’ His eyes narrow. ‘Closest to the orks?’

I sigh and shake my head.

‘If none of us get out, that’s no good for me, is it?’ I say, disappointed by his low opinion but forced to address it in terms he’d expect. ‘I’d rather you watch our backs than anyone else.’

That seems to answer him, for the moment at least. He takes a handful of his squad and pushes back through the approaching people, urging them onward. I take up the call, telling them to move on fast but steady, sending several more folks with guns every few seconds.

In a line about five wide, a hundred metres long, we worm our way across the downflow – a great ferrocrete slope just about shallow enough to clamber down, illuminated by an ancient glowstrip nearly twenty metres long, powered from Emperor knows where. It’s the last light that we’re not carrying with us and as we snake into the tunnel beyond – an old outflow pipe that breaks about three hundred metres on – we bring out lanterns and hand-lumens. Beams of yellow, blue and white dance across the rusted pipeway, accompanied by the clatter of footfalls and the swell of mass breathing, the surroundings growing colder while exhalations fog the air.

Nazrek stomps along at my right shoulder, grunting every few steps. Behind, the patter of Grot’s bare feet. I glance back at the ork, its red eyes reflecting the light of the lanterns.

‘What do you feel?’

‘Green, everywhere,’ it says, turning its head left and right. ‘Green and blood, blood and green. Hurts in my brain.’

I take this to mean the down-runts are close, but there’s been nothing from the scouts yet. If there had been an attack, we’d have heard gunshots and shouts.

What are they waiting for?

Three

PASSING THROUGH ORKDOM

We pass through a few abandoned workshops and tool rooms – bare carcasses long stripped of anything useful, filled with shadows and disturbing creaks where machinery used to be.

It’s not just generations of human scavengers that have passed through. Patches of fungus puff clouds of spores into the still air, dusting the bare rockcrete. The smell is unmistakable, and I see Nazrek sniffing intently.

‘Old,’ the orks says. ‘Weak.’

‘Can you work out which way they are?’

The ork stomps about for a bit, while the rest of the crowd move through the workshops, huddling together like a prey herd, eyes in all directions. Those of us armed create a kind of corridor for them to move along, standing guard at stairwells and archways, passing ahead and keeping watch to the rear, a moving protective pocket. I’m surprised that we haven’t run into any of the down-runts. Whatever has stirred the orks from uphive maybe hasn’t reached down here yet.

‘Let’s keep going, quick as we can,’ I say now and then, repeating it slowly and calmly so as not to set off another stampede. If people panic down here they’ll head off in all directions and we’ll never get them out.

‘Gettin’ closer,’ warns Nazrek when we pass into the remains of an old scriptorium. I can tell what it was by the raised overseer plinth at the far end and the rust-lined holes in the floor where benches and lecterns used to be secured. Overhead, out of reach, rusting lumen chandeliers continue to flicker, intermittently leaching off the underground thermal energy grid.

Through a half-collapsed corridor we pass single file into the dormitories, probably of those long-forgotten scribes. Rooms large enough for a score of beds each flank a central passageway, eight on each side. There are scraps of metal and discarded rags here, and one of the rooms reeks of ork shit. As we get closer the stench becomes almost unbearable. Fungal growths as large as me cling to the walls, forcing us to hack and batter our way through, every blow of blade and gun butt releasing more pungent spores into the air. Strange bugs skitter along brightly coloured fronds, mandibles working with anticipation, while larger creatures scuttle noisily through an undergrowth of smaller, drab growths.

While we press on, Grot stops, stooping to pluck handfuls of mushrooms from the corner of the floor and wall, jamming some straight into its mouth, others into a small bag tied around its waist. Nazrek pushes past, carelessly snapping stems and trampling fungi underfoot, staining its green skin with smears of yellow and red. The ork crouches in the midst of the fungus and makes strange, soft grunts, a hand held out.

Something about as long as my forearm slithers out of the fungal copse, like a centipede but with disturbingly orkish features. A cluster of antennae wave over its red eyes, feeling Nazrek, who chuckles deep in its chest at the touch. I watch fascinated as the alien lifts up the orkipede, stroking a finger along its length. Nazrek straightens, pinching the orkipede hard behind the head. Glistening fangs stab out like switchblades, dripping green fluid. Nazrek lifts the bug high, letting the venom fall onto its outstretched tongue.

The ork smacks its lips, takes the orkipede in both hands and twists the head off with a deft movement. Casting the head aside, Nazrek quickly opens up the hard carapace with long nails, exposing green oozing flesh beneath, which it deposits into an open mouth with relish.

The ork belches and turns to me.

‘Burned Man want?’ it asks.

‘Not hungry,’ I say quickly, which is saying something given what I’ve had to eat in the past.

Nazrek shrugs and bends to grab Grot by the neck. The smaller orkoid snatches a last few mushrooms into its mouth before being flung along the corridor, a threatening growl from Nazrek hurrying it along the way.

There’s a flutter of reaction ahead, preceding the arrival of Bentza, one of the scouts. She carries her lasgun slung over her shoulder, a long knife in hand.

‘We found prisoners, Burned Man,’ she says as she comes up to me. ‘Chained up in one of the rooms ahead.’

‘Okay, show me,’ I reply, beckoning for Nazrek to follow.

We overtake the others and find Karol at a branch junction, a smaller corridor of rough ferrocrete heading off to the right, a set of steps a few metres along. I can hear moaning and whispered urging for silence coming along the passageway.

‘Prisoners? Ours?’ I ask as I fall in beside Karol, turning towards the steps.

‘Don’t recognise them,’ he tells me, leading me to the left on the landing at the bottom of the steps, through a doorless frame into a low, broad chamber barely high enough to stand in.

It smells like a company latrine, mixed with the ever-present fungal stench of ork spoor. There’s nothing in the room except for a gaggle of seven people – three women, four men – chained to a ring in the far wall, the wheel of a pumpcycle protruding from a metal plate next to them. There’s a fly-ridden pile of human waste in the far corner, at the furthest extent of the chain’s reach, and scraps of food scattered about.

Some of the slaves cry out when they see me, shocked by my scars, I guess. They babble, trying to form words, lifting bloodied hands towards us. The light from Karol’s lantern causes them all to flinch back. I grab his arm, directing the beam away, seeing the pain it’s causing them.

‘Frag,’ I say, at a loss for any other words. Scabs circle their ankles where the shackles bind them, their legs covered in filth, hair down to their waists and further. They’re pretty much the same grimy colour as the walls, and when they speak I see bloodied gums studded with a few teeth, like bunkers on a defence line.

‘Frag,’ I say again. I thought I’d seen everything, but I was wrong.

‘He… help,’ one of the women manages, pushing herself, trembling, to her feet. They’re all naked; I can see whorls where fleshworms have burrowed through the skin, and dark lesions from rustdagger spores.

Then I see that one of them hasn’t moved since I entered, lying near the wall. I direct Karol’s lamp onto the supine form and see flies buzzing around empty eye sockets. Dead for some time, ork fungus growing from patches on the skin, maggots creeping through rotting wounds.

This time it’s Karol that gives vent to our disgust.

‘Frag.’ He covers his mouth, retching. ‘Frag this. Frag this.’

‘Keep it together,’ I grunt, grabbing his arm. I take the lantern away, swinging it to illuminate the chains. Not thick, but also not thin.

The sound of movement causes me to turn.

‘What is…’ The Colonel trails off, standing in the doorway, head tilted. If it’s bad enough to unsettle the Colonel, you know it’s bad. There’s a moment when he looks disgusted, replaced by visible anger. Not often you see a reaction like that.

Mumbled pleading from the prisoners drags my attention back to them; they’re straining at their chains, pawing at the dirty floor with blistered fingers. It’s like they’ve forgotten how to talk, just grunting and saying ‘please’ and ‘help’ over and over.

‘What are you going to do?’ asks Karol, as if that’s any kind of sensible question. It’s obvious there’s not a lot we can do.

‘They will slow you down,’ says the Colonel, face impassive again.

It’s true, but the words feel like an accusation, coming from Schaeffer. What goes unsaid is that I’ll just abandon these unfortunates to look after myself. He doesn’t say it but I feel the judgement all the same.

‘Gun,’ I say, gesturing to Karol. He hands over his rifle and I pull the magazine out. I pop a bullet from the top, reload the magazine and pass the weapon back to him.

‘What are you doing, Kage?’ asks the Colonel, concerned. ‘The orks will be here in minutes, one way or the other.’

I give him silence in reply, walking over to the wall where the ring is embedded in plascrete. I dig a small hole with my knife, just enough to wedge the bullet between the ring plate and the wall.

Stepping back, I drag the laspistol from my belt and take aim.

‘Kage!’

I ignore Schaeffer and pull the trigger, the bolt of light striking the bullet square. The small detonation tears a chunk out of the wall, enough so that two of the bolts in the ring plate break free. The prisoners realise what is happening and surge together, their wasted muscles straining at their chains.

I grab links in my fists and pull too, Karol behind me, and a few seconds later rusting metal screeches and the plate falls clear, throwing us all to the dirty ground. The prisoners start laughing, clustering around me, grinning madly.

‘Now what?’ growls the Colonel. He points to the chains, still shackling them together, threaded through the heavy ring.

‘Get some others,’ I tell Karol. He hesitates, not sure what I mean, so I pick up a length of chain and haul it over my shoulder. ‘Five strong backs should be enough.’

‘This is idiotic,’ says the Colonel as Karol leaves. ‘We will all die if we carry this burden.’

The prisoners start shuffling to the door, urged on by me, carrying as much chain in their arms as they can. The Colonel steps aside as we reach the opening, eyeing me with a grimace.

‘You’d love that, wouldn’t you?’ I tell him, meeting his stare. ‘Prove yourself right about me? You’re wrong. I’m not that person any more. I’m not leaving these people.’

‘If you want to help them, put a las-bolt in them, but do not risk all of our lives for this.’

I shoulder past him.

‘Frag you.’

In the end it turns out to be quicker to carry the emaciated prisoners as well as their chains – they’re in no state to walk any distance at all. With the load spread over twenty people it’s hardly any burden – each of them is so starved they don’t weigh all that much.

A few minutes on and we’re into unknown territory. Most of our scouting and raids against the orks is west of here, through a maze of broken habspaces and empty manufactories. Truth is, most of Acheron’s underhive was cleared out the first time the Beast Ghazghkull invaded, so there was little enough down here at the time of the second attack. What I hear of it, von Strab – former governor and target of my last mission with the Colonel – had promised the orks control of the whole hive, inviting them in as occupying forces. Anyone that got word of that came down here, but most of them either starved to death, died of rad-rot from the broken reactor lines in the north, or had to go back up.

This area we’re heading into, what the locals call the mirecrack, is a wasteland half-flooded with toxic filth that’s been eating away at the hive foundations for centuries, probably millennia. Very unstable and very dangerous. Also empty of orks, which is the only point in its favour. We’re not out of down-runt territory yet though; it’s about another half a kilometre ahead and a kilometre down until we reach the first levels of the mirecrack.

I avoid the Colonel, losing myself among the front of the mob while he takes up the rear again. I can’t work out if I’m sticking it to him, or if he deliberately goaded me into rescuing the prisoners. I thought I knew what I wanted, what I believed, but his reappearance has turned my thoughts upside down.

‘This Colonel,’ says Karol, sticking close on my right. ‘What’s he got in mind for us? When we get out, I mean.’

‘I don’t think he has anything in mind. What’s your point?’

‘We’re all deserters. If he thinks we’re heading back to the Imperial lines with smiles and handshakes…’

‘He just came for me,’ I tell him, but choose to leave out the part where my body was as good as me still breathing. ‘I was the one that said everyone had to come, or I wasn’t leaving.’

‘You said that?’

‘I’m the Burned Man, I look after my people,’ I say to him, tapping the muzzle of my laspistol against his wooden flame-plaque. ‘I remember when you started wearing these. Thought it was a joke at first. I mean, why would you want to remind me of getting burnt all the time?’

‘It wasn’t for you,’ he says. ‘It’s a reminder to us of what you’ve done, what you went through for us.’

It’s been a while since I’ve talked to anyone that was there at the beginning. With all the distractions of being in charge, I’ve kind of forgotten a lot of what happened.

‘You burned, purging your sins through the flames,’ Karol continues. I can barely see him in the lamplight but there’s a glisten of tears in his eyes. He doesn’t look at me, gaze fixed ahead as though seeing something else. His hands start to tremble, knife and pistol shaking with the power of memory. ‘You showed us what could be endured if we had faith. When the Beast came the first time, the Emperor gave us blessed Yarrick and Lord Dante and we found the courage to fight, and we won. When the Beast came back…’

‘You got von Strab.’

He glances at me, pure hate in his eyes.

‘Yes. Von Strab, the traitor.’ Karol shakes his head. ‘Sold us out, not even to the Beast but one of his warlords. And those poor bastards,’ he jerks a thumb towards the prisoners being carried behind us, ‘are just a few of those that suffered.’

I haven’t told him that we only came for von Strab because an inquisitor was going to declare Exterminatus on Acheron Hive – that the effect on morale of the turncoat Imperial commander’s treachery was so dangerous that Oriel was willing to kill a billion people to stop it. I hadn’t even known we were coming here, to Armageddon, just taking one long, crazy-inducing warp jump most of the way across the galaxy. That’s when my little helper, the abyssal messenger, must have slipped inside my thoughts. Looking back, the warp dreams got worse towards the end and that’s when it must have been riding my soul.

A year in the warp, that’s just not a good plan for anybody.

I also didn’t tell them about how that messenger played my worst fears and deepest lusts and most awful passions against me, taking me over in a moment of bloodthirst – one that saw me kill one of my best friends. I forgot to mention that I sided with von Strab, turned on the Colonel and the others, and was helping execute them at the moment Oahebs’ presence dulled the evil spirit’s effect just long enough for me to take full control of my body again.

‘You were willing to die to save us from von Strab,’ says Karol, swallowing hard. ‘To throw yourself into the flames to protect Acheron and Armageddon.’

‘I did,’ I reply. I had wanted it to end. That’s all I remember as I fell down that artificial chasm. All my life fighting to survive, I’d found a chance to end it properly. ‘The Colonel brought me here to save my soul, and that’s what I was able to do.’

‘But the Emperor sent it back.’ There’s wonder in his voice. ‘He spared you the flames.’

I say nothing, ignoring Karol for a moment to strain my ears and eyes for any sign of the downhive orks. This place is a mess of metal creaks and groans, not to mention the sound of our passage, but my paranoia tells me there are other sounds, something out of place. I hold my finger to my lips for quiet and signal the others to stop moving.

Tapping. An insistent rapping on pipes, echoing from somewhere to our left.

‘That’s a signal,’ I hiss, turning back to the crowd around me. ‘Run!’

Before anyone responds, the distinct snap of lasguns sounds from ahead, where the scouts are.

‘Shit. Too late.’

The panic that took hold in the sump hall returns with a vengeance. Half the people start bolting down the passageway, heading towards the fighting; the others want to run the other way but are blocked by the Colonel and his troopers. As their demands to pass become shriller, he faces the decision of letting them past or opening fire.

He allows them to go, his undersized platoon parting to let them dash back towards the orks piling in from uphive.

The las-fire ahead intensifies. I can see flashes reflected from the walls a hundred metres or so from my position, matched by the occasional darker muzzle flare and thump of an ork weapon. Fortunately, the down-runts aren’t all that good at maintaining guns or making ammo. Unfortunately, they are still good at getting a sharp edge on a blade, or driving spikey bits into scrap, and that’s where orks are their nastiest – up-close and in your face.

Which is why Nazrek is already shouldering its way forward, roaring in happy expectation. Most of its shouts seem like wordless bellows, occasionally broken by a ‘smash’, ‘blast’ or ‘krump’.

‘Form on me, get a firing line!’ I yell, heading after the ork, taking a cluster of ex-troopers with me. A glance back confirms that the Colonel is coming forward as well, leaving those fleeing to delay the orks coming at us from behind.

‘What about them?’ asks Karol, flicking a thumb towards the group carrying the virtually unconscious former prisoners.

I raise my voice as I run, trying to be heard over the swelling noise of the fearful mob.

‘If you have a gun, get to the front! If you don’t have a gun, get behind someone with a gun! If you find a gun, pick it up and get to the front!’

I can hear orkish voices among the snap of firing and the curses of my people. A woman trips in front of me and I slow to stoop and help her up. She starts to thank me but I shove her back to her companions and carry on, no time for pleasantries.

Nazrek has surged about twenty metres ahead. Its heavy pistol booms as it reaches the skirmish line, the red flare of its shot illuminating the antechamber where the scouts are holding out. Through the strobe of las-fire and sparks of ork bullets I see the enemy in a tunnel beyond, ducking and crawling through a knot of pipework, a flashing image of snarling fangs and beady red eyes.

‘Fire discipline!’ I yell, catching up with the scouts and Karol’s rough platoon. ‘Mark your targets! Weight of fire!’

We’ve had enough tangles with orks that they should know better. Nazrek calls them runts but they’re still as big as a human, maybe a bit wirier in build, but that’s all muscle and meanness. And they’re tougher than Navy biscuit, so one lasgun hit maybe gets their attention, two annoys them, and you need four or five to do any serious damage. Even then you’ve got to pour it on. Bullets are just about the same.

I take aim with my laspistol, sighting on an ork, about five metres away, dropping down from a hatch in the wall. Karol’s next to me, and we open fire at the same time, aiming high – more chance of hitting the throat, eye, open mouth…

A small fire-team grows around us as the others join in, taking out each ork in turn, closest first and then the next and the next, firing until they go down and then firing some more. Normally we’d bring in the flamers but there’s no point blocking our route ahead with burning promethium.

The chatter of the autoguns takes me back to my youth in the underhive of Olympia, but it’s the zip of a lasgun that I know best. The standard issue of the Imperial Guard, backbone of the Astra Militarum. It’s a soothing sound for me; to hear that weapon firing means I’m still here, the bastards haven’t got me yet. So many battles, so close to dying that many times, it’s stupid that it feels comforting.

‘This way too!’ comes a shout from the corridor adjoining the junction where we’ve been pushing forward.

I can’t break away, there’s a dozen more orks coming straight at us. A few start snapping off shots from crude pistols, the heavy slugs slamming into the pipework above, or tearing chunks of plascrete from the walls. A lucky shot hits a man to my left, taking out the right side of his face. He falls back with a yell, blood spraying the side of my robe.

‘Someone get his gun!’ I shout, trying to find the shooters in the gloom.

Forced to duck and dodge a renewed burst of bullets from ahead, our fire lessens and the orks make headway. Three of them reach the opening, shrugging off lasgun beams as they charge through the doorway.

Karol tries to meet them head-on, a sudden rush of blood perhaps. He should know better. A cleaver swipe takes his hand off and the second blow digs deep into his chest. The ork stands over his body trying to lever its weapon out while the other two pile forward.

‘Keep shooting!’ I back away, following my own order, putting three las-bolts into the side of the closest ork’s head. The tough bone gives way on the third, eyeball and orbit exploding.

The junction is filled with blinding blasts as we open fire, bolts flashing just a few metres and scorching green skin, bullets tearing into hardened flesh. Snarling, the orks thrash through the storm, more of them following. A knife as long as my forearm finds the throat of a woman to my right, moments before the ork slumps at her feet, the woman’s arterial spray coating its falling body.

The other ork has chains wrapped around its fists, as lethal as any hammer or axe, and batters away with them, long arms picking up deadly momentum with each swing. Two of my fighters go down, faces broken open, chests bludgeoned.

The one with the cleaver has freed its weapon and bawls at us, spit flying, fangs glinting in las-light. The shadows of more fill the corridor behind.

Nazrek arrives like a green killdozer, slamming through us with a deafening bellow. Its self-made pistol – too big for me to carry in one hand – barks with it, high-bore rounds crafted by Grot smashing the cleaver-ork to a pulp with raw impact.

Nazrek leaps at the second, clubbing the pistol into its jaw. Bone cracks and green blood flies. A backhanded blow slams the other ork against the wall, neck snapping.

In the other hand, Nazrek carries a ‘choppa’ – eighty centimetres of sharp metal, bastard offspring that had a sword for a mother and an axe for a father. This terrible blade catches the next foe in the side of the head, taking off cheek, ear and scalp with one blow. Incredibly, the down-runt isn’t done. It leaps at Nazrek, jaws open. My bodyguard smashes it in the chest with the grip of the pistol, then discards the weapon to grab the other ork’s throat.

The choppa finishes the job it started, taking off the rest of the head, which flies over me, dribbling droplets of blood.

‘Support!’ I call out, stepping after Nazrek as the ork ploughs into the next foe, tusks driving into its throat as it literally bites its face off. For all its power and violence, even Nazrek would get surrounded and beaten down if left on its own against the massing orks.

We fire when we can, past Nazrek’s rampage. Knives, mauls and close-range pistol shots when needed. One of the runts slips past the bigger ork and comes at me, a hooked pick in one hand, the claws of the other slashing at my face.

I’ve faced enough orks now that I know the only thing that helps is to use my speed. I duck inside the swing of the pick, knowing that if I don’t take out my enemy in the next three seconds, it’ll come down again into my head or back. Claws scrabble at my shoulder but I ignore the pain, driving the point of my knife up through the bottom of the projecting jaw and through the soft tissue of the palate into the brain above. I fire my pistol, the las-bolt searing the side of my face with its proximity before hitting the ork’s eye.

The pick-blow never comes and I shrug off the spasming corpse just in time to throw myself aside from the blade of another ork that has broken past. My companions bury it with lasgun butts and blades, battering and hacking at the creature until it’s decapitated and dismembered. In its death throes it breaks Sabastin’s leg, sending him howling to the ground.

A minute later and we’ve broken through into some kind of hall, about forty metres square, perhaps a power station, its workings long since looted for other purposes. There’s no light except our lamps and gunfire, but in the sweeping beams there doesn’t seem to be many orks. The yellow gleam of a lantern pans across a high arch on the opposite side, leading to a broad corridor.

‘Hold here. Get everyone down there!’ I call to my people, directing them to ferrocrete outcrops and other cover. ‘Some of you take lights. Keep them moving!’

The crowd breaks into the hall and runs towards the exit, bobbing lamplights ushering them towards the archway. I swap out the powercell in my pistol – one more reload left, a hundred shots total – and snap off a few bolts at orks lurking around doorways and inspection pits to our left.

Nazrek arrives, covered in ork gore. Bullets smack into its armour and flesh but it pays them no heed, glaring into the darkness. Its nostrils flare as it sniffs the air loudly.

‘What is it? How many are there?’

‘Big green,’ it grunts. It turns its head. ‘Not here. Behind.’

‘Kage!’

The Colonel’s bellow brings me around in time to see him and his team bursting out of the entryway on the heels of the fleeing mob. Half of them turn and start firing back down the passage. Not a good sign. I meet him halfway back to the corridor.

‘Uphive orks, hundreds of them,’ he tells me.

‘How close?’

‘Too close. Thirty seconds behind us.’

I check on the progress of the others. About half the unarmed folks are out of the hall, the others funnelling through the archway. There’s probably two dozen of us with weapons – half as many again with the Colonel.

‘Let’s go. We can’t fight, we have to run.’

The Colonel barks an order to his troopers, who break away from their firing line and follow as we run straight after the receding crowd, barely snapping off shots at the down-runts that burst from their hiding places to come after us.

The following few minutes are a headlong race down a straight corridor about half a kilometre long, followed by an ascent up a winding metal staircase to Emperor knows where. I hear orkish shouts and crashing metal behind us. It seems the down-runts aren’t happy to see the uphive orks in their territory either. All good, as far as I’m concerned. More time for us.

Nazrek is grunting with every stride beside me. Thick green blood congeals across a score of bullet holes marking the ork’s arms and chest, another cutting a line across its forehead over the right eye. Every few steps it shakes its head and grimaces.

‘You okay?’

‘Big green hurting,’ Nazrek rumbles back. ‘Not body.’

That doesn’t sound good at all, but the better news is that we seem to be free of the down-runts. At the top of the steps the rush slows to a more orderly jog as winded lungs and tired limbs start to take over from sheer panic. Glowstrips illuminate a cluster of corridors and chambers, their pale greenish gleam almost painful after the darkness.

It’s the brightest many of the people hurrying through the rooms have ever seen, born and raised in underhive twilight. They squint and moan even as they try to shield their eyes.

‘Keep going,’ I urge them, again and again. I hear prayers being raised, my name being used like a benediction.

I don’t look back. I can feel the Colonel on my heel and hear the others. There’s no point looking back; it won’t make the orks any further away and it’ll just slow me down.

I think I can hear growling and snarling, broken through with guttural shouts. Nazrek starts to slow and look back. It’s probably not used to backing down from a fight, but I want the ork nearby if we run into anything ahead.

‘Stay with me,’ I say. Grot chirps its own encouragement, scuttling between our legs, thrusting a bony finger forward.

Darkness looms ahead, resolving into an immense open space that swallows all sound. A ruddy light bathes us, almost comforting after the harsh lumens. The floor is tiled with grey and white, cracked and stained with age. The walls seem impossibly distant, hundreds of metres away, barely lit. Holes in the floor show where machines used to be bolted down, drifts of rust moving sluggishly in eddies from the air circulators that still wheeze out puffs of artificial wind from far above.

I take all of that in at a glance, but what really pricks my senses is the rumbling behind us. A drawn-out thunder, which I realise, as my mouth goes dry and my throat tightens, is the footfalls of the orks behind us.

Four

A DEADLIER FOE

In the great scheme of things, it’s not the most scared I’ve been – that honour goes to the night spent in a Battle Sisters chapel-fort on Deliverance waiting for the tyranids, watching thousands of their spores falling from orbit. Listening to that thunder comes pretty close, though.

I’m not the only one affected. I see nervous glances back from those running across the massive space, and the veterans around me have a look in their eye I know well, a telltale tremble in the hands.

We’re too late.

I don’t say it. No need to, everyone within earshot knows it. I exchange a look with the Colonel.

‘If you run now, you can outpace these others,’ he says. ‘Perhaps get to safety. There is nothing you can do to protect them.’

It’s like he’s been taken over by the voice inside my head, bringing it out into the open. Damn him. Emperor damn his icy gaze and nonchalant temptation.

‘Still on that, are you? Think I’ll just cut and run?’

I move away before he can reply, raising my voice to those around me.

‘We have to protect the retreat,’ I tell them. ‘Buy time for them to get away.’

A lot of them aren’t listening, already running across the empty expanse of the chamber. A few slow down, look back, and then carry on.

‘That is your plan?’ says the Colonel. ‘To stand here and shoot until they reach you?’

‘Better an axe in the face than in the back,’ I say, though the thought of an ork axe hitting me anywhere gives me a shudder. Not clean, not quick at all. If the Emperor really watches over me, I’ll get one of those stupidly big bullets in the head, nice and simple.

‘I suggest we take up a better position over there,’ says the Colonel, pointing to an uneven section of the floor where a ramp leads down into a series of trenches and inspection pits, about two hundred metres further on.

Others have heard him and break into a run, giving me no choice but to follow. After a few strides I realise that Nazrek isn’t coming with us. It stands, shaking visibly, staring back the way we came.

‘Nazrek!’

The ork doesn’t answer. Grot weaves in and out of Nazrek’s legs in agitation, alternating between muttering and screeching. I run back to them, slamming my hand hard on the ork’s back. Slowly, as though trying to wake up, the ork turns red eyes on me, a scowl of rage furrowing its brow, arm lifting the choppa above me.

‘We’re gonna wait for them down there,’ I say, jabbing a thumb towards the dips. ‘Tactics, remember?’

There’s no comprehension for a few seconds. Maybe the green is too much, overwhelming the small bit of humanity Nazrek has taken on. I’ve been such an idiot, fooling myself into forgetting that this thing is a killer, pure and simple. For an instant I see nothing but murder in the alien’s eyes, and tremble as I expect the choppa to come down, hewing me in half.

Nazrek’s lips ripple, showing teeth. It grunts from deep in its chest, and nods.

‘Tactics.’

The ork lowers the choppa and as I turn away it lumbers alongside me, Grot at our heels. A burst of fire erupts from the troops ahead before we reach the sanctuary of the pits. I don’t bother heading for a ramp, just jump straight down, but misjudge the drop. I land hard, almost breaking my ankle. Nazrek thuds down next to me and turns, the heavy pistol in its fist almost immediately barking poorly aimed shots.

There are more of us than I realised. Some of the others must have taken cover here before us but I hadn’t noticed. Maybe fifty guns waiting for the orks as they spill from the brightly lit passageway into the echoing vastness.

They’re bigger than the runts, each at least a head taller and almost twice as broad. Smaller than Nazrek, I think, but that’s little comfort. The ork roars a challenge, louder than the snarl of autoguns. A bass hollering returns from the oncoming horde, gathering into a single wordless bellow that rolls like a physical wave across us.

I start firing, barely having to pick targets, the orks coming at us in a thick mass. Pounding after us at speed, their aim is worth less than an old ration tin in a card game, bullets pinging from the tiles in front or whirring overhead. As they approach, a couple of hundred metres away, I can see more detail. Checks and dags painted on slabs of scavenged armour, some of the larger specimens with back banners displaying orkish glyphs. Nazrek taught me a few and I recognise some of the shapes – death, stab, break, smash. They could be names, or boasts, or threats, it’s impossible to tell the difference.

The onrushing horde starts to split. Our position is about fifty metres aside from the line between the entrance and exit, and a good chunk of the orks are heading straight after the last of the others, bunching together as they try to get out. The rest come straight at us. If we leave now to intercept the group going after the fleeing crowd we’ll just get cut down.

I try to focus my frustration into something useful, but I find myself snapping off shots hurriedly, the anger like a pounding in my head. A crazy notion grips me – to clamber out of the pit and charge headlong at the orks, to cut them open with my knife. Through the shooting I hear curses and threats, even some laughter from the troops around me. I can feel their battle-lust, like nothing I’ve experienced before.

A jade glow follows the group coming at us. Arcs of green energy lick upwards while sparks dance from blade tips and helmets, casting erratic shadows. Behind them, even more orks are pouring into the cavernous hall, but they’re not coming towards us, following in the wake of those heading straight across the open ground.

Nazrek grunts something as a fresh surge of green light bubbles around the ork assault force.

‘What was that?’ I ask.

‘Weirdboy,’ it says, tapping the side of its head with the smoking muzzle of its pistol. ‘Magnet for big green. Brain powers. Real ’eadbanger.’

As if to illustrate Nazrek’s meaning, the orks part, revealing a garishly dressed ork, more like a runt than a full-grown warrior. Gangling, holding a staff in its hands topped by a sun symbol, loops of metal around its arms and neck, green sparks swarming like flies around it. The sparks coalesce into a shimmering green fist and Schaeffer hollers a warning an instant before the apparition howls towards us. I throw myself down. Out of the corner of my eye I see a blaze of green energy smashing into the edge of the pit a few metres away, and hear the pained shout of one of my people as she staggers back, arm and head alight with green flames.

Nazrek lets rip with a deafening howl, head tilted back. At first I think it’s been hit, but as I watch green sparks flicker from fangs and eyes, I realise it’s a moment of joy not pain. Something to do with the big green, I guess, firing more shots at the green horde still piling towards us.

Even as I shoot I can’t help but glance over at the even larger tide of alien warriors simply running past us, bellowing and roaring as they head straight across the hall. I can imagine some of them going after the easier prey of the fleeing crowd, but it’s not like orks to ignore an actual ongoing fight.

‘What are they doing?’ I ask Nazrek, smacking the ork on the shoulder to get its attention.

Ropes of drool fall from its bulbous lips as it looks over at the other xenos. Nazrek’s brows knit together, making ravines of its green forehead.

‘Look like running away.’

Chilling realisation creeps up my back as these words sink in. Suddenly I see the orks in a completely different light. Yells and snarls of fear, not anger. Desperation, not bloodthirst.

‘Colonel! They’re not coming after us! They’re running away!’

Schaeffer pauses between bursts of autogun fire and looks over at me, a moment of confusion becoming an uncharacteristic look of concern. He voices the question I’m trying to avoid.

‘Running from what?’

I’m really in no mood to find out, but we’re all out of options – the orks are too close for us to make a break for it, and too many to hope we can fight it out. Looking at the green-skinned creatures bearing down on us, I gain something of the calm clarity that wrapped me up in its embrace as I fell into the fire chasm. I thought then that perhaps it was just certainty. The knowledge of the coming end, a death that can’t be avoided. Perhaps it was something more, like the touch of the Emperor.

‘We have to buy time for the rest to get away,’ I say, bringing my pistol round to the orks heading after the others.

The pressure in my head is pounding now and an odd quiet descends, like a fog on my hearing that dulls the tramping of ork feet, the crack of bullets. My heart is smashing against my chest, trying to pound its way out, but my hand is steady and my aim sure.

I pull the trigger and a bolt of red light flares into the orks. I shoot again and again; it’s impossible to miss hitting something but I try to track a target to score multiple hits in the hope of bringing one of the tough aliens down.

Nobody else seems to have followed my lead.

Through my hammering pulse I sense a change around me.

‘Kage!’

It’s not the first time the Colonel has barked my name. I turn sluggishly, teeth gritted hard, trying to focus on his face through a swirl of red mist. It’s just the ruddy lights, I’m sure.

The others are moving, heading towards the ramp and I don’t understand why. My gaze moves to the orks that were charging towards us. Their impetus has slowed. They’re turning around, raising weapons towards something behind them. The weirdboy shrieks and another blast of emerald energy leaps out into the gloom, directed at their pursuers.

‘Maybe it’s Imperia…’ My mumbling dies away as I focus on what is beyond the tide of orks. Something big – six, seven metres tall – strides purposefully across the gloom. Wings broader than a gunship’s stretch out behind it and a bestial face wracked with unimaginable rage glowers at everything before it. Each clawed fist bears an axe that glimmers with sickly black light, the motion of the blades as it advances leaving bleeding cuts upon the air itself. It is clad in bronze armour that shimmers with heat, vapours coiling from flared nostrils. A furnace heat proceeds it, tinged with the stench of hot blood. Bullets bounce from its armour and hide as though striking a battle tank, leaving a shower of blunted projectiles falling around it.

I turn and run.

Raw instinct takes over, putting one foot in front of the other, again and again, without me having to think about it. Which is just as well because my brain is both a blank and a crash of conflicting thoughts. Nothing settles in my mind, just a blur of dread, hope and anger. There’s a sense of release as well. Freedom. A freedom I didn’t realise I’d missed, but the sensation bursts through me, carrying me on even more swiftly.

I could keep running forever.

Everything is mayhem around me. Orks and humans crowding through the gate together, united in our blind need to get away from the death at our backs. Hoarse yells and higher-pitched screams combine into a constant noise of terror.

Unable to go further into the press, I turn, about five metres from the archway.

I wish I hadn’t.

The monster looms over the thinning crowd of xenos, hewing left and right with its nightmare axes, every sweep slashing through a handful of orks. I hear its bellows in the back of my mind, a bass punch inside my skull that brings to harsh reality the growing pressure of the last few days. Looking upon the bestial incarnation of murder fills me with a lightness of spirit, and for an instant I crave to be with it, seeing its power and majesty. Then pure dread kicks in again, the colour fading from the scene to the ruddy pulsing of the lights and my heartbeat, and I see the mangled corpses of hundreds of orks reflected in the slayer’s armour, distorted and sheened with blood.

Around the monstrosity swells a red surge of smaller abyssal creatures. About the height of a man, hunched over, with bulbous heads and dead, white orbs for eyes. They carry triangular blades with glinting edges, long forked tongues licking ork blood from serrated teeth. Some are bigger, black horns curling back from their brows, plated in ornate, ancient armour.

The air churns with a bloody mist, partly real droplets of life fluid steaming from the carnage, partly the distortion of reality where the abyssal warp tries to bleed into the mortal world. More shapes writhe through the death fog, of immense brazen steeds ridden by axe-wielding Neverborn, and bat-winged maws that swoop like vultures over the slaughter.

From the ork throng explodes a bolt of green energy, swirling like a maddened serpent as it scythes through the ranks of the Neverborn warriors. Arcs of green power leap from the ork psyker, some of them burning through the eyes of its neighbours, others lancing away into the abyssal masses to explode with clouds of sparks. As the red-skinned creatures converge on the ork, its discharges become more erratic and even more violent. It spins on the spot, caught in a whirlwind of its own energy, blasts of random fire flaring from the twister. Shuddering to a halt, the ork drops to its knees, copper staff falling from fingertips made of flame. Shuddering, the alien arches its head back, massive jaw opening wide to vomit a stream of jade fire. The torrent of psychic energy continues, becoming brighter and faster, incinerating abyssal servants by the dozen until the ork detonates with a green mushroom cloud, levelling its companions, the vortex of its destruction ripping apart even more of the Neverborn.

I remember Nazrek’s words. A real headbanger.

A hand on my shoulder jolts me from a view of hellish half-lizard hounds bounding through the remains of the psyker, their howls joining the bellows of rage and scraping of blades.

Schaeffer.

He’s recovered some of his composure but I can tell by the way his eyes flick from me to the oncoming abyssal army that he’s about as scared as he’s ever been. Without a word he drags me into the morass of humans and orks, and together, surrounded by a knot of troopers, we ride the living wave into the corridor beyond.

With the air almost crushed from me by the close-packed bodies, I have no choice but to go with the flow of the panicked mass. I concentrate on keeping my feet, knowing that to fall now would be to go under a stampede of footfalls, crushed in moments. I’m sure I step on other people, the flat ferrocrete becoming disturbingly bumpy and soft now and then, but I can’t look down even if I want to. Eyes fixed ahead, elbows and shoulders muscling my way along with the others, I can feel the back of my neck prickling as though from an intense heat.

The physical high of action is draining away, replaced by a more lingering dread – not only of the things that can’t be so far behind us, but also of what happens now, surrounded by dozens of orks, flooding into totally unknown territory. This mob could charge over the edge of an acid pit and we’d never know until it was too late.

Strangely enough, my brain doesn’t seem to be in the mood for coming up with coherent plans…

I check our surroundings in more detail. Corridor. About twenty metres wide, thirty metres high. Vaulted roof, a lot of the network ripped out by scavengers, ferrocrete crumbling and cracked in between. Been moving from the gateway for a few minutes, probably covered at least half a kilometre. There are other archways leading off the main concourse, heading to Emperor knows where.

There seems to be a simple choice. Stick with the crowd or try to force my way out and go it alone.

Pack instinct is a powerful force, even when half of that pack are slab-muscled green aliens that would gouge my face off given half a chance. On the other side, nagging at me with the intensity of a short-arse corporal I once knew, is the thought that I’d be better off by myself.

The answer is almost given to me as the passageway breaks out into a number of small halls and dormitories, unlit but for patches of luminescent fungal growth. The mob splinters, underhivers and xenos still together as some go left and right, others slowing as they consider their options, creating eddies in the retreat like swirls in a stream.

‘Burned Man!’ someone calls out, recognising me through the throng. I feel tapping on my shoulder and look left, one of my followers reaching out with desperate fingers to get my attention. Her face is a rictus of fear, cheeks coated with tears, eyes red, short hair plastered to her scalp. ‘Lead us to salvation, Burned Man!’

Her words fire up a feeling of hope, reminding me that the Emperor is watching over us, even in this dire time. And if He really has a purpose for me, He’ll guide me to it, despite the circumstances. A bit of faith is required.

‘This way,’ I shout, dragging an arm free to point in the direction I want to go – a side passage where a lot of my followers are heading already.

‘Is that right?’ the Colonel shouts over the noise of the fleeing mob. ‘Where does that lead?’

‘Bloody well away from here,’ I tell him with a half-mad laugh, because I don’t have a clue where we’re going. ‘Any better plan?’

I don’t wait for an answer but gather myself to push sideways against the flow of people. The very act of resistance causes some of them to change direction, like damming a stream, and a splinter of several dozen people breaks away with me, heading into the near pitch-black of the tunnel.

We keep running, more measured than the flight from the hall, at a pace most of us can keep up for a while yet. Some of the orks start to look in our direction, alien instincts to fight pushing back into their thoughts. We pound down loading ramps and across abandoned quaysides where ancient subterranean canals used to cut through into the heart of Acheron. Sometimes there is light, flickering lumens powered by millennia-old reactors lost somewhere in the compacted mass of the hive depths. Other times only a few lanterns guide our progress as we pick our way through moss-slicked pipes and down stairs as much rust as metal.

I’ve lost all sense of direction and time. We could be heading back into the centre of the hive or a few kilometres from the open air. Either way, it seems for the moment that the abyssal horde is not on our heels any more. I get the feeling this isn’t going to be a one-off event, though. The memory of building tension, the simmering anger of the orks and my people, all point towards an incursion of terrible proportion.

You hear rumours, of course, but nobody ever says anything out loud. Ships lost in the warp. Garrisons that disappear. Even mutterings of the Inquisition wiping out whole planetary populations. Exterminatus, they call it. The warp taint, they say. Mutants. Unsanctioned psykers. Sometimes you might hear mention of aliens that live in that empyrean vastness, like the enslavers that turn psykers into living warp gates, or the brain-scarabs that feed on your nightmares, stoking your fears with telepathic emanations.

But there’s another word, forbidden to know, which we’ve all heard. It’s the name between the lines of the preachers’ prayers.

Daemon.

A thing not of flesh, but of the abyss itself.

My thoughts are interrupted by an ambient glow as we exit the underhive docks to come upon an old transit route, five platforms beneath a splintered dome of plascrete. There are cracks as wide as a man’s shoulders everywhere, dust falling in billowing clouds through beams of light that emanate from a few functioning glow-globes in recesses high above. There are machines here, too, remarkably. The layer of grit and dust is undisturbed, and I look back to see that there are slews of rubble either side of the jagged opening we just passed through. Sealed by a hivequake for centuries, only now has the terminal become accessible again.

The group uses the space to separate, humans moving towards one side, eyeing the orks as they drift towards the other. Inside crude shacks we find human remains, still dressed in mouldering work gear, a few with tools close by.

No weapons.

I muster the people together to take stock of what we have, while across the platforms the orks are starting to argue with each other, with a lot of waving of blades and jabbing of clawed fingers in our direction.

On the human side of things, most seem too numb to even think about what has happened. Some are lying down, exhausted or terrified it’s impossible to say. Others glance fearfully over at our green-skinned company. I issue a few softly spoken words to those with weapons, telling them to be on their guard but to do nothing aggressive that would provoke the aliens.

It’s an uneasy few minutes while I take stock of our situation.

Seventy-two of us and, to my delight, Nazrek is one of them. There are fourteen troopers left, and the Colonel, and of the rest of my people here, thirty of them have guns of some kind and most have picked up bits of broken pipe, blades and so forth. There’s probably half as many orks, but they’re orks, and only fifty metres between us doesn’t give us much time to open fire and thin their numbers further if they decide to finish what the daemons have started.

Nazrek prowls back and forth at the edge of our group, alternating between looking at me and glowering at the other aliens. It’s the closest it’s been to more of its kind since joining the Burned Man, outside of direct fighting. I’m still not sure about the big green and what it does to them, but I would say its pull is growing stronger with each passing minute.

‘We need to pick a way out of here and get moving,’ says the Colonel. He’s already spread his men and women away from the group, like pickets. ‘I suggest we follow the track lines.’

I hear Grot squeaking and Nazrek looks back towards me, grunting something to the smaller xenos.

‘We don’t know which way is out-hive,’ I reply, trying to push the ork’s glare from my thoughts. I can feel its eyes on me, not sure what’s caught its attention so much. ‘If we go the wrong way, we’ll be heading back into those… things.’

The Colonel grits his teeth at the thought, fingers tightening on the grip of his lasgun.

‘There could be more of them ahead of us,’ he says. ‘Send out scouting parties to find the best way to the surface. We can link up with Imperial forces as soon as possible after that.’

I hear a grunt from Nazrek and feel it stepping closer, a fungal exhalation washing over me. Out of the corner of my eye I see the ork’s gaze moving between me and the Colonel. Nazrek is hunching, muscles bunched tight.

I remember the last time I saw it like that was just after I killed its boss, the ork warlord called Ironfang.

‘I need to tell you something,’ I say to the Colonel, motioning with my head that we should step away from the ork. He looks as though he’s going to argue and I harden my stare. ‘Now.’

I don’t wait for the reply but pace away, turning my back to Nazrek. It’s a dominance move, showing that I don’t rate any threat from it.

‘What is it, Kage? We do not have time for debate.’

‘You’re undermining my leadership.’

The Colonel looks dubious and folds his arms.

‘Your leadership?’

‘Don’t stand like that, it looks like you’re ignoring me.’

‘I am still your commander,’ says Schaeffer. ‘Unless you really are a deserter?’

It’s a good point but we don’t have time to debate the subtleties. I can hear Nazrek breathing heavily, getting closer again. I don’t think it even has a choice. It’s an instinct, like breeding rights in lesser animals.

‘Orks don’t follow orders, they follow leaders,’ I say. ‘The moment that big green bastard over my shoulder thinks I’m not in charge, it’s going to challenge me, and once it’s in charge it’ll go full ork again and give us to its friends over there.’

‘You have already won its subservience,’ says Schaeffer.

‘I blew up its boss with a grenade. I don’t have any grenades on me. And it’ll probably tear you apart too if you look like a threat.’

‘I do not think it is threatening. It is yawning.’

‘Showing off its fangs. I need to establish my position immediately and decisively.’

‘How do you plan–’

My fist smashes into the Colonel’s chin, as hard as I can swing. It’s an awful sucker punch, one I’ve dreamed of delivering for years now. Even in the fraught circumstances a thrill of satisfaction jolts through me as I watch the Colonel reel back, legs buckling but not quite failing.

I kick at his knee, helping him complete the journey to the hard floor. Balling my fists, I step closer, eyes fixed on his as they regain focus.

‘Stay down,’ I tell him, hoping I haven’t knocked the sense to listen out of him. I see his eyes flicker to the panting ork who comes up beside me. ‘Stay down.’

I don’t know how good Nazrek has got at reading human features – ork expressions are very different and more obvious, and maybe just a hint of defiance could end it all.

‘Kill him?’ suggests Nazrek.

I turn away from the Colonel, as I did the ork, ignoring them both. I’m in charge, I tell myself. Talk the talk, walk the walk.

‘You four.’ I jab a finger at some of the Colonel’s troopers. ‘Scouting party, two hundred metres ahead, see if you can find a way that leads up. We’re about half a kilometre below surface here. If we don’t go up we could keep going and going out under the ash wastes.’

They hesitate but I don’t allow it to last more than a breath.

‘Now! Or do you want to sit here and wait for the abyss to come and swallow us all?’

That reminder sends them on their way, and I turn back to Nazrek. I point at the other orks, who are watching us carefully.

‘If we fight with each other, those warp-things are going to come here and kill us all. Do you understand?’

‘Yeah. Bloodboys bad news.’

‘Can you tell those other orks that? Will they attack us?’

‘Don’t know, boss. Big green quiet. Maybe not think so good.’

An alliance seems likely to break down at any time, and I really can’t be looking over both shoulders right now.

‘Okay, this is the plan. We’ll go this way, the orks can go that way. No bother, no fighting.’

‘I tell them.’

Nazrek barks at Grot, who chases after the ork as it strides across the platform towards the other orks.

‘There is still some business to attend to.’ The Colonel is just behind me and I turn, finding him with Oahebs at his side. Schaeffer called him a ‘null’ before. Something to do with suppressing the warp and psykers. Just being a few metres from him makes my skin crawl and I know I’m not alone in that feeling.

‘What are we supposed to do? Cuddle?’ I growl.

Oahebs steps closer and I back away without thinking, disgusted by his presence. Schaeffer adjusts his stance just a little, shifting his lasgun, ready to bring it up and fire in a heartbeat.

‘Kage…’

I clench my jaw and fight through the physical repulsion I feel. I know I’m clean. The Emperor drove that abyssal spirit out of my soul and cleansed me with fire. I know myself. I am not the thing that killed and hurt those people uphive. That wasn’t me.

Forcing myself forward, I lock eyes with Schaeffer, letting him see that it’s me. One step. Another step.

I’m about two paces from Oahebs and I don’t feel any different. In fact, if anything, I feel a bit better. The pressure in my head – the blood-pound that must be connected to the abyssal incursion in some way – becomes just a faint tremor. I turn my gaze on Oahebs and smile.

‘I’m me. Kage. Lieutenant. 13th Penal Legion.’

Five

LEAVING ACHERON

The increasing volume from the orks is starting to worry me. The only thing that gives me any comfort is that Nazrek seems to be bigger than any of the others. There’s still a lot of pointing towards us, but more back the way we came. Several times I see Nazrek square off against some greenskin, baring its fangs to discourage argument. It’s been at least five minutes. I don’t know if it’s good or bad that they’ve been going at it this long. Maybe they’re stubborn and Nazrek can’t convince them, or maybe they’re just too stupid to understand the idea of a truce.

The stalemate appears to be broken, with some excited bouncing up and down from Grot. Nazrek glowers at the other orks and then crosses back to us. I guess that if it was going to go badly, the other orks would just attack. I’m not sure what the pre-battle pleasantries are with orks.

‘They want go that way,’ says Nazrek, pointing in the direction I was planning on going. ‘Tell them that lots of Emperor’s boys that way but they more scared of bloodboys.’

I weigh up the benefits. We can just let them go and at least we can get moving. On the other hand, my sense is telling me that going along that rail tunnel is the quickest way to the outside. The longer we stay in Acheron the more chance of the abyssal incursion catching up with us.

I’m about to give my answer when the hairs on my neck prickle. A couple of seconds later, Oahebs comes over, making my skin crawl even more.

‘What?’ I growl at him.

‘They’re coming,’ he says quietly, a haunted look in his eyes.

I don’t need to ask who.

‘How long?’

He shrugs, which isn’t very useful.

‘When they came before. Think,’ I tell him. ‘How long between feeling like this and their arrival?’

‘Couple of minutes, no more,’ he says. ‘We need to go now.’

‘Fine,’ I say, turning back to Nazrek. ‘We’ll go the other way.’

‘You backing down?’ it says, frowning at the thought. ‘Them not got much dakka. We break them good.’

‘Bloodboys coming,’ I say, speaking as clearly as I can but keeping my voice down. How good is an ork’s hearing? ‘We go the other way but we leave first.’

It’s a gamble. I don’t know if it will understand, or if it’s against some kind of ork honour code or whatever. From what I’ve seen they’re not big on guile, but that’s just because they think too straightforward to be really sneaky. It takes a few slow seconds for the notion to permeate Nazrek’s brain. It nods and hollers something at the other orks. They grunt and bark back.

‘They laugh, but we laugh bigger, boss,’ Nazrek says with a not-very-sly wink – a mannerism it’s picked up from humans.

‘Time to move out,’ I shout to the others. I check my pistol’s powercell and wave for us to head off. The Colonel falls into step beside me. ‘No time for scouting any further – if you feel like praying for a bit of the Emperor’s guidance, now’s a good time.’

We’re almost at the tunnel when the heat prickle on my skin becomes intense. At the same moment there comes a huge hooting and snorting from the orks behind us, while Nazrek stiffens, turning with a confused growl. I pick out blood on the air, I know it too well from past experience, except there’s nothing to actually smell. Like the scraping of blades and distant screams, it’s not my actual senses detecting these things, I’m feeling them inside my thoughts. And the desire to fight comes back.

I’m not the only one that stumbles to a halt a few metres from the brick archways that swallow the old sunken track lines.

I look back, flexing my fingers, the instinct to flee replaced with an even stronger desire to stay and fight. I want to face this enemy, to cut it down and prove myself stronger.

The opposite of every natural feeling coursing through my nerves.

The air at the far end of the terminal is rippling with abyssal power. The bloody warriors don’t really arrive as much as appear like ruddy shadows, gaining form and definition as they come closer. I feel hooks in my brain, taut chains of rage tugging me towards the horned, milky-eyed slayers. Bellows and war shouts, the clatter of battle gear fills the arching space, rebounded from the walls, accompanied by a hint of clanking tank treads and grumbling engines.

The orks howl their own challenges and break into a charge, hurling themselves at the oncoming immortal warriors. Gunfire sparks and tracer bullets tear through the materialising host, cutting down a few of the marching army. Behind the juddering bodies, more and more red-skinned creatures come into being, tongues licking the air as though tasting the bestial fury of their attackers.

Oahebs moves among us, the Colonel with him, breaking the enchantment of the Neverborn.

‘Run!’ I shout, uttering that single word only with the greatest of effort, fighting against every part of my body to get my legs moving, arms pumping. I plunge into the tunnel, not caring if any of the others follow, knowing the orks will only delay that terrible foe for a few minutes.

It’s been about twenty years since I left Olympus. Twenty years as I reckon it, what with warp time dilation and the fact that a year on Olympus is about a third shorter than a standard Terran orbit. But I grew up in the underhive there and it doesn’t matter whether it’s Olympus, Armageddon, Necromunda or Stavistia: an underhive is an underhive. Sixteen years I spent growing up in the half-light, with reclaimed air, reclaimed water. I remember when we were taken to the docks to board the Astra Militarum transports, herded by Departmento Munitorum clerks and Imperial Commander Khaef’s goons. The light of Olympus’ sun, even through the toxic cloud layer, was so bright it hurt just to be outside. But the air. The sweet, sweet air was something I could never have imagined.

So, it’s with some confidence that I announce we are almost at the surface. Armageddon’s atmosphere will slowly strip a decade off your life, breath by breath, but the faintest hint of it was a draught of the Emperor’s purest exhalation. From His immortal lungs to mine, infusing me with life and energy.

There’s grit underfoot, a forerunner of the ash drifts that wait for us on the surface, infiltrating the underhive through environmental systems directly connected to the outside. No pure light, yet, but it can’t be long.

‘Are you sure?’ asks the Colonel.

‘He’s right, sir,’ says one of the troopers that had come with him. We still haven’t had introductions, but I recognise the badge of an Armageddon regiment on the sleeve of her stained shirt. ‘I was born in Hades, I’d know that ash-smell anywhere. Can’t be more than a kilometre or two from breaking ground level.’

Others cluster closer, some with looks of hope, others disturbed by the news. One of this second group – a tall, wiry enforcer of mine called Harla – voices their concern.

‘What then?’ he says, fingers flexing on the wrench he holds in one hand, the other fiddling with the holstered laspistol at his waist. He points to the crude aquila tattoo on his cheek, the number six in a circle below it. ‘There’s mine clearance or living bomb duty waiting for me if I go back.’

Others add their own discontent at the thought of returning to the Imperial lines. Some of them circle behind the Colonel and the knot of troopers with him, bringing up their guns.

‘Emperor’s soldiers shoot Nazrek,’ the ork says, accompanied by animated squealing and gesticulating from Grot.

The ork has a good point. I can’t see the commissars and colonels of the Emperor’s finest just letting Nazrek swagger into one of their camps. I can’t promise anything, because once we’re under the guns of the Imperial Guard the Colonel is back in control, I have no doubt.

‘Acheron is no longer safe for you,’ the Colonel tells them, turning his head one way and then the other to look at each in turn. ‘I only came for Kage, the rest of you are free to follow whatever course you choose.’

‘The Burned Man is one of us,’ says Karste, pushing to the front of the crowd. She’s picked up an autogun along the way and points it at the Colonel.

Harla backs her up with a nod.

‘We can’t go back to the army, Burned Man. We should turn these fraggers to grease. Hide out in the wastes, make it on our own. You done it once, you can do it again.’

‘Tempting offer, but I’m not sure I know the first thing about surviving in the wastes.’

‘The Emperor will show us the way. Show you the way, Burned Man,’ someone adds from behind me.

‘It’s not like the almighty Master of Terra is handing out nicely worded notes and a map,’ I snap, not wanting any of this right now.

Wrong move. There are some grunts of discontent, a few sharp intakes of breath. I resist the urge to check on Nazrek immediately, fearing that the act itself might show weakness, but I can feel its prowling presence somewhere to my left.

I look back the way we came, down a twilit series of chambers that look like cells or dorms, hard to know which without furniture. ‘You want to do this here? Those nightmares are coming, and you want to stand around and debate what to do?’

‘Where are you taking us?’ demands Harla.

Before I can answer, the familiar flesh prickling comes over me. The others feel it, their disquiet growing. The Neverborn are getting close, like a forge heat that precedes them touching the skin.

‘Stop asking the wrong question,’ I growl. ‘I’m taking us out of here. That’s what we still need to focus on. One thing at a time. Get out of Acheron and then we’ll see what’s happening, right? Could be that the orks have broken out all over, and there’s nowhere to go. Or maybe the Guard are coming in, tanks and guns blazing, seeing the orks ripe for picking. I just know one thing. We keep going or we get caught. Do you trust me?’

It’s not exactly Saint Sebastian’s address to the First Synod, but combined with the imminent threat of attack it seems to do the trick. My gangers back away, relenting in their threat against the Colonel and his soldiers. I take the lead with the Colonel and a mix of my people and Schaeffer’s, ten of each. We forge ahead of the main group, picking a way through the rubble of broken ferrocrete and shattered plastek. The roof beams – plasteel pitted with corrosion – sag menacingly and we call for the others to hurry after. I follow my nose, occasionally consulting with the trooper from Hades, who tells me she’s called Terrick, though I’m not sure if that’s her first name or surname.

The blood-pounding starts again, throbbing in my chest, giving me a headache and filling my body with pressure until it feels like my arteries will burst. I dare not look back when some of the others shout a warning, but push on into the ruins ahead, desperate to find a way forward. Terrick’s keen eyes find a crawl hole through a slope of shifted material that has almost buried a maintenance duct. There’s room for only one at a time, so I send Terrick in first, and then a few others, before I go after.

It’s hard going on hands and knees but the thought of one of those blood-things grabbing me from behind is an amazing incentive, and I swear I cover the ground as quick as if I was sprinting. I hear breathing, close and sharp through the duct, but tell myself it’s just the man behind me. No time to look, just keep moving, keep alive.

I wonder if I should have hung back, bought time for the others, but it’s too late now.

I can’t see much past the others in front but after crawling about forty metres I get the impression of more light. Softer, more orange than most lumens or glowstrips. I hear a rattle of something falling on the square crawl space and then a shout from ahead. A drawn-out scream behind sends me bolting forward even faster, ignoring the pain in my knees, the jab of buckled metal in my palms.

Another twenty metres brings me to the end of the duct and out into a broad hall. There’s daylight coming from the left, filtered through what were once ornate windows, now shattered by either the ork attack or the Imperial siege. There’s little left of the furniture but for splinters, a crater at the far end of the rectangular hall, the wall collapsed beyond cutting off any further advance.

‘Emperor’s teeth!’ I swear, pulling myself fully out of the drift of dirt. I look around, but the windows are too far up to reach.

‘Trapped,’ says Harla, spitting dust.

For an instant it seems like the clouds shift overhead, illuminating the broken remains of steps leading up.

‘A sign,’ Karste calls out from behind me. ‘See how the Emperor does light your path, Burned Man.’

‘Go!’ I say, giving Karste a shove. More folks come out of the crawlway, bloodied and bruised, streaked with sweat and dirt, and I send them on. Grot scampers out, baring sharp little fangs in a grin. Nazrek emerges just after, broad shoulders almost trapped where the crush of fallen masonry has pinched the metal close. I grab its arm and drag the ork out. The Colonel is just behind.

‘I don’t think abyssal spectres need to crawl through ducts,’ I say, trying to look everywhere at once.

‘No, they do not,’ Schaeffer replies. Without agreement we stand almost back to back, weapons trained on the crumbling brick wall we’ve just tunnelled under. A few others stay with us, weapons ready, pointing at various routes into the hall. The clatter of more people coming from the duct makes me jump, and a few seconds later Oahebs appears, eyes wide, face almost feverish with sweat while his gaze flicks around, not focusing on anything.

‘Right behind me,’ he croaks. ‘Right behind me. Right…’

He seems to relax, an odd smile on his face, and then collapses. I can hear scraping, but it doesn’t seem to be getting closer.

‘Nobody else is coming.’

‘Fight here,’ grunts Nazrek, pacing like a caged beast, choppa and pistol swaying.

‘Can you feel the blood in the big green?’

It stops, head tilted like it’s listening.

‘Nah. No big green. Not big. Small green. Me and Grot.’ The ork shakes its cumbersome head. ‘No bloodboys.’

‘Grab him,’ I say, pointing with my pistol at Oahebs.

I head up the steps after the others. A couple of minutes later, after negotiating the winding, debris-choked stairs, I find myself on a flat roof between two square towers, crooked but intact, smoggy sky smudged with red cloud above. I turn, seeing two more towers at the other end of the hall, built out of the incline of the hive. Acheron stretches kilometres above us and to either side, as massive as a mountain, jagged and spire-broken. But I recognise where we are, the outline of the jutting building and the buttresses that support it.

A chapel. A shrine of the Emperor.

‘Frag me, it really is a miracle,’ I say to nobody in particular.

The chapel is part of an outcrop about two kilometres long protruding from the southern slopes of Acheron. It’s hard to see much of anything, the smog of industry and war shrouds everything, broken only by erratic gusts of wind. Looking at the debris that’s piled up to either side, it seems a whole chunk of hive skin slipped down from a few kilometres up, burying nearly everything, but somehow the shrine survived. Other than the wind, the only sound is the distant boom of artillery and occasional shriek of jet engines far above, hidden by the ruddy clouds.

What there isn’t, much to everyone’s relief, is any sign of the daemons.

‘Nothing over here,’ Karste shouts from the furthest extent of the roof, over what would have once been the preacher’s robing chambers, I think. The whole building is shaped from above as a stylised ‘I’ with broken flying buttresses that once formed cross-bars at the middle. The four steeples are close to toppling, scatters of brick and chunks of mortar lying over the cracked ferrocrete of the roof between. Even so, Harla has dared to climb up one near the main entrance, back over the pitted cladding of the hive. Cupping his hands around his mouth he calls back down.

‘Can’t see any warpborn from here!’

I give him a thumbs up and signal for him to begin the precarious climb down.

‘No abyssal servants,’ I say to the Colonel. We’re stood on a walkway near to the roof’s edge, looking down into a fracture-chasm a few hundred metres deep. No sign of anything moving down there. ‘Some power of the shrine, maybe?’

‘It is possible.’ He straightens, brow slightly creased. ‘There must be more to it than that. The structure of the hive means little obstacle to the warp-spawned. Why can we not see them emerging around us?’

I stroke the back of my neck, feeling the cooling breeze on skin that hasn’t been touched by open air in more than a year. There’s no heat, no prickling sensation.

‘I can’t feel them, can you?’

Schaeffer shakes his head.

‘No oppressive presence,’ he agrees.

I look up at the shadowy vastness of the hive, wondering at the scenes of butchery within.

‘The fighting’s still going on inside,’ I say, scratching a scar on my chin. ‘There’s a lot of orks and humans still in the hive city and upper spire. The messenger that hitched a ride in my brain seemed to feed on… Misery and violence, it stirred them up, did terrible things to fuel itself, I think. Maybe the daemons are drawn to the bloodshed. If we keep out of trouble…’

The heavy thud of boots draws our attention to the approach of Nazrek. The ork looks miserable.

‘No green here,’ it rumbles. ‘Just planet green. What plan, boss?’

‘You don’t feel the blood in the green?’ I ask, confirming my suspicions.

‘No blood, no green.’

‘We cannot go back into Acheron,’ says the Colonel. I dart him a warning look, to remind him that I need to be in charge. He takes my meaning with a sour look. ‘Where do you want to go? The Imperial line, such as it is, lies about ten kilometres further out. There is little presence in this area – Acheron is a campaign of containment, nothing more.’

Forty-three survivors have made it to the chapel, including me, most of them sitting huddled with each other in the lee of the towers at the front. Some of the more coherent ones are stationed around the roof to keep watch. A few others gather closer to hear the discussion. Karste steps out. She’s a sorry sight, her hair matted with dirt and flopping over her face, studded jacket torn, a bloodied bandage around her left arm. But her expression is anything but sorry. There’s fire in her eyes I’ve not seen before. Catastrophe breaks some people and makes others.

‘We should warn someone what’s happening,’ she says. ‘About the… attack?’

‘I think the Imperial authorities already know,’ says Schaeffer, and he looks up pointedly.

Above us, somehow visible through the murk, the sky is dominated by what looks like a scrawled spiral, a pulsating opening in reality itself. Wherever I look up, it’s there in the centre of my vision. I can almost feel malign energies seeping from it, settling on Armageddon like psychic fallout.

‘We have to get everyone to sanctuary,’ I say, casting my gaze at the forlorn crowd of my followers. ‘Orks, wasters, abyssal warriors… One of them’s going to get us, sooner or later.’ I take a deep breath, readying myself, and look at the Colonel. ‘I can’t think of anywhere we’ll find safety except with the Imperial forces.’

There are some calls of argument, some of relief. I turn to Nazrek.

‘Sorry, I don’t know what’ll happen to you. If you want to go and find some more orks, you should go and do that.’

‘Nazrek not leave yet. Still fight to have.’ Grot snarls something from near Nazrek’s feet and is answered by a metal-capped boot, sending it leaping away across the roof screeching like a wounded bird. ‘Still follow Burned Man boss.’

I peer out into the shifting banks of smoke and noxious vapours that pool and break around the foothill-like hive foundations. In the gloom of distance, I fancy I see patches of brightness, maybe artillery flare, though it could be anything really. Ten kilometres doesn’t sound like a lot, but that’s across pure grit drifts and ash dunes. A person can get lost in minutes, or fall into an acid pit, or get swallowed by a sinkhole. I offer up a silent prayer that there’s no acid cloudburst, and that we don’t run into a pocket of mutagenic gas or toxic effluent cloud.

And let’s not forget the daemons, wasters and orks.

‘Good times,’ I say to the others. ‘Let’s get moving.’

Six

INTO THE WASTES

Have you ever tried swallowing a mouthful of salt and then washed it down with hot sand? That’s every breath as we forge our way into the wastes. After a few minutes Acheron Hive is just a darker blur in the fog, while overhead the abyssal rift continues to writhe and stir, staring down at us from everywhere. The understrata of the hive foundations gives way to the ash flows, a grey sea of constantly moving dunes and waves. Particles glitter in the wind, almost beautiful as they catch light – lethal if inhaled in any large quantity.

Millennia of construction and collapse have made it impossible to know where the hive city stops and the wastes begin. What the turn of centuries started, the war with the orks has finished. Crumbling ferrocrete cliffs cut through with drainage rivers that gleam with their own sickly light, tumbling over falls created by broken, half-melted plastek beams, spilling into plasma crater pools. Here and there a familiar shape juts from pitted slag hills, like a battlement of an old watchtower or the high, narrow windows of some ancient mill or manufactory. Old incinerators and the skeletal remains of looted furnace works break plateaus of cracked ceramic tiles, their patterns long since ground away by the airborne dust. Acid rivulets carve haphazard paths down the artificial mountainside and we cover our eyes against the vapours, burying our faces in whatever we can to avoid the stinging mist. Bent girders provide bridges over disused mineworkings, stones dislodged by our passage falling for an impossibly long time before the noise of their landing echoes back to us.

Slowly, structure gives way to undulating hillocks of debris, marked with drill scars and pick holes where scavvies have tried to lever out a few precious nuggets of smelted metal. We come across occasional gates and doorways, prised open like the tombs of old kings I’ve heard about, and equally looted, though for archeotech rather than royal treasures. Remnants of old towns, barter stations that maybe lasted hundreds of years now swept away by wind and corrosive rain, broken apart by the Imperial Guard’s shells and the torpedoes of Navy ships in orbit.

Here and there we come upon holes seemingly drilled perfectly into the hard surface, about three metres across, their circular sides glassy smooth.

‘Lance beams,’ explains the Colonel, referring to the massive laser batteries of the Emperor’s warships. Who knows what they were aiming at, if anything at all, amongst the indistinguishable ruin of past generations. Orks on the move? A sensor blip? A miscommunicated coordinate?

It reminds me of Coritanorum and that crazy bastard Striden. The only person I know that volunteered for one of the Colonel’s one-way missions. And the Emperor must have blessed him because he walked out the other side with life and limb intact. I bet I could count on one hand, maybe two, the people that have ever returned from a Last Chancers mission. The Colonel, of course. And I’ve somehow got through three tours with him, though I really don’t know whether to count the assassination of von Strab as a survival or not. I should be dead. Really, truly, burned-to-ashes dead. I wanted to be dead, but that wasn’t to be.

Maybe Armageddon will get me still, I think, as we clamber down from tumbled rockcrete blocks into the wastes proper.

Nobody is prepared for this. It’s colder as we move away from the last outskirts of Acheron, the wind really biting on bare flesh. No scarves to cover our mouths, no coats to shield bodies and arms, no hats except for a few helmets between us. Only half of us have weapons, and that’s if we count some small shivs and improvised mauls. No water, no food.

Ten kilometres, I keep telling myself. Ten kilometres and we’ll be near the Imperial camps. So the Colonel thinks. Ten kilometres. Three hours? Maybe four in these conditions. If we run into a picket or patrol, perhaps even sooner.

Despite the apparent simplicity of the task at hand, in my gut I know it’s never that easy. If the Emperor really has a path laid out for me, He sure as anything is having a good chuckle on the Golden Throne, throwing hilarious, life-threatening obstacles in my path every chance He has.

I have plenty of time to think about that, because nobody wants to talk. Just opening your mouth is an invitation to suck in a lungful of razor-rain – metal and plastek blown into the atmosphere by the war, turned into needle-slivers by constant motion and plasmic discharge, sucked into the upper air by detonation thermals and then lovingly deposited across the wastes on the downdraughts of orbital bombardments.

Armageddon. Probably the worst place His Divine Majesty could have deposited me, barring a trip to Catachan. It’s been a shithole for thousands of years already, the hive industries belching out pollution for so long that nobody knows what it was like before. Only the equatorial jungles have any semblance of native life, everything else is ash wastes or the blistering tar seas and acid geysers of the polar regions.

But that was just your everyday hell to live on. Bearable if not nice. When the Beast Ghazghkull came back, it got a lot worse, really quickly. That mean ork bastard didn’t like that he’d been beaten before, and he remembered who was one of the main reasons for that – Yarrick, commissar, Hero of the Imperium. Hades Hive had halted the orks before, so the Beast dropped an asteroid on it this time. The geothermals exploded, creating this twilit smog, a volcanic winter enveloping most of the continent. The Emperor alone knows what sorts of toxins, ordnance and special munitions have been expended to drive the orks out, but from rad-zones to promethium rivers, there’s barely a square kilometre of the land that hasn’t been scarred by the conflict. The air, the weather, everything is touched by it.

And inside the ork areas, like Acheron and parts of the jungle, that might be even worse. Orkified territories like the one we passed through, but on a massive scale.

Suddenly I remember the prisoners we freed. I can’t recall when I last saw them. When the Neverborn came, I guess the folks carrying them decided to lose the weight, and I can’t say I blame them. What was I thinking? Just trying to prove the Colonel wrong? Stupid, wasteful. Could have got even more of us killed. Probably did.

Wrapped in these glum thoughts, I almost miss the movement in the curling mists. A hushed warning from the Colonel and sudden activity around me draws my attention to the others readying their weapons.

I can’t feel the daemon-heat, so my first thought is orks. Pulling up my pistol, I get ready to fire the moment I see a fanged face.

Harla shouts from behind, alerting us to the presence of more indistinct silhouettes following. Half-seen figures appear and disappear in ruddy eddies of smog. Not directly behind us but coming at an angle. Smart, good ambush pattern. Orks sometimes attack you from the front and back and end up hitting each other with their missed shots. These folks know what they’re doing.

So not orks. They can be cunning, but rarely patient. If it was orks they would have started the attack by now.

‘Wait,’ I say, trying to keep calm.

Maybe it is daemons? Not enough of them to cause the prickling sensation, but maybe starting to manifest outside Acheron? I glance up, unable to stop myself, eyes drawn to the menacing circle of energy pulsing in the skies.

The thought that it might be a patrol brings a flutter of hope to my heart. It’s short-lived as I see some of the vague shadows resolve into more definite shapes. Figures swathed in coats and scarves, faces hidden behind masks and tinted goggles, brightly coloured streamers and pennants tied to their long-barrelled lasguns and the hilts of blades at their belts. Not just decoration, the flashes of colour amid the numbing drabness of the wastes helps them keep track of each other.

Wasters.

Judging by their organisation and numbers, not just some scav-gang hanging around the hive base hoping to find a way in. Proper ash wastes nomads, born and raised out here, plying their trade and their attacks from one grit bowl to the next. I count thirty, with more in the distance. Shorter, probably children. There will be others close at hand, guarding the caravan.

We’re technically not outnumbered but we’re certainly outgunned, and in a poor position.

‘Fragging waste-rats,’ someone snarls to my right.

‘Nobody does anything,’ I snap, dipping my pistol slightly. ‘Lower your weapons.’

Some of them hesitate. Harla turns a sour look at me.

‘I’m not giving them first shot, Burned Man. You know what these savages do to people? Better dead than traded.’

‘If they were going to attack us, they would have opened fire already,’ says the Colonel, as if reading my thoughts. ‘They have had plenty of opportunity to get the first strike but have not taken it. That suggests they desire parley, not a fight.’

‘Which means you put your fragging gun down and don’t start anything,’ I add. I throw a look at Nazrek. ‘You understand? No fight yet. Maybe allies.’

The ork eyes the strangers with open hostility, but its arms drop to its sides, cleaver and pistol in hand.

A crunch of footfalls has us all turning around, to see a trio of wasters approaching, their rifles slung on their backs, hands held out from their sides to show their peaceful intent. Judging by build, which is tricky given the conditions and clothes, I’d say two women and a much taller man, but it’s just a guess really. Underneath the layers of protective robes, wraps and capes they could be anything. The others hold back, visible but as shifting as the concealing fog banks, keeping us unsure of their exact positions.

‘Nobody says anything,’ I tell my people, giving them a warning glare while we wait for the arrival of the waster delegation. ‘We don’t need more enemies.’

A shadow over my shoulder reveals the arrival of Schaeffer. I can tell he’s itching to issue orders, to take charge, and it must be burning him up inside to give ground to me. I wonder if he’ll do it. Prepared to run the risk of Nazrek’s challenge now that we’re away from the other orks.

‘What is your intent, Kage?’ he says quietly.

‘Stay alive. Say whatever gets that done.’

‘Any succour they provide will only be temporary. Sooner or later you will have to return to the Imperial zone.’

‘Is that what you’re worried about? That I’d give you up for a chance to live like a waster? I’m insulted, Colonel. It never crossed my mind.’ But now that Schaeffer’s brought the idea to my attention I do give it a little thought as I watch the three wasters stepping carefully up the slope of an ash drift. They have an elegant, calm way of walking that seems unhurried but doesn’t disturb the surface layer too much. Is it a trick I could learn? Could I live that life, staying just ahead of starvation and dehydration?

Not really me, I prefer my potential death threats to be abrupt and violent rather than drawn-out and tedious.

I holster my pistol and raise my empty hand in greeting, the other on the hilt of my knife.

The tallest waster separates slightly from the other two, a hand wrapped in slender bandages rising to the skull-mask beneath the hood. I hear the slight hiss of a rebreather disconnecting as the mask comes away, revealing skin darker than mine, two emerald eyes gazing at me with interest. Full lips and shallow cheeks. Maybe a woman, after all. Her disconcerting gaze moves to the others and then back to me.

She turns her head and says something in a dialect I haven’t heard before and gets a laugh in reply from the other two.

‘What’s so funny?’ I demand.

‘You take wrong turn, hive-walker?’ the waster says, without any venom. Her lips form a broad smile. ‘You look like rust-eel shit, and smell worse.’

I look at her for a few seconds, not quite sure what to make of this, and then burst out laughing. The joke isn’t even that funny, but the last few hours of pent-up madness just find a way to break through and it takes nearly a minute before I can even muster any words.

‘We might have been a bit rushed,’ I tell her. As my hysteria subsides I’m conscious of the presence of the other wasters. They still have us in their sights and this could all be an elaborate deception, no matter what the Colonel says. I venture some information to help keep things civil. ‘My name is Kage.’

‘Orskya,’ she replies. ‘Orskya Adrausk, daughter of Adra Nurien.’

‘These your grounds? We didn’t mean to trespass.’

I see the three wasters tense and look at something behind me. Turning my head slowly, I see Nazrek, grunting to itself, swaying left and right a little.

‘Nazrek is with me,’ I say, though what that means to the wasters is debatable. It’s also a reminder that I need to choose my words carefully in front of the ork.

Orskya turns her attention back to me.

‘No, these not anyone’s grounds, not since Bestiz come back. Found your trail when we ash-dipping on the hive base, made such a mess, thought you were orik. Luckily your bigmouths show us you not.’ Her eyes move to Nazrek, a calculating look. ‘Least, not all.’

‘See that?’ I point up to the wound in the sky. She nods. ‘That’s bad news for all of us. Acheron is swarming with netherfiends and it won’t be long before they burst out everywhere else too, I bet. Could be coming right now.’

‘We already have bad time,’ she tells me, her expression going sombre. ‘Our vitchya not wake. Sleep-murder, terror kill her.’

I’m not sure what to say next, but my eye is caught by a movement. I launch myself forward without thinking, seeing a sinuous motion in the ash a couple of metres from Orskya’s left leg. A black-and-grey serpent bursts from the dune slope but I’m close enough to grab it behind the head, the knife in my other hand driving up through the bottom of the jaw, pinning its mouth shut. It spasms, almost knocking me sideways as more of its immense length uncoils from the ash. I hear shouts of alarm from behind. Orskya’s companions come to my aid as I fall to my back, the thrashing snake trying to pull itself from my grip, foul-smelling blood spilling from its wound. Between them they take it from me and quickly decapitate it, letting the body fall to the ash at my feet.

I lie there for a moment, not quite sure what happened, feeling the dribble of serpent blood down my itching cheek. Orskya stoops over me and wipes it away with her cuff before offering me a hand to pull me up. She’s taller than me by about ten centimetres, and her grip is as strong as any I’ve felt in the Guard.

‘Strykvena,’ she says, looking down at the headless corpse twitching down the slope. She turns her attention back to me. ‘Strike-viper, or maybe hollowtooth your people call it. Deadly.’

‘You’re welcome.’

Her eyes narrow and she takes a step back.

‘Nobody move faster than strike-viper.’

‘Instinct, that’s all. Must have seen it moving but not realised. I’ve stayed alive a long time just acting without thinking.’

‘And now I alive too.’

‘I suppose you owe me a life debt now, or something?’

She sneers at me, shaking her head.

‘I not shoot you through left eye ten minutes ago. I owe you shit and nothing. You can have both.’

I laugh again, taken aback by her forthright manner. I’ve lived alongside some very interesting people – if your definition of interesting is thieving, murderous, self-serving and insane – but Orskya seems different from all of them. Most of the ‘free speakers’ I’ve known just spout off their own prejudices, rebels against the discipline of the Imperial Guard, trying to shock with their so-called honesty. They want a reaction to justify their existence. There’s no posturing in Orskya. She just says what she means. Life in the wastes doesn’t really leave room for niceties, I suppose.

She tenses and her companions step forward as someone makes their way down the slope towards us. I turn and see that it’s the Colonel, and suppress a sigh of annoyance.

‘I am Colonel Schaeffer, ranking officer,’ he says, darting me a look, daring me to argue. Technically he’s right, he certainly outranks me, and he doesn’t claim to be in command. ‘What is your intent?’

‘Intent, Colonel?’ Orskya shrugs. ‘No intent. Now we see you, we not interested. We pick bones of the army camps good these last days. You? Nothing to trade. Nothing to steal.’

‘Do you know the way back to the Imperial lines?’

‘What you mean?’

‘The Imperial forces,’ I explain. ‘Trenches, bunkers, tanks and soldiers? There’s fortifications close to here, keeping guard on Acheron. Where are they?’

‘They leave.’

Schaeffer grunts, then shakes his head, confused.

‘Half a million Imperial Guard do not just leave.’

‘How long were you looking for me?’ I ask, wondering how the Colonel could not know about an entire army group moving off.

‘Army move south,’ says Orskya, pointing over my shoulder. ‘In hurry too. Four days ago?’

‘Five,’ one of the other wasters corrects her. He slaps his thigh. ‘Was day Alanza broke her leg.’

‘Ah, five days ago.’

‘Where did they go?’ asks the Colonel, clearly put out by this revelation. He glances at me and drops his voice. ‘There were no pertinent orders when I departed headquarters.’

‘Which was when?’

‘Eighteen days ago.’

‘Your people in big hurry. March quick, get on trucks and tanks. They gone by nightfall. Zoom, boom! One day, all gone.’

‘There was no ork attack?’

She points up to the sky but doesn’t look.

‘That happen day before.’

Orskya looks away as another waster hurries through the fog. She bends to listen to a whispered message, the deliverer casting rapid glances back through the mists. Orskya straightens, says something in return that I don’t understand. Her two companions gather to her for a quick conversation before heading off into the gloom.

‘Orks are leaving Acheron,’ the waster tells us. ‘Thousands.’

‘Driven out by the abyssal invaders,’ I say. ‘That’s how we ended up out here.’

‘There will be many more in the coming hours and days,’ adds Schaeffer. ‘And then the infernal servants will come after.’

‘I know this sounds strange coming from me, but I’m tired of running,’ I say, looking from Schaeffer to the miserable crowd behind us.

A few nod, others look scared enough to bolt into the smog at the smallest provocation. Nazrek gives an appreciative ripple of its lips, and a rumble of agreement emanates deep in the ork’s chest.

‘I mean,’ I continue, ‘we need somewhere to take a breath and resupply. Work out our real options.’ I laugh. ‘I wasn’t talking about some stupid counter-attack…’

‘There must be some Imperial forces remaining nearby,’ says the Colonel. ‘Orskya, do you have any kind of vox-caster or receiver?’

‘Vox-box? Yes, we have two. One with Nordas, other back at camp.’ She gestures with a thumb over her shoulder. ‘Long-range vox at camp. Two kilometre that way. Why?’

‘We can use it to contact assistance, perhaps find out where the retreat muster point is,’ Schaeffer continues.

‘Not with our vox,’ says the waster, grimacing. ‘Army find us, shoot us.’

‘You can’t survive out here on your own,’ I tell her, pointing back towards Acheron. ‘There are hundreds of thousands of orks, millions of humans, in that hive. The more they fight, the more of them that die, the bigger that rip above us gets, I reckon. Those orks coming this way now? Just the start.’

‘We survive Bestiz two time. We survive this.’

‘You should listen to him!’ We all turn in surprise as Karste surges forward. In the mists, wasters raise their weapons in response. ‘He has the Emperor’s sight.’

‘Who are you, small girl?’ says Orskya, looking at the slight hiver with a mixture of amusement and confusion. ‘What is this Emperor’s sight?’

‘When the Beast came and von Strab surrendered Acheron, I ran. But I didn’t run far enough. Then these two came,’ she points at me and the Colonel, ‘and they killed the traitor. I ran again, into the depths. But the Burned Man, he found me. He saved me. All of us!’

‘This true?’ Orskya raises an eyebrow at me. ‘You kill von Strab?’

She makes a gesture across her face, as though picking the words from her lips and throwing them to the ground. I realise it’s a sign of disgust, as if the name itself tastes bad. There could be some leverage there.

‘Yes, I killed him,’ I say. I point to Schaeffer and then turn and pick out Oahebs from the others. ‘We were part of a team sent to get rid of the traitor commander.’

‘The Burned Man died so that the traitor was slain!’ someone calls out from the group.

‘The flames purified him!’ another shouted.

‘You not look dead, Burned Man.’ Orskya looks me up and down, appraising me again in light of this new information.

‘I got better,’ I say with a lopsided grin.

I can feel Schaeffer tensing next to me, though whether from this talk of my supposed holiness or just a more general agitation, it’s impossible to know. It does remind me that we’re against the clock here. I know it didn’t take us too long to get this far into the wastes; the orks can’t be too far away.

‘He led us to sanctuary against the abyssal fiends,’ Karste adds, looking at me with wide eyes. ‘He will find us sanctuary again! You should come with us.’

Her earnestness is almost overwhelming, bordering on the comical, but Orskya is looking at me with an expression I can’t quite decipher, gaze moving occasionally to the sorry sight of the other underhivers.

‘You can use vox-box,’ she concedes, taking a step back. ‘Come with me to camp. Call friends.’

‘Thanks,’ I say as she starts to turn away. ‘I’ll owe you one, for sure.’

Orskya turns back, her look intent.

‘You will, Burned Man. You really will.’

And then she goes, long strides quickly taking her into the swirling ash clouds. Schaeffer’s already organising the others by the time I turn back to the group. Harla makes his way to me, almost falling as he drags his feet through the ash drift.

‘This is a plan, right?’ he says. ‘We’ll get in the camp then take their stuff?’

‘No. We’ll go to the camp, use their vox-set to see if we can link up with any Imperial forces, and then get these people somewhere where they won’t get their faces chewed off by orks or abyssal monsters.’

‘Come on, Kage. I’ve been speaking to some of those troopers we caught. That Oahebs, he’s a creepy bastard but he told me all about you.’

‘He did?’ I resist the urge to look at the Guardsman and keep my tone level. ‘Like you say, he’s a creepy fragger. Maybe not believe everything he says.’

‘But you were close to von Strab, right?’ Harla crosses his fingers. ‘Real tight, I hear.’

‘There’s Emperor knows how many orks coming right at us,’ I tell him. ‘This isn’t the time or place for this.’

I turn away but he grabs my arm.

‘We ain’t done.’

‘We are,’ I snarl quietly, looking down at his hand. ‘You can finish with functional fingers, or without. Your choice.’

He lets go immediately, retreating a few steps from the raw venom in my voice and stare. I take a pace after him, voice still low.

‘Be nice, Harla. You could lose your way on the trek to the waster camp.’

And with that threat left hanging, I stalk off, not giving him any more chance to argue.

Seven

WASTERS

‘You know, I hear wasters can track their camps by the smell.’ This sparkling contribution to the sparse conversation comes from Nezeriav, one of the hivers that first found me. He nudges me with his elbow. ‘You know, on account of the stink they make.’

‘They’re wearing rebreathers,’ I reply, shaking my head. ‘Idiot.’

He falls silent, pouting, but I’m beyond caring about moody followers and mutinies and being the Emperor-damned chosen one. My legs ache, my back aches, I’m going to choke to death on dust if some painful violence isn’t visited upon me in the next few hours.

It would seem he has a point. I can’t tell one way from another; we could be walking in circles for all I know. The dunes all look the same, and the banks of ground-hugging fog sometimes bring visibility down to just a few metres. Other times we can see for maybe two or three hundred metres, just an expanse of undulating grey and brown ash, indistinguishable from anywhere else we’ve passed.

After a few minutes the Colonel catches up with me, glaring daggers at the sands sucking at his boots as if he could make the wastes part for him with raw anger. He hauls himself across the ash in defiance of the shifting slope rather than working with it, which pretty much says all you need to know about Colonel Schaeffer.

‘It would not be wise to spend too much time with these thieves,’ he tells me, throwing a suspicious glance at our waster escorts. ‘They will cut us loose as soon as they are threatened. Or worse.’

‘You’re the one that wanted a vox-caster. You’re gonna get one. What’s to complain about?’

‘The most temporary and pragmatic of alliances, nothing more. As soon as we find out the location of the Imperial mustering point these people are no more use to us.’ He drops his voice even further. ‘The same is true of the ork and your deserter companions. They will cause trouble.’

‘We’ve got enough trouble as it is, without picking fights amongst ourselves.’

He shakes his head and allows himself to fall back a few steps.

Looking for better company, I hurry to catch up with Orskya, puffing hard to match her long, effortless strides as it seems I’m thrashing knee-deep through the sliding ash. I see the gleam of something on her wrist before it disappears into her cuff.

‘That’s your secret sense, is it?’ I say, nodding at her arm. ‘Got yourself a navigation piece?’

She draws back the sleeve to show me the wrist-mounted auspex. The green screen is cracked and the casing heavily scuffed, but as she touches a thumb to the activation stud it quickly comes to life.

‘Four generations the duneseers of our people have this,’ she says proudly, turning it off again. ‘All my mothers, and now to me.’

‘Duneseer, that’s what you call your leader?’

‘No. I am what you call, ah, chief scout? Vitchya, the Wise One, is leader, but she die as I say. We not choose new leader yet, still sad for loss. Too soon.’

I can’t think of anything to say to that and we carry on in silence. In the absence of talking, now and then I catch a different noise, like the gurgle of some unseen pipeway or stream or the crackle of some unknown substance just beneath the ash underfoot. I can hear changes in the wind too. Different speeds and angles whistling and moaning over the drifts.

In fact, it sounds a lot like voices. Distant howls and baying cries.

‘Does it always sound this creepy out here?’

Orskya stops and pulls back the hood of her cape, revealing her ear.

‘No,’ she says. ‘That is not the noise of the wastes. I do not know what it is.’

I do, but it takes me a moment before I can say it.

‘The Neverborn. Abyssal voices of nightmare. Maybe they’re following us, or maybe it’s everywhere.’

‘Maybe making guesses not good for anyone,’ she snaps, clearly on edge from this discovery.

A few minutes later we crest a dune and suddenly find ourselves on the edge of the wasters’ camp. Camouflaged sheeting and tents blend almost seamlessly with the ash and grit. Carefully positioned poles create curves that mask the lines of the tents against the bowl of the depression holding the encampment, while smaller bivouacs are half-dug into the ash itself, forming small caves and tunnels. Walk by just forty metres away and you’d see nothing.

Whoever had the vox-set must have signalled ahead because there’s a welcome party waiting for us, weapons at the ready, while our escorts quietly move away, out of the firing line. I count twenty shrouded figures in the camp, all of them armed. The youngest must have been moved away for safety, infants with older children for minders, so there’s probably even more altogether. The tents I see don’t seem to have the capacity for everyone, so I figure that either they’ve dug down into the dunes beneath those canopies or there’s a second, maybe even third camp not far away.

Orskya walks over to the closest group, none of them as tall as her, and has a brief conversation. One of those she meets raises a hand and then drops it, and the other wasters lower their weapons. About half of them turn away and set about other business, while a good number of those that found us drift off into the encampment.

I spare a glance for Nazrek. The ork has been very quiet, bemused by everything that’s happening, I think. It stands there, arms by its sides, shoulders sagging, gaze cast to the ground. There’s none of the ork’s usual latent belligerence. While Orskya continues her small conference with what I guess must be the ranking elders, I wander over to the xenos warrior.

‘Good?’ I ask.

‘Not good,’ says Nazrek, rubbing a knuckle across its forehead. ‘No green. Feel bad.’

‘Right.’ I’m not sure what to do. I’ve never had to handle a listless ork before. ‘Keep out of trouble but be ready for it.’

Nazrek gives a morose nod and sits down in a billow of ash.

‘Wait here,’ it says.

I’m not sure if I prefer this or two hundred kilos of green-skinned meanness always looking for the next fight. I’m used to fist-happy knuckleheads, not so much the moping types. At least I’ll know where to find the ork.

While some of the wasters start handing out scarves, hoods and masks – a charity I hadn’t asked for or expected – Orskya introduces me and the Colonel to Maksi, Elg and Tormas, the three senior members of the group. Harla, Karste and a few others tag along with us once they’ve received better protection against the harsh elements.

I’m offered a jacket that must have been taken from the abandoned Imperial lines – thick camouflage material, reinforced at the elbows. A girl brings a couple of different helmets to try on. The first is a regulation Cadian-style, but it’s too big for me, even with the chinstrap cinched in as tight as possible. I eye the other offering with suspicion – a tall ceremonial helm covered with blue velvet, a pointed stud at the crest and a fur lining. Putting it on, it feels secure enough, but I feel like an idiot. I swap it for a cape and hood instead, sending a quick prayer to the Emperor that I don’t get hit in the head any time soon. I sling the proffered waster mask around my neck – no rebreather, just layers of filter material sandwiched between a rigid frame that looks a bit like a skull, enough to cover the mouth and ears, tinted goggles to shield the eyes.

We gather under one of the ash shades and share sips of a lukewarm beverage that tastes faintly of sweat, but I don’t make any complaints. Tormas does most of the talking. A short but solidly built waster, his Low Gothic is clipped and hurried, but he confirms that they only have spare clothes because they’ve recently looted some of the abandoned Imperial positions. We’re to remember the tribe’s generosity, and I promise that I will. Schaeffer raises the subject of the vox-set again and Tormas nods and grins in reply.

‘Yes, chatterbox. This. Here.’ He leads us to the back of the tent, pulls back a rubberised sheet to reveal a tarnished, battered transmitter and receiver set. Given its lack of proper shell and size, I reckon it was taken from a vehicle, maybe a crashed aircraft.

‘Look bad. Work good,’ Tormas says, wrinkled face creasing more as he delivers a wink. He picks up the receiver handle and offers it to me.

‘We might need some time,’ says the Colonel, stepping between me and Tormas. ‘We have to check a lot of frequencies to see which ones are still operational.’

‘We could just use the emergency transmit,’ I say, jabbing a finger to the big red button set into the main panel.

Schaeffer turns on me, eyes narrowing in annoyance.

‘I am sure our hosts have other tasks to attend to. We should not impose on their time.’

It’s the politest I’ve ever known him to be and the look on his face is trying to convey something but I’m just not getting it. I’m about to speak again when he gently but pointedly closes his hand around mine on the pickup set, stopping me from activating the switch.

‘There are security protocols to observe. We must be sure we do not betray any confidences.’

‘Yeah, protocols,’ I say, finally getting his meaning. He doesn’t want the wasters listening in, and I can see the sense of it. ‘I remember the training drill. “Heretics listen to careless whispers” and all that.’

The Colonel starts to fiddle with the broadcast dials, not doing anything in particular, while I turn back to our company.

‘This could take a long time. Orskya, I’m sure you need to make ready to move your camp. Those orks won’t be far from here by sunfall.’

‘It wise to move on, yes,’ she says. ‘I already tell others, but extra hands make quicker work.’

‘Harla, why don’t you make sure everyone is ready to leave when we’ve made contact.’

The underhiver looks away for a second.

Too late I realise that he’s actually catching the eye of the people behind him.

Harla shoves Karste into Tormas and jumps forward, dragging a piece of broken bayonet from his pocket to hold against the old man’s throat. The others pull out pistols and take aim at us. Five of them, two from the Colonel’s team.

‘You’ve been busy, Harla,’ I say. ‘Spinning a little conspiracy, it seems.’

‘Norst, Guardandi, stand down!’ barks the Colonel.

‘Not taking orders, Colonel,’ says the one called Guardandi. She gestures for Schaeffer to move away from the vox. ‘Not now everything’s gone to shit and back.’

‘Can’t let you hand us over to the authorities, Colonel,’ says Harla. He takes a step back, pulling Tormas with him, turning so he can see Orskya and the other two elders. Behind him, one of the other conspirators pulls down the tent flap, hiding us from view. ‘One chance, Kage. I’d rather take my chances with the infernal servants and greenskins than the commissars. I reckon you feel the same.’

‘Not sure,’ I reply, rubbing my chin. ‘What’s your plan?’

‘Saw a drag-sled out there. Gonna load it with supplies then head north. Take this one a kilometre or so with us, just to keep everyone honest.’

‘Schaeffer stays here,’ says Norst, darting a murderous glance at the Colonel. ‘Or we do him right now. Either way’s good.’

‘You are making a big mistake,’ says the Colonel, squaring up to the group, slowly folding his arms. ‘We need as many able-bodied fighters as we can get so I will ignore this transgression just once.’

‘You’re not in any position to offer anything, you crazy fragger,’ says Guardandi.

‘What are you heading back to?’ says Harla, directing the words to me, with the odd glance at Karste. She’s not part of the conspiracy, her look of horror fixed on her face even as he continues talking. ‘At best there’s nothing happening. Anarchy, panic, an army in full retreat. Worse, it’s a commissar’s kiss the moment they see us.’

I laugh at his slang, referring to the summary execution dispatched by officers of the Imperial Commissariat.

‘At least the skullcaps will make it quick,’ I reply. I grimace and shrug. ‘Not sure the Neverborn won’t drag you back to their abyssal hell and play with you for a few lifetimes…’

‘Gotta catch us first, right?’ offers one of the other meatheads. ‘Keep moving, like these wasters. Not get stuck in some bunker or trench just waiting for it to happen.’

‘Kinda tired of running,’ I tell them, hands moving to my hips.

‘Hands up, Kage,’ barks Harla, pushing the tip of his shiv into Tormas, a drop of blood leaking from the puncture. ‘It’d be a shame to open up this old waster.’

‘What do you think, Orskya?’ I ask, lifting my hands away from my weapons.

‘I think anyone threaten my people, their corpse cold before sunfall.’

‘Get fragged,’ says Norst.

‘We don’t have to fight our way out, nobody has to get hurt,’ says Harla. ‘There’s a few others think the same way we do, in case you thought maybe of trying to get a message out or something.’

‘Karste,’ I say, turning my full attention to her. ‘What would you do for the Burned Man?’

‘Anything,’ she replies breathlessly. ‘You saved me.’

‘If I went, you’d follow?’

‘I… I would. If that’s what you wanted.’

‘Stop talking,’ says Harla. ‘Start listening.’

‘I don’t want to go with these people, Karste,’ I say.

She takes my meaning immediately and launches herself at Harla. He pulls his hand away from the elder and swipes the shiv towards her. The others can’t help but react, their pistols moving towards the woman throwing herself forward.

It’s quicker to pull my knife and charge forward than to draw my pistol and take aim. The point of the blade hits Norst under the ribs at the front, right beneath the breast bone and into his heart. Blood coats the inside of the tent and I go down on top of him.

The noise of a waster pistol is deafeningly loud behind me and I see Harla stagger back, a hole in his right cheek. Another bang and a bullet rips through his eye to spread skull and brains over one of his conspirators. The zip of a laspistol – the Colonel’s I guess – sends a blue bolt of deadly energy into the chest of another, who falls back into her companion, just as he opens fire with his stubber. A bullet whines over my head as I rise, blade dripping blood.

The bark of the waster pistol sounds again and the last mutineer goes down, chest bubbling with red froth.

‘What about the ones outside?’ I say, looking from Orskya to the Colonel. ‘We don’t know which ones know about this fraggin’ bad idea.’

‘You can find out,’ says Schaeffer, lowering his pistol. ‘Get out there quickly, pretend you joined with Harla.’

I nod and duck through the tent flap, eyes scanning left and right to see who’s paying attention.

I catch the gaze of Seras, one of the Colonel’s troopers, who is too nonchalant as he lounges close to the camp entrance. I hang back by the tent and motion him over.

‘I heard a shot. What happened?’ he whispers, starting to duck towards the tent flap. I grab his arm and stop him.

‘Schaeffer’s dead, and one of the elders.’ I push him away and see the drag-sled Harla mentioned. I point to it with my bloodied knife and then glance around, checking to see where the wasters are and the rest of my people. ‘Get the others, now, and guard that sled. We’re leaving in a hurry.’

He swallows, nods and heads of into the swirl of ash and dust. As soon as his back is turned, I duck back into the elders’ tent. I see Orskya and Elg crouching over Karste, who’s lying next to Harla’s body. Maksi is dabbing at Tormas’ neck with a rag. The Colonel is glowering at the vox-set, from which a wisp of smoke rises lazily from a hole in the front.

‘Frag,’ I say, realising that sometime in the fight a bullet must have hit the set. ‘Is it working?’

‘No, but it might be fixed,’ growls Schaeffer.

‘Right, I’ll leave that to you…’ I round on Orskya. ‘Is there another way out of here?’

‘Yes,’ she tells me, gesturing to the back of the tent.

‘In the next couple of minutes there’s going to be a group of our people hanging around the sled about five metres left of the tent entrance. They’re all yours.’

Orskya stands up and taps Maksi on the shoulder. The two of them disappear into the shadow behind the vox-set and I turn my attention to Karste.

‘How is she?’ I ask, kneeling beside Elg, who has a bloodied hand holding a wad of rags against the side of Karste’s chest. The uphiver is pale, eyes fluttering under the lids, breathing shallow and bubbling blood with each exhalation.

‘The stab, in lung.’

I cast a look up at Tormas.

‘Can you help?’

‘Maybe,’ he says with a shrug. ‘I see some better. I see some dead.’

‘Not good enough,’ I growl.

I stand up and pace over to the Colonel, where he has the back of the vox-set open, prodding suspiciously at the innards with the point of a combat knife. My next words are cut off by a sudden fusillade of gunfire outside, accompanied by shouts and screams cut short.

A few moments later the tent flap lifts to reveal Orskya with a satisfied look in her eye.

‘Traitors dead.’ She looks at the Colonel. ‘You want parts from other vox?’

‘It may help,’ he says.

I stop her as she moves to leave again.

‘We need a medicae facility,’ I say, nodding towards Karste. ‘Aid station, field hospital, anything like that. How far to the nearest Imperial forces?’

‘I tell you. All army go south. We look for medic supplies. Take some. You can have, maybe.’

‘It’s not the supplies, it’s the expertise,’ I tell her. ‘Any of your people know how to fix her up?’

‘No,’ she says with a sigh. ‘I take you to nearest defences. Two-hour travel. Take her on sled, she probably survive that long.’

A squeal from the far end of the tent tears everyone’s attention away from Karste. Schaeffer steps back from the vox, glaring as sparks leap from the exposed workings. Against expectation the frequency dial glows into life and the speaker thrums with power, broken by intermittent crackles and squawks.

The Colonel stoops to adjust the channel and a fresh flurry of sparks erupts from the whining machine, sending him retreating several paces.

‘Transmitter is broken, but the receiver seems to be working,’ he tells us, rubbing his chin.

‘So, no calling for a rescue,’ I say.

‘There should be muster beacons left after the retreat,’ he says, looking back at the vox. ‘In such a hasty withdrawal some units, patrols, air missions can get left behind. There would be broadcasts with coordinates of the muster points. If we can pick up one of those, we can find out where to go.’

He crouches down and starts adjusting the set, brow knotted in concentration. A variety of mechanical warbles and moans emanate from the vox-set, interspersed with sequences of rapid clicking.

‘Have stuffed wound,’ Elg says, dragging my attention back to Karste. ‘Lot of blood. Bandage.’

He and Maksi start to drag the bodies of the mutineers out of the tent. They’re joined by other wasters, voices raised in concerned inquiry.

‘If you find where to go,’ says Orskya, nodding towards the Colonel and the vox-set, ‘I take you there.’

‘Why?’ I ask quietly. ‘Not that I don’t appreciate it, but why have you helped us so much?’

‘I not sure,’ she says with a conflicted expression, part confused and part amused. ‘It seem harder not to help.’

Orskya flicks a hand towards Karste.

‘Maybe I help them, not you,’ she continues. ‘I see you not leave them, but I know you think about it, yes?’

‘Once or twice,’ I admit, looking away. ‘But they believe in me.’

‘She certainly believe you special. This one throw herself on knife for you!’

‘I know.’

I look at Karste. She’s not the first casualty on my account, and I’ve even fragged the odd ally to stay alive, but this feels different. She knew what she was doing, taking on Harla, and what would happen. She did it not because I tricked her into it, or because it was just the violence of battle.

Karste is dying because she was willing to give her life away for me. That’s a pretty heavy load to take on board.

And I knew it would happen, that’s what fuels the guilt that’s nagging at me. Guilt, I might add, is not a common acquaintance of mine. I’ve always believed in taking your chances, and I’ve certainly put my neck on the line a few times, enough that I don’t feel I’ve shirked the risks others have taken. But when I spoke to her, all but told her to attack Harla, it was in the firm knowledge that she would probably get hurt, maybe even die.

And I did it anyway.

‘It bad situation,’ says Tormas, perhaps guessing my thoughts as I stare silently at the dying woman. The old man pats me on the shoulder. ‘You do what needed.’

A sudden burst of singing has us all jumping with shock. Angelic voices fill the tent, cut through with static but unmistakably a hymnal for the Emperor. I don’t recognise the song but just hearing the notes, the voices rising in praise, gives my spirit a boost.

‘What is that?’ asks Elg. ‘Is beautiful.’

I shake my head while the Colonel makes some fine adjustments, cutting out some of the interference. He sits back on his heels, head cocked to one side as he listens.

‘The Alma Imperator Battalica,’ he says.

‘What day is it? The date?’ I ask. I have no idea. The underhive has its own cycles and routines, divorced from the day and night cycle of the outside, and certainly not owing anything to the Ecclesiarchy or Astra Militarum calendars.

‘It would be Saint Sebastian’s day, perhaps,’ says Schaeffer, standing up. He is lost in thought for a moment, or perhaps caught up in the hymnal, but then his eyes find mine with fierce intensity. ‘There was an Adepta Sororitas bastion in this area. The Abbey of Saint Silva of the Holy Blade.’

‘Any luck finding any other broadcasts?’

‘No, this is it. I think it could be an automated prayer beacon. Nothing to suggest the abbey is still garrisoned.’

‘It’s all we’ve got.’ I turn to Orskya. ‘Do you know where this is? A fortress, would have lots of pictures of the Emperor, flags, women warriors in power armour.’

‘Not seen it,’ says the duneseer. ‘I not think any others have. Is type of place we not go close. Too dangerous.’

‘Colonel?’ I say with more hope than expectation. ‘Do you know where the abbey is?’

‘No. Your followers took my maps,’ he adds with a glare. ‘It was somewhere in the gamma sector of the Acheron battlefront, but that covers a hundred kilometres and more.’

Before I can say anything else, a scream outside has everybody racing for the door.

Eight

PLAGUEBORN

I dash out into the camp on the heels of Orskya, laspistol in my hand. At first I can’t make out what’s happening. There are underhivers and wasters everywhere, shouting and shooting, seemingly at each other. It’s only when I see a uniformed trooper lunging at one of the wasters that I see the bullet hole in the soldier’s head, her mouth lolling open. Unable to believe what I’m seeing, I stand rooted to the spot as my gaze flicks from one assailant to another and another. All wearing trooper uniforms or hiver gear, bloodstained and bullet-ridden.

‘Emperor protect us,’ I whisper, watching as Orskya opens fire, her bullets thudding into the chest of a dead Guardsman shambling towards us. A pus-like fluid leaks from the holes but the animated cadaver doesn’t stop.

I recognise the face of Harla as another of the walking dead heaves itself towards me with a rolling shamble, one foot scuffing through the ash, dead eyes staring right at me.

I open fire, putting a dozen las-bolts into the head and face of the dead thing, firing until it falls down, almost nothing left of its torso and skull. Others are doing the same, piling fire into the shambling creatures, screams of panic punctuating the gunshots. I see a couple of wasters lying on the ground close to the drag-sled, throats torn open.

One of them rolls its head towards me, glassy stare fixed on my face.

‘Emperor damn it,’ I snarl, shooting again as the corpse-creature clambers to its knees and then feet, ignoring the red blasts plucking at clothes and flesh.

Tormas appears out of nowhere, a long-bladed spear in hand. With him come several other wasters likewise armed. He slashes the head from the closest dead thing, then adjusts his grip to plunge the blade through the falling monster’s chest. His companions hack and slash at the remaining corpse-walkers, screaming in anger and fear as they chop them down. With a roar, Nazrek plunges out of the ashen gloom, its choppa burying itself deep into the neck of the first dead walker the ork comes upon.

Even as I’m just starting to take in the bizarre scene a handful of wasters dash into view from the left, shouting their lungs out and gesturing out into the fog. I can’t understand a word of what they’re saying but their actions speak far louder.

I don’t wait for a translation but duck back into the elders’ tent, noting that the Colonel hasn’t come out. I find him crouched by the vox-set, twisted piece of wire aerial in hand, moving it left and right.

‘The reception is better in some directions than others,’ he says, lifting the aerial. ‘We can use this to follow the broadcast back to its source.’

‘The dead are coming back to life,’ I pant, not quite able to believe the words I’m saying. ‘And I think the camp’s under attack too.’

‘The dead…?’ The Colonel stands up and grabs the vox-set under one arm, artificial protest shrieking from the speaker grille. He flicks it off and heads towards me. ‘The daemon influence is spreading.’

Outside, the elders and Orskya are rallying the wasters while my people and the remaining troopers are gathering, some of them armed, others wandering with dazed expressions, unable to cope with trauma after trauma.

‘You all need to come with us,’ announces the Colonel, striding up to Tormas. ‘It is no longer safe in the wastes.’

‘This how we live,’ replies Elg, waving a hand to take in the tents, people and sleds. ‘You not want us. No home for us in army.’

‘I am a colonel of the Astra Militarum, I am empowered to make you authorised auxilia.’ His next words are directed at Orskya. ‘This incursion may be too much even for the armies of the Emperor. Your best chance of surviving is to get off-world. I can arrange that.’

‘Why would you?’ she asks.

Schaeffer is forced to step back as a group of wasters bustle past, carrying armfuls of more weapons for their companions.

‘I swore an oath to defend the realms and servants of the Emperor,’ he says. ‘Do you believe in the might of the God-Emperor and the majesty of Terra over all things?’

‘We are loyal,’ Orskya replies. ‘Not loyal to hivers but we praise Emperor same as you.’

‘Then you are under His divine protection.’ The Colonel turns his stare to me. ‘And right now that protection takes the form of an Adepta Sororitas battle abbey.’

‘We go, we go!’ snaps Tormas, waving for Elg to be quiet as the other elder opens his mouth. ‘Run now, argue later.’

That’s a philosophy I can definitely agree with.

‘Company, firing line!’ I bellow, striding towards the cluster of armed men and women milling around.

Some are from the underhive, some came with the Colonel, but all of them hold themselves in a way that marks them out as Astra Militarum trained. I’m not surprised. Underhiver scrappers and uphiver duellists have got nothing on raw survival instinct compared to your average Imperial Guard trooper. Even so, they’re slow, almost out on their feet though it can’t have been more than half a day since the first alarm was raised in Acheron.

The thought stops me, mid-stride. Half a day? I go over everything that’s happened and figure it’s got to be true. From gloating over the Colonel to the brink of being eaten alive by walking corpses in about half a rotation of this Emperor-forsaken hole.

‘Quicker, quicker,’ I bark, unimpressed by their lacklustre drill, starting forward again.

Muffled cracks of gunfire and muzzle flashes in the fog betray the nearness of whatever is attacking the camp. Around us, a swarm of children has emerged from thin air, as far as I can tell, and are breaking down the tents and loading the sleds. There’s a lot of talking and nervous glances, but they apply themselves to their tasks with stoic determination while the adults form into groups and head out into the murk.

Shoulders heaving, breath disturbing the fog in great gusts, Nazrek stomps through the remains of the rising dead. It wipes its gore-coated cleaver on a sleeve and leers at me.

‘You seem better,’ I say.

‘Bit of fight good,’ it says. ‘Make green rise fasta.’

I can only guess what that might mean and don’t ask. There are far more pressing matters. I spy the Colonel pacing back and forth with the vox, trying to get a bearing on the transmission.

‘This way.’ He signals with his hand when he sees me looking at him. I look for some landmark that I can fix on in that direction but it’s just dunes and then the fog of distance and pollution.

I cast about for Orskya or one of the elders, but they’ve all moved away to defend the camp or deal with the breakdown. To my inexperienced eye it seems that almost half the encampment has already been packed up, leaving telltale holes and hollows in the packed ash. Some of the smaller children are kicking grit and dust into them, hiding their presence.

I almost tell the Colonel to lead the way. Almost. He’s got more of an idea what to do, or pretends he has. But that’d be it, all over for me as the boss. Never mind Nazrek and what happens there, the moment I give the Colonel a single degree of authority he’ll take it all. His plans, his way. Goodbye Burned Man, hello doomed penal legion scum.

‘Hold this line,’ I tell the ad hoc platoon that’s eventually formed up beside me. I turn to the rest of those that escaped Acheron; some of them have weapons but don’t look too prepared to use them. ‘Stay behind us.’

A tug on my sleeve draws my attention down to a boy no taller than my waist. I can see the fear etched in his face but he stays there, fighting back his terror, eyes glistening with tears. He points to a sled just behind. Karste is lying on it, legs tied down with straps, a bundle of rags under her head.

‘Blanket,’ I say slowly, giving him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. The boy frowns and I say it again, miming the action of wrapping myself up. He nods and runs off.

‘Mark your targets, I don’t want anyone shooting the wasters,’ I tell my small band of soldiery, turning my attention back to the sounds of gunfire and erratic flashes around us.

Shapes in the fog resolve into robe-clad allies, moving through the ash with distinctive, deliberate strides that seem ridiculously slow but are probably quicker than just thrashing through up to your knees in the stuff.

I recognise Orskya even with scarf and mask, leading a band of her kin back into the camp over to my left.

‘Ready with covering fire,’ I shout out, bringing up my pistol.

The Colonel has stowed the vox on one of the sleds and takes up position next to me. I give him a glance but his eyes are fixed ahead, on the vague shapes following the wasters out of the smog banks.

About forty metres away an eddy of wind kicks up, clearing a patch of ruddy mist. Its passing reveals a knot of enemies, carrying a stench of rotting meat and shit to us. I hear cursing and gagging as I fight back the urge to retch. I remember the mask and pull it up, others doing the same as we peer into the parting murk.

The sight makes me want to rip off the mask again to throw up. Seven or eight monstrous figures advance through the swirling fog, accompanied by their own dark miasma, which blends with the fog banks. Each looks and walks like a person, in the broadest terms, but they are far from human.

Their skin varies from dark, leathery brown to pale green, with patches of mould and warty growths dotting it. Each has only one eye in the middle of the forehead, beneath cracked and broken horns. Most with just one, others with two, three, and one of them with a crown of sharp antlers. Mouths with needle teeth move constantly and the sound of murmuring carries to us, monotonous and dreadful. Pox marks and livid scars mark their flesh, which in places is torn open, skin hanging in flaps to reveal wet muscle and glistening organs, intestines threatening to burst from punctured guts, hanging like coiled rope.

Their limbs are like those of famine victims, wasted of flesh, skin brittle and taut over bulging joints. Movement writhes under this sickly covering, occasionally bursting out of cuts and lesions to reveal itself as flesh beetles and maggots.

Knuckle-heavy fists hold rusting, serrated blades. The corroded metal weeps with noxious fluid, running over the gripping hands and dripping to the ash. A noisome, oily vapour lifts from the unnatural weapons, the dark smoke becoming a cloud of tiny flies that gathers over the advancing Neverborn.

Bullets and las-blasts hit unnatural flesh, leaving grievous holes and slashes that would fell a living soldier. The abyssal servants pay no heed to their injuries, black blood oozing from their wounds, almost instantly forming slab-scabs.

The scrape of runners on ash briefly draws my attention to the camp. Adults and older children have dragged on pull-slings and are starting to haul the sleds away, though a few tents and boxes still remain.

‘Swiftness is best defence,’ calls Orskya, pointing out into the haze. ‘Save bullets.’

More shadows follow the cankerous daemons, dozens more following, fog darkened with fly swarms around them. I can hear the maddening buzzing, a constant drone that accompanies the monotone chanting, penetrating through my hood and the sounds of gunfire. Everything is cast in pale brown by the filter of the goggles, giving it an even more otherworldly air. Sparks of laser and gunfire cast brief flashes in the gloom.

I pull down my mask to order the retreat and immediately regret exposing myself to the foetid air. I start coughing, the corpse-stench clogging my nostrils and coating my throat.

‘Re… Pull back!’ I manage between heaving inhalations, trying to keep down the meagre contents of my stomach. I’ve breathed in my fair share of death’s rank breath, but the effect of the Neverborn is like every charnel pile, rotting wound and suppurating pox stench combined. I start to stumble back, pulling my mask on, checking that the others follow.

Along with the wasters we turn our backs and press on into the clouds, glancing behind to check on the daemons. They haven’t increased their pace at all, ploughing through the drifts of ash with regular strides, as relentless and inevitable as an outbreak of red flux.

Soon we put enough distance between us that our pursuers fade with distance and mist, becoming dark sketches of shapes before finally disappearing. Nobody says anything, all effort bent to pushing onwards through the fatigue and fear.

It starts to get darker and I wonder what fresh hellish malaise is about to befall us when I realise that it’s simply dusk. As we advance into the closing gloom, I can’t stop feeling that the night will bring new horrors.

The wasters mount torches on high poles on the sleds, but the fitful blue light from them does little but exaggerate the coils of fume and shadows that surround us. Those of us from the underhive advance in pairs and threes, one carrying a lantern, the others with weapons at the ready. Peering into the gloom it seems that every movement could be a Neverborn or ork, the darkness of every rocky outcrop or jutting boulder a fresh horror waiting to attack.

I walk with Olesh, who was so quick to volunteer for the duty I thought he was going to attack anyone else that tried to join me. A little older than me, Olesh is one of the most recent arrivals to the fellowship of the Burned Man, but harbours no regrets about joining my people, as he tells me over and over on the trek. His son, Denas, is a babe-in-arms that rides on a nearby sled with his older cousin, Farann. Along with Olesh’s profuse gratitude I learn of this and a far more extensive (but recently dead) family tree as I peer with suspicion at every eddy of fog and shadowy patch of ash.

The lights ahead reflect off something sparkling in the dunes and our waster vanguard alters course, turning us to the right so that we crest a broad hill rather than head into the valley beside it.

‘I’d say we’re going the long way round,’ someone says loudly behind me. I think it’s probably Fredas or Crast but don’t look back to check.

‘Better longer walk than silversands,’ says one of the wasters from the other side of the sled. ‘Swallow quicker than sweeper eel.’

‘Sweeper eels?’ says Olesh, staring fearfully down at the ash and then back to the waster. ‘Do they come out at night?’

‘Mostly,’ the waster replies.

My hips are aching, trying to copy the swinging gait of the wasters, at the same time trying not to make too much sound that would attract subterranean predators. Sweeper eels are not the worst of it from what I’ve heard. There are ash serpents big enough to attack battle tanks in the deep wastes, but thankfully we’re not heading that way. The Imperial lines are dug into higher, firmer ground to the south and west of Acheron, with only armoured patrols and skimmer forays into the harsher climes in the east.

After about half an hour Orskya signals a stop and comes back down the line, Tormas and the other elders gathering around her.

‘Wait at the sled,’ I tell Olesh and make my way over to them, the Colonel joining from the other flank of the column. The duneseer darts me a look that says I hadn’t been invited to this little conference but I ignore her.

‘What’s the delay?’ I ask.

‘Ork sign,’ she replies, pointing to the head of the group. ‘Ork rok fort few kilometres north of here. Old, empty but we find tracks. Many orks ahead moving to fort.’

‘Between us and the abbey?’ asks the Colonel.

‘Yes,’ Orskya tells us. ‘Must go south to avoid.’

‘So, what’s the problem? We go south.’

‘South dangerous,’ says Elg. ‘Old city, ghosts.’

‘Ghosts?’ There’s a hint of derision in the Colonel’s tone but with just enough of a concerned edge that suggests our recent encounters are forcing him to re-evaluate what he believes.

‘Not dead ghost,’ explains Orskya. ‘Waste ghost. Is like ash river. Moves. Nearly invisible. Very hard to cross in day. Deadly at night. Streets in old ruins full of ghosts.’

‘Ghosts or orks? That’s the choice?’

‘Or walk for whole day,’ says Orskya. She jabs a thumb over her shoulder. ‘With rotting ones follow?’

‘Ghosts it is,’ I say with a forced smile. ‘I’m sure you’ll steer us right.’

As the duneseer and some of her scouts start to discuss the finer points of the challenge ahead, the Colonel signals for me to move aside and join him. We stroll a little distance from the ongoing discussion and the Colonel talks as we walk, voice low.

‘It is imperative that we rejoin the Imperial effort to face the coming madness.’

‘Those warpborn are just going to get stronger and stronger, aren’t they?’

‘Yes. But I am not talking about survival, I am talking about something more telling and important. There is a place for the Last Chancers in this coming war.’

‘You’re cooking up some fraggin’ insane plan, aren’t you?’

‘No. I do not yet know the best way to help in the coming crisis, but there will be a way to make a difference.’

‘And this is you asking me if I’ll come along?’ I take a breath, smiling at the shamelessness of the man. ‘First you want to kill me, now you want me back? I really think you need to decide what you want.’

‘Situations change. I was mistaken in thinking you were continuing the work of von Strab in the underhive.’

‘That’s why you came after me?’

‘I thought the Burned Man – you – was fostering a new rebel army. That is why I wanted to take you down.’ The Colonel looks at the others around us and then back at me. ‘Your experience, your instincts, make you a very capable member of the 13th Legion. You just have to straighten out your priorities.’

I look at him sharply. ‘What does that mean?’ I cut him off as I see him looking at our companions again. ‘Leave them behind?’

‘You will not be able to save them all, that is what I am telling you. You know this. You need to decide what the mission is, because it cannot be to protect everyone.’

‘You’re still a callous bastard,’ I snap, stepping away. People are looking at me, my raised voice catching their attention, but I don’t care. I thrust a finger at the underhivers spread along the column. ‘They are following me, not you! Is it too hard to believe that they find something in me that they don’t see in you? Humanity, maybe?’

With a growl, I plough through the ash back to the sled where Olesh is waiting for me.

‘The chosen of the Emperor must always overcome the doubts of others,’ he says, grabbing my hand in both of his. ‘Adversity is the true test of faith, Burned Man.’

Others hear him and gather closer, voicing their support, patting me on the back and shoulders. Some of them are from the team Schaeffer brought with him, converts to the cause. I nod my thanks and as I turn my head I see past the knot of grateful followers, the Colonel scowling at me from the torchlight. Eyes of ice, as cold as I’ve ever seen them, looking at me with the contempt I saw when he first came to get me for the 13th Legion. Those intervening years, the missions we’ve shared and the blood we’ve spilled and had spilled, all of it is like nothing to him.

In the past I always knew what the Colonel wanted. Kill the hive-queen. Blow up the city. Assassinate the target. Now I don’t know what it is. His excuse for coming after me is flimsier than a rookie’s backbone. He’s itching to give orders, but in the underhive and out here, nobody’s listening.

I don’t know why he’s here or what he’s prepared to do to get back in charge. That means I can’t trust him any more.

It’s past midnight when we come upon the ghost ruins, the dunes gradually mounting higher and higher, taking us clear of much of the surface smog so that fickle starlight through the upper layers lets us see two or three hundred metres at times. It’s impossible to miss the start of the old city – from the grey and brown expanse, dark skeletal beams and collapsed walls break up from the ash like the limbs of drowning people thrusting into the air. Every girder is pitted and withered with age, the walls between them little more than crumbling, wind-worn lumps left behind in the lee of the largest remains.

Orskya busies herself getting the column to form up two wide, bringing us all together while her scouts lash together poles into lengths of four and five metres. With these in hand they advance slowly ahead of the main body, prodding and prying at the shifting ash and grit, while a pair of wasters behind the group use broad paddles to cut a trail for everyone else to follow.

‘Who lived here?’ asks Olesh, gazing in awe at the jagged ruins that tower around us.

There are no doors that I see, the bases of the buildings that once stood swallowed by the rising wastes. Here and there a bend of metal looks like a remnant of bridge, the slopes of the dunes broken by angular roof edges or hollows that might have once been interior stairwells. The wind hisses around rusted metal, bringing to life small whirls of ash in the corners. I can see slides of darkness where ash has shifted recently, patches of slow movement that might be real or might be a product of the erratic firelight and swaying lanterns. That same illumination brings shadows to life, so it feels like something is hiding behind every bent beam and toppled rafter.

‘No idea,’ I say.

‘Was before humans, old story say,’ Tormas replies, stopping a little way ahead of us so that we catch up with him. ‘Not city of Emperor’s children.’

The trail we follow sometimes turns sharply, doubling back as the scouts encounter a drift or shallow they’re not willing to risk. A couple of times they stop for a few minutes, arguing with each other and pointing, before changing their minds altogether and leading us on a previously unexplored street.

They never cut through the spaces where the buildings once stood, as if the outlines of the ancient beams were force fields keeping us out.

It’s slow but steady progress, but I wonder if the warp-spawned horrors on our trail care anything for ash ghosts. Do they even travel as mortals, or can they simply extend their energy and appear at will before us?

I look up, the first time in many hours, and see the wound in the sky still looking down at us, glaring with both immortal desire and eternal hate. The very real obstacles in front of us suddenly pale in comparison to thoughts of the threat posed by the legions of warpborn that might come pouring through that tear – that might be here already, rampaging through the hives, overrunning all the Emperor’s forces and all the orks alike.

‘It’ll make the war seem like a skirmish,’ I mutter to myself.

‘What’s that?’ says Olesh. ‘What war?’

‘Nothing, just thinking aloud,’ I tell him. There’s no need to speculate on things that neither of us can really comprehend. ‘Let’s focus on getting to that battle abbey, eh?’

A few minutes later Denas starts crying. Olesh hurries over to quieten him but the piercing bawls shatter the stillness that pervades the city. Farann, the older boy, jumps down from the sled while Olesh clambers on board.

‘Needs food, must be starving, poor thing,’ he says, stroking his son’s head with one hand, rooting through the hastily bundled bags with the other.

I head over and walk beside the sled, trying my best to help by holding open sacks for Olesh. After a couple of minutes, he finds a small bag and pulls it out, some pieces of algae bread inside. He breaks a piece off and gives it to the child, who takes it in a tiny hand and starts mouthing at the soft edges with toothless bites.

‘Where’s Farann?’ Olesh says suddenly, sitting bolt upright.

My heart judders at the question and I turn, looking one way then the other, finding no sign of the boy.

‘Farann?’ I call out, stepping away from the drag-sled. I turn on the hivers following. ‘Have you seen the boy? Where’s Farann?’

Shrugs and shakes of the head answer my question. Everyone is wrapped up in their own heads, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.

‘Farann!’ I shout, cupping my hands. ‘Where are you?’

A few others gather, offering to help look, when I think I hear a quiet call. I shush everyone and turn slowly, trying to get a bearing on the sound.

It’s definitely a child’s voice, not too far away, off to the left I think. I start towards it, calling out again.

‘Come look at this, Burned Man!’ Farann shouts to me, appearing from behind a leaning upright of dark metal and flaking rust. He must be seven or eight Terran years old, I reckon. Thin, like most underhivers, with long, dark hair that reaches almost to his waist, wrapped in oversized clothes given by the wasters. ‘Look at this!’

He takes a few more paces, pointing to something in the midst of the building.

‘Wait there, don’t move,’ I call back, hurrying towards him.

Reaching the boundary of the old tower I stop and see what he’s pointing at. Bones and skulls, a pile of them, nestled in a big heap half-hidden by grey dust. Ork skeletons. The shape of the jaws marks them out instantly.

‘Guess we’re not the only ones to have come this way,’ I say to myself. I raise my voice. ‘Farann, stay where you are. It’s not safe.’

A looming presence and fungal smell heralds the arrival of Nazrek. The ork stands beside me, leaning forward as it looks out into the night gloom.

‘Much green here.’

‘Here?’ I say, suddenly nervous. I dart a glance around our surroundings, hand moving to my pistol. ‘Orks are here? Now?’

‘Old green. Deep green.’

‘What does “deep green” mean?’ I ask, returning my gaze to Farann. I tell him not to move, again.

‘Whole world deep green. Oldest green.’

The more I look at the skeletons, the clearer it is that even in Armageddon’s harsh conditions they wouldn’t have been stripped and polished so much since this invasion began. Older than that. Maybe the orks came here during the previous war? That could be what Nazrek is talking about.

‘Why is all of Armageddon green?’ asks the Colonel, arriving on the other side of the ork.

Olesh steps up beside me, child cradled in his arms, concerned looks directed at his nephew.

‘Come back, Farann!’ he shouts. ‘Come back right now.’

‘I’m gonna get a bone, uncle,’ the boy calls back, taking a couple of steps towards the remains.

‘Oldest green,’ rumbles Nazrek. It’s speaking louder, agitated by whatever thoughts are passing through its brain. ‘Stronger. Green in stone. Green makes orks smarter. Green makes orks better.’

‘Stop right there!’ bellows Olesh.

I see darkness out of the corner of my eye, a spreading patch of shadow behind Farann, seeping closer. There’s too much going on – Nazrek’s grunting and grumbling, Olesh’s shouting, the higher-pitched calls of the boy telling us he’s fine.

‘Ash ghost!’ I manage to shout, thrusting a finger towards the spreading patch of moving grains. It looks like something alive, curving across the slope of the dust and grit, like something underneath is changing direction towards Farann.

‘Farann!’ Olesh shouts again and starts forward, quickly sinking to his knees as he forges through the drift.

‘Come back!’ the Colonel bellows.

The ash ghost widens, spreading between Farann and Olesh. As the man wades onwards he turns and I see that he’s still carrying Denas. I take two steps after him, shouting warnings as the ash ghost darkens, the trickle of grains quickening as though emptying into a hollow beneath them.

A hand clamps around my elbow.

‘It is too late,’ says the Colonel. ‘Go after them and you will die too.’

Olesh is about four metres from Farann, about ten metres from me. He’s up to his thighs now. The boy, lighter, is just ankle-deep and still trying to get to the bones, further away from us.

Denas starts to cry again and Olesh realises what he’s done, turning his head with an expression of pure horror on his face. He stops, caught between going after Farann and heading back with Denas.

‘Get back,’ I shout, tearing my arm from Schaeffer’s grip. ‘I’ll get Farann.’

‘Take this.’ I turn my head to find Orskya behind me, a coil of thin rope in hand. ‘We drag you out.’

I nod, grab the offered end and quickly tie it round my waist even as I push into the moving ash.

It really is like stepping into a river, except that it’s warm, not cold, the sensation of movement pressing at my calves and then my knees as I go deeper. Olesh has managed to turn around but in doing so is waist-deep, sliding sideways with the flow of the ghost. I use my arms to help pull myself forward, almost swimming through the drift, feeling it tugging me down, broad sweeps of arms and legs fighting against the gravity sucking me into its choking depths.

Farann is crying now, trying to come towards us. He loses his footing and falls sideways, one leg disappearing into the dry swell of ash, flailing with his arms. I see his face in a glimpse of starlight, eyes wide like a grox in a slaughter barn. All I can taste is ash, clogging up my nose and filling my throat. I push onward through it, wishing I’d brought my mask and goggles, eyes squinting through the dust cloud thrown up by the boy’s thrashing.

Stupid way to die. So stupid.

I lunge the last couple of metres, fingers closing around Farann’s wrist. Iron-tight grip, nothing’s going to prise my fingers apart while I haul him towards me.

‘Fraggin’ stupid fraggin’ little fraggin’ bastard,’ I snarl even as I drag him closer and wrap my arm under his, pulling his body clear of the sucking ash. ‘Come on.’

He’s a dead weight in my arm but that’s better than him struggling as I use my free hand to push myself around, the ash now up to my ribs, the hiss of its movement so loud in my ears I can barely hear anything else.

‘Pull!’ I shout, gripping the rope. ‘Pull us out.’

Wasters, and hivers, and Nazrek haul on the rope.

We accelerate quickly, cutting into the thickest, deepest part of the ash ghost. The drag worsens, trying to pull my legs even deeper, Farann’s weight like an anchor. I struggle to get out to my waist and look up at our rescuers.

I realise I can’t see Olesh and Denas. There’s a separate crowd of onlookers that has moved a few metres further along the edge of the building, staring at something downflow of where we are. Turning my head, I catch a glimpse of an upraised hand.

‘Shit.’ I spit ash and try not to see an image of the father and son disappearing into that grey grave, suffocating slowly, the boy never really understanding what is happening as he dies. Choking their last breaths, clinging together. What is Olesh saying? The boy doesn’t understand, but maybe his father tells him it’ll be okay.

I can’t do it. I can’t let it happen. Not this time.

I untangle my arm from Farann and my fingers work clumsily at the knot of the rope beneath us. I’m trying to work fast, tears streaming not just from the grit in my eyes but the thought of the tragedy unfolding just a few metres away.

It’s so fragging pointless.

I manage to slip off the rope and bind it around Farann’s chest.

‘Pull!’ I shout again. ‘Pull, you Emperor-forgotten bastards!’

As Farann starts to plough through the ash I turn, letting the slip of the ghost carry me with it. It’s so much easier than fighting the flow, just surrendering to its strength to pull me along.

I go under for a second, totally covered by ash and dust, and then push myself free, gasping for breath.

‘Where?’ I scream to the people at the side. ‘Where?’

They holler and point, somewhere just behind me.

I turn, long stokes and quick kicks propelling me across the ash ghost, once more fighting its inevitable pull. I can’t see anything.

‘Olesh!’ I’m hoarse from inhaled dust and shouting but call again. ‘Olesh, where the frag are you?’

The strength in my legs is fading. I stop, trying to catch my breath.

Can’t give up. Frag that.

I hear a babe’s wail, off to my left, and half-swim towards it. There in the gloom and grey I see a pale flash of skin. Denas, bobbing on the surface of the ghost.

I haul myself closer and see that there’s actually fingers around his neck. Olesh is holding him up from under the ash.

I reach out trembling fingers and pluck the child up, pulling him over my shoulder. Olesh’s hand disappears but I thrust my other hand into the whispering dust, plunging my fingers deep after him, almost to the shoulder. My fingertips touch cloth and I grab, arching my back as I pull with everything I have left.

Screeching for breath, Olesh breaks the surface ahead of me, face caked in dirt, blinded.

‘Burned Man?’ he cries. ‘Where’s Denas?’

‘Safe,’ I tell him, turning my back. ‘I got him.’

The two of us latch together, forming a sort of human raft, kicking ourselves gently to the surface. I slowly turn my head back towards the others, wary that any more sudden motion might disturb the ghost and set us sinking again. We float for a few seconds, gasping and crying.

In the periphery of my vision I see Nazrek wading a little deeper into the ash. A lump of masonry comes flying through the starlight, a rope tied around it. It smacks into the ghost about three metres to my right.

‘Easy now,’ I say to Olesh, and together we carefully swim our way to the rope, taking three or four minutes to cover just a few metres. I set Denas onto the stone, legs either side of the rope, and embrace Olesh, keeping child and stone between us as we get dragged to safety.

When we finally reach firmer ground, wasters and hivers plunge in after us, pulling us free, laughing and crying.

I haul myself out of their hugs and congratulatory slaps, wiping grime from my face as I look for the Colonel. I stop right in front of him, using a fingertip to claw tear-soaked ashes out of my eyes. I flick the dirt away and stare him right in the eye.

But I say nothing.

I turn away, spitting dust.

I have nothing more to say to him. We’re finished.

Nine

HUNTED

With everything else that’s happened, I really shouldn’t be surprised when the still of the night is broken by a drawn-out howl.

‘Dunewolves,’ says Orskya, a word I’d never heard before and wish I hadn’t now.

‘Dangerous?’ I ask, another chorus of howls sounding from the smog-shrouded twilight, already knowing the answer.

‘Not if we stay close,’ she tells me.

That’s a problem. It’s been about an hour since we left the ghost ruins, covering maybe three kilometres in that time, at the most. There’s a reason nobody moves at night in the wastes, and even Orskya’s people are floundering at times. I haven’t done a headcount in a few minutes but there’s definitely less of the hivers than when we set out. Just lost, or in a crevasse, or falling behind… Occasionally a distant cry for help alerts us to their absence. Even more occasionally we find them, not too far from the group. We can’t spend too long looking for stragglers, those Neverborn are behind and still coming after us as sure as the God-Emperor sits down a lot.

Every few minutes a burst of static followed by a verse of sombre chanting announces the Colonel checking our bearing towards the battle abbey. Each time we wince, knowing the sound is carrying far, wondering what it might attract.

And now there are howls ahead and to the right.

‘Everyone stick close together,’ I call out, sweeping my gaze over the group.

A fresh eruption of throaty howls sounds nearby, over to the left this time. I see my dwindling followers staring with fear into the night, trying to see past the ring of lantern bearers we have set as pickets on the edge of the group. Youngsters ride on the sleds with the baggage, cradling the few infants, leaving the adults to guard them. On one of the biers lies Karste, still unconscious. Some of the oldest wasters take turns to ride with her, to save their legs and to check her dressings. Every time one of them relinquishes the duty to the next their expressions are graver than before. Her future is measured in hours, and probably single figures at that.

‘There,’ whispers someone behind me. I turn just in time to see them pointing off to the right. Something large and canine slinks through the fog just on the edge of vision. Several more shapes follow it.

‘Nobody run,’ I warn, pulling out my pistol. ‘They won’t attack the group.’

‘More here,’ comes a gentle call from behind. I almost stumble over a rock as I look back, just glimpsing movement from right to left.

‘Circling us,’ I say quietly.

Everything falls silent but for the hiss of runners in ash and the pad of feet. I hear panting and growls, coming from both sides. Orskya must hear it too – everyone has their hoods pulled back despite the cold, straining for any warning – and darts me a worried look.

‘Getting closer.’ I almost mouth the words without sound.

Everybody has slowed, caution overtaking their thoughts. Both I and Orskya signal for them to keep going, though it seems obvious that the dunewolves are moving ahead of us. We can’t be more than a kilometre from the siege lines. If we can get there we can find a command bunker or maybe just a gunline to hole up in and wait out the night. Ahead is our best chance of surviving even if it is also the most dangerous route.

The growling intensifies, and then all of a sudden there’s a monstrous roar ahead. Something nearly the size of a horse dashes into view for a moment and then disappears. Answering snarls and bestial bellows sound from left and right, accompanied by the heavy drumming of footfalls and swirls of fog cut by immense four-legged beasts.

The howls become whines of terror swiftly followed by more snarling, the wet rasp of flesh being torn apart and the snap and crunch of bones. Agonised animal shrieks fill the air, dozens of them, punctuated by noises of rending jaws and guttural growls.

I’m trembling even as I walk, numb with shock and fear. A bellow and pointing cleaver from Nazrek has all eyes snapping to the left. A creature ploughs through the mists, passing through the circle of lamplight for several seconds. A face that’s part-canine, part-reptilian; lips drawn back from teeth like combat knives. Its horned head is bounded by a frilled crest, scaled skin a gleaming orange in the lantern’s glow. A tail like a scorpion’s sting whips behind it, before the massive beast is lost in the plume of ash kicked up by its charge.

I can just about make out the devil hound pouncing onto something smaller – something that would be easily twice as heavy as me, made to look like a house pet by the unnatural predator’s bulk. Jaws clamp around the dunewolf’s head, crushing it with one titanic bite while glinting claws rake out its gut, spraying ropes of steaming entrails.

Screams from children and adults alike pierce my sluggish thoughts. Some idiot fires a las-bolt into the gloom and within seconds a hail of blasts and bullets scream out into the darkness.

‘Stop! Stop!’ I shout, dashing to the sleds, shoving my laspistol into the waistband of my trousers. ‘Run! We need to run!’

I’ve never questioned my survival instinct and I’m not starting now. I grab a rope and start pulling, helping the waster already in front of the sled like a draught animal in the traces of a wagon. The ash shifts under my boots but I get enough grip to build up some momentum. Around me other wasters take up the call, bending their backs to the drag-ropes.

Orskya yells something and the children riding among the loads start pushing off boxes and bags, lightening the sleds. We surge forwards, starting to find a rhythm between us. Some of the older children take guns from their parents and loose off occasional shots into the night. I don’t doubt their aim, people like hivers and wasters learn to fight and shoot from the time they can pick up a gun – I’ve always preferred knives, but before I was ten years old I could reliably hit a sourfruit from thirty paces.

Ahead I see something large looming up through the gloom. It takes a moment for it to register as a gun bastion, the crenellated roof silhouetted against the haze of the sky. There are shouts from those in front, partly of joy, partly warning of trenches and gun pits.

I turn, checking on the others, and that’s when I see the daemon hound. It breaks a wall of fog about sixty metres behind me, tatters of dunewolf fur and flesh hanging from its iron-toothed jaw. I catch the glint of a bronze collar in the gleam of lamps on the back of the sled. The two small girls and boy riding among the baggage shriek, high-pitched squeals of pure terror as the hound bears down on us, covering half a dozen metres with each bounding stride.

My past flashes back to me, recollection ramming into my thoughts, taking me back to the trench lines outside Coritanorum. Bullets from a heavy stubber tracking towards me, sprinting like a fragging idiot across the open ground between two armies.

Ten strides from death.

That’s the difference between making it to the trench and getting caught by that abyssal monster.

Unless I let go of the rope…

Thoughts race through me and one hand releases its grip before I even know what I’m doing. It’s like something else is controlling me, a far greater power than my rational brain. The other hand lets go and I’m free of the burden.

But it’s not to run. I pluck the pistol from my belt again and vault the sled as the daemon hound reaches me, landing heavily in the churned ash behind it, the terrified faces of the children flashing past.

I take aim and shoot, the red bolt sizzling into the night to hit the ash beside the oncoming behemoth. I have no idea what a puny laspistol can do against the monster – it’s like throwing pebbles at a battle tank – but I’d rather die fighting than running, which is an odd sensation for me. I fire again, hitting the shoulder of the charging brute, and then again and again. No point saving a powercell, right? Can’t use it when I’m dead.

I sidestep as I fire, and the hound veers towards me, changing direction just enough that it isn’t heading straight after the sleds. It’s about forty metres away, white eyes reflecting the dwindling lantern light.

A deeper crack than the zip of my pistol startles me. Orskya, firing her heavy rifle, picking a shot for every three or four of mine.

Then the snap of the Colonel’s lasgun on my right. Blue beams cross the path of my shots, striking the head and crest of the monstrous dog.

Twenty metres.

The boom of Nazrek’s pistol is quickly drowned out by the ork’s throaty bellow as it pounds past us. We stop firing, unable to draw on our target without hitting Nazrek.

Xenos savage and abyssal predator meet about fifteen metres in front of me. Nazrek’s choppa hacks off a clawed foot sweeping towards its face, but dagger-fangs bury deep into the ork’s forearm. Borne backwards by the daemon hound’s momentum, Nazrek falls, choppa buried in the side of the hound’s head.

The abyssal monster has its jaws tight on Nazrek’s arm but the ork heaves to its feet, roaring as it rips away from the beast, tearing off its own arm at the elbow to be free. It punches its heavy pistol into the eye of the hound, firing as it does so. Brutal high-calibre slugs rip through the skull of the hound, tearing it apart even as the ork’s fist continues its journey, plunging into the head of the daemon creature.

The hound thrashes into the ash dunes for seconds, rolling down a bank, and then starts to dissolve into a bloody pool. Nazrek stoops to retrieve its arm from disintegrating jaws, cleaver still in hand.

More shapes lope through the fog.

‘Not safe yet,’ snaps Orskya.

‘Run, boss!’ bellows Nazrek, before forging into the swirling fog, the small shape of Grot scuttling after.

Gunfire from the trench line behind us screams past, targeting daemon hounds still advancing after the hivers and wasters. Together, under the covering fire of the folks at the bunker, we reach the trenches and gratefully climb down into the protective shadows.

‘That was–’ begins Orskya but I cut her off with a raised hand.

I turn away, stumble a few steps and then throw up, vomiting nothing but stomach acid and bitter waster tea. My legs finally give up holding me upright and I collapse against the trench wall, heaving breaths into my punished lungs.

‘Emperor be praised!’ says someone close by. I look up and find one of the underhivers, Nemoa, looking down at me, a canteen of water held out. ‘Once more He delivers you from the very teeth of death, Burned Man.’

I take the canteen from him and swig metallic-tasting water, swilling it around my mouth before spitting out the remnants of vomit. Handing back the water bottle I pull myself up to the firing step and look out of the trench. In the flash of las-bolts and muzzle flare of autoguns I see more hounds, maybe half a dozen.

No sign of Nazrek.

‘Just delaying the end, that’s all,’ I tell Nemoa, dropping back down into the trench. ‘Less praying, more shooting.’

I’ve had many sleepless nights in my life, waiting for some miserable demise or other. The night in the trench is no different, but for the fact that the thought of dying doesn’t feel like a failure any more.

Sporadic bursts of terror and gunfire intersperse the old familiar sensations of numb fatigue and boredom. The sentries call out the alarm and I rouse myself, but each time feels a little less real. Death hounds and blood-warriors, tentacled pox-beasts born of slug and nightmare, cackling flame-sprites and screeching fanged skysharks.

The coldness bites in the early hours of the morning, turning breath to fog and fingers to ice. Senses dulled by exhaustion and fear start to wane. I can’t feel the ferrocrete and flakboard beneath my boots or taste the air any more. Reality becomes a small patch of lantern-lit trench and a bunker, no more than fifty metres of defiance against the ruddy gloom of the abyss that tries to swallow us. Nobody talks. The moans of the wounded break the still between violence-filled moments of brightness and cacophony.

I think about Geller fields, those unreal slivers of reality that keep ships protected in warp space. Madness and death, that’s what we were told they hold back. That’s true, to a point. They never said that madness and death clothed themselves in makeshift bodies and could cut you open with their blades. They forgot to mention that the warp could become walking disease, corrupting lungs with a breath, its unnatural touch turning flesh to poisoned slurry.

Perhaps I’m sleeping. It certainly seems the stuff of warp dreams. I’m still on the ship, transitioning to Armageddon. Everything here is a product of warpfluence and bad memories. The abyssal messenger and the heinous things it did with my body, the Burned Man, the impossible creatures in the mists.

Maybe none of it has actually happened.

The Geller field, straining at the pressures of the warp, while a lone Navigator peers into insanity made form, picking our way through eternal darkness with only the light of the Emperor to guide us.

That makes more sense. All a dream, a manufactured reality to make sense of a Geller field collapse.

If this was real, I’d have to be crazy, right? The last bits of sanity that I was clinging to after the Brightsword mission have finally given way, a frayed rope of sense parting under the constant strain.

Especially the part where blood-warriors mounted on grox-sized steeds of scarlet flesh and brass advance amongst packs of slavering daemon beasts and sword-bearing warpborn. I laugh as I see chariots pulled by more of the metal behemoths. From a ferrocrete bunker roof, the lasgun I took from a waster corpse in hand, it seems like an army of the most ancient myth arrays itself against us, complete with the sound of braying horns and flapping banners.

It’s as divorced from t’au battlesuits and ork hordes as the blue sky is from the underhive. Two things that don’t share the same universe.

A fresh blare of horns announces the advance and I laugh, ignoring the looks of shock from my companions. Orskya frowns and mouths something but I don’t really hear the words. I can feel the war-heat prickling my skin again, touching along nerves I thought dead, bringing power and energy to limbs that should be lifeless.

For a fleeting moment I wonder if maybe I’m not even sleeping, but dead. I’ve met a lot of people from different worlds – different species even – and some of them have very odd ideas about what happens when we die. I’ve never seen it as anything other than the end, but I’ve billeted with troopers that think that the Emperor takes you to a paradise of peace and plenty. Others say our souls join the great God-Emperor after death, sustaining His immortal presence.

Maybe this is what happens. Maybe when you die your soul just goes to this place of insanity where nothing is real and you keep fighting. Keep fighting for the Emperor.

What if all of those times I thought I’d cheated death, I actually hadn’t? Maybe I’ve died again and again.

We’re called the Last Chancers – why would I keep coming back to this place unless it was because I’m not really alive but battling for the God-Emperor in the darkness of the abyss itself?

I’m still laughing as I watch the army of blood-warriors closing. I wish we had artillery and lascannons and heavy bolters, but we face the oncoming tide of unnatural beasts and soldiers with nothing but las-bolts and bullets.

And faith?

Even as I think this, I can hear the clarion of the Emperor’s eternal voice on the wind.

Is He with me? Is that why He has brought me to His afterlife of war, to keep fighting? The preachers tell us that the Emperor protects. Again and again, every prayer and hymn and exhortation tells us that we must die for His service so that He may protect humanity.

I did that once already. I gave my life, threw myself into the flames.

Still here though. Do we need to fight on the other side? Maybe it isn’t the Emperor that protects, but the souls of dead soldiers fighting on in the darkness of the everlasting war?

And if that’s true, then I can’t die and maybe accepting that is why I can look at the wall of nightmare and death coming upon us and not feel afraid. That moment of pure grace I felt as I was falling into the flames comes upon me again.

The breath of the Emperor.

And the singing swells, lifting my soul, cutting through the madness of laughter, filling me with the strength of His sacrifice. I can hear the words clearly, the rolling High Gothic that I can’t understand but which brings back my earliest memories of tales of the Emperor’s righteous anger smiting the enemies of mankind. No preachers in the underhive of Olympus, but we carried with us the Pure Word of the Emperor all the same. Imperius Dominus Eternus.

And like a dawn breaking, light shines upon us from above, a yellow glow of the Emperor’s blessed illumination, the song of praise reaching its crescendo. I stand up, lifting my arms to the blessing, allowing it to pour into me.

I hear the roaring of His anger. The ground shakes with it, causing the bunker to tremble.

His wrath breaks upon the warpborn like a storm. Bolts of righteous light burn through the air, searing wounds through the oncoming horde. Like the flicker of bolter trails, His ire carries destruction to His foes, a withering storm of vengeance that fells all that it touches.

The light is blinding, yet in its passing I see clearly, as if the fog that has dogged us since leaving the underhive has been a blindness of spirit rather than the eyes. I look upon the deceit of the enemy laid bare, nothing but rage given form, robbed of its power by the divine spirit of the Lord of Terra.

The anger of the abyss is nothing to the pure hatred of He who guards humanity. That hate takes form, solidifying upon the battle-churned ash before us. Warriors in plate of silver, their own banners of red and white flying above them. With them come beasts to match the bronze giants, spitting white fire, hurling salvos of holy missiles into the monstrous ranks of the abyssal host.

My madness is cleansed by their arrival, even as the dunes are cleansed by unceasing fusillades of bolt-rounds and burning promethium. From transports and tanks, from the address systems of battleplate, female voices sing the battle hymns of the Emperor. As their weapons purge the enemy, their righteous songs purge fear.

I look upon our saviours and know that the Emperor indeed protects.

For they are the Battle Sisters of the Adepta Sororitas.

How swiftly salvation turns to peril.

While squads of Battle Sisters secure the area, others turn upon the miscellany of humans in their midst. It’s impossible to know their intent, expressions hidden inside their full helms, weapons trained on us as they advance upon the siege line. They wear metal-enamelled armour, ornate and burnished to a gleam, beneath white robes lined with scarlet. One bears a banner with a stylised skeleton depicted on it and all are marked with the Skull Imperator crowned with a spiked halo.

‘Exculpator!’ the Colonel shouts, hands cupped around his mouth. ‘Exculpator!’

I guess it’s some kind of call sign and add my voice, the cry taken up by others. The Battle Sisters manoeuvre to surround us, a thicket of bolters, heavy bolters and a multi-melta ready to turn us into bloody paste and vapour if we are deemed to be a threat. Immolator tanks with spark-tipped heavy flamers stand guard over us while silver-clad maidens of the Emperor’s wrath sweep the surrounding defences.

The Colonel tries to make himself known but his attempt to speak with our saviours is met by the silent injunction of raised bolters. I can’t say I can blame the Battle Sisters. Wasters and deserters are not exactly high on the list of righteous folk.

After several minutes the Rhino transports draw up, collecting most of the force along with nearly a score of dead and wounded.

‘We have casualties too!’ I call out as the Rhinos start to move off. Ten bolter muzzles greet me as I approach the battlement of the bunker roof, my hands held over my head. ‘Some of them are nearly dead. Take them with you!’

My request is met with silence but judging by the movements of the Battle Sisters they are communicating by vox. One of them with more ornate insignia breaks from the others and approaches the foundations of the bunker. A Rhino rumbles forward with her, stopping a few metres from the trench, bathing us with its searchlight.

‘Identify yourself,’ a voice commands from the transport’s vox-hailer.

‘Colonel?’ I say, turning to him. ‘Maybe you should handle this.’

He steps up next to me.

‘Colonel Schaeffer, 13th Penal Legion. Acheron command.’

I can imagine the Sister Superior’s surprise, seeing the dishevelled, waster-clothed man claiming to be a colonel of the Astra Militarum. Hopefully the call sign has allayed some of their doubts, but in all honesty I’d not take any chances if I’d met us either. We look like looters, or worse.

‘Surrender to the authority of the Order of the Argent Shroud,’ demands the Battle Sister, her voice given a harsh edge by the address system of her power armour.

‘We are at your mercy,’ the Colonel replies. ‘Praise the Emperor for your arrival.’

‘Bring forth your wounded,’ the Battle Sister tells us. ‘Put down your weapons.’

It takes a few minutes to comply. We carry out Karste and two others too injured to walk, using the long sleds as bridges over the trenches to set them down beside the Rhino. While the Battle Sisters inspect them one by one and then load them into the transport, half a dozen more of ours make their way out, assisted by able-bodied companions. They are searched thoroughly and then allowed to embark; all the while the guns of the Adepta Sororitas are trained on us.

‘Are you from the Abbey of Saint Silva?’ I ask the Sister Superior. ‘It was your hymns that guided us here.’

‘It was the Emperor that worked through you, Burned Man,’ says one of my followers, and others add their praises and testament.

The Sister says nothing, helmed head turning slowly to take in the sight of the Colonel, the wasters and the underhivers, before returning to look at me.

‘You are their preacher?’ she asks.

‘I wouldn’t say that,’ I reply quickly, realising what that might sound like.

‘He is the Burned Man, chosen of the Emperor, bearer of the Light of Terra,’ one of my followers calls out. A chorus of praise follows, ringing hollow in my ears as I look at the reflection of myself in the lenses of the Battle Sister’s helm. Her bolter rises just a few centimetres, enough to become threatening again.

‘By what authority do you claim the right to spread the word of the Emperor?’ Even through the address system I can hear the accusation in the question. ‘To what diocese are you attached?’

‘I am not a preacher,’ I tell her. ‘I don’t claim to be a preacher.’

‘He is more than a mortal bearer of the word,’ another of my underhive companions offers, making me cringe. ‘He is the Burned Man, the returned one. The breath of the Emperor flows from him.’

‘You lay claim to these powers?’ the Sister Superior demands, thrusting the muzzle of the boltgun towards me.

I fall to my knees, caught between the bolter and the desperate stares of my remaining followers. I see the Colonel gazing down at me. I read the expectation in his face, waiting for me to renounce everything that has happened just to save my skin.

I take a breath and look up at the Battle Sister, trying to focus past the massive barrel of her weapon. Faceless, she seems more like an animated statue than a living servant of the God-Emperor. I can feel the static from her power armour dancing across the hairs on my arm and smell the holy oils used to lubricate it.

‘I died and I live again,’ I say quietly, letting my hands drop to my lap. I straighten my back, determined to face my execution with whatever dignity can be mustered kneeling in bloodied ash, about to have my head blown off in front of those that think me blessed.

My arms itch and the back of my neck pulses in time with my heartbeat. I feel the quickening in my nerves. It isn’t the static of the armour causing the reaction. Though it was unexplained, I’d come to trust this new instinct.

‘The abyssal spawn are returning,’ I say, staring straight at the Sister Superior.

‘What witch–’ She stops when the retort of bolters sounds out from the sentry line beyond the trenches. As one the other Battle Sisters peel away, forming into squads as they move out into the battle again. Within seconds the whole company has moved from static force to mobile assault, engines roaring and voices raised in exultant battle-prayer as they move out over the ash dunes to engage the returning enemy.

‘Follow the Rhino,’ snaps the Sister Superior, looking at the Colonel. She motions with her bolter for me to stand up and I push myself to my feet. ‘Your fate will be decided at the abbey.’

She runs after her companions, squad falling in around her, heading towards the renewed flare and roar of conflict. I look out at the silver-armoured warriors advancing undaunted against the brazen horns and flashing aurae of the warpborn. For a moment they shine, perhaps just a stray beam of a searchlight on their armour, but the host of the Battle Sisters gleams against the shadows, every one of them sheathed in a pale illumination.

Ten

SAINTS AND BLASPHEMERS

I was hoping the journey to the abbey might provide some sense of relief but it feels just as fraught as every stage of our flight from the underhive before. It combines the eerie emptiness of the ghost city with the feeling of imminent battle that dogged us through the ork territories. Everywhere are reminders that not only is this a planet contested for several years, but also a new foe has arrived to sweep away all that came before.

Seeing command keeps and artillery pits empty, some of them with bodies still lying in the grime, is a stark reminder of the speed of the withdrawal. Hasty, I would say. I can see Orskya and other wasters looking carefully as we pass abandoned supply depots, some of them with tanks of promethium and barrels still stored. Here and there shells and ammunition crates are piled in magazines; camouflage netting covers boxes of rations, piles of bedrolls and other sundries. I can see the scavengers itching to let loose on these supplies but stern exchanges with the elders holds them back. The fear of retaliation from the Battle Sisters outweighs the instinct to take what they can and make a break for the wastes again.

We follow the Adepta Sororitas Rhino as it churns through the dirt, cutting across slit trenches, past stretches of razor wire and around tank trap lines, winding between emplacements. It feels like we’re intruding upon something hallowed, the noise of the engines and our own progress disturbing the still. Corpse flies buzz around cadavers marked with cruel blades, rotted beyond a few days. Some of them don’t even look human, their flesh contorted and melted into strange shapes, bones bent like heated plastek. Even more disturbing are the corpses with grateful smiles on their faces, trapped in bliss at the point of death.

Not a lot of the dead, certainly not the numbers you’d see after a massed battle, but evidence that the retreat was not wholly without opposition. I see no orks, nor any evidence the xenos made it this far into the Imperial zone.

‘Why did they leave?’ asks Olesh, trudging alongside, Denas wrapped tight in a makeshift sling against his chest, firmly gripping the hand of Farann, who stares with naked curiosity at our surroundings.

‘Don’t know,’ I say, keeping my misgivings to myself.

‘Was it warpborn?’ the older child asks. The question is asked with a quiver of fear and darted looks at the shadowed entrances to bunkers around us.

‘Probably,’ I say. ‘I guess they appeared here too.’

‘But the abbey will be safe,’ Olesh says, though whether he’s reassuring his nephew or telling himself isn’t clear.

‘The Battle Sisters still hold,’ I say. ‘They are the Emperor’s blessed. You saw how they showed no fear of the warpborn.’

We can tell we’re getting near to the battle abbey by the singing on the wind. Like the transmission we intercepted, vox-hailers project the hymnals of the Emperor far into the gloom. The abbey itself rears like a small hill out of the smog, bastions of stone raised up to flank a metalled roadway leading to a gate tower set into a high wall of buttressed ferrocrete.

Bodies hang on the guard towers, not of orks but humans, stripped naked, eyes put out. Scores of them, bound to the wall by spiked chains, each carved with the symbol of the Ecclesiarchy on their chests, branded with marks of purity and faith. A worried muttering erupts, and my gut tightens as I read the signs set above the grisly displays:

The Price of Heresy

The Rewards of Treachery

The Fate of the Unfaithful

‘Whose side are they on?’ whispers Nemoa.

Everyone slows, wasters and hivers alike, fearful of coming under the guns of the forbidding abbey. There’s probably not one among them that hasn’t cursed or blasphemed, and even those that have been adamant in my divine survival are perhaps thinking that such thoughts might be heretical to the Battle Sisters. It’s a pointed message that the Adepta Sororitas are here to serve the Emperor alone and no mortal agency of the Imperium.

The gate opens to the advance of the Rhino and remains so as we follow into the shadow. A shiver passes through me on the threshold, but it’s just the chill of the abbey’s interior, or so I tell myself.

It’s not helpful that the first thing I see in the enclosed courtyard is a statue of the Emperor towering above us, flaming spear piercing the Horusian Serpent that twines about His legs. This is flanked by two lesser figures of the Sisters’ battle saints, one with bolter, the other with shield and sword, the skeletons of their foes underfoot. A chant plays from voxmitters built into sculpted cherubs that line the overhang of the parapet around us, every surface covered with sculpted scrollwork, reliefs of the Great Virtues and images of the Sisterhood putting the foes of the Emperor to death. Even underfoot the floor is tiled in cracked mosaic, a repeating pattern that incorporates the Imperial aquila, the Skull Imperator and the stylised ‘I’ symbol of the Ecclesiarchy, wrought in mesmerising red, black and white.

Some of the wasters stumble to a stop, arms falling to their sides, heads slowly turning one way and then another to take in their extraordinary surrounds. Quite a few of my followers drop to their knees, some of them even prostrating themselves before the marble-and-gold splendour of the Imperial Majesty. Of those that remain standing, most make the sign of the aquila – hands across chest, thumbs interlinked – or gesticulate some other devotional. My response is to raise a crooked finger to forehead, touching knuckle to flesh as I mutter ‘Imperator Dominus.’ It’s probably the first time I’ve done that since I left Olympus and I don’t remember how young I was when it was beaten into me as the sign of respect to the Rex Imagifier.

These terms flood back to me unbidden. They seemed nonsensical as a youth, as alien to me as orkish or verilixian.

A squad of Battle Sisters emerges from a fortified door on the right, bolters and flamer directed at us. Under their guard several other women follow, dressed in red robes beneath black tabards, hair hidden under white hoods. They are not armoured but they don’t look any less fearsome. They immediately move to the Rhino and start to unload the wounded.

Hospitallers. More precisely, Sisters of the Orders Hospitaller of the Adepta Sororitas. I remember medicae stations among the Astra Militarum bases run by their members and occasionally roaming underhive clinics. A dozen more young orderlies – all girls – come bearing stretchers and medicae equipment. Some of the wounded are treated there and then, writhing and moaning under the attention of the Sisters. Others are placed on the stretchers and carried away.

I watch closely but don’t see Karste. I start forward but find myself the target of eight bolters, a bolt pistol and a flamer within two strides.

‘The girl with the pierced lung?’ I say, holding up my hands.

One of the Hospitallers looks up from her charge, arms bloodied to the elbow as she unties a tourniquet.

‘Which one?’ she asks, abrupt but not without some kindness in her face.

‘A crest, sort of.’ I mimic Karste’s hair and point inside the Rhino. ‘Stabbed in the ribs, caught in the lungs.’

‘She was already in the Emperor’s grace when you arrived,’ the Sister Hospitaller replies, turning back to her patient.

Frustration boils into rage and I want to scream, to pound my fists against something. For the love of anything, what is the point in dragging myself and everyone through this hellhole?

I want to shout out, to ask the Emperor what He wants from me. I’m trying as hard as I can, I really am. I could have walked away, ditched the dead weight a hundred times in the last day, but I didn’t. In the underhive, when I was burning, I could have given up and let the pain consume me, but I didn’t. I thought the Emperor was keeping me alive for some purpose, but if it’s just to keep seeing people around me dying then I’m not sure I want this gift.

Acutely aware of the Battle Sisters with their weapons still trained on me, I grasp hold of the anger as it tries to flood out. Shaking, hands trembling as I fold my arms to stop myself doing something stupid, I grit my teeth and look at the mosaic by my feet, trying to find a place of calm.

I stand like that for some time, ignoring everything, trying to make some sense of what’s happened to me.

‘They all be dead.’

I look up at the quietly spoken words and find Orskya next to me. I realise she’s unarmed – everyone except me has turned their weapons over to a grim-looking Sister in grey robes who’s come out from the abbey. The newcomer is dark-skinned, her long hair plaited tightly and wound into a conical shape, held in place by silver hairpins with skulls for heads. Her left cheek is branded with the triple feather of the Sisterhood, a ruby piercing her flesh as though binding the feathers together.

‘What?’ I mumble. The grey Sister points at me, and then to the knife and pistol at my waist.

‘Your friend dead, but others alive,’ Orskya explains. ‘Dead if you not bring them.’

‘She wasn’t my friend,’ I reply, not sure of the right words. I pull my knife free and then my pistol, handing them both grip first to the severe-looking woman. She turns and throws them unceremoniously on the pile of hiver and waster weapons behind her.

‘Which of you is Colonel Schaeffer?’ she demands, looking over us, obviously confused by our lack of uniforms.

‘I am,’ Schaeffer says, stepping forward. He comes to attention and salutes smartly, so terribly crisp and proper despite his salvaged waster gear.

‘I am Canoness Erasmisa of the Order of the Holy Seal, ranking Sister of this abbey.’

‘One of the Orders Famulous?’ says the Colonel, dropping his hand to his side. ‘In command of a battle abbey?’

Erasmisa turns a steady stare on him, lip curling slightly as she speaks.

‘This was, until recently, a combined military force. The Famulous are well placed to coordinate between the Battle Sisters and the Astra Militarum.’

‘I meant no offence, revered Sister,’ the Colonel says quickly. It’s the most put out I’ve ever seen him, and I’ve seen him facing down alien monstrosities and ranking generals with equal calm. ‘I am surprised that non-military personnel have not been evacuated.’

Erasmisa turns a withering stare upon the rest of us, assessing each in turn with a glance.

‘I do not abandon my duties simply because others abandon theirs.’ Her gaze lingers on us for quite some time, everyone overawed by their surroundings, not meeting her stare. ‘Quite an eclectic group you have here, Colonel.’

He stiffens.

‘They are not mine,’ he says archly. He turns and points at me, just a hint of malice in his gaze. ‘They follow this one.’

‘The Burned Man, I see,’ says the canoness. She motions to the Battle Sisters and two of them step forward, weapons at the ready. ‘Sister Superior Aladia sent word. Take him to a cell.’

‘What?’ I take a step back, only just remembering not to lower my hands in case it’s taken as a threat. Some of my followers shout their protests.

‘The charge of heresy will be deliberated as quickly as possible,’ Erasmisa says, as easily as if she were discussing the list of evening prayers. ‘We have little time to waste on these distractions. Let us hope there are no others that require examination.’

Cowed by the Sister’s threat, my underhivers fall silent. I allow the Battle Sisters to lead me towards the door, sparing one look for the Colonel as I walk past. I wouldn’t say he appears smug, it’s just not in his character. But he does have the impression of a man who is at ease with his life for the moment.

It’s not the worst cell I’ve ever been tossed into. It’s dry, which is always a major factor. Absence of previous inhabitant’s bones – that was just the once – is certainly a welcome feature. A hole in the corner provides better latrine facilities than many of the hellholes I’ve fought in. There’s even a thumbed copy of von Strab’s treasonous work – On the Rights and Rites of Conquest – set on the floor. Missing pages, torn out in haste, reveal its true purpose. A better-treated book sits on a wooden stool in the middle of the room. I turn it over as a Battle Sister slams the metal door shut behind me. The Litanies of Faith. Certain passages have been marked with glued tabs. I open them and glance at the small text, squinting to read it in the light of the faint lumen behind a small caged opening in the ceiling. They are verses that talk about repentance and penance, and many lists of the heresies that can be committed against the Ecclesiarchy.

An unwelcome reminder of why I’m there and a sharp blow to the complacency that has been creeping up on me since we arrived.

No windows. No bed. The first is to be expected. The second seems like a punishment, but is more likely a practicality. It stands to reason that anyone that has roused the ire of the Sisterhood in some way is already guilty of blasphemy at best, and probably something far worse.

Ever since the Colonel arrived I feel like I’ve been falling from one calamity to the next. It’s as if he’s a vortex of some kind, sucking the good fortune out of any situation. Just a day ago, a little more perhaps, I was the man in charge. Safe, in comparison to a life of potentially lethal missions one after the other. Content, I might even say.

Maybe not. The Colonel’s arrival didn’t trigger anything that wasn’t going to happen anyway. He didn’t bring the warpborn that drove the orks out of the upper hive. He certainly didn’t engineer the growing discontent that had been nagging at me, bored by the mundanity of it all.

But it is an annoying habit, of disrupting everything around him just by being there. Is it simply that he’s drawn to the places of turmoil, or do his actions just have a way of shattering the lives around him?

Heresy. That’s a new one. I’m guilty of murder, insubordination and all sorts of bad business, but I’ve never been accused of false worship or misrepresentation of the Emperor. I never intended any offence to His Throne-bound Majesty when I said that He had delivered me from the flames.

Was it the truth? It seems a long time ago, though no more than a year, I think. I was incoherent for some of that time, days of agony that all blend into each other. I could have claimed to be a High Lord of Terra and I wouldn’t know it. So, yeah, it felt like the Emperor had saved me from a terrible death.

Is that heresy?

The cell may not be too inhospitable but probably the worst fate I could imagine is waiting for me when the door opens next. Even when I stabbed that stupid sergeant and ended up sentenced to death, when the Colonel came for me, that was hanging or a firing squad. Not sure now on the details, it’s all lost in the mess of battles and killing that followed. Maybe that bit of brain got fried when they drilled into my skull to release warp vapours. Maybe the abyssal passenger destroyed it or the god-plant wrote over that memory with something else. Emperor knows just how much my brain and thoughts have been fragged over the years…

A relatively quick death, commuted to service in the Last Chancers, which promised a far less efficient but almost as certain means of execution. Turns out that didn’t finish me, but of all the grisly ends that I’ve just about dodged along the way, conviction for heresy is probably one of the worst.

The Ecclesiarchy doesn’t just kill heretics. There has to be purging so that the soul can depart without corruption. If not, that soul goes into the abyss not the Emperor, lost to His immortal strength.

A lot of purging.

Arco-flagellation, that’s a good one. Turned into a berserker-fighter with implant weapons and no mind of your own. A sacrificial shock trooper hurled at the enemy. Death-masking, a drawn-out, suffocating way of dying, breathlessly screaming repentance as the hot metal burns into your face and sears off your features.

The Ecclesiarchy don’t mess around when it comes to deterrents. When we landed on Ichar IV there was a mass castigation of a company that retreated from the tyranids and allowed them to overrun an isolated shrine. Two hundred men and women branded on the forehead and staked out in front of the landing port as a reminder that the Astra Militarum exists only to protect the Emperor’s domains, and no domain is more holy than the soil of the Ecclesiarchy.

Seeing two hundred corpses on arrival would have been a shock, but that wasn’t the worst of it – they weren’t dead… Fed and watered, kept alive for days while sunburn crisped their skin and wounds festered.

I think I need to escape.

I mean, I am guilty, I think. I am the Burned Man and there’s no end of witnesses out there that will attest to the truth, and the Sisterhood are going to be pretty pissed off by that. No doubt the Colonel will put the boot in as well if he gets the chance. Not a vindictive man, but I can feel it’s become personal between us, no matter what he says about thinking the Burned Man could have become the next von Strab. He came for me, nothing more.

So, I need to get out of here before they come for me. I will die trying to escape, that seems certain. I’m somewhere beneath the battle abbey and even if I get to the surface I have to get to the walls and out somehow. Then there’s the life of a waster. I wouldn’t survive two weeks in the wilderness, unless I can get Orskya and her people to take me in.

But even dying of thirst, buried in an ash flow, seems preferable to whatever the Sisterhood will do to me. They’re all zealots. That’s pretty much essential, even for those that aren’t Battle Sisters.

A bolt-round in the head or back seems a better way to go than being seared by a thousand holy candles, or crushed beneath a slowly lowered statue of the Emperor, or having body parts cut off and burnt before His presence – extremities first, then limbs, then innards, watching my body literally go up in incensed smoke before my eyes.

A shudder runs through me as I hear the scrape of the door bolt. Whatever plan I might have concocted, it’s too late now.

Two Battle Sisters step through, one of them with the regalia of a Sister Superior. She might even be the one that spoke to us in the wastes, I’m not sure. Their silvered war-plate hisses as they move, their presence accompanied by the hum and static of the power generator in their armour. The plate gives them a height and bulk that makes me feel smaller, though I guess the warrior-women inside aren’t any bigger than me – certainly shorter than Orskya.

Raised by the Ecclesiarchy, orphaned daughters of Imperial servants, they’ve been trained to fight for the Emperor as long as I’ve been learning to scrap for myself. I might be able to get past before one of them brings up her weapon, but I recall a painfully long, straight corridor beyond the door. Better than having my eyes put out with flaming brands and my skin stripped away to be turned into purity seal parchment.

I take a step, fists bunching, legs tensing for the sprint.

The next thing I’m aware of is being slammed down into the floor, the gauntleted fingers of a Battle Sister around my throat. I hit the bare ferrocrete hard, winding me, the powered glove just tight enough to make every gasp uncomfortable. Boosted by her armour’s systems, the Battle Sister pins me down while the Sister Superior looms near my shoulder, the ridiculously wide muzzle of her bolter pointed at my face. I can smell holy anointments on their armour, pungent but sweet-smelling.

‘Further resistance would be unwise, Lieutenant Kage,’ says the standing Battle Sister. ‘Non-compliance will be met with further force and restraint.’

The grip around my throat relents slightly.

‘All right,’ I whisper, almost choking on the words. ‘I’ll behave.’

The Battle Sister straightens, lifting me to my feet. She pulls me closer so I can see my reddening face reflected in the lenses of her helm.

‘I will break your legs if you try to run,’ she says, uncurling powered fingers from my throat.

I nod and stumble away, towards the door. Another Battle Sister is waiting there, turning to lead the way from the cell.

‘Can I speak?’ I ask, voice hoarse.

‘If you speak, choose delicate words,’ the Sister Superior answers, falling in behind me. The other Sister shuts the door, its clang reverberating down the hall. From beyond other cell doors pained moans and pleas for help greet our presence. I hear wailing, screams begging for forgiveness muted by thick stone walls.

‘How did the battle against the warpborn go? Did your Sisters return safely?’

‘There were some casualties,’ the Sister Superior replies. ‘The enemy were thwarted but they will return.’

A door opens ahead of us and a Sister in the colours of the Hospitallers steps out. I glimpse past her and see a woman strapped to a wooden stretcher, two young orderlies tying it in turn to a bench. She writhes against her bonds, screeching and sobbing. I wonder what manner of torture this unfortunate is undergoing but as we near the cell I hear her words clearly.

‘The flames live! The flames live! They took my son! The flames that walk killed them all!’

Face set, the Sister Hospitaller closes the door and moves to the next one. I hear more gibbering, almost wordless, lamenting some nightmare of the warpborn visited upon them.

‘This is a ward, not a dungeon,’ I say, realising what most of the screaming and hollering is about. ‘The warp-touched ones, you’ve brought them here?’

‘By the Emperor’s strength their souls will be unburdened of corruption,’ the Sister Superior tells me. ‘If not, we shall grant them the release they crave.’

We continue in silence up a wooden spiral staircase to the surface, coming out through an alcove in the main garage-cloister where Rhinos, Immolators and other armoured vehicles are being maintained, each surrounded by a small cluster of augmented tech-adepts. I’m so used to seeing them in the ceremonial red robes, to come across followers of the machine-god in white stitched with silver confuses me for a moment. I wonder what sort of entertaining theological discussion might take place between the devoted of the Omnissiah and the Sisterhood of the God-Emperor but then see that each of the tech-adepts wears a mouthless half-mask, binding the jaw shut. They communicate with each other in squawks and clicks of Techna-lingua coming from vox-units set into their throats, but otherwise cannot speak. So much for healthy debate.

Crossing through engine fumes and clouds of incense, I’m led across the cloister to the open space behind the gates where we first entered. I can see the gun towers around us, silver-armoured Sisters patrolling the ramparts, but no sign of the Colonel or the others.

‘What happened to the rest of the ones that came with me?’

‘They have been sequestered in dormitories,’ says the Sister Superior. ‘It is cramped but they are safe for the time being.’

My escorts take me into the building on the other side, three storeys high and jutting from the inner face of the main wall. Smaller gun turrets dot the upper floor and roof.

Inside is a wide chamber and more stairs. I am taken up the flight to the next floor, coming into a chapel room with altar, lectern and a bunch of paintings and small statuary. The rest of the Sister Superior’s squad stand ready, five along one wall, two on the other. My escorts fall into place with them, leaving me standing before Canoness Erasmisa. With her is a short, slight man in a brown robe tied with a golden belt, his head tonsured with the symbol of the Adeptus Ministorum, a large metal-bound book under one arm and a long-handled mace held in his other hand. He looks tired, his eyes bloodshot and ringed, the skin hanging from his ageing face.

My prosecutors, no doubt.

I swallow hard, realising that this is it, there’s no coming back from this. No last-minute escape. No sudden leap to freedom. I will be tried, judged and sentenced to an excruciating death and there is nothing, absolutely nothing, I can do to stop it.

I consider falling to my knees and begging. After all, if I admit my sins does that not release my soul of its guilt?

But I’m really not the begging type, and for all that maybe I have committed heresy, I still believe that the Emperor brought me back, and He doesn’t do stuff like that on a whim.

‘Kage,’ says the man, looking me up and down. A hint of a smile ghosts across his lips. ‘I can see why they called you the Burned Man.’

‘I’ve had worse names,’ I say.

‘Indeed, I am sure you have, young man,’ says the priest. ‘I am sure you have. Quite a life you have lived, by every account I have heard.’

‘Not all of it wasted, I hope,’ I say with pride. ‘I’ve done wrong, I admit that, but there’s fewer enemies of the Emperor around because of me.’

‘Certainly!’ The priest steps closer, looking at me with strange fascination. It’s unsettling me so I turn my attention to the canoness. She views me with all the delight of someone examining the shit they’ve just trodden in.

‘It is remarkable, is it not?’ says the priest, turning his head to look back at Erasmisa. ‘He certainly has been through the wars, you cannot deny that.’

‘Many have fought on the battlefields of the Emperor,’ the canoness growls back. ‘Some survive when millions of others die. That does not make them saints.’

‘Saint?’ I say but neither of them is paying me any attention, obviously continuing a discussion begun before my arrival.

‘Yet this story of the Burned Man… The testimony of Colonel Schaeffer is unequivocal. The story recounted by Kage’s followers and his exploits since the arrival of the infernal wound speak to the signs of sainthood.’

‘It is a disgrace that you associate this…’ the canoness throws a dismissive gesture towards me, ‘with the likes of Keeler, Sabbat and Celestine.’

‘Ah, but you forget that not all saints come from your orders, canoness,’ the priest replies.

‘Who are you?’ I ask, trying to get my head around the point of the conversation. ‘Are you saying you think I’m a… a saint?’

‘A living saint, perhaps,’ the priest says with an enthusiastic nod. ‘My apologies, young man. I am Preacher Deniumenialis, the sole remaining clergy of this Adeptus Ministorum facility. Most soldiers I have dealt with just call me Old Preacher.’

‘And sainthood…?’ I throw a glance at Erasmisa, who flinches at my use of the term, biting back angry words.

‘Well, I think there is cause for examination, certainly,’ says Old Preacher. ‘Such matters are not decided upon whim, and there would be serious debate. It is not for me to appoint you with such a title, obviously.’

‘Indeed it is not,’ says the canoness with notable conviction.

‘But you have fulfilled many of the criteria, I assert. Some of it seems very obvious to me.’ For the first time he shows some annoyance as he looks at the canoness. ‘How one can ignore the symbolism of striking down a serpent I do not know…’

‘So, I’m not a heretic?’

Erasmisa’s jaw tightens so hard I think I hear teeth cracking.

‘It is a clerical judgement, in which I defer to Deniumenialis,’ she says between gritted teeth.

‘Of course not, young man.’ Old Preacher pats me on the arm. ‘One that has been touched by the Emperor in this way cannot be tried for heresy! You may be the embodiment of His will, I believe. Perhaps a saint, perhaps just the beneficiary of a miracle. Neither is heresy.’

‘Please tell me you ain’t mentioned this to the Colonel yet,’ I say. ‘I really would like to be there when–’

I’m cut off by a sudden loud clanging of bells. Not real bells, of course, but simulated clamour from voxmitters set into the roof of the chapel. The Battle Sisters are already moving, turning to the doors, and I see the looks of concern on the faces of the preacher and canoness.

‘They’re not ringing out in celebration for me, are they?’

Eleven

BATTLE AT SAINT SILVA

I have quite a broad experience of alarms of various kinds. Shipboard sirens, air attack blasts, alert signals and every kind of loudmouth officer shouting his fragging head off, I’ve heard them all. There’s really nothing like a fake bell pealing constantly at deafening levels to get the heart racing and the body moving.

The crash of the Battle Sisters’ steps echoes around the bare corridors and chambers of the battle abbey, heralding the blaze of silver, red and black as they flood the walls. At a rough count I say there must be about a hundred and twenty of them, plus whoever is manning the fixed guns. In the vehicle compound, engines growl into life, the smoke of their exhausts lifting to join the censer-smog above the abbey. The bell-ringing ceases, replaced by a stream of High Gothic I don’t understand – it could be a prayer or orders, it’s impossible to say. After half a minute this gives way to a rousing verse of song, a hymnal glorifying the strength of the Emperor, singing the praises of Saint Catherine.

I find myself milling around in the main cloister, not sure what to do. The Colonel and about two dozen hivers and wasters emerge from a door opposite, some of them still covering their ears. As if summoned, Canoness Erasmisa appears beside me, three other Sisters in dark robes behind her.

‘Return to your quarters at once,’ the canoness barks. Her fellow Sisters Famulous head towards the building Schaeffer and company left.

‘Give us back our weapons, revered canoness,’ says the Colonel. ‘We can help.’

Deniumenialis arrives next, a Sister Superior at his shoulder.

‘Old Preacher, tell the canoness that we should help defend the walls!’ I say.

He looks surprised by the request.

‘I could not possibly do such a thing, young man,’ he replies.

‘Don’t you want a living saint to defend your abbey?’

‘A what?’ barks the Colonel, looking from me to the preacher and back again.

‘I do not have the authority, Lieutenant Kage,’ Old Preacher continues. ‘I am sure you know full well that the Decree Passive forbids the Ecclesiarchy from commanding men under arms. All military matters are the province of the Sisterhood. It would be most improper of me to interfere.’

I redirect my attention to the Sister Superior at his side. I’m sure she’s the one that brought me from the cell, and almost as certain that it is the squad leader that reported me to the canoness.

‘Sister Aladia?’

‘Yes?’ It’s obvious she wants to join her Sisters at the defences, glancing up at the silvered warriors assembling above us.

‘We can fight with you. Surely you want all the help you can get. The Emperor brought you to us when we needed you, wouldn’t it be wrong to ignore that gift?’

Even through the holy broadcast I hear a mournful dirge that has become far too familiar. A ceaseless, monotonous chanting that doesn’t arrive just through the ears but is felt in the mind and resonates through the gut. I don’t know whether it’s my words that convince Aladia or the imminent threat, but she points to the gatehouse.

‘When you have your weapons, hold the wall there. Do not get in the way of my Sisters.’ She looks at Erasmisa. ‘Canoness, please release the prisoners’ weapons to them.’

She puts a hand on Old Preacher’s shoulder and guides him away, heading for the sanctuary of the inner abbey. When he is through the doorway she moves past us, heading straight for the rampart.

‘Wait here,’ Erasmisa tells us, lifting a hand to a vox-piece clipped to her ear. She whispers something briefly, not happy at all.

Before our weapons arrive the main cannons boom into life, spitting shells back into what had been Imperial territory.

‘Attacking from behind the line?’ I say, seeing the Colonel react with similar concern.

‘The warpborn do not need logistics and lines of supplies as a mortal army does,’ Schaeffer says heavily. ‘If they can manifest, they will, without other restriction.’

Some of the Battle Sisters’ heavy bolters open fire. The enemy are approaching fast, it seems, going from cannon range to heavy weapon range in less than a minute. I want to run up to the rampart to see but Aladia’s command holds me back – I can easily imagine being barged aside or even cut down if we interfere with the Battle Sisters squads.

A double door rumbles open behind us and half a dozen young women emerge, pulling a couple of small carts laden with our weapons.

‘Two companies, hivers and wasters,’ I say as the group moves forward to reclaim our armaments. ‘Orskya, you know what to do?’

‘Shoot outside wall?’ she replies with a laugh. ‘Not inside?’

‘Good enough,’ I say.

‘You are no longer in command,’ the Colonel snaps, putting a hand to my chest to stop me as I turn away with laspistol and knife. ‘This is Imperial territory, the chain of command is in force. You are all troopers of the 13th Penal Legion, remember?’

I wave my knife towards the wasters and hivers running towards the steps that lead to the gatehouse wall.

‘They’re not listening to you, Colonel,’ I say, pushing his arm aside with mine. I slip my knife into my belt and check the powercell on the laspistol. Good for another thirty shots. ‘Do you want to argue about it, or go and kill some daemons?’

His snarl is all the answer I need and I push past, breaking into a run. Mounting the steps two at a time I reach the rampart, but we’re facing the wrong way to see anything; the attack is coming at the back of the abbey. The Sisters at the far wall, about sixty metres away, fire constantly down at enemies I can’t see.

‘Kage!’ The voice that calls for me is shrill, almost breaking. ‘Look!’

I turn back to the open space before the gate, a mess of mud and ash cut through with track marks and boot prints. Oily puddles bubble into existence in the mire, becoming broader pools of dark, congealing liquid. I stop counting at twenty, scattered around us about fifty metres from the wall. The hairs on my arm are standing up and the nape of my neck throbs.

‘Warp spawn,’ I growl, watching the closest pool as it bends upwards, the erratic light of searchlamps and cloud-swathed dawn dancing across the bulging surface.

The bubble splits, becoming two, then three, then four distinct blobs, falling away from rough figures within. Within the passing of a minute nearly a hundred plague-carriers stand before us, larger tentacle-mouthed beasts dragging themselves into existence around them. An unnatural gust of wind wafts the stench of graveyards and deathbeds over us, but this time it seems to dissipate almost instantly, replaced by the smell of the Sisters’ incense. The daemons’ monotonous chanting and the tolling of discordant bells is lost against the rousing hymnals of the voxmitters; praises to the God-Emperor drown out the slobbering and wailing of the charging beasts. It’s disgusting to look at the congealing warpborn, but I don’t feel the gut-churning revulsion that affected me in the wastes.

We open fire as the rotting warriors advance, a surge in the song from the voxmitters drowning out the madness-inducing chant that accompanies them. Las-bolts and bullets scythe down, greeting the striding plague-warriors and slug-beasts with a haphazard wall of fire. Las-blasts slash across unnatural flesh leaving smoking welts but little else, while bullets seem to slow as they hit, as if they’ve been fired into wet ground and with equal effect. A sudden roar of bolters engulfs us from the towers either side. Three distinct volleys of bolts shear through the oncoming warpborn, their detonations tearing off limbs, rupturing inhuman bodies and blowing apart warpborn skulls. The slain daemons return to piles of slurry, seeping back into the trampled ground.

‘Keep firing,’ I warn, noticing that the sloshing remains continue to move, slithering across the mud, slowly reforming. Like rivulets down a hill they come together, creating a larger pool about thirty metres from the outer towers. Gunfire from the barbican lashes into the morass, but there’s nothing physical to shoot, so bolts and gouts of flames simply disappear into the rippling surface.

As before, the warpstuff bulges and writhes, gathering shape from nothing. Its surface is pocked by bolt impacts, vapours rising from blistered edges as multi-meltas and burning promethium scour the surface of the bubbling mass. This time there is no splitting. The creature that heaves its immense bulk from the ground is as big as the winged nightmare that came upon us in the underhive. This is not blood and shadow though, but a heaving pile of festering flesh and pus-slicked horror.

It continues to swell, almost as tall as the towers and far greater in bulk. A rusted mace forms out of a growing limb, its end pierced like a censer, trailing swarms of black flies like living smog. The broken-nailed fingers of the other hand grip the hilt of an immense, rusted sword, longer than I am tall and as broad as a man’s shoulders. Folds of green skin and rolls of flesh materialise from the mucus froth, growing a broad, neckless head with a cluster of beady eyes over a slit mouth that grins in a terrifying fashion as it turns its immortal intention upon us.

Shrieks of pure dread rebound from the walls around me and I hear voices raised to the God-Emperor, pleading and sobbing for protection. A slobbering tongue lolls from the mouth to leave a trail of hissing saliva over multiple chins. I can feel waves of nausea beating at my thoughts like a hot wind and remember the crazed souls in the dungeon. If not for the sanctuary of the abbey perhaps we would all lose our minds to the corruptive force of the warpborn.

As more gunfire rakes into uncaring daemonflesh, the monstrous creature swings its mace, the head crashing against reinforced ferrocrete with a thunderclap detonation. Shards of masonry spray, and from the gouge carved into the corner of the tower, cracks race outwards, the material succumbing to centuries of decay in seconds as the power of the warp fiend spreads further and further. Shrugging off blasts that would pierce the armour of battle tanks, the towering nightmare brings down its blade, carving a ruin through already weakened stone, shattering the wall to its foundations. Silver-armoured bodies topple from the breaking tower, a dozen of them, crushed in the devastation of their fort.

Like a mote of dust in a sandstorm I feel utterly helpless against the titanic power formed in front of us. Never before have I felt more like a small and pointless assembly of bones, flesh and blood. The fear is so overwhelming that it’s become nonsensical, a total numbing of the senses to everything around me. For several heartbeats there’s just me and the uncaring vastness of the universe. I hear laughing, a guttural expulsion that shakes the walls, summing up the utter disdain the universe has for me.

I raise my laspistol and feel so absurd that I might start laughing too. An ant might as well try to destroy a Leman Russ tank. Sweating, feeling fever-heat coursing through me, I almost lose my grip on my laspistol as my hand starts to shake, my muscles twitching with some kind of palsy of dread.

A flash of red startles me from my fugue.

Across the gatehouse I see the Colonel firing at the immense creature, ripping off shots with a lasgun as though he has any chance of hurting it. Still, his example is enough for some of the others, who bring their weapons to bear, adding more las-bolts and bullets.

Shrugging off the welter of fire, the titanic warpborn heaves its bulk against the second tower, slamming its impossible obesity into the structure. Sprays of ichor and boil-pus explode outwards from ruptured flesh, but the fortification buckles, a huge crack breaking along its flank as though caught in the throes of an earthquake. Like a grotesque bear hugging its prey, the warpborn embraces the breaking tower, using its weight to haul it down to the ground amid a plume of dust and filth. Flies swarm in spirals about the debris, dancing in celebration over the rubble.

A handful of Battle Sisters emerge from the debris, bolters barking defiance until the sword sweeps down, hewing three of them into pieces. The other two Sisters scramble over settling masonry and twisted metal, their bolts covering the creature’s grinning face in a barrage of small explosions. Unnatural flesh flies from every detonation, thick blood oozing from the craters left by their impacts.

The creature lifts the mace, its rusted haft catching the next fusillade, and then brings it down, crushing a fourth Battle Sister into a pulp of shattered ceramite and pasted flesh. The last of the tower garrison runs out of ammunition but stands defiant upon a heap of broken ferrocrete amid the bodies of her Sisters, one hand lifting the pendant that hangs about her neck. It seems as though the warpborn flinches for a few seconds and an after-image of flames flits across my vision, though I saw nothing.

The gate below us crashes open and a pair of Immolator tanks speed out, even as the daemon-giant smashes the Battle Sister from the rubble with a backswing of its mace, hurling her broken body two dozen metres through the air.

Blessed promethium scorches from the turrets of the armoured vehicles, bathing the great lord of decay in waves of white-hot fury. Two squads of Battle Sisters advance beneath us, the flies parting from their path like water on a ship’s bow, the silvery light I thought I saw out in the wastes again swelling around the holy warriors. The thunder of their bolters sets the tempo for the hymnal, their voices raised in song from external address systems as they advance in step, every round fired finding its massive target.

Swarmed in bolt impacts and swathes of white flame, the warpborn moans, its mouth splitting wide as it swings the serrated edge of its sword at the closest Immolator. The blade strikes the side of the vehicle to carve a furrow through armour and exhaust stack, billowing smoke from the engine mixing with the fly cloud that swirls around the immaterial behemoth.

The stones around me ring to the sound of armoured boots as more Battle Sisters pour up the steps to the rampart, presenting a wall of bolters, flamers and melta weapons to the front of the abbey, their arrival forcing me and the others back from the wall. I can get only glimpses of what happens next and hear the raging bellows of the monster as it slowly succumbs to the firepower and faith of the Adepta Sororitas.

Everything falls still and silent for a few seconds, bringing with it a massive release of pressure.

‘Praise the God-Emperor!’ I shout, punching the air while relief floods through me. I sag, almost falling to my knees before I find the strength to stand again. My hand falls to my side, pistol still in my fingers. ‘Praise the Emperor.’

The Battle Sister in front of me turns.

‘Save your voice for prayers of strength, soldier of the Emperor,’ she says and raises her gaze skyward. ‘You will need all of your faith against the coming enemy.’

With a cold shiver I look up to follow her gaze. The sky above is smeared with high strips of cloud, and among the gloom I see sparks of movement. I think it must be aircraft at first but the angle seems wrong. I then realise it’s because the objects are coming straight down, directly towards us.

‘Drop pods,’ someone mutters on my left.

‘Traitor Astartes,’ says the Colonel.

I thought they’d be here quicker. You hear stories about Space Marine drop assaults and imagine it’s over in seconds. Armageddon has seen a few over the years and this one seems pretty tame in comparison to the tales of Commander Dante dropping directly onto the Beast’s main camp in the first war. Just three bright lights getting a bit bigger and a bit brighter every minute.

I wish it was over quicker. I’m getting an ache in my neck from looking up, but it’s the rapid beating of my heart that takes the real toll. It feels like I’ve been fighting for weeks not hours, and then I think about what’s happened and realise I’ve not slept in two days, and of the past forty-eight hours there’s only one – in the camp with Orskya’s people – during which I wasn’t battling or running for my life. Ichar IV was intense once it got going. Coritanorum was pretty much twenty-four hours of tension and fear. All of that seems like nothing compared to what we’ve been through.

I suppose it’s because I can’t see the end. Those other times there was a mission. Now the mission is to survive until… Until what?

‘There’s always going to be something else, someone else trying to kill me,’ I mutter, still unable to take my eyes off the trio of descending fireballs.

Unease prickles through me and for a moment I think it’s the Neverborn returning. But it feels more like a chill than a heat, and I finally drop my eyes from the approaching drop pods to find Oahebs next to me. My skin feels like it’s trying to peel itself off my flesh to get further away and I can’t stand to look at him for more than half a second. I’ve done well to avoid close proximity for most of the time we’ve been back together but there’s not really anywhere else to go on the packed rampart.

‘What do you want?’ I ask him.

‘I want to know how you keep going, knowing all the bad things you’ve done,’ he says with a belligerent stare. ‘I want to know what it’s like to have killed the people you’ve killed, endangered a whole planet, and then walk away from it pretending the Emperor thinks you’re special.’

‘I’m not pretending anything,’ I tell him.

‘There’s nothing special about you, Kage,’ he continues, spittle flying from his lips. It’s as if it doesn’t matter whether I care what he has to say, he’s going to say it anyway. ‘I know what special feels like. Special is being so different nobody can stand to be in the same room as you for more than a few seconds. Special is your parents leaving you at the local shrine because you disgusted them so much. Special is being raised to think that you’re an aberration in the eyes of the God-Emperor, to strive your whole life to atone to Him for the sin of being born the way I was.’

‘Frag you,’ I snarl. ‘You’re a soulless, mutant freak. You shouldn’t exist, but they found a use for you. You should be grateful nobody put your head in with a brick when you were a baby. You don’t get to judge me just because your life was shit.’

He points up into the sky.

‘You’re going to die sometime, Kage. Your luck, that good fortune that seems to keep you from biting the bullet each time, is gonna run out. Maybe today. And you’re bound for the abyss, I can tell you. Call yourself the Emperor’s chosen all you want, you aren’t going to the golden light, Kage. You’re tainted, I can smell it on you. Maybe that abyssal passenger isn’t around any more but it picked you for a reason. Maybe you invited it in?’ He raises his voice. ‘Maybe those things are following you, trying to get you back. We’d be better off if you led them somewhere else.’

A few of the hivers and wasters look at us, and one of the Battle Sisters turns her head, attention drawn by the disturbance. I grab Oahebs by the front of his scavenged coat and push through my revulsion to drag him closer. I feel repelled by his presence. Not sickened like with the plagueborn, but physically repulsed; it’s an effort to stay close to him.

‘That sounded like a threat,’ I snarl.

He smacks my arm away with a growl.

‘I know my purpose,’ he tells me, stepping back. ‘I’ve come to terms with the misery of my life, because I know the good I’ve done, the tainted traitors I’ve helped expose. Anywhere else, anytime else, you’d have a bullet in the back of your head and an Inquisition brand on your cheek.’

I turn away and catch the gaze of the Colonel, who’s been watching the argument from a few metres away, arms crossed.

‘Keep your freak away from me,’ I snap at him as I push past.

I find a place alongside the wasters, who have been corralled at one end of the wall by a squad of Battle Sisters. Their chatter stops as I approach, and I wonder what they were talking about.

‘Problems?’ says Orskya.

I shake my head. ‘Nothing new,’ I tell her. I glance around the group. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Stories,’ she replies with a shrug. ‘Old, old stories. Almost forgotten.’

‘What sort of stories?’ I look up. The drop pods are like three new suns, the glow of entry panels yellow against the lightening red sky. ‘Happy tales to distract us from impending death, I hope.’

‘Stories of blood,’ she says. ‘The eaters of worlds.’

‘Great. Never heard any of them.’

‘Was a time when the daemias came to Armageddon. Before. Generations ago.’

‘Daemons?’ I keep my voice quiet, keenly aware of the Battle Sisters all around us. It’s obvious that the warpborn are here, we just fought them, but it’s strange how nobody ever talks about them directly, not even now. Everyone accepts that it’s not something to discuss openly, that it’s a sin to spread such gossip. ‘What stories?’

‘Time of blood. My ancestors flee into deep wastes. Hivers fight themselves. Soldiers arrive and fight hivers.’

‘A rebellion?’

‘Yes. Rebellion. And daemias come, called by evil hivers.’ She gestures upwards. ‘And falling suns, hundreds of them!’

‘Space Marines came to Armageddon before, to fight daemons,’ I whisper, leaning closer. ‘Don’t you mean the first invasion of the Beast?’

‘No,’ she snaps. ‘Know orks, and not orks. Older stories. You listen better! Big armies of Space Marines, fighting with daemias.’

‘I never heard of any war here against warpborn. I would have, I’m sure. An army of Space Marines is something people don’t just forget. Or a battle against… against the walking nightmares.’

‘Not against,’ she says, banging her fists together. She locks her fingers through each other. ‘Fighting with.’

I look up again. Space Marines on the same side as warpborn, in a war that took place years ago that nobody has ever heard of. Sounds like campfire entertainment to me and I guess Orskya sees something in my face that gives me away.

‘They kill everyone,’ she says. ‘All not Space Marines, Emperor’s guardians kill them. Bring new hivers. Millions.’

‘The Emperor’s guardians killed everyone?’ I’m really not following her now. ‘Why would they do that? Who would be allowed to do that?’

She shrugs, a haunted look in her eyes.

‘Everyone gone.’ She makes a chopping motion with her hand. ‘Only wasters remember.’

Who would have the authority to replace an entire planetary population? Or have the resources to do it? It’s insane, moving hundreds of millions of people across the warp. It’d take a generation just to get them here. And for what?

A further thought answers my own question.

‘The Inquisition…’ I barely breathe the word. Like talking about the abyssal ones, even mentioning the shadowy left hand of the God-Emperor feels like it’ll bring them down on top of us. ‘Wiped everyone out for seeing daemons.’

She nods and gives me a knowing look.

‘Even if we live, we die, I think,’ Orskya says, casting glances at the Battle Sisters. ‘Maybe not first time. Maybe not last time…’

All I need to brighten my mood is the thought that even if we somehow survive the plague-bearers and blood-warriors and Emperor knows what else, then the agents of the Inquisition are going to slaughter us all for seeing something we’re not supposed to.

I add that to the list of other shitty fates awaiting me, and at least it’s near the bottom in terms of likelihood. There’s far more chance I’m going to get killed by the superhuman, power-armoured madmen in those falling drop pods, or succumb to their abyssal allies, long before an inquisitor decides I’m surplus to requirements.

Twelve

WORLD EATERS

I’ve been up and down from orbit to surface a good number of times and I suppose I’d not really appreciated how long it actually takes. It’s a long way, even when you’re plummeting down at several hundred kilometres per hour. It’s been more than ten minutes since we first sighted the traitor drop pods and they’re still coming.

But it’s not going to be much longer. An air defence cannon booms out its greeting to the falling pods, lighting the sky with blossoms of hot shrapnel. Within a minute the area around the enemy assault craft is a litter of black puffs and glittering shards, but the pods keep falling all the same.

‘Is it always like this?’ I turn, surprised to hear Olesh. ‘The waiting, I mean.’

‘What are you doing here?’ I snap. I grab the lasgun out of his hands. ‘You should be inside with the others. It’s dangerous out here!’

‘Really?’ He laughs, a slightly manic look in his eye for a few seconds before his focus settles on me. ‘The boys are safe. Being looked after.’

He makes a grab for the lasgun but I pull it away.

‘No! I didn’t haul your arse all the way across the wastes and almost drown in ghost ash to save you just for you to get ripped apart by some traitor’s bolt-round.’

‘But that’s why I’m here,’ he says, making another lunge for the weapon. I spin away and he overbalances, almost falling over. Straightening, he fixes me with a stern look. ‘It’s my right to protect my family.’

‘Fine, I don’t disagree,’ I tell him. ‘But as a last resort. Take your gun and stay with your son, for all that’s holy. I’m serious. It’s going to be a slaughter up here in a few minutes. It’s not brave, it’s not heroic or noble to stand here and get torn to shreds by an explosive warhead.’

‘Then why are you still here, Burned Man?’

It’s always the simplest questions that hide the most complicated answers, and for a heartbeat I consider ignoring him and just getting some of the others to drag him back to the shelter of the abbey. His earnestness persuades me I owe him something, and I figure it’d be quicker to get rid of him if I answer.

‘I ain’t choosing to be here,’ I say, waving a hand at the wall, the Battle Sisters, the whole damned abbey and all of Emperor-forsaken Armageddon. ‘This is just where I happen to be right now. I’m a soldier of the Emperor. One that did bad things and gave up a comfortable life for a never-ending parade of shitty missions that I’m not supposed to come back from. This is just the latest shithole I happen to have landed in, on a growing list of shitholes.’

He looks at me, mouth agape, but I press on.

‘You want to fight for your family? Great! Listen to me, survive long enough to maybe make a difference, and when the time comes, you don’t go down easy and you don’t go down with any regrets. Me? I’m not fightin’ for you. I ain’t fightin’ for your kid or the memory of a dead wife, or to see the golden sparkle of the sunrise over Lake Frag-me just one last time.’

I take a breath and he looks like he’s going to argue so I press on before he has a chance.

‘I ain’t fightin’ for the glory of the aquila or to preserve the sanctity of Armageddon for the Imperium, and I sure as shit ain’t fightin’ for him any more,’ I snap, jabbing a finger towards the Colonel, whose attention has been drawn by my rant as have a good number of the others manning the wall. ‘So, you know what? You feel good about making a choice, yeah? You can choose to stand up here and feel like it’s important, and maybe you’ll survive and have a story to tell that stupid nephew of yours, and that son you almost got killed.’

My stare is like a laser sight, fixed on him, pinning his gaze to mine.

‘Or an explosive bolt hits you in the gut, detonates inside your intestines and rips out the lower half of your body, spatterin’ me with your last meal and pieces of your flesh, your bone fragments tearing more holes in my coat. And guess what? It makes no difference to me! I ain’t got that choice. I can’t just head down there and maybe hope somebody else wins before I have to fight. You can do that. You don’t have to die to prove to your son that you’re a hero. You can live and raise him good and teach him to say his prayers and maybe tell him the time that the Burned Man dragged him out of the throat of an ash ghost. And I want you to do that because he’s not old enough to remember you yet, and that explosive bolt that’s going to tear you into bits doesn’t leave memories, and if you takin’ that bolt means I live, it still doesn’t mean I’m going to be your son’s dad.’

I’m getting hoarse but I can’t stop, the words just keep coming and coming, because deep down I know that my time is up. I dodged it once but not again, and this is my confession and I can’t keep it inside any more – all the things I should have said before I went over into the fires, the things I can say now because the Emperor gave me a Last Chance just one more time.

And I feel the Colonel watching and listening as I try to make him understand why we saved the prisoners and why I waded into the ash ghost and did all of the other stupid things.

‘So why not frag off, let me take that bolt for you instead, eh? If the enemy get through me, you can try your best, but give me the first shot at them, right? Nobody’s gonna miss me when I die. They won’t toll the Bell of Lost Souls for Lieutenant Kage. And I’ll tell you why. I deserve to be here. I wronged the God-Emperor and He’s punishin’ me, that’s why I’m here. Through all of it the Master of Mankind has seen fit to put me, a broken-down miscreant, blasphemer and deserter, on the walls of a damned battle abbey of the Adepta Sororitas so that you don’t have to fraggin’ be here!’

I thrust the lasgun into Olesh’s hands, pushing him back to the steps. He gives me another look, mouth hanging wide, and then hurries off. Turning back towards the rampart I’m confronted by a crowd of faces, a mixture of disbelief, amazement and even some adoration. Silence reigns except for the crack of anti-air shells above us. I catch the Colonel looking at me with calculating eyes before he turns away, heading back to the far end of the wall.

Orskya breaks from the clutch of wasters but before she can say anything a heavier thud in the skies draws everyone’s attention up again. A brighter fire lights the airbursts of the tower gun, drawing a ragged cheer from some of the hivers and wasters. They think the anti-air has hit one of the drop pods.

I don’t feel like celebrating. Something doesn’t scan right as I squint up at the blossoming explosion.

‘Get to cover!’ I shout, not even sure why, throwing myself along the wall towards the door of the gate tower to my left. ‘Incoming!’

My brain catches up with everything else, translating what my instincts saw straight away. The fireball was too regular to be a flak hit. It had to be a controlled detonation.

A keening whistle fills the air as some folks respond to my shout, others milling about for a precious, deadly few seconds, marvelling at the pyrotechnics a few hundred metres up. The Battle Sisters throw themselves into the rampart, hivers and wasters following me or trying to push themselves up against the wall, some of them hurling themselves to the floor with hands over their heads, as if that’s going to protect them from aerial attack.

In the last few seconds before the hail of shards hits the abbey I see that it’s worse than I thought. Not razor-rain, but a shower of glinting bolts.

Hundreds of them.

The first explodes on the western wall behind us, heralding a few seconds filled with a gathering roar of impact detonations. The air fills with fire and screams, flesh ripping open, bones cracking and splintering as mass-reactive warheads carpet the defences. Pressing myself into the arch of the doorway, dragging a couple of wasters in with me, I feel hot shrapnel hitting the back of my neck, plucking at the sleeves of the heavy coat. As the wave of detonations passes, the boom of explosives is replaced by weeping and shrieking.

I turn, fighting the desire to stay with my head buried against the pitted wooden planks of the door.

It’s carnage, the wall top slicked with blood and body parts. I see the broken remains of ten or more Battle Sisters, armour ruptured, the red of their capes and tabards indistinguishable from the blood-slicked rags that cover the dead hivers and wasters.

The dead are the lucky ones. In just a glance I see men and women with missing limbs, skulls torn, faces ripped, bodies opened up by the murderous hail. Some pull themselves through the gore of their companions, moaning incoherently. A Battle Sister with half her helmet and head missing stands looking at me, her expression one of dazed confusion while brain and blood leaks down the ornate scrollwork of her breastplate.

The screech of jets gives me no time to comprehend the slaughter beyond a sketch of maimed corpses broken by glimpses of faces twisted in horror and agony.

Retros burning blue, the first drop pod slams into the ground about thirty metres in front of the main gate. An armoured, angle-sided egg big enough to carry ten giants sits amid a smoking crater on the metalled road leading to the abbey. Vortices of heat twirl from stabilising fins, distorting the air around it. From its summit an assault bolt system fires, launching another salvo of deadly projectiles in every direction. I drop the moment I see the flash, lethal thumb-sized rockets spraying over the rampart, cutting down another handful of Battle Sisters that had raised their weapons in defence of their abbey. I hear rather than see the assault ramps opening, the crash of ceramite and metal on the ground and the thunder of heavy footfalls.

The towers light up with bolt impacts even as their weapons return fire, pulsing flame bursts and heavy bolter rounds into the newly arrived foe.

The second pod screams down a few seconds later, also outside the wall. I thank the Emperor for this small mercy, shaking with the thought of what would have happened if one of the drop pods had hit its target inside the compound. There’s destruction enough as it is and I crawl towards the rampart, elbows and knees reddened with the spreading lifeblood of my former followers.

I am so glad I told Olesh to get out of here.

The third pod, the one that sprayed the explosive hail, screeches down further out. In the blur of its passing it looks a bit different, like it’s reinforced or something. There’s definitely a brighter gleam of retro-jets than with the others as its plummeting descent is arrested just a couple of hundred metres up, falling out of view a couple of seconds later.

I see others looking at me from among the mounds of dead and nearly-dead. Orskya is among them, half buried beneath her waster kin, blood splashed across her face, coat matted with more crimson, though whether from her or someone else I can’t tell. She pulls a long-barrelled arquebus from the gory ruin and drags her leg from under the shredded cadaver of a young man, wrenching it free as her heel hooks in the folds of his torn flesh.

I rise just a little, enough to peer through the haze of bolt propellant settling on the carnage, through which I see the Colonel at the far end of the wall, about twenty metres away huddled in the other doorway. There’s a cluster of seven or eight people with him, some of them wounded, others with lasguns and autoguns gripped ready to fight.

As one, responding to some command over the vox I can’t hear, the surviving Battle Sisters rise. A line of silver steps to the rampart in a heartbeat, bolter retorts ringing along the gore-stained ferrocrete, the flare of their weapons shining on armour, glistening from the splashed blood of their companions.

The singing resumes but is met almost immediately by amplified bestial roars from beyond the wall. I can guess at the range to their targets by the angle of their fire, from about twenty metres out, fifteen, ten. The traitors cover the ground in seconds, at the base of the wall in just four quick heartbeats.

Firing straight down now, the Battle Sisters start to take return shots. Bolts scream up at them, crashing into their armour, showering splinters of ceramite. Shrapnel from the wall and the Battle Sisters scratches at my face and the back of my hands, the air fills with silver slivers and flying chunks of ferrocrete. The roar of bolt detonations is overwhelming, throbbing in my ears as Battle Sister after Battle Sister staggers back from the rampart, each driven away by the force of bolts exploding around and on them, each the centre of a personal storm of metal fragments and fire.

Any trooper standing up there would be lumps of dead meat by now.

A boom announces the first assault against the gate below us. Through the din of bolt impacts I hear the rev of chain weapons, swiftly followed by the screech of whirring teeth on stone and the deeper rasp of blades cutting timbers.

Movement from the Colonel draws my eye. He’s mouthing something, perhaps even speaking, but the words are lost in the smoke of battle and the clamour of fire. He points to himself and then to me, and then back to the steps.

I take his meaning. Someone needs to defend the inside of the gate.

‘We need to hold the cloister,’ I tell Orskya.

‘What?’ she shouts back.

‘Down the steps,’ I yell, jabbing a finger towards the back of the wall. ‘They’re cutting through the gate!’

I crawl away from her, calling for anyone else that can listen to follow me. She takes my meaning and a small knot of wasters follow, dragging themselves on their bellies, some daring to rise to their hands and knees as they haul themselves through the scattered remains of family and friends. Around them Battle Sisters are driven back by more fire, some of them sent spinning down, helms broken open, armour pierced. Others recover, reloading their bolters, priming fresh promethium flasks for their flamers before stepping back into the hail of enemy fire.

Reaching the top of the steps I flop from the wall top and almost fall down them, gaining my feet about halfway to the ground. I glance across to the other stair and see the Colonel and about a dozen others descending.

A huge detonation beyond the wall shakes the ground. A plume of fire and smoke rises into the air and I figure it must have been one of the Immolators, which were still outside when the drop pods hit. A second massive explosion – promethium tanks of the heavy flamers, I guess – follows a few seconds after the first.

Reaching the ground, I find there’s a squad of Battle Sisters already waiting, taking up positions behind the pillars that line the courtyard.

‘Get behind us,’ the Sister Superior commands, waving us towards the further end of the cloister. I think that’s noble of her for a second until I realise she doesn’t want us blocking her Sisters’ fire corridors.

Wasters and hivers come together as a group, following me and the Colonel as we run for the cover of the doorways and pillars further along the courtyard. Another boom draws our eyes back to the gate, in time to see it shuddering on massive hinges, its timbers splitting further apart.

‘What’s the plan?’ someone asks. I’m not sure who’s hiver and who’s waster any more, with everybody wearing waster gear, lots of them with their masks up. Maybe it’s Kulain, or Harrin? Precious seconds trickle past before I realise it doesn’t matter one bit.

‘Whatever comes through there,’ I wave a hand at the gate as another thunderous impact cracks several timbers, ‘just shoot. A lot.’

Spreading out into whatever cover we can find, everyone points a rifle or pistol at the gate. I spare a glance up to the rampart just as a knot of Battle Sisters fall back, driven from the rampart by something closer by. A heartbeat later something large and red heaves over the battlement, a flashing chainaxe in hand, surrounded by a hail of bolt detonations like a fiery aura.

Landing on the rampart, the heretic Space Marine towers over the Battle Sisters, not simply in height but sheer bulk. I’ve seen Space Marines once before, on the Brightsword mission, but the thing that raises its chainaxe over its head with an inhuman roar seems even bigger. Its armour is a dark red, scarred and cratered by bolter fire. Bronze and golden chains hang like epaulettes, though each link is thicker than my wrist, from which skulls and severed hands hang as grisly trophies. The vents of its power backpack stream with black smoke, like the exhausts of a transport, the snarl of the chainaxe adding to the grinding and hissing of the armour as it turns, surveying its surroundings.

The sight of the traitor is all the more shocking because I know that once this warrior used to be a loyal servant of the Emperor. I shudder to think what dark thoughts drive such a fall. I’ve done my share of questionable things, but to turn on the God-Emperor would be the height of madness.

With another bellow, the Space Marine hurls himself with astounding speed at the Battle Sisters, axe sweeping out to hew the arm and head from the closest with one churning blow. Spinning chain teeth fountain blood across the rampart as the dead Battle Sister falls. Ignoring the fire of the Sisters, the Traitor Space Marine ploughs into them, bolt pistol firing a stream of rounds, each shot hitting a masked helm, turning helmets and skulls to bloody ruin.

Some of the others have seen what’s coming and break from cover, their fear overcoming sense. The gate explodes open amid spinning timbers and flame, the splinters and smoke parted a heartbeat later by more onrushing monsters clad in powered war-plate. The daemons were scary, but it’s their sheer impossibility that breaks the mind and sows that dread into your heart. Seeing the Traitor Space Marines pounding through the broken gate is a far more visceral, real experience. Their size alone is overwhelming, the sudden roar of bolt pistols and the flare of plasma as they open fire.

The way they move seems not unnatural but hyper-natural. Beings that armoured, that bulky, should not move with that kind of pace and balance. Even running at speed they move to snap off shots with all the precision of a stabilised gun platform, explosive bolts finding silver targets with unerring accuracy. Blue plasma blasts tear through columns and armour alike, detonating like miniature suns to turn their targets into expanding clouds of vapour and ash, the charred remains hurled into the other Sisters.

Thirteen

ANGELS OF DEATH

I don’t want to open fire. The thought of attracting the attention of one of these inhuman killers freezes my finger on the trigger. What’s a las-bolt going to do, when hails of bolts ring from their armour without effect?

Across the other side of the courtyard a Battle Sister lines up her multi-melta. The air distorts with lethal energy, the hiss of its firing becoming a roar as the blast engulfs the nearest traitor. If the plasma detonations are spectacular, a melta kill is almost impossible to believe. One moment a half-ton of savage heretic is bearing down on us, the next there’s a few scraps of falling armour and a cloud of red vapour swathing his companions.

Another bestial roar draws my eye back to the rampart, where I expect to see the traitor cutting down the last of the Battle Sisters. I’m not too wrong. Piles of silver-armoured bodies lie around the monstrous warrior as it hews left and right with its chainaxe, its blows deflected by the gleaming sword of a Sister Superior.

A Battle Sister rises behind the Space Marine, one arm hanging useless at her side, a reclaimed bolt pistol in her other hand, aimed at the back of the traitor’s head. The Space Marine turns and fires in one fluid motion, but doing so leaves it open to the falling blade of the Sister Superior. The blue-edged sword cuts deep into the pauldron of the Space Marine, slicing through bonded ceramite and into flesh. The heretic’s shot hits the Battle Sister in the chest, causing her to fall to one knee.

Backhanding the Sister Superior away, her sword left sticking from his wounded shoulder, the Space Marine lifts the chainaxe, ready to receive the next assault. Its teeth a blur, the weapon sweeps out, slashing towards the Sister Superior’s head. She barely ducks the blow, but snatches the sword out of her enemy’s body and drives herself forward again. The blade buries itself into the chest plastron, the force of the blow cracking open the ceramite.

The momentum of the attack carries both of them over the edge of the wall, down into the cloister, where they crash into the ground amid a thunder of armour hitting ferrocrete.

There’s no time to see what happens next. Promethium streams out from heavy flamers, setting two of the heretics alight. They charge onwards, armour aflame, chainaxes hewing and pistols spitting death.

Fire from above rips into the Space Marines from behind, now that the Battle Sisters on the rampart are unengaged. There’s probably about half of them still able to fight, bolter shells raking down in a blaze of flame.

I see a brutish warrior stumble, head and shoulders engulfed in detonations. Pieces of armour fly away, exposing a flat-featured face, more scar tissue than skin, contorted with disturbing tattoos of symbols that gleam with their own light.

Another salvo tears flesh from bone, the mass-reactive rounds detonating inside his skull, blowing it apart from within.

I stare in disbelief as the smoking ruin of the heretic tumbles to the ground with a crash.

They can be killed.

I finally open fire with the laspistol, directing my shots towards the faces of the monstrous warriors as best I can – maybe I’ll hit the throat guard or an eye-lens or something. I miss more than I hit, and those shots that find their mark are pitiful beams of red that glance from war-plate as if it were tank armour.

From around me and behind me the others fire too. One bullet isn’t much, and nor is one las-bolt. Ten shots don’t amount to a threat to these armoured behemoths, but when that number creeps up to thirty, forty, fifty shots, it all starts to count.

It’s like stripping a fortification down to its foundations with a blunt spoon. Chipping away, every piece of dust lifted, every scratch and small pockmark one step closer to the impossible goal.

One of the Space Marines turns away from the Battle Sisters, paying attention to our fire for the first time. Amid a converging tempest of bullets and multicoloured las-bolts, the traitor raises his pistol and opens fire. I see the flare of propellant disappear into the chest of the waster next to me, a second before the bolt explodes, blasting open her ribcage.

For an instant I think the heretic will adjust aim towards me, but the muzzle of the pistol slides the other way, filling with the flame of a bolt’s launch a second before another waster fires, head turned to pulp that’s thrown against the wall behind us.

The red-armoured brute advances more steadily. He fires with every pace. Every shot is a kill. Against this we have no choice but to hunker back, our fire lessening to snapped shots every few seconds.

The Battle Sisters gather around their Sister Superior as three of the traitors reach them, a red battering ram against a silver wall. The first of the Space Marines crashes straight over the first Battle Sister, crushing her beneath his bulk, armoured boots cracking open armour as the warrior ploughs onwards into the others. Chainaxes roaring, the trio plunge through the silver line like one of their bolts punching through flesh.

The gunfire above stops abruptly, which is not a good sign. The next time I poke my head around the column I dare a look to see what’s happening.

The Battle Sisters have moved to the outer wall again and are firing outside the abbey.

The third drop pod.

The Space Marines’ advance has driven me around the pillar and I can’t see the gate from this side. I turn around and look the other way, out through the ruin of the gates. Past a couple of large red-armoured bodies something even bigger than a Space Marine approaches, looming through the smoke.

It’s the size of a battle tank nearly, but a walker, its armoured form advancing with steady strides. Through wisps of smog, I see more chains and grisly ornaments, and a fist the size of a man that crackles with artificial lightning, each clawlike finger tipped with a spinning blade like the teeth of a tunnelling engine. In place of the other arm is a multi-barrelled cannon, three lines of ammunition hanging from it to a massive armoured hopper in the shoulder.

I swallow hard as I remember the destruction of the Immolators. If two armoured vehicles with inferno cannons couldn’t stop this thing, then what chance for a man with a thick coat and – I check – twelve laspistol shots?

Spikes adorned with skulls jut from slabs of armoured plate and I see a symbol blazoned on the side, next to a central cluster of bones and skulls like an open sarcophagus – a fanged maw closing on the image of a planet.

The walker is about ten metres from the gate and its gun turns towards me, barrels starting to spin into life.

There’s only so much a mind can take, only so many times it can be thwarted in the simple endeavour of staying alive, before something breaks. I passed that line a long time ago and kept moving. I became used to the idea that I would die, but never to the point that I wanted it. Not until that moment of decision at the top of the fire chasm, when I embraced the death that was due to me. I wanted it then, I deserved the peace at that moment, I thought.

As I watch those gun barrels becoming a blur, waiting for the instant of explosive reaction when the first shell fires, I realise that I have to struggle up that hill one more time and I can’t take it. Being reborn, it’s like starting over. A second chance for a Last Chancer. An impossibility made reality, and now it’s all going to end anyway.

What a pointless day full of misery and stress and people dying.

I open fire with the laspistol, shooting half blind at the armoured walker. The las-bolts look like sparks against the bulk of its armoured hide, lost against the red of its livery, bouncing uselessly from angled plates.

The pistol whines in my hand, the powercell emptied. With a shout that comes from the very bottom of my gut and picks up every bit of my frustration and rage, I throw the stupid thing at the heretic walker. The laspistol bounces harmlessly off a spiked greave as the machine’s boxy torso continues to turn in my direction, the snarl of the gun motor cutting through the other noise of battle.

A flash of blue light stabs from the chest of the walker, blinding me for an instant. My vision swims back into focus just as I hear the detonation of its power plant, broken limbs and twisted frame scattering into the air, the remnants of a mangled pilot’s body tossed through the gateway by the explosion.

My thoughts are a jumble.

From where?

Lascannon.

Behind it.

Destroyed.

As sight and sense coalesce like a gun being reassembled after a maintenance strip, I piece together what happened, in time to see the dark blur of the gunship roaring down over the abbey. The downthrust of jets almost throws me sideways, scattering grit, kicking up a spray of fresh blood.

Heavy weapons set into the wings open fire, chewing chunks out of the traitors’ armour, cutting down the four still crossing the courtyard. I blink back the dust cloud, shielding my eyes against the glare of plasma jets to focus on the gunship. Long, flat-sided with blunt nose and triangular wings, seemingly too big and heavy to hover in the sky like it does. The nose opens, a ramp descending like a beast’s jaw, spilling red light and armoured giants.

More Space Marines.

From about fifteen metres up they fall, landing on the wall of the gate tower amid a crash of boots and crack of bones and ceramite under them. Their armour is ornate, vibrant green chased with gold and silver, hung with what look like lizardskin cloaks and loincloths. I count five at first, bolters finishing what the gunship’s weapons began, snarling rounds flaring down into the cloister to rip apart the wounded traitors.

The gunship moves on, another six Space Marines leaping from its assault ramp as it dips, ferrocrete cracking under the impact of their landing as they hit the cloister floor among the ruin of the dead traitors’ armoured corpses. The heretics react without hesitation, breaking away from the bloodied squads of Battle Sisters to charge headlong at the new arrivals. Distorted battle cries bellow from voxmitters in their armour, echoing back from the abbey walls.

‘Blood for the Blood God!’

I don’t really understand what that means, but it sends a chill coursing through me all the same as I watch the knot of red-armoured brutes closing on the new arrivals.

One of the Space Marines steps forward from the others, his armour blue rather than green but for the pauldrons and helm. He carries a long sword and a staff tipped with what looks like the horned head of a reptile. From this a flare of lightning erupts, lancing across the gap between him and the charging traitors to strike the closest. Red-daubed ceramite shatters like glass, the blue lightning bolt eating its way into the exposed flesh beneath, peeling superhuman muscle apart like foliage burnt away by an anti-plant missile.

In two heartbeats the heretic warrior is nothing more than clattering bones and broken pieces of armour spinning forwards from the momentum of the charge. The two others race past the collapsing remains, bolt pistols firing, chainaxes lifted to the attack.

The thrum of a plasma chamber heralds a sun-hot blast of energy. The chest and arm of a traitor become a cloud of splashing vapour, the ravaged remains falling to one knee. Still alive, the traitor pushes up with his remaining arm, chainaxe used as a prop. There’s no helm, instead a face that seems made of bronze, except that it moves, dagger-like teeth exposed as the warrior snarls hate at the Space Marines. Missing an arm and half his chest, the traitor pushes to his feet, lips drawn back in a snarl, the teeth of his chainaxe shrieking into life once more.

The blue-armoured warrior steps up to meet the charge of the third, the blazing edge of the sword meeting the downward arc of a chainaxe in a shower of black sparks, bolt-shells exploding point-blank from the loyalist’s chest. The Space Marine turns, deflecting another blow as he spins around the traitor, letting the monster’s momentum carry him towards the others. They open fire, joined by those on the wall above, a hail of bolts shredding damaged war-plate while the blue-armoured leader meets the injured traitor with the point of his blade, lancing him through the grimacing face.

Like hounds tearing apart larger prey, the bolt detonations rip the last traitor apart piece by piece, broken armour becoming spinning fragments, body, head and limbs shattered and snapped by internal detonations from the pinpoint-accurate fusillade. With a death rattle the bestial warrior slumps forward, chainaxe growling a last time as it falls from spasming fingers to skitter across the blood-spattered ferrocrete.

The gunship lifts away, turning as it does so, to roar back over the gatehouse and settle close to the burning wrecks of the Immolators, obscuring two of the empty drop pods with its bulk. Hydraulic landing skids descend as it touches down at the centre of a plume of plasma jets and whirling ash. The engines cut out a second later.

In the wake of such intense destruction, the quiet is like profound silence for a few seconds. The cloister feels small, filled with the presence of the Space Marines. It’s more than their physical size. Their war-plate gives off an aura, heat vents causing the air to shimmer, the buzz of unheard vox-links like static on the edge of hearing. As they move, every footfall is a thunderclap, every servo motion accompanied by a whine of expended power.

While the squad in the cloister fans out, weapons trained on the broken heretics, the Space Marine in blue turns, a few last fronds of energy crackling down the skull staff, reflected in the black lenses of his helm.

‘Identify yourself,’ the closest Space Marine barks, his deep voice given a metallic tremor by the power armour’s address system.

‘Kage,’ I stammer, holding up my hands. I glance towards the Colonel before continuing. ‘Lieutenant Kage.’

The door behind me slams open, bringing a slap of footfalls. Two of the Space Marines adjust their aim and the footsteps stop.

‘Battle-brothers!’ I hear Old Preacher exclaim. ‘Blessings of the God-Emperor upon you for your intervention.’

The half-squad of Space Marines on the wall have turned their weapons out over the approach while the Battle Sisters move across the cloister, heading through the broken remnants of the gate and back to the ramparts. I assume that means the abbey has been secured again, and let out a long breath.

The warrior with the blue on his armour has been surveying the cloister, the tip of his skull-staff glowing with a yellow aura. He turns on me, sheathing his blade as he does so.

The staff head dims as he takes one more look around, casting his eyes skyward for a few seconds before the lenses fall on me.

‘It is not random that the World Eaters landed here,’ the warrior proclaims, booming voice echoing back from the cloister walls. ‘We must divine their purpose and how it fits within the scheme of the great ritual.’

I know better than to ask stupid questions at a time like this, but mention of ritual makes my skin crawl. The Space Marine nearest me lowers his boltgun and reaches a hand up to his helm. With a twist and a hiss, he frees the seals, pulling the helmet clear. The face within is flat, broad-nosed and utterly black. Eyes of red with penetrating black pupils watch me curiously. I gasp, unable to hold in my shock at the stark reminder that these are Space Marines, not to be confused with us poor mortal humans.

The fierce gaze softens and the Space Marine hangs his helmet from his belt. With a clang he mag-clamps the bolter to his thigh armour and turns towards Canoness Erasmisa.

‘I am Brother-Sergeant Ohuak of the Salamanders Chapter. We detected the launch of the Traitor Astartes and moved to intercept but were unable to arrive before they landed.’ He glances back at the gatehouse rampart, where Sisters Hospitaller are moving among the heaped dead, pulling a few lucky survivors from the wreckage of bodies. His gaze sweeps over us and back to Erasmisa. ‘The Sisters of the Argent Shroud have paid a high price for the Emperor today. As have… your allies?’

‘Mongrel strays attracted by our beacon,’ the canoness declares.

Ohuak pauses before replying, his expression distant for a moment. I work out that he must be listening to a vox-implant.

‘Brother-Librarian Afahiva thinks you should not be so quick to dismiss these strays,’ the sergeant says.

‘Librarian?’ I can’t stop a laugh blurting out. I look around, trying to see who he’s talking about. ‘You brought a Librarian with you? What are they going to do, read at the enemy?’

The warrior in blue strides across the cloister, his shadow falling over me with a chill. I see myself looking back from the dark of his eye-lenses, but for the briefest of moments I’d swear I see a skull where my face should be.

‘I am Afahiva,’ the Space Marine says. I babble apologies, overwhelmed by the immensity of the warrior that stands over me. I flinch as he reaches out a hand, but he rests the massive gauntlet gently on my shoulder and I can hear amusement from the address system. ‘I do read a lot of books, Lieutenant Kage.’

He straightens and lifts his hand, moving to point towards Schaeffer.

‘I saw your face in a waking dream.’ A finger beckons and the Colonel comes forward, brow furrowed. ‘Who are you?’

‘Colonel Schaeffer of the 13th Penal Legion.’ Schaeffer darts an angry glare at me. ‘I was ranking officer of the team that executed Overlord von Strab. Perhaps you saw my face in a bulletin or briefing?’

‘No.’ Afahiva turns his hidden stare to me again while the sergeant approaches; Old Preacher and the canoness edge closer too, trying to become part of the conversation. The Librarian’s hand moves over my head, staying there for a few seconds. I feel heat on the back of my neck and have to fight the urge to pull away from his scrutiny. Memories flicker on the edge of awareness and then the Librarian draws his hand back sharply.

‘The Burned Man?’ He looks at Ohuak. ‘One that has passed through the flames.’

‘It may mean nothing,’ the sergeant replies, his scarlet eyes regarding me for a moment before moving to Erasmisa and then Schaeffer. ‘Who is your military commander?’

‘Sister Superior Aladia leads in combat,’ Erasmisa replies. Her gaze roams around the courtyard for a moment, her expression turning even more sour. ‘If she has survived.’

Sergeant Ohuak turns away and heads across the cloister, I guess to find the Sister Superior.

‘You have our thanks, as I said,’ says Old Preacher. ‘I will send prayers to the God-Emperor for guiding you to us in timely fashion.’

‘I thought it was simply a scanner that drew our eye to this place, but there seems to be a greater matter resolving itself through this abbey,’ says Afahiva. ‘I can sense it still.’

The Librarian stiffens suddenly, his head snapping to the left, past the Colonel, hand moving to the hilt of his sword.

‘You!’ The other hand points accusingly. I turn to see that Oahebs has crept forward from the cluster of fighters gathered halfway down the cloister. ‘I feel your emptiness. Stay back. What brings you here?’

‘I did,’ the Colonel says quickly, fingers flexing in agitation at his sides. ‘He was one of my team.’

‘Yes, you went to Acheron to fetch this one.’ Afahiva glances at me before he continues. ‘The memories are raw and strong. The orks, they drove you out. In the wastes you joined forces.’

‘It is not permitted to–’ The Colonel stops the instant the helm of the Librarian turns towards him, silenced by the featureless glare.

‘I am not some sanctioned psyker of the Astra Militarum picking for scraps in your thoughts, Colonel. You are subject to my inquiry in whatever way I choose until I am satisfied that you have no malign involvement with the arrival of the infernal rift.’

At mention of the hole we all look up in reflex. It’s there still, churning the upper heavens, glinting with arcs of silver power.

‘Is it bigger?’ I whisper.

‘The breach is widening,’ Afahiva confirms. ‘The heretics that attacked you are attempting to draw down a far greater power than we have yet seen. Their master. The Red Angel, lord of the World Eaters.’

‘That sounds bad,’ I murmur, feeling a bit dizzy at the thought of something even worse than we’ve already seen arriving on Armageddon. Unbidden, a memory of the shadowed, winged nightmare from the underhive flashes through my thoughts. Like a hawk spying prey, Afahiva’s attention snaps back to me.

‘Indeed, Lieutenant Kage, something worse even than the bloodthirster.’

‘Bloodthirster…?’ I whisper the title, my skin crawling in recollection.

Sister Superior Aladia arrives with Sergeant Ohuak. Her armour is rent from the middle of the breastplate to her left shoulder, bloodstained down her side. There are bolt-impact scars across the silver, pits of grey and white in the metalled enamel. She has removed her helm, revealing a slender, pale face framed over the ears by hair dyed red, the outline of a red skull tattooed around her features.

She stops a few paces away, keeping her distance from the Space Marine psyker, expression tense.

‘The abbey has been secured, Brother-Librarian. There is no reason to delay your departure.’

‘There is cause to remain a while longer, but do not harbour any fears over our presence. It is in alliance that I wish to proceed. Are we not all warriors of the Emperor here?’

‘You are,’ Erasmisa says sternly. She looks at the ruined gate. ‘I am not, but I can see that our abbey is no longer secure.’

‘We will not abandon our duties,’ Aladia says harshly. ‘The Order of the Argent Shroud remains true to its oaths of protection. Now more than ever we must resist the darkness.’

‘As do the Salamanders,’ says Ohuak. ‘Do not judge the commanders of the Astra Militarum too harshly, Sister Superior. Several companies of the World Eaters threaten breakthrough south of here. If not for the withdrawal to the fresh lines their army would storm out of the Acheron pocket.’

‘It is not of grand strategy that we must speak,’ says Afahiva. ‘A more arcane purpose guides everything that passes on Armageddon these last few days, and I think your Sisters will be pivotal in helping us thwart the World Eaters in their diabolic intent.’

‘How so?’ says the Colonel. ‘If there is anything I can do to aid your efforts, you have my word I will provide it.’

I recognise that look in his eye. Purpose. Excitement, even?

Here it comes, I think. Another Last Chance.

Fourteen

BLOODY RITUALS

Our little conclave breaks up while measures are taken to bolster the defences of the battle abbey. One of the Rhinos is brought out to stand across the ruined gateway, not much of a barrier but better than nothing. Sisters of Battle stand guard at the walls and towers while the Space Marines patrol outside, checking the rubble of the outer barbican for survivors and ensuring there are no more World Eaters nearby. The gunship rises to provide cover overhead, its shadow occasionally passing over the grey walls and bloodstained courtyard as it circles, the roar of engines closing and then receding with it.

‘Kage!’

I turn at the Colonel’s shout. Erasmisa, Aladia, Old Preacher and Schaeffer are standing by the doorway leading up to the chapel. He lifts a hand to beckon me over. As I make my way across the cloister, heavy footfalls catch up with me from behind, Afahiva and Ohuak passing me with long strides.

The Librarian has hung up his helm also, revealing coal-black features, younger than I would have thought. A livid pale scar cuts him from the bridge of his nose down both cheeks. Deliberate, not a battle wound. Which is impressive, given I’ve heard that Space Marines usually heal as good as new.

‘A mark of honour,’ he says, voice deep and resonant even without the suit’s address system. I realise I’m staring. There are metallic cables set into his bald scalp, connected inside the collar of his armour. A golden nimbus plays along the wires now and then. He reaches out with a finger and traces it around my face without touching. ‘Remember the teaching. The Emperor will not judge you by your medals and diplomas, but by your scars. You have honour too.’

‘Why is he here?’ Erasmisa demands, her scorn directed at me. ‘This is no discussion for criminals.’

‘Attend your own sin first, Sister,’ Old Preacher says sharply. ‘Kage risked his life on the wall when I did not. Which of us is more proper to attend a war council?’

Erasmisa gives him a look that suggests that perhaps the priest shouldn’t be attending either, but she says nothing as she turns towards the great doors leading to the chapel tower. The Space Marines duck beneath the lintel as they follow her, the stairwell within soon filled with their bulk and the noises of their armour. Afahiva’s staff thuds on the steps every few seconds, each impact like a tomb slamming shut.

Aladia motions for us to follow and I climb up the steps beside the Colonel, returning to the chamber where I discovered I might be a living saint. I definitely don’t feel like a saint beneath the unliving gazes of the tapestries and statues within.

But then again, why not? There have been saints from the Imperial Guard, like Macharius and Vesta, all the way back to Ollanius Pius himself, first and greatest. I mean, dress me up in some gold armour and wave a big flag behind me and maybe I would start to shape up a bit better against the images depicted in the hangings around us.

I join in as the Sisters and priest bow before the altar, making the sign of the aquila across my chest. The Colonel dips his head in respect, the Space Marines watch us with silent patience.

‘May I say a few words?’ says Old Preacher.

‘If you must,’ replies Erasmisa.

‘We do not have the time to indulge in the luxury of prayers,’ interrupts Ohuak. ‘The threat escalates while we delay.’

The priest looks put out but does not complain, withdrawing behind the altar with arms crossed.

‘As I spoke before, the attacks of the World Eaters are not random violence, but part of a carefully choreographed campaign of destruction,’ Afahiva tells us. ‘I believe that they came here to desecrate this abbey, to turn the faith imbued in the stones to a darker purpose.’

‘And though they have been thwarted, they may return,’ adds the Space Marine sergeant, eyes narrowing. ‘We cannot remain here to protect this place.’

‘We will hold until we are dead,’ says Erasmisa. She glances at Aladia. ‘If the Emperor wills it.’

‘It is not enough to defend ourselves against these attacks,’ the Librarian continues. ‘The slaughter of your Sisters is the desecration. Your blood is the unholy anointment of their ceremony.’

‘We need to take the battle to the World Eaters,’ the Colonel says, with more relish than such a suggestion really deserves. ‘An assault to disrupt their ritual at its source.’

‘That is our thinking,’ says Afahiva, smiling grimly. ‘And it is the intent of my fellow brothers of the Librarius. There is no physical victory that can be won here. This is a war of the soul, for every drop of blood spilled by either side strengthens…’

He falls silent, exchanging a guarded look with his sergeant.

‘The enemy ritual depends on bloodshed,’ Ohuak finishes. ‘All bloodshed. That is all you need to know.’

Need to know.

I remember the conversation with Orskya and think about what might have happened on Armageddon before. The ‘eaters of worlds’ she mentioned, stories of blood. This isn’t the first time. The thought of it, the ruthlessness to let a whole planetary population die to keep a secret… And what happens this time?

Nobody needs to know.

I keep my mouth shut, even though I want to ask all of the obvious questions. No need to remind our fine company that the lower beings like me aren’t meant to talk about warpborn. It explains the hesitation by everyone, nobody wanting to mention by name the thing that everyone has on their minds.

‘How do you stop them?’ I ask instead. ‘There’s got to be a way of disrupting the ritual, apart from not letting them kill anybody, I mean.’

‘The rift above the world is the opening through which their power flows,’ explains Afahiva. ‘Not just the… The heretics draw down this energy to fuel their ceremonies, and in turn their ceremonies widen the breach so that more immaterial force pours into our reality.’

‘We have isolated a few significant sites, where the World Eaters are concentrating their efforts,’ continues the sergeant. ‘Acheron is one of the most active but there are others across the continent of Armageddon Secundus and elsewhere.’

Afahiva draws his staff through the air, leaving a mist of gold in its wake. A wavering image of a world appears, showing the landmasses of the planet, pinpricks in eight different places glowing brighter. My mind plays tricks as I look at them, somehow imagining them as the outline of a geometric skull, though when I blink and look again they don’t seem to make that shape at all.

‘If we can disrupt the ritual at enough of these locations,’ says Afahiva, ‘the spiritual links between them will be broken and the psychic connection to the rift severed.’

‘Or perhaps break the link utterly at one site, if that is possible,’ says Ohuak. ‘That should begin a chain reaction that disrupts the entire ritual network.’

The image shimmers into dust and then disappears.

‘So, where do we attack?’ asks the Colonel.

‘The Librarius and forces drawn from the entirety of our Chapter are preparing to make strikes in the next two days,’ says the Librarian. ‘Our arrival here is a diversion from the objective where I have been assigned. Sister Aladia and her companions would be a welcome addition to our force.’

The Sister Superior nods, still not looking too comfortable with the whole idea.

‘The plan has much merit, but we cannot simply leave the abbey. There are Sisters from other orders here, lay adherents of the Ecclesiarchy we have to protect.’

‘Yes, the Brother-Librarian and I have discussed that,’ says Sergeant Ohuak. His gaze moves to the Colonel and then to me. ‘We believe we have a solution that will suit the capabilities of everyone assembled here.’

It’s mid-morning and the wind picks up, scattering the pollutant fog and the smoke of battle that was hanging around the abbey. Into this clear air stream the exhaust plumes of Rhinos and Immolators, their engines vibrating the gatehouse where I’m standing with the Colonel, Orskya and a few others. Old Preacher, swathed in priestly robes, his staff of office in a gnarled hand. The straight-backed, severe figure of Canoness Erasmisa, mostly concealed beneath a dark green eco-cape and hood. Robed in black, Sister Superior Korinth, ranking member of the Sisters Hospitaller from the Order of the Torch.

About a hundred metres away the gunship of the Salamanders lifts up, plasma thrusters throwing out a wall of dust and ash that washes towards us. A fine dusting coats the wall and our clothes as it passes over, leaving everything patterned with drab browns and greys. I wipe a gloved thumb over the lenses of my goggles and watch the dark bulk of the Thunderhawk lift higher and higher until it disappears into the cloud layer.

Sister Superior Aladia mounts the steps of the gatehouse rampart and approaches. She carries herself as though approaching the canoness but Deniumenialis intercepts her, staff thudding down onto rockcrete still stained with the blood of Battle Sisters, hivers and wasters. The Sister Superior stops, lowering her bolter to her side, the light catching on the jewelled hilt of the power sword in its ornate scabbard on her right hip.

‘I cannot order you to comply with my wishes, Aladia, but I will make representation one more time,’ says Old Preacher. ‘The Sisterhood serves the will of the Imperial Creed, not the whims of the Adeptus Astartes.’

‘At present, I speak the will of the Ecclesiarchy,’ says Erasmisa, stepping forward to stand beside the Battle Sister.

‘Technically, this is no longer a military situation. Sister Superior Aladia does not have seniority.’

‘Technically?’ The canoness raises a hand towards the boiling break in reality that mars the heavens. ‘The anathema of the Emperor gains form and this world will be overrun within days. Heretics of the Traitor Legions wage war upon us, using our blood and faith to open a doorway for the most infernal of masters to bring destruction to this world, beings whose coming will be a beacon to thousands more of their depraved kind. I think we are in a military situation, revered preacher.’

‘And you would face these tribulations by gallivanting off with the Space Marines?’

‘It is a well-prepared mission,’ interjects Aladia. ‘The Sisters of the Argent Shroud can contribute a significant effort to securing victory against the Abominations of the Antithesis. I would rather embark on this endeavour with your blessing, but I do not require your permission. The Decree Passive makes it clear that you cannot involve yourself in the direction of the Orders Militant.’

‘Well, actually, it is the Synod Guidance of Ecclesiarch Dioclevis the Eighth,’ the priest retaliates. ‘If you had studied canonical lore–’

‘We are leaving, Deniumenialis,’ the Sister Superior tells him sharply. She gives a nod of salute to the canoness and is about to turn away when the frail preacher raises a hand to stop her.

‘I relent,’ he says. He takes up his ecclesiary beads and makes the sign of the holy ‘I’ in front of the Battle Sister, ‘Of course you depart with the blessings of the Emperor upon you, Sister Superior. The God-Emperor of Terra loves you and fills you with His grace to defy the darkness that besets us. Look to His Will to guide your weapons, and see in His sacrifice the strength you have to prevail against all foes.’

The Sister Superior lowers to one knee to receive the benediction, head bowed. As Old Preacher finishes, Aladia stands and proffers her boltgun. The priest wraps the length of beads about its muzzle and says some words in High Gothic.

‘If I recall correctly,’ he says, holding the beads to the gun, ‘you are required to provide a bodyguard to all members of the clergy.’

‘You will be safe,’ says the Sister Superior.

‘That is not what I said. I am due an appropriate bodyguard, led by a Sister Superior. I insist that you provide it.’

‘It will weaken my force to leave Battle Sisters at the abbey.’

‘I insist. This is holy ground of the Ecclesiarchy. It is still manned by your Sisters.’

‘They have protection.’

‘Your oaths, Sister Superior, are binding.’

Aladia stares at him for several seconds, fingers flexing around the grip of her bolter. The Sister Superior turns her attention to Erasmisa.

‘Canoness, what do our Articles of Faith say is the appropriate guard for a preacher?’

‘One Sister, I believe, Aladia. One Battle Sister for a preacher of the second order.’

‘Ridiculous!’ snorts Deniumenialis. ‘How much protection can one Sister provide me? No, you should keep your command here, Sister Aladia.’

‘One Sister, canoness?’ says the Battle Sister. Her gaze returns to Old Preacher. ‘I will stand as guard for you, Deniumenialis.’

The rumble of the vehicle engines grows louder as they start to pull out.

‘No, no!’ snaps the priest. ‘Recall them immediately! This is impiety, to ignore my bidding!’

Each vehicle passes out through the gate along the cratered remains of the metalled road, tracks grinding through broken pieces of armour while spiked prows push through the scattered remains of Immolators and the drop pods destroyed by Space Marine melta bombs about an hour earlier.

I watch them for a few hundred metres, until oily smoke and dust clouds obscure the column from view. The cloister is now home only to a few dozen wasters, hivers and ancillary abbey staff, save for those wounded and the ones tending them below. I turn to my other companions and then meet the gaze of the Colonel with a sigh.

‘That’s it then? Anyone got some dice?’

It’s been nearly an hour since the Battle Sisters left us to protect the abbey and refugees. We’ve got sentries on the towers and walls – a mix of hivers and wasters – while Canoness Erasmisa and Aladia conduct an inspection of the supplies situation. With the Battle Sisters gone there’s plenty of room in their former dormitories, so everyone else is making good with bedrolls, blankets and whatever they brought with them. The corpses were moved before the expedition force left – honoured dead have been placed in tomb cells below the abbey while the remains of the traitors are burning on a pyre about half a kilometre away. Old Preacher is preparing to conduct funeral prayers for the non-Sisterhood casualties.

A shout from an ex-trooper at one of the tower heavy bolters has me dashing up the rampart and into the gun room, Schaeffer close on my heels.

‘What is it?’ I demand, even before I’m fully through the door. ‘Neverborn?’

‘Movement,’ says the gunner. I recognise Terrick, the soldier from Hades Hive. She points out of the gun slit, across the defence lines between the abbey and wastes. ‘About four hundred metres. Something following the way we came in.’

I peer through the embrasure, trying to see what’s caught her eye. There could be something, where Terrick said. Might just be a shadow or it might be something else.

I can’t feel any prickle of the skin, but I’m not ready to rule out something otherworldly just yet. It’d be just typical if the warpborn arrived so soon after the Space Marines and Battle Sisters left.

The door bangs open, causing me to jolt, banging my head against the inside of the gun window.

‘Mind yourself,’ says Orskya as she ducks through the doorway. ‘I heard a shout.’

Rubbing my head, I draw back from the embrasure.

‘Perhaps something coming this way,’ I say, stepping towards the duneseer. ‘Do you still have your magnoculars?’

She takes the viewing glasses out of her coat, another duneseer family heirloom, and hands them over. I return to the window and scan across the defences again, following the line of Rhino tracks that lead back to where we fought the Neverborn and were rescued.

‘There it is,’ I say, spotting a figure clambering across the broken wall of a gun pit. A smaller shape follows at its heel and I laugh.

‘It’s Nazrek!’

Along with a few wasters for company, I venture out of the abbey to meet the ork about a hundred metres from the gate tower. Nazrek sees us coming and sits down on a waymarker by the metalled road.

Drawing level, I see the ork looks in rough shape, eyes closed as Grot sets to work with a bodkin thick enough to be classed as a weapon, stitching a length of heavy cord through a gaping wound in Nazrek’s side.

‘Still alive,’ I say.

The ork opens its eyes, the red reminding me of the inhuman gaze of Sergeant Ohuak.

‘Me live too,’ it replies, lips curling back in an approximation of a grin. ‘Need new arm.’

It lifts the stump, a trickle of blood seeping out of the horrendous wound, shards of bone jutting from ruptured flesh. I suppress a gag, wondering how Nazrek is even conscious, never mind calm.

Part of the answer comes when Grot pauses in its labours and pulls a fistful of the mushrooms packed into a pouch at its belt. It tosses them into the ork’s mouth, and Nazrek closes its massive jaw and chews. A contented sigh escapes the ork as its eyes close again.

Grot offers up a bright orange toadstool but I decline with a raised hand.

‘Tempting, but I better not,’ I tell the small alien. It shrugs, pops the fungus into its mouth and sets to work on its needlework again.

‘I can’t believe the warp dogs didn’t get you,’ I say.

Nazrek smiles, listless with the effect of the narcotic.

‘Fight two. Run from rest.’ It chuckles, chest rising, causing Grot to mutter something under its breath as the stitching starts to part. ‘See silver humans fight. Hide. Then see sky stars and big dakkaship. Think that Burned Man in trouble. Find trail.’

‘And here we are…’ I look back at the abbey and wonder how the Sisters will react to an ork. I don’t think there’s anything the Hospitallers can do for the alien, but Nazrek’s got a better chance of surviving with us than out here. And as far as bodyguards go, there’s not much better than a giant ork. I wish Nazrek had been at my side when the Traitor Astartes had come.

‘Come on,’ I say, gesturing for the ork to stand up. It opens an eye and then both, and then heaves itself to its feet. I had sort of forgotten just how massive Nazrek is, but even so, it seems bigger than before. ‘Have you been growing?’

The alien grunts and lifts a fist in front of its face.

‘Good fightin’, make Nazrek strong again.’ It bares its fangs. ‘Not runt scraps. Proper fights, make Nazrek big.’

‘I figure you’re gonna get bigger still, my green friend,’ I say.

There’s a lot of fighting still to come. Whether its orks, Traitor Astartes or Neverborn, something is going to find us at the abbey. Just a matter of what and when.

I found a fold-out camp chair in one of the abandoned cells, and I’ve set it up on the gate rampart overlooking the road. There’s recaff in my mug – nothing stronger to be found despite pressing Deniumenialis – and I sit there for a few minutes just listening to the quiet bustle.

Nazrek and Grot disappeared into the vehicle cloister as soon as I showed them around the abbey. There’s been banging and orkish cursing on and off ever since. Nobody’s dared investigate yet.

Aladia is less than happy at having ‘xenos scum’ in her abbey, and both Erasmisa and Old Preacher went pale at the thought. Despite their reservations, none of them was prepared to argue the point at this time while face-to-face with the massive brute, or the teams of armed underhivers and wasters aligned to my cause. For its part, Nazrek said that the Emperor had ‘lots of dakka’ and it would die to defend the Emperor’s ‘shak’. Grot even made an offering, laying a small pile of half-chewed fungus at the feet of the holy statue.

A shadow falls over me. It’s the Colonel. He’s still dressed in his waster coat, cap and shawl, but from somewhere in the stores he’s procured a couple of aquila brooches he’s fastened to his breast and hat. He also holds a steaming mug, hands in fingerless gloves clasping it to his chest as he looks out over the expanse of the abandoned defences.

‘Nothing between us and Acheron, or the orks at the rok fort,’ he says, almost to himself. ‘These people need protection.’

‘Didn’t drag them out of the hive and across the wastes just to leave them to the beasts and hunters,’ I murmur.

‘Of course, there is little we can do against a full-scale assault of the warpborn,’ he adds, glance moving to the wound in the sky and back to me.

‘The abbey provides sanctuary. The warpborn can’t enter.’

‘That was the faith of the Battle Sisters.’ He gives me a long look. ‘Do you really think you are holy enough to drive back the immaterial fiends?’

‘I’m basically a living saint,’ I reply and take a swig of recaff. ‘Deniumenialis says as much.’

‘There is good reason why it requires a conclave of cardinals and many noted miracles to declare a man or woman a saint, and not just the word of a single priest.’

I sit forward, elbows on knees.

‘Why shouldn’t I be a living saint?’ I ask, as much for myself as him. ‘Do you really think I’m just that lucky that I’m still alive? Would luck have got me out alive from the fire chasm? Or maybe you don’t think the Emperor protects. All that shit you spew about saving our souls, that’s just an excuse for you.’

‘I do not doubt that the Emperor can extend His Will to shape the course of our lives. There are many tales of His doing so or guiding His followers to victory with the Imperial Tarot. Even so, I will not ascribe every outlandish event as divine intervention. And I refuse to accept that a murdering, treacherous blasphemer like you would be so elevated by His glorious purpose.’

‘But what better vessel for His Will than one that was broken but He has mended?’ I take another drink and then point at Schaeffer. ‘You are partly responsible for bringing me onto this holy path. What drew you to that world, those years ago, when you came for me? It was the hand of the Emperor, acting through you, setting me on this course.’

He looks thoughtful for a moment, not dismissing me out of hand. The Colonel shakes his head.

‘No. I went to that world because garrisons always get bored, giving the malcontents like you opportunity to show their true colours. I knew I’d find my type of scum, it just happened that you were one of them.’

‘How many survivors have there been?’ I ask suddenly. ‘Except you, I mean. All the missions, all the Last Chancers, how many people have got through with life and limb intact?’

‘Sane or just alive?’ asks the Colonel, as plainly as someone might ask if I want my recaff with synthi-lact or not.

‘Let’s just go with breathing,’ I say, not wanting to think too much about the alternatives. A little close to home, some might say.

‘Eight,’ says Schaeffer. ‘Not including you or me, there have been eight other Last Chancers that survived to take their pardons.’

‘Eight?’ I nearly fall out of the chair. ‘Out of thousands? Eight!’

‘Never failed a mission,’ the Colonel says in defence of this appalling survival rate. He sees my expression and scowls. ‘Do you think you can win wars without people dying? What is it that you think the Imperial Guard is for?’

‘To protect the realms of the Emperor. To uphold the Imperial Will of Terra,’ I say, quoting from the oath I swore when I was recruited into the Astra Militarum. ‘Remember what Ollanius Pius said about the Emperor? We protect Him, and He’ll protect us.’

‘To die for the Imperium,’ says the Colonel. He leans a little closer, stare fixed on me. ‘An Imperial Guardsman’s duty is to die for the Emperor. The Emperor sacrifices all for humanity, and so humanity will sacrifice all for the Emperor. You will kill for the Emperor, but more importantly you will die for the Emperor so that others do not.’

I look at him, amazed at this forthright confession. I have a bleak view of the universe but to see the Colonel’s summed up like that… It puts his idea of a Last Chance into a different light, that’s for sure.

‘Did you think heroes keep the Imperium alive?’ he continues. ‘Living saints? Battle Sisters? Space Marines? All very fine warriors, each the equal of many soldiers of the Astra Militarum. But that is also their weakness. What can one Space Marine achieve that a thousand Guard cannot? Think back to your victories, Kage, and tell me what you have achieved that any other man or woman could not? I thought you had grasped this, when you ranted on the wall to that underhiver scum. You are not special; you are simply here. Your role is to die so that others live, and yet you seem incapable of fulfilling that simple bargain. Saints are martyred. You simply refuse to die.’

‘I…’ Where is the argument against that? How do you speak against a creed that’s so dismissive of individual life and liberty? More to the point, I know he’s right. Every damned word of it is like the truth hammered into my skull.

‘Your life can be spent doing many things, Kage, but your death can only be spent once. Tell me a tale of how a living saint sat upon the walls of a battle abbey drinking recaff while the warriors of the Adeptus Astartes and Adepta Sororitas took the war to the enemies of the Emperor.’

‘I didn’t choose–’

‘Remind me of the time Saint Lithoria stayed at the ruins of Hope Station and fed the weak, giving of her own plate for others.’

‘I’m sure she–’

‘Saint Lithoria died upon the breach of Darkwell so that the armies of the Emperor could storm the citadel! She knew it was her duty to strike back at those that had broken Hope Station even though she would not live to see the victory. Look around you, Kage. Does this seem like a victory to you?’

I’m going to say something about people being alive out here rather than dead in the underhive, but I know that’s not going to convince him. And it shouldn’t. As many hivers as I’ve saved, there’s a dead waster or Battle Sister. I mean, the warpborn and the World Eaters didn’t attack here because we came, but we didn’t really achieve anything either. Only the Battle Sisters and the arrival of the Salamanders stopped us all from getting butchered.

If I look at the story again from where we are now, seems to me all I did was lead them into the path of a different danger.

‘I see that you are starting to understand, Kage,’ the Colonel says, voice softening. He looks at me with those ice-blue eyes, not with compassion but a fierce determination. ‘I told you before, you cannot save them all. In fact, you cannot save any of them. Death cannot be cheated. You have lived that lie, again and again.’

‘Is it so wrong to want to live?’

‘If you are a farmer, or a clerk, or a tech-menial. You are not. You are a soldier. You must accept that you will die in the Emperor’s service. Not embrace it, not chase it as a doom, but to take the Emperor’s sacrifice into yourself and share the burden.’

I nod, understanding again what it was that he was trying to achieve. Again, because I’d sort of forgotten it with everything that had happened after the fire chasm. It’s like coming out of the flames washed the memory from me. That clarity I had standing on the edge, just before I threw myself and von Strab to our fiery deaths.

I turn to look at the people on the walls, the others down in the cloister going about their displaced lives.

‘But if we’re not trying to protect this… It’s their lives we are shielding, even if the place has changed.’

‘No, you are thinking too narrowly, Kage.’ The Colonel straightens, eyes scanning over the abbey and those within it. ‘You owe them nothing. A few dozen flakes of ash on the wastes. The Emperor rules countless billions. It is all of them that you serve. Which is better? To wait for the battle to come and fight here, scrapping your last breath for these people, or to find a higher purpose, a greater mission that will defy the plans of the enemy and save thousands, or millions?’

I think back to the things we’ve done. It all seemed so small at the time. A reactor going critical. A bullet in an alien’s brain. A man throwing himself into a fire with another man. Simple acts. Almost impossible to create the circumstances, but so small to finish once we were there.

And I never really thought about the consequences beyond staying alive. Wars turned or averted. Like the Colonel says, millions of lives saved by a handful of people in a bad place at the right time.

So, I can stay here, with a laspistol and a knife, and wait for warpborn and orks to come and kill us. As sure as Olesh getting blown apart by a bolt, I can see it now, the enemy coming through that gate eventually, over my corpse, and everyone dying. There’s too few of us and too many of them.

I look at the Colonel and grit my teeth. The few can protect millions, if they do the right thing in the worst place. Something I heard from Afahiva surfaces in my thoughts and I stand up, tossing the last dregs of recaff over the wall.

‘I’ve got a really bad idea,’ I tell Schaeffer.

‘I would love to hear it,’ he replies.

Fifteen

FOLLOWING THE GREEN

The grumble of a generator is lost as a grinder screeches into life, throwing sparks across the dim interior of the workshop. With the Colonel behind me I step through the door, to be confronted by an image that will never leave me.

Nazrek is leaning over a workbench, the stump of the severed arm locked in an industrial clamp. In the flickering light I catch a glimpse of rivets holding a metal plate into the alien’s shoulder, three long nails welded into place as defensive spikes. Grot stands on the bench, one foot up on the lacerated bicep, holding the handle of the grinder in skinny but surprisingly strong fingers. The spinning blade carves into a metal cap fixed to the stump, pushed into place by Nazrek’s other hand.

From the metallic stump protrudes the ork’s choppa, removed from the hilt and fixed to the stump with bolts. Heavy-duty springs burrow into muscle, quivering as the grinder chews through an outcrop of iron, finishing a zigzag design on a shield-like plate covering the artificial elbow.

‘Boss!’ The ork forgets that the clamp is on its arm and tries to stand, almost ripping the limb out again. Grot tosses the grinder to the floor with a savage little grin and starts unwinding the handle on the vice. As soon as it’s loosened, the ork pulls up the crude bionic, artificial joint, flexing with a metallic creak, springs tightening like fake sinew.

Grot brings out a lamp and shines the light on the new attachment, which Nazrek turns one way and then another, admiring their joint handiwork. I’m no tech-adept and it looks more like the underside of a Chimera’s power plant than any augmetic I’ve seen, but it seems to work.

‘Good?’ it says, lifting the axe-like appendage. Oil drips from the fixing plate, spattering the ork’s leg.

‘Yeah, looks good,’ I tell it. ‘How did you know what to do?’

‘Reckon must be a mek,’ the ork says with a grin. It raps its knuckles on the jagged-shaped shield, listening to the clang with head cocked to one side. ‘Solid.’

In the lantern light I can see a mess of staples, rivets and stitching holding together the ork’s torso. There are frilly layers of flesh around the edges, like a mix of scab and fungal growth. The skin is darker, leatherier, like the ork’s whole body is responding to the injuries by getting tougher.

‘I’ve got some questions for you,’ I tell the ork.

‘Yeah, boss.’ Nazrek says something to Grot, who scurries off into the gloom. ‘What you want?’

The Colonel and I move further inside, letting the door close behind us. In the semi-darkness I become more aware of the ork’s size, the smell of it mixed with lubricant and the remnants of the Battle Sisters’ unguents and censers.

‘What do you want to do now?’ I ask, keeping my distance while trying not to seem like I’m keeping my distance. ‘I mean, where do you want to go?’

‘Follow you, boss.’

‘Right. What if I wanted to do something for the Emperor?’

‘Fight?’ Nazrek brings up the arm-choppa. ‘Nazrek fight for Emperor too.’

I feel the Colonel shift next to me, but I keep my attention focused on the ork.

‘And if we had to fight other orks to do this thing for the Emperor?’

Nazrek doesn’t reply straight away. I’ve got no idea what sort of thinking passes for morality or loyalty among the orks, but judging by what happened in the underhive, Nazrek’s as happy fighting orks as anyone else. I’m not sure it really cares why, just that there’s someone to hit.

‘Bad orks?’

‘I’ll be straight,’ I say. ‘Good and bad don’t really come into it any more. The warpborn, the plaguebearers and bloodboys and the like, they don’t care about good and bad, ork or human. There’s going to be a lot more of them coming and we think we can stop them.’

‘Fight the bloodboys.’ Nazrek nods. ‘Fight orks, fight warpboys. Yeah.’

‘Good,’ I say. The dark and the oppressive presence of the ork is starting to get to me, like I’m in its lair. It’s irrational, but I can’t shake the feeling. ‘Let’s step outside for a bit.’

Nazrek grunts a few times but doesn’t move. Grot appears out of the back of the workshop lugging a Battle Sister’s bolter and an armful of scrap. It lobs the stuff up onto the workbench and scrambles up, screeching and gesturing. Nazrek rumbles a few thoughts back, finger prodding through the pile.

‘Ready, boss,’ says the ork, looming over us.

Schaeffer opens the door and the light feels like a welcome dawn, the polluted air of Armageddon a fresh breeze compared to the confines of the workshop. I think back to the underhive and realise I never grasped just how rank it was with human and ork habitation. I step outside as the clanging of a hammer starts behind us, resisting the urge to turn and find out what Grot is doing.

‘That,’ I say, looking up. Nazrek follows my gaze and grimaces.

‘Bad,’ it says. ‘Warp, yeah?’

‘Warp,’ I say. ‘A hole between our world and theirs. While it’s open the warpborn will keep coming. Kill all the humans. Kill all the orks.’

‘Not kill orks, not all,’ Nazrek says. It’s not defiance or boasting, far as I can tell. The ork looks at me and bangs its remaining hand against its chest. ‘This world always green. Even if no orks. Green.’

I figure Nazrek’s talking about the way that once you have an ork infestation it’s almost impossible to eradicate all trace of them. The spores linger, growing into orkoid forms, eventually creating a little patch of orkdom that breeds actual orks and grots. I’ve seen it in different places, from the hive to the jungles. The Adeptus Mechanicus probably have a term for it. I just think of it as orkification.

‘I want to talk to you about the green. The big green, that you can feel?’ I make vague motions with my hands, trying to convey the idea of the psychic realm. Nazrek nods its heavy head and I continue. ‘You can feel it here?’

‘Small green,’ the ork says, looking a little forlorn. ‘Lots not-green. Blood-think. Emperor songs. Messy.’

‘Can you feel where the bigger green is?’ asks Schaeffer.

Nazrek looks at the Colonel, the first time it’s been directly addressed, I think. It weighs up the answer, perhaps wondering how the Colonel fits into everything.

‘Yeah,’ says Nazrek. The ork looks back towards Acheron, a little off the way we arrived. ‘Big green that way. Big green and bad think.’

‘A battle, between orks and warpborn?’ I suggest.

Nazrek sort of nods and shrugs, which isn’t the clearest of answers.

‘Is messy.’

‘I heard Afahiva mention a backup plan, in case the strikes on the enemy forces didn’t break the ritual,’ I say, gaze moving from the Colonel to the ork to check if Nazrek understands what I’m saying. ‘A psychic inversion, he called it, I think. Something the Librarians would do if they had to, that would overload the connection between up there and down here. And then I remembered what happened to the psychic ork when the warpborn came.’

Nazrek looks blankly at me and then to the Colonel.

‘What?’

‘We need a big boom,’ I say, motioning an explosion with my hands. ‘Not an actual boom, but a psychic one. A big green boom?’

‘Big boom?’ Nazrek scratches its chin with the end of its choppa, fungal flakes cascading from the serrated edge. ‘Green boom… Big ’eadbanger! ’eadbang the bloodboys.’

‘Up there,’ says the Colonel, pointing. ‘A headbang inside the hole.’

I look at Schaeffer, mouth dropping open. Now it’s my turn to struggle for words.

‘What?’

‘The goal of the Salamanders’ attacks is to sever the ritual connection between the World Eaters here on the surface and the rift in orbit. It seems to me that if you cannot break the link at this end, it must be severed at the source. If we can psychically disrupt the rift, it could have the desired result.’

‘How we big green bang up there?’ says Nazrek.

‘My thoughts exactly,’ I say.

‘We need to get the ork psyker into the rift,’ says the Colonel, as calm as if he was saying we need to pop to the mess for fresh recaff. ‘Judging by what happened in the underhive, exposure to the raw warp elements should yield a psychic reaction potent enough for our needs.’

A whole bunch of new questions barge about in my brain, but the thought that reaches my tongue sums up all of them.

‘How?’

‘You want us to gain possession of a powerful ork psyker, but the part that is giving you difficulty is getting into orbit?’ says the Colonel, one eyebrow raised.

‘When you put it like that…’ I clear my throat, trying to focus. ‘Is it always like this? I mean, on Ichar IV did you and Oriel sit down and have a conversation that went, “We need to kill this tyranid Norn queen a hundred kilometres from the nearest Imperial lines, past spore mine-infested territory, hiding in caves protected by a thousand lethal aliens,” or something like that?’

‘Yes. Something like that. Start with the objective and break it down until you have all the stages you need.’

I rub my temples, remembering I haven’t slept for two days now. That’s something we’ll need to sort out. No point chasing off after an ork warphead without being able to think clearly.

‘And that’s it? Just come up with everything we need to do, and then do it?’

‘Good plan,’ says Nazrek, catching up with the conversation. ‘Weirdboy make big green bang in sky. No more warpers.’

Which didn’t really leave any room for further argument. I know this is my idea. I look around the courtyard and see a few of the underhivers carrying water from the recycling tank back to their quarters. All across Armageddon there are millions of folks just trying to survive. I get what the Colonel means when I look at it from another point of view. Just trying to survive doesn’t win wars. Being ready to die does.

There are details to be sorted out, but near as I can figure it, we need to get ourselves an ork warphead, get it onto a spaceship, fly into orbit, penetrate the rift and shove the warphead out into the void.

I look at Schaeffer again and he must be having the same thoughts but doesn’t seem at all bothered by them. Just another suicide mission.

Understandably, there are mixed reactions to the plan. As word gets out, a small delegation finds me and the Colonel while we inspect the meagre contents of the abbey’s weapon store. Cornered among the ammunition crates and a few serviceable bolters, we’re penned in by Orskya, Erasmisa and Old Preacher. Sister Superior Aladia stands by the door, committed to her involuntary role as bodyguard of Deniumenialis.

‘You cannot leave us,’ Erasmisa declares, chin thrust out like a sword ready at the lunge. ‘Our Battle Sisters were despatched on the understanding that your militia would remain to garrison the abbey.’

‘No oaths were sworn,’ said the Colonel, crossing his arms. ‘The best way to protect everyone here, and all of Armageddon, is to remove the threat of the warpborn.’

‘For which there is a mission already underway, Colonel Schaeffer,’ the canoness replies. ‘A full Chapter of Space Marines and a company from the Order of the Argent Shroud are embarked upon a plan that was agreed by all. What do you hope to achieve with… with hive scum and waste nomads?’

Orskya darts an irritated look at the older woman, hearing the implied insult. She steps away from the others and turns, so she’s standing beside me and looking at them.

‘I not agree to stay in this prison,’ said Orskya. ‘My people fight better in open space.’

‘That did not seem to be the case when you came fleeing to us from the warpborn.’ Erasmisa’s scorn is harsher than a tech-adept’s las-rasp. ‘We offered you shelter within our walls and this is how you repay us?’

‘There was no hiding. We fight your enemies. Owe nothing!’

‘Ladies, can we please allow sense to be heard?’ says Old Preacher, holding up his hands. Both Erasmisa and Orskya turn their frowns on him but he seems oblivious to their anger. ‘I am sure there is some way we can accommodate all of our needs. I have no doubt that Kage shall lead us towards the Emperor’s Will. I know it in my soul. This is a task worthy of a living saint, to breach the lair of the Eternal Enemy itself to save Armageddon.’

‘It does feel that way, doesn’t it?’ I say. ‘I mean, if I wasn’t being guided by the Emperor I’d have to be insane, right?’

Erasmisa opens her mouth but Deniumenialis cuts her off.

‘To quote the Ministorum Libra Martyr, “It is the story of a man who did insane things because he put in practice what many Saints have preached.”’ Old Preacher rubs his hands together, nervous. ‘But it does leave us with something of a predicament regarding the civilians you brought with you, as well as the remaining Sisterhood personnel. Children. Would you leave them unguarded?’

‘You mean would they leave you unguarded?’ snaps Erasmisa.

‘Not at all, I fully intend to accompany Kage that I may chronicle his exploits for consideration for the Councilla Martyris.’

‘Perhaps not talk about martyrdom quite so much?’ I suggest.

‘You plan to follow this madman?’ says the Sister Superior, stepping forward. ‘And you expect me to go with you as your bodyguard?’

‘Come, Aladia, that is no attitude for a servant of the God-Emperor.’ Deniumenialis folds his hands together and holds them to his chest as if in prayer. ‘If it is the Will of the Emperor, we should not fight it.’

‘We cannot remain and simply hope that the warpborn, Traitor Astartes or orks do not overrun the battle abbey,’ says Schaeffer. ‘One gun or thirty, it makes no difference.’

‘They’ll have to come with us,’ I say, coming to a decision. If they didn’t think I was insane before, the looks from the others, except Deniumenialis, confirm they think I am now. I hold up a hand to stop the arguments before they’re raised, and direct most of my words to the Colonel. ‘Orskya’s right. Her people are much better suited to living and fighting in the ash wastes. They can keep the non-fighters safe while we find our warphead. If we don’t come back from that, they’re no worse off than if we left them here. But if we do succeed in that part, we need to get to the nearest launch facility.’

‘Kraken Station,’ says the Colonel. ‘As I have already told you.’

‘Exactly. And that means either more soldiers to protect them, or a way to get off Armageddon. Both of those are better options than staying here and just waiting for the worst to happen.’

Deniumenialis grins and Orskya nods thoughtfully. I can see the canoness straining to find some kind of opposition, but even she eventually relents, taking a step back with a sigh. The Colonel gives me a sharp look, suspicious, but I’m being genuine.

‘That was the plan, remember?’ I say to him. ‘When we left Acheron. Get to the Imperial lines and get off this doomed world. Now there’s a wrinkle, we can maybe stop that happening, but the original objective is sound.’

‘It seems you have everything covered, Kage,’ Schaeffer admits.

It’s funny, but the more he says it, and the more I go over the plan in my head, the more convinced I am that we can get this to work.

Maybe this really is what the Emperor wants from me.

Take an asteroid. Hollow it out a bit. Fill it with orks. Cover it in shield generators that probably even the orks don’t understand. Put some ridiculously unstable reactors and massively overpowered engines on it. Now fire it at a planet.

You’ve got yourself an ork rok fort.

The Beast Ghazghkull sent hundreds of these things into the planet at the outset of the second invasion. Loads burn up on their way in and a good few basically smash into the surface to obliterate everything within a few kilometres. That’s what happened to Hades Hive, though that was on purpose, Nazrek told me. A few score of them actually land mostly intact.

Congratulations, now you have heavily armed and fortified positions all over enemy territory from which to launch your attacks.

Given that we’re on our way to kidnap an ork psyker, to send it into orbit so that it can psychically detonate to hopefully overload the warp rift lurking over Armageddon, ork rok forts now seem like an idea of subtle genius.

The particular rok fort squatting just a few kilometres from the battle abbey was purged as part of the siege of Acheron but there’s certainly new inhabitants there now – orks driven out of the hive by the arrival of the warpborn. Smoke billows from hidden engines, newly raised flags flap slowly in the thick Armageddon air.

I borrow Orskya’s magnoculars and scan along the crudely carved ramps and walkways cutting like scars across the surface of the grounded asteroid. It’s not the biggest, maybe thirty metres high, but about a hundred and sixty metres across. The impact crater has been worn away by shelling and the erosion of the harsh Armageddon environment, but parts of the ring have been reinforced with small towers and watch stations. I inspect these with slow sweeps of the magnoculars, but they seem to be empty. Returning my attention to the main fort I can’t see too much going on, trying to count the blurs of movement behind jagged battlements.

‘I’d say closer to dozens than hundreds,’ I say, handing back the magnoculars. ‘But that makes no difference, it’s still too many.’

Our force numbers thirty-two armed folks and about the same number again of unarmed. We left them a few hundred metres back down the slope where we’re spying on the ork fort, a few wasters as sentries. I slither sideways through the ash to look at Nazrek. As well as the choppa-hand, the ork is armed with a bolter that Grot treated to unkind attentions. There’s a long blade welded to the front and somehow the little alien has managed to reassemble the loading mechanism so that the gun is fed from two magazines now. I’m not sure what difference that makes but Nazrek seemed very pleased with it when it showed me. ‘More dakka,’ it said, whatever that is.

‘You’re sure there’s a weirdboy in there?’ I ask the ork.

‘Yeah, big green. Knocking in my head. Dom-dom, dom-dom. Warphead bang real good in space hole.’

Grot sniggers, mimicking an exploding head with little fingers.

‘Which does us no good unless we can get to it,’ says the Colonel from behind me. ‘Orskya, your people lived near here?’

She nods.

‘Not come too close, but we hunt these dunes before rok lands.’

‘Is there a way past the towers, one where we won’t be seen?’

‘Could be. I’ll talk to others.’

She pushes up to a crouch and sort of slides back down the slope to where the other scouts and wasters are waiting, a knot of hivers and the last few troopers a little further away.

‘Me got idea,’ rumbles Nazrek. ‘We buy warphead.’

‘How…?’ I begin.

‘Give people to orks. Get warphead.’

‘Swap the people?’ says the Colonel, glancing back towards the distant huddle of children and other civilians, a few Sisters Hospitaller, warp-broken and orderlies among them. Deniumenialis is with them too, the armoured form of Sister Superior Aladia close at hand, watching over her charge. The wind is picking up again, casting swirls of dust across the barren landscape.

‘I don’t think we should do that, Nazrek,’ I say carefully. ‘We’re not really meant to sell our own people into slavery.’

The ork looks at me for several seconds, perplexed by the idea. Then it nods and grins.

‘Me have good idea.’ The ork taps the side of its helmet with a thick green finger’s broken nail. ‘We pretend sell people?’

‘How would that work?’ asks Schaeffer. ‘How do you pretend to sell someone?’

‘We take people to gate. Make noise. Orks come and see. Other Emperor people not seen. Go in. Take warphead.’

I’m about to start picking holes in the plan but stop myself. Thinking about it again, there probably is a good idea there. I share a glance with the Colonel, who’s obviously thinking the same. I scramble a bit of the way back down the slope and cup my hands around my mouth.

‘Oahebs! Up here!’

I can tell which one of the coat-swathed figures is him by the distance the others keep away. He turns and trudges up towards us, face hidden between scarf and a cowl. I back away as he gets closer, and Nazrek grunts uncomfortably.

‘Nazrek, can you feel the green still?’

‘Green still here,’ the ork continues.

‘Oahebs, go and stand next to Nazrek.’

The trooper shoots me a frown but does as I ask, reluctantly pulling himself up the slope to a few paces away from the alien. Nazrek bares long fangs, lip rippling in anger.

‘What about now, Nazrek?’

‘No green,’ moans the ork. It prods at Oahebs with the tip of its improvised bayonet, forcing the null further away. ‘Small green.’

‘Then you can dull the warphead’s powers,’ I say, giving Oahebs a meaningful look.

‘You know that means I’ve got to get close,’ he says, moving even further from Nazrek. ‘Like, punching-and-stabbing-distance close?’

Grot scampers over to us, chattering in its squeaky voice. Nazrek grunts something back. The smaller alien lifts up the bag of fungi it’s been carrying around since the underhive. I look at Oahebs and we both shake our heads, clueless. Grot delves into the bag, searching for something. It pulls out a handful of vibrant green fungus, which looks a little bit like wrinkled skin.

Nazrek says something else and Grot rolls its eyes in annoyance. The little creature pretends to eat the green mushroom, then goes cross-eyed and walks dizzily back and forth a little bit before melodramatically spiralling to the floor in a fake swoon.

‘This fungus will knock out the warphead?’ I say, pointing to the mushroom as Grot revives itself from its mimicked stupor. ‘If it eats this, we can take it away?’

Grot gives me a bony thumbs up and stuffs the fungus back into the small sack.

The return of Orskya ends the small theatrical performance and Grot scurries back to Nazrek to receive a clumsy pat on the head.

‘Nobody know way into fort,’ the duneseer tells us, ‘but can get close. There is rock gap. Old, old water cut under dunes. We go up gap, close to base of fort.’

She points and gives me the magnoculars again. I can kind of see a darker line in the grey, perhaps a few rocky outcrops close to the base of the rok fort.

‘Good enough,’ I say and hand her the magnoculars. My eye is drawn back to the whorl of insanity polluting the sky. ‘I’d wait for nightfall but this feels like we need to get it done as soon as possible.’

‘I agree,’ says the Colonel. ‘We need to decide who is going to be in the raiding party and who goes with the ork.’

There’s a decision, typical of life in the Last Chancers. On the one hand I could walk up to the orks with Nazrek, right under their guns, and hope they don’t open fire as soon as they see us. On the other hand, I could try to sneak into the middle of their fort while the other group is hopefully keeping them busy. Either way, there’s no point trying to guess what’s going to happen. Like so many of these missions it’s all about moments of improvisation and directed stupidity.

Sixteen

THE ROK FORT

I’ve been around enough orks these last months to know that their eyesight isn’t as good as ours most of the time, but their sense of smell is as sharp as a tracker hound’s. Fortunately, the crevasse that Orskya has us following approaches the rok fort from downwind. Also, the wind starts kicking up a storm, so dust clouds reduce visibility to about eighty or ninety metres at best. That does mean we’re not likely to be seen, but also that if there are any orks wandering around outside the fort, we’ll be nearly on top of them.

The wind brings the familiar-but-unwelcome smell of fungus, dung and death. As strong as the underhive, surprising given that this fort was only repopulated in the last few days. Imperial purge teams would have gone through every nook and cranny with flamers and anti-ork toxins to make sure there was nothing of them left, but it smells as bad as the infestations in the underhive.

The gulley is about five metres deep and a couple of metres wide, following the erratic course of some dried-up river, carved through the underlying rock in an age past. Most of it is compacted ash and grit underfoot, but it’s still drifting and shifting, so we follow the waster guides’ footsteps precisely, walking two by two along the defile.

It broadens a bit and then is cut off by the impact ripple of the asteroid, joining with the crater wall about thirty metres from the dark surface of the fort. Orskya signals the halt and we hunker down in the lee of the rok walls while one of the duneseer’s people checks the way out into the crater. I shuffle along the edge of the crevasse to come alongside Orskya and together we climb up the side so that we can look out towards the split cavern that serves as the fort’s main gate.

Natural formation and addition by the orks’ labour has created an upside-down ‘v’ about four metres high and six wide in the base of the fort, facing south-westerly as far as I can make out. A ramp of ash silt smooths up to the entrance, crossed with tyre tracks, tread marks and footprints in both directions. This curves to the west between two watchtowers at the crater’s edge – about fifty metres from the gate, about a hundred and twenty metres from where we are.

Through the drifting clouds a couple of buggies leave dust trails as they patrol around the crater edge. I grab Orskya’s arm and nod towards them, but they’re moving in the other direction, away from us at the moment. It won’t be too long before they circle all the way around.

‘They go into crater, not jump over crack,’ she says, pointing to the disturbed lines of ash about fifteen metres from where we are, just in front of the scout squatting at the limits of the gully.

I look up. The sides of the asteroid are craggy, veined with darker grey and black. There are holes where field generators and engines used to sit, ripped out by the Imperial forces that overran the site during the attack against Acheron. It’s a big hunk of rock, but climbable. Getting in there isn’t my big concern. Getting around to find the warphead and getting out again is the real trick. As I hear buggy motors growing louder, the scout slips back and waves us further into the gully.

We retreat, pushing into the cracks and folds in the black rock, our waster gear coated in the ash blending with the browns and greys and streaks of red around us. Hand on my brow to stop any sunlight glinting from my goggles, I risk the slightest of peeks around an outcrop as the engines start to echo down the defile.

In clouds of disturbed dune, the two vehicles rumble past. I see broad tyres spraying dust, a driver and gunner on each buggy, but that’s it.

As soon as they’re gone we move forward again, using the few minutes before the orks come round to the gully once more. When we regain our vantage point, Orskya uses the magnoculars to scan along the road at the rim, looking for the other part of the group, where the Colonel and Nazrek are going to try to draw out as many orks as possible.

‘They coming,’ she whispers, handing me the device.

I find them straight away. A bedraggled huddle of folks in rags escorted by a handful of wasters. Nazrek leads them bold as anything, Grot hopping around at the alien’s heel. A clanging din erupts from both watchtowers and there’s movement in a couple of the caves above the entrance as orks appear from within, the barrels of long cannons sticking out from the defences. Nazrek leads its trading party right up to the tower with much waving of choppa-fist and gesticulations back to the apparent captives. A rumble echoes from within the entrance of the fort, followed by a stream of eager orks pouring down the ramp. Most of them look like hivers – one or two almost as big as Nazrek, but none bigger. Then, escorted by a cadre of fierce-looking warriors in heavier armour, the boss appears, flanked by a procession of smaller gretchin carrying flagpoles, pieces of loot and an assortment of improbable-looking weapons.

This parade hurries along the road as the two buggies pull in by the watchtowers. A few stragglers – orks and gretchin – follow down the ramp, but everyone’s attention is firmly fixed on the trade delegation. It’s hard to put down the magnoculars and look away, so desperate am I to see what happens next, but now’s the best time to move before anyone gets bored or suspicious.

‘Let’s go,’ I say, tossing the magnoculars back to Orskya.

As a group we scuttle out of the defile. I figure for this bit speed is better than stealth. There’s still lots of dust in the air from the buggies, and anyone keeping watch would have to be looking right at us to see our camouflaged figures moving through the murk.

The ash has blown in a drift up to the sides of the fort, creating quite a steep, soft slope to negotiate. Orskya and her wasters zigzag up the bank and we follow, coming in a line against the hard stone surface. The rok seems molten in places, whether from entry or battle it’s impossible to know. Whatever the cause, the rivulets and folds of stone provide great handholds to follow and we swarm up the side of the fort, guns slung across our backs, heading for two openings just a few metres up.

A scout approaches each hole and peers inside. It’s an agonising few seconds waiting for them to signal the all-clear, but we get a thumbs up eventually and follow them inside, one through each hole. Orskya heads to one entrance, I go to the other, but dropping through the squarish opening brings me into the same chamber as her – a carved room about five metres across, squared off in places and obviously made to hold a large machine of some kind.

An opening, perfectly round, scooped out by some alien field cutter I suppose, takes us into a curving, uneven tunnel just about high enough to stand up in and wide enough to walk three abreast. A scout heads each way, staying just in sight around the turn of the passage.

‘Which way?’ asks Orskya.

It would have been useful to have Nazrek here to guide us with the green, but that isn’t an option. Orks don’t do anything in a uniform way. Everything they make is a custom, one-off job, so no two things are ever exactly the same, unless they’ve got slaves working on a manufactory for them. The same’s true of their settlements, from what I’ve seen in the jungle and underhive. But considering that, there is a certain pattern to what they do, as if there’s an underlying template that’s driving what they make that’s only half-remembered. The exact layout of an ork lair is never the same as any other, but the general disposition of significant places – like where the warlord and its cronies live, where they heap their dung, the ‘mek’ workshops and the like – usually is.

I need to find one of these landmarks. On the basis that I don’t want to get closer to the gate if possible, I point to the right, away from the main entrance. Leaving behind a couple of keen eyes and good shots to watch our backs, we move as quickly and quietly as possible behind a scouting party of three.

Through a natural fissure about twice as tall as me, we clamber into another corridor, the walls showing the cut marks of some drill or digger. It’s a lot straighter, though not precise, sloping downwards with openings both natural and unnatural to each side. The ork smell is a lot stronger down the slope and we head towards it, wary of coming across any of the aliens.

‘Why is it quiet?’ I mutter, noticing the lack of usual clamour I associate with ork living. No engines, no shouting or laughing, and no banging or crashing.

‘Maybe all leave?’ suggests Orskya.

A trickle of unease moves down my spine a second before Oahebs steps up behind us.

‘Let’s hope the warphead hasn’t left,’ he says. ‘If it’s gone to see what’s happening, we’re fragged.’

‘Thanks for pointing that out,’ I grunt back, wishing the null wasn’t part of the plan.

One of the scouts hisses and points through a wall crack into a chamber ahead. We hurry forward to see what the fuss is.

The smell takes me back to the prison-capstan in the underhive, and I dread to look inside for a moment. Steeling myself against what I might see, I poke my head around the uneven edge of the cave opening.

Bodies. Piles of ork bodies. Two dozen at least, plus the same or more of gretchin, dumped atop each other against the far wall of the chamber. All of them look pretty fresh, dark blood pooled on the ground, bodies torn and gouged. A few dune flies buzz around the corpses, but I don’t see any sign of eggs or maggots yet.

‘Dead in the last few hours, I reckon,’ I tell the others.

‘Warpborn,’ growls Orskya, making a protective sign. ‘They do this.’

‘Yeah,’ I say, easing back out of the room, glancing at Oahebs. ‘I guess the orks have a problem as much as we do. Come on, let’s get this done as quick as we can.’

Through a series of caverns and burrowed tunnels we head towards the centre of the rok, climbing a little when we can – I figure that the boss usually has its quarters close to the centre of the settlement, its hench-orks nearby, and the fort will be no different. Engines and shield generators would have filled the outer chambers. Nazrek told me that weirdboys are kept away from the other orks. Orks generate green energy, so the more orks around, the more dangerous for the psyker. And for the other orks, since it seems the warphead will keep gathering up the energy and let it out in potentially lethal zaps without warning.

‘Feel anything?’ I ask Oahebs.

‘I’m a null,’ he snaps back. ‘I’m the opposite of a detector.’

‘Right, yeah,’ I say. ‘I think we need to go higher. I figure the orks want to come and go easily, so most of them will stick pretty close to the entrance. The warphead will be as far from that as possible.’

Winding ramps and ladders take us up, still without the slightest sign of any inhabitants. It’s eerily empty. I was expecting a fight by now, and as we climb, the worry that our warphead isn’t here grows with each second. There’s only so long that Nazrek and the others can spin out the distraction before something bad happens.

‘It’ll be quicker if just a handful of us go,’ I say, waving for the rest of the group to stop. ‘If you hear shooting, come find us, but otherwise, let’s keep in mind that we have to get out quickly too. I need you, Oahebs. Orskya, do you want to come or stay?’

‘I stay. You bring Lanna, Kort and Bessda.’

‘You too, Fellkas,’ I say, seeing one of my former soldiers among the hooded huddle. ‘You’re handy in a tight spot.’

‘Yes, Burned Man,’ he says.

It’s been a while since I’ve heard the title, and it gives me pause. It’s almost impossible to think that some of these people are the same ones that were following me in that other world, that other life of the underhive. I’m pretty sure that if I’d said this was where we’d all end up, I’d have been dangling by a wire noose or picking up my spilt guts shortly after.

Moving more quickly than stealthily, we climb up another sloping corridor, splitting at the top to search the nearby chambers. Much like the rest of the rok it’s bare stone, some of it machined away, some of it shaped by nature’s hand.

The bark of a gun is sharp and shocking in the confines.

A sound can’t really be dirty, but there’s something about the retort of an ork weapon that makes me think that. A slightly uneven detonation of unreliable ammunition, not like the uniform zip of a lasgun or the terrifying snarl-bark of a bolter round.

One shot, followed by a shout of panic from below us.

A heartbeat passes.

A shout. The rattle of autogun fire and another louder shot, ringing back from the stone like a blasphemous whisper in a cathedral.

‘Orskya?’ I call in the lull after the salvo.

From behind me, where we were heading, I hear a thud of boots. More than one pair.

‘Burned Man?’ says Fellkas. ‘Incoming company.’

‘Take them out. Careful not to hurt the warphead though.’

‘We have trouble,’ Orskya’s voice reverberates up the tunnels. ‘Bad situation here.’

‘How bad?’

A grunt and gunfire just behind me draws my attention back to our immediate predicament. Two orks have appeared at a square arch ahead, neither of them small specimens of the species. Fellkas and the wasters drive them back with a ragged fusillade, bullets pinging from the crudely fashioned walls around the doorway.

‘They come behind us!’ Orskya’s voice drifts up. ‘Between us and you.’

‘Draw them away and get out of the fort,’ I shout back, hoping the orks can’t understand what I’m saying. ‘Make a lot of noise and take them with you so we can get the warphead.’

‘I understand, Burned Man. Emperor watch you.’

A moment later the gunfire resumes, fiercer and longer than before. All I can do is trust that Orskya does what she can to take the heat off us.

I hear metal clink on stone not far away.

‘Down!’ shouts one of the wasters. Kort, I think. I see the stikk bomb roll to a stop a few metres up the corridor as the rest hit the floor. Sparks fountain from one end.

Too close.

I jump over Oahebs, cowering beside me, and lash out with a boot, kicking the ork grenade back up the corridor. It clangs off the wall and spirals to a stop just past the archway.

The stikk bomb explodes as I turn away. Heat washes over me and a few pieces of shrapnel pluck at my coat and trousers.

‘Up! Up!’ I bellow through the ringing in my ears.

I spin back as the others clamber to their feet, opening fire with my laspistol when an ork lumbers out of the chamber, expecting to see chunks of us everywhere I reckon. My first shot hits it in the side of the head, burning through its ear and into the scalp. Howling in pain, it turns, a bulky shotgun-like weapon rising towards me. I fire again, my las-bolt joined by a flurry of bullets from my companions, hitting the face and chest of the brute – it’s barely fifteen metres away, almost impossible to miss.

‘Oahebs, with me,’ I shout, starting forward. More bullets whip past us as the others give us cover fire, plucking at the ork’s rags and flesh as it falls, bouncing from the armoured plates on its shoulders. I open fire again, sending more las-bolts into the alien’s face, boiling away an eye with one of the shots.

‘Get to the warphead,’ I say as we reach the doorway. Gritting my teeth, I throw myself through the opening, expecting the roar of an ork shoota to greet me.

I stumble to a halt, finding the second ork with its back to me. In the corner of the small cell is a third xenos, covered in copper bangles and coils from which green sparks spit. The other ork is bent over it, growling and pointing to the door.

The burlier ork rises and turns, nostrils flaring, eyes narrowing as it sets its gaze on me. I pull my knife. It watches the blade, a rippling smile twisting its lips as it pulls out its own weapon, half a metre of serrated nastiness.

I scream at it.

It roars back and lunges.

I turn and run, diving back through the door as it comes after me.

‘Shoot!’ I shout, rolling clear of the archway.

The ork thunders out, straight into a hail of fire from the others. Green flesh gets torn from thick bones by the sudden storm of bullets, their joint impacts stopping it dead in its tracks. I scramble to my feet and throw myself aside as it steps into the stream of slugs, hacking at my back.

Turning, sliding along the floor, I add a few shots from the laspistol as it stomps after me, dragging a heavy pistol from its belt.

I can’t say whether it’s the twentieth or thirtieth hit that takes it down, but it must be close to that number. With a drawn-out groan the ork topples, pistol falling from clawed fingers as it clutches at a fountaining wound in its neck. Cuts and holes mark its head and torso, more blood than skin visible.

Movement back up the corridor draws my attention to the weirdboy, bolting down the passageway, trailing green lightning. I set off in pursuit, leaping past the dying ork as it makes a swipe at me in its death throes.

The corridor ends in a sharp drop, where the warphead stops, crouching to the knotted cable ladder tied around a bolt in the wall. It glances back and sees me closing. Letting the rope drop, the ork rises to its full height, bigger than I realised when it was cowering in the chamber. Flecks of green energy swirls around its hand as it raises splayed fingers towards me, a cascade of emerald froth bubbling from its gaping mouth.

‘Oahebs!’

To his credit, the null doesn’t hesitate. Oahebs hurls himself forward, past me, into the storm of psychic lightning flaring from the outstretched hand of the weirdboy. The arcs seem to pass through his body without effect, becoming a dissipating green mist in his wake.

He body-tackles the ork, driving a shoulder into its gut and twisting as he falls, somehow dragging the creature down. Random flares of green power course across the alien’s flesh as broken pieces of copper fly from its body.

The weirdboy tries to stand, snarling and howling as Oahebs wraps himself like a serpent around its leg and lower body.

‘Kage!’ he shouts, turning his head as a green fist slams down into it. ‘Now, Kage!’

I pull a small pouch from my belt and throw it, hard as I can, straight into the ork’s face. A plume of yellow-and-white dust explodes from the impact, the spores prepared by Grot engulfing the weirdboy’s head. It takes in a breath on reflex, inhaling the mix of narcotic fungi.

Sneezing, the warphead reels back, dragging Oahebs towards the end of the passage and the sheer drop. It capers at the very edge of the cliff, trying to kick Oahebs away, moments from unbalancing and plunging to its death and our ruin.

It topples out of sight.

A waster flies past me, throwing herself across the passage to grab Oahebs’ ankle as the ork falls, dragging the null towards the edge. Her other hand snags the cable near the bolt, strong fingers sliding along the metal for a second before finding their grip.

I dash past her, sliding along on my belly at the end of the passage, hands seizing the flailing leg of the warphead as it dangles from Oahebs’ weakening grip.

Footfalls behind us bring the others to our aid, hands grabbing and pulling, heaving us and the ork back onto the ledge.

The soporific is working now, the weirdboy snoring deeply in our grasp.

So far, so good. Now we just need to get out of here.

With Oahebs, Lanna and Fellkas half-carrying, half-dragging the inert warphead, Kort, Bessda and I lead the way back through the winding maze of the fort’s passages. Coming across a cluster of ork and gretchin bodies, I realise that Orskya has retreated back the way we came.

‘We’re in no fit state to get into a serious firefight,’ I tell the others. ‘We can’t go back the way we came. In fact, we need to go the other way, if Orskya and the rest are causing as much of a diversion as possible.’

We turn around and head down the next corridor, listening to the sounds of fighting that occasionally echo along the uneven walls.

‘Was that ahead?’ says Fellkas after the echoes of a protracted exchange die down. ‘I think that was ahead.’

Changing course, we take a right turn, finding ourselves at the top of some steps cut into the rock. There’s only one way, down, so we heave up the warphead between us and gingerly start down the steps. Coming safely to the bottom, I step away from the others through a split in a rock seam that’s been widened with tools. On the other side is a dark space, with a glimmer of sunlight at the far end.

‘We’ll head this way,’ I say, but as soon as Kort follows me through the gap we hear ork voices ringing from an opening off to our right. A lamplight gets stronger, highlighting the opening just a few metres away.

‘Back, back,’ I tell the others with a wave, slithering through with Kort just a few seconds before the orks enter the large cavern.

We crouch in the shade and listen. A metallic creaking becomes louder, followed by a resonating clang that brings light streaming into the fort. A few seconds later comes the tramp of feet and the revving of a buggy engine. Looking through the gap I see about twenty orks making their way back through the main gate, the buggy screeching to a halt ahead of them, a few metres from where we are. Stinking fumes billow through the fissure from the idling engine. The gunner at the back snarls something to the driver and brutal laughter follows.

More orks are coming back, thundering up the gate-ramp. Knots of them are breaking away from the largest group as one of the bigger aliens grunts and bellows orders. I adjust position, trying to look out of the gate to see if I can spot anything of the trade team. They could all be dead, but I can’t see any sign of fighting from here. The orks know something is up though – gretchin are swarming like ants in a disturbed nest, chittering and wailing to each other as their larger cousins direct shouts and kicks at them.

‘Maybe back up?’ says Lanna, jabbing a thumb over her shoulder.

I shake my head.

‘Orks could be anywhere by now,’ I reply. My gaze keeps getting drawn back to the buggy, just a short distance away. But the crew look like they’re going nowhere for the moment. ‘Right. We’re gonna have to do this the fast-but-dangerous way. Oahebs, stick with the warphead in case it wakes up. Fellkas, help him. The rest of you, we’re gonna take out the driver and gunner of that buggy. Speed, that’s what we need. Just get them off the buggy long enough for us to get the weirdboy on, okay?’

There’s some doubtful glances from their scarf-covered faces.

‘We can draw this out, sneaking around until we get caught or cornered. Do you want that?’

Heads shaking shows they don’t.

‘We do the stupid but right thing and get that buggy, nice and fast, and drive like mad.’

This time I get nods.

We ease ourselves towards the fissure, which is thankfully still swathed in shadow. The gunner steps down from its position on the back of the buggy to lean against the side of the vehicle, taking a mug of something from the driver. I pull myself out of the gap and run, knife in hand, straight towards the ork.

Leaping onto its back, I wrap an arm around its throat and drive the knife into its ear, stabbing with all of my strength.

It falls backwards, slamming me into the unforgiving rock as the driver rears from its seat, a bellow of surprise erupting from its fanged mouth. The rest of the team swarm past me, opening fire on the brute, gunning it down in the driving cupola. Torn apart by bullets, it slumps forward in the cab, the engine revving hard as it hits the controls. Bellows from other orks ring around the cavern.

Kort helps me roll the dead gunner off and I get to my feet while the others haul the weirdboy onto the passenger seat. Gunfire breaks the gloom, bullets whining overhead as the orks realise what’s happening. We kick out the driver’s body and Fellkas, the largest of us, sits in its place. I leap up to the double-barrelled heavy gun on the back, swinging it around to come to bear against the orks rushing towards us along the hall. The rest pile on, grabbing hold of spars and chains as the buggy leaps forward, engine howling protest.

I open fire, my shots going wildly over the heads of the oncoming aliens as we skid into our acceleration. With the buggy juddering over the uneven floor, the iron sight on the gun’s barrel is worse than useless. I try to bring my aim down but being thrown around like a sack of synthi-grain doesn’t help. Enemy fire pings from the metalwork around us. Kort, crouching on my left, cries out. I feel something zing from the gun breech and cut my left cheek. Opening fire again, I keep the trigger pulled, ammunition belts chewing through the breech as the deafening roar of the gun blots out the sharper barks of ork shootas.

Fellkas steers us left, avoiding a group of orks firing at us. His diversion slams us into another alien, which flies past me, snarling and spitting, landing heavily in our wake. I swing the gun over, stepping on Kort as I do so. Firing again, I manage to get on target, cutting bloody ribbons of flesh from a trio of orks breaking across our line of exit. Fellkas rams the buggy through their falling bodies, the vehicle bucking as it thuds over their corpses.

Just a few metres to open air now. Most of the orks are behind us.

‘The other buggy!’ warns Fellkas as we burst into the brighter light, taking a hand off the steering bar to point to the right.

I see the smoke through the swirl of dust a moment before the light of the gun firing. A heavy pound follows the blur of a shell past us, exploding against the gateway just behind.

‘Steer for them,’ I tell Fellkas, trampling Kort again as I swing the heavy guns round to the front once more.

A shell explodes just a metre in front of us. Racing through fire, smoke and dust, we burst from the detonation, gun hammering shots into the hull of the other vehicle. I see its driver slump and the buggy turns hard, wheel hitting a rock. The gunner flies from its perch as the buggy flips over, wheels still throwing dust.

We’re not clear yet. Fire from the watchtowers streaks towards us – strange beams of red energy that crackle past like snakes of lightning. Fellkas starts to zigzag but I lean over the metal plate separating us and shout at him.

‘They can’t aim worth shit anyway, just drive fast!’

We accelerate but despite my claims, the beams from the towers are converging on us, sizzling closer and closer.

‘What’s that?’ I say, leaning over the partition to point at a big red button in the middle of the crude dashboard.

‘Hold on and we’ll find out,’ says Fellkas, laughing.

Everybody grabs hold as the underhiver slams his fist down onto the button.

Something gurgles in the guts of the buggy, the growl of the engines becoming a higher-pitched shriek as whatever fancy fuel we’ve just introduced ignites. Flames belch from the smokestacks either side of me, and the vehicle leaps forward like a grav-chuter out of a drop-ship. I feel my brain hitting the inside of my skull with the acceleration, Fellkas’ laugh becoming a shriek of terror as we continue to pick up speed, hurtling along the causeway straight between the towers, juddering wheels threatening to wrench control from him every moment.

Like a bolt from a Space Marine’s gun we punch out of the crater, wheels leaving the floor for at least three seconds before crashing down into the packed dirt beyond. I see blurred shapes going past – maybe ork bodies and a few dressed like wasters?

‘I don’t know where the brakes are!’ Fellkas hollers.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ I say, unclenching my teeth. I look back at the watchtowers disappearing into the gloom. ‘Just keep going.’

Seventeen

BAD OMENS

We finally manage to bring the buggy under control about two kilometres from the fort. The warphead is still out cold, thankfully. As we chug over the dunes I crouch next to Kort. His eyelids flutter open but his breathing is weak and there’s blood in his mouth and nose. There’s a very unhealthy dark patch spreading through the jerkin under his coat. It reminds me of Karste and I look away, not daring to inspect the wound.

‘How do we find the others?’ Fellkas asks, bringing the buggy to a halt on the slope of a ridge. Ahead of us, the fort is a shadow in the distance. I can hear the occasional crack of gunfire, distinct but erratic.

‘We’ll circle around and see if we can meet up with Orskya and her group. Then we find the Colonel, if we can.’

So that’s the plan and it takes about an hour until we finally come across one of the waster scouts, about a kilometre and a half east of the fort. She takes us back to an impromptu camp where Orskya has sentries out, a few others tending a handful of wounded. The buggy grumbles to a halt and I jump off. Between me and Bessda we get Kort off the buggy.

‘Shit, I’ve been shot,’ says Fellkas as he clambers out of the driving seat. He points to dark red down his left leg. ‘Can’t feel it though.’

‘Lubricant,’ says Oahebs, fishing under the seat to pull out a severed pipe. ‘You’re fine.’

‘Frag you,’ snaps the underhiver, pushing Oahebs away.

‘Keep an eye on the warphead,’ I tell Oahebs, before the situation escalates.

We take Kort over to the treatment area set up under a stretch of canvas. Two of the people under there are dead, faces covered with their hats. We leave Kort there and while the others gather around the buggy, exchanging stories, I find Orskya.

‘Good to see you,’ she says.

‘You too,’ I reply with a smile. I jab a thumb towards the buggy. ‘We got the ork. Did you see what happened to Schaeffer and the others?’

‘I tell my people place to meet,’ she says, folding her arms. ‘We go there and wait.’

‘Wish I’d thought of that,’ I say.

We ditch the ork vehicle. It’s a deathtrap anyway, and the exhaust fumes will attract attention in time. Heading north, we follow the scouts back to the rendezvous point chosen by Orskya. Cresting a hill that looks like all of the others, the fort well out of sight behind us, we come upon a few wasters making camp. Orskya hurries ahead into the dell and then returns with the news.

‘They say when shooting start everyone scatter,’ she tells me. ‘My people know way. Hope bring your people.’

It’s a long wait to see if that hope comes true.

We pass the time in quiet, watching over the dozing warphead, looking after the walking wounded and the worse-off. Over the next few hours the Colonel arrives with about two dozen folks in tow, Nazrek and Grot among them. He doesn’t know if anybody else made it, but in twos and threes for the most part a good chunk of the missing people keep turning up – sometimes just wasters, sometimes a lone waster leading underhivers. I’m pleased to see Olesh and his kin in one of the groups. It’s heading towards sundown when a silver-armoured figure appears through the smog, Old Preacher beside her. The wastes have made a mess of them both, grimed head to foot in ash and dust.

‘The Burned Man lives!’ the priest declares, hurrying forward to embrace me. ‘Blessed be! The Emperor has guided us right once again, I see.’

‘Nice to be appreciated,’ I say, prising myself out of his arms. ‘The Emperor is looking out for you too, Old Preacher.’

‘He has done that for many years, it is true.’

The priest heads into the makeshift camp, dispensing greetings and blessings in equal measure while the Sister Superior follows at his heel. The Colonel breaks from the group with Orskya.

‘Is most people,’ she says. ‘Dangerous to wait longer. Orks maybe hunt. Warpborn too.’

‘We’ll head to Kraken Station as quick as we can,’ I say. ‘The longer we wait, the worse it’ll get.’

‘We will return to the battle abbey first,’ says Schaeffer.

‘We left there, what’s the point of going back? It’ll take longer.’

‘Enough!’ The Colonel’s bark has heads turning in our direction. He doesn’t seem to care. ‘I am giving you an order. You will obey it.’

‘By what authority?’ I say to him. I stoop and pick up a handful of dust and let it trickle through my fingers. ‘That’s what your rank’s worth out here, Schaeffer.’

‘This is a mistake, you know it is,’ he says, not backing down.

Deniumenialis heads back towards us, obviously intent on intervening. Aladia follows with a few others.

‘You’re not running this mission, that’s the truth,’ I tell the Colonel. ‘If you want to be part of it, get used to doing what I tell you.’

That hits a raw nerve and he pulls out his laspistol.

‘I will not endure further insubordination,’ he insists, the threat obvious.

‘There is no need for violence, Colonel Schaeffer,’ says Old Preacher. ‘We all wish the same thing.’

‘I doubt that,’ growls the Colonel.

‘I believe that Kage knows best what to do from here,’ the priest continues. ‘We have seen the divine guidance that carries him forward.’

‘No more,’ the Colonel snaps. ‘No more of this living saint nonsense.’

‘Nonsense?’ Deniumenialis gets angry at the accusation, reddening from cheek to scalp. There’s angry muttering from the hivers that are gathering too. ‘How dare you, Colonel Schaeffer! I am a clergyman of the Adeptus Ministorum and I will not be mocked in this way.’

The Colonel glowers at the priest and then at me. His glare moves to our small audience.

‘He is a fraud,’ Schaeffer says. ‘The Emperor would never see anything holy in this corrupt shell. Any good in him comes from me.’

‘Such arrogance, Colonel,’ says Old Preacher. ‘You may be the God-Emperor’s messenger, but you are not His creator. The divine hand is held over Kage, the story of his life proves that.’

‘He is not a living saint,’ the Colonel says heavily, lifting his pistol. ‘There is no miracle that will protect him. I will show you all the proof you need.’

I hear the zip of the laspistol but I see a dark blur rather than the flash of light. The las-bolt hits Deniumenialis in the side of the head as he jumps in front of me. Charred skin and hot blood splash across my face.

I catch a glimpse of moving silver and an instant later Schaeffer is sprawling in the dirt, blood seeping from a wound over his eye, his hands empty. Aladia stands over him, muzzle of her bolter smeared with his blood, finger on the trigger. Some of the others are shouting now, begging her to fire, demanding the Colonel’s death just as they bayed for it in the underhive.

‘Wait!’ I shout, expecting the immediate execution of the Colonel.

Aladia does not move a millimetre but her voice comes to me in a clipped, quiet tone.

‘There is no need for trial, guilt is obvious. Had we the means, the execution would be arduous and long. In the circumstances, a bolt to the head will be retribution enough.’

‘Wait,’ I say again, wiping the mess of Deniumenialis from my lips and chin. ‘There is a message here that we’re missing. Old Preacher has died, but he died for me. His act saved me and in doing so shows us the Will of the Emperor. It is not the God-Emperor that has been stirring us to kill each other, but a darker power.’

She considers this for a few seconds. I expect her to pull the trigger, but it seems my plea has been heard. Stepping back, Aladia lifts up her bolter.

‘I will not tarnish my soul with this matter any longer,’ she says, stalking back to the group.

Under my urging, the others move away too, leaving me with the Colonel.

He gets to his feet, dusting himself down before picking up his laspistol.

‘We need to–’ he starts, but I cut him off.

‘You’re not coming.’ Words that seem easy to say but feel like poison in my mouth. The Colonel stares at me, jaw clenched. ‘Take it as a blessing.’

‘A blessing?’ he says slowly, as though grinding the words between his teeth. ‘This is insurrection, Kage.’

‘You. Are. Not. In. Command.’ How can I make it any clearer? ‘These people don’t want you, but they’ll follow me. For the good of the mission, you’re not coming.’

‘For the good of the mission?’ He seems unable to grasp very simple facts at the moment. I wonder if the blow from Sister Aladia maybe knocked something loose in his head.

‘You fragged a priest! That’s bring-down-the-wrath-of-the-Emperor stuff, you know. Bad. A bad omen.’

‘What about all that you said, it being a sign from the Emperor?’

‘That might be true, but on the other hand maybe you just murdered a priest. I’m not willing to risk having you around any longer.’

‘You cannot lead this mission, Kage. You will fail.’

I reach out a hand in consolation. This has been his existence for Emperor knows how long. At least one normal lifetime and likely more.

‘You can stop,’ I tell him softly. ‘You don’t have to try to win every war by yourself. You don’t have to throw yourself into the mouth of death this time. You’ve earned this… this chance at a little peace. For all that’s holy, Schaeffer, you can sit this one out.’

‘Peace?’ He grimaces like it’s the worst blasphemy to utter.

‘Yeah. Not war. Just keep an eye on the civilians and make sure nothing happens to them. Get them to the abbey like you said, maybe?’ I look up at the rift, at the moment a swirling storm the colour of an old bruise. ‘Don’t mention it to the others but we’re all gonna die up there, win or lose. That’s the warp bleeding through. You don’t get to ram a ship into it and then just come back. Worst option, we get thrown adrift in warp space without a Navigator. Best is we get torn apart by the energy of the warphead detonating in there. You don’t have to die. Just this once, back down and shut up.’

‘You think you can lead the Last Chancers, Kage? You think that maybe you’re the colonel now?’

‘We’ve been through a lot. Honestly, have you ever met anyone better qualified to take over from you than me? There’s a reason I keep coming back and it’s not because I like the taste of the rations.’

‘You need this,’ he says, head tilting slightly. ‘That speech you gave on the wall of the abbey, that was a lie. You do choose this life, again and again. It might not be up to you where that fight is, but you are right, you keep coming back. But it is not because of the mission. It is because of me! I give your life meaning and I will give your death meaning.’

‘Can’t argue, Colonel. But I also need you to be here when I’m gone. I tried before, but for some reason I’m still here. Maybe the Emperor saved me for something better, like this. I can’t tell you whether I’m a saint or not, but I can tell you that right now, right here, this feels like I’m supposed to do this. This is where the story of Lieutenant Kage goes.’

I turn and walk away, ignoring his next words. Maybe he has been the foundation of my life these last few years, but I’ll be damned to the abyss if I won’t try to get out from under his shadow when I get the chance.

Reaching the edge of the camp there’s a couple of dozen people waiting for me.

‘Let’s get ready,’ I tell them. ‘We’ve got a starship to steal.’

Wasters, hivers, two orkoids and a Battle Sister.

Yeah. These are my Last Chancers.

Eighteen

KRAKEN STATION

Getting a shuttle or lighter capable of carrying us into orbit should be the most straightforward part of the plan. Erasmisa told us that the port works at Kraken Station were still operational – a detachment had been left to defend the facility after the withdrawal of the main force in case it was to be used as an axis of counter-attack.

Night falls before we finish crossing about four kilometres of abandoned fieldworks that separate Kraken Station from the rest of the wastes. I start having concerns when I see that the smudge of brightness on the horizon isn’t just navigational lights but the flickering red of fires. A few minutes later brings the sound of explosions, accompanying flashes of orange and yellow through the haze. Concerns become outright worry when a fireball races up a few hundred metres into the air, showering burning debris across a wide area.

I push on, driving my body with pure will to overcome lack of sleep and muscle fatigue. With me are twenty-three Last Chancers. Oahebs is the only one of the Colonel’s original team that has survived, and there’s Sister Superior Aladia too. With no chance of reconnecting with the rest of her order any time soon, she told me that this seems a better course of action than sitting around looking after the wounded and non-fighters. I also think she doesn’t want to spend time with the Colonel any more than I do.

Nazrek and Grot have been medal winners as far as I’m concerned, the smaller alien in particular proving something of a fungal alchemist when it comes to keeping the warphead sedated. Orskya and the most able-bodied of her people make up the waster contingent, twelve of them altogether, which leaves only nine followers of the Burned Man still capable of fighting from the hundreds that fled with me from the first attack. It’s still nothing compared to the four thousand that died between landing on Ichar IV and destroying Coritanorum, but as unplanned recruitments go I think I’ve ended up with a pretty handy bunch.

About a kilometre from the station it’s still no clearer what’s going on. There are aircraft duelling overhead, tracers and rockets cutting through the twilight murk. Smaller-arms fire rattles and zaps from the facility, hidden for the most part by a curtain wall about three metres high. I call a halt to take stock and discuss the plan with the makeshift platoon.

‘This is probably good for us,’ I say, trying to put the best shine on the situation. ‘In the confusion we can slip in and get a ship without anyone seeing us. We’ll be off the apron and heading to the stars before anyone knows we’re there.’

‘You think?’ says Orskya, pulling up her goggles to look at me with a dubious stare. ‘Easy in?’

‘Easy out,’ I say, though I don’t even believe myself. Nothing is ever easy for the Last Chancers. ‘Sister, do you know anything about the layout of the port?’

‘My company landed at Kraken before the battle abbey was raised,’ she replies. ‘Hexagonal wall, two kilometres across, encircling the barracks, airstrip and launch pads, plus a command-and-control tower near the eastern side. We’ll need to head to the orbital pads in the north sector, on the far side.’

‘And ways in? That wall looks pretty solid.’

‘There are two gateways, one east and one west, left and right of where we are. But they’ll be guarded or contested. I cannot envision us getting through unseen.’

‘The wall’s just too high to climb over without proper equipment,’ I say, looking at Orskya.

‘Have some rope,’ she tells me with a shake of the head. ‘We send up runners, find something to tie rope. Others climb.’

‘Sounds like a plan,’ I say, glancing back at Oahebs. ‘How’s our sleeper?’

The warphead is strapped down to one of the waster’s drag-sleds, grumbling and dribbling, but otherwise comatose. Grot is riding on the sled too, watching carefully, bag of powdered soporific in hand.

‘Starting to come out of it, I think.’ Oahebs looks at Nazrek, who’s staring at the firefight in the distance, entranced by the occasional zip of tracer and flare of detonation. ‘Hey, does it have to be awake? The warphead, does it have to be awake to do its headbang thing?’

Nazrek stomps back and looks down at the weirdboy before shrugging.

‘Maybe.’ It turns its massive head towards me for a moment and then back to the other ork. ‘Need take off protection.’

‘What protection?’ says Oahebs.

‘Shiny metal stop green,’ says Nazrek, stripping away a torq from the warphead’s arm. ‘Take off metal, big bang.’

‘Let’s do that once we’re on the ship, yeah?’ I call out as Oahebs bends over the ork to pull off a bracelet. I turn my attention to everyone else. ‘It’ll take even longer to swing around to come at the station from the north, so we’re going to find the best place to cross the wall on this side and then cut across the airstrip itself. Remember, we’re here to get in and then onto a ship, not get stuck in a firefight. Keep low, move quick.’

‘There are going to be Astra Militarum troopers defending the station,’ Aladia points out. ‘They will not see us as allies.’

I pull down the scarf over my mouth and nose and wipe the sweat from my face with my cuff. The temperature is dropping now, but all the waster gear protecting us from the elements is hot work. I look at my platoon.

‘When I destroyed Coritanorum, there were hundreds of thousands of civilians there. Most of them weren’t traitors, their commanders were just dominated by an alien incursion. But we couldn’t let it spread. If the war was lost, if the city held for any longer, that contamination was going to get out and spread through other forces and maybe off-world. So, we blew the plasma reactors and incinerated five million people.’ I turn my stare to the star port. ‘We’re here to save Armageddon. Take out anyone that gets in our way.’

The first thing that becomes clear as we get closer to Kraken Station is that the battle isn’t as straightforward as I first thought. We lay up about a hundred and fifty metres from the twisted remnants of razor wire that used to guard the outer perimeter and I take stock.

I can see ork banners hoisted over the wall close to us, but the armoured vehicles pouring fire into the compound around the control tower are bastardised versions of Imperial war machines – the World Eaters. The flare of lasguns reveals the continued presence of the Astra Militarum garrison, concentrated to the north-west with a pocket to the far west. Divided, it’s only a matter of time before they’re wiped out. The good news is that the orks have smashed some sizeable breaches into the curtain wall, so if we want to follow them in, we can avoid the climbing.

‘Kage!’ The call comes from Sister Aladia. ‘We cannot allow the port to fall into the possession of our foes.’

‘Bigger worries at the moment,’ I say, pointing up to the rift that blots the night sky like a slowly expanding frag blossom. I think I can see dark shapes moving in its heart but maybe it’s just my imagination and the utter exhaustion that’s trying to shut down my body. ‘Nobody is gonna care about an airstrip once the World Eaters get their way.’

I almost want to tell her to go and join the defenders, but she’s useful to have around. She’s certainly the most capable warrior among us, even without her bolter and power armour. Her wargear simply makes her near-unstoppable, unless we run directly into the Traitor Astartes. With that in mind I lead the platoon on and left, heading to the westernmost breach, the smallest of the three.

Another stop and a quick scan with the magnoculars reveals that the orks have predictably moved on from their first assault. The remnants of several aliens clogs the shattered stone, and burning wrecks of half a dozen vehicles, both large and small, light the packed ground around the compound. There’s very little cover that might not explode, and even fewer shadows.

‘We get in, clear the wall and then just follow me,’ I declare, rising up from the last dune before the open ground around the curtain wall. The ash here has been set with rockcrete to solidify it. It’s not at all even but it doesn’t shift underfoot. I’ve spent so much time slogging through slopes of dust and stone that it’s jarring to run over unforgiving ground again. I almost trip, and several of the wasters look like they’re hobbling as we dash through the flickering orange of firelight.

The breach starts from about a metre up, a small ramp of ork carcasses running up to it. Nazrek pauses, tosses away its customised bolter and hauls a large-bore shoota from the debris, its ammo belt trailing a coil of slugs like small tank shells. Hefting it to one shoulder, the ork clambers after us, boots mashing the remains of its kind, oblivious to their deaths. Grot springs monkey-like from toppled stone to corpse and to the breach, a long, slender blade in its teeth.

Dragging myself over rubble splattered with ork innards and human blood I jump down into the compound interior.

I’ve been in a few battles, so I know that usually there’s some kind of shape to it that you can recognise with a glance. This time it’s just anarchy. Lines of fire going everywhere, lasgun blasts and bolts criss-crossing with the muzzle flare of ork shootas and green beams from alien weapons. Ork rockets corkscrew noisily through the beams of searchlights while a strafing Vulture gunship rakes fire along the far wall. I’m glad we didn’t come that way.

The explosion we saw earlier must have been the fuel depot. Burning promethium tanks light the western half of the compound and you can feel the heat of it from where we are, several hundred metres away.

And through it all I have the sinking feeling that there aren’t any ships. It’s hard to believe there’s anything on the ground that hasn’t been hit by shells, bombs or crossfire.

‘Over there!’

Orskya grabs my arm and points to a raised landing pad almost directly opposite us, partly obscured by smoke billowing from the burning depot. A blunt-nosed drop-craft sits there, red-robed adepts moving around its landing gear, other figures appearing and disappearing from the ruddy light that streams from the open rampway in the side of the fuselage, loading something aboard. It’s clearly getting ready to leave, and we don’t have long.

It’s open ground all the way though. Eight hundred metres or so, I reckon, with just enemy fire for company. While the others gather around me I look for anything else, another shuttle that’ll be easier to reach. Instead I spy the crashed remnants of an Imperial Navy Marauder bomber. It looks burnt-out, broken halfway along the east-west runway, nose cone and upper fuselage blackened by fire.

‘We go that way first,’ I say, indicating the wreck with a jabbed finger. ‘Then we hook left to the drop-ship.’

‘That’s further,’ points out Sister Aladia.

‘Yes, but that mess,’ I indicate a pyre of metal and bodies that used to be a watchtower some way to the east, ‘covers us from being shot. We’ll only have half the distance to cross in the open.’

I’m not in a mood for arguing and as soon as Oahebs and a couple of the others have manhandled the warphead down from the broken wall I set off at a run, straight towards the broken Marauder. I don’t look back. Better to trust that they’re following because if they’re not I might as well just head off on my own anyway.

I catch the reassuring thud of boots behind me.

A few seconds later I hear the absolutely unnerving hiss of a bolt-round.

It sears past my left ear, followed by a grunt as it hits a target. A half-second delay and then a wet detonation accompanied by screams and shouts. I keep running, not trusting to anything but speed as I try to see where the shot came from.

There’s nothing in the pools of flickering light. Maybe just a random overshot?

‘Who’s hit?’ I shout, silently praying it isn’t Oahebs or the warphead. ‘Who was hit?’

‘Strasna,’ Orskya yells back, breathing laboured. ‘We leave him.’

A pinprick of light draws my eye to a stretch of wall that divides the main runway with a track beside it, about three hundred metres away. A moment later it resolves into another bolt, flaring a few metres to my right, bringing the same thud and yell as before. I hear a clatter of a gun being lost and someone else cursing.

A las-bolt zips back, way off target at this range.

‘Keep moving!’ I bellow, heaving a breath into lungs that feel tighter than a tech-priest’s nuts. ‘Get to the Marauder!’

Something big vaults the wall. Armoured and fast.

Traitor Astartes. World Eater.

Just the one, but it’s no consolation. He’s firing a damn bolt pistol, picking us off at two hundred and fifty metres even as he starts running towards us. A chainaxe growls into life in his other hand.

‘You run, we stop,’ Orskya calls out.

I should probably argue. I don’t. I just keep running as bullets start to buzz back across the runway into the charging Space Marine. Ceramite chips fly from his armour but he keeps coming, another bolt flashing from the muzzle of his pistol to take out someone behind me in a lethal detonation.

The World Eater’s course curves, taking him towards the group that have stopped to open fire. At least that part of the plan has worked.

Two hundred metres from the wreck of the Marauder I finally risk a glance back. Nazrek has a rope over its shoulder, hauling the drag-sled along with a handful of others, including Oahebs. Half a dozen more follow, throwing panicked glances at the approaching World Eater. Beyond them Orskya and the rest have set up an impromptu firing line, blazing away at the incoming Space Marine. Aladia is with them, bolter readied. At the hundred-metre mark she opens fire, her first shot glancing off a pauldron studded with spikes and grisly trophies. The Space Marine has covered ten more metres before she fires again, this time her round hitting the traitor square in the chest.

He stumbles, falling to one knee and a wordless shout of hope rips from my throat.

The bolt pistol barks its reply, the bolt racing back across the gap towards Aladia. My shout dies away as the bolt hits the side of her helm, exploding across the silvered armour. Aladia falls sideways, her finger closing on the trigger, the bolt in the chamber spearing uselessly into the sky.

‘Kage, come on,’ gasps Oahebs as he pulls level.

I take one last look at the other group. The heretic is running again, fifty metres away, the snarl of the chainaxe audible, bolt pistol flaring to rip the head from a waster.

A really stupid part of me wants to go back. Like I could help… The smarter half of my brain takes over and I fall in behind the sled, ramming my pistol into my belt so I can bend and push with both hands.

A metallic bellow rips through the night behind us.

‘Blood for the Blood God!’

Even at this distance I can hear the chainaxe spinning to full speed. Perhaps it’s my imagination that fills in the next piece, the ripping of flesh and cracking of bones.

Then something like a lightning flash causes me to falter, letting go of the sled as I come to a stop and turn again.

I see three wasters down, one of them crushed under the boot of the berserk warrior. Orskya swings her arquebus like a club, the weighted stock smashing into the Space Marine’s face, breaking on impact. As the monstrous warrior draws back the chainaxe, Aladia leaps through the press of bodies, a gleaming blue sword in hand. The tip of the blade sweeps up, slicing neatly through the wrist of the Space Marine. Chainaxe still in its grip, the hand flies away, spiralling to the ground behind the World Eater. Enraged, the Space Marine brings down the stump, smashing it into Orskya’s face. Her head flies back, neck obviously broken, the force of the blow folding her backwards. I feel the impact in my gut, a sudden pain at seeing the duneseer go down.

Aladia lances her power sword two-handed into the gap between helm and plastron, piercing throat and spine. Turning, she rips the sword free, slashing into the head.

I don’t need to see the rest. I turn and dash after the others, covering the last hundred metres to the broken aircraft with increasingly heavy strides. Reaching the sanctuary of the cracked fuselage I find Nazrek at the opposite side, staring out of a hole in the compartment wall, the others combining their efforts to drag the warphead through the tangle of wires and twisted metal.

‘Bad, boss,’ says the ork. ‘Bad.’

I can see more Space Marines heading towards us from the distant wall. Five at least, their blood-reddened armour shining in the glow of the fires.

‘If we make a break for it now, we might reach the drop-ship,’ says Oahebs.

‘And if we don’t, we’ll be gunned down in open ground,’ I reply. A glance over my shoulder reveals the approach of the wasters and Sister Aladia. If we leave now, it’s without them. ‘Can’t risk it. We’ll have to hold here, regroup and then make a break for it.’

And that was a big mistake.

The bulk of the Marauder protects us against direct hits, which is good because the interior is filled with splinters from exploding metal and fragments of bolt detonations. If anything, taking cover in the downed plane has made it easier for the World Eaters, who just have to hit near us to send showers of lethal shrapnel scything through the people packed inside the fuselage.

The floor is already awash with blood and I can’t hear anything for the ring of metal and cries of the wounded. It’s as if my world has shrunk down to a metal cylinder about five metres long and three wide, filled with death and pain.

The fusillade is relentless, giving not even a split second to throw a glance through the warped beams and broken metal. It’s been maybe ten seconds, how much ground would they have covered? A hundred and fifty metres? More?

Aladia stands with her back to one of the reinforced ribs that stretch around the Marauder’s main bomb bay, bolter in hand as small explosions erupt across the surface outside. The side of her tattooed face is covered in blood, pieces of metal stuck in the skin, but she pays it no heed at all.

The dozen and more figures writhing around on the floor with lacerated faces, slashed arteries and spilling guts are not so composed.

If someone had asked me when I’d joined the Imperial Guard what would be the worst thing I might see, I wouldn’t have imagined anything half as bad as this slaughter.

And this is just the prelude to the real carnage, when those heretics burst through the walls and tear us apart with chainaxes. There’s not a damned thing we can do about it. Any kind of counter-fire is impossible. The moment anyone tries to rise or turn out of cover another detonation sends red-hot metal shards into them.

Fragging helpless.

I never thought I’d die without fighting back in some way, but this is just that situation. If I try to fight I’ll die even quicker.

I can only look at the others out of the corner of my eye. I can see Nazrek huddle close to the floor, Grot taking cover in the shadow of the ork. I catch terrified glances from some of the others, but I can’t see Oahebs or the warphead.

Why am I even thinking about them? Nobody is getting out of here alive. The mission is an abject failure.

What’s most galling is imagining what the Colonel would say. No smugness, just that holier-and-better-than-thou righteousness he brings with him. And there’s also the sneaking suspicion that he was absolutely right about me. This is my fragging mess. I think I’d rather stick my head out of the fuselage than say it to him.

I send a prayer to the Emperor, lips soundlessly mouthing the words among the screech of tearing metal and bark of exploding bolts. It’s a simple message and, surprising even myself, it isn’t a prayer for salvation. I just pray that the other missions aren’t as fragged as this one. I pray that the Battle Sisters and the Space Marines have managed to break the ritual.

And then I realise it is about me, after all. Because if the Sisters and the Salamanders can stop the World Eaters then it doesn’t matter what happens here. My total failure becomes an irrelevancy. I will be absolved of my utter inadequacy.

But there’s no way of finding out, so I’m going to die with the knowledge that I’ve thrown away the only chance we had to save Armageddon.

I’m so wrapped up in these thoughts and prayers that it takes a second for me to register the change in the battle-noise. A deeper thunder among the small-arms and occasional snap of heavier weapons.

And the absence of exploding death in my immediate vicinity.

Sister Aladia brings her bolter around the stanchion, aiming outside, but doesn’t open fire.

Nobody else dares move.

Through the shredded roof I see the blue flame of plasma jets and hear a noise that brings recent memories flooding back.

The Thunderhawk.

‘Didn’t we do this already?’ I say, uncoiling from my foetal crouch, looking up to see the Salamanders gunship descending nearby, wing guns blazing into the distance.

Others stand and start cheering, spilling out from the wreck to shout and wave at the landing gunship.

‘No time to celebrate,’ I snap at them, clambering over the corpses wedged into the bottom of the aircraft hull, checking faces.

‘Oahebs?’

‘Here, Kage,’ he replies, pushing out from under two bodies that are more blood and gristle than human. His left arm is a mess of cuts, bone showing through at the elbow and forearm. ‘Still here.’

The warphead is next to him, buried under more corpses. We get a few able bodies together to drag them off and free the ork, which is starting to stir in its sleep, baring its teeth and grumbling.

The Thunderhawk touches down amid swirling dust and a blaze of lights, the front assault ramp whining open. A squad of armoured warriors descends, dwarfing one more among their contingent.

I have to double-take at the sight of the Colonel in formal dress coat, an officer’s cap on his head once more. Underneath are still the ragged clothes of the wasters, but at first glance you’d think he’d just stepped off the parade ground.

‘Frag me,’ I say.

I count ten Space Marines, who fan out around us, firing at distant targets on the walls, against both orks and heretics.

‘Lieutenant Kage, report,’ Schaeffer barks, coming to a stop a few metres away.

Training and instinct take control for a second and I come to attention, hand half-rising in salute before falling back to my side.

‘Heavy casualties, objective not yet achieved,’ I mumble, suddenly feeling like I’ve been dragged before one of my older family members for some misdemeanour. Some of my natural temperament reasserts itself. ‘What the frag are you doing here?’

‘Saving Armageddon,’ the Colonel replies. ‘Unlike you.’

He sweeps over all of us with that icy gaze, jaw set, hands forming fists.

‘Fall in with me, all of you that can still walk,’ he shouts, turning on his heel. I catch up with him with a few hurried steps, still not sure I didn’t die in the wreck and this is some kind of bizarre but short-lived afterlife.

‘How…?’ I look around and see the Space Marines advancing with us, still firing shots out into the firelight. ‘You brought some friends.’

‘Your biggest problem, Kage, is that you are not nearly as intelligent as you think you are,’ the Colonel tells me, striding across the broken runway, heading directly towards the pool of lights around the drop-ship apron. His voice is raised above the noise of bolters and thud of powered armour, but he delivers the words with the same cool precision as always. ‘My missions are not casual underhive scraps, won through on guts and quick-thinking. They are military operations, the scope of which you never seem to comprehend. Did you really think you would succeed by just ploughing ahead without planning, hoping that the Emperor would somehow make everything right for you?’

‘I wouldn’t say–’ I protest, but the Colonel isn’t interested in my contribution to the conversation.

‘Think about every mission we have ever fought together, Kage, and tell me that you did not realise what massive undertakings they were? Starships, transports, weapons. Information about the enemy, covering bombardments, orbital strikes, tech-priests and supply drops. Did all of that just happen?’

We’re only a couple of hundred metres away from the steps up to the landing pad. Occasional rasps of fire come past or whine above us, the brunt of it directed at the Salamanders or the gunship that has lifted off to take station overhead.

‘Shouldn’t we be ready to fight?’ I say, noticing the Colonel doesn’t even have his pistol in hand. ‘Just in case they don’t want to just give us their drop-ship, right?’

The glance the Colonel throws me is more venomous than a ripviper bite.

‘Did it occur to you that refuelling and arming a drop-ship in the middle of an ongoing battle was a strange thing to do?’

‘I guessed they were maybe evacuating officers or something. It didn’t seem important.’

‘And did you ever think about bringing along the vox we recovered to communicate with Kraken Station?’

‘Well, I suppose, now–’

Heavy weapons on the western wall open fire, sending rockets and shells streaming over our heads into the tangles of wreckage in the middle of the compound. I follow their fall for a few seconds and see ork bodies caught in the blasts.’

‘And did you have someone that can pilot a ship into orbit for you?’ the Colonel continues, eyes fixed ahead.

‘I hadn’t got that far–’

‘I trust that you have been conducting operational assessments of your team to identify important specialisms and potential mission-vital profiles.’

‘How exactly would–’

‘You would be a joke of a commander, Kage, but those corpses you have left behind are not at all funny.’ His anger is something to witness. No shouting, no theatrics. Just raw, focused ire, all of it directed at me. I wither under his scorn like a forest hit with anti-plant shells. ‘You heard nothing I said to you in the abbey. You cannot win if you are worried about saving lives, yours or anybody else’s. You only live if you succeed, all other routes lead to death. Yours and everybody else’s.’

All my excuses are swept away by the force of his words, but he’s not done yet.

‘From the moment you saw me again, all you have had on your mind is being in charge.’

‘You can talk! You’ve been trying to take over every chance you get.’

‘Now you know why. You are unfit to lead this kind of mission. You are capable of insight, practical improvisation and possess an uncanny sense for survival.’ We come to the foot of the metal stairway leading up to the drop-ship’s pad. He stops and looks at me with a shake of the head. ‘What you are not, Kage, is a colonel in the God-Emperor’s Imperial Guard, and everything that means.’

I have to stand there and take it, because he’s through my defences and nailing every shot. I rose to my natural level in Acheron, a warlord of sorts, but that’s the summit of my abilities as an underhiver. If I’d stayed on Olympus maybe it’d have turned out the same. But the moment I joined the Imperial Guard I was not going to be destined for the officer corps and a heady rise through the ranks… By the Emperor, my rank of lieutenant – prior rank – was essentially administrative because I was in charge of a platoon at one point.

‘One more thing, Kage,’ he says, his words coming through a fog of misery. I look at him just in time to see his fist swinging.

It connects perfectly between nose and cheek, smashing my head back to send me crumpling to the floor. I lift up my hands to protect myself too late as he looms over me.

‘If you ever strike me again, I will shoot you.’

He stands there, waiting for my response. I nod, feeling blood trickling down my top lip. It’s nothing really, but of all the injuries I’ve suffered in these last several days this one hurts the most. I nod again, utterly submissive to his will.

‘I am glad we have come to this accord,’ he says, and offers a hand to help me to my feet. I accept it and rise with a grunt.

‘I have three words for you,’ he says, stepping away, looking up at the landing pad and back to me. ‘Are you ready?’

I stand to attention, my salute as sharp as a chainaxe this time.

‘Yes, Colonel,’ I reply.

‘Then come with me, Lieutenant Kage.’

Nineteen

VOIDBOUND

Before we ascend to the drop-ship an armoured warrior breaks from the others. I recognise Librarian Afahiva, staff in one hand, bolt pistol in the other. He stops beside the warphead, which is beginning to stir even more, grumbling in the last throes of sleep.

The Space Marine holds out a hand, a nimbus of gold playing between the fingertips. The ork’s lips ripple, baring sharp teeth, a moan emanating from deep in its chest. Afahiva steps back as though struck.

‘Strong,’ he says, withdrawing his hand. He looks at me and then the Colonel. ‘This is your psychic bomb?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’ve seen how these warpheads react to the warpborn and Nazrek agrees. Exposing it to the rift should give us a big psychic bang.’ I look at the warphead, to the Colonel and then the Librarian. ‘I have a question.’

‘Ask it,’ says Afahiva.

‘Why don’t we use the Thunderhawk?’ I jab a thumb over my shoulder to where the Salamanders gunship is circling the port, battle canon and heavy bolters tearing ruin through the attackers. ‘I figure that’s a quick and safe way up into orbit.’

The Space Marine laughs, a deep rumble given a nerve-jangling edge by the mechanical address system of his armour.

‘By Vulkan’s fire, that would be insane!’ the Librarian replies. ‘Your plan is almost certainly doomed to fail, Lieutenant Kage. You will all die, either getting into the rift or when your ork psyker explodes. Even if you get that far I think there is only a small chance that what you hope to achieve will come about. No, Lieutenant Kage, the Salamanders will not be accompanying you on this one-way voyage. It is courageous of you, foolhardy probably, but we will continue to target the World Eaters here on the surface.’

‘Right,’ I say. I notice Sister Superior Aladia is close by and turn to speak to her. ‘I guess you’ll be leaving us now too. The Space Marines can probably take you back to rejoin your company, or one of the others from your order.’

She steps past the last few hivers and wasters, a living statue of silver marred with bloody splashes and grime. Her eyes move from Nazrek to the others, then to the Colonel, to Afahiva and eventually to me.

‘Colonel Schaeffer is right, you are no commander,’ she says. I sag, about to turn away, but she continues. ‘But I look at these people and I can see something of why they are here. You are not a commander, Burned Man, but you are a leader. I see you fight, not just with your weapons but with your soul. I see good intent war with selfishness. Some would say that makes you impure, unworthy of the love and protection of the Emperor.’

She raises her voice as the Thunderhawk’s circuit brings it closer, guns booming and barking.

‘I believe that we are born imperfect and that we must strive to prove ourselves to the God-Emperor each and every day He grants us. You fell so low, but you have brought yourself back and in your journey from the flames you have re-enacted that struggle. The noblest of my Sisterhood have been elevated to saints and a handful have become living saints, sustained by the Will of the Emperor to fight on after death’s grace. Deniumenialis believed that you had led a blessed existence and gave his life for that belief. A martyr. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps a saint of the Astra Militarum is not an ideal. Perhaps they are a fighter, a leader, one that defies the enemies of the Imperium not with piety, purity and righteousness, but with a deeper, bloodier faith.’

She steps forward and I can feel tears in my eyes. Something I’ve never felt before stirs inside as this Battle Sister, a divine hand of the God-Emperor, kneels on the broken ferrocrete and holds out her sword.

‘Deniumenialis’ death reminds me of a simple truth gifted to us by Saint Sabbat.’ She bows her head, the clink of her weapon on the ground at my feet seeming louder than the crack of the mightiest wall gun. ‘There are no miracles. There are only men.’

Struck dumb, I stand there for several seconds, amazed by this being of grace and power supplicating herself before me. All of the praises of the Burned Man rise up in memory, ringing in my ears. I see again Old Preacher stepping in front of a bullet. The Will of the God-Emperor made manifest through the actions of a human being.

‘Pick up your sword, Sister,’ I tell her. ‘I can’t claim to be a saint, and this is the Colonel’s team from here. But I would take your company as a sign that the Emperor is still watching over this gaggle of poor bastards.’

A smile cracks her mask of sincerity as she lifts up her blade, the first sign of the woman within the Battle Sister.

The drop-ship squats atop the landing pad among a crowd of red-robed tech-priests and augmented servitors, the air thick with the smell of Martian oils and human sweat. In the glare of the lights I can make out a patch of plasteel on the hull, about three metres by two. It stands out because the rest of the ship is a pale grey, scorched brown and black in places by re-entry, while the patch is clearly new, almost polished in finish.

‘What’s that?’ I say, pointing.

‘Most of the operational orbital ships were evacuated along with the crews,’ a woman calls out from behind me. I turn to find myself looking at a short, dark-haired pilot – so it seems from the flight suit and the helmet under her arm. ‘This is mine, the Eutychia. She’s been in line for refit for three weeks, but it was only a call from your Colonel that got things moving.’

‘So, they’ve just repaired it?’ I say. ‘Like, in a hurry?’

‘She’ll be fine.’

‘You must be Commander Neri,’ says the Colonel, pushing past me. ‘Are you ready to take off?’

‘Waiting on you, Colonel Schaeffer. I’ll finish preflight checks.’

‘You know where we’re going, right?’ I say, wondering just how dedicated she’ll be to the mission. It’s not the first time the Colonel has pulled a fast one on some poor pilot or driver.

‘Right into that big gleaming arsehole up there, I hear,’ says Neri, closing one eye and mimicking a pistol shot with her finger into the sky.

‘And you’re fine with that?’

‘Your Colonel tells me we’re going to save the planet. Isn’t that right, Colonel?’

‘That is the objective.’

‘Let’s not hang about here then, time to get going,’ she says before she disappears through the open docking ramp in the hull.

We get ourselves ready to embark. There’s a fresh lasgun apiece – Nazrek chuckles and keeps its massive customised shoota – plus some ration packs and sealed cans. Dried synthi-grain bar washed down with tepid, metallic water never tasted so good. As we devour these gifts the engines whine into life, stuttering occasionally as they warm up. A speaker above us in the gangway blares into life.

‘Arses in seats, everybody. We leave in five minutes.’

I cock an eye towards the Colonel.

‘She seems… stable,’ I say to him.

‘She is a highly decorated pilot.’ He glances up to the crew pod a few metres above us at the nose of the drop-ship. ‘She’s been grounded a while, that is all. Eager.’

‘Yeah, eager. Not at all crazy.’ I turn on the others and clap my hands to get them moving. What is it with these Imperial Navy folk? ‘Everybody on board! Take lots of power packs. I get the feeling we might still have one more battle to fight.’

We’ve just had the warning from the pilot that we’ve broken void. Nothing but a few centimetres of plasteel between us and a cruel vacuum death.

The hivers and wasters have never been off-world and there’s an outbreak of consternation and excitement among them. Some peer out of the slit windows at the starry expanse, the ones on the other side of the compartment laughing as they look back at the receding view of Armageddon. When I left Olympus it was with relief. The Imperial Guard promised something more than scabbing an existence in the underhive. It’s very different for these folks. Whether they realise it or not, this is a short, one-way trip.

Silence descends again as the novelty wears off, some of them realising that they’re in actual space now, more turning their thoughts to what lies ahead.

After another couple of minutes, I feel an itch inside my blood, not like anything I’ve experienced before. I feel like I need to scratch inside my veins.

Scattered muttering breaks the mute tension. Prayers from some, swearing from others. Nazrek lets out a disconcerted groan, banging a hand against the side of its head as though trying to dislodge a blockage.

‘It’s the warp effect,’ I say out loud, trying to make it sound matter-of-fact. ‘We’re getting closer to the breach. Keep an eye on each other.’

My warning is met by quizzical looks, reminding me that none of them have experienced anything like warp travel before.

‘The warp, it gets into your thoughts. Maybe you’ll start to hear things or see stuff that doesn’t seem right. But it’ll feel normal. If you see anybody acting twitchy, make sure they’re okay.’

‘The closer we get to our target the more pronounced these sensations will become,’ the Colonel adds. ‘There are subtle ways the warpborn can influence your thoughts. If you see anything suspicious do not hesitate to act. Remember that the mission and your lives depend upon keeping this ship free of warp taint. Any doubts should be made known to me.’

This declaration unsettles them until Sister Aladia starts to pray, her words spoken with a conviction that pushes away the fears. Though much of it is in High Gothic, we all become wrapped up in her devotion, feeling the strength of her righteousness like the heat that comes from her armour.

A few minutes into this, a disturbed cry from one of the wasters draws everyone’s attention. It’s Tormas, who fumbles at his safety restraint, trying to pull the buckle with trembling hands.

‘Burning, burning,’ he mutters, a hand raising to ward away something only he can see. He carries on in the waster dialects, only one word in five understandable, and even then barely. His attempts to get out of his seat become more desperate despite the attempts of those around him to bring calm. He pushes at them, looking into their faces as though staring into a nightmare, flinching from their reassuring hands.

Here and there others start to moan and whisper, speaking of fogs and lightning and eyes that won’t stop staring. Some shake it off, trembling but lucid. Others take on glazed looks, sitting as still as statues, falling deep into the warp dreams. The occasional panicked shout breaks through the growing disturbance.

I exchange a silent look with the Colonel. A craft this small hasn’t got a Geller field but I figured that wouldn’t be an issue until we were actually inside the warp break. I guess pockets of unreality are leaking out. I can feel them as sudden paranoia sweeping through me, or the distant thunder of drums only I can hear. Now and then I catch myself scratching at the back of my hand, almost drawing blood with my ragged fingernails.

‘Time on target is about five minutes,’ Neri informs us across the intervox.

The Colonel turns in his seat and presses the stud on the vox-panel between us.

‘Is it five minutes or is it not?’ he growls.

‘We’re flying into a big wavy break in the fabric of time and space, Colonel, but feel free to get out there and measure.’ The link hisses with static, probably masking the pilot’s curses. ‘About five minutes.’

The throb at the nape of my neck has returned, stronger than anything I felt down on Armageddon, like a boom compared to a tinny rattle.

I check on Oahebs, at the aft of the compartment next to the warphead, which has been strapped onto a medicae stretcher and is now propped up between two rows of seats.

He feels my gaze and looks up, tension written into his features. The ork shudders, fingers moving slowly. Now and then a puff of greenish vapour ejects from its nose as it breathes.

‘Not long,’ Oahebs says. ‘It’s going to be tight.’

‘We’ll move it to the airlock,’ I say, hitting the release clasp of my harness to get up. A warning light comes to life above my position, accompanied by a repetitive ding-ding-ding of an alarm. For a heartbeat the noise rings louder, the red light becoming a blur of brightness in my vision. I shake my head and the moment passes.

‘Kage?’ The Colonel looks up at me, frowning.

‘We’re about to have company,’ I manage to say before a wave of nausea hits me, sending me spinning to the hard deck.

The floor feels like wet sand beneath my fingers, though when I focus it becomes dimpled plasteel again. The air is hot though, I can feel the sweat pushing out of my skin in response, like a furnace door has been opened.

A shout from the front of the compartment rings hollow in my ears and more dizziness sweeps through me as I try to turn my head to see what’s happening.

The Colonel is standing up, impossibly slowly it seems, mouth distorted impossibly wide as he shouts. The sounds come to me as an incoherent moan filled with alarm. Eyes widening, he moves his hand to the holster at his belt. Twisting my neck, I look up to see something fading through the roof, gathering from a cloud of sparks dancing over the plain grey fuselage.

I close my eyes to regain some equilibrium, trying to blot out the hallucination of the face leering down at us. That somehow makes it worse, random noises becoming voices chanting in my ears. I can’t understand the words but they speak to me of blood and death, edged with the crash of big guns and screams of slaughter. Reeling, I stand up, feeling like I’m in the midst of a raging battle. An armoured figure more beast than man looms before me, a mane of bloodied hair spilling from its scalp beneath a crested helm.

All around are thousands of warriors, some Traitor Astartes, others feral creatures of claw and horn, some of them obviously human or mutant, dressed in rags of bloody red, skulls and disgusting runes carved into flesh or daubed onto plaques and banners. The image of the Burned Man springs to mind and I feel sick at the thought of what might have really inspired such icons.

I see a dozen terrifying warp spawn giants, winged apparitions of pure anger like the monstrosity that manifested in the underhive. Some carry axes and whips, others swords or maces, each weapon streaming with black fires of hate.

With them stands one that is different. Clad in armour that reminds me of the Traitor Astartes, it is as much monster as man, a behemoth of red skin and ruddy hair. Its armour is moulded with grotesque spikes, its face a horned and fanged mask of infinite rage. In its hand it wields a chainaxe born of nightmares, its head larger than a man, its teeth forged from the teeth of dragons on a haft of warp spawn bone.

Daemons.

The true name springs to me again and I realise that I look not into something real but into the other side of the portal. This is no image of madness but a vision of what awaits Armageddon should we fail.

In my hazy dream a hound with a red lizard’s body and teeth of bronze leaps at me.

The zip of a lasgun cuts through everything and I feel the hot flash of the discharge across the side of my face.

I open my eyes, realising I’m the one that’s opened fire.

And the hound is with us, inside the drop-ship.

Its shoulder is as high as mine, tail lashing, leathery crest flexing as it tilts back its head and lets out a growl that reverberates through the deck.

Some of my companions open fire too, but not just at the blood monster. There are other things manifesting around us – blood-warriors with black swords and winged warpborn made of fire and darkness. Flashes of las-fire streak blind spots across my vision, the clamour of weapons joined by the fearful shouts and screams of those trapped with the daemons.

A serrated immaterial blade slashes through cloth and flesh, cutting down one of the wasters just in front of me. I fire my lasgun into the warpborn’s chest as its tongue flashes out to catch droplets of blood spraying from the wound. Another infernal hound appears, smashing up through the seats in the centre of the compartment, heaving its bulk out from nothing as though prowling from a hidden lair.

‘Behind me!’ Oahebs’ call cuts through the din.

A glance in his direction shows the daemons are ignoring him completely, the air a few metres around him free from the miasma of red that thickens around us. On the other side of the chamber is Sister Aladia. I swear every bolt from her gun shimmers with a golden trail as they cut through unreal beast and warrior alike. Nazrek fires its ridiculous gun, the detonating shell tearing apart three warpborn as well as one of our own who was in the grips of the enemy. Pieces of daemonflesh spatter the wall and ceiling. Others are not so fortunate, overwhelmed by the ferocity and suddenness of the attack.

I remember the Colonel’s words. We can’t save lives. The mission is everything.

He’s already passed me, firing his pistol repeatedly into a blood daemon crouched over the corpse of a hiver. The intervox howls into life, but it’s not the voice of the pilot. Hideous laughter and mind-numbing screeches fill the air, loud enough to stun. I flounder after Schaeffer, giving up the instinct to fight, heading for the small pool of sanctuary around Oahebs.

As I stumble, I catch a glimpse of the weirdboy. Two red eyes glare back at me with raw alien malice.

Oahebs realises what’s happening just about the same time as I do. He makes a lunge for the warphead as a muscular green arm sheathed in crackling energy rips out of the strapping. The fronds of psychic power gutter and die as Oahebs grabs the creature’s arm. The weirdboy yells, a bellow of frustration, and tries to throw Oahebs back.

The Colonel and I reach the ork together, hurling ourselves onto it just as Oahebs loses his grip and tumbles backwards.

For an instant I stare into those red eyes, sparks of green spiralling around them. It washes away the throbbing of the warp, pushing aside the lingering images of the bloody battlefield on the other side of the rift.

Instead I see a vast horde of green-skinned warriors. No, not a horde. An army. This isn’t a massive rabble without thought or purpose, it’s a conquering force advancing with one mind, towering leaders and immense war machines breaking the carpet of alien soldiers. Somehow I know that this is Armageddon. Everything is green, shimmering with the energy of the orks and suddenly Nazrek makes sense.

Armageddon is green. It will always be green.

The connection breaks as Oahebs recovers, throwing himself over the warphead. A clawed fist catches me in the side of the head, clubbing me down to the deck again.

‘Get it into the airlock,’ gasps the Colonel, hitting the activation switch on the bulkhead beside the weirdboy.

I make the mistake of glancing back. The compartment is in total anarchy, a half-real storm of las-fire and bloody-coloured daemons. The fuselage is melting away, showing glimpses of the impossible, eternal battle within the warp.

‘We’re in the rift,’ I shout to the other two, focusing back on the task in hand. ‘We can do this!’

Just then a las-bolt hits the back of Oahebs’ head. Brain matter explodes over us and the warphead. I look on in horror as the null slumps to the floor, blood leaking from the hole in his skull.

Forks of green lightning crawl up the warphead’s arms. With a bestial roar, it tosses the Colonel and me away, tearing out of the last of its bonds. It shudders, sparks leaping from its skin while copper bangles and necklaces boil away to nothing, unable to contain the energy coursing through the ork.

A blood daemon leaps at the warphead, black blade leaving a smoking trail as it cuts towards the ork’s throat.

With a snarl the warphead brings up a clawed hand, smashing the blade aside. Splinters of black scatter into the ceiling from the ruptured blade. Growling, the warphead thrusts its hand into the chest of the daemon, blasting it apart with green flames.

The flames turn to arcs of lightning, leaping from one daemon to the next, the weirdboy lifted from the deck by the power that envelops it. The whole compartment fills with corkscrewing emerald energy, crawling over hull and bulkheads, turning daemons to bloody vapour.

Then it stops.

There’s a few awful, pregnant heartbeats as the energy swirls into the warphead. It glows from within, veins standing out like cords beneath the skin, rivers of green light coursing along them.

Instinct propels me through the gathering halo of green energy, into the airlock beyond the bulkhead. The Colonel glances at me and then follows. I want to take a second to call the others. I see Nazrek, body quivering as the power of the green snakes from it into the warphead. Sister Aladia, blade slicked with daemonblood, turning to look at us.

The warphead vomits out a beam of zigzagging energy, letting loose a concentrated scream of psychic power. The blast rips along the seats, turning them to slag, and punches out the front bulkhead.

For an instant I stand there looking down the length of the drop-ship, out through the devastated remains of the cockpit, into the maw of the rift itself. I hear again the thunder of guns and braying of war-horns.

Decompression rips through the compartment.

Feeling sick, I slam my hand against the airlock activation panel, the door crashing down an instant later. Face pressed to the glass I see the contents of the chamber explode out into the nothingness of the void. Bodies, human and daemon, spinning into each other. Nazrek goes, still shooting, Grot clutching the larger alien’s ankle, mouth in a silent screech. Aladia too, becoming just a silver flash against the whirling red wound in reality.

The warphead follows, arcing power surrounding it as it flies into the break in space like a green rocket. The flares of energy grow larger and brighter, a roiling storm in a matter of seconds. Undulating waves of emerald power wash back over us, becoming visible ripples tearing through reality and unreality. Like a plasma charge they chew along the fuselage, seeming to devour everything in their path.

The green washes over me, bringing a deafening roar of bestial defiance that throws me across the airlock. Everything feels like it is unmade, every piece of me coming apart in the fury of a heartbeat that never ends.

Epilogue

Reality returns. Nothingness is preferable to the agony that burns through my head for an impossibly long moment.

My senses stop spinning out of control, reassembling the world around me like a static-filled hololithic display gaining focus. My ears won’t stop hissing and my skin feels like it wants to crawl off somewhere dark to die, stretching away from the flesh beneath.

‘Frag me, I’m alive,’ I whisper, trying to absorb the coolness of the metal under my hands, willing it to spread to the inferno inside my gut and lungs.

‘We both are.’

I groan and fall to my back at the sound of the Colonel’s voice. Prising my eyes open with a force of will that could have lifted a Battle Titan, I see him slumped against the wall of the airlock. There’s dried blood under his eyes, nose and mouth. I figure I’m the same by his look of concern.

‘I really thought this would be the last time,’ he says, inspecting a shaking hand as he lifts it from his lap. It’s like he’s looking at something he doesn’t recognise.

Through the thick armourglass of the door window I can see a little of the ship. Against the harsh void the contorted hull spirals outwards, as though the fuselage has been flayed open by some obscenely massive whip. The surface of the metal is whorled with indentations that look like they are melted into its material, reflecting the erratic starlight. Blood smears decorate what remains of the mangled ceiling.

Inside, the airlock seems untouched; though the walls look a little twisted, the doors are intact.

We spend a few minutes in silence, just drifting across the void. Through the outer door I can see nothing but stars.

A shadow eclipses the light of Armageddon’s star, plunging us into a gloom, the internal lumens a dull orange. A clang echoes through the ship, vibrating along the walls and floor. With moans and grimaces, we both push ourselves up, drawing weapons as we expect the worst. Another bang reverberates through the airlock, this time more localised, from the exterior door.

The panel next to it springs into life, digits scrolling across its screen as someone enters a code from outside.

The door hisses up into its recess to reveal three armoured figures. Space Marines. A lack of spikes and skulls tells me they are probably loyal to the Emperor, but in the brightness of their suit lamps it’s hard to make out a colour. Then the lights dim, revealing dark green war-plate and lizard-scale loincloths.

‘Afahiva?’ I say, unable to believe it.

The Space Marine Librarian steps into the airlock and removes his helm. His face looks more lined than I remember, and metal studs hold a plate in place on the side of his skull.

‘I thought you weren’t coming?’ I say.

‘We did not,’ the Salamanders Librarian replies, looking from me to the Colonel and back again with something akin to amazement.

‘Did we succeed?’ the Colonel asks sharply. ‘The ritual, did the World Eaters finish it?’

‘They did not,’ Afahiva tells us with a smile. ‘Whether your efforts or ours, I could not say.’

‘I don’t understand,’ I say. ‘How can you have finished your attacks, we can’t have parted company more than half an hour ago?’

His expression turns sombre.

‘The World Eaters attack was just the beginning of Armageddon’s fresh woes. A horde of the blood-made overran much of the world. We had to leave – it was impossible to hold it any longer. Our deaths would have been pointless. Now we have returned with a miracle to reclaim this world. Our warp jump must have pulled you back into real space. I have never heard of anything like it.’

‘A miracle,’ mutters Schaeffer. ‘Another damn miracle.’

‘You’re not making sense,’ I say, thinking perhaps the after-effects of my exploits are even more serious. It sounds like he’s talking as though everything is in the past.

‘What happened to us?’ the Colonel says slowly. ‘How long were we in the warp?’

My gut turns to ice as he asks the question. I’d assumed that since we’d survived we had just been dumped back into real space. The temporal dilation effect of the warp hadn’t even occurred to me. Hours could have passed on the surface below while we entered the outskirts of the rift.

‘You know well that time does not work that simply, Colonel Schaeffer.’ Afahiva looks at us again and strokes his chin. ‘A whole generation has been born and died in the time since you set off on your insane mission.’

‘Fifty years…’ mutters the Colonel.

‘Longer, most likely,’ says the Librarian.

One of the other Salamanders turns his head to Afahiva, bolter raised towards us, speaking across their vox-link. The Librarian’s eyes move from me to the Colonel slowly, regarding us with some care. He gives the other Space Marine a nod and steps towards us, staff tip dipping to point in our direction.

‘Though you have not felt it, you have spent a long time in the warp, my companions of old,’ Afahiva says heavily. The lizard skull on his staff gleams with psychic power, entrancing as it swirls blue and white across my vision. ‘There is every chance such exposure has corrupted you. Perhaps you have survived because of some infernal bargain made with the powers of the warp.’

The other Space Marine clearly addresses him again, as Afahiva frowns, shaking his head.

‘That is not our way, brother,’ Afahiva replies, returning his attention to us. ‘You have seen that which is not allowed to be seen. You have gazed upon the works and servants of Chaos.’

The word is unfamiliar to me but it sends a shudder of apprehension up my spine all the same.

‘The wasters had a story,’ I say. ‘I think the Inquisition wiped out all record of the daemons coming to Armageddon before.’

‘That is very likely,’ says Afahiva. He darts a look of reproach at his companion. ‘But we are not inquisitors. We do not kill out of hand those that have had the misfortune of exposure to the worst foe.’

He takes a step closer before I can breathe a sigh of relief, the nimbus of the staff enveloping my head. I feel needles pushing down into my thoughts, peeling them apart for examination. It lasts just a few seconds but sends me falling to my knees, vision spinning, ears ringing. The Colonel suffers similar examination and collapses next to me.

‘No sign of taint at all,’ says Afahiva with some disbelief. His staff dims as he draws it back to his side.

I pull myself upright. The Colonel stands next to me, hand raised to his temple, one eye still closed.

‘Why are you here?’ the Colonel asks.

‘The forces of darkness have torn apart the Imperium with a warp storm so vast it splits the galaxy. Many worlds are dead, others lost beyond the curtain of the Cicatrix Maledictum. The realms of the Emperor stand upon the brink of annihilation and we have returned to Armageddon with the primarch to do what we could not do before.’

‘Primarch?’ I mutter. With all the recent talk of saints and warp powers, I shouldn’t be surprised at the mention of one of the Emperor’s sons, the last of whom was lost to the Imperium thousands of years ago. ‘There’s a primarch?’

It’s a lot to take in, and I stand there swaying for a while just trying to keep upright. The Colonel clears his throat and wipes blood from his face with his fingertips. He looks at the red for a moment, and then at me.

‘That sounds very bad, Librarian Afahiva,’ he says. ‘Very bad indeed.’

My thoughts come back together from their various confusing journeys, forming a concerted idea in my head. I meet the Colonel’s gaze.

‘Sounds to me like the Last Chancers are needed more than ever.’

About the Author

Gav Thorpe is the author of the Horus Heresy novels The First Wall, Deliverance Lost, Angels of Caliban and Corax, as well as the novella The Lion, which formed part of the New York Times bestselling collection The Primarchs, and several audio dramas. He has written many novels for Warhammer 40,000, including Ashes of Prospero, Imperator: Wrath of the Omnissiah and the Rise of the Ynnari novels Ghost Warrior and Wild Rider. He also wrote the Path of the Eldar and Legacy of Caliban trilogies, and two volumes in The Beast Arises series. For Warhammer, Gav has penned the End Times novel The Curse of Khaine, the Warhammer Chronicles omnibus The Sundering, and recently penned the Age of Sigmar novel The Red Feast. In 2017, Gav won the David Gemmell Legend Award for his Age of Sigmar novel Warbeast. He lives and works in Nottingham.

An extract from Fifteen Hours by Mitchel Scanlon,
from the Warhammer 40,000 anthology Shield of The Emperor.

The sun was setting, its slow descent reddening the vast reaches of the westward sky and bathing the endless wheat fields below it in shades of gold and amber as they stirred gently in the evening breeze. In his seventeen years of life to date, Arvin Larn had seen perhaps a thousand such sunsets, there was something about the beauty of this one that gave him pause. Enraptured, his chores for the moment forgotten, for the first time since his childhood he simply stood and watched the setting of the sun. Stood there, with the world still and peaceful all about him, gazing toward the gathering fall of night as he felt a nameless emotion rising deep within his heart.

There will be other sunsets, he thought to himself. Other suns, though none of them will mean as much to me as this one does, here and now. Nothing could mean as much as this moment does, standing here among these wheat fields, watching the last sunset I will ever see at home.

Home. The mere thought of the word was enough to make him turn his head and look over his shoulder across the swaying rows of ripening grain toward the small collection of farm buildings on the other side of the field behind him. He saw the old barn with its sloping, wood-shingled roof. He saw the round tower of the grain silo; the ginny-hen coops he had helped build with his father; the small stock pen where they kept the draft horses and a herd of half-a-dozen alpacas.

Most of all, he saw the farmhouse where he had been born and raised. Two-storeyed, with a low wooden porch out front and the shutters on the windows left open to let in the last of the light. Given the unchanging routines of his family’s existence, Larn did not need to see inside to know what was happening within. His mother would be in the kitchen cooking the evening meal, his sisters helping her set the table, his father in the cellar workshop with his tools. Then, just as they did every night, once their chores were done the family would sit down at the table together and eat. Tomorrow night they would do the same again, the pattern of their lives repeating endlessly day after day, varying only with the changing of the seasons.

It was a pattern that had endured here for as long as anyone could remember. A pattern that would continue so long as there was anyone left to farm these lands. Though, come tomorrow night at least, there would be one small difference.

Come tomorrow, he would no longer be here to see it.

Sighing, Larn returned to his work, turning once more to the task of trying to repair the ancient rust-pitted irrigation pump in front of him. Before the sunset had distracted him he had removed the outer access panel to reveal the inner workings of the pump’s motor. Now, in the fading light of twilight, he removed the motor’s burnt-out starter and replaced it with a new one, mindful to say a prayer to the machine spirit inside it as he tightened and re-checked the connections.

Taking a spouted canister from beside the foot of the pump he dribbled a few drops of unguent from it into the workings. Then, satisfied everything was in order, he reached out for the large lever at the side and worked it slowly up and down a dozen times to prime the pump before pressing the ignition stud to start the motor. Abruptly, the pump shuddered into noisy life, the motor whining as it strained to pull water up from aquifers lying deep below the ground. For a moment, Larn congratulated himself on a job well done. Until, just as the first few muddy drops of water emerged from the mouth of the pump to stain the dry earth of the irrigation trench before it, the motor coughed and died.

Disappointed, Larn pressed the ignition stud again. This time though, the motor stayed sullenly silent. Leaning forward, he carefully inspected the parts of the mechanism once more – checking the connections for corrosion, making sure the moving parts were well-lubricated and free from grit, searching for broken wires or worn components – all the things the mechanician-acolyte in Ferrusville had warned them about the last time the pump was serviced. Frustratingly, Larn could find nothing wrong. As far as he could see, the pump should be working.

Finally, reluctantly forced to concede defeat, Larn lifted the discarded access panel and began to screw it into place once more. He had so badly wanted to be able to fix the pump; with harvest time still three weeks away, it was important the farm’s irrigation system should be in good working order. Granted, it had been a good season so far and the wheat was growing well but the life of a farmer was always enslaved to the weather. Without the irrigation system to fall back upon, a couple of dry weeks now could mean the difference between feast and famine for an entire year.

But in the end he knew that was only part of it. Standing there, looking down at the pump after he had screwed the panel back in place, Larn realised his reasons for wanting to see it repaired went far beyond such practical considerations. Like it or not, tomorrow he would be leaving the farm forever and saying farewell to the only land and life he had ever known, never to return. He understood now that he had felt the need to perform some last act of service to those he would be leaving behind. He had wanted to complete some final labour on their behalf. An act of penance almost, to give closure to his grief.

This morning, when his father had asked him to look at the pump and see if he could fix it, it had seemed the perfect opportunity to achieve that aim. Now though, the recalcitrant machine spirits inside the pump and his own lack of knowledge had conspired against him. No matter how hard he tried, the pump was broken beyond his powers to repair it and his last act of penance would go unfulfilled.

Larn collected his tools together and made ready to turn for home, only to pause again as he noticed a change in the sunset. Ahead, the sun had already half disappeared below the horizon, while the sky around it had turned a deeper and more angry red. What gave him pause was not the sun or the sky, but the fields below them. Where once they had been bathed in spectacular shades of gold and amber, now the colour of the fields had become more uniform, changing to a dark and unsettling shade of brownish red, like the colour of blood. At the same time the evening breeze had risen almost imperceptibly, catching the rows of wheat in the fields and causing them to flow and shift before Larn’s eyes as though the fields themselves had become some vast and restless sea. It could almost be a sea of blood, he said to himself, the very thought of it causing him to shiver a little.

A sea of blood.

And, try as hard as he might, he could read no good omen in that sign.

By the time Larn had put his tools away, the sun had all but set. Leaving the barn behind, he walked towards the farmhouse, the yellow glow of lamplight barely visible ahead of him through the slats of the wooden shutters now closed over the farmhouse windows. Stepping onto the porch Larn lifted the latch to the front door and walked inside, carefully removing his boots at the threshold so as not to track mud from the fields into the hallway. Then, leaving the boots just inside the doorway, he walked down the hall towards the kitchen, unconsciously making the sign of the aquila with his fingers as he passed the open door of the sitting room with its devotional picture of the Emperor hung over the fireplace.

Reaching the kitchen he found it deserted, the smell of woodsmoke and the delicious aromas of all his favourite foods rising from the pans simmering on the stove. Roasted xorncob, boiled derna beans, alpaca stew and taysenberry pie; together, the dishes of the last meal he would ever eat at home. Abruptly it occurred to him, in whatever years of his life might yet come, those self-same aromas would forever now be linked with a feeling of desperate sadness.

Ahead, the kitchen table was already laid out with plates and cutlery ready for the meal. As he stepped past the table toward the sink, he remembered returning from the fields two nights earlier to find his parents sitting in the kitchen waiting for him, the black-edged parchment of the induction notice lying mutely on the table between them. From the first it had been obvious they had both been crying, their eyes red and raw from grief. He had not needed to ask them the reason for their tears. Their expressions, and the Imperial eagle embossed on the surface of the parchment, had said it all.

Now, as he moved past the table Larn spotted the same parchment lying folded in half on top of one of the kitchen cupboards. Diverted from his original intentions, he walked towards it. Then, picking up the parchment and unfolding it, he found himself once more reading the words written there below the official masthead.

Citizens of Jumael IV, the parchment read. Rejoice! In accordance with Imperial Law and the powers of his Office, your Governor has decreed two new regiments of the Imperial Guard are to be raised from among his people. Furthermore, he has ordered those conscripted to these new regiments are to be assembled with all due haste, so that they may begin their training without delay and take their place among the most Holy and Righteous armies of the Blessed Emperor of All Mankind.

From there the parchment went on to list the names of those who had been conscripted, outlining the details of the mustering process and emphasising the penalties awaiting anyone who failed to report. Larn did not need to read the rest of it – in the last two days he had read the parchment so many times he knew the words by heart. Yet despite all that, as though unable to stop picking at the scab of a half-healed wound, he continued to read the words written on the parchment before him.

‘Arvin?’ He heard his mother’s voice behind him, breaking his chain of thought. ‘You startled me, standing there like that. I didn’t hear you come in.’

Turning, Larn saw his mother standing beside him, a jar of kuedin seeds in her hand and her eyes red with recently dried tears.

‘I just got here, Ma,’ he said, feeling vaguely embarrassed as he put the parchment back where he had found it. ‘I finished my chores, and thought I should wash my hands before dinner.’

For a moment his mother stood there quietly staring at him. Facing her in uncomfortable silence, Larn realised how hard it was for her to speak at all now she knew she would be losing him tomorrow. It lent their every word a deeper meaning, making even the most simple of conversations difficult while with every instant there was the threat that a single ill-chosen word might release the painful tide of grief welling up inside her.

‘You took your boots off?’ she said at last, retreating to the commonplace in search of safety.

‘Yes, Ma. I left them just inside the hallway.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘You’d better clean them tonight, so as to be ready for tomorrow…’ At that word his mother paused, her voice on the edge of breaking, her teeth biting her lower lip and her eyelids closed as though warding off a distant sensation of pain. Then, half turning away so he could no longer see her eyes, she spoke again.

‘But anyway, you can do that later,’ she said. ‘For now, you’d better go down to the cellar. Your Pa’s already down there and he said he wanted to see you when you got back from the fields.’

Turning further away from him now, she moved over to the stove and lifted the lid off one of the pans to drop a handful of kuedin seeds into it. Ever the dutiful son, Larn turned away. Towards the cellar and his father.

The cellar steps creaked noisily as Larn made his way down them. Despite the noise, at first his father did not seem to notice his approach. Lost in concentration, he sat bent over his workbench at the far end of the cellar, a whetstone in his hand as he sharpened his wool-shears. For a moment, watching his father unawares as he worked, Larn felt almost like a ghost – as though he had passed from his family’s world already and they could no longer see or hear him. Then, finding the thought of it gave him a shiver, he spoke at last and broke the silence.

‘You wanted to see me, Pa?’

Starting at the sound of his voice, his father laid the shears and the whetstone down before turning to look towards his son and smile.

‘You startled me, Arv,’ he said. ‘Zell’s oath, but you can walk quiet when you’ve a mind to. So, did you manage to fix the pump?’

‘Sorry, Pa,’ Larn said. ‘I tried replacing the starter and every other thing I could think of, but none of it worked.’

‘You tried your best, son,’ his father said. ‘That’s all that matters. Besides, the machine spirits in that pump are so old and ornery the damned thing never worked right half the time anyway. I’ll have to see if I can get a mechanician to come out from Ferrusville to give it a good look-over next week. In the meantime, the rain’s been pretty good so we shouldn’t have a problem. But anyway, there was something else I wanted to see you about. Why don’t you grab yourself a stool so the two of us men can talk?’

Pulling an extra stool from beneath the workbench, his father gestured for him to sit down. Then, waiting until he saw his son had made himself comfortable, he began once more.

‘I don’t suppose I ever told you too much about your great-grandfather before, did I?’ he said.

‘I know he was an off-worlder, Pa,’ Larn said, earnestly. ‘And I know his name was Augustus, same as my middle name is.’

‘True enough,’ his father replied. ‘It was a tradition on your great-grandfather’s world to pass on a family name to the first-born son in every generation. Course, he was long dead by the time you were born. Mind you, he died even before I was born. But he was a good man, and so we did it to honour him all the same. A good man should always be honoured, they say, no matter how long he’s been dead.’

For a moment, his face grave and thoughtful, his father fell silent. Then, as though he had made some decision, he raised his face up to look his son clearly in the eye and spoke again.

‘As I say, your great-grandfather was dead long before I could have known him, Arvie. But when I was seventeen and just about to come of age my father called me down into this cellar and told me the tale of him – just like I’m about to tell you now. You see, my father had decided that before I became a man it was important I knew where I came from. And I’m glad he did, ’cause what he told me then has stood me in good stead ever since. Just like I’m hoping that what I’m going to tell you now will stand you in good stead likewise. Course, with what’s happened in the last few days – and where you’re bound for – I’ve got extra reasons for telling it to you. Reasons that, Emperor love him, my own father never had to face. But that’s the way of things: each generation has its own sorrows, and has to make the best of them they can. That’s all as may be, though. Guess I should just stop dancing around it and come out and say what it is I have to say.’

Again, as though wrestling inwardly for the right words, his father paused. As he waited for him to begin, Larn found himself suddenly thinking how old his father looked. Gazing at him as though for the first time he became aware of the lines and creases across his father’s face, the slightly rounded slump of his shoulders, the spreading fingers of grey in his once black and lustrous hair. Signs of aging he would have sworn had not been there a week previously. It was almost as though his father had aged a decade in the last few days.

‘Your great-grandfather was in the Imperial Guard,’ his father said at last. ‘Just like you’re going to be.’ Then, seeing his son about to blurt out a string of questions, he held his hand up to gesture silence. ‘You can ask whatever you want later, Arvie. For now, it’s better if you just let me tell it to you like my father told me. Believe me, once you’ve heard it you’ll know why it is I said I thought you should hear it.’

Hanging on every word in the quiet stillness of the cellar, Larn heard his father tell his tale.

‘Your great-grandfather was a Guardsman,’ his father said again. ‘Course, he didn’t start out to be one. No one does. To begin with he was just another farmer’s son like you or me, born on a world called Arcadus V. A world not unlike this one, he would later say. A peaceful place, with lots of good land for farming and plenty of room for a man to raise a family. And if things had followed their natural course, that’s just what your great-grandfather would have done. He would have found a wife, raised babies, farmed the land, same as generations of his kin on Arcadus V had done before him. And in time he would have died and been buried there, his flesh returning to the fertile earth while his soul went to join his Emperor in paradise. That’s what your great-grandfather thought his future held for him when he came of age at seventeen. Then he heard the news he’d been conscripted into the Guard and everything changed.

‘Now, seventeen or not, your great-grandfather was no fool. He knew what being conscripted meant. He knew there was a heavy burden that goes with being a Guardsman – a burden worse than the threat of danger or the fear of dying alone and in pain under some cold and distant sun. A burden of loss. The kind of loss that comes when a man knows he is leaving his home forever. It’s a burden every Guardsman carries. The burden of knowing that no matter how long he lives he will never see his friends, his family, or even his homeworld again. A Guardsman never returns, Arvie. The best he can hope for, if he survives long enough and serves his Emperor well, is to be allowed to retire and settle a new world somewhere, out among the stars. And knowing this – knowing he was leaving his world and his people for good – your great-grandfather’s heart was heavy as he said farewell to his family and made ready to report for muster.

‘Though it may have felt like his heart was breaking then, your great-grandfather was a good and pious man. Wise beyond his years, he knew mankind is not alone in the darkness. He knew the Emperor is always with us. Same as he knew that nothing happens in all the wide galaxy without the Emperor willing it to be so. And if the Emperor had willed that he must leave his family and his homeworld and never see them again, then your great-grandfather knew it must serve some greater purpose. He understood what the preachers mean when they tell us it isn’t the place of Man to know the ways of the Emperor. He knew it was his duty to follow the course laid out for him, no matter that he didn’t understand why that course had been set. And so trusting his life to the Emperor’s kindness and grace, your great-grandfather left his homeworld to go find his destiny among the stars.

‘Now, the years that followed then were hard ones. Although he would never speak of it much afterwards, in his time as a Guardsman your great-grandfather saw more than his fair share of wonders and horrors. He saw worlds where billions of people lived right on top of each other like insects in giant towers, never able to breathe clean air or see the sun. He saw worlds that lay gripped all year long in perpetual winter, and dry desert worlds that never saw a flake of snow nor felt a drop of rain. He saw the blessed warriors of the holy Astartes – god-like giants in human form, he called them – and great walking machines so big this entire farmhouse would fit inside one of their footprints. He saw terrors by the score, in the shape of all manner of twisted xenos and things even ten times worse.

Though he faced a thousand and more dangers, though he was at times wounded and seemed close to death, still his faith in the Emperor never faltered. Five years become ten. Ten became fifteen. Fifteen became twenty. And still your great-grandfather followed his orders without thought of complaint, never once asking when he would be released from service. Until at last, nearly thirty years after he’d first been conscripted, he was posted to Jumael IV.

‘Course this world didn’t mean much to him then. Not at first. By then he’d seen dozens of different planets, and at first sight Jumael didn’t seem to have anything much to recommend it more than most. His regiment had just finished a long campaign, and they had been sent to Jumael to rest up and recuperate for a month before being shipped out to war once more. By then your great-grandfather didn’t have too many wars left in him. Oh, he tried to put a brave face on it, never complaining. But he was getting old, and the wounds he’d sustained in thirty years of battles were starting to take their toll. Worst of all was his lungs – they’d never healed right after he breathed a mouthful of poison gas on a world called Torpus III, yet still he didn’t waver in his duty. He had given his life over to the service of the Emperor, and he was content that it was at the Emperor’s will whether he lived or died.

‘Then one day, as the time grew closer when they would be leaving Jumael, news came among the regiment of something extraordinary. Emperor’s Day was coming, and with it the thirtieth anniversary of the founding of their regiment. As an act of celebration it was decreed that lots would be drawn from among all the men, and whichever man won would be released from service and allowed to remain behind when the regiment left Jumael. A lottery that, for one man among thousands, might well mean the difference between life and death. As the day of the lottery came upon them there was a sudden outbreak of piety among the men, as each man in the regiment prayed fervently to the Emperor to be the one to be chosen. All except your great-grandfather. For though he prayed to the Emperor every morning and night, it was never his way to ask for anything for himself.’

‘And so great-grandfather won the lottery?’ Larn asked, breathless with excitement and no longer able to keep his peace. ‘He won it, and that’s how he came to live on Jumael?’

‘No, Arvie,’ his father smiled benignly. ‘Another man won. A man from the same squad as your great-grandfather, who’d fought by his side through thirty years of campaigning. Though that man could’ve just taken his ticket and walked away, he didn’t. Instead, he looked at your great-grandfather with his worn-out face and half-healed lungs and handed him the ticket. You see, he’d decided your great-grandfather needed to be released from service more than he did. And that’s how your great-grandfather came to settle on Jumael IV, through the kindness and self-sacrifice of a comrade. Though in the years to come, your great-grandfather would always say there was more to it than that. He would say sometimes the hand of the Emperor can be seen in the smallest of things, and that it was the Emperor who had decided to work through this man to save his life. In the end it was a miracle of sorts. A quiet miracle, perhaps, but a miracle all the same.’

With that, his father fell silent again. Looking at him Larn could see the first beginnings of tears shining wetly in his eyes. Then, at length, his father spoke once more, his every word heavy with barely suppressed emotion.

‘You see now why I thought you should hear the tale, Arvie?’ he said. ‘Tomorrow, just like your great-grandfather before you, you’re going to have to leave your home and your kin behind, never to return. And, knowing full well you may have some hard years ahead of you, before you left I wanted you to hear the tale of your great-grandfather and how he survived. I wanted you to be able to take that tale with you. So that no matter how dark, even hopeless, things might seem to you at times, you’d know the Emperor was always with you. Trust to the Emperor, Arvie. Sometimes it’s all that we can do. Trust to the Emperor, and everything will be all right.’

No longer able to keep the tears from flowing, his father turned away so his son could not see his eyes. While his father cried into the shadows Larn sat there with him as long uncomfortable moments passed, struggling to find the right words to soothe his grief. Until finally, deciding it was better to say something than nothing at all, he spoke and broke the silence.

‘I’ll remember that, Pa’ he said, the words coming with faltering slowness from him as he tried to choose the best way of saying it. ‘I’ll remember every word of it. Like you said, I’ll take it with me and I’ll think of it whenever things get bad. And I promise you: I’ll do what you said. I’ll trust to the Emperor, just like you said. I promise it, Pa. And something else. I promise, you don’t have to worry about me doing my best when I go to war. No matter what happens, I’ll always do my duty.’

‘I know you will, Arvie,’ his father said at last as he wiped the tears from his eyes. ‘You’re the best son a man could have. And when you’re a Guardsman, I know you’ll make your Ma and me proud.’

Click here to buy Shield of The Emperor.

A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2020.
This eBook edition published in 2020 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Darren Tan.

Last Chancers: Armageddon Saint © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2020. Last Chancers: Armageddon Saint, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, The Horus Heresy, The Horus Heresy Eye logo, Space Marine, 40K, Warhammer, Warhammer 40,000, the ‘Aquila’ Double-headed Eagle logo, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.
All Rights Reserved.

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN: 978-1-78999-337-0

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

This is for Orangey Crow and Gimpy McStubbs – THIRTEEN!